Work Text:
David was lying on the floor on his tummy, and he was crying. Because of course he was. 'Crying' was David's default state. Charles jiggled a toy half-heartedly in front of David's face, but David took no notice. He rarely ever did. Charles was just his father, after all, and David spared no opportunity to remind him just how inadequate he was for the job.
“Tummy time is important,” the instructor, a red-haired woman named Jean, reminded the assembled group. “Some babies do fuss; it's not always fun for them. But as we discussed, it helps with many aspects of their development.”
“And helps them avoid that flat spot on their head,” the woman to Charles' right—Moira, if Charles remembered correctly—said under her breath. She flashed Charles a conspiratorial smile, and Charles managed to smile back. (David howled even louder, apparently aware that his father's attention had wandered elsewhere.)
Charles sighed, setting the toy down in front of David, since it really wasn't helping anyway. Patting David gently on the back in a way he hoped was a least supposed to be soothing, he glanced at Moira's baby where he lay happily in front of her, wiggling a bit as if trying to figure out how to crawl. He was a little bigger than David. “How old is he?” Charles asked.
“Oh, Kevin's three and a half months now,” Moira replied with a smile. She wrinkled her nose a bit. “He's just started teething.” She nodded to David. “How old is yours?”
“Just two months,” Charles replied.
Moira nodded. “He'll probably like tummy time more once he's closer to figuring out how to crawl.” Kevin shoved his fist in his mouth and stated resolutely slobbering on it. Moira's brow furrowed. “I'm not sure if that means he's hungry or if it just means he's teething.” She glanced up at the wall clock. “Well, it's been about two hours since he ate...” Scooping him up into her lap, she paused, glancing at Charles. “I hope you don't mind...”
“Oh! Not at all.” Charles shook his head. It was bad enough being the only dad in the group. He couldn't further make himself a pariah by objecting like an immature little prat when the mothers fed their babies, however they happened to do that. He managed a genuinely friendly smile while keeping his eyes on her face as she adjusted her clothing.
Moira shrugged one shoulder as she shifted Kevin in her lap. “It's just...I know it makes some people uncomfortable.”
“I imagine it makes the baby more uncomfortable to wait,” Charles quipped and was rewarded by a rather bright smile. Because apparently Moira was both thankful and impressed that Charles was capable of showing common courtesy.
David, who'd been contenting himself with only fussing loudly, let out a sudden, especially loud cry. Rubbing gentle circles on David's back, Charles looked around worriedly at the other babies and their mothers. It wouldn't do for David to upset the other babies. Charles frowned. What if David was hungry too? He hadn't completely finished his last bottle. To be fair, he rarely ever did, but the doctors insisted it was better to throw away perfectly good formula than to encourage a baby to overeat. Well, Charles hardly wanted to start his child on the path to obesity before he could even discover the joys of cookies and cupcakes. And it's not like Charles couldn't afford the formula; he made a great deal more, surely, than most of the women here, and even they were all at least middle class. Most of them upper middle class, honestly.
But if Moira could cut tummy time short in favour of feeding time, Charles could do the same. For all he knew, David might in fact be crying—at least in part—from hunger. He pulled a bottle from his bag, unscrewing the top and adding the portion of premeasured powdered formula. Once he had the top screwed back on and the powder properly mixed in, he lifted the angrily hiccuping David from the floor, turned him around so he was cradled in the crook of his arm, and offered him the bottle nipple. David pushed at the nipple with his tongue, made a few grumpy noises, and finally began to suck.
“Oh, so he was hungry,” the woman to Charles' left said softly.
Charles shot her a smile, trying not to look nervous. She looked to be in her late thirties to early forties and had soft golden curls framing her face. Her eyes were kind. “Yeah...” Charles shrugged. “I guess.” He took a breath then let it out. “I only just fed him before we left to come to the class, so it hasn't been that long.”
