"Angel,
I love it. I really, really love it."
In spite
of Buffy's enthusiasm, Angel looked doubtful. "You're sure? You're
not just saying that?"
"I'm
completely serious."
And she
was, somewhat to her own surprise. When Angel had first told her about
the eighteenth century farmhouse on the little island where Father O'Shea's
church stood, she'd been skeptical at best. She was used to living among
people, not out in the middle of nowhere. But the house was just enough
a part of the island's small community to make it not feel isolated, yet
enough separate to give it a sense of peace and quiet Buffy hadn't realized
until about an hour ago that she liked. Craved, even. And it would
be a great place to raise their babies.
The first
of said babies kicked enthusiastically inside her. She laid a hand against
her swollen belly, making a face. That one had hurt.
"Everything
okay?" Angel asked.
"Just
some gymnastics. Or soccer, or tai kwon do, or something."
Angel
nodded. Buffy was still three weeks away from her due date, but that
didn't keep Angel from hovering and being generally overprotective.
Their recent scare, engineered by the Powers That Be, hadn't helped anything.
"So you
really like it?" he ventured again.
"I really
do." She reached for his hand. "Let's go sign some papers."
#
The house
had been up for sale for quite some time, so the Realtor, Bianca, was more
than happy she'd finally found some buyers.
"So,
you like our little island," she said to Buffy, as Buffy scrawled her name
across the first of the large pile of documents.
"It's
very nice," Buffy said. "Quiet and peaceful. A nice change from
the past several years, that's for sure."
Angel
smiled, aware she was talking more about Sunnydale than Dublin.
"You
know," Buffy said suddenly. "I've never bought a house before."
"Kinda
neat you're doing it with me, then," Angel said.
She elbowed
him gently. "C'mon. I did a lot of things for the first time with you. Most
of the important ones, in fact." She signed her name a few more times, aware
of Bianca's sudden discomfort. Sometimes, around Angel, it was hard for Buffy
to remember there were other people in the room.
She passed the papers to Angel to sign, wondering, not for the first time,
how he'd managed to go for so long without any official papers on himself.
She'd asked him once, and he'd muttered something about hacking, which explanation
she felt to be half-assed at best.
In any
case, he'd officially been "Angel L. Summers" since he'd signed that on their
marriage license, and that was what he signed now. He'd also supplied
a social security number for the mortgage papers. Now that she was certain
somebody had hacked for him. Probably Willow--Buffy remembered a couple of
times, while Willow was still living in her house, when Buffy had come home
unexpectedly and found Willow on the computer, and on the phone, looking guilty
on both counts.
"It's
snowing," Bianca said suddenly. Buffy looked up, out the window.
Sure enough, the snow was coming down. Pouring, even, if snow could
pour. Buffy still hadn't gotten used to snow, even after the time she and
Angel had spent in Dublin. And this was more than anything she'd ever
seen there. To her surprise, it scared her a little.
"We were
going to go back to Dublin tonight," Buffy said, surprised to hear her voice
tremble. Inside her the baby rolled, as if responding to her apprehension.
She absently laid a hand against her undulating belly. "Will we be able
to make it?"
"I don't
think it would be wise," said Bianca. Her soft Irish accent calmed Buffy
somehow.
Angel's
attention had gone to Buffy's hand, pressed against her abdomen. She
could feel a foot pressing against her palm. "Are you okay?" Angel asked.
Without
answering, she took his hand and laid it flat against the spot where the baby
was pushing. His eyes lit up and he ran his thumb along the foot-shaped bulge.
"Where can we go, then?" Buffy asked Bianca. "We can't stay in the
house. There's no electricity turned on yet, is there?"
"No,
there's not."
"That's
his foot, isn't it?" said Angel, oblivious to the more immediate concerns.
"Yes,"
said Buffy, then to Bianca--"Is there a hotel or something on the island?"
"No,
but I'm thinking you could stay at the rectory. Do you know Father
O'Shea?"
"Oh,
yeah." Angel finally looked up from his entranced exploration of Buffy's
stomach. "He's right around the corner, isn't he?"
"Yes.
Here, we've only a couple more signatures. Finish this up and then I'll
see you get to Father O'Shea's."
