Phoenix
Sleeping is an amazing thing isn't it?
I sound like every teenager ever to grace the planet, but it's true. When I'm asleep I don't have to worry about finals or recitals or upholding the family name. I don't have to worry about what my mother thinks (because she always thinks I can do better) or what my dad thinks (because he always thinks I need to slow down) or what my brother thinks (because he always thinks I'm an idiot) or even what my twin sister thinks (because she doesn't really care, so long as it takes the attention off of what she's up to).
In my sleep I can, for usually the first time in the day, be my very own person and live my very own dreams – and I can tell you know, honestly and wholeheartedly they never have anything to do with dancing, or singing, or getting good grades, or being a star. No. My dreams are far more simplistic, fuelled by the ridiculous amounts of love stories read to me as a child, but also mostly by growing up in a house where love and romance was an everyday occurrence.
My dreams usually involve a man, who is largely faceless but that's unimportant, it's how he makes me feel that is the huge difference. He never asks to come to my house with false pretences and then spends all dinner drooling over my sister – or worse yet, my mother! He never asks me out on a date and spends the entire time pumping me for information for the algebra test the next morning. The man in my dreams sees me for who I am and loves me, his arms come around me protectively and we watch the sun slowly set in the Vale and when he talks I have no idea what he says, I just know I'm safe and warm.
It's the most wonderful dream.
I do believe, and this is where it will sound strange, but I do believe this dream man is informed wholly in my subconscious by my father. You see, no one can beat my daddy. I'm that girl that would declare loudly at every birthday to all the family that I was going to marry my daddy one day. Of course the response was warm laughs and sympathetic pats, not least from my mother who would swell with pride in her good fortune that in actual fact no one would be marrying my father because he was completely hers already.
It's not pride or conceited for me to say that my parents are by far the best looking and most desired individuals in the town where we live. My mother is petite and curvy, with shimmering dark hair and eyes as green as the Irish sea. I've never seen the Irish sea, but I get the symbolism, my daddy often tells me he married my mother in Ireland, that we would have been conceived there if it hadn't been for the war.
My father is taller than my mother by at least half a foot reaching officially six feet and almost an inch. The almost inch is terribly important to him, especially when his brothers – my uncles – come around and start joshing with him. He's the smallest out of the three of them. He has spent his entire life in the Alliance serving, now he taught the new recruits at a local training centre but he had still kept his fitness up which of course means being dropped at school by him is always a challenge.
My friends often wait for my arrival so they can flock to him and bat their lashes and touch his arms and 'Ooo Mr Byrne' with him. He's too good natured to tell them where to go, and I suppose it is really harmless because a fool would be able to see that my daddy has and always will be smitten with my mother. And who wouldn't be? She's Commander Shepard!
Yes, my mother – the saviour not only of the Citadel but also the entire universe from Reapers (giant mechanical aliens who had been intent on turning us all into willing slaves). So, as you can imagine, I exist under a pretty big bloody shadow.
The fame isn't too bad, it can be useful. For example on takeaway-Friday we get tables easier, or discounts, sometimes stuff for free. My mother hates it, she always has this totally chagrined face and hides behind my father as though he is her personal bodyguard and my father, ever the protector, will wrap his arms around her and remind her its only gratitude for what she did.
We use my father's name at school – but he is as well-known as my mother, so really there isn't any hiding and I'm sure had his brother's not insisted he keep the family name my father would have changed it.
"Nixy! If you're late again you can walk to recital after school!"
My father's voice comes up the stairs and I smile, a bluff that I may call him on because I love it when he gets flustered trying to carry those threats out. He can never stay mad at me, or my sister for that matter. The difference between us is she is more likely to get in trouble on purpose.
I slip from my bed and even though the sun is coming through the window to dapple the duck-egg blue carpet, it's cold, so I stick my feet into my fuzz-lined slipper boots. I cross immediately to the window and push it up to open it, looking out over the Vale in front of me. The nook where we live was man-made by my uncle (who is not really my uncle but my father insists we call him such) Hobbs. He built the house that is next door to ours where he lives with his wife and what we call the Hobbins brood. There is about eight children in total my favourite being Axel who is the same age as me and my sister and has been my best friend for as long as I can remember.
The view first thing in the morning is always amazing, the sun glances over the tops of the trees like a pebble on a pond, the deep green brightened and vibrant. The rush of leaves and the whisper of eaves are the only sounds, and birdsong of course. If I listen harder I would hear my mother singing and beyond the fresh smell of the meadow in which we live I would smell the enticing flavours of bacon and eggs.
