Routine. It was something that Wesker took great pride in, a set cycle that he'd perfected. He'd taken time off work, knowing that the caesarean would be any day now, taking time to worship the very ground his husband walked on. (Well, waddled on.) But the bedtime routine was his favourite. 7:20pm, he'd settled onto the sofa to watch a show with his husband. A glass of water for himself, not wanting to drink wine when he knew his sweet partner couldn't. Playing with their hair, smoothing his fingers across his aching feet as he massaged his tender soles. Allowing them to relax. His eyes often betraying the screen, unable to help but gaze longingly at the globe of his stomach. Knowing his baby, their baby, lay inside. Amazed at how such a phenomenon could even occur, but thankful. 8:20pm, after an hour in front of their flatscreen television, he'd fix his husband up a snack. Whatever he was craving, be it ice-cream and pickles or cheese and popcorn. No strange combination left unexplored, and he was more than happy to prepare it for his partner.

Wesker jolted awake rather unexpectedly, feeling a familiar hand desperately pushing at his shoulder, along with hushed whispers. His hand grasping at his partner's, his wedding band cold against his skin. "Darling, what is it?" He murmured, a little slow from just waking up. "Did you need help getting to the bathroom?" A midnight bathroom break WAS routine after all.

But as his eyes began to adjust to the dark, and saw the pained expressions of his husband, watching as he tried (and failed) to curl into a ball. He blinked. This wasn't routine.

"Oh- Have you gone into labour?" He dryly asked. His nerves boiling, an anxiety settling in his stomach, which he simply struggled to show. "I see- We need to go to the hospital. You'll need that c-section."