Chapter 2

POINT OF VIEW SWITCHAROO

You got the call right around six fifteen am. The annoying ringtone (seriously, who even writes these songs) woke you fairly easily, but you had curled up around the smaller body practically radiating heat next to you, trying to will away the noise.

The universe never does listen to you though, does it.

Reaching over to the side table, you pulled away from your fiancé reluctantly.  Geez, universe. You were only trying to get in some unconscious cuddle-time, what's wrong with that?

You do not recognise the number that is flashing on the screen. You shrug to yourself and answer the call anyway, careful to keep your voice down.
"Hello?"
It takes a few moments for the caller to answer, and you're already getting annoyed.
"Yes, hello. May I speak to a mister... Dirk Strider please?"

Okay...?

"Speaking."

This is already weird.

The lady on the other end goes of on some spiel you hardly listen to, apparently she's calling from the hospital downtown. You don't get why she's calling you, neither you or Jake have needed or been to a hospital in years. She prattles on through an explanation about how some woman left this morning and how she had only left a note and blah blah blah, next of kin, blah blah blah, custody, blah blah bla--wait. You have to ask her to repeat that.

"Excuse me?"
You hope your haughty and disbelieving expression carries on through the phone line.

"I'm sorry to be calling so late sir, but they were scheduled to leave this morning."

Yeah, so you heard. But you hadn't spoken to your mother in years. Or anyone in your family, except Roxy. But she's the best (if the only) cousin you have.
From what you gathered, your mother, whom you hadn't heard from in the past half a decade, had left a baby, your brother, at the hospital this morning. There's a reason you don't associate with her.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Well... She left your number so we assumed ... Sir, you have custody over him now. We need you to pick him up."

Um.

"Why would I do that?"

You can't believe this is actually a thing.

"Because sir, we would prefer not to give the little guy up to the orphanage if there's a perfectly good guardian out there. We've researched you, and yourself and your... Partner seem qualified enough to take care of him"

Fuck, you can't take care of a baby.

"How old is he?"

What are you doing?!

"Just about two days, sir"

A newborn.

"Alright. I'll come get him. Half an hour."

You hope you know what you're signing up for.

"Very good, sir."

You hang up and turn your upper body to lean over the boy sleeping unaware next to you. He always did look so sweet asleep. Maybe even less dorky than usual. Hm, impossible.

You kiss his cheek lightly and maneuver yourself up and out of bed with a murmured 'see you later'. You'll just go in what you fell asleep in, jeans and a t-shirt for some anime or another. A look down confirms it's the Madoka one. Gotta leave a good impression.
You apply your shades and grab the car keys, then flashstep to the elevator. It's way too early for stairs.
The drive downtown is uneventful, and it only takes you about thirty minutes to get there considering the nearly nonexistent early morning traffic.
Once you're inside it's 7 am and your phone is ringing again. Oh, you forgot to leave a note for him... You hope he's not upset.

Once the call is over, you have a probably worried fiancé at home and a debt of one cup of coffee. Could be much worse.  The man at the reception desk is fairly nice for the fact that his shift must be ending as he directs you to the maternity wing. You've never been anywhere like this. It's nearly silent but has an undercurrent of mechanical whirring and beeping that only you are probably aware of. It's a curse, sometimes.  

You find out when you reach the room that  they have your brother set up in an isolated room. No infant roommates to keep him up or anything. That's pretty cool, you guess. You're suddenly nervous. This is... Your kid. Your baby. You're not really sure if this is the best ide--!
You jump as the door clicks shut behind you, as wrapped up in your thoughts as you were.  Shaking your head slightly, you carefully walk closer to the cradle they have him in. You peer in, and... He's not the prettiest thing you've seen. Not  by any stretch.

His face is almost splotchy, flushed, and his hair is thin but dark. His eyes are closed. A small, tiny, fist rests closed next to his head. He is wrapped in a hospital blanket that almost looks like a towel. You suddenly want to get him wrapped up in something softer. He's so small.

If you pick him up, would he break? You remember that you had in fact picked up a baby car seat on the way over, but what if that broke him too?
You reach down to run a finger along the side of his face, and he squirms. You jump back, startled.
He hasn't woken up, you don't think.
He opens his eyes briefly, accompanied by a soft squeaking noise. You catch a glimpse of rheumy grey-blue eyes. Are they sure this is your brother?
You look at the card attached to the little box that is his cradle, and read out the information, quietly.
"Dave Elizabeth Strider. December third. Seven pounds two ounces... Eighteen inches... Male..."

Wow. He sure is... Real. You think you like his given name. Dave. A good, strong name. It means something like 'hero', you remember. It's pretty decent.
You reach into the box slowly, trying not to upset him or something.  Hooking your hands under his back, you lift a little before remembering to support his head with one. That could have been bad. He's so little he can't hold his head up. Gotta work on that. Finally, you work up the courage to lift him (he weighs almost nothing) and hold him like you've seen in the media and how you've watched mothers do it. Pressing him lightly to your chest, you run a finger across a cheek and down a tiny nose. He even has little baby freckles. It looks like his complexion is evening out as you watch.  He twitches and his eyes open partway. They're still milky blue. Creepy. You stare back at him, and regret keeping your shades on as he starts making little hiccuping whimpers.  You set him down again quickly, which proves to be a bad idea as his cries escalate. You set your sunglasses down on a nearby counter and pick him up again. He sort of... cuddles up to you... grabs your shirt, stops crying. Oh, no. You totally love this tiny human.
It's time to check out and go home.