kidfic for LYRA
14/2/05 21:19![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
schmericaOkay, so February 15th = the date on the East Coast = the birthday of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lyra_sena! Lyra is not only a fantabulous beta and encouraging in all things, she's all funny and talented and generally AWESOME as HECK. I feel lucky to have her around, and I hope her birthday is, of course, as kick-ass as she deserves.
In honor of her day, I present: more of the damned kidfic.
[Backing up for people who are not Lyra: in September 2004, I posted a due South story called How Many Ways, which was basically Ray + Fraser + their kid. Since then, I've written a couple more small pieces in the same universe -- a piece for Dira's birthday, a writing exercise, and stuff to cheer up sick Nifra. The stuff behind the cut tag is pretty much not going to be at all meaningful if you have not read at least the first story, if not all four.]
lynnmonster and estrella30 did wonderful short-notice betas. They're pretty.
*****
SELECTED EXCERPTS FROM THE UNPOSTED CORRESPONDENCE OF BENTON FRASER
Excerpt from August 23, 2003
Today we brought you home.
I slept poorly last night. I stayed up long past the time when Ray had fallen asleep beside me, my arms folded across my chest, staring at the ceiling. What on earth did we think we were doing? I wondered. It had been my idea, for us to adopt a child. My dreams of a family had already come true over the last few years: I had Diefenbaker; I had a sister; I had Ray, who had sacrificed so much to be here with me, and was about to sacrifice more for your care. Was it really any more than a selfish whim for me to demand this, as well? Could the two of us honestly raise a child? Properly? Ray, I felt, had the makings of a good father, but I wasn't so sure about myself. And then there was the question of a mother; surely every child deserves one, but we were taking away that opportunity. You're not an infant, but you're still young enough to find a home easily, perhaps with people more deserving than we are.
These thoughts, and others like them, disturbed my sleep all through the night. This morning Ray was vibrating across our room, filled with energy and excitement. I felt stunned, almost ill, and we were in the car and halfway to you before I came back to myself. Ray told me to stop "freaking out," but that's easier said than done.
As soon as I saw you, though. As soon as I saw you all my qualms deserted me.
It may well be selfish. But I don't care, I don't care. You are ours, you are mine, we are yours. Perhaps others could do it for you better, but I doubt they could love you and care for you as earnestly, as ardently, as sincerely, as Ray and I will.
Perhaps that devotion will make up, then, for our deficiencies. It must.
The two of us -- three of us, really, Dief being right on our heels -- just spent a ridiculous amount of time standing beside your bed, watching you sleep. We managed to keep from jostling for position before you, for the best view, but I believe it was only fear of waking you again that stopped us. Any move could be a wrong one. We were acting as though you were a time bomb, or a landmine -- but Ray and I have both faced those more than once in our careers. You are something different, something wholly new.
Excerpt from September 4, 2003
Ray brought home a package today, from town. It was addressed to the both of us, from his parents in Arizona. Really, though, the package was for you; it was you all the contents were geared towards.
There were a great deal of clothes, many of which seemed completely impractical, all of which Ray said had been rounded up from all his various cousins and relations whose children had grown out of them. He claimed to be surprised his mother hadn't sent along his cousin Sharon's crib, but then the cost of shipping that would have been prohibitive.
The package had also included a small blanket, knit by Mrs. Kowalski, and a small stuffed toy. It was a polar bear, a fact Ray seemed to find amusing to a rather annoying degree.
Mrs. Kowalski sent along a baby book, as well. She had written in your name -- Caroline Emily Kowalski Fraser -- in a round, neat cursive, alongside your birthday. Looking through the book, I realized many of the pages wouldn't apply to you -- you've already had your first words, your first step, your first haircut.
We had our own lives before you came, as well. What's pertinent is that all of us are here now.
Excerpt from January 17, 2004
Watching you and Dief play in the snow -- you shrieking with glee, him frolicking like a pup -- I felt something in my chest, heavy and unknown. For a moment I couldn't breathe.
This, of course, was the moment Ray chose to attack, pushing me into the snow after you both. I have never met anyone as skilled at catching me off my guard.
I regained my balance before I fell, snatching you as you clomped past me in your snowboots. You shrieked again, giggling almost hysterically as I raised you up, even more as I made the puffin face for you and twirled you in the air.
I had never realized before today just how happiness could hit as a shock, almost as if it were a physical blow.
