as kindred should

five

"I can't fucking stand this man," Dorian grumbled, snapping the depleted book shut with two big fingers. "Same fucking characters every time. Same fucking plot. Formulaic. And I keep falling for it. Jesus."

He wiped sleep from his eyes. A yawn tore through him. Risking a glance at his bedside clock, he found that it was approximately 4:02 AM. Late enough to justify staying awake, too early to justify doing anything productive.

Dorian let his head fall back on his pillow with a huff and closed his eyes. Lamplight tinted his eyelids reddish-orange. Something outside the house tapped against the side paneling, a twig or a pebble, maybe. He lay still, listened.

The sound of his breath filled his ears, at first soothing, then agonizing. He opened his eyes, forced himself to sit up.

Pip lay sound asleep in her crib, same as she had last time he'd checked, and he thought rather selfishly that he would have liked her to wake up, if only for a moment, just for a spot of company. His common sense reemerged before he could rise to do it; Dorian sighed.

"Hm."

Once, Dorian's room - his entire home, really - had been comfortable, had felt lived-in. It wasn't that it didn't now, just that it was... empty. There were no pictures, so few personal effects that it sometimes felt more like a prison than a home. He was not confident enough to mark it again.

He kept a box of important photos under his bed, and if his home felt too sterile, too empty, when he inevitably felt himself slipping into a fog he knew was dangerous, he would pull that box out and he'd sort the photos.

He'd start by person. Mel, Mira, Clara, Dustin would have their own piles. Captures of himself would go face-down back in the box.

Then he'd sort them by decade. Young Mel from the beginning and middle of their relationship, Mel from the end. This was a thin pile, only what they'd deemed healthy after their divorce.

Then there was Mira as sprite of a girl, Mira as a gangly teenager. Clara as a dark-haired little imp, Clara throughout secondary school. Dustin as a mini-me, and Dustin now.

He'd whittle them down to specific events if he hadn't bored himself by that point. His wedding, birthdays, holidays, random days of the year that someone had gotten ahold of the camera. The pile would shrink by that point, any so much as teasing his face tucked back in the box.

There was a shift there that he couldn't handle, a degradation from youth to the battered imitation of it; hollowed cheeks, a lined frown, a deadness behind the eyes. Dorian preferred to admire the good parts, sometimes things he had missed. That was enough for him, to see his family grinning.

He reached under the bed for the box, fingers brushing against the lip of it, and he started the process all over again, sorting and resorting and narrowing it down, the paper grazing his fingertips and the moon shining faintly through the blinds.

He held up one picture at arm's-length, closed an eye and squinted, trying to line it up properly with an empty space on his wall. There would never be an opportunity to blow the picture up, to find a frame, at least not one that was convenient, but he indulged the fantasy anyway.

Dorian lowered the photo into the stack from whence it came, let out a breath, glanced at his clock.

5:49 AM.

A phone sat on the nightstand, black against the warm tan of the wall behind it. Faster than the hour ought to have granted, he snatched it, wincing when his elbow protested the movement with a solid pop.

Big fingers dwarfed the thing, two of them drumming lightly on the back of the casing. 5:50 AM. People were awake that early, sometimes, especially if they had jobs. The Elite would be waking up, its night staff trickling from the building in preparation of the far more rigorous day staff, janitors and soldiers alike.

Dorian dialed the capitol building's number first, listened to a series of notes before the receptionist picked up.

"Trase, Dorian, #013. I won't be attending today. Yes, Squad Firebrand. Thank you. Have a nice day."

Better safe than sorry.

The second number he dialed, he fumbled the first time, typed a 3 instead of a 4, and waited for an answer with a hell of a lot more anxiety. This number hadn't been dialed in years, and though he'd been told that it would always be in service, he wondered if the man on the other end would be.

A familiar voice said, "Hello?"

"Hey, Doctor Jacobs. It's Dorian Trase. You were my kids' pediatrician?"

"Mr. Trase!" Jacobs exclaimed with a bright laugh. "Goodness. Long time. Are the kids okay?"

"Yes," Dorian answered immediately. They were back in Ireland for now, visiting Mel's family. Clara had told him that, said that she'd buy him something if she remembered. He had appreciated the thought. "They're lovely, actually. Uh, this isn't about them, though, actually. I need a favor."

The next words were far sterner than their previous: "Dorian Trase, have you had another child? You must recall the first conversation I had with you. May I ask who the mother is?"

"What? Jesus Christ, no, I'm not- No. Nothing like that. Not exactly like that, anyway, it isn't... she's not my kid. She's part of a case I was set to yesterday, I'm taking care of her until further notice," he said briskly, and in a much softer tone of voice added, "I remember our first conversation."

Contraceptives are far more useful than you give them credit for, Mr. Trase. If you don't want a third child right now, I'd advise you to try a condom.

Humiliating. Sound advice, but humiliating to a twenty-four year old with two young daughters, and his wife sitting next to him. Mel had hid a laugh with a cough. Dorian hadn't stopped her. He'd been too busy bumbling for an excuse.

"A case? Goodness, tell me she's alive, at least?"

"Yes. Of course. Yes, she's alive," he answered. "She just... I don't think she's seen much of a doctor, and I need to know she's okay."

He glanced at her, stirring now. Dorian braced his foot against the floor, prepared to leap to his feet if she needed him.

"When's your earliest availability?" Dorian asked.

"Uh, let me see..." Jacobs said. Papers rustled over the phone, the sound of pages turning or catching on one another. The answer came swiftly. "About 7:30 this morning. Is that too early?"

Dorian glanced at the clock. An hour to go.

"No, no, that's perfect, actually. I thought you didn't open until 9:00?"

"10:00 now, actually, but if she's part of a case, I want to see her. I don't like the sound of that. Case."

"You shouldn't," Dorian replied. "Thank you, Doc. I owe you one."

"The hell you do, Mr. Trase. Just pick me up a bagel on your way. I'll see you in an hour."

Dorian set the phone in its cradle, and dropped back onto his pillow.