AN: Sorry it took so long. Right now I'm attempting to establish credit, find a car, find a house, secure financing for said ventures, and I'm getting ready to transfer to another new job, this one more permanent. Please be patient with me. I promise the chapters will keep coming as long as they are wanted. Please let me know that they are wanted! Reviews really are what keeps the creative juices flowing;-)
Huffing impatiently, Baird rolled down his window and let one elbow rest on the sill. With the early-afternoon sun beating down on the windows, the cab of the truck was getting warm quickly and he'd been waiting for at least ten minutes, parked in front of the barracks on Fort Collier.
Damon touched his earpiece. "Mataki," he said after the small device beeped, prompting it to form a line to the intended recipient.
It took a minute, but she finally came on the comm.
"Hold your damn horses, Blondie," she instructed, ever the nurturing mother-figure in his life.
"I'm not taking you on a date. What's taking so long?" he demanded. In the background he could hear people talking and passing by, like in a corridor.
"You're not?" she asked, mimicking a disappointed, senile old woman. "Well, silly me. Granny got all prettied up thinking her smart boy might take her out for a night on the town." Then she dropped the sarcasm, turning to her hard sergeant's voice. "I'll be out in a minute. Think you can keep it in your pants until then?" Not waiting for an answer, she cut the line.
Baird scowled, chagrined that he didn't get a chance to take a parting shot at her. "She's worse than the mother I was born with," he grumbled, which was an utter lie. Compared to his real mother, Bernie was a picture of saintly maternal grace. Hell, compared to his real mother, Bernie could make a legitimate claim of sanity, and that was saying something.
Damon tried to imagine what he would've been like if he'd been raised on Mataki's knee instead of in the pit of despair he actually grew up in, and concluded he probably would've ended up about the same—cynical, foul-mouthed and taking on fights he shouldn't. But maybe more socially functional, less damaged.
On the other hand, if he had been Bernie's son, he probably would've grown up with that obnoxiously prim accent. Probably would've annoyed himself to death by now.
A knock on the passenger window startled him, but he didn't jump. Over the years the war had kicked the jumpiness right out of him. Jumpy people missed critical shots at lethal moments.
Bernie opened the passenger door and climbed into the truck dressed in PT sweats and with a ruck over her shoulder. "How's life, Blondie?" she asked.
She was ready to hit the gym, but Baird had a few questions for her first. He'd thought about going to Dom because some of his more specialized Commando training might be of use, but after thinking about it some more Damon figured that could get unexpectedly complicated. There would be questions he'd have a hard time answering, like: 'Why are you so interested in Chelsea's boyfriend?'
Then, he realized Bernie had trained Dom, and in spite of some of her more annoying qualities, such as nagging him incessantly, she might prove more reasonable in the long run because she had no vested interest in Chelsea. So, in conclusion, he'd decided to skip the hassle and cut out the middleman, going straight to the source.
Pulling out the file he'd put together over the past couple weeks, Baird handed it to Mataki. "I need a favor," he said, unable to remember the last time those words had passed his lips. During the war he'd taken his own expertise over anyone else's, and if he needed something, like parts, asking for it was worthless. Favors weren't handed out, they came from bargaining and bribes. Whenever he found himself truly up a creek, it usually proved more effective to take what he needed than throw himself down on someone's mercy.
Bernie flipped open the file, casually taking in the gruesome pictures. "You finally lose it and kill somebody?" she asked, studying the contents in spite of the flippant remark.
"Who does knife-work like that?" Baird asked.
"Lefties. Like you," Bernie commented, picking up one especially close-up shot and squinting at it. "Although I hope it wasn't you. I'd like to think your Granny took the time to teach you how to stab someone to death properly. Whoever did this was an amateur." She raised an eyebrow at the next picture. "A very angry amateur."
"Someone who came in late in the war and didn't get full training at boot?" Baird conjectured.
Tilting her head sideways, Bernie nodded. "That could be. I would guess Stranded. They're more likely to hold a knife blade-up in the hand. We'd teach the Commandos to hold it blade-down and do more slashing than stabbing." She paused, flipping through the pictures. She tapped one of them with her index finger. "Each of these stab wounds has a slightly different angle, but they're clustered so close together I have to think they were done in quick succession. That means the blade slipped in his hand, probably after it got bloody, and I would bet he sliced open his thumb, fingers or palm."
