Must Be Dreaming
Title: Must Be Dreaming
Pairing: Mark/Addison
Rating: PG
Summary: Expanded Page of Pentacles. The one where Mark stays up to wait for his daughter to come home.
Note: There will be a lot of Gravity of Love requests being filled over the next week or so. The Poet... and pop culture... are refusing to write themselves.
This isn’t my life, he thinks as the church bells down the street strike midnight and he settles down into the corner of the living room couch with a cup of coffee in his hand. He scans the titles of books piled on top of the end tables and pushes around the magazines scattered haphazardly on the coffee table but nothing catches his attention. A Post-It stuck to the top of last week’s Newsweek reminding everyone of a high school football game causes him to smile and as he remembers the game and who scored the winning touchdown and who cheered the loudest even through the freezing cold, he remembers that this is his life.
It isn’t a life he ever imagined himself having. The life that included marriage, a beautiful but sensible house with a backyard and a swing set, children, pictures on the mantle, and report cards, drawings and reminders of everything from toothpaste to parent-teacher conferences magneted to the fridge. By the time he was eighteen, he had convinced himself that he didn’t want that kind of life. That kind of life had ties, requirements, strings, responsibilities, people who counted on him. Reliability wasn’t his thing and reliability is what that kind of life demanded.
He tugs a photo album out from its place on the bottom bookshelf and sits back down, opening it on his lap with a glance at the clock to tell him that she has fifty minutes to get home. With each turn of the page and with each picture of him with his arms around her or playing with their kids he reassures himself that this is his life and that those are his children and she is his wife. Though he goes to sleep every night beside her and wakes up every morning to make them breakfast and sees the picture of the five of them on his desk every day, there are times he still finds himself disbelieving that this is all true. He mentioned it to her once and she simply laughed and kissed him softly and whispered all the ways she knew how to convince him that it was real and tugged him back into bed with her.
He traces his finger over the face of their daughter, a picture taken the day they took her home. “I’m gonna miss you next year,” he whispers to the six-month old, now eighteen with sassy blonde curls and a smile that still makes him cave. He laughs and shakes his head at himself for ever hesitating to believe that he could love someone else’s child as much as he would love one born with his piercing blue eyes. Flipping through pages, he grins upon coming across one of his favorites: his daughter looking at his son with a skeptical look as if unsure what to do with the tiny being lying next to her.
When he finishes, he pulls out another one and checks the clock again. He trusts her to make it home by curfew and knows that he could be spending this time asleep in bed curled around his wife under the warm covers but he always stays downstairs for her. She’s told him many times that he can go to bed and, teasingly, that old men like him shouldn’t be up until one in the morning, but he has to. He has to stay up for her; she’s his daughter, his little girl, and if anything bad happened, he wants to be there to hug her before she goes to bed.
“She’ll be home. Come to bed.”
He looks over at the voice of his wife and smiles but shakes his head at her offered hand. “It’s half an hour and I’m awake.”
She blinks sleepily and shrinks into the sweatshirt she hastily pulled on when she realized just how warm and cozy it isn’t outside of bed. Knowing that she isn’t going to win, she pushes away a few blankets and sits next to him on the couch and immediately pulls them up around her once she’s settled. “I remember that,” she points at a picture of their two children on the swings at a neighborhood playground, their daughter blowing a very large bubble with her gum. She pries his hand away from his coffee mug and gently loops his arm around her shoulder.
He laughs and kisses the top of her head. “I love you, Addie.”
She smiles and cuddles into his side for a moment, the sentiment rarely vocalized but always felt. “I love you too, Mark.” Bracing herself against the cold and forever wishing that the other three members of the house would give in to her complaints once in a while, she pushes herself off the couch and touches her lips to his. “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” she smiles and heads back upstairs.
Still convinced that every move he makes and word he says contains the potential to screw up his kids - or at least cause them to roll their eyes if they catch him being sentimental - he hides the photo album and tries to look nonchalantly interested in the old issue of Newsweek when he hears the slam of a car door and footsteps run up the driveway. “Hey,” he smiles and stands up as his daughter rubs her arms in an attempt to warm up once she’s inside.
“Okay, you were right. I should’ve worn a coat.”
“Well, that’s a first.”
“You being right?” She grins and tucks her hair behind her ear as she bends down to untie her sneakers.
“No,” he crosses his arms smugly, “that happens all the time. You admitting it.”
She stands back up and cocks an eyebrow in skepticism. “You wish. I’m going to bed.”
He wraps his arms around her and presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Goodnight, kiddo.”
“‘Night, Dad. Love you.”
“Love you, too.” He waits to hear her footsteps stop and the door to her room click shut before he turns off all the downstairs lights and follow her. Already in pajamas, he falls right into bed next to his wife and tucks his arm around her waist, pulling her close to him.
“I told you you’d be good at this,” she whispers.
