Chapter Text
The bathroom door is firmly closed, a symbolic barrier between you and the rest of the house, no, the rest of the world. You sit on the edge of the bathtub, where the infant tub nestles securely inside.
The water level is higher than most parents would dare with a three-week-old, but, your daughter isn't like most babies. Sebastian had discovered that accidentally during her first week; her natural affinity for water, the way her tiny gills worked as perfectly as his own. Another milestone you'd missed, another first that happened while you were lost in a haze of postpartum complications and exhaustion.
Your hands tremble slightly as you undress her, each tiny movement careful and measured despite knowing she's more resilient in water than you'd initially feared. Three weeks. It's been three weeks, and this is the first time you've felt strong enough to do this yourself. The thought makes your throat tight with shame. Other mothers don't need weeks to recover enough to bathe their own children. Other mothers don't have to rely on their partners for every little thing.
Marisol's tiny gills flutter in anticipation as you lower her into the water, the iridescent membranes catching the bathroom light. They're so perfect, so delicate. A miracle of genetics that you've barely been able to appreciate through your fog of illness. Her golden brown eyes blink up at you trustingly as you cup water in your palm and let it trickle over her head. You watch in wonder as her gills begin their rhythmic movement, filtering water effortlessly.
"I'm sorry," you whisper, your voice catching. "I'm so sorry I haven't been here, baby girl." The words feel inadequate against the weight of your guilt. "You have a good dad. Like, shockingly good. Your brother got the short end of the stick, holy shit, his dad was a bad baby dad."
Your daughter makes a series of grunts, her gills making that whistling noise when she inhales with her lungs. Tears blur your vision as you gently work the baby soap into her skin. You've missed so much; first baths, latenight feedings, those precious early moments. Instead, you've been a ghost in your own home, drifting between sleep and consciousness while Sebastian, Joshua and P.AI.nter handled everything. You owe those boys so much.
The water laps gently against the sides of the infant tub as Marisol moves, she’s not very agile yet but you imagine what she will be when she grows up. A diver? Olympic swimmer? That would be cool actually. You could be an Olympic mom. If Michael Phelps can compete with his strange biology, your daughter should be able to.
Marisol makes a happy grunt as you massage the soap over her skin, her gills fluttering contentedly. Fresh tears blur your vision, you blink them away furiously; you won't let your emotions interrupt this precious time with your daughter.
The water reflects the overhead light, casting rippling patterns across your daughter's face. She looks so peaceful, so at home in her element.
With gentle hands, you lift Marisol from her bath, water streaming from her tiny gills in musical droplets. The soft pink towel is plush against her skin as you wrap her carefully, making sure to pat around her gills.
From downstairs, you hear Joshua's triumphant "Yes!" followed by Sebastian's melodic laugh and the distinctive sound of Mario Kart's Rainbow Road theme. The normalcy of their evening gaming session contrasts sharply with your private moment of maternal inadequacy up here.
"I love you so much," you murmur to Marisol, who's making content little sounds against your chest.
You sit on the closed toilet lid, just holding her, memorizing the weight of her in your arms, the way her gills move with each tiny breath. These details should be as familiar as your own heartbeat by now, not new discoveries three weeks after her birth.
"BLUE SHELL!" Joshua's voice carries up the stairs, followed by Sebastian's exaggerated groan of defeat. .
Marisol squirms slightly in your arms, responding to the excited voices below. Her gills flutter faster, picking up on the energy from downstairs. You press a soft kiss to her damp forehead, breathing in her clean baby smell like it's a drug.
"We'll get there, baby girl," you whisper, trying to convince yourself as much as her. "Mama will get better at this. I promise."
You lay Marisol gently in her crib. The purple sleep sack you swaddled her in has embroidered moons and stars.
The Fisher Price Ocean Wonders aquarium casts a gentle blue glow across her face, bubbling sounds and soft underwater melodies filling the nursery. You had one of these for Joshua, it was the hottest thing at the time. Something about the soft sound of waves reminding babies of the womb.
You stand over her crib, watching the play of blue light across her features. Your fingers trace the edge of the crib rail, listening to the song. It brings you back to when your son was small and everything was different. Your life looks nothing like it did back then but you decide that everything was for the better.
