as new and as old as the world

Isla

Isla hushes the infant instinctively now, holding her close against the warmth of her skin and cooing gentle reassurance until her cries quieten to soft grizzles of contemplative outrage rather than abject fury. Only then does she glance towards Ever, and the unexpected emotion in his eyes is enough to have the Remedy tearing up herself. "You were amazing," she tells him earnestly, needing to say it before the room around them starts to bustle again, interrupting their brief peace. "We couldn't have done it without you." Of that Isla is feverishly certain, and if she felt capable of moving any which way, she'd have leaned across and kissed him, the state of her be damned.

They are interrupted then, of course, inevitably so, and though Isla knows the medics will let her keep their daughter while they do what they need to do, she glances back towards Ever with an adoring smile. "Would you hold her, while I get checked over?" she asks, voice barely beyond a whisper. "I think she wants to meet you properly too." And gods, call her selfish for it, but she wants to see Ever with his daughter in his arms more than anything else in the world right now.

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

EVEREST

When Isla tells him he was amazing, that they could not have done it without him, his brows lift faintly, not dismissive, but gently incredulous. "That is only because you would not have been in this position without me,", he says quietly, a small, shaky huff of breath escaping him. There is no deflection in it, only a thin thread of humour woven through something much more reverent. He does not take credit for what she has just done. He stands in awe of it.

But as she asks him to hold their daughter, the room seems to narrow again, though this time not with pain. He inhales slowly, nodding at once—of course, of course—even as a clean, sharp spike of terror runs through him. Not the panic of chaos, but the precise fear of fragility. She is impossibly small. Breakable in ways the world has never seemed breakable before. "Yes," he says, and his voice is steady even if his pulse is not.

He steps forward as the nurse helps guide the transfer, and when their daughter is placed into his arms he receives her as though she is made of spun glass and gravity itself. He bends his elbows immediately, forming the careful cradle he has practised in theory countless times. One hand slides beneath her neck, fingers splayed with deliberate support. The other curves around her back and hips, drawing her close but not tight. Not too tight. Do not drop her. Support the head. Always the head.

He adjusts minutely, breath held, eyes wide and fixed on the tiny rise and fall of her chest. His expression is a study in concentrated alarm and reverence all at once, as though he has been entrusted with something holy and is certain he might fail it through sheer human clumsiness. She is warm; he did not expect the warmth to feel so startling. "Hello," he whispers, voice barely audible, leaning down a fraction so she can see his face, or so he imagines she can. "I am your father." The word feels enormous. He glances toward Isla then, eyes still bright with unshed tears, awe and disbelief written openly across his face.

the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Isla

"I thoroughly enjoyed getting into this position with you, if that helps," Isla says with a smile tugging at the corners of her lips despite herself. The humour feels easy, giddy almost, though as Ever takes their daughter from her arms she can feel the overwhelm flooding back in already, setting her teeth to chattering a bit and making her fingers want to tremble. The nurses flit about her, Isla shifting and laying back as instructed, letting them perform their checks and assist in the various afters that come in the wake of giving birth, but her eyes are only for Ever and the baby. 

And as she watches him cradle the infant, the love and adoration that swells in her chest is almost painful; wiping at her eyes but not bothering to try and stop the tears that come without permission, she offers him a smile made radiant by pride and an outpouring of affection that she can't seem to contain. "Being a father looks good on you," she says softly, glancing at the baby in his arms and letting out a soft, shivery sigh. "Fern," she murmurs. A name they had both chosen, a little life made real, made official, it seems, by speaking it out loud.

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

EVEREST

Her joke earns a soft, breathless laugh from him, though he barely dares shift his attention from the small, warm weight in his arms. When he does look up at Isla, the sight of tears bright in her eyes steals what little composure he had managed to reassemble. He inhales sharply, almost startled by how beautiful she looks, flushed and exhausted and luminous in a way that has nothing to do with the clinic lights. The tears on her lashes seem less like weakness and more like something ceremonial, something earned, and gods but he loves her. He draws their daughter a fraction closer, protective instinct tightening subtly through his posture without even being aware of it.

As Isla tests out a name, the word settles into the room as gently as the baby in his arms. He repeats it silently once, testing the shape of it against the fragile bundle he cradles. His mind moves the way it always does when offered a concept, searching, sorting, connecting. "Ferns are resilient," he says quietly. "They thrive in difficult conditions. Shade, damp, rocky soil. They adapt." His gaze drops back to the infant’s face, her tiny mouth working in soft, indignant motions. "They are among the oldest plant species on the planet," he continues, voice hushed but steadier now, grounding himself in fact the way he always has, pulling the information from countless hours listening to Mateo speak about plants. "Prehistoric. They survived mass extinctions. Entire climate shifts."

