Baby Mine
(rated C for cavities)
The first time he feels their child move inside of her-really move, a sharp and pointed nudge-he cries, huge gasping, wracking sobs that leave his eyes red rimmed and his nose stuffy for the rest of the night.
They're sprawled across the couch, her legs thrown over his lap. A movie plays on the television, something that she'd put in out of habit when they'd settled down after dinner, but neither one of them are watching; she's reclined back against the arm rest, eyes closed, but he knows she's not really sleeping, because he's been watching her for the better part of an hour.
He runs a finger over one of her swollen ankles, asking a silent question, and she cracks open one eyelid to look at him.
"Do you really even have to ask at this point?" Her voice is dry, deadpan, and he chuckles as he slips his hand more firmly around the inflamed joint, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a smile at her contented sigh.
"Thank you," she murmurs as he works his way up and down her calf. Not for the first time, he wishes for another hand, five more fingers with which to bring her pleasure, but then she sighs again, and he's happy enough to know that he can bring her any amount of pleasure.
"Anything for the lady," he teases gently, winking at her when she rolls her eyes.
Her long lashes flutter closed once more, and he slides his hand farther up her leg, pushing up the hem of her cotton pants to lay his cheek against the silky skin of her thigh. She's warm and smooth and so undeniably perfect, and he can't help pressing his lips in a little line down to her knee. Her hands come to land in his hair-she's always fingering the dark locks now, now that he's let it grow out some for her-and he hums his own appreciation as her nails scrape over his scalp.
"I love you," he says into the crease of her knee, feeling rather than hearing her reciprocation when she rubs softly at the skin just under his ear, the spot that makes him fall apart for her every time. He lets his own eyes fall closed, and they soothe each other into something just short of slumber.
He doesn't know if minutes or hours have passed when he feels her tense beneath him. He tilts his head up to look at her, blinking through drowsiness to frown at her expression of discomfort.
He straightens almost immediately, reaching out for her as she bites her lip in pain.
"What is it?"
She shakes her head, halfheartedly waving him off as she shift her hips. "Nothing. He's just-I don't know, he's kicking or something. Right in my side."
Her hands move to cradle her rounded belly, smoothing over the surface, and his follow suit. He feels the now-familiar rolling sensation as the baby moves beneath the thin barrier of her skin, and he presses his fingers down, massaging the way he's learned feels best. Her hand links with his, pulling it to the side a few inches, and he moves obligingly before freezing.
Every muscle in his body tenses, the breath catching sharply in his throat, and he stares down at her with eyes blown wide.
It happens again a moment later; the outline of a nearly perfectly shaped miniature foot presses against the skin of his palm, once, twice, insistently.
He blinks, and he tries to breathe, but suddenly there's a lump in his throat and a knot in his chest, and then his eyes are welling up and nearly spilling over.
She frowns up at him, lips parting in question, but he feels that little kick again, and when he chokes over a sob, her expression clears in understanding.
Part of him is horrified-he spent three hundred years as bloody Captain Hook, and now he's crying like the babe cradled in her womb-but there's a bigger part of him that is absolutely, completely, terrifyingly overwhelmed.
He's felt elbow nudges and the sharp ridge of knuckles and even the roll of a knee, but this-this is different. This is him cradling his unborn child's foot, and all he can think about are ten tiny toes and blue and white striped socks and first steps and-
Bloody hell.
It hits him then, the fact that this baby is real, more real than a sonogram or a name stitched along the edge of a blanket or a picture that he has in his mind of Emma's chin and his ears and their son.
Their son.
And it seems so little, so inconsequential, just this little nudge, but somehow it isn't, and he wants to feel more of it. He wants to trace his fingers along satin skin and gossamer hair in a way that he's never wanted before.
Emma's hand moves from covering his on her rounded belly, slipping up his arm and around his neck and pulling his head down onto her shoulder, where he willingly rests. He screws his eyes shut against the burn of emotion there, tries to focus on the way her fingers card through his hair, tries to just breathe, but then he feels another little push pressing into the palm of his hand, and he looses it again, because he helped make that little foot.
It's more than he ever imagined it would be, more than he ever thought, more than he could ever deserve, to have this woman he loves carrying his child.
His head shifts down, and he moves his hand just enough to press his lips to the spot where he last felt that little foot. His fingers flex around the bulge of her stomach, willing the next four weeks to pass with merciful haste.
He wants to love this child in a way that he was never loved, yearns for sticky kisses bath time bubbles and tiny arms wrapped tight round his neck.
But for now, for now he does what little he's able to do-smooths his fingers over Emma's stretched skin, and nuzzles against the little body still swaddled inside.