Caleb Danvers

There wasn't much in his world, just then.

There was a pair of warm hands, holding him against a warm arm, wool of a sweater scratchy. Such big strong hands, like they could hold all the world; they could hold most of him, in fact.

His own little stubby fingers were wrapped tight into dark hair, straight and nice and smooth against his palm. He wasn't tugging much.

And there was that deep voice rumbling low and amused in the chest Caleb was pressed against, besides heartbeat.

There wasn't much in his world, just then, but everything was all right.

( ~~~ )

The once-dark-haired man's expression is soft as he watches his son's black curls bob up and down against the snow as the boy bounds across it to his friend, the narrow trail too tiny for his momentum.

A/N: After this conversation with Chase.

It had been a long time, Caleb realized as his muscles still seemed to be twinging in the shower, since he'd last done this kind of swimming - back and forth, laps past good training practices and till his lungs burned and he couldn't propel himself any further.