December 1st
She wakes with her back against his chest, the warmth of his arms around her waist soothing, a calming caress over the swell of her stomach. Her eyes are still closed when she smiles, as soft as his touch on her belly, the product of this quiet love they share in the silence of morning. The simmer of affection in her chest erupts at the ease of the moment, long minutes when she can forget about everything but him and the stir of life beneath his hands.
The baby is already kicking, awoken by her stillness after having let her sleep through the night, and it intensifies everything, the reminder of how far they've come, that life grows within her even though she almost lost her own less than two years ago.
Behind her, Rick must sense her wakefulness, his arm tightening its grip around her, the other drifting along her side to climb the ladder of her ribs, flatten against her chest where the beat of her heart is steady. His own smile blooms, only to be pressed against her neck, smudged with a kiss to her skin.
"He's kicking a lot," he whispers, hand pressing harder against her baby bump, spurring the movement from within.
She hums her response, nestling herself deeper into her pillow when she nods in agreement. "I like it," she admits. "Lets me know he's okay in there."
Rick kisses her neck again, lifting his hand from her chest to comb through her hair instead, tucking stray strands behind the shell of her ear, and again to tilt her head towards his. She stays curled on her side, rolls her head against the pillow so she can catch his gaze, see the severity there that's grown far too familiar since the day she'd first muttered of the possibility of their baby not surviving.
The day she'd sat in the bathroom, heart pounding, healthy in her chest, a white plastic stick shaking in her hand as she'd stared at the result. When he'd found her sitting there, he'd dropped to his knees at her side and wrapped her in his arms, promised her it would be okay despite the nausea churning in her stomach and the exhaustion rooted deep in her bones and the doctor's orders to be on strict birth control due to the high risk nature of pregnancy after transplant.
Exhaustion lingers, had drawn her back until she could no longer complete full days at work and staying curled up in bed at all times seemed far more appealing than the alternative. A side effect of pregnancy, intensified by the stress to her body, still coping with the effects of having its heart removed and replaced with his.
"Hey," he breathes, drawing her back to the present with the dust of his fingers across her cheek. "The baby's okay."
She nods, even as her gaze falls from his to hide the fear there, disguise the uncertainty with the shy flutter of her lashes against her cheeks. "I know," she says. "I still like to feel him kicking, though." She pauses, reaching down to coast her hand over her stomach, thread her fingers with his where they linger over their son's constant movement. "It just…makes me worry less."
He offers a smile, half hearted and laced with concern for her, only to press it to her cheek, and again to her mouth in a soft kiss that has the knot in her chest loosening, breaths coming easier even as the worry lingers, a constant echo through her system.
Rick's long since stopped telling her not to worry, utterances of such words having died on his tongue the day she'd gotten a doctor's order to cut her workload in half. But he breathes it past her lips, communicates it in the silence with the brush of tongue across hers, the caress of his hands on her skin.
"Try not to worry," he whispers, the words pressed to her mouth, punctuated with a kiss to her cheek. 'There's nothing to worry about yet."
But there is, he knows as well as she does. The lingering echo of warnings spoken by Dr. Davidson when she'd first informed him of her pregnancy, a list of things to look out for as indications that growing new life would be too much pressure on the heart that saved her own. The knowledge that the fatigue constantly drawing at her mind is one of those things, as is the facility of numbness tingling at her extremities, cold that laces through her fingers.
"I know," she lies, eyes fluttering open to catch his, drift along the smile curled at his ips.
His hand drifts along her belly once more, slipping from her grasp to drift along the swell there, the silent threat to her life that she so easily accepted, could never imagine being without, as he leans down to kiss her again.
The chill sweeps along her nape, shudders along the length of her spine, to have her reaching up and drawing the scarf tighter around her neck. Her gloved hand coasts along her cheek as she does so, reawakening the nerves there, numbed by the cold, the slightly chilled fabric of a stark contrast to her usually freezing fingers.
It has Rick tightening his arm at her shoulders, drawing her deeper into his embrace, pressing her harder against the length of her body. He dusks a kiss to her head, barely felt through the thick fabric of the beanie he'd tugged onto her head before they'd left the loft.
"Cold?" he asks.
She hums, pressing her head into the warmth of his woolen coat in an attempt to relieve the bite of the chill at her cheeks. "Just a little," she mumbles in response.
He kisses her again, hand lifting for his side to curl around hers. Warm even through the thin fabric of their gloves, soothing the ache of frozen bones there. "Your hands?"
"Cold," she answers, a half truth when she can barely feel them anymore, isn't sure she can blame it on the sweep of winter over New York City, if it's once again the fault of stress on a heart struggling to handle it all.
