#I injured my back in three different places this week. Further proof that staying in can be as dangerous as going out

[jflashandclash]

Tales From Mount Othrys

Ajax: Fidget Spinners VI

           The Lord of the Underworld was almost exactly what Pax expected he would be: moody, dark, and evil-looking with a strong affinity for the color black. Or maybe it was the color “trapped soul.” Whatever it was, Hades liked it outlined in gold, probably to look more intimidating. He wore black robes and had a helm under one arm.

         There was one major problem. He didn’t have blue fire for hair. Disney taught Pax that Hades was supposed to have blue fire hair and a great sense of humor. Disney had lied to him. This just looked like a rich, pasty white guy. 

         His black and gold chariot was spooky, but Pax had seen cooler ones. The one they were designing for Kronos was way better.

         Axel was crazy enough to have his sword still drawn. In the presence of the Lord of the Underworld, with Hades’ squadron of geriatric dominatrixes, and some Halloween standees behind them, Pax’s brother set his jaw and kept hislips in a firm line. When asked later, Pax would say Axel didn’t shake once (and they would get a chance to be asked later; they were both surviving this, damn it.) Truth was, Pax’s presence seemed to weaken Axel’s resolve. Pax guessed it was real easy to get yourself killed when it was just you that would be doing the dying part.

         Pax’s mind raced. One thing was certain: they weren’t fighting their way out of this.

         Axel grunted when Pax pushed his sword hand down.  

         “Get out of here,” Axel hissed in Mayan.

         Pax didn’t know how to explain to Axel that the invisibility spell over Pax was sparking and would attract a lot of attention if he tried to pick up Axel and flee. Pax didn’t get a chance.

         Hades’ voice boomed and reverberated around the cavern more than Jack’s had. “You will not escape me this time, Perc—”

         As his chariot ground to a halt, his dark eyes narrowed at Axel’s tiny form, then flicked back up to the furies. “This isn’t Percy Jackson.”

         The furies had been fluttering in an intimidating circle above, like the most obnoxious of gnats. One landed beside Hades’ chariot, looking nervous. “We thought it was Luke Castellan, My Lord. Your rage and obsession over Jackson must have—”

         Hades roared. He lashed out towards the Fury.

         She took to the sky again, shrieking.

         “Does this look like the host of Kronos?!” Hades bellowed, Pax thought, rather offensively. Axel could totally host Kronos if he wanted. “I’m not sure if I would rather strike Jackson or Castellan dead first.” His dark gaze returned back to Axel. “You’ll have to suffice.”

         Pax wished the invisibility spell came with a sink-into-the-ground function. He trembled at the power radiating off this god, and knew, in that horrifying moment, that Axel was about to challenge Hades to a duel.

         Pax’s mouth opened. He wasn’t sure what words would come out, but they would definitely be better than Axel’s, You wanna throw down?

         “We’re lost,” Pax said.

         Hades looked confused, clearly noting that Axel hadn’t opened his mouth.

         Axel tensed.

         No option for running now. Pax continued, feeling a few sparks above his head flutter down to singe he shoulder. He hoped that wasn’t burning holes in the invisibility spell. He might need it in a moment. “Yes, we’re lost,” Pax repeated. “We’re looking…” He grasped for anything that might baffle the Lord of the Dead. At those words, it popped into his head. “We’re looking… for Xibalba?” The comment came out a question.

         Axel cleared his throat. “Yes,” he confirmed, glancing in Pax’s general direction without landing exactly on Pax. “We’re looking for Xibalba.” Robotically, Axel sheathed his sword.

         Hades looked incredibly annoyed. “You are Mayan,” he said, examining Axel’s tufted ears with begrudging realization. “You’re not Greek at all.”

         “Nope,” Axel confirmed. “My faith is in the Mayan gods and the Catholic Trinity.”

         None of that was false. They had always practiced within the Mayan and Catholic faith. They knew Greek and Roman gods and hung out with them. Pax hardly called that faith or worship, no matter how often Morpheus liked to tease them as his little devotees when they slept-in with a rare, sweet dream. Axel scorned when anyone suggested he refer to the Titans as all powerful.

         Hades pinched the ridge of his nose. “Who let you down here?”

         “Um…” Axel said. He, Luke, and Jack must have slipped into the Underworld through a back entrance and didn’t know who to pin the blame on.

         Pax had an immediate answer. “Charon,” he said.

         “CHARON!” Hades bellowed.

         Even Axel flinched as the cavern trembled with a minor earth quake. A stalactite fell and crashed into lines of the dead in the distance. They passed through, unharmed.

         “First he has the audacity to ask for a pay raise, and now he’s letting heathens into my domain!” Hades yelled, “His impertinence knows no end! First his suits! And now his life coach that’s telling him how hard it is to find someone with his skill set!”

         Although Axel probably couldn’t see Pax, the brothers knew to looks towards each other as though to exchange a glance.

         “Is his skill set hard to find?” Axel asked.

         “Yes!” Hades bellowed, “It’s nearly impossible to find a well-suited grim reaper.” Pax wanted to raise a hand to ask if Hades’ “well-suited” meant Charon’s outfit or skill set, but Hades cut him off. “But, you can’t let him know that. It goes straight to his head and now he thinks he’s irreplaceable. He forgets that one-in-a-billion is different than irreplaceable. How many people do you think die in a day!?”

         Pax coughed into the back of his hand to keep himself from laughing. Was this guy for real? Most of his prior fear was evaporating. “Us heathens?” he reminded Hades.

         “Yes, it has been an awfully long time since Charon flubbed and let savage barbarians into my domain—”

         “Let’s stick with heathens,” Axel growled.

         Pax had to agree. He remembered Alabaster once telling him something about how barbarian meant someone who wasn’t Hellenistic to the Greeks, but avoiding the adjective “savage,” was that too much to ask for?

         “And now we have a leak in our ICEE unit. They should have caught you at the entrance,” Hades continued like Axel hadn’t spoken.

         Had Pax heard that right? “ICEE? For real? As in—”

         “Inhumation Correction to Exact Exequies,” Hades growled. “This is what you get when you let liberal arts majors name things. Regardless, they’re for the dead who were improperly processed after death. They’ll be able to sort a ghost and a…. are you some kind of spirit guide?”

         The question didn’t sound sarcastic, just irritated. Pax’s mind raced, trying to think—

         Pax decided to go with lying, a rarity with his normal half-truths. He forgot no one could see him while he shrugged. “He’s the weird one. All Mayan dead look like me.”

         “Uh-hu…” a Fury somewhere above said doubtfully.

         Pax stuck a tongue out at her and had the delightful realization that he could moon the Lord of the Dead right here, right now, in his own domain, and no one would know to stop him and there would assuredly be no repercussions.

         That would also mean mooning the creepy dominatrixes in the sky. He decided he would pass up the opportunity to avoid that.

         “We’re sorry to cause you such strife, Lord Death,” Axel said, holding up his hands in a mock-honoring gesture. “We can show ourselves out, really.”

         “Likely,” Hades said. “Last time we had an ICEE mix up, there was SUCH ruckus and chaos. That einherji was terrible for our image!”

         Axel frowned, his hands clenching into fists. “You know, not all misplaced souls are like that.”

         “Yes, you try telling that the to Elysian Field occupants that had their houses torched and raided. All it takes is one and it devalues all the properties for miles!” Hades said.

         Pax got the bad feeling that Axel was about to attack Hades regardless of their ruse. While warranted, Axel might really be a misplaced Mayan soul stuck in the Underworld’s immigration unit if he did.

         Before Pax could say something to ease the mood, Hades leaned forward in his chariot. His hand curled around his black helm. His dark eyes bore down onto Axel.

         Had Axel been a lesser man, he’d have probably crumbled to his knees with all that godliness trying to make him feel mortal. Pax definitely felt himself trembling. Instead, Axel stared back.

         Hades pointed to Axel’s arm. “You tried to swim in the River Styx.” This time, when the Lord of the Underworld spoke, his oily voice was also filled with ice.

         Axel lowered his arms completely. His burn marks had been on full display from where he’d withdrawn Luke from the dark waters and held his acidic friend.

          Considering that probably wasn’t a popular tourist destination for a leisure dip, Pax could see where marks from it would be suspicious.

         “Is that what your river is called?” Pax asked, trying to edge his voice with some mockery. “Our black river is the scorpion river. Dipping in it is part of our death ritual. You should check the pH balance of your scorpions. I think they’re off.” That most certainly was not part of their death ritual. Pax planned to stay as far away from the Black River as he could when we went to….

         An existential panic threatened to break Pax’s concentration on the present. Would he end up in the Mayan afterlife or the Greek one? Or even the Catholic one? Others in Camp Othrys said it was based off belief, but what if you believed in all three? And what if Axel didn’t end up in the same one? Would paradise even be worth it if you couldn’t hang out with your bro?

         The expression on Hades’ face brought Pax’s attention back. Those harsh lines hadn’t softened at Pax’s flubbed explanation. Hades was in the process of deciding he didn’t believe them and, probably, wondering which part of his robes he’d put the Pax brother’s souls into. Guy had some weird fetishes if he kept people’s souls in his robes and ladies with whips as his escorts. No wonder Persephone only stayed down here a few months out of the year.

         They needed a distraction and they need one fast, something that would shock or offend Hades so much that he’d forget to toss them into his evil sock drawer and something that would startle Axel away from where his hand was creeping towards his sword hilt.

         “Your helmet looks stupid,” Pax blurted.

         That… that was not what they needed. But, Pax would make it work.

