as new and as old as the world

Isla

The morning has been long and hot, the heat building to something stifling as it approaches midday, and though Isla doesn't mind the temperature, still she's opened the windows and sliding doors of their little apartment above the clinic to let the salt-sweet breeze flow through. It's quiet and serene for possibly one of the last times in the foreseeable future, the peace interrupted only by the hush of the waves or the call of seabirds or the odd bit of chatter from the street below. A perfect Longheat morning by anyone's standards.

Isla is sitting in a wicker rocking chair just inside the sliding doors, the linen drapes fluttering and splashing golden light across her legs every now and then. Her hair has been tied up in a bun too purposely messy to be anything other than intentional, and there is a small bag packed near her feet. Just essentials, given their proximity to the clinic, but things she might want to hand nevertheless. A nudge against the floor with her toe sets the chair to gently rocking, the Remedy taking a slow, deep breath and releasing it again as she waits for Ever to return home from errands.

To look at her, a gentle hand on the swell of her belly, her expression soft if not a little solemn, one might suspect she's merely deep in thought. And she is, sort of. It's just those thoughts grow much more intentional every now and then, her jaw tightens, and she waits for pain and pressure to pass.

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

EVEREST

The stairwell up to the apartment is warmer than the street below, the heat clinging in the narrow spaces between stilts and stone, and Everest habitually counts the steps,  adjusting the grip on the paper bags hooked carefully over his fingers so they don’t tip and crush the cartons inside. The door clicks open and shut behind him with deliberate care. He pauses just long enough to toe off his shoes and line them neatly against the wall, nudging one into parallel with the other before he lifts his voice toward the wash of salt air drifting through the apartment.

"Hello? I’m back." He steps further inside, already loosening the tension in his shoulders, and adds, "Sorry I’m late." A small exhale, half sheepish, half logistical. "I had to go to three different shops. The first two were out of the lychee smoothie mix you like. The third had it, but only in the larger tins." He pauses, then more softly adds, "so I bought two."

He crosses to the counter and sets the bags down carefully, unpacking them with quiet efficiency—chilled fruit first, yoghurt, the ice packs he’d insisted on carrying despite the distance—because perishables cannot wait, and he will not risk anything spoiling in this heat.  "How has your day been so far?" He asks, opening the fridge door. The cool rush against his face is brief but welcome. Items are placed inside in an order that makes sense to him, labels facing forward.

the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Isla

"Welcome back!" Isla's voice is level, as cheerful as ever as the aviator closes the door and gets himself reacquainted with the apartment. She doesn't interrupt him, not when their lives are about to upturn forever, smiling as she watches the familiar shape of him bustle about the kitchen. "You didn't have to do that," she says, equal parts chastisement and fondness, "but thank you all the same." Turning a bit to face him, though he's half hidden by the fridge door, she sits herself up a bit and sticks out her foot to stop the chair in its gentle rocking.

"It has been good," she tells him, a little breathless for a few moments before snatching back her composure. "When you're finished could you come in here? I'd get up to see you but I think it might take all day at this point." Besides which, Isla has already determined that the next time wrestles herself out of the chair it will be to leave this apartment, and the next time she returns it will be with their daughter in her arms.

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

EVEREST

Everest hums in answer to her gentle scolding, a soft, agreeable sound that means he has heard her and catalogued the sentiment without feeling the need to untangle it aloud. He has learned that you didn’t have to is often less about obligation and more about affection, and he does not need to correct the premise in order to honour it. "Of course," he replies easily when she asks him to come to her when he was done, the fridge door closing with a quiet seal.

He finishes what he has started; the smoothie tins are stacked together in the cupboard, aligned by label and height. The reusable bags are folded and set aside, the counter is wiped where condensation has pooled, because it will bother him later if it is not. Only when the space is restored to its prior order does he turn fully toward her.

He leans down first, pressing a kiss to her forehead, lingering just long enough to feel the warmth of her skin and the faint, familiar scent of her hair. "Hello," he murmurs more quietly, as though greeting her properly now, before lowering himself carefully to his knees beside her, one hand settling against her leg, steady and grounding, the other sliding over her hand where it rests upon the curve of her belly. His thumb brushes lightly there, instinctive and reverent all at once. "You look lovely," he tells her, meaning not only the visible things but the steadiness beneath them, the quiet strength that has carried them here.

the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Isla

Isla's smile grows almost radiant as he passes into the living room to kneel down beside her, her eyes closing against the soft kiss pressed to her forehead. "Hello," she replies warmly, grounded merely by his presence in a way that she hasn't realised she'd needed. His hand on her leg and atop her own is enough to make all of this seem less like something happening to her and more like a course they've set upon together, and she appreciates it more than she can ever say to him,

"Flattery will get you everywhere," she teases at his compliment. It had gotten her into this position in the first place, she might have added, but decides not to. Her free hand comes up to cup his cheek, brushing over the neat stubble, and finally Isla knows she has to ruin the warmth of this moment with the truth.

