Mark Ashton, singer-songwriter of the band "Foxglove", schedules a new tour to revolve around his growing pregnancy.

The GRAND FINALE! In more ways then one, wink wink. Here's the last part of the story. I took some writing risks with this one, but I really hope it turned out well. Anyway, for a random-ass mpreg story, I'm really happy how it came out. I'll have to write more of Foxglove in the future.

Comments are desired, deeply.

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The band was one day's bus ride to San Francisco, the tour's first stop in California. From the heat, the boredom of driving through the desert, and the fatigue of travel, Foxglove was uncharacteristically quiet. Clint was on one of the side-cots the back, desperately trying to sleep the dullness away. Rikki sat in the front seat, next to the only open-able window, and smoked, watching it blow past the window and fade into the hot air, while listening to music through thick headphones. Jeremy and Renard chatted quietly in French, which Jeremy was fluent in, but with little more than casual conversation. It was only Mark who was awake enough to be doing something.

Next to the built-in stereo, he had plugged in a set of wide headphones and was playing a burned CD of his own creation to himself on repeat. He stood against the sofa, staring out into the arid landscape, mumbling to himself and writing intermittently on a small notepad. When on the bus, Mark rarely bothered to wear any of his extra large 'paternity' shirts, so his belly stuck out from beneath one of his regular shirts. He had reached critical mass, his pregnancy reaching a size that made every one of them nervous. An extra eye was always kept on Mark as he shuffled around backstage, making sure he didn't do anything too strenuous.

He was carrying low, Melody having evidently begin to shift into a birthing position. Mark's hips weren't used to so much pressure, so he very rarely felt comfortable in any one position for long. He still ate near-constantly, his body working over-time to ensure Melody was perfectly ready before he finally popped. Despite beginning the long slog through the worst part of the third trimester, Mark remained cheery and excitable as ever, focusing his mental energy between the music for the shows, thoughts and excited fantasies for Melody once she was born, and his mysteriously secret project that nobody knew a thing about beyond a lyric or two, at most. Even Jeremy was left completely in the dark.

In the near-silence, Mark hummed a simple melody under his breath a few times before sighing and crossing out something unseen on his notepad. He tapped the pen against his belly, idly, chewing on a lip. His tail swished back and forth like a metronome as some kind of thinking aide Jeremy and the band had come to recognize very well. None had ever seen him keep it up over a consecutive hour, though.

“Do you know what he's writing?” Renard asked in his more comfortable, conversational language.
“I can't say,” Jeremy responded. “I assume that it's a song, but then he usually asks my advice about lyrics.” He shrugged. “Maybe it's for another band? He wrote some music for The Diamond-Back Dolls, didn't he?”
“He did, yes. But did he work on it this hard? This passionately?”
“...No, he didn't.”

“Hon hon hon,” Mark suddenly said, taking on a mock French accent. He took off his headphones and dug a finger into his tall ear. “Wee wee, mess-ure. Bon-joore, mon amee. Paw-lee-voo frawn-cee?” He set the headphones on the seat next to him and cradled his belly as he trundled over to the snack fridge next to Jeremy. Not even trying to bend over, he gripped his husband's shoulder and lowered himself to his knee to look inside.

“Oh my God!” Jeremy gasped, in English. Mark's eyes were puffy and bloodshot as if he'd been sobbing for hours on end. The fur of his cheeks was completely drenched, some of it starting to dry into salt hanging from the tips of his hair. “Mark, what happened?!”
“What, this?” Mark asked, nonchalantly pointing to his face. “Nah, this is just some hormone mood swing brain shit.” He sniffed before sticking his nose into the fridge, his stomach growling loudly enough to be heard by Jeremy and Renard, both. He fished out a small plastic container containing the last remnants of another craving experiment. Mark cracked it open, sniffed deeply, and lolled his tongue out to drool hungrily.
“Okay...Gimme a hand...”Mark grunted, pushing against Jeremy's shoulder as the two of them helped work him back onto his sore paws. He stuck the container in the microwave and watched it intently, both hands rubbing over his gurgling belly. “You guys want some Weirdo Craving Rice?”

“Do I want to know?” Jeremy asked.
“Fried Mexican rice, sauerkraut, and red pepper flakes,” Mark said proudly, licking his lips. Jeremy and Renard recoiled in unison with looks of disgust on their faces. “Awesome!” Mark beamed, right as the microwave beeped. “More for us.” He took the bowl out of the microwave, wincing momentarily as it burnt his hand. After stirring it, he scooped a large chunk of the strange meal into his mouth with a plastic spoon. “And maybe somebody can stop kicking daddy in the ribs and let him get back to work, huh?” Mark spoke to his daughter, poking her from the outside as he waddled back over to the stereo.

“He's been very acting very strangely lately, don't you think?” Renard asked, returning the conversation to French.
“Late pregnancy can affect the brain with so many hormones. So much estrogen must do strange things to Mark's body,” Jeremy explained. “Though I think he's just excited, honestly.”
“I knooooow you're talking about me!” Mark called teasingly over his shoulder after hearing his name, just a moment before he put the headphones back on and started the CD from the beginning.

“I keep imagining if you were having the baby,” Renard said, laughing. “You would not be able to reach the floor!”
“I would be a very, very unhappy fox,” Jeremy nodded, not entirely joking.
“But I wonder, why is it that you did not carry the baby? You are very much the wife, yes?”
“Uh...” Jeremy paused. He assumed Renard meant he was more effeminate, but his blunt phrasing sparked a flash of annoyance through Jeremy's head. He took a deep breath, deciding to let the matter go. “I...I offered to. I would have been happy, but Mark wanted to do it himself.” He shrugged. “Mark is very stubborn. When he wants something, he'll get it.”

“Oh!” Mark suddenly exclaimed, still gazing out the window in thought. He stamped his paw on the floor excitedly as he took of the headphones. Jeremy was up at his husband's side in seconds, looking alarmed up at him.
“Is that it? Is it time? Is it happening?” he asked in an urgent panic.
“Huh? Is what happen- Oh!” Mark gasped, but then shook his head and scratched Jeremy on the head affectionately while rubbing his belly. “Noooo, no no no, it's not happening. Melody's too comfy to want to go anywhere just yet. I just had an idea about my...something.” Mark looked over Jeremy's shoulder and pointed to Renard, then thumbed toward the back of the bus. “Go get that acoustic in the closet in the bedroom back there.”

