"Ouch!" You yelp,
"Did you run into the changing table again?" Sebastian calls from the living room,
"...Maybe."
He appears in the doorway to the nursery, obviously trying to stifle his laughter, though he looks sympathetic at the sight of you rubbing your stomach where you had jabbed yourself on the corner of the table.
"What happened?"
"I was trying to put some books away, I turned around and..."
"You know, we can move it. It should fit under the window just fine."
"I like the room like this." You insist, in the past five months, you hadn't managed to find any work, so you and Seb agreed it would be a good time for you to set up the nursery however you wanted it, to dispel stir craziness if nothing else, and you insisted it be just as he had described. "Besides, it's not the placement, it's the fact that military tanks weren't meant to navigate in apartments."
He laughs at you, crossing the room to pull you backward into him, his arms wrapping loosely around you,
"You're no tank. Trust me." You twist around to stare at him, unamused, "Seriously." He points to himself, "Bucky Barnes, World War II super hero, remember?"
"Bucky wasn't a super hero," you deadpan, "Awesome hero: yes. Super: no. The winter soldier, on the other hand: super, but not a hero."
"Hey now," Seb looks scandalized, "I'll have you know--"
"He redeems himself, yeah yeah yeah, I know. And I know I should probably be used to this," you gesture to your now prominent belly, "but I just can't help it." You hiss at the mild pain as you smooth your hand over what you're afraid will soon be a bruise. His smile quickly drops to a concerned frown, the larger you got, the more prone to clumsiness you'd become,
"Honestly, you're almost worrying me, should I stay a little while longer?"
"You have to get to that shoot. Seriously, we have another month to go, I'll be fine. Mom will be here the day after tomorrow, anyway."
"I think I'd feel better if I stuck around... just until then."
"There's no need, and you would be watching an empty apartment. Tonight is Amy's wedding shower, remember? Tomorrow I'll probably just be lazing around here trying to recover from that. And besides, you've already put this off long enough. You have to go."
After a little more urging, he finally concedes, agreeing to leave as planned. He had been working on a project he refused to go into detail about, which made you figure it had to be with Marvel, they were so tight-lipped about things you couldn't even get Chris to spill anything. A few hours later, he was on his way to DC for a week of on-site filming and you were getting dolled up for a quiet party, trying your best to ignore the nervous butterflies that were threatening to turn to heartburn, or worse, at the prospect of being a party hostess. Already several hours into the party, all of your guests, mostly friends of Amy's from her dance company, some mutual friends from your years together at college, seem to be enjoying themselves.
While Amy would drop hints about her salacious requirements for her bachelorette party, you could tell she was having a good time, chatting, laughing, and wholeheartedly participating in the ridiculous games you'd planned for her.
All evening, you'd managed a flexible schedule, moving fluidly from one activity to the next, all from your comfort zone behind your camera, and all while receiving travel updates from Sebastian, when his plane took off, when he landed, when he got to his hotel, replying whenever you could.
"Alright." You announce, "I think it's finally time for your presents."
Amy bounces excitedly, like a child on Christmas morning, while you ready your list for recording what present came from whom, juggling the notepad with your camera.
"Okay, Katie, we'll start with yours." You pass the present to her, taking a deep breath through a new wave of aches in your stomach. Amy looks at you funny but lets it slide. You can see she starts to watch you closer after that.
Snap the picture. Record the name. List the present. Move on.
"Megan, looks like you're next!"
Keep breathing, nice and deep. Picture. Name. Present.
"You okay, girl?" Amy asks quietly, turning to grab a package from you. You can tell she's trying to keep her tone light, but she can't mask her concern,
"I think I just ate too fast." You wave her off, urging her to keep going with her gifts,
"Are you sure you ate enough?" She presses, setting the box aside and pouring you a glass of juice, which you down in just a few gulps, "Maybe your sugar is taking a nosedive."
"You could be dehydrated, too." Carla, Amy's mom, chimes in, "Easily done when you're in your third trimester. You've been running around like a madwoman all day, directing such a wonderful party," she presses a plate of finger foods into your hands, trading you for your camera, and passes you a glass of water, insisting that you drink. "How about you go take a seat, let me take over for just a bit." You open your mouth to argue, "I know the drill," she stops you gently, "I can take notes, one of the ladies can take the pictures for a little while. You just sit back and relax. You should be enjoying the party too."
At the insistence of the other party-goers, you finally relent and take a seat on the couch. As soon as you sit, you groan in relief to be off your feet.
You pick at the plate of food, try to drink the water, and slowly feel your muscles uncoiling as you watch Amy open gift after gift, some practical - a blender she would certainly use every morning, George too, probably; some touching - a lace handkerchief her grandmother made when she was in primary school that Amy could use as her "something old"; some amusing - the cliche lingerie that made everyone hoot and whistle. You had a good feeling that George would get plenty of use out of that gift too.
Various wedding-night jokes were thrown around, making you laugh through your tired haze until a shooting pain crawled across your abdomen, turning your laugh into a yelp.
