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ladycallieTitle: Posivi Memoriola (Found Memory)
Rating: PG
Word count: 1,117
Setting: Post PKW
Notes:![[info]](https://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
lyricalviolet had a look at it, but I'm posting this one mostly solo.
Disclaimer: Henson and Co.
Author's note: Lets say D'Argo was about 8 cycles old when this happened. Written for Starburst Challenge 16
Rating: PG
Word count: 1,117
Setting: Post PKW
Notes:
lyricalviolet had a look at it, but I'm posting this one mostly solo.Disclaimer: Henson and Co.
Author's note: Lets say D'Argo was about 8 cycles old when this happened. Written for Starburst Challenge 16
Archived at AO3. Reposted from May 27th, 2007 as part of a tagging update.
My dad’s workdesk was always a mess. Bits of metal, odd gadgets and wire permanently decorated the worn golden surface. As a child I would hoist myself short self up on Dad’s stool and peer at the wonders. I’d reach for one and just as my chubby fingers closed around it, Dad would walk in. He’d smile, lift me off his seat and set me down on the tabletop, as was our routine. I realize now as an adult that Dad always kept anything dangerous or too fragile for my curious hands to find locked in either his tool chest, which he kept under the table, or in the storage closet in the hall.
We’d sit there together, Dad working on this and that, me handing him tools as he required, my own pile of projects beside me. Dad would tell me outrageous stories about him and my mom, how they “saved the universe” and “rescued the princess”. I would howl with laughter until my sides and belly ached, until my mom came in to see what was so funny. She’d sigh as I retold the tales, giggle tears streaming down my cheeks. Mom would wipe my face clean, grasp my chin and remind me, “Your father has a very active imagination.”
I’d sober up, the disappearing joy leaving me hollow and tired, but just as I would start to feel bad for falling for such an obvious tall tale, I’d catch Mom winking at Dad, and I knew it was all true.
One such day Dad, with a spanner clenched between his teeth, asked me to fetch the wire cutters from the storage closet. Short legs swinging, I hopped off the table and hurried into the hall. The storage door was open; Dad had already been in there this afternoon. I waved my hand over the sensor, the dim light didn’t reach into the corners. Dad said that the cutters were on the second shelf towards the back. I had to lean over a large gray crate that was open and half full to reach them. They felt heavy and hard in my hands and I hefted them once, twice, to accustom myself to the feel. I felt older, responsible. I had only been asked a few times to get something out of the storage closet before. I felt important. I tossed the cutters a third time, and fumbled, dropping them into the crate with a thunk and a puff of dust.
I glanced behind me down the hall, listening closely for my dad. Hearing only the normal hum and whoosh of Moya, I knelt and searched through the crate. I push several black t-shirts aside, a faded yellow windbreaker with multicolored IASA patches on it, four empty glass bottles that smelled faintly of Mom’s perfume, various worn notebooks filled with Dad’s handwriting. The cutters had fallen to the bottom, next to a silver vid chip and a petite gold box. I pushed the chip aside and grabbed the cutters firmly, but I also took the box out.
I peaked around the door, knowing I should just leave the box and take the cutters back to Dad.. I ran my thumb across the top, it was textured with tiny lettering. I squinted at it, it wasn’t a language I knew. But it was pretty. Mom often said I had too much of Uncle Rygel in me for my own good, which always made Dad smile and Uncle Ryg laugh his deep rumbly belly laugh. The box was light, the latch was small. I flicked it open with my nail.
Curled inside was a piece of hair. I stuffed the cutters into my pocket, and carefully shook the hair onto my palm. Slightly longer then my hand and held together with a simple knot in a piece of string, the lock was dark. The edges tapered gently at one end; the other looked like it had been cut with scissors, the ends were even and flat.
Why in hezmana was this in here? I held the lock up to the brighter light of the hall. Faint red highlight shown through the inky black. Was this Mom’s hair? It sure looked like it. Nobody else on Moya had black hair, except Aunt Chi’s brother, but his was short and spikey. And sort of blue. So if this was Mom’s hair, why did she save it? I ran the lock between my fingers, the ends curling across my palm. Maybe she wanted to save it for the hair fairy, like I saved my first loose tooth for the tooth fairy. I frowned at my hand. Could there be a hair fairy? If so, she wasn’t doing her job very well.
My dad called me then, and I jumped guiltily, stuffed the hair back in the box and slammed the closet door shut. I rushed back, pulling the cutters out of my pocket and handing them to him.
Dad blinked at me, “Took you long enough. I was beginning to think the Boogie Man had gotten you.”
I mumbled a reply, staring at my toes, at the wall. I couldn’t hide anything well. I always got caught feeding the DRDs my kira roots during dinner. Mom always knew if I’d just played in the bathtub rather then washing.
Dad turned, swinging his legs around the stool. “What’s up champ?” He tousled my hair, clearly noting the dust that went flying. He poked my clenched fist. “What’d you find?”
Busted I held out my hand, dropping the box into his palm. I peered up at him through my messy hair. Dad was still for a long moment before he leaned back against the table. He opened the box, dipped one finger in to stroke the hair. His eyes closed. He sighed and he suddenly looked old. Lines crossed his forehead and the corner of his eyes. Pieces of his hair seemed lighter then they had a moment ago.
Worried, I reached for him, clutched the fabric of his pants. “Dad?” I asked, shaking his knee.
