Chapter 39 - The Longest Wait

I never knew it would hurt so much. I mean, you see it on TV, a woman in labour, her pain and the sheer physical effort she has to put in to produce a healthy child, but it's only when it's important to you that you realise the full extent of it.

Buffy's used to pain. I mean, she's been the Slayer since before her sixteenth birthday. Pain's pretty much part of a Slayer's life - she's taken punches that'd result in pretty heavy damage to a normal girl, and come up fighting. But this is different. I realise that I've never seen her in pain before - not physical pain. The doctor's given it her best shot and tried something that she thinks might give Buffy some relief without harming the child, but, without really understanding Buffy's physiology, she's only guessing.

Despite that, Buffy's doing well. Maybe it's harder to see someone you love in pain than to actually experience it - especially if you know that it's not going to go on forever. She's even made a few jokes during her brief periods of respite between contractions. The jokes are aimed at the doctor, not at me, of course. I'm just the butt of them. But then I read somewhere that a woman in labour sometimes blames the child's father for her pain (which seems reasonable enough), and therefore gives him a hard time. She can do what she likes to me right now- even beat me to a bloody pulp if she could do it and it made her feel even slightly better. She's not going to, though - she's totally involved in what's happening to her.

The doctor seems to think that it won't be long - her waters broke a while ago. Said something about Buffy being lucky - that first time labours can go on for a very long time. Everything about this pregnancy has been done at high speed - so I suppose it's only fitting that it should end quickly too.

I've tried everything that either Buffy or the doctor have suggested in order to ease things for her. I've rubbed her back and held her hand - or more correctly, allowed her to hold my hand so tight that I had a lovely set of bleeding nail imprints on my palm, but it seems I'm not doing it right.

I'm going to be a father. Somehow, that simple fact manages to eclipse, at least for now, the events of recent days and weeks. The danger we're in is as great as it ever was, but I can't give that any thought. I heard some mutterings about security as I came around, and I just hope it's enough to allow the baby to be born safely. After that, I'll start thinking about the next step.

The others all disappeared after a while, but Willow's come back again. She's just the other side of the screens, realising, I think, that this is a kind of private thing. She wants to help, but, for once, she doesn't know how. She made a pretty good job of fixing me up - I'm hardly aware of the two bullet wounds I had a short while ago. I idly wonder how Finn's doing. Not that I care about him, it's just, well, his crazy plan worked, so I guess I sort of owe him.

Another contraction, and Buffy's decided to have another go at being on her hands and knees. I take up position behind her and rub her back as the doctor suggests, and this time, it seems I've got it right. She's moving towards my hands rather than trying to buck them off, so maybe it's helping a little.

When the contraction's over, the doctor suggests an internal exam to check progress. It takes only a couple of minutes, and from what she says, Buffy's fully dilated, so we're really in the last straight now.

The next contraction hits almost as soon as the internal's over. This one is different. Well, Buffy's screaming at me, and her language is a very colourful mixture of less-than-ladylike language from both sides of the Atlantic. I guess she pays more attention to my swearing than I'd realised.

I remember reading about this, too. It's called 'transition', and it's often the part of labour where the mother decides that she doesn't really want a baby and should just go home after all. The next step should be for Buffy to start pushing the baby out.

That thought leads, naturally enough, to a mental picture of me holding my daughter. For a fraction of a second, I go through a transition of my own, and I feel this overpowering urge to run. The responsibility of fatherhood just seems so huge - so overwhelming - and so much like something I need to avoid.

That thought is over almost before I can put it into words. I wouldn't be anywhere in the world other than here right now. Yeah, I could wish that we weren't in a makeshift hospital in the middle of nowhere with one doctor and a crowd, of what I assume, are enthusiastic amateurs to help. But, the only place I want to be is where Buffy is, so I suppose the detail will just have to be accepted.

I need a cigarette. I've hardly smoked since I got this shiny new body - just haven't felt the same need - but right now, I need one. I'm unconsciously feeling in my pockets for the pack I know isn't there. And even if I could find one, it's not likely that I could smoke it anyway, so it's a futile exercise, but I need to do something with my hands.

Another contraction, and Buffy's pushing. Another fact from the books I read - when it's time, she won't be able to stop herself from pushing. Her expression's different, too. She's lost that angry look, she knows exactly what's happening, and she's working with it.

I'm holding her hand again. I can feel her nails sink into the partially healed wounds from last time, but I don't feel any pain. I whispering to her - I hardly know what the words are, I just need her to know that I'm here, that I'm not going anywhere.

It goes on and on. At least, it seems like that. Buffy's tired now. I can see it in her face - she's so tired, but she's still doing everything she can. We saw the baby's head during the last couple of contractions, so it won't be long. I feel the pressure on my hand increase again, and I know she's going for it this time. She's pushing, and pushing, and the doctor's shouting instructions I can't understand. With a squelching sound that sounds completely out of place here, I see her, finally emerging into the world. Then, things no longer make any sense. I can't understand what's happening. The baby should be crying, shouldn't she? We should hear her, but the doctor's back is to us, and she's not saying anything, but her hands are busy. I realise I've stopped breathing. I can hear nothing, until Buffy starts to demand to know what's going on. I can't help her, I don't know myself.

