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leigh57Holy Tim Olyphant's stomach muscles, I wrote something in which Renee doesn't even have a line of dialogue. Anyway, more lalalalala, me attempting to shake out the massive brain cobwebs. This is for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
xbedhead. Blame her and kcountess, who wrote fic that got me all Jack/Kim nutty. Blame the squash on the fact that I'm a mom.
In person, Santa looks . . . a lot bigger (and a little more scary) than he does when she watches Rudolph on TV or when Daddy reads The Night Before Christmas before she goes to sleep.
Kim digs her fingernails under the collar of the new red velvet dress she picked out last week, scratching her neck where the lace rubs. The shiny black patent leather shoes with their sparkly silver buckles don’t feel as comfortable as they did in the store.
“And what do YOU want for Christmas, young man?” Santa’s voice echoes, booming toward the boy at the front of the line.
Nobody mentioned that Santa was so loud either.
She edges closer to her dad, her face pressed against the soft cotton of his jeans.
“You okay, sweetheart? We can go home if you want.”
“But-” She’s undecided. “I want to get a Cinnabon!”
He laughs. “I’ll buy you a Cinnabon whether you talk to Santa or not. You want to leave?”
She nods, hoping he’s not disappointed. “Maybe I’ll talk to him next year.”
“Okay. Let’s go.” His hand is so big that she only takes his first finger, but she clutches it (holding tight) all the way to the food court, where she watches the red, green, and white lights reflect off the high ceiling while her dad orders cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate.
_________________________
She’s been throwing up all night, latest victim of the stomach bug that’s leveled her third grade classroom like a viral tsunami.
He snaps out of his half-doze (guest-room quilt tossed on Kim’s floor when he took over for Teri sometime around three) to the sound of snuffling.
Quiet, stifled sobs.
The room sways a touch when he stands up, but he navigates the two steps to her bed and sits down, shoving aside the stuffed dolphin he’ll have to toss in the washer in the morning. “Why are you crying, sweetie?” Her shiny face is pale in the four-watt glow of her ‘My Little Pony’ night light.
“I’m sorry.” Her hitched whisper is so small. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“Don’t worry about it. Tell me what’s wrong.”
A tear dribbles off the side of her face into her sweaty hair. “I’m just so thirsty. How much longer?”
Teri’s instructions repeat themselves in his head. Tiny sips every fifteen minutes. Any more and she’ll just throw it up again.
He glances at the clock on Kim’s desk. “Eight minutes.”
Another hiccuping sob. “That’s so long.”
He scoots closer, pushing the comforter away to make room for his body on her twin bed. “It’s not. I promise. I’ll wait with you. You want a story?”
She shakes her head. “I’m too tired.”
“Okay.” He reaches for her hand; it’s clammy and pint-sized inside his. “You’re sure you don’t wanna hear the one about the pink-haired superhero zebra from Mars?”
“Can it be eight minutes?”
“You’re down to seven now."
She tightens her fingers around his pinkie and almost smiles. His shoulders relax.
“Okay. Go!”
_________________________
When she jams her key into the deadbolt the Friday night of the 8th grade Halloween dance, she doesn’t even expect him to be there. He’s been gone for three days, another “assignment,” another whispered fight with her mom when they both thought she was doing her algebra homework.
She curses under her breath when her rain-soaked hands slip and the key won’t turn. Before she can try again, the door opens. Her dad’s standing there, backlit by the entryway lights.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
Because clearly, what she needs after a night like this (a night when she spilled fruit punch on her dress ten minutes after the music started, a night when the guy who asked her to the dance wound up making out under the bleachers with her now former best friend) is to be interrogated by her father.
He makes a puzzled face. “Hi. Your mom said Brad was bringing you home at eleven.” His eyes flick to the clock. “It’s not even eight thirty.”
“I took the bus,” she mumbles, brushing past him as she shrugs out of her raincoat. Her brain spins, frantic search for the quickest way to the solitary cocoon of her bedroom.
“Are you okay? What happened to Brad?” Apparently he can’t help the obnoxious emphasis he places on the name, not that she has any interest in defending that asshat at the moment.
“I’m fine. I just wanna change my clothes.” She walks down the hallway, waiting with each squishy step to hear his voice calling her back.
