Work Text:
(i)
You hear from Harley first.
He calls you one night in December and says, “I’m on my way to the Pacific.”
“Why now?”
There is silence on the other end for a second before, “She’s here.”
You don’t ask what he means because you know all too well already. You take a breath, tell him, Okay, and hang up.
Strider calls you two days later. He sounds unsure, and that unsettles you more than you’d like to admit.
He tries to keep his voice steady but you hear the waver in his words, “I can handle it. Go worry about that little space rock meant for you, Lalonde.”
You slam the phone on the receiver, and hope it doesn’t come.
Several hours later, you’re woken up by the sound of an explosion and a thundering earthquake.
(ii)
There is a crater, an unbelievably large crater, where a lake used to be. You hover on the edge for a minute not quite believing that an entire ecosystem existed here a few minutes before. Only the disturbed ground and still smoldering trees – firewood, you think, just firewood now – remain.
You shake yourself out of your stupor and cautiously climb down the edge.
The remains of a meteor sit primly at the center of the circle, and you wonder how in hell a baby could be transported by it. This is ridiculous, you think. You believe in science; in physics, in astronomy, in the combination of elements, and not in some space-magic about meteors acting as infant delivering storks.
(But the work you’ve put into it proves otherwise. You believe deep down, and you want nothing more for the entire thing to be a fluke, a mistake, a statistical discrepancy, so that you, all four of you and the children you’re all fated to raise, can live normal lives.)
You walk halfway around the meteor and are caught off guard when you see her looking, no; observing you with wide, purple eyes. It almost makes you want to smile because it looks like you got a smart baby, but you don’t because none of this is fair.
The baby stares at you quietly from where she’s lying on the ground, and you finally notice she’s shivering ever so slightly. You smack yourself on the forehead before hurrying forward to pick her up, because Jesus Christ, it’s still December even if both of you are in a crash site.
She doesn’t cry when you lift her up and cradle her in your arms. You swathe her in your scarf, and hold her awkwardly against your chest.
The baby stops shivering and lifts one of her tiny hands to touch your cheek.
“Maaah,” she manages between bubbles of spit.
God damn it, you aren’t equipped for this. But god damn it, she’s got purple eyes and tufts of silver blonde hair, and she watches so intently, and you can’t pretend you don’t love her already.
”Yeah, mommy’s got you.”
(There is another phone call you wait for but it never comes.)
(iii)
You give her a name that matches the color of your eyes in the language of love.
You give her a name that means kind-hearted love, and hope she grows gracefully into it.
(Because that’s all you want; for her to be loved and to love in return.)
You give her a name that means frightening, and it fits just so because you’re terrified of raising her wrong.
“Mommy’s got you Rose,” you whisper against her forehead, “I’ll protect you from anything that wants to hurt you, I promise.”
(Years later you’ll realize you were the very thing you promised to protect her from.)
(iv)
You spoil Rose like there’s no goddamn tomorrow.
You hire people to decorate her room in pinks and purples and whites, bright, gleaming; the color of royalty swirls and spreads across the walls and ceilings. Feather stuffed pillows, large fluffy stuffed toys and dolls, a sturdy crib with her name emblazoned on the finest white wood, velvet and satin, the most adorable baby shoes and clothes that money can afford.
You give her all these and more in the span of the few months she’s with you.
Let’s face it, you’re loaded anyway.
And it makes up for the fact you’re usually at a loss when she starts crying.
You croon and shush and hold her and struggle to hold in your own tears because you’re kidding yourself when you think you can take care of her properly. The money and the baby things come into play easy, they’re replacable, plentiful, but Rose is one of a kind, special, and she’s your daughter now, but you still don’t know what to do most of the time.
You rarely let go of her even when you’re working. In retrospect, it’s not something you should be doing; exposing her early on to something she’ll face in the future, but you shake the thought. It makes you uncomfortable to not feel her warmth bundled against your chest, tiny hands clutching at the collar of your shirt, or the feel of drool dripping from her mouth when she gurgles against your neck.
It’s disgusting yeah, but it feels wrong to not hold her.
(v)
March passes but you still haven’t heard from Crocker.
You make up your mind, pack a few things in a travelling bag, pick up Rose, and head to Washington.
(vi)
You head back home in no time at all, Rose clutched tightly against your arms. Each breath you take is a gargantuan effort. The oxygen burns when it enters your lungs and you shake uncontrollably.
It’s like noxious gas.
Carbon monoxide. Ammonia. Sulfur. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
You choke on your own breath and press Rose closer to your chest. She protests and flails her tiny body, uncomfortable with being held too tightly. Shakily, you loosen your hold on her for a bit and try to pacify her.
“It’s okay, baby. Shh, it’s okay.”
It’s not.
Something warm stings the corner of your eyes and blurs the edges of your vision. Before you could blink it away, it falls on her forehead. Rose stills and looks at you with wide violet eyes, mouth open like she wants to say something, while you sob openly and rock her to the rhythm of your ragged breathing.
It’s not okay. Everything is fire and smoke, crumbling walls, broken beams, caved in roofs and shattered glass. Everything is broken plaster and debris and burning, burning, burning. Everything smells putrid, and she’s dead. Oh god, she’s dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead. Crushed and scorched, burnt to a crisp, and dead.
She died in front of your eyes and you ran away.
(vi)
Something makes itself home in the pit of your stomach the day she died.
It growls and paces in circles, the vibrations making you shudder and break into sweat. It flexes its claws and begins raking your insides, stripping flesh and winding it into knots that don’t go away for long periods of a time. It reaches up to your throat and lodges its appandeges there until you can’t breathe properly and tears sting your eyes. And god you just want it to stop.
