Baby AU: Baby Bump (1-3)

*

Ilan was screaming again, which was nothing new.  His face had steadily moved past the same red as his hair, and into a purplish, undoubtedly out of hunger and exhaustion.  But he refused to eat and sleep, so what on Earth did he expect Jean to do about it?

The closest he could get to comfort was to rock and bounce the infant, in between annoyed swears toned like a lullaby.  He'd offer a bottle, to be quickly denied, periodically when they wandered over to the kitchen.

He was going to die on his night shift, but at least he had the joys of a screaming, horrible baby to comfort him.  Or, rather, the knowledge that his beloved fiancé's night would be spent with it would be enough to get him through.

Oliver had taken him out to their favorite restaurant.  It was a Tuesday, and certainly not an anniversary where they would have spent so much on dinner, so really Jean should have known that something was up.

"There was a car crash," Oliver said, somewhere during the appetizer.  "My cousin and her husband were killed."

"That's a shame," Jean said.  "Were you close?"

Jean didn't know why he asked.  Oliver rarely if ever spoke of his extended family, much less went to see them.  He wasn't surprised at all by the shake of the head.

"So I guess we're headed to a funeral then?"

"Well, I am," Oliver said.  "It's in Winnipeg, and I know you have a tough time getting off short notice.  Especially for people you don't know.  But… there was something else."

"Hm?"

"They, um… they had an infant son," Oliver said.  He sheepishly continued through the look he was given.  "The family's really concerned about him ending up in foster care, so they were looking for anybody who could take him…"

"Oliver, this'd be a horrible idea.  I know we tossed around adopting when we were married, but.."

"Jean, we've been engaged for 5 years now.  If we keep it up we'll be 80 before we can 'consider a kid'.  And the adoption process takes years, as is.  This would just be a few quick papers…"

Jean chewed through fennel and goat cheese, and tried to ignore the picture on the cellphone Oliver passed over. Sprouts of red hair, a pacifier taking over his lower face, eyes which had begun the slow shift from blue to a golden brown.

"His name's Ilan," Oliver said, an affectionate smile leaked into his voice.  "And he's only a month old."

Jean looked into the pixelated eyes, and somewhere between the appetizer being cleared and the main course being put down he agreed that it wouldn't' be so bad.

He'd been happy with his decision when Oliver had stepped out of the airport with the bassinette.  Ilan had fallen asleep during the flight, his tiny thumb securely in his mouth, and he looked so much like the child they'd talked about romantically while they laid awake in bed years before.

And then he woke up and revealed himself to be a colicky son of a bitch.

Ilan didn't like naps, eating, or toys.  He didn't like hugs or strolls in the park like Jean had always pictured.  He just loved to scream and shit god knew what (because he certainly wouldn't take his bottle for Jean).

Every time he tried to oppose, Oliver would whine about family, responsibility, and the horrors of foster care.  There was no way he could get rid of the bastard without breaking his fiancé's heart (and with it his eternal engagement).

All he could do was shove Ilan into Oliver's arms as soon as he made it home from the office.  Jean was in his chef whites and shoes, with a snap about how he'd sleep in his car, before Oliver could overcome his shock and manage a reply.

**

At 13 months, Ilan's favorite things in the world were the crayons scattered upon paper table cloths.  He didn't like to draw so much as to play with mixing the colors with heavy-handed strokes until the already-worn crayons were rendered too small for his tiny hands.

Ilan had decided, that night, that he had no time for the macaroni and fruit they'd ordered him.  There was much more important business to attend to, namely grinding the blue crayon into a nub.

Oliver struggled, in as dignified a manner as he could manage, to get the spoon into Ilan's mouth.  Jean smirked around his pizza as Ilan waged a babbled war against the food.

"Just put it down," Jean said.  "You know he needs to take out two or three crayons before he's interested in eating."

Oliver shook his head and took a slice.  "It might be more teething. He's due for his first molars, and then more incisors… He eats frozen things in a second."

"I've heard whiskey…"

"We're not getting the baby drunk."

Jean scoffed.  "You don't get them *drunk*, you just smear it on their gums until they're quiet."

"We're not doing that.  I bought some teething tablets the books recommended them," Oliver said, definitively.  "They've been working well enough, and I'm not going to switch to booze just to switch."

Ilan whined, softly, when he found that the blue had been ground into uselessness.  He ignored the others and strained for a yellow across the table.