         Before Hades eyes could bulge out of his head, his “WHAT” could shake apart the Underworld, or Axel could choke on his laughter, Pax continued, “I’m looking out for your best interests. It looks like your helm would look stupid on, and I wouldn’t want you looking stupid to other invisible spirits like myself. You see, us invisibles look visible to other invisibles. Haven’t you noticed that when you have your helm on?”

         It was a huge gamble. Alabaster would have been able to tell Pax if that was stupid or not, according to mythology. At the moment, all Pax could remember was that it was a helm of invisibility. He couldn’t remember what other figures possessed this power.

         Hades’ brow had furrowed in rage, his mouth agape like a rabid animal. In the briefest moment, Pax saw a glimmer of insecurity in those pits of eternal pain that Hades had for eyes.

         Either Pax had already sentenced him and his brother to death or Hades needed the tiniest bit more coaxing before he cracked.

         “I mean, I’m a Mayan. I’ll talk to you straight. How many Greeks would dare give you an honest opinion on this?” Pax said, so fast that he hoped others could keep the syllables separated. “Try asking one of your humble servants.”

         The ghoul army behind him shuffled in nervous motion. The Furies seemed to fly higher.

“I trust my servants to be honest with me,” Hades snarled. He scowled up towards the Fury that had spotted their party; she hadn’t flown up fast enough. “Alekto.”

She seemed alarmed. “Yes, Master?” she said uncertainly.

         “Does my helm look stupid when I’m wearing it?” Hades asked.

         Her wing flapping grew so tentative, Pax thought that she might lose altitude. “Um…. Master, I cannot see it on you when you wear it. You’re invisible.”

         Hades nostrils flared. “Of course you can’t,” he said, his voice bitter with suspicion.

         Pax shrugged in a, what are you going to do?, gesture. Remembering that Hades couldn’t see him, he shoved Axel and hoped his older brother got the message.

         “Underlings, am I right?” Axel asked. The words sounded unnatural from him. On the laundry list of things that made Axel passionately angry, the misuse of underpaid workers was one of them.

         That didn’t matter to Hades. He examined his helmet so thoroughly, he probably hadn’t even heard Axel. Pax had cracked Hades’ confident demeanor with the tiniest hint of insecurity. Alekto’s hesitation was all Pax needed to convince the Lord of the Dead that there was a problem.

“Charon did give the design to the Elder Cyclopes during the First Titan War. It has always been a little too tight.” Hades lifted his helm and stared into the dark eye sockets. Pax was a little disappointed that the helmet didn’t turn Hades’ arm invisible when he stuck his hand inside to lift it up. Hades snorted. “Of course I would be the only god that needed measurements for my great weapon. Zeus and Poseidon get a bolt and a trident. Doesn’t matter if their henchmen are unreliable. You’d think with all those tailored suits, that Charon could take a proper measurement—”

Pax wanted to point out that Hades should be able to just change the size of his head. He was a GOD. That was the opposite of what Pax wanted Hades to think. Pax feigned a gasp, kicking his brother’s boot.

Instead of sharing Pax’s gasp, as he had hoped, Axel glared at him. His message was clear: get on with what you’re doing before you get us killed.

         “Oh, you’ve never SEEN your helmet on yourself?” Pax said, sounding as aghast and offended as he could manage. “I mean, if you’re comfortable with not knowing whether or not you look like an idiot—”

         Hades made a threatening growl.

         Pax knew he couldn’t back down. “—and maybe telling Persephone that her husband lost his fashion sense after the SS uniform went out of style—”

         “Those uniforms influenced dark fashion for years,” Hades said with pride.

         “All villains admire that look. Clearly you know what you’re doing,” Pax agreed. “Maybe we just need someone to model your helmet for you, that way you can make adjustments to fit what you think is best, not Charon’s sloppy notes.”

         “It would be nice to fix the sizing. And I could add some more skulls to it, if I were to have it fixed,” Hades mumbled, tilting the helm on its side.

         “You’ll need someone who—I mean, no one could do your grand, imperial stance justice, but someone who would come close. You need a chiseled, manly-jawed model. Someone with an authoritarian stance...” Pax hummed like he was thinking. “Oh, the Furies won’t do. They’re ladies. And you don’t want someone who’s decomposed. They won’t be able to tell you if it would be comfortable with adjustments. What’s your head circumference?”

         “37 in this form; 25 when I look more like the lesser race,” Hades said absently. He gestured towards Axel and Pax, clearly meaning, when I look mortal.

         “Twenty-five!” Pax cried. He shoved Axel’s shoulder, so Axel stumbled a step forward. “A chiseled-jaw, authoritarian stance and a 25 inch head circumference—”

         “No—” Axel hissed at Pax, but Pax knew it was already too late for him to properly protest.

         “—that just so happens to fit my brother! What luck!” Pax had no idea if that would fit his brother’s head. He didn’t know many people who knew their own head circumference, let alone the head circumference of a relative. After they lived through this, he’d have to ask it of Axel. Then he could make him a, I Went to Hades and Only Got This Defective Helm of Darkness cap.

         Hades’ eyes narrowed. They slid past the helm to the two of them. Pax had managed to usher them closer to Hades’ chariot. “Are you suggesting I put my most prized weapon atop your brother’s head?”

         “I mean, if you have someone else to model it for you quickly, we don’t need to bother you.” Axel shot Pax a look.

         Pax nodded sagely. “I’m sure you have lots of dashing heroes that aren’t decomposed and gross or incorporeal to help. I mean. We’re just right here. Passing through. And I happen to be someone who can see invisible things. I guess we could call up Hecate—augh. I forgot she betrayed you for the Titans.” Pax snapped his fingers like he was disappointed. “And Queen Persephone might not mind too much if you get some zombie brain junk on those beautiful, raven locks.”

         Hades eyes widened enough that Pax thought the King of the Underworld might shoot lasers at him. Maybe Pax was pushing the line a bit too much.

         “How would a Mayan know about Hecate and her betrayal?” Hades demanded.

         “The Lords of the Dead gossip a lot,” Axel blurted. “You know how Lord Hun-Came gets when he’s been drinking and playing ball with Lord Vucub-Came.”

         “This is why you only have one Lord of the Dead. Bureaucracy just means red tape and more time for courtly banter.[1] You can run a government so much easier when you’re a tyrant,” Hades said and sighed, like he’d been petitioned many times for a democratic underworld.

         Axel rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “Apparently, only when you have competent henchmen.”

         Pax pinched his brother’s arm. They were close; he could feel it, especially since he almost felt bad for Hades. If Hades really thought it was easier to rule down here by himself, Pax wondered how lonely this guy got.

         Pax wasn’t here to check on the underworld’s mental health though. “Why not surround us with a circle of guards. It’s not like we’re trained acrobats that can jump over people’s heads.” Axel snorted. Pax pinched his shoulder again. “And, we might as well help you. It’s the least we can do before you escort us to your ICEE unit.”

         Hades considered this for a moment. His entourage shuffled in discomfort. The Furies might hit a stalactite if they flew any higher to avoid his wraith.

         “Very well,” he said. “Guards!”

         The shuffling grew louder as the warriors made a loose circle around him and his brother. Some of the spear tips got a little too close for comfort. They’d have to be careful avoiding those while escaping.

         Hades motioned Axel forward.

         The taller boy clenched his jaw. Pax was pretty sure the tension therein could shatter an entire frozen lake. While this was the perfect opportunity for Axel to get the sword equivalent of a sucker punch on Hades, Pax wanted to remind Axel that they probably couldn’t stab the Lord of the Dead, bid a “good day” to his army, and skip out of here down a black brick road. Pax swallowed, reminding himself that sucker punches were things that he did. His brother had some weird concept about something called honor? Pax normally ignored Axel when he talked about it.

         Here came the hard part: getting Axel to kneel to accept the helm.

         Axel leveled with Hades’ black chariot. Pax could feel the overwhelming power radiating off it and its master. Authority bled off this guy like creepiness from a spider, and Hades wanted Axel to bend to his will without having to be asked.

         Axel, an idiot who bowed to no man nor god, cleared his throat. “Lord Hades, I believe you won’t be able to reach me from your chariot if I kneel.”

         The comment was presumptuous and Pax thought Axel had blown all their improvisation quicker than a Star Trek Vulcan would ruin the atmosphere of the Renaissance festival. He waited for Hades’ fist to turn into a cartoon hammer and smash Axel into the black sand.

         Instead, Hades growled, “Mayans are the first people to even think about that. Would my soldiers have said anything? No. They would have forced me to reach further down to get them.” Especially with how tall the god was, an extra four feet would be a lot to stoop.

         The Lord of the Underworld lifted his hideous black helm above Axel’s tufted ears.

         As the helm came down, it compressed Axel’s long, twisted hair. Or, Pax thought it did. When it made contact, the helm melted Axel.

         Within a microsecond, the essence that was Axel had liquefied into shadow and flooded into the sands. There wasn’t even an indent where he’d been standing.

         There was one major flaw in Pax’s plan. He actually couldn’t see his brother. And, in that moment, with Axel-fertilizer in the underworld’s black sand, Pax realized Axel and Pax might have been the ones who were just tricked.

***

 Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! :D Stay tuned next week to see what—well…. you can’t really see what Pax and Axel are doing. >>’‘

Anyway, stay safe and indoors!

  ***

Footnote:

[1] Ha ha. Courtly. Like a ball court…. I’ll show myself out.

