Prologue (January)
"Fuck this hill, just fuck it."
Santana dangled her five-inch heels in her right hand, her purse swinging wildly from her left hand as she huffed herself up the hill toward their house.
"You wanted to have a house in Laguna Beach."
It was an automatic response, at this point.
"You shouldn't have let me!" Santana exclaimed. "You tricked me with the beach and the lesbian bars and the 'Oh, it's the Soho of Southern California.' You didn't tell me I'd be walking up a big damn mountain in the dark every time we get wine-drunk by the beach." She gestured with a dramatic flinging of her arm toward the warm lights of the downtown area below. "Now I'm on a big damn mountain, the wind is drying out my eyeballs, and I have to pee."
"We go over this every time. It's not a mountain," Rachel sighed, "It's a hill. And we're almost there." She wrapped an arm around Santana's waist to help her the last few hundred feet to their front door.
Santana dropped her purse and shoes in the doorway and pulled her dress over her head on her way to the bathroom.
"You have to admit, Santana," Rachel said when Santana joined her in the living room, a little calmer now that she was naked and no longer had to pee. "New Year's Eve overlooking fireworks on the Pacific Ocean has a certain charm."
Santana looked over Rachel's shoulder out of the picture window behind the couch, through which you could only just see the sparkle of the moon on the ocean over the rooftops and trees lining their street.
"I suppose it beats getting puked on in a club in Hollywood."
"See? Aren't you glad we didn't do a big fancy industry party this year?"
"Hey, I have an idea. Why don't we stop talking about you being right and start having our first sex of the new year?" Santana sidled up behind Rachel and whispered in her ear. "I'll take you from behind right here, so you don't even have to look away from your precious ocean view."
Rachel smiled and closed her eyes, relaxing into the feeling of the hot breath in her ear, tinged sweetly with the smell of champagne.
She pivoted onto her knees and leaned belly-first into the back of the couch. "Bet you can't make me look away," she challenged.
In the wee hours of the morning, they lay on the soft rug of the living room floor. Rachel leaned against Santana's chest, her leg draped over Santana's thighs.
Santana wound her fingertips absently through Rachel's hair, caressing her temple and scratching lightly behind her ear.
"The year's off to a pretty good start," Rachel said.
"Mmhmm," Santana said sleepily.
"Do you have resolutions?"
"You know I don't do that. If I want to get more awesome, I start whenever I want, not when the calendar says."
"You're getting your degree this year."
"That's not a resolution, that is a true fact. Santana Lopez will officially be a BS this time next year. Isn't that the most apt title for the thing you get after all the bullshit college puts you through?"
"Shut up, you're proud."
"I'll be proud when I'm done. I suppose you are lame enough to have New Years resolutions, or you wouldn't have brought it up."
"Actually, I don't really have a resolution. I think I have a goal, though."
"Rachel Berry has a goal? Gasp."
"Mmhmm, one that kind of involves you."
"Does it also involve orgasms?" Santana said, smiling down at Rachel. "If so, I'm down. What's the target number?"
"Not directly."
"It indirectly involves orgasms?"
"I mean, not for us? I think, in 2022, we should have a baby."
Rachel held her breath. Santana's fingers froze in place in Rachel's hair.
"You think it's time?"
"Yeah."
"I thought we-"
"I know, we said we'd wait until we moved back East. But we're really stable right now, Santana. I just signed a contract for two years. You're graduating next fall. We've got a house here, an apartment near my studio. Even if I leave the show in two years, we'd have to get settled into something stable in New York before we could do it and who knows how long that would take. I know it's sudden. But it feels right to me. Will you think about it?"
"I've thought about it."
"You mean, before tonight?"
"I do occasionally have thoughts without prompting from you."
Rachel propped herself up on her elbow. "So- so, what are they? Your thoughts."
"You still want to go first?"
"I was thinking it doesn't make sense for you to balance a pregnancy with your last year of school."
Santana nodded. "I'm onboard."
Rachel popped up to her feet. "Oh my God are you serious? I thought I was going to have to do all of this convincing and reassuring, and, oh my God!"
Santana rolled onto her side and propped her head up on her hand, amusedly watching Rachel stomp her feet in place, naked, in their living room.
"Would you get back down here, you fucking dork? I'm cold."
Rachel dropped back to the ground and straddled Santana.
"Santana Lopez, we're gonna have a baaaaaaaby," she said, leaning in for a kiss.
/*/
Santana sat at the kitchen table with her laptop, books, and notebooks splayed out in front of her.
Rachel shuffled through the front door in what turned out to be a two-minute process, preceded by approximately seventeen shopping bags, effectively shredding any sense of early-semester concentration Santana had managed to scrape together.
Santana sat with her arms folded as Rachel struggled her way to the table, where she dropped her bags, spilling half of their contents over Santana's school supplies.
"Holy shit, what did you buy? Is there any rain forest left after all these books were printed?"
"It's my pre-pregnancy supplies!" Rachel said, beaming.
"Wait, are we really doing that?" Santana asked. "I thought it was clear that was just pillow talk meant to get you excited and on your back again."
"Nice try," Rachel said.
"Are pre-pregnancy supplies really a thing?" Santana asked, examining a package from the drug store with smiling babies' faces plastered all over it. "Don't you basically just need some sperm and to lay off the booze for nine months?"
"What was it that you once told me? We go big or not at all? Well," Rachel said, Vanna White-ing at all of her treasures, "This is me going big. I have five - wait, six - books on preconception and fertility. I have three brands of ovulation predictor kits, or 'OPKs' as they say on the message boards, plus two fertility-tracking basal body temperature thermometers, each accurate to one-tenth of a degree, and a workbook in which to chart the data. I have four brands of prenatal vitamins, because sometimes one type will cause indigestion or stomach upset and I'd rather find out now than after I'm pregnant and have to switch, of course."
"Oh my God, Fertility Foods: Optimize Ovulation and Conception Through Vegan Food Choices?" Santana asked, interrupting her to read the cover of the book on top of the pile, her face contorted in disgust. "Berry, what the hell are you going to make me eat?"
"It's not for you," Rachel said, snatching the book out of Santana's hand. "You don't have to eat any of it since your terrible diet has nothing to do with my fertility. If you don't want to choose to partake in this pre-conception lifestyle together, fine."
"First of all, just because I don't live on dirt and bamboo doesn't mean my diet is terrible. Second of all, why do I get the idea I'm gonna need MORE booze and comfort food to get through this, not less?"
Rachel, choosing to ignore that, sat down at the table next to Santana and presented her with a brand new white binder that she slid from her handbag. "When you're done with your work for the day, I need you to look through this."
"What is it?"
"I've taken the initiative and chosen the cryobank we'll use. I browsed through hundreds of donors and narrowed the list down to ten men I find acceptable. They all have impeccable medical histories and grandparents who lived well into their 80's, and they all listed their professions or areas of study as something in a creative field because, as we have discussed, that's important to both of us. Their full profiles are in this binder. You will pick your top three, and then we'll meet to choose the winner together."
"The winner? Are you sure you don't want to put up numbers and let America vote? Rachel, this isn't your TV show."
"Why are you giving me such a hard time, Santana? I worked really hard on this."
"Fine," Santana said. "But these dudes better have some color on their palatte if you know what I'm saying. I ain't taking this baby to Fashion Island for lunch and have the Newport Bitches thinking I'm the nanny."
"I did take into consideration our respective cultural and ethnic identities, as well as our family structures, yes. You'll find the thorough descriptions of their ancestries on page two of each profile."
"But the really important question is, do they have small schnozzes? We need someone with neutralizing genes."
"Very funny. Just promise me you'll look in the next few days?"
"I'll look right now. Morbid curiosity trumps keeping up with my homework any day of the week."
She grabbed the binder out of Rachel's hands and flipped aggressively through the first set of pages.
"Nope."
Page flip.
"Nope."
Page flip.
"So not happening."
"Santana, you've just ruled out three donors in seven seconds. What could you have possibly read in that amount of time?"
"The first one is from Texas. I don't want our kid coming out with that accent. The second one's a model, and I don't want to take a chance that it's Sam. The only thing bigger than the kid's nose would be its lips. The third one listed Howard the Duck as his favorite movie, which, frankly, I think speaks for itself."
Rachel flipped back a few pages. "The second one is half black, Santana. I really don't think it's Sam."
"Maybe, but you can't argue with those other two, even if Howard the Duck was meant to be ironic. Some things you can't joke about." Santana had taken back the binder and was already up to choice seven. She slowed down her page-flipping and furrowed her brow as she read more closely.
"Bingo. This is the one." She set down the binder triumphantly and emphasized her point with a stab of her finger.
"What? Which one is that? How can you know that so fast?"
