Burning Ambush, Hot Debris
Author:
all_depends Rating: PG-13
Warning: If you're allergic to sadness, you might not want to read this.
Pairing: Rydon
POV: Second, Ryan
Summary: Ryan is eager to have a family. He and Brendon decide it's time to have a baby.
Disclaimer: This came from my mind, hence it's mine and it didn't happen. I don't own the people or anything.
Beta:
melody_so_sweet Author Notes:
forbiddenverses said she would read this, so she better do it if you don't want my little heart to suffer. No pressure ;) On another note, this story was so fun and easy to write. I know it's probably not as great to read it as it was for me to write it, but as the author, I will dearly hold this piece of writing close to my heart regardless of how many or what kind of comments it gets. Thank you. That said--enjoy =)
You always wanted a big family. Your own family wasn't all that full, neither by members nor by great loving memories. Being an only child, you often felt the need for a sibling to play with, to fight with, to just be there for you. Sometimes you felt lonesome, or worse—lonely. Thankfully you had friends, and they usually made up for the hole you kept perceiving throughout your childhood and adolescence.
Your friends were also supportive when you were depressed because of your parents. It's true that they were not exactly the loving couple most children want, but you were strong enough to live through it.
You don't want any of this in your new family. You want to be different, to be a better parent, and provide your children with lots of affection and company.
You're still young and new to the whole independence concept, but you've already taken baby steps toward forming your brand new family, and your relationship with Brendon is the foundation. He's sweet, funny, talented, and most definitely good-looking. You've known him for years, and dated him for almost as long. He's a great candidate for a father, and you know it—not just because of all the experience you've had with him, but because you see it in his eyes. It might be love's blindfold, but when you see him you get a strong feeling in your gut that tells you how much you love him, how much he loves you, and how much he will love your children.
Tonight, he takes you to dinner. He hasn't done so in a long time, but he says he wants to "reinvent your love," whatever that means. You sit at the table, a white tablecloth on top of a longer maroon one. Brendon asks for wine, beautifully matching the table and the rose placed in a glass vase between the two of you. It's all far too corny, you think, but you still like it. You keep thinking there's going to be sex tonight, but you wonder whether it's part of your treat or if this whole night out is a scheme to get what he wants in bed.
"Ryan," he says. "Tonight's for you—for us." That only makes you think your second theory is the right one.
"Thanks, baby. I love the place, the food, everything."
"I love you," he says smiling.
"Aw, don't be so cheesy," you joke.
"But it's true! I just want you to know you're the love of my life, and I wouldn't mind spending the rest of it with you."
You smile at him, and you think you may be blushing.
After you both eat your dinner and chat about anything and everything, Brendon asks you for the waiter's location.
"I don't know," you say, looking around for him.
He looks behind him, too, but to no avail. "Oh well," he declares, looking at you, and he doesn't stop staring or smirking, an evil little smile that's both sweet and mystifying.
"What is it?" you ask. He doesn't answer and instead keeps looking at you and displaying his front teeth. You start to think you have something on your face, but then he leans closer to you, supporting himself with his hands on the table. You get the hint and similarly lean toward him and his sealed lips. You offer a quick peck, since PDA isn't your thing. But Brendon makes sure to hold your head with both his hands, and he doesn't let go. Soon, the kiss turns into a baiser, and you enjoy the metaphorically sweet taste of his mouth.
In the middle of the kiss, you feel something loose and solid, and for a millisecond you think Brendon just lost a tooth. However, you realize it feels and tastes like metal, and your tongue begins to understand the shape of the object—round and hollow. You pull away, spit out the small circle onto your palm, and see the wet, golden ring, plain and thick. You're surprised and don't remember whether you knew what it was before you saw it or not, but it doesn't really matter. The look on Brendon's face when you look up at him is almost the same as it was before the kiss, and you know yours is much more expressive now.
"Bren?" you question.
"Will you marry me?" he whispers, and your world just lost the meaning of time.
You take a moment of hesitation, and not because you're not sure—oh God, you're sure—but because you get that feeling you get right after you wake up, when your brain tries to adjust to what is real and what isn't.
"Yes!" you reply.
