Author's Note: Thanks so much for the feedback and support everyone! (Also, just to quickly clarify, How to Fall in Love With a Frenchman was initially intended to be a sort of prequel to Girlhood, which is why I have female America and Canada in this fic. It takes place within the same universe.)
After net neutrality was repealed yesterday, I really needed to write some fluff to cope. Here's the result. Enjoy and remember to leave a review!
Okay, Arthur, you can do this. Just take a deep breath...
He is tempted to throw his hands up in the air and give up as he tries to soothe an inconsolable Amelia while she screeches and howls at him. He's already doing everything wrong, and it's only the twins' first night home. Her cherub cheeks are tinged scarlet and slick with tears, and all Arthur can do is stare at her dumbly and wonder if there's some kind of medication out there specifically designed to get a child to stop shrieking at him like this.
In preparation for this fateful day, he and Francis have transformed the guest bedrooms into separate nurseries—one for Amelia and one for Madeline. At first, they had intended to keep the girls together in the same room but decided against it once they were informed by one of the social workers they've been in near constant contact with that Amelia suffers from infantile colic, which essentially means she cries at regular intervals to the point where she gives herself abdominal pain. It's a common thing in children of her age. It's not harmful, and she's going to grow out of it—hopefully sooner rather than later.
But her frequent crying spells mean she's going to be waking Madeline throughout the night, so they decide it's best if each baby has their own room, at least for now.
The crying starts around six in the evening and persists for almost four hours. Arthur and Francis put Madeline down for her nap and then take turns sitting in the nursery with Amelia, trying their best to make her comfortable. Arthur had the foresight to read up on possible remedies for colic, and so, he and Francis do everything from swaddling her in a blanket, putting a pacifier in her mouth (which she promptly decides to spit out), and placing a warm bottle on her belly. None of it works for very long. She just lies in her crib and sobs, face still cherry red.
As they both continue to lose hope, Madeline's baby monitor flashes as she begins to whimper from her room down the hall. Francis goes off to tend to her while Arthur remains by Amelia's side. If he were a better father, he might have gotten her to quiet down long enough to take a nap, but, alas, he's a mediocre father that's hardly adept at holding her let alone comforting her. Father is a generous title—one he hasn't earned yet.
Pick her up, a voice in the back of his mind tells him. Stop being afraid you're going to hurt her and hold her, you dolt.
Hesitantly, he scoops Amelia out of her crib and sits down in the nearby rocking chair with her. He rests her tiny body against his chest and rubs her back helplessly. Every one of her sobs feels like someone is driving a knife farther and farther into his heart. How do parents do this?
"Shh, shhh," he begs her, rocking her back and forth a little—at least, that's what he thinks one is supposed to do in a situation like this. Somehow, he can't help but wonder if he's just hurting her even more. He's not cut out for this, clearly. "It's okay…Please, don't cry."
He's not sure if the child tires herself out or if his ministrations actually help, but regardless, she settles down about twenty minutes later, cries become softer and softer and as he continues rubbing her back. At long last, she falls asleep, eyes fluttering peacefully shut, and Arthur is left to appreciate the beautiful silence and the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.
Soon after, he finds himself drifting off as well, just as tired if not more so.
And he's too deep in sleep to notice Francis hovering by the doorway several minutes later with a smile dancing across his lips.
There are some things medical school did not prepare him for. Changing a diaper is one such example.
Infuriatingly enough, Arthur discovers that, apparently, Francis was a babysitter for a good portion of his young adult life, and thus, has changed dozens if not hundreds of nappies. And well, Arthur can't stand the thought of his husband being more capable of doing something than he is. Frankly, his ego is on the line now, so when he finds that Madeline is in need of a changing, he takes the baby into his arms, goes up to her nursey, lays her on the changing table, and assures Francis and himself that he knows exactly what to do even though he's clueless.
He approaches Madeline like he would approach a patient and puts on a pair of gloves. Then, he undoes the sticky flaps of the diaper in question, hands trembling.
Madeline, meanwhile, squirms and kicks her feet out, fussy and unhappy with the ordeal.