Bingo. There was some good news. "Would he still have the scar?" Baird asked.
Mataki perked up when he asked that. "Yes, he would. The wounds on the body are deep for a standard issue blade, which meant he was really putting his back into hacking away. If he cut himself, it would've been bad. Why? You think you know him?" From the way she said it, he knew she wouldn't offer any more help until he answered.
Baird hesitated, mulling it back and forth for a while before finally deciding to entrust her with the whole story. He didn't leave anything out. Nothing major, anyway.
When he finished, Bernie closed the file and handed it back to him. "If this 'Wes' is the same guy who killed these men, then he's dangerous," she said somberly. "Impulsive, angry." Her mouth tightened, and Baird could guess what she was thinking. Bernie had a few skeletons in her own closet, and when she'd killed them it had been cold, calculated revenge. Granted, it had been well-earned revenge. She was probably trying to decide which was worse.
"If it was done by a cooler hand, I might think these guys did something to deserve it," Baird said. Was he actually trying to assuage her guilt? "I can't help thinking they looked at him wrong and he snapped. When Kendall killed that Stranded out in the woods, there were way more stab wounds than it would've taken to kill a man twice his size. That shit was personal."
Mataki had a distant look in her eyes, holding her chin with a thoughtfully. "Do you like this girl?" Bernie's eyes pinned him. "Other than the idea of getting into her pants?"
Of course she would ask that.
Damon sighed, slouching in his seat like a school boy in front of the principal. Why did the rest of them think things like this were so simple? Liking someone, not liking them. Black, white. They had no concept of grey area, except for Fenix. Fenix seemed to occupy his own private universe of grey area.
In regard to Chelsea, Baird felt so turned around he didn't know up from down most of the time. "Am I allowed to want her?" he asked, eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Mataki shrugged, speaking in a soft, grave tone. "Dom might think otherwise, but yes, you are. She's a big girl, so you are allowed that. But she's got a target on her back, Blondie," Bernie said, and she actually sounded a little sad for him, for both of them. She sounded the same way she did when she talked to Cole about his dead mother. Baird never thought he'd earn that same level of empathy. "If you get involved with Chelsea, she may need you to give her some little ones. You've made it pretty clear that's not on your bucket list. It may not be on hers either, but they won't give her a choice. If you're not up for that, you better walk away now."
She was right. Chelsea would be an all-or-nothing deal, and after having it laid out for him so clearly it should've been easy to dismiss the whole thing out of hand. But he couldn't.
Baird hated getting caught in the middle. Growing up he'd always lived between a rock and a hard place, rarely able to breathe easy. It felt like this thing with Chelsea and Wes and the PCD was pulling him in fifty different directions already. Why couldn't he let go? The worse things got, the harder he held on.
He cursed softly under his breath. At this point, he felt confident he'd spent way too much time with these people. Before meeting Delta this sort of thing never would've happened to him.
"She listens to me when I work on things," Baird mentioned absently, staring forward out the windshield. "Not even Cole really listens. I mean, he does, but most of it goes right out the other ear. She hangs on every word like...I don't know...like it might save her life or something. She's not girly like Anya, but she doesn't beat on her chest and demand she's one of the guys, either. She really tries to figure things out—figure people out. She keeps her head down and fights as smart as she can."
He couldn't explain it any better than that.
"You do like her," Bernie teased with a smile.
Embarrassed, Baird immediately backtracked. He cleared his throat, trying to pull back from his overextension. "I'm just saying—unlike most people, she's fairly tolerable to be around."
Bernie gave him a knowing smile and patted him on the shoulder. "Honestly, it sounds like you're not the only one with a crush, Blondie."
Baird shook his head, reaching to turn the key in the ignition. "Yeah," he said, disbelieving. "Right."
When a dark-haired boy opened the apartment door, Baird did a double take. And then he did a double take again. "Holy shit," he said, pointing at the kid. "Look, Granny, Santiago shrank in the wash." As an aside to Bernie, he added, "I knew burning through all the hot water would bite him in the ass someday."
Bernie elbowed him in the ribs. Apparently it wasn't funny, and if she had her way, he'd be ashamed of himself.
But he wasn't.
"You must be Carlo," Mataki said, speaking to him with the same general politeness she extended to any civilian, grown or small. She extended a hand for the boy to shake. Of course she would know what the hell was going on. No one ever bothered to tell Baird anything. "I'm Bernie Mataki, and this charming young man is Baird."
