Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

1 - Bob the (former) HYDRA agent father of five

The sun is shining, not a cloud in the sky, Terry and Howie have negotiated a ceasefire and are playing together with the minimal amount of violence that can reasonably be expected from two tweens, the younger kiddos went down for their nap without much of a fuss earlier, and when Bob flips one of the burgers, it’s grilled to delicious, medium-rare juiciness.

Smiling to himself, Bob grabs his beer and takes a long pull. It’s crisp and cool on his tongue, and Bob sighs happily, eyes fluttering shut.

No upcoming jobs.

No lingering injuries.

Just a picture perfect Sunday with the family.

“Honey?”

Gail’s standing in the open terrace door, phone pressed speaker down against her shoulder, and her eyes crinkle fondly when Bob turns his smile on her, a tease and a promise in one. She huffs, cheeks pinkening, as she crosses the yard, and smacks him on the ass when he can’t help but chuckle.

“Stop it,” she chides, which would probably be more effective if she didn’t also brush a kiss over the corner of his mouth a moment later. She holds out the phone, whispering, “I think it’s someone from work?”

Bob frowns, but takes the phone so she can head back inside to finish up the rest of lunch, jamming it between his ear and shoulder so he’s got a hand free to turn the rest of the burgers. “Go for Bob.”

“Pulling the disappearing act on your oldest, dearest friend? Total dick move, I am hurt. Like, in my soul. My soul is experiencing sorrow because of you, Bobby, have you no shame? No conscience?!"

Bob nearly fumbles his beer. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“No, it’s Wade,” comes the cheerful reply, followed by what sounds like—knocking? “Now, how about you let me in? Tracking you down all the way out here in the burbs was a bitch and a half, lemme tell you, I’m fucking starving. And I smell food. Wouldn’t say no to a drink, either, unless you’re still into that metallic piss water the Dutch call beer, because; brother, ew.”

Bob blinks down at the Heineken in his hand. Then startles belatedly, heart starting to hammer rapidly in his chest. “Wade,” he asks, even though he’s pretty sure he already knows and hates the answer, “are you—are you at my house right now?”

“Gate, actually,” Wade says, and knocks on said gate again, for good measure.

Shooting a worried glance back at the house, Bob hangs up and hurries across the lawn, and sure enough; when he unlocks and opens the back gate, there’s Wade fucking Wilson in full gear, wiggling the fingers of one hand at Bob in mockery of a proper wave, and cradling a small child against his side with the other.

“What are—” is as far as Bob gets before Wade pushes past him, whistling long and low as he glances around the yard. “Sssh!”

“Bobster,” Wade gasps, free hand now pressed against his chest, “are you ashamed of me?”

Bob crosses his own arms. “Yes.”

Wade nods. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

“What the f—” Bob winces, eyeing the baby, “fudge are you doing here, man?”

Instead of providing any information about anything whatsoever, Wade wanders over to the grill to inspect its contents. Then, with all of his usual audacity, he pushes his mask up over his nose, picks up the tongs, grabs a burger, and takes a huge bite. And burns the shit out of his mouth, which is, admittedly, hilarious to watch, but of little comfort to Bob’s increasingly hysterical state of mind.

“Wade—”

“Xavier’s mansion is overrun by flesh eating zombie plants from another dimension. I gotta go deal with that, and you were closest.” The baby makes a disgruntled noise, and Bob watches in horrified fascination as Wade leans down to blow a raspberry on her cheek, making her wiggle and giggle. “We’ve talked about this, sweetpea, your daddy’s going to kill me full on dead if I let you tag along.”

“Her—Wade.” Bob pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a deep, slow, steadying breath. It doesn’t really help, at all. “Whose goddamn baby is that?”

Wade shoots him a sunny smile. “Mine and Logan’s. Obviously.”

And with that, he hands the little girl over to Bob, who settles her on his hip on instinct, before he has fully processed the fact that he’s apparently supposed to watch the Wolverine’s kid.

“She had a bottle half an hour ago, but she’s good with the formula you have for your youngest, just in case,” Wade rattles off, and Bob decides it’s best if he doesn’t know just how the hell Wade knows what kind of milk he’s feeding his kid, “and I’d wager they’re about the same size in diapers. She’s due for a nap soon, so she’ll probably just snooze until I get back. An hour, two hours tops.”

