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Operation: Cover Me in Sonshine

Summary: The birth of baby Burrow number one, three days after his due date.

Word count: 10.4K

Author’s Note: Content warning! My fics are based on realism, pregnancy isn’t always pretty and natural childbirth is definitely not pretty. Mentions of getting sick, bodily functions and fluids, pregnancy discomfort and medical terminology associated with childbirth.

Every day starting at 5PM, your phone rang constantly. So did Joe’s, which he loved. You’d jokingly started calling it “blue hour.”

Random calls that went to voicemail and texts from distant family members, old coworkers and teammates who all had about 30 questions each they wanted answered. And about 1.2 willing participants who wanted to conduct a baby Q&A. You’d kindly respond in a timely manner. Joe had blocked three people in the last five days.

Boy or girl? Baby still being stubborn? You two parents yet?

“That’s it,” Joe sighs, dropping his phone onto the opposite end of the couch. “I’m going out back and throwing both of these into the lake.”

“Or…we could just put them on DND.” You tried to reason with him.

Instead of doing that, he shut his phone off completely and folded his arms across his chest. “They aren’t getting anything from me. Not like we’re doing a PSA when he’s born. Our parents will be lucky if I remember to text them. I couldn’t care less about everybody else.”

“Yes you’ve made that quite clear,” you giggled, shifting around in your seat as he picked something mindless to watch, in hopes his annoyance would dissipate. “But to be fair, the kid is late.”

“He is, but that’s not their business.” He continues, tone still a bit too intense for the situation. Telling him to relax isn’t in your best interest though. “And having everyone send obnoxious messages isn’t a great motivation tactic. Where are you going?” Joe scrambled to his feet to help you up despite your protests that you had it. “I believe you.” He promised. “Just here for moral support.”

“Thank you,” you patted his chest. “I’m starving. I need to see if my corn dogs are here.”

You and Joe saw eye to eye on most things, and he tried to take every new pregnancy thing in stride. He learned to accept the late night snacking in bed, the random bouts of insatiable hunger that had to be sorted out within five minutes or you wouldn’t be hungry anymore. But your latest corn dog obsession was one he couldn’t get down with.

“They’re Korean corn dogs,” he remembers you explaining as you held one out in his direction a few days ago, “do you wanna try one?”

Joe shook his head vigorously. “Doesn’t matter where they’re from, I’m not touching that. And honestly? You shouldn’t either. Those things cannot be for human consumption.”

And yet, around three nights a week the last two weeks, Morgan ordered a box of three Korean corn dogs even when Joe insisted you needed real food. Tonight was no different, he sighed seeing you walk into the living room with your Decibel box and his chicken Caesar smash burger with sweet potato fries and stood up immediately. “You didn’t have to grab mine.”

“I wanted to,” you assured him and he thanked you with a kiss on the forehead, chuckling lightly when you groaned as you sat down. “Your son’s getting a little too heavy.”

Joe takes a bite of a fry and stares at you. “He’s my son now?”

“When he’s hurting my ribs and head-butting my bladder? Definitely your son.”

Using his burger as a pointer, he counters your argument. “He’s your son too because my kid would never eat a corn dog.”

You rubbed your belly after dipping one in ketchup, “I’m not gonna say anything else because the evidence speaks for itself.”

“All I’m saying is that I have a mean ‘I told you so’ waiting for you when you have acid reflux later.”

He nudged your water bottle towards you and you smiled, taking a few long sips.

Two corndogs and two movies later, your back was officially hurting enough to retire to bed for the night. Joe had the heating pad plugged in by the time you got out of the shower and it was warm when you settled into the cool sheets.

“Good?” Your husband asked before turning off the light.

“As good as I can be with this medicine ball permanently strapped to my body.”

“It’s not permanent,” he gives your shoulder a tender squeeze. “Little dude’s gonna have to come out eventually. He’s running out of excuses.”

There isn’t any energy remaining in you to respond so you give him a nod before closing your eyes. He whispers a quick “love you” before turning off the lamp on his side of the bed and going to sleep.

You started out the night on your left side, something about blood flow and doctor recommendations but that was comfortable for maybe 20 minutes. Turning over took a lot of effort but you managed and tossed the heating pad to the side because your lower back was still hurting and all it was doing was making you warm. Usually, the subtle heat solved your problems. Not this time. And night sweats was the very last thing you needed. The cherry on top was the full bladder that finally got you out of bed around 12:30. The all too familiar bout of nausea welcomed you as you struggled to your feet in the dark, not even bothering with lights as the back of your throat started to burn with a beefy, fried potato aftertaste. It wasn’t as fun to relive your last meal as you tried swallowing it back down with water and a silent plea not to let it all resurface.

“Babe,” you shakily mumbled in a tired voice.

“Hm?”

“Will you rub my back really quick, please?”

“Yeah of course,” he reaches over, fingers getting to work in the problem area that’s been bothering you the last week or so. Joe falls asleep less than 15 minutes into the back rub and you’re back to square one, tossing and turning until your body required a different kind of movement.

The exercise ball you swore you’d never used became your lifeline at 2:33 in the morning. Both hands resting at the base of your belly, making small circles with your hips trying to re-center, during your second trimester Dr. Chen had mentioned a few stretches that were supposed to ease acid reflux and you tossed back a few tums with several ounces of water for good measure. With the size of the baby you were carrying, your stomach had probably shrunk in half as your vital organs shifted around to accommodate him as he continued his overdue stay. Maybe if you kept moving and coaxed him to a new spot, you could get a few hours of sleep. Taking a deep breath, you stared hard at the ceiling and even though you couldn’t see him at all, you cursed Joe for being able to successfully hit REM while you resorted to middle of the night acrobatics just to get comfortable.

“Pregnancy officially sucks and I’m done,” you said out loud, maybe talking to your son. Maybe to yourself. You lifted up your shirt and looked down at the globe that was once normal bloating and poked your protruding belly button. “All I ask is for two hours of sleep. Three, tops. Please.”

You didn’t miraculously feel less sick and the lower back pain sent pins and needles down your spine, sending you into a makeshift cat-cow position. Then you laid on the cool home gym floor stretching your hamstrings, feeling scary close to a turtle stuck on its shell when you couldn’t get up.

