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The sun is slowly lowering in the sky and painting bright golden streaks across the fluffy clouds as the evening grows later and descends darker. Cicada hum to themselves in a droning manner through the dewy grass outside of the safe house. Inside the house, neither you or Fred are giving any real attention to the world that lays outside of the four walls surrounding you.
The two of you are situated comfortably on the cozy sofa in the living room. In the corner of the room, the gramophone plays an Al Bowlly record at a careful, quiet volume. The baby is fast asleep in the little wooden side crib that rests next to the lowly burning fireplace, having been fed a bottle of warmed milk by Fred minutes earlier which was quick to send her into a deep doze. Your lips curve up into a small, content smile as you glance over at the crib from your place of being curled against Fred. Your first daughter with Fred had been born a mere three months ago now. It had been three months since you had become a mother; three months since Fred had become a father. It was never a sentence you ever quite expected to speak as the truth.
Fred had been conflicted when you first told him that you were pregnant. Both of you were. You know what he is and so does he. Both of you know what his line of work involves and what it could result in at almost any given moment thanks to the FBI and the G men who continue to give it their relentless all. He had been so worried about how he could be a father whilst being who he is. Being a father and raising a child was one of the few things he had no experience in and no known skills in. That alone was enough to instil an unfamiliar and overshadowing fear within him, though he would never quite admit that it was exactly fear he felt until the two of you were alone and in the dark of your shared room before bed.
You almost cannot even imagine that as being the same man that Fred is now. He seemed to have sunk into the role of a father as soon as the baby was placed in his arms and he felt her light, delicate and fragile weight. Fred had already been fiercely protective of you all throughout your relationship together and all throughout your pregnant months before birth but when he held his tiny little girl for the first time ever… his silent fears combined with his protectiveness with smooth ease, creating an almost primal behaviour and attitude within him. He refused to let anyone else other than you and him hold her for the first full two months of her life, no matter if they were close family or friends. He looks at everyone sideways when they come anywhere close to you and the baby, no matter who they may be. He personally examines any and all new toys that she is gifted or that the two of you buy for her as to make sure there are no possible ways for her to be harmed by them.
Fred Barker has become a solidified fretting mother hen over his first little chick. The smallest and quietest of laughs manages to slip from your mouth as you think about the glaring contrast and what the G men would say if they saw him like this. The fearful public enemy Fred Barker turned simple mother hen all thanks to a tiny baby girl who bares his hair and your eyes.
At the sound of your hushed laughter, Fred looks up from his familiar task of cleaning a disassembled tommy gun on his lap with a rag covered in sticky gun oil. His tuned ears miss nothing. “What’re you laughing about, doll?” He asks, throwing a quick glance over at the crib before looking down at you. You shake your head with a smile and nestle yourself further into his side. “Just thinking is all, Freddie…” you trail off, leaning your head against his shoulder and looking up at him.
Fred furrows his brows slightly, waiting for you to continue. “Thinking about what?” He enquires, his deep eyes swirling with both confusion and intrigue. “About what the FBI and all of those G men would say if they knew that their public enemy is now nothing more than a mother hen who frets over his little chick.” You let out a teasing and dreamy sigh, watching the way his eyebrows twitch upwards in slight shock before stitching inwards once more.
“What’re you talking about? I don’t fret about nothin’-” Fred starts, his chest puffing out slightly as his chin begins to show that stubborn angle it has. “‘m a father is all but not some mother hen. You gotta be kidding around with me, doll.” He almost physically winces backwards as the label of “mother hen” leaves his mouth. You fail to hold back another laugh. This time it is louder and you are quick to bring a hand up to cover your mouth so that it does not rouse the baby from her slumber. Just like Fred himself is, she tends to be more than a bit fussy and grouchy when rudely awaken at a time that is not on her own chosen terms.
Fred slowly shakes his head in disbelief, watching you throw your head back against his shoulder. “Real funny, doll.” He murmurs, though a grin twitches at the corner of his mouth as he watches you, threatening his steely composure with ease. “You examined her new wooden toy horse for almost a full hour yesterday, Freddie!” You whisper with a choked snicker, your voice still breathy from laughter. He does not look away from you, his shoulders lifting and falling slightly with a small, unbothered shrug. “It could’ve had splinters or some sharp pieces. I was checkin’ it over to make sure.” He defends.
