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“Come back here, you little gremlin!” Martin exclaimed as he raced down the hallway.
Mad giggling was all he got in response as the tiny form escaped from his grasp.
“Milo Timothy Blackwood!” He cried through laughter.
This situation was ridiculous.
He’d been in the study with the toddler mere seconds earlier, multitasking between keeping an eye on him and finally putting the poem that had been swimming around in his mind to paper.
The child had gotten bored of his toys and wandered to the desk, placing one little hand on the edge and the other on Martin’s thigh.
“Dada what?” He’d asked, bouncing a bit.
“Aw, hi kiddo.” He replied. “I’m writing a poem.”
“Poam?” Milo asked.
“Yeah, buddy, a poem. Wanna see?”
“Yah” The boy gave him a single, serious nod.
Martin scooped the small child up and settled him in his lap.
“I prefer to write them on paper first, rather than just typing them.” Martin explained to the toddler, who was at least trying to appear interested. “This one here’s about your papa.”
“Papa!” Milo perked up at that.
“That’s right! It’s for your papa.”
“For Papa.” He said, seeming to ponder for a moment.
Then, before Martin could stop him, the toddler grabbed the paper, slid off his father’s lap, and raced out the open door.
Milo ran for the kitchen, little feet carrying him much faster than it looked like they could. He dodged Martin’s pursuit, and skidded to a halt in front of his other parent’s legs.
“Oh, hello Milo. What’s this?”
He easily takes the paper out of the child’s grasp.
Martin sighed.
“Sorry, he grabbed it off my desk.”
Then he paused. Jon was reading the paper.
“Wait, wait, that’s not done!” He made a grab for the poem.
“Alright, alright.” Jon relinquished it easily.
“It’s a work in progress.” Martin explained as he caught his breath. “You can read it when I’ve finished.”
“What’s it say?” A little voice asked, another child appearing from behind Jon’s leg. “Daddy, what’s it say?”
“It’s none of your concern, Iris.” Jon said, not unkindly. “Boring grown-up stuff.”
Iris considered that for a moment, before shrugging.
“For papa!” Milo supplied helpfully.
Martin blushed.
“Yes, for Papa.” He admitted. “But not yet! He has to wait till I’m done with it.”
Jon stifled a laugh. Over a decade together, and Martin still managed to find ways to get flustered.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Jon said. “Iris, would you like to help me set the table?”
Iris was a curious child by nature, much like her father had been. Only five years old, and she had already gotten herself into plenty of mischief.
Letting her help with small tasks such as this was a good way to keep her engaged and out of trouble, at least for the time being. She seemed to enjoy it, and just that evening she had begged Jon to let her aid him in making dinner. It didn’t take much convincing.
Iris nodded with a determined scrunch to her face. Jon handed her the plates (paper, of course) and she hopped to it. She placed one down for each person, including one on the tray for Milo’s high chair, which she stood on her tippy toes to reach.
“Milo, too!” The toddler insisted.
Milo was only two years old, and he liked to be included in everything, especially if his big sister was involved. Jon and Martin both mused that he was a bit like a cat sometimes, eager to participate in anything he saw his family doing and often invading their personal space to do it.
The boy was also just learning how to push boundaries. He was in the process of acquiring the skills to ignore the word “no”.
Martin tried his best to be patient, he’d sworn when Iris was born that he’d never become his own parents, but it was hard sometimes. However, he knew in his heart Milo meant no harm. He couldn’t help being a toddler, and Jon and Martin loved their son regardless.
“Alright, Milo.” Jon began. “Why don’t you help your dad bring the utensils to the table?”
“Oooh delivery drone style!” Martin decided, poetry forgotten as he picked the boy up from behind. Milo cackled in delight. Jon rolled his eyes fondly, fishing four forks out of the nearest drawer.
Jon made sure the toddler had a firm enough grip on the utensils before fully releasing them, checking and double checking that he wouldn’t accidentally hurt himself. Eventually he sighed and stepped back.
“Ready for takeoff?” Martin asked.
“Yah!” Milo insisted.
“Alright, here we go!”
