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Series: I'm Pretty Sure This Is Unethical, But I'll Do It For The Grade. Prompt: NRC introduces a mandatory Home Economics course because mages are leaving campus without basic life skills. Which means our beloved cast gets the displeasure of taking care of a fake-baby for one week. Part (s) : Riddle | Trey | Cater | Ace (Here!) | Deuce | Leona | Ruggie | Jack | Azul | Jade | Floyd | Kalim | Jamil | Vil | Rook | Epel | Idia | Malleus | Lilia | Silver | Sebek Warnings: None? Uh...some swearing, parenting themes, angst, slight child-abuse (does it count if it's a doll and the abuse is just some of the guys being incompetent? God I have no clue), emotional distress - blahblah. Masterlists: (1) | (2) (A/N): While Savanaclaw was posted as a group - this is a 'by-character' series work because the fics are too long for tumblr's block limit. The colored/highlighted name is the part you are currently reading. Any name without a link is currently not posted. Commission Cola!: Here!

Prelude <3

Congratulations! In light of recent events exemplifying the sheer lack of empathy and domestic skills among its students, Night Raven College has revised its baseline curriculum! All students who wish to progress beyond their third year are now required to complete one semester of 'Home Economics' - supported and directed by the only instructor on campus with a proven record of a positive home life - Professor Mozus Trein!

From sewing, cleaning, stress management, applying for licenses across continents, to filing regional taxes and practicing manners. Students will take the time to learn how to exist as proper adults...including (dun dun DUNNNNN) the ever-so dreaded parental simulation!

That's right folks. No proper mage out of Night Raven will walk off campus a future deadbeat dad. Thanks to our cutting edge enchantments, combined with hyper-realistic animatronic dolls (graciously supplied by S.T.Y.X Corp.) - the students at NRC are set to experience first-time fatherhood without the risk of killing anything but their grade ^_^

It's a do or die situation - a week of diapers, sleepless nights, tears, and possible emotional trauma! You've been blessed with a rare dismissal from this assignment because of your special enrollment. The baseline enchantment pulls characteristics from the assigned student. All they must do is offer up a bit of DNA to the S.T.Y.X issued doll, and 1-2-3 poof! The perfect simulated baby. Each entirely unique, ranging in age from 3 - 12 months, stealing a bit of sugar, spice, and everything not-so-nice from their parent.

Considering Grim is a demi-beast and these dolls are not properly configured to make...whatever he is. He's given a pass (bless, because we all know how that would have turned out). You, my lovely prefect, are already responsible for a 24/7 feline dependent that behaves like three unruly babies combined into one. You are excused from this headache so long as you agree to preform a check-in with each of your classmates on Trein's behalf.

....which, in all fairness, is about to become a trial in itself. Let's just see how the boys measure up, yeah?

"Can't we just...put it back where it came from? No? Ah, crap." - who decided to give this man a baby and where can you file a report.

Trien. Trien decided to give him a baby and all of Heartslabyul is going to pay the price.

When a spell shimmers overhead and a pile of metal and polyvinyl turns into a creature with windpipes of steel? There's obviously no better time for the baby to throw a tantrum. Its time of existence barely spans twenty seconds before it's face matches its scarlet red eyes and sets the mood for Ace Trappola's next seven days. Real babies come into the world kicking and screaming, what made him think this little experiment would be any different.

Now. The childrearing manual Trein assigned as homework the previous week offers many alternative ways to calm a distressed baby. Swaddle and rock. Speak soft assurances. Go to a neutral environment and let it cry itself out.

And what does Ace do?

He cries back. Who wants to tell this fool that this isn't like when a dog barks, so you bark back to establish dominance. This is a child. I'm so serious right now. Deuce is the one with the split brain cell for this assignment. Trien is regretting everything but still holds onto hope -- You. He is giving a pointed look at you -- as he watches Ace hold the infant at arm's length like it's going to bite him.

Which is not an impossibility. The longer Ace stares at it, the more he believes that this spell isn't the load of poppycock he was preparing for. A simulated enchantment? He was expecting a generic robot, not for something warm and scarily realistic.

That immature disgust and distant grappling was actually Ace processing what the fuck he's gotten himself into. There's a chunk genuine panic underneath all the narcissism an overconfidence lathered on top.

Ramshackle's guest room is booked until further notice by this hothead and his restless little menace. Riddle quite literally tells him to pack a bag and get out of Heartslabyul because by 11pm every room is quiet aside from his. One Trappola is bad enough.

And thank seven for that - because you're there to watch over it while he 'reviews' (speed reads) through the instructional manual. It's shoved in his face when you find the baby left alone, propped against some pillows and very close to rolling off the bed while Ace is in the shower. Taking his sweet time too just to get all the 'oh shits' out of his head.

Once he's out, he texts his mom to see if she has one of his old baby photos. Doesn't say why, just excuses it as a topic with his friends. The resemblance has him choke on his own spit. The kid's got his smile, that's for sure. Big ears that are good for pulling and no hair - but eh. Can't win them all.