He doesn’t.
She closes the door behind her and listens, expecting footsteps in the hall. All she hears is the squeak of the recliner.
Huh.
He’s surprised the shit out of her.
Half an hour later, when she’s wearing her favorite fuzzy black sweats, cuddled up in the beanbag with her tattered copy of A Ring of Endless Light, she hears a faint tap on the door.
“Yeah?”
He opens it only a little, resting his shoulder on the doorframe. “I made too much popcorn. How about some chess?”
The scent of butter and salt drifts from the kitchen. She puts down the book. “One game. I’m tired.”
“Check,” he says, after over an hour of virtual silence. Any other dad would have made irritating small talk. Any other dad would have let her win.
As she’s scrutinizing the board, trying to decide if there’s any way out of this, his hand closes over hers, a brief tight squeeze.
“The next dance’ll be better. I swear.” She would respond, but the lump in her throat has multiplied by a factor of ten in the last three seconds. He pretends not to notice. “I’m gonna grab a beer. You want another Coke?”
She nods.
He walks to the fridge, rummaging and clinking bottles much longer than necessary while she swallows past the ache.
_________________________
Weddings are, by definition, supposed to be insane drama-filled affairs replete with last-minute catering disasters and family dysfunction.
When it’s T-minus fifteen minutes and there isn’t so much as an orchid out of place, she can’t help wondering if some horrifying surprise awaits her in the main part of the church.
By some miracle, she has these last few minutes alone. She listens to the floaty faraway piano music drifting through the door Julianne left ajar when she departed in an explosion of leftover hairpins and sculpting spray -- air kiss to keep from smudging Kim’s makeup and a sad, knowing smile. Why don’t you take five and be by yourself? I’ve got everything under control.
It’s Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D.’
Her mom loved this song.
Kim studies herself in the full-length mirror -- the smooth satin of her ivory dress, deep plum lipstick Julianne insisted was perfect, careful curls that frame her face while the rest is swept up in a pearl ornament that belonged to her grandmother.
Objectively, she’s beautiful. She knows this.
But what she wants, with a bright aching ferocity that explodes in her chest and courses through her body until she can feel it pulsing in her fingertips, is for her mom and dad to be there to tell her so.
She shuts her eyes and touches the thin skin on the inside of her left arm, empty cold space where her dad’s hand is supposed to be.
She holds her fingers there until they’re warmer.
She doesn’t pray, exactly.
But she does keep her eyes closed, hold her breath, and whisper inside her mind:
I love you.
I miss you.
I understand now.
I’m sorry.
_________________________
When all the standard prescription distractions (Sudoku, crosswords, books, TV) stop working, she plays counting games to divert her thoughts.
How many tiles in the ceiling? 48.
How many more swallows before the amazing (because the ‘hospital coffee sucks’ thing is a cliché for a reason) Starbucks triple grande mocha with whipped cream Renee brought her is gone? 9.
How many horizontal threads are on the cuff of her corduroy jacket? 104.
How many times before midnight will her dad show any sign of waking up? 0.
The nurses who shuffle shifts around the clock inevitably ask her, Don’t you want to get out for a while? We have your cell. You’ll know the second there’s any change.
But Renee and Chloe are the only people she’ll allow to take over, and even then she’s unsettled every second she’s gone, wondering if she’ll miss an eyelid flutter or a hand squeeze.
In her bad moments (usually in the pre-dawn hours when everything is quiet and dark and the only sounds are the swish of night shift Crocs in the hallway and the hum of all the damn machines hooked up to her dad), she hates that she had to become a parent herself before she could grow the hell up enough to understand his decisions.
What she says to the nurses is, “I’m fine. I’ll rest later.”
What she thinks is, He’s spent his whole life doing this for me, even when I didn’t know it. Now it’s my turn to be the one who’s awake.
So she takes his motionless, freezing hand and presses it between both of hers, rubbing to warm his chilled skin.
I’m not going anywhere this time, Daddy.
_________________________
He hates every last fucking thing about being in the hospital.
The “food.” The fact that it’s never dark. The constant personal space invasion. The smell (alcohol, betadine, and an army of cleaning products that will never win the war against whatever contaminant lurks underneath). The relentless noise -- machines, the PA system, carts squeaking by in the hallway, chattering medical personnel everywhere he turns.
