NOTES: This story takes place in what I refer to as the Nadiaverse (see my story Wishes and Nightmares to go to the start). This is the tale of how Nadia's best friend came to be with her parents.
Special thanks to the_wordbutler for contributing the last scene to this fic.
Kate and Zelda are my characters, but not Hank. Don't sue me for using him.
Kate did a double take at the sight of her husband filling the doorway to her office. "What are you doing here?"
He shrugged his broad shoulders. "I thought I would stop in and say hello."
She stared at him until his cheek gave a small twitch, pulling the corner of his mouth up for a second—his tell of not knowing how to put something into words. "Is it the kids?"
"No," he answered, moving into the office and sitting in one of the chairs. "Not the ones we're currently fostering."
She leaned back in her chair, waiting for him to elaborate and taking a breath of relief that the two teens in their home were currently safe and sound. When Hank didn't keep talking, she waved her hand around in a circular manner to urge him to continue.
"We did get a call though," he said with a tinge of nervousness lining the edge of his voice.
Kate sighed. "There's only room for one more." She was grateful for their salaries and the fact that it let them live in a lovely and (for Brooklyn, anyway) spacious brownstone. But with two teenagers already under their roof, Kate knew space was about to get tighter, and the refrigerator emptying at something akin to the speed of light. "What's this story with this one? And why did they call you instead of me?"
That last question hit a nerve because it caused Hank's shoulders to rise even closer to his ears, which Kate wasn't sure was entirely possible. "They called me because I'm not the one who is adamant about not taking in children of a young age." He shrugged. "I've never explicitly stated being uncomfortable with the prospect of babies."
She felt a tension build between her shoulder blades at his words. "How much of a baby?"
"I'm told she has all four limbs, so—"
"Henry."
The smirk slipped from his face as he seriously answered her question. "She's three days old."
"Days?" Kate exclaimed. "Please tell me you meant to say years. Or even decades."
"Days," Hank affirmed. "Her mother was here on a student visa, gave birth, and gave her up."
"Why?"
"Having the baby alone—out of wedlock and a result, I am told, of a one-night stand—was a dishonor enough on her household. The mutation the child was born with went undetected until birth, and once the mother saw her…" He trailed off with a shrug.
Kate was familiar with how things worked. There were plenty of people who wanted to foster and adopt babies, but that number dwindled when a mutation was brought into the picture, and if the mutation was something to do with the child's physical appearance, it could be extremely difficult to find a placement. Which led her to the obvious question.
"What's the mutation?"
"Something to do with fish scales. They weren't entirely sure yet if the scales serve a true function or not."
"And they called you to ask you to help them investigate?" Kate posed, filling in at least one gap of the conversation her husband was skirting around.
"Yes."
"And because I would automatically try and avoid a baby. And not just a baby, but a baby-baby."
"Possibly."
Kate sighed. "You said three days?" Hank nodded his reply. "Same day Romanoff and Rogers had their kid."
The date had only stuck out because she'd won a small bit of cash in the SHIELD office betting pool by splitting the pot on correctly guessing the baby's weight. It was enough to pay for a free lunch yesterday; a quiet meal with her book and no teenagers complaining about eating vegetables.
She wondered in the back of her mind if this was universe telling her she wasn't allowed to have nice things.
Rising from her chair, she gathered her purse and began to head towards the door. Her husband followed her form with surprise in his yellow eyes. "Well, come on. You want to go play science detective, and I don't want to look like a total bitch, especially since if they're calling us it must mean there's no one else around."
They caught a subway and headed uptown to the hospital where the child was under observation. Kate's mind raced the entire ride there. As foster parents, she and Hank had to have their home ready for children of any age. There were baby supplies at the house, sure, but the crib was disassembled, only a handful of outfits in the closet (Did the baby have fins with the scales? Would normal clothes fit?), a single box of diapers (Do diapers expire?), and maybe a can or two or formula (definitely expired) that they'd stocked up on when they'd started fostering two-and-a-half years ago. In that time, they'd had a few teenagers come in and out of their home. At the moment, there were two boys ages seventeen and almost fifteen.
Because Hank was, well, Hank, the couple fostered due to uncertainty of the viability of having children of their own, and with the mutant gene on the rise, there were more children in the system each day whose mothers and fathers didn't know how to parent someone with a mutation. So the McCoys told the agency that they'd help out in that manner.
But a baby.
Kate felt Hank's large hand come to rest on her back and gently push her towards the exit on the subway car. Lost in her thoughts, she'd missed the fact that they'd arrived at their stop. The silence between the two of them continued into the hospital.
As Hank pushed the button for the labor and delivery floor, Kate felt a small smile tug at the corners of her mouth.
"Marcus?" Hank asked.
