Summary: Years have passed and the notorious Killer, former employee of Nightmare, is not as hysteric as he used to be.

WARNINGS: Canon divergence, if baby fluff ain't your thing... bad news, it's short y'all, self indulgent? Yes.

(Note: Willow is a fan-child that does not at all belong to me. I do, however, believe they belong to Marshall_Mellow)

"You stay in bed, alright? You've done enough already, so let me help you out. I've got this."

He in fact did not have this.

The wails of Killer's daughter had only amplified once he had gotten into the room. Perhaps she had registered that it wasn't Dream, now desperately trying to bring him in with her new wave of caterwauling. Favoritism was not something she was very hesitant about showing off apparently.

Very carefully, he approached the newly assembled crib and looked inside. Willow, her small hands curled up into fists by her face, was squirming between her cries. The shrill sound never failed to send shivers down Killer's spine, and it made him briefly hesitate. Should he make even the slightest wrong move, her tears would only worsen and Dream would have to intervene. He didn't want that to happen... not in the slightest.

Making soft hushing sounds with his tongue, he very slowly reached down into the crib. He had to will his hands to cease their blasted shaking, but even with that attempt there was a slight tremor as she was scooped up in his arms. Previous lessons on how to properly hold her near his chest ran through his head, and he swore he could feel the phantom hands of his husband guiding them where they needed to be. Support the head... keep her close.

With a shaky sigh, he managed to adjust his arms and snuggle her close to his body without any issues. Still, even with her securely in place, the jitters refused to show him any mercy and continued.

"Come on, Willow, it's okay," he whispered into the dark, his hips starting to lightly sway side to side. The movement certainly caught the newborn off guard, but it didn't make her cry any harder. Killer saw this as a small win and thought it best to continue the trend. So, with cautious steps in the dark, he wandered to the corner of the room where a wooden rocking chair lay facing the door. The furniture piece itself sat beside a window that looked out at the star-infested sky. That night, the moon was partially hidden by cloud formations. It was shy, but it provided just enough light that he didn't have to fight his way blindly to be able to sit down. From an outside perspective, he was sure he looked quite peculiar as he hunched his body forward and dropped down onto the awaiting cushion and wood combination. Willow was still secure in his arms when he was fully situated and confident he wouldn't slide around.

Even whenever he's down, the little distressed sounds from the baby carried along and followed Killer. It caused the new parent some distress, but he wouldn't allow that to conquer him. He would figure it out.

He takes a deep breath in to slow himself down. His thoughts, his breathing, his quiet muttering, everything began to lose its fast pace. He could open his mouth again without feeling out of breath between words. "You're okay," he whispered when he was coherent, "you're okay, I'm right here." Very gently, his ankles lightly flexed into the floor as he began to push backwards. The simple movement made the chair rock back, himself and Willow moving along with it. Slowly but surely he applied more pressure to the ground until there was a constant, careful swing back and forth.

With each rock, the sobs began to dwindle and fade into little hiccups and short coughs. Of all things, his whispers of reassurances became the loudest thing in that room besides the occasional gurgle and whimper of the little girl in his arms. The sight before him nearly broke him, his soul twisting as it throbbed in front of his manubrium.

That's when it all came crashing down and hit him like a boxing glove to his cheek. He had done it. By himself. It was nothing but a small, insignificant achievement, but it meant the very world to him. He, Killer, a former assassin had stopped a baby's crying. His baby's crying. Sure, his husband could have done this without any issues. It was surely to be instinct at that point... but him? He didn't think he could ever, and yet he just did.

Elation began to push aside his prior jitters. He was a complete mess, but he always had been. Though, at some point he would have to admit that shortly after the duo had turned into a trio, he became a touch more sensitive to the little things. Shamefully, he realized that was making itself quite apparent then and there.

Very gingerly, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Willow barely moved, barely responded, and that alone made his sigh of relief stutter and snag on his ribs on the way out of his body. "Stars, I love you," he whispered, his voice quaking. "I'm going to try so, so hard to make you happy. That's a promise, love... that's a promise."

...

All previous lingering exhaustion had left the skeleton dad that night, and he continued to hold Willow in his arms until Dream came in the next morning with coffee at hand. Time had been irrelevant at that point. He had his little girl, and that was all that truly mattered then and there.

There would be struggles, he knew, but a single night had enough power to kickstart his confidence in the right direction again.