The hovering.
Kim, Renee, and Chloe -- one of them in orbit at all times. Sleeping in the chair, flipping through a magazine, telling him to shove it when he begs them to sneak in beer-battered fries, chicken tikka masala, or at least a goddamn milkshake, rearranging his pillow for the fifty-second time because he’s not coordinated enough yet to do it himself.
Reading to him at 2 a.m. when he can’t sleep.
Okay, that part he doesn’t hate.
At all.
His vocal cords remain unpredictable, working when he doesn’t expect them to and failing when he’s confident they won’t.
“Hey,” he croaks one afternoon, when Kim’s sitting cross-legged in the chair beside his bed, pretending to do a crossword but looking vacant, bored out of her mind. “Will you tell me the one about the pink-haired superhero zebra from Mars?”
Love and joy do a wild tango in his chest as he watches her expression change. Her eyes go glisteny, but she bursts out laughing, her entire face a smile. “You remember that?”
He nods.
That smile is the only the only thing he wanted.
Kim drops the crossword on the table and scoots forward, closer to the bed rail that reminds him of China when he wakes up momentarily disoriented. She lifts his hand into hers and holds it to her cheek, warm strong squeeze.
“Wasn’t the sidekick a raccoon?” he rasps.
“Yeah. Streak. You named him that because he could run so fast he blurred.” Her fingers are still clutching his palm.
His eyes pick that moment to do the thing where they close without his permission.
As he starts to drift, he thinks, I remember everything.
Because it’s true.
OMG, it's snowing. I can't even cope with my flaily joy.
xbedhead. Blame her and kcountess, who wrote fic that got me all Jack/Kim nutty. Blame the squash on the fact that I'm a mom.In person, Santa looks . . . a lot bigger (and a little more scary) than he does when she watches Rudolph on TV or when Daddy reads The Night Before Christmas before she goes to sleep.
Kim digs her fingernails under the collar of the new red velvet dress she picked out last week, scratching her neck where the lace rubs. The shiny black patent leather shoes with their sparkly silver buckles don’t feel as comfortable as they did in the store.
“And what do YOU want for Christmas, young man?” Santa’s voice echoes, booming toward the boy at the front of the line.
Nobody mentioned that Santa was so loud either.
She edges closer to her dad, her face pressed against the soft cotton of his jeans.
“You okay, sweetheart? We can go home if you want.”
“But-” She’s undecided. “I want to get a Cinnabon!”
He laughs. “I’ll buy you a Cinnabon whether you talk to Santa or not. You want to leave?”
She nods, hoping he’s not disappointed. “Maybe I’ll talk to him next year.”
“Okay. Let’s go.” His hand is so big that she only takes his first finger, but she clutches it (holding tight) all the way to the food court, where she watches the red, green, and white lights reflect off the high ceiling while her dad orders cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate.
_________________________
She’s been throwing up all night, latest victim of the stomach bug that’s leveled her third grade classroom like a viral tsunami.
He snaps out of his half-doze (guest-room quilt tossed on Kim’s floor when he took over for Teri sometime around three) to the sound of snuffling.
Quiet, stifled sobs.
The room sways a touch when he stands up, but he navigates the two steps to her bed and sits down, shoving aside the stuffed dolphin he’ll have to toss in the washer in the morning. “Why are you crying, sweetie?” Her shiny face is pale in the four-watt glow of her ‘My Little Pony’ night light.
“I’m sorry.” Her hitched whisper is so small. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“Don’t worry about it. Tell me what’s wrong.”
A tear dribbles off the side of her face into her sweaty hair. “I’m just so thirsty. How much longer?”
Teri’s instructions repeat themselves in his head. Tiny sips every fifteen minutes. Any more and she’ll just throw it up again.
He glances at the clock on Kim’s desk. “Eight minutes.”
Another hiccuping sob. “That’s so long.”
He scoots closer, pushing the comforter away to make room for his body on her twin bed. “It’s not. I promise. I’ll wait with you. You want a story?”
She shakes her head. “I’m too tired.”
“Okay.” He reaches for her hand; it’s clammy and pint-sized inside his. “You’re sure you don’t wanna hear the one about the pink-haired superhero zebra from Mars?”
