#smart sexy mommy makes me cringe
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DR WHO DRAFT
(Moffat Woman Starter Pack)
DARTIS, INTERIOR.
Cara and Mocktor stumble into the DARTIS, slam the door, collapse onto the control panels. Their clothes and faces are smeared with dirt. The Mocktor’s eyebrows are missing.
Mocktor: I think my leg hair’s singed. Is yours singed?
Cara (looks at Mocktor): Do I still have eyebrows?
Mocktor: Two of them
A door inside the DARTIS creaks.
ENTER AILIS (mid-40s, dressed like a wayward Victorian girl with a corduroy fetish): Morning, lovelies.
Mocktor: FOR GOD’S SAKE
Ailis: I like the new look, Mocktor. Very Future.
Mocktor: Thankyou. What?
Cara: Who the hell are you?
Ailis: Cara! I’ve heard a lot about you.
(Cara frowns at Mocktor.)
Ailis (to the Mocktor): Oh! You didn’t tell her about me. Naughty boy.
Mocktor: Don’t make me call security.
Ailis: Now, now, Mocktor. No need to panic. This is a screwdriver, not a sword.
Cara: That dress has pockets?
(Ailis winks at Cara and approaches the Mocktor. She has a limp.)
Ailis: The spare bed is marvellous, by the way. I haven’t slept on a waterbed since last century.
Mocktor: Did you injure yourself, or are ankle monitors heavier than I remember?
Ailis: No boring talk. Mummy’s not awake yet.
(Ailis prods the DARTIS console. A cupboard door opens)
Mocktor (sighs): bottom shelf.
Ailis: thanks.
(She stands with a jar of pickles.)
Ailis (approaches Cara): Look at you. Have you ever had a fringe? You’d look spectacular with a fringe.
Cara (blushes): I’ve thought about it.
Ailis (brushes a strand of Cara’s hair from her face): It’d work.
Mocktor (gestures to his head): her- this-
Cara: My hair.
Mocktor: Is fine. Aerodynamic.
Cara: Maybe I will get a fringe.
Ailis (leans in, whispers): Moxie’s Grotto in the Legan System. Drop my name and she’ll give you growth tonic for the eyebrows.
(Cara giggles)
Mocktor: Am I interrupting something?
Ailis: Yes.
(Mocktor snatches the pickle jar from Ailis and returns it to the cupboard.)
Ailis (to Cara): Here we go.
Mocktor: I need the key to the DARTIS back.
Ailis: I need it a little longer.
Mocktor: I need it now.
Ailis: I need to make copies.
Mocktor: I- copies?
A door creaks within the DARTIS, again.
ENTER BASHFUL OOD.
Ood: ( gibberish Ood noises)
Cara (frowns at DARTIS console): Translator’s down.
Ailis and Mocktor (in unison): It’s not.
Ood (shuffles towards door): works every time!
Cara: Oh.
END SCENE
next scene ideas by meven stoffat
- mocktor enters time vortex to regrow eyebrows, fabric of universe (cotton-poly blend) unravels. Crochet is the answer. Crochet is always the answer.
- Ailis sells keys to the DARTIS on the galactic freeweb- the girl who hustled?? (brilliant)
- Cara eats pickles, dons mini skirt, cuts fringe with kitchen scissors.
- Ailis has been dead the whole time. She was just a memory imprint. The Mocktor brings her back with big science words and a pickle seance
#Moffat woman starter pack#I’m a doctor who fan but#men writing women#complex female characters#smart sexy mommy makes me cringe#doctor who#steven moffat#doctor who parody#13th doctor#peter capaldi#fanfiction#clara oswald#river song
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Everything the Light Touches
“So, as you can see, it is actually a decent adaptation of the classic. Admittedly, they lost a lot of the original gravitas of the story by allowing Nala to live instead of committing suicide like Ophelia did, but I suppose it makes the story more fun without the massive amounts of death and depression and insanity.” Jason rocked the baby in his arms for a bit, seeing if he’d finally, finally fallen asleep. After a few moments of quiet, the baby scrunched his face in discomfort and started whining at the loss of the soothing sound of Jason’s voice and the resulting vibrations resonating throughout the chest he was cuddled against.
