I'm so, so sorry for this.
Thank you to outlawqueenluvr for the beta.
He practices saying the word when he's alone.
Just in case.
Fresh and pink from the shower, he uses the side of his fist to buff away the fog on the bathroom mirror, and squints at his reflection. "Dad," he says, cheesing up the word with a grin, arms stretched wide, a reflected echo of decades spent running into his father's embrace whenever he returned home from a job.
One, three, five seconds before the moment stretches thin.
He sobers, leaning his knuckles on the counter. "Dad," he whispers to the sink.
Maybe. Maybe not.
He'd pulled rank to get the Labor Day weekend off for the clambake at the beach, and he's paying for it now. Back to back flights keep him awake across the ocean, while Trina sleeps here alone, dealing with headaches keeping her sequestered in cool, dark rooms for hours and an ever present nausea triggered by the slightest of odors. This last week was particularly hard on them, her with morning sickness stretching into the wee hours and him with a touch of a cold made that much worse by jet lag.
At this rate they'll end up making the decision about the baby via an international telephone call.
"Tom." Her voice drifts through the cracked door, soft and gravelled with sleep. She'd crawled into bed with him a few hours ago, early, much earlier than normal, and had fallen asleep not long after with her head tucked into his shoulder. The shower must have woken her.
"Trine?" He walks out of the bathroom, one hand clutching the coral pink towel around his waist, and sits on the edge of the bed. "You ok?"
She's curled on her side, knees tucked close to her chest, arms wrapped around her middle over the silk sheet. Her dark eyes are glassy as she looks up at him, sweat dampening her temples from the summer heat clinging to the city even as October approaches, and before she can open her mouth, he knows, an intrinsic part of him knows what's coming next.
"I can't—I don't want to do it this way."
Tom grips his towel, the hairs on his forearms stiffening as his skin dimples with gooseflesh.
"Ok." He breathes the word out on the heels of a sigh. Her body. Her decision. "Ok," he says, again, his voice stronger, more sure, and he smiles for her as she does for him, though neither can hide the tinge of sadness.
She reaches for him, and he slips beneath the sheet, gathering her into his arms. Her limbs tangle with his in a slow, sleepy dance of knees, elbows, and feet. Once she's settled, he strokes her back with broad sweeps of his hand, pressing the occasional firm touch along her spine in places he knows she carries her stress, his ministrations rewarded with tiny mewls he feels more than hears.
They're careful with their lifestyle, but long ago, when they'd first toyed with opening their marriage, she'd said if she ever did fall pregnant, she'd take care of it. Alone. And now she's told him. Asked him to make the decision with her this time, but it's only ever been her choice. His input is a consideration, not a demand, and yet...
"Do you want me to go with you?" He's never gone before (never known), and he's not quite sure what to do now that they're being open about the one thing they don't discuss.
Trina shakes her head, her nose tickling the sparse hairs on his chest. "No."
"Ok." He should say something else, more than single syllable words, she deserves more from him than the same word repeated over and over like a damaged record.
She sniffs, and he pulls her tight against his body before pushing gently against her shoulders until he can see her, all of her. Brushes her sleep-mussed curls away from her face and kisses her forehead, each delicate, fluttering eyelid. Runs the tip of his nose along hers until she lifts her face and fits her mouth to his.
He would have loved their child, he thinks, had indulged in imagining little happenings at 30,000 feet instead of planning their next party, their next destination (dipping tiny toes into the lake, a pair of bronze, plastic wings pinned to a romper, laughter streaming from three mouths instead of two), but above all else he'll do anything for her, including falling out of love with the hazy promise of memories yet unmade.
He infuses as much love and warmth as he can into the kiss, keeping it slow and tender, a low burn against her lips rather than a heated climb into passion. She's still queasy, and he's on borrowed time as it is.
She breaks away first, sliding her hand over his chest, resting along the back of his neck. "Are you sorry I told you? About the baby?" Her fingers play with the damp ends of his hair, squeezing out the excess water, and he shivers as the cool droplets land on his skin.
"No. Never," he says. "Open and honest at all times, right?"
"Right." She takes a shallow breath. "I just… We need more time. More than we have."
Tom swallows hard, his throat bobbing beside her palm as her thumb strokes the side of his neck. In their stolen moments together they've talked long and deep, spoken of Tokyo, tiptoed around words like monogamy, sobriety, and retirement, and whispered apologies and promises between the sheets when they're alone.
"When—if—we have a child, I want us to be in a better place," she says.
"Preferably not separated by eight time zones and the largest ocean on the planet."
"Among other things."
They're doing all right, he knows. Feeling out their equilibrium as the summer and all its (mis)adventures settle into the predictable patterns of fall, but they've still got things to talk about, a few loads of dirty laundry waiting to be taken out of the hamper and starched (or burned) before they jump into something this life changing.
She's hurting, though, and he's hurting, too, because it's not her or him, it's her and him and the new idea of them. The possibility of a future they thought they'd closed the door on but had stumbled into by accident anyway.
Her eyes drift closed. "Go," she says. "You'll be late. I just wanted to tell you, before."
"I can be late this once."
She hums and turns to her other side, pressing her back into his chest and folding her legs around his own. His hand slides across her ribs, dipping between her breasts and coming to rest on her shoulder, tugging her that much closer to his body. The night sky is clear outside the windows, moonlight dripping quicksilver along her skin as he presses a kiss behind her ear.
"Next time we'll both be ready," he murmurs.
A hiccoughing sob wracks her body, and he tightens his embrace until it passes.
"I'm sorry," she says.
"Me, too."
He holds her as long as he can, until her breathing slows into the steady rhythm of dreamless sleep and her grip on his hand slackens and falls away. His brave, strong, beautiful, vulnerable wife. One last kiss brushed behind her ear, and he eases away, slipping from the bed to dress in his uniform. Tokyo awaits.