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 Posted: Tue Jun 05, 2012 2:18 pm
Bigsby had his back pressed to the door when, with the barely-audible whisper of the well-oiled hinges of a door just a little too perfect for the frame, the thing swung inwards. The boy, with his support no longer supporting, tumbled backwards with it. He should have expected it, really, given that he had taken this position whilst waiting for his father to unlock and open the door that led into their home, but Bigsby had never received the gift of critical thinking skills. He landed with a little jolt, but what the little phanpy boy lacked in the presence of mind, he more than made up for in a rather un-childlike tolerance for pain. He stood up, dusted himself off with a grin, and that was that. He toddled off deeper into the house.
His father, his Papa, Philip, took more than a little longer to follow. Bigsby turned when he heard the louder-than-usual footfalls of his father, and wheeled to face him, unsure if the dainty artisan who cared for him had indeed made the noise.
Papa stood in the doorway, slumped against the frame, massaging the bridge of his nose. The door still hung ajar, and in the street-light that silhouetted him, the pale in the man's face didn't quite show. He stood that way for a long time before the hand finally fell away. Papa looked haggard, his shirt pulled a little too far to one side, his normally glossy hair giving way to frizz in several places. These didn't register to Bigsby, though. All the signs of an exhausted man meant nothing to a little boy; all Bigsby saw was sadness, and that worried him.
“Papa?” Bigsby called out, uncomfortable for the first time, wanting to run to his father and being intimidated to do so at the same time. He played with the metal hoop on his ear in hopes of it settling his nerves.
Philip's eyes flicked upwards, came to rest upon his adopted son. His eyes, though tired and weighed down by the bags beneath them, did a better job of smiling than his lips did. His voice, soft, soft, soft like the early morning voice his father sometimes had, soft like the goodnight voice his Papa sometimes used, just loud enough for Bigsby to hear, floated back.
“What's that, Bigsby, dear?” Papa said, finally finding his warm Papa-smile, the one that could abate Bigsby's fears, if only a little bit. He pushed himself forward from where he had been leaning, finally shutting the door behind him, flipping a switch that would shut the light they left on outside their home in Clubs territory off, the darkness of nighttime left behind.
“You looks sad, Papa,” Bigsby said, taking a step forward, “You're not sad, are yez?”
“I'm tired, darling. You should be, too. It's nearly bedtime. Run along for a moment, then we'll get you ready for it.”
Had Bigsby not been so nervous, he would have kicked up a fuss. He hated bedtime. So much wasted time, and he couldn't even fight off the sleep when it came for him. As it stood, though, he offered no protest, merely turned tail and scampered out of sight.
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Posted: Tue Jun 05, 2012 2:19 pm
When Papa found Bigsby later, the boy had clambered upon the stool in Papa's home workshop, and had been playing with the hats that Papa, a milliner, was quite well-known for. In front of him on the table, a great array of hats were lain out, from a pretty few cloches to a singular rustic akubra. On the crown of gentle blue waves currently rested a rather large bowler derby, which fell far past Bigsby's eyebrows. Directly in front of him, almost defensively close, sat Bigsby's favorite tiny-tophat, an article that had been with him since hatching. Papa had created it in a burst of motherly love on one of the days he'd actually been excited for his son-to-be.
Papa took the several steps required to stand behind Bigsby, and placed a gentle hand upon his son's back. Bigsby looked up at his father, and despite the almost-emotionless expression on the little one's face, his father still laughed. He tilted the bowler derby back, removing the black veil from the upper hemisphere of Bigsby's vision, and the hand went back to Bigsby's back, which Philip rubbed gently.
“You've always loved hats, as long as I can remember...” Philip began, smiling at the piles of finished hats he'd sell the next day.
“Mhm,” Bigsby stated, turning back to the table, trading the bowler derby for the akubra. It was an even poorer fit. “I love hats. Hats is great!”
Philip gripped Bigsby's shoulder, and his voice had lost that scary softness. “I'm glad.”
“You know...” Papa continued, and Bigsby looked back up at him. “That hat suits you, though you're not nearly big enough for it yet. Why don't you keep it until you are?”
The little boy whipped around to look back up at Papa. “Really?!”
Papa laughed again, and the tired man who had come into the door that evening was gone altogether once again. He lifted Bigsby up with a roar, and the boy responded with squirming and giggles.
“Now, bedtime! You'll never get big enough to wear that thing if you don't get some sleep.”
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