Jason smiled softly and bounced him gently as he continued pacing around the nursery. “Uh huh, uh huh. I can see your point there. But, that was one of the lessons we learned from ‘I Just Can't Wait to be King’. It's not only a fucking… er, um, freak… no… bloody?” he stuttered and sighed deeply, “no, Mommy probably won’t like that one either…” He wrinkled his nose as he searched for an acceptable alternative word. “A really annoying song that your sister insists on screaming at the top of her lungs for hours at a time,” he offered instead.
“It shows us first that Simba wants to be king. He wants to rule. But, in the same stroke, it also shows us he doesn't understand what that means. What he's asking for is control, a tyranny, which is what he thinks becoming king means. It's all about him. A lot like the rogues Daddy and your uncles and aunts fight. Simba doesn't realize the responsibilities of a good ruler. It shows us, that if things had continued the way they were, he may well have become Scar on his own.”
The baby gurgled again, nestling deeper into Jason’s arms. “Ooh, very good point. You’re so smart, just like Mommy. Yes, he had his father there to guide him. We saw and heard his father truly understood what it meant to be a king and was slowly trying to teach him that. So maybe he wouldn't have become Scar. We'll never know. Him deciding to let Scar live at the end shows he chose Mufasa’s view of ruling. He finally understood the lesson. He won't become Scar. He will become like his father.”
He paused for a moment and gently stroked his son’s head with his nose. His voice got impossibly softer. “So maybe it wasn’t necessarily about the lessons he taught intentionally. Maybe it was the love he showed his son. He showed him so much love, that even years later, Simba wanted to emulate him.” He kissed his son’s head. “God, I hope I can be that for you, Hugo. I’d give you the world if you wanted, if I could. Everything the light touches. Not that I expect you to take over anything from me, and definitely not my old crime empire.” He cringed slightly. “Mommy would murder me and not even wait to do it in my sleep. But I hope I can show you that level of love.”
Hugo responded with relaxed, even breaths. Jason smiled at him again before furrowing his brow in mock seriousness and bringing him closer to his face. “But, if you want to throw an uncle off a cliff, especially Damian or Adrien or Roy, I’ll cover for you.”
He placed a soft kiss on Hugo’s head. “Next time, we’ll analyze the success of the Oliver & Company adaptation,” he whispered barely loud enough to be heard. Jason gently laid Hugo back down in his crib, moving carefully so he didn’t jostle him too much and wake him up for the fourth time that night already. He stroked his stomach lightly a few times until he was sure Hugo was asleep enough that movement wouldn’t wake him.
He quietly closed the door behind himself and let out a relieved sigh as soon as he released the handle. He rubbed his face wearily. This growth spurt was killing them. They hadn’t slept more than a few hours at a time for a week now. His eyes caught on his daughter’s door, which was just slightly ajar, and let out another deep, resigned sigh. That was not the way they’d left it when they put her to bed earlier. He pushed the door open slowly and leaned against the doorway. His face split into an adoring smile. Marinette was laying on top of the covers, her arm slung over Catherine who was curled into her.
If you asked her, Catherine would tell you she was extremely excited for Preschool to start in a few weeks and not at all scared. However, she’d been waking up at least once every night for the last month and asking for Mommy Cuddles to make her room less scary, which Jason completely understood. Marinette’s cuddles were amazing. But it meant that at least Marinette was getting woken up to comfort Catherine at least once a night and at least twice to nurse Hugo.
Jason gently picked Marinette up, being careful not to disturb Catherine and restart the soothing process all again. His heart warmed when she instantly snuggled closer into his arms as he walked. Even after their years together, the way she instantly reacted to his touch, even unconsciously, blew him away. He laid her in their bed with a lingering kiss to the temple. She opened her eyes groggily, a sleepy smile on her face. “Hey, sexy. You know, most parents sing lullabies or tell fairytales to their kids,” she teased.