"Nice to meet you, ma'am," Carlos said, taking Mataki's hand. "Nice to meet you, asshole," he said to Baird, completely deadpan, extending a hand for him to shake. The kid had a South Island accent. Not like Mataki's prim Queen's, but more like a native South Islander, like Tai's accent.
Baird just eyed the kid, searching for just the right retort and finally settling on a brisk, "Blow me," as he brushed past the kid and through the door, ignoring the kid's extended hand. Inside, he found Cole hunched over a sink full of dishes, looking as forlorn as Damon had ever seen him. Through the bathroom door he could see Dom and Marcus working on repairing the old leaking showerhead that needed to be decalcified and tightened up every so often.
"Hey, baby. How's it goin?" Cole asked. He sounded absolutely pathetic.
Baird gave Cole a sympathetic pat on the back in passing. Dishes weren't his favorite chore either, but Cole's extreme dislike sometimes puzzled him. The former Thrashball player never let anything get him down—except dishes. If a Boomer walked up and knocked on the front door while he was doing dishes, Cole would probably jump for joy.
Poking his head in the bathroom, Damon saw Fenix working on tightening the showerhead while Dom remained in strategic reserve, holding various tools and a container holding a small amount of pale green decalcifying agent.
"Is there anything you guys do that doesn't require the buddy system?" Baird asked. Sometimes he really couldn't help himself. "Is it possible you two never get laid because girls aren't cool with another guy holding your hand through it?"
"How about if we use the buddy system to throw you out an eighth story window, Baird? How does that sound?" Dom quipped, and the way he said it made it clear he was contemplating an attempt, even if it ended up being a one-man effort.
Baird let that one slide by, jerking one thumb over his shoulder. "Man, are you aware you have a look-alike doll answering your door?"
"He's my son. His name is Carlos." Dom said it like it was no big deal.
Damon blinked. Did those words really just come out of Santiago's mouth? Really? He turned to Fenix. "Are you aware he finally cracked up?" he blurted, pointing at Dom. "Isn't Carlos like, his dead brother? Don't get me wrong, I can understand if he did lose it. I always thought he was a little off."
"Maria was pregnant when she disappeared," Marcus said, starting to explain just as Dom's face began turning an interesting color of red. "She had a son, named him Carlos and abandoned him. He was raised by Stranded over in the South Islander neighborhoods. I found him while scouting for Bender the other day. He's probably been in the city longer than we have."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Baird asked, for a moment sure they were yanking his chain just to get a rise out of him, but then he got the full-bore, Sergeant Fenix, dead-eyed, I'm so serious it's making me constipated Look and thought twice about his first-brush assumption. He turned his head toward Dom. "Wait a second. I thought Maria disappeared because she was loco." He spun a finger around his ear to demonstrate how coo-coo she'd been. "I mean, seriously, man? You knocked up your wife while she was three sheets to the wind on heavy anti-depressants and completely out-of-her-gourd crazy?"
Baird didn't always mean to take things too far. Sometimes he really did mean it, but on occasion it just sort of slipped out. Whether or not he actually meant to strip Dom down to his bare bones over the appearance of his son, there was no doubt that Dom really meant it when he tackled Baird in retaliation. It wasn't the first time the two of them had gone to the ground in a fight, but this time felt different. This time, Santiago really intended to tear him limb from limb.
Something wasn't right with him. Deep down Dom knew that. Ever since he found out about Carlo, he'd known he would crash soon.
He just didn't expect it to come about so quickly.
Strangely enough, regaining a son had hit him like a loss. He'd frozen inside the exact same way he'd frozen when he realized Bennie and Sylvie would never come home. Dom overloaded and shut down; he slapped on a smile and tried to remember how to behave, how to feel about being a father.
Finding Carlo should've made him feel elated, right? Why didn't he feel joyously uplifted? In fact, he felt almost the same way he'd felt years ago after Aspho, the night Sylvie was born and his brother Carlos died—leaving him torn between happiness, guilt and despair.
It took Baird voicing it aloud to bring the source of his pain to the surface.
The next thing he knew, he was sitting on Baird's chest and trying to pound his head through the living room rug with Marcus behind him, attempting to pull him off. The carnal, reactionary part of him had snapped, while some other part of his consciousness floated above the fray, thinking very calmly that if life was fair someone would be sitting on his chest, trying to pound him through the fucking floor for what he did to Maria. He deserved it a hell of a lot more than Damon.
