Archive of Our Own

The bartender slid another glass toward Venison with the practiced ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times before. The amber liquid caught the dim light, swirling lazily as Venison’s fingers,rough and familiar,curved around the cool surface. He didn’t lift it right away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, the hollows where his eyes should have been giving nothing away as he listened to the clink of ice, the muffled laughter from the other end of the bar.

"You gonna drink that or just marry it?" The bartender’s voice was dry, but not unkind.

Venison snorted, lifting the glass to his lips in one fluid motion. The whiskey burned down his throat, settling warm and heavy in his gut,just like it always did. Except tonight, something felt off. A dull, persistent ache had been gnawing at him for weeks, low in his abdomen, but he’d chalked it up to bad takeout or the lingering effects of the wilt. He’d survived that. A little stomach trouble was nothing.

"Marry it? Nah," Venison finally replied, setting the glass down with a thud. "We’re just fuckin’." The bartender laughed, shaking his head as he moved to help another customer. Alone again, Venison’s fingers drifted absently to his stomach, pressing against the soft swell there. He’d gained weight since the wilt, his ribs no longer sharp under his skin, his frame filling out in ways he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t unwelcome,just strange. Like his body was rebuilding itself without his permission.

The ache in Venison’s stomach twisted sharply, like someone had knotted a wire around his insides and yanked. He hissed through his teeth, fingers digging into the bar’s edge as the pain flared, then ebbed just as quickly. False contractions, the bartender had joked last week when Venison had doubled over mid-sentence. But this,this didn’t feel like indigestion. It felt like his body was trying to rearrange itself, and failing spectacularly.

Venison’s fingers trembled against the bar, the whiskey suddenly sour in his mouth. The pain had vanished as quickly as it came, but the unease lingered, thick and metallic like blood on his tongue. He exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his grip to loosen. False contractions. The bartender’s joke echoed in his skull, hollow and mocking. Except,no. That wasn’t right. His stomach wasn’t just swollen anymore. It was firm. Curved. Like something was there.

He jerked his hand away as if burned.

The walk home was a blur of uneven pavement and the distant hum of streetlights. Venison’s fingers skimmed the brick walls of alleyways, his knuckles brushing rough surfaces as he counted his steps,twenty-three to the corner, twelve more to the rusted fire escape he used as a landmark. His stomach churned, not from the whiskey this time, but from the way his shirt strained against his abdomen when he breathed too deep. False contractions. The phrase looped in his head, mocking. He’d heard pregnant women talk about them before, back when he’d lingered in clinic waiting rooms during the worst of the wilt. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it? When he was wilted doctors had told him 1000 times he couldn’t get pregnant. And him and Cloud had used condoms ever since he got better.

The apartment door creaked when he pushed it open, the scent of Cloud’s cheap sandalwood soap clinging to the air like a promise. Venison hesitated in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame as another dull ache rolled through his abdomen. He gritted his teeth until it passed, then kicked the door shut behind him with more force than necessary.

"Cloud?" His voice came out rough, whiskey and nerves tangling in his throat. No answer,just the hum of the fridge and the distant drip of the bathroom sink. Venison exhaled, stripping off his jacket with stiff fingers. The fabric snagged against his stomach, and for the first time, he noticed the way it curved,not soft like fat, but round. Firm. His breath hitched. To anyone else, it would’ve looked like fat. Like the rest of the weight he was putting on.

The bathroom mirror was a cruel joke Venison couldn’t even see, but he pressed his palms against the cold porcelain sink anyway, fingers splayed over the swell of his stomach like he was trying to map a foreign landscape. His breath came too fast, the ache in his gut sharpening into something that felt alarmingly like a warning. False contractions. He scoffed, the sound brittle. False didn’t hurt this much. False didn’t make his skin feel like it was stretching thin over something alive.

Venison pressed his forehead against the mirror, the cool surface doing nothing to ground him. His fingers trembled as they traced the unfamiliar curve of his belly,too round, too low, too fucking impossible,before gripping the sink so hard his knuckles went white. Another wave of pain rolled through him, stealing his breath. This wasn't whiskey. This wasn't bad takeout. This was real.

"Ven?" Cloud's voice came from the doorway, sleep-rough and warm. The floorboards creaked as he shuffled closer. "You okay? You're breathing like you ran a marathon."

Venison’s throat tightened. He couldn’t see Cloud’s face, couldn’t see the way his sleep-mussed hair stuck up in all directions or the way his brow furrowed with concern, but he knew the exact cadence of Cloud’s footsteps, the way the air shifted when he leaned in close. The warmth of Cloud’s hand settled on his shoulder, grounding and familiar, but Venison flinched anyway.

“Just… stomach shit,” Venison muttered, fingers still digging into the sink. His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape. The lie tasted bitter. Cloud exhaled softly behind him, thumb rubbing slow circles against Venison’s shoulder blade. “One too many at the bar.”

Cloud hummed skeptically, his fingers trailing down Venison’s arm until they brushed against the tight curve of his stomach. Venison stiffened, but Cloud didn’t pull away, just let his palm rest there, warm and steady. "You’ve been sayin’ that for weeks," Cloud murmured, voice thick with sleep but sharp with something else. Concern. "And you’re hot. Like, fever hot."

Venison swallowed hard. The truth coiled in his chest, jagged and suffocating. He could lie again. Could shrug Cloud off, stumble to bed, and pretend this wasn’t happening. But another cramp seized him, sharper than before, and a broken noise escaped his throat before he could choke it back. Cloud’s grip tightened instantly. "Okay, what the fuck," Cloud breathed, turning Venison toward him with careful urgency. "Talk to me. Now."

Venison's breath hitched, the words lodging in his throat like shards of glass. Cloud’s hands, always so steady, so sure, cupped his face, thumbs brushing the hollows beneath his brow. The silence stretched taut between them, broken only by the drip of the sink and Venison’s ragged breathing.

"It’s not," Venison started, then choked off, shaking his head. His fingers fisted in the hem of his shirt, trembling as he dragged it up over the undeniable swell of his stomach. The air against his bare skin was cold, but Cloud’s sharp inhale was warmer, closer. Venison couldn’t say it, the words wouldn’t come out.

Cloud’s hands went still against Venison’s face. For a heartbeat, there was nothing,no breath, no sound,just the weight of Cloud’s palms framing Venison’s jaw like he was holding something fragile. Then his fingers slid down, slow and deliberate, tracing the slope of Venison’s shoulders, the dip of his collarbones, before settling on the taut curve of his stomach. Venison flinched, but Cloud didn’t pull away. His touch was featherlight, almost reverent, as if he were afraid to press too hard.

"You’re," Cloud’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. "You’re pregnant." It wasn’t a question. The words hung between them, solid and undeniable.

Venison's breath shuddered out of him like a punched-out sigh. "Yeah," he whispered, the word raw at the edges. His fingers twitched against Cloud’s wrists, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer. "Guess I am."

Cloud made a small, wounded noise, something between disbelief and delight,before his arms were around Venison, pulling him flush against his chest. His heartbeat was a rapid staccato against Venison’s cheek, his breath warm where it tangled in Venison’s hair. "Holy shit," Cloud murmured, voice thick with laughter. "Holy shit." He squeezed tighter, his hands splayed across Venison’s back like he was trying to memorize the shape of him.

Venison didn’t move. He stood frozen in Cloud’s arms, his fingers curled loosely in the fabric of Cloud’s sleep shirt. The words I might’ve ruined it already sat like lead on his tongue, but he couldn’t force them out, not when Cloud was pressing kisses to the crown of his head, his shoulders, the sharp angle of his jaw. The affection was dizzying, overwhelming in its sincerity.

Cloud’s hands slid down to cradle Venison’s stomach, his thumbs tracing slow, reverent circles over the taut skin. "How long?" he murmured, pressing his forehead against Venison’s. His breath was warm, whiskey-sweet from the nightcap he’d taken before bed.

Venison swallowed. "I don’t know, but.. with the false contractions, and the last time we didn’t… didn’t use protection, I’d say 8 months," he admitted, the words scraping out of him like gravel. "Maybe." He felt Cloud go rigid against him, heard the sharp intake of breath. "I didn’t, I thought it was just the wilt recovery. The weight gain, the," His fingers flexed against Cloud’s wrists. "They told me I couldn’t. After the wilt. Said it’d never happen."

Cloud exhaled hard through his nose, his hands still pressed to Venison’s stomach like he was afraid it might vanish. "But it did," he said, wonder threading through his voice. His thumbs swept another slow circle, catching on the ridge of Venison’s hipbone. "You’re really," A laugh bubbled up, sudden and bright. "Fuck, Ven. We’re having a kid."

Cloud’s hands slid lower, pressing against the unmistakable swell of Venison’s belly, firmer now, undeniable. A sudden kick fluttered beneath his palm, sharp enough to make Venison gasp. Cloud froze. "Did you…?" His voice cracked. "Was that?"

Venison’s throat tightened. He hadn’t noticed the movements before, not really. The wilt had left his nerves dulled, his body slow to register sensation. But now, with Cloud’s hands anchoring him, the reality of it punched through his ribs like a fist. "Yeah," he whispered. "That’s… them."

Cloud made a noise like he’d been sucker-punched, half gasp, half laugh, and dropped to his knees right there on the bathroom tiles. His palms pressed flush against Venison’s stomach, fingers splayed wide like he was trying to catch sunlight. Another kick. Cloud’s breath hitched. "Fuck," he breathed, forehead resting against Venison’s hipbone. "Fuck, they’re strong." His thumbs traced the arc of Venison’s bellybutton, now shallow and stretched. "You’re gonna be huge by the time they’re done with you."

Venison’s fingers tangled in Cloud’s hair, gripping too tight. "I already am," he muttered, but there was no bite to it, just a shaky exhale. His knees wobbled. Cloud caught him before he could sway, hands sliding around to brace the small of his back. The touch was too careful. Too knowing. Venison shuddered. "Cloud, I didn’t know. All the whiskey, the—" His throat closed around the rest.

Cloud stood abruptly, his hands sliding up Venison’s sides to cradle his face again. His thumbs brushed over the hollows beneath Venison’s brow, grounding and insistent. "Stop," he murmured, voice rough but steady. "You didn’t know. And they’re kicking, Ven. That’s not…that’s not something that happens if you’ve ruined it." He pressed a kiss to Venison’s forehead, lips warm against his skin. "They’re alive. And they’re ours."

Venison’s breath shuddered out of him, his fingers tightening in Cloud’s shirt. "You’re not," He swallowed hard. "You’re not mad?"

Cloud laughed,a startled, breathless sound, and pressed his forehead to Venison’s. "Mad?" His thumbs swept over Venison’s cheekbones, wiping away moisture Venison hadn’t realized was there. "I’m terrified. But mad? Fuck no." His voice dropped to a whisper, raw with something like reverence. "You’re carrying our kid, Ven. How could I be mad?"

Venison’s breath hitched, fingers curling tighter in Cloud’s shirt as another cramp twisted low in his belly. Cloud’s hands slid down immediately, palms cradling the curve of him. "Another one?" Cloud asked, voice tight with concern. Venison nodded jerkily, jaw clenched. Cloud’s fingers pressed gently along the taut skin, tracing the contraction like a map. "Breathe through it," he murmured, lips brushing Venison’s temple. "Just like that. You’re okay."

The contraction crested like a wave, sharp enough to make Venison’s knees buckle. Cloud caught him effortlessly, arms looping around his waist as Venison sagged against him with a ragged groan. "Fuck," Venison hissed, fingers digging into Cloud’s shoulders. "That one— shit." Cloud’s hands smoothed up his back, steadying, his breath warm against Venison’s neck. "False contractions my ass," Venison muttered when he could speak again.

Cloud chuckled, but his grip was tight, like he was afraid Venison might dissolve if he let go. "We should call my mom," he said, fingers carding through Venison’s sweat-damp hair. "Like, now." Venison stiffened, but Cloud pressed on before he could protest. "She’s a doctor, Ven. And you’re…." His palm slid down to rest on Venison’s stomach. "Eight months. We don’t even know if that’s accurate."

Venison’s fingers dug into Cloud’s forearms, his breathing uneven. "She’ll think I’m…" He cut himself off, swallowing the rest like it burned. Amara had never outright said it, but Venison knew, she saw the empty bottles in their recycling, the way his hands shook some mornings. A wilt survivor, an alcoholic, now suddenly pregnant? He could already hear the clinical disapproval in her voice.

Cloud’s thumbs swept over Venison’s knuckles, grounding. "She’ll think you’re carrying her grandkid," he said firmly. His phone was already in his hand, the screen casting a pale glow across his face. "And she’ll wanna make sure you’re both okay." The call connected before Venison could argue.

The phone rang exactly twice before Amara answered, her voice sharp with concern. "Cloud? It’s three in the morning,"

"Mom," Cloud interrupted, his thumb rubbing absent circles against Venison’s hip. "We need you. Right now."

The silence on the other end of the line was thick enough to choke on. Then Amara’s voice, suddenly crisp and alert: "What’s wrong?"

Cloud exhaled, his breath stirring Venison’s hair. "Ven’s," His fingers flexed against Venison’s hip, searching for the right words. "He’s pregnant. Like, really pregnant. And he’s having contractions. The false one, whatever those are called. We’re.. thinking 8 months."

The silence on the other end of the line stretched so long Venison could hear the hum of the phone’s speaker against Cloud’s ear. His fingers twitched against Cloud’s wrist,too tight, probably, but Cloud didn’t pull away.

"Mom?" Cloud prompted, voice cracking.

The sharp inhale on the other end of the line was audible even to Venison. Then Amara’s voice, suddenly clinical and controlled, the tone she used when stitching up Cloud’s childhood scrapes or explaining why Venison’s wilt scars would never fade. "Are you certain?"

Cloud’s hand found Venison’s, threading their fingers together with a squeeze. "Yeah," he said, voice softer now. "Yeah, we’re sure. It’s like, moving. If you press on his belly you can feel little feet."

Amara arrived in under twenty minutes,a record, even for her. The door swung open with enough force to make the hinges groan, and Venison flinched at the sudden draft of night air, his fingers tightening around Cloud’s wrist.

"Where is he?" Amara’s voice was steel wrapped in velvet, the kind of tone that made interns at the hospital straighten their coats. Her footsteps were brisk, purposeful, until they halted just inches from Venison, who was pouring himself his third glass of water, trying to flush every last bit of whiskey from his system. He could smell her perfume, something floral with an undercurrent of antiseptic, and beneath it, the faintest tremor in her breath.

Amara’s hands,cool and efficient, cupped Venison’s face before he could recoil. Her thumbs traced the hollows beneath his brow, clinical but not unkind. "Look at me," she murmured, before catching herself with a sharp exhale. "Ah. Right."

Venison’s jaw clenched. "I can’t exactly,"

Amara’s hands dropped to his shoulders, her grip firm. "Breathe," she ordered, and Venison realized he wasn’t. Her fingers pressed into his pulse point, assessing, always assessing, before sliding down to his abdomen with practiced precision. Venison stiffened, but her touch was impersonal, probing the curve of his stomach with the same detached efficiency she’d use on a patient. Then her fingers stilled. "Oh," she said softly, and for the first time, her voice wavered. "Oh, Cloud."

Cloud’s arm tightened around Venison’s waist. "Is it-?"

Amara's fingers lingered just below Venison's ribcage, pressing gently. A sudden, firm kick against her palm made her inhale sharply. "Definitely pregnant," she confirmed, voice hushed. Her clinical tone fractured slightly as she added, "And active. How didn’t you feel this, Venison?"

Venison shuddered when another contraction rolled through him, “I don’t  know.” his fingers digging into Cloud's forearm. Amara's hands immediately shifted, mapping the tension with professional detachment. "Braxton-Hicks," she murmured. "But strong ones. We need to.."

