Rated: PG-13 (Swearing, innuendos, parenting anxieties and worries.)
Summary: Noa’s first time enjoying a hockey game. Takes place after the long game book.
Reading Key:
“(Hello, Ilya.)” spoken in Russian
“Hello, Ilya.” spoken in English
Noa series:
She has Freckles-Rated PG, "Grown-up Tobogganing"- Rated PG-13, Dire Fan
Readying a small jersey between his hands, “Do you think it’s too early?” Shane asks no one in particular. Smiling down at their six-year-old half-dressed in adorable red pants, whose sole mission at the moment is to complete more laps around her Dada than Anya, who seemed to just be determined to maintain the title of zoomies champion. “Arms up.” He directs the small girl, slowing to a stop, panting through fits of giggles, standing excitedly in front of Shane. Lifting her small arms above her head, bouncing in place, cheesing all the while.
“Early?” Ilya questions from the kitchen, cleaning up after the family breakfast.
Shane gasps dramatically as her head pops through her jersey. “Do you think it’d be too much?” he then asks in a monotone, contradicting his ecstatic expression. Assisting her arms through the sleeves with expert hands against the wiggling child. Finally, he gives his baby girl a final once-over with his eyes.
“Grandma Yuna and Grandpa David are excellent lion tamers.” Ilya rounds the sectional sofa. Gasping dramatically at the sight of Noa’s pint-sized custom Centaur jersey.
With their “ship” name, Hollanov, written on the back with both their numbers. “Spin, let’s see.” He squeals, retrieving his phone from his back pocket and capturing pics of their pride and joy. Hair held into two poofs.
Shane sighs, smiling softly at the sight.
“Shoe time!” Ilya exclaims, “Go get your shoes.” He instructs by clapping his hands. The girl happily scampers off with Anya following close behind.
“(Tell me, my love),” Ilya coos softly, taking a knee beside Shane. “What’s on your mind?” He gives his husband the floor.
Shane steadies his breath. “I just… don’t wanna traumatize her for life.” He huffs, pushing a lock of hair behind his ear, his hair managing to free itself from its messy morning updo. Raw emotion clawing its way to the surface.
“It’s stupid, I know.” Shane reasons by busying his fingers with his hair. “The stadium can be very overstimulating, the horns, the music, the bright lights, the cold, the plastic seats,” he rattles off.
Ilya nods, “I believe she’s ready,” he assures.
Previous attempts to bring Noa into their hockey world ended “Unceremoniously.”
Noa’s cries always gutted them.
The first time, when she was two and barely walking, Ilya introduced her to their teammates, who all cooed and were in awe of the wide-eyed babe. She cried after being startled by a ref whistle.
When she was three, she screamed bloody murder at the sight of Shane being rammed into the glass by an opposing team.
The last time, when she was four,
“She is able to voice when she’s uncomfortable. We bought the earmuffs Jackie swears by,” Ilya lists, collecting Shane into his lap. “And during Papa’s daughter’s car rides, we listen to Old McDonald on blast, so…” he shrugs. “... loud music shouldn’t be an issue.”
Shane snorts an exasperated chuckle. “She definitely knows what sound the dog makes.”
“What sound does the dog make?” Ilya asks in mock interest.
Shane gives him a “seriously” look. “Woof, Woof, Woof,” he sighs.
Ilya nods, then purrs suggestively, “What sound does Daddy make?”
“Fuck you.” Shane scolds under his breath, eyeing the corner their daughter disappeared around.
“No, no, no.” Ilya shakes his head. “That’s what Papa will do to Daddy.” He corrects.
Shane sighs, shoving his husband playfully.
“How are you the calm, well-adjusted parent between us?” He groans.
“Someone has to be.”
“I want her to see this side of our lives. If she truly hates the hockey experience, that’s…fine.”
“Fine.” Ilya echos. “Shane Hollander, hockey addict, son of Yuna Hollander, the ultimate hockey addict.” He chuckles.
“That’d be fine,” Shane says, but the words seemed to pain him. Getting caught in his throat, he has to force them from his lips.
“You seem to be in pain.” Ilya comments.
“I’m not.”
“She loves us, she will love hockey.”
“I don’t need her to love hockey.”
“Really?”
“Jeez, I’m not those types of parents.” He defends. “If she hates it, then that’s that,” he shrugs.
Entering the stadium through the back entrance. Players, players’ family members, coaches, and managers of the sort litter about the lobby.
“Grandpa!” Noa shouts, scampering out of Shane’s hold. Once her feet touched the ground, she sprinted to a kneeling David with an ear-to-ear grin. He announces, “There she is,” before lifting the girl into the air.
“Careful, Dad,” Shane cautions.
“Don’t need you throwing your back out,” Yuna adds. Giving Noa’s cheek a caress and kiss on the head. Yuna embraces her sons.
“Worry warts,” David whispers, but loud enough for the family to still hear. “Guess what?” He bounces the girl on his hip.
“What?” Noa giggles.
“A new shop opened that serves the best cinnamon sugar donuts.”
The girl’s eyes widened with shock and delight.
“Gimme, gimme, gimme!” she shouts.
“No, what do we say, Noa?” Shane encourages.
“Please?” She answers unsure, tilting her head in question.
Shane nods.
“Gimme, please.” She exclaims.
Ilya laughs, but quickly covers his mouth while Shane sends him a scolding side eye.
Ilya grins, giving David a hug. “Be good, for Grandma and Granddad.” Ruffling her hair. “Gimme kiss.” Going in for one, but the toddler rears back.
“What do we say?” She mimics Shane’s tone perfectly.
“Pretty please, with many sprinkles and strawberries on top.” Ilya restates, giving puppy dog eyes. She looks at David.
“He said please.” He reasons.
She leans over, her grandpa’s hold on her secure, looping her small arms around her Papa’s neck, giving his cheek a big “Mwah” kiss.
“(That's my girl.)”
“Try to limit the sweets.” Shane pleads through gritted teeth towards his dad. “Eat something green.”
She huffs, making a face. “Yucky,”
“For me,” he adds.
She considers this for a few moments. “Okay,” she grumbles.
He smiles, booping her nose with his own. Looping her arms around Shane’s neck, she gave his cheek a “Mwah” kiss.
“See you boys on the ice.” David nods.
Yuna takes Noa’s go bag from Ilya. “Have fun, and kick their a-s-s.” she spells out, making the dads laugh.
“Yes, ma’am.” Ilya nods.
“Sure, Mom.” Shane nods.
“Bye-Bye.” Noa bids her tiny hand wave over David’s shoulder. Leaving the players to watch their departure.
“Her ear muffs are in her bag!” Shane calls. “Water and animal crackers!”
Ilya places a comforting hand on Shane’s lower back.
“I’m one of those parents,” he says, looking at his husband. “Aren’t I?”
Ilya shrugs, a smirk playing on his lips. “I like it, it’s sexy.” He whispers.
Centaurs vs. Dire Wolves
For a team that has been labeled the underdogs, having won no cups or reached any championships, they were giving the Ottawa Centaurs a run for their money.
Half-time reared its head, looming over the teams that fought to take the lead.
Shane puck in hand, weaving in and out of the way of the desperate “Wolves”. Checking over his shoulder, before striking the puck between the opposing team’s legs. The puck is caught successfully by his husband.
