Tom Hiddleston Oneshots

Baby Love

Tom P.O.V

Babies can be terrifying, especially to first time fathers. Their helplessness, fragility, and a lack of instinct on my part makes me a nervous wreck. Everything seems so stressful, from burping to bathing to supporting the neck. Even skin-to-skin bonding made me paranoid that I'd overheat my son.

But there was one thing I could do right. "Okay, so we make a diamond, and then we're gonna set you down on it, aren't we?" My wife managed to hold a conversation with me and coo at the baby simultaneously, as I carefully watched her teach me the best swaddling technique.

"Then we go left to right, and tuck the blanket under his back-"

"Shouldn't we tuck his arms in? So he doesn't scratch his face?" I peered down at our tiny son, writhing and fussing on our bed.

She sighed and stood up straight, brushing her fringe out of her face. "It's constricting."

"But it's comforting...I thought." I put my hands on my hips as she continued swaddling him. 

"I hated being swaddled, so unless you have proof he loves it, I'm leaving it untucked." She paused, and turned around, adding, "I didn't think about the scratching thing though."

I shot her a goofy grin, "I'm learning!"

"Yes you are," she picked up our son and kissed me. "Okay, pop quiz!" She handed him to me as she asked, "When should you use swaddling as a comfort mechanism?"

I felt immobilized, unable to talk because my hands were occupied, but I eventually answered, "When he's been fed and changed, not too hot or cold, and he's still upset."

She kissed his bald head, and smiled up at me, "My boys."

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"Alright little man," I folded the second corner over him, keeping my face close, "arms untucked it is. Cause if mummy's not happy, ain't nobody happy."  He finally looked like a happy, peaceful burrito after my fifth try, and I scooped him up in my arms and made my way to the kitchen, switching on the kettle.

"You are perfect," I offered him my pinky to grasp onto as I bounced him up and down ever so slightly. I kissed his flawless head, and took a deep breath of his baby smell: one of baby powder and milk. "Yes, you are perfect. You're also very tiny."

I walked, tea in one hand and baby in the other, to the living room and sat on the couch, watching my flesh and blood sleep. I was a pro at talking him to sleep, which posed some questions, but my wife quickly reaffirmed it only meant I had a soothing voice. "How is your head this small? How does it fit completely in the palm of my hand?" I whispered, my unanswerable questions getting swallowed in the quiet house.

I loved sitting on the couch, wasting time, because for me, it wasn't wasteful. I could go through a week with nothing to show for it, except for being more in love with my family. Playing a different character no longer seemed important, or even exciting. I didn't long for it like I used to. I was content with observing the baby I helped create, who was a character of his own.

Don't you ever get tired of just watching him? He's still an infant. All he does is sleep, cry or lie there. My friends, even those with children of their own, couldn't understand how I wanted to spend every waking moment with this baby. Luckily, my wife understood, as she felt the same way. She was a natural homebody, and I fell into the same trap.

I lightly brushed my finger over the bridge of his button nose, soothing him as his face contorted to discomfort. I wondered what he could possibly dream about, as his mouth formed into an "o" or he offered the occasional smile, exposing his dimples. My arm never seemed to grow tired, while I waited to see the blue eyes I adored so much.

"Tom, it's time for you to put the baby down," my wife whispered in my ear, as her hands, almost as soft as our son's skin, slid down my arms.

 I leaned my head back against the couch, meeting her upside down face. "Five more minutes," I groaned.

She smiled, her big boxcar teeth filling my line of vision. "You have an award to accept, Thomas."

I sighed as she ran her fingers through my hair, tugging at my curls. "Do I have to?"

"Considering my hair and makeup is done? Yes."

"Alright," I kissed her deep red lips, "but I won't be happy about it."

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"Okay, Mum," I began, tying my bow tie as she held her grandson, admiring the nursery. "Diapers are in the top drawer, extra bottles are in the refrigerator. He likes to be burped when you hold him on your lap, not over your shoulder. If he does get fussy, he likes his music box and to be rocked up and down, not left to right." I stopped and took a deep breath, assessing my surroundings.

My wife was sitting with her arms crossed in the rocking chair, dressed in her deep purple ball gown, smiling smugly. I was propped up against the crib while my Mum rolled her eyes.

"You know I have done this before, right Tom?" she smiled at me.

"Of course," I walked over to her and kissed her cheek. "Just nervous energy."

"You've trained him well," my wife winked at my Mum, pushing herself up from the chair. She wrapped her arms around my waist and told me, "We better get going."

 I checked my watch again, "We'll be back around eight."

"Uh, no you won't," My Mum corrected me, kissing our son's tiny little fingers. "If I'm here, I'm staying for a while. As much as you don't think so, you need a night off. Go. Go get your award." She pointed and my wife pulled me out of the room. 

She led me down the hall, and I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close as we headed out the front door. "I miss him already."