The blonde woman nodded. “Loki's the same way—always wants to eat little meals here and there.” She patted her dark-haired baby on the back, flashing Charles a bright smile. “Sometimes I think I should have tried breastfeeding with him, but it's a lot harder with an adopted baby, and I've got a three-year-old running around.” She shrugged, gaze dropping to her baby. “Even with all the hormones and the pump and everything, it probably still would have been cheaper—and of course, healthier for him.”
Loki shoved a teething ring in his mouth and made soft growling noises as he chewed on it, face set in a frown.
“He certainly looks healthy,” Charles offered as he shifted David's position a bit. (It was important to keep him more upright as he ate, or so the doctors said. Something to do with avoiding ear infections—which certainly wouldn't be fun for anyone involved.)
“Oh, of course!” The blonde woman flashed him another smile. “He's doing really well, all things considered—he had a very rough start.” Her face morphed into a sad sort of grimace. “Abandoned.”
“That's awful.” Charles echoed her sad grimace. Really, with all the resources available, it was horrific to think some people still left babies in dumpsters. But maybe this one had been left in a hotel room. Or something similar. It wouldn't be polite to ask.
“Your little one looks healthy as well,” the blonde woman commented. “I'm Frigga, by the way.”
“Frigga.” Charles nodded. He'd offer to shake her hand, but both of his were busy at the moment. “That's a lovely name, by the way; I'm Charles, which I dare say is a tad less unusual.”
Frigga laughed. “Only a 'tad'.”
Someone touched Charles' shoulder, and he turned to see a dark-haired woman who was smiling hesitantly at him. “Charles?” she asked.
“Yes,” he confirmed, “that's me.” He was the only guy in the class, after all. Unless others who attended sporadically just hadn't been there since he had started three weeks previous. But as they had gone around the circle at the beginning of each class to introduce themselves and their babies each day, it just seemed logical that he might stand out as one of the easier to remember names. Considering.
“Right.” The dark-haired woman smiled, tan cheeks pinking a little. “I meant to ask if you are in fact Charles Xavier, as in Raven's brother.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” Charles nodded, flashing her a friendly smile. Other people were moving around the room now, chatting. Apparently the structured tummy time was over for the day. “I am indeed. And you're—”
“Angel,” she confirmed before he could get the entire question out. “Raven's friend from when she used to come here with Kurt.” Charles nodded, remembering what Raven had said when (very adamantly) recommending that Charles join the damn class already. “But she's moved away now, of course,” Angel went on, “and I've got another little one.” She indicated the baby strapped to her chest. “So I'm here again. This is Kara. She's three months old and doesn't like tummy time that much either.”
Charles offered her a commiserating smile. “I don't think David likes much of anything, to be honest.” As if to prove Charles' point, David made an unhappy grunt. Charles took that as his cue to pause and burp him. It was supposed to help, according to the doctors.
Angel smiled sympathetically down at David. “Does he cry a lot?”
Charles managed to keep his brittle laugh from sounding too bitter. “It's essentially all he does.”
“Aw, poor little guy.” Angel looked even more sympathetic. She shot Charles a questioning look. “Colic?”
Charles pressed his lips together as he settled David in his other arm, making sure to keep him somewhat upright and offering the bottle again. “That's what they tell me.” It would help if there was any sort of actual treatment to go along with that diagnosis.
“Have you tried gripe water?” Moira said. “It always seems to help when Kevin's fussy.”
Charles shook his head. “David's doctor strongly cautioned against it.”
“We did gripe water sometimes with Thor—that's my oldest,” Frigga put in, “but our doctor's telling us now not to.”
“Huh.” A small, surprised frown furrowed Moira's brow. “That's— Kevin's doctor recommended it.”
Well, wasn't that just typical of everything when it came to taking care of a baby? Even the 'experts' couldn't be arsed to come to some sort of actual consensus.
David chose that moment to spit the bottle nipple out and cry. Hopefully he wasn't in pain from his belly being over-full. Setting the bottle aside, Charles moved to burp David again only to have David spit up what looked like most of what he'd drank. It couldn't actually be as much as it looked to be, though. The doctor said it never was. Sighing, Charles wiped David—and himself—up as best he could and pulled a clean burp cloth from his bag, stuffing the used one into a Ziploc to transfer to the laundry once he got home.
