AN: Thanks so much for the reviews, follows and favorites, and hello to the Edith/Anthony and Mary/Matthew fans who are reading! A word of warning: Edith can be a bit waspish in this incarnation, but it's a defense mechanism to some extent. And Mary is, of course, Mary.

They've only just been seated at Christopher's and haven't even ordered drinks before Mary asks Sybil when she plans to go back to work.

Edith answers before Sybil can. "Good God, Mary, is work all you ever think about? Her baby's not even two months old."

From across the table Mary shoots Edith a withering glare before turning her attention back to her little sister. "I just don't want you to fall behind," she says. "You hear about it all the time. Women take off six months for maternity leave and the next thing you know they've been housewives for five years and their husbands have left them flat to run off with the secretary."

"Tom doesn't have a secretary," Sybil says easily. Her eyes flit upward to the elaborate gilt crown molding; this was Mary's choice of restaurant, and it shows.

"Even so. Just in the last year my firm's lost three of its best. After all the time we've spent getting them up to speed." Mary rolls her eyes like it's a personal affront.

Sybil gives Mary a rather severe look. "But you do still hire women, I hope."

"Of course we do." This earns a mollified nod from Sybil, but she frowns again when Mary goes on. "Though it's worth my life trying to convince the other partners to give them a chance, when they just keep leaving. It seems a waste for them to invest all that time and effort in becoming solicitors and then chuck it away for a life where the most intellectual stimulation they get is figuring out whether the baby's crying because it's hungry or it's got a full nappy."

"Maybe the job's the problem, not them," Sybil says. "I shouldn't wonder it gets to be too much, having a child at home and still being expected to put in ridiculous hours. My work's a bit different."

Mary raises an eyebrow. "So they'd be fine with you coming back part time, would they?" She knows very well that as a staff nurse at Mile End Hospital, Sybil's worked her share of eighty-hour weeks.

Sybil shrugs and runs her fingers along the linen-covered edge of the table. "I could always get a job in private practice."

As ever, Edith is the one to make the awkward remark. "But I thought you wanted to help the less fortunate."

"Some might say people who are ill are less fortunate," snaps Sybil, but the arrival of their server, swathed in a spotless ankle-length apron and radiating supercilious courtesy, prevents her continuing. "Vodka tonic, please," she says when prompted for her drink order. "Make it a double."

-ooo-

Back at the flat, things are going just swimmingly until Siobhan wakes up hungry.

Tom attempts to talk Matthew through the process of heating up her bottle without himself having to get up, but this only frustrates them both, especially as Tom is having to raise his voice over the baby's increasingly strident wails. Siobhan is beyond frustration. The dummy her father offers is summarily rejected to skitter underneath the coffee table and she squeezes her eyes shut, toothless mouth gaping open, wee pink fists squirming free of the blanket and shaking like those of the world's smallest pugilist.

Finally Tom sighs, settles her into the crook of his left arm, and attempts to rise from his seat. He makes it halfway up before he loses his balance; his clumsy arm waves in the air and he falls back on his arse on the chair. Siobhan howls even louder at the addition of insult to injury.

"I could take her if you like." Anthony approaches, extending his hands.

"Could you?" Tom pulls the baby back at the last second, thinking of the look on Sybil's face should he have to explain to her that their daughter was dropped on her head because of his poor planning. "Careful, now."

Anthony nods with the diffidence of a man who knows he's out of his depth. Little by little Tom shifts the baby into his arms, saying, "There now, support her head... whoops, don't let her roll away, she's kicking like a little footballer..."

Anthony sits on the sofa and Tom stands, his head already feeling muzzy. The pills are doing their work: the pain in his arm hasn't gone, but it's no longer demanding as much of his attention. He wonders if he should've taken one instead of two. He ambles into the kitchen, where Matthew has just shaken a couple of drops from the bottle's nipple onto the back of his wrist. "Other side," he tells him.

"Sorry?"

"You test it on the inner part of the wrist. Gives you a better sense of the temperature."

Matthew turns his hand over and repeats the process. "How hot is this supposed to be?"

Tom chuckles. "Ideally? Body temperature." Matthew gives him a quizzical look. "She won't take a bottle if Sybil's anywhere near her. Straight from the tap, that's how she likes it."

Matthew half-smiles sympathetically. "That sounds rather hard on Sybil."

"Why do you think I've shoved her out the door tonight?" Tom nods his head towards the drops on Matthew's wrist. "It shouldn't burn you, but it shouldn't feel chilled either." He smiles. "You know, most blokes would be a little more squeamish about having breast milk on them." Matthew blanches and Tom's conscience pricks him a little, but he can hardly ever resist taking the piss out of his brother-in-law when the opportunity presents itself. He makes amends by saying, "You're quite the natural. Keep going like this and I might let you change her nappy."

