This isn't weird.

Detente

Noah Wexler was hanging on by a thread.

Thus far, his entire morning had been an utterly grueling ordeal, and all he wanted was for it to be over—and thank god, it nearly was. An hour previous he had relinquished all hope that he would ever know quiet again, but the drive home granted him the small mercy of a finally sleeping four-year-old in the backseat (though the splitting headache she'd inflicted upon him was still going strong). This momentary peace felt like nothing short of a miracle. Not even Rufus, who had always had a gift for handling children, had been able to calm the hours-long shrieking tantrum that had kept every eye in the airport glaring in his direction all morning.

What hubris it had been, assuming that a bit of international travel with two children in tow would be a painless, even relaxing, experience. How could his sweet, well-behaved little girls be capable of such... chaos? They had become such nightmares, jetlagged, cranky, repulsed by unfamiliar foods, tearfully demanding the whereabouts of their mother—

Their mother. Damn it.

Her correctness had dealt irreversible damage to Noah's pride. All week, he had been staunchly determined not to admit it, to return home claiming that their trip had gone swimmingly, that they'd both been perfect angels, but this final fiasco had broken him. Now, he was ready to fall at her feet, weeping his apologies, and beg never to be left alone with these lawless little hellions ever again. How had she handled the both of them, day after day, for all these years—on her own? It was well within their means to delegate at least some amount of their care to hired help, the way both of their own parents had, but Rebecca had never so much as mentioned the possibility, and he'd never even thought to question her choice. Why would he? She made it look so easy. Every evening, he returned home to an orderly house and happy, well-mannered children. Only now did he see the full scope of what he'd been taking for granted, and the stubborn contempt he'd carried for his wife over the past year had begun to wither in the face of this epiphany. In the space left behind, he could feel a different emotion beginning to germinate—an emotion too confusing to analyze in his present state. The only thing he had the capacity to think about now was his desperation to hand this pernicious gremlin off to her and take a fucking nap.

When he finally pulled up to the house—had it always been so beautiful?—his cousin was waiting for him on the porch, looking unduly solemn. No doubt, all the travel had been similarly taxing for him, even if he did have the good luck to be tasked with the care of the calmer child. All Noah could muster was a half-hearted wave of greeting before sliding out of his seat and very carefully closing the driver's side door before even more carefully opening the one behind it. For a split second, he was ravaged by panic to see no plush rabbit in Bitsy's sleeping arms. The wave of relief he felt when he spotted it on the floorboards was almost euphoric.

Unfastening the straps of the car seat, he felt a little like Indiana Jones, striving not to set off a deadly trap as he poached some relic from the Temple of Doom (or something like that; he'd never actually seen the film). He was just leaning forward to pick her up when Rufus's voice came from behind.

"Hey, uh, No—"

Noah whirled around with a scowl and hushed him, a finger pressed to his lips. Rufus winced, mouthing a silent apology, and Noah returned to the task at hand. Breath held, he gingerly lifted the sleeping beast from her seat. Another blessing bestowed: she hardly even stirred as he hoisted her against his chest.

"Why don't I run her inside while you get your suitcase?" Rufus whispered. He didn't wait for assent before he reached forward and scooped Bitsy up into his own arms. "I need to talk to you about something before you—"

"Please, I'm exhausted, Roo," Noah whispered back. "I just need a few minutes to shower, take a bucket of Advil, and die. We can talk about whatever you want after that." Unconcerned with the luggage, he plucked the stuffed bunny from the floorboard, closed the door, and started toward the house. He couldn't be bothered to listen to the barely audible pleas for his attention as Rufus shuffled behind, too slowed by his sleeping cargo to catch up. Noah was all of three steps into the foyer when Rufus burst in after him, his head swiveling from side to side as if in search of an unseen predator. When no rabid wolves appeared, his shoulders slumped in relief.