(no subject)
Title: The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn.
Author: Iby. Rating: PG-15.
Spoilers: Nope.
Characters and Pairings: All Doctors, Molly, Rose; Nine/Rose and Ten/Rose.
Author's Notes: *sigh* Writing this shredded me into a million pieces.
Summary: Molly has to deal with her father's regeneration from his Ninth form into his Tenth, and the Doctor has to face the possibility of not being wanted anymore. . . . .
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The ache in his chest is almost unbearable, and he’s a man who has borne more pain than most. Throughout his tumultuous life he’s felt a myriad emotions; guilt, elation, sorrow, love, friendship, anger and everything in between. He knows the taint of failure, knows the taste of death and being the cause of such things isn’t unfamiliar to him. He is the last of his kind, after all.
Never before though has he felt so shockingly, violently, painfully inadequate. Before him, Molly in all her six year old fragility and beauty, is sobbing hysterically in the corner of her room and there isn’t a thing he can do about it. He is the cause of her tears.
She has his black leather jacket slung over her little shoulders, the cuffs trailing on the floor. It’s big enough to wrap around her twice, and he knows this because he’s done so on numerous occasions to keep her warm whilst planet-side. The problem of course, is that it isn’t really his leather jacket. Not anymore. Not since his regeneration. He now lives within pinstripes and floor-length coats. He now has a thick head of uncontrollable hair. He now has long, slim fingers. He now has a new voice and he now has big brown eyes.
All of which Molly seems to hate.
He wonders if she knows that she’s breaking his hearts. He finds that he can’t accuse her of such deliberate cruelty, because he knows she isn’t capable of it. This only compounds his feelings of inadequacy and his shoulders sag with the weight of it.
He opens his mouth to talk to her but quickly silences himself. New teeth; new voice.
He feels a whole new appreciation for what past companions went through. He’d always known that he was the same man and had fought to show them so. Battled through their hurt or confusion to make them see that he was the Doctor. Now though, now he finds himself wondering if that isn’t enough. It doesn’t so much matter that he knows he’s the Doctor as it matters that she knows he’s the Doctor.
Tentatively, he makes his way over to her as one would approach a frightened animal. When she doesn’t protest, he leans against the wall and slides down it. He stretches his legs out in front of him and studies her out of the corner of his eye. He isn’t sure if it’s his different vision, but her hair looks slightly darker than before.
Hesitantly and incredibly slowly, he inches a hand towards one of hers. He isn’t going to touch her because he knows that just like her mother, she sees holding hands as an intimate act. For a second fear grips him; what if she never wants to hold his hand ever again? Rose had, but she is older, his partner, and even though she doesn’t have the Time Lord in her that Molly does, she is an adult. Molly, for all her brilliance, is a child. His child.
He fights down the urge to scramble out of his pinstriped jacket as quickly as possible and crawl back into the black leather. He knows it just isn’t possible.
Like a spark, an idea forms in his mind. Everything about his body is different. His mind, his memories are not. He turns his hand palm up and waggles his fingers at her. He knows she knows what he’s doing. This was their little sign language, their way of saying fancy a chat? Only it’s not an ordinary chat, it’s inside their minds.
He sees her consider and this alone fills him with hope.
Eventually, she nods.
He sighs with relief and she startles at the sound. Slowly, he reaches for her temple.
-------
Blackness. He has to help her mind before he can help her hearts, so he’s not taken them to any particular location. He can feel her mental presence floating around in his mind. She doesn’t have the barriers that he does. Hers is as it always was, feels as it always did; warm and soft, like a duvet that he wants to cuddle. He revels in it for a minute, desperately relieved to be in some way connected to her again.
Gathering his wits, he returns his attention to the task at hand; letting her feel his mind. He selects the right door and creeps it open slowly. He feels her surprise. Feels her cling to his mental presence. He clings back, happy to wrap himself around her. He doesn’t know what he feels like to others; Rose always says that he feels like a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie, rough in some places and smooth in others, with warm melted chocolate seeping through the cracks. His old self at been playfully indignant at the description, but now the idea just makes him hungry.
