Title: Something to Live For
Author: Jedi Princess
Genre: Drama, AU, shippy tones
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG for slightly sad themes
Distribution: Just tell me where it's going
Reviews: Oh, God yes! The feedback junkie needs a hit!
Disclaimer: Yes, of course they're mine! *Phone rings* Oh, excuse me. *Picks up phone* Hello? Yes? What do you mean, not- copyright? Lawsuit? Okay already! *Hangs up phone* Okay, so not mine. If they were, Noah would be on an ice floe in the Arctic.
A quick note: This is kind of soul mate themed, so if it's kind of deep for 11 and 6 year olds, just blame my crazy mind. :p
It's sunny, and the sky is an endless, empty blue. Golden sunlight streams through just - opened leaves and tightly furled apple blossoms, making soft patterns on freshly cut grass. A gentle wind sighs through the branches, bringing a warm rush of air and the sweet promise of summer. 'It shouldn't be sunny', the boy thinks to himself. He scuffs the ground with his shoes. Dirt smears on the black leather Oxfords he was made to wear. His mother will be mad. She'd warned him not to get dirty. He doesn't care. 'It shouldn't be sunny.'
But it is. Every year it's sunny, a day fresh with possibilities and the reassurance that school will be out soon. The kind of day that most eleven year old boys dream of. Most. And on any other day, this particular eleven year old would be among them, playing outside and rejoicing in the liberating freedom of a golden Saturday afternoon. But not today. Today, like last year, and the year before, he will fidget with the tie he was forced to wear and look at anything but what's in front of him. But the harder he tries, the more his eyes are drawn back to a simple granite slab, and the words chiseled there. One simple name, beloved husband and father.
The sun beams down on him, on his mother and sisters talking quietly to one another. He looks at them all, at his mother talking to Alisha, his oldest sister - twenty-one going on forty. At the twins, Sarah and Stacy, acting uncharacteristically somber. They had turned sixteen last month. And at Melissa, thirteen, just sitting quietly, lost in her own thoughts. He looks at them all, and then turns away. He can't stand here anymore. There's an urgency in him, a need to move.
He walks over, gives his mother a tight, hard hug. Burying his face in her back, he holds on to the one constant in his young life. A hand reaches around, strokes his head. A hand that after three years still bears a simple golden wedding band. She knows what he is about to say, and cuts him off. "Go on, baby. Go walk." The arms around her waist grip tighter, briefly, in unspoken thanks. Then he walks away, and doesn't look back. Alisha watches him go, and turns to her mother.
"He does this every year." The words come out harsher than intended. Even spoken in soft French, they still sound cruel. She winces. But her mother understands.
"Oh, petite. You are much too young to act this old." She replies in the same language. Her eyes follow her youngest child as he weaves through headstones. His steps are quick and determined, propelling him towards an unknown destination. "Everyone suffers heartache differently, child. Let him grieve."
"
But maman, it's been three years!" Alisha also watches him go. Her youngest brother used to be so cheerful, so full of life. Now he was like a shadow.
"I know. But when he finds something to live for, he will live again." She watches him, as he disappears over a small rise and out of sight. "I promise."
Meanwhile, the boy walks. He slips through the many headstones, reading the names and lives of those who have gone before. A mother, a son, a baby sister, even a dog, just a simple cross with the name Pepper engraved on it. He's seen these names before, finds the morbid routine reassuring. The people who rest here now are his one stalwart, his one constant that won't change. He wanders through these memories of the past, and thinks of his own. He remembers his father, warm and gruff and comforting. And he remembers, every year, one particular day...
*He was five years old, and it was his first pair of ice skates. He held tight to his mother's hand, slipping and skidding across the slick ice. Fighting to keep his balance, he heard his mother laugh. He looked up to see his father skating easily towards them, holding a pint-sized hockey stick.
"Oh, Will. Isn't he a little young for that?"
"You're never too young for hockey, Gwen!" His father gave his mother a loud, smacking kiss and crouched down to eye level with him. Handing him the hockey stick, he gave his son an infectious grin. The boy grinned in return. "Now Pickle, over there is the goal..."
