Summary - Parenting is harder when you build the child from the ground up. It’s been nearly a year, and sometimes you forget it all started with what was meant to be a joke.
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Content Warning(s) - Fluff, child birth, parenting, Alice Stilza(lol).
Author's Note - Part 1, Part 2
Apologies for the late post I honestly have no excuse lmao, I might not be as active cause classes started up again but that doesn't mean I wont try. >:D (A new one shot plot might come to me)
The first real contraction hit like a lightning strike.
You were in the middle of a slow, careful waddle back from the common room, one hand braced against the cool stone wall, the other cradling the impossible weight of your stomach. A strange, deep pressure had been building all morning, a heaviness that felt different from the Braxton Hicks. This was lower. More insistent.
Then it came. A band of iron, cinching tight around the very base of your belly, stealing your breath and bending you double. A sharp, surprised gasp escaped you. The pain wasn't blinding, not yet, but it was bold. It coursed through your entire being for thirty long seconds before ebbing away, leaving you shaky and damp with sudden sweat.
You managed to shuffle back to your shared room, where Enjin just happened to be meticulously checking over the contents of a small, pre-packed bag—clean clothes, a waterskin, a few of the softest baby blankets. He looked up as you entered, and his eyes, those keen yellow eyes, saw everything in an instant. The pallor of your skin, the way you held yourself, the new, focused fear in your gaze.
"Now?" he asked, his voice a higher pitch, but his body was already in motion, rising to his feet in one fluid movement.
"Now," you breathed, as another contraction began to build, a slow, gathering wave. You reached for the bedpost, your knuckles white. "Enjin..."
He was at your side in two strides. "Breathe," he commanded, his voice low and steady. He placed a warm, heavy hand on the small of your back, applying counter-pressure as the contraction peaked, grinding through you. You groaned, leaning into his strength. "That's it. Ride it out. I've got you."
When it passed, you were trembling. "The bag," you panted.
"Already have it." He slung it over his shoulder. "Can you walk to the garage?"
You nodded, though you weren't sure. The world had narrowed to the space between contractions. He supported you, his arm a solid bar around you, his pace perfectly matched to your shuffling steps. The walk through the HQ felt surreal. Rudo, Riyo, and Zanka watched you pass with wide eyes before wishing you well. Your heart melted.
Semiu met you at the heavy garage door. "Alice is expecting you," she said softly, her gaze flicking to Enjin. "The road should be clear. Be safe."
Enjin just grunted in acknowledgment, helping you into the passenger seat of the rugged, off road vehicle. He moved efficiently, buckling your seatbelt over your massive belly, adjusting the seat, tucking a blanket around your legs. His hands, usually so sure and steady, trembled just once—a faint, almost unnoticeable tremor—as he brushed a sweaty strand of hair from your forehead.
The drive to the nearby town was a blur of jostling movement and intensifying pain. The contractions were coming faster now, every five minutes, then every three. You gripped the handle above the door, your breaths coming in ragged pants. Enjin drove with sharp concentration, his jaw set, his eyes constantly scanning the ruined landscape. Every groan you tried to stifle made his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
"Talk to me," he ground out, his voice tight.
"Harder," you managed. "Closer."
He swore under his breath and pressed the accelerator. The engine roared in protest.
Alice Stiltza’s clinic was a practical space that smelled sharply of antiseptic and dried herbs. The loud hum of a generator vibrated through the walls, and harsh fluorescent lights shone down on worn steel surfaces. As Enjin all but carried you through the door, the noise of your arrival was immediately drowned out.
“ABOUT TIME YOU TWO DECIDED TO JOIN THE PARTY!”
Alice’s voice wasn’t just loud; it was like a physical force, a booming declaration that rattled the instruments on a nearby tray. She stood in the doorway to the back rooms, arms crossed over her white coat. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, took in your pale, sweating face and Enjin’s tense expression. There was no softness in her gaze, only a pragmatic scrutiny.
“Don’t just stand there gawking in my lobby! This isn’t a spectator sport!” she barked, gesturing impatiently. “On the bed! Now! And you,” she jabbed a finger at Enjin, “get her on the bed. Gently! And in here, you follow my orders. UNDERSTAND?”
Enjin, who towered over her, gave a terse nod, his focus entirely on getting you on the bed. He maneuvered you through the doorway and onto the firm medical bed with a care that contrasted violently with Alice’s volume.
Another contraction seized you, and you cried out, your fingers digging into Enjin’s forearm.
