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It starts when Jack offers to watch Marty’s kids for the night. Finding a babysitter when you’re a minor celebrity is slightly more complicated than asking a teenaged neighbor, and they don’t really have any family close by. Consequently, the munchkins have been dragged to many a stuffy gala. Much to Jack’s delight, as entertaining the three little girls gives him a pretty easy out from interviews and sponsor conversations he’d really rather pass on. Inventing simple games and following along with their make-believes has always felt natural, and the girls like him too.
So when Marty mentions over lunch that it’s been months since he and his wife have managed a date night, Jack doesn’t even swallow his bite of PB&J before saying,
“I’ll babysit.”
Marty blinks in surprise, but more for the fact that Jack was never quick to say anything than the offer itself.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, they’re fun kids.”
“Alright, thanks man.
And so, that Friday night, when Eric climbs into the passenger seat of Jack’s car at the train station, he’s greeted by a sweet kiss and a chorus of,
“HI, ERIC!” from the backseat.
“Well hello there!” He turns around to beam at all of them, waving. “Jack tells me you ladies are joining us for dinner. Is that true?” They all nod enthusiastically, the middle girl, Amanda, asks,
“Is there gonna be pie?” Laura, who is five and therefore has her priorities straight wants to know,
“Can we have pie for dinner?”
“Hmmm…” Bitty pretends to consider it, while Jack tries to keep his laughter down and focus on the road. “Well I suppose…” Laura, bless her heart, cannot contain her excitement.
“AWESOME!”
“I could make chicken pot pie.”
“AWWWW”
“Come on,” Jack chastises gently. “Give him a break. Do you know how many laps your papa will make me skate if I let you all eat pastry for dinner? My legs will fall off!”
“Oh, and that just wouldn’t do,” Eric plays along. “Because, you see, I need him to get things off the high shelves.” The girls find this hilarious, and Jack pretends to be offended that they all find his dismemberment amusing.
They let themselves in with Marty’s spare key and Bitty makes himself at home in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and setting the oldest daughter, Robin (”my hockey nickname is Bandit, so you can call me that”) to mixing the crust before showing her how to roll it out. Jack settles with the other two in the playroom, listening and nodding seriously as he’s introduced to the most important dolls and stuffed animals. (”Maybe next time we come over, Eric will bring Señor Bun to meet Carrots.”)
Over the (slightly lopsided but otherwise delicious) chicken pot pie, the girls chatter excitedly about school. When they grow tired of talking about their classmates and teachers, the five of them linger over blueberry pie, and the conversations turns to Bandit’s hockey team until the girls start passing yawns back and forth.
“Well now,” Bitty says, looking to Jack. “I think it might just be time to get these little ladies off to bed.”
“I think you might be right,” Jack agrees, standing and plucking Bandit out of her chair.”
“Hey!” she protests, but the indignation loses effect when her mouth opens wide on a yawn and her eyed droop. Bitty gets a little one on each hip and nods down the hall.
All of them are half asleep by the time they make it to the bathroom, so bath time is foregone i favor of an assembly line of wiping the pie filling and crumbs off of their faces and passing them along to be wiggled into pajamas. With Jack and Bitty’s help, they brush their teeth in a line and are shuffled off to their rooms. One by one, Jack and Bitty go together to tuck them in. Bitty can apparently still recite the Tale of Peter Rabbit from memory, and Jack sngs a soft French lullaby that he remembers being warbled in his father’s baritone.
When all of the kids are asleep, they retreat to the kitchen and start washing up the dishes. Bitty packs the last of the pie in tupperware for Marty and his wife to eat later while Jack loads the dishwasher. Shortly after they sit down on the couch, Bitty tucked into Jack’s side, there’s the click of a key in the lock and muffled laughter echoes from the foyer.
“Hey guys!” Angela smiles widely and waves at them.
“Hey,” Bitty waves back. “How was dinner?” he asked, standing to accept a hug.
“Amazing,” Marty groaned, pattng his stomach. “If the nutritionist asks, I had chicken and vegetables.”
“And if you jealous teammates ask?”
“Lobster ravioli, holy mother was that good.”
“Not that I would know,” Angela muttered. “Since you absolutely refued to share.”
“If you wanted some, you shouldn’t have gotten eggplant. No way was I gonna trade for vegetables.”
“Oh that’s fine, dear. Just know that I will remember this.”
“Shit.”
“Well, I guess we’d better head out so you can try and get yourself out of trouble,” Bitty said. Angela looked to the hall clock.
“Oh wow, I guess we did stay out pretty late.”
“Yeah, I missed my bedtime and everything,” Jack said, stretching his arms before letting one fall across Bitty’s shoulders.
“Thanks again for watching them,” Marty said. “I hope they behaved?”
“Oh they were perfect angels,” Bitty assured him.
“Yeah, we had so much fun, we didn’t really want to give them back,” Jack agreed.
They ride home in sleepy, companionable silence, exchanging soft smiles at red lights. When Jack parks out in front of their building, he meets Eric on the sidewalk, hand arleady outstretched to tangle their fingers as they walk inside. In the elevator to their floor, they lean into each other. The two of them brush their teeth and strip out of their clothes together, collapsing into bed and curling together automatically. Bitty is half asleep when he murmurs,
“Those were some dang cute kids.” Jack’s arm tightens around his waist.
“Mm. We’ll have to get some of those, eh?” Bitty’s eyes shoot open and his spine goes stiff, but Jack has already dropped off to sleep with a final squeeze to Bitty’s hip and a heavy sigh. It’s almost a full hour before the warmth and gentle breathing behind him lull him to sleep at last.
That night seems to trigger a trend. Lardo calls it “baby-mania”. Shitty tells Jack his “biological clock is ticking. Tick-tock, brah. Tick-tock.”
Both of them are probably right.
In any event, Jack signs up for so many Little Falconers events that George stops asking before putting him on the list. Bittys twitter fills with retweets from the Falcs’ PR account. Countless photos surface of Jack giving a team of tiny ones a pep-talk or of him dragging his teammates’ kids around on the end of a hockey stick.
Christmas with the extended Bittle clan almost kills Jack. He’s positive that it’s Suzanne’s doing that he and Bits are rarely without one of the cousins’ dozen babies in their arms. Between the little babbling bundles he keeps getting passed and the sweet smiles Bitty shoots him over tiny-hatted heads, it’ll take a miracle to get him to New Year’s without his heart exploding. Moomaw takes one look at the way Jack goes speechless and soft-eyed whenever Bitty picks up one of the babies before she pointedly stars knitting a new set of baby booties.
The day after Christmas, they fly back to Providence to ring in the new year with their friends. Holster and Shitty get spectacularly drunk on champagne while the Times Square coverage plays muted on the TV. Jack corners Bitty outside on the balcony as the last minute counts down.
“Got any New Year’s resolutions?” he asks. Bitty pulls at Jack’s arms until he’s wrapped around him like a blanket.
“I dunno. Haven’t really thought about it, I guess.” He fiddles with the wedding ring on Jack’s left hand. “Life’s pretty good lately.”
“Yeah, it has been.” Jack presses his smile against Bitty’s temple.
“Do you have any resolutions?” Jack takes a deep breath.
“Maybe one.”
“Hm?”
“I think I’d like to be a dad.” Bitty turns in his arms, scans Jack’s face like he’s expecting a chirp. All he finds is the same 110% expression he’d seen across the altar last year; the “I’m ready for this” face.
From behind the sliding doors, cheers erupt, and Holster starts warbling Auld Lang Syne. Bitty rocks up onto his tiptoes and kisses his husband into the new year.