"Listen," she tells him, her voice soft and sure as a medic delivering news. Nothing flowery, just quiet facts that will, she hopes be easy to absorb. "My water broke shortly after you left this morning. Everything feels fine, but I have been having regular contractions since then. So, Everest Hart, I think it might be time I went down to the clinic to have our baby."

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

EVEREST

Everest chuckles softly at that, the sound low and warm in his chest. "I am glad to hear it," he says, leaning without hesitation into the cradle of her hand against his cheek, eyes half-lidding for a second in uncomplicated contentment. He is on the verge of suggesting they take advantage of the quiet—perhaps sit out on the deck with a book before the heat crests fully—when her tone shifts.

He stills immediately, brows lifting and he goes very quiet in that particular way he does, not withdrawn but intensely present, every line of him angled toward her as though bracing to receive precise instructions. He watches her mouth as she speaks, absorbing each word in sequence: water broke. shortly after you left. regular contractions. everything feels fine. The colour drains from his face almost imperceptibly, leaving him pale beneath the Torchline sun. His expression sharpens into something bright and focused, as though every cell in his body has snapped to attention. "Oh." The word is small and entirely insufficient.

His gaze drops instinctively to the curve of her belly, absurdly expectant, as if there might be some visible indicator there—a clock face, a measurable countdown—something he can catalogue and calculate. There is only the steady rise and fall beneath her hand. "Oh. Okay."

He nods once, twice, breath moving through him in controlled measures. He notices the bag by her feet; packed, deliberate, ready. Of course it is. They have discussed this. They have rehearsed it in theory, in checklists and contingency plans, in calm evenings with notebooks open between them. The clinic is directly below them, there are no stairs to navigate beyond the familiar flight, there are no carriage rides to arrange, no frantic journeys across regions. The variables are minimal. His pulse is not. But this is a change they have anticipated, even if anticipation does not dull its magnitude.

He rises smoothly, careful and deliberate, placing one foot against the lip of the rocking chair to hold it steady before offering both hands to her. His grip is firm but gentle, calibrated instinctively to her weight and balance. A smile finds its way back onto his face; not careless, not unthinking, but steady. "There is nothing I would like to do more," he says, and he means it with a depth that quiets the tremor beneath his ribs.

the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Isla

Isla doesn't clutter the space between them with further unnecessary words, letting silence linger after her initial announcement, giving Everest the time to absorb everything she's said and, more importantly, the gravity of what it all means. Her hand is still warm and steady against his cheek, thumb brushing across it with unfettered adoration, and when he finally rises to stand, she watches him without alarm. His voice is steady, his smile contagious, and she accepts his hands gladly to get herself on her feet.

It's an effort - one she thankfully won't need to account for much longer.

"I couldn't have said it better myself," she agrees, leaning up to press a sweet, gentle kiss to his cheek. She's about to suggest she not be the one to lean down and get her travel bag when another contraction tightens across her belly, her hand reaching to grasp Ever's shoulder - not tightly, but enough to suggest they not move until it passes. Her expression inches towards a wince, but evidently it's early enough yet that she's not out of her mind with pain. And perhaps she won't ever be, but Isla knows better than to ground herself in anything but reality.

Once it's over and she gets her breath back, she offers an apologetic smile to Ever. "For this next part," she says, quiet but earnest, "there's going to be a time when I'm not really in control of myself, and I know that's going to be scary - for both of us. I'm probably going to be loud, and in a lot of pain, and there won't really be anything you can do, but that's okay." Her smile grows warmer, Isla squeezing his shoulder. "I'll need you to be the steady one for us, though, when that happens."

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

EVEREST

The shift in Isla's weight is subtle, but Ever feels it instantly; his hands tighten just enough to steady her without startling her, one arm sliding more securely around her as the other moves instinctively to the small of her back. His palm finds the curve there and begins tracing small, firm circles, measured and consistent—exactly as the books had recommended, exactly as he had practised in his mind—pressure, release. pressure, release. Not too fast. Not too light. He watches her face instead of the clock, instead of the door, instead of anything else. When her breathing begins to even again, when the tension drains fractionally from her expression, he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

"You did really well," he says softly, the words earnest and almost clinical in their sincerity, as though acknowledging a completed procedure. But when she speaks again—when she names the part he cannot fix—something unsettled passes over him. It is not fear of noise or chaos; he can catalogue those. It is the knowledge that pain will arrive and he will not be able to intercept it, reroute it, or absorb it on her behalf. The idea lodges somewhere sharp behind his ribs and he swallows hard against it. "I know," he says quietly, because he does. They have discussed this too. He has read about the unpredictability, about the loss of composure, about the animal sounds and the disorientation and the intensity of it all.