Excerpt from May 20, 2006
I don't know precisely why I write you these letters. They're more for me than they are for you, I suppose, these small markings, these stones I put up to measure the passing of your childhood.
I don't know if you'll ever actually read these. Perhaps when you're older, old enough to understand. Perhaps when I'm dead. Perhaps never.
Yesterday was Buck Frobisher's funeral. You had never met Buck, not when you were old enough to remember, and at any rate, death isn't a particularly meaningful concept for a child your age. You sat next to Ray, wide-eyed and silent for the whole service. It was the uniform that captivated you, I believe -- you've seen me in it only on rare occasions, and never so many men and women dressed so at once.
I gave you my Stetson to wear on the drive home today, and you laughed and entertained yourself with it in the backseat in between curious questions to Ray. I stared out the window while Ray drove us.
If I were to die, I hope that Ray would take you back to the States. He could care for you better there, I think. There's no meaningful reason to remain here. You'd both be better off there, with friends and family to help. You both would manage.
If Ray were to die, I have no idea what we would do.
Ray insists these thoughts are morbid of me, which I don't deny. But they're practical as well.
Excerpt from April 11, 2008
I'm getting older. This shouldn't be a surprise to me, but it's sneaking up on me more and more quickly now. All of us are aging -- you're halfway done with girlhood now, I can see the silver sneaking in among the gold in Ray's hair, and Diefenbaker can barely keep up anymore. Mostly I can feel it in my body, though. I'm getting slower, less agile, more tired, and my back and my eyes aren't what they once were. For now, I can still handle things as well as ever, but in a few years I won't have a choice anymore. The exile behind a desk strikes me as a harder blow to bear than exile to Chicago, somehow.
I wish I could explain it to you, my work, but I don't think I can. It's not simply a profession, an occupation for me; it's a necessity, a central part of who I am. There are days when I am out there when everything is gone from my head but that exact moment, nothing but the thrill and adrenaline of the chase, nothing but the pursuit of justice and knowledge of right.
I come home after one of those cases, and it takes me by surprise each time. You, and Ray, and home, and all these things that I never expected, all there laid out before me. It's like stepping into another world. As if I took a different step somewhere along my way, and came to find you all here waiting for me.
I'm not explaining this well. It's not that I forget you, you understand. I could never do that.
Excerpt from September 26, 2009
I miss Diefenbaker. I hope you know that. Or if you don't, yet, that you will in time. You haven't spoken to me in several days, but I know you miss him too. If focusing your anger on me helps you with your grief, so be it. It's not as though anything you said to me was untrue.
I do what I think right. That's all anyone can do.
Excerpt from July 7, 2012
This morning Ray and I were kissing against the doorframe to the kitchen. We were both up early, and I had just put his coffee on to brew. Neither of us were expecting you to be up for quite a while, so your sudden presence caught us off guard. Your loud noises of disgust caught our attention, and we split apart, turning to you. You grinned at us both and made a pointed remark about mushiness, grossness and good taste, before slipping past us into the kitchen to get a glass of water.
Ray found the entire exchange hilarious, snickering over it throughout the day, and I have to admit, it's fairly amusing. The truth is, though I've never really thought it through before, we rarely exchange physical affection in front of you. Our embraces, our dances, our endearments -- all of these are saved for when we're by ourselves. What Ray and I have has always been a private thing, only between him and me. You've overtaken and come to dominate every part of our life, putting an end to any sort of solitude or privacy or peace -- at our invitation, of course, and certainly to our benefit. But seen in such a light, it's not at all surprising for us to want to save this one thing to be ours alone.
In the essential respects, it's not so different from our relationships with you. I watch you and Ray, sometimes, and I feel helplessly jealous. You two have a bond that doesn't include me, and I'm envious of it. You shout and scream at each other, and five minutes later you've made up, eating junk food on the couch. You speak to each other and it feels as if there's a cipher I can't quite decode; I can't catch up with you. You two race ahead, golden and shining and sharp, and I don't know how to join you.
I don't know if Ray ever feels similarly. I do know I've made a great effort, over the years, to try and hold on, to make these rituals for us to share, to create things to belong only to you and me. Bedtime was mine, Ray willingly taking the time off after caring for you all day; I tucked you in and told you stories up to the point you were old enough to think them beneath you. I taught you how to hunt and track and camp, making sure you knew the beauty and strength of the wilderness of your home. When you were younger, I read to you often. Every time I bring you one of the books I read at your age, it's as though we're sharing a secret.
