in response to reviews, here is the epilogue...
which y'all will throw absolute hissy fits if i don't include :)
CONTENT WARNING: CHILDBIRTH
this chapter is dedicated to my dearest Guest
enjoy!
—GRAYSON—
It was a dark and stormy night, and that was the worst possible thing that could have happened.
Buying a castle that cost less than a New York apartment, provided that Grayson and Avery maintained it well, had seemed like a perfectly fine idea at the time. But Castle Droigheann being situated on a very small island in a very large loch made getting from it to the mainland rather difficult, especially in a storm, and Grayson was beginning to wonder if he and his wife should have waited until she had given birth to move to the middle of a lake.
So far, Avery's pregnancy had been healthy, despite being classified as high risk—although that was only because she was carrying twins. She was scheduled to go in for a Caesarean section next week, and both she and Grayson had counted on the process being as quick as possible. It was planned, it was foolproof.
Until the ridiculously early hours of the morning on April ninth, thirty-six weeks in, when Avery shook Grayson awake and gasped, "The contractions are starting."
"They can't have," Grayson insisted, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "They're not supposed to yet—"
Avery cut him off. "I'm in labor, Gray! We have to get to the boat!"
Grayson took a deep breath and tried to wrap his mind around the situation. "Alright. What do you need?"
"Just—let's get changed," said Avery. "Shoes on. We're not going to the hospital in our pajamas."
"Perfect," Grayson said, standing up and heading for the closet. "Do you need any help? Should I bring you anything?"
"I'm fine; the contractions aren't too close together yet. If you could just toss me some sweatpants, maybe a hoodie—"
Grayson reached for Avery's favorite outfit—her cream hoodie and black sweatpants—but then reconsidered. If there was even a chance that they couldn't make it to the hospital, given the storm, he didn't want blood and vernix and whatnot all over her favorite clothes. Instead he retrieved an old pair of beige pants and a blue-gray hoodie and tossed them to Avery. He took an old t-shirt and sweats for himself—no sense in dirtying his nice things.
They both changed as quickly as possible, and Grayson helped Avery out of bed and down the stairs, trying not to listen to the pounding of the rain on the roof. Perhaps the storm wasn't as bad as it sounded. The boat might still be a feasible way off the island.
"How are the contractions?" Grayson asked as they descended the stairs. "Have you timed them?"
"I've only had two so far," said Avery. "I think they were about ten minutes apart. We still have time."
They reached the entrance hall, and Grayson hurried to the front doors and pushed them open—and stopped dead.
Rain fell in lashing sheets, chopping the surface of the water in the loch. Waves, stirred up by the howling wind, crashed against the dock, where their boat bobbed and swayed in the tumult. As Grayson and Avery stood on the doorstep, flash after flash of lightning split the sky, each followed by a positively deafening roll of thunder.
"We can't take the boat," said Grayson, though there had been no need for the statement.
"No," Avery agreed. "Let's go back inside. We probably still have a few hours until active labor—maybe the storm will clear up."
"Should I get supplies set out?" Grayson asked as he shut the door. "In case—"
"Not yet," said Avery. "But we might want to call 999, see if they can get us to the hospital with a helicopter."
Grayson didn't think a helicopter could even get to them through the storm, much less land on their tiny islet, but he pulled out his phone anyway. Reflexively, he punched in 911 on the dial pad, then remembered that those numbers did not call emergency services in Scotland. He backtracked, dialed 999, and held the phone up to his ear.
It rang, once, twice, at least seven times, then tapered out. Frowning, Grayson tried again, then a third time, but none of the calls went through.
"There's no service," he said. "The storm must have knocked out the—"
One of the front windows shattered, spraying glass onto the floor of the entrance hall, and every light in the castle went out.
Avery gasped, and Grayson caught her by the elbow, trying to reassure her with his presence. "Hey, it's okay. We can just go upstairs and wait out the storm. I'm sure it will be over before active labor begins."
Personally, he was not optimistic, but the husband was not supposed to panic during birth. If Grayson didn't convince Avery—and himself—that everything would be fine, he thought he might lose it entirely.
He turned on the flashlight on his phone, shining the beam around the entrance hall. The broken glass would have to be cleaned up, but it could wait. At this point, everything could wait.
