It takes twenty-six hours before the baby is ready to be born. Twenty-six hours of walking up and down the hospital halls because she's not allowed to lie down for long periods of time for fear she gets another clot. Twenty-six hours of ice chips. Twenty-six hours of pain and sweat and fluid dribbling down her legs.
Twenty-six hours straight of Adrian. Of him holding her hands or his arm around her waist as she paces the hall. Of braiding and rebraiding her hair so it doesn't stick to her face and neck.
He's always there. When she's in bed, he's next to her, wiping sweat from her forehead and fluffing her pillows. He reminds her to breathe through her contractions, lets her dig her nails into his skin while she does.
"Good job," he says whenever she's done. "You're doing wonderfully, Meg. You're amazing." He'll kiss her forehead and adjust the bedclothes or help her straighten up if she's walking. "You can do this, Meg. I love you."
If Meg had any strength to divert, she'd punch him in his perfect nose.
Twenty-six hours.
And then, when she's at her most exhausted and worn out, near tears and half-insane from the pain, the doctor says, "Okay, Meg, it's time. On the next contraction, you're going to push."
She's in bed, the back raised so she can sit up, her legs in stirrups. Her head's been lolling on the bed since the last contraction, heavy and swimming with the need to sleep. She must have misunderstood what he said. "What?"
From his position between her legs, the doctor gives a patient smile. "It's time to start pushing, Meg. She's ready to come out. It's time."
Adrian kisses her.
She pushes him away, eyes on the doctor. Another contraction is coming, but… "I can't. I'm tired, I need… I need to sleep first. I can't." Her voice breaks.
"Of course you can, Meg." Adrian takes her face between his hands and looks at her. "You're a warrior. You were made for this. It's time, and you're going to push our daughter out into the world."
There are those words again. Our daughter.
She shakes her head.
The contraction hits.
"Push, Meg," the doctor says.
"I can't," Meg sobs.
Adrian drops his hands from her face and takes her hands. Grips them. "Yes, you can. You can do anything."
She's on fire. Her body starts to push without her trying, pain knifing through her lower regions. She feels something moving inside her, which terrifies her. Meg tenses.
The contraction releases.
"Good job, Meg," the doctor says. "But you're going to have to push harder this time." He pats her leg.
Meg flops back against the bed, body shaking as she weeps. "I can't. I can't do this. Please, don't make me do this. I can't."
"Don't worry, Dad," a nurse says over Meg's head as she wipes Meg's tears away. "This is common. Giving birth isn't easy." She looks at Meg with a warm smile. "You can do this, Mom. You're going to push this baby girl out."
She shakes her head and then moans as the next contraction hits. Adrian helps her sit back up and she squeezes his hands as she pushes. Forces herself to push harder, face screwing up.
Over and over it happens. Meg loses track of how many times. She keeps pushing. Nothing happens. No baby, no matter how much they promise.
Finally, she slumps back on the bed, wrung out. Her ears ring and head swims. She shakes it, closing her eyes.
The room mutes around her, seeming very far away. Meg feels like she's underwater, like she's in a twilight haze. She's cold, suddenly, and can feel the sweat drying on her skin. There are people talking, but she can't understand them and doesn't care to try.
"Meg."
Adrian's voice breaks through the water, pulling her back up to the surface.
She opens her eyes to find that he's very close to her, leaning over so his mouth is inches from her ear.
He waits until she's looking at him, meeting his eyes. "She's nearly out. But she's having trouble because your birth canal is small. The doctor doesn't want to have to do a Cesarean section, but if you can't push her out, he'll have to."
The tears well up again. "No."
"No. So." He moves closer and whispers in her ear. "Think of me when you push. Think of what I did. You take all that rage and anger and hatred you feel towards me, Meg. And you use it to push the baby out. Do you understand me?" He looks at her again.
Meg swallows. Her dry throat clicks. She nods.
Adrian smiles and stands. Takes her hands and helps her sit back up.
Meg takes a few deep, slow breaths. Closes her eyes and taps into the part of her that she's been ignoring for the past few weeks, the box where she's put her emotions away so she can survive.
The contraction hits.
Meg pushes.
It's different this time. It still hurts, she's still exhausted, she's still crying. But now the white-hot flames of rage push her on. In her mind, she sees the city of Manhattan as it looked when she'd returned after the blast. The shadows of bodies on the walls, the dust on the ground that used to be people. The ruined buildings. The babies who'd died in their cribs, waiting for parents who'd never come home.
