As an assassin he’d had the patience of a saint;; he had been able to wait hours for a perfect shot, sometimes he’d spent whole days to observe a target. But waiting three hours and twenty four minutes until your first child is born is way too long in his opinion. He bounces nervously on his feet and then walks over to the doors that separate them from the labor room, looking through the glass as though he could see anything. He doesn’t. Releasing a huff, he walks back to the chairs while kneading his hands.