Miles is making a brief, dismissive sound, scornful and fed up, grabbing the washbasin and leaving it beside Kurt, within their reach. He won't doctor their wounds, won't even touch them, just leaves them to weep and bleed and panic. "You'll be fine. If it just started, you have hours yet," he says dismissively, going to the door and pulling his boots on. He won't look at them either, not as he grabs his coat, not as he strides out with a brief, "I'll be back."
Not as he leaves them alone, to live, to die, to whatever end. There's no strong hand holding theirs, coaching them through the contractions, soothing them with water or ice or just another presence. Just Kurt, alone, in their own blood, with the wind howling outside.
Except. Except they're not truly alone, not really -- there's that careful spark of awareness, a link Miles's cruelty hasn't been able to touch, guarded and shielded by Kurt's own body. Pure instinct and love and fear had built a wall between the hell they endured on a day-to-day basis and the budding consciousness of the child inside them. Whatever Miles did, whatever torture he administered, it didn't penetrate that wall. The baby doesn't know what's happened to it's mother, that it's been carried through agony and horror unscathed.
But it reaches out now, a soft stirring, a silent outreach of purely innocent, purely adoring connection, solely for Kurt, untouchable by anyone else. And there's nothing but love in that first touch of soul to soul, nothing but recognition and delight and wonder at being alive, at being so close to meeting. In it, there's something like Corrigan, like Naseer and Benji and Leo and Kai, fragments of their affection and warmth and love echoed in the child that had grown beneath their watchful eye for so long. In it, in her, the pack is there, albeit only in Kurt's mind. That's something.
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Not as he leaves them alone, to live, to die, to whatever end. There's no strong hand holding theirs, coaching them through the contractions, soothing them with water or ice or just another presence. Just Kurt, alone, in their own blood, with the wind howling outside.
Except. Except they're not truly alone, not really -- there's that careful spark of awareness, a link Miles's cruelty hasn't been able to touch, guarded and shielded by Kurt's own body. Pure instinct and love and fear had built a wall between the hell they endured on a day-to-day basis and the budding consciousness of the child inside them. Whatever Miles did, whatever torture he administered, it didn't penetrate that wall. The baby doesn't know what's happened to it's mother, that it's been carried through agony and horror unscathed.
But it reaches out now, a soft stirring, a silent outreach of purely innocent, purely adoring connection, solely for Kurt, untouchable by anyone else. And there's nothing but love in that first touch of soul to soul, nothing but recognition and delight and wonder at being alive, at being so close to meeting. In it, there's something like Corrigan, like Naseer and Benji and Leo and Kai, fragments of their affection and warmth and love echoed in the child that had grown beneath their watchful eye for so long. In it, in her, the pack is there, albeit only in Kurt's mind. That's something.