"Daydreaming again Nix!" Summer scolds me, dropping beside me on the window seat and I look at her, she's beautiful.
Her name Summer is really a metaphor for exactly what my sister is. Her hair is blonde and wavy and frames her cherub-shaped face. Her blue eyes are cat-like, framed with thick, golden lashes and her body is athletic, slim and built for speed. In contrast I am more like my mother, my hair is dark and smooth and curls when it gets wet. My eyes are as blue as my father's but large and childlike (my mother says full of wonder, but she really just means freakishly big) and I am shaped all wrong for running track like my sister. My hips and shoulders give me an hourglass shape, and my ample bosom for my age is an embarrassment for running unless I strap them down with a good running bra beforehand.
"I need you to do me a favour Nixy," Summer starts and I groan – favours for my sister usually mean covering for her, lying for her, spotting for her or being a third-"wheel on a date she's not sure is going to go terribly well.
"What?" I ask, the feeling in my voice evident elicits a smile from my sister.
"I have a date with Toby Orson," She sighs, her eyes rolling dreamily in her head "but he has this… friend…"
"No." I say quickly "No, Summer no. I'm not interested in some college guys… friend!"
Summer pops her lip out and catches my hands "Oh Nixy that's not fair! I totally do things for you all the time!"
"When?!" I ask her exasperated and I have her caught because she really doesn't very often and I can see her trying to think and decide, against my better judgment to help her by shaking my head "Who is he and where is it?"
She grins, knowing she has her way again and beams happily at me "We're meeting at this private bar called Mellow in the town-"
"That's a VIP lounge." I point out "We will be ID'ed in there Summer…"
"I've got that all under control." She smiled "I have a splice that will fool the machine – just trust me a little Nixy, huh?" She pushes her blonde waves back and continues "Your date is called Ian Huntley, apparently he's all the way from the United Kingdom – you're kind of guy, all posh and smart."
I look at her carefully, flabbergasted that I apparently have a type I am unaware of and more that my sister knows. Not. "Summer," I complain "Don't you want to wait until we graduate and go to college to start dating college guys?"
"We're only seventeen." She says at me. At me. "That's a whole year away, besides you needn't sit there pretending to be miss priss – when dad finds out about you signing up to the Alliance you won't be the golden girl then."
I recoil from that, stung by the abrasive words and turn to look outside again. It's as close to blackmail as she will get but the threat is implicit between us – do this or I'll tell on you. That age old classic.
"Ok." I say sullenly because she really does have me in a corner with that one. Our parents aren't terribly strict on what we can and can't do, but the one rule was we were to steer clear of the army, of the Alliance and fighting altogether. I can't even say I have an interest in it beyond curiosity, but when I think about graduating next year at eighteen and going to college… I don't want to have any regrets and the opportunity to 'test' the Alliance presented itself and I jumped. Without really thinking about it, a knee-jerk reaction I signed the roster and then prayed they would overlook me.
Idiot.
Overlook the daughter of Abigail Shepard and Fletcher Byrne? Yeah, a stupid hope.
My deployment papers arrived and I had to squirrel them away and kind of pretend it wasn't happening; I still don't know how to tell my daddy.
"Great!" Summer beams "I'll set it up – in the meantime I need you to drop to mom and dad you have extra recital on Friday night, I'll offer to stay back with you and we'll be covered." She claps her hands excitedly and glances to the door as our father calls for us again "We also need dresses – so if you have a look through mom's wardrobe I'll see what I can borrow from Jace." She gives me a conspirational wink and I groan, getting to my feet and padding toward the door.
I wish I was a terrible liar because then she would give up asking me to do these things, but it seems I have an incredible talent for that too.
"It'll be great fun!" She insists and I nod, knowing absolutely it's more like my idea of hell.
Abigail
Before the sun is up I'm awake. An age old habit of a body that is used to only a few hours of sleep at a time, fifteen years after the war with the reapers and I still can't shake that biological clock. Beside me Fletcher is still asleep, his arms wound around my body making me feel small and slight, our legs tangled in their own embrace and his head resting in the cradle between my breasts. He always holds me as if he'll lose me, even now, and I never complain because secretly I love it – to wake up in his arms and watch him sleep.
He stirs and my body stirs with him, my heart beginning to beat faster as the muscles in his back move. I want to see his face, but from this angle I can see his blonde hair only, can smell that unique scent that is all him – like earth and sandalwood. Fletcher is such a handsomely shaped man. His face is strong, the shape of his jaw angular and proud, his nose straight and his eyes are what could be called pretty. The duskiest blue and framed with long, dark lashes, but its the light in them that is the special thing, the way when he smiles it lights his face and its as though a star is born behind his gorgeous eyes. I wonder if there is an inch of him I don't adore? I even love the shape of his brows, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles, the mole underneath his lip.
