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scubatankfilledwithfartsThe whole situation was strange. Well, not the how—he knows how it works, and has unfortunately heard how it worked out for these two. Loudly. Bitchingly and moaningly. Granted, so has the rest of their crew, and Badou’s crew, but still. He’s added something to the list of things he hates: women, children, and lovingly expectant couples who frequent.
Everything changed in an instant [and so what if he’s used to it, in his former life, in this current dream—someone you love might leave with a lipstick stain one night and have a gun trained on your spine the next], scrambling more frantic than on the tail of a high bounty they inevitably lose. Jet polishing up on his cooking [and the ‘what to expect when you’re expecting’ books he looks over his teeny glasses at], and the gentle light show Ed programmed, best suited to a newborn’s senses to not overstimulate—
Even the dog got into it! At the very least, during these months when everyone’s lives are turned upside down he meets the red gaze of Heine, and the two instantly come to the same sinking conclusion: everyone else is crazy and they’re the only sane ones. Actually, that’s a normal thought.
And when it all comes to a head? Spike (and Jet too) have heard and seen some awful horrors of the world, but Faye in labor, and Badou as support?
Spike is seriously considering faking his own death this time and leaving planetside. Seriously. He means it this time. There are no headphones loud enough, no nurse glares strong enough at every started-and-aborted cigarette lighting, every little cry of Edward cheering from beside him, Jet’s pacing—
[there’s an ear-splitting wail with cosmic meaning behind it
The air shifts, the trio all freeze as if in place]
Twenty minutes later Spike doesn’t know who’s trembling for what—Jet in nervousness, Edward wiggling in excitement [or his own twitching shoulders], but they’re admitted to see the patients.
“I’m surprised to not find you on the floor,” Jet says, his gaze fixed on a paler-than-normal Badou. He has a chair scooted so close to Faye’s bed his knees press crevices into the mattress, but he has the energy to give their oldest member (untechnically) the middle finger in greeting.
Faye looks—
“You look like shit,” Spike also supplies helpfully, and he has to admit medicine has come a long way because Faye doesn’t look tempted to throw the monitor beside her at his head. Her sharp green glare pierces him, but she’s all smiles when Edward tip-toes up to her bed on socked feet, eyes round and curious.
“Baby Ed-phew is finally here!” She crows, muted, for her, when she peeks into the swaddled bundle in their crewmate’s arms.
“And you get to be the first to hold him.” Faye speaks for the first time. Her voice slightly hoarse, and tears still line the corners of her eyes- but there’s something about Faye. A war was fought here, and won, and her victory shines upon her like a halo—nothing angelic there—just something caught before the sun.
Careful, careful hands place the little thing in Ed’s arms, mold them softly into the shape of the infant, head supported and all that. The girl is quiet for the first time in her entire life, just staring.
Jet is also all smiles as if he’s the one who popped out the little guy, just as proud as his parents. Pride glows in his gaze, watching their ward and their new pain in the butt get the know each other.
“So what are you going to name him?” He asks.
The doting, stupid, soppy, annoying couple give each other knowing looks that still make his skin crawl.
“We were thinking,” Badou pipes in, voice more hoarse than that reedy rasp of his [they had also heard him screaming beneath Faye’s threats], “of Sean Jet Nails Valentine.”
And he beams wide. There’s only the sounds of beeping monitors, the cooing infant, and Jet sniffling back tears.
“O-oh…that’s a real strong name.” Their defacto leader-dad-mom-biggest advocate-pain in the ass chokes, and reaches over to squeeze Badou’s shoulder gently, gratefully.
The baby is passed around after that, in this tiny little world with only the six of them in it. Spike watches the infant silently from behind Jet’s bulk. He isn’t hiding himself, just observing.
[when’s the last time something good came to them, just for them, just for always
Has he always been this pessimistic? Maybe he’s getting sick or something]
He really must be losing it, getting sick, something, because he doesn’t notice when Badou’s skinny frame ducks in beside him until there’s a loud sigh.
“Don’t you want to see him?” He asks, tilting his head to the infant now returned to his father’s arms. The return of the King.
“What? No, I don’t need to. I know what the two of you look like, I can just mash that up in my head.”
Actually it’s a scary image, and he isn’t interested.
The redhead sighs again.
“Don’t be jealous, we’ll name the next one after you,” he reassures Spike. A stupid, equally dopey grin crosses his face.
“THE NEXT WHAT--??” is snarled from the bed, and Badou definitely doesn’t cower into Spike’s side as if the cowboy will protect him.
“Anywaaaay—” he continues, “here, hold your nephew, he won’t do anything—”
“No, don’t give your brat to me, do not—”
The theme of his life is this: he’s backed into a corner and he runs. He’s left with pain in the ass choices. An armful of baby is part of that. He’s very light, that’s the first thought Spike has. Lighter than an empty lunch bag. Spike curls his arms a little more firmly, protectively, over the tiny form.
He peers down into that little face, tiny wisps of dark hair crown the squishy looking head. A tiny fist flails for a moment before settling in the sleeve of Spike’s suit.
Oh. A lightning bolt—a storm over the planet. Spike feels like this: anger is kept between his ribs, easy to slip a knife through. Fear at the tips of his fingers, always moving. He locks up his hope in his throat, tipped back and bared for teeth, for a swig of booze—
“Spike?” Badou leans over, chin hooked on his shoulder. “You’ve been holding him for twenty minutes now. Gonna give him back?”
“He’s comfortable, leave him alone.”
He holds an entire sun in the crook of his arm, and his eye that sees the past, and the one that follows the future, synch for the first time when looking into milky, unfocused eyes.