it's basically a christmas tradition for me to post sappy fluffy kid fic so

merry christmas ya filthy animals

disclaimed

...

So maybe an op only a few days before Christmas wasn't the best course of action.

But, in Daisy's defense Coulson had very specifically said the words easy as pie when he read her in. She doubts that explanation will work well on Jemma, who is currently glaring at her—when she's not arguing with their contact on the phone.

Ducking into the nearest alley, just off the main street, Daisy tugs Jemma out of pedestrian traffic and leans against the wall, waiting for what will probably be the longest argument in the history of arguments. Yeah, she should have known better—should have known that jeopardizing their first official op-free Christmas as a married couple was maybe a big no-no, but the past is the past and all Daisy can do now is make that kicked puppy face that Jemma is a sucker for.

Finally, Jemma hangs up, huffing and shoving her phone into her bag with a viciousness that Daisy should have probably expected. "Lovell can't get us the rest of the documents until after the holiday, at the earliest," she grumbles, glaring at a spot just past Daisy's head.

Is there a word stronger than sorry? Daisy's not sure, so instead she nods and responds, "Coulson said to just head to our pick up."

After a long moment of heavy silence, Jemma finally meets her eyes and whatever anger she has seems to settle, at least for the moment. "We can decorate—," she starts before coming to a stuttering halt. "Did you hear that?" she tilts her head towards the end of the alley, bathed in shadow. "I think there's a baby crying."

Daisy listens—she doesn't hear anything other than the background noise of Chicago, and she says as much, adding, "It's been a long year, you probably just have baby fever." Which is true of them both—it's been a year in limbo with the state, trying to get their paperwork in order; Daisy can't blame Jemma for seeing babies everywhere, seeing as it's what she does too. But—

they're in an alley.

There are no babies, and Daisy's getting a little worried about her wife.

"No," Jemma protests, beginning to look around. "I heard a baby. I absolutely heard a real life baby." There's a break in the traffic behind them, impeccably timed, and Daisy hears it—a thin, shrill cry that seems to echo in the narrow space.

"Oh my god."

"Someone left a baby in an alley?!"

"Oh my god, it's freezing—."

"We don't know how long they've been out here—."

Daisy kind of wants to say oh my god again, but it would probably be edging onto repetitive at this point. Instead, she jerks her thumb towards the end of the alley and says, "I'll take that end?" Jemma nods, reaching out to quickly squeeze Daisy's hand before they separate.

They rummage through the garbage for several long minutes, checking in every few moments, as if constant communication would make this entire experience less awful, less surreal.

And then, after carefully climbing into the dumpster at the end of the alley, Daisy finds her.

Tiny and pale, loosely wrapped in newspaper and still looking pretty gross from birth, the baby is cold to the touch when Daisy picks her up. The baby's face relaxes, her cries fade; big dark eyes look up at Daisy. "Hey sweetheart," she murmurs, cuddling the baby as close to her body as she can, because, like, body heat, right? A little arm breaks free from the newspaper, fingertips a pale shade of blue that honestly terrifies Daisy.

Honestly, everything about this terrifies her. Like—

who leaves a baby in a dumpster? "Jemma," she calls out, voice hoarse. The baby blinks slowly at her, mouth falling open. Shit—Daisy thinks her lips might be blue? "Jemma," she shouts again, firmer this time.

"Did you find the poor de—?" Jemma asks, worry evident as she appears over the edge of the dumpster. When she sees the little bundle in her wife's arm, she stops abruptly. "That's a baby," she mumbles finally, dumbfounded.

Daisy nods. "It's a baby."

"A baby."

As if they keep saying it, it'll start to make sense. This has to be a weird pre-adoption dream, right?

The baby lets out a weak whimper, little fingers curling into a little fist before opening. She's so tiny, it makes Daisy's heart twist uncomfortably.

"There's a hospital a few blocks from here," Jemma finally forces out. "We passed it on our way here."

Carefully lifting the baby over the edge of the dumpster, Daisy nods, saying, "Take her so I can climb out."

"I'll check in—?"

"Yeah, and I'll get a—."

"Great," Jemma breathes, taking the baby from her and cradling her close. "She's so small," she says, staring down at the wide eyed little one, brushing the pad of her thumb across the baby's cheek.

Daisy swallows thickly, patting her pockets for her phone and handing it to Jemma when she finds it. "This is going to be fine," she says, to assure the baby as much as to assure Jemma and herself. "She's going to be fine."

...

She is fine. It all works out pretty well, actually.

...

Best. Christmas. Ever, Daisy can't help but think as she and Jemma walk out of the hospital, Ada in her arms and all of the paperwork that says that she's theirs in Jemma's hands.

The fact that they're walking out on Christmas day is an honest to god fluke—they probably would have been stuck in bureaucratic hell for another few months if Daisy hadn't caved and told Jemma to call Coulson—but the serendipity is not lost on her, all the same.

May's there, at the entrance of the hospital, already getting out of the car to help them get all the things they've accumulated over the last few days packed away. She pauses when she reaches Daisy, flashing a rare, warm smile for a moment when she looks down at Ada, asleep in Daisy's arms. "She's cute," May murmurs, reaching over to gently adjust the blanket around the baby's face.

Jemma comes up alongside Daisy, leaning her head on her wife's shoulder, and she offers quietly, "Her middle name is May."

