Happy Birthday, Steff. RayV/Turnbull
I really hope this comes through okay... it's a rough and first draft, hastily scrabbled together, for your birthday. When I get around to posting it on AO3 I'll probably polish it up, because there will be loads of little errors. But just for you, happy birthday... a small thank you for all the pleasure I've gained from Arc to the Sky, as well as other weird and wonderful worlds that you and Erin have engendered. Thank you.
Cannoli
There was something about the first born. She loved all her children, marked all their birthdays, but there was something about him. Not that she loved the others less, but that he was the one, the single event which changed her most, and forever. With him she became a mother, for the first time, and the whole world changed on that single instant.
By the time the day itself dawned she’d been thinking of her Raymondo’s arrival in the world for weeks. His birthday... again. Every year it was such a surprise to her, such an astonishment, to think that her little, her eldest, her darling baby boy should be older. When he was a child it was all the little stages that got her. On his first birthday he was stepping and falling, and pulling himself up again on the furniture, grinning indomitably, such a cheeky face. On his second birthday he was already getting mouthy, telling everyone what he thought, even though nobody but her understood a word he was saying. On his third birthday he was sulking, because little Paulo was taking up all of her attention, and he climbed into the bed with them, first thing, and made a valiant attempt to revert to breastfeeding. Oh, it would embarrass him so much if she ever repeated that story... he’d bitten her, because he’d forgotten how to nurse, and then he’d cried because he hadn’t meant to hurt her. And she couldn’t stop laughing, even though he did have such needly little teeth.
His fourth birthday he’d eaten too much cake, and got sick. Angie, the new baby girl got sick as well. She was always throwing up. It was a ‘puke party’ he declared, when all the mess was finally cleaned up.
His fifth birthday he’d been on his new bike, wobbling, and falling, and wobbling and falling, and getting up again, with that same grin from his first birthday. Nothing’s going to defeat me, I’ll just keep getting up again.
His sixth birthday little Frannie kept crying, and he was cross because he hadn’t been able to sleep. Then one of the friends who came over teased his little brother and made him cry. He’d flown into his first real rage at the boy, and knocked him to the floor. And then he’d let Paulo blow out the candles, like it was his birthday instead, and everyone made a wish, even the boy he’d knocked over, who said sorry like he meant it.
His seventh birthday his Pop came home angry, and the party came to an unexpected stop.
After that the neighbourhood kids didn’t come round so much anymore, and birthday parties became family events. Still noisy and fun, but private.
His tenth birthday he was in accident and emergency with a broken collar bone. “I fell off my bike,” he told the doctor.
In his teens the birthdays seemed less important to him. He’d go out with his friends, doing whatever boys did in this country. Bowling, or going to the pictures. Or chasing girls. She wasn’t stupid. She would mark the occasion, as always, by having a mass said for him. She’d send the money back to her parish church in Italy, so that he wouldn’t realise what she was doing. It would never do to embarrass her little boy. Her little man... he was a man now, and yet when he smiled she still saw that grinning baby.
Oh, it hurt her heart.
And then, as a man, the years slid by, more and more rapidly, like beads beneath her fingers, and before she knew it, she was old, and he... well, he was grown. Divorced, unhappy. And she prayed, prayed for him to find some comfort.
For the first time in forever he took a friend home for dinner, that lovely Canadian, and she’d thought, “oh, perhaps a decent husband for Frannie this time.” But then Raymondo had gone under cover on that dreadful job of his, and her heart broke every night as she prayed for his safe return. And he did return, but broken himself, somehow. He came back shot, for the second time, and his friend, his good friend, left, went back to Canada, and his second marriage failed, and before she knew it her boy had returned to the police force, as though he had a death wish.
Dear Lord, don’t let him be shot a third time. Please Lord, preserve my child.
And then, of course, his new friend. That sweet young goofy man. She had laughed at the time. “Raymondo likes Mounties,” and Frannie had laughed with her, giggling,and nudging her in the ribs while they whispered in the kitchen.
Oh Lord, she had prayed for him to be happy. To find some comfort. But for him to find comfort there...? That she could never have expected. Not if she had lived a million years would she ever have expected.