He jokes as such and it kicks him. Strong legs. Clearly testing what it can get away with and laughs at his pain. He swears that the kid's doing shit out of spite. Literally. He changes the diaper (with difficulty) and right when he's about to sleep it needs another.

Yup. He was definitely overconfident and is paying the price.

There are points for effort, however. By day three he's still fumbling and tries to get a slot in a daycare another student was trying to set up. Although he never found the details....but back to the point. Effort!

Ace finds out quickly that the bugger isn't so bad when it's entertained. Takes a man-child to know what'll make a baby laugh, yeah? It loves being bounced around in the rose gardens, giggles when Ace slipped some chili powder in Deuce's 'strawberry' milk, somehow seems to LIKE arguing??? It's more so Ace getting pissy and mocking people behind their backs *cough*housewarden*cough*. The kid knows what's up.

It's not like Ace was going to do his homework or chores anyways...and the assignment's a great excuse for when he needs to dip out of class. Oh? Crewel's on his case? Well, sorry man the kid's just getting fussy. Be back in a sec.

You might even joke that Ace's mini is the devil on his shoulder. It's just so easy to get his way when there's an adorable kid there to distract people. Yourself included....Riddle. Riddle, take them back. Ramshackle is on its last support beam. Please.

When things are right? They're fantastic. He's pretty good at following the rulebook after actually reading it.

It's just that his incompetence really makes a show during scenarios that need quick wit. Which is funny, because Ace is normally great at split second decisions and getting out of hot water. Literally is his thing.

Except there wasn't a page in the rulebook on what to do when you literally almost kill your baby. he does everything by the book for bath time. Gets the sink clean and empty, sets towels, has the gentle soap and checks the water temp. The baby's sitting as the tub fills, he looks off for a second, the baby tips forward while reaching to tug a curtain, Ace turns from reading the bottle label and sees it sputtering under the faucet.

Okay. Maybe it didn't almost die, but his heart stopped like it might've and more water soaked his pants than filled the basin.

That night he asks you to watch it while he's at basketball practice. You don't know why he's nervous when all he's done is boast about his mini for the day, but you do it. You also let it sleep in your room because Ace is still not quite himself. He does give you a little book lamp though, to clip to its bassinet.

He's less reckless the second half of the week. More clingy towards it, which in turn makes the baby reflect him. They're not joking around as much and spending more time doing chill activities. For something without 'feelings' - Ace likes to think it missed him.

When it's fussy, he might mentally start counting the days or get a bit frustrated. Muttering 'Why are you like this? under his breath, more towards himself for beefing with a kid though. Babies are smart. Somehow, it laughs when Ace is angry but cries harder when it's ignored. So he begrudgingly holds out a finger or two for it to take. The 'cry it out' advice is scratched out heavily from the instruction book, because reassurance is what Ace would want. Yknow?

Ace finishes the assignment with one final joke at Trien's expense, just to get one last laugh in before it turns back to normal. Obviously about how he deserves an A for what he went through.

Which, he gets. A - . Flat 90%, because he had help other students did not and gave up for one night. Otherwise he did perfectly.

Which...is a pretty big deal. He messed up a lot, but each time he tried again. Ace soaks it up, because it's likely the only praise he'll ever get from Trien.

Oh yeah. Please let him stay an extra night at ramshackle. He really needs to sleep.

There's a sharp three knocks against Ramshackle’s crooked front door. Each a dull thud that runs the risk of throwing it off its hinges.

Then two. Louder.

And another—faster this time, uneven and brews into rapid whacking, like whoever’s out there is either freezing to death or being chased by something with teeth. Both possibilities as a thunderstorm rages on and threatens to tear down your humble shelter.

You glance up from where you’re half-sprawled across the couch, Grim curled like a smug loaf beside you. Midnight has long since passed; the house creaks in that slow, sleepy way it always does when the wind moves through the old beams. You’ve just finished reviewing for tomorrow’s alchemy lab and sent a few prayers to the sky for the power to keep strong. No one sane should be knocking on your door at this hour.

Grim lifts his head, ears twitching.

“Oi,” he grumbles. “If that’s another ghost lookin’ to crash, you answer it.”

Before you can respond that if it was a ghost then it could just go through the wall, the knocking escalates into frantic pounding.

“YU—! YUU, OPEN THE DOOR!”

You freeze mid-move for your cellphone.

Because that voice is extremely familiar.

And extremely panicked.

You drag yourself off the couch with a sigh that could qualify as a threat and shuffle to the door, already bracing yourself for whatever nonsense Ace Trappola has managed to create this time. If you had a houserobe to angrily knot at your waist then it would be in one rivalling a girl scout’s quality.

