"Teague, you bastard, get over here!"

If you can't tell, Jetta is in a foul mood.

This is mostly because she is experiencing the part of procreation and sex that she never planned on doing and never wanted to do. It is uncomfortable.

Strike that, it hurts.

"Now!"

She's at the hospital already, in the parking lot, standing next to her car and tapping her foot.

If he's so goddam insistent that she have his fucking child, he's goddam going to be there for the birth.

I'm sorry. Jetta has a foul mouth when annoyed.

"Right here." And he was.

Yes, that was definitely anxiety on Teague's face. Amazing,... anxiety and Teague rarely deign to share the same sentence. Also, 'running'. His usual ambling pace had been discarded, and he looked comfortably ruffled.

"Alright. Here. I mean, I am."
Oh, he's not nervous at all...

"Fuck you," she informs him.

Everyone here? Good, fine, here we go, and into the hospital.

She informs the first uniformed person she sees that she is in labour, and they had better get her an obstetrician--or however you spell that--immediately, or she would be very annoyed.

Wheelchair, heading off to OB ward.

Been there, done that.

Teague, for once in his in his life (that he remembers) is absolutely unsure of everything, but follows as he thinks this is probably what he's supposed to do.

He knew all about this, this morning - every little detail.
Now he remembers bits and pieces, and is trying desperately to fit them together.

Are we sure it wasn't the other way around? Or was it mostly mutual?

... sorry.

Anyway. She has now been ensconced in a lovely little room, decorated in a manner that is strongly reminiscient of a hotel, and is sitting on a bed that is not at all reminiscient of a hotel. For one thing, hotel beds are wider. And more comfortable.

"No, I do not want a natural birth!"

Teague takes - rather, grabs her hand. And tries to bring up his old, sleepy-eyed unfazed self.

"Hey, love,... take it easy, right? It's all about the breathing, 'member?"

...His old self has apparently retreated pretty far away.

"You bastard, you got me into this, don't you 'love' at me!"

She is, however, squeezing his hand, quite possibly hard enough to cut off circulation, though not quite enough to cripple him for life. He might have a bit of difficulty playing guitar for a couple days, though.

Teague could argue with her.
He won't.

...Especially not with the death-grip she has on his hand. Ow.

So, he just says, "...Alright," with a small amount of difficulty, wondering how long it's going to be before his fingers work normally again.

The nurse is ignoring this placidly.

Jetta is being subjected to an intensely embarrassing examination of her private areas--not that she minds people seeing them as a general rule, but not when she's not the one in control of the circumstances--and about ready to spout profanity at the poor, inoffensive medical personnel.

... and Teague gets to deal with this for the next several hours.

They're going to be the longest hours ever.

Teague stands by, lets her crush his hand,... occasionally attempts to be soothing, though it's obvious it's not doing any good, as Jetta hates him at the best of times.
And this is definitely not the best of times.

At least it's a short labor, as these things go. Only seven hours or so.

... eternity.

And, eventually, there is the pleased cry of 'I can see the head' and 'One last push for the afterbirth' and all that kind of thing.

Jetta is anything but perfect and put together by the end of this. Her hair hangs in strings around her face, which is red and sweaty and twisted in pain and fury, she has absolutely no makeup...

Does Teague happen to have a camera?

No, but he wouldn't be so cruel as to use it if he did.

"Hey. It's over," Teague says gently (weakly?), raising his one intact hand to brush her hair back. "You did it..."
The dead air at the end of the sentence is where he'd usually insert the word 'love'.

Those were, as predicted, the longest seven hours ever.

"Fuck you," she says, though with considerably less force than she did towards the beginning of the whole ordeal.

"Now take your fucking baby and get out of my life."

"Right... yes," he says absently, stepping back and carefully massaging the hand she'd been holding. The feeling was starting to come back. It wasn't pleasant. "With pleasure..."

And he looks around, blinking, lost, hoping someone will please tell him where to go now.

I believe a nurse takes pity on him and explains that the infant must be weighed and measured and such and kept in the hospital for a day or so, to make certain that there won't be any complications, but if he would like, she'll take him and show him where the neonatal ward is, and he can look in on the baby from there.

Jetta gets to fill out paperwork.

"Hey, bastard. What are you naming it?"

Not her, it.

...

"Laelia Iris." He spells 'Laelia' for Jetta, pauses, then adds, "Last name, Touchstone."

He turns to the nice nurse who's going to take him to the neonatal ward, looking expectantly at her.

"Stupid name," Jetta comments, but writes it down anyway.

"There, now leave me alone already." She is sick of dealing with baby and anything to do with baby. Finally. She doesn't have to carry the thing anymore.

And the nurse leads the new daddy along several halls to a glass enclosed room with rows and rows of babies.

Laelia's not in there quite yet.

Teague looks around, sighs, and leans on the wall to wait.

He's less nervous now, and more tired - but he always looks sleepy, so a little more weariness, a little less, what's the difference?
One hand drifts up, brushing stray strands of hair out of his face.

Where are you..?

He doesn't feel that it's quite fair that he still has to wait.

And in the glass room, another nurse comes in with a baby with black fuzz on her head in a bassinet labeled 'L. Touchstone.'

Yep, that one's yours, Teague.

Teague perks up as he sees the nurse enter, and crosses the floor to the glass when he spots the name on the bassinet. His hand hovers close to the glass, but doesn't quite touch.

"...Hello, baby-doll," he whispers, "Hi, darling... "
He adores her already. It's obvious.