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Of all places, he’s at Grant and Scarlet’s wedding when the idea first comes to mind.
It’s the third wedding he’s been to that year, and, thankfully, the first one he doesn’t have to dress up for. He’s already running out of ways to style a suit and a vest.
Pinocchio’s watching one of his best friends marry his supposed mortal enemy, and all he can think about is how cool it would be for their nonexistent kids to play together.
It’s weird, it’s really weird, but he forgets about it in the excitement of cake and dancing, and Maurice Hatter showing him the coolest hat trick he’s ever seen.
It hits him again in the little moments.
Squinting at the ice cream at the grocery store, wondering what kind a kid of his would like, walking past a park, and imagining if the kid would like the monkey bars are much as he used to.
It’s like an itch under his skin, a softly swaying tree in the corner of his mind. He starts to fill a notebook with the little questions, pages filling line by line with questions he’s not planning on getting answered.
Pinocchio’s cooking with his father the first time it almost tips over.
The phone rings. Geppetto answers. Pinocchio chops garlic and does not know his entire life is going to change.
“Congratulations!” His father says, a tiny sparkle in his eyes. “Yes, yes, I’ll pass him the phone.”
“Hello, Pinocchio.”
“Goldi!” He leans back and looks up, balancing the phone carefully. “Haven’t heard from you in a while, what’s up?”
“The usual, you know. Work’s good, my boyfriend says hi, I’m pregnant.”
“What.”
“Oh, did I not tell you about Edmund? He’s a fiddler, and-“
“No, you told me about him, pretty eyes, cooks well, good kisser. You’re pregnant?”
“Yup! Just got the news an hour ago.” Geppetto shakes his head in the corner, sifting flour for the cupcakes he’s making for Mother Goose’s kindergarten class.
“Goldi Lockes. What do you mean you’re pregnant?!” Pinocchio waves his hands, before remembering the knife and putting it down.
“I’m having a baby.” He can practically hear her eye roll, a fond annoyance in her voice. He grins a little at the ceiling, before the words sink in.
“A baby.” She hums. “Oh my Writers, Goldi, that’s amazing! Congrats!”
“Thank you! I’m really excited!”
“So. When can we see the baby?” Pinocchio rocks back on his heels. “Oh, what do babies like? Should I bring a gift?”
Goldi and Geppetto laugh at him, which makes him frown a little. “What?”
“It’ll be a couple of months.” Goldi says, and he can hear a door close in the background. It’s probably her fiddler boy, who he still has to meet. “But you’ll be the second person I call, I promise.”
“Good. What’s the point of being your best friend if I don’t get to meet your fancy new baby third?”
“Exactly.”
They chat for a couple more minutes before Pinocchio gets back to cooking, and Goldi goes to tell her boyfriend the news. She made a cake. Pinocchio prays for Edmund’s health.
And then he’s left to stir the sauce, and think. His father doesn’t know how branches are scraping Pinocchio’s edges, getting through dinner, and into his room before the first branch snaps, and leaves him staring at the pages in the dark.
What would happen if he did have a kid? What would he even do? He’s not ready to be a parent, he thinks. He doesn’t just want to do it for his Destiny.
What would he even name a kid? That’s probably an important first step. Pinocchio hums to himself, before flipping some of the pages and getting to work.
When Geppetto comes to check on him in the morning, he finds his son sprawled out on the floor, asleep over pages of his neatest handwriting crammed edge to edge with names.
There’s only one that repeats.
He doesn’t bring it up, though. Pinocchio feels the itch settle back into the back of his head, satisfied by a step forward.
There’s a new book on his workbench a week later.
Geppetto straightens the stack on his bench every time he passes it, slipping another book on marionette design into the stack. Pinocchio watches him half aware, humming as he works on a music box.
Geppetto slides a book of blueprint paper next to his arm, and walks away without saying anything. Again. Like he’s been doing every day for a month.
“Father, what is it?” Pinocchio squints over his shoulder, watching his father flick the magnifying lenses on his glasses, and focus in on his clockwork.
“Oh, nothing.”
“Uh-huh.” Pinocchio snorts, placing down his carving knife. “Why do you keep giving me books?”