Without a word, Renard dutifully received the guitar from the back and stood poised next to Mark. He already had a pick out and ready over the strings, his dextrous fingers at attention over the fretboard. Mark flipped around one of the earpiece from the headphone and held it up to his ear. Flipping a switch on the stereo, he turned whatever music he was listening to back on, but much lower than before.

“Play a 'G',” Mark instructed. Renard splayed out his fingers over the right strings and strummed a full, beautiful G chord. Mark hummed a sustained tone, moving up and down the scale as he corrected his tone. He was suddenly interrupted with a sharp cough, one hand dropping to his belly.
“Oh my god,” Mark said, grinning. “Oh my god, she likes it. She likes it! Play another.” Dutifully, Renard played another 'G' while Mark giggled and fussed over his belly. “Heeheehee...I love it... Okay, okay. Sorry.” Mark cleared his throat and sung “Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do” to get his voice primed.

“Okay, play this.” Mark said before humming a quick tempo melody. He repeated it a few times as Renard nodded his head, tapping his paw to the rhythm. Then, immediately, he put his hands to the fretboard and masterfully began to play Mark's melody perfectly. Jeremy was always quietly amazed at Renard's ability to pick up music, but the rest of the band had evidently gotten used to it.

Mark nodded his head to the beat, looking at the floor in concentration. Then, he began to hum parallel to the music, his voice rising and falling in pitch as if he were singing vocals without lyrics. Eventually, his hums became wordless 'da-da-da's that still followed along to create the framework skeleton of a song. Jeremy sighed, closing his eyes. Even without lyrics, Mark's singing voice relaxed and soothed him to a level nothing else could. It was like something abstract, half-remembered from a dream, crystalized into something real. He remembered fondly 'All the World's a Stage,' the special Foxglove song written by Mark to be performed solely and exclusively at their wedding and anniversary.

“Alright, cool!” Mark said, suddenly stopping his singing. With a whine of the strings, Renard also came to an immediate halt as Mark took off the headphones. “Thanks. I think I'm almost done, I just wanted to hear what it sounded like to music.”
“I do like it!” Renard said happily, setting the guitar to the side. “What is it called?”
“I can't tell you. Not yet,” Mark teased, flipping closed his notebook and scratching the thin fur of his stomach. “It's a secret project I'm working on.”
“But you do not have secrets?” Renard inquired, reaching for the book. Mark batted his hand away and took it from the table.
“Well, I have a secret, okay?” Mark said, scratching under Renard's chin, who laughed as he flailed and pushed away. Mark waddled the few feet across the bus to Jeremy, using an arm to help support his weight. “Hey, I'm gonna take a nap. Come with me?”

“Ok, I'll be there in a second,” Jeremy said, turning back to Renard who had just sat back down with the guitar to fiddle with it. Before he could speak, Mark's tail rubbed seductively under his chin, pulling his attention back to his pregnant husband.
“Yknow, Jeremy,” Mark said, his eyes half-lidded. “I'm very tired. I think I'm going to 'take a nap.' You should 'come with me.'” Mark ran a finger from Jeremy's head to the tip of his muzzle, pulling him to his feet to kiss.

“O-oh,” Jeremy stuttered, blushing beneath his fur. “I'll be back in a little while,” he said in French.
“Have fun...” Renard said knowingly, in English.
As Jeremy and Mark walked arm-in-arm to the back, Jeremy stopped before they entered the back bedroom.
“Mark...” He said, softly to not wake a gently snoring Clint. “Can...you sing to me?” Mark smiled, pulling the fennec closer and nuzzling against his head affectionately.
“Of course,” he responded. He laid a hand atop his stomach. “I'll sing to both of you.”

*************************************************************
Two nights later, Foxglove was nearing the end of their first California show in San Francisco. It was a larger venue than they had been accustomed to as they toured the Midwest, and a bit larger than Mark himself preferred, but it couldn't be helped. San Francisco and Los Angeles formed the major bedrock of Foxglove's popularity and fandom. A smaller show in a smaller venue would have been next to impossible.

Once reaching California, the final leg of the Nine Month Tour, two new additions were made to the army of backstage technicians, grips, groupies, and various sets of hands. The first was a group of EMTs and paramedics with an ambulance at the ready to rush Mark to the nearest hospital should Melody happen to arrive a few weeks early. The second was Jeremy, who was willing to brave the crowds, the noise, and the flashing lights to be there should the climactic moment of Mark's pregnancy begin. Furthermore, Mark had requested Jeremy be backstage for that particular show, though he hadn't said why.

The band was playing with as much power and enthusiasm as they always did. Rikki wore her trademark military tank-top as she slammed and beat against the drums with all the energy she spent the rest of her days conserving. Renard abandoned his relaxed, fun-loving personality for complete and intense focus on his guitar, hitting every note with mathematic perfection and even finding time to add in some flourishes of his own without losing concentration. Clint stood closest to Rikki, keeping an ear turned toward her to make sure he kept up with her tempo. Mark stood center-stage, not in a state for much movement or onstage antics, yet still sung his heart out every night with the same passion, intensity, and striking power that he and Foxglove themselves were known for.

They neared the end of their biggest hit and show-stopper, 'Fires On the Plain,' with a longer, more improvisational finale reserved for their live shows. It usually amounted to Renard and Rikki expending the last of their energy on the most powerful guitar and drum solos they could produce as the stage lights flashed. With an explosion of sound, the song came to an end, punctuated by an erupting roar of cheers from the packed crowd.

“Thank you, San Francisco!” Mark shouted into the microphone, leaving a space for more cheering. “You've been fucking awesome as always!” There was a pause before the stage lights dramatically went black, dropping the stage in darkness so the band could leave climatically. Renard and Rikki approached the edge of the stage, throwing out guitar picks and extra drum sticks for the fans to enthusiastically squabble over. They followed Mark and Clint backstage, both of them desperately sucking down bottles of water.

“Fuck,” Rikki shouted, taking one sip of water before spiking it to the ground like a football. “Fuck I love San Fran.”
“They missed us,” Clint said proudly, still panting as he stretched the fingers of his free hand. “I'm gonna crash out hard, tonight. Maybe I'll actually remember how to get some sleep.”
“You're going to be shitfaced by midnight,” Rikki countered, punching Clint in the arm good-naturedly. “Don't pretend like you won't be.”
“Mark's the only one of us with any sense these days. He goes to bed before the sun starts coming back up, at least.”