“Most parents aren’t awesome,” he answered as if it were obvious. Marinette hummed in agreement and moved to make room for him. “You heard,” he chuckled as he crawled into bed after her.
“I caught the beginning before Catherine woke up.” She yawned as she answered. Jason curled around Marinette, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her back against his chest. She snuggled into his warm embrace and hugged her arms over his. She was quiet for a while, savoring the embrace, until Jason thought she’d fallen back asleep. “So, Lion King, huh?”
He smirked and nodded into her hair. “It’s a classic.”
After a moment she turned back to eye him knowingly. “Which uncle did you tell him it was okay to kill?”
He blinked a few times. She couldn’t have heard him so that meant she just knew him that well. He grinned at the thought. “...a few.”
Marinette sighed and cuddled back into him again. “You need to stop doing that. He's going to start talking you seriously. And we do not need a baby Damian.”
Jason puckered his lips at that horrifying thought. That was terrible enough to go through once. But Damian never tried to hurt his father and this time Jason would be the father so... “It'll be fine,” he assured her.
“Catherine was glaring at Wally so hard earlier today he ran away before Adrien even had the chance to ask him on a date. And Adrien put so much effort into setting it up too,” Marinette warned him, not at all entertained. She was the one that had to apologize to Adrien after and listen to the awkward call between them so Adrien could try to set up another chance and talk to Catherine about not killing off Uncle Adrien’s love life. He didn’t need the help.
Jason snorted. “Seriously?”
Marinette elbowed him at his amused tone. “Yes.”
Jason grinned and buried his face in Marinette's hair. “That's my girl.”
@jasonette-july-event
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what is popping, home - slices? if you’ve been in the group chat—then you are aware of my wee identity crisis : involving the dropping of three, picking up of one. don’t worry, they’ll be back! whenever i feel alive again. SO NEVER. jk. anyway… in the meantime, with the exception of odette and julian—i offer you my trashiest child (found in the dumpster behind burger king wrapped in tinfoil. * australian accent * think they were gonna throw her on the barbie… huh?) so, SEE BELOW for the 411 on this 4′11 gremlin.
INTRODUCTION.
☢ — ( KATIE DOUGLAS, AGENDER, SHE/THEM ) Trading in their tattoo gun for a chainsaw might not come easy for MINOO PEARCE. This twenty-two year old artist brings spray cans galore, divergent thinking, and a history of shoplifting to the table … but their small stature and double-dealing could drag the group down. And while their unorthodox nature might raise group morale, their arrogance might give them a few enemies. That’s the last thing anyone needs right now. Hopefully, in the apocalypse movie that’s now their life, this QUINCY PUNK will make it to the end credits.
BASICS.
born in boston, massachussets—or as i like to call it… massachuchu—minoo is the first and only child of two garbage folk. mitch & rachel pearce. devout catholics. patriotic. all - american. thoroughly unfit to be parents. only in a sexy “our daughter isn’t her own person but an extension of ourselves” kinda way. slammed like a ping pong ball between being invisible and controlled this one.
a military brat, too… meaning that no place was permanent, and boston was ditched before she could take her first step. she has lived in boise, in a small fishing town south of anchorage, and once her family spent six months in waipahu. when she was thirteen her father got a permanent position in fort elms. lucky she!
during the flashes of love and pampering (see: no autonomy) minoo was subjected to the cringe - worthy world of child pageantry. we love it when mommy lives vicariously through us! even if she aims for jonbenet ramsey… ending up with honey boo boo instead. don’t get it twisted, though—she was little miss texas during her prime (age 8). AND WE DO NOT TALK ABOUT THAT. not unless you wanna get shanked * stabby motions * … side note : she still fits into her last puffy - armed dress. we don’t talk about that either.
she eventually learned to put her foot down. much to rachel’s horror. sorry not sorry, darling. minoo abandoned the gowns for band tees soon after. not as much as a speck of rogue on this honey - pie these days, just some sick, sick raccoon eyes. call it what it is… punk rock.
