caradoc 'ginger aragorn' dearborn (ex_blackswan62) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2008-12-24 10:15:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | ! [1979-12] december, caradoc dearborn, meaghan dearborn (née mccormack) |
RP Log: Meaghan and Caradoc
Who: Meaghan and Caradoc
Where: Their sekrit little Irish house.
What: Meaghan drops the A Bomb on the Hiroshima that is Caradoc's brain.
When: Early morning, 24 December
Rating: I rate it fabulous, but it's also G.
Status: Complete
****************************************
It had started as a weird, generalized nagging in the back of her brain, a vague feeling that something wasn't there that should have been. That was a week ago now--it had taken her two days to realize that she was even late, and then another two days to wait for it to come. Because it had to come. Monday night she had drawn out the calendars and then spent a good forty minutes staring at the dates, willing them to change, willing them to not be so telling. Monday night passed in silence, and then Tuesday morning she had forced herself to go to the chemist and get the test, which she was sure would be negative, because it had to be negative. Whatever force was behind the universe she lived in, there was no way it could be this cruel--there was no way she could be bringing a child into the world when it was this dark, with a man who had nearly died from losing a child and would surely not take this news well.
But it was positive, and the world was that crazy. It was positive and the three tests that followed it were as well. She had let that truth sit like a rock in the pit of her stomach all day, and now it was Christmas Eve Morning and she had to tell him. Well, Happy Christmas to all. Exactly what everyone didn't want to happen was happening.
It was early yet, the sun was just rising and Kirley was still fast asleep. She had been outside for nearly a half hour, watching the sun come up, murky behind the gray of the winter morning. There was snow on the ground and it was cold in their back garden. It has probably happened here, damn it. How could she be so foolish?
She sighed, watching her breath turn to vapour and float away to join the chill of the morning. Another breath, and then a firm, decisive nod of her head. Now or never. She turned and walked back into the house.
There was something sacred about the mornings in this house. Caradoc enjoyed the hushed, reverent atmosphere and imagined even the thrushes to hold off, waiting for the perfect moment for light to come spilling over the horizon so that their song could fill the frosty air.
But it was Christmas. The first holiday he had actually looked forward to since Marion died; the first holiday that promised all that a holiday should. This time he had a family with which to celebrate.
So he was there, draped over his favourite chair in the parlour. Four stockings hung from the mantel to be filled and the Christmas tree glittered with Muggle and Wizarding ornaments alike. He curled his fingertips around the morning Prophet and slid his reading spectacles into place.
Well, at least he was already sitting down. She hesitated in the doorway of the sitting room, taking in the quaint picture he made, sitting there among the decorations. She had never expected that Christmas this year would be one to look forward to, and until the last few days it certainly had been. Kirley actually seemed happy, or as happy as anyone could hope he would be. She had made certain to get him everything he had asked for and then some--perhaps it was spoiling him, but the child deserved it.
Mustering her courage, she pushed off of the door frame and crossed the room, pushing the nearest hassock in front of his chair and taking a seat, settling down in front of him, reaching out a hand to rest on his knee. He looked so calm, just then, so assured. She knew that he loved her and Kirley, that he would do what was right, but would he be happy? Could he ever forgive her? 'I have something I need to tell you."
The soft, easy smile that spread across his lips as she entered was predicated by a furrowing of his brow. She sounded grave ... upset. Had someone else died? His jaw clenched and he sat forward, covering her hand with his own. "Alright."
She laced her fingers through his, her faith in his love and her fear of his rejection battling inside of her. If she was going to say it, she was going to say it. No amount of preamble could
soften this blow. Her voice was just above a whisper, like she was forcing the words out but they didn't want to be heard. "I'm pregnant."
Oh. He sat back slowly, looking beyond Meaghan's shoulder, staring at the wall with a look of blank shock. Pregnant. As there was no question of paternity - only, perhaps, doom - every intelligible response stopped up in his throat. What were they doing? Who did they think they were? How could they have been ...
He knew he had merely thought lightning couldn't strike twice. But Meaghan seemed to, in all matters, defy his understanding of the universe. And he couldn't help but feel the interminable joy that this admission brought, even as he wrestled with every dark possibility. Their own child. A little life. Another chance.