“Where is he?” Rikki asked, looking around. Mark stood behind a couple of speakers, drinking his fourth bottle of water as he spoke to the lead technician for the venue and one of the sound engineers. One of them was fiddling with an object resembling a microphone headset connected to a long amp cord. He finished the bottle, took a closer look at the object, and nodded. He patted the both the men on the shoulders, smiled, and shuffled heavily back onstage with the object in-hand.

“What the fuck?” Rikki swore.
“What is he doing?” Clint asked, alarmed. “The show's over, what's going on?” The two of them ran to Jeremy, who stood at the edge of the stage and watched.
“What is he doing?” Rikki asked him.
“I don't know,” Jeremy said in a panicked tone. The remaining crowd that hadn't already begun to leave erupted into a huge applause as Mark walked out across the fully lit stage. He waved happily back, setting a stool next to his center-stage microphone. “Is this okay? Has he ever done this before?”
“No, he hasn't,” Clint sighed.

As the crowd filtered back in, the lights began to dim a bit more. Mark set a bottle of water on the stool next to him. The object appeared to be a set of headphones connected to a medical doppler wand that led down to a thick audio jack that Mark calmly plugged into an amp at the edge of the stage. In front of the microphone, he tucked the headphones under his arm so he could use both hands to roll up his shirt and expose his swollen belly. Much of the crowed whistled and cat-called as he did this, to which Mark simply rolled his eyes exaggeratedly and gave them the finger.

From his pocket, Mark produced a small bottle of ultrasonic gel that he squirted into his hands and began to rub over his belly, flattening his fur like it was during his ultrasound. Once his belly was coated and shining under the lights, he wiped his hands off on his pants and wrapped the headphones around it, the doppler microphone pressing against the right side of his stomach. Turning on a small speaker on his hip, he re-adjusted the microphone to find an optimal placement and, once satisfied, he hit a guitar pedal with his foot.

The chatter and cheering of the crowd fell silent as a thick, organic sound came out of the enormous stage microphones. The sound of Mark's womb. He adjusted a dial on the microphone, filtering out much of the white noise, until what remained was a quick, pulsing, repetitive sound.

Melody's heartbeat.

A roadie Mark had been seen speaking to before the show ran out onstage to hand him the acoustic guitar taken from the bus, already plugged in to another amp. The strap had been adjusted and pulled up very high, so when Mark put it on over hid shoulders, it sat nearly up to his chest and out of the way of his belly. The microphone crackled as Melody kicked out against it. Mark patted the side of his stomach, making shushing noises to calm her, before taking a pick from his pocket and beginning to play.

The music was the same he had practiced with Renard just a few days before on the bus and was the same tune the others had heard him singing under his breath. It was an up-tempo beat that synched along perfectly to the tempo of Melody's heartbeat. The more he played, the more it became clear that the entire song was centered around the heartbeat, using it as a metronome to set the rhythm. After half a minute of just guitar, his daughter's heartbeat, and the silent awe of the audience both in front of the stage and behind it, Mark began to sing.


Maybe all I ever wanted was a blue sports-car
A seven-figure income and my own bar
Millions of people calling my name
So I could maybe forget all my own shame

I wanted a dad that would remember my name
A brand-new house that didn't leak in the rain
Most of all I always wondered why
My mother never looked at me when she'd cry

Ca-viar and diamond rings...
Aren't as helpful as they seem...
When you want to e-rase your-self...
And everything that you've felt...

Because nobody knooooows...
Who you are the dark
Who you are in the daa-aark
Who you are in the dark
Who you are in the daa-aark

Stabbed when I was walking home at seven-teen
After they called me a faggot and they called me a queen
But even though I knew no one would give a shit
I still went back home and wrote a song about it


Coming home from college after four long years
Mom abandoned the house without shedding a tear
I cried out my eyes on the two front steps
Just me and the shell of all that was left

But I wouldn't change a single day...
Cause I wouldn't have found the way...
To do every-thing I ca-an...
To make me who I a-am...

Because now I know...
Who I am in the dark
Who I am in the daa-aark
Who I am in the dark
Who I am in the daa-aark

Hey there, little girl, I hope that you can hear
Because I want you to listen to me very clear
About how much you've already changed our lives
Before we've even seen the color of your eyes

I hope you'll live the life that you dream of
Whether you walk on the ground or soar up above
No matter what you chose, I can't wait to see
The kind of person that you will be

Don't re-gret a single day...
That you take to find your waaay...
No matter what you do or see...
You'll always have daaaaaddy...

But until then...
Who you are in the dark
Who you are in the daa-aark
Who you are in the dark
Who you are in the daa-aark

Is just another heart-beat...
For now.

Mark ended the song, the last stroke of the guitar fading out over the crowd. After a raptured silence, the audience exploded into cheers and shouts. Mark took off the guitar and wiped a stray tear from his eye, beaming as he waved to the audience. Even the roadies and technicians backstage applauded, who had all abandoned their work to listen to the music.

Suddenly, for the first time in the band's touring history, Jeremy sprinted past the amps and speakers and out onto the stage. He had just enough self control not to knock Mark off his heavy feet as he leapt into his arms, burying his face in his husband's fur to hide his own streaming tears. Mark gently removed the microphone from around his belly and took Jeremy into a soft, full embrace. Despite being onstage during the biggest concert of the year, the two felt completely alone with one another.

“I'm still working on it,” Mark whispered. “But I wanted to play it at least once before she was born.”
“It's fine,” Jeremy said, muffled by Mark's chest. He rubbed a hand against his husband's stomach, coating his hand in gel in the process. Melody kicked against both of them, upset at the unexpected jostling she had gotten.
“It's an early birthday present,” Mark said.
“I think she already likes it.”
Mark and Jeremy pulled away just far enough to kiss under the lights, the crowd of thousands erupting into cheers for the soon-to-be family.

*************************************************************
“Fuck!” Rikki shouted as she stomped through the parking lot of a local shopping center. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuuuuck!” She reigned in her swearing to PG-13 groaning and mumbling as she crossed through the doors, her thick boots stomping and squeaking against the tile floor. Employees parted before her, her eyes darting around to find either the toy aisle or something halfway close to it.

For the third time, her phone buzzed angrily in her pocket. Frustrated, she nearly cracked the screen with her sharp nail hitting the answer button.
“I'm there,” she grumbled.
“Get something quick,” Clint said on the other line. “He's gonna to wait on you for about twenty more minutes, tops.”
“What do I even get, man?” Rikki complained. She reached the toy aisle and stared blankly at the kinds of dolls she used to set on fire as a child. “Do girls still like pink shit? I don't even know anymore. What am I supposed to get a little kid I haven't even met yet?”

