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[sweetsalome]

Is he sleeping?

He sleeps a lot, even during the day! 

Doesn't he know only babies nap?  Guess not.

Wee Salome learned at a tender age not to make too much noise, well, ever.  Not that she was ever a very loud child but it was easily apparent even to her that loud noises weren't something enjoyable around the house.  Outside was fine, but inside she had to be quiet. 

It's really, really, really, hard to be quiet.  Really, really, really, really, really hard.  Especially when there is nothing to do.

Bear ear between her teeth she does a slow crawl up to the couch and slowly, or as slowly as she can manage, inch up to peer over the edge of the cushion at her dad.  It's all in the eyes, if he opens his eyes then he is not asleep and she can climb up with him and try and get him to do something.  Or at least put a different video in.

She isn't allowed to play with the VCR.  Any more.

Taking the bear from her teeth she lifts it as well and lets it's floppy little legs dangle over his arm and up to his chest till Richard Vasko is nose to muzzle with stuffed bear face. 

WAKEY WAKEY MOTHERFUCKER.

Comments

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

Salome may be kind of SOL in that both her parents are terrible, terrible people, but at least they're both devoted to giving her a good education, and at least Richard is highly emotionally available. Which is hilariously ironic, because in reality, he isn't; but he feels toward Salome the way women seem to feel toward adorable puppydogs, always saying how they want to eat them and what have you. He simply cannot fight the ever-growing affection he has for her, and so all he can do is give in and ride it out.

Strange moms are what weeknights are for. On the weekends, he's got a baby to take care of; any other method of approach, after all, and he wouldn't look like the responsible single-father-of-the-year he so obviously is.

Oh, the serious duties of being in charge! He laughs gently as she sighs and tells him she'll have to think about it, patting her shoulder. "Well, I can't let you be the boss all the time, then you'd never go to bed on time." Sometimes he gets the feeling she'd rather not leave her house anyways.

"Sure, dollbaby, we can play Candy Land!" He fucking hates Candy Land, but it's a game he can draw while playing, and it's not difficult to match her infectious enthusiasm. "We'll get you cleaned up, we can crack out the board, just kinda hang out. Do whatever you want."

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

Oh, the things she says. He laughs, and laughs, saying, "My darling girl, daddy loves his bed. When you're an adult, you learn to really appreciate your bedtime." And that's not even a vaguely dirty joke. He loves sleeping when he can manage it. Sleep is great. Naps are great. Lying down is the shit. "Naps are for everybody, big and small, young and old, and when you're an adult and suddenly can't always just take a nap whenever you feel like it, you're going to miss them.

"But," he says cautiously, glancing both ways as he carries her across the street, "if you're good, perhaps daddy will let you stay up an extra half hour as long as you promise not to be fussy."

And that's a big 'if', as it were, because even the best behaved child can get a little whiny after bedtime.

Someday soon she'll learn to play Monopoly, and shit will get real. If he can manage to get Susan in on it shit will get even real-er. At least Salome has the advantage of having parents who are on (very) good terms and willing to interact with one another, and who are happy to do things with all three of them for her sake, even if they aren't in a relationship or cohabitating or anything more than sort-of-friends.

Richard chuckles, saying, "Perhaps for Christmas daddy will design a Candy Land board special for you. That way you can have two, the usual one with pictures you like, and one with even better pictures that daddy made."

Settling her on his hip, Richard observes one of the stray cats in the neighborhood as it sits upon the corner of their porch to clean its face; he unlocks the door and sets Sal down, shrugging off his coat and going immediately to wash his hands.

And if you think this is bad, you should see him after a trip to Chuck-e-Cheese. That's a detox level comparable to a radiation leak.

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

"Sleep is exciting, Salome. Think of dreams. You can do anything in your dreams. And waking up is a wonderful feeling, it's a brand new day full of potential." having a child makes him a lot more positive, obviously. You pretend something all day and sooner or later it starts to stick.

Oh, blissful young ignorance. She'll eat crow in a few years, just wait. He laughs and shakes his head, knowing the truth of the matter. Yeah, if she can manage to stay up, she's welcome to. But he's willing to bet that she's going to doze off before or around her usual bedtime, anyway.

