It was a blustery day in October, the first stirrings of winter gracing the trees and grass with a faint rime of frost. The hospital window was closed, delicate tracery of ice coating the window; perhaps the breath of some outsider, come to learn the secret of living. The chilly breeze marked only one of a number of beginnings for the small-town clinic, and a warbling cry pierced the stillness of the ward; a plea in the dark hours of pre-dawn.

"Oh, honey, you done made him upset again." A chiding tone, edges lost in a sigh, as if the speaker were bone-weary.

"Now, woman, I did no such thing." A distant rumble. The warm pitch of his voice seemed to fill the room - but his was a gentler reprisal, in dulcet notes teasing and light. Its owner was as dark as he was tall, stiff-necked button-up half undone to reveal a startlingly white undershirt. His horn rimmed glasses hid his large, expressive eyes, but it wasn't hard to guess the knowing look from his tone.

The room was quiet- they'd managed a private little chamber, not much bigger than a closet. A cloth screen surrounded a low hospital bed and a smaller, plastic-lined crib. It's occupants pantomimed a delicate dance that exemplified their new roles. A new season, in their lives.

"Love, stop jostlin' him. It ain't doing no good. Here, bring him here, he wants his momma." The weariness was now shed in the wake of firm assertion. A creak of a chair as someone got up, coming into the dim light of the bedside lamp. Henry Becker was a big man, just shy of six and a half feet; a gentle giant. He cradled a tiny bundle in his arms with a mix of uncertainty and awe, the stiff set of his arms and rigidness of his shoulders giving away his unease.

As he came into view, the woman tucked securely into the narrow hospital bed gave a sharp laugh. It was a bright sound, and it filled her eyes with a mischievous light. Her own hospital gown was rumpled and half-askew, draped across her solid form with little regard for decency. With a weary grin, she motioned him closer. "That ain't how you hold a baby. Let me-" she motioned to his arms, adjusting them by the elbow, tching and grumbling under her breath.

"Hey- hey!" Henry exclaimed, pulling up and away a bit. The woman settled hands on heavily blanketed hips, humor gone in a blink and replaced by a stern look. She had spent much of the previous day in labor- but she couldn't sleep, not yet. She wanted to stay awake and see the new day, but the effort had left her with little patience.

"Jeanne, I-" he began, softly, cradling the babe in his arms. "I don't wanna drop him. I ain't never had to hol' a baby before."

She breathed out, a loud sound that ended in a disgruntled snort. "Henry David Becker, you is NOT gonna drop that baby! But you ain't gotta clutch at him like he a football!" The babe's unhappy whimpers turned into frantic yowls at the woman's tone, and her face softened. "Just give him here, he just needs a little sleep. It's been a long, long night." Henry reluctantly turned the little bundle over, and its cries were quickly silenced as it was engulfed in the warmth and familiarity of his mother's bosom. Jeanne looked up then, meeting her husband's eyes. She saw the raw emotion in his face - fears, hopes, dreams.

"He won't quiet for me," he began hesitantly, but she shook her head, cutting him off.

"He don't know you yet, love," she chided. She smiled then, and even though her face was drawn, hair messy and undone and falling in frizzing ringlets curling tighly to her skin - she was beautiful. Her dark eyes glowed with sincerity. "You'll be his daddy soon enough." Tucking the infant in her arm, she reached out with one gauze-wrapped hand, tugging a drip tube that caught the gentle light of the sun finally peeking over the horizon. Her warm, nut-brown fingers laced through his own mahogany ones. "He won't be able to get enough 'o you."

Henry's own gaze shone with unshed tears, and he squeezed those precious digits, rubbing his thumb against the inside of her palm. He leaned forward, to press his lips gently against the forehead of the now-sleeping babe before coming up to meet hers.

"I love you," he whispered, laying a gentle peck against her cheek.

Jeanne closed her eyes then, biting her lip and smiling even as she found herself crying for the second time that night. The couple held hands, quietly weeping their joy in shining tracks down their cheeks, and watched dawn paint the skies. It was a warm thing, a living thing, the bright oranges and sweet pinks drowning out the gentle grey clouds as the sun slowly outshone them.

Washington Henry Becker slumbered in a cradle made of his mother's arms and his father's devotion. He couldn't see the shadows anymore; not through that soothing light.