Chapter Text
Once — back when she had been small enough to have her legs swinging in the air whenever she sat on one of the kitchen’s stool — C.C had dreamed of the day she'd stand before her father and ask him all the important questions her mother wouldn't answer.
Back then, when the world was big and she stood fearless before it, it made sense to believe that adults — like Miss Martha and Daddy — were the ones with the privilege of truth. Of bearing it in their pockets, sometimes resting in the very bottom of their stomachs. While children were given the privilege of honesty . Of handing it over without much resistance; of coating patches of soft skin — the fragile senses — in it and still feeling invincible.
It was reasonable to expect that, by questioning her father about… anything , it would be just a matter of insistence. The right amount of it. Like those tall, serious men in suits would do when they needed something from him. Like Mother would do when she wanted to convince him of something else.
At some point, he would break.
And that's when she'd take her chance.
And then , Stewart would kneel to her height and offer a white smile, muttering a row of ‘okay’. He'd open his suit jacket and show her the inner pocket closest to his lungs. He'd find in there a beautiful envelope and he would open it before her eyes — he would clear his throat and he'd read to her about every truth she ever wondered about; every mark left unanswered.
He'd let her have it.
It would be that simple.
And she'd figure out what's so important about the Polaroid he never lets her touch, and why she's too small to have piano lessons with him. She'd know why her mother insists on buying her hair ribbons and uncomfortable shoes, and why Daphne seems to dislike her so much. She'd know why Miss Martha never wears her hair down — and why she wears a ring on a necklace instead of her finger like everybody else. She'd know why the stars have to be so, so, so far away, and why Daddy was farther than that.
Maybe, if she had managed to ask everything when she was still a child — when she still believed he had held onto more truths than his own — she'd spare some time to ask him about what to do if this ever happened.
If she had to stand before him, thirty years later, so angry at his disrespect for her and her family — for not being able to follow something as simple as bedtime .
If she had to witness him trying to hide himself before a small cup of coffee her future husband did to, momentarily, add a tint of normalcy to the whole scene.
What should I do, Daddy? — She should've asked. — What do I do when you do this to me? Getting into my life again and doing for my children what you never did for me or my siblings. How do I defend you against myself? What do I say to absolve you in court?
If she had to think and rehearse just to conceal the initial jealousy — if all she wished to do was to yell at him and take the truth out of him by force.
What do I do, Daddy? — She would never get to ask. — You're hurting me again.
Maybe, if she had asked about any of it, she wouldn't be here .
Before him.
“Are you really just going to sit there and say nothing?”
Past midnight, in her office, in her house . Expecting some sort of magnificent justification — even though she knew the very best wouldn't suffice.
“Do you really think you can just sit there and not even try to explain why in God's green Earth you took my children for a whole day and only returned them, not only one, but two hours past bedtime?” A superficial kind of warmth starts to spread from her chest to her throat. Somewhere under her tick robe and an inch from her pale skin — she feels it tickling. “Do you have any idea how bad that is for Rowan? He's only four, Dad! You can't just allow a 4-year-old to sleep whenever he wants!”
“Niles' coffee is really great, why don't you try it?” He takes another sip, not looking at her face. “Do you have a grinder here? I believe I saw it in the counter that day when we had lunch, and–”
“Dad!” She exclaims, affronted. Rubbing her face with one hand while placing the other on her waist, she turns to the bookshelves that cover almost all of the room. Away from him. “Is this funny to you? Is there a joke I missed?”
Stewart shakes his head, softly. “No. Kitten… I just don't know what you want me to say, alright?” He joins his hands on his lap, leaning back and looking somewhere between her shoulder and the ceiling’s lamp. “I just… I lost track of time with them. The day was so fun, and they were– We were having such a great time, I didn't…” He seems to swallow a few words — maybe three or four. “I didn't even see the time passing.”
“I doubt you didn't notice the sun setting. The darkness outside. Or the arms on your watch moving.” She crosses her arms, turning to him at half an angle.
“I wasn't thinking about it.”
C.C huffs, biting her tongue to hold back a sudden hiccup that, she knew, would make much more sound to be simply involuntary. “You could've called. You should have called.”
For a moment, she expects him to be intentionally dense — to flash a smile and say he forgot her number, and they proceed to deny he had been given Niles', and even the Sheffield's, number as well in case of emergencies. But he doesn't.