“Doctor said you’re not supposed to be lying on your back,” Joe says now fully dressed for a morning workout.

You held out your hands, “I’m stuck.”

He laughed and easily pulled you to your feet, hearing a soft sound very similar to how he felt the morning after playing a particularly physical defense. “You okay?”

His hand was on your lower back again, on top of yours as you nodded with your eyes closed. “I’m fine, getting off the ground took way more out of me than I’d like to discuss,” you yawned, grateful your humbling adventure at least had a nap at the end of the tunnel. “I’m going back to bed, you leaving already?”

“It’s 5:15.” He said plainly.

“Really? Wow, yeah I need to actually sleep. Have fun lifting stuff and running, I’ll be watching the back of my eyelids, hopefully.”

Joe shakes his head with a smile, “get some sleep. I’ll have my phone close so call or text if you need me. I mean it.”

“I know. I will.”

He insisted on walking with you up the stairs claiming he was there in case you got winded but you knew he was watching you closely. “Nothing’s wrong, my stomach is just protesting my last meal. And before you tell me I shouldn’t have had the corn dog I want you to remember that I’ve spent the last ten months and three days of my life making us a baby, from scratch might I add.”

“You’re a warrior,” Joe says, helping you get back into bed, “no doubt about that. Now get some rest, I won’t be long.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.” He places a hand on your stomach, “and you too man. Take it easy on your mom today, will you? She’s been working overtime. Both of you need some sleep.” His sentiments were met with a kick as though his son heard him and they were on the same page about the subject. “I’ll take that as an answer,” he placed a soft kiss on your lips before making his way out the door, the pregnancy gods finally smiled down on you and gave your body enough reprieve to let you get two and a half hours of uninterrupted rest.

You woke up queasier than before, cursing yourself for having that second corn dog instead of stopping at one. And the dull back pain was still there but your hips? They felt like they were being yanked away from the rest of your body by a pair of heavy duty pliers. Sitting up as slowly as possible, not to irritate your joints even more, you groaned, pressing your thumb into your hip bone, using the table as a crutch as you got to your feet. Gravity had done its job in moving everything…lower.

“Okay then,” you winced as the baby stretched and you felt everything, dinner dangerously close to seeing the bedroom floor for a second. You burped, the acidic taste unwilling to leave and made your way to the kitchen at less than a snail’s pace.

Morgan’s kind demeanor was hands down your favorite part about him. The chef was honestly joy personified which was great to have and made his food taste even better because you knew he put so much love and care into each meal. But this morning, the thought of food was horrifying and he just blinked a few times asking if you were sure when you said you didn’t want breakfast. Sure, the first trimester was ground zero but afterwards? You’d become Morgan’s favorite customer, trying any and every new recipe, he satisfied every craving and fed into your weekly obsessions. One week it was lemon ricotta pancakes. Then there was the pasta carbonara month. Today was boring which wasn’t exactly a good sign.

“Do we have any ginger ale? Or sprite maybe?” You asked him, rubbing the underside of your belly. He hasn’t pulled out carbonated drinks before 8AM since week 12 of pregnancy.

“We do,” he turned to grab it out of the cabinet and you grabbed the can and opened it as soon as he placed it on the counter. “You don’t want anything else? Something small, or plain?”

“Not really,” you thought about sitting on the stool but that sounded like a battle. “I feel gross and food might send me over the edge. Could go for a fiber gummy if we have those?”

The man nodded and handed you some and a cup of water.

“Thank you.” You sighed, leaning onto the counter as your back protested again, “I’m never getting a decibel box ever again.”

Morgan bites back a snort and texts Joe when you make your way to the living room. He likes his chef’s message and calls you immediately after.

“Hey,” he sounds like he’s catching his breath, “Morgan said you didn’t want breakfast? Haven’t eaten since seven last night, everything okay?”

“Not hungry yet,” you tell him honestly. “And I know what you’re thinking but I’m just very bloated and pregnant. Probably will be hungry in the next few hours no need to sound any alarms yet.”

“You’re funny. I’m almost done here anyway so I’ll be home soon.”

There was no arguing with him once he set his mind to something so you knew he was coming home whether you needed him here or not.

As promised, Joe came home, did a visual status update to ensure you weren’t on your deathbed and headed upstairs to “rinse off real quick.” You sat there deciding what you wanted to do next. Nothing was in excruciating pain, you just felt full. Everything was tight and weird and the “pain” you did feel was more annoying than anything.

It was a good old fashioned stomachache maybe mixed in with indigestion and you pressed your hand lower on your stomach. “I hear you,” and stood up to get dressed. Halfway up the steps there was a tight pull that wrapped around your lower half, everything from your lower back to your belly became one hard muscle stretched to the brim and you closed your eyes, midsection clenching against your hand for several seconds until it released its hold. Now you could add intense Braxton hicks contractions to the list.

“Don’t hate me,” you told Joe as you walked into the bedroom while he pulled a t-shirt over his head. “I know you just showered but can we go for a walk? Down the block and back, I just need move around—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he watches you walk over to the closet to change, “if walking feels good, let’s do that. Need help with your shoes?”

“Please? You’re the best husband I’ve ever had.”

He rolls his eyes, kneeling with a pair of your sneakers in hand. “Last time I checked, I’m the only husband you’ve ever had.”

“So far.”

“Very funny,” he fakes amusement and watches closely matching your pace down the steps and out the door.

Joe recognizes sequences and particularly familiar actions. It’s what makes him one of the best at his position. And the more he cares the more he pays attention. He’s definitely paying attention now because your gait has changed. The waddle appeared week 31 when the bump was undeniable and you two were in California enjoying the beginning of the offseason. He knows the difference between a normal waddle, an I have to pee waddle, a my feet and/or back hurt waddle. This is a focused waddle. Every step is carefully thought out beforehand like your mind is somewhere else entirely and he doesn’t want to ask and disrupt your focus but you definitely don’t look comfortable.

And your hands.

