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A nighttime snowfall on Christmas Day, the best kind, the sort that ought to make Mycroft feel at peace with himself and all the world. He stands in a snug house, warm and comfortable, carols on the stereo and a drink in his hand, and feels uneasy. Mycroft can barely see beyond the light that spills from the windows, but the snowflakes glisten gold.
“Shhh,” whispers John as he shifts the baby. Mycroft hears his soft whimpers, the rustle of fabric, and then the quiet, popping sound of a baby suckling his bottle noisily.
“There you go,” says John, and Mycroft turns to look at him in the half-light, rocking as their son eats his late-night snack. John’s eyes close and his head nods forward – not asleep, but relaxing into the familiar routine, one arm cradling the baby, one hand holding the bottle as he eats. John’s mouth continues to move, and Mycroft can’t hear him, but he knows what is being said: soft whispers of love and comfort and care.
It’s not fair, thinks Mycroft, watching John with the baby who is now their son. John has the touch, can hold him and rock him, feed him and change him, and the baby is content. It’s as though the baby and John are part of each other, and Mycroft is the less competent interloper. When Mycroft tries, he fumbles the bottle and drops the pacifier, loses the sock and tangles the child in his swaddling. He can start and end wars, speak ten languages fluently, strike fear in the hearts of most nations – but when faced with the wide eyes of his child, Mycroft can’t find the courage to stare back.
The baby works his arm out of his swaddling and shakes it furiously, and lets out an indignant squawk as he kicks the blanket off. It slides to the floor, and John, half asleep, shivers, but cannot reach.
The glass is cold at Mycroft’s back; he moves away from the window and picks the blanket up from the floor. He tucks the blanket around them, behind John’s shoulders and around the curve of his arms. Only their faces show above the knitting, and John smiles up at Mycroft.
“Thanks, love,” says John, and the baby’s eyes take them both in, cuddling closer to his father’s warmth.
“It’s nothing,” says Mycroft, and he sits on the ottoman at John’s feet.
“Warmth isn’t nothing,” says John.
“He doesn’t like me,” says Mycroft, and feels stupid for caring. The baby isn’t two months old; he doesn’t know the difference between like and love and hate. He only knows the scent of John and the taste of milk, the comfort of a clean nappy and the hum of a lullaby.
Mycroft thinks John will disagree, but John says nothing, doesn’t even roll his eyes. He reaches out with a foot, and loops his ankle around Mycroft’s leg. “Come here, this rocker’s big enough for three.”
It is. Mycroft settles next to John; the baby’s eyes never leave his face. He watches his father, cautious, and then Mycroft reaches out and rests his hand on the baby’s stomach. When the baby wraps his tiny fingers around Mycroft’s thumb, Mycroft lets out a slow breath.
“There,” says John, quiet and sure. “You see? He does.”