Work Text:
Vick works to the feeling of cellophane in his throat and wads of cotton in his ears.
His head is ringing louder than the sound of the music blaring from the speakers. His fingers are twitching, feeling antsy as he taps his foot against the tiled flooring. He feels like he’s burning alive under the overhead stage lights, skin sticking to his suit, swearing to himself that he’ll make it through the day.
It’s nearly over. Soon, he’ll be set free. Free to do whatever he wants, to indulge in his well-deserved riches from his months of hard work and labour. All he has to do is make it through the hour.
When did this start becoming so hard?
Chalk it up to his age, a lack of energy, or whatever — but the job hasn’t exactly been kind to Vick lately. And it doesn’t need to be. A man so cruel doesn’t deserve or need kindness, and a position like this was never going to be easy. He knows this, logically.
But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s changed, fundamentally speaking. In the past, following a script all day was a far less daunting feat than it is today. In fact, it was his baseline.
Always so collected, picture-ready; rugged, but never enough to where he seemed disheveled. Always ready for every possible opportunity and outcome, viewing life through a purely logical lens, devoid of all strong emotion and reduced to the character he portrays on-screen. Because for a while, Vick truly believed that’s who he was.
But lately, a perpetual state of uneasiness has been building in his chest, threatening to overflow and bloom into something more, something scarier. For the first time in his life, he feels uncertain. And Vick never feels uncertain.
He walks through life with purpose, no matter the circumstance. Everything is done for a reason, and if it is not, then it is deemed pointless and a waste of his time. That’s how he’s always lived, and the reason for his work ethic.
For years, Vick has endured a cool, calm detachment to the nature of his job — these people are hardly people to him, after all. To him, they’re nothing but pawns in the game that he calls his life. Their lives are traded in for even more accumulated wealth in his bank account without a care in the world, like a dragon hoarding its treasures. The number just keeps on getting bigger and bigger, and in turn, so does his ego.
Recently, though, Vick has found himself becoming restless. The luxuries that once served as his primary motivation no longer satisfy him. The most expensive, well-done steaks in all of Modos taste like nothing but ash against his tongue. His delusion of grandeur has been shattered along with his spirit, peeling him down to his core until he’s left with nothing but one thing that’s keeping him going.
Survival.
Vick lives out of stubborn spite. He lives because, at his core, underneath all of the layers of aloof bravado and his intense desire for control, his life is the only thing he’ll ever have.
These things he’s worked so hard to get, they could all be pulled out from underneath him at any moment. The only true permanence in his life, something he can trust to always have, is himself. And that’s just how it’s always been.
So, he asks himself, what is he still doing here? He has enough money to last him his whole life, if not to raise entire generations off of. But if his riches no longer satiate that hunger, why does he stay?
Vick hardly blinks when blood splatters over the checkered tiles, the final blow that determines the season’s winner.
Just a couple of years ago, he would’ve been drinking up the following praise as if it were the last thing keeping him alive. And yet, the audience’s ear-splitting cheers only serve to thicken the growing fog that permeates his mind.
He chokes out his usual winning spiel out of instinct, but finds that the lines he’s said more times than he can count have become jumbled in his head, forcing him to rely on muscle memory to carry him through it. It does the job well enough, and if anybody notices, they don’t say anything. They wouldn’t. Nobody dares to provoke the beast, freezing up like prey animals in the face of Vick’s gnashing teeth.
A mask of absolute authority — the intimidating kind that sends shivers up the spines of those stupid enough to challenge it. That’s what Vick has been trying to embody all these years. And for a while, it truly did make him feel powerful. Like he had the whole world wrapped around his finger.
But right now, Vick feels small. Nothing like a leader at all. He feels like a pathetic little kid, watching on in horror as tragedy unfolds right before his eyes.
How pathetic, to think that way. Empathy, care, such pathetic and useless emotions will get you nowhere in life, his last remaining semblance of maturity screams, but for once, he can’t seem to latch onto it. Instead, all he can do is observe the woman as she cradles her fellow contestants’ carcass in her arms.
