Synopsis: Simon, your older brother, has been your guardian since you were a baby. Amid the collapse of your family, he made the courageous choice to take you out of the house, raising you as if you were his own. However, despite being happy, your relationship is complicated. While you see Simon as a paternal figure, he struggles with the pain of being mistaken for one. His heart tightens every time you call him "daddy," and he thought you had managed to move past that—until you do it again one night.
Warnings: Just a little angst with a happy ending; reader is 6 years old.
Word count: 1.2k
“Did you brush your teeth?” Simon asked upon hearing your muffled laughter. He opened the bedroom door, its walls now marked by your numerous drawings. Toys scattered across the floor shifted as he entered, and with the first step he took inside, something cracked underfoot, breaking.
“How many times have I told you that you need to put your toys away after playing?” he said firmly, shooting you a stern look. Simon hated messiness, but with you around, it seemed impossible to keep everything in order.
“I was going to put them away,” you murmured, embarrassed by the scolding. But your guilty expression quickly turned into a tearful grimace as your eyes fell your sheep, now shattered on the floor. “You broke it!” Your childish scream echoed through the room, and you hurried to gather the pieces with trembling hands.
“If you had put it away, this wouldn’t have happened,” he accused you, hoping it would serve as a lesson. Maybe then you would finally start to be more responsible with your things. And even knowing he was right, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness at seeing your broken sheep.
Watching you wipe your tears with the sleeve of the pajamas and hearing sniffles made his heart soften. It was frustrating how he simply couldn’t stay mad at you. The last thing Simon wanted was for you to become a spoiled child, but in that moment, it was hard to maintain his sternness.
He already felt guilty for not being able to take care of you completely due to work, and knowing that Mrs. Trelawney, your babysitter, was much more lenient than he was only made everything harder. Every time Simon came home, you seemed more stubborn and whiny.
“Come on, it’s time to sleep.” He lifted you by your armpits and placed you in bed, pulling up the yellow blanket that you loved so much. You had already taken a bath and were wearing clean lilac pajamas covered with stars. “I’ll buy you another one, you don’t need to cry.”
“But it’s not the same,” you murmured as he collected the toy pieces from your hand, placing them on the dresser to throw away tomorrow. Some parts were sharp, so he checked your delicate hands, worried about possible cuts.
“It’s the same,” he insisted, sighing tiredly as he tucked your feet under the blanket. Surprisingly, you didn’t argue, remaining strangely silent. “What’s wrong?”
“Sorry,” you whispered, feeling bad for upsetting him. “I promise I’ll put it away.”
Your promise made him cast a quick glance at the bedroom floor, where pink, blue, and all other colored toys were scattered. Even your dolls were out of place, thrown in various corners. He still felt frustrated because you always said you would tidy up and never did, but this time it seemed different, so he decided to put a bit of faith in your word.
“Tomorrow. Now you need to sleep.” He stood up to leave, but suddenly remembered something:
“Teeth.” Simon said, and you blew near his face, letting him feel the freshness of mint on your breath. “Show me your tongue.” He spoke in a suspicious tone, knowing that you sometimes didn’t clean your mouth well. “Good.” He praised, satisfied to see you sticking your tongue out, then making a face, which made him laugh inside.
He turned off the bedside lamp, watching you settle into the pillow, and began to move toward the door. But hearing your naive voice, he stopped in his tracks, his heart tightening:
“Daddy, can I go to the museum with my class tomorrow?”
“What?” Simon asked, stunned, still turned away from you, his hand frozen on the doorknob. Surprise echoed in his voice, mixed with a thread of worry. He slowly turned around, trying to decipher the expectation in your gaze.
It had been so long since you last called him that. Simon thought he had finally managed to correct you after so many attempts, but he realized that wasn’t working. He had lost count of how many times he repeated that he was just your older brother, but deep down, he knew he was guilty. In trying to erase any trace of your father in your life, he had created a space where that confusion was natural. It was understandable that you saw him this way.
“Miss Sarah is taking us to the museum tomorrow. Can I go?” You repeated the question, oblivious to the tension in his shoulders.
“Why didn’t you ask earlier?” Simon swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure.
“I forgot,” you explained, sitting up in bed to grab a piece of paper from your backpack. It was a permission slip for guardians to sign, allowing the trip. “Please?” You pouted, holding the paper in one hand and one of your decorated pencils in the other, as if that could increase your chances.
“To the museum?” He asked, his voice tinged with melancholy. Simon sat on the edge of the bed, already starting to sign his name on the line, but his mind wandered to a distant place, filled with his conflicting memories and feelings.
The situation between you two was complicated. You were the only family Simon had left, a little girl. He still remembers when he found out that his mother was pregnant and, even more, the first time he saw you. He had been away from home for several years, and coming back always felt torturous. But the idea of having something so small and innocent waiting for him was what truly saved him.
Simon took you from home long before your parents died, unable to bear the thought of you growing up in that environment. After his brother died, he projected all the fears and regrets an older brother could carry onto you. It was as if you were his only way to redeem himself for Tommy. You were so young that you barely remembered the rest of the family; for you, the world revolved around Simon.
He didn’t even realize he was wandering until he felt you gently pull the paper from his hands. Your big eyes locked onto his for a moment, filled with concern, until you broke eye contact, standing to put the paper away and lie back down, pulling the blanket over yourself.
“Are you okay?” You asked, noticing he was still standing there, lost in thought. The nervousness in your voice snapped Simon back to reality, bringing him to the stillness of the room, where silence hung between you.
Simon thought of several things to say, like, “You know I’m your brother, right?” or “We’ve talked about this,” but it felt like a never-ending cycle. It was as if nothing could stop you from continuing to call him that. He didn’t understand why it bothered him so much. He knew that, in practice, he played the role of a father in your life, something he chose for himself. Even so, every time he heard, a strange sensation coursed through his body.
“Good night.” He simply said in his deep, familiar voice, but now, something different was in the air. For the first time, he didn’t try to correct or resist, finally allowing himself to accept the way you called him ‘daddy.’
You hesitated for a moment, sensing something strange about him before responding softly: “Good night, Si.” And a faint smile formed on his lips, something rare, as if, at last, something had clicked into place.
What If someone tries to kidnap the baby from dragons hoard how would they react and how would they get the baby back?
Ohh, this is a great question. I definitely think that the kidnapper wouldn't get very far in terms of actually kidnapping the reader.
It would go something like this:
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Price: If anyone stupid enough were to try and kidnap the newest member of the hoard. They would simply fade into obscurity and out of the minds of those who knew them. Price would find a way to ensure that the newest addition of the hoard would be protected at all costs. As much as the reader right now wants to be alone and away from the strange hybrids, you'll find that being alone is nigh near impossible.
Price would for the most part spend time in their cave sleeping or making sure everything is in neat and orderly precision. If you want to play hell bring out some pretty golden trinkets for you, but if you even think about setting foot out of the nest without his permission, he'd wrap you up in his tail and keep you next to him by his side or on his lap as he'd try his best to distract you with stories of his youth. If you (the reader) were spending time in the cave with Price when a potential kidnapper arrives you can bet he'll cover the your eyes and ears as he incinerates the intruder to a burnt crisp. If the smell of burnt flesh and clothes bothers your sensitive nose, Price will tuck your face into his neck and carry you out of the cave for a nice walk while he puts Gaz or Soap on clean up duty. Lord knows werewolf Soap could use the extra protein if any meat is left.
