Summary: With a newborn child to look after, Striker needs to find a safer job.
He knew from the beginning that looking after a baby wasn't a walk in the park, but looking after a baby alone was far worse. Without his wife to share the burden, Striker was forced to spend many nights without proper sleep to tend to his newborn son, be it to change his diaper, give him the bottle, sing him back to sleep, or all of the above. This, combined with the daily chores he now had to do on his own, left Striker sore and exhausted.
But he put up with it. He had to be strong for Jake's sake.
Soon the impling proved to be quite a handful. Despite being only a few weeks old, he already showed great curiosity about everything around him. He's not yet old enough to crawl around, but Striker was certain that he'd try if given the chance, so he made sure not to give him one.
"Sh-sh-sh. What's up, my boy?" Striker whispered as he picked Jake up.
It didn't take him long to figure out what was wrong. There was an unpleasant smell coming from the diaper. This is the one thing he hates about fatherhood. He could imagine Jane making fun of him if she could see him now.
Once he changed Jake's diaper, Striker tucked him back into the cradle and swayed it side to side, humming a little tune until Jake went back to sleep. With a deep sigh of relief, Striker went back to his room and collapsed onto his bed.
The next morning, Striker awoke with a strong headache. He reluctantly got up and went to the bathroom to wash his face, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. There were dark bags under his eyes, his hair was unkempt and his mustache was knotted. Sweet satan, it's like seeing a shadow of his former self. He didn't have time to ponder on it, though. Jake was already demanding to be fed via wailing. Tiredly, Striker made his way to the nursery.
"One of these days you'll be the death of me, kiddo," he murmured as he cradled the impling.
His head pulsated with pain as he went to the kitchen, so he decided to make some tea for it. He's always been more of a coffee person, but right now what he needed was to ease this migraine and maybe get to relax a bit.
Striker managed to distract his son a bit with his rattling tail. Jake would stare at it curiously and reach out to it. Striker would tease him a bit by touching the little one's nose with the tip of his tail and move it out of reach before Jake could grab it. The impling eventually managed to catch it and examined it with wide eyes, trying to figure out how to make it sound.
Once the kettle began whistling, Striker poured the hot water into a cub with the teabag on it before pouring the warm formula into a feeding bottle; the latter was still too hot, so he sipped on his tea while waiting for it to cool down a bit. A warm current ran through Striker's body as he took small sips. His muscles relaxed and the headache diminished considerably. For the first time in days, he felt truly calm.
At least until Jake whimpered and reached out for the cup.
"No, no, Jake. This isn't for you. Here's your bottle." Striker placed his cup on the table and picked up the baby bottle, now at an ideal temperature. Jake latched on, giving Striker some time to relax.
He got a message on his hellphone. Another assassination job offer. With a heavy sigh, Striker deleted it. He's not currently in a position to accept any new jobs for the time being. He has no one to leave Jake with and even if he had, he can't bring himself to do this kind of job anymore when he has a child to look after. He and Jane had agreed to take turns in looking after the baby and heading out for killings, but she was gone. And Striker wouldn't risk his child by taking him to an assassination,
But he did need to get a job. A safer one, that is.
Jake grunted, trying to push the now-empty bottle away.
"I know, I know." Striker put the bottle aside and accommodated Jake so that his little head was resting on his shoulder. After successfully burping Jake without making him throw up, he went to the living room to look for potential job offers on his phone, Jake tucked in his other arm.
Most of the job offers in Wrath didn't require a school degree or anything like that; this was perfect, as Striker's status as an orphan kept him from being allowed into school; he only knew how to read and write because Jane had taught him to. The one inconvenience was that he couldn't apply for better-paid jobs. The best he could aspire for was a farmhand, a hunter, or anything that require expertise in basic tasks, physical prowess, endurance, and weapon handling.
After a few minutes of checking, an offer caught his eye.
"Rough n' Tumbleweed ranch is looking for someone who's good at wrangling livestock and experienced at hard-labored tasks." Striker checked the ad with more detail. "Hm. It's not far from here, and they pay well. Not as much as hitman jobs, but enough to get by. What do you say, pup?"
Jake paid no heed to his father, instead focusing on nibbling his own foot.