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.
"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
When you hit me, hit me hard