Don’t let it get to you. You’re far above the likes of a lowly criminal such as her. You should be proud of all that you’ve accomplished to get to where you are today. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?
He’s seen this exact scenario play out what feels of millions times before. Yet, his hands tremble against his chair, the fog rising up and up, further and further until it consumes him whole. And by god, is he helpless to stop it.
…This is what you wanted, isn’t it?
…
Those six measly words are all that it takes for Vick’s carefully crafted mask to shatter in his hands.
##
Vick just barely makes it home before he breaks down.
He managed to make it through the tail end of the filming process without crying, but after that, everything’s a blur. A blur of painful, hot tears streaming down his face, his brain wrapped fleece and his legs like jelly.
He couldn’t even get himself to his room before he collapses to his knees, the contact sending shooting, sharp pain down his legs. His picture-perfect persona was gone in an instant, along with every other aspect of himself that he’s held onto so tightly for so long.
Everything feels too big, too scary. His tears feel like acid against his cheeks, burning through his tear-ducts after so many years of being left unshed. Sobs wrack his body, but no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t seem to stop them.
He’s so out of it, his mind so full of static that he doesn’t even notice Bones’ presence until it’s too late. Doesn’t even consider them being in their own living room as an option. The only thing he can think about, his only coherent enough thought to be heard amongst the sea of fog in his mind, is that he’s scared.
Scared by his loss of control. Scared by his own feelings. Scared by the big, terrifying world — the harsh reality he’s forced himself to live in for the past two decades. Everything is just too much, years and years of repressed trauma coming crashing down on him in the most unsightly way possible.
A voice breaks its way through the static. It sounds startled, but Vick can’t seem to make out exactly what it’s saying. He whips his head up to locate the source, only for his eyes to widen upon realising who it is.
No, no, no, no, no!!
Vick scrambles backwards as the man hurriedly runs closer, feeling his breath pick up until it’s uneven and ragged.
“Go ‘way!!” Like a tiny kitten puffing up at the first signs of provocation, Vick shouts in an attempt to seem intimidating, but it only ends up seeming terrified and desperate. His tone comes out whiny; despite his deep voice, it still manages to sound childish, which absolutely mortifies him.
He didn’t even know his voice could do that. It’s like listening to a little kid’s words come out of his own mouth. And it seems like it caught Bones off guard as well, considering the dumbfounded look on their face. Vick half expects them to bolt, and really, he wouldn’t have blamed them.
But they don’t. Instead, their face twists into concern — this horrible, genuine kind that only serves to make Vick feel even smaller than he already does. Their expression is laced in this strange sense of understanding, as if he knows exactly what’s going on in Vick’s head before Vick himself can even figure it out.
And he wishes he could be angry about it, he really does. Instead, all he wants is for him to tell him whats wrong. He’s so tired of figuring out things on his own — for once, he wants someone else to do it for him. Is that really too much to ask?
He wants to be picked up, swaddled, for Bones to look him straight in the eye and tell him that it’s going to be okay, and that all of these icky feelings are temporary; that he doesn’t have to be strong anymore.
Because god, Vick is so tired of being strong.
“Oh, baby…” Bones’ words drip out of him like honey, sickly sweet and impossibly loving. The white-haired man crouches down beside Vick on the floor, exceedingly careful, as if Vick would make a run for it if he made any sudden movements. And honestly, for a minute there, he nearly did.
But the way they look down at him, their saccharine voice as they call him their baby — it’s all too much, and Vick gives up.
Finally, after so fucking long, he lets himself give up. On his reputation, on stopping the meltdown, on any shred of dignity he still had left after he came barging in through that door (which, frankly, wasn’t much at all), he gives it all up.
Vick’s tears start up again in waves — not that they even particularly stopped in the first place — letting out these tiny, desperate whines as he reaches out for Bones, like a fussy toddler demanding to be picked up by her mother. Bones, of course, obliges without question, wasting no time in scooping up Vick into their arms.
They gently position the little onto their lap, one hand on Vick’s back, and the other resting behind them, keeping the two of them upright.
