Labor and Delivery
CW: pregnancy, labor and delivery, L&D trauma Characters: Milo, Alder, Guzma, Lance, Friede x Female Reader Premise: Different labor and delivery scenarios
This has been sitting in my docs for a while now. I meant to publish them sooner. Please heed the warning for Guzma's.
Milo
There was something ancient and soft about the Turffield barn at midnight. Just the two of you in the hush, the scent of straw and wooloo musk thick in the air, the beams golden in the lamplight and the gentle, rhythmic sound of Pokémon breathing all around. The contractions had started so quickly, catching you off guard with their sharp, insistent ache, and Turffield’s only midwife was off in Hulbury tending to another family. The hospital was too far for comfort, and Milo, calm and steady as the earth, had said—without a hint of doubt— “We’ll do it here, love. I’ll see you through.”
He’d helped you to the barn, his strong arms supporting you as he helped you settle onto a thick nest of clean straw and soft wool blankets (made with the wool from his own herd). The barn, usually filled with the low, rhythmic sounds of the Wooloo and Dubwool, was quiet but watchful. A ring of ewes, some old, some young, stood just outside your little corner, their round bodies pressed close in a gentle, woolly barricade. The Dubwool stood sentinel, big males at the edges, alert and resolute, ready to chase off any would-be interlopers. Your Boltund circled anxiously, hard staring and snapping every time a curious Wooloo nosed too close. Milo took a moment to kneel beside him, rubbing his head and whispering, “I know, boy, I know. She’s alright. We’ll look after her, promise.” Boltund licked Milo’s palm, still anxious, but less on edge, letting the closest Wooloo nudge his flank with a soft bleat.
Milo moved with the same sure confidence he used when tending his fields or guiding a frightened Wooloo through her first lambing. His smile was warm, freckles dancing over his nose, the soft green of his eyes never leaving you for long. You’d never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, and yet so protected all at once. The first contractions were startling—sharp, quick, and then, as they grew, their intensity became a tide: every wave stronger, longer, closer together, making you gasp and squeeze Milo’s hand until your knuckles ached. Fear crept in, sharp and cold, threatening to tip you into panic. Milo’s voice anchored you, always calm, always gentle, never wavering even when you cried out.
“That’s it, love. You’re doin’ amazing. Breathe with me, yeah?” His hand was a rock at your back, his thumb tracing circles into your shoulder as he pressed a cool, damp cloth to your brow between contractions. “It’s just like lambing season. Only this time, it’s our little one.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out as a broken whimper. “Milo, this isn’t a Wooloo—”
He grinned, freckles dancing across his nose, sweat shining at his hairline. “No, but you’re braver than any Wooloo I’ve ever known.” He wiped sweat from your brow, pressed cool cloths to your neck, murmured encouragements in that gentle country drawl, and squeezed your hand when your grip grew desperate.
When the pain crested again, Milo shifted behind you, bracing your hips with his broad hands, applying counterpressure. He helped you change positions: coaxed you onto your knees, onto your side, back to sitting, the hay cradling you as the barn filled with the rising chorus of sheep. You became dimly aware of the Wooloo bleating—a calm, rhythmic sound, as if they knew their part was to keep you company, to hold the space safe and warm.
Boltund whined and began pacing again, until Milo caught him up in a tight hug, rumbling reassurances into his fur. “It’s alright, mate. You’re keepin’ her safe, too. She’ll be okay.”
When the urge to push seized you, primal and overwhelming, Milo’s calm faltered only for an instant. He crouched between your knees, hands steady, eyes wide with wonder and worry and fierce protectiveness. He hadn’t done this with a human before, but he’d coached more than a few nervous ewes through their first lambing, and he trusted the rhythm of the body, the slow patience of birth. He watched for crowning, waiting, voice steady as he told you what he saw, what you could do, until he saw the first glimpse of your baby’s dark crown.
“I can see his head, love,” he breathed, voice thick. “He’s right here, just a few more pushes.” He wiped your brow, kissed your forehead, and whispered praise with every breathless effort.
You pushed, the world narrowing to Milo’s voice, the heat of his hands, the press of Boltund’s muzzle at your side, the soft, hopeful chorus of the Wooloo. When you cried out, back arching, sweat slicking your skin, his hands were there, broad and gentle, pressing counter-pressure to your lower back, guiding your breathing, never once faltering.