Gaz: If you were with Gaz when an intruder were to stumble upon the cave and try to kidnap you. Gaz would do what birds do best in order to process their young. Similar to geese he would let out a feral warning hiss with his wings splayed out menacingly. If that doesn't scare the idiot off, the Gaz would quickly tuck you into the layers of the nest and quickly fly the kidnapper out of the cave with speed and agility that goshhawks can't ever give to surpass.
When you're trying to free yourself from the tangled mess of fabrics from the nest, Gaz would be enjoying the skies; ignorant of the bloodcurdling screams that rip from the kidnappers throat as he hurdles down towards the earth. Afterwards, Gaz would come back to the nest as quick as can be. A smile on his face as he got a good flight in for the day.
Soap: The werewolf would simply attack first and ask questions later. The first smell of something or someone setting foot in their home would set Soap on edge. The very sight of a stranger would have him hurdling full speed towards the intruder. You wouldn't even have time to process what the hell just happened as Soap goes for the jugular and drags the carcass away. Out of all the people in the hoard, Soap would be the most protective of you. Whether that's good or not remains to be seen. But the second he walk back to the nest seeing you all tucked in and shivering from the sight of blood on his lips all the way down his front. You can bet he'd feel ashamed of himself. His tail would stop wagging the instant he saw you. The scent of fear wafting off of you would make his ears bend back and a whine escape his lips. When Price, Ghost, or Gaz would find out what happened, Soap will be sleeping in the doghouse literally and figuratively.
Ghost: Ghost would react very strongly to anyone who would disturb what he calls "family bonding" with you. In reality it would just be him and you wandering around the cave the pack/hoard lives in. He Ghost wouldn't be the type to hold your hand as you explore. I steady he would simply watch you from a few paces back. Or if you thought you were being sneaky and trying to run away he would watch from within the shadows. The moment anyone would come in and try to take you away would be the moment Ghost would whisky them back and away from you before they could utter a sound to alert you to their presence. When all is said and done, he would gently corals you back to the nest sometime later. And while night rolls around, when you ask where Price and Soap are Gaz would coo softly to you and soothe your fears while Ghost tells you not to worry about it. The shared look between them says enough, now they can rest easy knowing that as Price and Soap will be satiated with their midnight snack.
The way the words melted from your tongue felt as clumsy as it sounded. Too heavy for windbitten lips, your tongue had long since turned as heavy as lead. Wiping away the stubborn snot that itched as it dripped down from your nostrils. 'Worse than allergies' you thought ruefully to yourself. Rubbing your arms for warmth, the oddly accented man didn't seem as bothered by the cold as you were.
He stood calm. His eyes searching through the dark with a calm that made him look years older than his age. 'Can't be more than thirty' your mind supplied. His eyes flashed and twinkle as he turned his gaze from the dark to meet your own. For a moment, his eyes twinkled a dazzling amber- almost a deep crimson or maroon. 'A trick of the light' the pounding of your heart made your bones ache. 'Strange man.' Swallowing the build up of saliva in your throat as he had the audacity to send you a small wink. Gently, like a sheepdog herding one of its lost flock, he passed a small waterskin over. His large pale hands hovering inches above yours as the straps from the skin dangled past your wrist and hanging free in the cool night air.
"Its water."
Watching his hand more than the offered drink. Your eyes wandered the rough skin of his fingers. Calloused and rough, his fingers had a more boney appearance than what his frame would suggest. Long, thin, spiderery fingers on each of his pale hands. He could rival the light of the moon is he really tried. 'It's like he has no blood in his body.' The thought sent vicious chills down your spine.
Sensing your discomfort, and almost reveling in it. His lips quirked upwards into a comforting smirk, though his eyes told of a different emotion.
"Hey now, why the silent treatment lil one? Ain't ya thirtsy?"
As if on command, your throat constricted. Whether from the cold air and dry winds, you couldn't tell.
"I-I am. Thank you." Reaching out to grasp the waterskin from his hands. His fingertips briefly brushed against the tops of your hands. Long fingernails ghosted over sensitive skin with such gentleness that it felt like a caress from the wind.
"What you lookin at?"
"Your cla- hands...your hands."
He smiled as he crouched low, moving in steadily so as to not startle further. "My claws?"
His tone shifted higher as he took a seat on the ground beside you. The crunch of earth made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. "No, no, no, darlin. I don't have claws."
Holding up his hands towards the flames. The fire cracked and hissed as the wood fuel combusted under such intense heat. It was odd. 'The fire is so warm, and he's so cold.' Wiggling his fingers as he raised his palms higher. He flexed and curled his digits expertly against the light.
"People like me don't have claws."
Furrowing your brows, his head snapped over from the flames to your gaze with such speed it had you reeling. "W-what?"
"I dont need claws, lil one."
Your mouth went dry. The thought of the offered water wouldn't prove much help.
"W-what do you m-mean" you flinched as the sound of your voice reached your ears. Too small, too light and breathy. It sounded as if you were on the verge of crying.
If he was bothered by your display, he made no show of it. But he continued regardless.
"Much more dangerous without em. I find these work just fine." Lifting his lips into a snarling smile, his teeth glinted a pale white in the yellow-orange light of the fire. Canines as sharp as a knife dragged your focus away from everything else. From the cold, from the night, from the danger of the Horde you had escaped hours earlier.
"What are you?" Your voice came out hollow as the fallen logs you both had wandered past to get to the camp. Deep down, your heart surged with the dark truth that you already knew to be true.
"Nosferatu, a vampire." Draping one arm callously over your small shoulders, he pulled you against his cold side firmly. The he spoke sounded so terribly smug. Like he was proud of what he was, that he took life blood for sustenance. A timbre sounding chuckle shook his frame.
"Now then..how bout you tell me why you smell like dragon."
A icy jolt cemented your legs in place. Even the warmth eminating from the fire cold do nothing in the face of fear that permiated your being. A cold sweat beaded along at your temples. Regret gnawed at your bones, as you knew that nothing in this world was given freely.
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Sorry about the long wait. I have exciting news to share with yall!
The tall trees seemed to go on for miles and miles. The bitter cold of the wind left stinging prickles along your tender flesh. Vast expanses of trees loomed overhead miles in every direction. North, trees. South, trees, East, trees. West, trees. stabs of electricity run up and down your shins with each step you take. Looking back, there is no sign of the cave in sight, not even the mountains which the hybrid's cave is. Theres nothing. oddly enough, it feels right. It's hard to tell how much time has passed; the sun went down ages ago. The woods bathed in darkness under the cover of night and the light of the moon.
'Should've paid more attention to the travelers back in town.' Spitting at the very notion of them. They never helped you, not even once. But the stories they would tell in exchange for coin has proven helpful more than once. Which mushrooms to avoid for one, how to make a simple snare, too bad one of the traveling men shooed you away when he was telling how to pinpoint direction by light of the moon. with the past in the past, there was no use in ruminating over what could have been. especially now more so than ever with the way the wind picked up in baleful gusts. It was as if even the very forces of nature were against you and your plight. Moisture gathers, sticking to your eyelashes. Making the act of opening your wind swollen lids ache with a strange sort of burn. Wiping your running nose on your forearm, the feeling of mucus drying on your cold and clammy skin sends a curl of disgust to your face. A small grimace that only grows bigger over the span of seconds as the wind dies. The sudden change leaves you near breathless as shivers wrack your being.
"Well now, aint you a small'un."
Jolting at the sudden voice. your eyes widen as large as dinnerplates. Looking to your right, then to your left. Swirling around until you can find the source of the voice.
"H-hello?" it's almost pathetic how small you sound. How you barely sound intelligible.
"Cold? Well, can't have that now can we." Automatically it's as if the shadows of the forest curl in around at your ankles. Before you can jump away out of instinct, a heavy arm drapes itself around your shoulders at the same moment a solid body presses itself at your side.
