A short series of drabbles
Chris-centric. TNG-Verse
These take place over a long time span. Years, to be exact. Chris mulls over his life.
{•»}01.Summary: Chris sings Stella to sleep. Late night, soft songs, memories of singing his sisters to sleep.
It was midnight. Chris paced the floorboards wearily, holding his daughter in his arms as he rubbed her back gently. He sighed softly, tired. Yet he reminded himself it was just as Julie was as a baby-- the same ritual, the same songs he'd sung to his two youngest sisters were the ones he sung now to his daughter-- Stella Maris. He sang softly to her, the words of the lullaby soothing. “But the heart that truly loves never forgets,” he sang, hearing his daughter’s cries cease. He carried his darling back to her cradle, before kissing her cheek. Goodnight.
{•»}02.Summary: Chris gets irked, Stella cheers him up.
Things were going downhill. Had been since the birth of his son. He’d received several owls from mother dearest demanding he return home. Like hell he would. She’d simply yell more at him, perhaps even getting more upset at the fact that he’d only written to his Dad about his children, conveniently forgetting to mention them to mother. He wished he’d been allowed to grieve over Clara’s death, but Mother had expressly forbidden it. He twisted the wedding band on his left hand, waiting for Aiden to return. There was a tug at his pant leg. Stella smiled at him.
{•»}03.Summary: Chris returns to England.
So he was back. Divorced. It was such an ugly word. As he knocked on the door of his father’s study, Chris felt empty. Away from his ex-wife, away from his beloved children. Dad would be pleased to see him, but his mother? Christian would be surprised if it didn’t degenerate into a shouting match for his mother’s part. Hence why he was seeing Dad first, and Mother second.
“There you are,” voice shrill with anger, Catrin held the glass of sherry in her left hand. Chris didn’t even turn.
“Why did I bother?” he muttered, turning, forced smile affixed.
{•»}04.Summary: Chris misses his daughter's birthday.
Stella would be seven this year. He was far away, on a mission somewhere. With a lap desk and a clean piece of parchment and a fairly-good quill, Chris wrote a letter to his daughter. She was seven-and where was he? In fricking Tanzania. With Daveigh Arrington, nonetheless. It was at least a way to get out of England and out of Mother’s clutches.. Looking up at the sky, then back at the parchment, Chris wrote.
Happy birthday, darling girl.
Love, Dad.
He sealed it and placing it in the talons of the owl, watched the bird take flight.
{•»} Drabble 05.Summary: Romania-- mid-mission thoughts.
2008. Amélie Faulkner. He’d honestly tried to love her, but he’d never had the chance to mourn Clara, and he still hadn’t completely just forgotten Aiden. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a glass of beer half-raised to his lips. Cold seeped into every fibre of his being in this damned droughty castle. Romania was a dreary place-the castle even worse. Tonight it was the anniversary of Clara’s untimely demise-a night he really didn’t want to remember.
To his left, Tom and Luke, Col, Lydia and James conversed quietly. He couldn’t be arsed to join their conversation. Meaningless.
These take place over a long time span. Years, to be exact. Chris mulls over his life.
{•»}01.Summary: Chris sings Stella to sleep. Late night, soft songs, memories of singing his sisters to sleep.
It was midnight. Chris paced the floorboards wearily, holding his daughter in his arms as he rubbed her back gently. He sighed softly, tired. Yet he reminded himself it was just as Julie was as a baby-- the same ritual, the same songs he'd sung to his two youngest sisters were the ones he sung now to his daughter-- Stella Maris. He sang softly to her, the words of the lullaby soothing. “But the heart that truly loves never forgets,” he sang, hearing his daughter’s cries cease. He carried his darling back to her cradle, before kissing her cheek. Goodnight.
{•»}02.Summary: Chris gets irked, Stella cheers him up.
Things were going downhill. Had been since the birth of his son. He’d received several owls from mother dearest demanding he return home. Like hell he would. She’d simply yell more at him, perhaps even getting more upset at the fact that he’d only written to his Dad about his children, conveniently forgetting to mention them to mother. He wished he’d been allowed to grieve over Clara’s death, but Mother had expressly forbidden it. He twisted the wedding band on his left hand, waiting for Aiden to return. There was a tug at his pant leg. Stella smiled at him.
{•»}03.Summary: Chris returns to England.
So he was back. Divorced. It was such an ugly word. As he knocked on the door of his father’s study, Chris felt empty. Away from his ex-wife, away from his beloved children. Dad would be pleased to see him, but his mother? Christian would be surprised if it didn’t degenerate into a shouting match for his mother’s part. Hence why he was seeing Dad first, and Mother second.
“There you are,” voice shrill with anger, Catrin held the glass of sherry in her left hand. Chris didn’t even turn.
“Why did I bother?” he muttered, turning, forced smile affixed.
{•»}04.Summary: Chris misses his daughter's birthday.
Stella would be seven this year. He was far away, on a mission somewhere. With a lap desk and a clean piece of parchment and a fairly-good quill, Chris wrote a letter to his daughter. She was seven-and where was he? In fricking Tanzania. With Daveigh Arrington, nonetheless. It was at least a way to get out of England and out of Mother’s clutches.. Looking up at the sky, then back at the parchment, Chris wrote.
Happy birthday, darling girl.
Love, Dad.
He sealed it and placing it in the talons of the owl, watched the bird take flight.
{•»} Drabble 05.Summary: Romania-- mid-mission thoughts.
2008. Amélie Faulkner. He’d honestly tried to love her, but he’d never had the chance to mourn Clara, and he still hadn’t completely just forgotten Aiden. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a glass of beer half-raised to his lips. Cold seeped into every fibre of his being in this damned droughty castle. Romania was a dreary place-the castle even worse. Tonight it was the anniversary of Clara’s untimely demise-a night he really didn’t want to remember.
To his left, Tom and Luke, Col, Lydia and James conversed quietly. He couldn’t be arsed to join their conversation. Meaningless.