“What you need, Charles,” Angel said—she'd moved from crouching to sit cross-legged behind him and Frigga, “is one of these.” She tugged at the black fabric of the...pouch-like thing that held her baby. “A sling or other soft carrier,” she clarified. “I don't know how I'd function without it, honestly.” She flashed him a smile that was at least half grimace. “Especially when Tito—my oldest—was a baby; he cried all the time unless we were carrying him. They told us he was 'high needs'.”
Since Raven and Angel had met through the class, Tito must've been about the same age as Kurt, which would make him about two and a half. The class was only for parents with babies under one year, but there was some sort of childcare on site—since Charles only had the one child, he hadn't really paid much attention, but that was probably where both Tito and Frigga's three-year-old were.
“We had one of those when Thor was little,” Frigga said. “Thor's my oldest. Odin—that's my husband—he would carry Thor in it all the time. Only stopped sometime last year, I think. Anyway, they both loved it, but I always found it uncomfortable.”
“Maybe you had the wrong kind,” Angel suggested.
“Maybe,” Frigga said. “My chiropractor said it's something to do with my ribs—they slide out really easily. I haven't tried it yet with Loki, but I haven't really found the need.” She ducked her head a bit, partially hiding her embarrassed smile. “We employ a nanny as well as a cook. I guess we're never lacking in extra hands.”
Maybe Charles should look into a nanny. David might do better with more individual attention. But the daycare centre he'd found seemed so bright and clean and structured. And far more child-friendly than Charles' own apartment. He wasn't too excited about the idea of a stranger coming into his personal 'territory' either. A stranger seeing his private places, judging him.
Okay, so he was being a bit immature about this. But surely the daycare centre was sufficient, and it had built in fail-safes for any time one of the workers was sick, so there was that.
There were not, however as it turned out, any built in fail-safes for when a child was sick. Namely, David, who had a cold and couldn't be allowed near the other infants lest he infect them with his copious quantities of green-tinged snot. It was fair, of course; no one wanted all the babies to come down with the same miserable ailment.
As Charles sipped his morning coffee, he patted David's back through the padded material of the baby carrier. He'd taken Angel's advice and purchased one after a bit of mostly confusing online research. The carrier was a lot more complex in its construction than the one Angel had been using, but it was a lot easier for Charles to figure out. Angel appeared to be using what was known as a 'wrap'—but after staring in total incomprehension at some online tutorials, Charles decided his three PhDs were all in entirely the wrong subjects (perhaps he should have studied Anthropology after all). So he opted for a highly-recommended carrier with buckles and straps that reminded him a bit of a backpack.
(Though, apparently, it was distinctly different from a 'baby backpack'. And the two things should never be confused. Ever. It didn't seem important to research what a 'baby backpack' really was, though, since the helpful online information stated repeatedly that it was for 'older' babies, which David really wasn't.)
David was, for once, blessedly quiet. He may actually have been sleeping, or at least dozing. Perhaps being sick was making him tired, but wouldn't it be nice if was actually the carrier? Angel had insisted they were essentially magic. It would be nice if even one thing was going right. If Charles had in fact managed to make one clearly correct parenting decision. He sighed, rubbing at his forehead. He'd have to take some ibuprofen before the meeting. He'd love to just skip the meeting entirely after the night he'd had, but it was important. All the Arts faculty were meant to attend. (Which of course included Charles at present.) Though it was a small university, there still were going to be quite a lot of people in the room. The upside of course was an enhanced chance of Charles simply fading into the crowd and no one paying any attention to him. Or to the baby conspicuously strapped to his chest. He'd opted for a navy blue carrier which coordinated well with most of his wardrobe...but there really was little any sort of colour coordination could do to disguise an entire baby.
