a/n: So. Hey there.
(Um, for all you innocent clickers who haven't read my story "You Have Got To Be Kidding Me"… Yeah, you might wanna skip this. No, for real.)
So y'know what I was thinkin' today? Basically, this: "Wow, I really freaking suck for not updating my L/N story for so damn long. I should put up a profile note or something that says I haven't, like, abandoned it or anything lame like that. Except… damn, I want to write some Nahuel! But the next chapter would be boring as hell from his POV. Holy crap… I should write, like, a oneshot of my canon for him!" (Dude, my thoughts make me sound like a valley girl. I promise I'm not, though. Prooomise.)
Right, so essentially, it's been established that I suck, 'kay? So, er, have some Nahuel and pregnant!Mary? And, to all those who've read YHGTBKM, this is Mary's very first pregnancy. Yep. It was so weird writing these two without Grace and Norah popping up.
And I will update that super-long awesomely-reviewed fic. I will. Because I love you all. Like, enough to use crappy pick up lines on you guys. If we were at a bar. And I was a creepy guy (which, for the record, I am not. Creepy guy =/= 15 year old girl).
To the innocent clickers who have no idea what I've been rambling about: …I'm sorry. Seriously, you can read the fic. There's an implication at the end you might not get without reading my other fic, but the rest hopefully makes sense. Hopefully. And, for the sake of being fair, I love you guys too. Mhmm.
"I. Hate. Being. Pregnant!"
My sister punctuates each word by flinging an apple directly at my head.
Not the way I would have solved the problem, but I don't question her logic any more.
I duck thrice in quick succession, only rising warily to full height when it appears she's exhausted her supply of fruit. Mary sinks back into her wooden rocking chair, having inched forward a few moments earlier, the better to pelt me with human nourishment.
"I think it's somewhat late for that realization," I point out, ascending the several squat steps that lead up to the veranda of my father and sister's home. Mary narrows her eyes, flexing a hand over her rounded belly.
"Better late than never," she intones, indicating with her free hand that I should sit in the second rocking chair positioned at her side. At my arched brows she briskly explains how it came to be with, "Father bends to my every whim as of late. Ever since I fell pregnant, actually. It's amusing. And useful. He's the one who brought me the apples when I asked."
"Wonderful to know," I deadpan, lowering myself into the chair and feeling it sway gently with my weight. "Yet you choose to fling them at my face? It enthuses me so that you value the deformation of my features above your own sustenance."
Mary snorts in a decided unladylike way (Father would be aghast, I'm sure, for all he's trained her to be proper). Wind that snakes between the fine wood of the rafters blows her hair in soft spirals, the fabric of her dress hugging her stomach tightly. "I hate human food, you know that. Please stop being ridiculous long enough to allow me to bemoan my pregnancy."
I let an amused smile play over my face, and hope that Father won't return home for a long while. Rare it is that he lets Mary out of his sight normally; in her state, I'm surprised he isn't shadowing her yet. "Oh, do go on."
"I will." Mary shifts in her chair, wincing from what I assume to be the pain in her back she often complains of. "This takes nine months for humans. I'm beginning to see why spreading out the misery may be helpful."
"Poor dear," I sympathize, albeit somewhat mockingly. But, slightly more interested than before, I add, "How long has it been, now?"
"Three months, eight days," she rattles off, within the same second my question hits her ears. "Supposedly, it's the equivalent of eight months in humans." She pauses. "Thank God."
"Seconded. I would rather not be bombarded with nutritious fruit every time I wish to call on you."
"I see your concern lies solely for my health."
"Solely," I agree with a roll of my eyes, running a hand through the dips and ridges of my braided hair. "By the by, have you any new bruises? Last I heard from Father, that babe's been kicking you black and blue."
Mary turns the slightest bit in her chair to regard me evenly. "Gods, you do need to get out of your beloved jungle more often."
I frown; the issue of where my Aunt Huilen and I choose to reside has always been a sort spot of my sister, although she usually takes care not to press it. I attribute it to the pregnancy, however, and question her, "Your meaning would be…?"
She sighs. "The bruises have faded, actually. I would show you, but it was positively boiling this morning and I didn't bother with undergarments. Though apparently even half-vampire grace can't save me from looking a fool attempting to clothe myself in them…" she grumbles, seemingly to herself, picking at the hem of her knee-length dress.
"That was a lovely image, thank you. You say they've faded? That's good," I add, making an attempt at encouragement around our usual banter. Mary lets her eyelids flutter closed, tucking one slender arm behind her head to act as a cushion.
"Quite. It's strange, though… that there are no new ones, I mean. The child's stopped its kicks."
My brow furrows at her obvious unease. "Is that not a nice thing?"
She murmurs a soft agreement, but doesn't bother opening her eyes. "I've gotten used to the feeling of it moving, I suppose. But perhaps it means the babe will be arriving in good time."
"Perhaps," I concur, and then chuckle quietly at the picture-perfect pose of tiredness that she presents. "Fatigue again, I assume?"
"You assume correctly," she yawns, stirring. "Why do half-vampires still need to sleep? So useless... Oh, Gods, but I hope I can nap today. I've been nightmaring ever since… well, since the babe. Haven't slept well for so long…"
"'Nightmaring' isn't a word," I point out, standing from my rocking chair and dusting a stray leaf from the confines of my hair.
"Killjoy. It's a word if I say so. Now come help your horridly pregnant sister stand up," she demands, spoiling her order with the drowsiness of the words. I smirk to myself, bending to grasp Mary's hands and pull her to her feet. Her belly bumps against me as I do so, rounded and full as the moon.
It is odd, I think to myself idly, when there isn't the usual bloom of movement beneath my sister's skin from her babe. Oftentimes Mary will only have to place my hand against her abdomen and a fluttering nudge will appear beneath my palm, as if by magic.
But now… nothing.
How very strange.