Not All Heroes Wear Capes
Pairing: Prowler!Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader
Word count: 3.2k
Author's Note: Guess who's back (back), back again (-gain) 😅 jumping back in with some fluffy Prowler!Dad before I start working on more WIP's! Shoutout to @the-kr8tor for baby Kitt 🥹 I'd also like to thank @pinksugarscrub for beta reading and dealing with my panicky ass 🫠😂
Tags: Prowler!Hobie, Dad!Hobie, Older!Hobie, Fem!Reader, Older!Reader, Mom!Reader, Brown Family!AU, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, TW Body Image from Outside POV
The first sights that catch Kitt’s eyes are the twinkling stars hanging over his head. White lines connect to the tiny lights like constellations, hovering over him against a backdrop of dark blue. His mind instantly runs to the picture books you’d read to him every night, with you rocking him in your arms in your favorite rocking chair, your voice hushed and soothing reading out every word until he succumbs to slumber.
With a weak whine, Kitt slowly pushes himself up from his napping spot, his nose wrinkling from the creeping yawn tickling the back of his throat. Blinking away the slumber clinging to his eyes, Kitt’s senses start to stir awake in tandem– fuzz from the carpet tickling his skin; the faint scent of soap and the sun from his favorite blanket in his hand; the soft whirring from the small fan propped near his overheated figure. His wild coils cling to his forehead from sweat, with heat radiating from his body despite the fan’s best efforts, before he clumsily pushes his hair back like you usually would.
Rumbles rattle through his tiny bones, and Kitt turns to his lanky giant of a dad beside him, snoring with drool trailing from the corner of his pierced lip. Hobie’s black tank top clings to his sweat-slick skin, his chest rising and falling in a measured beat, with a small wet patch over where his heart would be. His long arm splays across the shaggy carpet and various pillows, many of them with colorful unicorns and other frolicking animals courtesy of Kitt’s sisters, while his short arm rests on top of the big stuffed dinosaur he stitched up for Kitt.
Normally Hobie had that hard arm glove over it, the shiny one that made him look like he was part robot. It was rare for Kitt to see his dad’s arm naked like this. There’s no metal on his arm, no sleeve or glove covering it. There’s no weird plastic fingers either, no crevices where Kitt’s goldfish crackers would accidentally fall between, no weird string that looks like the plastic strings on his sister Ramona’s tiny guitar. It was just his bare arm, with a jagged scar where a hand and part of his forearm would be.
Kitt likes it better like this though, the robot arm isn’t comfortable to hang onto.
A loud yawn soon bubbles up the toddler’s throat, tears pricking up in his chocolate eyes, before he sleepily crawls onto his dad’s chest. A pained grunt rips through Hobie’s lips the moment a tiny chubby hand pushes against his gut, followed by a heavy weight gradually crushing his chest, but the punk father bears with the pressure as he drowsily wraps his good arm around the toddler.
“Bloody hell– Kitt, son, can ya get off Dad–”
SMACK!
A tiny hand-shaped wave of pain ebbs through Hobie’s nose, and he bites back a curse bubbling up his throat as he gingerly rolls himself to the side and cradles Kitt onto the carpet. Blinking the sheen off his eyes, Hobie’s vision clears up to the sight of his little carbon copy– the same glint of mischief in his eyes, the same coily mane (that Hobie knows he has to style at some point), the same cheeky grin pushing Kitt’s chubby cheeks up.
The irritation melts off the older man’s shoulders as more giggles bubble up from the one-year old, the sound a calming chime to Hobie’s disoriented mind.
“Jesus, Kitt,” Hobie grunts out as he sits himself up, “ya definitely got yer mum’s hand.”
Small claps echo within the fairy light-lined makeshift tent before Kitt struggles to push himself back up and crawl onto Hobie’s lap. Pressing his cheek against his dad’s chest, a tender smile curls up on the older man’s lips before pushing Kitt’s hair back to press a kiss along his hairline.
“Alright, ya l’il menace,” a low chuckle rumbles in Hobie’s chest while Kitt wraps his arms around his dad’s neck, “It’s just us lads today.”
Clutching Kitt against his chest with his longer arm, Hobie gingerly crawls on his knees out of the makeshift tent his girls begged him to build, ignoring the quiet cracks up his spine. The toddler buries his face into the crook of Hobie’s neck, and a shaky sigh slips through the older punk’s lips before propping Kitt up with his other arm.