"Dragon, Harpy, Werewolf and even a wraith. My, my, you are a strange creature indeed."
Turning, the arm around your shoulders doesn't move to stop you. Even in your state, you could feel how if he wanted to, he could do so much worse than hold you still. Looking up, it's strange how the moonlight makes this stranger's form pop into being. Scowling, you bring you gaze to a face so pale that it rivals the moon in all its glowing splendor. Pale blue eyes flash red for only a moment; you could swear that it was as red as blood.
"w-what? who-"
"ah ah, not important. however, what is important. Is why a small little thing like you, is out alone at night. It's quite late, and dark. Are you scared of the dark?"
"No!" the feeling of indignation wells in your chest. You're certainly not a small child anymore. Not a baby. Even being treated similarly to one for these past months couldn't dampen the rage at being asked something so demeaning. recoiling, you stamp your foot on the ground to solidify some sort of boundary.
"Who are you." The man doesn't flinch at your tone, nor at the fire in your eyes when you settle him with a steely stare. 'He's blonde' you notice. The more you look at him the more it seems like the shadows that were clinging to you earlier dissipate.
"Just a friend, a friend who is worried about a child wandering around my woods at night."
"Your woods?" You blurt out. Embarrassment follows swiftly as the man cocks his head at you. Amusement or something of the like graces his lips.
"That's right, my woods. And you're trespassing."
Crossing your arms over your chest for warmth, the wind makes it moment to pick up again. Being labeled as a trespasser stings, but the woods have no one owner.
"No I'm not, these woods-"
"-Are no place for a child, and a barefooted one at that. Cold?"
The scowl on your face only grows deeper as you start to shiver again. The evidence of your disposition is clear on your face and the cold clear remnants of snot on your arms as well as your body language. Nodding silently, the stranger's face doesn't even change when you admit to what he can see as clear as day. Without wasting a beat, the man smiles. Not condescendingly, but softly. A smile that looks unnatural on his fine features. He almost looks handsome you think, almost.
"I'm-m cold...yeah." Whispering, it's a miracle he can hear your voice through the call of the wind.
"How about this, I take you to my campsite and get you warmed up. Food's almost ready." You find yourself nodding along in agreement. 'But if there was a campsite nearby, wouldn't you have seen the glow of a fire nearby, or the smell of smoke?' Your brain fizzles out a last-ditch rational thought as you slip your hand into his larger, outstretched palm.
"How..why did you say..dragon? and all that stuff?" You find yourself asking as you allow the man to lead you in an entirely different direction than you were walking before. His shoulders sag as he heaves out a sigh. Almost sound over-exaggerated, his tired sigh gives way to a stifled laugh. The type that has you wondering if you said the wrong thing or if he finally cracked his gourd by travelling in the dark for so long.
"I've got a good sense of smell. It's rare, mighty rare to meet the child of all four creatures as those. But you're just a lil human. Same as me." The way he tightens his grip on your hand leaves you with a bitter taste, his accent slipping out catches your attention more than anything else. As if sensing your confusion, he shoots you another small smile. A glint of white from behind his pink lips draws your eyes to his mouth. Gently, he shakes your hand. Your focus momentarily shifted from teeth to hand to the darkness surrounding you both. Squinting, just up ahead you can see the small glimmer of a campfire.
"Is that your camp?"
"Sure is. And now it's yours to."
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WOOOO its a spooky vampire and reader doesn't know it yet~ oooh~ spooky.
Warnings: none, kidnapping mention. Hybrids trying to parent a human. (They don't know how to parent.)
Inspired by docdudo and bluegiragi.
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"Easy now kid, your face will get stuck if you keep glaring at us like that." Ghost's deep timbre echoes through the cave as he watches you from the corner of the nest. His muscular arms that are crossed over his chest bulge with each micromovement. As cozy as the nest is, it's still jarring to be in the presence of beings that aren't fully human -the makers of said nest. Hybrids, dangerous creatures. Part human and part beast, they can be centaurs, merfolk, minotaurs, satyrs, and more. The list is endless, and each more deadly than the last. No human should be near one, much less converse with one. But here, against all odds. You're still alive and well. A little roughed up and hungry, but compared to most fates, it could be significantly worse.
Glaring daggers at the hybrids. You can feel how a snarl is making its way to your chapped lips. The air in the cave is somewhat stale, save for a slight breeze that gently wafts from the obscured enterance. Gaz's eyes almost sparkle with amusement as you find the courage to glare up at the massive harpy. It's like a mouse trying to scare a large house cat. 'There's nothing to be looking so smug about.' You think, as you suppress a shiver. Gaz's sharp talons do more to rationalize the fear you're feeling, then the gentle look in his eyes do to dissuade your anxieties.
His deep brown eyes scan and asseses you with a careful thought, almost as if checking for any visible signs of injury or illness. It's if he's done so many times before. Every move is calculated, executed quickly with a calm precision. The thought that these massive creatures actually care for you is all so well maintained and preserved. But the nagging voice in the back of your head screams to the high heavens that it's all fake. 'It has to be' your mind repeats for the umpteenth time. The feeling of a hot, almost absurdly massive hand engulfing the crown of your head drags you from your thoughts.
Immediately the snarl from your lips fades away as the hand gently ruffles your hair. The pressure is firm to the point bordering on immobilizing. Carefully, large, calloused digits, expertly massage your scalp. With a turn of your head, your eyes meet those of the Dragon's. His baby blue eyes glow within the dimly lit darkness of the cave. 'Like a lighthouse.' You think, vaguely you can recall the mention of one from some sailors who passed through the city gates a month or so back. The way the dragon's eyes pierce through the dark is similar to how the light would be a shining becon through a dark, tempestuous night. Staring you down with a steely gaze that roots you on the spot. It's not like you could move even if you wanted to. With his hand on your head. A pit of shame, almost like embarrassment prompts you to speak. Your words are uncharacteristically soft as they leave your tongue.
"Don't."
The hybrid pauses, but doesn't retract his hand.
"Don't?"
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you can feel how your esophagus tightens with emotion. Lowering your gaze as the bright blues of his eyes feel too strong. Almost as he can see your soul, in all its glory.
"My hair....it's dirty...dirty and gross...you shouldn't touch it."
Your words make the dragon hybrid pause. With a heavy sigh, Price rumbles lowly with a look of soft exasperation on his features as he sends a look to Soap.
"Soap, our pup here says they're dirty."
The werewolf nods in confirmation.
"Aye, so they said."
"Well? What do you think? I've seen you come home covered in muck and god knows what else."
Price's words earn a mighty guffaw and a loud laugh from the Scotsman. His massive tummy shakes with each deep laugh that rips from his throat. His tail wags rapidly and thumps heartily against the side of the nest and Ghost's massive, muscled thigh.
"Aye, tha be true. But we cannae ave a dirty pup. Bring em ere."
An undignified yelp rips through your vocal chords as you flail on instinct as you're lifted from your spot by two large hands nestled under your armpits. Kicking blindly outwards, you can feel the warm chest at your back holding in stifled laughter. Craving your head back, you lock eyes with the Harpy.
"Hey now chickadee, easy. Don't need you kicking all over, it's going to make cleaning a pain in the ass."
Vaguely you can see Ghost's head nodding in agreement from where he's sitting.
"Let me go! I don't need cleaning!"
Your indignant screeches are met by coddling voices, so uncharacteristically low with the intent to put you at some form of relative ease. Their deep rumbles and low baritones were never meant for comfort, but for your sake. They find themselves trying their best.
