#softtt

———

The sound of giggles, both grown and toddler alike, guide Cyare through the house as she searches for her young daughter in the hopes of wrangling her to bed.

An impressive feat, that is.

She approaches the living room and stops just before she turns the corner. She braces herself against the wall, smoothing a hand across her stomach as she basks in the sounds of their recreation, knowing full well she’s about to be the perpetrator. And she thinks, for a moment, maybe she’ll give them five more minutes—

She enters the room before she can go through with it.

It’s endearing, as it always is when the irrevocably softened sniper of Clone Force 99 engages with her baby - soon to be babies.

He’s seated in what is essentially a tyke chair, the guest of honor at an equally compact table comically disproportionate to his stature, his eyes closed in something akin to bliss - or caution, as he heeds the colored point scrawling about his face - his otherwise austere nature has fallen docile to the little Picasso in his lap currently transforming him into a work of art via (hopefully) washable marker. Apparently, Ba’vodu Crosshair is in need of another face tattoo adjacent his trademark opus, this in the form of a pink heart along his cheekbone that has lessened his severity tenfold.

The sight has Cyare biting her knuckle to absorb her laughter.

Crosshair catches her eye. “Not a word.”

Her features neutralize in a instant. “Not a word.” Cyare turns her attention to more pressing matters then, taking in the sight of her hyperactive, marker-stained toddler. “Mesh’la, it’s bedtime. Time to be all done—”

“Noooooo,” the toddler whines immediately, letting her limbs droop heavily in protest, her marker clattering to the ground in high-drama fashion.

“Yes, come!” Cyare inveigles without missing a beat. “Papa is waiting to tell you a story, and Meg-Meg—”

“Nooo Mommy—”

“Mesh’la,” Crosshair cuts through smoothly. “Listen to your Buir. Off you go.”

She makes a pitiful sound in the back of her throat, jutting out her bottom lip, and slides off his lap.

Crosshair forces himself to look away before his resolve crumbles.

Cyare sends him an appreciative glance as she receives the dejected ad’ika into her heavily pregnant torso. “Thanks,” she smiles wearily, herding her moping child out of the room. “Oh, and don’t worry about the mess, I’ll come back and clean up—”

“No.” A mutually beneficial arrangement has presented itself, and Crosshair is quick to jump on it. “She can do it.” He beckons his young niece over. “Show your Mom how helpful you are yeah?”

Her eyes light up and Crosshair’s night is made. He can now sleep soundly with the image of his niece’s bright and reimagined features, the erasure of her previously crestfallen one. She scampers over and begins cleaning up her coloring utensils with all haste, eager at the audience.

Cyare looks on fondly, stroking her swollen abdomen and finding a newfound admiration for the man before her. She loves the way her daughter is so attentive to Crosshair, keen on pleasing him, learning from him. She reflects on the progress her budding toddler has made in the past few months alone, thanks in no small part to Crosshair. She turns to him, unable to keep her smirk at bay.

“You know…”

Crosshair holds a hand up. “I know what you’re gonna say.”

Cyare grins. “You really would be.” She places a tender hand on his shoulder. “You’re wonderful with her.”

“Not sure I’m ready for two of her.”

“Come now,” Cyare teases, reaching up and thumbing at a stray smudge along his jaw. “Then you can have twice the color.”

Crosshair bats her hand away, subduing the smile edging at his lips. They fade into comfortable silence as they listen to the toddler between them hum to herself whilst she cleans up so obediently. Crosshair folds his arms across his chest, a subconscious endeavor he’s perfected over the years, with the need for it dwindling over time as the emergence of tender souls move in to swathe him instead. His heart races as his mind wanders to the prospect of another being to break him down softly, making her grand debut in a matter of weeks.

“You missed one mirdala, under the table,” Crosshair centers his focus back on the niece in front of him.

Hunter’s baby girl stoops on chubby legs, retrieving the stray marker with a little, “ooh!” And then, standing big and tall, beams, “All done, Mommy!”

“Good job, baby,” Cyare praises authentically, holding out her hand. “Now, time to go night-night.”

The toddler bobs excitedly. “Carry me!”

“No mesh’la, your Mom can’t—”

“It’s fine, Cross,” Cyare places her hand on his shoulder. Crosshair’s eyes narrow.

“No means no, Cyare.”

“Really,” she drawls, “‘No means no’, Ba’vodu Crosshair?”

There’s silence for a beat.

“…Alright so I’m a hypocrite.”

“Mmm,” Cyare allows a victorious grin to bloom as she looks down to the source of his hypocrisy. “When it comes to this little pumpkin? Very much so.”

The little pumpkin in question makes sweet grabby hands up at her.

Cyare chuckles. “Alright then, up you go—” she hoists her daughter up, carefully, maneuvering her up and around her burgeoning belly. It’s awkward and straining but Cyare manages it all through a doting smile. “There,” she breathes, cradling her baby girl’s head to her shoulder as she turns with a final bidding. “Tell your Ba’vodu Crosshair goodnight.”

The little tot nestles in sweetly, her dark curls strewn over her momma’s shoulder every which way. She locks eyes with her Ba’vodu. She gives a small wave, Hunter’s smile, and, “Night-night, Kitty.”

Something heavy must pass across his face, because Cyare is settling a free hand on his cheek in an instant, on the newly reformed side courtesy of her toddler. She smiles at him softly, knowingly.