[a-lil-perspective]

•Braids and Bavodu’e•

A/N: Directly affiliated with the “Serendipity With A Slice Of Sergeant” series, this spin-off is for Uncle Crosshair. There are three segments spanning within this narrative that each depict different phases of time. To clarify—the order will proceed as such: Middle, Beginning, End. In total adoration for this particular concept with Crosshair, I poured my heart and soul into the curation, and I hope you all find enjoyment within. Feedback, recommendations, and requests are always appreciated. @shadow-hyder @obiorbenkenobi @thegoodbatch @starflyer-104 @karpasia @kriffingunlucky @everyonehasanindividuality

•▫️♦️•▫️♦️•▫️♦️•▫️♦️•▫️♦️•▫️♦️•▫️♦️▫️•

“I... do not think you’re doing it the right way, Crosshair. It says here in the guide to weave over, then under—”

“Tech, kindly close your yap so I can concentrate.” Crosshair bit out, sighing in frustration over the seemingly impossible task. “I know what I’m doing.”

He had no idea what he was doing.

But when Hunter’s daughters came bounding up to Crosshair with a hairbrush and a plea—how could he refuse?

After all, it was just one braid in a little girl’s hair—how hard can it be?

The six-year-old jittered with excitement. “I can’t wait till it’s done!”

“I can’t either,” Crosshair mumbled through a hair accessory clamped between his teeth as he worked.

A sniper and ex-Super Commando against toddlers and tresses?

No problem.

///

Crosshair’s hands smoothed over the entirety of the girl’s hair; signifying his completion, finally, of this one kriffing braid. His contentment over the results made up for the aching in his wrist. He was no hairdresser, and yet—clenching and uncurling his fingers before cracking his knuckles to alleviate the strain—Crosshair figured he’d better start building up the muscle strength in his hands; a sneaking suspicion that there would be many more braids to come.

His deduction was already confirmed when Tech promptly planted the three-year-old Rowena straight into the sniper’s lap, next.

“You have to do Ro’s hair, too.” Tech needlessly explained.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” Crosshair sneered, rolling his eyes and once again favoring the tactic of sardonic responses to conceal his discomfiture for whatever situation he found himself in.

“His name isn’t Captain Obvious, Ba’vodu!” Alarasmé’s high-pitched voice cut through the tension, her lack of knowledge on sarcasm pointedly intervening. “That’s Uncle Tech!”

“You’re right, ‘Lara—but tell Crosshair who your favorite Uncle is, hmm?” He encouraged, a feeling of total confidence and surety in the girl’s pending answer.

“You, Uncle Crosshair.”

Her confirmation managed to simultaneously inflate Crosshair’s ego and deflate Tech’s. The engineer’s mouth lay agape, his downcast expression symbolic of crushed spirits, and the image of Tech’s pout allowed Crosshair to become wholly amused by his vod’ika’s lack of dignity around a six-year-old.

“I... Alara... I thought I was your favorite Ba’vodu?” The engineer was utterly baffled, devastation evident in his voice.

“That was only yesterday, Techie.” The girl stated with complete disregard for her Uncle’s feelings, as if her admission towards a shift in predilection was the most justifiable thing, and a predictable reoccurrence, at that.

Apparently, it was.

“But... but Crosshair has practically had a running streak for three weeks now!” Tech whined, to which the sniper simply cast him the most smug expression the engineer has ever seen.

Had there not been small children around, Tech swore to himself that he would’ve punched that stupid smirk right off his ori’vod’s face, he was that indignant over the ranking.

So he attempted to compensate for his trauma and descending favor by kneeling in front of the three-year-old with her locks currently tended to as he worked on coercing his desired validation out of the toddler.

“Rowena, Tech is your favorite Uncle, correct?”

The toddler giggled and reached her tiny fingers out to yank at Tech’s goggles, pulling them away from his face before abruptly letting go; the resistance from the band around the back of his head causing the corrective eyewear to suddenly retract with a thwack against his skin. The sound of Tech’s yelp of pain nearly overpowered Crosshair’s cackling.

“You di’kut, you had that one coming, tryna reason with a baby,” the sniper managed to choke out through his wheezing, to which Tech scowled, soothing over both the fresh sting around his delicate eye area and his further injured pride.

“As a matter of fact, I think the response was a good sign. According to research, babies and small children naturally present with more attentiveness and personality to people they favor—“

“Awe don’t worry, Techie,” the sniper brushed his vod’ika aside with a goading stroke of snark. “It’s not your fault—not everyone can be as well accomplished as this Ba’vodu.”

It was true—while Crosshair was slightly begrudged to admit—his deft and nimble fingers that procured precision in every aspect of his work were, unsurprisingly, the most ideal candidate for constructing intricate hairstyles.

Not that he was complaining one bit.

///

“Papa! Look at my hair!!” The little girl gave a proud twirl in flaunting the new style to her Father upon his return with Uncle Wrecker.

Hunter’s eyes widened, signaling his eased integration of whimsicality and theatrics into his daughter’s exuberance. He was a natural; proof of his intrinsically befitting role of Fatherhood on display time over again.

“Alarasmé?! Is that you?! I barely even recognized you, you’re even more beautiful then I remember!” He knelt to be eye-level with his daughter in emphasizing his payments of the highest respect and reverence for her beauty; his surprise remaining authentic, and his compliment even more so.

Truthfully, he was thoroughly surprised at beholding his two daughters that day... with their hair beautifully styled... by... Crosshair?

Hunter’s brows furrowed while curiously regarding his vod, whose own attentive gaze was fully occupied with giving purpose to the last thin strands of hair on the youngest girl. If Crosshair felt Hunter’s intense gaze of perplexity boring into him over his unprecedented behavior, he had yet to acknowledge it.

He did feel it, and was pointedly ignoring.

“All done, Ro.” Crosshair announced upon promptly attaching the finishing touch to Rowena’s head before she bolted out of the chair in racing her chubby toddler legs over to Hunter, who matched her eagerness as he lovingly scooped up his ik’aad to also exalt her beauty and express his adoration for the girl’s new accessory—

So that’s where his red bandana went.

“Papa! Your turn!” The girls pulled a now flustered Sergeant over to Crosshair, who suddenly flashed Hunter the most devilish grin before patting the stool in front of him in an overly welcoming gesture; each word dripping with deliberate emphasis.

“Yes, Papa Hunter—have a seat.”

“Uh, I don’t think so—“

“I insist.”

The intense begging of his daughters mixed with the thinly-veiled intimidation tactics of Crosshair left Hunter with little choice than to flop unceremoniously down into the chair, but not before turning to greet his vod with a glare and feigned warning:

“You’ll regret this.”

“Oh, I think not, Sergeant—I am going to enjoy the absolute kriff out of this.” Crosshair smirked, playfully smacking the back of his ori’vod’s head. “Now be still and enjoy your braid. Remember to smile for Tech’s recording.”

/// *** \\\

“Do you want to hold her, vod?”

There it is. The dreaded question Crosshair knew was coming.

The nauseating one that caused his head to spin and a sheen of sweat to break out across his forehead; a question that triggered Crosshair’s urge to promptly flee the scene.

Not that the idea itself dreaded him—but who was he kidding; his hands were used to cradling rifles, not babies.

Certainly not infant newborns.

“You’re not gonna break her, vod. Don’t worry. She’s tougher than she looks.” Hunter replies with reverence for his firstborn and innate realization for the way Cross was so conflicted; as if the sniper’s contorted and downright terrified facial expression wasn’t overt enough.

Crosshair’s hands unconsciously drifted defensively in front of him, and he noted the way they were slightly trembling.

Of course Hunter noticed, too—he deliberately approached Crosshair last with news of the baby’s arrival, equipped with full comprehension for the way his vod would instinctively portray a great deal of resistance to the encounter, originating from his suffocating trepidations. Inwardly, Hunter couldn’t place fault; the prospect, his new reality, was also just as utterly foreign to a man groomed for the role of a Sergeant and super soldier all of his life. He was actually a Father now.

Crosshair’s stammering became the only audibility as he desperately searched for the right words. “I... I don’t... How do I—”

“Just position your arms, exactly like mine here,” Hunter gently instructed, stifling his slight hilarity in regarding Crosshair’s plight and uncharacteristically timid behavior. He slowly transferred the bundle, leaving a last piece of advice on how to support the baby’s head with the act of cradling.

There she is. The moment Crosshair’s fret over, the focal point of his immense stress for nine months straight; all condensed into this one moment:

A moment that forcefully yanked the air from the sniper’s lungs. Fear. Joy. Exhilaration. Assurance. Swirling emotions enveloping and succumbing to solidification; leaving his vision in cloudy haze, nearly bringing the man to his knees. The moment he swore his heart would beat out of his chest from the hammering against his ribcage and the pure adrenaline rushing through his veins.

A moment of—

“How does it feel, Ba’vodu?” Hunter’s genuine smile and elation reeled Crosshair back, momentarily.

“I...” Crosshair faltered, not trusting himself to speak. Not yet.

Don’t stare. Stay calm. Act normal. Breathe—

He swallowed hard, lowering his octave to just above a whisper and opting for the incitement of a casual inquiry as he desperately tried to compensate for the weight, or lack thereof, in his arms.

She was... way lighter than a rifle...

“What did you name her?”

“Alarasmé.”

The hard eye rolling of Crosshair briefly allowed the sniper’s usual derisive quips to surface in that instant. What a name.

“That’s too big for a baby, you di’kut.” Both men chuckled at the ribbing.

“She’ll grow into it. Besides—we figured there could be lots of nicknames to come from it: ‘Alara’, ‘Lara’, ‘Lar’—”

“That’s... better. Pretty.”

