Mushaboom [2/2]
Part 1
Decision made, Brendon promptly picks up some cardboard boxes and begins packing up his stuff. Spencer pokes his head in when Brendon’s halfway through the second box, stuffing in CD cases.
“Uh, dude? What are you doing?” Spencer leans against the door way and watches Brendon fight with the packing tape.
“Packing,” Brendon grits out, trying to tear the tape off, but the stupid metal teeth are refusing to do their job.
Spencer sighs and walks over, taking the roll from Brendon and effortlessly ripping off the piece. “You finally figured out where you two are living, then?”
“Yeah.” Brendon accepts the tape and smoothes it over a cardboard flap.
“This is your house,” Spencer says slowly, echoing their earlier conversation.
“So?” Brendon shrugs. “Besides, it’s yours, too. And I can’t figure out where we’d keep a baby, either.”
He’s wandered around the house thinking about it enough to know. The closet is way too small to ever be converted, and all the other rooms nearby are too definitely occupied. This is easiest.
Spencer nods. “Okay, then.” And helps Brendon pack.
It doesn’t really take as long as Brendon thought it would. Within a few days, his stuff has been categorized and sorted into boxes that are only helpfully labeled on rare occasion. He rents a small U-haul truck for the day, and Jon, Spencer, and Shane help him load it while Ryan sleeps on the couch.
Brendon smiles fondly at the sight. “I’m pretty sure he’s just using this pregnancy as an excuse to sleep more.”
Spencer scoffs, “When has he ever needed an excuse?”
True. Brendon has nothing to say to that, so he walks over and crouches down next to the couch. Brushing Ryan’s hair back from his forehead, Brendon says, “Hey, I’m all packed up. Let’s go.”
Ryan shifts, stretching his arm out and letting it fall to the floor, fingers trailing along the wood grain. Blinking up, bleary-eyed, he murmurs something unintelligible through dry lips.
“Come on, lazy bones,” Brendon urges, grabbing Ryan’s hand and standing up. Ryan sits up reluctantly. Bogart takes the opportunity to jump up into Ryan’s lap.
“See? Bogart thinks I should stay and sleep,” Ryan croaks out, voice tinged with that after-slumber grogginess.
Brendon continues tugging on Ryan’s arm until he wraps his other arm around Bogart’s middle and stands up. “You can sleep in the car.”
And he has no doubt that Ryan will, which is why Bogart will be put in the pet carrier instead of getting to ride in the front seat in Ryan’s lap. He could always ride over with Spencer and Jon later, since they are planning to stop by and help unload everything, but Brendon doesn’t want to give Spencer the opportunity to steal Bogart. Like he doesn’t already have his own dogs. Brendon’s pretty sure the only reason Spencer decided to live with him was because of Bogart, anyway.
So Brendon takes Bogart from Ryan and coaxes him into the carrier with a Milkbone, closing the little metal gate once he’s inside.
“I could hold him,” Ryan points out, sticking his fingers into the holes along the side of the pet carrier to scratch at Bogart’s fur.
“Safety first,” Brendon returns. Ryan picks the carrier up and settles it against his chest, careful not to jostle it anymore than necessary. Spencer closes the door after them, and when Brendon turns the key in the ignition and pulls out of the driveway, he feels okay.
--
The thing about having a baby is that everyone you know suddenly has fifty thousands questions and opinions they shower you with. Brendon’s received at least fifteen phone calls from various members of his family in the last few weeks. Most are generally helpful, full of congratulations and inquiries about baby names and nursery plans. A few immediately started rambling about the do’s and do not’s of pregnancy. One aunt in particular warned him not to get too attached too early, since miscarriages still happen later in pregnancy, how falling can kill the child. That call left him feeling cold for a while, and he insisted on walking next to Ryan every time they walked down stairs, one hand steady on his back.
Ryan, while not bombarded with calls from every vague relation in existence, gets the honor of carrying around a now rather noticeable baby bump. This bump apparently doubles as a flashing sign for strangers to offer comments and suggestions here.
When Ryan finally breaks down and shops for some maternity clothes, the woman working behind the counter immediately jumps into a monologue about what fabrics are best for preventing nipple chafing. Ryan’s eyes go wide and he quickly flees the store, leaving Brendon to pay for the purchase and rush after him.
--
Late one evening, as they’re settling in between the sheets, Brendon settles his arm over Ryan’s shoulder and presses a simple kiss to Ryan’s temple without even thinking about it. He would have continued not thinking about it if Ryan hadn’t spoken up.
“You do that a lot,” Ryan points out sleepily, snuffling as he shifts around to find a comfortable position.
Brendon thinks about it, but he can’t remember repeating the action frequently. “Really?”
Ryan nods slightly, cheek rubbing against the pillow case. “Every day, in the morning or at night.”
“Yeah?” Brendon says, unsure. Sounds like a habit that he’d remember picking up. He blinks into the darkness of the room, stained a little pink around the edges from the lingering California sun.
“It’s nice,” Ryan practically hums, voice a low rumble like a car driving over gravel. Brendon doesn’t know what to say to that, so he presses another kiss to Ryan’s skin.
Brendon is rewarded by Ryan blearily cracking one eye open. “Don’t over-do it.”
At any other time, Brendon might have taken that as a challenge. But he’s comfortable and Ryan’s face is already lax, losing lines as he approaches sleep. There’s really nothing to push right now.
--
At the next check-up, the technician pauses a few minutes into the ultrasound, wand posed two millimeters left of Ryan’s protruding bellybutton, and comments, “This one’s very active; bet you feel that a lot.”
Ryan cranes his neck to stare at the screen, eyes squinting to try and make sense of it. “Wait, that’s the baby moving? I thought it was some strange indigestion.”
The technician doesn’t even blink; she just continues the wand’s motion. Brendon wonders how often people mistake the two. It doesn’t really seem like something you’d confuse, but he’s not pregnant, so what would he know? It’s not like the baby’s making a lot of movements, just little shifts. Brendon smiles and grabs Ryan’s hand. Ryan continues his scrutiny of the image, turning his head to the side. “Huh.”
Pausing again, she glances over at them both. “You wanted to know the sex, right?”
“Yeah, absolutely.” Ryan looks at Brendon for confirmation, like they hadn’t talked about this earlier.
“Alright, well, congratulations. Your little girl is doing just fine. I’ll print one of these out for you.” She returns to the screen, pressing buttons, but Brendon isn’t really paying attention to her anymore. He’s too busy staring at their girl. The face still makes him think of Star Wars, but that is definitely Ryan’s nose.
--
After their announcement, the first thing Jon says is, “Aww…and Ryan can teach her how to do her make-up when she’s older!”
“Poor kid,” Spencer mutters under his breath.
“Seriously, fuck you all.” Ryan crosses his arms over his chest. Brendon tries to hide his smile by pushing his lips against the side of Ryan’s head.
“No, I can feel that smile, Urie. Fuck you too.”
“Imagine it, Ryan. This tiny little girl, with curly brown hair and her chubby cheeks covered in birds. It’s cute,” Brendon persuades, sneaking his hand around to rest on the curve of Ryan’s belly.
Ryan’s lips twitch the slightest bit upward, but he quickly frowns instead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Brendon relents, he knows that he convinced Ryan, even if the other won’t admit it. He buries his nose in the crook of Ryan’s neck. Spencer rolls his eyes. “You guys look really sickeningly cute right now. It’s gross.”
Jon slips behind Spencer and mimics their position. “Don’t be jealous, Spencer.”
Spencer bats Jon’s hands away. “I’m not, trust me. Besides, I thought we were going to watch some movies and pig out, not watch Brendon molest Ryan.”
“I am not molesting Ryan. I’m trying to feel the baby move.”
Jon detaches from Spencer and walks over to them, staring at Ryan’s belly with awed eyes. “She’s moving?”
Ryan tries to pull his shirt away from the curve of his stomach self-consciously, but he has little success since Brendon’s hand pins it down. “Not right now, she’s not. Can everyone stop staring at me? Spencer, what was that about movies?”
--
By seven months, they start planning the nursery.
They end up nixing a basic color scheme and turning to a theme instead. Ryan starts to say circus; Brendon can see the word forming on his lips. No. He’s seen how Ryan does circus-themes, and that is just-not child appropriate, or even realistic. The kid would be warped and confused on what a circus even is.
Brendon blurts out, “Under the sea! Under the sea!” which successfully halted Ryan’s circus suggestion.
Ryan blinks and scowls. “Disney?”
“No, literally. Like, water, sea anemones, sand, fish, the works.” Brendon gestures with his hands.
“Could anyone even pull that off?” Ryan squints and looks up, as if imagining it.
Brendon shrugs. “Yeah, sure. Stencils, wall decals…it’s doable.”
Ryan still looks skeptical, but he says, “Okay, but no octopi. Those things are creepy.”
“Got something against tentacles, Ryan?” Brendon laughs, imitating them with his fingers. Ryan smacks his hand.
“Yes,” Ryan says tonelessly. He pushes his chair across the wood floor to escape Brendon’s hands. The table shakes with the movement, causing wallpaper samples to flutter. “And no crabs; they’re creepy too. All mean and violent, with their pincers.”
--
Jon immediately volunteers to help with the nursery, which is good, because Brendon was going to convince him to help anyway. Seriously, he was not going to do this by himself. Spencer grumbles about helping until Brendon mentions the wall decals. And no, that was not him exploiting Spencer’s strange fondness for large stickers.
After a grueling trip to Home Depot where Spencer and Ryan argued about the different shades of blue for what felt like a lifetime, they have all their materials and are ready to get cracking.