"Och, I think ye do wee one." Comes a condescending purr from Soap as he gently places his hands on your legs to prevent you from squirming and flailing. Even with his gentle touch, it's still firm. The hidden strength in his bones and gentle grip speak of unmentionable strength, the thought that he could break your legs with the slightest of ease makes the fight leave your body.
"I'm not wee." You grumble out ruefully as you feel your body being settled on Gaz’s lap. His hands moving dexterously with smooth precision as he picks out some debris from your tangled locks.
"Hush now baby bird, stop wiggling." The velvety tone of Gaz’s voice coos as you register the fact he's cleaning your hair as a bird would preen and ruffle the feather of her babies. The thought is sweet. But the embarrassment of being treated like a baby bird has vicious flames of anger coiling in your already nauseated stomach.
"Soon when it gets nicer out, we'll bathe you in the river. All squeaky clean."
"Are humans always so small?" Soap’s voice cuts through your thoughts and the steadily growing silence.
"When they're young, yes. And when they're fresh from the womb, even smaller." Answers Price with a chuff.
"Smaller? How small you saying? Me mum when she had me, used tae say I was the size ova otter."
Price rolls his eyes with a cheerful huff as he readjusts his tail to wrap around Soap's waist.
"Small as an otter? Hard to believe that now lad."
"Aye, big as a house now."
Answers Soap as he tugs Simon along side him to snuggle up against the furnace that is Price. Wordlessly, the wraith melts against Price as he keeps his gaze firmly locked on you.
The unsettling feeling of the wraith's gaze makes you tense. As if one wrong move would earn you his ire. As soon as he sees the unsettled look upon your face, the scent of stress wafting off of you makes the heavyset lines between his brows furrow deeper, but to your benefit he doesn't say anything.
"There now, isn't that much better?" Comes the smooth, honeyed tone of Gaz as he presses a soft kiss to the crown of your head. "Sweet little chickadee."
Tilting your chin up and back to look up at the Harpy, your eyes are met with something you've never quite seen before. The look in Gaz’s eyes are filled with amusement, love, fear, uncertainty, and something else you can't quite place. Your blank gaze makes him smile as he proceeds to rock you gently side to side on his lap.
"You okay there, Gaz?"
Questions Price as he stretches a leathery wing out to gently brush against one the feathered wings resting limply at his side.
"Yeah, yeah Cap. Better than alright."
Before Price can answer, the sound of your tummy rumbling loudly gathers the attention of the hybrids. The sound and sensation of an empty tummy makes your ears burn scarlet.
"Hungry, chickadee?"
Too mortified to answer, you resolve the issue by turning on Gaz’s lap and hiding your face against his chest.
"Pretty sure humans this size don't need to feed like that anymore." Says Price as he reluctantly stretches and releases Soap's waist.
"Ha! Gaz ain't got the right equipment for tha" Soap says between chuckles as he moves to lean against Ghost to make up for the lack of warmth from Price suddenly getting up.
Sauntering over with a lazy shamble, Price yanks you from Gaz’s lap and hauls you off to a different section of the cave. Your body is being held firmly against his side, propped on his hip with one hand supporting your rear. He carries you with ease as the sounds of Gaz’s indignant cries of "they're still not clean!" And "I haven't finished!" echos in the cave. Ghost however watches, the spectacle with a soft gaze. The remainder of the hybrids left in the nest are filled with amusement at the sight of a small, human child fighting off Price. Fully ignoring your screeches of protest, they turn their attentions to one another as Price takes you to get something to fill your empty stomach.
"Quiet down kid! I'm getting ya food!"
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Here is the long awaited part 5. I do apologize for the delay. Work has been a bit busy. Thank you all for the support. I greatly appreciate your patience.
The walk back to wherever the hell the hybrid has in mind is tediously frustrating. Each time you think you feel space enough in his strong hold to wiggle yourself free, the tighter his grip becomes. It's not like it hurts or anything, it more so only hurts your pride at being teased in such a manner. One minute there's a gap between his arms and his hold grows lax. Then the very second you deem it safe to move, he tightens his grip. Over and over he does this. Gritting your teeth in anger, your palms resume slapping his forearms.
"Calm down now treasure, I'm not going to hurt you."
Just hearing the way his grumbling voice rumbles so close to your ears makes you shiver. His arms tightening and jostling you gently to adjust you in his arms. The feeling of his unnaturally warm exhales ghost over your scalp rhythmically. It's warmth reminiscent of a hot summer's day. Or the day you got sunburnt so badly that even sleeping was painful. With a scowl etched on your lips you can't help but bite out a snarky retort.
"Going senile old man? I'm not treasure! So let go!"
With a burst of energy you flail your arms and legs once more. Your legs kicking widly as you do your best to kick backwards to hit any part of him that would spur him to release you. Undeterred however, the hybrid lets out a soft growl. The sound almost akin to a mountain lions chuff and a warning hiss of a jaguar.
"Keep still you naughty hatchling."
He says with no real venom in his words. Not that he needs to say anything more with with tone of displeasure lacing his words. His massive tail swinging back and forth in amusement as he once again adjusts his hold on you as if holding a misbehaving hatchling. His right arm taking the bulk of your weight as his left arm secures your limbs to his chest.
"Cheeky lil thing aren't you?"
He says with a quick glance down at you. You can see how his eyes twinkle with satisfaction.
"Hatchlings are supposed to behave."
His voice as grumbling as it is is laced with a mirthful purr. Your words not having offended him in the slightest only confirmed to him that you've been on your own for far longer than he initally guessed.
"Not me, I'm human not a hatchling."
Your retort bouncing off his eardrums as if he never heard you in the first place, his mind seemingly already made up. His piercing eyes roaming over your small form for only a moment or two before he settles his gaze ahead of him, eyes fixed on a trail only he can see.
Passing by low hanging branches, and gnarled trees, the air in this part of the woods feels drastically different compared to how it felt near the city's walls. The air feels heavier, the silence more oppressive. The only thing breaking it at the moment being the dragon hybrid’s heavy, even footfalls. Practically being suffocated against the creature's broad, muscular chest. You can feel bitter tears gathering, almost threatening to spill over from frustration.
"John."
Blinking owlishly up at the hybrid’s weathered face. You almost miss what he said.
"What?"
The look of confusion on your face surely present, must have spoke volumes as the hybrid pulled you closer.
"Name's John."
Pouting up at him heavily, you nod in understanding, you could honestly care less about the name of your kidnapper, but it was a good thing to know, you reckon. Introductions were never your strong suit. Always too quiet, too meek or to awkward. Blinking away tears, too tired to do much else. You relax once again against the hybrid’s strong chest. The body heat he gives off soothing your weary limbs.
"Don't got much of a name..."
The sound of your high pitched voice almost sounds grating to your ears as it cuts the silence. It was meant to sound tough, nonchalant. But instead it sounds so small, so tired. A flash of heat rises to your face, the tips your ears turning red from embarrassment at how young and small you sound. Compared to his low, grumbling tone, you sound even younger than your actual age.
"Well now, I can't have a nameless treasure now can I?"
Whipping your head up to face him, you can see the way his beard bristles when he talks. How there's a spot on his throat that glows from under his skin. The veins, both small and large showing faintly from where his dragon's fire lies dormant in his neck.
"Almost home."