He’s moved back to the gate while talking, but turns to blow kisses and wave at the baby. “Be good for Bobby, Ellie-Bean!”

“Wade, you can’t just—”

Wade’s still smiling when he looks back up at Bob, but all traces of humor are gone from his face. It’s one of Bob’s least favorite Wade expressions; it’s super creepy. “You owe me.”

Bob splutters indignantly. “You stabbed me, the last time we saw each other!”

Wade quirks a brow. “You were stalking my husband.”

“Okay, yeah, but—oh, hey, congrats!”

And Wade’s beaming again, wide and bright and real. It’s somehow almost more unsettling than the whole unhinged routine. “Thank you!” he chirps, and throws another wave over his shoulder as he leaves. “You’re the best, knew I could count on you, friend-o!”

The gate slams shut behind him.

“Bob?” Gail is peeking out the door again. “What’s going on?”

“Dad,” Terry pipes up, frowning down at the grill, “I think the burgers are burning.”

Next to him, Howie’s eating relish straight from the bottle.

In his arms, the baby starts crying.

Bob grits his teeth.

Picture fucking perfect Sunday.

2 - (definitely not the) Winter Soldier

Bucky notices his tail about twenty seconds after stepping out of the bodega, which means whoever’s decided to follow him is either an idiot, or just doesn’t give a shit about Bucky knowing they’re there. It takes him another block and a half to figure out who his stalker is. He huffs out an irritated sigh, but relaxes ever so slightly.

“Both it is,” he mutters under his breath, and pushes his tote back up onto his shoulder for approximately the 100th time in the last ten minutes. It slips back down again almost immediately. “Fuck’s sake.”

Using this stupid, impractical, flimsy piece of shit better be saving a fuckload of turtles, or trees, or whatever.

He jogs up the front steps to his brownstone another five minutes later, unlocks the door and shoulders it open, and heads for the kitchen to put down the groceries. Then, considering the major headache waiting to happen that’s currently ringing his doorbell, he grabs a glass and pours himself two fingers of scotch, downing them quickly before he heads back out to where he just came from.

“Could’ve just called, y’know,” he says, even as he holds the door open for Wade, nodding him inside.

“This was way more fun.” Wade winks at him, a little lascivious and a lot annoying. He sets the car seat down, the diaper bag following suit, and glances around the foyer, fingers trailing over the weird sculpture thing the interior decorator Bucky’s PR team had insisted on put there for god knows what reason. It’s ugly as sin, and try as he might, Bucky can’t figure out what the fuck it’s supposed to be. “Swanky. New job treating you well, Congressman Barnes?”

Bucky glares, and waits him out. Predictably, it doesn’t take too long.

“Hey, don’t look at me like I accused you of corruption,” Wade tsks, and grins when Bucky rolls his eyes. Voice pitched low, all secretive, he murmurs, “Between you and me, I’d wait until my second term. Settle in first, do some performative shit to get everyone on board, fill up a pothole or something—”

This is all Logan’s fucking fault, Bucky thinks wearily, as he picks the car seat back up to move it over to the living room. Or, actually, it’s Sam’s, for organizing that “can’t talk to a regular therapist on account of being a superhero/vigilante/mutant, or any combination thereof” support group both Logan and him have been bullied into joining.

you owe me a beer he texts Sam, because that’s the least he can do, considering Bucky's only met Wade because of him in the first place, and then goes about unstrapping Ellie.

She blinks at him, slow and bleary from the nap she’s just waking up from, but smiles gummily once she recognizes him. “Ba-ah!”

“Hello, darlin’,” Bucky chuckles, kissing her cheek.

“—and ignoring your constituents like this definitely isn’t going to get you reelected, freezer burn, you just lost my vote,” Wade finishes his rant as he walks in, bringing the bag and dropping it on the couch before flopping down himself in a lazy sprawl.

“You’re Canadian.”

Wade flaps a dismissive hand at him. “Tomayto, tomahto, eh?”

Gently bouncing the baby, chin hooked over her head, Bucky asks, “How long am I watching her?”

