Archive of Our Own

Veritas woke up one day with a headache. 

This, in of itself, is not worthy of note. Headaches are common for him, during periods of high stress, where he has to work overtime and spend hours on end staring at tiny text. Recently, he had held his final semester test, and spent two straight days grading each paper till they had more corrections written than answers. So he wrote it off, opting to take it easy on his eyes the next few days, and frequently keeping his bust on so he can take advantage of how it dims the harsher of lightings. He doesn’t entirely quit working.

After all, if he takes too long of a break, then his work piles up and he surely cannot let that happen. Neglecting it means that it also piles up in the mental space of his mind, nagging at him from the back burner throughout his day and even in his sleep. That has been a particular worry of his when he was younger, if he didn’t have something finished close enough to the deadline, his body would rise from sleep and startle him awake with the hazy, panicked thought of I need to finish that. 

Which inevitably leads to him working at it during the early hours of the morning, because now that he is awake, his brain has begun firing on all cylinders and he can’t just stop it.

He’s learnt to get things done as efficiently as possible, and as such, this has become a reputation for him among those in his line of work. And therefore, his colleagues at the Guild saddle him with nonsense papers and other idle mundane things they would rather not do, so they therefore pass it off to him. Of course, Veritas is not pleased with this, in fact, he has brought it up during meetings many times— which always end with some apologies and assurances, and a slight dip in the amount of work he gets for about a week, at which point his blessed break is over and he is back to the same workload.

He would be tempted to throw up his hands and just walk out, but his cursed consciousness gets to him, so he buckles down and simply finishes what is given to him— because he’s the one that can.

This is as good an excuse as he can give, for managing to somehow ignore his own headache for an entire month. 

At some point, he rises from the fog of the horrible cycle working and waking and sleeping. He then, eyes slightly unsteady, looks at the date and realizes that oh, it’s been a few weeks, and that is also when he accidentally makes direct eye contact with the window streaming in the light of the rising sun. His headache makes itself known again with horrible vengeance, and this is when he begins to backtrack on the past few weeks he has spent.

Surely, he thinks with no small amount of dread, that he has not managed to work three weeks with a near constant headache that he has just been putting off treating. There is no denying the truth, in the end— he has. Was it an incredibly productive few weeks? Yes, Was the disgustingly abhorrent headache worth it? No. Is it a violation of all of the tenets of self care he often preached to others? Yes. Did he have a good time? No. Would he do it again, considering his past track record? Very likely. Multiple things can be true and false at the same time— that is the way of all things. The marvelous complexity of the universe he both loves and suffers.

Veritas is getting off-topic. Here is the issue, beyond his various gripes about his coworkers and his inability to maintain a good, consistent, well-paced work schedule that isn’t just work till it’s finished and then go lie down forever: this headache won’t go away.

He is not unfamiliar with the ailment of chronic headaches, has treated patients with a few before, but for him they tend to resolve themselves fairly quickly. Something about his species' own unique constitution, although even that he is less than knowledgeable on. But as the week went on, he was growing slightly concerned, even to the point that he went to get it checked for any underlying conditions— he had been stared at with an unimpressed look when he recounted his three week long work speedrun, and been prescribed with the age old cure of resting. 

Still, there is a nagging feeling of this being something else. His instinct is often correct, but the keyword here is often, not always. So he trusts the word of his own doctor, Aeons knows how many times he has dealt with doubting patients of his own.

This turns out to be a mistake, a mistake of course, that he cannot fault his doctor for not foreseeing. It is a situation so ridiculous, so unlikely that it is fit more for trailblazing protagonists or gambling fools than a simple professor like himself.

The beginning of it all is such: Veritas, with his unending headache, and little wherewithal to deal with it— does the sensible thing and retreats to familiar, fond places to rest and recoup. 

It is under his favorite apple tree, the one on his home planet he had practically grown up beside. He would sit, cradled in its roots reading, where the shade would shelter him and when he mused problems out loud, the boughs would rustle as if in answer. It is situated just a few feet from a shallow pond, where he used to toss seeds to the ducks that would migrate there every summer. If he told a certain blonde man this, he would likely smile at him in that way where he couldn’t tell if the man was laughing at him, or endeared and cooing over that young Veritas in his mind’s eye. Both of which are equally embarrassing. Still, teasing aside, it still brings him a measure of calm as he sits under it, head leaned back against the bark, legs now long enough that his feet can also rest in the grass surrounding the tree. 

This is where it happens. When he finds himself falling into a sea of calm, closing his eyes and merely letting his thoughts drift by and through him, the universe deigns to answer his question. The solution to his headache.

An apple falls.

Three,

                                     two,

 

one.

It thunks against his head, startling him as lands on the grass. There is only a second that he gets to register it, bright red rolling to a stop against his knee, before a blinding pain whites out his vision. It is as if lightning has struck him, thundering against his head which isn’t right because thunder comes before the lightning itself, the thought which leaves his head immediately as pain further wipes any conscious thought from his mind. Distantly, he feels himself raking through strands of hair to clutch at the crown of his head, curled into himself as he screams.

