M - for potential (probably) mature content and language

Through half-lidded eyes, Cinaed could see a kestrel sitting on one of the uppermost branches of the neighboring tree.  With a soft whistle, the raptor ruffled its feathers and picked at the peeling sheath of a new pin feather.  On one hand, Cinaed could sympathize; new feathers were extremely itchy when they were flaking and unraveled and that feather would be important for the cold months ahead.  On the other hand, Cinaed was tempted to dive bomb the kestrel out of the tree and chase it for a little early morning fun. 

Except, the fire had burned down to embers overnight and left a chill in the bedroom unrelated to the cold outside.  And, the covers were warm.  And, there was a naked witch buried under the covers next to him.  Cinaed shifted and stretched his arms above his head and shoved his hand under his pillow in search of his wand.  With a lazy flick, the embers in the fireplace roared to life and a fresh log found its way into their midst. 

As the growing fire started chasing the chill away, Cinaed rolled towards Nicola with a quiet rumble in his chest and a broad grin.  "Still pissed?" he asked, lips brushing against her shoulder.  Chances were good, he knew the answer; it rarely changed.  He also knew that didn't always negate his chances for a little morning exercise.  He didn't always know what he'd done to piss her off; maybe he would if he'd paid attention but it was always some variation of the same theme. 

The movement in the bed beside her did nothing to stir the witch from her dreams, continuing to lie on her side, the blankets pulled up to her chest, dark hair spread over the pillows and her face. Having become accustomed to sharing a bed with such a large wizard, Nicola rarely stirred, dead to the world during hours of darkness. Not that she’d ever share, but she slept better with him, the warmth emanated from the brute.

Lips brushed bare skin and a shiver took her body as his words reached her ears. Was it morning already? Eyes refused to open as her brain slowly started to join the conscious world.
“Always…” the murmur came from beneath the mane of raven hair. Despite herself, lips twisted into a knowing smirk. There were worse ways to be woken up on a cold morning; even if the days preceding had been spent wanting to rip his stupid blond hair from his stupid head. But she was too tired to think of that now, too tired to tell him what an intolerable stupid Scotsman he was.

With what seemed like an outrageous amount of energy, Nicola rolled onto her back and opened her eyes, her dark gaze slowly coming into focus. “I’m not pissed.” She half lied. Too tired to be so angry with him. She needed a coffee first.

Cinaed shifted, drawing his arm underneath him and propping himself up on his elbow.  The floors below the topmost bedroom remained still; no shifting of boards or deep barking to indicate that a hungry five year old was racing around the barroom downstairs.  He didn't quite believe the witch's always and he didn't quite believe the not pissed.  When she was fully awake, they'd see which side of the coin she'd land on today. 

It had to be a weighted coin; it rarely landed in his favor. 

"When do you have to head to the shop?" he asked, tracing his fingers across her forehead to brush the stray, dark strands off her brow.  "I'm sure no one will complain too much if you open late.  The world won't end if they don't get their trinkets before noon."  Cinaed leaned over to kiss Nicola, just in case his meaning wasn't getting through the lingering morning fogginess in her mind. 

"Besides.  Just send anyone who does complain my way.  We'll come to an agreement."

Clearly Cináed was hankering for something more than a good morning kiss and Nicola was rarely the sort to deter him. She may have griped about being fussed over while trying to get her bearings, but the wizard was not the sort she tended to refuse, despite how much he infuriated her.

Hair brushed from her face, she looked up at him and her brows rose. He knew full well she didn’t sell trinkets. The trinkets were for show; an argument for later. His lips were closing in and she wasn’t in the mood to argue before they’d even left the bed. Instead, her hand raised, cold fingers touching his cheek.

“I want to keep customers.” The mutter came from her lips but her own actions were contradictory as she pulled him down onto her, pressing her own lips against his and kissing him deeply.

That was until the feeling hit her stomach. Deep in the pit of her stomach was a tightness, a distinct uneasiness that crept up angrily, threatening mess, disaster, to lurch. It only took a moment to register the feeling that had been unpleasantly familiar over the past few days and Nicola gave Cináed an almighty shove, flung off the covers and darted through the door into the small bathroom where she made it just in time to clear her stomach of last night’s dinner and drink into the toilet bowl.

For a moment, the degree of enjoyment he'd experience that morning lay in limbo.  She hadn't outright rejected him, at least not yet.  And, as those brows slowly migrated up her brow, Cináed could see the brewing argument filtering up to the surface.  But, she appeared to put the argument on hold when she met him in the kiss, without any griping or insults. 

