Quick note: umm, some of the more technical pregnancy/labor/Caesarian information has been left out for several reasons. A). I’ve never had any labor experience, and I’m not planning on *ever* getting any labor experience, and B). I don’t really think Quatre would fill Trowa in on all the icky details. For the record, Silvia’s situation was complicated by not only fetal stress during natural childbirth (hence the emergency Caesarian), but also a condition called placenta previa. It complicates labor and puts the mother in extreme danger. (thanks, mom, for all the info!!)

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Sunrise and the Sotsu Agency (I believe)—not me.

C&C? Yes! Please! Mail me today!! J

From Forever to Forever

Part Three: To Cherish

New Year’s Day, A.C. 201—Silvia Noventa-Winner—1:00 a.m.

I can’t believe it’s finally happening—I’m going to have my baby—and Quatre isn’t here. I called him right before I was driven over; he’s been away on a business trip for the past three days. He said he’d be back on Earth by eleven-thirty. He should be here already.

I shift uncomfortably in the hospital bed, trying not to disturb either the IV or the monitor strapped to my belly. Through the open door I can see the nurses and interns in the halls, kissing and wishing each other a happy new year. I wonder again where Quatre is.

Just then, a tall man walks by, clutching his hand to his chest. It’s wrapped in gauze; he’s obviously trying to protect it from the madness in the corridor. He’s looking away from my room—I can’t see his face, yet something about him seems so familiar. He turns his head, watching the hall ahead of him, and I recognize his profile. Only one man in the Earth Sphere and Colonial Alliance has hair like that.

“Trowa!” I call out, glad to see a familiar face. He stops in his tracks and turns toward me. “What are you doing here?”

He enters the room, closing the door to shut out the noise from the hall. “Happy New Year, Silvia,” he says, sitting down in a chair next to the bed. “I thought your baby wasn’t due for another month.”

I shake my head. “No—actually she’s right on time. What happened to your hand?”

The corners of his mouth curve upward in a sheepish half-smile. “I was helping out at the circus—my sister’s aim isn’t always perfect. And once I got here, I made a point to come up and visit a friend—she had her baby just yesterday.”

A familiar pain washes over me and I clench my eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. My fisted hands clutch at the sheets until the contraction subsides.

“Are they five minutes apart?” Trowa asks. I nod. “And how much have you dilated?”

Oh God—I am not talking to my husband’s best friend like this. I try to keep from blushing. “Not enough. The nurses say it may take hours.”

He nods. “People say it’s always bad the first time. Catherine was in labor for twenty-nine hours.”

I let my head fall back against the pillow. Lord, I pray I don’t have to wait that long.

“So where’s Quatre?” he asks, his eyes shifting around the room.

I shrug. “Hopefully, on his way. To be honest, I was pretty scared, not knowing anyone here.”

A nurse bustles in, checking the monitors. “Ah, Mr. Winner! I’m glad you’re here. Your wife is doing just fine, so far.” She changes the IV bag and then heads out the door.

I snicker at his wide-eyed look. “Earlier they wouldn’t believe that I even have a husband,” I confess with a laugh. “They thought I was another teen-pregnancy case; luckily that changed when I yelled that I’m almost twenty-two, and a member of the Colonial parliament.”

“This isn’t the friendliest hospital, is it?”

I shake my head, and then another contraction begins. I grind my teeth together and Trowa places his hand in mine. “Squeeze as tight as you like.”

Once the throbbing leaves, though, I sheepishly pull away. I didn’t mean to squeeze so hard. But when I glance up at him, his expression is not one of pain; he looks . . . sad. He stares at me, frowning slightly. “I can’t believe Quatre’s going to be a father,” he utters softly with a look of disbelief across his face.

“Trowa?”

His expression returns to the passive face I’m used to. “Yes?”

I take a deep breath. “Are we friends?”

“Of course,” he answers, his dark green eyes meeting mine. “Why do you ask? Do you not want us to be?”