“Shhh, shhh,” Bones soothes, but it’s not condescending, no, just comforting. Like a warm, fuzzy blanket, the mentally older slips into his caregiver mindset with ease. “It’s okay, baby. Let it all out.”
His words only make Vick wail louder.
The little buries his face into Bones’ shoulder and clings onto the sides of his jacket as tight as his trembling hands will let him, crinkling the leather with the weight of his grasp.
“Oh, hon, you’ve been holding this in for a very long time, haven’t you?” They coo, deciding not to comment on Vick’s death grip on his jacket. As much as he doesn’t want it crinkled, jackets can be replaced, but people cannot. And Bones can tell that Vick really, really needs this.
As caught off guard as they were by the suddenness of it all, they can’t exactly say that they’re surprised. It was a long time coming, really; they had just never expected Vick to end up regressing because of it.
Even so, Bones isn’t an idiot, and he’s known for a very long time that Vick was a ticking time bomb. Looks like today was just the day when it finally detonated. Those emotions were clearly a lot closer to the surface than Vick had originally realised, just waiting for a chance to finally break, after so long of pretending to be okay.
“I know, baby, I know, it’s all too big and scary right now, huh?” They mutter against the side of Vick’s face, leading their head against his. His stubble is slightly scratchy against their skin, but they don’t care. “You don’t have to be strong anymore.”
Bones tells him what he knows he needs to hear. You don’t need to be strong anymore.
Subconsciously as it may have been, Vick has been yearning for someone to utter those words to him for years. He nods quickly into Bones’ shoulder, his breath hitching with his sobs. “Mm—mmmmnnnm!!” A low whine escapes his throat, making itself very known in the echoey mansion walls of their living room.
“Oh, precious.” As much as Vick and Bones’ relationship is… complicated, usually, Bones swears he just felt his heart shatter into a million tiny pieces. Chalk it up to Vick being little, but fuck. “You really have been so strong, baby. But you don’t have to be anymore. Let all out, I’ve gotcha.”
They’ve never been more thankful for the others being out of the house. Vick can be as loud as he wants, and nobody is there to judge him. Not that Bones necessarily thinks any of them would, but he can’t imagine that Vick would want to run into, say, Elise while in this state. He loathes to even imagine it. They would be insufferable about this whole ordeal.
“I’m not going anywhere,” they reassure while Vick continues to cry into their shoulder, placing a gentle hand over his to hopefully loosen his grasp a little bit. “Promise. No need to cling so tight, baby, you’ll hurt your hands.”
Vick fusses again at this, but reluctantly complies anyway, and slackens his hold on their jacket. Bones can feel his tears starting to seep into their undershirt; Vick’s body is hitching so much that it‘s starting to shake them as well.
The poor thing is clearly so, so small. It’s been a while since Bones has taken care of someone regressing so young, so he has to be cautious about remaining gentle and patient.
“I know, Viv, I know. It’s all so icky, isn’t it?” He whispers into the little’s ear, brushing back his previously slicked back hair that had fallen onto his face. They detach slightly from the hug for a moment, just so they can see the baby’s face.
Unsurprisingly, Vick looks exhausted. His face is stained with sweat and tears, which prompts Bones to give it a brief wipe with his sleeve, before realising that was probably not the most hygienic thing to do. Well, whatever. He can always just wash it later.
The regressor’s face scrunches up at the touch, but doesn’t make any effort to stop it. Not that Bones’ attempts ended up fruitful, though, considering Vick ends up just pouring more tears anyway.
“Mmmhbbb…” he complains, placing a finger on the area on his cheek where Bones had wiped it.
“D’aw. Didn’t mean to freak you out, cielito,” there’s no judgment in Bones’ tone, just concerned fondness laced with a bit of bemusement. “Just wanted to get some of the gunk off of your face. You’ve been crying for a long time, haven’t you?”
Vick gives him a sad little nod, which tells Bones all he needs to know.
“That must’ve been really scary,” he offers the little one a pat on the back, “it’s gonna be okay, though. Dada’s gotcha.”
The nickname was entirely instinctual, he swears. It came out before they could even realise they were saying it. Whatever internal conflict he was about to have with himself is instantly gone, though, when he looks back up to see Vick’s reaction.