Usually they’re resting against your stomach, spots where your son’s hand or feet are trying to poke through your skin but today they’re low, almost like you’re lifting the baby off of your pelvis, holding him up. Holding him in place because if you don’t he may fall out. It’s still early enough in the day that the neighborhood is quiet and not many people are outside, a few elderly couples walking their dogs. One car passing by on their drive to work or taking the kids to school or both.

You slow down and exhale roughly, eyes closed. “Sorry, hang on.” Joe adds that to his mental list, noting one palm resting lower and the fact that you’re stopped in your tracks by whatever you’re feeling. Then you kept walking like nothing happened.

A park bench rested on the edge of the block near the playground and when you walked by, you squatted beside the thing, gripping it for leverage. Your head dropped this time, moving purely on instinct and Joe recognized the same focus that has been gnawing at him since the walk started.

He crouched beside you, seeing the slow breaths you pulled into your lungs before letting out a frustrated sound. It wasn’t pained, more…inconvenienced. “What are you feeling?”

“Sick,” you admitted. “I think you were right,” one of your hands smoothed down the front of your shirt. “Dinner is not sitting right and I,” you paused, trying not to gag. “I don’t feel good.”

“Okay let’s get home,” he decided, standing up and holding out his hands. You took another deep breath and let him hold you up, rubbing circles into your back. The walk back was faster than the walk there and he noticed a greater sense of urgency. “What’s the rush?”

You looked a little panicked, your waddle less focused more frantic. “My body’s doing something and I have to get home. Like, now now.”

“Oh.” Is all he said before pulling out his phone and texting Ivy.

We’re walking back home. Can you refill her Stanley with ice? She’s not feeling too hot.

An answer came through a few seconds later.

Of course.

The house manager immediately went into the kitchen to grab the giant water cup from the drying rack. Then she showed Morgan the text. “You were right.”

Morgan shrugged. “Could still be anything, I don’t want to jinx it.”

The door swung open a few minutes later and Ivy stepped towards the entryway, Stanley in hand. “Hey. I have your—”

“Oh my god,” you grunted, making a beeline for the stairs. “Sorry!” you called over your shoulder. “Hi Ivy. Love you. Can’t talk. Might shit myself.”

Ivy stood motionless a few feet away and Morgan stepped out of the kitchen to make sure he wasn’t hearing things.

Joe paused long enough to grab the water. “Thanks.” Then he was jogging after you.

He got to the third floor of his home and found one shoe next to the top step. The other a few feet away. Your leggings and underwear discarded down the hall towards the bedroom and your shirt laid on the bedroom floor in front of the master bathroom where he found you on the toilet in just a sports bra, heaving breaths and your hands squeezing your thighs.

“I had no choice.”

“I see that,” he holds up all of the items he collected on the way. “You alright?”

You blew out a breath, “no. I’m very much not alright,” you groaned, hand moving up to your belly. The other gripped the counter so tightly it made him a little nervous. “Holy fuck.”

“I feel like I have to poop,” you paused. “Or puke.” You shook your head, feeling everything at once.

“Or both? God and my butthole hurts. Is that normal?”

Joe placed his hands on his hips, thinking about all the baby books he’s read. “I honestly have no idea.”

“Great.” You shifted on the toilet and placed your head in your forearm, close to tears. This was so much worse than hearing him say ‘I told you so.’ He visibly remembered early on in your relationship when you wouldn’t even pee when he was brushing his teeth in the bathroom, claiming that some things do need to remain a mystery. No bathroom sharing if someone’s on the toilet.

Now you were seconds away from using the restroom and you wanted him to hold your hand.

He was thinking about how you’d declined breakfast, had a never ending backache, the full feeling, the focused waddle, and the mad dash to the toilet. All while looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Do you think we should call Dr. Chen? Just to see what she thinks?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

You nodded but still looked hesitant. “If it’s food poisoning that’ll be embarrassing.”

“And if it’s not?”

The answer he was waiting for came in the form of your body being squeezed by another intense wave of pressure. He visibly watched your belly grow high and tight as a drum, your hand balled into a fist as he urged you to breathe. “Let’s just call and see what she says.”

Joe didn’t even wait for a signal of approval before dialing.

You loved your OB. She was qualified, calm, discreet, everything you needed in the person you would be trusting with your life and your baby’s life. But when you felt like you were going to die of embarrassment on the toilet in front of your husband with your staff downstairs waiting for a poop or labor announcement the last thing you want to hear is:

“Based on what you’ve told me, it certainly could be early labor. It could also still be the normal discomforts that come at the very end of pregnancy, and I can’t tell the difference over the phone. Most important thing is to listen to your body. If it says walk, you walk. If it’s telling you to sit on the toilet or lay in bed, then do that. I don’t want to make any assumptions over the phone but I’ll have my mine on me so please reach out any time. For now, keep moving, there’s no blood so I’d stay home and try to get comfortable. If contractions are five minutes apart for an hour lasting one full minute or your water breaks, call me.”

“This is a humiliation ritual.” You felt bad complaining but if this wasn’t labor you’d be having a serious talk with your fetus and your digestive system.

He knew he shouldn’t find any of this funny. Instead, Joe knelt down and patted your leg. “You’re good,” he promised. “Do you want me to call your mom or anything?”

“Absolutely not.” You told him immediately. “This,” gesturing between you, “is bad enough. I’m trying to poop and I can’t. You’re the only audience I can handle since this is mostly your fault anyway.” You glared at him as soon as he attempted to open his mouth. “I didn’t get myself pregnant, did I?

“Good point.” His nurturing touch finds its way to the middle of your back, adding enough pressure. “Do you think a bath would help? Dr. Chen did say to try to relax.”

Wiggling in your seat again you weighed your options. Clearly you didn’t need to poop or it would’ve happened already and being in the water might ease what seemed to be full body cramps, even your legs felt tired. “Need to get this thing off,” you tugged at your sports bra. The water was lukewarm, perfect for the situation. You’d worked up a bit of a sweat trying to prevent an accident that thankfully turned out to be a false alarm and sighed, fully submerged in the water.

“This was a good idea, thank you.” You held out a wet hand and he held on, seeing you cup your belly again. “Still hurts but I feel a little better.”