Ryan is promptly banned from the room, partly because Brendon kind of wants the final product to be a surprise and also because he’s pretty sure that paint fumes are not good for either Ryan or the baby. Mainly, though, he’s banned because no one wants to find out what happens if you hand Ryan a paintbrush. Brendon’s pretty sure it’d be like those children’s books about mice and cookies that always lead to a lot of exasperation and messes. Ryan found a way around the ban, though. Apparently saying he isn’t allowed within five feet of the room wasn’t limiting enough.
Currently, Ryan is camped out down the hall, sitting on the floor right outside their bedroom. He can see enough of the room and all of them. And he keeps shouting suggestions for painting. Brendon’s pretty sure that he’s got some sort of painting book or magazine in his lap, because his suggestions are oddly specific and use terms that Brendon’s fairly certain Ryan doesn’t actually know.
It gets really annoying really quickly. The constant litany on sponge texture, wet paintbrushes versus dry, the proper technique for holding a roller, all delivered in perfect monotone. That’s how Brendon knows Ryan is actually trying to be a jackass, for his own amusement.
Jon calls Z and Alex to get Ryan out of the house while they work, which they should have done in the first place. Spencer sighs as Ryan leaves, running his hand over his face. He smears a streak of blue down his cheek. Brendon bites back a smile and Jon chuckles a little; Spencer glares at them. They both return to their painting; they’ll tell him later.
Brendon sneaks a decal of Sebastian onto the wall when Spencer isn’t looking. Jon gives him a thumbs-up.
--
At around two AM, Brendon stirs awake and reaches a hand out for Ryan. He only finds cool sheets. Blearily, he pushes himself up and looks around. No sign of Ryan. He kicks his legs out from under the covers, stands and stumbles out of the room.
There’s a light on in the nursery, creeping through the cracked door in a thick streak. Brendon scratches at his nose and slowly pushes the door open. Ryan is standing in the center of the room, eyeing the pile of stuffed animals in the corner critically.
“Ryan? It’s two in the morning, what are you doing up?”
“Is it strange to you that the walls are under the sea, but the stuffed animals are bears and elephants? It doesn’t feel right. And that is so a river otter.”
Brendon blinks. It’s too early for this.
“It’s too early for this. I’m sure the stuffed animals will still be incongruous with the theme in the morning.” He wraps his hand around Ryan’s arm and tries to tug him from the room. At first, Ryan goes rather easily, but then he digs in his heels and squints at the wall.
“Is that a crab? No, is that-the one from the little mermaid? Sebastian.”
“Don’t think I didn’t hear the baby tambourines in your shopping bag, Ryan,” Brendon counters. Really, it doesn’t even work as an argument, but he’s tired and somehow Ryan accepts this reasoning and follows him back to bed.
--
Brendon’s just sitting on the couch, playing his guitar and minding his own business when Z storms in. Well, it’s got some waddle, but it’s mainly a storm. She angrily lowers herself onto the far end of the couch and crosses her arms over her bulging abdomen.
The front doorbell rings, accompanied by three quick raps against the wood. Brendon stops playing.
“Don’t answer it,” Z orders him, tapping her fingers against her forearm.
“Um.” Brendon looks between the door and Z’s face uncertainly, but then Z’s nostrils flare and he says, “Okay.”
Ryan yells, “Who’s at the door?” His voice barely carries through the house.
He’s supposed to be resting. Really, he’s just been sitting in bed and trying to convince Brendon that they should go out. Months of Ryan being practically catatonic, and when he’s actually supposed to be taking it easy and resting, he always wants to be up and around. It figures.
“A jackass,” Z shouts back. The doorbell rings again, ding ding ding, followed by two knocks.
“Why are we locking Alex out?”
“Because he’s a jackass.”
“We’ve never locked him out for that before.” Ryan shuffles his way into the room; Brendon fixes him with a disapproving stare, but Ryan ignores him. He’s been doing that a lot.
Z huffs, “Yeah, well maybe we should have.”
“Z!” Alex shouts through the door, “Z Berg. Ellie, Liza, Beth-Burger. Come on, I’m sorry!”
She remains stone-faced. Brendon thinks back to elementary school, when people used to act like they couldn’t hear someone talking and would loudly wonder if there was a fly. Ryan stares at Z, eyes calculating.
“We are not impressed by your apology,” Ryan coolly informs Alex.
“Rossy?”
“Don’t call me that.”
Alex wheedles, “But Rossy-“
“Stop fucking calling me that.” Ryan’s jaw develops a tick, and Brendon winces. The tick is never a good sign; Brendon learned that the hard way.
“Ryan, if you’re not letting him in, would you at least come sit down?” Brendon regards Ryan’s frame, how he’s leaning heavily against the wall to balance out the weight. Even from here, Brendon can see how swollen his ankles are.
Ryan rolls his eyes, but carefully steps down from the single stair that leads into the living room. His movements are a little awkward as he slowly makes his way across the carpet. There’d been a couple times earlier this week where Bogart had moved in front of him right as he was taking a step. The near stumbles had scared him enough to move cautiously. It’s a little sad that Brendon’s dog has more of an effect on Ryan’s behavior than Brendon does, but he’s willing to go with whatever works.
Alex continues calling out apologies through the door. Z urges Brendon to return to his playing with a steely look in her eyes.
They end up letting Alex in around a half hour later. Brendon’s still not sure why Z was even mad at him in the first place, but Ryan locked Brendon out of the bedroom the other night because he hadn’t squeezed the toothpaste from the bottom. No joke. Hormones are fucked up.
--
It’s another one of those days when Brendon walks into a room in his house to find Z. This time, it’s the living room, and Brendon’s pretty sure that Ryan’s nowhere around, so he’s not sure how Z even got in. Brendon sighs and takes a seat in the beige armchair by the doorway.
“You know what pisses me off?” Z asks suddenly. Brendon doesn’t bother answering out loud, knowing it was a rhetorical question. In his mind, however, he supplies, the smell of tuna, people who leave the garbage cans too far away from the curb, jaywalkers, neon orange, anchovies.
“My guitar can’t fit in my lap. I can’t play my fucking guitar, because this massive ass bump is in the way.” She gestures to said bump, staring down at it disapprovingly.
Brendon’s not even sure that she’s talking to him. Not that there’s really any one else in the room to talk to, but Z’s just developed this habit of complaining randomly, whether anyone’s listening or not. It’s like she thinks it and it pops out her mouth.
He just nods. That should be an appropriate reaction, right?
Seriously, where is Alex? And Ryan, for that matter. Or really, just Alex. Z is supposed to be his pregnant person to deal with. Brendon can handle Ryan being elsewhere, though he’d better be resting, or at least sitting down. The doctor was worried about possible preeclampsia, and Ryan’s probably snuck off with Alex to do god knows what, but there’s probably a lot of standing. Maybe Brendon should call him. Not that Ryan would answer. He’s taken to ignoring Brendon’s calls now, too.
“You know, you’re really not appropriately sympathetic, for a fellow musician.” Z eyes him speculatively.
Brendon snaps out of his musings. “Um. Sorry. That sucks, and all. I was just-do you know where Ryan is?”
Z stares at him. “You don’t know where he is?”
“No. He’s, uh.” Brendon wets his lips, wiping his palms on his legs. “He doesn’t really tell me where, or when, he’s going. And he doesn’t answer my calls anymore, so. No. I don’t.”
She makes a little hmm noise. “Well, I think you’ve called him three times in the past half hour, so. Maybe less smothering would be good.”
Brendon mumbles that it’s only been two times, and she raises an eyebrow. “Okay, okay,” he concedes, spreading his hands.
“He said that he was going to a movie with Alex.” Z shifts backwards, slowly bringing her leg up to cross over the other.
Brendon nods to himself and sends her a thankful smile. It’s pretty pathetic as his standards of smiles go.
“Hey, you play piano, right?” Brendon gestures to his little Yamaha stashed in the corner of the room. Z squints at him in thought, then grins.
--
While trying to assemble the crib, Brendon thinks that they really should have hired someone to do this. He’s not sure if there are professional baby crib assemblers, but there should be. Because most of these pieces look the same to him. And the directions have French, Spanish, Japanese, Italian, Portuguese and even Arabic, but Brendon can’t find any English. Plus, there’s no pictures.
To be honest, he’s pretty proud to have even gotten the few pieces he has fitted together. He never was really good at jigsaw puzzles, and this is like a 3D one that is supposed to house a baby.
Brendon gives Ryan a helpless look, but Ryan just bites back a grin and keeps swaying slowly back and forth in the rocking chair in the corner.
--
“Ariel,” Brendon suggests, words sudden in the dark room. He’s just been lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Ryan twists his head around to meet Brendon’s eyes.
“What?”
“Kid needs a name, right? I’m brainstorming.”
Ryan stares at him and sighs, reaching an arm over and flicking on the lamp. He tries to sit up, but it takes too much effort, so he flips onto his side and looks at Brendon.
“Brainstorming?”
Brendon lifts his shoulder up in an awkward shrug. “You’re eight months along, she’s going to be here soon, and we’ll have to leave her birth certificate blank because we fail at planning.”
Ryan snorts a little at that, but he quickly quiets and screws up his face. “No Disney, that’s the rule.”
“Since when are there rules?”
“Since now. No Disney,” Ryan says firmly.
Fine. Ariel probably would have been pushing it anyway, since they’ve got an undersea nursery.
“Okay, that’s fine. You got any suggestions?”