His eyes seem to almost sparkle underneath the light from the chandelier, and for the first time in a few minutes, his crying abruptly halts. It’s reduced to all but a surprised sniffle, so caught off-guard by Bones’ words that it seemingly snapped him out of it. His meltdown, that is, not his regression. In fact, it only seemed to have made him smaller.
A slight hiccup emerges from the baby’s throat, balling his hand into a loose fist so he can wipe his own eye with it. Bones cracks a smile at the sight, forgetting all about his previous chagrin. Well, if Dada’s what he needs to be, then he’ll sure as hell be it.
“See, everything’s all good. Dada will protect you from all that gross stuff. All you’ve gotta do is relax now.” They assure Vick, giving him another light pat on the back. Vick just sniffles again in response, then lets his arms droop limply to the ground. He blinks down at the cold, hard tiled floors, and Bones can practically see the gears in his little head moving.
“Looks like you’ve tuckered yourself out,” He snickers, but there’s no real malice behind it. There couldn’t be. How could he be mean to such a precious thing? “How about we go somewhere more comfy that’s not the dirty floor, yeah?”
The little’s reaction time seems to have been slowed down a bit by his headspace, as if he were put in slow motion, so it takes him a second to fully take in what Bones is saying. Eventually, though, he nods and shuffles himself a bit to the side, clearly about to attempt getting up by himself (to which Bones doubts he would’ve had much success with, considering those wobbly baby legs of his), only to be stopped by his caregiver.
“Wait, before we do that. Can I ask you a few questions? It’ll be quick, promise.”
Vick blinks and takes another moment to process the question. Then, a pitiful, tiny whine.
Bones’ expression softens. “D’awww, I know, bubba. You’re tired. As I said, we’ll make it quick.”
He helps shift the kiddo in his lap so they’re sitting less awkwardly, positioning him so his head is lying on their chest and their arm is wrapped around his shoulders, the position that Bones finds the most comfortable.
He figures that there’s no point in asking how old Vick is feeling — it’d be a redundant question. Anyone with a brain would be able to tell that he’s a total baby. The intense, sudden shift in demeanour, all of the clinging, the whining, the babbling, it just screams baby regressor to him.
And trust me, they’d know the signs better than anybody.
So he scratches that question off the list and moves on to the second one instead. “Can I get you anything? Like, gear, I mean. Absolutely no judgment at all. And if you can’t speak, I can list off a few things, and you can give me a nod or a tug if you want ‘em?”
Vick just stares up at him, blankly. Despite being far bigger than them physically, usually so tall and imposing, he still somehow manages to look small, cradled in his arms like this. After a moment, he nods again, prompting Bones to start listing off options.
“You want a pacifier?”
…A hesitant tug, but a surprisingly quick one considering his delayed reaction time. He seems slightly embarrassed about the admission, but it’s a definite yes nonetheless. Bones hums. He has plenty of spares that he doesn’t use, so it shouldn’t be a problem.
“A plushie?”
He shakes his head. He’s alright with just Bones.
“Alright. Now…”
Ah, the dreaded question. Benny definitely never liked it, finding it horribly embarrassing, but it’s necessary — particularly with baby regressors.
“You can be perfectly honest with me. Seriously, no judgment, I mean it. Do you need to be padded?”
Vick doesn’t exactly… seem to understand the nature of the question at first. A few seconds pass, though, and a looming sense of realisation starts to dawn on his face. His cheeks flush red, and he shakes his head vigorously.
Bones’ resolve doesn’t falter, though. “There’s no need to be embarrassed about it. I’m just saying that having accidents is a lot worse than the alternative. If you really don’t need it, though, that’s all good with me too.”
Vick just buries his head into Bones’ chest, grumbling. Whether or not he was telling the truth, they’ll never know, but he supposes they’ll cross that bridge when they come to it. A small laugh escapes their lips.
“Pfft, alright, bubba. I hear you. We’re changin’ the topic.” Their voice is riddled with nothing but pure, unbridled affection. God, he is so soft for this baby. “Now, is someone hungry?”
