The flat smelled faintly of tea and Freddie’s cologne—warm, comforting, familiar. He had stepped out with Mary for a few minutes, leaving you behind with David, who had promised, with that charming crooked smile of his, to keep you company.
You sat cross-legged on the living room floor, crayons scattered everywhere, a coloring book open in front of you. Your little tongue stuck out in concentration as you tried to stay inside the lines.
David Bowie was lounging on the couch nearby, long legs stretched out, his shirt untucked in that effortless way that somehow still looked like art. He was watching you with a fond amusement, sipping his tea.
“You’ve got quite the serious face on, you know that?” he said at last, voice smooth like honey and velvet.
You looked up at him, crayon still in hand. “I don’t wanna mess it up.”
David smiled, setting his tea down and sliding off the couch to sit on the floor beside you. He folded himself down easily, despite his height, and picked up a stray blue crayon.
“You know…” he tapped the page lightly, “the best art isn’t always inside the lines. Sometimes it’s a bit wild, a bit messy. Like music.”
You tilted your head, curious. “Like Daddy’s songs?”
His smile softened—just a little sad, just a little tender at the mention of Freddie—but so full of warmth. “Exactly like your dad’s songs.”
For the next ten minutes, David colored with you. Not carefully, but boldly—zigzags of bright red through a sky that was supposed to be blue, a star in neon green. You giggled, covering your mouth with your small hands.
“That’s not what it looks like!” you laughed.
David leaned close and whispered like it was a great secret: “But sometimes the world needs to look different. Imagine a green star shining in the night sky. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”
You nodded seriously, the idea sparking in your young mind. “I’d like that.”
After a little while, you set your crayon down and looked at him with wide, trusting eyes.
“Uncle David?”
“Yes, love?”
“Do you think Daddy misses me when he’s not here?”
David’s chest tightened just a little. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with such gentleness.
“Your father doesn’t just miss you,” he said softly, “he carries you with him everywhere. In his songs. In his heart. Every note he sings has a little piece of you in it.”
You blinked at him, and then leaned over to hug him with your tiny arms. Surprised, he chuckled and wrapped his long arms around you, holding you close.
“You’re a good girl,” he murmured. “And he’s so very proud of you.”
The door finally opened. Freddie swept in, dramatic as always, with Mary following behind him.
“Darling!” he called, spotting you curled up against David’s side on the floor. “Good heavens, I leave you for ten minutes and you’ve stolen Bowie from me?”
David smirked, though his hand never left your shoulder. “I’m afraid she’s far more charming than you, Fred.”
Freddie gasped in mock offense. Mary rolled her eyes with a fond smile.