Simon never thought he’d be a father, let alone a great father. His own was terrible, absolutely awful, to both him and Tommy. Simon swore to himself he would end the bloodline—
“Do you want to hold her?” Your soft and tired voice sounded from the hospital bed. You held out your minutes old daughter, beckoning him to take her. His feet moved before he could think.
He realized his promise had broken as he stared at his newborn, so tiny in his big arms. He could almost feel his inner child leaping with joy. His daughter yawned and then cooed, her small nose scrunching up.
“You’re no bigger than my arm, hm?” He croons. “Just a little ankle-biter.” His other arm comes up to fix the little beanie the nurses had put on her minutes previously. It was at this moment when he realized he would go through hell and back for her.
He wasn’t ‘Ghost’ in that moment. He wasn’t that scrappy kid who grew up Manchester. He was just…Simon. Simon who became a father. That was certainly an accomplishment in his book.