His father had always called him Pickle. When he was younger, he had resented the childish nickname. Now he cherishes it, one of the few untarnished memories he has left. He doesn't play hockey anymore.
He knows what his mother and sister talked about. He pretends not to hear the hushed conversations, but he does. They worry about him; say he's not the same. 'Nothing's the same anymore.' He kicks the trunk of a nearby tree in anger, and does nothing but hurt his toes. He grumbles as the pain awakes him from his thoughts. Glancing around, he realizes that his trip down memory lane has taken him further than he anticipated. Now in an unfamiliar part of the cemetery, he turns to retrace his steps. He freezes suddenly, stopped by a quiet sound. Holding still, he listens intently. Again he hears it, a soft sob. Looking around, he sees a small patent leather shoe peeking out under a holly bush. He almost walks away, but curiosity gets the better of him. He peers through the prickly branches, trying to get a look at the owner of the sad, sweet voice. His hand catches a sticker and he swears intensely in French, words his mother doesn't know he knows.
The owner of the voice starts and looks up. Her tears have stopped momentarily, grief replaced by fear and surprise. She locks eyes with her intruder, and time stops. He is trapped, falling helplessly into a pair of soft, deep brown eyes. Her honey - brown hair falls into a heart shaped face, mopping faint tear tracks. He has the strangest urge to brush it from her eyes, to cuddle the young girl and tell her everything will be all right. To protect her from whatever made her hide away and cry. She furtively scoots backward, towards an opening in the thorny branches.
"Wait, wait! Don't run off," he begins, and trails off when she just stares at him. Stupid. He was speaking in French still. He sighs and repeats himself. "I'm not going to hurt you," he adds plaintively. He smiles, with the look that had conned his sisters into doing the dishes so many times. She smiles back, shyly, tentatively. Happily, he presses his luck a little further. "Can I come in?"
She bites her lip, worries it between her teeth as she considers. Her eyes shift from his to the gap in the holly, and back again. He stands stock still, like a man afraid to frighten the deer in his backyard, afraid that the slightest movement would make her bolt. And a feeling deep inside, a feeling he doesn't understand, doesn't want her to bolt. After a few seconds, a lifetime of consideration, she nods. The breath he didn't realize he was holding whooshes out in a relieved sigh. He tries to push through the holly, swears again as the tiny thorns catch his sleeves, trapping him in surprisingly sturdy branches. She giggles at his expression and detaches his jacket. She motions him around to the thorn-laden gap, and guides him through the scratchy entrance. Inside, he finds a surprisingly comfy little nest. He settles down, and listens to the silence grow louder.
She fidgets with her bottom lip again, antsy now that her only escape route has been cut off. Not wanting to frighten her, he speaks in a quiet, easy tone. "This is a cool place."
She looks up from studying the ground, and smiles. "It's nice," she replies quietly. She looks around, as if seeing her hidden niche for the first time. Her smile grows, as she looks at him. He looks down at himself, and sees he's covered in thorns and stickers from the branches. He tries futilely to brush them off, and only succeeds in pricking his fingers. She laughs again, and crawls over to help pull them out. He tries to help, and gets his hand slapped in the process. Laughing softly at her audacity, he raises both hands in a classic surrender pose. She pulls the last of the thorns from his shirt, pulls back, and looks at him curiously for a moment. He keeps his hands where they are, instinctively knowing that if he does the wrong thing, he'll fail the test in her eyes. And an unfamiliar feeling in his stomach tells him he'd do anything to pass.
She looks at him for a moment longer, with doubt and hope warring on her face. Finally she ducks under his outstretched arms and curls against his side with a little sigh. He slowly lowers his hands, until one arm is around her shoulders and the other at his side. They sit that way for a long time, watching the sunlight play through the branches of the little fortress. The silence grows again, but this time it is familiar, comfortable. He basks in the warm glow of the summer sun for a long while, bolstering his courage. "Why were you crying?"
Against his shoulder, he feels her tense. The golden peace slips quickly away, replaced by an awful tension in the air. He winces, but tightens his arm as she tries to squirm away. She wriggles and kicks, trying to avoid an answer. But he notices she doesn't try to hurt him, and she doesn't cry out. She's not trying to injure; just escape. He holds on through her silent struggle, waiting out the storm. Finally she stops struggling. The fight goes out of her, like a balloon that has been pricked by a pin. She turns her face into his shirt, muffling the hopeless whimper that escapes her lips. When she finally speaks, it is in a whisper so quiet he strains to hear it. "My mommy's dead."
