(no subject)
For everyfiveyears
Title: A Prayer Answered
Author: rachel2205
Fandom: BTVS
Character: Spike - although here he's still William
Character’s Age: 5
Word Count: 1074
Rating: All very PG
Warnings: None
Summary: William is not everything his father could have wished for
Author's Notes: None in particular. This isn't especially inspired, but I had to start somewhere!
“What do you want for Christmas, William?”
His head was pressed against his mother’s skirts. When he moved his face the fabric made a soft rushing sound. She had told him the dress was made of taffeta. He liked the word; it sounded like something a fairy would wear. When he had told his mother this she had smiled and kissed him. She always understood.
“A wooden horsie,” he said drowsily. His mouth tasted of warm milk. It was almost time for him to be in bed, but he wanted to stay here forever, listening to the soft click of his mother’s knitting needles, smelling the wet pine of the Christmas tree behind her. It was almost perfect.
“It’s a horse, William,” said a voice. Yes, almost perfect, except for him. William looked up at his father, who had not even deigned to look over the top of his newspaper. Instead he flicked the pages irritably. “I won’t have that baby talk in my house.”
“But he is our baby,” said his mother fondly, stroking her son’s soft curls.
“He’ll never be a man if you keep treating him like an infant,” said Father, now dropping the paper into his lap. “He’ll grow up into the kind of creature who still clings to his mother’s skirts because no other woman will have him.”
Not quite understanding, William began to cry.
*
William had been born after a long day and night. When she had finally finished her labours, Eleanor Pratt had leaned back into her pillows, expecting the same disappointment as before. But instead she had been told she had a son, who was whole and sound. It had taken five miscarriages and two stillbirths and ten years of marriage to get her here. She had never felt such relief.
George had expected to share her joy. After all, now he had a son, which was what every man hoped for, the lack of which he had grieved for in silence in his study after every loss, feeling the sorrow he had not been able to give a public face, because that was not what Pratt men did. They held their tongues and acted as men, and so he had done so, year after barren year, through winters of blood stained sheets and doctors’ visits.
It should have been a triumph. And to the world that was what George said it was. But he found that he could not love the boy. At first this was what he expected. Men were not supposed to be too interested in infants. He expected that he would like William better as he aged and were able to do something entertaining or of interest.
Instead he liked him less as he grew. He blamed Eleanor for that; she was so frightened for her one chick that she nursed him herself, not putting him out to a wet nurse, which George found frankly a damned disgrace, particularly since it meant that always, in the bed between them, was this soft thing that did not even cry lustily, just sobbed wetly.
Even when William moved to his own room, it felt like he still lay between them, a half-foot of space that was not crossed.
Now aged five, the boy was weak. Yielding. With his soft curls and velvet dresses he may as well have been a girl. George bought him toy soldiers. William played with them, but the games he made up, burbling in his soft baby voice, were stories of pixies and magic rings, not of blood and adventure. His knees were never scraped because he never ran around the garden. Eleanor did not want him to do anything dangerous, so instead he sat at her feet, playing quietly, for God’s sake.
Sometimes, looking at his wife’s back as they lay in the dark, George wondered if it would have been better if they had never had a child.
*
William lay alone in his bed. Sometimes his bed seemed very big to him, all that empty space where things could crawl underneath the covers. He pulled his knees up to his chest, lacing his fingers together and prayed.
He had already said his prayers, of course, kneeling by the side of the bed with his mother. Then she had tucked him in and kissed his curls and his cheeks. But in bed was when he said his real prayers. They were usually about Father. William often wished that Father liked him better. Mother didn’t think he knew, but he did. Father didn’t like William much at all. When he looked at William, he felt as if a great weight were pressing down on his shoulders. It made his stomach hurt.
Tonight, though, he had another prayer. That Father would just go away. It had struck him, as Mother had wiped away his tears, that if Father were gone, things would be better. He could look after Mother, and there would be no more crying or strained silences. He and Mother could talk about whatever they liked without worrying whether Father was listening.
William awoke. He was not sure how much time had passed. The little candle at his window had guttered out, so the room was in pitch darkness. He could hear lowered voices and hurried footsteps outside his room. William tucked his feet into his nightgown, fear trembling in his belly. He wanted to go outside and find out what was happening, but there was so much room to walk through before he reached the door. He didn’t know if he dared walk so far in the dark.
Then he heard it. His mother, sobbing. That was enough to get him across the room, his small feet padding across the carpet. His hands scrabbled against the door for a moment in panic, feeling only smooth wood, but at last he found the handle, and with a wrench pulled it open.
The light from the hallway dazzled him for a moment, and William stood in confusion, a small figure with mussed blond hair and a nightgown almost to his ankles. Dr Gray was there, a serious figure with a stern moustache who had nursed William through croup and German measles. Behind them, his parents’ bedroom door was open. A low light burned next to the bed where his father lay. And William, with a sick start, knew that his father had, as he had prayed, gone away.
