sluttylyingliar | Jess Givens - dated to April 20th

It's really, really not supposed to happen this way. Rachel has tried (sort of) to cut down the whining about this Wild Westcrap because it's about the happiest she's seen Raylan in pretty much ever but still. Birth? Without electricity? In the DESERT or whatever this is supposed to be? There are like, rattlesnakes around. And ghosts...maybe. And that clniic is not sterile and there aren't any modern drugs and these dresses are ridiculous and heavy and she can't breathe she's so pregnant.

Honestly, she should have known this would happen in the four seconds a day Raylan and Danny leave her by herself. Her back had been hurting all night but she had written it off to the lumpy mattress and somehow also forgot to mention the shooting pains that in restrospect were coming every ten minutes or so. She'd sent Raylan on with an assurance she was fine and all she needed was a soak in the bath (iron tub thing) and that she didn't need Danny to supervise. It's clear to her, now, that she should never be allowed to make the decisions every again because the second she stepped out of that tub, her water broke and it was very clear what was happening. And that is what happening very quickly.

She'd managed to scramble into one of those weird underdresses, not giving two shits how much the world was seeing and carefully made her way outside, her guts writhing and back not too painful to straigten. She squints against the bright, hot sun and pads barefoot out into the path.

"Help," she croaks out, arm firm around her belly like maybe she can catch the kid if he falls out right here in the dirt. "Shit, someone help!"

Another wave of pain sends her stumbling down to her knees, cursing loudly and creatively as she tries and fails not to panic. Two seconds in and she's already screwed this up.

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Mark is correct.

"Fuck no!" she snaps, chest heaving as she tries to calm down. "Baby's coming. Like right the fuck now. You've got to help me, okay? Please?" The last part is more of a plea as she fights the urge to just cry.

"I don't know how," Mark blurts out, and it's not her snapping at him that throws Mark off so much as the sight of her in so much pain, and the knowledge that she wants this kid to come out sound, healthy, intact, and that might end up being a huge problem if the kid's made to stay inside her longer than he's supposed to. But, quite frankly, that still doesn't help Mark figure out what he's meant to do in a situation like this, and he blinks, only acting on instinct as he does his best to help her up. In the back of his mind, vaguely he wonders if this would be easier were he someone who rowed crew. Someone capable of holding her weight up.

Jesus Christ.

"Okay, tell me, you must have practiced with your— the father," Mark frowns. "What do I need to do?"

"You need to haul my fat ass up to the clinic," she pants, throwing her arm tight around his shoulders. "Please, Mark. Please just get me up there. I can't do this by myself. Not on the side of the fucking road."

"Okay. Okay," Mark says, frowning at the instructions, all of which sound terrifically easy to the ear, but he knows that it's not so simple and that there's a lot of care he needs to put into being able to predict the next time Rachel's legs are going to want to just give out under her completely. "Don't I also time these things? Let's walk, but I think I should time them, they'll know how close you are once you hit under a certain amount of time in between."

It's all bullshit that he's spouting right now, but he knows that he's pulled said bullshit from television medical dramas.

Hopefully there's at least a hint of truth to them, Mark thinks.

"I don't know...probably," she groans, arm slung tight around his neck as she tries to stand. "Might just freak me out more."

She takes a shaky step forward, feeling like the kid's just going to rip right out of her. "If we can't get there, just make sure the baby's okay. Alright?"

He doesn't stop, predictably, to think about Rachel's point of view. Just frowns. Just balks at the notion of making sure that some squalling kid is okay, rather than protecting Rachel, who's developed, who's grown into an adult, and who, in Mark's opinion, leaves so much strong of a mark on the world. He frowns, because it's Rachel who's his friend, and because thinking from her perspective isn't something that Mark's able to do at the flip of a dime.

"No," he says, brow knit. "No, if we can't get there, I'm making sure that you're okay first, but we will get there. I promise."

And if anything, that resolve emboldens him now, hefting Rachel up with greater strength and counting under his breath, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

"Mark Zuckerberg," she growls as they hobble along, now even faster. "You take care of my baby then me or I will die and I will come back and fucking haunt your dick or something."

"I don't understand why that's a thing!" Mark exclaims, genuinely baffled even as the both of them continue at a faster pace than before. In the back of his mind, he wonders if this might be a better impetus and distraction for Rachel than anything else, even the briefest mention of her kid being put at risk, but the topic itself is interesting to Mark as well. "You can usually create another kid, a baby doesn't even have time to differentiate itself and be an actual person, but there are some twenty years that have gone into you and making you this unique person. Why would I want to choose someone who doesn't even have a personality before you? That makes no sense."

"Because when you're pregnant, you automatically love your kid and you are genetically programmed to protect it," she huffs, sweating beading at her temple as they try and hurry up the path. "And I'm asking you as a friend to respect that, even if it makes no sense to you. That's friendship. It sucks, but that's how it works."

"If everyone did what they were genetically predisposed to do, the world would be a very different place," Mark says, his voice clipped, but quiet. He doesn't care to argue the point overly much. He can't guarantee how he'll act if things really draw that close to the line, and he doesn't want to speculate on it besides. Rachel will be fine, Rachel will get to the clinic (or its Western equivalent) with time to spare now that Mark's at her side, and maybe he should be concerned about the fact that all of her friends somehow managed to let her be so far alone when so far along, but it's a bit late to yell at anyone, and a bit late for feeling guilty himself. "Besides, I bet there's some friendship gene that makes me more inclined to save a good friend than any kind of kid, no matter how wide-eyed and adorable."

That actually gets a laugh out of her, mostly because it kind of makes sense.

"Yeah, well, you've got me there," she snorts, sweaty hand bunching in the fabric of his sleeve. "I'd probably want to save you over some baby I didn't know, too."

"See?" Mark immediately replies, and there's triumph in his voice, even if he's sure that this particular battle is far from over. It looks like he can spot the clinic in the distance, though, and if it's within viewing range, then it can't be long before he manages to haul her there. Or so he hopes. Were he superstitious, this is where he'd knock on wood.

Sadly, for all the wooden stables around, there isn't a true all that near in sight.

"And that got a laugh out of you, too. If you can laugh during labor, I think you're fine," Mark snorts, a nervous grin playing at his lips.

He hopes he's right.

Jess Givens - dated to April 20th

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