1stmacleod (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
1stmacleod) wrote2010-12-25 10:53 pm
1stmacleod) wrote2010-12-25 10:53 pm
Christmas morning
Connor sleeps sprawled, one foot hanging out from under the covers, recovering from a late-night indulgence of spiked eggnog. It's tradition.
The bedroom door creaks open, a quiet sound of protest that would normally wake him, but it goes unregarded. A figure lingers in the doorway cautiously, assessing him, and then creeps slowly into the room to stop a few feet away. There's another pause, another quiet moment of thought, and then the gentle tugging on Connor's arm begins.
"Dad? Dad?"
He groans, and tries to shake off the touch without opening his eyes.
"Dad? It's Christmas dad! Pleeeease?"
One grey eye opens, and blearily regards the boy. Dark-haired and dusky tan from the sun, John stands by the bed with his best pleading look. He grasps his father's arm again gently, but doesn't pull. The clock reads barely past six A.M.
"I could make you coffee!"
Connor pictures John on a stool at the kitchen counter, spilling coffee beans on the floor and trying to work the grinder. He groans again. "No. Just... half an hour more?"
John says nothing, sinking down to sit beside the bed. He watches his father with a sorrowful gaze, waiting. Connor can feel it through closed eyelids.
"...Has it been half an hour yet dad?"
Connor collects himself with a sound halfway between a groan and a chuckle, rubbing his eyes. Who can be annoyed at a child for being impatient on Christmas morning? He shakes his head a little, bemused, and looks to the side of the bed again.
John isn't there.
This isn't the house in Marrakesh, it's Kairos' home in the mountains in France, and there are no children here to badger him awake, or lead him grumbling in his bathrobe out to the tree, or tear the paper impatiently off boxes of toys.
The clock still reads barely past six A.M. and it's Christmas morning, but the house is quiet, and Connor is alone in his room. He stares blankly at the place beside his bed where John would be, until it's almost half an hour, a real half hour that even the ghost of John won't let him sleep in.
He gets up, after that, because there's no way he can sleep. Regina doesn't mind an early morning walk, and then he makes tea, instead of coffee, because he can do it without letting the kettle whistle or any other noises that might wake Kairos. Then he sits in the living room, looking at Christmas, and seeing other trees and other mornings. When he hears Kairos stirring he's quick to make coffee, and seeing her makes him smile. He's got a girlfriend who loves him, and he's gradually relaxing into a more idyllic life than he ever thought he could have again. Connor is deeply grateful, but he has moments of wistfulness all through the morning and the rest of the day.
Some part of him worries about just how damn much scotch people have given him for Christmas, and part of him worries even more that he'll be drinking a lot of it, tonight.
The bedroom door creaks open, a quiet sound of protest that would normally wake him, but it goes unregarded. A figure lingers in the doorway cautiously, assessing him, and then creeps slowly into the room to stop a few feet away. There's another pause, another quiet moment of thought, and then the gentle tugging on Connor's arm begins.
"Dad? Dad?"
He groans, and tries to shake off the touch without opening his eyes.
"Dad? It's Christmas dad! Pleeeease?"
One grey eye opens, and blearily regards the boy. Dark-haired and dusky tan from the sun, John stands by the bed with his best pleading look. He grasps his father's arm again gently, but doesn't pull. The clock reads barely past six A.M.
"I could make you coffee!"
Connor pictures John on a stool at the kitchen counter, spilling coffee beans on the floor and trying to work the grinder. He groans again. "No. Just... half an hour more?"
John says nothing, sinking down to sit beside the bed. He watches his father with a sorrowful gaze, waiting. Connor can feel it through closed eyelids.
"...Has it been half an hour yet dad?"
Connor collects himself with a sound halfway between a groan and a chuckle, rubbing his eyes. Who can be annoyed at a child for being impatient on Christmas morning? He shakes his head a little, bemused, and looks to the side of the bed again.
John isn't there.
This isn't the house in Marrakesh, it's Kairos' home in the mountains in France, and there are no children here to badger him awake, or lead him grumbling in his bathrobe out to the tree, or tear the paper impatiently off boxes of toys.
The clock still reads barely past six A.M. and it's Christmas morning, but the house is quiet, and Connor is alone in his room. He stares blankly at the place beside his bed where John would be, until it's almost half an hour, a real half hour that even the ghost of John won't let him sleep in.
He gets up, after that, because there's no way he can sleep. Regina doesn't mind an early morning walk, and then he makes tea, instead of coffee, because he can do it without letting the kettle whistle or any other noises that might wake Kairos. Then he sits in the living room, looking at Christmas, and seeing other trees and other mornings. When he hears Kairos stirring he's quick to make coffee, and seeing her makes him smile. He's got a girlfriend who loves him, and he's gradually relaxing into a more idyllic life than he ever thought he could have again. Connor is deeply grateful, but he has moments of wistfulness all through the morning and the rest of the day.
Some part of him worries about just how damn much scotch people have given him for Christmas, and part of him worries even more that he'll be drinking a lot of it, tonight.