[ fic ] paternity
title: paternity
author: wordsthatfail
rating: PG-13
warnings: mild language, silver text
characters: john crichton; allusions to princess katralla
word count: 384
summary: this isn’t fatherhood. not even close.
disclaimer: the characters aren’t mine; the words are. (save for quotes taken directly from margaret wise brown’s goodnight moon.) please don’t take legal action - lowly copy editors aren’t worth suing, anyway.
a/n: it’s baby’s first foray into Farscape fic, god help us all -- total newbie here. spoilers through 2.13. the entire “look at the princess” arc is to blame for this, set about a week after “the maltese crichton.” (also, i’ve only seen up to 2.13, and shouldn’t even be thinking about writing fic before i’ve viewed all four seasons and peacekeeper wars, but gah, the character bleed, y’all!) much love and buckets of chocolate to lordoflorien for the beta.
p.s. feedback is love, but be brutal; i welcome comments and criticism of all kinds.
John wakes, breathing hard and tangled in sweat-soaked sheets.
He can still hear a baby crying - hear her crying.
Damn.
He blinks in the darkness, concentrating on keeping his heart in his chest.
He lets out a long, slow breath and stares at the shadowed ceiling, seeing a little girl he’ll never know.
“Are you my dad?”
He closes his eyes and scrubs his face with one hand.
Fatherhood isn’t supposed to be nameless and hollow. If - when - it happens, it isn’t supposed to be ... this.
It’s supposed to be more than body fluids and meiosis, more than embryos and DNA. The flip side of the science coin. Unconditional love and commitment, Eskimo kisses and Goodnight Moon.
In the great green room, there was a telephone, and a red balloon.
God, he’d loved that book as a kid.
And a picture of a cow jumping over the moon.
Had asked his mom to read it to him again and again.
Goodnight room, goodnight moon.
He’d stare out his bedroom window, looking at the sky with four-year-old wonder, and add, “Goodnight, Daddy,” when his dad was away on a mission.
His throat tightens.
He wants to be there like his own father wasn’t - for the early-morning feedings and the diaper changes, the good kind of sleep deprivation (if that exists). For first smiles, words and steps. Sesame Street and the alphabet song, skinned knees and scraped elbows.
Goodnight stars ...
The first day of school, father-daughter dances, driving lessons. High school graduation. College applications and essays. A walk down the aisle, arm in arm.
... goodnight air.
He runs a hand through his damp hair and clenches his jaw.
Eighty cycles.
She won’t be born for another eighty cycles.
But she’ll have a father.
That should be a comfort.
(It is - to an extent.)
Parents who’ll love her.
That should be a comfort, too.
(And it is - cold and empty.)
He rolls onto his side, but can’t quiet the waterfall between his ears.
Goodnight Moon and Disney movies don’t exist on the royal planet.
He focuses on the soft background hum of the leviathan and tries to forget the feel of his unborn daughter’s weight in his arms.
Goodnight noises everywhere.
“'Night, sweetheart,” he whispers to no one, and closes his eyes again.
author: wordsthatfail
rating: PG-13
warnings: mild language, silver text
characters: john crichton; allusions to princess katralla
word count: 384
summary: this isn’t fatherhood. not even close.
disclaimer: the characters aren’t mine; the words are. (save for quotes taken directly from margaret wise brown’s goodnight moon.) please don’t take legal action - lowly copy editors aren’t worth suing, anyway.
a/n: it’s baby’s first foray into Farscape fic, god help us all -- total newbie here. spoilers through 2.13. the entire “look at the princess” arc is to blame for this, set about a week after “the maltese crichton.” (also, i’ve only seen up to 2.13, and shouldn’t even be thinking about writing fic before i’ve viewed all four seasons and peacekeeper wars, but gah, the character bleed, y’all!) much love and buckets of chocolate to lordoflorien for the beta.
p.s. feedback is love, but be brutal; i welcome comments and criticism of all kinds.
John wakes, breathing hard and tangled in sweat-soaked sheets.
He can still hear a baby crying - hear her crying.
Damn.
He blinks in the darkness, concentrating on keeping his heart in his chest.
He lets out a long, slow breath and stares at the shadowed ceiling, seeing a little girl he’ll never know.
“Are you my dad?”
He closes his eyes and scrubs his face with one hand.
Fatherhood isn’t supposed to be nameless and hollow. If - when - it happens, it isn’t supposed to be ... this.
It’s supposed to be more than body fluids and meiosis, more than embryos and DNA. The flip side of the science coin. Unconditional love and commitment, Eskimo kisses and Goodnight Moon.
In the great green room, there was a telephone, and a red balloon.
God, he’d loved that book as a kid.
And a picture of a cow jumping over the moon.
Had asked his mom to read it to him again and again.
Goodnight room, goodnight moon.
He’d stare out his bedroom window, looking at the sky with four-year-old wonder, and add, “Goodnight, Daddy,” when his dad was away on a mission.
His throat tightens.
He wants to be there like his own father wasn’t - for the early-morning feedings and the diaper changes, the good kind of sleep deprivation (if that exists). For first smiles, words and steps. Sesame Street and the alphabet song, skinned knees and scraped elbows.
Goodnight stars ...
The first day of school, father-daughter dances, driving lessons. High school graduation. College applications and essays. A walk down the aisle, arm in arm.
... goodnight air.
He runs a hand through his damp hair and clenches his jaw.
Eighty cycles.
She won’t be born for another eighty cycles.
But she’ll have a father.
That should be a comfort.
(It is - to an extent.)
Parents who’ll love her.
That should be a comfort, too.
(And it is - cold and empty.)
He rolls onto his side, but can’t quiet the waterfall between his ears.
Goodnight Moon and Disney movies don’t exist on the royal planet.
He focuses on the soft background hum of the leviathan and tries to forget the feel of his unborn daughter’s weight in his arms.
Goodnight noises everywhere.
“'Night, sweetheart,” he whispers to no one, and closes his eyes again.