JIM

Husky Belden is a really happy guy, and this time, I'm the reason why. He loves people who plan ahead, and I'm doing just that this morning, in a big way.

Ordering flowers for someone special; soon to be two someone specials, if you get my meaning. I don't want to wait until the last minute, and considering the due date's in about two weeks now, it's probably the last time I'll HAVE time to think of it—hence the phone call.

"So, we have some standards you know—blue for boy, pink for girl, " he tells me with a grin in his voice. "Got any hints here, Jim?"

"I'm thinking daisies," I reply, trying to keep my voice neutral, but something must be coming through because I hear his deep laugh on the other end of the connection.

"Good enough—I have some Shastas coming in later this week—will you be needing them that soon?"

"Mid-month, " I tell him cheerfully. "Around the fifteenth or so. Any way I can just send you a page?"

"Works for me—what hospital?"

"That new state of the art birthing center at Palms," I reply, feeling a surge of happy anticipation--Husky always comes through, and I know whatever he puts together is gonna be a knockout. Over the phone he laughs again low and happy.

"Mr. Tight-lipped. I can TELL you know what Baby Brass is and you're not going to spill it. Fine friend YOU turned out to be, Jimbo."

"Better at this than at poker," I remind him, and hang up after he laughs again, assuring me the bouquet will be there. I feel better and cross his name off the list in front of me on the desk. So far I've cleared my family leave, arranged for Heather's insulin supplies to be delivered Fed Ex straight to the house, finished putting together the baby swing and gotten a hair cut.

That last one was Heather's suggestion, since she mentioned she'd want pictures of baby and me, and that if I was looking shaggy I'd always notice it in the photos every time I would look at them later.

This is scary. She knows me well enough to pick up on that, and offer a solution. I'm still shaking my head about that one, and wondering if she's at home getting through HER half of the master list.

HEATHER

I feel like a beached whale. I'd forgotten how ungainly pregnancy makes me, how my feet ache in a different way than they do from my high heels, how my indigestion burns. I don't dare sit in the new rocking chair because I simply cannot get out of it without help now, and as for seat belts—

Thank goodness this stage is coming to an end. Ecstatic as Jim is to see me so gravid—his word for my 'sneaking a beach ball around under my dress' stage—I'm feeling a bit sorry for myself. It's embarrassing to admit what really bothers me most but it's this: I waddle now.

I feel like a duck!

My mother grumbles to me that for centuries good Hungarian women have given birth in the fields and returned to the harvest. When I point out she had ME at the Squaw Valley hospital she just snorts and pretends not to hear. I have no intention of bearing my Brassling anywhere other than the hospital, and just because I have modern amenities at my disposal doesn't make low back pain any easier to bear.

On top of it all, Doctor Phair has me testing my blood sugar six times a day now, and while I understand why, it still hurts.

In an effort to break out of my pre-baby blues, I look at the list in my hands, feeling some pleasure at the number of items crossed off. I've bought a breast pump, stocked up on diapers, wipes and onesies, sent off my thank you notes for the wedding presents and put the Dominion schedule in Pauline's hands. She's gracious but firm with me about calling—I'm not allowed to, apparently. For the moment I'm happy with that arrangement, since my second in charge has always been more than capable of running things smoothly. She's aware that I'm preoccupied, and I appreciate that Pauline understands my mental state right now in a way Jim never will. A woman to woman thing; a mother to mother thing.

And then there is Jim. A better man I couldn't have for this, really. He took the Lamaze course with me and never flinched, not even during the graphic birth video, which I didn't remember being quite so . . . graphic, myself. We both felt self-conscious about our ages compared with the other couples there, but our instructor took it in stride and commended us for being there, which helped. And Jim's coaching was very soothing. I love his voice, I love his gentle demeanor. I love him.

