Notes: Written for janet_carter.
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Gerard was in charge of naptime. He was, after all, the one who could sing.
Frank made no secret of the fact that he always tried to be around at that time of day. Sometimes he'd be sitting on the floor, leaning back on Gerard's legs, computer propped up on his knees while Gerard slowly rocked the baby to sleep. Other times he'd be lurking out in the next room, listening to the low murmur of Gerard's voice through the wall.
Sometimes he sang showtunes, old music, things Frank vaguely remembered from his own childhood. Other times it was slow and toned-down versions of their own songs, or their friends' songs. Frank had been talking to Patrick in the kitchen one afternoon, and hadn't understood the distant little smile on his face until he finally heard Gerard singing Grand Theft Autumn in the other room.
Most days, when the music stopped, Frank would creep in to find Gerard fast asleep in the recliner, the baby curled up against his chest. Sometimes, though, he'd still be awake, and he'd look up and smile when Frank came into the room.
"Hi," he'd whisper, holding out his free hand so that Frank could curl up against them on the arm of the chair. Gerard would wrap his arm around Frank's waist, holding him close, and they'd both sit there in silence, watching her sleep.
"Sing something?" Frank would ask him eventually, and he would, quietly, his voice as strong and beautiful as the first day Frank had heard it. These days, he didn't sing onstage anymore. He didn't sing in studios.
He only sang for Frank, and for her.