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Things were going okay at the start.
The ship's engines were humming with already familiar ambient noise from his first trip to Thraxa, nearly silent, despite incredible speeds they were moving at. His baby brother seemed to be fine, babbling at Mark and cooing adorably at the view of the countless stars in the ship’s biggest window. And Mark himself tried to keep his mind off things by joining him. Gazing at pretty stars was much better than worry himself sick wondering about what he is going to do when they arrive, his mom’s reaction at the literal alien baby or worse, about what might be happening to his father.
He might have not forgiven him yet, he might not forgive him ever if anything, but that didn’t mean Mark wanted the man dead. He was still his father. He… loved him. Even after all the shit Nolan put him through, he still loved him.
Thinking about how he might be dying or even already dead was fucking Mark up. So yeah, pretty stars. Cute baby. Mom. Amber. His probably ruined academic record…
But then a couple days passed and the baby decided to stop being cute.
It’s like something snapped and their tiny ship was suddenly filled with the overwhelming noise of a baby wailing his little head off.
And look, Mark spent last month helping Thraxans rebuild their planet, okay? He didn't do any child rearing or even simple babysitting. Sure, he visited his new baby brother here and there, worried about how he and Andressa were holding up without dad. And for all those visits the baby was cute and seemed to like Mark just fine, either talking to him in that adorably nonsensical baby chatter or just snuggling up close, perfectly content to be simply held. For brothers with origins separated by a galaxy or two and connected only through one asshole father they were doing fine. But this? The thunderous crying, rivers of tears and snot and frankly scary quick breathing? Mark wasn’t equipped to deal with that.
Oh, he tried.
Slightly desperate attempts to reassure the kid with nicest, softest babytalk Mark could manage produced zero results. He checked his diapers, which turned out to be perfectly fine. He tried to feed him with weird baby goo Andressa stocked on their ship only to get splattered with it, because his brother couldn’t just reject the food, he had to flail his little arms and get this stuff all over Mark.
Cursing, he attempted to scrub it off himself, but the goo stubbornly clung to the fabric of his alien toga. He cursed once again. He only had so many spares with him and there was no way to do laundry on the ship. If things continue to go this way he might end up having all his clothes dirty and stinking of multiple days of left out food.
The baby continued to wail, not amused even by succeeding in defeating Mark in this feeding session. Mark sighed, awkwardly slipping half of his tunic off, letting stained fabric to hang around his waist, and lifted the baby up. Maybe he needed to rock him or bounce him or whatever crying babies liked to do to calm down? If he is lucky enough the baby might even calm down from simply being held.
But of course Mark could never be this lucky.
The baby didn’t stop crying or anything, his sobs and screams as loud and heartbreaking as ever. Well, at least his breathing got slightly better? It lost the scary almost choking rhythm from before Mark got him in his arms. He also clung to him tight, stopping with flailing, which might be a good thing too?
Head already throbbing from the non-stop crying, Mark walked around their tiny ship, rocking the baby all the while. It didn’t seem to do much, but there was nothing else he could do. Andressa didn’t pack them any toys or other distractions. Little dude only had Mark. Something tightened in his chest at the thought.
Feeling like crying himself, Mark started awkwardly reciting his favorite Seance Dog issues. Maybe some storytelling would make the baby feel better? Kids like listening to fairy tales, right?
The baby continued to cry. Mark’s headache got worse, as well as the tight feeling in his chest which at this point stopped feeling like a simple emotional response to the stress and many, many bad thoughts he couldn’t really avoid. Distantly, he wondered if he didn’t really heal all that well after all. Ever since he took that beating from other viltrumites he would catch himself feeling an odd strain here. Maybe they fucked up something in there that even his healing couldn’t fix?
Whatever it was, he hoped it won’t get worse. He really couldn’t afford to come down with something while trapped on a spaceship for weeks to come and being a tiny baby’s sole caretaker.
******
It did get worse. Of course it did.
Mark was just lucky like this.
There definitely was something fucked up within his chest, because the wrongness of his state didn’t end with just feeling of tightness and constriction. In mere days since the beginning of their trip Mark’s chest started to ache. It even swelled up, the muscle expanding in a slightly terrifying fashion. He didn’t know if whatever was wrong with him was an unhealed injury or undetected infection. His skin seemed alright color-wise, but it felt hot and touching his pecs actually hurt. His chest got so sensitive he couldn’t even bear the touch of the fabric on it. He was forced to leave all his tunics half hanging on his hips, they were more skirts than togas now.
