Footy Pyjamas

"Rem?"

Curled into the meager padding of her chair, head nuzzled against the back as she reviewed the data on her blue glowing terminal, she wasn't at first sure she'd heard correctly. She heard the slight shuffle of feet - no dream at this late hour. A somewhat careless, sleepy kick toward the grey computer spun the chair toward the portal of a doorway.

Long blonde hair was backlit and shadowed in the low, nighttime illumination. Rubbing her eyes to clear them of sleep - had she fallen asleep? - she smiled encouragingly at him, "What is it, sweetie?"

Translucent eyes met hers levelly, not revealing either deference or need. He was a questing scientist in footy pajamas. A large stuffed animal - a strange looking black cat with eerie yellow eyes - was clutched to his chest. Small fingers stroked its soft "fur", carefully avoiding the ear he'd burned in experimentation.

"He's alright now," he informed Rem, calmly waiting for her response. Her dismissal?

Her eyes searched his thin, blank face. The poor cat was lucky to be a toy; suffocation wasn't pleasant. She nodded, "And how are you," she pointed her chin at the plushy, "and Mr. Black Cat?"

The little boy shifted again, slightly toward the doorway. Oh please don't, my little philosopher, she pled internally. Come in, choose family. Although, the sentiment was mostly undeserved. He always chose family; she just wasn't included.

"I worry about you, Knives."

He started, embracing his cat more tightly than ever. Slowly, backing away, he shook his head, "I don't want . . ."

"But I do," she interrupted nervously. "I want to worry about you, because I love you. I want to make sure you're happy."

Rem waited, tensely breathless. I'm not used to parenting, she sighed, I just play with them. Of course, until recently, that had been all the twins needed. But now . . . they were still reeling from the Incident. Her boys had always been so independent, relying only on each other. She hadn't realized until now how much they needed her.

She hadn't realized until now that she thought of them as "her boys."

Surprisingly, Knives stepped forward, "Like I worry about Vash."

Rem snickered, "Like we all worry about Vash."

"The big baby!" he grinned.

Much more comfortable, in synch with some internal intent, he entered her quarters fully, finding her bed. After testing it and finding it satisfactorily soft - Rem wondered if she'd just passed the same test - he jumped up onto it. Burying his chin in Mr. Black Cat he looked at her once more. It was funny how he made everything seem as though it was turning out just as he had planned.

Amused at his manipulations, she waited for his next move. Caring for the boy was like playing chess with sharp crystal - fascinating and dangerous and delicate.

"What's that?"

Rem glanced over her shoulder at the streams of data. Oh dear.

There was a hint of a smile behind Mr. Black Cat's whiskers. Incorrigible child.

"You already know that." He murmured something, ceding victory. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Knives glared, "It isn't right that you can just break what happened down into numbers."

"We need to know how to keep it from happening again," she reminded him gently.

"Steve hit Vash," She flinched at his words; she flinched at the satisfaction in his eyes when he saw her movement. "Where are your numbers for that?" he sneered.

"Neither words nor numbers can hide the evil of Steve's action." He made a noise - contempt. But his eyes betrayed him, newly interested, respectful; entranced. "I don't lie and I don't hide, Knives. We shape justice and forgiveness through actions. We care for Vash and we admonish Steve. That's why these ships carry people, not computers." He nodded. Dealing with him is so different from dealing with his brother, she mused. "These numbers are to protect Vash, and you, from hurting with the Plants ever again. To help us understand you and to help you understand yourselves.

"I don't want to see you hurt." It wasn't a difficult admission. It was just one she didn't like voicing. She loved him, loved them both. But she knew the price. The sight of Vash's purpled cheekbone, the sickening feel of the depression, was ice in her heart - twisting - and along her nerves - searing. She would someday see them hurt, again.

Rem would probably see them die.

Precious angels come to barren space; the heavens above. They'd grown so fast, would they ever see planet fall; the earth below?

She heard the fabric of his footed pajamas slipping against the always too slick flooring. Rem always smiled at the sight of her little Knives - whose intelligence was as acerbic as his wit - in the childish, cute garb. He was a child. He said wore liked them because the design was sensible and efficient. But they were blue as everything he wore was. Rem secretly suspected he liked them.

His feet were on the floor. Is he leaving? she wondered. She studied his expression. Maybe he didn't know either.

He reached a decision that was maybe separate from her last words. Maybe not. Knives didn't hesitate - he never hesitated - and granted her a shy smile of - was that affection? A few steps and he was right before her, "I know. I understand."

Touched, knowing quite well that he wouldn't appreciate the gesture, Rem scooped him up into her arms. After a brief moment of struggle, when he attempted to maintain his dignity and she did her best not to pitch forward, they settled back in to her chair together.

"You know, this isn't the most comfortable position we could be in," groused Knives. He eyed the grey fabric disdainfully, "And someone should complain about these chairs. Do you think they achieved this level of hardness on the first try, or did it take experimentation?"

She bit the inside of her cheek as she responded, "It says on the tag. Four trials. And," she dropped a kiss onto his hair as he searched for the tag, "thanks for reminding me. I'll be sure to bring it up in my next communiqué back to Star Command."

Knives halted his search to turn to her, wide eyed with disbelief, "There's a Star Command? And you talk to them?"

"No."

His arms crossed as he frowned, "Re-eeem! That's mean."

Rem chuckled, tickling him slightly as he squirmed, "I make no apologies and give no explanations, dear boy."

He blushed and twisted to avoid her fingers. Another attempt was thwarted and she gave it up as a loss. As reward he snuggled into her arms.

It was minutes, quietly petting Mr. Black Cat together, before he spoke again. The whisper was soft into the silence, made more so by the absence of sound rather than less.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Hmm?"

"I couldn't sleep," he repeated grudgingly. "That's why I came to talk to you."

Rem gave him an ironic look, "I never accused you of not being awake here."

Knives fought to sit up, frowning at her. But not leaving. She was right, he didn't want a soft touch.

"That's not what I meant. I . . ." he trailed off in uncharacteristic embarrassment. He bit his lip, annoyed at himself, and started again, "I can't hear him."

She stroked his pajama sleeve reassuringly, "Hear who, honey? Vash?"

He nodded shortly.

"In your mind? I thought you'd been quiet to each other for months now unless you sent."

Another nod, "Yes, but . . . I can always hear him at night."

Rem closed her eyes as she drew an unresisting Knives back to her embrace. She rested her chin in his hair, "So you can't sleep."

"Steve hurt Vash. He hurt him and now I can't hear him.

"Promise to protect him, Rem. I'll help, too. But I," he choked in an earnest tone she'd only heard from Vash, "I want you to protect him, too. We can be partners. Promise me, Rem."

He was tearful and she hugged him closer, not caring at all if Mr. Black Cat suffocated or not, "I promise, Knives. I promise."

Protector of Vash and partner of Knives. It was something she could accept.

For now.