“GOOD! THAT’S THE SPIRIT! LET IT OUT! NONE OF THAT SUFFER-IN-SILENCE NONSENSE IN MY CLINIC!” Alice boomed, washing her hands vigorously at a sink. She marched over, snapping on gloves. “You! Big guy! Stop looking like a constipated bear and help her sit up more. Prop those pillows! Show some RESPECT for the process!”
Enjin moved swiftly, obeying her commands without question. His jaw was clenched, but there was a glint of approval in his eyes for her no-nonsense efficiency. This was a woman who commanded her domain absolutely.
Alice’s examination was swift and direct. She didn’t sugarcoat. “EIGHT CENTIMETERS. MOVING FAST. GOOD. YOUR BODY KNOWS ITS BUSINESS. NOW, YOU,” she said, pointing a gloved finger at you, “YOUR JOB IS TO LISTEN TO ME AND PUSH WHEN I SAY, NOT WHEN YOU FEEL LIKE IT. AND YOU,” the finger swiveled to Enjin, “YOUR JOB IS TO HOLD HER HAND AND SHUT UP UNLESS I ASK YOU SOMETHING. I DON’T NEED YOUR COMMENTARY. I NEED YOUR COOPERATION. WE CLEAR?”
“Clear,” Enjin growled, his voice a low rumble under the thunder of hers.
The following hours were a brutal symphony of your cries, Enjin’s low, steady murmurs in your ear, and Alice’s deafening commentary.
“PUSH! FROM YOUR BACKSIDE, NOT YOUR FACE! I CAN’T DELIVER A FACIAL EXPRESSION!”
“BREATHE! DID YOU FORGET HOW? IN! THEN OUT! IT’S NOT ROCKET SCIENCE, IT’S BIOLOGY!”
When you sobbed that you couldn’t do it anymore, exhausted and broken, Alice leaned in, her voice dropping from a shout to a carrying, intense whisper that was somehow more powerful. “DON’T YOU DARE QUIT ON ME NOW! YOU THINK I SET UP THIS CLINIC, I CHARGED THAT LUNKHEAD AN ARM AND A LEG FOR THIS DELIVERY, JUST FOR YOU TO GIVE UP? YOU HAVE A LIFE IN THERE! NOW GET MAD AND GET IT OUT! SHOW ME SOME SELF-RESPECT AND FINISH THE JOB!”
It was the strangest, loudest pep talk you’d ever received, but it worked. A final, furious surge of energy born of pure spite for her yelling and love for the child gathered inside you. And with Enjin’s roar of encouragement in your ear and Alice’s booming commands, you bore down one last time.
The world narrowed, then exploded into sound—a new sound. A thin, piercing, indignant wail that, for a miraculous second, seemed to momentarily quiet even Alice.
“THERE! SEE?! TOLD YOU YOU COULD DO IT!” she announced, her voice still loud but now holding a gruff note of triumph. She worked quickly, efficiently. “A boy. A loud one. Takes after his mother today, thankfully.” She expertly cleared his airways, checked him over with brisk, sure movements, and then, her actions softening imperceptibly, wrapped him in a warm blanket.
She didn’t immediately hand him to you. Instead, she looked at you, then at Enjin, her gaze piercing. “YOU. BIG GUY. YOU LOOK LIKE YOU’RE ABOUT TO PASS OUT OR PUNCH A WALL. NEITHER IS HELPFUL. SIT.” She gestured to a stool. Then she turned to you. “AND YOU. YOU DID GOOD. PROPER JOB. NOW…”
Her voice finally lowered, not to a soft tone, but to a more manageable, authoritative one as she placed your son, your screaming, perfect son, against your chest. “…MEET YOUR SON. YOU’VE EARNED IT.”
The sudden absence of her yelling was as shocking as a cold cloth. In the relative quiet, broken only by your baby’s cries and your own ragged breaths, the world came into a new, sharp focus. The weight, the heat, the reality of him. You wept openly, whispering nonsense to the tiny, furious face.
Enjin sank onto the stool, his large frame seeming to fold in on itself. He reached out, his trembling hand covering yours where it cradled the baby’s head. He was silent, but the look he gave you—a mixture of shattered awe and ferocious pride—said more than any shout ever could.
Alice busied herself with the afterbirth, her movements loud and clattering, but she gave you your moment. Once the immediate work was done, she turned back, hands on her hips.