And everything was getting even worse stupidly fast, with more and more symptoms piling on top of each other. Aside from the chest, Mark kept getting sharp pangs of pain in his stomach too. The lymph nodes all over his body, but especially those on the neck and groin, had swelled and pulsed with constant ache. He would get hot spells now and then, and feel thirsty and pathetically weepy.
Mark felt uncomfortable and wrong all the time, ill-fitted in his own body for some reason.
Still, it would be fine, he could have sucked everything up, it’s not like he didn’t have endured much worse injuries after all.
What wasn’t fine was the baby.
Ever since his initial outburst, his baby brother didn’t stop crying for longer than a couple hours. He simply refused to stop throwing a tantrum after a tantrum, no matter what Mark tried to do. Telling him stories or attempting to play didn’t help. He didn’t seem to be sick, but Mark was terrified he might come down with something from the way he got incredibly picky about the food. Not to mention he certainly cried enough to be at risk of dehydration.
At this point Mark was more terrified than he was tired. He wasn’t sure if constant crying wouldn’t fuck the baby’s health up. He could get over his own lack of sleep or headache or whatever the hell was going on with his chest and insides. But a baby, his baby brother getting sick or maybe even dying in his arms?
Mark didn’t think he would be able to cope with that.
He messed with the ship’s computer but wasn’t able to contact anyone or dig up anything of value. He couldn’t read Thraxan language, so some files that came up on the screens did nothing for him. He lost count on how many times he cursed himself out for not being more thorough with demanding childcare instructions off Andressa. He was angry with her too. What did she think would happen?
She knew Mark is a fuck up. She must have known it. He failed to protect her people, failed to stand up to dad, even failed to make him stay in the first place. What made her think her baby will be fine with Mark?
Hot tears welled up in Mark’s eyes, the everweakening resolve to keep his shit together finally abandoning him completely. He sobbed, rubbing fingers against his burning eyes in a weak attempt to stop tears from flowing, but that did nothing to subdue them. For a while he just cried, curling up on the floor, pressed close to the control panels and trying to ignore how the baby’s wailing got even more miserable at the sight of Mark’s own tears.
Eventually he had to snap out of it, or more like was snapped out of it.
The baby must have gotten truly scared by his breakdown, because the poor thing crawled all the way from his pen to Mark’s trembling form, and was now desperately clutching at his leg with little pudgy fingers. Sighing shakily, he rubbed at his face for the last time, and sat the kid on his lap.
"Sorry, buddy. I… you shouldn’t have seen me like this," he apologized quietly, shame scalding hot in his aching chest. "You are having a hard enough time as it is."
The baby who didn’t stop sniffling and whining even for a second, let out a high pitched wail of distress, but didn’t dissolve into more sobbing, thank god. It just snuggled closer to Mark’s chest, clinging to him with a whimper. Mark sharply sucked in a breath and had to fight to stop himself from flinching. Even though realistically the baby would never be able to damage him, his chest already was aching something fierce, and even the touch of baby’s tiny fingers felt agonizing on the sore muscle.
"Ouch," he gritted out, and tried to reposition the baby in a way that would put less pressure on Mark’s chest and keep the tiny hands away from it, but failed. The baby only clung on harder.
What the hell? It really hurt.
"Buddy," he muttered weakly, "let’s not… Ouch! S-stop. Bad baby!" he cried as the kid started to scratch at him. Little nails somehow hurting more than any knife on both of their planets ever could.
But the baby just ignored Mark’s growing discomfort, continuing to paw at his now positively throbbing chest.
"Shit," he hissed, suddenly feeling dizzy, which was ridiculous.
Whatever it was ailing him, he couldn’t afford to be this pathetic. It was just some pain. He had to take care of his baby brother.
Losing his patience, he lifted the baby up and away from himself, holding him in stretched out arms as far as possible. The baby, of course, started to wail again. Hell, it might have been the loudest he had gotten so far. Mark’s head was killing him.
