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Ichabod loved children. Truly he did. He did not like, however, waiting for his to be born. In his time, the wait would have been painful, yet oddly bearable. In this time, however, with ultrawaves and soundings and moving pictures and static pictures and pictures that moved and were of his child. He took comfort in knowing that Abbie was as anxious as he was and he enjoyed the few times he was able to feel the baby kick and punch his way around. Or her way, as Abbie reminded him. He desired a boy, but a girl as gorgeous as Abbie would be more than welcome. He couldn’t wait until he held his little boy or girl in his arms, but today was painting day. He didn’t quite understand why the room needed to be painted for the third time, but his reference material on pregnancies referred to the need to decorate as nesting, which was an odd way to define a human habit, but who was he to argue.
He could not keep his happiness hidden as he donned a set of clothing he did not mind getting paint on and joined his very pregnant wife in the nursery. He took a moment to study her. She was kneeling on the floor, prying at a container of paint with a flathead screwdriver, her tongue peeked out from between her lips, and her brows furrowed in concentration. Were it not for the large belly or shirt that was more a dress on her, he would think her puzzling over the mechanism to, well, a puzzle. And those had been right annoying, truth be told. But that was the past and this was his future. His further future. He was, after all, already in the future.
“May I?” he asked from the doorway.
Abbie looked up and smiled at him. “Of course you can come in.”
“I meant may I assist you in opening that can of paint.”
Abbie gave him a look then popped the top off with a triumphant grin. “I picked green. I figured it would be neutral enough. We can repaint when the baby has a favorite color.”
“I don’t think they’re born with a favorite color, Miss Mills,” he said, playfully arching his eyebrow.
“Oh, Mister Crane,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes, “you are so very silly.”
He smiled. “I am glad you did not attempt the dialect again.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
“No.”
Abbie snickered, picked up a brush, and stood. “Come on, you can get the spots I’m too short to reach.”
“I am a human ladder,” he murmured softly.
They painted for most of the day, with ample breaks for Abbie. He didn’t mind the work, really. No worse than dragging cannon through forests in the middle of a particularly nasty East Coast winter. No, this was rather simple and it served to ease Abbie’s nesting instinct. Anything he could do to help was welcomed on both sides of the coin. He felt useless in the face of what she was doing. He never expected her to become even more so amazing than he had already experienced, but here she was doing it. He lacked the proper words to describe just how wonderful she was. Though he did wonder, the two of them survived the apocalypse, could they survive parenthood?
***
The apocalypse was nothing to compared to this. Broken mirrors, resurrected dead friends, witches, demons, a headless man with a shotgun. Nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the shrill screeching of a child who refused to be comforted. No, the little Crane would not be rocked to sleep by mum. No, the little Crane needed father. Ichabod was happy to oblige. After he sped back home with what little groceries he had acquired in town. As fast as his long legs could move, he rushed into the cabin, into the nursery, and swept little Crane from Abbie’s tired arms. Immediately, there was silence.
“That is not fair,” Abbie groused quietly.
“Perhaps our child knows when mummy requires a break,” Ichabod said, arching a brow.
Abbie gave a huffing laugh. “The bossy Cranes.”
“All three.”