For genprompt_bingo
May. 27th, 2019 06:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyofleithianTitle: Lazarus Effect
Summary: What happened the night that Bill Baterman went to bury his son? (A Pet Sematary fic)
Prompt: The way we were: Pre-canon
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The moon was full even as Bill Baterman carried his son’s body towards the deadfall. He walked past old markers of pets long gone, and thanks to the stories about the Micmac Burial Ground, he knew what to do. Walk straight, don’t look down.
It was something that was too risky, actually. Bill knew he could be caught at any moment. And yet at the same time, he had a calm certainty that he wouldn’t. For some reason, it felt right. Like everything had been planned.
He took a deep breath and began his walk over the deadfall.
***
“He’s so beautiful.”
Anna Baterman turned to look at her son even as he was delivered to her side, to her arms, and Bill Baterman could scarcely disagree with that fact. The baby looked so much like his mother — he had her dark hair, those wide eyes that seemed to be surveying everything like he was taking it in for the first time.
“I know.” Despite what seemed like hours of labor, Bill Baterman could at least be relieved that his wife was okay — and marvel at the miracle that was their son. After wailing loud enough to wake the dead earlier, the baby was quiet now, curious.
Anna, meanwhile, looked over the baby, smiling. “Hi, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m your mama. It’s so good to see you.” A beat. “You want to hold him, Bill?”
Bill was careful even as he took the baby in his arms; he felt somehow like he was going to drop him. Break him. And he smiled at the baby. “I’m your papa,” he said. “We’ve waited for you a while, little one.”
“We haven’t really named him,” Anna said. She yawned. “I mean...we can’t just keep calling him ‘sweetheart’ and ‘little one’ for too long.”
Bill laughed. It felt right to do so, even though labor had been so terrifying. “No reason we can’t,” he said.
Anna laughed as well. She looked outright radiant in that moment. Beautiful. Then, “We’ll have to name him. I was thinking Timothy. After my brother.”
“Timothy.” Bill turned the name over for a moment. “And what about John? For his middle name, I mean.”
“Timothy John Baterman.” Anna said. “That could very well work.”
***
Bill supposed that there was something in terms of irony that he had carried Timmy in his arms as a baby, and now, here he was, carrying Timmy to the Micmac Burial Ground. He supposed, in the end, it didn’t matter if Timmy was just a five year old playing with his pet dog, Scruffy. (That dog was long dead too, buried in the other Pet Sematary. The main one) It didn’t matter if Timmy was seven years old and wondering why Mama wasn’t there. It didn’t matter if Timmy was seventeen, his eighteenth birthday in the distance, arguing vehemently with his father that someone had to go out and fight Hitler because it was the fucking right thing to do. (Bill had loved and feared for his son all the more because of that sentiment)
It didn’t even matter if Timmy was a horrible mess of bullet wounds being carried up to the burial ground. Some things you never outgrew. Some things just stayed the same. Sons never really stopped being sons; there was still a part of them that you wanted to soothe when they skinned their knee or were scared of the dark or were angry or anything.
Your son never stopped being your son.
***
“Da?”
Timmy looked up at him, wide-eyed. Bill already knew that his seven year old mind could barely wrap his head around the fact that his mother was gone, along with his unborn sibling. It wasn’t fair, truly; it was just another reason why Bill could safely say that God had never helped him. He only helped himself. God really was just a sadistic puppeteer, toying with the lives of others for His amusement. A just, loving God wouldn’t have allowed so many people to go hungry. A just, loving God wouldn’t have let everything go so wrong.
Only a sadist God would allow that.
“Yes, Tim?” Bill said.
“Is Mama going to go to heaven?”
Bill swallowed. Honestly, he couldn’t say. After everything that had happened to him, he didn’t know that there really was a heaven. Maybe there was a puppet theater where God ordered His creations to dance for Him, but nothing like this. But you didn’t just tell a seven year old that.
“Well,” he said, “I think that there are forces out there that are beyond our comprehension. And that...that could include heaven too, if you’d like.”
“Are we ever gonna...see Mama again?”
Bill nodded. “If there’s a just, loving God,” he said. “He’ll let us in. One day.”
And somehow, the fact that he had lied to spare his seven year old son...that lessened the guilt somewhat.
