Chapter Text
Dean Ambrose insisted, from a very early age, that he would not, under any circumstances, be having children.
“The world is overpopulated as is,” he would tell anyone who would listen, “The foster care system is overrun and rife with abuse, and even kids that have parents around end up fucked up.”
Roman would just roll his eyes and tell him they were running late and he had to pick up Joelle from preschool.
Occasionally, while Dean sat on his floor and patiently bore the zealous attentions of the four year old, Roman would try to reason with him, pointing out that he was the only babysitter that she didn’t complain about, or that he was the only person besides Roman himself that he trusted to take care of her in an emergency (which is why he was on speed-dial), or that he was sitting there and letting her paint his nails neon pink, for heavens’ sake. Dean would just shrug and say, “Jojo’s different. I can give her back.”
Roman resisted the urge to smack him upside the head in front of his daughter.
The universe had taken all of Dean’s grand speeches as a sort of “the lady doth protest too much,” however, so it decided to dump Seth Rollins in his life.
Seth was about a year younger and an inch shorter than Dean, a new bartender at Dean and Roman’s favorite place, and quite possibly the man of his dreams. He gave him a once-over, decided “yes, this is love at first sight,” and proceeded to flirt badly with him for quite a while until Roman intervened.
Then the subject of children was brought up when Roman had to take a goodnight call from Joelle (she was visiting her grandparents in Florida and simply insisted that her daddy still read her a bedtime story every night; Dean told him she came by the stubborn streak honestly). Dean went on his usual rant, finishing with a slap of the bar for emphasis, and felt very proud of himself until he saw the tight smile on the bartender’s face.
Seth unfolded a wallet and laid a small photo of quite possibly the most adorable little girl he had ever seen on the bar (right where Dean had slapped, actually, and the symbolism was not lost on him).
“Her name is Aveline.”
Roman came back in high spirits to find Dean trying to drown himself in his beer and Seth’s hands shaking as he poured shots.
Dean went back and forth, up and down, left and right in his mind, trying to find a way out of the hole he had dug for himself, because he couldn’t get the bartender off his mind long enough even to get on someone else, and every time he went back to the bar Seth found an excuse to wait tables or to serve another section exclusively. Finally, after six weeks of this nonsense, Dean marched into the establishment, planted himself on a stool, and declared that he would not be moving until Seth talked to him.
The first glass that was set down in front of him broke from the force.
The second was half-full from the shaking.
Dean caught the trembling hand and laced his fingers through it, meeting brown eyes and asking the question that had been bothering him for a month and a half. “How old is she?”
He’d never seen a smile so wide before.
Their courtship was an elaborate dance of one step forward and two steps back, because both men were guarded and cautious from years of practice, until finally they decided “fuck it” and dove in headfirst. Which is how Dean ended up outside Seth’s small apartment, holding a gift-wrapped package of Duplo a very nice saleswoman at Target had helped him pick out, hoping desperately he didn’t smell too much like the cigarette he’d had to calm his nerves and that he wasn’t going to fuck this up entirely.
Seth opened the door, balancing a small fluffy thing Dean assumed was a dog in one arm and the tiniest, angriest four year old he had ever seen in the other. She had a wild nest of brown curls, bright, sky-blue eyes, mismatched Star Wars and Disney Princess socks, and her shirt on backward. Her expression was nothing less than concentrated homicidal rage.
Dean stepped inside at Seth’s gesture and closed the door behind him. Seth released the fluffy thing, and it flew at his boots, barking for all of ten seconds before it smelled the spot where Dean’s cat had peed on them and ran away whining. The whole exchange was missed on both adults, who were carefully gauging the reaction of the nuclear warhead on Seth’s hip.
“Aveline, sweetheart,” he began, slowly, brushing a stray wave out of her face, “This is Dean, Daddy’s boyfriend.”
She considered Dean for a moment before opening her mouth, sticking out her tongue, and blowing a big, fat raspberry right in his face.
Dean had seen Seth handle angry and even violent drunks without breaking a sweat, but the best way to describe the expression on his face at this exact moment would have been “utterly and completely gobsmacked.” For his part, Dean was using literally all his self-control to maintain his feet, because he was laughing so hard he was pretty sure he was going to piss himself.
Aveline looked between the two of them and her rage melted into raucous giggles.
It was love at first sight (again).