|Pieces of the Past
Author: Mrs. Data PM
Smith breaks, piece by piece.Rated: Fiction T - English - Drama/Romance - Chapters: 6 - Words: 6,982 - Reviews: 7 - Favs: 3 - Updated: 02-05-11 - Published: 11-24-10 - Status: Complete - id: 6501978
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Pieces of the Past
Disclaimer- Michael Davis and the New Line Cinema studio suits own everything except for the plot which comes from me.
In utter delight the corners of his mouth lifted into a small grin. The vision of Donna bottle-feeding Oliver wasn't new to him, it should have felt mundane. He always found himself gazing at them every time they took part in this natural activity between mother and son. Warmth spread in his chest whenever he caught himself staring. Seeing his family in such a content state almost made him forget about the cold isolated life he once led.
A lock of her long dark hair fell near her eye; with Oliver and his bottle in her hands she was unable to move it. Between his thumb and forefinger he captured the errant hair tucking it behind her ear. The gesture brought a wide smirk to her luminous face. Her silent gratitude was enough for him.
"How's your steak, Smith?" she asked him taking the bottle out of Oliver's mouth and placing him on her shoulder.
"I don't hate it." he flatly answered.
With a small roll of her eyes she replied, "Do you like it?"
"Yes, but it's certainly not the best I've ever had."
"Well that's not too bad. It would suck if you spent money on a shitty steak." she continued to rub Oliver's back.
"You're not wrong about that," he nodded at the sound of his infant son's loud belch, "that's my boy."
After feeling his diaper she told Smith, "Our little boy needs a change," she picked up the diaper bag as she stood up.
"I'm almost done with my steak, I can take him?" he offered.
"No, it's fine. You finish your dinner. Try not to miss us," her lips brushed against his.
"I'll miss you..Oliver," he teased her, barely raising his eyebrows.
"Prick," she shot back.
"Your pet names are so sweet, Darling."
The smile that pulled at her lips was turned into a scowl, "Bastardo."
With a big smirk he said, "I love it when you talk like that."
Shaking her head, she left the table and walked to the restaurant's restroom.
The lovely dinner he was having was interrupted by all too familiar sounds; he cursed. Gunfire followed by screams came from the kitchen causing the patrons in the dining area to drop to the ground. Muttering another curse, he grabbed the steak knife from his plate not breaking his stride towards the kitchen's doors.
A carrot charging towards his eye was the last image the gunman saw before his lifeless body landed on the ground at his feet. The slain shooter's shotgun landed in Smith's hands.
"You see what happens when you don't eat your vegetables?" Smith said while turning to the front entrance where two more gunmen entered.
Without a hint of hesitation, he quickly aimed the shotgun at them and unloaded watching their chests being torn by the rounds. Another shooter emerged from the restroom's corridor; he felt his heart stop when thought of Donna and Oliver.
"Fuck me.." he set down the empty shotgun and immediately threw the steak knife at the gunman.
In absolute shock he looked at the knife in his chest as he fell to the floor.
"Donna!" Smith ran towards the restroom jumping over the dying gunman and entered the ladies bathroom. What he saw took his breath away.
On the beige tile floor Donna's body laid on its side in a puddle of blood. Little Oliver was still in her protective hold. Neither of them was moving.
All his instincts told him to leave, he ignored them clinging to a shred of hope. When he moved her body and saw the truth, he slowly shook his head as his vision became flooded. Streams of sorrow cascaded from his eyes once he closed them; he had hoped to awake from an awful dream. Much like everything else in his life, reality proved to be far more cruel and horrific than his nightmares.
His hands gripped the cold floor bracing himself against the agony and rage that tore at his soul. Every man has his breaking point, he had reached his. A wail of furious lament reverberated from the bathroom.