Wallaker's Discovery
By S. Faith, © 2014
Words: 63,000 (in nine chapters and an epilogue)
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.
Epilogue
Sat, 21 June 2014
Another year older, possibly wiser. No, definitely wiser.
Scott hadn't wanted a big fuss made, but as the morning progressed, as friends and family arrived to the new house just by the school, he was becoming increasingly glad Bridget had insisted. He would have ordinarily retreated to the corner, grilling up all of the food, but she had insisted against that too, saying that people were coming to see him, to talk to him, and he wasn't going to hide in the corner.
"Yes ma'am," he'd said. Thus, she'd gotten Daniel Cleaver to manage the grilling, though he suspected half of what Daniel pulled off of the grill was going to be a bit blackened for the flirting he in which he engaged.
Daniel had grown on him. At first it bothered Scott a bit that her ex had spent so much time with her, had watched her children on overnight sleepovers in the past, but he realised as Daniel flirted outrageously with her that it had little to do with wanting to win her back and more to do with just who he was. "He flirts with everyone," she'd said dismissively, which had hurt his feelings a little, but subsequent meetings with Daniel had proven her correct.
"What're you doin' in here by yourself?"
He'd gone to the kitchen ostensibly to fetch more beer to stock the cooler outdoors, but had gotten caught up in his thoughts, and now Mabel had found him. She looked a bit cross.
"It's your birthday," she continued, "and you're thupposta come out and have fun."
"Stand down, Princess," he said with a chuckle, patting the top of her head with his hand; it amazed him to think how much she'd grown in the year and a half he'd known her. "I was just getting more beer."
"Oh," she said. Her big blue eyes slid to the right, to where sat a covered tray of mini-cupcakes that Bridget's mother had brought. "Can I have one of those?"
He was about to say no, that those were treats for after they ate a proper meal when they were going to do the cake, but he noticed that one or two was already gone, and he connected this with having seen Bridget licking her fingertips. He pursed his lips, and without a word he lifted the lid and snuck one out for her. "Not a word to your mummy."
She grinned as she accepted it. "Thankth."
For good measure, he had one too, and it was delicious. To hide evidence of the crime, he cleaned up the cupcake papers, bundling them into tiny balls and pitching them away. As he did, something in the trash bin caught his eye and made him chuckle: there sat the DVD case (and presumably the DVD itself) for Thy Neighbour's Yacht, the straight-to-video release of Bridget's long-suffering Hedda Gabler screenplay, which they had watched the night before in bed after the children had gone to sleep. The majority of the ninety minutes of watching it with her had been like listening to a commentary track outlining the butchering they had done to her story—sample comments: "Set it on a bloody yacht… just because they'd already bloody rented one!" and "Have we got enough in the bank to buy the rest of the DVD run?"—when she wasn't hiding her head under the sheets in horror and despair. He did laugh a lot, mostly at the production values, but often with the dialogue, which had the stamp of Bridget's wit and personality all over it.
Gingerly he pulled the case out of the bin—fortunately it had been newly emptied—and set it aside and out of sight. He would deal with it later, but there was no way he was going to let this piece of history go, not when her newest script was exceptionally good and delightfully yacht-free. However, right now—
"Come on, Mabel, let's go back to the party." He handed her one of the bottle carriers bearing six bottles of beer. "You can carry this one for me in penance for having a sweet."
She giggled. "OK."
They exited the kitchen and were on their way over to the cooler when Bridget intercepted them, a smile on her face as she saw her youngest hauling bottles of beer. The smile transformed into a look of curiosity, and she crouched down to wipe something from Mabel's chin. "Icing," she said impatiently. "Mabel, what did I tell you about not eating the mini-cupcakes?"
Mabel looked up to Scott, obviously torn; she did not want to betray their shared secret, but did not want to be punished, either.
"I gave it to her," Scott admitted.
Bridget turned, lifted one sceptical brow. "You did?" she asked, grinning now, rising to her full height again. "Mr Discipline?"