They’re silent, simply pressing their minds together. He suspects that where he once was more rough than smooth, he might now be more smooth than rough. He hopes this is ok. It seems to be, because he can feel Molly draw his mind into herself tighter, as if seeking comfort and reassurance. He offers it to her.
He knows that she can feel the similarities, that she can see it’s the same mind, and that therefore he is still her father. With this, he gently moves their minds away from the blackness. Blinking his eyes open, he isn’t entirely surprised when he realizes where they are.
They’re standing in the ball courts of the Powell Estates, where he had often parked the TARDIS. He let her chose their location, and that she’d pick something so very related to her mother doesn’t shock him. He fills in the blanks that her younger, less trained mind can’t and anchors them to this place, his mental strength beyond hers.
She’s standing before him, looking up at him. This in itself is an improvement; she hadn’t wanted to look at him before, not without his big ears and blue eyes. “Daddy?” she asks uncertainly.
He smiles. “Yes.”
She nods, and even though he can tell she’s nervous, she’s opening her mind to the possibilities. “Do you want to see me?” he asks.
“You mean…” she looks at her shoes, “the way you used to be?”
He feels a double heart attack is imminent. “Yes. All the different ways I used to be. All nine different ways, Molly.”
She looks like she doesn’t particularly want that at all, and he’s not sure if it’s her longing to hear him speak with a Northern accent or her bravery that makes her nod. “It won’t be easy, Molly.”
She nods again, this time resolutely.
The cookie, as they say, crumbles.
Figures wind their way along the paths that snake through the estate. Others make their way down the staircase where Rose had once chased him and a plastic arm. It takes them a moment to assemble, and even then one is missing. His presence is too much for her to bear at this stage.
He finds himself wishing that Rose was here, so that Molly might have some company. As it is, his fellow selves try not to appear as if they’re looming over her, or circling her.
“So…you’re all…my dad?” she asks, tears leaking down her face with growing frequency. There are nods and murmurs of assent.
He gives his Seventh self a pleading look and a handkerchief is quickly handed to Molly.
“Even you?” she asks, looking at him, studying his funny ruffled brown hair.
He tries to school the somewhat beseeching look he knows is in his eyes. “Yes, even me.” Whether by assumption because of his age or intuition, she turns to his First self. Hesitantly, she holds out her hand and wiggles her fingers, asking him if she can feel his mind.
He nods.
She moves from one to the next, slowly growing more confident as she recognizes the feel of his mind. He knows that each and every mental presence will be slightly different, but the smile on her face tells him that she knows they’re ultimately the same man.
Eventually though, she reaches the gap that only his Ninth self can fill.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Yes.” Her answer is swift, and again he wonders if it’s because of her eagerness to see the familiar.
The glass doors that lead to the stairs of Rose’s old tower swing open with a whoosh and a creak. His Ninth self stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Molly runs towards the leather and the ears and he tries to school his hurt. Molly is scooped up, and she nestles into his old body. He can see their lips moving as they whisper to each other, and even though he knows that this is technically his mind and that he could hear them, he chooses not to.
Suddenly, they’re both looking at him, as if sizing him up. Faced with the man that Molly thinks of as her father, he can’t hold their gaze. He studies his shoes. Seconds later, Molly appear in front of him.
She’s looking up at him, a hesitant smile on her lips. She lifts her arms up, in the truly universal way of asking to be picked up. Incredulous, delighted, he scoops her up. She snuggles into his coat, his stupid pinstriped coat that he’d thought she hated and sighs against his neck.
His entire body is tingling, which is pretty impressive for what’s strictly an incorporeal form.
“You’re buzzing,” Molly whispers against his ear.
He supposes this might be true. His mind is flashing and whirring with excitement, and he notices his Sixth self rub his temple as if he’s getting a headache. Eventually, he puts her down. He knows they’re nearly ready to return to the world of physicality. He suspects though that she might like a little more time with his former selves.