“Weeeeeell,” Wade drawls, tapping a finger against his chin like an asshole, “it’s date night, so however long dinner, a movie, and getting dicked down takes in this day and economy.”

Bucky snorts, amused despite himself. “Charming.”

Wade curtsies, as much as that’s possible while he’s sitting down, which isn’t a whole lot. “Thanks, I do try.”

He pisses off soon after, although not before raiding Bucky’s still packed up groceries for movie snacks, but he does also give Bucky’s shoulder a brief squeeze on his way out, his, “Seriously, thanks for this,” sounding sincere enough, as far as Bucky’s able to tell.

Jesus, Logan really knows how to pick ‘em.

add some thai to that beer and get your ass over here Bucky sends Sam in reply to his row of middle fingers, snapping a quick selfie of himself with Ellie curled up against his chest, and i’ll think about letting you cuddle the baby.

Sam’s 😍 is instantaneous, followed quickly by, only the baby?😉

Bucky grins as he slips the phone back into his jeans. He brushes another kiss over the top of Ellie’s head, and goes to clean up the mess Wade’s made of his kitchen, whistling to himself as he does.

3 - Magneto?!

Erik’s traveled across space and time itself, is able to jump between dimensions with scarcely any effort, has led tens of thousands of his kind to a brighter future, is one of the most sought after and respected experts on mutant rights and law, has worked so incredibly hard and tirelessly to become a person worthy of his husband’s affection, and yet he fails, repeatedly and spectacularly, at avoiding the more insufferable members of Charles’ mismatched gaggle of accumulated friends and family.

He’s been vaguely aware of Wilson for the last thirty minutes as the man has been making his way across the city towards Erik’s office, the storm that is his fractured mind making Erik’s teeth ache like nails on chalkboard. Grimacing, he finishes the last of his lunch as he senses Wilson entering the building downstairs, undoubtedly using all of his not inconsiderable capacity to annoy people into compliance to get past security without an official invitation or appointment.

Hiding in the executive bathroom is always an option, Erik supposes, though it feels just a touch undignified.

With a defeated sigh, Erik chucks the takeout box into the trash, and fixes his most disapproving scowl in place just as he hears Wilson’s grating voice loudly greet his secretary. He wonders, for a brief, blissful moment, if the girl might be able to get rid of Wilson for him, but that hope dies a quick and painful death when he hears a knock on his door mere seconds later.

“Don’t come in,” Erik calls, and is soundly but unsurprisingly ignored.

“Yikes,” Wilson pushes his sunglasses down his nose to look Erik over while Erik does the same to him, quietly horrified at the combat boots, shorts, flannel, and cropped shirt combination Wilson’s apparently deemed an appropriate wardrobe choice, instead of the outrageous eyesore it so clearly is, “someone’s in a mood today.”

The baby strapped to his chest lets out a string of shrieks, bouncing eagerly in her sling.

“You’re absolutely correct, my love,” Wilson tells her, and winks down at her when she tilts her head back to stare up at him, “he does look like something’s crawled up his—”

Erik considers the knickknacks on his desk, deliberating what would hurt the most when getting thrown at high velocity.

“Uh-uh, nope, don’t even think about it, buddy,” Wilson waggles a finger at him, and Erik changes course and starts fantasizing about breaking his hand instead, “I know for a fact that Chucklebear’s told you not to throw shit at me when I’m holding the baby.”

That is, unfortunately, true.

Erik sighs again. “What do you want?”

“Glad you asked,” Wilson chirps as he hops up to perch on the edge of Erik’s desk, sending a stack of papers flying in the process. “Oopsie, my bad.”

He makes no move to pick them up. Instead, he gently lifts the baby out of her sling, and plops her down in front of Erik, steadying her with one hand. “I need a babysitter for the afternoon.”

The baby, drooling around the fingers in her mouth, blinks at Erik.

Erik wrinkles his nose. “No.”

Wilson nods, humming under his breath. “Okay, I get it, but what if yes instead?”

“There’s a mansion full of people who’d fall all over themselves to spend time with your offspring,” Erik points out, rather reasonably, he thinks, “and yet, inexplicably, you’re here, bothering me. Why?”

