Peach Baby
Title: Peach Baby
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG
Warnings: brief mention of sex (by brief, I mean like two words.)
Summary: “Tell me a story,” Mary says.
Notes: Written for the April week 2 challenge at brigits_flame, theme: “seed”. The story within the story is a twist around the Japanese folk tale “Momotarō”, which you may recognize from one of its many variations. I had a lot of difficulty with this one, but I hope you’ll enjoy it nonetheless. :)
…
“Tell me a story,” Mary says.
Jon shifts his arms around her, toying with a lock of her hair. “What kind of story?”
She makes a contented noise, snuggles back against him. “Something magical.”
“Something magical,” he says, and presses his lips to her temple, smiling when she burrows into his embrace. “Once upon a time,” he begins, “there was an old couple, who couldn’t have any children of their own.”
“Sad,” she murmurs.
“Sad,” he agrees. “Now this couple, they made their living in peach trees. And one day, someone sold them a special peach seed.”
“How was it special?”
Her voice is distant, drifting. “I’ll tell you,” he says, “if you listen.” She makes a soft sound and closes her eyes, and he chuckles as best he can. “So, this couple…they plant this seed, just like they planted all the rest of them. Only the tree is different.”
Mary’s breathing catches, and Jon strokes two fingers down her cheek. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Breathless, but strong. “Yes. Keep going.”
Jon swallows, tightens his arms around her as much as he dares. “The peaches on the tree are all normal, save for one. It’s bigger than the rest, brighter, and it grows faster.” He pauses to listen to her breathing, shaky and slow, and shifts closer to her. “When the harvest comes, the couple climbs up to pick the peaches, just like they do on all the other trees. When they pick the special peach, though, the man notices that it’s heavier than the rest. Like there’s something inside it.”
“Something inside it,” Mary echoes, laughs softly. “You tell the most predictable…”
“You asked,” he points out, and she laughs again, wheezy and faint. “Do you want to hear the end, or not?”
“I do,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice.
“Alright, then.” He kisses her hair and feels her relax against him. “So they bring the big peach inside their house and sit down to try and examine it, to see what it was that made it so special. When they cut into it and take a bite, they find that it’s the sweetest fruit they’ve ever tried.”
Mary mumbles something unintelligible and he pauses. “What?”
“You’re corny.”
“Who’s telling the story here, you or me?”
“You?”
“Me,” he confirms. She turns her head and brushes her lips over his cheek in apology, and he closes his eyes, feeling them sting. “Anyway,” he manages, forcing the words out, “anyway, they-they eat pieces of the fruit and find themselves feeling rejuvenated.”
Mary makes an approving sound. “Good word.”
It hurts to smile, but he does it anyway. “I thought so.” He opens his eyes in time to see the answering curve of her lips, and exhales slowly. “They go to sleep. In the morning, they wake up to find that their youth has been restored, that they’re young again. They’re so amazed that they fall into each other’s arms and make love.” Mary’s smile broadens and Jon closes his eyes; it hurts too bad to see her like this, drifting and barely lucid.
“And then what happens?”
Her voice startles him out of his reverie. “The woman gets pregnant,” he says. “They’re completely shocked, because they’ve always been told they can’t have children. But they’re young again, and they’re-they’re happy. They’re more in love than ever.” Mary’s breathing is easing, evening. Jon swallows hard. “For nine months, their lives are perfect. And then the baby comes. And she’s perfect. Beautiful, just like her mother.”
“Beautiful,” Mary echoes.
Jon nods against her hair. “Beautiful,” he says again. “And they-they live happily ever after.”
“Good story,” she whispers. Her fingers curl around his, cool and slender. She squeezes once, gently. “I’m tired.”
He laughs as convincingly as he can. “Well,” he says with all the forced cheerfulness he can muster, “you’ve had your bedtime story. Get some sleep.”
“Mm.” Her eyelids flutter shut and she melts back into his arms, body going lax. Her fingers stroke lightly over his once, twice, three times.
She breathes in. Out. In…and out. Her hand falls away from his.
Jon closes his eyes and holds her, holds her for a long moment. The only sound is his breathing, soft and shaking, unsteady. His eyes are burning, but the tears don’t fall.
A cry from the end of the bed startles him and he opens his eyes. Slowly, he releases Mary from his arms, letting her fall back against the pillows. Her blond lashes create dark circles on her skin-pale, too pale, the flush of childbirth and fever gone-her lips set in a stern line, so different from the gentle smile he’d fallen in love with.
Another cry and Jon sits up, stroking his hand over Mary’s cool cheek once more and slipping out of bed, walking around to the cradle.
His daughter looks up at him, blue eyes bright and wide, just like Mary’s. Her tiny lips purse, like she can’t choose whether to cry again or smile, and he swallows his tears, reaching to scoop her into his arms. He sits down on the end of the bed and cradles her close, rocking her gently. She whimpers, tears hovering at the corners of her eyes, and he laughs out a sob, feeling his own tears start to fall, and he bends his head to rest his cheek against hers, baby-soft and damp. Her skin smells like peaches.
“Don’t cry, love,” he whispers. “Let me tell you a story.”