"It's my birthday party, and I can change the rules if I see fit," he said stoically. "Besides, the cover over them had already been breached. Ahem."
She said nothing, only smiled again, guiltily wiping her clean fingers against her shorts.
"So as I see it, it's either punish all girls who steal cupcakes, or punish none," he added with a wink.
Birthdays had never been much of a big deal for him the past; either they were ignored altogether (not much reason to feel celebratory in the middle of a war zone), or were spent awkwardly with Sarah with the boys away at school and unable to break away for the day. He was rather turning around on the concept, though; he was enjoying seeing so many happy faces there, old friends, friends of hers that were now friends of his, his family and hers, even Mark's parents, who seemed delighted and thrilled to have been included, who Billy and Mabel were exceedingly pleased to see, and by whom Matt and Fred seemed intrigued, the idea of foster grandparents of a sort.
Scott cracked open a beer, then went to see if there was something grilled that wasn't either quivering in the centre or blackened on the edges. Daniel was holding court as he was wont to do, though they were probably equally eager for a hot dog as they were for his ability to tell a good story.
"Scott," Daniel said with a smile. "Birthday boy. Man of the hour. What can I get for you?" He pointed with his grilling tongs. "Burger? Chicken? Hot dog?"
To his surprise, Daniel seemed to be fairly proficient at barbecuing, judging by the grill and plate both full of picture-perfect mounds of meat, and Scott immediately regretted his earlier prejudicial thoughts. "I'll have a burger, thanks."
He spotted Billy, Fred and Matt at the table a short distance away where the side-dishes and the condiments were, and once he had his burger he went to make sure they weren't making a disaster of the mustard and the potato salad.
"Heya boys," he said. "Billster, Fredster, Mattster."
"Hey Dad," said Matt, preparing to take another large spoonful of fruit salad. Scott was amazed, yet again, at how tall his eldest had sprouted. Not quite as tall as himself, yet, but taller now than Bridget.
"Don't take too much," Scott cautioned. "Your eyes tend to be bigger than your stomach."
"You know I'll eat it all," he said.
"I'll hold you to it."
Billy, who'd be eight soon enough, had taken to idolising Matt much in the way Fred had always done. "You, Billster, will never eat all of that macaroni salad," Scott said, spooning some of it back into the serving bowl.
"Sorry," he said.
"No need to apologise; you hadn't eaten from it yet," Scott said, then pointed to Matt. "Besides, you'll have this one's appetite before too long." When he finished, he turned to find Mabel had appeared with a plate and a hot dog upon it.
"See, I told you I'd thtill eat a hot dog," she said. She hadn't, but he smiled anyway.
"Want me to fix your hot dog up for you?" he asked.
She nodded, holding up her plate to him with a grin.
He knew she liked a little ketchup and mustard. "So what else do you want with your hot dog?" he asked, pointing to the rest of the available food.
"Everything," she said.
He gave her very small portions of all of the side dishes, then herded them over to sit and eat, telling him he would return once he'd finished fixing his own plate.
Waiting for him at the table was Rebecca, looking playful with her mountain of freshly spooned potato salad, and Bridget, who stood with her own plate (chicken) and a wistful smile. "What?" he asked both of them.
"You're completely under that child's spell, that's all," teased Rebecca. "Wrapped around her finger, you are."
"Nothing wrong with that," said Bridget. "I was spoilt to death by my dad and I turned out just fine." She reached and pecked a kiss on Scott's lips. "You're so good with them," she said. "All of them."
"Yeah," agreed Rebecca. "You are. And they are very good for you."
Once they'd all eaten, Mabel declared it time for presents, because that was the natural order of birthday parties to one who is six years of age. Bridget and Matt went in for them; per his wishes there weren't many, only from the children, but they were more than Mabel could have carried on her own.
While Bridget was in the house, Sarah arrived, fashionably late as always; he was glad to see she was sober, or at least not quite obviously pissed, and she looked happy if a bit confused at the number and variety of people in attendance. "Happy birthday, Scott," she said, greeting him with air-kisses over his cheeks. He hadn't seen her for about two months, hadn't been sure she would even attend, and realised that absence did indeed make the heart grow fonder.