Wilson squirms and pulls a face, and Erik sits back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach as realization dawns on him. “What have you done?”

“Nothing. Yet.” Wilson groans, unnecessarily dramatic in Erik’s opinion, and knuckles at his eyes. “Okay, look, truth is I’m just not in the mood for one of Charles’ lectures today, y’know? Come on, Lehnsherr, please?”

Slightly intrigued now, Erik arches a brow. “He wouldn’t approve of whatever you’re planning.”

Wilson meets his eyes without hesitation, tilting his head back at Erik with a small smile Erik can immediately tell does not bode well for him. “No more than I imagine he’d approve if he found out you are the one behind that hilariously threatening smear campaign against Senator Backpfeifengesicht, or whatever the asshole’s name is.”

Leaning forward again, ignoring the baby fist grabbing at his collar, Erik asks, “Are you attempting to blackmail me into compliance?”

“Little bit,” Wilson admits easily, pinching his fingers close together. “Like, don’t get me wrong, fuck that guy and his homophobic bullshit rhetoric, and actually, remind me to send you the screen shots of his deleted tweets from 2011, they’re exactly what you think they are—nevermind, what I’m saying is, between you and me, I’ll throw you under the bus every single damn time, babycakes.”

It takes Erik a moment to parse all that. “Blackmail and bribery?”

Wilson shrugs. “Hey, whatever works, amirite? Just keeping all my options open over here.”

There’s really nothing else to be said, after that. Erik is of no more mind to get yelled at by Charles than Wilson, and with his secretary being the bleeding heart he knows her to be, he'll definitely get more than some incriminating internet ramblings out of this ridiculous situation. Still, Erik lets him stew for a few moments while he picks up the baby and settles her on his lap, before he agrees, “All right.”

Wilson springs back up to his feet. “Yeah? Coolio! And you’re not going to mention any of this to Chucky. Right?”

“No,” Erik promises, and does mostly mean it.

“See, I knew you were secretly fun.” Wilson leans across the desk to smack a kiss to the baby’s cheek. “Try not to radicalize my kid while I’m gone, we want her to choose for herself how she's going to stand up to the establishment once she's able to, you know, actually stand up.”

Erik waits until he’s sure Wilson’s in the elevator before he softens his expression. He gets up, baby in one arm, and presses the button on his phone for the intercom. “Cancel my 2 o’clock, I’m taking the rest of the day.”

After his secretary confirms as much, and has sufficiently cooed over the idea of Erik with a small child, Erik allows himself a quick quirk of the lips down at the baby. “You,” he tells her, gently booping her on the nose, “are a very convenient excuse, kleines Fräulein.”

4 - Venom (seriously, Eddie had NOTHING to do with this)

Eddie’s got no idea what woke him up; all he knows is that it seems too fucking early to not be unconscious, a hunch that’s confirmed after a bleary squint at his alarm clock tells him it’s barely six in the morning. Which would be a shitty time to get up on any given day, but especially on a Saturday, and super especially on a Saturday after having let his in-body roommate run them both all over the city for most of the previous night.

With a groan, Eddie rolls over, away from the first rays of taunting sunshine sneaking through the gaps in the curtains, and buries his face in a pillow. It smells vaguely of something Eddie’s never been quite able to identify, something uniquely other and alien. Smiling around a yawn, Eddie pats his hand along the mattress until it makes contact with something cool, and pulls the blankets back over himself with a contented hum.

He never used to run cold before acquiring his stowaway, but he’s gotten used to sharing his body after years of cohabitation, and having most of Venom outside of himself somewhere always leaves him feeling not only chilly, but also uncomfortably bereft, these days. He can still feel them, though, if he focuses, just across the hall in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge and talking to themselves.

Which is just going to have to be a problem for the Eddie in about another six hours, who’s by then hopefully slept enough to deal with whatever’s currently happening out there.

Decision made, Eddie nestles deeper under his blankets, ready to drift off again—

“Ah, bah!”

Eddie’s eyes shoot open.

Because that? That sounds suspiciously like a baby.

A baby that is inside his apartment.

Inside his apartment without his knowledge or involvement.