"Can you make it back up the stairs?" he asked, ready to scoop Avery up and carry her if he had to. "Or would you like to sit down? I can take you to the couch if I need to."
"Up," Avery groaned, but then clutched her midsection and half doubled over. "No, I need to sit."
Grayson moved to pick her up, but Avery held out a hand, her face tight with pain. "I'm supposed to—to walk. To dilate. Just—help me, Gray."
"Alright. Hold onto me."
Avery wrapped her arm around Grayson's shoulders, her fingernails digging into the left one. As they moved slowly to the living room, Avery's body relaxed slightly; the contraction had passed.
Grayson was still worried. That contraction had been much closer to the previous one—the time was shortening. The first stage of labor could be nearly complete, and then…Grayson didn't like to think what would happen if they couldn't get emergency services to the islet.
"When did you start having contractions?" he asked as he helped Avery sit down on the couch. "Are you sure you've only had two—three now? They seem to be getting…you know…"
"I felt something before we went to bed," Avery admitted. "I thought it was probably just Braxton-Hicks, since the due date isn't for a while, but the contractions might have really started when I was asleep. So they could have been going since…maybe eight?"
Grayson checked the time—just past one a.m. "So it's possible you could have been in early labor for five hours."
Avery nodded.
Grayson's mind spiraled into panic. "So—so active labor could start any minute? We could be parents any minute? We're not ready, Ave! What are we going to do?"
He began pacing, tearing his hands through his hair over and over again. He had never felt less prepared for anything—there were so many supplies Grayson wasn't sure they had, so many medical procedures they'd counted on. He had no idea if Avery could even deliver the twins naturally. The first twin, the girl, had been in optimal position at the last checkup, but what if that had changed? What if her brother didn't turn properly? If he was in breech or transverse position, what then? Avery wouldn't be able to stop herself from pushing for that long. She and her son could die.
And the umbilical cords…the placenta…Grayson had no idea what to do with those things. He didn't know when to cut them, how to dispose of them. What if their babies couldn't breathe properly? They were premature, after all; their lungs might not be completely developed. Grayson knew CPR, had learned it years ago in school, but he wasn't sure if he could perform it on a newborn. And with no service, he couldn't even look up help.
He was gasping for air now, his chest constricting, and blood was thundering through his ears, louder than the howling outside, drowning out all sound. You're not ready. You'll never be ready.
"Gray!" Avery's voice pierced the fog of panic. "Gray, come here!"
"They could die," he gasped. "Ave, they could…"
"They're not going to!" Avery's face was set in determination. "Now get over here and let me talk some sense into you!"
Grayson stumbled over to the couch and sank onto it, dragging his hands down his face. "We're not ready. We can't do this here."
"Look at me, Gray," Avery commanded, and she took his face in her hands and turned it toward her. "I want you to breathe. Come on. In…and out. There it is. Keep breathing, okay?"
He tried, he forced himself to calm, and after a few minutes, he managed to bring his respiratory rate down to an acceptable level. Avery's hands were still on his face, her thumbs gently stroking his cheekbones.
"See?" she whispered. "It's okay. It's all going to be okay, Gray, I can feel it."
Then she gasped and pressed a hand to her lower abdomen, gritting her teeth against the grip of another contraction.
Grayson took her other hand and rubbed it gently between his own. "What do you need? I can help you walk again if you'd like, or we could—"
"We need some kind of waterproof sheet," Avery ground out. "Hot water. Towels."
"No," Grayson said as he realized what she meant. "Not now, Avery, we can't—"
"We don't have long, Gray," said Avery. "My water just broke."
Grayson ran upstairs, heart pounding in his ears. Blindly, he seized every towel they owned from the master bathroom, and he was just about to sacrifice their bedsheets for the cause when he realized that a shower curtain was, well, a lot more waterproof. He left the one in the master bathroom but went as quickly as he could to the other bathrooms in the castle, gathering every shower curtain he could find.
The unhooking of the rings that held the curtains up took longer than Grayson would have liked, but he eventually got four down and carried them, along with the towels, back to Avery.
She lay on her side on the couch now, teeth gritted, arms wrapped around her baby bump. Sweat dripped down Avery's face, and her breath came fast and shallow.
