Work Text:
When Nimona gets angry, Ballister realizes, her face turns as red as one of her shape-shifting creatures. It’s a crimson flush that crawls all the way up her throat, to her cheeks and brow. He surveys the spread of the color, as she stands in the middle of the living room, hands hooked on her hips, teeth bared into a vicious snarl.
“But I don’t wanna go to school,” she protests, stomping her foot. “It’s not fair. I’m not a girl!”
“I know you’re not a girl,” replies Ballister, because she’s repeated it roughly two hundred fifty times. He arms himself with a shield of patience. “But there’s no other way. Nobody knows you’re alive, and this is for the best.” He joins his hands together. “We need to keep your identity secret.”
“And how is school going to do that?”
“If you shift into a different person and build a life for yourself, nobody would suspect a thing.”
“So, why can’t I be older?” she shoots back, cocking an eyebrow. “I can pretend to be a full adult. Watch!” She takes on a self-important air, straightens her spine and squares her shoulders, like a change in posture alone is going to convince him to reroute his entire plan.
Ambrosius, his boyfriend, his beloved to whom he owes his life, hums in thought. “She makes a good point, Bal.”
Ballister is going to strangle him—slowly.
“Then, how would we explain her living with us?” Ballister bursts, before shaking his head. “No, it doesn’t make any sense. Nobody would believe we have a random woman living with us. This will only work if she’s a child, and as a child, she has no choice but to go to school. It’s the only way to ensure for her a bright future.”
“Are you hearing yourself? A child, a bright future?” Nimona spits out, her entire body stiffening in righteous anger. “Are you forgetting who I am, and what I’ve done?” She whirls around. “Ambrosius? Please, back me up here.”
Ambrosius’ lips twist sideways. “Well, when he puts it that way,” he hesitates, shrugging sheepishly. “It kinda makes sense.”
She reels back, her hands dropping to her sides, jaw going slack—a picture-perfect tableau of teenage outrage and shock. Then just as fast, she clenches her fists and yells: “You guys SUCK!” before marching into her room and slamming the door shut.
It splinters at the hinges.
Ballister massages his temple.
***
That morning, Ambrosius goes to work. The city still needs guidance after the destruction of its main bridges and buildings, and who better to lead the nation than the descendant of Gloreth himself? Ballister, on the other hand, takes the day off. He’s got errands to run around the house, menial tasks that he never has time to finish otherwise. When he kisses Ambrosius good-bye at the door, he’s already preparing his mental to-do list.
At first, Nimona putters around, ignoring him. She hops on the sofa, plays a video game at full volume, until she gets bored and tosses the controller away. She raids the bookcase and peruses one of Ambrosius’ recipe books, carelessly leafing through the pages and marking them with a bold red sharpie. Grabs an armful of snack and munches noisily on the sofa. Clips her toe nails on the living room rug. Ballister walks in and out of view, as he carries on with his business, and every time her movements stutter, before continuing as before.
Mid-morning, her attitude shifts when she realizes her approach isn’t working, that it’s not getting her the attention that she wants. So, she swings wildly in the opposite direction.
That’s when the nagging starts.
Words. A lot of words, with a whiny inflection that never lets up. It burrows under Ballister’s skin, grates on his nerves and sets his teeth on edge.
“—and what if it doesn’t work out? What if they find out, then what? It’ll be splashed all over the news. Nimona, the monster who saved the city, back to school! Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds? They’ll never take me seriously again. I’ll be a joke, and by extension you’ll be a joke. You’ll be known as Ballister Joke-heart, the mopey knight who rescued the great Nimona and let her wither away in a classroom. What will you do then, huh—”
Ballister reassures her at first, but then tires quickly and considers investing in a pair of industrial-grade earplugs. She trails after him, from room to room, stuck to his heel like a stubborn sheet of toilet paper, only pausing for the length of time that it takes him to use the restroom. Her voice ricochetes to new levels the second he ventures out. He ends up scheduling too many bathroom breaks for the short amount of respite that it affords him.
She pleads with him, while he’s slotting a new window glass into the frame. She hovers behind him, her mouth running a mile a minute, breathing down his neck. (What if something attacks the city, and I’m stuck in a classroom learning DIVISIONS? And everybody DIES? How will you survive with the knowledge that it’s YOUR fault?) It takes him two full hours to fix all the windows, and he cuts his finger on a broken shard along the way.