With a sigh I look at the list again. Jim has crossed off 'vacuum the living room' since he doesn't think I should do that, but I'm feeling a low-key restlessness that Doctor Phair tells me is nesting syndrome. I ease my way up out of my padded kitchen chair and rub my aching lower back for a moment, looking around. I love my kitchen. Lately I've been feeling a lot of love for everything. This house, my marriage, my new vacuum cleaner—

Nesting is one of the few aspects of all this I enjoy. I open the kitchen pantry and pull out my lovely Dyson, grateful once more to Detective Vartan and his lady friend for it, and push it out towards the living room. After plugging it in, I proceed, feeling both amused and efficient, dragging it over the carpeting, wondering if I look like June Cleaver now instead of a Dark Mistress of the Night. The Dominion has always had a top rated cleaning service, and while Dolores and her sister still stop in once a week and do a lovely job with the upkeep of this place, I like running my own household too, and a simple little chore like this is enough to keep me happy for the moment.

I glide the wand around the coffee table humming a little, and then I feel it.

Uh oh. A slow flowing gush down the inside of my thighs, drenching my underwear and leggings, leaving me mortified and panicked for a few seconds. I've wet myself? Oh LORD—I know my bladder control has been strained by this pregnancy, but—

Then it dawns on me that it can't possibly be my bladder. I grimace a little, and drop the wand, waddle to the downstairs bathroom and check. Not urine, and not stopping either, the clear flow pretty imperative at this point. I fish for a few pads from the cabinet under the sink and grin at my reflection in the mirror, feeling my adrenaline surge even as I catch my breath.

Jim. Must call Jim. Nothing's wrong, it's just our timetable's been bumped up a bit. I find my cell phone even as I eye the stairs wearily, knowing I am NOT going to the hospital with wet leggings and wondering if can I get up there and back without Jim having a fit about it—

I hit the button and hold my breath. After two rings I hear my darling.

"Hey hon—" he sounds pre-occupied. Good. I slowly begin to climb the stairs.

"Darling. I think you need to come home now," I blurt. I can hear his chair scrape and the fumbling sounds of paper.

"Heather?" his tone is sharp, his worry clear. I know I must be grinning foolishly but I keep my voice calm.

"My water broke a few minutes ago, and it's probably a good idea to go to the hospital, don't you think?"

"Jesus, I'll be right there—" he growls. I manage a few more stairs and chide him.

"Please, Jim--calm down—I'm not feeling any labor pains, and my sugar levels are fine. This isn't an emergency by any means."

"Yeah right—listen, have you called Phair yet?"

"She's next on my list," I tell him honestly. I've reached the landing; only six more stairs to go. Jim gives a big gusty sigh into the phone.

"Wow, okay, I'm on my way, Heather I love you, don't DO anything."

"I won't have the baby without you, darling," I tease, knowing full well that labor takes hours. He's reluctant to hang up, but I assure Jim he'll drive more safely if he does and firmly disconnect us. The next call is to Doctor Phair's office and I'm finally at the top of the stairs, hurray.

"Well, sounds like our little one is a bit anxious to make an appearance! Fair enough—her birthweight's more than good and if you've ruptured bag of waters then you and Jim need to come to Admitting and we'll take care of you," she tells me in her calm, practical voice. My tension goes down a few notches just hearing her. Once I've hung up I go to the bedroom, change my leggings and stop to put on fresh lipstick.

After all, it's a big occasion.

Slowly, carefully I make it down the stairs, gripping the rail tightly. I can see my suitcase by the front door, along with Jim's bag and the little green pillow in it. I make it down just as the front door opens and the man himself lurches in, dark blue eyes locking on me.

"Baby?" he gasps, which tells me he's probably run up the front walkway.

"Sweetie," I respond back, grinning at him.

JIM

After that phone call I'm about three seconds off a heart attack—my pulse is thudding in my ears, my breathing is hard, and all I can think is how to get home NOW. But I force myself to be calm; to keep my cool. Swiftly I hit the speed dial and within a few rings hear Zoë's voice on the other end.

"Jim? Is it--?"

"Yep. On my way home to take her in," I rumble back, hardly believing the words even as I say them. I hear Zoë laughing on the other end.

"Then I'm outta here. Be there as soon as I can, love you guys!" she chirps and hangs up on me. I blink, but I should be accustomed to her speed—Zoë's a lot like Heather in that regard—once her mind's made up, she's onto the action phase, no waiting.

