A/N: Just a little something that's been clinking around in my brain. Also, contains profanity.
"Clarity"
by: the archduke
He sat, his head in his hands, eyes shut tight against the noise. There were too many voices, too many sounds coming from all around. For a few seconds he listened closely.
His mother's voice, high and shrill. Becca's parents, the deep timbre of her father complemented by the raspy tones of her mother. He didn't let himself think about whether Becca's voice would have gained that same raspyness with age, because Becca would never age. Death had made her timeless.
Carly's words meant nothing as she tried to talk to him. He concentrated on her voice, filtering out the rational pitch and finding the worried, hurried quality underneath.
He only noticed the last sound because he had been doing so for the last two months and it must have become a habit. He used to count the tiny breaths coming from the monitor on the side table next to him for hours. Every one had been a validation, of what he wasn't sure, but when he heard them his chest had swelled just a bit with pride.
As he sat, there was a slight rustling and then the monitor went silent. He pushed aside the panic that began to build and stayed as he was. Someone else would take care of it. He couldn't do it by himself.
Suddenly, a new sound cut across all the rest.
"I can't believe you had a part in making something so perfect, Fredward."
It was amazing how she could make herself sound mocking, affectionate, amazed and amused all at the same time. He finally looked up, focusing on her face and ignoring what she carried in her arms.
"Did France finally kick you out after three years? With your record I'm shocked they even let you into the country." He was surprised at how normal his own voice sounded.
One side of her mouth kicked up into a smile as she walked towards him. "I've learned all there is to know about French cuisine. I'll make you a souffle later to prove it."
She stopped beside him, ignoring everyone else in the room while she studied him. "You look like shit."
"It's my wife's funeral. I'm allowed to look like shit." He wasn't the fucking merry widower.
She nodded her head as if conceding him his point. Her hands then adjusted the bundle she was carrying and attempted to shove it into his own arms. He recoiled away from her and it.
"Freddie," she started, but he cut her off.
"No," he said as he shook his head. He folded his arms across his chest and into his body as if he were imploding. "I can't. Not by myself."
She gave an exasperated sigh. "You always were a bit of an idiot. Look around. You aren't by yourself."
He let his eyes dart over the room, briefly touching upon all the other occupants. It wasn't the same. He told her so. "We need Becca."
"That's not gonna happen. You've got to make do with what you've got." She studied him for a moment before she sat down next to him on the sofa. Her voice lowered and grew softer, but still kept the edge of steel that characterized so much of her.
"Look at her, Freddie. Look at your daughter." She brought the bundle closer to him and he couldn't help but stare. The baby was awake and her eyes roved all around, studying everything. She had his nose. The rest was Becca, but she had his nose.
As the baby was transferred into his arms he felt tears forming and begin to flood his eyes. He sat back and let them fall as he gazed at his daughter.
He felt the sofa shift as the other person stood. He looked up as Carly rushed over and threw her arms around her neck. He focused on his daughter again as he heard Carly whisper. "I'm so glad you're back, Sam."
So was he.
A/N 2: Yeah, this was really rushed.