Brendon sits back down and so do you. He takes the ring from your hand and puts the piece of jewelry on your left ring finger—the emblem for a taken hand, a taken man. You are Brendon's. Brendon is yours.
*!*
You both chose a Sunday for your ceremony. Everyone's busy, running up and down, taking care of this and that. And you two look magnificent with your black tuxedos over cream-colored shirts.
It's your day, finally the day you expose yourselves to the world as a merged single unit. You two have longed for the symbolic celebration forever, and now you savor the moment as much as you hope to savor your life as Brendon's life companion.
From the kitchen comes Spencer, well dressed also, of course, and he takes your shoulder. "Ryan, I am so, so happy for you." His smile is welcomed with another one from you.
"Thank you. I'm glad you made it. I would've been devastated if you hadn't," you say with a playful laugh.
"I wouldn't miss the day my man became someone else's man! Although, when I put it that way, I kind of don't like the idea." You both laugh. He draws you closer and hugs you, tapping your back. He keeps you there to say, "I wish you the best." You can hear the weakness in his voice, even though he's always said he's not a sissy, the kind that cries at weddings.
"Thanks," you answer. And that's exactly what you want: the best. But you're almost certain neither you nor Brendon will get this one wrong.
At the room where the big event is to take place, all guests are seated and watching as the officiant gives you and Brendon instructions. You stand up, both of you, and repeat word by word what you're told. Then each of you put the rings on the other, and as you do, you struggle a little with Brendon's ring. You suck in air to exhale your nerves and slide the ring fully into his finger, then you look at him, and he's smiling. You smile, partly to mimic him, partly because you're nervous. You know he's nervous, too, but his eyes shine at you, because of you.
Brendon takes the pen from the woman and signs the document in front of him, his written 'I do.' You follow after him, signing Ryan Ross next to Brendon's signature, and as you run the pen across the line, you think, This is it. The witnesses sign the paper and so does the lady officiant, and it's done. It's official.
Now you're asked to kiss, and you make the final signature with your lips. Now it's official.
The guests clap, happy for your newly established domestic partnership. They're given time to hug you and take pictures. You go around the room, laughing, joking, seeing red eyes everywhere. The last red eyes you see are Brendon's, and you're teary too. You don't cry even though you want to, instead kissing Brendon once again and wiping one of his tears with your finger. What finally pushes a tear out your eye are his words, "Love you, babe."
*!*
Things with Brendon have been harsh these past few weeks. Somehow everything got out of hand, and now you constantly fight. Money, jealousy—any little thing can get to you, and most of the time you're either screaming at or not talking to each other.
But you didn't want this. Yes, you knew and still know that all couples fight, but it seems never-ending this time. You want it to end because you love him so much. You want it to end because you always thought you could make it, could have a happy life with him, and still hope you will.
He talks to you today, sits down with you on the kitchen table, and you talk like you hadn't in months. There's a lot to say, but most importantly, you're willing to listen. And you do.
More weeks come ahead, and the world on your shoulders just lost a ton's worth of weight. Your lungs breathe out relief as the days go on.
He cuddles with you on the couch at last.
*!*
You wake up one day, and it comes to you. You're sure of what you're thinking; something tells you it's right, as if you were getting hints about a dream you don't remember.
The thought has haunted you for ages, and you've pondered long and hard. But decisions like these are difficult to make, even when you think you've analyzed every aspect of it. There's always something you're waiting for, something within you to give you the green light. But today you feel it, and you're going to tell Brendon.
And so you ask him later during the day, when you've both had breakfast so that your metabolism is working correctly and your brain doesn't miss any piece of information vital to the subject.
"Bren," you start. "I've been thinking, an' I, um…"
"What?" he asks.
"I wanna have a baby."
He looks at you a little surprised, but then his face settles. "Really? You sure?"
"Yeah," you affirm with conviction.
"I've thought about it, too. I kind of want one as well."
"So… are we?"
He delays his answer, looking into the air to think. "I think we could."
*!*
After a couple of failed tries, the agency suggests Greta, and she's great. She meets the requirements you have agreed upon, and you're charmed by her lovable personality, making her the perfect candidate. The interview turned quickly into a friendly conversation, exchanging ideas, experiences, opinions, and more. It feels like talking to a good neighbor. She seems to share your enthusiasm; she seems to care about you as a couple, as future parents.