He silences her worries with the brush of his hand along her belly before he's drawing her with him to the edge of the sidewalk, sweeping through pedestrian traffic to find the familiar glass door to their favorite restaurant. Frosted letters stare back at her, suiting the draw of the season as it falls upon them, until he's shoving the door open and ushering her inside.
"Oh."
The sight before her is unexpected, a reminder of the blur her life has become since work was cut to signing and initialing paperwork, showing up to meetings on occasion and consulting by phone on the rare occasion she's needed. Days have blurred together to a loop of consciousness and being stolen away by the draw of exhaustion to sink into sleep, dates on a calendar blending one into the other, from November to December.
Remy's is a picture of the holiday season, the embodiment of Christmas done well. Garlands trace the edge of the front counter, line the barriers between booths. Jingle bells ring through the air, met with the soft sound of instrumental Christmas music. Figurines and ceramic buildings mark the ends of the order counter, holly poking out from between them, mirrored in the sprig sitting atop each napkin holder.
"Kate! Rick!" calls a voice from behind the counter, drawing her attention from the Holiday decor. The restaurant's owner, Mrs. Henderson, is already stepping towards them when Kate looks up, smile stretched wide across her face. "Don't forget about tradition," she adds, pointing towards the ceiling above their head.
Where mistletoe hangs from the ceiling, draws a smile to Kate's face.
Rick makes a show of pressing a kiss to her lips, affection and joy seeping into the touch of his mouth to hers, met with the return of his hand over the swell of her stomach. His thumb traces circles through the thick fabric of her coat, making her melt against him, give into the tenderness of his touch, the reassurance laced within it. His love bright and evident, enough to loosen the tight knot of anxiety in her chest where it's been clenched tight since the day she first learned of the life nestled within her.
"Oh, how adorable," comes Mrs. Henderson's voice from beside them. "How's the little one doing? Oh, it's been so long since you've been here. You have to try our Christmas cocoa and gingerbread men." She turns away from them both, leading them back towards the counter until Rick and Beckett are following behind her. "So, what can I get for you?"
He smiles. "Well, I've been told we have to try your hot chocolate, so one for each of us," he tells Mrs. Henderson, checking with Kate for quick confirmation. "And three of your gingerbread cookies."
She rolls her eyes. "Of course you would get two for yourself," she says, punctuating the words with a chuckle.
But he squeezes her hip, draws her closer to him once again. "Two are for you," he counters.
"Rick, I don't want two cookies."
He lets out an exaggerated sigh, as at ease now as ever and the familiar dramatic flair to it has her muffling a laugh against his shoulder.
"Fine," he huffs. "Then one's for you and one's for the baby."
It has her rolling her eyes again as her husband grins down at her, knowing she'll give in, faced with such kindness, such easy calm and affection for their baby in the faee of serious threats to her health, to their child's.
She might be panicking, but he's buying their baby a gingerbread cookie. So she ends up eating them both.
They've been to this hospital countless times, spent weeks laid up in its beds, walking its halls. Months coming and going, having ECGs and echocardiograms and cardiac stress tests, waiting hand in hand for bad news to come only for it to remain a distant certainty. Until a year passed and everything was still okay, his heart still beating steadily in her chest, a stranger's strong in his.
And then she'd found out she was pregnant, had been whisked into a blur of appointments with various physicians all delivering the same bad news, bittering the split second of sweetness she'd allowed herself to indulge in. Explanations of her increased risk of miscarriage, of complications, of preterm delivery, of death.
It had been worse than waking up in a hospital bed to news that she was dying, came at a point in her life when she had so much to care for. Had torn her apart until she was sinking into bed with her husband's arms around her, kisses pressed to her head and whispers of reassurance against the shell of her ear.
Today, she decides, is the worst day since that one, a bitter truth having spilled from her obstetrician's lips rather than the usual utterance of you're still beating the odds, Kate. A statement, a warning, an explanation of the threats that are so much more imminent now as the child they'd once told her probably wouldn't make it this long continues to grow within her.
And Rick must sense it, must feel it himself. The tension of uncertainty that hangs in the air from the moment they leave the doctor's office, the weight of potential hurt heavy in his chest like it is in her own. Because he wraps his arms around her the moment they step into the loft, closing the door with his back as he draws her against him.
The press of his lips to her head is reminiscent of the day they'd told her the probability of complications.
"It'll be okay," he whispers, mumbling the words into wisps of her hair. "You and the baby are fine."
She has to remind herself that the stuttered flip of her heart is normal, an emotional reaction and not a sign of impending failure, finds herself burying her face in his chest to swallow back her pessimism. It has his fingers coasting along the length of her spine, his other hand drifting from her back to flatten over the swell of her baby bump, where their son's kicks are a steady reminder that everything's okay.