Ryan’s silent. The sheets rustle as he shifts his leg. Brendon sighs. They maybe fail at this naming thing, too.
After a few more minutes of them wracking their brains in silence, Ryan speaks up. “I think we need a book.”
Brendon frowns. “Books don’t have the answer to the universe, Ryan.”
Ryan pokes Brendon’s shin with his ice-cold toes. “It could help.”
“Let’s just-let’s keep with this rules idea. Like, nothing too exotic,” Brendon says.
“Nothing too generic,” Ryan counters.
“See? We can do this.” Brendon grins as he props himself up on one elbow and rummages through the drawer on the bedside table for a piece of paper and a pen. The good thing about living in a house of two musicians/songwriters is that there are always paper and writing utensils within easy reach. He begins to list their rules, writing examples next to each one.
“And no seasons; that’s just asking for corny jokes her entire life,” Ryan says, wrinkling his nose
Really, given the friends they keep, corny jokes are kind of inevitable, but Brendon refrains from pointing this out since he figures Ryan already knows this.
--
The list ends up going on the fridge, held up by some random pear magnet that Z stuck there. It becomes a sort of common property. Soon, everyone who walks through the house is adding their own suggestions until the list is three sheets long and a mess of different pens and handwriting, all crossed out and squashed up the sides.
Cynthia, Elaina, Rebecca, Jane, Tina, Francesca, Krista, and on it goes. There are constant revisions for anything failing to comply with the rules. That cuts half the list really quick.
When Alex starts pushing Matilda, Ryan tells him to go name his own kid. Z replies, “We’ve got it under control. His name’s Nolan.” And Alex continues rattling off name suggestions to deaf ears.
Brendon carefully adds his own to the list, wedged in between Spencer’s looping suggestions. Natalie, Rita, Allison. Ryan takes the pen from him and writes down the margin; Irene, Keira, and Renee.
Looking at the three sheets of paper, numerous cross-outs and all, Brendon sighs. Who knew naming a baby could be such a hassle?
--
“I like Natalie,” Ryan says quietly as he watches Brendon brush his teeth. He’s been leaning against the doorframe for a few minutes, tapping his toes against the tile floor.
Brendon spits out a stream of blue foam, wiping the excess from the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”
Ryan nods, slumping against the white wood, one hand tucked loosely under the elastic top to his pajama pants, resting against his lower belly.
“Natalie Ross,” Brendon murmurs, testing the name on his lips. Ryan’s head snaps up and he watches Brendon with a funny quirk to his lips as he questions, “’Ross’?”
Putting his toothbrush back in the holder, Brendon snorts. “Oh, you did not think we were going to stick with ‘Urie’, did you? Thought we were trying to minimize mocking.”
--
Ryan and Z end up having a combined baby shower that morphs into what most their parties resemble, just with stuffed animals and baby booties strewn about.
Brendon can’t even recognize the function of half this stuff. Some of it has got to be a ploy to get unsuspecting parents-to-be and their friends to buy expensive shit because it’s organic, and that somehow jacks the price up $70. Someone, somewhere, must be getting very rich off this.
Anyway, now there’s more stuff for Brendon to assemble. Fantastic. Apparently, there is a handbook that says it is the non-carrying parent’s job to put everything together, which seems fair, except for how Brendon really can’t do it and he thinks they are condemning their child to death in one of these shoddily put-together contraptions.
He starts carrying gifts into the nursery when Alex breaks out the karaoke machine.
--
“I miss coffee,” Ryan grumbles early the next morning over the rim of his glass of orange juice. Brendon pokes at his pancakes, smearing them around in the syrup.
“You didn’t even drink it that often.”
“But I liked it when I did. And I want some now.” Ryan eyes the coffee maker, practically dusty after all these months.
Brendon sighs, “You know you can have a cup if you want.”
“No, no, I can’t.”
“Doctor Harrison said,” Brendon begins.
Ryan quickly cuts in, “That it’s probably okay. As in, probably. Which isn’t a definitely.”
“Then make some decaf.” Taking a large bite of pancake, Brendon hums; these are pretty good.
“Decaf tastes like shit,” Ryan argues. Brendon doesn’t reply, just stabs another triangular piece and shoves it in his mouth. Ryan sighs and takes another unhappy gulp of his orange juice.
--
Naturally, it would happen when Ryan was out somewhere, hanging out with Alex, Jon, Z, and Michael. Because only Ryan would take Brendon’s going to band practice for an hour as an opportunity to run off around LA when he’s nearly nine months pregnant.
Brendon gets the call as he’s packing up his guitar, laughing over his shoulder at some joke Ian made. Ryan’s number flashes on the screen, but it goes off before he can get the phone open. Then he sees that there’s three missed calls and a text from Z telling him to quit being a jackass and answer his phone because Ryan went into labor.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” and he immediately hits redial.
Alex picks up. “About fucking time.”
“How’s he-what’s going-“ Brendon stumbles over his words, brain spitting out too many and his mouth unable to keep up.
“We’re at the hospital. Everything’s cool. But you should get your ass over here. It’s baby time.” With that, Alex hangs up, and Brendon scrambles to his feet. Spencer’s watching him questioningly, but all Brendon can manage is “Baby.”
Spencer grabs his key, throws Brendon his jacket, and ushers them out the door. “I’ll drive.”
Ian calls after them, “Hey, I want to come, too!”
“Then get in the car, dumbass,” Spencer shouts back over his shoulder. Ian and Dallon race after them and slide into the car right before Spencer peels out of the driveway, and Brendon’s just sitting numb in the front seat, hands shaking, his mind a jumble of baby and Ryan and fuck and labor and baby.
At some point, he must start saying it out loud, too, because Spencer reaches a hand over and pats his knee comfortingly, and Brendon catches Dallon’s wide eyes in the side-mirror.
--
They get there with plenty of time. Brendon feels a little silly for the rush now, because labor takes forever. Really, Ryan’s just gotten through the paperwork, and he’s lying on the bed. No big. It’s such a contrast to the rushing blood in Brendon’s ears on the way here. Calm. Brendon didn’t think that labor and birth really went like this. Why was everyone always panicking and screaming on TV shows, then? This seems doable. All their friends crammed into a small white room with some ridiculous floral print chairs, and a window overlooking a parking lot. This is fine.
Brendon revises this opinion in a few hours when there’s chaos and Ryan groaning, almost everyone getting kicked out of the room as the doctors start prepping Ryan for an emergency C-section Somewhere in the back of Brendon’s brain, this makes more sense with what he’s always heard, but it isn’t a comforting thought. This is not fine. Because Ryan’s getting wheeled into an operating room, and Brendon can’t seem to swallow; his mouth is paper dry and his throat feels like it’s shrinking by the second, and Spencer’s trying to comfort him, but even Spencer’s freaked out, and that doesn’t jell in Brendon’s head. Jon ends up wrapping his arms around both of them, forming an awkward group hug in the middle of the hospital hallway until Ian pipes up that they should maybe move to the waiting room and get out of the way.
--
Silence has never felt as fragile as in this moment, a heavy atmospheric glass hanging around the room. Brendon’s so careful with each step towards the bed, wincing at the slightest tapping sound against the floor.
Ryan is propped up on several pillows, skin a rather sickening pallor, but he’s smiling despite it. His eyes are drooping a little, heavy with lines, but Brendon’s never seen them shine quite the way they are now, staring down at the little bundle of blankets resting against his chest.
Their baby. Eight pounds and six ounces. Ten fingers and toes, a shock of dark hair on her head, and what is definitely Ryan’s nose. Natalie Renee Ross.
A soft whimper breaks through the near stifling silence, shattering the glass moment and bringing Brendon back to the present as Natalie fusses. Ryan gulps a little and immediately begins making shushing sounds. Natalie is undeterred and still displeased as she begins wailing at full volume. Brendon winces and finishes the walk to the bed in two long strides. Ryan looks up at him, exasperated and groggy. “She’s got your lungs,” he croaks.
Brendon laughs, large gasping chuckles, and he’s beaming even though Natalie’s still doing her best banshee impression. Lifting her a little, Ryan gives Brendon a questioning look. He sucks in a breath and gingerly picks the baby up. She doesn’t stop crying, but quiets, like the motion confused her and she’s deciding how to respond. Cradling her high against his chest, Brendon reflexively starts humming a lullaby. Ryan sends him a small, drained smile and lets his own eyes fall closed.
--
They get to take Natalie home two days later. It would have been sooner, but they were apparently on the dysfunctional level of the hospital. Everyone on the previous level, where Ryan had been recovering from surgery, was great. Forms were processed in a timely manner, check-ups happened when they said they’d happen. This new floor? Not so much. It took four hours for someone to remember that they were supposed to give Ryan a tetanus shot before he could be discharged. Then the papers got lost in route to the room. It took several more hours for someone to actually bring them, and even longer for them to be processed.
Despite the headache that was, it all worked to Brendon’s advantage since he was still trying to install the car seat. It took nearly an hour of Brendon wrestling with an uncooperative plastic frame, plus Spencer reading the directions to him and frowning at the pictures when they didn’t make sense. Alex had wandered down to check on their progress half an hour in, and he spent the next twenty minutes laughing as Brendon managed to hit himself in the face with a buckle and get the car door to fall shut on himself. Once he’d finally stopped laughing, Alex ushered them out of the way and set it up in under ten minutes. Brendon stared, dumbfounded. Alex just shrugged and said that he’d been practicing.
After that, it was just a matter of loading up, and they were off.
It’s one of the more harrowing drives of Brendon’s life.
