by Windsor Blue
Warnings - waffy-ness, a couple of bad words, and potential mild squick, depending on how you feel about the birth process. The actual birth process, not some weird mpreg thing. I mean, really - it's hard enough to get a baby through a vagina...anyway, moving on.
Notes - This is for D, who asked for something waffy for her birthday. Happy birthday, hon! I know I'm about a week early, but what the hell. ^_^
Quatre stood back from his work, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and allowed himself a small smile.
"Nice," Trowa commented. "You didn't get any white on the walls."
"It's all in the taping," Quatre replied, picking up the last few scraps of painter's tape from the floor and rolling them into a wad.
"I guess it is." Trowa paused, looking slowly around the room. "You know, I didn't think I was going to like this green, but now that it's on the walls it's starting to grow on me."
Quatre nodded. "It looks sharp against the white trim, doesn't it?" He turned to look over his shoulder. "How's the crib coming along?"
"Almost done," Trowa answered. "I just have a couple more screws to put in, and it'll be finished."
"Good. I'll just go get a trash bag, then, and we can start cleaning - " Quatre stopped cold, his hand immediately clutching at his chest, his eyes glazing over.
"Quatre?" Trowa asked, dropping the screwdriver in his hand. "Quatre?!?"
Breath coming in gasps, Quatre croaked "Iria...baby must have kicked awfully hard. I should go check on her..." Trowa nodded once and followed him down the stairs of his sister-in-law's apartment, Quatre calling her name when they hit the bottom floor. She called back to him weakly from the living room, and the two young men rushed to find her.
They skidded into the doorframe and found her half up out of her chair, her face damp with sweat. She looked up at them and grimaced. "It's time," she said.
The two men exchanged a quick confused look. "Time?" Quatre asked. "Time for what, Iria?"
She gave him an exasperated glare and glanced pointedly down at the puddle of liquid at her feet. Quatre followed her gaze, then looked back up, even more confused than before.
"My water broke," she ground out. "It's time. The baby is coming."
Quatre and Trowa both blinked at her, their faces blank.
"Now!" she yelled.
"No, no, no," Quatre replied, his voice modulated and calm, yet still rising in pitch. "You're not due for another three weeks."
"Apparently, that's not the case," Iria said dryly. "Perhaps the baby didn't get the memo." She pushed herself up to standing and took a tentative step forward.
"But..." Quatre stammered, "But...but Richard's not here. The baby can't come yet, because Richard's not here - he's still in Florida, and besides that, you're not due for another three weeks!"
Iria sighed. "Trowa, will you please get my bag out of the bedroom?"
Trowa stood stock-still, staring with his mouth slack and his eyes filled with an abject sort of fear. "But the baby can't be coming now! Not for another three weeks!" Quatre insisted.
Suddenly Iria doubled over with a loud groan, an arm wrapping around her pregnant belly. Both men leapt to her side, each one taking an arm, giving each other terrified glances. When she brought herself upright again, she was glaring at them in turn. "Are you two going to take me to the hospital, or do I have to walk?"
Trowa jumped back. "Bag," he murmured. "I'll get your bag." With that he sprinted back up the stairs.
Quatre's grip on his sister's arm tightened, his knuckles going as white as his face. "You're having the baby now," he whispered.
"I'm having the baby now," she nodded.
Upstairs, they could hear Trowa's footsteps pounding down the hall, and then back up, and then back down again, doors opening and then being slammed shut as he went. Finally there was a triumphant shout of "A-HA!" and a flurry of even more footsteps thundering down the stairs.
"Bag!" Trowa said proudly, holding it up in one hand. Then he ran for the front door.
Quatre and Iria watched him run out into the hallway, stab impatiently at the elevator buttons, then run back in to the apartment, stopping at the door.
"Come on, let's go!" He shouted impatiently.
"Right," Quatre replied slowly, eyes blinking as his faculties returned to him. "Right," he repeated more firmly, supporting Iria with his hand on her back. "Come on, then - can you walk? Shall we carry you?"
"I can walk," she protested, making her way carefully out of the apartment, leaning heavily into Quatre's half-embrace.
Trowa was bouncing on the balls of his feet as they crossed the threshold. "Come on, come on - elevator's here - have to get going - don't want to have the baby in the elevator, do we?" He and Quatre both let out nervous little laughs as he slammed the door to the apartment shut.
