Chapter Text
“Tim. This is it.”
Lucy’s voice came out more like a hiss than a declaration, one hand gripping her swollen belly, the other latching onto the kitchen counter for dear life. Tim turned from the fridge, an open water bottle in his hand and a look of complete, unfiltered panic flashing across his face before he reined it in like the stoic training officer he used to be.
"Are you sure it's not just Braxton—"
She shot him a look that could curdle milk.
"I'm sure."
That was all it took. Suddenly, Tim was in full-on tactical mode. Bag? Already packed. Keys? In hand. Hospital route? Memorized. Wife? Contracting every four minutes and glaring at him like he personally invented labor pains.
“You’re doing great, babe,” he murmured as he helped her into the car, ignoring the fact that she’d just called him a jackass under her breath.
---
By the time they reached the hospital, Lucy's contractions were less cute and more apocalyptic. She crushed Tim’s fingers during triage, swore loudly during intake, and threatened bodily harm when the nurse offered her a birthing ball.
Tim never left her side.
“You trained rookies tougher than this,” Lucy groaned between contractions, sweat plastering her hair to her face.
“None of my rookies tried to punch me while crowning,” Tim muttered, but the grin he gave her was full of warmth. He kissed her temple and whispered, “You’ve got this. I’ve seen you chase down armed suspects in heels. This is nothing.”
She growled. “You’re so sleeping on the couch after this.”
---
Hours later, Lucy screamed, “Who designed this bed—Satan?!”
Lucy was half-sitting, half-sprawled on the hospital bed, her legs awkwardly adjusted around the monitor belts, eyes wild, hair a humid mess.
Tim stood at her side like a war medic, holding a water cup like it was a live grenade.
“Do you want ice chips?” he asked gently.
“No, Tim. I want to leave my body. I want to eject from this mortal plane. I want an epidural, a margarita, and a nap in that order.”
“…So that’s a no on the chips?”
Lucy growled, then immediately softened, guilt flooding her face. “I’m sorry. That was mean. You’re just trying to help. You’re perfect. But also, don’t talk unless I ask you to talk.”
Tim nodded solemnly. “Understood.”
Another contraction slammed into her.
She gasped, clutched his arm with a grip that could bend steel, and let out a primal scream that rattled the walls. When it passed, she panted, glaring up at him through half-lidded eyes.
“You did this to me,” she said.
“You keep saying that,” he replied calmly, brushing sweat from her brow.
“Because it’s true! You and your stupid perfect shoulders and your ridiculous smug smile and your—ow, ow, OW!”
Tim leaned in close, speaking low. “Hey. You’ve got this. We’re close.”
She exhaled shakily, trying to gather herself. “I love you so much, and I’m sorry I want to throat-punch you right now.”
He smiled softly. “You can punch me later. Preferably when you don’t have a team of nurses and a fetal monitor attached.”
The nurse peeked in. “You’re progressing beautifully, Lucy.”
Lucy flipped her hair out of her face and said, deadpan, “Can’t wait to put that on my tombstone.”
Tim snorted.
“I’m kidding,” she muttered, then added quickly, “Sort of. Sorry again. I swear I’m not like this normally.”
“Luce,” he said, laughing. “You once called a car thief a ‘discount Vin Diesel with a fragile ego.’ You’re always like this.”
She cracked a brief smile through her tears. “Touché.”
Then another contraction hit, and she growled, “Okay. I’m gonna need someone to get this baby out of me right now or I’m suing everyone.”
---
“Okay, Lucy. You’re ten centimeters. It’s time to push.”
The nurse's voice was calm, encouraging. A serene presence in the middle of Lucy Bradford’s own personal hell.
“Fantastic,” Lucy huffed, voice dripping sarcasm. “You know what would also be great? If someone just reached in and pulled this baby out like a magician with a rabbit.”
The OB, unfazed, smiled gently. “I promise, we’ll guide you through every push.”
Lucy turned to Tim. “I hate this. I hate everything. I hate the fluorescent lighting. I hate the air in this room. I hate my spine. And—” she gripped his hand so hard his knuckles cracked—“I swear to God, if you say ‘just breathe’ again I will personally rip out your vocal cords.”
Tim, bless him, didn’t even flinch. “Noted.”
She groaned, the next contraction crashing over her like a rogue wave. Her whole body tensed.
“Okay, Lucy. Big push now—like you’re trying to poop out a bowling ball!” the nurse chirped.
“Excuse me—what kind of sadistic metaphor is that?!” Lucy shouted.
Tim rubbed her arm. “You’re doing amazing.”
“I am not doing amazing. I’m doing awful. I’m sweaty and I’m screaming and I probably look like a swamp demon.”
“You look like a goddess,” Tim said instantly.
Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Ugh. You’re so good. Why are you like this? I don’t deserve you. I’m sorry I yelled about your vocal cords.”
Tim leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. “You’re doing the hardest thing in the world right now. You can yell all about your plans for my vocal cords.”
Another contraction. The room shifted. Doctors moved into place. The beeping intensified.
Lucy’s voice dropped to a growl. “Okay. Let’s do this. Let’s push this baby out so I can eat a goddamn cheeseburger.”
She bore down, letting out a fierce scream as the pressure peaked.
“One more, Lucy! You’re so close!”
“I AM CLOSE TO BLACKING OUT.”
Tim whispered, “You’ve got this. Come on, Chen. One more.”
She snapped her head toward him. “Don’t you ‘Chen’ me like it’s roll call!”
Then, immediately: “I’m sorry. I love you. This hurts so much. Oh my God, I think I’m dying. Is this what dying feels like?”
Tim choked out a laugh and a tear at the same time. “You’re not dying. You’re becoming a mom.”
Lucy’s face contorted, and with a final, guttural cry, she pushed—and then—
Crying. A baby’s cry. Loud. Wet. Beautiful.
The OB lifted the tiny, wailing newborn and placed her on Lucy’s chest.
“Congratulations! It’s a girl!”
Lucy’s body trembled from the exertion, but she stared down at the squirming pink bundle with wide, wonder-filled eyes.
“She’s… she’s here,” she whispered, tears streaking her face. “She’s real.”
Tim bent down, kissed Lucy’s forehead, then their daughter’s. “She’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
Lucy looked up at him, still breathless. “I’m sorry I threatened your face.”
He smiled. “Worth it.”
---