Amara's fingers pressed deeper into Venison's abdomen, her touch firm but oddly gentle. "Lie down," she instructed, guiding him toward the couch with a hand on his elbow. Venison resisted for half a second, always stubborn, before another contraction stole his breath and he let Cloud half-carry him to the cushions. Amara knelt beside him, her stethoscope cold against his skin as she listened. The silence stretched, broken only by Venison's ragged breathing and the distant hum of the fridge.

"Eight months is... possible," Amara said finally, her voice carefully neutral. She folded the stethoscope with precise movements. "But given your medical history…”

Amara hesitated, the weight of the unspoken pressing between them like a held breath. Venison's fingers curled into the couch cushions, the rough fabric grounding him. Cloud’s hand found his, warm and steady, but Venison could feel the tremor in his grip, subtle, but there.

"Which one? The past as a Wilt or the fact that I have an alcohol problem that’s probably killing this kid?" Venison bit out, voice sharper than he intended. He could hear the hitch in Amara’s breath, the way her fingers tightened around her stethoscope.

Amara’s silence was heavy, the kind that settled in the hollows between ribs. Then her hand, steady, always steady, brushed Venison’s knee. "Both," she said quietly. No pity. Just fact. "But right now, I’m more concerned about the contractions. Have they been regular?" Her fingers pressed against Venison’s wrist, counting pulses with practiced ease.

Venison exhaled through his nose. “No. Inconsistent strength. Inconsistent everything over the past week. Tonights the first night they’ve been.. frequent, though.”

Amara’s fingers traced the taut swell of Venison’s stomach with clinical precision, her touch betraying nothing, but Venison could hear the faintest tremor in her breath when another kick landed against her palm. She exhaled sharply. "Definitely Braxton-Hicks," she murmured, more to herself than to them. "But strong enough to be concerning at eight months." Her hand withdrew, the stethoscope clicking softly as she coiled it. "You need rest. Hydration. And no more whiskey."

Venison’s fingers twitched against the couch cushion. "I’m not touching a bottle ever again. I…have a problem- I’m a monster."

Cloud made a wounded noise, his grip on Venison’s hand tightening almost painfully. “You’re not,”

Amara cut him off with a sharp gesture, her palm pressing flat against Venison’s abdomen as another contraction rippled beneath her fingers. “This isn’t the time for self-flagellation,” she said briskly, though her voice softened when Venison flinched. “What matters now is the child. And you.” Her thumb brushed the inside of Venison’s wrist,an uncharacteristic slip of tenderness. “You’re both alive. That’s where we start.”

Amara's hands moved with the same brisk efficiency she used in the ER, tugging Venison's shirt higher to expose the full curve of his stomach. The sudden chill made him tense, but her fingers were already mapping the terrain of his abdomen,pressing, assessing, retreating. "You're dehydrated," she announced, her voice clipped. "And exhausted. Both of which make contractions worse."

The couch cushions dipped as Cloud sat beside Venison, his thigh pressing warm against Venison's shaking knee. "What do we do?" Cloud asked, fingers skimming Venison's hipbone like he was afraid to touch too hard.

Amara’s sigh was measured, the sound of a doctor weighing risks against limited options. "First, water. A lot of it." She nudged the half-empty glass toward Venison with clinical detachment. "Then bedrest. At least for tonight. If the contractions don’t ease by morning, we’re going to the hospital. Getting him looked at by someone more qualified in prenatal monitoring."

Venison’s fingers closed around the glass, the condensation slick against his palm. He drank too fast, water sloshing over his chin, but Amara didn’t comment, just watched with that infuriatingly neutral expression. Cloud’s hand settled on the small of his back, grounding. "You heard her," Cloud murmured, lips brushing Venison’s temple. "Bed. Now."

Venison didn’t move. Couldn’t. The glass trembled in his grip, water sloshing dangerously close to the rim as another cramp twisted low in his gut, His free hand clenched in the fabric of Cloud’s shirt, knuckles whitening. Every muscle in his body locked tight, braced against the pain and the dizzying rush of oh god, this is real that followed. His breathing hitched, ragged and uneven, and for a horrifying second, he thought he might vomit right there on Amara’s shoes.

Amara’s fingers pressed into his wrist again, clinical and unrelenting. "Breathe," she ordered, her voice cutting through the static in his skull. "Slowly. In through your nose." Venison tried, he did, but the air caught in his throat like a hooked fish, his ribs aching with the effort. Cloud’s palm slid up his spine, warm and steady, pressing between his shoulder blades until Venison managed a shuddering inhale.

Venison's fingers dug into Cloud's shirt like he was drowning, his knuckles white against the fabric. The glass of water slipped from his grip, hitting the carpet with a dull thud,thankfully empty. His stomach roiled, the whiskey and panic churning together in a nauseating spiral. If he moved, if he breathed wrong, he was certain he'd vomit. His throat burned with the effort of holding it back.

"Easy," Cloud murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Venison's ear. His hands framed Venison's face, thumbs tracing the hollows beneath his brow, too gently, like Venison might shatter under the weight of his own panic. "Breathe with me, okay? Just like this." Cloud inhaled slowly, deliberately, his chest pressing against Venison's back in a steady rhythm. Venison tried to match it, but his lungs rebelled, shuddering on the exhale like a sputtering engine.

Amara's fingers pressed into Venison's wrist again, her touch clinical but oddly grounding. "Your pulse is racing," she noted, her voice devoid of judgment. She leaned closer, the scent of antiseptic and floral perfume sharpening as her stethoscope brushed his chest. "And your blood pressure is elevated. Stress exacerbates contractions." Her palm settled flat against Venison's abdomen, just above the taut curve where skin stretched thin over movement. Another kick. her professionalism snapped back into place. "You need to calm down."

Venison's breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, his fingers curled into fists so tight his nails bit crescent moons into his palms. The room tilted around him, too hot, too close, the air thick with the scent of Cloud's  soap and Amara's perfume. His stomach twisted, not just from the contractions now, but from the sheer impossibility of it all. Eight months. Eight fucking months, and he'd been drowning himself in whiskey.

Another cramp seized him, sharper than the last, and Venison doubled over with a bitten-off groan. His forehead pressed against Cloud's collarbone, the fabric of Cloud's shirt damp with sweat where Venison's breath hitched against it. "Fuck," he hissed, fingers scrabbling at Cloud's sleeves like he might tear through them. "Fuck, fuck,"

Cloud's arms tightened around Venison instantly, his breath hot against Venison's temple. "Okay, okay, just breathe through it," he murmured, hands sliding down to cradle Venison's belly with a reverence that made Venison's throat tighten. The contraction crested like a wave, sharp enough to steal his breath, and Venison arched against Cloud with a strangled noise, fingers twisting in the fabric of Cloud's shirt.

Cloud’s voice was a rough whisper against Venison’s ear, fingers tracing the rigid arc of his stomach as the contraction crested. "That’s it, breathe, just like that." His thumb pressed into the dip of Venison’s hipbone, grounding, real, and Venison clung to the sensation like a lifeline. The pain ebbed slowly, leaving him boneless against Cloud’s chest, sweat cooling on his skin.

Amara’s hands were already moving, brisk and efficient, pressing a cool cloth to Venison’s forehead. "They’re too frequent," she muttered, more to herself than to them. Her fingers lingered over the taut skin of Venison’s abdomen, calculating. "We can’t wait until morning. Hospital. Now."

The hospital bed was too narrow, the sheets too stiff, and the incessant beep of the fetal monitor drilled into Venison’s skull like a rusted nail. He shifted, grimacing as the IV line tugged at the crook of his elbow,another tether in a room full of them. Cloud’s fingers laced through his, warm and steady, but Venison couldn’t relax. Not when every contraction lit up the monitor like a fireworks display, not when nurses kept drifting in to adjust straps and murmur numbers Amara translated into normal and fine like a mantra.

"You’re clenching your jaw again," Cloud murmured, his thumb smoothing the tension from Venison’s knuckles. The overhead lights caught the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes, but his grin was relentless. "Relax. Kid’s just impatient. Like you."

The hospital’s fluorescent lights buzzed like trapped insects, flickering just enough to make the shadows twitch. Venison lay rigid against the thin mattress, every muscle taut as a bowstring. The fetal monitor chirped its relentless rhythm, beep, beep, beep, mocking his attempts to sleep. A nurse had dimmed the lights hours ago at Cloud’s insistence, but Venison could still feel the glare, the way the warmth pressed against him like a physical weight. Not that it mattered. He had no eyes to close.

Cloud’s fingers traced idle patterns over Venison’s wrist, his touch featherlight. "You’re thinking too loud," he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. His thumb brushed the inside of Venison’s palm, a silent question.

The fetal monitor chirped like an insomniac bird, steady, relentless, impossible to ignore. Venison shifted on the narrow hospital bed, the IV line tugging at his elbow with every movement. He'd lost count of how many times he'd tried to find a comfortable position, only for another contraction or the machine's shrill beeping to jerk him back to full awareness. Cloud's warmth pressed against his side, an anchor in the sterile chaos, but even Cloud's slow, even breathing couldn't lull him into sleep.

A nurse swept in,the third one in an hour, her shoes squeaking against the linoleum. "Just checking your vitals," she murmured, her fingers cool against Venison's wrist. The blood pressure cuff tightened around his arm like a vice, and he gritted his teeth. The monitor beeped faster for a moment before settling back into its maddening rhythm.

The IV pump decided to malfunction at 6:17 AM. A high-pitched whine tore through the room's artificial quiet, followed by the mechanical gasp of the machine resetting itself. Venison's fingers spasmed against the bedsheet, his fourth attempt at sleep shattered, just as Cloud jerked upright with a sleep-slurred curse.

"Fuck's sake," Cloud muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face before staggering toward the IV stand. His hip bumped the bedside table, sending a plastic cup rattling. Venison didn't need sight to know Cloud was glaring at the machine like it had personally offended him; the rhythmic clicking of buttons being mashed too hard painted the picture clearly enough.

The IV pump’s alarm finally ceased after Cloud’s fifth attempt at smacking it into submission, but the damage was done, Venison’s shoulders were rigid with exhaustion, his fingers curled into the stiff hospital sheets. The fetal monitor continued its relentless beep-beep-beep, syncing with the overhead fluorescents’ hum like some cruel lullaby. A nurse bustled in at 6:30 AM sharp, her cheerful "Good morning!" grating against Venison’s frayed nerves.

"Contractions have stabilized," she announced, adjusting the monitor straps with practiced efficiency. Venison flinched when her cold stethoscope brushed his skin. "Baby’s heart rate is perfect, strong and steady." She patted his knee, oblivious to the way his jaw clenched. "Try to rest, dad. You’ve got a long day ahead."

The hospital intercom crackled to life at exactly 7:03 AM, blaring an announcement about cafeteria specials with the enthusiasm of a circus barker. Venison’s fingers dug into the mattress, the synthetic fabric bunching beneath his grip. Across the room, a janitor’s mop bucket wheels squealed like a dying animal as they rolled past the doorway. The fetal monitor beeped,steady, mocking,as another contraction tightened low in Venison’s belly, softer now but persistent.

Venison’s exhaustion finally won out around 8 AM, his body going slack against the stiff hospital pillows as sleep dragged him under. His fingers, which had been curled tight around Cloud’s wrist for hours, loosened slightly, just enough for Cloud to slip free without waking him. The fetal monitor’s steady beep was the only sound in the room now, rhythmic and oddly comforting. Cloud lingered for a moment, brushing a thumb over the sweat-damp hair at Venison’s temple before turning toward the door.

Amara was waiting in the hallway, her arms crossed and her posture rigid,the same stance she’d used when Cloud was sixteen and had wrecked her car. She didn’t speak until the door clicked shut behind him, muffling the hum of machines. "We need to talk," she murmured, her voice low but firm.

Cloud rubbed at his eyes, his shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion. "Mom, not now."

"Now," Amara interrupted, her fingers closing around his elbow with surprising gentleness. She guided him toward the empty nurse’s station down the hall, where the overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly. The scent of antiseptic was stronger here, sharp and clinical. Amara’s grip tightened briefly before she released him, her expression unreadable. "Cloud. Be honest with me. Can you two do this?"

Cloud exhaled through his nose, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. "Of course we can." The words came out defensive, edged with sleep deprivation and frayed nerves.

Amara’s gaze flicked toward Venison’s room, then back to Cloud. Her voice softened, just barely. "It’s not just about wanting to, honey. You’ve both been…" She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Unstable. Venison’s health is fragile. His addiction is fragile. And you," She reached out, brushing a thumb over the dark circles beneath Cloud’s eyes. "You’re exhausted already, and the baby isn’t even here yet."

Cloud’s jaw worked silently for a moment before he managed, "We’ll figure it out." His voice cracked on the last word.

Amara sighed, her shoulders sagging. "Figure it out how?" she pressed. "You don’t have a crib. You don’t have formula. You didn’t even know unti…" She cut herself off, pressing two fingers to her temple. "God, Cloud. It’s eight months."

Cloud’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, the overhead lights catching the raw edge of his bitten-down nails. "We’ll adapt," he insisted, voice dropping to a whisper. "Like we always do." His eyes darted toward Venison’s room again, as if he could see through the door, see the way Venison’s fingers had finally gone slack against the sheets, his breathing deepening into something resembling rest.

Amara followed his gaze, her expression unreadable. Then, abruptly, she reached into her purse and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "I made calls," she said quietly, pressing it into Cloud’s hand. "Pediatricians. Support groups for unplanned pregnancies. Rehab programs." Her fingers lingered over his. "You don’t have to do this alone."

Cloud unfolded the paper with trembling hands, his throat working silently as he scanned the list. His heart ached, before he crushed the paper against his chest. "Mom,"

"Don’t," Amara interrupted, her voice thick. She pulled him into a hug so tight it stole his breath, her fingers digging into his back. "Just promise me you’ll call," she murmured into his shoulder. "The second you need help. Promise me."

Cloud nodded against her, the paper crumpling between them. Down the hall, the fetal monitor’s steady beep-beep-beep continued, a metronome counting down to the rest of their lives.

The hospital room door creaked open just as Cloud was smoothing the crumpled list into his pocket. Misty burst in like a hurricane, her boots tracking snowmelt across the linoleum. "Oh my god," she stage-whispered, clutching a stuffed giraffe to her chest. Selene trailed behind her, arms laden with grocery bags that rustled ominously. Venison stirred at the noise, his fingers twitching against the sheets.

Cloud shot them a glare sharp enough to puncture tires. "He just fell asleep,"

Misty ignored him, beelining for Venison’s bedside with the giraffe outstretched like an offering. "I drove twelve hours," she hissed, shoving the toy into Venison’s limp hands. His fingers closed around it reflexively, the plush fabric muffling the fetal monitor’s next beep.

Selene set the bags down with deliberate quiet, her gaze lingering on Venison’s slack face before flicking to Cloud. "How far apart are the contractions?" she murmured, already peeling open a granola bar with surgical precision. Cloud sighed. “He’s got a month still. He just had some… bad Braxton-Hicks. You guys… you guys should go get a hotel. Now isn’t the best time. It’s likley we won’t even be able to see him when he has the damn kid…. Mom’s trying to send him off to rehab.”

Misty gasped, clutching her chest as if Cloud had stabbed her. "What? No way in hell,"

Selene’s hand clamped over Misty’s mouth before she could wake Venison, her other hand pressing the granola bar into Cloud’s palm. "Eat," she ordered, voice brooking no argument. "Then explain."

Cloud bit into the bar mechanically, the peanut butter sticking to the roof of his mouth. The taste,salty, too sweet,made his stomach churn, but Selene’s stare didn’t waver until he swallowed. "Mom thinks we’re not ready," he muttered, rubbing his thumb over the giraffe’s embroidered eyelashes. "She’s not wrong."

Misty wrenched free of Selene’s grip, her whisper a furious hiss. "Bullshit. You’ve been keeping that man alive for years,"

"And barely keeping myself together," Cloud interrupted, his voice cracking. The admission hung between them, raw as the IV marks on Venison’s arms. Outside, a janitor’s cart rattled past, wheels squeaking in time with the fetal monitor’s steady pulse.