“That’s it, sweetheart, push when you feel it—just like that, you’re so brave…” But as your child began to emerge, he saw the cord, slick and blue, looped around the neck. Milo’s heart kicked, but his voice stayed calm, his hands steady as he gently hooked a finger under the cord and eased it over, freeing the tiny, slippery head. “It’s alright—I’ve got him, you’re doin’ perfect, almost there, just a little more—”
With one final, shaking push, you felt your baby slip free, the barn echoing with your ragged sob of relief. Milo caught him, cradling the slippery bundle in his big hands, his own breath coming shaky and awed. He wiped the little face, rubbed his back with a towel, and a moment later, the newborn’s first wail rang out, sharp and sweet, answered by a chorus of excited bleats from the Wooloo and Dubwool.
Milo’s eyes shone as he placed your son on your chest, covering you both with a wool blanket, tears standing bright in his lashes. He pressed a kiss to your damp hair, voice thick with wonder. “You did it, love. You did so, so good. He’s perfect—look at him.”
You clung to your baby, heart bursting as he squirmed, tiny and pink and so impossibly real. The Pokémon pressed closer, the mothers humming, the Dubwool snorting softly, Boltund finally relaxing as he sniffed at the new arrival, tail wagging tentatively but curiously.
Milo knelt beside you, hands never leaving your side as he waited for the afterbirth. He’d read every book, talked to every old farmer in Turffield, and it showed in his easy competence, his calm, steady hands. He took care in checking it, making sure it was all there, that you were safe and well. And when he was done, he wrapped his arms around you, helping you settle against a soft hay bale, guiding your baby to your breast until he latched on, suckling with fierce, instinctive hunger.
The barn glowed with warmth and gentle celebration, the herd crowding close, Milo’s hand stroking your hair as he whispered, “I’m so proud of you, love. So proud. He’s strong, just like his mum.”
You leaned into him, your son nursing noisily at your breast, the world outside the barn fading to a hush. The herd, and Boltund, quietly keeping watch over their keepers. Milo’s warmth, the weight of your baby, the gentle, endless affection in the air—all of it wrapped around you tight as a blanket, anchoring you in a moment that felt outside of time, golden and safe, the very heart of home.
Alder
The sky over the route was a deep, endless blue, the kind that seemed to reach down into the earth itself. You’d been walking with Alder since sunrise, the rhythm of travel broken only by laughter, stories, and the soft jangle of Pokéballs at his hip. The wilds of Unova stretched all around—rolling hills and rocky outcrops, a scattering of wildflowers and the distant, comforting rumble of Alder’s Bouffalant and Druddigon as they patrolled the edge of your makeshift camp. It was supposed to be a simple day’s journey, another leg in a life spent in motion.
Then, the pain started: low, insistent, blooming sharp and tight across your belly. At first, you tried to walk it off. Alder, ever-attuned, noticed the way you slowed, the way your hand clenched at your side. When the next contraction doubled you over, he was at your side in an instant—steadying you, eyes bright with concern but the faintest smile on his mouth. “Well, my love, seems our little one is impatient. Let’s make this an adventure to remember, hmm?”
He moved fast—setting up camp with a practiced efficiency, rolling out a thick blanket beneath the shelter of a wide oak, placing your pack as a pillow, and making sure you were comfortable. Bouffalant took up a protective post a few yards away, shaking its massive mane and snorting at any movement in the underbrush. Druddigon crouched nearby, her scales gleaming, eyes narrowed at the wild Pokémon that lurked at the edges of the clearing. Volcarona kept the fire stoked and water warm, her wings glowing with gentle, shimmering heat, while Vanilluxe hovered close, swirling cool air around the water basin Alder set by your head.
He knelt beside you, gentle but confident, his hands strong and warm as he helped you settle into a position that eased the worst of the pain. “You’re doing beautifully,” he murmured, smoothing hair from your brow, pressing a cool, damp cloth to your forehead. “Just like when my first wife had our baby. Every birth is a new story, but you—” His smile widened, pride and joy shining in his eyes. “You’re the bravest I’ve seen.”
The contractions grew stronger, closer together, each one wringing a cry from your throat. You were scared. How could you not be? But Alder’s presence was grounding, his humor and warmth never failing. When you whimpered, tears pricking at your eyes, he was quick to shift you, hands bracing your hips, guiding you to squat or kneel, pressing counterpressure with the heel of his palm at your lower back, never letting you feel alone in the pain.
“Breathe with me,” he coaxed, his voice low and steady, his own breath matching yours. “Let the wave pass. There you go. You’re doing this just right.”