"There's no contest. First of all his mom is Jewish and his dad is half black and half Puerto Rican, so you know that woman's family must've freaked the fuck out. That speaks to me on a deep level. Second of all, his dad's a professor, his mom's a dancer, and he's a visual artist. Which means two things: there are good brains and a good body in his genes, and also that he's gay. Third of all, did you see what he listed under musical aptitude?" She picked up the binder and read aloud. "'Above average singing voice, skilled at guitar and piano, plus random small instruments.' 'Random small instruments,' Rachel! What the fuck even does that mean? This guy is hilarious."
"He does have four living grandparents," Rachel said, peering over Santana's shoulder. "And he donated to this bank specifically because they cater to alternative families. And he's a lefty like you. Plus his ancestry is kind of perfect. Hispanic, Jewish, and black parents. Like us."
"I don't know what you're bitching about, that was easy," Santana said, leaning back in her chair and giving Rachel a smug smile.
Rachel sighed. "You're aware I did all the work and all you had to do was read a few lines, right? We should still review them all one more time and discuss in more detail."
"You're aware you don't actually get to sleep with this guy so the vetting you're doing is really intense, right?"
"No, you're right," Rachel rolled her eyes. "He's only going to be the father of our baby, I shouldn't be thorough."
"Back up off that f-word, Rachel."
"Donor. You know what I meant."
"I'm just saying. Look, he's got good genes, the physical traits we want, he's creative and he clearly has a sense of humor and a moral compass. I'm not being lazy, I'm saying let's not overthink it. There are a million things we can't know about these guys. I've got a gut feeling about this one."
Rachel nodded. "All right. You're right. Well," she said, flipping to the first page of donor number seven's profile. "Number 8642. You're the lucky winner. I'm gonna go call and set up our consult appointment."
Rachel scampered off with a smile, leaving her haul on the kitchen table.
"Christ, this is going to be a long year," Santana muttered to herself.
Month One (May)
Rachel burst out of the bathroom with a white plastic stick in her hand and a beeping thermometer between her teeth. It was 5:06AM.
"Santana! Santana, wake up!" She leaned over Santana and shook her shoulder until she opened her eyes.
"Go back to the hell that sent you, demon," Santana said, rolling over.
"Santana, I got a smiley face!"
"I don't care what your face looks like, bitch, I'm sleeping."
"No, on my stick! On my pee stick!"
Santana refused to roll back over. "Rachel," she mumbled into her pillow, "You've gotten a smiley face on day 13 of your cycle every month for the last four months. It's day 13, which I know because I'm forced to look at your damn calendar every day of my damn life. Of course you got a smiley face. Your BBT is probably somewhere between 99.2 and 99.4ºF, am I right?"
"Yes. But Santana."
"Whaaaat?"
"I need you to wake up and realize that this time the smiley face means something."
Santana sat up. "Oh my God."
"I know!" Rachel said, covering her face with her hands. "Tomorrow!"
/*/
That night, as they'd planned, they had dinner at one of the nicest restaurants in LA, which their level of stardom couldn't quite score them at the last minute, but Rachel's producers could when she asked nicely.
They indulged in several cocktails knowing it could be the last time in a while. Well, two weeks at the very least.
"Did you ever think about why you wanted kids?" Rachel asked after cocktail number three.
"Isn't it obvious? How could I in good conscience fail to pass on all of this for future generations to enjoy?"
"Sometimes it seems selfish. The world is so fucked up."
"Would you have rather not lived in it?" Santana asked.
"True," Rachel conceded reluctantly.
"Are you getting cold feet? Cause I will warm them up for you. You've already put me through too much to change your mind now."
"No, it's not that. It's just, do you ever feel like having kids will make you feel… ordinary?"
"I've never felt ordinary, Berry, so I'm really not worried about it now."
"But do you know what I mean? We're stars, Santana. I've been on Broadway and now TV. You've been on a national tour. You've been on the Billboard chart."
"So what? You're gonna have to bring that thought full circle for me, babe."
Rachel wrinkled her nose. "You know I hate when you call me 'babe.'"
"Sorry. Miss Berry, if you would please finish your thought so I can understand what the hell you're trying to say, please and thank you, madam."
Rachel sighed. "I mean, anyone can have kids. Everyone has kids. Most of the people I can think of from our graduating class have kids. If we have kids, doesn't it make us just like anyone else?"
"Uhh, no?" Santana scoffed. "It means our family of two stars turns into a family of three stars."
Rachel chewed her lip skeptically.
"Look, I get it," Santana sighed. "You don't want to be typical. Neither do I. You don't want to lose your 'independent career-woman' cred. Neither do I. But think about it this way, Rachel. Biology permitting, we are two women having a baby exactly when and exactly how we choose to, just because we damn well please. In a world that tells women their bodies are made for everyone else, and controlled by everybody else, from their fathers to their Congressmen, that's a god damn fuck-the-patriarchy feminist act. Plus? We're not going to be ordinary parents. That's not even possible."
Rachel smiled. "You're cute when you're super smart."
"You're wasted off your ass."
"That is true, but maybe I won't get to be drunk for nine months. Plus breastfeeding time. Oh my God, breastfeeding, I hadn't thought about that. Do you think it hurts?"
"Berry, I have no idea, but considering you haven't had sperm inside your body in almost a decade it seems a little silly to be worrying about that tonight."
"Gross."
"I'm just saying, you're talking like you're going to get pregnant tomorrow when odds are it's going to take months. Try not to get ahead of yourself, all right? I don't want to see the fallout if you're super disappointed in two weeks."
"I'm firmly planted in reality, Santana. I know odds are we'll be back at this restaurant in 27 days gearing up for try number two. This is probably just a practice run, right?"
"Yeah," Santana shook her head. "For $1500."
Rachel nodded. "But it could happen."
"It could."
They sat in silence for a moment.
"Do you want to wait another month?" Santana asked as Rachel poked the ice around in her empty glass.
"No," she said with a shake of her head. "No, we're ready. I'm ready. It's the advantage of waiting until we were almost thirty to start a family, right? We can afford to slow down a little. Our careers can take it, right?"
"You said it yourself, Rachel. You're in the same place for the next two years anyway, and I was planning to go into music-writing mode for a while when I graduate, so I'll be home a lot. Relax. It's a good time."
"Okay."
Rachel held up her empty glass. "Here's to two weeks to 18 months of sobriety!"
"Cheers," Santana said.
/*/
Rachel sat on the table, covered in a paper dress and swinging her legs excitedly. Santana sat on a stool to her right, and the nurse practitioner stood at the counter, preparing for the procedure.
"My cervical mucus is amazing this month," Rachel blurted into the silence. "Totally egg-white like. I can stretch it between my thumb and forefinger totally easily and the string doesn't break."
Santana covered her face with her hands.
The nurse practitioner, who had introduced herself as Melinda, gave her a small smile. "That sounds encouraging," she said. "But keep in mind it's not an indicator of fertility. Most women take -"
"Three to six months, I know," Rachel finished.
"Okay, just about ready over here. Before we do the insemination, Rachel, I need you to sign the medical release form."
"Release form? What's it for?" she asked, taking it from Melinda's hand. Her feet stopped swinging.
"In the 24-48 hours after the insemination, most women have some cramping and light spotting. But in a very tiny fraction of cases, the procedure can cause an infection in the uterus. That's true of any procedure that introduces a foreign object inside the body. In my seven years here, I've never seen it happen, but we need to make you aware that it can."
"Cramping, bleeding, fever, loss of consciousness?" Rachel read, with increasing alarm.
"Rachel, it's just a legal thing. They're covering their asses. Am I right?" Santana interjected.
"It is a legal requirement before we can proceed, yes."
"What happens if I get an infection? What do they do?"
"Usually a course of IV antibiotics clears up the problem."
"So I won't die?"
"That would be extremely, incredibly, rare."
Rachel looked nervously at Santana. "Sign it, Berry. It's gonna be fine."
"All right." Rachel signed her name and, at the clinician's instruction, laid back on the table.
"Okay, Rachel, feet on the paddles, and bring your bum to the very edge of the table."
Santana giggled. "Bum."
"Now open your knees and let your thighs relax. Good. Now you're going to feel me spread the labia."
"Labia," Santana repeated, threatening to descend into full-blown giggle fit.
"Santana, shhh!" Rachel barked at her. "I am trying to conceive our child over here."
"Sorry. I'm sorry, it's nervous energy," Santana said, trying to stifle her laughter. "But I mean… labia."
"Conception can occur any time in the next twelve hours or so," the nurse corrected Rachel, ignoring Santana. "Okay, you're going to feel a little pressure as I insert the syringe. The more relaxed you are, the less discomfort you'll feel."
