fic: actaeon's daughter
actaeon's daughter
notes: spawned from a fabulous tumblr discussion. claire and jimmy nurse an obsession with deer. when castiel comes for her father, he brings the white stag with him.
Claire’s first memory is of a book, larger than she is, spread out on the floor in front of her father. “You see, these are true deer,” he explains, and Claire murmurs the words aloud and Jimmy laughs. Amelia is baking in the kitchen, watching them as she puts a pie in the oven, coming around the corner to sit behind her husband and watch Claire trace antlers with clumsy fingers.
Jimmy is a working man and he works hard so Amelia can stay home and be with Claire. But every Sunday he takes his daughter into the woods not far from their home and they wait. Their backs against some fallen tree, they wait and watch and listen. Claire learns to be so quiet she can hear the wind blow over the leaves a mile away. Her father is so good at this, and he always sees them first. “There, baby. You see it? Right there?” And he’s so patient and quiet and Claire always finds them a second later, before catching sight of a white tail bounding off into the thick of the forest. “A good day,” he always says as they get in the truck. “Real good day.”
Claire is a deer for Halloween when she is four and again each year after that. She goes to parties in her classroom dressed this way and the mothers all wonder why Claire didn’t want to be a fairy or a princess or, for the love of God, a pumpkin for Christ’s sake. And they talk about Amelia like she isn’t there and Claire stamps her feet and hides in the bathroom while her mother tries to explain that sometimes people just don’t understand. “Come on out, baby. And we’ll go get an ice cream instead.”
One of her early memories is being seated in a booth at Dairy Queen wearing a large pair of felt deer antlers, vanilla ice cream dripping down her chin.
Jimmy has a post card that he found on a foreign exchange trip to Ireland. It’s yellowed, but the brightness of the photo hasn’t changed. “It’s the White Stag,” he explains to Claire. She leans over his shoulder, her hair falling into the picture. He parts it like a curtain and holds it up to her. “Do you like it?”
“Have you seen one?” she immediately asks, because she knows from the picture that this is Something Special. Her father frowns.
“No. I haven’t. I’d like to though.” He stares at the picture for a long time before handing it to Claire. “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” She nods, trying to be as careful with it as possible. When it’s time for bed, Jimmy takes the postcard and tucks it away and Claire watches from behind the door.
When her father is out and her mother is resting on the couch, Claire finds the card in its hiding place and looks at it for a long while. In her games, she is looking for the stag, but she never finds it - it wouldn’t be fair, she reasons, to find it before her father.
Claire outgrows a lot of things, but she never outgrows this. Sketched along the side of her notebooks - antlers and hooves and the profiles of the deer she grew up watching. The White Stag on the inside of every book cover, hiding from her constantly. The felt antlers she wore as a child, still adorning her head every Halloween.
She spreads different books on the carpet now, engrossed by the details she didn’t pick up on when she was younger. Claire never tells her father he won’t find a White Stag in Pontiac - but she suspects he already knows that. The post card is still nestled in its hiding place, and Claire only looks at it sometimes.
Claire wonders if she sees the deer before her father does. The White Stag coming so gracefully up the walk, it’s antlers wide enough to maybe hold the image of Christ within it. Claire is so well versed in the history of this creature, a hundred reasons why she’s seeing it now, of all times, come to her.
All the strange moments in the kitchen, being hurried out by her mother because her father’s done something to upset them all again. Talk of pills and medicine and dammit Jimmy this isn’t just about you - Claire shakes them all from her head and runs down the stairs.
When she throws open the door her father and the stag are still there, in different places now. The stag turns it head toward Claire and bows it, almost in shame. Her father is watching curiously from the middle of the walk, flexing his hands experimentally.
“It came,” is all she manages before dropping to her knees and cupping the side of the stag’s face in her hands. It moves closer, eyes glowing with something familiar, nose bumping her forehead almost carelessly. “Dad, it came.” And the stag presses its nose to her forehead again and Claire wonders if it’s trying to tell her something, something important.
“I am not your father.”
Claire looks up and almost laughs. Because he is, her father. He’s standing there and the stag is with them and she doesn’t understand why this doesn’t mean something to him right now.
The stag presses its nose to her again and keeps it there, focusing on her.
“Dad -”
“I am not your father,” he repeats. A hand comes up to rest on the neck of the stag and one of its legs quivers. Claire reaches out to comfort it, feeling sick.
