A Spoonful of Sugar
(rated G)
Her pirate, she learns, has a rather comical affinity for chocolate milk.
As does, apparently, her four year old son.
She wakes late, even for a Saturday, and when she blinks the sleep from her eyes to peer at the clock on the bedside table, she nearly topples out of the bed at what the little red numbers blink—9:51.
Her first reaction is confused disorientation—she briefly wonders if the power flickered overnight—before panic takes over, because it's nearly ten o'clock in the morning and she hasn't heard a peep from any of her children and why is that.
She throws the covers back, blindly reaching behind her to fumble for her husband's shoulder, only to be met with a cool pillow. She pauses, one foot halfway into a ragged pink slipper, and glances back to make sure that, yes, she really is in bed alone. She frowns—because, really, is this some sort of freaky second coming?—but then she hears a giggle and a squeal come from the direction of the living room, followed by a deep, husky chuckle that she knows so well, and it starts to make a little more sense in her sleep-muddled brain.
She drops her head down into her hand, raking her fingers up through her tangled mess of third-day hair, and takes a second to breathe for the first time in, like, six minutes.
When she's finally come to terms with the fact that yes, it really is ten o'clock, and no, her children and husband have not been abducted, she shoves her other foot into her matching slipper and pads softly into the hall.
She glances in Henry's room as she passes, her lanky nineteen-year-old's form buried under a pile of blankets and pillows, and allows herself a small smile before continuing on to the living room.
She stops when she gets to the end of the hall, and leans against the frame, taking a moment to observe the sight in front of her.
Her husband stands at the kitchen counter, two glasses of frothy, chocolatey liquid in front of him, and a tiny bottle in his free hand. Liam is right beside him, squirming impatiently and grasping on to Killian's shirt in a vain effort to pull himself up.
Killian swivels his head to grin down at the boy. "Patience, lad," he chastises gently, nudging him back a step with his knee. "Careful of your sister. Why don't you run on over and turn on the cartoons, hmm?"
Liam huffs, but obliges, and she watches, slightly in awe, as Killian finishes mixing the formula, propping the bottle into the tiny swaddle of blankets tucked in the crook of his bad arm and collecting the glasses of chocolate milk in his hand.
This is the part of parenthood that she hadn't been expecting, this joy she feels at watching the man she loves care for their children. He'd been so worried, with Liam, that he wouldn't be able to care for the baby properly, but now, on this second go 'round, he's a pro, three hundred years of one-handedness more than preparing him for juggling two.
He turns, stopping when he catches sight of her in the doorway, and an apologetic smile quirks up the corners of his lips.
"Sorry," he says as she takes a few steps closer, relieving him of the chocolate milk. "I tried to keep him quiet."
"And let me guess, the tickle monster made an appearance?" she fills in, cocking an eyebrow.
He chuckles, low and warm, and she can't help but grin as he slings his now-free arm around her shoulders and presses his lips against her temple. "Something like that," he murmurs. He kisses her again, on the cheek, and again, right on the corner of her mouth. "And you know the only way to fend off the dastardly beast."
She nods into the crook of his neck, matter-of-fact. "Of course. Chocolate milk."
"Chocolate milk," he echoes solemnly.
She snorts, winding an arm about his waist—there's a part of her that still delights in his shiver when she slips her hand beneath the hem of his t-shirt, fingering the warm skin there—and lifts the other to brush the blankets back from her baby girl's face.
She's met with a pair of sleepy green-blue eyes, and she smiles softly as she brushes a finger over her two-month-old daughter's wispy black curls.
"I can take her, if you want," she offers, and she's surprised when he shakes his head, loosening his arm to push her gently back in the direction of their bedroom.
"I've got her," he assures her. "Go back to bed, darling."
She is exhausted, and the prospect of falling back into bed for another couple of hours is tempting, but then Liam catches sight of her, and he begins a chant of "Momma, momma, momma!" as he jumps up and down on the couch, and Meara begins to fuss and root for the bottle in Killian's hand, and even though she knows there are horrendous bags under her eyes and her hair is stringy and limp and she hasn't shaved her legs in at least a week, she just can't bring herself to leave.
So, she sets the glasses of chocolate milk down on the coffee table and swoops in to pepper her little boy with kisses. Killian half-heartedly offers to make her a glass of milk, as well, but she waves him off because, really, they both know that she'll just drink his.