You can’t focus on work, on Rose, on your hands, on staring straight ahead. You can’t fucking focus on anything.
You try to peg the thing as guilt but it snarls and thrashes, and you know its fear.
(vii)
It’s not new to you but it’s never been a habit: you start drinking.
Champagne. Rum. Whiskey. Vodka. Gin and tonic. Beer. Sake. Soju. Scotch. Budlights.
If it has alcohol, you drink it.
Even fucking absinthe.
It muddles your mind and leaves you half lucid and puking all over your shoes after. You wake up to cotton mouth mornings, smelling like a wine cellar on better days, a pub on bad days, head pounding.
Each time you do, the fear feels a little easier to handle.
You don’t like that it does, but soon getting smashed comes easier than breathing.
(viii)
You think of Rose every time you drink.
Intelligent, stunning, gentle Rose. Just six years old, but she’s already far too perceptive for someone her age.
She’s empathy compressed into the body of a child; always asking, always wondering, always always getting hurt whenever someone else does.
You remember the maid who fell down the stairs. You remember Rose crying and fussing, worried. You remember when she took home an injured squirrel, tear tracks staining her pale cheeks.
She asks, and she understands, and she feels. Too much. Too much of each, and you fear someday this will get her killed.
She’s calm and pristine, she heals and flows and fits, and understands. She’s like water; conforming, fluid, accepting, but you know soon she has to be the light reflected in it. Rose will be light, bright and piercing, and it shows in her skin, the sheen of her hair. Rose will shine, reflect and, refract, she will be clarity and illumination.
So you teach her. Teach her how to hold her ground, hold her temper, keep her form, be her own person. You teach her to control her emotions, teach her not to just feel and cry. You teach her how to fight back.
Still, she’s too soft. Too fragile. And you’re scared for her, and of what you’re trying to do to her.
You shower her with attention, a little scared and drunk most of the time (You don’t know how to do this properly. What if you fuck up? What if you do this wrong? She’ll die because of you. She’ll die. She’ll die. She’ll die. And it will be because of you.). When she asks, you give, but not exactly. You give too much. Exaggerate. You hope she learns how to deal with too much, too many, at one time. Because that’s how the world works, it’ll smother you with things you never asked for, it will choke you and trip your feet even when you think you know what’s coming.
You teach. You worry. You drink.
Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.
(ix)
Years pass and you think you see her solidify into her own person.
Silver-gold and purple sparks of light, but then she sputters and clings to darkness.
(x)
-and you don’t have time to fix things.
She’s built a wall made of Fluthlu stories, psychology, and roughly three goddamn dictionaries around herself by the time you realize you’re doing things wrong.
You think she’s solid now. Ice. Frozen water. Cold and tempered. She’s steady in the dark, traps light, and reflects it wrong.
Still, the same question is in her eyes whenever you meet them.
“Why?”
You can’t give her an answer because she has to find out on her own. You can’t give her an answer because there are so many questions. Why don’t I have a father? Why do we live away from people? Why won’t you tell me about your job? Why are you crying? Why do you drink? Why are you doing this?
Instead you smile, all teeth and breath smelling like vodka, and tell her, “A mother always does what’s best for her children.” Pat her head, and place an order for a pony just for Rose’s birthday.
Because really, what else are you supposed to tell her?
(xi)
Time has run out and you’re terrified. You fucked up. You know it. You let the fear get the best of you and in turn you only gave half of the attention you should have given to Rose.
Will she be okay? Can she do this? Did you get it partly right at least, shape her into the person she needs to be? What if you lose her? What if she di- no no no no no –
You take another sip from your glass. Liquid fire flows down your throat and warms your body. It’s okay. Rose will do fine. She’s Rose, your Rose.
“Please move, Mother. I have somewhere I need to be.”
You brace yourself, smile for the sake of apperance, and ask her, “What could possibly be at risk that you’re in a hurry to get rid of your own mother, sweetheart?”
You expect her to press her lips tighter, frown creasing the gentle features of her face, and obstinately push her way past you, but instead,
“My friends,” she says quietly, violet eyes steeled directly at your pink ones.
You can’t help the relief that floods through you (and you’re damn sure the thing that lived in your gut for years drowned because of how proud you are of her).
(xii)
You’re not scared anymore. You know she’ll be fine even if she draws energy from darkness too.
(Because that’s how it’s always going to be. Light cannot exist without darkness, and vice versa. She’s grown into her skin, and she’ll know. She’ll understand the importance of the two. She’ll always be the light in the darkness, your Rose.)
You don’t feel much pain at all right now. Just a great calming numbness that takes over your body, makes your vision swim. Your limbs feel heavy and there’s a growing sense of warmth spreading across your abdomen. You smell the rust, the salt in your blood, and in his, and think of the sea. You think of water, and of Rose.
He tries to reach for your hand but he’s lost too much blood to muster up the energy to raise his arm. You turn your head to smile at him, the coolness of the floor stuck to your cheek.
“Thank you for..returning my scarf.”
A grimace crosses his face before he chuckles, then coughs blood. “—yeah, you’re welcome.”
It takes all of the energy you have left to focus on staying awake, your heart struggling to keep you alive.
“I did okay, right? She’ll-“ you cough and more blood spills on the tiles. “—she’ll be okay, won’t she?”
“Of course,” he struggles to say, “You did great.”
(xiii)
Thirteen years of raising Rose Lalonde.
Thirteen years of hoping, fearing, worrying.
And it all pays off because she’s going to shine brighter than any sun one day; beautiful, magnificent, Rose. And it’s okay even if won’t be there to witness it.
You’d be willing to do it all over again for her.