“And when you didn’t let Doc hold her even once when he visited last week?” You add on with a knowing expression. Fred looks away from you now, his gaze falling to his lap as he picks up a small gun piece to fiddle around with whilst avoiding your eyes. “He had that strong cologne all over himself. It would have been too strong for her to smell. It would have given her a headache. Her little nose and senses are real delicate, doll.” He almost stumbles through his words in a desperate attempt to explain himself without melding to the newfound “mother hen” label you have stapled to him. “He barely smelled of anything at all, Freddie.” you say, letting another quiet laugh spill from your lips. “He did. Doc doesn’t know how to hold a baby in the proper way anyways, it was all no good. There was no reason for him to hold her.” He picks up the loose gun pieces on his lap and sets them aside on the small table beside the sofa along with the dirty rag. Fred wraps his arm tighter around your shoulders as he gently pulls you over until you are sitting sideways on his lap.
You bring a hand up to stroke his stubbled cheek. “It’s truly not a bad thing to be a mother hen, you know.” You murmur to him, brushing the pad of your thumb across the mark beneath his eye. “I actually think it rather suits you, Freddie.” His dark eyes soften as he instinctively leans his face further into your touch. “Just… I don’t ever want anything happening to her is all. Or you. Neither of you.” He explains, stroking your hip with one hand as the other goes to hold your thigh through your dress skirt. “If anything happened to either of you… I won’t let it happen. Not so long as ‘m living and breathing. Not even the tiniest thing, doll.” He swallows thickly in a sparing attempt to stop his voice from wavering and shaking at the mere thought of even the slightest thing happening to you or your daughter.
Your own eyes soften with knowing as you bring your other hand up to cup both of his cheeks in your palms. “Nothing will ever happen to us, Freddie.” Your voice is quiet but full of thick comfort and an understanding that causes him to let out a trembling breath. You lean your face in closer toward his own, brushing the tip of your nose across his.
Fred brings his hand from your thigh to cradle your own cheek. His rough, calloused skin brushes across your face as he pulls you in to crash his lips to yours. The kiss is a desperate thing; his lips meld against your own as if attempting to memorise each and every minuscule detail about your mouth. His tongue traces your lower lip, silently asking for access. He releases a quiet groan into your mouth when you part your lips and tilt your head slightly to grant him it.
For a few spared moments, the home is plunged into almost complete, comfortable silence. It is broken only by the gentle crackling of the fireplace, the occasional slumbered coos of the baby and the quiet sound of slow, deep kissing. Fred begins to gently and carefully knead his skilled fingers into your tummy through your dress blouse. The leftover baby weight from your pregnancy has long since become something of a favourite part of you for him. You find yourself not minding his consistent appreciation for it in the slightest. His fingers dip into and massage the plushness as his other hand remains cupped upon your cheek. You reluctantly pull back from the kiss with a quiet chuckle, glancing down at his hand on your tummy with a raised eyebrow before looking back to him.
Fred stares back at you with a heavy lidded gaze. His lips are still parted from the kiss, lightly reddened in colour thanks to some of your lipstick transferring over and ever so slightly swollen at the corners. “Take your hand away now, mr Fred Barker.” You tease, watching the way his lips curl up into a cheeky smirk at the sound of you using his full name. He does not move his hand an inch but instead continues onward with his gentle kneading. “No can do, doll.” Fred mumbles, using his arm to pull you deeper into his lap and against his chest. He rests his chin atop your head, inhaling the scent of your hair and the expensive perfume he likes to buy for you. “Mother hen…” Fred grumbles under his breath. “You ain’t ever gonna let me escape being called that, are you?” You grin and lift a hand to twirl the end of his loosened tie around your finger. “Never ever, Freddie.” You confirm, muffling a laugh into his white button up shirt when you feel his chest rumble with a groan as he lets his head fall back against the sofa.
“So long as it makes you happy, doll.” He sighs in acceptance, though you do not even need to see the small smile on his face to know it is there. You can hear it. As the two of you sit there together in the warmth of your home, with your cherished baby close by and no worries in your minds for the moment being, Fred Barker knows that he could not care less about what things people may think of him. Whether they view him as a no good criminal or a fretting mother hen; so long as you and your daughter are safe and warm, nothing else truly matters to him at all.