(Chapter uploaded: June 24, 2022)

Chapter 18: Hope Fairchild

(Author's Note)

Hey guys, gals and non-binary pals! Welcome back to Daughters Of Olympus chapter 18. I, for one, can't believe we're almost at chapter 20, it feels like we just started this story. There are only fifteen chapters left, meaning we're now more than half way done with book 1. I have a basic outline for book 2, but it still requires some work. I know it is a few months off(with weekly uploads), but I'm going to begin to finish the timeline and outline for book 2, so that there's not a giant gap between this story and book 2.

Anyway, in this chapter we will follow Mahbubur ibn Abdel Fattah Khalid aka "Bubba", and his girlfriend, Hope Fairchild. Bubba is a big part of this series, so I hope you all enjoy him as much as I do.

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Chapter 18: Hope Fairchild

[With Hope and Bubba]

Bubba helped his girlfriend, Hope, out of her Porsche. It was a sweet sixteen birthday present by her mother's third husband, or was it fourth? Fifth? Bubba could never keep them all straight. They all seemed the same to him, rich, sometimes single, white guys in expensive suits that only cared about one thing; how beautiful Hope's mother was. As a model in her youth, she hadn't lost any of her beauty, outer beauty, that is.

There would have been a time where he had more trouble getting out of Hope's tiny, low car than her due to his size, but now, Hope was having occasional issues stabilizing herself when she had to bend or squat. When she first started having the problems, no one thought anything of it, but after months of it getting worse, she had to see a specialist. Hope used to be the captain of the cheer team and the top gymnast at Davenport Academy, now she was stuck sitting on the sidelines, all dreams of a professional career gone like that.

"Thanks, babe." She said as she let go of his gloved hand. He grabbed their school bags from the miniscule trunk and threw them over a shoulder, before helping steady her as they walked up the great white steps that led to her mothers' posh house. It was four stories, with every feature imaginable, and was by far the nicest house Bubba had ever had the pleasure to crash in.

Bubba never knew his birth parents, having grown up in the foster system. His first memories were being shipped place to place because no one wanted him. He had been a really big child, as he was now, with a harsh, serious face and a terrible skin condition that made him break into hives if his skin ever touched anyone else's, so no families wanted him. Not to mention, with a name like his, not many families wanted him in their homes.

Added with the incident with one of his foster families as a boy, he became undesirable, and before he knew it, was kicked out of the system on his fourteenth birthday. He had been told he was more trouble than he was worth, and that no one would want to adopt a boy his age and size, so he was cast into the freezing New York City streets.

If he hadn't been scouted by Coach Bronson and put on the team, he would have never gotten into Davenport. He had been homeless and hadn't gone to school since elementary, but the coach saw talent when he saw it. And the elite school had no desire to help a charity case like him, especially one without any money. But his football scholarship had gotten him a full ride to the school, even if he only had a fourth grade reading level.

For the last four years, he had been between couch surfing and living on the streets. But now, thanks to Hope talking her mother into it, he was welcome to stay in their basement whenever he wanted, which was all the time now.

Bubba typed in the security code that opened the front door, holding it open for Hope, earning him another "thank you".

Hope's mother wasn't home, but that wasn't a surprise. She didn't have a job— unless you counted swindling rich older men out of their money— but she was usually only home to change, pass out, or if she for some reason brought a man home when she couldn't go to his house, like if he were married, which was more common than not. Bubba had heard from Hope that her mother was staying at some new boyfriend's mansion in the Canary Islands, more than likely trying to swindle as much money out of him as she could.

Even after staying at Hope's house for over a year now, Bubba still felt out of place there. Everything was so expensive and formal and fake. He doubted this house even felt like a home for Hope. It didn't feel like one for him.

"I need to take a shower," Hope told him, before sniffing dramatically. "And so do you, stinky."

Bubba smiled. "I did just get out of football practice." He told her, "I'm bound to smell."

"You always smell." She swatted him kindly on the arm. "Go take a shower downstairs and I'll do the same in mine, then I'll help you with your homework."

