Work Text:
You read 2:17 a.m. on the digital clock on your nightstand when you woke up abruptly.
You didn’t know why, but you had the feeling that something was wrong.
Your ten-month-old daughter had been far too quiet throughout the night. You hadn’t heard that soft breathing you were so used to. Not even her little snores. There hadn’t been the slightest movement in the crib, which you could see through the baby monitor sitting on your nightstand.
Leon, who had seemed to be in a deep sleep when you went to bed very much later than him, was already sitting up, as if he’d been that way the whole time.
You hadn’t noticed him waking up. His body was completely tense, his head turned toward the hallway visible through the wide-open bedroom door.
“Leon?” you murmured sleepily, rubbing your eyes as you adjusted to the darkness.
“I heard her.”
That was all he said. You were about to reply, but he was already on his feet, heading toward your daughter’s room.
You followed him down the hallway, barefoot, trying to make as little noise as possible, though you knew it would hardly matter.
The baby’s door was also ajar. Leon pushed it open a little more, and you noticed his fingers trembling.
He approached the crib the same way.
As you’d expected, the baby was still there but, to your surprise, she was completely flushed, the little bit of hair she had stuck to her forehead.
She stirred when Leon leaned over her. She let out a small, weak whimper, and something twisted painfully inside you. You started to worry when Leon carefully picked her up before you could say anything. She curled up against him immediately, her tiny hands clutching his shirt.
That’s when you noticed it.
Leon trying to keep his breathing steady. His jaw clenched; his entire body tense, even more than before. The way his arms wrapped around her, as if he had to protect her from something, a bit more than necessary.
“She’s burning up,” he finally said.
You could hear his voice trembling.
You placed one hand on his back and brought the other to your daughter’s forehead.
He was right. She was burning. Too much.
“Okay, okay…” you said slowly, trying to stay calm for both of you. “She probably has a fever. Let’s take her temperature.”
Leon didn’t move.
His eyes darted from side to side, nervous, until he started pacing the room restlessly.
“She’s too hot,” he repeated, looking at you as if begging you to make it stop. You really wished you could. “She was fine when we put her to bed, love. She was fine, and now—”
You gently took his arm.
“Leon, sweetheart, look at me.”
It took him too long, but eventually his eyes met yours.
You could’ve sworn you saw a tear slip from one of them, but you chose not to draw attention to it.
“Go to our room and sit on the bed with her,” you said softly. “I’ll get the thermometer and some water.”
He nodded and did just that.
His movements were clumsy, mechanical. When he reached your bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed, holding the baby close, tucking her against his chest as if afraid he’d lose her if he did anything differently.
You hurried downstairs and moved through every room in the house. The kitchen. The living room. The garage. The small laundry room. You gathered the thermometer, cool wipes, water, several types of medicine, and even your daughter’s medical booklet… just in case you had to call the doctor.
Or if we have to take her to the ER.
You shook your head. You had to push the intrusive thoughts aside.
Between Leon and you, someone had to stay calm. Leon was usually the one in that role, but tonight, for some reason, the roles had reversed.
When you returned to the bedroom, Leon hadn’t moved an inch. He was gently rocking the baby, as if afraid of hurting her or making her feel worse.
“She’s breathing funny,” he said.
You knelt in front of him and took his hand, careful not to make any movement that might upset your daughter.
“She’s congested, Leon. That’s all. When babies have a cold, they breathe like that... weird and all that, you know.”
“She doesn’t have a cold,” he replied flatly. “At least, she didn’t before we put her to bed tonight. And I don’t think she just caught one while sleeping, out of nowhere. Something has to be wrong.”
You stood up and sat beside him, pressed close. You wrapped an arm around his back and began to stroke it. To your surprise, he didn’t pull away. He rested his head, lightly, against your shoulder.
You knew he was on the verge of a panic attack, doing everything he could to calm himself.
“I should’ve come to check on her earlier,” he said again.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, love.”
“Yeah. That’s what they always say when something bad happens and it’s my fault.”
You took a deep breath, choosing not to engage with that comment so things wouldn’t spiral further. You picked up the thermometer you’d set beside you and carefully placed it under your daughter’s arm. She fussed a little and almost started to cry, but thankfully she settled again.
Either luck, or the fact that Leon never stopped gently rocking her and humming softly.
When the thermometer beeps, you lower your gaze and remove it. Leon stares at the screen as if it were a bomb.
“102.3°…” you say as calmly as you can. Maybe Leon’s nervousness is starting to rub off on you. “It’s high, yes, but it’s not dangerous. We should start trying to bring it down.”
“And if it goes higher? What do we do? Is something going to happen to her…?”
You straighten up and gently hold his face, forcing him to look at you. Then you place a brief kiss on his lips without breaking contact.
“Leon, she’s okay,” you say firmly. “She’s here, she’s breathing fine considering she’s sick. It’s just a fever, love. She probably caught a chill or something, and her little body is fighting it off as fast as it can. Nothing more serious is happening,” you reassure him.
