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In the afternoon Emma takes Charles downstairs to the basement with her, his plastic plate in one hand while she carries him in the crook of her other elbow. Charles is wrigglier now at fifteen months than he ever used to be, and he’s already caught sight of the fish sticks in her thoughts, so he squirms extra hard, his round belly squishing against her forearm as he tries to reach for them, waves of frustration pouring off him.
Emma thanks her lucky stars he hasn’t yet worked out how to make people do what he wants, or she’d have a fight on her hands. Even this little, she can tell Charles is going to be strong when he grows up, whether he turns out to be a Dom or a sub.
Somehow despite his wriggling and irritated burbling Emma manages to keep both baby and plate in her grip long enough to get down the staircase to the pool room. The high chair is already there - she brought that down first while he was chewing his teddy - and so it’s easy to put the plate down on the little tray in front and then to shift her grip to hold him with both hands, stabilising him long enough to thread his legs into the chair so he can sit.
“Uhm ma mmm!” says Charles, as soon as he’s within grabbing distance of the plate, and without ceremony picks up a sweet potato fry in his fist - it sticks out either end of his tiny hand, orange and crispy - so he can mash it into his open mouth. His thoughts are a delighted swell of yum/chew/fish sticks, frustration of a moment ago already forgotten,even as he tries to bat Emma away when she reaches to put his bib on.
“You’re going to make a mess,” Emma says, and Charles says, “Phbbt.”
“Okay.” She leaves him to get on with it, since she’s been left extras for if he spits up and she’ll feel it if he gets into trouble. He’s quite capable of eating without choking now, anyway. While he’s otherwise occupied she grabs her bag from where she’d stashed it under the high chair - this, at least, is not full of diapers. The swimsuit she grabbed this morning before Daddy drove her over is probably more Buenos Aires than basement, but Emma changes into it with brisk efficiency, leaving her clothes in a neat pile on the lounger nearest the steps - Charles is only a baby, he doesn’t care about seeing her boobs unless they’ve got milk in them, and there’s nobody else in the house. Just her and Charles, who’s busy examining his next chunk of fish stick with sticky fingers as though it might hold the secrets of the universe.
“Bah,” he says when she goes to the shallow end to start wading in, looks up when she drops under the surface, momentarily concerned, but then he’s distracted by the way the water sheds blue light ripples on the curved concrete ceiling, and spends the next few minutes staring at it with his mouth open and full of potato.
Emma loves swimming here. The Xavier’s pool is lovely - much better than theirs, which is outside and gets cold in the winter or full of bugs in the summer, no matter how often Mama tells the gardener to clean it. In contrast, the Xavier’s underground swimming pool is tiled in shades of lapis lazuli and - even better, from her point of view - heated, blood-warm and indulgent, with a proper deep end and a little diving board and everything. The closet is always stocked with fresh, fluffy towels, and the housekeeper never tells on Emma that there’s an extra one tossed in the laundry after she babysits sometimes.
You’re going to have some epic parties here when you’re older, she tells Charles, who is too busy eating to respond with more than a distracted and abstract fish taste that doesn’t go well with the chlorine.
Emma swims laps for a while, the swish of the water cool and lovely against her skin in the quiet cavern. After quarter of an hour, though, Charles starts to fidget, done with his food and wanting to get down. He projects a steady stream of down/no/cuddle/bored and starts to whimper when Emma doesn’t get out immediately, throwing his plate on the floor where it rolls on its side until it splashes into the water.
At least the damn thing floats.
Emma sighs, giving up on her twenty laps. Should have given him some apple slices, that always keeps him going for a while. “Okay, I’m coming!”
Want/down/cuddle/Emma/no.
By the time she gets to the steps to climb out Charles is sniffling threateningly, and he starts to wail before she’s halfway to him, a flood of no/cuddle/down/cuddle and tears that are already soaking his little face and dripping off his round chin onto his bib. The boy can cry. “Oh, baby! Sssh, it’s okay, don’t cry - ”
She picks him up quickly and holds him at arm’s length, because she’s still all wet - cuddling him would soak his onesie, but he’s still sobbing, pudgy arms outstretched for her neck and his eyes screwed shut and leaking tears. Oh, stuff it. She pulls him in close against her, and he stops crying the moment they’re flush, startled by Emma’s sodden bathing suit and eyes popping open while he pats his hands over her to make sure she really is wet.
She thinks about it, mouth pursing while he explores her soaking hair - he’s very gentle with it, since he feels it when he pulls too hard - and says, “Want to come for a swim, Charlie?”
He just blinks at her, then reaches out to pat her cheek with his grubby palm.
When she gets him in the water he splashes around like a baby sea monster and laughs his head off when she blows bubbles at him. Probably nobody ever took him swimming before, Emma thinks, and turns her hand to diamond so they can play with the lights on the ceiling. Afterwards he rolls himself up in the towel and giggles when she tickles him, his hair curling even wilder afterwards, like a little thicket on top of his head, soft and crinkle-dry from the chlorine.