When he checked your progress with careful, practiced hands, he kept his touch gentle, always telling you what he was doing, never rushing, always calm. “A little more to go,” he’d say, and when you asked if he was sure, he only grinned, that playful spark lighting up his face. “I’ve caught more babies than I can count. Trust me, sweetheart, I’d never let anything happen to you or our child.”
You managed a shaky laugh between contractions, your breath coming in short gasps. “More babies than you can count? You only had—what, three kids with your first wife? How many babies have you actually ‘caught,’ Alder?”
His eyes crinkled at the corners, that familiar teasing spark flickering there even as he kept his focus trained on you. “When you wander as much as I do, you end up being the extra pair of hands in a lot of tight spots. I can’t count the number of times I’ve stopped in a village for a night and ended up helping the midwife, or delivering a little one out on the road.” He let out a soft chuckle, thumb stroking your knee. “Babies have a way of arriving whenever they please, and it seems the world just keeps tossing them into my arms.”
As the urge to push overtook you, Alder folded a towel, dipping it in the warm water Volcarona had heated, pressing it against your skin to help ease the way. “When you feel it, push. When you don’t, just breathe. Your body knows what to do. I’m right here.”
The ring of fire hit hard, a burning stretch that made you cry out—raw, desperate, and wordless. The ferocity of your voice startled a flock of Pidove from a nearby bush, and sent a curious Patrat scampering. Bouffalant snorted, stamping the ground, while Druddigon bared her fangs at the shadows, their protective presence a silent reassurance as you bore down, Alder’s hands steadying you, his words a lifeline.
“That’s it, sweetheart. She’s nearly here. I can see her head—just a few more pushes, you’ve got this—”
And at least, with a final, shaking effort, you felt your daughter slip free, Alder’s hands catching her, cradling her with a reverence that made your heart twist. He wiped her down with a soft shirt, clearing her mouth and nose, and a moment later, her first cry split the air—fierce and strong, the sound of life itself.
Alder’s eyes were bright with tears as he placed her on your chest, laughter bubbling up in his throat, joy radiating from every line of his sun-browned face. “She’s perfect. You did it, sweetheart.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his hair wild and fire-bright in the afternoon sun, his hands never leaving you or your daughter for a moment. The Pokémon ringed the camp, Volcarona glowing, Bouffalant and Druddigon rumbling approval, Vanilluxe humming a cool, soothing note that mingled with the baby’s cries.
Alder waited patiently for the afterbirth, helping you deliver it, checking it with the same careful eye he’d watched his own children come into the world. He made sure you were safe, every step slow, deliberate, and gentle. When it was done, he wrapped you both in a blanket, settling beside you, his massive hand guiding your daughter to your breast, helping her latch for the first time.
She suckled fiercely, tiny hands curling against your skin. Alder stroked your hair, awe and love in every movement. “You’re amazing,” he whispered. “I’ve never been prouder. Our family’s even bigger now, and you—” He choked, overwhelmed, and just shook his head. “You are everything.”
The wilds of Unova faded to softness—the fire, the hum of gentle Pokémon, Alder’s arms around you. The world was bright and endless, a future blooming in your arms, and for those first precious moments, there was nothing but love.
Lance
(for @van1shiro)
Dragon’s Den was alive with the hush of running water and the distant, resonant echoes of dragon song. The ancient birthing room was carved deep in the stone, its walls veined with agate and quartz, the shallow pool at the center glowing with pale, subterranean light. Lance was at your side the moment the first contraction shuddered through you, his hand steady on your arm, his eyes keen and gentle. When your water broke—a sudden, startling rush—he’d moved immediately, supporting you as Clair swept in, efficient and cool, her hair gleaming blue in the lamplight, her expression both teasing and reassuring.
“About time I get to show up my cousin at something,” she quipped as you gripped her hand and Lance’s shoulder, breath trembling with nerves and pain. She helped you strip down, her hands quick and practiced, guiding you into the warm, mineral-rich waters of the pool. “You may be a dragon master, Lance, but let’s see you handle this.”
Lance’s lips quirked, the weight of his new responsibilities softened by affection. “I’ll let you have the title, Clair. I’m just grateful you came on such short notice.”
“The perks of being part of the dragon clan and Blackthorn City’s gym leader—I can leave whenever I want to, within reason.”
