milliways_bar | (no subject)

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*Meg is sitting at a table in the bar, engaged in several tasks:

a.) attempting to feed the baby in her arms with some sort of pureed baby food, provided by the bar

b.) keeping said baby from wiggling off her lap to go exploring under the tables

and c.) rather frantically paging through a book on child care in front of her, whenever Derry stops squirming long enough to allow her to use one of her arms.

Derry, meanwhile, is engaged in one task: becoming the universe's foremost artist in the medium of pureed baby food.

Hey, everyone needs to have a dream.*

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"If I had one, it'd probably be better off if I did."

*Meg shakes her head, vehemently; and Derry shakes her head, too (and takes the opportunity to grab onto one of Meg's curls.)*

Look - I've never been a parent - and I'll never be a parent - but like I said. I've seen lots of 'em.

There's a lot of things you can do wrong in raising kids - but if you don't hurt them, and you love them, and you try - well, I mean, you're a giant step ahead, right?

*A small grin.*

- I mean, Dieu, my dad's Desire - and hesheit isn't exactly what you'd think of as great parent material, if you didn't know much about himherit - but hesheit's doing pretty bloody good of late, I think.

*Except of course when it comes to Derry-omelettes.*

"Doesn't matter."

Smeagol shrugs. He isn't looking at Meg.

"I've got a house, right? I've mostly got my head to myself. I'm fine this way."

Once you're lonely for long enough, you forget that you are.

You've got friends, too, *Meg reminds him, lest he forget; she's watching him, carefully.*

And you never know what'll happen - ow ow Derry let go of that -

"Yeah. That's enough."

Nevermind the nightmares, or the paranoia, or the dread of whispers - but that's always been there.

Almost absentmindedly, he scoops up a bit more mashed carrot and deposits it on Derry's nose, and blows on her face.

He had a second-cousin twice-removed once, who laughed every time anybody did that to her.

But you had to smile too, so he does that. Because, after all, babies are good for that sort of thing.

*If Smeagol was hoping for laughter - well, Derry doesn't disappoint.

Derry laughs a lot. It's one of the things that goes along with having the personification of insanity as a mother.*

Being content with what you've got, *Meg offers,* is a pretty good way to go through life. Or afterlife. Whatever.

But it's kind of nice to have - you know, dreams and goals and all, too.

Smeagol looks honestly confused. "Why?"

So - I don't know, it's just -

*Meg stops, a little frustrated; Derry tugs on her hair disapprovingly, and Meg sighs, and takes a moment to think.*

So - you don't get stuck in a rut, I guess. And so when you have the chance for better things, you're not afraid to take them, you know?

Smeagol looks at his feet.

"But I don't have anything like that.

I'm just . . . I'm lucky that I have what I do, I think."

There's always a chance for something better, *Meg says.*

Even if you don't know what it is.

*Derry blows a spit-bubble.*

". . . I'm afraid to get greedy."

Greedy, *Meg says, firmly,* is expecting better things.

There's a difference between expecting and hoping.

Smeagol shrugs.

"Can't hope for anything better than this. It's better than anything I expected."

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