Selene’s fingers brushed the crumpled edge of Amara’s list where it peeked from Cloud’s pocket. "Your mother left you resources," she observed, quieter now. "Not an ultimatum."

Cloud exhaled through his nose, watching Venison’s chest rise and fall in sleep. A contraction had twisted his features minutes ago, even unconscious, his body couldn’t escape the reality taking shape beneath his skin.

Misty snatched the list, scanning it with widening eyes. "Holy shit, she got Dr. Lefevre’s personal number?" Her manicured finger tapped the paper. "This is the best neonatologist in Cistia. And, wait, is this free daycare? Holy shit there ARE like 12 rehab programs in here. This is bullshit! Ven isn’t even dependent on alcohol, he just drinks a lot when he does drink.”

The giraffe slipped from Venison’s grip as another contraction rolled through him, this one sharper, deeper, jolting him awake with a bitten-off gasp. His fingers scrabbled blindly for purchase on the bedsheet, nails catching on the starched fabric. The fetal monitor’s beeping accelerated, a frenetic staccato that made Misty yelp and drop the list.

Cloud was at Venison’s side in an instant, his palm pressing flat against Venison’s heaving abdomen. “Breathe,” he murmured, thumb tracing the rigid curve under damp hospital cotton. “Just like before. Slow.”

The contraction crested like a wave breaking over Venison’s ribs, sharp enough to make his vision whiten at the edges, if he had any. His fingers clawed into Cloud’s forearm, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The monitor’s beeping crescendoed, a frantic symphony of sound that drowned out Misty’s startled curse and Selene’s swift footsteps toward the door. But Venison relaxed just as quick. “He’s just being dramatic. He’s used to pain like that going on for hours and hours,”

The door swung open before Selene could reach it, Amara strode in, her scrubs rumpled from hours spent pacing the ER. Her gaze zeroed in on Venison’s clenched fists, the monitor’s erratic spikes, then flicked to Misty clutching the rehab list like a lifeline. "False alarm," she announced, but her hands were already moving, peeling back Venison’s sweat-damp shirt to palpate his abdomen. Her fingers pressed deep, assessing the rigid muscles beneath. "Still Braxton-Hicks," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "Everything on his imaging looks healthy, somehow. Miraculously, his liver seems to be fine. Well, within acceptable limits.”

The giraffe lay abandoned on the floor, one embroidered eye staring accusingly at the ceiling tiles as Misty scooped it up with a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob. "Okay but, look at him," she whispered, gesturing wildly at Venison's swollen abdomen where Cloud's hand still rested. "He's basically a walking maternity ward already! And you're seriously talking about rehab?"

Amara's stethoscope pressed cold against Venison's skin again, her expression unreadable as she listened to the baby's frantic heartbeat. "Liver enzymes are stable," she murmured, ignoring Misty entirely. "But the alcohol withdrawal symptoms could still.."

The stethoscope lifted from Venison’s skin with a soft snap, but Amara’s fingers lingered, just for a second,over the curve of his ribs. Her thumb brushed a scar there, old and puckered, one Venison had earned long before the wilt or the whiskey. Cloud watched her throat work as she swallowed whatever professional detachment she’d mustered. “You’re stable,” she said finally, folding her stethoscope with deliberate slowness. “For now.”

Venison’s breath hitched as another contraction rippled beneath his skin, weaker this time but insistent. His fingers found Cloud’s wrist, gripping tight enough to bruise. “Stable isn’t alive,” he rasped, voice raw. The unspoken I could’ve killed them hung between them, sour as old liquor.

The giraffe's embroidered eyes stared up from Misty's lap as silence pooled in the room, thick, suffocating. Venison's fingers trembled against Cloud's wrist, his breath shallow. Amara exhaled sharply through her nose, her stethoscope coiled too tight in her grip.

The fetal monitor’s beeping slowed, steady again, but Venison’s grip on Cloud’s wrist didn’t loosen. His throat worked silently, his lips parted like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. Misty was the one who broke the silence, tossing the giraffe onto the bed with a decisive thump. "Okay, fuck this," she announced, yanking her phone from her back pocket. "Selene, text your cousin with the birthing center. Cloud, give me your keys, I’m remodeling your apartment’s spare bedroom with anything resembling baby supplies. And you," She pointed at Amara, who arched a brow. "Stop being a doctor for five seconds and be a mom. Your grandkid’s coming whether you care or not."

Amara’s lips thinned, but Selene was already moving, her thumbs flying over her phone screen. “She says they have an open room," she murmured, nudging the giraffe closer to Venison’s hip. "Private. Midwives on staff. And they won’t.."she hesitated, glancing at Venison’s white-knuckled grip on the sheets, "judge his history."

The giraffe's plush body crumpled under Venison's grip, just the relentless pressure of life shifting inside him, a reminder he couldn't ignore even if he wanted to. His free hand crept over the taut swell of his abdomen, fingers pressing deep as if he could somehow divine the damage through skin and muscle. His mouth twisted, a silent grimace of self-loathing so visceral Cloud felt it like a punch to the ribs.

"You're okay," Cloud murmured, thumb brushing the scarred hollow of Venison's hipbone, too gently, like Venison might fracture under the weight of his own guilt. Venison shoved him away. “This isn’t about me, Cloud!”

Venison's fingers curled into the bedsheet, knuckles bone-white against the sterile fabric. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, each one a ragged reminder of everything he'd done wrong. The baby kicked beneath his palm, a sharp flutter that should've been comforting, but all he could think about was the whiskey he'd drowned himself in last week, the pills he'd swallowed without thought, the way his hands had trembled around shot after shot because fuck, he hadn't known.

Cloud reached for him, always reaching, always touching, but Venison recoiled, his stomach rolling. "Don't," he hissed, twisting away until the IV line pulled taut. The monitor beeped faster, betraying him. His hands hovered over his abdomen like he was afraid to touch, fingers trembling above the stretched skin where something alive shifted under the surface. The whiskey he'd downed last Tuesday burned in his memory like acid. Had it seeped into the kid's bloodstream? Poisoned them cell by cell? His throat tightened. God, he'd been drunk when the baby first kicked, he'd laughed it off as gas.

Amara’s clipboard hit the bedside table with a sharp clack. "No signs of fetal distress. But, we should still monitor often."

Venison's hands hovered over his belly like he was afraid to touch it, like his skin might burn under his own fingers. His breath came in short, shallow bursts, each inhale sharp enough to make the fetal monitor stutter. The whiskey he'd downed last Tuesday curdled in his memory like spoiled milk. Had it seeped through the umbilical cord? Poisoned the kid with every reckless swallow? His throat tightened around the thought, sour 

Venison doubled over with a bitten-off groan. His fingers dug into the mattress, tendons standing out like cables under his skin. The monitor screamed in response, a frantic beep-beep-beep that drowned out Misty’s gasp.

Venison's breath stuttered in his chest, uneven and too quick, like his lungs couldn't decide whether to collapse or explode. His fingers hovered inches above his stomach, close enough to feel the heat radiating from the stretched skin, but not quite touching. As if contact would make it real. As if he could somehow undo the past eight months of ignorance, the liquor he'd poured down his throat like it was water, the pills he'd swallowed without a second thought. The baby kicked again, a sharp jab against his ribs, and Venison recoiled like he'd been burned. Thinking about how all of a sudden the baby became so active.

"You're okay," Cloud murmured, caressing him, but Venison twisted away.

Venison's fingers hovered above his own skin like a man afraid of contagion. His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps,each one a razor blade dragged up his throat. He could still taste the whiskey, phantom and foul at the back of his tongue, seeping into the memory of every kick, every flutter beneath his ribs. Had they been cries for help he'd been too drunk to hear? His hands trembled, hovering just shy of contact. If he touched his stomach now, would he feel the damage? The slow, creeping poison of his own neglect?

The baby rolled inside him, painfully, and Venison flinched like he'd been struck. His throat worked around nothing, swallowing convulsively against the bile rising hot and bitter. Cloud's hand settled between his shoulder blades, warm and steady, but Venison jerked away with a noise that wasn't quite human. "Don't," he gritted out, voice cracking under the weight of his own revulsion. "I, fuck, I didn't know, I didn't," His fingers knotted in the sheets, twisting until the fabric threatened to tear. The fetal monitor's steady beep-beep-beep mocked him, each chirp a ticking clock counting down to the moment he'd have to face what he'd done.

Cloud exhaled through his nose, watching the way Venison's fingers trembled just above his own skin, close enough to feel warmth but never quite touching. The fetal monitor beeped steadily, oblivious to the tension coiling between them. Cloud reached out slowly, telegraphing his movement, and pressed his palm flat against Venison's belly where the baby had just rolled. The skin was taut beneath his touch, warm and alive. "They're strong," he murmured, thumb tracing the curve of Venison's ribs. "Kicking like a fucking champion."

Venison flinched, his breath hitching. "That's not the point,"

"The point is they're here," Cloud interrupted, voice rougher than he intended. He shifted closer on the narrow hospital bed, ignoring the way the IV line tugged at Venison's arm. "Eight months and somehow, somehow, they're perfect. You kept them perfect." His fingers splayed wide, mapping the stretch marks and old scars under Venison's shirt. "Even when you didn't know. Even when you were," He swallowed the word drunk, replacing it with, "Hurting. They're here, Ven. That's gotta count for something."

Venison's throat worked silently. His fingers finally touched his own stomach,hesitant, featherlight, as if expecting the skin to burn under his fingertips. The baby kicked again, a sharp jab against his palm, and Venison made a noise halfway between a gasp and a sob. Cloud seized the moment, curling his hand over Venison's, pressing their joined palms harder against the swell of his belly. "See?" Cloud whispered, lips brushing the shell of Venison's ear. "They're pissed. Probably gonna come out swinging just like you."

A wet, broken laugh punched its way out of Venison's chest. His fingers tightened around Cloud's, nails biting into his knuckles as another contraction rolled through him,this one softer, slower, but no less insistent. The monitor beeped steadily, its rhythm syncing with the slow curl of Cloud's fingers against Venison's skin. "Little fighter," Cloud murmured, grinning when the baby kicked again, harder this time. "Oh shit, did you feel that? Kid's got legs."

Venison's breath hitched. His free hand crept up to cradle the underside of his belly, fingers trembling where they brushed the stretched skin. "They're... strong," he admitted, voice raw. The words tasted foreign on his tongue,not quite hope, but something adjacent to it. “I don’t know how I didn’t notice. I guess before it was more of a flutter. Like you get when you’re nervous. If there WAS kicks they were small, like I was just having stomach issues.”

Cloud barked a laugh, nudging Venison's shoulder with his chin. "You? Notice your own body giving you signals? Never." He grinned when Venison elbowed him weakly, shifting closer until their hips pressed together on the narrow hospital bed. His thumb traced idle circles over Venison's belly button, now stretched taut and shallow.

Selene cleared her throat from the doorway, her arms full of vending machine snacks that rustled ominously. "We're going to..." She jerked her chin toward the hall, where Misty was already bouncing on her toes, phone in hand. "Give you two space. Call if," Her gaze flicked to Venison's abdomen. "When things progress."

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the hum of machines and Cloud's quiet breathing. Venison exhaled slowly, his fingers flexing against his stomach. "You're really not... freaked out?" he whispered, the words tentative, like he was afraid of the answer. “Like… I was drinking pretty heavily. I’m freaked out.”

Cloud's hand stilled over the curve of Venison's ribs. "Terrified," he admitted, pressing his forehead against Venison's temple. "But not about that." His palm slid lower, splaying wide over the swell of Venison's belly where the baby had settled into what felt like a somersault. "Look, they're doing backflips in there. You think a kid who can do that gives a shit about a few shots of whiskey?"

Venison's breath hitched, half-laugh, half-sob, as the baby kicked hard enough to visibly shift the fabric of his hospital gown. Cloud whooped, scrambling to press both hands against the movement. "Holy shit, did you see—?" He cut himself off with a sheepish grin. "Right. But feel that! They're pissed we're talking about them."

The contractions stopped as abruptly as they'd begun,one final tight clench low in Venison's belly, then nothing but the steady hum of the fetal monitor and the too-stiff hospital sheets under his fingers. Amara's hands were warm against his skin when she checked him, her palms pressing firm but not unkind along the curve of his abdomen. "Braxton-Hicks," she confirmed, her thumb brushing the edge of a stretch mark as she straightened. "No cervical changes. You're stable."

Her stethoscope lifted away with a quiet snap, but her fingers lingered, just for a second, against the inside of Venison's wrist. "Blood pressure's normal," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "No signs of preterm labor." Her pen scratched across his discharge paperwork with sharp, efficient strokes. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, frayed at the edges with something that wasn't quite relief. "You can go home. But don’t rush getting out of here. Rest if you need. Talk. Look through the resources."

Cloud exhaled like he'd been punched, his forehead thumping against Venison's shoulder. "Thank fuck," he muttered into the sweat-damp fabric of Venison's gown. His fingers tightened around Venison's hip, blunt nails digging crescents into the skin there,not enough to hurt, just enough to feel.

Amara's clipboard hit the bedside table with a decisive clack. "And…On one condition," she added, leveling Cloud with a look that had made interns cry. Her index finger jabbed toward his chest. "You call me. Immediately. If he so much as sneezes wrong, if the baby stops moving for five minutes, if he," Her voice cracked, just once, before she swallowed hard. "Promise me."

Cloud's grin was all teeth, sharp and reckless. "Scout's honor."

Amara rolled her eyes heavenward, muttering something about gods help this child under her breath, but the corner of her mouth twitched. Her hand hovered over Venison's belly for a moment, hesitant, uncharacteristically uncertain, before settling lightly over the curve where the baby had just kicked. "Strong," she admitted grudgingly, her thumb tracing the outline of a tiny foot pressing outward. Then, abruptly professional again, she straightened and slapped discharge papers against Cloud's chest. "Home. Rest. And for fuck's sake, eat something that didn't come from a vending machine."

Venison startled when Misty reappeared like a jack-in-the-box, her arms overflowing with takeout containers that reeked of garlic and something fried. "Second condition," she parroted, shoving a styrofoam box of dumplings into Cloud's hands. "Let us help." Her grin was manic, her phone already out and recording as she zoomed in on Venison's bewildered face. "Say cheese, daddy number two!"

Selene materialized behind her with the quiet lethality of a ninja, confiscating Misty's camera mid-frame. "What she means," she corrected, pressing a lukewarm bottle of electrolyte drink into Venison's hands, "Is we've already converted Cloud's apartment into a halfway decent nursery. Crib's assembled. Diapers stocked." Her gaze flicked to Amara, then away just as fast. "Even installed those outlet covers you're obsessed with."

Amara's lips pursed,

"Without permission," Misty stage-whispered, popping a dumpling into her mouth whole. "Also stole your spare key. Fight me."

Amara’s fingers lingered on Venison’s belly long after the kick had faded, her professional detachment fraying at the edges like a worn suture. The baby rolled again, a slow, deliberate movement that pressed a tiny foot against her palm with startling clarity. Her breathing caught with a whine, a sound so uncharacteristically soft that Cloud’s head snapped up from where he’d been shoveling dumplings into his mouth.

"See?" Cloud mumbled around a mouthful of pork and cabbage, nudging Amara’s wrist with his chopsticks. "Told you they’re a little brawler."

Amara didn’t pull away. Instead, her thumb traced the invisible outline of that foot again, her touch featherlight where it mapped the curve of Venison’s abdomen. The fetal monitor beeped steadily in the background, but here,under her hands,was proof no machine could quantify. Strong, she thought again, and this time the word settled warm and heavy in her chest.

Venison shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, his fingers twitching against the sheets. "Doc?" he rasped, voice rough with exhaustion.

Amara buffered, as if waking from a trance. Her professional mask snapped back into place, but not before Cloud caught the way her lips quirked at the corners. "Her Liver enzymes are stable too," she recited mechanically, though her palm remained pressed to Venison’s belly like she couldn’t bear to break contact. "No signs of fetal alcohol syndrome on the scans. But,"

The baby kicked again, hard, and Amara’s clinical detachment shattered. A laugh punched out of her, sharp and surprised, as the movement visibly rippled beneath Venison’s skin. "Gods," she breathed, fingers splaying wide. "They’re determined."

