May 2019 (For the future prompt, because why not?)
Word Count: 1309
Paris wakes up at 5:30, when the city is still dark but the pale blue of coming day is just beginning to peek over the horizon.
She turns just so to press the softest of kisses to Chris's lips, spends a few moments soaking in his warmth, and then gently removes the comforting weight of his arm from her waist. She slips out of bed with hardly a sound, shivering as a result of the cool morning air against her naked skin. She pads to her closet on bare feet, pulls on shorts and a sports bra to cover her nudity. She neglects underwear, comfortable in her skin in a way she'd only pretended to be at sixteen.
But she is twenty-five now, and that lost sixteen-year-old is long gone.
She laces up a pair of tennis shoes, pulls a light jacket up her arms, and slips out of the room. She trots quietly down two flights of stairs and meets the dog at the door. Anna wends an excited path around her legs, all lolling tongue and wagging tail, her eyes somewhat wiser now but no less adoring. Paris fits a leash to her collar, deactivates the security system, and together they head out the door.
Boston is different than Destiny City, but then Paris expects most cities have the air of something unique about them despite any similarities they might also bear. She thinks she should miss her hometown, and of course there are moments when she does. Her mother lives there still, her sister and cousin, too, her father at rest in the cemetery. A few of her friends remain, but others have left as she did, after too long spent giving so much to a city that gave so little back.
But there is one place she does miss, and as she walks Paris finds herself staring into a slowly brightening sky. The stars are not visible through the ambient light, but Paris thinks she knows where to look regardless. It calls to her still, though not as loudly as it once did. Gentle, less urgent, it speaks in fond whispers. Not to call her back; no, that time is over now. Instead it is nostalgic, and speaks of love and remembrance.
It does not begrudge her the happiness she has found in a different place.
By the time Paris returns home it is six o'clock and the sun is just slipping over the horizon, sending soft beams of golden light through the streets and alleyways, as the dark midnight sky fades to a paler blue.
She grabs the morning paper on the way inside. Once the door is closed behind her she sends Anna off to eat after removing her leash, and crosses to the back of the house into the kitchen. She drops the paper on the counter; on the front page of the sports section which slips out from the folds is a familiar head of dark auburn hair in a navy ball cap. Paris graces it with a smile but has no time to skim the article. Long, soft fur brushes against her legs, and Sassy's reproachful meow reminds Paris that her food bowl is empty.
She rectifies this, as noise over the intercom alerts her to the fact that she is no longer the only one awake.
“Hey there, little guy.”
It is Chris's voice, gravely from sleep, but gentle and warm in a way she knows to be accompanied by a smile. She listens to the intercom as she prepares a breakfast of omelets and fruit with three different beverages—a cup of coffee, black with two spoonfuls of sugar; a cup of green tea with honey; and a bottle of formula.
They are ready by the time Chris descends the stairs and shuffles his way into the kitchen. He is bare chested, clothed only in hastily donned pajama pants slung low on his hips. On one shoulder rests a small head of dark auburn hair like his own, but thin and wispy, scarce with youth. Chris kisses Paris, murmurs “Good morning” against her lips, and takes the bottle before either hand even reaches for the mug of coffee.
Paris nurses her tea while Chris sits and feeds the small, squirming bundle of warm skin and blue cloth in his arms.
The baby looks like Chris with blue newborn eyes, but he is named for Paris's father.
Little Henry Gallo is two and a half months old.
It is a new experience for them both, and not one a younger Paris had expected would come of her life. She comes from a broken family, bears the memories of a difficult childhood, never fancied herself the sort to make a good parent. But she has learned patience. She has found herself surprisingly well-suited to this new role. Beyond patience it requires a nurturing heart and a giving nature, as hers has always been.
After the feeding is done and breakfast consumed, Chris passes Henry off to Paris. She takes him with a kiss to one warm, chubby cheek, and brings him to her chest with his head cushioned by a clean dishtowel quickly draped over her shoulder. Her hand runs along his small back in soothing circles and gentle beats. Chris drops a kiss onto the top of Paris's hair, lays his hands along her waist and pulls her back against his chest to slowly sway.
Neither of them speak; they don't need to. But Paris hums and murmurs a soft song against Henry's head.
“Va danser toutes les danse que tu veux dans les bras de ceux qui t'entraînent au loin... Va sourire des sourires merveilleux pour les danseurs qui te tiennent la main...”
She looks out the window into the steadily brightening sky and finds herself thinking of Ganymede. And she wonders, is it thriving now as she is? Or have the skies gone dark again without her?
The war is over.
Paris was there in the end, though whether or not she had anything or nothing to do with the outcome is unimportant. What matters is that is it done. How, when, why—those are such trivial details, needless explanations; they cannot hope to encompass the enormity of its conclusion. But it is done and Destiny City (indeed, all the world, the galaxy, the universe, all the billions of worlds that make up the cosmos) is safe. Those who saw it at its worst can now enjoy it at its best. There is no more pain and no more grief—at least none beyond what, by comparison, can be considered normal.
And Paris has spent so long searching for that normality, fighting for it, and almost dying for it. That there is no longer any need for Ganymede comes as a relief. She can put the pen away, rest assured in the knowledge that her phone, left always in subspace, will likely never ring again. She can look at the moon and not feel weighed down by the sight of it; she can enjoy its beauty. She can gaze at the stars and marvel at their number and not feel so lost among them.
Yet there will always be a part of her that thinks of it, that stares into the night sky and wonders, and frets, and searches for Ganymede with repressed longing. Jupiter remains there, a distant presence in her life, its largest moon still whispering its greeting—still welcoming her home.
Henry coos and burps on her shoulder and brings Paris back to herself. Chris's hands on her waist keep her grounded.
“Mais n'oublie pas que ce sera toi qui conduiras ce soir chez moi... Garde bien la dernière danse pour moi...”
This is home now. This is the home that Ganymede has given her.
The war is over and Paris has finally found peace.