“You’ll need them.”
“Father!”
“You will.” The old man narrows his eyes as he fiddles with the clock’s insides. “When you start planning for your child, you will be thankful for all the resources I’ve collected.”
Pinocchio blink. “I’m not carving a baby, Father.” Geppetto snorts at him, like it’s a joke. “I’m not!”
“Well, you certainly aren’t doing it the way Goldi and Grant are.”
“What, you don’t think I could?” His father lifts an eyebrow at him, either for his tone, or disbelief. “I totally could.”
“Do you know how babies are made, Pinocchio?”
“No?”
“Exactly.” Geppetto nods, going back to his work. Pinocchio blinks at him, until it’s clear the conversation is over, and gets back to work too.
The books tempt him though. The blueprint book especially; it gnaws at the branches in his head, and leaves him twitchier than normal.
His father’s a little smug about it, watching the book creep further and further through the house. Pinocchio flips through blank pages, and imagines the little sketches he could do, eyes and hands and smiles filling pages in his mind’s eye.
Pinocchio holds out for a couple of weeks, before he sets pencil to paper, and starts drawing.
Let it be known, Pinocchio has restraint.
He only fills twenty pages in the book before he decides to put it away. He manages not to examine every tree he passes, not thinking of the tentative measurements in his notes.
Canorous and Conspicuous Charming announce the birth of their second and third child. Twins.
Henry Huntsman welcomes a son into the world almost a month later.
And then it’s like the floodgates open, classmates he’s never even spoken to are announcing things left and right.
New house, new job, baby, baby, baby…
Pinocchio decides he is the most reasonable person in his class. He’s the one waiting more than three years after story endings, and college, to have a kid.
He’s the rational one, he thinks, accompanying Goldi to one of her doctor’s appointments.
“And there she is.” The doctor points at the screen, and Goldi beams. Pinocchio blinks, staring at the blurry figure on the screen.
“Wait, the baby’s inside you?!” Pinocchio says, turning to Goldi in horror. “How- why- ugh?!”
“What did you think I meant when I said I was pregnant?” She sighs, patting his hand.
“I don’t know?! That it was a fancy way to say you were waiting for the baby to be finished?”
The doctor looks at him, mildly concerned, before Goldi waves her off.
“He’s my best friend, not the father. It’s fine.” Goldi turns fully towards him. “Pinoke, only one of us needs to be freaking out, okay? This baby is not coming out of you.”
Pinocchio nods, and then he pauses. “Oh my Writers, how does the baby come out of you?”
“Pinocchio—!” Goldi sighs loudly, laying back on the examination table. “For fucks sake!”
The doctor shuffles out of the room, not that either of them cares or notices. Pinocchio stands and points at the small image of the baby on the screen.
“How the hex does that work? Is it going to hurt? Where is she—?”
“Do you want to be her godfather?” She clicks her tongue.
Pinocchio pauses again, before turning back towards Goldi. “Are you joking?”
“Nope. Do you want—?”
“Yes, I want to be her godfather!” He claps his hands, and slumps back into his seat. “Oh, should I get presents? I have a job, right? There are things I have to do?”
“Calm down, I’m starting to think you have bark beetles again.” Goldi narrows her eyes at him, and points accusingly. “How many cups of coffee have you had today?”
“Four, and I never had bark beetles, and you didn’t know me when I might’ve.” Pinocchio sniffs. “We were both done with our stories when we got to Ever After High.”
“Thank goodness for that.” They both sigh, before Goldi swings her legs off the table. “Come on, I want food, and you need some water.”
“Do you need baby stuff?”
“Not yet.”
“Can we look at baby stuff together anyway?”
“Sure.”
“Awesome, thanks.”
Goldi gives him a fondly exasperated look after lunch, watching him over a rack of baby clothes as he flips through little onesies.
“Hey. You have something you want to tell me?”
“Nope.” He holds up a purple onesie, and points at its sleeves. “Ducks!”
“Mhmm, very adorable.” She narrows her eyes, and reaches over to take the onsie from his hands. “Pinocchio, honestly, have you ever thought about the whole having a kid thing?”