There are only so many times someone can barge in past curfew and not be tossed out on their rear. Especially if this someone never bears good news and always drains your supply of acetaminophen. What could he have possibly done this time? It’s not a matter of ‘if’ anymore. Only filtering through various indiscretions that might’ve set his dorm mates off. Riddle’s been trying to be more flexible but you wonder if Ace was enrolled just to be the thorn in that rose’s side.

Like clockwork, the second you undo the lock, chaos spills onto your doorstep. Dripping wet and dragging the cold in by the neck.

Ace stands there looking like he’s been through a natural disaster. His hair is sticking out in twelve directions, his uniform shirt is half untucked, and there are dark circles under his eyes like he hasn’t slept since the invention of fire. Did this world have a caveman stage? Is that something you should look into? For all intents and purposes, it’s a three-am thought to consider another day.

Ace looks no more relieved when you open the door than a wet dog taking shelter under a ripped canopy.

And in his arms?

A baby.

A screaming baby.

A screaming baby that appears to be attempting to break the world record for lung capacity. Ramshackle’s porch does little to bar either of them from nature’s onslaught. Ace at least has a mind to use himself as a shield for the little one. If not for the screams, all you gather is a sliver of orange poking from a swaddle made out of one of Ace’s older hoodies.

You blink.

Ace blinks.

The baby screams louder.

“Yuu,” Ace says desperately, shoving one foot into the doorway before you can even consider closing it. “Hey. Hi. Good evening. I come in peace and with a totally reasonable request.”

You gape at him. Specifically at the way his teeth chatter between the words and the way his normal spikey hair is reduced to taking after a drowned rat.

Then at the baby.

Then back at him.

“…Why are you holding a siren?”

“It’s not a siren, it’s the assignment!” Ace hisses, bouncing the baby awkwardly like it might explode if he stops moving. “Trein’s stupid spell thing? The parenting week? Remember?”

The baby shrieks again, tiny fists flailing. Another loud crack of thunder echoes from eastward and all your synapses seem to connect at once. You all but rip Ace’s unoccupied arm from its socket and pull them both inside. The door slams with a resounding thud before you click the lock back into place. During no time does the baby’s wailing take a backnote.

“You idiot! What are you doing with a baby in the rain in the middle of the night?!”

He can barely get a word out between your insults.

‘Idiot’. ‘Moron’. ‘Bastard’. ‘Lazy’. ‘Goofball’. ‘Wingnut’. ‘Knucklehead Mcspazatron’

It’s a scene taken straight out of a video warning kids not to answer the door at night. Some idiot shows up asking for a warm bed, and then you wake up the next day robbed blind.

“This might be the worst thing you’ve ever done. I’m not even joking,” you hiss while digging through the linen closet for any dry towels, “Do we need to get you some professional help?”

Ace winces like the sound physically hurts him. Not you. The baby. He’s well used to you lecturing him. Although he has a mind not to point out that you give the same speech every time he messes up.

From your spot crouched –- elbow deep in a plastic bin – you glare before he rolls out an excuse. He’ll crack a joke. You’ll try to throw him out. He’ll say he’s sorry. You’ll inevitably forgive him.

You’re about to tell him to spare the usual pattern when the baby’s voice hiccups out. The house goes quiet for a total of three seconds and you’re fearful it died of hypothermia. Ace somehow turns two shades paler, holding still as if he were carved out of stone.

Then the crying starts anew. It seems this tiny devil just needed to hit the restart button. Even stone can become malleable as you both release a collective breath.

You manage to find three clean towels and thank the seven for their mercy. Ace is on your heels to the living room where the hearth still burns on its last two logs, bounding past your abandoned nest on the couch to sit in front of the fire. You kneel next to him, tugging the hoodie knots free and switch in the biggest towel around the baby’s body.

Its face is scarlet red, from crying or the cold you have no clue. You dab at both rainwater and tears from its cheeks, invading Ace’s personal space because he has no right to it anymore and clicking your tongue when he shakes his head like a wet dog. Droplets dirty your clean pajamas and collar.

You glare at him, heavy and patience hanging on a thread.

“Before you ask,” he sniffs,keeping a pointed look on a strip of peeling wallpaper, “yes, I tried everything.”

By ‘everything’ you assume he’s referring to the sound ripping past your eardrums.

You pull the baby out of his arms and into the towel. “Did you really?”

“I bounced it!” He lets go eagerly, but argues.

You deadpan.“Groundbreaking.”

“I rocked it!”

“Revolutionary.”

“I even—” he lowers his voice, as if the next words were ripped from an unpleasant memory, “—sang to it?”

You spare him the most unimpressed sigh manageable. Ace once went skinny dipping in the school pool while hopped on one too many ‘virgin’ irish-cream bonbons, and yet being caught doing that is apparently less embarrassing than singing a lullaby?

At this point, you’re the one embarrassed to be his friend.

Ace grimaces after hearing himself. “Okay that one made it cry harder but that’s not the point.”