“Can it be eight minutes?”
“You’re down to seven now."
She tightens her fingers around his pinkie and almost smiles. His shoulders relax.
“Okay. Go!”
_________________________
When she jams her key into the deadbolt the Friday night of the 8th grade Halloween dance, she doesn’t even expect him to be there. He’s been gone for three days, another “assignment,” another whispered fight with her mom when they both thought she was doing her algebra homework.
She curses under her breath when her rain-soaked hands slip and the key won’t turn. Before she can try again, the door opens. Her dad’s standing there, backlit by the entryway lights.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
Because clearly, what she needs after a night like this (a night when she spilled fruit punch on her dress ten minutes after the music started, a night when the guy who asked her to the dance wound up making out under the bleachers with her now former best friend) is to be interrogated by her father.
He makes a puzzled face. “Hi. Your mom said Brad was bringing you home at eleven.” His eyes flick to the clock. “It’s not even eight thirty.”
“I took the bus,” she mumbles, brushing past him as she shrugs out of her raincoat. Her brain spins, frantic search for the quickest way to the solitary cocoon of her bedroom.
“Are you okay? What happened to Brad?” Apparently he can’t help the obnoxious emphasis he places on the name, not that she has any interest in defending that asshat at the moment.
“I’m fine. I just wanna change my clothes.” She walks down the hallway, waiting with each squishy step to hear his voice calling her back.
He doesn’t.
She closes the door behind her and listens, expecting footsteps in the hall. All she hears is the squeak of the recliner.
Huh.
He’s surprised the shit out of her.
Half an hour later, when she’s wearing her favorite fuzzy black sweats, cuddled up in the beanbag with her tattered copy of A Ring of Endless Light, she hears a faint tap on the door.
“Yeah?”
He opens it only a little, resting his shoulder on the doorframe. “I made too much popcorn. How about some chess?”
The scent of butter and salt drifts from the kitchen. She puts down the book. “One game. I’m tired.”
“Check,” he says, after over an hour of virtual silence. Any other dad would have made irritating small talk. Any other dad would have let her win.
As she’s scrutinizing the board, trying to decide if there’s any way out of this, his hand closes over hers, a brief tight squeeze.
“The next dance’ll be better. I swear.” She would respond, but the lump in her throat has multiplied by a factor of ten in the last three seconds. He pretends not to notice. “I’m gonna grab a beer. You want another Coke?”
She nods.
He walks to the fridge, rummaging and clinking bottles much longer than necessary while she swallows past the ache.
_________________________
Weddings are, by definition, supposed to be insane drama-filled affairs replete with last-minute catering disasters and family dysfunction.
When it’s T-minus fifteen minutes and there isn’t so much as an orchid out of place, she can’t help wondering if some horrifying surprise awaits her in the main part of the church.
By some miracle, she has these last few minutes alone. She listens to the floaty faraway piano music drifting through the door Julianne left ajar when she departed in an explosion of leftover hairpins and sculpting spray -- air kiss to keep from smudging Kim’s makeup and a sad, knowing smile. Why don’t you take five and be by yourself? I’ve got everything under control.
It’s Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D.’
Her mom loved this song.
Kim studies herself in the full-length mirror -- the smooth satin of her ivory dress, deep plum lipstick Julianne insisted was perfect, careful curls that frame her face while the rest is swept up in a pearl ornament that belonged to her grandmother.
Objectively, she’s beautiful. She knows this.
But what she wants, with a bright aching ferocity that explodes in her chest and courses through her body until she can feel it pulsing in her fingertips, is for her mom and dad to be there to tell her so.
She shuts her eyes and touches the thin skin on the inside of her left arm, empty cold space where her dad’s hand is supposed to be.
She holds her fingers there until they’re warmer.
She doesn’t pray, exactly.
But she does keep her eyes closed, hold her breath, and whisper inside her mind:
I love you.
I miss you.
I understand now.
I’m sorry.
_________________________
When all the standard prescription distractions (Sudoku, crosswords, books, TV) stop working, she plays counting games to divert her thoughts.
How many tiles in the ceiling? 48.