You ended up leaning over the side, arms folded over the edge of the tub, taking deep breaths, still managing a joke. “Being naked was a great move. No dignity, no clothes.” Then you got quiet again. He observed a few posture changes, shoulders stiff versus relaxed, a few quiet hisses of pain as you palpated your stomach trying to find the source of the weird sensation and coming up empty each time.

“I don’t think this is the corn dogs,” you let out the tiniest laugh and a short breath followed. Then a groan.

Joe sat up, rubbing a spot between your shoulder blades. “I don’t either. But tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Pretty sure I’ve been contracting,” the pain dies down so you can fully converse. “Wasn’t 100% sure before but that weird pulling feeling, kind of everywhere? I’m not explaining it well but it feels way different than any practice ones I’ve had. And that last one was the most intense.”

“All good information,” his thumb grazes your shoulder, letting you know he’s here and won’t go far.

The bathroom is relatively quiet until your eyes snap open and you’re holding onto the edge again. “I need out.”

Joe is moving before you finish your sentence, towel in one arm, voice steady. “C’mon, I gotcha.”

“Down,” you rush out, “I need—floor.” He tosses an extra towel on the ground by the tub as you’re forced to your hands and knees and he places another towel over you because you’re still wet and he doesn’t want you to get cold. “Oh god. Ow. Can you grab a cold rag, please?”

He moves with a sense of urgency that hasn’t been there all day. It’s almost like as soon as you two acknowledged that things were changing, everything became much more real. There was no time for questions, like Dr. Chen told him you were in charge, whatever your body needed, he’d be there to figure out how to make it work. So if you needed a cold rag, he brought two. “Where do you need this?”

You rocked gently, breaths shakier than they were minutes ago, no doubt working through the latest wave. And you looked a little overwhelmed. “Put it low please, really low.” He remembered you mentioning rectal pressure and understood what you meant by low. The cool relief helped more than anything else had all day and your shoulders sagged as you thanked him. “God, that feels amazing.”

Joe didn’t hesitate to park himself at your side, a few extra towels nearby in case he needed them. He wished there was more he could do but now that you’d given him this task, he was ready to hold this rag until his arms fell off.

The pressure continued to build. Those frantic semi circles you’d adopted didn’t help anymore, moving made the pain worse and it felt like your body was trying to do something your mind couldn’t keep up with. “Joe?” Your voice sounded strained, laced with discomfort he wanted to take away but couldn’t.

“I’m right here,” his hand rested on your hip. “Need anything?”

“I need you to move your hand.”

His concern grew. “Is it not helping anymore?”

Your head dipped down, trying to power through the latest contraction. “It is I just—take it off.”

“Babe if it’s helping, I’m gonna keep helping.”

The truth was that the cloth was the only thing keeping you from screaming but the last two surges or waves or contractions if that’s what they truly were, made you feel like you really had to go. And you’d rather not do that on your hands and knees with him dangerously close to your backside. “Please, please move your hand.”

He eased the rag away immediately because tone scared him, you weren’t joking anymore or laughing. There was tension in your words and he swore he saw you gritting your teeth, holding yourself back from something. He took the rag off and your eyes stung a little, desperately needing to get to your feet but the bowling ball pressure in your butt made the decision for you. Standing wasn’t an option so you had to crawl.

“Woah—hey. What do you need?”

“Toilet,” you gritted out. “I have to poop.”

Joe nodded and moved more towels to make a path, protecting your knees. You made it a few feet before your body froze and locked up due to the pain. You were trying to breathe through it, eyes closed, fingers curled around the towel on the ground and Joe saw your expression change and was back on the floor. The books had warned him about the shaking and a basic rundown of natural childbirth but seeing his person go through it and not being able to take any of her pain away wasn’t something he could prepare for. And if you were in too much pain to crawl to the toilet, he wasn’t letting you go anywhere.

“Hey.” He tried, warm hand over your back. The towel you had on was somewhere on the ground but your skin was damp. Joe wasn’t sure if it was water or sweat or a mixture of both and he really didn’t care. He took a deep breath anyway, needing to stay calm. “Look at me.”

Your watery eyes met his. “I don’t know what my body’s doing.”

“You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to do. There is nothing to be embarrassed about and nothing to apologize for.”

“What if I poop?”

“Then you poop. No big deal.” He shrugs. “You’re having our baby.”

You swallowed hard, leaning into him a bit.

“I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.” He kissed your shoulder and stood up, heading back to the sink. “Cold rag?”

“Please.”

He was right back in his original spot as another surge plowed through. Your forehead dropped onto the folded towel and your legs spread without your conscious effort as your hips angled up, butt higher in the air. Joe didn’t say a word, watching the muscle in your back and your legs tighten as the pain peaked. He thought about reaching for his phone to call the doctor when a deep, involuntary sound erupted from your chest. “You’re safe, take a breath.”

“Jesus Christ,” you strained, “what is happening?” You almost said something else but you were cut off by another grunt, sounding focused and completely internal. Dr. Chen was not kidding when she said your body would lead. Things were getting intense and Joe’s phone was resting by the tub, out of his reach. Before switching to a new cold rag he heard you push again and his eyes cast down. He didn’t know exactly what he expected to see or even what he was looking for. But he definitely wasn’t qualified to deliver a baby in the bathroom, letting out a sigh of relief when he couldn’t see anything different.

We’re good, he told himself. You sank back, body forcing out a deep hum and then the pressure mounted then released in a heavy splash. Your eyes flew open in horror, clearly leaking but you’d clenched your eyes so tightly during that bout of pain you were seeing stars. “What was that? What just happened?”

“You’re good,” his voice sounded painfully normal, “give me a second.”

“Oh god, did I poop?”

Although you could admit you felt a lot better with the pressure being gone, not completely gone but significantly less crippling, the idea of pooping in your husband’s palm was not a story you ever wanted to tell. The thought was mortifying and you wanted answers.

“No, baby.” Relief spread across his face. “That was your water.”

You turned, finally comfortable enough to sit on your butt for the first time in two hours and saw the evidence for yourself. There was no bathroom accident, just amniotic fluid, on Joe’s shirt and his pants. “Thank god. I thought I—”

“Well you didn’t,” he smiled, wiping off his hand. “Guess I need to give Dr. Chen another call.”