“Godfucking damnit,” Eddie grunts as he flops onto his back, rubbing both his hands over his face.

He stumbles, as he gets out of bed, still only half awake, and nearly cracks his head open on the dressers while he tries to pull on a pair of briefs. Then, on second thought, he also grabs a shirt, because, well; baby.

Venom, clearly sensing that Eddie’s given up on getting any more rest, shoves their usual, slightly overwhelming morning flood of emotions at Eddie the instant Eddie pushes open the bedroom door. He gets mostly happiness and fondness and warmth, which aren’t unusual, but he also feels some vibrant excitement and a slightly worrying amount of eagerness mixed in there, which make Eddie poke his head into the kitchen with a healthy dose of trepidation.

And then he lets out a shaky breath of relief, because at least he recognizes their impromptu guest.

“Wade was here?” he asks, and gladly accepts the cup of coffee one of Venom’s appendages carries over to him as he lets himself fall into a chair.

Ellie is gnawing on another, smaller one, and drooling all over it and herself.

Eddie opens his mouth to protest on principle, because that can’t be hygienic, but snaps it shut again when he realizes he doesn’t want to have a discussion about where on and in his person those appendages have been before, and how safe and sanitary those situations have been, not while Venom is floating a small child around their apartment.

Besides, he’s seen her try to chew on that ugly little dog of Wade’s, so she’ll probably be fine.

Still, “Get her a cold, wet washcloth, love,” he mumbles around a mouthful of coffee, “she’ll like that.”

Another appendage emerges from Venom’s center mass, and floats off towards, presumably, the bathroom. “Eddie,” Venom rumbles, their head turned away from what might be scrambled eggs on the stove to look back at Eddie, “did you know humans have to grow their own teeth? Twice!”

Eddie hides a smile in his cup. “Mh, I was aware, yeah.”

Venom places a plate of only slightly runny eggs on the table in front of Eddie, grumbling about inefficiency and faulty design, both of which Eddie chooses to ignore in favor of watching Venom attempt to exchange their appendage for the newly retrieved washcloth. It ends with Ellie wailing and glowering at Venom, looking eerily like her father, and Venom’s whole thought process screeching to a panicked halt.

“Give ‘er here,” Eddie chuckles, and huffs when Venom can’t hand the baby off fast enough. “Hey, all right, you’re okay, sweetheart,” he soothes, and snatches the washcloth Venom flails at him out of the air. “C’mon, this’ll help, I promise.”

Ellie fusses for another few moments, kicking at Eddie and pursing her lips when he rubs the washcloth over her mouth, before suddenly changing course and snatching it with both hands so she can chomp down on it. Then she drops her head against Eddie’s chest with a deep sigh, eyes fluttering.

Eddie smiles at her encouragingly. “There you go, isn’t that better?” He kisses one of her flushed cheeks. “Good girl.”

Letting his own eyes fall closed as well, Eddie leans back in his chair, and blindly reaches for his coffee again, taking appreciative sips while he waits for Ellie to doze off for a nap, fingers crossed. Which she does soon enough, a small, warm weight and a growing wet spot against Eddie’s chest.

“Eddie.”

Eddie blinks lazily, and startles a little at Venom hovering right in front of him, close enough to touch. Eddie happily takes the offered opportunity, and strokes a hand over Venom’s head, down their shoulder until it vanishes in the swirl they haven’t bothered to manifest into anything proper. “Morning, darling.”

“Eddie,” Venom says again, more urgent, accompanied by a wave of heat Eddie knows damn well is anything but innocent. Then, again, for a third time, their voice even lower and rougher than normal, “Eddie, we—”

“I’m holding a kid,” Eddie points out, mildly scolding, but mostly just helplessly fond.

Venom shudders all over. “Yes.”

Both of Eddie’s eyebrows climb all the way up his forehead, at that. “Really? I—this? It’s doing it for you?”

In lieu of a verbal reply, Venom changes and reforms, draping themself over Eddie’s shoulders and around his chest, gently curling around Ellie as well. They’re projecting a tangle of feelings Eddie’s not awake enough to name individually, but he definitely gets the general gist of them. “Is this something we need to talk about?”

Venom hisses, obviously embarrassed.