I suppose any family is made up of these series of individual bonds: you and me, you and Ray, the three of us together, Ray and me. Given your reaction this morning, I highly doubt you mind your exclusion from the latter.
Excerpt from June 14, 2014
Ray has headed outside -- to work on the uneven step, he says, and start on the various yardwork. I'm not certain if it's the forced concentration or simply the physical labor, but after a few hours he should be a more fit companion. We've already bickered several times since we returned home. He's been pacing around incessantly, snapping at me whenever I attempt to reassure him that you're fine. It's a relief to have him out of my hair, frankly.
At any rate, I find myself unaccountably nervous as well. You've flown plenty of times alongside us, and nothing has ever happened to you -- after all, air is one of the safest modes of travel. It's not as though we've never let you out of our sight before, either. And you're a young woman now, intelligent and strong and perfectly capable of fending for yourself. Your plane will arrive safely in Chicago, and your grandparents will be there to pick you up, and you'll have a fine vacation.
I *know* this, but all the same, I'll be just as relieved as Ray when the phone call comes, and we hear your voice telling us you arrived safe and sound.
It was a very odd feeling, standing there with Ray, watching you walk away. Rather unnerving, in fact. Still, you're not grown yet, not completely. In two weeks we'll stand there again and watch you return.
lyra_sena! Lyra is not only a fantabulous beta and encouraging in all things, she's all funny and talented and generally AWESOME as HECK. I feel lucky to have her around, and I hope her birthday is, of course, as kick-ass as she deserves.In honor of her day, I present: more of the damned kidfic.
[Backing up for people who are not Lyra: in September 2004, I posted a due South story called How Many Ways, which was basically Ray + Fraser + their kid. Since then, I've written a couple more small pieces in the same universe -- a piece for Dira's birthday, a writing exercise, and stuff to cheer up sick Nifra. The stuff behind the cut tag is pretty much not going to be at all meaningful if you have not read at least the first story, if not all four.]
lynnmonster and estrella30 did wonderful short-notice betas. They're pretty.*****
SELECTED EXCERPTS FROM THE UNPOSTED CORRESPONDENCE OF BENTON FRASER
Excerpt from August 23, 2003
Today we brought you home.
I slept poorly last night. I stayed up long past the time when Ray had fallen asleep beside me, my arms folded across my chest, staring at the ceiling. What on earth did we think we were doing? I wondered. It had been my idea, for us to adopt a child. My dreams of a family had already come true over the last few years: I had Diefenbaker; I had a sister; I had Ray, who had sacrificed so much to be here with me, and was about to sacrifice more for your care. Was it really any more than a selfish whim for me to demand this, as well? Could the two of us honestly raise a child? Properly? Ray, I felt, had the makings of a good father, but I wasn't so sure about myself. And then there was the question of a mother; surely every child deserves one, but we were taking away that opportunity. You're not an infant, but you're still young enough to find a home easily, perhaps with people more deserving than we are.
These thoughts, and others like them, disturbed my sleep all through the night. This morning Ray was vibrating across our room, filled with energy and excitement. I felt stunned, almost ill, and we were in the car and halfway to you before I came back to myself. Ray told me to stop "freaking out," but that's easier said than done.
As soon as I saw you, though. As soon as I saw you all my qualms deserted me.
It may well be selfish. But I don't care, I don't care. You are ours, you are mine, we are yours. Perhaps others could do it for you better, but I doubt they could love you and care for you as earnestly, as ardently, as sincerely, as Ray and I will.
Perhaps that devotion will make up, then, for our deficiencies. It must.
The two of us -- three of us, really, Dief being right on our heels -- just spent a ridiculous amount of time standing beside your bed, watching you sleep. We managed to keep from jostling for position before you, for the best view, but I believe it was only fear of waking you again that stopped us. Any move could be a wrong one. We were acting as though you were a time bomb, or a landmine -- but Ray and I have both faced those more than once in our careers. You are something different, something wholly new.
Excerpt from September 4, 2003
Ray brought home a package today, from town. It was addressed to the both of us, from his parents in Arizona. Really, though, the package was for you; it was you all the contents were geared towards.
There were a great deal of clothes, many of which seemed completely impractical, all of which Ray said had been rounded up from all his various cousins and relations whose children had grown out of them. He claimed to be surprised his mother hadn't sent along his cousin Sharon's crib, but then the cost of shipping that would have been prohibitive.