Kate nodded. The first boy they'd fostered, age ten, had always called "Inside button!" whenever they approached an elevator. She'd never thought about how cool it was to pick which floor to travel to until Marcus.
In seconds, they rose up to the labor and delivery portion of the hospital and a nurse led them through the security checks to get back to the nursery. Kate relied on her lawyer skills to maintain a straight face as they passed the rows of rolling bassinets until they stopped in front of one in the back.
Her breath caught as she looked down at the small child. A pale pink blanket was used to swaddle the child, but unlike the other newborns around her, she wasn't in the typical burrito blanket wrap thing. Her arms were free and spread out at her sides; perhaps she enjoyed having the opportunity to stretch out a little now that she wasn't confined in someone's body.
Said arms were where the scales started. Little, overlapping, orange half-circles that began on the backs of her hands, up the sides of her arms, on her shoulders and neck, onto her chubby cheeks, and around her ears on the side of her head, leaving a wide swatch of black hair in an almost Mohawk fashion down the center of head. Kate could understand being terrified at the sight of the abnormality, especially when it wasn't expected, but she was also caught up in the beauty of the light playing on the iridescent scales.
A doctor came over and Kate partially listened as the woman and Hank began discussing the child's condition and throwing around different prefixes to the word "derm." She'd let her husband take care of the science bit for now and then have him explain what the hell was happening later.
Kate reached inside and gently placed the tip of her finger on the palm of the child's left hand. Reflexively, small fingers grasped on and held tight causing Kate to let out a shaky breath.
The rational part of her brain kept repeating no babies no babies no babies no babies, but a voice increasing in volume started to marvel at the beauty of the long eyelashes on the child's almond-shaped eyes and just how sweet and round her cheeks were.
"Does she have a name?" Kate asked without even realizing the thought was something her brain was trying to process.
"No," the doctor answered. "The mother didn't give her one."
Hank thanked her for bringing him up to speed on the child's condition and the doctor took her opportunity to make an exit, leaving the couple alone with the baby. "Well?" Hank said. "What do you think?"
Kate sighed and shook her head, but didn't move her finger away from the child's grip. "I haven't changed a diaper since high school. We'd have to go shopping for so many things—so very many things, Hank. And neither one of us is going to get sleep for the next six months or something. And then there's work."
"I can speak with Charles about taking some time off."
Kate nodded. "At least until she's six weeks. They won't let her in at the daycare at work before then. And that's even if she stays with us for that long. Because we're not keeping her." She turned her head to look him in the eye for emphasis. "We'll take her for now, but we're not keeping her. Seriously—I do not do babies."
"Just for now," Hank agreed with a nod.
"What?" Kate groused at the knock on her mostly-closed office door.
"I'm sorry. If this is a bad time, I can come back later."
Kate's pen froze mid-sentence upon hearing that voice. A voice she recognized, and really, a voice anyone who watched the news could recognize. She slowly set down the pink pen she was using to scribe notes in the margin of a file—a file she was reading for the fourth time—and forced a smile. "Captain Rogers, what can I do for you?"
The man gave a small grin. Draped across his chest was a black sling that ran from his left shoulder to just above his right hip. In his right hand, he held out a white envelope with "The McCoys" on the front. "Nadia had to have her wellness check-up over here today, so I thought we'd drop off some thank you notes while we were at headquarters." He paused to look down and smile at whatever was in the sling across his chest.
Seriously, he was just standing there in her office, offering her a hand-written thank you card while smiling at his newborn daughter. He was the wet dream of so many women, it was ridiculous.
Kate was not one of those women. Granted, the fact he was handing her a thank you card was pretty amazing, but the whole newborn thing… She had enough of that to deal with at home.
"She's quiet," Kate commented as she rose from her desk and took the card from between his fingers.
"Sleeping," he answered, looking back up at her.
"But she still does it quietly."
Confusion crossed his face. It was an expression Kate was getting used to when conversing with people these days. "Umm, most of the time, yeah, I guess."
"How do you keep her quiet?"
He chuckled. "Oh, she can cry, usually in the evenings." The shoulder that wasn't burdened with a sling gave a small shrug. "But most of the time, she seems to be a really good baby."
"Must be nice," Kate muttered. "Mine has a habit of shrieking."
His blond eyebrows rose, and his eyes quickly flickered to her midsection before coming back up to her face. "Yours? I didn't realize—"
"Temporarily ours. Emphasis on the 'temporary.'" He nodded politely, but still looked a little puzzled at her words causing her to sigh. "My husband—Hank—"
"Yes, we met a few months ago, if quick introductions before a fight count."
"Right, well, Hank and I foster kids. Mostly it's been teenagers, but a few weeks ago we took in a newborn. We're caring for her until she can be placed."