Eddie laughs, then kisses the closest part of Venom he can reach to take the sting out of it. Ellie snuffles in her sleep, her face scrunching up at the noise. “We’ll figure it out,” Eddie reassures in a whisper, and kisses the same spot again before he’s interrupted by another yawn. “After I’ve slept for more than two hours.”

5 - The fucking Punisher

A decade and a half should be more’n enough time to develop some decent strategies for falling back asleep after the kinds of dreams that wake Frank up more nights than not, yet here he is, wide fucking awake at the asscrack of dawn, twitchy and trembling with tension. Curtis keeps telling him to call if he’s feeling unsettled like this, but talking about his fucking emotions when he’s already only holding on to his temper by the skin of his teeth seems like a recipe for disaster.

Pacing doesn’t help for shit, only makes him more agitated, and while heading down to the gym in the basement would tire him out, it won’t be enough to knock him back out. He’ll just end up being even more exhausted later today, and act like a cranky bitch on top of it, according to David.

Fuck David.

Sometimes, having a warm body next to him when he wakes up panting and confused, looking around for people he won’t ever be able to find again, helps him claw his way back to the present faster, but that’s 50/50, max. Didn’t do much tonight, in any case, and the desperate fucking that followed after did take the edge off, yeah, but also left him all restless.

With a frustrated huff of a breath, Frank moves to the edge of the bed, and goes about extracting himself from the covers and the arm slung over his waist, preferably without waking the arm’s owner. It’s a tedious fucking process, but he manages, and quietly creeps across the bedroom in search of his clothes. He only realizes half of them aren’t his once he’s safely out in the hall, but resigns himself to the stupid I’m not Daredevil sweater in favor of going back for his own shirt and risking a conversation he definitely doesn’t have the brain capacity for, right now.

Instead, he wanders over to the living room on silent, bare feet, contemplating his options. Veg out on the couch with the TV muted, in consideration for ol' bat ears back in the bedroom, go and clean the equipment he used earlier tonight, which he probably should do but can’t be bothered to, finally file his overdue taxes now that he’s officially alive again, so the IRS stops riding his ass about it.

He snorts at that last one, because yeah, no.

The decision’s made for him, in the end, when the perimeter alarm for the street front of the house starts blinking. Frank shuts it off before the audible alarm starts blaring and waking the entire block, and watches on the tablet as the intruder approaches what appears to be the general kitchen area. And sure enough, once Frank’s retrieved the gun taped into the back of one of the cabinets, he’s close enough to hear someone clambering up the outside wall.

It’s a dumbass move, if they know whose apartment they’re trying to rob, or just an unfortunate one, if they don’t.

Doesn’t matter to Frank either way. He crouches down behind the counter, with a clear view of the kitchen window, and takes aim, keeping his breathing slow and even. Another forty-seven seconds, and the window begins to rattle until it’s finally jimmied open and pushed up.

Frank waits as a head appears, unrecognizable in the dark, and watches while the person tumbles inside, cursing under their breath as they stumble and try to regain their footing. Which is when Frank gets up in one fluid move, disengages the safety, and tells them, “You picked a bad fucking night for this bullshit, asshole.”

A startled yelp, and then a regrettably familiar voice, “You wouldn’t shoot a man holding a baby, would you, Frankie?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Frank grunts, but clicks the safety back in place. He lowers the gun, but doesn’t put it away just yet. “‘M considering it.”

Wade hums. “Mmh, yeah, sure.” As he walks into the kitchen proper, and the light from the overhead lamp Frank switches on, it becomes obvious, at least, why he’d been acting so uncharacteristically klutzy on his way up.

“Why the fuck are you scaling my building with a goddamn baby at four in the fucking morning?”

“Ssssh, come on, man,” Wade shushes him, which is fucking rich, everything considered. They both wait, breaths held, for a few seconds, but the baby stays soundly asleep, completely unbothered in her sling. “Logan needs some help with something he can’t stab to death, which means I need one, a babysitter, and two, more explosives than I currently have lying around at home on account of said baby. And I figured, hey, why not go visit my good pal Frank, and kill two birds with one stone, efficiency and all that jazz, you know?”

Which sounds about right.

