FIC: Theme 093 - Vanilla [Leo Farrin/Elizabeth Jeanette] No Fandom/Original Series
Title: French Vanilla
Author: forever_flame
Pairing: Leo Farrin/Elizabeth Jeanette
Fandom: None [original fiction]
Theme: 093 - Vanilla
Rating: G
Claimer: I own it. I own it all. Bwahaha!
Elizabeth tasted like vanilla.
It was all he could remember anymore. His gorgeous little Liza, all giggles and hair made of midnight, with her skin like milk coffee, and her lips like vanilla. But now her image was just a faded snapshot in a sea of memories, like something left in the sun until the colours faded away… But he can remember her taste. And the wedding dress, he hasn’t forgotten that-there’s no way he ever could. Yes, he remembers the dress, and the ceremony, and everything after that. He still visits the adoption agency in his mind on those dark and lonely nights, the faces of all their children emblazoned on his mind. He remembers the hospital, the miracle birth of their child, the baby boy who looked so like his mother it was uncanny. Those seven years of watching them all grow, hugs and laughter, the taste of vanilla…
He bought her a French perfume once, vanilla scented so she would smell like she tasted, and it had been expensive but she had loved it so much that it was worth it. It had come in such a tiny bottle, no more than twenty mills of spray, but she used it carefully, and never unless she had to.
Nights of tangled limbs and soft kisses and that taste and smell he would never ever ever forget drifted slowly to the surface of his mind, as he checked the mail each week. The little injuries on little knees, broken arms, dirty clothing, sticky skin floated up as well, along with cries of ‘I love you daddy' that rang in his ears and bought tears to his eyes. There was one every week. Just a letter from home. It used to be that all eight of them would contribute and sign it, and it used to smell faintly of that perfume, and it would make him cry for hours and curl up in his bed and wonder why he ever left… But that had stopped. The kids had grown up, grown to hate him, grown enough sense to stop caring lest they think it their fault. Now only one still wrote. Little Wolfgang the miracle child, the breathing replica of his mother, never stopped writing.
He held this week’s letter in his hand, and took a deep breath, carefully opening the envelope; he pulled out the folded slip of paper, and began reading.
The scent of vanilla floated through the air.
Author: forever_flame
Pairing: Leo Farrin/Elizabeth Jeanette
Fandom: None [original fiction]
Theme: 093 - Vanilla
Rating: G
Claimer: I own it. I own it all. Bwahaha!
Elizabeth tasted like vanilla.
It was all he could remember anymore. His gorgeous little Liza, all giggles and hair made of midnight, with her skin like milk coffee, and her lips like vanilla. But now her image was just a faded snapshot in a sea of memories, like something left in the sun until the colours faded away… But he can remember her taste. And the wedding dress, he hasn’t forgotten that-there’s no way he ever could. Yes, he remembers the dress, and the ceremony, and everything after that. He still visits the adoption agency in his mind on those dark and lonely nights, the faces of all their children emblazoned on his mind. He remembers the hospital, the miracle birth of their child, the baby boy who looked so like his mother it was uncanny. Those seven years of watching them all grow, hugs and laughter, the taste of vanilla…
He bought her a French perfume once, vanilla scented so she would smell like she tasted, and it had been expensive but she had loved it so much that it was worth it. It had come in such a tiny bottle, no more than twenty mills of spray, but she used it carefully, and never unless she had to.
Nights of tangled limbs and soft kisses and that taste and smell he would never ever ever forget drifted slowly to the surface of his mind, as he checked the mail each week. The little injuries on little knees, broken arms, dirty clothing, sticky skin floated up as well, along with cries of ‘I love you daddy' that rang in his ears and bought tears to his eyes. There was one every week. Just a letter from home. It used to be that all eight of them would contribute and sign it, and it used to smell faintly of that perfume, and it would make him cry for hours and curl up in his bed and wonder why he ever left… But that had stopped. The kids had grown up, grown to hate him, grown enough sense to stop caring lest they think it their fault. Now only one still wrote. Little Wolfgang the miracle child, the breathing replica of his mother, never stopped writing.
He held this week’s letter in his hand, and took a deep breath, carefully opening the envelope; he pulled out the folded slip of paper, and began reading.
The scent of vanilla floated through the air.