"Stop. I'm trying to help you," Arthur futilely explains, holding her legs with one hand and lifting her up slightly so he can take away the soiled diaper and slide a new one underneath her. He grabs the box of wipes from the other end of the changing table, makes sure Madeline is clean, and then debates what to do next. Is that it? Did he skip a step? Which way are the tapes on the sides supposed to go again? He makes an attempt to secure the diaper around her, realizes something isn't right, and undoes the tapes again, annoyed with himself. Why does this have to be so complicated? Children should come with an operation manual of some sort.
"Arthur, mon amour, what are you doing?" Francis asks, coming into the room and scaring the living daylights out of him.
"Changing a nappy, obviously."
"Then, why on God's green earth are you wearing gloves? She's your daughter! And you're going to give her a rash if you don't use some cornstarch," the man chides him, stepping forward and taking control. He grabs some baby powder and carefully applies some to Madeline's lower belly, between her thighs, and onto her bottom. It must tickle, because Madeline giggles, and Francis deftly finishes putting the diaper on before lifting her into the air, blowing a raspberry onto her tummy, and finally setting her down in her crib again.
"I hate you," Arthur says, back hunched and pride wounded.
Francis laughs at him and pecks his nose with a kiss. "Keep practicing. You'll get better at it—and stop trying to doctor them, for goodness sake. They're not patients—they're your children."
Arthur tries, he really does, but it's not easy, especially when he's functioning on very little sleep because Amelia keeps them up for most of the night. To make matters worse, he's only allowed six weeks of adoption leave from work.
And so, after just six weeks of fatherhood, he is forced to go back to the hospital and must somehow balance his hectic schedule with child-rearing.
Francis stays home with the girls, setting his job at the restaurant on hold. This leaves Arthur as the sole breadwinner of the house, which puts even more pressure on him than he's used to.
And in the midst of this, he also attempts to work out the logistics of his private practice, which he's still in the process of opening.
Thus, both he and Francis end up more exhausted and stressed than they've ever been in their entire lives.
So when Arthur comes home late from work one night, he's not surprised that he and Francis snap at each other and finally get into a long overdue argument. Somehow, a discussion about how the girls need to go their pediatrician to get some vaccinations since they're about to turn six months old devolves into a fight about how Francis doesn't feel like Arthur is doing his fair share of work in raising the twins. Arthur asserts that someone needs to pay the bills, and it's not like he's relaxing and doing absolutely nothing while he's at work for so many hours. He's tired, too, and he's beginning to feel like he's becoming Francis's personal punching bag.
They start to sound like an old married couple. This is the ugly side of marriage. It's what happens after one has children.
Their arguing wakes Amelia, and Arthur offers to go and check on her, but Francis snarls and says he's done enough already before storming away and handling it himself.
Wearily, Arthur washes the dishes in the sink and sorts through the laundry, feeling the need to do something lest Francis decides to yell at him some more for being useless. Once that's taken care of, he goes up to their shared bedroom and sulks.
To his surprise, Francis comes in and apologizes.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout and take my anger out on you. Being with the girls all day while you're gone can feel overwhelming," he says.
"I'm sorry as well. I should have been more sympathetic," Arthur whispers, not wanting to risk waking the children again. "Even though I can't always be here, I want you to know we're a team…And I'll do all I can to try and be home more often."
"Oui, a team," Francis agrees, embracing him. "I'm sorry. I was the one who wanted us to have children in the first place, and now I'm the one complaining the most."
Arthur chuckles. "It's okay. We knew this wasn't going to be easy, but if I didn't want things to be this way, I wouldn't have agreed to it. You didn't coerce me into adopting the girls, you know. Get some sleep. I'm off tomorrow, so I'll be around to help."
"Merci, mon coeur. I love you."
"You're sure about that?"
"The correct response is, 'Oh, Francis, I love you, too, and I am filled with raging passion for your good looks and allure.'"
Arthur rolls his eyes and turns out the light to hide his small smile. "Idiot…I love you, too. Now, sleep."