"Oh," he said in reply, a hint of sadness in his tone of voice. Kate wasn't sure if it was because she didn't share his exuberance at all things baby, or if he was sad that the child was waiting to be placed. Either way, she understood.
"She has a mutation," Kate offered as a way of explaining the circumstances. "We usually foster kids with mutations. Hank can be a role model, and it will give them a connection to Xavier's school."
"Of course." He paused to roll his lips before quietly admitting, "It's great you do that. Kids need someone to look after them. My buddy's mom basically took me in and raised me after my mother died. I would've been lost without her."
She nodded and looked down at the file spread before her. She didn't know if it was his confession of how a foster parent helped him, the faces of the children she'd taken into her home swimming in front of her, her sleep-deprivation, the soft and contented sigh that whispered out from the sling across his chest, or some combination therein, but she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. She picked up her pen and began rolling it between her fingers in an effort to distract herself into controlling her emotions.
"I can go if—"
She cut him off with a wave of her hand. After clearing her throat, she pointed to one of the chairs. "You can sit if you want."
"If you're busy, I can—"
"Sit," Kate ordered in a tone she usually reserved for misbehaving teenagers. "Please," she amended. "I need a break from reading documents." He nodded as he took his seat, mindful not to jostle the sling attached to the front of him too much. Kate leaned up in her seat, and Steve, catching her movement, pulled the side of the material away slightly so she could see the sleeping baby inside. "And I thought Zelda was tiny."
A wistful smile crossed his face. "I didn't think anyone used that name anymore. It's nice to hear it again."
Kate shrugged. "It means 'happy.' Hank and I hoped if we named her that she would fuss less. It has yet to work."
He chuckled before growing serious for a minute. "The card only covers your baby shower present, but I wanted to thank you for the help you gave us—and also apologize if I was a rude the last time I was in here."
"The last time you were in here, you thought your wife was dying. It's understandable."
He shrugged. "Doesn't mean I had to take it out on you."
She snorted. "I'm used to dealing with teenage boys. You didn't hold a candle to them. How's Agent Romanoff doing, by the way?"
"She's good," he answered with a look of relief on his face. "Physically, you can't even tell she was pregnant a month ago. Her energy levels haven't fully recovered yet, but almost."
"Glad she's doing okay."
"Yeah," he breathed. Whatever he was about to say next was cut off by a squall. His arms wrapped around the bundle slung against his chest as he quietly spoke reassuring nonsense. He looked back up with a grin. "See? Not quiet all the time. Especially when she's hungry." He stood from his chair and began to slowly make his way to the door of her office. "Anyway, just wanted to say thanks."
Two days later, Kate came home to smirking Hank who, once she'd abandoned her heels and jacket and had a momentarily-quiet Zelda in her arms, pointed at a box on the coffee table. Said box was black and had a note attached to the front; once again, "The McCoys" was used to address the recipients, but this handwriting was more feminine.
Kate reached for the piece of paper and opened it up to read the note's contents.
McCoys—
Steve told me about your new addition. Congratulations. Even if she's temporary, I'm sure you could still use some of this. And Hank, this stuff actually will put hair on your chest (or more of it, at least).
Let me know when you need more.
-NR
"Oh god," Kate said, and sat down hard.
She's ten minutes in from work, still in her slacks and blouse but with her heels discarded just inside the front door and her blazer thrown over the back of the couch. She'd needed her hands free, after all, to swoop over and snatch Zelda for after-work cuddles. Thanksgiving break at the school meant Hank was spending the week working from home, saving them the hassle of daycare and fussy temper tantrums, and Kate fell right back into the routine they'd developed when Zelda was a newborn.
Of course, three months ago, the routine was required because no one, not even Hank, could survive eight hours a day with a mewling baby.
Now, Zelda was three months old, smiling and trying a thousand different sounds on for size. She'd actually been hanging out on her blanket when Kate walked in, smiled when she heard Kate's voice, and settled right into Kate's grip when Kate picked her up. Hell, Kate'd been talking to her, asking her how her day went and commenting on whether she was a good girl for her daddy, when all of a sudden—
"What's that?" Hank asked, wandering in from the kitchen. There's already something cooking on the stove, not that Kate recognized the scent. No, she felt a little like she was entering a tunnel, or like she'd been hit with the vertigo that always follows when she got new glasses.
She looked down at Zelda. Zelda tracked the motion with her dark eyes. Kate wasn't sure babies were technically capable of confusion, but she thought there was a little of that in Zelda's expression.
"Kate?"
It's a pretty sad state of affairs when the only words a lawyer could muster up were: "We have a baby."
For a few seconds, Hank was absolutely silent. "Yes. We do. We've had a baby here for nearly fourteen weeks now. I don't understand—"
"No, I mean, we have a baby." When she looked up, her husband was staring at her. "Hank, we haveababy."
