Kurt tugged on the ends of his hair for the umpteenth time in a row, glaring at the traffic ahead of the town car as if he could will it to part down the middle and make way for him. Didn't they know what was happening? Didn't they see how important it was for him to get to the hospital as soon as physically possible? The car crawled forward another few millimeters and he let out a groan of frustration.

“Is there any way around this?” he asked fruitlessly, voice raised to carry over the Punjabi music half-blaring through the speakers. The one town car he'd managed to find at such short notice, and of course they would get stuck in traffic.

“Sorry, sir,” the driver replied in heavily-accented English with a sympathetic glance in the rear view, and Kurt dejectedly slumped back in his seat. Why, today of all days, did his phone have to die? Why couldn't it have lasted long enough for him to get Blaine's voicemail while he'd still been at JFK? Why did McQueen have to greet him at the door by spectacularly throwing up all over him? Why couldn't all of this just be happening a day—even a few hours—later?

Kurt worked his jaw for a moment as he glanced out through the windshield, and made his decision.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, bolting from the car without explanation to the perplexed driver and slamming the door behind him. He took off at a dead run, feet pounding on the asphalt as he wound his way through the snail's-pace traffic and onto the pedestrian path across the Brooklyn Bridge. The long sprint across was a blur of overhead cable wires and ignoring the indignant insults hurled after him whenever he pushed past anyone who happened to be in his way. Upon reaching the other side, he stopped dead to catch his breath and get his bearings. Breathing harshly, the thick air burning on every inhale, he glanced around with wild eyes.

“Okay, Financial District,” he muttered to himself between breaths, and ran through every last one of his contingency plans, rifling through the carefully organized file cabinet in the back of his mind until he found the right one. “C train. Fulton Street. Twenty-five minutes to Columbus Circle.”

He broke into a light jog, looking at his watch. Good; going by the tailbacks he'd been dimly aware of all the way along the bridge, there was every chance he'd end up at the hospital earlier than he would have done had he stayed in the little town car that couldn't. Reaching beneath his jacket, he yanked his phone from the zipped chest pocket of his navy shirt and hit '1' on the speed dial, thanking his stars that he'd plugged it in to charge before taking his shower, blissfully unaware of what was going on.

“Honey, where are you?” Blaine's voice was tight, like he was barely keeping large amounts of panic in check.

“Fulton Street, about to jump on the C,” Kurt told him breathlessly, coming to an abrupt halt at the top of the subway steps. “I'll be there in thirty minutes. How's she doing?”

“She bitched out three of the nurses already. One of them cried. Everything's happening really fast, and she's... asking for you,” Blaine said, and Kurt didn't miss the meaning behind 'asking'. Kristy was probably screaming down the entire birthing center.

“On my way. I love you,” he rushed out, swinging around the railing and starting down the dank steps, narrowly avoiding the heavy-set bulk of a man who momentarily reminded him of Karofsky.

“I love you, too. See you soon, Papa.”

As the call ended, Kurt froze mid-step. Papa.

All at once, it finally and gloriously hit him that this was really happening. It had been nearly three years. Three years of urologists, gynecologists, artificial insemination attempts and two rounds of IVF treatment, aching and heart-sore all the while, and now Kurt Hummel-Anderson was about to become a father. His entire life was about to change forever.

“Move it, asshole!”

The snotty woman's voice and accompanying, unnecessarily forceful shoulder-check shook him from his shell-shocked daze, and he practically flew down the remaining steps, barging past the same woman in a childish fit of spite. Left, right, left, right, swipe, keep going, don't close don't close don't close—thank God. Sit. Breathe. Remember to breathe.

Kurt's fingers drummed against his thigh at Canal Street in Tribeca. He rolled his neck from side to side at 8th Avenue in the West Village. Sliding to a stop at 42nd Street in his beloved Garment District, he fiddled restlessly with the asymmetric zipper of his jacket. At 50th Street, he finally dropped his head into his hands at and vowed that he would never again attend Paris Fashion Week. As the train sped to a stop at Columbus Circle, he was already standing in front of the doors, tapping his feet as he waited for them to open.

