Title: Firstborn
Rating: PG-13, for semi-graphic descriptions
Author: Demasduit
Pairing: Jean Havoc/OC
Disclaimer: Poor art student. Own nothing. That's me!
Notes: Special mention and thanks to havocmangawip for her constructive review of the companion story, "Wedding Night." It was actually supposed to be the companion for this one, but since this one's much longer, the other got finished first. Oh well. On with the story!
Jean Havoc bursts through the door, unlit cigarette held tightly in his teeth, hair askew, uniform a mess. He's been gone for six months, returning home to a note that says simply, "Jean. Hospital."His wife has been in the care of one Roy Mustang, and Jean had smirked inwardly at the irony of the situation when he left. His tour is over, now, however, and Mustang pulls him aside.
"Havoc… she's struggling," is all he gets from the raven-haired man in front of him. Jean takes a closer look at Roy, his usually cool features softened slightly with worry; for all his womanizing, Roy is still glad Havoc found himself a wife, and like a good general, dislikes worry on the part of his subordinates. Mustang makes his exit, and Jean hurries to his wife, heedless of his torn uniform and the dirt on his face – he has not bothered to change.
The woman on the bed sniffles to herself, folding into the embrace of her husband. "Shhh… it's alright, I'm here." Jean finds himself uttering words that he knows would sound ridiculous in any other time and place when the doctor returns, offers Jean's wife a warm bath; the change in position might help things along, he informs them. Jean picks his wife up gently, makes his way over to the tiny bathroom allotted for this purpose. Setting her down on the toilet, he begins filling the tub, a deeper affair than wide, with a small bench for her convenience.
All of a sudden, Jean's wife lets out a low moan, gripping her knees until she feels his large hand slip into hers. The contraction rolls over her, but passes soon enough, and Jean is assured of five minutes in which to speak to the doctor. Leaving the tub running, but not before rubbing a handful of the warm water over his face to remove some of the grime, he stands up and leaves the bathroom. The doctor looks up from whatever menial task he's been performing while not needed, and Jean notes the flicker of worry before the default doctor expression returns and the man smiles.
"All in order?" he asks, and Jean merely stares. "You would know better than I would," he replies. "I don't know how far along she is, or what's going on, so you tell me."
The man in the green suit and the white coat regards Jean silently before answering. "About six centimeters, but, well, you saw how big she's gotten? Your wife is in for a rough time, Mr. Havoc, and we won't know just how rough until push comes to shove, if you see my meaning." Jean cringes at the thought of his wife in still more pain, unnecessary pain at that; he's no expert on childbirth, that's the job of the small man in front of him, but it seems that his wife is already in too much for tonight to be anything but normal. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and wishes for a cigarette but doesn't dare to be far from his wife.
He returns slowly to the bathroom, where he is greeted by a tired smile. Quickly, the taps are turned off, and Jean divests his wife of the standard-issue hospital robe she looks at with distaste before grinning at him and slipping into the tub. As he massages her shoulders and tries to bring her some relief, Havoc contemplates how much he's missed. When he left, his wife looked as she usually did, only the odd bout of sickness to prove the truth of what lay within. Now, swollen and tired, she is still the most beautiful creature he's known, and he regrets not being there to see the slow progression.
The water slowly grows cold. Jean's wife climbs out of the tub and dons the hated robe, and the couple proceeds back into the main room and over to the bed. She motions behind her, and Jean understands, placing himself as indicated. There's not much Jean will be able to do, and so he lets his wife make the calls this time. Shortly, she decides to get up and walk around, restless. He supports her as she treks around the room, rubbing her back during pains, fazed and still wanting his cigarette.
Eventually their child has clearly had enough, as Jean watches his wife start to sink slowly to the floor, gasping softly. He catches her before she hits ground, and eases her back to the bed one more time. The doctor returns to the room, though neither of them saw him leave. He has a nurse with him, and both wash their hands quickly. The nurse checks Jean's wife's progress and she flinches at the invasion. It's just her luck that another contraction hits in the middle, but all Jean can do is stroke her hair and offer her ice chips.