Around the time they start weaning the girls off of formula and onto more solid foods like mashed vegetables and fruits, Arthur finally manages to open his own office, which means he's now almost always home for dinner, and he has two to three days off per week to spend with the girls, shouldering a good chunk of the responsibility that was previously bogging Francis down. In fact, their improved schedules mean that Francis can now return to the restaurant on the days Arthur is home.
Of course, Arthur can tell Francis is happier once he's able to cook again. The glow returns to his face and eyes. It's good that his entire life no longer revolves completely around the girls and that he can have a number of hours to do other things. Some occasional distance is necessary.
Likewise, Arthur is happier now that he can spend more time with the twins. He has the luxury of being able to take the girls to the park or out for groceries. He can play with them, give them their baths, and most importantly, have some quality father-daughter time to bond with them.
One morning, while he's feeding Amelia and Madeline some mushy peas, Amelia tries to slither out of her high-chair and shouts, "Da!"
Which is close enough to "Dad" for Arthur to feel touched as he pries her mouth open and tries to get her to swallow another spoonful of peas. Of course, she spits most of it back out, staining her pink bib.
"Must you make this so difficult?" he asks her gruffly. "If you don't eat, we'll send you to the hospital for a feeding tube."
Why is he threatening an infant? What has his life become?
"Open," he orders, poking the spoon into her mouth again.
Begrudgingly, Amelia swallows the food this time but quickly bursts into tears as a result.
"Oh, come now. It's not that awful. You're being dramatic. Those crocodile tears won't work on me. I know better," he scolds her lightly, wiping her face with a damp washcloth. "Honestly…Such a fussy eater when it comes to vegetables, but the moment I give you something sweet, you devour it…Madeline, how about you? Fancy some more peas?"
This is nice—just sitting here and talking to the girls. He doesn't even mind that Amelia is being a pain in the neck again.
He tries giving Madeline the mush, and she tucks into it with a bit more enthusiasm.
"See? Isn't that nourishing and delicious? Tell your sister she's being a brat. Soon, you'll both be eating all sorts of foods."
Madeline bites at her bib—a sign she's beginning to teethe. Her gums are itching, and so, once Arthur decides he's gotten enough food into both of the girls, he gives them the teething rings Francis bought several days ago when they noticed the twins' teeth beginning to erupt.
Madeline happily chews on the ring, but Amelia, choosing to be difficult yet again, bangs the teething ring against her high-chair and shrieks.
"Da! Da!" she cries.
"Yes, yes. I'm right here," he promises, ridding Amelia of her pea-covered bib before pressing a small kiss to her forehead. It's incredible how quickly he's gone from being self-conscious around the girls to being Mr. Mom. He barely recognizes himself anymore. He's a completely different person from who he was just two months ago, and he didn't think such a drastic transformation could be possible.
A few weeks after the pea fiasco, the girls get into the habit of calling Arthur "Dada" and Francis "Papa," and it's hard to believe they're already beginning to talk.
Francis gets all of their words and babbling on video and sends it to everyone he knows, immensely proud.
And in the blink of an eye, the girls officially turn a year old. Francis insists on throwing a birthday party for them—balloons, party hats, cake, and all. They invite some of the "mommy friends" they've both made while taking the girls to the playground, and as a result, on a blistering hot day in July, children and their parents from all over the neighborhood stop by to celebrate.
Arthur discovers that children still give him migraines—other people's children, that is. He only likes his girls, and this becomes especially clear to him when little Mathias from down the block starts running around the house and nearly knocks over a vase.
Maybe it's a good thing they didn't adopt a boy after all.
There are some things one expects with parenthood. Those things include but are not limited to: sleep deprivation, frequent anxiety every time something potentially dangerous gets in the hands of one of the babies, feeling an inkling of loathing toward one's partner after a hard day, neglecting one's own needs in order to fulfill those of the children, and the acknowledgment that one no longer has a social life.
What Arthur doesn't expect is that he will be on the receiving end of text messages from Francis in the middle of his workday that read:
"Madeline just went to the toilet by herself for the very first time!"
"Do you know where we put the humidifier?"
"We should get the girls ready for preschool entrance exams. It's never too soon to start investing in our children's education."
