3Inspired by the song, "On a Bus to Saint Cloud," originally by Trisha Yearwood, covered by George Donaldson of Celtic Thunder, which is how I first fell in love with it. I own neither the series nor the song, though I will own up that I cry every time I hear it.
It was snowing. Big, puffy flakes drifting past the darkened windows, illuminated by the diffuse light of insomniacs' apartment windows from below, and streetlamps far below that. The full moon peeped through the drapes of cloud cover on the far horizon where the storm had broken, casting her faint silver light across the gradually whitening landscape, but unable to do a thing to brighten the room in which Peter Fleming sat, brooding over half a tumbler of whiskey as he watched the snowflakes drifting by his window in the dark.
There were many things that could have kept him awake at this time of night: the thrill of conquest, the anticipation of more, the planning of his next campaign to secure utter domination over the city. Or his troubles, chiefest among them Chess and his erratic appearances, the constantly stalking threat of madness; or the Cape. He really ought to be thinking what to do about that meddlesome Halloween character.
But none of those things could hold his attention tonight, of all nights. It was memories that held him in thrall. He thought back to this same night, some twenty-odd years ago, when the doctor had handed him a squirming bundle and told him, "You have a daughter, Mr. Fleming."
He remembered holding his little girl. Her shock of dark hair was startling, and her deep brown eyes even more so when they stared into his, focusing on his face. He'd not thought that newborns could do that. He brushed his fingertips across her plump cheeks and one tiny fist had closed about his pinky and squeezed tight.
Peter swallowed hard at that memory, turning his head in a futile attempt to banish tears. He was a hard man, beyond the reach of emotions for the most part. Except for Jaime. She alone had the power to reach into his chest and twist his heart.
It had been...far too long, since he'd seen her last. He couldn't, now, remember what he'd done to drive her away. He'd tried, God alone knew how hard he'd wracked his brains, but all he could come up with was the vague notion that it had been Chess, and the even more certain knowledge that his doppelganger hadn't been around, that far back. He hadn't been the best father; a pretty poor one, as long as he was admitting hard truths. He loved his daughter, but he hadn't shown her. Business always seemed to get in the way - a phone call during a dance recital, a meeting during her school play, a business trip over the weekend of her first school dance. He hadn't made the time for her that he'd sworn he would. Something always came up.
And then she was gone. One day there, the next...
She'd called him, one last time. Asked him to meet her, said that it was important. Said that it couldn't wait, and if he loved her, he would be there. But he'd missed it. A scheduling conflict. He hadn't seen her since.
It hadn't been the first time he'd had to choose between her and his job. Ark business, it had been that time, the shadier side of things, the kind that couldn't be skived off on an underling. The one meeting that had secured all of this. A dirty deal, that sold his soul and bought him power. He couldn't have missed it, not even for her. But now...
He'd done it for her. This whole scheme, to build an empire fit to pass on to his little girl. She deserved to have the world at her feet, deserved the best that life could offer. And she'd metaphorically spit in his face and vanished. Over one scheduling conflict, she'd decided to have nothing to do with him and dropped off the face of the earth.
He hated her for it. Hated her for leaving him like this. Hated her for disappearing, for leaving him with no word, no reassurance that she was alright, that she was even alive. He saw her everywhere, and nowhere. She was a face in a crowd, a particular swing of hair disappearing around a corner, the set of a pair of shoulders seen from behind that looked like her, but was not.
She was good. He had to admit that, his daughter was excellent. His top team of detectives hadn't been able to find even a trace of her for the last eight months, and nothing for over a year before that. He feared for her daily. He was constantly angry with her for hiding. He was secretly proud of her for her skill. He wanted to see her again. He longed to see her again. In his secret heart, he wanted her to slip from the shadows sometime when he was alone, having bested all his security, having chosen to come back to him, and let him tell her how much he loved her. It wouldn't even matter what she had to say to him in return, really, just so long as he got the chance to say that. "I hate you. I love you. I miss you. Jaime, sweetheart, I miss you."
The words dissipated into the darkness of the room. Peter finished the last of his drink and set his glass down on the windowsill, staring out at the night, at the moon, at the snowflakes still drifting silently down. He passed his hand over his eyes. They felt raw; doubtless an effect of the late night following an early morning, too many hours open. He ignored the wetness on his cheeks; it was immaterial. With a sigh, he turned and went to bed.
On the street below, a silent figure also stood, staring up at the window she knew to be Peter Fleming's. It was a lousy way to spend a birthday, but birthdays were meant to be spent with family. Weren't they? The snowflakes kissed her warm, damp cheeks, and Jaime also turned away. "I hate you, Dad. I hate you, and I love you, and God help me, but I miss you, too. I miss you, Dad."
Orwell walked away, a swirl of snowflakes dancing lightly in her wake, soon enough settling down to dust the street. Nothing but shadows lingered, and no one but shadows heard. But the silent prayer echoed still, the only faint disturbance on a silent, snowy night.