Sam found himself wedged between the hospital bed and the machine that goes 'ping', trying his best not to get in the way. Men were encouraged to witness the miracle of birth up close and personal now, but he felt he'd be a lot more comfortable going in circles out in the hallway. It's not like he ever expected to become a father at nineteen anyway. It was just... too soon! He looked at Stephanie. She was a year younger, but she didn't seem to mind giving up her freedom - even now, when she was in full labour. Be supportive, he reminded himself.

'You're doing great, honey... um... breathe?'

She didn't seem to notice him. In fact, Stephanie had been rather aloof. She hadn't even taken his offer to holding hands, although that suited him fine – he'd heard stories about that. God, this kid wasn't even entirely born and already it was getting too much for him! But he had a responsibility; and besides, his mum would kick him out if he didn't-

'Whàt the hèll!?'

Sam looked up. 'Is there a problem, doctor?'

'I'll say!' the doctor held up the newborn child; Sam saw a tiny, bald, wrinkled, green skinned... he froze. This, he had not seen coming. Fighting back a sudden rise of panic,  he quickly turned to the doctor.

'How is this possible?'

'The doctor hesitated. 'It's not. I mean... there's no reasonable explanation for... thìs!'

As both men stood there dumbfound, the (naturally) more observant nurses exchanged looks. One of them coughed.

'Our new mum doesn't really look surprised...'

All eyes turned toward Stephanie.

'I... um...'

'Stephanie?' Sam felt his spine go cold.

'Oh, God... I've been meaning to tell you, Sam, I swear... You know how I've been having these dreams? With the flying saucer landing in the backyard? I'm beginning to think they're not really dreams...'

'No shit!' the doctor stated.

'Well, quite frankly, I knòw they're not really dreams because... um... you know that weekend you went to Illinois to watch the Chicago Chicklits take on the Philadelphia Platypuses?'

'Platypussies.' Sam automatically corrected.

'Yes, well, I met this guy... from the saucer. His name is Ph^lnc, and he's from a world called Aotrspay'zh. And he explained how they came here to learn about us, but not in that horrible probe-up-your-nether-regions-kind of way. Actually, he was very sweet and well; you remember how things were going really bad between us, what with you messing around with that floozy Miranda Hawkins...'

'Yeahyeahyeah,' Sam made a 'move-it-along' gesture while taking a firm interest in the floor.

'... so anyway, things got, um... romantic.'

'How could you not tell me?!'

'I didn't know how!! Besides, it shouldn't matter.'

Sam blinked. 'It shouldn't??'

'We worked things out, and Ph^lnc said he had to explore some more galaxies and he wouldn't be back for at least a few years, so I see no reason why we couldn't raise this little one as our own.'

'I... we...' Sam looked at the baby alien. 'It's got four arms!!'

'Don't say "it".'

'Why not? It's gréén, for crying out loud!!'

'You are só shallow, Sam, I can't believe this!!'

'Now look...' the doctor tried to calm things down.

'You know what?!' Sam yelled, 'I don't need this!! If you want to have a nice little family I suggest you wait for... pffrrt to return!!'

'His name is Ph^lnc!!'

'What-èver! Thìs,' he pointed a scornful finger at the little bundle of consternation, 'Is nòt my problem any more!!' Sam turned on his heels and left. 'Have fun raising your little freak all alone!'

'He's not a freak!!!' Stephanie yelled after him. Next, she wiped a strand of hair out of her face and turned to her baby, who seemed completely unaffected by all the commotion. 'You are beautiful, you. Yes you are. Ohh, look! You've got your father's tentacles!'

Silence formed a rift between them as they both lay there, at a loss for words. The harsh ones had been exchanged like shrapnel of brutal honesty, draining their frustrated rage from them and hurting them both with the brunt.

It had been an age-old trap, and it got them every time.

Now, the still of the night veiled around them, guilt and regret burrowed their way through heart and soul as minds raced to compose (and reject) unspoken apologies. Neither one would speak first, not because it might seem as defeat –the skirmish was long over- but because no words could measure the regret or fully express the sadness and shame which fueled them.

And so they remained in stalemate. Sleep, while graduately conquering the world around them, would not enter this room with offerings of sweet salvation or temporary oblivion. And though redemption was what they craved most, they would not have it. Every fibre of consciousness bombarded them with a million fragments of alternate pasts, haunting the bed of misery they had made for themselves.

Finally, five fingers would stealthily carry a hand under cover of sheet and blanket to bridge the dark distance seperating them, and meet their counterpart in unspoken reconciliation.