Action, oh boy. I make my call to the watch captain, who congratulates me and sends me on my merry way. Within minutes I'm out on the highway heading home, feeling such a surge of anticipation that I'm sure I must be over the speed limit for most of it. Quickly I run over the drill in my head, trying to keep in mind what Betsy told us, but it's jumbling, blurring in my thoughts and all I can feel is the increased need to be home NOW.

I park, run up the walkway and just as I get the door open I see Heather clinging to the stair rail and grinning at me.

"Baby?" I blurt. She looks fine, great, not at all stressed.

"Sweetie," she dimples back and instantly I feel a hell of a lot better. Then she giggles, and I take a moment to catch my breath. No fool like an old fool, but hey—it's been a while since I did the anxious father bit. I slip an arm around her and she clings to me, smelling of perfume and warm skin.

"I'm a little excited," she tells me. I arch my eyebrows at her.

"YOU'RE excited?"

I get her into the car; the seat belt is a problem but Heather manages to wriggle it so she can click the thing closed. I load up the suitcase and bag, then climb in and we're off.

Both of us are nervous, so we're not talking. My knuckles on the wheel are going white, and then gently Heather reaches over and lays her cool hand on my wrist, giving it a tiny squeeze. She's good at that sort of nonverbal thing.

Really good. The first time we even fell asleep together Heather wrapped herself around me and laid her head on my chest; it was just what I wanted, what I needed. It still is most nights because that warm weight keeps me from giving in to the doubts and despair that still rise up in me. When I feel Heather's cheek on my chest, I know she's home and safe, and that my heart is still beating.

God I love this woman.

For a moment I smile, feeling her fingers relax on my wrist.

"Did you call Zoë?"

"Sure did—she's probably on her way now," I reply, seeing Heather wince a bit. I sigh. "It's just the start of the new semester—at most she'll miss a few days, nothing she can't make up."

"Yes, but still—oh well—" Heather sighs, trying to get comfortable in the passenger seat.

We pull up to the doors of Obstetrics Admission, and there's already a nurse waiting there with a wheelchair thank God. Heather shifts herself into it, looking like a queen settling on a throne while I go park. It takes a while to find a space and when I finally carry the bag into the hospital, I don't see Heather anywhere and my anxiety level goes up. I look at the woman behind the Admissions desk.

The severe old lady is on the phone, and about three other lights on it are blinking, but I give her my best patient smile. "Excuse me, but—"

I get the finger. Not THAT finger, but the index 'I'll be with you in a minute' finger. I sigh and look up and down the hallway, along the waiting area. No Heather. This is NOT doing my stomach any good, and I'm about to flip out my badge when the woman beckons me over. She covers the receiver of her phone and says, "Excuse me--you must be Captain Brass, right?"

"Yes ma'am, that's me."

"Oh good—all four of these calls are for YOU, apparently. A Mr. Grissom, a Ms Willows, a Mr. Stokes and a Ms. Sidle are all inquiring about your wife and since she's just been admitted, I have nothing to tell them," she sighs.

I grin—once again the lab grapevine surges forth, and I lean over the desk, taking the receiver from the woman.

"Brass here—"

"Jim," comes Grissom's voice, a little uncomfortable even to my ear. I chuckle a little.

"Nothing to report, Gil. We just got here. Listen, I'll make you the spokesperson and fill you in as soon as things happen, okay? That will save a lot of duplicate calling."

"Good enough. I hope everything goes well."

"Me too, pal—and thanks."

HEATHER

I'd forgotten this part of childbirth. The boring part. At the moment, I'm in my nightgown (one of the conservative ones) sitting up in bed, flicking restlessly through the channels as I wait for something to happen. Jim has gone to get a sandwich, since it's past noon now, and I'm lying here trying to sense if I feel any contractions.

Nothing. A few minor Braxton-Hicks here and there. And the monitor for the baby's heartbeat is going at a steady pace, as is the one for my heart. I have a glucose drip set up, but Doctor Phair is holding off on adding a bag just yet, I've had my blood taken, and we're all just waiting to see if Baby Brass is going to make her move.

So far, I think she's asleep. I've gone to the bathroom twice now (which is quite a feat when you're nine months along and have to drag an IV pole along with you) and my lower back is still aching, but other than that I feel fine. NOT in labor.

It's also not helping that someone in the next room is in very painful labor, by the amount of screaming going on. The nurses have assured me the poor girl is fine, but it's very disconcerting to hear periodic yelling.