“Mummy’s takin’ yer sisters to a birthday party t’day,” Hobie grunts as he pushes himself up from his knees, “but that’s alright. We can make do here–”
Muffled whines vibrate against Hobie’s neck, and he can’t help but chuckle along as he bounces Kitt along towards the kitchen. “I know, I know, Mummy ‘n sissies usually play with ya, but we’ll have some fun, won’t we? Daddy knows he’s been a little busy lately, but he got a day off today. We got the whole afternoon t’ ourselves.”
Hobie’s bare feet pads against laminate flooring with each step, joining in the quiet cacophony within the small apartment. The sound of the outside world muffles through the window panes, traffic and construction softly vibrating through ivory walls, lined with various hanging frames with still frames of the kids’ lives– Billie’s first time riding a bicycle, Ramona swimming in a pool, Kitt taking his first steps rushing to the camera, amongst other captured memories. Whirring buzzes in Hobie’s ear the closer they get to the kitchen, the dishwasher humming and rattling along. The lingering heat inside slowly gets tapered off as the hot air siphons out through the fan blowing out the window.
Another whine rumbles in Kitt’s chest as the heat licks against his skin, but Hobie shushes in the toddler’s ear as he crosses to the old refrigerator.
“ ‘s okay, Kitt. Mummy made some ice lollies for ev’ryone, remember?” Hobie comforts the young boy, fighting off the urge to grimace from the sweat breaking out on his skin already, before tugging the freezer door open. “You helped too, yeah? You slapped the melon at the grocery store for Mummy– oh my god.”
The sudden gust of cold air provides respite for the father-son duo, kissing their heated skins. A stifled groan rumbles in Hobie’s throat before he rests his head against the door frame, letting the chill of the freezer linger longer.
Would a few minutes of cool air be worth the higher electric bill? Maybe.
A shifting weight nudges the older man from his brisk interlude. Hobie’s eyes flick into a sidelong glance, only to be met with Kitt attempting to stick his head into the freezer.
“Oi, Kitt!”
A guffaw bubbles up Hobie’s chest as he pulls the toddler out, who looks up at him with a giggle of his own while holding the prepared silicone popsicle molds. Some of Kitt’s teeth peek out through his gums as he smiles.
Okay, yeah, it might be worth the higher bill.
“Thank ya for helping Daddy,” Hobie struggles to stifle his laughter as he pushes the freezer closed with his shoulder, hiking the baby against his chest. “Make sure ya hold on t’ it, ‘kay?”
Kitt grips onto the thick edges of the mold, his little body pressing the cold silicone between himself and the crook of Hobie’s neck. Goosebumps prick up on Hobie’s skin from the chill before he carefully slides Kitt into his high chair.
“Alright, Kitty,” Hobie chuckles as he tugs the mold from the toddler’s hands, setting it to its side on the propped tray and revealing a small variety of flavors, “which one do ya want? Watermelon? Orange? Blueberry?”
Kitt stares at the sneak peeks of flavors, his eyes lighting up at the triad of red, orange and purple, before his tiny hand reaches for one of the watermelon popsicles. With a fond smirk he wraps his calloused hand around the mold, ignoring the biting cold on his skin while carefully squeezing the homemade ice lolly out.
“C’mon, ya bloody–”
Before the watermelon popsicle slips out of the mold, Hobie snaps his teeth on the wooden stick sticking out before pulling it out. More bubbly giggles ring against the kitchen walls while Kitt claps his hands together.
“M’kay, hang on–” the popsicle mold slips from his hand and clatters against the tray– “Shi– Shoot!”
Another shrill fit of laughter rings in Hobie’s ears as he quickly tears a napkin and drops the ice lolly from his teeth onto his hand. His eyes flick over to Kitt as he sets the frozen treat down on the kitchen table, and his heart melts at the sight of his son teething on silicone edges of the mold.
“Ah- ah, Kitt, wait, can’t eat that,” Hobie tugs the mold out of Kitt’s mouth, but he clamps his mouth onto the edge with more giggles bubbling up from his chest. “Kitt, no– it’s nasty! It’s not for teethin’–”
The mold suddenly slips from Kitt’s baby-toothed bite, the silicone snapping out of the baby’s mouth and nearly slipping from Hobie’s hand again. With a quick hand, the older man snatches the popsicle mold in the air before it clatters onto his foot, earning another giggly round of applause from his sole audience member. A huff of relief slips through pierced lips as Hobie drops onto a chair and sets the mold onto the kitchen table for the lone napkin-wrapped lolly.
