A/N: Hey Guys, since this is kinda a seminal chapter (gross pun intended) I decided to update quickly. Also it's been finished for like a month. Also it's definitely my favorite chapter. Also I won't be able to update probably for a week due to the final crash and burn of the last bit of classes (my University has this lame ass rule where they can't make anything due in the last two weeks of class, so all the Profs have the same great idea to make everything due that LAST week before).
I digress, I should also state that I have never been pregnant, nor born a child. However due to the poor literacy rate and lack of viable passtimes in my hometown, I am Aunt Shiggity to 5 kids through friends. I also went through a stint of wanting to be an ER or OB nurse, so there is where my "wealth" of "knowledge" comes from.
Thanks to everyone who took the time to review/favorite/alert and of course, read. I'm sure you've all been waiting for this chapter and if you haven't been paying attention to the slowly increasing in length rambles at the beginning of the chapter (I can't say I blame you) you're probably worried the story is going to end soon. You still have 5 more chapters. Enjoy.
Illegitimate
Chapter 9
Premature Scorpio
He sits beside her for two hours, unable to do anything. Jules is too far along in her labor for them to give her an epidural and since her water broke, the baby needs to be delivered. He tries to distract her, distract himself. Acts like the last few weeks, months, fuck his whole life, hasn't been building up to meeting this baby. Distracts himself from praying the baby is fine even though it's about five weeks early. Distracts himself from hoping the baby doesn't look exactly like stupid Steve, the monkey wrench in his life's combustion engine.
Honestly, he assumed Jules would want to be alone, would want to remain unbothered and untouched during the labor pains which evolved from two and a half minutes to one minute to no minutes. But he's wrong. She grips his hand while her face contorts, her breath a silent whistle from dry, wrinkling lips. So he reminds her of the birthing classes they started to take, would continue to take had the birth not interrupted them. Does the breathing patterns with her and she laughs partway through. "You look ridiculous."
Brings her ice chips and explains they're gourmet, flown in fresh from the French region of the Alps. Rubs her back when, where, and how hard she tells him too. Massages her arms and her left thigh, which starts to go numb from her lying in the same position. So he helps her turn onto her side, which only intensifies the contractions. So he helps her turn back and just keeps his fingers prodding into her skin like dough.
Finally she gets to the point where there is no leeway time. No time to rest, or talk, or breathe. Her hand clamps down on his bicep while his fingers work her overwrought muscle. It tightens underneath his tips like a wet, wrung towel being stretched from both ends.
"I have to push."
"Are you sure?" His voice is low and calm. He doesn't want to undermine her decision because he can't even comprehend what she must be feeling right now. The pain and the innate fear. If anyone knows what she should be doing it's her, but the nurses implicitly warned her against pushing before she had too.
She's already thrashing her way up on the bed, maybe to relieve the pain in her back and thigh. Maybe to add pressure. "I need to push, Sam."
"Okay." He nods once. Then twice. "Okay." Another few nods. One hand wrapping around hers, the other holding the bed rail for dear life because this is really happening. "I should go get—" A doctor. A nurse. Steve. Anyone else. "Someone."
"Don't leave." Her arm yanks him down in place as her body lurches forward in the first push. Air compressing in her chest and nose. Finally she sighs and her body relaxes for a second.
Her hand is slack in his, though a few seconds ago he was almost certain she could have ripped his arm clear from his body and thrown it out the window before he knew what was happening. "Jules." He places a kiss on her knuckles, does it quickly before the next contraction tears through her and she punches him in the face. "Unless you want me to deliver this baby, I need to go get someone. I mean, don't mind, but I'm kind of rusty. I haven't taken the emergency course since—"
"Just go."
He leans out of the door and finds a gaggle of nurses loitering around the station located at the center of the floor. Chatting, laughing, joking, and drinking coffee. None of them have even checked on Jules for the last hour. "Sorry to interrupt," he shouts, one foot still in the threshold as he hears Jules groan behind him. "But my girlfriend is kind of having a baby in here."
"Dear, everyone's having a baby on this floor." A middle-aged, nurse responds to him and the rest of them resolve into deep chuckles.
"Yeah, well mine's premature and she's pushing."