Moments later, as they all say their goodbyes, she’s got a ridiculously long scarf wrapped around her shoulders and is clutching a sprig of celery in her hands.
He feels a hand on his arm, and turns to stare at the blue eyes of his Ninth self. “Take care of her. Rose, too.”
Slightly insulted that he could assume otherwise, he narrows his eyes at…himself. “You know I will. I am you.”
The hand on his arm tightens. “I mean it.”
He nods. “I will.”
----------
The ache in her chest is almost unbearable. She wants him to go away, but all he does is stand there and look at her. She doesn’t want him to look at her and she doesn’t want to look at him. He’s horrible. He’s wearing pinstripes. He has stupid hair sticking up all over his head and his fingers are thin. His eyes are brown and not blue and as he opens his mouth, she braces herself against his new voice. She hates all of it.
Thankfully, he closes his mouth. Then though, he makes his way towards her.
She’s tired, too tired of running away from him and doesn’t put up any fight. She knows he’ll only follow her.
He slumps down and sits beside her, stretching his silly, skinny, long legs. She knows he’s watching her out the corner of his eye. To her surprise, he starts to reach out to her. She panics. He isn’t going to try to hold her hand, is he? She can’t! She can’t possibly! Hand holding is precious. Then though, his hand turns upside down and he’s wiggling his fingers at her.
She’s considering his proposal before she even knows what she’s doing. The familiar gesture is too much to ignore in all this change. She nods, and lets him touch her temple.
-----------
Blackness. She is surprised. Usually when they do this, her father takes her somewhere so that she can focus more on conversation rather than location. She can feel it when he opens his mind to her. To her surprise and delight, it’s the same as it ever was. She scurries into it, burying herself in its warmth. It’s slightly smoother than it was before. She thinks of a chocolate chip cookie. She can feel him cling back, and even though it’s a little too much she realizes how broken the mind is that’s wrapping itself around her. She realizes the power she holds over it, how desperate he is for her love, her approval and acceptance.
He’s sending out waves of comfort and reassurance that she gratefully accepts. Suddenly, they’re moving out of the blackness. He sends a general query her way, and she directs them to her desired location. She needs a little of her mother here. She opens her eyes to the ball courts of the Powell Estate. Bits and pieces are missing and she feels somewhat afloat. After a second or two, she settles as he fleshes out their location.
She looks up at him and he’s looking down at her. Where once his eyes were blue, now they are brown, but she finds that she can hold his gaze. She gathers her courage. “Daddy?” She is somewhat touched by his smile.
“Yes,” he says. She floats away in thought for a second, before he speaks again.
“Do you want to see me?”
“You mean…” she can’t look at him anymore and instead studies her shoes, “the way you used to be?”
“Yes. All the different ways I used to be. All nine different ways, Molly.”
Her hearts flutter frightfully in her chest. She thinks the notion rather scary, but the prospect of seeing him again is too enticing to turn down. She gathers her bravery and nods.
“It won’t be easy, Molly.” She nods again, this time resolutely.
Suddenly, people seem to be walking towards her from every direction. An odd assortment, with scarves and umbrellas and funny coats in no short supply. They gather near her, and she fights off the urge to panic. They’re all so much taller than she is. She doesn’t fail to notice that her father…well, the man she thinks of as her father, is absent. She’s not sure how she feels about this.
“So…you’re all…my dad?” Against her desires, she starts to cry again.
They all nod and murmur comfortingly. Suddenly, one of them is making his way closer to her. He’s a little shorter than the others, a little portly, with an oddly shaped umbrella in one hand. He hands her a handkerchief.
She turns to the pinstriped body that had brought her here. “Even you?” “Yes, even me.” It is then that she’s struck with an idea. If she’s to accept these people, she must meet their minds. She holds out her hand and waggles her fingers at the old man that she somehow figures to be the First.
He nods and lets her in. They’re all the same, she realizes as she moves from one to the next. Some are impossibly smooth, some are rough and crumbly, but they all mix together to make the same man. Same cookie, she thinks, and smiles.