The package had also included a small blanket, knit by Mrs. Kowalski, and a small stuffed toy. It was a polar bear, a fact Ray seemed to find amusing to a rather annoying degree.
Mrs. Kowalski sent along a baby book, as well. She had written in your name -- Caroline Emily Kowalski Fraser -- in a round, neat cursive, alongside your birthday. Looking through the book, I realized many of the pages wouldn't apply to you -- you've already had your first words, your first step, your first haircut.
We had our own lives before you came, as well. What's pertinent is that all of us are here now.
Excerpt from January 17, 2004
Watching you and Dief play in the snow -- you shrieking with glee, him frolicking like a pup -- I felt something in my chest, heavy and unknown. For a moment I couldn't breathe.
This, of course, was the moment Ray chose to attack, pushing me into the snow after you both. I have never met anyone as skilled at catching me off my guard.
I regained my balance before I fell, snatching you as you clomped past me in your snowboots. You shrieked again, giggling almost hysterically as I raised you up, even more as I made the puffin face for you and twirled you in the air.
I had never realized before today just how happiness could hit as a shock, almost as if it were a physical blow.
Excerpt from May 20, 2006
I don't know precisely why I write you these letters. They're more for me than they are for you, I suppose, these small markings, these stones I put up to measure the passing of your childhood.
I don't know if you'll ever actually read these. Perhaps when you're older, old enough to understand. Perhaps when I'm dead. Perhaps never.
Yesterday was Buck Frobisher's funeral. You had never met Buck, not when you were old enough to remember, and at any rate, death isn't a particularly meaningful concept for a child your age. You sat next to Ray, wide-eyed and silent for the whole service. It was the uniform that captivated you, I believe -- you've seen me in it only on rare occasions, and never so many men and women dressed so at once.
I gave you my Stetson to wear on the drive home today, and you laughed and entertained yourself with it in the backseat in between curious questions to Ray. I stared out the window while Ray drove us.
If I were to die, I hope that Ray would take you back to the States. He could care for you better there, I think. There's no meaningful reason to remain here. You'd both be better off there, with friends and family to help. You both would manage.
If Ray were to die, I have no idea what we would do.
Ray insists these thoughts are morbid of me, which I don't deny. But they're practical as well.
Excerpt from April 11, 2008
I'm getting older. This shouldn't be a surprise to me, but it's sneaking up on me more and more quickly now. All of us are aging -- you're halfway done with girlhood now, I can see the silver sneaking in among the gold in Ray's hair, and Diefenbaker can barely keep up anymore. Mostly I can feel it in my body, though. I'm getting slower, less agile, more tired, and my back and my eyes aren't what they once were. For now, I can still handle things as well as ever, but in a few years I won't have a choice anymore. The exile behind a desk strikes me as a harder blow to bear than exile to Chicago, somehow.
I wish I could explain it to you, my work, but I don't think I can. It's not simply a profession, an occupation for me; it's a necessity, a central part of who I am. There are days when I am out there when everything is gone from my head but that exact moment, nothing but the thrill and adrenaline of the chase, nothing but the pursuit of justice and knowledge of right.
I come home after one of those cases, and it takes me by surprise each time. You, and Ray, and home, and all these things that I never expected, all there laid out before me. It's like stepping into another world. As if I took a different step somewhere along my way, and came to find you all here waiting for me.
I'm not explaining this well. It's not that I forget you, you understand. I could never do that.
Excerpt from September 26, 2009
I miss Diefenbaker. I hope you know that. Or if you don't, yet, that you will in time. You haven't spoken to me in several days, but I know you miss him too. If focusing your anger on me helps you with your grief, so be it. It's not as though anything you said to me was untrue.
I do what I think right. That's all anyone can do.
Excerpt from July 7, 2012
This morning Ray and I were kissing against the doorframe to the kitchen. We were both up early, and I had just put his coffee on to brew. Neither of us were expecting you to be up for quite a while, so your sudden presence caught us off guard. Your loud noises of disgust caught our attention, and we split apart, turning to you. You grinned at us both and made a pointed remark about mushiness, grossness and good taste, before slipping past us into the kitchen to get a glass of water.
