The Morning After
A/N: Hello! This isn't much, but I hope you like it. Because M/M and George are always adorable and the sweetest family ever :)
The early autumn air was cold and crisp as an apple; rich yellow maple leaves fluttering languidly down at his feet like golden rain, as though in celebration of the birth of his little boy.
Matthew strode through the hospital gates – no, that wasn't quite the right word – he was practically bouncing, his heart leaping and floating in his chest, lighted up with complete, utter, indescribable joy. His lips were beaming in a breathless, eager smile – it seemed as though he'd never stopped, not since yesterday – and never would cease, not now that he was … a father. That he was blessed with the most beautiful baby boy in the world, that he had for his wife the most wonderful woman he'd ever known. That he had a family, and they were his. And oh God, how he loved them both. He would do anything for her – for them – anything in the world that was within his power to give, because … they deserved it. This time yesterday, his darling, darling Mary had been leaving Duneagle for the train station – and little did he know it was to be the day his life would change irrevocably, in the most surreal, wondrous way.
A nurse showed him through to her room, that little room he had left so unwillingly mere hours ago. He pushed the door open – tentatively, softly – and peered in, warmth spreading from his fingertips down to his toes at the vision he beheld. His wife was cooing softly to their baby, her hair loose and slightly tousled, her eyes heavy with sleep … but the light in her eyes, in her lips and voice, was unmistakable.
"My darlings," he whispered, walking forwards to press his lips softly to her forehead, his eyes flooded with bright affection and tender concern. "Mary … how are you feeling, my love?"
"Pretty sore," Mary smiled, but quickly added, "but I'm mending, darling, and I'm quite all right, so there's no need to worry. I only need to rest a bit, and then I shall be back to normal."
"You'll be up and about in no time," he grinned, kissing her forehead again. "And – oh, my darling little chap – Mary, do you think I might…"
"Of course …"
He cradled George gently as he was passed into his arms, kissing his nose, his forehead; softly quieting him, for he had begun to squirm and whimper. He could feel the wispy brown hair again, softer than the finest silk, against his palm, his fingers … Matthew's hand ghosted with infinite, impossible tenderness over the chubby cheek, almost afraid to hurt him, or do something wrong, but … the baby's tiny fingers suddenly, slowly curled around his thumb, with a surprisingly firm grip. Matthew gasped quietly, and the purest adoration flooded him, body and soul. For the miracle that his son was.
"He has your eyes," Mary whispered. "Isobel told me all babies have blue eyes, at least at first … but – darling, I hope he looks like his papa …"
"Don't be silly," Matthew chastised her fondly, "I hope he looks as much like you as possible – and if he doesn't, well … he'll be like you, darling …"
They were quiet for a minute, watching their little chap wriggle sleepily within the confines of the soft white blanket in which he was swaddled, their eyes feasting upon every feature, still so new, so unbelievable, still … and Mary looked up to find her husband gazing at her, blushing slightly, overwhelmed by the pure love in his eyes.
"What is it?" she teased him.
He shook his head, laughing a little, but all the same his hand rose to cradle her face, his thumb stroking his wife's cheek with incredible gentleness, as he murmured, "Nothing, it's only … my darling, do you have any idea how much I miss you both every waking second?"
Mary leaned into his palm, smiling. The look in her eyes was answer enough for him.
"I love you," he whispered.
Matthew's hand rose to cradle her face, his thumb stroking with incredible gentleness, silently asking her if he might …
He read the answer in her eyes, the way they darkened and sparkled in anticipation, and he leaned forwards to kiss her, just as he had done the day before. God's in his Heaven, all's right with the world, he thought, though he doubted either Browning or Byron or Tennyson could ever find the right words to describe how he felt. About the miracles that … his family was. He didn't know what he had ever done to deserve them, either of them, but he knew damned well that he was the luckiest, happiest man to walk the earth.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I would love to hear your thoughts! :)