That adorable little gasp. Yeah, he needs to get her an animal. Even a little hamster or something. Of course, whatever he gets he's going to be stuck taking care of in her absence, so he's going to have to pick something safely low- or medium-maintenance.

"You've got to be patient with that cat, baby. Just let it come to you. Hang out with it outside one of these afternoons, we can give it some chicken or something if you want." He's not a cat person, but feral cats, he can appreciate. They still make him sneeze, but they tend to be much cooler individuals than their indoor counterparts.

He laughs as he watches her rush up the stairs, arching a brow. Yes, she's at the age where it's safe to let her take a bath by herself, but start it? That one may be just a little bit iffy. That's how children get scalded and bathrooms get flooded. Drying off his hands, Richard cleans up her shoes and jacket, then mounts the stairs. He plucks up her abandoned clothes, chuckling, saying, "Do not try to put bubble bath in by yourself, baby, but if you're feeling confident, you can turn on the water."

Because bubble bath as added by baby Salome is so not going to end well. At all.

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

"Boo dreams!?" He laughs and shakes his head. Oh, that child is an endless source of amusement. To an artist, dreams are everything, even the ugly ones. He makes a point of remembering them, drawing them or writing them down when he wakes up, because one never knows what imagery one might be using.

Of course the chicken is for the cat. He'll show her. "The cat will like you, you just have to give him time. Animals are like people, a friendship with them has to be mutual." Rules he has learned by observation.

Oh hahah no, oh no. No, no. He's in her room putting away her clothes when he hears those ominous words--"I can put the bubble bath in"--and feels himself go pale white. He springs around and speeds through the house, the sound of the splash instilling him with only greater horror.

"Nooooooh God! Salome Vasko! What did I tell you!" He puts his hand on his head, watching in horror as bubbles explode in the bathtub, vomiting up from the water like a bubble volcano. He grimaces, rolling up his sleeves and fighting back laughter as he fishes for the bottle, leaning his forehead against his forearm when he finally manages to extract it. He gives it a shake, saying, "Well, now daddy is going to have to buy you new bubble bath.

"Excellent. Little madam," he lifts his brows and turns to face her, "when your daddy tells you not to do something you should not do it. I'm not mad, but you need to listen to me. Jesus Christ." He laughs and shuts off the tub, which is at this point like seventy percent bubbles. "You want some bath water with your bubbles, babydoll?"

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

Yes, yes it could always be much worse. But that doesn't stop him from arching a brow at her. "I do believe it is your fault. Did the bubbles just jump into the tub? I think not, princess."

Man, that is the least convincing 'sorry' he has ever heard. And he's the king of unmeant apologies. Damn. He gives her a very skeptical look, hiding his smirk as he reaches down to lift her into the tub. "Very well, just this once, but next time you do that you're not going to get your bubbles."

Yeah, right. He may be a bastard, but he's the softest touch there is when it comes to her.

The intensity of her bubble joy is enough to turn him into a noodle. Look at the wonder in her eyes. That's ridiculous, how could he possibly say 'no' to a look like that? "Yes," he says, laughing, "the bubbles are yours." Because your father is a huge pushover. Huge.

He leans back on his haunches and chuckles, the tower of bubbles practically up to the little girl's head. "Now you be careful, I don't want you getting any of that in your eyes." He scoops a handful and places it upon the top of her head, saying, "I crown you, the bubble queen."

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

Oh, she's the cutest little nut in the world, enough to make daddy proud. Her love of destruction is a beautiful thing. Perfectly natural at her age, of course, but nothing instills him with joy quite as much as seeing her build a castle of blocks only to go Godzilla on it.

Yeah, sure she's not going to do the bubbles any more. And he's the King of England. Still, he chuckles good-naturedly and then laughs as she declares her title with menacing enthusiasm.

"My God, this is worse than the ice cream." He lowers his head to crack up, flicking a little grouping of bubbles that settles upon his palm. "Your poor bubble citizens, you truly are a cruel mistress, Salome."

Richard fills the tub a little more, now that some of the bubbles have been destroyed and there's room for...you know, actual water. He grabs the blue patterned washcloth and mercilessly wipes clean her face, the act of leaning like an assault, particularly around her mouth. Because sometimes, that's what it takes to get a child ice cream free.