His heart twists painfully. His father's face flashes through his mind. He knows what she's going through. Turning her around, he studies her face in the dappled sunlight. A thought crosses his mind. At first glance, he had taken her to be eight or nine years old. But now, with tears in her eyes and sunlight in her hair, he wonders... "How old are you?"
"Six." She sniffles. Shock ripples through his system. The look in her eyes had been so much older. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't give voice to the disbelief in his system. Experience tells him she has more to say. So he waits.
"There was an accident. She and Daddy were driving, and a bad car hit them. They- they went into the river." Her voice shakes with tears she won't shed. The hurt and loss in her voice anger him. How dare anyone put such pain into her life? He has a sudden, fierce desire to find the creep who was driving and make him hurt. An anger older than his eleven years fills him, and drowns out her next words. He comes back to himself when she squirms, and releases his death grip. She continues, "...and I heard him on the phone, I heard him!"
Silently swearing at himself for not paying attention, he asks, "Heard who?"
"Daddy. He said that he was through with love, that all it did was hurt. Then he was quiet, and then he said he couldn't even look at me. That I - I was a constant reminder of her." The tears can't be held back now, and fall in quiet sobs.
Hurt for her washes through his system. "Oh, petite." He presses a kiss to the top of her head. Murmuring softly in French, he holds her as she cries out all of her hurt and loss into his shirt. Her storm rages, and he holds on, giving her the comfort and reassurances she desperately needs. When her tears slow and finally stop, he cautiously changes position, pulling her onto his lap. They are both quiet again, a deep silence punctuated by an occasional sniffle. The silence continues to stretch and he wonders if he should say something, when she suddenly turns to him. Her eyes, still sorrow - filled, are set and determined.
"I'm never going to fall in love."
He starts. Of all the things she might have said, that was the last he expected her to say. He gapes, vaguely resembling a gasping goldfish before he remembers to shut his mouth. Searching for words, he finds he has none. Finally he settles for the obvious. "Why is that?"
"Because it hurts you, and it doesn't ever last. People leave or die, and then you're sad again."
The bitterness in her young voice scares him. He says nothing for a moment, as awareness slowly fills him. He sees, with an astonishing clarity, himself at his father's funeral. The years run through his mind, the yearly anniversary trips, the days and weeks in between. He watches himself close and withdraw from his family, his life. And with frightening clairvoyance, he sees the same thing happen to her. She will detach from the world, close herself off. She will build, layer by layer, a shell impossible to break through. And the spark, the fire that he had seen so briefly in her eyes will vanish, and it will never be found again.
He grabs her by the shoulders, so fiercely that her eyes widen and she gasps. "Don't say that. Don't ever believe that." His voice is so harsh he almost startles himself. But he continues. "Love is what keeps people going. If you don't ever fall in love, nothing will be worth anything. You have to have something to live for." Unconsciously quoting his mother, her wisdom echoes in young ears. They both are silent, as the words he didn't know he had sink in. She watches him, head cocked to one side like a cat pondering the mysteries of the fishbowl.
He realizes she has that look again. The one that says she's measuring him against some internal yardstick, and all he can do is wait for judgment. He sees the flash in her eyes a split second before she opens her mouth.
"You'll never hurt me, right?"
Finally, an easy one. "No, petite. I'll never hurt you."
"You promise?"
He's puzzled. Where is she going with this? "Promise."
She thrusts her hand at him, pinky outstretched. "Pinky swear."
He chuckles, then hides it at the look she gives him. It could melt steel, and pretends to cough for a moment to hide his smile. He locks pinkies with her and tugs, childhood's most solemn vow. "Pinky swear."
She smiles. Bright, beaming, happy and hopeful. "I'll live for you, then."
He blinks. Oh. That's were she was going with this. And for the second time in ten minutes, he finds himself speechless. "O - kay..."
"And you can live for me. That way, if there's nobody else around, we'll still have each other. Okay?"
