He doesn’t look fine. I give him the once over, wondering if I bitched at him more than usual yesterday, and give him a scant roll of my eyes as he gets up to help me sit down.
This time, I don’t bite his head off. It’s not the sitting down I have a problem with, it’s hauling my ass back up again. “I was sleeping,” I tell him, as I take his hand in mine and pull him down next to me, “I just woke up and you were… Well, gone.”
Yeah, okay, I’m not too fond of sleeping on my own. I mean… Well I haven’t, have I? Not for nine months at least. I like Wes near me. I like feeling his arms around me, keeping me safe… and I’m aware that’s a little pathetic, fine, but-Hey, pregnant and hormonal lately (and it makes up for the moments where Wes gets a little amorous and I’m telling him his penis is never coming near me again…)
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask again, “I know I’ve been kinda snippy with you lately.” Kinda snippy is an understatement. I’m worried I’m pushing Wesley away before our kid is even born (our healthy human kid) but I’m just so tired lately and food holds absolutely no appeal whatsoever and Wes always wants to *help* damnit, and sometimes I just don’t need help and-God, I’m even snappy towards him in my thoughts.
I feel only incredibly guilty at that and let my gaze drop. “I haven’t been the easiest person to live with these past few weeks, have I?”
Well, yes I wasn’t there because I was down here. And that sounds lame even in my head. Biting down on a sigh at my own ineptitude I get up to help her, already bracing myself for some snippy remark. I know we’ve been snippy toward each other quite a lot even before. It used to drive Angel crazy, much to our amusement. But for the last eight, nine month’s she’s been downright… well… bitchy.
I think I’ve called her a harpy or a banshee a number of occasion, immediately regretting it the moment the words left my mouth. It’s not her fault, I would scold myself, it’s the hormones and what this pregnancy is doing not only to her body but her mind as well. Really though, there’s only so much verbal abuse a man can take.
She sits down on the sofa and I get ready to make her - us - some tea. Usually that does help soothe whatever is ailing her this time. Herbs will get you a long way, and I’m not at all smug that I’ve been proven right. About tea and its amazement that is. Not that she’d ever admit that.
She pulls me down though to sit next to her. I sit down carefully, not knowing if she’ll get sick if I move to much, or if she’ll snip at me if I say to little. Wearily, I look at her, eyes going wide at her words. ‘Yes you were…are!’ I want to tell her. I don’t, however. Because she doesn’t like the way she is now anymore then I do. The hormonal mood swings, I mean, and the aching pains.
Everything else, I’m still ecstatic about. Though I’d wager Cordelia is less then happy about the weight. For me however, that’s the only sign *I* have that this is real. That I’m going to be a father.
“Love,” I murmur, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “You were never an easy person to live with,” I joke. “There would’ve been a great number of people who would’ve ran away crying and you know it.” Grasping her hands, I lace our fingers together and give her a squeeze. “And I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep…I’ve been…thinking.” And if anyone knows how much my brain at times is in need of an off switch, it’s her.
Okay, I'll give him that I'm not that easy to live with. I'm not honestly sure how Phantom Dennis put up with me some of the time, though I guess it helped that he was kind of dead.
He kisses my forehead and I close my eyes, finding myself not being irritable or snappy with him this time - not even in my thoughts - it's nice. And if there were ever a night I could just curl my fat self up on the sofa with Wesley, this would be it.
Of course, then Wesley says those three dreaded words and alarm bells start ringing in my head. "I've been...thinking."
My gaze shoots up and it's hard to keep the alarm off my face because Wesley always says that, that he's fine. But when he can't sleep and he's been thinking then there might be something wrong and I don't want there to be something wrong, damnit. We've had our fair share of wrong--Hell, we've had other people's share of wrong over the past few years. Right now I just want normal.
"Thinking about what?" I ask, proud of how I keep my voice level and how I don't sound at all like I'm panicking. This cannot be good. He has every book imaginable on pregnancy, childbirth, raising a child... If Wes is panicking... God, do I even want to know? "What's going on, Wes?"
Ah. Yes, there’s that look I wanted to avoid. That panicked look that shouldn’t be on her face. Especially not now. I sigh and run a hand over my face at her questions, wondering what I’m supposed to say. She’ll probably just scold me for thinking such stupid things. One stupid thing really, but I just can’t help it. Not with my heritage. What if it’s a vicious circle and I can’t break it?
“Just…thinking,” I say, trying to avoid the real issue here. She’s good, keeping the worry out of her voice. Keeping it from her face. She can’t keep it from her eyes though. Eyes truly are windows to the soul. I usually could tell when Angel… Anyway, with Cordelia I can tell her feelings even better. Sometimes I wonder if she can see mine, or if by now I had perfected the tight lid I had on my emotions.
Father’s lessons could never completely be forgotten. Father and his lessons are the reason I’m mostly worried.
