"Plourr," he says, holding onto her just a little too tightly although right now he doubts that she knows it. She's not responding to him, at all, and he swallows hard before just forging ahead.

"Remember, uh, remember when we were painting the nursery? And I got paint all over myself and then, naturally, all over you and you were so mad that you reached out and painted a mustache onto me?" He laughs, soft and almost surprised that he can. "I was just thinking of that the other day. Uh, mosy 'cause of that time I painted my mustache for you, on the night of that dinner? Remember how horrified everyone was? And my dad...gods, I've never seen him that mad at me in my life."

He's rambling, voice soft and low, one hand rubbing her back and the other lightly stroking the tears and sweat from her cheek. At this point, he isn't talking for himself, or even for her. He's talking so she'll have something to grab onto and focus on and maybe then this will just be over and they'll have their daughter with them.