As Charles nibbled halfheartedly at his toast, he mentally berated himself for his total lack of foresight. Of course babies got sick sometimes and of course that meant they couldn't attend daycare while contagious. These things felt so obvious now, despite the also obvious fact that he hadn't even considered them before. Maybe he should have taken some of those workshops back in grad school—the ones on how to balance family and career responsibilities. The ones he'd foolishly thought were not intended for him. (Which, to be entirely fair, they probably weren't. They were meant for people like Moira, after all: poised, intelligent, driven women. Not silly, floppy-haired, boyish little men who'd blissfully drifted past such things with the assumption that any children they themselves managed to spawn would naturally be under the expert and doting care of their wives. At least until they were old enough to walk, talk, and attend school. It really wasn't entirely Charles' fault that he'd simply absorbed the sexism of his entire culture, simply gone with the flow rather than challenging things.)
But, enough with mental self-flagellation. Charles rinsed out his coffee mug and set it by the sink then shrugged his suit jacket on over the baby carrier. It was far too late to look for a babysitter; the only option was taking David with him.
Really, women did this sometimes, didn't they? There were even widely-shared pics on the internet of government officials here and there throughout the world holding and even feeding babies while participating in official voting and the like. So it wasn't like Charles was doing anything wrong or even especially outlandish.
If anyone looked at him funny, he'd just ignore them.
Ten minutes into the meeting, it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore the glare Professor Lehnsherr kept shooting Charles.
Professor Lehnsherr taught something in languages...Spanish or German? Or was it Italian? Something like that, something Europe-related. Maybe more than one. Come to think of it, he probably spoke every European language. He probably spoke Latin. Greek even. It certainly would lend legitimacy to the air of disgusted superiority he radiated like heat.
Not that everyone in the room didn't have every reason to glare at Charles, what with David's unceasing whining. He wasn't exactly crying, but his constant fussing was loud enough that likely everyone could hear even as Charles hid in the farthest corner, silently begging David to quiet. He couldn't possibly be hungry, as he'd drank his entire bottle—possibly for the first time in his young life—on the train ride over and let out a healthy burp afterwards. Charles had checked his diaper right before the meeting, so that was fine too. And he had his pacifier—was David the only baby on the planet who didn't care for pacifiers? Weren't they supposed to be so addictive parents despaired to break their toddlers of the habit before they started school? Well, David had it in his mouth, and he was certainly drooling enough all around it, but it didn't seem to be helping much with his mood. Unless, well, he might actually be screaming his head off without it, so maybe it was doing its job.
Twenty minutes into the meeting, Professor Lehnsherr's glaring was impossible to ignore. The man was all striking lines and piercing eyes. All aimed at Charles. And he was clearly displeased. He'd weighed Charles in the balance and found him wanting. As of yet, no one had asked Charles to leave, but after the meeting Lehnsherr was in all likelihood going to make a formal complaint about Charles' unprofessional behaviour. And it's not like this was the last time this was going to happen, was it? Charles was a parent now. A single parent. And that was sort of permanent, as far as life-altering things went.
Charles' bright future, what had remained of it up to that point, was slipping away. Burning like a morning's gentle blanket of fog in the harsh light of day.
How did mothers handle this? The ones that did, that is. Were their babies just calmer, quieter? Did they use the controversial gripe water? Some sort of beaded amber necklace thing? Placebo tablets that may or may not contain toxic plant extracts? Was it the 'magic' of real, legit human milk (accept no substitutes)?
Maybe the mothers themselves just managed to exude such a calm aura that the babies relaxed in their presence. (Maybe Charles shouldn't have dropped yoga years ago. He could always take it again, though, be the only dad in the 'mom and baby' yoga class! Assuming they even held one of those at a time when he wasn't teaching, holding office hours, or attending required meetings. It had been hard enough to find even one parents' class that worked with his schedule.)
What was anyone even saying? Charles had missed most of the meeting even while being physically in the room. And it wasn't due to a hangover like it would have been just three short years ago. Though, in a lot of ways, being chronically sleep-deprived felt like a hangover. Just...less fun.
Would it be more disruptive at this point to walk out or just to stick it out until the end? It couldn't be much longer, could it?
It would be nice, though, if Lehnsherr could stop glaring. Charles got his point already. Had got it about the second time Lehnsherr glared in his general direction.
