I'm so so so so so sorry for the wait. I wrote a one-shot. Then I hated it and decided that I would re-write. Here is the re-write. It's unbetaed, so all of the errors are my own!
I also don't own Marvel. I do happen to posses a fluffy robe and Anastasia Romanova-Kirdan, her unborn child, and Braydon Kirdan. I'm kind of cool with that.
The Ruminations of A Pregnant Woman
(Alternate Title: "She's talking to herself again, Baby Daddy, it's your turn to deal with the Duchess! I did it last time!")
My relationship with Natasha is spotty at best. We run into each other every so often, challenge each other, push each other to our limits and we fight ceaselessly. That is how we interacted, and it is how I displayed my affection towards her. We were taught by two different organizations that are not opponents but are also not, in any reality, friends. Our trainings differ greatly, so it is not much of a surprise when we find ourselves to be evenly matched in a fight. Sadly, I cannot test out who would actually win, because I am, tragically, pregnant, preventing me from having any fun at all. This current predicament makes me decidedly grouchier than usual. And grouch seems to be my default setting nowadays.
So, I've taken to painting my floor that Stark "gifted" me with. He's the only one who really gets onto the floor, since he possesses the override codes and lets himself in. I've nearly punched him several times, but that is really his own fault, for trying to sneak up on me. He should have figured this out by now, but I am quite easily startled. Being an assassin often does that to a person. I'm not visibly pregnant yet, so I haven't yet had the need to buy maternity clothes (which look god-awful. I'm not touching them until absolutely necessary.)
While I'm painting, I think. And this is simply stepping over a line, right into Crazy-ville. No one wants to be in my head. I don't want to be in my head a lot of the time. But, I think about the kid growing inside of me. Will it be a boy or a girl? Will it be disabled? Will it be enabled? Will I be a terrible mother? Will my organization recruit them? And I pray to whatever deity there might be that my child does not turn out like me. I never cared for a legacy, I never wanted children. If I wanted children, I would have adopted one a long time ago, when I had a way out. It seems odd, but now, with the life that's currently gestating in my uterus I've found myself turning away from that opinion and pulling myself towards a different way of thinking, less geared towards what my needs are, and more towards what the little parasite's needs will be. I call it a parasite affectionately. I don't know any synonyms of parasite that have positive connotations. My greatest fear is that I will leave my child without a mother. I have enough blood on my hands to fill a decent-sized swimming pool (not a kiddie pool mind you, one of those legitimate pools that is in the ground and has fancy jets and everything), and the blood drips, leaving in its wake people who want to kill me, in every way imaginable. There are more ways than one to kill a person. I've killed people in ways that I would not consider humane. And humanity is a bit of a loose term for an assassin. I've murdered people physically; I've drained blood from bodies and removed eyes from skulls with my dainty knives without recoiling in disgust. I've murdered people emotionally, broken their hearts to a point where they can no longer go on, until I can pass them a gun and they will put a bullet through their skulls without a moment's hesitation. I've murdered people mentally, placing stress upon their mind, pushing just the right pressure points on their minds and bodies until they slowly go mad. I once put a man into a constant paralytic state. He slowly went mad, in a care facility. He stopped eating, and then he was put down like nothing more than an animal. That was all he was in the end. I gave him a visit or two, pushing him towards the edge and leaving him teetering there. It was fun for me. It was a way to pass the time, to put what I had learned to good use, to make myself something more than just Anastasia. I never really thought that it would spiral into something so grotesque that I'm not even sure of hell will take me into its fiery embrace. I know for sure, heaven will not take me in, but heaven never held my soul in the first place. Maybe I will just end. Maybe I will just embrace the nothingness that may come with death.
Thinking is most definitely a bad idea. Anastasia needs to stop thinking. Hopefully she will quite soon, before she goes completely mad and decides to do something far more stupid than fall in love and then get herself pregnant. The probability of that occurring is little to non-existent. I always lacked any sense of self-preservation. If nothing else, my relationship with Braydon was nothing more than an example. I take in the mural I am painting, and I decide that I do not like how it is turning out. It just doesn't seem right. I move on to the next wall, beginning to spread paint on that wall while I wait for the unfinished wall to dry so I can repaint the painted section. There is paint all over my hands and streaking up my arms. I hear someone walk in. I turn to see who it is, my grip on the paintbrush tightening, my body preparing for a fight. My free hand curled around my stomach, leaving a crimson handprint on my shirt. Braydon stands a meter away from me, taking in the white room that is streaked with black and red paint. I don't know how to react to him just standing there. I expect him to do something, but he just stands there for a few minutes before speaking.
"Hey, JARVIS?"
"Yes, Mr. Kirdan?"
"Could you please turn on some music, it's dreadfully quite in here."
"Of course."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. The sound of rock filters through the speakers. It bangs against my ears in its soothing way that only it could do. Whenever I can't sleep, I used bands like Shinedown and Three Days Grace as my relaxants, and even if I didn't fall asleep, they seemed to frighten away the monsters and the demons with their thrumming beat and (sometimes) high-pitched guitar solos and dauntless lyrics. I roll my neck as Braydon settles down against a blank wall; stretching his legs out before him as a great sigh leaves his lips. He gestures for me to carry on, speaking to me in Russian "I'll keep watch, Moon of my Life; no monsters will come for you this night." I did roll my eyes this time, but the ridiculousness of his statement made the tension ease itself out of my body. Despite everything I may have said to Nova, I missed him with all of my blackened heart, and to have him back with me is indescribable. His presence may have put at bay any number of stress-induced miscarriages.
When I had arrived here, I had told myself that I was carrying the parasite (once again, affectionate, I'm fairly certain it's an adorable parasite, that is, unless it gets Braydon's stupid mug as a face, that would be unfortunate), because it was all I had left of Braydon. Now I'm carrying it because I want to, not because I feel obliged to a memory. I want the little uterus gestation creature since now I have someone to share it with.
God, I'm turning into such a sap. I guess getting myself pregnant completely removes whatever street-cred I have ever and will ever accumulate. Ever. Damn. That's just depressing.