There’s a pile of books burning a hole through his desk at home, and an itch in his now nonexistent roots that say ‘YES’ with all the enthusiasm in his body.
There is an instinct in him to lie, even though he hasn’t done it in ages. Say no, and she’ll move on.
“Yeah, I’ve thought about it. Just a little.”
“I bet you already have a name picked out.” Goldi smirks, folding the onsie. “What is it, come on.”
“Sometimes I hate how well you know me.” Pinocchio sighs, flipping through the hangers.
“Come on, I know you’re just dying to tell someone. Past effect of a truth curse, and all that.” She rounds the rack, and elbows him gently. “What is it?”
“Cedar. Cedar Wood.”
“First and last. Must be terminal.” Goldi whistles, looking around for a shopping basket, and ignoring his confused blink.
“Huh?”
“Your case of baby fever. Must be really bad if you have a whole name picked out. Did you already start designing?”
“Wha— baby fev— no, well I did, but nothing concrete yet!” He accepts the basket, as Goldi puts some of the onesies he was picking through into it.
“Uh-huh.” Goldi looks unimpressed, before turning on her heel. “Come on, let’s go look at blankets.”
“Do you think we’ll be able to find one to match the ducks?” Goldi groans, as he scampers to follow.
Buying the baby stuff was not a good idea.
It all sits neatly folded in the back of his closet, in a pretty wooden trunk with blue and purple flowers painted onto it.
His father had sighed when he walked in with the trunk, but he hadn’t looked inside, or even asked about it. Pinocchio’s sure that sigh would have been way longer, and combined with a knowing look, if he had.
He sits on the floor, fiddling with the insides of a music box, humming its song to himself. He’ll need to make one of these for his daughter one day.
Pinocchio blinks down at the gears, before shrugging with a small smile.
It’s getting worse, all the baby thoughts.
His Mirrorphone pings, and he sighs a little, looking at the picture of Goldi’s newly set up nursery.
Goldi isn’t helping the baby thoughts, keeping him updated on every little bit of the last two months. He supposes that’s his job as ‘Future Godfather And Yes It Is In Caps’, but man. He didn’t know she would egg him on like this.
He has nearly perfected a design, drawn, measured, and inked in his most recent blueprints. He knows what type of wood he wants to use, and exactly where to get it. He’s one phone call away from getting new tools, and a cedar log to carve with, delivered to the Woodshop.
Pinocchio sends Goldi an enthusiastic response, and lays back on the floor with another sigh.
Being responsible sucks.
He wants to start carving with every fiber of his being. He wants to figure out how he’s going to set carefully carved organs into a small wooden body, and arrange the room down the hall for his daughter.
Maybe she’ll want to live in the room in the attic with the view of the sea and the forest. Geppetto cleaned everything out a couple of years ago, and moved it into the basement, if they just keep it clear, it won’t be a problem.
Pinocchio sighs again, thinking about his lathe in the woodshop, unused and ready for him to turn a log, before digging out his blueprints and staring down at them.
There are little details he can correct, imperfections he goes over with a pencil, music box open to the air as he works.
He scratches out numbers and reworks the latch placement, chewing on the end of his pencil.
Geppetto knocks on the door just as his phone rings, looking at him with the start of a concerned look.
Pinocchio slides his book to the side, and tucks his pencil behind his ear, holding a hand up towards his father. “Hello?”
“Pinocchio. Hospital. Now.”
“Uh— Goldi, aren’t you due next week?” Pinocchio starts to get to his feet, scooping his blueprint book, his half-made music box, and his tools into the prepared bag by his desk.
“Pinoke, I will kill you. Get here.”
“I’m coming, don’t worry. Is Edmund with you?” Nothing but a sniffle on the other end of the line, and he clicks his tongue, pushing his way out of the house with a wave to his father. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Do you want me to call Scarlet?”
“Please?”
Pinocchio whistles for a taxi, pointing them towards the hospital, and pulling up Scarlet’s phone number.
“Hey, Red, sorry about this. Goldi’s having the baby now, and Edmund’s MIA. Uh, also she wanted me to call you. How’s the kid?” He spills, rummaging through his bag. Keys, snacks, hair ties, phone charger.