Natalie’s making quiet snuffling sounds as she sleeps, blissfully unaware, in her car seat. Ryan watches her the whole way, one finger gently stroking her cheek. Brendon takes deep steadying breaths at regular intervals, trying to convince himself that, yes, he actually does have to drive 70 mph on the freeway. It seems like it should be against the law for anyone to drive that fast around a baby, especially with one in the car. Why isn’t there a special baby driving lane? 25 mph speed limit. No scrambling baby brains with G-force.
Brendon thinks he might be losing it, but this is very stressful, okay?
When they finally pull into the driveway, gravel sputtering underneath the tires, Brendon’s fingers tremble as he kills the engine.
He doesn’t think that Natalie will be allowed to ride around LA again until she’s at least four. For her sake, of course.
--
Ryan spends the rest of the week recuperating. Brendon pulls the crib into their room for the first few days, the nursery seeming too far away for comfort.
When they’d gotten into the house, Brendon put the empty baby carrier down in the living room after placing Natalie in her crib. Bogart had immediately begun sniffing around it, and even tried to climb up into it. Brendon quickly shooed him away and moved the carrier up on the coffee table. He hadn’t really thought about how Bogart would adjust to the new baby. He’s a pretty mellow dog, though, so it should be all right, provided they don’t leave the baby unattended on the floor or something else that reeks of shitty parenting.
--
One morning, Brendon slowly wakes up, blinking in the dull light peeking through the blinds, and realizes that it actually is morning. As in, not the middle of the night. As in, he’d actually gotten to sleep for a solid chunk of time. Everyone (well, all the moms, at least) kept saying that babies slept a lot for the first week or so, but Natalie liked to sleep in single hour periods. It was exhausting.
But she’s actually slept through most of last night, which feels like some sort of miracle. Brendon takes a deep breath, sighing happily into the pillow. He feels little shifts in the mattress as Ryan begins to stir awake. Leaning forward, Brendon presses his lips to Ryan’s in a sloppy morning kiss that lasts and lasts until there’s that familiar sunshine pooling in his gut. Ryan pulls back and mutters sleepily against Brendon’s cheek, questioning.
“I’m making pancakes,” Brendon whispers. Ryan murmurs something about blueberries before tugging the covers back over his head. Brendon slips out of bed as carefully as he can and stumbles his way to the kitchen.
Brendon’s become pretty good at making pancakes; he can flip them like a pro and everything. But he isn’t sticking any blueberries in them because, while he’s not entirely sure what Ryan said, it probably wasn’t in favor of blueberries. Plus, they don’t have any.
He hums to himself as he goes about making them breakfast, starting the coffee pot on a whim, and warming up a bottle, too. Natalie was moving around a bit when he’d left, so she’ll probably be up soon, and hungry. Digging out the tray usually reserved for sick days and soup in bed, Brendon stacks all the food on it and carefully makes his way towards the bedroom.
Ryan’s still under the covers, but he’s breathing fast enough that Brendon’s reasonably sure he’s still awake. Brendon nudges him with a foot until he sits up and grumbles, “What?”
First positioning the tray over Ryan’s lap, Brendon then climbs into bed, grin firmly in place. “Pancakes and coffee, as prepared by yours truly. Please, hold your loving praise until after you’ve tried them. They’re heaven contained in a circle.”
Fork poised over a pancake, Ryan pauses. “Oh, really? Hope that’s true, because now I’ve got some ridiculously high expectations for these pancakes.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” Brendon promises solemnly. He watches Ryan’s face the entire time he chews the piece. “Well?”
“Congratulations, I don’t want to puke.”
That’s not quite the loving praise and adoration Brendon was going for, but it’s Ryan and it’s before noon, so that’s probably as good as he’s going to get. So he settles back, leaning heavily against Ryan’s shoulder, and digs into his own plate.
Z stops by later that afternoon. Brendon’s settled in the rocking chair, feeding Natalie and watching her eyes flutter open and closed as she dozes off. Ryan is fidgeting with the stuffed animals, trying to group them by where they live. It would be amusing if it wasn’t kind of frightening to see him muttering to the stuffed animals. A giraffe was left next to a dog and Ryan ranted under his breath for a good five minutes about it. Brendon thinks he’s going to have a new hobby mixing them all up. Z walks in, takes one look at Ryan, who is eyeing an elephant and wondering why it is blue, and promptly asks if having children makes everyone crazy.
Ryan stares up at her, making pointed eyes at her protruding stomach.
“Yeah, but you’re crazier than normal.” Z quirks her lip. Ryan ignores her and continues fidgeting with the plush creatures. Brendon looks at Z and makes crazy eyes. She returns the look, complete with her tongue sticking out. Natalie gurgles.
--
The sleeping through the night thing was a fluke, as it turns out.
Brendon was going to move the crib back into the nursery, but it seemed a little pointless at the moment since she only ever slept in it for an hour or two at a time. Keeping the crib in the bedroom was just a way to conserve energy. Not that they were even using the crib too much. It’s just a little hard for either of them to put her down sometimes, like she’ll disappear if one of them isn’t holding her. It’s irrational, but at the same time, so is her accidental existence.
This is easily one of the best accidents ever.
Of course, Brendon’s not above thinking it’d be a teeny bit better if she would sleep through the night. Just saying.
--
One day at band practice, Spencer tosses Brendon a box of Trojans. He catches them instinctively, then stares down at package.
“Uh,” Brendon says, eyes wide.
Spencer shrugs. “Just, you know. Might want to wait until Natalie’s older to have another one.”
“Uh,” Brendon repeats, but Spencer just takes a seat behind his drums and picks up the sticks. Brendon drops the box on the couch and adjusts his guitar.
--
The box ends up coming home with him. Brendon didn’t bring it so much as Ian stuck it into Brendon’s gig bag, snickering, before he left. Sometimes, Brendon’s pretty sure he hates his band. Well, not Dallon. Dallon’s still in his good graces.
When he gets home and puts his guitar back on the stand, the box falls out onto the floor. From his slouched position on the couch, Natalie napping in his arms, Ryan catches sight of it and his eyebrows immediately jump up to his hairline.
“Spencer,” Brendon explains. Ryan nods, grimacing. It still amuses Brendon that Ryan is so grossed out by the mention of Spencer and anything related to sex, even after all these years. Then again, it’s probably only worsened over the years. Living on a bus together makes it kind of hard to ignore certain realities. And Jon never was very good at being quiet.
Abandoning that particular train of thought, Brendon climbs up onto the couch, mindful of Ryan’s outstretched legs. He’s often wondered how long it took Ryan to cultivate this skill of taking up the entirety of a piece of furniture. Not that it matters; Brendon is pretty skilled in fitting anywhere he can find some wiggle room.
He leans over and presses a soft kiss to Natalie’s forehead, then presses a sloppier version to Ryan’s lips. “Honey, I’m home.”
“I noticed,” Ryan says dryly, but he’s smiling, lopsided as ever, eyes that perfect shade of pleased.
--
Z delivers her baby, which they do name Nolan, on a Tuesday, nearly three weeks after Natalie was born. Yet again, the hospital waiting room is overflowing with people, Z and Alex’s eclectic collection of friends bundled into one room. It’s actually a very entertaining sight.
Ryan’s been hanging out in her room for the past few hours, but Brendon’s just gotten here, Natalie in tow. Greeting him with a quick smile and kiss, Ryan promptly takes Natalie from Brendon and settles her in the nook of his arm. Brendon gives Z his congratulations, but she barely looks up. Alex is trying to write out Nolan’s name in Sanskrit over in the corner, pencil scratching on the back of a Sudoku book.
Brendon takes it all in, Ryan’s large hands carefully cradling the tiny head of their daughter as she snuffles in her sleep, Z’s sweat-streaked hair is plastered to her forehead, awed eyes staring down at the bundle nestled against her chest. Brendon remembers how Ryan and Z bonded over their mutual fear/hate of babies, and laughs.
Z whispers down to the wrinkled, pink face pressed against the fabric of her hospital gown, “You really do look creepily boneless.”
-- A sort of epilogue-
Jon looks between the newborns and Spencer, the same look in his eyes as when they walk by a pet store or the Humane Society. Spencer immediately shakes his head. "No. Jon, no. Not even."
Naturally, this is the cue for Jon to start arguing his silent plea. Brendon grins a little as Jon attempts to persuade Spencer, "But what better time? And we'd be less likely to get roped into babysitting!"
Spencer gives an unimpressed eye roll. "Because we'd be busy with our own squalling infant. Do you see a problem with this? Besides, you still live in Chicago."
"One of us could move!"
"One of us, meaning me? No. I just moved, like, last year."
"But snow! Kids should grow up with snow!"
"What kids?” Spencer pauses. “Kids? You're already-- no, not even kid singular, certainly no kids plural."
"You'd look so pretty pregnant," Jon wheedles.
Spencer huffs another exasperated sigh. "And you already assume I'd carry it. God, Jon."
Then Ryan joins in, pointing out that Spencer's hips are pretty ideal for the task. Brendon chimes in with how Spencer's been nauseous this past week and Spencer squawks, reaching over to try and kill them both.
Natalie starts crying, and Nolan joins in baby solidarity, so the room is filled with the sound. Alex carefully rocks Nolan back and forth, humming. Brendon settles Natalie against his shoulders, wincing a little when her cries pierce his ears, and rubs calming circles on her back.
Spencer turns to Jon, eyebrows raised as if to say you see? And he says, “Still want them?"
"Absolutely." Jon smiles fondly, eyes warm, and Spencer sighs, leaning his forehead against Jon’s shoulder.
