Work Text:
Rain
The moment they’ve placed this tiny, crying bundle of rosy skin and feathery hair into my arms, it felt wrong.
It felt wrong in so many ways.
Holding him felt wrong, feeding him felt wrong, hearing him cry was annoying and all these ‘Oh God, he is adorable!’ exclamations of friends and family were the most horrible thing ever. And I hated myself for feeling this way. I hated myself for not loving him the instant I laid eyes on him. I hated myself for not standing by his bed all day long watching him sleep. I hated myself for turning my back whenever he whimpered or cried. I hated myself most of all for not being the mother he deserved.
But then at least he had his father. His doting, loving father who worshipped him and his every inch of skin. Who held him and changed his nappy and showed off with him. Who loved him when I couldn’t.
Who forgave me when I couldn’t even forgive myself.
It’s Friday night and rain is falling in buckets from the sky, splattering against the windows in the conservatory and running down in endless streams along the glass. Benedict is out with some friends tonight to celebrate his fatherhood for the umpteenth time meaning I am left alone with Noah. My mum knows and she had offered to come over earlier but I declined, promising I’d call her if need be.
Now I’m here, listening to the rain, my 3-months-old son sleeping soundly in his cradle next to the sofa I am sitting on. He had whimpered a little earlier but calmed down straightaway, probably dreaming funny things again. I was on edge, nervous,...scared. Ridiculous, huh? Being scared of your own baby making a noise. I should be glad he was making noises at all. I should be glad he is alive. I should be the proudest woman on earth to finally have a baby, a son, with the man I loved with all my heart.
With a sigh, I put my book to the side, not registering what I am reading anyway. Hesitating at first, I get up quietly and take a few steps towards the cradle, looking down at this tiny human being, his little fingers clutching a cuddly Loki toy from his godfather Tom. Slowly but regularly his tiny chest rises with every breath he takes, his mouth hanging slightly open. It does look cute; he looks cute. And peaceful. Even happy and content. I sigh and let my hand run through my hair, feeling a little sad he had not inherited it. Instead he had short and fluffy ginger curls, clearly an inheritance from his father.
But what does it matter? He is healthy and...yes, he truly is beautiful. Now that I look at him more closely, I can see the tiny mole on his wrist, a blueprint of my own, and before I know it, I pick him up, carefully cradling his tiny frame in my arms, trying not to disturb his sleep. I am afraid I might hurt him, afraid I might do something wrong. Silly me. I should have waited for Benedict to come home. He could have shown me. But now it’s too late. He’s in my arms and there’s no way back.
Carefully, I sit back down on the comfy sofa, resting my back against the armrest holding him gently against my chest, the Loki toy now rolling out of his hand onto the fabric next to me. Making sure he’s safe, I pick it up again and place the cuddly toy next to him onto my chest within his hand’s reach. He is so light, so fragile and precious. His breathing is still calm and even and he looks as if he doesn’t care about the change in his sleeping position at all. Instead, he snuggles up to me, relishing the warmth emanating from my body through the thin fabric of my shirt.
I bite my lip and gently pull the woollen blanket over the two of us to keep him warm before I simply watch him sleep. I breathe in his scent of vanilla and baby, my fingertips slowly gliding up and down his back while his legs are tucked underneath him as if he’s back in my tummy and has to take up as little space as possible. Bless him.
I look up as I hear the front door open, the pattering of the rain a little louder for a moment before the heavy oak door snaps shut again. With a smile I register Benedict’s silent curses as he takes off his coat and shoes, clearly not amused about the weather and his lack of an umbrella. I am a little nervous now. What will he think when he sees me - us - like this? With a racing heart, I press a kiss onto my son’s head while I wait for my husband to enter the conservatory.
“Honey?,” he calls quietly and I turn my head. “I’m over here,” I reply as quietly as I can and, shortly after, his wet but still curly hair appears in the doorway, followed by the rest of him. “Hey. Are you alright?,” he asks, worry etched on his face, and I nod. “Yes, I’m fine. And you? How was your evening with the guys?,” I reply, a faint but nervous smile playing around my lips. “Good. It was great fun, actually. Was everything alright here?” Again, worry. He is worried about me, about his son, about the combination of us home alone. “Yes, perfect actually. He’s been sleeping most of the time and...and I made use of that to...to get to know him a little better,” I whisper nervously, averting my eyes to our sleeping son, guilty for not having done this earlier, for waiting three months.
“That’s wonderful,” he breathes, sitting down next to us and pressing a kiss onto my temple. “Actually, that’s more than wonderful,” he adds, gently placing his hand on mine which still rests on Noah’s back. “It feels good,” I mumble, looking up at him apologetically.
I don’t know what to say to make him forgive me. But then again, maybe he already has. And maybe he knows that this wasn’t my fault, that I never wanted to feel this way, that I simply wasn’t given a choice.
“I think our son agrees,” he smiles as Noah lets out a yawn, his tiny fingers now holding onto my blouse before he smacks his lips and lets out a content sigh, oblivious of what just happened. He is simply happy to be in the company of his parents, feeling cherished, protected, and - finally - loved.