Weeks passed. My stomach started to grow, and then there was no denying what was going on.

I was completely absorbed with thoughts of the future; of doubts, and worries that had always been around, but now had manifest into something much worse.

I broke out in a rash from the anxiety, and I was sick all the time. Kage told me to relax, and that I was overacting.

He just didn't get it. Sure, everything was just fine for him. He was an adult. He didn't have to worry about his parents finding out, or not being able to take care of it. He didn't even have to stick around, if he didn't want to. He didn't have to have anything to do with the kid if he didn't want to.

He became overly helpful, and it just pissed me off more. He treated me like I couldn't do anything for myself.

I was sitting on the couch, and he came over. For once, he didn't have a drink in his hand. He had shaved. He looked like he had slept for more then an hour. He looked, well, good.

He leaned his elbow against the back of the couch and rested his chin in his palm. He stared at me, as if expecting something.

"What?" I asked coldly.

"I just want to look at you." He stated. He reached out to touch my stomach, but I turned away out of his grasp. I didn't want him to touch me. I was too angry with him.

"Leave me alone."

He let his head slide off his palm with a sigh. "Do you hate me?"

I seriously had to think about this. I nodded.

"Because you need someone to blame?"

I nodded again more slowly.

"Because you think that blaming me will make you feel better, even though it doesn't?"

I stared at him, my frown beginning to give way.

"Because you don't actually want to admit that it's just as much your fault as it is mine?"

That was all it took. All he had to say was a few choice words, and he could easily bring me to tears. I let out a strangled cry and began to sob. I hated him so much. He didn't even realize how much I despised him.

"It's alright." He said flatly. "You can go ahead and hate me. I can live with that." He paused. "You don't want this baby?"

I nodded, unable to speak.

"You want to get rid of it?"

I nodded again.

He licked his lips and sat up straighter. "Okay. Here's what we're going to do. You carry it, have it, and then you give it to me. I'll take you back to Earth, and the kid and I will go back into space. How does that sound? You don't have to deal with a baby, and your parents never find out."

He had proposed exactly what I had secretly wanted him to. In a logical sense, it sounded like the best idea.

Sometimes, he could be so selfless, it was painful.

I stared at him for a long while. When I regained my composure, I said, "Kage… I'm fifteen. I would love for that to be a quick fix to this. But it can't be. Even though I'm just a kid, this baby is my responsibility too." I paused to take a deep breath. "And I don't think I could live with myself if I let you take it away from me."

He seemed genuinely relieved. He sat up and kissed me on the cheek. He got up to leave the room, but then raced back to kiss me three more times before he actually left.

I wondered what the consequences of my decision would be.

I went to take a shower.

I hated looking at myself in the mirror. Just looking at me was a reminder of how badly I had fucked up.

I took a long shower. I sat on the floor and let the water fall over me like rain. I missed rain. I missed air that wasn't dry and sterile. I missed trees and grass and plants.

Being up here was like being a prisoner to routine. There was nothing to do, and there was nothing different about each day. I was with Kage, but how worth it had this adventure been?

Later that day, after I had used up all the hot water and I still didn't feel any better, and tried to get some sleep. I had a terrible headache. Probably a migraine. My eyes hurt from not only my headache, but also from my exhaustion. I didn't sleep well anymore.

Hour passed, and I must have fallen asleep, because they passed in a blink of an eye. I was hungry I vaguely wondered if I could talk Kage into making pancakes. I wasn't allowed to cook anything since I caught the kitchen, and myself, on fire.

I got up to go find him. He was in the living room, passed out. He'd been drinking.

He was the most inconsistent person I ever met. He would say he wanted to stop, but he'd continue to drink, just because it was there, I suppose. He needed a drink before he could do anything.

I didn't mind the drinking itself; it was his body, he could do what he wanted. But I was angry when he acted like a fool when he was drunk. He'd try to get me to sleep with him, and if I gave in, he'd usually pass out before either of us was finished. He'd have these violent mood swings that made him too unpredictable for my taste. Sometimes he'd be happy and boisterous; but other times, he was just plain mean.

