A/N: Here's something short, but fluffy.

Five

"Clara, why is this one broken?" the Doctor shouted over his son's cries. "We have two—don't they break at the same time?"

"It doesn't work like that," she replied, checking the temperature of the formula before capping the bottle and passing it to him. She watched as he tried to feed their boy with no success. "Some babies are just like this."

"He has a fault—why does he have such a fault?" he groused. The Time Lord was attempting to figure out what James was crying about, but it was no use. Poor James was simply sobbing in gibberish, something that the TARDIS was not able to translate.

"I'm going to go check on Alison and make sure she's alright," Clara said.

"No, just go to sleep; I'll keep on after James," he replied. "I'll sleep when you're not looking some other time."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." The Doctor leaned down to peck Clara on the lips and soon she was gone from the kitchen. Now it was just a matter of waiting things out.

Thanks to the Gallifreyan part of James's genetics, it took him a very long time to cry until it hurt his lungs and he had to stop. Respiratory bypasses weren't fully developed until adulthood, yet complex enough to still be used from the moment of birth. He whimpered as he glared up at his father, who was looking down at him with glassy, red-rimmed eyes.

"Don't worry now, lad; I've got you," the Doctor said, bouncing him gently. The baby croaked and he chuckled in reply. "Yeah, I know, I look like hell, but that's what all parents of babies are supposed to look like." He thought about it and yeah, he did look awful. With hair in need of a trim and the same t-shirt and hoodie for the past couple days, he was beginning to wear thin.

"Can I sing you a song?" he asked. "It's a very good song, one that I've sung to many children in the past. It was a favorite of your niece, Susan, when she was a wee bit larger than you. I'm not one to brag, but I was her favorite; kind of explains why she went into exile with me."

Little James gurgled and wriggled a bit within the Doctor's grasp. He was daring the ancient, near-godly being to impress him, which only made his father chuckle.

"You asked for it."

Soon he was singing, low and rumbling. He rocked the infant in his arms and paced the room in an attempt to soothe him further. The TARDIS left the lyrics untranslated, knowing how important it was to hear in the original language. He sung of brave heroes and valiant tales; of sweet water in babbling streams and fruit fresh-picked from the tree; rolling hills and a blood-red sky that at night turned blue. The song had it all, and the child knew.

Before long James was yawning himself back to sleep, which meant that his singing father began to walk through the corridors of their home. The door to the bedroom opened for them, as did the one for the nursery, and the Doctor placed his son down in his cot. Directly behind him his daughter slept on, not a care or a worry to her. He ended his song and left the room, only after speaking words in his own tongue over his children. The Doctor was nearly out of the bedroom when he heard Clara's voice from the bed.

"That was nice," she said. He turned and saw her, head propped up and giving him a congratulatory smile. Pulling back the blankets, she waited for him to kick off his boots and slide in next to her, lying within her grasp. "Is that a popular song on Gallifrey?"

"No; I wrote it," he murmured into her chest. Shifting in the bed, he was only comfortable when their arms were around one another and he was unapologetically using her as a pillow. "I'm not the best composer, but I try for those I love."

"I'm sure your children are honored."

He smiled against her skin, content and safe. If there was anyone who felt honored, it was him.