"I'll get the water in a moment," said Grayson, setting the bundle of fabric on the free end of the couch. "Where would you like these?"
"Shower curtains?" Avery rasped, a weak smile crossing her face. "Only you, Gray. I—I'll need one under me."
Before he could offer help, she stood and circled around to the back of the couch, clutching it for support. Grayson took the largest shower curtain and spread it over the place where Avery had been lying—it was lucky they had a very large downstairs shower, because the curtain was expansive enough to cover two-thirds of the couch, including the back, the armrest, and the surrounding floor. Even so, Grayson spread the other three curtains around the first, and the couch and most of the living room rug disappeared under the white fabric.
The moment he dropped the last corner of the fourth curtain, Avery collapsed back onto the couch, though she seemed to be in less pain now. The contraction must have passed.
"How close are they now?" Grayson asked, kneeling beside her. "Do you feel like you have to push yet?"
"Five minutes apart," said Avery. "And no, not yet, but I don't think we have more than a couple hours before I do. The contractions are lasting for longer now—over a minute. We have to try and call someone, Gray. We need help."
The steadiness in her gaze, the willingness to admit that they couldn't do this on their own, both comforted and terrified Grayson. If Avery, his eternally stubborn, indomitable wife, was willing—even asking—to call for help, what did that render the situation? How bad did things have to get before she would call for aid?
"I'll try," he promised.
He punched in 999, again and again over the next two hours, and the tone rang out, over and over. And with every failed call, with every crash of thunder and gasp of pain and candle lit to keep the darkness at bay, Grayson's heart at once sped up and sank lower.
No one was coming.
He and Avery were alone.
"Please," Grayson begged as he stood at the sink, filling the largest bowl he could find with hot water. He fingered the silver cross that still rested on his sternum, trying desperately to keep whatever was clawing its way up his throat—a scream or tears—down.
"I've never asked You for anything more than to keep her safe," he said, his voice choked. "Please, if You've ever had any compassion for someone like me, help us now. I…I don't know what to do."
The water spilled out of the bowl, leaping free of the confines of the sink and splashing onto Grayson's bare feet. He turned the faucet off and hefted the bowl into his arms, then carried the awkward burden into the living room and set it down on the towels a few feet away from the couch.
"How are you feeling?" he asked Avery—then wondered if he should not have done so. Avery's face was twisted into an expression of utmost pain that Grayson had hoped never to see.
"I have to push," she gasped, sweat and tears glistening on her cheeks. "We're—we're out of time, Gray."
Her voice was so weak, so strained and full of pain, that tears sprang to Grayson's eyes.
This could be how it ended—how everything he loved was taken away from him, and the very idea scared him so much he wanted to curl up into a ball and sob.
But it could also be the day his love multiplied by three, and he had to believe that, or there would be no getting himself or Avery through this.
"Do you need anything else?" Grayson asked. He'd brought Avery multiple pillows, water, a bucket—she'd vomited twice already—and several blankets.
"Just you," said Avery, giving him what was evidently the biggest smile she could muster. "And…I guess I might need to take my clothes off."
Grayson did help her do that, placing the pile of garments out of harm's way. When he realized his wife was shivering, he draped an old blanket over Avery's bare chest, then took off his own shirt and put it with Avery's clothes.
"Skin-to-skin," he explained when Avery looked at him questioningly. "I'll hold one. It'll be easier for you. They—babies are supposed to do skin-to-skin, right? Do I have that wrong?"
Avery laughed weakly. "No, you're right. I…I'm just amazed you remembered."
Suddenly, holding the blanket in place across her sternum, she moved to face the back of the couch and raised herself into a low squat.
"What are you doing?" Grayson asked.
"Gravity," Avery explained breathlessly, her face contorting in pain again. "It helps—them move down—Gray."
"What?" Grayson circled around to the back of the couch and knelt down, grasping Avery's hand. "What's wrong?"
"I can feel it," Avery groaned, squeezing Grayson's hand so tightly he thought it might bruise. "She's—she's coming."
"What do I do?" Grayson asked, his thoughts dissolving into panic once again.