“RIGHT. HE’S HEALTHY. YOU’RE INTACT. THE HARD PART’S OVER. NOW THE LOUD PART BEGINS.” She fixed Enjin with a stare. “MY FEE JUST DOUBLED FOR THE EARDRUM DAMAGE. AND I EXPECT PAYMENT IN FULL, WITH INTEREST, BY THE END OF THE WEEK. UNDERSTAND? NO EXCUSES. RESPECT THE SERVICE.”
Enjin let out a breath that was almost a laugh, a rough, shaky sound. He nodded, his eyes never leaving you and the baby. “You’ll get your money, doc.”
“DAMN RIGHT I WILL.” She nodded once, sharply. A semblance of a smile, more like a crack in stone, touched her face. “NOW. YOU HAVE A SON. TRY NOT TO BREAK HIM. AND FOR GOD’S SAKE, IF HE GETS A FEVER, DON’T COME CRYING TO ME AFTER MIDNIGHT. MY RATES ARE EVEN HIGHER AFTER DARK.”
With that final booming pronouncement, she left the room, giving your new family a semblance of privacy, the echo of her presence lingering in the ringing quiet she left behind. In the calm after her storm, you and Enjin were finally alone with the tiny, miraculous proof of his Christmas promise, now breathing softly against your heart.
The first week home was a siege of beautiful, relentless love.
The noisy atmosphere of Alice’s clinic was replaced by the living, breathing—and most notably, screaming—chaos of your shared room at the Cleaners’ HQ. Your son, who you and Enjin had tentatively named Kaito, a name Enjin had gruffly suggested, meaning “sea” or “ocean,” a stark contrast to the dust of their world, yet holding a depth and mystery that felt right, had lungs that defied his size.
His cries were not the gentle mewling of storybooks. They were a siren, a full-bodied, indignant alarm that pierced stone, sleep, and sanity. They seemed to have a physical presence, vibrating in your teeth and echoing down the corridors.
The first night, it started at 2:17 AM. A short, experimental whimper that bloomed into a full-throated roar of existential outrage. You were already moving, the new, hardwired instinct pulling you from exhausted unconsciousness before your eyes were open. But Enjin was faster. One moment he was a dead weight beside you, the next he was a shadow detaching itself from the bed, scooping Kaito from the simple bassinet before your own feet hit the floor.
“Shh,” he rumbled, his voice a gravelly vibration in the dark. He cradled the shrieking bundle against his bare, tattooed chest, pacing the small room with a warrior’s restless stride. “You’re alright. I’m here.”
It didn’t work. Kaito was inconsolable. The wails climbed in pitch and volume.
You tried feeding him. Enjin tried walking him. You both tried the swaying bounce Alice had demonstrated, though she’d shouted the instructions. Nothing. Kaito’s cries were a demand the world could not yet meet.
Enjin, after twenty minutes of escalating failure, stopped in the middle of the room. His silhouette, backlit by the dim corridor light from under the door, was rigid with frustration. Then, he did something you'd never seen. He began to hum.
It wasn't a tune. It was a sound, low and resonant, more felt than heard. A deep, rhythmic vibration from his core. He pressed his lips to Kaito’s downy head, the hum transmitting directly through bone and skin.
The change wasn’t instant. But slowly, the jagged edge of Kaito’s screams softened into hiccupping sobs, then into shuddering breaths. The tiny fists, clenched in fury, unfurled against Enjin’s skin. Enjin kept humming, a private lullaby, and continued his pacing. When he finally laid the now-sleeping baby back in the bassinet, his movements were so careful they seemed unreal from a man of his size.
He caught you watching, your eyes wide in the gloom. He just grunted, a single, tired syllable, and slid back into bed. He was asleep in seconds, one heavy arm thrown protectively over your waist. You lay awake a while longer, listening to the two different rhythms of their breathing—one deep and slow, the other tiny and quick—and felt a love so fierce it bordered on terror.
The days blurred into a cycle of feeding, cleaning, and desperate attempts to sleep. Kaito was ravenous and impatient, his cries for milk as urgent as a five-alarm fire. Enjin took over everything else. He mastered the art of one-handed diaper changes, his thick fingers surprisingly deft with the tiny cloth fasteners. He was the one who sterilized the bottles, who kept track of the bewildering laundry, who made sure you ate, placing simple, hearty meals in your hands with a firm look.
