Work Text:
Aaron Warner Anderson
My hands hover over yet another pile of papers, choosing the day summary from Oceania. Somehow I’m proven to be rather slow, today—and in a world where time is everything—I am useless.
Eighteenth of October, Oceania reporting back. It started,
I force my mind to focus itself into the text, to read them, analyse them, but the words drag themselves through the page—taking me minutes just to get through the first paragraph.
For someone taking immense pride in his meticulous ways of arrangement and order, my mind is an absolute mess today.
Thoughts firing left and right, my mind ricochets from one matter to other without truly processing them the way situations demand; with scrutinising way they need to be done, looking through each line for math that doesn’t add up, traitors that might cheat us, stories that are elaborately woven tapestries of lies.
This is a true first.
I’ve always, always been able to channel my emotions out of work. To not blink an eye to anything that may happen in the world when in my office.
I did that when my mother passed away.
I did that when I believed the pathetic excuse for a father of mine had been killed by the girl who was the owner of my heart.
I did that everytime.
Every. Single. Time.
What then, I wonder, has happened to me now, that merits this?
I rack through my memories, through the symptoms to deduce out a plausible explanation.
Sleep deprivation. Extreme stress. Insomnia. Nothing. No other symptoms persist in my body for such a medical excuse.
And unbidden, my mind whirs back to the same exact moment from the previous day—the one plaguing my mind, gnawing at my being and tearing away my bones.
The moment when Ella slid that test into my hand.
The moment the world stilled for us.
The moment time froze.
The moment I realised I may soon, be a father.
The feel of the word in my thoughts sends a shiver down my spine—reminding me of my own.
I am not my father. I am not my father. I repeat the words in my mind, just as Ella had told me to—should the feelings resurface.
I won’t be him. I would happily die an agonisingly painful death over and over before I become even a shadow of what he was.
But wasn’t I already what he was? What he wanted me to be?
A heartless monster murdering people?
Terrorising the sector and keeping them in line by exercising sheer power over them?
By inhumanising them enough to dull the agony their faces might pose in my dreams?
To strip them of just enough humanity to make it easier for me to take their lives?
Will an inhumane monster be somehow a decent father?
I’m not my father. I’m not my father. Ella is over the moon about the kid and I am too.
I turn back to face the clock at the end of my room. And I have effectively wasted twenty minutes of my precious time on this gibberish.
“You are weak. Master your emotions!”
His voice swims back into my mind and suddenly I’m thirteen, tied to the pole, accepting my birthday presents with the grace and gratitude I was to feel for my father.
I sever myself sharply from the memory, summoning every bit of my strength into one thing: focus.
The work demand me.
With one swift motion, I am back in my chair.
One and a half hours later, I was on my way back to home. Today I see my kid for the first time. Ultrasound.
It seems as though years of being abused to Kishimoto’s inelegant language has put words like ‘kid’ into my mind.
It is, I must admit, rather frustrating—not knowing if it’s a little boy or girl. Ella seems stubborn on the opinion it is a girl.
I, for one, hasn’t thought about it much, could be girl, could be a boy. Either way the child will be loved. The child will be well versed in everything the world can through at them, I’ll teach them everything I know and have acquired in my years of existence.
They’ll have tea parties and ‘play dates’ as it is referred to as in one of Kenji’s movies. They certainly won’t be taught how to shoot a gun at nine.
The rest… rest is something, I’m rather ashamed to admit I haven’t thought about…
The familiar road to the house turns around and I swiftly park my car, excited at the thought of seeing her again—and our little kid too.
I insert my copy of the key into the lock and with one swift turn it gives away—allowing me entry into our home.
“Ella, love?” I call out, hoping to leave quick enough to catch the twins.
I wait in anticipation of her voice, to have her bless my ears with them.
“Yes, Aaron!” She calls back. Filling my heart with an inexplainable ecstasy. Something about her always calms me down. It grounds me.
She grounds me.
“Let’s go?” Ella asks as she steps into the room, wearing a beautiful lavender sweater.
I can feel a lot of emotions fighting inside her, helplessness, pain, hurt—and above all an overwhelmingly large amount of one emotion.
Hope.
The drive to the hospital was quiet and rather small. A definite tension hanging in the air, I could feel that she was still fighting the battle of hoping to embrace a child at the end of this and bracing herself for the pain she’d went through.
The past years were nothing short of pain for her. She’d try her best to hide it, always keeping her face clear of emotions, but deep down she was breaking down and I could feel it.
I could feel it and yet I was helpless in taking the misery away from her.
Now, after all this, yesterday I’d seen it in her eyes again—a hope so pure, a laugh and smile so content, I fell in love with her all over again.
And god, it’s of no debate that I wouldn’t hesitate to make sure it’s the end for whatever cruel fate is doing this to her if it took away the smile on her face.
When we arrive, we’re immediately met with the smiling faces of the twins, soon we’re ushered into a room, the clean and sterile smell clinging to the air.
I’m sure I should be talking to them, thank them for their kindness over the years, but it feels as though a cotton ball is fixed into the inside of my throat, cutting off my voice.
And luckily Ella is following through the social conducts and making the small talks—sparing me the misery.
Soon she is layed down onto a bed, the twins continue to tell her assurances, spreading some kind of Jell onto her exposed stomach.
My hand find Ella’s—weaving into them, my eyes fix themselves onto the black screen ahead.
At first it’s all fuzzy and black, then slowly, very very slowly, a tiny mass of black comes into vision.
Our baby.
Our little child.
Mine and Ella’s.
Ours.
And somehow looking at the kid, I feel lighter than I’ve since the news.
Looking at the kid, I feel a possibility for it all.
I am far from a master at this but I’ve got nine months, I’ve planned and executed wars and overthrown governments in less with Ella.
With her.
With Ella.
With her I’m happy. With her I’m whole.