![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
extemporallyThen Came A Baby Boy With Long Eyelashes
Bronx grows up. Or, unabashedly schmoopy baby fic.
g, pete/ashlee ~1200 words
Pete comes home to find the house warm and cozy. He's not sure if this means Ashlee's home yet. They might have just left the heating on.
"Ashlee?" he calls. When he strains harder he can hear the sound of music floating from one of the rooms upstairs, so he grabs the banister and pulls himself onto one of the lower steps before racing properly. As Pete gets closer and hears more he can tell it's a Fall Out Boy song, the first song he ever wrote properly for Bronx.
He shouldn't be surprised, really, when he gets to their room and sees two of his favourite people. Sometimes it hits him in the chest, hard - they're a family: Pete & Ashlee & Bronx. It doesn't sound as scary as he once thought it might have been. It's like being given a present you weren't expecting, every single day.
Pete leans into the doorframe and watches as Ashlee dances with Bronx. Ashlee turns around and catches his eye just as Patrick-from-the-stereo launches into the chorus, and he mouths it along with her: then came a baby boy with long eyelashes, he said Daddy you gotta show them the thunder, the thunder, the thunder.
--
sweet child o'mine
When Patrick sees the baby he's scared, just a little. Only because Pete is advancing on him, looking positively beatific. Almost like the Virgin Mary, if the Virgin Mary had a donkey-face and a huge lower-jaw. Whatever it is, Pete's shining.
Patrick knows he's going to be forced to hold it - him, he corrects himself.
"Patrick," Pete says reverentially, his eyes soft. "Patrick. Meet Bronx. Bronx Mowgli Wentz."
Patrick knows he can't refuse, really, when Pete's looking like this. He prays, hard, that he doesn't drop the baby. Pete drops the baby into his arms, a softwarmheavy bundle of blanket and downy skin and that smell of baby powder that only newborns seem to have. Patrick thinks it's probably a good time to sit down, and he tries to sit, only he stumbles a little into the hospital armchair and sits down with more force than is strictly necessary. He immediately looks down, concerned, but Bronx Mowgli Wentz doesn't seem to mind. He yawns, a little, and shifts so his toes, smaller than Patrick's fingernails, fall out of the blanket. They curl and flex, the tiniest of moments possible.
Patrick cradles him a little nearer and tries to remember all his mother ever told him about holding babies. Support the neck, right. Mostly he can't stop looking, looking, and probably it's too hard to tell but he can maybe see Pete's nose and Ashlee's mouth. For the first time, Bronx opens his eyes and looks straight into Patrick's. Beautiful child.
Patrick knows it's silly but he can't help misting up at that. When he looks up at Pete he sees Pete's tearing a little, too. Tearing and laughing, and his mouth is slippy and wet. Patrick would laugh at the cliche - two grown men in a hospital weeping over a newborn – except. Bronx.
i want the world to revolve around me
When Bronx is two and a half he has a horrible tantrum. This was not supposed to happen, he'd grown out of tantrums at least five months ago - except, it was all his parents fault and they said they'd go to the fair tomorrow yesterday and when he asked them today they said tomorrow when they'd meant today, today. His lungs seize up with the injustice of it and he flings himself on the floor, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing and after a while he's so breathless he's almost purple and Pete is so worried. Ashlee's better at dealing with it and she isn't here, not now.
"Bronx, Bronx," he pleads, close to crying himself, "don't do this. Stop crying, please." Pete's never been so helpless in his life. Pete hates it when his little boy cries and he can't do anything about it. In the end, he settles for sitting on the floor and rubbing his back - which is hard when Bronx is thrashing around wildly, pummeling everything in sight.
After a while Bronx stops flinging himself across the floor. His sobs are still on autopilot but it feels like he's breathing, at least, thank god. Pete lies flat on his back, on the floor with Bronx, facing the ceiling but looking at his son out the corner of his eye. Eventually Bronx ends up cradled on Pete's belly, sniffling, his bottom lip slightly wet with tears and spit.
