A History of talking to Stomachs
It's four o'clock in the morning, a slight breeze laps against closed windows, and a whispering voice echoes quietly throughout the room. She twists slightly, shuffling a foot closer to his calf as her arm settles across his chest once more. It is still dark, and as frost crystallizes against the glass panes he holds her closer, relishing the warmth of their bodies held within the blankets.
She is breathing slowly against his neck and her lips curl moistly against skin. She is soft and slight, warm to hold, and as her leg slips closer between his own, he can feel the slight press of her stomach against his side. Four months, he realizes quickly; four months, one week and two days. He's been cataloguing each moment of development since they learnt of Peach, and as his mind trawls through the masses of information he's read recently, he can imagine the size and the shape, the movement of his baby cocooned safely within it's mother.
"We're almost half way now, Peach," he whispers softly, hoping to allow Nikki the rest she needs. "A few more days and it'll be half time, and then in another few months you'll be here."
He shifts with Nikki's restless movements, allowing her to twist once more beneath the covers, before settling his hands firmly across her middle. He leans down closer, pressing his face just under her breast, and watches in fascination as the light from the bathroom passes shadows across the bump. It's defined now, and he's grown used to teasing her about impending maternity clothes. He thinks of the baby shop down the road and decides to take her there tomorrow. There will be little shirts and little shoes, blankets and cots and bath tubs and prams, bright colours and stuffed animals, and the mere though of it is terrifying, but recently he's begun thinking about things more and realises with horror that they haven't got a spare room for a nursery.
"Nikki," he whispers, patting her stomach gently. "Nikki, sweetheart."
He shakes her shoulder, then presses a warm kiss to her neck, hoping the contact will wake her, and just as he's about to twist her over she moans gently, whimpering as reality catches up and her eyes flutter open.
Her voice slurs in the early morning, mumbled half sentences that he's rapidly learning to interpret, and so as she presses her face firmly into his neck he can just make out the demand to know what's wrong.
"Where's the baby going to go?" he asks, rubbing his hand up her back. He feels her still beneath him, feels her breath moisten his skin in short, sharp puffs, and with a start she turns steadily in his arms, closing her eyes.
"In a bed of course," she murmurs finally. "Go to sleep."
"But what room?" he continues, tugging her to him once more, "Nikki?" he whines.
He knows she's rolling her eyes at him, knows she's annoyed to be woken for no apparent reason, but at the same time he's got her thinking, so she groans slightly.
"We'll figure it out in the morning. Go to sleep."
There's dead silence minutes later, Nikki's breath has slowed to a steady pace and he can tell she's drifted off. He leans towards her stomach once more.
"Hear that Peach, you get your own room tomorrow."
She'd thought that his midnight conversations would tapper off after the first few months, but here they are, week 19, and he's pressed his face against her side.
It's 11 o'clock in the evening and neither of them are sleeping. She's no longer allowed in the field, and lab work has decreased rapidly, but her opinion is still sought on each detail of his cases, and on this night the weight of death has settled across them both.
She has one hand pressed to her belly button, the other rests solidly against his chest, fingers running through slight hair whilst his heart pounds gently below her touch. His eyes are slung closed, fluttering open every now and then, watching her intently, waiting until she drifts off before he'll allow himself sleep.
His sentences are soft, mumbled occasions, sporadic and meaningless in their content, but she knows it brings comfort to him. Perhaps the thought of keeping up a relationship with their child so early helps him convince himself he'll keep one going years in the future. They've had countless talks about fears and worries, and whilst he's reluctant to admit it, she knows he's terrified of losing touch with those he loves, the same way his father had so many years earlier.
It's why she can forgive him at ridiculous hours in the morning, when he wakes her on purpose with haphazard questions, or by accident mid way through a story. He's a master storyteller, and already she has the feeling bedtime will be his favourite part of the day.
"Harry," she whispers gently, reaching her hand from his chest to sift through his hair, "Shall we start painting tomorrow?"
She feels his smile, rather than seeing it, and as his murmurings halt against her rounded skin, she watches as he instead launches into an account of all he plans, from the soft yellow across the walls to the shelves and cot he's convinced he'll be able to assemble.
It's nice, and normal, yet at the same time so new and terrifying, that she allows herself to be lost in his description, and as their baby's future dwelling pans out before her, she feels her eyes slither closed.
"Night sweetheart," he whispers softly, watching as she drifts from consciousness. She smiles softly and murmurs as her fingers trace softly across the bump.
"Night Peach."
By the time she reaches 21 weeks she's taken to standing in front of the mirror for minutes on end. She watches the way her body changes, the heavy swells that shape each contour, before turning to watch her wardrobe slowly become useless.
