Dreamchild
Chen coerced (asked nicely?) Alanna into making a lovely collage for me. This ficlet is the result. Thanks, guys.
He looked down into the bassinette. Little blue eyes looked back up at him. He was so tiny, so perfect. His miracle.
He twisted the gold band on his left hand, the way he always did when he was thinking. Life was full of miracles. Well, not life, not really, but every successive day that seemed to matter less and less. He looked across to the king sized bed, where his beloved lay in the arms of Morpheus. She sprawled across the surface, her petite body somehow managing to fill all the unused space he had vacated. He knew that when he returned, those wandering limbs would find their way home, wrapping themselves around him like his personal security blanket.
But for now, he’d let her sleep in peace. He had something else to do. Contemplate his newborn son.
How could a human being be so small? The baby’s fingernails fascinated him. Little hard, shiny dots no bigger than the end of a pencil eraser. He compared them to his own hands, wondering if they had once been so tiny. Knowing they had, but so very long ago now. Had his father once stared down in wonder at his own bassinette, musing on the nature of fingernails? What was the greater miracle, that a body long dead could produce something a lively as this child, or that something so small could grow to be a man. He vowed to protect this child, and his mother, with everything that was in him.
He was afraid to touch the baby. He wanted to, longed to pick it up and hold it close, never letting it go. But this child was impossible, sweet and delicate and good. He feared that touching it, he would burst it like a soap bubble, his impurity violating its perfection. He knew his fears were foolish, that it took great strength for a child to push out of its mother’s womb, to take that first great gasp of breath. He knew that he was not impure, not anymore, to help produce something so clean and true. He knew that, in his mind, but still he feared.
Afraid to touch the child, he passed his hand over its chest, along his arm, careful to keep space between his hand and its body. He wondered at the love that swelled his chest. He knew he could love, had loved most of his life and after, that love was a natural state for him. He knew he could love a woman, that he loved his Buffy beyond all reason, but this was a new emotion. This was love, and pride, and deep devotion. This was care, and fear, and the need to protect. This was what his father had felt.
His hand was over the baby’s hand, now. The child seemed impatient for his daddy’s touch. He grasped Spike’s forefinger and squeezed, holding on tightly. This was unexpected. This was wonderful. The child was strong.
Love overcoming fear, he reached down into the bassinette and picked up the baby, smiling as he held it to his chest. It didn’t break. It didn’t evaporate. It was real. He was real. His son.