It blinds him, it deafens him, it renders him unconscionable of all sensation, and yet he still hears when it cracks.

And abruptly, it all goes blessedly silent. 

Veritas doesn’t know how long it is till he becomes conscious of himself and his surroundings again, only pulled from the dark realm of sleep by the warm drip of something down his face. This becomes clear when he opens his eyes, nose wrinkling in distaste as he wipes blood from his chin, the liquid coagulating along his brow and clumping at his lashes.

He, then, further looks down at the mysterious weight cradled in his other arm. He looks, and he looks, and with leftover pain and exhaustion still muddling his normally straightforward and calm thought process, he thinks:

That’s a fucking baby. He does not make a habit of swearing, but he believes this is an acceptable response to a baby appearing out of nowhere? No, not out of nowhere.

He blinks. He rubs his face of the flowing blood, a head wound which he should get checked out— perhaps it is impeding his regular processes.

The baby, round-faced and sleeping, suddenly begins to fuss. Squirming in its white blanket, protesting the way it is swaddled. Veritas works off auto-pilot, using both hands to support its body as he tries to soothe it. He has little experience with children, much less babies, so he tries to do what feels right— which he supposes works, as the baby calms. Its eyes open, and he is struck by the fact the baby has the same eyes as him. Veritas can’t help but lean in, drawing it closer. Slightly leaning on the orange side, compared to his neutral reds. The ring of yellow is even the same, circling the pupil. 

His mind sluggishly arrives at its conclusion.

Here is the thing about Veritas’ people, a unique disposition in their biology you could say. Millennia ago, the people of his planet, his ancestors, battled with consistent infertility on both sides of the sexes. In their desperation, they prayed to the Abundance, and Yaoshi in their ever present benevolence, gave his people the ability to reproduce without need for sex. How? Well, they were scholars after all, and it was through their exploration of the world and life, that they could birth a child from their very mind.

On wobbly legs, he stands up. His mind is buzzing, thoughts come and go but never stay for long. Through it all, his logic runs slowly, as if on old rusted gears. He blinks, again. Dazed, he leans back against his tree, breathing out a shaky sigh— and he walks to the nearest clinic.

When he opens the door, head leaking blood and a baby in his arms, they drag him to a room with steady hands. They were certainly practiced with accidental births, he thinks through a haze, as they quickly patch up his head, wiping away the blood and stitching it. They take the baby for an examination, and although he isn’t sure how many minutes had passed, he was feeling much more cognizant by the time they set the baby back in his arms.

They ask him questions, and answer his own. He appreciates their efficiency, as they tell him it’s sex (female) and her condition (very healthy), and they record the time and date of her birth, as he doesn't yet have a name of anything. He breathes carefully out through his nose, head leaning back against the wall behind him, closing his eyes wearily against the fluorescent lights. Somehow, he is more tired than he was during those three weeks, a sort of bone deep exhaustion sinking into his bones and weighing him down there.

Propriety forces him to crack his eyes open as the door clicks. Further paperwork is done, as he sips through a small plastic cup of water. 

The woman clicks the cap of her pen shut, clearing her throat, and she speaks, tone low to accommodate his tender head, “Mr. Ratio, I understand if you do not want to keep a child you were not planning to have, and we have orphanages and childcare services that would be welcome to take her for you.”

His eyes travel down to the sleeping babe in his arms, eyes shut and passively sucking on the pacifier they had given her. There is an incredible amount of peace held in that single face, and Veritas’ mind goes unwillingly to his own childhood. It is a lie to say he had a sad childhood, but it was not a truth that he had a happy one either. Although his people bear better biological fertility now, many people still opt to have a child through the mind. The only downside is that when one reaches a certain age without yet bearing one, it is very common to have an accidental birth. The mind collects many things over time, many of which pile up in the back of the head without one realizing. He was one of those children born from an accident, and then thrown to the orphanage, not because he had no parents, but because those parents did not want him. 

He wants, just as he wants for all his students to lead good lives, Veritas wants one for her.

He thinks of this, staring down at a serene face of a child who rests without a care, trusting without a second thought. His eyes drift close, and then he shakes his head, “No. I’ll keep her.”

The woman’s face lightens somewhat, and it seems like there is a whirlwind of action as he is piled with free goods for the baby, even as he tries to pay for them. They send him on his way with a little tote bag for it all, and he, still reeling, goes back home as they wave him goodbye.

The door opens automatically with face detection, and he sets the tote bag down on the coffee table, sinking into the couch. He has a baby, he thinks, the reality settling in like a deadline staring him down in the face just hours away

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Let it be known that Veritas isn’t incapable of adjusting to change. 

He first sorts by priority, the things most important he must get done immediately, everything else he can put off for the moment. 

