Chapter Text
After the sudden Technarch catastrophe, the rest of the cookout went off without a hitch.
Granted, a massive techno-organic alien child lumbering around stomping holes in the yard and shouting a constant stream of queries probably fell under the usual definition of hitch, but Doug was more than willing to redefine terms in the name of family.
“Newfriendoug!”
Which wasn’t to say his patience had no limit. Doug bit back a sigh and lowered his burger back to his plate, then flashed Tyro a practiced grin. “Yes?”
“Consumables pathetic and small!” Tyro boomed, glowering at the offending meal. No one had taught him the difference between speaking and shouting yet, a distinction that had been completely useless in the depths of space. Still, there was a hint of genuine concern as he asked, “Query: Insufficient?”
Doug shook his head. “We don’t need as much food as you, Tyro. I assure you it’s more than sufficient.”
Transfixed with disbelief, Tyro watched him finish off the burger then clomped off to investigate the rest of the cookout.
He returned barely five minutes later.
“Dougfriend!”
“Yes?”
“Query: Why does Earthplanet burn?” Tyro stretched his arm all the way across the yard to point at the lava-powered grill. He’d tried to stick his head in it earlier, thinking he could peek inside the planet that way. Warlock had beeped something about it being a door to the goblins, and though Doug hadn’t the slightest idea what they were screeching on about, it certainly put a stop to Tyro’s lava spelunking career.
“Because Amara asked it to,” Doug explained simply. He had to remind himself that Tyro wasn’t really a small child, just completely ignorant of Earth and all its inhabitants. Compared to Warlock’s childhood determination that he already comprehended his humanfriends, Tyro’s natural eagerness to ask questions was actually a relief.
“Earthplanet obeys meat-thing commands!?”
Starting to feel dizzy, Doug shook his head yet again. “Nope, only Amara’s.”
Tyro whipped around and stared at her in awe. It wasn’t astonishing enough to boost her from mere meat-thing status, but it did earn her a certain level of deference. While he wasn’t impressed with the shooting star man or the lady with the flying hoofbeast, the sun-shifter and earth-melter possessed powers even he couldn’t match. He didn’t understand how it didn’t cook their meat. He’d have to keep an eye on them.
When Doug glanced back at the rest of the gang for aid, he found them snickering and grinning at his plight. Seeing him with another young Technarch trailing after him like a lost duckling — even a 5-ton duckling of mass destruction — had them drunk on nostalgia, and none of them would dare raise a hand to help, lest Tyro imprint on them as well.
Meanwhile, Tyro’s proud papa was tickled pink. Literally. With his circuits tinged a distinctive faint rose color, Warlock had been beaming at them both without a moment’s pause ever since their introduction, and if not for that joyous approval, Doug’s patience wouldn’t have lasted half as long.
“Selfriendoug!” Tyro wailed, returning yet again for wisdom. “Query: Why does yipyapthing abhor Self?”
Yipyapthing, otherwise known as Thori, glowered at them from under one of the picnic tables and flashed his teeth in warning. It was in poor taste for the Asgardians to bring him when Warlock was still heartbroken over having his secret yet beloved helpuppy taken away, but at least there hadn’t been any gnawed ankles.
“I told you not to try and pet him,” Doug reminded gently.
“But—”
“Maybe if you ask him for permission?”
Judging by the infuriated shrieks and snarls and threats of violence that soon filled the air, Doug had clearly forgotten the finer points of Technarch-wrangling. He groaned and scrambled over to break up the fight.
“Yipyapthing tried to burn Self! Self will destroy puny creature!”
“No, you most certainly will not,” Doug told him firmly, grabbing him by the arm as though it would do any good.
Luckily, that simple touch was enough to make Tyro’s mighty shoulders plummet. “Selfmentordoug objects to—”
“Tyro, mind if I make a query of my own?” A certain issue of diction had been bothering Doug for a while now, though with only Warlock as a model, it was difficult for him to form a universal impression of Technarch linguistics. Still, it was…strange.
Tyro perked up immediately, eager to help. “What is query?”
“You’ve gone through a half dozen names for me by now. I don’t mind or anything, but I was wondering why. Are you having trouble settling on one for some reason?”
“Self has observed relationships of meat-things,” Tyro answered slowly. It was clearly a matter he’d given great thought, and his already serious voice carried even more weight than usual. “Conclusion: Nomenclature insufficient. Similar pattern unavailable. Self does not know word for selfsoulfriend of proxysiredam.”