Clair released her Dragonair, who slipped into the water beside you, her long, gleaming body swirling gracefully, her eyes luminous and serene. She coiled protectively, gently undulating through the water, the currents she stirred keeping everything fresh and sparkling. Clair knelt at the pool’s edge, sleeves rolled, hands ready, her voice low and confident. “You just keep her steady and comfortable, Lance. I’ll take care of the rest.”
The pain crested, each contraction a wave that left you gasping, clutching Lance’s hand as he knelt behind you in the water, his arms wrapped strong around yours, his mouth close to your ear. “You’re doing so well,” he murmured, brushing your hair off your clammy forehead. “Breathe. I’m right here.”
You squeezed his hand, heart pounding, fear sharp in your chest. “It hurts, Lance. I…I’m scared.”
He pressed his lips to your temple, his voice a velvet promise. “I know. But you’re the bravest person I know. I would face a thousand dragons before I’d let anything happen to you.” His arms tightened, anchoring you against the pain. “Just hold on to me.”
Clair’s voice cut through, brisk and grounding. “You’re dilating well. Based on Dragonair’s behavior, the baby’s heart sounds strong.” She winked, and you managed a shaky smile, even through the next contraction. “Focus on your breathing, and listen to your body. When you need to push, we’ll be ready.”
Dragonair’s presence was oddly comforting. She circled, brushing your arm with her snout, sending cool ripples across your heated skin. Lance kept the cloth cool against your neck, whispering praise and encouragement, his strong hands providing counter pressure when the pain threatened to break you. The contractions grew merciless, each one stealing the breath from your lungs, your moans rising to echo off the chamber’s high ceiling. The water supported you, let you shift and roll your hips, but the pain was raw, relentless. Lance moved the cloth to your forehead, his other hand cradling your cheek, grounding you as your body shuddered with the effort.
At one point, you broke, voice cracking. “I can’t do this—it hurts so much, I can’t—”
Lance’s mouth was at your ear, his voice a low, unshakable promise: “You can. I know you can. You’re the strongest person I know. I’m right here with you—every second, every breath.”
Clair’s voice cut through, sharp and sure. “Your body knows what to do. Listen to it. When you need to push—push.”
The urge built, wild and primal. You bore down, the world narrowing to the burning, stinging stretch of your body making way for new life. Lance held you, forehead pressed to yours, his hands strong at your arms, murmuring every word of love he’d ever known. You screamed, pain and power and fear and hope all tangled together, startlesome enough that even the great Dragonite outside the chamber stirred, wings rattling against stone.
At some point, Clair leaned in, her hands gentle as she checked your progress. “Alright, she’s crowning. Lance, do you want to catch your kid?” There was a glint in her eye, a challenge in her smile.
Lance hesitated, torn between staying at your side and accepting the task. You nodded, breathless, squeezing his hand. “Go on. You can do it. You’re the clan leader, right?”
Clair’s laugh was a spark of mischief. “Come on, future clan leader. You can tame a dragon, you can catch a baby.”
With your encouragement, and Clair’s teasing, Lance slid behind you, hands trembling just a little as he moved next to his cousin. She guided him, her voice calm and precise. “Support her head—gentle, just like that. Now, wait for the next contraction.” Your scream echoed off the stone, pain blinding, the ring of fire searing as you pushed. Lance’s hands, big and careful, eased your daughter’s slippery head out, and then the shoulders, your cries almost drowned out by Dragonair’s humming. Clair pressed a hand to your shoulder, grounding you as you bore down, the last of the pain cresting and breaking.
Your baby slid into Lance’s hands, and he lifted her out of the water, awestruck, red hair damp with sweat, eyes shining with tears. He cradled your daughter against your chest, her skin slick and warm, her first cry rising in the cavern, bouncing off the ancient stone. Lance kissed your forehead, settling beside you in the water, voice hoarse with pride and wonder. “You did it. Look at her. Our little girl. She’s perfect.”
Clair, businesslike and gentle, waited for the afterbirth, helping you deliver it and checking it carefully. “All clear,” she pronounced, then shot Lance a smirk. “Not bad for your first catch, cousin. I’ll go tell the elders the new heir has arrived.” She recalled Dragonair, leaving you and Lance alone in the shimmering pool.
Lance helped you adjust your hold, guiding your daughter to your breast. She latched with surprising strength, her tiny fingers curling around your finger. Lance wrapped his arms around you both, cloak trailing in the water, his cheek pressed to your hair. “You are my heart. I love you. Both of you,” he murmured.