Cloud grinned around a mouthful of stolen dumpling. "Told you," he mumbled, grease shining on his chin. "Mini Venison’s gonna pop out throwing punches."

Venison scoffed. “Theres no guarantee this kid is even a Changeling and you’re calling it a mini me?”

Amara didn’t even scold Cloud for talking with his mouth full. Her thumb traced the arc of another forceful kick, her professional frown softening into something dangerously close to wonder. The fetal monitor’s steady beep faded into white noise as she leaned in, her stethoscope forgotten on the bedside table. "Strong heartbeat," she murmured, but this time, it wasn’t a clinical assessment. It was a revelation.

Selene cleared her throat. "We should," She gestured to the door with a vending machine coffee, but Misty was already wedging herself onto the foot of the bed, phone recording. Not accusing or invasive like Fresas would’ve been, but just.. capturing and savoring a moment. She was glad she had gotten the phone. She was glad she was gonna be able to talk to her brother more. She was glad she was gonna be able to see pictures and videos of the baby.

The baby chose that moment to deliver a kick so vigorous it made Venison’s shirt shift. Amara’s sharp inhale was audible. Her fingers pressed deeper, mapping the movement with a focus that bordered on reverence. "Gods," she breathed. Her other hand rose, hesitant, before settling over Cloud’s where it rested on Venison’s hip. Three generations connected by touch. "This one’s going to run you ragged."

Cloud’s grin was incandescent. "Told you," he crowed, squeezing Amara’s fingers. "Mini us." His free hand stole another dumpling, shoving it into Venison’s open mouth before he could protest. "Eat. They like the pork ones."

Venison made a shocked and accusing noise of protest. “You’re gonna make me choke,“ he muttered around the dumpling. Cloud grinned and patted his shoulder, watching the way Venison’s throat worked as he swallowed, a pulse jumping under his skin. Cloud rubbed his thumb over that spot absently, savoring the warmth of Venison’s skin, the unshakable proof that he was still here, still alive, that somehow, impossibly, they’d made it this far.

Selene cleared her throat and stood abruptly, pulling Misty up with her by the elbow. “Alright, enough hovering. We’ll be in the waiting room.” She hesitated, glancing at Amara,who hadn’t moved an inch, her hands still resting on Venison’s abdomen like she was afraid to let go. “You coming?”

The door clicked shut behind Selene and Misty, leaving the scent of garlic and antiseptic hanging thick in the air. Amara's fingers tensed against Venison's abdomen, just for a second,before she pulled away with the crisp efficiency of a snapped rubber glove. Her stethoscope dangled forgotten around her neck as she turned to the sink, scrubbing her hands raw under scalding water.

Cloud watched her shoulders stiffen, the way her reflection's mouth moved silently in the stainless steel, counting seconds or curses, he couldn't tell. Venison shifted against the pillows, his fingers creeping back to the swell of his belly like he needed the reassurance of contact. The baby kicked in response, a solid thump against his ribs that made him gasp. Amara's head snapped up at the sound, droplets flying from her fingertips as she spun.

The faucet squeaked off. Amara stood motionless, water dripping from her elbows onto the linoleum. Her reflection in the metal cabinet was warped, mouth a tight line, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Venison flinched again as the baby rolled, his fingers pressing white against his belly. Cloud watched Amara's shoulders rise, fall. Then she turned, hands still glistening, and strode back to the bed.

"Show me," she demanded, voice rough. Not let me examine. Not allow me to assess.

Amara's hands hovered over Venison's belly, her fingers trembling,just once,before pressing down with deliberate firmness. The baby kicked instantly, a solid jab against her palm that made her heart stutter. Her thumb traced the outline of the movement with clinical precision, but her voice cracked when she spoke. "Anterior position," she murmured. "Good."

Cloud leaned in, his shoulder brushing Amara's. "Told you they're okay."

Amara’s hands stilled abruptly against Venison’s abdomen. Her fingers curled inward, nails biting half-moons into her own palms before she whirled on Cloud with a violence that sent her stethoscope swinging.

She caught him by the shoulders, not the careful, clinical grip of a doctor, but the desperate clutch of a mother. Her forehead thudded against his collarbone, her breath hot and ragged through the thin fabric of his shirt. Cloud froze, dumpling halfway to his mouth, as Amara’s shoulders shuddered.

Amara's hands trembled against Cloud's shoulders, not the measured grip of a physician assessing a patient, but the desperate clutch of someone clinging to driftwood in a storm. Her forehead pressed hard into his collarbone, her breath coming in ragged bursts that fogged against his skin. The stethoscope around her neck swung wildly, its cold metal edge thumping against his ribs in time with her shaking.

Cloud froze, the half-eaten dumpling slipping from his fingers to land with a greasy splat on the linoleum. For one suspended heartbeat, the only sound was the fetal monitor's steady beep and Amara's fractured breathing against his chest. Then her fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer with a force that knocked the air from his lungs.

"Mom?" Cloud whispered, hands hovering awkwardly over her back.

Amara didn't answer,just crushed him tighter, her shoulders heaving with silent sobs that vibrated through his sternum. The scent of antiseptic and jasmine shampoo clung to her as she buried her face deeper against his chest, her stethoscope digging into his ribs like a brand. Cloud's hands finally settled on her back, uncertain at first, then clutching just as desperately when he felt the damp heat of tears seeping through his shirt.

"You scared me," she gasped against his collarbone, the words muffled and raw. Her fingers twisted harder in his shirt, knuckles pressing white against his shoulder blades. "Eight months and you didn't know. What if—" Her voice broke, fracturing around the unspoken horrors that came with her profession,the stillbirths she'd pronounced, the neonatal withdrawals she'd treated, the tiny coffins she'd watched get lowered into the ground.

The stethoscope swung wildly as Amara turned,not the measured pivot of a doctor, but the graceless whirl of a woman whose knees had gone liquid. Cloud barely had time to register the wet shine in her eyes before she crashed into him, her arms locking around his ribs with enough force to pop his spine. Her forehead thudded against his sternum, and for one terrifying second, Cloud thought she'd collapsed. Then he felt the damp heat seeping through his shirt where her face was buried, the way her shoulders shook like a fault line splitting open.

"You idiot," Amara hissed into his collarbone, her nails digging crescents into his shoulder blades. "Eight months, eight months, and neither of you noticed?" Her voice cracked on the last word, fracturing into something raw and wet that didn't sound like his mother at all. Cloud could only stand there, arms hovering awkwardly, as she trembled against him with the violence of a seizure. The fetal monitor beeped steadily behind them, a cruel counterpoint to her ragged breathing.

The IV line tugged at Venison’s wrist as he reached blindly toward the sound of Amara’s shuddering breaths. His fingers brushed Cloud’s elbow first, warm, solid, trembling, then skated up to where Amara’s knuckles were clenched white in Cloud’s shirt. He curled his hand over hers, feeling the sharp ridges of her metacarpals beneath his fingertips. "Doc," he rasped, voice scraped raw. "Hey."

Amara went rigid. For three agonizing heartbeats, the only sound was the drip of water from her still-wet hands hitting the linoleum. Then, with deliberate slowness, she pried one hand free from Cloud’s shirt and covered Venison’s fingers with her own. Her palm was clammy, her grip crushing.

The baby chose that moment to kick,hard enough to make Venison’s hospital gown flutter. Amara’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening reflexively around Venison’s. For a suspended second, the three of them stood connected in a silent chain: Amara’s crushing grip on Cloud’s shoulder, Cloud’s hand curled over Venison’s wrist, Venison’s palm pressed to the swell of his belly where their child rolled insistently beneath his skin.

Then Amara exhaled, a slow, shuddering thing, and slumped forward until her forehead rested against Venison’s. Her stethoscope dangled between them, its cold metal bell brushing Venison’s collarbone. "You’re going to kill me," she muttered, her breath warm and damp against his lips.

The baby kicked again, a sharp, insistent jab that made Venison's breath catch. Amara didn't pull away. Her forehead stayed pressed to his, her fingers tightening around his wrist like she was taking a pulse. Or maybe making sure he was real.

The fetal monitor's steady beeping was the only sound in the room as Amara's hands, still trembling slightly,lifted from Venison's belly. She stared at her own fingers like they belonged to someone else, the clinical detachment she'd worn like armor suddenly too heavy. The realization hit her like a defibrillator shock: This isn't just another high-risk pregnancy consult. That's my grandchild.

The bathroom tiles were cold against Venison's bare thighs, the grout lines pressing ridges into his skin as he sat slumped against the bathtub. His phone lay face-up on the floor, the screen still glowing with the call log, Cedar Ridge Recovery Center, 2:47 PM, 14 minutes. The shower dripped behind him, each plink of water hitting porcelain louder than the last. He didn't move when the bathroom door creaked open, didn't flinch when Cloud's socked feet padded across the damp mat.

Cloud crouched slowly, his knees popping. He didn't touch the phone. Didn't touch Venison. Just sat there, shoulder-to-shoulder, their arms brushing as he reached past him to twist the faucet shut. The sudden silence was deafening.

"You called," Cloud said finally. Not a question.

Venison's fingers twitched where they rested on his belly. The baby kicked,a sluggish roll that made his ribs ache, but he didn't react. Just stared at the water stain on the ceiling, the one that looked like a screaming face.

Cloud picked up the phone. The screen lit up under his thumb, Cedar Ridge, 2:47 PM, 14 minutes, before going dark again. He turned it over in his hands once, twice, then set it carefully on the edge of the sink. The porcelain was cold under his palm when he reached for Venison's wrist, turning it over to expose the bruised crook of his elbow where the IV had been.

"They have a medical wing," Venison said abruptly. His voice was scraped raw, like he'd been screaming into a pillow. "For…for people like me. Who're... who fucked up while pregnant."

Cloud's thumb rubbed slow circles over the tender skin. "You didn't fuck up."

Venison's breath hitched. The baby rolled again,a slow, deliberate movement that pressed a tiny foot against Cloud's palm where it rested on Venison's belly. "I didn't know," he whispered. "That's worse, isn't it? That I could've." His fingers curled into fists against his thighs, knuckles pressing white against the stretch marks there. "Eight months, Cloud. Eight fucking months.”

The shower dripped again, plink, a metronome counting the silence between them. Cloud exhaled sharply through his nose and reached past Venison to twist the faucet shut with more force than necessary. The sudden absence of sound was worse.

"You called," Cloud repeated, pressing their shoulders together. Not an accusation. A lifeline.

Venison's throat worked. His fingers crept back to his belly, tracing the stretched skin like he was mapping unfamiliar terrain. The rehab center's intake questionnaire echoed in his skull, How many drinks per day during pregnancy? Any illicit substances?  His palm pressed harder against the curve of his abdomen, as if he could erase the answers through sheer force.

Cloud's hand covered his, warm and solid. "I don’t think you should go." he said quietly.

Cloud’s thumb traced the inside of Venison’s wrist, pressing gently against the pulse point there,steady, strong. "You drink like someone punishing themselves," he said, voice low. "Not like someone who needs it." The shower dripped again, a slow plink that punctuated his words. "Addicts don’t forget to drink for days because they’re too busy laughing at bad movies with me. They don’t skip benders because they’d rather pass out on my couch eating takeout."

Venison’s fingers twitched under Cloud’s palm. The baby shifted, a lazy roll that made his breath catch,but he didn’t pull away. Just stared at the water-stained ceiling like it held answers.

Cloud nudged their knees together. "You’re not shaking right now. You’re not sweating through your shirt. You’re just scared." His grip tightened, just enough to feel the flutter of Venison’s pulse. "That’s different."

The tile was cold against Venison’s back. He swallowed hard, throat clicking. "I still," His voice cracked. "I still did it, Cloud. Drunk or not, hurting or not, I still,"

"Survived," Cloud interrupted. He tugged Venison’s wrist until his palm flattened over the swell of his belly. The baby kicked instantly, a sharp jab that made Venison gasp. "See that? That’s not a kid who’s given up on you." His thumb rubbed circles over Venison’s knuckles. "So why’re you giving up on them?"

Venison’s breath hitched. The rehab center’s pamphlet crumpled under his thigh, Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorders printed in bold across the top. Cloud reached past him, plucking it from the floor without looking. The paper tore cleanly. “Even if I’m not an addict, I still have a problem. When I drink, I drink it all.”

Cloud exhaled sharply through his nose. He folded the torn pamphlet into a paper airplane, launching it toward the wastebasket. It spiraled into the tub instead. "Yeah, and when I eat peanut butter, I lick the jar clean. Doesn’t mean I need PB rehab."

Venison huffed,half-laugh, half-sob,as the baby rolled beneath his palm. "Not the same."

Cloud’s fingers interlaced with his against the stretch-marked skin. "You know how many times you’ve missed my shitty birthday parties because you were 'too drunk’? Zero. How many hospital visits you skipped because you were passed out? Zero." His thumb pressed into Venison’s pulse point. "People with a problem they can’t manage without a professional don’t show up. Addicts don’t cancel to watch bad horror movies with their best friend."

The shower dripped again,plink,like punctuation. Cloud twisted violently to yank the faucet handle, silencing it. In the sudden quiet, Venison’s whisper was deafening: "What if I hurt them? What if I get so drunk one night I hit my kid?”

Cloud's hand froze against Venison's wrist, fingers tightening reflexively. "Did your dad ever hit you?" The question came out rough, like gravel in his throat.

Venison stopped, not in surprise, but in recognition of a wound prodded. He shook his head slowly. "No. Vella did, though." His fingers twitched against his belly where the baby rolled. "And she got it from Grandma. Runs in the family, I guess." He said it like someone might remark on hereditary freckles or a shared allergy.

Cloud's grip on Venison's wrist gentled instantly, his thumb smoothing over the raised scar tissue there, a tactile apology. "That's not genetic," he murmured. "That's just shitty people reproducing." The baby kicked beneath their joined hands, sharp enough to make Venison flinch. Cloud pressed his palm harder against the movement, as if he could absorb the impact. "You're not her."

Venison's free hand crept to his belly, fingers splaying over the spot where the baby had just rolled. "I called Cedar Ridge because they have a neonatal detox program," he admitted quietly. His thumbnail dug into a stretch mark. "Just in case."

Cloud's breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale through his nose, the kind Amara did when counting to ten during particularly frustrating surgeries. His fingers tightened around Venison's wrist, not to restrain but to anchor them both as he leaned forward until their foreheads touched. The tile wall was cold against his back, but Venison's skin burned where their bodies pressed together.

"Listen to me." Cloud's voice was rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat and tried again, softer.

Cloud's breath ghosted over Venison's lips as he spoke, their foreheads still pressed together. "That kid in there?" His fingers slid from Venison's wrist to splay over his belly, right where a tiny foot had just jabbed outward. "They're kicking my ribs through your skin right now. Pretty sure that's the universe telling us they're gonna be just fine."

Venison's laugh punched out of him,wet and broken, as the baby rolled again, pressing what felt like an entire limb against Cloud's palm. "Little bastard's got your timing," he muttered, voice thick.

The bathroom door burst open before Cloud could respond, Misty’s silhouette outlined by the harsh fluorescent light from the hallway. She took one look at them, Venison slumped against the tub, Cloud crouched over him like a human shield, and froze. Her phone slipped from her fingers, clattering against the tiles.

Selene appeared behind her like a shadow, catching the phone mid-bounce. "We knocked," she said flatly, though her gaze lingered on Venison’s white-knuckled grip on his own belly.

Misty's sneakers squeaked against the wet tiles as she surged forward. "Oh gods, are you—" Her hands fluttered over Venison's hunched shoulders like panicked birds. "Did you vomit? Is it contractions? Should I get Amara?"

