Your Baby is the Size of A...

42 Weeks - Your baby is past due

"Can't believe that's all she had to bloody well say," Remus seethed, his words harsh in contrast to the gentle hands that lingered, keeping Severus moving – waddling – along to their rooms, well past curfew when the contractions had refused to cease and instead had morphed into one on-going roll of clenching muscles.

"Your baby is merely past due, these things happen Severus," the werewolf mocked, head wobbling on his neck. "It needs to come out," he snapped.

"Really, Lupin – you're making a bigger deal of it than it is. I'm fine," he breathed out, though the name slip showed his discomfort. Even his hand rubbing continuously against his belly did nothing to sway Bump's mind about twisting viciously.

The doors fell open as he managed to gasp out "crocodile heart," admitting them inside. Where Remus promptly started on his robes, undoing buttons painstakingly by hand even though he knew the spell. Muttering, growling, all the while.

"It's killing you, Sev. You need Bump to be Baby. You needed it like . . . three weeks ago. Maybe more."

He did feel rather lightheaded, weak. Severus's fingers grabbed at Remus's forearm, a sudden need to steady himself rising from quivering knees. The lighter man steadied him; eyes focused on Severus as Remus's hands clutched at his robes for stability. The heady thrum of devotion, protectiveness rubbed at the back of his skull.

"Would you put the kettle on," he asked, as nicely as he could as Bump twisted painfully hard in his innards. His breath was short, sharp as Severus focused on the floor in front of him, making himself move slowly into the little eating nook. He touched his face softly, skin somehow clammy but feverishly hot under his touch.

Remus turned away, filling the kettle and still chatting away. "I mean, really though Severus – I'm fairly sure the Muggles just make the babies come out if they stay inside the mother too long. The Wizarding World should have the same. Forty-two weeks of this is quite enough."

He swayed for a moment, drawing in as deep a gasp of breath as Bump would allow.

"I agree with you," Severus said, voice stretched thin and soft with pain; his fingers outstretched and balanced against the back of a chair. He swallowed hard, fighting down the hard, constant contractions in his stomach. There was a brilliantly sharp pain somewhere under his ribs, as though his spleen or some other rather unimportant organ had ruptured. His bones quivered finely; his skin crawled; a hot, leaking sensation flooded him – as though he had pissed himself, but someone had forgotten to tell him.

"Remus," he said softly, but the rest of his sentence died on his lips. There was a peculiar look on the werewolf's face as the lighter man glanced over his shoulder.

"Severus," the word was sharp, almost panicked.

That's the oddest feeling, Severus thought at the sensation buzzing angrily at the back of his skull – even as his vision turned dark at the edges and his knees finally unlocked.