The cavern was quiet but for the soft lapping of water, the distant rumble of dragons, your daughter’s soft noises. You rested in Lance’s embrace, your family safe in the heart of Dragon’s Den, surrounded by ancient stone and the promise of new life.
Friede
The hospital room was a swirl of white sheets, low voices, and the constant, quiet hum of machines. It smelled faintly like lemon cleaner and sea breeze, a strange comfort even as the world inside your body swung precariously between anticipation and nerves. You were propped up on pillows, an IV snaking from your arm. Your belly was tight and heavy, the dull ache of early induction growing sharper as the meds did their work. Friede sat at your side, his trademark goggles shoved up into his hair, jacket slung over the back of the chair. He looked weirdly at home amidst the medical devices, his hand warm and solid in yours, thumb tracing gentle circles on your knuckles. Cap sat at the end of the bed, watching you with intense, round-eyed concern, his tail flicking in time with the beeping monitor.
Orla was there first, her orange-tipped hair bright against the blue walls as she fussed with the room’s fan. Mollie hovered with arms folded, her professional mask in place but softer around the edges, while Murdock perched in the visitor chair, hands clasped, face set in a determined line.
You explained, patient and a little dazed, about pre-eclampsia—the high blood pressure, the concern for both you and the baby, the reason you’d come in early. “We’re just waiting for everything to get moving,” you said, glancing at Friede, who squeezed your hand and nodded as if to say, I’ve got you.
Orla leaned in, green eyes bright. “Are you scared?” she asked, voice gentle, the question hanging in the quiet.
You smiled, a little wobbly. “Not really scared. Just… everything feels unreal right now. This was supposed to just be a regular check-up, and now, here we are, getting ready to have the baby.” You sighed, placing a hand on your belly. “I’m more worried about the baby than I am myself. I just want them to be okay, you know?”
Mollie, arms crossed, nodded, her mouth set in a firm line. “You’re in good hands. The medical team here is top notch. They’ll take care of you both.”
Murdock grinned, his big hands resting on his knees. “When this is all over, you tell me what you want to eat. Doesn’t matter what it is—I’ll whip it up. Sweet, savory, whatever you’re craving, or maybe whatever you couldn’t have while you were pregnant. You deserve it after all this.”
You managed a smile, heart swelling at their care. “Honestly, a simple sandwich with cold cuts sounds nice.”
“You got it,” he said, voice thick with emotion.
Liko, Roy, and Dot drifted in to check on you, all wide eyes and nervous energy. Dot, as always, hung back, but even she managed a soft, “You’ll do great.” Liko beamed, squeezing your foot, and Roy’s enthusiasm filled the room. “We’re all cheering for you! Even if Ult thinks babies are boring.”
Cap hopped down from the bed, ears twitching at the sound of the nurse knocking. The nurse smiled, clipboard in hand. “We’re going to try some practice pushes, okay? Just to see if the baby’s moving down.”
That was the cue for the crew to scatter. Friede waved the younger members out, followed by Orla, Mollie, and Murdock, before turning to Cap. “What about you, partner? Wanna stay, or…?”
Cap considered, then gave a determined little salute and padded out, pausing to offer Friede a reassuring “Pi-Pika-chu!” before the door clicked shut.
The nurse settled you, helping you draw your knees up, and Friede angled his chair so he could hold your hand, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles. “You ready?” he asked, pushing aside his own nerves, voice low and soft just for you.
“As I’ll ever be,” you replied, managing a weak grin. The nurse guided you through a push; you bore down, following instinct, and the nurse’s face went pale.
“Oh sh—hang on! I need to get the doctor, because the baby's right there!”
The room spun into motion: doctors and nurses converging, gloves snapping, voices brisk and urgent. Friede stayed beside you, hand never leaving yours, his thumb stroking your wrist in frantic, comforting circles.
The contractions surged, sharper now as the meds ebbed and the real pain cut through. You nodded, remembering: push during the contraction, breathe when it ebbs. Friede murmured encouragement—“That’s it, you’re amazing, almost there, just breathe”—his voice rough with awe and fear. “Her head’s almost out.”
Between pushes, in the strange lull, you felt something unidentifiably weird and awkward, a pressure neither pain nor pleasure. You burst into laughter, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably, so out of place and yet so absolutely genuine you couldn’t stop giggling.
Friede blinked at you, eyes wide and worried. “Hey, you okay? Do you need anything? Want me to call Cap back in…?”
You shook your head, giggling harder, and managed between breaths, “No, it’s fine. This is just—this feels so weird and bizarre.”
