#it's girldads-o-clock babes

[hourcat]

wonder

(word count: 1,246)

Charles jerks awake from where he’d fallen asleep on the couch—accidentally, he swears he’d just closed his eyes in front of the television for a second—as he hears Pierre call his name from across the house.

“Charles,” he calls again, and Charles groans loudly in response, rubbing at his eyes like he can hide the fact he’d just been asleep from his husband. With another low noise, he pushes up off from the cushions and walks towards the sound of Pierre’s voice.

When he strolls into the kitchen, he’s greeted to the sight of his husband holding their daughter in one arm, kitchen towel tossed over his shoulder, wooden spoon in his free hand. Pierre glances up and grins at him. “Cheri,” he murmurs as Charles wanders over to drop a kiss on Odette’s forehead, then one to match on Pierre’s. “You were asleep, weren’t you.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “I just closed my eyes—” Pierre chuckles, interrupting him, which sends their daughter into a fit of giggles from where she’s half-draped over Pierre’s shoulder. “Shut up,” he says to Pierre, although the sound of Odette’s laughter melts any attempt at a sarcastic quip that might have followed. Her eyes are bright with delight and her cheeks are so red that Charles suddenly understands all the little old ladies he used to roll his eyes at as a child. He does want to eat her up.

“Pierrot,” he says softly, remembering that he’s actually supposed to be doing something here. “What do you need, mon amour?” Pierre raises an eyebrow, smile curled on his face, before nodding towards Odette, who blinks at him with big eyes and yawns, soft, before planting back into Pierre’s shoulder. Ah.

“If you want dinner, bebe, I will need a free hand to do it.”

Charles laughs. “I always said I wished you had three arms,” he teases under his breath, and then flushes at the look Pierre gives him. Oops. "Sorry, sorry. I—yes, come here, mon ange, come to daddy.” Like they’ve done a hundred times before, Charles ducks forward and scoops their sleepy baby from Pierre’s shoulder, where she ends up nuzzled in the exact same position, face smushed against Charles’ t-shirt as she giggles sleepily. “There we go, cherie, see? Allllll better.” He kisses her cheek again and gets another little warble of laughter right in his ear.

“Thank you,” Pierre murmurs, leaning close to nuzzle at Charles’ cheek before turning back to the meal prep in front of him. “Papa has to make dinner for his favorite people, yes? Only the best for mon cygne, the prettiest girl in the world.” He’s mostly paying attention to the pot he’s stirring, but Charles still thinks the look on his face is devastating all the same. Pierre is always open like a book—has been that way his whole life, one of the many things Charles loves about him—but especially like this, tucked away in the privacy of their home with Odette.

“Thank you, papa,” Charles says, and then turns his head to O, who’s yawning again. “Can we say thank you to papa, mon ange? Thank you for dinner, papa?”

Odette babbles something that sounds like Charles’ words, and Pierre laughs.

“Anything for you, Odette,” he answers, and then turns fully towards dinner. Charles hums and bounces Odette in his arms, earning another giggle.

“You are fluent already, cherie,” Charles tells her, beaming. “You sound just like papa, you are so smart.” He kisses her cheek again and she shouts delightedly right in his ear. “Oof.” With the hearing he hasn’t temporarily lost, Charles catches Pierre’s chuckle, and warm affection stretches wide in his gut, catlike. “Mmm, does my beautiful baby want to come on a walk with her daddy?”

“Charlito, dinner isn’t going to take that long,” Pierre says, head on a swivel to deliver a typical are you serious face, raised eyebrows and all.

Ah, well. It’s probably too cold outside, and he’s comfortable in his lounge clothes to really change, anyway. “We will just take a little walk around the house, papa,” he replies with a smile, taking one of Odette’s hands in his own and waving it around. “Just a little walk, I promise. Isn’t that right, ma cherie.” The little girl in his arms squeaks happily. “We will not even leave your sight, Pierrot.”

Pierre chuckles. “You leave my sight all you want, cher, but you keep my baby close.”

Charles scoffs. “Your baby,” he says flatly, and then bounces O in his arms again as he meanders back towards the couch. “You are our baby, cherie, do not let papa fill your head with silly little ideas.” He kisses her head again. “Ours and nobody else’s. Our cherie amour.” Odette blinks at him, eyes big, and babbles a response that Charles is endlessly endeared by.

With a little sigh, he sinks onto the arm of their sofa, Odette still nestled in his shoulder. “Cherie amour,” he repeats softly, squeezing her a little. “You are just like that little song, yes?” With another kiss to her head, Charles begins humming, Stevie Wonder’s lyrics half-conjured up in his head. “Lovely as a summer’s day,” he whisper-sings, squeezing her again. Odette giggles. “My cherie amour, distant as the milky wayyyy.” Charles sways a little, the closest he’ll get to dancing without Pierre in tow. O yawns, another sentence of babbling spilling into Charles’ ear, albeit softer this time.

“Charles,” Pierre says, looking out at where they’re perched from the kitchen counter. “Are you really singing that song?”

Charles laughs quietly, ignoring Pierre for a beat in favor of continuing to croon to their daughter. “My cherie amour, pretty little one that I adore,” he dots a kiss to her head, “You’re the only girl my heart beats for.” And then, turning his head towards Pierre: “It is catchy,” he insists, shaking his head at Pierre’s disbelieving expression. “Even if it is a disaster for the French language.”

Pierre cackles. “It is a disaster, isn’t it,” he echoes. And then, with another, softer laugh, he joins in. “La la laaa la la la,” he sings, loud and incredibly off key. Charles snorts, ducking forward and tucking Odette closer in the process. She squeaks in his arms, right in his ear again.

“Pierrot, oh my god—how can you play piano and not have pitch to save your life.” Charles stands up again and walks the two of them back into the kitchen, where Pierre’s singing continues at a softer volume. He hums as he stirs the pot of soup before him, clearly not remembering all the lyrics but not seeming particularly bothered by it.

“Darling,” he mutters with a grin, “not all of us can be master pianists with a side hobby of racing, you know.” Charles snorts at the commentary. “I hope you will forgive me for not sounding like Stevie Wonder.”

“I will forgive you if dinner is good tonight, cher,” he answers, grinning at his husband. Pierre just groans.

“Dinner is always good when I cook,” he corrects, narrowing his eyes just a little at Charles’ amusement. “You are lucky our little girl is here because I have some choice words for you, Charlito.” Like she knows she’s being talked about, Odette giggles, untucking herself from Charles’ shoulder and reaching out for Pierre.

Charles just bats his lashes innocently. “I look forward to hearing them later, mon amour.”