John says with a relieved grin as he catches sight of you staring at his neck. Such a small thing as you, all bundled up and held closely to his chest makes his dragon instincts flare with pride. It's been far too long since he's had a hatchling of his own to care for. Lost on thought. He misses how you shiver once he crosses the threshold of his lair. His nostrils flaring as he takes in the scent of home. His safe haven, far away from the prying eyes of humans. And filled to the brim with riches. Most humans would tell the tale of dragon's guarding their horde of gemstones and jewels. As soon as he spots his nest a soft purr rises from his vocal chords. The sight and scent of his mates all laying together and relaxing warming his heart. In the middle of his nest is a beautiful harpy. His wings wrapped around the others shoulders as they sit around him. His deep brown eyes lighting up instantly as he sees John in the nesting room.
"Jesus John, we were worried about ya."
The harpy says with a relieved grin. His eyes now settled on the small creature against his mate's chest. The others a wraith and a werewolf perk up at the sight of a small child nestled against Price's arms. The werewolf almost vibrating with excitement at the sight. His tail wagging furiously, almost hitting the harpy everytime.
"Who's the wee bairn for John? We all did so good you're letting us eat a tender thing like tha."
Stilling instantly at the werewolf's words, you narrowly miss how the wraith slaps him upside the back of his head. The warning look that John sends the werewolf has you shrinking smaller. For almost a moment. However fleeting, it was as if all these hybrids were just human. The way they interacted with one another seemed human enough. But the way Price's eyes glowed ominously at the werewolf, it broke whatever allusion to human normalcy there once was.
"Soap, Gaz, Simon...say hello to our new hatchling."
John says warmly as he sees how Soap visibly deflates just a bit before his excitement returns full force. No doubt excited at the prospect of raising a wee one once again.
"A hatchling? Cannae go a single century without a wee one."
Gaz smiles softly, a mix of worry and tenderness traced on his expression. Soap's words only spurring him on. Immediately setting to work he moves about the nest making sure a corner of it will be comfortable for their new family member. Grabbing Johnny by the scruff, Simon drags him back to bed as the Scotsman looks on at Price and you with a loving gaze. His tail wagging softer now as he's led by the scruff by Simon.
As John makes his way to the nest. He groans tiredly as he sets you down in the center of the nest. Rather than being made of sticks and hay as birds would make it. The nest is made of the finest silks and cottons one could buy..or steal. Plush pillows line the edges of the nest and layers upon layers make up the foundation so as the hardness of the floor wouldn't be felt from underneath. As John settles down into the nest, his mates all gather closer. The sight of a small human child in their nest almost amusing to them. But seeing the scared expression on your face, they resolve to simply lay around you and John. The hope being that their combined warmth would lull you to sleep. The wraith; Simon, presses up closely against John's back, carefully so as to not disturb spot where his partner's missing wing would be. The werewolf; Johnny, curls up by your feet, your eyes wide as you tuck your feet in. The comment he made about eating you sticking in your mind like glue. The harpy; Gaz, at your side. His wings tucked in against his back as he coos quietly. Feeling overwhelmed and frightened, you curl up tightly and grasp at John's front with all your strength until eventually your mind starts drifting and your thoughts become quieter. The heavy hand of sleep overtakes you in a matter of minutes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's hard trying to write so many people all at once. But now the 141 is all together. :)
Synopsis: At just eight years old, you struggle with a heart condition that makes you too fragile for shocks or exertion. To protect you, Simon keeps his military life as far away as possible, and his home, a safe refuge. But everything changes when an intruder, unaware of Simon's true identity, decides to rob them. What should have been a simple burglary turns into a desperate race against time when fear triggers a heart attack. Now, Simon is not only fighting the thief — he's fighting to save your life.
Warnings: Profanity, firearms, panic, mentions of death, the reader is 8 years old, has Long QT Syndrome and is a girl.
Word count: 4.5k
Observation: English is not my first language, and I have very little exposure to British English specifically. I had a really hard time writing Simon and Price's dialogue, but I hope I at least got close to something more realistic.
Simon put you to sleep, just like he had for the past two nights, and now he lay with his head resting against the pillow, the insomnia visiting him once again. He was exhausted from the day, chasing after you and handling your tantrums – but still, sleep wouldn’t come. No one would believe it if they were told that he, a shadowy wall of muscle and silence, spent his afternoons playing dolls and tea parties with an eight-year-old girl.
Your father always watched you sleep for a while, his calloused fingers gently brushing your chubby cheek and smoothing your hair. He admired your serenity, as if the world were perfect and no problems existed. Simon wished you could stay that way forever, carefree and small. The thought of you growing up and facing the world unsettled him, but it was inevitable.
You were a wellspring of joy, something that warmed his heart. Always looking for him, and always worried about how he felt, if he was okay, when he should be the one asking you that. Something inside Simon shifted every time you asked if he was hurting when went too quiet.
He used to think that a child’s mind was too oblivious to understand how adults worked, but you always noticed every time his eyes tightened just a fraction differently, wondering: Why is Daddy sad? And not every time was he exactly sad, but sometimes, his gaze grew distant, thoughts reaching faraway places. Now, he was much more careful not to let it happen around you, not wanting his daughter to think something was wrong with her father.
Everything about you made him immensely happy, a feeling buried deep in his chest that he had to protect you at all costs. But Simon couldn’t protect you from his greatest fear. Your heart worked differently, he had told you that himself, and it had brought him to the edge of panic more times than he could count. When it wasn’t clear what was wrong, he felt useless, powerless, as if he would never be enough.
Once, you couldn’t breathe at daycare, and he was thousands of miles away. Your babysitter called him in tears, it was one of the worst moments of his life. He thought you were going to die, and the very idea haunted him like some loathsome creature. He had faced death many times, in many forms, but with you, it was utterly devastating. You couldn’t disappear. It would destroy him.
When he was near, he handled you like porcelain, always cautious, as if something invisible could suddenly trigger another episode, making you cry from a pain he couldn't take away.
That’s why he refused to take anything that might help him sleep, twisting at the thought of you needing him and him being too dazed to respond. He forced himself to stay awake, alert, every little noise in the house making him tense. A creaking window, the sound of distant footsteps, a whisper in the hallway – he always checked – even knowing it was probably just his mind creating monsters. But he couldn’t help it. The fear of something happening while he was lost in the darkness of his own mind was unbearable.
In the middle of the night, he would get up several times just to check if you were still breathing. The room was silent, except for the rhythmic, comforting sound of your breath. Occasionally, there was a small hesitation, a brief pause that sent his heart into his throat, before the steady rise and fall of your chest resumed. He knew it was paranoia, but he couldn’t stop. To him, you were more important than the very oxygen in his lungs. Every beat of your heart mattered more than his own life.
But he wasn’t unshakable, no matter how much he wished to be for you. Eventually, exhaustion would take hold, his bloodshot eyes pulling him into the dark. When it did, he would wake at the first sign of morning – his sleep never lasting long. But tonight, something was different. He woke up much earlier.
A crash from the hallway, the sound of a lamp shattering against the floor, yanked him into full awareness. Like an instinct buried deep within him had been triggered, Simon’s hearing sharpened instantly. His body tensed, slipping into a readiness only someone like him could know. With a single swift motion, he was out of bed, his bare feet touching the floor with such precision that they barely made a sound.
Then, a sharp, terrified scream shattered the silence, echoing through the house.
It was your voice.
“Daddy!”
Cold fear rushed through his veins. His heart pounded violently, but he didn’t hesitate. Instinct seized him like a crushing weight, and he moved with the speed of a predator. The sound of his own ragged breath and the pounding of his heartbeat were all he heard as he bolted toward your room, his only thought to reach you before anything else could.
He burst through your door, flipping the switch to flood the room with light.
Someone was there.
A boy, probably a teenager. He wore a balaclava and clutched a pistol, the serial number scratched off. Simon noticed it instantly. He always noticed details – nothing escaped him – and guilt tore through his chest.