Martin carried the squealing child to the kitchen, swaying him gently back and forth and making airplane noises as he went. He lowered Milo to the kitchen table, allowing him to deposit the forks with a light crashing sound.
Martin shifted to hold the toddler on his hip and returned to the stove, where Jon waited.
“Anything else?”
“Just some help with these trays, dear.”
Martin nods, grabbing one of the dishes off of the counter. Milo put his arms out, but his father quickly moved the hot tray of veggies out of his reach.
“Woaaah, buddy. Maybe not that one.”
Milo pouted with a whine, but that was preferable to a tantrum.
Once all the dishes were moved, Martin settled Milo into his high chair, making sure to click the straps in place.
When he turned, Jon was staring proudly at the meal. At the start of their relationship, Martin had done most of the cooking. It made sense, as Martin had more experience, but it had always seemed to bug Jon that he couldn’t contribute more.
After the dust settled, Jon had become determined to become a better chef, obsessing over cookbooks and even pulling some of his grandmother’s old recipes from his memories. After ten years of studying, the couple felt comfortable sharing the responsibility.
“It looks lovely, Jon.” He promised, pecking his husband on the cheek “Have a seat, let’s enjoy it.”
As he and Jon sat, Martin deciding to take on the duty of supervising Milo during this meal, he looked over their little family.
He knows he and Jon are older than most parents with such young children, but he can never find it in himself to mind.
The two of them spent most of their younger thirties piecing themselves back together after escaping the horrors that had tried to shatter them.
It took 5 years for them to feel stable enough to build the life they had now, to start a family together. No matter their age, they earned this peace.
The children aren’t aware that today is a special occasion, both a celebration and a reminder of pain. Perhaps they will never know.
They won’t know why Papa has such a nasty scar on his chest, or why Dad looks so melancholy when he sees it. They won’t know why dad hates the cold so much, why Papa is there for him with a blanket and a cup of tea whenever the temperature drops.
Maybe they’ll wonder why Papa still has bad dreams every night, or why he and Dad stare off into space sometimes. Perhaps someday they’ll wonder why on rare occasions, their parents get so angry over the little things (but not towards them, not ever towards them).
They’ll certainly think about the fact that Aunt Georgie is so easy to startle. They may question why Aunt Melanie hides her eyes behind sunglasses, and tells them she was born seeing. It's possible they may one day ask Aunt Barisa why she’s so serious most of the time.
Maybe it’s for the best that they won’t have all the answers.
Later, after they’ve finished their meals and the kids have played until the clock hits bedtime, Jon and Martin will tuck their children into their warm, cosy beds.
Jon will read them a story of their choice, complete with silly voices, and then both parents will kiss them on their foreheads and rub their backs until they fall asleep.
Jon and Martin will return to their own bedroom, and light a candle under the pinboard above their bureau. The board is decorated with pictures and mementos of people that deserve to be remembered.
They include candid photos of Tim at an Institute holiday party, drunk and laughing, the single Polaroid photo they had ever found of the real Sasha, a friendship bracelet out of a matching set she had made for the archive staff (Martin’s had been the only one to survive), a primary school photo of Daisy that Barisa had found in her car, bright-eyed and smiling, and many other reminders of those they had lost.
Even if it hurts it’s nice to have reminders of happy times, a glimmer of hope in the face of the tragedy they had endured.
Martin will wrap his arm around Jon’s shoulder, and Jon will lean into it. Eventually, they’ll put the candle out and climb into bed.
Martin will trace the scar on Jon’s chest with nimble fingers as they ponder how ten years ago, they somehow made their way out of the crumbling remains of the Magnus Institute.
They’ll wonder how they even survived, Jon with his gaping stab wound and Martin with his shattered bones. Predictably the two will discuss how lucky they were that their allies were able to flag down the ambulance in time. There weren’t many injuries in the aftermath, the apocalypse reverting and the world seeming to forget, so Jon was given high priority as a patient.
When they run out of energy to talk about it, they’ll hold each other as they drift off. Before fully falling asleep, they will both think in unison that they are very lucky, indeed.