This is a sequel to Green Stars and Black Ice, told by Sophie Watson-Holmes. You don't have to have read the other story, but it may help to understand some of the things that Sophie refers to in this one. Thank you for reading. (Also note that this has been cross-posted to AO3.)
Chapter 1: Quivers and Contemplation
Some people say that writing about romance is a fool's game, that no one can ever really understand it anyway: how two people can glance across a crowded room at each other and each can see something about the other that no one else suspects. Whether that first glance tells of an emotional undercurrent that strangely cannot be appreciated by other people, or possibly of some unusual tell only apparent in that single glance, no can say, and sometimes not even the lovers.
There have been hundreds of stories of lovers, some ill-fated and star-crossed, others that make it to the happily-ever-after state. Some that burn hot and bright in the beginning and then burn out like dud fireworks, leaving no trace of itself behind. Others burn like a dying star and then slowly trickle down into a mutual respect for one another, even after admitting differences that can no longer be repaired by time or science or the laws of the land.
Some romances don't even start out to be romances, but with time and the same mutual respect that I mentioned earlier, become something even more beautiful and long-lasting.
Some people say that writing about romance is a waste of time because everyone understands it in their own way. Others say it's just about lust with your pants on or that it's all about sex in the end and that sex is the most evil and vile thing that has happened to humanity. Yeah, well, some people beg to differ. Love and sex and caring and needing and wanting to be with another human being is a natural drive instilled in all of us from the moment we become aware. It's an unbroken circle.
I want you to understand that through all of this that my belief that you cannot control who your heart falls for has never changed. So please sit back and relax. Light a fire in the stone fireplace and quiet your minds. Let me tell you a story.
From the Blog of SW-H.
Ooooooo
My name is Sophie Watson-Holmes and I have two of the most amazing dads that you will ever meet. We live in a large house just outside of London, England. My Grammy Hudson lives here as well. I have spent my years growing up here at what my Daddy likes to call "Watson-Holmes manor." It is a large estate, full of the many things a young girl needs to grow and make her strong. I grew up riding horses, learning to target shoot with my Daddy's old Army-issue Browning, and generally running amok about the place. I am also pretty good with a bow, and my Papa even had some arrows made for me with purple flights, as it's my favorite color.
Yes, you heard me right. I have two dads, but of course, I also have a mother. Her name was Molly Hooper and she was killed in an auto accident when I was just a few months old. Coincidentally, the accident took place one very cold morning right in front of the taxi that my Daddy had hired to drive him to the surgery where he was working at the time. Though he has kept his medical license, it was that same day that he quit working in regular practice. I will explain more about that later.
My Daddy was the last person that my mother saw before she died. We have talked about this, and I agree with him that he was probably able to give her some comfort in those last moments. I would also like to think, though I don't believe in any kind of heaven populated with little naked angels, I'd like to think that somewhere her spirit is aware of me. From the stories my fathers and other people have told me about my mother, she was a quiet, unassuming kind of person. She worked in the morgue and her capable hands not only cleaned up the bodies of the broken, but she also reached out to heal the hearts of the people left behind. She helped my Papa do something Big once and really made a difference in people's lives, whether she was aware of it or not. By helping out with that one Big thing, she made it possible for not only me to be alive, but both of my fathers. Even though I never really knew her, I say a little "thank you" for her in my heart whenever I think about her.
My Papa says that she saw him. It has taken me many years to understand just what he meant, but I think I am getting there.
My Papa is my biological father. Apparently I was conceived after the Big thing that my mother helped him with. I know that there are many ways of loving another person and I am not ashamed that my parents were not lovers but friends when I was conceived. The mutual respect and caring that they had for one another created life and saved the lives of countless others. It would be selfish of me not to see what a wonderful thing that has been. Friendship should never be discounted just because it is such a simple word.
My Papa loves my Daddy with all of his heart. I can say that in the twenty years I've been alive, there has never been a day that has gone by that I have doubted that love for a millisecond. Some people are just made to be together, and, well, they are some of those people. Next year is their twentieth wedding anniversary, and I really want to do something special for them. Maybe by writing out my story, I can think of something wonderful that will show them how much I love and appreciate them both.
