Jane Doe in a Cardboard Box

[extrapenguin]

AO3
Another Trope Bingo fic, and my first foray into Rivers of London.
I suck at titles. Oh, and Accidental Bardic Performance is a real tag on AO3.

 

I had just reached the Folly after confirming that no, that case was not Falcon, the guy killed himself with no magical assistance whatsoever, when I heard a child crying. I determined that the kid wasn't where I was going to park my Asbo, parked it, then went out to search for the bloody screamer. It was a short search, really, since the bastard was in a box in front of Nightingale's Jag. Whoever had dumped it had wanted us to find it, then, not drive over it by accident. I concentrated. No vestigium. I picked up the box, rocked it a bit so the baby'd be quiet, then carried it into the Folly proper.

 

I was almost at the phone in the atrium, trying to figure out which set of authorities to call, when Nightingale arrived.

“Good heavens, what is that infant doing here? Is it related to the case?” he asked. He was in a three-part black suit that had gone out of fashion sometime in the 80s.

“The case was completely mundane. I found the kid abandoned in front of the Jag, so I brought it in and am now calling the relevant authorities.” Hopefully Nightingale would notice that I had everything Under Control and look a bit less concerned.

Alas, Nightingale frowned. “Peter, you do realize that by bringing this child into our home, you have bound us, under the laws of the magical community, to raise it?”

Oops. “No.” Oh crap. I seem to have a thing with getting myself into trouble. Except- “How do you know the kid is magical?”

Nightingale was taken aback. “Who else would abandon a child on our doorstep?”

He did have a point. I shrugged. “Perhaps we should bring the kid to Dr. Walid?”

“More of your fae taxonomy, Peter?”

I smirked. “Why not?”

Nightingale sighed in resignation and went to prod at the box. I followed.

It was a cardboard box that did not in the least resemble a cot or anything else that a baby would be typically found in. The kid was pretty clearly IC1, and if someone had tried to pass it as Nightingale's kid, I wouldn't have given a second thought (beyond the fact that Nightingale was probably gay). It was wrapped in a towel that had once been white. The pink clothes probably meant that it was a baby girl.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Peter?”

“What are we going to call her?” I swallowed. “I mean, she's not exactly a newborn, her parents must've named her.”

Nightingale looked at me curiously. This was a man who had no problem calling Molly Molly. I couldn't decide which was more disturbing, that her fake Asian white slaver owner had called her Molly or that he hadn't.

“I suppose ‘Jane’ will be adequate”, he said with finality.

British, white and vaguely old-timey. Plain Jane, Jane Doe. At least it wasn't something hideously upper-class.

 

We called in Dr. Walid and asked him to bring baby-care essentials with him. Jane started to cry. I rocked her a bit. She didn't quiet. Given the fact that she wasn't emitting a hideous smell, she was probably hungry.

“I hope Doctor Walid bought enough infant formula”, I said when Jane paused in her screaming to inhale.

“Infant formula?”

Well, I should've seen this coming. At least is couldn't be more awkward than that time I had to explain the concept of sperm banks to him. “It's a substitute for mother's milk.”

Jane resumed her wailing. Nightingale glanced at her. “So, they've stopped using goat's milk? Not all that surprising, given the general dearth of goats in this land.”

What. “It's made in a factory, sir. No goats involved, I think. It's a powder that you apply heated water to, then feed to the baby.”

Nightingale nodded. I wished for Dr. Walid to come here sooner. I noticed Molly observing us from behind the stairs. I might've been imagining it, but even she looked unnerved.

 

Dr. Walid arrived with a sufficient amount of infant formula, a large quantity of nappies, and some instruments related to being a doctor. Nightingale dispatched Molly to prepare the formula while Dr. Walid took a swab from Jane and gave her a basic health checkup, the sort of stuff they teach doctors in med school.

“On the surface, she seems perfectly healthy, if a bit dehydrated and hungry. She seems to be about a month old. I'll call you back with the results of the DNA sequencing.” He paused. “Does either of you have any knowledge of raising children?”

I shrugged. “I've babysat a ton of cousins. The coach house has internet.”

We looked at Nightingale. “Only what I've absorbed by osmosis. I'm afraid it's all terribly dated.”

“How dated?” I asked. I prepared for an explanation of no doubt misheard 30s child-raising advice.