Eventually though, she comes to a premature end.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Yes,” she answers quickly. She’s not sure if she’s imagining the slightly hurt look on his face. There’s a whoosh and a creak, and suddenly she sees him in the doorway to the tower. She races towards him before she knows what she’s doing and throws herself into his arms. Leather, blessed leather, his blessed jacket. She settles into it.
“Daddy,” she whispers against his neck. She pats his head, delighting in the closely cropped hair.
“Molly,” he replies, in his beautiful, familiar voice.
She tries not to weep at the sound of it. “Please don’t leave me. Don’t leave me here.”
He settles her on his hip. “I haven’t left you.”
She protests. “He-“
“-Is me,” her father cuts her off. “I know, Molly, I know, but we’re all the same person.”
She shakes her head, her nose bumping against his adam’s apple.
“You don’t look the same.”
“Looks are the shell, Molly. You know that. Besides, he’s got better ears.”
She pulls away from him, indignantly. “I like your ears!”
He smiles. “Ta.”
She turns to study the pinstriped man. Pinstriped father, she corrects herself. “Do you really think he’s got better ears?” Her father, her leather father, turns and studies his future also. “Nah, not really. I can tell you one thing though; I’d never admit to another person loving you as much as I love you. Except your mum. Him I’ll allow though, because we’re one in the same.”
She feels nervous, and bites her lip. “You’re telling me he loves me?”
“Yup. He thinks you’re fantastic. I think you're fantasic. We all do.”
At the familiar word and the concession from her father, she feels bolstered. Even though unwrapping her arms from him hurts, she supposes she doesn’t have a choice. Briefly, she wonders if all life is like this.
“You’re not alone, Molly. As long as you’ve got him, you’ve got me.”
She is struck then, by how sad her pinstriped father looks. She finds that she can’t bear it. “I have to go to him.”
“Yup.” Blinking away tears, she breathes in deeply, resolutely. “Okay.”
He puts her down, and before she knows what she’s doing, she’s running back to her funny haired, brown eyed, ridiculously skinny father. He’s studying his shoes, so as she reaches him she looks up at him to catch his gaze. Suddenly, she wants to hug him. She lifts up her arms and is thrilled by the overjoyed expression that blooms on his face. It is a beautiful power, she holds.
She snuggles into his arms, into his coat, and is amused by the way the whole of him seems to be radiating energy. “You’re buzzing.” She feels him wrap his arms around her tighter in response. As with all hugs though, this one comes to an end and he eventually puts her down.
She knows that their time here is almost up, but she wants a minute with his other forms. She makes her way over to them, coming to a stop inside the middle of their messy circle. She no longer feels uncomfortable. A scarf is wrapped around her shoulders, and one of the younger looking ones offers her a sprig of celery. She’s not too sure what it’s about, but some of them chortle and she knows it’s a kind gesture.
From within the circle, she can see her Leather Father talking to her Pinstriped Father. His large hand is wrapped around the arm in the brown coat, and there’s a beseeching look in his blue eyes. She gets the impression that they’re talking about her. Eventually, she takes her father’s hand and with one last look at all his past forms, and a smile for the Ninth, the Powell Estates fade away.
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He blinks, beyond euphoric, but also nervous. Before him, Molly is still wrapped in the leather jacket. She surprises him when she reaches for him and starts to unbutton his coat. Her small, childish fingers fumble with the buttons, but she’s determined. Eventually, they’re all undone, and she tugs on the lapels.
Getting the idea, he shrugs out of the coat and offers it to her. Slowly, resolutely, she slips the leather jacket from her shoulders. Not willing to let it go, she settles it on her lap like a blanket.
He’s pretty sure his hearts stop beating when she slips the brown pinstriped coat on. She seems to snuggle into its warmth as she looks up at him. “This one’s way too big as well.”
He reaches forward, and where once he was hesitant, now he is excited, and tucks stray strands of hair behind her ears. “You’ll grow, Molly, you’ll grow.”
. . . . So? I really hope people liked it! Comments are love!