“Glad you think so, vod. You know your opinion is the only one I care about.”

Crosshair’s wry smile spread across his features, mirroring his ori’vod’s. He appreciated the former Sergeant favoring the antidote of humor to ease them both into the new transition, despite Hunter currently looking a little worse for wear.

His thoughts flickered to a more pressing question, the one that plagued his thoughts the moment medical droids ushered her back.

“And... Y/N? Is she—?”

“She’s doing great, vod,” Hunter’s smile projected reassurance.

Crosshair exhaled in relief, releasing a breath he didn’t know he’d held captive. “That’s good... figured as much, otherwise you wouldn’t even be coherent. Surprised you didn’t pass out right on the spot.”

“Me too.” Hunter’s deep laugh echoed against the stark white walls of the hospital. “But I did have to send Wrecker outside until he could stop howling from sheer excitement. And I sent Tech in there to keep an eye on her while she rests.”

“Resting and Tech do not go together, Hunter. I think baby fever is stunting your sound judgement here.”

“Cross—relax, would you? Tech’s not gonna bother anything. Everything is fine, I promise: Y/N is OK.” Hunter inhaled patience and breathed out compassion before gently continuing, a sense of fond remembrance coloring his features.

“You should’ve seen her, vod; she was SO happy. Could barely pry that little one from her arms.” The former Sergeant carefully eyed Crosshair in accentuation over his next statement. “But she wanted you to see the baby. Was askin’ about you. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Crosshair felt a contemplative frown tug the corner of his lips as his brows furrowed in intense deciphering of Hunter’s admission.

Y/N... was asking... about him? Wanted to make sure he was okay? Even though she was the one giving birth.

Hunter should count his lucky stars. Maker, that woman was so kriffing compassionate and thoughtful, her altruism a real rarity.

If someone were to ask; this was but one of many reasons why Crosshair loved you so damn much.

He could hardly breathe at the pang of guilt now coursing through him—talk about a real shabuir. He could’ve made himself available for support instead of trekking around the hospital to wallow in his reservations and anxiety.

Crosshair felt he did a major disservice to the people whom he deeply cared for, who relied on him—and he fervently sought to make amends.

Maybe he could start today...

The sniper’s eyes finally drifted to the bundle in his arms and settled on the baby now slightly squirming as she cooed and suddenly blessed Crosshair with the image of two pools of dazzling brown eyes reflecting; soft and warm and curiously regarding the company of a temporary acquaintance cradling her. Her face was tender; concave features and tiny lips immediately curving into a half smile.

Crosshair couldn’t breathe.

He nearly clutched his chest, seeking to address the now smoking hole in the center courtesy of a newborn, his niece, and her well placed shot point-blank through his heart.

Impressive by even an expert sniper’s standards.

It was as if suddenly, instead of blood seeping from his exposed heart, it was pure ardor forcefully expelling and completely washing away disquietude to project a vulnerability so lovingly welcomed and an intimacy so deeply cherished in that instant; an indescribable moment Crosshair wished he could capture the essence of forever.

A moment Crosshair fell in love.

With stars in his eyes and total adoration for this beautiful human created from an unrepentant devotion, the sniper quickly decided with an unwavering resolve that love was the most powerful thing in the entire galaxy—a raw purity that suddenly reached out to evoke healing and restitution through solely the grasp of her tiny fingers.

And it was with slight amusement and full reverence that Crosshair acknowledged how only a child of Y/N could have such an effect of him.

Hunter felt as he was was intruding on a private moment with the way Crosshair’s entire mood and expression finally shifted; hardened layers peeling back to reveal a raw core of delicate emotions—a demeanor in his vod that Hunter had not witnessed the materialization of in a very long time.

A tiny droplet on the baby’s blanket became the only indication to Crosshair of his emotions now manifested through his glistening eyes.

Worry and anxiety became evident on Hunter’s face as he carefully watched the silent tears now roll down his vod’s cheek and patter against the cloth swaddling his newborn daughter.

He’s crying... Crosshair doesn’t cry... Is he just utterly overwhelmed? Overjoyed? Scared?

Hunter reached out tentatively, unsure of what to do, at a loss for what to say.

Tell me what you need, kih’vod...

“Crosshair? Do you... want me to take her back now—?”

“Hunter,” the sniper choked out, unabashed in his unequivocal bliss. “She is perfect.”

Absolutely perfect.

—Such were the emotions of love and doting magnified upon the addition of another beautiful daughter; proof of Crosshair’s inflated eagerness at Rowena’s arrival evident through the scenario of Wrecker’s form nearly put to the ground as Crosshair practically shoved his way to get to the new baby girl first.

/// *** \\\

“—And he’s just SO nice, great listener, super cute, too—“

“I don’t like him.”

The now thirteen-year-old whipped her head around to regard her Ba’vodu, who nearly lost his grip on the girl’s ebony locks currently under revision of a new hairstyle.

“Uncle Crosshair, you don’t even know him.”

“I don’t have to. If any boy likes my niece, I don’t like him. It’s very simple, love.” Crosshair solidified his terse judgment with a twirl of his finger in signaling Alarasmé to revert to her original position, allowing him resumed access to the back of her head.

The eldest daughter of Hunter grumbled and crossed her arms, complying with Crosshair’s instruction. “You never like any of mine and Rowena’s friends. That’s hardly fair.”

“I don’t play fair, sweetheart. You should know that by now.”

‘Lara simply ignored her stubborn uncle in continuing with her story. “Anyway, so he approached me after a class, and guess what??”

The girl’s enthusiasm was utterly endearing, and her theatrics intrinsically drew a smile out of Crosshair. He decided to humor her.

“What, beautiful Alarasmé?? Enlighten your uncle Crosshair.”

Her barely contained excitement suddenly effervesced in the form of an absolutely delighted squeal that echoed the entirety of space and left a ringing in Crosshair’s ears.

“HE GAVE ME HIS HOLO FREQUENCY!!”

Crosshair was immensely glad Alara’s back poised to him possessed the inability to behold the deep scowl etched into her Uncle’s face in that moment.

But she was practically glowing with elation, and Crosshair wasn’t about to rob her of a childhood exuberance that was so authentically pure and wholesome.

But he couldn’t help himself—you’d think they were the sniper’s own offspring, what with the way he was utterly enamored and obsessively overprotective of his ori’vod’s daughters. Kriff. They were his literal undoing.

Crosshair suddenly emerged to behold two large pools of beautiful brown studying his face, searching for a reaction, silently pleading for his approval.

He swallowed his skepticism and disdain for some stranger, little more than a kid, contending for his niece’s beautiful heart; forcing his most genuine smile in response.

“That’s... really great, ‘Lara. I’m happy for you. Let me know if you want me to kill him.”

“Thanks Ba’vodu—hey, I can kill him myself, thank you very much—“

“Good girl, verd’ika. That’s what I like to hear.” Her assertation became Crosshair’s favorite part of the news; a sense of pride and borderline sadistic satisfaction culminating from her bold reassurance. He made no qualms of obscuring his pleased smirk from the teenager when her own suddenly reflected back at him.

“Awe. Do you feel better now, Ba’vodu?” Her animated expressions thoroughly amused Crosshair, reminding him once again of just how much the young girl favored her father’s personality the older she aged; his physical resemblance even more so.

Crosshair couldn’t get enough of it.

“As a matter of fact, cyar’ika—I do feel much better in knowing the four ex-Super Commandos in your life have done you justice by instilling in you the shameless instruction of kicking someone’s ass whenever needed. Yes.” He allowed a hand to deviate from her hair in playfully stroking her cheek before withdrawing; a sudden realization flickering. “You haven’t actually told your Papa yet, have you? You might want to—”

“No!” ‘Lara’s cry startled Crosshair. “Please don’t tell him—he is the worst and weirdest about this stuff, and Rowena already gives me a hard enough time, as it is!”

So you came to the most critiquing Uncle you have? He bit his tongue to keep from spitting out, recognizing the way that wouldn’t allay her distress.

Deep down, he also knew why both of his former Sergeant’s daughters spent so much of their time consumed with Crosshair—he was a good listener, typically calm and level-headed; not overly rumbustious, prying, or a downright troublemaker like the other men. While the sniper’s abrasive nature remained a steady inherence, his many unique forms of gentle conveyances resonated profoundly with the girls. Without fail, both females came to Crosshair for the deep conversations, always intrigued by their enigmatic Ba’vodu’s wisdom presented through his scope of very unfiltered perspectives. Sniper rifles, late night sweets, and new hairstyles were the focal point of their relationship.

Crosshair would allow himself some leniency—he was a pretty good Uncle.

Though he shifted full credit to their beautiful mother, who initially cultivated Crosshair’s soft refinement so many years ago; her two children further reinforcing that self-growth in the man.

Two children...

It‘s been five years since, but the pain of loss from what would’ve been a third child—a son of Hunter’s that never carried to full term—still heavily bore it’s remnants of poignancy.

It never got any easier to quell the grief.

“Cyar’ika... you have to tell him soon. That stubborn Daddy of yours will find out one way or another.” He chuckled lightly before softening his tone. “You know that.”

A sigh of defeat emitting from the girl tugged at Crosshair’s heart strings as he watched the way her eyes became acquainted with the floor for a long moment; harsh silence uncouth in the act of creating a palpable weight of melancholy to encompass the atmosphere.

An abrupt sound cut deep through disconcertment with the sudden clearing of Crosshair’s throat, an act that signified a redirected topic of conversing between the awkward Uncle and crestfallen teenager.

“Your hair is getting long, Alara.”