I got her pregnant. The thought ran through his head over and over again. She was sick. How could I do that to her?
In the midst of her illness he'd been weak when he should've been strong. She was so fragile then. Instead of taking care of his wife, he'd all but taken advantage of her. Marcus knew it. Dom realized that when his best friend hesitated to spit out Carlo's age. He would never say anything, but he knew. But Marcus was one thing—when Baird opened his mouth, Dom just couldn't take it.
Marcus got both arms around Dom's chest, and finally gained enough of a grip to haul him off. Dom was both glad for the intervention and unable to stop trying to lunge back in for more. He wanted blood, and he didn't care who it came out of. Maybe he really had cracked up.
After two decades of heartbreak after heartbreak, it took gaining something back to finally make him lose it.
"He's watching you," Marcus hissed in his ear. "He's watching every move you make."
Dom froze. Chest heaving and feeling overheated, his consciousness finally came back into his body. Sure enough, Carlo's keen brown eyes were locked on him. The boy stood next to Bernie, fascinated by the fight. Where he came from, it must've been a common thing for two grown men to throw down at the drop of a hat.
Bennie and Sylvie never would've seen their father behave like this.
What if I can't do this? he wondered, a chill working its way through him, offsetting the heat. What if the war confiscated his ability to be a parent? He'd been so proud of himself, taking responsibility for Bennie at sixteen. At sixteen he'd had better impulse control than he did now. His nerves were frayed, his temper had a hair trigger and a teenager was a long way from a four-year-old.
Baird picked himself up off the floor, no worse for the wear. Not surprisingly, the blonde man knew how to cover when down. Baird eyed him, rubbing at his jaw while he gave a low whistle. "Tou-chy." It sounded like a taunt, but it wasn't. It surprised Dom to realize he knew Baird well enough to know the difference.
Marcus let go, walking past him. "Let's get a workout in," he said, marching forward and grabbing his gym bag from next to the door like nothing had happened. "It would do all of us some good."
Dom shook his head. He was supposed to go to the gym today with Chelsea and meet one of the dispatch girls. With Carlo's appearance, he'd almost forgotten. Would Chelsea remember? She'd gotten a hell of a shock when PCD showed up the night before, and visiting her mother hadn't helped things. She'd gone out with Wes to grab a late lunch a couple hours ago.
"Yeah, let's go," Dom echoed. Marcus was right. They could all do with letting off some steam. He gave Carlo's hair an affectionate rub when he passed by, and flashed the boy a sheepish smile.
I am so screwed, he thought, picking up his own bag and ushering his son out the door ahead of him.
Baird circled cautiously around the ring, his fists up and body loose. Fenix looked like a big lumbering giant, but he had some speed. He'd socked Baird more than once when he thought he was safely out of the Sergeant's range.
"Come on. Let's see some action," Cole called from the sideline.
"Get 'em, Marcus," Carlo called.
Upon hearing the boy's voice, Baird's eyes narrowed. Right. That's why I don't want kids. He didn't want Santiago's kid, anyway. The boy was mouthy, disrespectful, uneducated and far too full of himself.
Damon wondered if he'd be more tolerant of his own kid. Most animals innately preferred their own young, but his own mother sure as hell hadn't. She'd preferred anything and everything over her two sons. For the sake of argument, say he happened to be living with Chelsea and they received a Conception Order and the two of them went through with it and had a son. What would the kid be like? Baird at least had a decent idea what the kid would look like. Blonde hair. Blue eyes like Chelsea, or green like his. Would the kid be a southpaw? Would he like mechanics? Would he be smart? Smarter than Baird?
That thought hit him like a punch below the belt. Could he stand having a kid smarter than him? Could he stand having a kid dumber than him?
Would said hypothetical child hate his parents?
Who doesn't hate me after prolonged exposure? Baird wondered.
Fenix took a swipe at Baird; a jab to test the waters. Damon slipped his head to the right, avoiding and then countering, coming over the top to pop Marcus in the chin with his right fist, forcing a grunt out of the larger man. He'd always been the most ambidextrous member of their group, and in boxing it showed.
Baird was a striker—he liked to fight on his feet with his fists. Fenix was the same way. Santiago sang a totally different tune. Like any good Commando, Dom loved to get a guy on the ground and tie him in a knot, breaking bones and stripping joints in the process. The man had never meet an arm bar or choke hold he didn't like.
