Thomas

It's boring and lonely without Maven. His family is brave and sweet, with the exception of his father making faces at his presence, grimacing i9n the background is what he does with disapproving looks most of his live, Thomas doesn't expect him to ever stop.

He is surprised by the fact that his father doesn't do more. He let's him be. Probably all he can hope for.

He doesn't dare to call Iris over to his family's house, not only because he isn't sure if that'll net approval, but also because he has strained her friendship. He calls and texts too often, and he almost feels sorry whenever she answers, pestered probably. He inquires too much about art, he is too stupid for some words and topics, and she has the patience of a saint to keep it together and be his friend. At least Cameron grabs him to run around town in errands. She casually avoids any relationship talk, but Thomas can't stop egging her about it.

"Did you kiss Fish Boy? I wanted to smooch him a few times. Never got the chance."

Her head snaps around in something he presumes is terror. The edges of her dark skin turn in color, her fist rushes to knock the air out of his ribcage with a huffed hit.

"Not your business."

"Is that a yes?" Thomas rubs his weak body before he skips beside her over the same bridge they have crossed a few times , leading to Sara Skonos house. "How's he kissing? Is it bad? It probably is gonna be good, yeah?"

"Thomas."

"Yes, Cookie."

"You're an asshat."

"Yeah."

The warmth is always welcome, Sara's couch is better than the ground, and the living beings around him are better company than the ghost of Shade Barrow on a graveyard too. He makes himself comfy, but not in the same overbearing way that he loves to use to provoke Elara. They talk about his tattoos, about stupid shows, and everything is good as long as he ignores that Maven and everyone else has moved in progress. Cameron mentions Morrey and he snaps backward, but finds his joking footing again to provoke another shove from his best friend.

Things are not getting better. They are also not getting worse.

At least that is what he thinks until the second a blonde, pregnant figure is shuffling into Sara Skonos' living room.

"Cameron," Farley greets her.

Thomas says nothing. He feels his back tense and his legs shake at the realization that she has cornered him now. He can not ever escape her. Sara stares at him sympathetically.

"Cameron," she mutters. "I have something that needs the eyes of someone with engineering skills."

"In your bedroom? If you broke your lightbulb again-" Cameron asks, but when she sees that Thomas is not attempting to run away, she relents and gets up. She briskly pauses, and her dark eyes and pretty face mirror some worry Thomas will jumpm out of the window before she follows the push of Sara's hand.

Thomas puts both his crossed feet on the ground after untangling himself. She's very pregnant. Won't take that long anymore, he supposes, aside from that, she is still the same old person he loves. She has kicked him through endless depressing episodes and scared him, made him laugh, and encouraged him.

Hey mom, he wants to say.

Hey Cap, he wants to mockingly salute.

Instead, the truth pearls in cascades of guilt over his chapped lips.

"I killed Shade Barrow."

Her face cracks for a moment. Maybe she pities him. Maybe she hates him. He can't decide what her expression is about.

"I gave you the gun."

It is a blame game.

"I got my sister in jail."

"I got your sister and you involved."

"No." He holds his body harshly, almost expecting his skeleton to jump out of his skin and run away. Her body flinches back slightly, in a question more than alarm. "No, you didn't. You never did anything I didn't ask. You kept me away as best as you could. That hurt too. But you were right. I am not made to be a rebel. It ends in falling desperately in love with someone that can be destructive as fuck."

She doesn't argue with that.

"I am sorry I wasn't here before." Thomas says weakly. "You deserve…something else, I guess. I know how you two were. And I can't say anything to make it better."

"No, you can't," She holds her head high while speaking but her eyes are suddenly far away in a broken bit of light on a windowframe. "But you didn't run away again."

He can't believe it but he laughs. A wrong distorted sound but it is real. "That's something, isn't it?"

"For you? Yes."

He can't stop laughing. Then the tears are coming.

He hugs her, and her big pregnant belly in a too-big shirt is rubbing against his skinny bones.

"Whoa," Thomas whispers in awe and terror.

"Thomas," she threatens mildly.

"Sorry, sorry. But whoa," Thomas repeats, staring at the belly again. "I bet people try to touch it. Like, pregnant women get fussed over and touched all the time on their belly."

"The brave attempted," Farley says, warning.

He unfurls his hands and stretches them in the air, palms up. "Not me."

Somehow being with Farley hasn't helped, it hasn't relieved him. But at least it hasn't made him feel worse. This isn't over. This isn't knitted and healed off at all. But it has made some step toward the better direction.

Her eyes lock on target when she leaves. "You know where I live."

And he does. And the loitering in front of it finally will come to a halt now.

Not sneaking around, he takes a few nights and days to accept the offer. He kisses his boyfriend in between, for good measure, and he writes everyone long winded messages, all the while his brain tries to work on something else. His sister watches him doodle with her assembled force of markers, and from time to time, his mother drops by the kitchen table to either put a plate down or kiss his head. Then he actually decides to call Diana Farley. When he does, he calls and then drags his bag behind him to her front door, clinking merrily.

She looks a little messy and tired. Judging by the setup on the table, he just has interrupted some almost finished meal. Her feet move differently. Thomas watches his friend as if she has turned into an alien, but not in some mean spirit.

The inside of the house is neat and nice. Better than anything before they have lived in.

"So, I have a surprise, and you can send me home, or you just watch, whatever you feel like, Captain," Thomas sniffs. She sits down again, and as if he wants to make some illegal deal, he rolls the bag on the table before her. "But..I thought, I am super useless with something practical, but you're gonna be a real Mom. And kids need some nice room, yeah?"