The laughter in the room peters out as everyone turns to look at you. Despite the pain, you feel like shrinking back at the attention of almost two dozen women.
"Sorry," you croak, "I'm fine."
"You sure?" Amy asks, frowning, "That didn't sound fine."
"I am, really. I probably just need more water--" you're cut short by another pain, lower, more insistent. You clench your eyes shut, vaguely aware of movement around you,
"Can you stand up, hon?"
You force your eyes open to see Carla knelt in front of you. You wrestle through a deep breath, nodding, slowly making your way to your feet. At the sound of your pained groan, you see Amy reach for her phone.
"I'm calling an ambulance." You try to stop her, not wanting to cause too big a fuss, but are startled into silence by a sudden warmth spreading down your legs.
"Oh dear." Carla breathes beside you, "We have to leave now, there's no time to wait."
"What? What happened?" You ask with growing terror at the urgency in her voice. You look down at your feet, your heart plummeting at the sight of the murky red fluid.
Your water broke.
And you're bleeding.
.
.
"Hey, Seb, it's Amy, we think Y/N just went into labor, we're taking her to the hospital now... You should probably get here ASAP. Call me back as soon as you get this."
Amy and Carla were just shy of frantic when they tucked you into the car. The women at the party insisted they could clean up and none of you would have to think about it. Amy had been trying to get a hold of Sebastian for the past five minutes solid as Carla tried to keep you calm, navigating traffic and finding the quickest route to the hospital,
"This can't happen now. Seb's in DC. He won't get here in time. This can't happen now!"
"Sweetheart, I need to you breathe. Keep breathing, nice and slow. Very good. We're gonna get you to your doctor and your boyfriend will be here as soon as he can."
You don't even think to correct her as another of what you're beginning to recognize as contractions steals your breath.
Screeching to a halt at the hospital some fifteen or twenty minutes later, Carla runs in to get a nurse and a wheelchair while Amy gets a call back from George, who had called Chris, all three still trying to reach Sebastian.
"Amy this can't be happening." You whisper into the quiet car. She rests her hand on your shoulder.
"I'm sure everything will be fine, Y/N."
"He almost stayed." You groan, "He had a bad feeling and insisted he stay with me a little while longer. Why did I tell him to go?"
"Neither of you could have known anything would happen."
Before anything else could be said, you're whisked out of the car, into a wheelchair, and pushed into the emergency room.
The flurry of activity around you fades to the background, a static grating on your nerves, as you try to keep breathing through waves of pain. You're hooked to different monitors, undressed and redressed in a hospital gown, IVs stabbed into your hands, asked questions you don't want to have to think to answer; you hear medical terms thrown around that do nothing for you besides fuel your worry.
What was happening? What if none of them know? What if they can't save you? What if you lose this one too?
The pain slowly fades, leaving nothing to distract you from the hurried orders being called by the doctor, and despite all the people telling you to stay calm, your anxiety steadily grows.
You hear a male voice at the door, insisting on being let in. He finally fights his way past a nurse who tries to hold him back,
"Chris!" You call him in shock, he runs to you, taking your hand,
"Sebastian's on his way, his flight just left. He should be here in 2 hours at the most. Think you can hold on that long?"
"We're doing everything we can to delay labor." Your doctor cuts in, the activity around you calming only slightly, still urgent but less frantic,
"Ah, see? It's gonna be fine. He has time, he'll be here."
"Well, actually," she speaks up again, "Your water's already broken, so we can only delay so long, otherwise we risk infection to you and the baby, we may have to deliver sooner than I'd like. We are checking on the baby and keeping an eye on your vitals, but if anything changes, I may have to do a C-section."
You can't hold back anymore and tears spill over, all the worst case scenarios run through your head, all ending with you left alone. Again.
You feel Chris's arm across your shoulder, wrapping you in a hug and kissing the top of your head.
"It's going to be fine." He keeps whispering,
"Either way," Dr. Yoon continues, "being a month early, you will be preterm, but there is a very good chance that everything will be just fine. While I know it's easier said than done, you just have to keep calm. We are here to take care of both of you."
The next hour is spent in agonizing anticipation of the worst, watching the clock, wishing Sebastian were there. Chris stays by your side, checking his phone constantly, both of you waiting on news from Seb.
"I'll be right back." He says softly, stepping out for a cup of coffee. You focus on your breathing, no thinking, no wondering, no problem solving, just breathing in time with your heart rate monitor which keeps time with the various monitors reporting on your child's vitals.
In. Beep beep.
Out. Beep beep.
In. Beep beep.
Your breath out dissolves into a moan as a new pain, white-hot and searing, radiates up your stomach. It grows so intense so quickly you don't even have the chance to call for a nurse.
Chris steps back in, excitedly, his phone pressed to his ear,
"Seb's plane landed! He should be here in--"
The baby's monitors start squealing, stopping him in his tracks. He spins around, yelling for the doctor, and is promptly nudged aside to make way for Dr Yoon and a few nurses.
