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I stared over the swell of my half-deflated belly at the fretting child in her arms.

“He’s pink.” Zeke laughed as Jess foisted the little boy into my arms, and I held him with trembling hands.

“And he has hair. Isn’t there something with acid reflux and having hair, because damn?” I panted heavily, forgetting the pain as Jess worked more, contractions still forcing my stomach into knots.

Zeke reached around me to run a thumb over his waxy cheek, swiping away some of the afterbirth or whatever, lanugo, I think I’d read somewhere. “He’s so pink…”

I stared at him, and he was, pink in the way newborns were, his cries little cracking things that made my chest ache and leak as tears stung my eyes. The hair on his head, little wisps and curls that could have come from either of us, lips a mirror of Zeke’s, full and sharp. Maybe something in his ears.

“Melanin takes time to flush out, chill. Trust me, he’s yours.” Jess busied herself between my legs, and the burning, raw and open sting I held eased as she pressed some bandages and tape over it.

“Nah, I know he’s mine. I’m just—he’ll have an easier time.” The way Zeke’s voice trailed off as he said it made my heart ache.

“The world isn’t like that, anymore. It’s—” I trailed off as Jess made quick work of snipping the cord and urging Zeke to hold him. “Things are better.”

Zeke separated from me as Jess helped me to lie back in bed. Our little one settled into his arms with mild protest, little hands pawing out and settling as Zeke fought his shirt off awkwardly to hold the baby to his chest—skin to skin. “Better, yeah. Yeah. But still.”

The thought of skin color mattering never occurred to me. Knowing where he came from and the fears he had as a biracial man from the time he came from, it made sense he’d have those fears. I didn’t know what to say to his admission, but Mesmer did as he slid from our bed and walked around to face Zeke. “Hey.”

Zeke didn’t look up, eyes locked on our little one, but Mesmer had an agenda. “It doesn’t matter one bit what shade of foundation this little guy has to wear when he grows up. Nobody in the Archivist’s Society will have any opinion. Even when you were first brought in, we only judged you for your gift.”

Zeke flicked his gaze upward for a moment, clearly not wanting to look away from our baby. “Yeah.” His voice cracked, tears swelling in his eyes. “He’ll be—he’ll be an archivist or something close to us.”

I swallowed hard, fighting tears myself. “We’ll love him. Even if he has six toes or something weird.”

Zeke flinched and moved the towel away, counting toes and fingers before sighing in relief. “Just the normal amount.”

“And if he’d had different?” Mesmer raised a brow.

“S’long as he doesn’t look like you, I’ll love the little bastard.” Jess grinned and Bitty swept around with her arms out, making a little gimme gesture.

“As long as he calls me Mama.” Bitty swept away with him and smiled, saying something about a diaper and a cute little onesie. Zeke reached out after her and slid from the bed, following, not wanting to be away from our little one for a single moment.

In time, Bitty would be mama, I’d be daddy, and Zeke father or papa until they could say it. For certain purposes, we’d need Bitty in our lives, to present to the world for things, paperwork and the like. Two men couldn’t just come out of nowhere with a baby and things work out.

“I get to pick the name,” Mesmer said, his voice a smug little mutter as I craned my neck toward the door, waiting for Bitty and Zeke to return.

I groaned internally and sighed. “What is it?”

Mesmer pulled his pen from his pocket and twirled it over his fingers, lips twisted into a half smirk. “You know I partially lifted Zeke’s restriction on pens months ago, right?”

I froze. I hadn’t realized, but it made sense, him leaving the pen on the table in our house the first day. Zeke had asked me to move it out of a force of habit, thinking the gesture a jab.

“I didn’t know.” I stared at my lap, drawing a hand to my stomach, thrilled that I could see my lap again.

“I was thinking Penjamin.” Mesmer wiggled his hands a bit.

“Yeah, that’s what my weed-smoker friends refer to their vape pens. Also, it’s kinda silly.” I rolled my eyes, praying he wasn’t serious.

“Pennn jaaammminnnn,” Jess sounded it out. Her face twisted up. “Fuck that.”

“Good.” Mesmer puffed his chest up and grinned wide. “It’ll make what I actually picked sound more tolerable.”

Zeke and Bitty returned, our little one in a loose, fluffy little onesie, a matching cap with bear’s ears on his head. I couldn’t help the coo of delight as Bitty fluttered around the room, helping Jess clean up before wheeling in our little bassinet.

“What did he suggest?” Zeke gave him a dirty look. “If it’s dumb, we’re kicking him out, and he doesn’t get to hold him.”

Mesmer gasped. “Well, then. Uncle Mesmer will just have to make sure it’s a good name, then.” He strode over and faced Zeke, and how the two could have been together was anyone’s guess, their personalities opposing. They worked better as friends. Like Syl and I. “It’s an old name. From my era, kinda.”