A/N: So here it is, kids; the last installment of this story. Yes, I finally found it and typed it up, and I'm still super happy with it. Again, if you don't like the pairing, that's fine. All I ask is that you try to keep an open mind, and leave constructive criticism if you choose to review. Once again, I'd like to thank those of you who have reviewed, and let you know that it means so much to me; thanks again! And, enjoy!
Somnolence
4.
The pancakes are fluffy and warm, and have soaked up just enough syrup to make Caitlin want to moan in appreciation when she takes a bite.
She looks at the little brown-haired girl sitting across from her, syrup smeared across her cheeks, and smiles. Right now, in this moment when her daughter is building a pancake castle out of her left over food, Caitlin really sees her. She brings her camera to her face, adjusts the focus, and with a snap, preserves her daughter's face on film.
"Mommy!" The soft cry brings her back, and her smile transforms into a grin as she puts the camera away.
"Hannah!" The imitation does not go over well with Hannah, as she rolls her eyes and breathes a weary sigh.
"I thought I told you no fash photogerphy."
Caitlin can't help but let out a bright little laugh at that. Hannah pokes a rather vicious hole into her half-uneaten pancake. Caitlin sighs, still smiling, and dips her napkin into her cup of water. She reaches over and wipes softly but firmly at her daughter's hands, and then face.
"I can't help it," she says, "if my little girl is so awesomely fantastic that I want to take pictures of her all the time."
Hannah seems to consider this for a moment, then nods in affirmation of whatever decision she's come to. "It's okay, mommy. I forgive you."
The look on her five-year-olds' face sends a chill down her spine, as it sometimes does; so serious, but quick to smile when it counts. Like she's always saving it for something special. And she wonders briefly, while crumpling the napkin onto her plate, if personality traits can be transferred through DNA. She knows it's a silly thought, but she's suddenly no longer hungry.
She smiles sadly at the little girl with the brown pig tails and a questioning look on her face. "Time to go, messy girl," she says, offering a small, blue jacket.
The night that she left, it had been raining hard.
By the time she was four hours away, sitting on a Greyhound bus with only four people and her backpack for company, they had found the note.
She had shifted in her seat, her right hand resting on her abdomen. In her left there was a crinkled piece of notebook paper.
The ink was blue, and smudged in places; worn, like she'd read it a million times.
It was everything she'd never had the chance to say to Jim, and everything she never would.