That seemed to do the trick, and Crosshair was satiated with the way her brown eyes lit up slightly and expression eased into a relaxed state as the beautiful smile that Crosshair found himself missing made it’s way to her lips once again.

“I know, Papa told me the same thing just this morning.” She stifled a laugh before continuing. “Said he was gonna grow his out even longer so that there would be competition. I told him you were gonna braid it again if he did.”

Crosshair chortled. His ori’vod‘s humor was so outlandish. “And I might just, anyway—what I wouldn’t give to see that again on your old man,” he mused in humored recollection, to which the young girl eagerly obliged in the shared remembrance.

Crosshair no more than withdrew his hands from the stylized hair before Alara’s own fingers instantly flew to splay atop her head in appraisal of the intricately woven locks. Both of Hunter’s daughters were modest in their hairdressing skills, but it was a unanimous agreement between them and their Uncle at an earlier stage that they preferred it this way—‘long chats and endearing head pats’—as the girls liked to call it.

Crosshair leaned back in the chair, analyzing his work in the form of a braided crown adorning the circumference of the girl’s head and spanning from temple-to-temple, before he allowed his own satisfaction to display.

The teenager flashed Crosshair a dazzling smile before her praise followed suit. “Nice work Uncle Cross; you’ve done it again.”

“I aim to please, cyar’ika.”

Crosshair eyed his niece for a long moment as a sense of urgency and obligation began to permeate his stance. Visible confusion danced across Alara’s features as Crosshair’s solemn gaze and hands now resting determinedly on her shoulders instantly perked her attentiveness.

“Alarasmé, I want you to promise me something.”

“Anything.” The resolution in her voice faltered briefly as her head cocked to the side in nonchalant contemplation. “Unless it’s to finally beat Uncle Wrecker in arm wrestling—that’s definitely not gonna happen.” She giggled, and Crosshair quickly matched her humor before continuing in earnest.

“Promise me that you won’t ever let some boy or anyone break your heart. You and Ro are tough, like your momma. But that doesn’t mean you won’t always have four ex-Super Commandos on your side. So also promise me that you’ll never forget how much your family loves you.”

The girl remained silent for a moment in the absorption and intense processing of her Uncle’s heavy requests.

“That’s a lot of promises.”

“Promise me, cyare.”

“OK Ba’vodu—I promise.” She reaches up to swipe at the man’s cheek. “No need to go all soft, ram’ser.”

Ram’ser. Y/N’s favorite term for him.

“Hey, just like I have Papa’s heart, Uncle Wrecker’s, and Uncle Tech’s—” she tenderly continued, splaying a hand across Crosshair’s chest, “—I have yours, too. So mine can’t break when there’s already plenty of hearts to keep it company. Don’t worry.” She pulled the man into a tight hug before retracting and playfully prodding his shoulder, her eyes quick to sparkle with mischief.

“Now take me to the shooting range—I want to nail a target from ten klicks while sporting this hairdo.”

[lopithecusfanfiction]

A Life So Changed: Chapter Thirteen

Author: Lopithecus Pairing: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3586 Alternate: AO3, fanfiction.net Author's Note: N/A

Chapter Thirteen:

Bruce has an appointment at the hospital to get an ultrasound of the baby. If he’s going to be keeping it, then he’s going to have to start going to doctor appointments for it and making sure it’s healthy. So, once again, he drags himself out of bed and into the shower. He feels sluggish, tired, and his limbs feel heavy and weak. He doesn’t want to go to this appointment. He wants to sleep. He wants to pretend this whole thing isn’t happening.

But he has no choice but to face reality so he dresses up in disguise, putting on baggy clothes and a baseball hat. He wears the same sunglasses that he wore to his other appointment as well. Once done getting dressed, he glances at himself in the mirror, frowns, and then walks out of his closet. He’s not really all that excited to get an ultrasound. He doesn’t want to see the baby. It’ll make it too real.

He makes his way down to the kitchen, not wanting breakfast but knowing he should at least eat some toast to keep everyone off his back. When he enters the room, Dick, Tim, and Alfred are already sat at the small table eating. He looks at the three, grabs a piece of toast off the plate that is in the middle of the table, and nibbles on it, feigning eating. This method has worked for the past few days and he doesn’t see why it shouldn’t now.

Bruce looks around the room as he does this. “Is Damian already at school?”

Dick exchanges a glance with Alfred before answering. “Yeah, he said he wanted to get there early.” Bruce’s stomach squeezes and he has to set the barely eaten toast down or else he’s going to throw up. Dick looks at him with sympathy, knowing that Bruce got the message. Damian didn’t want to see him… again. “Give him time Bruce. He’ll come around.” Dick forgets to mention it’s already been about a week since Damian found out and started avoiding him.

“Right,” he says softly, turning away and leaving the room and toast behind.

“Bruce wait!” Bruce turns to see Tim following him hurriedly. “Can I go with you?”

“You want to go to my appointment with me?” he asks in confusion. He doesn’t understand why Tim would want to go with him. The only explanation Bruce can come up with is this is Tim’s omega instincts drawing him towards a pregnant omega.

Tim shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

He shrugs again. “I don’t know. Just feel like it.”

Bruce squirms, feeling uncomfortable. Tim not knowing why is enough proof for Bruce to think it’s instinct base. Still, he wants to tell Tim to stay here but he doesn’t have a good enough excuse as to why he would want that. In reality he just wants to be alone but he has a feeling that won’t be accepted by Tim. Or maybe it would be but Bruce just doesn’t want to deal with it. “Okay.” He looks his son up and down. “You’re going to have to change quickly.”

“Right.” Tim runs off and Bruce watches him go. He remembers when Tim stopped being Robin and became Red Robin. He hadn’t wanted to give up being Robin completely but he felt like it was time to move on. Most of that encouragement came from Dick who told Tim that it was okay to do that. Bruce wasn’t happy. Then Damian came along and everything changed. Damian became Robin and Tim stayed as Red Robin. At least Jason had seemed to cool down over being replaced by Tim and with Damian as Robin now, he’s even more level headed about the thing. Still, Bruce misses Tim as Robin and fighting beside him. Tim might not have been the best fighter but he was smart and cunning. Plus, besides Dick, he was always the one who actually listened to Bruce and mostly stayed out of trouble.

Time is going by too fast.

“Bruce?”

Bruce startles out of his thoughts, seeing Tim standing in front of him and dressed in baggy clothes as well. “What?”

“I asked if you were ready.”

Bruce nods. “Yeah, I am.” Bruce motions for Tim to lead the way and then follows him out to the car. When they get to the car, Bruce decides to drive as he feels as if it'll distract him from his anxiousness. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for them to reach the hospital and to find a parking spot in the parking garage, almost as if the universe wants to rub in Bruce’s face that this is actually happening. Not that Bruce believes in that nonsense.

Bruce’s heart is pounding in his chest hard and fast the whole time it takes for the two of them to make it down to the ground level and into the hospital building. They check in with Bruce having to fill out some paper work and tell them to call the name Clark Kent instead of his own or Tim’s in order to keep anyone from knowing it is them. While they sit in the waiting room, Bruce can’t stop himself from bouncing his leg. He’s extremely nervous and he isn’t quite sure if he is ready to see his baby.

“You okay?” Tim asks him, leaning in close.

“I’m fine,” he responds.

“It’s just that you seem nervous.” Tim sniffs the air. “You smell nervous too.”

Bruce sniffs the air as well and indeed can smell the scent of anxiety coming off him. “I probably should have put on a scent dampener.”

Tim chuckles. “And make the doctors wonder why you are dampening your scent? Yeah, right.” Bruce doesn’t say anything to this and they both sit in silence until Clark’s name is called. A spike of panic rushes through Bruce and Tim grabs a hold of his elbow, whispering, “Hey, it’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

Bruce nods, swallowing hard as he gets up and tries to control his breathing and heartbeat. Tim sticks close to him as they follow the nurse, something that would be a comforting gesture if it didn't make Bruce more uneasy. He places a hand on Tim’s shoulder, pushing him a few inches away. At Tim’s questioning look, he says, “I can't breathe with you that close.”

“I don't think you can breathe at all with how nervous you look,” the young omega whispers, slight amusement shining through his concern. “I've never seen you this… scared.”

“I'm not scared,” he snaps, not meaning to. The nurse gives them a strange look as she ushers them into a room. “I’m not scared,” he says calmer, quieter.

One of Tim's eyebrows rises. “Bruce, when are you going to learn that me, Dick, Damian, even Jason can read you like a book?” Tim gives him an amused smile as he sits in the chair and Bruce gets up on the bed. “You taught us the skills to be able to do such a thing, remember?”

Suddenly, Bruce wishes he had never taught his sons how to read body language. He's not comfortable knowing they can read him so easily, that he's not as good at hiding what he is feeling from his family as he first thought. Tim doesn’t say anything more and neither does Bruce as they both wait for the doctor. It’s another five minutes before he shows up.

“Good morning, Mr. Wayne,” the doctor says as he walks into the room, shutting the door behind him. He shakes Bruce’s and then Tim’s hand. “I’m Doctor Harty and I’ll be taking care of you today.” He lifts up a clipboard, reading the papers. “Okay, so it says here that this is your first pregnancy and your first visit to the obstetrician.”

“Yes.”

“Okay then.” He sets the clipboard down, flipping to a different page in which nothing is written down on yet. “We are going to start by going over some of your medical history.” He looks to Tim and then back to Bruce. “Seeing as some of these questions can be a bit personal, if you would like to answer them without your companion here, that is perfectly acceptable.”

