Parry had tried to be patient with Tony and the others as they left the bunker deep underground. He really had. But this... this was beyond absurd. 

The onesie, while infantile, was still made by Calvin Klein, so he could in fact be caught dead wearing it. See also the Crock shoes he wore dangling from his feet. And he could suffer through the Huggies, seeing as they were all part of the facade in the first place. The baby sling around Tony's shoulders was uncomfortable, but it worked for transportation purposes.

It was the fact that even as an adult Parry's mind and mouth had a tendency to wander, leaving him babbling on completely without a cause or care in the world during their drive here, that made Tony reach into Parry's bag and (much to Parry's surprise) remove a pacifier before shoving it in Parry's mouth. That had set Parry in a cross mood for two reasons: first, he didn't like being told (much less forced) to shut up, and second, his beloved bag should only ever answer his call. Why had it responded to Tony?

He didn't have long to contemplate that fact since they parked the cars outside the Holzberg manner and stood awaiting the night's trials and tribulations. Parry shivered just looking at the place. He might not be a fully grown angel any more, but the spirits here were far from settled and the place stank of raw magic. Anything could be inside those gates- werewolves, witches, even Russians- and Parry wouldn't know it.

"Fow the wecowd," Parry grumbled after removing the pacifier, fidgeting in his sling as he looked up at Tony, "baby fat makes a bad human shiewd. I won't stop any buwwets coming youw way."

Which gave Parry an idea, if a small one.

"Can you weach in the bag an' get me a mawkew? I can't cut off heads, but I can stiw dwaw wawds on you guys."