Chapter Text
“Darling, hey ,” before C.C’s hand can reach her lip, Niles catches it on his, entwining their fingers and squeezing it gently. “They must be on their way here. Traffic gets busy on Saturdays, you know that.” He kisses the back of her hand, bringing it to his chest — a silent invitation to get her closer to him.
C.C — with her hair pulled up in a messy bun, and a worried lip between her teeth — shakes her head lightly. “That means it's all the more dangerous, Niles. I shouldn't have trusted him with the kids.” The television light highlights the wrinkles in her forehead. She seems about to start pacing again. “He does it every time, and every time I buy his bullshit.”
“He's your dad .”
“More than enough reason to know he wouldn't be capable of keeping his promises.” She sighs, deeply, rubbing her face with her free hand.
From where she's sitting, she can see the grandfather's clock right beside the threshold. It marks 22:51. It's making her sick with worry — and bringing out of her a considerable amount of anger. She should've known it was a bad idea when her father came in earlier, saying he had planned a whole afternoon with Jillian and Rowan. She should've known that he would disrespect her rules of not messing with the kids' bedtime — damn him and his idiotic need to always seem somewhat superior as an adult figure, simply by always playing the accomplice, not the actual authority.
“Babs.” Niles is a bit more insistent in his movement this time, leaning forward and touching her thigh. “ Baby , I know you're concerned, but he always brought them back. He's just… lacking in punctuality.” He says with a small smile. “They're fine . He wouldn't let anything bad happen to them.”
She mirrors it, even if only a bit, leaning more onto his side. “I don't like them being away from us for this long. I need them here.”
“You have separation anxiety, honey. That's it.” He mumbles jokingly, kissing the side of her head and pulling her to his chest as he leans back into the couch.
“Says the one who stayed parked outside kindergarten when it was Jillian’s first day.” She snuggles closer, hand moving to settle on top of his heart.
“It was my first time being a father, alright? I did better with Rowan.”
“By driving around the block multiple times?” C.C smiles when she feels a soft rumble in his chest, turning her head a bit to kiss his breastbone over his PJs’ fabric.
“ Who even told you that, witch?”
“You confessed, lover. A week later, in your sleep.” She giggles, and he pokes her on the side. “That's where all the gas was going.”
He huffs, kissing her hairline. Making her hum in satisfaction — it's great to her that he's so tactile with his love and affections; she is, too , and communicating like this sometimes is much simpler than investing in long declarations of love.
They stay in silence for a while, just watching the TV glow and feeling each other's breath. C.C keeps stealing glances of the front door and the front windows — in case she sees the car headlights, or the shadows coming from the garden. Niles starts drawing patterns on her arm, trying to remember what they were even watching.
“He used to always be late when picking me and my siblings up from mother's house.” C.C utters at some point, her tone shy and small. “He'd drop us late, too, and she'd be so mad.”
Niles hums, offering room to continue the subject if she wanted to — or to never mention it again. (It's a silent rule between the two of them: no questions asked about childhoods and parents, and a free pass to speak as much as they wish to. Whenever they wish to. It works pretty well like this.)
“I remember always falling asleep in the backseat with Daphne. She hated it.” She smiles for a fraction of a second, but the corners of her mouth soon turn downwards. “He didn't like to make visits like this — he'd rather take us for a week, or during breaks, but mother was always so adamant that he should not interfere in our education, and her plans.” It had been a bitter realization, at the time, to know all the planning revolved around a new husband. Another rich man that B.B needed to sell the idea of ‘devoted single mother ’ to. (It was also ridiculous — none of them ever questioned what devotion meant in the woman's vocabulary.) “In the beginning he'd try as much as possible — it was almost like there weren't two separate homes for us to switch between. He was… almost great. Always there, whenever he could. Almost great.”
“But it changed?”