In what felt like no time at all, Kurt was skidding to a stop at the nurse's station in the birthing center, the soles of his boots squealing along the linoleum. The nurse—a midwife, he thought, noting the uniform similar to the one Carole wore—regarded him with a look that was somewhere between amusement and concern.

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked. Kurt let his shoulders drop, took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He would be no use as Kristy's birthing partner otherwise.

“I'm Kurt Hummel-Anderson, I'm here for Kristy Rennalls,” he told her, and the nurse nodded.

“If you'll follow me,” she said, beckoning for him to come down the hall.

“How's she doing?” Kurt asked, matching the nurse's brisk, all-business pace.

“You have a daughter,” the nurse replied over her shoulder. Momentarily, Kurt's heart sank. “But don't worry, you're still in time for your little boy.”

“It's one of each?” All three of them had agreed that so long as the twins were happy and healthy, they didn't care, and wouldn't ask.

“Oh, my—sir, I am so sorry—“

“Don't be,” Kurt brushed her off. “I don't care, I'm just—“

He cut himself short as the nurse showed him into the birthing room. The first thing he saw upon rounding the corner was Blaine, standing in front of the window and almost silhouetted by the pale sunlight filtering through the vertical blinds. In his arms was an impossibly tiny pink bundle, and Blaine was looking at their sleeping daughter with indescribable wonder, tears silently slipping down his face as he rocked her from side to side. Kristy watched them through half-sleeping eyes, an exhausted smile quirking at her lips whenever she seemed to find another fragment of energy.

“Hey,” Kurt murmured, taking a half step forward. “Sorry I'm late.”

“Come here,” Blaine whispered, and Kurt crossed to the other side of Kristy's bed, transfixed. “She arrived about twenty minutes ago. Look, Kurt. Look how beautiful she is.”

As soon as Kurt saw her face, he fell head over heels in love. Silently, Blaine shifted her in his arms and gently passed her to Kurt, a supporting hand beneath her head until she was settled.

“Audrey,” Kurt whispered, blinking back the tears in his eyes because he couldn't bear the thought of missing a single second; he needed to memorize every last millimeter of her.

“Audrey Elizabeth,” Blaine added, and Kurt's tears began flowing freely. He bit his lip and nodded, repeating the name to his daughter. His daughter.

“And she's... She's okay?” Kurt asked, still drinking in the sight of her until Kristy spoke.

“Cries like a banshee, good weight, ten fingers, ten toes,” she said wryly, her voice cracked and hoarse. “Now if the other one would just hurry up...”

Quickly doing the math in his head, Kurt's mind immediately went into overdrive. “What's wrong? It's not usually this long between twins, is it?” he asked the midwife frantically. Being twins, they were already two weeks premature, and his thoughts raced with the possibilities of all that could be wrong. The midwife simply smiled kindly.

“It's quite alright,” she reassured him. “They come when they're ready. His heartbeat's very strong and he's not in any distress. He's just testing your patience. Better get used to that, you know.”

Both Kurt and Blaine relaxed a little, finally dropping into the two seats to the side of Kristy's bed. Audrey stirred in her sleep, bringing her hand up to clamp her tiny digits around the finger Kurt was stroking up and down her cheek, and every single part of him stilled.

“Saying hello to her Papa,” Kristy said, eyelids drooping as she let her hands rest on her swollen belly and watched them both.

“Kristy, I—how can we ever—“

“Blaine, don't,” Kristy interrupted him, suddenly sitting up with her face contorted in pain. “Not now, because here we go again.”

“Okay, Kristy, this time around it's gonna happen a lot more quickly,” the midwife said, pressing a call button on the controls next to the bed before positing herself at the end. “So as soon as you can, I'm gonna need you to start pushing.”

“Kurt, don't you dare miss the second one as well,” Kristy hissed through gritted teeth.

