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It's not him that curses at slow drivers and mumbles soothing words to himself and Venice. It's not him that tries to calm the baby down as they enter the hospital. It is him that glares at the nurse, that does not allow her to take the baby from him. She gives as goods as she gets, though, motioning for him to follow her with a stern look. And then they wait. Vegas has no idea for how long, but Venice has quieted down, probably too exhausted to cry more.
He's messed up, hasn't he? Pete left him in charge of the kid for a few days and now Venice is sick. He knew this would happen, had warned Pete when they made the descision of keeping the baby as their own, but his lover had tried to convince him that it would be just fine, he'd do fine. He wants to scream at Pete right now, tell him it's his fault for trusting Vegas, his fault for staying, his fault for making him think it'd truly be fine.
Before he can spiral more, a smiling doctor calls him in to have Venice examined. It's a dizzying contrast, the common hospital smell of sickness and death with the soft decorations of the room, all pastel and calming with animals, and some stuffed bears in a corner. The doctor must notice that Vegas is not a man of many words, or his poorly contained distress and gets straight to work. He pokes and prods at Venice in his arms, and it takes everything in Vegas not to scream at him. Maybe the brat is not as important to him as Macau and Pete, but he's still his.
The process doesn't take long and by the end the doctor announces that Venice has Roseola. Vegas is lost. It sounds serious, but the doctor doesn't seem concerned. He should be, there's a child with a fever in front of him. Vegas stops to actually take notice of his thoughts. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, Vegas worrying about something that sounds like an American name that has way too many letters.
A small lecture later, Vegas learns that Roseola goes away on its own, that it's pretty common, and that all he can do is help the fever with cold compresses and not freak out by any rashes that have and will occur. He would gut the doctor for that comment if he hadn't forgotten his knife in his haste. All in all, Vegas learns that he is once again useless, even against a minor childhood illness. Great. Calling Pete to tell him will be a treat.
As it turns out, Pete knows what Roseola is, because he's been reading the books he bought on parenting while Vegas barely spares a glance at them, not yet ready to accept this whole situation even months later. Pete also promises to come home as soon as he can, tries to calm Vegas down, giving him clear instructions on what to do, in a way that sounds much less condescending coming from him rather than the doctor.
By the end of the turbulent night, Vegas finds himself sitting by the crib, a cold rag pressed against the baby's tiny forehead, one of his hands cought between five little fingers. Venice has managed to go back to sleep, prompted by the exhaustion or helped by the compress, Vegas doesn't know. He tunes his ears to the kid's breaths, on the lookout for any irregularities.
Had his own dad ever done this? It's highly unlikely. Gun never viewed him as a child, only as a tool, usually a dysfunctional one. Maybe his mother sat next to him when he had a cold, or the flu, but Vegas doesn't remember her. He wants to be like her as a parent, smiling, kind and always calm and collected. He wants to be someone he never thought he could, and still doesn't. He hopes he'll be a guardian that Venice won't hate, hopes that Venice won't end up like him.
Like an everfollowing companion, the voice settled in the pit of his gut reminds him that despite what he wants, he is still his father's son. He's still a Theerapanyakul that occasionally trashes rooms in fits of rage. The voice reminds him that it's there, it will always be, a part of him that he cannot cut out no matter how deep he carves, and as long as it is there, Vegas will never be free, will never be decent.