Reader Inserts (Requests Closed)

Ford x Reader (4)

DEATH OF THE HONEYSUCKLE

I've been debating publishing this for a while. This has to be the saddest thing I've ever written and it has a baby in it. A dead baby. There is sensitive content here, I will warn you. I don't want to upset anyone with this, it's actually really old.

The almost deafening noise of the flatline sounded in your ears as you sat, a bloody mess on your hospital bed. At first, you were silent. No words, no actions, no thought could comprehend what just happened to you. Then, a single thought pierced through the dark void of denial and you let yourself cry. No, you didn't cry, you sobbed. You sobbed, burying your head in your hands. Your entire body was beginning to heat up when it shook with each sob. This, coupled with the blood pooled in the gap between your legs, made the environment highly uncomfortable. You eventually looked up and your eyes were met by those of your husband, Stanford Pines, standing in the doorway.

You didn't have to tell him what happened; the wounded look on your face told him everything he needed to know. A few swift steps and he was by your side. You plummeted your head into the red sweater covering his figure, soaking it with your tears. The secure embrace that felt sickeningly familiar came once more around you as you wept. He sighed deeply, a vibration you could feel resonate in his chest as you buried your face deeper into that sweater. The lump in your throat became borderline unbearable as you choked on your own sobs.

"S-she's gone," you sputtered into Ford's chest. "Our child, Ford, she was born a stillborn!" Your words were frequently interrupted with sobs, making you sound almost unintelligible.

He shushed you, an oversized hand running up and down your spine. Your sobs only grew. The delivery room soon became filled with the sounds of your muffled cries as you continued to soak your husband's sweater with your tears. "How am I gonna live with myself," you asked rhetorically, your chest heaving.

Ford remained silent. He continued to embrace your trembling figure and run an oversized hand up and down your spine. Your sobs stayed persistent as Ford's grip on you grew tighter.

"Mrs. Pines?" A voice addressed you as you looked up from Ford's chest. The doctor was standing before the hospital bed, a familiar figure limp in his arms.

"I am sincerely sorry for your loss, we did everything we could. But I was wondering if you'd like to meet her."

Ford strolled over to the doctor's side to look. His breath hitched the moment he laid eyes on his would-be daughter. You could've sworn you saw him secrete a tear. Stanford was not an easy cry; you had never seen him cry in the time you had spent together. This tear was the closest you ever saw Ford cry.

"S-she's beautiful," he sputtered out. His voice was wavering, attempting to stay strong as he kept his eyes on his deceased daughter.

"She was," the doctor said passively. "She weighed two pounds and ten ounces when she was first born. We've estimated that her heart simply gave out. Poor thing probably died in the birthing process."

You choked on your sobs again as you laid back down on the hospital bed. You couldn't handle this, much less lay eyes upon the daughter you thought you failed. She was a new member of the world, the member that you and Stanford would accustom to the rules of society and do so happily. There was so much to miss out on; birthdays, holidays with Stan and the twins, late-night movies, skinned knees, going to school and so much more. You would never watch your daughter board the bus on her first day of kindergarten, take her first steps, say her first words. All these things you were denied simply because the fetus you had kept alive for nine months was dead.

Ford dismissed the doctor with a wavering voice and sat down on the hospital bed, taking hold of one of your hands. He kissed the back of it as you sobbed into his shoulder once again. The two of you remained like this until your sobs subsided. You eventually fell asleep out of pure exhaustion, from both crying and the birthing process. Stanford took you home that night, laying you down in his bedroom; right across the hall from the nursery the two of you set up.