Farley watches him with interest, even though he knows she knows his train of thought already. He can see it in the way she leans forward. She isn't completely turned off by the idea at least.

"I could paint something nice in your kid's room. I got some ideas."

"Is it monsters?" She asks, not degrading but just interested.

"No." He smiles. "No, it is not monsters, and it isn't humans. I made a sketch, want to see it?"

It's frizzled lines of whirls and stars, and some moon. Not really that impressive in a grey smeared pencil and markers on crinkled paper.

"It looks better with real colors, not just marker, I promise. They're really vibrant colors." He lightly shakes the bag, the cans clink again. "Like Violet. And Blue. And red. And silver. All the colors, really. We gonna paint star fogs and clouds and moons and stars and stuff, the coolest thing ever. Maybe a sun too, huh. And when you move or don't like it, I will do something else."

"That is a very ambitious project." She looks at the sketch again.

"I have time," He mutters. It is the damn truth.

The next thing he knows, she has gripped one of the cans in one hand, looking into the bag, turning it inside her hand. "You forgot white. And where are your brushes?"

"Ohhh," Thomas feels stupid, but somehow excited. "Yeah, my bag was too small, and I stuffed as much in as I could."

Her hand weighs the can and a tube of paint slowly.

"Think things through sometimes," she tells him, and her voice is somehow soft but still a little scolding.

"Sorry, mom." He doesn't dare to look at her eyes before he coughs out a breath. "So I can paint your kid's room?"

She knits her brows a moment as if she didn't expect him to ask her for the absolute consent and acknowledge meant after their discussion.

In the end, it's white first, taping corners and covering things up. The furniture is secured safely and tugged away, the nursery for a child that will have a fierce family.

Farley is sprinkled in white, one splotch on her cheek and on her arm when she tiptoes. Thomas tried protesting, but it didn't do anything ( "I am pregnant, not dead, Thomas," she says. "But-ok," is his spineless answer. ) , naturally, and now he has her waltzing through the room, working efficient, thought with a lot of breaths and breaks, while he just gets stuck on small pieces and tries to work thorough and concentrated.

The smell of the fresh paint unfolds in the room pretty quickly. The room isn't too big, and so they work well as two. At one point he tries to get rid of her.

"Is it not dangerous? I mean, it isn't poisonous, but..."

She takes a break with some grimace , but as soon as he says that, her grimace is for him.

They don't talk much otherwise. Farley is a big help even just directing his attention span and without her he'd probably...

His brush sinks at the thought.

He wouldn't be alive.

"Hey , uh, can I ask something?" He dares, looking over at her spot by the open window. "Do you know if it is a boy or a girl ? Do you have some names yet?"

She's silent for a moment. A very, very , long moment.

Maybe he shouldn't have tried to ask.

"I won't tell people about it," He promises in vain. "That is your decision. I was just curious."

Her finger pushes over her wide shirt and round belly. "It's a girl."

"Ohh," Thomas makes in some sort of awe.

Sprinkled in white paint over her shirt, smeared over it, Farley stretches.

For a moment he cannot move.

Then she looks over, and even though there are terrible things happen in their lives, he is glad she is here, and he is suddenly aware this is as good for her as it is for him.

It's okay. They use their hands. They keep busy.

His hand grips the crumbled paper of the sketch and the brush, balancing and smearing color everywhere.

"Look, I wanna do blue over there, need to draw some stuff before that so I don't get it wrong," He points a little confused at the walls, trying to explain the next steps and get assistance or thoughts if possible. "When this is dry, I'll start. Let's say...tomorrow?"

Her hand is stuck with dried paint. He grabs it tightly, feeling over the rough-dried scratching spots.

"Tomorrow it is," she answers.

The next day is a little bit better. He spends a lot of time squinting at thin pencil lines, and this time Farley cannot help, so she just watches and eats. A lot. More than him. She does it with some sort of restless need, not exactly looking like she is completely enjoying it.

"At least you aren't sick anymore," Thomas answers before snatching stuff off her plate. Just a respectful bite.

"I wasn't sick for long," she answers and decides to battle his invasive hand with her fork.

"Yeah I see that by your choice of food," Thomas mutters. "And people call me disgusting."

"You are not pregnant, you are just gross."

He wants to jab at that, but her face starts to distort and his heart leaps up in a rush. "What's wrong?"

Her scrunched face doesn't give any response, and her breathing turns low before she forces herself to sit up , hands on her back and front.

"Are you gonna have your kids now?" He feels the sweat everywhere, sprinkled in paint and panicking.

"Thomas, relax."

"How'd I fucking relax?" He screeches at her in a full blown panic mode. "Who do I need to call?!"

"I am not going into labour. Sit your ass down."

It takes a few more hasty paced steps before he can follow the order.

"That happens sometimes. "

"Yeah, I knew that of course," he tries to play it smooth and fails desperately.

They avoid any other topic. Something so frail shouldn't be broken or strained.

He avoids asking questions about whatever she is up to. She avoids asking him why he isn't doing anything.

Thomas measures the enjoyment of being busy in hours, then days.

"Wanna take a look?" He asks after a little while longer than that.

He is covered in yellow and red paint, up to his elbows, sprinkled in his hair in little drops.

A streak of blue and yellow, white and violet , greets her. It's like one big galaxy , with big and small lights and dizzy nebulas.

"It's beautiful," she mutters next to him.

"It's not what you deserve," he offers. "But it is the best I can do."