Ilya lines up the shot, then he sends it. The goalie was too slow to stop it as the half-time horn sounded.
Shane smiles at the shoulder pats of praise from their team. Skating over to the players’ bench.
Guzzling down his water, a Wolf skates by with a cocky grin that rivals Ilya’s.
“We’d gladly accept,” he says before skating off.
Shane furrows his brows.
Another Wolf skates over. “I’m honored,” and just like the player before, he too skates off.
“The fuck are they on about?” Shane scoffs, face screwed up in annoyance.
Ilya shrugs, chewing on his mouth guard that hangs out of his mouth. “Late CTE.” Ilya shrugs with his. “More cute dumb Golden retrievers than wolves,” he chuckles at his own lame joke.
Shane gives an eye roll, eyes catching and holding his attention.
Ilya chuckles, “What, joke wasn’t that bad.” He defends. Following the line of sight, turning his head to see….
The Dire Wolves fan cam on the Jumbotron.
On the LED screen of a little girl decked out in Dire Wolves merch.
Red hair, freckled face.
It was Noa.
Dire Wolves jersey with wolf-eared ear muffs, and a wolf stuffed toy tucked under her arm as she hopped and danced along to Wooly’s, the wolves’ mascot’s usual half-game dance for the kids.
The camera pans to show David filming on her left with his phone, giving his granddaughter his undivided attention. At the same time, Yuna watches their little Noa, rooting for the opposing team. Shock and horror were clearly evident on her face, but she, too, watched in pride and awe, kissing the girl’s face as they embraced.
“Woof! Woof! Woof!” Noa cheers excitedly, face and hands covered in cinnamon sugar.
Ilya turns beside him to the sounds of sobs. “Hey.” Ilya coos, wrapping his arm around Shane, drawing him in close. “She loves the cute wolf dogs, that’s ---”
“She’s so happy.” Shane cries through an ear-to-ear grin.
“Must have stopped by the gift shop,” Ilya deduces.
“Maybe if our mascot were a Canadian wolf bird.” Shane teases, imitating Ilya’s deep accent all
those years again. That night by the fire. At the cottage. Now their home.
Ilya gasps, “Such an asshole.”
Shane relishes his husband’s hold, both gazing up at the Jumbotron.
Summary: Another installment to what I am calling the "Noa" series. Inspired by the My Wife and Kids episode, I can imagine this happening to our very "active" 😏 boys. Little Noa calls the police, hearing her fathers nightly activities.
Rated: PG-13 (Sexual innuendos, language and a little angst.)
Noa Series:
She has Freckles - Rated PG, "Grown up Tobogganing"- Rated PG-13, Dire Fan Rated PG-13
The front door opens a crack into the newly renovated Hollander-Rozanov home. Ilya was in grey sweatpants and a robe, choosing to leave it open; the red and blue lights glittered against his chain and cross pendent, sat comfortably on his bare chest. The Russian's blue eyes dart from the blinding lights of the authority's car to the officer standing on the porch. Ilya smiles awkwardly, stepping from behind the door.
"Hello, police…man." He greets.
"Did someone at this address call for emergency services?" the man in uniform states.
Right to the point. No beating around the bush. Ilya noted.
"What!" Shane exclaims, Ilya widens the door to fit Shane beside him in a similar attire, sweat pants and robe, but his is tied and double-knotted closed. It was four in the morning.
"Hello, sir." The officer greets, connecting with a fellow local. Ilya suppressed an eye roll, finding it annoyingly remarkable how Canadians can sniff out each other. "There was a call submitted from this address by a…" he pulls a small notepad from his pocket, sifting through it. "...Noa."
The couple's eyes go wide at this information. "Noa?!" They gasped in unison.
"Does she live here?" the officer questions.
"Yes, she's our daughter," Shane informed, speed walking away to search for the little girl to calm his nerves. He soon returns with their four-year-old daughter, dawning a pastel pink sleep dress, her small hand in his; she sleepily rubs her eyes and lets out a yawn.
"Too bright." She grumbles, wincing at the red and blue lights bombarding her.
"I know, sweetie." Shane kneels to her level, using his hand to shield her eyes from the bright lights. "Did you call 9-1-1?" he asks openly.
She thinks about it for a moment, then nods sleepily.
He coos, holding both her hands in his. "Did something…scare you?" Shane chooses his words carefully.
She nods.
Shane's heart pounded, shaking the images of a creeper at her window from his mind. "Tell us, sweetheart."
“(It's ok little lion, you can tell us.)” Ilya coos in Russian, placing a hand on her shoulder and using her signature nickname, referring to her head of impressive red hair, poofy, and framing her face like a lion's mane. She looks up at Ilya, her freckled face scrunched up with fury.
"(You were hurting Dada!)" she replies in Russian, turning away from him in a huff, looking back at Shane, "I heard you and Papa yelling…Papa hurting you." She sniffles, launching herself into Shane's legs, burying her face into his thigh, gripping handfuls of her Dada's robe.
Shane looks to Ilya, who also wears a confused expression. They weren't in a fight or arguing; surprisingly, they weren't even disagreeing. The only thing that came to mind was…
All the blood drains from Shane's face.
The officer clears his throat, capturing the family of three's undivided attention. "The operator noted Noa's statement of hearing…" The officer flips a few pages, stopping at one. "Harder. Harder. Harder. Oh my God, you're killing me." He reads in a slow, monotone, flipping the notepad closed, looking back at the two dads.
Shane covers his face with his hands, Ilya with a smug shit-eating grin, splitting his face.
"Oh," the Russian chirps, failing to suppress his amusement.
"I'm so, so, sorry, officer." Shane is holding his hands in a prayer position. "This…" he points out between his husband and himself, "... won't happen again."
"If only," Ilya grumbles under his breath, Shane pinches the available window of skin, getting his husband under the ribs, causing the Russian to jump after releasing a high-pitched yelp.
"I have three little ones," the officer sympathizes. "Just be aware, walls are a lot thinner than we think."
Shane nods, agreeing, "Of course." he stutters, wanting this to end, feeling he will die of embarrassment.
"Goodnight." The officer tips his hat, making his way back to his car.
"Goodnight, Officer!" Ilya waves while Shane lifts the sniffling child into his arms. Ilya closed the door, the family of three making their way to the kitchen.
Shane sits with Noa in his lap, finding that she fussed and fought to keep from letting go of him. Picking up her fallen unicorn plush, forgotten under the table from playtime earlier that day. She reaches for it, but Shane mimics a horse nicker, nuzzling the plushie into the crook of Noa's neck.
Her giggles and laughter were a welcome sound as she turned this way and that until successfully swiping her bedtime friend into her arms. Shane sighs, pushing the wild red hair from her eyes. She always seemed unbothered, preferring her hair free. Sometimes wanting two pompoms like Minnie Mouse ears and her red bow hair clip.
Shane notes Ilya quietly heating cocoa and filling mugs with a clenched jaw.
Fatherhood has been a frequent conversation topic, obviously, since the first time they laid eyes on little Noa that cold night at the gas stop.
Ilya is on a level Shane couldn't describe.
Afraid to turn out like his father. Afraid to have a relationship with any semblance of the one he had with his father. Shane gave it his all to reassure him. It pained him to see his husband carrying so much; therapy has helped him in discussing his emotions. Ilya placed the two mugs in front of them.