He gets a face-full of towel as an answer. You’d managed to get the baby out of its damp pajamas so it could enjoy the soft towel and warm fire. The diaper would have to go but could wait. The moment it wasn’t in immediate peril of a rash or smelling like Night Raven’s ponds, it calmed to mild cries. Still loud but no longer deafening.

From the couch, Grim pokes his head out of a hoard of blankets and shouts, “SHUT THAT THING UP!”

Ace points accusingly towards the lump. “See?! Everyone’s like that tonight!”

You move to start rifling through his bags, unimpressed.

“Let me guess. Riddle?”

Judging by the sheer lack of organization in his duffle bag – which is not thought lightly considering that Ace’s idea of notes is a few scribbles on his forearm during class – you surmise that he was given promptly five minutes to pack his things and get out of the dorm.

Which is generous, given how Riddle normally affords him sixty seconds and a collar if a moment longer.

Ace lets out a hollow laugh and shortly after you find a container of sanitation wipes under one of his gym shirts. You try not to dwell on it if it's clean or not.

“Oh yeah,” He scoffs while aggressively wiping down his hair, “ Yeah, housewarden just loved this. Big fan. Huge supporter of my parenting journey.” The only other towels you had were for drying dishes, but a bit damp is surely better than drenched.

“...what happened?” You empathize enough to offer a wipe and let some understanding soften your tone.

“What happened?” Ace repeats, voice climbing in disbelief. “What happened is that it’s midnight, the baby hasn’t stopped crying for three hours, Cater’s threatening to livestream my breakdown, Trey tried to help for like ten minutes before curfew and Riddle told everyone to go to bed, then—”

He gestures dramatically to the storm raving outside. You wince as empathy turns to sympathy. All the big-wig dormitories belong to their own ‘biomes’ as you’ve so dubbed them. The weather there is always controlled, while the weather on main campus follows the forecast on the Isle of Sages and the temperature fairies mood.

Surely Riddle wouldn’t be so cruel to evict Ace into a thunderstorm, and the forecast was sunny just hours ago. So Crowley must have pissed off the temperature fairies or the sea was unhappy. Either way, none of them could have known.

“—I got evicted.” Ace deflates.

“Evicted might be a stretch. Why not call him?” Ramshackle’s main grandfather clock continues to tick.1:26AM strikes and your hopes dwindle.

“Riddle probably blocked ‘im. I sure woulda.” Grim grumbled. Ace didn’t waste a second bundling his damp, muddy excuse for a rag and threw it at him.

Grim tucks his head back in and it’s the dumbest game of whack-a-beast you’ve ever seen, “I’m just saying!”

“Well no one asked you!”

You quietly agree with Grim and start the long trial of weighing prospects. Riddle probably has Ace’s number on ‘block’ and yours by extension. Where else would Ace go? The infirmary? Sleep in his classroom? Deuce shares his dorm-room and likely isn’t keen on taking the baby back. No. He’d take the baby but tell Ace to sleep in the rose maze.

You tentatively stroke the baby’s forehead, pressing out the chasm creases as it stews in whimpers, “Or Trey?”

It was a long shot. You don’t want to think that Trey would mute your phone number. He’s a reasonable guy if not a bit of a push over. Although calling him might just lead back to square one tomorrow if he manages to get Ace back into Heartslabyul for a night.

“His exact words were,” Ace continues bitterly in a posh mockery, “‘Heartslabyul is not a daycare facility, and if you cannot maintain order then you may take your chaos elsewhere.’”

His Riddle impression is getting better. You make a side-note to catch it on video for blackmail.

“That sounds like him.”

He huffs and jots a thumb down the hall, “And then he pointed at the door.”

You take a chance to kick the last available log into the fire while he ruminates. The baby calmed considerably from its tantrum from earlier. Fingers prod over its forehead, and you find the temperature satisfying. Although it’s far too late in the night for it to still be so fussy. Such pretty red eyes weren’t fit for crying so much - they are practically blood-shot!

Your chest twists with stress when those whimpers start to grow into cries all over again. Grim groans with an exaggerated hiss from under his fort and starts prepping two pillows to smoosh over his ears.

Ace looks seconds away from joining the baby in tears.

“Yuu,” he practically begs, getting on his knees to your side, lowering his voice like he’s about to propose something worth his spare kidney. “Listen. Buddy. Pal. Lifesaver. My ‘guy in the chair’.”

You narrow your eyes, not liking the tone he was taking.

“No.”

He groans, utterly pitiful but you won’t admit it. “You don’t even know what I’m asking yet!”

“I know you.”

“That’s fair,” he admits quickly. “But hear me out.”

He moves to take the fitful baby from your lap. Compared to the gentle motions you took to wrap it in the towel, Ace pays no such respects in a distressed plea. The towel drops unceremoniously to the floor with a diaper-clad devil being held out by under its armpits. He practically shoves its crying face in front of yours.

“I just need the spare room,” he is calling on your mercy. “Just for the week. That’s it. Temporary. Very low commitment.”