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG
Warnings: brief mention of sex (by brief, I mean like two words.)
Summary: “Tell me a story,” Mary says.
Notes: Written for the April week 2 challenge at brigits_flame, theme: “seed”. The story within the story is a twist around the Japanese folk tale “Momotarō”, which you may recognize from one of its many variations. I had a lot of difficulty with this one, but I hope you’ll enjoy it nonetheless. :)
…
“Tell me a story,” Mary says.
Jon shifts his arms around her, toying with a lock of her hair. “What kind of story?”
She makes a contented noise, snuggles back against him. “Something magical.”
“Something magical,” he says, and presses his lips to her temple, smiling when she burrows into his embrace. “Once upon a time,” he begins, “there was an old couple, who couldn’t have any children of their own.”
“Sad,” she murmurs.
“Sad,” he agrees. “Now this couple, they made their living in peach trees. And one day, someone sold them a special peach seed.”
“How was it special?”
Her voice is distant, drifting. “I’ll tell you,” he says, “if you listen.” She makes a soft sound and closes her eyes, and he chuckles as best he can. “So, this couple…they plant this seed, just like they planted all the rest of them. Only the tree is different.”
Mary’s breathing catches, and Jon strokes two fingers down her cheek. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Breathless, but strong. “Yes. Keep going.”
Jon swallows, tightens his arms around her as much as he dares. “The peaches on the tree are all normal, save for one. It’s bigger than the rest, brighter, and it grows faster.” He pauses to listen to her breathing, shaky and slow, and shifts closer to her. “When the harvest comes, the couple climbs up to pick the peaches, just like they do on all the other trees. When they pick the special peach, though, the man notices that it’s heavier than the rest. Like there’s something inside it.”
“Something inside it,” Mary echoes, laughs softly. “You tell the most predictable…”
“You asked,” he points out, and she laughs again, wheezy and faint. “Do you want to hear the end, or not?”
“I do,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice.
“Alright, then.” He kisses her hair and feels her relax against him. “So they bring the big peach inside their house and sit down to try and examine it, to see what it was that made it so special. When they cut into it and take a bite, they find that it’s the sweetest fruit they’ve ever tried.”
Mary mumbles something unintelligible and he pauses. “What?”
“You’re corny.”
“Who’s telling the story here, you or me?”
“You?”
“Me,” he confirms. She turns her head and brushes her lips over his cheek in apology, and he closes his eyes, feeling them sting. “Anyway,” he manages, forcing the words out, “anyway, they-they eat pieces of the fruit and find themselves feeling rejuvenated.”
Mary makes an approving sound. “Good word.”
It hurts to smile, but he does it anyway. “I thought so.” He opens his eyes in time to see the answering curve of her lips, and exhales slowly. “They go to sleep. In the morning, they wake up to find that their youth has been restored, that they’re young again. They’re so amazed that they fall into each other’s arms and make love.” Mary’s smile broadens and Jon closes his eyes; it hurts too bad to see her like this, drifting and barely lucid.
“And then what happens?”
Her voice startles him out of his reverie. “The woman gets pregnant,” he says. “They’re completely shocked, because they’ve always been told they can’t have children. But they’re young again, and they’re-they’re happy. They’re more in love than ever.” Mary’s breathing is easing, evening. Jon swallows hard. “For nine months, their lives are perfect. And then the baby comes. And she’s perfect. Beautiful, just like her mother.”
“Beautiful,” Mary echoes.
Jon nods against her hair. “Beautiful,” he says again. “And they-they live happily ever after.”
“Good story,” she whispers. Her fingers curl around his, cool and slender. She squeezes once, gently. “I’m tired.”
He laughs as convincingly as he can. “Well,” he says with all the forced cheerfulness he can muster, “you’ve had your bedtime story. Get some sleep.”
“Mm.” Her eyelids flutter shut and she melts back into his arms, body going lax. Her fingers stroke lightly over his once, twice, three times.
She breathes in. Out. In…and out. Her hand falls away from his.
Jon closes his eyes and holds her, holds her for a long moment. The only sound is his breathing, soft and shaking, unsteady. His eyes are burning, but the tears don’t fall.
A cry from the end of the bed startles him and he opens his eyes. Slowly, he releases Mary from his arms, letting her fall back against the pillows. Her blond lashes create dark circles on her skin-pale, too pale, the flush of childbirth and fever gone-her lips set in a stern line, so different from the gentle smile he’d fallen in love with.
Another cry and Jon sits up, stroking his hand over Mary’s cool cheek once more and slipping out of bed, walking around to the cradle.
His daughter looks up at him, blue eyes bright and wide, just like Mary’s. Her tiny lips purse, like she can’t choose whether to cry again or smile, and he swallows his tears, reaching to scoop her into his arms. He sits down on the end of the bed and cradles her close, rocking her gently. She whimpers, tears hovering at the corners of her eyes, and he laughs out a sob, feeling his own tears start to fall, and he bends his head to rest his cheek against hers, baby-soft and damp. Her skin smells like peaches.
“Don’t cry, love,” he whispers. “Let me tell you a story.”