"Thank you, Sarah," he said, then gestured towards the grill, towards where Daniel still attended cooking meat. "If you're hungry, there's still plenty of food."
"Oh, indeed," she said; Sarah and Daniel had met before, briefly, and had playfully bantered with one another. Bridget assured Scott that she had warned Sarah about Daniel (and vice versa), though Daniel had still come away from that encounter looking slightly terrified. In fact, he looked equally terrified now as she approached him and his domain.
Scott could only laugh a little; the two of them chatting together reminded him a bit of those mega-monster picture pair-ups: Dracula versus Frankenstein, Godzilla versus Mothra. He realised it was a bit mean, and never would have said it to Bridget, though. She was still so very fond of Daniel (he quite liked the man, himself, once he'd gotten over his jealousy), while Scott would at best tolerate Sarah for the sake of their children; they were never going to be best pals.
"Presenth!" cried Mabel; she was suddenly by his side again, grinning madly. Bridget and Matt followed, each with an armful.
"You can be my helper, okay, Princess?" he said to her.
"Okay, Dah."
Scott had never wanted Billy or Mabel to call him 'Daddy', because they had already had one of those, and he had no intention of unseating him. The question of what the children should call him at home, though, had been unresolved until recently, when Mabel had, out of the blue, begun to call him 'Dah'; close enough to 'Dad' without actually being 'Dad', which he found beautifully poetic. This had caught on with Billy, too, and now even his own boys had begun to use it. If anyone took notice of the appellation, no one mentioned a thing.
The presents were enough to make a man like himself, with his many years of military training, feel very emotional. From Matt he received a new custom case for his fancy mobile phone, which Matt had apparently designed himself through a website (or so Bridget tried to explain to him), bearing their family crest; from Fred, a hot water spa foot massager ("He insisted," Bridget explained, "because you're a sport teacher and you're on your feet a lot"; he loved it); from Billy, a deluxe disc featuring the great jazz masters of the twentieth century.
Last but not least was the present from Mabel, which she had obviously boxed and wrapped herself. He found, deep in the centre of a mountain of tissue paper, a coffee mug that she had painted herself: two taller (adult) figures and four children figures, one of the four clearly a girl. He had a feeling it was supposed to be six of them, but otherwise he was not sure, as they hardly looked human. "This is great," he said. "I love it, Mabel." He pointed to the small girl figure. "Is that supposed to be you?"
Mabel nodded, beamingly proud. "We're fuckoons," she said.
Scott shot a look to Bridget, who had her hand over her mouth; he thought she had begun crying but realised quickly that despite the tears in her eyes, she was suppressing a laugh. He looked to the mug again, looked to Mabel, and truly understood what her picture meant to her: they were Hellvanians; they were a family. No greater compliment could have been bestowed upon him by her.
"You're what?" asked Sarah, clearly perplexed.
"I'll explain later," he said.
Scott carefully set down the mug, then reached over to take her up into his arms, onto his lap, to give her a hug. She kissed him on the cheek—she smelled of cupcakes, even now—and he felt tears in his own eyes.
"Happy birthday, Dah," Mabel said sweetly, close to his ear, and his heart melted as it had the first time he'd seen her with her mother, the woman who had shown him life could be fun again.
…
Once all of the guests had gone, once the children were settled down in their respective bedrooms after cupcakes and soda all evening, Scott was alone with Bridget at last, in the back garden; in the fading light of day, they watched the swings sway in the breeze, the sounds of the city very far away, the cool summer breeze refreshing.
"Very good day," he murmured, holding her in his arms. Very good six months, if he were to tell the truth.
"And you didn't even want a party," she said.
"Pleased to have been proven wrong."
After a moment in the quiet of the night time crickets and the light of the waning moon, amongst the remnants of the party (they'd already decided to finish the cleaning up the next afternoon), she spoke again. "I haven't given you your present yet."
"Oh, yes," he murmured, holding her even closer; "you have."
The end.