“In a bad way?”
“I don’t think so? It’s just weird, Friede, I can’t—” You dissolved into more laughter, helpless.
The doctor, chuckling, grinned and slightly leaned over at the nurse to his side, “Every time she laughs, the baby comes out a little more.”
“Never in my life have I ever seen a mother laugh like this while laboring,” the nurse responded, amused but awed.
Another nurse chuckled, “She might just laugh baby into the world—keep going, mama!” She threw a wink at Friede. Everything was alright, if not a bit odd and abnormal.
Friede, relief flooding his face, started laughing, too, the tension melting as he watched you, his fingers tracing your knuckles, voice merry and bright. “Well, that’s my girl. Gonna be a wild ride from the start, huh?”
The next contraction hit, and you bore down, laughter still bubbling through the pain. “I can’t believe this is happening,” you wheezed.
The doctor called out, “Almost there—one more and baby’s out!”
And then, with one last, whooping giggle and a final, determined push, your daughter slipped into the world, red and wriggling and perfect. The room filled with soft, awed laughter, and the doctor placed her on your chest, new and slick and warm, her tiny hands curling instinctively.
Friede leaned close, pressing a kiss to your temple, his goggles slipping down over one eye. “She’s beautiful,” he whispered, voice raw and thick. “You’re amazing.”
You stared down at your daughter, the world narrowing to the three of you, the quiet hum of the hospital forgotten. Outside, you could hear the Volt Tacklers cheering, Cap’s triumphant “Pika!” echoing down the hall, Orla’s laugh, Murdock’s shouts.
Friede brushed your hair back, forehead pressed to yours, the two of you tangled around your daughter, laughter still lingering in the air. “Welcome to the crew, little one,” he murmured, as the world spun soft and bright around your new family.
Guzma
(for @bigguscheesius)
CW: Dealings with hemorrhaging and trauma from childbirth
The sterile hum of the L&D ward in Alola’s biggest hospital was a far cry from the riot of color and noise outside, but inside your room it was all tense, focused quiet and the staccato beep of the fetal monitor. You gripped the handrail of the bed, sweat beading on your brow as another contraction rolled over you, hot and sharp and relentless. Hala sat at your side, his huge, warm hand enfolding yours, thumb stroking slow circles into your skin—solid, grounding, his presence as steady as the islands themselves. Hau sat on the window ledge, fidgeting with nervous energy, his usually bright smile tinged with worry. Molayne, all quiet curiosity and gentle reassurance, lingered at the monitors, utterly fascinated by the steady pulse of your baby’s heartbeat. And Olivia, radiant and a little awkward in her high heels, sat at your other side, wrapping you in a fierce, one-armed hug every time a contraction let go.
But the one man you were hoping would be there, wasn’t there.
The contractions were coming faster now, each one a wave that left you gasping, clutching the bedrail. Hala pressed his large, warm hand to your back, voice soft in your ear. “Deep breaths now, little one. You’re doing well. That’s it—let it pass.” He pressed a cool cloth to your brow, his other hand bracing your back, and though his bulk was intimidating, every movement radiated gentleness.
“Where is Guzma, anyway?” Olivia asked, half teasing, half genuinely concerned. “Bit late for cold feet, don’t you think?”
Molayne, still fiddling with the fetal monitor, answered, “She sent him a message, but—well, he’s not here yet.”
Olivia made a face, arms crossing. “Typical. Honestly…”
Before you could speak up, Hala spoke up, gentle but firm. “Give him time, Olivia. Guzma’s been through more than most. He’ll come.” He turned his attention to you, his gaze steady and knowing. “How are things between you two? I know he’s been… struggling, lately.”
You managed a smile, but it twisted, pain and something sharper threading through it. “A bit rough, honestly,” you admitted, voice thin. “As the due date got closer, he got…distant. Started saying he’d mess up, that he’d just end up like his dad. He’s been so scared of not being enough. I thought maybe I could talk him through it, but we’d just end up arguing. And then he started picking fights, and would say some things he’ll probably regret.” The memory of those words—sharp, ugly, hurled in frustration—stung more than any contraction. “He missed my last few appointments, if you’ll remember. That’s why I asked you to come with me instead. Figured it was better than going alone.”
Olivia pulled you in, holding you tight, her perfume sweet and grounding. “You’re not alone. You know that, right?”