She remembered sitting in a bare classroom, with pictures of saints on the walls, one blackboard, and one tall pillar of black, the parish priest, as he taught them their catechism, and more. All the sins, the sins of the flesh, the venal sins, the mortal sins, the sins which cry out to heaven for vengeance. “Homosexuality is one of the four sins which cry out to heaven for vengeance.” At the time she just accepted it, because she had no idea what homosexuality was, and was sure that she wasn’t going to to commit it. When she did find out what it was she pulled a face, and thought, “well, there can’t be many people who do that.” And she put it out of her mind. Even in America, it was a foreign sin, a strange something that other people did. Not her family. And never, never, would she have thought that gently smiling Canadian, that tall young gracious man, with his timid generosity, his so obviously kind heart, could be one of them. Never, not ever, could she have thought her Raymondo, who used to sneak out and kiss girls, could be one of them.
Oh... and she couldn’t even blame Turnbull. She couldn’t be angry with him... because he was such a beautiful young man. If he had turned toward Francesca, she would have welcomed him into her family. But he chose Raymondo. And Raymondo chose him. Impossible.
No, no... she must be missing something. Her little boy would always be her little boy, no matter what, and she didn’t care what a priest said... how could he be committing a sin which cried out to heaven? Wasn’t there enough in the world that cried out to heaven? And she knew God heard each cry, but why would He hear a cry against her Raymondo? Her first born...
And she thinks about it, and thinks about it, in the weeks coming up to his birthday, and that morning, when the house is empty, she starts to bake. She doesn’t know if they’ll be having a party, or if it will just be the two of them, so she makes cannolis instead of a full cake. He always liked cannoli. At first she means to just drop it off with the building supervisor, but she keeps putting it off. In the end, it’s seven in the evening, and she starts to worry that she’ll miss his birthday completely, and she couldn’t stand that. Even when he was undercover she’d always made time for him. Always marked the occasion somehow.
So, here she is, and she’s about to leave the cake downstairs to be delivered, but it’s like there’s a hook on her heart, and it’s tugging her upward, just to see that he's okay. The elevator isn’t working, so she makes her way up the stairs, ignoring her aching ankles. And now she’s standing outside his... outside ‘their’ door.
Knock, she tells herself. She stares at the wood, and wonders why this is so difficult. It shouldn’t be difficult. It’s her son, after all, he’s with someone he loves, a good someone...
She knocks, and the door opens, not to Raymondo, but to Renfield. He’s barefoot, in jeans, t-shirt, and an apron. The apartment is fragrant with oregano, basil, tomatoes, onions and garlic. She smiles. Before she has time to feel awkward the words pop out. “You’re cooking Italian?”
“Yes,” the young man says, sounding flustered, “one of your recipes actually...”
“Next time, give me a ring, I can come over if you need help.”
“Thank you, Mrs Vecchio.”
“Ma,” she says, and feels a lump in her throat. It was less hard to say than she’d thought.
“Ma,” he says, and blinks, shiny eyed. She hopes he won’t cry, because then she’ll have to hug him, and then she’ll start crying too. And it was Raymondo’s birthday. Not a day to cry.
“I didn’t know if you had guests or not, so I didn’t do a cake... I thought you could always save some of the cannoli for breakfast if you didn’t eat it all tonight.”
Renfield smiles, shyly. “He was talking about your cannoli just a few days ago. I’d love the recipe.”
“I’ll drop it off later,” she says, “I need to get back and cook for the rest of the family.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“Thank you,” she replies, and surprises herself by standing up on tiptoe, and hooking her hand behind the young man’s neck, and dragging him down so she can pop a kiss on his cheek. “If you ever hurt him, I’d kill you, but you never will hurt him, will you?”
“Never.”
“I know. Bambino.” She kisses him again, on the other cheek. “That one’s for Raymondo. Tell him happy birthday.” Then she turns, and starts walking down the corridor, wiping her eyes, grateful that Renfield can’t see her.
...
He’s just putting the finishing touches to dinner when Ray gets home from work.
“Hey, Rennie,” Ray manages to say, before he is engulfed in a hug. “You squeezed the stuffing out of me this morning," he laughs fondly, "don’t hug me to death yet, I’ve not had my present.”
Rennie knows that he’s probably looking sappy and stupid, but he can’t help it. “You got some cannoli for pudding.”
“Awh, Rennie... I’m sure it’s lovely. Though there’s nothing like Ma’s recipe...”
“Actually, it is Ma’s recipe,” he bites his lower lip. “She popped by earlier.”
“She did?” Ray freezes, and his voice goes little and far.
“She did,” Rennie is smiling, and his cheeks are aching. He hadn’t even realised that he’d felt it as a weight on his heart, until the weight came off. For so long he has felt guilty about being the one to tear Ray from his family, even though he knows guilt is unreasonable, and that it’s not his fault. He pulls Ray back into a hug, more gently this time, and tucks his head in, rests his cheek against his beloved. “She had a present for you,” he murmurs.
