Staying With Her

Chapter SEVEN

He stared at the surface of the clear water sleeping in the glass. It was a beautiful sight and the water even more so. His calloused hands kneaded tighter under the base of his chin. His eyebrows knitted in deep ponderation as he stared down at the brown file filled with deceased faces.

Two beautiful women's photographs stuck to the vintage paper, their identities and location of the crime scene stood like bold bricks in his eyes. He shook his head with a displeasing sigh. No matter where you are, life always finds a way to take you to the white gates of heaven. He hadn't felt remorse for his lack of empathy. How could he? He'd never experienced such trauma. It was his job to protect the citizens of Seattle, not grieve at their stones.

He hadn't grieved at his father's burial. The man infuriated him. Brought him to want to hold a gun in his hand and pull the trigger at his head. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to commit such an act. He wouldn't be where was if he'd considered the dead. His father's death was nothing but joy to him. "Good riddance" He'd said, clutching onto his frail mother's hand while they lowered the casket six feet under.

His mother trembled from that day onward. Cried on his shoulder. Mourned her late husband like the loss of a morning star. Yet, she knew he wasn't. He'd beaten her to every primary color until charcoal. His mama used to tell him not to hit. To swallow the anger and press it out in the form of gas. As a twelve-year-old boy, he'd been smart enough to suppress his aggression. Eventually, at the age of sixteen, he'd become a member of the Raptures Fight Club. He'd rush every afternoon to pull on a pair of gloves and beat the s**t out of the grained bag.

He'd gotten stronger. Faster. Smarter. His knuckles would turn white from clenching his fist too hard, and gritted teeth from the effort to remain silent when his father ranted with demands. His face was red with suppressed rage, even when Patrick would even set a finger on his shoulder. It was a disgrace to call the seed that gave him life a "father". His mother would often pat his shoulder after a lecture about mixing with the wrong group. And when she'd comfort her only son, Patrick's fist would scramble up her insides and eventually lead her to cough up her life.

Every word, every memory had fueled the fire that burned inside of him. It's been years and still, his anger boiled like a newly lit flame. A light tap on his leg erupted into a loud boom, causing his leg to shift. The water jumped out of the glass. Another boom, and another jump. The next time the water jumped, the glass tipped and spilled across the floor and onto his lap. His eyes clouded with aggression, his nostrils flared and his mind targeted his suspect.

Looking down he spotted a black dot on the floor. Only then to discover that the dot was indeed a head full of black hair and pale skin. Then it looked up. Blackhawk nearly gasped at the sight of those big indigo darts - sharp yet still full of emotion. His eyes were the ocean, so full of life yet so uncertain. His lips glistened with coil, round and protruded as he pouted. His cheeks puffed as he smiled with the display of his bunny teeth.

"What?" Asked Blackhawk.

The little boy giggled up at the man. His eyes shining with curiosity as he flopped the toy truck against the man's legs. Hit and laugh. And then another. Until Blackhawk decided to shake him away. He'd never had experience with kids before. Their cries were a piercing siren as two knives grazed against the other. Their laughs, mischievous. Their smells. God! They smelled terrible.

"Stop that!" He sneered, moving his leg away from the baby.

Ignoring his fuss, the baby crawled towards his leg and rode the truck up the rough material. His giggles filled Blackhawk's ears with the sound of applauds following in tow. Ignoring the child, he focused on the mess on his lap. Wet and sticky. The cool water seeped through the material and coated thin layers on his briefs. He then glanced down at the bundle with a silent curse.

Just then, the doorbell rang and the child screamed with delight. He clutched his chubby fingers around a portion of Blackhawk's jeans and clumsily stood up. Blackhawk watched the child attempt to climb his leg which appeared to be as humping instead. The bell rang. Groaning he stood up with the angel gripping his thigh for dear life. His feet were inches from the ground and if one slip, he could knock his head against the edge of the coffee table with a possible brain injury.

Glancing down at the demanding child, he shook his leg in an attempt to rid him. Instead, he rocked against his leg with hysterical laughter. Reaching down, he picked the child up at a distance, arms held straight away from his chest. In excitement, the baby kicked his short legs in the air. He then settled the boy on the couch. With demanding eyes, he warned him to remain on the spot before stepping back. One step back, the baby cried. Tears spilled down his crimson cheeks and eyes wet with sadness.

"Grrr..." Blackhawk grumbled under his breath before looking down at the creature, "What now?" He asked.

The boy extended his arms and signaled with his chubby fingers to inch closer, "No," He sneered.

His cry got louder and face redder. Blackhawk found it painful to witness such a tantrum and at the same time, fascinating. The boy scooted closer and in one grab he made his way into Blackhawk's arms, clutching onto his chest for support. Instinctively, Blackhawk wrapped his arms around the baby before sending him a glare.

"We'll discuss this later," He warned, knitting his eyes, the child laughed up at him.

A pound on the door echoed throughout the complex followed by the chirping of a bell. The baby giggled and pointed north. Blackhawk walked up to the door, on the way he noticed his hands were wet. Stopping in his tracks, he glanced down at the child. His bottom was wet. His clothes dirty and face heated. His hands sticky and his mouth dripping with saliva. Those sticky hands gripped onto his navy blue flannel as if it had no value.

"One day, you're going to pay for this," He groaned, pointing an authoritative finger at the boy's face.

The bell rang like a hell-hound barking into his ears. Annoyed and infuriated, he opened the door to face the man behind it. Martin stood with his hand's mid-air when the door forcefully opened and displayed his neutral partner.

"What took yo–"

"What do you want?" He asked. His hand gripped the edge of the threshold whilst the other balanced the curious baby.

Glancing down at the boy, Martin greeted him with a small smile whilst the boy stared up curiously, "Who's this?" He asked.

"I forgot," Blackhawk rumbled.

"I didn't know you had a baby?"

"He's not mine," Blackhawk said, glancing down at the bundle. He cringed at the sight of his saliva running down his jaw before colliding with his shirt in big wet damp.

Martin shut his mouth. Confused and amused he decided to address his arrival, "The case, Kate wants us to discuss it," He said.

"It's not our job."

"She says they may have a possible suspect," Martin rocked on his heels.

"Take him for questioning," Blackhawk said simply.

Sighing Martin said, "She wants you there."

The child giggled, pressing his clenched fist into his mouth, he pulled it out before extending it to Martin. Martin smiled and collected the tiny hand into his larger one. He seemed to enjoy the company of the child. He wasn't a father and biologically couldn't be one. Sadness filled his eyes as he thought about the numerous times he and his wife had endless sessions of lovemaking. Until at the age of fifty he'd decided to stop. To accept and move on with life.

"Watch him for me," Blackhawk said.

Eyes wide and mouth ajar, he said, "Wh-I don't know anything about babies."

"You'll do better than I'll ever do," Blackhawk said, swiftly he pulled his partner into his home and shoved the boy into his arms.

With that, he grabbed his badge off the table and fled the apartment with Martin and the baby staring deeply into each other's eyes.