He looks into her eyes, hopeful and shiny. And he just gives in, gives up, and falls. "Okay." Satisfied, she curls back up against him, and they watch the dappled pattern of sunlight on leaves again. Time slows and crawls, leaving two children in hard - earned peace. The spell is broken when he hears Melissa calling for him. Reluctantly he pulls away from the drowsy girl, and gently shook her into awareness. "I have to go now."
A deep voice calls out, unintelligible, and her eyes wake up. "Yeah," she replies sadly. "Me too." She picks herself off, pulls out the stickers. As she slips through the holly branches, she turns around for a moment. "Remember, I get to live for you, okay?"
He smiles. "I'll remember."
She smiles back, and is gone. He stares at the opening for a moment, then closes his eyes and rubs a hand over his face. He's not entirely sure the last afternoon has been real. When he takes his hand away, he starts in surprise. There is her face, peeping through the boughs one last time. "My name's Sydney."
"Mine's Michael."
One last mischievous grin, and she is gone. Truly gone this time. He smiles at her departure. "Sydney. I'll live for Sydney," he whispers, and feels at peace for the first time in three years. He crawls out of the hidey - hole to meet his sister. When he catches up to Melissa, he impulsively grabs her hand. Startled, she looks at her little brother, and sees the life that has returned to his face. Pleased, she races him to where the rest of the family is starting to wander towards the car.
As she watches her only son smiling and teasing his sisters for the first time in ages, she feels content. Even somber Alisha is pulled into sibling revelry, and forgets her age. As their mother watches them exit ahead of her, she smiles.
"See?" she says to no one and the world. "All you need is something to live for."
Fin
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Okay, first off, I'm not a pedophile. I was trying to go for the whole soul mate angle, and I think I hit it pretty well. I know I wrote them a little serious, but hey, Sydney's a genius anyway! Of course she'll act older than her age. ;) Anyway, it's sweet and shippy, and has no relation to the evil Noah. Grrrrrr.... make it go away! But until that happy day of Noah death, you can read my shippy stories and review them (especially this one) as much as you like! Warning: flames will be used to toast marshmallows. Be nice please!
Author: Jedi Princess
Genre: Drama, AU, shippy tones
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG for slightly sad themes
Distribution: Just tell me where it's going
Reviews: Oh, God yes! The feedback junkie needs a hit!
Disclaimer: Yes, of course they're mine! *Phone rings* Oh, excuse me. *Picks up phone* Hello? Yes? What do you mean, not- copyright? Lawsuit? Okay already! *Hangs up phone* Okay, so not mine. If they were, Noah would be on an ice floe in the Arctic.
A quick note: This is kind of soul mate themed, so if it's kind of deep for 11 and 6 year olds, just blame my crazy mind. :p
It's sunny, and the sky is an endless, empty blue. Golden sunlight streams through just - opened leaves and tightly furled apple blossoms, making soft patterns on freshly cut grass. A gentle wind sighs through the branches, bringing a warm rush of air and the sweet promise of summer. 'It shouldn't be sunny', the boy thinks to himself. He scuffs the ground with his shoes. Dirt smears on the black leather Oxfords he was made to wear. His mother will be mad. She'd warned him not to get dirty. He doesn't care. 'It shouldn't be sunny.'
But it is. Every year it's sunny, a day fresh with possibilities and the reassurance that school will be out soon. The kind of day that most eleven year old boys dream of. Most. And on any other day, this particular eleven year old would be among them, playing outside and rejoicing in the liberating freedom of a golden Saturday afternoon. But not today. Today, like last year, and the year before, he will fidget with the tie he was forced to wear and look at anything but what's in front of him. But the harder he tries, the more his eyes are drawn back to a simple granite slab, and the words chiseled there. One simple name, beloved husband and father.
The sun beams down on him, on his mother and sisters talking quietly to one another. He looks at them all, at his mother talking to Alisha, his oldest sister - twenty-one going on forty. At the twins, Sarah and Stacy, acting uncharacteristically somber. They had turned sixteen last month. And at Melissa, thirteen, just sitting quietly, lost in her own thoughts. He looks at them all, and then turns away. He can't stand here anymore. There's an urgency in him, a need to move.