Ashlee gets back thirty minutes later. Even from the floor, Pete can tell it’s been a bad, bad day for her – the strain at her eyes gives it all away. She plops down on the floor next to them, and Bronx reaches out for her mother. Since’s he’s not willing to relinquish Pete, either, Bronx ends up curled across the two of them. They lie there for a good while, listening to the echo of their empty house, until Bronx drops off to sleep.
you've got mother's cheekbones and your father's crooked smile
Bronx is brushing his teeth in the bathroom when his mother comes in to check on him. She smells fragrant, like a rose, only warmer. She's not in her pyjamas yet, the one Bronx got her last Christmas. He'd picked them out and his father'd bought them, saying, “Good choice.” She wears them almost all the time.
"Mummy, I can brush my teeth myself," he says, when Ashlee gets closer.
His mother smiles and says, "I know," but sits on the toilet bowl and watches him anyway. When he rinses his mouth Ashlee steadies him on the stool he has to stand on to reach the sink, and cradles his face in both her hands.
"I was just wondering... who do you look like?"
His mother says that all the time, like she'd never get tired of looking at his face. Her hands are slight and warm around Bronx’s cool face, and Ashlee peers at his hairline, his chin, his ears. "Maybe your grandfather," Ashlee decides, letting go of his face at last. "Granddad Petey."
Bronx wrinkles his nose. "He's old and has wrinkles and he’s sixty-five and I'm four years old."
Ashlee laughs and laughs and cradles him close, where he comes up to below her chest, standing on the stool. She thinks: he's so young he's new.
--
It's only another few seconds until Bronx turns around and notices Pete too. He runs the five steps to the door and flings himself at Pete. "Daddy!" he crows, and Pete thinks, this will never get old, never.
Ashlee moves over to the stereo and switches it off just at the second hell or glory, I don't want anything in between -. Pete picks up Bronx and laughs, "God, you're getting heavy. It's a special day today, yeah?"
"Today is my birthday," Bronx announces, like no one else knows it, "and I am five years old!" Pete watches his shining eyes before throwing his head back and laughing. And because Pete does it, Bronx does too.
Bronx grows up. Or, unabashedly schmoopy baby fic.
g, pete/ashlee ~1200 words
Pete comes home to find the house warm and cozy. He's not sure if this means Ashlee's home yet. They might have just left the heating on.
"Ashlee?" he calls. When he strains harder he can hear the sound of music floating from one of the rooms upstairs, so he grabs the banister and pulls himself onto one of the lower steps before racing properly. As Pete gets closer and hears more he can tell it's a Fall Out Boy song, the first song he ever wrote properly for Bronx.
He shouldn't be surprised, really, when he gets to their room and sees two of his favourite people. Sometimes it hits him in the chest, hard - they're a family: Pete & Ashlee & Bronx. It doesn't sound as scary as he once thought it might have been. It's like being given a present you weren't expecting, every single day.
Pete leans into the doorframe and watches as Ashlee dances with Bronx. Ashlee turns around and catches his eye just as Patrick-from-the-stereo launches into the chorus, and he mouths it along with her: then came a baby boy with long eyelashes, he said Daddy you gotta show them the thunder, the thunder, the thunder.
--
sweet child o'mine
When Patrick sees the baby he's scared, just a little. Only because Pete is advancing on him, looking positively beatific. Almost like the Virgin Mary, if the Virgin Mary had a donkey-face and a huge lower-jaw. Whatever it is, Pete's shining.
Patrick knows he's going to be forced to hold it - him, he corrects himself.
"Patrick," Pete says reverentially, his eyes soft. "Patrick. Meet Bronx. Bronx Mowgli Wentz."
Patrick knows he can't refuse, really, when Pete's looking like this. He prays, hard, that he doesn't drop the baby. Pete drops the baby into his arms, a softwarmheavy bundle of blanket and downy skin and that smell of baby powder that only newborns seem to have. Patrick thinks it's probably a good time to sit down, and he tries to sit, only he stumbles a little into the hospital armchair and sits down with more force than is strictly necessary. He immediately looks down, concerned, but Bronx Mowgli Wentz doesn't seem to mind. He yawns, a little, and shifts so his toes, smaller than Patrick's fingernails, fall out of the blanket. They curl and flex, the tiniest of moments possible.