Selene caught her by the hoodie before she could bolt, reeling her back with the ease of someone used to wrangling hurricanes. "Breathe," she murmured into Misty's hair, then louder: "Give them space."

Cloud stood up. “He didn’t get sick. He.. he called a rehab program.”

Misty's hands froze mid-flail. The color drained from her face so fast Selene tightened her grip on her hoodie. "Oh," she whispered, eyes darting between Venison's hunched form and the torn pamphlet floating in the tub. "Oh, shit."

Selene's fingers flexed against Misty's shoulder,part restraint, part comfort.. "Which program?" she asked, voice carefully neutral.

Misty wriggled out of Selene’s grip and dropped to her knees beside Venison, her hands fluttering like startled sparrows before settling on his shoulders. “Cedar Ridge?” she blurted, eyes darting to the crumpled pamphlet in the tub.

Selene's fingers twitched toward the pamphlet, then curled into fists against her thighs. "That's," She stopped, exhaled through her nose, and tried again. "That's the one with the neonatal wing." Not a question.

Misty made a wounded noise and immediately folded herself over Venison, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. "You called them?" Her voice cracked. "Like, like you were actually going?" Her fingers dug into his arms, not in accusation but in the way someone clutches at a cliff edge. "You can't, we just got you back, You were sick. Do you know how long I spent just holding Coco while you slept all day while they tried to find a cure? What do think is gonna happen if you leave again for no reason, WHILE PREGNANT. Cloud would SOB if you had this baby in a useless rehab program and we wouldn’t be able to see you or the baby for a month after it’s born? What if they take the baby away from you? Or social services tears apart your life?”

Selene's hand clamped down on Misty's shoulder, hard enough to make her yelp. "Enough," she said, voice low and firm. Her thumb rubbed circles against Misty's collarbone, an apology for the grip. "That's not helping."

Venison flinched at Misty's outburst, his fingers digging into his belly like he could shield the baby from her words. Cloud watched the way his throat worked, swallowing convulsively, Adam's apple bobbing under sweat-slick skin,and reached for him instinctively. His palm landed on Venison's shoulder, warm and solid through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Misty's breath hitched as she pulled back, her fingers still tangled in the hem of Venison's shirt. "I didn't mean," Her voice cracked. Selene's hand slid from her shoulder to the nape of her neck, grounding her with a gentle squeeze.

Cloud's grip tightened on Venison's shoulder. "He's not going anywhere." he said, voice rougher than intended. The baby kicked sharply against his other palm, still pressed to Venison's abdomen, a punctuation mark.

The silence after Cloud's declaration stretched long enough for the shower to drip again, bloop, before Misty surged upright with enough force to nearly knee Venison in the ribs. Selene caught her elbow before she could topple backward into the tub.

"Okay!" Misty announced, voice too loud for the cramped bathroom. She clapped her hands together once, sharp as a gunshot, then immediately winced at Venison's flinch. "Sorry! But, baby shower. We're doing it. Tomorrow." She jabbed a finger at Selene, who didn't even blink. "You're on decorations. I'm on cake. Cloud," Her gaze flicked to where his hand still pressed possessively against Venison's belly. "You're on keeping him horizontal until I say otherwise."

Selene exhaled through her nose, the way someone might when facing down an oncoming train. "We discussed this. Three weeks for planning,"

Misty waved her off, already digging through her hoodie pockets for a pen. "Nope, nope, fetal urgency overrides your color-coordinated spreadsheet, babe." She uncapped the pen with her teeth and grabbed Venison's limp hand, scribbling something across his knuckles. "There. Official medical permission to eat your weight in cupcakes. Amara cosigned it in spirit."

The pen tickled against Venison's knuckles,Misty's handwriting looping wildly as she scrawled what felt like a grocery list across his skin. He flexed his fingers instinctively.

The sound of Fresa’s camera shutter clicking was the first thing Venison registered when they arrived at the baby shower,rapid-fire bursts like gunshots, capturing his grimace as Misty manhandled him onto the couch with far more enthusiasm than necessary. "Smile, bitch," she hissed in his ear, punctuating it with a noogie that dislodged his already crooked sunglasses. "This is gonna go viral."

Venison swatted blindly at her, fingers catching in the tangled mess of streamers overhead. "I will fucking end you,"

"Language," Primrose sing-songed from somewhere near the snack table, popping a cupcake liner like a gunshot. "There’s children present."

The baby chose that moment to drive what felt like a tiny elbow into Venison’s spleen. He groaned, slumping further into the mountain of throw pillows Cloud had arranged behind him like a throne. "Yeah, one, and they’re currently trying to dig through my fucking guts."

Sam McGee materialized beside the couch with the eerie silence of a man who’d spent thirty years sneaking up on armed suspects. "Now, now," he said, voice dripping with exaggerated folksiness as he pressed a sweating soda can into Venison’s hand. "We don’t wanna stress the lil’ deputy-in-training, do we?! I LOVE CHILD LABOR!" His knuckles brushed Venison’s stomach with surprising gentleness. "How’s my favorite future crimefighter?!"

Venison’s lips twitched despite himself. "Plotting matricide if Misty doesn’t stop, fuck," His free hand clamped over the sudden, sharp movement beneath his ribs.

Van appeared at Sam’s elbow like a shadow, his perpetual cardigan smelling faintly of gun oil. "You look like shit," he informed Venison conversationally, nudging Cloud aside to press two fingers against Venison’s carotid. His touch was clinical, the same brisk efficiency he’d used patching up rookies in the field. "Heart rate’s elevated. You puked yet?" Venison shoved him off with a smirk.

Fresa’s camera whirred ominously from the kitchen doorway. "Say ‘placenta’ for the fans," she chirped, zooming in on Venison’s middle finger salute.

Primrose lobbed a stuffed giraffe at her head. "Respect the miracle of life, you vulture." The giraffe bounced off Fresa’s shoulder and landed squarely in Venison’s lap, a hideous pastel monstrosity with one eye hanging by a thread.

Venison’s fingers closed around it instinctively. The baby kicked again,harder this time,and he exhaled sharply through his nose. That one actually earned a whimper out of him. “What the hell is with all the Giraffes??”

Sam McGee materialized behind the couch, his badge glinting under the tacky string lights. "Silence!" he murmured, pressing an iced mocha into Venison’s free hand. "None of that!" His knuckles brushed Venison’s stomach with surprising gentleness, not quite paternal, but close.           "The lil’ deputy’s gotta stay hydrated."

Van snorted from his perch on the armchair, polishing his wedding ring against his cardigan. "Kid’s gonna come out twitching like a junkie with all that caffeine you’re pumping into him." His gaze flicked to Venison’s white-knuckled grip on the stuffed giraffe. "Unless you’re aiming for premature labor."

Venison groaned. “If it comes out twitching like a junkie it’s probably because I drank pretty much my entire pregnancy. Not because of my coffee.”

Primrose’s manicured fingers plucked the coffee from Venison’s grip before he could protest. "No more caffeine," she announced, replacing it with a juice box stabbed through with a bendy straw. "Doctor’s orders."

Misty vaulted over the couch back to land in Selene’s lap, narrowly avoiding kneeing Venison in the ribs. "Doctor whose orders?" she demanded, snatching the juice box away. "This has high fructose corn syrup."

Selene caught Misty’s wrist mid-flail, redirecting the juice box back toward Venison with practiced ease. "Breathe," she murmured into Misty’s hair, then louder: "He’s gestating, not made of glass."

Van snorted into his coffee. “If I survived the wilting I can survive corn syrup.”

Amara materialized behind them with the silent efficiency of a trauma surgeon, her stethoscope looped around her neck like an accessory. She plucked the juice box from Venison’s limp fingers and sniffed it. "It’s fine," she declared, pressing it back into his hand. Her thumb brushed his pulse point, clinical, but lingering. "Drink."

The baby kicked violently, knocking Venison’s elbow into Cloud’s ribs. "Ow, fuck." Cloud wheezed, rubbing his side with one hand while the other instinctively cradled Venison’s belly. "Kid’s got your temper."

Sam McGee clapped his hands together,the sound ricocheting off the walls like a gunshot. "Alrighty then!" His badge glinted under the tacky string lights as he herded everyone toward the gift table. "Present time! Deputy-in-training needs some firepower! AND I LIKE WRAPPING PAPER!" He winked at Venison’s stomach.

Fresa’s camera whirred from the snack table, zooming in on the mountain of pastel-wrapped packages. "Say ‘generational trauma’ for the fans," she deadpanned, dodging Primrose’s elbow.

Venison groaned as Misty shoved a suspiciously heavy gift into his lap. The wrapping paper crinkled under his fingers, thick, expensive stuff that smelled faintly of cedar.

"Open mine first," Van ordered, nudging Venison’s knee with his boot. His cardigan sleeve rode up, revealing the faded tattoo of his late wife’s name. "It’s bulletproof."

Cloud snorted. "Please don’t tell me you got us a kevlar crib."

Sam McGee laughed too loud from the snack table, nearly spiking his punch through a precarious tower of cupcakes. "Now that’s what I call prepared parenting!" His badge glinted as he winked at Venison’s stomach. "Little deputy’s gotta stay safe."

Venison’s fingers found the gift’s sharp corners, tracing what felt like reinforced seams. "Oh my god," he muttered. "You actually..? This a badge for them?”

Van shrugged, polishing his wedding ring against his cardigan sleeve,a nervous tic Venison had noticed years ago, back when he'd first met in the original unit. "Kid’s got two reckless dads," he muttered, nudging the package closer. "Might as well make ‘em official." The wrapping paper tore easily under Venison’s nails, revealing a tiny vest, no, a baby carrier, complete with a stitched-on sheriff’s badge. Sam McGee whooped loud enough to startle the baby into another sharp kick.

Venison let out a laugh, sharp and sudden, like the crack of a gunshot. His fingers traced the ridiculous stitching on the tiny  badge. "Fuck's sake, Van," he wheezed, clutching his ribs as the baby kicked in protest. "Kid's gonna come out already arresting people?" His thumb found the bulletproof lining sewn into the carrier's fabric, and he dissolved into another fit of laughter that made his stomach ache.

Sam McGee swooped in before Venison could catch his breath, wrapping him in a bear hug that smelled like gun oil and peppermint gum. "Official deputizing happens at six months," he announced, thumping Venison's back hard enough to jostle the baby. Van's hand shot out to whack Sam's shoulder, too rough, idiot, but Venison was already wheezing into Sam's flannel, his laughter muffled against the fabric.

Misty tackled them both from the side, her arms looping around Venison's neck like a hyperactive octopus. "Group hug!" she shrieked, nearly kneeing Van in the groin. Selene materialized behind her, rolling her eyes but stepping close enough for Misty to drag her into the fray. Venison felt Selene's palm press briefly against the small of his back,warm and steady,before she retreated to safer distances.

"Thanks, guys," Venison muttered into Sam McGee's flannel, voice muffled but unmistakably warm, a rarity that made Misty squeal and tighten her octopus grip around his neck. The baby kicked hard in response, a sharp jab beneath his ribs that forced a grunt out of him. Cloud's hand slid under his shirt without hesitation, palm pressing flat against the spot where tiny limbs had just lashed out. "Easy, outlaw." Cloud murmured, thumb brushing the stretched skin in slow circles. The touch was familiar now, routine enough that Venison didn't flinch away.

A month later, Venison stood in the bathroom at 3:17 AM, bare feet sticking to the tiles where he'd missed a spot mopping up his latest bout of nausea. The sink faucet dripped, plink, plink, a metronome counting down the seconds until the next contraction. His reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror was fractured by the crack running diagonally across the glass, splitting his face into disjointed pieces: the sharp jut of his collarbone, the sweat-damp hollow of his throat, the grotesque swell of his stomach distorting further in the warped glass.

Cloud jerked awake at 3:23 AM to the sound of Venison retching violently in the bathroom,not the usual morning sickness gagging, but something wetter, more desperate. The sheets tangled around his legs as he bolted upright, heart hammering against his ribs before his brain even registered why. Empty bed. Cold space where Venison should've been curled into him like a question mark. The bathroom light bled under the door in a thin yellow line, illuminating the puddle of discarded clothes Venison had stumbled over earlier.

"Ven?" Cloud's voice cracked with sleep as he shoved the door open without knocking. The scene hit him like a gut punch: Venison braced against the sink, shirt rucked up under his armpits to expose the stretched skin of his belly, veins standing out like roadmaps under the flickering fluorescent light. His forehead pressed against the medicine cabinet mirror, fogging the glass with each ragged exhale. The smell of bile and mint toothpaste clung to the air.

Cloud's hands found Venison's belly before his brain fully processed the scene, palms pressing warm against the taut skin, fingers splaying to cradle the weight. "Easy," he murmured, thumb brushing the underside where Venison always carried the worst tension. "Breathe through it."

Venison shuddered against him, forehead still pressed to the fogged mirror. His exhale rattled through clenched teeth as Cloud's hands lifted gently, taking the strain off his lower back. For a fractured moment, the pressure eased, Venison's shoulders slumping as Cloud's grip redistributed the weight. They stayed like that for a while, until Venison suddenly felt an instant pressure release inside himself. He groaned and leaned heavier against Cloud, in instant relief.

Cloud’s hands stilled against Venison’s damp skin, fingers pressing gently into the swell of his belly. "You good?" he murmured, lips brushing the shell of Venison’s ear. "Feel better?"

Venison exhaled sharply, forehead still pressed to the fogged mirror. "Yeah," he muttered, though his voice was tight, half-relief, half-something else. "Just... pressure’s gone. Like," He gestured vaguely, fingers flexing in the air. "Everything dropped."

Cloud’s breath hitched. His grip shifted, palms sliding lower to cradle the curve of Venison’s stomach. "Uh," he said intelligently, staring at the puddle forming at their feet. "Ven. Your water just broke."

Venison froze. The dripping sink was suddenly deafening. "What?" His voice cracked, high and panicked. "No it didn’t. That’s, that’s just," His bare toes curled against the tile, slick with something unmistakably not water. "Fuck. Fuck."

Cloud’s laugh was punched out of him, half-hysterical. "Yeah," he agreed, before Venison could process it. "Definitely broke." He smiled, excited. "Congrats, daddy."

Venison made a noise like a dying engine. His fingers scrabbled against the sink edge, knuckles whitening. "Stop smiling," he hissed, ears burning. "This isn’t, it’s gross, Cloud,"

"Pretty sure this is biologically the least gross part of what’s about to happen," Cloud mused, reaching past Venison to snag a towel from the rack. He tossed it onto the floor with zero ceremony, then promptly ruined the gesture by grinning like an idiot. "You’re leaking, Ven. Like our shitty-"

Venison elbowed him in the ribs. Hard. "Finish that sentence and I swear I will divorce you mid-contraction."

Cloud wheezed, rubbing his side. "Can’t divorce me," he managed between gasps. "We’re not even married." His grin turned wicked. "Yet."

Venison’s retort died in his throat as another wave of pressure crested low in his belly, different this time, sharper, like a fist twisting his insides. His knees buckled. Cloud’s arms locked around him before he could faceplant into the puddle of amniotic fluid. "Easy," Cloud murmured into his hair, hands sliding down to bracket Venison’s hips. "Breathe through it."

"I am breathing," Venison snarled, fingers clawing at Cloud’s shoulders. His head swam, the cracked mirror fracturing his reflection into a dozen sweaty, pained pieces. "Fuck, it hurts,"

Cloud’s palm pressed firm against the small of Venison’s back, grounding him as the contraction peaked. "Yeah," he said, voice rough with something between awe and panic. "That’s the baby, Ven. They’re coming. Like, now now." His thumb brushed the damp skin just above Venison’s waistband. "You’re doing so good."

Venison shuddered, forehead dropping onto Cloud’s shoulder. "Stop that," he muttered, breath hot against Cloud’s collarbone. “Go pack while I change.. and call your mom. Tell her we better have a room when we get there, but it better only be me, you, and the doctor. She can’t play the ‘I’m a doctor’ card here. Just me and you. Please.”