When Amelia and Madeline start walking properly, are fully potty-trained, and begin to string together sentences at the age of two, Francis is overjoyed. Arthur, on the other hand, isn't quite as mesmerized and excited. While he appreciates now having the ability to communicate more fully with the girls, he knows this is going to be nothing but trouble in the long run. They're called the "terrible twos" for a reason, and he isn't looking forward to the backtalk, the tantrums, and the general disobedience he expects from the children from this point onward.
Unsurprisingly, Amelia turns out to be a master at the art of the tantrum. She can walk into a supermarket and throw a fit that's so horrific that nearly every passerby will think Arthur or Francis is doing something dreadful to her. She can scream, kick, cry, holler, and threaten to hold her breath until she dies (but Arthur assures Francis that this is physically impossible for her to do, so neither of them worry too much when it happens).
Madeline has a handful of tantrums as well. They're infrequent, but they often have something to do with Amelia. For example, last week, Amelia earned herself a cookie for finally making an effort at eating her vegetables, and Madeline insisted on getting a cookie as well—crying and shouting until Francis assured her she wouldn't be getting any treats if she kept up her bad behavior.
But there are precious moments, too. Like one afternoon when Amelia shouts at Arthur, "Wook, Daddy, wook!" and presents him with a drawing, shoving it into his hands and waiting for his hum of approval.
"Ahh, and what's this? Who are these people in the drawing? Is that a headless chicken in the middle?"
Amelia crosses her arms over her chest and lets out an adorable huff of indignation, obviously annoyed at always having to explain everything to her unenlightened father. "Me and Maddie in da kitchen!"
"Maddie and me," Arthur corrects, but he knows it's no use. He finds himself trying to fix Amelia's bad grammar at least two dozen times a day, and he's not sure she's listening. "Mmm, but I see it now—the headless chicken is the kitchen table, isn't it?"
"Wike it?"
"Do I like it?" Arthur chimes back, hoping she'll eventually start mimicking his complete sentences. "Of course, I like it. I love it. Thank you!"
Amelia's face splits into a brilliant smile, and Arthur can't help but pull her into a hug and place a kiss on her head. She squirms at the smothering and scampers off a moment later, enamored by something more important that has caught her attention.
"No running in the house!" he reminds with a little sigh, but, as usual, he's disregarded.
He has a sneaking suspicion Amelia knows she has him wrapped around her finger.
They don't get their first real test as parents until the girls are about two-and-a-half.
The February evening starts out innocently enough. It's a week before Arthur and Francis's anniversary, and they're both sitting in the kitchen, enjoying a cup of tea together. Francis chats about this and that, and Arthur tries to follow along even though his eyes are drooping and his brain is devoid of all feeling and awareness.
"Remind me to do some shopping soon. The girls are outgrowing everything again. Did you happen to sort through those storage bins in their closets like I asked you to?"
Arthur pulls himself out of his sleepy stupor and mumbles, "I didn't get the chance, but I'll do it first thing in the morning."
"Don't forget."
"I won't."
"Are you all right?"
"Fine. Tired, as usual," Arthur says with a large yawn, and, as if hearing him and wanting to mock him, the house erupts with the noise of wailing as one of the girls begins to cry—Amelia, from the sound of it.
The twins are supposed to be asleep for the night, and after struggling to get the two of them into their pajamas for an hour, Francis thought they would have been spared any more drama for the time being. He thought wrong.
"I'll get it," Arthur assures, lugging himself out of his chair and up the stairs, already mentally preparing himself to soothe Amelia after what might have been a nightmare, as she's notorious for having frightening dreams.
Unfortunately, he realizes the situation is a bit more complicated when he walks through the doorway to her bedroom and finds her covered in her own vomit. Wonderful. It's a good thing he's desensitized to these sorts of messy situations. He has dealt with far worse in the emergency room.
He reaches Amelia's bedside—the girls outgrew their cribs a few months ago and were upgraded to proper beds—and smooths her blonde hair away from her face. He lets his hand pause on her forehead and then feels each of her cheeks as well. She's running a fever.
"It's all right, love. You're under the weather, is all," he says calmingly before helping her out of bed and steering her into the bathroom, where he helps her out of the pajamas Francis worked so hard to dress her in. He sets them aside so they can be washed.
