Gemma is standing in front of Eleanor’s crib, watching her tiny body breathe. Sometimes, Devon finds her here, in their apartment’s makeshift nursery, just staring.
The news that Devon had been pregnant, had given birth, while Gemma was locked in the bowels of Lumon had hit her especially hard. That first night, they’d spent together in a motel, Eleanor still safely tucked away at home with Ricken, and Gemma had quietly requested to hear about what Devon was like as a mother.
Just something simple, she’d said, from the twin bed opposite Devon’s. The room was so tiny, if they both reached out their arms, they could touch fingertips.
Devon had told her about the first time she took Eleanor out for a walk, the way she’d taken ages to strap her into the baby björn, afraid of fucking it up. The way she’d tucked Eleanor’s tiny little head into a hat to protect her from the cold. The way Eleanor had burbled happily the whole way to the park.
She leaves out the part about Gabby Arteta, about trying to make a friend only to realize something terrible had occurred just beneath her nose. About going home and spending the entire night googling and desperately trying to connect the dots. So much of Devon’s life lately feels like that, like moving too slowly to catch all the things everyone else is doing at warp speed.
Now that she lives with Devon and Eleanor both, Gemma spends so much of her time watching. It’s like she’s trying not to miss anything else, like she’s so enamored with the small things that make up Devon’s life that she can’t help but stare.
Eleanor loves her, of course. Who doesn’t? Gemma takes to entertaining Devon’s daughter like a duck to water, so overwhelmingly fond of her that it touches a tender spot in Devon’s chest.
It’s hard not to think about what must be going through Gemma’s head when she’s looking at Eleanor. Playing with Eleanor. Reading to Eleanor. About the child she had so desperately wanted.
“I’ve heard pictures last longer,” Devon says from behind Gemma, pleased when she doesn’t spook at the noise.
Instead, Gemma turns over her shoulder for a second and rolls her eyes, a little smile eking out to betray her. “Don’t be an asshole,” she says, casting her attention back to Eleanor’s tiny body. Gemma goes silent for a long moment and then, quietly, she adds, “she’s so small,” something like wonder in the words.
Devon blinks back the emotion that sends through her. She steps closer, lays a careful hand on the plane of Gemma’s back.
To Devon, Eleanor looks so much bigger and older than she did when she was born. Every day, she grows up a little bit more, finds her footing in the world and defines her personality. It’s strange to think that Gemma missed so much of that, that she’s experiencing all the emotions Devon did when she was first born now instead.
She wants to give Gemma all that and more, wants her and Eleanor to continue finding their own natural rhythm with one another. They’re Devon’s people— her family— and that’s a quickly dwindling number.
Gemma sighs, so quiet Devon might’ve missed it were she not touching her. Devon wishes she knew what to fucking say. All she can do is just stand there, pressed against Gemma, watching her daughter snore. She has a baby monitor in the bedroom, but somehow she doesn’t think it’ll serve the same purpose.
A tiny spit bubble expands and pops against the curve of Eleanor’s tiny mouth. Gemma laughs, so suddenly and loudly that she has to press a hand to her face to muffle it. The two of them watch, anxious to see if the noise startled Eleanor, but her peaceful sleep continues. It’s enough to drag giggles out of Devon, semi-manic with the weight of everything compounded with the hour. She leans into Gemma’s shoulder, lets her laughter vibrate her bones.
Soon, they’re both shaking with quiet, breathy laughter, lit by the moon and Eleanor’s tiny boat-shaped nightlight.
“Oh my god,” Devon murmurs when she winds down, not bothering to pull her face away from Gemma. She feels her responding shiver like it’s her own.
Gemma huffs another quiet laugh through her nose. “We should go to bed,” she says, though there’s little actual resolve in her words.
Devon turns, leans her cheek against the point of Gemma’s shoulder so she can be heard. “Mm, shoulda, woulda, coulda,” she replies, watches Gemma’s lips quirk into a fond little smile.
Gemma makes a little considering noise, her eyes still on the crib. “Maybe just a few more minutes,” she says softly.
Devon nods, presses a little kiss to the sleeve of Gemma’s (Devon’s) pajama shirt. “Just a few.”