He should have prevented this. He should have seen the signs before the intruder ever set foot in his house.
“Stay there!” The boy shouted, his voice trembling. His hands shook so much they could barely hold the gun. He seemed on the verge of collapsing, as if he might wet himself at any moment. Maybe he was just a young man making a stupid mistake, a rash decision. That's what Simon's rational side told himself. But his emotional side could only feel anger – a muffled, uncontrollable fury burning inside – because of how that gun had been pointed at you just seconds ago.
Simon's figure must have terrified the invader even more. The boy hadn't expected to find someone like him. Tall. Intimidating. His face covered in scars, his eyes cold and empty. Instinct screamed inside the younger: this is no ordinary man. Even when Simon raised his hands, in a gesture of surrender, he didn't seem to feel safe.
“Calm down.” Simon's deep, imposing voice filled the room. The boy trembled even more. The lieutenant opened his hands, trying to show he wouldn't do anything.
He heard your crying. He could feel your heart racing, almost as fast as his own. And that was not a good sign. Your chest was rising and falling irregularly. He knew you needed help. Now.
“Put the gun down, kid.”
“I'm not putting anything down, Motherfucker!” He shouted, his voice shrill, desperate. You jumped in bed. Simon diverted his eyes for a second, just to see how you clung to the blanket, your fingers gripping so tightly they were turning white. Your father knew the swearing, the yelling, and that gun were terrifying you.
“Look at me! Don't look at her!” The boy yelled again, hysterical. Fear was written all over his face. He thought Simon might attack him at any moment.
“You can take whatever you want, just put the gun down.” Simon's voice came out brutal again, cutting. He needed to appear in control, even though he wasn't. He moved his hands slowly, cautiously, trying to convince the stranger he wasn’t a threat.
Meanwhile, your mind was on high alert, painted red as you saw the barrel of the gun pointed at your father. For a dark moment, you thought that guy was going to hurt him.
“I didn't know she was here, I swear.” The kid whispered. His breathing was erratic. “I don't want to take anything, I just want to leave. I'm very sorry...”
Simon saw the tremor in the boy's shoulders, saw the tears forming behind the fabric of the balaclava. He was crying, probably from the shock of finding a child while doing something so horrific.
“Fine. Then go.” Simon agreed, his mind spinning, his heart hammering in his chest. He just wanted to get to you. Your breathing was becoming difficult. You were so scared you could barely speak.
The thief swallowed hard. His gaze wavered for a second.
“As soon as I get closer, you'll grab me.” He said as if it were a fact, sizing up Simon’s physique – a man who knows how to fight. A cop, maybe? Military? The boy knew he wouldn't stand a chance against him.
“I won’t.” Simon kept his voice firm, but he felt the fear seeping in. His eyes quickly shifted to you, seeing your feet moving under the blanket, you were in agony.
Then he saw it.
Your small chest rising and falling erratically. You brought your hand to your heart, your face contorting. Pain.
Panic exploded inside Simon.
If it weren’t for you, Simon would have already lunged at the invader and ended it. But he couldn’t risk it. A stray bullet. One wrong move.
“What’s your name?” His voice came out softer, controlled.
“J-James...” He stammered.
The oldest in the room nodded, memorizing the name. “James. I’m Simon.”
The boy just nodded.
“You look young. I reckon you made a mistake comin’ ‘ere, and now you’re regrettin’ it.” Simon measured each word with precision. “I don’t care if you walk out that door and vanish, just as long as you’re outta my daughter’s sight.”
He was lying. He was lying with every word. But he needed James to believe it. He needed him to leave. He was definitely going after him later.
James averted his gaze and, for the first time, really looked at you.
Your body was trembling. Tears streamed down your face. Your lips were trembling so much you couldn’t speak.
“W-What’s wrong with her?” The young man asked hesitantly. His voice was different now, but Simon didn’t want to talk. He needed to get to you.
“You're frightenin' her.” He said through clenched teeth, and something seemed to change in the boy. His gaze softened.
But the gun was still raised.
And Simon was running out of time.
He saw you try to call his name once more, but the sound died in your throat.
He knew what it was.
The cold soldier’s face crumbled, giving way to that of a desperate father, and he looked into James's eyes before finally exploding:
“If you don’t let me help her, she’s gonna die!”
The boy blinked at hearing the threat, confused, and Simon took a step forward.
“She’s ill.” He gushed the words harshly, laden with an emotion he couldn’t control. “If you don’t let me go to her, she’ll die. Do you understand, bloody hell?!”
For a second, after the beastly shout he gave, only silence filled the room.
James froze.
And Simon waited.
The boy gave up and nodded, his fingers still trembling as he lowered the gun. Simon didn’t waste any time. In an instant, he crossed the room to you, his steps heavy and determined. You were pale. Small. Your hands still clutching your chest. The fear in your huge eyes was enough to break something inside him.
Simon crouched beside you and held your face between his hands, forcing a softer tone than he had used with the intruder. James, panicked, couldn’t do anything but put his hands over his head, sliding down the wall while apologizing repeatedly. He pulled the balaclava off his face, revealing his features. He was just a teenager, between 16 and 18 years old.
The boy had no idea what he was doing there, nor how he had reached the point of thinking that breaking into a family’s home for some cash was a good idea. The moment he realized what he had done, a chill ran down his spine as he understood that, for an instant, he had pointed a gun at a child.
A child.
“Hey, I’m here. I’m here, sweetheart. Look at me.”
You blinked a few times, as if trying to focus, searching for safety in your father’s face. But your body trembled. Then came the first unsteady breath. Then another. Small, desperate gasps. Your chest rose and fell too fast, and Simon felt his blood turn cold.
No. Not now.
A sob escaped you, and you clung to his shirt as if your life depended on it. Maybe it did.
He held you tightly, as if he could shield you from everything, as if just pulling you closer could stop life from slipping through his fingers. Heart pounding, he descended the stairs in long strides, muscles tense with the urgency only a father understands. Nothing else mattered now – not the stranger still in the house, not the shards of glass on the floor, not even his own fear. Only you. Only getting to the hospital in time.
“D-Daddy…” Your voice came out as a weak whisper, so soft he only heard it because your face was pressed against his shoulder.
Simon’s stomach twisted. You were scared. More than that, you were terrified. Your small fingers clung to his shirt so tightly they could have torn it, as if you were drowning.
“You’re gonna be okay, my love.” The words came out fast, hoarse, more for himself than for you. He yanked the car door open and carefully placed you in the back seat, making sure you were positioned safely. His eyes quickly scanned your pale face before he rushed to drive.
Simon didn’t look back. He didn’t think about the stranger, the house, anything else. He just turned the engine on and slammed his foot on the gas, the headlights cutting through the darkness as he sped down the nearly empty streets. His mind was torn between the road and the sound of your unsteady breathing in the back seat.
“Stay with me, sweetheart.” he murmured, glancing at the rearview mirror. You were curled up, your wide eyes locked on him, trying to stay focused as your small hands gripped the seatbelt.
Simon’s chest tightened. He wanted to say something to soothe you, but all that came to mind was the corrosive fear that maybe – just maybe – he was already too late.
✧✧✧
A few hours later, the sun was shining brightly as morning advanced. Simon shifted in the uncomfortable hospital chair, elbows resting on his knees, his hand holding yours. The warmth of your skin against his was the only thing that a little peace, his thumb tracing slow circles in an unconscious gesture of comfort. He had been silent since arriving, but not in his usual way. This silence was heavy, suffocating, filling the room like an unspoken weight.