Seconds later, the door swung back open. "Keys," Trowa was muttering under his breath. "Keys...keys...a-ha! Keys!" He grabbed his keys off the small table in the foyer and slammed the door shut again.
Trowa's car skidded to a halt at the emergency entrance of the hospital a few minutes later, followed closely by no less than three police cars and a news helicopter hovering overhead. Trowa jumped out of the driver's side door, ready to sprint around to the other side, but his momentum was killed by the sound of several standard-issue weapons being cocked and aimed right at him.
"Driver of the green hot rod," a voice boomed at him through a megaphone, "Put your hands in the air and turn around slowly!"
Trowa did as he was told, blinking in surprise. Where had all these cops come from?
Two officers approached the car cautiously, guns trained at his head. When they got close enough, one went behind him and pulled his arms down and behind his back. "What's the big idea?" he snarled.
"What big idea?" Trowa asked, confused beyond all hope.
"This," growled the second cop, gesturing at either his car or the atrocious parking job he'd done. "We've been chasing you down for about three miles!"
Trowa blinked a couple of times. "You have? Why?"
The cop behind him clicked a pair of handcuffs shut around his wrists while the one in front of him began listing his crimes with ticks of his fingers. "Speeding. Reckless driving. Running a red light - that one you did seven times. Failure to stop for a traffic citation. Evading arrest. Exceeding the speed limit in a school zone - son, do you have any idea at all how fast you were going?"
"Um, no? Sir. No, sir."
"Fast enough to get you thrown in jail without a second thought. You want to tell me what the emergency is?"
"Baby," Trowa replied, quickly and seriously. "We're having one. A baby. Right now." He could feel a touch of panic rising in his throat and tried to push it back, but it wasn't working out as well as he'd hoped.
The cop raised an eyebrow and turned to peer into the back seat of the car. If he squinted, Trowa could make out Quatre huffing out breaths in some sort of Lamaze-like pattern and Iria glaring daggers at him.
"Your wife?" The cop asked.
"Sister-in-law," Trowa replied. He thought he sounded a little calmer, even if he didn't feel it.
The officer nodded. "First?"
"No, sir," Trowa shook his head. "She's the nineteenth out of twenty-nine sisters."
There was a long pause. "I meant, is it the first baby?"
"Oh. No, but it's the first one I've been involved in."
The cop asking the questions exchanged a glance with the cop behind him. "Involved?" He asked, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline. "I thought you said she was your sister-in-law."
Trowa frowned, confused. "She is."
The cop half-smirked back at him, nodding once to his partner and making a small wave at the other squad cars on the scene. "How's your wife feel about you being involved with her pregnancy, then?"
"I don't have a wife," Trowa replied, still confused and letting out a small sigh of relief as he felt the handcuffs being unlocked.
Just at that moment, Quatre got out of the car. He supported Iria's elbow as she eased her way out of the back seat and spared Trowa a quick look. "Sorry - she was having a rather long contraction, there, and didn't want to - oh, hello, officers. Is there something we can do for you?"
In unison, the officers flicked their eyes over to Quatre and Iria, then back to Trowa, then to each other.
"All right, never mind," the first cop sighed. "Just be more careful next time - er, with the driving, I mean." They began walking away, shaking their heads as they went. "Whatever else you three do is your own business."
Quatre slung an arm around Iria's waist and steered her toward the emergency room, casting a backwards glance at Trowa. "What was that all about?"
Trowa shrugged and sprinted to his side. "I guess I was going a little too fast."
"Really?" Quatre replied. "I didn't think you were going very fast at all..."
They were barely three steps into the emergency room when an orderly appeared at Quatre's shoulder with a wheelchair for Iria and a clipboard full of paperwork for someone to sign. Quatre flipped through the pages and initialed anywhere he saw a blank spot, then threw himself down into a chair in the waiting area, letting out a long, sighing breath.
"Whew!" he said, grinning at Trowa. "Thank God we got her here in time - for a minute there, I was afraid we were going to end up delivering the baby on the living room floor!"
Trowa sank into the chair next to him. "Yeah, what a relief, huh? I guess we should call Richard - he and Giselle will be sorry they missed it."
"Right, we should." Quatre sat up and pulled his phone out of his pocket just as a nurse came barreling down the hall where they'd taken Iria and stopped in front of them.