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

Her concern for the bubbles really is adorable. Awfully masochistic things, bubbles, but he likes the way she rationalizes her brutality. "Well," he says, chuckling, "so long as they aren't upset, my little dictator, carry on to your heart's content."

The little symphony of smothered noises gets a smirk out of him. Now is one of those moments where he realizes just how much power he has over the little girl, how incredible it is, and how everyone in the world should be absolutely amazed by him. He could drown her with one hand, smother her with the cloth, hide her body then skip town and be free of the responsibilities that come with being a parent--but he doesn't. Instead he sits here, ignoring the nag of his bad leg, shirt getting soaked through by her splashing, dutifully cleaning her adorable little face, tapping that cute button nose and leaning away to get the fruity, purple, kid-themed shampoo he bought just for her.

Isn't he so good? Isn't he so responsible? Why doesn't he have a medal yet? Why doesn't anyone appreciate how absolutely incredible this achievement is?

Whistling the overture of The Barber of Seville, Richard works the liquid into a lather upon the top of her head, gathering all that blonde hair into it and working his fingers in time with the notes of the song. During a natural break in the music, he asks, "So what's the bubble kingdom's name, then?"

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

Fuck no, he wouldn't do something bad to her, and if anyone tried he'd kill them. He may not have started down his path of serial killing yet, but he knows he's more than capable of murder, and he knows that if anyone ever even attempted to harm his little girl a thousand miles away, he'd feel it in the marrow of his bones and hunt them down like a dog.

Even he can't do away with something this cute, this sweet and smart. She's an adorable little disease he's discovered he'd rather not get rid of.

Her attempt to whistle along is adorable. See, who said cartoons were bad for children? Bugs Bunny has introduced many a child to both Wagner and Rossini. Culture starts with Loony Toons, my friends.

The name gets another gentle laugh out of him. "That's quite the name, it must stand out quite a lot on maps. Why," he gives a theatrical gasp as he plucks up the cup to wash her hair, and expertly shielding her forehead from soap and water, "I would be absolutely honored, Salome. Does that mean I also get to wreak havoc on the bubble citizens then? Or is that duty left only for the queen?"

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

It is. It requires a great deal of self control. And as far as he's concerned, she's still a baby. She'll be a baby until she's seven or eight, at least. So in his mind it still more or less qualifies as infanticide.

Aw, his adorable little drama queen. Hopefully he'll manage to steer her clear of Hot Topic during her phase of adorable angst, though more likely she'll simply prefer the old-fashioned technique of storming up to her room while shouting how she hates him and this house.

Oh, God, she cracks him up. He ducks his head to laugh, resting his forehead upon the white edge of the tub while he sniggers to himself. "Well," he says, looking up, "aren't you sweet. My little bubble queen." He leans over to plant a theatrical smooch upon the temple of her forehead, then swipes an arm viciously through the bubbles in a terrible act of bubble sadism. He makes an exploding noise with the corner of his mouth, too, because you can't have destruction without explosions.

Yeah, there's no hurting anything so adorable.

Chuckling, he reclaims the washcloth and soaps it up to scrub the rest of her, paying particular attention to the backs of her ears and commenting on the stalagmites which seem to be growing back there. Then, finally, he leans in and sniffs the top of her head, saying, "Well, you don't smell stinky anymore...perhaps it's time to get out? Shall we eliminate the bubbles en masse, my little queen?"

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

It's like having a one-man Statler and Waldorf. As seriously as he is capable of taking the problems of baby Salome, he is almost psychically incapable of taking any teenager problem seriously. He wouldn't laugh out loud to her face or anything, but maybe he'd have trouble waiting until she were all the way upstairs. Giggles are hard to restrain when the source is genuinely hilarious.

That snort cracks him up, like a feedback loop of laughter, and now and then he steals the dolphin just long enough to make it smooch her. A monkey dolphin would be the most horrifyingly awesome costume ever produced. It would look like the horrifying Fiji mermaid, because nothing like that could ever possibly be cute.