He’s doing the song and dance. You know that he knows you’ll give him his way. There’s a smug aftertaste to his words that manifests as mint - the flavor of your toothpaste that he’ll be mooching for seven nights.

You try to look past him. “And the baby?”

“And the baby.”

He moves it so you can’t escape the snot or tears. From behind, Grim is warning you not to agree. He’s threatening to leave. Which is not helping, you hope he is aware. If he wants to go stay in Ace’s dorm room as an exchange student then you won’t try to stop an empty threat.

“And the crying?”

“And the crying.”

At least Ace is honest. Between him, the baby, Grim (after he gets kicked from Heartslabyul), and you? There is going to be a lot of crying.

“And the inevitable property damage?” You finally get to force a terse scowl at him. If he breaks anything you will want funds reimbursed.

A loud strike of thunder punctuates the promise. His wallet better be open.

His voice waivers under a truthful frequency,“…Let’s circle back to that one.”

You fold your arms.

Ace immediately switches tactics. You won’t be distracted and most certainly will be ‘circling back’.

“Okay, okay, new deal,” he pulls the child back into his lap and starts scrambling to re-do your lost work. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Oh? Didn’t you say that last time?”

You’re still waiting for the supposed ‘help’ repairing the upstairs bannister. Two nights and your favorite bag of crisps in exchange for the labor.

“Yeah! Totally. I’m a generous guy.” He ignores the underlying problem.

“Blatant lie, but okay.”

Three seconds pass by and the baby is by no means anywhere near a proper, secure swaddle. You practically swipe the towel from him before exchanging the log-poker for the baby. A not-so-seamless exchange.

“I’ll give you the best partner report Trein has ever seen,” Ace says, pointing at you with the metal rod like he’s making a solemn vow. “Five stars. Glowing review. ‘Yuu was an invaluable childcare expert and also incredibly cool and smart and so much better than me. While I, Ace, am a pathetic excuse for a father -’”

You hold up a hand. Effectively silencing him. His jaw clicks shut and there’s that smug aftertaste again.

“One? I’m already excused from this project,” you generously point out, “Two? You’re assuming I want academic praise from you.”

Ace, who once sold his soul to the literal carnetarian mafia for a good grade that could’ve been avoided if he just studied.

“Fine,” he pivots instantly. “I’ll do your chores.”

“I don’t have chores.”

Not true, but you take care of the house just fine and he still hasn’t made good on the last deal.

“I’ll cook!”

You puff a laugh. “You can’t cook.”

“I’ll learn!”

“With what time?”

“I’ll— okay, listen, the point is I’ll owe you a favor!”

That makes you pause. Not because you believe he’ll ever fulfill this or any of the previously accrued debts. Oh no. You’ve enough ‘I-O-U’ cards stacked in your drawer to put in a retirement fund if they actually had value.

You pause because he clings to your free arm with desperation that’s too exhausted to fake.

And while you’ve gotten far more than enough information this night to fill three of Trien’s observation logs, you genuinely want to give that look a fair chance.

As the baby cries itself out in your new swaddle, it rolls into your stomach. Fragile and red in the face. Even if it’s just a doll, you look at it and see remnants of pictures you snuck a peek at the last time you visited Ace’s place in the Queendom. He was a cute baby. Such a shame he grew up into this mess.

“Please,” he says, quieter this time. “You’re the only person I know who won’t throw me off a balcony right now.”

You stare at him for a long moment, pulling your upper lip between your teeth and weighing.

This is your idiot best friend.

The same idiot who cheats at cards, steals your snacks, argues with you about everything, and somehow still ends up sitting next to you during dinner like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And you know he’d try if the roles were reversed. Ace might not have space to offer, but he’d suffer with you. If you were the one doing this then he’d grumble about how Ramshackle is a ‘no-go’ zone, but sneak in through the open window with his overnight bag without you needing to ask.

As always, he gets his way in the end.

“Go find some new clothes before you catch a cold.” You pull the baby up against the wave of panic pooling from Grim, and stand on numb soles.

Ace’s entire face lights up with relief.

“Oh thank the Seven—”

You fix him a glare before he gets too keen. “BUT.”

He freezes mid-rise. There are still embers that can easily blow this hole into a burst of flames, so you hook the dousing bucket under your ankle and drag it to him with more force than needed.

“You are reading the manual tonight. Cover to cover,” You point your foot at his chest, “and you are cleaning my foyer first thing in the morning.”

Ace grimaces. “Yuu—”

“Every. Page.” You hiss.

“It’s like fifty—”

You’re not listening.

“And you,” you continue ruthlessly, “are taking a hot shower because you smell like sweat and baby formula.”

“That’s a very specific insult.”

Ace is already on his feet though. At least the months have taught him never to look a gift grim in the mouth.

“And,” you add, turning toward the hallway, “you are getting your shit together.”

Ace cuts the fire’s embers with the bucket, smothering them with his weight and waiting for cold metal.

“…Or?”