Bruce shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. He can stay.”

“Then let’s begin with your family’s medical history. Are there any medical conditions or diseases we should be made aware of?”

“None that I know of. Both my parents were alphas though. I don’t know if that is significant to know about.”

Doctor Harty nods, jotting down that fact of information. “Yes, that is very important to know because both your parents being alphas could have had any number of medical complications passed down onto you. Even if you show no signs of one, you could still be a carrier or it could still affect your pregnancy.” He finishes writing. “Do you know if your mother had a hard time conceiving?”

Bruce shrugs. “Most likely seeing as she was an alpha, but I was too young to get into any of those conversations with them.”

“Ah, yes, that is true. Still, we’ll keep it in mind going further.” Doctor Harty then moves on. “We’ll move onto you specifically now. Do you smoke?” Bruce shakes his head. “Drink?  Do any drugs whether it be prescription or not?”

“No to both.”

“Good. So I’m assuming it would be a no for any chronic conditions that you would need to take medication for?” Bruce nods. “Alright, good. Do you have any drug allergies, psychiatric problems?” Again, Bruce shakes his head. “Have you had any surgeries or hospitalizations in the past?”

Bruce thinks about the times he’s gone out as Batman, gotten seriously injured, and had to have Alfred or even Doctor Thompkins patch him up. Sometimes they would even restrict him to a bed as if he really was hospitalized. “No.”

“Now this next question is important.” Doctor Harty continues. “Are you or have you ever been a victim of abuse?”

“No.”

“So you or your baby is in no danger?”

“Correct.”

“Very good.” Bruce watches the pen as Doctor Harty jots all this info down. “I’m going to ask about your heats now. Were they regular or irregular?”

“Mostly regular.”

“How long did they normally last?”

“Four days.”

“Was it always like that or has the days lessened since you’ve aged?”

Bruce thinks about it. He knows how old he is, knows that he probably only had a few more years of going through heats before he hit menopause. That doesn’t make him feel any better about how much time has gone by and how much time he has left for things. “No, it’s been four days since I started.”

“When was your last heat?”

“About thirteen weeks ago.”

This causes the doctor to take pause, looking up from the clipboard. “You’re thirteen weeks along?”

“I’m in my thirteenth week.”

Doctor Harty stares at him, as if he can’t quite comprehend what he just heard. “Why didn’t you schedule an appointment sooner? Normally we like to see pregnant omegas much sooner than their thirteenth week.”

“There’s been a lot going on,” Tim says, saving Bruce. Bruce is thankful for this as now he just feels like a complete failure at being an omega even though he’s never wanted to conform to the castes in the first place. “He just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”

Doctor Harty nods. “It’s very important, Mr. Wayne, that you keep up with these appointments.” Bruce only nods, wishing he could leave and never come back. “Anyways, is there anything that you’ve noticed since your last heat that you are concerned about?”

“I’m still having morning sickness.”

The doctor hums. “Some omegas do continue to have morning sickness into their second trimester. I would suggest you have ginger tea or even suck on a ginger candy. It will help with the nausea. If the nausea hasn’t gotten better by your second visit, I can prescribe you Zofran or Unisom to help as well. By your third trimester, however, all the nausea should be gone. We’ll make sure to keep an eye on it though. Are there any other questions you might have?” Bruce shakes his head no and Doctor Harty stands. “Alright then. I’m going to give you a full physical checkup now and then we’ll move onto the ultrasound.” Bruce’s heartrate spikes at the mention of the ultrasound. He doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want it at all.

He sits there in a mini panic as the doctor takes his blood pressure, his heartrate, and his weight. He continues to panic as Doctor Harty asks Tim to leave the room as he gives Bruce a breast exam and then a pelvic exam that includes getting a pap smear. When he allows Tim back in, he takes a blood sample from Bruce in order to test for different things that could affect his baby. Doctor Harty then gives him a small cup, points him to the bathroom, and tells him to pee in it. Bruce does that, taking a few extra seconds in the bathroom to try and calm himself down. Only it doesn’t work because he knows what is coming next.

When he gets back to the room, handing the cup back to the doctor, the ultrasound machine is already in the room. Bruce’s heart drops to the floor as he eyes it, getting back onto the bed. Doctor Harty then asks him to lie back and to pull up his shirt. Bruce does as he is told. The doctor grabs a tube, opens it, and positions it over Bruce’s slightly extended stomach. Tim is eyeing his stomach in awe, not having seen him without a shirt on since the time Clark ordered him to eat.

“This is going to be cold,” Doctor Harty warns and then squeezes the gel onto Bruce’s stomach. He grabs the wand from the ultrasound machine, turning it on, and then placing it on Bruce’s stomach and the gel. Bruce holds his breath as Doctor Harty moves the wand around until finally he stops. “And there it is, your baby.”

Bruce’s eyes slowly move to the screen and as they land on the black and white picture of his baby, he feels his heart stop. “Wow,” he distantly hears Tim remark but Bruce can’t breathe and so pays it no attention.

“Would you like to hear its heartbeat?” Doctor Harty asks but the question doesn’t even register in Bruce’s head. All he can seem to focus on is the black and white figure on the screen that is inside him. “Mr. Wayne?”

“Bruce?” Tim says, concern lacing his voice.

Bruce finally drags his eyes away from the screen. “What?”

“Would you like to hear your baby’s heartbeat?” Doctor Harty asks once more.

“Heartbeat?” Bruce is starting to shake.

“Yes, a baby’s heart normally starts beating around six to seven weeks but you wouldn’t have been able to hear it. At thirteen weeks, however, you should be able to hear it clearly.”

“Wouldn’t that be amazing, Bruce?” Tim asks, oblivious to Bruce’s mental meltdown. So much for being able to read him. “Being able to hear your baby’s heartbeat would be awesome!”

Bruce nods dazedly, looking back to the screen. Doctor Harty smiles at him, pleased, and switches a switch on the machine. Suddenly, the room is filled with a rapid swooshing sound. If Bruce’s heart hadn’t stopped beating before, it definitely has now. He feels like he is going to be sick as he watches the baby on the screen and the swooshing enters his ears. Tears pool into his eyes.

He was going to get an abortion. He was eleven weeks along when he was going to get the abortion. The baby had its heartbeat at six or seven weeks. The baby wasn’t supposed to have a heartbeat then. He wasn’t supposed to have almost gotten rid of something that has a heartbeat. He wasn’t supposed to.

The tears start rolling down his cheeks and Doctor Harty smiles, probably assuming the tears are tears of happiness instead of what they really are. “It can be overwhelming to see and hear your baby for the first time.” Tim nods in agreement, his own big smile showing. Bruce wants it to stop. “Would you like a printed out picture?”

Bruce, not taking his eyes off the screen, almost says no. He doesn’t want a picture. He doesn’t want another reminder of his failure. Of all his failures. But then he thinks about Dick and how he would want one for sure. He also thinks about Clark who Bruce didn’t even tell he was going to this thing. It was only fair to get him one too, right?

Bruce reaches up and wipes the tears away, looking away from the screen. He wants the swooshing to stop. “Can I have two?” he asks and Doctor Harty nods. He turns the machine off finally. The pictures print and he hands them to Bruce. Bruce doesn’t look at them as he hands them to Tim.

Doctor Harty cleans the gel off of Bruce’s stomach and then says, “Alright, that concludes this visit. I want you to schedule another one in four weeks.” He gives both Bruce and Tim a smile. “Have a great day.” The doctor then leaves.

Bruce and Tim leave the room as well and then leave the hospital. They don’t say anything to each other until they get into the car back at the parking garage. Tim’s the first one to talk as he looks at the picture of the baby. “It’s neat, isn’t it? To think this is in you?” Bruce doesn’t say anything, staring straight ahead. He hasn’t started the car yet, his hands holding the steering wheel in a death grip. Tim finally looks up, looking at Bruce with scrunched eyebrows. “Bruce? Are you okay?”

Bruce blinks, thinking, panicking. “Your heat is coming up, right?”

“Yeah, in a few days. Why?”

“You should share it with Conner.”

“…What?”

“You like him, don’t you?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“You should share your heats with him.”

Tim stays very quiet for a few long seconds, studying Bruce. “Why? I thought you would kill Conner if I shared my heat with him before I was eighteen.”

“I’ll buy you birth control. You’ll take it won’t you, Tim?”

“…I mean… yeah, of course, but Bruce, I don’t really understand why you’re bringing this up.”

“Heats are better when they are shared with someone. Especially if you care about that person. They’re less physically painful.”

“Is this about Clark?”

“I just think if you have that person then why wait.”

“This is about Clark.”

“But you have to use birth control because you could end up pregnant like I am and-” The tears come back and they take no time at all to start falling. “And that hurts. That hurts Tim and you can’t let that happen to you. Because you can’t get rid of a baby that already has a heartbeat,” Tim frowns, “and you can’t have a baby when the sire doesn’t care about you.”

“Bruce…”

“You can’t do that because it…” and Bruce is really crying now, hiccups and all. Tim is very silent as Bruce leans forward and rests his forehead against his hands, squeezing his eyes shut.

And that’s when he hears it. A low rumbling noise that is coming from beside him. Bruce lifts his head and peers over at Tim who is sitting there and purring. It’s the first time Bruce has ever heard Tim purr. This kind of omega purr isn’t the content purr, though, but instead is the purr that is designed to help another omega calm down, to comfort them. As Bruce eyes him in amazement, Tim leans over and rubs his cheek along Bruce’s, not even being bothered by the wetness there. He continues to rub until their scents are mingled with each other, father and son, and Bruce’s hiccupping goes away.

