One of the things that is interesting about fanfiction is taking trends in an original piece of storytelling and extrapolating them to a logical conclusion. In the case of 7th Heaven, this often leads us to some very interesting places. This story, for example, takes the behavior of Annie, Kevin and Lucy in the episode "Major League" and runs with it. Why, you ask, does Lucy constantly act like a child? Here's one explanation.
As always, these characters belong to the WB, Brenda Hampton, and other Hollywood big shots, not to me.
ONE
* * *
We're going to try again. We have to.
You'll understand, I hope, why. It's family, and we're family. It's the mantra of our lives, the one thing that matters above all else. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with the love of family.
And I see that love, all the time, on Annie's face. I do, even despite the lines of rage and pain and anger that have shaped it. I know that there are some who don't agree, who tell me that she's changed, that she isn't the Annie I married. They call themselves experts, they do, and they tell me that people can change, but they're wrong. They're all wrong.
I don't care if they are doctors. God knows my Annie, and he knows that she loves her kids.
God is my strength in all this.
Kevin, too. Thank God for Kevin. He could have left; a weaker man would have. How can he stand it, day after day, not being allowed to see her?
Being kept from his own wife?
#
The doctor -- I won't say psychiatrist -- tells me that this isn't a good idea. But how does he know? All the medicines, all the therapy, the electroshock, trying, trying to get her to respond, my little angel, the little girl I once bounced on my knee, and he's accomplished nothing.
Just that tone he has, criticizing.
"These things don't happen all at once, Reverend. They build up, with time. When did you first notice her starting to change?"
Annie speaks, answering for me. She does that.
"She never changed. She was fine. It was an accident."
The doctor looks at her, at my wife, and I almost protest. No one has the right to look at my Annie that way. I speak.
"It might have been an accident. If she was shaving her legs in the tub, and slipped...."
Now he regards me, says nothing.
It doesn't matter now, anyway.
She's here. My little girl is here.
And she's all right.
Really.
I have to believe that.
As always, these characters belong to the WB, Brenda Hampton, and other Hollywood big shots, not to me.
ONE
* * *
We're going to try again. We have to.
You'll understand, I hope, why. It's family, and we're family. It's the mantra of our lives, the one thing that matters above all else. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with the love of family.
And I see that love, all the time, on Annie's face. I do, even despite the lines of rage and pain and anger that have shaped it. I know that there are some who don't agree, who tell me that she's changed, that she isn't the Annie I married. They call themselves experts, they do, and they tell me that people can change, but they're wrong. They're all wrong.
I don't care if they are doctors. God knows my Annie, and he knows that she loves her kids.
God is my strength in all this.
Kevin, too. Thank God for Kevin. He could have left; a weaker man would have. How can he stand it, day after day, not being allowed to see her?
Being kept from his own wife?
#
The doctor -- I won't say psychiatrist -- tells me that this isn't a good idea. But how does he know? All the medicines, all the therapy, the electroshock, trying, trying to get her to respond, my little angel, the little girl I once bounced on my knee, and he's accomplished nothing.
Just that tone he has, criticizing.
"These things don't happen all at once, Reverend. They build up, with time. When did you first notice her starting to change?"
Annie speaks, answering for me. She does that.
"She never changed. She was fine. It was an accident."
The doctor looks at her, at my wife, and I almost protest. No one has the right to look at my Annie that way. I speak.
"It might have been an accident. If she was shaving her legs in the tub, and slipped...."
Now he regards me, says nothing.
It doesn't matter now, anyway.
She's here. My little girl is here.
And she's all right.
Really.
I have to believe that.