I nearly had enough to go to 15 with this, but I thought no, people have been bugging me for longer chapters... so. You win. ;) 1073 words, in one chapter. In a story that's intended to be drabblish. I GIVE UP ALREADY.
And to macsmitty, who wrote that Thatcher really has no claim on grandfatherdom to Mer's kids, it cracks me up how it's like you KNEW what was coming. :P
Part 12
He doesn't know how to react to this.
Her turf. Her family. Her people.
The girl's hand was held in hers as they approached. When she was level with him, she stopped.
Turned.
Spoke.
"You never called."
He clutches at straws, knowing his words are weak even as they exit his mouth. "You didn't either."
She retorts immediately. "I did the whole liver thing," she counters. "I'm pretty sure that's called the first move. What are you even doing here?"
He does not know what to say.
So, as we all must do when faced with no other option, he tells her the truth.
-.-.-
She blinks as it comes out, the reason he has suddenly reappeared in her territory. A few sentences are not nearly good enough.
But after years of radio silence, there's no easy place to start.
-.-.-
The little girl is tugging on her hand, twirling and singing softly as she spins behind Meredith, holding his daughter's fingers as an anchor. She hasn't noticed him.
"What's that?" Meredith asks finally.
The phone. Of course.
He holds it up. "First grandson," and there is no keeping the pride out of his voice.
She looks at him for a moment, a sad smile on her face.
"Yes."
-.-.-
For a minute, it doesn't click.
It takes him a minute to figure out what she means.
Both of her children are girls, and Molly is still the trailblazer.
-.-.-
He nods uncomfortably for a moment, glancing down at the little girl. Meredith tugs gently on her arm to cease her spinning and when she notices Thatcher, she ducks behind her mother's leg.
"Hi," Thatcher says softly, and she buries her face in her mother's thigh, peeking around at him.
Meredith does not suggest the little girl should say hello.
"How old?" he inquires.
"She's three," Meredith tells him, glancing tenderly at the little girl, "and he's seventeen months."
-.-.-
He.
He.
The baby on her hip is a he.
Thatcher's fingers tighten reflexively around the phone.
-.-.-
"So—so then—" he stammers.
Her eyes are unreadable. A hint of… sympathy? Pity, perhaps.
"Congratulations on your first grandson," she offers sincerely.
"But—"
She shakes her head slightly, adjusting the almost-toddler on her front. They've been standing still for a comically long time.
She checks her watch and sighs as if he has been purposefully disobedient. "If you need to keep talking about this, you're gonna have to walk with me."
-.-.-
She releases the girl's hand as they near the elevator. "Can I push the button?" his daughter's daughter asks eagerly.
He watches as his daughter shakes her head sternly. "What do we say?"
"Pleeeeease, Mommy? Please, Mommy, may I push the button?"
"Yeah, baby," Meredith agrees with a smile, stroking her daughter's honey-blonde hair. "You may."
-.-.-
"You… you have kids."
"Yes."
"You have a son."
"Yes."
"Then… then, upstairs, Molly's, he isn't…"
She shakes her head. "No no, he is. He is your first grandson. Don't take that away from him."
-.-.-
His face must betray his bafflement because she elaborates with a sigh. "Let me put it this way," she begins, angling her body so he can see her son's face. "Do you feel anything for this child?"
-.-.-
The baby is sleeping now, breathing deeply in and out, but he looks unknown. The girl he can somewhat identify with, but this boy has dark hair and unfamiliar features.
"No."
She holds up the phone. "How about this one?"
Molly's son is still red and scrawny, round-faced and mid-wail. He looks like Eric, and not one Grey feature can be seen so early.
And yet even the merest thought of this squalling baby tugs at Thatcher's heart.
-.-.-
She looks as if he has just proven something.
-.-.-
She returns the phone to him, pressing it back into his hand and once more clasping the hand of her daughter.
"My children are not your grandchildren, Thatcher," she says gently, with a note of finality that hits him square in the gut. "And somehow—I don't know exactly how, but—" She chews her lip contemplatively. "I have the feeling that… you could be my father, if you wanted, but I am not your daughter."
-.-.-
She turns back to face the front of the elevator, which is taking a ridiculously long time. He considers just getting out at the nearest floor.
"Sorry," she apologizes lamely. "They're doing construction or something. Richard… well, let's say, we have a fine surgical robot."
"How is the chief?" Thatcher asks uncertainly, unsure if he really wants to hear the answer.
-.-.-
They get out of the elevator—all four of them—and Thatcher has no idea what is going on.
Meredith smiles, a little, understanding this. "Richard retired," she tells him. "A few years ago. My husband is the chief now."
She checks her watch again. "I've gotta get back to work," she mentions finally.
-.-.-
He nods, slowly. Small talk. He can do small talk. (They keep following signs to DAYCARE and Thatcher is beginning to figure out their destination.)
"You know…" His mind races to come up with the end of the sentence. "They say raising boys is completely different to girls," is what he settles on, lamely.
She shrugs. There's a slight smile around the corners of her mouth. And once again, he is deferring to her expertise.
He finds that this time, he doesn't mind it so much.
"I… guess?" she says finally.
He nods. It's a start.
-.-.-
After two minutes and forty-three seconds, she gets paged.
"Busy?" he questions pointlessly.
"It's the pit. It's the D-e-a-d B-a-b-y Bar bike race."
His brow furrows. "Why would someone name—"
She smiles ruefully. "The better part of a decade, and I still have no idea."
There's a pause. She shifts the boy on her hip, the little girl tugging at her fingers with a cry of "Mama!" and he blinks, the reality of the situation fully revealed to him.
She is a surgeon, a wife, a mother. She has four times the education he does and probably a fraction as much debt. She looks more tired than he does, more happy than he does, and okay, right now she looks a little more uncomfortable than he does.
But maybe it's not a competition. Maybe what he's feeling right now is… pride.
After all, he used to pour her cereal.
SO MANY thanks to all the lurkers, and the reviewers, and everyone who read this and encouraged my insanity.
I tend to write things that people don't review much, which I guess doesn't really bug me 'cause I know you're reading it. ;) But how 'bout one more, for old times' sake? (I did give you all a long chapter, after all. It's the least you could do. ;P)