"Do you need any help getting upstairs?" He asked, concerned.

She waved his worry off. "The day you carry me upstairs in my own house is the day I die of embarrassment from being useless." She told him, taking the stairs one step at a time. "I'll be fine."

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Showered and changed, Hope slowly hobbled down the stairs to her boyfriends' room. She knew he would chastise her for walking down by herself, but she was a big girl and didn't need him doting 24/7, even if she loved it.

She found him crushing the plush sofa under his immense weight, his fingers ghosting invisible keys and his foot tapping to a rhyme she could not hear.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?" She asked, her voice catching him so off guard that he shot up at her question. He physically stopped his limbs from moving without his permission. She sat on the couch next to him, pulling him back into his seat. "Mahbubur?" She used his real name, the only person who did. Out of all his friends, teachers and coaches, only she used his real name. She liked to think it was reserved for her and her alone.

"I… yes." He admitted, his shoulders tensing. "It's starting to make me sick."

She leaned into him and he made sure their skin wasn't touching. She thought it was silly, not the fact that he had a skin condition that made him break into hives, but silly in the way that she, as his girlfriend, could only touch him through fabric. She only got away with quickly stealing kisses by applying a thick layer of special balm to her lips, one that irritated her as well, funny enough. The chaste touches made her wish for more contact, even feeling his skin as they held hands.

But she knew they couldn't, because, even if they both wanted it, it would cause him great discomfort, and it would cause her great pain.

After a few years into their relationship, Mahbubur told her his biggest secret; his bizarre skin condition was only the side effect of something much more dangerous and strange, whenever his skin touched the skin of others, he would hurt them.

It wasn't like a stinging, sharp, or even burning pain. No, it was more dangerous, more deadly, more subtle, less alarming. It calmed you, relaxed you, almost acting like a sedative or calming drug. And, with prolonged contact, worse things happened.

"Don't you remember what happened last time you tried to ignore it?" She asked softly, looking up to him and finding him avoiding her gaze. "I couldn't find you for three days, and when I did, you were huddled under a bridge, muttering like a madman."

"...I remember." His low voice rumbled in his throat. "But… I can't do anything about it. I'll just have to ignore it."

"What if you… I don't know, just take a little?" She suggested slowly. "Just to take the edge off?"

He shook his head adamantly, "No, no, I can't. When I forcibly use it on someone… it feels like I'm, well, like I'm taking a part of them." He told her, head in his gloved hands. "I get glimpses of memories, thoughts, emotions, it's all a blur, and I can't process all of it, but… when I use it on someone, it feels like I'm digging in their mind. Like I'm perverting someone's brain."

"But not doing it is hurting you." She reminded him. "You should-"

He dropped his elbows to rest on his knees. "No, I swore to myself I'd never forcibly use it on another person again, not after last time."

Silence filled the room for several minutes as Hope thought, knowing what she wanted to suggest, but unsure of how to say it. Finally, she mustered up her courage and said it. "...What if… what if you use it on me?"

"What?" He was aghast, shaking his head in refusal. "No, absolutely not!"

"Come on, Mahbubur," she said, grabbing his sleeved arm. "It's not that big of a deal, you've used it on me before-"

"And every time I do," he countered. "You get sicker and sicker. You were bedridden for three days last time."

"That wasn't you," she stressed the word. "I have a neuromuscular disorder, it makes me weak. It has nothing to do with you using your ability on me-"

"Then why do you get weak every time?" He cut her off, shaking his head. "No, you're already sick, and using it on you makes you sicker. I won't do it."

"I think I should get a say in this." She told him sternly. "You think you're hurting me, when I'm telling you you aren't. The longer you go without doing it, the sicker and weaker you'll get."

"I don't care." He said firmly. "So what if I get sick? It's what I get for hurting people-"

"You don't hurt people." She cut him off, giving him a glare. "You, Mahbubur, are the nicest, kindest, sweetest and most gentle guy I've ever met. You couldn't hurt anyone if you tried."