Matthew gestures at Tom's cast. "I'll probably have to do it regardless. Me or Anthony."

"Shit, you're right." He hadn't even thought of that. "I wonder if he's ever changed one before?" The mental image of Sir Anthony Strallan, distinguished knight of the realm, up to his elbows in it makes Tom chuckle again; the chuckle turns into the giggles, and before he knows it Matthew's looking at him rather strangely.

"Painkillers working, eh?" Matthew observes with a raised eyebrow.

Tom clamps his mouth shut over the last of his giggles, though he can't stop his lips twitching. "Feck."

"You'd better go and sit down," Matthew says, handing him the bottle.

In the living room Siobhan is still crying, though in a hopeless, monotonous way that makes Tom's heart contract. Not wanting to delay any longer, he offers the bottle to Anthony. "Could you, er..."

Anthony's holding the baby as though he's afraid she'll explode if he makes any sudden movements, but he nods gamely. He only fumbles a bit as he maneuvers the nipple to Siobhan's lips; she rolls her tongue over the tip, her brow furrowing suspiciously.

Tom has collapsed next to them on the sofa. "Go on, my love," he croons, leaning over. "'S lovely milk. Drink it up now, sweetheart." Out of the corner of his eye he sees the side of Anthony's mouth quirk up and resists the urge to tell him that there's a reason people talk to babies this way. He doesn't need to assert his manhood: he's quite bloody secure in it, thank you very much, posset stains down his shoulder or no.

Matthew reenters the room carrying two pints of beer, the head on them still settling. "Hope you don't mind us having one," he says to Tom, setting a glass on the coffee table in front of Anthony and taking the other with him to the chair.

"That's what they're there for."

Matthew sips at his beer, watching Anthony try to get Siobhan to take the bottle. He gets increasingly fidgety as she twists her head from side to side, fussing, and finally he pops to his feet to hover over them. "Here, Anthony, you can't force the thing. She's not a keyhole."

Anthony looks up at him mildly. "I'm open to any suggestions you might have."

"Let me take her." Matthew sets his glass on the table and has plucked the baby from Anthony's arms before he or Tom have a chance to say anything. "She just needs a bit of calming. Have you ever tried to eat when you're upset?"

"S'port her head," Tom instructs. He feels as though he should be taking a more active role in all this, but doesn't quite have it in him to get up. Anthony sits looking bemused, switching the bottle from hand to hand, while Matthew saunters over to the window with Siobhan. He burbles some high-pitched nonsense and joggles her from side to side and it actually seems to be working: soon she's not really crying anymore, just letting out a bleat every few seconds.

Matthew glides back over to the rocking chair, continuing his hypnotic back-and-forth motion. "All right, give it to me." He extricates a hand from under the baby and holds it out for the bottle.

No one breathes until the nipple is securely lodged in Siobhan's mouth. Without her cries the room seems as tranquil now as it did chaotic a few minutes ago. Tom lets out a sigh, just now realizing how tense he'd been. "That was a pretty trick. What are you, the baby whisperer?"

"It was nothing." Matthew's shoulders give a careless twitch, but a proud smile tugs the corners of his mouth. "Just a bit of rocking."

"Yeah, well, if I'd tried that she'd still be yelling for the grub," Tom mutters with a smile. Matthew's tipping the bottle upward, dumping it down Siobhan's throat really: Sybil would make disapproving noises, but Tom just stretches his arm across the gap between sofa and chair to brush the back of his first finger over the baby's velvety cheek.

"Lovely little girl," Anthony says. He refrains from adding When she's not screaming.

"She's a good little eater." Tom studies her, watching her puckered forehead smooth out. Six weeks in, he's just started to grow accustomed to the idea that he and Sybil have made this little person together, that she's part of him. Part of them both, and yet her own separate self: one day she'll go off and have adventures and make mistakes without any say-so from her parents. No doubt she'll break her da's heart a few times.

He's getting maudlin; it must be the drugs. He leans back and tilts his head against the back of the sofa, closing his eyes. Images start to form on the backs of his eyelids and his body feels like it's drifting, a sensation that's vaguely familiar from his few recreational opiate experiences.

Someone's calling him back. It's Matthew. "Tom? Don't go away on us, now."

He sits up, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I really should've only taken one of those pills." He glances at the baby, quiet on Matthew's lap, still drinking. The bottle's nearly gone already.

"How's your arm?" Anthony asks.

"Perfect." It still aches, but only a little and Tom decides that it's not important. There is something else he feels he should be remembering, though… Ah, right. "Are you hungry? There's leftover takeaway in the refrigerator. Or we could order a pizza." He himself does not feel much like eating, but that's no reason to be a crap host.