“Slow down, ‘noke. You’re not driving, are you?”
“No, of course not.” He watches the gears of the music box spill out into the bag, and sighs, leaning back in the seat. “I forgot to take the test two weeks ago.”
“Of course you did.” Scarlet sighs, and Ramona giggles in the background. “I’ll get someone to find the fiddler, you focus on Goldi. Don’t drink too much coffee, and don’t leave for longer than five minutes because everything can change quickly.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Pinocchio watches the buildings speed by, scratching at his wrist.
“Great. Call Marian.”
“Why am I playing secretary today, holy fuck—?” Pinocchio hangs up, and dials another number.
“Baby now?” Marian yawns, the boisterous sounds of the Merry Men in the background. Pinocchio scowls a little, hearing the clang of a sword through the phone.
“Baby now.”
“I’ll be there in twenty? Keep me updated.”
“‘Course, Mare. Take your time.” He opens the door as soon as the carriage starts to sloe, handing cash to the driver, and running into the hospital.
Marian and Pinocchio sit in silence, watching with wide smiles as Goldi cradles her daughter in her arms.
Marian alternates between looking at the baby, and her belly, tears almost brimming over in her eyes.
Pinocchio pats the baby on the hand occasionally, drawing on each new page with an almost frantic air.
“Let’s all be thankful two of you are workaholics.” Scarlet sighs from the doorway, while Grant holds a squirmy Ramona to his chest.
“I dunno why you would say that— do you think encasing amber in glass would be good for eyes? I need to find a metal worker, or should I do ball joints— I should probably do ball joints, right?” Pinocchio takes a sip from three empty cups before he finds one with his coffee in it, emptying it, before hunching back over the paper.
“Oh.” Marian sniffs, dabbing her eyes with a pretty-looking handkerchief. “He’s going to be spelltacular; I can’t wait to see my son.” She pulls her blanket tighter over her shoulders.
“Did you sleep here?” Grant frowns, somehow intimidating despite the fluffy wolf hood on the child climbing up his shoulders.
“Yes, why?” Marian smiles, ignoring the balking from their friends.
“It was only two days— does anyone have the Blue Fairy’s number? I lost it, also how much magic do we need to animate a kid?” Pinocchio looks up, as Scarlet leans down and scoops up all his paper.
“Ooookay. All of you need to go home.” Scarlet puts the pages back into his book, and shoves it into his bag. “Marian, call my asshole cousin, Pinocchio call your father, Goldi, you’re riding with us.”
The three of them grumble, slowly moving out of their positions. Pinocchio swipes a cup of ice, but lets Grant pry the coffee out of his hand, trudging out of the hospital with Marian.
They wait together for their respective carriages, watching Grant and Scarlet walk Goldi out as Geppetto pulls up.
“Need a ride, Marian?” His father smiles politely, while Marian shakes her head.
“No thank you, Geppetto. I called a cab.”
“Get home safe.” Pinocchio waves, sliding into the carriage. “Sorry your boyfriend’s the worst!”
“I will! Please sleep when you get home.”
“I probably won’t be able to, but I’ll try.”
Geppetto sighs, waving as he pulls away from the hospital. Pinocchio shakes in the passenger seat, picking at the strap of his bag as they drive.
His father ignores him all the way to the house, pulling Pinocchio by the collar of his shirt into the living room.
“Pinocchio, I need to talk to you.” Geppetto sighs, easing into a chair, and digging the blueprints out of his bag. “And I’m going to do it now.”
Geppetto leafs through the pages, and finds it within himself to sigh again, spreading them on the table. Pinocchio grimaces a little, bouncing his leg as his father inspects his work.
It’s always sickeningly personal to show someone his work, especially now. It feels a little like someone is staring at his soul.
“Do you want to be a father?” Pinocchio blinks.
“Have I done something to make you think I don’t?”
Geppetto waves his hand over the pages, and sighs. “Pinocchio, your blueprints are a mess, you brought clothes before you even thought of furniture, and you haven’t even told the Blue Fairy that you were thinking of taking your next step.”