"Papa…" he said, his tiny hand grabbing for it.  He smiled when Jean picked it up, and then frowned when it was held up instead of passed.  The second 'Papa' was far more of a plea.

"Please," Jean said.  He kept the crayon just out of reach of the pointing and grabbing hands.  "Please."

Ilan whined and pouted, but eventually repeated him.  He squealed when he finally received his prize, and then set to work turning the blue blob into a green one.

Jean watched him for a moment.  When he returned to his food, he found that he wasn't the only one taking in a view.

He raised an eyebrow over at Oliver.  "What?"

"You are actually starting to like him, aren't you?"  He grinned, in an annoying level of broadness, when Jean sputtered.  "You've finally come around to our son."

"He's your nephew, first off," Jean snapped.  "And second he'd just getting better because he's finally acting like a normal kid and not a complete jackass."

Ilan had decided, it seemed, that his drawing was complete.  He was finally ready to take his macaroni in a big handful and push it into his mouth.  Oliver chided him, softly, as he wetted down a napkin and wiped the sauce off the squirming toddler's face.

It'd been roughly a year before that the two of them had walked by this very restaurant.  They'd scoffed at the people inside, who clearly had no appreciation for food or atmosphere.  And now they felt almost disappointed when they went somewhere which would have been horrified to even consider a crayon in their building.

Jean didn't know when the change had happened, nor did he bother to wonder what else would.  Ilan had to be distracted from the cleaning with sliced strawberries and melon, and that needed far more attention.

***

"Daddy…!" Ilan whined, furiously, as he batted at the comb.  "I hate my hair like that!"

Oliver, not to be dissuaded, continued to comb.  "You have to look nice today, at least.  Stop fidgeting."

It was almost amazing to Jean that Ilan's hair hadn't been fixed with a brand-new comb after the massive shopping spree to get him ready for the first day of preschool.  The tags had been removed that morning, even, and Ilan itched theatrically as he attempted to be allowed back into his normal clothes.

Jean offered him a pitying shrug when Oliver looked away to busy himself with the camera.  He set Ilan up with his backpack, instead, for the picture they'd surely copy a million times for their relatives, mantle, and albums.

"Now, smile," Oliver sang.  He took multiple pictures before he was satisfied that he'd gotten what looked like a proper, happy, look .  As soon as he got it, he wrapped Ilan in a tight hug and placed a kiss to his styled hair.  "Have a good day, alright?"

Ilan hugged back, regardless of his continued pout.  "Okay, Daddy."

With a kiss for Jean, Oliver grabbed his briefcase and rushed out the door to make it to the office before the market opened.  The house was left quiet, and the remaining pair looked at each other.

"Can I get out of this, now, Papa?" Ilan asked, his eyes hopeful.

Jean shook his head.  "Your Daddy wants a picture of you in front of the school.  If you don't look exactly like this in the next picture he'll have my head."  He smiled, sympathetically, at the disappointed groan.  "But we have some time before we have to leave.  You can watch Thomas if you like."

"Okay…" Ilan said, glumly.

He trudged off to the living room.  Jean fixed them breakfast, and a snack for later, to the sound of the theme song.

Ilan was no happier later, and he glowered at the world from his car seat. Jean watched him, periodically, in the rear view mirror.

"I know you're not happy about the outfit," Jean said, soothingly.  "But we've seen this place.  Your teacher is very nice, and you should have a lot of fun."  He offered a smile, as reassuring as he could manage.  "And I'll have a special lunch waiting when you get home."

"You'll pick me up right away?" Ilan asked.  "You promise?"

He nodded.  "Promise."  Jean pulled over, and parked on the curb.  "Now let's get a picture quickly."

Ilan posed, as he was expected to, and then dragged his feet whenthey headed towards the door.

"I know it's scary," Jean said. "But you'll be alright.  You'll make a lot of friends here, I'm sure."  He kneeled down, when they made it to the door.  "So you go in there confident, okay?"

"Alright…" he said.  Ilan shot an apprehensive look to the door covered in paper flowers and bees.  "I'll try."

Jean had never been much for hugs, so instead he reached up and carefully ruffled the neatness from Ilan's hair.  "That's much better."

Ilan smiled, the only real one he'd given that day, and threw his arms around Jean's neck.  "Thanks, Papa."

Jean, however awkwardly, patted Ilan on the back.  "You're welcome, now head inside."

Ilan rushed in to a world of pastel construction paper and plastic toys.  After a long pause, it was finally Jean's turn to trudge off.