Title: A Prayer Answered
Author: rachel2205
Fandom: BTVS
Character: Spike - although here he's still William
Character’s Age: 5
Word Count: 1074
Rating: All very PG
Warnings: None
Summary: William is not everything his father could have wished for
Author's Notes: None in particular. This isn't especially inspired, but I had to start somewhere!
“What do you want for Christmas, William?”
His head was pressed against his mother’s skirts. When he moved his face the fabric made a soft rushing sound. She had told him the dress was made of taffeta. He liked the word; it sounded like something a fairy would wear. When he had told his mother this she had smiled and kissed him. She always understood.
“A wooden horsie,” he said drowsily. His mouth tasted of warm milk. It was almost time for him to be in bed, but he wanted to stay here forever, listening to the soft click of his mother’s knitting needles, smelling the wet pine of the Christmas tree behind her. It was almost perfect.
“It’s a horse, William,” said a voice. Yes, almost perfect, except for him. William looked up at his father, who had not even deigned to look over the top of his newspaper. Instead he flicked the pages irritably. “I won’t have that baby talk in my house.”
“But he is our baby,” said his mother fondly, stroking her son’s soft curls.
“He’ll never be a man if you keep treating him like an infant,” said Father, now dropping the paper into his lap. “He’ll grow up into the kind of creature who still clings to his mother’s skirts because no other woman will have him.”
Not quite understanding, William began to cry.
*
William had been born after a long day and night. When she had finally finished her labours, Eleanor Pratt had leaned back into her pillows, expecting the same disappointment as before. But instead she had been told she had a son, who was whole and sound. It had taken five miscarriages and two stillbirths and ten years of marriage to get her here. She had never felt such relief.
George had expected to share her joy. After all, now he had a son, which was what every man hoped for, the lack of which he had grieved for in silence in his study after every loss, feeling the sorrow he had not been able to give a public face, because that was not what Pratt men did. They held their tongues and acted as men, and so he had done so, year after barren year, through winters of blood stained sheets and doctors’ visits.
It should have been a triumph. And to the world that was what George said it was. But he found that he could not love the boy. At first this was what he expected. Men were not supposed to be too interested in infants. He expected that he would like William better as he aged and were able to do something entertaining or of interest.
Instead he liked him less as he grew. He blamed Eleanor for that; she was so frightened for her one chick that she nursed him herself, not putting him out to a wet nurse, which George found frankly a damned disgrace, particularly since it meant that always, in the bed between them, was this soft thing that did not even cry lustily, just sobbed wetly.
Even when William moved to his own room, it felt like he still lay between them, a half-foot of space that was not crossed.
Now aged five, the boy was weak. Yielding. With his soft curls and velvet dresses he may as well have been a girl. George bought him toy soldiers. William played with them, but the games he made up, burbling in his soft baby voice, were stories of pixies and magic rings, not of blood and adventure. His knees were never scraped because he never ran around the garden. Eleanor did not want him to do anything dangerous, so instead he sat at her feet, playing quietly, for God’s sake.
Sometimes, looking at his wife’s back as they lay in the dark, George wondered if it would have been better if they had never had a child.
*
William lay alone in his bed. Sometimes his bed seemed very big to him, all that empty space where things could crawl underneath the covers. He pulled his knees up to his chest, lacing his fingers together and prayed.
He had already said his prayers, of course, kneeling by the side of the bed with his mother. Then she had tucked him in and kissed his curls and his cheeks. But in bed was when he said his real prayers. They were usually about Father. William often wished that Father liked him better. Mother didn’t think he knew, but he did. Father didn’t like William much at all. When he looked at William, he felt as if a great weight were pressing down on his shoulders. It made his stomach hurt.
Tonight, though, he had another prayer. That Father would just go away. It had struck him, as Mother had wiped away his tears, that if Father were gone, things would be better. He could look after Mother, and there would be no more crying or strained silences. He and Mother could talk about whatever they liked without worrying whether Father was listening.
William awoke. He was not sure how much time had passed. The little candle at his window had guttered out, so the room was in pitch darkness. He could hear lowered voices and hurried footsteps outside his room. William tucked his feet into his nightgown, fear trembling in his belly. He wanted to go outside and find out what was happening, but there was so much room to walk through before he reached the door. He didn’t know if he dared walk so far in the dark.
Then he heard it. His mother, sobbing. That was enough to get him across the room, his small feet padding across the carpet. His hands scrabbled against the door for a moment in panic, feeling only smooth wood, but at last he found the handle, and with a wrench pulled it open.
The light from the hallway dazzled him for a moment, and William stood in confusion, a small figure with mussed blond hair and a nightgown almost to his ankles. Dr Gray was there, a serious figure with a stern moustache who had nursed William through croup and German measles. Behind them, his parents’ bedroom door was open. A low light burned next to the bed where his father lay. And William, with a sick start, knew that his father had, as he had prayed, gone away.