“Oh, um.”
That was certainly a more complicated question than Doug had expected, though he was flattered that Tyro wanted a special name for him so soon. It had been months before Warlock finally eased into his pet names and stopped calling everyone by their full names for good. The brutal simplicity of the siredam-heir relationship didn’t leave room for many family words to begin with, but it wasn’t as though English offered an easy solution either. They had trouble enough trying to explain selfsoulfriend to people.
“Let’s go ask Warlock, okay? He’s better at finding the perfect words.” Better at making things up, more like.
They found Warlock huddled with the team, listening avidly as Kitty regaled them with gossip from the school. The first to notice their approach, he perked up and hurried over to join them, but when Doug relayed the problem, Warlock froze up in bewilderment. He cocked his head and puzzled over it for a long moment, and silence fell upon their little family circle.
“Siredaddy!” came a sudden shout from the group behind them.
“Bobby,” Shan hissed. She raised her drink to cover the tiny grin that had crept onto her lips.
“Come on guys, it’s like baby-daddy, it’s hilarious.”
“No, it makes Doug sound like Warlock’s dad. It won’t work at all,” said Amara.
Sam rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. “Dougfather?”
“What, like the Technarch mafia?” Dani laughed and waved her drink.
The team had always leapt to certain conclusions about the selfsoulfriend deal, but their immediate assumption that Tyro was automatically Doug’s son as well had him frozen in horror. He wasn’t a father. He wasn’t a role model either — quite honestly, he was just a mess.
“Why is this your decision?” he asked loudly, hoping to shut them all up.
Kitty shot him a pleased look, and her eyes twinkled with laughter at his growing dismay. “Because we’re the proxyfamily, so we’re making a proxy decision as a family.”
The logic was sound enough for Warlock, who shrugged and hovered around the outskirts of the circle to listen in on the ideas. Selfparentdoug got shot down for being far too boring, Fatherdoug for being too priestly. Nate offered Dag as a combination of Doug and dad, and got banished to the timeout picnic table for his trouble. Selfpapa earned the closest thing to a unanimous vote, but was still missing a crucial something.
By the time Roberto started suggesting Proxydaddy for its similarity to foxy daddy, Doug couldn’t stand it any more. He threw up his arms and stormed to the other end of the yard where he could sulk out of earshot. But that familiar thump-thump-thump followed after him, and moments later Tyro dropped down next to him, snapping his legs in against his chest in an awkward movement that reminded Doug a little too much of Transformers.
He hadn’t even known Warlock was a father until Tyro turned up a few hours ago, and now everyone was redrawing his family tree without his permission, and they kept looking at him like he was a five-year-old playing house, and Warlock looked so scared and expectant all at once and— Things were moving terribly fast. I’m a little young for this, Doug thought miserably to himself. He would’ve said it aloud, but he didn’t want Tyro to take it the wrong way.
“Self does not understand. Self made simple query.” Tyro scratched at his head, doing his best to try out the human body language he spent the day observing.
Sympathetic and irritated all at once, Doug distracted himself by fiddling with a few odd blades of grass. The yard needed to be mowed again soon, which was always a good meal for Warlock, if as distressingly inadequate as everything else. He wondered if he could remember how to make those grass whistles from his childhood and set to work rummaging around through the longer clusters in search of the perfect piece. Too thin, too wide… After a few minutes he glanced over to find Tyro trying in vain to pluck a single blade of grass. His bulky fingerconstructs were much too cumbersome for anything more delicate than ripping whole clumps of earth away, but still he attempted gentleness.
Tyro startled at the sudden sharp, squealing cry of the whistle, and Doug grinned himself all the way out of his foul mood. He made a few more shrill sounds with his instrument, then twirled it thoughtfully between his fingers.
“You call Warlock by his name, right?” he asked.
“Affirmative.”
“Could you call me Doug, then? Not Dougperson or Friendoug or Mentordougsir, just plain old normal Doug?” It would’ve been awful nice to be plain old Doug again, if only to his…proxyson.
Tyro mulled it over, then gave a nod. “Understood. Plainoldnormaldoug.” He waited a few beats, just as his father had taught him, then slowly raised his eyebrows. “Request for confirmation: Self’s humor successful? Doug is cheered?”
Doug chuckled under his breath, and the light in his eyes shone with genuine warmth. “Yeah. Thanks, pal.” He raised the grass whistle back to his lips and winked. “Now match my pitch and we’ll give that yipyapthing a little payback.”