The conversation was short and to the point. You inhaled, reminded that your reprieve was temporary and now the real work would begin while Joe grabbed your clothes. After the contraction was over you reached into the cabinet for a pad to catch any liquid before slipping on soft sweatpants, a new sports bra and a crewneck sweatshirt you borrowed from his side of the closet years ago and never returned. Joe changed his clothes too and wore his trusty Ugg slippers, matching your look. Neither of you bothered with real shoes.

He tossed the towels in a hamper sitting in the corner of the bathroom and you looked around your bedroom, rubbing your stomach that had dropped lower in the last hour. Joe came up behind you, his body a solid wall. “What are you thinking about?”

“How this is probably the last time it’s just the two of us in this room. Next time we’re here, he’ll be with us. That’s a little scary.”

“It is. But I think we’re ready for him.”

You nodded, interlocking your fingers with his, heading for the kitchen.

Morgan lit up when you told him you were hungry, crafting the perfect plain bagel and cream cheese like you’d asked him to perform open heart surgery. “You’re the best,” you told him, taking a bite of the toasted bread.

“Need help sitting down?” He offered.

“Standing actually feels nice,” you glanced at Joe who was typing away on his phone. No doubt in your mind he had a groupchat started with your parents and his, giving them an update.

The chef moved back to the fridge and looked through his inventory. You stood at the counter, knees slightly bent, a mild contraction creeping up on you. “Any particular lunch requests?”

“We’re leaving soon,” Joe spoke up first. “Her water broke upstairs so we’ll be at the birth center in the next 30 minutes.”

“Why are you saying that so casually?” Morgan’s voice was an octave higher than usual and he placed a hand on your back. “Are you feeling okay? Do you need more water or—I don’t know.”

“Morgan I’m good, I swear. My doctor knows, baby’s moving around. I’m just gonna finish my bagel and we’ll go. One second,” you stopped, put your food down and let your head hang between your shoulders. Joe put his phone to the side and reminded you to breathe and Ivy came in, made eye contact with Morgan who gave her one simple nod to confirm her suspicions since she arrived at the house.

The bagel was back in hand after the contraction ended and you took a bite like nothing happened. Joe grabbed his keys, the bags were already in his car so he ran upstairs to grab your pillow and you hugged Ivy first.

She’d been Joe’s house manager since his third year in the league, a year before Morgan and had seen almost every phase of his life as he balanced fame and privacy. Now he’d found a happy medium and she was excited to see where this next chapter would take him. “You two are gonna do great. And I’ll need about a million pictures of that squishy baby when he’s here.”

“You’ll get so many pictures don’t worry,” you gave her a squeeze, tears brimming your eyes when you saw Morgan getting emotional hugging Joe. They’d become more brothers than boss-employee.

Now his brother was bringing a child into the world. “Love you man, both of you.”

“We love you too,” Joe told him. He meant every word. He hugged Ivy and told them both to take the next few days off and he’d let them know the plan. They helped get you settled in the car and sent you off with another round of tearful hugs before Joe pulled out of the garage and headed towards the birth center.

“I can walk.” You shoved the door open, harsher than normal. The car ride was constricting and you needed out, plotting your exit as soon as you could see the VIP parking lot.

“You sure? Maybe we should get you a wheelchair,” he suggested.

Before the car was off, your feet hit the ground and you grabbed your pillow out of the back seat. Joe grabbed all the bags and followed you to the elevator. He did not attempt to get you in that chair again, which was a great choice…for his sake.

And safety.

The birth suite looked more like a hotel room at a five star resort than the place you were probably going to show a bunch of strangers every inch of your body. At least there was a massive tv and a fridge?

Dr. Chen and her head nurse Chelsie, your favorite, walked in a few minutes after your stuff was set down and a complimentary contraction welcomed them into the room. “There she is,” Chelsie said with a smile, giving you two a warm look. “We’re gonna give him a listen, get the fetal monitor hooked up and check your cervix. Is that okay?”

You gave her a thumbs up, not far enough removed from the contraction to be back to normal. Joe took a seat next to you as Chelsie reached around and hooked up the monitor around your belly and you leaned back, soothed by the rhythmic sounds of his heartbeat filling the room. “That never gets old,” you heard him whisper, clutching your hand.

“Okay,” your doctor says calmly snapping on her glove, “you’re gonna feel a small amount of pressure. Nothing you haven’t already experienced today.”

“Yeah I’m having a great time,” you sighed, wincing into the pressure. But like she said, the exam didn’t take long.

Joe waited approximately three seconds before asking “what’s the verdict?”

“Four centimeters, 80% effaced. Everything looks wonderful, he sounds great and he’s head down.” Dr. Chen tells you, voice kind but professional. “Because this is your first baby and you’re both healthy you do have options. You could labor at home a bit longer and keep us in the loop as things change. Or you could stay here. Everything is set, you’re checked in and making progress but if you’d rather be in your own space, your own bed, you’re more than welcome to do that too.”

He looks at you, handing over control without giving it much thought. “What do you wanna do? If you want to stay, we can. If you want to be at home a little longer, the keys are in my pocket.” Four sounded good, mostly because Dr. Chen said things were moving along, but from your facial expression, he wasn’t convinced you were as thrilled as he was.

“We can stay.” Your eyes were downcast, looking at the fetal monitor. “Getting back in the car sounds like hell. And I don’t want anyone to see us if we make another trip.”

“Okay, we’re staying.”

Dr. Chen stands. “Sounds good. Chelsie’s on call, if you need anything, press that button right there,” she points at the red circle by the bed. “There’s another one in the bathroom.”

“Press it anytime,” Chelsie urges, “even if you just need a question answered.”

“Like I said you’re on the right track, keep listening to your body, try to rest when you can. The fridge is fully stocked with electrolyte popsicles and everything else we discussed so feel free to dig in. In the meantime, we’ll give you some space, I know this can be a lot especially for first time parents but we are here every step of the way.” She patted the spot by your leg and headed out with Chelsie right behind her, closing the door.