Author: Iby. Rating: PG-15.
Spoilers: Nope.
Characters and Pairings: All Doctors, Molly, Rose; Nine/Rose and Ten/Rose.
Author's Notes: *sigh* Writing this shredded me into a million pieces.
Summary: Molly has to deal with her father's regeneration from his Ninth form into his Tenth, and the Doctor has to face the possibility of not being wanted anymore. . . . .
---------
The ache in his chest is almost unbearable, and he’s a man who has borne more pain than most. Throughout his tumultuous life he’s felt a myriad emotions; guilt, elation, sorrow, love, friendship, anger and everything in between. He knows the taint of failure, knows the taste of death and being the cause of such things isn’t unfamiliar to him. He is the last of his kind, after all.
Never before though has he felt so shockingly, violently, painfully inadequate. Before him, Molly in all her six year old fragility and beauty, is sobbing hysterically in the corner of her room and there isn’t a thing he can do about it. He is the cause of her tears.
She has his black leather jacket slung over her little shoulders, the cuffs trailing on the floor. It’s big enough to wrap around her twice, and he knows this because he’s done so on numerous occasions to keep her warm whilst planet-side. The problem of course, is that it isn’t really his leather jacket. Not anymore. Not since his regeneration. He now lives within pinstripes and floor-length coats. He now has a thick head of uncontrollable hair. He now has long, slim fingers. He now has a new voice and he now has big brown eyes.
All of which Molly seems to hate.
He wonders if she knows that she’s breaking his hearts. He finds that he can’t accuse her of such deliberate cruelty, because he knows she isn’t capable of it. This only compounds his feelings of inadequacy and his shoulders sag with the weight of it.
He opens his mouth to talk to her but quickly silences himself. New teeth; new voice.
He feels a whole new appreciation for what past companions went through. He’d always known that he was the same man and had fought to show them so. Battled through their hurt or confusion to make them see that he was the Doctor. Now though, now he finds himself wondering if that isn’t enough. It doesn’t so much matter that he knows he’s the Doctor as it matters that she knows he’s the Doctor.
Tentatively, he makes his way over to her as one would approach a frightened animal. When she doesn’t protest, he leans against the wall and slides down it. He stretches his legs out in front of him and studies her out of the corner of his eye. He isn’t sure if it’s his different vision, but her hair looks slightly darker than before.
Hesitantly and incredibly slowly, he inches a hand towards one of hers. He isn’t going to touch her because he knows that just like her mother, she sees holding hands as an intimate act. For a second fear grips him; what if she never wants to hold his hand ever again? Rose had, but she is older, his partner, and even though she doesn’t have the Time Lord in her that Molly does, she is an adult. Molly, for all her brilliance, is a child. His child.
He fights down the urge to scramble out of his pinstriped jacket as quickly as possible and crawl back into the black leather. He knows it just isn’t possible.
Like a spark, an idea forms in his mind. Everything about his body is different. His mind, his memories are not. He turns his hand palm up and waggles his fingers at her. He knows she knows what he’s doing. This was their little sign language, their way of saying fancy a chat? Only it’s not an ordinary chat, it’s inside their minds.
He sees her consider and this alone fills him with hope.
Eventually, she nods.
He sighs with relief and she startles at the sound. Slowly, he reaches for her temple.
-------
Blackness. He has to help her mind before he can help her hearts, so he’s not taken them to any particular location. He can feel her mental presence floating around in his mind. She doesn’t have the barriers that he does. Hers is as it always was, feels as it always did; warm and soft, like a duvet that he wants to cuddle. He revels in it for a minute, desperately relieved to be in some way connected to her again.
Gathering his wits, he returns his attention to the task at hand; letting her feel his mind. He selects the right door and creeps it open slowly. He feels her surprise. Feels her cling to his mental presence. He clings back, happy to wrap himself around her. He doesn’t know what he feels like to others; Rose always says that he feels like a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie, rough in some places and smooth in others, with warm melted chocolate seeping through the cracks. His old self at been playfully indignant at the description, but now the idea just makes him hungry.
