For a time, everything sucked.

It sucked not to be able to use one hand. It sucked to recover from being stabbed 16 times, albeit by a very tiny knife. It sucked to sit in a police station, giving the same statement over and over, listening to the same questions, talking to the same people.

It sucked to attend three funerals.

Then, suddenly, somehow, there were no more things to dread. Wounds healed, physically and emotionally. The days went on. Bills had to be paid. Food had to be bought. Life had to be lived.

Rowan made headlines in the city newspaper, although he was never quite sure how that happened when he chased away every single reporter who tried to talk to him. The paper touted him as a hero who had helped bring down a significant portion of Portsmouth’s drug problem, by eliminating the man who oversaw most of it.

He lost his job at the liquor store, which eventually closed down entirely and was left to sit empty until an indeterminate point in the future. For now, the cops had control of it, combing through all of Mr. Storm’s encoded records. The other employees were interrogated. Arrests were made. Crime rates went down. Drug-related arrests went down.

Rehab facilities in the area saw an influx of patients as the users who depended on Mr. Storm could no longer get their product. Only about 50% of them stayed clean, but that was a whole hell of a lot better than nothing.

And in the end, losing his job didn’t matter. New offers came in on the daily. He had his pick of them, whatever he wanted.

But that decision would have to wait. Government aid and health insurance kept him going for a short time, as he spent time with Derrick going to child-rearing classes and doctor’s appointments. It was easier to arrange things like that now, since Derrick had moved in with him. The trailer was a little too small for their needs as a new family, but it would suffice for a time until they could afford something better.

Derrick missed the Christmas concert, which was summarily canceled because it couldn’t go on without him. Most of the parents were supportive of this decision. After a short time, he returned to the school, only to leave again as his pregnancy grew too obvious to deal with in a human-centric school.

Rowan had an idea that Derrick was considering something else as a career, a change of venue. His mate hadn’t said anything of the kind to him, but it was plain to see from the way he spent much more time at his piano. They would talk about that eventually. There was plenty of time.

“And you don’t have to sit in the bedroom eavesdropping,” Derrick had said one night. “Come into the office. Sit with me.”

Rowan did, and Derrick took this as a chance to show off. Mozart, Beethoven, Paganini adaptations; Rowan hadn’t had much of an interest in classical music, but now he didn’t think he could live without it.

And in all of the informational pamphlets he’d read, he recalled a part where it was stated that music was good for the baby’s brain development.

It was a private concert for him and the pup, every single night, every single morning. Music might not have been Rowan’s life, but as Derrick had said once, it was a very important part.

Five-and-a-half months after the events of that disastrous night when three brave cops lost their lives, Derrick went into labor voluntarily. He had this whole baby thing planned down to a T, and goddammit, he was going to have the pup on time.

Rowan went along with it, happy for himself, happy for Derrick, who was exactly as delighted as a child on Christmas morning. Rowan very much wanted to meet his baby too, but Derrick’s joy alone was enough.

They arrived at the hospital together and went to the delivery room together, holding hands the entire way. Rowan’s hand twinged with a ghost of pain from the round scar in his palm as Derrick’s tight grasp aggravated it. He didn’t mind. That was fine. Everything was fine. More than fine.

Derrick had never looked better than he did, lying in that ugly gown in the too-white hospital bed while waiting for the doctor to induce him.

And from there, it was a waiting game.

Nurses and doctors constantly dropped by, but there was really no need for half of them. Derrick had no complications. He didn’t need anything that Rowan couldn’t give. Even when the contractions started to come and the world grew painful for him -Rowan could feel the echoes of that pain, which was both alarming and fascinating- he never stopped smiling.

Around 10:30 p.m. that night, the baby was born. Rowan stayed in the room the entire time, though it was unusual for wolf fathers to be present for the birth. He didn’t give a fuck about tradition. He wanted to see his child enter the world, wanted to see his pup take its first breath.

And he did exactly that.

Derrick screamed as he gave one final push, his cry a wolf’s howl of agony and exhilaration and anticipation. The baby came into the world and added its own thin wail to its parent’s cry.

And Rowan couldn’t help but to cry out as well, with joy and delight.

Cadence Keene weighed a healthy 8 pounds, 5 ounces. Rowan held her for the first time and looked down into her round, perfect face while she gazed up at him with something very much like fascination. Her hair was dark like his, but curly, and her eyes were blue like an ocean, full of endless possibilities.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”

Derrick’s arms wrapped around his waist, and he sat down on the bed and curled close to his mate with their pup between them.

She was perfect.