Disclaimer: Without a Trace was created by someone else, so that we on
Maple Street (and in many other places) could play with them.
A.N. This story was inspired when I was half-way through illman's latest fic. I wrote what came, and then Anya made it make sense. Much thanks to her, and to Maple Street in general. Bring on the tricycles.
Personally, I would spell Hannah with two h's, but the name on her bed just had one, so that's how it appears.
Spoiler: Generally FOII, but nothing particular.
* * * * *
~Overheard~
I could hear them again. Hanna is a heavy sleeper. She never hears them. Our walls are thick, and my pillow is packed full of feathers (synthetic because of my allergies), but it never seems to be enough.
I was awake that morning when daddy came home. He tucked me in, and I felt so safe that I didn't want to move. I didn't want to open my eyes and tell him how glad I was that he was home. I was happy, and I didn't want to see the pain in his eyes.
The councilor at school tells me it isn't my fault. I know that. But sometimes when I see the pain in daddy's eyes, it is too much for me, and I blame myself. I don't think that he and mom should have to hold it all themselves.
Sometimes Hanna won't talk about daddy and says she doesn't miss him. She's lying. I know it. She was awake that morning too, but daddy didn't notice. She was glad he kissed her, like he used to every night. But she would never tell him that. She would never tell anyone that.
I can still hear them. Always the same. Why are you never here? Don't you love your daughters? Don't you love me? His voice is quiet and he tries to explain. I can't hear the words, just his voice. She can hear the words, but she doesn't listen to them.
I understand him, I think. I know why he is never here. I know that he loves me. I know he loves Hanna. I know he loves mom. But he also loves his job. Mom doesn't like that.
Sometimes I wish that daddy was home more often, but then I see the news and I hear about a little kid who is missing, and I know that my daddy will find him if anyone can. That's what he does. He does it well. He has saved lots of lives, and out lots of bad people away.
He is my father.
He is never here.
He talks quietly, as though to make sure I don't wake up.
If I were missing, I would want him looking for me.
I can't be jealous of other people for that.
* * * * *
~finis~
A.N. This story was inspired when I was half-way through illman's latest fic. I wrote what came, and then Anya made it make sense. Much thanks to her, and to Maple Street in general. Bring on the tricycles.
Personally, I would spell Hannah with two h's, but the name on her bed just had one, so that's how it appears.
Spoiler: Generally FOII, but nothing particular.
* * * * *
~Overheard~
I could hear them again. Hanna is a heavy sleeper. She never hears them. Our walls are thick, and my pillow is packed full of feathers (synthetic because of my allergies), but it never seems to be enough.
I was awake that morning when daddy came home. He tucked me in, and I felt so safe that I didn't want to move. I didn't want to open my eyes and tell him how glad I was that he was home. I was happy, and I didn't want to see the pain in his eyes.
The councilor at school tells me it isn't my fault. I know that. But sometimes when I see the pain in daddy's eyes, it is too much for me, and I blame myself. I don't think that he and mom should have to hold it all themselves.
Sometimes Hanna won't talk about daddy and says she doesn't miss him. She's lying. I know it. She was awake that morning too, but daddy didn't notice. She was glad he kissed her, like he used to every night. But she would never tell him that. She would never tell anyone that.
I can still hear them. Always the same. Why are you never here? Don't you love your daughters? Don't you love me? His voice is quiet and he tries to explain. I can't hear the words, just his voice. She can hear the words, but she doesn't listen to them.
I understand him, I think. I know why he is never here. I know that he loves me. I know he loves Hanna. I know he loves mom. But he also loves his job. Mom doesn't like that.
Sometimes I wish that daddy was home more often, but then I see the news and I hear about a little kid who is missing, and I know that my daddy will find him if anyone can. That's what he does. He does it well. He has saved lots of lives, and out lots of bad people away.
He is my father.
He is never here.
He talks quietly, as though to make sure I don't wake up.
If I were missing, I would want him looking for me.
I can't be jealous of other people for that.
* * * * *
~finis~