Poor bubbles. Flee, flee from your tyrant. Ignore that ominous promise to see you again. Oh, the terror of your Sisyphus lives! He chuckles, gasping as she tries to put her toes in the drain. "I can't rinse you now, you'll be washed down the drain! Then I wouldn't have you anymore, and my heart would break, and you'd have to be raised by a family of crocodiles! You'll grow scales! Do you want to grow scales?" Then, laughing, "Nah, I'm kidding you. Maybe. Better hope." With a grin, He uses the cup to rinse off any remaining suds, then fetches the oh-so-loved Little Mermaid towel to dry her hair and wrap her up like a delicious little baby burrito.

"All right, now to brush your hair, and we can get you in some comfy clothes and have a fun evening around the house." Because yes, he said 'if ' she was good, and the bubble business wasn't good, but goddammit that baby is so cute he can't go back on his Candy Land agreement. Not now, not ever.

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

It could be worse. It could also be crossed with a duck. You want animal rapists? Jesus. Ducks make Richard look polite. At least he's not such a rapist he'll do it to a corpse.

Fucking ducks, man.

As he is accused of not telling the truth, he gasps and places a hand on his heart. "Are you saying I'm telling you stories! How could you accuse me of something like that, Salome! Oh, my poor heart." He laughs and bends down to nibble her nose. "But you could have teeth! Big crocodile fangs, now that would be pretty cool, you've got to admit."

Plucking her out of the tube, Richard sets her upon the edge of the sink and carefully, oh-so-carefully so as not to aggravate her spun-sugar scalp, brushes her hair gently free of tangles. "Sure, you can have a cheese sandwich, babydoll. Want me to grill it? Maybe have some chips on the side?" He lifts her from the sink and cuddles her to his chest, then carries her to her room and gets out her undies, her pajamas, and little aqua socks, and proceeds to get her all dressed.

Really, it's like have a little doll. A very active little doll.

"There we go. Why don't you and bear go get comfy downstairs while daddy gets changed," because otherwise he's going to come down with pneumonia from the gallon of bathwater soaking his shirt, "and then I'll make your sandwich."

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

The only thing worse than ducks are swans, but at least swans aren't rapists. Swans are just dicks.

Richard coos, fighting back laughter as she goes on her flight of crocodile fancy. "Having a tail would be pretty cool--but you know, I don't know that anyone could be scared of you. You're too cute. You'd have to grow a lot of scales and even more teeth to have a fighting chance at scaring humans."

Then, laughing gently, he tells her, "No, princess, don't worry about it. I'll be down in a couple of minutes, all right?" He pecks the top of her head and vanishes into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

It's go time.

It takes him about twenty seconds to dry himself off and change shirts, a minute and a half to roll the spliff, and three minutes to inhale it while leaning half out the window in a throwback to his experiences as a teenager living with his mother. The tobacco smell in the joint covers the weed smell nicely--not that the child would really know the difference, of course--and in four minutes he's suddenly in an awesome mood and fighting some seriously squinty eyes.

He lopes down the stairs two at a time and heads to the kitchen, half-singing, "Ein Käsesandwich für mein klein Führer." And this makes him giggle to himself, because half-singing to the baby in German strikes him as absurdly amusing. He sets about gathering all the proper ingredients, asking, "And what do you want to drink with it, baby? Milk? Orange juice?"

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

Chickens are the devils, and turkeys are as ugly on the inside as they are on the outside. Like disgusting little old feathery men.

Her concern is both noted and adorable. He's pretty spry, considering he's only twenty-four, though his leg and his drugs do kind of slow him down a little. Not everyone has the ability to flit around like a hummingbird in the way a five-year-old girl does, though.

"And I love serenading you, my teeny tiny darling. It's oh so easy to make up songs for you, you're a little muse." Even though he really can't sing, something about that child just inspires song. "You've got a lovely singing voice, yourself, I always like listening to you sing along with your movies." So much so that in twelve years he'll be showing a video of it to his girlfriend.

Because he's an adoring sadist.

Whistling, he opens the fridge, saying, "Sure, you can help, baby! Hey, are you feeling adventurous? We could make fancy grilled cheese. With some bacon. And fancy cheese. And like...lettuce. Just a bit. For texture." And because kids should eat greens and shit like that, he guesses. "Maybe two cheeses. Munster and American. Man, maybe daddy will have one, too."