Steve pulled out the cellphone from his pocket, ready to dial Tony.

"Don't call Tony," Natasha gasped as another wave of pain wracked her body. "Just call a taxi."

"But Natasha," he protested, panic edging his voice, "You're in labor!"

"And I'm going to be that way for the next few hours!" she seethed, her fingers gripping Steve's wrist like a vice. Her glare dared him to argue further.

He nodded, reluctantly acquiescing to her request.

He should've called Tony. Better yet, he should've called Dr. Banner.

Every wave of pain that coursed through Natasha brought a new string of curses—fluent, biting Russian obscenities pouring from her lips. Steve clutched her hand, his own knuckles white from the force of her grip.

The taxi driver, mercifully, spoke only English and drove with urgency, spurred on by the promise of extra money.

"Nat," Steve said gently, his voice steady despite his own rising panic. "Breathe. Just breathe."

Natasha's narrowed eyes flicked to him, but she obeyed, drawing in a deep breath before exhaling shakily. Steve's heart ached as her contractions grew closer and more intense. Every labored breath, every groan of pain felt like a reminder of how helpless he was.

When the taxi finally screeched to a halt in front of the hospital, Steve was out of the car in seconds, fumbling in his wallet to hand the driver a hundred and a twenty. Without waiting for change, he darted to Natasha's side.

She had already climbed out, one hand clutching her stomach, the other gripping the metal railing for support. Steve wrapped an arm around her waist, guiding her toward the ER entrance.

"Help!" he called, his voice cracking under the weight of his worry. "She's in labor!"

A nurse rushed to their side, pushing a wheelchair toward Natasha. "How far apart are the contractions?"

"Six minutes," Steve answered as Natasha lowered herself into the chair. He wanted to follow her down the hall, but the nurse stopped him.

"She's close. Come with me. We need to get you changed into something more suitable," she said, glancing pointedly at his expensive suit.

It wasn't until he was dressed in sterile blue scrubs that the reality of the situation hit him fully. He was going to be a father.

"Hurry," the nurse urged, pushing Steve into the delivery room.

Natasha lay on the hospital bed, her hair damp and plastered to her forehead, beads of sweat glistening on her pale skin. Her green eyes found his, and she reached out a clammy hand.

"Nat," he said softly, rushing to her side. He took her hand in both of his, his thumb stroking her knuckles. "Just take deep breaths."

She nodded, her fingers tightening around his. A cry tore from her lips as her back arched off the bed, the contraction pulling her taut like a bowstring.

"Alright," the doctor said, his voice calm yet firm. "On the count of three, I want you to push. One, two, three!"

Steve held his breath as Natasha bore down, her face contorted with effort. Her grip on his hand was unrelenting, and he could feel the circulation cutting off, but he didn't care. All that mattered was her and their baby.

"You can do this, Natasha," he thought, willing her strength as he watched her battle through the pain.

After what felt like an eternity, the room was filled with the most beautiful sound he had ever heard—the shrill cry of a newborn.

Natasha never thought she would become a mother. For months, she had questioned her ability to love and nurture the life growing inside her. But that first cry obliterated every doubt.

Relief and joy flooded her as her head fell back against the pillow. Her chest heaved with exhaustion, but her heart swelled with something she had rarely allowed herself to feel: hope.

"Wow," the doctor said, his eyes crinkling above his mask. "That's a good set of lungs."

Steve stood frozen for a moment, his blue eyes wide and filled with wonder as he looked at the tiny, wriggling form in the doctor's hands.

"It's a boy," the doctor announced, passing the baby to Steve. He accepted the bundle gingerly, as though afraid to break the fragile miracle in his arms.

"It's a boy," Steve murmured, his voice trembling. Tears glistened in his eyes as the baby's cries quieted, replaced by soft, sleepy murmurs. He turned to Natasha, his face glowing with pride and love.

"Let me hold him," she rasped, her arms weakly outstretched.

With Steve's help, Natasha cradled her son for the first time. Tufts of blonde hair covered his tiny head, and his green eyes blinked sleepily up at her. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she traced the delicate curve of his face.

"James," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

"Alright," the doctor said gently, "We need to get him cleaned up and run a few routine checks."

Steve nodded and moved to take the baby, but his eyes caught the sudden pallor of Natasha's face. The glow that had lit her features moments ago was gone, replaced by an alarming ashen hue.

"Natasha?" he said, his voice laced with panic. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Nat, what's wrong?"

Her lips moved, but the words were barely a whisper. "Take him. Hurry."

Steve's chest tightened as he obeyed, his instincts screaming that something was wrong. He turned toward the nurse to pass off James, expecting to hear Natasha call him back. Instead, he heard the sharp gasp of a monitor.

Green eyes dulled and rolled back as her body convulsed, arching violently against the bed. The room erupted into chaos. Steve was ushered out, clutching James tightly as nurses and doctors swarmed Natasha's bedside.

"What's going on?" he demanded, his voice cracking with desperation. No one answered James was pulled form his arms, the door slamming shut behind him.

Steve's hands trembled as he fumbled for his phone. He dialed the only person who might understand the terror gripping his heart.

"Hello?" Clint's voice answered, calm and steady.

"Clint," Steve choked out, tears streaming down his face. "Nat... she..."

"Steve," Clint interrupted, his tone sharp. "Breathe. Tell me what happened. Is Natasha okay?"

Steve pressed his forehead against the cold wall, struggling to draw a steady breath. "No," he whispered, the word laced with agony. It echoed in his ears, making the situation feel even more unreal.

Clint's tone shifted instantly, becoming urgent. "I've got your location. I'm on my way. Hang in there."

The call ended just as a doctor stepped out of the room. Her face was tight with emotion, her hands gripping a stethoscope.

"Mr. Rogers?"

Steve's heart hammered in his chest, every second stretching unbearably. "Is she okay?"

The doctor hesitated, the weight of her words evident before she even spoke. "I'm sorry, but your wife has entered a coma."

Steve's knees nearly buckled. The world tilted, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse. The word "coma" rang in his ears, shattering the fragile hope that had been keeping him upright. His grip on the wall tightened as he fought to stay standing, his breaths shallow and uneven.

"A coma?" he repeated, his voice barely audible. He searched the doctor's face for any hint of reassurance, but there was none. "Is she... is she going to wake up?"

The doctor's silence was deafening, her hesitation cutting deeper than any response could have. Steve's vision blurred with tears as the full weight of the situation crashed down on him. Natasha, the strongest person he knew, was lying helpless beyond that door, and there was nothing he could do to bring her back.