“You're supposed to get things to take care of the baby, not toys!” Clint hissed. “You're supposed to buy things the parents won't have to.”
“Well, fuck!” Rikki shouted, scaring a couple children on the aisle next to her as she stomped off. “Would have been nice to know, Clint!”
“This is common knowledge!”
“All my friends are dudes!” Rikki yelled. “I barely even know what a baby shower is! Plus, Mark's a goddamn millionaire, he can so afford this stuff on his own.”
“Then it wouldn't be a gift! That's not the point!” Clint sighed, his breathing crackling over the phone. “Look, you're an adult. Figure this out.”

“Fine,” Rikki said, stopping in the middle of an aisle, her tail swishing angrily from side to side. “Fine fine fine fine god damn it. I have an idea. I'll be back.” She ended the call without a word, nostalgic for the time she could angrily snap a cell phone closed. It felt more dramatic that way. Spinning on her heel, she stormed off in the opposite direction.

After buying her gifts, while warding off questions from fans who recognized her, she double bagged them and jogged outside to the curb across the parking lot. It took far too long for her to hail a cab, but when she finally did, Rikki nearly tore the door off to get inside.
“I'm going to this address,” she demanded to the chubby, elephant cab driver, thrusting a scrap of paper into his face. “I'm not a tourist. If you take any scenic routes to pad the meter, I'll break your neck.” The driver paused for a moment before he nodded slowly, inputting the address into the cab's GPS and speeding off.

They arrived in record time, for which Rikki slipped the driver an extra twenty for putting up with her in a bad mood. After the long, nine month bus tour from New York, they had finally made it back to Mark and Jeremy's home in the heart of LA. She slipped through the front door, quietly hoping she wouldn't attract the attention of the chatting party a room over. But as she snuck through the kitchen, a voice called out behind her.

“Took you long enough,” Mark sung out, teasingly. “You forgooooot!”
Rikki sighed, turning around with gift in hand and plodding back into the living room where the heart of the baby shower was taking place. Around a coffee table in the living room sat the band, Renard lounging comfortably in an armchair, Clint sitting on the arm of a different chair, and a few others she couldn't see. Mark himself sat on the couch, almost enthroned, flanked by Jeremy on his left and Clint's wolf girlfriend Caroline on his right. He wore a tight, very much non-maternity shirt that rode up over his tight belly with an 'Explosive Hazard' warning sign printed on it. Someone else had evidently bought the couple a 'Baby On Board' sticker for the car, but he had already taken it off and stuck it to the front of his stomach. He was dangerously large, labor possible at any moment, but appeared nonplussed as he rubbed the thin fur across his belly and laughed happily with the other party goers.

“I thought you were just gonna squirt her out when you got back home,” Rikki said, leaning against an occupied chair.
“What, like a tube of toothpaste?” Mark laughed, his middle jiggling. “Fuck, be glad it'll be at a hospital. I don't wanna see any of you assholes near me during labor. You can wait in the car for all I care.” He turned to Jeremy and squeezed his hand, “Except for you, obviously.”
“I thought I was going to break Clint's hand the whole time,” Caroline laughed, bouncing their one-year-old pup on her knee.
“I think I'm pretty committed to the C-section option,” Mark said. “Men have done it naturally before but...” He shrugged uncomfortably.
“Be grateful. It wasn't exactly a fun afternoon,” Caroline said. “Besides, seeing and holding the baby is the good part and you can do that no matter how they're born.”

“Part of me wishes I could do it naturally,” Mark lamented. “But I guess the pregnancy itself isn't natural so fuck me I guuuueeeeeeess.” He sung the last few words before taking a sip from his cup of water, followed by laughter from his friends.
“I thought this would be career suicide,” said Sheldon, Foxglove's manager and record producer, a short, chubby labrador. “But I'll be damned if people didn't kind of like it.”
“It's because I'm just cool like that, Sheldon,” Mark said, quietly remembering the night talking to fans after the Denver show. Mark grunted, dropping a hand to his lower belly as he winced. The entire room fell quickly silent in alarm, before he said, “God damn, little girl. Will you cut that out?”
“She's a kicker, huh?” Caroline said, feeling Melody move underneath. “Charlie wouldn't leave me alone toward the end of it. He probably could have broken a rib if he'd knocked me around just a little more.” As if in response, the wide-eyed pup on her knee began to kick his legs and flap his arms excitedly at pretty much nothing.

“As long as we know she's strong, I can put up with it,” Mark said, looking down at himself. “She calms down a lot when I sing to her at night,” he continued, turning to Jeremy and wrapping an arm around his shoulder, “but she goes to sleep faster when you read to her.”
“Well, yknow...” Jeremy grinned, looking bashfully at his paws. “I just want her to know what my voice sounds like.”
“And I'm sure she's heard more than enough of mine,” Mark laughed. He fell quiet, worry crossing over his face as he caressed his stomach. “Do...do you think she'll have hearing problems? From all the concerts? From the loud music?” He swallowed past a lump in his throat, his bottom lip quivering. “I...This was a bad idea, I'm so fucking stupid. I didn't even...”

“Hey, hey now,” Caroline interrupted. She handed off the pup to Clint so she could wrap an arm around Mark's shoulders. “Do you know how thick amniotic fluid is? With all the extra you have, she barely heard a thing.”

“Yeah...” Mark said, sniffing. “I...I hope...”
“Hey!” Caroline said, gripping his shoulders and shaking him lightly. “No more mood swings! This is a party, remember?”
“Yeah...” Mark repeated. He swallowed one more time and looked up, beaming again. “You're right, it is a party!” He wiped his eyes off on the sleeve of his shirt. “I'm getting sick of crying anyway. Too many tears, gimme my presents!” Mark screamed. He coughed, his belly visibly jumping from the kit inside. “Fine, our presents...”

“Me first!” Rikki shouted. Clearing a space on the coffee table, she dropped her gift heavily on the wooden surface, pulling down the plastic bag to reveal a huge bottle of Grey Goose vodka.

“Wow!” Mark exclaimed, taken aback. “Well...Okay! That's...unexpected!”
“Christ, Rikki,” Clint groaned, “weren't you supposed to get baby stuff?”
“I did!” She protested, pointing to the bag. Leaning forward awkwardly, Mark fished around in the bag until he pulled out a package of extra baby-bottle nipples. He raised an eyebrow, inquisitively.
“Rikki, are these for me or Melody?”
“Whatever,” she shrugged. “There's a card in there, too.” Taped to the back of the packaging was a pink greeting card reading 'It's a Girl!', with nothing inside but Rikki's quickly scrawled signature from the back of the taxi cab.

