[1-2-3] ORDER FOR THE STORK

[threedimensions]

Dimensions: [1-2-3]
Timeline: May 2001
Title: Order For The Stork
Summary: A colleague of Gary's asks him to donate genetic material so that she can have a baby.
~7.5k

>Warnings

He's eating what passes for dinner around seven o'clock and trolling around a few of the smart-ass blogs he likes best when she opens the door—without knocking—and plops herself down in one of his chairs. His first response is to glare at her, perhaps to remind her of which ogre's cave she's just swept into, but when she neatly folds her hands on top of her neatly folded legs and looks back at him, he dismisses her and shoves an extra-large mouthful of sandwich in his face.

Lynn Claywell sighs theatrically—why not, every moment of her life is dramatic, meant to be seen. She's a knockout if ever there was one, and he's thought about touching her with a ten-foot pole, but he hasn't gotten down from a forty-two foot pole yet, and he knows that if he ever did, she'd drive him right back up.

"You must think saying hello to the people in your life will give you an incurable disease," she says finally, when she's tired of trying to stare him down. (He's not even looking at her, but watch her try! He has been watching her try for the last two minutes, with his eyes still on his computer screen, and he has to consciously try not to smirk.)

"It will," he says, clicking up something else. "Amiability. Or worse—socialization. But don't worry about me, I can cure it. I can stop showering."

"Oh, that explains it." Lynn nods, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs. "You must've been trying to cure yourself of other people since childhood."

"I have, actually." He glances up now, the corner of his mouth turning up, and sees the cool look in her eyes. "It's not office hours, you know. Did you come in here just to annoy me and tell me that I smell?" He may just ask her out after all.

"Not today." She looks uncomfortable for a moment, and his eyebrows go up. Ahh, there's something else here...

After another moment, in which she doesn't speak but continues to just look at him, Gary puts his sandwich down and leans back in his chair. His leg, or what's left of it, is fucking killing him right now, and he's momentarily glad the kid isn't here today—it's been going really well with them, and Gary really doesn't want to forget and accidentally completely alienate the eleven-year-old stranger that might one day actually feel like his son. The kid was curious about his leg at first, and is now generally good about keeping his things off the floor and out of doorways so Gary won't trip, but sometimes it hurts just because of all the shit that happened to it, and sometimes it's really hard to not wing your crutches at people who ask stupid-ass questions, or are in the way, or come on in and make themselves at home in your office. (His upper-body strength is still pretty good, okay.)

He doesn't like playing games though, especially guessing games, and especially when he's only here late because he's waiting on a final test result to confirm one of his patients' future death certificate. He also really fucking hates it when people dance around, trying to get him to guess, or to ask them what the fuck they're up to.

"If you're practicing as a seat-filler you can look for work around the next awards show," he says acidly, and then pantomimes taking and opening an envelope. "Oh, never mind, here we go. And the winner of the Prance Right In And Waste Time Award goes to..."

"Gary Hayes, his ten Internet Explorer windows, and his subscription to Triple-X Teens Covered In Cream," Lynn says, boredly.

Gary has already started to proffer her an imaginary award statue, but now he looks at his hands in surprise, and then he makes a show of carefully placing the pretend trophy on his desk. "It looks good," he says. "But I don't prance, for obvious reasons."

"And I do?" She raises her eyebrows, letting her chin down, and although they're not close (in any sense of the word, except perhaps current proximity), he knows this is her Fighting Face.

Instead of pointing out that she can hardly do anything but prance in those shoes with those hips (and with that way she walks), he rolls his eyes. "No," he says. "You come in here and argue with me about prancing. Did you actually want something, or can I finish my food before I don't feel like eating again for a week?"

"Why would you not want to eat?"

Great, now she's curious, and he has to explain. "Because I'm waiting to hear back for sure that one of my patients is never going to have to worry about retirement."

"Oh." Her face clouds and she sighs. "That really is the worst part, isn't it?"

"I'm pretty sure death is the worst part of anything...except this conversation," he adds pointedly.

Lynn gives him a look that's almost a glare. "I came in here to ask you something serious," she says, as if he's supposed to care. "Can you please be serious for two minutes? I honestly don't know what I was expecting—you go from obstinate to sarcastic to pissy to briefly human—and then you're back to irritable jackass again. That's a trait I'm sure going to want to have around."

