Grace hadn’t known what to expect, only to expect the worst. Pearce’s wicked grin as he pulled in his newest packages were enough of a sign of danger–there would be no more Mr. Nice Babysitter.

And then out came the spreader bar.

Grace stared. “Wait–”

“Bottoms up,” Pearce replied, waltzing in with a box under one arm, a spreader bar in one hand, and a full bottle of milk in the other. “Babies don’t need to walk, anyways.”

“Hold on, we said outfits,” Grace complained. Her pillow-packed onesie was one thing, she’d been forced to waddle around all morning on account of it, but a spreader bar? “That’s not an outfit, it’s a–”

“It was listed under ‘apparel’ on the website I ordered from,” Pearce replied, waving the bar in a baton-style gesture. “Apparel means outfits.”

“But–”

“You know what else technically qualifies as clothing?” Pearce asked, reaching into his pocket.

Grace hesitated. “What?”

He produced a pacifier. “If you don’t stop complaining, I might decide you need to wear this between your lips–so hush, and lay down, and let’s get you changed.”

Rolling her eyes, Grace got onto her bed. The bars of the crib frame had been set aside, so her bed could be used as a changing pad. Legs splayed from the pillow crammed into her current onesie, she rolled onto her back for Pearce to get at her, blushing at the awkwardness of it all. The onesie was annoying and made walking clumsy, but otherwise fell into the juvenile-but-comfortable she’d grown accustomed to. She’d hoped Pearce would keep the clothes choices to ‘merely annoying’. No luck there, it seemed.

Pearce unbuttoned her onesie, removed the pillow to get at her soggy diaper, and began ripping off tapes one-by-one. With the pillow gone, her legs relaxed, and she became aware of the extra effort she’d been putting in to keep her legs apart.

He had, at least, been more vigilant about changes–and he’d begun dissolving some kind of capsules into Grace’s baby bottles, which’d had the effect of making her need to pee a couple times an hour. Her attempts to hold it until she could flood and leak were thwarted by plastic pants and a constantly-running bladder.

Wadding up her old diaper, he set it aside and produced slightly-warmed baby wipes, cleaning her up. “Sog monster,” he snickered.

“Your fault,” Grace pouted, sticking out her tongue.

A gentle dusting of powder applied, Pearce wrapped her up in a new diaper. It felt even fluffier than normal, and also, just slightly warm to the touch.

“Did you heat this up?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Ran it in the dryer for a couple minutes to puff it,” Pearce replied, sticking down the tapes. “Okay, you’re all changed. Sit up, and let’s get you dressed.”

She did, raising her arms so he could pull off her onesie, so that her only remaining clothes were a bra and her diaper. Smirking, he went into his new box of tricks and produced a striped footed sleeper, one that looked…fairly normal.

“Okay, what’s the catch here?” Grace asked.

“Just that it’s tamper proof,” Pearce said. “So that fussy babies can’t wriggle out of it. The zip in the back locks.”

“I’m not allowed to take off my clothes anyways,” Grace pointed out. “Why bother?”

“Because,” Pearce gloated, setting his things down on her desk. “Now you’ll know you really are stuck.”

That logic had an unfortunate sort of solidity to it, and Grace swallowed. He was right–even if it literally had few practical results, the psychology of feeling trapped made her squirm a little as he unfolded it and pulled the legs up over hers.

“Hold still,” he said, while she stuck out her legs.

“I am,” she said. “You’re–just let me do it.”

“No,” he insisted, as the snug elastic got caught on her feet again. It took most of a minute, but he got her legs on, feet wrapped up in the bottoms–it just had a sort of grippy rubber on the bottom instead of soles.

Grace had to stand so he could pull it into place, pull her arms through the sleeves, and finally zip up the back, pulling on little parts of the sleeper to get out any pinch points or bunched-up areas. With two little ‘clicks’, he buttoned down the zipper, trapping her in the outfit.

“How’s that feel?” he asked, patting down her sides and pulling the fabric around the front of her, in a gesture that felt almost like a hug from behind.

“It’s fine,” Grace said, glad he was behind her, that he couldn’t see her blush.

“Alright, lay back down,” he instructed.

Grace didn’t know what to think of his more gentle touch. She’d grown used to the dressing ritual being a nuisance, but he was really taking his time now, making sure she was comfortable, being almost… nurturing?

(He’s probably just taking the time to gloat,) she decided, laying back down on the bed as instructed.

Pearce lifted her legs and, with a grin that did nothing to dispel Grace’s assumptions about him, clicked the collapsed bar into place, soft, plush-lined cuffs tightening around each ankle. When fully shortened, the bar was only a little over a foot long, but as he pushed her legs wider, it moved to compensate, extending to two feet, and then three, holding her ankles far enough apart that standing wouldn’t be even remotely possible.

Testing the latch to make sure the bar wouldn’t retract, Pearce let go. “Alright,” he said. “Have fun crawling, crinkles. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.”

Grace’s heart skipped a beat, and she had to ask herself why. She came up dry of answers. “Is that it?”

“What, were you hoping for more?” Pearce asked.

She shook her head, sitting up. Legs forced apart by the bar, it made it even harder to hold her bladder, and she felt a dribble of pee escape her involuntarily as her body decided to give up on holding it. “No, I just–it’s not very creative,” she said, grasping for an excuse.

Grace didn’t know what she wanted, she just didn’t want Pearce to leave yet. Wasn’t he going to watch her crawl around a bit, maybe tease her over it? Take the time to lord over how much his new plan was annoying her?

“I’m going to go take a nap,” Pearce said. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you leak–not that you would mind that, you seem to enjoy having soggy clothes lately.”