Clearly understanding his distress, his wife dismisses him to go and enjoy his long-desired smoke. Leaving the room, he's startled by the presence of not only Roy Mustang, but of Riza Hawkeye, Kain Fuery, and of all people, Falman. Why they'd be there is a mystery to him, but he'll take whatever support he can get at this point. He shakes his head at them as he passes, indicating nothing of significance has happened, and continues outside.
Ten minutes later, the nicotine not having done much for his tobacco-riddled system but having done enough for his mental state, Jean paces down the hall towards the fateful delivery room. He immediately speeds up when his ears pick up the sound of a pained cry. His wife is obviously still in the bed, the change being a blue sheet tossed over her spread legs.
This is it, he tells himself. This is where we find out… He can't really finish the thought, doesn't want to panic more than he suddenly feels he will. He gingerly sits her up and takes his place behind her again, resting her body against his legs and torso. The doctor is clearly repeating himself as he tells Jean's wife to push, counts to ten, ignores another soft cry. Tears have begun to fall slowly down her cheeks, and the battle has only just begun. Hours later, years later, eons later, the doctor moves back and pushes down his mask, converses with the nurse. Through his tired haze, though he knows it's nothing compared to the struggling creature in his arms, Jean catches words like whispers; Too big; could try…what if… dangerous…
The doctor comes to the head of the bed, speaks quietly in Jean's ear. Cesarean section. A new medical technique that Jean understands to be, fundamentally, a last-ditch effort to deliver a living child from a dying mother. He shakes his head, violently, no. Episiotomy. While concerned about the health risks, Jean understands this one, and as if the universe is telling him to get on with it, his wife gives yet another cry. The sound of vomiting follows. Jean almost dives for the bin, holds it for her as she finishes, giving the doctor a nod as he does so. Disposing of the bin in the hands of the capable nurse, Jean offers his wife more ice chips, continues stroking her hair, and offers a silent prayer to any deities who might be listening. Preparations for the cut to be made are begun…
She flinches and whimpers loudly at the touch of cold steel; Jean tightens his grip around her slightly, and as she fails to bite it back, the waiting members of the Amestris military are treated to the sound of the loudest shriek yet. The doctor gives his age-old command – "Push!" – and she does so, again and again and again, Jean fearful for the safety of both his wife and their child.
When his wife gives a gasp (he thinks of relief) instead of a wail, Jean's head snaps up to regard the doctor, who gives the first smile since he informed Jean of potential complications, all that time ago.
"We have a head," he tells them, still smiling. It worked. "One last push." Jean's wife complies, giving a long sigh of relief as the child slips from her body. The child is immediately taken to be cleaned as soon as the cord is cut, something more progressive hospitals actually allow the husband to do now, and the nurse tends to Jean's wife as she delivers the afterbirth. Somehow, this is the hardest waiting he's had to do since he got here, but Jean Havoc knows it won't be long and that it will have been worth everything.
The child is finally placed in the arms of his wife, who begins to cry again, and Jean feels himself crying softly along with her as they regard their son for the first time. The good doctor, drying his hands on a white towel, gives them the birth weight, ten pounds seven ounces, and the length, 22 inches, and asks if they have a name for their son.
No wonder… ten pounds! A name! What? Jean's thoughts are a maelstrom, but he remembers that they had planned to name a son Andrew. He looks at his wife, and she's thinking the same thing: Damn. He doesn't really look like an Andrew.
"Jonathan?" he suggests. A slight nod and a yawn greet this statement. Their son looks at them with wide, gray eyes as if agreeing as well. His cries have lessened to a gentle burbling. Suddenly, Jean remembers the people in the waiting area. He slithers off the bed, fresh with clean sheets now, and sprints to the door – pausing only to grin proudly at his wife before exiting the room to invite the others in for a short visit.
After the mandatory exclamations and examinations, requests for his name and congratulations, after his wife has yawned and turned exhausted eyes on him, Jean ushers his comrades out. He kisses her head and takes Jonathan from her, sleeping by this time, and hands him reluctantly to the nurse. Jean kisses his dozing wife one last time before making his exit, considering himself still the luckiest man in Amestris.