She stayed silent, watchful, as he processed the news. She remembered, suddenly, that night in his old flat, when she had come to him after they had kissed, stubbornly refusing to believe that he could say no to her, the night they had began because she had been silent then, letting him work through his anguish as she tore through his defenses. He had turned to her then and never looked back. She could only hope that now he could find it within himself to do the same. She waited for him to speak, her hand white from how tightly she clung to him.
A full sixty seconds - maybe longer, he thought perhaps a lifetime - passed between her confession and the vocalisation of his response. The smile that had begun their little talk slowly spread back over his face as he focused his gaze upon her.
"Meaghan," was hushed, as reverent as the birds who had begun to break into song. He pulled her into his lap. "Meaghan, my love. How long have you known?"
A rush of relief burst through her anxiety at the sight of his smile, the expression on his face. In his lap, she buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, tears spawned from the release of great emotion spilling from her eyes, wetting his shirt. "Since yesterday morning." Her breath came in gulps, and she was sobbing, though she smiled with joy. "I was so afraid you'd be angry."
Cradling her in his arms, his lips found her temple as he soothingly rubbed the small of her back. Wet shirts were not even on his radar as he shifted and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, pressing it into the hollow left between his neck and her face. "Angry?" was bemused, "I'm not an automaton, love. You taught me that bad things don't continue to happen with perpetuity. You taught me that running was no longer an option. We're going to square up to this and come out the better. We're going to be parents."
She lifted her head, wiping at eyes with the proffered scrap of cloth. She probably looked absolutely miserable, but she felt fantastic. Knowing that he was going to be okay--that he was going to be happy--pushed away every worry and helped her realize that she felt amazing. She was going to have a child, and it was going to be his. Their family, however odd and unconventional it may be, was going to work. "I just didn't want you to be afraid." Her free hand came up and brushed the side of his head, pushing his hair back and cradling his face. "I never want to cause you any hurt."
"You never will," he murmured, biting his lip as he considered the way she had seemed to internalise Marion and Fiona's death as something ... "And you never could. I was always more fearful that the pain would go in the opposite direction."
"Pain?" She laughed, finally brushing away the last of the tears. "I feel bloody fantastic.
I haven't been sick, I had no idea about any of this until I was late. My body takes very kindly to your seed."
" ... my seed?" was just slightly incredulous - did she actually say seed? But he laughed, kissing her full and firm on the mouth. "We have to tell Kirley and Mum. But, hmm. No-one else."
She laughed. "Seed," repeated with extra emphasis. "I'm not used to saying your child yet." She stopped moving her hand and just cupped his face, her thumb stroking along his cheekbone. "Definitely not. Please, half of the people we know don't even know we're together." She pressed her lips together, remembering a bit of the wisdom that is passed from mother to daughter. "We should wait a little longer before telling your mum and Kirley. It's...early yet. I'm only about six weeks." She didn't want to say why it was generally thought a couple should wait to tell anyone about a pregnancy--he would be familiar, and it didn't need to be said out loud. "I'm going to be fine. We're going to be fine."
A nod acknowledged their silent understanding of the situation even as stealthily he slid a warm palm over her still-flat belly. "All of us."
A smile of reassurance, then her eyes dropped to where he pressed his hand against her. "This probably means I can't go running anymore. Or flying. I'm going to get so fat." She grimaced playfully, shaking her head. "Hopefully not for awhile, though."
He promised himself that, for the most part, he would attempt to resist the urge to smother her with protection of the most pointed kind. Finding it far easier (and wiser) to leave the flying and the running to silence, he smirked and pulled his hand to her hip. "I like a girl with curves."
"I already have curves. Now I'm just going to have this great big belly running around in front of me. And tits the size of Edinburgh." She wiggled a bit in his lap, for effect. "Soon you'll be crushed if I sit on you. The horror!"
"You'll be beautiful," he whispered, breath buzzing against her temple. "I'll be happily - augh! - crushed, a willing sacrifice!"
"Oh, for saying that you had better have the best Christmas present a man ever gave a woman under that tree, Ginger."
"I've got a few tricks up my sleeve, Mama. Don't you doubt me," he said and winked.
Another playful wrinkle of the nose. "Definitely not. Mummy, maybe, or mum. Don't get into that habit, Red."