***
The swamp water later on was just like the deadfall; you didn’t look down. Those were the stories. Even as he continued through the swamp water, he could hear the sounds of birds, of shrieks in the gloom...and for a moment, the more sensible part of Bill wondered if it would just be wiser to turn back, because just what was he doing up here?
But that part was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the knowledge that he had work yet left to do. Timmy. His boy. The army had been sadistic enough to steal him and kill him, and now Bill was getting him back.
The Micmac Burial Ground had its own sort of magic, after all.
It was reaching the Micmac Burial Ground that Bill placed Timmy’s body on the ground beside him, and began to dig. This was a once in a lifetime chance. He couldn’t afford to mess it up.
***
“I have to go, Da.”
Even as Timmy stood in the doorway of their unassuming Ludlow house, Bill couldn’t help but feel a certain shrieking denial in him. The same shrieking denial that came when Anna had bled to death in front of him as the midwives tried to save her.
Timmy continued. “It’s been all over the papers. They attacked us. Hitler’s probably gonna do a helluva lot worse. I can’t...I can’t just do nothin’, Da!”
“You’ll die out there,” Bill said.
“Who says I will?”
“People like that don’t always come back alive. And even if you do...you won’t be the same, Tim.” Fuck, but he wanted neither option for his sweet, cheerful, earnest boy. The sort of boy who’d help old ladies cross the street without expecting a reward. Bill could picture it. Even if Timmy came back, his innocence would be good as dead.
Silence.
Bill sighed. “I can’t lose you the way I lost your mother.”
“You won’t, Da. I’ll come back. And...” Timmy grinned, a little cockily, like he thought he could take on Hitler himself in single combat. “We’ll have stories to talk about, you and me.”
“Yeah.” Bill hugged his son tightly, almost praying that he could shield his wonderful boy from the worst of the world a little while longer. “We will. I love you, Tim.”
“I love you, Da. I’ll come back. I promise.”
Bill had no idea that Timmy would, unintentionally, fail to keep that promise.
***
The hole had been dug. Now...now he just had to bury the body. So Bill did. Covered it with dirt and arranged a cairn before heading back the way he came. He collapsed in bed, sore from the exertion before falling asleep.
I love you, Tim, he thought, even as he drifted off, exhausted from his walk. I love you more than I could possibly love myself.
Summary: What happened the night that Bill Baterman went to bury his son? (A Pet Sematary fic)
Prompt: The way we were: Pre-canon
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
The moon was full even as Bill Baterman carried his son’s body towards the deadfall. He walked past old markers of pets long gone, and thanks to the stories about the Micmac Burial Ground, he knew what to do. Walk straight, don’t look down.
It was something that was too risky, actually. Bill knew he could be caught at any moment. And yet at the same time, he had a calm certainty that he wouldn’t. For some reason, it felt right. Like everything had been planned.
He took a deep breath and began his walk over the deadfall.
***
“He’s so beautiful.”
Anna Baterman turned to look at her son even as he was delivered to her side, to her arms, and Bill Baterman could scarcely disagree with that fact. The baby looked so much like his mother — he had her dark hair, those wide eyes that seemed to be surveying everything like he was taking it in for the first time.
“I know.” Despite what seemed like hours of labor, Bill Baterman could at least be relieved that his wife was okay — and marvel at the miracle that was their son. After wailing loud enough to wake the dead earlier, the baby was quiet now, curious.
Anna, meanwhile, looked over the baby, smiling. “Hi, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m your mama. It’s so good to see you.” A beat. “You want to hold him, Bill?”
Bill was careful even as he took the baby in his arms; he felt somehow like he was going to drop him. Break him. And he smiled at the baby. “I’m your papa,” he said. “We’ve waited for you a while, little one.”
“We haven’t really named him,” Anna said. She yawned. “I mean...we can’t just keep calling him ‘sweetheart’ and ‘little one’ for too long.”
Bill laughed. It felt right to do so, even though labor had been so terrifying. “No reason we can’t,” he said.
Anna laughed as well. She looked outright radiant in that moment. Beautiful. Then, “We’ll have to name him. I was thinking Timothy. After my brother.”
“Timothy.” Bill turned the name over for a moment. “And what about John? For his middle name, I mean.”
“Timothy John Baterman.” Anna said. “That could very well work.”