Harry, too, has taken to watching her watch herself, and whilst it's partly because she tends to do so naked, it's also his unending curiosity with anything to do with the baby.
On this particular morning, 5 months and 2 days, Harry declares they are going shopping, and promptly puts down his coffee to pick up his keys. She is still half dressed and scowls at him when he yells to hurry up, muttering all the way down the hallway until finally, 20 minutes later, she is ready to go.
"What are we buying?" she asks curiously, crinkling her brow in accusation as he shrugs.
"Let's just go for a walk along the water, there's shops there," he announces causally, tugging gently at her hand. It's the middle of winter and beneath the jacket and the jumper and the scarf she is wearing she can still feel the cold seep to her bones. She steps closer to him, pressing her body to his side, and so he slings an arm across her shoulder, chuckling as she shivers in response.
"You're just lucky I'm at the most comfortable stage of this pregnancy," she mumbles, breath coming out in puffs.
"No nausea, dizziness or tiredness, don't know what you're complaining about," quips Harry.
Luckily he has the foresight to run.
By the time she catches up with him (he's stopped to watch the kids swinging at a frozen playground), feeling has returned somewhat to her hands, and the sight of a small shop catches her eye. It's different to the one around the corner from their home, and the warm pastel colours hanging in the window remind her of his plans for the nursery (so far he has the first few coats of paint done, and each time she asks he promises he's made progress).
She tugs at his hand tightly, not bothering to wait his approval before wandering into the warmth of the shop. She flows up and down the few aisles slowly, taking in each object - from cloth books to teddy bears to mobiles hanging from the ceiling - with awe; Harry's presence only noted when he comes across a particularly impressive toy airplane.
Her hand lies steadily across her stomach, unconsciously rubbing circles there, as she fingers the soft blankets at the back of the shop. Beneath the pinks and blues she see's a tuff of yellow, and gently lifts the fleecy soft material. The blanket is slightly darker than the nursery will be, but the soft embroidery round the edges tells a tale of giraffes and elephants and zebra's, and with a sudden ache she remembers her first encounter in South Africa, a school trip when she was quite young.
When Harry finds her, eyes closed and hand tracing the images softly, he rests his chin against her shoulder and squeezes her tight.
"Hey Peach," he murmurs quietly, startling Nikki from her memories, "When you're a little older I promise our first holiday will be back to mummy's home, sound good?"
Harry's taken to answering his own rhetorical questions, an act that never fails to amuse her.
Nikki smiles softly, and as he presses a kiss to her cheeks she can't help but giggle at his response.
"Peach thinks it's a wonderful idea."
By five and a half months they've had many appointments, seen the baby's figure and started attending prenatal classes, much to his amusement.
Tuesday mornings in the labs now start with a run through of the evening before, with Leo in particular joining in the laughter. Despite it, both Nikki and Harry appreciate the knowledge as invaluable, as despite two medical degrees between them, any help is considered good help when they're this far out of their depth.
It is when she is on the brink of her third trimester that Harry is called from dinner. He kisses her gently on the forehead, tells her he loves her, before kissing the bump and repeating his affections for Peach. He is out the door in minutes, promising to wrap up the scene quick.
She doesn't hear from him until the next morning.
It is four am, the dead of winter makes it cold even with the heater, and the dead of night unsettles her no matter how many lights she turns on. She has read a novel, watched television (infomercials that had almost convinced her, in a state of mild exhaustion and worry, that their deals really are crash hot) and is now drifting between consciousness and sleep, the nausea of her first trimester returning to settle at the pit of her stomach, threatening to send her into fits of unease and tears of frustration.
She's tried his mobile, and tried the labs, and each time she has met with a message tone promising he'll ring back soon or a voice telling her the message will be passed on.
She doubts either has happened.
There is a sudden creak as the front door opens; heavy footsteps trudge up stairs, before the bedroom is bathed in swathes of hallway light.
She can just make out his appearance in the doorway, and the heavy set of his shoulders speaks volumes of the anguish she can feel rolling off him in waves. Clothes are flung to the floor, and despite the chill she can see sweat beaded across his forehead. For a terrifying moment she think he may be sick, but as he collapses into bed beside her, immediately borrowing his head to her neck, she realizes his shaking is from tears, not fever; the heat of his skin, anger, and the set of his jaw the only thing stopping him from breaking down.
He won't speak yet, she's sure of that, neither will he sleep, and as she feels herself drifting from consciousness, intensely relieved by his presence despite his state, she makes sure that her body is molded as close to his as possible. Her legs entwine between his own, her arms wrap around his torso, allowing him to press fingers to her stomach, whilst his head is nestled between her head and breast.