Pinocchio blinks again, and then looks, properly, at his work. Some of the things he scribbled down aren’t even possible, not even with his skill, not even with magic.
“Son, if you’re serious about this, you have to be fully prepared.” Geppetto leans back, and looks at him. “You can’t improvise the details in the middle because you changed your design partway through.”
Pinocchio grimaces, tracing over one of his neater designs. “How did you know?”
Geppetto raises an eyebrow.
“When I was perfect?”
“You’re not.” He huffs, running a hand down his face. “You’re impulsive, you’re a coffee addict, you somehow manage to clean out a fridge by yourself, you never remember to buy flour—“
“I meant design-wise, Father!”
“Oh, you weren’t.” Geppetto looks at one of his clocks. “When I first saw you walking around, I was amazed of course, but then all I could think was ‘I should have given him ball joints, I painted his eyes a little lopsided, I didn’t carve his hands well’, etcetera etcetera.” He smiles a little wistfully. “But even with the imperfections, you were perfect to me, because you’re my son.”
“But—“
“I’m of the opinion that those flaws and imperfections make you human.” Geppetto shrugs, pilling the papers up, and placing them back into Pinocchio’s book. He stands up, and yawns quietly. “Perfection isn’t achievable. You’ll always find something wrong if you aim for it.”
Geppetto stretches, and walks towards the stairs. “You’ll probably have to restart these, but for now, go to bed.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too, tesoro mio. Via a letto!” Pinocchio tucks the book to his chest, and scurries towards his room. He sets it on his desk, and lays back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
His heart beats quickly and loudly in his ears, caffeine draining out of him as the clocks tick. Don’t aim for perfection.
In the morning, he’ll get up and pick up the books on puppet design his father gave him.
He takes it slow.
He settles the details little by little. He plans out hinges and pegs, draws out little limbs. Pinocchio meets up with his friends, helps Goldi with Blondie, and takes him time.
He practices while making little puppets, ones he puts on strings, ones he dances around the workshop. He puts dancers on his music boxes, and makes dancers into music boxes.
Alan Nutcracker commissions him in the winter, asking for a son. Pinocchio rolls his eyes, and accepts the money, and the magical wood.
“So he won’t need to be enchanted, like yours will.” He had said with a little bit of a sniff.
Pinocchio was never a fan of the Nutcracker prince. Maybe just because Clara was so nice to him after he signed the Book, and Alan was such a prince. So used to being unique in his temporary woodenness.
Pinocchio does it for Clara, and for the future boy that he’ll make. He’ll be great, he decides, laying out a blank blueprint.
The design is easy with all the practice he’s been doing. He does wooden joints instead of metal— so the magic in the wood isn’t interrupted— and buys the needed supplies to root the brown hair into a wooden head.
The townspeople give him looks, and scattered congratulations before he waves them off. Pinocchio works diligently, taking his time to cut, carve, and sand the wood down.
He steps back from his workbench as the icy wind howls outside his window, and yawns, assembling the little body. In the morning, he’ll call the Nutcrackers and tell them to come get their child. In the morning, Pinocchio will watch little eyes blink before an ear-splitting scream rattles his brain.
Pinocchio will hand over the blueprints, and watch Clara smile, holding her baby to her chest, before she hands him over to her husband, and said husband hands him to a servant. They will dress the child, and carry him out to the carriage, framing the blueprints in an ornate gold frame.
“You named him Nathan?” Alan will tilt his head.
“I needed something to call him.” Pinocchio will say. “I couldn’t just keep calling him nutcracker baby.”
But that’s in the morning. Tonight, Pinocchio steps back from his workbench, away from what is technically his first child, and heads to bed.
He feels steady. He feels, oddly enough, ready.
The Blue Fairy never answers her phone when he needs to talk to her.
She tends to appear whenever she wants, drifting in and out of his life, but knowing exactly when he needs her. Pinocchio figures he doesn’t need her, and starts making arrangements.
He gets the hinges and pegs from the local metal worker, checking them off his list. He stores them in a box in the drawers of his workbench, and copies over his blueprints with a white ink pen. He stores them in a folder carefully, and sets it in his bench as well.