(If he had, it would've been easy — they would fight. Hurtful words and pointing fingers. A teardrop or two. Screeching sounds coming up their throat. Oh, yeah. This would be so much easier.)
Instead — she sees, out of the corner of her eyes — he squeezes his hands for a second too long, dragging a breath until his chest lets out a small rumble.
“I shouldn't have done that, Kitten. I apologize.”
She shakes her head. “Nope, not enough.”
Stewart rolls his shoulders in — the movement seems to take everything from him; from the energy stirring up the muscle to his old hinges, moving the bone. “I don't know what you want me to say.” He repeats.
“Oh , I don't know , maybe start answering some basic questions?!” It’s automatic how she stomps her feet; how the heat coloring her face and throat gives her the adrenaline she needed to continue. “Where did you go that took you the whole day? Did you feed them actual food? Did you spend the whole day ‘spoiling’ them, like you like to call it?”
“We just went to the beach. For seashells. Like we would do when we'd spend family vacations at the beach house.” He smiles fondly at the image that forms in his hair — little C.C running up and down looking for the perfect shells, always so proud to show him her collection before storing them with the others she had found the past year. “After that we stayed at my penthouse, Kitten.”
“Please, tell me you didn't let them into your balcony.” She blocks out the imagery he tries to share. This is not the place, and it might never be a right time for it — not when they're both adults; not when both know the price paid for honesty. “I told you when I was there the last time I didn't want them anywhere near that railing. The glass panels are a disaster waiting to happen with them there.”
“I wouldn't let them go there alone if they did go there, y'know” He looks at her from where he sits — with his hands joined, and from this view, it looks like he's pleading. (It doesn't phase her, no . If anything, she looks ever angrier.) “But I didn't . I promise. They didn't get anywhere near that railing.” He stops himself from adding something like ‘ Do you want me to change it? I will. They're safe with me. They always will.’
She narrows her eyes at him for a minute, before scratching the wrinkles in her forehead. She doesn't know what to do with her hands.
“I'm still pissed at you.”
“I know.”
“I was worried.”
“They're fine, Kitten. They were with me.”
“That's really comforting when I know your parenting skills are limited to your good will.”
It's out of her mouth before she realizes it — it makes him raise his brows just as a flash of… something crosses his eyes; it makes her bite her inner cheek.
A pause is needed for it to settle… somewhere in the room — words like those take space and they're allowed to linger most of the time; they're allowed to sit by the coffee table and watch.
Stewart stands, then, fixing up his tie. Placing one hand on the front pocket of his trousers.
She wonders, at first, if he'll just walk out and pretend this part of the conversation never happened. As if she were 5 again, seeing him walk away from the dining room, she'd have to watch him go and do nothing about it; maybe cry, later, in privacy; maybe, do as he would and just never think of it again.
But he doesn't.
Oh no, of course he fucking doesn't.
He stands there. Smiling at her with that hollowness in his eyes and those well-trained lips — a tactic; he has been using it and succeeding for years.
“That’s not fair, Kitten. I tried .” It comes out flat — like he practiced these lines; like he had used them time and time again in the past. “I could've done more , yes, but I tried.”
“Again, not enough.”
He swallows dry. “It was better than nothing.”
“Was it?” She cocks a brow at him, crossing her arms. “Who are you to say if it was or if it wasn't? You were the father, and you were the one leaving.” CC’s feet begin to take roots into the carpet just when she plans to take a step back. Shit.
“I never left you.” It's a weak protest, but he goes for it regardless.
“Of course, ‘permanency’ for you means a weekend trip after a half a year not knowing where the hell you were. No calls, and no real justification as to why you disappeared into thin air and reappeared just like that. A bag full of presents and sweet words to convince everyone you were the best.”
“You liked my presents!”
“I liked having my father around much more!”
Shit.
Fuck.
His eyes shine with something between affection and sorrow — all a bit too close from pity .
“Oh, CC…” Stewart tries to take the first step to round the table and go to her, but she leans backwards, away from him. He takes the rejection quietly, nodding softly and hiding yet another hand in his pockets. “I thought you understood it was… for work. My schedule was very demanding back then. Business was growing, investors were coming, and I… after I divorced your mother I couldn't be there at all times anymore.”
