#how many times in hygge verse have I connected outstretched hands and approaching an animal? just twice but it feels like a lot

[jmflowers]

prompt #25: picky eater

There's a reason I wrote baby Bea as always being handed fruit... This one is in my 'destined to be expanded' collection for AO3 because there's still more I planned to say on the topic.

More of Hygge Universe can be found on tumblr and AO3!

January 2025

"Your son is an American," Carina declares loudly as she storms into the station beanery.

The team is still mostly corralled around the table, remnants of a dinner they were actually able to sit down and enjoy spread across the kitchen and on a few abandoned plates.

Vic and Ben have already risen to begin on cleanup, rinsing dishes and packing leftovers into containers at the island. Vic, though, halts her movements immediately when she spots Andrea in Carina’s arms.

“Baby A!” she cries excitedly, hands thrown up in the air in delight.

It draws everyone else’s attention, a chorus of greetings called out to the littlest Deluca-Bishop – just as they do each time Pru or any of the other firefighters’ kids enter the station.

They don’t seem to zero-in on Carina as sharply as Maya does, though.

Carina looks frazzled. Her hair has started falling loose from the braid that trails down her back and her cheeks are flushed with her obvious frustration. There’s a stain on her shirt that Maya isn’t entirely sure Carina’s even aware of, spread across her stomach in a shape oddly reminiscent of a tiny, greasy handprint.

She unceremoniously deposits their aforementioned son on the table in front of Maya. “He will not eat real food,” she proclaims, apparently ignoring the raucous of joviality around them.

Andrea, as serious as ever, grins only when he recognizes his mommy. “’Mee,” he whispers, gently patting her hand.

He’s not great with noise, Maya knows, nor very accustomed to being on the receiving end of his mama’s true Italian fury. He might be the only person on Earth who’s never gotten one of her looks.

But then again, he’s not yet two.

“He will not eat fruit or bread or cheese or –” Carina continues, listing off the entire contents of their kitchen as she rambles angrily, foot stomping as though it’s keeping tempo. She swaps from English to Italian and back again as the momentum of her frustration rises.

Andrea eyes her warily, clearly out of his depth.

Maya doesn’t blame him – even the firefighters seated around them seem unsure of what to do. Other than disappear, which they quietly start doing, depositing their empty plates on the counter before slipping through the doors behind Carina’s back.

Except for Vic, who swoops in to lift Andrea off the table, cradling his head as she takes him into the lounge, away from the line of fire.

“All he will eat is ketchup! And chicken nuggets!” Carina finishes. “Che non è cibo. Come si può sopravvivere con il ketchup?” (That is not food. How would one survive on ketchup?)

“Okay,” Maya nods, recognizing the end of the onslaught of angered information. She gets up slowly, hands outstretched as though she’s surrendering.

Or approaching a wild animal.

Carina huffs, wiping at the hair that’s fallen across her forehead.

“Why don’t you feed him chicken nuggets and ketchup then,” Travis pipes up from the through the window in the lounge. There’s an audible thump and then an ow! as Vic apparently smacks him and then he disappears from the line of sight again.

Completely missing the glare that Carina throws in his direction. “We do not coddle the children!” she yells after him.

“Child,” Maya corrects quickly, “We don’t coddle the child.”