He didn’t dare take his eyes off you, afraid that even the slightest lapse in attention could make things go wrong again. The constant beeping of the heart monitor was offering him fragile relief, a reminder that you were here, alive. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was just a temporary illusion – that at any moment, the rhythm would spike again, and you’d be in danger.
Two hours ago, you had woken up, still drowsy, sedated by the doctors to prevent stress. Your eyes opened sluggishly, scanning the room until found him. You were scared – for him. The image of the boy pointing a gun was still vivid in your mind, and the fear overflowed. When the panic set in, your heart rate spiked again, and the medical team had to intervene, sedating you once more.
Simon could do nothing. He just sat there, motionless, fingers pressing against the bridge of his nose in frustration.
The sound of the door opening pulled him from his thoughts. Simon turned his head and saw Price standing there. His captain, one of the few people he trusted, and someone who knew you well enough to understand what had happened.
Simon had never minded being alone. Solitude was an old companion, a shadow he had learned to carry without complaint. But this time, for some reason, he had picked up the phone and called John. Something inside him had pushed him to press that button, an insistent, uneasy force hammering inside him.
He wanted to believe it was just for your sake, because you and Price were close, because he had a duty to inform him - because his captain would be furious if Simon didn't tell him about it. But deep down, he knew the truth.
He needed someone else to be there.
Your “Uncle John” never failed to send you gifts when he could, and sometimes even made the hour-long drive from his city just to say “hi” to you. Price cherished you as if you were his own daughter.
“Oi, Lieutenant.” The older man’s voice was steady, comforting.
Simon took a deep breath, trying to compose himself, falling back into the tactical demeanor he always used in the base. But even when he wore his mask, John could read him like an open book.
“Captain.” That was all he managed to say.
Price knew him well enough to understand that Simon needed support. He was used to dealing with Ghost. But this – this was just Simon.
“How’s our Thumbelina?” Price asked softly, as if afraid to wake you. He walked over to Simon, placing a hand on his shoulder in a brief, almost hesitant gesture.
“She'll wake up soon enough.” Simon replied, his eyes fixed on you but not really seeing you. His gaze was distant, unfocused.
“You said she went into shock, didn't you?” Price murmured, trying to follow a line of conversation.
“The doc thinks so.” Simon sighed and leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly. “They’re going to refer her to a shrink. Don’t want those memories messin’ with her head.”
Price nodded, remaining standing.
“I made a few calls,” he announced, watching his friend's reaction. “I got some info on the brat.”
Simon looked up, attentive.
“He didn’t even try to leg it. Found him in her room, and I called in a contact from the coppers.” He scratched his mustache at the memory of the encounter.
At first, Price got confused. But within seconds, he was already gripping the teenager by the collar, fury burning in his eyes. He only started to rein himself in when James, terrified, began apologizing, without even knowing who the man pinning him against the wall was. His empathy took over. The boy had hurt you, yes, but he didn’t know the severity of your condition. He was wrong, but he wasn’t a demon.
“His mum showed up at the station right after. It was a proper scene. The two of them were at each other’s throats, shouting. The woman was in tears, all disappointed, and the boy looked right sorry for himself.”
Simon clenched his jaw. “I couldn't give a toss about that nonsense.” The irritation was evident, even though he hadn’t intended to be rude.
“He thought the house was empty, Simon. Got it mixed up with the neighbour’s.” Price added carefully. “It was a daft dare from friends who knew he needed the money, so he nicked his father’s gun. He’s off to court. With what he’s done, he might end up in a juvenile centre.”
Simon remained quiet for a moment, running his tongue over his teeth. Then, he exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Yeah. Great.” he muttered, irritation dripping from every syllable.
Price watched his reaction, hesitating before continuing.
“I know you're pissed off, mate, but...” He paused, studying Simon's tense face. “Maybe it’s worth figuring out what the hell was goin’ through that boy’s head.”
Simon heard every word but didn’t reply. He absorbed his captain’s advice and kept his gaze on him. The memory of how you screamed, the tears, all the agony... It made Simon clench his free hand into fist.
You thought he was going to get shot. You were desperate.
Price noticed the movement. He saw how Simon’s fingers were practically digging into his own skin with the force of his grip. He decided not to press the issue. Instead, he walked to your bed, observing your face for a moment. A faint smile flickered on his lips before he reached out and ruffled your hair in a gentle pat.
Then, John pulled something from his pocket and held up a stuffed hippopotamus, showing it to Simon.
Simon frowned, clearly displeased with the choice.
“Come on, you know she fancies it.” Price said, trying to lighten the heavy mood. “Hippos are tough, you know?”
But Price’s joke was cut short when he noticed you were waking up. Your eyes opened slowly, blinking several times as you oriented yourself. Simon shifted in his chair, and a quick glance was enough for John to understand that maybe it was best for you not to see your father right away – not while his image was still tied to the terror of the night.
“Hi, Uncle John…” Your small voice came out in a hoarse whisper, heavy with sleep.
“Oi, little doll.” he murmured back, his expression filled with a warmth he only used with you.
He didn’t need to say anything else to make you smile. As soon as he lifted the stuffed hippo, shaking it like it was going to devour you, you let out a giggle.
The sound relieved Price, and especially Simon. He watched as your tiny fingers grabbed the toy, hugging the plush creature to your chest.
“Thank you…” you murmured, pouting a little as you placed your index finger between your upper lip and nose, mimicking his mustache.
Price copied the gesture, but the face he made was much funnier than yours.
“Where’s Daddy?” you asked just like the first time you woke up, your brows furrowing in worry.
The beeping on the monitor sped up slightly. Simon noticed immediately and ran his thumb over your hand again – a reminder that you weren’t alone. You turned your head and found him there, still sitting in the same chair, his dark eyes betraying the sleepless night he had spent.
“I'm here, love.” His voice was firm, both a reassurance and a promise.
You gripped his forearm tighter than you had held your new stuffed hippo. Simon felt the tension in your small fingers and let you cling to him without saying a word. You seemed calmer now, less frightened.
Price grabbed a cup of water and handed it to Simon, who helped you drink. You took a few small sips, the way children do, but it was enough.
Then, your eyes locked onto your father’s, serious, as if you had something important to resolve. He braced himself for anything. Maybe a question about what had happened, maybe a request to go home. But not this:
"You said a bad word."
Simon blinked slowly. “What?”
“He said ‘bloody hell’.” you whispered to Price, as if revealing a forbidden secret.
Price raised his eyebrows, holding back a smile. “Oh, really, eh?”
Simon sighed, running a hand over his face. “Prob'ly did.”
Price let out a low chuckle, satisfied to get some reaction out of him.
Suddenly, you started paying attention to your surroundings. A hospital room wasn’t strange to you, since you had been here a few times before, but that didn’t mean you liked it. The doctors always said they needed to keep you under observation until the crisis passed, and the worst situations happened quickly, in the middle of chaos, before anyone could stabilize you.
There was a time they had to use a defibrillator, and just the thought of it sent a shiver down Simon’s spine. To his relief, this time all you needed was to simply shut down, a milder way to calm your emotions.
“I want to go home…” you pleaded, your voice thick with emotion.
“We will, in a few hours.” Simon replied firmly. If he gave you an inch, he knew you’d push until the end.
“Is Uncle John staying with us?” you asked, grabbing the hippo by the ear and waving the plush toy in front of Price, who pretended to try catching it but failed miserably.
“No, Princess. I'm sorry.” he answered regretfully. “I wish I could stay longer, but I only came to see you. I’ve gotta head back home soon.” He pinched your nose between his fingers, making you giggle.
“Okay…” you murmured, disappointed, but already starting to feel a little stronger.