"You the ones who brought in Iria Winner-Alvarez?" she demanded.
"Yes," Quatre replied, jumping up out of his chair. "Is something wrong?"
"Hell, yes, something's wrong! Mrs. Winner-Alvarez is up in Maternity having a baby all by herself while you two are parked on your asses down here!" She grabbed Quatre by the elbow and began dragging him rather forcefully to the elevator. "Come on, Dad - you put that baby there, you're going to see it come out!"
"D-d-dad?!?" Quatre sputtered, looking desperately over his shoulder at Trowa, who shot to his feet and ran to Quatre's side. "What? Wait - I'm not - where are you taking me?"
"The delivery room," the nurse replied curtly. "She can't have that baby all by herself, y'know!"
"But - but - I'm not the father! I'm the brother! I mean, the uncle! I mean, the mother's brother, and the baby's uncle! I mean -" Quatre broke the nurse's hold on his arm as she shoved him into the waiting elevator and punched a button on the controls. "I can't go in there - I don't know what to do!" he insisted desperately.
Trowa nodded vigorously in Quatre's defense. "Right - he doesn't know what to do! He's just an uncle! He can barely change diapers!"
"Right!" Quatre agreed, desperation in his voice.
The nurse wheeled on Trowa, sizing him up with a glare and apparently finding him lacking. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
Trowa stepped back and bumped into the elevator wall. "I'm with him," he replied feebly, pointing at Quatre.
The elevator dinged and the door opened, and the nurse manhandled them both out into the hall. "Not anymore, you're not - now you're with her." She pushed Trowa at the next open door. "Go in there and hold her hand and tell her how good a job she's doing. Be calm and mellow, and whatever you do, don't give her anything to panic about, got it?"
Trowa blinked, then nodded dumbly. "I think so," he stammered, then kicked himself for stammering.
"Go on, then," the nurse replied, dragging Quatre across the hall. "This one's going to get washed up and into scrubs. If Daddy's not here, then you'll have to do the catching, Uncle!"
Quatre's eyes went impossibly wider, his jaw dropping to somewhere around his knees. "C-c-catching?!?" he cried. "What do you mean, catching? I don't think I want to catch!"
The nurse only laughed darkly as she pushed Quatre into the waiting scrub room.
Trowa stood and watched them go, his eyebrows knitting in confusion. "Catching?" he murmured to himself. "Now, what does she mean by...oh. Oh. Ohhhhhhh...yuck!" He shook his head sharply, thanked his lucky stars that he was only the brother-in-law, and ducked inside the delivery room before somebody changed their mind.
When Quatre came into the delivery room about fifteen minutes later, freshly scrubbed and draped in a surgical gown, Iria was sitting up with one hand clasped in Trowa's and one hand around her belly, letting out a scream to wake the dead. Trowa's eyes were wide, glazed and desperate, and as Iria slumped against the raised back of the bed, he looked up at the nurse and started begging.
"Whatever you gave her isn't helping," he started.
"You need to give it more than thirty seconds to work, Mr. Barton," came the curt reply.
"It's not helping at all! Isn't there something else -"
He was cut off by an uncharacteristic growl from Iria. "I want the fucking epidural, God damn it, and I want it NOW!"
"The doctor will be here in a few minutes," The nurse said soothingly, setting her attention to arranging instruments on the tray next to the bed.
Quatre swallowed hard and stepped cautiously closer to the bed. "Iria?"
Both his sister's and his husband's eyes lit up. "Quatre," they exclaimed simultaneously, and then out of nowhere Iria doubled over with a loud, pained groan. Trowa clenched his teeth as his hand was squeezed nearly lifeless, and Quatre's own hand flew to the sharp pain that suddenly flared in his chest. When she dropped back against the bed again, the pain stopped, and he met her eyes in astonishment.
"My God!" he cried. "That hurts!"
"No shit!" Iria snarled.
Quatre whirled on the nurse. "Can't you give her something?"
The nurse shook her head. "She's already had a shot of Demerol. The doctor will have to decide if it's okay to give her the epidural."
"But..." Quatre's protests died in his throat as someone pushed past him from behind, his voice oozing an oily charm.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Winner-Alvarez - you're here a little early, aren't you? I wasn't expecting to see you here for another couple of weeks!"