"The hell are you talking about?" If she doesn't want to be around him, she can leave, but she's come in here voluntarily, to 'ask him something serious'. He's pretty sure he won't be weeping into his soup if he's the only one without a date to the Testicular Cancer Ball this summer.

She fixes him with a steely gaze—her eyes are hard and he's supposed to feel captivated and powerless in her eyes, or something, but half of his mind is with Scott Drafters and his Lovely Growing Tumor, and the other half is wondering if the Triple-X Teens really are covered in cream. (And which kind?) So he's contemplating, and wondering, and he must be missing the first part of what she's saying, because...what?

"I want to have kids," she blurts. "That's my major life goal. I made it through college, and med school, and everything else I've needed to get where I am now. I bought a house, I have a garden, a little cat, and...right now, the only thing that's missing is children."

Gary must still be a page back, he thinks. "Well, there are a lot of missing children," he says stupidly, mostly to buy him some time to figure out what's happening—what the blue fuck does her missing children have to do with him?

Lynn blinks, thrown off for a second, and then she's right back on it—a quality he's surely fantasized about before. "My mother is the most amazing woman I've ever known," she continues, "and she's always said her children were the only things that made life worth living. Family is the only thing that's important. I want a family, and I want kids." She pauses, holding his eyes. "The short version is that I've decided dating is taking too long—even if I did happen to find someone I like, and we decided to get married, it would still be years before I could have a child. I have years...a few...but I am getting older, and I want more than one child. And I want to be able to have the energy to spend time with them as they're growing up."

"So...what, you want to artificially inseminate?"

Now she smiles, and he knows he's hit the nail on the head. "I think that would be wisest," she says. "I've already had an appointment for some preliminary tests and exams. All of my systems are go."

"And you want my—" He stops, about to say medical opinion or referral or even blessing, but suddenly it clicks and he knows exactly what she's come to ask. He's completely nonplussed, partly because what and partly because he thinks he should have figured it out sooner—and probably would have, if not for the surrealistic aspect.

After a second, she smiles, gently. "Your...DNA," she says, and then shakes her head quickly. "No. I'm not saying we should actually be together—think about it. You would make a smart-ass remark about the way I dress, I would have to kill you, and our poor child would grow up with relatives."

"Not my parents," he says at once. "You better ship it to Vermont, or wherever the hell you're from. And you better not kill me if you want more than one kid."

"I'll have a few specimens frozen when we do the insemination."

"Oh, okay. Feel free to murder me over dinner, then." He waves a hand, hoping she doesn't see that he's stalling because he has no idea what to do with this.

"I won't, because we're not going to be together."

"So I can continue to make remarks about your skirt?"

Her eyes flash and he grins. "Maybe I'll murder you over breakfast, instead," she muses.

"But you haven't gotten the specimen yet."

"Right." She sits up straighter. "I want you to know that I'm not pressuring you—or that I'm not trying to," she amends. "You can have some time to think about it, if you want. My appointment isn't until next week, so..."

She doesn't stop talking when he puts a hand up, so he tries both, and she finally trails off, eyebrows raised again. "You're asking me to give you some of my sperm so you can have a kid," he says slowly.

She starts to talk, stops, thinks, and starts again, more slowly. "I know it seems very sudden," she says, to which he snorts loudly. "But I've been thinking about this for...for going on a year now. I've even looked into sperm banks, asked a few colleagues for information...I just don't think I can do that—the anonymity? I need to know things about the father of my child, and I need to know things about his family. I need to know him. And..." She pauses again, giving him a meaningful look (though he's not entirely sure which meaning he's supposed to take from it). "I want my child to have a father. I don't want to one day explain to little Samantha, or Shane, that I can't tell them anything about Daddy because Daddy is a free-spirited serial number in a computer who needed a little extra money one week."

Gary stares at her. What the fuck is she talking about now? "I already have a kid," he ventures.

Lynn nods enthusiastically, smiling wider. "I know—that's one of the main reasons I've finally decided to talk to you. I first thought about asking you last winter, I believe. But even though I thought I was sure I wanted my kids to have your genes—honestly, if you used your smart brain half the amount you used your smart mouth—I knew I wanted my kids to have their father in their life, and—" She breaks off, but he knows the rest.

"And you thought I'd be a shitty parent. Well, you're half right—I know I'm shitty, but we've yet to see about the parenting."

