11th of the Moon of Berries, 1942.
The waiting room of the hospital was too clean. Normally, Phillip didn’t mind an environment that had some elements of chaos; it was inevitable that any order would crumble and fade over time. It was partly why he enjoyed Suunkii’s laboratory so much: the denizen of calm and order never failed to soothe even his most rattled nerves.
But now, as he paced from one end of the room to the other, he found himself wishing he could find some imperfection, some detail that he could occupy himself with. He’d already studied the rows of chairs along the walls, all of them unoccupied. He’d already counted the white ceiling tiles on the roof over his head (58) several times. The box of foal’s books and toys in the corner held no interest to him. There was nothing to occupy his mind with.
Nothing except what was in the room seven doors down on the left in the hallway. Mere yards away, Suunkii sat by his wife’s side as she lay sprawled on a bed, attended by nurses who were attempting to carefully coax the baby from her womb. The couple had been expecting the birth for weeks now, but Sirba’s labor had come without warning. When Suunkii got her call in the middle of a test, the panic had sent him flying from the laboratory so quickly that he left a Bunsen burner on. Sergeant Cold Case had been kind enough to give him a police escort to his home and to the hospital.
Phillip had arrived a half hour ago, after being informed by Cold what had happened. The doctors had told him that the patients were stable and instructed him to wait. And so he had waited, pacing the waiting room back and forth, feeling as though ants were crawling about inside his hooves, aware of every heavy beat of his heart that hammered against his ribs like a blacksmith striking an anvil.
A loud cry sounded from the door. Phillip stopped and looked up, his tail twitching in time with his spiking heartbeat. He had to fight down the urge to run inside; he wouldn’t help anything and would only get in the way.
He let out the breath that he hadn’t realized that he’d been holding and continued his pacing. If this was how he felt, then he could only imagine what Suunkii was going through.
The hours ticked by slowly, marked by Phillip’s progress from one end of the waiting room to the other. Every so often, Sirba would cry out again from behind the door, prompting him to pause and stare, tail twitching as the logical part of his brain fought with the protective instinct that surged inside him. After a moment, he would return to pacing. Ponies filed in and out of the waiting room, doctors and nurses passed in the hallway, and yet he barely acknowledged any of it. All he could think about was his friend and his wife in the room, surrounded by doctors, all of them just waiting and hoping.
After many hours, a particularly loud cry rang down the hallway, followed by another sound: the distinctive, earsplitting yet wonderful music of a baby’s first cries. Phillip stopped, his heart leaping up into his throat, and he stared down the hallway in silence as the cries slowly quieted.
Finally, the seventh door on the left opened and a figure stumbled out. Phillip looked up to see Suunkii walking slowly towards him. His mane drooped about his face, and there were lines etched deep into his expression; every step was uneven, and he weaved slightly from side to side as though drunk. And yet, upon Suunkii’s face, was a rare ear-to-ear smile, his deep-set eyes practically glowing.
“A boy,” Suunkii breathed in a dry, cracked tone as he approached Phillip. “It is a boy.”
A smile crossed Phillip’s face. He strode forward and pulled Suunkii into a hug, which the zebra immediately returned.
“He is beautiful. The most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Suunkii said, joyful tears running down his face and onto Phillip’s shoulder. “My son...my son. Phil, I am a father.”
“You’re gonna do great, Suun,” Phillip said, patting him on the back. “That kid’s got some of the best parents ever.”
“Thank you, Phillip,” Suunkii replied, pressing his forehead against Phillip’s briefly. “And we are both grateful for your offer to be the promise father.”
“It’s my honor,” Phillip grinned. “Can I see him?”
“Yes. Yes, please,” Suunkii nodded. “I must...get some water. I am suddenly incredibly tired...” He staggered off, still murmuring happily about his son.
Phillip walked over to the door and peeped inside. Sirba was laying on a bed; the beads had been removed from her long mane, which was damp with sweat and hung from her head like tangled ropes. Her exhausted eyes were focused upon the little bundle she held in her forelegs.
“Come inside, don’t be discrete,” Sirba greeted him, her voice soft from exhaustion, but carrying the genuine music of happiness. “There is somepony I’d like you to meet.”
Phillip entered, moving slowly, every step soft. He sat down on a chair next to the bed and studied the little figure wrapped up in a blue blanket.
The colt shifted and turned towards the intruder. Bright green eyes, the color of a grassy field in summer, peeked out at him, full of wonder and curiosity. A tiny hoof clumsily extracted itself from the blue blanket and swiped at a tuft of frizzy black hair atop its hair; a little voice let out a soft coo.
Phillip suddenly felt a great warmth spreading through his body, all the way up to his face, gently tugging his lips into a broad smiler. He reached out and the tiny little hoof grasped his, so warm and fragile in his own grip.
“G’day, anklebiter,” Phillip cooed. “I’m your uncle.”