Tim leans back and Bruce blinks at him. “It’s going to be okay Bruce.” He pulls the picture of the baby out and shows it to him. “You see this? You didn’t go through with the abortion. The baby is still there, perfectly fine. You didn’t get rid of a baby with a heartbeat.” Tim gives him a reassuring smile. “As for Clark. He might not love you the way you love him, Bruce, but he does care about you a lot. Just like me and Dick do. Just like Alfred does. He’s not your mate, yeah, but you’re still his best friend and that counts for something, right?” Bruce nods. “I know it hurts, I can see that, but it won’t hurt forever. I promise.”

Bruce doesn’t know how Tim can promise such a thing but he nods anyways. He doesn’t believe it. Doesn’t see it getting better. But he’s feeling embarrassed now from his little mental break and wants to move on instead of dwelling on it. “Will you give that picture to Dick?” He grabs the other picture and shoves it into his pocket. He’ll give it to Clark the next time he sees him. Clark will probably be mad that Bruce didn’t bring him along.

“Yeah, of course.” Tim eyes him, putting the picture he is holding in his own pocket. “Are you okay?” Bruce doesn’t answer and instead starts the car up, backing out of the space. Tim frowns. “Bruce?” Bruce never answers him.

A/N: Thanks for reading! :)

[sxypigeon]

Overwatch Mojave

Summary: Set in the Mojave after the events of Fallout New Vegas, Angela just wants a simple life working in a hospital - the NCR and Ms. House have other plans.  Fortunately she has Jesse, Baptiste, and Roseline to keep her sane when she has to play host to a NCR spy - Captain Amari's daughter, Fareeha.  How hard could it be to keep a spy safe in enemy territory while still staying in her ex's, Ms. House, good graces?

***

There’s a moment in nearly everyone’s life when they wonder if they made the right choices, if they should have done that one thing differently.  

  It’s just a little farther.  Hold on, Jesse.

 Usually self-reflection was considered a helpful tool, proof of emotional maturity, but when utilized while half-dragging your injured best friend through endless miles of scrub brush an hour before dawn, it’s just fucking irritating.

 “Are you sure this is the way?” Ana asked tersely as Gabriel led their group up a narrow highway.

 Their moody,  de facto  leader didn’t bother looking back as he continued to scan their surroundings.  “Dr. Zeigler, would you reassure the Captain that we are, in fact, going the correct way?”

 Ana sighed tiredly and fell back to the medic and wounded soldier.  Gently pushing Angela out from under Jesse’s good arm, Ana took her place.  “Well?”

Angela surveyed the dark, arid landscape from east to west.  The terrain looked almost exactly like it did five hours ago - dry and sandy with low bushes of sage and yucca illuminated by a gibbous moon.  “There aren’t many roads off the 15 this far south,” she muttered before stretching her aching back - Jesse had been leaning awfully heavily on her the last three hours.  “And I recognize those rock formations in the distance.  There should be a small town ahead.”  The Valley of Fire she remembered it was called - they were almost to the border of the Mojave territory.

 “We’d better be there soon if we want to make it before dawn,” Jack growled from the rear.

 Reinhardt groaned in agreement just behind the medic.  “I would like to avoid another midday desert march.”

 Gabe kept his eyes ahead, scanning for people and wildlife.  “All of you, quit your belly-aching.  I can see the town from here.”  

 It was unnerving, the lack of quips or snarky comments from their youngest soldier.  “How are you holding up, Jess?” Angela muttered quietly.

 His pale, flushed face tightened.  “Been better.”  Drenched in sweat with an arm in a sling, he looked moments from collapsing as the group entered the ruins.

 The small, abandoned township of Moapa Valley used to be a popular stop for traders and settlers alike until a fanatical dictator and his army burned it to the ground over a decade ago in his quest for Mojave domination.  They continued past the blackened and sun-bleached ruins further southwest down the crumbling, uneven road. 

 “It’s up here,” Gabe said ten minutes later, pointing to a group of pueblos on a little ridge.

 Jesse stared miserably at the steep road in front of them.  “Shit.”

 Heavy footsteps approached from behind.  “Don’t worry.  I’ve got you, little one.”  Before Jesse could stop him, Reinhardt, already carrying most of the group’s supplies, had the injured soldier in his arms.  

 Angela and Ana shared a weak smile before following the near giant’s silhouette with Jack.

 Sand-colored, square huts lined the edge of the ridge next to a small rundown museum - the only area to have escaped the town’s fiery fate.  Reyes stepped out from the more modern building, once a small museum or visitor center.  “It’s clear.  Bring him inside.”

 Without medical supplies, there was little Angela could do for the infected bullet wound in Jesse’s left forearm.  The best she could do was push fluids, in the form of prickly pear pulp, and make him as comfortable as possible.  As her patient drifted off, Angela approached the others around a small fire of yucca leaves.

 “His fever is getting worse.  I don’t think he’ll make it to Los Angeles,” she muttered softly as she took a strip of brahmin jerky from Jack.

 “Jack and I could go out on our own and get some supplies,” Gabe offered as he roasted a prickly pear.

 “If Jesse wasn’t willing to let me whore myself out to that caravan driver yesterday for antibiotics,” Angela said with a shudder, “I doubt he’d approve of you stealing or killing for it.”

 “None of us were going to let you,” Ana said simply.  “The nerve of the bastard, he’s lucky we didn’t kill him on the spot.”

 “I suppose that’s why he had so many guards,” Reinhardt grumbled.  “No honor whatsoever.”

 “Jesse can’t approve or disapprove of anything if he’s dead,” Jack pointed out to bring them back on topic.

 Angela rubbed her hands over the fire.  “No, but he has his principles and I doubt even the threat of death would make him compromise them.”

 “Well, oh wise and knowledgeable one, what do you propose?” Gabe asked drily. 

 She bit her lip and took a breath.  “We go to Freeside.”  A settlement just outside the walls surrounding New Vegas, in the heart of the Mojave territory.

 “Out of the question,” Jack stated harshly.

 “I have connections there and-”

 “And the Mojave is crawling with bounty hunters looking for NCR soldiers to bring to Ms. House,” Ana said evenly.  “We won’t make it within ten miles of Freeside.”

 “Not wearing your armor,” Angela admitted, “but if we ditch it here-”

 “All it will take is one skirmish and we’ll all be dead.”  Ana sighed and shook her head.  “Even without our armor, some may still recognize us from the Mojave Campaign.  We were there for over a decade before that  courier  betrayed us all.”

 “Betrayed?  The NCR had been practicing imperialism for years!  It’s not Ms. House’s fault the NCR wouldn’t take no for an answer!”

 “Ladies, now is not the time,” Jack said as he ran a hand through his short beard.  “Ana is right, Angela.  Hatred for us is too strong there to have any hope of making it to Freeside.”

 “Maybe not as a group,” Gabe countered, “but maybe if Angela and I take Jesse, we might make it.”

 “And split up the group?!” Reinhardt shouted.  “There are so few of us left already!”

 “We will lose Jesse if we don’t do something,” Angela stressed.  “It will take too long to go around Lake Mead.  Freeside is a two day walk from here.  LA is a week at least.”

 Jack huffed.  “I don’t like it.”

 “I don’t either,” Angela admitted, “but we are out of caps and have nothing of value left to trade.  There isn’t a NCR friendly outpost for at least the next seventy-five miles.  The caravans wouldn’t even give us a fair deal if we had caps.  This is our best option.”

 The group fell silent as the fire continued to snap and crackle.  Angela pulled her knees to her chest and sighed tiredly as she reminded herself why she was in this predicament.

 This whole expedition had felt like a mistake from the beginning.  Another attempt by the New California Republic to expand its territory, this time Salt Lake City.  Angela never would have agreed to come if not for Jesse’s begging.   “Our medics are some of the greenest I’ve ever seen, Angie.  I’m pretty sure I saw one faint at the sight of a paper-cut.  Other than them, all we have is Captain Amari and you know what she’s like.  Please, Angie?  I’ll never ask for anything from you ever again.”  Damn those big, puppy-dog eyes and his boyish charm.

 So she left her position at Angel’s Boneyard Medical University and followed him and his garrison across mountains and barren deserts, all while fighting raiders and radiation-mutated wildlife, to Utah’s biggest settlement.  They did not find a warm welcome, but they were given a task to prove the NCR’s sincerity to its pledge to protect the settlement.  They were told to venture to the outskirts of their civilization and hunt raiders.  Things just went downhill from there.

 “I’m going with Angela to Freeside,” Gabe announced as he stood.  “Do you think he’ll be able to walk the whole way?”

 Angela lifted her head in shock before she shook it.  “No.”

 “Then let’s get a stretcher built.”  The others watched him go with frowns before Angela stood to follow.

 “Keep them safe, Angela,” Ana whispered.

 The medic paused and gave the other three a pained smile.  “I’ll try.”

 ***

 Three years later

 ***

 A pair of tanned arms engulfed the weary medic from behind as she sat at her desk filling out supply request forms.  “How is my favorite doctor in the world doing this fine evening?”

 Angela rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the smile that spread across her face.  “I don’t know, Jesse, how is Dr. Augustin?”

 “I’m great - thanks for asking,” Baptiste said with a grin as he placed a fresh mug of coffee in front of the lead medic.

 “Well if that’s the case, I suppose this bag of goodies must be for him,” Jesse said in a slow drawl as he released her and dropped a small canvas bag on her desk.

 Angela stared at it in confusion before her eyes went wide in glee.  “You  didn’t.”