She can't help but wince at his words. His face. The way he has his palms up, and how he's looking at her. It makes her feel naive and selfish to have wished to have more of him — to have felt a tint of jealousy when he showed up at her doorstep to give her children all the time he denied her.
A tired sigh goes past her lips. She rubs the nape of her neck slowly.
He doesn't miss the small signs of exhaustion in her posture, in her features. It has been a long, long time ago, but he recalled how she would rub her eyes like Jillian does. She'd fight off sleep to stay awake a bit longer and she'd cling to him however she could — holding his hands and leaning onto his forearm; trying to hold onto his legs; asking with her arms out to be picked up and cradled.
However silly it is — a forty-six year old is simply too old to feel adequate for such behavior — he expects her to still search for comfort in his arms. To trust him with the vulnerability of her sleep and lay her head on his shoulder. To need him more.
“Kitten , you're tired. Why don't you go to bed? You need to rest. We can continue this some other time.” He tries.
“No. We're finishing this conversation tonight.”
Stewart also sighs this time. Eyes on the floor. On the painting; on the wall; on the great collection of classics found in the bookshelves. On the few titles he was able to recognize.
After a short silence, he decides to go first. “I just wanted to spend more time with them.” It's nothing but a murmur, but she can hear him well enough. “I miss… I haven't had kids around since you were one yourself.”
“D.D has four of her own.” She argues.
“Your sister thinks I'm a bank. If it wasn't for money, I doubt she'd speak to me at all.” Much like your mother . He keeps the last part between his teeth, closing his mouth. B.B is a sore subject to everyone who has ever met her — bringing it up now is no help to anyone.
The implication isn't completely lost — C.C knows her sister's behavior could easily be traced back to their own mother's. How Barbara would speak about him after he left. How she'd test a new husband every five years — ten if the man was really unlucky.
She doesn't mention it, though.
“As I said before, you should've called. If you planned to spend a second more with them, the minimum you should've done was to call me.”
“I’m aware. I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”
She straightens her posture, raising her chin ever so slightly — despite the robe and the messy bun, she looks much more like Producer Babcock than the mother or the daughter.
“No, it won't.” A pause. A heartbeat. “Dad, you're no longer allowed to take the kids anywhere without me or Niles present.”
He frowns. Deeply. “ What?”
“Exactly what you heard. Unless you take me or Niles with you, you're not going anywhere with the kids. Until further notice.”
Shaking his head, he takes a step around the coffee table, not even hesitating when he sees how tight her spine seems to become.
“C.C, please, I'm not a child. I recognize my mistake — I'll call you next time. You can't just keep me from my grandchildren.”
“Perks of being an actual parent.” She says, face hardening at each word. “And I'm not ‘keeping you from them’ — I would never do that knowing how much Rowan and Jillian like your visits. I'm simply setting more boundaries since their grandfather is unable to follow my rules.”
“Wha–” He huffs in frustration. “It was one mistake.”
“There were several mistakes.”
“I apologized.”
“Apologies don't fix everything, Dad. Last time you apologized, but I still had to deal with Jillian's upset stomach because you thought feeding her as much ice cream as she wanted was alright.”
He clenches his hands, still inside his pockets. Takes a deep breath. Tried to smooth his expression.
“Kitten, c'mon. You're exaggerating.”
“Do not say I'm exaggerating on how much care I give to my children.” She snarls, eyes suddenly lit up. “If, God forbid, something bad had happened, I wouldn't have known because you couldn't pick up the damn phone and call me.”
“But it didn't! They're fine. It was just an innocent mistake, Claire.”
Something inside her trembles at that — how he calls her. (It seems enough to ignite a bigger fire.)
“It’s a mistake Niles’ father would never even think of commiting.” She goes for blood. Breathing rapidly and feeling her hands tingle. “And you know why's that, Daddy? When it was his turn to be a father, he actually tried to be a decent one. That's why his son became such a great one, too. They tried.”
It takes a moment — or a bit more.
Her words climb up the walls and hang from the ceiling — leaving behind small prints of the whole sentence all over the carpet, the books and the wallpaper.
She looks at him from what seems to be the height she had when he ceased all his efforts to be close — she feels small , but so, so infinitely angry.
He looks at her with the same eyes he had when he got to the hospital's nursery room and saw her lying there — small, and wrapped up in a pink blanket with butterflies and daisies. (He's sad and he's remorseful. ‘I should've been here earlier, little one’. ‘I’m so sorry I left you alone, waiting.’)