“Well,” Mark said, hefting up the bottle, “I can't say I won't be needing this in a week or two. Thanks, Rik.”
“You're welcome,” she said gracefully, sneering at Clint once Mark looked away.
“I called Caroline about the shower a couple months ago, so everything she got is from the both of us,” Clint said, nodding.
“You just didn't know what to buy,” Mark teased, eyebrow raised. Clint cleared his throat, glancing aside.

“Lucky for you daddies, I did!” Caroline said. From behind her side of the couch, she produced an enormous gift bag filled to the brim with baby items. “Now, everything in here is pretty essential stuff. Blankets, towels, diapers, bottles, baby shampoo, tons of Babies R Us giftcards, some baby medicine. Trust me, the first time she gets sick, you both are going to have heart attacks. But I also looked up some fox-specialized kit formula, and got you a ton of that because,” Caroline gestured a finger to Mark's flat chest, “I don't think you'll be doing any feeding on your own.”

“You're, right, but yknow what's weird?” Mark said. He leaned back in his seat and pulled up what little of the shirt still covered him, exposing his chest that had grown out slightly. He pinched the flesh around his nipple and squeezed gently until a small pearl of milk dribbled out.

“Eeeeuuugh,” a few people groaned in unison.
“I know!” Mark exclaimed. “I'm actually leaking a little! Why do you think I went to change shirts?” With his pinky, he dabbed the milk onto his finger and licked it off, to another shudder from the party goers. “It's not bad, though. Creamy. Though it probably won't be enough for Melody.” He lowered the shirt, not noticing the small, wet spot spreading on his chest.

“Anyway...” Caroline said, shrugging off the distraction. “I think you've got a little bit of everything you'll need in here. But please, call me any time if you need anything else.” She gripped his knee and glanced back at Clint, patting his son in his arms. “We're still trying to figure this out, but two heads are better than one, right?”

“Totally,” Mark agreed. He giggled and pointed to the spot on his belly where his fur poked out from Melody's movement. “I hope she and Charlie get along. I want them to be best friends.”
“Me too,” Caroline giggled.
“Alright, my turn,” Sheldon said, picking up the small bag he had set down on and endtable and handing it over.
“Cool! What do we have here...” Mark set the bag down atop his stomach to use both hands to pull out a CD. He flipped it over confusedly, reading the back. “'KinderBeat?' What is this?”

“It's a new EDM group that makes house music for babies!” Sheldon explained, excitedly. “EDM is the classical music of the future. It stimulates infant brains in the same way. They're popular in Europe, but haven't made a splash in the states yet.”
“Sounds interesting,” Mark said, reading the track listings on the back. He frowned, looking up at Sheldon. “...This is from your record label, isn't it?”

“Well...” he scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “I ordered some baby clothes online, but they aren't here yet. I had to pick up something quick. But I do think it's cool!”
“Well, you're not wrong,” Mark shrugged, slipping the disc back in the bag and setting it beside him on the couch. “It's a cool gift, Sheldon. Thanks!”

“Oh, I also ordered you a couple compression shirts to help your body go back to normal, postpartum. But they're not here yet either, so...”
“I'll probably need those, too,” Mark laughed, drumming a beat against his stomach. “I don't think a belly this big is just gonna bounce back, yknow?”

“More than you think,” Caroline added. “Well...for women, anyway.”
“Eh,” Mark shrugged again. “I could always just grow my fur out if it looks too gross.” He craned his neck around Caroline's head to get a look at Renard. “Pony up, Frenchie! What you got for me?”

Renard laughed before standing up and pulling a small box out of his pocket, barely the size of his own hand. The other party guests frowned inquisitively at the miniscule gift as he stood up and handed it to the expecting father. Mark had to resist tearing the box open with his teeth with rabid curiosity and instead pulled the tiny bow loose and pulled the wrapping paper off a simple white box. Inside, wrapped in smooth black velvet, was an immaculate diamond ring.
“Renard...” Mark said, carefully taking out the ring to hold it up to the light, where it glimmered and shined like a perfect star. The guests all collectively gasped.
“For the baby!” Renard shouted excitedly, throwing his arms in the air. “For Melody, when she is, ehhh, all grown up!”
“Holy shit,” Mark muttered staring through the stone.
“Way to show us all up, man,” Rikki grumbled rolling her eyes.
“...I'm sorry?” Renard asked, not understanding. Rikki shook her head, sighing.

“Renard, is this real diamond?” Mark asked, astounded.
“Yes!” He said, nonchalantly.
“And...the band...is this pure silver?”
“Silver?” Renard blinked. “Ah! No, no, it is...ehhh...” He snapped his fingers, looking away while thinking of the word. “Oh, yes! It is not silver. Platinum.”
“P-platinum?” Mark exclaimed, setting the ring down in the box like it were about to jump out of his hand. “A-and this is for Melody?”
“Yes!” Renard beamed while the rest of the party stared at him. “For your little baby!”
“It's gorgeous,” Caroline murmured, turning Mark's hand to get a better look at the design of the band.
“Jesus...” Mark said, setting down the box on the coffee table. “Th-Thank you, Renard! That's...this is amazing, thank you. She'll love it when she gets old enough, I'm positive.”
“That's a three thousand dollar ring...” Jeremy marveled softly, with only Mark to hear.

“Is that everything?” Mark asked, glancing around.
“Aren't you needy today?” Rikki snarked.
“Aren't you being kind of a bitch today?” Clint fired back. “The guy could be going into labor at the drop of a hat. Let him have his baby shower.” Rikki opened her mouth to retort, but paused before closing it again and swallowing, her tail flicking anxiously.

“Right...” she said, looking away. “Sorry, Mark. Just...feeling cranky today.”
“Did I just hear Rikki apologize?” Sheldon piped in. “Am I finally going insane?”
“Can it, Sheldon,” Mark snapped, pointing at the producer before turning the finger on the drummer. “Rik, it's cool. Just make sure you're on point on Saturday, got me?”