"Three weeks, to be exact..." Quatre muttered darkly under his breath.
"Hello, Doctor Fleming, I -" Iria began, her sentence dying off as another contraction gripped her. The doctor moved to the end of the bed and pushed the sheet up her legs, one hand patting her knee reassuringly. When it was over, he looked up into her face and smiled.
"Yep," he said. "We're having a baby here!"
Quatre and Trowa shot each other a quick glance before Quatre spoke up. "Doctor, she's in a lot of pain. Isn't there something else you can give her?"
Dr. Fleming turned and cocked his head. "You're not Dad," he declared.
It was all Quatre could do not to roll his eyes. "No, I'm Iria's brother. My name is Quatre. The baby's father is in Florida visiting his parents."
"Ah - good, good - nice to meet you, Mr. Winner." He took Quatre's right hand and shook it firmly. Quatre met the gesture with a professional air, then suddenly realized where this particular doctor was about to put his hands and turned bright red. If his embarrassment was noticed, it wasn't commented upon as the doctor clapped him heartily on the back and pulled him closer to the end of the bed. "Well, if you're going to be standing in for Dad, you might as well get into the proper position, don't you think?"
Quatre stumbled a little bit, looked down at his sister and caught sight of the part of her body that was no longer discreetly covered by the sheet. His eyes widened and his blush deepened, and he very quickly jerked his head up to stare at the ceiling. "Uh - yes, well - uh, she's in a lot of pain, and, uh, I think she could do with a little medication for that."
The doctor shook his head, his solidly slicked-back hair barely registering the movement. "Sorry, no - things are moving along a little too quickly for that. She's almost fully dilated already. Another good contraction and she'll be ready to start pushing."
"Pushing...?" Quatre began, and almost on cue, Iria began groaning again. Trowa grit his teeth as she squeezed down on his hand, and Quatre clenched his jaw against the pain radiating from both of them. When it stopped, Iria was panting, her face slack, and Quatre and Trowa exchanged another worried look. No more drugs...pushing...baby...it was all happening way too fast for either of their liking.
"Good, good," Dr. Fleming soothed. "You're doing great, Iria. On the next contraction, I want you to push, alright?" He turned his head a little to glance at Trowa. "Support her lower back," he ordered, and Trowa nodded and swallowed sharply in reply.
He turned to the equipment tray and snapped on a pair of gloves, giving Quatre an amused look. "Come on over here a little closer, Uncle - you're going to miss it if you stand way over there."
Quatre gulped down his trepidation and did as he was told, trying very hard not to look.
The next contraction began and Iria sat back up with a jerk. "Okay, push," urged the doctor. "Come on - there we go, that's good - good job. Okay, relax for a minute." He elbowed Quatre and pointed down to the exact spot Quatre was trying to avoid. "Look," he said, "See that? That's the top of the head."
Quatre took a deep breath and looked, blinking at what he saw. After a few seconds of staring mutely, he whispered "Oh, my God..."
In his peripheral vision, he saw Iria sitting up again. He saw Trowa holding her up and stumbling over encouraging words in her ear. He felt the doctor grab his hands and pull them down, and heard the instructions to support the head as it came out. His own repeated whispers of "Oh, my God" registered somewhere in his head, catalogued as one of the details of this moment. But with his heart, all he knew and saw and felt was this new little life. He could hear the breath rushing in and out of its tiny lungs, and shivered with the cold shock of air against its skin. He sensed the confusion in its awakening mind, and a part of him rushed to comfort it. He saw the baby's body forcing its way out into the world, and felt its consciousness awaken to take it all in. He felt its energy brush tentatively against his, and he opened himself to it.
Everything's alright - I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you.
The next thing he knew, there was a baby girl in his arms, covered in the stuff of birth, her arms and legs jerking as she tested their limits. He looked up at Trowa and wondered if his own smile was as broad as the one he was getting.
"Look - she's beautiful," Quatre breathed.
Something long and metallic entered his field of vision from the side. "Want to cut the cord?" the doctor asked.
Quatre stared blankly at him for a moment, then his eyes flicked down to the proffered forceps and the muck-covered hand that held them. "Uh - er, no. Thank you, I'd rather you did it."
"Suit yourself," Dr. Fleming replied, and with a quick snip it was done. The nurse was back at his shoulder, this time urging him to bring the baby to a small scale and a stack of towels.
