Chapter Text
Fit was having a good morning. His apartment bills had been paid, he just got his paycheck, his coffee was as warm as it could be. He was expecting the day to run similar to it, maybe he could go visit Phil, since he had off work today.
All of those thoughts go out the window by the time it's 11:32 am.
A knock was on his door. He had half expected to hear one of his friends voices seconds after, maybe Pacs light accent that tickled all of the right places in Fit.
This was not the case when he opened the door, however. An unfamiliar woman was standing there, holding a swindle of blankets. She has an unimpressed look on her face, one that Fit had seen on teachers when he was younger.
“Can I help you?” Fit asked after a moment, trying to keep his eyes on the womans face and not the bundle of blankets she's holding. God, is she just gonna stand there?
The woman sneers, fingers tensing on the blankets, “This is yours.”
“My.. what?”
She rolls her eyes, shoving the bundle into his arms. “Your child, you bloody idiot! Take him!”
Fit rushes to catch the bundle, God, this woman is careless with how she's holding it–
Wait, his child?
Fit opens his mouth to protest, ask what the woman is talking about– because Fit knows he has never hooked up with anybody, and he isn't interested in women, so why would they even get close to the point of children?
By the time he manages to stutter out a “what?” the woman has already fled, storming away with such an attitude even Tubbo on his worst days could be challenged.
The thing in his arms squirms, causing Fits eyes to snap down to it before he can chase after the woman.
Holy shit, she really wasn't lying. The baby can't be more than 2 months old, he can't be bigger than Fits head.
He mutters a curse under his breath, and he rushes back inside, slamming the door shut. He instantly regrets the action when the baby scrunches up its face, lip wobbling.
“No, no, I'm sorry, don't cry,” Fit stammers out, “c'mon, kid, I.. shit, hey..”
He softly rocks the baby back in forth, hands shaking as he watches the child slowly calm down, bottom lip no longer wobbling and face relaxing.
“Oh thank fuck. Kid, can you..” speak? He wants to ask, when can babies start talking? Can the kid even understand him? Surely, if it calmed down.
Much to Fits dismay, the baby does not reply.
Fit squirms where he's stood, continuing to rock the baby back and forth. Does he.. put it on the floor? Maybe he should've followed that woman, she probably had the wrong person.
He ends up putting the baby and the blankets surrounding it on his raggedy couch that, in Tubbo's words, “is on its last legs, just like you, Fit”.
“Fuck, what's even your name, kid?” Fit swears that if he had hair, it would've been pulled out six ways from Sunday by now. His fingers itch to dig into something.
“Calm, Fit. Calm!” He lightly hits his own head, eyes scanning over the room. This is not a baby-safe place in the slightest, and he definitely doesn't have anything a baby needs.
Babies need.. What do babies need? His hands are pulling out his phone before he can process it himself.
Babies need.. milk. Diapers. Milk should be easy, he has some in the fridge, diapers are the issue. Where does he find those quickly? He can't go to the store right now, not if a month old baby is on his couch right now.
Maybe he could call Phil? Phil– that man is a genius, surely he knows something about babies. He’d have to explain this whole situation though, and Fit is starting to think he's having a twisted nightmare.
Fit bites his lip, eyes widening when he sees the baby shift and its lip wobbles again. “Fuck! No- shit, sorry, kid, it's okay? I'll get you back to your mom.. maybe?”
This can't be real, Fit tells himself. He's gonna wake up any minute now, he's gonna go to work, and everything is going to be fine, and there will be no crying baby on his couch.
Fit puts his phone back into his pocket, sitting on the couch next to the baby, hands hovering like he doesn't know where to put them. Does he brush the baby's hair? The kid hardly has any. Does he pick him up? The baby cries louder.
“Fuck- be quiet, kid, uh..” Fit uses one of his hands to go under the baby and lift him up, his other hand propping up the neck. He thinks you're supposed to do that, he remembers seeing somebody do it to a baby doll.
Although being held seems to soothe him, the crying does not go away or dim in the slightest. Fit feels a headache starting to press against his skull.
“Kid, stop crying.” Fit tries, tapping the head softly. “I'm already holding you, why are you crying? I can't hold you more. Shit, uhm–”
Fit feels like he's going to hyperventilate.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty? I'll have to put you down if you want some food, you know.”
The crying lightens up. Fit sighs. “Alright, well–”
Fit almost starts crying himself when the boys sobbing goes back up to where if was when he's lowering him.
“Okay, we're doing this now.” Fit stands up, and he can feel his legs shaking. He can't do this, he should give this kid to Phil, or someone. Hasn't Roier been wanting a kid?
Fit slowly makes his way to the fridge, then proceeds to be stumped. How is he going to open the fridge door if both of his hands are occupied by holding a small creature?
He sighs, lifting up the boy to be positioned on one arm, his head laying on Fits shoulder.
Fit opens the fridge, eyes searching for– there it is! He grabs the milk carton, “Alright, kid, can you hold this? Eh, fuck it, open wide.”
The boy does not open his mouth. Fit raises an eyebrow, “Kid. Open. Ahhh. I have your milk.”
Fit sighs, putting the milk back in the fridge. “Okay, not that. What can you eat, if you don't want milk?”
Fuck, he's talking to an infant.
He shovels out his phone, re-reading over and over the details of what infants drink.
Breast milk.. That's off the chart, Fit can't produce that. Formula.. how will he get that?
The baby squirms again, and Fit groans, “I know, I know, I'm working on it. Calm down.”
The baby whines.
“Please don't start crying, fuck, don't cry,” Fit begs, leaning his head on the fridge door.
It's going to be a.. long day.