"Nanaite," you whisper, as the aquarium switches to playing twinkle twinkle. You know you should leave, let her drift off to the lullaby mixed with ocean sounds, but you can't seem to make yourself move. After missing so many bedtimes, every moment feels precious, even just watching her breathe.
The house is quiet now, Joshua having headed to bed while you were occupied with Marisol's bedtime routine.
"We should think about getting a tree soon," Sebastian says, his third hand patting the couch beside him in invitation. "You look like the person who wants a real one."
You physically shudder as you settle next to him, your whole body rejecting the mere suggestion. "Oh god, no. No real trees. Ever."
His head tilts in curiosity at your visceral reaction. "That sounds like there's a story there."
"When I was nine," you begin, instinctively pressing closer to his scales for comfort even at the memory, "my dad brought home this beautiful Fraser fir. Perfect shape, perfect size. We decorated it and everything was fine for a few days, and then..." You shudder again.
Sebastian's coils shift around you supportively. "Did it explode?"
"WORSE! Praying mantises. Thousands of them. There was an egg sac in the tree and they all hatched at once." Your voice goes slightly higher with remembered horror. "Do you know what it's like to wake up to praying mantises everywhere? They were on the walls, the ceiling, all over the presents. My mom was screaming, I was screaming, dad was bemused"
Sebastian's laugh rumbles through his body. "That is terrible."
"We were finding dead mantises behind furniture for months. MONTHS, Sebastian. So no, absolutely no real trees. Ever. I don't care how nice they smell or how traditional they are. I'm not cleaning up bugs."
Sebastian's lure pulses with undisguised mirth now, his coils quivering slightly with suppressed laughter. “The image of tiny you running from praying mantises..."
"It's not funny!" you protest, but you can't help smiling a little at his amusement. "I had nightmares about their little triangle heads for weeks. And anyway," you continue, poking at one of his scales, "they make artificial trees with the lights already on them now. Pre-lit. No bugs, no dried-out needles everywhere, and no trying to untangle light strands for hours and then having a whole section not work, I’m not well enough for that bullshit."
His lure dims slightly at the mention of your recovery, but you press on. "Plus, we can reuse it every year. Marisol and Joshua can grow up with the same tree, make memories with it. And most importantly," you emphasize, "absolutely zero chance of insect infestations."
"Pre-lit?" His third hand gestures contemplatively. "That does sound convenient..."
"White lights," you add quickly, before he can suggest coloured ones. "Classic, goes with everything. And some of them even have different settings: twinkle, steady, fade..." You lean against his coils. "We can order one online. No mantis risk required."
He tousles your hair with affectionate resignation.
"I should still have my ornaments somewhere in the basement," you say, scrolling through tree options on the tablet. "They're packed away in those boxes I shoved in the storage closet." You pause, remembering. "They're really special actually; they belonged to my Grandma Anne. She brought them all the way from Scotland when she immigrated after my mom and dad moved to Canada."
"The grandmother from Aberdeen?" His coils adjust to better face you.
"Yeah. They're all hand-blown glass, probably about seventy years old now. She was so proud of them; packed them in her luggage wrapped in her wool sweaters when she came over." You smile at the memory of her telling you the story. "There's this one that's a thistle, Scotland's national flower, and these beautiful mercury glass ones with this sort of cloudy, antique silver look. They're incredibly delicate."
His lure pulses thoughtfully. "Unfortunately I can’t help you, there is no way I am fitting down there."
"Oh yeah you’d be like a bull in a china shop. I’ll get Ruby to help me because she can see through things. This requires surgical precision, they're irreplaceable; they don't make them like that anymore." You glance toward the basement door. "I remember helping Grandma Anne put them on the tree when I was little. Joshua only met her once when he waaaaas… 4? Maybe 5? She lived for a really long time, outlived her own son and husband."
Sebastian's gills flutter softly. "I'd love to see them. And maybe you could tell Marisol and Joshua those stories while we decorate our tree."
The thought of passing down your grandmother's traditions to your children makes your throat tight with emotion. "Yeah," you manage. "I'd like that."