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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]

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."

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

"A muse, my little doll, is sort of like a fairy. She is a spirit of inspiration who brings ideas to artists, poets, writers, singers. Much as you inspire in me song and painting, the Greeks believed the muse was a spirit who brought artistic ideas." She would look adorable with little wings

"Fancy! You know, snazzy! Elegant! Ritzy! All decked out!" He looks almost wounded as he stares at her from around the fridge, reddened eyes huge. "Fine," he says after a minute, "I'll just make one for myself, and it's going to be delicious. And you're going to want a bite, and I'll say, 'No, no, you had your chance.'"

Although to be fair that does sound like a hell of a lot of work to him. Still, now he's got a point to prove.

But so lazy.

"All right," he says, taking out the American cheese and dropping it upon the counter, then reaching over for the butter dish, "first we've got to butter the bread." He brings a chair over and sets it before the counter, pausing and wiggling his fingers as he has to sort out in his brain what is required to achieve such a miraculous feat; he manages to grab a butter knife, and even thinks to slice off the butter so she doesn't take a huge chunk of it. Then he drops a little square of it upon one slice of bread, and then another slice upon another, and sets them before her with the knife. He places the handle in her hand and very carefully wraps her tiny hand in his, saying, "And you just want to scrape the butter on nice and gently like this, until it's spread out all across that side of the bread. Then you do the same to the other slice."

He demonstrates, then kisses her head, then turns around to start the stove and place the pan on the burner, still appalled by his daughter's sacrilege. The little heathen. Someday she'll learn.

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

Richard chuckles gently, saying, "No, no, princess. The Greeks--well, they're still around as a people, but years and years and years ago, they made incredible achievements in things like math, and philosophy--which is a set of ways of thinking about the world--and writing, and theater. Lots of things.

Slavic, or Czech, going strictly by the etymology. A pet form of 'Vacek', in itself a pet form of Vęceslav--or, to the rest of the world, Wenceslas. "We aren't Greek," he explains. "You, my dear, are a mutt like your daddy. You are French like your mother, and Slavic and German with a touch of Italian like your father."

Oh, that little song. He giggles quietly, delighted, watching over her shoulder as she spreads it oh-so-carefully. Yes, her audacity in refusing his delicious sandwich idea is unbelievable, but he'll manage to get over it somehow. "There you go, just like that, perfect. My clever girl." He kisses the top of her head and takes the knife from her, then selects two prewrapped pieces of cheese and says, "Go ahead and peel off the plastic, baby, and then..." He grabs a plate and places the bread on it, butter-side down so she doesn't place it on the wrong side, "Go ahead and put it on the bread. And then daddy will fry it, and you can't help because that's something only grown-ups can do, but you can certainly watch."

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

He laughs, saying, "Yes, the Greeks were pretty cool people. The Romans were even better, though. They were very powerful, and they controlled all of Europe for a long, long time. Their kingdom was huge, bigger than you could imagine, and they were very intelligent." And he has a soft spot for their many acts of debauchery and brutality. "And their poets were wonderful." Yes, like Ovid. Or, you know, Catullus. With that famous 'I will sodomize you and face-fuck you' line.

Those delightful Romans.

Her butter enthusiasm gets him giggling again, and he says, "I know, butter is tasty, but if you put it on the side with the cheese you wouldn't be able to appreciate it. And too much butter is bad for you, anyway. Ah-ah, madam, what are you doing?" He arches a brow as she grabs a third slice of bread and lifts it away from her, tapping her nose with his free hand. "You're already going to have a sandwich and milk and some chips, you don't need to eat another piece of bread, darling, you'll be sick." He sets the bread aside, saying, "If you eat everything on your plate and you're still hungry a little later, then you can have some bread and butter."

Chuckling, he turns to drop the sandwich in the pan, where it sizzles and smells like immediate heaven. Oh, yeah, he's too lazy to make a fancy sandwich, but damn that smell is good. "Yeah, I don't want you burning your hands off either, baby. Then your fingers would fuse into flippers and I'd have to sell you to the freakshow as The Seal Girl."

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

He laughs, saying, "Well, your kingdom is pretty great, too. I'd much rather be king of your kingdom than a citizen of Rome." Grinning, he asks, "What sorts of poets do you have, then? What kinds of poems do they write?"

Damn, bread and butter, that's really all you can ask of a kingdom, isn't it? However, it's apparently too much to ask of a father right before dinner, and he smirks.

