WARNING:
THERE IS EXPLICIT SEX IN OTHER PARTS OF THIS STORY. I will mark those parts clearly in the header. The sex is graphic and sometimes kinky, but all loving and consensual. If reading sex scenes like that would offend you, please don't read this.

If you want to comment, send email to luba@lubakmetyk.net

Epilogue

"Ugh!" Long slender fingers tightened convulsively on the hands she was clutching, sharp nails digging painfully into skin -- which both recipients found infinitely preferable to the times a short while ago when she'd had her hands fisted in their hair, yanking out more than a few strands in the process.

"Easy, darlin'... I'm sorry, I know it hurts... but c'mon now, relax an' breathe, just like Moira showed ya..." Logan reached out his free hand and brushed some stray, sticky tendrils of long dark hair off her damp forehead.

Her voice was hoarse now, but still easily drowned out the delicate Celtic harp music playing softly in the background. "Don't you *dare* tell me to relax, you insensitive lout! And don't you *dare* try to tell me you understand what I'm going through! *I*'m doing all the work here, you insensitive male baboon! I don't notice *you* doing anything more difficult than acting condescending and patting yourself on the back--" She broke off her latest vitriolic tirade with a loud gasp as yet another contraction rippled through her body. Rahne was at her side immediately, offering some ice chips on a spoon as soon as the latest spasm passed, then returned to her duty station by the fetal heart monitor while the expectact mother resumed her determined, rhythmic panting.

"Now be fair, sis -- this isn't really Logan's fault, this *was* all your idea, remember?" Brian still might not be thrilled about her decision to become a single mother, with Logan's assistance, but male solidarity demanded he defend the other man in this particular moment.

"And you keep your uninvited *and* unwanted opinions to yourself, you great big clothead!" Purple eyes shot a killing look at the large blond man holding her other hand -- with absolutely no effect, since Braddock had his own eyes firmly shut. His twin sister had wanted him there, so, of course, he had to come and support her -- but he *really* didn't want to become so intimately acquainted with the grosser details of her long hard labour to bring her child out into the world.

Plus, as usual, he didn't particularly want to see his shapeshifter wife in her 'amoeboid masseuse' form, which he would if he tried to stare up over Betsy's sweat-soaked, straining bulk. With Dr. McTaggert's interested concurrence, Meggan had bulked herself up and morphed into a soft mattress of (meta)human flesh, the gentle empath adapting her contours to make Betsy as comfortable as possible, growing fingers and hands wherever needed to knead away growing knots of tension even as she blunted the edge of her sister-in-law's pains, all while radiating love and reassurance to both mother and daughter (and their freaked out male support system). "Logan's right, Betsy," she crooned softly. "Relax, don't fight it, let us help you..."

"Aye, stop complaining an' concentrate on yuir job, woman," Moira added, somewhat astringently. "Ye said ye didn't want an epidural when A asked ye, remember? Ye said ye dinna want tae 'blunt the experience o' this miracle,' remember? Ye said it couldna be that bad, remember?" And, in fact, to be fair, Betsy -- as all the X-Men and Excalibur -- *had* been through much worse, in various and sundry battles. It was more the *hours* of labor wearing her down, than the absolute level of her pain.

"I've... changed my mind." There was a strong hint of desperation in the patient's uncharacteristically ragged voice. "I'll... take that shot now... and... thank you for it, Moira... and even admit... you were right... and I was wrong..." She fell silent then, except for her loud panting, as the contractions came faster and faster.

"Too late." The Scots doctor sounded disgustingly cheerful about it. "Even if A wanted tae risk movin' ye tae administer it, the bairn's jist about ready tae come, an' there wouldna be time fuir a shot tae help all tha' much -- but look ye, a' least ye ha'e Meggan there tae help -- although A donna want ye tae take *all* the pain, lassie." She shook a finger at the blonde fay, warningly, then called to her foster daughter, "Gi'e th' ice tae the proud da tae handle, an' make sure everything's ready -- A think the wee one's jist aboot beginnin' tae crown..."

"'Tis done. No' as if 'twere any surprise, but 'tis a bonny wee girl, an' both new mum and babe are doin' fine."

The rest of Rahne's announcement was drowned out by a chorus of cheers. Kitty, Amanda, Jubilee and Rogue (the latter two of whom had arrived with Emma Frost) rushed to hug the Scots girl and pepper her with questions. Meanwhile Wisdom, Wagner, Rasputin, LeBeau and Sam Guthrie (the latter two of whom had arrived with Logan) traded handshakes and cigars and smug grins -- as if the menfolk had contributed anything but complaints during fourteen long hours of hard labor... although, to their credit, despite their bitching and moaning they'd sat, snacked and napped in the hastily equipped waiting room right next to the med lab with only brief restroom breaks during the whole time, without any prompting from the ladies camping out there as well.

"Ye can come in an' congratulate the new mum an' see the wee lassie fuir a moment--"

"An' nae smokin' in muh lab *or* near the wee bairn, ye fool--"

Moira's familiar, acerbic rant was cut short by Pete shoving a fat cigar into her mouth as they all trouped inside the room, where Colossus handed one to Logan and Kurt gave one to Braddock. "Oh, shut it, you ol' battle-ax. Nobody's lightin' up around the little sprog!"

"Indeed," the blue-furred team leader nodded vigorously. "We will hold onto these fine Havanas contributed by our Cajun friend to savor later, and elsewhere. As soon as we wish mother and child well, we will leave them to rest and recuperate, while the rest of us retire -- and do the same!"

Pete had just pulled out his hip flask when a high clear voice cut through the hubbub. "I believe a more formal toast is in order." Emma gestured at the jeroboam of fine champagne sitting waiting in a silver ice bucket which one of her liveried flunkies had brought in. The White Queen had flown in practically on Logan's heels, and everyone -- even Kitty -- had been glad to see her; Psylocke's hold on her normally meticulous shielding had noticeably wavered as her labor progressed, and the groups in the birthing room and waiting room both had gotten to share in the pain of more than one contraction prior to Emma's arrival. "Kurt, if you would do the honors..."

Amanda helped hand around the flutes her lover was filling, until everyone had one in their hand -- even the usually teetotal weregirl not refusing the bubbly Sam handed her this one time; everyone except Betsy herself, that is, lying exhausted, cradling her daughter to her breast. "Sorry, Betts -- everybody else gets cigars and champagne, all the new mother gets is sleepless nights and dirty diapers."

Lifting his glass, "Ja -- a toast, to sleepless nights and dirty diapers," Wagner echoed solemnly, while his golden eyes sparkled.

"You call dat a toast?" Remy waved his hand dismissively, then bowed toward the bed. "To de p'tite belle, an' her beautiful mother -- let's hope she regain her figure soon, neh?"

Claws snikted. "Can it, Gumbo."

"Right then -- credit where credit's due," Pete smirked. "'Ere's t' the proud da... an' t' all the poor dead sods he's goin' t' leave in his wake when his little darlin' starts datin' slugs just like us."