You glance over your shoulder, “Or I give the baby to Grim and let nature take its course.”

From the couch, Grim immediately shouts, “HEY! DON' T VOLUNTEER ME FOR STUFF!”

Ace pales a shade, even in the moonlight peering past the drapes.

“Okay. Yeah. Manual. Shower. Personal growth. With a side of fries. Got it.”

Grim scampers between your legs and sticks his tongue out, “Side of tuna, ya mooch.”

As you leave them to fight,, it’s an effort to ignore the mess of mud and water coloring your foyer. Although with mini-trappola snotting up your pajamas, you learn to pick battles as they come and bound up the stairway.

“Now,” you breathe, tucking down the bit of fabric over its chin, “let’s find out why you’re so cranky, okay? Be good for me so I can gloat in front of your papa.”

Your bedroom ends up becoming mission control for the night.

Not because you planned it that way.

Mostly because you don’t trust Ace Trappola alone with this magically generated infant yet.

The moment he disappears into the bathroom down the hall—muttering something about needing “five minutes to scream in peace”—you close the door to your room and look down at the tiny, furious creature currently wailing in your arms. Ace’s things are tossed lazily in the furthest corner and you won’t let them anywhere near until they’re cleaned twice.

Grim hops onto the bed with a dramatic huff. It dips under his paws as the boxspring cries.

“Tell that thing to shut up already,” he grumbles, curling his tail around himself. “My ears are ready to fall off.”

The baby’s face is still red from crying, little fists opening and closing like it’s trying to grab the air. The sound coming out of it is almost impressive in volume for something that small. Calling it a siren was just a weak jab, but it seems to function like one. A few moments of peace pass before it revs back up.

Maybe a lawn mower would be more fitting?

You bounce it gently against your shoulder, pacing a slow circle across the room.

“It’s not a thing,Grim” you murmur. “It’s a baby. We were all one at some point. Have a heart.”

“A cursed baby,” Grim corrects. “One that Ace brought into our house. It’s not even real, can’t we just pull the batteries out or somethin’?”

You might’ve tried if this was back in your world. Dealing with a crying infant at – you glance the wall clock – what is now 2:05AM on a school night? It’s not the craziest you’ve done since arriving in Wonderland but you’re only human.

Unfortunately magic just makes these sorts of things more…complex.

“Temporary guest.” You sigh.

“Temporary nightmare.”

From now on, you’re ignoring him.

“You either help or go sit on your paws. My generosity is about as dry as our headmaster’s tonight.”

The spare room down the hall technically exists, but it hasn’t been used in weeks. Not since Epel stayed over and made it into storage for his Gran’s apples. Apparently NRC is preparing for the next culinary crucible, and Crowley was ‘kind’ enough to use Harveston’s apples in bulk if Epel arranged a discount. All in exchange for an advertisement plug, of course.

The bed’s probably covered in dust and half the blankets ended up migrating to other parts of the house during winter. Getting it ready tonight would mean digging through closets, dragging crates, preventing Grim from making a midnight ‘snack’ of a bushel or two, and waking half the ghosts in the walls.

And right now, the priority is getting the tiny red-faced siren in your arms to stop crying. If it had real vocal chords, they’d surely be ruined by now.

So you start to improvise.

You pull one of your thicker blankets off the bed and fold it into a soft nest beside your pillow. Another blanket gets rolled into a barrier around the edges so nothing can shift during the night. It’s not perfect, but it’s stable, warm, and close enough that you can keep an eye on things.

Grim watches you work with visible skepticism.

“You’re letting it sleep here?” He bemoans.

“For tonight.”

“In our room.”

Your patience is beginning to taper,“For tonight,” and there is no room for argument.

He grumbles something under his breath but doesn’t actually press further, flopping dramatically at the foot of the bed like he’s accepting his fate. You pat the fluff between his ears and find forgiveness in his tail flicking an arc.

You pause beside the bed and adjust your hold on the baby, resting its tiny body more securely against your shoulder.

“Okay,” you murmur quietly. “Let’s see what the problem is.”

You think back to hints left in Ace’s bag. Trien’s manual was crumpled and left to sink at the very bottom. You had pulled it out and set it on the desk for him. Regardless of the condition, he was reading it.

A few diapers were missing from his supply pack, but you changed the baby regardless. The diaper it had been wearing was soaked and it needed powder to keep rashes away. You cleaned it off with a soapy rag in the sink, rinsed with warm water and patted it down. It rejected the binky, calmed somewhat in new fuzzy jammies, and nearly choked you out by throttling your collar.

The last option in your mind was food - but the bottle looked used (although unwashed) and one of the formula packets was missing.

Crying can mean hunger.

Crying can mean discomfort.

Crying can mean…

You pause. Grim lit the fire in your bedroom and it glowed brightly. As if a stroke of light in your mind

“…Gas.”

You shift the baby slightly higher on your shoulder and gently began to pat its back.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The crying hiccups.