The band blinked, glancing between each other.
“...The show?” Rikki said. “This Saturday?”
“We're still playing?” Clint asked.
“Uh...yes?” Mark sat up as best he could with his belly in the way. “Why not?”
“Did you not hear what I was saying?” Clint said. “You're about to drop at, like, any minute. I put towels in the back seat in case we needed to drive you to the hospital.”
“Didn't we spend almost a year leading up to this?” Mark said. “This is the last show! In town! We're not abandoning the tour when we're a ten minute cab ride away from the venue.”
“Mark,” Rikki said, pointing at him, “you are literally too pregnant to stand on your own. You can't play like that.”
“I played like this two weeks ago!” Mark protested. “And that was our best show yet! I'm not due for, like, at least another week!” Melody kicked out a lump against his belly, which Mark rubbed soothingly without looking, still glaring at Rikki. Quietly, Jeremy brought a hand to his husband's shoulder.

“Mark, it's not just you. They're...we're worried about Melody, too. The concert might be too much strain on both of you.”
“But...” Mark began, but fell silent as he looked into Jeremy's worried eyes. As he opened his mouth to speak, the doorbell suddenly rang behind all of them.

“That's Stevie!” Mark gasped excitedly. With a low grunt, he put both hands on either side of his body and pushed up, but only succeeded in rocking forward a bit. He shuffled and strained under his stomach, trying to find a way to his feet, until he slumped back into the seat. “Alright. Fuck. That's not happening. Somebody go get the door!”

Clint, who was closest, handed his baby back to Caroline as he padded over to the front door and let in Stevie Winston, raccoon singer and sometimes guitarist of the band Razorback. They were favorite of Mark's, not least of which because the two had become fast friends over a past tour. He carried a large gift bag in one hand and a bundle of pink balloons in the other.

“Steviiiieee!” Mark shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. “I'd give you a hug, but I don't think I can reach that far.”
“Since when did Foxglove let big fat tomatoes sing for them?” Stevie said. He grinned and crossed the room, leaning down over the couch to wrap a one-armed hug around Mark's shoulders. He nodded a greeting to the others as well after pulling away. “Holy shit, man, you are huge! I've been looking online at pictures and stuff but wow.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mark said, smoothing the fur down over his belly. “I'm feeling it, too. Melody's almost ready to make her entrance.”
“How do you feel?”
“Ok, yknow what it feels like?” Mark said. “Imagine that you swallowed some kind of explosive that's slowly going off in your stomach for nine months. Everybody walks on eggshells around you because they don't want the bomb to go off even bigger. And by the end, you're basically ready to explode and everyone around you is waiting for it. Except that it's a good thing, now, and they want you to explode and...” Mark shrugged, making a 'wrap-it-up' motion with his hands. “...the metaphor starts to fall apart.”

“You're glowing like an explosion, either way,” Stevie said.
“You know I'm married, you big stud,” Mark teased to the very heterosexual raccoon.
“The forbidden fruit is always the sweetest,” Stevie played along, taking a seat on the coffee table and tying the balloons to the arm of an empty chair.. Setting down the gift bag, he held out and pressed his hand against Mark's swollen belly, splaying out his fingers through his fur.

“You could always ask,” Mark said, sarcastically.
“Shut up, 'daddy,'” Stevie joked. Melody stirred inside, the two of them feeling it. “Is that her?”
“Yeah. You're lucky she's being so nice. I think she's getting hungry, so she's about to go pretty-” A flurry of kicks lashed out against Mark's belly, making his entire middle wobble and jerk. “Yeah...okay, it's snack time,” Mark winced. He held out a hand to Stevie, who had begun to stand. “Gimme a lift?”

The two grasped hands, Mark groaning as he was finally lifted to his feet. He braced against the small of his back, very loudly cracking it while stretching his sore muscles, his belly rounded out nearly a foot in front of him. Mark wrapped an arm around it to keep his balance while his tail flipped to either side.
“You didn't say anything about food,” Rikki said, raising an interested eyebrow.
“That's cause it's my food, kitty cat,” Mark sneered back. “But there's cake in the fridge. We can have that after I eat something to calm Melody down.” He nodded to Stevie. “Gimme a hand in the kitchen?”

“As long as I don't have to carry you,” Stevie said.
“You'll just have to keep up with my blinding, third trimester speed,” Mark said as he began his awkward, slow waddle to the kitchen with Stevie following behind. Leaving the others to chat, the two entered the kitchen, where Mark made a beeline to the fridge to pull out a leftover sub sandwich, wrapped in deli paper.
“Jesus, slow down,” Stevie said as he watched Mark inhale the sandwich down into his and Melody's ravenous stomachs. “You've turned a snack into a hate crime against food.”
“I'm basically always hungry,” Mark said, slightly muffled around the sandwich. “I can't wait til I'm not eating for two anymore.”
“I'm with Rikki on the cake, dude,” Stevie said, licking his lips. “Let's break out the motherfucker.”

“Sure, in a minute,” Mark said, swallowing the last of the sandwich and brushing crumbs off his belly, sighing in satisfaction. “I wanted to ask you a favor, though. Privately.
“Yeah, sure,” Stevie shrugged. “Anything.”
“So, this Saturday is the last show of the Nine Month Tour, and I'm no-”
“You're still playing?” Stevie gasped, looking down at Mark's middle. “You can't be serious, dude.”
“I started it, I will finish it,” Mark said, pounding his fist into his palm with determination. “But...you're right, I'm probably putting myself out on a limb with this one. Do you remember when we toured with Razorback last time? How we did that thing where we'd play each other's big songs at the end of our sets?”

“Yeah, I remember.”
“You still know them?”
“I'm rusty, but I could look 'em over again.” Stevie raised an eyebrow. “You need me to take over for ya?”
“Fuck no, I'm going on there in a wheelchair if I have to,” Mark said. “But I'd feel better if there was someone to take over should...something happen and I have to leave. You busy Saturday night?”
Stevie shook his head.
“Nah, Razorback's in between albums right now. Francis had to go back to Brazil to visit some family. I've got your back.” He clapped Mark on the shoulder, nodding reassuringly. “But you've gotta promise me to take care of your little lady, alright? She's in more danger than you are.”
“I've got a little time before my due date. I just want you there as a precaution, okay?” He shrugged. “The show must go on, after all. I want to see this through til the end.”

“I feel ya,” Stevie nodded. Mark's belly gurgled unexpectedly, the two of them glancing down at it.
“I'm starting to feel for that cake,” Mark said, his mouth watering. “Pull it out for me, will you? It's on the bottom rack.”
The two of them came back into the living room, Stevie carrying the pink ice-cream cake with 'Congratulations' written in icing on a tray. Mark collapsed heavily back onto the couch, leaning over to give Jeremy a little peck.