Thirty seconds later it was over, and the nurse asked Rachel to lie still for ten minutes.
"Should I elevate my pelvis?" Rachel asked, craning her head toward the door.
"If you think that will help," she said, and closed the door behind her.
"Santana, hold my legs over my head."
"Wanky."
"I'm serious."
"Can't you do that yourself?"
"Santana, you have to start treating me like I'm pregnant and do things I ask you to do."
"Fine." She grasped Rachel's ankles and held them up at a right angle to Rachel's body.
"So are you pregnant yet?" she asked ninety seconds later.
"Stop."
"Do you feel them swimming around in there?"
"Can you not gross me out please? I'm supposed to be thinking happy, arousing thoughts."
"Do you want me to show you my tits?"
"Santana."
"You said arousing!"
Rachel pursed her lips. "Yes, go ahead."
Santana released Rachel's ankles, unbuttoned her shirt, and lifted her bra off of her breasts, lifting them and letting them bounce for maximum effect. Rachel reached out and ran her thumb over each of Santana's nipples.
"You're right, it may have helped," Rachel said, smiling shyly.
"Damn right," Santana smirked as she rebuttoned her shirt. She held out her hands, fingers spread like an exploding firework. "Boom. Pregnant."
/*/
As there usually is, there was traffic on the freeway on their drive home. Rachel fidgeted uncomfortably in the passenger seat.
"I feel crampy," she complained worriedly.
"Well, Melinda said that was normal, right?"
"How will I know if I need IV antibiotics?"
Santana rolled her eyes. "I'll let you know if you pass out from fever and blood loss, all right?"
"But I'm crampy."
"You mentioned. Do you want to talk about work?"
"No."
"Can I tell you about the lesbian gossip from the gym?"
"No."
"Listen to the radio?"
"No."
"Do you want to see my tits again?"
"Santana."
"Well, pardon me, it helped last time. Do you just want to sit here in traffic and worry for no reason."
"Yes."
"Fantastic."
Rachel's phone rang. "Oh thank Christ. Who is it?" Santana asked.
"It's Quinn. That's weird. Did you tell her about this today?"
"I may have mentioned that a little distraction wouldn't be unwelcome."
Rachel smiled at Santana and picked up the call on speaker.
"How are you feeling, Rachel?" Quinn asked.
"A little freaked out," Rachel admitted. "The insemination gave me these cramps and it's forcing me to keep thinking about it. It's just so weird. I went and had what felt like a medical procedure and I could start growing a baby any minute. It's certainly not how I imagined it when I was younger."
"Well Rachel," Quinn chuckled, "There are worse ways for it to happen, trust me."
"Seriously, at least Nurse Melinda didn't have to ply you with wine coolers," Santana said.
"I guess that's true," Rachel agreed. "I just - how do people get through this wait without going crazy? It's only been an hour. And what if I get an infection? How do I not just sit around waiting for something to go wrong?"
"Oh, Rachel," Quinn said pityingly, "My pregnancy might feel like it was a lifetime ago, but I can tell you this: you'd better get used to this feeling of uncertainty. Do you know how many things can go wrong? An infection is only the first of like a million possibilities."
"You're not one for pep talks, are you Quinnie Fab?"
"I'm a realist, Santana. If you wanted to hear about magical unicorn babies who tell you when they're ready to be born so you can climb into the birthing tub in the enchanted garden in your back yard, you should have called Brittany. Look, Rachel, you're young, you're healthy. Just keep your stress down and don't read people's horror stories on the internet and you're gonna be fine."
"Okay. Sounds like good advice, Quinn."
"So when are you and Ron Weasley gonna start poppin' them out, Q?" Santana asked. "I know how much suburban Connecticut needs more overprivileged white kids running around."
"Santana, can you stop calling him Ron Weasley? His name is Brent."
"I can't help it. Gingers freak me out. The only way I can look him in the eye is to imagine him as a beloved literary character."
"I'm gonna go now. Rachel, hang in there. Call me if you need me, and let me know when you take the home test."
"Thanks, Quinn. Tell Brent we said hi."
Rachel hung up her phone.
"I'm totally going to accidentally call him Ron next time I see him," she said after a minute.
"Yeah, me too, maybe we should knock it off."
"Yeah."
/*/
That night, they had agreed to go to a charity auction and as with most charity events, it was the last thing either one of them wanted to do. But then again, the distraction was probably for the best.
Rachel spent a long time staring into the full-length mirror in their room, laying her palms flat against her lower abdomen in her floor-length formal dress.
The party was fine, and pretty tame by Hollywood standards. It would have been a whole lot better with booze, but Santana kept them well-supplied with sparkling cider. They spent more money than they intended, which is how it usually goes.
About an hour into the affair, when they had a rare moment to check in with each other, someone called their names.
"Rachel! Santana!" They whirled around to see a familiar face.
"Sammy Evans, are you kidding?" Rachel said, throwing her arms around his neck.
"Well, if it isn't Mr. Trouty himself," Santana said, hugging him next. "Looking pretty as ever these days."
"How long has it been?" Rachel asked him. "And what are you doing here? I thought you were still with a New York agency."
"Two Christmases ago, I think," he said. "Maybe three. And yeah, I'm still with them, just making a rare bi-coastal appearance. Some favor for someone or other, you know how they like to send some pretty faces to these things. Wait, Rachel," he said stopping suddenly and pointing to her champagne flute. "Should you be drinking that? I thought you guys were trying to get pregnant."
Santana and Rachel's eyes widened in synchrony.
"Who - wait, who told you that, Quinn? Nobody knows that."
"Uhh, no, I haven't spoken to Quinn in years, but actually a lot of people know that."
"What? How?" Santana asked.
"Paps taking your picture in the baby aisle at the bookstore. It was a few months back, I assumed you knew."
"We try to stay away from that crap," Santana said. "Scumbags."
"But so is it true?" he asked. "Is there gonna be a little Santrachel baby? That's the mash-up name I made for you guys in my head when you first got together, by the way. Cute, right?"
"Santrachel?" Santana repeated. "It sounds like a Mexican-Jewish city somewhere in the middle of nowhere, California."
"Actually," Rachel said, unable to contain it any longer. "This is cider, because I just had my first insemination today. By tomorrow morning, I could be pregnant."
Sam's eyes bugged out of his head. "NO. WAY. Rachel, Santana. This is amazing. Wait! This is not amazing; it's double amazing."
"Double amazing?" Santana repeated.
"Totally! I mean, you know what today is, right?"
"Um, Thursday?"
"It's May 4th. May the fourth?"
They stared at him blankly.
"Guys, you're killing me. It's Star Wars Day. Like, May the fourth be with you? Come on! You guys could be having a Star Wars baby!"
"I really wish we could have a glass of wine right now," Santana said.
"Preach," Rachel replied.
/*/
"My boobs hurt," Rachel said as she slid her bra straps over her shoulders. She cupped each one in her palm alternately and jiggled it, wincing a little.
"Don't your boobs always hurt a week before your period?" Santana asked from under the covers.
"Not like this."
Santana's ears perked up. "You mean they hurt, like, differently?"
"No, just… more."
Santana paused, trying to quell the flight of butterflies that erupted in her stomach.
"Well, don't talk yourself into anything, Rachel. You know how your head convinces you of things."
"I'm not jumping to any conclusions, Santana. But they really do hurt a lot."
"Well, it's probably because you keep jiggling them like that. Knock it off, it's distracting."
"You love it," Rachel said, slipping on her shirt and heading out into the kitchen to make breakfast.
/*/
The next morning, Rachel emerged from the bathroom with a furrowed brow and stood next to the bed where Santana was pretending it wasn't morning.
"I think I have a bladder infection."
Santana sat up groggily. "Why, it hurts when you pee?"
"No, but I'm peeing a lot and it feels all… crampy. Like right here where my bladder is." She poked at her lower abdomen.
"Christ, if I never hear you say the word 'crampy' again it'll be too soon. If it doesn't hurt when you pee, then you don't have a bladder infection, Rachel."
"But it feels so weird. Something is going on - oh my God. Santana." Rachel disappeared momentarily and came back with her copy of What to Expect.
"Santana, it's implantation cramping," she said, pointing to the words on the page. "It's exactly the right time, eight days after fertilization, it says in all the books. That's why it feels like nothing I've ever felt before - I haven't felt it before!"
Rachel sat down on the bed next to Santana.
"Santana, I'm pregnant."
"Rachel," Santana said gently, "Nobody knows they're pregnant one week later."
"Then why does it feel like this, huh?"
"It's probably gas. Get off my side of the bed before it comes out."
"Very funny. Mark my words, Santana. I know my body better than I know the score to Les Mis. Your wife is pregnant."