You tried for a smile, but it was thin. “I thought we were ready. Guzma seemed more open to the idea but maybe…maybe I misread the situation. Maybe getting pregnant was a mistake.” You blinked back tears. “But it’s too late for that now. This baby’s coming whether we’re ready or not. And I’ll keep them, no matter what he decides.”
Hau’s face hardened with rare seriousness. “Hey, don’t say that. Even if Guzma flakes, you have us. Me, Hala, Olivia, Molayne—even Nanu, if you need him. We’re your family too. That baby’s got more aunties and uncles than they’ll know what to do with.”
Tears pricked at your eyes, the pain cresting with a fresh contraction, and Molayne squeezed your shoulder, his awkward, nerdy comfort somehow the most reassuring of all.
The door swung open and the doctor swept in, checking your dilation with brisk, practiced hands. “Almost there,” she murmured, prepping the room, drawing out trays, readying the bed. The room was a flurry of movement—nurses prepping, Olivia and Molayne gathering their things to give you space.
Then, the door banged open and in stomped Plumeria, her wild hair a riot of pink and yellow, her face set in lines of annoyance. She was pushing Guzma ahead of her, his hands jammed in his pockets, looking like a delinquent hauled into the principal’s office.
The doctor blinked. “And you are…?”
Plumeria jerked her thumb at Guzma, voice dry as desert sand. “He’s the dad. I’m the aunty. Sorry we’re late.” She shoved Guzma forward, her glare daring him to move another inch without saying what he needed to say. “Well? Got something for her, ‘big man?’”
Guzma shot her a glare, then shuffled his feet, hands jammed into his pockets. When his eyes landed on you—sweat-soaked, tired, and scared—they softened slightly, all the bravado leaking out. You saw the war in his eyes: fear and regret, shame and hope.
Plumeria elbowed him, hard. “C’mon, Guz. Say it.”
He snapped at her, “Fuck, back off, Plume—” but then his attention locked back onto you, the fight draining from his shoulders. “Look…babe, I been a real jerk. Worse than that. I got scared—scared I’d mess up, scared I’d be like him. You know how my old man was. I don’t wanna mess this up, mess you up, or the kid, and I started thinkin’ I’d ruin everything. So I bailed, and I took it out on you, and you didn’t deserve none of it. I’m sorry, alright? I wanna do better. For you. For the kid. I’m here now. And I ain’t runnin’ no more.”
Olivia’s eyes narrowed, but Hala smiled, pride shining through the lines of worry on his face. “That’s all we can ask, son.”
Your heart twisted, warmth blooming through the ache. But before you could respond, a sharp, deep contraction tore through you, making you cry out. The doctor checked you again, her eyes lighting up. “We’re ready. Let’s have a baby.”
The others slipped out—Olivia squeezing your hand, Hau giving you a thumbs up, Molayne murmuring encouragement. Plumeria stayed, settling at your opposite side, damp cloth in hand, dabbing your brow.
Hala squeezed Guzma’s shoulder, gently guiding him to your side. “Take my place. She needs you.” With Hala and Guzma’s help, you rolled to your side, with Guzma holding your leg up. But as the doctor counted you through your first push, he blanched, beads of sweat popping on his brow.
Plumeria scoffed, “Don’t you dare faint, Guz.”
“Shut up. Big Bad Guzma ain’t a pussy.”
Hala clucked his tongue at the language, but said nothing.
Guzma tried valiantly to hold your leg steady, but when the baby’s head started to crown, color drained from his face. He swayed, eyes wide. “Oh, man, I’m gonna—”
“We got a fainter here!” the doctor called out, amusingly.
A nurse gently took him by the shoulders and steered him to the couch as Plumeria snorted, “Huh, Big bad Guzma is a pussy.”
Hala took over, steady as a mountain, his hands strong and sure. “I gotcha, little one. You don’t need to worry about me. Been there for all of my kids and grandkids.”
Plumeria stroked your hair, her hand cool and sure. “Almost there, girl. Show ‘em what you’re made of.”
You pushed, groaning, riding each wave of pain, the world narrowing to the blur of faces, the heat, the bright lights, Hala’s encouragement, Plumeria’s steady grip. Guzma, from the couch, offered hoarse words of support—“You got this, babe. You’re tough. Tougher’n me, that’s for sure. Show’em whose boss!”
The room narrowed to a blur of voices and bright lights, the world shrinking to the burning point of your body striving to bring your son into the world. And then, in a rush, it was over—the doctor catching your son, holding him up, the air filling with his first wail. Hala gently lowered your leg and helped you roll onto your back, and the doctor placed your baby on your chest, slick and perfect and so, so small.