She remembers her honeymoon, where she and Adrian had visited all the blast sites. Hopeful faces looking up at her, eyes big and yearning, asking for her and Adrian to make it better. Never knowing that they were suffering because of the man at her side. And that he'd made her part of his lie.
"Push!" she hears Adrian order.
She squeezes his hand, a scream building in her throat.
Rorschach appears in her mind's eyes. Rorschach looking as he did the last time she saw him, stripped of his face, stripped of everything, but still so defiant. So proud.
His last words to her had been him trying to protect her. Everything he had ever done, after she'd convinced him to walk her out of that alleyway the night they'd met, had been to protect her.
Rorschach loved me.
The realization makes her giddy. Her head spins and her limbs suddenly feel as if they're filled with bubbles.
She can't give up now.
So, Meg takes a deep breath. Tightens her grip on Adrian's hands and bears down with all her might.
The pain hits her like a blow. There's a strange, overwhelming sensation that she thinks is the baby sliding out of her. The world starts to dim. She sags against Adrian, panting.
A tiny wail fills the air.
"Here she is!" the doctor announces.
Adrian gasps and makes a sound half laugh, half sob. "Meg. Meg, look!" He slips his arm around her and holds her up.
Meg opens her eyes.
The doctor is holding a tiny infant covered in blood and mucus. Her fists are clenched, and she's crying, her face scrunched.
"Can we hold her?" Adrian asks.
"In a moment." The doctor hands the baby off to a nurse, then turns back to Meg.
Adrian turns to Meg as well. His eyes are bright with a film of tears and his smile wobbles. "She's beautiful. Meg, she's… You were so amazing." He cups her face and kisses her deeply.
Meg is too tired to do anything but kiss him back. She's vaguely aware that she should be feeling something in this moment. Overwhelming love for the baby. Affection for Adrian, the father. Relief at having accomplished the birth. Joy.
But she doesn't feel anything. All she wants is to sleep. To close her eyes and submit to the warm, drowsy waves that are lapping at her senses.
"Here she is!" A nurse comes over with a pink bundle.
Adrian moves, half sitting on the bed next to Meg as the nurse places the bundle in Meg's arms.
"She's small," is all Meg can think to say.
"She's five pounds, six ounces," the nurse says. "Small, but healthy."
"Takes after her mother, then." Adrian kisses Meg's temple, then reaches out and runs his knuckle over the baby's cheek. "She looks like you."
Meg doesn't think she looks much like anyone. She looks like every infant Meg has ever seen, but she doesn't think this is the place to say it, so she just hums in response.
"Look at her nose! And her cheeks. My God, she's stunning. Meg." His grip on her tightens. She can feel tears on his face as he presses his cheek against hers.
"Do you have a name?" the nurse asks.
Meg shakes her head. Before, when she'd been on the run, she and Billy had played around with names. Billy always suggested the names of his best friends in school. Meg pulled names from thin air, names she liked the sound of. But she had never decided on anything.
"We need to discuss it," Adrian says. He's still running his finger around the baby's face.
The baby begins to calm. She leans into the caress and yawns. Opens her eyes and looks up at Meg. Seems to go still.
Meg stares down into her baby's eyes. The baby looks at her, blinking. It almost feels like she's studying Meg, but the baby's much too young for something like that. She's just looking.
Meg waits to feel a rush of love. Of affection and wonder and joy at this bundle in her arms. She should feel happy and joyous.
She should feel something.
But she doesn't. There's a yawing pit of nothing inside her. She doesn't love this baby. Doesn't care about it. Doesn't feel anything towards her.
Meg is empty.
"May I hold her?" Adrian asks.
"Yes." She looks up. Forces a smile. "Of course."
Adrian's smile is bright and happy—genuine, and Meg doesn't think she's ever seen him look like this before. Carefully, he takes the baby from Meg's arms and cradles her against his chest. His expression is one of adoration, soft and vulnerable, as he stares down at the baby's face. "I don't think I've ever seen anything so perfect in my life. Have you?"
"No," Meg agrees. She lays her head back and yawns. Exhaustion is tugging at her again, and she can feel herself starting to slide under the warm waves of unconsciousness.
"We're going to be so happy. I'm going to give you the world, little one. You and your big brother. You will live in a perfect world with no fear. I promise you." He kisses the baby's forehead and holds her close.
No fear. Wouldn't that be nice? Meg thinks as she finally slips into a deep sleep
