Hospitality - Knives/Milly - PG
Title: Hospitality
Rating: PG for, uh, pregnancy and violent thoughts
Fandom/Pairing: Trigun (anime); Knives+Mily (yeah, you read that right)
Word Count: 1086
Summary: Knives is my master of repression and denial, even when I write him as heterosexual!
Disclaimer: Nightow-sama owns all and pwns me with his awesome.
Warnings: Darkfluff. I think I have just invented. Pregnancy, tea, and Knives being the bastard that he is. Like I said, darkfluff.
By the time he wakes up in the morning most everyone in the apartment building he lives in is gone already. They’re all at work or whatever. Digging pipelines or sitting behind desks pushing paperwork. He really doesn’t care. The only other person, other than an unsupervised ten year old staying home with a bad cold, is puking in the bathroom across the hall. He gets up slowly and doesn’t bother to dress. His legs shake with every step he takes to the kitchen. Even though he nearly collapses into the stiff, wobbly chair at the kitchen table he manages to sit erect and fold his shaky hands together into something like composure.
He doesn’t look in mirrors anymore, though there is one in the bathroom and one in the hall he has to walk through to get to the kitchen. He can feel deep bruises under his eyes even though he sleeps fifteen hours a day and with his hair long and curling he can see black that seeps from his temples, but he can look down his arms and his chest and there are no scars. At least there’s that. There are no scars.
He still feels like he’d rather be dead than live like this.
“Good morning Mr. Knives!” She is chipper even though moments ago she was brushing the taste of vomit out of her mouth. He is amazed. He hasn’t met someone so very positive in, well, in nearly a hundred and fifty years.
“Would you like some breakfast?” She puts a hand on her lower back and leans. A smile is always on her face, though he can tell from here that her back is strained in a most painful way.
“Brandy.” He states, cold and annoyed.
“Ah-ah!” She admonishes him with a waving finger. Her joints are all swollen he observes. She must be in a lot of pain. What for? To bear some fatherless bastard of a child that is only going to be miserable and die. With the healthcare around here she probably won’t even survive her painful pregnancy.
“Tea then.” He always asks for alcohol. It isn’t like he can get drunk, everyone knows this, but still. They are purposefully denying him thinks he might actually enjoy. Or so he thinks.
She staggers heavily to the cupboards, straining upwards, unable to go on tiptoe to reach the tea box on the high shelves. He chuckles inside his own head at the sight of her. Finally he gets up on shaking feet and staggers, as gracefully as one can stagger, to the cupboard and easily reaches over her for the box.
He drops it into her hands from above. Then backs away and collapses into his seat again. She stares at him. They’ve been doing this every morning and it still seems to shock her that he might be helpful.
“Thank you Mr. Knives!” She chirps. He doesn’t reply.
It’s always a struggle for her to make his tea and a large breakfast for herself. He doesn’t offer to help. She is short of breath the whole time, but she still chatters mindless at him, sometimes he even replies. It’s almost like having a conversation.
She sets her breakfast down and pushes a cup of steaming, but tasteless, tea towards his side of the table. He sips it, letting it scald his lips and tongue before he swallows. Funny, he never used to have anything like a masochistic habit before.
He wonders, once again for the millionth time since he regained consciousness, why she would go through with this. There are so many ways to end a pregnancy, and even with someone like his brother around she could probably have aborted without anyone noticing.
Is it because of some misguided memory of that traitor Chapel? Does she think she’s acting out of “love” for a dead man? This could kill her. Most likely it will. Even then, even for love or out of a foolish lack of fear, why bring another mewling violent child into this world? Aren’t there enough of them already? Aren’t they miserable enough? When will they all learn?
If he realizes this might be considered worrying, even having concern for the woman with blue eyes and dark familiarly cut hair who is always there and who acts like she might care, then he doesn’t notice. If there’s something about the shape of her face and her everpresent smile that reminds him of someone he used to think of as a mother, than it passes through his mind without notice. And if there’s something about her selflessness, the way she bears pain and looks after him when he doesn’t need it that reminds him of an overeager child he raised, then it really doesn’t matter. And worst of all if there’s something about her unwavering optimism and love for that traitor that reminds him of his brother, well the comparison just can’t be drawn.
His tea is gone and he’s drinking from an empty cup. She looks like she needs to go lie down, but she stays with him, staring at the half-finished breakfast that she’ll come back to later. She probably won’t even warm it up, he surmises. He reaches across the table for some bit of food, it doesn’t real matter. She hands it to him, getting both their hands covered in grease. His shaking fingers brush her swollen knuckles.
“You should be resting.” He says, having swallowed a bit of buttered toast. She blinks at him and then smiles.
“Thank you, Mr. Knives.” But really it’s obvious. He’s calling her a fool, maybe not in a way she understands. Obviously.
She gets up, leaning hard on the table, knocking his elbows in a way that makes his whole forearm shake for a few minutes. Maybe it’s nerve damage. Maybe he still has a chance of dying.
Or not.
He thinks, again, of the child within her. If, and only if, it doesn’t kill her. There is no father and no one is ever here in this empty building. He’s learned that against all odds, he’s good with children.
It only seems fair to take something from that traitor, the one weak link in the chain that broke and sent his whole plan, the plan he’d spent his entire life perfecting.
She presses a kiss to his forehead, which he realizes is clammy with sweat, must wetter than her chapped lips are.
Yes, it’s only fair. Someone has to raise the child.