Testing the tempt before handing it to the very eager hands of their daughter. Acquiring her Papa's sweet tooth, the two of them were chocolate fiends. And at 5:35 in the morning, she was not going to let the opportunity of hot chocolate pass her up.
"You're trembling," Shane comments kindly. Hoping to give his husband a safe and playful space to talk.
Ilya avoids eye contact, looking into his own mug, finding its contents interesting in that moment as he leans against the sink. "I am a gazelle." He answers. "Lion will tear me to shreds if I get too close." He looks to Noa.
Shane chuckles at this.
"Come here." He pats the empty seat next to them. "Noa won't bite," he assures, lifting his own mug, giving the hot liquid a few blows before taking a cautious sip. When Ilya didn't budge, Shane looked at their daughter.
"Can Papa sit with us?" He asks, wanting his daughter to have an honest say in the matter.
Noa whispers to her plushie. She then holds the snout to her ear. She looks to her Papa. "He may." She allows, mimicking an adult most adorably.
"You're so kind," Ilya replies, making way to take his seat next to them. The room feels to gentle sips and slurps mostly from Noa.
"That must have been so scary." Shane sighs, wiping the chocolate mustache from his daughter's lip with his sleeve.
"Am I in trouble?" she mumbles into her mug.
"No! No!" The two dads assured her.
"You did the right thing, calling 9-1-1," Shane praised.
"You thought Dada was in danger." Ilya reasons. "We always call for help when something's wrong."
"Why were you yelling?" she asks innocently.
"I wasn't yelling." Shane corrects. "Dada was…" he trails off, looking to his husband desperately to help him.
"Dada was cheering." Ilya aids. "Yeah…" he trails off. "...Dada was very excited." He smirks.
Shane bites his tongue to refrain from shouting at Ilya's lazy excuse of an answer, but chooses not to scar their daughter further mentally.
"Cheering?" Noa questions skeptically.
"Yeah, like when Svetlana took you tobogganing." He references.
"Yeah." She smiles at the memory. Shane remembers. The event was a few months ago. Seeing his little girl with one less tooth than she had when she left home with.
"That kind of excited." Ilya nods.
"Any questions, sweetheart?" Shane asks.
She shakes her head.
“(My little lion.)” Ilya calls softly.
"I will never, ever, ever hurt your Dada." He vows.
"Never?" She asks.
"Never," he vows. He cups her face and within his hands. thumbs brushing over the freckles dusted over her cheeks and button nose. Enough freckles, he often teased, if she could spare some so Ilya could be part of the freckles club, with Noa as president and Shane as it's ambassador. Placing a kiss on her forehead. "I'm proud of you," he says in a hush, "(I love you.)" swallowing the frog in his throat, blinking the tears away as he hides his face in her hair.
Shane wipes away a lone tear, giving his husband's chin an affectionate scratch. Something he's found himself doing often since Ilya decided to sport "scruff." Shane would never admit it, but he found Ilya irresistible with scruff and yearned for the feeling of its coarseness when he wasn't around. Not to mention the feeling of it between his thighs.
Noa suddenly slips out of Shane's lap, steps over, and climbs into Ilya's lap. Looping her tiny arms around his neck, she nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck. “(Love you too, Papa)” She replies. Turning her head to kiss his cheek.
"Looks like the gazelle lives another day." Shane smiles while taking a sip from the cocoa.
"No, she's tasting me." He clarifies by making their daughter laugh. "I am a goner." He chuckles. "It is okay. I have all my affairs in order." Holding his daughter in his arms, dipping her upside down. "Cocoa and chocolates of every kind for Ms. Hollander-Rozanov," he bellows triumphantly. Noa is letting out strings of squeals and laughter.
"Bedtime!" Shane claps his hands together. "Or what's left of it." He shrugs, looking at the sun peeking over the lake. Ilya easily lifts the girl onto his hip, assisting Shane in gathering the mugs and placing them in the sink to be dealt with tomorrow.
"Papa?" Noa asks.
"Yes." He replies.
"I wanna go tobogganing."
"We will in the winter season," Ilya promises.
"I wanna be cheering like you and Dada." She grins innocently.
Shane covers his face with his hands, stifling a shriek, while Ilya manages to hold a stellar poker face.
"That's grown-up tobogganing." He told giving Shane a smirk and a wink.
"How long till I'm grown up?" She pouts.
Without missing a beat "Forever." They both answer.
"You're forever our little girl." Ilya muffles into her hair, kissing her temple.
Summary: Takes place after book 6 of the Heated rivalry series "The Long Game". The trails and tribulations of Shane and Ilya starting their family.
Rated: PG (Angst and an abandoned baby)
Noa Series:
She has Freckles, "Grown-up Tobogganing"- Rated PG-13, Dire Fan - Rated PG-13
Sniffles sound from Shane's right, catching his husband's arm lift up from his peripheral. Shane assumed Ilya was wiping away tears.
He knew Ilya had been silently crying for about an hour during the car ride home. Each breath Shane took was a laborious task, fighting the sting of tears that blurred his vision, clearing his throat, masking it with a cough. Throwing a generic complaint about the cold weather being responsible. The whirring hum of the windshield wipers pushing away the falling snow that collected on the glass.
Adjusting his rear-view mirror only to be assaulted with a wave of sorrow cast from the empty car seat basking in the passing street lights.
He focuses his eyes ahead, fighting a memory of him and Ilya, desperately trying to decipher those installation instructions of said car seat. They were just about the murder each other, but…
Thanks to Hayden it didn't come to that.
Shane looking to his best friend as if he were somewhere between a genius or a god to have deciphered the obvious madness inducing text with ease.
Ilya gave the father of four an open-mouth "Mwah!" kiss on the cheek. "You are of some use," he praised in the teasing way only he and Hayden spoke in to each other. "Shane is right to keep you around." The Russian purrs with a Cheshire grin pinching the smaller mans cheek for good measure.
Hayden dramatically slaps Ilya's hand from his face, glaring at his former sports nemesis all he could, "Shane!?!" he exclaims to his best friend, sounding a lot like his daughters Ruby and Jade. All it needed was the 'uncle' part, Shane guessed that's where they got it from.
Pulling into the gas stop just to feel something other than the aching pain in his chest. Pulling up to the pump, putting the car in park. Shane sits for a moment, daring himself to look at his husband.
To meet his eyes.
Fear wins this time.
Ilya released his seatbelt. "I need to piss," he spoke, exiting the car in a blink. Incoherent croaks left Shane's throat after being slapped in the face with the cold gust and the jolt of the wind slamming the passenger door of the car closed. The words didn't register, Shane realizing his husband hadn't spoken since the call.
The call
The flight home
The car ride home
He watches Ilya, hands in his coat, shoulders up, bracing the cold and the howling wind, his silhouette entering the gas stop's convenience store. His figure is easy to spot, the top of his bright yellow hat stalking the aisles through the glass, as he is a whole head taller than the shelves.
Taking this moment alone, Shane hides his face with his hands. Even in the solitary confinement of his car in this barren gas stop, he felt ashamed to cry.
He knew what he was feeling was normal and rational.
Three years of adoption preparation for a baby after an even longer process through interviews, assessments with social workers, fostering little ones, only for them to be taken away to their "true" home, dead ends, and rejections proved difficult not to take personally.