Extras
Decision made, Brendon promptly picks up some cardboard boxes and begins packing up his stuff. Spencer pokes his head in when Brendon’s halfway through the second box, stuffing in CD cases.
“Uh, dude? What are you doing?” Spencer leans against the door way and watches Brendon fight with the packing tape.
“Packing,” Brendon grits out, trying to tear the tape off, but the stupid metal teeth are refusing to do their job.
Spencer sighs and walks over, taking the roll from Brendon and effortlessly ripping off the piece. “You finally figured out where you two are living, then?”
“Yeah.” Brendon accepts the tape and smoothes it over a cardboard flap.
“This is your house,” Spencer says slowly, echoing their earlier conversation.
“So?” Brendon shrugs. “Besides, it’s yours, too. And I can’t figure out where we’d keep a baby, either.”
He’s wandered around the house thinking about it enough to know. The closet is way too small to ever be converted, and all the other rooms nearby are too definitely occupied. This is easiest.
Spencer nods. “Okay, then.” And helps Brendon pack.
It doesn’t really take as long as Brendon thought it would. Within a few days, his stuff has been categorized and sorted into boxes that are only helpfully labeled on rare occasion. He rents a small U-haul truck for the day, and Jon, Spencer, and Shane help him load it while Ryan sleeps on the couch.
Brendon smiles fondly at the sight. “I’m pretty sure he’s just using this pregnancy as an excuse to sleep more.”
Spencer scoffs, “When has he ever needed an excuse?”
True. Brendon has nothing to say to that, so he walks over and crouches down next to the couch. Brushing Ryan’s hair back from his forehead, Brendon says, “Hey, I’m all packed up. Let’s go.”
Ryan shifts, stretching his arm out and letting it fall to the floor, fingers trailing along the wood grain. Blinking up, bleary-eyed, he murmurs something unintelligible through dry lips.
“Come on, lazy bones,” Brendon urges, grabbing Ryan’s hand and standing up. Ryan sits up reluctantly. Bogart takes the opportunity to jump up into Ryan’s lap.
“See? Bogart thinks I should stay and sleep,” Ryan croaks out, voice tinged with that after-slumber grogginess.
Brendon continues tugging on Ryan’s arm until he wraps his other arm around Bogart’s middle and stands up. “You can sleep in the car.”
And he has no doubt that Ryan will, which is why Bogart will be put in the pet carrier instead of getting to ride in the front seat in Ryan’s lap. He could always ride over with Spencer and Jon later, since they are planning to stop by and help unload everything, but Brendon doesn’t want to give Spencer the opportunity to steal Bogart. Like he doesn’t already have his own dogs. Brendon’s pretty sure the only reason Spencer decided to live with him was because of Bogart, anyway.
So Brendon takes Bogart from Ryan and coaxes him into the carrier with a Milkbone, closing the little metal gate once he’s inside.
“I could hold him,” Ryan points out, sticking his fingers into the holes along the side of the pet carrier to scratch at Bogart’s fur.
“Safety first,” Brendon returns. Ryan picks the carrier up and settles it against his chest, careful not to jostle it anymore than necessary. Spencer closes the door after them, and when Brendon turns the key in the ignition and pulls out of the driveway, he feels okay.
--
The thing about having a baby is that everyone you know suddenly has fifty thousands questions and opinions they shower you with. Brendon’s received at least fifteen phone calls from various members of his family in the last few weeks. Most are generally helpful, full of congratulations and inquiries about baby names and nursery plans. A few immediately started rambling about the do’s and do not’s of pregnancy. One aunt in particular warned him not to get too attached too early, since miscarriages still happen later in pregnancy, how falling can kill the child. That call left him feeling cold for a while, and he insisted on walking next to Ryan every time they walked down stairs, one hand steady on his back.
Ryan, while not bombarded with calls from every vague relation in existence, gets the honor of carrying around a now rather noticeable baby bump. This bump apparently doubles as a flashing sign for strangers to offer comments and suggestions here.
When Ryan finally breaks down and shops for some maternity clothes, the woman working behind the counter immediately jumps into a monologue about what fabrics are best for preventing nipple chafing. Ryan’s eyes go wide and he quickly flees the store, leaving Brendon to pay for the purchase and rush after him.
--
Late one evening, as they’re settling in between the sheets, Brendon settles his arm over Ryan’s shoulder and presses a simple kiss to Ryan’s temple without even thinking about it. He would have continued not thinking about it if Ryan hadn’t spoken up.
“You do that a lot,” Ryan points out sleepily, snuffling as he shifts around to find a comfortable position.
Brendon thinks about it, but he can’t remember repeating the action frequently. “Really?”
Ryan nods slightly, cheek rubbing against the pillow case. “Every day, in the morning or at night.”
“Yeah?” Brendon says, unsure. Sounds like a habit that he’d remember picking up. He blinks into the darkness of the room, stained a little pink around the edges from the lingering California sun.
“It’s nice,” Ryan practically hums, voice a low rumble like a car driving over gravel. Brendon doesn’t know what to say to that, so he presses another kiss to Ryan’s skin.
Brendon is rewarded by Ryan blearily cracking one eye open. “Don’t over-do it.”
At any other time, Brendon might have taken that as a challenge. But he’s comfortable and Ryan’s face is already lax, losing lines as he approaches sleep. There’s really nothing to push right now.
--
At the next check-up, the technician pauses a few minutes into the ultrasound, wand posed two millimeters left of Ryan’s protruding bellybutton, and comments, “This one’s very active; bet you feel that a lot.”
Ryan cranes his neck to stare at the screen, eyes squinting to try and make sense of it. “Wait, that’s the baby moving? I thought it was some strange indigestion.”
The technician doesn’t even blink; she just continues the wand’s motion. Brendon wonders how often people mistake the two. It doesn’t really seem like something you’d confuse, but he’s not pregnant, so what would he know? It’s not like the baby’s making a lot of movements, just little shifts. Brendon smiles and grabs Ryan’s hand. Ryan continues his scrutiny of the image, turning his head to the side. “Huh.”
Pausing again, she glances over at them both. “You wanted to know the sex, right?”
“Yeah, absolutely.” Ryan looks at Brendon for confirmation, like they hadn’t talked about this earlier.
“Alright, well, congratulations. Your little girl is doing just fine. I’ll print one of these out for you.” She returns to the screen, pressing buttons, but Brendon isn’t really paying attention to her anymore. He’s too busy staring at their girl. The face still makes him think of Star Wars, but that is definitely Ryan’s nose.
--
After their announcement, the first thing Jon says is, “Aww…and Ryan can teach her how to do her make-up when she’s older!”
“Poor kid,” Spencer mutters under his breath.
“Seriously, fuck you all.” Ryan crosses his arms over his chest. Brendon tries to hide his smile by pushing his lips against the side of Ryan’s head.
“No, I can feel that smile, Urie. Fuck you too.”
“Imagine it, Ryan. This tiny little girl, with curly brown hair and her chubby cheeks covered in birds. It’s cute,” Brendon persuades, sneaking his hand around to rest on the curve of Ryan’s belly.
Ryan’s lips twitch the slightest bit upward, but he quickly frowns instead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Brendon relents, he knows that he convinced Ryan, even if the other won’t admit it. He buries his nose in the crook of Ryan’s neck. Spencer rolls his eyes. “You guys look really sickeningly cute right now. It’s gross.”
Jon slips behind Spencer and mimics their position. “Don’t be jealous, Spencer.”
Spencer bats Jon’s hands away. “I’m not, trust me. Besides, I thought we were going to watch some movies and pig out, not watch Brendon molest Ryan.”
“I am not molesting Ryan. I’m trying to feel the baby move.”
Jon detaches from Spencer and walks over to them, staring at Ryan’s belly with awed eyes. “She’s moving?”
Ryan tries to pull his shirt away from the curve of his stomach self-consciously, but he has little success since Brendon’s hand pins it down. “Not right now, she’s not. Can everyone stop staring at me? Spencer, what was that about movies?”
--
By seven months, they start planning the nursery.
They end up nixing a basic color scheme and turning to a theme instead. Ryan starts to say circus; Brendon can see the word forming on his lips. No. He’s seen how Ryan does circus-themes, and that is just-not child appropriate, or even realistic. The kid would be warped and confused on what a circus even is.
Brendon blurts out, “Under the sea! Under the sea!” which successfully halted Ryan’s circus suggestion.
Ryan blinks and scowls. “Disney?”
“No, literally. Like, water, sea anemones, sand, fish, the works.” Brendon gestures with his hands.
“Could anyone even pull that off?” Ryan squints and looks up, as if imagining it.
Brendon shrugs. “Yeah, sure. Stencils, wall decals…it’s doable.”
Ryan still looks skeptical, but he says, “Okay, but no octopi. Those things are creepy.”
“Got something against tentacles, Ryan?” Brendon laughs, imitating them with his fingers. Ryan smacks his hand.
“Yes,” Ryan says tonelessly. He pushes his chair across the wood floor to escape Brendon’s hands. The table shakes with the movement, causing wallpaper samples to flutter. “And no crabs; they’re creepy too. All mean and violent, with their pincers.”
--
Jon immediately volunteers to help with the nursery, which is good, because Brendon was going to convince him to help anyway. Seriously, he was not going to do this by himself. Spencer grumbles about helping until Brendon mentions the wall decals. And no, that was not him exploiting Spencer’s strange fondness for large stickers.
After a grueling trip to Home Depot where Spencer and Ryan argued about the different shades of blue for what felt like a lifetime, they have all their materials and are ready to get cracking.