"Go catch her, you bonehead!" Avery yelled, and then her voice broke into a scream. When she had brought it back under control, she whispered, "Gray—I'm sorry, it—it just hurts—"
"Hey," said Grayson, hoping he had a few minutes until his daughter crowned.
He cupped Avery's face gently and brushed her sweat-soaked hair behind her ears. "It's okay. I'll catch her. But I want you to know that you can do this, Ave. You have overcome so much. You have accomplished the impossible over and over again. And birthing a child—or even two—at home, in a storm, is very, very possible, because that is how you came into this world. And if your mother could do it then, you can do it now. I promise."
Avery stared at him, eyes wild and full of pain, and rasped, "You always were good at pep talks."
Grayson cracked a smile, struggling to keep his tears at bay. "I try."
He kissed her for as long as he dared, whispered, "I love you," and went around to the other side of the couch, his legs shaking so badly they could barely hold him up. He dragged a spare pillow over, so he could have some barrier between his knees and the still-hard floor, and sank into a kneeling position the moment it was in place.
A horrible screech echoed through the cavernous living room, nearly drowning out the roll of thunder that seemed to shatter the air. Grayson hadn't known Avery could make that sound—it terrified him, tore at his heart. The pain must be positively awful for her to scream like that. He wished desperately that he could have taken it for her.
"Do you see the head?" Avery's voice was still bordering on a scream.
"Not yet!" Grayson couldn't keep his voice down, either. "Wait—"
He watched the opening of the birth canal, squinting in the faint candlelight. There was something there, the top of something round, covered in a fine fuzz of hair…
"I see it!" he called. "Come on, Ave, you're almost there!"
Another scream, almost enough to tear Grayson's eardrums, and for the first time, he saw his daughter's face.
The tears immediately spilled over, and as the infant's shoulders and chest were delivered, Grayson reached out and cradled her, overwhelmed, suddenly, by a rush of ferocious joy and relief. He held his baby girl as, with another push, she emerged fully into the world and opened her mouth in a cry almost as loud as her mother's.
"Hannah," Grayson whispered. "Oh, Hannah."
He couldn't tell what color her hair or even her skin was—she was a mess of blood and vernix and pulsing cord. She was a dark reddish purple, her skin wrinkled, soft fine lanugo covering her cheeks, her back. Very different from how he had pictured her.
But he loved her instantly, and as Grayson dipped his head and kissed his daughter's furrowed brow, she let out a tiny, helpless cry.
More fierce emotions filled him. This was his daughter—his and Avery's. He would protect her from anything, from everything.
Avery sank down onto her back on the couch, panting, and Grayson handed the baby to her, tears coming faster as he watched her breathe her first words to their daughter.
"I'll hold her," Avery said. "When her brother comes. You'll have to pull him out."
Grayson nodded, reminding himself that there was still another child to welcome into the world. At Avery's request, he wrapped Hannah in a blanket, leaving her just as she had been when she emerged—covered in bodily fluids with the cord uncut. Neither he nor Avery were trained in post-birth care.
Four minutes after his sister, Timber Hawthorne came into the world, wailing just as loudly as she had. His birth took slightly longer, since Avery couldn't safely hold Hannah and squat at the same time, so he was born without the help of gravity, with his mother lying on her back. But the infant was out in only a few pushes, and Grayson felt the same rush of protective joy as he brought his son to his chest.
"You did it, Ave," he whispered. "You did it. They're here."
He kissed Avery gently, filled with more emotion—more love—than he had ever thought possible. He was crying, he realized again, and so was she. So were their twins. Everyone was, really.
The placenta was delivered fifteen minutes later, and finally, Grayson and Avery could sit together on the couch. Yes, they were sitting in a pool of blood and amniotic fluid, with a pulsating organ sitting on their laps, but neither of them took any notice.
"They're perfect," Grayson whispered as Avery laid her head on his shoulder. "Just like you."
"Just like you," Avery murmured sleepily.
The thunder still rolled, and the lightning lit up the castle with pure white flame, but inside there was an indescribable peace. When the storm finally calmed, the torrent outside lightening to soft rain, phone service returned, and Grayson was in tears as he finally called emergency services.