They
quickly finished the paperwork, then bundled back into their coats and headed
up the road to the rectory. It seemed easier to walk the short distance
than to drive, with the snow coming down in sheets. Angel was overprotective
as usual, hovering over Buffy, grabbing her elbow from time to time when he
seemed to think she might be about to slip.
"You
are so hovery," she finally said, jerking her arm away from him before he
could catch her for the fifth time in as many yards.
"Sorry.
Maybe I should just carry you?"
"Yeah,
I don't think so. Then if you fall, we all die."
The Realtor
suppressed a smile as she knocked on the rectory door. Father O'Shea
answered shortly, smiling. "Bianca," he said, then, "Angel! How
good to see you." He held out his hand and Angel took it.
"Father.
Sorry to impose, but it looks like we might be a little stranded."
Father
O'Shea's gaze went to Buffy. "You must be Buffy."
"Yep.
That's me. Nice to meet you, sir. Father." It occurred to
her she hadn't spent a great deal of time talking to priests. This one
seemed nice, though, and she knew Angel liked him. He was fairly young,
not much older than Buffy herself, with dark hair and green eyes. And
rather handsome, she thought.
"Please,
come in." Father O'Shea moved to one side, and Angel led the way in,
offering Buffy his arm, which she studiously ignored.
"I'll
be heading back home," Bianca said. "Call me if you need anything."
"Thanks,
Bianca," Angel called after her. She waved, then bent herself into the
wind, heading back toward her office and her car.
The rectory
was warm and cozy. Father O'Shea waved Buffy toward a chair. "Have
a seat," he said. "Relax."
She shrugged
out of her coat and sank gratefully into the comfortable recliner. She
probably shouldn't have been so stubborn about refusing Angel's help.
She hadn't really needed it, but, to be honest, the huge, ungainly weight
of the baby was starting to wear on her.
"You
okay?" Angel asked, taking her coat.
"Yes,
yes, for the seven hundredth time, yes." She rubbed her forehead then,
a little embarrassed by the sharpness of her tone.
"How
much longer?" Father O'Shea said, looking at Angel.
Angel
rolled his eyes. "Three weeks."
"Poor
man."
"Poor
man," Buffy mumbled. "He's not carrying around thirty pounds of water
and fat and wriggly kicking baby." She looked at Angel. "I'm sorry."
"It's
okay." Angel smiled, hanging her coat alongside his own in the priest's
front closet. "Just take it easy."
"So what
brings you here?" the priest asked.
"We bought
the house," said Angel. "Just finished signing all the papers.
We'll be moving in in a few weeks."
"It'll
be a great place for the little one." The priest smiled at Buffy.
"You'll be a wonderful addition to the island. I think you'll really
like it here."
Buffy
nodded, then grimaced. A sharp, tense pain lanced through her abdomen,
then subsided. She rubbed it, feeling her muscles clench under her fingers.
"You
okay?" said Angel. It was his favorite phrase of late.
"Yeah."
She wasn't entirely sure she was, though. That hadn't been a kick or
a roll or anything she'd ever felt before. Suddenly she realized the
room had fallen silent, waiting for her to say something. "I'm fine,"
she said. "Just weird baby stuff."
Angel
still looked concerned, but much to Buffy's relief, he didn't press.
"Are
you hungry?" Father O'Shea asked. "Can I get you a sandwich?"
"If it's
not too much trouble." Buffy rubbed her stomach again, for no reason
this time, but the motion still brought a spark of concern to Angel's eyes.
He didn't say anything, though, not this time.
"No trouble
at all," said the priest. He walked into the kitchen and Buffy heard
him open the refrigerator.
Angel
left his seat and came to kneel next to Buffy's chair, rubbing his hand over
the high bulge of her stomach. His fingers spread wide, he massaged
her gently, as if he could tell by touch if she was really all right.
"Don't
ask me if I'm okay," she said. "You're over your quota for the day."
He smiled
a little. "He feels so big in there. Does that worry you?"
"Angel,
everything worries me. I've never been pregnant before, I don't know
what's normal and what's not in spite of having read every book I could get
my hands on, and frankly, yes, I'm deathly afraid I'm going to have to shove
something with your gigantic forehead out of my body."
"You
know, their heads squish up. I mean, when they come out." At
her befuddled look he added, "I read that somewhere."
"That's
really gross."
"Gross
but true." Her abdomen tensed up again and she rubbed it until it softened.