/*/
Three days later, on a bright Sunday morning, light streamed into their bedroom through the slats in the blinds. Rachel was sleeping in, and in a rare occurrence, Santana was up and stumbling about the bedroom first. As she slid closed the drawer after finding clean underwear, Rachel stirred, and rolled onto her back.
Santana looked over at her tits, because duh, and had to do a double take. Rachel's nipples were like four shades darker and at least fifty percent bigger than Santana remembered them. (And Santana remembered them well and fondly.)
"Well that's new," she muttered under her breath. Without waking Rachel up, she slipped on the rest of her clothes and out the front door.
By the time she got back, Rachel was awake, making a pot of coffee (half-caf) in the kitchen.
"Where were you?" she asked.
"I got you a present," Santana answered, handing Rachel a plastic grocery bag.
"For what?"
"Mother's Day."
"Oh. I- I forgot that was today." Rachel reached into the bag. "A pregnancy test? I thought we agreed to wait until Day 27, Wednesday. Anything earlier than that would be highly inaccurate."
"It's Mother's Day, Rachel," Santana said. "Just pee on it. What's the harm?"
"The harm is it could detect a chemical pregnancy and give us a false positive. Remember what happened that time? With Brody?"
"It's Mother's Day," was all Santana could say.
The test was negative.
"Wednesday, then?" Rachel asked.
"Wednesday," Santana said, swallowing her disappointment.
/*/
Wednesday morning, Rachel had the easiest time she'd ever had getting Santana out of bed, even though she'd woken up half an hour before her alarm on account of her full bladder.
Rachel stumbled to the toilet. Santana followed her into the bathroom.
"No, Santana, get out, I can't do this with you watching me."
"What? We've peed in front of each other before."
"Not like this, okay? This is a process. There are angles and there are, just… there are concentration issues. Get out for a minute."
"Fine."
Santana tapped her foot outside the door.
"Pee faster, Berry."
She heard the toilet flush and opened the door. "So how long?"
"You don't listen to a word I say, do you? Six to ten minutes. The blue line that's already appearing, see it? That's the one that shows you did the test correctly. Now if there's another blue line in a few minutes, that means the test has picked up measurable traces of a hormone only present during pregnancy."
"How many minutes has it been?"
"Like, a half."
Santana squinted at the line. "How are you so relaxed right now? How are you taking your eyes off this pissy piece of plastic?"
"Because I already know what it's going to say," Rachel smiled, and took Santana by the hand, dragging her out of the bathroom. "Come here, we have to get out of this room. You cannot stand there for ten minutes just watching it. Sing RENT with me."
"Are you crazy?"
"Nope, I just know what distracts you. I'll be Mark. December 24th, 9PM…"
"You're lucky I'm too preoccupied to be on my game," Santana grumbled, and did as she was told. She was just about to launch into the best part of "One Song Glory" when Rachel's phone timer went off.
Startled back into reality (and on Santana's part, moderately ashamed that had actually worked), they stared at each other for a beat, and rushed through the bathroom door.
In the tiny oval on the small plastic stick there appeared two lines. One, the first one Rachel had pointed out, was bright blue and bold. The second was faint and almost punctate, the width of a human hair, it seemed to Santana.
"I told you!" Rachel said, and threw her arms around Santana's neck. "We're pregnant!"
"Wait, wait, wait," Santana said, pulling away from Rachel to peer at the test stick. "I can barely even see that. Are you sure it's positive?"
"Santana, any line at all, no matter how faint, means it's positive. Trust me, I've read this in like fifty places."
"I don't buy it. I want one of those digital ones, that flashes in big bold letters, "PREGNANT!' Why didn't we get that? I'm going to the store and getting you one."
Rachel smiled. "Santana, if that is what you need to do, go ahead. I will pee on one more stick for you."
"I'll be right back."
Rachel couldn't accurately take another test for four hours, well into her work day, so four hours and ten minutes later, she sent Santana a single text message from a bathroom stall on the lot near her studio.
It was a picture of her hand holding a digital pregnancy test. In the center of the image was the word "PREGNANT."
Santana checked the text message less than a second after it arrived.
She stood up from her desk and dropped her phone from her hand.
"Holy fucking shit."
Month Two (June)
"Rachel. Rachel. Rachel. BERRY."
Santana grabbed Rachel by the shoulder and rolled her onto her back. She grimaced at the puddle of drool that had collected under Rachel's face on her pillow. "Well at least I know you're not dead," she muttered.
"Rachel, you gotta wake up, mama. Your alarm has been going off for forty minutes. I've been snoozing it for you but my ears are bleeding. You're gonna be late, girl."
Rachel screwed up her face in displeasure, still refusing to open her eyes.
"I can't, I really can't. Please don't make me, I'm so tired."
"I know sweetie, but I'll help you, okay? Come on, we gotta get you to the bathroom."
Rachel half-heartedly wrapped her arms around Santana's neck and let her drag her out of bed and onto her feet.
"Come on, one foot in front of the other," Santana encouraged, until they made it laboriously to the bathroom.
As Santana squeezed a blob of toothpaste onto Rachel's toothbrush for her, Rachel wobbled unsteadily at the sink, eyes squinting in protest of the overhead lights.
"I don't know how it's possible to physically be this tired. I've never had a problem getting up in my life."
"Well, from what I understand, building a human's a lot of work. You're allowed to be tired, but you gotta cooperate when I try to help you, okay? Here, brush your teeth." Santana handed Rachel her toothbrush and positioned her in front of the sink.
"I was up to pee FOUR TIMES last night, Santana," Rachel said, toothbrush in her mouth. "I was up at 12:30, and 2:15, and 3:48, and 5:15."
"First of all, I know all of that because you're not exactly quiet as a mouse when you're grogging around in the middle of the night. Second of all, I already bathed, so can you please not give me a toothpaste-saliva shower right now?"
"Sorry," Rachel said, and spat into the sink. "Santana, how am I gonna do this?" she asked after rinsing.
"You'll feel better after a shower. Want me to run it for you?"
"Mmhmm," Rachel said, nodding sadly and pouting her lower lip.
"How about I drive you in today? I don't have class until 11 but I can kill time on campus. Then you can rest in the car on the way up. Deal?"
"I love you," Rachel said sadly, climbing into the shower.
"I love you too," Santana replied, and turned to go, except that Rachel moaned plaintively from the shower.
"What's wrong?" she asked, rushing back to the shower.
"I just bent over to pick up the shampoo and gagged. I think I have morning sickness."
"Son of a bitch," Santana said. "Do you want some crackers? Ginger ale?"
"No, I think - I think it's passed. Thank you anyway."
"Okay, call me if you need me."
/*/
"These pants hurt my belly," Rachel complained half an hour later as she tried to fasten her buttons.
"Are you getting fat already?" Santana smiled. "You're totally gonna whale up, I can't wait."
"No, I'm not getting fat," Rachel snapped. "But I'm so bloated I feel like someone could pop me with a pin."
"You do have a cute little belly," Santana agreed, amused. "It's like a sneak preview."
"My shirt doesn't fit either," she wailed. "How is this possible? It feels like my arms are getting fat, too."
Santana looked at Rachel skeptically.
"You think your shirt is tight because of your arms?"
"I don't know. It feels like it's on weird. What? Why are you laughing?"
"It has nothing to do with your arms, Rachel, are you kidding? Your boobs have gone up at least a cup size. How do you not realize this?"
"Really?" Rachel asked incredulously, staring down at her chest and contorting her body to try to see her own breasts from different angles. "No wonder none of my bras feel right."
"Yeah. And let me tell you, it is glorious, and it's also torture, because they've hurt too bad for me to do things to them. You know, for someone who's read an entire library section of pregnancy books, you're pretty dumb."
Rachel looked at Santana, and Santana's stomach dropped. That was the look - the doe-eyed, down-turned look - that told you that all the potential energy that Rachel held in her tiny little body was about to convert full-tilt into a crying spell.
Rachel's nose turned red, and the tears spilled.
Santana sprang to her feet and wrapped Rachel up in a hug. "No no no no noooo, I didn't mean that, Rachel! I was teasing…or as I call it, talking."
"I know, I know you didn't mean it. I don't know why this is happening," she said, and continued to sob relentlessly.
"Okay, I'll be more careful," Santana promised. "I'll be more careful."
/*/
A few days later, Santana came home in the evening, and before she could even throw her keys in the bowl on the entry table, she knew things were amiss.
Rachel's purse was in the middle of the living room floor, its contents halfway spilled. One of her shoes was on the kitchen counter next to the bananas. The other was on the couch right below a gray smudge where it had presumably first hit the wall.
After a brief period of mourning the murdered loaf of her favorite bread which lay flattened into oblivion on the kitchen floor, Santana followed the trail of discarded clothes down the hallway to the bedroom, from jacket down to bra and underwear.