They’re silent, simply pressing their minds together. He suspects that where he once was more rough than smooth, he might now be more smooth than rough. He hopes this is ok. It seems to be, because he can feel Molly draw his mind into herself tighter, as if seeking comfort and reassurance. He offers it to her.
He knows that she can feel the similarities, that she can see it’s the same mind, and that therefore he is still her father. With this, he gently moves their minds away from the blackness. Blinking his eyes open, he isn’t entirely surprised when he realizes where they are.
They’re standing in the ball courts of the Powell Estates, where he had often parked the TARDIS. He let her chose their location, and that she’d pick something so very related to her mother doesn’t shock him. He fills in the blanks that her younger, less trained mind can’t and anchors them to this place, his mental strength beyond hers.
She’s standing before him, looking up at him. This in itself is an improvement; she hadn’t wanted to look at him before, not without his big ears and blue eyes. “Daddy?” she asks uncertainly.
He smiles. “Yes.”
She nods, and even though he can tell she’s nervous, she’s opening her mind to the possibilities. “Do you want to see me?” he asks.
“You mean…” she looks at her shoes, “the way you used to be?”
He feels a double heart attack is imminent. “Yes. All the different ways I used to be. All nine different ways, Molly.”
She looks like she doesn’t particularly want that at all, and he’s not sure if it’s her longing to hear him speak with a Northern accent or her bravery that makes her nod. “It won’t be easy, Molly.”
She nods again, this time resolutely.
The cookie, as they say, crumbles.
Figures wind their way along the paths that snake through the estate. Others make their way down the staircase where Rose had once chased him and a plastic arm. It takes them a moment to assemble, and even then one is missing. His presence is too much for her to bear at this stage.
He finds himself wishing that Rose was here, so that Molly might have some company. As it is, his fellow selves try not to appear as if they’re looming over her, or circling her.
“So…you’re all…my dad?” she asks, tears leaking down her face with growing frequency. There are nods and murmurs of assent.
He gives his Seventh self a pleading look and a handkerchief is quickly handed to Molly.
“Even you?” she asks, looking at him, studying his funny ruffled brown hair.
He tries to school the somewhat beseeching look he knows is in his eyes. “Yes, even me.” Whether by assumption because of his age or intuition, she turns to his First self. Hesitantly, she holds out her hand and wiggles her fingers, asking him if she can feel his mind.
He nods.
She moves from one to the next, slowly growing more confident as she recognizes the feel of his mind. He knows that each and every mental presence will be slightly different, but the smile on her face tells him that she knows they’re ultimately the same man.
Eventually though, she reaches the gap that only his Ninth self can fill.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Yes.” Her answer is swift, and again he wonders if it’s because of her eagerness to see the familiar.
The glass doors that lead to the stairs of Rose’s old tower swing open with a whoosh and a creak. His Ninth self stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Molly runs towards the leather and the ears and he tries to school his hurt. Molly is scooped up, and she nestles into his old body. He can see their lips moving as they whisper to each other, and even though he knows that this is technically his mind and that he could hear them, he chooses not to.
Suddenly, they’re both looking at him, as if sizing him up. Faced with the man that Molly thinks of as her father, he can’t hold their gaze. He studies his shoes. Seconds later, Molly appear in front of him.
She’s looking up at him, a hesitant smile on her lips. She lifts her arms up, in the truly universal way of asking to be picked up. Incredulous, delighted, he scoops her up. She snuggles into his coat, his stupid pinstriped coat that he’d thought she hated and sighs against his neck.
His entire body is tingling, which is pretty impressive for what’s strictly an incorporeal form.
“You’re buzzing,” Molly whispers against his ear.
He supposes this might be true. His mind is flashing and whirring with excitement, and he notices his Sixth self rub his temple as if he’s getting a headache. Eventually, he puts her down. He knows they’re nearly ready to return to the world of physicality. He suspects though that she might like a little more time with his former selves.