The nurse who checked them in reluctantly detaches from the heard, adjusting the stethoscope around her neck, eyes full of attitude while walking by him and into the room. She rolls a stool to the end of the bed, expertly perching on the top while it still coasts. "How far apart are the contractions?"
"Less than a minute," Jules gasps while inhaling deeply and then pushing hard with a guttural noise. Her hands fuse with the bed sheets. He places a hand on her back where a fevered sweat has drenched through her gown pasting the hair which escaped from her bun to the back of her neck in expressionistic swirls.
"You shouldn't be—" the nurse lifts the sheet to check and rolls back. "You're crowning. You need to push." In an Olympian lope she's at the door and yelling, "We need a doctor now."
It happens really fast, Jules silently panicking because, well the nurse is panicking. Him running a hand over her soaked neck and telling her it will be fine. He's here, he isn't leaving. That she needs to push for the baby. By the time the doctor actually gets to the room, the head is out. It has hair. A lot of hair. Dark hair. In another two pushes the first shoulder comes out, then the other, then the rest of its body sort of topples out with a gush.
The doctor places the baby on Jules' chest, all sprawled out and crying for dear life. Tiny little hands balled into fists. Tiny feet with curled toes. Scrunched up face not viewing anything, eyes aching slits, nose punched in, mouth gaping and screaming. Hair plastered down with unidentified fluids. The baby looks like it was just thrown there. Dropped from the sky. Jules holds it to her, her hand covering its entire back. She sobs and runs a hand through the substances on its head. Kisses it while crying. Tells it things in breathless whispers.
And he's terrified because he doesn't feel a thing. Not a fucking thing. It's not love at first sight. Sure it's a baby, Jules' baby, and he's glad it's born and safe and generally healthy enough for them to leave it with her for a few minutes. But he thought he'd feel this everlasting connection with it after the months spent communicating through the monastic language of rubs and thumps. Thought the attachment would be instantaneous like what he felt the first time he saw Jules. But he doesn't feel anything. Jules was right.
She glances towards him and he laughs in disbelief for her. He leans forward and kisses her, placing a hand on the wailing newborn's back. Still doesn't feel a thing for it as lungs expand and compress underneath his palm. Cuts the cord with some inner apprehension. Ironically, the cut actually seals his fate in the family. But he made his choice, and he loves Jules too much to disappoint her. Maybe he'll eventually grow to love the baby. Maybe things like this, maybe they don't happen instantly. Maybe they take time.
When the baby is finally swaddled they instruct Jules to feed it. She lowers the cloaked newborn and shrugs a bit out of her gown. Once the baby is positioned it immediately takes to her breast. It was something she freaked out about a few days ago. Read a whole book basically on the do and don'ts of nursing. He told her not to worry about it. At least he was right about something.
"I should go get the stuff from home." He stands from a rocking chair in the corner, probably meant for her to breastfeed in, and tries not to wipe his hands on his pants. Doesn't want the gesture to stand for the whole situation.
"You're leaving?"
"We didn't bring anything Jules." His tone is a little harsh, a little on edge and he mentally reprimands himself. Dials down the volume and emotion. "You don't have any clothes. We don't have a car seat or a bassinet since the team can't take subtle hints like 'Jules needs a bassinet'."
"Yeah, that stuff's important. But we have a baby, Sam. Who is healthy." She nuzzles the head nestled at her breast. "A little underweight but completely healthy. Don't you want to—"
"The sooner I do it, the sooner it's done."
"Okay." Bouncing the baby once it coos and unlatches from her breast. With a single hand she fixes her gown. "Just try not to take too long."
"I won't."
"Could you maybe phone Sarge?" She adjusts the baby against her shoulder, stroking a hand up and down its back. Fingers lightly playing with the tuft of dark brown hair now dry. The baby still hasn't opened its eyes. "Tell him to spread the news."
"Sure."
At home he packs up clothes for her. Pajamas, loose tops, sweat pants, nursing bras. They don't have any clothing for the baby. Didn't know what it was going to be. Never got back the gifts from the baby shower which ended up going into the evidence lockup limbo. Brings his laptop so they can pick out a bassinet and a car seat for him to go buy. He doesn't want to be accountable for that decision. It's the same reason he's not running out to get clothing for the newborn.