Cloud snorted but didn’t argue, pressing a kiss to Venison’s temple before ducking out to grab his phone. Venison stared at the mess on the floor,towels soaked through, his discarded clothes ruined. His stomach twisted again, but not from pain this time. The reality of what was happening settled over him like a lead blanket. He was leaking. His body had just… failed at basic containment. The indignity of it burned hotter than the contractions.

"Cloud," Venison called, voice tight. He gestured vaguely at the puddle when Cloud reappeared. "This is… fucked."

Cloud blinked, then burst into laughter so hard he had to brace himself against the doorframe. "Oh my god," he wheezed, wiping his eyes. "You’re mortified."

Cloud's laughter evaporated when Venison's knees hit the tile with a sickening crack, his fingers clawing at the sink edge as his entire body seized. The contraction rolled through him like a freight train,visible even through the stretched fabric of his sleep shirt, muscles contracting in waves that made Cloud's own stomach clench in sympathy.

"Fuck, fuck." Venison gasped, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain. His knuckles were bone-white where they gripped the sink. "Call your fucking mother now."

Cloud's fingers fumbled the phone three times before the call connected. Amara answered on the second ring, wide awake, because of course she was,her voice sharp with that particular brand of middle-of-the-night clinical calm that meant she was already mentally scrubbing in. "Contractions?" she demanded, before Cloud could speak.

"Water broke." Cloud choked out, watching Venison's fingers dig into the sink hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks in the porcelain. "Like, all over the bathroom floor broke. He's—"

Amara's voice snapped through the speaker like a scalpel. "Timing." 
Cloud stared dumbly at Venison shaking against the sink. "What?" 
"Contractions, Cloud." The sound of car keys jingling. "How far apart?"

Cloud's throat clicked dryly as he watched Venison's spine arch off the bathroom floor, another contraction twisting through him with brutal efficiency. "Uh," His fingers tightened around the phone, knuckles bleaching white. "I don’t know. I think they’re about to be shorter but he said 15 minutes before his water broke. He couldn’t tell if they were false or not before.”

The phone clattered to the tiles as Venison's hand lashed out blindly, fingers hooking into Cloud's wrist with enough force to bruise. His nails bit crescent moons into Cloud's skin, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps that fogged the mirror. Amara's voice crackled, tiny from the floor. "Breathe through the peak!" but Venison wasn't breathing at all, his face screwed tight in silent agony.

Cloud's fingers tightened around Venison's, watching the tendons in his neck stand out like cables under strain. The bathroom smelled of sweat and the sharp tang of panic, Cloud could practically taste Venison's pulse rabbiting under his fingertips when he brushed the damp hair off his forehead.

"Breathe," Cloud murmured, pressing their joined hands against the swell of Venison's belly where the muscles were contracting hard enough to distort the skin. "Just like we practiced,"

Venison exhaled sharply through his nose as the last contraction faded, fingers loosening their death grip on the sink edge. Cloud watched his shoulders slump, the way his breath hitched when he shifted his weight off the tiles. "Are you okay, honey?" Cloud murmured, pressing a towel into Venison's shaking hands.

"Yeah," Venison lied, wiping his face with more force than necessary. His knees popped when he stood, one hand braced against the wall for balance. The damp hem of his shirt clung to the curve of his belly, the fabric stretched thin enough to show the dark shadow of his navel pushing outward. Cloud didn't offer to help him undress,just leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching Venison fumble with the buttons on his sleep pants.

The pad crinkled obscenely when Venison pulled on fresh boxers, his ears burning. "Don't," he growled preemptively, shooting a glare in Cloud's general direction.

Cloud held up both hands, grinning. "Wasn't gonna say shit." The lie was transparent,his shoulders shook with suppressed laughter when Venison muttered curses under his breath, clumsily adjusting the pad's placement. “You’re about to push a tiny person out of you, I’m just… I’m proud of how healthy you look. I like seeing you have to take care of yourself. It tells me you’re gonna be okay. You don’t have to be ashamed. You shouldn’t be, this is beautiful. Natural."

Venison exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tightening around the waistband of his sweats. "Natural," he repeated, deadpan. "Right." The pad shifted when he moved, a wet sound that made his shoulders tense. "Feels real natural, Cloud."

Cloud grinned, tossing another pack of pads into the overnight bag. "Hey, at least you didn't have to deal with—"

"If you finish that sentence with periods," Venison growled, "I will make you deliver this baby in the car. And I still spotted quite a bit."

Cloud laughed,bright, unhinged, as he zipped the bag shut. His hands shook, just slightly, when he reached for Venison's wrist. "C'mon, outlaw. Let's get you to the hospital before you start crowning in my passenger seat."

The car ride was quieter than expected. Venison sat curled against the window, fingers pressed to his belly where occasional contractions rolled through him like distant thunder. The pad crinkled every time he shifted,a mortifying reminder that his body had failed, but the discomfort was secondary to the way Cloud's fingers tapped anxiously against the steering wheel, his knee bouncing like a live wire.

"You're nervous," Venison observed, head fixed toward the passing streetlights that painted stripes across Cloud's profile.

Cloud's grip tightened on the wheel. "No. Just.." He exhaled sharply through his nose. "Wondering if I remembered to pack everything. Wondering if you’re gonna be okay."

Venison snorted, fingers flexing against his stomach where the baby kicked, hard, like they were protesting the joke. The contraction that followed wasn't sharp like before, just a slow, rolling pressure that made him slump further into the seat. His breath hitched, but not from pain. Something loosened in his chest, unfamiliar and warm.

Cloud's palm found his knee instantly, squeezing gently. "Another one?"

"No," Venison murmured, turning toward him properly now. The pad shifted beneath him, still damp, still humiliating, but the discomfort barely registered. He could feel Cloud's pulse rabbiting through his fingertips where they rested on his leg, could hear the way he shuddered whenever Venison shifted.

"You're staring," Venison said, a statement he knew to be true by the car drifting to the side.

"Just making sure you're not…" Cloud's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "You know. Dying."

Venison's laugh punched out of him unexpectedly, bright and startled. The sound seemed to startle Cloud too,his fingers spasmed against Venison's knee before tightening convulsively. "What?" Cloud demanded, defensive.

"You're terrified." Venison realized, grinning. The baby kicked hard in response, a sharp jab beneath his ribs that should've hurt but just made him laugh harder. "Oh my god. You're panicking. Eyes on the road, buddy!"

The car swerved slightly as Cloud took his eyes off the road to glare. "I'm not!" His voice cracked again. He cleared it violently. "You're the one leaking bodily fluids all over my upholstery."

The hospital parking lot was too bright,halogen lights bleaching Venison's already-pale skin as Cloud helped him shuffle through the automatic doors. Every step made the pad between his thighs shift uncomfortably, the damp material clinging with every contraction that rolled through him like slow waves. Amara materialized beside them before the front desk nurse could even open her mouth, her scrubs crisp and her expression sharper.

"You're probably close to 5 centimeters." she announced, fingers pressing into Venison's lower back with clinical precision. "Walk. It'll help."

Venison's fingers dug into Cloud's elbow as another contraction hit mid-step,his knees buckling before Amara's hands caught him under the arms with practiced efficiency. "Breathe into it," she commanded, guiding him through the peak with the same detached precision she'd used when meeting him with a self amputated arm years ago. Except now her thumbs pressed into the dimples above his tailbone with surprising gentleness, her stethoscope dangling between them like a pendulum.

The baby kicked violently against her forearm when she tried to judge how far along in labor he was in the triage room, a movement so forceful the fetal monitor slid off Venison's belly. Amara's breath caught. For a split second, her clinical mask slipped, her fingers lingered against the spot where tiny limbs had just flailed, her knuckles whitening against the paper-covered exam table. Then she cleared her throat and adjusted her gloves with sharp efficiency. "They're coming faster than expected."

Cloud's fingers tightened around Venison's wrist, his pulse jumping under Cloud's fingertips. "That's, that's a bad thing, right?" His voice cracked on the last word, eyes darting between Amara's gloved hands and Venison's sweat-slick face. "Fast means... complications. Or, or distress, or—"

Amara snapped her glove off with a practiced flick, the latex snapping against her wrist. "Fast means your child is impatient," she said dryly, but her fingers lingered on Venison's knee,a rare breach of professional distance. "Like their father."

Venison's laugh turned into a groan as another contraction rolled through him, his fingers scrabbling against the thin hospital sheets. Cloud's hands found his instantly, lacing their fingers together as Venison's grip turned vice-tight. "Breathe," Cloud murmured, pressing their joined hands against Venison's heaving chest. "Just like—"

"Fuck breathing," Venison snarled, back arching off the table. His sunglasses slid down his nose, revealing the faint scar tissue where his eyelids should've been. "I swear to god, Cloud, if you say 'just like we practiced' one more time."

Amara's stethoscope hit the counter with a metallic clang. "Move him to delivery." she ordered the nurse, already striding toward the door. "Now."

Cloud barely had time to process the abrupt change before orderlies were swarming the room, transferring Venison onto a gurney with alarming efficiency. His fingers never left Venison's, even as they jogged down the hallway, Venison's curses painting the air blue, his free hand clawing at the railing as another contraction ripped through him. Only 7 minutes apart now.

"You're doing amazing," Cloud panted, matching Venison's grip strength with equal fervor. His knuckles ached from the pressure.

Venison's laugh sounded more like a sob. "You lie like shit." His head thrashed against the pillow, damp hair sticking to his forehead. "I can feel your pulse, you're terrified."

Cloud swallowed hard. His throat clicked dryly. "No, I'm.." Another contraction crested, Venison's entire body seizing around it. Cloud watched the muscles in his abdomen distort visibly, the way his spine arched off the gurney like a bowstring pulled taut. "Fuck."

The delivery room smelled like antiseptic and fear, sharp enough that Venison could taste it on his tongue when the next contraction hit, worse than the last, folding him in half with a ragged shout. His fingers clawed at the sheets, the IV line tugging painfully at his wrist as he thrashed. Someone pried his sunglasses off, Amara, probably, but the blinding overhead lights didn’t matter when he couldn’t see anyway.

Cloud’s hands found his face, calloused thumbs wiping away sweat. "You’re crushing my fingers," Venison gasped, but didn’t let go, his grip tightening with each wave of pain.

"Wait," Venison gasped, fingers clamping around Amara's wrist as she adjusted the stirrups. His knuckles blanched white against her scrubs, tendons standing out like bowstrings. "Just, Cloud first. You wait outside."

Amara's hands stilled mid-motion, her stethoscope swinging like a pendulum between them. Her pulse jumped under Venison's fingertips,too fast for her usual clinical calm. "Venison, I need to—"

Amara's grip tightened imperceptibly around the stirrup bar. "Venison," she said, voice sharper than the scalpels in her pocket. "You're at 9 centimeters. This isn't…"

"I need Cloud first, you aren’t qualified in labor and delivery. You can wait. They’ll help if I need it." Venison repeated through gritted teeth, fingers digging into the mattress as another contraction rolled through him like a freight train. His blind eyes were wide and unfocused, sweat beading along his hairline where stray strands stuck to his forehead. "Just, five minutes. Please."

Amara's gloves snapped taut as she recoiled, the latex protesting with a sharp twang. "Venison." she said, too calm, too measured, her fingers hovering near his knee like she wanted to pin him down. "You're about to have this baby. We don't have five minutes."

Cloud's breath hitched behind her, his grip tightening around Venison's wrist until their pulses synced, rabbit-fast and panicked. "Mom," he tried, voice cracking. "Maybe just…"

Amara's stethoscope swung like a pendulum between them, the metal cold against Venison's knee when she leaned in. "Venison," she repeated, her voice stripped of its usual clinical detachment,sharp now, fraying at the edges. "You're transitioning. If I walk out that door…"

"I know." Venison snarled, fingers twisting in the sheets. A contraction ripped through him mid-sentence, bowing his spine off the bed with a wet, guttural noise that made Cloud flinch. His grip on Venison's wrist tightened reflexively, their wedding bands clicking together. “Just, fuck, give us one minute.”

Cloud intterupted. “He wants to deliver without you here. The other doctors are gonna keep him safe, okay?”

Amara's hands froze mid-motion, her stethoscope swinging like a pendulum between them. The antiseptic glare of the delivery room lights carved deep shadows beneath her eyes, shadows that hadn't been there fifteen minutes ago in triage. Her fingers flexed against the stirrup bar, knuckles bleaching white.

"I—" she said, and Cloud heard the fracture in her voice, the exact moment her professional mask split down the middle. The heart monitor beeped wildly as another contraction twisted through Venison's body, his fingers scrabbling against the mattress like he could physically claw the pain out of himself.

The heart monitor's beeping crescendoed as Amara's stethoscope slipped from her fingers, hitting the linoleum with a hollow clatter. For one suspended second, the entire delivery room froze,even Venison's ragged breathing hitched mid-contraction,as they all registered the sound of splintering plastic. Amara's hands hovered in the air, fingers twitching like she was still holding instruments that no longer existed.

"You want..." Her voice cracked on the word, the sterile lighting carving deep hollows beneath her eyes. The IV bag beside Venison's head swayed gently as Amara took a single, jerky step backward. "You want me to.."

"Go." Venison's teeth gleamed in the fluorescent light, bared in something too feral to be called a smile. His fingers spasmed against the bedsheet, tendons standing out like cables under strain. "Before I, fuck, before I start screaming at you in front of your colleagues."

Amara flinched like he'd struck her. The fetal monitor wailed as another contraction rolled through Venison's body, his back arching off the bed with enough force to dislodge the pulse oximeter clipped to his finger. Cloud lunged to catch it,his wedding band flashing gold under the lights,but Amara was already moving, already retreating toward the door with stiff, mechanical steps. She knew the feeling of only wanting one certain people in the room, and she knew it was gonna be better for Venison. He was humiliated as it is, and he didn’t particularly like being fawned over.

The door clicked shut with surgical precision, a sound so final Venison's breath punched out of him in a wet gasp. The contraction that followed wasn’t the worst yet, but the absence of Amara’s clinical commentary made it feel raw, exposing, like his body had been stripped bare under the humming fluorescents. Cloud’s hands found his instantly, thumbs pressing into the divots between his knuckles.

"Just us," Cloud murmured, forehead bumping against Venison’s temple. His stubble scratched Venison’s cheek, familiar, grounding. "Just like you wanted."

The contraction crested like a tidal wave,Venison's spine arched off the bed, his scream muffled against Cloud's shoulder where he'd buried his face. The fetal monitor shrieked in tandem, a discordant harmony to Venison's ragged breaths. Cloud's fingers tangled in his sweat-drenched hair, gripping hard enough to ground him through the pain. The Labor and delivery nurse declared 10 centimeters.

"Push," Cloud urged, voice rough against Venison's ear. His other hand slid down to brace against the small of Venison's back, fingers splayed wide over the dimples above his tailbone. "You're so close, Ven. Just, just push through it."

Venison's fingers dug into Cloud's biceps hard enough to leave crescent-shaped bruises as another contraction seized him, his entire body bowing off the bed with a wet, animal noise that made the nurse ready herself. The fetal monitor's erratic beeping filled the room like a countdown. "I can't," he snarled into Cloud's collarbone, voice shredded raw. His forehead pressed against Cloud's shoulder, damp with sweat. "It's too much."

Cloud's hands slid down to bracket Venison's hips, thumbs pressing into the sharp crests of his pelvis. "Yes you fucking can," he growled, voice rough with something fiercer than encouragement. "You've survived worse than this, outlaw." His fingers tightened when Venison shook his head violently,gripping hard enough to leave marks. "That baby's coming whether you're ready or not. So push."

The next contraction hit hard. “Cloud! I’m pushing.. but my body is just doing it on its own and it feels weird—!” Venison’s voice was high-pitched, panicked, his fingers scrabbling at Cloud’s forearms as he tried to resist the overwhelming urge to bear down. The fetal monitor screeched louder, a nurse rushed forward to adjust the sensor, but Cloud barely heard it over Venison’s ragged gasps.

