... go ahead. I think if I minded that much, I would have mailed it separate.
[ She folds her hands atop her knees, trying to refrain from the instinct to take it back, or to make an excuse and leave before he opens it. It's nothing bad, and she knows Jaime well enough to know the kind of reaction he will have. It's nothing he's told her outright; perhaps part of it is nothing he'd intended her to notice, but they're part of what makes him who he is.
Jaime is, if nothing else, sentimental. He cherishes the little things, and holds onto his mementos for as long as he can, no matter how other people might look at them. Bottle caps, photographs — she already knows that the chocolate tins will either have their labels saved, or at least one will be reused as a planter or a cup for pens. Too much and too many have been taken from him, over the years here; it's possible too much and too many is what he'd lost, before he ever came to this world. He'll hold tight to every little good thing he can.
The present in his lap weighs a couple pounds; the wrapping, like all the rest, is neat, and it undoes easily. A plain gift box, and thin tissue, and beneath all that is a book. Not a regular book, published and printed, like a novel or anything. It's tall, and wide, and thick, the cover an unmarked blue with a material that yields, ever-so-slightly, to the touch.
A scrapbook.
For the first couple of pages, it's straightforward: newspaper scans, photo print-offs of television clips, screenshots of old bwitter article-links, all of this or that heroic deed by the Blue Beetle. Evacuating a burning building too dangerous to enter; cars and people stranded after accidents, retrieved in time for medical care; the thwarting of robberies, assaults; the mundane retrieval of cats from trees, reuniting kids and their misplaced dogs, misplaced parents; the hauling to shore of damaged boats. All usual stuff, but what's interspersed with these little objective accounts of his deeds that is what matters.
Letters. Blog posts. Drawings. Both my daughters were in that crash. I thank God every day that you were there, and I was sure we weren't going to make it, but he made sure we were okay, and Thank you for saving my mommy, and dozens more. Typed, hand-written, some address directly to the Blue Beetle, some to a nebulous third-party audience. Page after page, story after story, comes with something like it. Sometimes they come with photographs — people he's rescued in the months or years later. There's six straight pages dedicated to simple before-and-after pictures of kids and their cats, kids and their dogs, and those kids older, taller, some now in their teens, showing off their still-beloved pets. There's graduation pictures — for high school, for college, for a few parents and grandparents that have managed to go back. Wedding pictures. Family portraits. Snapshots of average, ordinary life.
Since then, I finished school.
Since that day, I could start a new life. Thank you for giving me the chance.
We decided we didn't want to wait any more after that. We got married!!!
I was there to see my granddaughter's birthday. Now I'll get to see many more :)
After that, I met my best friend. We're opening a shop together after we're done with college.
Since then, we found out we're expecting. It's a boy! We're thinking of naming him Jaime ♥
Pages, and pages, and pages. Things he's done in the past year; things he's done in his first, and everywhere between. But even for as many full pages as there are, it's not even half, not even a quarter, maybe not even a tenth of the good deeds the Blue Beetle has done here. Not even a tenth of the impact he's had. And these are just some of the people he's helped, and only ones he's helped directly - between him and Khaji, they'll recognize most of them.
The book ends with about thirty blank pages — unfinished. Impossible to be finished. ]
no subject
[ She folds her hands atop her knees, trying to refrain from the instinct to take it back, or to make an excuse and leave before he opens it. It's nothing bad, and she knows Jaime well enough to know the kind of reaction he will have. It's nothing he's told her outright; perhaps part of it is nothing he'd intended her to notice, but they're part of what makes him who he is.
Jaime is, if nothing else, sentimental. He cherishes the little things, and holds onto his mementos for as long as he can, no matter how other people might look at them. Bottle caps, photographs — she already knows that the chocolate tins will either have their labels saved, or at least one will be reused as a planter or a cup for pens. Too much and too many have been taken from him, over the years here; it's possible too much and too many is what he'd lost, before he ever came to this world. He'll hold tight to every little good thing he can.
The present in his lap weighs a couple pounds; the wrapping, like all the rest, is neat, and it undoes easily. A plain gift box, and thin tissue, and beneath all that is a book. Not a regular book, published and printed, like a novel or anything. It's tall, and wide, and thick, the cover an unmarked blue with a material that yields, ever-so-slightly, to the touch.
A scrapbook.
For the first couple of pages, it's straightforward: newspaper scans, photo print-offs of television clips, screenshots of old bwitter article-links, all of this or that heroic deed by the Blue Beetle. Evacuating a burning building too dangerous to enter; cars and people stranded after accidents, retrieved in time for medical care; the thwarting of robberies, assaults; the mundane retrieval of cats from trees, reuniting kids and their misplaced dogs, misplaced parents; the hauling to shore of damaged boats. All usual stuff, but what's interspersed with these little objective accounts of his deeds that is what matters.
Letters. Blog posts. Drawings. Both my daughters were in that crash. I thank God every day that you were there, and I was sure we weren't going to make it, but he made sure we were okay, and Thank you for saving my mommy, and dozens more. Typed, hand-written, some address directly to the Blue Beetle, some to a nebulous third-party audience. Page after page, story after story, comes with something like it. Sometimes they come with photographs — people he's rescued in the months or years later. There's six straight pages dedicated to simple before-and-after pictures of kids and their cats, kids and their dogs, and those kids older, taller, some now in their teens, showing off their still-beloved pets. There's graduation pictures — for high school, for college, for a few parents and grandparents that have managed to go back. Wedding pictures. Family portraits. Snapshots of average, ordinary life.
Since then, I finished school.
Since that day, I could start a new life. Thank you for giving me the chance.
We decided we didn't want to wait any more after that. We got married!!!
I was there to see my granddaughter's birthday. Now I'll get to see many more :)
After that, I met my best friend. We're opening a shop together after we're done with college.
Since then, we found out we're expecting. It's a boy! We're thinking of naming him Jaime ♥
Pages, and pages, and pages. Things he's done in the past year; things he's done in his first, and everywhere between. But even for as many full pages as there are, it's not even half, not even a quarter, maybe not even a tenth of the good deeds the Blue Beetle has done here. Not even a tenth of the impact he's had. And these are just some of the people he's helped, and only ones he's helped directly - between him and Khaji, they'll recognize most of them.
The book ends with about thirty blank pages — unfinished. Impossible to be finished. ]