“But it’s here. It’s here and…and you’re not…”
“I am not your father.” And for some reason, this sticks. Claire blinks and understands that this is the truth. And when she looks up at the stag, she realizes that she’s looking at someone she knows. She covers her mouth to hold back a noise that she isn’t sure won’t wake her mother. She wonders why no one else is awake, why no one saw the robbery of her father’s body and did nothing to stop it.
“Who -”
“Stand up. Stand up and speak.” The man-who-is-not-Jimmy curls a gentle hand around her arm. Claire holds herself steady against the stag.
Against her father.
“Don’t fear me. I’ve only come to help.”
“My dad -”
“He is safe.” The hand strokes the stag’s neck. Claire suppresses a shiver.
“You’re Castiel,” she murmurs, repeating a name she’s heard her father say a thousand times. “You’re the angel.” Castiel nods, continuing to stroke the stag’s back. “You took him.”
“I did not. He is here.” The stag paws at the ground.
“He’ll die.”
“Claire.” Castiel looks at her sharply, with the hint of a smile on his lips. “You know better than that.” Claire blushes and trails her fingers along sharp, wide antlers. The stag arches into her touch. “It’s time to go.”
“Wait -”
“I have waited. For several weeks, I’ve waited. The world, however cannot. Say good bye to your father, Claire.”
She wants to scream, This isn’t fair, I didn’t say you could take him - But Castiel is already half-way down the walk and the stag is beginning to follow. “Dad -” Castiel’s head snaps around so quickly, Claire flinches.
“Don’t follow,” is all he says, before disappearing completely. The stag remains still and watches Claire from an uncomfortable distance. For a moment, they watch one another. Claire is so tempted to run after him. He looks like the post card. He looks like Claire’s dreams and her games. She could keep him here, with her. And no one would ever find him. No one would ever know him or see him but her.
And maybe he knows what she’s thinking, maybe he doesn’t - but the stag turns away. Her father turns away. He disappears into the thick of trees across the road. Claire loses track of the contrast between stag and forest and, eventually, she sees nothing but shadows.
In the morning, Claire takes the post card from its hiding place. She pulls apart an old picture frame and tugs out one likeness of her father and trades it for another. She wonders if she’s doing him a disservice by not chasing after him, but Claire knows - she would never win that joy from the chase. It would never be enough for her, like it is for some. And so she waits for the stag to come to her. Maybe it’s bad luck. Maybe she’s young and foolish. But she waits anyway. For the stag or for Castiel, she doesn’t know. She just waits.
notes: spawned from a fabulous tumblr discussion. claire and jimmy nurse an obsession with deer. when castiel comes for her father, he brings the white stag with him.
Claire’s first memory is of a book, larger than she is, spread out on the floor in front of her father. “You see, these are true deer,” he explains, and Claire murmurs the words aloud and Jimmy laughs. Amelia is baking in the kitchen, watching them as she puts a pie in the oven, coming around the corner to sit behind her husband and watch Claire trace antlers with clumsy fingers.
Jimmy is a working man and he works hard so Amelia can stay home and be with Claire. But every Sunday he takes his daughter into the woods not far from their home and they wait. Their backs against some fallen tree, they wait and watch and listen. Claire learns to be so quiet she can hear the wind blow over the leaves a mile away. Her father is so good at this, and he always sees them first. “There, baby. You see it? Right there?” And he’s so patient and quiet and Claire always finds them a second later, before catching sight of a white tail bounding off into the thick of the forest. “A good day,” he always says as they get in the truck. “Real good day.”
Claire is a deer for Halloween when she is four and again each year after that. She goes to parties in her classroom dressed this way and the mothers all wonder why Claire didn’t want to be a fairy or a princess or, for the love of God, a pumpkin for Christ’s sake. And they talk about Amelia like she isn’t there and Claire stamps her feet and hides in the bathroom while her mother tries to explain that sometimes people just don’t understand. “Come on out, baby. And we’ll go get an ice cream instead.”
One of her early memories is being seated in a booth at Dairy Queen wearing a large pair of felt deer antlers, vanilla ice cream dripping down her chin.
Jimmy has a post card that he found on a foreign exchange trip to Ireland. It’s yellowed, but the brightness of the photo hasn’t changed. “It’s the White Stag,” he explains to Claire. She leans over his shoulder, her hair falling into the picture. He parts it like a curtain and holds it up to her. “Do you like it?”
“Have you seen one?” she immediately asks, because she knows from the picture that this is Something Special. Her father frowns.
“No. I haven’t. I’d like to though.” He stares at the picture for a long time before handing it to Claire. “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” She nods, trying to be as careful with it as possible. When it’s time for bed, Jimmy takes the postcard and tucks it away and Claire watches from behind the door.
