Summary: Shadows pass our lives every day, sometimes only brushing the hem of our robe before moving on…
Note: Too many disasters in a row make you midnight dreams go sideways. This is a Ducky/Sandy snippet, but does not belong in the "My Life" collection. Ducky and Sandy are mildly AU; this might even be AU for their universe. If you haven't read any of the Ducky & Sandy tales, in order they are TGIF, OHIM, Life Is What Happens, CHAOS! and My Life. You can easily follow this knowing that Ducky got married.
Genre: Angst; Pairing: Ducky/OFC; Rating/Warnings: T; Spoilers:None; Time: April, 2009
Disclaimer: All NCIS characters are the property of Bellisarius Productions, Paramount, CBS and the appropriate copyright holders within those companies. All other characters for this story (barring real persons mentioned in passing) are my original creation and property.
THE VAST, TERRIBLE IN-BETWEEN
by Aunt Kitty
It took some adjustment to go from being single—footloose and fancy-free—to being married. Part of a permanent couple. The other half. Ball and chain, she who must be obeyed, lord and master. "If you were my husband, I'd poison your tea." "If you were my wife, I'd drink it!"
Sharing a bed was difficult enough. Sharing a bathroom was worse. Come on—we're not talking two kids fresh out of college, going from first apartment with bricks-and-boards bookcases to living with another person. We're talking two people over the age of fifty, first marriage for both of us. Both with houses of our own, paid off mortgages, differing hobbies, differing habits, both set in our ways. There were, to say the least, some rocky moments. (Who in their right mind puts toilet paper on so that it rolls under the spindle? Or paper towels so they roll over? I ask you, seriously! And spreading butter all the way to the edge of the toast? How the hell do you hold it without getting your fingers greasy? Okay, not grounds for murder, I admit. Minor assault—maybe.)
But we muddled through. We muddled through well enough that when we celebrated our first anniversary, we did so with a 3 month old infant at the table (proving we did things other than squabble over the correct placement of the toilet paper). A little give, a little take; sometimes 50/50, sometimes 90/10, sometimes 0/100. You just roll with it.
I started being more flexible. There were those who say I've always been the Quaalude poster child, letting the wind push me where it wanted. I beg to differ. Open time means open time; close time means the doors are locked. Due date means the bill is not paid the day after. But open time doesn't mean I have to be the one unlocking the door. I pride myself on hiring responsible employees; I started delegating more and more, micromanaging less and less and allowing myself to enjoy being a first-time (if very late in life) mom.
Of course, Victoria was enjoying being a first-time grandmother even more. Yes, she had "adopted" Charlie as her granddaughter—Charlie's moms and assorted friends and extended family relations, too. But Alexandra, more commonly called Allie (tagged "Allie-oop!" by my brother), was the first—and probably only—child of her son's. Nobody's nose was out of joint by Allie being top cat on her list.
The sun rose and set on Allie. Victoria begrudged every hour I took the baby to the store—but I sure wasn't going to leave her at home. Suzy would have happily taken care of her, and I had no concerns over her abilities—however, she's being paid to take care of Victoria—not Allie.
So, partly to keep the waters smooth at home and partly because, well, I like being home, I worked part-time hours at the store and frequently kissed off an entire day.
Spring brought with it, no surprise, spring-like weather. Victoria had a huge greenhouse in the back yard that housed all manner of fruits and vegetables during the cooler fall and freezing winter, along with sprouts and seedlings for spring transplant. So the days or half-days I was home we were frequently in the front or back garden, transplanting her tenderly coddled baby flora and foliage. (Gotta admit, the woman has a green thumb. We had watermelon with our Christmas dinner. It was dark burgundy-red, firm and sweet, like it was picked at the end of June, not the imported, overpriced pink-rosé colored offerings you might stumble over at the market. Beat that, Wegman's!)
The neighbors had known Ducky and his mother for years. Many of them had been there when they moved in; a few moved in later on. With a few exceptions (such as poor Mr. Eller, who, in Victoria's mind, would always be a spy for some enemy power), she was on friendly terms with everyone and they'd pop over to admire our work or check on the baby. (Allie was even more popular than her father and grandmother.)
Even though Ducky and I had been together since '06, dating heavily since '07 and married since that Christmas, there were still neighbors I hadn't met. Mother would chatter happily away with a mysterious man or woman, wave farewell—and when I asked who it was, look utterly baffled. "I have no idea. But he was so charming, wasn't he?" That night I'd play "describe the suspect" with Ducky while he mentally went though the neighborhood. Sometimes it took a while but he always figured it out.
