Scars
Disclaimer: If I owned The Hour it would still be continuing on in some form other than fanfiction. But, alas, as it has been cancelled it means that I, indeed, own nothing.
Summary: In time she'd begun to repair that part of her heart, filling it with stitches of time and scraps – other men that didn't quit fit well enough to patch the hole but at least kept the wind from whistling through. Lix/ Randall, Future fic = 1965.
Author's Note: Also set in 1965 and the same universe as the pervious chapters. Lix/Randall are my Alpha OTP.
The heart is like a quilt, time the stitches that hold it together. Some pieces don't go together at all, others are perfectly aesthetically pleasing. Large pieces, small pieces. Pieces so small they are barely visible between the other fabrics but they are still there. Parts have been ripped and mended, other places there are holes. Sophia is a hole in her heart that will never be mended. It gapes still, although the stitches of time have made the edges slightly less raw. Randall's returned pulled a few of those stitches, opening up what parts of the hole that hand been mended to new hurt. Thankfully, this time, he stayed long enough to help her sew back up what she could of that hole. There was a hole in her quilt, one that would never be patched or mended but that hole did not define her entire quilt, there were other pieces, she learned, that were important too and required attention as well.
Randall's piece in her quilt had started small and then grown. It had grown and grown until it had nearly taken over her quilt – until everything was him. Then it was ripped to shreds – she was ripped to shreds. In time she'd begun to repair that part of her heart, filling it with stitches of time and scraps – other men that didn't quit fit well enough to patch the hole but at least kept the wind from whistling through. It was sloppy and ugly, and she wasn't always fond of it but each little piece filling the hole he left in her served their purpose at the time. A piece of Freddie was in that place – a larger swath of him was elsewhere in her quilt (a place of friendship, of family, of him and Bel and their little one), but there is still a small piece of him here, trying to fill (and for a brief moment filling) the hole that once was Randall. He was back now, in her life, and not as slowly as she portrayed to the outside world filling the hole he left perfectly. Each stitch was as tight and straight as anything else he did, the fabric matching perfectly.
Pieces had been added since Randall left and she lost Sofia, but with Randall back those old pieces seemed new and new pieces were added a bit more joyously. Lonely. She'd been lonely without him though she never allowed herself to use such a depressing word. He was seven years back and it was as if time had passed properly for once. It neither marched nor flew but was greeted each day, and each year with a little more optimism, love, and a near lethal amount of double-barreled sass.
The first piece added to her quilt with Randall's help was little Grace Madden. Sweet Gracie, a little tintype of her mother (blessedly, Hector for all his handsome would not make a very good little girl). It had hurt at first, holding the small girl; even though she looked different, she felt exactly the same as her Sofia. He didn't make it hurt less but he did make it hurt different after she'd handed the wee girl back to her proud father and the office had gone home to their lives, their wives, their husbands, and their homes. Hurting is different when you have someone to share it with – someone who knows – who aches as much as you. It's so hard to keep walls up and everyone outside the gate when everything crumbles around – inside – of you. Crying in the ladies loo was cramped and cold. Randall's office was much better for all forms of emotional trauma. They sat side by side on his settee and he held her while she cried. Not tightly - not enough to smother, but tight enough to hold her together while she fell apart.
Alexander Lyon began calling Randall "Papa" early. She liked to tease him that it was because he looked so old that the boy probably did think Randall was his grandfather. It softened things a bit. That night she held him on the sofa while he fell apart. "Nana 'ix" came soon after. The honor hurt so much. It didn't matter that the young Lyon looked nothing like either she or Randall with his soft blonde curls and blue, blue eyes. He was the right age. Bel, Freddie, Little Alexander – this was the family Sofia should have had. It was the family that she and Randall should have had - would have had in a different time, in a different place.
Bel and Freddie were her family. Alexander and Randall, they were her family. Not as she would have planned it some days but she would never trade it – them – for the world. There was a hole in her quilt, one that would never be patched or mended but that hole did not define her entire quilt, there were other pieces, she learned, that were important too and required attention as well.