I am watching them now, walking hand-in-hand up through the side yard from the garden. Still, after all this time, hopelessly in love with one another. My Papa is wearing his bee-keeper's whites, but has removed the veil from his head. Papa's hair is curled in tight ringlets around his forehead from the pressure of the veil. I've always loved my Papa's hair, sometimes it can be indicative of his mood: it can be smooth and wavy just from a shower or a swim, or it can be wild and unfettered from where he would run his fingers through it while working on case. He doesn't work as many cases anymore and only rarely ever leaves the manor for them. He's still a techno-buff and uses whatever is at hand to visualize the scene and more often times than not, solves the crime.
On those rare occasions that he needs to actually see the scene first-hand, he will smile at Daddy and whisper a word under his breath that sounds like "danger" though for some reason it makes no sense to me, so I just shrug it off. But Daddy smiles and off they go. Grammy will sometimes come over to wherever I am, sitting at my desk writing usually, and we will watch them leave together. They are both older now, but still very much who they have been throughout my lifetime.
Papa's black hair is streaked with silver and Daddy's just seems to be turning white. Really, they are both quite striking older gentlemen. I requested that Grammy never tells them I say that about them, but I am sure at least Papa knows anyway. Daddy still has much of his temper and Papa still throws the occasional tantrum (I have heard all about those days from every single person around me. Plus, I've seen the arguments between Papa and Uncle Mikey. I am under the impression that just because they are older just means the arguments have a shorter expiration date than before.) Oftentimes, when the inclination to bicker about something silly comes up, Papa will stalk into the bedroom and Daddy will walk, either down to the stables or with me. Those long hikes with Daddy have shortened a bit, but I have always been able to keep up with him, stride for stride. It's always been our time. Those are the times when I can talk to him about life in general (he says that the answer is forty-two but I still don't get it) and where he has taught me many things about compassion and listened to me when I came to him with some silly school-girl problem. He never fixes my problems outright; instead he makes me think them through and generally I can come to a conclusion on my own.
When I was younger there were times when I lashed out against the both of them for not fitting into a normal mold. Like every other kid in this world, I was subjected to outsiders' opinions on my home life as well as myself. Over time, their patience and wisdom helped me through those rough patches and I think I came out a little stronger on the other side of them. Somehow, I've never lost my way.
I guess I am tall for a female. Daddy and I often look straight into each other's eyes, though Papa is much taller. Daddy can put his arm around my shoulder and he doesn't have to reach up nor does he have to hunch over. Papa always hunches a little, whether he is hugging me or Daddy or Grammy. I have always felt that he has no awareness of this, and it seems to have done no lasting harm to his spine!
I have my Papa's long fingers, but I have no musical ability whatsoever. (Unless cranking up my speakers counts, I can sing but not well.) I do like using the bow, however. It is just old-fashioned enough to be unusual in many circles. When I was fourteen I learned how to shoot from the saddle, both with my bow and Daddy's Browning. I saw it on the telly once when I was watching a program about American horse shows, so I had to try it.
As with everything I wanted to try, Daddy and Papa were there by my side, as they are even today. In all these months that I have been at University, I have felt the touch of their hands on my shoulders, encouraging me and helping through the bad times. In the beginning, it was rough. It was difficult to be away from them, but that was two years ago and I have adjusted since.
Ooooooo
I have just finished a practice run. I am pulling my horse up to a slow stop after rushing the targets that Daddy made me out of hay stacks and cardboard. My horse, Amber, and I are going to be part of an exhibition in a few days and I want to make sure that she and I are both ready. When we practice, Amber only wears my specially-made saddle and a halter. There is no point in putting a bit in her mouth nor reins in my hands because I need my hands to hold whichever weapon I am firing.
As we were completing our last gallop, I fired my last arrow into the target with a satisfying whump and turned Amber using my left leg. She tossed her head a bit and laid her ears back, just being a mare. After a few moments, she settled into an easy canter and by the time we were back up at the barn she was walking calmly under me, snorting occasionally to let me know she really wanted to drop her head and graze but she was being oh so good and maybe she could get a treat.
Yeah, horses say a lot in snorts and whickers. Just like Papa says a lot with his eyes and my Daddy says millions of words when he is silent. Maybe that's why I understand these things.
I hang the bow over my arm and as I am reaching to pull of the helmet Daddy insists that I use when riding (even though it sometimes impairs my vision it really is not worth the argument, even now) when I notice Uncle Greg standing by the paddocks. He gives me a little wave. I've only been home a few days and this is the first time we will have the chance to catch up with one another.
