Bugger again...
Title: And Best Actress Goes to...
Genre: RPF
Summary: And all the men and women merely players. Follow-up to Best Actor.
Rating: PG
A/N: When I go to Hell, I choose to go First Class. Thanks, Ronnie!
She watched as he left, door slowly closing behind him. "And a chocolate croissant!"
"Reality bites."
At those words, she had lowered her head, focusing on her baby, expression revealing nothing other than a mother's delight.
"Well, I hope he isn't pushing himself too hard. From what I hear, the schedule's punishing," she'd finally remarked, before pleading for coffee. "A real one? But not Starbucks! Au Bon Pain? Down the block?"
She figured she had half an hour or so. Thirty minutes, tops, to wallow, then collect herself.
Her hand reached for the little origami bouquet. He didn't make token gestures. This one, too, would be imbued with as much meaning as she cared to discover. She pondered the possibilities.
She wouldn't put it past him to have made it himself - to have learnt origami in his search for the heart of his character. She smiled. More likely, though, he'd wheedled it from one his willing slaves in Props.
Whatever its origin, it resonated with their make-believe characters, and that particular scene - the subtlety, the undercurrent of meanings: faith, hope, longevity. The promise of permanence. She knew that, at the very least, the flowers themselves conveyed a message - he would know their particular language.
She returned the posy to the side table, and concentrated on her sleeping daughter, finger gently gliding, echoing a path taken earlier. An image to never forget. "Are you going to be my brown-eyed girl? Hmmm? Are you going to make Mommy's brown eyes blue? Oh, I'm sorry, baby," she whispered. "Barely born and I'm scarring you with the sounds of the Seventies... Bad, bad Mommy!"
She mused on eye colours. Tried to remember which were recessive, which dominant, all the possible combinations. Science hadn't been her greatest strength, at school - something else they shared. She often wondered if the gods had wept with laughter the day the two of them met. Timing was everything - the crucial 'golden hour' applicable to much more than just the body's best chance for well-being. All elements in sync, or the result...what? Wrong? Second-best? No. Not necessarily. Just...different. A life, sometimes, of what-ifs and if-onlys, but you play what you're dealt. And, perhaps, dream of second chances.
"It doesn't matter the colour of your eyes, now or in the future. Your Mommy is an actress - brown, grey, green or blue, she'll be able to pretend. She's good at that - she's used to it."
The door swung open.
"Ah, real coffee! Mmm... Thanks, hon. You're the best."
*************************
Genre: RPF
Summary: And all the men and women merely players. Follow-up to Best Actor.
Rating: PG
A/N: When I go to Hell, I choose to go First Class. Thanks, Ronnie!
She watched as he left, door slowly closing behind him. "And a chocolate croissant!"
"Reality bites."
At those words, she had lowered her head, focusing on her baby, expression revealing nothing other than a mother's delight.
"Well, I hope he isn't pushing himself too hard. From what I hear, the schedule's punishing," she'd finally remarked, before pleading for coffee. "A real one? But not Starbucks! Au Bon Pain? Down the block?"
She figured she had half an hour or so. Thirty minutes, tops, to wallow, then collect herself.
Her hand reached for the little origami bouquet. He didn't make token gestures. This one, too, would be imbued with as much meaning as she cared to discover. She pondered the possibilities.
She wouldn't put it past him to have made it himself - to have learnt origami in his search for the heart of his character. She smiled. More likely, though, he'd wheedled it from one his willing slaves in Props.
Whatever its origin, it resonated with their make-believe characters, and that particular scene - the subtlety, the undercurrent of meanings: faith, hope, longevity. The promise of permanence. She knew that, at the very least, the flowers themselves conveyed a message - he would know their particular language.
She returned the posy to the side table, and concentrated on her sleeping daughter, finger gently gliding, echoing a path taken earlier. An image to never forget. "Are you going to be my brown-eyed girl? Hmmm? Are you going to make Mommy's brown eyes blue? Oh, I'm sorry, baby," she whispered. "Barely born and I'm scarring you with the sounds of the Seventies... Bad, bad Mommy!"
She mused on eye colours. Tried to remember which were recessive, which dominant, all the possible combinations. Science hadn't been her greatest strength, at school - something else they shared. She often wondered if the gods had wept with laughter the day the two of them met. Timing was everything - the crucial 'golden hour' applicable to much more than just the body's best chance for well-being. All elements in sync, or the result...what? Wrong? Second-best? No. Not necessarily. Just...different. A life, sometimes, of what-ifs and if-onlys, but you play what you're dealt. And, perhaps, dream of second chances.
"It doesn't matter the colour of your eyes, now or in the future. Your Mommy is an actress - brown, grey, green or blue, she'll be able to pretend. She's good at that - she's used to it."
The door swung open.
"Ah, real coffee! Mmm... Thanks, hon. You're the best."
*************************