AN: My first week of class has sucked tremendously so far. I hate my classes, I hate the cold, I hate the snow, I hate my new years' resolution to lose 10 pounds, I hate having to wait until Tuesday to watch Flashpoint, I hate having to show my house to students' who want to rent it next year, I miss my cats, I hate my classmates and ... and ... and I hate stupid freaking rutabagas. /whine.
Thus I compensated by writing a Wordy fic. I thought it might make me feel better. I guess I do feel more contented.
This was inspired by the latest episode Thicker than Blood. It got me thinking - what if Wordy's oldest' was biologically Shelley's first husband's child? Yeah - I recycled the name Blake from my other fic. Whatevs, right?
Disclaimer: I ain't be owning none of this shit, yo'. If I did own FP I'd be wallowing on a beach in the Caribbean somewhere, NOT hauling my ass out of bed at 7AM on a Wednesday and losing appendages to frostbite to get to a class on the history of fabric or whatever.
I hope you enjoy it.
...
Wordy sighed heavily, slumping over as he slunk in the front door, icy winter winds whipping at his back. He wearily bent over to tug at the knotted laces of his boots, letting them drop to the carpeted floor with two muffled thuds.
Long day he thought, briefly entertaining the idea of appeasing his rumbling stomach. No, he had something else he needed to do.
He stumbled up the stairs. His legs felt heavy and leaden. Stiff, he thought rolling his shoulders as he crept along the hallway
Stopping in front of the last door he held his breath as he slowly turned the knob, easing it forward. Light crept across the floor, seeping across the brightly patterned Dora rug, the scattered toys, until it reached the bed.
Golden hair pushed back from her delicate face, so much like her mothers' at that age, was his oldest daughter. Her hands were splayed on the purple-and-pink quilt, her cheeks flushed with sleep. Her plush brown bear, Tinklesworth, peaked out from the crook of her arm.
His baby. His Claire. She'd become so independent these last few months – so determined to do things for herself. Growing up so quickly. But when she was asleep she was still his baby girl. He could remember holding her, only seconds after she'd be born, and feeling her take that first, shaky breath.
And he'd wept.
"Kev?" Shelley's sleepy voice startled him. She'd come to stand beside him, glancing around his shoulder to their child. She slipped an arm around his waist, resting her head against his shoulder.
He leaned over to press a kiss to her forehead.
"What's wrong?" She asked, frowning up at him.
"Just a rough case today."
"You wanna talk about it?" She asked.
It surprised him that he did. "It's complicated. Ten years ago a girl got involved with a teacher. She wound up pregnant. She didn't tell anyone who the father was. She moved on with her life – met a guy. A really amazing guy, actually. They got married and he took the boy as his own. He loved this kid. But their son got sick."
Shelley stroked a hand up his arm – it was a small gesture meant to comfort and soothe.
"It was cancer. They tried everything they could. They tested everyone in the family. And when they'd just about given up hope they found a donor." He glanced between Shelley and their sleeping daughter. He could imagine the helpless, the confusion, the anger, the desperation thrashing through you like a bitter and violent hurricane.
"They did?" Her voice was so hopeful.
"Yes. But he wanted money and they didn't have any. So they kidnapped the boy's biological father. They tried to withdraw his money from the bank. They tried to get a ransom. They tried everything. And when it didn't work the father knocked him out, tested his blood. He was a match. He tried to sneak him into an ER to harvest the marrow to give to his son." He rubbed a hand wearily over his short hair, a weary habit.
"You stopped him." Shelley said. Her voice held no condemnation – no judgment. She knew that's what he'd had to do. That it wouldn't have been an easy choice.
"I didn't want to. I understood what they were doing. I'd do anything for them." He said, misery bubbling up in his stomach.
"I know you would." She lifted her hand from his arm, lifting it to stroke his cheek. He pressed a kiss to her palm before covering her hand with his own. He needed that connection – strong and solid. The feel of her heartbeat pumping against his own.
"Do you ever think about what we'll tell her about her real father?" He asked, his eyes skimming back to the silently slumbering Claire.
"Don't say that Wordy. You are her real father." She murmured. "In all the ways that matter."
"I couldn't love her any more than I do. I'd do anything for her - to protect her and keep her happy. But that doesn't change biology, Shell. When do you think she's going to realize that she doesn't look that much like her sisters – that she doesn't look all that much like me for that matter?" He had to fight the words out.
"I don't know." Her earnest response came.
"I don't want to lie to her. I don't want her to have to find out from somebody else. The whole time I was looking at this kid lying there in that hospital bed I was thinking of Claire. What it must be like for that boy to realize that this man, the father who's put everything on the line for him, isn't who he thought he was." Wordy shook his head, trying to image from his head.
"You think we should tell her?" Shelley asked.
He hesitated. "She's my little girl, Shell. From the moment I saw that first sonogram. From the moment I felt her kick. She's always been my little girl."