“This is what I've been waiting for,” Rikki said hungrily.
“Finally!” Renard cheered, unwrapping a package of paper plates and box of plasticware.
“Mark gets first piece, back off,” Stevie said.
“Mark gets my dick. Gimme some cake,” Rikki said.
“There's no liquor in the cake, Rik. Don't get too excited,” Mark teased.
“You could always pour some of that Grey Goose with it,” Clint said.
“Nah, gotta stay clean. I'll finish whatever you don't after the kitten comes.”

The room crashed to complete silence within a single moment.
Renard dropped the plasticware to the ground, where it clattered loudly against the wood floor.

“...Rikki...” Clint said, breaking the quiet. “...Are you pregnant?”
“Hhm,” Rikki shrugged. “Probably. I'm, like, two months late, anyway. Plus this.” She turned to the side and lifted up her shirt to her sternum, revealing an undeniable, very recognizable curve to her stomach that hadn't been there before the tour. Clint sat into a free chair and buried his face in his hands.
“...How?” Mark asked.
“Oh, that guitarist. The panther guy, from Feats of Rage? I think his name was Davidson,” She tapped her chin before shrugging. “So it's probably his.”

“And...and you're keeping it?” Clint asked, face still concealed.
“Yeah, sure. Why not?” Rikki gestured to Mark and Jeremy. “These guys make it sound so appealing. I can handle it.”
“Were...” Mark stumbled over his words. “Were you going to tell us?”
“Not at your party!” Rikki yelled, defensively. “This isn't my thing, I didn't want to upstage you. I'm not about that.”
“Is...are we all parents now?” Clint asked, sitting up in his seat. “How the fuck did this happen?”
“Hey, ours was very voluntary,” Mark said, raising his hand.
“Ours...was a little less so,” Caroline said, cradling the sleeping pup in her arms.
“Eh,” Rikki shrugged. “I'm cool with it. I should probably call Davidson, though.”
“At least Renard is still free and clear,” Mark said. Renard laughed, shaking his head.

“Non. I have two eehhhh small boy, in Paris. They are eehh living with my wife.”
Another shock washed over the room.
“You have kids?” Clint asked, dumbfounded.
“You're married?” Rikki exclaimed, almost disgusted.
“And you've still been sleeping around?” Mark glared.
“Yes. We 'ave...ehhh...the...free marriage. Open. Open marriage,” Renard explained, still smiling.
The rest of the band fell silent.
“So we're all parents, now,” Clint repeated.

“But you've been drinking!” Mark shouted at Rikki, trying to struggle to his feet, but Jeremy quietly held him down.
“We'll, I've stopped now, okay!?” Rikki folded her arms and glared.
“But...but you...smoking!” Mark stammered.
“I've quit that too! Well...quit-ing.” She leaned across the coffee table and dug into the bag containing her bottle of vodka. Pulling out a pack of nicotine patches, she opened the box and stuck a few in her back pocket. “C'mon, man...I didn't even notice until, like, Tulsa.” She placed a hand over her stomach. “I know I've...I can get wild but...I do want this…I'll take care of myself. And I've got you guys to help me...Right?” Rikki glanced around the room.

Mark, about to shout more protest, instead cooled his head, thinking about the baby still inside of him and how much he was willing to sacrifice for her.
“...Yeah,” He said. We're here for you, Rik,” Mark said, smiling.
“...We should probably stop doing so many drugs,” Clint said to the floor. “Yknow...Step One.”
“...Agreed,” the other bandmate said in unison.

*************************************************************
The amphitheater show was sold out a few weeks in advance. The last show of the tour was as packed as the first one and the enthusiasm was doubled. In front of the stage, the opening act of a local punk band no one but Rikki had heard of was just finishing its set to a great reception of cheers. Already, the roadies and technicians were setting up the Foxglove stage and were waiting for their cue to leap into action.

The benefit of the amphitheater venue was that it actually had private, backstage dressing rooms for the performers, so there wasn't any need to camp out in the bus anymore. This was a great benefit to Mark, who was sprawled out on the couch of his dressing room, devouring the second of three sandwiches he had brought in a small cooler from home. He brushed errant crumbs off the front of his stage shirt, a specially hemmed Foxglove tee given to him by a new and growing manufacturer of paternity clothing. He had to admit, it was wonderful not to have half his belly open to the air all the time. Mark didn't look quite as massive as he felt when covered by the solid black fabric.

The sharp twinge struck again, the muscles of his stomach tightening uncomfortably. He clenched his teeth and breathed deeply, riding out the contraction. They had begun in small bursts an hour before the show started, though hardly more noticeable than a strong pinch. But as Mark relaxed in his dressing room, getting ready for his last show before fatherhood, they had steadily grown harder and stronger. They were still at least twenty minutes apart, which was a good sign according to Mark's frantic Google searching from his phone.

As the contraction subsided, he grabbed hold of a coathook above the couch and used it to pull himself to his feet. Standing in front of the vanity mirror, he pulled up the new shirt to take one last admiring glance at his swollen, pregnant body. He had never expected to be a father, a mother, or something in between, but he was more than satisfied with the result.

“You're lucky you're worth it,” He cooed to Melody, poking her back in response to a small kick.
He paced the room, needlessly practicing the lyrics to songs he had already memorized, if not written himself. It was a way to calm the hammering of his heart against his chest.
“The show must go on,” Mark told himself. He took another deep breath, holding it, then sighed, his belly falling slightly. A soft, familiar knock on the door roused him from his thoughts.

“Yeah?” He called. In the mirror, he saw Jeremy enter behind him, his ears folded flat against his head from the loud music. Shutting the door, he sighed deeply, as if he'd been holding it in all night. Without a word, he crossed over and wrapped his arms around Mark's neck, burying his face in his fur.
“Oh sweeite...” Mark said, soothingly rubbing the back of his husband's head the way he liked it. “It's the last show, okay? I really want you to stay and watch. I'll make it up to you later, I promise.” Without looking up, Jeremy reached over and laid a hand atop Mark's belly.

“Just be safe,” Jeremy said, muffled against the fox's shoulder. “That's how you can make it up to me.”
With the absolute worst timing, another contraction hit suddenly enough to force a grunt out of Mark while Jeremy felt the muscles beneath his hand harden.
“Oh my god,” Jeremy gasped, pulling away. He glanced up at Mark's grimacing face, his own knees shaking. “Oh my god...Oh my god, this is it. It's happening. It's happening right now.” Tears welled up in his eyes.

