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The faint whimper of the child and a sharp nudge to his elbow woke Rocky in the middle of the night. His nights were once plagued by nightmares, but now they were filled with the cries of an infant. Turning to his right, he could see his wife sprawled on the bed in the moonlight that spilt through the windows. And to their left was a bassinet, where an infant's squirming on the softest cushions, making low, sad noises in the back of his throat.
Groggily sitting up on the bed, with one of his arms propped on the pillow, Rocky glanced over the little one. Before Aadhya could get up fully, Rocky got to his feet to clamber off the bed. But he hadn't counted on Oatmeal, who had tucked himself under the covers. And Rocky's knees came down squarely on the dog's tail, and Oatmeal barked and darted off the bed, causing Aadhya to sit up, blinking.
"What's it?" Aadhya asks, her words not fully forming because of the yawn on her lips.
"Nothing, darling," Rocky says, softly pushing her to the pillows in silent convey to sleep. "Little man's just hungry. I will take care of it. You go back to sleep, alright." By the time he was done speaking, she was already fast asleep. Shaking his head at the exhausted woman and placing a quick kiss on her temple, Rocky walks over to the cradle.
He was glad his daughter decided to throw a huge tantrum and sleep with his Kasim Chacha that day. Because, apparently, his uncle tells the best stories are better than his wife, which is valid considering the only stories Aadhya knows were the ones written in blood or ended in bloodshed. But still, he was glad for the little hellfire's decision. Otherwise, there would have been two crying children and a moody pregnant wife to deal with.
With a soft hush, he takes the boy into his arms and presses his head against his chest, knowing the lull of his heartbeat would calm him down. He was distinctly proud he's an expert at taking care of a child at this point. When his daughter was born, he was terrified. No, they both were terrified— him and Aadhya. And he didn't think he had ever seen his girl cry so much over anything, except when she couldn't get her newborn daughter to stop crying.
Farmaan's mother, Fathima, has been staying with them since the day Rocky managed to uphold his promise and arranged a proper funeral for all the people who died at Outpost-I. And she had managed to sit Aadhya down and calm her enough to say that their one-month-old daughter doesn't really hate her or anything, but that sometimes children just cry for no real reason because that was the only thing they can do. And it was perfectly natural.
Sliding his palms over the back of his body, he carries the little one towards the double doors of their bedroom. "I'm here. I'm here," he says, letting his steady heartbeat soothe the infant's worries. One of his hands is big enough to dwarf him, cradling his entire body between careful, strong fingers.
