Warnings: None, unless you cannot stomach fluff. This is very fluffy.
Summary: In which it becomes apparent that Oliver Hummel-Anderson has inherited Blaine's appetite and Kurt's attitude to mass-produced food.
Author's Note: I have a huge soft spot for domestic!Klaine, especially with babies, and this idea kept poking at me. I based a lot of Oliver's behaviour on my baby cousins, so I'm hoping it sounds realistic! Comments are delightful :D
It is a quiet, clear morning. The house is almost silent; the only sound is the soft patter of bare feet on carpet as someone extricates themselves from a bed.
Two of the members of the household are sound asleep; one is awake, too restless to lie and soak up the warmth of the other person in the bed. He has pulled on a pair of jersey sleeping pants, yawning and mussing his dark, curly hair with a sluggish hand.
Blaine presses a kiss to his sleeping husband’s forehead, smoothing his hair back, before walking quietly to the corner of the room. His hands find the side of the cot, feeling the pale wood beneath it and watching the sunlight as it touches the blue blankets under the tiny person who is still, limbs splayed, on his back.
The baby’s little right hand is curled around the ear of his favourite bear. The stuffed animal is slightly chewed, but well-loved, the fur on the stomach rumpled in different directions. There is a slightly larger red monkey propped up in the corner of the cot, arms and legs long and gangly.
Oliver had woken twice in the night (the first time he was hungry, the second he needed changing). This is slightly better than last month, when Kurt and Blaine often found themselves awake at eleven, two, five. Oliver’s wails are high-pitched and relentless until one of his fathers hoists him onto their hip, where they decrease to tearful hiccups.
Blaine stares down at his son, not fighting the urge to reach down and run his fingertip over Oliver’s cheek. He smiles a bit, listening to the quiet breaths coming from Oliver’s open mouth. He’s fine, he thinks. Just sleeping.
He goes to fetch himself some coffee, closing the doors carefully so as not to wake anybody. When he returns with a half-full mug, newspaper under his arm and hair sticking up, there are tiny noises coming from the corner of the room. Blaine sets the mug and newspaper down and pads over to the cot.
Oliver’s face is right on the verge of screwing up in preparation of wailing when Blaine reaches him. Blaine hurriedly extends his arms and scoops his son up, settling him on his hip.
“Hi, Olly,” his son stares at him, eyes still big and blue and wet. “Shh. We don’t want to wake Daddy.”
Olly’s fist bats against his chest before he breaks out in a huge smile. “Da!” he cries. “Da.”
“Hi, sunshine,” Blaine pats his back. “Are you hungry again? Hmm? Even though you had a whole bottle four hours ago?”
Olly has spotted something interesting out of the window and does not respond, merely stuffing his fingers in his mouth and drooling slightly on them. Blaine sighs and jigs him a bit. Olly turns his gaze towards him, his other fist stretching upwards in order to begin one of his favourite games.
“Ow, ow, careful, honey,” Blaine tries to pry Olly’s fingers from his hair but his son continues to tug on the unruly curls, giggling. “Shh, Daddy’s still asleep.”
“Da,” Olly says again, hands now resting on Blaine’s shoulders. This is his only word.
“Yes, Olly. Da,” Blaine starts to head towards the kitchen, intent on heating up another bottle for him. “Aren’t you smart?”
Olly is definitely hungry; he starts fussing when he spots the formula on the counter and tries to grab the empty bottle from Blaine’s hand.
“Easy, tiger,” Blaine lets him play Pull Daddy’s Hair again while the bottle is in the microwave, but Olly gets very bored very quickly.
“Da,” he whines, burying his face in Blaine’s shoulder and wriggling a bit.
“Just thirty more seconds, Olly,” Blaine cuddles him closer for a moment. “Okay? There.”
The microwave finally finishes its cycle with a ding. Olly flinches and starts to cry quietly at the sudden, loud noise until Blaine kisses his nose and then the top of his head.
“Hey, it’s okay, just a funny noise,” Olly stares up at him, bottom lip jutting out and quivering. “Just a funny noise.”
Olly sniffles and sucks on his thumb.
Blaine tests the milk on the back of his hand – it’s fine – and then holds it to Olly’s mouth. His son’s hands grasp the bottle tightly but he can’t hold it by himself just yet, so Blaine keeps his fingers on the end, tipping gently.
Kurt stands in the doorway, hair sleep-ruffled and a drowsy smile on his face. He comes over and kisses Blaine quickly, hand curving over the top of Oliver’s head.
“You’d think we didn’t feed him,” Kurt remarks, finding the box of rusks in the cupboard and setting it down on the counter.
“I think he got my appetite,” Blaine says, grinning. “Done, punkin?”
Olly lets go of the bottle and reaches immediately for Kurt, exclaiming loudly. Kurt takes him and fingers his blue onesie for a moment before pressing his mouth to Olly’s hairline.
“Hi, baby,” he murmurs. “You slept for ages.”
“Da,” Olly replies happily. “Dadoo.”
“Yes, I know,” Kurt says, as if Oliver had spoken something remotely close to English. “Do you want a rusk, baby?”
“Doo,” Olly takes the offered rusk and promptly throws it to the floor. Blaine laughs and Kurt huffs.
“Oliver Hummel-Anderson, behave.”
Olly smiles widely and clutches at Kurt’s sleep shirt, gurgling. Blaine picks up the dismissed rusk and throws it away, knowing Kurt wouldn’t be amused if he snuck it back into the box (Kurt cleans a lot, but he’d still complain that he was not giving his baby boy food from the floor).
Kurt is cooing to his son, singing something under his breath and keeping his smiling eyes locked on Olly’s staring ones. Olly still adopts the utterly, silently captivated look that only babies wear, and mostly it appears when Kurt sings him to sleep.
Blaine wraps his arms around Kurt’s waist and sets his shin on his husband’s shoulder. Matching blue eyes stay fixed on each other, but Kurt leans back into Blaine and when Blaine holds out his finger Oliver wraps his tiny hand around it and clings.
It is a quiet, clear morning.