Not quite pain this time, just the clenching of muscles. Probably those
pre-contractions she'd read about. Angel's hand followed hers, rubbing
the ridge of tight muscles as if to feel for himself what was going on.
"Everything'll
be fine," he said. "They'll give you drugs and you won't feel a thing."
"Ah,
sounds like a plan." She reached up to trace his eyebrow with her finger.
"I really--"
From
the kitchen, Father O'Shea screamed.
Angel
jumped to his feet. Buffy lurched awkwardly out of the chair, taking
a second to steady herself before following as quickly as she could.
In the
kitchen, Father O'Shea stood with his back to the counter, holding up a butter
knife covered with mayonnaise toward the strange figure standing on the opposite
side of the room. Angel froze in the doorway, staring. Buffy,
carried by the momentum of her weight, stopped rather ungracefully by slamming
into him. He reached back to steady her.
"What
the hell are you?" Father O'Shea screeched, brandishing his mayonnaise-smeared
knife.
It was
a reasonable question, Buffy thought. She wasn't entirely sure herself.
A demon, for sure, but she wasn't sure what vintage. She'd never seen
one quite this green, or with the little spiky horns, and certainly not wearing
a tangerine suit.
But Angel
had broken into a wide grin. "Lorne?"
The demon
turned his red eyes toward Angel. "Hey, Bubbe. Think you can convince
the holy man not to condiment me to death?"
Angel
stepped across the room and engulfed the extremely green demon in a warm hug.
Buffy went to the priest and touched him on the shoulder. Father O'Shea
shakily lowered his knife. "I take it whatever this thing is, it's
friendly?"
"Looks
that way," said Buffy. "Angel doesn't usually hug unfriendly demons."
"Well,
that's a good sign, then."
Angel
was enthusiastically pounding the demon on the back. "What the hell
are you doing here?" He let his friend go, stepping back a bit. "I haven't
seen you in ages."
"Yeah,
it's been a while." Lorne straightened his bright orange suit jacket
fastidiously. "As to the what the hell? Magic gone wrong again,
Angel-cakes. As par the usual."
"What
were you trying to do?" Angel asked, while Buffy lifted her eyebrows and repeated,
"Angel-cakes?"
Lorne
looked toward her then and smiled. He had a nice smile, she had to admit.
"Hey! Is this the Buffy we've all heard about? Must be--she looks
just like every single page of the eight volumes of pencil sketches you had
in your bedroom back in LA." The demon crossed the room and Buffy found
herself enfolded in a tangerine embrace. "My, are you ever a cutie.
And something just kicked me really hard."
Buffy
leaned back, rubbing her stomach, where the baby had suddenly become quite
active. "I have two questions."
"Ask
away, sweetie."
"First--Angel-cakes?
And second--eight volumes?"
"Oh,
it's just a thing," said Lorne, and Angel mumbled, "Well, a lot of the other
ones blew up in the other building."
Buffy
just shook her head and looked at Father O'Shea. "I think we're in for
an interesting evening."
#
"...so
the intention was just to talk to you, Angel. I had no plans to actually,
you know, arrive." Lorne looked at Father O'Shea. "My apologies,
Father."
The priest
waved it off. He had recovered from his initial shock, and now they
all sat around the living room as if it were a normal conversation group:
the priest, the pregnant ex-Slayer, the ex-vampire and the green-faced, orange-suited
demon.
"My apologies
to you," Father O'Shea countered, "for the knife."
"Ah,
I get that all the time when I appear out of nowhere in the middle of a rectory."
Lorne stretched, the bright suit leaving afterimages on Buffy's retinas.
"You wouldn't have anything to drink around here, would you?"
"He's
Irish," said Angel. "He's got whisky."
"Technically
I'm not Irish," Father O'Shea countered in his decidedly New England accent.
"But I do have whisky."
"Whisky's
perfect," said Lorne. "If it's not too much trouble."
Father
O'Shea stood. "It's the least I can do after threatening you with mayonnaise."
He headed back into the kitchen.
Lorne
looked at Buffy. "So, pumpkin nut, when's the baby due?"
Buffy
tried very hard not to laugh. "Three weeks."
"Looks
like it's gonna be big. Must take after its daddy. Is it gonna
be a boy or a girl?"
"Boy."
"Wow.
