Chapter Text
Being ordinary was something Aaron always hoped he would get to be.
He’d hoped that he would get to be ordinary when he realized he didn’t know when his own birthday was when he was seven.
He’d hoped that he would get to be ordinary when he realized that no other kids spent their recesses in the library, escaping the tragedies of life with words on paper.
He’d realized he would never get to be ordinary when he first took a pill that had him soaring above the ground.
He was 10, and loud, and his mother wanted to silence him as she always did.
Children were meant to be seen, Aaron. She’d say, the rattling of a pill bottle resounding painfully around the room. Not heard.
So his voice was stolen, and so he’d never get to be ordinary, because ordinary people could speak.
Now he is ordinary.
He is healthy, and happy, and he could speak. He is Aaron Minyard, an omega from a loving pack instead of a broken house, because that house was never a home.
His pack is his home, and he’s fairly certain of that.
He walks back out into the waiting room, Andrew just a step behind. He couldn’t match the pep in Aaron’s step, he was too excited, too relieved, too shaky to care.
He’s ordinary in the way he’s always wanted to be, never daring to hope or dream but always wanting.
He’s normal, but also not.
He’s normal because he’s a healthy omega, not a disgrace, and not something to be silenced.
He can be loud, like everybody else, he can be loud and that’s ok.
Maybe ordinary isn’t the right word.
It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, the word, a dust coating his tongue, film coating the roof of his mouth. Ordinary feels gagging, invalidating, weird.
Because what even is ordinary? Is it ordinary having 2 kids and a white picket fence? Is it the American dream? What is the baseline for ordinary? How can he get with the status quo of normal?
Those are the questions he’s been asking himself his entire life.
He’s not sure he knows the answer. Because ordinary isn’t ordinary, there are so many things that make him extraordinary.
But now, being an unhealthy omega isn’t one of them.
He’s extraordinary because he’s studying medicine to help people, and not to sneak in a few extra pills from the medicine cabinets.
He’s extraordinary because he’s got a pack who loves him dearly.
He’s extraordinary because he’d never thought he would get this, his normal, not the status quo or what anybody else would consider normal.
He gets his normal, a pack who loves him, a healthy body, and he gets to exceed little Aaron’s expectations.
So no, he isn’t ordinary, he isn’t normal, he isn’t conventional because he doesn’t have to be.
He’s Aaron, he has his own definition of normal, he’s extraordinary, he’s himself unashamedly because he can be.
He can have a nice, quiet life. He can be both ordinary and extraordinary.
He’s Aaron, he can be whatever he wants to be.
And what he wants to be is to be seen, heard, and loved dearly.
He is, and maybe that’s what this has been about all along.
It was never about being normal, he’s never wanted a 9-5 with a wife and 1.94 children living in a house in the suburbs.
It was about feeling loved.
And he feels loved, ordinary or extraordinary, normal or not, it doesn’t matter.
He’s loved, either way, any way, every way and it just doesn’t fucking matter if he’s normal or not.
He had thought he was defective before, and then ordinary, and then extraordinary.
He’s none of those things, those things don’t describe him, and they never have.
He’s not defective because while he may be flawed, he’s not a toy, he’s not faulty goods waiting to be sent back to the factory they came from. He’s not defective because Neil, Andrew, Kevin, Nicky, and Abby told him he’s not, and he believes them desperately and fully.
He’s not ordinary because there is no single definition of the word ordinary. He’s ordinary, but it’s his ordinary. It’s his new normal that he’s going to cherish, he’s not ordinary because he’s like everyone else, he’s ordinary because he gets to live quietly and love loudly just like others get to do.
And finally, he’s not extraordinary. He’s not special for overcoming the things he’s had to overcome, the other Foxes have had to do this stuff too, and he’s not extraordinary for it. He’s extraordinary in his own eyes, because little Aaron would be proud.
He’s just Aaron, healthy or not, special or not, normal or not, and that’s enough either way.
So when he walks into the waiting room, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and a pep in his step, they all already know.
“I’ll make a full recovery.”
And they cheer, and are so loud about their excitement, hugging him and cheering so loudly it rings in his ears as true.
They love him loudly and unashamedly, and he loves them all the same.
They love him loudly and unashamedly, and he’s learning to love himself just as much.
He’s stumbling like a baby ready to walk, holding onto a parents hand and letting them guide the way. He’s learning how to love, and that seems like the most important lesson of all.
“I’m so fucking proud of you,” Kevin says, kissing him gently, intoxicatingly, fully.
And he smiles, “I’m fucking proud of me too.”
Because he was scared, and he did it anyway.
“I love you so much.” He says to him, not taking in the surprise in Kevin’s eyes. He loves him, and he should know.
“I love you too, darling. We should get you back home.”
“Then take me home, Kevin.”
And Kevin did.