Cloud ducked his head to press their foreheads together, his hands sliding up to grip Venison’s jaw. “Then stop fighting it,” he said, voice hoarse but firm. “Your body knows what to do, just let it.” Venison shuddered, his knees falling wider as another involuntary push wrenched through him. Cloud’s fingers traced the tense line of his throat, thumb brushing over his Adam’s apple. “Yeah, like that. Just like that. You’re doing great!”

The fetal monitor flatlined for one terrifying second before erupting into frantic beeps, Venison's entire body convulsed around the contraction, his spine bowing off the bed as a guttural scream tore from his throat. Cloud barely registered the nurse shouting "Crowning!" before Venison's nails carved bloody crescents into his forearms, their foreheads pressed together so hard Cloud saw stars.

"Fuck, I can feel it—" Venison sobbed, his voice fracturing into something raw and unrecognizable.

The room smelled like copper and antiseptic, like sweat and salt and something primal Cloud couldn't name. Venison's fingers spasmed against his forearms, his entire body rigid as the contraction peaked. The fetal monitor's shrill alarm drowned out everything except Venison's ragged panting.

"Head's out! One more big push." the nurse announced, voice tight with urgency.

Venison slumped against the pillows like a puppet with cut strings, his breathing ragged and uneven. His grip on Cloud’s forearm had gone slack, fingers trembling with exhaustion. The contraction that had torn through him moments ago left him limp, his muscles twitching sporadically as if his body had forgotten how to function. The fetal monitor’s steady beeping filled the silence, a cruel reminder that his body wasn’t done yet, that the baby was still half-in, half-out, and Venison had nothing left to give.

"I can't," he whispered, his voice cracked and thin. Tears would have been streaking down his temples into his hairline.

Venison's fingers slipped from Cloud's wrist like wet rope, his arm collapsing onto the mattress with a lifeless thud. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven hitches, each inhale a struggle against the weight pressing down on his sternum. The fetal monitor's beeps had slowed to a sluggish rhythm, mirroring Venison's exhaustion. His thighs trembled violently where they were propped up in the stirrups, muscles twitching with residual strain.

"One more. Cmon, honey." the nurse urged, pressing a cool cloth to Venison's forehead. His head lolled away from the touch, a weak groan escaping his cracked lips.

Venison's breath hitched in wet, shallow gasps, more like the whimpers of a wounded animal than anything human. His fingers twitched limply against the sweat-soaked sheets, tendons standing out stark under pale skin stretched too thin over his knuckles. The contraction that rolled through him now lacked the violent urgency of earlier ones, his body too exhausted to clench properly, muscles fluttering weakly like a dying engine sputtering out its last rotations.

Cloud's hands tightened around his knee,too tight, probably leaving bruises, but Venison barely registered the pressure. His entire world had narrowed to the unbearable stretch between his hips, the way his body refused to obey even as the nurses urged him to push. His lips moved soundlessly around words that wouldn't come, throat too raw from screaming to form proper syllables.

Venison's head lolled back against the pillows, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps that barely filled his lungs. Every muscle trembled with exhaustion, his thighs quivered in the stirrups, his fingers twitching uselessly against the sheets like broken marionette strings. The contraction that rolled through him now was weaker than before, his body too spent to clench properly, muscles fluttering weakly like a dying engine.

"I can't," he whispered, voice cracked and thin. His blind eyes were unfocused, staring past Cloud's shoulder into nothing. The fetal monitor beeped sluggishly, mirroring his exhaustion.

Cloud grabbed Venison's jaw, fingers pressing hard into his stubble. "Look at me," he demanded, ridiculous, impossible, but Venison's head turned instinctively toward the heat of Cloud's breath against his cheek. "You're the strongest goddamn person I know." Cloud's thumb traced the sharp ridge of Venison's cheekbone, smearing sweat and something saltier. "You survived the wilt, survived me, you're not tapping out now."

The fetal monitor's erratic beeping synced with Venison's ragged breaths as Cloud's fingers tightened around his jaw. Something feral sparked behind Venison's scarred face, his body tensing as the next contraction built like thunderheads on the horizon. He arched off the bed with a guttural noise that wasn't speech, wasn't screaming, just raw animal effort as his body finally obeyed.

"There." Cloud exhaled against Venison's temple, his palm pressing flat against the shuddering curve of Venison's belly. The nurses' urgent voices blurred into static, all Venison could hear was the wet, slick sound of his own body yielding, the sudden lightness as pressure vanished in one catastrophic release.

The first cry was thin, reedy and indignant, slicing through the sterile air like a rusted blade. Venison's entire body went slack, his fingers unfurling from their death-grip on the sheets as the sound registered in his exhausted brain. His chest rose and fell in shallow hitches, each breath whistling through his teeth like wind through a broken window.

Cloud's hands shook violently where they still braced Venison's hips,his thumbs pressing too hard into the divots of Venison's pelvis as he craned his neck toward the nurses. "Is?" His voice cracked. "Is it?"

The nurse's chuckle was muffled by the squalling infant in her arms, tiny limbs flailing with surprising strength for something so new. "Congratulations." she said, voice warm beneath her mask as she lifted the baby toward Cloud. "You've got a girl."

Cloud's hands hovered in midair, trembling visibly as he stared at the blood-smeared, wrinkled creature squirming in the nurse's grip. His throat worked soundlessly,eyes wide and glassy, before he finally choked out, "She’s so... angry."

Venison's fingers twitched toward the sound instinctively, head tracking the infant's furious wails like a compass finding north. His arms felt leaden, his muscles slack with exhaustion, but something primal in his chest tightened at the noise.

"Give them," His voice cracked, throat raw from screaming. He swallowed hard, fingers flexing weakly against the sheets. "Give them here."

The nurse hesitated,just for a fraction of a second, before carefully transferring the squirming bundle into Venison's outstretched arms. The moment the baby's weight settled against his chest, Venison's entire body locked rigid, his breath hitching audibly. He could feel the frantic flutter of the infant's heartbeat against his sternum, the damp heat of their skin through the thin hospital blanket.

"Jesus," Venison whispered, fingers trembling against the curve of the baby's skull, so small his palm nearly eclipsed it. "They're real."

Venison's fingers twitched against the baby's back, tiny, fragile ribs expanding with each furious breath beneath his palm, before his arms gave out entirely. The infant slid precariously toward his lap until Cloud's hands shot out to catch them, his wedding band catching the light as he fumbled the transfer. "Whoa, shit.. Oh! I can’t say that. Oh WHATEVER! Hi sweet girl!" Cloud's voice cracked as he cradled the squirming bundle against his chest, his biceps trembling visibly.

A nurse materialized at his elbow, her gloved hands already reaching. "We need to check her lungs." she said briskly, plucking the infant from Cloud's grip before he could protest. The baby's indignant wail crescendoed as she whisked them toward the warming bassinet, their cries sharp enough to make Venison flinch where he lay slumped against the pillows.

The nurse's hands were brisk and efficient as they peeled the screaming infant from Cloud's grip, already barking orders about APGAR scores and neonatal imaging. Venison barely registered the words, head turning weakly as the adrenaline crash hit him like a sledgehammer. His fingers twitched limply against the sweat-soaked sheets, reaching for something, someone, that was no longer there.

"Wait." Cloud's voice cracked, his arms still hovering midair where the nurse had snatched the baby. He took a jerky step toward the bassinet, but another nurse blocked his path with a clipboard, her pen already scratching against paper. The nurse turned to him. “We’re gonna get her to you as soon as possible. She seems to be a healthy baby girl so far. We have a 9 on her APGAR.”

The overhead lights flickered in Venison's fading awareness, halogen halos pulsing like distant stars as exhaustion dragged him under. The last thing he registered was the nurse's crisp voice saying "We need imaging on the lungs," before the world dissolved into staticky darkness. His fingers twitched against the mattress, blindly reaching for Cloud's warmth even as unconsciousness swallowed him whole.

Cloud's knees hit the linoleum with a dull thud, his forehead pressed against the edge of the hospital bed where Venison's limp hand dangled. The antiseptic smell of the delivery room clung to the back of his throat, sharp enough to make his eyes water,or maybe that was the way Venison's chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven hitches, his scarred eyelids fluttering faintly with exhausted dreams.

The overhead fluorescents buzzed like angry hornets as the nurse whisked the wailing infant toward the door, her tiny limbs flailing against the swaddle blanket with shocking violence for something so new. Cloud took an instinctive step after them, his socked feet squeaking against the linoleum, but a firm hand on his elbow stopped him cold.

"She's just getting checked," the nurse murmured, her grip tightening when Cloud's muscles tensed. "Standard procedure. They'll bring her back once she’s done."

The next minute was a blur. The hallway lights flickered like a dying heartbeat as Amara dragged Cloud by his hand, her grip tight enough to leave crescent moons in his skin. "Talk." she hissed, voice low enough that the nurses bustling past wouldn't overhear. Cloud opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a sharp gesture toward Venison's room. "Not the sugarcoated version. How bad was it really?"

Cloud's shoulders slumped as he leaned against the cold wall, the adrenaline crash making his knees wobble. "He…" His throat clicked dryly. ”He stopped pushing partway through, he was exhausted, but I got him to keep going..." The sentence hung between them, sharp as a scalpel. Amara's expression didn't change, but her fingers twitched toward her stethoscope pocket out of habit. “He did amazing, mom..”

Amara exhaled sharply through her nose, her gaze darting to the window where a nurse was weighing the squalling newborn. "Eight pounds three ounces." she muttered, half to herself. "For a first-time carrier recovering from Wilt? That’s borderline miraculous." Her fingers flexed like she wanted to grab Cloud’s shoulders but settled for adjusting his crooked collar instead. "You understand why I’m asking. His pelvic structure wasn’t—"

“He did it.” Cloud interrupted, voice cracking. He scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing tears he hadn’t noticed shedding. “When he thought he couldn’t, he, fuck, mom, he just listened to me, and he’s so brave.” The words dissolved into a wet laugh as Amara’s fingers finally landed on his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to ground him.

Amara’s thumb brushed the fresh claw marks raking down Cloud’s forearm, l’Venison’s desperate grip etched into his skin. Her professional mask slipped just enough to show the flicker of pride beneath. “Unplanned pregnancies are high-risk even without Wilt recovery.” she said quietly. “That he carried to term? Delivered vaginally?” A pause. The baby’s distant wail echoed down the hall. “Stubbornness runs in his family, apparently.”

Cloud laughed. “So do triplets, but we got lucky there.”

Amara snorted, an uncharacteristic sound,before sobering. “His liver enzymes.” It wasn’t a question.

Cloud swallowed. “Better since he quit drinking.” He hesitated. “Not… perfect.”

A nurse swept past with a clipboard, forcing them to step aside. Amara waited until she was gone before gripping Cloud’s wrist. “He needs monitoring. Not just for hemorrhage, his entire renal system could-”

“Mom.” Cloud squeezed back hard enough to hurt. “I know.”

A muscle jumped in Amara’s jaw, but she nodded. “Tell me when he wakes up. I want to check him over.”

The door cracked open behind them. A nurse emerged cradling their daughter, now eerily silent, her tiny face screwed up in displeasure beneath the striped hospital cap. Cloud’s breath caught. “She’s?”

“Perfect.” the nurse finished, adjusting the blanket with practiced ease. “APGAR nine. Lungs sound great.” She hesitated, glancing toward Venison’s room. “Dad’s asleep?”

Cloud nodded, already reaching, then froze when Amara intercepted the bundle with surgeon’s precision. “Let me.” she murmured, her thumbs sweeping over the infant’s forehead in an unmistakable diagnostic check. The baby squirmed, her miniature fists punching at the air.

Cloud motioned for the baby. “Give her here, I wanna see her! I haven’t held her yet!”

Amara ignored him, her fingers pressing lightly against the baby’s sternum. “Weight’s good.” she muttered. “No jaundice.” Her gaze flicked up, sharp. “Did they give Venison pitocin?”

Cloud blinked. “Uh. Maybe? There was a lot happening.”

Amara’s nostrils flared. “His contractions stalled.” she deduced, her free hand flipping the baby to inspect her spine. “That’s why you were panicking.” The baby squirmed indignantly at the sudden movement.

Cloud’s throat tightened. “He was so tired, mom. He just, stopped. Like his body gave up at the end.” His voice cracked. “I had to yell at him to keep going. But he did! And he’s doing great right now, and didn’t I tell you to give me my baby? C'mon, mom! Loosen up, everyone is safe, let me see her!”

Amara exhaled sharply, but relinquished the infant with surprising gentleness. “Support her lower back when you hold her.” she ordered, adjusting Cloud’s arms with brisk efficiency. “Newborns can sense tension. If you’re nervous, she’ll fuss.”

The baby, their baby, immediately nestled into Cloud’s chest, her tiny forehead wrinkling against his shirt. Cloud’s breath hitched. “Oh,” he whispered, his thumb brushing the impossibly soft skin of her cheek. “Hey. Hi. You’re, wow.” He swallowed hard.

Cloud's knees gave out entirely as the baby's tiny fingers curled around his pinky, her grip astonishingly strong for something so small. The fluorescent lights overhead blurred into streaks as he pressed his forehead against hers, inhaling the sharp, new scent of her skin mixed with hospital antiseptic. "She smells nice."

Amara's stethoscope hovered near the baby's back without touching, her professional detachment fraying at the edges. "You're holding her too stiffly." she muttered, nudging Cloud's elbow upward. The sudden movement made the infant startle,her limbs jerking in that chaotic newborn way,before she settled again with a wet sneeze that left Cloud grinning like an idiot.

Venison's voice, hoarse and thready, cut through the moment from the bed. "Cloud?"

Cloud's head snapped up so fast his neck cracked. The baby gave a startled hiccup against his chest as he scrambled toward the bed, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste,only to freeze when he saw Venison's face. His partner's lips cracked and dry, but his fingers twitched weakly against the sheets. "Right here." Cloud choked out, adjusting the infant carefully against his shoulder. "We're both right here."

Venison's breath hitched,a wet, ragged sound,as he turned his head blindly toward Cloud's voice. His hands lifted slightly, trembling with exhaustion, before falling back to the mattress. "Alive?" he rasped, the single word layered with a decade of unspoken fears.

The baby chose that moment to let out a sharp, hiccuping cry, her tiny fists batting at Cloud’s collarbone, and Venison’s entire body jerked like he’d been electrocuted. His fingers scrambled uselessly against the sheets, his breath coming in shallow, panicked hitches. “She?”

“Perfect,” Cloud interrupted, his voice cracking as he pressed the wriggling bundle into Venison’s limp arms. “Ten fingers, ten toes, lungs like a fucking opera singer.” The baby’s indignant wail cut him off, her face scrunching up beet-red beneath the hospital hat. Venison’s arms locked rigid the second her weight settled against his chest,his entire body going statue-still except for the violent tremor in his hands.

The baby's cry softened into a gurgle as Venison's shaky fingers brushed her cheek, his touch tentative, like he was afraid she might dissolve under his hands. The infant's tiny mouth latched onto the edge of the hospital blanket with a wet smack. "She's…" Venison's voice broke. His thumb traced the curve of her ear, so small it fit beneath his fingertip. "Real."

Amara cleared her throat from the doorway, her stethoscope dangling from one hand. "You'll want to support her neck more." she said, too clinically, but her knuckles whitened around the doorframe when the baby let out a hiccuping sigh. Cloud barely resisted the urge to snap at her, until he saw the way Venison's arms immediately adjusted, his elbows tucking inward with instinctive precision despite his exhaustion. The baby squirmed, her face scrunching, before settling against Venison's heartbeat with a contented snuffle.

Venison's fingers stilled against the baby's back, his breath hitching audibly. The words came out jagged, like broken glass stuck in his throat. "Does she?" His grip tightened infinitesimally around the swaddled bundle. "The drinking. DidI—?"

Cloud's stomach dropped. He saw the exact moment Venison's nails dug into the blanket, his knuckles bleaching white beneath old scars. The baby stirred with a soft whimper, her tiny face crumpling at the tension radiating through Venison's arms.