The silence was comforting after a while. There were contraction timers and heartbeat monitors and a full staff of people that knew what to do if you needed help. Naturally, the flat screen at the front of the room sounded appealing. So did a Jurassic Park marathon for some reason.

“Think we’ll get through all seven?” Joe asked, hitting play on the film that started the franchise.

“I hope not,” you laughed, shoving a pillow between your knees for extra support as your husband yawned beside you. “We made it here, you can take a nap.”

He shook his head. “Not tired, I’m good. I can rally.”

“You’ve seen this movie a million times. Plus, not like I’m planning on going anywhere, any time soon. I might try to get some sleep too while I can.” The surges hadn’t stopped but you’d gotten used to this intensity and your eyelids felt heavy. “I promise I’ll be right here when you wake up,” you placed a hand on his cheek. “After I pee. And grab a bowl of pineapple.”

Joe registered everything you’d just said, words were just suddenly really hard to come by, a massive wave of exhaustion hitting him at once. He hadn’t realized that once he let himself relax, how tired he’d be and his eyes were closed by the time you’d pulled the fresh fruit out of the fridge.

The first movie was a blur. You slept resting on his shoulder, every so often your belly grew rock hard and you’d breathe, a few woke you up but it wasn’t until the second film that the exercise ball sounded better than sleep. On your knees, your forearms rested against it with Joe sitting behind you, thumbs pressing into your back. He and the velociraptors provide a satisfying distraction from the fact that the person who’s been inhabiting your uterus for almost a year is crawling his way out in an impossibly slow way. You understood why they skipped this part of labor in the movies, that’s why they called it another word for strenuous work. It was tedious and annoying.

This kid better be adorable, you grumbled to yourself.

“You still with me?” Joe asked, interrupting your mini pity party.

“Yeah,” you assured him. “Trying to stay relaxed. Relaxation equals dilation or whatever Chelsie said.”

He snickers, running his hand once down your entire spine. “That’s exactly what she said.” He decides to keep his hand where it is, resting in the infamous problem area of your lower back and kisses your forehead. “Talk to me.”

“What do you wanna talk about?”

“Anything,” the cadence of his word is casual. He could be reading off a grocery list or telling you about the best day of his life in that same breath. It genuinely makes him the greatest support system, never rattled or shaken at least from what the outside world can see.

But you know him better than that. He’s asking you to talk because he’s reading you right now. Your pain, your exhaustion. He’s asking if you’re okay without actually saying the words because he doesn’t want to one of those nagging husbands asking that a hundred times. He’d hate it if he was in your shoes and knows you probably feel the same. Joe settles for the next best thing. “Tell me what’s on your mind right now.”

“Do you remember when we almost named him Wesley?”

Joe laughs, a real one, silently asking is this really what’s on your mind right now?

“I do. We liked the name for weeks. But the one we chose fits him better I think.”

Squeezing his thigh, you paused as a contraction made itself known. He placed his hand over yours, grounding you and reminding you to not tense up without him having to say a word. “We’re gonna finally see him today. In real life. I’ve had dreams about what he’s gonna look like and now I get confirmation.”

“So have I,” he admits, quietly.

“You’ve had dreams about him?”

“Yeah, a lot more during the season when the schedule was crazy. Maybe it’s because I felt so guilty for being busy or being gone. Had dreams about him all the time. One day he’s got your eyes and smile. I pictured his little voice when he starts talking eventually. Hugging him, teaching him about dinosaurs and showing him my collection. Force feeding him my hobbies until he finds his own,” he jokes and your eyes are glassy. You could vividly see him taking your son to museums, Legoland and conducting makeshift science experiments in the offseason just because.

“Joe?” Your chest felt hot, an oddly familiar sensation of your mouth watering.

“What’s going on?”

“Trash can.” He was up immediately, grabbing the first bin in sight just in time for you double over, still halfway on your knees, throwing up as hard as you ever had in your life. It hit the bottom of the trashcan with a force that scared him. Even more so when it happened twice.

“It’s okay,” Joe attempted, wincing as you gagged and spit into the bin. “Let it out, you’re good.”

You puked one more time, feeling the burn in your throat and in your nose somehow, a bit confused on where that came from. Usually, well from your first trimester morning sickness series, there was a tell-tale nauseous sensation that let you know your stomach was protesting. Labor vomit had no warning, the contraction came and with it your body convulsed and—the rest is pretty self explanatory. Joe handed you a water and you rinsed out your mouth and spit into the trashcan again. “Do we have mouthwash or gum or anything?”

“We have both, gimme a second.” He dug through your bag and pulled out the travel sized container of Therabreath, fingers running up and down your back as you swished it around and got rid of it, replacing it with a piece of gum. “That looked rough, sorry baby.”

“It’s fine, kinda caught me off guard. Can you get me a tissue too, I feel like there’s puke in my nose. Sorry if that’s too gross.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he reaches over and grabs the box sitting on the table, “here. I’m gonna grab Chelsie too if that’s okay? Just to see where we’re at?”

You let him get you off the ground and cupped your belly. “Yeah that was really weird, think that means things are moving.”

“Six? That’s—are you sure? Should I scoot down and you can check again?”

Chelsie’s face is still full of optimism which almost makes you want to yell. She’s like one of those permanently happy people, birds probably sit at her window every morning and she sings to them. But she’s funny and you bonded with her over your shared obsession with shitty romance reality tv so there’s no way to hate her. And she’s seen your vagina an uncomfortable amount of times so you’re sort of bonded for life. “Six is beautiful and your cervix is thinning out nicely. You really are doing great, I know it doesn’t necessarily feel that way but I assure you, you are doing everything right.”

You did hear Chelsie’s words and filed away Joe’s subtle attempt to make you feel better by kissing the top of your head when the nurse was gone. “I know it’s not worth much, but you are doing a really good job.”

“It’s been four fucking hours,” you sounded exasperated in a way that made him want to say more. But you beat him to it. “I think I need a shower, I feel disgusting again.”

”’Kay, let’s get you in there.”

“Actually, I might need a few minutes…alone.”

“By yourself?”

You laughed, hauling yourself out of bed. “Yes, that’s literally what alone means my love.”