He said nothing in reply, averting his eyes from her. Hope knew him enough to know that her arguing wouldn't get her anywhere right now, he didn't want to talk about it. She was okay with that, as long as they talked about it later.

She let out a sigh as she rose from the couch, "Okay, ready to work on your summer school homework?"

He groaned in the same way he did every time he had to do homework. "Fine, but I literally don't get any of it, it doesn't make any sense." He handed her his folder of homework. "I don't understand what I'm supposed to do, and Mrs. Mosbey says she won't go over it again."

Hope tried her best to not let her distaste for his 'tutor' show. She was convinced the old hag was more interested in the fat paycheck from the school every week than actually teaching him.

"Let's see what we're dealing with, here." She said, scanning through the middle school math equations. Mahbubur wasn't just behind in reading and writing, but most subjects. Hope knew the principal and teachers would have expelled him years ago if he wasn't the star football player. Just like how the principal was angry she had to quit the cheer and gymnastics teams, regardless of her doctors' orders or not.

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"Dinner's ready." Hope announced.

Due to her mom never really being around— and being more than happy to sunbathe on her boyfriends' private beaches or yachts rather than be at home— Hope learned how to take care of herself at a young age. She was practically raised by the housekeeper, the retired and stern Mrs. Rodas. The elderly Mexican woman taught her to cook, clean, organize, sew and flirt with boys. Mrs. Rodas had finally moved back to Mexico to enjoy her retirement when Hope was fifteen, so she had three years of practice taking care of the house now.

Mrs. Rodas had only believed in cooking big meals, which, luckily rubbed off on her, as her boyfriend could eat a whole cow and still be hungry

"It smells good," he complimented, already sitting at the oversized table that was better suited to house an entire dinner party, rather than two teenagers. "Thanks, Hope."

"Of course," she smiled, setting the steaming food on the table. "Dig in."

They ate and talked about whatever came to mind. It was one of the things Hope appreciated about their relationship, conversations never got boring and silences never felt awkward.

"What do you want to do, babe?" She asked him after finishing a bite.

He raised a brow in question, fork in his mouth. Fine dining wasn't exactly one of his strong suits. "About what?"

"About you needing to use your ability on someone."

His fork clattered to the table, eyes wide. "I'm going to ignore it-"

"But it makes you sick." She cut him off. "And I can tell it's bothering you, your foot hasn't stopped tapping since we came up here." His foot went silent.

"I know," he admitted. "But I just can't use it on someone-"

"Then use it on me." She cut him off again. She held out her hand in offering. "It doesn't have to be a lot, just enough to help you feel better."

His hand shot towards hers before he gained control over himself. He glared at his rogue limb, putting it under the table. "I'm not going to hurt you-"

"How many times do I have to tell you," she cut in again. "You can't hurt me, Mahbubur." She reached over and ghosted his face with her fingers. He flinched, but she didn't pull away. "You can't hurt me. You're hurting, so let me help you."

Reluctantly, he nodded, unable to stop himself. "Alright." He sighed with a nod. "But only for a moment."

He took off one his gloves and held his hand out, it was shaking, not from worry, she knew, but from pain. Wordlessly, she put her much smaller hand in his and instantly she felt a relaxing calm wash over her, the one she knew was a result of his strange ability.

She felt herself grow groggy, her mind muddling, head swaying.

Then in a second, everything went black as she heard Mahbubur scream her name before she lost consciousness.

To be continued

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(Author's Note:)

Well, there's chapter 18. Short again, I know, and I apologize. That's why I'll be uploading ch19 tomorrow! Woop!

What did you think of this chapter? Let me know in a Review.

See you soon for ch19!

Fun Fact: Physically, Hope Fairchild was based on Barbara Gordon, aka Batgirl/Oracle from DC Comics. The only difference is her hair, which is a chestnut color.

Question of the Day: What do you think about Bubba's ability? What do you think it is? I'll admit, I didn't want to give too much away, but also didn't want it to be confusing, so hopefully it worked out. This won't be the last we see of it, btw.

Next time: Birthdays