Then, he runs a tepid bath and scrubs Amelia clean with a generous amount of soap. She cries softly the entire time, sniffling miserably and whimpering about how her tummy and head hurt, but Arthur sings the first song that comes to mind under his breath while he works, letting the delicate, happy tune lull her.
"Isn't she lovely?
Isn't she wonderful?
Isn't she precious?
Less than three-years-old."
He modifies Stevie Wonder's lyrics just a little, and Amelia's pitiful whimpers begin to fade.
"Isn't she pretty?
Truly the angel's best…"
For the first time, he feels like he has finally tapped into that paternal instinct he's been lacking thus far. Perhaps it's because he's finally in his element—dealing with illness is his specialty after all—but he has nursed the girls through colds and ear infections before, and even then, he did not feel nearly this calm and in control. He's almost willing to call himself a real father.
"All right, love. All clean," he tells Amelia, shooting her a smile before placing a tender kiss on her hot forehead. He lifts her out of the tub, wraps her in a large towel, and briskly rubs her dry. Then, he gets a fresh pair of pajamas from the dresser in her room and helps her change because he has made the mistake of letting Amelia dress herself one too many times, and he doesn't plan on making that very same mistake tonight.
"Feel yuck," Amelia whispers, sticking her thumb in her mouth as she continues to cry. She holds her arms out to Arthur, wanting to be picked up and carried back to bed.
Arthur obliges this one time, reasoning that it's all right to spoil her while she's unwell. He props her on his hip, and she leans her head on his shoulder, shaking from the force of more sobs.
"Shhh, now," he croons before running into a worried Francis in the hallway.
"Is everything okay?"
"Amelia's feeling ill. She vomited."
Francis clicks his tongue and presses a kiss of his own to her head to confirm the verdict for himself. "Oui, she's very warm. I hope it's nothing serious."
"I'll examine her in a moment," Arthur assures before heading back to Amelia's room with Francis now in tow. "Would you mind changing the sheets while I take her temperature?"
"You don't even have to ask."
Arthur nods gratefully and seats Amelia in the all-too-familiar rocking chair they have kept in her room over the past two years. Oh, how many times he has fallen asleep in this very same chair with a baby Amelia in his lap…It's terrifying to think about how much she has grown since then.
"I'll be back in just a moment," he promises before leaving her side to grab his bag of medical wonders from the master bedroom.
He's going to have to be crafty. Amelia is infamous for screaming as soon as she's within a ten-block radius of the pediatrician's office, and so, examining her isn't going to be easy. From the few times he has taken the girls to get their vaccinations and check-ups, he has seen how it often takes a great deal of bribery, patience, and tenacity to get Amelia to behave at the doctor's.
He'll just have to take things one step at a time and hope for the best. When he returns to her bedroom, he pulls out a temporal artery thermometer, and though Amelia isn't too fond of the idea of having her temperature taken, she lets him hold the thermometer against her forehead just long enough for a reading to register—103.1.
That's high. Worryingly high, especially considering she just had a cool bath. It's higher than any fever she's had in the past.
She then murmurs in the most pitiful voice Arthur has ever heard, "Hurts."
Actually, it's more along the lines of "huwwts," as she's still having trouble pronouncing her r's. Fortunately, he and Francis have become quite proficient in making sense of toddler-talk.
"You'll be all better soon, my dear."
As soon as Francis is done changing the sheets, Arthur disinfects the thermometer, gets Amelia back into bed, and gives Francis orders to go and check on Madeline to see if she's ill as well.
While he waits for his husband's return, Arthur steels himself for the imminent battle before him. He fluffs Amelia's pillow, makes certain she's comfortable, and then goes about unbuttoning the top two buttons of her onesie so he can examine her better. However, the moment he brings out his stethoscope and puts the buds in his ears, Amelia slams her eyes shut and screams as loudly as she dares, making him jump.
"Shhh! Stop that. Don't cry," he tells her firmly, drying some of her tears with his thumb. "If
you don't let me examine you, Amelia, then I won't be able to know what's making you ill. I won't be able to help make it better by giving you the right medicine."
