Work Text:
The house is quiet with Adeline away. Not silent; with the ticking of the kitchen clock and the tapping of soft rain on the windows, it wouldn’t be fully silent. But for Slade and Grant, it was pretty close. Grant lets out a tiny giggle, and Slade looks fondly down at him from where he sits on the armchair.
Grant, barely eight months old, is sitting on the rug, a little army of colorful wooden blocks scattered around him in every direction, with one little orange square clutched in his tiny, triumphant fist.
“Ah, is that the winning block?” Slade asks, deep voice scratchy and soothing. Grant looks up, beaming as though he’d conquered the world.
“Dada!”
“Yep, I reckon that’s me.” Slade’s eyes scrunch as he smiles down at Grant. Oftentimes, people assumed that Slade doesn’t smile much. The truth is much simpler. Every time Slade smiles, it’s always at his baby boy.
Grant slaps the block against the floor, startling himself. His eyes widen above his chubby cheeks and he slaps the block against the floor and giggles again. Slade leans back against the armchair and huffs in amusement.
Eventually, Grant decides to make his way over to Slade, crawling his way across the rug. Halfway over, he falls forward, and stays there for a second as he scrunches his face up dramatically.
Slade raises an eyebrow. “You gonna file a complaint?”
Grant huffs and pushes himself back up, making it all the way to Slade and reaching up.
Slade scoops him up with a soft chuckle. “That’s my boy.”
Grant reaches up with his little fists, exploring Slade’s face. They grab at his ears, his nose, and pat along the stubble on his jaw before Grant’s apparently satisfied, reaching up and yanking on Slade’s hair.
“Careful now, I’m attached to that,” Slades rumbles, making Grant giggle again. Grant lets go, and Slade pulls him close, feeling his little boy’s warmth against his chest.
“Dada,” Grant says again.
“Yep, I’m right here, baby boy.” Grant rests his little head against Slade’s broad shoulder with a sleepy yawn, and Slade chuckles again, rubbing slow circles along Grant’s back. “You gonna fade that fast on me?”
Grant answered with another tiny yawn.
“Gonna take that as a yes.” Slade says softly, dropping his voice to a whisper. Grant’s breathing slows and the rain comes down a little harder on the window. The baby is asleep in minutes, and Slade stays still.
His arm starts to go numb, and his coffee is certainly cold on the table, but Slade doesn’t move.
(Can’t even imagine moving, if he’s being honest. Can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere other than where his baby boy needs him to be.)
Grant makes a sleepy noise and burrows into Slade’s chest, and Slade pulls up one of the soft blankets from the couch, wrapping it gently around Grant.
“So small,” he whispers, a note of wonder in his voice as he watches over his son. Grant twitches in his sleep, opening and closing his little fist, and without thinking, Slade offers his finger, letting Grant grip his whole hand around him.
His grip was so tight, but so impossibly small. So impossibly trusting. Slade feels something in his chest tighten.
“You’ve got me, baby boy. For as long as I’m breathing, you’ve got me.”
(Years later, after lifetimes have passed in whirlwinds of blood and anger in vicious cycles one after another, Slade, down an eye and a son and everything that keeps him good, will think back on those words and wonder when he made himself into a liar.)