“Would the father like to cut the cord?” the doctor asked, brightly.
Guzma blinked, bewildered. “Cut the what now?”
Plumeria rolled her eyes, marching over to haul him up. “Cut the cord, genius. It’s tradition.”
Guzma looked like he might faint again. “Uh, maybe I’ll just…look at him instead,” he mumbled, drifting to your side, wide-eyed and awestruck. Plumeria did the honors, snipping the cord with a practiced flourish.
Guzma leaned in, studying his son, his voice soft and rough. “Two bug boys now, huh? You sure you can handle that?”
You managed a weak laugh, stroking your son’s downy hair. “I can handle anything with you.”
The afterbirth was delivered. And as the doctor was checking to make sure it was fully intact, you felt a wave of dizziness, a wrongness spreading through you. “Guzma…” you said, breath becoming shallow, “Guzma, I need you to take the baby.”
Guzma’s eyes sharpened, panic flickering across his face. “What’s wrong?”
You pressed the baby into his arms. “Take him—please—” The world tilted, spots blurring your vision.
Plumeria’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and worried. “Hala, that’s a lot of blood. Is that…normal?”
Hala’s face tightened. “No, it isn’t. She’s hemorrhaging."
The doctor’s voice was tight. “I can’t stop the bleeding. Nurse! Get help—now!” Alarms blared, and more medical staff flooding the room. Guzma was swept to the edge, his arms clumsy and stiff around the now-wailing baby, Plumeria pale beside him. Hala herded Plumeria out but paused, noticing Guzma frozen, white-knuckled, your son wailing in his arms.
“Guzma!” Hala he called out, trying to snap the new father out of it.
But Guzma stood frozen, horror etching every line of his face. The memories slammed into him—every argument, every cruel word, every absence, the fear that he’d lose you before he’d even gotten the chance to truly do right by you or your son. His hands shook, the baby’s cries rising in pitch.
Hala strode over to the younger man. “Guzma!” he barked, sharp enough to pierce his spiral. “Look at me, son.” He took the baby, cradling the tiny boy against his huge chest, speaking low and steady as chaos churned in the background.
Guzma’s voice cracked, raw and desperate. “I can’t lose her, man. Not after what I’ve done, what I’ve said. I told her I wouldn’t run anymore—”
“Listen to me, Guzma. This isn’t your fault,” Hala said, voice low and steady, grounding Guzma as he teetered on the edge. “Complications happen, but it doesn’t mean it’s your fault.”
Tears streaked Guzma’s cheeks, his breathing ragged as he watched the medical team work. “Hala, if she—if she dies, I got nothin’. I can’t do this, man. Not alone. I don’t know how. I can’t do this without her, Hala. I was such a fuckin’ idiot.”
Hala shifted the baby and place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to do it without her. And you don’t have to do it alone. You got us, son—all of us. It takes a village, you know that.” He shifted Guzma’s son in his arms, and gently began to bounce him, soothing him. “Remember planting those berry saplings in my garden? How you worried they wouldn’t take root, that you’d mess it up? Sure, some of them got messed up. But you still got your hands dirty and cared for them. Those saplings grew strong, didn’t they? And you didn’t do it alone, did you? Well, this boy—your son—he’s your sapling now. And we’ll help you raise him, all of us.”
Guzma’s breathing slowed as Hala continued. “You’re scared. I get it. But your love, and your strength, and your stubbornness—that’s what that boy needs. And your girl…she’s strong. She’s a fighter. I got faith in her, and in you.” He continued to bounce your son, who was starting to settle.
The medical staff worked, voices urgent but focused. You hovered on the edge of consciousness, the world reduced to the sound of the medical staff around you and the steady drone of machines. Then—at last—a note of triumph in the doctor’s voice. “There! The bleeding’s stopped. Get the transfusion ready, just in case, but she’s stable.”
Guzma’s knees buckled, relief tearing through him so fierce he nearly wept. The doctor crossed to him, her mask lowered, her eyes soft. “She’s going to be alright, sir. And, congratulations—you’re a father.”
Hala beamed, gently passing Guzma his son. Guzma clutched the baby, staring down at his tiny, perfect face, and then looked at you, pale but alive, your eyelids fluttering as you drifted back toward him. He leaned over, pressing a trembling kiss to your forehead, his voice a rough, fervent promise.
“I’m here, babe. I’m gonna do right by you. By both of you. I swear it.”