Pretty impressive." He turned his attention to Angel. "And you,
Angel-hair, are a lot warmer than the last time I hugged you."
Buffy
couldn't help it this time--she laughed. "Is there something I should
know? I mean, Angel, I didn't know you swung that way."
Angel
waved it off, while Lorne chuckled. "So, what's the what?" Lorne went
on. "How'd you get your pulse back?"
"Doctor
in Dublin," Angel said. Buffy perked up--she hadn't heard much about
the specifics of Angel's transformation. "Some weird dialysis thing,
an exorcism, some gypsy magic, a couple other extremely painful procedures.
You know."
So apparently
she wasn't going to learn much more today, either. Lorne, though, nodded
sagely. "Interesting. I always figured the Powers would just zap
you or something."
"Apparently
they'd intended to, but not for another fifteen years."
"Really."
"Long
story. Not gonna tell it."
Father
O'Shea returned then with two glasses of whisky, one for Lorne and one for
himself. Then he blinked. "I'm sorry, Angel, did you want a drink?"
"No,
that's okay. I'm good." He settled back in his chair, smiling
at Lorne. "So you wanted to talk to me, huh? Anything important?"
"Nah,
I just heard some rumors that you were breathing again, and something about
a little nipper on the way, and I wanted to say hi. So I found this
telephonic spell and gave it a try and of course it didn't work right."
"You
know," Buffy offered, "you could have just used an actual telephone."
"Not
without a number, sweetness. Plus this was supposed to have visual
and everything." He shrugged, sipping his drink. "Guess it all
came out okay in the end, though."
"Well,
except for scaring poor Father O'Shea half to death--" Buffy broke off, suddenly
breathless. Pain wrenched through her abdomen, the muscles in her belly
clenching up so hard she thought they might wrench open. Tears sprang
to her eyes and she bent forward, trying to contain the pain.
Angel
leapt from his chair and was at her side in an instant, one hand on her belly.
"Buffy. Buffy, what is it?"
She couldn't
even speak until the contraction let her go. She groped for his free
hand, squeezing it tight.
"Ow,"
said Angel, and she squeezed harder, helpless in the grip of agony.
Finally
it was over, and she sagged back into the chair, panting. "Oh, my God,
what the hell was that?"
"I think
it was a contraction," said Angel. He slid his hand free from hers and
shook it gently, then flexed his fingers as if to be sure none of them were
broken.
"It can't
be," Buffy protested. "I still have three weeks--" And then it
came again, horrible and hard and primal, choking the breath from her.
She leaned into Angel and he held her, stroking her back until it was over.
Angel
looked toward Father O'Shea. "Can we get a doctor here?"
"I don't
know. I can get you a nun, though, who used to be a midwife."
"Good
enough."
The priest
went to the closet to get his coat, then headed out into the blowing snow.
Buffy
rested her head on Angel's shoulder. Lorne had risen from his chair
and now knelt just to the other side of her chair, still holding his whisky,
his green face creased in concern. "You'll be okay," he said gently.
She smiled
weakly back. "You sure about that?"
"Pretty
sure. But if you could hum a little I could give you a better idea."
Buffy
looked questioningly at Angel. "He can read your future if you sing,"
he explained.
"Really?
That's an interesting talent." Then another contraction grabbed her.
These things were serious. Remembering something she'd heard in Lamaze
class, she began to breathe rhythmically to the tune of "Yankee Doodle."
"Hey,
that works," said Lorne, then winced as she slipped off-key. "This kid
doesn't have a hope in hell of being musical, does he?" Buffy looked
up at him and he smiled a little, his expression becoming thoughtful.
When he spoke again his voice was gentle. "Yeah, everything's gonna
be all right."
Angel
bent over Buffy, letting her hold his hands as she rode the contraction.
"Thanks, Lorne."
Lorne
nodded soberly. Buffy saw something in his red eyes, though, and when
the contraction finally ended, she said, "You saw something else. What
did you read? You saw something bad."
"No,
sugarplum, nothing bad. Everything's gonna be fine for a good, long
time."
Buffy
closed her eyes. So that was it. She'd suspected as much.
But there was no way she was going to ask him for any further elaboration.
Because the last thing she wanted to know right now was when Angel was going
to die.
#
By the
time Father O'Shea returned with the nun, Buffy had moved to the floor, on
top of a pile of blankets and pillows Angel had scrounged out of the linen
closet. She didn't want to lie down--her body wanted to be upright.