Ryan is promptly banned from the room, partly because Brendon kind of wants the final product to be a surprise and also because he’s pretty sure that paint fumes are not good for either Ryan or the baby. Mainly, though, he’s banned because no one wants to find out what happens if you hand Ryan a paintbrush. Brendon’s pretty sure it’d be like those children’s books about mice and cookies that always lead to a lot of exasperation and messes. Ryan found a way around the ban, though. Apparently saying he isn’t allowed within five feet of the room wasn’t limiting enough.
Currently, Ryan is camped out down the hall, sitting on the floor right outside their bedroom. He can see enough of the room and all of them. And he keeps shouting suggestions for painting. Brendon’s pretty sure that he’s got some sort of painting book or magazine in his lap, because his suggestions are oddly specific and use terms that Brendon’s fairly certain Ryan doesn’t actually know.
It gets really annoying really quickly. The constant litany on sponge texture, wet paintbrushes versus dry, the proper technique for holding a roller, all delivered in perfect monotone. That’s how Brendon knows Ryan is actually trying to be a jackass, for his own amusement.
Jon calls Z and Alex to get Ryan out of the house while they work, which they should have done in the first place. Spencer sighs as Ryan leaves, running his hand over his face. He smears a streak of blue down his cheek. Brendon bites back a smile and Jon chuckles a little; Spencer glares at them. They both return to their painting; they’ll tell him later.
Brendon sneaks a decal of Sebastian onto the wall when Spencer isn’t looking. Jon gives him a thumbs-up.
--
At around two AM, Brendon stirs awake and reaches a hand out for Ryan. He only finds cool sheets. Blearily, he pushes himself up and looks around. No sign of Ryan. He kicks his legs out from under the covers, stands and stumbles out of the room.
There’s a light on in the nursery, creeping through the cracked door in a thick streak. Brendon scratches at his nose and slowly pushes the door open. Ryan is standing in the center of the room, eyeing the pile of stuffed animals in the corner critically.
“Ryan? It’s two in the morning, what are you doing up?”
“Is it strange to you that the walls are under the sea, but the stuffed animals are bears and elephants? It doesn’t feel right. And that is so a river otter.”
Brendon blinks. It’s too early for this.
“It’s too early for this. I’m sure the stuffed animals will still be incongruous with the theme in the morning.” He wraps his hand around Ryan’s arm and tries to tug him from the room. At first, Ryan goes rather easily, but then he digs in his heels and squints at the wall.
“Is that a crab? No, is that-the one from the little mermaid? Sebastian.”
“Don’t think I didn’t hear the baby tambourines in your shopping bag, Ryan,” Brendon counters. Really, it doesn’t even work as an argument, but he’s tired and somehow Ryan accepts this reasoning and follows him back to bed.
--
Brendon’s just sitting on the couch, playing his guitar and minding his own business when Z storms in. Well, it’s got some waddle, but it’s mainly a storm. She angrily lowers herself onto the far end of the couch and crosses her arms over her bulging abdomen.
The front doorbell rings, accompanied by three quick raps against the wood. Brendon stops playing.
“Don’t answer it,” Z orders him, tapping her fingers against her forearm.
“Um.” Brendon looks between the door and Z’s face uncertainly, but then Z’s nostrils flare and he says, “Okay.”
Ryan yells, “Who’s at the door?” His voice barely carries through the house.
He’s supposed to be resting. Really, he’s just been sitting in bed and trying to convince Brendon that they should go out. Months of Ryan being practically catatonic, and when he’s actually supposed to be taking it easy and resting, he always wants to be up and around. It figures.
“A jackass,” Z shouts back. The doorbell rings again, ding ding ding, followed by two knocks.
“Why are we locking Alex out?”
“Because he’s a jackass.”
“We’ve never locked him out for that before.” Ryan shuffles his way into the room; Brendon fixes him with a disapproving stare, but Ryan ignores him. He’s been doing that a lot.
Z huffs, “Yeah, well maybe we should have.”
“Z!” Alex shouts through the door, “Z Berg. Ellie, Liza, Beth-Burger. Come on, I’m sorry!”
She remains stone-faced. Brendon thinks back to elementary school, when people used to act like they couldn’t hear someone talking and would loudly wonder if there was a fly. Ryan stares at Z, eyes calculating.
“We are not impressed by your apology,” Ryan coolly informs Alex.
“Rossy?”
“Don’t call me that.”
Alex wheedles, “But Rossy-“
“Stop fucking calling me that.” Ryan’s jaw develops a tick, and Brendon winces. The tick is never a good sign; Brendon learned that the hard way.
“Ryan, if you’re not letting him in, would you at least come sit down?” Brendon regards Ryan’s frame, how he’s leaning heavily against the wall to balance out the weight. Even from here, Brendon can see how swollen his ankles are.
Ryan rolls his eyes, but carefully steps down from the single stair that leads into the living room. His movements are a little awkward as he slowly makes his way across the carpet. There’d been a couple times earlier this week where Bogart had moved in front of him right as he was taking a step. The near stumbles had scared him enough to move cautiously. It’s a little sad that Brendon’s dog has more of an effect on Ryan’s behavior than Brendon does, but he’s willing to go with whatever works.
Alex continues calling out apologies through the door. Z urges Brendon to return to his playing with a steely look in her eyes.
They end up letting Alex in around a half hour later. Brendon’s still not sure why Z was even mad at him in the first place, but Ryan locked Brendon out of the bedroom the other night because he hadn’t squeezed the toothpaste from the bottom. No joke. Hormones are fucked up.
--
It’s another one of those days when Brendon walks into a room in his house to find Z. This time, it’s the living room, and Brendon’s pretty sure that Ryan’s nowhere around, so he’s not sure how Z even got in. Brendon sighs and takes a seat in the beige armchair by the doorway.
“You know what pisses me off?” Z asks suddenly. Brendon doesn’t bother answering out loud, knowing it was a rhetorical question. In his mind, however, he supplies, the smell of tuna, people who leave the garbage cans too far away from the curb, jaywalkers, neon orange, anchovies.
“My guitar can’t fit in my lap. I can’t play my fucking guitar, because this massive ass bump is in the way.” She gestures to said bump, staring down at it disapprovingly.
Brendon’s not even sure that she’s talking to him. Not that there’s really any one else in the room to talk to, but Z’s just developed this habit of complaining randomly, whether anyone’s listening or not. It’s like she thinks it and it pops out her mouth.
He just nods. That should be an appropriate reaction, right?
Seriously, where is Alex? And Ryan, for that matter. Or really, just Alex. Z is supposed to be his pregnant person to deal with. Brendon can handle Ryan being elsewhere, though he’d better be resting, or at least sitting down. The doctor was worried about possible preeclampsia, and Ryan’s probably snuck off with Alex to do god knows what, but there’s probably a lot of standing. Maybe Brendon should call him. Not that Ryan would answer. He’s taken to ignoring Brendon’s calls now, too.
“You know, you’re really not appropriately sympathetic, for a fellow musician.” Z eyes him speculatively.
Brendon snaps out of his musings. “Um. Sorry. That sucks, and all. I was just-do you know where Ryan is?”
Z stares at him. “You don’t know where he is?”
“No. He’s, uh.” Brendon wets his lips, wiping his palms on his legs. “He doesn’t really tell me where, or when, he’s going. And he doesn’t answer my calls anymore, so. No. I don’t.”
She makes a little hmm noise. “Well, I think you’ve called him three times in the past half hour, so. Maybe less smothering would be good.”
Brendon mumbles that it’s only been two times, and she raises an eyebrow. “Okay, okay,” he concedes, spreading his hands.
“He said that he was going to a movie with Alex.” Z shifts backwards, slowly bringing her leg up to cross over the other.
Brendon nods to himself and sends her a thankful smile. It’s pretty pathetic as his standards of smiles go.
“Hey, you play piano, right?” Brendon gestures to his little Yamaha stashed in the corner of the room. Z squints at him in thought, then grins.
--
While trying to assemble the crib, Brendon thinks that they really should have hired someone to do this. He’s not sure if there are professional baby crib assemblers, but there should be. Because most of these pieces look the same to him. And the directions have French, Spanish, Japanese, Italian, Portuguese and even Arabic, but Brendon can’t find any English. Plus, there’s no pictures.
To be honest, he’s pretty proud to have even gotten the few pieces he has fitted together. He never was really good at jigsaw puzzles, and this is like a 3D one that is supposed to house a baby.
Brendon gives Ryan a helpless look, but Ryan just bites back a grin and keeps swaying slowly back and forth in the rocking chair in the corner.
--
“Ariel,” Brendon suggests, words sudden in the dark room. He’s just been lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Ryan twists his head around to meet Brendon’s eyes.
“What?”
“Kid needs a name, right? I’m brainstorming.”
Ryan stares at him and sighs, reaching an arm over and flicking on the lamp. He tries to sit up, but it takes too much effort, so he flips onto his side and looks at Brendon.
“Brainstorming?”
Brendon lifts his shoulder up in an awkward shrug. “You’re eight months along, she’s going to be here soon, and we’ll have to leave her birth certificate blank because we fail at planning.”
Ryan snorts a little at that, but he quickly quiets and screws up his face. “No Disney, that’s the rule.”
“Since when are there rules?”
“Since now. No Disney,” Ryan says firmly.
Fine. Ariel probably would have been pushing it anyway, since they’ve got an undersea nursery.
“Okay, that’s fine. You got any suggestions?”
