Ohhh, Baby. [Chapter 5/4 Omake, part 1/8]
anonymous
April 12 2009, 17:53:25 UTC
Arthur did have to admit, as he found his way into the kitchen one morning and paused at the sight he beheld, Alfred’s silly antics seemed quite a bit more endearing when his audience was a two-year-old giggling and clapping her hands.
Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure just what he had walked in on, but Alfred had a colander on his head and was apparently fighting off an imaginary dragon with a spatula. Arthur shook his head fondly, and leaned casually against the door frame.
“I don’t seem to remember a ‘Sir Alfred,’” he remarked wryly, causing both the valiant warrior and the liege lady to look over at him.
“Mommy!” little Abigail squealed. Alfred saw his audience had been lost, so he stopped fooling around and went back to the stove, flipping the pan and sending the half-cooked pancake flipping into the air to land neatly upside-down. Arthur moved to give their daughter a gentle kiss on the crown of her head, and found it oddly sticky. Then, he noticed the mess of syrup and smushed pancake that had gotten on Abigail’s face, and clothes, the tray of her high chair, and even some on the ceiling.
“Oh my God,” Arthur noted. “I cannot believe that you thought this was a good idea. Have you noticed it’s in her hair? How did it get this bad without you intervening?”
“Lighten up, Arthur, she’s just a baby,” Alfred replied with a laugh, and used his spatula (nee, sword) to check how done the latter side of the pancake was before sliding it onto the steaming stack of pancakes already completed.
“We’ll see if you’re still saying that after you’ve had to clean pancakes off of the bloody ceiling,” Arthur grumbled, as he moved to prepare his morning tea.
“Hey Abby, how big should Mommy’s pancake be?” Alfred asked the toddler. Abigail giggled and flung her arms out wide. Alfred mimicked the motion, looking impressed. “Thiiiis big?” he asked. Behind Abigail’s high chair, Arthur stood there briefly with his teacup in hand and one of his caterpillar-esque eyebrows raised in amusement.
“Yeah! Yeah!” Abigail chirped gleefully. Alfred laughed.
“I think that’s too big, sweetie,” he said. “How about...” he held his hands about two inches apart. “This big?” Abigail shook her head.
“No! Big!” He moved his hands apart another inch.
“Thiiiis big?” he asked. Again, the baby shook her head.
“No! Big!” she repeated insistently. He moved his hands two inches further apart.
“Thiiiis big?” he asked again. The repetition was good for learning, he’d read. Arthur smiled a little, as the microwave beeped that his water was heated (much as he would have preferred to use the stove to heat his water, Alfred was rather effectively monopolizing the desired appliance, and radiation heated water equally efficiently) and he reached in to take out the cup.
Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure just what he had walked in on, but Alfred had a colander on his head and was apparently fighting off an imaginary dragon with a spatula. Arthur shook his head fondly, and leaned casually against the door frame.
“I don’t seem to remember a ‘Sir Alfred,’” he remarked wryly, causing both the valiant warrior and the liege lady to look over at him.
“Mommy!” little Abigail squealed. Alfred saw his audience had been lost, so he stopped fooling around and went back to the stove, flipping the pan and sending the half-cooked pancake flipping into the air to land neatly upside-down. Arthur moved to give their daughter a gentle kiss on the crown of her head, and found it oddly sticky. Then, he noticed the mess of syrup and smushed pancake that had gotten on Abigail’s face, and clothes, the tray of her high chair, and even some on the ceiling.
“Oh my God,” Arthur noted. “I cannot believe that you thought this was a good idea. Have you noticed it’s in her hair? How did it get this bad without you intervening?”
“Lighten up, Arthur, she’s just a baby,” Alfred replied with a laugh, and used his spatula (nee, sword) to check how done the latter side of the pancake was before sliding it onto the steaming stack of pancakes already completed.
“We’ll see if you’re still saying that after you’ve had to clean pancakes off of the bloody ceiling,” Arthur grumbled, as he moved to prepare his morning tea.
“Hey Abby, how big should Mommy’s pancake be?” Alfred asked the toddler. Abigail giggled and flung her arms out wide. Alfred mimicked the motion, looking impressed. “Thiiiis big?” he asked. Behind Abigail’s high chair, Arthur stood there briefly with his teacup in hand and one of his caterpillar-esque eyebrows raised in amusement.
“Yeah! Yeah!” Abigail chirped gleefully. Alfred laughed.
“I think that’s too big, sweetie,” he said. “How about...” he held his hands about two inches apart. “This big?” Abigail shook her head.
“No! Big!” He moved his hands apart another inch.
“Thiiiis big?” he asked. Again, the baby shook her head.
“No! Big!” she repeated insistently. He moved his hands two inches further apart.
“Thiiiis big?” he asked again. The repetition was good for learning, he’d read. Arthur smiled a little, as the microwave beeped that his water was heated (much as he would have preferred to use the stove to heat his water, Alfred was rather effectively monopolizing the desired appliance, and radiation heated water equally efficiently) and he reached in to take out the cup.
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