Uncle Greg is another wonderful person I have know my entire life. He was a Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard up until just a few years ago, when he retired. Since then, he has been a regular around our house and will often come down to the stables when I am practicing and give me pointers on shooting at the targets. He is a very interesting, very mellow person and almost as calming as Daddy. That is probably why Uncle Mikey loves him.
I am hoping that someday I find a person with Uncle Greg's hair, Daddy's eyes, Papa's intelligence and Uncle Mikey's diplomacy. Whether that be a man or a woman, I'm pretty open right now. I reach down and pat my bay cob's thick neck and she knickers a little at Uncle Greg. According to Papa, apparently Uncle Greg has had some mystical effect on almost every female they ever came across, so I cut Amber a little bit of slack.
I wave at Uncle Greg and shift myself sideways in the saddle. Both my feet are out of the stirrups, but the high, padded cantle and pommel keep me steady. Amber's head is almost to the ground and she stops just in front of Uncle Greg and I hop off her back, keeping my bow above her back so as not smack her with it. (That happened only once. I am smart enough not to ever let it happen again. Mare. Remember?)
"Hey there Princess Sophie!" He welcomes me with a hug and a kiss to each cheek. I can feel the smile plastered on my face. Amber now seems to be awake and she is poking her muzzle at his face, sniffing loudly. All females indeed. He smiles slightly spicy today and he cheek is smooth.
"I watched you make those last two shots, you really are a regular Robin Hood, eh?" He smiles at me, his teeth still perfectly white after so many years of coffee and cigarette binging. It's our little secret that he still occasionally sneaks a smoke, but who I am to tell? Trust me, I completely understand the need being around Papa and Uncle Mikey my whole life.
Amber has dropped her head to the ground and she is doing the skin shiver thing, so I reach down to rescue my black leather saddle before she decides to roll. Uncle Greg gently takes the bow off my arm and the black leather quiver off my back. I pull the saddle and pad off of Amber's back and she takes a few steps away from us and drops to the ground for a leisurely roll, snorting and kicking her legs like it's the best feeling ever. She will make sure that it's going to take me at least twenty minutes to get the in-ground dirt off of her back later. Payback for asking her to make one more pass at the targets, of course, but that is why I like her. She is tough but honest.
Uncle Greg follows me into the barn where I perch my saddle onto its rack and flip the deep purple pad upside down on top of it. Amber worked hard today, but the pad isn't especially smelly or damp, it's probably only out of habit that I store it this way. He asks me about my classes and I carefully reply. For some reason, I do not feeling like talking about school. I want to enjoy being home for the time being.
Besides being away from my fathers, I think this is what I missed most when I was at Uni. I start stripping off my black leather gloves and wrist guards and Uncle Greg and I talk about the exhibition. I am calling it an exhibition, but he keeps saying "Renaissance Faire." I know that's an Americanism he picked up when he spent a few months across the pond investigating a case, but what I'm doing isn't the same.
As much as he likes calling me Robin Hood, I am actually going to be in a costume that fits no period os specific character at all. I've based it on a few comic book characters and what I know will give me ease of movement. There is no prize except for bragging right. Since there are so few of this who do this here anyway, that barely even matters. I am going out there to have a good time, see some old friends and watch the jousting hunks.
I mean guys.
"Uncle Greg, I am going out there just for fun, not everything is a competition." I scold. He gives me his most a sport is a sport, it's all competition grin when he is pushed toward me by something behind him. I stand there holding all this leather in my hands while my palfrey is sniffing his back. Yeah, she is still looking for that treat, no doubt. Uncle Greg laughs and turns to playfully swat at my mare. She sticks her nose out and I remove her halter and she follows me to her stall where I give her some apple slices and Uncle Greg drops a molasses buscuit into her trough. I check her water buckets and make sure her salt block is not horribly ravaged. The stable hands will be through in about an hour to feed the rest of the stable's residents.
Amber relaxes and drops to her belly with a sigh. I made sure her bedding was clean before we ever went out to the field. I know the grooms get paid to do it, but when I'm home, I like it to be my responsibility. I tell her good night and fall into step beside Uncle Greg as we walk up to the house.
We enter the house through the back door that leads into the sitting room. Grammy is on the couch, some new knitting project in her lap. Daddy is in the kitchen, I can hear the sounds of supper being started. Papa is standing by the window that looks out to the stables, his violin in his hand. He smiles at me as I come in the door and pointedly looks at my tall boots. I shrug at him but then I carefully remove them and leave them sitting side-by-side on the mat that has been placed in front of the door for this purpose.