For now.
"She put me on bed rest, Rick," she chokes out, as though he needs the reminder, hasn't already committed to spending the upcoming weeks taking care of her.
"Modified bed rest," he counters.
It makes a difference, she knows it spells an entirely different lifestyle, knows it's not quite as bad as she's making it sound. Logically, she knows, but it doesn't loosen the clench of worry in her chest.
She pulls away slowly, leaning back into the pressure of his hand at her spine, allowing him to see the sheen of tears in her eyes, the draw of fear at the corners of her lips. "My blood pressure's going up," she mumbles. "Dr. Davidson said—"
"That elevated blood pressure could pose a threat to your cardiovascular system given your medical history," he says, baritone smooth and steady, unshaken by the news they'd received. Soothing even though she knows the calm is forced, can feel the panicked race of his heart beneath her hand as it drifts along his chest. "But Dr. Fields said it was barely outside the normal range, and that steps being taken at present are merely precautions to diminish the risk of further elevation."
He's right, reminds her of such with the slight smile that curls at his lips, another attempt at reassuring her. But she doesn't respond, can't explain the anxiety to the man who already knows it too well, has it pounding through his own stressed system, a steady beat against her palm.
His own hand drifts along her stomach at her silence, coasting the evidence of her pregnancy, pausing on the spot where the baby is still kicking against the barrier of her skin.
"You're thirty weeks pregnant," he whispers. "Seven months ago, no one knew if you would even get this far. A year and seven months ago, we didn't even know if you were going to live through the week." His smile widens, gaze flitting along the length of her body only to catch her gaze once more, show her the love, the pride, gleaming in his eyes. "And look where you are now."
She swallows against the well of denial up her throat, finds herself fighting for a response only to bury herself in him once again instead. He folds his arms around her once more, wiping away the lingering threads of imminent panic laced along her spine.
"You're always beating the odds, Kate," he mumbles. "You and our little boy, and I have no doubt will continue to do so."
Attempts at distraction are feeble, a failing method of silencing the voice in her head pointing out every sign that something might be wrong, forgetting the doctor's earlier warnings. But they try anyway, talking over dinner, curling up on the couch together to drown themselves in the blur of an action film rather than the dizzying reality. Her attention flits between the movie and the spin of thoughts in her mind, surroundings blurring at the loss of focus until she's being shaken lightly back to the present.
Her head has fallen to rest on Rick's lap, eyes closed against the flash of lights on screen that has now faded to the steady roll of the credits. She's drawn her hands into the sleeves of her pajama top, clenched cold fingers around the fabric of her shirt, drawing warmth from herself, from the press of her husband against her body.
His fingers trace patterns in the strands of her hair, tugging knots free with gentle passes across her head, making her eyes flutter with fatigue once again.
She's only half aware of the returned clutch of exhaustion over her frame, deep rooted in her bones. The heaviness of her body that has her unwilling to move despite the longing for the softness of a mattress beneath her frame, to curl up on her side, draped under blankets, until the baby settles on her bladder and draws her from the comfort of night.
Her will to fight is gone, too, lost in the abyss of imminent unconsciousness, even as Rick shifts her on the couch, an arm finding the crook of her knees, the other rolling her onto her back and looping under her arms. He lifts slowly, carefully, cradling her body to his chest as though he didn't have his own heart removed and replaced less than two years ago, too.
But he doesn't have a budding life depending upon him, straining the already stressed muscle to do more when it's compromised without the insistent need to be more productive.
She presses her head to his shoulder at the thought, hates the fleeting moments when she wonders what her life would be if she'd never gotten pregnant, hates herself for them. And chooses to mumble of strength she isn't sure she even has instead.
"I can walk."
He drops a kiss to the top of her head. "I know," he promises. "But you're tired and you don't have to."
The press of her body against the mattress is tender, a gentle slip of his arms from around her body to allow her to get comfortable. His hand drifts over the swell of her stomach before he's stepping away, sliding onto his own side of the bed until he's pressed to her back, nudging one arm into the gap between her neck and the mattress, the other coming up to sweep hair from her face.
She's half asleep already when he presses a kiss to her temple, drawing her body tighter against his as he does.
"Don't worry," he mumbles, words hazed by the fog of fatigue in her mind. "We'll be okay. We'll make this time special, okay?"
The hum of response might be a thought rather that execution, much like the smile she hopes curls at her lips, before she sinks into his embrace completely and fades into the oblivion of sleep.
As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for helping me with the idea, the title and for looking over this chapter, she's truly amazing.