First, he unpacks the various products they had given him, useful things like baby formula, diapers, wipes— it certainly takes some load off his shoulders that he doesn’t need to worry about them for a while. However, he finds that he doesn’t have anywhere for the baby to sleep. A nursery, he concludes. The spare room in his house would suffice, he thinks as he walks through the hall till he comes across the right door.

It was a simple square layout, with a large window showing the greenery outside, albeit partially blocked by a scraggly tree growing close to the wall. Veritas doesn’t live near anyone, having inherited the house from a kindly old grandma who used to welcome him every time he ran off in search of some peace and quiet. His people are rather communal in that regard, when you see a child alone, it is only the right thing to do to welcome that child and then try to feed the waif of a thing as much as possible before you send him on his way (Veritas was frequently subject to such ministrations).

It was two decades later that he got an email, stating that he had been given that house in her will, that it was his to keep upon her death. He isn’t quite sure what she saw in him, to give him something so important— a home after all, is not just a building, but a place where your love and memories are steeped into every floorboard, every brick and window pane. The woman had lived alone, with not a single hint of her creator or any grandchildren, he remembers. Maybe that is why. He closes his eyes as he rests against the door frame, feeling the way the house breathes and creaks, feeling the way the baby sleeps against his chest. Maybe she was lonely too.

Very well then, he decides, his choice slotting into place with firm surety. He looks at the empty walls and the stale way the room feels. He would have to bring this room to life.

He retreats back to the living room, turning to his study. The lights are dimmed as they usually are, and he keeps them that way. His head is still tender, which reminds him that he must sort out a new schedule with Yabuli. Technically, he was on mandatory break at the moment, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to send an email detailing his situation. Ah, he would have to get a substitute for his classes as well…

Veritas boots up his laptop, opening up a new email. He wasn’t excited for the scramble for order that would ensue as he would be absent for what is likely three months. That is the estimate he gives for how long it will take for him to adjust to a new presence in his life, one that is entirely dependent on him to survive. Hm. He highlights and deletes that line, amending it to four months. 

The email sends with a cheerful ding, louder than  expected. Although he doesn’t have any more of a reaction beyond turning down the volume, the baby wakes up with a babble. 

Veritas closes the laptop, looking down at her face as he leans back in the chair. Those eyes, mirrored to his, stare back, and stare, and stare. Then, she spits out her pacifier with a mutinous look. He grimaces at the wet saliva, but he dutifully picks it up before it falls to the floor, placing it on his desk. The baby makes a gurgled buh sound, and wriggles an arm out of her swaddle to reach for his face. Obliging, Veritas leans down, and then winces as his hair is tugged, and a wet hand smacks his nose. She makes another unhappy sound.

“Yes, yes. You have made your point,” He wrinkles his nose, and rises from his seat to the kitchen. 

He was lucky in that regard, that often children on his planet develop faster mentally than the average age galaxy-wide. It had been somewhat of culture shock when he finally traveled off-planet the first time, although he got over it quickly as his confusion moved to curiosity. At least the baby was a bit easier to handle, but Veritas doesn’t yet let his guard down. He has overseen stressed and sleep deprived mothers many a time, and he isn’t looking forward to experiencing even a fraction of what they go through. For now, he savors the silence, as full of hair pulls and saliva as it is.

“You want food, don’t you?” He muses out loud, knowing babies internalize language extremely fast. He grabs the formula and bottle in one hand, placing it on the kitchen counter. Hm, it was inconvenient only having one hand open at a time— he should go get a child seat. A cradle and sling too. 

He has all the components he needs laid out on the table, and he can surely intuit how to do it, but then worry strikes him. It would be best to consult someone more experienced wouldn’t it? In case of a mistake.

Veritas readjusts to grab his phone, scrolling through his contacts as he wracks his brain for a name. S… Soran? Yes, that was right, Soran was a woman who took leave a few years ago to care for her newborn. They have talked sparingly, but from what little he has gleaned, she wouldn’t mind a text out of the blue. He taps on the message button, quickly typing with his thumb.

[You] This is Dr. Ratio, I have an important inquiry for you. Please get to me as soon as you are able.

He taps his foot against the floor, leaning against the kitchen counter. Watching the time does his anxiety no favors, so he attempts to close his eyes, breathing in and out at regular, calming intervals. Which works, until the baby kicks at him in protest, a whine beginning to build up. Veritas straightens up, and mimics a rocking motion he has only ever seen performed.

The baby continues to whine, and moments tick pass tensely, as Veritas does what he can to soothe her. But in the end, even he cannot triumph over the discomfort of hunger, and that high pitched noise quickly becomes a full on cry. It grates against his ears, and he squints his eyes shut, hiking higher up to his neck, so he can rub a hand over her back. There is really nothing he can do beyond this point, besides getting her what she wants. 

However, Soran is nothing if not punctual, and she replies back to him with an affirmative that she has a few moments for him. Veritas responds, relaying the bare basics of the situation, and deferring to her. Soran proves to be reliable, as she begins typing out responses in quick succession, reading the barely hidden urgency in his texts. 