"You have an eleven-year-old son."

"That I didn't see or speak to for ten years."

"He's been back in your life for a few months now, right? Gary, I've watched you with Brandon when you have him here."

"That's not creepy," he mutters.

She ignores him. "I can tell you love him. For the first month or so, you barely let him out of your sight—he was here almost every day. And not because you thought he needed you, but because you wanted to be around him, to know how his day is going and what he thinks about things. You love to teach him and show him and explain to him, and I've never seen you even raise your voice to him, which I'm sure you must admit is somewhat of a phenomenon."

Gary shrugs—the kid doesn't really do anything (nothing that really pisses him off, anyway). It's really not like he yells at everyone that ever crosses his path—just the stupid ones, and his kid isn't stupid. The self-righteous morons who convince certain members of the hospital's administration that steak should be off the cafeteria menu were another story.

"I think, with some practice and a little more experience, you could be a good father," she says. "You love your son, and you're good with him. You're a little awkward, but." She turns her hands palms-up. "That's the sort of thing experience will help."

He stares at her again, wanting to yell six different things about how this is stupid and what does she possibly mean to accomplish having him around, but now she's taking something out of her handbag.

"Here's what I'm thinking..." she says, studying what are apparently notes. "The baby will live with me, and I'll have all parental rights—if you donate the genetic material, it's still my child." She glances up, as if he's going to contradict this. He continues to stare instead. "I think I can trust you to be fine with that. But I want you to be a part of its life—I'll want to be able to take him or her over to your place every now and then to spend some time with you. I want you at birthday parties and Christmas, and I want the child to be able to call you Daddy and count on you when it really matters. Since I'll be doing everything and taking care of everything, I won't expect any financial support from you, but I will make all of the decisions. Thoughts?"

"Um..." Again: what. "I think you sound like you've got it all figured out."

She nods. "I told you—I've been thinking about this for years, and you in particular for months. Having a child is the only thing I'm concerned with now. I want my children to have your capacity for intellect. I mean...look at your son. He's only eleven and you have him reading textbooks for college courses."

"He reads what he wants to read."

"You know what I mean. You've said countless times that the reason you're not sending him to school is that he's so far above their levels."

Gary shifts in his chair, partly because the rest of his leg is being stabbed—by knives that are on fire—and partly because he's annoyed. It's bothered him ever since he was a kid when people became all serious about his mind-bending IQ. He doesn't care: his stupid fucking brain has fucked him over too many times. "How do you know that's not from his mother?" he says finally. "You've never met her. She was the one that needed an extra head for all of her brains. She spoke half a dozen languages—you've heard the kid talk. That isn't anything to do with me. I didn't see him."

"Well, I can't have a child with her," Lynn says flatly. "For one, I believe she's passed. Secondly, we're both female, and I'm assuming we've both taken sixth grade health class—that's not possible, at least not now." She sighs now, putting her note pad away. "I believe your wife must have been amazing—you haven't seen your son in ten years, but look at him. And, as you said, listen to him. But I know you, and I know it can't possibly all be because of his mother's child-rearing skills. I've seen the IQ test results in your file."

He barely manages to not throw something (the invisible award statue is all that's within reach anyway) at her. "Your kid is really going to love your snooping skills when it gets older. Have you checked my diary, too?" He doesn't argue about it being confidential and illegal as it's already been done and sure wouldn't put her off from doing it in the future (and it isn't like he hasn't peeked into a file or two). Instead, he wants to scream at her that Irina wasn't his wife, she...well, she might have been. One day long ago, before her parents called her back, before she gave him back the ring. Before he let her go.

"I'm sorry," she says, not sounding so at all. "I'd find out anyway—after we'd cleared the results of a few genetic tests for you, that would have been next."

He throws his arms in the air. "Fine! Take my sperm, you clearly want it so badly. But this—" he indicates his groin "—is a self-serve station."

"I'm sure it is."

"So if you want my genetic material, come and get it."

Now she gives him a look that's half-skeptical and half-disgusted. "I don't think so. I really am sorry I looked at your files—I honestly just wanted to know exactly what I might be getting into. A houseful of geniuses sounds like a house that will one day blow up, and probably more literally than figuratively."

"Yeah, and probably by me."

She raises her eyebrows again. "Do you think Brandon would like a little brother? Or sister?"

