Daughter AU - Writer

[troublewillfindme]

The last thing her father says to her is “I love you.”

She holds the memory close.

She’ll need it.

–

 

She tells stories. Her aunts and uncles ask about the brother they have never met, and she furnishes them with every detail she can think of. Jack fills in when she inevitably stumbles, and holds her close when the fear of forgetting cuts too deep.

The first notebook is not pretty. Her writing is too big and her letters awkward. But it serves its purpose. If she writes, she cannot forget. She can save it all; she can save them.

–

At night, she cuddles Marvin and K-9, bundled in a nest of blankets. She remembers Saturday mornings and Looney Tunes, and a distinct promise that they would not attempt anything more ambitious than cereal without proper supervision.

She tries to watch without him, but it just leaves her miserable.

–

The years go by. The notebook is revised and re-written time and time again. She does not forget.

–

Jack has a photo album, a small, slim thing bound in leather. She can look through it and tell herself the story behind each and every photo. They fill her with joy and with grief, a kind of longing she at least knows Jack understands.

“What if we never see him again?” She asks when she is ten years old.

“Forever’s an awfully long time, kiddo.”

–

She runs her fingers over the writing on the birthday card sometimes.

She never doubts its message.

–

She is seventeen and thoroughly done with waiting.

“No,” Jack says to her, obviously exhausted.

“He’s not doing anything! He’s just sitting around!”

“I know.”

“Dad’s out there and he’s —“

“I know, Sally.”

“Isn’t someone going to do something? For godsake, let me out there. I’ll find Dad faster.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I’ve got a promise to keep, and I intend to see it through.”

“But things were different when you promised that! He thought he could trust the idiot!”

“That doesn’t change things, kiddo.”

“I’m good; you made sure of that. I can handle things out there!”

“You are,” he says, striking a match. “You’ve got a hell of a skillset. But it doesn’t change a damn thing.”

“So, we’re just gonna sit here?”

Jack can’t look at her.

–

She has lost track of how many notebooks she has written, how many stories she has told and re-told.

She wakes up at night, sometimes, and half-expects to find him there, sitting on the edge of her bed.

–

She considers dropkicking John Bradford when she first meets him, considers smacking about the head with the nearest blunt object she can get her hands on.

“You wanna explain to your dad?” Jack asks, puffing away on a cigarette.

“I dunno; I think Dad might understand.”

“Sally.”

“He’d be livid, but he’d get it.”

“That really what you want to lead with?”

“I don’t care what I lead with; I just want him back.”

–

She doesn’t manage words at first, just clings to him, trying to reassure herself that he is really there.

Dad doesn’t seem to mind, holding her close.

“I was worried you were gonna be disappointed,” she finally manages.

“Why?”

“Because last time you saw me, I was little and cute. And, now, I’m old and grumpy.”

“Sally,” he says, voice gentle. “There are people who would tell you those are defining family traits.”

–

“How’d you remember so much?” He asks her.

“I started writing things down really early,” she explains, settling against him. “Nathaniel gave me the idea. He said if you wrote something down enough and thought about it enough, you wouldn’t forget.” She shrugs. “That’s what I was afraid of, so I just kept writing it down. And re-writing it. I don’t know how many notebooks I went through. I think Jack still has the original — though it’s definitely illegible. Nice handwriting took awhile.”

He wraps her in the closes thing to a hug he can manage. “I missed you.”

“Yeah,” she nods. “I missed you, too.”