Work Text:
It's only been a few hours since you picked Dave up from the smoldering remains of what used to be your favorite record shop, but so far you are nailing this big bro shit. You brought the little asshole home, had Lil Cal feed him up on some of the formula you bought, and now he's snoozing on the futon peaceful as anything. Nothin' to it.
Now that the li'l cowboy's asleep, you turn your attention to the horse he rode in on. Dead, of course. Ain't no normal animal could survive that sort of impact. But there's no point in wasting good raw materials. Horse leather ain't a material you get much chance to work with, and you're itching to see what kind of abominations you can make with it. You got less use for the meat, but you know a dude who'll take it off your hands no questions asked. You lay down a tarp and start butchering.
You're elbow deep in pony guts when you hear a weird, shrill noise start up. It takes you a moment to place what it is: Dave's up and he's crying his little lungs out. Whatever he wants is gonna have to wait, though. Big bro's busy.
Dave ain't having none of it. His squalling reaches pitches you didn't think the human ear could even hear. When Cal gets in on the action, clamoring in your head for you to shut the kid up already, you grunt and shove the gory, half-butchered mess into your sylladex. Noise assails you inside and out as you shove your hands under the kitchen faucet to slough the blood off of your skin.
Once your hands are clear of viscera, you head over to where Dave is laying. Your nose immediately alerts you to the problem. Right. Shit. As in, literal shit. Dave's diaper reeks. Shitting is a thing babies do a lot, you hear. You guess you get to experience that firsthand now.
No problem. You're prepared for this. You whip out the package of diapers you bought yesterday just for this purpose. But when you tear it open and pull one out, a new problem becomes apparent: these diapers are way too fucking big for the kid in front of you. You guess you got the wrong size. You didn't even realize there were sizes. Fuck.
Nothin' for it. You're gonna have to go get some new ones. You sling Cal over your shoulder and head out to the store. Dave you leave behind on the futon. He'll be fine. Little dude won't have you around to look after him forever. Might as well get him used to the idea early.
At the store, you don't bother poring over the diaper labels to figure out what you need. You just dump every size they got into the cart. Dave'll need 'em all eventually, probably.
In the checkout lane, the cashier's too busy staring at your shirt to question your purchasing decisions. You realize as you hand over your credit card that you didn't change out of your pony-spattered clothes before coming here. Whatever. Bloodstained and grungy is a good look for you. Hardcore. Cal thinks so too, and once you're back out on the street you hit him up with a sweet fist bump before you hop on your rocket board to fly back home.
You sail back into your apartment through an open window, dismounting from your board with a kickflip and captchaloguing it in one easy motion. Dave is still sobbing on the couch. Looks like he managed not to die while you were out shopping. Nice.
You pick him up and dump him on the counter, then pull out the most likely-looking pack of diapers. For babies 10 pounds or less, it says. Hm. You heft Dave in one hand and do a bicep curl. Yeah, probably about ten pounds.
The motion makes Dave stop crying and stare at you, mouth open wide. What, he likes that? Sick. You can get him in on your strength training sessions if he wants.
But the exercise routine's gotta wait for now. You got shit to take care of. You set Dave back down and lay out one of the clean diapers beside him. Then you open up the grody diaper he's got on him, and — huh.
That ain't what you were expecting to see.
Hey Cal, you think, as Dave fusses on the counter. Thought you said this kid was a boy.
Cal jeers at you. Of course he's a boy! He's the alpha male! He's going to be a big macho hero one day. What the fuck else could he be?
You look again. Yeah, no. 'Less there's some mad optical illusions going on here, that ain't no dick you're looking at. Then why's he got a hole 'stead of a pole? you ask.
Cal has no fucking clue what you're talking about. Stupid of you to think he would, really. He never has had a great grasp on the finer points of human anatomy. What is it, he demands — are you trying to say there's something wrong with the kid's freakish primate nook? Cal doesn't believe you. The boy who's gonna defeat him one day isn't defective. That isn't possible. You must just not know as much about mammal junk as you think you do.
(Deep in the abyss of Cal's soul, one small, calculating part of him does get it and is having an epiphany of his own. But whatever his conclusions are, he doesn't bother to fill you in on them.)
Dave is starting to squall again, tiny legs thrashing. Ok. Well. Inspecting this kid's junk is starting to make you feel like a creep. You toss the dirty diaper and wipe Dave down as best you can, then wrap him(?) up in the new, clean diaper. The fit still don't seem quite right, but fuck it. Good enough for now. 'Least it's settled Dave down.
Diaper taken care of, you sit the kid up on the counter and lean down to peer into rad, tiny shades, as if you'll find the answers you're looking for etched into the darkened glass. Do you got a little sister instead of the little brother you always expected? Are you gonna have to chuck all the boy clothes you made and start sewing little dresses? The thought makes your stomach squirm. You're not sure if you're cut out to raise a girl. You know fuck shit about girls.
Dave blows a spit bubble, then smacks tiny lips. Yeah, that don't answer any of your questions. Goddamn babies. Can't even tell you why the hell they came down on their meteors with girl-parts when they were supposed to be boys.
Then again, Cal knows the future, and he insists Dave is a boy. There's a lot Cal don't get about humans, but you don't think he'd ever mistake a chick for a dude. Maybe there's something going on here that you're not getting.
Hell, when you really think about it, maybe it don't make that much difference either way. A girl'd need to be trained up for The Game just the same as a boy would. Girls can rap. Girls can swing a sword. Sure, girls are weaker on average, but ain't nothing average about Dave. You got every confidence he (she?) can get through whatever's coming no matter what's going on in her (his?) pants department.
And anyway, right now Dave's just a baby. Probably babies don't give a shit whether you dress 'em in pants or skirts. They're babies. They're too busy pissing themselves to care whether you call 'em "he" or "she". No reason you can't just stick with your broplans for now. And if Dave grows up and starts insisting on wearing pink and being called Davina, well, you'll cross that bridge once you come to it.
"What do you say, bro?" you ask, holding out your hand for a fist bump. With a quick flashstep, you press Dave's tiny knuckles to your own. Sweet. You guess that settles that.
Now. Time to find out how many of your exercises you can modify to use a baby instead of a dumbbell. You pick Dave up and test his heft. Your bro-until-otherwise-stated gurgles and trills.