Frou Frou - Must Be Dreaming
Pairing: Mark/Addison
Rating: PG
Summary: Expanded Page of Pentacles. The one where Mark stays up to wait for his daughter to come home.
Note: There will be a lot of Gravity of Love requests being filled over the next week or so. The Poet... and pop culture... are refusing to write themselves.
This isn’t my life, he thinks as the church bells down the street strike midnight and he settles down into the corner of the living room couch with a cup of coffee in his hand. He scans the titles of books piled on top of the end tables and pushes around the magazines scattered haphazardly on the coffee table but nothing catches his attention. A Post-It stuck to the top of last week’s Newsweek reminding everyone of a high school football game causes him to smile and as he remembers the game and who scored the winning touchdown and who cheered the loudest even through the freezing cold, he remembers that this is his life.
It isn’t a life he ever imagined himself having. The life that included marriage, a beautiful but sensible house with a backyard and a swing set, children, pictures on the mantle, and report cards, drawings and reminders of everything from toothpaste to parent-teacher conferences magneted to the fridge. By the time he was eighteen, he had convinced himself that he didn’t want that kind of life. That kind of life had ties, requirements, strings, responsibilities, people who counted on him. Reliability wasn’t his thing and reliability is what that kind of life demanded.
He tugs a photo album out from its place on the bottom bookshelf and sits back down, opening it on his lap with a glance at the clock to tell him that she has fifty minutes to get home. With each turn of the page and with each picture of him with his arms around her or playing with their kids he reassures himself that this is his life and that those are his children and she is his wife. Though he goes to sleep every night beside her and wakes up every morning to make them breakfast and sees the picture of the five of them on his desk every day, there are times he still finds himself disbelieving that this is all true. He mentioned it to her once and she simply laughed and kissed him softly and whispered all the ways she knew how to convince him that it was real and tugged him back into bed with her.
He traces his finger over the face of their daughter, a picture taken the day they took her home. “I’m gonna miss you next year,” he whispers to the six-month old, now eighteen with sassy blonde curls and a smile that still makes him cave. He laughs and shakes his head at himself for ever hesitating to believe that he could love someone else’s child as much as he would love one born with his piercing blue eyes. Flipping through pages, he grins upon coming across one of his favorites: his daughter looking at his son with a skeptical look as if unsure what to do with the tiny being lying next to her.
When he finishes, he pulls out another one and checks the clock again. He trusts her to make it home by curfew and knows that he could be spending this time asleep in bed curled around his wife under the warm covers but he always stays downstairs for her. She’s told him many times that he can go to bed and, teasingly, that old men like him shouldn’t be up until one in the morning, but he has to. He has to stay up for her; she’s his daughter, his little girl, and if anything bad happened, he wants to be there to hug her before she goes to bed.
“She’ll be home. Come to bed.”
He looks over at the voice of his wife and smiles but shakes his head at her offered hand. “It’s half an hour and I’m awake.”
She blinks sleepily and shrinks into the sweatshirt she hastily pulled on when she realized just how warm and cozy it isn’t outside of bed. Knowing that she isn’t going to win, she pushes away a few blankets and sits next to him on the couch and immediately pulls them up around her once she’s settled. “I remember that,” she points at a picture of their two children on the swings at a neighborhood playground, their daughter blowing a very large bubble with her gum. She pries his hand away from his coffee mug and gently loops his arm around her shoulder.
He laughs and kisses the top of her head. “I love you, Addie.”
She smiles and cuddles into his side for a moment, the sentiment rarely vocalized but always felt. “I love you too, Mark.” Bracing herself against the cold and forever wishing that the other three members of the house would give in to her complaints once in a while, she pushes herself off the couch and touches her lips to his. “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” she smiles and heads back upstairs.
Still convinced that every move he makes and word he says contains the potential to screw up his kids - or at least cause them to roll their eyes if they catch him being sentimental - he hides the photo album and tries to look nonchalantly interested in the old issue of Newsweek when he hears the slam of a car door and footsteps run up the driveway. “Hey,” he smiles and stands up as his daughter rubs her arms in an attempt to warm up once she’s inside.
“Okay, you were right. I should’ve worn a coat.”
“Well, that’s a first.”
“You being right?” She grins and tucks her hair behind her ear as she bends down to untie her sneakers.
“No,” he crosses his arms smugly, “that happens all the time. You admitting it.”
She stands back up and cocks an eyebrow in skepticism. “You wish. I’m going to bed.”
He wraps his arms around her and presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Goodnight, kiddo.”
“‘Night, Dad. Love you.”
“Love you, too.” He waits to hear her footsteps stop and the door to her room click shut before he turns off all the downstairs lights and follow her. Already in pajamas, he falls right into bed next to his wife and tucks his arm around her waist, pulling her close to him.
“I told you you’d be good at this,” she whispers.
Frou Frou - Must Be Dreaming