Work Text:
In dreams you will lose your heartaches
Whatever you wish for, you keep
--
Losing fucking sucked. It sucked with the Otters, it sucked with the Coyotes, and it completely devastated him when it was with the fucking Roadrunners.
Dylan got home at an annoyingly decent hour after their final loss to the Texas Stars. If it had been late at night, he’d have felt fine just crawling into bed and not getting up for a few days, until the world felt a little more human. But no, they had to get in at eleven in the morning, and Dylan had all of a day stretching out ahead of him.
He dumped his travel bags in his bedroom and changed into shorts, not bothering with a shirt. It was hot enough in Arizona that he’d happily go without clothes whenever he could, especially after a flight where he felt like he couldn’t breathe for his tie.
Dylan didn’t...hate Tucson. He didn’t hate Arizona, either, as much as he felt like he should. He wanted to play in the NHL but more importantly, he wanted to play hockey, and he got to do that with the Roadrunners. He got to be the kind of player the team relied on with the Roadrunners.
Dylan always did best when someone needed him.
He dropped himself onto the couch heavily, his whole body aching with every part of the season he hadn’t let himself feel until now.
Matty’s game six would be starting soon. He’d seen enough of Matty’s games over the years, but this was an important one, and Dylan would have to live stream it from Arizona. He hadn’t minded missing it if he was going to be playing hockey of his own, but there was no way for him to make it back home in time to be there in person, not even now.
He felt weirdly, uncomfortably lonely, and lost, and sad. He missed his friends, his exes, all the people he’d poured his love and support into, and gotten dumped or heartbroken or gently turned down in return.
The couch was comfortable, the air conditioner blowing cool across his skin. He considered texting Davo or Marns--both of whom had ended their seasons even earlier than he had--or one of the ‘Runners, but there was only so much misery he could steep in without feeling like he was drowning.
The last thing he remembered before sliding into sleep was deeply and fervently wishing there was someone who was all his, who he could give all the love in his heart, and not throw it back at him.
Sometime later--early evening or late afternoon, judging by the light drifting over his living room--a loud thump against his sliding door jarred him awake.
Dylan lived on the sixth floor; there was no way anyone should have been able to get up to his balcony, much less knock on the sliding door loud enough to wake him from a deep sleep.
He rubbed the sleep-grit out of his eyes and went to investigate.
On his balcony, there was a wicker basket, draped in a white parachute.
Dylan immediately swore as long a blue streak as he knew how.
A wishbaby.
As much as Dylan kind of wished--ha, wished--the universe didn’t mistakes when it gave out wishbabies. Babies usually required two parents and a concentrated effort to be wished into being. It’s a difficult enough process that most babies are made the old-fashioned way. However, if a single person was desperate enough and wished hard enough--even unintentionally--a baby could and would come anyway.
The universe gave wishbabies to people who wanted them, who needed them, who could care for them. Dylan must have just been lucky.
Instinct kicked in and he shuffled the parachute aside to reveal the smallest human being he’d ever seen in person. It--her?--him?--they? were curled up asleep amongst soft white blankets. He brought the basket inside, and suddenly he had a very awake, very upset, very loud baby on his hands.
Dylan figured it was probably the change from the warm Arizona outside to the cool air conditioning of his apartment, but either way he had a crying wishbaby on his hands.
The baby kept fussing, and Dylan wasn't going to just leave it--him--her--them--whatever to cry in the little basket.
He still remembered how to hold a baby from when his Erie billet family had had one, so he supported the baby's head and brought them up close to his chest. He rocked them gently, a little bouncing-swaying movement that calmed the baby into slightly less angry cries.
“Hi, baby,” he tried. “I'm Dylan. I don't know why you're here.”
The baby scrunched up their nose and let out another angry bawl.
“I don't know what you want, honey,” Dylan said. Their head turned toward his voice, and then a tiny pink mouth was slobbering on his pec, going for his nipple. “Whoa, okay, I guess you're hungry, but I hate to tell you that's not gonna work.”
Dylan laid his hand on the baby’s belly, and let her suck on the tip of his finger. He figured he’d probably have to start wearing shirts around more if he wanted to keep stuff like that from happening. He winced, thinking of how hot Arizona could get.
“Hey Siri,” he said, once that thought had finished whirling in his head. “Call Mom.”
From the coffee table, his phone buzzed to life, calling his mother.
“Dylan!” his mom said, voice bright. “What a surprise! How are you, honey?”
Dylan had to clear his throat before he could talk. “Well,” he said. “I woke up to a baby.”
Mom was silent for a moment. “Say again?”
“I, uh, woke up to a baby. With a parachute.”
“You have a wishbaby?”
“I...yeah. I can’t figure out why?”
“Sometimes you don’t know why.” Her voice was warm. “Congratulations.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Dylan said, looking down at this little human. “I don’t--I don’t have anything for the baby. I don’t--I didn’t plan for this.”
“Wasn’t there a box with the baby?” Mom asked, sounding alarmingly calm about the fact that a baby had appeared on her middle son's balcony the day before he was supposed to return to Toronto for the summer.
