A/N: Welcome to the first entry in my post-canon one shot collection. Any idea that pops into my head, I'll add to this. Prompts, too. Mostly featuring Darvey's baby boy, obviously. I'm not sure how to rate this yet, but I don't think it'll include much smut. We shall see.
This part is unbeta'd.
Diaper Duty
A sharp cry slices through the quiet, yanking Donna from sleep. She groans, muttering a curse under her breath as she shifts under the covers, the sound morphing into a resigned sigh. "Harvey," she mumbles, gently driving an elbow into his ribs.
He flinches with a grunt, squirming away from the blow and burrowing deeper into the pillow, clinging to the last threads of his dream. Donna rolls onto her back with a huff, eyes narrowing at the stubborn curve of his spine.
"Your turn," she declares flatly.
A muffled groan seeps from the pillow, wordless and uncooperative.
"Come on, Harvey, please get up," she tries again, injecting a little more urgency into her voice.
He exhales—a long, tired puff that sends his hair fluttering—and turns his head as if gravity itself is resisting the motion. One bleary eye peeks open, barely acknowledging her. "Can't you just… go? You're already awake," he mumbles, voice thick and scratchy with sleep.
Donna rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch in amusement. "This," she says with mock patience, "is not how taking turns works, sleepyhead." Her fingers dance lightly along his side to goad him into action, and his body jerks with a half-hearted squirm.
A defeated sigh follows. "Fine," he groans, dragging himself upright. "I'm going."
The floorboards creak under Harvey's bare feet as he pads toward the nursery. The cries grow louder with every step, sharp and insistent, echoing off the walls and into his skull. But still, despite the haze of exhaustion, a small smile tugs at his lips. Because that sound—that tiny, furious wail—is the sweetest thing he's ever heard. And for all the sleepless nights and early mornings, he wouldn't trade it for the world.
Stepping quietly into the nursery, Harvey's gaze snaps straight to the crib. His son isn't crying, he's wailing, tiny fists clenched and face contorted in utter, heartbreaking misery. The raw sound cuts straight through the last haze of sleep, and a wave of concern slams into Harvey like a tidal force.
"Hey there, buddy," he says gently, already crossing the room. "What's going on, huh?"
He scoops the baby into his arms and is instantly hit with a smell that leaves no room for doubt. Harvey winces. Yep. Mystery solved.
"Oh, wow. That's... impressive," he says with a crooked smile. "Big guy had a big night, didn't he?"
Teary eyes blink up at him—soft and glassy, just like Donna's, but with a spark of his own lurking underneath. And the scrunched, red-cheeked face beneath that shock of sandy blonde hair? A miniature version of himself. It's disarming. Beautiful. Completely unfair. He's doomed.
"You always save the special ones for Daddy's shift, huh?" Harvey chuckles, pressing a kiss to his son's damp forehead. "I see how it is."
With practiced movements, he lays the baby down on the changing table, talking softly the whole time. "Alright, Mr. Fussypants. Now, be a good sport and hold the fire. I can't go back to your mommy with a complete biohazard situation on my body."
Not long ago, this routine had been chaos—a battlefield of wipes, rogue diapers, and rookie mistakes. But now? It's almost... enjoyable. Comforting, even. In its own disgusting, oddly sacred way.
He moves with the ease of a man who's done this enough to develop a rhythm, a strange sort of pride settling in as he approaches it like a pit crew changing tires, only with more wipes and fewer helmets. But these 3 a.m. missions aren't about speed anymore. They're about presence. Patience. Love, in its least glamorous form.
Stacks of parenting books, devoured like case files in his pre-dad life—much to Donna's affectionate teasing—have burned one lesson into his brain: affirm everything, even the messy parts. Especially the messy parts. It's all building blocks for self-esteem, apparently. So when he eyes the full diaper, he doesn't grimace. Instead, he lifts it with mock reverence, letting out a low whistle.
"Wow, that's a doozy! A real, Specter-sized blowout," he announces solemnly. "You might have beaten Daddy's record. I don't know whether to be impressed or terrified."
He wraps up the diaper with surgical precision and tosses it into the pail, then grabs a soft cloth and dips it in warm water. He cleans his son gently, with a tenderness that even surprises him sometimes. The cries have faded into sniffles, then quiet gurgles. Those big eyes are watching him now, one tiny hand reaching out to grasp the air between them.
Harvey melts. "I've got it, kiddo. But thanks," he murmurs with a soft laugh, brushing his thumb along the baby's belly. "Hey, listen, can we make a deal? Mommy and Daddy are running on fumes. Like, superhero-fight-all-night-and-still-do-laundry tired. So if you could hold off on any more dramatic wakeups until, say... dawn? That'd be so great."
He raises an eyebrow, waiting for a response. Of course, his son just blinks up at him, totally innocent and adorably unbothered. Harvey laughs quietly, finishing the change, then lifts the baby into his arms again. His son melts into him, small head nestled against his chest. Harvey rocks him slowly, watching those long lashes begin to drift downward.