"This would be totally hot," she thought to herself, "If I weren't terrified of what I'm gonna find at the end of this."
Rachel was behind a closed bathroom door. She could see the flicker of candlelight and smell the lavender bath salts. She knocked and went inside.
"Rough day, honey?" she said, approaching with caution.
"Sorry for the mess," Rachel rasped, so Santana knew she'd been crying.
"What happened? What did that French bread say to you? I'll feed it to the pigeons," Santana said, punching one palm with her other fist.
"Nothing. Everything. It's everything. I hate my team this season. They're all incompetent. I know Laura's team is being set up to win this season, but I don't want to look ridiculous, either."
"I thought you said a couple of them had talent."
"A couple of them do, but they just don't get it. They don't work for it, they don't listen to me. How am I supposed to be their mentor when I HATE them, Santana?"
"Um, I dunno. Tough love?"
Rachel smirked. "Funny you should mention that."
Santana smirked. "Why, what did you say?"
"Well, among other things I said, ummm, 'you're fired?'" Rachel answered with a grimace.
"Oh….kay. Rachel, that's from a different reality show from the one you're on."
"Nonetheless, I used it. I fired one of the choreography kids."
"Okay, so, I have a follow up question. Can you do that?" Santana asked.
"Nope, I can't, but I did it anyway. And he won't be back. I scared the shit out of him, I'm pretty sure."
"Was it on camera?" Santana asked, alarmed.
"There's no way they'll air that," Rachel said. "I'm sure they'll make something up like a family or medical emergency to explain why he's disappeared three weeks in."
"It's going to hit the blinds, though. You know that, right?"
"Of course I do. Why do you think I threw my shoes across the room? I'm going to get a reputation for being "difficult to work with" and then when I announce the pregnancy people are going to say 'Ha, ha, crazy pregnant Rachel Berry' like it's a fucking joke that I've been angry for six weeks and hate everyone and can't stop crying all over myself."
"You know what, fuck 'em," Santana said with a shrug. "I don't know what this guy did to get you so pissed off, but guess what? He probably fucking deserved a little wrath, and the non-hormonal Rachel Berry woulda let him get away with it. Maybe you need a bit more of a reputation."
"I don't know. If I'm going to change my mentoring style I'd like it to be on my terms and not on my fetus's."
"Well boo, what's done is done, and it's kinda hot. For what it's worth, I wish I could've been there. And to celebrate? I'm going to cook you dinner. You just relax in the bath and then curl up on the couch and watch some TV. No reality shows, and nothing with murders. Find yourself a stupid sitcom. I'll set out some bagel chips and hummus for you to snack on and come and get you when it's ready. Sound good?"
"Santana, you're the best."
"You know it."
Ninety minutes later, at 8:30PM, Santana had completed a three-course dinner for two. She set the table excitedly, admiring her work, and jogged down the hall to retrieve Rachel.
"Okay, babymama, come and get it!" she called out as she entered the room.
Rachel was dead asleep on the couch, FRIENDS on the TV blaring away, chips and hummus untouched. Santana frowned.
"Rachel," Santana said, shaking her shoulder gently. "Hey, are you hungry? Dinner's ready."
"Sorry," Rachel said, wiping the drool from her mouth. "Yes, I'm starving."
Santana couldn't contain her proud glow as she led Rachel into the dining room and pulled out a chair for her.
"Oh my God," Rachel said with a gasp. "I can't believe you made all this."
"Homemade black bean burgers with a vegan aioli sauce, grilled romaine salad, and for dessert, chocolate-covered strawberries, and don't worry, it's your fake chocolate shit so they're totally all yours. See, you should fire people more often, I totally reward bitchiness."
Rachel sat down in the chair Santana held for her. "I'm so proud of you," she said tearfully.
"Thanks, Berry," Santana said, "But I really don't need your tears of gratitude. Let's make it a tear-free evening tonight."
"Santana. That's not why I'm crying," Rachel confessed, shaking her head.
"Santana, I - I need -"
Santana dropped to her knees to meet Rachel at eye-level and put her hands on her shoulders. "You need what, Rachel?"
"Santana… I need Taco Bell!"
/*/
"I'm sorry again about dinner," Rachel said as they soaked in the bath together a few hours later. She leaned back against Santana in the candlelit bubbles.
"No big deal," Santana said, resting against the back of the tub. "I mean I worked in the kitchen for an hour and a half to prepare a meal you didn't eat, then had to drive into tourist hell and show my face in a Taco Bell to order six different things of which you ate exactly three bites total. But hey."
"Who would have thought it would turn out to be pickles with sriracha that I'd wind up eating for dinner, huh?"
"Yep. Who would've thought. A quote-unquote meal that required nothing except opening the refrigerator, and taking the lids off of two things we've had for days."
"Sorry."
"It's okay. The food I made will keep and I'll put the Taco Bell outside so the stench will keep away the roaches."
"No, don't," Rachel said urgently. "I might want three more bites tomorrow morning."
"God, that is gross. Sometimes, Berry, you're so hot I don't know what to do with myself. Speaking of which, how are your super-sized boobies feeling today?"
Rachel reflexively palmed her own breasts, poking and wiggling to gauge their level of soreness. It was a habit she had to try very hard to curb when in public.
"Hey, not too bad," she said happily. "Maybe the worst is over."
"Well shit, let me up in there, then," Santana said, and placed her hands over Rachel's breasts. "Ugggrrrhhh," she groaned. "It has been way too long, Berry." She leaned forward and sucked on Rachel's neck, nibbling on her earlobe from behind.
And for the first time in about five weeks, Rachel responded positively to a sexual advance.
"Oh my God," she said, "Yeah, it really has."
Santana's poor, deprived fingers were just about to drop below the surface of the water, when Rachel's moans of pleasure took a distinct turn toward distress.
"Oh, noo. Stop, Santana. Ohh, no."
"What? What's wrong? Your boobs?"
"Nope. No, I'm gonna -"
She leapt from the tub and only just made it to the toilet.
Santana grimaced in frustration, threw on her robe, and grabbed a towel for Rachel. Following her to the toilet, she wrapped it around Rachel's body to keep her warm as she hunched over the toilet, vomiting.
"It's gonna be okay, Rachel," she said, rubbing her back lightly. "It'll be okay. It'll be over soon."
Month Three (July)
If she had any energy whatsoever she'd have been pacing the sidewalk, but instead she slumped against the wall, mustering the motivation to clench her jaw and check her phone for the time, or at least an apologetic text message, every thirty seconds.
She checked it one final time when the roar of Santana's engine finally appeared - 21 minutes late, officially.
"Hey, how are you feeling?" Santana asked wearily as Rachel stepped into the car.
"How am I feeling? Are you serious? You're 20 minutes late, so you could say I'm feeling pretty pissed."
"Your appointment isn't for 25 minutes, Rachel," Santana said. "We're fine."
"We said 2:15."
"Okay, well, sorry. I had to pick up the dry cleaning and grab some groceries so we wouldn't have to do it during rush hour and then call the insurance company about today's copayments like you asked me to do."
"Would you start driving, Santana? I need to get there early to fill out all the paperwork."
"Jeee-sus," Santana muttered under her breath as she shifted back into drive. "Nice to see you, too."
They sat in silence until the freeway merge. Santana reached for the radio dial to soothe, or at least drown out, the tension.
"Don't do that. I need quiet."
Santana's head whipped to her right, but Rachel wouldn't look at her, eyes glazed watching the freeway lines blur and disappear beneath their car.
Santana shook her head. "Really? This is the way you want to go to our first baby appointment?"
"I'm not the one who ruined the plan."
"You know what, fuck that. If you're mad you can shove it up your pregnant ass. I did all those errands AFTER I took an economics exam, all right? You need to cut me some slack on losing 20 minutes we didn't need, because I'm handling a million damn things right now."
"I handled all of those types of errands for years while working full time and I still made it to appointments on time."
"Oh. I'm sorry I'm suddenly both halves of this couple now, because God knows I was doing fucking nothing to contribute to our lives before."
"Well, I'm sorry all I'm doing to contribute now is building our firstborn child."
"Hey, at least you'll have nine months warning before you have to take care of an infant. I got one the second we walked out of that clinic."
Santana knew THAT was a mistake the instant it left her throat.
"I can't believe you just said that to me," Rachel said, finally turning to face Santana.
Santana couldn't believe it either, but also was not about to retract it. It had been too many weeks of nonstop work and nearly nonstop misery, and all without even being able to use her trademark insults as a release valve because of Rachel's hair-trigger waterworks.
"You know," Rachel continued tearfully (case in point, Santana thought to herself), "I knew this would be hard. But I always thought you'd take good care of me."