"There was a little girl," he murmurs finally. "A little girl and her brother, he was only 10, and their mother was sitting there, crying over them, even when I got there, because every time they tried to get her to move she'd kick and scream and couldn't let them go. You know who it was though?" he chokes.
He pauses now, and she hardly knows whom he's telling.
"The father."
His hand is shaking terribly, and so she takes it within her own and presses it to her heart.
"I don't understand," he murmurs in defeat, burying his face in her hair. "I don't understand any of them."
In the morning she awakes fitfully, held tight to his body, and it takes her a moment to realise her dream was just that. He had not been lost in a chasm of darkness; terrible images of gunshot wounds and death. She's seen countless means of ending a life and that night had dreamt each one of Harry.
But now he's solid and warm and moving. His hands are sweeping gently across her body, their tremble of earlier has steadied, and his clammy skin has cooled.
"D'you have work today?" she asks gently.
He loves her this time of the morning, still hazy with sleep; hair tangled slightly, cheeks a rosy hue against golden ringlets. He nods against her neck and tries to chase away the image of the mother clutching her children.
"Why do we bring children into the world only to hurt them," he sighs softly; thinks of his father, her father, his mother and countless others.
"Why?" asks Nikki gently. She stops his fingertips dancing erratically across her skin, trapping them in her grasp. "Because even though they'll undoubtedly get hurt, and even though it's hard and terrifying, we both love this child, and will never allow it to be hurt or sad or angered if there's anything we can do."
He ponders the thought a moment, thinks of stethoscopes and breathing exercises and yellow blankets. He doesn't reply, instead nodding, before pushing himself from bed for a shower. He dreads the coming day more than any other previous, though he'd always known the first child case since becoming a father would hurt. Like he knows the first after Peach is born will probably tear him to pieces, and each one after that.
Sometimes he wonders at the futility of it all, the destruction only adults seem capable of and wonders how he ever found himself at this stage in his life.
The shower continues to pound torrents upon him.
It is late afternoon; Nikki awakes gently from a nap, and discovers the 'Tale of Peter Rabbit' being read animatedly to her stomach. Harry's face is peaceful, smiling, and the image brings tears to her eyes.
"You feeling better?" she asks softly, leaning up to brush lips to his cheek.
He shakes his head slightly and rests the book down, drawing her towards him.
"Not really," he murmurs, and she can feel him tremble slightly. "But it'll get better."
It does, slowly, until one day a few weeks later Harry comes bounding through the front door grinning widely.
Nikki is half asleep, half watching the television, the last remnants of paperwork spread haphazardly across the coffee table, as she lies peacefully on the lounge, startled suddenly as Harry yells out to her.
She hums gently in response, rubbing her stomach gently.
"Daddy's excited, could be dangerous darling," she murmurs.
"Look what I stole!" he announces proudly. In his hand he grips a stethoscope, and she can't help but chuckle softly. Months ago Harry had discovered they could hear the baby's heartbeat, and at random intervals throughout the day could be found cornering her in the labs with the cool metal object. Today he'd finally succeeded in bringing one home.
"Please tell me Leo knows you brought that here," she asks, accusation lost as he grins wider, ambling towards her slowly.
"Pretty please let me listen."
"No."
"Nikki."
"No, Harry… No."
"Nicola."
She closes her eyes in defeat, unused to him whining her full name, before raising her arms in surrender. With a slow sigh she collapses back against the lounge, shuffling slightly into a more comfortable position, keeping her eyes shut. Lately they've been irritated by the slightest hints of light, and whilst she knows it's normal and the least of her worries, the apprehension of all that is to come is beginning to creep into everyday occurrences.
With a gasp she feels the cool metal settle across her stomach. The bump is well defined now, maternity clothes are in use, and she's glad they've managed to begin picking up bits and pieces from different shops they come across. The soft yellow blanket she found weeks earlier lies in the crib, and last week Harry had proudly presented her with a mobile of dancing animals similar to that of the blanket.
"This way you'll grow up with mummy and daddy's home," he'd murmured slightly, and she hadn't even thought of apologising for the tears that followed.
Now, however, she can't help but giggle. Harry's face is pressed close to her own, every now and then dipping down to ask the bump questions, at other times pressing kisses to her cheeks and nose.
There's a faint but steady and rapid beat reverberating through her, and Harry's fingers tap out the rhythm across her stomach.
"You've got a strong beat going there, Peach," he's saying softly, "You're going to love music, and dancing. Mummy will teach you how to dance," he adds with a grin, and she has to fight the urge to push his shoulder.
"You know we could have found out whether Peach is a boy or a girl weeks ago," she murmurs softly, watching him through a hooded gaze as he contemplates the situation.
"Surprise?" he asks suddenly, shrugging, and she feels weight lift at the thought that they're at on the same wavelength.
"Definitely, a surprise."