He walks over, gives his mother a tight, hard hug. Burying his face in her back, he holds on to the one constant in his young life. A hand reaches around, strokes his head. A hand that after three years still bears a simple golden wedding band. She knows what he is about to say, and cuts him off. "Go on, baby. Go walk." The arms around her waist grip tighter, briefly, in unspoken thanks. Then he walks away, and doesn't look back. Alisha watches him go, and turns to her mother.
"He does this every year." The words come out harsher than intended. Even spoken in soft French, they still sound cruel. She winces. But her mother understands.
"Oh, petite. You are much too young to act this old." She replies in the same language. Her eyes follow her youngest child as he weaves through headstones. His steps are quick and determined, propelling him towards an unknown destination. "Everyone suffers heartache differently, child. Let him grieve."
"
But maman, it's been three years!" Alisha also watches him go. Her youngest brother used to be so cheerful, so full of life. Now he was like a shadow.
"I know. But when he finds something to live for, he will live again." She watches him, as he disappears over a small rise and out of sight. "I promise."
Meanwhile, the boy walks. He slips through the many headstones, reading the names and lives of those who have gone before. A mother, a son, a baby sister, even a dog, just a simple cross with the name Pepper engraved on it. He's seen these names before, finds the morbid routine reassuring. The people who rest here now are his one stalwart, his one constant that won't change. He wanders through these memories of the past, and thinks of his own. He remembers his father, warm and gruff and comforting. And he remembers, every year, one particular day...
*He was five years old, and it was his first pair of ice skates. He held tight to his mother's hand, slipping and skidding across the slick ice. Fighting to keep his balance, he heard his mother laugh. He looked up to see his father skating easily towards them, holding a pint-sized hockey stick.
"Oh, Will. Isn't he a little young for that?"
"You're never too young for hockey, Gwen!" His father gave his mother a loud, smacking kiss and crouched down to eye level with him. Handing him the hockey stick, he gave his son an infectious grin. The boy grinned in return. "Now Pickle, over there is the goal..."
His father had always called him Pickle. When he was younger, he had resented the childish nickname. Now he cherishes it, one of the few untarnished memories he has left. He doesn't play hockey anymore.
He knows what his mother and sister talked about. He pretends not to hear the hushed conversations, but he does. They worry about him; say he's not the same. 'Nothing's the same anymore.' He kicks the trunk of a nearby tree in anger, and does nothing but hurt his toes. He grumbles as the pain awakes him from his thoughts. Glancing around, he realizes that his trip down memory lane has taken him further than he anticipated. Now in an unfamiliar part of the cemetery, he turns to retrace his steps. He freezes suddenly, stopped by a quiet sound. Holding still, he listens intently. Again he hears it, a soft sob. Looking around, he sees a small patent leather shoe peeking out under a holly bush. He almost walks away, but curiosity gets the better of him. He peers through the prickly branches, trying to get a look at the owner of the sad, sweet voice. His hand catches a sticker and he swears intensely in French, words his mother doesn't know he knows.
The owner of the voice starts and looks up. Her tears have stopped momentarily, grief replaced by fear and surprise. She locks eyes with her intruder, and time stops. He is trapped, falling helplessly into a pair of soft, deep brown eyes. Her honey - brown hair falls into a heart shaped face, mopping faint tear tracks. He has the strangest urge to brush it from her eyes, to cuddle the young girl and tell her everything will be all right. To protect her from whatever made her hide away and cry. She furtively scoots backward, towards an opening in the thorny branches.
"Wait, wait! Don't run off," he begins, and trails off when she just stares at him. Stupid. He was speaking in French still. He sighs and repeats himself. "I'm not going to hurt you," he adds plaintively. He smiles, with the look that had conned his sisters into doing the dishes so many times. She smiles back, shyly, tentatively. Happily, he presses his luck a little further. "Can I come in?"
