Disclaimer: I do not own Kyle XY

Author's Note: Text in italics are Kyle's monologues.

For the thousandth time I wondered, should I choose my sweet sugar – Amanda – or my hot pepper – Jessi?

(Joke monologue)

Now I'm serious! I might make this a habit with these ficlets, but they may not always be at the beginning!

***

D is for Derivative

"Father," Shawna called in her obscenely cute and shrill voice.

As he had not been far – Kyle found it impossible not to hover over her like a mother hen – he entered the bathroom where she stood, her little stub-like legs devoid of pants and underwear. He shook his head when he noticed she had chosen to use the adult potty instead of her little plastic one. When she had descended from the toilet bowl she had inadvertently left a brown trail along the white porcelain.

My daughter Shawna, at the tender age of thirty-two months, suffered my parental ministrations because her arms weren't yet long enough to completely clean herself when she had a bowel movement. As a single parent with a full time job, I actually knew she enjoyed my company and even relished it.

When her mother had died I had been sorely tempted to offer her up for adoption. Today though, I learned just how lucky I was to have her in my life.

When he finished cleaning her she said, "Thank you father," and gave him a hug, her arms unable to even go from shoulder to shoulder on his wide frame.

He couldn't suppress his smile. She always called him father. "You can use the letter d you know; please call me dad."

Shawna scrunched her eyes and grimaced. "D is for derivative, not dad."

He shook his head at his brilliant daughter. "There are many words in the English language that start with the letter d sweetie," he playfully scolded.

She replied immediately with a slight lateral shake of her head, "If linguists could just stop adding words to the English language long enough for me to count them I could tell you how many words there are that start with the letter d, father."

It was true; now that much of North America was using a single standardized form of English – it contained a healthy amount of French and Spanish influence – linguists were adding literally hundreds of words every day. His daughter was quicker with language than with her numbers. Despite this she still lisped a rare s or slipped up the pronunciation of th, especially when it was followed with the letter r. Her tiny mouth looked so adorable when she spoke.

There was a reason for his insistence on her use of the word dad. "Everyone else your age uses it when describing their fathers. Some even use dada."

She frowned and tapped him playfully on the arm. "Dada is barely a word. It's like the word booboo. Further, I want to know why you refuse to do as other adults do while requiring that I, your daughter, am forced to comply with societal norms."

He really shouldn't have shown her that debate instructional video. Since then – all of three weeks ago – she had debated practically everything he'd asked of her. Beforehand she'd been submissive and compliant with his every request. He shrugged, embarrassed that he even thought such a thing. "I don't want to attract undue attention."

She seemed hurt. "So you want me to behave like an idiot instead?"

He shook his head, "I want you to act more normal."

She blinked. "You are hardly normal, father. You're a clone."

That was new. He took a deep breath from the shock of her rebuttal. He had obviously taken great care to teach her everything he knew from the moment he'd noticed she could handle things. She had a terrific brain with a potential that was perhaps even higher than his. And she had been born at full term, and not a week longer.

He didn't have the time to review in his holographic memory if he'd somehow told her he was a clone. "What's a clone Shawna?"

She told him, with exacting detail, just as he would have described it. With her answer, he narrowed down the possibilities to five. He, extended family, and their computer were the primary culprits by the looks of it.

"Why do you think I'm a clone?"

She stared at him curiously, her head cocked to one side. "You dream of it dad – I mean, father."

"Gotcha!" he shouted and hugged her furiously. While he was giddy that she had exhibited her first ability, his intestines felt like tying themselves in knots. Even he couldn't read minds. He pulled away after he'd finished tickling her but held her on his lap to stare into her eyes.

"You look just like your mother, you know," he said, tears suddenly threatening to spill from his eyes.

She put her tiny hands on her stomach. "I think you've told me that every single day of my life, dad."

That day I learned how special my little daughter was, and how much I would have lost had I given her up for adoption. After that day I accepted her proposal for her to call me dad in return for letting her be herself, whatever that would entail.

FIN