minoo first found her greatest passions (shoplifting and vandalism. not necessarily in that order.) when she was eleven years old. she pocketed a strawberry scented hello kitty eraser from macy’s and she has not looked back since. a habit which earned her a trip to boarding school. catholic. gag us with a spoon. side note 2 : she still fits into her middle school uniform, too.
all jokes—they’re not jokes—aside… she is not completely hopeless. in fact, she is a little miss smarty - pants. minoo got a raging hard - on for classic literature (jane austen, what’s good?) and conceptual art (richard hambleton, what’s good?). not much of a writer but one hell of a graffiti artist—most of her work can be spotted around town. some genuine, some dicks. TALENT! a good portion of her art can be found on mj herself, though. stick ‘n pokes, babes—we love to see it.
minoo is also a mother. she has a son. and he’s a really good boy. almost bigger than she is now… they grow up so fast, don’t they? his name is rusty, and he’s the cutest saint bernard you ever did see. her best friend. her only friend, really. intended to be a guard dog, my boy rusty flopped—onto the couch that is. he is a certified couch potato, something minoo can relate to. AND SHE LOVES HIM SO! the only person she’d put before herself. dog - person…
once intended to get her license. that opportunity was shot when she chose teenage rebellion over independence. you see, mj here has got herself a rap sheet longer than herself. (not that impressive all things considered.) and she takes much pride in it. which means that when daddy dearest tried to have her late teen mishaps expunged—she saw red. psychological help, i’ll get her some. now she’s twenty - two and destined to travel the world by skateboard… all because she backed the family jeep into their neighbour’s backyard. nobody was hurt, alright. dare i say yet?
SPEED RUN! got nancy spungen for a role model. saving up to run off to sacramento. hates authority yet somehow has an authority kink. adhd embodied. looks like the artwork of numerous kindergarteners. thinks attention is love. homeless by choice (nobody said she was smart… except i did.) could eat her weight in olives. anarchist without a cause. 10/10 will break into your house. took fuck the police too literally that one time. fantasises about her dad’s suicide. wants to be loved. does not want to love.
WANTED CONNECTIONS
friend - o’s : i think it goes without saying that minoo is a handful. although i still think she should be allowed some buds. whether through her MANY INTERESTS (literature, art, punk rock, skating, large dogs, disappointing her parents…) or just through circumstance. she is twenty - two, and never made it to art school—* that one vine vc * way to go, paul mitch!—but she did go to fort elms high all four years. someone’s bound to know her! just give me some bitches to put up with her shit. god bless america.
parental figure : listen… she needs this. obviously! just some OLD PERSON who doesn’t tell her that she stinks and that her tattoos are ugly. she has a lifetime of trauma to make up for. we need some rachel and mitch opposites to fix that shit, alright. and stat! she intends on being dead by twenty - seven. cobain hasn’t even bit it yet, and still… she’s so ahead of her time…
enemy slash victim : she stinks. (yes, this is her dad speaking.) and is a complete fucking nuisance. if she decides you suck then she wont settle for simply knowing herself—you also have to know. really know… it’s no fun hating somebody if they don’t know it, man. just let her pull some cutesy pranks, you know? ordering half a dozen pizzas to their house, leave their number in the x - rated section of blockbuster, graffiti an ugly portrait of their ugly face on their driveway, slash their tires…
and that’s it, fellas! please love her… or else… :gun_emoji:
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The Sequel - 885
RIP Thomas Müller
André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)
original epic tale
all chapters of The Sequel
“Why don’t you ever do photoshoots in an outfit like this? I would like those prints.”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t like anyone else seeing them.”
“That’s true. You’re much too sexy for anyone but me.”
“Where do you most want to kiss me right now?”
“Am I allowed to touch?”
“You can point.”
André pointed to the inside of his girl’s right breast- a feature prominently displayed by her Marco Reus-approved lingerie. He’d already considered how weird it was that his friend saw her in the black outfit before he did. He loved the look, and the way it barely covered Christina’s chest. He liked the brief part too, because it emphasized how tiny her waist was. But it was actually the sheer robe that really did it for him, and he had no idea why. Even her makeup turned him on, which was weird because she didn’t change it between dinner and bed. At dinner her smoky black eye and nude pink lip and yards of lush lashes were just beautiful and complementary for her gorgeous blues. They turned explicitly seductive with the robe.
