A/N: I thought it was shitty that Jack had practically 3 father figures and they all sucked. I also thought it'd be cute if 2 of them acted like a divorced couple trying to parent baby Jack. No pairings. This story could probably still use some work but I'm posting as is.
Andrew Ryan stood on outside on the welcome mat of the cold winter evening to Fontaine's apartment building. The icy breeze whips past his face, cooling the exposed skin, blushing the tip of his nose, flecks of snow stuck in his mustache. He removes a dark leather glove to push the button on the intercom. There is alight buzz, not requiring him to announce his presence before the gate slides out of his way. The building is quiet this time of day except for the footfalls of Andrew Ryan as he climbed the steps up to the third floor. He'd never admit the weakness but the man found himself wanting to take a break halfway up the 3 flights. Ignoring his age, greying temples barely visible from under the brim of his hat, he treks up to the apartment. A moment passes before he knocks on the door, waiting for his racing heartbeat to climb down. His expression is hard, no nonsense, not looking forward to dealing with the person on the other side of the door.
It opens, to his dismay, to reveal an equally irritated Fontaine. The man leaned in the doorway, one thumb hooked into a pocket of his dark slacks and the other braced against the frame. His upper lip was close to curling in anger.
"You're late, asshole." He growls in his usual Bronxite bite.
"I was caught up in traffic." Ryan informs him, not a single drop of remorse in the excuse.
"Funny, cause that's what 'cha said last weekend."
"It was just as true then as it is now." He responds quickly his breath ghostly visible in the cold air of the hallway, hands stuffed into his trench coat pockets.
Fontaine mumbles without any conviction, not believing the excuse.
"Are you going to invite me in or make me stand out here all evening?" Ryan pipes up, the cold biting through his dress trousers.
The other man smirks, smug, as if he would like to affirm his question but instead steps aside, pushing the door open further for Andrew to enter.
"You look well." Fontaine's sarcasm dripped from his tone, eyeing the dark circles under Ryan's icy blue gaze. He hides a rebellious smirk perched in the corner of his mouth.
"And I see you've reinvented yourself." Ryan spoke plain, observing Fontaine's full head of blonde hair and new square jaw accentuated by the fresh clef in his chin. His voice doesn't need to reflect any insulting tone to make Fontaine seethe, neck splotching red.
"Everybody's gotta change sometime." He quips without humor, sticking a thumb under one of his suspenders.
Andrew observes the living room, lonely pieces of art deco furniture sat in the center, similar to how Ryan set up his office. The hardwood echoed when his expensive shoes clicked on the surface. There were no signs of a child living in the apartment from the state of this room and he wonders if the rest of the place is this barren and joyless.
"Unique. Not what comes to mind when one thinks of the environment to raise a child but you always were unconventional." Fontaine ignores the comment.
"Yes," Mr. Ryan affirms his previous statement. "I see you've also chosen to ignore my suggestion to remove that that hideous piece of taxidermy." Ryan remarks flippantly, staring at the large polar bear nestled in between the adjoining stairs.
"I told you I wadn't going to get rid of it." Fontaine crosses his arms in defiance but the other man doesn't take the bait.
"It scares the child."
Fontaine disregards the statement, as if it's the most ridiculous thing Ryan's ever said. "Jackie boy don't mind it at all." He waves it off.
"You're not as attentive to his needs." Mr. Ryan's diplomatic vocabulary had a tendency to bleed into his everyday conversation due to the unreasonable amount of time he spent working every week.
Fontaine doesn't falter. "You ain't around him enough to know what they are."
It's Mr. Ryan's time to seethe, an angry vein popping up on his neck, the dark sweep of his mustache accentuating the deep frown.
It takes a moment before Mr. Ryan's hate filled glare spies a small boy lingering shyly at the top of the stair. He's arms were thick, too big for his body, top heavy. His tiny cable knit sweater barely reaches his wrists but thinly manages to cover the slight chub of his baby belly. He had been due for a haircut judging by the overgrown tuff on brown hair on his head and Mr. Ryan makes a mental note to inform his secretary to schedule an appointment to visit his longtime barber of 11 years. Jack has large worried eyes, nervously chewing on the play plastic wrench from his toy set.
Ryan's voice lowers in tone, noticing the boys shape, as if Fontaine were a trusted confidant.
"My god he's gotten…" Fat he wants to say but catches himself.
"Big. He's gotten big." He decides, the "f" word still burning on his tongue.
He turns to accuse Fontaine. "What have you been feeding him?"
"The kid's growing, he needs it." Fontaine sifts through a couple women's mink coats stored in the closet.
"You're practically stuffing the child. Do you serve him anything healthy? A vegetable wouldn't kill him you know."
"You try feedin' the kid a salad and see if he doesn't put up a fight." Mr. Ryan wants to challenge him but decides not to.
Jack clung tight to the banister, awaiting instruction from one of his father figures. Andrew flashes him a parental smile before turning, sour, back to Fontaine. The frown at the corners of his lips matches the dark slope of his mustache.
"He still isn't talking?"
"Yeah." He mumbles, somewhat embarrassed, before inviting Jack down the stairs. The bark in Fontaine's tone lessened, brining out a rare friendliness both of the men didn't know possible. The boy was indefinitely the only person in the world that could elicit a genuine smile of the conman, melt his heart in the process. Ryan noticed this too and felt a similar kinship to his archrival in that brief moment.