The little’s head is still buried in Bones’ chest. There’s a beat of silence as he pauses to think (or is simply still reeling from the previous question, who knows?) But ultimately ends up tugging at Bones’ shirt.
“Yeah, figured you would be.” His smile is audible in his voice. It’s been so long since they’ve gotten a chance to indulge in their caregiver headspace this much. “Wanna go and look in the fridge and see what appeals to ya?” They ask as he gently taps Vick’s wrist, prompting him to take his hand.
The little one grumbles at this, but follows his lead nonetheless.
“Atta boy,” Bones takes his hand in theirs, sitting himself up straight so he can help hoist Vick up easier. Then, with one big pull, he guides the regressor back to his feet.
Unsurprisingly, Vick is rather unsteady at first. Bones wouldn’t dare let him fall, though, not on their watch. They help stabilise him by slinging an arm around his shoulder, which, as a bonus, also provides some extra comfort and contact for the very clingy little.
Bones lets out a fake, but lightheaded gasp at this, “Oh wow, such good standing, baby! Dada’s so proud of you.” There’s no hint of sarcasm in his voice, though, just genuine, unfiltered affection — and Vick feels like his brain could melt at any moment.
“Mmmmbb…” he babbles against his caregiver’s upper arm, leaning over slightly so their height difference doesn’t feel so significant. “Dada…”
Gah, fuck, just kill me here and now, why don’t you — Bones feels his heart swell happily in his chest. There is nothing he wants more right now than to squish Vick’s little face in his hands, pepper him with kisses, and tell him how precious and adorable he is until their lips go blue — but they know that would probably just overwhelm him. Maybe some other day, they muse.
“Mmnnnnn…” The baby just continues to babble to himself while they make their way to the kitchen, arm in arm.
At first glance, one would assume that it would feel weird or unnatural to hear such tiny sounds to come out of somebody whose usually so big and intimidating; someone with a deep voice and a larger than life demeanour, but Bones begs the contrary — it feels perfectly natural to him.
He fits into his role as a caregiver with such ease, it’s like this is what he was born to be doing. They love to spoil, to pamper — even better if the reciprocant of that affection is someone that wouldn’t usually accept it under normal circumstances. It makes him feel special, loved and trusted, like they’re doing something that’s meaningful for once. It’s… fulfilling, in a way.
They one-handedly crack open the upper freezer door, being instantly blasted by its cold air. It’s honestly kind of refreshing.
“Alright, cielito, point to whatever you want and Dada will grab it for you.”
The little blinks down blearily at his options. Time to play the waiting game, Bones supposes — not that he really minds. He has a particular patience for regressors and little kids that they just can’t seem to retain for adults. Hell, he’d wait years for them if he had to.
He already has for Benny.
“Anything appeal?”
Vick definitely mutters something in reply to this, but it’s so quiet that Bones fails to decipher any of it. “Didn’t catch that, kiddo. Can you say that again?”
“…Yogurt,” The regressor repeats, a bit clearer this time. He sounds so unlike himself, so quiet and timid, the absolute opposite of the stern tone he’s gotten so accustomed to using over the years. If he weren’t feeling so fuzzy right now, it might’ve even caught him off-guard.
The realisation dawns on Bones just a minute too late that Vick may have only spoken so he didn’t have to let go of him in order to point. Adorable, but really not necessary. The last thing they want to do is make Vick think he has to talk when even he clearly doesn’t want to.
“You don’t need to force yourself to speak next time, but good job on letting me know, anyway. We can getcha some yogurt. Vanilla or strawberry, baby?” He holds up two fingers, one for vanilla and one for strawberry, but as stubborn as ever, Vick decides to speak anyway.
“…Nmm…illa…”
“Vanilla, gotcha,” Bones understands him with such ease that you’d think they’ve done this together hundreds of times before. The mentally older shuffles over so that Vick is leaning more on his side, giving him a pat on the hip just like you would a baby. The baby in question remains quiet even through all of the movement.
“…Theeeeere we go,” Bones drags on, wrestling to pull out a small container of yogurt hidden behind the various other contents of their stock-full fridge.
