Post by Alek on Aug 28, 2006 0:24:02 GMT -5
|Set at the summer cottage before Sylvia has her little attack. James doesn't know about the severity of her condition yet.|
"Aye, I'll be 'ere tomorrow if yeh get washed up like yer mum said." The big blue eyes that widened just before the boy turned to scurry off brought a smile to J.M. Barrie's face. A debate had engaged for several minutes that involved Sylvia scurrying around to try and round up her four boys, insisting that since they had spent hours in the garden today they would all need to wash up before bed. They split up and terrorized the halls in the cottage, laughing and whooping as they caused their exhausted mother to jump endlessly through their flaming hoops.
Children laughing was, undoubtedly, the most pleasant sound to have ever reached his ears. James would have been perfectly content to merely stand there, hands clasped behind his back, strands of his hair hanging forward into his dark eyes where they had once been neatly slicked back, and watch them the entire evening. For a brief moment, he had been left alone in the intersection of two of the halls, and then little Jack tore past him, and as James began to chuckle at the boy, he was startled to catch a stumbling Sylvia. "Please help me to catch them, James," her voice was breathy with laughter, her face flushed and hair hanging forward to brush her pinked cheeks. Nodding, he helped her to stand back upright and the two split up to find the elusive boys.
Nearly thirty minutes later, they were all washed up and curled under their blankets, and "Uncle Jim" stood in the living room, waiting for the undoubtedly exhausted Sylvia to come back down from tucking them in and kissing them goodnight. He was writing at the moment, hunched over the little leather book that he always kept with him, the black pen in his hand scratching furiously across the page as he wrote down their adventures. Mermaids and fairies dancing around in the bushes, a hook-handed pirate captain who was chased to the end of time by a relentless crocodile with a clock in it's belly. It was all genius, though the man seated in the oversized leather chair had yet to realize it. All he knew was that this family was the best thing to have ever happened to him... and yet, it was the worst.
Dark eyes raising, he stared at the window in front of him, not seeing the dark yard, but instead the reflection that was looking back at him. A refined gentleman- an honorable member of society. A playwright. When James looked at himself, though, he missed the one thing that society held him to.
A married man.
His wife was lovely, and when they were younger there had been a bright flame of passion between the two of them. It seemed, though, that someone had blown it out, for now they didn't even sleep in the same room. They lived seperate lives; hers was through gossip and social gatherings, his was through writing and gaining his inspiration from the Davies'. Sylvia, Jack, George, Michael, and even little, resistant Peter. In wanting to save what precious childhood the scarred children had left, he had created a beautiful land of bright flowers and fantasic beasts that even caught him offguard occasionally.
His shoulders rose sharply in a deep inhale, dark-haired head raising as his hands shifted to turn to the next blank page. Eyes roaming over it, he let the air in his lungs pass his thin lips, already able to see his little handwriting filling the lines and threatening to burst the seams of the leather binding. Blinking several times, he sat back to let his back actually lean into the comfort of the chair, left hand raising to pinch the bridge of his nose lightly. Clearly, if he was seeing the text he had not yet written, he was exhausted. It would hardly surprise him, really, as the four boys always left him physically tired at the end of the day. Physically tired, but his mind and his muse soared with the aiding of those four imaginations. They fueled him and brought him from the depression of his utter flop of a play with an ease he had never expected, and now he was writing their story. It could never repay them, he knew, but the story could not be stopped now that it had begun.
It was not unlike Sylvia, come to think of it. Her chest colds, as she called them, had intrigued him at first, for she managed to give the front of a perfectly capable widow. She lived in poverty, but the undying love she had for her four boys was more touching than anything James could have ever put into writing. The mark of her loss, though, was not unwritten on her, and he had heard her muffled coughing. He didn't call her on it, for it was honestly none of his business. There hadn't been an issue with it yet, but it was waiting in the corner of the room like an elephant; trying to hide, yet as noticable as daylight. All Barrie could do was pray that when the day came that she needed help, she would let him provide it as he had for the past few weeks.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs drew his attention and he turned too late; she was already moving through the doorway. A hand slid the book closed as he rose, waiting for her to smile or speak to indicate that she accepted the motion and they could both sit. It didn't happen, though. She didn't look at him. She merely breezed past him to step up to the window he had just been staring through, and for the briefest of moments she had stepped a bit too close to him, and he was stricken by the undeniably feminine scent that reached him. It wasn't perfume, he knew, for there was no way that Sylvia would ever afford the niceties she deserved, but he didn't bother to ponder over what it was. Instead, he lamented the loss of it when she had gone and was by the window, probably unaware of the inappropriate proximity she had invaded just seconds prior.
Not that he minded, of course.