You and Brendon agree that she's the one, and you qualify her as the best option for your baby.
*!*
Brendon's searching through an online catalog, looking for clothes, furniture, and all the things they will need for your newborn. "Oh, this is nice," he says from across the room. You're watching TV as he does the supply hunt.
"Lemme see?" The screen shows a room full of baby items, and it looks like it was flooded with blue paint. "Yeah, that looks nice."
"I like the color for the walls."
"Yeah, but we can't buy the paint until we know what it's gonna be," you reason. You stay next to Brendon but turn back to the TV.
"Hey, look at this one," he says, looking at a room with green and yellow walls.
"Yeah, that's pretty."
"Maybe something like that, oh and some wallpaper along the bottom edges. It'll look nice. Watch, Imma do the work myself and it's gonna be totally rad, man!" he says grinning.
"Rad? What the heck?"
"Great, awesome, babylicious—whatever you wanna call it. Now that I’m gonna be a dad I have to keep up with the youngsters."
“Yeah, you’re pretty fly for a parent.”
Brendon clicks the mouse and keeps looking through the webpage. After a while the typing and clicking have stopped, and Brendon is just staring blankly at the glowing screen. He speaks again a few moments later, this time putting the jokes aside and using a more serious tone of voice. "Ry, I think you should provide the sperm."
You turn to him to examine him and try to decipher his attitude toward the matter. "Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Why? I mean, it doesn’t have to be me, and you know it. It’s okay; we could also get the sperm from a donor. Or, you know, just keep it a surprise…"
He reaches for your hand, a polite way to beckon you to shut up. "Ryan, it’s all right. I always see how happy you get when we talk about the baby, and I know it would mean the world to you to be the biological father."
You hesitate for a second. "What about you?"
He looks at you straight in the eyes and says, "I don't mind, honey. I want to have your baby."
Your baby. "Bren, thank you." You hug him and sweetly kiss his temple.
*!*
"How's my favorite pregnant woman?" asks Brendon.
Greta hugs him before hugging you too and leads you into her house. "I'm great! Thank you! What about you?"
"Oh, we're so excited!" he responds.
"How's the baby?" you ask.
"It's doing pretty well. I haven't had any problems with it; the doctor says it's healthy. Everything going well."
"And you?" Brendon asks as both of you sit down.
Greta heads to the kitchen, where the delicious smells and sounds make the boys hungry. "Well, you know, the pregnancy's hard, but nothing too bad. I get nauseous with any little smell, and it seems like sometimes I don't want to eat anything that's humanly edible. And my back's been hurting recently. Normal things like that."
"Gee, Greta, you make us feel guilty," Brendon says for the both of you.
"Nah, it's okay. It's not the first time I've been a mother or a surrogate mother. I'm totally okay with this."
"Well, as long as we have that in writing, it's all okay," he jokes.
"Sure will. You guys want to stay for dinner?"
"Sure!" you both say.
"Great. So what's new? Have you thought of a name yet?"
"No," you answer. "We wanted to know if you had an idea."
You all stay quiet for a few seconds.
"Ooh, what about Olivia?" Brendon says, nearly jumping in his seat.
"That's a good one," says Greta. "How 'bout Emily?"
You and Brendon gaze at each other. "I like Emily," you agree.
"Or also Abigail," she says.
You think a little and try to come up with a name of your own. "I think Samantha's nice," you add. "Sammy. Sam," you say, testing out the name variations.
Brendon begins to speak softly to himself. "Emily, Emmy, Emm. L, M, N..."
You hear his curious comparison between names and letters and repeat after him. "L, M. Ellem. Ellen."
"Ooh, Ellen!" says Brendon.
"Or Elena," suggests Greta.
"I like Elena better," Brendon says.
You say it a couple hundred times out loud and agree that you also like Elena better than Ellen.
"So, Elena?" Brendon asks you.
"Yeah, I guess Elena."
*!*
"Ryan, look at this!"