"I love you, you know that?" he whispers, pressing a kiss to the soft crown of blonde hair. A lump rises in his throat, emotions deep inside of him making his eyes water. "So, so much."
He crosses the room in silence, lowering his son gently into the crib. The baby stirs once, then settles again as Harvey tucks the blanket around him, fingers lingering briefly on his cheek. "Sweet dreams, champ," he says softly, with one last smile. "And don't forget our deal."
After washing his hands in the bathroom, he pads quietly back into the master bedroom. The soft glow of the bedside lamp catches on Donna's coppery hair, splayed across the pillow like a halo. She's sprawled across the king-sized bed in full starfish formation, clutching both pillows to her chest like a sleepy dragon guarding treasure.
Harvey slips back under the covers, careful not to let in too much of the chill, and just watches her with a small smile, before he huddles closer, molding himself around her. He tucks himself against her back, his arm sliding low over her waist as he draws her in, fitting the shape of his body to hers. She exhales a little sigh and, even half-asleep, responds to his warmth, curling tighter into the shelter of his chest.
"You don't need the pillow anymore," he murmurs into her hair, the words lazy and soft. "I'm back."
Donna's eyes remain closed, but a smile flickers on her lips. "Is he asleep?" she whispers, her voice rasping with sleep.
"Out like a light," Harvey replies, his nose brushing gently against the curve of her neck. "We had a major poop situation, but I handled it."
She hums, the sound almost lost in the sheets, and releases the pillow to instead slide her hand across his forearm, drawing him in closer. "My hero," she murmurs.
"I also made a deal," he says, his voice low and warm against her ear.
"Mm?" Donna shifts, pressing herself closer, her spine against his chest now. He tucks his chin over her shoulder, lips ghosting along her skin.
"He promised to stay asleep until sunrise."
Donna chuckles sleepily. "Ambitious."
"Desperate," Harvey corrects, his breath a smile against her neck. He tightens his hold around her, his leg slipping between hers, entangling them fully. "But you gotta admire the optimism."
They lie there for a long moment, tangled and still. Her fingers trace idle circles on his hand, and he feels his heart swell with emotion. He never felt like this before—so vulnerable, so exposed, and yet so safe. It's terrifying and beautiful all at once.
"I love you," he whispers, just above the silence.
Donna's hand squeezes his, her voice barely a breath. "I love you too."
He kisses her temple, then rests his forehead against the crown of her head. "He's perfect, Donna. He's loud and messy and smells worse than Louis's gym socks… but he's goddamn perfect."
Her laugh is hushed, and full of sleepy awe. "He really is."
There's a beat, a breath shared between them, and then she adds, teasing, "Still hard to believe we made him."
Harvey laughs under his breath. "Right. How exactly did that happen again? You might need to jog my memory."
His hand slips beneath the hem of her sleep shirt, fingertips skimming gently across the small of her back. The touch is slow and reverent, more comforting than seductive. His other hand slides into her hair, twirling a lock around his fingers.
But something shifts—subtle, yet unmistakable. Donna's breath catches, and her muscles tense, just enough for Harvey to feel it. The carefree ease they once had in moments like this has changed. Not vanished, but altered—hesitant.
She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't have to. Harvey senses it in the way her body stills beneath his touch, in the way her affection suddenly becomes measured. She's here, present, but uncertain. And that uncertainty wraps around him like static.
He stays still. Anchored. His hand doesn't wander further. Instead, he gives her a gentle squeeze of reassurance.
"You're as beautiful as ever," he says quietly, his lips brushing against her shoulder. "Even more so, with that whole 'powerful, radiant mom' thing going on." His finger tenderly traces the line of her jaw. "But you don't have to rush anything. Not for me. Not for anyone."
Donna sighs. "I'm sorry, Harvey. I just feel—"
"Hey." His voice is firm, but soft. "Don't be. We had enough sex to fund a three-season Netflix show during your third trimester. I think we've earned a break." A beat passes, then a roguish smirk crosses his face. "Besides, I've got two very capable hands. Don't worry about me."
She snort-laughs, turning in his arms. "You're an idiot."
"But I'm your idiot," he grins.
Her smile softens into something quiet and admiring. "Our son is so lucky to have you," she says, her voice thick with affection.
Harvey exhales deeply, warmth blooming in his chest. "I'm the lucky one."
"Hm, let's get some sleep," she hums, already drifting off. "Before the little man decides he's done holding up his end of the bargain."
Harvey gives a soft chuckle. "Yeah, better not push our luck."
He closes his eyes, the rise and fall of her breathing syncing with his own, and lets the weight of the day slip from his shoulders. His lips brush against her hairline, near her ear. Soft, gentle, tentative. He drapes his arm over her with a kind of fierce tenderness, the kind that says mine without a word.
"Sweet dreams, beautiful," he whispers.
Donna doesn't answer, not in words. But she rests her hand on his forearm, fingers curling just enough to feel the slow thrum of his pulse beneath her skin.
There's no space between them, not physically, not emotionally. Just the quiet comfort of two people who weathered the storm and chose each other, over and over—and now, somehow, have a piece of both of them sleeping in the crib across the hallway.