You pause and angle lower. Fear kept you from pressing too hard before but technically this thing was made of steel, right?

You gave it one heavy pat between the shoulderblades.

And then startle as one of the loudest burps tears through the air. If it was Grim, there’d be fire shooting from his maw and nostrils from the force. You’re horrified.

What the fuck are these things made of?!

For the first time since arriving, the baby goes completely silent. All you hear is the clock ticking overhead and Ramshackle’s old pipes straining in the walls. Whatever Ace was doing, he better leave you enough hot water to shower in the morning.

You blink. Three minutes pass and the baby doesn’t so much as whine. It happily snuggles into your shoulder with chubby fingers gripping your fresh pajamas.

Grim lifts his head slowly from the mattress.

“…You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”

The baby sighs.

Actually sighs. As if it was just relieved from work after a long shift and ready for the best nap of its life. Its tiny body relaxes against your shoulder like someone flipped a switch, the tension draining out of its little limbs as its breathing evens out.

Utterly exhausted. It’s rough being a kid, it seems.

You stare at it.

Then lean out past the doorway, craning down the hallway where the shower is still running.

“…Ace is going to lose his mind.”

Grim snorts.

You carefully settle onto the edge of the bed, still holding the now suspiciously peaceful infant. For a few minutes you just sit there, gently rocking back and forth while the quiet settles into the room again.

Without the crying, Ramshackle sounds like it always does at night—the faint whistle of wind through old wood, the distant creak of something settling in the walls.

Eventually you lower the baby into the blanket nest beside your pillow.

It squirms once, stretching tiny fingers toward the ceiling.

Then turns over in the blanket haven and settles in. You’re reminded of the first night Ace slept over. How he too gave you a migraine and then made himself home in your bed. Although he wasn’t as adorable to make up for it.

Well. Maybe. Just not with his attitude at the time. What Ace doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Like father like…doll?

You tuck the edge of the top cover a little closer around it and sit there for a moment longer, watching the small rise and fall of its chest.It’s strange how peaceful it looks now. Like it wasn’t trying to shatter windows twenty minutes ago.

The bathroom door down the hall finally creaks open.

You hear Ace’s footsteps before he appears, slower now, the frantic edge from earlier dulled slightly. Steam trails faintly behind him as he pushes your bedroom door open with one hand.

His hair is still damp, the ends curling slightly where water hasn’t fully dried yet. He changed into an old T-shirt and sweatpants, and the tension in his shoulders looks a little looser than when he first showed up.

Then he notices the silence.

He freezes in the doorway.

“…Why is it quiet?” His voice quivers, on the cusp of preparing for bad news.

You glance up from the bed and gesture him closer with two fingers, He steps in cautiously, kicks the door closed, and looks around like he’s nearing a wild beast.

“You didn’t…return it to Trein early, did you?” he whispers.

You gesture toward the nest and roll your eyes. He comes to your shoulder and peers over with you as a human shield.

God. He’s a bigger baby than the actual thing.

The little gremlin is fast asleep, bundled neatly in its blanket nest beside your pillow, tiny mouth slightly open.

Ace looks at it.

Then at you.

Then back at it.

“…How?”

You shrug. “It needed to burp.”

He grips your shoulder like it’s a stressball, and the strength is surprising for someone with arms out of a ramen noodle package.

“You’re joking.” He strains, “Stop fucking with me, Yuu.”

“Nope.”

You pry his hand off finger by finger. Only for him to take your wrist instead.

“I bounced it for an hour.” He grits through his teeth.

You shrug. “It needed to burp.”

“I rocked it.”

“It needed to burp.”

He grabs both your cheeks from behind and tilts your head backwards. Crazed and honestly a bit manic - your eyes widen when his nose is just an eraser's width from your own “I walked three laps around Heartslabyul and let it chew on my new pencils.”

You raise an eyebrow, because he shouldn’t let a baby put lead or wood in its mouth. He really was hopeless. If you weren’t trying to figure out if the mint on his breath was your stolen toothpaste or your mind playing tricks - it would’ve been another lecture.

“It. Needed. To. Burp.”

Ace holds you there a moment longer before letting go. His arms fly towards the ceiling like a puppet on strings, finally free, or an italian when their marinara doesn’t cling to their pasta.

“You’re telling me I got kicked out of my dorm because the baby had gas?!”

“Don’t be so loud, dumbass!” you hiss in a whisper-yell, “and pretty much.”

He lowers his hands slowly, staring at the sleeping infant like it personally betrayed him.

“…I can still hear the crying.”

“That’s called trauma.”

“No seriously,” Ace says, glancing around the room suspiciously. “It’s like phantom crying. Like when your phone vibrates but it didn’t actually.”

“That’s your brain recovering. The only crying you ever hear here is from the ghosts. Specifically Henry. He misses his wife.” You try not to think about the spectral nuisance that would surely either become this kid’s best friend, which is a nightmare. Or scare it to oblivion, which is also a nightmare.

