Written for Brittana week. This is a crossover fic featuring characters from Grey's Anatomy. Sequel to STARS, but can be read on its own.
You arrive at the hospital so lightheaded and out of breath you can barely explain to the admitting nurse that your wife is having a baby RIGHT NOW. For some reason all those lamaze classes you took don't seem to be helping you one damn bit and a wave of nausea passes over you. You want to rest your head right on the admitting desk, but Brittany lets out another moan, gripping your hand hard enough to make you forget all about your queasiness.
You can't be queasy right now anyway. You need to buck up. You're about to become a mother.
And that thought redoubles your nausea. You wilt.
"Santana, you have to go on. You're a survivor." Brittany is sitting in a wheelchair at your side, clutching your hand in both of hers. "You have to get on stage. We can't do it without you."
Her hand is clammy and you have no idea what's she's talking about, which worries you almost as much as the fact that this baby is coming way too early and way too fast.
Brittany groans again and clutches her stomach before leaning over and vomiting on the waiting room floor.
That gets the nurse's attention.
Before you can think, you are both whisked through doorways, down hallways, and into a curtained room. Brittany is hooked up to five machines within moments and all you know is that you never once let go of her hand. She's still babbling and sweating and everyone is yelling and way too many doctors or nurses or whatever are shoving you aside to poke and prod at Brittany's belly.
Except it's your belly too. Don't they get that?
You feel a rage rising in you the likes of which no one has seen since you were seventeen. You're about to go "all Lima Heights" on the next person who so much as breathes in your direction.
Someone tries to pull your hand out of Brittany's and you lose it.
"Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on with my wife?!" you scream and everyone in the room freezes except Brittany, who mumbles something about you watching your language.
A scruffy looking guy in a white coat tells you that Brittany's temperature and blood pressure are both extremely high and that the baby is in distress, and because Brittany's water has already broken, they have no choice but to deliver.
You stare at him in disbelief. Growing up, your father taught you to respect the title of Dr., but you're positive this guy has no fucking idea what he's talking about. Brittany was perfectly fine just a few hours ago. Sure, she'd said she was tired a lot lately, and maybe even feeling under the weather, but that's all part of being pregnant.
Isn't it?
Everything you know about having babies, everything you've researched and studied and talked about for over a year now, comes rushing to the forefront of your brain. You can't concentrate.
You gape at the doctor.
Apparently unable to handle your open-mouthed stupidity, he shakes his head at you and returns to ordering everyone around.
You come to your senses a moment later. "Wait. Wait. WAIT just a fucking minute!"
No one freezes this time. They ignore you and continue to bustle around Brittany. A machine beeps, louder and faster than your own heartbeat, which is racing.
"I want a second opinion!"
You're at least coherent enough to remember the other thing your father taught you: never trust anyone just because they have a 'Dr.' in front of their name.
The scruffy guy shakes his head at you but leaves the room, returning a minute later saying he's paged the head of OB/GYN. You take your first real breath since you got here and redouble your clasp on Brittany's hand. You wipe her forehead, smoothing her hair and murmuring, "it's okay, it'll be fine, this will all be fine," because it's the only thing you can allow yourself to think.
This has to be fine. It HAS to.
Eventually a blonde, female doctor with a slight limp, approaches you and introduces herself as Arizona Robbins. She asks you to step outside to talk. You refuse, grabbing Brittany's hand with both of yours as if holding onto her tighter will keep you from ever getting separated. You shudder and tell Dr. Robbins to just tell you the news here and now.
She tells you the same thing the scruffy doctor told you. She adds that they are giving Brittany medicine to bring her fever down, and running tests to see what's causing it. In addition to being in distress, it looks like the baby is breech. She reiterates that the baby needs to be delivered as soon as possible, and the only way to safely and quickly deliver her is a c-section.
No. No! No no no no no!
