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intheheartTitle: Potential
Rating: PG.
Summary: Have you ever really looked at a baby's hands? Gina has.
Notes: none.
When Gina was sixteen, she held a baby for the first time. Her cousin's son, Frankie, newborn at the time. He was tiny and bald, loud and bawling, smelly and cranky and frankly enough to put her off infants for the rest of her life.
Just like her cousin.
But lucky Frankie had one major difference from his father, and that was his hands, tiny scrunched-up things with the most fragile fingers Gina had ever seen. Yet those fingers could wrap around her thumb with surprising strength; those hands held more potential than anything she could imagine.
Strength in minature.
--
She looked at Andy's hands first, when they met him. He clutched a toy with white-knuckle strength, stubbornly refusing to meet their eyes or answer in anything but monosyllables. Ivy, undeterred, got down on the floor and talked cheerfully at him; Gina sat back and watched his hands.
They weren't little; they were large for a four-year-old. They weren't fragile; they were tough, calloused for all their childishness. His fingers were rough and experienced and-- her heart clutched to see it-- scarred.
Too much knowledge in those hands. Too much grief.
Maybe with them, he could be a child again.
--
The baby looked like static on the sonogram, all white outlines and shivering movements. Ivy, for once, was speechless, staring.
Gina fought a strange feeling of unreality. The whole thing seemed so insubstantial, like a movie. It was just a picture on a screen, after all. She'd seen so many movies.
Then the baby shifted just a little and a hand flattened against the screen, fingers outlined against the dark.
It hit her between the eyes then, an epiphany like a pain in the head-- that was a baby, a real person, and this was all very, heartstoppingly real.
--
The baby liked to press her hands and feet against Gina's belly. It grossed Andy out immensely, and tended to send Ivy into fits of scientific glee (except when it killed the mood). Most of the time it was little bumps, moving across her skin, which-- well, Gina could sympathize with Andy, on those occasions. She felt a little like John Hurt in Alien.
But sometimes... sometimes it was recognizably a hand, or a foot. Once-- and she held her breath-- once she could see all of the baby's fingers, distinct as day.
It was bizarre, but also extremely cool.
--
Leah's in her arms now, Andy snuggled up on her right side, Ivy sitting on her left and the drugs have yet to wear off-- everything's about as good as it can be.
"She's so little," Andy whispers, leaning over to stroke Leah's knuckles.
"So were you, once," Ivy replies.
Andy rolls his eyes, but doesn't comment, because just then Leah wraps her tiny, fragile fingers around his forefinger and will not let go.
Such different hands, Gina thinks, watching them, with so much in them. Her heart. Ivy's.
The future.
They'll do good with it. She's certain of that.
Rating: PG.
Summary: Have you ever really looked at a baby's hands? Gina has.
Notes: none.
When Gina was sixteen, she held a baby for the first time. Her cousin's son, Frankie, newborn at the time. He was tiny and bald, loud and bawling, smelly and cranky and frankly enough to put her off infants for the rest of her life.
Just like her cousin.
But lucky Frankie had one major difference from his father, and that was his hands, tiny scrunched-up things with the most fragile fingers Gina had ever seen. Yet those fingers could wrap around her thumb with surprising strength; those hands held more potential than anything she could imagine.
Strength in minature.
--
She looked at Andy's hands first, when they met him. He clutched a toy with white-knuckle strength, stubbornly refusing to meet their eyes or answer in anything but monosyllables. Ivy, undeterred, got down on the floor and talked cheerfully at him; Gina sat back and watched his hands.
They weren't little; they were large for a four-year-old. They weren't fragile; they were tough, calloused for all their childishness. His fingers were rough and experienced and-- her heart clutched to see it-- scarred.
Too much knowledge in those hands. Too much grief.
Maybe with them, he could be a child again.
--
The baby looked like static on the sonogram, all white outlines and shivering movements. Ivy, for once, was speechless, staring.
Gina fought a strange feeling of unreality. The whole thing seemed so insubstantial, like a movie. It was just a picture on a screen, after all. She'd seen so many movies.
Then the baby shifted just a little and a hand flattened against the screen, fingers outlined against the dark.
It hit her between the eyes then, an epiphany like a pain in the head-- that was a baby, a real person, and this was all very, heartstoppingly real.
--
The baby liked to press her hands and feet against Gina's belly. It grossed Andy out immensely, and tended to send Ivy into fits of scientific glee (except when it killed the mood). Most of the time it was little bumps, moving across her skin, which-- well, Gina could sympathize with Andy, on those occasions. She felt a little like John Hurt in Alien.
But sometimes... sometimes it was recognizably a hand, or a foot. Once-- and she held her breath-- once she could see all of the baby's fingers, distinct as day.
It was bizarre, but also extremely cool.
--
Leah's in her arms now, Andy snuggled up on her right side, Ivy sitting on her left and the drugs have yet to wear off-- everything's about as good as it can be.
"She's so little," Andy whispers, leaning over to stroke Leah's knuckles.
"So were you, once," Ivy replies.
Andy rolls his eyes, but doesn't comment, because just then Leah wraps her tiny, fragile fingers around his forefinger and will not let go.
Such different hands, Gina thinks, watching them, with so much in them. Her heart. Ivy's.
The future.
They'll do good with it. She's certain of that.