The others tried to help. Riyo brought sewn little outfits from August, soft and durable. Zanka appeared with a bizarre, hand-carved rattle that looked more dangerous than infant friendly, but Kaito seemed fascinated by it. Rudo simply took over Enjin’s less critical chores without being asked, aka forced by Semiu. And Semiu gave you the gift of time, shooing everyone away from your door for a few precious, uninterrupted hours.
But the nights belonged to you and Enjin. The hum became his secret weapon. When your own nerves were frayed to nothing, when the sound of Kaito’s crying felt like shards of glass in your skull, Enjin would take him, tuck him inside his own shirt for skin-to-skin contact, and produce that steady, grounding vibration. It worked more often than not. It was as if Kaito recognized the sound from the inside, a familiar echo of the heartbeat and deep-voiced rumbles he’d known in the womb.
One afternoon, during a rare moment of calm, Enjin was holding Kaito, who was awake and alert, his vibrant eyes, your eyes, you were sure of it, staring intently up at his father’s face. Enjin was just looking back, his expression unreadable. You watched, your heart in your throat.
Slowly, Enjin raised his free hand, the one not supporting Kaito’s head. He hesitated, then extended his index finger. He brought it down until the tip, calloused and scarred, gently brushed the perfect, tiny palm resting on his chest.
Kaito’s fingers twitched. Then, with the focus of a newborn, his whole hand opened and closed around Enjin’s finger. His grip was surprisingly strong.
Enjin froze. You saw his throat work. He didn’t look at you, his gaze locked on that point of connection—his massive, weathered finger engulfed in a miniature, pink fist.
“Yeah,” Enjin whispered, the word rough and thick. “I’ve got you.”
The world outside your room began to seep back in, grain by grain. The first time Enjin left for a half-day patrol with Rudo, the silence felt alien, pregnant with a different kind of tension. Kaito, as if sensing the shift, was fussier than usual. You paced your shared room, humming your own shaky approximation of Enjin’s rumble, feeling its insufficiency.
When the door slid open and Enjin returned, smelling of dust, ozone, and the peculiar, dry scent of No Man’s Land, Kaito was in the middle of a grizzly, unsatisfied cry. Enjin didn't even remove his gear. He crossed the room, his movements leaving a trail of fine grit on the floor, and took Kaito from your arms. He held him up, eye to eye. Kaito’s cries hitched, his wet eyes blinking at the sudden, familiar closeness.
"Listen," Enjin said, his voice a low command. "I'm back. You can stop now."
And, impossibly, Kaito did. His mouth closed into a soft, surprised 'o'. He let out a shuddering sigh and settled against Enjin's shoulder, a tiny conqueror pacified by the return of his mountain. You felt a laugh bubble up, part hysteria, part awe. Enjin met your gaze over the baby's head, and you saw the faintest ghost of satisfaction in his yellow eyes.
"You can't just tell him to stop crying," you whispered, exhausted and amused.
"He listened," Enjin stated, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. He finally began unbuckling his gear, doing it all one-handed, unwilling to relinquish his hold.
You watched him, this man who brought people together and slayed beasts, now moved with such care in this small room. Dust clung to the lines of his neck and the backs of his hands. The sharp, metallic scent of ozone and something earthier—the unique, dry-musk of the Trashbeasts he’d been killing—hung around him.
“Long day?” you asked softly, leaning back against the pillows.
He grunted, a sound that could have meant anything. His eyes, however, were fixed on you, tracing the shadows under your eyes, the way your shoulders slumped with a fatigue deeper than sleep could cure. “He gave you trouble,” he stated, not asked.
“He missed his mountain,” you said, offering a tired smile.
Enjin’s gaze didn’t waver. He walked to the bassinet and laid Kaito down with that impossible precision. The baby stirred, made a soft whuff sound, and settled deeper into sleep. Enjin stood there for a long moment, his broad back to you, just watching the gentle rise and fall of the tiny chest.
When he turned, the intensity in his eyes had shifted. The focused alertness of the soldier, the watchful patience of the new father, had melted into something warmer, more intimate. He crossed the room slowly, the space feeling smaller with each step. He stopped beside the bed, looking down at you.
Without a word, he reached out. His hand, still gritty with the dust of the wastes, was surprisingly gentle as he cupped your cheek. His thumb stroked over the arch of your cheekbone, wiping away a smudge of something—baby spit-up, maybe, or a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.
“You’re covered in it,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp. “All of it. Him. The day.” His thumb moved to your lower lip. “Me.”
