Hoping to fill the vast lack of Diamondshipping fanfiction, last night I typed up this little ball of angst... Enjoy.
(Umm, Delia, obviously.)
*********************************
You have your father's eyes, you know.
I don't know how many times I've told him that, or how many times I've thought it, but it's true. And every time lately, the same response.
"Whatever, Mom."
He's growing up so fast, isn't he?
Almost makes me cry. Every "whatever" cuts straight to my soul. He has no idea how much it means.
But who am I to blame him? He never really knew his father.
His father's eyes.
He has them, yes, but they're different. His eyes haven't seen all his father's have seen, not yet, at least. He hasn't seen the blood, the pain, the corruption that power eventually brings. The things that no mother wants their child to ever see.
And they haven't seen his own father.
It's for the best, I want to remind myself. We both agreed that he'd be better off with just me. And in some ways, he is. But is it really better?
Such a difficult choice, that. Force him to spend his childhood deprived of his father, or put him in the line of harm that might result from that knowledge?
Impossible, right?
Sometimes the best choices are the most painful.
I look at all the photos on the mantle, and realize that one day he will realize exactly what I mean. The day he'll have to make a choice of his own, to follow in his father's footsteps, or continue down his own road.
My heart aches for that day. I know it will inevitably come, and all will be revealed to him. All there is to do now is sit and wait. No use worrying about the future.
Maybe he'll make the right decision, maybe he won't. I'm not even sure what the right decision is at this point. There are no easy answers in life. And there are no ways to return to the past.
Except for the four little words I promised to give the boy that day nine years ago. And I still haven't given them to him yet.
I pick up the phone.
"Mom?"
"I just wanted to give you something... from your dad."
"What's that?"
I pause. So much weight is traveling on these words, but he won't realize what they're worth until that one day. But I know, and that's all that really matters.
"Ash, I love you."
He doesn't say anything for about a minute. Then he finally speaks.
"...tell him thanks."
He hangs up. I want to cry.
He really does have his father's eyes. And one day, he'll know exactly what I mean.
I, personally, can hardly wait.
(Umm, Delia, obviously.)
*********************************
You have your father's eyes, you know.
I don't know how many times I've told him that, or how many times I've thought it, but it's true. And every time lately, the same response.
"Whatever, Mom."
He's growing up so fast, isn't he?
Almost makes me cry. Every "whatever" cuts straight to my soul. He has no idea how much it means.
But who am I to blame him? He never really knew his father.
His father's eyes.
He has them, yes, but they're different. His eyes haven't seen all his father's have seen, not yet, at least. He hasn't seen the blood, the pain, the corruption that power eventually brings. The things that no mother wants their child to ever see.
And they haven't seen his own father.
It's for the best, I want to remind myself. We both agreed that he'd be better off with just me. And in some ways, he is. But is it really better?
Such a difficult choice, that. Force him to spend his childhood deprived of his father, or put him in the line of harm that might result from that knowledge?
Impossible, right?
Sometimes the best choices are the most painful.
I look at all the photos on the mantle, and realize that one day he will realize exactly what I mean. The day he'll have to make a choice of his own, to follow in his father's footsteps, or continue down his own road.
My heart aches for that day. I know it will inevitably come, and all will be revealed to him. All there is to do now is sit and wait. No use worrying about the future.
Maybe he'll make the right decision, maybe he won't. I'm not even sure what the right decision is at this point. There are no easy answers in life. And there are no ways to return to the past.
Except for the four little words I promised to give the boy that day nine years ago. And I still haven't given them to him yet.
I pick up the phone.
"Mom?"
"I just wanted to give you something... from your dad."
"What's that?"
I pause. So much weight is traveling on these words, but he won't realize what they're worth until that one day. But I know, and that's all that really matters.
"Ash, I love you."
He doesn't say anything for about a minute. Then he finally speaks.
"...tell him thanks."
He hangs up. I want to cry.
He really does have his father's eyes. And one day, he'll know exactly what I mean.
I, personally, can hardly wait.
