A/N: After a month of silence, I finally wrote a thing. It went painstakingly slow, and I'm not sure I'm happy with it, but it's done, and it means that I'm a step closer to breaking free from my writer's block–which reminds me: a big, fat thank you goes to everybody who's been giving me moral support through my fight with this demon of writers, especially to StargazerDaisy who's been the unfortunate subject of my whining for weeks now. Love ya, girl :) As for the piece itself – please, enjoy.
Lazy Morning
Grant carefully closed the bathroom door behind himself, then, as quietly as he could, he made his way across the dim room. It was early in the morning–not awfully early by his standards, but still early enough that most of the base was still asleep, making it the perfect time to hit the gym before the busy part of the day started.
A hand already on the doorknob, he paused, and turned back for a moment–he just couldn't leave before sneaking a look at the bed first. His lips curled into a decidedly foolish smile at the sight.
Skye was sleeping peacefully, her legs tangled in the sheets, lying slightly sideways on the mattress, leaning into his now empty side of the bed as if unconsciously looking for him; she had even taken his pillow, which now she held crushed against her chest, her face buried in it.
His hand falling from the doorknob, he took a tentative step towards the bed. A month or so ago this would have been the time when he had woken her, coaxed her out of bed, and dragged her down to the gym as well, but a lot of things had happened in the last month or so, so now it wasn't the case anymore.
His gaze involuntarily wandered to her abdomen–her shirt had ridden up a little as she slept, exposing just a small strip of tanned skin right above her hips, and drawing his eyes there. There was nothing there yet, at least nothing obvious–nothing to the unknowing eye–, but he was well-acquainted with her body, knew every curve and dip and freckle, and could already see the change there, just the slightest slope right above the waistband of her pajama bottoms as a tiny bump was already forming there.
She was pregnant, ten, almost eleven weeks now, and it was taking its toll on her physically: she was often tired, needing more sleep than before–that's why he tried to let her sleep in–, and nausea was tormenting her, sometimes making it almost impossible for her to keep anything down–he could even see in the sharper cut of her cheekbones that she'd lost some weight recently, something he'd been told was normal, but still worried him a little. But she still, well, for the lack of a better word, glowed. She was radiant and beautiful and amazing and a thousand other things he just couldn't put into words.
Not even realizing what he was doing, he crossed over to the bed, sat on the edge of the mattress (morning work out to be damned), and gently placed his hand on her belly, his fingers slipping underneath the hem of her top.
They hadn't planned this baby; it was a surprise, at one of the most inopportune moments, causing not a small amount of stress for them. There had been… some bad days, especially right after they had learned that Skye was pregnant, but still hadn't know if they could fit it into the life they were living, or if the baby was even viable; when everything had been unsure and scary, but they had gotten through them, and now he couldn't even imagine a universe where this child–their child–didn't exist.
It seemed even more impossible now after this week–they had had their second prenatal appointment just a couple of days ago and had an ultrasound done. It was also their second, but the first, done at six weeks to determine the pregnancy, showed barely more than a small blob with a pulsing center. But the baby had grown a lot in the last month, and on this second picture, now proudly displayed on the communal fridge (they were a crazy, dysfunctional family after all) a lot more could be seen: their baby now had a big head–and he could already see the nose and the mouth and the eyes forming–and a small body, with her tiny, thin arms and legs clearly visible…
He chuckled to himself. Her.
It was way too early to tell, of course, but he wished for a daughter. It was all he could imagine–a mini-Skye, pigtails flying as she impatiently pouts and stomps. A beautiful little girl who wears her heart on her sleeve, needs to be kissed goodnight to sleep well, but faces bravely the monster living under her bed.
Sometimes it was still a little hard for him to wrap his mind around the idea that in a couple of years this fantasy might just become reality, and that in barely six months he'd actually become a father.
Seized by a sudden impulse, he leaned in and, careful, trying not to wake her, pressed a light kiss against Skye's stomach.
"Hey, baby girl," he heard himself whisper; it was silly, of course–he knew it would be weeks before the baby could hear them–, but he just couldn't help himself. "It's your… dad. Or daddy. Whichever you prefer, really," he added, smiling at his own absurdity. "I just wanted to let you know that… well, that we're excited to meet you. There are a lot of great people out here that already love you. And…" He paused and took a deep breath. "Look, I'm going to mess up a lot, because, well, that's what I do. But I promise you that I'll do my best, okay? I'll do everything in my power to be the best father for you, the father you deserve–because you deserve the best parents in the world, and honestly, you couldn't even ask for a better mom–but if I scr... I mean, if I mess something up, just tell me, alright? And then we'll work on it. I love you, peanut," he concluded, giving Skye's belly one last gentle caress before withdrawing his hand; but he'd crossed the line with it–the next moment he heard Skye let out a small, discontent noise at being woken up, then she shifted, her nose wrinkling a bit as she stretched her legs, pulling the sheets with them.
"Hm… Is it morning yet?" she mumbled into her stolen pillow. He slid up a little on the bed and kissed the top of her head.
"Not yet. Go back to sleep."
"Then why are you up?" Without opening her eyes, she reached out and took his hand, pulling it to her face; he let her.
"I just had a little talk with the baby," he admitted softly.
She turned his hand around in hers and pressed a kiss against his palm. "And what did the baby say?"
"You tell me," he chuckled, and she wrinkled her nose again.
"I think she just wants to be let to sleep a bit more." She yawned. "But she really appreciates the conversation. She'll get back to you in a couple of hours."
Grant chuckled in amusement. "I'm all up for it," he replied, lacing their fingers together. "How are you feeling?" Mornings, and late afternoons, and any events including strong smells, really, hadn't been much fun recently due to her morning sickness; that was one aspect of her pregnancy he couldn't wait to pass.
She let out a breath. "Good. For now. I'd knock on wood…" she sighed, "but the nightstand is too far away."
"Fingers crossed," he said softly, still smiling and holding her hand as watched her breathing slowly even out again as she was falling back to sleep. He stayed for a while longer, just gazing at her, trying to imagine the same scene in a month, in six months, in a year–just the two (three) of them on lazy mornings… Then, when he was sure she'd fallen back to sleep, he carefully pulled his hand from hers and was just about to get up when he heard her voice once again.
"Grant?" she asked, opening her eyes and lifting her head a little. "Where are you going?"
"Just to the gym," he said. "I have a date with the punching bag."
She let her head drop back to the pillow, then let out a strange little noise that might have been intended to be a cross between a chuckle and a snort. "Shame on you," she mumbled into the pillow. "You barely knock me up, and you're already looking for your next affair."
"Like anyone could replace you," he grinned, then leaned in a pressed a kiss against her forehead. "I'll see you at breakfast," he said, finally getting up from the bed.
"Okay," she nodded sleepily, then added, "Make me pancakes when you're done? Please."
"Of course," he said, but he was half-sure that she didn't hear it–it looked like she'd already fallen back to sleep. So, as quietly as he could, he left the room, letting her catch a little bit more sleep while he did his morning workout and made her pancakes–which, he was afraid, she wouldn't even touch in the end.
(Twenty-nine weeks to go.)