"You are more than strong enough to do this," he tells her, and there is no exaggeration in it. He believes in her competence the way he believes in gravity, and he leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead again, lingering there, grounding himself in the warmth of her skin. "Whatever you need to do to get through it," he continues, voice firming into something anchored and deliberate, "I will be right there with you. The whole time."

Keeping one arm secure around her, he bends to retrieve the neatly packed bag with his free hand, straightening carefully so as not to jostle her balance. The apartment feels suddenly smaller, charged with purpose, and he finds he's suddenly eager to leave. He offers Isla a steady look, calm and ready despite the quickened rhythm in his chest. "Shall we?"

the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Isla

Ever already proves himself even in those short few moments of pain, the pressure of his fingers at the small of her back something Isla can focus on to get her through, and as he kisses her forehead and anchors her against his side, something in her suddenly wants to burst into tears. She doesn't, of course, but the sudden surge of love she feels for him is immeasurable. It's one thing to feel like something revered, something beautiful, but it's another entirely to feel safe. And Ever makes her feel safe, even knowing the ordeal of what lies ahead. 

"Let's," she agrees with a gentle nod, letting him lead the way to the door of their suddenly too-small apartment, accepting his help with the stairs and casting one last glance over her shoulder to it before it disappears behind them.

Hours pass - long hours that take them well past midday, beyond late afternoon and into the blush dusk of twilight, during which time Isla has proven that which is already gospel in most medical circles: doctors make the worst patients. And as her labour progresses and composure peels away, she's at least vocal in what she wants and, more accurately, what she does not fucking want. The list includes ice chips, then no ice chips, standing despite being told to rest, walking a lap around the clinic in her hospital gown, being as vocal as she pleases, refusing point blank to give birth on her back and, most importantly, the merest suggestion that Ever ought to wait elsewhere. 

They're nearing the end now though, if what the medics say is true, and Isla is inclined to believe them based on the way every contraction feels as if it's trying to overlap the next. As an Ancient she doesn't sweat, but the colour is high and pink in her cheeks and her knuckles are white against the side of the bed where she's decided, evidently, is where she's going to make this happen. With her hair having mostly escaped the effortlessly messy updo she'd tied it in and a washcloth soaked in fountain water pressed to the back of her neck, as her body allows her a few seconds to breathe she instinctively looks for Ever, wondering vaguely if he's taken the opportunity to escape while she's otherwise occupied. She wouldn't blame him, honestly.

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

EVEREST

The hours lengthen and fold in on themselves, measured less by clocks than by the rhythm of Isla's body. Light shifts from harsh white to amber to the bruised violet of approaching night, and through it all Everest remains exactly where she needs him to be.

Where others might attempt to align themselves with the staff—offering apologetic smiles, silent she’s not usually like this glances—he does not fracture his loyalty even a little. When Isla refuses ice chips, he calmly removes them. When she demands them again, he ensures they are delivered. When someone suggests rest and she insists on standing, on walking, on labouring upright, his gaze sharpens and steadies, an unspoken boundary drawn in the space between her and anyone who might override her. He does not argue with the professionals; he simply makes it clear, in tone and posture, that her wishes are not optional considerations. He listens to every instruction she gives—to him, to them—as though it is a set of coordinates he must honour precisely.

There are stretches where he sits beside the bed, hands folded loosely, present without intrusion, absorbing the sounds and movements without agitation. His stillness is not detachment; it is discipline. His mind does not spiral into impatience or boredom, but instead catalogues breathing patterns, timing intervals, the subtle change in the pitch of her voice when a contraction begins to crest. He stands when she stands. He walks when she walks. He does not leave.

So of course when Isla turns her head, searching, he is there. Not even shifted far from where she last saw him. He is watching her with a patience that is almost fierce, and when their eyes meet, his smile is immediate and warm, unshaken by the hours or the volume or the strain. He nods once; slow, deliberate encouragement. He does not move to touch he, knowing better than that by now, has learned the texture of her overstimulation, the way even well-meaning contact can feel like static across raw nerves. Instead, he steps just close enough and offers his hand, palm open, steady and waiting. If she chooses to take it, he will anchor himself accordingly. If she crushes it in the next wave, he will not flinch. Bones mend, but this moment will not come again.

"You can do this."

the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Isla

No I can't, is what Isla almost says as Ever's steady voice reaches her ears, the Remedy panting through the brief reprieve between contractions and clutching at his hand the moment it's offered. I can't, I'm too tired, it hurts--

But regardless of how she feels about it, it seems to be happening anyway, and from somewhere behind her where one of the doctors is checking how things are progressing (Isla is long past the point of caring about silly things like modesty), she distantly hears the instruction to push. And for once the Remedy is quick to comply; she doesn't crush Ever's hand so much as she grips it like a lifeline, riding the next contraction out through a bitten back scream and a pressure so intense it feels as if she might burn up entirely despite being immune to such things.

