Family Matters

"Ah swear befo' God an' country, Remy, if ya evah get me pregnant again, ya bettah run fo' the high hills 'cause Ah'm gonna kill ya!" Rogue backed all of this up with a harsh glare, gritted teeth, and a numbingly painful grip on Remy's hand.

Remy bravely smiled at her through the pain and nuzzled a kiss on the top of her head. "I'll remember dat, chère."

"Don't ya 'chère'—" But her exclamation was cut off by another sharp scream as a contraction hit her.

Remy glanced at Hank for reassurance.

"She's doing fine," Hank replied. But he didn't really look up from his task of trying to get the baby out of Rogue, which was fine by Remy.

Remy may not have had a lot of experiences with childbirth (and certainly not in the delivery room), but he knew enough to know that he was to be moral support for his wife, as unannoying as possible (considering said wife's hormones were still at godzilla response levels), and generally out of the way. This meant he had to allow Rogue to cut off all blood flow to his fingers, yell at him if she so pleased, and try to not to distract the doctor. In other words, bloody torture.

Another shriek from Rogue and he cringed.

He had a new respect for mothers. After all the pain and grief required to bring a new child into the world, they certainly had the right to exact a little in spankings and rolling pins later. (Not that Tante Mattie had given birth to him, but the concept remained.)

He had a new respect for fathers too (at least any that had been corralled into delivery room moral support service). Surviving such an experience without allowing any misplaced protectiveness to attack the doctor and tell him to get his wife out of pain was incredibly more difficult than he had expected.

Of course, Logan didn't think so. He was mutely laughing at Remy's expense from the other side of Rogue's bed. Remy cursed the healing factor (and heartlessness).

In every book that Remy had run across during the last nine months (under the bed, in the bathroom drawer, in a linen closet, once in the refrigerator—his femme needed to stop stressing, he decided when he found that one) about pregnancy and raising kids and birth itself (no one ever said his chère was anything less than thorough either), it said that new mothers could experience panic, pain, shock, and breathless wonder (among plenty of other things he tried to quickly forget) before, during, and after the whole process of bringing a new life into the world.

None of them said much about new fathers.

He was rapidly discovering they should have.

~ panic ~

Of course, everything had to start from a dead sleep. In Remy's experience, generally all good things start after noon, and all important things start at an unholy hour. Having a baby was important. Follow the logic.

He woke to sharp nails digging into his arm and the blurry red numbers of an alarm clock reading 3:00 a.m. He looked at it again.

"Uh, chère?" Remy said. "Isn't it a little early t' be wantin' t' get up?"

"Tell that ta Junior here," Rogue said, utterly calmly and thoroughly collected. Could anybody really blame him for not seeing what was coming next? "Mah water broke."

He stared at her dumbly for a long moment.

She picked up her pillow and thwacked him. Hard.

"Chère!"

"Snap out of it. Ah need ta go see Hank."

Rogue was certainly not panicked. No, not even slightly. She was grumpy, tired, and harrassing him to hurry things up while he panicked.

"Oh, Remy." She shook her head in exasperation and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

He nearly fell over trying to get into his pants. "Don't do dat. Got t' get t' Hank." He just kept telling himself what he had to do, the steps he had to take, and he could keep the clawing, anxious feelings in his gut away. Put on pants. Pull on shirt. Get Rogue to Hank. He looked up at her and frowned. "Stop gigglin'."

He frowned at his shirt. Somehow he had himself trapped in the wrong sleeve with most of it behind his back.

"Sure, sugah," Rogue replied breezily, still giggling.

Remy scowled, untangling himself, but he was as tender as could be when he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the medical bay.

~ pain ~

And that brought them to now, with aching, shooting pains going up his arm and fuzzy deadness in his fingers. To say nothing of the pain of watching his wife in pain. That part about mothers was certainly true.

Rogue gritted her teeth and suddenly he realized she wasn't screaming any more. She had that determined look on her face that she got when she had fully committed to a difficult task.

"Chère?" he asked, concerned.

"Not now, Remy," she bit out and cast him a tiny glare before focusing entirely on...

She screamed. For a very long time...

~ shock ~

Nothing could be more shocking than watching that tiny body slip out into Hank's hands.

Careful, he wanted to say. He wanted to swear. He wanted to sing, Hallelujah. But he found himself utterly speechless as the tiny child was safely separated from its mother, cleaned and dried, and delivered into Rogue's weary arms under that brilliant smile, and pronounced a boy.

A boy.

There was absolutely no disappointment.

Remy stared at the squalling infant. Rogue hushed him tenderly, kissed his little downy head, smiled up at Remy.

"Isn't he beautiful?" she said.

"Quoi?" Remy had no words. Nothing could describe this feeling blossoming inside of him.

~ breathless ~

He reached out to brush one finger gently against his son's cheek, as if he could break him just by touching him. His son. Rogue's son. The words, the very thought, took his breath away.

Remy looked up into Rogue's shining emerald eyes.

"Oui," he said softly, as if he could break this moment by speaking too loud. "He's beautiful."

Just then, their son opened his eyes and blinked red and black orbs up at his parents.