He grips his chest. "Oh! The closing remark! It hits straight home...whatever will I do now, except acquiesce to you?"

"Ha ha," she says dryly. "Just think about it, okay? Maybe ask your son what he thinks. It's not difficult, what I'm asking—all you really have to do is something you've been practicing since puberty. I'm not asking you to constantly baby-sit, or to even have things for the child at your place. I just want...what every future parent wants, I suppose: a bright and gifted child. I believe I have a lot better chance at that with your DNA than I do with 'lot number 6984215'. I will not ask anything of you other than to be an occasional presence in the baby's life. That's it."

"I'm not changing diapers. I got rid of mine for ten years to prevent it. And what if he doesn't want a squalling baby in the house, even for a few hours?"

"Well, that's something that you'll have to discuss with him first to know, isn't it?"

"I..." He lets out a deep breath, spreading his hands and turning them up. "I guess. I don't know. You're serious about this?"

"Of course." She looks a little surprised, which he guesses is fair—she's almost never not serious. "Please tell me that you'll at least think about it."

"I guess. If you leave."

Lynn smiles brilliantly, standing and picking up her bag. "Thank you. I'll ask again after my appointment. I'm really hoping you'll think this is a good idea too. I might have a girl, and then you'll have a daughter."

"Great," he mutters. "With a father like me, she can grow up to be the most intelligent stripper in the joint."

Lynn smiles again; now that she's gotten her way, she's a lot freer with the ha-has. (Gary's noticed this before, and not because he likes the sound of her laugh. It's because of the way her rack jiggles when she giggles, most definitely.) "Think about it, talk to your son, maybe talk to some friends, if you have any. I'll let you know how my appointment goes, we can talk...and maybe make another appointment with the fertility specialist. I've had my preliminary exams and the results are very favorable for a quick insemination. Who knows—your boy might have a little brother or sister next year."

He watches her go, not noticing the flashing box on his computer screen that indicates his test result is in. His sandwich has been forgotten long enough to allow it to congeal, and after a moment he sees it and unceremoniously dumps it into the bin. He still doesn't know what in the hell just happened, and wonders if this is really something he's supposed to be seriously considering, or if the bin is decadently metaphoric.

He snorts, raises his hands to rub at his tired eyes, and then he turns back to his computer, wondering if David will come over for a few drinks tonight (and bring beer). David's one of the few people he can actually stand, and one of the even fewer people who can stand him, and one of the even fewer that can tell Gary exactly what he thinks and why without pissing him off (most times). And, from working in her department, he knows Lynn better and might have an idea of how actually serious she is. Because if she is, really is, he can't think of a good enough reason to say no, other than to repeatedly remind her to look at how he's turned out, and to state how sorry he is that his own kid already has his DNA.

.

It's a good thing David has brought beer with him, because when Gary chucks his almost-full can at his idiot friend's head, there's another close by. David ducks, with enough time to save his skull, but he takes the open end of the can on the shoulder, which begins to douse his shirt before he can fumble a catch. "What the fuck?" he complains.

Gary opens another beer and sips it. "Fuck you," he says. "If you knew she was thinking about this—and thinking about asking me—you should have told me."

"No, I know how you love to be blindsided with possible life-altering decisions." David sets the Busch can on the edge of the coffee table (from the sound of it, it's still half full, too) and peels the sleeve of his shirt off his arm. "She told me not to tell you, dipshit. I figured she'd have a better chance convincing you if you didn't already have three pages of smart-ass comebacks written up and memorized."

Gary raises his eyebrows; he knows the other man is not a children type of adult, and he also knows that David knows that Gary himself isn't one of the children type—especially the babies type. They didn't know each other when the current kid (in his room, munching on a box of snack crackers and reading something from Gary's shelf of medical books) was an infant, so David probably doesn't know that Gary only handled the rugrat when his mother put him in his arms, but when has Gary ever talked about or voluntarily been near a baby?

Never. That's when.

"So, you want her to convince me?" he asks. "You think I should have another kid? Are you drinking more than you're letting on? Gimme that." He makes a swipe for the beer that's just been set down, but David grabs it up again.

