Can't Sleep
Javier sighs when he wakes to a cold bed. He's ninety-eight percent sure he knows exactly where his bedmate is. The same place she's been for the last twenty-four hours. He groans and rolls over and out of bed in the same movement.
Sure enough, Lanie's in the nursery, the same place she's been in those twenty-four hours since they brought their little man home.
"Cari."
She looks exhausted. Her hair hangs limply around her face, her eyes are red. She needs sleep, desperately, but she grips the bundle in her arms in both hands.
"Lanie, Cariña, come to bed."
"I'm fine," she says and God even her voice is cracking from how tired she is.
"He's fine," Javier replies quietly. "The doctors say he's just fine."
"Just fine?" her voice is harsh, hard. "Do you have any idea what kind of risks there are for a kid with underdeveloped lungs?"
"Respiratory distress syndrome. BPD. He may be more prone to lung diseases like asthma or pneumonia." He heads over to her, slow, then crouches down beside the rocking chair he'd so painstakingly picked out. "Cari, they wouldn't have let us bring him home if they were worried he was going to get sick."
"God, Javi. He could die."
He doesn't bother to mention the fact that so could he, any day. So could she from stepping into the crazy New York streets every morning. "He won't."
It doesn't change the panic in her eyes.
"If he develops asthma, we'll deal. If he gets pneumonia, we'll deal. Kids get that stuff all the time, Lain."
"They're not our kid," she snaps back.
He forces himself to breath. He's pretty sure Lanie hasn't slept since they brought their son home so the angry snapping is just a reaction. "Lain, kids get sick. It's normal. They get sick, they get hurt. They get better."
She snorts, looks down at the tiny sleeping face in her arms. Their son. Even he has to take a moment as he follows her gaze because it's still totally surreal.
His son.
"Hovering isn't going to keep him safe," Javier says quietly, sliding his fingers up and down her arm. "Neither is bubble wrap. He's going to be fine. The doctors say there's no problems, that his lungs are healthy after those days in the NICU. He will be fine."
"What if he stops breathing?" she asks hoarsely, running a finger down the baby's cheek. The little man's a champion sleeper, even if it's only for a few hours at a time.
"He won't."
"Javi-"
"The monitor is right there, Lanie. We'll know if something's wrong."
Her eyes are fluttering. Lanie can pull 36-hour shifts in the morgue and never feel the effects until she's face down in her pillow. But the stress of the last three weeks, the constant trips to the NICU, plus the Cesarean they'd had to resort to when their new addition had gone into distress, it's all catching up to her. They've been together long enough that he can see it and then some.
"Cari. Put him in the crib. Come to bed. He will always be okay."
He waits. He's patient, and he watches her grip relax further. Eventually, he reaches out and slides the baby from Lanie's hands. Their champion sleeper barely stirs as Javier slips him into the empty crib. Then he turns and holds out his hand.
She lets him lead her from the room, but makes a noise when he goes to close the door the whole way. He leaves it cracked, but rolls his eyes. She's too tired to even scold him for that, but her body's tense when they both settle in bed.
"Lain, come here," he requests softly, because she's at the opposite side of the bed. He actually has to tug her across the mattress and against his chest. He slides his hand beneath her bedshirt – she's been in mostly pajamas and soft shirts while the C-section scar heals – and along her back. She arches, actually purrs because she's that tired and it takes no more than five minutes to have her out cold.
Javier smiles, wide and free. He can hear little murmurs from their son – their son – and feel Lanie breathing against his neck and he can't make it stop. It takes him longer than it probably should to fall asleep, and even then it's for maybe an hour before their champion sleeper also reminds his father that he's also a champion eater, but Lanie barely stirs when he gets up.
He falls asleep in the rocking chair, the kid against his chest.
It's an accident, but when Lanie manages to drag herself from the sheets – fourteen hours later – it certainly doesn't stop her gentle mocking.
But he has Lanie, and he has his son. He can take a little bit of ribbing.
Happy Valentine's!