"No med-sin!" Amelia sobs wretchedly, and Arthur lets out a despondent sigh.
He shouldn't have mentioned the dreaded "M" word. That was an amateur slip-up.
"Okay, okay. No medicine for now, but you need to let me finish examining you," Arthur insists, trying to get his stethoscope over the girl's heart as she wriggles and struggles to back away.
She then employs a more violent tactic by curling her fingers around the tubing of the stethoscope and yanking down on it, hard. The result is that Arthur's head gets jerked downward and the buds fall out of his ears, landing on the bed with a soft thunk.
"Amelia!" he scolds her, raising his voice impressively.
She wails some more for good measure and scrunches her face up, intent on defying him.
He doesn't want to yell or punish her, not when she's rundown like this, but his patience is wearing very thin. He's emotionally spent, and he can't believe the child still has enough energy to keep causing such a racket.
He slumps his shoulders and broods, watching Amelia throw the rest of her tantrum as he tries to brainstorm solutions. He lets his eyes rove around the room, and that's when he notices a stuffed animal sitting on the dresser. But it's not just any old stuffed animal, it's Amelia's favorite toy—a bunny she creatively named "Bun-Bun" when she was nine months old.
He grabs the bunny, sits on the edge of Amelia's bed, and says, "Look, Amelia, we're going to examine Bun-Bun."
She falls silent, stares at Arthur with intrigued eyes that are bloodshot from crying, and asks, "Bun-Bun's sick?"
"Hmm, let's see," Arthur murmurs, mentally dusting off his rusty imagination. He sits the bunny in his lap and holds a hand to its forehead, pretending to check for fever. "Yes, I think he's running a fever as well."
Amelia looks concerned and sits up a little, face flushed. "Make Bun-Bun better."
Arthur fastens a serious expression to his face and brings out his stethoscope again, placing the diaphragm of it against the bunny's fuzzy underbelly. "His heart and lungs sound fine."
"Lemme!" Amelia exclaims, and Arthur knows this means she wants to have a go at listening to Bun-Bun's non-existent organs as well.
And so, he helps Amelia put the buds of the stethoscope in her ears and lets her play around with it, letting her see it's safe and harmless. Once she's done experimenting on the bunny, she experiments on Arthur, prodding his chest with it.
"Your turn," Arthur says once he has waited long enough. He takes his stethoscope back and is finally able to listen to Amelia's heart and lungs without a hitch. Her lungs are clear, and her heart sounds as it should—free from any trills or murmurs. Her heartrate is a little elevated from the fever, but that's all right.
He's setting his stethoscope aside when Francis comes in through the door again with some good news—Madeline's temperature is normal at the moment, and she isn't showing any signs of illness.
"That's a relief," Arthur sighs, feeling a little more optimistic now that he knows he has only one ill daughter to tend to. "We'll have to take her temperature again in a few hours to make sure she's all right…Okay, Amelia, let's check Bun-Bun's ears next."
He takes out his otoscope and checks the bunny's floppy ears, continuing their little game. After a couple of seconds, he murmurs warmly, "Just like a bunny's ears should look."
Then, he looks into Amelia's ears, and although she squirms a little, she doesn't protest.
"No signs of infection," he says before tickling behind her left ear and wrangling a giggle out of her.
He can feel Francis's grin on his back, but he stays focused and keeps working, not allowing himself to get distracted or to feel ridiculous for the antics he has resorted to. This is serious business, and he's strictly doing this for the child's wellbeing!
"Now say ahh," he says, directing the otoscope at Amelia's mouth.
She shakes her head and pouts. "Bun-Bun first."
Arthur sighs but obligingly pretends to look into the bunny's mouth before Amelia lets him look into hers. Her throat looks fine—no signs of strep, pharyngitis, tonsillitis, or any other viral or bacterial infection. This is starting to look like the stomach flu.
"All right, let's see Bun-Bun's belly now."
He presses around where the bunny's stomach would theoretically be if he had one, and Francis chuckles softly, increasingly amused by all of this as he continues to observe from behind.
