Naptime

There he laid, tiny body curled up on the floor and baby fists clutching tightly a favorite blanket to his chest. Golden waves of soft buttery hair fell across rosy cheeks as blonde lashes fluttered dreamily. It was a more beautiful portrait of angelic innocence than Michelangelo, or anyone for that matter, could ever hope to conceive.

Francis strode over, careful as to not disrupt the serenity of the child's slumber; careful not to disrupt grand dreams of incorruptible happiness and joy. With hands as soft as a child should only ever be handled with, he picked up the little nation and cradled him adoringly as he brushed aside strands of golden hair with a tender motion. His blue eyes swam with pride and threatened to spill over in awe-struck tears at the unparalleled beauty of the sleeping baby.

Small, pudgy hands curled up to rest against a slowly rising and falling chest as his petit body quivered with a sleepy breath. Pink and pouty lips smacked together lethargically before sticking out beckoning for a saccharine kiss.

The older male held the baby possessively as if to say that this was his child alone, his blessing, his sweetest petit ange. So he sat in a rocking chair, swaying delicately back and forth, murmuring soft, sweet French lullabies, admiring his sleeping beauty.