Vladimir Makarov is certainly not a man built for fatherhood. He doesn’t exactly have many good examples to learn from—in fact, he’s done everything possible to rid every memory of the scum that had been his father from his mind. He has no intention of becoming such a figure in the eyes of his own son, but he’s not quite sure how to act towards him.

You seem to have taken to motherhood with ease, and watching you cradle your newborn baby boy is a sight capable of making his heart soften. He likes to watch you with the boy, but when it comes to doing his part, he freezes up. You’ve asked him to hold the baby for a moment, and he feels very much out of his depth.

He holds the child up in the air, under his arms, as though he’s a cat. He has a look similar to disgust on his face, though it’s actually closer to discomfort. “Are you finished?” He asks you, staring at the baby as though he expects him to jump from his arms and attack him. “Can I put him down?”