Catching Fallen Stars

Betwixt and between. What is and isn't in this world. And what you always knew could happen actually taking place…. A young man is about to learn exactly what the puffs mean to him one fateful night when they're recovered from a massive battle-and for once, unvictorious.

Quote:

I may fail to be as clever

As my neighbor down the street,

I may fail to be as wealthy

as some other men I meet,

I may never win the glory

which a lot of men have had,

But I've got to be successful

as a little girl's dad.

There are certain dreams I cherish

which I'd like to see some true,

There are things I would accomplish

when my time of life is through,

But the task my heart is on

is to guide someone a little sad

And to make myself successful

as that little fellow's dad.

I may never come to glory,

I may never gather gold,

Men may list me with the failures

when my business life is told,

But if he who follows after

shall be manly, I'll be glad,

For I'll know I've been successful

as that little girl's dad.

It's the one job that I dream of,

it's the task I think of most,

If I fail that growing youngster,

I'd have nothing else to boast;

For though wealth and fame I'd gathered,

all my future would be sad...

If I failed to be successful

as that little girl's dad.

He should have guessed, he supposed later on, even when he finally-reluctantly- began to doze off, face stubbed with anxiety and three o'

clock shadow.

What did you expect when you threw three five year old girls into battle every day?

Perhaps he always had that faint, sinking feeling that lay at the bottom of his heart whenever he would see the girls off, albeit with a merry

smile and a warning to be careful.

Still....things did slip past the cracks, as they always did so.

This wasn't the first time they'd come home hurt.

He knew that quite well enough. The medical wing in his lab seemed always in motion, and one trembling little girl would be sitting on the

paper covered bench as he would carefully apply bandages, gauze….or whatever the circumstances called for.

He was actually considering going back to school to get a MD specialist's education-

And he quite wished he had.

Which had been one of the reasons he had been repeatably striking himself in the face.

For, three nights ago, HE brought the girls home-abnormal enough by itself.

Strange enough in itself.

But there are first times for everything, and that horrid night was indeed one.

The girls-HIS girls…the ones not of his own flesh and blood, but that of his own creation, and more precious because of it…

They didn't come home just slightly battered or woebegone.

* * *

They'd come home with an enormous procession of cars behind Professor Utiom's own small station wagon.

Many were weeping. It was bad enough it was raining. It made things difficult to see.

Not that the man wasn't already half blinded by panic, but I digress.

It was lucky that the professor was moving so quickly at the top of the line. Traffic was quite appalling behind him-especially since people kept

tearfully whipping out cell phones.

Many were in the process of inquiring the Professor on their cells what types of flowers the girls enjoyed.

To be placed at their graves.

As the frantic, middle aged man continued speeding thirty or so miles over the limit, his window wipers continued their frantic dance against

the misty, cool glass, up and down and up and down….

Three limp heads had been quite still in his lap, save for the eternal bumping on the roads.

As dangerous it was, we will have to forgive the professor.

For what would YOU do if you watched your daughters get blasted out of the sky?

----

A cry that had escaped him once before split from his mouth.

"My Babies! MY BABIES!"

At least he had caught them seconds before they hit the ground.

He had truly babbled like an idiot, trying to wipe the red from three dirty little faces as he did so.

"Sweeties...sweeties....b-butterbiscuits....."

Bubble's eyelids parted for a dim second.

Everything swam in and out of focus....even the proffesor's face.

Blurry....

What a lovely word.

Blurry, blurry, blurry.

And that was Bubble's last thought before the screaming began, and her eyes had rolled back.

The Profesor had dashed them in before kicking everyone out.

Best that this be a sterile environment.

Utiom gazed at the puffs again. And he knew if it wasn't for the fact that he had checked, the man would believe they weren't breathing---their

chests gave no indication of it.

And their completely unmoving bodies and pale complexions did nothing to ease his worry.

But it was the girls' slow heart rates that scared him the most.

"Be strong, sweeties, please…," he whispered before he took off his jacket in preparation for what he needed to do.

An hour later, the world weary man had finished treating and bandaging their injuries from the monster's clawmarks.

But now.....even as he lay them in their bed, after two and a half hours, there was still no reaction.

"Will you not wake?" asked the man wearily, reaching for Blossom again, and began unwrapping her old bandages. He needed a gauze pad.

The puff did not answer. Professor let out a shuddering sigh as he went downstairs to the fireside again, reaching for the old kettle still

hanging on the nearby hook.

Pouring the steaming water into a bowl, Professor began to soak the bandages, wringing them tightly, watching droplets rapidly slid off the

into the surface of the tiny pool.

After binding Blossom's arm and tucking her in once more, the professor threw another log on the crackling embers before reaching for his

scarf.

Best to keep this place warm. It was really coming down outside.

---

Buttercup grumbled in her sleep. The Professor managed a thin smile as he continued to watch.

And watched....

And watched.

For three days, he had kept his vigil watch. Once or twice, one or two of the girls would wake, but they had been slightly delirious, and after

a sip of water or something of the sort, would watch them drift off again.

But although they had not given any sign of waking properly any time soon, he found some relief in the sound of their soft, more regular

breathing, and steady, though still weak, heartbeats. The man prayed that they would at least stay like that.

He couldn't help but be just as apprehensive as he was when he first got here. The young girls' injuries were still bleeding and they had

already lost an unhealthy amount of vital life force.

He felt compelled to do something-ANYthing else-so he felt awkwardly obliged to say a rosary, although it had been a great deal of time since

he had used one.

----

The art of caring about a thing was an imprecise one-and dangerous at that.

So he thought as the man glanced at the puffs, who were sitting on the couch, watching TV. They had been slightly annoyed when he refused

to let them fly down-he had carried them all in bundles-but, it was just a cross to bear for awhile.

He felt ready to sing the day Bubbles had woken and had sleepily inquired the thunderstruck professor if it was breakfast time.

----

Forget sing-he wanted to kick up his heels and go screaming around in the treets like a giddy madman in the rain.

What could he do? Every nerve was a live wire, and every fiber of him wanted to rejoice, babbling once again.

* * *

They once said that you really realized what something meant to you when it was lost.

Or perhaps had it nearly slip out of your arms.

So thought he again as he carried up three dozing figures, a small smile on his face.

In the end, what was precious was relative in this world.

It had been before-and would still be so.

But to him, the word precious defined three little girls that had exurberated his lonely existance one night.