A gorgeous April morning in a string of gorgeous April mornings. The kind of weather the Chamber of Commerce should bottle and mail out as an ad campaign. I was sitting cross-legged on the lawn, scooping out dirt every few inches. Victoria was directing the action, ordering the placement of the baby pansies. There was just enough of a bud on each one that we could tell what the colors would be and she had a particular pattern in mind. So far, I hadn't figured it out.
"What a pretty garden."
I looked up, squinting in the sun. Another neighbor I didn't recognize. "Thanks."
"You're quite the gardener."
I took a flying guess that she was around my age; a little on the plump side (who am I to cast stones), faded blonde, a little taller than I, and a very faint Midwestern twang in her voice. "Thanks. But it's my mother-in-law, really." Suzy had taken Mother in to get cleaned up for lunch while I finished shoving the last few seedlings into the ground. "I'm just the peon, she's the ranch foreman. Forewoman. Something."
She laughed. "Well, it's very pretty. Her geraniums are quite lush. Especially this early." She caught sight of Allie in her playpen. "Oh, my! I didn't know Dr. Mallard had any children." She glanced at me. "Dr. Mallard… does still live here?" she finished doubtfully.
I couldn't fault her for her hesitation. After all, Ducky was 65 when we got married; yeah, Tony Randall was even older when he first became a father—but they're the exception, not the rule. "Yes," I said with an understanding smile. "Yes, he does. We do. And, yes, this is our daughter, Alexandra."
"Oh, she's so pretty. She has your red hair."
"Hope not, it's not paid for yet." She gave me a puzzled look and I kicked myself; don't try out dumb jokes on someone you've just met, jeez. "You live around here?"
She smiled and tugged her head toward Park Way. "I don't know why, but I thought he'd moved away. Years ago."
"Nope. We're here for the long haul." Granted, when we first started talking my house/your house, he was more for moving into my house; I trust he has seen the wisdom of his wife's stubbornness.
"Good." We chatted for a bit more as I finished my planting. As I started to corral the gardening paraphernalia, she gave me a friendly wave and strolled off. I parked the gardening junk by the side of the house where would grab it for the late afternoon session, scooped up the baby and joined Mother and Suzy in the house.
/ / /
Ducky had been following our progress every day and made note of the huge patch of baby pansies that hadn't been there in the morning. "You and Mother are doing a wonderful job," he enthused as he rinsed dishes and I stacked them in the dishwasher.
"It's fun. In all honesty, I'm not that good of a gardener, but she really gets into it. And the neighbors get a real charge out of her being such a busy bee out there. Met a couple of new ones today. One of them is definitely new. Well, two of them in one house. Husband and wife, they just bought the Allens' old place?" He nodded. "Young. Very young. Lassiter. Beverly and… Jim. Beverly and Jim Lassiter. Young. I have socks older than they are. She's a pastry chef—" Ducky looked interested. "He does website design and maintenance out of the house, stays home with the kids. They have two. A boy, Dale, he's three, and a girl, Arden, just about to turn one. Yeah, I know," I said, as the names dawned on him. "They're big comic book collectors. Unless you hear both names together, you wouldn't think Flash Gordon, though, would you?"
"No," he laughed. He reached for the roasting pan that had been soaking through dinner and started scrubbing off the stuck on bits. (One of the places we do agree 100%—clean the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Keeps the drain happy, and the dishes aren't slogging around in filthy water.)
"And one other neighbor stopped by. Not sure exactly where she lives, over on Park, I think. She seemed surprised you were still here."
"After all these years, why would she be? We've been here forever. She? She who?"
"Well, if she hadn't crossed paths with you in a couple of years, she might have thought you moved and she didn't notice," I said reasonably. "Never seen her before. She had all sorts of lovely things to say about the baby," I said smugly. (Of course she did. She's cute, brilliant, talented—okay, only seven months old, but you can tell.) "She said 'make sure to say 'hi' to your husband." I gave him an almost formal half-bow. "So. 'Hi' from—" Oh, crap. What was her name…? A light bulb pinged overhead. "Mary. Mary Hanlan."
Ducky stopped washing the roaster. He held onto it tightly, the water continuing to run, swirling down the drain.
"Honey?"
He turned, slowly, still clutching the enameled pan in his hand. "Who?" he asked quietly.
I double-checked my memory. "Mary Hanlan."
Hands shaking, he set the pan down and I realized he wasn't pale, he wasn't ashen, he was damned near colorless, like every drop of blood had drained to his toes. I was starting to get scared. "Call Jethro." He lowered himself to the seat of the kitchen stepstool-chair. "Call Jethro… now."
finis
The past tempts us,
the present confuses us,
and the future frightens us...
And our lives slip away,
moment by moment,
lost in that vast, terrible in-between.
But there is still time
to seize that one last fragile moment.
To choose something better.
To make a difference, as you say.
(J. Michael Straczynski, "The Coming of Shadows" (Babylon 5))