My father’s head tilted back as his eyes opened, he rotated his neck, jaw flexing. For a moment I thought I saw moisture in his eyes. He swallowed and smiled at me. He carefully closed the box, and set it inside his toolchest. “Let’s call it a day, okay buddy?”
I nodded, and helped him pick up.
The next time we got the toolbox out and were sitting at the table together, I noticed that the gold box was no longer there. I pulled out a roll of green tape instead and I was happy that the box that made my father become old was gone.
-fin
My dad’s workdesk was always a mess. Bits of metal, odd gadgets and wire permanently decorated the worn golden surface. As a child I would hoist myself short self up on Dad’s stool and peer at the wonders. I’d reach for one and just as my chubby fingers closed around it, Dad would walk in. He’d smile, lift me off his seat and set me down on the tabletop, as was our routine. I realize now as an adult that Dad always kept anything dangerous or too fragile for my curious hands to find locked in either his tool chest, which he kept under the table, or in the storage closet in the hall.
We’d sit there together, Dad working on this and that, me handing him tools as he required, my own pile of projects beside me. Dad would tell me outrageous stories about him and my mom, how they “saved the universe” and “rescued the princess”. I would howl with laughter until my sides and belly ached, until my mom came in to see what was so funny. She’d sigh as I retold the tales, giggle tears streaming down my cheeks. Mom would wipe my face clean, grasp my chin and remind me, “Your father has a very active imagination.”
I’d sober up, the disappearing joy leaving me hollow and tired, but just as I would start to feel bad for falling for such an obvious tall tale, I’d catch Mom winking at Dad, and I knew it was all true.
One such day Dad, with a spanner clenched between his teeth, asked me to fetch the wire cutters from the storage closet. Short legs swinging, I hopped off the table and hurried into the hall. The storage door was open; Dad had already been in there this afternoon. I waved my hand over the sensor, the dim light didn’t reach into the corners. Dad said that the cutters were on the second shelf towards the back. I had to lean over a large gray crate that was open and half full to reach them. They felt heavy and hard in my hands and I hefted them once, twice, to accustom myself to the feel. I felt older, responsible. I had only been asked a few times to get something out of the storage closet before. I felt important. I tossed the cutters a third time, and fumbled, dropping them into the crate with a thunk and a puff of dust.
I glanced behind me down the hall, listening closely for my dad. Hearing only the normal hum and whoosh of Moya, I knelt and searched through the crate. I push several black t-shirts aside, a faded yellow windbreaker with multicolored IASA patches on it, four empty glass bottles that smelled faintly of Mom’s perfume, various worn notebooks filled with Dad’s handwriting. The cutters had fallen to the bottom, next to a silver vid chip and a petite gold box. I pushed the chip aside and grabbed the cutters firmly, but I also took the box out.
I peaked around the door, knowing I should just leave the box and take the cutters back to Dad.. I ran my thumb across the top, it was textured with tiny lettering. I squinted at it, it wasn’t a language I knew. But it was pretty. Mom often said I had too much of Uncle Rygel in me for my own good, which always made Dad smile and Uncle Ryg laugh his deep rumbly belly laugh. The box was light, the latch was small. I flicked it open with my nail.
Curled inside was a piece of hair. I stuffed the cutters into my pocket, and carefully shook the hair onto my palm. Slightly longer then my hand and held together with a simple knot in a piece of string, the lock was dark. The edges tapered gently at one end; the other looked like it had been cut with scissors, the ends were even and flat.
Why in hezmana was this in here? I held the lock up to the brighter light of the hall. Faint red highlight shown through the inky black. Was this Mom’s hair? It sure looked like it. Nobody else on Moya had black hair, except Aunt Chi’s brother, but his was short and spikey. And sort of blue. So if this was Mom’s hair, why did she save it? I ran the lock between my fingers, the ends curling across my palm. Maybe she wanted to save it for the hair fairy, like I saved my first loose tooth for the tooth fairy. I frowned at my hand. Could there be a hair fairy? If so, she wasn’t doing her job very well.
My dad called me then, and I jumped guiltily, stuffed the hair back in the box and slammed the closet door shut. I rushed back, pulling the cutters out of my pocket and handing them to him.
Dad blinked at me, “Took you long enough. I was beginning to think the Boogie Man had gotten you.”
I mumbled a reply, staring at my toes, at the wall. I couldn’t hide anything well. I always got caught feeding the DRDs my kira roots during dinner. Mom always knew if I’d just played in the bathtub rather then washing.
Dad turned, swinging his legs around the stool. “What’s up champ?” He tousled my hair, clearly noting the dust that went flying. He poked my clenched fist. “What’d you find?”
Busted I held out my hand, dropping the box into his palm. I peered up at him through my messy hair. Dad was still for a long moment before he leaned back against the table. He opened the box, dipped one finger in to stroke the hair. His eyes closed. He sighed and he suddenly looked old. Lines crossed his forehead and the corner of his eyes. Pieces of his hair seemed lighter then they had a moment ago.
Worried, I reached for him, clutched the fabric of his pants. “Dad?” I asked, shaking his knee.
My father’s head tilted back as his eyes opened, he rotated his neck, jaw flexing. For a moment I thought I saw moisture in his eyes. He swallowed and smiled at me. He carefully closed the box, and set it inside his toolchest. “Let’s call it a day, okay buddy?”
I nodded, and helped him pick up.
The next time we got the toolbox out and were sitting at the table together, I noticed that the gold box was no longer there. I pulled out a roll of green tape instead and I was happy that the box that made my father become old was gone.
-fin
