"Dad?"

Oliver Davis looked up from his book, mildly surprised. It was late at night, and he had not expected his son to be disturbing him. His wife, maybe, but not the boy who was currently wiping his eyes against the glare of the lamp and standing in the doorway.

"Yes?" He asked.

In response, the boy ran to where he was sitting silently and Oliver easily hoisted him up onto his lap.

"You should be in bed." Oliver chided quietly.

"I had a nightmare."

Oliver paused. "Oh." He was not the comforter in the family. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Good."

"Can I stay with you though?"

"I have to go to sleep. I'll put you to bed."

Oliver picked his son off his lap and stood up. The child reached for his trouser pocket and tried to pull himself up.

"You're too big to be carried."

"Can I walk on your feet then?"

"No."

"I had a nightmare."

"Doesn't change your mass. Come on. It's late." He reached for his son's small hand and started to lead him along. They hadn't even left the room before Oliver cracked. "Fine, you can have a piggy back."

"Yay!"

The kid ran to the chair and stood on it, from there clambering onto his father's back, who looped his arms around the boy's legs, then turned the lamp off.

"I can't see."

"Have you eaten your carrots?"

"Don't like carrots."

"That's why then."

Oliver navigated his way out of the room and up the stairs easily.

"Dad?"

"Shush, you don't want to wake your mother up."

"Sorry." The boy quieted his voice. "Can you stay with me until I fall asleep?"

There was a pause. "Of course."

"Thanks," He said, burying his head into his father's shoulder.

Neither said anything until Oliver carefully placed his son in bed and tucked him in.

"Dad?"

"I said I'd stay."

"Can you tell me a story?"

Oliver was not a storyteller either. "I don't know any."

"Can you tell me how you and Mum met?"

Oliver paused. Even in the darkness he could see his son's inquisitive eyes watching him back.

"We met at her school."

"What happened?"

"She destroyed one of my cameras and hurt Lin's ankle. So I forced her to work with me."

"Because you loved her?"

"No, because I needed another pair of hands."

"But was it love on first sight?"

"No."

"What about for Mum?"

"She hated me on sight."

"Oh. So then why did she work for you?"

"Because it was a job and she stopped hating me on sight."

"Did you hate her on sight?"

There was a pause.

"Probably."

"And then what happened?"

"She worked for me."

"But something must have happened?"

"She fell in love with me."

"Ah."

"And eventually she confessed."

"And you two were together?"

"No. I rejected her."

"But didn't you love her?"

"Yes, I loved her."

"Then why did you reject her?"

"Because… I thought she loved someone else."

"But didn't she say she loved you?"

"Yes."

"And you thought she lied?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It's complicated."

"I want to know."

"Go to sleep."

"No, I want to know."

"If I tell you will you go to sleep?"

"Yes."

"Fine then." Oliver scowled. "I thought she loved my brother but didn't realise it."

"Why wouldn't she realise it?"

"Listen… When I was a teenager I was a bit crabby, okay?"

"No-one says crabby anymore, Dad."

"I do. Now-"

"So after you didn't get together what happened?"

"I went back home to England."

"Even though you loved her?"

"Even though I loved her."

"But you returned to Japan?"

"Yes, a few months later."

The child nodded.

"And we worked together again."

"Like before you left?"

"Yes. I pretended that she'd never confessed."

"So then how did you two get together?"

"I thought you said that you'd go to sleep."

"I'm not tired yet."

"Close your eyes. You'll soon feel tired."

"I don't see how that would work, Dad."

"Okay then, you'll soon be asleep. Better?"

"I'm not going to sleep 'till I'm tired."

"You should be tired."

"I'm not tired."

"Have you seen the time?"

"No."

"Well it's late. It's way past your bedtime."

"I want to hear the rest of the story." The child paused. "Then I'll be tired."

"You can't be tired voluntarily."

"What does vol-un-tur-illy mean?"

"It means doing something because you want to. Not because you were forced."

"Okay. So, can I hear the rest of the story?" The child tried not to yawn and snuggled into the covers.

"Aren't you mean to be interested in..." Oliver tried to think of something young boys like. "... Planes."

"I don't like planes."

"You're certainly not meant to be interested in how your parents got together. Isn't that, I don't know, ick territory?"

"But I want a story."

"You've got books of stories."

"Yeah but... Dad, you're a bad story teller. Really bad."

Oliver stayed silent, watching his child.

"You just can't put emotion in your voice. So the only way you can tell a story interestingly is if it's your story."

"I know ghost stories."

"Yeah but mum won't let you."

"She's not here now."

"You're a stickler for rules dad."

Oliver paused. "And I don't want you to be too scared to go to sleep." His mouth twitched.

"I won't be scared!" The boy protested, then quickly clamped his mouth shut. Wouldn't do good to wake up his mother.

"You were practically crying about the one in the bathtub." He paused. "And you're scared of spiders."

"I'm nooooooooot." The boy whined. "And no one likes spiders anyway."

"Some people do." Oliver said evenly. "I don't mind them."

"Well mum says you were born funny."

"I wasn't born funny."

"Yes, you were." The child dug the point in further, eager to have some kind of victory over his dad.

"Everyone's born funny. One day you'll have to experience it." He grimaced, remembering his own child's birth. He'd been escorted out to prevent his wife from strangling him. "It's all bloody and messy and newborn babies look like potatoes."

"I didn't look like a potato."

"Yes, you did. A pink potato." Some part of Oliver's brain wondered how on earth he was genuinely arguing with his son whether he looked like a pink potato or not. "I was there."

"So was I."

"You don't remember."

"I do, I do."

"No one remembers being born."

"I do."

Oliver sighed and leaned forward. Why on Earth had he had a child... At time they were demon spawn.

"Yes, in the same way you're too scared to go to sleep."

"I'm not!" The child protested.

"Yes you are. That's why all of a sudden you're so interested in how I met your mother."

"Noooooo…" The child whined slightly.

"Prove it." Oliver leaned back slightly and crossed his arms.

"I will." He huffed, and rolled over and closed his eyes.

Oliver knocked down the feeling of smugness and calmly waited. It wouldn't do good to count his chickens before they hatched. Yet, his luck held and the breaths soon turned gentle and more like snores. He made sure his son was tucked in before carefully leaving the room and closing the door.

When he got to his own room he was surprised to find out that his wife was actually awake. She crossed the room and kissed his cheek, unbuttoning his shirt for him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you-" He said, surprised even more by her actions.

"For the record, I never hated you on sight."

"Ah." He paused and lowered his hands from when they had automatically raised. "You heard."

She nodded, taking his shirt and leaving it on the floor. "I'll wash it tomorrow."

"He wouldn't sleep."

"They all get hyperactive when they're tired." She said, letting him finish undressing himself and getting back into the bed. "Although you're such a tedious storyteller I'd have thought that he'd have fallen asleep earlier."

"Thanks." He deadpanned.

"And another thing. You were not a bit crabby. You were the crabbiest teenager on the whole planet." He got into bed.

"I love you too."

She flicked off the lamp.