“It did.” She sighs. Turning in his arms to rest her chin on her hand — to look at his warm, sapphire eyes. “His business had always been his life, we knew that.” They did . But it was still painful to learn from his secretary that he wouldn't show up for the next month because he had business to do in Europe. And then Asia. And then anywhere away from them, it seemed. “His work schedule was crazy, and I think…” Her lips make a crooked curve. “I think he did love us a lot, just not more than he loved his work.” In his own way, however he was able to, he did want us — just not enough .
Niles reaches for her face, caressing her cheek and brushing away a tear she didn’t even notice escaping. “I’m so sorry.”
She presses her lips together, bringing his palm closer to her mouth so she can kiss it. “It's okay now.”
There, she leaves out the part where she felt jealous of her children when Stewart Babcock first knocked on her front door — hands full of presents and promises; that wax-smile of his making her feel like just another business associate he had to deal with.
And she doesn't mention that the first time she saw him playing with little Jillian in her room, she locked herself in the bathroom to cry. Or that, when he announced he had bought a penthouse in town just for when he was there to spend time with his grandchildren, it smashed her heart in tiny little pieces. ( Oh, or that, when he casually said he cleared up his week schedule to stay longer with her children, she wanted to yell at him and ask why he'd never given up a single hour of work for her or her siblings.)
It's okay , she repeats to herself as her husband leans forward to give her nose a peck.
“He just better get here before eleven or he'll be a dead man by dawn.”
He smiles. “What did I say about burying corpses in the backyard? That's too dangerous with Chester around.”
“Chester could not find a chew toy if it was put under a blanket before him. He won't find phalanges, and a femur is thrice his weight. The backyard is safe.”
“ God, you're morbid.”
“You love me for it, Rochester.”
“I do,” he leans forward, kissing the side of her mouth. “Very, very much.” Then, when he's about to reach her lips — only a breath away from actually touching it — they hear the sound of brakes in the distance.
Car headlights.
And C.C jumps from the couch so quickly it startles him — she's by the threshold, tying the sash of her robe and reaching for the doorknob at the same time, probably mumbling curses at Stewart for being late again .
Niles doesn't take long to follow her. Putting his robe as well and walking out to the driveway where his father-in-law has parked.
“ Kitten. Niles.” Stewart greets them — he doesn't need to look at Chastity directly to know she's furious , but he still does. Holding up his hands in surrender and pointing at the backseat of his car. “I know you're both upset because of the time–”
“–upset does not cover it, dad–”
“– but can we please discuss this after we get them inside? Get them to bed first?”
C.C grits her teeth, but nods. Watches as her father opens the back door — unbuckles her belt — gently cradling Jillian in his arms before handing her over to Niles. Waits as he does the same to Rowan, then takes her little boy from his arms.
The three adults walk inside the house in complete silence — only when C.C is about to take the first step of the stairs, she turns back to Stewart, who's standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets.
“Wait for me in the office. I want to talk to you about this .”
He nods, and she disappears from view.
14:29 PM
It's easier to breathe here — with the ocean breeze caressing his skin and his grandchildren's giggles surrounding him, he realizes, it is so immensely easy to breathe here.
“Jillian, be careful! Don't go past the sandcastle we made, okay?”
“Yeah, grandpa!” She yells back, cheerful and shining. Looking at him for a second to show him her smile — with a few missing teeth — before focusing on finding more sea shells for her and Rowan's collection.
Even when there's a certain lump in his throat when a portion of his past starts to overlap with his present — if not the imagery, the sentiment; the familiarity of the lightness he feels at the moment; the sand under his feet, the sun warming his skin and the sound of the waves crashing on the shoreline.
(Even when being here makes him wonder how he could've done this many times more with his own children. How — maybe — he could've tried harder and for longer. Taken more days at the beach. Taken more time to appreciate Daphne's, Noel's and Chastity's youth.)
It feels right.
To take his time, now, with Rowan and Jillian.