"I don't care how many kids you have," he says, sounding annoyed. "This isn't about you, it's about her. She wants to have kids—and as far as I remember, she wanted to keep the baby with her, have all the legal rights, and only bring it around you when you're drugged-up and wearing a duct tape helmet. It's not like you're going to have to worry about changing diapers and school and clothes and shit. She wants to do all of that, and she wants to do it by herself."

"That's going to be easy with her work schedule."

David shrugs. "Why do you care about her work schedule, or how easy or hard it's going to be? Let her figure out daycare and preschool and transportation and whatever. That's what she wants. She wants to feed it and dress it up and take it on play dates and smile tiredly to the other people in the grocery store when it has a meltdown in the candy aisle. She wants to worry about potty-training and childhood injuries or sicknesses—and all of the affectionate crap that we know would kill you."

So not true—he'd actually hugged the kid in the other room a few nights ago, and he was still breathing. (Though he thought he might have developed another hug rash, one that only time without touching other people would cure.) "Okay, so she wants a kid. That doesn't explain why she wants my kid. What's wrong with yours? You fill up a cup for her: there, solved."

David shrugs again and gestures to the hall, to Brandon's room. "You could give her that one—it's already potty-trained."

"You're supposed to be potty-trained."

"Fuck you. That was one time, and excuse me if I drink nearly a fifth of schnapps and pass out in the bathroom doorway."

Gary grins. "There is no excuse for you."

David rolls his eyes and finishes his beer, sets the empty can down, and reaches for one of the tortilla chips on the coffee table. "I can almost see why she wants your kid. You're not bad looking, you're good at what you do, and your IQ..."

"Oh, for the love of Jesus." Has everyone looked into his private business? "Just because someone has an IQ doesn't mean their progeny are going to inherit it," he says, glaring. "That is not the only reason to have a fucking kid."

"I don't think anyone was saying—"

"You do know what it's called when people pick and choose who is going to make up some kid's genetics because what's-her-tits and what's-his-nuts have perfect blue hair and blonde eyes or a high IQ, right?" David tries to speak, but Gary overrides him. "It's called breeding. She wants me to help her breed her own little brood of kiddie college graduates. It doesn't fucking work that way."

"I know," David says loudly. "And she knows too—we're doctors, remember? I don't think she or I are saying that if she inseminates with your sperm, she's definitely going to squeeze out a kid that's done with college before he's eighteen. She wants that, sure, but it's not expected. You know what you have to mix in order to get—to get a screwdriver, right? One part juice and one part vodka."

Gary squints at him, thinking that a screwdriver actually sounds really good. Why didn't he bring any vodka? Dick. "You still don't know what the hell you're talking about," he says. "Mixing genetics to get a kid isn't the same as cocktail hour. I could have a kid with Smarty McGenius and our little scamp's favorite phrase very well might be, 'Duhhhhhh...'"

David rolls his eyes again and gets another beer. "Yeah, you go on," he invites. "We all know this. You're just ranting about something obvious to try to get me to argue about it so I won't notice the real reason you don't want to."

"Oh yeah?" If David thinks he knows him so well, he shouldn't be surprised at what happens with his chair when he tries to get up. Gary grins again.

David sees him and pauses slightly before gulping his new beer. "My guess is something to do with that one in there," he says, motioning to Brandon's room again. "I'm assuming you haven't spoken to him about it, asked him what he thinks...?"

Gary's annoyed again, because David is fucking annoying. (And right.) (Which is also annoying.) "No, I haven't. I know I'm a seriously shitty father, okay? I know it. I could barely do anything with that kid when he was a baby, and I...don't really know what to do with him now. Everyone keeps telling me I'm doing such a bang up fucking job. He's doing everything. He takes care of himself. I buy him food and he reads books all day. Wow. Why the fuck should I have another kid when I can't even properly take care of the one I have?"

"Well, firstly, I think Lynn probably told you more than once that she wants to do most, if not mostly all, of the taking care of for her baby—I think she really only wants it to see you intermittently. Like, a couple of hours once or twice a month, and maybe some sort of appearance by you on its important holidays or celebratory things." David opens another beer, but doesn't drink from it yet. "We didn't know each other then, so I didn't see you with Brandon when he was a baby, but I think probably your worst problem was just what you said—you didn't know what to do. There are only thousands of books on child-rearing and care available, and no one is going to expect you to suddenly become an entirely different person and put on your MegaDad pants, so..."

