FIC: The Art of Parenting (4/4)
“The Art of Parenting”
Author: DJ_the_Writer
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Charles/OFC
Characters: Charles, Dethklok, OCs
Warnings: Not much, actually
Summary: Charles spends quality time with his nephew, or tries to.
This is it. The last bit of Metalocalypse fanfic I've written, and I'm basically done with this universe. So if you enjoyed any part of the series, please chime in! And if I left any threads hanging, let me know.
Chapter 4
In the end, Charles did what came naturally and let the airport gift shop to the work. Ordering Klokateers around for a girlfriend gift still felt inappropriate. Six hours and several time zones later, he had to hide it in his rolling luggage anyway, because grand romantic gestures on the tarmac were not and would never be his style. Angela was nowhere to be seen - it was another executive Gear who gave him the rundown of immediately problems that absolutely positively had to be dealt with before he even reached his office, which involved a lot of signatures before the jet had even been sent for refueling and a couple standing order clarifications about weapons shipments. As for the boys, they were fine, if alcoholic stupors could be considered fine, which they could. Everything was fine. He hadn’t traumatized his nephew and he was finally back in Mordhaus, where it was cool and dark and his headache was manageable. He still had a bit of a “I’ve been on a plane too long” fuzz in his brain but he could handle it.
Angela was at his desk, looking diligent. He thought it was a perfect time to bring out the candy and flowers. “Angela, I - “
“What? Who the fuck told you?” Angela peered over the desk. “You fucking knew? You bastard! You fucking bastard! Argh!” She almost hurled the paperweight over the desk at him. Almost. Then she ran into his apartment, slammed the door, and locked it. And started audibly crying.
Charles hit his watch. “82, get in here.” Because what the fuck.
82 did not disappoint. “Sir.” He saluted and closed the door behind her. “You got her flowers?”
Charles just shook his head. “Is there something I should know about?”
To his credit, 82 was a pretty thorough guy. He checked the door, finding it locked himself, and did not bother to mention the obvious out loud. He listened in for a moment. “Uh, maybe you should give her some time.”
Charles glared at him.
“You know, um, chicks?”
If he could have given 82 another scar with his eyes, he would have. He was certainly trying hard enough.
Somehow, 82 mumbled something about everything being fine, security-wise, and how he was needed somewhere else, and he slipped out. Mostly because Charles decided that strangling one of his best employees and hurling him through the window would be counter-productive. He knew for a fact that his office window was very hard to replace. Instead he just poured himself a glass of brandy from the emergency stash in the drawer, took a good gulp of it, and casually knocked on the door. “When you want to talk about, ah, whatever is bothering you, just let me know.” And then he prepared to sleep in his office chair, which reclined for that reason. It wouldn’t be the first time. And besides, it was really late in Mordland.
It was maybe thirty minutes and two glasses of brandy before the door opened slowly and with a very large creak. Angela seemed mostly done crying. “So who told you?”
“Who told me what?”
She looked at the very discarded airport gifts. “You got me flowers.”
“Um, I may have wanted to say that I missed you, and I was in an airport, so - “
“And candy.”
“They came in a two-for-one thing. And I did really miss you.”
Eyeing him less suspiciously, she opened the door all the way and went back in. He followed her to his living room, where there were empty tissue boxes and a hell of a lot of empty ... soda bottles?
“I had a whole speech planned out,” Angela said, taking a seat on the couch. “And then I just flipped out. I’m sorry. It wasn’t very professional of me.”
While all that was true, he thought it best not to say that. “What happened?” And why didn’t she just tell him over the phone?
“After the tour ... we got over the stomach flu, and I will still on Cipro.”
Charles just raised an eyebrow and hoped that would do the job.
“You can’t take antibiotics and birth control at the same time.” She didn’t wait long for any other nudging. “Charles, I’m pregnant.”
It was as if everything about nephews and death and the Metalocalypse and his whole life and everything that sat on his shoulders shrunk into a tiny ball, smaller and smaller, until he could barely see it and was embarrassed that he had even considered it so large. “Oh.”
“Oh? OH?”
So it was an incredibly stupid answer. Maybe the worst possible one. What was he supposed to say? Because he was really very terrified to say anything else. He didn’t know what to think, much less say.
“Is that seriously all you have? I tell you I’m pregnant with your child and you just stand there and say ‘Oh?’?”
OK, so he could understand why she was a little upset. And he was not handling this well. Wait, did she just say child? “What do you want me to say?” His voice didn’t sound like his, not since there existed some much younger, more innocent version of himself that was capable of being quiet and scared. “Just tell me what to say and I’ll say it.”
She swallowed what looked like a good deal of anger - or was it just frustration? - and refocused before throwing at him her answer. “Do you want this child?”
“Oh hell yes,” he answered without the words going through his brain first. They were just there and he said them and it was true.