She examines you quickly,
"This baby is determined not to stay put." She says, almost frustrated, "The medicine isn't working, your labor is continuing to advance--"
"Doctor." A nurse cuts her off, showing her a print out, from one of the monitors,
"The baby is in distress, Y/N. I'm sorry, but I have to get you into the OR. Now."
"No, we can't. Sebastian's not here!"
"Y/N." Chris speaks low beside you're ear, "You have to go now. I'll bring him to you as soon as he gets here, just go."
"I can't do this by myself." You whisper through your tears.
"We're all here. You're not by yourself. You're going to be just fine." He says, looking you right in the eyes, "Everything will be fine. I promise."
He walks with you all the way to the operating room where you're separated from him, overhearing a nurse telling him to wait in the hall while you're prepped for a C-section. A drape is set up, blocking your view; anesthesia injected, slowly numbing everything from your ribs down; you try to get a handle on your tears, try to tell yourself whatever Sebastian would tell you,
'You're strong. You're stubborn. You can handle this.'
You imagine his fingers carding through your hair, his thumb stroking across your cheek,
"I'm right here. You can do this." It takes you a second to realize you weren't imagining him. You turn, seeing him take a seat on a stool, right beside you, breathless, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. He takes your hand to press a kiss to your fingers. His hair was tied back, covered with a surgical cap, still in his wardrobe from filming, covered clumsily by scrubs, his face still with traces of his make up from set. His eyes are pained as he whispers, "I'm so sorry I wasn't there."
"We're ready." Dr. Yoon says, "This won't take long, just make sure you keep still. You'll feel some pressure, but that's normal, don't let it worry you."
You keep your eyes on Sebastian's, gripping his hand as tight as you can. He smooths away a rogue tear that rolls from the corner of your eye,
"I should have been there."
You shake your head at him,
"You couldn't have known. There was no reason. No warning. You had to go to work."
"What if you'd been alone at home?"
"I would have called someone."
"What if--"
"No more. You're here. Just stay here."
"I'm not going anywhere."
You frown at the feeling of tugging discomfort, and he peeks over the drape. His initial squeamish expression fades and his eyes brighten,
"What do you see?"
"A head. They're almost here."
You almost hold your breath, the pulling and prodding at your stomach unsettles you, though never actually hurts.
"It's out... She's out... She... She's here." He looks down at you, his eyes wide, welling, with a growing smile of wonder,
"She?" You ask quietly,
"We have a baby girl." He says, resting his forehead on yours. You're ready to celebrate when the silence in the room hits you like a train,
"Seb... She isn't crying."
He looks back up in time to see Dr. Yoon whisk his daughter to a table on the opposite wall,
"Sebastian, why isn't she crying? What's happening?"
"She's not breathing." You hear your doctor say with a tinge of urgency, "Her heartbeat is fine, everything is normal, she's just not breathing."
In an instant that feels like it stretches to eternity you see the vision of Sebastian rocking your little girl to sleep, you watch it fade away for the second time that night,
"Come on, baby, cry for me." You say weakly, "Cry for me, honey." Your voice gathers strength,
"Margaret! Cry for me, Margaret, come on!"
Everything seems to go quiet. You don't hear the nurses communicating as they stitch you up. You don't hear the monitors beeping. You don't hear anything.
Until that first whimper.
A pitiful croaking cry raises from the table in front of Dr. Yoon, and the entire room seems to let out a collective sigh, relief palpable and infectious.
Sebastian holds you as best he can with you laid out on the table, both of you finally breathing easier. Dr. Yoon appears around the drape a few minutes later,
"I have someone here who'd like to meet you two." She says, passing a tiny, squirming bundle to Sebastian.
He holds his baby girl awkwardly, unsure of himself, not wanting to hurt her,
"So far she's perfectly fine, a good weight for preterm, though she's still a little bit small. We'd like to keep you both for a few days for observation, give you a chance to heal up a bit, but for now, there's no danger to worry about."
You nod, thanking your doctor after she informs you you'll be moved to a recovery room soon, unable to look away from your baby girl and her father. Sebastian turns, leaning toward you,
"Hey, baby girl, this is your mama." He says, she coos, grunts, fussing before she begins to cry again. You reach for her, so small you're afraid to touch her, afraid you're about to wake up and the whole thing will have been a dream, until Sebastian looks at you.
His look of fondness grounds you; the evident, unveiled love in his eyes keeping you in reality. He passes you your daughter, laying her gently on your chest,
"Little Margaret. Just determined not to stay in there any longer, huh?" The more you talked to her the more she quieted down, her eyes barely opening for just a second, glancing up at you before closing them again, napping as she was nestled against you.
Seb leans forward to kiss your forehead, one hand on Margaret, one on the back of your head; you look up at him as he leans in, making him pause. He changes his mind, pulls you closer, leaning lower, kissing your lips.
Pulling back, he looks you in the eyes and you see a fear there that unsettles you, a nervousness that confuses you, until he speaks.
"I love you." He says simply. And suddenly your worry, nerves that you steeled as you expected bad news, melts away,
"I know." You whisper with a chuckle.