"We were so lucky to have you. I don't know if I've told you often enough. I couldn't believe that somebody could love me – us, actually. I wasn't really living when I was with Blake. Every day was the same and everything was black and white. I wasn't scared anymore, or embarrassed or hurt. I was just numb. Then you came. You brought the colour back, Kev." She pressed a hand to her thrumming heart. She'd been in love with him before she'd found out about her pregnancy. But seeing how much he'd loved her daughter too, not just because it was an extension of herself, but because she was Claire had made Shelley love him ever more. Claire had been, from the moment she'd told him, his child too.
"You remember the night you came to my door?"
How could he not? He thought.
Just your average domestic. He'd been on the job only a few short months, but already he knew the routine. He'd heard the lies, the excuses. He'd see the bruises; he'd give the official spiel. He wanted to help the women, but they had to want to help themselves.
He rang the doorbell. And that's the moment his life changed.
Because when the door creaked open, it wasn't just any woman standing at the gaping mouth of the rundown bungalow. It was Shelley. Sweet, funny, pretty, shy, brilliant Shelley.
She'd looked at him with those startlingly blue eyes, round like saucers in a too-gaunt face. Her lips, bottom one still bleeding from where a fist had pummeled it moments ago, parted. He could hear the whisper of explanation forming on her breath.
"Wordy?" She winced at the name. And in the background he could still hear Blake cursing and yelling.
"Don't bother getting your things." He'd said, as calmly as he could. He'd shrugged off his coat, wrapping it gently around her shoulders as he guided her out the door. She seemed as fragile as a bone china. "We're leaving."
And she had. Amazingly she had. She'd walked out of that house with nothing but the clothes on her back, and never looked back.
"You took me to the shelter. Woodgrove. You told the woman if I even thought about leaving to call you first. You brought me a toothbrush and some clothes. I think they were your sister's. And when I wavered about pressing charges you pushed. Because you said that nobody deserved to be treated that way. That nothing gave him the right to beat me. You came to see me every day." She recalled, as clearly as if it had been yesterday.
"I was always in love with you." He pressed his eyes closed. Sometimes it was just too much.
"Yes. And I was confused. I couldn't give it back to you at first. Because I was still a little broken. I needed time to heal. But I knew that every day I looked forward to seeing your face. That even on the days when neither of us said anything at all, that I needed you there. That I hated to see you leave. I wanted to get better for me. But I also wanted to get better for you." She insisted.
"I kissed you in the rose-garden." She said, smiling at the memory.
He'd never forget it.
The setting sun warmed his warmed skin. She was wearing a tank top and, for once, her arms were free of dark bruises. She was sitting so close their legs were almost brushing and he could smell the lemon of her shampoo. The grass was cool, damp from the recent rain, beneath his fingers. He'd wanted to kiss her. But told himself he had to wait.
Her tortured himself by looking over, examining that un-painted face. The full lips, the clear eyes. The blond hair tumbling back from the fair skin. She smiled at him.
Her hand, trembling ever so slightly, had reached out. It brushed his shoulder, burning the memory of her hand into his flesh. He'd frozen. Leaning in she pressed her lips to his own. The sweetest feeling in the world. It had been like coming home.
"I couldn't come to see you the next day. It was a hectic day – they had us all pulling double-overtime. They needed all hands. When I came the next day you were crying." He murmured.
"I'd just found out I was pregnant." She whispered.
"Yes. I remember you telling me. You were so scared."
He remembered his heart stumbling in panic as he wondered what was wrong. How his hands had raced over her body checking for injury. Her incoherent sobs ratting her small frame as she clung to him, like a raft in a storm.
"It was so early. I was so sure you'd turn away from me." She said.
"I could never." It was the truth, he thought.
"I know. It just seemed so unfair. I'd just escaped him and now it was all coming back. I was still afraid of him. You told me that you wouldn't let him hurt me. " She smiled at the memory. She'd believed it even then.
"I wouldn't."
"I didn't think you could possibly want me anymore." She pressed her eyes shut, struggling against the welling tears.
"I did."
"You told me we'd be a family – after that first sonogram. You told me you wanted to give her your name. Raise her as your own. I'd never know a better man than you. You asked me to marry you." She gave a small laugh, brushing away the forming tears.
"Yeah – I still can't believe you said yes." He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair. The feeling of her heart beating, alongside his, where it belonged, was comforting. It was right.
"Blake doesn't matter. He didn't matter when she was born, he doesn't matter now. All that matters is that you love her. And she adores you. You're the best father I could have ever chosen for her. Or Lilly or Aly." Shelley smiled against his shoulder.
"If we tell her that won't change. She'll know that she's loved and she'll always love you too." She continued.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I know. I guess I'm just a little churned up. It was a hard case. Struck a little close to home."
"Mm" she hummed in agreement. Guiding him back a step she eased the bedroom door shut. Wrapping her arms around his neck, reaching up on tip-toes, she kissed him. It was funny how, years later, it could feel the same, Wordy thought as they broke apart and, holding hands, tread back down the hallway to their own room.
It was still the sweetest thing. It was still like coming home.
Only this time, he thought, glancing back down the row of doors', emblazoned with the names of his three daughters, there was more.