"Just as I suspected, Bun-Bun has an upset stomach," Arthur diagnoses before he tugs Amelia's onesie down a little more so he can have access to her stomach, too. He checks for any tenderness or pain, and she does seem to be a little bloated. When he presses his stethoscope to the four quadrants of her abdomen, it's hard to miss the cacophony of rumbles that greets his ears. He's certain this is a stomach bug now, which means he can brace himself for a sleepless night, since Amelia's likely going to need to be supervised around the clock until this passes.
"Huwwts," Amelia dejectedly repeats again as Arthur buttons her onesie up again and brushes her hair away from her face.
"I know, love, but we're going to fix it, all right?"
The true test will be to get her to swallow a dose of a fever reducer. He measures out a teaspoon of children's ibuprofen, sits on the edge of the bed again, and tries to bring the medicine to her mouth, but she glares at the spoon as though it's going to bite her.
Patience, Arthur silently reminds himself.
"Okay, Amelia, I need to give you and Bun-Bun your medicine now so you can both feel better."
"No med-sin!"
"Yes medicine," he glumly jokes.
"No!"
"But love, if you don't take your medicine, how are you going to get better? You don't want to stay ill and in bed, do you?" he asks her gently. "Bun-Bun's being an excellent patient. Look, he's going to take all of his medicine."
He pretends to tip the spoon into the bunny's mouth and says, "See, what a good lad he is? He's going to be healthy now…It's a shame Amelia won't take her medicine…"
Amelia frowns and chews on her bottom lip. "No med-sin."
"No one wants to take their medicine. I know many adults who don't take their medicine and continue to grow more and more ill as a result. Some of them have to stay in bed forever."
"Fowever?"
"I'm afraid so."
And just like that, as though by magical force, Amelia lets her mouth fall open, and Arthur quickly slips the spoon between her lips. She makes a face and a noise of displeasure, but Francis brings her a sippy cup filled with apple juice, and she washes the bitter taste away.
"So what now?" Francis asks.
"We monitor her and see what happens. If it's what I suspect it is, she'll be horrendously ill for the next day or two until her immune system fights the virus off."
Francis sighs and says, "I'll set up an alarm to wake us every hour so we can check on her."
Arthur purses his lips and shakes his head. "That's all right. I think I'm going to sleep in here tonight."
"You're a mother hen, and I mean that in only the best way, of course," Francis teases him, planting a light kiss on his cheek. "Well, at least she has an excellent doctor looking after her. A doctor who, apparently, also specializes in bunnies."
Arthur smirks. "Didn't you know that I'm also a part-time veterinarian?"
Before Francis can fire back another remark to continue the banter, Amelia turns pale and starts whimpering again. Recognizing the look on her face, Arthur grabs the small garbage bin from the corner of the room and brings it up to her chin as she vomits once more, rendering the ibuprofen he just gave her absolutely useless.
What ensues after that is a night of pure torture. Amelia rouses from sleep at least once every forty minutes to be sick, and each time, Arthur is there, combing her hair back and whispering sweet nothings to her. He tries to get her to drink some electrolyte-enhanced water, but she fails to keep that down, too.
To make matters worse, when he takes Amelia's temperature at six o'clock in the morning, he discovers her fever has spiked to an alarming 104.5. He seriously debates whether he should take her to the emergency room, and for a good while, he lies next to her in her bed and worriedly presses cold compresses to her forehead, neck, lower back.
When another hour passes with no sign of improvement, he sweeps into the master bedroom, shakes Francis awake, and says, "I think Amelia needs to be taken to the hospital."
Francis rubs at his eyes and frowns. "You're sure you're not overreacting?"
"Her fever isn't breaking, and she's dehydrated."
"Okay, I believe you," Francis says with a nod, sitting up and jumping into action. He makes quick work of finding a babysitter for Madeline as soon as the clock strikes seven o'clock, and once the sitter arrives, he tells Madeline to be a good girl while they're gone before helping Arthur carry Amelia into the car.