Gary rolls his eyes—they would be UltraDad pants, actually, but if he currently owns any item of clothing from the Good Parent line, it's probably a dirty and ragged pair of underwear that are barely more than a waistband and two threads. Ten years he went without seeing or speaking to his son—Irina had sent pictures, lots of them when he was really young and tapering off in the last few years, but it wasn't comparable. Maybe the kid was the only person who could really decide if he was adequate enough as a father to willfully create another one. "I was thinking about bringing it up to him tomorrow, since I'm off work," he said.

"Good, you should. I mean, what some kid says shouldn't make your decision for you," David says, demonstrating his apparent telepathic ability, "but...who knows? Maybe he does want a little brother or something—apparently they're about football-sized when they come out."

"He doesn't like football."

"Does he like little kids?"

"I have no idea." Gary frowns slightly, tapping the can's open tab. "He doesn't really like to talk about his life in Moscow. Or his mother, or most of his young childhood." He's only tried asking once or twice, but the closed look on Brandon's face doesn't make him eager to press him about it.

David nods, as if he and that kid are two peas in a pod. "Well, the only way you're going to find out is to talk to him."

"You're kidding—I was going to crack his head open tonight and have a peek."

"That's just shoddy neurology." David goes to stand, probably to exit the living room after his exciting quip, and when the chair rises with him, attached to the seat of his pants, he stumbles, half-drunk, and ends up falling backwards onto the chair. He looks at Gary, wide-eyed. "The fuck...? I thought I tried to get up?"

Gary's grins again, hugely, and raises his beer to the other man, who had the audacity to comment last week that he could predict Gary's thoughts and movements with accuracy. His friend is now going to be spending a very uncomfortable night right where he is, or he's going to be cutting out the butt of his slacks, which is really his fault since he should have known it was coming, apparently. Either way, good times are afoot.

.

He wanted to talk to the kid over breakfast about Lynn's insane proposal, but after all of the beer, and all of the watching David attempt to free himself from the folding chair while making hilariously awful threats, and then all of the oh god why that his leg's been inciting since about five o'clock this morning, it isn't until late afternoon that he calls to the boy when he comes out of his room for a drink.

"Hey kid," he greets.

Brandon comes into the living room from the kitchen, a bottle of water in one hand. "Hi."

"What are you doing?"

He shrugs. "Reading."

Gary indicates the armchair near the end of the sofa he's on. "Want to talk to you about something."

"Okay."

He sits down, on the edge, which tells Gary he's eager to get back to whatever he's picked up now. Gary is curious. "What is it you're reading?"

"Harry Potter And The Prisoner of Azkaban."

Gary blinks. "Really?"

Brandon grins. "It isn't very well-written, but the story is interesting."

Gary snorts. "You're going to find a lot of that in recent fiction." There's a pause, and he's momentarily unsure how to even bring this up. The kid's still looking at him, expectant. "Do you like babies? Little kids?" he blurts.

Brandon's eyebrows rise slightly. "Yeah. Why?"

"Did you ever want a little brother or sister?"

Now the kid's face darkens, but just a little. He shrugs again, though only with one shoulder. "Yeah, but..." He trails off, and then he looks at his father again, sharply. "Is someone pregnant?"

"Not yet," Gary mutters. The kid frowns slightly, his eyes squinting, and Gary knows that look because he's seen it on his own father's face, on his brothers', and reflected on his own—he's trying to figure it out, and unlike Gary's father or brothers, Brandon's actually likely to get it. It'll take a few rounds of the hated Guessing Game, though, so he just explains, starting slowly and gaining speed when he gets into the reasons he thinks the idea is hilariously under-thought, that any infant or toddler left in his care would be lucky to get back to its mother in one piece, and that he isn't suited for fatherhood. He says this last in a mutter, though, deciding at the last moment that the kid in the room probably doesn't need to hear that his guardian is largely a failure where it counts, but he's unable to stop himself from saying it.

Brandon's quiet, thinking about this. "I don't think you're ill-suited for fatherhood," he says finally. He pauses and fidgets, glancing down at his hands. "Would it be okay if I say what I think?" he asks, and Gary wants to throw shit at Irina's father, who is just about the strictest man he's ever heard of, and who had been raising this kid along with his mother and grandmother. If the old man parented Brandon like he parented Irina as she told him, he's surprised the kid even has the balls to ask if it's okay that he disagree with an adult.