Watermelon juice starts to seep into the paper towel as he tucks the ice lolly into his hand. Kitt’s eyes light up at the bright red frozen treat, his chubby little hands making grabbing gestures before grasping his father’s callused hand and wrapping his mouth around the popsicle end.
A snort sneaks up on the older man, a fond smirk curling up at the sight. “Bitin’ like a l’il vampire, ain’t ya?”
Little gurgles and slurps muffle against ice, chocolate eyes melting and lighting up from the cool treat coursing through Kitt’s little body. Drops of red plop onto the plastic tray, some dripping off his chin while the rest roll down his neck and seep into his shirt.
“Ah, damn.”
Hobie’s skin crawls from the sticky mess all over Kitt’s face as he tugs the lolly away, earning an upset whine from his son while he tucks it in his mouth by its side. Ice-cold watermelon juice floods Hobie’s taste buds, chills flooding over his overheated skin, while he rips another paper towel and gingerly wipes Kitt’s face.
“Yer gettin’ a bath either way,” Hobie winces as his teeth slowly sinks into the treat, aching through the sudden rush of coldness, “but the lolly made it worse, huh?”
More frustrated whines dampen through the paper towel as Kitt’s feet kick against the plastic tray, but Hobie bites back a snicker before gently pinching the boy’s nose. “Yer lucky yer cute. Got it from yer mummy, huh?”
As soon as Hobie pulls his hand away, Kitt blows a raspberry in protest, his face scrunched up and flushed red. Hobie can’t help but think of you in that moment– your face just as flushed and curled up into a scowl.
A wheeze forces itself out of Hobie before he pulls the popsicle out of his mouth, placating the toddler as Kitt happily mouths around the icy end again.
The cool chill from the freezer soon melts away from Hobie’s skin, the heat in the kitchen now radiating into his flesh. Soft whirrings continue to reverberate off the kitchen walls as the older man idly gazes at the youngest Brown teething the ice lolly.
A wave of chills washes over Kitt’s overheated body the more he gnaws on the frozen treat, watermelon flooding his mouth and tongue to his delight. His chubby hands grab hold of the melting lolly, the juices already sticking onto his digits and pricking his skin with goosebumps. Aches creep up in his gums, his growing baby teeth barely shaving through the flavored ice, but Kitt soldiers on while he sucks out more juice.
His sissies already call him a big boy, and they say big boys don’t cry. Not from his gums hurting from an ice lolly.
Kitt pulls away from the treat with a satiated smack of his lips, his red-tinted tongue peeking out to lick off the sheen of juice clinging onto his skin. His fingers release their sticky grip before retreating to his mouth, every last drop savored, as Kitt flicks his eyes back to Hobie.
Shades of purplish-blue hang under Hobie’s eyes, melding in along his own skin. Silver glints on his face as sun rays shine through the blinds, casting along his lip ring and nose piercing, as if the metal is the only other proof to Kitt of his dad being part robot. Hobie’s hand still holds the melting popsicle out, juice dribbling down his hand and arm until it pools onto the tray. But even with the sun bordering under his red-rimmed eyes and the heat making a mess with the melting lolly, he still has that same smile.
“God, yer a proper mess, son,” mirth flickers in Hobie’s eyes as he chomps down the rest of the half-eaten ice lolly before pushing himself up. “Lemme get me arm ‘fore I give ya a bath, yeah?”
As Hobie pushes himself up, his skin slick with sweat with his tank top clinging onto his figure, his gaze lingers on Kitt’s, dark chocolate meeting a sweeter one. A small smirk curls up on the older punk’s lips before he lifts his arms up in the air.
“Uppies.”
With a gummy grin Kitt mirrors his father, lifting his arms up in the air with his hands grabbing at air. A snort vibrates through Hobie’s nose before his– albeit sticky– hand grabs onto the back of the toddler’s shirt and gingerly tugs it up. Muffled whines rumble in Kitt’s chest, but they fall on deaf ears as the shirt peels off his torso, sweat and watermelon juice clinging onto cotton.