They were supposed to return home as three.
His phone rings, glancing to see six missed calls from his dad, and sixteen from his mom. He considered declining it, but he needed a voice to pull him from the edge of coming apart completely. His thumb presses the accept button.
Anya's barks greet him first. "Finally!" his mother groaned, playful sarcasm peppered with laughter. "Your flight landed ages ago. How's everything? How's my grandson? Ilya promised pictures," Shane could see the smile in her words; he would have laughed at any other time, but before he realized, an ugly and guttural sob tore through his throat. "Shane?" she exclaims in alarm. "Shane. Shane, sweetie. What's wrong?" she pleads.
"They—— we d-didn't——" he manages, but the sobs wrecked through him, resting his head against the steering wheel.
"What?" His mother pleads
"They changed their mind," he barks his words, now lost the sorrow, but now holds only fury. "Our social worker called, and the mother changed her mind—-" he takes a breath. "—-we didn't even get——" muffling his cries with his free hand. "—-we didn't even get to see him, mom."
Ilya cruises the aisles, teal eyes grazing the obnoxiously colored snacks with equally obnoxious if not absurd names. Finding no interest in what he saw, he made his way up to the register, where a short, stocky woman with reading glasses that hung from a chain around her neck. She peers up at him as he approaches.
"Restroom…" swallowing the frog in his throat. "…please." He quickly adds finding it smoothed out the jagged edges of his request.
"You'll have to buy something, son." She groans, shaking out the pops in her stiff knees as she stands. "Sorry, our policy," she adds. She must have caught the look of annoyance before he could mask it. He adjusts his posture, making up his mind.
"A pack of Player's, original," he exhales a long breath through his nose. He pays and is handed a pack of cigs and a key tied to a plank of wood.
"Restrooms are 'round the back," she informs. "Return the key to me when you're done."
"Okay." He gives a tight-lipped line, shoving the door with his shoulder. Glancing over at their car, seeing Shane with a gas pump in one hand and holding a phone to his ear with the other. Probably Yuna, expecting tons of videos and pics of them doing skin-to-skin with their son.
They were supposed to return home with him.
Rounding the back of the store, he shakes a stick from the pack, retrieving it with his lips. He hums, having missed the sensation, lighting it, he takes an inhale, holding it, then letting out the clouds from his nose. One year of sobriety down the drain, he thought, he sniffled dabbing his nose with his sleeve. Blaming the cold.
Leaning against the brick basking in the comforting darkness with only the amber of his vice as his guiding light. Having his fill, he puts out his cigarette on the brick, pocketing the butt in his pocket. He didn't want to litter.
Making his way to the restroom. A sneeze causes him to halt.
An adorable snort of air, the ones Anya would do on occasion that melted Ilya's heart with cuteness.
Scanning the alleyway as his heart pounded at the thought of him not being alone. He sees no one, but earns a small muffled string of coughs.
Following the sounds behind the only dumpster, wedged behind it, between the brick wall and said dumpster a paper bag.
Peering inside the cluster of old bath towels and fleece blankets, one was white (that's what he assumed it was before) with the pattern of bright yellow ducks.
Lifting a corner, a squeak escapes his throat,From mostly shock and surprise. Hands flying to his mouth, scampering away from the bag, not believing what he had just seen.
It was his mind playing tricks.
The no sleep, jet lag, stress of the following day, and the brink of an emotional rollercoaster of disappointment he and Shane been through. He had cracked, he assumed, but he couldn't say this dream of his imagination was unwanted. Dropping to his knees, scampering over to the bag once more, uncovering to see definitively what he had seen was indeed true.
Within the blankets, a small infant's face. He coos his long fingers tracing their cheek and chin. An intense shade of pink on their button nose and cheeks from the cold, pouty lips that fell into a content half-smirk after sneezing and coughing from the smoke of the alley.
"You and Ilya are welcome to stay the night." Shane's mother plans. A ghost of a smile pulls at his lips. "We'll get the guest room set, hot meal, and rest."A few beats of comfortable silence pass between them."Shane," she coos.
"Mom," he replies.
"I love you."
"Love you too, Mom."
"Let me know if you change your mind, call me when you two get home, give Ilya my love." She lists.
"I will, thank you, bye, mom." He ends the call, exhaling a breath he didn't know he was holding. He felt lighter, but his chest still felt hollow. Holstering the pump, he peers over the hood of the car to a figure that looks a lot like his husband, cradling a filthy paper bag in his arms.
It is his husband.
Shane watches his husband approach with eyes filled with confusion, caution, when they finally connected,
"Come!" Ilya orders, gesturing comedically with his head towards the gas stop convenient store, already making a beeline for it.
Shane furrows his brows "What?" He says. "What is that?" Finding his husband not answering, Shane decides he has no choice but to follow. He sniffs the air around him noting the sudden and strong smell of tobacco. "Thought you had to piss?" Shane tried not to sound bitchy, but there was no room left for him to store and bottle such emotion.
"I did," Ilya answers simply. Pulling the door with some difficulty, he wanted to keep a secure hold of his precious cargo.
Shane shimmy's around Ilya, maintaining enough space between them, and pulls the glass door open for the Russian and his bag to scamper inside.
"Ilya!" Shane calls, adding more base to his tone to sound more serious. The old woman behind the counter shoots to her feet,
"I just needed the key back, Sonny, not the trash." Shane coughed, stifling a gag from the towels and blankets Ilya pulled from the bag, throwing them about over his shoulder. Trying to decipher the string of sweet Russian words that poured from his husband's lips.
Angel
Sweet thing
Sweetie pie
Shane was concerned by whatever had caused this in his distraught Ilya, but he just wanted to enjoy the air of joy he had been deprived of. "I'm so sorry." Shane bows his head apologetically towards the woman. He took hold of his husband's arm. "Let's go Il——" the words stalled on his tongue, Shane would believe his husband a wizard, lifting a newborn babe from the bag.
Naked and pink, kicking her little legs, giving snorts of displeasure from being in the cold open air.
"Hi, Hi sweet girl." Ilya coos with tender gentleness, Shane as never seen before.
So Parental.
Warmth bloomed in his chest, always taken back how good his husband was with kids.
"Oh, my goodness." The elderly woman shrieks. Inspecting the babe tucked in Ilya's arm, they just about disappeared into the crook of it.
Shane unzipped his jacket, throwing it onto the counter, and working on his hoodie."What are you doing?" The Russian notices.
Freeing his head from his hoodie, leaving him in a simple white Tee,"Wrap…her?" Shane whispers in question to the infant being a her.
"Yes," Ilya smiles. "Her. I'm pretty sure." He half shrugs.
Shane eyes him scoldingly.
"Kidding." He assures. "I kid."
The older woman makes her way around from behind the counter. "Head towards the back room, I'm gonna close up shop and we'll figure out 'little miss'situation." She instructs ushering the two in that direction.
In the back room, Shane watched from the doorway. Mable, the older woman who ran the gas station, spoke with the authorities on the phone, explaining everything.
"The two young men are with me now." She looks to Shane, "your names, son?" She asks.
"Shane and Ilya Hollander-Rozanov." He informs.
She nods, repeating their names. She makes a face at something the operator said.
"I don't know, my husband watches sports," she waves off, shaking her head.