This was finally, at long last, the right answer, because she leapt to her feet and hugged him. There was nothing hesitant or gentle about it. She grabbed him like she would never let go for fear of her life and this was the second time in twenty-four hours that someone was crying on his shoulder and he was OK with it. It was hard to tell if she was happy or sad. It was just raw emotion and he did what 82 suggested and just let her release it as he rubbed her back. He needed time to think anyway. How she’d been acting over the last few weeks, how strange she was over the phone, how 82 didn’t want to tell him something - that all made sense. There was time to deal with it, wasn’t there?
There wasn’t. The realization sunk deep within him to somewhere he couldn’t find. Angela was carrying his child - the only one he could ever have - and he wasn’t going to be there to see it.
Angela must have realized that too, between the moment she found out and now. It must have been agonizing. He felt like a selfish bastard just for not being there for that. “I’m sorry.”
“For this?” Meaning, this situation.
“No. For um, I don’t know. Not being around. And not ah, going to be around.”
She could finally detach from him, and he could see plainly that she had thought long and hard about this, and she didn’t have a forthcoming answer about it. There wasn’t one answer about it.
“What I said before - if you don’t want to have it because I’m not going to be here, you don’t have to. I would support you. Whatever you do, I’m going to support you.”
Angela tried to wipe away her tears and he did it with his thumb. “If you weren’t going to die - “
“Then yes, I would want to have this baby.” It appeared to relieve her that he didn’t have to think about it. He’d never given something so important so little thought in his life. “But it’s your decision so ... you shouldn’t really let that influence it. Or maybe you should. I don’t really have any experience in - “
Angela kissed him. He didn’t have to finish the sentence, which was good, because he didn’t know where it was going. And in general it was a good sign. “I don’t think I should be kissing you. You taste like a liquor bottle.”
“So that’s what the root beer bottles are about? Because I was wondering.”
“I love you.”
“I know,” he said, finally smiling. “I love you, too.”
He finally could sit down and relax, if this could ever be considered a relaxing situation. All of the turmoil inside him didn’t float away, but at least it was shared between them instead of two people fighting it separately. It gave him a cozy feeling - that and the liquor and jetlag and exhaustion. And the strange sensation that he was not going to die alone, even if the situation did not exactly imply that. He just felt less lonely.
“The flowers were really - “
“ - just because, yes. And we had been fighting a little so I thought it was appropriate. I didn’t want to fight with you.”
“I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. 82 found out because he made me have the check-up, and I asked him not to tell you, so it looked bad. And I haven’t been myself, really. For some reason.”
He chuckled with her. “It seems like a pretty good reason.”
“If I do this, you’ll be with me?” Angela’s hand tightened around his. “Until the end?”
“The very end,” Charles said. “And Selatcia will have to take me kicking and screaming.”
The End
Author: DJ_the_Writer
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Charles/OFC
Characters: Charles, Dethklok, OCs
Warnings: Not much, actually
Summary: Charles spends quality time with his nephew, or tries to.
This is it. The last bit of Metalocalypse fanfic I've written, and I'm basically done with this universe. So if you enjoyed any part of the series, please chime in! And if I left any threads hanging, let me know.
Chapter 4
In the end, Charles did what came naturally and let the airport gift shop to the work. Ordering Klokateers around for a girlfriend gift still felt inappropriate. Six hours and several time zones later, he had to hide it in his rolling luggage anyway, because grand romantic gestures on the tarmac were not and would never be his style. Angela was nowhere to be seen - it was another executive Gear who gave him the rundown of immediately problems that absolutely positively had to be dealt with before he even reached his office, which involved a lot of signatures before the jet had even been sent for refueling and a couple standing order clarifications about weapons shipments. As for the boys, they were fine, if alcoholic stupors could be considered fine, which they could. Everything was fine. He hadn’t traumatized his nephew and he was finally back in Mordhaus, where it was cool and dark and his headache was manageable. He still had a bit of a “I’ve been on a plane too long” fuzz in his brain but he could handle it.
Angela was at his desk, looking diligent. He thought it was a perfect time to bring out the candy and flowers. “Angela, I - “
“What? Who the fuck told you?” Angela peered over the desk. “You fucking knew? You bastard! You fucking bastard! Argh!” She almost hurled the paperweight over the desk at him. Almost. Then she ran into his apartment, slammed the door, and locked it. And started audibly crying.
Charles hit his watch. “82, get in here.” Because what the fuck.
82 did not disappoint. “Sir.” He saluted and closed the door behind her. “You got her flowers?”
Charles just shook his head. “Is there something I should know about?”
To his credit, 82 was a pretty thorough guy. He checked the door, finding it locked himself, and did not bother to mention the obvious out loud. He listened in for a moment. “Uh, maybe you should give her some time.”
Charles glared at him.
“You know, um, chicks?”
If he could have given 82 another scar with his eyes, he would have. He was certainly trying hard enough.
Somehow, 82 mumbled something about everything being fine, security-wise, and how he was needed somewhere else, and he slipped out. Mostly because Charles decided that strangling one of his best employees and hurling him through the window would be counter-productive. He knew for a fact that his office window was very hard to replace. Instead he just poured himself a glass of brandy from the emergency stash in the drawer, took a good gulp of it, and casually knocked on the door. “When you want to talk about, ah, whatever is bothering you, just let me know.” And then he prepared to sleep in his office chair, which reclined for that reason. It wouldn’t be the first time. And besides, it was really late in Mordland.