As quickly and carefully as he could, Kurt passed Audrey back to Blaine with a final lingering look before switching seats and gripping Kristy's outstretched hand. Locking their eyes, he focused only on her hand wrapped around his, whispering words of encouragement over and over. He was rambling, on the precipice of letting his tongue depress and chanting gibberish at her because he didn't know what else to do—he may have been the one reading the books and attending Lamaze classes with her, but this was the most intense thing he had ever experienced, and there was nothing else apart from her eyes and her hand in his, the entire world shrinking until—

Kristy's hand went slack, she collapsed into the pillows and Kurt dazedly looked around. The room was utterly silent save for the bustle of the midwife and two nurses hastily cleaning off his son. The entire room seemed to tilt and sway as ten awful seconds passed, Kurt jumping to his feet with eyes jolting from the nurses to the baby and back again, and then a piercing wail filled the air. It was the most wonderful sound he had ever heard.

“Congratulations!” the midwife said, her smile bright as she took a sharp pair of scissors from one of the nurses and held them out to Kurt, indicating to where the cord had been clamped. “Would you like to do the honors this time?”

Kurt nodded, accepting the scissors. One swift, spongy snip later and his son was being wrapped up in a blue blanket and placed into Kurt's waiting arms. There it was again; that narrowing of vision and universe until he was focused only upon the being he held. As if only from a great distance, he could hear Blaine and Kristy's muffled discussion with the midwife about Apgar scores and the twins' birth weights being good despite their prematurity. Rocking the baby from side to side, he could feel himself falling head over heels once more, and soon the crying quietened into soft snuffles, then finally the even breathing of sleep.

“Oliver?” Blaine asked over his shoulder, and Kurt nodded with a sigh, turning to sit on the bed and squeeze Kristy's hand. She smiled wearily, eyes closed.

“Oliver William,” Kurt whispered reverently, offering by way of explanation, “he's so much like you and your dad. Look, he even has your nose.”

“Audrey looks like you, Kurt,” Kristy intoned, shifting and angling herself onto her side. “I mean, it is possible.”

“That we have one each?” Kurt asked skeptically.

“It's rare, but it's been known to happen,” the midwife supplied. “We can perform paternity tests if you'd like.”

“No, no. That won't be necessary,” Kurt said hurriedly.

“We don't care, we're just... happy they're here and healthy,” Blaine added.

“All right,” the midwife replied with a nod, and motioned toward the door. “I'll be back in just a minute to check on him again.”

“Wait,” Blaine stage-whispered, and dug into his pocket with his free hand, producing his phone. “Would you mind taking a picture for us?”

“Right now?” Kurt asked, and Blaine shrugged as well as he was able.

“For The Book,” he said simply as the midwife rounded the end of the bed and took the phone.

“I guess we could find some time next weekend to do the new pages,” Kurt murmured, carefully repositioning himself and Oliver to face the midwife while Blaine moved to Kristy's other side so that she was in between them, ignoring her weak protests that she looked terrible. In his mind's eye, Kurt grasped for his schedule before giving himself over entirely to his two tiny, fragile children—children—and getting lost once more. The soft click barely even registered.

*

Saturday 27 August, 2044

“How funny it is, looking back at myself thinking we'd have time to do this with two newborns to take care of,” Kurt said, pressing the paper frame over the edges of the photograph.

“You didn't know,” Blaine replied easily as he sorted through the pile of snapshots for the next pages. Swiveling in his seat, Kurt caught glimpses here and there of Audrey's eyes lit up with wonder as a goat nuzzled against her hand, and Oliver's mischievous grin through the obscene amount of spaghetti sauce smeared around his mouth. All firsts.

“Oh, but I did,” Kurt said loftily, “I was just too stubborn to believe it. I thought it was going to be a walk in the park—some lost sleep, some schedule reworking, but nothing like what it was. We were going to be the fabulous gay Dads who had everything under control and never lost their cool, not even for a second. Everyone was going to envy and hate us for how together we were.”

“It wasn't that bad,” Blaine reasoned, and Kurt immediately adopted a concerned expression, pressing his palm to Blaine's forehead.

“Are you feeling alright? Feverish? Because you're obviously not thinking straight.”