"C'mere, kiddo. Ready to go?" Fontaine's voice was surprisingly gentle.
Jack strains his tiny legs when floundering down the steps. His strange top-heavy shape made his footsteps loud on the wooden floors. The shine on Mr. Ryan's expensive shoes catches his attention briefly while Fontaine retrieves a small coat from the closet. Fontaine pulls out a couple of miniature winter accessories before stuffing Jack into his tiny coat. A long scarf gets itself caught in the zipper and Fontaine forces it to bow, making an ugly sound in protest. A small cap is stretched over Jack's tuft of hair, matting it against his skull while Fontaine pats him down, pulling him in for a quick embrace. Ryan taps his foot absently, a terrible habit he had acquired at work while waiting for incompetent people to do their jobs correctly. Jack fusses with the fringe that sticks out from under his tiny beanie, hair tickling his thick eyebrows.
Ryan notices the blue, patient gaze of little Jack and lifts the boy momentarily by under his arms, resting him on his hip. "Hello, little one." He mutters softly before the words had time to process in his head. His old Russian accent slips back into the genuine remark and Jack stares at the sharp pattern of the man's tie. Ryan kisses the round apple of Jack's cheek, mustache prickling his baby skin.
"Have you been taking him to speech therapy regularly?" Ryan asks, remembering the agenda he had prepared beforehand, bouncing the child in his arms absently.
"A'course I have." Fontaine dismisses the insinuation, offended.
"Then why isn't he making any progress?"
"How the hell am I supposed to know? You're the one who hired that quack in the first place."
Mr. Ryan feels personally offended that Fontaine would insult his ability to employ capable individuals rather than defending the doctor's integrity.
"Dr. Lamb is the best child psychologist money can buy." His chest puffs out to intimidate but it's only half successful with a small child in one's arms. Fontaine doesn't flinch but little Jack does, noticing the bad mood both of his fathers were in. Ryan's mean gaze softens, apologetically resting his cheek on top of Jack's head. A familiar scent catches his nose then, a hint of an odor settled in a small stain on the boy's coat.
Ryan curiously pulls at the stain on the boy's jacket, bringing it closer to smell the substance. His dark brow knits together, deep frown returning to his face.
"Is this alcohol?" His voice rose past its usual uninterested range, not used to the sharp inflection, almost cracking in disbelief.
"It was an accident." Fontaine defends unremorseful. "A little liquor isn't gonna hurt him. Big deal."
"You were supposed to be watching him." Ryan hisses.
"I was! He was out of my sight for one second." He admits, unforthcoming about the story. Ryan sighs, fighting a strong urge to light up a cigarette.
"You were drinking with DeWitt again, weren't you?"
Fontaine rolls his eyes at having to explain. "I couldn't get out of it. I promised to host poker night here."
"Then decline." Mr. Ryan spoke with authority as if he were stating the most obvious fact.
"DeWitt's convinced he's gonna win some of his money back. It wasn't my fault."
"The least you could do is hire a babysitter."
"I did have one but you didn't approve."
"I didn't like the way he treated Jack. He wouldn't even use his name for god sakes."
"You tellin' me how 't raise my kid?" Fontaine gestures to himself, offended.
"I'm just as appalled as you are." Ryan starts noticing the man's outburst. "Certainly you're lacking in adequacy."
Fontaine's face flushes a bright red, an angry growl rumbling in the back of his throat. "Who th' fuck do you think you are anyway? Ya' think you can just walk in here and-"
"Stop your yelling! The neighbors will hear you." Ryan hisses with venom, voice barely bordering on a whisper.
Fontaine wants to scream even louder than before in the wake of being treated like some hysterical dame on the rag. If little Jack weren't in the other man's arms, he has half a mind to knock the son of a bitch out. Teeth grinding together, he takes a few deep breaths before the redness in his face subsides some.
Ryan huffs in irritation, headache brewing in his temples. He looks down at a shaking baby Jack in his arms, buried in the front of his suit coat. He rocks him gently, like he had when the boy was only an infant in footie pajamas crying from his crib.
The two men are quiet suddenly, aware of their effect on the child. The silence between them a concession, a compromise to comfort baby Jack. Despite their burning hatred for each other, they put those differences aside to take care of the light of their worlds. With Fontaine cooling and Ryan whispering kind things into Jack's hair, they both agree that this fiasco had gone on long enough. They exchange a knowing glance, Fontaine shakes his head once.
Balancing the boy on his hip, Ryan lights up a cigarette from his breast pocket. Jack, curious, reaches up with a chubby hand to grab the bright end but Ryan grabs it before the child had the chance to, squeezing his tiny fingers lovingly. Jack instead turns his attention elsewhere and begins to pick absently at the brooch on one of Ryan's suede lapels.
"I'll return him at the usual time." A cloud of smoke floats past his lips and over Jack's little head.
Andrew Ryan doesn't bother to bid farewell, knowing it wouldn't be genuine even if he did. Fontaine seconds the motion, mirroring little Jack's clumsy waving as Ryan starts down the stairs.
"Make sure the kid gets a bath! He starts school Monday." He calls after the fact.