Geppetto leaves him to inch through his preparations— getting the log of cedar arranged to be delivered at any moment, the smaller tools in their packaging just waiting to be freshly sharpened, eyes made of amber set in glass, paints and polishes and sandpapers all arranged.
Pinocchio watches flowers bloom, and calls the arborist and the lumberjack. He doesn’t wait for the Blue Fairy. If he waits for the Blue Fairy, he won’t get anywhere.
So Pinocchio carves. He cuts the log into four, and stacks the wood in the corner of the Woodshop, and carves.
Little by little he carves the shape of a little head. Then, a face. He carves out the wood in the eye sockets, and carefully sets in the delicate glass. His daughter looks up with the faintest touch of a smile.
Then little hands, tiny metal joints in the tiny fingers. He concentrates through magnified lenses, drilling tiny holes into the wood so he can set the metal in place.
Tiny feet, then a small body. He sets the pegs in their place, consulting his blueprints, whistling to himself. He doesn’t notice the sun rising until his father slides food towards him.
Pinocchio sleeps at odd hours, and carves whenever he can. It takes weeks to carve her out, a broken chisel and a spilled bottle of ink that stains the wood so completely and sticks the joints together.
Pinocchio looks up one night, to the midnight chiming of cuckoo clocks, and steps back from his bench. He’s transfixed, feeling the summer breeze through the window, staring down at the baby on his bench. He dresses her in the purple duck onesie, and bundles her up in a flowery white blanket.
Cedar isn’t yet animate, but she’s the most perfect thing he’s ever seen. She’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever made.
Pinocchio swears the stars twinkle a little brighter, and a soft chime fills the air as he looks down at her. “You’re a masterpiece, Cedar Wood. You are going to be spelltacular.” He smiles, holding her a little closer. “You already are.”
He looks at the fairy across from him, cross-legged on the floor. He looks up, to see his Blue Fairy leaning against the table with a wrinkled nose.
“Pinocchio.”
“Mamma, cuginetto.” Pinocchio clears his throat, and sits up. “I mean- Miss Penn, Cerulean. Good evening.”
“Morning, technically.” Cerulean grumbles, rubbing his eyes. The teen looks down at the wooden baby in his arms with a little amazement. “Is that her?”
“Yeah. This is her.” He lifts the baby, and watches the boy scoot forward. Penn studies her nails, and watches the two of them with a fond smile. “Isn’t she marvelous?”
Cerulean nods, touching the corner of the blanket. He signed the Storybook last year. This is his first big spell.
“Well? Are you ready?” Penn brandishes her wand, and her son does the same, standing with Pinocchio.
“Cedar Wood. I grant you life.” The blue light fills the room, and the declaration almost drowns out the sound of footsteps behind them. Geppetto grins at the three— four of them. “May you live a life that is fulfilling, and full of light and love.”
Cerulean lowers his wand and the light dims, and the wooden girl in Pinocchio’s arms moves, her little nose twitching. She sniffs quietly, before her pretty amber eyes blink, and she’s looking right at him.
“Hello, sapling.” Pinocchio coos. “Nice to meet you.”
Geppetto puts a hand on his shoulder, and Cerulean steps closer, the three of them staring down at the quiet baby. She stares back, eyes wide as she takes them in. Pinocchio hopes she likes them. He wants so badly for her to like him.
He’s already so proud of her, and all she does is blink.
Penn steps into the huddle, and presses her wand to Cedar’s forehead. “I give you a gift.” All of them freeze, turning towards her as blue magic flares in the room again. “It is the gift of honesty. May you never tell a lie.”
And, there goes his mood.
Pinocchio doesn’t have enough energy to argue, so he lets Geppetto do it for him, leaving the workshop to curl up on the couch, and coo down at his daughter. Her room is already set up, furniture painted and pretty, but he doesn’t think he can make it up the stairs.
All he can do is hold Cedar and smile, tucking the blanket better around her, humming a happy song. This is the best day of his life.
And he has a feeling, looking at Cedar as she tucks her face in towards his heartbeat, that it’ll only get better every day.