Christina said he wasn’t permitted to touch her anywhere yet. She sat on his thighs in bed and touched him- everywhere, really, but mostly around his chest, and stomach, and below that- but he wasn’t allowed to touch or kiss her. Her warm, soft hands were doing plenty to make good on the visual stimulus caused by her body and the fabric it was wrapped in. She talked a lot too, about how handsome he was, and how sexy his body was, and how his cute smiles made her feel. Her hair was big and fluffy and she kept playing with it- something both players in her love life found an incredible turn on. Her obvious delight in teasing him was kind of exciting too.
“How much longer are you going to sit there stroking in slow motion?” he questioned when the previous answer garnered no change in her behavior.
“I dunno. How much longer can you-“
“Mommy! Daddy! I need to come in,” a very panicked and unwelcome little voice shouted at its maximum volume at the locked bedroom door. The little boy it belonged to was supposed to be sound asleep.
“Oh come on,” Christina pouted, shoulders slumped.
“Is this going to be a thing now?” André asked with almost equal frustration.
“Daddyyyyyyy!” Lukas whined. The urgency coming through the door did earn some sympathy. His dad knew he was really upset or scared when he called him that way. Daddy saved him from the really terrible stuff. Mommy was for everything else, or for after the terrible thing happened.
“Go see what he wants,” he told her.
“I don’t want him to see me in this!”
“You want him to see this instead?” The player gestured with both hands at his erection and frowned. She told him to put his briefs back on and picked them up off the end of the bed for him, then hid herself under the comforter.
“Daddy’s coming!” she assured the unhappy child who was continually trying to pull on the door handle.
“The monster in his room better be really scary,” André grumbled as he tried to pull on his underwear and walk at the same time. He unlocked the door and then opened it carefully in case Lukas was still holding onto the other handle. His son ran through the opening as soon as it was big enough for him, and hugged his legs. “What’s wrong, Mausi?”
“Thomas Müller!”
“No, sweetie, he’s okay now,” Christina assured. “He scored the other night. His new manager loves him, I promise.”
“He’s not-“ Lukas was devolving into tears, and that came with hiccups that made it difficult for him to speak. “Swimming! He’s not swimming!”
“He means the fish, Prinzessin.” André bent in half to rub the child’s back. His panic was making him hot, even through his penguin pajamas. Why did his fish have to die the night she wears new lingerie and wants to tease me, the footballer complained to himself. Why was he even awake to see that the fish is dead?
“He’s probably just sleeping...” his girl tried.
“Nooo! Help him!” Lukas wasn’t buying it.
“Okay, I’ll go check on him,” Dad replied. “You stay with Mommy.” He picked him up, kissed his head, and delivered him to his mother for additional comforting, and hopefully calming, but he was already afraid he was getting himself into trouble. What am I supposed to do if it’s dead? Just take the bowl out of his room and tell him he’s at the fish doctor? Chris is so much better at this kind of thing. She’s more creative. This is so uncomfortable, André grumbled, adjusting himself on the way to Lukas’ room. The turtle nightlight’s glow reached all the way into the hallway.
He fully expected to find the sizeable goldfish floating upside down in his bowl on the shelf, so it was a surprise to find the bowl empty but for the ugly bottom-feeder fish they got to keep things clean, and an even bigger surprise to discover Thomas Müller on the carpet. Did he commit suicide? Chris said she had suicidal fish when she was a kid. Is he actually dead? Lemme... The BVB man carefully gripped the orange creature by the tail fin and lifted him for a loser inspection. He looks pretty dead, but...lemme just see if he’s just out of it... He eased it back into the water and leaned down, hands on knees, to see if it would reanimate. It didn’t. It just floated sideways.