“What?” Ray sounds breathless, and Rennie can feel the subtlest tremble as he holds him in his arms.
“She said to give you this.”
And he kisses him, on his cheek.
“Happy birthday.”
Cannoli
There was something about the first born. She loved all her children, marked all their birthdays, but there was something about him. Not that she loved the others less, but that he was the one, the single event which changed her most, and forever. With him she became a mother, for the first time, and the whole world changed on that single instant.
By the time the day itself dawned she’d been thinking of her Raymondo’s arrival in the world for weeks. His birthday... again. Every year it was such a surprise to her, such an astonishment, to think that her little, her eldest, her darling baby boy should be older. When he was a child it was all the little stages that got her. On his first birthday he was stepping and falling, and pulling himself up again on the furniture, grinning indomitably, such a cheeky face. On his second birthday he was already getting mouthy, telling everyone what he thought, even though nobody but her understood a word he was saying. On his third birthday he was sulking, because little Paulo was taking up all of her attention, and he climbed into the bed with them, first thing, and made a valiant attempt to revert to breastfeeding. Oh, it would embarrass him so much if she ever repeated that story... he’d bitten her, because he’d forgotten how to nurse, and then he’d cried because he hadn’t meant to hurt her. And she couldn’t stop laughing, even though he did have such needly little teeth.
His fourth birthday he’d eaten too much cake, and got sick. Angie, the new baby girl got sick as well. She was always throwing up. It was a ‘puke party’ he declared, when all the mess was finally cleaned up.
His fifth birthday he’d been on his new bike, wobbling, and falling, and wobbling and falling, and getting up again, with that same grin from his first birthday. Nothing’s going to defeat me, I’ll just keep getting up again.
His sixth birthday little Frannie kept crying, and he was cross because he hadn’t been able to sleep. Then one of the friends who came over teased his little brother and made him cry. He’d flown into his first real rage at the boy, and knocked him to the floor. And then he’d let Paulo blow out the candles, like it was his birthday instead, and everyone made a wish, even the boy he’d knocked over, who said sorry like he meant it.
His seventh birthday his Pop came home angry, and the party came to an unexpected stop.
After that the neighbourhood kids didn’t come round so much anymore, and birthday parties became family events. Still noisy and fun, but private.
His tenth birthday he was in accident and emergency with a broken collar bone. “I fell off my bike,” he told the doctor.
In his teens the birthdays seemed less important to him. He’d go out with his friends, doing whatever boys did in this country. Bowling, or going to the pictures. Or chasing girls. She wasn’t stupid. She would mark the occasion, as always, by having a mass said for him. She’d send the money back to her parish church in Italy, so that he wouldn’t realise what she was doing. It would never do to embarrass her little boy. Her little man... he was a man now, and yet when he smiled she still saw that grinning baby.
Oh, it hurt her heart.
And then, as a man, the years slid by, more and more rapidly, like beads beneath her fingers, and before she knew it, she was old, and he... well, he was grown. Divorced, unhappy. And she prayed, prayed for him to find some comfort.
For the first time in forever he took a friend home for dinner, that lovely Canadian, and she’d thought, “oh, perhaps a decent husband for Frannie this time.” But then Raymondo had gone under cover on that dreadful job of his, and her heart broke every night as she prayed for his safe return. And he did return, but broken himself, somehow. He came back shot, for the second time, and his friend, his good friend, left, went back to Canada, and his second marriage failed, and before she knew it her boy had returned to the police force, as though he had a death wish.
Dear Lord, don’t let him be shot a third time. Please Lord, preserve my child.
And then, of course, his new friend. That sweet young goofy man. She had laughed at the time. “Raymondo likes Mounties,” and Frannie had laughed with her, giggling,and nudging her in the ribs while they whispered in the kitchen.
Oh Lord, she had prayed for him to be happy. To find some comfort. But for him to find comfort there...? That she could never have expected. Not if she had lived a million years would she ever have expected.
She remembered sitting in a bare classroom, with pictures of saints on the walls, one blackboard, and one tall pillar of black, the parish priest, as he taught them their catechism, and more. All the sins, the sins of the flesh, the venal sins, the mortal sins, the sins which cry out to heaven for vengeance. “Homosexuality is one of the four sins which cry out to heaven for vengeance.” At the time she just accepted it, because she had no idea what homosexuality was, and was sure that she wasn’t going to to commit it. When she did find out what it was she pulled a face, and thought, “well, there can’t be many people who do that.” And she put it out of her mind. Even in America, it was a foreign sin, a strange something that other people did. Not her family. And never, never, would she have thought that gently smiling Canadian, that tall young gracious man, with his timid generosity, his so obviously kind heart, could be one of them. Never, not ever, could she have thought her Raymondo, who used to sneak out and kiss girls, could be one of them.