Vick has always been so particular about that — insisting on restocking every day, even if they end up with more food than any of them could realistically eat because of it. This habit always used to annoy Bones, never being one to want to waste food, but now they can’t help but wonder if there’s a deeper reason for the behaviour.
Huh. They’ll have to grill him on it later, when he’s feeling a bit bigger.
“I’ve got the goods,” the white-haired man puts on a purposefully gruff, mob boss-like voice, but Vick’s mind is far too fuzzy to actually catch the joke. He’s too busy looking at the yogurt container in their hands, feeling a sudden hunger gnaw at the sides of his stomach. How long has it been since he’s eaten…?
“What now, cielito? You wanna go upstairs and eat, or stay down here?”
Vick, with his now-free arm, points to the couch. Walking upstairs just sounds too difficult right now, and he doesn’t want to wait any more time to eat. He wants food now.
“Couch it is,” Bones — after quickly grabbing out a spoon from the drawer — wastes no time helping the hungry baby over to the couch, making sure they sit down before him so they can easily position him into their lap.
Vick lets him guide him without too much fuss, draping his legs over the armrest so it feels like Bones is cradling him. Bones lets out a short, lighthearted laugh at this; trust me, he wishes he could, but they kind of need both hands to feed him, unfortunately.
They crack open the yogurt container and scoop out a small bite of it. Vick is watching like a hawk the entire time; snuggled up into Bones’ shoulder, but still upright enough that he can eat safely without choking.
The spoon makes its way up to Vick’s lips. “Say ‘ahh’, baby.”
While Vick doesn’t comply with the noise, he does open his mouth for them. The yogurt is sweet on his tongue; comforting. Like a warm Spring day. But no amount of food could be as good as the feeling of being in Bones’ arms.
For the first time in decades, Vick feels safe. Safe enough to just let himself be, to not feel the need to be on constant high alert all the time. Because he trusts that even if something bad happens, Bones will protect him.
He trusts them. How long has it been since he’s truly trusted somebody? He can’t even recall the last time he did.
“Does that taste good, bubba?”
Vick nods in approval. Very good. Better than food has tasted in years, despite it being the exact same type of yogurt he eats everyday.
“Awww, I’m glad.” The caregiver coos in reply, before going in to grab another mouthful. This time, though, he changes his approach. They singsong, “Here comes the airplane!” Whirling the spoon around until it reaches Vick’s mouth.
Vick giggles slightly as he takes a bite, but accidentally gets a little bit of it on the side of his mouth. Bones just snickers and wipes it off with the side of their sleeve, no longer caring about ruining their own outfit. Not that he did in the first place — frankly, it’s been the last thing on his mind during this whole ordeal.
“Silly thing,” he murmurs under his breath, shrouded in nothing but fondness and affection for his baby.
They continue like this for a while until they get to the bottom of the small container, Bones making up different modes of transport to take the place of the ‘airplane’, and of course, their associated sounds. Because that’s half the fun. A train, a bus, a boat, a helicopter, a bike, a—
“Here comes the badminton!”
…Hey, wait, that doesn’t make any sense!
Vick just blinks down at the spoon, then up to Bones, then back down at the spoon again, before bursting out laughing.
It’s this sweet, childish laughter that comes from his chest, the real kind, an unfamiliar sound to hear from the usually stoic man. He hardly ever laughs, and when he does, it’s more akin to a smug chuckle; something condescending, rather than something genuine.
But this — this is genuine. And it makes Bones’ heart swell, all of this endearment bubbling up in his chest until he can’t contain it anymore.
They crack up in giggles alongside Vick, making sure to place down the spoon and container on the table so it doesn’t fall. Laughter splits their sides, and they wrap up the little in a big, silly hug, showering him in kisses.
Vick lets out a happy, childish squeal when he feels Bones’ lips against his cheek, up to his forehead, then back down again his nose, and all around his face until he’s breathless from laughing so much.
The baby kicks his feet in protest, but is showing no real signs that he wants Bones to stop. In fact, he only seems to get closer.