Ace squints at the baby again.

“…It looks smug.”

“It’s asleep.”

“It’s smug and asleep.”

You snort quietly, “Well take a look at the genetic makeup. Those are your two most common states. Hate to break it to ya.”

Ace rubs the back of his neck with a retort on his tongue but seems to think better of it when already on thin ice. He does knock his knees over yours before finally noticing the rest of the room setup. Grim’s curled at the foot of the bed, already out because he wasn’t playing once the room turned quiet.

The kid’s in his spot, which is un-shmoozable. Not if he doesn’t want to risk waking it up.

The space cleared beside the nest is yours. If he jokes that you squeeze together or you sleep on top of him - you’ll toss him on his ass like Riddle did.

Ace’s gaze shifts slowly toward the armchair near the fireplace, and the desolate look there is criminal.

“…So where am I sleeping?”

You point toward the armchair, as if he didn’t already know what contract he signed in mud and rain.

“Manual.” You say at level.

He looks at the thick instruction booklet sitting on the desk like it personally insulted him.“…You’re serious.”

“You wanted to stay.”

“I thought that meant sleeping.”

“You can sleep after you learn how to keep it alive.”

Ace groans into his palms, pressing them over his eyes. You don’t taste that smugness anymore. Although it makes you no less of an enforcer. He’s pulled all-nighters to read comic books and never had a problem. Tomorrow you’ll take over so he can nap during lunch, but won’t tell him until then.

“You’re ruthless.”

Suffer.

“You showed up at midnight with a screaming baby.”

“Fair.”

He drags the armchair closer to the small lamp near your desk and flops down dramatically, grabbing the manual with the enthusiasm of someone about to read tax law. Once you know for a fact that he’s settled in, you slip under the blankets and sigh once your head hits the pillow. Three in a bed makes for a tight squeeze, but you drape an arm over the nest and feel Grim curl by your calves. It’s the good kind of cramped.

“Good luck,” you say, cheek smooshed. Although you don’t sleep. Not just yet. When he flips the book open you curl and let your ears listen as the knowledge enters his head. Occasionally you peek an eye open, watching his shadow curve on the wall. His mutterings become white noise as you drift in and out of sleep; an accompanying orchestra made up of a crackling fire, raindrops on the roof, and thunder moving away.

He grumbles.“…Why are there so many diagrams?”

“…this thing is so long,” Ace mutters.

You hide a smile in the sheet.

Pages flip. You peek one eye open, cheek flat on your pillow.

Ace leans forward in the chair, one hand rubbing his temple as he scans the text.

“Swaddling techniques… feeding schedules… developmental response behaviors…” he reads under his breath. “Who wrote this, a wizard pediatrician?”

You believe the term is ‘medical mage’ - which he should know considering the Queendom houses some of the world’s most renown. The fire crackles softly in the small hearth, clock ticking to a time you don’t know.

“‘Babies respond positively to calm emotional regulation.’” He snorts. “Cool. Mine responds by screaming.”

You hear him flip another page.

Then another.

“…Oh.”

You dare glance past the bedframe and where the fire’s going out. He’s leaning forward now, actually invested instead of skimming. A glass of water at his side that wasn’t there before, but you can’t remember hearing him leave to get it. At least that means you slept somewhat.

“…Huh.”

“What?”

He tenses - tossing a look your way that’s teetering apologetic. Rare considering you’re sure he must’ve been trying to keep you awake with all that bemoaning. Although you could be mistaken.He scratches the back of his neck, flipping a page with his free hand.

“…I definitely messed up the formula.”

“No kidding.”

“…And the swaddling.”

“Also obvious.”

“…And the holding angle.”

You smile faintly into your pillow, remembering how he dangled the baby by its armpits earlier in class. Through the curtains you see the first cracks of morning light. You’re exhausted and yet you don’t care. Not a single bit. That’s what coffee is for.

"Yeah. Babies don't take well to being manhandled like a ragdoll."

A few more pages turn. He starts thumbing them like a flip book and sighs.

“…Man,” he mutters slowly, drawing the realization in a diagram of his own making. “This week’s gonna suck.”

You pull the blanket higher over your shoulder. “You're just figuring that out now?”

He doesn’t answer this time, but throws an obscene finger - as if you don’t know what it means. There’s still time for a bit more sleep and you know what he’s alluding to. You keep your breathing slow and even, eyes closed against the dim room. The baby shifts once beside you, making a tiny sleepy noise before settling again.

“…Okay,” he murmurs quietly to himself, more focused now. “Okay, I get it.”

Another page turns.

The chair creaks softly as he shifts, pulling his legs to drape over the arm rest and get comfortable.

After a while, his grumbling fades into quiet concentration, broken only by the occasional whisper of turning pages.

Ramshackle finally sounds peaceful again.

And even though your eyes are closed, you keep listening to the soft rhythm of him studying across the room—until long after the manual stops rustling and the house falls fully asleep.

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