I gritted my teeth and knew at once what I was going to do.

I gathered up as much alcohol I could find. He hid it in the strangest places; the book shelves, under the bed and couch, behind the toilet, under the kitchen sink, inside the vents. I even discovered a shampoo bottle that was full of scotch.

Once I gathered all the booze I could find, it put into perspective how much he actually drank. After a few weeks, we would always land, and he would go out to buy more booze and other supplies. If he was buying this much every time we landed, I doubted that there was any blood left in his body it all; he just ran on alcohol.

I began opening the bottles one by one and pouring them down the drain. I hummed while I did it. I wondered how upset he would be when he found out all the booze was gone. He'd probably be pretty mad at me for a while. He might even stop speaking to me.

I was just pouring out the last bottle when I heard him moving around in the living room.

His feet padded across the threshold and then he stopped just inside the kitchen. "Aizel?" he asked, genuine fear lacing his voice.

I turned around innocently. "Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing anymore," I responded. "Just taking out some trash."

His nostrils flared as he surveyed the damage. Then he stalked out of the room; I guess to go see if I'd actually found it all.

He returned some time later, looking disheveled. I must not have left any behind. "Why would you do this to me?"

I was drying my hands on a towel. "I'm sick you drinking all the time. If we're going to have a baby, you can't drink anymore." That was not the real reason. I just wanted him to hurt like I did.

His eyes were rolling as he tried to contain his rage. He was still plenty drunk, so it was more difficult then usual.

I'd never seen him angry; never truly angry. I realized at once my mistake. He was just like Papa; slow to anger, but unstoppable once he reached his breaking point.

His fists were clenched, his muscles quivering with rage. I could feel that he was about to go off, but I wasn't sure what he was going to do.

He bore his teeth and growled at me like an animal. Then he rushed at me and caught my jaw between his hands. "Why? Why throw away what was mine, you little brat? You had no right to pour out all by booze. I'm going to rip your little throat out," His voice was low; completely serious.

He let my face go so I could talk.

"You don't need to drink," I said slowly, while at the same time trying to angle myself towards the door in case I had to run.

"You don't know what I need to do!" He shouted, pounding a fist onto the counter. It cracked in two. "Do you even know what you've done?!" He was before me again in two strides. He grabbed my arms and shook me. "You have killed me, you prick! You have killed me!"

I stared at him. I couldn't figure out if he was speaking literally, or metaphorically. "Let go of me," I whispered calmly, though my voice wavered with fear.

He ignored me. "You think I was drinking all that for fun? Because I liked it?! No! It's so that I don't hurt people! Don't you understand?!" He shook me again, and I could feel the bones in my arms sliding against each other painfully. If he shook me any harder, he'd probably kill me.

"Kage, let me go," I said again, louder. The alarms were going off in my head. I needed to get away from him. My instincts were telling me to fight, or run; and I didn't intent to fight him while he was like this.

He loosened his grip and shoved me back against the wall. I saw my chance to bolt, and went to take it, but he was there before I got too far. He grabbed both my hands in one of his.

He hit me across the face. It was such a quick and shocking blow, I hadn't even known what happened until I was conscious again a moment later. My mouth hung open, and blood ran down onto my shirt. I was dizzy, and it felt as though there was a vice around my head.

I realized he still had my hands, so I braced myself for another blow.

He all of a sudden let me go, and backed off.

I didn't stop to look at his face. I took my chance, and ran to the bedroom. I locked the door, and pushed the bed and dresser up against it. It would not stop him if he wanted to get in, but what else could I do? I could not fight him. He was a lot stronger then I was; that blow had proved it.

I quickly went into the bathroom and locked myself inside.

I had never been scared of him. Now, I was terrified. If I had known he would react this way, I would have left him alone. Let him drink himself to death.

