Author's Note: This is why Vala shouldn't be invited to baby-showers. When I wrote Singing in the Rain I hadn't seen the Revolution trading cards and realized how young Rachel was when she had Charlie – only 23! So that head-canon went out the window…
Thank you to xyber116 for beta'ing this one-shot.
I don't own the characters or Revolution; I'm just playing with them for a bit for fun, not profit.
Possible trigger: postpartum depression
Two chubby arms. Two stout legs. Ten little fingers. Ten little toes. Ten tiny fingernails. Ten tiny toenails. One smooshed head and red face. One 6-pound, 7-ounce baby.
Rachel stared at Charlotte through bleary eyes, exhausted and worn. She could feel her pituitary gland pump out oxytocin. She knew she should look down at this tiny, red, helpless thing and see the most perfect being in the world; she knew she should fight to the death to protect her offspring, the continuation of her genetic lineage. She knew she should look down and see the pinnacle of her creation, her masterpiece. But that was the rub.
This miracle child, conceived largely due to a course of antibiotics interfering with her oral contraceptive, was likely to be her masterpiece. Her advisor had looked at her with solemn eyes and had told her that it would take at least another extra year for her to finish her PhD, and oh, by the way, congratulations. The other members of her thesis committee were even less supportive of her "reproductive choice." Even the lone female faculty member made a off-hand comment about how it would have been better to wait until after she had her PhD, or better yet, tenure.
No one thought she could do both. Be both mother and scientist. Not even Ben. Ben. Rachel blinked back tears and left Charlotte in the crib to go sit down on the lactation couch and have a cry.
Rachel's body shook violently as she sobbed out a good half of her body weight before she was wrung out and disgusted. Not only was she sore, torn, and distended, but also her damn hormones were all over the fucking place.
Ben looked at Charlotte like… like she was the most perfect creature in the world, his brilliant blue eyes memorizing her every feeble arm movement and her bizarrely unfocused eyes. He had never, not ever, looked at her like that. Not during the electrifying beginning of their relationship, not during their short honeymoon, and never once during her pregnancy. He had said he fully supported whatever decision she would make regarding the accidental pregnancy. He had mouthed the platitudes expected of a second-wave feminist without actually giving her the support she needed. He had said he was glad she decided to keep the embryo, but he had never looked at her like she was special, nurturing another lifeform within her. A fetus that contained half of his genes! It was as if this child of theirs wasn't real to him until she was out, separate, distinct – only then she was a fucking miracle.
Rachel slammed her fist against the lactation couch, knowing full well that she wasn't being fair to Ben. All of the motherhood books warned that it took fathers far longer to accept the reality of the situation; they weren't the ones who felt the morning sickness, the hormones, the smashed bladders, the midnight kicks, and the back pain. Of course the reality was further removed for them.
But it wasn't fair. His advisor wasn't saying that it would take him another year to graduate – if he ever did – he had gotten Ben a fucking cigar!
Rachel sagged in to the couch, unable to maintain an upright position anymore. She didn't know if she could do both. Be a good mother – or at least a better mother than hers had been – and be a good scientist and try to help the other million children in the world.
Rachel lay in that position for several hours, through several passes of the duty nurse through the LDR wing. Rachel dosed, semi-conscious, wondering if Ben was getting a good night's sleep. She had used the end of visiting hours as an excuse to kick him and his adoring eyes out. They both knew that spouses could remain all night, but Ben had acquiesced without a fight, promising to return early with good coffee and a change of clothes.
At some point, Charlotte began to fuss. Rachel lay on the couch for who-knows-how-long, before she worked up the strength to pick herself up and walk back over to the crib.
Two chubby arms. Two stout legs. Ten little fingers. Ten little toes. Ten tiny fingernails. Ten tiny toenails. One smooshed head and red face. One 6-pound, 7-ounce baby.
Still no overpowering surge of maternal love, still no sense that she had done the right thing, had possibly thrown her education and career out the window for a good reason. Maybe she just needed to attempt to nurse again. Nursing stimulated the release of oxytocin. She just had to be physically capable of loving her child; she just needed more neurotransmitter.
Rachel carefully picked up Charlotte and maneuvered her to her breast, just like the lactation counselor had shown her, but Charlotte just would not latch on. She never would unless the lactation counselor was in the room. She was a failure. Her daughter hated her. She was a terrible mother. Already!
Rachel sat on the lactation couch with her non-nursing daughter in her arms, her breast bare, and streams of tears silently streaking down her face. There wasn't anything else she could do.