She bites her lip, worries it between her teeth as she considers. Her eyes shift from his to the gap in the holly, and back again. He stands stock still, like a man afraid to frighten the deer in his backyard, afraid that the slightest movement would make her bolt. And a feeling deep inside, a feeling he doesn't understand, doesn't want her to bolt. After a few seconds, a lifetime of consideration, she nods. The breath he didn't realize he was holding whooshes out in a relieved sigh. He tries to push through the holly, swears again as the tiny thorns catch his sleeves, trapping him in surprisingly sturdy branches. She giggles at his expression and detaches his jacket. She motions him around to the thorn-laden gap, and guides him through the scratchy entrance. Inside, he finds a surprisingly comfy little nest. He settles down, and listens to the silence grow louder.
She fidgets with her bottom lip again, antsy now that her only escape route has been cut off. Not wanting to frighten her, he speaks in a quiet, easy tone. "This is a cool place."
She looks up from studying the ground, and smiles. "It's nice," she replies quietly. She looks around, as if seeing her hidden niche for the first time. Her smile grows, as she looks at him. He looks down at himself, and sees he's covered in thorns and stickers from the branches. He tries futilely to brush them off, and only succeeds in pricking his fingers. She laughs again, and crawls over to help pull them out. He tries to help, and gets his hand slapped in the process. Laughing softly at her audacity, he raises both hands in a classic surrender pose. She pulls the last of the thorns from his shirt, pulls back, and looks at him curiously for a moment. He keeps his hands where they are, instinctively knowing that if he does the wrong thing, he'll fail the test in her eyes. And an unfamiliar feeling in his stomach tells him he'd do anything to pass.
She looks at him for a moment longer, with doubt and hope warring on her face. Finally she ducks under his outstretched arms and curls against his side with a little sigh. He slowly lowers his hands, until one arm is around her shoulders and the other at his side. They sit that way for a long time, watching the sunlight play through the branches of the little fortress. The silence grows again, but this time it is familiar, comfortable. He basks in the warm glow of the summer sun for a long while, bolstering his courage. "Why were you crying?"
Against his shoulder, he feels her tense. The golden peace slips quickly away, replaced by an awful tension in the air. He winces, but tightens his arm as she tries to squirm away. She wriggles and kicks, trying to avoid an answer. But he notices she doesn't try to hurt him, and she doesn't cry out. She's not trying to injure; just escape. He holds on through her silent struggle, waiting out the storm. Finally she stops struggling. The fight goes out of her, like a balloon that has been pricked by a pin. She turns her face into his shirt, muffling the hopeless whimper that escapes her lips. When she finally speaks, it is in a whisper so quiet he strains to hear it. "My mommy's dead."
His heart twists painfully. His father's face flashes through his mind. He knows what she's going through. Turning her around, he studies her face in the dappled sunlight. A thought crosses his mind. At first glance, he had taken her to be eight or nine years old. But now, with tears in her eyes and sunlight in her hair, he wonders... "How old are you?"
"Six." She sniffles. Shock ripples through his system. The look in her eyes had been so much older. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't give voice to the disbelief in his system. Experience tells him she has more to say. So he waits.
"There was an accident. She and Daddy were driving, and a bad car hit them. They- they went into the river." Her voice shakes with tears she won't shed. The hurt and loss in her voice anger him. How dare anyone put such pain into her life? He has a sudden, fierce desire to find the creep who was driving and make him hurt. An anger older than his eleven years fills him, and drowns out her next words. He comes back to himself when she squirms, and releases his death grip. She continues, "...and I heard him on the phone, I heard him!"
Silently swearing at himself for not paying attention, he asks, "Heard who?"
"Daddy. He said that he was through with love, that all it did was hurt. Then he was quiet, and then he said he couldn't even look at me. That I - I was a constant reminder of her." The tears can't be held back now, and fall in quiet sobs.
Hurt for her washes through his system. "Oh, petite." He presses a kiss to the top of her head. Murmuring softly in French, he holds her as she cries out all of her hurt and loss into his shirt. Her storm rages, and he holds on, giving her the comfort and reassurances she desperately needs. When her tears slow and finally stop, he cautiously changes position, pulling her onto his lap. They are both quiet again, a deep silence punctuated by an occasional sniffle. The silence continues to stretch and he wonders if he should say something, when she suddenly turns to him. Her eyes, still sorrow - filled, are set and determined.
"I'm never going to fall in love."