See? I can write cute. Uh, sort of.
Rating: PG for, uh, pregnancy and violent thoughts
Fandom/Pairing: Trigun (anime); Knives+Mily (yeah, you read that right)
Word Count: 1086
Summary: Knives is my master of repression and denial, even when I write him as heterosexual!
Disclaimer: Nightow-sama owns all and pwns me with his awesome.
Warnings: Darkfluff. I think I have just invented. Pregnancy, tea, and Knives being the bastard that he is. Like I said, darkfluff.
By the time he wakes up in the morning most everyone in the apartment building he lives in is gone already. They’re all at work or whatever. Digging pipelines or sitting behind desks pushing paperwork. He really doesn’t care. The only other person, other than an unsupervised ten year old staying home with a bad cold, is puking in the bathroom across the hall. He gets up slowly and doesn’t bother to dress. His legs shake with every step he takes to the kitchen. Even though he nearly collapses into the stiff, wobbly chair at the kitchen table he manages to sit erect and fold his shaky hands together into something like composure.
He doesn’t look in mirrors anymore, though there is one in the bathroom and one in the hall he has to walk through to get to the kitchen. He can feel deep bruises under his eyes even though he sleeps fifteen hours a day and with his hair long and curling he can see black that seeps from his temples, but he can look down his arms and his chest and there are no scars. At least there’s that. There are no scars.
He still feels like he’d rather be dead than live like this.
“Good morning Mr. Knives!” She is chipper even though moments ago she was brushing the taste of vomit out of her mouth. He is amazed. He hasn’t met someone so very positive in, well, in nearly a hundred and fifty years.
“Would you like some breakfast?” She puts a hand on her lower back and leans. A smile is always on her face, though he can tell from here that her back is strained in a most painful way.
“Brandy.” He states, cold and annoyed.
“Ah-ah!” She admonishes him with a waving finger. Her joints are all swollen he observes. She must be in a lot of pain. What for? To bear some fatherless bastard of a child that is only going to be miserable and die. With the healthcare around here she probably won’t even survive her painful pregnancy.
“Tea then.” He always asks for alcohol. It isn’t like he can get drunk, everyone knows this, but still. They are purposefully denying him thinks he might actually enjoy. Or so he thinks.
She staggers heavily to the cupboards, straining upwards, unable to go on tiptoe to reach the tea box on the high shelves. He chuckles inside his own head at the sight of her. Finally he gets up on shaking feet and staggers, as gracefully as one can stagger, to the cupboard and easily reaches over her for the box.
He drops it into her hands from above. Then backs away and collapses into his seat again. She stares at him. They’ve been doing this every morning and it still seems to shock her that he might be helpful.
“Thank you Mr. Knives!” She chirps. He doesn’t reply.
It’s always a struggle for her to make his tea and a large breakfast for herself. He doesn’t offer to help. She is short of breath the whole time, but she still chatters mindless at him, sometimes he even replies. It’s almost like having a conversation.
She sets her breakfast down and pushes a cup of steaming, but tasteless, tea towards his side of the table. He sips it, letting it scald his lips and tongue before he swallows. Funny, he never used to have anything like a masochistic habit before.
He wonders, once again for the millionth time since he regained consciousness, why she would go through with this. There are so many ways to end a pregnancy, and even with someone like his brother around she could probably have aborted without anyone noticing.
Is it because of some misguided memory of that traitor Chapel? Does she think she’s acting out of “love” for a dead man? This could kill her. Most likely it will. Even then, even for love or out of a foolish lack of fear, why bring another mewling violent child into this world? Aren’t there enough of them already? Aren’t they miserable enough? When will they all learn?
If he realizes this might be considered worrying, even having concern for the woman with blue eyes and dark familiarly cut hair who is always there and who acts like she might care, then he doesn’t notice. If there’s something about the shape of her face and her everpresent smile that reminds him of someone he used to think of as a mother, than it passes through his mind without notice. And if there’s something about her selflessness, the way she bears pain and looks after him when he doesn’t need it that reminds him of an overeager child he raised, then it really doesn’t matter. And worst of all if there’s something about her unwavering optimism and love for that traitor that reminds him of his brother, well the comparison just can’t be drawn.
His tea is gone and he’s drinking from an empty cup. She looks like she needs to go lie down, but she stays with him, staring at the half-finished breakfast that she’ll come back to later. She probably won’t even warm it up, he surmises. He reaches across the table for some bit of food, it doesn’t real matter. She hands it to him, getting both their hands covered in grease. His shaking fingers brush her swollen knuckles.
“You should be resting.” He says, having swallowed a bit of buttered toast. She blinks at him and then smiles.
“Thank you, Mr. Knives.” But really it’s obvious. He’s calling her a fool, maybe not in a way she understands. Obviously.
She gets up, leaning hard on the table, knocking his elbows in a way that makes his whole forearm shake for a few minutes. Maybe it’s nerve damage. Maybe he still has a chance of dying.
Or not.
He thinks, again, of the child within her. If, and only if, it doesn’t kill her. There is no father and no one is ever here in this empty building. He’s learned that against all odds, he’s good with children.
It only seems fair to take something from that traitor, the one weak link in the chain that broke and sent his whole plan, the plan he’d spent his entire life perfecting.
She presses a kiss to his forehead, which he realizes is clammy with sweat, must wetter than her chapped lips are.
Yes, it’s only fair. Someone has to raise the child.
See? I can write cute. Uh, sort of.