Shane chuckles, turning his head into the back room, which is made to be a sort of break room. Tattered grey leather couch, a small coffee table, a TV, and a small folding table with everything needed for coffee. Ilya sat in the middle of the couch, socked feet perched on the edge of the coffee table with the small babe held on his thighs.
"She's so tiny." Ilya breathes, afraid that if he spoke any louder, this moment would dissolve.
"Mable said she's a newborn." Shane reasons. Resting his arms on the back of the couch. Resting his chin on his husband's shoulder. Ilya leans his head into Shane's. "The umbilical cord is still fresh." He adds. "She could have been born hours ago."
"Who would just…" Ilya couldn't bring himself to finish that sentence, let alone the thought.
"You found her." Shane praises. "Saved her life." His words muffle into Ilya's thick, curly, golden-brown hair. Giving his temple a kiss.
"What happens now?" Ilya asks.
Shane takes in a breath "File a police report, take her to the hospital to make sure she's healthy, and find any next of kin." he shrugs.
Ilya nods along stiffly "Okay." His lips from a straight stoic line.
"What's wrong?" Shane pries, but Ilya doesn't respond.
Moments passed of the Russian focusing his attention to tracing the babes cheek with his thumb. Precious angel was fighting desperately to stay awake. "She has freckles." Ilya comments. The baby's eyelids slowly closing while he admired the tuft of amber hair on her head. Shane inspects noting the speckles the mirrored his own.
"She does." he couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips.
"We keep her." Ilya nods simply.
"Ilya." Shane chastised.
"No, sorry, first-come first-served. Noa is ours." Ilya shakes his head childishly. Shane laughs, burying his face in the crook of Ilya's neck."She even came packed and ready for to-go pick up." Ilya reasons.
"I don't think it works that way." Shane laughs. "Noa?" He repeats with a cocked brow. Ilya blushes, looking away bashfully not meaning to let his favorite baby name, if they had a girl slip out. "She looks like a Noa." Shane agrees.
“Joel may be afraid of you, but that shit don't work on me.”
She fakes lunging at him, he makes a sound while violently flinching to protect his vital areas. A hand over his throat the other over his crotch.
She scoffs. “I'll deal with you later.” She grumbles shoving past the younger Miller brother.
She throws the front door open, the glass and wood shudders as she throws it closed behind her. “Joel!” She yells throughout the house. Stumping up the steps. “You ditch me to patrol at butt fuck in the morning…in the snow…and…a-after you begged for me to switch with Blabbering Bert.” She rants to the empty air. Her white hot fury losing steam.
Opening and closing every room, finding nothing, no one. Thundering down the steps.
Hearing cluttering from the kitchen.
Storming in to find the back of the man of the hour.
Standing in front of the open fridge.
His back to her.
She exhales through her nose “HEY!” She yells.
He doesn't jump, or flinch, or even move, she thought he didn't hear her. But she knew he must have, even being partly deaf she could “wake the dead” he often told people of Jackson, and she was angry.
The man slowly turns, guzzling down a pitcher of water with both hands.
The sight was… comical, most of the water missing his mouth and cascading down his front and puddling onto the floor where he stood.
He sighs a sated breath the pitcher and his arms drop to his sides.
Fright and concern now trickles up her spine.
“Joel?” She calls rounding the counter. Cupping his face as a lopsided grin graces his features.
“Hi.” He falls into a fit of giggles.
“Joel!” She snaps, giving his cheek a few good taps to gain his attention. “Are you having a stroke?” she chokes at the possibility. “What did you take?” She asks. He mimics her gesture holding her cheek.
A door swings open.
“Ok, ok, Joel, I got coffee, don't ask me how, but Dina said that it helps---” Ellie freezes seeing Y/N. “---shit.” She grumbles.
Dragging Joel by the collar around the counter to stand before Ellie. “What's wrong with him!” Y/N demands, maintaining a fist full of his flannel. He was shockingly obedient. He hums deep in his chest resting his chin on her shoulder.
“Wrong?” She gawfs. “What do you mean?” She asks.
“Ellie!” She barks.
The teen groans to the high heavens. “He inhaled my brownie stash.”
“Brownie stash?” she furrows her brows.
“Yeah.” The teen sighs. “I hid it in the back of the fridge with my name on it, but…” she gestures to Joel. “...we got into a fight and he ate it out of spite and---” she waves her hands wildly.
An obnoxiously loud inhale sounds as Joel takes interest in Y/N’s hair. Burying his nose into the back of her head like a touch starved cat. “You smell good.” He slurs, dragging his nose and the scruff of his chin along her neck. “Like, vanilla ice cream sundae.”
Ellie grimaces “Gross.”
Y/N sighs “Ok.” fighting Joel’s arms snaking around her middle. “Down boy!” She instructs taking two steps from his grabbing hands, holding a scolding finger to him. She wanted to laugh from him going cross eyed focusing on the tip of her fingernail that was in front of his nose.
“I can't.” she sighs. “Adam has his monthly physical and I gave my word to help Victor look for a new suit.”
He makes a sound. A mix of an exasperated gasp and snort, such a sound akin to an annoyed mallard.
Adam squeals, happily kicking his legs. His father reminded him of the ducks by the pond that morning.
She praises their son on her hip then clicks her tongue rolling her eyes to the six foot childish display before her. “We bumped into each other when I took Adam to see the ducks before they migrate.”
“Why?”
“Woman’s eye.” she shrugs. “It’s not his fault he’s colorblind.” she quickly adds sensing a fight from the edge to her husband’s rebuttals.
“Black, a suit standard.” he reasons, gesturing to his own attire.
“He wants to be seen as a physician and not a funeral director. Also not a penguin like everyone else.” Tracing his figure with her eyes. “Blue or a nice merlot would look nice on him.” she hums to herself, giving the child a spoon to fiddle with as she resumes setting the table for dinner.
“But you are my wife.” He states.
“Yes.” She assures handing Adam off to a maid who descended the staircase for his nap time. “I would certainly have forgotten, thank you for reminding me, Edwin is it?” She fains sarcastically.
She smoothes her hands over her sides.
He takes her hands. “I just…” his words stall, daring not to leave the threshold of his lips. “I feel uncomfortable, you being in his presence alone.”
“He's a bit peculiar, that's what makes him interesting and unique and you're….” She enunciates tightening his cravat, he gag’s lowering himself to her eye level, to let her know he was listening. “... his friend.” she hums, smoothing out the lapels and lint from his shoulders.
“He…” he begins then bites his tongue.
“Don’t!” She discourages.
“He’s a mutt my father has pity for.” he spat. He never understood why his father, one of the professors of the most prestigious medical schools, anonymously paid for Victor’s entire tuition, encouragement and mentorship, not even he had the privilege of receiving. “He loves you.”
“I would hope so, my husband’s peer and friend.” she tuts. He gives her a look as she takes it more seriously.
“I've caught him on numerous occasions, looking at you with the eyes of a starving dog.” He grumbles.
“A neglected puppy.” she counters. “I wonder, seeing as he gets so much affection and praise from his peers and the whores you send his way.” She snaps. “That I know.” She corrects. “I go over this houses finances. Don't play me for an idiot.”
“You have company sir.” a staff member announces.
“Who is it?”
“Baron Victor Frankenstein, sir.” he answers.
“And he's Adam’s physician, who is on call whenever we need and Adam adores him.” She gives the last word.