Until she shoved him off of her.  And lunged out of bed.  To vomit.

With a groan of frustration, Cináed flopped over on his back and glared overhead.  "You're usual biting wit and nagging would have been sufficient!" he called after her.  Casting the covers off, Cináed stood up out of bed and, given the bathroom was currently occupied, strode over to the edge of the bedroom floor.  His toes curled over the open edge of the floor, gazing through the top canopy of trees, he relieved himself onto the forest floor far below. 

Nicola was still retching when he stepped back from the edge, which seemed far too long for a simple jab or commentary.  He crossed to the bathroom, leaning against the door frame with a worried scowl.  "Did you eat the pie last night?  I warned that the old hag had meddled with it."  An easier approach to the conversation then actually facing the real perpetual worry: what could he do if anyone at the Black Chimaera needed proper healing?  Nicola or, more troublesome still, Fionn.  He couldn't just waltz into St. Mungo's and ask to see a healer.  Polyjuice might work, assuming St. Mungo's didn't have some sort of defense against unexpected potions use (and one could assume they knew a thing or two about potions), but there was still a chance someone would recognize Fionn as the toddler abducted three years before. 

But, he was already tallying up the number of bottles of polyjuice in his head.  "Do you need a Healer?"

"You're usual biting wit and nagging would have been sufficient!" The oaf, clearly unimpressed by the disturbance shouted from the bed while the reality dawned on Nicola that she was no longer going to be able to avoid the pressing issue of what was happening to her body. She’d hidden it from Cin for the past week or so, since she’d found out herself. His reaction wasn’t an easy thing to guess and she’d not fancied more arguments, or worse, being abandoned to take care of it alone. One look at the son currently upstairs should have really dissuaded such silly thoughts, however.

It was several minutes before Nicola finally felt capable of standing and abandoning the toilet bowl. Despite a belief that it wasn’t possible, her skin appeared paler than usual, long dark hair clinging in her clammy cheeks. There was no immediate response to the Scotsman stood naked at the door. Instead Nicola swilled her mouth out with water and moved towards him.

“I don’t need to see a healer.” Her voice was quiet, weak, but certain. Merlin how was she going to tell him?

“You might need a healer,” Bare feet carried her across the room where she grabbed her dress and pulled it over her head. Being so undressed with what she had to tell him felt ridiculous, even for her. “For the shock.”

The drama-loving witch was clearly unperturbed.  If there was something really wrong, she'd be griping and complaining.  And, blaming him.  That was enough to assure him that he didn't need to worry about contriving some way to get into St. Mungo's undetected. 

Cináed held a clean cloth out to Nicola as she turned towards the door.  "You look like hell," he said as she pushed past.  He followed her out into the bedroom, frowning in confusion, which lingered for a few moments before a broad smile spread across his face.  "How easy do you think I am to shock?" he asked, grabbing his dressing robe off the floor and draping it around his shoulders. 

Unceremoniously, Cináed settled into a nearby chair, the long folds of his robe sprawled haphazardly over him and the chair.  "What?  Did you suddenly become a lightweight?  Lost your ability to hold liquor?"  When he tried to contemplate a cause for vomiting that had the potential to shock him, that was the first thing that came to mind.  Really, that was the only thing that came to mind.  It wouldn't surprise him if his feeble attempt to hide his impatience was completely ineffectual as he waved his hand for her to continue. 

Why did their always have to be drama? 

Cináed Tawse was an arrogant man. He was self-assured, confident and strong. No real weaknesses were ever displayed and it was what kept Nicola by his side, knowing how she was safe sharing a bed with the feared brute. No one would touch the witch that slept beside him, no one would dare. Such arrogance, however, also frustrated her. He believed himself unbreakable and unable to shock. They would see any truth in that when he found out about her secret.

The wizard sank into a chair and Nicola pulled her dress down over her thighs, the black lace tickling bare skin. Her habitual confidence was gone.
“The world doesn’t revolve around alcohol.” There was none of the usual smoothness to the witch’s voice, leaving no playful tone, no sign that this was Nicola Randall. People thought she was mad, insane. They wanted to think such things and she let them. Cináed was perhaps the only person to occasionally catch rare glimpses behind her protective mask.