He starts. Of all the things she might have said, that was the last he expected her to say. He gapes, vaguely resembling a gasping goldfish before he remembers to shut his mouth. Searching for words, he finds he has none. Finally he settles for the obvious. "Why is that?"
"Because it hurts you, and it doesn't ever last. People leave or die, and then you're sad again."
The bitterness in her young voice scares him. He says nothing for a moment, as awareness slowly fills him. He sees, with an astonishing clarity, himself at his father's funeral. The years run through his mind, the yearly anniversary trips, the days and weeks in between. He watches himself close and withdraw from his family, his life. And with frightening clairvoyance, he sees the same thing happen to her. She will detach from the world, close herself off. She will build, layer by layer, a shell impossible to break through. And the spark, the fire that he had seen so briefly in her eyes will vanish, and it will never be found again.
He grabs her by the shoulders, so fiercely that her eyes widen and she gasps. "Don't say that. Don't ever believe that." His voice is so harsh he almost startles himself. But he continues. "Love is what keeps people going. If you don't ever fall in love, nothing will be worth anything. You have to have something to live for." Unconsciously quoting his mother, her wisdom echoes in young ears. They both are silent, as the words he didn't know he had sink in. She watches him, head cocked to one side like a cat pondering the mysteries of the fishbowl.
He realizes she has that look again. The one that says she's measuring him against some internal yardstick, and all he can do is wait for judgment. He sees the flash in her eyes a split second before she opens her mouth.
"You'll never hurt me, right?"
Finally, an easy one. "No, petite. I'll never hurt you."
"You promise?"
He's puzzled. Where is she going with this? "Promise."
She thrusts her hand at him, pinky outstretched. "Pinky swear."
He chuckles, then hides it at the look she gives him. It could melt steel, and pretends to cough for a moment to hide his smile. He locks pinkies with her and tugs, childhood's most solemn vow. "Pinky swear."
She smiles. Bright, beaming, happy and hopeful. "I'll live for you, then."
He blinks. Oh. That's were she was going with this. And for the second time in ten minutes, he finds himself speechless. "O - kay..."
"And you can live for me. That way, if there's nobody else around, we'll still have each other. Okay?"
He looks into her eyes, hopeful and shiny. And he just gives in, gives up, and falls. "Okay." Satisfied, she curls back up against him, and they watch the dappled pattern of sunlight on leaves again. Time slows and crawls, leaving two children in hard - earned peace. The spell is broken when he hears Melissa calling for him. Reluctantly he pulls away from the drowsy girl, and gently shook her into awareness. "I have to go now."
A deep voice calls out, unintelligible, and her eyes wake up. "Yeah," she replies sadly. "Me too." She picks herself off, pulls out the stickers. As she slips through the holly branches, she turns around for a moment. "Remember, I get to live for you, okay?"
He smiles. "I'll remember."
She smiles back, and is gone. He stares at the opening for a moment, then closes his eyes and rubs a hand over his face. He's not entirely sure the last afternoon has been real. When he takes his hand away, he starts in surprise. There is her face, peeping through the boughs one last time. "My name's Sydney."
"Mine's Michael."
One last mischievous grin, and she is gone. Truly gone this time. He smiles at her departure. "Sydney. I'll live for Sydney," he whispers, and feels at peace for the first time in three years. He crawls out of the hidey - hole to meet his sister. When he catches up to Melissa, he impulsively grabs her hand. Startled, she looks at her little brother, and sees the life that has returned to his face. Pleased, she races him to where the rest of the family is starting to wander towards the car.
As she watches her only son smiling and teasing his sisters for the first time in ages, she feels content. Even somber Alisha is pulled into sibling revelry, and forgets her age. As their mother watches them exit ahead of her, she smiles.
"See?" she says to no one and the world. "All you need is something to live for."
Fin
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Okay, first off, I'm not a pedophile. I was trying to go for the whole soul mate angle, and I think I hit it pretty well. I know I wrote them a little serious, but hey, Sydney's a genius anyway! Of course she'll act older than her age. ;) Anyway, it's sweet and shippy, and has no relation to the evil Noah. Grrrrrr.... make it go away! But until that happy day of Noah death, you can read my shippy stories and review them (especially this one) as much as you like! Warning: flames will be used to toast marshmallows. Be nice please!