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Rocking the kid back and forth seemed to do nothing in the dark living room of Banks' apartment, but the baby had been cyberfed half an hour ago and O'Doyle didn't want to wake her up again so soon.
He cradled the baby against his shoulder.
"Sh, sh ,sh..." Shushing him, trying to think of something a gun baby would need besides everything he had right at this moment. Skin to skin contact seemed to calm him down just before bedtime but right now it did nothing but keep both of them warmed up and cozy.
His mother would have left him to cry it out, but he wasn't his mother. He wasn't a mother at all, and all the complex feelings about co-parenting a robot gun baby with Banks would have grabbed him by the throat ten fold if he was.
How could she?
He looked at his baby again. A confused, half creature crying for their father, who would warm his baths and kiss his forehead goodnight after reading a bedtime story that did not include rainbows and gold and oh so lucky four leaf clovers. Those were stereotypes.
Instead, a wreath of tiny baby's breath flowers braided atop of a head laid in the infinite sea of the clouds surrounding slumber. He would count sheep and close his eyes, nose to nose, breathing deep, holding hands, checking for monsters under the bed before flicking on a sweet nightlight. You don't need to face the wall, I'll distract wandering thoughts with gentle song, humming deep. Caressing the bridge of your nose until you fall asleep. I'll be there if you wake up. I'll be here.
O'Doyle kissed his baby on the forehead, tiny little butterfly soft kisses against what would be the soft crown of his head if his baby was made of a different kind of iron and flesh as the fat tears rolled down his red cheeks and the cries of his gummy mouth winded down like he was tiring himself out. He put a finger to the baby's fat little hand and he grasped it, nuzzling against his shoulder to dry his tears and striking watery snot against it, little hiccups coming deep from his belly. A tiny whine following up.
"Oh, love..." He sighed.
Under five minutes the baby was asleep again and he was walking to Banks' bedroom where she had made a little corner for his baby to stay in.
When he left the baby amongst the soft blankets she stirred awake.
"Hhnmggggmmmm... Whazginmmm....." She mumbled.
"GB was cranky. I just put him back to bed." O'Doyle sat beside his son, stroking his tiny back, following the slight up and down of his ribcage. Banks took a deep breath.
"Hhgnnn...eedstuh feedhgnnnm..." She sighed, extending a limp hand with the cable that connected her and his baby. "Whhh..hidn't whemm mmmup?"
"He's been fed. I woke you up a little under an hour ago." She rubbed her eye.
"...Really?"
"Mhm."
"Huh."
"You don't remember?"
"No..." She snorted, slumping against her pillow again. "I guess I got a ser's case of mom bra'n..." She shook her head. "How's the lil guy doin'?"
"...He eventually calmed down."
"Hmmmmmaybe he had a tummy ache." She sighed. "You should've woke me up." Banks stretched her back, her face buried in her pillow still and arms up against the headboard. She turned to him. Took him in. He could feel the whirl of the gun baby under his palm. What made him not human, but soft and fragile. Something a bullet could splatter by mistake into hundreds of tiny baby pieces and the only difference between him and a normal baby was... What?
"I had it handled."
"Maybe." Her voice was low and rough from sleep. "But I could have helped, you know?" She lifted then lowered her shoulder, smushing her face into a little pout just for a second. "I could have told you what was wrong." Banks looked at the baby. "I could have fixed it." She blinked slow, sleepy like a cat. "It's the least I could do, ya know?" A little smile. "If we're doing this together."
He just... Stared.
Her gaze flickered to him again.
"God, your eyes can really freak someone out, huh?"
"I don't want you to be GB's mother."
"Huh?" She propped herself up a little. "I- Wha-"
"I feel as if I should make this very clear-"
"No! I- No, I never assumed-" Banks sat up and shook her hands.
"The nature of this exchange has been… challenging, to say the least."
"You could say that again..." She's feeling awkward.