I walk over to Papa and give him a kiss on the cheek. His eyes blaze as they study me. I cannot ask him what he sees because he will just tell me what I have been doing and I do not need a run through of it all, thanks, I was there. It has been a running gag between us for some time now. I think he does it not to be irritating, but as practice. Generally, he will even tell me Amber's mood from some silly thing like how a piece of hay has forced itself into the instep of my boot or something, but he has been watching me today so he knows that I know it would be cheating.
Papa is holding a hand out to Uncle Greg when I scoot into the kitchen in my stockings. Daddy turns away from the stove where he is busy with what appears to be pasta sauce. He stirs with the wooden spoon in his left hand and reaches out for me with his right. He kisses me on the same cheek Papa just did (sometimes I think they do this on purpose) and swats my behind, which kicks up a little bit of saddle dust. He just laughs (I wonder if he is too old to say he giggles?) and continues to stir the sauce.
I go upstairs to my bedroom and change out of my breeches into an old pair of jeans that I've had since High School. They are soft and as I push my legs through them I decide to leave on my long stockings. Papa gave these to me last Christmas and I love the black and yellow striped pattern. He so rarely does anything whimsical that these were keepers from the second I saw them in the box. I change the purple T-shirt I've had on all day and slip on a white one. I pull my hair down from its tight bun and run a brush through it. I then pull it back, lastly adding a white bandanna. After washing up, I head back down to the kitchen.
As I walk down the stairs I take note of the beautiful oranges and reds of the setting sun reflected throughout the house. Daddy says from the day he first came here he always felt at home. I have asked him about other places he has lived, but sometimes he has selective hearing and will just go on about this house for hours, so I gave it up as a lost cause.
The kitchen is so warm and inviting. There's hardly a chill in the air, but with the leaves turning colors, it won't be long. Grammy and Uncle Greg are at the table and Daddy is putting some pot holders down on the wood to hold the serving dishes. Uncle Mikey must be coming tonight, usually Daddy isn't quite so formal and we often eat "buffet style," serving ourselves from the stove and counter top. I move past Daddy and grab a stack of plates and silverware. Our wineglasses are already set about the table I notice while watching Uncle Greg slather butter onto a crescent roll that he has just pulled from the basket.
Papa comes up a few moments later with a bottle of wine and Uncle Mikey comes in from the foyer. He nods to everyone, patting my shoulder as he walks by and elegantly sits down next to Uncle Greg. I take my place between Grammy and Daddy and watch Papa deftly open the bottle. He sets it on the table for a few moments while we pass around the serving dishes. As always, Daddy has outdone himself. I love the way the flavors of garlic and pesto sweep over my tongue. Papa pours wine all around, giving himself less than everyone else.
We eat and have a nice chat and it is all warm and wonderful. My uncles ask me about the upcoming exhibition and generally seem interested when I talk about it. I know when they all look at me they still see the baby girl with the big green eyes and curly black hair. I hope that one day they will see a grown woman and have a reason to be proud of me for more than just existing.
For now it's enough. I am good at this strange and unusual thing and I am not concerned with how other people see me or my family.
Grammy excuses herself a bit later to head up to bed, leaving me with a peck on the cheek and an empty chair to rest my feet in. Uncle Mikey and Greg leave together and Daddy clears the table. So it's just me and Papa, both with our hands around warm cups of tea. This is something else I have missed: these chats with my Papa when he talks about the things that he and Daddy have done together. Apparently, Papa used to show off quite a bit more than he does these days. Maybe he just knows that he does need to show off for me, I love him just the way he is. Daddy says he is much calmer now, and this is something else I consider as I listen to his velvet voice across from me. The dim light in the room sets off the fire in his eyes and the silver in his hair.
Without me noticing, Daddy has slipped back to the table and has taken Grammy's empty seat. He has lifted my feet in their black and yellow stockings and placed them in his lap. His hand is warm resting on my ankle. We smile at each other and sip our tea. He will occasionally correct some small detail in Papa's narrative, but otherwise he is quiet. I absorb his strength.
I carry a new story to bed with me. It's all here in my head and I will sleep tonight knowing that I am very lucky to be surrounded by such extraordinary people who love me. One day I hope to be as great as they are. I think about all of these things and finally drift off to a dreamless sleep. It is so good to be home.