Fenix worked his jaw back and forth after the strike. "You're fighting angry today," he noted dryly, still circling, like a shark. Baird didn't let his guard down for a second.
"Don't like it? Then quit letting me get shots in!" Sure he had an edge of speed on Marcus, but he'd never slipped in a hit so cleanly. It didn't take much brain power to figure out Fenix was letting him get a few in to make up for the beating Santiago had rained down on him earlier. They both knew Baird could've fought back instead of curling up on the floor and riding it out. The Sergeant had a strange frigging way of showing appreciation.
Marcus came back with a combo of right cross, left hook, right uppercut. Baird flowed with it, slipping, ducking, and finally stepping in and throwing the same left-handed haymaker he'd used to end countless bar fights.
Fenix caught the blow on his arm, tucking his chin and using his right arm to shield his face. A mountain of muscle, Marcus had one hell of a hard bicep. For an instant, Baird wondered if he'd broken his hand.
"Hey, Marcus! They're here!" Dom called from across the gym. He'd been going over grappling technique with Bernie on the exercise mats laid down on the hardwood basketball court.
The sparring match paused, and both of them glancing toward the door. Sure enough, Chelsea walked through the double doors, followed by a tall dark-skinned woman Damon didn't recognize. Terri-the-dispatch-girl, he guessed.
Chelsea had on sweats and a t-shirt. Unlike many girls, and in spite of a recently busted-up face, she actually looked cute in formless workout clothes. Not that Baird had much trouble imagining her form underneath those clothes. He'd spent enough time fantasizing about it...
The usual bounce in her step was gone today, and even though she tried to put on a good face he could tell she was dragging hard. Still upset about the PCD visit, apparently. The nearly-healed bruises under her eyes seemed a little darker than the night before. She probably didn't sleep well. Baird sure hadn't.
Under Mataki's direction, their little group soon got rearranged. Cole and Carlo went to the other side of the gym to play basketball while the rest of them were partnered up: Bernie with Terri-the-dispatch-girl, Marcus with Chelsea and Dom with Baird. Mataki claimed the reasoning behind her selections was to place each grappling beginner with a more experienced partner, matching by size. Technically that should've put Baird and Chelsea together, but then Dom had to butt in and suggest that Chelsea should have a much larger partner, so she could gain experience fighting off a much larger opponent.
It was probably an innocent suggestion on Santiago's part, but that didn't stop Baird from holding it against him. Although he knew 'guard' was a legitimate defense technique, in practice it appeared way too erotic for comfort and more than once Baird had to avert his eyes and shove down a flash of jealousy. Yeah, I've got it bad, he admitted internally.
Towering over Chelsea on his knees, Marcus held his body over hers, swatting at her face and forcing her to protect herself. Chelsea was completely at ease on her back beneath the former Sergeant, her legs wrapped tight around his hips, ankles locked at the small of his back. She even smiled when he faked her out, getting a swat in when she left her face open.
A tiny chill ran down Damon's spine when he realized they had potential. He'd never noticed before, but there was something tangible between Chelsea and Marcus. Baird couldn't pin down what exactly they had, but it was an ease and familiarity Fenix shared with few people. It was like a puff of white cloud on a sunny day, barely there and hard to see. It fell far from the heated electrical storm of pent up passion that raged every time Anya crossed paths with Delta in person, but it was still there.
Fenix's core was so thick Chelsea had a hard time getting a good hold on him with her legs. He could slip out of her guard with minimal effort, and Dom was trying to teach her how to compensate, demonstrating on a very reluctant Baird.
"Come on, Chelsea, control him with your legs," Dom coached.
On the far side of Marcus and Chelsea, the tall girl named Terri laughed. "Ah, man, you can't make her keep working with him. It's cruel."
Chelsea inched her butt closer to Marcus's hips, wrapping her legs tighter around him. "My calves are cramping," she grumbled. Laying flat on her back, she pointed an accusing finger up at Marcus. "You're too big," she informed him with narrowed eyes.
Marcus shrugged, replying with a dead-pan, "That's what they tell me."
Baird let one skeptical eyebrow arch upward. Did Fenix just make a sexually motivated joke? If so, that was a double whammy of strange coming from the former Sergeant. The joke and the implied motivation.
"Oh yeah? Like who?" Baird asked innocently, just to be a dick, forgetting for a moment his precarious position in Santiago's guard.