Veritas gets to work, memorizing the texts almost immediately. He doesn’t think he has completed a task this fast in years, practically flying across the kitchen. He double checks the portions of powder to water as he goes, and when he is done, he heats the bottle just so it is barely warm under hot water. 

His shoulders slump in relief as the cries die in her throat, now more preoccupied with sucking as much milk out as possible, fingers grabbing at his hand around the bottle. Fatigue wraps itself around him like an old friend, and he sits on the couch, leaning against the arm rest as the baby feeds. 

Veritas takes a minute to simply breathe, and his mind presents him with a new problem, much less immediately urgent, but still important nonetheless.

“You are in need of a name,” He murmurs, hand moving to cradle the back of her head. He tries to summon up possible options, but he draws up a blank, his mind moving at a sluggish pace. He is only half aware of placing a near empty bottle on the coffee table, after his baby spits it out with a smack on his hand. His baby. His.  

He never planned on having a child, the traditional way or either. Distantly, he can acknowledge the positive psychological effects of having a child, but he simply cannot picture himself having a family. Perhaps it is the fact he has always thought there wouldn’t be anyone to share that family with. Perhaps the masses have infected him with the notion that his often abrasive personality will scare off anyone from being close. Perhaps it is the fact he had scarcely known what a “real” family is like. Perhaps he has simply… 

Perhaps, perhaps. Endless possibilities and variables, infinite in their interpretations. It is wrong to say he has never imagined a future such as that, but the fact of the matter is that he has always dismissed it without a second thought, off the basis that being a parent would not fit him. That he wouldn’t be a good one. Foolishness is what it is— but it is a common sort of fear, one normal to the mundane man. 

Anyone else, they could have succumbed to insecurity and handed the child off to someone else, someone they perceived would take better care of their young. Veritas doesn’t fault others for this, but his values forbid him from abandoning someone he has a very real responsibility for. He would give this child as good of a life as he can, that was his unspoken promise when he said he would keep her.

In his arms, she gives a quiet snort and grabs at his hair, as if she can tell he is lost in thought. He blinks his eyes open, and sees her similarly sleepy face. Veritas sighs, but he finds it comes out light, as if the exhale sheds something burdening, and the corners of his mouth curve into a soft smile, “I suppose it is time for a nap.”

The bedroom is not far, which works in his favor as he is practically dead on his feet. He sets internal reminders to himself, to wash the bottle, shower and change the bandages on his head, buy the necessary things for his baby— words which wash away into his subconscious as he arranges the pillows and blankets. He sets her down so he can quickly shed his clothes, throwing on an old sleep shirt.

Laying down is like falling into a bed of clouds, if the clouds worked off cartoon logic and were not actually made of gas. He unwraps his baby from the swaddle so she can rest against his chest. He fumbles around until he can pull a thick blanket over them both, stopping just below her chin. The unending stream of his thoughts fall into quietude.

Sleep comes like the flap of a bird’s wing: light, pleasantly soft and gentle in how it swiftly carries his consciousness away. 

His dreams fade away as he comes into consciousness, yanked awake and greeted by a very grumpy face. He groans, sliding out of bed. “My apologies.”

After his first time, his preparation of the bottle only takes a few minutes, with an added thirty seconds for him to rinse it out. As she suckles on it, he mentally prepares himself for many, many more interrupted sleeps. He knocks back once more on the couch, piling a blanket around his lap to chase off the night chills. 

He is content to simply sit there in silence, passing the time by reciting out loud as many numbers of Pi as he can remember. The baby seems to have a fun time with that, and Veritas wonders if she will share the same love he has for learning. Perhaps he should get his old math books out for when she is ready. However, other people have different plans for him, and his phone rings violently, interrupting him from his thoughts. The noise carries faintly from his bedside table where he left it.

Veritas debates moving, he has found a rather comfortable position, eyelids heavy and warmth radiating from skin.

In the end, he drags himself to the bedroom, if only to see the caller ID. The call stops ringing in the middle of him washing and putting away the bottle, but it immediately lights up again. If someone is in need of assistance so badly as to be blowing up his phone, he would be happy to take it. He strides over, grabs his phone and feels his face immediately scrunch into a frown mixed with grimace. His stomach does a small flip, as he reads the foreboding words on screen.

[that damned gambler is calling…]

He inhaled sharply through his nose, of all the times—

Veritas shakes his head. He could just turn it off. Mute his phone in the very likely case the man keeps spamming him. If the gambler had anything truly urgent, he wouldn’t be calling. Typing is more discreet. He should turn it off. 

Despite himself, his thumb moves and presses the accept. His stomach does a final flip, settling into an uneasy nervous feeling, dancing across his skin. 

“Doctor!” Aventurine’s voice comes through the speaker, singsong in the way he draws out the vowels in his title.

“Gambler,” He returns, already wanting to hang up. 

Faintly, Veritas can hear the sound of clicking, was Aventurine working? He was supposed to be on mandatory medical leave. “I heard you applied for a four month long break, how unlike you to suddenly leave without notice.”  