How many more swallows before the amazing (because the ‘hospital coffee sucks’ thing is a cliché for a reason) Starbucks triple grande mocha with whipped cream Renee brought her is gone? 9.
How many horizontal threads are on the cuff of her corduroy jacket? 104.
How many times before midnight will her dad show any sign of waking up? 0.
The nurses who shuffle shifts around the clock inevitably ask her, Don’t you want to get out for a while? We have your cell. You’ll know the second there’s any change.
But Renee and Chloe are the only people she’ll allow to take over, and even then she’s unsettled every second she’s gone, wondering if she’ll miss an eyelid flutter or a hand squeeze.
In her bad moments (usually in the pre-dawn hours when everything is quiet and dark and the only sounds are the swish of night shift Crocs in the hallway and the hum of all the damn machines hooked up to her dad), she hates that she had to become a parent herself before she could grow the hell up enough to understand his decisions.
What she says to the nurses is, “I’m fine. I’ll rest later.”
What she thinks is, He’s spent his whole life doing this for me, even when I didn’t know it. Now it’s my turn to be the one who’s awake.
So she takes his motionless, freezing hand and presses it between both of hers, rubbing to warm his chilled skin.
I’m not going anywhere this time, Daddy.
_________________________
He hates every last fucking thing about being in the hospital.
The “food.” The fact that it’s never dark. The constant personal space invasion. The smell (alcohol, betadine, and an army of cleaning products that will never win the war against whatever contaminant lurks underneath). The relentless noise -- machines, the PA system, carts squeaking by in the hallway, chattering medical personnel everywhere he turns.
The hovering.
Kim, Renee, and Chloe -- one of them in orbit at all times. Sleeping in the chair, flipping through a magazine, telling him to shove it when he begs them to sneak in beer-battered fries, chicken tikka masala, or at least a goddamn milkshake, rearranging his pillow for the fifty-second time because he’s not coordinated enough yet to do it himself.
Reading to him at 2 a.m. when he can’t sleep.
Okay, that part he doesn’t hate.
At all.
His vocal cords remain unpredictable, working when he doesn’t expect them to and failing when he’s confident they won’t.
“Hey,” he croaks one afternoon, when Kim’s sitting cross-legged in the chair beside his bed, pretending to do a crossword but looking vacant, bored out of her mind. “Will you tell me the one about the pink-haired superhero zebra from Mars?”
Love and joy do a wild tango in his chest as he watches her expression change. Her eyes go glisteny, but she bursts out laughing, her entire face a smile. “You remember that?”
He nods.
That smile is the only the only thing he wanted.
Kim drops the crossword on the table and scoots forward, closer to the bed rail that reminds him of China when he wakes up momentarily disoriented. She lifts his hand into hers and holds it to her cheek, warm strong squeeze.
“Wasn’t the sidekick a raccoon?” he rasps.
“Yeah. Streak. You named him that because he could run so fast he blurred.” Her fingers are still clutching his palm.
His eyes pick that moment to do the thing where they close without his permission.
As he starts to drift, he thinks, I remember everything.
Because it’s true.
OMG, it's snowing. I can't even cope with my flaily joy.
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no subject
Date: 2011-10-27 06:33 pm (UTC)I am (sadly) clicking back to mine yet MORE information about the latest FDA update regarding the guidelines for administering methamphetamine in a controlled research environment, so I only have time to say this:
Any other dad would have let her win.
You have reduced me to wibbles and a watery half-smile. My dad was totally that dad, a former Marine who knew his seven-year-old would only really learn how to best her checker opponents if her father never let her win. Thousands of ass-kickings later, I am now your worst checker-playing nightmare. ;D
Swear to howdy I'll have actualfax feedback for you once I'm home tonight. Because. Augh. This. This, this, this, this, this. <333
no subject
Date: 2011-10-27 06:41 pm (UTC)I guess you're partially to blame for this, right? Because you gave Karen the prompt that led to this squash festival? (I mean on my part, not hers!)
Woah now. FDA statement on what? Speak English, ffs;) Okay wait no really. Are you allowed to administer methamphetamine in a controlled research environment? Hmm.
You have reduced me to wibbles and a watery half-smile.
