A Ko-fi reward for Anonymous who requested a cute Father/Daughter moment between McCree and Magdala. Thanks for the hot cocoa, doll! I hope you enjoy Papa McCree and Mischievous Magdala.
McCree + OC: Magdala. 500 word drabble. Father/Daughter fluff.
There is something different in the air. The smells resonates within her belly, like dessert after dinner. Her metallic fingertips trail across the spines. Down the bumpy ridges, she reads decorative, gold cursive and bold black ink.
“Any luck, sweetie?” McCree’s voice falls from down the aisle.
Magdala drops her prosthetic hand to a row lower. The silver digit of her right hand taps lightly against the author’s name. As if she doesn’t know by heart where her favorite section of fiction is.
“The Arthur Conan Doyle books are still here,” she says. “Still haven’t found The Final Problem.”
His boots step over the dingy carpet to her side. Stooping slighter, her father helps her browse the titles. Even the wooden cases with which the books are contained in are faded, dusty. The owners hardly spare a glance to this little bookshop anymore.
If she had it her way, this entire library would be in her room. Instead, Papa’s gift is one book of her choice. This is her’s and his day. Ana had Papa yesterday. Roughly once a month, McCree makes time to take each of his daughter’s out to their favorite dinner and an activity/gift of their choice.
“The Final Problem, hmm,” he hums quietly, eyeing her for a moment. “You’ve already gotten through all the other Sherlock Holmes books?”
“Ages ago,” she answers, “but I’ve been wanting to read something new of Sherlock as of late.”
McCree pulls out a book. Nothing of what she’s looking for, but it still holds as a Sherlock tale. Between his flesh and metal fingers, the book opens to a random page. Like her own natural and prosthetic hands do so often. Quietly, Magdala straightens.
“Do you still remember the quote?” she asks, hopeful.
An amusement touches his face at her subtle eagerness. When she was younger, she would demand and beg for him to say it. Papa’s eyes fall to the book, but not for reference.
“’My mind,’ he said, ‘Rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram for the most intricate analysis, and I am in my proper atmosphere.’”
Though the regal quote is far away from the Southern accent, McCree makes it roll beautifully off of his tongue. It’s something Magdala still tests with her mixed Spanish vowels and Southern drawls.
McCree turns to her softly happy state, “How was that, little bee?”
“Perfecto,” she answers. She looks away only for a moment to find the title she’s been searching for. Freeing it from the close huddle of other hardcovers, she shows it to her father.
“Will that hold you over for a little while?” he asks with mirth.
Ducking her head to let her long, blonde dipped strands fall and hide her face, Magdala grins to herself. There are too many nights where she’s read the pages until her eyes were too tired and itchy.
“This will do for now.”
A chuckle leaves his mouth, not surprised.
“You know your mama could download those for you off the internet if you wanted them so quickly.” McCree begins walking down the aisle as Magdala holds the book to her chest. “No need for such a long drive and expensive book. It’s sort of… hipster-ish, don’t you think?”
She shakes her head, scrunching her face in displeasure.
“It’s not hipster! If anything, it’s vintage! You should know that, Papa.”
She sharply eyes his person. Old, leather boots with a tucked in flannel shirt and jeans barely holding at the seams. He doesn’t have his cowboy hat, but it would complete her implication.
“Hey now, what are you getting at?”
Magdala mischievously shrugs her shoulders, smirking the slightest at her father’s mockingly disgruntled expression.
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