Normal
Rating: G
Summary: Roy Hunter observes his parents.
This is in keeping with the McKinney novels in that Roy is depicted and Aurora is mentioned and the kids' psychic stuff is very obliquely referred to, but that's about it.
I can't help it. From time to time I find myself watching them, and
I'm not sure why I do. What I do know is that every once in a while
I'm suffused with this sense of rightness, of utter contentment, when I'm
watching them do something as mundane as eating dinner, or when
we're all sitting around late at night, and Mom pretends to not be
falling asleep in her favorite chair, her planning schedules on her lap,
and Dad just looks at her and shakes his head with bemused affection.
It sounds corny, I know. Maybe even a little insane. I mean, I'm
an eighteen year old guy, a man, even, and I get a kick out of
watching my parents. How can that possibly be considered normal
behavior? Then again, I haven't been considered "normal" since I was
six years old. And my parents -- christ, I don't know if my parents
were ever normal. Sometimes I wonder if they were Admirals
Hayes and Hunter their entire lives, since they first popped out of
the womb.
So call me corny, or cheesy, or nuts, or whatever the hell you
want, but I still get a kick out of it. Out of watching them.
Like right now, for instance. Here we are, the three of us, eating
dinner, and I might as well not be here. I'm just kicking back, playing
with my food, and watching them. They have this amazing ability to
get wrapped up in a world where only the two of them exist. I think
maybe it comes from having known each other for so long, or from
having gone through hell after unthinkable hell together. Or maybe it's
just because they love each other so damn much. Whatever the reason, they've developed a pattern, a way of interacting with each other that seems
almost too good to be true half the time.
Usually it's just the little things that I notice. Mom passes the potatoes, and
Dad takes them, and somehow it's done with an unusual fluidity of motion, like
they're two gears in a working machine. Or Dad starts a sentence and
Mom finishes it. They do that a lot. Sometimes it's downright creepy.
"Roy?"
"Hmm?"
Mom looks at me, her brow slightly furrowed with maternal concern.
"You're not eating, is something wrong?"
"Huh? Oh no, everything's great, I'm fine," I assure her, heading off
an inquisition.
She gives me one of her trademark skeptical looks, but lets it slide and
turns her attentions back to Dad instead. "Rick, do you remember the
name of that ensign whose insignia was always crooked, the one with
the fire engine red hair?"
Dad pauses for a moment, the fork halfway to his mouth. "Umm...
Parker, wasn't it?"
Her face brightens in recognition. "Parker, of course! I ran into her
yesterday and could not remember her name for the life of me. I guess
I must be getting pretty old."
It's a statement that most men I know would have struggled with before
responding to, but Dad doesn't break stride. "You're telling me."
She narrows those catlike green eyes of hers, but he's used to their effect by
now. "I could still take you, you know," she points out, deftly spearing a
piece of celery with her fork.
He grins. "I don't doubt it." He looks over at me, and I sense I'm once again
about to be drawn into one of their little plays. "Whaddya say, Roy, after
dinner you wanna watch me and your mom wrassle?"
"Only if I can sell tickets," I quip. Mom smiles - she loves the fact that I've
apparently inherited Dad's sense of humor. Part of her wishes I hadn't also
inherited his love of flying as well, but Mom's nothing if not tolerant when
it comes to Hunter men.
"Our son the capitalist," she says sourly, but I hear the undercurrent of
affection in her voice.
"Well he didn't get it from me," Dad says quickly.
Mom raises her eyebrows. "That's right, Rick, you've never done a deed
for anything other than purely selfless and altruistic reasons." It never ceases
to amaze me how she's managed to raise sarcasm to an art form, and how
Dad takes such utter glee in responding to it.
"That's right," Dad agrees cheerfully. "I seem to remember a rescue or two
that I did for...altruistic reasons."
Her ascerbic grin softens and a familiar glow appears in her eyes. "I seem to
remember one or two myself."
Did I already mention the habit my parents have of making me feel like I'm no longer in the room? I watch them watching each other and I know from the way their eyes meet that they're both reliving that day at Alaska Base that I've heard so much about, the day that Dad swooped in like some guardian angel in the midst of Armageddon and rescued Mom from the molten, steaming Earth. The day he swept her up into his arms. The day that marked a turning point for them and for the planet.
I mean, how is that normal? How many kids grow up listening to their parents tell stories of daring and romantic rescue missions during apocalyptic firestorms? Maybe Aurora Sterling, but her parents are just as legendary as mine. She and Dana are two of the few people I know who understand what it's like, to sometimes feel like you're living in your parents' shadows.
But the odd part of it all is that we don't really mind. Oh, maybe we all did, once, when we first hit that early teen stage when you're convinced that your parents exist for no reason other than to embarrass their children, but now - it's different. We understand what they have given us, what they have sacrificed. We kind of like the celebrity, are proud of it, even. The Hunters and the Sterlings are our parents, but they're also our heroes. We revel in their shade.
Like I said. Who wants to be normal?

End.