She pleads with him, while he’s repairing the leaking water heater in the bedroom (Imagine something drastic happens, and I lose ALL control of my powers during class. What then, Ballister JOKEheart? Would be a shame if I BROKE THINGS, hmm?) He’s tightening the last bolt, when it grows suspiciously quiet. Frowning, he straightens up from his crouching position, falls face-to-face with a maniacal Nimona-monkey and stumbles back with a shout.
She pleads with him, while he’s in the front yard, planting flower seeds in the soil. At least, she has the foresight to shift first: she’s a gap-toothed girl, with messy pigtails and big, brown eyes. At this point, Ballister is fully ignoring her, and he can tell that it’s only fanning her anger.
When a grizzly-haired man and his dog stroll by, she whirls around, clutches dramatically at her hair and exclaims: “Help me, I’ve been kidnapped! This man has kidnapped me!” at which point Ballister yanks her by the elbow and hustles her inside, while muttering inane excuses over his shoulder.
Inside, his chest heaves with every breath. Nimona stands a few feet away, her back turned, shoulders hunched, and Ballister’s resolve snaps.
“Nimona, you have every right to be angry, but for the very last time, I’m not going to change my mind about school!”
For a moment, the only sound in the room is his heavy breathing. Then, she whips around, and her eyes flash a blazing red: “Fine!” And this time, she transforms into a bird, flutter-quick and delicate, before flying away.
***
Ballister’s head aches from his nape all the way into his ear drums, like a steel trap locked around his skull. He trudges into the kitchen with bare feet and rummages through the cupboard above the sink. The late afternoon sun spills through the newly-fixed window, bathing the room in a golden glow.
It’s been uncharacteristically silent for the past hour. He has no idea where Nimona is: last time he checked, she was flopped in their fenced backyard in the form of a whale, tail twitching, with a bored, forlorn expression in her eye.
With a sigh, he grabs a glass mug and prepares coffee; first adding the powder, then filling it to the brim with scalding-hot water. In the background, he hears the front door open, followed by heavy footsteps, thump of boots lined too-carelessly on the floor. He’s stirring in a teaspoon of sugar, when an arm loops around his waist for a quick hug.
“Hey, babe,” Ambrosius greets in a warm voice, pecking him on the cheek, before withdrawing with his palms braced on the counter.
“Hey,” Ballister returns, dropping the spoon in the sink and taking a sip. “How was work?”
“Good,” Ambrosius says, rotating his head to work out the kinks. He’s flushed around the cheeks like he’s been jogging. “We’ve started working on the southern bridge. There’s more damage than what we initially thought. Hopefully should be done by the end of the month.” His gaze scours over him. “How was it with Nimona?”
Ballister peers down at his coffee. “Good,” he says, swallowing, before glancing up. “Though she was mad at me all day.”
Ambrosius’ face falls, but he doesn’t move closer to comfort him. “Oh, no. Was it that bad?”
He shrugs in answer, sets his mug on the counter. “I expected it.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you did,” affirms Ambrosius. “I mean... I kinda understand where she’s coming from. I’d be angry too if I had to go back to school. All the peer pressure, the expectations, the risk of people not liking you. Must be hard.” He works his jaw back and forth. “Are you sure there isn’t any other way?”
“No,” Ballister replies solemnly. “It’s the only way I can be sure that she’s safe. I want her to be safe.” He swallows. “I care about her more than I care about myself. You know that’s true. So, if this is the only solution, then I’m doing it.” He stares at Ambrosius, straight-on. “I’d never forgive myself if something bad happened to her.”
Ambrosius’ mouth falls open, as he stares, shock plastered all over his face. Then, he shifts on his feet, nostrils flaring, and his eyes start watering at an alarming rate. A wave of shimmer flickers over him, distorting the silhouette of his body, broad chest shrinking down to narrow shoulders, head rounding out like a basketball, blond hair darkening into a fiery red—
—and it’s his Nimona staring back.
“You— I—” she stammers, and a tear slips free, rolling down her cheek. “Bal,” she utters in a broken voice. She surges forward and embraces him, burying her trembling face into his shirt.
Ballister softens.
“Gave up so soon?” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her, gathering her closer. “Just when I thought your acting was getting better.”
Her next cry is a half-sob, half-laugh.