“No, sweetie, look at me. Look at me,” he pulled Jeremy's face up to meet his, wiping the tears from his eyes. “They're...they're very early contractions. We've got plenty of time.”

“We...we need to get...”
“Don't cry!” Mark said, pulling Jeremy into another hug. “This isn't a reason to cry, this is happy! It's finally happening! As soon as I'm done with the show, we're-”
“What?!” Jeremy shouted, pulling away. “You cannot do this show, you are literally having contractions right now!”
“It's a long process! And it's just an hour long show, I've done these a thousand times.”
“Mark, you are in the process of having our baby. You are giving birth right now!”
“It's not that simple!” Mark protested. An intercom in the ceiling buzzed to life, a gruff voice on the other end saying 'Foxglove curtain call, five minutes.'

“Look...” Mark said, caressing Jeremy's face, locked a mixture of panic and frustration. “If the contractions get too strong, I'll end the show. I promise. And either way, we can go straight to the hospital after the show.” Mark took Jeremy's hands and placed them on either side of his stomach. “By the end of tonight, Melody is going to be out of me and into your arms, safely. I promise.”

“...Alright...” Jeremy mumbled.
“Do you feel better now?”
“No.”
“Well, you will when our screaming little baby comes kicking out into the world,” Mark said, grinning. “I hope she's got my lungs. She could break all the glass in the hospital if she wants to.”
Jeremy coughed up a laugh, smiling as he rubbed absentmindedly Mark's furry ball-belly. Like before, he leaned over and pressed an ear against it.
“'See you soon, daddy,'” Mark said in a mock high-pitched voice. “'First, I've gotta go kick the hell out of papa while he's trying to sing his greatest hits right above me,'” Jeremy laughed again, relaxing a little.
“Foxglove to stage,” came the voice through the intercom again. Jeremy stood up and pulled Mark in for a kiss.

“Our kit is more important than this show,” he said, with fierce determination the likes of which Mark had never seen in his usually timid husband. “Swear to me that you will end it when you have to.”
“I swear.”
“Good.” He spun Mark around and slapped him on the ass. “Now go break a leg,”
“Well shit,” Mark exclaimed. “I like this!”
“Don't make me bend you over a rail and put another baby in you.”
“Oookay, that's enough,” Mark said.
“Heh...S-sorry,” Jeremy said, dropping back to his usual tone of voice. “Good luck.”

Mark wordlessly flashed a thumbs up as he left the dressing room.
Behind the stage, the rest of the band met up, with Mark obviously lagging behind the others. Renard and Clint were stretching their fingers while Rikki was flailing her arms to get them loosened up.
“Look who finally managed to show up,” Rikki teased. “Maybe you can bring out Melody during 'Moonrise' and she can scream a duet with you.”
“Hey Rik, please don't barf morning sickness puke all over those drums I bought you.”
“How did we even end up in this situation?” Clint groaned.
“Because Mark and Rikki both have eeehhhh too much love for the penis,” Renard explained nonchalantly. Rikki and Mark glanced at each other before shrugging.
“True,” they both admitted.

“Alright, here's our cue,” Clint said, breaking away the conversation as the lights on the stage dimmed. As the pre-recorded intro track began to play, Rikki ran ahead and flashed a middle finger to the rest of the band as she hopped into her drum kit and began to play an opening beat. Clint followed out next, then Renard, all three of them playing the opening to 'Broken Glass.' Finally, it was Mark's turn to walk out onstage and pretend that his barely-standing-nine-month-shuffle was some kind of cool swagger.

“How's everyone feeling tonight!?” Mark shouted into the mic, pausing to wait for the crowd to cheer back. “I didn't catch that, how's everyone feeling tonight!?” The crowd roared even louder as Mark nodded his head approvingly. “Now that's more like it. It's good to be back home in LA!” The crowed cheered back. Mark's best show openers functioned like a very one-sided conversation. “That's what I like to hear! This the last stop on our tour, guys, so I want you to go in-sane for me! Can you do that?!” Mark held out the mic toward the audience, into which a field of cheers erupted into the night sky. “Aww, you call that crazy?” He teased into the mic. “When I say crazy, I want you to lose your fu-”

Mark fell abruptly silent as another contraction hit, but seemed to continue onward through his belly and ended with a very distinct 'POP' sensation somewhere between his legs. He felt liquid seeping out of him at a worrying pace, completely dampening his pants. He didn't need to look down for confirmation, but he did anyway to see the semi-translucent liquid pooling around his paws on the stage. He sighed, partially into the microphone. A wave of gasps flew over the audience as Mark's image appeared on the screens to the sides of the stage.

“Well,” he said into the mic, “that wasn't supposed to happen yet.” The band continued to play around him in a holding pattern, despite the alarmed glaces to each other. They just had to pray Mark would remain calm. “Let's be real here, though. At least some of you were hoping that would happen, right?” he said, prompting laughter from the audience. He started to laugh himself, but nearly doubled over as he grimaced at the strongest contraction yet.

“I think I'm...I think I'm gonna have to get on out of here...” Mark groaned into the microphone as his contraction subsided. “But...But I think we've got time for at least one so-” Another contraction hit, forcing even more amniotic fluid out of his body. Mark felt the weight of what could only be Melody shift down. “Alright! Nevermind, we do not have time. To take over my place, here's- nng...A good friend of mine and a big help, Stevie Winston of Razorback!”

Stevie, who had been sitting back stage in wait, jogged out onto stage and waved at the soaring applause he received. Taking the mic from Mark, he laid a hand on the fox's shoulder and offered a hand to help him up. Mark simply shook his head and stood up straight once his contraction had subsided.

“Wish me luck,” He said into the mic before waddling daintily toward the side of the stage.
“Let's give this motherfu- this mother an applause!” Stevie cheered, leading a round of claps and cheering as Mark stumbled painfully off stage, clutching his belly.

As the music finally began properly, Jeremy sprinted up to his husband's side.
“Yeah,” Mark nodded, before Jeremy could speak. “It's happening.”
“I got them to back in the ambulance. I'm riding with you. The doctors at the hospital are all ready for you.”
“Good.” Mark said. He grabbed Jeremy's arm and pulled him to a stop. “But are you ready?”
“Yes,” Jeremy said, without hesitation. He rubbed a hand over Mark's belly one last time. “I'm more than ready.”
They kissed, longer and stronger than ever before, the world vanishing around them.
“Then...'the show must go on,'” Mark said with a wide, toothy grin.