You walk to where Brendon is standing and look at what he's holding. It's a pink baby romper with the image of a cute, black and white cow sewn onto the middle, and it even comes with a matching beanie. It's adorable, and soft to the touch. You imagine what your baby girl would look like in it, and it makes you aww in your mind. "Take it," you tell Brendon, and he adds it to your cart.
Minutes later at the register, your heart fills with joy when you look at your cart and see that you've grabbed nothing but baby clothes, pacifiers, bibs, bottles, diapers, a stroller, a baby car seat, and everything else you could find for your soon-to-be newborn.
The girl at the register looks at your mountain of baby supplies and smiles at you. "Is it yours?"
"Yeah. Both of us," you tell her proudly, grabbing Brendon by the waist.
She keeps smiling as she passes the items over the scanner in front of her. "Congratulations," she says.
*!*
"Okay, Mr. Teddy Bear," Brendon says as he places down the stuffed animal on the bed. "You and I are gonna have a little fun time. Now, stay still."
You watch from the door, but he's unaware of it.
He holds the bear's legs up as he pulls out a moist baby wipe from its white box. He wipes the animal's behind as if it were a real baby, and then throws the wipe toward the garbage can, missing it by an inch. "Dammit!" he curses. "Sorry, Teddy, you weren't supposed to hear that."
You smile wider than you were doing before, but you hold back a giggle.
Brendon then grabs a diaper and places part of it under the teddy bear, folding up the rest of it over its crotch. He takes one of the sticky sides and tries to tape it to the diaper, but he accidentally gets it stuck on the fake bear's fur. "Oh… noodles," he complains, watching his language.
You sneak in behind him and say, "What are you doing?"
He jerks a little and turns his head around. "God, Ross, you startled me! I'm practicing being a daddy. Look," he says, and the bear finally has the diaper properly on.
"Yeah, that's impressive. I wanna see you doing that with the actual baby."
"Well, it's not like you're a pro, either."
"You know what? You're right. You obviously have practice, so you can take care of changing diapers from now on."
"No, wait, that's not…" But you cut him off with a kiss.
*!*
You stand next to Greta and grasp her hand while Brendon stands on the other side, letting her do the same with his hand. You're both sweating, but not nearly as much as she is.
She's having your baby.
"C'mon, you can do it," you whisper.
The doctor is standing between Greta's legs, helping her get the baby out. "You're doing great," she encourages. "Give me another push."
Greta tightens her whole face and body as she tries her best to push the baby out. The push isn't enough yet, and she gasps for breath, her face red and her muscles hurting.
You look at Brendon, who's as tense as you. He looks at you back and bites his lower lip.
"You're almost there. Keep going."
Greta groans as she begins her new push, and from her vagina you can see a dark and bloody head peeking out. Greta stops pushing and breathes heavily. She lets out a small whine, and you lean down to her and caress her forehead. "Be strong. You're almost there."
"Push!" says the doctor.
Greta makes a last, mighty effort, and the baby bursts out, relieving her from the tormenting pain. You grin wide as you look at your baby covered in blood and surrounded by the umbilical cord. The doctor unwraps the long, pink cord from her body and wipes the baby with a blue towel. Then you hear the miraculous cry of your newborn.
"Greta, you made it!" you say.
Brendon still seems to be a little in shock, but he manages to rub Greta's hand with his free one while glancing back and forth between her and the little one.
The doctor gives the crying baby to Greta, laying her on her torso. Greta looks down at her, running her thumb across her head, and you and Brendon observe with awe.
"Look at our girl," you say.
"She's beautiful," Brendon says softly finally after minutes of silence.
The doctor offers you two the scissors to cut the umbilical cord, and you insert your fingers into the holes and let Brendon situate his hand over yours. He applies pressure on your fingers, closing the scissors and rupturing the connection between Greta and the baby.
Hours later, while Greta sleeps on the hospital bed behind you, Brendon and you contemplate your new baby girl resting peacefully in your arms. The little light you have from a lamp is just enough to see her in the darkness. She's soft and wrinkly and everything you imagined her to be, but never quite with this much amazement.
Brendon reaches out from his seat and touches her ear, then her hand covered by mittens. "My Elena," he says, merely a whisper to keep her and Greta from waking up. "I can't believe this is our little piece of heaven, our bundle of joy." He pauses a moment. "I think she has your eyes."