“Rest in peace, Thomas Müller,” André sighed. What do I tell Mausi now? He lived a good life and he’s in a better bowl now? Do we do a funeral and bury him in the garden? I guess I should get him out of there before the vacuum fish starts eating him. He reached back into the bowl with his fingers and managed to grab the fish, but it was slimy and slipped out of his grip onto the floor. Where did he go? It’s so dark in- Hey, did Mausi take him out of the water in the first place, he wondered. His son said the fish wasn’t swimming, and he figured he probably would have mentioned it if the reason he wasn’t swimming was that he was lying on the carpet, so he considered that maybe Lukas reached in to poke at it or something and then dropped it on the floor like he’d just done. The stack of books down there made him think of it. Is he smart enough to pull his books from there and make a step so he can reach into the fishbowl? Am I going to have to deal with him being convinced that he killed his fish now? And where is the fucking fi- “Oh fuck.” There was a wet, squishing sensation under his left foot, which was very much in the shadow zone created by the giant stuffed giraffe blocking the nightlight. Disgusting. Ugh, so disgusting. His gag reflex kicked in and overwhelmed the worry over how to explain to his son that his fish was not only deceased, but smooshed into the rug. He knew there were wipes in the top drawer of the dresser, so he hopped over and got one to at least get the fish mush off his foot so he could then hop down the hall to the bathroom and thoroughly wash away the evidence. Cleaning the dead fish out of the carpet was a problem he thought best addressed by his wife.
“Babe?” she called when she saw the bathroom light go on in the hall. “Is Thomas Müller okay? Does he need a doctor?” She was trying to set him up with something to tell Lukas, to buy them time. If we say we’re sending him to the doctor it gives us a day to figure out how to explain death, the rider reasoned. Please be smart enough to see the assist I’m laying on for you right now, boyfriend.
“Uhhh, just a second!” André turned the water on for a few seconds to get it warm, and then wet some wadded up toilet paper with hand soap to scrub his foot. Then he chucked it in the toilet and flushed so that the bathroom wouldn’t smell like dead fish. The sound evoked immediate panic for Christina. Oh god- Is he- He better not be flushing him! You can’t do that to a kid! You have to let him see the dead thing or he never understands! “Hi,” André said in the doorway a second later, unsure of how to communicate the situation to her with Lukas right there. The little boy looked over at him from Mom’s lap with a tear-streaked face and tons of expectation.
“Did you help?” he asked, pleading almost.
“Uhhh...I...well...”
“Is he sick? Did you put him in the plastic bag so he doesn’t get the other fish sick before we can take him to the hospital?” Christina asked leadingly. Her own expression was just as pleading. She was begging him to follow her plotline.
“Uhh yeah. He’s not feeling well and he needs to be alone, Mausi, like when Mommy was sick a few weeks ago. I...er...I’ll drop him at the doctor in the morning.”
“He’ll get better?” his son asked.
“We’ll see,” Mom hastened to reply before her partner could say something that would dig them in deeper. “Goldfish don’t live very long, sweetheart. Why don’t we get you back into bed, and-“
“Actually, I need some Mausi hugs first,” André interjected, eyes wide. He then hurried into bed and held his arms out so that Lukas could sit in his lap, and he grabbed his phone to type out an explanation for what he considered a borderline inexplicable situation. “Fish was dead. Accidentally dropped him on the floor, then accidentally stepped on him-“ She’s going to think I’m an idiot, he realized, lifting his eyes from the screen to glare at the wall across the room. She’s going to think he wasn’t even dead until I squished him into the carpet. How about... “He was on the floor. Looked pretty dead. I put him back in the water just in case, but he was really dead so I tried to take him back out, dropped him on the floor, and accidentally stepped on him. Also, Lukas piled books to stand on and maybe took him out of the water in the first place. You need to go clean him out of the carpet. Sorry. You can sit on my face until you come as many times as you want. Sorry.” The iPhone was passed over to the rider with cringing trepidation.
Christina’s brows moved closer and closer together as she read the screen. He watched over Lukas’ shoulder, since the upset little boy was clinging around his neck. He saw her look up for a second and then re-read the couple of sentences. Then she turned and mouthed “what the fuck?” at him. His eyes got big again, and he shrugged. Christina scowled.