“I don’t enjoy soggy clothes, I enjoy making you pay up,” Grace shot, in a final attempt to rile him into some banter.

“Sure thing, potty pants,” Pearce said, turning and waltzing out of her room.

(Jerk,) Grace fumed. And then, (Why am I mad?)

She stood to move to her desk, stumbled, flopped onto the floor in a pratfall. Glancing up at the door, she looked, and–

Pearce wasn’t watching. He’d genuinely left.

(Ugh.) Planting her knees on the floor, she crawled over to her door, slammed it shut, and then moved to take a seat.

Even seated, though, the spreader bar was still a nuisance–she couldn’t get her legs under her desk, the space wasn’t quite wide enough unless she turned her hips awkwardly, so she had to move her laptop off her desk and move over to bed, propping her back up on some pillows so she could work in a seated position, even if her legs were splayed out in a V.

Her focus lasted about thirty seconds before she was glancing at her door again. Waiting for Pearce to come back in and reveal he had something else up his sleeve, that he hadn’t just given up after dressing her. She wriggled, feeling uncomfortable already–between the spreader bar and the all-encompassing footed pajamas that wrapped her up, and…

(He didn’t cut off the tag,) she noted. The tag was a little offset since the zipper was in the back, but it itched at the back of her neck. She didn’t mind, much, but it was a nuisance that had nothing to do with babying her, so she set aside her laptop, dropped to the floor, and crawled on all fours out to the hall.

“Pearce,” she demanded. “Hey, Pearce!”

No answer.

“HEY!” she called, pounding on his door.

No answer.

“Pearce!” Grace called again. “Open the door!”

Grace sat on the ground, arms crossed, pouting up at the door.

Pearce threw open his door. “I just changed you, you got a bottle–what?”

“This onesie still has a tag,” Grace said. “And you were ignoring me.”

“I’m allowed to take a twenty minute nap,” Pearce complained.

“And I’m allowed to whine about it, babysitter,” Grace shot back. Pointing with a thumb at the back of her pajamas, she said, “Tag. Deal with it.”

“And then you’ll let me nap?” he asked.

She swallowed. She wanted to hang out more, to… (What do I want? For him to make fun of me? Why?)

“Yeah,” she said. “Unless you forgot something else.”

“Fine, wait here,” he grumbled, turning to march back into his bedroom to find scissors.

It was attention, but it wasn’t what she wanted. His attitude was begrudging, annoyed. Not mirthful or triumphant.

(But…I want him to be annoyed. To give up. This is good, isn’t it?)

He returned with a pair of old scissors, reached down the back of her pajamas, and snipped the tag. “Alright. Bye.” Walking away, he shut his door–he didn’t slam it in her face, exactly, but that’s what it felt like.

Pursing her lips, Grace crawled back into her room, straight into bed. Her laptop was still there, but she pushed it aside, lying back, pulling a cover over herself.

She felt tired, inexplicably tired. Pearce had made her coffee that morning, and if the bet did one thing well, it ensured she got a solid amount of sleep every night. There was no reason to be this tired, so… why?

The idea of demanding that Pearce make her another coffee crossed her mind, but that just came with a pang of guilt. He did actually deserve a nap–unlike her, his sleep had been cut short every morning, forced to wake up so he could wake her up. He was putting in the effort.

She felt mad, and ashamed of being mad, and the frustration at herself made her want to curl up in a ball.

(What the fuck is wrong with me?)

Grace couldn’t, in fact, curl up in a ball; with her legs spread apart, her only marginally-comfortable options were laying on her back or her stomach. Choosing her back, she pulled the blankets over herself.

Maybe a nap was what she needed, too. Even if she couldn’t fathom a reason for it, the fatigue and feeling of being drained had overwhelmed her.

She sniffled. Her eyes were wet. (Am I crying? Why am I crying?) She sniffled again, louder, and–

The door to Pearce’s room opened, and he stepped out, holding a plastic cup. He glanced over at her. She hadn’t shut her own door, he could see her clearly, see her red eyes, even as she tried to wipe her face and appear fine.

“What?” she asked, half glaring at him, half pleading with her eyes. Nothing made sense, her body didn’t seem under her control.

“I had to, uh, get some water,” he said, pointing to the bathroom and holding up the cup in his hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, wiping her face with an arm. “Just…I don’t know. I think I’m sick or something, I feel really tired. I was going to sleep.”

He paused, and set down his cup.

“Hey,” Pearce said, after a moment of thought. “If you’re taking a nap, let me take off that bar. That’s got to be a pain to sleep in.”

Grace nodded. “Sure. Thank you.”

He walked over, removing the cuffs from her feet. They weren’t properly locked, just fastened in place, and he jimmied them free in a moment. “Okay,” he said, setting the bar aside. “Scoot over.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I’m gonna do the babysitter thing,” he said. “And that means you do what I say. Scoot over.”

She did, and to her surprise, Pearce sat down on the bed next to her, kicked up his feet, and lay down next to her.

Taking out his phone, he scrolled for a moment on the internet, cleared his throat, and started, “Once upon a time, there lived a very ugly duckling…”

Grace raised her eyebrows, smirking. “Wait, seriously?”

“Storytime.” He grinned over at her. “It’s what every baby needs, right? I’ll try and do voices, but my duck’s a little limp.”

Giggling, Grace said, “Say that again, I think I misheard.”

He rolled his eyes. “So there was this super ugly duckling–like, hideous. Ugliest little featherball you’ve ever seen, and…”

By the time his nursery story was done, Grace was asleep, arm stretched over his chest.

Pearce dozed off a minute later.