The world dissolves into something primal at that point. Seconds pass or perhaps minutes, Isla only vaguely aware of it beyond pain and breath and guiding hands, of gentle but firm instructions and the feel of Ever's palm against her own. And just as she thinks she has nothing more to give, there's a sudden sense of reprieve that leaves her gasping, and though she still feels as if she's somewhere very distant, she imagines she can hear a baby crying.

Back in grounded reality, there is indeed a baby crying. The doctor who has just delivered their daughter offers Everest a smile and a murmur of congratulations, before rising to clean and check the squalling infant whilst a nurse steps in to assist Isla onto the bed.

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

EVEREST

Isla's fingers close around his hand with bruising force, and pain blooms sharp and immediate through his knuckles, down into his wrist. He absorbs it without flinching, jaw setting but expression steady. Not because it does not hurt—it does—but because the scale is incomparable. Whatever fractures in his hand can be mended, what she is enduring is tectonic.

As she screams, as the sound tears free of her despite her efforts to contain it, his eyes snap instinctively toward the medics. He searches their faces for alarm, for urgency, for deviation, but finding none, he swallows down his rising alarm. Time distorts. His arm aches. His heart feels as though it has climbed into his throat.

And then...the shift is abrupt and undeniable. The tension in her grip changes, the room inhales collectively, a sound cuts through the air, high, indignant, unmistakable. For a fraction of a second, Everest does not move, not until he hears it again. Crying. Their daughter.

The doctor’s words register dimly but they are peripheral to the seismic realignment happening in his chest. While the infant is lifted away for assessment, Everest reaches for the cloth prepared earlier, dipping it quickly in cool fountain water before returning to Isla’s side. He presses it gently to her forehead before leaning down and pressing a kiss against her temple. "You did so well," he murmurs, voice thick but steady. "You did it. Isla...you did it." There is awe threaded through every syllable.

He straightens only when movement draws his attention back to where a nurse is returning, arms cradling a small, pink, indignant bundle. The crying is stronger now, alive and furious in its newness. The nurse steps closer, offering their daughter toward Isla.

the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!

Isla

If asked, Isla couldn't say exactly how she'd gotten from the side of the bed to laying back on it, or how many people it had taken for such a thing to be achieved. She's still gazing at her empty hand where Ever's fingers had been until mere moments ago in fact, dazed and panting and trembling, something she finds quite curious despite reading about it... somewhere. The Remedy only seems to come back to herself a bit when the aviator appears beside her, and that's likely the fountain water as much as it is Everest. "Hi," she says in a voice made rough and weary with exhaustion, smiling to feel his lips brush against her temple.

"She's okay?" she asks him, the question as involuntary as culmination of the last few hours had been. But then the nurse is approaching and Isla feels something inside her ache with every furious cry their daughter makes. However tired and unsteady she might feel, her arms reach immediately for the newborn, accepting her as if she was made for it and cradling her careful and close. "That's how I feel too," she whispers to the babe, squalling cries and all, and it's with an awed, slightly dumbstruck smile that she gazes back up at Ever.

"She's perfect."

I'll take a bruise, I know you're worth it
When you hit me, hit me hard

EVEREST

"Hey," he whispers, the word barely formed, as though volume might fracture something sacred in the air. Ever doesn't answer immediately when Isla asks, not because he does not know, but because for a moment he is simply looking at her—at the way she is still trembling, at the way the light catches the damp at her temples, at the fact that she is here and breathing and reaching—then he nods, quick and certain. "She’s absolutely fine," he says, voice low but unwavering. It is almost clinical, the report of it, but there is wonder braided through the steadiness.

When the nurse transfers the bundle into Isla’s waiting arms, Everest feels something shift inside him again, something heavier, deeper, irreversible. The crying continues, furious and indignant, and when Isla murmurs her quiet solidarity to the baby, he lets out a soft, disbelieving breath that might almost be a laugh. He leans closer to the bed, bracing a hand against the mattress so he isn’t looming over them, lowering himself instinctively into their orbit. He studies the tiny, scrunched face, the clenched fists, the impossible smallness of her. He looks at Isla again, and his smile wavers, not from doubt, but from the sudden flood of feeling that rises too fast to contain and tears suddenly sting his eyes without warning.

He blinks once, as if surprised by the sensation, but they gather anyway, blurring the edges of the room. His throat tightens painfully, breath catching somewhere between his ribs and his lungs. "She is perfect," he agrees softly. "You both are." The word does not feel exaggerated. It feels insufficient.

the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die

Code blatently stolen from queen of codes, Sky!