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Aki has always been the responsible one.
Ever since he joined the Public Safety Division - even before then, truth be told, since he’s always had an air of seriousness about him, even as a child - he’s been deemed reliable by everyone he encounters.
Trustworthy. The backbone of the force, someone you can depend on. He’s prepared for almost every eventuality, and carries out his work with diligence and stoic dignity.
It’s a point of pride for him. He gets attached too easily, he’s well aware of that, but the fact that other people consider him to be responsible … gives him some small amount of reassurance. Almost as if he’s exuding a little bit of comfort just by being around. It feels nice.
But now, for the first time in his twenty-something years, he feels completely and utterly irresponsible.
Clueless, some could say.
Panicked, too.
Out of his depth.
As he stares down into the bassinet, gazing helplessly at the tiny baby who’s been wailing non-stop for fifteen minutes now, he feels lost.
How can someone so tiny cry for such a long time?
He knew babies were loud in spite of their size - he learned as much from the many parenting books that he read during your pregnancy - but he hadn’t prepared for just how much stamina they have when it comes to screaming. This kid will just not let up. How strong are his lungs?
Aki has tried every trick in the book to get your son to stop crying. The baby has been fed, changed, burped, rocked gently back and forth in the bassinet, has had his temperature checked for a fever at least three times …
Nothing has worked. Not even for a moment. The longest pause was about five seconds long, and it was just so he could catch his breath. The crying resumed immediately afterwards.
Taking a step back to reassess the situation, fixing his posture and rolling his shoulder to try and ease the stress-induced ache, Aki can’t help but notice that he feels a peculiar mix of distress, panic, and shame.
Distress, because the sound of his son crying upsets him greatly. He doesn’t like to think of his baby in a state of discomfort, even though the cause is still completely unknown to him.
Panic, because the cries are only getting louder, and he’s scared that his efforts are only making things worse.
And shame, because he had assured you that he could absolutely handle this by himself.
You had only needed to step outside for an hour or so to go to a dentist appointment, but still tried to bring the baby with you - you spent most of the morning trying to gather your son’s things in preparation for the trip. Outings with a six-week-old are more exhausting than either of you had anticipated, and sometimes you feel as though you should bring suitcases with you, not just a pram.
“No need to go to all the trouble of packing his stuff,” Aki had pointed out, watching you scramble around the apartment to find a clean pair of mittens. As always, his voice was calm and confident. “Since it’s just for an hour - it’s too much effort. I’ll stay here and watch him.”
You paused, a single mitten in one hand and an empty baby bottle in the other.
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. It’ll save you the trouble, plus it’s freezing outside.”
“Certain?” you ask again, trying to keep any concern from leaching into your voice. “Because it’s not that I don’t think you can handle him solo … it’s just neither of us have had to watch him alone before. I haven’t had to do it either, since you’ve always been there to help.”
Aki nods. He’s responsible - he has read all the books, and at this point, he’s spent weeks with his son, learning all about his behaviour and micro-expressions and what babies need to feel safe and comforted. Aki’s as prepared for this task as he is for any other. He’s responsible.
“How different can it be?”
As it turns out, very.
Now, Aki reaches a hand out to give the bassinet another gentle rock - futile, since the last five attempts hadn’t worked, but he tries anyway.
His brows pull together, concern weighing heavily on him. He hasn’t admitted this to anyone - least of all to himself - but deep down, this was always a worry of his.
Because he knows that on some level, the reason why he always acts as the responsible one is that he has to be in order to keep going. He’s spent most of his life feeling the crushing survivor’s guilt from losing his family. That feeling has informed every decision, every choice he’s made in the field, even the way he interacts with the people in his life.
Aki is responsible because he needs to protect. He knows he cannot shoulder the burden of losing another person close to him. He can’t afford to be any less than perfect.
When you first told him that you were pregnant, he had felt surprised, happy, hopeful - the pregnancy wasn’t planned, but his heart still warmed when he saw the barely-contained delight written all over your face.
However, he couldn’t ignore the spark of deep and profound insecurity that ignited in his chest. As the months passed and your due date grew closer, the thoughts started to nag at him.
You’re gonna fuck this up, Aki.
You can’t be a father. You can barely take care of yourself.
How are you ever going to keep this child safe?
He worked for months to overcome those feelings; for all of your sake, not just his own. For the most part, it worked - the first few weeks of your son’s life had been exhausting but rewarding, filled with moments of happiness that helped drown out his worried thoughts.
And recently, Aki had started to think that, yeah, maybe he could do this, maybe you could both do this together, since you make such a good team …
But that confidence seems to evaporate now that he’s by himself.
When he hears the front door push open a few minutes later, Aki’s heart sinks. You’re back home early and you’re about to see his utter failure.
He couldn’t even look after the kid for an hour … how is he going to handle the rest of his life?
“Everything okay?” you ask softly, approaching the two of them once you’ve set your bag and keys down on the counter. You could hear the sounds of crying from down the hall; the sound is never easy to hear, but it’s made all the more difficult when you see the expression on Aki’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“He won’t stop crying,” Aki admits, each syllable laced with shame. “The whole time you were gone. I don’t have a clue what to do, I tried everything.”
“It’s probably nothing,” you answer, and you mean it, too. You’re protective, of course, but you approach these situations a bit more practically than Aki does - as long as the baby is safe, fed, and taken care of, then it’s probably nothing to worry about. “Have you tried talking to him?”
He looks up at you, baffled.
“I - talking?”
You smile, warm as you can. “Talking. Letting him hear your voice, you know? Obviously he won’t know what you’re saying, but it’s worth a shot.”
And well … even though he’s still confused, Aki feels he may as well give it a shot. He’s tried everything else to no avail, and so even though having a conversation with a newborn seems ridiculous, he’s willing to try anything at this stage. He looks back down at his son, trying not to feel discouraged by the sounds of high-pitched crying, and starts to talk.
“Ah … h-hi, there,” he begins, sounding just a little awkward and stilted. It’s strangely endearing. Aki glances at you out of the corner of his eye, and you nod, prompting him to keep going. “You’re … okay. You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay.”
He rocks the bassinet along with the rhythm of his words, his tone now more soft and soothing as he reassures the baby.
“You’re okay. It’s all okay, don’t worry. It’s all fine. I’m here.”
The volume of the cries starts to lower - the baby is still stirring, but is no longer wailing at the top of his tiny lungs. There are even a few moments of complete silence.
Encouraged, Aki keeps going.
“That helps, huh?” he whispers, leaning down a little closer - he knows that babies can’t see too far away, and wants to let his son know that he’s there. The little face that peers back up at him is an almost exact mix of the two of you both, and Aki’s eyes soften even further. “Did you just want to have a little talk? A little talk with your dad?”
At that, the baby lets out a little delighted-sounding gurgle.
You laugh, reaching to take Aki’s free hand in your own.
“See?” you point out when your son’s eyes start to droop shut, ready to sleep, his cries having ceased completely at this point. “He just likes knowing you’re here.”
Aki likes knowing that, too. He knows that he’s going to be here whenever he’s needed, for both of you.