As I look up at the screen, I'm suddenly glad I usually sleep through the daytime hours. This amazing vapid display of reruns and insipid talk shows is not particularly interesting or inspiring. In desperation I fish for my purse. When I find it, Jim returns, carrying a plate and looking at me inquiringly.

"Filling out birth announcements early?" he asks. I shake my head and fish in the bottom for—

--A deck of cards. They're from the Atlantis casino, and have little mermaids on the back. Jim looks at them and then at me. I arch an eyebrow at him.

"Name your game—"

"Oh no—my mother told me that whenever a woman says that, I'm going to be taken to the cleaners. Living in Vegas I can tell you it's true, too," he protests gently. I shuffle them and give a sigh.

"Oh well, if you're too timid to play, I suppose I can always take up solitaire." I sigh, and flutter my lashes at him. Jim shoots me back that cool, confident look that makes me shiver.

"There are no timid Brasses. Deal, lady."

JIM

Two fifteen PM

I'm still excited, even though it's been four hours now. I mean, here we are, set to go, ready for delivery, and the Tadpole is NOT cooperating. The nurses are pretty patient, but between the waiting and the screaming from two oh six, I'm a little on edge.

I've updated Grissom with the no news report, made sure Heather's gotten some frozen fruit juice to keep her blood sugar stable, checked on Zoë's flight (which is due in around seven), and paced the halls so much I've probably taken an inch off my soles.

Then we get the call—Phair's in surgery with an emergency caesarian and suggests inducing labor. Ohhhh. Well the nurse for our room, Sylvia, relays our options and the first two have me on the verge of laughing out loud.

Option one: have sex. I'm not kidding--apparently there are proglandins released in semen that can get labor started, and by coating the uterus--never mind. Heather does not look In The Mood by any means, not with two oh six yelling every few minutes. Can't say that's going to help MY concentration either.

Option two: nipple stimulation. The is the point at which I am seriously going to start snickering, since it's certainly one of my favorite hobbies anyway, and who knows, option two just might end up leading to option one. It usually does. Heather looks at the nurse suspiciously, as if she thinks this is something the woman's made up just to keep up occupied, but Sylvia reassures her that stimulation will lead to uterine contractions which in turn will lead to labor . . .

"--Or, the most efficient thing would be to start you on an IV of Pitocin," Sylvia finishes.

Damn. And I was seriously rooting for option two.

So Heather is hooked now to an IV and they gently start pumping Pitocin into her system. She looks relieved that SOMETHING'S being done, finally, and gives me a big smile.

"We'll save option two for later--" she murmurs sweetly, reading my mind. I nuzzle her ear, thinking I have to be the most terrible male on the face of the planet for wanting to jump a pregnant woman in a hospital bed.

HEATHER

Four twenty seven PM

I'm getting uncomfortable now. The slow but steady increase in my back pain is not fun, and I'm too restless to concentrate on cards or TV. I'm dilated now to six centimeters and have been for nearly an hour. Jim is amazingly patient, but I can't settle down. When he's not close, I want him near, and when he's hovering I want him to back off.

Poor man. Not only does he not quite know what to do, he also owes me about six thousand dollars from our gin rummy tournament—he should have listened to his mother. I sigh, and began to climb out of bed again, stepping into my slippers and gripping my IV pole like a staff. Jim rises, managing a little smile. He looks sleepy and rumpled. In a word—adorable.

"Another jaunt around the halls?"

"I think so, yes." I take his hand and press it to my belly, where Tadpole is squirming happily. I guess she feels the Pitocin too. Jim leans down and rubs gently.

"So—anytime from now on is good for us—" he tells her in his light, serious voice. I get the giggles watching him address the bump with a straight face. "Mom and I love you kid, but a little hustle wouldn't be a bad idea, you know."

I snort out loud as baby gives one little defiant kick to those words. Jim feels it against his palm and chuckles. "THAT was the Magyar in her."

"Absolutely," I groan, and begin the slow trek down the hall.

