I don't even hear Wes come in. There's so many foreign sounds coming from this little baby that my ears are focused on them, memorizing, cateloging so that in the future if his breathing, his heartbeat, anything sound different we'll be able to tell if he's sick or not. Or anything else for that matter, I hope. So I'm a little surprised when I feel a warm body, Wesley's body standing near my arm, reading the diaper packaging. I thought he was staying downstairs.
"Okay," I say, still looking down at Aiden? Brendan? Peter? Is he any of those? and turning the diaper this way and that, seriously wondering how anyone ever gets one of these things on. Wait. Wes did what? My eyes actually leave my son to look at Wes who is still looking at the diaper packaging in a way that usually implies studying. Is he trying to find the price? Or what it's made of? Now's not really the time- My eyes also seem to catch on the baby bottle filled with milk. Or the alternative these days. Huh. He really did make a bottle. But if he doesn't care-
"Of course, if you want," I say, handing over the diaper gingerly and feeling like- like a failure? when Wes offers so haltingly. That is not normal. I mean, me, not him. Sure, I brood, feel guilty, but failure isn't usually the word I grasp for when blaming myself. I don't normally take things so personally. But this is personal. This is my son, and if I'm not going to be able to take care of him-
I suck in a breath, not realizing how close I'm still standing to Wes. We've got to figure this father thing out. I want him here, want him in my life, but if we don't get past this...it's not just going to hurt us, it's going to hurt this little boy. Who deserves every chance to grow up as normally as is possible living in a hotel of demon hunters with visions and vampires and other dimensional beings.
Sighing, I watch Wesley work with the diaper. Again so carefully. He'd make a great dad. I just know it. "Thanks," I murmur. "For the bottle. You didn't have to."
This whole diaper thing doesn't look to difficult. It's a matter of figuring it out and I think I just did. Well that and making sure you get the- ah - the 'sticky' end up the right way. Angel hands me the diapers with a remark that has me looking at him confused and possibly a little hurt.
Why wouldn't I want to do this? Just because it's *his* son, doesn't mean I can't be an-- an Uncle of sort? Or is that not even allowed? Is it all Angel and his son already? This soon? It's on the tip of my tongue to ask why I would mind, but the boy is starting to fuss, no doubt getting cold and uncomfortable.
Pushing up my glasses I narrow my eyes at the diaper Angel handed me, quickly flip it around and then slip it on the boy with ease. Just as I thought and the instructions said it would. It's fairly easy once you've that figured out. It would seem the 'sticky' parts are not sticky, but made of-- A sort of velcro? Interesting.
"And there we are," I murmur, picking the boy up automatically at the same time Angel's thanking me. Telling me I didn't have to. Again. Why does he keep saying that? Putting the boy against my shoulder I pick up the small garment I bought. Onesie I think they're called? Studying it to figure out how to put this on one, I glance over at Angel again.
"Why didn't I have to?" I ask quietly, putting Angel's son down to try and get him some clothes on. Maybe I should just wrap him in a blanket and have Angel give him that bottle. The little one must be hungry by now. At least it seems to be fussing less. Strangely enough.
My heart gives a little squeeze watching Wes with the baby in his arms. Picks him up like it's perfectly normal, a perfect fit. And it is. Give Wes a child and he may not know what to do, but he'll figure it out. Figure it out in no time.
He had no trouble with that, just stuck the diaper rectangle on him like magic. Maybe it was magic. I better watch more closely next time. But really, watching him with a child of his own - he should have one, damn it - is heart-wrenching. How could he not want one?
"Hmm?" I say when when it seems like Wes said something. Oh. Why is he shocked that I'm trying to give him a way out? He all but said he wanted nothing to do with the kid.
"I thought... You said he wasn't your son. I thought you didn't want anything to do with him. You don't have to look after him if you do want to. We'll work something out. I know you didn't ask for this. I don't want to pressure you...since we never really talked about...kids," I say just as quietly, keeping my eyes on the little boy now diapered up. My fingers trace over the little garment Wes just put down. Oh, look there's snaps at the bottom! So maybe it goes over his head?
"Will you hold him up? I'll put it over his head, see if it works. Then we can try feeding him?" I ask, interrupting our conversation with my own excitement about figuring something out about my son's care for myself.
My confusion gives way to a little anger. No. Not a little anger. A lot of anger. Even though there's still that lingering confusion left behind. The boy seems to notice, starting to fuss and squirm again while my lips for a very thin line. I look at Angel, my eyes narrowing.
"Yes, I did," I say quietly, making sure no other emotion leaks through in the tone of my voice. "Because, Angel, he's not my son. He's your son, and Darla's son. Not mine, unless I've missed a rather large pink elephant in several rooms. I think the fact that you seem to have had an entire conversation with me about this and came to some conclusion that my saying the boy's not my son, means that I wouldn't want anything to do with you or your child, without actually needing me for either the actual conversation or your conclusion speaks volumes, Angel."