"And I wouldn't want to impose-"
"No! Of course not!"
"And resuming our professional arrangement as fast as possible would be ideal."
"Yes, yes, no! Of course- I-" She cleared her throat. Twice. "I- Of course it would be ideal for me too. Obviously! I'm working on a way for you to take care of GB on your own with Dr.Finch. You know this."
"Hm."
"Progress... Has been slow... You know... With... The President-"
"Yeah, yeah-"
"And whatnot."
"Hm." He nodded.
"But I should- I mean, I'll have a way for you to take care of, of GB in no time. I'll make it a priority. No problem."
"Thanks."
"...You're welcome." She nodded.
Time seemed to pass slow like molasses. O'Doyle could hear the tick-tock of Banks' wall clock she had on the kitchen wall. A car skidded the asphalt a couple of blocks away, passing through, sound merging into the night. Banks eventually melted down under her sheets again, shuffling the thick covers up to her chest. She sighed. Her eyes were heavy.
"You know I care about GB, right?"
"Of course."
"I don't want you to think that- it's not like I want to be his mom, but it's not like- Like I hate the idea- I don't necessarily want to be his mom, but also, I don't don't want to."
"So... You want to?"
"No! No, I just-" She shook her head and composed herself. " I never dreamt of being a mother. You know? How the 'maternal instinct' is pushed into little girls since before we're out of diapers with baby dolls for babies and veiled misogyny but- I guess what I'm trying to say is... If GB was my baby, I wouldn't really... Mind it? Which is! A crazy thing to say! He's a literal gun baby. I didn't even know what that even was until a couple of weeks ago! Not to mention the fact that he's a robot desiged for failure... He just- He shouldn't have anything appealing to me, but he's such a sweet kid. I can't help but want to help... him."
She looked so soft. She had looked at him so soft.
"...I'll have a system ready by the end of the week for you. I'll miss having the little guy around, but there'll be nothing better than a full night's sleep after you're gone."
"Thank you."
A moment passed and she turned around, scooting closer to the wall, nuzzling into her pillow. Gun baby stayed asleep, his tiny movements lulled and rhythmic, simulation and reassurance. A treasure with a pretty bow attached.
O'Doyle brushed the thin whisps of hair on his baby's head, circled chubby cheeks with the tips of his fingers, ran the back of his blunt fingernail through the bridge of his baby's precious little nose, thumbed his eyebrows, lashes. He adjusted his baby in his little nest, running cold and knowing his baby would be alright with the light covers. "He'll overheat otherwise." Banks had said. "If you want to deal with a hot, sweaty, crying baby every night be my guest!" She had gestured to the overcrowded bassinet at his house. "But I'm not dealing with this at my house-" And his baby showed his preference really fast and swift, wailing until he could sleep only on his diapers and binky, under their eyes and the little blue stars he had glued above at the ceiling.
"...come back to bed?" She whispered.
That night Banks had slept in one of his oversized gym shirts. It was grey and it slipped a little bit off her shoulder and he got mad at her when she spilled a spoonful of oatmeal down the front and GB got cranky right then so he had to dab at it for her with a damp tissue while she held his baby and she looked at him so soft he held that tissue for what seemed a second too long against her breast. He then threw it away and went back to his own breakfast.
Next time she brought her own pajamas. It wasn't anything fancy, just some comfortable shirt and pants. He couldn't even tell if they matched most of the time, but the last set she used had something corny written on the front and a repeating pattern that matched the graphic design on the bottoms and it was still sitting at his house, washed and folded inside the drawer he had emptied for them. Her and his baby, and between himself and god he could admit that he now wishes he hadn't washed them.
O'Doyle got himself up and stalked through the carpet to her bed. He laid on top of the comforter this time. Stiff, staring at the blank ceiling, imagining it popcorn over. Cracks and stains forming in places he could almost see, knew like the back of his hand. Mountains with raging rivers that he now turned into meadows where sheep grazed the pasture, tall grass whipping their fluff from the wind in rows. He cradled his own heart on his fists and squeezed. Juiced it, sheared it. Dressed it, fleshed it, tanned it. Breaking it open soft. He stuffed it with wool.