"How do you know? She's sleeping, you idiot."
"Yeah, I know, but when I first saw her, her eyes were honey brown like yours."
"Really?" you ask, flattered by nature's favor.
"Well… I think so," he says, giving it a second thought.
You look at her and notice her other features. Her skin still looks reddish in some parts, and her ears are a little misshapen. But you know this is normal and that she's perfectly healthy, and you just keep watching and appreciating the tiny human you're carrying.
You've waited so long for this moment, saw it so close for nine months, and at last have in your hands what you have desperately longed for. You can’t wait to hear her first words, to walk her to class on her first day of school, to stutter when she asks you where babies come from. But at the same time, you never want her to grow up, and you want her to always retain her smooth and gentle skin and bones and to always be this defenseless and dependent on you.
You're eternally grateful for what Greta's done for you.
You love your daughter.
You love your family.
Your family.
*!*
Turns out, she does have your eyes.
In fact, as the weeks go by, you think she looks a little bit like you. Some things obviously don't come from your genes, such as her skin, which is darker than yours or Brendon's. And you absolutely adore the tiny birthmark on her leg, which resembles a comma. You assume most of the foreign traits come from the mother. And of course, being born from a gestational surrogacy, she doesn't resemble Greta. She said herself she'd rather not have biological similarities with the baby because she was afraid she'd grow too fond of it. So you got donor eggs, and now your daughter inherited characteristics from a strange woman.
But that's okay. You don't mind, as long as she's yours, and you don't mean from your own blood.
You love Elena just the way she is. You love to play with her and make her laugh. You often grab her above your head and blow playfully on her belly, and you love that high-pitched giggle she makes.
And her smile. When she smiles at you, whether intentionally or not, it's like you love her all over again. Her smile is so pure and innocent, no masks or fake gestures. It's just her being happy, and that makes you happy.
*!*
The appointment with the doctor is going well, according to professional norm. But to you, it’s a bad dream you can’t wake up from. Elena’s crying in your arms, and you would probably pull away if a needle weren’t injected inside her flesh. Since you entered the office, the doctor gave you emotionless instructions for you and the baby. Then he clenched your daughter’s arm, and from then she began to act uneasily. Once the needle entered her sharply, she started to cry.
“Ely, don’t cry. It’s okay, daddy’s here,” you try to reassure. But neither your voice nor your consoling strokes are enough to calm her anguish.
The doctor fills up a whole tube of blood, and then you have to wait for him to change it and fill up one more.
You kiss the back of Elena’s head, trying to serene her as much as you’re trying to serene yourself.
The doctor finally releases his grip on Elena, and you shake your lap at a continuous pace to calm her down.
All the way from the hospital to your parking space, you pat her back and make gentle shushing sounds. If you weren’t feeling pity for her right now, you’d be really ticked off by her nonstop weeping.
As soon as you get to the car, you put Elena in her seat and wiggle a rattle in front of her face. The peculiar noise and flashy colors of the small balls inside the main sphere soothe her crying, and her red face begins to relax.
“Pretty, huh? Play with it,” you tell her, handing the toy over to her.
As she extends her hand to grab the rattle, her fingers rub your own, and you’re tempted to touch the softness of her skin. She keeps her eyes on the stick with the transparent ball, but her free hand grips your finger as a reflex all babies are born with. You always liked that, but it’s far more beautiful when it comes from your daughter.
She lets the rattle fall onto the seat, uninterested in it anymore, and instead goes for your face. Her eyes curiously study your chin, mouth, and her hand rises up to your nose. You get closer so that it’s easier for her to reach. You practically rub your forehead against hers, and her mouth opens, trying to suck on your nose. You pull away after a lick so she won’t get any weird infections—you did just come from the doctor, and it wasn’t a pretty experience—but you can’t help but smile and giggle.
*!*
You have a balloon you got from the store the other day, since you thought Elena would like it. It's lost its helium, so now you play with it by grabbing it by the ribbon and bouncing it against your fist. It makes a repetitive bumping sound, missing the beat only occasionally when you miss your hand, but it's still rhythmic.