“I’ll be right back...” she muttered before climbing out of bed and scurrying into her dressing room to change. There was no way she was scraping a dead goldfish out of the rug in $1500 worth of Agent Provocateur lingerie. The night was officially ruined beyond repair, and it really upset her. She really wanted a sexy, romantic evening with her partner- in part because it was just fun and in part because she felt they might need it. They were doing great on all the parts of being together except that one, and Christina was always wary that she was
letting her sexual relationship with Juan negatively influence her sexual relationship with her husband.
André let Lukas watch TV while she cleaned, hoping that it would help calm him down. He was still very worried about his pet. Christina used a cake icing tool to literally scrape up the pet into a plastic bag, and then attacked the crime scene with the wet/dry vacuum and finally some mild air freshener in a spray can. All evidence of the accidental death and subsequent mutilation was gone. Only the hauntingly empty fishbowl remained to remind the rider that she needed to come up with an explanation for Lukas. The bottom feeder fish was hidden under the rock or in the treasure chest, so the water really did look completely devoid of life. She figured they would need to get another fish, too, and considered the possibility of trying to fool the child into thinking it was Thomas Müller. That would be tough though considering they didn’t even have a dead fish to photograph and try to match in the store. If they told him he didn’t make it, what would they do if he demanded to see the corpse? Or give it a proper burial? Or send it into the sunset on a flaming raft? It was late and her mind was tired and overwhelmed. For the time being, Thomas Müller was quarantined, needed to be left alone to get better, and would be going to the doctor in the morning. Christina knew even that basic story posed potential future challenges though. She wondered if Lukas would react badly the next time he got sick and needed a doctor if his fish went to the doctor and died, or if she told him he’d get better and he remembered that she said his fish would get better but didn’t, or she or André got sick and tried to assure him they would be fine. She thought everything about the incident had been handled badly thus far, but really she just thought her husband an absolutely useless, clumsy oaf for even trying to pluck the fish out of the water, for dropping it, and most especially for doing all of it in the dark and consequently stepping on the thing. He waited patiently while she tucked Lukas in, sold him again on the illness concept, and read him a story. It took forever to get him to sleep. He interrupted the picture book multiple times to ask questions about Thomas Müller.
“I’ll go to the store tomorrow and get him a new one,” André vowed as soon as his girl shut their bedroom door behind her. “I’ll get a nicer fish, like one from the Nemo movie. He can call him Mesut Özil and- I don’t know- We’ll tell him Thomas Müller fell in love with his nurse and swam away to elope.”
“Babe, he’s two and a half, not retarded.” Christina frowned at him, hands on hips, and didn’t feel even remotely moved by his apologetic and sympathetic expression and body language. He was still wearing only his underwear, and tried to welcome her into his lap after she took off her sweatpants and left them on the floor. “That is so over for the night,” she scoffed. “You don’t get any sex after you step on our child’s pet with your big dumb foot and then make me clean it up.”
“He was already dead!”
“Why would you not turn the fucking light on and use the fucking net thing to scoop him up? Or just leave him in the bowl and move the bowl?”
“Because I- I don’t know,” the player shrugged as she got under the blanket. “I was thinking about what to tell him, not what I was doing. And I was in a hurry to get back to bed with you...”
“Tough. I’m going to sleep. We should probably just tell him the truth. The fish died because that’s what goldfish do.” Her tone was growing bitter. She was just trying to shame me and highlight how ridiculous this was before, André realized. But now she’s getting angry. Don’t poke the bear. But...
“All right, we can tell him that. Together. But what do we say we did with the body?” he questioned, careful. “I think it would be horrible for him if we tell the truth on that part.” Christina sighed like she was getting ready to unleash a torrent of agitation and grievance upon him for so overcomplicating one of their kid’s early life milestones, but then she sighed again, more softly, as if to relent.
“Tell him you buried him in one of the flowerbeds and I’ll show him how to make a cross out of popsicle sticks or something to stick in the dirt. I’ll explain what it means.”
“You’re a good mom, Prinzessin.” He leaned over on his elbow to kiss her cheek before she could get all the way turned around away from him on her side. “And the best to be a parent with.”
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