And she must be truly ill if she doesn't even let out a shout of defiance when they walk through the entrance of the ER. She just loops her arms around Arthur's neck and weeps into his now tear-soaked winter coat while he sits down with her in one of the chairs in the waiting area. He tells Francis what to write on the forms they're told to fill out regarding Amelia's patient information and medical history, and soon after, Amelia is let onto the unit and lies on a stretcher, head lolled to one side in exhaustion while Arthur and Francis sit beside her in a pair of small plastic chairs, taking turns at holding her hand.
"I haven't been here since we met," Francis reminisces.
"Be thankful that's been the case up until now."
The pediatrician comes in, and Arthur waits for Amelia to scream, but she doesn't. She's as frighteningly subdued and listless as she's been since they left the house, worrying both Francis and Arthur to no end.
"I didn't know you had children, Arthur," the pediatrician says, recognizing him from when he used to be in this darned ER almost every day. "New parent, huh?"
"Yes, against all odds," Arthur tries to joke, but it falls flat. All he can think about is how awful Amelia looks and how she's not throwing a fit at being in the hospital. He never thought he'd actually miss her tantrums. "She's never been this ill before."
"There's a bug going around. Every child goes through something like this at some point. Don't worry."
Arthur nods his head, but he doesn't feel reassured, not even when Francis puts a hand on his shoulder. "I'm never letting her step foot on a playground ever again."
The pediatrician laughs and smiles sympathetically at them while he puts his stethoscope on Amelia's chest. She doesn't even peek an eye open at the disturbance. "My son contracted croup when he was in kindergarten and had to be hospitalized for it. I nearly decided to have him homeschooled after that," he recalls before patting Amelia's leg comfortingly. "I'll tell you what you already know but need to hear anyway—she's going to be fine with fluids and rest."
The pediatrician leaves after that, and a nurse comes in to put Amelia's IV in. Arthur expects that he and Francis are going to have to hold her still or beg her not to cry, but again, she's too tired and dazed to care. She whimpers a little, but that's it.
And while Arthur knows the pediatrician is right and everything's going to be okay, he still can't help but pace around the room and keep reaching over to feel Amelia's forehead every fifteen minutes or so.
"Arthur, you're making me anxious," Francis says.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Just sit."
"I'm glad at least one of us isn't panicking."
"Of course I'm panicking, but I'm doing my best to conceal it," Francis admits with a short laugh and a wan smile. "We can't both be pacing around—there isn't enough space."
Thankfully, Amelia's fever finally begins to break after another two hours, and she regains some healthy color to her cheeks. She's asleep throughout the rest of the morning, which is understandable considering she was up all night, but around midday, she opens her eyes and feels well enough to interact with Arthur and Francis for a bit.
"There's our brave and beautiful lapin," Francis whispers, flooded with relief. "Are you feeling better, ma cherie?"
Amelia lets out a low moan and her breath hitches—a signal she's getting ready to cry yet again.
"Shh, love," Arthur immediately eases her, squeezing her hand and tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. "It's okay. You're in the hospital, remember? You've been very ill, but you're going to feel much better soon."
His soft reassurances do little to stem the waterfall of tears, and when the pediatrician comes in again, she shrieks as she normally does, and that's how Arthur knows she's well on the road to recovery. For the first time, he welcomes the horrific noise.
"I think she's ready to be discharged," he tells the pediatrician with a strained, worn out smile.
"Ahh, acting like herself again…Hello, Amelia! Are we feeling better?"
Amelia bawls in response and tries to pick at her IV, but Arthur stops her mischievous fingers from doing any damage.
"No med-sin!" Amelia howls.
Arthur can't help but grin. He's incredibly relieved. He can feel his own eyes sting with tears, but he suppresses them with all his might. Since when did he become so sensitive? He hasn't cried in years.
Francis pulls him into a hug, and he accepts the loving embrace. They're a team. They're in this together. It's going to be all right. Amelia's going to be okay. They've survived their first health-related crisis regarding one of the girls. Everything from this point on will pale in comparison, surely.
"A little more medicine, honey, and then we'll let you go home," the pediatrician promises before turning to Francis and Arthur. "She should be out of here by tonight."
"No med-sin!"
Arthur traps Amelia in his arms, nuzzles his nose against hers until she laughs, and says, "Yes medicine."
It'll be all better by tomorrow.