“Shh, sweetheart,” Charles breathed, brushing a kiss against David's forehead. “It's all right.”
David chewed unhappily on his pacifier and glared up at Charles, letting out an unhappy grunt. Then, of course, he went right back to whining. (He was, in all likelihood, going to be a terror as a teenager. But at least then, Charles would—probably—never have to take him to work.) Maybe he was teething, though? Moria's baby had been teething already, and he was only a little older than David. Maybe Charles should've been offering him a teething ring rather than a pacifier. Or maybe in addition to it. So he'd have a choice, could switch back and forth between the two.
Maybe Charles should've quit his job the moment he'd become a single parent. He could be living off his inheritance—he didn't have to work, after all. But...would his career still be there to pick back up in a few years? He'd always wanted to teach, always loved learning. He hadn't wanted to let that go. Still didn't.
Finally the meeting was over, and Charles was quickly and quietly gathering his things in order finally to make his escape, but—oh no. Lehnsherr was walking towards him, quite purposefully. Eyes on Charles. Unmistakably. Determined.
Charles swallowed, shoving a slightly shaky hand through his hair. Damn it. He really wasn't in the mood for any sort of confrontation.
Lehnsherr reached Charles and stopped, opening his mouth to speak, but Charles spoke first: “Professor Lehnsherr,” he said with a shaky nod. “I am so sorry. I honestly don't know why he's so fussy—other than that he's got a cold.” He patted David's back. “And colic.” In retrospect, it was obvious he shouldn't have attempted to bring a sick baby to work with him. He really was failing at this. At everything, apparently. “But normally he does go to daycare, which of course he couldn't today because he's sick and—I will of course be finding a babysitter who can cover in emergencies like this.”
“Professor Xavier.” Lehnsherr's brow furrowed in apparent confusion and he tilted his head to one one side. “I—seem to have made the wrong impression somehow.” He grimaced. “I was merely coming over to say he's adorable. And that you—you're doing a good job.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks, rocking his weight back onto his heels.
“But—” Charles stammered. “You—” He swallowed. How could he possibly have misinterpreted—?
“Oh.” Ducking his head, Lehnsherr pinched the bridge of his nose. “My—” He gestured vaguely with one hand. “My 'resting bitch face' as I believe it's called? You thought I was angry, didn't you?”
“Um.” Charles swallowed again. “Yes? But—but you're not?”
Lehnsherr shook his head. “Not at all.” He sighed. “Well, perhaps a little at myself. Now.” He shook his head then offered Charles a hopeful, self-deprecating smile. “Janos is always getting after me for my default expression, says it intimidates people.” Grimacing, he gestured with one hand again. “Scares them off.”
“Oh.” Charles swallowed. For something the guy wasn't even doing on purpose, it certainly was still bloody effective.
“Janos is a friend,” Lehnsherr clarified. “Sort of mostly my wingman, I guess. Constantly trying to get me 'back in the game' as they say.” He pressed his lips together in a sort of grim acceptance, sliding his hands into his pockets again. “But obviously, I've been failing rather spectacularly. With the, uh...” He gestured, encompassing his whole face. (Which was, honestly, hot as hell. Especially this close when his soft ginger-hued lashes were visible. And, well, when he wasn't glaring. Or, accidentally glaring. Or whatever.)
Because he was tired and obviously not thinking clearly enough to behave like a semi-functioning adult—and possibly also a bit because he was distracted by Lehnsherr's improbable good looks—Charles blurted out, “You think I'm doing a good job? With David, I mean.” He gestured lamely to the baby, because he hadn't even told Lehnsherr David's name—and why was Charles allowed to speak to other humans, again?
“Yes,” Lehnsherr replied. “You're clearly a dedicated father. And—” He gestured to Charles' chest. “That carrier is very similar to the one I used with my oldest. It's a good model. Very safe.”
Charles stared dumbly at him. “You have—?”