The doctor's smiling then, as she turns towards us. Before the significance of the smile can fully sink into my bewildered mind, I hear it - the most beautiful sound in the world - my daughter's cry.

I vaguely realise that the screen's been moved and someone's come in, but I don't pay any attention.

The baby's deposited in Buffy's arms while we wait for the placenta to be delivered. I sit as close to Buffy as I can get, staring at the small bundle in her arms. She's already rooting, looking for something to fill her small rosebud of a mouth, and Buffy looks to the doctor for advice.

"You were planning on breast-feeding, weren't you?" she asks.

To Buffy's affirmative, she adds, "Well, now's as good a time to start as any. It'll help with the expulsion of the afterbirth, and with getting your figure back."

Buffy nods, and starts to try to unbutton her clothes, but there're too many buttons on that stupid uniform. The bottom half was shed a long time ago, but the shirt still remains. I hold out my arms, and she hands me my daughter.

I'd stood up to take the baby, but I'm immediately glad there's a chair behind me. I fall back into it as my legs seem to turn to jelly. My daughter.

Suddenly Willow's there too, staring at the baby, gasping at something she's noticed. I don't say anything, I just stare at Zara. I wonder at the fact that she's blurred, and then realise there's a film of water forming in my eyes.

She seems to know I'm not a source of food, because she's not looking for any. She's just looking up into my eyes, and I'd swear I see recognition. I know, it'll be weeks before she can even focus, but I'd swear she looks at me with recognition.

Buffy's ready, so I hand her back, already missing the tiny presence in my arms.

Buffy has a couple of false starts before Zara takes over and shows her how it's done. At least, that's how it looked to me. She's now sucking happily, her eyes closing and her whole body rapt in concentration.

Willow mutters something about going to tell the others.

"How much did she weigh?" Buffy asks.

I'm stupid. Of course, that's one of the things that were happening. And why didn't I think to ask that?

"Eight pounds four - pretty big for a first baby," she replies.

"And looking to grow bigger," I comment, looking at the way she's feeding.

Buffy smiles at me. That's all it takes. One smile, and the watery film in my eyes overflows and tears start to roll down my cheeks.

Before long, I'm handed a now sleeping Zara, so that Buffy can get cleaned up. By the sounds from the other side of the screen, she's got visitors. I suppose I could go and show off my daughter, but I'm not sure I trust myself to walk and carry her at the same time. Harry Potter's jelly-legs curse has nothing on how I'm feeling right now. And then, there's no way I want to leave Buffy. Not now, not ever.

I'm a father. The words wander through my mind in the hope that continued repetition might make it seem real. Even the warm bundle in my arms doesn't help that. I'm a father.

I think of my own father - a man I hardly knew. I can't imagine him sitting holding his new-born son as I'm doing for Zara, but then, men didn't get involved with children- not until they could hold a conversation at least. I'm so glad I've got this chance now. If I'd lived, and found someone in my own time, that'd have been my own experience of being a father. This way - I've go so much more.

Buffy's clean, and she's scooted over in the bed to make room for me. I climb on beside her, returning Zara to her mother's arms. Within minutes, we're surrounded. Willow and Jenna are there, and Giles and Xander. They're all cooing and exclaiming with various levels of enthusiasm.

Suddenly, there's a shout - I don't catch the words, but the tension and fear in the tone are obvious.

"It's them - they've been spotted on the road, about a mile away. We've got to evacuate."

All the lethargy I'd been experiencing as I contemplated my daughter and her mother is gone instantly, as I stand up. Buffy hands Zara to me, and gets to her feet. She's wearing some sort of surgical pyjama things, and she pushes her feet into her shoes. Dr. Chan doesn't object.

"You've got to get out of here," she insists. "Can you walk a short distance?"

Buffy nods.

"Follow Jake there," she points to a demon who looks to be a close relative of Clem. "He'll get you to your van. Get out of here. Wherever you go, take care," she adds, turning to go and check on Riley, who's still unconscious.

We do as she asked. I'm carrying Zara, and Xander and Giles have Buffy supported between them.

Within minutes, we're in the van, and Xander is pulling out of the hiding place. The last words of our guide are ringing in my ears.

"You should have a couple of minutes. The road here's pretty rough. Just head cross country. Avoid roads for a bit. We'll sweep out your tracks once you've gone."

"No need," Willow countered. "I'll see to that as we go."

Once we're all in the van, I notice that Jenna's got a bag I don't recognise.

"Things for the baby," someone said.

I open it, and find, as she said, some things for the baby. A couple of basic sleep-suits, and half a dozen nappies. Not going to keep us going for long.

The happiest day of my life, and it's been ruined by some stupid pseudo-military outfit. If I ever get my hands on the person responsible for all this, I swear I'll kill them, taking my time over every detail.

My arm's around Buffy's shoulders, and I feel them shaking as tears overwhelm her. It's not fair. It's just not fair. We've got to do something - I'm not going to spend my daughter's life on the run. There's go tot be somewhere we can go - somewhere we'd be safe, but right now, I'm out of options.