Santana was unswayed by the tears this time. "Are you kidding me? Rachel, everything I do right now is to take care of you. I am constantly cooking for you, massaging you, taking care of all the shit you used to do."
"Yeah, and all you do is resent it and treat me like a burden and sigh and roll your eyes."
"That has nothing to do with you being pregnant, that's how I talk to you! That's how I talk to everyone!"
"Do you think I enjoy feeling useless? Do you think I'm just laying around waiting to be pampered? I don't do anything fun anymore. I don't exercise, I don't go out with my friends, I barely make it through the work day and then I come home, stare at my phone, and go to sleep. I don't even have the energy to sing in the shower. I don't even recognize myself anymore. Do you know what it's like to be angry for ten weeks? TEN. WEEKS. I vomit every time I have an emotion, which, because I'm pregnant, is ALL THE TIME. And you know what else I am all the time? Terrified. You won't read the books so let me tell you, they might as well be titled A Thousand and One Things to Panic About and Oh Yeah Here's How Big Your Baby is This Week. Every twinge in my belly makes me terrified that for however miserable I am, it could all go away at any time. And to top it all off," she said, pausing to sniffle dramatically, "My nipples are the size of my HEAD, Santana. My head. DO YOU THINK THIS IS EASY FOR ME?"
Santana drove in silence for a moment, measuring her next words carefully, trying to calibrate her response to the midpoint between rage and crushing guilt.
"I just want," she said quietly, "a little acknowledgement that this is hard for me, too, instead of feeling like I'm never doing enough for you."
Rachel just barely reeled back the words "You're not" before they could escape her lips.
"Maybe we should be in a three-way marriage so there's someone to do the grocery shopping while you write your songs," was what she said instead.
Santana clenched her jaw and, for the sake of needing to be in public soon, willed her blood from a boil down to a simmer.
"If I don't spend any time writing songs, I will go fucking insane, all right? I'm sorry that I can't spend every single second trying to talk you off of whatever invented crisis ledge you've invented on a given day. Now I'm going to drop it, apologize for being late, and we will pick this back up later. Let's just get through this appointment, all right?" she said, pulling into the hospital parking lot. "God, I wish I could have a drink."
/*/
When Rachel turned in her paperwork at the front desk at the doctor's office (five minutes early), they explained that she'd have an ultrasound first, then meet the doctor to discuss it and have her physical exam.
"Then they'll take about a dozen vials of blood," the receptionist chirped happily.
The ultrasound room was the size of a closet, with a table, two chairs, and monitors lining the walls. The grandmotherly ultrasound tech handed Rachel a paper gown.
"Everything off from the waist down," she said.
Rachel stared at her, confused. "Wait, why?" she asked. "I thought you just held the thing against my tummy."
The tech looked at her sympathetically, though it was unclear if the sympathy was for her ignorance or for what she was about to undergo. "The baby is too small to see that way, honey," she said. "The first ultrasound is always transvaginal."
Rachel's eyes widened as it sunk in what that actually meant.
As the tech prepared her instrument, Rachel was vaguely a little glad their fight had put Santana into such a somber mood. That thing looked not unlike some of the stuff tucked away in a locked box under their bed, and the giggle fit would be even less appropriate this time, probably.
As the tech pointed out Rachel's cervix, placenta, and left and right ovaries, they nodded at the appropriate times, though it all looked like the same black and white blur. Though happy to hear that everything looked normal, Rachel was more focused on keeping her muscles relaxed, as this was not an entirely comfortable situation.
"And that," the tech said with a touch of drama, "is the baby."
Santana and Rachel narrowed their eyes as the tech held the grainy image as still as she could.
"He or she's a little over an inch long now. Snuggled nicely against your uterine wall, exactly in the right spot."
"It looks like a peanut," Santana said in awe.
"A kidney bean," Rachel said.
After she printed a couple of snapshots of the images on the screen, which she helpfully labeled "BABY!" in white block lettering in the appropriate places, the tech said, "Well, let's see if we can't pick up a heartbeat yet in your little legume."
"You can't always hear the heartbeat this early," Rachel said nervously to Santana, the first words they'd spoken to each other since the car. "So we can't get worried if she can't pick it up."
No sooner were the words out of Rachel's mouth than the room filled with a staticky white noise. After some ear-tickling fluctuations in volume, out of the noise came a pattern.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, like ocean waves crashing at 10X speed.
Rachel reached for Santana's hand.
"One hundred fifty six beats per second," the tech said after a moment. "Perfect."
"On the high side," Rachel mused. "The old wives tales say that means girl."
"Well, there's a fifty percent chance they're right," the tech said with a smile.
She ushered Rachel and Santana down the hallway to an exam room where the nurse took all the usual physical exam parameters, with the extra added bonus of handing Rachel a cup to pee in.
"We'll do this every month," she said. "You'll get super good at it."
"I'll add it to my resume," Rachel sighed, and locked herself in the bathroom.
They didn't talk, really, while waiting for the doctor. Santana gazed frequently at the paper snapshots in her hand, her mascara blurring a little bit more each time. Rachel lay back on the table, staring anxiously at the ceiling.
They heard the doctor long before they saw her. It was a loud and heavy Georgia drawl, and when she opened the door, they found she had the big Southern hair to match.
"Well good afternoon, ladies," she said with a smile, "I'm doctor Annie Marie Gaffin, but you can call me Annie."
"Hi Doctor… Annie. I'm Rachel, and this is Santana."
"Are y'all friends, or sisters, or somethin' else?"
"Uhh, we're… wives," Rachel said, puzzled, showing the doctor her left hand.
"Excellent, excellent," the doctor said. "One can never assume anything out loud, you know, 'cause some folks still get a little ruffled if you take 'em for gay."
"Right," Rachel said, feeling Santana bristle without needing to look at her.
"So, Rachel, how are you feeling?"
"Tired. Nauseated. Cranky," she said glancing sideways at Santana.
"Well, that sounds about right, so congratulations dear, you're definitely pregnant. Are you able to keep down at least two meals a day?"
"Usually, yes."
"Now, are you working full time honey?" she asked as she listened to Rachel's heart and began feeling around in her abdomen.
"I am," Rachel said. "I work for a TV show."
"Well now, how wonderful. What TV show do you work for, ma'am?"
Rachel winced as the doctor examined her breasts.
"America's Broadway Bound. It's the one where we have teams of contestants write and perform a musical over the course of a season. I'm one of the mentors. People vote and the winners get a two-week run off Broadway in New York."
"I do believe I've seen that!" she exclaimed loudly. "I cannot recall seeing you, though," she said while she scooted Rachel down to the edge of the table and placed her feet on the paddles at the end of the bed. "Do you have to spend a lot of time on your feet?"
"I'm not on camera every week," Rachel said. "I work behind the scenes a lot. It's pretty active sometimes, but they'll let me sit down as much as I need to."
"Excellent. A supportive work environment will help a lot in the next year or so. And now how about you, ma'am?" she asked, turning to Santana.
"I'm a music business major at USC," Santana said. "Graduating this fall."
"Excellent!" the doctor exclaimed.
"Santana's also a recording artist," Rachel added. "She's being modest."
"Well how exciting. Do you sing anything I might know? Although, I have to say, I do not get a chance to listen to much of the pop music of today, so do not be offended if I haven't heard of ya'."
"You probably wouldn't know my name, but I was in a trio called Prism. We had one song make the radio a few years ago."
"Maybe I'd know it if I heard it, you know? All right now Rachel, this might smart just a little bit."
Rachel winced as she inserted the speculum.
"So now what do you plan to do with your degree, Santana?"
"I… don't know yet. The plan is to be a stay-at-home mom for a while, hopefully write some music, and figure that out."
"Sounds lovely. Now Rachel I'm gonna take a swab for your Pap smear and then we'll be all done."
The doctor left for a few minutes to let Rachel get dressed, and came back with a stack of papers and pamphlets on the hospital policies, the schedule of doctor visits, and pregnancy nutrition.
"Everything looks perfect, m'dear. Your uterine environment looks great, the baby's size is right on track, and your vitals are just wonderful. Whatever you're doing, just keep doing it. Eat as well as you can, and do what your body tells you. Now, do y'all have any questions for me?"
"Just one for me," Rachel said. "Is it true I'll start feeling better in a couple of weeks? This has been the longest two months of my life."
"Miss Rachel, I promise you, if you can make it one more month you will feel a whole world of difference. By the next time I see you, you're gonna feel like your old self again, just with a bigger set of boobs and a bit of a belly."
Rachel smiled weakly. It was all she could muster.
/*/
While Rachel had her blood drawn, Santana went to get the car and pull it up to the curb.