I close my eyes just as I feel his head come up. I feel his breath on my face and I struggle not to smile and then his lips graze over mine and I forget what I was trying to achieve in the first place. They are ever tender, gentle, brushing over the sensitive surface of my own and I hitch a breath in my chest "Good morning beautiful." He whispers, his lips moving over mine as his body seeks its place between my thighs.
Lazy morning lovemaking is a pleasure that only a happily married couple can truly appreciate I'm sure. The trouble being of course our children are all old enough to know what the noise is and not so gullible to believe the 'daddy has toothache' or 'mummy's got a headache' excuse. There is no point in hiding it I suppose – we make love, we kiss, we cuddle, we show our children what it's like to be in love and to be loved.
"The kids," I whisper and he smiles, I feel it, that beaming, delicious grin that melts me curving against the skin at my neck.
"The kids are teenagers," He reminds me, and his head comes up, his blue eyes meeting mine warmly "The only thing that is going to wake them is the smell of bacon or the threat of walking to school."
He kisses me and I have no argument, I have no defence. This close to him I'm breathing the same air as him and it's humid and warming, making my thoughts slow and sinking and my hand falls to press to his chest, fingering a scar that lies deep in his skin there. I wear its twin, right over my heart where his first arrow struck the day I ran into him and was literally knocked on my backside. My cupid never missed.
Breakfast is much like the military operations of old but swapping counting rounds to counting rashers of bacon and portioning medigel to portioning scrambled eggs. By the time the kids are around the table I have most of it cooked and Fletcher, in his rhythm now he's awake and refreshed comes in and wraps his arms around my waist, kissing the back of my neck erupting a chorus of groans and 'ews' from the table.
He smiles, turning to chastise the noise but I don't mind because his arms are still around my waist. His hand over my stomach spreads its fingers wide, a protective gesture for the secret we're both harbouring excitedly.
"You feeling ok this morning?" He asks me, his voice is deep and rich and wonderfully sensual, like hot fudge and I blush – blush! – and nod.
"Little sicky, but I had a ginger biscuit. Feeling great now." I say honestly and turn my head enough to look up into his face. He kisses between my eyes, forcing me to close them and for a long moment there is only us in the whole world.
"God you guys are gross."
Jack, our son, is less appreciative and he promptly gets to his feet, running a hand through his blonde hair which is getting too long. He grabs a couple of pieces of toast, adjusts the hover-board on his back and bounds out the back door with all the care of a bull in a china shop.
When the tremors from the door slamming finally abate I turn to the girls – my black and white twins; chalk and cheese and whatever other array of descriptions of opposites that can be applied. Nixy is reading, as she always is, old paperback books that she begs from her uncle Dylan and then collects in the attic, most of them romance novels. She has her head in the clouds most of the time. Summer is a far more real concern. Where Nixy is content and relatively safe with her high standards of these created men with wonderful intentions, Summer is content to deal with the real things – the bad boys, and it's a constant struggle for me and Fletcher to keep her safe.
Safe.
What a strange concept. Fifteen years ago we were protecting our toddlers from reapers. Now our biggest enemy is the many boys that sniff around our blossoming girls.
Fletcher likes to joke with them, to have his recurve bow and arrows out and casually laying around when they come calling. His fame in the Alliance hinges on his involvement in the development and production of the first combat bow using miniature mass effect fields to deliver on power and accuracy. He was widely known as the Archer, or Crow more often than not, a nickname given to him by Hobbs when we were all much younger and it has stuck all this time. The combat bow, the X-33 was his baby long before he had babies.
"I have an extra dance recital this week." Nixy says and I look at her again, she doesn't look at me, just turns a page of her book as though she hadn't spoken at all and I look to Crow who smiled and kissed my head gently.
"I can stay back and help out." Summer offered smoothly "I would be running track Friday anyway."
"Well, I'll know not to pick you up then." Crow smiles as he takes a seat reaching for a plate of breakfast on the well spread table "You remember the rules though, straight home afterwards."
The girls nod and make agreeable noises and I run a hand through my hair grimacing when I detect egg "I should go for a shower." I say and Crow's eyes come up glinting mischievously "Alone." I add, for his benefit and bend to kiss him softly "You have to take the girls to school." I remind him.
"School." He nods and gives me a wink "You got it babe."