Nothing he could do but cross the threshold properly, then – Evander was sure his footsteps felt thunderous as he paced over, feeling like a bull in a china shop even from feet away. Caroline already looked perfectly at ease with the world, being a mother; she shifted the baby in her arms as if she had done it a hundred times before. But then, she was that way with everything; she was never nervous at anything new.
And he – loved her so terribly, because or in spite of that. He was so afraid of losing her that he thought perhaps he ought to love her harder. Unless showing it more only ended up tempting fate? Because he couldn’t lose her now, not now they had a daughter. He simply couldn’t do it without her. Still, he came to sit down beside her, perching on the edge of the bed, and peered at the infant in her arms.
She was... well, an odd little thing. Like most babies he had seen. Evander had not seen them often enough up close to consider himself familiar with them, particularly, but it was quite evident to him that they all looked precisely the same. Wrinkly faces and stubby fingers and bulbous heads, and one could surely not find hide nor hair to differentiate them, whatever people said. Evander scrutinised their baby’s face intently, trying to discern some firm feature on the child’s face that he would be able to recognise again – but there were no obvious birthmarks. So he would just have to hope for the best with that.
Really, that fear ought to have tipped him over the edge into anxiousness, but instead Evander cleared his throat and reached out, hesitantly, for the baby’s stubby-fingered hand. He – well, he supposed he shook it, briefly, between his finger and his thumb, a little overcome with awe at the smallness and the fragility and the realness of her. “Oh,” he said, – “Oh,” he breathed again. But the lump in his throat rose until clearing his throat didn’t work, and a little sob came out instead. And then another heaved out of his chest before he could help it – some horrendous, distraught sound – as the tears began to stream.
And he – loved her so terribly, because or in spite of that. He was so afraid of losing her that he thought perhaps he ought to love her harder. Unless showing it more only ended up tempting fate? Because he couldn’t lose her now, not now they had a daughter. He simply couldn’t do it without her. Still, he came to sit down beside her, perching on the edge of the bed, and peered at the infant in her arms.
She was... well, an odd little thing. Like most babies he had seen. Evander had not seen them often enough up close to consider himself familiar with them, particularly, but it was quite evident to him that they all looked precisely the same. Wrinkly faces and stubby fingers and bulbous heads, and one could surely not find hide nor hair to differentiate them, whatever people said. Evander scrutinised their baby’s face intently, trying to discern some firm feature on the child’s face that he would be able to recognise again – but there were no obvious birthmarks. So he would just have to hope for the best with that.
Really, that fear ought to have tipped him over the edge into anxiousness, but instead Evander cleared his throat and reached out, hesitantly, for the baby’s stubby-fingered hand. He – well, he supposed he shook it, briefly, between his finger and his thumb, a little overcome with awe at the smallness and the fragility and the realness of her. “Oh,” he said, – “Oh,” he breathed again. But the lump in his throat rose until clearing his throat didn’t work, and a little sob came out instead. And then another heaved out of his chest before he could help it – some horrendous, distraught sound – as the tears began to stream.