“Grandpa.” The little boy sitting beside him tugs on his shirt. “Can we go see shesells with Jilly?”
Stewart doesn't take even a second to stand up — to say ‘of course, let's go’ as he pretends to race the boy to where his sister is. He also doesn't waste time when the children ask him for help — he all but kneels beside them to help on selecting the best ones. (Or when he lifts them up in his arms and sprints towards the ocean — here, he can't help but chuckle at the maniac giggles he receives.)
And if, when they get back to his car, he realizes the sand caught in their feet and clothes will rub onto the vehicle's interior and probably take a week to be completely removed, he says nothing — he doesn't care in the least.
Instead, while watching the children counting the seashells they've found today from the rearview mirror, he grins — feeling lucky and somewhat complete, he carries it around like a badge of honor.
He takes pride in it.
His second chance — it's good to have it.
17:41PM
“Okay, buddy, now, you have to press this here, it's the rewind crank. It will hold the film in place so you can connect this part here in the winding lever.” With the camera safely in his hands, Stewart allows the 4-year-old Rowan to press it, while the 7-year-old Jillian watches them carefully.
Sitting in the carpet of his living room — where he had previously covered a great portion of it in soft cushions and blankets to build a fort — the older man tries to explain to his grandchildren how the camera he has been carrying around the whole day works.
“Now, Jill, you insert the film leader and give the film a solid wind with the lever. It should nestle these tiny holes — the sprockets — into these grooves.” He waits for the little girl to finish the action, nodding a bit excessively when she does it correctly. “Great job, dear. Now, all we have to do is close the back, and rewind enough to reach frame one. After that, it's all good to go. Got it?”
Jillian nods, but her younger brother simply looks up questioningly at their grandfather.
“But grandpa, how big pictures fit a small camera like this?”
Stewart chuckles, running his head through the little boy's head. “Well, if you two promise to keep your hands to yourselves, I can show you the darkroom I have set up here.”
“What's a d-darkroom?”
“It's where I do all the magic.” He places the camera carefully onto the coffee table before them, and stands up. Holding out a hand to each child to help them out of the couch. “It has red lights and it's always night there.”
“No day?” Little Rowan asks as he shuffles to the edge.
“Yes. Daylight damages the picture, so we have to make them big in the absence of sunlight.”
Both kids nod and hum, but as they're approaching the door, Stewart feels a tug on his right hand.
“What does ab-absence mean, grandpa?”
“It means the lack of something, dear. As in, something or someone not being present. Does it make sense to you?”
“Yeah. I think s-so.”
9:46 PM.
Peaceful.
When Stewart takes his grandson in his arms and lays him on his racecar bed, covering him with a simple red quilt, he wonders if he had felt so peaceful in the last twenty, maybe thirty years.
“Sleep well, dear.” He kisses his forehead. “We'll get you home in a bit, I promise.” A pause. “Your mom is never going to leave me with you two unsupervised again.” And smiles — although the idea of being deprived of his grandchildren’s presence seems to sit heavy on his throat for a moment. Not good at all.
Straightening his spine, he looks at the door. Finds Jillian holding onto the door frame as she waits for him — he knew she didn't like being alone in the first floor; she has admitted more than once that the ceiling was so high, and things were so far away it made her feel uneasy.
It makes something inside him ache a tiny bit.
Jillian looks so much like Chastity did — the shiny eyes, the giggle, in the way she'll just get really, really quiet when she doesn't know the right answers (to when she didn’t want to say no). It fills his heart with blind hope — a way of getting a second chance and doing everything right by her; never leave her waiting for him; never let her doubt how much she means to him.
“Honey,” he opens his arms as he approaches her, and the little girl doesn't protest when he picks her up. Laying her head comfortably on his shoulder, she yawns. “Do you want to lay down for a bit, too? I'll take both of you home soon. I just have to gather all your stuff and prepare for your mother's tiger tamper.”