He swallows, something tightening pleasantly in his chest. "They reproduce without flowers," he adds thoughtfully, a faint flicker of wonder crossing his features. "No need for showy display. They simply...persist." His thumb makes the smallest, careful stroke along the edge of the blanket near her shoulder, not quite daring to touch skin. His eyes lift to Isla again, shining. "I think Fern is an excellent name." And when he looks back down at their daughter, the terror that had once edged his expression has transformed into something quieter; not gone, but braided now with reverence, with intention. "Hello, Fern," he whispers.

the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Isla

The change in Ever's posture is minimal, something that would likely go unnoticed by most, but Isla clocks the protectiveness immediately. And the surge of pride she feels for the man cradling their newborn against the world is enough to almost have her trying to sit up and reach for him - not that she does, not that she could even if she wanted to - but gods, this is a kind of love she's never known before, and it's almost frightening in its intensity. 

Instead, as his quiet voice hits the air and the nurses finish their checks on her, Isla settles back against the pillows and simply listens. She always loves to hear Ever think aloud or read from a page, his voice a comforting resonance that he's certain their daughter will also recognise and relax into. The origins of the name they've chosen for her feels quietly factual but intimately personal all at the same time, Isla wiping at her eyes again as he ends it with a simple hello, her smile radiant and slightly awed. 

"Hello, Fern," she echoes, feeling the edges of exhaustion trying to pull at her but trying, for now at least, to brush it aside. She almost asks what now, the thought enough to almost make her laugh. "I think she's going to look like you, you know," she says instead, playful and entirely serious at the same time.

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

EVEREST

When Isla echoes the greeting, Everest shifts instinctively, angling the baby just slightly toward the sound of her voice as though orientation already matters, as though Fern might catalogue tone and cadence the way he does. "That is your mother," he murmurs gently to the small, blinking face in the crook of his arm. "Doctor Isla Lockwood." There is quiet pride in the title. "She will be taking over shortly," he adds in a softer, almost apologetic tone, as if explaining a temporary transfer of command. "You have nutritional requirements that I am not equipped to meet. Not yet, anyway." His thumb adjusts minutely beneath Fern’s neck, double-checking support without consciously meaning to.

When Isla suggests their daughter will look like him, however, he lifts his head. He frowns—not sharply, but with earnest skepticism—studying Isla as though she has made a claim requiring peer review. "I disagree," he says gently, and it is the first time since they entered the clinic that he's doubted anything she's said or done. 

He looks back down at Fern, then back to Isla again, comparing with quiet intensity. "She has your brow," he begins, thoughtful, analytical. "And your mouth. The structure of it." His gaze returns to the baby’s tiny face, as though further data might present itself if he is patient enough. "And statistically," he continues, voice soft but certain, "she is more likely to resemble you in dominant traits." He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly in consideration. "I would also prefer that she resemble you."

the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Isla

Relaxing back against the pillows as the nurses draw a blanket over her, Isla gazes at father and daughter with open adoration, her laughter soft and quietly joyful as he introduces her - title and all. "Mm, I'm sure she'll make it very clear to us when she's hungry," she agrees. And at Ever's sharp and discerning glance and his disagreement, gentle but serious, her laughter returns in a more girlish cadence. "Statistics aside, children change often as they grow," she points out. "However she may look now, she could settle somewhere between the two of us, or with a heavier resemblance to either one."

But, with a faint flush to her cheeks, she concedes to his last point. "I daresay personal preference plays no part in genetics," she murmurs, "but it's very sweet of you either way." Isla's eyes are starting to grow heavy despite herself as she watches them both, and it's with a long, content sigh that she shifts to get more comfortable in bed. "Will you wake me, if I fall asleep and she needs me?" she asks preemptively, knowing now more than ever not to leave things open to interpretation.

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

EVEREST

"Of course," he says immediately, without hesitation and without embellishment. It is not reassurance offered lightly; it is a promise logged and prioritized.

Adjusting Fern minutely in his arms, he shifts his stance and begins to move, slow, careful steps around the perimeter of the room. Not pacing, not restless; simply walking with deliberate calm, allowing the subtle sway of motion to settle into a rhythm that might soothe the tiny, alert bundle against his chest. "Right," he murmurs softly to Fern as they pass the monitoring equipment, voice pitched low and steady. That apparatus measures maternal vitals. It is currently unnecessary, which is favourable." He moves on, angling slightly so her head remains supported, fingers checking instinctively beneath her neck again.

"Those trays contained sterile instruments," he continues, tone conversational but hushed. "There was considerable preparation involved prior to your arrival. Checklists. Contingencies. We even rehearsed breathing patterns." His mouth twitches faintly. "Your mother was exceptionally competent." He passes the window, where twilight has deepened into full evening, the clinic lights reflecting faintly in the glass, before turning slowly, angling back toward the bed in time to catch in the periphery of his vision, the moment Isla’s lashes finally lower.

And with that, he resumes his gentle circuit, steady and unhurried, holding their daughter as though the entire world has narrowed to the exact dimensions of her in his arms.

~FIN

the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!