Dom grabbed his arm, pulling it out straight, and before Baird could shift his attention back to the task at hand he was slammed down on his back, his arm getting torqued the wrong way against Dom's thigh. Frantically tapping Dom's shin, the pressure released and he was allowed to reclaim his limb.
Baird grumbled a few choice words loud enough for everyone to hear, gripping his shoulder and pulling into himself. He really owed Santiago a punch in the face.
"All right," Mataki said, using her grandmotherly take-charge voice. "Let's switch partners for a while and then we'll take a break."
So they played musical partners and when the dust cleared Chelsea was with Dom, Terri with Marcus, and he had Mataki.
"How's Granny's boy?" the steel-haired woman asked, lying back while he knelt over her. Apparently he still got to be the bitch in guard.
"I can't even tell you how overjoyed I am to be here," he spat, letting her wrap him up and pull him in with an eye roll. "God, I look like I'm about to screw an old woman."
"You do not," Bernie said, like he was silly to think so. On the inside she was probably laughing her ass off at him.
Baird sighed, glancing over at Chelsea working at landing an arm-bar on good old Saint Dom. At least there was nothing between those two. He was pretty sure of that, anyway.
The building the guys used to work out used to be a rec center, and structurally it was in surprisingly good shape. In the gym, they'd gathered together a section of mats on one quarter of the floor and a set of weights on the opposite quarter. An entire half of the gym was left bare, with the better of the two basketball hoops mounted at regulation height. There was enough room on the outer rim of the basketball court for jogging laps.
Chelsea couldn't help but wonder which of them had planned the arrangement out. A Sergeant like Marcus would insist on regular PT, which would include running and various other calisthenics, but the extensive weight collection looked more like something Cole would desire, although she knew all of them pumped iron. The guys had obviously put a great deal of time and effort into this place. They kept other people out by posting official signs warning of the imminent collapse of the building, and wrapped a lot of heavy-duty chain around the door handles.
Dom gave Chelsea pointers on grappling to the best of his ability, but his heart clearly rested elsewhere. His eyes never strayed far from Carlo across the gym.
Chelsea noted his lack of attention, mildly frustrated by it while the two of them lay perpendicular to each other on the mats. Chelsea held one of Dom's fists against her chest, his thick bicep between her thighs, her calves resting on his chest with her ankles crossed. If she leaned back, in theory Dom's elbow should be forced straight against the fulcrum of her pelvis. It was the same maneuver Dom had executed effortlessly on Baird just moments before. He'd made it look so easy she thought she'd pick it up fast.
She tried with all her might to pull his elbow out straight and torque it the wrong way in a straight arm-bar, but in spite of his gaze resting on the basketball game across the gym she couldn't make any headway against even one of his limbs. Dom was too strong. Marcus was too big. She couldn't win against either of them.
Letting go of Dom's arm with an exasperated sigh, Chelsea rolled back over her shoulder and onto her knees, kneeling quietly a few feet away. She despised feeling weak and inadequate. It didn't help that the heated conversation she'd had with Marcus the previous evening when she tried to run away kept digging deeper under her skin with each passing hour, and failing to be effective at anything sunk her even deeper into depression. Letting her palms rest lightly on top of her thighs, she wondered why she couldn't handle this. Why couldn't she think of any better solution than running away?
Marcus was right. She was a coward. The COG never should've allowed her to wear an officer's uniform.
"Hey, Chels?" Dom said softly, head still turned toward the basketball game. Carlo was laughing and having a great time, unaware of his father's gaze. Cole usually let him score, but when the boy shot the ball he almost always hit the basket. A pretty amazing feat sometimes, considering his small stature. "How should I approach him? I have so many questions, but I'm afraid to ask. Don't know if I want to know some of the answers."
Carlo made a fade shot from beyond the three point line, beating Cole's lax defense. Elated, the boy's face lit up. He was handsome, especially with that wide, cocky grin on his face—like his father but with more light in his eyes, his soul less burdened.
"Heh. Nice shot, 'lil Santiago." Cole extended a hand and Carlo hit the low-five.
"You know it, brah. All day long." The boy exuded cheerful faux bravado.
"God, he does look just like Carlos," Dom marveled softly, lacing his fingers behind his head.
Chelsea sighed, finding it difficult to stomach Dom's sudden dive back into parenthood. Carlo enamored Dom like a newborn would, and any other day of her life she would've found Dom's constant state of distraction very sweet. Just, not today.