Vick leans both of them forward until they’re pressed right up against the armrest. He naturally shuffles over to the side to accommodate the lack of room, his head now resting on Bones’ chest and his legs dangling off the side of the couch, repeatedly kicking the ottoman in the midst of all of his playful fussing. It makes rather loud ‘thump’ sounds every time he does, and Bones couldn’t be more grateful that nobody is around to shut them up.
Now, the perfect opportunity to enact their grand master plan… of tickle time!!
Bones hardly even gives Vick a chance to catch his breath before he’s immediately bee-lined for his armpits and waist, tickling them until he hears Vick squeal again. He’s instantly reduced to a slew of breathy giggles, happily wriggling under Bones’ touch.
“Dadahahahaa—!!” His voice practically raises an octave as he thrashes about. His head is thrown back onto Bones’ shoulder, messing up his hair even more than it already was.
He tickles Vick until his face has gone red, and he’s pleading with him to stop, a big, bright smile across his lips.
“D-Dada, stohohop ihihitttt!!”
Bones, just because he's feeling nice today, oh-so mercifully frees him from his grasp.
It leaves Vick a smiley, breathy mess on Bones' chest. His eyes crinkle at the edges, clearly trying his very hardest to take deep breaths despite his heaving chest.
All Bones can do is look down at the little with nothing but unbridled fatherly love in their eyes. He truly is so, so very soft for this kiddo.
"Dada mean,” Vick mumbles through his giggles, even attempting a pout, and oh my god, Bones could just squish him here and now.
"I knowww~ a real meanie, huh, baby?"
The little promptly turns his head up at him. "Hmph!"
The sound is so obviously exaggerated, completely unlike his usual scoffs, and so insanely cute. Bones might as well just die on the spot, actually. Gone. Dead. Decreased. Well, at least his skeleton aesthetic is accurate now.
"Aww, are you a fussy baby?" They can't resist the urge to fawn over their kiddo, but honestly, who could? It's not his fault that Vick is so adorable. "You're so cute."
"Nuh-uh..."
"Yuh-yuh." Fighting fire with fire, I see. Miraculously, though, it actually causes the fire to dwindle.
"Mhhmbb..." Vick utters a tired babble, having finally regained his breath. He gives his eye a rub with his left hand, balled into a loose fist.
Bones’ face probably looks so sickeningly sweet right now. He'd cringe at the thought if he weren’t so busy thinking about how much he absolutely adores his baby.
"Ohh, is someone getting sleepy? All that giggling must've tuckered you out," they brush a strand of hair away from Vick's face, holding his palm on his forehead for a moment before continuing. "I think it might be a certain baby’s nap time."
And tuckered out he certainly is — enough to give up on the protesting, it seems, given that all Vick offers in reply is a sleepy groan — which tells Bones all he needs to know.
"Okay, darling. Let's get you upstairs. I can get your paci for you, and—“ then, a million dollar idea. "Or, before that, you want a bottle? We have some yummy milk in the fridge~" the caregiver singsongs, taking both of Vick's hands in theirs and giving them a little bob up and down, like they're dancing.
Vick simply stares up at Bones, then down at their hands, trying to process the question. If they look closely, he seems to be chewing on his inner bottom lip. Better get him that pacifier quick — although, they might not even end up needing it if Vick falls asleep while feeding.
Bones feels like he's going to explode into confetti at the thought. He just narrowly avoids giving in to his first instinct: to giggle and kick their feet about it.
Then, a tug on their sleeve, followed by a meek, sleepy nod. Ack — dying. What the fuck. Who let him be so cute?
"Okay, darling, we'll get you a bottle. Do you wanna wait upstairs for me while I get it for you," he raises one finger to represent the first option, "or come with Dada while I fill it up?" Then another for the second.
Vick takes a moment to consider, but ends up picking option two. Rather than raising his own fingers, though, he simply holds onto Bones'.
Bones' tone goes honey-sweet. "Such a clingy baby~ alright, we can do that. Up we go," He pats Vick's upper arm, signifying to the little that it's time to get up. He obliges without too much protest, save for a quiet, low whine when he's pulled back up to his feet. After that, though, he silently toddles after his caregiver to the kitchen.
