#ablelism tw

It had been a gift from her, a mother who had lived watching her grandparents and great-grandparents toil under an Alabama sun for a landlord who would rather see their hands bound in chains than reaching for and accepting the money they were owed.

Formidable woman from the first scream she’d uttered and the punch she’d sent the doctor’s way when he’d slapped her behind, disability and can’t were two words Charlotte Tatum Slate would never allow in her vocabulary, nor would she allow it in her child’s.

If Christopher could breathe, if her sweet, precious child could open their eyes and speak, then there wasn't anything they couldn't do. Christopher was not disabled; he was differently-abled and there were accommodations that would make their life easier. Accommodations that would only accentuate the talents and abilities she knew her baby had.There would be no limits for her or them, they wouldn’t accept limits for themself, and she would make certain of it.

She had decided at the tender age of eight, she would never accept pennies from men and women who didn't accept the rich copper of her skin. She would never be poor. She would never beg. All it had taken to see her resolution through was a sunbeam smile and the flip of her finger when Malcolm Xavier Wickham had cursed at her in French. She’d cursed him back of course and he’d promptly apologized in English when he realized she’d understood what he’d said. Blatant accent or no, not every American was dumb or ignorant and she made sure Malcolm Wickham knew that with every letter they sent back and forth when she'd returned to that little shack in Alabama. She, in turn, had learned not every Frenchman was a coward when Mal, with skin so pale he should’ve been a moonbeam, had come to visit her. The poor man had burned, he'd been eaten alive and subjected to her family’s many ridiculous superstitions but he’d proposed to her the summer after.

He took her back to Paris with him and she'd never looked back. She hadn't minded that none of her family had been able to attend their Autumnal Parisian wedding. Malcolm had been heartbroken when his father had refused to attend.

She dropped the last name Slate but she was never quite able to drop the family that had given it to her. They always came back, like that pesky, deep-fried accent that snuck up on her at the most inopportune time. She couldn't seem to shake it or them and Malcolm had the accountant add another line in their books for moments when that accent deemed it appropriate to sound off.

Mal had found they were pregnant with another Wickham heir the year after they were married and three weeks after Malcom’s father’s boating accident. Charlotte had known for at least a month. The supposedly psychic Auntie on her mama’s side said it was karma, the universe keeping balance and order, one life ended as another began.

While she wasn't a believer in the supernatural, poetic justice was another thing entirely. She wouldn’t tolerate men or women who couldn't accept the rich copper of their skin, not in her family. Even still, she was relieved when Christopher’s skin turned out to be as moonbeam as Malcolm’s.

Her precious baby was born two months early, on the evening of her and Mal’s first wedding anniversary. It was a blustery day with wind that whipped so hard it threatened to tear the skin from your bones. The leaves were scattered and tossed across the practically deserted streets and the lights in the 2 Rue Ambroise hospital flickered as she screamed and pushed and once again cursed at Malcolm who’d insisted on being so damn encouraging and giddy that his child was actually being born. She would’ve punched him if her body hadn't twisted in on itself, tortured with searing, ripping pain that left her hands fisted in the white hospital sheets and her muscles knotted and aching with agony.

Seventeen hours later, they’d cut her open but the scar she refused to “fix” like all the other women in Paris, served as a precious reminder of what her darling was capable of.

Charlotte hadn't screamed that time, not with a throat stuffed with fear, when she saw the way her baby struggled - her precious, tiny, perfect thing. Her dearest Christopher had been a fighter in their own way, even though they hadn't come out screaming and punching. They hadn't even breathed but still they lived. It had been very dramatic and, as she'd come to find out, very in character with who’d they’d become.

Which was why she wasn't the least surprised when the news of their relationship with Valerian Ainsworth came to light. Nor was she surprised when she’d received their breathless, tearful 3am call babbling how they didn't know where they were, they couldn't call anyone else, they didn't have their wallet or their phone, they were tired and about to pass out.

By the time 6am rolled around, she’d negotiated with the pet who had gotten them to the airport, and on their way home. To her.

She could barely breathe. A small smile graced her face as she walked down the stairs. Five years was a long time to be separated from your only child.

Soft holiday jazz drifted through the air of, playing a quiet duet with the soft drip, drip of water brewing into rich coffee. Outside, snow coated the ground in a thin layer, the tips of grass still visible through the fresh white sheet. Large flakes fell from the gray lit sky. Any other day, she would’ve been irritated at the gloominess but nothing could douse her happiness. The gray and white landscape only made everything sweeter. Christopher would be getting a white Christmas and that was all that mattered right now.

"Midas."