Arms were now crossed defensively over her stomach as dark eyes swept over the man barely covered by the robe. Would he be angry? Shocked? Would he be pleased? Would he realise the immensity of the situation? Would he share her fears? Could he feel real fear? How would he show it?

“I’m pregnant.”

Cináed smirked, slyly.  She was wrong, of course.  Almost every major board room meeting, government office or backroom dealing had drinks at its center.  The liquor might not have been the cause, nor the primary aspect of major events, but it had undoubtedly had a presence.  Wars and revenge weren't plotted with a glass of water in hand. 

He'd save the correction for later.  Presently, it wasn't of great importance.  Especially when compared to the curious shift in Nicola's demeanor. 

“I’m pregnant.”

Cináed blinked and stared at her, the smirk slowly morphing into a tight-lipped scowl.  Nicola was pregnant.  Nicola was with child.  Nicola was carrying a baby.  The intensity of his stare didn't falter as his eyes traveled slowly from her face down to the arms that were crossed over her belly; his gaze bore into her midriff as if he could visually verify the news through sheer force.  Still without diverting his gaze, Cináed pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room to stand in front of her with several long strides. 

"Whose is it?" he asked, his eyes snapping up from her belly to look her in the eye. 

Any sense of humour Cináed had previously embodied vanished in an instant as his expression turned dark. Intensely dark.

Nicola had never been the sort to turn from conflict; she’d never been the sort to cower in fear. Cináed had never made her feel nervous despite his sheer size and demeanour. She challenged him regularly, never backing down. But he’d never had that look before. He’d never stared at her like that. He’d never made her feel like she might shrink under his gaze despite the crimes he’d committed and the things he’d done to others. Never to her. Cináed Tawse, for all his faults and their arguments, had always made her feel safe and protected.

Until now.

He rose from the chair and was stood in front of her in a matter of a couple of paces. He towered over her in a manner that now felt menacing.

"Whose is it?"

The enduring nausea wasn’t helping as her stomach nearly hit the floor and her arms clung tighter to herself; protective, defensive. Grey eyes met her dark brown gaze and she nearly took a step back. This, she hadn’t expected. She should have slapped him. She should have screamed in his face how he never should have asked such a thing.

“Fuck you.” She practically spat at him, trying to remain calm but feeling the rage and fear building. Not only the fear for his reaction, but the fear for what was going to happen to her; to the baby.
To their baby.

Cinaed's gaze didn't waiver.  He didn't blink.  Nicola could have whispered at him, for all the impact.  More importantly, she hadn't answered the question. 

Probably because she didn't want to tell him who. 

They'd never actually discussed their relationship.  What had started as wordlessly as casual bedroom recreation had morphed into something more regular.  Neither of them had bothered, or dared, to broach the topic of whether the relationship had changed in ways other then frequency.

For Cinaed, imaging some other Knockturn bloke knocking Nic up was a much easier explanation to consider then the alternative.  It chased any probability of the child being his from his mind.  His glare remained fixed on her until his mind had reasoned that explanation into reality.   

He let out a loud, barking laugh that held no humor.  "Why are you telling me this?" he tossed out between laughs.  "I don't know what or who you get on with when you're not here."  And, he definitely knew no one was going to admit it to him.  Chances were, if the bloke was smart, he didn't make himself a regular at the Black Chimaera. 

Unless it was some poor, spineless wannabe that felt like a big man by coming into the lion's den. 

"Klepacki, right?" he offered, a slight smirk finally twitching at the left corner of his mouth.  The little runt did seem to sniff after anything with a skirt and a pointy hat.  "Bet he squeaked." 

With such an unrelenting stare focused on her, Nicola had to fight the urge to scream, to stalk away, to slap him. She should have expected this; should have expected his refusal to accept any responsibility. For a man on the run, it was far easier to blame anyone else, to pass responsibility onto others. She would clearly be raising this child alone. She didn’t need any help from the moron that thought she was sleeping around Knockturn Alley like a hussy. For everything Nicola was, she certainly wasn’t that sort of witch.

Suddenly Cináed laughed loudly, made so much worse by his proximity to her and his sheer size. The nausea in the pit of her stomach continued but she tried to ignore it as she focused on the blond headed, bearded oaf that thought acting like an arsehole would get him out of any of this.

"I don't know what or who you get on with when you're not here."
Most women would have slapped him, thrown something at him, screamed or cried. Nicola could only stare as she started to realise exactly what the brute thought of her. Any other time and she’d have questioned just how many women that meant he took to his bed when she wasn’t there. They’d never discussed it, only fallen into their routines. But Nicola had, idiotically, thought it was more than simple sex.

