NOTE: This one-shot is inspired by a headcanon I read on tumblr. I do not take credit for the original idea, only for the following work inspired by it. Thanks!

Stranger Anxiety

It was simply unbelievable.

How could all five of Mr. Peabody's top babysitters be booked this afternoon? Sure, it was understandable for the teenagers Zoe and Kenny because they had school, but Mrs. Hopkins had to have her bingo tournament today? Miss McNeil had to win a trip to Hawaii this week? Mrs. Carlson had to get her hip replaced this afternoon?

Of course, Mr. Peabody had more people he could call—when he realized how busy he still was going to be despite Sherman's new presence in his life, he had interviewed over fifty applicants for his personal babysitter and had at least twenty of them on speed dial for instances like this—but he didn't have the time to try and get someone to rush over to the penthouse. His choice, against his better judgment, had to be to take Sherman to his presentation.

Being a figure of such social and political buzz, Mr. Peabody was no stranger to presentations. He was a master at the art of the eye contact-smile-speak technique, always knew where to put his paws, and he no longer got the jitters when it came to being in front of a crowd. Why, the hullabaloo he had to go through just to adopt Sherman was enough experience to make him a presentation expert!

And today's meeting was really no different than any other short presentation he had ever made. He was to introduce his solution to a new kind of mechanical engine that ran on a measly mixture of oil and pixie stick sugar. It had been one of his easier inventions—two hours of elbow grease had earned him a working prototype. He was showing it to a board of some of the most successful mechanical and chemical engineers in all of New York City. Throw in a couple of charts, a few statistics, and a showcase of the invention, and boom! He had himself a contract and probably another prize to hang on his wall.

Unfortunately, things weren't going swimmingly. By the time he had called the fifth babysitter on his list, it was half past one. The meeting started at two! Sherman was only a baby, he couldn't just leave him home alone.

So, that's how Mr. Peabody found himself speeding off to the meeting, his prototype and rolled-up graphs tucked in the trunk, and his son sitting in his carseat.

Mr. Peabody was aghast. What else was he to do? The board would hopefully react to him bringing in his baby son with a lack of offence. Besides, Sherman was due for a nap. All he had to do was get Sherman asleep, and then things would be fine.

Ten minutes later, he found himself outside the meeting room, paw raised to knock but held back by nervousness. What if they were appalled with his unprofessional behavior? Or worse: what if someone in that room was a member to the "Anti-Doggy-Daddy" campaign that had been created in opposition to his adoption of Sherman?

Mr. Peabody was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he failed to notice the door open for him.

"Mr. Peabody?" It was a heavy set woman, wavy red hair tied back in a bun and nails that had just gotten through a manicure three—no, four hours ago.

"Ah!" He snapped from his revere. "A million apologies, ma'am, that's me!"

The woman ushered him inside, and saw a long table of all women making up the meeting room. They were all dressed professionally, with pencil skirts, blazers, and ties. A projector was set up for his presentation, and the opposing walls were all windows, allowing a view of the sunny May day.

The women around the table all rose and nodded to Mr. Peabody with murmurs of greeting.

"And I see we have an extra guest?" the red-haired woman said. Her nametag read Charlene Derrickson.

And that's when they all saw him. Baby Sherman, glasses sliding down his button nose, held in Mr. Peabody's grasp like a mystic treasure. Twelve pairs of eyes zeroed in on Mr. Peabody's son, and he waited for the splutters of outrage.

"Oh, Mr. Peabody! He's just precious!"

What's this? He blinked up at the board; everyone was grinning and saying "awww!"

"Is he yours?" a woman at the table with a birthmark around her eye asked.

"You haven't heard, Doris?" the African American woman across from her said. "This is the Mr. Peabody! The dog that adopted a human boy!"

Doris gasped, recognition seemingly hitting her. "Of course!"

"I hope this is alright…" Mr. Peabody winced as Sherman held onto his snout. "You see, his usual babysitters are all booked up, and I know it's not right of me to have him here, in a place of work, but—"

"Poppycock," the red-haired woman said. "Don't you worry your head, Mr. Peabody, I'm a mother myself and I know how last-minute these things can be. One of the ladies can just hold him while you speak."

"I'll do it!" Doris extended her hands.

It was a fine idea. Sherman would be taken care of as he presented his engine, and then they both could leave, with his professional reputation intact. But something clenched Mr. Peabody as Doris's hands came closer. He felt anxiety course through him, hot and sickly. It had been over a year since the last time Sherman had been held by someone that wasn't him, and Mr. Peabody didn't know how comfortable he was with someone else's hands holding his boy. Plus he wasn't one-hundred percent certain how Sherman would react. But Mr. Peabody had a job to do.

"Alright then," he said, throat tight. He gently placed Sherman in Doris's arms, watching with a careful eye. To his surprise, Sherman didn't cry, but rather stared up at Doris, mouth forming an "o."

"Hi there, little guy!" Doris cooed. "Oh, Mr. Peabody, he's darling."