Ryan’s silent. The sheets rustle as he shifts his leg. Brendon sighs. They maybe fail at this naming thing, too.
After a few more minutes of them wracking their brains in silence, Ryan speaks up. “I think we need a book.”
Brendon frowns. “Books don’t have the answer to the universe, Ryan.”
Ryan pokes Brendon’s shin with his ice-cold toes. “It could help.”
“Let’s just-let’s keep with this rules idea. Like, nothing too exotic,” Brendon says.
“Nothing too generic,” Ryan counters.
“See? We can do this.” Brendon grins as he props himself up on one elbow and rummages through the drawer on the bedside table for a piece of paper and a pen. The good thing about living in a house of two musicians/songwriters is that there are always paper and writing utensils within easy reach. He begins to list their rules, writing examples next to each one.
“And no seasons; that’s just asking for corny jokes her entire life,” Ryan says, wrinkling his nose
Really, given the friends they keep, corny jokes are kind of inevitable, but Brendon refrains from pointing this out since he figures Ryan already knows this.
--
The list ends up going on the fridge, held up by some random pear magnet that Z stuck there. It becomes a sort of common property. Soon, everyone who walks through the house is adding their own suggestions until the list is three sheets long and a mess of different pens and handwriting, all crossed out and squashed up the sides.
Cynthia, Elaina, Rebecca, Jane, Tina, Francesca, Krista, and on it goes. There are constant revisions for anything failing to comply with the rules. That cuts half the list really quick.
When Alex starts pushing Matilda, Ryan tells him to go name his own kid. Z replies, “We’ve got it under control. His name’s Nolan.” And Alex continues rattling off name suggestions to deaf ears.
Brendon carefully adds his own to the list, wedged in between Spencer’s looping suggestions. Natalie, Rita, Allison. Ryan takes the pen from him and writes down the margin; Irene, Keira, and Renee.
Looking at the three sheets of paper, numerous cross-outs and all, Brendon sighs. Who knew naming a baby could be such a hassle?
--
“I like Natalie,” Ryan says quietly as he watches Brendon brush his teeth. He’s been leaning against the doorframe for a few minutes, tapping his toes against the tile floor.
Brendon spits out a stream of blue foam, wiping the excess from the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”
Ryan nods, slumping against the white wood, one hand tucked loosely under the elastic top to his pajama pants, resting against his lower belly.
“Natalie Ross,” Brendon murmurs, testing the name on his lips. Ryan’s head snaps up and he watches Brendon with a funny quirk to his lips as he questions, “’Ross’?”
Putting his toothbrush back in the holder, Brendon snorts. “Oh, you did not think we were going to stick with ‘Urie’, did you? Thought we were trying to minimize mocking.”
--
Ryan and Z end up having a combined baby shower that morphs into what most their parties resemble, just with stuffed animals and baby booties strewn about.
Brendon can’t even recognize the function of half this stuff. Some of it has got to be a ploy to get unsuspecting parents-to-be and their friends to buy expensive shit because it’s organic, and that somehow jacks the price up $70. Someone, somewhere, must be getting very rich off this.
Anyway, now there’s more stuff for Brendon to assemble. Fantastic. Apparently, there is a handbook that says it is the non-carrying parent’s job to put everything together, which seems fair, except for how Brendon really can’t do it and he thinks they are condemning their child to death in one of these shoddily put-together contraptions.
He starts carrying gifts into the nursery when Alex breaks out the karaoke machine.
--
“I miss coffee,” Ryan grumbles early the next morning over the rim of his glass of orange juice. Brendon pokes at his pancakes, smearing them around in the syrup.
“You didn’t even drink it that often.”
“But I liked it when I did. And I want some now.” Ryan eyes the coffee maker, practically dusty after all these months.
Brendon sighs, “You know you can have a cup if you want.”
“No, no, I can’t.”
“Doctor Harrison said,” Brendon begins.
Ryan quickly cuts in, “That it’s probably okay. As in, probably. Which isn’t a definitely.”
“Then make some decaf.” Taking a large bite of pancake, Brendon hums; these are pretty good.
“Decaf tastes like shit,” Ryan argues. Brendon doesn’t reply, just stabs another triangular piece and shoves it in his mouth. Ryan sighs and takes another unhappy gulp of his orange juice.
--
Naturally, it would happen when Ryan was out somewhere, hanging out with Alex, Jon, Z, and Michael. Because only Ryan would take Brendon’s going to band practice for an hour as an opportunity to run off around LA when he’s nearly nine months pregnant.
Brendon gets the call as he’s packing up his guitar, laughing over his shoulder at some joke Ian made. Ryan’s number flashes on the screen, but it goes off before he can get the phone open. Then he sees that there’s three missed calls and a text from Z telling him to quit being a jackass and answer his phone because Ryan went into labor.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” and he immediately hits redial.
Alex picks up. “About fucking time.”
“How’s he-what’s going-“ Brendon stumbles over his words, brain spitting out too many and his mouth unable to keep up.
“We’re at the hospital. Everything’s cool. But you should get your ass over here. It’s baby time.” With that, Alex hangs up, and Brendon scrambles to his feet. Spencer’s watching him questioningly, but all Brendon can manage is “Baby.”
Spencer grabs his key, throws Brendon his jacket, and ushers them out the door. “I’ll drive.”
Ian calls after them, “Hey, I want to come, too!”
“Then get in the car, dumbass,” Spencer shouts back over his shoulder. Ian and Dallon race after them and slide into the car right before Spencer peels out of the driveway, and Brendon’s just sitting numb in the front seat, hands shaking, his mind a jumble of baby and Ryan and fuck and labor and baby.
At some point, he must start saying it out loud, too, because Spencer reaches a hand over and pats his knee comfortingly, and Brendon catches Dallon’s wide eyes in the side-mirror.
--
They get there with plenty of time. Brendon feels a little silly for the rush now, because labor takes forever. Really, Ryan’s just gotten through the paperwork, and he’s lying on the bed. No big. It’s such a contrast to the rushing blood in Brendon’s ears on the way here. Calm. Brendon didn’t think that labor and birth really went like this. Why was everyone always panicking and screaming on TV shows, then? This seems doable. All their friends crammed into a small white room with some ridiculous floral print chairs, and a window overlooking a parking lot. This is fine.
Brendon revises this opinion in a few hours when there’s chaos and Ryan groaning, almost everyone getting kicked out of the room as the doctors start prepping Ryan for an emergency C-section Somewhere in the back of Brendon’s brain, this makes more sense with what he’s always heard, but it isn’t a comforting thought. This is not fine. Because Ryan’s getting wheeled into an operating room, and Brendon can’t seem to swallow; his mouth is paper dry and his throat feels like it’s shrinking by the second, and Spencer’s trying to comfort him, but even Spencer’s freaked out, and that doesn’t jell in Brendon’s head. Jon ends up wrapping his arms around both of them, forming an awkward group hug in the middle of the hospital hallway until Ian pipes up that they should maybe move to the waiting room and get out of the way.
--
Silence has never felt as fragile as in this moment, a heavy atmospheric glass hanging around the room. Brendon’s so careful with each step towards the bed, wincing at the slightest tapping sound against the floor.
Ryan is propped up on several pillows, skin a rather sickening pallor, but he’s smiling despite it. His eyes are drooping a little, heavy with lines, but Brendon’s never seen them shine quite the way they are now, staring down at the little bundle of blankets resting against his chest.
Their baby. Eight pounds and six ounces. Ten fingers and toes, a shock of dark hair on her head, and what is definitely Ryan’s nose. Natalie Renee Ross.
A soft whimper breaks through the near stifling silence, shattering the glass moment and bringing Brendon back to the present as Natalie fusses. Ryan gulps a little and immediately begins making shushing sounds. Natalie is undeterred and still displeased as she begins wailing at full volume. Brendon winces and finishes the walk to the bed in two long strides. Ryan looks up at him, exasperated and groggy. “She’s got your lungs,” he croaks.
Brendon laughs, large gasping chuckles, and he’s beaming even though Natalie’s still doing her best banshee impression. Lifting her a little, Ryan gives Brendon a questioning look. He sucks in a breath and gingerly picks the baby up. She doesn’t stop crying, but quiets, like the motion confused her and she’s deciding how to respond. Cradling her high against his chest, Brendon reflexively starts humming a lullaby. Ryan sends him a small, drained smile and lets his own eyes fall closed.
--
They get to take Natalie home two days later. It would have been sooner, but they were apparently on the dysfunctional level of the hospital. Everyone on the previous level, where Ryan had been recovering from surgery, was great. Forms were processed in a timely manner, check-ups happened when they said they’d happen. This new floor? Not so much. It took four hours for someone to remember that they were supposed to give Ryan a tetanus shot before he could be discharged. Then the papers got lost in route to the room. It took several more hours for someone to actually bring them, and even longer for them to be processed.
Despite the headache that was, it all worked to Brendon’s advantage since he was still trying to install the car seat. It took nearly an hour of Brendon wrestling with an uncooperative plastic frame, plus Spencer reading the directions to him and frowning at the pictures when they didn’t make sense. Alex had wandered down to check on their progress half an hour in, and he spent the next twenty minutes laughing as Brendon managed to hit himself in the face with a buckle and get the car door to fall shut on himself. Once he’d finally stopped laughing, Alex ushered them out of the way and set it up in under ten minutes. Brendon stared, dumbfounded. Alex just shrugged and said that he’d been practicing.
After that, it was just a matter of loading up, and they were off.
It’s one of the more harrowing drives of Brendon’s life.