Veritas sniffs, “Emergencies do not wait for an invitation, Gambler.”

There is a brief silence on the other end, and Veritas shifts with some impatience. He is ready to ask directly what the man’s purpose for calling him was, but Aventurine then clears his throat.

“What happened?”

Veritas blinks, surprise raising his brow. It was an uncharacteristically honest question, stripped of the gambler’s usual pomp and flair. Still, he wouldn’t want to pull the man into his personal affairs like this. Especially so soon after Penacony. 

“Merely a family matter, it is nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

His attention is pulled away as she begins to squirm in his arms, and he fumbles the phone.

“…at if I want to?”

Veritas presses the phone against his ear, wedging it between his jaw and shoulder, “My apologies, repeat that?”

“Haha! Nevermind. I hope it’s not too serious, feel free to call me if anyone at the IPC tries to bother you about it,” Aventurines voice sounds odd, but he is too preoccupied to try and dig into it at the moment.

Veritas resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, “Please, do not abuse your authority for something that I can handle well enough on my own.”

That strange note in his voice disappears entirely as he chuckles, “No promises!”

He scowls, and he draws in a breath, preparing to go on a long tirade before a fierce cry pierces the air, cutting him off. In his surprise, the phone clatters to the floor. He looks down, seeing sunset eyes scowling with discomfort, “What is—”

His words die in his throat as the stench reaches his nose, and he recoils in the same way she does, both of them incredibly discomforted. Dread hangs over him like an executioner's blade, and he closes his eyes for a moment, just to prepare himself. 

He swipes his phone from the floor, speaking quickly, “Something has come up, please contact me later.”

“Wh— is that a baby in the background—?”

“Goodbye.” Veritas doesn’t stay around to savor the rarity of a baffled Aventurine, and he hangs up.

He chucks the phone on the bed, it bouncing once, then twice, and landing where he aimed— sliding onto the bedside table. Veritas briskly grabs a diaper, bolting towards the bathroom.

It was clear both of them had an aversion to grime and uncleanliness, as she is visibly more upset at her dirtied diaper than when she was hungry. 

Veritas takes a fortifying breath, and then looks down at her. She shrieks again, and he sets his shoulders. The only way past a problem is by facing it head on.

“A handful, is what you are,” He says to her, as he finishes washing his hands with soap, drying them with a towel. Veritas was running out of wipes, and he adds it onto his ever growing mental shopping list. She squints at him with guileless eyes, gums mouthing around an old toy he found in the storage. It was one of his favorite plushies to cuddle with when he was younger, but he had stopped sleeping with it when he went to the University, believing he wouldn’t need it anymore. Whether he was right could be put up to debate, but his early University days are long past. It would only continue to collect dust now, and she would have better use of the battered, worn wool duck anyway. She was fascinated with the hole where one of the beady plastic eyes used to be when he handed it to her.

At least he has ascertained how to tie a secure sling with a blanket, so he now has his hands free to do whatever he wishes. His first order of business was getting some food, the entire debacle had sapped his energy, leaving him craving something heavy and filling. Although he is wildly off schedule (it was 11 PM), some food is better than none.

He would prefer making something by hand, but in a pinch, the Omni-synthesizer suffices. He hadn’t even realized how hungry he was till he had a plate of food in front of him. Then again, food doesn’t even cross his mind when he is fully focused on a task— rather, his stomach does the thinking for him. He knows he is hungry when his stomach begins to growl. He wolfs down half the plate in just over a minute, before forcing himself to slow down.  

As Veritas chews, he finally checks his phone once more, scrolling down a list of notifications, ranging from emails from students, to a long line of texts from Aventurine. Clearly, the man had been shocked at the abrupt goodbye.

[that damned gambler] Did you just hang up on me?

[that damned gambler] ??

[that damned gambler] Are you babysitting for someone or what?

[that damned gambler] No i dont think anyone would have the audacity to ask you for something like that...

[that damned gambler] You better not ignore my messages

[that damned gambler] You’re probably busy right now, even with how dead tired you sounded

[that damned gambler] Ugh, do i really have to say it?

[that damned gambler] Call me back when you’re free. I am… concerned.

That last message has his heart stuttering in his chest, eyes widening. Aventurine had been flighty since Penacony, balanced upon a knife’s edge, wavering between his choices. It took him weeks to finally settle into something more resembling himself, instead of an empty-eyed statue. Veritas had hoped the man would be more forthcoming, but it seemed Aventurine was as reticent as ever— which is why this… admission has him sitting up in his seat.

[You] i am fine, please dismiss whatever misconstrued ideas you have no doubt been imagining 

Immediately, his phone lights up in his hand, and Veritas taps accept with exasperation, shoveling the last bit of food in his mouth. There is a distinct, awkward silence as the call connects. Papers shuffle about in the backdrop, a nervous tic then. Neither of them know how to start the conversation. Veritas lets the silence go on for only a moment longer, before his brow twitches, and he says expectantly, “Yes?”

