AN: Another drabble. Sorry folks, but I can't write a mutli-chapter fic. Someday, I'll write one, but until then, you're just going to have to read my drabbles. Anyway, I hope you like it. And here's the disclaimer: not mine. Not mine not mine.
She's like her mother, they say. And they're right, she is. She has the same smile, the same way of standing straight up and taking what life gave her, without complaint. She doesn't take crap from anyone, and she won't let people take advantage of her. She doesn't give false hope; she doesn't eat her toast with jam. She loves the smell of the sea, and loves letting the salt in the air soak through her. She has the same perchance to dive into melancholy as her mother did. She has the same hair, curly and thick, brown as her eyes. She's braver than she appears, and has a kind streak a mile wide. She likes nothing more than a good book and an afternoon of quiet.
But in some ways she's nothing like her mother, and they are wrong. She dances even when there is no music, she laughs out loud when something is funny. She sings at the top of her lungs, she loves to swim in the sea. She eats everything she can with mustard and likes tea much more than coffee. She loves to fly, and her face will light up with a grin. She's prone to smiling much more than her mother was. She takes wild risks and loves the thrill. She's no diplomat; she's wild and untamed, unafraid to give her opinions.
She's not her mother, no, but sometimes, you can see her poking through the bright, lovable girl that is her daughter. Sometimes, you wonder what made her so perfect, a mix of you and her mother. Sometimes, you wonder why she's so much like you, and others you wonder why she's so much like her mother. Sometimes you just throw up your hands and are thankful for what you have.
You watched her grow up, and now, you have to let her go. She's old enough now, but nestled in the window sill, watching the gentle lap of the sea, drinking something steaming hot, she looks five years old again. You find that you're not quite ready to let her go quite yet. And you wonder if her mother would be ready to let her go. And then you decide that wondering is way over rated and you'd best leave all the wondering to Rodney.
It feels a little like losing her mother all over again, but then again you're filled with pride that she's grown up so much since she was that little thing, tottering around dragging her teddy bear, Sir Tuppence Wiggins Happenstance, behind her. She's matured into a brave, intelligent, kind young woman.
You'll let her fly, someday soon. But for now, you'll teach her how to fly the jumper (it's close to a car, right?) and tell her how perfect she is and how she really needs to rewrite that report on War and Peace. You'll teach her how to shoot a gun and how to throw the ultimate fast ball. Then, you'll let her really fly, and let her show those wings to everybody.
She's your daughter alright, you think as she crumples up her napkin to throw at you. Her mother would be proud. You sure are.
ok, so that's it. yay! It's Weir's and Sheppard's daughter, obviously, and Elizabeth has died, leaving John alone to raise their daughter. Reviews keep a hungry writer at it. Oh! And Sir Tuppence Wiggins Happenstance isn't mine. I got it from a commercial on a plane about a dog, and I couldn't help but use it.