He rests a few minutes on the side of the bed where less than ten hours earlier they were peacefully asleep. Where he was not only content with his life but elated with it. Where he couldn't wait to meet the little person who made Jules go to the bathroom every hour. Who made her eat more roughage than the pachyderm exhibit at the Toronto Zoo. Who actually got her off those goddamn smoothies. Who person who finally made her leave Team One. Now he doesn't want to go back to the hospital. Now he wants to grabs his stuff and drive to the airport, but he won't because she's right, he's not like that.
He calls Sarge. Lets him know Jules had the baby early. It's healthy, just a little bit underweight so they might have to stay in the hospital for an extra day or two. Their boss holds all the emotions he's void of. He's never been present for an SRU birth before, doesn't know if this is the normal reaction but he thinks it's a little special because it's Jules' baby.
"What's the name? Is it a boy or a girl?" Sarge laughs, almost cries into the phone. In the background Ed is yelling something about the date and who had it in the pool. Then there's general outrage because none of them thought to pick this premature of a due date.
"She didn't name it yet. At least not when I left."
"It? Sam, what do you mean when you left?" The joviality drains from Sarge's voice, replaced with the stern vocal bumps he's only heard when his boss has a hard time controlling his temper.
There's a long pause where only unregistered phone static exchanges between them. He's not trying to be rude, or prove a point, or plan his next move. His brain, fried on no sleep, a futile existence and warped emotions, is trying to piece together whether she had a boy or a girl. Then he remembers the color of the little cap on its head.
"Jules had a girl." Thumb and forefinger pinch the bridge of his nose at the intense pressure pooling there. Didn't name her because they only had a name for a boy. They, along with the majority of the SRU, thought she was having a boy.
"Sam."
"She'd probably like it if you stopped by later."
There's a pause and he waits to see if Sarge will accept his inability to talk about the baby. He's offering the possibility of a discussion later at the hospital. "Yeah, I'll stop by after the shift. Does she need anything?"
He doesn't know if Sarge is talking about Jules or the baby. "She has nothing for the baby. I mean nothing. Clothes. Diapers. A crib. A car seat. Pacifiers. Blankets. Anything you want to bring I'm sure she'd appreciate."
The conversation ends abruptly and he knows a nastier, longer continuation is going to occur in a side room at the hospital. With Sarge crossing his arms, standing close to him and keeping his voice a threatening whisper. Discussing how he has responsibilities now even though they're not his responsibilities since on Valentine's Day he didn't sleep with Jules.
When he returns with her overnight bag she's asleep in the bed and the baby is nowhere to be found. He doesn't gripe about it. Sets her things down on a sideboard and quells the urge to scroll up how much a ticket out West would be by exiting the room and sitting in an empty chair beside the doorway. He places his head in his hands and tries to comprehend the way he's feeling. There must be a logical explanation for it. He doesn't remember reading about the need to flee with a mixture of crushing guilt being a side effect of birth for the father. The stand in space holding father.
Maybe fifteen minutes pass with him drowning in self-pity when the inept nurse from the delivery arrives with the baby tucked snuggly in her arm. Little pink cap sticking out from a layer of elbow flab.
"She's asleep." He mumbles as the nurse tries to enter the room, juggling the baby in one arm. A technique, though it looks practiced, makes him a little uneasy.
"Oh." The nurse peeks through the crack in the door and gently closes it, lips pursing together in puzzlement. Then she turns to him, gesturing to the baby. "Baby Girl Callaghan, right?"
"Yeah?" Nodding slowly, not sure if she wants him to confirm this or not. He can't tell the newborns apart. That's her job.
"Great. Here." And she reaches down to deposit the newborn into his arms.
"Wait. What?" He jumps. The chair rocks backwards on its legs then topples forwards when his weight disappears.
"You're the father, right?"
He pauses, doesn't really know how to answer that question. Actually he does. He's not a father. Not in any definition of the term. Not even in the broadest sense. He's not related to the baby; because of this he cannot provide even its basic needs. Food. Shelter. Comfort. Love. "I can't feed her."