Returning her thoughts to the question at hand, Chelsea wondered how exactly she would approach a thirteen-year-old war survivor. Carlo grew up in a culture doubly different from the one Dom knew. Carlo had been raised by South Islanders who also happened to be Stranded. In order to approach him successfully, one would need to know the rules of the culture that raised him.
"I don't know," Chelsea said, her voice dull. She didn't have the energy to elaborate on this subject. Her heart felt like it was toting around a hundred pounds of bricks.
At last Dom turned to look at her. Obviously, that wasn't the response he'd expected. Most of the time she couldn't help but give an opinion on a matter relating to the human condition, it being her present field of study.
"Hey, you okay?" he asked, looking so concerned with his brow furrowed, his dark eyes focused on her. She had his full attention now, and it made her eyes drop in shame.
Pulling her lower lip between her teeth, Chelsea thought for a minute, and then said, "I think it's going to be a rough transition for both of you. It would've been easier for both of you if he was younger. But if you ask me, that kid won the lottery. He has a dad; and it's you, Dom. You're not going to let anything bad happen to him." She really meant that, too. Maybe Dom couldn't save her, but he'd always be there to save Carlo. God, she admired him so much.
Chelsea turned away, pretending to study the weight set sitting thirty feet away. At that moment she longed so acutely for her own father's presence it nearly brought her to tears, which seemed strange because she hadn't thought very hard about her father in a long time. He'd died during her early years and over time the pang of his loss grew dimmer on the horizon, overshadowed by the more acute pain of losing people she remembered well. Even after so many years, Chelsea vaguely remembered what it felt like to have an intelligent, capable dad watching over her. Someone she knew could protect her.
Her throat grew suddenly tight. No one could protect her now.
Suck it up, she scolded herself. She'd cried far too often lately, and it didn't help anything. The world was full of orphans. They were all alone. Running away might kill her, but it was the best plan of action she had, and she would carry it out.
"Are there any pads or shields around here?" Bernie asked. She was standing with Baird, Marcus and Terri. Apparently the four of them were discussing teaching Terri how to box.
"There might be some in the back closet. I'll check," Baird volunteered, sounding unusually eager, considering the mundane nature of the task. Maybe he really wanted to get away from all this. Chelsea was surprised he'd even showed up.
Damon tapped her shoulder on the way by. "Come on, I'll show you where we keep the good stuff around here."
Chelsea rose, following him out of the gym and through a winding hallway with bare pipes and wires above their heads, where the hanging ceiling had deteriorated and eventually fallen apart, leaving some tiles still hanging and some in mushy piles she had to weave through. Water leaked in a few places, dripping steadily, but the bare light bulbs were still on, showing them the way.
They came to an open area with pool tables and a counter where the rec center attendant would've sat, overseeing the common area. "The closet's back here," Baird said, hopping up and sliding easily across the counter, leaving behind fresh scuff marks on the dulled metal face of the counter top.
Chelsea slowly hoisted with her arms until she could get a knee on the counter, and then crawled after him, stopping short when she suddenly found herself nose-to-nose with Baird.
He didn't look very happy.
"I need to talk to you about your boyfriend," he said gravely, like he'd been building up to this for some time, just waiting for a chance to get her alone and nailed down for a moment.
Chelsea sighed, maneuvering so she could sit down on the edge of the counter, her legs dangling over the side. Baird placed a hand on either side of her, barring her path and making it clear they weren't going anywhere until they talked.
Brushing aside her bangs from her forehead, Chelsea looked straight into Baird's green eyes and said, "I don't have a boyfriend. I dumped him. So take your 'I told you so' and shove it. And for the record, you didn't 'tell me so,' so you can doubly shove it."
That seemed to bring him up short. All he said was, "Oh." Suddenly he sounded a little unsure—like this was far from the direction he'd expected the conversation to go. It sounded like he'd expected a hell of a fight. "Well, that's good, because I think he's fucking crazy," he finally said, recovering. Then they both fell silent.
Chelsea really didn't know what to think at that moment. She stared at Baird's chest for a moment or two before lifting her eyes to his face and finding him looking down at her. Wondering what he might be thinking about, she realized neither of them had said anything for a while, but sitting there in silence, even so close together, didn't feel uncomfortable.
