Prompt: "You asked for it! Your modern Arishawke + anything having to do with children (theirs/a friend's/totally random kid, doesn't matter)"
(Wow, this one got away from me!)
The annual Policeman's Ball started at 6pm and ended at 1am. That meant seven hours of Donnic and Aveline entrusting their precious baby girl to Hawke, the reigning queen of Making Good, Well-Thought-Out Decisions. It might have been made a bit easier by the presence of the Arishok, who by all measures seemed like a sterling example of all things logical and strict.
Composed he may have been, Hawke mused, but he was quickly proving that he knew jack shit about children.
Marigold sat at the kitchen island, legs swinging wildly in the air from the edge of the tall, two-hundred-dollar designer stool her corduroy-clad butt had clambered onto. "Nevaeh said that all cops do is eat donuts and listen to the radio. She's in the Daisy class." She dragged her arm across her nose. "Mum says she's a stuck-up priss."
Have reached across the island to tug a lint ball from the girl's bone-straight coppery locks. "Okay, well, what do you think about Nevaeh?"
Marigold shrugged, leaning down and opening her mouth wide to breathe on the polished countertop and watch it fog up. "She's okay. I'm in Sunflower class. We only play together twice a week. She's bad at climbing."
Her data on this girl apparently now exhausted, the girl rolled her face on the cool surface in front of her. "Why are your counters white?"
"White is more responsive to ultraviolet disinfection," the Arishok explained as he assembled ingredients beside the refrigerator. "This kitchen utilizes such a system for routine cleansing."
Marigold crinkled her nose.
Hawke shot her partner's back a silent 'Really?' before turning to their charge. "So basically, it's easier to clean." She frowned. "And also, he is super boring."
"Yeah," Marigold replied calmly, "I know."
Hawke smirked and made a 'lips-zipped' motion across her mouth, which earned her a sloppy grin and a giggle from the child oozing across the tabletop.
"So, 'boring,'" she began as she sidled up to him. "What's for dinner?"
"Pork loin with Humboldt Fog," he said as he pulled out the cutting board. "Baby roasted potatoes with apple and rosemary, and artichoke hearts."
Hawke stared.
"You disapprove of my choice."
"You want to feed that to a kid?"
"It is appropriate."
Interest piqued, Hawke crossed her arms and leaned against the fridge. "By all means."
"Pork loin is lean," he explained, "and the primary protein source. Potatoes are a simple starch, and artichokes contain fiber."
"And the Humboldt?"
A voice perked up from the island. "What's Humboldt?"
"Cheese made from goats," she called over her shoulder, "and he eats it."
The resulting eeeeeeewww only served to reinforce Hawke's smug expression as she waited for him to explain away that particular choice.
"She cannot have bleu," he said. "The mold used is unsafe for children."
Biting back a laugh, Hawke shooed him away from the counter. "Arishok, she's five. She doesn't eat anything she can't pronounce."
Frowning, he allowed himself to be moved aside. "I assume you have an alternative prepared."
"Of course."
Fifteen minutes later, Hawke was at the stovetop, her plucky assistant kneeling on a stool alongside her. Orange powder poured out from a packet into the saucepan, where an army of strained dinosaur-shaped pasta sat strained and waiting in a pool of milk and butter.
Marigold manned the wooden spoon, stirring furiously before the powder could settle into chunks. Hawke hovered over her, a small teardrop-shaped plastic bottle waiting in her hand.
The Arishok had since been relegated to hot dog slicing duty.
"The instructions on the box made no mention of food coloring," he observed, but neither woman so much as looked at him.
"Because dinosaurs were green," Marigold yelled.
Hawke snickered as she squeezed in three drops of blue dye.
"Yeah, because dinosaurs were green. Duh."
His refusal to eat Hot Dogs and Green Dino Mac meant that the Arishok was abandoned in the kitchen to heat leftovers while the girls grabbed their bowls and beelined for the sofa.
"I grabbed Despicable Me," Hawke told her, grabbing the remote and turning the DVD player on. "My sister said that it's good."
Marigold slunk to the floor, clumsily depositing her bowl on the glass-top coffee table. "Yeah, but there're two of them."
"I know," her sitter replied, dramatically producing the sequel from the cushions. "WHICH IS WHY I HAVE BOOOOOOTH."
