Hatching 2/??
anonymous
March 24 2012, 07:18:00 UTC
She shifted her weight against him unexpectedly and Wrex automatically put a supportive arm just beneath her hump. Everyone thought all krogan were massive, hulking beasts, but she felt too thin to him, her hump smaller than it ought to be for a soon-to-be-busy mother. Wrex trusted she wasn’t harming herself, but doing the bare minimum couldn’t be the best for her long term, either.
“How long has it been since you’ve slept, Bakara?” he asked.
“Too long,” she admitted, “I keep dreaming. Dreaming about all the times I have sat here, waiting, only to watch my eggs do nothing but wither. Dreaming of hatchlings that died within hours, in my arms.”
“It’ll be different, this time,” Wrex said. While he had faith that the salarian hadn’t done wrong by them, he still felt like he was spouting platitudes. It was one thing to feel like they’d won in the heat of the moment, and another to be looking over a clutch of eggs, centuries of experience saying that none of them would hatch, and if any did, most would die anyway.
They weren’t an affectionate people, but Bakara bumped her head under his jaw and exhaled the weariest sigh he had heard in his life. He didn’t dare move, and while krogan weren’t exactly suited to comfort, he rubbed her back in a slow circle, hoping it did something. Wrex was honestly just glad to be allowed to touch her - she’d all but banished him from his own den while she’d been pregnant.
It wasn’t long before she was asleep, and Wrex felt just a touch guilty for being glad they were in private. Not everyone on Tuchanka had a so well-appointed den, although considering their planet, it was still just a glorified hole in the ground. Still. It was warm, and warmer still in the nursery, and he couldn’t imagine how it looked, Bakara half in his lap and sleeping while he stroked her back with unapologetic affection. She’d done so much for their people, and her bravery was staggering. If anyone had earned soft, unsolicited affection, it was her.
He’d seen the scars she bore from the experiments and procedures, and they spoke to a greater brutality than he had ever seen on the battlefield.
Both of them had come through it. In the privacy of Wrex’s den they were both bereft of their garments of office. Her ornate shaman garb exchanged for comfortable robes, and his armor for a loose pair of pants. Wrex was usually relieved to be out of the armor, but an hour later he was itching to put it back on, convinced he’d need it for whatever damned crisis popped up next.
“How long has it been since you’ve slept, Bakara?” he asked.
“Too long,” she admitted, “I keep dreaming. Dreaming about all the times I have sat here, waiting, only to watch my eggs do nothing but wither. Dreaming of hatchlings that died within hours, in my arms.”
“It’ll be different, this time,” Wrex said. While he had faith that the salarian hadn’t done wrong by them, he still felt like he was spouting platitudes. It was one thing to feel like they’d won in the heat of the moment, and another to be looking over a clutch of eggs, centuries of experience saying that none of them would hatch, and if any did, most would die anyway.
They weren’t an affectionate people, but Bakara bumped her head under his jaw and exhaled the weariest sigh he had heard in his life. He didn’t dare move, and while krogan weren’t exactly suited to comfort, he rubbed her back in a slow circle, hoping it did something. Wrex was honestly just glad to be allowed to touch her - she’d all but banished him from his own den while she’d been pregnant.
It wasn’t long before she was asleep, and Wrex felt just a touch guilty for being glad they were in private. Not everyone on Tuchanka had a so well-appointed den, although considering their planet, it was still just a glorified hole in the ground. Still. It was warm, and warmer still in the nursery, and he couldn’t imagine how it looked, Bakara half in his lap and sleeping while he stroked her back with unapologetic affection. She’d done so much for their people, and her bravery was staggering. If anyone had earned soft, unsolicited affection, it was her.
He’d seen the scars she bore from the experiments and procedures, and they spoke to a greater brutality than he had ever seen on the battlefield.
Both of them had come through it. In the privacy of Wrex’s den they were both bereft of their garments of office. Her ornate shaman garb exchanged for comfortable robes, and his armor for a loose pair of pants. Wrex was usually relieved to be out of the armor, but an hour later he was itching to put it back on, convinced he’d need it for whatever damned crisis popped up next.
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