"She doesn't need to be fed." The nurse huffs, loose hand on her hip. Only one thick arm supporting the baby. "She just needs some attention."
Examining the precarious position of the baby as it begins to stir in the nurse's arm he decides holding it would be the lesser of two evils. Trusts himself more than he trusts the nurse who would have let Jules deliver her daughter alone if he wasn't present. "Yeah. Fine."
So he sits holding a very tiny, very wiggly little person. And he still feels nothing. He sighs, rests the baby in the crook of his arm and attempts to fall back into the despairs of his mind. But the baby grimaces, lower lip trembles and a whimper escapes her.
"Hey, hey, hey."
He rests her against his forearms so she's facing him. Red blotches cover her face like cowhide and her skin looks wet from spit and mucus. Her cries grow in volume and in the empty hallway they're only amplified. He doesn't want her to wake Jules. Doesn't want Jules to think he wasn't trying. Doesn't want Jules to know he doesn't care.
When he wipes at her chin and nose with the soft blanket she's swaddled in, one of her arms pop free of the confines and swipes spitefully through the air.
"Of course."
She full out cries. Closed eyes disappearing into refolds of skin. The tears rolling down her cheeks connecting with liquid oozing out of her nose and her toothless mouth.
"Okay. You know what?"
He bends at the waist so his face is inches from the baby's. Voice a harsh whisper.
"This hasn't exactly been easy for me either."
Her body squirms on his arms. Feet dully kick within the confines of the blanket. One fist still mechanically ticks up and down in the air.
"I thought this would be different. I thought me and your mom would be married. I thought you would be mine."
He transfers her small weight solely to his right arm, while his left hand fumbles with her arm. Trying to get it back within the blanket. Trying to keep her warm.
"I thought I would love you."
Right at the end of his sentence, as if she can already understand him, her little hand squeezes around his index finger which travelled too close to her palm. He stops talking. She stops crying. She stops kicking. He stops breathing.
Her little head, covered by the tiniest knit cap, fits in the palm of his hand. Her spine relaxes against the underside of his forearm. Her little fingers have quite a grip. His elbow angles to elevate her so he can observe closer and in better light. At the movement, her eyes open revealing beautiful pale green irises. Not Jules's dark brown. Definitely not stupid Steve's whatever. A recessive anomaly. Pupils unfocused at first but then seem to find him and settle.
They both copy each other's expression. Staring in awe, mouth agape. Then she yawns. Closes her mouth and pouts. An exact and perfect imitation of her mother's pout. Invisible eyebrows curve into a peaceful expression while she's in his arms and her eyes begin to drift closed. Hand relaxes around his finger but doesn't let go.
And he's in love.
A few hours later he's fallen asleep in the modest rocking chair, which is now as comfortable as a king-sized bed at a five star resort. He only manages an hour or two with his eyes closed. Wakes up once when the baby coos loudly as Jules changes her on the bed. Kisses her distended stomach and rubs their noses together.
And it's so different now. So fucking different because he gets it. He feels the things he should feel, all the amazing emotions, all positive, all overflowing from his body. The pride, because both of them, they're his. Just like he's theirs. They're a family. The elation because she's finally here, and she's healthy and creating the cutest noises and the most perfect thing he's ever seen because she's her mother's daughter. The relief because she doesn't look a fucking thing like Steve. The love because it's all mutual.
He grins inwardly; eyes still closed hearing the coos and Jules telling their daughter how much she means. The soft, whispers buoyant on love are interrupted by a light tapping at the door.
The door creaks a little accompanied by a hesitant, "Jules?"
Through eye slits so thin, his vision almost blurs, he observes Sarge creeping around the door. Bright, beaming, and un-uniformed.
He decides to play dead for the visit. Not for himself, to save the need to explain what exactly happened to him today. His moral dilemma and his almost abandonment of his tiny tiny perfect daughter. The thought of which twists his stomach in an infinite loop. Steve already abandoned her. He'll do better.
No, he stays silent. Feigns sleep because Sarge is the closest thing Jules has to real support besides himself. The closest thing she has to a father. They deserve a moment to bond with the new baby too. If he had any doubts in his categorizations, the amount of gifts Sarge brings is indication enough.