I felt him coming closer, and I unconsciously braced myself as if he were in the room with me.

I glanced at myself in the mirror. My cheek had a huge red welt across it. I was going to have a black eye; but at the moment, that did not matter.

I didn't hear anything for a long time, and I thought maybe he had passed out. I hugged my stomach unconsciously, as if that would protect it if he were to storm in and get me.

Then there was a knock on the door and I jumped nearly out of my skin. I had not heard him open the bedroom door, or push all the stuff out of the way. But now he was right in front of the door. I imagined his angry, wild face, and shrunk back into the furthest corner of the bathtub.

"Aizel," He said gently from the other side of the door, "Can I come in?"

"No!" I shouted desperately. "Go away!" My voice was trembling, just like the rest of my body.

He was quiet for a minute. "I'm sorry I overreacted," then his voice dropped. "I'm sorry I hit you."

I didn't answer. I was afraid of saying the wrong thing; and I was afraid if I didn't say anything, it would make him angry. "I'm not sorry for pouring out all your booze," I didn't know what I as doing. Was I trying to make my situation worse?

"That's fine, I don't care," He said quickly. "It doesn't even matter. Can I come in and talk to you?"

"No!" I insisted. I didn't want him near me. And if he really wanted inside, he could have easily gotten in.

"Can you forgive me?"

"No,"

He sighed, and I heard him slump against the door. "I… I think you're right. I have a problem."

I didn't say anything.

"I don't want to admit it… but I do. I'm an alcoholic. And it's making this thing we have going harder then it needs to be. I just don't have any control." He seemed discussed with himself. "And just because I'm upset doesn't give me the right to hurt you, or anyone else." He sobbed suddenly.

Crying was worse then yelling. At least with yelling, I knew what to expect. Crying was too unpredictable, and therefore, scary.

"I've… become someone that I hate. Someone that I promised myself I would never become. When I was your age, I promised myself, 'I'll never be like him. I'll never let it get that bad.' But here I am, twenty years later, on the same path as he was. History is doomed to repeat itself."

I wondered who he was talking about. It hardly mattered. He seemed genuinely sorry.

"My father was a drunk too," He said suddenly, "And he beat the shit out of me every day for almost ten years." He became very serious. "But this is different. You aren't my son. I don't have the right to punish you. I don't even have the right to touch you. You should never have a reason to be afraid of me." He gave a shuttering sigh. "And I've failed you."

I unlocked the door, and opened it. He turned to face me, and then hissed. "Holy fuck," He whispered and got to his feet. "I'll go get you some ice."

I grabbed his arm. "Forget it. We have to talk."

I noticed that he had put the bedroom back to the way it was. He did not like change, even in the simplest of forms.

We sat down on the bed.

"I want to go home," I said first, "Once this baby is born. I want to go back to Earth, and I want to go home."

He nodded, eager to comply with anything I wanted.

"And I want you to come with me." I added, which surprised him. "I want you to be my…" I struggled for the right word. "Husband. This baby's father."

He seemed confused, and shocked, but he nodded anyway.

"And I want you to go to rehab. I'll take care of the baby, and you go and get clean. Then we can start over like nothing ever happened. We can move on."

He stared at me for a moment. "I wish I had known the things you know now when I was your age. I wish I knew the things you know now."

I nodded dismissively. "So, what do you say?"

He nodded. "Absolutely. I'll do whatever you want. I'll never take another drink as long as I live. No more drugs, no more booze. I won't even smoke anymore." He took my face in his hands. "And I will never, ever hurt you again." He ran a thumb gently over the bruise that was forming over my face.

"Promise me one more thing," I whispered.

"Anything."

"Promise that you won't leave me. That you won't give up, and leave me all alone." I wouldn't be able to handle that if he ever did. I would be crushed with sadness, I'm sure.

"Never," he responded without skipping a beat. "I won't ever hurt you."

I nodded and rested my head on his chest. He kissed the top of my head and smelled my hair.