I shake my head slightly. “It’s not that—it’s just, well . . . I’m not used to having friends who are in love with my husband.” He turns away from me, his face flushed. “You are in love with him, aren’t you?”

He nods slightly, then answers in a soft voice, “He’s an easy man to love.”

“Yes, he is,” I reply, trying to hide the surge of angry jealousy welling up in my chest. I’m not angry with Trowa—I’m angry at the idea that someone else could want my Quatre. I’m angry at the fact that my neurotic suspicions have been confirmed. What if Quatre ever returns Trowa’s feelings?

After a couple of silent minutes pass, another contraction starts. I realize that, even if Quatre ever had feelings for Trowa—it doesn’t matter now. I’m the one who has his baby. He’ll always be with me. I’m the one he married—not Trowa.

Hot tears slide down my cheeks. I don’t know if they’re a result of my contractions or my bitter thoughts. Does it matter if Quatre’s with me if he’s in love with someone else? I saw them at the wedding. There’s something special between them that can’t be denied. I could tell after watching them for a couple of minutes that Trowa was in love with Quatre. I could also see that my husband cares for Trowa. Deeply.

The door bursts in and Quatre rushes in, his faced flushed with irritation. “Silvia—I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner! The spaceport was crazy, and traffic was awful!” He comes over and sits next to me, on the edge of the bed. He wipes away my tears with his cool fingers. “Has it been bad? What have I missed?”

I’m glad he’s here, finally. I force a smile. “You haven’t missed a lot. Trowa happened to be here, so he’s been helping me out. You know, keeping me from getting to nervous.” I frown for a moment. It wasn’t exactly a lie—he was keeping me from getting nervous about the baby—but I was certainly nervous about where my husband’s affections lie.

Quatre glances over at Trowa and grins. “That explains why they told me that Silvia’s husband was visiting, and that I should wait to see her. They probably thought I was crazy when I yelled at them.”

Trowa smiles half-heartedly as he stands and stretches. “I suppose I should go now. Catherine’s probably worrying—she seems to think that the Earth is more dangerous than the colonies, and that I won’t be able to defend myself, should something happen.”

Despite my personal conflicts, I don’t really want him to go. “Well, thank you for staying with me. I would’ve gone mad, undoubtedly, without your help.”

He smiles and heads over to the door. He pauses as Quatre starts to thank him, but their conversation is interrupted by my surprised gasp. A contraction.

This one hurts more. I squeeze Quatre’s hand, gritting my teeth and closing my eyes. It continues for a longer time, but once it stops, Quatre kisses my forehead gently. I open my eyes and wearily smile up at him; my heart soars at the sight of his expression full of tenderness and devotion. “I love you,” he whispers, leaning close and brushing his hand over my cheek.

I hear the click of the door opening and closing. Trowa. My heart goes out to him—I know that I am the largest reason for his unrequited love. His heartache is something I never want to know. A small, selfish part of me rejoices. Quatre and I belong to each other. With or without this child, Quatre would still love me.

New Year’s Day—Trowa Barton—6:52 a.m.

All the babies in the nursery are tiny and adorable—I’ve always liked kids. But to look at this one in particular and know that she’s Quatre’s creation . . . it’s astounding. It’s humbling. It breaks my heart.

I lean my forehead against the cool windowpane, wishing that I could be staring at my own daughter or son.

“Trowa?” Quatre’s words snap me out of my melancholy thoughts. He approaches with an expression of disbelief. “You’re still here?”

“What time is it?” I haven’t been watching the clock.

“It’s almost seven.” He turns to the nursery window, his face lighting up once he sees his daughter.

“How’s Silvia doing?”

His eyes narrow slightly and he frowns. “She’s sleeping now. She needs her rest.”

“It was bad?”

Quatre nods. His gaze falls to his hands resting on the windowsill. “She lost a lot of blood . . . there were complications. After the doctors monitored a high amount of fetal stress, they had to perform an emergency Caesarian—but . . . “ he trails off, swallowing before he continues. “The doctor said it might not be safe to have any more children.”