Nightingale looked apologetic. “I was the youngest child. My mother's advice was probably from the 1890s, and not very detailed. I must confess that I never really paid much attention to what they were saying. I had no intention of reproducing.”

Ah yes. Thomas “confirmed bachelor” Nightingale. I should probably introduce him to Google.

Dr. Walid sighed. “Well, I suppose you'll manage. Now, if this child isn't fae, I suggest that you hand her over to the authorities. You may also want to ask after her parents locally.”

 

After Dr. Walid left, we soon discovered that we had to decamp to the coach house with its internet connection, since I was rusty and Nightingale had no clue. I taught him how to google things. (Thankfully, he'd had some experience with typewriters, so the concept of a keyboard was not utterly alien to him.) I printed out the Wikipedia article on “adult-infant interaction” and bookmarked some legitimate-looking non-pink sites on raising babies.

Now, these sites were clear on the fact that babies needed a lot of sleep, 18 hours of it to be precise, but it certainly didn't seem like it. Or Jane wailed in her sleep. Or only slept for five minutes at a time. At least she hadn't puked on us yet. If she did, it would probably be on one of Nightingale's suits.

Nightingale was currently sitting on the couch, singing a lullaby to Jane. His singing voice was nice, which more than compensated for the fact that he only remembered half the words to Rock-a-bye baby on the treetop. Less than half. I considered googling the lyrics.

Nightingale stopped abruptly. A smell drifted to my nostrils.

“Your turn to change the nappy, Peter”, Nightingale sighed. I groaned, rolled my eyes and set to it.

 

We'd improvised a cot out of the cardboard box and some blankets. Jane had started quieting for the night, which was very good for my tired self.

Now, Jane was still a baby, and thus prone to waking up screaming in hunger and/or poop at inopportune intervals. She howled like a police siren at 2 AM, as my watch, courtesy of Nightingale, duly informed me.

I rolled off the couch, didn't quite step on my governor laying down on the floor cocooned in blankets, and picked up Jane. I turned on the electric kettle, juggled the lump of momentarily-not-yelling baby in my arms, and prepared a bottle of formula for her.

The kettle clicked, and I prepared the bottle as fast as I could, sensing an impending howl. My speed was adequate, and I managed to begin feeding her before she could start up again.

I gingerly stepped over Nightingale and sat on the couch to feed Jane. She guzzled at the bottle.

After she was done, I thumped at her a bit to burp her, put her down to sleep, and washed the bottle. I was so tired that apparently I didn't even make it to the couch, but collapsed on top of Nightingale and, according to him, then stole half his blankets.

 

We were almost out of nappies when Dr. Walid returned. Me and Nightingale were in the atrium, looking positively dreadful due to lack of sleep. Nightingale was making faces at Jane, who was copying them. It was odd, seeing Nightingale laugh. He looked younger when he smiled. I felt myself smile at him poking his tongue out, a move eagerly copied by Jane.

Molly glided into the room on Dr. Walid's heels, bringing us tea and Jane baby formula. Molly poured tea for Nightingale, who thanked her. She went away.

“Thomas”, Dr. Walid began, “I received the results today. Jane is a completely normal human kid. Unlike the changeling Nicole whose genetic sample Peter sent me.”

Nightingale's teacup stopped halfway to his mouth. He set his cup down, then asked, “You're sure?”

“Yes.”

Nightingale looked at Jane and knitted his brows together. Jane did her best to emulate the expression. “But why would anyone leave a regular human child at our doorstep?”

I shrugged. “The Folly looks like it's got a load of posh inhabitants. Maybe Jane's abandoner hoped she'd be adopted by the rich people.”

Dr. Walid nodded. “The mother drowned herself in the Thames. She said she'd left her child with the father, but no-one knows who the father is.”

I glanced at Nightingale. He shook his head. Eh, the mother had probably lied so as to have people be less concerned. I doubted Nightingale would have much interest in visiting what was probably a female prostitute.

“Well, I don't suppose you could bring Jane here to the relevant authorities? I would like to be able to sleep a full night's sleep again.”

Dr. Walid agreed.

 

As he was leaving, I stopped Dr. Walid.

“So, Jane's name isn't really Jane. What is it?” I asked.

“The mother was a Tina Jones. The child's name”, Dr. Walid said, “is Molly.”