Natalie’s making quiet snuffling sounds as she sleeps, blissfully unaware, in her car seat. Ryan watches her the whole way, one finger gently stroking her cheek. Brendon takes deep steadying breaths at regular intervals, trying to convince himself that, yes, he actually does have to drive 70 mph on the freeway. It seems like it should be against the law for anyone to drive that fast around a baby, especially with one in the car. Why isn’t there a special baby driving lane? 25 mph speed limit. No scrambling baby brains with G-force.
Brendon thinks he might be losing it, but this is very stressful, okay?
When they finally pull into the driveway, gravel sputtering underneath the tires, Brendon’s fingers tremble as he kills the engine.
He doesn’t think that Natalie will be allowed to ride around LA again until she’s at least four. For her sake, of course.
--
Ryan spends the rest of the week recuperating. Brendon pulls the crib into their room for the first few days, the nursery seeming too far away for comfort.
When they’d gotten into the house, Brendon put the empty baby carrier down in the living room after placing Natalie in her crib. Bogart had immediately begun sniffing around it, and even tried to climb up into it. Brendon quickly shooed him away and moved the carrier up on the coffee table. He hadn’t really thought about how Bogart would adjust to the new baby. He’s a pretty mellow dog, though, so it should be all right, provided they don’t leave the baby unattended on the floor or something else that reeks of shitty parenting.
--
One morning, Brendon slowly wakes up, blinking in the dull light peeking through the blinds, and realizes that it actually is morning. As in, not the middle of the night. As in, he’d actually gotten to sleep for a solid chunk of time. Everyone (well, all the moms, at least) kept saying that babies slept a lot for the first week or so, but Natalie liked to sleep in single hour periods. It was exhausting.
But she’s actually slept through most of last night, which feels like some sort of miracle. Brendon takes a deep breath, sighing happily into the pillow. He feels little shifts in the mattress as Ryan begins to stir awake. Leaning forward, Brendon presses his lips to Ryan’s in a sloppy morning kiss that lasts and lasts until there’s that familiar sunshine pooling in his gut. Ryan pulls back and mutters sleepily against Brendon’s cheek, questioning.
“I’m making pancakes,” Brendon whispers. Ryan murmurs something about blueberries before tugging the covers back over his head. Brendon slips out of bed as carefully as he can and stumbles his way to the kitchen.
Brendon’s become pretty good at making pancakes; he can flip them like a pro and everything. But he isn’t sticking any blueberries in them because, while he’s not entirely sure what Ryan said, it probably wasn’t in favor of blueberries. Plus, they don’t have any.
He hums to himself as he goes about making them breakfast, starting the coffee pot on a whim, and warming up a bottle, too. Natalie was moving around a bit when he’d left, so she’ll probably be up soon, and hungry. Digging out the tray usually reserved for sick days and soup in bed, Brendon stacks all the food on it and carefully makes his way towards the bedroom.
Ryan’s still under the covers, but he’s breathing fast enough that Brendon’s reasonably sure he’s still awake. Brendon nudges him with a foot until he sits up and grumbles, “What?”
First positioning the tray over Ryan’s lap, Brendon then climbs into bed, grin firmly in place. “Pancakes and coffee, as prepared by yours truly. Please, hold your loving praise until after you’ve tried them. They’re heaven contained in a circle.”
Fork poised over a pancake, Ryan pauses. “Oh, really? Hope that’s true, because now I’ve got some ridiculously high expectations for these pancakes.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” Brendon promises solemnly. He watches Ryan’s face the entire time he chews the piece. “Well?”
“Congratulations, I don’t want to puke.”
That’s not quite the loving praise and adoration Brendon was going for, but it’s Ryan and it’s before noon, so that’s probably as good as he’s going to get. So he settles back, leaning heavily against Ryan’s shoulder, and digs into his own plate.
Z stops by later that afternoon. Brendon’s settled in the rocking chair, feeding Natalie and watching her eyes flutter open and closed as she dozes off. Ryan is fidgeting with the stuffed animals, trying to group them by where they live. It would be amusing if it wasn’t kind of frightening to see him muttering to the stuffed animals. A giraffe was left next to a dog and Ryan ranted under his breath for a good five minutes about it. Brendon thinks he’s going to have a new hobby mixing them all up. Z walks in, takes one look at Ryan, who is eyeing an elephant and wondering why it is blue, and promptly asks if having children makes everyone crazy.
Ryan stares up at her, making pointed eyes at her protruding stomach.
“Yeah, but you’re crazier than normal.” Z quirks her lip. Ryan ignores her and continues fidgeting with the plush creatures. Brendon looks at Z and makes crazy eyes. She returns the look, complete with her tongue sticking out. Natalie gurgles.
--
The sleeping through the night thing was a fluke, as it turns out.
Brendon was going to move the crib back into the nursery, but it seemed a little pointless at the moment since she only ever slept in it for an hour or two at a time. Keeping the crib in the bedroom was just a way to conserve energy. Not that they were even using the crib too much. It’s just a little hard for either of them to put her down sometimes, like she’ll disappear if one of them isn’t holding her. It’s irrational, but at the same time, so is her accidental existence.
This is easily one of the best accidents ever.
Of course, Brendon’s not above thinking it’d be a teeny bit better if she would sleep through the night. Just saying.
--
One day at band practice, Spencer tosses Brendon a box of Trojans. He catches them instinctively, then stares down at package.
“Uh,” Brendon says, eyes wide.
Spencer shrugs. “Just, you know. Might want to wait until Natalie’s older to have another one.”
“Uh,” Brendon repeats, but Spencer just takes a seat behind his drums and picks up the sticks. Brendon drops the box on the couch and adjusts his guitar.
--
The box ends up coming home with him. Brendon didn’t bring it so much as Ian stuck it into Brendon’s gig bag, snickering, before he left. Sometimes, Brendon’s pretty sure he hates his band. Well, not Dallon. Dallon’s still in his good graces.
When he gets home and puts his guitar back on the stand, the box falls out onto the floor. From his slouched position on the couch, Natalie napping in his arms, Ryan catches sight of it and his eyebrows immediately jump up to his hairline.
“Spencer,” Brendon explains. Ryan nods, grimacing. It still amuses Brendon that Ryan is so grossed out by the mention of Spencer and anything related to sex, even after all these years. Then again, it’s probably only worsened over the years. Living on a bus together makes it kind of hard to ignore certain realities. And Jon never was very good at being quiet.
Abandoning that particular train of thought, Brendon climbs up onto the couch, mindful of Ryan’s outstretched legs. He’s often wondered how long it took Ryan to cultivate this skill of taking up the entirety of a piece of furniture. Not that it matters; Brendon is pretty skilled in fitting anywhere he can find some wiggle room.
He leans over and presses a soft kiss to Natalie’s forehead, then presses a sloppier version to Ryan’s lips. “Honey, I’m home.”
“I noticed,” Ryan says dryly, but he’s smiling, lopsided as ever, eyes that perfect shade of pleased.
--
Z delivers her baby, which they do name Nolan, on a Tuesday, nearly three weeks after Natalie was born. Yet again, the hospital waiting room is overflowing with people, Z and Alex’s eclectic collection of friends bundled into one room. It’s actually a very entertaining sight.
Ryan’s been hanging out in her room for the past few hours, but Brendon’s just gotten here, Natalie in tow. Greeting him with a quick smile and kiss, Ryan promptly takes Natalie from Brendon and settles her in the nook of his arm. Brendon gives Z his congratulations, but she barely looks up. Alex is trying to write out Nolan’s name in Sanskrit over in the corner, pencil scratching on the back of a Sudoku book.
Brendon takes it all in, Ryan’s large hands carefully cradling the tiny head of their daughter as she snuffles in her sleep, Z’s sweat-streaked hair is plastered to her forehead, awed eyes staring down at the bundle nestled against her chest. Brendon remembers how Ryan and Z bonded over their mutual fear/hate of babies, and laughs.
Z whispers down to the wrinkled, pink face pressed against the fabric of her hospital gown, “You really do look creepily boneless.”
-- A sort of epilogue-
Jon looks between the newborns and Spencer, the same look in his eyes as when they walk by a pet store or the Humane Society. Spencer immediately shakes his head. "No. Jon, no. Not even."
Naturally, this is the cue for Jon to start arguing his silent plea. Brendon grins a little as Jon attempts to persuade Spencer, "But what better time? And we'd be less likely to get roped into babysitting!"
Spencer gives an unimpressed eye roll. "Because we'd be busy with our own squalling infant. Do you see a problem with this? Besides, you still live in Chicago."
"One of us could move!"
"One of us, meaning me? No. I just moved, like, last year."
"But snow! Kids should grow up with snow!"
"What kids?” Spencer pauses. “Kids? You're already-- no, not even kid singular, certainly no kids plural."
"You'd look so pretty pregnant," Jon wheedles.
Spencer huffs another exasperated sigh. "And you already assume I'd carry it. God, Jon."
Then Ryan joins in, pointing out that Spencer's hips are pretty ideal for the task. Brendon chimes in with how Spencer's been nauseous this past week and Spencer squawks, reaching over to try and kill them both.
Natalie starts crying, and Nolan joins in baby solidarity, so the room is filled with the sound. Alex carefully rocks Nolan back and forth, humming. Brendon settles Natalie against his shoulders, wincing a little when her cries pierce his ears, and rubs calming circles on her back.
Spencer turns to Jon, eyebrows raised as if to say you see? And he says, “Still want them?"
"Absolutely." Jon smiles fondly, eyes warm, and Spencer sighs, leaning his forehead against Jon’s shoulder.
Extras