The jumble of words rushed out, and Hank's face creased. "Yes," he said again. "Are you all right? Was there another incident at headquarters? Should I call someone?"
"Oh my god, you're not listening." She shifted Zelda, who let out a little complaining noise, and suddenly the whole realization rushed up like water into her ears after diving into a pool. She ended up standing, Zelda still in her grip; the baby wriggled, but since being walked around in circles was her favorite thing in the world, her noises immediately turned happy. "We named her. We named her, we feed her, we clothe her, you didn't go into work to stay home with her, I practically dropped everything when I came in the door to cuddle her, she's—ours." When she stopped in the middle of the room, Hank was staring at her. "Like, she's can't-give-her-back-now, we're-her-parents-ours."
Hank's lips parted, but only for a few, fleeting seconds. When he closed his mouth, the room fell absolutely quiet except for Zelda's cooing. She reached for Kate's necklace, and the immediate instinct to tell her "no" and to correct the trajectory of her tiny hand kicked in. Except then Zelda grabbed Kate's fingers, instead, trying to guide them into her perpetually-spitty mouth. Kate thought of the months of drool, spit-up, and sleepless nights.
She wanted to sit down again.
Across the room, Hank swallows. "Beer?" he suggests.
"So much beer, Henry," Kate replied, and Zelda smiled around her fingers.
They ended up sitting on the floor on either side of Zelda's blanket, the heat on the stove turned all the way down to simmer and beers in their hands. Normally, they saved the drinking for when Zelda was in bed—like good parents, Kate's irrational brain needled—but the ice-cold jolt of wheat and hops was grounding. Zelda kicked out her legs, her eyes scanning around the room. Her scales were as tiny and iridescent as ever, almost sparkly until they disappear into her tiny little baby outfit.
She had literally a billion tiny little baby outfits.
"This was not supposed to happen," Kate said. She thought she might sound incredulous.
"In our defense," Hank said, "social services has tried very hard to find her a new placement. But given her mutation and her fondness for each of us—"
"You mean her screaming freak-outs in daycare?"
"—it's been difficult."
"Which they'll tell you, but not me."
"Yes, well." Hank looked almost guiltily at his beer bottle. He'd used his fingernails to pick off most of the label. "I am not the one who is adamant about not—"
"Taking in children at a young age, yeah." Zelda wriggled, her tiny feet flapping. "We can't give her back," Kate said abruptly.
Across the blanket, Hank's fingers paused on his bottle. "We can't?" he repeated. Kate thought he sounded cautious. The thought occured to her, suddenly, that maybe her realization in the middle of the living room was a little late in coming, and that Hank'd arrived at the same conclusion weeks or even months ago.
Damn scientists.
"No. I used to do this kind of work, Hank. She might not know the difference tomorrow, but another couple months, when she's seriously bonded with us?" She shook her head, and when that wasn't enough, ran fingers through her hair. "We named her."
Hank's mouth nearly twitched into a smile. "She couldn't be Baby Girl forever."
"We painted her damn room." He starts to answer, and she pointed her beer bottle at him. "We bought a designer stroller that practically has spinning rims."
Hank smirked at that. "It may yet, depending on which of my colleagues gets ahold of it next time she visits—"
"We take her on workplace visits!" Kate announced. She threw up her hands, a flurry of activity that earned a delighted crow from Zelda, and then flopped back against the front of the couch. "We've been proud new parents for like twelve of the last thirteen weeks, and I just figured it out today."
"It has been a very stressful thirteen weeks," Hank points out. "Eight depositions, correct?"
"Does the no-show count?"
"You did drive all the way into Jersey."
"I hate Jersey." She took another swig of her beer, then sat it down on the floor. Zelda's watched, bright-eyed and curious. She'd started to reach for things, to shove her fists into her mouth, to respond when they or the boys said anything to her. The boys, who should be back with their parents by the first of the year, fake high-fived their foster sister sometimes.
"I hate babies," Kate thought to add.
"Mmm, I don't think that's entirely accurate." Hank abandoned his drink to come over and sit next to her, his back against the couch. It moved slightly under his not-unsubstantial weight. "I think you struggle to tolerate most babies. I think you would rather not imagine a world in which a child emerged from your—"
"Do not finish that sentence."
He chuckled and held up his hands. "I think Zelda is the exception to your rule."
"And when exactly did you start thinking that?"
When she glanced over at him, there was something soft flitting across his face. She thought for a minute he might be trying to fight against it; he lost the fight, though, and his smile was soft. "You mean other than when you agreed to bring her home?"
Kate knocked her shoulder against his arm and then leaned bodily against him. "This is your fault, you know."
"And for that, I will happily be the one to call her case manager in the morning," he replied, and they sat there, watching Zelda smile.