Marigold clenched her tiny fists and bared her teeth. "Yuuuuussssss."
Triumphant, Hawke hit 'play' and stabbed a stegosaurus clean through with her fork.
"Here," Hawke told the Arishok, pressing a cloth bundle into his hands. "Your refusal to touch the green cheesy slime means that I'm on dish duty, and you're on pajama patrol."
He hesitated, studying the Dora the Explorer-patterned flannel as Hawke rolled up her sleeves.
"We're not starting the next movie until she's changed," she instructed, "so make sure she puts them on."
After he had firmly herded her into the bathroom, the Arishok placed the pajamas on the sink counter. "These are the sleep clothes your mother provided," he informed her. "Change into them."
She sat cross-legged on the woolly bath mat. "No."
He started. That had not been the answer he was expecting.
"Yes."
"You're not the boss."
"This is my home; I am the 'boss.' Put them on."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
The Arishok's frustration began to edge at his nerves. He had been given one task. One task: put the small child in pajamas.
"You cannot simply refuse," he countered, sitting on the covered toilet. "Give me an articulated reason."
Rolling her eyes, she pulled down the clothes, separating the shirt as they tumbled to the floor. "These ones have tags," she explained, thrusting the collar up for his inspection. "Tags are itchy."
He leaned down to check, confirming the presence of the irritant. "I see," he replied. "What alternative do you suggest?"
A few minutes later, as Hawke was finishing the dishes and the Arishok put away the dry, Marigold emerged from the bathroom and marched to the sofa positively swimming in one of Hawke's plush microfiber bathrobes, the bottom dragging after her like a fur train.
"Hey," she called to the one in charge of that decision, "why does Marigold look like she just got crowned Queen of England?"
He smirked.
It was the third time through Despicable Me 2 that found Hawke and Marigold asleep on the couch, the latter a splayed out tangle of limbs across the cushions with her head on a pillow in Hawke's lap.
The Arishok took the remote from the table, reducing the volume of the squawking yellow cretins to a tolerable level, both for their sake and his.
As he sank into the armchair beside the sofa, Hawke stirred. She blinked drowsily and checked on her charge, letting out a snicker at the open-mouth soft snoring. "Third time's the charm."
The Arishok leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands folded. "How," he asked, genuinely intrigued, "are you this capable with children?"
She smiled at him, leaning her head back against the soft upholstery. "I helped raise Beth and Carver. If I can weather through twins, one's not so bad." After a moment, she added, "And she's a good kid."
He rumbled something in his throat. "She is overly energetic."
"She's five."
A few feet away on the carpet, her phone vibrated dully. "That'll be Aveline," she said as he picked it up to check.
"They are leaving the venue," he confirmed, "and will be here in twenty minutes."
Hawke looked at him apologetically. "Grab her bag, will you? I can't move without waking her up."
Not wishing to wake the finally-bested child, the Arishok silently traversed the penthouse, collecting toys and books and reorganizing them into the canvas tote she had arrived with. He approved of the books – most were learning-based, either about colors or species of African mammals or age-appropriate social lessons. He could not, however, discern any educational value in a doll whose skirt and hat were used to transform her to and from a cupcake.
The intercom buzzed as he finished.
As they entered, dress uniforms crisp and bright, Hawke waved from her position on the couch. Chuckling, Donnic reached down to scoop up his mumbling, apparently boneless daughter, yards of extra fabric and all.
Aveline smiled, the crinkles at the corner of her eyes betraying just how pleased she was. "Looks like you wore her out."
"Well," Hawke replied, rolling her stiff shoulder, "I didn't need to tie her up, if that's what you're asking."
As Marigold melted into his shoulder, Donnic turned to his wife. "We should get her home, it's late." He grinned at Hawke, struggling to keep hold of the oversized bathrobe. "We'll call tomorrow."
Picking up the tote, Aveline agreed. "Thanks again, Hawke."
"Anytime."
As they watched the family leave, the Arishok's gaze followed Marigold's strawberry blonde head as she disappeared behind the door.
"Hawke."
"Mm," she managed, stretching.
"We have not yet discussed the prospect of children."
She groaned, turning toward the bedroom. "No," she answered, "you are not starting this conversation at two in the morning. Save that shit for tomorrow."
After a moment, he followed.
Fair enough.