Authors note: Found my new obsession. Loving the characters, art, and diversity, this idea just came to mind. Will most likely make this into a multi-part story. We’ll see how this goes. This takes place before the events of the game. My OC, a trans man named Heath, who is the twin brother of Herman (Water boy).
Relationship: Flambea x OC
Rated: R (sexual content, innuendos, and language)
Spoilers for Dispatch Ahead
Herman slips into a simple mustard-yellow button-up over his grey-blue tank top, shorts, and Chucks.
Passing a closed bedroom door right across from his.
He gives it two good knocks. After a few moments, shuffling sounds come from inside the room.
“He must have been dead asleep.” Herman thought, remembering hearing his brother getting in late last night. He hoped he was getting enough rest.
Being the fastest rising hero at only a rookie level after being officially admitted into the SDN program six months ago.
His brother, Tidal Wave
“Uhhhh—yeah?” calls through the door.
“Grandma and I are goin’ to the store; wanna come?” He asks, knowing the answer, but it was common courtesy to at least offer.
“WHAT!…” Screams in horror, making Herman’s brows furrow. “…Oh!….n-no no… I’m a bit winded from yesterday’s shift,” his brother answers, out of breath.
Herman shakes his head. Choosing to ignore this odd interaction. “Ok… Hope you feel better---want us to pick up some Gatorade---Gaterlyte… cucumber lime.” he lists.
“Yes…Thank you, little bro.”
“Kay, be back a bit, big bro,” he returns.
Heath, aka Tidal Wave, is a young man with a head of wild, fire-red hair that matches his twin brother’s. Sides buzzed, and the top tousled. He lets out a sigh of relief, dropping his head on his pillow, hearing squeaky sneakers, the front door close, and a car backing out of the driveway.
A cackle sounds from the mound of sheets at his waist.
“Wanna cum, big boy?”
He slaps the mound as Chad, aka Flambea, frees his head from beneath them. He’s without his signature ponytail, his thick dark hair framing his face and falling down his chest like Fabio from a romance erotica cover as he straddles Heath’s hips.
“You almost got us caught!” Heath scolds.
The fire-starter bats his amber eyes, the color of the First breath of fire when ignited. “I didn’t make a sound,” pulling the light blue sheet flush over his head, giving the appearance of an innocent nun. “I was innocently eating seafood.”
Heath’s lips form a straight line. “Don’t call it that, please.”
“I was gonna say kitty cat, but I love cats and would never even joke about eating one.” Lowering to leave loving kisses and love bites along the crescent moon scars along each peck.
Heath rakes his finger through the man’s long hair. “You’re insufferable,” he breathes.
“You mean, desirable,” Chad corrects, resting his head on the crook of Heath’s neck and shoulder. “I know… English is hard.” He adds.
Heath exhales a long, loud, dramatic groan. “This would be a good time to shower and get dressed before they get back.”
“Just a few more minutes,” Flambea grumbles, getting comfortable. “I never get to be the little spoon.”
Heath rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He gives in. Getting into position, bracing his arm around the larger man’s abs. Burying his nose into his hair, taking a big inhale, reminded him of burning incense.
His warm hand holds his forearm, keeping it in place. “Been working out?” He mumbles. Thumbing circles along the definition and veins.
“Yeah,” Heath hums humbly. “I can gain muscle mass now, which is cool after…thirteen weeks on T,” he mumbles, always having an issue when talking about his body—compliments or otherwise.
“You actually look intimidating,” he chuckles softly.
“Really!” Heath exclaims excitedly.
“No, I can still kick your ass.” He corrects, feeling the men behind him pout. “After I’ve eaten it, of course,” he softens.
Heath’s muffled laughs in the man’s thick hair
The fire guy laughs too. Heath always made it easy to laugh. “Just wanna pour icing on it and go to town. Don’t ever wear that thirst trap suit around me again,” he mocks seriousness. “Very un-do-gooder-like,” he scolds.
“The PR team says the public poll percentages favored it most, over my other ones.” He whispers slowly into his ear, taking a nibble of the pink, flushed lobe. “Siri, set a timer for ten minutes,” Heath instructs through a yawn.
Some fanart I drew for an F4:FS fanfiction I'm currently following. Seriously this story is so good! If you wanna read it yourself, here is the link to both Wattpad and AO3:
Rebecca Richards, the first born daughter of Sue and Reed. Before the accident, before the Fantastic Four, before everything changed. With t
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Relationship: Dark!Victor Frankenstein x Unnamed Female OC
“Thank you.” A woman in black sweetly thanks, accepting a bottle of milk from the vendor.
“Emily?” A passing gentleman shudders, turning towards the petite woman.
Skin parchment white, her face concealed by her intricate, lace-veiled, wide-brimmed hat. Focusing on securely placing the glass bottle into her basket of other supplies. She walks into the stunned gentleman.
“I’m so sorry.”
Looking at him, it was her face, her eyes, her unique eyes—one green and one blue—that many suitors thought to be a sign of the devil, but he saw as heavenly.
“The devil was once an angel,” he reasoned on days she felt undesirable.
Shaking his head, waving the memories away. “No, no, It’s my fault.” He swallows. Returning to reality.
It couldn’t be. Emily, his first love, his blushing bride, died three years ago.
Her heart.
Years of tonics, diet, and doctors couldn’t save her.
“Are you well? You look a bit green.” She coos, reaching out to hold his arm.
“Have we met before?” He questions.
Before she could answer, another gentleman shoved his way between the two. Forcing the young woman behind him. Blocking her visage from the flustered gentleman’s view.
“My wife just seems to have that type of face. An angel that looks upon everyone in their dreams.” Victor chuckles. “Good day.” He tips his hat, grasping his wife, who curtsies, the pair moving away from the dumbfounded man.
Emily couldn’t help, but wince through her smile. His tight grasp of her arm all but dragged her away, having to lift her knees to keep from tripping over her dress or her heels getting stuck in the dirt road.
“Is everything alright husband?” She asks. Reaching far enough away from wondering eyes and listening ears. Standing in a gap between two brick buildings.
She didn't care, not genuinely, but defusing his ‘fit’ now was better than letting it fester and become a tantrum later behind the closed doors of their home.
He sighs through his nose, finally letting go of her.
She flexes her shoulder, extending it until a wet pop sounds returning her arm to her side. Watching Victor pace a bit, running his hand over his face.
“No!” He answers, “Everything is not alright.” He mocks her tone.
“There is no need.” She mumbles looking to her exposed wrists of the ugly black stitches, tugging her lace gloves to cover them.
He eyes her. Dark, cold, pools of the abyss.
“Do you enjoy it?” He demands through gritted teeth. “Humiliating me. Throwing yourself at strange men when you belong to me.” He's red in the face even though his voice hasn't raised an octave. He's begun to spit and sputter with each passing moment with fury.
“No. No. No.” She assures softly shaking her head.
“You want to go with him?” He gestures, pointing boldly to the gentleman purchasing alcohol from the vendor. She goes to put his arm down, but he swats her touch away. “I'll gift you to him. A prized bed warmer. I could get a pretty penny for you.” He taunts with a smile she has grown displeased with.
“I want you, Victor.” She convinces. “I only ever want you.” she cups his face with her gloved hand.
He eyes her for a long while.