“I was just wondering,” I start hesitantly, knowing I could never lie to her. Not really. Not about this, about our child. There have been enough lies in our lives. From our friends, from her, and from me. That has to stop. Has stopped. “Do you--” I continued haltingly, pausing to gather some courage and taking a deep breath. “Do you think I’d be a good father?” I ask quietly, afraid of the answer. “Truthfully. I mean…I’ve not had the best example and-and look what happened with…” Connor.
This time, I don’t bite his head off. It’s not the sitting down I have a problem with, it’s hauling my ass back up again. “I was sleeping,” I tell him, as I take his hand in mine and pull him down next to me, “I just woke up and you were… Well, gone.”
Yeah, okay, I’m not too fond of sleeping on my own. I mean… Well I haven’t, have I? Not for nine months at least. I like Wes near me. I like feeling his arms around me, keeping me safe… and I’m aware that’s a little pathetic, fine, but-Hey, pregnant and hormonal lately (and it makes up for the moments where Wes gets a little amorous and I’m telling him his penis is never coming near me again…)
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask again, “I know I’ve been kinda snippy with you lately.” Kinda snippy is an understatement. I’m worried I’m pushing Wesley away before our kid is even born (our healthy human kid) but I’m just so tired lately and food holds absolutely no appeal whatsoever and Wes always wants to *help* damnit, and sometimes I just don’t need help and-God, I’m even snappy towards him in my thoughts.
I feel only incredibly guilty at that and let my gaze drop. “I haven’t been the easiest person to live with these past few weeks, have I?”
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I think I’ve called her a harpy or a banshee a number of occasion, immediately regretting it the moment the words left my mouth. It’s not her fault, I would scold myself, it’s the hormones and what this pregnancy is doing not only to her body but her mind as well. Really though, there’s only so much verbal abuse a man can take.
She sits down on the sofa and I get ready to make her - us - some tea. Usually that does help soothe whatever is ailing her this time. Herbs will get you a long way, and I’m not at all smug that I’ve been proven right. About tea and its amazement that is. Not that she’d ever admit that.
She pulls me down though to sit next to her. I sit down carefully, not knowing if she’ll get sick if I move to much, or if she’ll snip at me if I say to little. Wearily, I look at her, eyes going wide at her words. ‘Yes you were…are!’ I want to tell her. I don’t, however. Because she doesn’t like the way she is now anymore then I do. The hormonal mood swings, I mean, and the aching pains.
Everything else, I’m still ecstatic about. Though I’d wager Cordelia is less then happy about the weight. For me however, that’s the only sign *I* have that this is real. That I’m going to be a father.
“Love,” I murmur, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “You were never an easy person to live with,” I joke. “There would’ve been a great number of people who would’ve ran away crying and you know it.” Grasping her hands, I lace our fingers together and give her a squeeze. “And I’m fine. Just couldn’t sleep…I’ve been…thinking.” And if anyone knows how much my brain at times is in need of an off switch, it’s her.
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He kisses my forehead and I close my eyes, finding myself not being irritable or snappy with him this time - not even in my thoughts - it's nice. And if there were ever a night I could just curl my fat self up on the sofa with Wesley, this would be it.
Of course, then Wesley says those three dreaded words and alarm bells start ringing in my head. "I've been...thinking."
My gaze shoots up and it's hard to keep the alarm off my face because Wesley always says that, that he's fine. But when he can't sleep and he's been thinking then there might be something wrong and I don't want there to be something wrong, damnit. We've had our fair share of wrong--Hell, we've had other people's share of wrong over the past few years. Right now I just want normal.
"Thinking about what?" I ask, proud of how I keep my voice level and how I don't sound at all like I'm panicking. This cannot be good. He has every book imaginable on pregnancy, childbirth, raising a child... If Wes is panicking... God, do I even want to know? "What's going on, Wes?"
Yeah, I really do.
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“Just…thinking,” I say, trying to avoid the real issue here. She’s good, keeping the worry out of her voice. Keeping it from her face. She can’t keep it from her eyes though. Eyes truly are windows to the soul. I usually could tell when Angel… Anyway, with Cordelia I can tell her feelings even better. Sometimes I wonder if she can see mine, or if by now I had perfected the tight lid I had on my emotions.
Father’s lessons could never completely be forgotten. Father and his lessons are the reason I’m mostly worried.
“I was just wondering,” I start hesitantly, knowing I could never lie to her. Not really. Not about this, about our child. There have been enough lies in our lives. From our friends, from her, and from me. That has to stop. Has stopped. “Do you--” I continued haltingly, pausing to gather some courage and taking a deep breath. “Do you think I’d be a good father?” I ask quietly, afraid of the answer. “Truthfully. I mean…I’ve not had the best example and-and look what happened with…” Connor.
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