Augh, well that's what happens to me any time Jack and Kim even get near the same room, so if I got even close, color me all ten thousand shades of thrilled. God, my wibble. Every now and then I wanna watch the extended version of the video he left her in S8 and then I just can't.
Ahem. Good story. I'm so shutting up. <333
no subject
Date: 2011-10-27 06:43 pm (UTC)And if my writing fic is what makes you do this, I have to write more fic IF ONLY SO YOU WILL.
no subject
Date: 2011-10-27 06:47 pm (UTC)But dude, dear sweet and fluffy Jesus write more! I need ALL THE FIC. Oh yes.
I'm glad you liked!
no subject
Date: 2011-10-27 07:55 pm (UTC)(AND COMMENT REDUX AS I HADN'T MEANT TO PUSH SEND YET.)
GAAAAAAAAAAAAH.
This is so good. So good. I think for me, the 8th grade dance is my favorite part, but they're all so damn achy in that good rip-your-heart-out-way I can't stand it.
no subject
Date: 2011-10-27 08:17 pm (UTC)Thank you! I'm glad you um . . . well. Huh. Enjoyed?
no subject
Date: 2011-10-27 08:39 pm (UTC)ALSO.
SNOW.
DAMMIT I WANT SNOW.
no subject
Date: 2011-10-27 08:54 pm (UTC)ALSO, MY BACKYARD!
no subject
Date: 2011-10-27 09:01 pm (UTC)This is my face.
no subject
Date: 2011-10-27 09:23 pm (UTC)Uh, you are not here because you are there?
Also, totally comments coming to your epic adorable comment, but I have C and Z tonight so gah. ILU.
no subject
Date: 2011-10-27 09:12 pm (UTC)(Though we DO have fall color out there...I guess that's a precursor.)
no subject
Date: 2011-10-27 09:22 pm (UTC)I do love fall color. And here fall lasts, no lie, approximately a week. So I guess that was last week? LOL.
Your neighborhood is so cute!
WHUT? You rockstar!
Date: 2011-10-27 08:46 pm (UTC)1) I love the image you set up here. Kim in line, a little bit afraid, hiding behind her dad who she doesn’t really know can be the scariest man in the world, ten thousand times scarier than Santa. Her tiny tottness, the red velvet dress and the itchy collar (how very little KID of her to be thinking all these things), the fact that her shoes felt more comfortable in the store. (also very little kid who let the excitement of the awesome shiny shoes overcome all else.) I just have this adorable blond child in my head, a wee thing, the way she’s squeezing Jack’s finger. You have little kid headspace so perfect and I’m glad you decided to give it a shot. Also, adorable that she just wants a cinnabon, and really is having second thoughts about this seeing Santa thing. I’m dying of adorable here. My heart is melting.
2) This might be my favorite. I don’t know if it’s because of the way he let’s Teri be the expert, even in his headspace, the way Kim is just thirsty, the way he’s not even a little bit upset with her but just wants to make her feel better and he can’t. But he offers to tell her a story and ACK. I can just picture him in her little twin bed, making up a story. Also love the references to him thinking how little her voice is. (paralleled with her in the prior one, thinking how big HE is)
3) Ahahaha. HE IS SO GREAT. My favorite part of this is how you SO have down the new teenager attitude and she took a bus and poor baby. But also, Jack just…let’s her be for a bit. Makes her popcorn, doesn’t ask. Doesn’t treat her any differently today by letting her win or something. IT IS SO GODDAMN PERFECT. And when she breaks because he brings it up (just briefly) he stays in the kitchen extra long to let her gain her composure. It’s like… God. He just CARES about how she feels and how she wants to deal with it, even though you know it’s tearing him up to not know what happened and not try to consol her and stuff. And that’s so RARE. Like… giving your kid the respect and ownership of handling their own emotions how they wish to. I just… I love Jack here. Again and the teenage attitude just pokes through.
4) Okay like. This one made me cry. And you KNOW how rare that is. But when I reread it at home (like I was gonna cry in front of a bunch of students at school today!) it totally got me BUT GOOD. I really want her mom and dad to be there to tell her that, too. And the tiny little details about the hair and makeup and air-kisses Julianne is giving her so she won’t mess anything up, and the minute alone, and the Pachelbel and how she says a sorta prayer (THAT was what did me in, FYI) and thinks about how she understands. ACK. Too perfect.