"Ma'am?" he asked with a customary bow that always made her smile. He stepped back from the shirt. Dressed in a white dress shirt, shining black oxfords, and black slacks, the pet turned. The collar peeked out from under his dress shirt. She stepped forward and brushed lint off his shirt. Anniversary or apology or an apology for forgetting their anniversary from Malcolm - she couldn't quite remember which and all the jewelry, cars, trips and clothing in the world could never earn her forgiveness for his betrayal. After a while it has all started to blur together everyday she'd had to face that freckled-faced whore Christopher now called "wife"- Midas was a lifesaver, devoted and as pleasant as always. He would walk off a cliff with a smile on his face if she asked him to. It's what she'd paid for. As treacherous as WRU could be, they made good products.

“Tell me honestly,” she said, “Should I have gotten a bigger tree? I want everything to be perfect. They’ve been through so much this year and-”

He placed a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him with a gentle smile.

“It is perfect, Ms. Charlotte. Christopher will be pleased, I’m sure.”

It almost touched the ceiling, littered with lights and ornamental balls, tinsel and a bit of glitter. It would keep the whole foyer lit if she turned off the lights and be unmistakable from the driveway.

“Did you get all of their ornaments from the attic?” she asked, wringing her hands. She glanced out the window. The snow had covered all of the grass now. The world was growing dark with the setting of the sun. She hoped the driver would get here before the roads got too difficult. She’d hate for Christopher to have to spend a night in a hotel.

Not when she’s waited to see them for so long.

“Why don't you go sit by the window, Ms. Charlotte?” Midas suggested. “I’ve finished with this task, Ma’am. I can get started on a light dinner.”

“Yes,” she murmured, already on her way to the door. She could’ve sworn she’d seen lights in the driveway. “Thank you, Midas. Please remember Christopher doesn’t eat any meat except for fish.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The snow continued to silently fall, painting the world in white even in the dark. silently fell, painting the world in white even in the dark and charlotte’s thoughts drifted with each flake.

An affair, the media claimed, like their father before them.

She knew better, didn’t she? Christopher wasn't Malcolm. They didn't have the energy to betray anyone, even the pet whore they called their wife. While the media ran the sordid story, her child kept their head up and bravely faced the onslaught like she’d raised them to.

But every soldier needed a break and Charlotte was more than happy to give them the solace they so desperately needed.

Lights and sound appeared. She stood, pulling her cardigan tightly over her body, and opened the door with a bright smile. She stayed on the step until Christopher reached her, her eyes roving over their too pale features, emotions swirling through her mind. Shock, disbelief, tentative, delicate hope.

“Hello, Mama,” he said.

They bent down, leaning heavily on a crutch and wrapped an arm around her. She, in turn, wrapped her arms tightly around him, holding him as close as she could. Her hands scrabbled at his back, searching for better purchase to cling to him. He buried his nose into the soft spot where her shoulder met her neck and breathed in deeply, inhaling the smell of her.

“Missed, missed you, Mama.”

“I’ve missed you too, Sweetheart. I was surprised your….” she swallowed her bile and finished the word, “wife allowed you to come and sit with and stay with the devil. I thought she’d be too afraid of me filling your head with nonsense the way she filled yours.”

"Don't-" They snapped icily and shivered with a violence that shook their frame and sent their curls bouncing, "- talk, talk, talk….about, about her like that."

There was no bite to it, an icicle quickly melted by the heat of exhaustion and swallowed up by pain, and Charlotte stepped back with a roll of her eyes. She ushered them inside, leaving the door open.

"Midas, " She ordered. The pet stepped into the room. "Please have Oslo and Savanna grab Christopher’s bags."

Her hand quivered over their curls with the desire to brush them away, to see the blue eyes Malcolm had given him, the way she always had when they were young and feeling unwell. They'd always curl up in her lap with a glass of warm milk and cookies, hiding under her shirt to keep the light from hurting their head worse.

They shivered again. Their shaking hands pulled their coat tighter around themself.

"You, you, you wonder why I haven't, haven't talked to you since Papa's funeral. You, you, you have no respect for, for Leigh and none for, for me."

She was tired of having this argument with them. The struggle with them was as neverending as it was necessary. She wasn't surprised at this either. It didn't matter if they were her darling baby or not, they favored their father in most things and that included their taste in women.

It stung. An affair. Like their father before them.

"I respect those who've earned it," she said simply, "I don't respect made whores, nor do I respect feral bitches. You haven't talked to me for five years because you allow your guard dog to hold her own leash and yours, Christopher."

She gave into temptation and threaded a loose curl around her finger before brushing it aside and behind their ear. They're not so little anymore. They tensed.

"She's not, not, not a pet, Mama."

She huffed. "I’m happy you’re home, Christopher and I’ll chalk this attitude up to you being tired from the flight.” Her voice softened. “You’ve had a hard year, Darling, and I know this isn't your choice. I’m here for you, a call away, if that’s what you want. Like I was this morning.”