Having a baby with best-friend Gator and he’s scared to meet and hold his baby for the first time.
Boots make noise as they drift down the hallway slowly, his palms sweaty as he swipes them across his camo, jugular constricting upon a harsh swallow. When he comes into the room, he takes off his hat immediately, peering, brown eyes wide and scared, and he sees you nursing her. You look up at him, not having expected his appearance so soon. Roy had him out of town and he was on his way back as fast as he could be, last you heard. He admits relief it took a while, but guilt because of fear.
And you say it’s okay. He cautiously brings a chair up by the bed and is terrified to look. You reassure him.
“You know me. I mean, there’s a new girl here, but she has your eyes, she knows your voice, so… Nothin’ we can do about that now. She’s pretty chill though.”
This causes a smile to quirk his lips. His hands are trembling, watching you gently maneuver the swaddled bundle into a little jostle, patting her butt lightly as she continues to feed. “Gator, you don’t need to be afraid of her. She’s just a baby. She’s your baby.”
Pain prickles across his chest, beneath the layers he wears. What if he looks at her and feels hollow? What if he’s made of the same dead nothing as Roy? What if he can’t hold her right, hurts her? What if she gets scared in his arms?
You sense this, however, interjecting. You reach with your free arm, grasping his wrist. This gets him to tilt his glance a little more. Your voice is gentle, calm. “Hey, you’re her dad. You’re not yours, do you understand me?”
At that moment your daughter chimes in with a little whine, stirring in your arms, her tiny fist popping free of her blankets. Gator has no choice but to look now. And when he does stare at her, it’s not fear. You watch the mossy embers in his eyes mist over, his nose crinkling. You whisper in encouragement.
The moment that brown eyes meet brown, Gator feels something overwhelming happening, something he isn’t sure he can ever name, ever know if he’ll be able to handle sanely. He realizes in seconds flat, that it’s love for an extended part of him, something he made with the most important person who has ever been in his life. He loves his child. And you, you’ve never been more in love with him than this moment of watching him realize what he’s truly capable of feeling.
“She’s so pretty,” he says, gently letting a hand reach out and a finger brush along her soft, chubby little cheek. “She looks just like you.”
Your heart flutters at that, both of you sharing this immeasurable look, as he glances up at you. But a soft fussy set of cries break it apart. She’s let go of your breast, most likely needing to be burped. Gator looks distressed.
“What’s wrong with her? Did I scare her?”
You chuckle lightly, reaching on your beside for the burping cloth your nurse had left behind. “No, I think she just swallowed too much air and needs to burp. Don’t you, little girl?”
“Oh.” He’s nodding. “Do you… Should I go?”
“Please stay?” You answer automatically, your own chest feeling the pressure. “I just need some time with my family.” You let it slip out and don’t realize, but Gator does, and he won’t forget that.
You work to get the baby over your shoulder with the rag, but neither shoulder calms her, and switching positions to burp don’t work either. You begin to feel anxious, frustrated with yourself, calming down in time for Gator to ask you, “Can I try?”
You’re awestruck, but automatically grant him with a yes. He jumps up first, a slight panic to his tone. It amuses you. “Wait! Let me clean my hands first.” He gets back to you after (throughly) scrubbing his hands.
Then reality sets in. Oh, shit. He has to care for a human? Will he know how to? You’re bringing him back into the room when you scoot over a little and ask him to sit beside you in the bed.
He’s more gentle than you’ve seen come from him, watching as you hand him the rag, following your instructions to place it over his shoulder, and you’re lifting a tiny little body with his nose and his eyes, placing it into his massive hands. An imagine forever seared on your mind. She’s crying in quicker paces now, and he almost forgets how to breathe, but you’re still there.
“Over your shoulder. One hand on her head, support her body with your spare. That’s it. Jesus, your hands are insane compared to her head, Gator.” He gently eases her chin over his shoulder, keeping her head secure with one massive palm, letting it glide down to support her body, the other starting to pat her back at your insistence.
There’s about a minute more of her fussing, stretching over him, and then she lets out the cutest little sound you’ve ever heard. Gator laughs, patting her through the burp, bringing her away, his hand under her tiny head, his forearm lying beneath her small body, spare palm keeping her cradled and balanced to his chest. She calms down almost immediately, blinking up slowly at him, her little tongue poking out between her lips.
“Look at you. You’re scaring the shit outta me right now, but we’ve got this, I think.” Another baby noise comes from her, as if she’s responding, and his thumbpad caresses her tiny ear, astonished confidence clear in his voice. “Yeah, we’ve got this.”
And what you’re thinking right now?
Baby number 2, baby number 2. When? Gator is a dilf now. I made him a dilf.