How did 'he's not my son' translate to 'I don't want anything to so with you or your child' in his mind? I don't- I truly don't understand what makes him work at times. Angel tells me that *I'm* complicated, but he most certainly isn't that easy to read or understand either. I'm also quite certain that he, more then anyone, should be aware what shock does to humans. Or demons even. And lets face it, as far as shocks go? My killing Darla, Angel's son suddenly being there? That's all a bit to much.
"You do realize, Angel that I killed the boys mother," I point out, thinking that he hasn't said anything about that, and that can't be right. Hundreds of years together, having a child together, he can't tell me that it didn't matter to him. Can't tell me he felt nothing when his current lover staked his Sire.
"Cherubs?" A familiar cheerful voice comes from just outside the door as it's being pushed open further. "Have no fear, Lorne is here! Holy mother of Herpes. Where for the love of Aretha Franklin did you two find that?! And what's this about Wes killing his mommy? Who *is* the mommy?"
My excitement is short lived when Wes starts in with that even careful tone that really means that he's trying to keep control and not snap my head off like he wants to. How could that have made him mad? I was trying to be considerate.
And now he's just making me pissy. He's acting like there's some kind of biological line he can't cross here. As far as I know, none of us are related and we make a pretty good family all by ourselves. I don't know why he's falling back on it now, but he's pretty damned determined to stick with the blood lines, it seems.
There's a small growl that escapes me when Wes starts talking to me like I'm about two. If he's going to be petty about it then maybe the kid and I should give him some space. Or maybe he's just looking for an excuse to get out-
My glare shifts to Lorne as he all but bounces in and then screeches to a halt ala a cartoon character. God, I was this close to really saying something nasty to Wes and if Lorne- Oh, I could just strangle someone right now, and the kid is obviously reading that because the fussing gets a little more heated.
"Darla's the mom," I grit out, "Who I killed before you did, Wes. It doesn't fill me with joy, but if I feel anything about it, it's guilt that I never saved her when she was human. And the moment she said there was something in her, there was no way I was letting her near it once it left her. She may be his mother, but she was still a killer, Wes. I wasn't even going to give her a chance to try raising him-
"Woah there, sweet cheeks - and what cheeks they are - umm, who's the father to be here? Shouldn't you be hunting for him? Darla, bitch from hell, okay... Still a vampire, right? Vampires screw but they really don't- Oh no. Oh my." Lorne looks totally aghast and then flings his long green arms wrapped in velour around me. "Big guy, congrats! He's the spitting image!" Of course Lorne knew about the thing with Darla, but- "And he whines just like his pop!" Lorne coos, bending over the little guy and tickling his stomach.
"Hey, I don't-"
"Sure you do, creampuff. And this little guy is tired of hearing it. Aren't you, sweetheart? From both of you lugs." Lorne picks up the poor tyke and cradles him against his shoulder, humming a little lullaby. "Now what's all this grown-up fussing, you two should be happy as clams with a little bundle of joy like this," Lorne says looking at both of us in turn as if he doesn't know exactly what's going on, which he probably does.
"Okay," I say, still looking down at Aiden? Brendan? Peter? Is he any of those? and turning the diaper this way and that, seriously wondering how anyone ever gets one of these things on. Wait. Wes did what? My eyes actually leave my son to look at Wes who is still looking at the diaper packaging in a way that usually implies studying. Is he trying to find the price? Or what it's made of? Now's not really the time- My eyes also seem to catch on the baby bottle filled with milk. Or the alternative these days. Huh. He really did make a bottle. But if he doesn't care-
"Of course, if you want," I say, handing over the diaper gingerly and feeling like- like a failure? when Wes offers so haltingly. That is not normal. I mean, me, not him. Sure, I brood, feel guilty, but failure isn't usually the word I grasp for when blaming myself. I don't normally take things so personally. But this is personal. This is my son, and if I'm not going to be able to take care of him-
I suck in a breath, not realizing how close I'm still standing to Wes. We've got to figure this father thing out. I want him here, want him in my life, but if we don't get past this...it's not just going to hurt us, it's going to hurt this little boy. Who deserves every chance to grow up as normally as is possible living in a hotel of demon hunters with visions and vampires and other dimensional beings.
Sighing, I watch Wesley work with the diaper. Again so carefully. He'd make a great dad. I just know it. "Thanks," I murmur. "For the bottle. You didn't have to."
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Why wouldn't I want to do this? Just because it's *his* son, doesn't mean I can't be an-- an Uncle of sort? Or is that not even allowed? Is it all Angel and his son already? This soon? It's on the tip of my tongue to ask why I would mind, but the boy is starting to fuss, no doubt getting cold and uncomfortable.
Pushing up my glasses I narrow my eyes at the diaper Angel handed me, quickly flip it around and then slip it on the boy with ease. Just as I thought and the instructions said it would. It's fairly easy once you've that figured out. It would seem the 'sticky' parts are not sticky, but made of-- A sort of velcro? Interesting.