Frank sighs. “Yeah, okay.”

Wade beams at him. “You’re the best, honeybunch,” he whispers as he transfers Eleanor from her sling into Frank’s unoccupied arm, hands carefully helping Frank settle her against his shoulder. “Boom sticks in the same safe as ush?”

Not trusting Wade as far as he can throw him when it comes to not messing up his shit, Frank trails after him to supervise. They have a hissed argument about the amount of dynamite necessary to blow up the kind of bunker Wade’s looking to get into, Wade tries to steal a set of throwing knives the instant Frank looks away for more than a second, but eventually, Wade’s got everything he needs that Frank’s willing to part with.

They exchange Eleanor’s diaper bag for the canvas bag full of explosives, Wade throws him a purposefully sloppy salute because he knows it pisses Frank off, and Frank reconsiders if not shooting him, then maybe pistol-whipping him in the head, just for shits and giggles.

It must show in his expression, though, because Wade takes a few quick steps back towards the kitchen. Then he immediately bounces back over like the fucking clown he is, and cups the baby’s head, stroking a finger across her forehead before pressing a kiss to it as well. His eyes flicker over Frank’s face as he straightens back up, and then his hand’s on Frank’s cheek, tilting his face into the light. Frank bares his teeth at him, which Wade chooses to ignore entirely.

“Nightmares, huh?” he asks, thumb brushing over what Frank imagines must be some pretty impressive dark circles, considering the maybe six hours, total, he’s slept over the last coupla nights. “Too bad I’m kind of in a hurry and also very firmly spoken for,” he waggles his brows at Frank obnoxiously, dancing out of the way and hopping back out onto the fire escape at Frank’s growl, “or we could’ve fucked some of that out of your system.”

Unbidden, without actually meaning to, Frank glances over at the thankfully still firmly closed bedroom door.

Wade’s entire face lights up. “Oh, Frankalicious, do you have company? How is Ma—”

Frank slams the window shut.

Then closes the blinds, too.

“Go get yourself some baby snuggles,” Wade calls, voice full of laughter, “total miracle cure for everything, promise!”

Without anything else or better to do, Frank goes and stashes the gun back away where it belongs, and then stretches out on the couch, doing exactly that. Eleanor snuffles, trying to get comfortable, until her face is tucked away in the crook of Frank’s neck, Frank’s cheek pressed gently against the crown of her head. He rubs a hand up and down her back, slow and steady, and breathes with her, until they're in perfect synch.

And he doesn’t fall asleep, still can’t, but he drifts, lulled into a light doze by the warm little body on his chest. Until that tiny little body decides it’s time for breakfast, which she announces shrilly and assertively.

“All right,” Frank groans as he pushes himself back up, surprised when it’s later than he would’ve guessed. “Huh, wouldja look at that. Guess your dad isn’t totally full of shit, yeah?”

He puts on some water for the baby cereals he finds in the bag Wade left for him, fending off greedy hands while peels and cuts up a banana. While the cereals cool down, with Eleanor happily munching away on her banana, Frank goes about making some food for the people with actual, full sets of teeth.

Mostly full, at least.

He’s got some home fries with chopped up bacon and onions sizzling away, and is cracking eggs into a bowl when he hears rustling from the bedroom. And sure enough, a few minutes later, the door opens and Matt stumbles out, hair a mess and wearing Frank's shirt.

Frank turns around and watches, mouth twitching, as Matt takes two, three steps towards him before he freezes, frowning in sleepy confusion.

“When did we acquire a child?" Matt yawns, rubbing at his face as he walks closer.

He trails a hand along Frank’s upper arm, and tilts his head up in invitation. Smiling, Frank presses a kiss to his lips. “Mornin’, Red.”

Matt sighs and sinks into the kiss, and Frank takes the opportunity to slip the baby into his arms. Matt makes a noise of protest as he pulls away, then grimaces when Eleanor smears a banana covered hand over his cheek.

“Objection.”

Frank snorts. “Overruled, counselor. Also, that’s not how the fuckin’ law works.”

Matt’s halfway across the room when he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Frank to still catch it, “Oh, now he suddenly gives a shit about the law.”

Smiling to himself, Frank starts some coffee.