"She wasn't kidding about the dozen vials of blood they'd take," Rachel said as she sat down in the passenger seat. "I feel weak from blood loss."
"I've got a KIND bar in my purse. Why don't you have it?"
"Thanks," Rachel said, reaching into the back seat.
"Hey, can you hand me my phone, too? I want to show you something."
Rachel set the phone in Santana's hand. She plugged it into audio jack in the dashboard, and with a few taps, Santana filled the car with the staticky whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh they'd heard an hour before.
"Oh my God. You recorded the baby's heartbeat?" Rachel said, her eyes filling with tears. "I can't believe you did that."
"I thought we could both use the reminder that everything we're both enduring right now is for a very good reason."
"I love you," Rachel said, tears streaming down her face. "Play it again."
"I love you too," Santana said with a smile.
"Now please hand me that plastic bag, okay? You made me have an emotion and I'm totally about to ralph."
Month Four (August)
Santana smoothed her hair and poked at the bags under her eyes and tried to look less puffy and exhausted than she felt.
"Well Santana, what a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Quinn asked, picking up Santana's video call.
"I'm just calling to let you know that the Queen requests your presence at her baby shower in October. Consider this your official save-the-date. And since I know you're a kept woman these days, I expect you'll be able to make it out here without too much trouble."
"Just because I haven't made any money on my writing yet doesn't make me a kept woman. By the way, who's paying for your bachelor's degree again?"
"Always nice to talk to you, Fabray."
"Of course. So what's on your mind?"
"Nothing, I just told you. Rachel's baby shower."
"You could have told me about that eight different ways that didn't involve opportunities for conversation. Plus, you look terrible. What's wrong?"
Santana sighed. "Nothing, I'm exhausted. Rachel is exhausting."
Quinn pressed her fingers to her upper chest in mock amazement. "You mean to tell me that Rachel Barbra Berry is having a high-maintenance pregnancy?"
"Yesterday she tried to peel a banana and started crying because she said her hands were too tired. ...Stop laughing."
"What do you expect me to do? She has you peeling her fruit for her." Quinn shook her head. "I wish I could have seen a flash of this glorious future in high school."
"She has me doing everything but wiping her ass, which I probably shouldn't say too loudly or she'll get ideas."
"How many weeks is she now?"
"Almost fifteen."
"Well, fortunately for you but unfortunately for those of us amused by your misery, it's about to get better any day."
"I hope you're right. She hasn't puked in a few days. She's at balloon-belly yoga today and everything."
"You don't call prenatal yoga 'balloon belly' yoga in front of her, do you?"
"Are you kidding? She cries enough."
"You have to suck it up, Santana. It might be hard for you, but it's way harder for her. She doesn't ever get a break from being pregnant."
"Oh bitch believe, I know that."
"So why should you get a break?"
"Don't fuck with me Fabray, I haven't had sex in twelve weeks and I am MAD. ...Stop laughing."
"Well, stop making it so easy by telling me you're not getting laid. Listen, as much as it grosses me out to say this, you should be saving up your energy, because when she feels better you're gonna need it. The blood flow down there makes things pretty intense in the second trimester."
"Is it wrong that that turned me on?"
"Yes. I'm hanging up now. Call me back next time you're feeling sorry for yourself and I'll kick you in the ass again. Tell Rachel I said hang in there."
"Always a pleasure, Q."
/*/
Rachel lay on her back in bed, her tablet in one hand, the other extended above her face.
With her one open eye, Santana watched her examining it, twisting her wrist one way then the other.
"Okay, I give up," she said groggily. "What are you doing?"
"I hit week 17 today," Rachel said cheerfully. "It says the baby is the size of my palm. Remember when it was a lentil?"
"Damn," Santana said, holding up her own hand. "That little sucker is hulking up in there." She pulled down the covers and pulled up Rachel's t-shirt. She laid her palm on Rachel's belly. "So it's about this big."
Rachel smiled. "Well, it's about four inches lower. But yes," she said, shifting Santana's palm.
"Whoa," Santana said, suddenly lifting her hand away. She sat up and took Rachel by the hip, rotating her body slowly this way and that, craning her neck to examine the shape of Rachel's abdomen from every angle.
"Boo, you're showing. You totally have a little baby pooch." She pinched Rachel's belly with a grin.
"What?" Rachel said. "I just looked the other day and I was still just lumpy and bloated." She popped up from the bed with more energy than Santana had seen her exhibit since May and ran to the bathroom mirror to examine her profile.
She arched her back a little and sucked in everything she could suck in, and sure enough, there it was. A little pop of a baby bump right below her belly button. "Oh my goooood!" she exclaimed happily, snapping selfies in the mirror.
"Well Berry, I think it's time to take your fat ass shopping," Santana declared.
Rachel didn't even cry.
"Okay, so I'll need stuff for work - off camera days and on-camera days - stuff for going out, stuff for yoga and the gym…"
Rachel listed the day's objectives as they walked through the main entrance of their first maternity store of the day.
"Hold on," she interrupted herself mid-list. "I have to pee first, hold my purse."
"Okay, as I was saying," she said, returning to Santana. "I think we should start in the casual wear area in the front left corner, and work our way toward the back right, where they have the fitting rooms. That will maximize efficiency and reduce fatigue."
"Lead the way," Santana gestured. "I'm just here to hold your shit and sneak things back onto the racks when you make terrible choices."
When they reached the first rack of clothes, Rachel paused got a puzzled look on her face.
"These are clothes, Rachel. This is why we're here. This clothes. You shop."
"I think I have to pee again."
"...It's been less than five minutes."
"I'll be right back."
"Did you get it all out this time?" Santana asked when Rachel returned.
"Yes, and shhh."
Fifteen minutes later, Rachel was distracted again. "You know, I think I want to check those bargain sock racks at the front of the store," she said. "Now that I've picked a few outfits I want to make sure I color match them before I forget."
Santana stared. "You totally have to pee again, don't you?"
"Damn it, what is wrong with me?"
"Pregnant!" Santana called out as Rachel hastened to the front of the store.
Eventually, they made it to the fitting room.
"Sweet baby Jesus," Santana laughed as Rachel pulled on her first pair of maternity pants. "Those pants literally come up to your boobs. They'd probably even fit OVER your boobs, can I try it?"
Rachel stared at herself in the mirror. The jeans had a huge elastic band that covered her from hips to ribs. It really did look ridiculous, because after all, they were designed for someone with a much bigger belly than Rachel had so far. She giggled with Santana.
"You know what, Santana? Go ahead. Pull my pants up over my boobs and laugh at me, you've earned it."
"Yesssss," Santana celebrated. She grabbed the elastic and stretched it up over Rachel's bra and giggled hysterically at her handiwork.
"Okay, hold them up, I need to take a picture."
"No way, I draw the line. I don't trust you not to show this to anyone."
"Rachel, when the kid you've got growing underneath those clown pants is five, or ten, or twenty, trust me. I will be showing it this picture. And you'll want to remember it too. Now hold up your pants under your armpits and smile."
Rachel acquiesced. "Happy now?"
"Extremely."
"Okay," she said, ripping off the pants and putting her own back on. "Then stay here with this stuff until I come back. I have to pee again."
/*/
That night, Santana was propped up in bed, leaning against a pile of pillows, writing a paper on her laptop, when Rachel strutted into the bedroom completely naked and with a look in her eye that Santana had nearly (but certainly not entirely) forgotten existed.
Nearly instantaneously, Santana slapped her laptop shut, kicked her papers to the floor, tossed her glasses onto the nightstand, and threw the blankets from her body.
Rachel pounced, straddling her.
She kissed Santana fiercely, scratching at her neck and the back of her head with an intensity that suggested she was remembering several months of celibacy all at once.
Santana, who had felt every second of that celibacy in real time, groaned in relief. She rolled Rachel on to her back and ripped off her pajamas as quickly as she'd cleared off the bed. She left wet kisses and suction marks roughly down both sides of Rachel's neck and started in on her tits, her hips pressing aggressively down against Rachel's.
Rachel rolled her hips against Santana's but tapped at her face with her fingertips in warning, and Santana grunted in frustration at still being denied those brand new breasts. Angrily, she slid her left arm beneath Rachel's right leg and cradled the back of her knee in the crook of her elbow.
"Can I please fuck you now?" she whispered.
Rachel dug her nails into Santana's upper back and moaned, "Please."
Santana teased her opening and felt Rachel tense as she ran a fingertip lightly over her clit.
"You're so wet," she breathed. "God I missed you."
"I missed you too."
"Fuck my fingers, please," Santana said, sliding two of them inside Rachel.
Instead of a moan of pleasure or a gasp, Santana heard a squeak that was definitely an indication of pain. She froze.
"It hurts?" she asked, confused. "You seemed ready."
