Author's Note: I usually don't go in for these long explanatory author's notes, but this time I feel I need to explain myself a bit. I wanted this story to be a one-shot, but then I realized that it would have been way too long. So I decided to go with several short chapters. I've been noticing the basic themes of a lot of the new "Corpse Bride" fanfiction, and I wanted to do something different. This story is pretty much character-based, about a bit of a tough time in Victor's life. One doesn't always need the supernatural to be involved to have a rough go of it. I always thought that part of the oddness of the "Corpse Bride" story is how quickly life might have gone back to normal after the events of the film. Victor and Victoria simply begin living out their ordinary lives as originally planned--living as a loving married couple, raising a family, going to work, and so forth. And yet, there are still the ramifications of the movie's events. So don't expect too much action-packed rolicking fun with this story is basically what I'm saying. :D I'm going for my usual, I suppose--a bit of an emotional character study. I'm also a bit loath to be using OC's, because I know how irritating they can be. If any of the new characters here get into that territory, please let me know. Also: the title is a bit of an Easter Egg for book enthusiasts. It's a play on two titles--fun nerd points to all who get the reference. :D Please excuse my windiness, and I hope you all enjoy this.
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O---O
Victor's Daughters
"Come along, darling, you're all right. It's nothing," Victor said, trying to be comforting even as he made an attempt to cover his slight feeling of irritation. As he spoke, he gently tightened his grip on his daughter's elbow to keep her from falling down. She'd already taken one tumble on the way up to the house from the garden, the consequence of affecting a severe limp to show him how horribly her leg had been damaged. As though the initial short bout of hysteria and the subsequent whining hadn't been enough. The two of them had spent the past hour or so in the garden looking for butterflies, as they did often. The sweetness and tranquility of the little outing had been effectively shattered when Mary had tripped while enthusiastically going after a monarch fluttering near the roses. And, of course, she managed to land not on the soft earth that carpeted most of the garden, but on the one spot that had jagged flagstones. Because that, as Victor had learned, is the way that it works with children. It could have been worse, though, all things considered. While Victor, from what must by now have been a thousand past experiences, knew that skinned knees could really hurt and was not without sympathy, he also thought that she was taking it just a little too far. Though he had to admit, the sight of a four-year-old staggering about like an exaggerated caricature of an old lady (or Quasimodo, perhaps) was rather funny, in an odd way. Victor decided he'd laugh later--at the moment, it was anything but amusing.
"It's just a little bump, Mary. You're fine," he said, again using that slightly high-pitched and sing-song tone that is often employed with young children. And is often laced with exasperation.
"But it hurts," she replied in what was almost a wail, threatening a bout of fake crying (Victor, with practice, had learned to tell the difference). Mary certainly had a flair for the dramatic, Victor would give her that much. Her face, a slightly thinner and more elongated version of Victoria's, was still streaked with tears from earlier, and her dark hair was coming loose from its oversized floppy (and now awfully crooked) white bow. The white pinafore that she wore over her dress was a bit muddy about the hem, and there was a large hole in the knee of her white stockings that bore the dirt from her fall, as well as the tiny bit of blood that Victor hadn't been able to get rid of with his handkerchief. Such an awful lot of white, especially for spending a morning in the garden. After the initial panic of seeing his child injured, Victor's first thought had been, You simply had to dress her in white, Victoria. Mary really did look a mess, even though Victor knew that the show of pain was probably an act.
He glanced at the house. Twenty feet, maybe, to the front door, and it seemed as though the distance stretched to a mile. He sighed, and attempted to keep walking.
"I know, but we're almost--oh please no, not again!" Victor interrupted himself as his daughter once again started to sink to the ground, apparently too injured to go on. For the moment they were at a standstill there on the lawn, Mary halfway to the ground and Victor standing there fruitlessly hanging onto her arm.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Victor knew that he probably shouldn't be allowing Mary to carry on so. But he wasn't good with confrontation, and, sadly, that seemed to extend even to confrontations with children. It was the same for Victoria, really. Still, he usually preferred to let Victoria be the disciplinarian--even though Victoria's methods of discipline made Glinda the Good look like a hard-hearted monster. At that thought, Victor shook his head a little and decided that he really needed to get back into the habit of reading books for grown-ups every now and then.
With another sigh, he looked down at Mary. He was very tired of this, and had no desire to get into an argument about whether she could walk or not. So, as he did often when situations boiled down to arguing or giving in, Victor gave in.
Bending, he slid his hands under Mary's arms and pulled her to her feet. Before she could languish again from the pain of it all, or commence with the crocodile tears as the chicken-like squawk she let out threatened, Victor scooped her up into his arms. His mouth set into a grim line, he settled Mary against his hip, holding her in the crook of his elbow, and started again for the house. Yet again, Victor had proven powerless when faced with a crying girl.