This wasn't part of your plan. There was supposed to be a midwife, and a birthing center, and soft music, everything all natural and woo-woo, no drugs, nothing invasive. Hell, you even packed a swimsuit in the suitcase so you could sit with Brittany in the birthing tub.
Brittany wouldn't want it this way, you know it.
You grip her hand tighter and shake your head. You don't want to be lectured right now, you just want Brittany to be all right. You want them both to be alright. You want to wind back the clock to last night; you and Brittany cuddled in bed, humming a lullaby to her belly while you rubbed it to sleep.
But you can't think about that now. Dr. Robbins tells you that you both need to be prepped for the surgery right away and limps off to scrub in. The team falls into action, unhooking Brittany from the machines and rolling her off down the hallway. You struggle to keep up, your hand still gripped around Brittany's. It comforts you that she's still gripping yours back.
Several hallways and one long elevator ride later and you find yourself at the door to OR #3. Your hand is firmly pulled from Brittany's as they wheel her through the door. You protest, but a nurse pushes you into the scrub room and starts wrapping you in a surgical gown, booties, hat, and gloves. Thankfully, you can see them prepping Brittany through the glass. Despite her large belly, she looks small and vulnerable as she's transferred to the surgical table.
You take a deep breath. You can feel the tears coming hard and fast. You don't want this. It's all too much, too fast, too overwhelming. You weren't prepared for this. You promised you would always take care of Brittany, no matter what, and now there is nothing you can do for her. She and the belly are completely out of your hands.
You sob quietly at first, but then like a child, the sobs overtake you until you're gulping and shuddering, unable to breathe. Your hands flutter, searching for anything to ground you. An arm wraps around your shoulders and you turn to see a striking, dark-haired woman in a white coat. Her name tag says Dr. C. Torres.
"Just breathe, honey," she says. "Soon that woman in there, the mother of your child, is going to need you, and so will that baby. You need to pull yourself together so you can be there for them."
You take a few deep breaths and it works, your sobs subside. She's right, you can't fall apart now. You have two girls who need you.
"That's my wife in there," she says, pointing through the glass at Dr. Robbins, "and she's the best damn OB in Seattle. She's going to take good care of your girl, and there's nobody in the world I'd trust more than her to bring you through this, ok? Everything is going to be fine. Just breathe."
Dr. Torres guides you through the door, gently pushing you inside. Brittany's covered in surgical drapes and wearing a cap just like yours. As you take her hand, she turns to you and mumbles, "where did you go?" She's smiling at you and seems better; calmer, more coherent.
"Nowhere," you say. "I'm never going anywhere."
"You still gonna love me if I never get my abs back?" she asks you with a little smile.
You wipe the last tears from your eyes and nod. "Always. I promise." You lean over and kiss her.
"Okay, is everybody ready to deliver this baby?" Dr. Robbins asks. You look to Brittany and she nods at you. There is nothing but trust and love in her eyes. You smile back at her and grip her hand.
"We're ready, Dr. Robbins," you say.
It happens much faster than you expect. You can't watch them make the incision, or pull back Brittany's skin, so instead you lock eyes with Brittany. You're both grinning, each a little woozy in your own way.
"Here she is!" Dr. Robbins announces. You look beyond the drapes to see the ugliest, squishiest, gooeyist blue alien you've ever seen, and for a flicker of a second you think someone's played a trick on you. Dr. Robbins asks you if you want to cut the cord and then whisks the baby away before you get a chance to see if it's human after all.
When you hear that first wispy cry, you breathe a sigh of relief. Brittany does too.
They've sewn Brittany back up by the time they bring your baby back to you. She's clean and pink-cheeked and definitely human. Swaddled in her blanket and hat she looks so tiny. You can't believe that this is what was inside the belly you've been rubbing for months. Brittany has tears in her eyes as she takes the baby, holding her in her arms for the first time. You can't imagine a more perfect moment. You wrap your arms around them both.
You never want to let them go.
You breathe.