Dylan peeked back on the balcony, the baby still mouthing at his finger. Yup, there was a box patterned with little cartoon owls there, big enough that the baby could easily sleep inside.
Dylan had vaguely known wishbabies often came with a little extra help, especially since the new parents hadn't necessarily been expecting a baby. Like Dylan, for example.
“There's a box,” he relayed to his mom. “But I'm gonna need both hands.”
“Well, you have two hands, don't you?”
Dylan frowned. “But then I”ll have to put her--him--them down.”
His mom laughed at him. “Well, yes. The baby will be fine on her own long enough for you to find food.”
“But I just got them to stop crying.”
“I hate to tell you, Dylan, but your life is going to involve a lot more crying, even if you don’t put her down right now.”
“You keep saying her,” Dylan said. He crossed back to the couch and gingerly retrieved his finger from the baby’s mouth. She blinked up at him, clearly upset at his betrayal. “Why?”
Gently, he laid her down and immediately the fussing started back up again.
“I have a hunch,” his mom said. Her voice sounded small under the baby’s sniffles and the fact that his phone was still on the coffee table.. “Go get your box.”
The box was somehow lighter than Dylan expected. He dragged it inside, next to the baby, and opened the lid.
Inside, he found bundles of clothing, a plastic-wrapped pack of diapers, blankets and more things Dylan could barely hope to identify.
“Is there a diaper bag?” Mom asked.
Dylan rifled through the box and found a big zippered bag, patterned with little green dinosaurs. The baby was still making her displeasure loudly known. “Uh, yeah.”
“Okay. Put your diaper supplies in there. Wipes, diapers, cream, changing mat. Put the clothes to the side. Put your bottles and formula supplies where you can get to them easy. Then put the sheet on the mattress and unfold a blanket. She can sleep in there.”
Dylan followed her instructions, sorting through everything quickly. “Now what?”
“Now you start acting like a dad.”
Dylan froze. “Sorry?”
“Feed her, check her diaper, take care of her.”
“I don’t--”
“You can do it, honey. Follow the instructions on the formula can, and you know how to change a diaper.” She sounded like she was smiling. “Your dad and I will get your room here set up for the baby. No sense in you setting up a nursery down there when you're on your way back up later this week. I'll order you a car seat and some basics on Amazon once we hang up; you spend time with your baby and worry about the rest when you get here.”
God, Dylan loved his mom. He told her as much.
“I don’t know if you remember,” his mom said dryly. “But Ryan was a wishbaby. Your father and I went through this ourselves. The box should do as a bassinet for now, and you’ll have clothes and a few diapers and things. Enough for Amazon delivery to get there.”
“You didn’t have Amazon when Ryan was born.”
“No, but we did have two of us. Go tend to your baby, and I’ll call once I’ve put in an order.”
Dylan looked at the little pile of things set out around him once his mom had hung up and formulated a game plan.
“I’m gonna get you some clothes, check your diaper--and figure out if Mom was right about you being a little girl--and get you a bottle, okay? Then we can cuddle.”
The baby kept whining, but Dylan felt better for talking. He picked out a onesie and some baby socks and found the tiniest hat and mittens he’d ever seen.
“It’s summer in Arizona,” he said. “What did they think you needed these little mittens for?”
He laid out the diaper mat and dragged the diaper bag over. He set up as best he could remember, and then went to scoop up the baby.
She didn’t like being laid on the floor or having her diaper taken off, but Dylan figured he wouldn’t either. He kept up a stream of running commentary, talking to her as he stripped her out of the heavy, wet diaper and--yup, there weren’t any boy parts, so this was a girl.
He got her changed, movements a little slow but he was still pretty sure about what he was doing. He hadn’t minded babysitting or changing diapers for his billet family, and if this was his baby, his little girl--well, he was okay with getting to spend time up close with her, looking at her little tiny face and delicate fingers.
Dylan got her into the tiny onesie, pale yellow with white polka dots, and got her little legs into the tiniest pair of pants in the world. Her feet were definitely ticklish, and she kicked as he got the socks onto her.
“I know, but you’re much comfier now, right?” he murmured.
He brought the box into the kitchen with him and laid her in it while he made formula, talking at her about the season the whole time.
Dylan tested the formula on his wrist--even he knew you couldn’t give it to a baby too hot--and sat in a kitchen chair with her.
Once he got her settled in his arms with the bottle, he fished for his phone and googled baby name girl and clicked on the first website that popped up.
There were a lot of names. It almost felt like too many options, and he was still only just in the letter As.
Most of them he didn’t like until he came upon one that just felt right.
“Aisha,” he said, testing out the sound of it in his mouth. “Huh. You think you’re an Aisha, baby girl?”
She just kept working at her bottle, blinking like she was on the way to sleep. He looked at the meaning, and it meant alive, which she most certainly was.
“I think so. Aisha Strome.” A thought occurred to him, and he put another search term into google: name meaning wished-for.
The name Mary and all its variants popped up, and that seemed like as good a name as any.
“Hello, Aisha Marie Strome,” he said and fumbled for the camera function to take a selfie with her. “I’m your daddy. You’re never not going to be loved, honey.”