Her one green and one blue. Ones that wouldn’t leave his mind, his dreams, since the day he saw her during his resident training at the hospital.
His first ventricular septal defect.
“I’m sorry.” She pleases. “I’m sorry, Victor, my love.” She whispers into his ear. Tracing the rise of goosebumps in the crook of his neck with her nose.
“Fine,” grumbles from his chest. Facing her, capturing her lips, devouring her startled squeak, her breath, and the blood his teeth drew from her lip. He pulls away painting her lips with the crimson that dribbled down her chin. “My greatest creation.” he breathes in awe.
Summary: Alex Crumbie wakes up in the hospital having lost her memory of everything. Including her complicated “relationship” with Joel.
Rated: PG-13 (Injury and violence)
The world was too bright and too loud. Opening my right eye, finding only darkness to my left.
My head pounded with horrific claps of my heartbeat.
My throat was raw.
I gagged, taking a breath, finding I couldn't speak.
Something was down my throat.
Clawing at my throat with one arm. There was something heavy on the other.
Something grabs my wrist, pinning it to my chest.
Firm, but gentle.
Staring into sympathetic eyes “Don't do that.” cautions in a hushed tone. “I know. I know. I know.” he coos over and over shushing me as I gurgled and groaned out incoherent sounds. “It's ok. You're ok. Everyone's ok.” He comforts me.
My eyes are still wide.
Why was this stranger holding me down?
Should I be worried?
He didn't look like a doctor?
He looked like a bandit from the mask of dark purple around his eyes and white gauze around his head. Dark brown hair peeked from various areas.
Do I know him?
He felt familiar.
The instinct to squirm out of his grasp escaped me.
A shift comes from my side.
I jump looking at the weight on my arm to see a brown top of a head. A young boy rolling over into his sleep, burrowing his face into my neck.
“Alex?” He asks
Who was that?
Was she a doctor, or a nurse?
How did I get here?
“Alex?” He tries again. I only continued to stare at him wide eyed, a tiny whistle of my frantic breaths through my nose. Only as he slowly released me did it register.
Was Alex, me?
…Five years ago…
“I'm here cause I got informed of an incident with Ellie?” Joel sums up to the best of his abilities.
The Jackson school receptionist nods, going through papers on various clip boards.
“Did something happen? Is she hurt? Is she ok?” His thoughts begin to pick up speed in his mind.
“Oh no.” The counselor gasps after scanning a paper.
“What? What's ‘Oh, no’?” Joel panics.
“Where is he!” Slices through the empty hallway. “How could you let this happen!”
A woman with short blonde hair.
She is a square.
That was the only description that came to Joel's mind.
Every aspect of her was sharp, perfectly straight, symmetrical and precise. Her head snaps in their direction. Every strand falls back in line after each of her aggressive movements.
Not a scar, freckle or blemish as far as the eye could see.
Life of privilege.
Joel couldn’t help, but make a face of disgust.
Every click of her heel brought his body into an involuntary response, bracing himself and clenching his fists to ride out the wave of adrenaline.
“You!” Pointing a finger at him once she was close enough driving her nail into his chest.
“Please Mrs. Crumbie.” a staff member pleaded.
“My son is now disfigured no thanks to his…” she waves her fingers at Joel. Lip trembling, but she bites it still as she growls in disgust at him.
“I can assure you---”
“You will discipline your child.” She cuts off with a sure statement. “Show her some symblice of home training.” steely grey eyes shooting daggers.
“Now hold on!” He speaks up. “You can say all the ugly things about me, watch your mouth with her.” he warnes.
“What will you do to make this right?” She questions.
“Me.”
“And your daughter.”
“She's not my…”
“You can't have it both ways now, Mr. Miller.” She chides. “You are her guardian, you are responsible for her actions, as a parent or guardian would be.”
“Mr. Miller, Mrs. Crombie.” the Principle approaches the two with worry.
“Everything is alright.” he assures. He was a short stocky man. Barely comes up to Alex’s chest.
“What happened!” she demands.
“If you stop interrupting, he will answer!” Joel snaps, finally reaching the end of his patience.
“I don't remember asking you or for your two cents.” She scolds looking back at the fearful principle. “Speak!” she commands.
“Ellie and Abe connected instantly during orientation. During recess she showed him her…” he trails off being to sweat violently. “...knife.” he squeaks.
Joel groans, letting out a sigh while pitching the bridge of his nose.
Mrs. Crombie doesn't react, her lashes barely flutters.
“The injury isn't bad, but---” the princles tries to defuse the time bomb.
She shoots up from her seat, the chair hitting the floor. Yanking the door open her coat trailing behind her.
“That's gonna leave a gnarly scar.” Ellie's voice comes through the closed door of the nurses office.
“Really?” A small voice sniffles.
“Look at this.”
“Whoa!”
“Scars are sick. Makes you look badass.”
The teens jump from Mrs. Crumbie bursts through the door. Ellie snatches her arm still healing from its burn scabbing from her elbow to her wrist from the boy’s hold.
“What did she do to you?” the woman dives onto her knees gripping each limb looking her son over.
“I'm fine mom jeese.” He mumbles as she preens him. Inspecting his right hand that was completely wrapped in white gauze one would mistake him for wearing an oven mit.
“A knife to a school.” She screeches. Ellie shrinks, but maintains eye contact with the woman. “Do you have any idea what you could have done!” She screams. “My son could have lost a finger or worse!”
“Look lady, I said I was sorry and Abe forgave me so stop screaming like a maniac!” She yelled back.
“Sorry.” She scoffs, nostrils flared.
“Let's all take a breath.” The principle tries to advise finally catching up with the parents. “Abe is ok, and excepted to make a full recovery so let's be thankful---”
She gasps dramatically.
“I will not tolerate my son’s and other children's safety being put in Jeopardy.
Face flushed red.
“What do you want done Mrs. Crumbie?” the Principal sighs emotionally exhausted on how to please this woman.
“Ellie out of school!” she hisses.
“Mom…” the boy meekly tries to interject, but she silences him by holding him close.
“I want the both of you out of Jackson!” she seethes. “I'll talk to Maria and the council and petition for you both out.” Holding her son close, marching out of the office.
Leaving Joel and Ellie in silence.
…Present day…
“Any questions. I know this is a lot.” The doctor chuckles kindly.
“Yeah, Ummm. There was a man who was with me when I woke up. Six foot, I think, was pretty banged up like me.” I chuckle, but it was more of a breathy sigh.
A part of me hoped the original me was lucky.
Is that odd?
Thinking of the me from before as a different entity.
A different person.
The original me.
The one with all of her memories.
Maybe she was married to a rugged, rough around the edges guy with a heart of gold.
He looked to be it.
It would explain why my defenses seemed to turn off in his presence. They said I fought most of their doctors, crumpled in a heap of cords and limps on the linoleum. Nice head of hair that matched Luke. Thick and brown.
The constant constriction of my heart when the thought of this small precious boy having to realize his mom doesn't remember him.
What stories he liked, what to do or say when he is upset, did he have any allergies.
I found myself ignoring the tugs at my arm and calls of Mum, that was me. Turns out I have another kid. Abe, I saw him once during recovery. He's older, more moody that makes me wonder what horrible mother I must have been for him.
“That was Joel.” The doctor informed me. “From his account He went out on patrol with Dina, they saved a survivor who lured him to a lodge where they were ambushed. Ellie came and was subdued, and you came and leveled the playing field.” He smiles.
