It's everything. In the awful swirl of terror and betrayal and agony, watching Miles get dressed and leave them there when they need him most, feeling that tiny spark of connection through the pain is the only thing they have. The baby, they can feel them, they can feel her, right there under their trembling hands. She's right there. She's safe. She's theirs. Untouched by Miles' cruelty, she reaches for them for the first time, beautiful and unknowing, full of love.
It's the only thing that keeps Kurt moving, the knowledge that she's coming, that they have to keep her safe. It spurs them into action, to clean their face and chest and stomach of come and blood, to shakily clean and dress the wound on their neck, still throbbing and bleeding, the pain dizzying. Though when another wave of contractions hit and they double over on the floor, the pain at their neck becomes a distant memory.
They scream through every second of burning, earth-shattering pain, crumbled in a heap on the floor. To anyone passing by, the cabin must seem haunted by some tortured, wailing spirit, their howls shaking the walls before being carried on the wind. When the contractions subside, Kurt tries their best to stay calm, to focus on her, wiping the floors clean of their own blood and hair—they can't let the baby be born into this mess!—but as the hours pass, those moments of clarity and calm get shorter and shorter.
By the time Miles returns, the cabin is spotless, the washbasin is more blood than water, and Kurt is sprawled out on the bed, face twisted in agony. They know they're not supposed to be up there, but they just needed somewhere soft to lay, pillows to cushion their aching hips, warm sheets to cover them, firm bedposts to grasp while riding the burning waves. The pain is near-constant now, their skin covered in a sheen of sweat and streaks of blood down their chest, along their thighs, every muscle twitching and shaking. "Please, please, p-please," is all they can muster between sobs and harrowing wails. Any minute now. Please, God, any minute now...
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It's the only thing that keeps Kurt moving, the knowledge that she's coming, that they have to keep her safe. It spurs them into action, to clean their face and chest and stomach of come and blood, to shakily clean and dress the wound on their neck, still throbbing and bleeding, the pain dizzying. Though when another wave of contractions hit and they double over on the floor, the pain at their neck becomes a distant memory.
They scream through every second of burning, earth-shattering pain, crumbled in a heap on the floor. To anyone passing by, the cabin must seem haunted by some tortured, wailing spirit, their howls shaking the walls before being carried on the wind. When the contractions subside, Kurt tries their best to stay calm, to focus on her, wiping the floors clean of their own blood and hair—they can't let the baby be born into this mess!—but as the hours pass, those moments of clarity and calm get shorter and shorter.
By the time Miles returns, the cabin is spotless, the washbasin is more blood than water, and Kurt is sprawled out on the bed, face twisted in agony. They know they're not supposed to be up there, but they just needed somewhere soft to lay, pillows to cushion their aching hips, warm sheets to cover them, firm bedposts to grasp while riding the burning waves. The pain is near-constant now, their skin covered in a sheen of sweat and streaks of blood down their chest, along their thighs, every muscle twitching and shaking. "Please, please, p-please," is all they can muster between sobs and harrowing wails. Any minute now. Please, God, any minute now...