Page 8 of Healing the Leonid Doctor's Heart
“Well. Uh. That’s a bit to consider, isn’t it? Too old? Not that I know of, Abigail. Not off hand. A hormone test is easy enough to complete, just a quick blood test.” He snapped on gloves, hoping that the grip of latex would stop him from dropping the hemoanalyzer he was picking up. “Let me program this quickly...”
“Do you think... Do you think I could do it, physically?” Abigail rolled up her sleeve. “I know how it has to be done. I know Wendy and Layla already have husbands who are Felids, and they have children, so it’s not impossible, but,” Abigail’s voice dropped, “it’s been a long time for me. Six years. I was a late bloomer and then... I guess I’m attempting to bloom even later.”
“I didn’t meet my wife until I was forty-four. I guess that tells you that we’re two citrines on a tree.”
Answer her question. Physically capable? Physically able to—
Images, very carnal images, snapped into his mind and deleted his ability to finish the sentence.
He could offer her an exam. He couldn’t do that. If he did that, he’d die on the spot. Fifty-one-year-old Leonids shouldn’t be as pent-up as new Kings on their wedding night!
“Maybe you’d like Skyla to perform a physical exam to check?”
She nodded jerkily.
“Let me have this arm, dear.” Marcus took her bare arm in his paw, pressed the button, and the hemoanalyzer went happily to work, looking at levels of estrogen, progesterone, follicle-stimulating hormone, and the rest. “Normal menstrual cycles?”
“Well, it was a little late this time, but I had all of that neurosuppressant and went through hypersleep, so I think that could be it. Otherwise, they run on time. I’m Boring. Reliable.”
“You mean perfect?” He smiled.
“Too kind.”
“Not at all. In fact,” Marcus coughed and stopped. Was he really going to do this? Was he really going to say the wild thought he’d had last night? “I was thinking that it’s not too late for me to try again.”
“Hm?” Abigail’s voice was a squeak.
“I’ve been thinking about age as well. I’ve been asking myself—Am I too old? Did I miss my only chance?”
“Oh, no, Marcus. No, you mustn’t think like that,” Abigail shook her head, wisps of hair falling over her eye. She swiped them away without breaking the sincere gaze she was leveling at him.
To me, she looks perfect, as young as her heart wants. Some blend of wisdom and age, and all this girlish hope, the ability to pull herself up and start again...
“Well, one has to think about one’s age—if you intend to have a family.”
Abigail was silent. Nodded at him and waited, letting him speak in his own time.
“I loved my wife and cubs, but they’re gone. I never even got to meet the little ones, but—but I did all of this work while we were waiting out quarantines, honoring their loss by helping the world rebuild, by making sure not every father and husband has to grieve.” Marcus waved a paw towards the end of the med bay where vials of serum waited for hopeful parents. “And lately... I’ve been realizing that the world around me is filling up. That I’m content, but not happy. There’s a difference.”
“Oh, believe me, I know,” Abigail whispered, letting him put a small adhesive patch over the place where the needle had jabbed in and out, taking just a sip of blood to perform its dozens of calculations. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. That I’m very grateful for my life, that I was rescued, that I came here and landed among such lovely people.” Her smile was something small and somber, heartfelt, but it dazzled him all the same. “But happy? Not all the time. I don’t want to complain, but I’m not used to having nothing to do. Back home, there were long hours and familiar faces, people you make small talk with, that sort of thing. When that went away, I realized how insignificant all of that was and how little happiness it truly brought me.Busy work, filler, fluff. I want to do something meaningful.Havesomething meaningful.”
Have implies keep, thought Marcus, his breathing speeding up.That’s not the right temperament for a surrogate—but it’s ideal for a wife. Mother. Even co-parent.
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’d get too attached to the baby. That I’m too much of an old maid to let myself get swept away by passion—even a clinical kind, a necessary kind. Well. Perhaps you’re right.” There was a sad sort of laugh at the end of her words.
“You honestly don’t know what I’m thinking.” Marcus took an extra step away from her to keep from grabbing her and kissing her, to see if he could spark her idea of “necessary passion.” He went over to the database computer against the opposite wall and saw the flashing icon in the corner that meant new laboratory results were in.
“You could tell me?” Abigail followed him.
Another thing he liked about her. Quiet determination. Not a flashy, heroic, will-to-live, but the stubborn, clinging refusal to cave that he knew so well. He imagined every widower who hadn’t washed his pain down with something poisonous knew that determination. He certainly did.
“I know that your blood results came back and show that you are a healthy human Queen of childbearing years. Would it take you longer than others to get pregnant? Possibly. Some studies I’ve read say that older Queens across the species do so because of a diminished supply of viable eggs. But is pregnancy possible? Yes. But perhaps you need to find the right kind of King to pursue this venture with.” He forced himself to sit in the swiveling chair at the computer, to turn and face her with a placid, professional smile. “You said you want something to have. To keep. Surrogacy won’t allow that.”
“It’ll allow me to keep the memory of doing something worth doing!” There was a flash of anger in her eyes, and the still waters of her determination revealed a sudden tsunami wave. “I could change someone’s life for the better, Marcus! I could do one great thing—maybe even two or three before age stops me. I could stay in touch with the family. I could see how my son or daughter—”
“Some families won’t want that. Won’t let you have that little bit of possessiveness. To them, it won’t be your son or daughter.” He rose, voice like the low ebb of the wave as it goes back out to sea, a comforting pull to slow down her fury. “But the right kind of King or Knight will want that. No, Abigail—the right kind will wantyou.”
I want you. I want you more than ever when I see the sparks alongside the steady.His tail twitched, and he clenched his paws to keep from grabbing her and pulling her much smaller body to his and crushing her in a kiss.
