be vewwy vewwy quiet

“Is the outfit really necessary?” Morgaine sat with his hands folded deliberately in his lap to keep from fidgeting, doubtfully eyeing his reflection in the mirror as Mercy fussed over him.

“Yes,” Mercy answered him primly and without a hint of irony as they adjusted the veil on his head, situating the band around his horns so that it sat straight. They would have had enough practice doing it with his type of horns, he supposed. “Consistency is important for the babies. Too much stimulation, visual or noise, can make them stressed and upset. They’re too young to distinguish a lot visually, so having all the caregivers wear a habit is enough to keep them from getting overwhelmed.”

“Huh. Okay.” Yeah, he didn’t actually have a retort for that. That was a better reason than he’d been expecting, since he’d more or less just been expecting something along the lines of “It’s the dress code, shut up.”

“Here, put this on your hand,” Mercy said, passing Morgaine a soft felt glove. They didn’t need to specify which hand; he slipped it on over his left. “They like a warm touch, that’ll keep them from getting startled.”

“Anything else?” He asked, resting his hands on his hips and trying not to feel too ridiculous in the full Church of Sulfur nun getup. Mercy made it look good; Morgaine wasn’t sure the same could be said for himself.

They checked him over for any dangling details that could potentially get caught or grabbed, and then seemed satisfied. “I think that should be it. Come along, and I’ll show you the basics.” He followed along as they led him from the nuns’ dressing room to the bunnery itself.

The bunnery was surprisingly quiet. Morgaine had at least subconsciously anticipated it being loud, full of crying baby buns and nuns rushing around to attend them, but most sound seemed to be swallowed up by the soft cloth, thick curtains, and plush carpet that filled the rooms even with people scurrying about. The baby buns seemed to be organized by date of birth, going by the signage on the cradles, which Morgaine supposed was meant to help with designating what sort of care they needed. He’d never given much thought to what that care was, especially before the newborns were given over to Murmur and other demons to actually be raised until adulthood.

Mercy seemed to know exactly where they were going and quickly led him over to one particular bassinet where the baby bun within was snuffling around, making tiny mewls which Morgaine had to assume meant it wanted or needed something.

“It’s about feeding time for this set,” Mercy said, “so I’ll show you how to swaddle them first, and then we can do that.”

So saying, they picked up a blanket and scooped the baby out of the bassinet, demonstrating how to wrap it up without making the blanket too tight. Morgaine watched their hands more than anything else, memorizing the movements the way that he would when learning how to prepare a particular cocktail. Grab the ingredients in a certain order, blend them in a certain way, pour with a certain flourish - all that, but in a much slower fashion, and keeping in mind that these particular ingredients had a propensity to scream if mishandled. Easy.

When it became his turn to actually try swaddling one of the babies, Morgaine realized there was something he hadn’t quite accounted for: namely, the fact that babies were alive and animate, and thus, they moved. Mercy quickly corrected his attempt at holding the baby bun, adjusting it to nestle in the crook of his arm and against his body, rather than just in his hand.

(They were so tiny; Morgaine didn’t have particularly big hands, and he was still sure that he could have held one of the baby buns in just one if necessary. He briefly imagined himself clutching one in each hand like he was double-fisting beer bottles and had to fight back a snort at how amusingly stupid that was.)

Mercy’s hands were much surer than their own, unbothered by the way the little buns squirmed. They guided Morgaine in swaddling the babies until he felt confident about it and the tiny bun he was holding snuggled down comfortably instead of trying to escape his grasp.

“Are they always this much of a handful?” He asked, dutifully following along again as Mercy began preparing bottles of formula.

“Oh, always. I think the newborns get rowdier every year.” Instead of sounding like a complaint, Mercy’s voice was warm, and their eyes were sparkling. Whatever their faults and sins, Mercy did clearly love and find fulfillment in their job. “Here,” they handed him one of the bottles once it had warmed. “Don’t force it, just hold it near their mouth. They’ll find it on their own.”

Morgaine did so, nudging the bottle’s nipple against the baby bun’s mouth until it did as Mercy had promised. “Ah-ah, don’t hold the bottle at that steep of an angle, they’ll get too much and start coughing,” they quickly corrected him, and he adjusted his hold on the bottle as directed.

“There, perfect.” Mercy patted Morgaine’s elbow, seeming satisfied. Once the baby had its fill of formula, they directed him once more in patting its back - important for making sure the baby didn’t get sick and start coughing things up later when laid back in the crib, apparently - and then rocking it until it cuddled soundly asleep against his shoulder.

“What do you think?” Mercy asked him in a low voice, so as not to disturb the snoozing baby. “Can you handle doing that ten more times this afternoon?”

“I think I can manage,” he told them with a wry smile. “It’s not so hard.”

Mercy swatted him on the shoulder that the baby bun wasn’t occupying. “Don’t say that, you’ll jinx it. Demons are always listening, you know.”

Morgaine had to stifle a chuckle, to prevent jostling the little bun. He knew. The church always brought the idea of demons to the forefront of his mind, naturally, and the routine of caring for the new babies especially sent his thoughts back over the years. He could recall nestling up against Murmur’s shoulder just like this.

Yeah, this wasn’t so bad. Maybe he’d even volunteer again next year, if they needed the help.