5) The key to this one is in all the details and what they manage to convey. The corduroy jacket, the Starbucks, the way she’s so clearly agitated and worried and scared but you show that with these details, the way she can’t wait until he wakes up, is hoping he will, doesn’t trust just anyone to be by his side and GAH. How cold his hand is when she touches it (Augh), and most IMPORTANTLY, how this fic just comes full circle with the idea that like, she’s a parent now and she never realized all that he did for her, when she wasn’t even thinking about it that way at all. It makes my heart kinda expand and deflate with ‘gah’s and ‘finally’s and ‘meh life’s
6) Love and joy do a wild tango in his chest as he watches her expression change. Her eyes go glisteny, but she bursts out laughing, her entire face a smile. “You remember that?” -- DUDE. Dude. I hadn’t read this. I opened up the google doc and it was there! And I just…hadn’t seen it? I thought I had read it all, wasn’t expecting to find it, so I must have stopped scrolling! ANYWAY, that’s so weird. Because this one is my favorite. Streak, the sidekick raccoon, how he remembers everything, how delighted he is that SHE remembers and she him and just a;lsdkfjasdlfas and how he hates everything except Renee and Kim and Chloe telling him to shove it about the food requests and reading to him and adjusting his motherfucking pillow.
THIS IS AMAZING. The end. Keep being awesome. My heart
Re: WHUT? You rockstar!
Date: 2011-10-28 01:11 am (UTC)2. Aw, I just want him to tell her tiny self stories! My dad used to tell me stories all the time. I bet Jack told awesome stories, his English major self. I'm glad I didn't outcheese you though. I mean I'm really pulling out all the tropes here . . .
3. HE IS SO GREAT. I just always want to write him 1/10 as great as he is. Hee, it's slightly easier for me to access teenager than like, four-year-old (this doesn't shock you, does it? :P). Sometime I really need to watch S1 so I can see Jack being a dad when she is a teenager, but augh just no can't watch won't watch (a variation on what K would say).
4. Geez, I didn't mean to make everybody cry! I really did not. I'm telling you nobody should ever let me write Jack and Kim because augh, I go all mom and then that comes spilling out and it's all bad badness. Meh.
5. This one was the toughest to write, because idek. As I said, it feels telly not showy, but I'm glad you think it works. I never stop being glad that we met Kim in S7 you know? Because we got to see her as a totally cool grownup first before we had to go back and deal with her 'tude. I think it's just so clear in S7 (and 8, ugh) that having her own family is what made her forgive him.
6. Hee, I think Jack would be the worst patient ever (as Kay wrote in AotF, and she was right). Streak, the sidekick raccoon, heck yeah!
I'm not awesome. But your comments are beyond awesome. Thank you bb. I really should write Christmasfic, right? But these things keep writing themselves in the damn shower, woe!
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Date: 2011-10-27 09:01 pm (UTC)Great job as always. You are prolific.
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Date: 2011-10-27 09:24 pm (UTC)You and your hospital fic! But yeah somehow I have to write about Kim and Jack in the hospital because dammit, I really wanted to see that on the show.
Is prolific the word? Annoying? Obsessed? ;) But seriously, thank you. I'm trying to do all the prompts if I can before I hit the rest of the Christmas fic. It's just what I do with my brain when I'm not working or whatever.
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Date: 2011-10-27 09:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-27 10:11 pm (UTC)And thank you. I love you, too. ♥
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Date: 2011-10-27 11:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-27 11:58 pm (UTC)Well as much as I would love to flail over that and wish she'd run, in truth people are so backwards that they'd immediately decide they hated her again for all the reasons that made them vote Obama over her in the first place.
NONETHELESS, I WILL ALWAYS BE A HILLARY GIRL, NOW AND FOREVER, WORLD WITHOUT END.
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Date: 2011-10-28 12:05 am (UTC)And sadly, you're probably right. Woe.
NONETHELESS, I WILL ALWAYS BE A HILLARY GIRL, NOW AND FOREVER, WORLD WITHOUT END.
Can I get an AMEN! :)
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Date: 2011-10-28 12:28 am (UTC)Oh, yes. Yikes I love her.
