-From the Notebook of an Angel-

Hiya!

I've been playing FINAL FANTASY X again. It's a well fun game ^_^

I also love Jecht. I shouldn't coz he's a terrible guy, but I do. I think that underneath his terribleness, there is a nicer layer. He's a bit like a Morro bar; tough on the outside, but with a soft, nutty centre...

But while I don't have the same love for Morro bars as my mother does, my love for Jecht rivals hers of the chocolate snack.

Enjoy! ^_^

~A Memory~

The one thing you can't get over is the size of him. He's tiny.

So tiny, you fear that if you hold him too tightly; you'll crush him with your huge bear-hands that are more accustomed to whacking bliztballs (and occasionally the blitzers themselves) than holding sleeping infant sons only two months old. Well, two months, and six days. And seven hours.

You also fear; that if you hold him too loosely, he'll fall out of your arms and onto the hard floor and hit his head (you can barely suppress a shudder at that thought of him hurting himself).

But you suppose that's what being a parent is all about; getting the balance of just how much to hold on.

His chest rises and falls in his slumber, in that deep restful way that you think only babies can muster. You envy him. He's fast asleep and completely oblivious to everything going on in the world around him. You brush a lock of his blonde hair away from his eyes, the rough callus on the pad of your thumb rubbing lightly against his soft forehead. He stirs a little, feeling your presence. You smile to yourself as he wakes a little more. Groggy, he lets out a high whine. "Good morning," you say cheerfully, but still in a hushed whisper. He's hungry, you guess, as there are different types of baby noises, meaning hungry, tired, cold, wanting attention...

You adjust him on your lap, holding him with one arm, carefully latching your arm around his stomach, carefully holding him in case he slips and falls then he might-(you try not to shudder again)

You walk to the kitchen, your bare feet padding gently on the hard floor. Flicking on the central heating system, you grab a bottle of milk. You sit back into your chair and attempt to get the baby to feed. He won't bite. You sigh "C'mon, kid...If you wanna be big and strong like your daddy when ya grow up, ya gotta drink your milk..."

Soon, the only noise in the whole house is the gentle sound of his suckling on the bottle and the low hum of the central heating. They're comfortable sounds, and for a moment, you feel lulled.

You feel like your sleeping son, oblivious to the world around you, except for the humming of the heating and the sucking sound of a two month, six day and seven-and-a-half-hour old infant drinking deeply from a bottle as if the world was going to run out of milk.

And for a moment, everything in this world feels right, with the warm weight in your arms, being held not too tightly, not too loosely, emptying a bottle of warm milk. When he's all done, you gently pry it from his mouth, and he starts crying. "Shhh...Don't cry" you say gently "It's okay; there'll be plenty more where that came from later. C'mon, Daddy's here...Don't cry" You give him his pacifier, and he stops crying and looks at you, aquamarine eyes blinking back big tears. You smirk. He only appreciates something when it's gone, you muse. He yawns, a deep, sleepy yawn.

"Sleepy again?" you ask him, even though you know the answer.

Of course: it's yes.

He snuffles, and nuzzles into your chest, his tiny little hand resting on the skin above your heart.

And suddenly, you feel a ball of emotion rise in your throat. You blink water out of your eyes, because it's blurring your view of your now officially two month, six days and eight-hour-old son, who is now deeply asleep again.

You gently kiss his forehead, your bristly, stubbly cheeks rubbing against his soft face. And he lets out a soft hum, one that you aren't too familiar with. He lazily opens one aquamarine eye. And he looks at you.

And he smiles.

~Fast Foreword~

Look at him now, your boy.

Your seventeen years, six days and 14 and a half hour old son. The small part of you that's still you that remains inside this monstrous shell, still counts how many hours, days and years it's been since his birth.

He looks so big, and so handsome (the ladies must love him, probably as much as they loved you, maybe more), and so-

Angry.

He looks angry.

At YOU.

Because you're the monster that's destroying his life.

But then again, you've been doing that since before you took on this form.

His eyes are darker than they used to be, and they're streaming water like a storm in a teacup.

Don't cry, you think, Daddy's here.

He's saying something, but you can't hear him.

Don't cry, you think; don't cry coz Daddy's here, Daddy's finally here, I took my time but-

Daddy's here...

He tries again, clenching a fist and summoning the courage to scream "I HATE YOU!" in your face.

Well, it wasn't the reunion you were anticipating, but hey, what else could you expect?

Perhaps he's angry for the time you missed his school blitz tournament, because you were too busy getting wasted. Perhaps he's angry for the time you promised you'd teach him the move, promised, "crossed-your-heart-hope-to-die-stick-a-needle-in-your-eye" promised, but you were too hung-over to even get out of bed. Possibility after possibility runs through your mind, time after time when you weren't there.

Time after time, you held him too loosely.

He wipes his eyes, and draws deep shuddering breaths so that no-one can see the liquid streaming from his eyes.

Maybe, maybe he's angry for every time you called him a cry-baby.

I'm sorry, you try say, but it just comes out a low animalistic noise, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...

Your friend, the man you asked to take care of him, the man who knows you better than you know you, puts a hand on his shoulder, and murmurs something quietly, before walking away. Whatever your friend said, it makes him look at you, look right at you, past your monstrous physique, and maybe, just maybe, he's thinking back to a day when you did hold him properly.

And he stops crying.

And he smiles.

A girl; a familiar girl, with the look of her father, but with the bi-coloured eyes of a race completely her own; runs to his side, distraught. She tugs at his arm, a look of panic on her face. He puts a hand on her shoulder to reassure her, and pats her back to tell her to go on.

But before bolting off after her, he turns to you.

And he smirks, in a familiar way.

"See ya soon, old man!" he says.

And it's not a goodbye.

It's a promise that inspires hope in you.

A hope that you will meet again.

And you take that hope, and hold onto it.

Not too tightly, and not too loosely.

~The End~

-From the Notebook of an Angel-

Whelp, that kinda changed style halfway through. But ah well. Anyone who knows me, knows my hatred of the "you" perspective. I DO hate it, in Character X OC fic. It bugs the crap out of me when "you" are described as a complete and total Mary-Sue. So I decided to use the "you" perspective for good instead of evil! XD

I enjoyed writing it, especially the ending 3

So, umm... Thanks for reading, and feel free to tell me what you thought of it.

Regards,

Ceres, the Unknown Angel

xXx