Expert
I left a little idea hanging in this fic which really needed some investigation. And the muse finally returned on my commute yesterday so, while this isn’t my most well thought through or deviously plotted fic, the idea entertained me so I hope you’ll enjoy it too :) Wee Tracy fluff!
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“Scooooo-ooooott!!!!!”
“Scottyyyyyy?!!”
Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic.
“You win, little man! You’re so clever! Can you come out now?”
A little bead of sweat tickled its way past Jeff’s eyebrow and he swiped at it impatiently. It was important to keep the panic out of his voice so he kept up the singsong tone:
“Where aaaare you, Bluejaaaay?”
He was missing something.
“Please come out now? Daddy needs a cuddle!”
He’d checked all the usual places. Twice.
“Do you want a snack, Scotty?”
Surely that would…?
“Snack time!!”
Nothing.
What was he missing?
Jeff Tracy was 3 months into being a stay at home Dad while Lucy was off being incredible at the university.
And while the first few days had been inevitably shaky, until this morning he’d been pretty confident he was nailing it.
Sure, he had to confess (and did so with a great deal of admiration most every evening) that he couldn’t work out how Lucy had been doing all this AND working remotely while he’d been up on Alfie. She’d just smile contentedly as he nuzzled her neck and reminded her she was a goddess walking on earth. Usually she would have denied this vehemently, but sharing a house with a child whose sleep-in-his-own-bed record was 30 mins 47 seconds meant neither was willing to waste a single moment on pointless humility…
Anyway, she clearly had Powers he did not.
For a standard issue human, however, he was doing ok. He’d read the toddler-wrangling manual cover to cover. His son, apparently, had not, but there were one or two tips that seemed to hold fairly true. Most of the time. But he was beginning to think he could write one himself, because while Dr Whatsherface might be an expert on the average toddler, Jeff Tracy was an expert on his own rather unique version.
Rule number one - never blink. The kid moves faster than sound.
Rule number two - Accessorise.
Jeff had taken to wearing combat pants with multiple pockets and thus perpetually had snacks, wet wipes and toy planes on standby. He had a tennis ball to hand at all times… turned out that what worked for a puppy sometimes worked for a two-year old too.
The squeaky chew toys were their little secret.
Yes, the key to his success was in the gadgets. The baby swing he’d fixed into the door frame had been a great way to enable the little whirlwind to let off steam while remaining in one place. The delighted squeals of “‘Cotty fwwwyyyy!!!” really brought a tear to the eye. The height and speed his child managed to achieve using the thing brought a slightly anxious twitch to the eye also, but it was all fine. He just needed to be close by enough to intervene…
He solved Going Out with a gadget too. Scott wasn’t really a pushchair kind of a guy but wasn’t yet able to appreciate that tugging his little hand out of his Dada’s and sprinting out into the traffic wasn’t ok. After a few days of hanging limp from it, 12 kilos of dead weight, in protest, Scott had eventually taken to the cunning harness-leash device which meant their little trips into town were less of an adrenaline rush. Marginally.
At some point Jeff was definitely going to get punched for barging his way through a crowd by some irate person who didn’t appreciate he was attached to a tiny rocket on a string.
But the main thing was he wasn’t getting lost. Or flattened.
Yep, Jeff was nailing this parenting thing.
Tying the kid down while he made a hasty trip to the bathroom had seemed a step too far, however. Scott had been enclosed in his supposedly escape-proof playpen, temporarily absorbed in nyoooming a plushie space ship from one duplo planet to another.
Jeff had been three minutes, tops. Barely 180 seconds.
Where could he go in 180 seconds??
He cursed himself for the rookie error of under-estimating his first-born and stood at the kitchen door, running through a mental checklist of all the places in which he had located his feral offspring to date.
Cupboards. Check.
Curtains. Check.
Top of bookcase, window sills, under the beds. Check check check.
On top of the big wardrobe in the master bedroom? One of spider-baby’s favourites that one. Check.
He’d looked there three times actually, nearly got himself wedged the third time as he clambered up and reached all the way to the back just in case his eyes were deceiving him and a cherubic blue-eyed menace was hiding in the shadows.
A face-full of cobwebs: No Scotty.
“Daddy’s getting pretty lonely out here, I wish you’d come and play with me!!”