Angel had positioned himself behind her, supporting her as she braced her
feet against the floor and pushed hard back into him, working herself through
the contractions that way. The stupid Lamaze breathing wasn't doing
her any good at all. Everything in her body wanted to push downwards,
and she seemed to have no control over anything.
There
was still space between the stretches of pain, though, during which she panted
and leaned back into Angel. He stroked her hair back from her face,
wiped the sweat from her forehead with his sleeve.
"Did
you bring an epidural with you?" she asked Lorne, who smiled and shook his
head.
"Sorry,
sweetheart. No such luck."
He turned
then as the door opened, bringing in the priest, a fiftyish woman and a stiff
wind full of snow. The cold air felt good on Buffy's face and she breathed
it eagerly.
"Goodness,"
said the nun, staring at Lorne. Then she dragged her attention to Buffy,
going to kneel next to her.
"What
is it we have here, then, lass?" she said. Her voice moved in a Scottish
lilt. "Are the pains coming fast and hard?"
"Yes,"
she said, just as another one took her over.
The nun's
voice moved over her and Buffy registered a few of the words as the other
woman asked questions of Angel and requested towels and water from Father
O'Shea. Buffy clenched hard on Angel's hands again, glad for his solid
bulk behind her.
This
contraction didn't last as long, much to her relief. She sagged back
into Angel's arms and the nun said, "My name's Deirdre, lass. I'm going
to see how far along you are. Is this your first?"
"Yes,"
said Buffy, though she was certain Deirdre had already asked Angel that question.
"I'm
surprised it's going so quickly."
Father
O'Shea appeared suddenly with blankets, towels, a pair of sharp scissors,
and water, then retreated to the kitchen. Realizing what was about to
happen, Lorne trailed after him. "You wouldn't happen to have the makings
of a Sea Breeze around anywhere, would you, Father?"
"I might
be able to manage a close approximation," the priest answered, then they both
disappeared into the other room.
Gently,
Deirdre eased Buffy's jeans and underwear off her, covering her with a blanket
to preserve dignity and warmth. "I'm just going to check to see how
much you're dilated," Deirdre said, reaching under the blankets.
Her fingers
were cold. Buffy flinched at the necessary invasion, but the nun was gentle.
"How long have you been at this?"
"Not
quite an hour," Angel answered.
"Goodness.
I've never seen a first baby come this fast. 'Tis time to push, lass."
Buffy
let her head sag back. "Oh, thank God."
Deirdre
positioned herself between Buffy's legs, bunching the blanket back a little.
"Push along with the next contraction," she said.
Feeling
it coming, Buffy wrapped her arms through Angel's and braced herself.
When the contraction seized her, she gave in to the demands of her body and
pushed. She could feel Deirdre's hands brushing against the insides
of her thighs, and realized she was actually holding the baby back, gently
providing counterpressure to keep him from coming too fast.
"Good
girl, that's good. Now stop with the contraction, that's right."
Buffy
sagged back against Angel. She couldn't help but wonder if he would
have head-sized bruises in the middle of his chest tomorrow. Oh, well.
It was only fair, she thought, to share the pain.
"You
okay?" he asked her, as Deirdre assessed the baby's progress.
"About
as well as can be expected," Buffy told him. "Have I broken any of your
fingers yet?"
"Pretty
close, but I think they're holding up." He kissed her hair. "I
love you."
It was
enough to make her smile a little as the next contraction hit. This
time she felt the baby shift, felt a bright, burning pain between her legs.
"He's
crowning," Deirdre said. "Stop if you can. We need to slow this
down a bit. This is a big baby for a wee lass like you to deliver.
'Tis lucky he decided to come early."
"I told
you he'd have your damn big head," said Buffy when she could talk again.
Deirdre
looked up at Angel with a grin. "Ach, he'll be a braw, handsome lad.
Just be glad he'll no' have his father's shoulders as of yet. Once we've
got the head through, the rest will be easy."
"Yeah?
And how many babies have you had?" Buffy snapped.
"None,
lass. I'm a nun. But I've delivered a good many. And most
of their mothers swore at me, so go ahead if you've a need to."