You shifted on the bed, getting on your knees to hug Price, who held you firmly, running his hand over your back before pressing a kiss to the side of your head. As soon as you let go, you turned to your father and practically buried yourself in his lap, seeking shelter. You settled on his legs, leaning your torso against his broad chest.
Simon was used to this, but this time, you seemed even more in need of security. Your small fingers poked at the dog tag hanging around his neck, as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
Simon knew you were still scared. He knew that, in the coming days, you wouldn’t leave his side. And he didn’t mind.
Because deep down, he wanted to stay close to you too.
He held on to this moment, feeling you fidget with the metal piece on his neck. Simon knew things wouldn’t be easy for now, but he chose not to get lost in thoughts of the future. He held you even tighter, his arms wrapping around you like a blanket while you found comfort in the calm. Simon felt deeply grateful that you hadn’t asked questions about the boy, and in silence, he turned to Price, who responded with a simple nod, as if he had understood the unspoken message.
Price took a few steps closer and crouched down, looking at you with affection. “Goodbye, Thumbelina,” he said, extending his fist for a farewell bump.
“Goodbye, Mr. Mustache.” you replied softly, but with a smile that made Price chuckle as he ruffled your hair. He stood up, turning to Simon with a look that carried the same unwavering trust as always.
“Take care, lad. I’ll see you soon.” he said, not waiting for a response, already knowing the lieutenant’s temperament well.
Simon watched Price leave, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His hardened expression softened the moment there was no longer a need to hide behind it. He still made an effort to appear confident for you, but as he closed his eyes and held you tighter, he finally allowed himself to relax. The silent gesture of protection he offered was an unspoken promise.
He knew that as long as he was with you, nothing else mattered. He would always be by your side. And even with the weight of the world on his shoulders, Simon allowed himself to believe, just for a moment, that maybe the future would be a little lighter. No matter what came next. Together, he and you would face it all.
Soft snores and gentle gasps echoed lazily within the darkened lair of the dragon and his mates.. the small family all safe and cozy with one another far away from the noisy blight that is humanity and their ways of living. Usually it would be easy to fall asleep, but try as he might, Gaz laid awake. Hard instincs screaming at him to succumb to sleep. The environment around already working so hard to lull him to what his instincts crave.
Gaz laid awake in the nest, his eyes straining as he peered up at the dark, stalactite filled cieling. The sight leaving a tingling imprint in his retinas. As much as he would have liked to get some sleep after a long day. There was only so much he could handle in a day spent flying and helping Soap pick off straggling sheep for their next meal. Never in a million years did he expect Price to come home with a child in tow. Just what the hell was he thinking? A literal human child, in the home of a hybrid pack. So many things could go wrong. With a sigh, Gaz groggily brought a hand up to massage and pinch the bridge of his nose. He was one for surprises. Sure there was the time when he and Price spent a surprise, anniversary night out gazing at the stars after a successful hunt. The clear night sky overhead glittering with innumerable stars overhead. The way the light from the moon casted a silvery glow over as far as the duo could see was a magical sight. It was quite possibly one of the best surprises Gaz could think of to this date. Well, not anymore.
The sleeping child in the group nest proved that opinion all too well. With a sigh, Gaz unfurled one large wing up and out in one glorious motion to flex and stretch. The joints in his wing getting all nice and lubricated to chase away the stiffness in his muscles and tendons. Slowly, so as to not wake anyone else from their much needed sleep. Looking over and down at the small tufts of hair that curl about your small head. Gaz gently lowers the tip of his wing to wrap around your form. All tired out and limp in their nest. Tiny lungs working hard to keep an even pace as your small chest rises and falls with each gentle inhale and exhale. Each small twitch in your sleep is monitored, each small groan and stretch as you wander in dreamland is counted. For Gaz, It's like a dream come true. A strange, unexpected dream. Its been so long since he's raised a chick. Furling his massive wing around your midsection, Gaz scoots his body closer to envelop you in his warmth. Chicks need plenty of warmth to sleep well. And good sleep leads to healthy growth. A patient smile makes its way to his heart-shaped lips. A soft croon just beggin to make its way out. Would the chick even like his song? The culture of his kind? Would the chick learn to appreciate the differences of their new parents?
As if roused by the acrid smelling spike of anxiety wafting off of his husband, Simon; from over the shoulder of Price moved quietly to lean up on his forearms. Sleep still dancing across his eyelids as he narrows his vision on Gaz. His tired brown eyes laced with concern.
"Hey"
"Hey yourself."
The sound of Simon's sleep tinged voice is a welcome relief to Gaz’s ears.
"Can't sleep?"
A pregnant pause follows the question. As if Gaz really needs to answer the question, the wraith knows what's bothering him.
"The kid is fine. Just tired. Scared. It's to be expected. Doubt Soap here helped any."
With a heavy sigh Gaz cuddles closer to your unconscious form. To Simon, the sight of such a large harpy and such a small child just seems wrong. Different species all gathered in one place. That's how most wars break out, but yet this family makes it work. Better than most same species families.
"Soap won't eat the kid...back in the day he might've...but not now..ease up Gaz."
Dark brown, chocolate eyes sweep over Gaz gently before straining to look over at the tiny bundle all snuggled up against his chest. The harpy's instinct to gather and protect their young is strong, almost ferocious at times. But Gaz looks so gentle. Laying back down to carefully spoon against Price. Simon is ever mindful to be aware of not disturbing the portion of the dragon's hybrid back where his missing wing should be.
"We're where we belong. That includes the kid."
The tenderness in Simon's voice almost surprises Gaz. That tone is usually reserved for more intimate moments.
"What do you mean Si?"
"Look at em. So small, tiny...almost insignificant. Just like we all were at one time or another."
"So?"
"Price...he can see the value in even the smallest things. The broken things....like us."
The unspoken words between them echo in their minds. "Like me". Broken. But still so very much loved and adored.
"Get some sleep Gaz. You can look the kid over and clean em in the morning."
The subtle command in Simon's tones doesn't go ignored. Even the sleeping werewolf somehow registers the tone, responding with a heavy yawn and a rumbling purr. With the quiet in the den, the sounds of deep, rhythmic breathing gets swallowed up by the thick rocky walls and cushions and fabrics that make up the spacious nest. With tired eyes, Gaz curls in and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. The soft hair that frames your cherubic face makes you look years younger than you are. The softness of your skin and its youthful buoyancy are still there even after all this time on your own. It makes his heart clench up tightly to think of all those years you've spent begging and scrounging for scraps like a common mutt in the city's streets.
"John always finds the value in the little things in life. I guess he saw something truly special in you chickie."
Gaz says softly as he presses his lips to your forehead. We're humans always this cold? Did John bring home a sick child? How do you care for a sick child that's not the same species as you? What if something is wrong? Shaking those terrible thoughts away, his mind wanders to what Simon said. And how everyone gathered here in each other's space, share so many wonderful things with each other. How coexistence just comes natural to them. How it'll hopefully come naturally to their newest addition. Shaking his head, the way Soap spoke of the child at first made him cringe. Eating them up and the like. The werewolf has no tact when it comes to children. Sighing gently, his deep brown eyes gaze at you with a tenderness only reserved for the young his instincts so desperately crave. Watching over you as you squirm in your sleep. No doubt moving in response to his soft exhales ghosting over your skin.
"No one's eating our chick...not my chick."
He whispers softly in oath to himself. His words not as unheard as he believed. On the other side of the nest, a soft, barely perceivable smile tugs at the corners of Price's lips.
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Ta da! Part three is here. I'm planning to have the next few chapters focus on the 141 individually and how they respond to having a child in their lives now.