“Children, yes.” Lehnsherr flashed Charles another self-deprecating smile, endearing little crinkles all around his eyes. “Here.” Pulling his phone from his pocket, he tapped the screen a few times, then turned it to face Charles. “Anya, my oldest.” A bright-eyed little girl with reddish-brown hair smiled out of the picture. “She's five, just started kindergarten this year.” He flicked to another picture. “And the twins, Pietro and Wanda.” The boy had strikingly pale platinum blond hair, the girl thick dark brown curls. “They're three, enjoying their new preschool.”
“They're beautiful,” Charles told him honestly. He also managed an honest, though admittedly somewhat timid, smile. Had—hadn't Lehnsherr implied he was single and trying (rather unsuccessfully) to date? “You're—are you raising them on your own?”
“Yes.” Flicking the screen off, Lehnsherr slid the phone back into his pocket. “For the past three years, actually, since just after the twins were born.” Charles wasn't sure what to say to that—it certainly wouldn't be polite to ask how Lehnsherr had come to be single. Before Charles came up with anything that would be appropriate, Lehnsherr went on, “It's not easy.”
“No,” Charles agreed, “it's really not.”
“So that's you too?” Lehnsherr asked, quirking an eyebrow at Charles.
Charles nodded, swallowed. “Y—yeah. That's me too.”
Lehnsherr nodded as well, hands in his pockets once again. After a moment, he said, “How would you feel—if I offered to buy you a cup of coffee?” Charles merely gaped at him, so he went on, “Now, if that works for you, but I'd understand if you have somewhere else you need to be.”
“No, I—” Charles shook his head, smiling—and likely looking stupid as hell while doing it. “Now works fine for me, Professor Lehnsherr.”
Lehnsherr smiled, broad and pleased—it was bloody breathtaking. “Great. And call me Erik. Please.”
“'Erik',” Charles repeated obediently. “If—if you don't mind my bringing David along.”
Erik made a soft sound of disbelief as he steered Charles towards the exit. “You honestly just explained the childcare issue—I do remember.” He smiled down at David who was staring up at him with intent eyes and who, apparently somehow transfixed by Erik's voice, wasn't currently fussing. (Or maybe the little demon child was just quiet now because the meeting was over and he could no longer disrupt it so there was little point in continuing to make noise.) “And besides, like I said earlier, he's adorable.” He smiled—soft, wry, and a little wistful. “Looking at him kind of makes me wish I could have another little one like that.”
Of course, by the time Charles got seated in the coffee shop, David was fussing again. He'd taken a detour to the washroom to change David's diaper while Erik got their drinks. (And, speaking of washrooms and changing diapers, it was a much appreciated relief that Charles did in fact have access to a washroom that came equipped with a changing table. Many places only put those in the women's washroom—hooray for casual, everyday sexism.)
“So,” Erik said as he set the tall cup down in front of Charles. “Your iced mocha with extra chocolate syrup and extra whipped cream.” Hints of a smile played about the corners of his eyes and mouth—he must've found Charles' order amusing. Well, it was what tasted good. So whatever. Charles could be amusing if it meant enjoying his coffee. Setting his own coffee on the table, Erik took his seat.
David started wailing in earnest.
Shooting a harried glance at the wall clock, Charles muttered, “He's probably hungry, sorry.” Grimacing, he reached for his bag.
“It's fine,” Erik assured him, sipping his coffee. “Babies need to eat often. I remember.” His smile softened his features. “When Anya was a baby, she used to eat every hour most of the time. It was exhausting just trying to keep up with that.”
Charles shot him a nervous, grateful smile. Of course Erik really did understand. “I imagine it was even more exhausting, keeping up with twins,” Charles said over David's increasingly angry cries. He had the bottle, had the top off, but when he tried to pour the powdered formula in, he fumbled, spilling some onto the table. Tears sprung to his eyes, and he swore. Which probably wasn't the best thing to do around a baby, but...
“Charles,” Erik said soothingly, leaning forward a bit, “it's fine.”
“It is not!” Charles snapped back, voice pitching higher as he fought to keep himself from hyperventilating. “It's—it's not like I can just sweep the powder off the table and put it in the bottle!” It's not like he could mix the bottle with the wrong amount of powder either; it was extremely important that he always measure everything with precision lest he risk water intoxication or malnutrition or whatever else.