If there’s one thing I know about Quatre, it’s his love of children. A majority of the Winner Corporation charity donations have gone to orphanages and children’s hospitals. He was probably hoping to have at least one more child, somewhere along the way. This is probably killing him.

He sighs, looking at his daughter again. “It could’ve been worse, though. We could’ve lost the baby—or even Silvia.” He shudders, closing his eyes. “I couldn’t have handled something like that.”

A long moment passes before I say anything—I don’t want to disrupt his quiet, personal moment. But it hurts. It still hurts me to acknowledge how much he really does love her. And I hate to see him depressed; he’s normally the cheeriest person I know, next to Duo. I want him to be happy with what he has—not upset about what could have been.

I rest my hand on his shoulder. “Quatre—don’t dwell on that. Look at your daughter—she’s beautiful.”

He looks through the window again, resting his palms flat against the glass. A nurse inside recognizes him and winks, picking up the tiny baby. Quatre smiles broadly as she comes out of the nursery.

“Your daughter, Mr. Winner,” she says, carefully placing the swaddled little girl in his arms.

The baby wakens, looking up at Quatre with blue-green eyes that are identical to his.

“What are you naming her?” I ask.

“Majidah Talaata Winner,” he answers without hesitation. “We’ll call her ‘Maja’ for short.”

An Arabic name. I’ve always loved to hear him speaking in that fascinating foreign tongue. “What does it mean?”

Quatre grins at me before returning his gaze to the infant. “It means ’Splendid.’”

An appropriate name for such a tiny little miracle. I watch with envy as he kisses her forehead. She’s perfect. She’s so innocent; so flawless. She won’t grow up like we did. She’ll be loved and protected.

“Would you like to hold her?” he asks. I nod, and he places Maja in my arms with care. She blinks, then stares up at me with curious turquoise eyes. I lightly caress the bridge of her nose with my index finger, and she makes a slight gurgling sound—she looks amused.

“I think she likes you,” Quatre says with a laugh.

“She has good taste,” I answer.

Quatre puffs up with pride. “Of course she does; she’s my little girl.”

New Year’s Day—Quatre Winner—9:32 a.m.

I walk into Silvia’s room, finding her still asleep. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I can’t help but stare at her in wonder. She’s a mother now. I caress her cheek with the back of my hand. Even with her tired, pale face and tangled hair, she is more beautiful to me than ever before. I lean over and kiss her forehead.

Her eyes flutter for a moment, but remain closed. She smiles weakly. “Quatre?”

“I’m here, honey.”

She reaches over and takes one of my hands in hers. “How is she? Our little Maja?”

“Perfect.” There isn’t any other word that could describe our daughter so well. “She’s healthy and beautiful, and more wonderful than anything I’ve known.”

She opens her eyes groggily and looks up at me. “Have you called anyone yet?”

I nod. “Your family and mine, Rashid, Sally and WuFei, Hilde, Duo, Heero—everyone. They’re glad to hear that you’re okay.”

She pushes herself into an upright position, wincing with pain. “I don’t feel okay,” she comments dryly. Her eyes narrow. “This is all your fault, you know.”

I laugh. “Oh, no you don’t—you have to take half of the blame!”

She smiles again and closes her eyes, sighing. “I need to thank Trowa; did you get a chance to talk to him?”

“Yeah—and he held Maja. She seems to like him.”

“She has good taste.”

“That’s exactly what Trowa said,” I tell her with another laugh.

“Well,” she begins, opening her eyes and staring past me. “He and I seem to have a lot in common.”

She closes her eyes and leans back against the pillows. She needs her rest. “Quatre?” she asks hesitantly, biting her lip.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering . . . since we agreed to raise Maja in my faith . . . would it be possible to ask Trowa to be her godfather?”

I love that idea.

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