Winter work/ one
The little AU: Winter Work: one
slashfairy
G
~~
Karl comes into the house excited, happy. "'ve spoken with Nat. Might get to have him. Time out of school right now, y'know. Reckon he'll enjoy it here."
He means, of course, Hunter, his son who is- 5? now, and growing. In another life, in Sliding Doors, Karl'd be with Nat and Hunter, maybe another child or two, but he's not, he's here in the house at the end of the bluff road, talking to Viggo about his son.
Viggo's just finished a thank you note for Sonia and Colin for the time spent in Kent with their son. He's been turning over the threads of paternity, maternity, family, kinship, fatherhood, sons, and connections in his hands as the words come out his pen to paper, but he's feeling he's woven nothing, just pulled the threads out of different scraps of whole cloth and has them here un-needled as yet. He looks up at Karl's beaming face, the round cheeks and plush lips glowing with life, bright hazel eyes warm with New Zealand summer sunshine. "That's great, love, that's super," he says, rising from his desk, coming round the old oak library table-cum-rolltop and taking a grinning Karl in his arms. "I'm so happy for you. He'll stay here, of course." He kisses Karl first gently then deeply, slowly, absorbing the enormity of it all: a little boy, in their big-boy-less house-hold, coming from the opposite seasons, to see his Dad whom he's not seen in two, three years... and all for love, all for love.
Orlando leans against the wall on the other side of the door and wonders. He remembers being half-orphaned once, when his father died, Harry, and again when he found out Harry wasn't his father, but Colin was- only, of course, it'd been for Harry, all that, so he was indeed Orlando's father without question, and they all knew it... but when Colin dies, as he must, will Orlando be thrice fatherless, or only twice? Or not at all... he's gotten used to Harry being in his head, in his heart, will he be twice-fathered internally, then? Whatever it will mean in time, right now there's a little boy coming to stay who will have a father, two uncles, and a "'most-brother" in Henry; Orli smiles to himself imagining running on the beach with Hunter, flying kites, chasing waves, tumbling with the dogs, writing letters home to their mothers.
Henry, back East, hears the apology in his dad's voice. "Dad, Dad. It's ok. I'm fine back here with Bedstemoder nearby and all. You enjoy Hunter when he comes. Let him call me, and I'll send him some pictures from here on the email. I love you too, Dad. Yes, I will. All registered. Yes. Hi to Karl and Orli, too will you? Love you, Dad. G'night." Henry leans against the counter in the small apartment kitchen and, not for the first time, thinks how fortunate he's been in his strange and tumbled upbringing. There're things he's not good at: being cooped up, for one, being regimented, for another, and he knows at some point he'll have to discipline himself to learn those skills in case he needs them, but for now the fact that he's learned how to learn, that he's able to, as Adler suggests, read for structure, interpretation, and criticism; he's not unhappy about being off at uni because it's an adventure, and he's good at those. But he misses home, misses the usual figure-of-eight between Dad and Mom which to him, of course, feels as solid and consistent as any child's life. He's learned to read his life in the same way he's learned to read his books: the only thing that saw him through taking Orli and Karl as family. He has a sudden image of Hunter coming to the house on the bluff road expecting to have his Dad to himself; I'll write Dad a note about it, I think, he says while making a sticky to himself on his iBook desktop. See if he can help Hunter learn to read the story of his life the way he did me.
In New Zealand, Hunter frets that school hols won't be long enough, but only for a moment. He's so young, and so easy to please- A story before bed, and he's ready to dream his way to Daddy.
two
~~
slashfairy
G
~~
Karl comes into the house excited, happy. "'ve spoken with Nat. Might get to have him. Time out of school right now, y'know. Reckon he'll enjoy it here."
He means, of course, Hunter, his son who is- 5? now, and growing. In another life, in Sliding Doors, Karl'd be with Nat and Hunter, maybe another child or two, but he's not, he's here in the house at the end of the bluff road, talking to Viggo about his son.
Viggo's just finished a thank you note for Sonia and Colin for the time spent in Kent with their son. He's been turning over the threads of paternity, maternity, family, kinship, fatherhood, sons, and connections in his hands as the words come out his pen to paper, but he's feeling he's woven nothing, just pulled the threads out of different scraps of whole cloth and has them here un-needled as yet. He looks up at Karl's beaming face, the round cheeks and plush lips glowing with life, bright hazel eyes warm with New Zealand summer sunshine. "That's great, love, that's super," he says, rising from his desk, coming round the old oak library table-cum-rolltop and taking a grinning Karl in his arms. "I'm so happy for you. He'll stay here, of course." He kisses Karl first gently then deeply, slowly, absorbing the enormity of it all: a little boy, in their big-boy-less house-hold, coming from the opposite seasons, to see his Dad whom he's not seen in two, three years... and all for love, all for love.
Orlando leans against the wall on the other side of the door and wonders. He remembers being half-orphaned once, when his father died, Harry, and again when he found out Harry wasn't his father, but Colin was- only, of course, it'd been for Harry, all that, so he was indeed Orlando's father without question, and they all knew it... but when Colin dies, as he must, will Orlando be thrice fatherless, or only twice? Or not at all... he's gotten used to Harry being in his head, in his heart, will he be twice-fathered internally, then? Whatever it will mean in time, right now there's a little boy coming to stay who will have a father, two uncles, and a "'most-brother" in Henry; Orli smiles to himself imagining running on the beach with Hunter, flying kites, chasing waves, tumbling with the dogs, writing letters home to their mothers.
Henry, back East, hears the apology in his dad's voice. "Dad, Dad. It's ok. I'm fine back here with Bedstemoder nearby and all. You enjoy Hunter when he comes. Let him call me, and I'll send him some pictures from here on the email. I love you too, Dad. Yes, I will. All registered. Yes. Hi to Karl and Orli, too will you? Love you, Dad. G'night." Henry leans against the counter in the small apartment kitchen and, not for the first time, thinks how fortunate he's been in his strange and tumbled upbringing. There're things he's not good at: being cooped up, for one, being regimented, for another, and he knows at some point he'll have to discipline himself to learn those skills in case he needs them, but for now the fact that he's learned how to learn, that he's able to, as Adler suggests, read for structure, interpretation, and criticism; he's not unhappy about being off at uni because it's an adventure, and he's good at those. But he misses home, misses the usual figure-of-eight between Dad and Mom which to him, of course, feels as solid and consistent as any child's life. He's learned to read his life in the same way he's learned to read his books: the only thing that saw him through taking Orli and Karl as family. He has a sudden image of Hunter coming to the house on the bluff road expecting to have his Dad to himself; I'll write Dad a note about it, I think, he says while making a sticky to himself on his iBook desktop. See if he can help Hunter learn to read the story of his life the way he did me.
In New Zealand, Hunter frets that school hols won't be long enough, but only for a moment. He's so young, and so easy to please- A story before bed, and he's ready to dream his way to Daddy.
two
~~