"My hands are rough..." he starts, almost apologetically to both Elizabeth and young Will, but he soon stops all protestations.
Because there is a baby in his arms, tiny little head resting in the nook of his elbow, tiny little feet only just reaching the palm of his hand.
And when he touches one of those tiny little hands in wonder, tiny little fingers curl tightly around the rough sailor's finger he was so worried about, and tiny brown eyes look myopically up at him, so much like Elizabeth.
(If Elizabeth couldn't see further than her own nose.)
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"My hands are rough..." he starts, almost apologetically to both Elizabeth and young Will, but he soon stops all protestations.
Because there is a baby in his arms, tiny little head resting in the nook of his elbow, tiny little feet only just reaching the palm of his hand.
And when he touches one of those tiny little hands in wonder, tiny little fingers curl tightly around the rough sailor's finger he was so worried about, and tiny brown eyes look myopically up at him, so much like Elizabeth.
(If Elizabeth couldn't see further than her own nose.)
And everything melts away.
Will smiles.
He's a father.