Title: Fireflies and Good Intentions
Author: lady_of_scarlet /xxxxScarletxxxx
Characters: Spencer and Diana Reid.
Rating/Warnings: FRC, Gen, light angst, implied mental illness, Little!Spencer.
Word Count: 1,300~
A/N: Missed writing and felt like contributing again- Just a brief exploration of our boy genius' traumatic childhood and relationship with Diana Reid, who is one of my favourite supporting characters; though I'm not sure it really constitutes angst... Concrit and comments are, as always, highly appreciated.
Summary:
"Deep down though, he knew that all the fireflies and good intentions in the world couldn't make her better."
The first two days had been filled with fire-roasted marshmallows and bug spray that left a sticky film on his skin.
His mother pointed out all the constellations as he marvelled at the vastness of the dark open sky. The perpetual, iridescent glow of Vegas had never bothered him and even comforted him most nights, but nothing compared to the starry skies of the countryside.
Camping trips were rare, and even though he preferred the city, any chance to explore the world with her was one he treasured.
The air sent a chill across his bare arms and the sky was infinitely dark, but he wasn't afraid.
His mother smiled as she lay next to him on the thick quilted blanket, and laughed when fireflies danced around them, a whimsical procession attuned to the rhythm of the woods and the music of their hushed voices.
He loved it when she laughed. The world would feel so small with just the two of them, so full of potential, so safe. He'd look up at the stars and let his mind wander, contemplating Galileo and Aristotle, wondering if they looked up at the same stars and shared the same fascination with the tiny balls of light that he couldn't quite reach no matter how far he stretched.
He knew the stories by heart, but he would ask her to tell him anyway, and her voice would lower to a whisper as she confided in him the exciting exploits of the Greek gods and painted their enchanted stories in the cool night air around them until he could hear the voices of Ares and Aphrodite on the breeze.
The third day she paced, and the stories she whispered were hers alone, mumbled incoherently and he could never quite make sense of them no matter how intently he listened. She moved quickly and furiously, fluttering around the cabin and gathering her books.
He watched from a rickety wooden chair in the kitchen as she laid them out on the floor, arranging and rearranging them until she was satisfied. It wasn't until she opened the first book to page 367 and began tearing out the paper that he realized the fate of her collection of mid-nineteenth century poetry.
He recoiled at their loss, as one by one they lost their pages, spilling onto the ground around her in a silent massacre, but he made no move to stop her. If she wanted their pages removed, they would be. The books could be replaced.
When he could no longer watch her intent and systematic surgery, he retrieved a box of cheerio's from the cupboard and ate them dry on the front porch. Everything would be okay when she was finished. Perhaps the pages would make good kindling for their marshmallows.
The forth day she stayed in bed, the ancient wooden roof proving too great a distraction for her tired mind and she appeared to contemplate its form for hours from the comfort of her bed. He lay next to her, trying to see what she saw, but finding only knotted wood and cobwebs.
Emily Bronte's work had somehow escaped the massacre. He peeled open its yellowed pages and read to her, like she did for him whenever he was sick. He pretended she was listening until the sun dipped back below the horizon and the stars began to beckon.
She closed her eyes and he closed the book.
Her still form was barely visible in the looming darkness, and he wondered if she might be afraid without a nightlight.
Climbing out of the bed as quietly as he could manage, he devised a plan to make her well again.
Slipping on his corduroy jacket, he took out his flashlight and rummaged through the kitchen cupboards until he located an empty glass jar.
With his supplies in hand and all the courage he could gather, he pushed open the creaky screen door and made his way toward the woods.
Logically, as twigs and branches grabbed at his hair and clothes, he knew that there was nothing to be afraid of.
The park ranger had assured him that there were no bears in this area, or cougars, or anything else that may have an appetite for little boys.
He told himself that he wouldn't go too far, just far enough to find what he was looking for.
After only a few minutes of carefully calculated steps, he came upon the softly glowing prize he sought. Tentatively, he held his hand out toward the dancing fireflies and smiled, pleased, when they didn't fly away. One brushed against his fingertip and he flinched in excitement, a gasp of fascination escaping his lips. The tiny creatures fluttered around him, illuminating the darkness with their playful loops and twirls.
He just knew they would make her laugh again.
One by one he tried to catch them with his jar, until finally succeeding at isolating a handful and twisting the top back on. He felt a little guilty. After all, he wouldn't like being trapped in a jar against his will, and he wondered if this would constitute a violation of their civil rights which, his mother had assured him, was not a very nice thing to do.
Resolving to release them first thing in the morning after his mother had been cured, Spencer turned back the way he came. He could still see the outline of the cabin through the trees, but it was only now that he realised how far away he'd strayed during his search.
Reminding himself that he was supposed to be brave, that he could be brave for his mother's sake, he ventured forward. The crescent moon peeked between branches and leaves crackled beneath his feet. Suddenly, his flashlight flickered, dimmed, and then extinguished.
He clutched the fireflies close to his chest, frozen in place. It was dark. So dark. And there were things moving around in the bushes. Horrible things. Monsters.
The fireflies did little to help, just danced around in their glass prison, banging into the sides but finding no reprieve.
He clenched his eyes shut and tried to will the fear away until a monster shrieked behind him and he opened his eyes only to see its huge black wings spread wide in the sky above him.
He ran.
Spencer raced toward the cabin as hands and claws grabbed at him until one finally caught hold and pulled him back with such force that he fell to the ground, scraping the palms of his hands attempting to catch himself.
The heavy glass jar hit the earth with a resounding smash, shattering into pieces and scattering in the dirt. The fireflies it contained immediately dispersed, drunkenly, into the night, no doubt savouring their new found freedom and mocking their captor. Others were not so lucky.
He sat still on the forest floor, only a few feet now from the cabin, absorbing the shock and watching the raven drift across the stars. Just a bird.
His hands hurt and he was ashamed of his cowardice. His breath came in short gasps and his throat tightened as he wished his mother would come and find him even though he knew she wouldn't. The last of the drunken fireflies disappeared into a bush, along with his hopes of having found a cure.
He felt the profound weight of his failure in a way that only a six year old could.
Deep down though, he knew that all the fireflies and good intentions in the world couldn't make her better. Maybe nothing ever could. He loved her so, and that would have to be enough for tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps, he could try again.
He picked himself up from the ground and clutched his broken flashlight, leaving the shattered jar and the few dead fireflies behind.
He made his way back to the warm bed his mother lay in, her body only inches away but her mind lost somewhere up in the stars with Galileo and the Olympian gods, always just out of his reach.