Notes: Shameless Proto-Dr. Light pre-fallout fluff
X-X Asthenic (Or: Just a Lazy Sunday With Dad) X-X
"Maybe my next project should be finding a way to feed robots chicken noodle soup," his father says. "That's what my mother always used to make for me when—well, always, really. It was her own azoth, if you will."
Blues is silent. A crate full of power-cord extensions had finally arrived that morn, so the pair had taken advantage by pushing out an old couch from one of the dustiest back-rooms up to the lab's main monitor, the office chair standing abreast with a bowl of popcorn and an E-tank in its seat. Football is on, a game Blues is paying even less mind than usual, both for the hair in his eyes and the slow drip of the electric IVs.
He lies with his cheek planted on his father's thigh and one limb of each kind slumped off the side of the couch. An afghan has been thrown over him (futile, yes, but it feels better on his skin than the cords digging into his back with warm teeth).
Light watches the game with only an occasional soft outburst, all the while stroking his creation's nylon hair.
"The sun lamp I ordered should get here by tomorrow." Touchdown, but no noise from the audience beyond the screen. "You'll probably get more sun than half of the kids these days combined."
Blues hums as a brief response.
The announcers are screeching about going all the way and there's a white streak tearing through green, navy dots blending into each other around it as far as Blues can tell. Dr. Light says, "I could get you into a sport, if you wanted. Not likely on any team, but maybe with a private instructor. And I could maybe downgrade your enhancements if you wanted to do any competitions."
Blues mumbles something. A hand stills, a back bends. "What was that, son?"
"How is learning how to free throw gonna help me be a soldier?" He asks with half a smile.
An arm hooks around a neck and knuckles come down on crown as Dr. Light practically roars, "Well, that's what I tried to program you with creativity for!"
A scarlet hand feebly swats at the attack. "You're gonna mess up my hair, Dad."
That's thirteen times.
"It's technically my hair—" Thomas Light yanks his son up by the axilla, stabbing thick fingers directly through Blues' pompadour and making it shake as though with earthquake"—and I'll mess it up if I want to!"
Blues is laughing along, though lightly, pawing and pushing with both hands as he asks, "Why did you even give me this, anyway?"
His father responds with hugging him to his side, with a gesture as he proudly expounds his motivations. "Because, son, the best of nature's predators all have methods of intimidation: the bear can stand upright; the cobra has its hood; and you, DLN-000, shall have your pompadour."
With a flash of white, Blues' battery trips the threshold to fully brighten his eyes again, just in time for him to roll them. "Well thanks, Dad." (Fourteen.)