It was maybe thirty minutes and two glasses of brandy before the door opened slowly and with a very large creak. Angela seemed mostly done crying. “So who told you?”
“Who told me what?”
She looked at the very discarded airport gifts. “You got me flowers.”
“Um, I may have wanted to say that I missed you, and I was in an airport, so - “
“And candy.”
“They came in a two-for-one thing. And I did really miss you.”
Eyeing him less suspiciously, she opened the door all the way and went back in. He followed her to his living room, where there were empty tissue boxes and a hell of a lot of empty ... soda bottles?
“I had a whole speech planned out,” Angela said, taking a seat on the couch. “And then I just flipped out. I’m sorry. It wasn’t very professional of me.”
While all that was true, he thought it best not to say that. “What happened?” And why didn’t she just tell him over the phone?
“After the tour ... we got over the stomach flu, and I will still on Cipro.”
Charles just raised an eyebrow and hoped that would do the job.
“You can’t take antibiotics and birth control at the same time.” She didn’t wait long for any other nudging. “Charles, I’m pregnant.”
It was as if everything about nephews and death and the Metalocalypse and his whole life and everything that sat on his shoulders shrunk into a tiny ball, smaller and smaller, until he could barely see it and was embarrassed that he had even considered it so large. “Oh.”
“Oh? OH?”
So it was an incredibly stupid answer. Maybe the worst possible one. What was he supposed to say? Because he was really very terrified to say anything else. He didn’t know what to think, much less say.
“Is that seriously all you have? I tell you I’m pregnant with your child and you just stand there and say ‘Oh?’?”
OK, so he could understand why she was a little upset. And he was not handling this well. Wait, did she just say child? “What do you want me to say?” His voice didn’t sound like his, not since there existed some much younger, more innocent version of himself that was capable of being quiet and scared. “Just tell me what to say and I’ll say it.”
She swallowed what looked like a good deal of anger - or was it just frustration? - and refocused before throwing at him her answer. “Do you want this child?”
“Oh hell yes,” he answered without the words going through his brain first. They were just there and he said them and it was true.
This was finally, at long last, the right answer, because she leapt to her feet and hugged him. There was nothing hesitant or gentle about it. She grabbed him like she would never let go for fear of her life and this was the second time in twenty-four hours that someone was crying on his shoulder and he was OK with it. It was hard to tell if she was happy or sad. It was just raw emotion and he did what 82 suggested and just let her release it as he rubbed her back. He needed time to think anyway. How she’d been acting over the last few weeks, how strange she was over the phone, how 82 didn’t want to tell him something - that all made sense. There was time to deal with it, wasn’t there?
There wasn’t. The realization sunk deep within him to somewhere he couldn’t find. Angela was carrying his child - the only one he could ever have - and he wasn’t going to be there to see it.
Angela must have realized that too, between the moment she found out and now. It must have been agonizing. He felt like a selfish bastard just for not being there for that. “I’m sorry.”
“For this?” Meaning, this situation.
“No. For um, I don’t know. Not being around. And not ah, going to be around.”
She could finally detach from him, and he could see plainly that she had thought long and hard about this, and she didn’t have a forthcoming answer about it. There wasn’t one answer about it.
“What I said before - if you don’t want to have it because I’m not going to be here, you don’t have to. I would support you. Whatever you do, I’m going to support you.”
Angela tried to wipe away her tears and he did it with his thumb. “If you weren’t going to die - “
“Then yes, I would want to have this baby.” It appeared to relieve her that he didn’t have to think about it. He’d never given something so important so little thought in his life. “But it’s your decision so ... you shouldn’t really let that influence it. Or maybe you should. I don’t really have any experience in - “
Angela kissed him. He didn’t have to finish the sentence, which was good, because he didn’t know where it was going. And in general it was a good sign. “I don’t think I should be kissing you. You taste like a liquor bottle.”
“So that’s what the root beer bottles are about? Because I was wondering.”
“I love you.”
“I know,” he said, finally smiling. “I love you, too.”
He finally could sit down and relax, if this could ever be considered a relaxing situation. All of the turmoil inside him didn’t float away, but at least it was shared between them instead of two people fighting it separately. It gave him a cozy feeling - that and the liquor and jetlag and exhaustion. And the strange sensation that he was not going to die alone, even if the situation did not exactly imply that. He just felt less lonely.
“The flowers were really - “
“ - just because, yes. And we had been fighting a little so I thought it was appropriate. I didn’t want to fight with you.”
“I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. 82 found out because he made me have the check-up, and I asked him not to tell you, so it looked bad. And I haven’t been myself, really. For some reason.”
He chuckled with her. “It seems like a pretty good reason.”
“If I do this, you’ll be with me?” Angela’s hand tightened around his. “Until the end?”
“The very end,” Charles said. “And Selatcia will have to take me kicking and screaming.”
The End