"And there we are," I murmur, picking the boy up automatically at the same time Angel's thanking me. Telling me I didn't have to. Again. Why does he keep saying that? Putting the boy against my shoulder I pick up the small garment I bought. Onesie I think they're called? Studying it to figure out how to put this on one, I glance over at Angel again.
"Why didn't I have to?" I ask quietly, putting Angel's son down to try and get him some clothes on. Maybe I should just wrap him in a blanket and have Angel give him that bottle. The little one must be hungry by now. At least it seems to be fussing less. Strangely enough.
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He had no trouble with that, just stuck the diaper rectangle on him like magic. Maybe it was magic. I better watch more closely next time. But really, watching him with a child of his own - he should have one, damn it - is heart-wrenching. How could he not want one?
"Hmm?" I say when when it seems like Wes said something. Oh. Why is he shocked that I'm trying to give him a way out? He all but said he wanted nothing to do with the kid.
"I thought... You said he wasn't your son. I thought you didn't want anything to do with him. You don't have to look after him if you do want to. We'll work something out. I know you didn't ask for this. I don't want to pressure you...since we never really talked about...kids," I say just as quietly, keeping my eyes on the little boy now diapered up. My fingers trace over the little garment Wes just put down. Oh, look there's snaps at the bottom! So maybe it goes over his head?
"Will you hold him up? I'll put it over his head, see if it works. Then we can try feeding him?" I ask, interrupting our conversation with my own excitement about figuring something out about my son's care for myself.
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"Yes, I did," I say quietly, making sure no other emotion leaks through in the tone of my voice. "Because, Angel, he's not my son. He's your son, and Darla's son. Not mine, unless I've missed a rather large pink elephant in several rooms. I think the fact that you seem to have had an entire conversation with me about this and came to some conclusion that my saying the boy's not my son, means that I wouldn't want anything to do with you or your child, without actually needing me for either the actual conversation or your conclusion speaks volumes, Angel."
How did 'he's not my son' translate to 'I don't want anything to so with you or your child' in his mind? I don't- I truly don't understand what makes him work at times. Angel tells me that *I'm* complicated, but he most certainly isn't that easy to read or understand either. I'm also quite certain that he, more then anyone, should be aware what shock does to humans. Or demons even. And lets face it, as far as shocks go? My killing Darla, Angel's son suddenly being there? That's all a bit to much.
"You do realize, Angel that I killed the boys mother," I point out, thinking that he hasn't said anything about that, and that can't be right. Hundreds of years together, having a child together, he can't tell me that it didn't matter to him. Can't tell me he felt nothing when his current lover staked his Sire.
"Cherubs?" A familiar cheerful voice comes from just outside the door as it's being pushed open further. "Have no fear, Lorne is here! Holy mother of Herpes. Where for the love of Aretha Franklin did you two find that?! And what's this about Wes killing his mommy? Who *is* the mommy?"
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And now he's just making me pissy. He's acting like there's some kind of biological line he can't cross here. As far as I know, none of us are related and we make a pretty good family all by ourselves. I don't know why he's falling back on it now, but he's pretty damned determined to stick with the blood lines, it seems.
There's a small growl that escapes me when Wes starts talking to me like I'm about two. If he's going to be petty about it then maybe the kid and I should give him some space. Or maybe he's just looking for an excuse to get out-
My glare shifts to Lorne as he all but bounces in and then screeches to a halt ala a cartoon character. God, I was this close to really saying something nasty to Wes and if Lorne- Oh, I could just strangle someone right now, and the kid is obviously reading that because the fussing gets a little more heated.
"Darla's the mom," I grit out, "Who I killed before you did, Wes. It doesn't fill me with joy, but if I feel anything about it, it's guilt that I never saved her when she was human. And the moment she said there was something in her, there was no way I was letting her near it once it left her. She may be his mother, but she was still a killer, Wes. I wasn't even going to give her a chance to try raising him-
"Woah there, sweet cheeks - and what cheeks they are - umm, who's the father to be here? Shouldn't you be hunting for him? Darla, bitch from hell, okay... Still a vampire, right? Vampires screw but they really don't- Oh no. Oh my." Lorne looks totally aghast and then flings his long green arms wrapped in velour around me. "Big guy, congrats! He's the spitting image!" Of course Lorne knew about the thing with Darla, but- "And he whines just like his pop!" Lorne coos, bending over the little guy and tickling his stomach.
"Hey, I don't-"
"Sure you do, creampuff. And this little guy is tired of hearing it. Aren't you, sweetheart? From both of you lugs." Lorne picks up the poor tyke and cradles him against his shoulder, humming a little lullaby. "Now what's all this grown-up fussing, you two should be happy as clams with a little bundle of joy like this," Lorne says looking at both of us in turn as if he doesn't know exactly what's going on, which he probably does.
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