He swallows hard.
“I’ve seen fevers turn into something worse,” he murmurs. You hold back a sigh, knowing exactly what he means. Knowing he’s panicking more than he should, more than he deserves after everything he’s been through. “I’ve seen people die because of—”
That last sentence is the last straw for you.
“I know, but this isn’t that, okay?”
You try to answer as calmly as possible, but it’s hard. You fight back tears and, above all, try not to let his words drag you down with him. You blink a few times and remind yourself that it’s normal for babies to get sick, and that this is the first time your daughter has fallen ill since you had her almost a year ago.
She’s a perfect baby, with perfect health, and she’s probably picked up a virus from another child at daycare.
“We’re not anywhere else,” you tell him again, calmer now. He knows exactly what other places you mean. “We’re at home, with our little girl, who most likely caught a virus at daycare,” you explain. “We’re both here with her, and this will pass soon.”
You sit back down beside him. He rests his head on your shoulder again. He stays like that for a while, longer than usual for Leon, who can never stay still. His breathing slowly begins to even out. Carefully, you wrap your arms around both of them, hoping tonight won’t be one of those nights where physical contact becomes a trigger for his anxiety.
Luckily, it doesn’t seem to be.
Minutes pass, and you stay just like that until he finally seems a bit calmer.
“I can’t lose her…” your husband whispers, kissing the baby on the forehead.
“You’re not going to lose her,” you assure him. You don’t like how extreme his words are, but after everything he’s been through, can you really blame him for being afraid of losing everything? “You’ll see, she’ll be better soon. I told you, I’m sure of it. It was daycare, really,” you repeat.
You dampen the small towel you brought with a bit of water and gently wipe your daughter’s forehead, her neck, her tiny hands. Leon watches every one of your movements, watching you with affection.
The moment you move away from him even slightly, he straightens again and starts pacing once more, slowly, never stopping the rocking, never stopping the soft humming.
Minutes pass, maybe even an hour, two, and Leon doesn’t sit down once because he can’t. All he can do is walk with the baby in his arms, whispering stories about how you met, how you got married, everything you had to go through to get here. He tells her how much he loves her and what he dreams of doing with her someday.
The way he’s acting reminds you of how he behaves when he’s trying to convince not only you, but himself, that he can control his panic attacks.
Of course, he never can do it alone, and he always ends up needing your help.
“Everything’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs to the baby. “Daddy’s got you… Daddy’s here with you…”
You check her temperature again.
“101.8°,” you tell Leon with a calm smile.
“It’s going down already?”
“Of course,” you smile again.
His shoulders relax a little, and even though he’s calmer, he keeps moving.
Ten minutes later, Leon asks you again, much more softly this time, if you can check her temperature once again.
“101.2°.”
This time, he finally sits down. You sigh in relief.
He rests his head against the headboard and closes his eyes for a second. You see exhaustion hit him all at once. Sadly, not just from tonight, but from the years of carrying too much concern for everyone.
“She’s still warm,” he says quietly. You notice the apology in his tone and can’t help but feel bad. “But not like before.”
“She’s doing great,” you reply, kissing the baby on the forehead. Then you kiss Leon’s cheek. “And so are you.”
He lets out a nervous laugh.
“I’m acting like an idiot.”
“You’re acting like a first-time father would, love. Like a very good father, actually.”
That breaks him.
He swallows hard, unable to stop his eyes from filling with tears. He looks at the baby’s face, now peacefully asleep and her mouth slightly open, and gently strokes her head, unhurried.
“I’m used to saving the world,” he says softly, “not… bringing down a baby’s fever. Maybe I should train for this, too.”
You rest your head on his shoulder.
“Love, parents don’t get training manuals when babies are born. You love her and you worry about her. That’s more than enough.”
He hugs her tighter and reaches for you with his free arm.
You stay like that for a while, holding each other in silence, until Leon’s breathing finally becomes steady again, as if nothing had happened.
You climb into bed, and Leon follows. He refuses to let go of the baby, even when you’re both certain her fever is gone.
You don’t mind at all. You hold the baby while Leon goes to get the crib from her room and brings it into yours. When he returns and sets it beside his side of the bed, he reaches out for the baby. You hand her to him, thinking he’ll place her in the crib—but instead, he sits back against the headboard, curls up with you, and keeps holding her.
“Thank you,” he whispers against your hair.
“For what?”
“For staying calm. You’re always the one who keeps it together in moments like this. You know… when my head starts spiraling, and—”
You smile, exhausted but strangely content after such a long night.
Leon was everything you needed, for the worse or for the better.
“That’s what husbands are for, love. And that’s what I’m here for as your wife. I know you’d do, and you already do, the same if our roles were reversed.”
He kisses your temple.
Then he places the baby in the crib and finally lies down, letting you pull him close, settling near enough to wrap his arms around you and not let go.
“Thank you for everything. I love you,” he whispers one last time before you both fall asleep.