Elena turns to you from her crib, belly upside-down, and she starts to move with the rhythm. She jiggles her body, as if she wanted to jump or fly from her stomach, and she throws her arms and legs in the air.
You watch curiously how cute she dances to such a lifeless sound.
An idea enters your mind, and you call Brendon to come from wherever he is. You take Elena from her crib, bring along a blanket, and take her to the garage.
Brendon arrives soon after. "What is it?"
"I want us to play a song for Elena," you tell him.
"Huh? Why?"
"She's gonna like it! She likes to dance and she looks so adorable when she does."
So Brendon sits behind the drum set while you sit on a stool and grab your guitar. You remind Brendon not to get too excited and to play softly, but you're still afraid he won't listen. You begin to play an upbeat song, "Goodbye" by The Garlics, and Brendon starts out soft. Eventually the song gains volume, but it's not so bad.
You both watch as Elena rocks from the ground to your playing and Brendon's singing, both wild and energetic. She's dancing and laughing excitedly, and it's really one of the cutest things you've ever seen.
When night comes along, you take Elena in your arms and sit on the rocking chair in her room. You sing her a lullaby, and your voice is slightly resonant, harsh and relaxing, like ocean waves crashing down, and it helps her drift asleep. You swing back and forth, just the way her sleepy eyes close midway and open again, hesitating to close completely. You begin to get sleepy yourself, then you realize she's asleep and put her in her wooden crib, body facing up. You stay there for a second and observe her peacefulness as she sleeps like—well, like a baby. She's your little angel.
You go to bed with Brendon and fall into a deep sleep.
*!*
You check on Elena the next morning. You go into her room and walk toward the crib where she's still sleeping. You watch her sleep and lightly caress her dark-haired head. After a second your sleepy senses start to process more carefully every image, every touch. Elena’s rather cold, you can’t deny it, and her skin is pale instead of her light caramel skin. Connecting the dots, you also realize she's awfully still, and you begin to notice that she's not moving at all. Her chest isn't rising, and she's not breathing.
You call out for Brendon, and he comes into the room. He stands next to you, unknowing of what intrigues you. He looks at your face and immediately knows that something’s very wrong. He puts it all in context, and he soon gets caught up with the scene.
A sole tear falls from your eye, fast and thick.
Brendon swallows so hard it’s audible, evidence of a knot in his throat.
Neither of you say a word. The only sounds are the occasional weeps from either of you. Your eyes are fixed on your daughter, and you command them to change reality and see what you want them to see. But they never do. You can't take it anymore and cage Brendon in your arms as he returns the gesture.
"She's dead!" you yell, your voice subdued from hiding your face in his shoulder.
Brendon shakes his head desperately, begging you to not say that.
You move back and clutch his upper arms. "She's dead, dammit! She was too good to be true!" you scream in his face, then push him off.
"God, Ryan, it hurts me, too!" he yells back.
You take Elena from her crib and put her head on your shoulder. You breathe in her scent, and it's just too goddamn painful to know she's not there anymore. You sit on the floor and against the wall, rocking back and forth, lulling a dead body.
Brendon sits by you and leans on you, eyes burning with salt.
*!*
SIDS.
She didn't choke, she didn't suffer. She just stopped breathing for no perfectly good reason. The fact that it was a peaceful crib death relieves a fragment of your pain, but knowing that there is no valid explanation for the tragedy frustrates and enrages you.
But neither good news nor bad news can make up for Elena's death. You want her back in your arms, laughing and playing, crying and calling for you.
But she's gone and the only thing you can do is wish a Heaven exists, even though it's hard to do so after what just took place. But you hope that there's a God, and that baby Elena is happy in Paradise. After all, she was your angel.
All you wanted was a family to love and love you back. Brendon is the foundation, and he still remains after the house fell apart, after you fell apart. Building it up again seems exhausting and pointless to you right now. How could you ever want another child, when that child will never be Elena?
It's hard to stand back up when your world has crumbled down, but you struggle enough to find that deep inside you, a little light of hope still glimmers and something tells you that you'll make it, that things will turn out for the best, and that your life has only come to a sharp pause—a comma rather than a final period.