When her father is out and her mother is resting on the couch, Claire finds the card in its hiding place and looks at it for a long while. In her games, she is looking for the stag, but she never finds it - it wouldn’t be fair, she reasons, to find it before her father.
Claire outgrows a lot of things, but she never outgrows this. Sketched along the side of her notebooks - antlers and hooves and the profiles of the deer she grew up watching. The White Stag on the inside of every book cover, hiding from her constantly. The felt antlers she wore as a child, still adorning her head every Halloween.
She spreads different books on the carpet now, engrossed by the details she didn’t pick up on when she was younger. Claire never tells her father he won’t find a White Stag in Pontiac - but she suspects he already knows that. The post card is still nestled in its hiding place, and Claire only looks at it sometimes.
Claire wonders if she sees the deer before her father does. The White Stag coming so gracefully up the walk, it’s antlers wide enough to maybe hold the image of Christ within it. Claire is so well versed in the history of this creature, a hundred reasons why she’s seeing it now, of all times, come to her.
All the strange moments in the kitchen, being hurried out by her mother because her father’s done something to upset them all again. Talk of pills and medicine and dammit Jimmy this isn’t just about you - Claire shakes them all from her head and runs down the stairs.
When she throws open the door her father and the stag are still there, in different places now. The stag turns it head toward Claire and bows it, almost in shame. Her father is watching curiously from the middle of the walk, flexing his hands experimentally.
“It came,” is all she manages before dropping to her knees and cupping the side of the stag’s face in her hands. It moves closer, eyes glowing with something familiar, nose bumping her forehead almost carelessly. “Dad, it came.” And the stag presses its nose to her forehead again and Claire wonders if it’s trying to tell her something, something important.
“I am not your father.”
Claire looks up and almost laughs. Because he is, her father. He’s standing there and the stag is with them and she doesn’t understand why this doesn’t mean something to him right now.
The stag presses its nose to her again and keeps it there, focusing on her.
“Dad -”
“I am not your father,” he repeats. A hand comes up to rest on the neck of the stag and one of its legs quivers. Claire reaches out to comfort it, feeling sick.
“But it’s here. It’s here and…and you’re not…”
“I am not your father.” And for some reason, this sticks. Claire blinks and understands that this is the truth. And when she looks up at the stag, she realizes that she’s looking at someone she knows. She covers her mouth to hold back a noise that she isn’t sure won’t wake her mother. She wonders why no one else is awake, why no one saw the robbery of her father’s body and did nothing to stop it.
“Who -”
“Stand up. Stand up and speak.” The man-who-is-not-Jimmy curls a gentle hand around her arm. Claire holds herself steady against the stag.
Against her father.
“Don’t fear me. I’ve only come to help.”
“My dad -”
“He is safe.” The hand strokes the stag’s neck. Claire suppresses a shiver.
“You’re Castiel,” she murmurs, repeating a name she’s heard her father say a thousand times. “You’re the angel.” Castiel nods, continuing to stroke the stag’s back. “You took him.”
“I did not. He is here.” The stag paws at the ground.
“He’ll die.”
“Claire.” Castiel looks at her sharply, with the hint of a smile on his lips. “You know better than that.” Claire blushes and trails her fingers along sharp, wide antlers. The stag arches into her touch. “It’s time to go.”
“Wait -”
“I have waited. For several weeks, I’ve waited. The world, however cannot. Say good bye to your father, Claire.”
She wants to scream, This isn’t fair, I didn’t say you could take him - But Castiel is already half-way down the walk and the stag is beginning to follow. “Dad -” Castiel’s head snaps around so quickly, Claire flinches.
“Don’t follow,” is all he says, before disappearing completely. The stag remains still and watches Claire from an uncomfortable distance. For a moment, they watch one another. Claire is so tempted to run after him. He looks like the post card. He looks like Claire’s dreams and her games. She could keep him here, with her. And no one would ever find him. No one would ever know him or see him but her.
And maybe he knows what she’s thinking, maybe he doesn’t - but the stag turns away. Her father turns away. He disappears into the thick of trees across the road. Claire loses track of the contrast between stag and forest and, eventually, she sees nothing but shadows.
In the morning, Claire takes the post card from its hiding place. She pulls apart an old picture frame and tugs out one likeness of her father and trades it for another. She wonders if she’s doing him a disservice by not chasing after him, but Claire knows - she would never win that joy from the chase. It would never be enough for her, like it is for some. And so she waits for the stag to come to her. Maybe it’s bad luck. Maybe she’s young and foolish. But she waits anyway. For the stag or for Castiel, she doesn’t know. She just waits.