The Greatest Journey: Echo
“Blaine!” Kurt called from the living room.
“Bwaine!” A voice piped from by his knee.
“I need your help with something.”
“Need help sump'in!”
“Blaine, today please!”
“Bwaine! Day pweese!”
He looked down at the boy whose hand he held, at the paint on his Baby Gap sweater and in his blonde hair, at the overjoyed grin that made it impossible to be truly angry about the mess.
“Sweetie, you don’t call him Blaine. Daddy calls him Blaine, you call him Papa.”
The grin dimmed a little. “But I wike saying Bwaine. Bwaine!” he called again, as Kurt fought not to roll his eyes. He was trying to break the habit, as he was sure their son would throw the gesture back at him soon enough without his Daddy giving him something to mimic.
“He’s an independent thinker, that one.” The subject of their conversation finally made an appearance. “Just like his Daddy.”
“I’m not the sole cause of his contrariness, Blaine,” Kurt retorted.
“Yeah, Bwaine!” And this time Kurt lost the eye-rolling battle.
“Apparently I have an echo.”
Blaine smothered a laugh behind his hand. “Your child,” he said pointedly to Kurt as he walked over, taking in the scene. Finger paints spilled over the cloth covered table and onto the tarp that had been spread out beneath it. He bent down to toddler level. “What have we here?”
“He decided to decorate his clothes, instead of just the paper,” Kurt informed him.
“Want make wothes pretty wike Daddy do,” was the explanation.
Blaine looked up at Kurt. “Your child,” he repeated. “So what do you need me to do?”
“Help me get his clothes off, I was afraid to try it on my own because if he got away he’d spread paint over everything. Then you can dunk him in the bathtub while I try to get the paint out of the sweater.”
“Okay, Sport, arms up.”
Together they managed to get his clothes off without getting more paint on anything that didn’t already have it. Once their little boy was stripped, the damage to him wasn’t that bad. His hands got the worst of it, since he'd used them in lieu of brushes. Other than that, it was just a few smears on his face and in his hair.
“Now, straight to the bathtub with you,” Kurt ordered, turning to gather up the clothes.
“You know, you should be flattered that he’s imitating you,” Blaine said over his shoulder.
“I’ll be flattered when it doesn’t make such a mess,” he answered, accessing the damage to the red sweater. These paints were supposed to be washable, so they’d find out today.
“Wook at me!”
He looked up, suddenly realizing that Blaine was still beside him and their son was……across the room on the couch. Jumping on the couch, which now had little handprints to show where he’d held on to pull himself up. He closed his eyes and reminded himself that it was just a couch, they could clean it, just like they could clean the clothes, and the carpet, and--
“Daddy B, Daddy K, wook at me!”
He opened his eyes again, to the sight of their little boy jumping as high as he could, making bunny hops from one end of the couch to the other, then standing on the arm to jump back down to the cushion. He turned to his husband, who wasn’t even trying not to grin this time.
“Your child, Blaine.”
“Bwaine!” A voice piped from by his knee.
“I need your help with something.”
“Need help sump'in!”
“Blaine, today please!”
“Bwaine! Day pweese!”
He looked down at the boy whose hand he held, at the paint on his Baby Gap sweater and in his blonde hair, at the overjoyed grin that made it impossible to be truly angry about the mess.
“Sweetie, you don’t call him Blaine. Daddy calls him Blaine, you call him Papa.”
The grin dimmed a little. “But I wike saying Bwaine. Bwaine!” he called again, as Kurt fought not to roll his eyes. He was trying to break the habit, as he was sure their son would throw the gesture back at him soon enough without his Daddy giving him something to mimic.
“He’s an independent thinker, that one.” The subject of their conversation finally made an appearance. “Just like his Daddy.”
“I’m not the sole cause of his contrariness, Blaine,” Kurt retorted.
“Yeah, Bwaine!” And this time Kurt lost the eye-rolling battle.
“Apparently I have an echo.”
Blaine smothered a laugh behind his hand. “Your child,” he said pointedly to Kurt as he walked over, taking in the scene. Finger paints spilled over the cloth covered table and onto the tarp that had been spread out beneath it. He bent down to toddler level. “What have we here?”
“He decided to decorate his clothes, instead of just the paper,” Kurt informed him.
“Want make wothes pretty wike Daddy do,” was the explanation.
Blaine looked up at Kurt. “Your child,” he repeated. “So what do you need me to do?”
“Help me get his clothes off, I was afraid to try it on my own because if he got away he’d spread paint over everything. Then you can dunk him in the bathtub while I try to get the paint out of the sweater.”
“Okay, Sport, arms up.”
Together they managed to get his clothes off without getting more paint on anything that didn’t already have it. Once their little boy was stripped, the damage to him wasn’t that bad. His hands got the worst of it, since he'd used them in lieu of brushes. Other than that, it was just a few smears on his face and in his hair.
“Now, straight to the bathtub with you,” Kurt ordered, turning to gather up the clothes.
“You know, you should be flattered that he’s imitating you,” Blaine said over his shoulder.
“I’ll be flattered when it doesn’t make such a mess,” he answered, accessing the damage to the red sweater. These paints were supposed to be washable, so they’d find out today.
“Wook at me!”
He looked up, suddenly realizing that Blaine was still beside him and their son was……across the room on the couch. Jumping on the couch, which now had little handprints to show where he’d held on to pull himself up. He closed his eyes and reminded himself that it was just a couch, they could clean it, just like they could clean the clothes, and the carpet, and--
“Daddy B, Daddy K, wook at me!”
He opened his eyes again, to the sight of their little boy jumping as high as he could, making bunny hops from one end of the couch to the other, then standing on the arm to jump back down to the cushion. He turned to his husband, who wasn’t even trying not to grin this time.
“Your child, Blaine.”