"The guys didn't want to come without gifts. They're going to drop by later."
"They didn't have to bring anything. You didn't either."
"Well Sam said you had nothing for her, so I bought a few things. Dresses, pajamas, some clothing sets. You'd be amazed what happens to a grown man when he's a baby store, Jules."
"Probably the same thing that happened to me, which is why Sam and I had to leave and never return."
However, his plan has a downfall, and he actually does fall asleep. Several times. He only gets snippets of their conversations. The next time he sneaks awakens, Sarge is holding their daughter. Falling in love, the exact same way he did. He can just tell, because their daughter exudes something he can't even describe. A quality that relaxes him, brings out the best in him, gives him a reason to be the best man he can be.
"Her eyes are gorgeous."
Jules laughs though it's to cover a loud sniffle. She puts her hand on their daughters back and her smile glows. "They're my mom's eyes. Not just green. I mean the exact shade of green. It's kind of nice."
Then there's a pause.
"I, uh." Sarge chuckles nervously, rubs their daughter's back as she leans against his shoulder, lips open and drool freely flowing. "I don't want to go asking questions I have no right to be asking." And he means it not because it's a personal question, but because he's not Jules' father. "But is everything okay with—" and he only assumes Sarge gestures to him.
"Everything's fine. After she was born I think—" retracts her hand to her lap, smile running thin. "I think he just needed time to adjust. But he deserved it. He helped me, helped her more than you can imagine. I don't think I could have done it without him."
"You could have, Jules." Their daughter coos, eyes closed, full lips suckling air in her sleep. "It would have been hard and you wouldn't have realized a lot of things, but you could have because you're strong."
Eventually he rouses from his fake hibernation. Stretches and forges a yawn and even does a theatric start at Sarge's presence. His boss gives him a deadpanned expression, half-lidded eyes, and straight lips. But he offers a hand in congratulations. He's won the lottery.
The next day he drives back to the hospital. Left to shower, grab a few things he'd forgotten yesterday and pick up the car seat they both agreed on. Jules room is bursting with gifts from the Team. Balloons, bouquets, diapers, clothing both used and new, and a picture of the bassinet they all chipped in to buy. It's being delivered to the house.
It's interesting to see how each team member reacts to their daughter. Sophie and Shelly babble baby talk to her, which only confuses her. Ed holds her, pegs her exact weight by comparing her to a rifle, and then admits that because she's Jules' daughter, she could have a future on the SRU. He and Jules immediately refuse. Wordy grins, enlightens that she looks exactly like Jules. Spike adds she looks nothing like a watermelon, but becomes strangely silent while holding her. Since Jules hasn't picked a name yet, the Team affectionately refers to her as Baby Scorpio because of her astrological sign.
Jules sits up in bed, dressed in green cotton pajamas. They're ugly as hell, they both think so, but they button at the front so she can breastfeed with ease. The color is dark enough to hide her skin underneath. Their daughter is against her shoulder, head resting against one of the fleece cloths Ed and Sophie gave them. He's already been thrown up on. It's because they work as a team, Jules feeds her, and then he burps her. With burping comes the risk of getting vomited on. Not just a little bit, everything in her stomach. So he walked around all day with a half digested breast milk stain on his shirt while Jules fed her again.
An adjustable table angles over the bed, and stops above Jules' folded legs. She's reading over a few pieces of paper and immediately he worries it's something about the trial. That Edith and Harriet are filing another suit. But she grins at him, a hand rubbing over their daughter's back. She's wearing a white onesie with little teddy bears on it that Sarge bought her.
"Is everything okay?" His hands grow clammy around the handle of the car seat, so he abandons it in the rocking chair. Sways for a minute on his feet, unsure whether to approach the bed or not.
"Yeah, everything is fine." There's a small burp and Jules uses the cloth to wipe around their daughter's mouth. Her arm curls up near her face as she starts to fall into the blissful sleep she usually does after being fully fed. "I think I've got a name."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, I wanted to get your approval on it though." Their daughter is now limp in Jules' arms as she rotates her around, holding her out for him.