Gritting his teeth, he focused on maintaining his breathing and ignoring cold pangs of fast growing fear. He will be fine. He has to.
"Maybe you are hungry?" he grumbled, and winced because it seemed like his question was recognized and the mere suggestion of food caused the baby honest to god shriek.
He dragged himself upright and spent the next half an hour trying and failing to feed his brother.
No matter what he did, the kid just refused to eat anything. Mark’s face and torso were covered with what felt like a day worth of feeding goo, now wasted uselessly. He felt like crying again.
"You are going to be the death of me," he whined, and awkwardly wiped off the worst of it with one of the rags he tore off from his very first soiled toga.
The baby just screamed louder.
Sighing, Mark lifted the baby up, this time allowing him to snuggle close and claw at his chest without protest, because it seemed to be the only thing capable of moderately calming him down.
The baby was still crying, even if slightly more quiet. He paced for a bit in the tight space of the ship, but had to stop when a sudden wave of heat and dizziness struck him again. The pain in his chest grew to be downright agonizing, and to top this shitcake of misery off, his stomach pangs started too, sharper than ever. Feeling overcome with dread and defeat, he dropped into the pilot's chair.
"Are we really fucked?" he whisper-screamed, incapable of snuffing the hysteria out from his voice. The baby started fidgeting, obviously picking on it. "I… I don’t know what to do. You are not getting better, and whatever the fuck wrong with me is only getting worse. I don’t know how to fix it. What if it gets even worse and I pass out? Who will take care of you?" he cried, his own breathing growing ragged enough to match the baby’s, laboured by sobbing.
His brother didn’t seem to understand anything but the fact that Mark is losing his shit. He quieted for a minute, staring at Mark with huge, helpless eyes, confused and lost.
Of course he wouldn’t understand. He was just a baby. Torn away from his home planet and mother, who might be dead or dying by now. Abandoned by their father, who also might be dead or dying. All alone with just Mark to rely on, and Mark… Mark was useless.
Tears sprung out on his eyes again, and even harsher pain burst in his chest as he failed to hold off the heaving sob. Desperate for relief from the feelings of despair, he let out a couple of whines, shaking like a leaf on the wind before freezing still.
His face felt hot and wet, from tears probably, but so did his chest.
Feeling more shocked than afraid, he slowly glanced down. And blinked. And again. There was… There was something on his chest. Some white liquid dripping down his chest and stomach. It was… It was coming from his nipples?
He had no idea what was happening.
Feeling hot and dazed, he let go of the baby and carefully touched the liquid. It was warm. He lifted fingers stained with it up to his nose and sniffed. It… It smelt like milk.
What the fuck? What the fucking fuck?! Breath quickening, he showed fingers into his mouth, praying for all gods to taste pus or whatever it might be that infection can produce in the body and not…
It was milk. It was fucking milk.
Milk.
It was a milk from Mark’s fucking chest. He… He made it.
Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. What the hell was going on. Was he finally losing it? Was he out and just dreaming some fucked up shit?
Yeah, that seemed to be it. He must be sleeping, right? There is no way he isn’t. What a messed up dream. He must be going crazy for his brain to come up with that.
His chest pinged with sharp pain again and he flinched. The baby snuggled into him again while he was spacing out, and was now pawing at his chest again. More liquid… More milk came out.
What a weird dream. Mark really wanted to wake up now. Preferably before his brother, who was finally calm for some reason, decided to go into the "putting everything in my mouth" phase and try to taste Mark’s- Mark’s milk.
Fuck, just the thought of it was nauseating. Why was he nauseous in his dream?
On the same note, why was he feeling pain? Aren’t you supposed to wake up when you feel pain?
The baby cooed and stretched, his little face reaching up to Mark’s chest and…
"Fuck! No!" he jumped, snatching the baby away from himself.
The baby, of course, immediately bursted into tears once again. He was so loud Mark’s ears were starting to actually ache. Moreover, he genuinely felt bad for some reason. Horrible guilt crushed his insides, as he tried to calm the baby down and failed miserably, as always.
"Don’t cry, don’t cry," he begged. "You can’t drink it. It’s not food. I don’t know why it tastes like milk, but there is no way it’s milk. No way."
He didn’t sound very convincing even to his own ears.