Oh... and she couldn’t even blame Turnbull. She couldn’t be angry with him... because he was such a beautiful young man. If he had turned toward Francesca, she would have welcomed him into her family. But he chose Raymondo. And Raymondo chose him. Impossible.
No, no... she must be missing something. Her little boy would always be her little boy, no matter what, and she didn’t care what a priest said... how could he be committing a sin which cried out to heaven? Wasn’t there enough in the world that cried out to heaven? And she knew God heard each cry, but why would He hear a cry against her Raymondo? Her first born...
And she thinks about it, and thinks about it, in the weeks coming up to his birthday, and that morning, when the house is empty, she starts to bake. She doesn’t know if they’ll be having a party, or if it will just be the two of them, so she makes cannolis instead of a full cake. He always liked cannoli. At first she means to just drop it off with the building supervisor, but she keeps putting it off. In the end, it’s seven in the evening, and she starts to worry that she’ll miss his birthday completely, and she couldn’t stand that. Even when he was undercover she’d always made time for him. Always marked the occasion somehow.
So, here she is, and she’s about to leave the cake downstairs to be delivered, but it’s like there’s a hook on her heart, and it’s tugging her upward, just to see that he's okay. The elevator isn’t working, so she makes her way up the stairs, ignoring her aching ankles. And now she’s standing outside his... outside ‘their’ door.
Knock, she tells herself. She stares at the wood, and wonders why this is so difficult. It shouldn’t be difficult. It’s her son, after all, he’s with someone he loves, a good someone...
She knocks, and the door opens, not to Raymondo, but to Renfield. He’s barefoot, in jeans, t-shirt, and an apron. The apartment is fragrant with oregano, basil, tomatoes, onions and garlic. She smiles. Before she has time to feel awkward the words pop out. “You’re cooking Italian?”
“Yes,” the young man says, sounding flustered, “one of your recipes actually...”
“Next time, give me a ring, I can come over if you need help.”
“Thank you, Mrs Vecchio.”
“Ma,” she says, and feels a lump in her throat. It was less hard to say than she’d thought.
“Ma,” he says, and blinks, shiny eyed. She hopes he won’t cry, because then she’ll have to hug him, and then she’ll start crying too. And it was Raymondo’s birthday. Not a day to cry.
“I didn’t know if you had guests or not, so I didn’t do a cake... I thought you could always save some of the cannoli for breakfast if you didn’t eat it all tonight.”
Renfield smiles, shyly. “He was talking about your cannoli just a few days ago. I’d love the recipe.”
“I’ll drop it off later,” she says, “I need to get back and cook for the rest of the family.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“Thank you,” she replies, and surprises herself by standing up on tiptoe, and hooking her hand behind the young man’s neck, and dragging him down so she can pop a kiss on his cheek. “If you ever hurt him, I’d kill you, but you never will hurt him, will you?”
“Never.”
“I know. Bambino.” She kisses him again, on the other cheek. “That one’s for Raymondo. Tell him happy birthday.” Then she turns, and starts walking down the corridor, wiping her eyes, grateful that Renfield can’t see her.
...
He’s just putting the finishing touches to dinner when Ray gets home from work.
“Hey, Rennie,” Ray manages to say, before he is engulfed in a hug. “You squeezed the stuffing out of me this morning," he laughs fondly, "don’t hug me to death yet, I’ve not had my present.”
Rennie knows that he’s probably looking sappy and stupid, but he can’t help it. “You got some cannoli for pudding.”
“Awh, Rennie... I’m sure it’s lovely. Though there’s nothing like Ma’s recipe...”
“Actually, it is Ma’s recipe,” he bites his lower lip. “She popped by earlier.”
“She did?” Ray freezes, and his voice goes little and far.
“She did,” Rennie is smiling, and his cheeks are aching. He hadn’t even realised that he’d felt it as a weight on his heart, until the weight came off. For so long he has felt guilty about being the one to tear Ray from his family, even though he knows guilt is unreasonable, and that it’s not his fault. He pulls Ray back into a hug, more gently this time, and tucks his head in, rests his cheek against his beloved. “She had a present for you,” he murmurs.
“What?” Ray sounds breathless, and Rennie can feel the subtlest tremble as he holds him in his arms.
“She said to give you this.”
And he kisses him, on his cheek.
“Happy birthday.”