Moments later, as they all say their goodbyes, she’s got a ridiculously long scarf wrapped around her shoulders and is clutching a sprig of celery in her hands.
He feels a hand on his arm, and turns to stare at the blue eyes of his Ninth self. “Take care of her. Rose, too.”
Slightly insulted that he could assume otherwise, he narrows his eyes at…himself. “You know I will. I am you.”
The hand on his arm tightens. “I mean it.”
He nods. “I will.”
----------
The ache in her chest is almost unbearable. She wants him to go away, but all he does is stand there and look at her. She doesn’t want him to look at her and she doesn’t want to look at him. He’s horrible. He’s wearing pinstripes. He has stupid hair sticking up all over his head and his fingers are thin. His eyes are brown and not blue and as he opens his mouth, she braces herself against his new voice. She hates all of it.
Thankfully, he closes his mouth. Then though, he makes his way towards her.
She’s tired, too tired of running away from him and doesn’t put up any fight. She knows he’ll only follow her.
He slumps down and sits beside her, stretching his silly, skinny, long legs. She knows he’s watching her out the corner of his eye. To her surprise, he starts to reach out to her. She panics. He isn’t going to try to hold her hand, is he? She can’t! She can’t possibly! Hand holding is precious. Then though, his hand turns upside down and he’s wiggling his fingers at her.
She’s considering his proposal before she even knows what she’s doing. The familiar gesture is too much to ignore in all this change. She nods, and lets him touch her temple.
-----------
Blackness. She is surprised. Usually when they do this, her father takes her somewhere so that she can focus more on conversation rather than location. She can feel it when he opens his mind to her. To her surprise and delight, it’s the same as it ever was. She scurries into it, burying herself in its warmth. It’s slightly smoother than it was before. She thinks of a chocolate chip cookie. She can feel him cling back, and even though it’s a little too much she realizes how broken the mind is that’s wrapping itself around her. She realizes the power she holds over it, how desperate he is for her love, her approval and acceptance.
He’s sending out waves of comfort and reassurance that she gratefully accepts. Suddenly, they’re moving out of the blackness. He sends a general query her way, and she directs them to her desired location. She needs a little of her mother here. She opens her eyes to the ball courts of the Powell Estate. Bits and pieces are missing and she feels somewhat afloat. After a second or two, she settles as he fleshes out their location.
She looks up at him and he’s looking down at her. Where once his eyes were blue, now they are brown, but she finds that she can hold his gaze. She gathers her courage. “Daddy?” She is somewhat touched by his smile.
“Yes,” he says. She floats away in thought for a second, before he speaks again.
“Do you want to see me?”
“You mean…” she can’t look at him anymore and instead studies her shoes, “the way you used to be?”
“Yes. All the different ways I used to be. All nine different ways, Molly.”
Her hearts flutter frightfully in her chest. She thinks the notion rather scary, but the prospect of seeing him again is too enticing to turn down. She gathers her bravery and nods.
“It won’t be easy, Molly.” She nods again, this time resolutely.
Suddenly, people seem to be walking towards her from every direction. An odd assortment, with scarves and umbrellas and funny coats in no short supply. They gather near her, and she fights off the urge to panic. They’re all so much taller than she is. She doesn’t fail to notice that her father…well, the man she thinks of as her father, is absent. She’s not sure how she feels about this.
“So…you’re all…my dad?” Against her desires, she starts to cry again.
They all nod and murmur comfortingly. Suddenly, one of them is making his way closer to her. He’s a little shorter than the others, a little portly, with an oddly shaped umbrella in one hand. He hands her a handkerchief.
She turns to the pinstriped body that had brought her here. “Even you?” “Yes, even me.” It is then that she’s struck with an idea. If she’s to accept these people, she must meet their minds. She holds out her hand and waggles her fingers at the old man that she somehow figures to be the First.
He nods and lets her in. They’re all the same, she realizes as she moves from one to the next. Some are impossibly smooth, some are rough and crumbly, but they all mix together to make the same man. Same cookie, she thinks, and smiles.