Erik pulled Charles' bag towards him. “You have more in here?”
“Yes,” Charles answered. He sucked in a breath and let it out. “Yes—I think I have at least one more.” Maybe two; he always packed more than he knew he'd need, just in case. It wasn't like powdered formula or plain water could go bad. At least, not any faster than the powdered formula went stale in its canister in his cupboard.
Erik nodded. “Good. Ah, here we are.” He pulled the bottle and the bag of powdered formula from the bag. He shot Charles a questioning look. “Do you mind if I—? I've done it before, many times.”
Charles nodded. Hell, he was shaking so badly now he'd probably spoil yet another bottle. He needed to calm the hell down. David was screaming all the louder, likely due in part to sensing Charles' own distress. “Yeah—I mean, sure,” Charles said, shoving a hand back through his hair and rubbing David's back with the other. “Go ahead.”
Erik poured the powder into the bottle, mixing the formula expertly as though he could do it in his sleep. He probably could, actually. Probably had. Erik nodded towards the other bag of formula. “You can take that home and re-measure it. Only what's spilled is wasted.”
“Right.” Charles closed the bag up again and made sure to tuck it into a separate pocket in his bag so it wouldn't get confused with the other formula powder. Very bad things could happen with improperly mixed formula. (The headlines jumped out so much more now that Charles had a baby of his own.) “Though...I suppose what I actually got in the bottle is wasted as well.”
“Indeed,” Erik agreed. David screamed. Erik looked thoughtful. “I could feed him so you can enjoy your coffee.”
“Oh, no.” Charles shook his head. That wasn't Erik's responsibility, after all. He rubbed at David's back again. “I—” He paused, unsure what to say even. Damn his lack of sleep.
Erik slid the bottle across the table. “I only thought—you've likely eaten and drunk very few things in recent weeks that weren't at room temperature.” He smiled wryly. “As I was hoping to treat you to something nice, I wanted you to be able to enjoy it.” He nodded towards Charles' drink. “I'm not sure how long that coffee will stay 'iced'.”
If it were possible to feed David while he was still in the carrier, Charles had yet to work out how. As he unclipped and extracted David from the thing—which, upon reflection, he really should have done while Erik was fixing the bottle—he glanced at Erik, unsure.
“I have missed having a little one of my own,” Erik explained, shoulders twitching in a shrug.
“Fine,” Charles said decisively. He took a deep breath and let it out. “If you really want to feed him...” He held David out to Erik.
Erik took him, one hand careful to support his head. “I do,” Erik replied, a flash of gentleness in his eyes as they met Charles'. “Thank you.”
It was as if a great weight that had been pressing down on Charles suddenly lifted. David himself barely weighed thirteen pounds, but a far greater weight left Charles and his head spun for a moment. But then he could breathe easier. He sat up straighter, tugging at his shirt where it had bunched up under the carrier. He took a sip of his coffee—which was still wondrously cold. He should say 'thank you', except Erik had already said it. He took another sip of his coffee, watching as Erik—murmuring encouragements as he smiled down at David—coaxed the nipple into his mouth.
Was Charles only attracted to Erik because the man was good with kids? Was this some sort of desperate drive to find a suitable co-parent? So he didn't have to keep floundering away at this alone? But no, Erik had looked good before he'd mentioned his children. (Though, his children were honestly gorgeous.)
That all being true...Erik still looked amazing with a baby in his arms. Something stupid and filled with lonely longing tightened in Charles' chest and he had to drop his gaze to his coffee. He tapped his fingertips against the sides of the cold plastic cup. “So you're currently trying to date?” Oh, that wasn't a good line at all, was it? Ugh. Charles used to be good at this. Didn't he? “Or at least, your friend is trying to get you to date.” Right, that made the whole thing loads better. Charles rolled his eyes inwardly at himself and kept his gaze on his drink.