He turns on speaker mode, bringing it with him as he cleans his plate. Aventurine, then, instead of answering his query, turns the question back around on him, “Well, Doctor, I was expecting more of an explanation from you.”

“One must start somewhere, and I feel you are burning with questions.” Veritas says, dipping his head even if Aventurine cannot see him, “Go on.”

“Are you taking care of a baby right now?”

“Yes,” Veritas puts his plate away.

“For a family member?”

“No.”

“…A friend?”

“ No,” He pinches the bridge of his nose, “Enough with these roundabout questions. Yes, the child is mine. Yes, I am taking care of her currently, which is why I won’t be working for a few months.”

Veritas can only imagine what kind of face Aventurine was making, even if his voice is smooth as ever. “How unexpected— Who's the lucky lady?”

“There is no lucky lady, as you say,” He says, clicking his tongue. There is a distinct pause on the other side, and he clarifies, “Not like that, it’s— well.”

Aventurine does not push for more, but the air between them is lax in a way that encourages conversation.

Veritas stares at the ceiling, fighting an internal battle. The thing he should do— setting a distinct boundary, and not immediately involving the man in his business. And what he wants, which he can barely admit without frustrating embarrassment. In the end, his heart wins out, as it frequently does when faced with one blond fool. It’s not as if Aventurine is busy anyway. He sighs, “This is a conversation better had in-person.”

He sends navigation coordinates to his home planet with a few quick swipes, “Come at your earliest convenience.”

“Oh! If you’re sure…”

He closes his eyes, leaning his head back, speaking before he can regret it, “I am.”

They both say their goodbyes, and Veritas drops the phone to place his face into his hands, pressing his palms to his warm cheeks. He rubs at the temples, and wishes ever so slightly that he had ordered Aventurine to drop everything to come at once— he is in dire need of a good soak, a moment of relaxation, but he cannot possibly leave her on her own for the average duration of his bathtime. As if to confirm his thoughts, she makes an attempt to climb out of her sling, seeking some incomprehensible thing in the way children do.

Pier Point isn’t very long from his home planet, considering the highly expensive space shuttle Aventurine had access to, which would cut the regular traffic time in half. He doesn’t want to presume Aventurine will come so soon, but he also wouldn’t put it past the man. He should at least wash his face and change the bandage on his head. 

He is hit by a sudden realization as he walks. Considering the time difference between the two planets… his brow furrows, eyes trailing down. “Why was he up at three in the morning?” 

She has no answer for him, beyond grabbing at his chin with a happy noise.

Veritas is in the middle of brushing his hair when Aventurine calls again. He runs the comb through his bangs one final time, leaving his laurel pin in the little bowl by the sink, letting his hair loose. He doesn’t bother to put in his contacts.

He picks up the phone, “Yes?” 

“Ratio,” Aventurine starts, sounding amused, “You never gave me the address to your house.

Ah. “It slipped my mind,” Veritas apologizes, “Here.”

His house is a half hour walk from the city, although Veritas tends to run or bike, which cuts the time down by three fourths. He doubts Aventurine would appreciate the impromptu exercise, and instead sends the directions that a taxi would be able to follow.

“Got it, I’ll see you soon.”  

Veritas shuts the phone off, drowsiness bringing lethargy to his limbs. He yawns, sitting down on one of the stools at the kitchen island. The brief nap he fell into earlier had brought some energy back to him, and the food as well— but the day had gone on long enough, with far too much excitement for him to still feel energized. His child was already conked out, exhaling little snores around where she had the duck plushie held in a vice grip. How astonishing, the way just one addition to his life could change it so drastically.

A second yawn comes stronger than the last, he blinks away the blurriness of his eyes watering. He indulges in a little bit of shuteye as he cleans his glasses with a white microfiber cloth. He simply lets sensation rule him, calming under the familiar, soothing rhythm of circles.

He ponders quietly as he finishes, setting them back in their case. He uses them specifically because has trouble reading smaller print. He looks down at her, laying his hand over her forehead. He leans down to press a soft kiss, and her eyes squint open. Yes, that name would be lovely. 

The minutes tick by, and he can’t help but check his phone again, like it will magically summon the gambler to the door. He stares in mild frustration at the screen for a moment, before setting it face down— he was perfectly capable of waiting patiently without opening and closing the messaging app.

He summons a chessboard with Imaginary energy, the pieces still scattered across the board from the last time he played against himself. 

Veritas slowly warms up as he moves a few pieces, switching back and forth between the seats. A minute in, she reaches out, aiming for the white piece in his hand. He relinquishes it to her, letting her feel out the smooth ridges of wood. A fine work of craftsmanship, one that he personally commissioned from an artist.

She makes a hissy noise, and Veritas leans down so she can place it on the board. He slides it over to the right tile, correcting her. He begins to explain the rules of chess as simply as possible, beginning with the piece she just picks up— the rook. She listens in contentment, wide eyed. 

Veritas is about to start on explaining what has already happened in his own game when the door is knocked on. He tenses, and then forcibly relaxes himself. 