You leaned into his touch, the roughness of his skin a familiar and thrilling contrast to the all-consuming softness of the past week. “So are you,” you whispered back. “Dust. And… other things.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. “Trashbeast. It’s not a perfume I’d recommend.” His other hand came up, framing your face. He studied you, his yellow eyes glowing softly in the dim light. “You’re so tired,” he said, and it wasn’t an observation. It was a ache, shared.
“I’m okay,” you breathed, but the words were thin, transparent.
He shook his head slowly. “No. You’re not. You’ve been fighting your own battle here. Just as hard as mine.” He bent, his forehead coming to rest against yours. You could feel the day’s heat still radiating from his skin, smell the wild, dangerous scent of the outside on him. It should have been alien. Instead, it was Enjin. It was home, now.
“We stink,” you said with a weak laugh, the sound catching in your throat.
“We do,” he agreed, his voice a vibration against your skin. He didn’t move away. His nose brushed against yours.
His lips were so close. The kiss, when it came, wasn’t the hungry, desperate clash you might have expected after the tension of the week. It was slow. Acknowledging. A gentle press of lips that spoke of shared exhaustion, of profound gratitude for simply being here, together, in this quiet moment where the baby slept and the world outside held its breath. It tasted of dust and salt and something indefinably, uniquely them.
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “Come on,” he said, his voice still that intimate rumble. He straightened, offering you his hand.
You took it, letting him pull you to your feet. Your body protested, stiff and sore, but his arm came around you, supporting your weight as naturally as he supported Kaito’s. He led you not towards the bed, but towards the small, connecting bathroom. But not before settling Kairo in his bassinet.
He flipped the switch, and the harsh fluorescent light buzzed to life. He didn’t let go of you. Instead, he turned on the shower, adjusting the taps until steam began to fog the mirror. The sound of the water was a white-noise roar, a private waterfall in your tiny world.
Still fully clothed, he turned to you. His hands went to the hem of your soft, milk-stained shirt. His eyes asked a silent question. You answered with a slight nod.
He undressed you with the same lazy efficiency he did everything, but now his touch lingered. His knuckles grazed the soft skin of your belly, still rounded from pregnancy. His palms smoothed over your shoulders, kneading the tension there. When you stood bare before him, he couldn’t help but stare, he saw you—all of you, the weariness, the strength, the beautiful, changed landscape of your body. He pressed another kiss, this one to the hollow of your throat.
Then, he began on his own clothes. The tough, stained fabric of his pants, the shirt that smelled of sweat and alien blood. He let them fall to the tiled floor, adding his own chaos to yours. Standing before you, he was a map of his life—ink covered arms and chest, old scars, new scratches from the day’s work, and the powerful lines of a body built for survival. And now, for this.
The steam was thick now, curling around your ankles. He took your hand again and led you into the shower spray.
The water was blissfully hot, a torrent that sluiced away the grime, the sweat, the lingering adrenaline. He positioned you under the stream, letting it pound on your back and shoulders before gently turning you. He reached for the soap, working it into a lather in his big hands. He started with your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp with a firm, tender pressure that drew a low moan from you. He washed your neck, your back, his hands moving in slow, deliberate circles, washing away not just dirt, but the invisible weight of the week.
You took the soap from him then, returning the gesture. You lathered his chest, your fingers tracing the familiar ridges of muscle and the raised lines of old tattoos, washing away the dust of the Trench and the faint, acrid scent of his hunt. You watched as the water turned a faint, muddy grey at your feet, carrying the outside world away.
There were no more words. The roar of the water filled the space, a cocoon of sound and steam. He pulled you close, your slick skin sliding against his. Your arms wrapped around his waist, your cheek pressed against the steady, strong beat of his heart under his sternum. His chin rested on top of your head, his arms enveloping you completely. You stood like that for a long time, breathing together, letting the heat seep into your bones, letting the simple act of cleansing ground you.
“I love you…” you murmur into his chest, your voice muffled by the water and his skin.
He is quiet for a long moment, his chin still resting on your head. Then you feel the deep rumble of his voice as much as you hear it.
“I almost love you more than my Jinki,” he says.
The deadpan delivery, the sheer scale of the lie—comparing your ever growing bond to his sentimental affection for his tattered umbrella—is so perfectly, absurdly Enjin that you can’t help it. A snort of laughter escapes you, a real, free sound that has been rare this week.
“Liar,” you scoff, but it’s wrapped in a chuckle, and you hold him tighter, knowing the truth that his joke carries.
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