“Chelsie just said you’re at a six, that means active labor right? I can sit in the bathroom and not say a word, you won’t even know I’m there.”

“I know,” your hand was in his, caressing the outside of it with your thumb. “And I appreciate the offer, I really do but you haven’t left my side since what 8:30? Just need a few minutes without anyone looking at me and answering questions about how I’m feeling. I love you, so much but I need to not exist for a minute.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” You tried to get him to clarify.

“Yes, I’ll stay here, right outside the door. If you call for me, I’ll be right there. And if you don’t? I’ll still be right outside the door.” He promised, letting you disappear into the bathroom after kissing your forehead, he was mentally trying to will himself to be normal about how uncomfortable it was to be away from you. Something about seeing you on the floor, trusting him wholeheartedly to take care of you, to help you get through the overwhelming pain and pressure and all the emotions that inevitably come with labor. Being next to you wasn’t just for you, it was also for his peace of mind, letting him have physical proof that you were okay.

For a few minutes in the shower, you stood under the water in silence. You almost forgot what being alone with your thoughts felt like, with the fetal monitor, checking your cervix, asking for status updates, watching movies, there was always movement, always sound. Right now, you wanted it void of noise except the shower spray on your skin. You cradled your stomach in both hands, lifting up your head toward the ceiling and taking in a huge bout of air. This was by far the hardest thing you’d ever done. And it felt never ending. But you reminded yourself that this is what you wanted the experience to be, all natural, you trusting yourself and your body to do this with limited intervention. You could do this, your body was meant to do this. The only thing you were missing so far is anticipating the next pain, trying to get through it. All day you’d let labor happen to you instead of surrendering to it and working with it. You also had to get someone else involved.

“Alright baby boy.” You sighed, mid contraction, “you gotta start putting in some effort here. Move down. You’ve overstayed your welcome and it’s time for a new place to call home, seriously.”

“I really want to hold you. And kiss you,” you rested your arm against the wall squatting slightly with a soft groan. “I wanna look at your face. And you have to meet your dad, I know you’re gonna love him. Hell, he’s probably going to be your favorite person in the world and he is dying to meet you so you can’t keep him waiting.” It felt both freeing and ridiculous, talking to a person that wasn’t born yet and definitely could not decide when he was going to enter the world but it felt nice to get that off your chest. You placed both palms on the wall, rocking side to side, “shit, ugh okay.” You didn’t tense up with this one, surrendering to the pressure as your body moved down to squat against the shower chair. Active labor felt exactly like its name, you needed activity, you needed to be moving, shifting from the balls of your feet to your toes, switching the shower head to one of the side ones aimed directly at your back.

“Come on,” you growled, mostly to yourself, five to ten percent to the baby. “Open. You can do this,” you huffed, half standing to place your leg on the chair in a lunge position. Things definitely felt looser and you needed to work with that, more low sounds vibrating against the back of your throat as you squeezed the chair. A deep trembling inhale made way for the next wave and you audibly moaned for the first time all day, a powerful feeling overtaking you. “Yes, that’s what we want,” you said aloud to no one in particular. Maybe your uterus or…the universe.

You came out of the bathroom in a black tank top and sleep shorts. “Feeling better?” Joe asked, noticing you seem less rattled than before.

“Um I wouldn’t say better necessarily,” you laughed, “but definitely more centered? I don’t know if that makes any sense.”

“It does.”

The room felt a lot bigger and purposeful but everything that mattered to you now was focusing downward. You needed space, release and to be low to the ground again. That led you to the birth sling. It was easy to grip, secure and as soon as you tried it, the tension you carried after the last contraction faded away enough for you to smile.

“Mmh.” You sounded relieved, your grip tightening on the sling. It was supporting you from behind as you leaned into it, legs in a semi squat with your arms out in front of you. “Ngh—oh my god,” your hips shifted slightly as the sound continued. Joe provided counter pressure without being asked.

“Good right here?”

A slow breath and a small yes gave him the confirmation he needed. “You’re helping, a ton. And making sounds feels good too. Like my body is just doing it for me but it feels right.”

“Do whatever feels good,” his thumbs pressed against your hips, “you’re doing great.”

“Just warning you it might get a little loud in the next twenty minutes.” That pent up energy you had in storage finally had somewhere productive to go and your husband just nodded and moved a chair over so he could park himself in this spot right up to the second you were tired of this position. He applied firm pressure as soon as he was back and you leaned further into him. “Yes! Oh my god, right there. Do not stop.”

“I won’t,” he promised, “staying here as long as you need, babe.”

The sling worked until it didn’t. To be fair you’d tried three different positions. Then there wasn’t enough movement for your legs. Joe had rubbed out a calf cramp and helped you stand. You made it three steps before squatting by the bed with a low groan. “Fuck me,” you pinched your eyes closed, squeezing Joe’s forearm. “Sorry,” you rubbed at the spot.

“You’re good,” he handed you his left arm, “squeeze this one as hard as you can.”

“Grab me a popsicle, please?”

He nods, back at your side a minute later unwrapping it and holding it for you as you take a bite. “So good,” you sighed before taking it from him. You paced the room as you ate, each surge brought sound and a bit more intensity and he could see your belly changing shape as your son continued his descent.

Then you doubled over, popsicle stick still in your grasp as you clutched your knees. “Oh—oh fuck. Oh fuck.”

“Alright, take a breath, you’re good,” he took the trash from your hand and tossed it into the basin. “Breathe and squeeze,” it seemed like you were trying to get to the floor so he held both of your hands trying to keep you upright. Then he noticed more leaking as you grunted again.

“Joe press the button,” you told him frantically, “get Chelsie. I need her.”

Chelsie was quick and gentle as always with her checks. “You’re at a solid 8.5, soft 9. Almost there mama.”

“Wonderful.”

“You’re almost done,” Joe whispered. You wanted to cry with relief. When you were at a four, this seemed trillions of miles away. Another contraction built before Chelsie could wrap up and leave, enough to make you curl inward. This one didn’t feel endless, your whole body was busy working him down and out, your stomach pulling tight and hard and you opened your mouth when it ended.

“Chelsie? That last one felt…odd.”

“Odd how?”