Amara moved before Cloud could, her stethoscope brushing the infant's chest with practiced ease as she cut through the panic with clinical precision. "No facial dysmorphia." she said, her thumb smoothing over the baby's perfectly arched brows. "No cardiac murmurs." She tilted the tiny chin upward, revealing a rosebud mouth already rooting hungrily against the blanket. "See how alert she is? FASD infants usually have poor coordination." To demonstrate, she lifted the baby's arm, the little limb waving with startling strength before smacking Venison square in the jaw.

Venison flinched, but his shoulders didn't relax. "But the..the liver damage."

"Was minimal." Amara interrupted. She pressed two fingers to the baby's wrist, counting pulse beats with her lips moving silently. ”The placenta filtered most toxins." A pause. The baby kicked her feet indignantly, tiny toes flexing against Venison's palm. "She's fine."

Venison's breath came in short, uneven bursts as he traced the baby's features with trembling fingers, the slope of her nose, the soft fuzz of hair, the way her tiny mouth worked against his thumb like she was already searching for something to latch onto. His throat clicked when he swallowed, dry and painful.

The door creaked open with the sterile efficiency of a hospital hinge, and Venison’s head jerked toward the sound,blind but acutely attuned. A nurse bustled in, her shoes squeaking against the linoleum. "Time to hydrate, dad." she announced, far too cheerfully for the hour, and pressed a cold plastic bottle into Venison’s free hand. The baby squirmed against his chest, her tiny nose wrinkling at the sudden disturbance.

Venison’s fingers fumbled around the bottle, the condensation slick against his palm. He brought it to his lips on instinct, only to freeze when the sharp tang of artificial citrus hit his tongue. "Mmh- wasn’t expecting it to be flavored.”

Cloud giggled, thumbing away a drop of electrolyte solution that had escaped down Venison’s chin. "Better than straight saline, right?" His grin faltered when Venison’s throat worked convulsively around the next sip,his partner’s face paling beneath the sweat-dampened hair sticking to his forehead. "Hey. Too much?"

Venison shook his head, but his grip on the bottle trembled. The nurse, sharp-eyed and quicker than Cloud expected, plucked it from his hand before it could spill. "Small sips." she chided gently, adjusting the straw. "Your body’s been through a marathon. We don’t need you crashing from hypoglycemia or choking while holding the baby."

The baby's tiny mouth latched onto Venison's collarbone with startling force, her gums gnashing against skin in desperate, wet sucks. Venison jerked back with a hissed breath, his free hand flying up to prod at the sudden sting, only for Amara to intercept his wrist with clinical precision. "Hungry." she observed, her thumb pressing into the baby's cheek to demonstrate the rooting reflex. The infant's head turned instinctively toward the pressure, her mouth opening and closing like a baby bird's.

Cloud hovered close, his fingers twitching near the baby's back. "Should we?"

"Supplemental formula." Amara said briskly, already reaching for the call button. "His mature milk won't come in for another 24-48 hours." Her tone left no room for argument, but Venison's shoulders stiffened anyway, his grip tightening infinitesimally around the swaddled bundle.

The nurse arrived with a pre-measured bottle of formula, its contents swirling opaque and off-white under the harsh hospital lights. She pressed it into Cloud's hands with practiced efficiency, already turning to leave.

The baby's cry hit like a fire alarm, sudden, shrill, and impossible to ignore. Venison flinched so hard the IV line yanked against his wrist, his exhausted arms jerking upward on instinct as the infant's wails escalated into frantic, hiccuping shrieks. Cloud was already moving, the plastic formula bottle crinkling in his grip as he lunged toward the bed. "Here, let me.”

Venison's fingers closed around the bottle blindly, his knuckles whitening. "I got it." he rasped, but his arm trembled violently as he tried to shift upright against the pillows. The movement stalled halfway, his abdomen muscles seizing with a sharp gasp. The bottle slipped, bouncing off the mattress,

Cloud caught it mid-air, his other hand bracing Venison's shaking shoulder. "Easy." he murmured, pressing the bottle back into his partner's grip. "Lean on me."

Venison curled forward, his free arm cradling the screaming infant tighter against his chest. The bottle trembled against the baby's lips, missing twice before finally brushing her mouth. She latched with desperate urgency, her tiny fists clutching at nothing as she sucked noisily.

For three glorious seconds, silence reigned. Then Venison's arms jerked, his entire body going rigid as a full-body tremor wracked him. The bottle tilted precariously, formula dripping down the baby's chin as Venison's head lolled back against the pillows, his eyelid-less stare unfocusing. "M'okay." he slurred, even as his fingers slackened around the plastic.

Cloud's palm shot out to support the bottle just as it slipped from Venison's grip. The baby's indignant wail cut through the room like a siren, her face flushing beet-red beneath the striped hospital cap. Venison flinched at the sound, his hands scrambling weakly against the sheets. "S-sorry, I…"

"Easy," Cloud murmured, adjusting Venison's limp hand back around the bottle while propping his elbow with his own forearm. The baby latched again with desperate enthusiasm, her tiny nostrils flaring with each greedy gulp. Venison's fingers twitched against the bottle, too weak to maintain proper pressure, but the angle held.

Amara materialized at the bedside, her stethoscope brushing the baby's back without interrupting the feeding. "Hypoglycemic tremor." she diagnosed quietly, pressing two fingers to Venison's pulse point. His wrist was damp with sweat beneath her touch. "He's crashing from blood sugar depletion. Looks like both of you need to eat, luckily you don’t cry for it."

Venison's head lolled sideways against the pillow, his eyelid-less stare unfocusing as the baby's sucking slowed to lethargic pulls. The bottle tilted precariously, formula dribbling down her chin,before Cloud caught it again with a curse. "Hey. Stay with me." He nudged Venison's jaw upward with his knuckles, startling him back to awareness. "Just ninety seconds more. She's almost finished."

The baby's mouth went slack mid-suck, her limbs splaying outward in sudden boneless exhaustion. Cloud swore under his breath as the bottle slipped from Venison's grip entirely, formula pooling on the bedsheet where the infant's head lolled precariously close to spilling. Amara moved faster than Cloud thought possible for a woman in her late fifties,  her surgeon's hands swooping in to cradle the baby's neck before it could slump forward.

"Out like a light," she muttered, deftly untangling the infant from Venison's trembling arms. The transfer made Venison startle, his fingers twitching after the sudden absence of warmth, but he lacked the strength to protest, his head falling back against the pillows.

The baby’s soft snuffles filled the room as Amara swaddled her with military precision, tucking the blanket corners tight enough to suppress even a newborn’s reflexive startles. Cloud watched, mesmerized, as his mother’s hands, usually so clinical during surgeries,lingered for half a second too long smoothing the fabric over the infant’s tiny shoulder.
The IV pump beeped three times, sharp, clinical staccatos, before Venison's fingers found Cloud's wrist, gripping with surprising strength. "Did I.." His throat clicked dryly. The words came out hoarse, sandpapered raw. "Pass out again?"

Cloud's thumb brushed over Venison's knuckles, tracing the ridges of scar tissue there. "Just for a minute." A lie. The clock above the bed showed forty-three minutes since Venison's last bout of consciousness, while nurses moved around him like ghosts. He didn’t need Ven getting worried over taking time to rest.

The IV pump beeped again, longer this time, an insistent alarm that cut through the drowsy silence. Venison's fingers spasmed around Cloud's wrist, his breathing hitching. "She-" His voice was barely audible over the machine's shrill tone. "Where's?"

Amara stepped into view, the swaddled infant cradled expertly in the crook of one arm while her other hand silenced the IV alarm with a practiced jab. "Right here." she said, her usual clinical tone softened at the edges. The baby stirred at the sound of her voice, her tiny nose wrinkling before settling back into sleep. “She gave into some rest too. We’ve had you on some good IV nutrients, but it’s gonna be better for you if you eat, hon.”

The baby made a wet, snuffling noise against Amara’s shoulder, a sound so small and new it made Cloud’s chest ache. Venison’s head turned blindly toward it, his fingers curling into the sheets like he could pull the sound closer through sheer will. Amara hesitated, then deposited the swaddled bundle into Cloud’s arms with uncharacteristic gentleness. "Eat first," she ordered Venison, nodding toward the untouched tray of hospital food. "Then you can hold her again."
A nurse came in with food, and asked just about the biggest question yet. “So, do we have a name picked out?” Cloud and Venison paused. Then in unison, 

“Opal.” 

The birth certificate was signed. “It’s beautiful.” She said, padding out of the room. 

Cloud rocked instinctively as the baby settled against him, her warmth seeping through his shirt. He nearly missed the way Venison twitched at the mention of food,his partner’s face twisting with something too sharp to be mere nausea. "C’mon," Cloud coaxed, bouncing the infant lightly when she stirred. "Just a few bites. For her."

The hospital tray rattled when Venison's fingers brushed it, knuckles whitening around the plastic fork as he forced himself upright against the pillows. His breath hitched at the movement, IV lines tugging, but he managed to spear a limp green bean with shaky precision. Cloud watched his partner's throat work convulsively around the first bite, the muscles standing out like cables beneath sweat-damp skin.

"Good." Amara murmured, adjusting the baby's swaddle where she dozed against Cloud's shoulder. Her stethoscope brushed the tiny chest in passing,more habit than necessity. "Slow sips of water between bites."

Venison's fingers trembled around the water cup, condensation dripping onto his wrist as he lifted it to his lips. The first sip tasted metallic, sharp against his tongue, hospital water, always tasting faintly of the pipes. He grimaced but swallowed anyway, his throat working painfully. Cloud watched the bob of his partner's Adam's apple, the way his breath hitched afterward like he was fighting down nausea. But he looked relieved too, like any food at all would’ve tasted like a steak dinner.

The baby's sudden sneeze, a wet, inelegant sound, startled Cloud so badly he nearly dropped her. Venison's head snapped up from the tray, his fork clattering onto the plate as his hands flew out instinctively toward the sound. “Gods, she’s got a lot of power in this tiny little body.”

Amara intercepted the swaddle before it could slip, her fingers deftly adjusting the blanket around the infant’s flailing limbs. "Sneezing clears amniotic fluid from the nasal passages." she said, too clinically, but Cloud didn’t miss the way her thumb lingered against the baby’s flushed cheek afterward, then wiping her tiny little nose.

The IV pump hissed softly in the background, its rhythmic beeps fading into white noise as Amara's fingers, usually so precise with sutures and scalpels, fumbled slightly while adjusting the baby's cap. The striped fabric slipped askew over one tiny ear, and instead of her usual clipped correction, Amara made a sound Cloud hadn't heard since he was six and brought her a mangled dandelion crown, a hushed, wounded noise that wasn't quite a laugh.

"Look at these eyelashes." she murmured, her thumb brushing the infant's cheek with surprising gentleness. The baby stirred at the touch, her miniature features scrunching in protest before relaxing into sleep again. Amara's breath caught audibly. "Long like yours were, Cloud." Her voice cracked on his name, rough with something that wasn't professionalism.

Venison's fingers stilled around the water cup, his head turning sharply toward the sound. Cloud watched his mother's face crumple for a single, unguarded moment, her lips pressing together in a tight line as she traced the curve of the baby's forehead with one trembling finger.

"Mom?" Cloud's voice came out too soft. Amara hadn't taken her eyes off the baby since she'd adjusted that damn cap,her surgeon's fingers frozen mid-tuck like she'd forgotten how to let go. "You okay?"

Amara's exhale shuddered.

The baby sneezed again, an explosive little sound that made her entire body jerk in the swaddle. Amara startled so badly her stethoscope clattered against the bedside tray, her hands flying up to steady the infant's wobbling head. "Oh!" The word burst out of her, sharp and startled and nothing like her usual clipped tone. "Bless you, sweetheart." Her thumb swiped automatically at the droplet clinging to the baby's nose, then froze, as if realizing she'd spoken aloud.

Cloud felt his breath catch. He'd never heard that inflection from his mother, not once in thirty-two years. Not even when he'd broken his arm falling from the oak tree at seven.

The baby hiccuped, her face scrunching up beneath the hospital cap. Amara made another involuntary noise, half laugh, half gasp, her fingers trembling as they adjusted the blanket's edge where it had slipped. "Look at her," she whispered. Not to Cloud. Not even to Venison. Just to the air between them, raw and wondering. "She looks just like you, Cloud."

Venison's hand found Cloud's wrist blindly, his grip weak but insistent. Cloud turned just in time to see his partner's eyelid-less gaze flicker between them, his cracked lips parting soundlessly. Amara didn't notice, too engrossed in tucking the blanket tighter around squirming limbs. "There we go," she murmured, her voice softer than Cloud had ever heard it. "Nice and snug, little one."

The baby let out a shuddering sigh, her tiny body going limp against Amara’s chest. For a heartbeat, no one moved, then Amara’s breath hitched audibly, her arms tightening around the swaddle like she was afraid the infant might dissolve into smoke.

Cloud had seen his mother hold newborns before, countless times, in sterile rooms where she’d rattle off Vitals with detached precision. But this was different. The way her fingers trembled as they traced the baby’s cheekbone, the way her throat worked around words she couldn’t voice, it made something primal and protective coil tight in Cloud’s gut.

The baby's whimper, thin and reedy, cut through the room like a knife. Amara stiffened, her arms locking reflexively around the swaddle as the infant's face crumpled. "She's…" Her voice cracked. The clinical detachment was gone, replaced by something raw and panicked. "Cloud, she's,"

"Gassy." Venison rasped from the bed, his fingers twitching toward the sound. His voice was wrecked, but his mouth curved into the ghost of a smile. "Heard it in her cry. Needs to-" He mimed a weak burping motion against his own shoulder.

Amara hesitated,her hands hovering uncertainly over the baby’s back,before surrendering the swaddled bundle to Cloud with uncharacteristic reluctance. The transfer was clumsy, her fingers lingered a heartbeat too long, brushing the baby’s flushed cheek as Cloud settled her against his shoulder.

"Like this." Venison murmured from the bed, his hands shaping the air in a weak approximation of the motion. His fingers trembled,exhaustion and adrenaline warring in the quiver of his wrists,but the gesture was unmistakable. Three firm pats, high on the back. Cloud obeyed, his palm broad and warm against the tiny spine.

The first burp sounded like a champagne cork popping, explosive and wet and entirely disproportionate to the baby's size. Cloud startled so hard he nearly dropped her, his grip tightening instinctively as the infant let out a contented sigh against his collarbone. Amara's stethoscope slipped from her shoulder, clattering to the floor unnoticed.

Venison's laugh was a rasping, exhausted thing, but it lit up his ravaged face. "Told you." he wheezed, his fingers curling weakly in the sheets. His eyelid-less gaze flickered toward the sound, blind but acutely attuned.

The baby's sigh melted into a wet snuffle against Cloud's shirt, her tiny mouth working in sleepy, rhythmic sucks against the fabric. Amara's hand hovered mid-air, her surgeon's instincts warring with something softer as she watched the infant nestle deeper into the crook of Cloud's arm. "She's..." Her voice faltered, the clinical cadence crumbling. "Perfect."

Venison's fingers twitched against the sheets, his breath hitching, not from pain this time, but something sharper, brighter. He turned his head blindly toward the sound of Cloud's shaky exhale, the way his partner's heartbeat must be rabbiting beneath that damp hospital shirt. The IV line tugged as he shifted, but he barely noticed, his palm sliding across the mattress until his fingertips brushed Cloud's thigh.

Venison's fingers found Cloud's wrist first, his grip weak but unmistakably intentional as he tugged downward. Cloud leaned into the touch instinctively, his free arm cradling their sleeping daughter closer as he bent toward the bed. The kiss was dry and cracked at the edges, Venison's lips still rough from hours of panting through contractions, but it lingered just long enough for Cloud to taste the metallic tang of hospital ice chips and exhaustion.

Venison held him sweetly.

"Congratulations, Daddy.”