JIM

Seven twenty PM

Ten hours--this is worse than being on stakeout. It's driving me crazy. Not the waiting, because things are happening, finally. Not the breathing patterns, which are kinda soothing even to me. Not the fact that Doctor Phair hasn't even popped IN yet, which is just annoying. No, it's seeing Heather, MY Heather all scrunched up in pain, puffing and gasping and trying her damnedest not to cry.

Why did I put her through this? The Demerol is barely helping, and I feel like the biggest bastard in the world, knowing full well this is my entire fault.

Me and my damned--

And then, pulling me out of my brooding thoughts, Heather grunts my name and clutches my hands hard enough to grind the bones together. I hide my wince—love this woman, but she does have a killer grip at times.

"I . . .looooooooove . . . you, Jim!" she manages to chuff out. "And right now I HAVE to . . . puuuuuushhhh!"

Oh boy. I dash to the hall, wave to Sylvia and dash back. Heather has her knees up and a comically grim look on her face I know very well.

Now or never.

The nurse shoots me a calm gaze after checking Heather's dilation.

"Well, we're about ready to go! Two oh eight is a breech birth and the other doctors are busy, so it looks like it's you and me, Mr. Brass. Here, get some gloves on and give me a hand. Heather, on the next one, push, honey--a good strong one, okay?"

Oh God, the next three minutes are incredible. Sylvia is pressing Heather's thighs open while I cup my hands under them and I can see the rounded bulge, a hard groan from Heather, a squelch and all of a sudden there's this new . . . PERSON all red and outraged and slick in my hands. Sylvia is chuckling, rubbing Heather's belly with one hand and mopping up with the other.

"B-baby?" comes Heather's weak voice, still panting.

"Oh yeah--nice and big-- an eight pounder at least! You did real good." Sylvia assures her. This is backed up by a thin indignant crying from the little thing in my hands. "Let's just check her blood sugar—"

"Jim?" Heather calls, looking at me.

I can't answer; I'm just too choked up looking down at a furious little face, chubby shoulders, and wide open blue eyes. Sylvia scoops the baby up and carries it over to the warmer, humming softly as two other nurses are working with the lower half of my wife. She looks at peace, finally, and grins up at me from her damp pillow. I kiss Heather's wet forehead, then her mouth.

Tender.

Three steps over to the warmer and I look. "Hey Sweetheart."

The little head turns towards me. Towards me! I can't believe it; my baby already knows my voice. Sylvia finishes wrapping up her little body and hands her to me as Heather is making impatient noises behind me. Carefully, I carry the Tadpole to mama, grinning like the complete idiot I now realize I am.

"Here she is," I manage in a husky voice I don't even recognize. Heather lets me continue to hold her, and merely reaches a finger to stroke our baby's cheek. The crying has abated a little bit, but not completely.

Heather is crying too, and I've never seen anything so beautiful as the look she's giving this bundle in my hands.

"Hello Daisy," she whispers, and I think my heart is going to burst with the overflow of everything good within me as she reaches for our daughter.

I am a father.

HEATHER

The flowers are perfect. The big bouquet of daisies sits on my night table amid the Kleenex and cups of water. I look at my two daughters and smile.

"God Mom, she's so perfect and tiny!" Zoë sighs for the third time, cupping Daisy close to her chest in such an easy natural gesture that I know she'll make a good mother herself when the time comes.

A LONG time from now of course.

"Well, she has amazing genetics you know. Good Marazek lineage mixed with good Brass—definitely a winning combination."

"She's got Jim's nose, that's for sure—" Zoë laughs, rubbing the little pink button on her sister's face. Early on Zoë told us Daisy was her sister, complete and whole—no half nonsense. Jim choked up but I went ahead and cried for both of us.

"She's also getting fussy—" I point out, and hold out my arms patiently. Zoë gives her up with reluctance, and settles in on the foot of my bed, watching the two of us as I gently set Daisy against my chest. The little girl soothes right now, blinking sleepily.

She's had a full day, with so many visitors—nearly all Jim's coworkers stopped in, from shy Grissom to delighted Nick, all of them happy to pay court to little Miss Brass. The moment I smile about most is the memory of Sara playing with my daughter's little toes, and Grissom timidly touching the other foot at the same time.

A little pink-gummed yawn, and I echo it, feeling accomplished and happy—

It is so good to be a mother.