The bed moved a bit, a tiny bounce. He looked at Banks and less than a minute later she wiggled again, lifting up the comforter under him as much as she could pull it, so he climbed under it with her, slotting their knees together, her socked feet cradling his leg. She lifted her head for him to put his arm under and pulled the other to rest on her waist. Her nape smelled faintly of copper, if he inhaled really deep he knew he could catch a hint of burnt plastic, rubber, the unnatural smell of a circuit board newly welded. But the smell of her hair was overwhelming. She liked using coconut oil between washes, the smell lingering together with her jasmine shampoo and the simple smell of her skin after she used her almond moisturizer trough her whole body.
Minutes later he could tell she was still awake because she kept playing with his fingers, thumbing through his metacarpals. Both of her smaller hands squeezing, fingers intertwined, cradling him. She ran her fingertips through his nail beds, cuticles, knuckles, massaging the bones and between them to his wrist, thumb resting for a moment at his pulse, pressing it, her breath slow as she counted for a minute. She then let one hand go, following the mattress down to her waist to grab his other hand. O'Doyle pulled her but a centimeter closer. A faint gasp escaped her mouth, warm and humid on his arm. He put his hand on hers, traveling up until she sandwiched them between each other. His and hers and his and hers and she grasped and intertwined until they held each other, both hands palm to palm, one set so close to her face he could feel the bridge of her nose brush against the knuckle of his thumb. His forearm slotted between her breasts.
O'Doyle squeezed her a little. He brought both arms against her torso, holding her hands still as he took a deep breath, curling up into almost a ball against her back.
"Hnnshhtaaaphhu..." Banks mumbled, half asleep half drowsing. He let her go, adjusting their arms to be the most comfortable while still holding hands, her drool dry against his arm.
Eventually she fell deep into sleep, her breath light and even, hands warm and fingers limp. He let her go, turning to the white, smooth ceiling of her bedroom. One arm still under her waist, skin touching skin where the shirt had ridden up and it was so warm and cozy. He knew she wouldn't wake up if he moved. He didn't.
Not saying anything wasn't lying. Saying what he meant wasn't either.
Maybe omissions and would be truths was a fae thing but he wasn't half fae, he was half leprechaun. Some days he'd rather be half devil than him. Half a curse he used to his benefit half not. Half creature designed for failure. Impulse contained by discipline. Full hatred, half his half his mother's and he-
Banks stirred. She turned around, slotting herself against him in sleep, limp hand against his chest. His arm under her went up to settle on her shoulder. He pulled up the stretched neck of his shirt, covering her clavicle again. Banks sighed once , then her breath went back to her sleeping lull. He could hear the whirl his baby made while sleeping, the clock in the kitchen, a bird waking early, before the sun even though of rising.
O'Doyle closed his eyes. Tomorrow Banks would give him the simulation kit for GB she's been sitting on for a couple of days and he could go back to sleeping in his bed alone everyday without the compulsion of saying "I'm falling in love with you." instead of "Good night." hanging over his head. And he could live normally again, until this feeling died down and he could co-parent like a normal fucking person and say "I don't want want you to be his mother because no kid should have my idea of mother as theirs." and they could work together just like that, forever. No complicated feelings. Nothing to worry about. Just a man and a woman and their baby. Coworkers and co-parents. Straightforward, the way he always has things planned. He would keep his bullets lined up and his pockets full, his head on straight and he would feel like himself again in no time, and all this confusing mess, silences he couldn't fill because he couldn't lie, little things he couldn't abstain from, it would all vanish. Poof like a cloud, and he'd be back to professionalism, and strict banter and teamwork and he wouldn't fall asleep with Banks in his arms again and that was for the best. Really.