"I'm all right now," Mary informed him. When he didn't respond, she wiped her eyes on his lapel and sniffled. Then she tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
"I'm all right now," she repeated, her voice the perfect example of contrite childishness.
"Mmm-hmm," Victor replied, refusing to be swayed. Having got what she wanted (namely, an acknowledgment as well as a free ride back to the house), Mary wrapped her arms around his neck and fell into a contented silence.
Victor had only gone a few steps when he remembered his sketchbook and butterfly net. Stopping and turning, he glanced back at the garden. There they were, both lying on the ground near the spot where Mary had taken her fall.
"I've forgotten my things," he said with another exasperated sigh. He didn't realize he'd said that aloud until Mary turned to look as well.
"You forgot your things," she repeated, pointing helpfully. Victor stood there for a moment, indecisive.
"Perhaps I should go back and get them."
"Yes," Mary replied.
"Or I suppose I could get them later."
"Yes."
"It must be almost lunchtime."
"Yes."
"But I really don't want to leave them out in the open. I'll go get them."
"Yes."
"You're quite agreeable all of a sudden."
"Yes."
Victor allowed himself a small smile as he headed back toward the garden at a brisk walk. Then he encountered a problem: how to bend to the ground while keeping a hold on Mary. With a bit of maneuvering he transferred her to his back, where she held on to his neck like a baby monkey.
"Hold this, will you please?" he asked her over his shoulder, holding out the sketchbook. Mary took it from him, whacking him in the ear with the sharp corner in the process. Then she kneed him in the kidneys while trying to keep her balance on his back. Wincing a little, Victor picked up the butterfly net and stood.
"All right, then?" he asked, a little winded.
"I'm slipping," Mary informed him. It came out sounding more like a comment than a warning. Indeed, she was slipping, and nearly choked him when she tightened her grip to keep from falling off his back. In doing so, she lost her hold on the sketchbook. It hit him in the face before it fell to the ground again. Quickly Victor looped his arms under Mary's knees, now carrying her piggyback style. He also dropped the net.
"You dropped the net," Mary said into his ear.
"Yes, thank you," he murmured, surprised to hear it come out more like a grumble. There was a silence.
"Why don't you put me down?" Mary finally said, as though she'd been suggesting it from the start. Victor cocked an eyebrow and twisted his head to look at her.
"Oh, you can walk now, can you?"
"Oh, yes," she replied, as though the big dramatic display from earlier had never happened.
"Fine then. Down you get." Victor crouched down and Mary slid off his back. She picked up the butterfly net (which was almost as tall as she was) and the sketchbook, smiled at him winningly, and then started for the house.
Victor watched her go, shaking his head. As he stood he sighed again, then rubbed his sore ear. His stomach gave a bit of a rumble. It really was nearing lunchtime. After straightening his jacket, he took off at a trot to catch Mary up.
Mary got to the front door a few seconds before he did, and she was already talking. When Victor neared the porch steps, he saw whom she was talking to. Lydia, his and Victoria's oldest daughter, was sitting in one of the gray and weather-beaten wicker chairs on the porch, an open book on her lap. The chair was situated in the corner near where the parlor's bay window extended from the house, and at this time of day it was almost completely in shadow--explaining why Victor hadn't noticed her sitting there before. She looked almost exactly as Victor had when he was twelve, except for the obvious difference of her being a girl. Though Victor was reasonably sure he'd never affected the completely disinterested, bored, and almost world-weary expression that Lydia usually wore. Not when he was twelve, anyway.
"I fell in the garden," Mary was saying as Victor walked up behind her. "And then I hit Father with the sketchbook." Victor couldn't decide whether to be hurt or amused by how nonchalant she sounded about it.
"I know, I saw," Lydia replied, fiddling idly with the high collar of her navy-blue dress with one hand. Then she looked up at Victor.
"Why didn't you put her down in the first place?" she asked. Mary looked at him as well, and they both waited for him to answer.
It was on the tip of his tongue to come back with a question of his own--namely, why Lydia hadn't come over to help if she'd been sitting there watching. But Victor's impulse to argue fled as quickly as it arrived.
"I have no idea," he replied truthfully. Both of his children seemed satisfied with that. After all, Victor realized, he probably gave them the impression that he spent most of his life without any idea of what he was doing. The moroseness brought on by that thought was alleviated a bit by another realization--Victor might be clueless quite a bit of the time, but his children liked him anyway. That was a bit warming.
Managing a small smile, which both Lydia and Mary returned, Victor opened the front door and gestured them into the house.