Daisy lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding when May smiles softly again, something very near tears gathering in her eyes.

It had taken them ages to decide on Ada's name—that first long night in the NICU, Jemma had pulled out her phone and opened her list, passing the phone to Daisy and saying solemnly, "We're going to need to call her something other than Baby."

Which was about when Daisy realized that they were about to be moms and, eyes bleary from exhaustion and tears, highlighted the first name she could recognize. "That sounds pretty," she forced out, handing the phone back.

When Jemma glanced at her selection, she snorted, clapping her free hand over her mouth quickly. At Daisy's raised eyebrows, she explained, "You picked the name of the first computer programmer."

So maybe that bit hadn't been hard.

Her middle name was another matter entirely—they had wanted to honor their family in some way; Jemma had been throwing out names from her family, but they'd all been old-fashioned, edging into old-lady. And it's not as if Daisy had any family she wanted a brand new baby—her daughter—to be named after. No family except the team, and none of them inspired anything solid—that is, until she was shaking Jemma awake and telling her to call May.

May, who had asked that they keep her updated on Baby Girl in her calm, quietly maternal way. May, who was very much the mom of the team, very much a mother to Daisy.

Melinda didn't work well with Ada—too many a's—but May? May was perfect.

Daisy tells her as much once they're on the road, stuff carefully stowed in the trunk. She swears she sees her sniffle, but that was probably definitely her imagination. In Daisy's defense, she's only slept for a collective five hours in the last several days.

Jemma glances at their daughter, sleeping peacefully in the car seat the hospital gave them, and she sighs wistfully. Daisy can't help but laugh, ecstatic that this seems to be the biggest problem they have after accidentally adopting a kid—not wanting to stop holding her.

The plane ride back home is quiet, with May in the cockpit and Daisy and Jemma just passing the baby between one another and cuddling her close. Ada's in Jemma's arms when they land, finally awake, and she stays there on the drive to their house, Daisy flipping through the documents in her lap quietly, reveling in what they say.

Their normally quiet street is lined with cars when they pull up, but Daisy doesn't pay them much attention until they've piled up and started up the path to the door, which is when she notices the lights and decoration on the front of their home. Jemma pauses beside her and hums, "Oh, they didn't—."

May, kindly carrying most of their stuff, brushes past them. "Baby's first Christmas," she says lightly. "We didn't want to miss it."

Grinning, Daisy leans over and brushes her fingers across Ada's cheek, smile widening when she gains her daughter's attention. "I guess your aunts and uncles decided to bring a little Christmas cheer for you," she murmurs, very nearly squealing when Ada makes what is possibly the cutest noise in the world.

"She's disgustingly cute, isn't she?" Jemma muses. "I'm not sure if I'm ready to share her yet."

Daisy shares the sentiment. She kind of wants to forget about Christmas for this year and just spend the day curled up with her wife, marveling at their kid, because honestly? Is there a better Christmas gift than a literal baby?

But then May's holding their door open and Daisy can hear Hunter and Bobbi bickering, can see Fitz, just inside the door, weaving garland through the railing of the stairs. He looks up, pouting at something someone says from further in the house, and grins when he sees them, calling into the living room, "Oi! They're home!"

His proclamation leads to a parade of people coming out their front door, Bobbi being the first to make a beeline for Ada. Fitz follows closely, his much shorter legs working hard to try and beat her to their honorary niece. The rest follow May's directions to get the rest of the stuff from the car, Hunter grumbling loudly until Mack elbows him, and even then only lowering his volume.

"Oh, she's so cute," Bobbi breathes when she inevitably reaches the little family first.

Jemma grins proudly, nodding, and Daisy's sure she's mirroring the smile. "Yeah," Daisy sighs. "I think we'll keep her."

.

.

.

"And that, Ada-bug," Daisy grins, brushing her daughter's bangs out of her eyes, "is the story of Christmas."

Giggling, Ada pushes up against her mother's side. "Noooooo," she huffs. "That's your story."

"And so what's the official story?"

Ada looks about ready to launch into an explanation, eyes wide and bright, when the oven door slams shut. "Cookies are done," Jemma calls brightly, coming to the doorway. Her Christmas sweater has some flour splashed on the edge—evidence of what caused Ada and Daisy to be banned from the kitchen this year, but Jemma's smiling all the same. "You two about done with story time?"

Ada nods happily, explaining, "Mama told a Christmas story, but not the 'ficial one."

Jemma glances at Daisy for confirmation of exactly what story she told and, at her nod, says emphatically, "But that is our official Christmas story, love!" She joins the pair on the couch, playfully squishing Ada between her mothers, and she adds, "Santa brought us the very best gift in the entire world."

"Entire universe," Daisy tacks on.

"Every universe, really," Jemma agrees. "What better Christmas story than that?"

Ada seems to ponder this for a moment before she asks seriously, "The gift is me, right?"

"Of course," Jemma laughs.

Daisy smoothes her hand over Ada's hair, smiling softly when their daughter turns her attention over to her. "The best present we could have ever wished for," she assures her, leaning down to kiss the crown of Ada's head.

Their little family sits like that for a few precious moments, the quiet peaceful for once.

"Merry Christmas to all," Jemma whispers to Daisy, breaking the silence and squeezing her shoulder.

"And to all a good night," Daisy whispers back, a warmth starting in her chest and slowly taking over her whole body.

A merry Christmas indeed.

...

fin