“Like I—felt pushy almost?”

Her facial expression doesn’t change but you can tell the wheels are turning. “It’s more normal than you think, but we do want to hold off on active pushing til the last bit of your cervix is gone. Last thing we want is your straining and swelling up because it’s too soon or expending too much energy. When it’s really time to push, your body will know.”

She watches Joe grab your water and scoots away from the bed. “I’ll be nearby but out of your way, transition is here so don’t run from it. Like Joe said, you’re almost there.”

Transition felt like you imagined hell to be like. It was basically one endless contraction and you got no breaks in between. There was no in between. And everything, everything was stretched to the limit. You went from a squat to some sort of makeshift fort on the floor because it was cool. One minute you were sweating the next you were demanding a blanket. “Can someone turn off the lights?” You didn’t know if it was Chelsie or Joe who did it and you don’t remember if you even said thank you. You knew he’d swapped out your wet shorts for black underwear a few minutes ago but everything was on fire, talking even hurt. You became a wall of low, desperate sounds and the occasional f-bomb.

“What the fuck?” You cried, lying on your side, groaning into your pillow. “Hold my leg?”

“Up?” He rested your foot against his chest as you nodded. Chelsie came down to your level and placed a cool cloth on your forehead.

“How do people do this multiple times?” You let out a breath, bearing down uncontrollably on the exhale.

Joe kept rubbing your thigh. “You’re kicking ass right now.”

“My ass hurts actually. I wanna go home, I wanna be done.”

“We’ll go home, promise. You’re so close.”

“FUCK” you arched your back and Joe looked over at Chelsie as your toes curled.

She stepped in, “short breaths almost like you’re hyperventilating ‘ha ha ha’”

You were trying, you really were but all that came out was a primal moan, almost like a cow. Then you burped and got to your hands and knees. Chelsie stepped back, letting you move around and you burped again suddenly, feeling slightly offended at all the different bodily functions. “Oh my god,” you paused, gagging. “Trash can? I might puke again.”

Nothing happened for a few minutes so it was shoved away and you put your head down, undulating your hips. “Off,” you reached for your underwear, “take these away.”

“Don’t push yet,” your nurse said still calm but with a more serious edge to her normal voice.

“I’m trying. My body has other plans.” Another groan. “It’s so hot in here.” Chelsie turned down the AC and Joe pointed the fan towards your belly when he saw you hiking up your tank top to get more air.

Joe prides himself in knowing you better than anyone, maybe even yourself. His first clue is the sounds start to change. You’ve been vocalizing on and off since you got out of the shower but the sounds he’s heard the last three contractions aren’t sounds of pain they’re…effort. You’ve decided to get back in bed, resting on the pregnancy pillow in a makeshift donut to fit your belly but the low, throaty sounds don’t feel the same. And you’ve stopped talking altogether, you haven’t asked for a blanket or for him to squeeze anything, it doesn’t seem like you want to be touched. Everything is sound and air.

He watches intently as you shift, legs spread a touch wider then your whole body is completely still. You reached down as a sound was ripped out of your chest, “ughh. Ngh.” You paused for a second, collecting your energy and gave into that feeling, like you needed to go to the bathroom but more intense. You went with that urge and bore down with everything you had. He didn’t have to ask, he knew you were pushing, he just wasn’t sure you were supposed to be.

Chelsie clearly had the same thought because she placed a hand on your back. “Sounds like you’re starting to push here mama, let’s see what we’re working with.”

“I can—feel him,” your face contorted as you pushed, heaving breaths leaving you once the contraction was done.

“Joe, help me turn her over.”

They got you onto your back and Chelsie saw what you meant when you pushed again, paging Dr. Chen when she saw the teardrop form with the tiniest glimpse of the baby’s head. “That’s a 10. And I see him, he’s definitely coming. Give me a big push on this next one and hold for as long as you can.”

Joe helped count, reminding you to take it slow, to let yourself stretch and Dr. Chen took over. “Beautiful job, mama. Remember to push into your butt, tuck your chin down into your chest. Yes just like that, go go go you’ve got him.”

“Oh fuck,” you grabbed the back of your thigh and dug deep, letting out a roar as you aided in your body’s pushing efforts. You strained so hard your body shook and Joe’s hand went numb but he didn’t let go.

He looked over and saw your progress, eyes wide with shock and pride. “I saw him, he’s got so much hair. You’re bringing him here you’ve got it.”

“He’s not bald?”

“Not at all. He’s got dark hair, so much of it.”

You pushed again, cutting it short. “I feel like I’m not doing this right.”

“Take a second and try again,” Dr. Chen said. “You’ve got time.”

“You’re doing it.” Joe squeezed your hand. “Almost done.”

You turned onto your side, with a little gravity to help you started to feel the burn after four more hard shoves, each leaving you winded but ever more determined. “This is insane,” you cried reaching down to feel his head that was finally staying put. “I’m holding him, I’m touching our son right now.”

His eyes looked teary and he wiped at them with his forearm, leaning his head against yours. “Bring him home.”

Time became a blur after that, when it felt like he was right there, he’d tease everyone and go back in. You tried different angles and took several breaks. It seemed like one more test of your fortitude.

And your sanity.

A huge contraction builds, causing you to lift your hips off the bed as the baby fully crowned, you yelped as the pressure reached its most excruciating point. His head came out with a distinct pop, your hips jerked and you bore down again wanting this to end.

“He’s turning, couple big pushes for the shoulders and we should have a baby.”

You grunted lifting your body off the bed again, searching for the best position to allow your body to pry itself open to let him out. Gasping for breath, another low growl helped you work one shoulder free as your son rotated and the other shoulder soon after. He slipped out freely, along with a gush of fluid when you gave into that last hearty urge.

The sound of his first cry was the best sound you’d ever heard and you looked at Joe who was also crying. Nobody said anything for a while. Not until you said, “that’s Kai?”

“That’s him,” he said, voice unbearably shaky. “That’s our boy. He’s here, you did it.”

“No way I could’ve done that without you. We did it.”

At 7:18PM after the longest day the two of you had ever lived, Kai Joseph Burrow entered your lives and made every second worth the wait.