The little girl shakes her head, smiling a bit at the mention of her mom. “Piano. You told… you told me you would show me the p-piano.”
He chuckles lightly — the lines that run wild along his features accentuate his content expression. “Are you sure you're still awake enough for that?”
“Super aw-awake.” She mumbles, snuggling further into his hold as he starts to walk down the hallway, towards the stairs.
“Alright, super awake. Do you have a song in mind?”
“Wonderful w-world.”
“Good choice, little one.”
Once they get to the living room, Stewart walks to the piano — perfectly placed before the big balcony doors, it has an amazing view from the city lights and the night sky. He runs his fingertips through the fall board and, once he lifts it, through the keys. It has been a while since he last played just for playing — not to prove something to someone about his multiple talents.
(If he racks his brain enough — if he hasn't forgotten it yet — he might fight an intact memory of the time Noel insisted he wanted to learn to play from him — when Chastity, at the same age Rowan is today, would come along simply to watch them both. As long as Barbara wasn't home to tell him over and over again how he should just hire someone to do that instead, it was a good time.
They had a few good times, didn't they?
Some , even worth keeping.)
He sighs — a bit too loud, apparently, once it caused the little girl to stir. Rubbing her right eye with her left hand and trying to wiggle out of her grandfather's arms — and reach for the bench before them.
“It is s-so pretty.” She thinks aloud as her hands also trace the white keys before her. “Who taught you how… how to play?” Jillian's eyes — the pair that resemble so much the ones of her mother — shine when she looks up at him.
He weakens a bit — steadying himself on a different foot as he silently asks her for more space to sit beside her.
“My father did. He was always passionate about music. I think it meant a lot to him that I seemed to like to play as well.”
The little girl nods. He touches a key so softly it doesn't make a sound.
“Momma p-plays so w-well. D-Did you teach momma, t-too? Be-because you liked it?”
“No, not momma.” He says with a tight smile. B.B paid a teacher for that. “I taught uncle Noel, but I didn't get to teach your momma.”
“Why?”
He shrugs, still maintaining the curve on both ends of his lips. Somehow managing to ignore the phantom knot on his throat. “I wasn't home by the time she was old enough to learn. Back then I… I didn't have much time to spend with her. A professor taught her, instead.”
Jillian hums, but she doesn't seem satisfied by his answer. “Why would you not t-teach… teach her if you liked it? Like… like your father d-did. It didn't… didn't matter to y-you that she learned… learned with… with you?”
It takes a moment for him to search for the right words — better, the right explanation that preferably doesn't involve divorce and him, willingly taking a step back from his children's life.
“It would have, darling, but… I… I couldn't.” It leaves a bad taste in his mouth — this is not enough even for him. “What I mean is that I would've loved to teach your mother how to play, but there were circumstances that made it difficult to do so.”
“What circum– circums– circum–” Jillian sighs, interrupting herself and giving up the sentence altogether. (Struggling with bigger words — especially when tired — was something her doctor had predicted, yes, but it wasn’t any less frustrating to deal with.) Her tiny hands close into fists for a second as she tries to breathe in as slowly as possible.
“It’s fine, honey. I got it.” He caresses her back, pulling her even more to his side. “And as for your question: my job, majorly.” He utters, before adding, sour and heavy, "It happens that I’m awfully talented when counting money, sweetie. Not so much when being… a dad.” A pause. A tired breath. “It kept me busy and very far away a lot of the time. When I finally had a chance to be with your mother, it always… felt like it was too short.”
After a short moment of pondering, the girl seems to take his answer as satisfying enough — so she turns her attention to the hand she had kept idle above the piano keys. “Mommy's j-job also keeps her b-busy. But s-she always… she always comes h-home to us.”
He smiles — Chastity got it right; I knew she would. Kisses the top of his granddaughter’s head. Places his fingers on the right keys to start.
“Now, ready for ‘what a wonderful world’?”
She nods exaggeratedly. He hits the first note.