The house wasn’t that big. Where on earth…?
The windows were still locked shut.
The front door was still shut. With the chain in place… even tiny Houdini couldn’t have put that back on behind him.
The back door was locked, key still on the hook.
So he couldn’t be outside.
So… no need to panic. Unless he was stuck or hurt somewhere and Jeff wasn’t with him!!
“SCOOOOOOOTTYYYYY?”
It had got to the stage where Jeff was doing ridiculous things like looking behind lamp stands and under cushions that were far too small to hide a human toddler, particularly one that moved so constantly he even vibrated in his sleep.
But there wasn’t anywhere left!!!
… or was there?
In desperation, Jeff pulled down the telescopic ladder and stuck his head into the attic-space, in case somehow his child had suddenly developed both the ability to fly and to pass through solid objects during those three unforgivable minutes of inattention.
Obviously Scott wasn’t there.
This was wasting time.
He retraced his steps to the kitchen, calling as he went.
“Scotty I really need you to come out now please? Daddy’s getting worried!”
The cupboard under the sink? It was big enough… The child-proof door closures should have made it impossible but this was Scott Tracy: Tiny master of impossible feats. Jeff really hoped he was wrong because if he’d got in there… where the cleaning things were kept…
“Scotty!”
He sped up and began to reach down as he covered the last few metres… then gasped as his foot slid from under him and he skated, flailing wildly, across the linoleum.
“Sco-aaaaaaaaaaaaggghhh!!!”
Jeff’s graceless ice dance was halted abruptly as he slammed head first into the fridge and crumpled to the floor.
Jars rattled.
Jeff’s teeth rattled.
The fridge said “Dada?”
Jeff’s ears said “riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing”.
The floor was sticky. Feeling a little hazy Jeff lifted a hand and sniffed it cautiously… cinnamon? What?
Wait.
Blinking the stars from his eyes Jeff, dragged himself to his feet and hauled the door open to find his son tucked neatly on to a high shelf, curled around a pie dish.
Jeff’s jaw dropped.
He snapped it closed it again and bit his lip lest any inappropriate words escape.
“Dada! ‘Cotty duck in fidge. Oh no!”
The tiny child lifted his apple sauce covered hands and looked at them as if suddenly realising they were attached to his arms. Bright blue eyes gazed down at him with an expression of extreme innocence:
“Oh no! ‘Cotty all messy! Ooopsiiiieee!”
A chunk of apple fell from his little eyebrow and Jeff nearly burst a blood vessel trying to keep a straight face. Don’t reward the unwelcome behaviour with a reaction, the book had said. If he laughed now, Scott would only do similar again. And he needed to impress upon him that it wasn’t ok to hide away like this.
Or consume the majority of a family sized dessert by himself.
His lip twitched.
Jeff would have put serious money on the supposed expert never having anticipated this scenario.
Clearly realising his father had no follow-up questions to his comprehensive situational update, Scott plunged his hand back into the dish and shoved a fistful of pie crust into his mouth.
Jeff covered his face and screamed silently into his palms. Then realised he had given himself a matching set of apple pie eyebrows.
Piebrows.
He snorted.
Scott snorted like a pig in response and burst into giggles, spraying pastry crumbs into Jeff’s hair.
Expert schmexpert.
Jeff laughed loud and Jeff laughed long. Scott giggled and clapped his sticky hands together then reached for Jeff with one of them, the other clutching the edge of the pie dish possessively.
“I think you’ve had enough pie, Bluejay, don’t you?” Jeff prised the little fingers free and realised his son’s skin was incredibly cold.
“Bloody hell, kiddo you’re freezing! Come ‘ere …” he plucked the small icicle from the shelf and hugged him close. “We’d best get you in a warm bath. What are you, Elsa?”
“Leddid gooooo!!! Leddid gooooooooo!!!” The little lad closed his eyes and waved a sticky fist in the air as he sang.
“Yes, son, let it go.”
Scott hid his last handful of pie behind his back and shook his head vigorously.
“No Dada!! ‘Cotty’s abble bie. Buddy ell, Dada! Oh no!”
Jeff swallowed hard. “Oh no” indeed.
Maybe he’d put a pin in the book idea, just for a little while.
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