Chapter Text
Brittany is 33, Santana is 30
Fifty-six days after I take Santana's virginity, I displace to the middle of a cornfield in the middle of winter in a year that I assume is before I was born, unless the people here like to collect really old tractors. I spend the night shivering in a barn, huddled in some old dirty clothes and reminding myself that starting a fire is a really bad idea.
When I finally get back to Mount Adams, my cell phone screen tells me that I've been gone three days.
I've also missed a lot of messages.
I'm about to listen to them when my phone rings. I answer it, but before I can say anything, Artie starts speaking. "Britt - thank god you're back. You need to get to the hospital right away, because the baby is coming and even though I'm sure I'd do a great job playing the father role, Santana really needs you and like… I'm just its biological dad and its fun Uncle Artie. You're its mom."
"I'm on my way," I say, before I remember that I can't drive. "Um, as soon as I call a cab, anyway. How much time do I have?"
"She's at six centimeters, so – enough time, but don't like… lollygag or anything."
I hang up without saying goodbye, which is super rude of me, but whatever. My wife is about to give birth to our baby and I'm back in the summer when I belong and I need to call a cab right now.
I get to the hospital within the hour, and to Santana's room when she's in the middle of a contraction. "I've got it from here," I tell Artie, who, bless him, is sitting by her side holding her hand (I love that they're friends now, especially since Santana is so possessive and a lot of people – not me, of course, but other people – would think of Artie as really threatening to her). Artie lets go of Santana's hand, wincing as he massages it, and rolls back to give me space. "I'm here, baby," I tell her, kissing her on her cheek, then on her lips, then on her nose, and then all over the rest of her face because I missed her so much and she looks like she needs the kisses, what with how she's sweat-damp and just finished screaming through a contraction.
"God, it took you long enough," she says, but I can tell that she's not mad, not really. "I'm glad you got back in time."
"Me too," I tell her, and I pull up a chair so that I can sit and hold her hands for as long as she needs me to.
It turns out that I get to the hospital just in time, too, or maybe that the baby was somehow holding off until I got there, because not even one hour later, Santana's fully dilated and ready to push and holy crap, this is actually happening. We're going to have a baby. Months of fighting and her researching so much she was barely home and trying to figure out just how to make this work – not to mention the nine months of her actual pregnancy – and we're finally going to have a little baby girl.
I'm not even sad that none of our kids will probably be mine by birth. They'll all totally be mine by love – or at least this one will, if we don't have anymore – and that's what really matters. Also I wouldn't really wish Chrono-impairment on anyone until they work out a lot of kinks in the system, so to speak, so it's best if I don't carry any of our children myself.
Though with Santana on the case, I bet they'll figure something out before I stop being able to have kids.
It feels like forever, but also like no time at all, and I wonder, abstractly, whether I've displaced five times within the same short time period in the same place, because it certainly feels like I did. Eventually, though, I'm holding a teeny-tiny human in my arms.
"Emelina," Santana says, tiredly, contentedly. "Emelina Lopez-Pierce."
I smile. "Emma for short?"
"Perfect," she says, and I place baby Emma on Santana's chest and watch as Santana settles in for her first beautiful feeding.
Santana is 30, Brittany is 33
I don't know how she's doing it, but Brittany hasn't displaced once in the two months since Emma was born, which is a fucking miracle, and also a relief, because babies are exhausting and ever since Emma was conceived, I've been privately dreading single-parenting if Brittany ever gets pulled sometime else for any long stretches of time.
My parents came to visit two days after she was born, and they keep driving down on the occasional weekend, and Brittany's have been stopping in almost daily since we brought her back from the hospital. Antonio and his wife stopped by for a couple of days recently, and, completely shockingly, we got a phone call from Arturo two weeks in that wasn't completely offensive. He hasn't stopped by to meet Emma yet, but we're not sure he should. Not without a metric shit-ton of groveling, anyway.
Artie's been around most, of course, spoiling Emma fucking rotten with baby toys and clothes bought with the royalties from his latest book. It's actually cute, and I'm glad that we didn't go through with keeping him and Emma away from each other for about a year, so we could all grow into our roles, as Britt and I briefly considered when we were still planning this whole thing out.
Exhausting or not, it's totally fucking rewarding, especially when Emma rolls over for the first time – not all the way, of course, but from her back to her side and then back to her back. Britt and I are the only ones home. Surprising, because it's like our house has a revolving door since we brought the baby home.
It's early September when it happens, and Cincinnati is hot as ever. Britt's been watching Emma all day, since we've decided she's stable enough to be alone with the baby and Artie and I have been calling the house and checking in every hour just in case. I've just gotten back from the med-lab, where I was teaching a new grad student about Chrono-impairment – the coolest thing about finishing my residency and finding work in research is that now I get to help other students and interns, because I’m determined to get more people working on it, because God, wouldn't it be fucking great if Britt could keep on not displacing, and stay with Emma through every step of her development?
I picked up some Skyline on the way home, since it's totally my guilty pleasure and Emma seems to like my milk after I've eaten it – it's nice to know my baby's getting my same flawless tastes in everything – and Brittany and I are eating it in the living room, Emma on the couch cushion between us. She's gorgeous, with tiny dark curls and Artie's eyes and, wonderfully, Brittany's smile, and I'm about to pick her up when she rocks onto her side. I freeze, and Brittany carefully reaches into her pocket for her phone and sets it on record, just in time for Emma to roll back onto her back.
"God, I fucking love you," I say, not entirely sure whether I’m talking more to my beautiful wife and the true mother of my child, or Emma, or both equally.
"Santana! Stop using that language in front of the baby!" Brittany says, and I give her a look and we laugh and then I'm picking Emma up so that she can have dinner, too, and Brittany moves onto Emma's old cushion and leans her head against my shoulder, holding Emma's tiny chubby foot loose in her hand.
"I'm glad I ended up in your woods," she says, suddenly, and I glance up at her once Emma's latched on.
"I'm glad I ended up in your audition," I reply, twisting my head so that she can kiss me.
Emma is sucking contentedly away, but if she could talk, I bet she'd tell us she's glad she ended up with the two most badass moms in the world.