stbethadettes: (not so happy)
[personal profile] stbethadettes
Jesus fucking Christ.

Beth's grip on Spike's hand is viselike, and she shakily presses her other hand to her face.

For the first time since the contractions began, she's actually starting to think she might not be able to do this. She survived a goddamn plane crash, trekked back and forth in the hot sun from the crash site to St. Bernadette's with remains she felt she had to bury, lived two years alone in a church, defended her home and even the last man alive, and then left that home and only known link to the bar to go with a former amazon on a trip to Kansas. Until now, she's been meeting this head-on, determined.

But she's pushing, for fuck's sake. She's been pushing. She almost can't remember what it's like not to be pushing so much and so often.


Hero calls her mamacita and tells her this is it and tries to coax her for one more push, just one more, and for a moment her mind can't even comprehend one more push and her body rebels. She's been fairly well-behaved most of the time, except for when she threatened the next person to tell her to breathe, but it feels like she's about half an inch from the end of her rope.

One more push.

It better be a promise.

Steeling herself, she lets her fingers bite into Spike's hand and gives that one last push, and just as she's delving into doubt, just as she's on the verge of telling Hero to screw herself, there's this pressure gone, this weight lifted, this sense of some type of release. And she opens her eyes, lets them focus, and she can see Hero's hands are full and hear Elaine cooing as she steps forward with a fresh towel and notice that Spike's grasp is as tight as hers must've been.

She's panting, her mouth kind of falling open, and it's all a little hazy, a little dreamlike.

"Is... she okay?"

She hardly hears the reassuring answers she's given.

It's a baby. Her baby. This tiny little thing is responsible for making her feel so goddamn huge these past few months. There's this quiet sort of whimper that turns into an actual cry after the baby's face is wiped at with a washcloth, and Beth can't take her eyes off her.

The baby's messy, covered in gunk, and crying and looks a little wrinkly and... well, it kind of looks like her head's shaped sort of funny. She's anything but beautiful and somehow completely breath-taking at the exact same time. But once the cord's cut and the little girl's wrapped in a towel, Hero gives Beth a wide grin and asks if the santa madre would like to hold her daughter.

My daughter.

Now that simple two-word phrase -- until this point not even in the running -- has even I'm pregnant and I'm having contractions beat when it comes to surprise and amazement and pure awe. At least in her opinion.

She lets out very short, very tired -- too tired -- laugh. And then she half-smiles, outstretching arms that feel about as solid as toothpaste, so fucking thankful for the fact that she can't possibly drop her daughter in this position.

"You bet your ass I do."


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January 2009

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