"I am a bit peckish, now you mention it," Matthew says. Siobhan starts sucking air from the bottle and he pulls it away. Her forehead wrinkles as though she's considering lodging a protest, but then she just blinks and smacks her lips. "How long have those leftovers been in there?"

Coming from Matthew, the question doesn't smack of judgment the way it might from Mary. Tom smiles. "Too long, probably. Anthony, will you reach me the phone?" Anthony hands him the cordless and he punches in Red Planet's number from memory. They order from there at least once a week: life is hectic and learning to cook a decent meal has never been high on either Tom or Sybil's list of priorities. He's pretty sure Sybil uses the oven to store her less frequently worn shoes. He has a sneaking suspicion that this sort of lifestyle is frowned upon now that they're parents and meant to be setting a wholesome example; but from what he's seen of other people's children, most live on cheese sandwiches anyway.

It turns out that Anthony and Matthew are polar opposites in their pizza topping preferences. Anthony wants fresh basil and tomato and Matthew asks for pepperoni, sausage, bacon, and extra cheese. "Does Mary do the meat overload as well?" Tom asks when he rings off.

Matthew laughs. He's dandling Siobhan on his knee, one hand cradling the base of her skull while the other encircles her shoulder. "Mary's a vegetarian. You didn't know?" He jumps a little when Siobhan lets out a resonant belch.

"Ah, good. I was just about to tell you to do that." Tom smiles. "No, I didn't know. If I'm honest, I've always thought of Mary as a confirmed carnivore." She does seem like the type who likes a bit of blood.

Matthew raises an eyebrow, and Tom gets the sense that this isn't the first—or the tenth—allusion he's heard to his wife's ruthlessness. "She gave it up years ago, before we were married. The cookery's actually not bad, though. It's amazing what you can do with tofu and tempeh, though I do like to indulge in the real stuff when I can." He widens his eyes at Siobhan, who's wriggling and grunting and looking for all the world like Sybil in one of her single-minded moods. "What's she doing?"

This is a new one on Tom; usually Siobhan has a kip after Sybil nurses her in the evening. "Dunno. Maybe she wants down." The baby is looking rather intently at the rug. "Try putting her on her stomach." He remembers that being one of the many suggestions made by the health visitor—something about developing neck and shoulder muscles.

"On the floor?"

"No, on top of the bookcase. Of course, on the floor. A bit of dirt's not going to hurt her." Tom does a quick scan for things she could put in her mouth, just in case. There's nothing more dangerous than a few dust bunnies: he and Sybil are almost as rubbish at cleaning as they are at cooking, but they manage to keep things just this side of squalid.

Matthew makes a face, but arranges the baby face-down on the floor without comment. Her head bobbles—she's getting better at holding it up, but she can't for very long—and her cheek plops onto the carpet. She waves her arms and legs, whimpering in frustration until Matthew sits down on the floor where she can see him. "This is her playtime, is it?"

Tom waves toward the toy basket. "Give her something to look at."

Anthony gets into the act, bringing over a small stuffed elephant with a string which, when pulled, produces canned, maniacal childish laughter. Siobhan's head comes up and she goes still, her wide blue eyes riveted on the toy. When the sound stops she resumes wiggling, letting out excited little snorts until Anthony pulls the string again. He's utterly tickled. "She loves it!"

When supper arrives, Siobhan's still entertained—now gumming a rubber giraffe her maternal grandmother brought from France—and the three of them are still fascinated. Matthew moves toward the door, his eyes still riveted on the baby. "Tom, old chap, I'll bet you never thought this is how you'd be spending your Saturday nights a few years back."

"Never. Though I will say I'll take this over cheap lager and shite—I mean, crap bands any day—hey! What are you doing?" Tom's just now caught on, working his wallet free of his back pocket and shaking it at Matthew. "You're not paying."

But Matthew's already opened the door and most certainly is paying. It's become a bit of a game between the two of them, seeing who can be first to grab the bill; last time Matthew and Mary were in town there was practically a wrestling match at the restaurant. Tom gives him a black look when he comes back carrying the pizza boxes, but concedes defeat gracefully. He's in no shape for a grapple.

Anthony and Matthew find plates and tuck in, and even Tom has a slice of each pizza. From the swing, Siobhan watches them eat with the fascination of an anthropologist doing field research. "Looks as though she'd like some," Anthony comments with a laugh.

"Sorry, love, you'll have to make do with whatever your mum's had for dinner," Tom says. Or maybe not, as Sybil will likely need a few drinks if she's to run interference between her sisters.

He can't say he envies her.