Chapter 13: Whispered Promises in the Dark
The harsh overhead fluorescents were finally dimmed. The relentless beeping of monitors had quieted to a soft, rhythmic pulse that matched the muffled sounds from the hallway. Vera was sprawled on the hospital bed, utterly boneless in sleep. Her dark hair fanned across the pillow, stark against the white linen. Even in exhaustion, the delicate lines of the moon phases peeked from the collar of her hospital gown, tracing down towards the bandages hidden beneath. Her face was pale, slack, shadows pooling under her eyes like bruises. She looked impossibly young, fragile as blown glass.
Jace sat slumped in the uncomfortable vinyl armchair dragged close to her bedside, its metal legs scraping faintly every time he shifted. He’d discarded his hoodie hours ago, leaving him in a thin, worn black t-shirt. In the crook of his massive left arm, nestled against the intricate patterns of ink covering his bicep and forearm – skulls, roses, script he couldn’t always read sober – lay Matthew.
The baby was impossibly small. Swaddled tight in a striped hospital blanket, only his tiny, perfect face was visible. Soft, dark wisps of hair, eyes screwed shut, long lashes dusting cheeks still slightly ruddy from his grand entrance. He slept with the profound stillness of the brand new, punctuated only by tiny, fluttery sighs. One miniature fist had escaped the swaddle, resting against Jace’s skin. The tiny fingers, each barely the size of Jace’s fingertip, were curled loosely around the dark, raised line of barbed wire tattooed around Jace’s right wrist. The contrast was staggering: weathered ink on scarred skin cradling untouched, heartbreaking softness.
Jace hadn’t moved in nearly an hour. His neck ached from looking down, his ass was numb from the shitty chair, but the weight in his arms… it was an anchor. A terrifying, wonderful anchor. He traced the curve of Matthew’s cheek with the very tip of his index finger, the ink-stained skin impossibly gentle. He hadn’t known he could be this gentle.
His gaze drifted from the baby to Vera. She stirred slightly, a soft moan escaping her lips as she shifted on the mattress. A flicker of pain tightened her features even in sleep. Jace’s own chest constricted. He remembered the raw animal sounds she’d made, the way her body had strained and shattered itself to bring this tiny human into the world. He remembered the blood, the sweat, the sheer, terrifying power of it.
His thumb, rough and calloused, brushed a stray lock of hair from Vera’s damp forehead. His touch lingered on her temple, then traced lightly, almost reverently, down to her shoulder. He followed the line of her collarbone, his finger pausing over the first, small crescent moon tattooed high on her shoulder blade. Her first tattoo. She’d been seventeen, defiant, shaking but determined under his needle in the back room of his shop while Adam paced outside, pissed.
"You stubborn little shit," he murmured, his voice a low rasp, rough with exhaustion and something else, something thick and unfamiliar clogging his throat. He wasn’t even sure if he was talking to Vera or the baby. "Never seen anyone fight like she did for you, kid." He dropped his head slightly, his lips almost touching the downy softness of Matthew’s head. The scent – milky, warm, uniquely him – filled Jace’s senses. "Never seen anything like it."
A soft whimper came from the bundle in his arms. Tiny legs kicked weakly against the swaddle. Matthew’s face scrunched, his little mouth opening and closing in a silent cry before a thin, reedy wail finally emerged. The sound, so small yet so demanding, shattered the fragile quiet.
Vera’s eyes snapped open instantly, wide and disoriented in the dim light. "Wha—? Mattie?" Her voice was sleep-thick, scratchy.
"He’s hungry, I think," Jace said, shifting carefully. The baby’s cries escalated, sharpening into urgent demands. "Sounds pissed."
"Okay." Vera pushed herself up on her elbows, wincing as the movement pulled at her stitches. "Okay, hand him here." She fumbled with the ties on her hospital gown, her movements clumsy with exhaustion. Jace carefully transferred the squirming bundle, his large hands dwarfing the baby as he placed him gently into her arms. The proximity brought the scent of Vera – sweat, antiseptic, the lingering metallic tang of blood – mixing with Matthew’s milky smell.
Vera guided the baby towards her breast, her brow furrowed in concentration. Jace watched, a strange knot in his stomach. He felt useless, a spectator to this primal act. Matthew rooted frantically, his tiny head bobbing, little mouth opening wide. Vera winced again, sharper this time, as he latched on. Her breath hissed through clenched teeth.
"Shit, does it—?" Jace started, half-rising from his chair.
"It’s fine," Vera gasped, though her knuckles were white where she gripped the sheet. "Just… takes getting used to." She leaned back, her eyes closing briefly, jaw tight against the initial sting. Matthew’s frantic sucking noises filled the small space, punctuated by Vera’s shallow breaths.
Jace sank back down, running a shaky hand over his face. The adrenaline crash was hitting him hard. The sheer fucking magnitude of it all. The tiny, furious human attached to Vera. The fact that he was here. That he was supposed to know what to do. Panic, cold and slick, started to coil in his gut. What if he fucked this up? What if he dropped him? What if he was just… too much? Too rough? Too damaged? His gaze fixed on the barbed wire tattoo on his arm, the one Matthew’s tiny fist had gripped. A symbol of keeping shit out. Now, here it was, holding something impossibly precious in.
He watched Vera. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly as Matthew fed. A different kind of intensity settled on her face – fierce, protective, exhausted beyond measure but utterly focused. The spiderwebs tattooed along her ribs shifted faintly with her breathing beneath the thin gown. She opened her eyes, finding his. They were dark green pools in the low light, wide with a shared terror and wonder.
"He’s okay?" Jace asked, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.
"Yeah," she whispered. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Starving." She looked back down at Matthew, her expression softening into something that made Jace’s chest ache. "Just like his dad."
A choked sound escaped Jace. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his head bowed. The vinyl of the chair creaked under his weight. He scrubbed his hands over his face again, trying to push back the wave of emotion threatening to drown him. Fear, responsibility, awe, and a terrifying, overwhelming surge of… something he couldn't name. Something that felt dangerously like the only solid ground left in a world that had just tilted off its axis.
Vera’s free hand reached out, her fingers brushing his knuckles. Her touch was cool. "Jace?"
He lifted his head. Her gaze held his, steady despite the exhaustion. "We're okay," she said softly, firmly. It wasn't a question. It was a statement. A lifeline thrown across the chasm of his panic. "All three of us."
Matthew made a soft, gurgling sound against her breast, momentarily unlatching. Vera adjusted him, guiding him back. Jace watched the tiny jaw work, the flutter of eyelids. He reached out again, his finger tracing the impossibly soft curve of Matthew’s ear. The baby didn’t stir, lost in the rhythm of feeding.
"Yeah," Jace breathed, the word scraping out. He didn't trust his voice with more. He just stayed there, hunched on the awful chair, one hand gripping the cold metal bed rail for something solid, the other resting lightly on Vera’s arm, feeling the warmth of her skin, the faint tremor in her muscles. The only sounds were Matthew’s contented suckling and Vera’s slow, steadying breaths. The dim room held them, a fragile, exhausted island in the silent hospital night. His gaze never left them – the pale curve of Vera’s cheek resting against their son’s dark hair, the tiny star-shaped birthmark just visible on Matthew’s shoulder, the way Vera’s thumb absently stroked the blanket covering his back. Ink and exhaustion and life, impossibly tangled. He didn't move. He barely breathed. He just held onto the sight, the feel, the terrifying permanence of it all, anchoring himself in the quiet storm of their beginning.