Eventually though, she comes to a premature end.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Yes,” she answers quickly. She’s not sure if she’s imagining the slightly hurt look on his face. There’s a whoosh and a creak, and suddenly she sees him in the doorway to the tower. She races towards him before she knows what she’s doing and throws herself into his arms. Leather, blessed leather, his blessed jacket. She settles into it.
“Daddy,” she whispers against his neck. She pats his head, delighting in the closely cropped hair.
“Molly,” he replies, in his beautiful, familiar voice.
She tries not to weep at the sound of it. “Please don’t leave me. Don’t leave me here.”
He settles her on his hip. “I haven’t left you.”
She protests. “He-“
“-Is me,” her father cuts her off. “I know, Molly, I know, but we’re all the same person.”
She shakes her head, her nose bumping against his adam’s apple.
“You don’t look the same.”
“Looks are the shell, Molly. You know that. Besides, he’s got better ears.”
She pulls away from him, indignantly. “I like your ears!”
He smiles. “Ta.”
She turns to study the pinstriped man. Pinstriped father, she corrects herself. “Do you really think he’s got better ears?” Her father, her leather father, turns and studies his future also. “Nah, not really. I can tell you one thing though; I’d never admit to another person loving you as much as I love you. Except your mum. Him I’ll allow though, because we’re one in the same.”
She feels nervous, and bites her lip. “You’re telling me he loves me?”
“Yup. He thinks you’re fantastic. I think you're fantasic. We all do.”
At the familiar word and the concession from her father, she feels bolstered. Even though unwrapping her arms from him hurts, she supposes she doesn’t have a choice. Briefly, she wonders if all life is like this.
“You’re not alone, Molly. As long as you’ve got him, you’ve got me.”
She is struck then, by how sad her pinstriped father looks. She finds that she can’t bear it. “I have to go to him.”
“Yup.” Blinking away tears, she breathes in deeply, resolutely. “Okay.”
He puts her down, and before she knows what she’s doing, she’s running back to her funny haired, brown eyed, ridiculously skinny father. He’s studying his shoes, so as she reaches him she looks up at him to catch his gaze. Suddenly, she wants to hug him. She lifts up her arms and is thrilled by the overjoyed expression that blooms on his face. It is a beautiful power, she holds.
She snuggles into his arms, into his coat, and is amused by the way the whole of him seems to be radiating energy. “You’re buzzing.” She feels him wrap his arms around her tighter in response. As with all hugs though, this one comes to an end and he eventually puts her down.
She knows that their time here is almost up, but she wants a minute with his other forms. She makes her way over to them, coming to a stop inside the middle of their messy circle. She no longer feels uncomfortable. A scarf is wrapped around her shoulders, and one of the younger looking ones offers her a sprig of celery. She’s not too sure what it’s about, but some of them chortle and she knows it’s a kind gesture.
From within the circle, she can see her Leather Father talking to her Pinstriped Father. His large hand is wrapped around the arm in the brown coat, and there’s a beseeching look in his blue eyes. She gets the impression that they’re talking about her. Eventually, she takes her father’s hand and with one last look at all his past forms, and a smile for the Ninth, the Powell Estates fade away.
-------------
He blinks, beyond euphoric, but also nervous. Before him, Molly is still wrapped in the leather jacket. She surprises him when she reaches for him and starts to unbutton his coat. Her small, childish fingers fumble with the buttons, but she’s determined. Eventually, they’re all undone, and she tugs on the lapels.
Getting the idea, he shrugs out of the coat and offers it to her. Slowly, resolutely, she slips the leather jacket from her shoulders. Not willing to let it go, she settles it on her lap like a blanket.
He’s pretty sure his hearts stop beating when she slips the brown pinstriped coat on. She seems to snuggle into its warmth as she looks up at him. “This one’s way too big as well.”
He reaches forward, and where once he was hesitant, now he is excited, and tucks stray strands of hair behind her ears. “You’ll grow, Molly, you’ll grow.”
. . . . So? I really hope people liked it! Comments are love!