"I'll be quick, just gotta heat it up." Bones makes their way to the fridge, Vick following directly behind like a duckling to its mother. They take out a carton, and after checking the use-by date, move over to the cabinets to grab out their baby bottle.
It's a spare — plain and unpersonalised enough that Bones isn't particularly attached to it. His main one is in his room, tucked away neatly in a drawer with his other important regression items. He's grateful that he had the mind to keep it, though — it ended up coming in handy. They give it a thorough wash under the tap before filling it up with milk and screwing the lid shut.
Vick is watching every step of the process like a hawk, making sure his caregiver isn't out of his sight even for a second. They pop the bottle in the microwave, and now, all they have to do is wait.
And you bet that the second Bones takes a step back, Vick's arms are immediately wrapped around him. The little leans down into the back of Bones' neck, sighing.
"I know, baby, it'll be done in just a minute. Just cuddle Dada until it's done."
And cuddle Dada, he does. Before he even knows it, a minute has passed in peaceful silence, Bones making sure to open the microwave right before it beeps to avoid accidentally scaring the kiddo. "There we go, nice and warm milk for my baby."
The baby in question proceeds to make grabby hands for the bottle, the universal sign for ‘gimme’. Bones just smiles at this, and lets him take it. “We’ll drink it upstairs. C’mon,” they give Vick a pat on the back.
Vick follows Bones’ lead upstairs without too much fuss. He hesitates slightly at the stairs, but his caregiver helps him up, holding his hand all the way.
Eventually, the two make their way to Bones’ room. He chose his own because of his collection of pacifiers were in there — it’d be annoying to have to interrupt cuddles to go and grab it if they went to Vick’s room instead. And in Bones’ humble opinion, their bed is just way comfier.
The little seems eager to sit down. There’s a bit of a pep in his step that wasn’t there earlier, his hair bouncing when he moves. It’s endearing. Bones has to make a quick detour to grab a pacifier for him, but once he’s retrieved it from the small purple box in his bottom drawer, he makes his way over to the bed.
“Alright, bubba, I hear you,” the mentally older says as he flops down, motioning for Vick to lie next to him, the pacifier placed on the side table. Vick quickly complies, crawling over to their lap until he’s pulled into their usual cuddling position.
Then, Bones gently guides the bottle out of his hands.
They position a hand behind Vick’s head, making sure he’s stable and comfy before popping the nib of the bottle into his mouth.
“Is that yummy?” He coos, just barely above a whisper. All that is received is a small “mhm” from Vick, but that’s really all he needs.
The room is engulfed in a comforting quiet as they feed their baby. Completely silent, save for the small ‘tsktsksk’ sounds as he nurses. It’s… peaceful. So peaceful that Bones finds himself wishing they could do this more often. Will Vick even be up to regressing again after this? He hopes so.
For the first time in a long time, everything feels okay. No uneasiness, no anxiety, just them and their little one. It nearly makes him feel sleepy, but he wouldn’t dare fall asleep — no, he wants to savour this moment for as long as possible.
It seems like somebody else is, though. After a few minutes, the sounds slowly begin to stop, fading into the silence of the room, until there’s nothing but the noise of Vick’s gentle breathing filling the night air. He’s fallen asleep.
Fondness is written all over Bones’ face, staring down in mild disbelief that their earlier fantasy actually came true. Absolutely precious. He gently takes the bottle out of Vick’s mouth and places it on the side table, making sure to be as quiet as possible as not to wake the baby.
“You’re so cute,” he can’t help but whisper, as low as possible until it’s practically inaudible. They almost want to cry. He hasn’t felt this way in a long time — not since Benny left.
The poor thing didn’t even get through half of the milk before falling asleep; he was that exhausted. Bones can only imagine how scary of a day this must’ve been for him. Having years of repressed emotions flow out all at once, forcing him into an unfamiliar headspace and having to be vulnerable with somebody he’s usually so cagey with.
Bones holds him tighter, practically cradling him against their chest. They bury their head into his hair, feeling himself smile against it.
Yeah.
Maybe it’s all going to be okay, after all.