Patrick cradles him a little nearer and tries to remember all his mother ever told him about holding babies. Support the neck, right. Mostly he can't stop looking, looking, and probably it's too hard to tell but he can maybe see Pete's nose and Ashlee's mouth. For the first time, Bronx opens his eyes and looks straight into Patrick's. Beautiful child.
Patrick knows it's silly but he can't help misting up at that. When he looks up at Pete he sees Pete's tearing a little, too. Tearing and laughing, and his mouth is slippy and wet. Patrick would laugh at the cliche - two grown men in a hospital weeping over a newborn – except. Bronx.
i want the world to revolve around me
When Bronx is two and a half he has a horrible tantrum. This was not supposed to happen, he'd grown out of tantrums at least five months ago - except, it was all his parents fault and they said they'd go to the fair tomorrow yesterday and when he asked them today they said tomorrow when they'd meant today, today. His lungs seize up with the injustice of it and he flings himself on the floor, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing and after a while he's so breathless he's almost purple and Pete is so worried. Ashlee's better at dealing with it and she isn't here, not now.
"Bronx, Bronx," he pleads, close to crying himself, "don't do this. Stop crying, please." Pete's never been so helpless in his life. Pete hates it when his little boy cries and he can't do anything about it. In the end, he settles for sitting on the floor and rubbing his back - which is hard when Bronx is thrashing around wildly, pummeling everything in sight.
After a while Bronx stops flinging himself across the floor. His sobs are still on autopilot but it feels like he's breathing, at least, thank god. Pete lies flat on his back, on the floor with Bronx, facing the ceiling but looking at his son out the corner of his eye. Eventually Bronx ends up cradled on Pete's belly, sniffling, his bottom lip slightly wet with tears and spit.
Ashlee gets back thirty minutes later. Even from the floor, Pete can tell it’s been a bad, bad day for her – the strain at her eyes gives it all away. She plops down on the floor next to them, and Bronx reaches out for her mother. Since’s he’s not willing to relinquish Pete, either, Bronx ends up curled across the two of them. They lie there for a good while, listening to the echo of their empty house, until Bronx drops off to sleep.
you've got mother's cheekbones and your father's crooked smile
Bronx is brushing his teeth in the bathroom when his mother comes in to check on him. She smells fragrant, like a rose, only warmer. She's not in her pyjamas yet, the one Bronx got her last Christmas. He'd picked them out and his father'd bought them, saying, “Good choice.” She wears them almost all the time.
"Mummy, I can brush my teeth myself," he says, when Ashlee gets closer.
His mother smiles and says, "I know," but sits on the toilet bowl and watches him anyway. When he rinses his mouth Ashlee steadies him on the stool he has to stand on to reach the sink, and cradles his face in both her hands.
"I was just wondering... who do you look like?"
His mother says that all the time, like she'd never get tired of looking at his face. Her hands are slight and warm around Bronx’s cool face, and Ashlee peers at his hairline, his chin, his ears. "Maybe your grandfather," Ashlee decides, letting go of his face at last. "Granddad Petey."
Bronx wrinkles his nose. "He's old and has wrinkles and he’s sixty-five and I'm four years old."
Ashlee laughs and laughs and cradles him close, where he comes up to below her chest, standing on the stool. She thinks: he's so young he's new.
--
It's only another few seconds until Bronx turns around and notices Pete too. He runs the five steps to the door and flings himself at Pete. "Daddy!" he crows, and Pete thinks, this will never get old, never.
Ashlee moves over to the stereo and switches it off just at the second hell or glory, I don't want anything in between -. Pete picks up Bronx and laughs, "God, you're getting heavy. It's a special day today, yeah?"
"Today is my birthday," Bronx announces, like no one else knows it, "and I am five years old!" Pete watches his shining eyes before throwing his head back and laughing. And because Pete does it, Bronx does too.