He is distinctly aware of what he looks like as he unlocks the door. Aventurine has likely not seen him in anything but his regular attire, and he most definitely looks a bit disheveled, with an old shirt and thin shorts on.

Aventurine is dressed as he usually is, with all his baubles and pomp. His glasses and hat are gone, and his eyes flick around. He quickly concludes whatever kind of assessment he is performing, as those eyes lock unerringly onto him. Veritas tilts his head, and opens the door wider.

Aventurine doesn’t look uneasy or nervous, not as he sounded on the phone. Any vulnerability is now locked away once more. He can’t help but feel a bit of disappointment. They move to the living room, and before the awkward silence can descend upon them in full— Aventurine speaks.

“What’s her name?”

“Hypatia,” He answers, as Aventurine leans over her. “Her name belonged to a now dead philosopher and astronomer. One who I deeply respected in my youth.”

Veritas watches, something tight and borderline aching curl in his throat as Aventurine’s lips curl into a smile, Hypatia’s hand over his own. Briefly, for a moment, he can see a genuine glow alight his eyes. His voice is so low it is nearly swallowed by the sound of  his own breathing. “It’s a beautiful name.”

Then, the moment breaks as he steps back. Veritas releases his breath, caught and stilled from the proximity. “It is,” he replies, somewhat lamely.

“She has your eyes,” Aventurine offers, slumping back against the plush chair, hands loosely tangled at his front. Both of them, visible. 

“And she will likely have my hair too,” He finishes, looking down at where the barest hint of purple can be seen on her head, a wispy swirl. He gives Aventurine a look. “Whatever you think happened, didn’t.”

Aventurine smiles wryly, close-lipped. “What, that you have a secret lover hidden away somewhere and they abandoned you leaving only your child?”

Veritas pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why in the world is that— nevermind. No, that didn’t happen.”

Aventurine raises a brow, and gestures at him to elaborate, and Veritas runs through the general history and explanation. He skips over the more in-depth parts, which Aventurine was welcome to research himself on his own time. He finishes his impromptu lesson with a flourish of his chalk, which he had absentmindedly summoned to begin drawing diagrams in the air. “Did that finally assuage your worries?”

Aventurine huffs amusedly, silent, but he can see the way the man’s shoulders untense, the way he relaxes back into the seat. “Lively for a newborn isn't she? Are you taking care of her on your own?”

Veritas doesn’t see the purpose in his line of questioning, and he raises his brow. “Yes, my people tend to enjoy an accelerated level of growth in our early stages of life, why?”

Aventurine makes a face at him, as if urging him to put the dots together. Veritas’ brow knits together, “Really.”

His tone comes out flat and disbelieving. Veritas might have had far-off dreams of taking care of a child with Aventurine, but he always swiftly concluded those fantasies with the knowledge that they would never have any basis in reality. Not just beyond the obvious caveat. Aventurine hums, “Well, it’s fine if you don’t trust me with it—“

“Aventurine,” he interrupts, eyes closed in consternation. “There is no evidence to suggest I wouldn’t trust you with this. I already trust you with my life.”

Aventurine makes a strange wheezing noise, somehow released through his perfect poker face. Hypatia points at him in confusion. He gently lowers her arm with a finger. Veritas ignores the clown show and continues, meeting his eyes, “Are you sure?”

Aventurine nods firmly, “I want to.”

His voice is so openly honest it hurts, like looking directly into the blazing sun. Veritas swallows, and it feels like shattered glass. Aventurine stands, approaching him with a soft smile, hand on his wrist, and he gently coaxes Veritas to place Hypatia and the sling into his arms. She makes a cooing noise, waving the duck plush. Aventurine presses their hands together, wrist to arm to elbow. Their hearts slowly begin to sync. “Will you let me?”

Veritas grits his teeth against the rising wave of emotion, one that burns in the back of his throat and sets his skin afire. Imperceptibly, he nods. Barely more than a tilt of his head down a few degrees. Aventurine, impossibly, grows even brighter.

They bask in the silence, warmed by Aventurine’s grin and Veritas’ tentatively growing smile. 

“Alright,” Aventurine squeezes his hand one last time and lets go. “Go take a proper bath— the kind you love. I know you want to.”

Veritas sighs, a weight taken off his shoulders. Yes, he does want a bath. One with all his bath salts and aromas. Perhaps he would even sprinkle in a few rose petals, and soak for a few hours. He raises a hand, and lets Hypatia squeeze his fingers. “There’s prepared milk bottles in the fridge, just heat them up on the stove.”

“Uhuh.”

Veritas frowns, “And check the temperature before you feed her.”

“Got it.”

“Make sure you talk with her. And if she gets bored—“

Aventurine waves him off, “Yes, yes. I know, stop mother henning.”

Veritas opens his mouth, bristling and ready to jump back into their typical bickering, but Hypatia is right there and he would really love to take a bath.

He sighs, clamping his mouth shut, and he walks away— the fact that Aventurine is smiling at him is burning into his neck.

