Work Text:
"Now, lad, what do we say when we open that door?"
Jacob smooths down the creases in his son's shirt, crouched to the four-year-old's height as he preens his appearance.
"We say, um we say, 'Happy Birfday!'"
"No, Emmett. We say 'Happy Mothering Sunday.'"
The child blinks, bamboozled. He eyes up the breakfast and flowers that are typically reserved for his mother's birthday.
"Happy Birfday," he maintains.
Jacob sighs. Having been at it for the past twenty minutes, he surrenders with a chuckle and a pinch at his son's ruddy cheek. Passing Emmett the bouquet of flowers, definitely not trusting the child with a tray full of fine China; barely trusting himself with it, if he's honest, he knocks on the bedroom door and nudges it open, retrieving the tray of food and following Emmett close behind.
"Happy Birfday, Mummy!"
You stretch in bed with a yawn, just managing to shuffle into an upright position as you cradle the bump at your stomach. You raise your eyebrow at your husband quizzically, whose expression simply reads: don't ask, I tried.
Emmett crawls onto the bed and passes you the beautiful bouquet of yellow tulips; you smile sincerely as they're your firm favourite, not just for their bold colour or exquisite honey smell, but for their meaning too - there's sunshine in your smile . It was the first thing Jacob noticed about you when you two first met, and he never fails to bring it up whenever possible.
You gush your thanks, taking the flowers from your son and resting them in one arm as your other is instantly tackled with cuddles. He kisses your cheek once then presses his cheek against your bump, greeting his unborn sibling.
"Happy 'Birthday', I suppose, love," Jacob chuckles, approaching you with breakfast.
The salty smell of poached kippers tantalises your nostrils, making you inwardly urge your partner to cross the room quicker so you can tuck in. Accompanying the fish is a few slices of buttered bread and a shiny apple, a mug of fruit juice at the side, none of which particularly appeal to your queer tastebuds now you're with child. But you're thankful Jacob supposed as much, as there's a mountain of fish compared to the few slices of bread.
In the early hours of the afternoon, Jacob kisses you both on the cheek and leaves for duty. Usually it's without a timeframe of when he'd be back, but he promises to be back around dinner time.
Emmett crawls onto your lap and curls around your bump, getting comfortable for the story he picked out for you to read, The Princess and the Goblin . You had began reading it to him a few nights ago, and are approaching the end of the book. One scene is admittedly terrifying, and the way he drapes his arm around your bump and buries his face in your side has you questioning if he'd like you to stop.
Shaking his head, he declares, "I'm not frightened, Mummy. But the baby might be."
Chuckling, you pat your hand over his, realising his action was one of protection as opposed to fear.
Upon reading the final word, you close the book with a deep breath and glance down at your son to gauge his response. His face is swimming with emotion, opening his mouth and closing it soon after, rendered speechless by the ending of the story.
You gently press him closer, rocking him in your arms as you ask him what he'd like to do next.
"Another!"
"Another? What would you like to read next?"
His face scrunches up in contemplation, before answering, "Your book."
"My-- oh."
You don't know how he found out about that.
For the past few months, you've been working on a picture book to gift to him on his fifth birthday, the age his Assassin education would formally begin. Colluding with Henry Green, a good friend, in-law and uncle to your offspring, you whittled the history of the Brotherhood down to the basic facts so that it might be comprehended by a child. Your skills as an artist helped make it even more accessible, decorating the pages with watercolour paintings of famous figures and eagles, one of the symbols of the Assassins.
Emmett waits patiently for your answer. Realising there's no point in hiding it since he already knows about it, and reasoning he's almost five years old anyway, you agree and fish it out from its hiding spot in a nearby bookshelf.
Returning to your previous position, you open the book and begin reading a page about an Italian brother, "Ezio Auditore."
"Essio?"
" Ezio , darling."
"So that's Essio," his finger points lightly at the sketch of the hooded man with olive skin, skimming across the page to another drawing of his beret-sporting friend.
"Who's that?"
"That's Leonardo da Vinci."
He whoas and absorbs the information you relay to him, his eyes as wide as saucers. He sits in silence for a while as you read, before fidgeting in your lap and looking up at you.
"Mummy?" You hum in response, turning the page to a hidden blade. "Can I be like Daddy some day?"
You pause, mulling over the best way to word it. It's a topic that has cropped up often between you and Jacob, and you eventually came to an agreement that it will ultimately be Emmett's choice once he's old enough to make such a huge decision.
"You can be whatever you want to be, darling. If you want to do what Daddy does, then you can. But you must know that no one is forcing you."
