It's my birthday and you can't kill me on my birthday OKAY. Yeah, I'm pretty sure this came from watching too much Greys, but eh. So shoot me.
Disclaimer: I am so full of cake right now I think I might explode.
At the age of eight, Audrey Katherine Castle understands that there was a baby growing in her mother's tummy. She understands that one day her mother and her father will go to hospital and they'd come back and she will have a baby brother. And that was okay. When the baby is older she'd be able to teach him all kinds of things, like how to get to the cookie jar without anybody finding out, or what time they can go and wake mommy and daddy up in the morning. She could boss him around all she liked because she was older than him, just like mommy and daddy are older than her. She looks forward to it, talks to the bump like her parents do. She even gets to feel the baby kick and it makes her laugh and so giddy and excited that her father picks her up and swings her around.
When they do have to go to the hospital the goodbyes are rushed, a fleeting kiss to the crown of her head and a promise they'll phone when they have news. Martha keeps her distracted, lets her stay up way past her bedtime and enthrals her with stories of theatrics and drama and her father's childhood antics that she has heard so much of but never been told (apparently this was under strict instructions from her mother). It's not until the hands on the clock are almost at twelve and one does the phone ring. Audrey is half asleep on the sofa, her mind numbed by the animated film on the screen that Martha somehow managed to put up by herself, and she struggles up out of the doze to lean over the back of the sofa.
She doesn't miss the agonising curve of her back, the blanch of her white knuckles against the black counter top and the sharp intake of breath. She can't make out the other end of the conversation, can hardly work out Martha's hushed voice, but she does catch the words sleep, swelling and support. None of it makes sense, and when Martha ushers her to bed she doesn't mention the baby, or her father or her mother. There's no bed time story, just a watery smile in the darkness and a shaky kiss to her forehead. She doesn't forget the night light, a string of butterflies on the wall opposite her bed, stays for a couple of seconds to look at them. Audrey knows the new baby has a string of trains on his wall, colourful engines with pure white smoke drifting up into the sky.
She lets the colour of the wings burn bright into her eyes before she eventually finds sleep.
The next morning it's still just Martha and her. The house is too quiet, there's no quiet swearing which she pretends she doesn't hear when daddy burns his fingers, no laughed scolding when mommy pushes him away and takes over. It's happy and together and it's their morning, but this. This is quiet and dreary and the loft looks dark and gloomy and severely lacking in life and pulse and anything resembling life, even with the bright summer sunshine streaming through outside. There's a bowl of soggy cereal waiting for her on the dining room table and she eats it without complaint because Martha looks like she's been up all night crying and she looks exhausted. She dresses without question, brushes her teeth like she was taught and curls up on the sofa with a book, devouring the words like she can just fall through the pages and find herself in the land of Wonderland where she can run around with Alice, the Mad Hatter and Cheshire the Cat. Daddy always says that's one of the things that she's inherited from her mother, that ability to completely lose herself in a book so that she can forget about the world outside the binding. And she tries, she does. But every time she turns a page it just takes her back to that phone call and reminds her of that fact her family isn't here.
Lunch is a hurried ham sandwich and then she's bundled into the back of a taxi with Martha. She spends the time kneeling on the seat and watching the streets go past, the sidewalks littered with people in shorts and t-shirts and sunglasses. If Daddy was here he'd be telling her all about how he's an alien, she's a secret agent and that family is a secret government experiment planning on taking over the world with robots. And he does it so she almost believes him. Mommy joins in sometimes, adds the details that he missed, or completely disputes his theory and makes it so they're an astronaut home on leave from Jupiter. She'd try and engage Martha, but the older woman is staring forlornly out of the window her fist curled against her jaw and she looks so sad and heartbroken that Audrey is loathe to disturb her.
The hospital is large and scary and white and full of people with solemn faces. Martha guides her through corridors that all look the same, past people in uniform and wheelchairs, and people sat on chairs with their heads in their hands. It's scary and sad and she wants to tell everyone to cheer up and be happy because surely life is not that bad. She doesn't like this place. It sucks the life out of everything, leaves you like an empty shell. She can almost feel the lethargy tugging at her limbs as they walk further and further. She almost thinks their lost, opens her mouth to question Martha about their location, but then she sees her father. He's sitting on a bench, looking pale and thin and shaky and she runs up to him, clambers up onto his knee and wraps her arms around his neck.
He hugs back harder than she thinks she's ever been hugged, and she starts to think that her ribs are going to break but then he lets go, his arms loose around her. He smells of something indefinable and she's not sure she likes it, but if she buries her head against the warm skin of his neck she can just about make out the smell of what her mother said were almonds. He's speaking over her shoulder to Martha but she doesn't listen, she's just happy to see him again.
"He keeps looking at me."
"He knows who his big sister is." Castle replies, leaning over the other side of the cot, "Smart little kid already."
"What's his name?" Audrey asks, reaching into the cot and letting the baby boy wrap a fist around her finger.
Castle hesitates, strokes a large finger down his sons cheek. "I don't know. We haven't thought about it."
Audrey watches the baby carefully for a few more moments, categorising the way his attention shifts to whoever it that's talking, a careful flick of his dark eyes. She wants to ask about Mommy. She wants to know what Martha meant when she was talking about sleep, and support and swelling. But the way her father is holding himself up, the rigid set of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, she knows he doesn't want to talk. Not yet.
She asks Martha though. When Daddy has made excuses about coffee or needing to use the facilities she sits next to Martha at the side of the cot.
"Is Mommy tired?"
"What do you mean?"
"Yesterday you said she was sleeping. And I can't see her, and Daddy won't talk about her, or take me to see her. Is she asleep?"
"Sort of. It's… hard to explain." Audrey waits her out, looking at her until Martha looks away uncomfortable. "I don't think I'm the person to tell you this, Audrey."
"Daddy won't tell me."
"Have you asked him?"
"I don't want to. He looks sad. I don't want to make him sad. This place is too sad. I don't like it."
Martha wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls into an awkward one armed hug. "I don't like them either. But it'll be okay. Everything will be… okay."
She hates that she's thinking it, but Audrey is not sure she believes her.