The paramedics most have thought their newly expanded family a sorry sight—all four of them covered in blood, three of them completely naked save for blankets and Grayson shirtless. But no questions—about that issue, at least—were asked; the paramedics simply escorted them to a helicopter, which life-flighted them to the nearest hospital.
Hannah Tundora Hawthorne was born on April ninth, 2026, at 4:38 a.m., weighing five pounds, two ounces. Her twin brother, Timber Slate Hawthorne, was born at 4:42, weighing five pounds even. This information was documented, as well as their little footprints, and then Grayson and Avery were legally parents.
The babies were checked over and deemed healthy, and after they were cleaned up and their cords cut, they were returned to the hospital room. As soon as they were cleared for visitors, Grayson called all three of his brothers—plus Ian—and everyone showed up within the hour.
The rest of April ninth was absolutely draining, but full of complete and utter joy. Just before midnight, the nurses shooed the last of the visitors—Nash and Libby; Brooks was thrilled about his new cousins—out the door, and Grayson and Avery lay together in the hospital bed, just as they had done so many times before.
"I'm so proud of you," Grayson whispered. "You were amazing."
"So were you," said Avery. "I don't know how you got through that—aren't you afraid of blood?"
"To be honest," said Grayson, "I'd entirely forgotten."
Avery laughed, then pulled him in for a kiss. Even after they broke apart, Grayson held his wife close, whispering his love again and again until Avery fell asleep.
Grayson looked at her, still and beautiful in the dim light, then at Hannah and Timber in their bassinets, and knew that everything he had ever wanted was here. Every dream he'd ever had—every dream that truly mattered—had come true.
He closed his eyes and, exhausted, let sleep take him, knowing that in a few hours the cries of his son or daughter would wake him again. He would open his eyes to the same incredible sight—his family, together at last.
Before today, Grayson had been content, but now he was complete.
Just as he drifted off, Avery mumbled, "Don't let go."
Grayson held her tighter. "I won't."
He never did.
a/n (PLEASE READ!):
notes on names!
obviously, gray and avery have to name their daughter hannah. that much was very very obvious. y'all know why.
timber, you ask? why timber?
i considered toby, but well gray deserved some input, right? besides, we'd have three generations of tobias/toby hawthornes and that felt like too much. timber is half of the title of one of my favorite poems/musical settings, good timber by douglas malloch. a portion of the text reads as follows:
the tree that never had to fight
for sun and sky and air and light
but stood out in the open plain
and always got its share of rain
never became a forest king
but lived and died a scrubby thing
good timber does not grow with ease
the stronger wind, the stronger trees
the further sky, the greater length
the more the storm, the more the strength
by sun and cold, by rain and snow,
in trees and men good timbers grow
as such, timber's name has a lil bit of a triple meaning: it references gray and avery's tree, with their cave of strings, as well as the storm their son was born in. the final, deepest meaning is that it references gray's journey in this story; only with hardship did he become the man he is. poetic, right? i hope y'all think it was a good choice :)
*coupla lil fun facts*
-both twins are very very blond like gray
-but hannah has avery's eyes and timber has nash's for some reason (hey they're brown it's gotta run in the family somewhere)
-tundora and slate (the middle names i picked) are both shades of gray. i think gray and avery would like that, right?
-castle droigheann is so named because droigheann is the scottish gaelic translation of hawthorne
-you really can buy castles in europe for basically nothing, you just have to agree to maintain it (look it up!)
-quote at the end of the author's note is by james russell but his name was throwing off the *aesthetic*
*playlist for this story (or songs that i just happened to listen to on loop that also fit with certain events)*
evermore by dan stevens (explosion and aftermath)
good timber by susan labarr (basically one of gray's themes)
writing in a haunted victorian mansion during a thunderstorm by abbie emmons (oh man this is so helpful for mystery writing)
the ground by ola gjeilo (wedding)
o love by elaine hagenberg (xanmax's promise ring theme)
take me home, country roads by geoff castellucci (that one song nash is humming that one time)
don't let go by gentri (gray says bye to xan, end scene, epilogue) (i was bawling)
thank you everyone for this incredible journey! i will miss y'all but i hope i'll be back soon!
-dashi :)
be noble, and the nobleness that lies
in other men, sleeping but never dead
will rise in majesty to meet thine own