I nodded. “Lost an eye.”
“Unfortunately,” He agrees. “But you saved three, and will make a full recovery.”
“Who was he to me? A brother, friend,...” I didn’t want to sound pathetic if the answer of him being a significant other was no.
Of course a handsome man wouldn’t find interest in a woman like me.
“No, no.” the doctor chuckles. “More the opposite.”.
“I don't…” I trail off with furrowed brows not quite understanding the inside joke.
“You and Joel were notoriously known for your blow outs.” He makes a face.
“Blow outs?” I repeated.
The older man must have noticed my expression and quickly softened the statement.
“Nothing physical. Just two very loud personalities. You two hate each other.”
Rated: PG (Death of a an animal parent and siblings)
A violent thunderstorm. A mama fox breaks the surface of a small kit in her mouth. Fighting the current to reach the edge of land, anchoring her claws into the dirt. Placing the limp kit onto the grass. Giving a few licks coaxing her child to release a high mew. Shaking her soaked fur, shivering, and crying. Reassured, the mother fox paddles away diving back under the murky water.
Thunder cracks causing the kit to jump. Eyes wide with fright. Looking to the sides of her, curling in on herself, hoping to disappear. Where was her mama? Where were her siblings? They were all sleeping in their den. Where did this river come from?
“Mama!” She cries. Thunder answers, causing her to jump and cry out louder. “MAMA! WHERE ARE YOU!” She hiccups.
Shivering, trembling more than the leaves on the trees. Sniffles riding the
whistling winds drawing the ear of any mother. Pink tail with her first litter watching from the hole in her tree.
“What's wrong mama?”
“Why is Freak jr. Crying?”
“Freak jr? That's a fox idiot!”
“Fox's are red and they're not red.”
“Heard Mrs. Heron say they were freaks cause their mama was born the wrong color.”
“What are they mama? Foxes or freaks?”
“Shes alone.” She whispers. Instructing all of her babies to stay put she crawls down the tree to a lower hole, now vacated by Red by their cardinal tree neighbor having moved out with her husband and kids early that spring. “Hey!” She calls out making sure she herself was at a safe distance. “Over hear sweetheart!” She calls again.
The face of sorrow and straight turning away from the furious rapids. “Let's get away from the water, you can wait in here.” She directs, patting a pink paw over the hole in the tree.
“You can still watch for your mama from here at a safe distance from the water. It could flood and it's not safe.” She explained as carefully as she could.
The kit sniffles standing on shaky legs, her ears flat against her head. She looked more like a drowned rat, or water logged badger from the state of her wet fur.
“There we go.” She praises. “Climb up, you can do it.”
None too gracefully, but successfully the kit climbs the bark flopping I to the small hole that seemed to be made just for her. Sobs echo from the hole, the possum dares to climb down peeking inside.
“They're all gone, aren't they?” she cries.
“Yes.” She answers truthfully.
“I'm all alone now.” She breaks into sobs and mewly cries.
“You are not alone. I'm Pinktail, my eight kids live above you. You can stay here as long as you want, and if you have any questions don't be a stranger. What's your name dear?”
“I don't---” she chocked. “---I don't have one.” She whispers. “Mama was gonna name us when we're old enough to hunt with her.”
“Let's see.” She lifts her face pushing away the dirty water from the fur around her face. “Look at those eyes…” she gasps. “I've never seen green, this green.” she hums with a smile. Picking of pieces of wood and clamps of dirt. Finding something stuck behind her ear.
A clover.
“Clover.” She nods the kit's ears perking up framing her face nicely. “Lucky Clover.” giving a sure nod.
Midday a male fox stalks through the tall grass. Scavenging for the next meal he licks his jowls to see an entrance to a burrow beneath his feet. Jumping along the dirt like his mother showed him.
“We trick them, Fink”
“Lull them into a false sense of security.”
He remembers her voice coaching him. Like honey. One of a few good moments he had with her.
He jumps paws just out of reach of the snapping jaw of a snake. Out of striking distance he growls lunging forward, his jaws missing the head, jolting back as the snake returns, fangs bared.
The game of back and forth goes on for a bit between them without noticing a pair of green eyes through the tall grass. It was her turn to strike.
Teeth bare she clamps her molars onto the reptile's head keeping his mouth and fangs closed.
Fink yelps.
As the creature that he swore was his kind, but she was white. She shakes her head whipping the snake's body around every three good wacks against the dirt waiting to see if the snake was truly dead.
“Ghost.” he trembles.
Her head turns to him. A look of disinterest.
Growing up everyone on the island trembles and gasps at the sight of the stories of a fox with white fur to make sure children don't misbehave.
She stares at him for a long while. Fink shifted his gaze from the blood of the snake that began to drip from her mouth.
Lifting her head high she prances away with a swish of her tail. Humming a tune of triumph.
Following the scent of her mother.
“---other” she calls through the clenched teeth. She could smell various predators lurking around just waiting for her to drop her meal. Cocking her head to the side hearing nothing. “---other!” She tries again glaring at the blur of red through the bush beside her.
“--eat it --erk!” She growls.
“Sorry, could you repeat that?” he taunts. “It almost sounded like you told me to eat it.” he chuckles.
She growls. Great, a wise guy. Both their heads snap towards the scream.
“Tiny!” She gasps the snake dropping from her teeth. She sprints off
Fink glancing at the snake than where she had dashed off to.
He scoops now “his” dinner prancing off just as she had done.
Finding a bobcat shoving his head into a hole in the ground. Clover pounced onto their back clamping her jaws onto the scruff of its neck stirring it away from the hole she suspected Tiny found safety in.
The bobcat snarls rearing back rolling onto his back to get himself free. Spitting out clumps of furs growling and baring her fangs for him to get away. Snapping her jaws he whimpers retreating into the brush.
Panting she shakes the nerves and adrenaline from her muscles.
“The coast is clear.” She coos. The baby opossum climbs out of the hole fur ruffled and covered in dirt.
“T-thank you, Clover.” She trembles.
“Let's get you back to Mom.” She coos helping the baby possum climb onto her up her leg letting out breathy chuckles as the little one's tail flops over her eye, plopping down on top her head.
Poking her head through the curtain of tree blossoms, Clover freezes once her eyes land on an animal she has never seen before.
“It's OK mom…” Tiny exclaims, shaking the dirt from her fur. “... I'm alive!” Hopping along joining the rest of her siblings onto the mother opossum's back.
“Ohhhhh…” Pinktail all but groans. “...yay!” She breathes in exasperation.
“Hi, Mom.” Clover coos moving to stand in front of her family.
“Clover!” She exclaims wrapping her arms around her snout as they rest their heads against each other. “You're so skinny are you eating enough?” She asks, looking her daughter over.
“I’m fine, mom” she assures accepting the kisses and snuggles.
“This is Roz. Roz this is my daughter Clover.”
The tension lessened its grip on the fox. If her mother was fine with the creature named Roz, it was good enough for her.
“Pleasure to meet you.” the robot nods. “Question.” She states. “Clover is an albino fox and you are an opossum. Two fundamentally distinct groups of mammals.”
“Blood isn't the only thing that connects us.” Pinktail corrects.
“We like your new baby. Hope it doesn't die.” The child says in unison.