Ray found the entire exchange hilarious, snickering over it throughout the day, and I have to admit, it's fairly amusing. The truth is, though I've never really thought it through before, we rarely exchange physical affection in front of you. Our embraces, our dances, our endearments -- all of these are saved for when we're by ourselves. What Ray and I have has always been a private thing, only between him and me. You've overtaken and come to dominate every part of our life, putting an end to any sort of solitude or privacy or peace -- at our invitation, of course, and certainly to our benefit. But seen in such a light, it's not at all surprising for us to want to save this one thing to be ours alone.
In the essential respects, it's not so different from our relationships with you. I watch you and Ray, sometimes, and I feel helplessly jealous. You two have a bond that doesn't include me, and I'm envious of it. You shout and scream at each other, and five minutes later you've made up, eating junk food on the couch. You speak to each other and it feels as if there's a cipher I can't quite decode; I can't catch up with you. You two race ahead, golden and shining and sharp, and I don't know how to join you.
I don't know if Ray ever feels similarly. I do know I've made a great effort, over the years, to try and hold on, to make these rituals for us to share, to create things to belong only to you and me. Bedtime was mine, Ray willingly taking the time off after caring for you all day; I tucked you in and told you stories up to the point you were old enough to think them beneath you. I taught you how to hunt and track and camp, making sure you knew the beauty and strength of the wilderness of your home. When you were younger, I read to you often. Every time I bring you one of the books I read at your age, it's as though we're sharing a secret.
I suppose any family is made up of these series of individual bonds: you and me, you and Ray, the three of us together, Ray and me. Given your reaction this morning, I highly doubt you mind your exclusion from the latter.
Excerpt from June 14, 2014
Ray has headed outside -- to work on the uneven step, he says, and start on the various yardwork. I'm not certain if it's the forced concentration or simply the physical labor, but after a few hours he should be a more fit companion. We've already bickered several times since we returned home. He's been pacing around incessantly, snapping at me whenever I attempt to reassure him that you're fine. It's a relief to have him out of my hair, frankly.
At any rate, I find myself unaccountably nervous as well. You've flown plenty of times alongside us, and nothing has ever happened to you -- after all, air is one of the safest modes of travel. It's not as though we've never let you out of our sight before, either. And you're a young woman now, intelligent and strong and perfectly capable of fending for yourself. Your plane will arrive safely in Chicago, and your grandparents will be there to pick you up, and you'll have a fine vacation.
I *know* this, but all the same, I'll be just as relieved as Ray when the phone call comes, and we hear your voice telling us you arrived safe and sound.
It was a very odd feeling, standing there with Ray, watching you walk away. Rather unnerving, in fact. Still, you're not grown yet, not completely. In two weeks we'll stand there again and watch you return.
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(no subject)
15/2/05 05:42 (UTC)(no subject)
17/2/05 00:14 (UTC)(no subject)
15/2/05 06:16 (UTC)I love it. Oh I just love it so very much!!! ALL FOR ME!!! I love Carrie, and how you capture this beautiful family together, and I love how you've tied this into How Many Ways, and and and
I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!!!
*twirls you* Thank you. Thank you so much, sweetie. I love you, and this is a fabulous birthday fic.
(no subject)
17/2/05 00:14 (UTC)(no subject)
15/2/05 06:41 (UTC)(no subject)
17/2/05 00:14 (UTC)(no subject)
15/2/05 10:26 (UTC)(no subject)
17/2/05 00:14 (UTC)(no subject)
15/2/05 10:52 (UTC)(no subject)
17/2/05 00:14 (UTC)(no subject)
15/2/05 11:17 (UTC)Dad and Daddy is great too - just the right choice for them.
(no subject)
17/2/05 00:15 (UTC)(no subject)
15/2/05 13:36 (UTC)You already know how much I love this, but man, I LOVE THIS!!!
Personally, *I* think you need to write a story in this universe for EVERYONES birthday. *nods seriously*
(no subject)
17/2/05 00:15 (UTC)(no subject)
15/2/05 14:16 (UTC)(no subject)
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15/2/05 14:39 (UTC)(no subject)
17/2/05 00:16 (UTC)(no subject)
15/2/05 15:04 (UTC)This rocks! You rock!
*loves on you*
(no subject)
17/2/05 00:16 (UTC)(no subject)
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17/2/05 05:49 (UTC)i'm'a join all the other comments in stating my love for the good kidfic. so i adore all the snippets/stories in your carrie arc. but i couldn't hold back from commenting on this one, what with the perfection of the fraser-voice: his musings, his feelings, his writing, all of it spot-on. thank you - tally
(no subject)
17/2/05 17:09 (UTC)