Please forgive me for this. I had the thought a while back of Henry/Carter and them bringing their two chaotic families together but I never could seem to piece together a fic I really liked for them. Then this happened. There's a second piece to it that I'll post either tonight or tomorrow as well. Hope you guys enjoy.
He's the boy with the fairytale parents, that's how you grow to think of him. He tells you about them a lot, you tell him about yours. His stories though, it's almost like there's magic woven into them. You get lost in his voice, his words, the pictures he paints and you'd never admit it but sometimes you think he might just be spinning you fairytales. Eventually he lets you start reading his writing and that's when you're certain he weaves fairytales, even if the ones about his parents are less magical than the ones in the battered journal that never leaves his side.
Your favorite by far though is the one where the former Evil Queen saves the Savior from The Darkness after she's taken it into herself to protect the Queen. More than that you love to hear him read his stories to you, the emotion he invests in the words, the way that they roll off of his tongue to form images in your mind. The way your nights reading his work goes from nights on opposite ends of the couch to you leaned back against his broad chest listening as he tells you all his stories.
The first time you meet his parents is Thanksgiving your junior year of college. His Ma and his Mom, his three younger sisters (5, 3 and 6 months), his grandmother on his Mom's side and her partner, his grandparents on his Ma's side and their kids. You look at him when no one is paying attention and he looks back at you and you know he was always telling you fairytales. As you look back to his family and he slips up behind you, his arms sliding around your waist, you understand that these people he's told you two sets of stories about are living fairytales.
"Are you okay?" he asks quietly against your ear.
You smile, "I'm amazing," you whisper back. "You've always been telling me fairytales."
"They aren't fairytales," he says firmly.
You turn in his arms, lean your forehead against his, "Don't you understand that they are." Smiling you press a quick kiss to his lips, "Your family isn't a fairytale because of who they are or where they came from, they're a fairytale because they teach those around them how much love someone has to give." You lean up to kiss him properly, "They are the ones who make your stories unforgettable not the events, the people are the fairytales."
He never understands what you mean and after six or seven years you stop trying to make him. After all that time you still think of him as the boy with the fairytale parents, even though now you have a fairytale all your own. That fairytale includes a small house in National City, a dog you both adore and the tiny baby a nurse has just placed in your arms. He's standing at your right shoulder and the two of you look down on your daughter and you wonder if maybe to someone the two of you aren't fairytales like his parents are to you.
