She scowls at the window, as if it has personally offended her. Curses under her breath, her voice at the special 'not audible from more than a foot away' volume that seemed to come into existence on the same day that Charlie did.
The rain continues to thunder down, happily unaffected by her death-glare. Plenty of people have been cowed by that glare. Casey, after any one of many unannounced late, late nights on the town. Dan, whenever he'd stumble in after Casey, crash on the couch, and ask her if she could get him a glass of water. Dana, whenever she'd breeze in after the first two, never offering an explanation for why the invitation hadn't been extended, or even just an apology.
A tug at her jeans, and she looks down. Charlie stares back up at her, eyes big. So impossibly solemn. She'd laugh at how seriously he's taking this, except that she's probably no better.
Scratch that. She knows she's no better. He's probably handling this a thousand times better than she is.
"Are you sure we can't go?"
He's not wheedling, not whining; just genuinely curious. And she's tempted, so tempted, to just say 'to hell with it', bundle him up in ten layers, grab as many umbrellas as she can find strewn about the house, and face the consequences later.
Lightning shatters across the sky, and the lights flicker dangerously.
Perhaps not.
The picnic basket sits on the kitchen table like an accusation.
She picks Charlie up, snuggles close.
"I'm sorry, baby. I know you wanted this. I did, too, I really did. She doesn't add that they can do this next weekend, if the weather allows. It's not so much about the picnic itself as it is the distraction. About taking his mind off the fact that his father is off on a work-related trip — again — and said farewell with nothing more than a quick kiss on the head and a 'be good, sport'.
Sometimes, she wonders how she got labelled as the bad cop of this relationship.
She shifts Charlie a little, and regards the basket. No point in letting the food go to waste —.
And it's so bright for a moment that she doesn't realize that the lights have actually gone out. She does, however, notice how it feels like her eardrums have been jabbed with an icepick. Ow. Storm must be right overhead.
She puts Charlie down on the floor, with only the briefest of reassurances — kid loves thunderstorms, God knows why — and fumbles through the cupboards for a good two minutes before she locates the flashlight.
Which has no batteries.
Fuck.
She steers Charlie towards a chair and tells him to wait, while she goes off to stumble around the house, bump into stuff, and generally swear a lot.
Eventually, she finds what she's looking for — a couple of sad, melted candles buried in a bedroom drawer. A remnant from the days when she and Casey thought — or pretended, anyhow — that maybe a little artificial romance would save their marriage. Before they realized that there was only one thing keeping them together.
And she's starting to think that perhaps everyone would benefit if they were apart. That maybe, by trying to give Charlie a stable family, they're doing him more harm than good.
She gropes her way along the passage wall, and wastes another five minutes trying to remember where the hell they keep the matches. The situation outside has seemingly been upgraded from 'dreary' to 'downright hellish' in the time she's been away from the windows, and she can't believe that it can get this dark during the day.
She finally gets back to the kitchen table, candles and matches in hand, and Charlie's still sitting there. So obedient. She doesn't know where he gets it from, because it's sure as hell not from either of his parents.
Or maybe that's the explanation, right there.
Fumbling with the matches, she manages to get some light going. Not really enough for any kind of decent illumination, but it's the principle of the thing.
She squats in front of Charlie, who seems to look…not upset, exactly. Resigned, maybe. It's a look she's seen too often.
She looks at the picnic blanket, neatly folded on the table.
She looks at the kitchen floor.
She looks back at the blanket.
She looks at Charlie. Doing his best to not look disappointed.
She's never been one for spontaneity, but…oh, what the hell.
She grabs the blanket, and, with a flick of the wrist, it's spread out on the floor. Grabs the basket, too, and grabs her shell-shocked son, who's sitting there with his mouth hanging open. She doesn't think she's ever managed to get that reaction before.
She decides that she likes it.
The candles complete the setting, and it's…strangely fun, with the rain beating on the windows and the wind wailing and the lightning adding occasional accompaniment to the flutter of the candles.
And for awhile, there's only sandwiches and juice and muffins and crumbs. And it's good, but…there's something missing. Each attempt at conversation she makes is greeted with a short answer, to the point, and she's running out of things to say. And surely it shouldn't be like this — at least, not until he hits his teens. She wonders how Casey does it, how he carries on long, involved discussions with Charlie like it's the easiest thing in the world. How he gets their son to look at him with awe and adoration, simply by walking into the room.
Maybe she shouldn't wonder. After all, she used to react the same way.
She can feel it slipping, everything she's achieved in the last hour, and she's starting to feel a little desperate. Blurts out that maybe it'd be fun to tell ghost stories.
Boy, she's full of surprises today. She thinks she stunned herself more with that one than she did Charlie.
But it's worth it…at least, until he tells her to go first, an impish grin on his lips.
And she realizes that she's never told a ghost story in her life.
She muddles her way through some kind of warped, bizarre saga, which quickly moves from ghost story to mediaeval fantasy to a modern-day horror tale of undead lawyers and bankers.
She refrains from naming the head vampire 'Casey'. Quite mature of her, she thinks.
And Charlie giggles and corrects her and calls her silly, and she can't remember the last time she felt this good.
The story ends when Charlie himself is attacked by the Evil Ice-Cream Monster of Doom — with sprinkles, and topping, and nuts, and everything else she can think of, all served straight from the tub — and dozes off against her side.
She leans her head back against the cupboards, fingers laced through her son's hair, and watches the creeping decay of the candles.
This won't last beyond today, she knows. The power will come back on, work and school and obligations will get in the way, and magic is a slippery thing to capture.
But it's a start.
And Charlie hasn't mentioned his dad once.
The End