Close enough to see a faded scar on the right side of Damon's chin, she reached out to touch it before her brain realized what she was about to do. He didn't pull away, and her fingertips gently navigated the short path of the mark along his bristly jaw line.
Suddenly restraint seemed like a silly, antiquated concept that had no place in such a horrific time and place. No one else had any qualms with letting loose and doing whatever the fuck they wanted, even if it meant beating the shit out of her for no good reason. So why should she endure an unquenchable want and never confront it? Why let these opportunities pass by unchallenged?
Chelsea almost burst out laughing, just thinking about how ridiculous it was to fear rejection by a member of the opposite sex when they could do so much worse to her.
Nerves stretched slack by terror and loneliness, it didn't seem so scary when she slipped one hand around to the back of Damon's neck, feeling the soft buzzed blond hair at the base of his skull. He froze when her lips pressed against his, completely still like she'd just shocked him. For just a moment her eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the kiss, the rough brush of his chin against hers. He smelled like biodiesel and grease and deodorant and sweat, like a machine shop and hard work, but she'd grown up with those smells and it always reminded her of coming home. It felt like she could go on kissing him forever, and Chelsea took profound satisfaction in doing this with Baird first, with a real man, instead of with Wes.
Letting Damon go, Chelsea knew a goofy smile had spread across her face. That smile got wiped away a second later when his mouth crushed against hers. Baird's large hands pulled her flush against his front, his fingers hooking under her knees and throwing her legs around his hips.
Right then the whole world could've exploded behind her, and Chelsea never would've known. His shoulders were solid beneath her wandering hands, and his firm body felt amazing pressed so tight against her.
He sighed through his nose while he kissed her, deeply satisfied; and when she gave him a small, full-bodied squeeze, his hips bucked involuntarily, his fingers playing along the hem of her shirt and just underneath it, tracing the muscles at the small of her back, his thumbs stroking over the points of her hips under her shirt.
Things might've gotten out of hand if the bang of a door hitting the wall from down the hallway and around the corner hadn't snapped them out of it, causing their lip-lock to end. Startled, Chelsea attempted to spring away, but Baird's strong hands held her hips in place, gently rubbing the tops of her thighs while he restrained her.
"Hey! You find anything?" Dom called. They couldn't see him so he must've stayed by the gym door. If he made his way to the first corner, he'd be able to see them sitting there and Chelsea didn't want to break it to him that way. He deserved better from her.
Damon gave her one of his more recalcitrant looks, his hands still firm on her so she couldn't get away. Not that she wanted to be anywhere else at that moment. He spoke low so only she could hear, "You know, I should tell him you were just getting down on your knees in front of me to..."
Blushing deep red, Chelsea smacked his shoulder. "Don't you dare!" she hissed, but she couldn't help cracking a smile.
He smirked, and it was almost a real smile. It looked good on him. "I was going to say you were getting down on your knees to tie your boot."
"No you weren't!"
"You're right, I wasn't. But after all the shit I've taken off him today, he'd deserve it."
"You guys there?" Dom called.
"Yeah, we're coming!" Baird yelled back, irritated. "Would it kill you assholes to clean this place up once in a while? The closet's a friggin' mess."
Down the hall, they heard the door bang shut once more, restoring their tentative privacy.
"We should get back," Chelsea suggested, but she didn't move, too busy staring at him. At least now she didn't have to pretend her eyes weren't raking over his body with admiration, and a bit of lust.
"We should." Baird let his gaze flick over her in return, and the look of predatory hunger in his eyes made her skin warm, especially her cheeks. Wes had looked at her like that too, but he'd always made her feel a bit uneasy and she hadn't known why until now. With Baird, she sensed an underlying safety net of maturity and restraint. She'd never felt that with Wes. It was nice to feel wanted, and secure. "Just one condition," he said. "I'm your partner the rest of tonight."
"Why?" she asked, unable to help it when a dumb grin appeared on her face.
Baird shrugged, doing a bit of an eye roll at her naivety. "Call me crazy, but I don't really like rolling on the floor with other guys while packing wood. Or Mataki—God, she'd never let me live it down either." Then he glanced down between them to emphasize the point. Her legs were still secure around his waist.
Chelsea didn't think she could turn a darker color of red, but once again Damon proved her wrong. At least he gave her one more parting kiss to make up for it. And when she crawled across the counter away from him when they were finally ready to head back to the gym, he gave her a playful smack on the ass for good measure.