Immediately he covers the space to scoop her up. She's so small, but almost at her target weight. She fits comfortably in his arms. Perfectly coddled half against his chest, half on his bicep like she was always meant to be there. Her arms fold into her lap, and her one leg falls free of his arm until he returns it. "What is it?"
"Charlotte. Not Charley or Lottie. Just Charlotte."
A dry chuckle escapes his mouth. Not sarcastic, or mocking, but a little disbelieving.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"No, what is it?"
He sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the sleeping newborn. "Charlotte was my grandma's name."
"Oh, well it's not that—"
"No. I love it Jules." He bows his head towards the peaceful, small face. "I love it."
One of Jules' legs uncoils and touches the side of his thigh. With his free hand, he wraps his fingers around her toes. "You should put on socks."
"I want her middle name to be Morgan."
There's a pause. A moment where he can only feel the tiny chest rising and falling in his arms. The heat radiating off the little body. "Decided to pull the whole Band-Aid off, huh?"
Her lips roll together in a purse, then flush out in the briefest of pouts. One easily recognizable now. "Are you okay with it?"
His daugh—Charlotte coos in her sleep. Jerks a shoulder and knits her eyebrows at him. He bounces his arm once and the near wince on her face dissipates. Then rubs his hand over Jules' foot. "I think it's a nice way for him to be remembered."
She grins. It's one of those grins meaning more than it's supposed to. Telling him how much she appreciates him, because if she said it out loud, she's afraid the situation might become too real and he might run like all the other men in her life. He understands her, knows what she thinks are her weak points and accepts them. He loves her, blindly, faithfully, through time. He loves them both.
In her chicken scratch writing, the same writing in which seven months ago he received a life crushing note on the same night Charlotte lost her biological father, she writes their daughter's full name. Charlotte Morgan Callaghan. Her last name attached to her daughter doesn't bother him either. Not even a smidgen. Because he knows eventually, the little girl in his arms, and the woman he's so desperately in love with across from him in the hospital bed wearing the ugliest pajamas he's ever seen, will both have his last name.
Same hand signs the box indicating maternal relationship and then taps the pen to her full bottom lip. He watches the muscles in the corner of her mouth bunch in thought as her eyes squint and he knows she's debating asking him something important. Always hesitates. "I wanted to talk to you about something else too."
He's about to crack some low humor joke. But she's finally taking the initiative to ask him something, without much hesitation and he doesn't want to scare her away. All he can manage is a breathless, "Sure."
"You don't have to do this." Pen taps three times on her lip as her eyes dart to the birth certificate and back up to him. "It's just a suggestion."
"Jules." Finally he chuckles a bit because she's so damn cute when she's this nervous. It must mean a lot to her, which is enough to get him to agree. "What is it?"
"I was wondering if you wanted to sign as the father." Nodding at the certificate, she removes the pen from her mouth in case he chooses to.
Of course he wants to; he's just stunned she asked at all, let alone the second day they have a baby together. A baby she knows he's going to stick around for. He thinks that's why he doesn't move. The realization of her knowing what they are together. What they mean together. Where they're going together.
Instead she construes his freezing as not wanting too. "You don't have to. I mean if you change your mind you can always fully adopt her down the line, which I mean, you'll have to do anyway. But I just thought." The pen droops in her hand, and her eyes drop from his face and back to the blank 'father's' box. "You'd only get one chance to—but I don't want to pressure so—"
"Jules, relax." Adept hand catches the pen as it slips from between her shaky fingers. "I do want to and I will. I will. I was just thinking that—it just means a lot that you asked."
So he sits parallel to her, one leg stretching out beside hers, the other balancing his body by rooting to the floor. With Charlotte in one arm, and Jules resting her chin on his shoulder and stabilizing the page he signs his name. Officially becomes a father for the first time in his life and the moment is surreal. Cooing and pen scratching. Jules pressing her lips to his cheek and hugging him tight. In emotional breathes explains to him all the things he's been longing to hear.
Her forehead rests against his chin as he transfers Charlotte over to her. Wraps an arm around them, lets his daughter absently grab his finger in her sleep. The same finger with the same hand.
Next Chapter - Life with a baby isn't all it's cracked up to be...But it's still really cute.
