MHA # 2 | Morning

[knife_bender]

It was weird waking up in his own bedroom after the last week and a half. Diego still felt like there was something he should be doing, but at this point it seemed like all he could do was wait for one of his siblings to call with news, and support Annie as best he could.

In this case it meant making a pot of decaf coffee in addition to a regular one. He loved you, Annie, but he wasn't ready to give up caffeine in solidarity yet. He was walking past the door to the spare bedroom with a cup of coffee in hand and stopped abruptly, listening. Was there someone snoring in there?

[For the brother and/or wife. Any mentions of pregnancy are NFB]

Comments

[apocalypsehow]

Five didn't actually hiss like a possum confronted by literally anything, but the reaction was close enough to it.

"If you're looking for a hand with something, I'm the wrong person for it."

Ah, the Hargreeves reaction to trauma.

[defenderofdesmoines]

Okay, maybe it was a little inappropriate, but that got a laugh out of Annie anyway.

"I actually came to see if you wanted breakfast?" she replied, dangling a silver-foiled pack of two Pop Tarts between two fingers as she leaned in the doorway.

[apocalypsehow]

And, like a cat hearing the treat container being juggled, Five was shoving himself upright with his remaining hand. "I thought you were supposed to be puking in the mornings, not this chipper."

[defenderofdesmoines]

"It's a bullshit term. I'm sick whenever I'm sick," Annie replied, looking a little amused as she leaned against a wall. "You want 'em toasted? They're strawberry."

Donna January didn't raise no brown sugar-eating weirdo. (Actually, Donna January would hate that Annie had these in her home, period, but that was beside the point.)

[apocalypsehow]

"Sure," Five said, eyeing her for a moment like he was trying to decide on asking after Diego's well-being after everything. But that would break their very healthy familial bond. "How far along are you?"

[defenderofdesmoines]

Honestly, she didn't even have a great answer there. Diego seemed pretty determined to tell himself he was okay with all of this and just throw himself into fatherhood? Probably wasn't the least healthy approach?

"My guess is about a month?" Annie replied, tearing open the packet to start toasting one of the Pop Tarts with a hand, thus demonstrating that Diego was correct that she'd retained her powers. "Your dad didn't exactly pop out a prenatal growth chart, though."

Look who'd learned some new words since last night.

[apocalypsehow]

"You checked that it's true and not him trying to control you and Diego?" It was a perfectly rational thing to believe of his father, the actual alien.

[defenderofdesmoines]

"I've taken two tests," Annie told him with a nod, rotating the Pop Tart to ensure evenness. "One on the way home from the Sparrows', and one last night after all the powers and tattoos and piercings got zapped. It's real."

She glanced up, content that the Pop Tart was toasty, and offered it out to Five. "Doesn't mean he wasn't also being manipulative, though."

[apocalypsehow]

"It's actually a guarantee he was," Five replied helpfully, taking the Pop Tart. "Honesty is the best way to manipulate someone."

[defenderofdesmoines]

Most of Annie's manipulators had been experts in lies of omission, or partial-truths, at least.

"Dumb question, but how're you feeling?" Annie asked, nodding to his stump and setting to work on toasting the second Pop Tart.

[apocalypsehow]

"A little short handed." Oh god, this was going to be his Thing now.

He was also on some nice painkillers. So. There was that.

[defenderofdesmoines]

Annie debated whether or not to participate in this, because it really did seem wildly insensitive, but if Five himself was joking like this --

"You really lost the arms race, huh?"

[apocalypsehow]

Look, the Hargreeves handled things in a unique way.

"I'd give you a high five for that, but..."

[defenderofdesmoines]

"You can pat yourself on the back, instead," Annie suggested, neatly setting that second Pop Tart on the nightstand atop its wrapper. Close enough to a plate. The fact that she didn't care about crumbs, honestly, was a little gift itself. "Oh, wait...."