Erik chuckled. “Yes, that's Janos' grand plan, for all that it really hasn't been working.” He shifted in his seat, tilting David into a more upright position. “He assures me, by the way, that the fault lies entirely with me, and not with his skills as a wingman.”
Charles couldn't help grinning. But then he sobered, poking with his straw at the whipped cream floating atop his coffee. “I haven't even considered trying to date yet.” It just felt impossible when caring for David.
“You should,” Erik said, and Charles looked up in surprise. Erik grinned, ducking his head a bit. “I mean, it is important to spend time with other adults—and not just in a work environment. If you don't take care of yourself, you can't be at your best. At work or as a parent—it's like on an airplane, when you have to put your own oxygen mask on first, otherwise you might pass out before you can help anyone else. Your—well, your mental health is as important as your physical health.” He ducked his head again, flashing Charles a chagrined smile. “It's advice I need to take myself, too.”
“I talk to my sister on the phone a lot.” Charles suppressed a wince. The words sounded so weak to his own ears—phone calls to his sister hardly made for an impressive social life. “She, uh...she lives too far away to visit often. But she has a two-year old. So I often ask for her advice.”
Erik nodded. “That's good; that's very important. I still ask my own mother for advice all the time—she's been such a huge help to me. I don't know how I could have survived some of those early weeks without her, honestly.”
Swallowing, Charles dropped his gaze once again. It really wouldn't do to start complaining about his own mother. She was doing...well. Better, anyway. Regularly attending her AA meetings. Taking small steps. Best to focus on the positive. “Yes, well, Raven's been a huge help. I really appreciate her.”
Erik nodded. “Still, it never hurts to widen your social circle a little. Or to consider topics of conversation other than children. Now and then.”
Resting his elbows on the table, Charles put his head in his hands. “I used to be part of a book club.” He laughed softly. “And a chess club.” Folding his arms on the table, he shook his head, glancing shyly at Erik. “I'm sure I sound like a humongous nerd—but I really did enjoy those things.”
“You play chess?” Erik asked, tilting his head to one side, a distinct note of interest in his voice.
“Um, yeah. Or...” Charles shook his head, pressing his lips together in a bit of a wry smile. “I used to, anyway.”
“Would you play again?” One side of Erik's mouth curved up in a crooked smile. “I love chess.”
“Well...” Charles grinned, trying not to blush. “I don't exactly have a chess set packed in alongside David's bottles, but...” He blew out a breath.
“Ah.” Erik nudged his own briefcase with his foot. “Outside pocket, this side.”
Furrowing his brow, Charles looked from the briefcase to Erik in confusion. “What—?”
“I have a chess set,” Erik clarified, a hint of fond impatience in his voice.
“Oh.” A helpless grin spread across Charles' face. “Are you serious?” David made a gurgling sound and Erik set the bottle on the table. “Oh! Here!” Charles said, quickly handing Erik a burp cloth lest David spit up all over Erik's suit. He really should have given Erik the burp cloth when he first handed David over. He just hadn't quite been thinking clearly.
“Thank you.” Erik put the cloth over his shoulder and positioned David against it, rubbing and patting his back. Glancing at Charles, he said, “And yes, I'd love a game if you're interested.”
“I am,” Charles blurted. “Interested.” He blushed. “In—in the game, I mean. Chess.” Ducking down, he unzipped the pocket on the outside of Erik's briefcase and pulled out the chess set. It was a nice one: solid wood, fine craftsmanship. Worn, but obviously treated with care all the same. As he opened the board and began to set up the pieces, he took a carefully deep and slow breath. Most of being 'good at dating' was courage, wasn't it? Well, courage and courtesy, probably, in equal measures. “If I was going to consider dating again—” He made himself meet Erik's eyes. “—you'd very much be the sort of person I'd want to date.” He kept the nervous qualifiers to himself. If Erik was offended, he'd be offended.
But Erik just smiled, broad and bright and quite obviously pleased. “Thank you,” he said after a moment, nodding his head once in acknowledgement. “I'm glad to hear it, because—” His smile broadened even further. “You're very much the sort of person I'd want to date as well.”