Rolling his shoulders, Hobie saunters over to the dishwasher just as it beeps that familiar tune, his shirt-covered hand popping the door open with steam billowing out. With a gentle tug on the bottom rack, another glint of silver peeks out of the washer, revealing a metal arm wedged between some pots and dishes.
Kitt’s eyes linger on Hobie’s figure as he pulls the steaming arm out, unfazed by the heat as it clatters against the countertop. A small moment flickers in Kitt’s mind, one of you screaming out a rare curse as you tried to pick up the same steaming arm from the dishwasher before Hobie rushed to your side. Even though Hobie was panicking while holding your hand under running water, he was a superhero to Kitt.
Hobie is strong, at least strong enough to handle hot things or pick up heavy things with one hand. He can lift both Billie and Ramona up in the air while they dangle onto his arms, spinning them around the living room until they all get dizzy. He can scare away monsters in the shadows, flashing his flashlight under the bed with his scariest scowl– even though it just makes Billie and Ramona giggle uncontrollably in their beds. Hobie can do anything and everything.
But lately, Hobie hasn’t been home as much. He’d leave with the girls in the morning but come home late at night when everyone’s asleep– something to do with picking up more night shifts. He doesn’t tuck them into bed like he used to, nor does he sing his lullabies (even though he’s not that good at singing). The closest that Kitt ever gets to seeing Hobie at night is quiet shuffling and clanking metal behind the walls. And whenever Kitt does see him, Hobie is either struggling to wake up or rushing to get ready for the day.
Billie tries to stay up every night to see Hobie, but she knocks out the moment she lands on her bed. Ramona, meanwhile, tries to delay the inevitable every morning by eating her breakfast slower, only for Hobie to tickle her until she gives in and finishes her toaster waffles. As for you, you continue with your routine– kissing him goodbye when he leaves with the twins, tending to the kids and the house, making his favorite foods for dinner before packing them for him when he comes home. You don’t show it, but Kitt sometimes catches you with one of Hobie’s spare arms, holding its hand for a few minutes before you carry on.
But even if he’s been working a lot lately, Hobie still has that same smile he’s always had when he comes home. If Kitt’s lucky, he’ll see Hobie wander into their room while Billie and Ramona sleep, still giving them forehead kisses like before. Sometimes you’d be waiting for Hobie by the door, patiently waiting for him before beckoning him to bed. Even if Kitt wants Hobie to stay home more, to play with him and his sissies more, Kitt just wants his hero to keep smiling.
Hobie pulls his limb sock out of his pocket and starts to roll it over his amputated arm, scarred skin slowly disappearing under elastic nylon, before he gingerly aligns it into the metal arm glove. Kitt doesn’t know why Hobie likes wearing it; it’s uncomfortable and looks hard to take care of. Not only that, but he wears gloves and long sleeves over it when he goes out, even if it’s hot. Kitt doesn’t like it, not when Hobie has to cover himself up, not when he sweats under those layers. When Hobie does have a chance to take his jacket off, Kitt doesn’t like it when people stare at Hobie and his arm– like the mean ducks to the ugly duckling in Kitt’s picture book. Even if Hobie doesn’t care, Kitt still doesn’t like it, not one bit.
But with all that said, Hobie still wears that arm. It still helps him carry Billie and Ramona when they want to be in the air; when he needs to fix something for work; when he wants to hug you from behind.
It’s still a part of Hobie. And Kitt loves his–
“Dada.”
Hobie freezes just as the strap from the prosthetic arm snaps on his shoulder, sharp tingles ebbing through his flesh, before his eyes dart to the toddler, who hasn’t uttered a semblance of a word until now.
“Kitt? Did you just…?”
With his arms stretching out to the older punk, Kitt tries to lean over the propped tray of his high chair and bares his signature gummy smile as he coos “Dada” again. His tiny hands grab at the air, and his chocolate eyes light up when some sun rays creep over his face.
Kitt just said his first word.
Kitt just said his first word!
Loud clatters shatter the peaceful silence as Hobie rushes to pick up the baby, his hollers bouncing against the kitchen walls while Kitt launches up in the air. Kitt’s wild coils flutter up as he soars, his cackles joining his dad’s joyous laughter in a boisterous cacophony, before he drops back into Hobie’s arms. And the moment a loud click of a door rings through the apartment, the duo bolt out of the kitchen, with more laughter and cooing ‘dada’s following behind.