He seems satisfied with your answer, staring into space with a pensive gleam in his eyes.
The final grains of sand trickle down the hourglass on the table next to you, indicating it's time to finish prepping dinner. Dismissing your son for play with a gentle nudge on his shoulder, you rise and busy yourself in the kitchen.
Having inherited your creativity, Emmett sets his eyes on fixing up his very own gauntlet, scrambling through his drawers for the right materials. Finding a wooden ruler, he measures it next to his forearm and grins, tying it to his arm with several socks. The end of the ruler just sticks out past his wrist, which he flexes, testing the security of the ties.
Scanning the room for his first target, his eyes land on a teddy bear propped up on his pillows.
"Prepare to die, Teddy!"
Stone-faced, he charges at the stuffed toy and pokes its squishy belly with the tip of his pseudo-blade, his composure soon breaking as he erupts into a fit of giggles.
Emmett continues for a time, leaping and pretending to eliminate his toys, until the familiar clip-clop of hoofs halt outside the house. Peering out of the window to catch sight of his father dismounting the horse-drawn carriage, he rejoices at his safe return, bounding down the stairs and waiting eagerly in the hall with his gauntleted arm behind his back.
Opening the door, Jacob beams at the welcoming party, carefully pulling him in for a hug. He feels something press against his stomach, the vibration of his son snickering before pulling away to flaunt his hidden blade.
"You're dead now!"
Jacob clutches his gut where he was poked, his jaw dropping as his eyes grow wide. Coughing melodramatically, he slumps on the floor and fakes groans of pain, exclaiming just how much agony he's in. Emmett stands over him, his childlike chortles contagious.
Jacob adopts a weak voice, spluttering, "You may have taken my life... But you will never have my dinner!"
"Daddy, no! Don't leave me alone with Mummy!"
"Charming!" You scoff playfully, having watched the scene unfold from the doorway. Both boys look up at you, your arms crossed and your eyebrows raised.
"Come along, now, children ." You stress the final word while smiling sweetly at Jacob, a veritable child in disguise if ever you met one. "Dinner's nearly ready."
After a delicious beef dinner, admittedly not as exquisite as usual with the cook at home for the day, Emmett excuses himself, tugging on his father's sleeve and silently giving him a look which has him exiting the room with him. Glancing at his plate, you're surprised to see he's eaten all his vegetables, pondering what he's up to disappearing so abruptly. Your brooding is cut short when he reappears, carrying a sponge cake in his steady hands.
You're lost for words, suspiciously eyeing up Jacob as he lays dessert plates down on the table with a cake server, helping your son lift the cake onto the table too.
"Did Daddy make this with you?"
Emmett bursts out laughing, perhaps aware even at his young age of how preposterous that idea is. Jacob pouts, feeling somewhat picked on.
"No, Auntie and Uncle helped me."
You tilt your head, absorbing the details of the cake and smiling at the indulgently sweet smell of vanilla and jam filling your nostrils with every inhale. Though you originally found yourself craving nothing but salt since you first came to learn of your expectancy, your stomach has seemingly just changed teams, growling and demanding all the sugar it can get. Powdered sugar has been sieved over the top of the cake, most likely through a stencil as the crystals form the shape of flowers in a ring.
You make a mental note to thank your dear in-laws later, quite eager for now to tuck in and sate your sugar-hungry stomach.
The staff return a few hours later, a fresh glow noticeable in their cheeks. Clearly the day off has done them the world of good, though they're quite eager to return to their work. Your maid even offers to bathe Emmett and let you relax for the evening, but you politely decline her offer, happy to oversee his bedtime routine yourself.
After fighting with him over the removal of his gauntlet, he's soon bathed, dressed and tucked in to bed. You sit at his side, stroking his hair and singing him to sleep, pressing your lips against his forehead upon hearing the pace of his breathing change. Rising, you linger at the doorway, thankful for such a good and sweet child. He's out like a light, letting you close the door behind you and turn to face your husband.
Jacob smiles and holds his arms out, wrapping them around you once you've closed the gap, resting your cheek on his shoulder. He enjoys the peace of holding you for a few beats before breaking the silence, telling you to meet him in the bedroom for his gift.
"More gifts? Jacob, darling, you've spoiled me enough for one day."
He falls silent.
You lift your head to face him, noting his dark eyes and seductive expression.
"Oh..." You mumble, blushing from the naïvety of missing his euphemism. "That kind of present."
He winks now that you've caught on.
"Yep," he whispers against your ear, his whiskers scratching the side of your cheek. His voice is low and purring, "That kind of present."