“Why would I have gone anywhere when I could have this ignorant oaf in front of me?” Her tone failed to conceal the hurt and anger while her eyes unfortunately filled with the threat of tears. “As if I’d even have the chance,” not that she’d wanted it in the past year or so, “with the threat of you hanging over their heads like a bad odour!” In her first months back in the alley, Nicola had been interested thanks to five years of solitude in Azkaban but she’d found out that while she’d gained the protection of Tawse, it also made her untouchable. No one wanted to step on his toes and anger him by sleeping with his witch. It didn’t matter that he didn’t care for her. As evidenced by this morning, to Cin, Nicola was clearly just a girl he could easily bed and cast off.

Turning her back on the wizard, she bent down to grab her boots. There really was no point in hanging around now.

Cinaed wasn't sure what was more disconcerting: the news that Nicola was pregnant or her entirely un-Nicola-like demeanor.  Though he occasionally glimpsed of the bright-minded woman behind the craziness, there was always an infallible cockiness and indifferent swagger.  She'd always seemed as if their current arrangement was one of casual entertainment and convenience, just as he had. 

This sudden spewing of apparent anger, regret and a jumble of other emotions Cinaed couldn't recognize was unexpected.  And, rather terrifying.  He took a step back from Nicola, brow furrowed in what had become an ever-present confusion. 

"I didn't realize I was holding you back," he countered, bruskly.  "You had ample opportunity to seek different arrangements, if I was cramping your style.  Don't forget, you chose to come to me."  After all, if she'd wanted a different approach, she could have always sought it.  Nicola could have chosen to stop coming to his bed at any point.  She could move openly; he was confined to the Black Chimaera and his winged form. 

All the fussing and annoyance and she still hadn't answered the question.  "Whose the fuck is it?" he repeated, making no move to stop her from gathering her things.  He need to hear it, simplified into black and white terms.

Fortunately the wizard was no longer looming over her and he didn't try to stop her as she grabbed her boots. It had been a mistake to tell him and who knew if he'd even believe that the child was his. The Scot evidently expected her to parade herself through the men of Diagon Alley without a care for her dignity. Nicola Randall may have appeared somewhat psychotic and content to do as she wished, but she had standards. She had respect for herself.

While he may have backed off, he didn't relent with the question. So, Nic dropped the. Boots she'd been holding to the floor with a clatter as leather hit wood and she span around to face him, gaze shooting up to meet his grey eyes. Those grey eyes that bore into hers as if daring her to challenge him further.

“Merlin’s balls, Cináed!” The witch, exasperated, looked up to the ceiling as if pleading for the strength to keep some semblance of calm. “Does your thick head not allow you to comprehend the English language, Tawse?” Attempting to ignore the resurfacing nausea, she moved back closer to him before speaking slowly, stopping after each word, “There. Is. No. One. Else.” But just to ensure he didn't remain confused; “it's fucking yours.”

Cinaed sat down on the bed and leaned back on his arms, continuing to be indifferent to his current state of dress.  At long last, he diverted his glare from the witch in front of him and turned his head to gaze out at the shadowed forest stretching beyond the Black Chimaera.  Ambiguity finally abolished, the wizard took a few minutes to contemplate the news.

Nicola was pregnant with his child.  HE was going to be a father.  Again.  Fionn was going to be an older brother.  He ... they were bringing another Tawse into the world!  When Cinaed turned his attention back to Nicola, his expression had softened to a broad, though somewhat bewildered, grin.  "We are having a child.  We're having a fucking child!"  All memories of the previous argument vanished from his mind with a sudden burst of excitement.  Cinaed pushed himself back up off the bed and reached out to put both hands on her shoulders, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.  "I'm going to be a father, again!  Bloody brilliant!  We should go tell-"

The elation was short-lived as reality came crashing down.  There was no one he could trust with that news.  He slowly shook his head and rubbed his face with the palm of one hand.  "We can't tell anyone," he said more for his own benefit then anyone's.  "No one can know.  They'll take him.  They'll use you and him.  Shit!"  They were bringing another child into this world where wizards were forced to hide, he was forced to cower in the wilds of Scotland and muggles were allowed to live free and openly.  This couldn't be the world...the legacy he would leave for his children. 

"When?  How long until he gets here?"