Trowa watched Quatre go with the nurse to the other side of the room and looked down at Iria with no small amount of awe. "You did it," he marveled.
She squeezed his hand gently. "I couldn't have done it alone. Thank you."
He blinked a few times, his eyes suddenly damp. "No need..." he murmured.
She smiled a little. "Sorry about the death grip on your hand."
That made him laugh. "That's okay - I'm sure it was nothing in comparison to what you were going through."
At that moment, the doctor held up a kidney-shaped aluminum bowl with something reddish and blobbish squishing around in it. "Did you want to keep the afterbirth?" he asked.
Trowa paled and Iria shook her head. "No, thank you."
"Suit yourself," the doctor shrugged again, setting the bowl back down. He wiped a towel down Iria's legs and pulled the sheet back down over her knees, then snapped the gloves off and dropped them into the garbage can. He patted Iria on the shoulder and smiled. "Well done, Mom, well done. Everything looks just fine. We'll get you settled into a room and then you two can get some sleep." Iria nodded tiredly and Dr. Fleming turned his attention to Trowa. He held his hand out and smiled. "You know, I don't think I ever got your name."
Trowa took the hand and shook it. "Trowa Barton," he replied, then he suddenly realized where that hand had just been and went bright red.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Barton. Well done, well done." The doctor clapped him on the side of the arm, released his grip on his hand, and turned to where Quatre and the nurse were cleaning off the baby.
Trowa blinked and leaned down to murmur to Iria "Why on Earth did he ask you if you wanted to keep that stuff?"
"I'm not sure," she replied sluggishly. "I've heard some people plant trees or make soup with it." She shrugged a little, then turned her attention to Quatre, who was bringing the clean and blanket-wrapped baby over to her with a proud grin.
"...Soup...?" Trowa whispered, struggling to keep the disgust off his face. He shuddered, shook his head firmly to knock the image away, and was brought back to reality by the happy sound of Iria's voice cooing at her new daughter.
The nurses helped her onto a gurney before laying the baby on her chest. As they pushed mother and daughter out into the hall and on their way to their room, Trowa felt a hand encircle his. They threaded their fingers without even thinking, and Quatre gave Trowa's hand a small squeeze.
Trowa winced and jerked half out of Quatre's grasp. "Ow..."
"Oh! Sorry," Quatre said sheepishly. He took Trowa's hand again and made soothing circles along the back of it with his thumb.
"That's okay," Trowa replied. "Your sister has quite a grip, you know."
Quatre chuckled softly, taking a step forward and pulling gently on Trowa's hand to encourage him along. "Now you know why all the kids in school were afraid of her."
"I guess I do," Trowa smiled, following Quatre's lead.
Talking quietly, they made their way down the hall to Iria's room.
Quatre was startled out of his doze by a soft but unhappy sound. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the borrowed hospital bed, taking just a few steps to get to the bassinet that sat between Iria's bed and the one he and Trowa had appropriated. He picked the baby up, being careful to keep the swaddling intact and making gentle, soothing sounds.
"Shhh, shhh, it's alright, little Charlotte," he whispered. "It's okay - Uncle Quatre's got you. What's the matter, now, hm?" He paced back and forth between the beds, bouncing on his feet a little as he walked. He worked a hand into the swaddling and patted the baby's backside. "You don't feel wet...did you just get lonely in there all by yourself?"
She turned her little head to his chest and rubbed her nose against him, making small, distressed noises.
"Ah!" he said with a quiet laugh. "I see - you're hungry. Well, I'm afraid I can't help you with that." He trailed off and looked down at Iria, frowning a little. "And Mommy's fast asleep. Hm. I wonder..."
He turned back to the bassinet, crouched down a little and pulled one of the drawers open with one hand, balancing the baby in the crook of his other arm. "A-ha!" He stood up and flashed the baby a triumphant look. "I thought I saw some formula down there earlier, and sure enough, there it is. It must be your lucky night!" He brought his face down to rub noses with his infant niece, then sat back down on the bed, making sure not to wake Trowa as he did. He propped up his pillows with one hand and scooted back against them, laying her carefully across his lap.
Working quickly, he opened the bottle and screwed the nipple on over the top. Then he scooped the baby back up, held her close against his chest, and offered her the business end of the bottle. He laughed a little as she eagerly took it, bringing her tiny hands out of the blanket to grasp at its sides.