Two more
long pushes, and the baby's head emerged in a fiery wrench. Buffy couldn't
see it past the blankets, but she had felt it. Then, with the next push,
she felt the slithering rush of the rest of the baby's body coming out of
her. Deirdre pushed the blankets back a little and laid the little,
bloody, slimy body on top of them. The nun tied a bit of string around
the baby's umbilical cord.
"Did
you want to cut this, lad? Or can you not reach from there?"
"It's
okay," Angel said. "Go ahead."
Deirdre
cut the cord and passed the baby up into Buffy's arms. "If you'll be
nursing him," the nun said, "you'll want to start now."
Emotion
swelled up into Buffy's throat as she looked down into the face of her son.
He hadn't cried, but looked up at her with dark, keen eyes.
Angel,
being his usual self, said, "He hasn't cried. Is that normal?
Is he all right?"
"He's
fine," Deirdre assured him. "Go ahead, lass, give him your breast."
Buffy
sniffed back tears, then shifted the baby so she could unbutton her shirt.
The baby latched on right away, seemingly guided by the smell. Angel
bent closer behind her; Buffy could hear him sniffling a little. Big
sap, she thought, with a swell of affection.
"What'll
you be naming him, then?" Deirdre asked. She was gently massaging Buffy's
abdomen, coaxing out the placenta.
The little
boy's mouth pulled hard at Buffy's breast. She smiled at the sensation.
"What's your last name, Deirdre?"
"Sullivan,"
the nurse answered.
"Then
it's Giles Sullivan Summers." She turned a little back toward Angel.
It bothered her now that she couldn't see his face. "Is that all right
with you?"
"Yeah,"
he said, and she could tell from the sound of his voice that he wasn't going
to be able to manage much else at the moment. He reached over her to
cup his son's head in his big hand.
"He's
beautiful," said Buffy, so happy she wasn't sure she could contain it all--it
would burst out of her, bright light, and fill the room. "Except for
that damn big head."
#
A half-hour
later, baby Giles had finished his first meal, and had been cleaned up and
wrapped in a fresh blanket. Shortly thereafter, he received his first
visitors in the form of Father O'Shea and Lorne, who came back out of the
kitchen as soon as they were given the all clear.
Buffy
had moved to the sofa and half-lay there, cuddling her sleeping son, while
Angel sat next to her on the floor. She could see his face now, and
the contentment on it gratified her. He couldn't seem to take his eyes
off the baby.
"Oh,
he's adorable," said Lorne, and gently touched Giles' head with a green finger.
He winked at Buffy. "I told you it was going to be all right."
"Yes,
you did." She smiled at him; she'd decided she really liked him.
"I'm glad you were here."
"Me,
too, sweetpea."
The priest
smiled as he settled into the recliner. "It's been quite an eventful
evening."
"There's
an understatement," said Buffy. She settled back into the pillows Angel
had arranged behind her head, suddenly overcome by a feeling of intense peace.
"Angel, could you get me a sandwich or something? I'm starving."
"Sure."
He pushed himself up from the floor and went into the kitchen.
Buffy
fixed her eyes on Lorne. "Now. You need to answer a question for
me."
Lorne
sobered. "Oh, darling, I don't think you want to ask me that."
"You
read something. I know you did."
"Yeah,
I did. It's going to be good, and happy. Everything you ever wanted."
"But
not as long as it could have been." She had suspected this might be
the case almost from the moment Angel had turned up on her doorstep with
a pulse in his wrist.
Lorne
didn't answer, but his face told her she'd hit the mark.
She swallowed,
trying hard not to feel the pain. Not now. This was her time to
be happy. "Just tell me one thing. Will he see his children grow
up?"
To her
relief, Lorne nodded. "He will."
Blinking,
Buffy looked down into the peacefully sleeping face of her son. "Good.
Then it's good enough."
Angel
came back into the room then with a sandwich on a plate and a large glass
of milk, which he put on the table next to the couch. Settling back
down into his place on the floor, he looked at Buffy and frowned. "Are
you okay?"
She smiled.
If she had a nickel for every time he'd said that just today... "I'm
fine. Do you want to hold him while I eat?"
He reached
up almost eagerly, and Buffy settled the baby into Angel's waiting arms.
She kissed him then, savoring the touch of his mouth on hers. There
was no point worrying about the future. The present was enough for now,
and it had Angel still in it, big and dark and smiling down into the serene
face of their newborn son.
END.