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Date: 2011-10-28 10:34 am (UTC)I remember everything.
I love that! You're amazing with the words...and you know, life and stuff.
Sorry, I'm not really coherent right now. Ill come back when I canapé more sense.
In the meantime, 5 times Jack and Renee danced. Go. Haha
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Date: 2011-10-28 11:25 am (UTC)In any case, thank you! And geez dude. I still have like 500 prompts for Jack and Renee! LOLOLOLOL. I'm not good like A. I can't just toss them off in comments in five minutes. Maybe she'll read this and do it! But more Jack and Renee coming. Just gotta see which one pops into my brain:)
YOU should write that one. *nodnodnod*
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Date: 2011-11-04 07:19 pm (UTC)I love that Kim is so undecided and she doesn't want to disappoint him, but damn - Santa is effing scary to a little kid, I'm sure. I can just see him holding her hand, smiling down at her. *is warm and fuzzy inside*
Pink haired superhero zebra from Mars, eh? I gotta hand it to him - he came up with that one quick. I suppose you have to be on your toes with kids.
And her crying after the dance, him not pushing her, their chess game - augh. You've got me in wibble-mode here. The time he couldn't was exactly what I imagined, too. In my head, it was definitely the wedding he couldn't be at. And now I have all sorts of ideas in my head for Stephen doubting his place in the family/being intimidated by having Jack as a father. I just may have to write that.
Her by his bedside at the hospital, of course. Oh, how I wish we'd gotten some deleted scenes with that, or a bridge scene like how they set up Days 4, 5 and 6.
Kim drops the crossword on the table and scoots forward, closer to the bed rail that reminds him of China when he wakes up momentarily disoriented. She lifts his hand into hers and holds it to her cheek, warm strong squeeze.
I love this paragraph so much. I can just see it all. I don't know why this one in particular stands out, but I've loved it both times I've read through these.
And reprise by the zebra, FTW!
I love so much that it wasn't in order, I'm glad that the time he couldn't comes sort of in the middle. For whatever reason, it's nicer that way. :) Thank you so much!
(off to read the OTHER fic of yours that's been in my life the past few weeks, waiting patiently for my loving feedback)
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Date: 2011-11-07 01:05 pm (UTC)I actually can't take 100% of the credit for the pink-haired superhero zebra from Mars. M spent what was probably over a year telling N these epic stories about The Boy With Green Hair. Every night. I have no idea how he kept coming up with new material, but he did.
And now I have all sorts of ideas in my head for Stephen doubting his place in the family/being intimidated by having Jack as a father. I just may have to write that.
Uh, co-sign!!! I would love it so hard if you would write that. There really is not near enough fic for 24 period, but especially not about Jack and Kim once Kim's an adult human being.
My brain has so much wank about post S7 Jack and Kim. Seriously. Oy. Oh, and yeah I know usually the "other one" comes at the end, but when I started thinking about how this made sense, having it in the middle worked better. I'm glad you think so, too!
Oh goodness, are you talking about the Epic Endless Fic of Doom? Hee. Yeah. As much as in a way I miss it, I'm glad that what's in my life right now are Christmas ficlets.
Thanks for your so lovely comments, and have a totally great week!
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Date: 2011-11-07 02:31 pm (UTC)I'm not much of a Christmas celebrator (I'm not for the whole commercial aspect of it...yet, I continue to buy gifts and get sucked in by the social pressures - hypocrisy, FTW! *G*), and the last two years have been kind of weird around Christmas so I just typically brush past it. THIS year, though, I'll be living in the house and hosting a bunch of volunteers, so I wanna make it nice. I'm downloading a bunch of Christmas music, and trying to find "It's a Wonderful Life" "A Christmas Story" and "Home Alone" somewhere on the internet (I'm sure iTunes'll have it). I've located local popcorn and have Christmas lights. We're gonna do it up big!
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Date: 2011-11-07 03:28 pm (UTC)However, that is so cool that you already have all sorts of Christmasy plans! I approve 100%, especially of your movie choices. In random Christmas thoughts, I should say that one of my favorite Christmas movies ever is The Ref, which probably not a lot of people consider a Christmas movie. But it really really is! A touch more wrong than It's a Wonderful Life of course, but still.