“I tried, too.” He mumbles, wetly. “I now realize it might not have been so easy to understand back then, but I did.”
“But you stopped.” She hiccups — once. (It takes from her physical effort to stop the sob that comes rolling up all the way from her liver — isn't there where all the resentment lives? ) “Dad, my god… ”
C.C has to cover her face with her hands — her eyes start to overflow without her permission, burning down paths from her cheeks down to her chin and neck. And her father — Stewart — takes too long to approach her.
Gather her in his arms.
Say the right words.
Let her cry on his shoulder for all the wounds he causes himself.
(If you know all the answers, Daddy, how do you not know what to do then? — She would've said.
Because, Kitten, when you grow up, you become very lacking. You may have the truth, but you don't have enough courage, therefore, no honesty is truly yours anymore. — He'd explain. With his heart in his hands and a dirty envelope in his secret pocket.
So you… lie?
Not necessarily. It's just easier to… hide.
What would you hide from, Daddy? You're an adult! You're never scared.
Oh, but I am. — He'd smile at her, slightly twisted on the edges. — Sincerity is so scary, my dear. But it's a fear you won't get until you're old like me.
I’m not getting old like you, then. — She’d say, with such simplicity, it would steal his ability to speak for a few moments.
Then it would make him smile. Smile because she beams at him when he says, well, don’t get old like me, then. I was foolish to do so — should've stayed little like you. Don’t ever get old, Kitten.)
When he finally steps forward — as part of him predicted — it's too late. She's putting up her walls up and high again.
Brushing away the tear tracks with the back of her hands and tidying her robe. Tightening the sash. Blinking whatever it was away. Shaking her head as if admonishing herself for needing even a second more to regain her composure.
“I’m,” she clears her throat, “I'm done with this conversation. No visiting without taking one of us with you.”
He opens his mouth, but there's no sound. The words, hanging low, only a few inches from his head, seem to make him docile.
“Do you understand what I said, Dad?”
“Yes, Kitten.”
“Good.” The word echoes twice more before she hugs herself. “I think you should go now. It's late.”
“Of course.” He whispers through dry lips and constricted throat. “Sleep well, dear. Goodnight.”
She turns away, refusing to see him walking out the door.
Pushing the door softly and leaving his slippers outside, Niles walks into the office 20 minutes after Stewart Babcock leaves the house — he hadn't heard the conversation, but he had seen his father-in-law leave hanging his head and dragging his feet.
He sees his wife sitting in the leather chair, elbows on the table as she holds her head in her hands — he notices the coffee left in the teacups on the small table before the couch, and he almost catches on to the worst of the conversation, that's been plastered over the walls and ceiling.
Approaching her, delicately, he kneels before her. “Dumplin', are you alright?” Whispering, he touches her thigh, trying his best at showing her he's here for whatever she needs from him. “Do you need anything?”
C.C doesn't move, doesn't flinch. She can smell her husband's soft perfume slowly filling the room and her senses, but she doesn't have the energy to move. To say a word. To cry a single more tear.
He nods to himself — one hand goes to her lower back, caressing it; the other, too occupied, tracing the same letters on her thigh over and over again. “Do you want to go to bed? I won't ask any inconvenient question, love.”
Her breath comes up with a whine — the air seems to burn her windpipes and make her chest heavier than ever.
“Come on, ” he taps her calves before standing. Kisses the top of her head before raising his hand to her upper back. “I'll carry you, darling. Let's go to bed.”
A voice in the back of her head mumbles to her a sassy remark — something about his weight, his strength, his age.
She ignores it.
Exhales loudly.
Turns to the side, opening her arms and letting him see how red her eyes are.
“I'll take you to bed, baby.” He repeats, kissing her on the forehead and bending just enough to encircle the back of her knees and the middle portion of her back. C.C holds tightly onto his neck, hiding her face on him — whatever part is available to reach, however the awkward angle will permit.
And when they finally get to their room, he keeps his words — he doesn't ask a thing.
He helps her out of her robe, and he lays her in bed, covering her with a blanket before turning off the lights. Circling the bed and going to his side. Opening his arms and holding her tightly when she finds a comfortable spot on his chest.
“I love you, Babs. Goodnight.”
“Love you more.” She mumbles, “night.”