"Ummphh, yes," Rachel said, wincing. "Maybe it's just been a while. Don't leave. Try again."
Santana moved her fingers gently, but Rachel stayed stiffened and tense. "You feel different in there," she observed. "Like swollen or like the angles are different, or something."
"That's weird. Try a different angle, maybe?" Rachel asked hopefully.
But everything Santana tried just led to more wincing and squeaking, Rachel growing more frustrated with each attempt.
"Fuck, touch me outside, Santana," Rachel finally insisted. "I need to come."
She rolled her hips hard three times against Santana's fingers and came, moaning and biting Santana's shoulder.
"Holy fuck, already?" Santana asked incredulously, pulling back.
"Again," Rachel said, and put Santana's hand back between her legs.
"Fuuuck," Santana breathed, and rolled Rachel's little clit back and forth under her thumb.
Rachel groaned two minutes later after the next one.
"What are you possibly mad about?" Santana panted. "I've never seen anyone come so fast, and I slept with dudes in high school."
"They're all peak," Rachel complained. "There's no build up, it's just BAM and then it hardly subsides. I need it again. Go easier this time."
"Do you want my tongue?"
"No, I want to hold on," Rachel said, wrapping Santana tightly in her arms. "You feel so good. I missed you so much."
"Do you want a toy?"
"Just you."
Santana kissed Rachel, and teased her opening and her ass and her clit, trying hard to make it last, to give her build-up. And still, all that had to happen was that Rachel squeezed Santana's hand with her inner thighs and clenched her stomach muscles, and there it was.
"Jesus, woman," Santana panted half an hour later after two more, "You haven't even broken a sweat yet."
"I don't think I've had this many orgasms in one session since those early days in the loft. Remember when we didn't leave your bed for days?"
"Well, now, that's an exaggeration," Santana chastised her. "Sometimes we went to your bed for half a day. Or the kitchen floor. Or the coffee table. Poor Hummel."
"We came up with a lot of our favorites in those days."
"Remember when you went on the internet and looked up the names for all the positions we were doing?"
"Well, back then I was too shy to say, 'Santana Lopez, I need you to sit on my fingers in such a way that I can watch your ass bounce up and down on me and I can look at the way your hair falls down the entire length of your back when you throw back your head in the throes of pleasure.' I needed a name so I could just say 'reverse cowgirl'."
Santana opened her mouth and for the first few tries, no words would come out. "And now?" she finally squeaked out.
"Well," Rachel said, "Now I can just roll over on my back and say, 'Get the fuck on me right now, Santana.' And pull your hips like this."
Month Five (September)
"This is going to be a fucking disaster," Santana said, side-eyeing Rachel as she sipped from a water bottle.
"Yeah, I know."
"Then quit drinking all that water."
"They told me I had to!"
"Yeah, well, they're not going to be the ones who have to clean up the puddle you make in my car."
"It's something about the position of the baby," Rachel explained. "They want your bladder to be full so the baby is in an easier place to see. Don't you want them to be able to see everything they need to see?"
"Well yeah," Santana said as she pulled into the hospital parking lot. "They just best not be running late, because I know you. Between the water and the nerves you get every time you have one of these appointments, you will piss your pants before they can see anything."
"Yeah, I can't even argue with you," Rachel said, capping her bottle.
As they sat in the waiting room, Rachel squirmed, but so did Santana. Not only were they were about to find out the sex of the baby, but they had a fairly significant bet riding on it.
If it was a boy, like Rachel was sure it was - And he's growing inside me, Santana, so I'm right - Santana had to massage Rachel's feet for a solid 40 minutes while watching The Sound of Music, with as much singing allowed as Rachel wanted.
Santana, who was convinced it was a girl - All of my cousins say you're carrying high and narrow. That be a girl. Plus I know you want a girl and you're trying to prevent being disappointed - had Rachel's word that she would write her paper on the impact of social media on self-promotion of artists on existing record labels if she were right.
Plus, of course, it was the first thorough anatomy exam the baby would have. The first chance to see if everything was okay with him or her.
Rachel definitely needed to pee.
She stood up and paced the length of the waiting room.
"Rachel, just go," Santana whispered, "I'm sure they'll be able to see the baby anyway."
"I'm not screwing this up," she said. "I can do this. Mind over bladder."
Santana bounced her knee in silence.
Nine minutes after that, and seven minutes after their scheduled appointment time, the nurse finally called them to the ultrasound room.
"Did you drink your water?" she asked Rachel.
"Yes," Rachel snapped so sharply that the nurse flinched.
"Do you have to pee?"
"Yes. Even worse than I did seven minutes ago."
"Okay, well the tech should be in right away," she said, and made a quick exit.
Thankfully, this turned out to be the truth. Before Rachel knew it she was being helped to her back and her belly was being covered with a thick layer of gooey blue gunk that felt weird but pleasantly warm. The technician was someone they'd never met before; gone was the friendly chit-chat of the grandmotherly woman who'd done their first one all those weeks ago. This woman uttered barely a gruff, "good morning," and got to work.
Rachel appreciated the no-nonsense approach - the sooner it was over, the sooner she could pee.
"Urrrghh," Rachel grunted as the tech pressed the doppler into her belly.
"That hurts?" she asked, taken aback.
"No," Rachel said, voice straining, "I just have to pee."
"Did you want to know the sex of your baby?" was the reply.
"Yes," Rachel and Santana said in unison.
Then the tech said nothing for an absolutely agonizing fifteen seconds. Santana and Rachel ceased breathing.
It was so agonizing, Rachel almost - almost - forgot about her bladder.
"Well, ladies," the tech said at long last, and then got in a few last pokes and prods before finishing her thought.
"You are having a daughter."
"Oh my God," Rachel breathed.
"Fuck yes, I was right!" Santana exclaimed, pumping both fists in the air. "I mean… sorry," she said sheepishly covering her mouth and glancing at the tech. "Oh my God, Rachel. It's a girl."
"You were right," Rachel said.
The tech interrupted before Santana could gloat any further. "Rachel, I'm going to have you go to the bathroom. We've got to get this baby down so I can see her."
Rachel looked at her, aghast. "But, they made such a big deal out of me drinking all that water!"
The tech shrugged. "It actually doesn't matter all that much."
Rachel popped up off the table and practically sprinted to the bathroom before Santana could point out that she'd been right about that, too.
"Congratulations, girls," Dr. Gaffin said as she entered the exam room. "Everything looks perfect with her anatomy scan."
Rachel beamed. "That's what Ramona said. We're so happy."
"She got a lot friendlier after everything was over," Santana said. "Is she always like that?"
"Well you know, sometimes that gal has got to deliver some unpleasant news to unsuspecting parents," the doctor said. "Can't say I blame her for startin' off a little serious till she knows everything's hunky-dory."
"Yeah," Santana said.
"But hunky-dory it is for y'all," the doctor continued. "Like I said, everything looks perfect. She's measuring a touch big for her age but it's nothing to worry about."
"How much bigger?"
"Ohhh, around the 85th percentile or so. You might be lookin' at a nine-pounder if she carries to term, but that's just speculation. Every baby has her own timeline."
Rachel's elation bubble deflated just a little at the thought of a nine-pound baby. Specifically the size of a nine-pound baby's head.
"Don't you worry," the doctor told Rachel, handing her a folder full of information on the signs of pre-term labor. "It's the safest time in history to deliver a baby. You're gonna be just fine, ma'am. Now go get some pink paint for the nursery. I'll see y'all next month."
/*/
That night, Santana and Rachel leaned against opposite arms of the couch, legs intertwined, Rachel reading up on the next month in What to Expect, Santana proofreading the paper due the next day.
Suddenly Rachel dropped her book to her lap.
"Santana," Rachel said, kicking Santana's leg and lowering the mountain of comforters so she could see Santana over them.
"What?"
"Did you just start falling asleep? Don't fall asleep, you have a paper due."
"What are you talking about? I'm sitting here revising."
"But you just jerked your foot. You know, like when you're falling asleep and jolt awake?"
"Um, no I didn't."
"Really? Well then who did, because - "
Rachel and Santana's wide-eyed stares met each other.
"Did you just feel -"
"I think I did," Rachel said, her hands dropping to her belly. They sat in perfect silence for a few moments. "Come on, do it again, baby," she said softly, rolling her now definitely noticeable belly gently under her palms.
There it was! It felt almost like a muscle spasm, or someone drumming their fingertips on your belly, only from the inside.
"Oh! Oh my God, she did it again!" Rachel said, grabbing Santana's hand and putting it on her belly. "They say you won't be able to feel it from the outside until next month, but that was no 'flutter' or 'tickle.' She just straight-up kicked me."
"I don't feel anything," Santana said. "But I can tell I like this kid already."