A few people wondered in their reviews if Quatre had died which would explain Trowa's white face. Worry not people, I rarely kill off a character, and I never kill off a character in a humor fic. Cot death Syndrome is a very scary possibility, even when the baby seems fine the slightest change could cause Cot Death. I know that Trowa's reaction was also my reaction when I was babysitting a newborn for the first time. He's just a little worried. Here's part two.

Thankfully, Cot Death did not claim the pilot's mission the first night, but it took a lot of coffee to get Trowa fully awake and coherent for the day. After feeding, cleaning and changing the baby, which didn't go as smoothly as they'd hoped (the first bottle had too much powder in it, Duo accidentally let the baby slip under the water for a second, and two diapers were shredded before they actually got one on!) Trowa decided to take Quatre to the doctor for a quick check-up. He was still a wreck of nerves after reading the Cot Death article. Consulting the book, it said that the baby needed to be well wrapped up. All hands on deck for this operation. After a clean sleep and sweater, they debated on how to dress him.

" He needs a coat."

" Got one!"

" That's a jacket, baka!"

" What's the difference?"

" It won't keep him warm enough."

" Fine, here's a coat."

" Now he needs gloves."

" Those are too big!"

" It'll keep his hands warm!"

" They'll fall off!"

" They're made for babies his age! I can't help it if he's premature."

" How old is he, anyway?"

"Just shut up and get the gloves on!"

" He keeps squirming. Stay still dammit!"

' He can't understand you!"

" Well, they're on."

" Now he needs a scarf."

" He barely has a neck."

" He needs one anyway."

" And a hat."

" God, Trowa, what an awful hat. What were you thinking?"

" It's not that bad."

" It's a girl's hat! Take note, blue for boys, pink for girls!"

" I didn't like the blue hats. They didn't look warm."

" Yeah right. Hey, this kid can make anything look cute."

" What about bootees?"

" Got some!"

" And some blankets."

" What do we need blankets for? He's bundled up enough as it is!"

" Just in case there's a strong wind."

" Fine, here's two."

" Make it three."

By the time they were finished the only part distinguishable, as a baby was the two big blue eyes staring out at them and a slowly bobbing pink pacifier. Finding himself cocooned in the blankets, he starting kicking them into disarray, and a further half-hour was wasted trying to fix the covers. Finally, Trowa set the bassinet into the pushchair and set out for the bus stop.

Waiting at the bus stop with a pushchair is incredibly awkward. You need to stay at the handles to make sure that it doesn't roll off into the incoming traffic, and yet you also need to keep an eye on the baby. The result is that you push your way through the people surrounding you to check on the baby at least three times before the bus actually gets there, and nobody has scruples about shoving past you and the pushchair to get on the bus when it does get there.

Also, nobody is willing to help you struggle to fold up the pushchair and keep a firm hold on the bassinet at the same time. Trowa spent a good ten minutes pulling and pushing and apologizing to the disgruntled, unsympathetic bus driver before he got the pushchair into the luggage space and found a seat. Nobody was willing to move over a little to accommodate him, so the ride to the doctor's was spent uncomfortably perched on the very edge of a seat with the bassinet swaying dangerously on his knees. Mercifully, Quatre slept the whole way and didn't make a fuss. A lot of antagonizing stares are pointed at someone with a screaming child on a bus.

The doctor's surgery was, of course, full of old biddies with minor complaints who grumbled when Trowa went in ahead of them. The tests were quick and rather unsympathetic, actually, the doctor seemed unconcerned and bored by Trowa's concern for his charge, and poor Trowa left the surgery more worried than when he had first gone in. Deciding not to repeat the bus fiasco, Trowa wisely hailed a cab.

The cab driver actually helped him with the pushchair this time, throwing it into the trunk. But Trowa was horrified when the driver nearly threw in the bassinet as well.

" There's a baby in there!"

" Really? Oh, I see it now. I think you got a little over-zealous with the blankets, mate. Who's a pretty little girl, then, sweetheart?"

" He's a boy."

" You must be the first parent I've met who dresses a boy in pink, mate."

" I'm eccentric, and he isn't complaining."

The cab was a lot smoother than the bus, but that wasn't saying much. About ten miles outside of their destination, they ran into some roadworks, and the pneumatic drills caused Quatre to wake up. And for the first time since they got the mission, the baby cried. Not only cried, but bawled.

A screaming baby is actually quite frightening. They sound as if they are being tortured, and Quatre in particular had one of those "Why are you doing this to me?" wails. His tiny body was shaking, and for lack of anything else to do to punctuate his screams he was kicking and waving his arms about, and his little face turned an alarming shade of red.

" Hey, mate, do you want me to drive you to the hospital? It's only a few miles and I won't charge you extra."

" No, that's okay. I just need to find his bottle."

With a little bit of milk and the return of his pacifier, as well as the driver playing classical music over the radio, Quatre stopped crying. The aftermath of a tantrum can be worse than the tantrum itself, because the baby looks so pathetically grateful to you for stopping the pain, the tears that still run down its face might make you believe that they are tears of gratitude.

They eventually reached the safehouse, and Trowa was sure to tip the driver well for his help. For there are thousands of other people that just wouldn't care.

Two weeks passed, and the pilots were getting better at parenting. Sure, the 3 o clock feedings were draining, and on occasion they were a little overprotective, but there is deceptively little work in taking care of a newborn. The modern world just makes it seem harder than it really is.

One morning, Trowa woke up and instinctively looked over at the crib. Then he bolted out of the bed and over to the cot so quick he might have left a trail of smoke.

Newborn Quatre, wasn't there any more, instead an older baby sat upright staring at him. Amazingly, his sleeper still fit, because he wasn't a big baby, but his eyes held a certain measure of interest that wasn't there previously. Seeing Trowa stare goggle-eyed back at him, the baby gave him a charming smile and crawled to the end of the cot to be picked up.

Now fully conscious, Trowa remembered what was in the folder, and groaned. The next stage of their mission had begun.