Theme 8 - Babies (Draco/Greg/Vince)
Edited with a vengance as of 1:30 EST - sounds better now I think.
Theme: 8 - Babies
Fandom/Pairing: Draco/Gregory/Vincent
Title: Evangeline
Author: Lady Zip
Rating: PG - fuffity fluff fluff...
Disclaimer: Please don’t murder me Ms.Rowling. I wuv you… ;_;
There’s something so so funny about the picture they make.
Vincent sitting in our big deep tub, soaking up to his chest in bubbles. His muscled arms and broad shoulders are decorated with strong lines, the artwork of his youth that he has not yet outgrown. And held easily in both his big hands, tiny Evangeline giggles and bats at the bubbles as she rests on his folded knees.
He has nothing but smiles for her, tickling her round belly and holding her still in the water to let her kick her feet, carefully cradling her while she squirms about, having her messy little mop of hair washed.
My mother said she looked like me, which is silly because she’s not biologically any of ours, but the green in her eyes reminds me of Greg and she’s as blonde as anything, and because she’s just a little copycat at this age she’s got Vincent’s laugh.
When something strikes him funny he’ll burst out into rolling chuckles and if she’s near - which is nearly always - she’ll copy him with insistent squeals of mirth, trying to match the pattern, redoubling her volume when he laughs harder at the look on her face.
He tries to get her to listen to all his favourite music - the stereo forever playing any rock songs that he can find without profanity in them. He’s had her banging away on her little five-note xylophone for hours while he conducts her with his fingers.
She’s quieter with Greg, but only because Greg is quiet in general.
He’ll lie down to read a book and she stretches out on his chest, yawning great bit yawns for such a tiny baby. She sleeps for hours, lulled by the swell of his chest as he breathes.
He never quite says it but I know how much he loves for her to nap with him. It’s their own private world where he can pet her hair and tell her how pretty she is without her attention being diverted by something shiny elsewhere in the room.
He tries to read her books but she’s the queen of interruption, smacking her little hands down on all the pretty colours, unconcerned with their names or what objects they are usually associated with. Greg winces to see how she smacks the books around, but smiles all the same because of how happy she is while doing it.
He shows her very simple charms, carrying her around in the crook of one arm while he dusts the house, or does little bits of work at his desk. She just grins at the pretty lights his wand makes and we hold out hope that she’ll grow up and be a talented witch.
My big boys make adorable fathers. The both of them working from within the house means that they have all kinds of time to be with her, and in turn I feel a bit like I've been left out. Every day I come home and she's figured out a new word, or how to open something else that was supposedly childproofed. It makes my chest ache when she puzzles over me when I take care of her alone, but I know when she grows up she'll understand a little better where I go when I leave home and how much of that I actually did give up to have my weekends with her.
I’m not sure if she really acts like me at all, because I can’t see from the outside how we interact.
Greg told me she makes the same awful face I do when presented with peas but I’m not sure I believe him. However I KNOW she’s copied my ‘what the fuck?’ look, because that’s the ONLY way I could describe how she gawked at the stuffed sheep Vincent brought her the first time it bleated at her. She reached out after a long awkward moment, clamped her chubby little hands at the sides of its plush head and said “Maaa!” back. It’s been at her side when she sleeps ever since.
The house is a minefield. Baby toys, books, tiny dishes and spoons. Vincent can find his way through the mess with the ease of a blind man but his sister is seven years younger than he is and he grew up in a house like this. I understand now why he was so bothered by the utter neatness that I kept when we first moved in. Somehow, subconsciously, that level of cleanliness and order didn’t feel like home.
These days he lifts our daughter with ease from her crib, our resident baby semi-expert. He is also always the last to admit that we should call our offical baby expert - his mother - when something goes awry. (No, I know this, I can figure it out!)
It comes to him naturally to coddle her, rocking her carefully on his strong shoulders when she cries at night. He paces the living room without once stepping on something noisy, rubbing her back and humming softly until she has settled back into rest.
Greg is hapless with soothing Evangeline out of crying, so he just sits himself in front of her and starts making stupid faces until she can’t help but laugh. Most of the time Vince and I are in stitches before he is, but only because it seems twice as ridiculous to us.
Gregory isn’t quite the ‘improv clown’ type, but I suppose a person will be many things for someone they love. He wasn’t the tattoo type, either, and still isn’t but our bracelets are there, permanent and perfect, and we’re pondering how to work her into the design...
When we first brought her home I had such a sense of disbelief that she was ours. Nightmares of her mother demanding her back swirled in my head. Greg felt guilty, I think, that we’d taken this sweet little baby away from her mommy, but her mommy was nearly a child herself and gave her over with gratitude that someone would take care of her. Vincent just let himself be as gleefully happy as he saw fit, and it’s something we’ve all since learned to do.
She’s turning one tomorrow, and the year has seemed so short. For once my father is completely correct; she’ll be grown before I know it. So until then, I guess, I should try to savor this, down to the very smallest smile.
