a brave little soldier (rhombal) wrote in ysosrsfans,
a brave little soldier

HEY, fixmein_45! Part of your prize is here! Many thanks go out to skoosiepants who obliged a random commenter on her journal and wrote this despite a bad case of writer's block.


Non-toxic And Washable | by skoosiepants | PG | Brendon/Ryan | 1,125 words

Non-toxic And Washable

“Babies love me. All babies wish they were my babies, you should trust me on this.” Brendon breaks out the awesome puppy dog eyes and he can see Cassie wavering. He can see the fond twitch of her lips as she brings up a hand to rub over her mouth.

“Brendon,” she says.

Brendon is just about to clasp his hands together and beg so prettily when Jon says, “Give in already, you know you’re going to.” He grins at Brendon over her shoulder. Jon Walker is totally Brendon’s very favorite.


“Where did you get that baby?”

“Where does anyone get babies?” Brendon asks, eyes wide as he looks up at Ryan, bouncing little baby Brittany on his knees.

Ryan crosses his skinny arms over his chest and says, “What the fuck, Brendon,” and he’s got his pissy pinched lip thing going on, which is totally uncalled for. Brendon is the master at taking care of helpless little babies, especially one so awesome as Brittany Laine Walker, aged seven months.

Ryan has unresolved baby issues, Brendon thinks. It’s why he has so many cats now.

“Don’t worry,” Brendon says, reaching up to pat the back of Ryan’s hand. “One day you’ll have a baby and I’ll totally take care of her for you. There’s plenty of Baby-Mama-Brendon to go around.”


“Ryan says you’ve kidnapped Jon’s baby,” Spencer says. He cocks his head. “Are those markers non-toxic?”

Brendon holds up the collapsed Crayola box. Crayola is harmless, Brendon knows this. “I could color my tongue.” It’s not like he hasn’t done it before.

Spencer pulls a face. “Please don’t.” Then his eyes grow speculative and he says, “I bet I could make your tattoos even lamer than they already are.”

“You’re on, Spencer Smith,” Brendon says. He points a finger at Brittany in her bouncy chair. She’s kicking her feet and giggling at the musical mobile of giraffes. “Watch and learn, little baby Walker.”


“There is a fatal flaw in your plan,” Brendon tells Spencer later, after Spencer’s added a cat peeking out from behind the flower petals and a clown doing jazz hands on the back of Brendon’s bicep. “And this fatal flaw is that my tattoos are not lame, and thus there is no way you can make them any lamer. You can only make them more awesome.” Brendon also believes this because Spencer never does anything that is not hilarious and cool in equal measures.

Spencer arches an eyebrow. “How would you feel about a spaceship on your chest?” he asks, slow and careful.

Brendon nods solemnly. “I would feel honored.”


Brittany Laine Walker, aged seven months, claps her hands and smiles with her two brand new teeth flashing and Brendon leans over and zerberts her belly.

Ryan doesn’t know what he’s missing with his baby-hating ways. Brendon thinks it’s his honor-bound duty to change Ryan’s mind. About this, and many other things.

Like how awesome it would be if they were boyfriends.


Brendon is singing his King Of The Babysitters song and shaking his ass around the table much to Brittany’s delight when Ryan opens the kitchen door.

“Ryan! We’re having dinner! Would you care for some delicious pureed ham and green beans?” Brendon presents the adorable wee jars with a flourish.

Ryan scrunches up his nose and says, “No,” and, “What the hell is all over your arms?” and, “I’m not even going to ask why your tongue’s black and green.”

“Non-toxic and washable!” Brendon says. He twists the lid on the jar of ham until it pops. “Mmmm, ham.”

Brittany claps her hands some more.

Brendon obligingly does the Ham Dance to entertain her.


Ryan says, “I don’t think any of that even went in her mouth.”

Brendon wipes sticky green beans off his cheek. “Bath time,” he says. Definitely bath time. One for each of them. Brendon thinks maybe he has ham down his pants.

Ryan snickers.


“Ryan Ross, will you bathe me?” Brendon singsongs as he bundles up little Brittany in a towel. Being bathed must be pretty nice. Brittany’s all rosy cheeked and smiley and clean. She smells like peaches.

“No,” Ryan says, but he’s smiling, so Brendon thinks maybe if he wheedles a little bit, Ryan will totally give in.

“You can scrub all my nooks and crannies,” Brendon says at his most enticing, waggling his eyebrows.

“Tempting,” Ryan says, “but I think maybe it’d traumatize Brit.”

“Are you suggesting that my naked body is offensive?” Brendon says, mock aghast.

Ryan just smiles wider.


Brittany Laine Walker, aged seven months, is exhausting. Brendon slumps over her PacknPlay, arms dangling. He groans.

There’s a soothing hand on his lower back, rubbing circles. “All worn out, Baby-Mama-Brendon?” Ryan asks.

“I’m fine,” Brendon says through a yawn. He arches his back a little and Ryan’s hand slips under the hem of his t-shirt, palm warm against his bare skin. He curls his fingers and scratches lightly. Brendon would totally be purring right now if he was a cat.

“You’re kind of shameless,” Ryan says when Brendon shimmies a little, pressing back against Ryan’s hand.

Brendon says, “Duh.”


When Jon and Cassie stop by to collect Brittany Laine Walker the next morning, Brendon has her dressed up as a fluffy white bunny.

“It’s never too early for furries,” Brendon says.

Cassie frowns and says, “I hate Pete,” but Jon flashes Brendon a thumbs-up behind her back.


“I miss her,” Brendon says, tilting his head onto Ryan’s shoulder. “I miss her nose and fingers and toes and elbows. No one loves me the way Brittany Laine Walker, aged seven months, loves me.”

Ryan snorts. He buries a hand in Brendon’s hair and tugs lightly. He turns his face towards Brendon, and Brendon can feel his smile against his hairline.


Brendon bounces up behind Ryan in the kitchen and loops his arms around his waist. “Walker date night this Saturday, Ross, wanna help me watch Brit?”

“No,” Ryan says, and flicks a soapy hand over his shoulder.

Brendon knows he doesn’t really mean it. “Babies, Ryan! They’re all the rage!”

Ryan says, “Brendon,” and Brendon says, “Did you know they make baby-sized panda fursuits?”

Brendon can feel Ryan wavering. Ryan’s always been a sucker for pandas. Babies dressed as pandas can’t be all that different. Finally, Ryan says, “Okay,” and Brendon squeezes him into even more of a hug. There might be some grinding going on, but Brendon’s trying not to be obvious.
“This is totally a date,” Brendon says.

“Whatever,” Ryan says, all flat and dismissive, even though he’s not fooling anyone, least of all Brendon Urie: Astute Guy.

Brendon grins into the back of his neck. Totally a date.
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