 He chewed the stub of his cigar a moment before smiling.  “You know, I just might have.”

 The medic let out an undignified screech of excitement before lunging at the bag.  Trembling hands slowly removed the lid of a tattered styrofoam box.  Words failed her for a moment as she inspected the contents.  “Jesse, I love you,” she whispered.

 “I know, darlin’.  Happy Birthday,” he said before kissing the top of her head.

 A single bar of dark chocolate sat inside the small, temperature-controlled box.  It was an expensive luxury she had rarely allowed herself while living in LA, one she hadn’t indulged in since she left nearly five years ago.  With the Mojave heat, no traders bothered trying to bring it to the New Vegas region.

 Baptiste chuckled as he dragged a chair over to Angela’s desk for Jesse.  “In the three years I’ve known Angela, I’ve never seen her this excited.  Is it really her birthday?”

 The former soldier sat and put his boots up on the corner of her desk.  “A few days ago.  I kind of doubt she even remembered it.”  The two men watched Angela slowly unwrap the top of the bar before sniffing it like a fine cigar.  “I almost forgot how ridiculous she gets about this stuff.”

 “Let me enjoy myself,” she whispered a bit breathlessly.

 “Well, I’ve got a bit more news to share when you’re done drooling over that candy bar.”

 She huffed and took a small bite of a corner, letting it melt in her mouth.  “Oh,  gooood,” she moaned in a low voice.

 A silhouette appeared at the tent entrance.  “What is going on in here?”

 Jesse and Baptiste stared at each other before glancing at Angela.  The younger doctor said in his serious  I’m-speaking-to-a-patient  voice, “Dr. Ziegler is having a food-induced orgasm, babe.  Let her have her moment.”

 “How have you been, Roseline?” Jesse asked with his widest grin.  “Still as pretty as a pre-war picture I see.”

“I’m fantastic, Mr. McCree,” she said as she stood next to Baptiste.  “Will our esteemed colleague be going for two?  If so, I’d like to remind her to lower her voice as there are children in the camp,” she stated, matching her husband’s tone.

 With a rapidly reddening face, Angela swallowed and shook her head, “Ah, no.  I apologize - it won’t happen again.”

 Roseline gave a snort of laughter, “What, have an orgasm?  For your sake I hope you do.”

 Angela sighed and let her head fall into her hands atop her desk.  “I liked it better when you both thought I was humorless and unapproachable.  I blame you for changing that, Jesse.”

 “You’re very welcome, Angie.”

 “So what were you eating-”

 “Dark chocolate,” Jesse supplied.  “A birthday present.”

 Roseline frowned, “Wait, your birthday?  Are you saying we missed a valid reason to get you drunk and take you to the Strip?”

 “I forgot,” Angela muttered.

 “Well it can’t be tonight since it’s half over.  Tomorrow then.  Jesse, you’re welcome to come as long as you keep your hands off my husband.”

 “Hey, now,” he sputtered.  “That was one time and I thought he was someone else-”

 “He was the only black man in the room!  Who did you think he was?” Roseline laughed.

 Jesse opened his mouth in defense, then shut it, before asking a bit meekly, “There is no right answer to that question, is there?” 

 “No, there isn’t.”

 “I was very flattered,” Baptiste offered.

 “Thanks. ”  He took a moody sip from his flask.  “You know, I’m pretty sure Angela is far worse than I am with you, Roseline.”

 Angela’s head shot up.  “Jesse!”

 “Oh she is, but she has the sense not to act on it,” Roseline said with a shit-eating grin.  “That’s why I’m her wing-woman every time we go out.  Getting her laid helps ease the  sexual tension.”

 Angela rubbed her face again and groaned.  “Jesse, didn’t you have important news to tell me?”

 “Oh, right.”  He sat up in his chair and handed her a letter with a NCR logo.  “You’re about to have company.”

 “Me?  Not you?”  She took the letter and scanned it.  A letter from Jack, on behalf of the current president, asking her to house a soldier on a covert mission in the Mojave.  “You have to be kidding me.  This isn’t real, it  can’t  be.”

 Jesse gave her a sympathetic smile, “You are still technically a citizen of the NCR, even here in Freeside.  Being a Follower of the Apocalypse doesn’t change that.”

 She felt her frown deepen.  “Why aren’t you housing this . . .  spy?”

 “Well, that’s on account of the NCR thinking I’m dead, remember?  I go by Joel  whenever I make the trip home.”

 “Private citizens aren’t supposed to be forced to house soldiers unless there is an active war going on,” Angela said with a pout.

 “The NCR and Ms. House never signed a treaty.  Technically the war is still going even if no one is openly fighting.”

 Baptiste patted her shoulder comfortingly, “If you want, Ros and I could poison them and make it look like an accidental overdose.”

 Angela smiled miserably.  “That’s very kind of you, but I do have people if I need to make someone disappear.”

 His smile disappeared.  “Seriously?”

 “She’s talking about me, Doc.  No need to worry,” Jesse chimed in.

 “Not who I was thinking of, but sure,” she muttered under her breath.  “The letter doesn’t say when to expect them or who they are.”

 Jesse leaned forward and spoke in a harsh whisper, “Well, I do know a bit of that, but we have to be quiet about it and you have to promise not to make me kill her.”

 Angela glared at him and arched an eyebrow.

 He sighed heavily.  “You remember Ana’s daughter, right?”

 Did she remember Ana’s daughter?  Faree . . . Farah . . . no, it was-  “Fareeha.  Five years younger and five inches taller than me?  I thought Ana was rather protective of her.  I’m surprised she let her take the mission.”

 “I’ll let her explain that one to ya.  She was supposed to travel with me but got held up with last minute updates on the mission or something.  She should be here by the end of the week.  I’m gonna meet her at the border and escort her myself to the camp.”

 “ Oh, joy. ”

 “At least it’s someone we know.  She’s a good kid.”

 Angela rolled her eyes.  “Having not seen her in nearly ten years, I’ll have to take your word on that.”

 “Well, take it how you will, but I need to get going if I’m gonna get any sleep before I set out in the morning.”  Jesse stood and nodded to the married couple.  “Always nice seeing you folks - take care now.”

 Angela stood as well.  “I’ll walk you out.”  

 The desert air was finally beginning to cool as the sun set behind the mountains and old Las Vegas residential ruins, not enough to be comfortable in Angela’s opinion, but not hot enough to melt the rubber soles of your shoes on the asphalt anymore.

 Jesse lit a cigar as they walked.  “We really need to stop making passes at straight, married people, don’t we?”

 “I don’t make passes at anyone,” Angela corrected.  “I just get caught staring and then get flustered when Ros smirks at me.”  She sighed dejectedly.  “But why are you still hitting on Baptiste if you’re trying to get with that casino owner on the strip?”

 “Because Mr. Shamada is playing hard to get,” he pouted.  “I have poured every ounce of my considerable charm on him and still nothing.”

 “Maybe he’s straight?”

 “Nope, got word from his brother he ain’t.  Him I get along with famously.”

 Angela patted his shoulder soothingly, “I guess it’s either more persistence or find a new love-of-your-life.”

 “Your love advice is as helpful as ever, Angie.”

 “ Annnd that is the extent of my sympathy.”  

 They reached the gate of the Old Moron Fort and stopped.  “You could stay the night, you know?” Angela said softly.

 “Nah, I’ve spent enough time here to last a lifetime,” Jesse muttered, a dark look crossing his face.  “I’m surprised you’re still here to be honest.”

 Angela shoved her hands in the pockets of her cargo pants and looked back at the makeshift hospital.  “Now that Ms. House doesn’t harass me daily, it’s not so bad here.  I’ve never felt so useful anywhere else.”

 “If you say so.”  Jesse let out a deep breath of smoke before pulling Angela into his arms one last time.  “Seriously though, happy birthday.  Try to have some fun before I get back with your guest, okay?”

 “Like I have a choice,” she laughed.  “Ros won’t rest until I get laid, so I think I have my bases covered.”

 “Good.  I’ll see you in a few days.”

 “I’ll look forward to it nonetheless.  Stay safe, Jesse.”

 She watched him saunter past the guards with a wistful smile.  Angela missed the days of traveling by his side, of just traveling in general.  Since arriving with Reyes and an injured Jesse three years ago, the furthest she’d been from the Fort was the Strip . . . usually to drink with her coworkers or for sex.  At first she stayed to pay off her debt to the medics who provided the antibiotics needed to save Jesse’s life, but eventually the field hospital began to feel like home - a home filled with recovering drug addicts and mugging victims, but a home nonetheless.

 New Vegas and the Mojave territory were a far cry from the civility of the NCR, but there was a freedom here, a feeling of endless opportunity even after all these years that kept her here.  The NCR, while noble in its foundation, had become corrupt with President Kimball and was ruled more by the cattle barons than popular vote.  The Mojave in comparison was ruled simply by Ms. House, untouchable and incorruptible (or already corrupted depending on your opinion).  She remained hands-off unless the sovereignty of her territory was threatened . . . or unless Angela asked nicely.  Being Ms. House’s ex wasn’t all bad.

 “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share any of that chocolate, would you?” Baptist asked when she made it back to her desk.

 She smiled and carefully packed the candy back in its styrofoam box.  “I would literally give you the last sip of water from my canteen if we were both stranded in the desert, but it will be a cold day in hell before I share an ounce of dark chocolate.”

 “Ouch.”

***

I'm not sure if I'll continue this, but I really liked how the first chapter came together so I hope you enjoyed it.  If you didn't, feel free to let me know that, too.  Thanks, for reading!