Theme: 8 - Babies
Fandom/Pairing: Draco/Gregory/Vincent
Title: Evangeline
Author: Lady Zip
Rating: PG - fuffity fluff fluff...
Disclaimer: Please don’t murder me Ms.Rowling. I wuv you… ;_;
There’s something so so funny about the picture they make.
Vincent sitting in our big deep tub, soaking up to his chest in bubbles. His muscled arms and broad shoulders are decorated with strong lines, the artwork of his youth that he has not yet outgrown. And held easily in both his big hands, tiny Evangeline giggles and bats at the bubbles as she rests on his folded knees.
He has nothing but smiles for her, tickling her round belly and holding her still in the water to let her kick her feet, carefully cradling her while she squirms about, having her messy little mop of hair washed.
My mother said she looked like me, which is silly because she’s not biologically any of ours, but the green in her eyes reminds me of Greg and she’s as blonde as anything, and because she’s just a little copycat at this age she’s got Vincent’s laugh.
When something strikes him funny he’ll burst out into rolling chuckles and if she’s near - which is nearly always - she’ll copy him with insistent squeals of mirth, trying to match the pattern, redoubling her volume when he laughs harder at the look on her face.
He tries to get her to listen to all his favourite music - the stereo forever playing any rock songs that he can find without profanity in them. He’s had her banging away on her little five-note xylophone for hours while he conducts her with his fingers.
She’s quieter with Greg, but only because Greg is quiet in general.
He’ll lie down to read a book and she stretches out on his chest, yawning great bit yawns for such a tiny baby. She sleeps for hours, lulled by the swell of his chest as he breathes.
He never quite says it but I know how much he loves for her to nap with him. It’s their own private world where he can pet her hair and tell her how pretty she is without her attention being diverted by something shiny elsewhere in the room.
He tries to read her books but she’s the queen of interruption, smacking her little hands down on all the pretty colours, unconcerned with their names or what objects they are usually associated with. Greg winces to see how she smacks the books around, but smiles all the same because of how happy she is while doing it.
He shows her very simple charms, carrying her around in the crook of one arm while he dusts the house, or does little bits of work at his desk. She just grins at the pretty lights his wand makes and we hold out hope that she’ll grow up and be a talented witch.
My big boys make adorable fathers. The both of them working from within the house means that they have all kinds of time to be with her, and in turn I feel a bit like I've been left out. Every day I come home and she's figured out a new word, or how to open something else that was supposedly childproofed. It makes my chest ache when she puzzles over me when I take care of her alone, but I know when she grows up she'll understand a little better where I go when I leave home and how much of that I actually did give up to have my weekends with her.
I’m not sure if she really acts like me at all, because I can’t see from the outside how we interact.
Greg told me she makes the same awful face I do when presented with peas but I’m not sure I believe him. However I KNOW she’s copied my ‘what the fuck?’ look, because that’s the ONLY way I could describe how she gawked at the stuffed sheep Vincent brought her the first time it bleated at her. She reached out after a long awkward moment, clamped her chubby little hands at the sides of its plush head and said “Maaa!” back. It’s been at her side when she sleeps ever since.
The house is a minefield. Baby toys, books, tiny dishes and spoons. Vincent can find his way through the mess with the ease of a blind man but his sister is seven years younger than he is and he grew up in a house like this. I understand now why he was so bothered by the utter neatness that I kept when we first moved in. Somehow, subconsciously, that level of cleanliness and order didn’t feel like home.
These days he lifts our daughter with ease from her crib, our resident baby semi-expert. He is also always the last to admit that we should call our offical baby expert - his mother - when something goes awry. (No, I know this, I can figure it out!)
It comes to him naturally to coddle her, rocking her carefully on his strong shoulders when she cries at night. He paces the living room without once stepping on something noisy, rubbing her back and humming softly until she has settled back into rest.
Greg is hapless with soothing Evangeline out of crying, so he just sits himself in front of her and starts making stupid faces until she can’t help but laugh. Most of the time Vince and I are in stitches before he is, but only because it seems twice as ridiculous to us.
Gregory isn’t quite the ‘improv clown’ type, but I suppose a person will be many things for someone they love. He wasn’t the tattoo type, either, and still isn’t but our bracelets are there, permanent and perfect, and we’re pondering how to work her into the design...
When we first brought her home I had such a sense of disbelief that she was ours. Nightmares of her mother demanding her back swirled in my head. Greg felt guilty, I think, that we’d taken this sweet little baby away from her mommy, but her mommy was nearly a child herself and gave her over with gratitude that someone would take care of her. Vincent just let himself be as gleefully happy as he saw fit, and it’s something we’ve all since learned to do.
She’s turning one tomorrow, and the year has seemed so short. For once my father is completely correct; she’ll be grown before I know it. So until then, I guess, I should try to savor this, down to the very smallest smile.