And the way the baby was struggling in his arms was scaring him even more than he already was. He was crying so hard Mark started to fear he might pass out or have a seizure or something. Wasn’t this a thing? That babies can cry too hard and have a seizure? Mark wasn’t sure, and even if he was, that was an alien baby. Earth babies’ things hardly applied to him.
Still, it was terrifying.
Mark’s mind was racing miles a minute, desperately trying to produce a solution to whatever was going on and coming up blank. He needed… He needed to calm the baby down. Mark literally couldn’t think with how loud the baby was being and how scared it was making him feel.
He tried to rock him again, but had to stop when the baby reached up to suckle on him again.
Fuck.
Fuck!
How is Mark going to handle the baby, when he seemed to be so determined to put his mouth on his chest and lap at the shit it was leaking with?
How did he end up in this situation? What is even his life?
Why the fuck his father had to involve him? Why the fuck was he born not a normal human, but a viltrumite? He almost sobbed, before stilling once again.
Mark was a viltrumite. His dad said as much. His powers, his biology, it was all Viltrum.
Can it be… Can it be an alien thing? Like, some weird viltrumite biological response to the crying baby?
Desperately, he tried to recall everything his dad ever mentioned about Viltrum. There wasn’t much. There was nothing about biology too. Now that he thought about it, his mom was the one who gave him The Talk. Dad was too busy being an Omniman, as always.
The only time they ever talked on the topic of Mark’s body was… He froze.
The only time they talked about Mark’s body was that very first talk he and his dad shared on the roof under the stars. Dad talked about being an alien, about Mark inheriting his powers. Hammered in some awkward descriptions of puberty too. And he… He said there was more to it. That Mark was going to be different from humans once it hits. He promised to tell him when it’s time.
He never did. Mark got his powers late, and when he did Nolan was too busy lying, being manic and genocidal.
Was that supposed to be part of that talk? Was whatever was going on with Mark’s body normal?
Suddenly feeling angry, he put his sobbing brother into a pen. His cries grew even louder when Mark let go of him, but he… he needed space. He could barely breath as it is, filled with panic and boiling hot anger.
Fuck his dad.
He ruined everything once again!
Why couldn’t he just be honest with Mark?
Why couldn’t he be clear with him just for once?
Mark wouldn’t be in this situation if he just talked to him like a normal fucking person. He wouldn’t be forced to swing wildly between wondering whether he is deadly sick or if he is some freak of nature. He wouldn’t be left worrying about his literal baby brother dying. He wouldn’t be stuck in the spaceship in the first place.
Fuck Nolan.
He just had to make a mess and leave Mark to deal with that. Again.
"Fuck you," Mark cursed viciously, his father’s face and final words stark before his mind’s eye. "You are a shit father," he sniffled, fighting angry tears with more desperation than he did tears of hurt or fear.
Nolan was a shit father. He is a shit father. But so fucking what? It’s not like that was new information for Mark.
He dealt with his dad disappointing him before. He will manage once more.
Right after he takes care of yet another mess the man left for him.
Sighing heavily he lifted his brother from the pen. Looked into his flushed little face, contorted by screams, so very vulnerable in its helpless need.
"We are going to be fine," he promised, looking into the kid’s far too understanding eyes. "I’m going to take care of you."
And, before he could change his mind and chicken out, Mark snuggled him close to his chest.
The baby immediately reached out and, meeting no resistance, finally latched his greedy little mouth on Mark’s sore nipple. For one agonizingly long second both of them stilled. And then the baby started to suck.
Hell, he was full on teething at him, clinging hard to Mark’s sore chest, clearly afraid to be pulled away again. His desperate gulps were loud like thunder in the sudden quiet that had finally come over their little spaceship. This and Mark’s own ragged breathing were the loudest things in the room.
Exhaling shakily, Mark dropped back into the pilot’s chair.
His brother’s… suckling kept sending tingling feelings of pins and needles in Mark’s chest with every swallow, which was weird as hell. But it also felt incredibly relieving. He didn’t even realize how tight and heavy his chest was feeling all that time.
Breathing slowly, he leaned against the headrest and let his eyes wander into the vastness of space in the ship’s window. Gently, he brushed his fingers against the baby’s feather soft hair.
"Yeah," he murmured. "We will be just fine."