"You can say whatever you want, whenever you want," Gary says, slowly and seriously. "I mean it, kid. I told you before—I don't want you asking me four thousand questions to find out what's okay and what isn't. It's fine. I'm not Dedushka and this isn't Moscow."

"I know."

He does know, as he's been told this probably a billion times since he's come back last March, but old habits die hard, and Gary knows that. "Okay, what?"

He fidgets again, thinking, and Gary waits. (He sort of wishes he'd gotten a beer first.) "I think you're very unsocial," he says suddenly, and then quickly adds, "but that doesn't preclude parenthood. It just requires a little more effort, more practice. Some people aren't really 'children' people, but that doesn't necessarily or automatically make them insufficient or inept parents."

"True. I don't like kids. In general," he adds.

Brandon's face stays impassive. "I don't like gruff, unpleasant, virulent adults. In general."

Gary stares at the kid, who grins tentatively after a moment, and he snorts massively; they might just get along, he and his boy. "You're probably right about the rest of it, too," he says. "I'm honestly sorry I've been a terrible father to you. I'm no good now, either, but I guess I can try harder. I know I should. You're absolutely right—I need to, I'm going to. I'll get a fucking book or something."

"You can borrow mine," Brandon offers.

"You have a book on parenting?"

The kid nods. "I have five."

Why is he not surprised? "Are any of them in English?"

"Yeah. You bought them for me after I moved here. They were on my birthday list."

It should probably say something that the kid asked for books on parenting right after he moved back in with his oh-so-absent father, but Gary thinks that's fair. Smart, too—if he was being stuck with a foreign entity that had legal and logical control over him, and he knew there were books available on the subject, he'd find them too. It's interesting that he chose parenting as a subject when he's the child, on the opposite end, but Gary knows he also has half a dozen books on psychology and sociology, so probably it fits. "Are they any good?" he asks.

"I think so."

"Okay, well, bring them out to me when you get a chance." The kid starts to stand, and Gary holds his hand up. "Not right this second—we're not done talking. I still have a life-altering decision to make, one that's probably going to affect your life as well, and I also want to know what you think about it."

"You're seriously considering it?" Brandon asks, raising his eyebrows.

"I don't know." And the truth is that he really doesn't—maybe it would be nice to have another kid. To actually be around for that kid, to see it grow up and learn to walk and talk and read and write (and scream and shit and smart-off—although to be honest again, he's probably just going to give them points for being smart-asses). Logically, he thinks this is every kind of bad idea...but what if it isn't? What if it's a second chance for him? "I want to know what you think," he says again.

The kid thinks about it, and then he starts to smile, just a little. "I don't know," he says, which is obviously a complete lie. "I like little ones." He pauses, his smile fading, but he goes on. "Mama...cared for many. She loved them all. She taught me that caring for someone much littler and vulnerable than yourself is how we all keep humanity moving forward."

Gary finds that he has to look away from the expression on the kid's face, and the over-brightness of his eyes. "I know," he says quietly. He wishes he could have had another child with her—or, you know, kept up with this one. After another moment, he looks back at his only kid. "I guess she wants to handle almost all of everything to do with the kid, and it'd only be here every so often, and probably not for that long. I'd need to see it around its birthday and Christmas and whatever else. If that annoyed you, I guess you could hang out in your room or see some friends or—"

"I would want to help," Brandon says immediately, sitting up straighter. "I know how to change diapers and feed babies. I don't mind."

"How? If your mom didn't, uh—" He stops, suddenly realizing that it was entirely possible Irina had another kid besides Brandon and this one was just shipped out to him here because he was his, while any others probably stayed behind. No one had told him that she'd had another one, and Brandon had never mentioned a younger sibling, had in fact implied earlier that he'd always wanted one, but—

"She had a job at a child daycare place a couple of years ago. Before she got sick." Brandon looks away and shrugs. "I would go there after school and help. So I know how to take care of lots of kids from baby age to my own age." He tilts his head a little then, considering. "Maybe older than myself, too, depending on the situation. I know how to make meals and basic first aid. I've never driven a vehicle, but I know the theory, so in an emergency I probably could." He pauses and adds, maybe to himself, "I need to learn more of the road sign and light system."