"Why thank you." Mr. Peabody couldn't help but feel proud of his boy. Sherman was only a year old and he was okay around strangers! Mr. Peabody attributed it to all the people he had met already due to the WABAC. If Sherman could handle himself around important figures from history, then he could not cry for twenty minutes while Mr. Peabody presented.

"Now that my son is content…" Mr. Peabody made his way over to the projector and plugged in his laptop. As he began to set everything up, he couldn't help but notice in his peripheral vision that the ladies were rising from their seats and surrounding Doris. She was balancing Sherman in her lap, and he was reaching for her pearl necklace.

"Oh no, dear!" Doris coaxed Sherman's grabby fingers away. "This isn't a toy."

"Here, let me have him," an Asian woman with slickly cut black hair said. "I still have one of Andy's rattles."

"Alright, Yuna." Doris passed Sherman into the woman's arms, and she pulled a polka-dotted rattle out of her purse. Sherman's eyes widened from behind his glasses.

"Do you like this, Sherman?" Yuna asked playfully. She shook it in front of his face, and Sherman seemed transfixed by the sound. He shook it once on his own and squealed.

"Oh, the precious angel!" another African American woman said. "I could just eat him up. Lemme have a slice of that Sherman pie, Yuna."

Yuna passed Sherman on, and Mr. Peabody could hear his heart in his floppy ears. Horrible images were plaguing his highly-structured mind: Yuna dropping Sherman, Sherman hitting himself in the face with the rattle, Sherman getting poisoned by the rattle's chemicals, Sherman getting germs from what was clearly another baby's toy—

"My name is Wilma," the woman said, beaming down at Sherman. "Can you say Wil-ma?"

"Quick hogging the boy, Wil-ma," Doris complained.

"I want to hold him!" an Amazon-like brunette whined.

"Give him here!" a petite blonde with bright red lipstick growled.

And then it happened: the women swarmed Wilma, all cooing over Sherman all at once. It was madness, with Wilma holding Sherman above her head to prevent him from being snatched.

Mr. Peabody gasped and was hit with another vision: Wilma being pushed back, falling to the ground, failing to catch Sherman in time—

His legs spoke before his mouth could. Mr. Peabody scuttled to the throng and tried to push his way through (or at least try to get someone's attention). But his height wasn't helping him out too much.

"Please, ladies!" he tried, desperate to have Sherman out of harm's way. His anxiety was shooting through the roof, the possibilities overwhelming his advanced, expert senses. "I know he's adorable, I know! But if you could please just put him down, this isn't safe—"

The sharp sound of a cleared throat apparently did the trick, because everyone stopped and was silent. Mr. Peabody, breathing quickly, looked to Charlene, the woman who had let him in. She stood with rigid, wide shoulders, arms crossed over her chest, foot tapping with impatience, and an angry frown.

"Really, guys," she said, exasperated. "One little boy, and you're all reduced to savages? This is a board room." Her dangerous eyes snapped to Wilma. "I'll hold Sherman as Mr. Peabody presents his invention. Everyone else can have a seat."

Dejected, the women slouched back into their chairs and Wilma handed Sherman off to Charlene.

"As long as it's alright with you, Mr. Peabody?" Charlene asked gently.

Mr. Peabody did a quick visual inspection of his boy: no harm done, and he certainly didn't seem upset like Mr. Peabody was. Sherman was too preoccupied with his new rattle.

"Yes," Mr. Peabody sighed, the anxiety not fully seeping out of him. "That's quite alright with me."

The presentation was a success. It went by perfectly, all of Mr. Peabody's graphs, numbers, and demonstrations dazzling the committee. He received a standing ovation once the lights came back on, and he felt more like his old self as he courteously bowed with confident, narrowed eyes and a smirk.

Outside the meeting room, Mr. Peabody shook Charlene's hand with vigor and calmness. In his other hand was Sherman, and that was what really calmed him down.

"It's one of the most influential and ingenious things I've come across in years," Charlene gushed. "I'll be emailing you soon with offers on how to get it out on the market. But you surely have this council's livid approval."

"My most sincere thanks," Mr. Peabody said. "For your approval…and your help back there," he added, embarrassed. "I didn't know how I was going to get them to cease and desist."

Charlene smiled and waved a hand. "I'm so sorry for their behavior. But I have to admit, your boy's worth a cat fight over. Those glasses are very cute."

Sherman gurgled and hunched his body over Mr. Peabody's shoulder.

"He gets it from me," Mr. Peabody said with a chuckle.

"You know, you both are quite impressive," Charlene said. "You, obviously, with your genius, but your baby sure knows how to keep his cool. My daughter had stranger anxiety until she was three. But Sherman's already a social butterfly."

"Yes, well, I suppose he does quite well insecting social groups," Mr. Peabody joked.

Charlene stared at him.

"Insecting? Instead of inspecting?"

"Oh!" Charlene burst out laughing. "Peabody, you just cover every corner, don't you?"

"I try." Mr. Peabody grinned.

He left a couple minutes later, but as he revved up his scooter, he couldn't help but cast a careful look at Sherman.

His boy may have conquered his stranger anxiety, but Mr. Peabody sure hadn't conquered his yet.