be· gin· ning | \ bi-ˈgi-niŋ
noun
: the point at which something begins : start
.
xxiii
spring
age twenty-six
.
Wes becomes a grandfather at 4:06 a.m. on April 14th.
As soon as he gets the text from Rogue – we're home, come visit! – he drops everything and makes the drive to Crocus, excitement and nervousness bubbling in his stomach the entire time.
"They're asleep," Rogue says softly after a long hug. He looks exhausted, but Wes has never seen him this content.
The living room is a disaster, and Sting is fast asleep in the corner of the couch. Blankets and diapers are strewn across the floor, and there's a half-empty bottle wedged between the two cushions by Sting's feet. His hair is a mess, blond curls twisted in every direction, and resting on his chest is the smallest baby Wes has ever seen. Sting must have been this small at some point, but Wes is pretty sure this little one would fit cupped in his hands.
He's about to move into the living room when the baby makes a soft snuffling sound and waves a tiny fist in the air. Sting is immediately awake, wide eyes trained on the bundle in his arms as he sits up.
"Hey, my sweet girl," he says softly, and the smile that crosses his face spreads warmth through Wes' chest. It's soft and sweet and hopelessly in love. "Are you hungry, darling?" Sting asks, shifting the baby in his arms and running his fingers through her fine, blonde hair. She makes a distressed sound and he stands up, humming quietly as he rocks her back and forth. "You're okay," he murmurs, running one finger down over her nose as she gazes up at him. "Daddy's got you."
Wes can't hold in a sniffle and Sting looks up at him, eyes wide. His surprised expression quickly transforms into a smile and he steps over the mess on the floor and pulls Wes into a one-armed hug.
"Hey," he says softly, looking down at the little girl in his arms again. The look of complete adoration on his face is contagious, and Wes reaches over to touch her tiny hand. "Here," Sting says, shifting until he can hold her out to Wes.
Wes hasn't held a baby since Sting was born, but the movements come back as if it hasn't been twenty-six years. She stops fussing as soon as he holds her against his chest, one finger held tightly in her tiny grip.
"This is Aurora," Sting says. "Aurora Wesley Eucliffe."
Wes is about to argue that Wesley is a boy's name when he sees the expression on Sting's face. Of course Sting wouldn't care about that.
"Why would you name her after this old fart?" Wes asks instead, voice rough from the tears he tries to hold in.
"You're my dad," Sting says softly, still gazing at his daughter. Wes' throat tightens and he gazes down at Aurora and her bright blue eyes. "You taught me how to be a parent. And if I can be half the father to her that you are to me…"
There's a thousand things Wes wants to say – thank you, I love you, you're already amazing, you've come so far – but they're caught behind the lump in his throat that won't go away no matter how hard he swallows.
"Aurora," Sting says, tipping his head against Wes' and running his hand over his daughter's head. "Say hi to your Grampa."