Of course he could take care of shit. This is maybe also why he had just assumed control of himself when he'd fully moved in with his father. Gary hadn't once had to remind him to eat something healthy, to wash his hands or to brush his teeth. (Pick up his shoes a few times so he wouldn't trip over them, that'd been about it.) He hadn't been lying to David—Brandon literally cooked his own food and did his own laundry, he showered regularly, he was generally quiet and respectful. How could anyone fuck up being a 'parent' to this kid? It was no accomplishment. Irina and her mother deserved all the credit for this kid (though her father was likely to blame for some of it too)...but maybe, if he really tried—and if this kid here helped him—he could one day have a kid he could be credited with.

"Yeah, get on that or you're grounded," Gary tells him. Brandon looks at him and he grins a little to show that he's kidding. "How you gonna change a bunch of shitty diapers if you're grounded?"

"Seems like that would then fall on you, so...I would suggest disciplining me accordingly."

Gary snorts. "Hm. Okay. If you don't have equal to a American's understanding of the road signs and traffic lights by the end of the week...you have to eat raisin bran for breakfast for a month."

"I like raisin brain."

"You're not gonna after a month of it."

Brandon shrugs. "I know most of the lights and signs, I just need to see the rest of them. I'm sure I'd know them all by...day after tomorrow. I would say tomorrow, but I want to finish that Harry Potter book."

"You're gonna want to read the next one after you finish that one." Gary shrugs then. "Learn it whenever, I would never make you eat raisin bran."

"That's good. There's a lot of sugar in it."

"There's a lot of sugar in every cereal."

"Not all of them have that much added sugar."

"You know about nutrition as well as how to cook?"

"Yes."

"Even with, like. Toddlers, or whatever? What about when they get real picky and will only eat mac n cheese and chicken nuggets?"

Brandon shrugs again. "Grind up vegetables to go into the macaroni and cheese—the cheese will mask the flavor and they're still getting more vitamins. Try other things in chicken nugget shape and texture like cauliflower tots, or bread and fry or bake other foods with fun dipping sauces to get them to try other things. Have them help make meals, freely give out fruits and vegetables, try new things yourself to set a good example, and don't make an issue about it because it's really not that big of a deal unless you're being unnecessarily authoritarian. Give them a multivitamin if you're concerned about vitamin and mineral intake."

...well, that sure beat hell out of getting threatened with a shot across the face from your father if you didn't finish the shitty half-peeled carrots your drunk mother boiled to death. "Learn that from your mom?" Gary asks.

Brandon nods. "That's what she always told people who asked her advice. They would say much of it would work." He grins slowly. "She would try a lot of ways of getting me to eat things."

"You don't seem picky, though? You always just...grab whatever." Gary can clearly remember him snatching a leftover container at what really seemed like random (thrust hand in, barely look, only to identify blue and white container versus half-thing of strawberries and carton of eggs, and pull it out), happily yanking the lid off and dumping the contents onto a plate before tossing the mess into the microwave.

The kid shrugs yet again. "I only put things on the grocery list that I know I like. Then I'm able to eat all of the things we have."

Of course. He shouldn't have expected anything less. "Well.. I dunno, I'm glad you know all of that shit, I guess. If we're thinking about this...and if I wanted your say, which I do—it's yes?"

Brandon nods. "I'll help in any way I can. I not only know how to take care of babies and little kids, I like to. I did always sort of want a sibling, but, um. Yeah."

Gary nods too. What the hell, then, if she really only wants him to have to take the kid for a little while here and there, and this kid wanted to take care of it. "Okay then. Well. I guess I'll tell her yes."

Brandon grins then, clearly happy. "May I have some books about babies?"

"Sure, whatever you want." Gary watches Brandon's expression turn almost gleeful, and that, on top of everything else, makes his decision. "We still have a lot to discuss and work out," he says. "I don't know when it'll be. She said something about an appointment soon, after which she'll ask me what I decided, and if I tell her...I don't know, she said something about next year."

"So she means...now. To get started."

"I guess. Is that soon fine?"

Brandon nods. "Sure. I'll be fourteen or fifteen when they're a toddler, and I can take them on walks with me or to the park and stuff. It'll be fun."

"I guess." Gary sighs. "I must be fucking crazy to agree to sentence some poor other kid to have me as a parent."

Brandon smiles. "You'll be good too...Dad," he says, softly but confidently. Gary can't breathe, but for all of the right reasons this time.