"If you eat some bread and butter now, you're not going to have room for your whole sandwich! Yes, darling, I see your mouth watering, but I'm afraid you're just going to have to suffer the five-minute-long wait. Terrible, I know, I'm a cruel man."

Cruel, but not so cruel he'd let her stay concerned. He laughs, leaning over to kiss her upon the top of the head and then upon her cheek. "I would never sell you, baby, I'm only teasing! You know your daddy says ridiculous things sometimes. He would never sell you, he would never cook you and eat you--no matter how delicious you are--and he would never trade you to gypsies because you're too old for that now, no matter how you misbehave."

Chuckling, he flips the sandwich and kisses her tiny hands. "Yes, baby, you have very good hands, you're too cute to sell. I'd much rather keep you to myself."

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

Those are some pretty good poems. He grins, saying, "They sound like marvelous poets. Poems about us, eh? 'My lovely daughter Salome adores, Her bread with but'ter on her bubble throne--Though at her sandwiches I find I snore, It's better than another ice cream cone.'

Fuck yeah, iambic pentameter. He'd give himself a high five if it wasn't lame to do so. He's not a writer, but he's fond of language, and fond of the classic poets, too. And it's all that much easier to make up little poems when one is stoned.

"I promise. But you have to eat everything on your plate, your sandwich, your chips, and drink your milk." He knows how this shit works. There's not a chance in hell she'll remember.

His brow furrows in a genuine frown and he coos, leaning down to hug her. "Oh, princess, don't be sad. I would never, ever sell you. I absolutely love you, Salome, I love you more than anyone else in the world. I would never give you up." He squeezes her tight until he grunts with the exertion, then kisses her ear and her sweet-smelling neck. "Never, ever. I love you, and I would never sell you, silly girl. After all, I wouldn't just make up songs and poems for someone I intended to get rid of."

Smiling, he checks the other side of the sandwich and then gets down a plate, pouring a few chips upon it before he goes to fetch her little flower-decorated cup to fill with milk.

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

"It does rhyme! Every other line. 'Adores' and 'snores', and 'cone' and 'throne'. That's why I needed a couple of seconds in the middle." Also because he had to count out syllables in his head while simultaneously fighting the way his brain sought to focus on the delicious smell, and the fact that he's kind of in the mood for Pink Floyd, and when will she be old enough to traumatize with The Wall? Goddamn he loves that movie, if he were stuck on a desert island that would be all he needed.

Oh, God, that little baby sigh. Ah, oh agh his heart, no wonder he's an evil bastard, how could there be any goodness left for the world when he devotes it all to her? Jesus, he could crush her little skull, he loves her so. Such an insecure baby he's never met before, but perhaps it's simply the effect of being sent back and forth every week.

And the fact that Susan is, doubtless, rather cold to the child.

"I love you, Salome, and I'll keep loving you forever and ever, so don't ever worry about that." He watches her push her chair back to the table with a little grin, then turns to slice her sandwich in half and deposit it upon the plate he meets her at the table to set it down along with a little paper towel and her glass of milk, then vanishes back into the kitchen to pour himself a bowl of cereal.

Why, yes. Yes as a matter of fact he can see why kids love Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

She gets it from her equally obstinate father. He despises being wrong, it makes him itch. Still, he takes her declaration of it not counting in stride, since she is a baby, and arches a brow at her. "Uh-huh, I see. Well I'll tell Shakespeare and Baudelaire you said that. Not all poetry has to rhyme, you know." Better to blow her mind with that little fact early on than have her discover it to her shock and horror while in school.

Watching her cuddle the bear from the corner of his eye, Richard laughs gently. "You're my favorite, baby. Your mom is only second favorite, you are the best of the best." Although he has to confess it's adorable that he's tied for first with a stuffed bear, and not her mother. Hilarious, even.

He'd like her to stay with him. He really would. It's one of those things that's hard to explain to a child, though. Her mother loves her, wants to see her, her father has to work while she isn't around...the situation is a complex thing.

"Cereal is for any time when you're an adult, or when your daddy is feeling lazy." He grins broadly at her and takes a big bite of said cereal. "When I was a kid and went to stay with my grandma, she'd say, 'All right, Dick, for dinner we're going to have Granny Surprise,' and Granny Surprise would always be a bowl of cereal." He chuckles, happily munching away. "I am only continuing a tradition, my dear."