"Shhh...there, there, now - not so fast. You were a hungry girl, indeed, hm?" She met his eyes, concentrating on his face as she sucked, and he couldn't help but smile a little more. "I don't think I'm supposed to be giving you this stuff, you know - your mommy wants you to nurse - but we'll just let her sleep and overlook the rules, just this once."
Her fingers found his pinky and she squeezed it tightly.
Quatre mock-sighed. "Oh, very well, then - I suppose I'll be willing to overlook Mommy's rules once or twice more over the course of your life. After all, what's an uncle for, if not to spoil you silly?"
A low, gently mocking murmur came from beside him. "Once or twice? Is that per day, or what?"
Quatre smirked a little, keeping his eyes firmly on the baby in his arms. "Uncle Trowa thinks he's terribly, terribly funny. Just laugh politely at his jokes, little one, and he won't pout at you."
Trowa rolled onto his stomach, craning up on his elbows to peer into the face peeking out of the bundle of swaddling. "And Uncle Quatre thinks he's very subtle and quiet. You're going to have to teach him some lessons in stealth if you want to get properly spoiled." He took her tiny foot in one hand and gave it a gentle kiss.
Charlotte's eyes traveled back and forth between the two of them for a moment, then she pressed her foot to Trowa's chin and pushed. Trowa made an exaggerated roll across the bed with a surprised "Oh!", then sat back up with a grin.
"She's a strong one!" he smirked at Quatre. "Did you see that? She almost kicked me off the bed!"
Quatre shook his head and smiled. "Just wait until you start walking, Charlotte - Uncle Trowa will insist on teaching you how to turn somersaults and cartwheels and all sorts of things before you can even negotiate your way around the living room."
Trowa was about to reply when the night nurse came bustling in. She blinked owlishly at the two of them, her lips curling into a surprised little smile. "Oh - hello. I didn't think anyone would be up."
"She got hungry," Quatre replied quietly. "I know she's supposed to be nursing, but my sister was still asleep, so I - "
The nurse chuckled softly. "Don't worry, Mr. Winner - I'm not going to tell on you." She plucked Iria's chart off the hook at the foot of her bed, scanned it quickly, made a couple of check marks on it, then put it down and smiled at them. "Besides - Mom needs to get some rest while she can. Today took a lot out of her."
Quatre frowned a little at that. He looked down into the baby's face and wondered if he should have a word with the doctor about his sister's health, but his expression softened as he noticed the little eyes starting to drift shut. "She's falling back to sleep," he murmured.
"Oh, good," the nurse began, holding her hands out. "Here - I'll just put her back in the bassinet for you."
Quatre let her take Charlotte a little reluctantly, and Trowa's lip twitched with a suppressed smirk. For all the teasing he took about being wrapped around the little finger of Charlotte's older sister Giselle, it sure didn't seem to be taking long for Quatre to end up in the same predicament.
Baby replaced and tucked in, the nurse nodded at them and swept out of the room. Trowa laid back down, pulling gently on Quatre to get him to do the same. Quatre was still frowning a little when his head hit the pillow, and it wasn't there long before he was sitting back up again.
"What now?" Trowa whispered sleepily.
"She doesn't want to be in there all by herself," Quatre began, sotto voce.
Trowa shook his head. "Quatre, you can't - " He was cut off by a sharp, angry noise coming from inside the bassinet.
"See?" Quatre said, climbing out of the bed.
When he came back, Trowa was laying on his side, trying not to smile. Quatre settled in next to him, cradling the baby in one arm. He lay back and propped her on her side with his arm, her head against his chest and her eyes peacefully drifting shut again. Quatre closed his own eyes with a self-satisfied little smirk, then opened them back up to shoot Trowa a look.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing - just thinking of an old song," Trowa replied, sliding his arm around Quatre's middle.
"What song is that?"
Trowa's grin widened a little, and he began to sing softly. "Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets..."
Quatre snorted, but Charlotte snuggled in a little closer as Trowa sang, letting out a soft sigh. The two men exchanged an amused look as Quatre's lip quirked up. He shrugged a little, held the baby a little tighter, closed his eyes and smiled.
"If that's the way it has to be," he said, resignation in his voice, "Then that's the way it has to be."