Preference #151: Your Baby Gets Sick

Louis: You wake up to an empty bed, despite Louis getting off One Direction’s world tour last week. You sit up in bed, getting the most out of the sounds coming from across the hall. “How about dad makes you a warm bottle, hm?” a soft voice purrs. You crept out of bed and toward the door, opening it a crack. Louis is bent over your child’s crib, still talking in that soft voice. The crib is so high up that Louis has to stand on his toes to look upon his child. The sight is so ridiculously cute that you resist ruining the moment, so you went back to bed and woke up hours later to Louis saying to your kid, “On a scale of one to he’s getting lucky, how much will mom love dad for nursing you back to health?”

Niall: Niall’s method for curing sickness is a bit old fashioned. Being five years old, you and Niall think the best way is feeding him ginger ale mixed with seven-up. So your kid lounges on the couch with Niall, who’s too busy watching the game, drinking ginger ale. They both sit the same way, hunched over, legs spread open, and mouth slightly open. When Niall takes a sip of his beer, your kid watches him until he sets it down. Then, he picks up his bottle and chugs it the same way. He’ll set it in between his legs, mocking Niall. The resemblance is uncanny to watch. “What?” Niall asks you, followed by his echo.

Liam: “Ah-ah-ah-ahh, nope!” Liam curses under his breath and you sigh loudly. Your daughter had a sneezing fit this morning that awoke the household at four in the morning. After controlling that, she started sneezing against except she never said ‘choo’. “Is it allergies?” Liam guessed. “Maybe Bailey,” you add, referring to the family dog that calmly watches you three from the doorway to the bathroom. Your daughter stared at her parents with wide, innocent eyes. “Let’s just go to the doctor.” Magically, you guys get dressed in black jeans, plain t-shirts, and Raybans like the true classy family you are.

Zayn: The metal spoon pooling with red liquid pokes against your child’s tightly closed lips. She jerks her head back into your chest and whines about not wanting it. Zayn looks at her patiently, seeing a little of himself in her. “You do if you want to breathe through your nose!” Her older sister sniffs loudly and exhales. “See? Now say ahh.” “Aaah,” you sing the tune of an old T.I. song Zayn makes you listen to He gives you look, but smiles. He turns his attention back to the task at hand. “Okay now!” Miraculously, your daughter swallows the medicine and scrunches up her nose. “Am I cured yet?” she squeaks.

Harry: “Quick! We need a thermometer, warm blankets, hot soup, and hot tea, but no too hot!” Harry grabs a hold of your waist before you can sprint to the kitchen. “(Y/N),” he says calmly, pulling you into a embrace you can’t escape. “Harry, our baby is coughing up a storm back there!” You jerk your thumb in the direction of the sick room aka the nursery. “You need to relax,” your husband continues, moving his hands to the skin below your neck and massaging it with firm fingers. You melt into his touch as he whispers reassurance in your ear. “How about you go take a hot bath and I’ll take care of our child, yeah?”

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