little bitty rattle (and all our dreams are comin' true) | Larry Stylinson

Chapter 8

Twenty and Twenty-Two, March

In the moments after giving birth, Harry finds that despite how tired and sore his body suddenly is, his entire consciousness revolves only around his baby. Labor has officially left him worn out, but it's amazing how, with his newborn daughter in his arms and his mate beside him, he doesn't even feel it. He only feels happiness.

Olivia's here. She's here, in Harry's arms, fussing shrilly because she's confused and wet and cold and doesn't know what's going on, and Harry's shushing her and holding her and crying all at the same time, too; and Louis's murmuring into Harry's ear, reaching out to touch Olivia with fragile fingers, and it's finally all come together for them. It's done. She's here.

She's here, smelling like—

"She's like me," Harry rushes out to Louis, his eyes so ridiculously wet. "She's—Louis—" He lifts his head to his mate for a moment before gazing back down at his daughter— "She's like me."

Next to him, Louis nods, grinning. Harry sees him wipe his eyes. "She looks like you, too." Harry smiles. His baby's an omega, and she looks like him.

He holds Olivia and stares at her for a very, very long time, aware that he's messy, aware that people are all around the bed watching her, too. He gets to hold her. She's his.

As much as Harry would like to enjoy the intimacy of scenting his daughter immediately and shooing everyone out, birthing Oliva isn't the last part of everything. After she's semi-covered with a soft towel that Harry delicately starts using to wipe her off, there's still stuff that Harry has to push out of his body, and after that, there's still stuff that Jay has to do down between his legs. She then presses on his stomach in a way that's less than comfortable, too, and it's about a twenty-minute process. It's all okay, though, because during it, Harry has Olivia's warm body pressed to his warm body, and he has Louis' warm body pressed against his side, and he's content to be in this sort of cocooned shelter on the mattress like that, with all of their smells merging into a giant, combined scent of home.

"You did such good work, baby," Louis whispers low in his ear sometime after he takes a pair of surgical scissors from his mom and cuts Olivia's umbilical cord. Harry adjusts Olivia back on his chest, and she just rests there, still mostly unclean but settled now, as Harry tilts his face up to his mate. He's immediately kissed, but he's too tired to reciprocate. Louis wipes his sweaty hair out of his eyes for him.

As wrung out as his body feels—contractions still plaguing his abdomen, his lower parts on fire, his stomach now a loose pouch, his chest achy, his legs shakier than ever before—he's still only absorbed with Olivia. Staring at her. Studying her. The things you do when meeting someone, but it's different. He gets to touch, he gets to scent. He gets to recognize the little things about her that look like Harry—her face, her nose, her ears, oh God—and the things that look like Louis—the shape of her eyes, her mouth.

She's so tiny. Her fingers are long but so small, her fingertips like dots. Harry's eyes get moist again. She's an omega. Like him.

Everyone who was present for the delivery is still in the room, quietly moving around to clean stuff up, and since they don't stare at Harry, he doesn't feel quite so watched anymore. Anyway, he hardly has any modesty left right now. As Jay carefully takes Olivia from Harry to measure her and take her weight, Harry finally covers his legs with a sheet.

At the end of the bed where Jay places Olivia, Harry's mom takes some pictures with the flash off on her camera, and Harry's so anxious without her in his arms that he can't explain it. When Jay's done (Olivia comes in at twenty inches long, seven pounds exactly), Harry gratefully and gingerly accepts her back himself, happy to feel her cheek snuffling against his chest.