Aventurine watches Ratio’s head disappear around a corner.

He hadn’t originally planned to offer to be a partial caretaker for Hypatia— he hadn’t really planned to do anything at all. All he had known is that he heard Ratio, voice tinged with a layer of exhaustion and the sound of a baby in the back, and his mind lit up with curiosity, a mix of dread, and worry.

Really, his hindbrain had decided it for him before the rest of himself could catch up.

Ratio, stood there with a baby in his arms, hair just barely neat enough to be passable— wearing a shirt that is wrinkled at the collar with a faded graphic of a flower on the back, and duck-patterned shorts that nearly made him trip over the doorway. 

He hasn’t ever seen Ratio in anything but his typical outfits, either his scholar robes, or some sort of formal wear. Aventurine has gotten used to seeing the diamond cutout of skin on his chest, the impression of muscle exposed on his sides. Anything else was a shock to his system. Curse this man and his strict adherence to a work-out schedule. Who does he think he is, a Stoneheart?

Either way, Aventurine forced himself to get over it fast, no matter how novel the sight was, because of— well. The baby. 

He had always been good at going with the flow. So he was fine when Ratio invited him to his home planet and what was probably and most definitely his childhood home. He was fine when Ratio opened the door and blasted Aventurine’s poor eyes with miles of long legs and the sight of him soft and stripped of anything that made him Professor Ratio, holder of eight PhDs and countless other accolades. Just Veritas.

He was slightly less fine when he was met with the baby.

It’s not as if he had much experience with children in general, much less babies. He had some hazy memory of being taught how to hold one, so at the very least he had that. Aventurine watches her pale, chubby face, and carefully does not address the curling, suffocating tightness in his chest. He does not acknowledge the utter insanity it is to trust him with something so fragile. So new. So harmless. 

Luckily, the baby seemed content to just babble random noises at his face. He was fairly sure Ratio would squeeze out as much time in the bath as he possibly could, before his worrywart tendencies inevitably wiggled its way into him and forced him out.

Aventurine checked his watch, and estimated… three hours.

Veritas slides down, a long, heavy sigh releasing through his nose. The scents of roses float up from the water. The porcelain is white, a stark color of pleasant nothingness that clears his mind of grime. 

The luxury of the bath smooths him, as he scrubs and lathers expensive soaps into his skin. It’s one of the few things he indulges in, unlike the gambler, who seems to love excess in everything. 

He sighs again, walking himself through a calming, breathing exercise— falling into a trance not unlike meditation. He typically uses bath time for contemplation, isolated from the outside world, which clamors for his attention and scorns him in unison. He has already grown used to the burn of the spotlight, but that does not mean he enjoys it, or won’t take measures to excise himself from it as frequently as possible. 

Hypatia and Aventurine must be acquainting themselves. Veritas examines his thoughts.

To invite Aventurine to this— it is a level of personal boundary that they had yet to cross before. Of course, the inherent trust in leaving your child with someone is not one that they frequently cross. But have they not done even worse? Put each other’s lives in their hands, recklessly and bloodied. Crossed boundaries in attempts to convey reason, pushed and pulled in equal turn. And in the end, Veritas falsely betrayed him, and then pulled Aventurine from the depths to save him. The truth which shone brightly in the dark, a singular sun in the abyss which became apparent to Veritas then.

How ironic that Veritas only then realized his love for Aventurine when the certainty of his return became unclear.

He knows there is a likely chance that Aventurine returns his feelings. Aventurine does not hold such a level of closeness with anyone else as he does Veritas. However, it will all boil down to whether Aventurine would be willing to bare himself, to state his feelings clearly, and to not simply bury them down under schemes. And would Veritas be able to in turn? Veritas feels the furrow in his brow smooth. The steady thump of his chest. His feelings, now confronted and mulled over, dissipated back into the neatly organized library of his mind.

He opens his eyes, and moves to the end of the bath. The bright yellow duck bobs in the water, and Veritas gently moves his hand below the surface, lifting it up. He squeezes it, and the childish little quack it makes fills the room. Veritas smiles, fond. 

Veritas can wait. He has waited for many things for a long time.

The duck quacks again, and Veritas sets it back in the water, where it spins once, drifting.

A cry pierces the air, and Veritas pauses in his idle observance. He straightens, and pushes so that he is leaned up against the side of the tub closest to the door. Instinct tells him to locate the noise and cause immediately, but Aventurine is there. He cocks his head, turning his ear to the source to listen.

The cries continue, but Veritas has begun to recognize the difference in them now. Hypatia is hungry.

He waits a moment, and counts the seconds. He estimates how much time it will take for Aventurine to fumble to the kitchen, heat up the bottle, and soothe Hypatia into feeding.

Another minute passes, and the cries cease. 

Veritas relaxes, settling back down from where he was nearly leaning halfway out the tub. He submerges himself fully in the water, and no one but him and the eyes of his duck can prove that he had let a pleased smile lift his cheeks.

There is no rush.