***
Bill supposed that there was something in terms of irony that he had carried Timmy in his arms as a baby, and now, here he was, carrying Timmy to the Micmac Burial Ground. He supposed, in the end, it didn’t matter if Timmy was just a five year old playing with his pet dog, Scruffy. (That dog was long dead too, buried in the other Pet Sematary. The main one) It didn’t matter if Timmy was seven years old and wondering why Mama wasn’t there. It didn’t matter if Timmy was seventeen, his eighteenth birthday in the distance, arguing vehemently with his father that someone had to go out and fight Hitler because it was the fucking right thing to do. (Bill had loved and feared for his son all the more because of that sentiment)
It didn’t even matter if Timmy was a horrible mess of bullet wounds being carried up to the burial ground. Some things you never outgrew. Some things just stayed the same. Sons never really stopped being sons; there was still a part of them that you wanted to soothe when they skinned their knee or were scared of the dark or were angry or anything.
Your son never stopped being your son.
***
“Da?”
Timmy looked up at him, wide-eyed. Bill already knew that his seven year old mind could barely wrap his head around the fact that his mother was gone, along with his unborn sibling. It wasn’t fair, truly; it was just another reason why Bill could safely say that God had never helped him. He only helped himself. God really was just a sadistic puppeteer, toying with the lives of others for His amusement. A just, loving God wouldn’t have allowed so many people to go hungry. A just, loving God wouldn’t have let everything go so wrong.
Only a sadist God would allow that.
“Yes, Tim?” Bill said.
“Is Mama going to go to heaven?”
Bill swallowed. Honestly, he couldn’t say. After everything that had happened to him, he didn’t know that there really was a heaven. Maybe there was a puppet theater where God ordered His creations to dance for Him, but nothing like this. But you didn’t just tell a seven year old that.
“Well,” he said, “I think that there are forces out there that are beyond our comprehension. And that...that could include heaven too, if you’d like.”
“Are we ever gonna...see Mama again?”
Bill nodded. “If there’s a just, loving God,” he said. “He’ll let us in. One day.”
And somehow, the fact that he had lied to spare his seven year old son...that lessened the guilt somewhat.
***
The swamp water later on was just like the deadfall; you didn’t look down. Those were the stories. Even as he continued through the swamp water, he could hear the sounds of birds, of shrieks in the gloom...and for a moment, the more sensible part of Bill wondered if it would just be wiser to turn back, because just what was he doing up here?
But that part was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the knowledge that he had work yet left to do. Timmy. His boy. The army had been sadistic enough to steal him and kill him, and now Bill was getting him back.
The Micmac Burial Ground had its own sort of magic, after all.
It was reaching the Micmac Burial Ground that Bill placed Timmy’s body on the ground beside him, and began to dig. This was a once in a lifetime chance. He couldn’t afford to mess it up.
***
“I have to go, Da.”
Even as Timmy stood in the doorway of their unassuming Ludlow house, Bill couldn’t help but feel a certain shrieking denial in him. The same shrieking denial that came when Anna had bled to death in front of him as the midwives tried to save her.
Timmy continued. “It’s been all over the papers. They attacked us. Hitler’s probably gonna do a helluva lot worse. I can’t...I can’t just do nothin’, Da!”
“You’ll die out there,” Bill said.
“Who says I will?”
“People like that don’t always come back alive. And even if you do...you won’t be the same, Tim.” Fuck, but he wanted neither option for his sweet, cheerful, earnest boy. The sort of boy who’d help old ladies cross the street without expecting a reward. Bill could picture it. Even if Timmy came back, his innocence would be good as dead.
Silence.
Bill sighed. “I can’t lose you the way I lost your mother.”
“You won’t, Da. I’ll come back. And...” Timmy grinned, a little cockily, like he thought he could take on Hitler himself in single combat. “We’ll have stories to talk about, you and me.”
“Yeah.” Bill hugged his son tightly, almost praying that he could shield his wonderful boy from the worst of the world a little while longer. “We will. I love you, Tim.”
“I love you, Da. I’ll come back. I promise.”
Bill had no idea that Timmy would, unintentionally, fail to keep that promise.
***
The hole had been dug. Now...now he just had to bury the body. So Bill did. Covered it with dirt and arranged a cairn before heading back the way he came. He collapsed in bed, sore from the exertion before falling asleep.
I love you, Tim, he thought, even as he drifted off, exhausted from his walk. I love you more than I could possibly love myself.