He gave no indication, however, of his thoughts, merely keeping his eyes on the woman in front of him. He did not sit, for she hadn't said anything to allow it, and the longer their silence dragged out, the longer a sense of worry began to build within him. It was probably safe to say that he was fairly paranoid about Sylvia's well-being and this silence was really beginning to unnerve him.
Children laughing was, undoubtedly, the most pleasant sound to have ever reached his ears. James would have been perfectly content to merely stand there, hands clasped behind his back, strands of his hair hanging forward into his dark eyes where they had once been neatly slicked back, and watch them the entire evening. For a brief moment, he had been left alone in the intersection of two of the halls, and then little Jack tore past him, and as James began to chuckle at the boy, he was startled to catch a stumbling Sylvia. "Please help me to catch them, James," her voice was breathy with laughter, her face flushed and hair hanging forward to brush her pinked cheeks. Nodding, he helped her to stand back upright and the two split up to find the elusive boys.
Nearly thirty minutes later, they were all washed up and curled under their blankets, and "Uncle Jim" stood in the living room, waiting for the undoubtedly exhausted Sylvia to come back down from tucking them in and kissing them goodnight. He was writing at the moment, hunched over the little leather book that he always kept with him, the black pen in his hand scratching furiously across the page as he wrote down their adventures. Mermaids and fairies dancing around in the bushes, a hook-handed pirate captain who was chased to the end of time by a relentless crocodile with a clock in it's belly. It was all genius, though the man seated in the oversized leather chair had yet to realize it. All he knew was that this family was the best thing to have ever happened to him... and yet, it was the worst.
Dark eyes raising, he stared at the window in front of him, not seeing the dark yard, but instead the reflection that was looking back at him. A refined gentleman- an honorable member of society. A playwright. When James looked at himself, though, he missed the one thing that society held him to.
A married man.
His wife was lovely, and when they were younger there had been a bright flame of passion between the two of them. It seemed, though, that someone had blown it out, for now they didn't even sleep in the same room. They lived seperate lives; hers was through gossip and social gatherings, his was through writing and gaining his inspiration from the Davies'. Sylvia, Jack, George, Michael, and even little, resistant Peter. In wanting to save what precious childhood the scarred children had left, he had created a beautiful land of bright flowers and fantasic beasts that even caught him offguard occasionally.
His shoulders rose sharply in a deep inhale, dark-haired head raising as his hands shifted to turn to the next blank page. Eyes roaming over it, he let the air in his lungs pass his thin lips, already able to see his little handwriting filling the lines and threatening to burst the seams of the leather binding. Blinking several times, he sat back to let his back actually lean into the comfort of the chair, left hand raising to pinch the bridge of his nose lightly. Clearly, if he was seeing the text he had not yet written, he was exhausted. It would hardly surprise him, really, as the four boys always left him physically tired at the end of the day. Physically tired, but his mind and his muse soared with the aiding of those four imaginations. They fueled him and brought him from the depression of his utter flop of a play with an ease he had never expected, and now he was writing their story. It could never repay them, he knew, but the story could not be stopped now that it had begun.
It was not unlike Sylvia, come to think of it. Her chest colds, as she called them, had intrigued him at first, for she managed to give the front of a perfectly capable widow. She lived in poverty, but the undying love she had for her four boys was more touching than anything James could have ever put into writing. The mark of her loss, though, was not unwritten on her, and he had heard her muffled coughing. He didn't call her on it, for it was honestly none of his business. There hadn't been an issue with it yet, but it was waiting in the corner of the room like an elephant; trying to hide, yet as noticable as daylight. All Barrie could do was pray that when the day came that she needed help, she would let him provide it as he had for the past few weeks.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs drew his attention and he turned too late; she was already moving through the doorway. A hand slid the book closed as he rose, waiting for her to smile or speak to indicate that she accepted the motion and they could both sit. It didn't happen, though. She didn't look at him. She merely breezed past him to step up to the window he had just been staring through, and for the briefest of moments she had stepped a bit too close to him, and he was stricken by the undeniably feminine scent that reached him. It wasn't perfume, he knew, for there was no way that Sylvia would ever afford the niceties she deserved, but he didn't bother to ponder over what it was. Instead, he lamented the loss of it when she had gone and was by the window, probably unaware of the inappropriate proximity she had invaded just seconds prior.
Not that he minded, of course.
He gave no indication, however, of his thoughts, merely keeping his eyes on the woman in front of him. He did not sit, for she hadn't said anything to allow it, and the longer their silence dragged out, the longer a sense of worry began to build within him. It was probably safe to say that he was fairly paranoid about Sylvia's well-being and this silence was really beginning to unnerve him.
