The whole thing about trying to keep Elle's pregnancy between the two of you is that she's not a very good liar. She can't keep her hands off her still flat abdomen, and she's nearly slipped and spoken about the baby in front of just about everyone.

When Arthur catches her throwing up in the garbage can in the hallway and asks if she's alright, she tells him, "I'll be fine. It's just the bab—bad. Something bad I must have eaten," before taking off like a shot.

Looking back, you can pick apart the whole situation in your apartment, with the pie and the ziti on your floor, and you know when she was lying to you.

And when she was lying to herself. (She was never just following orders.)

The other thing about trying to hide Elle's pregnancy is that her "morning sickness" is bordering on "all day sickness" and if she goes any paler, she's going to be see-through.

"You're going to have to see a doctor at some point, Elle," you tell her one night, pulling her hair back from her face as she throws up what little she managed to eat of her dinner.

"So…Mohinder?" Elle asks.

"I want you to see a real doctor." Someone who won't decide that our baby would be the perfect test subject. "Someone with some experience at prenatal care...not a genetics professor running research experiments."

"Right. A real doctor," Elle says, her voice not nearly as strong as she'd like it to be. She leans back against the bathroom wall and stares at you before cupping her hand and curling her fingers around the little ball of electricity in her hand.

You laugh, spark up your own ball of light and slide your hand into hers. The electricity joins, and then fizzles out, "We'll talk to someone here. I'll tell my fath…Arthur first."

xxxxxxxxx

Arthur reacts with no surprise, directs you to the doctor he's already arranged for, and tells you that Elle should go see Dr. Weatherly whenever she would like to.

You realize then that you should have known this was planned from the start, and that the apartment you had been provided with came with a few strings.

When you get back to your little apartment, you zap out the cameras in all the rooms, and when you talk to Elle, you leave out a few details (like the camera that's still smoking behind the wall in your bedroom.)

xxxxxxxxx

Pregnancy has Elle's hormones going haywire, and you love every second of it. She's curled around you like a cobra, her little legs are wrapped around your waist, and she's clawing at your shirt, trying to undo the buttons without removing her mouth from your neck.

"I need you," she pants out, her breath hot against your neck, and she moves her kisses to your earlobe, sending a different kind of electricity down your neck.

"You have me," you tell her, and she clings to your neck harder, putting her palms on your cheeks to turn your head so she can kiss you, "Let me take you to bed."

She nods, breaking the kiss so she can rest her forehead against yours as you stumble into the bedroom, Elle still in your arms. She lets you go as you lay her on the bed, crawling up to lay next to her. Gently, you start to unbutton the dress shirt she's got on – your shirt – and pull it open, so you can leave a trail of kisses from her collarbone to her belly button. She giggles, and the frantic mood from a minute ago is replaced by something you've learned is serenity.

You feel her little fingers trail through your hair and then move down to start unbuttoning your shirt. There is a button missing from earlier, but the rest of them remain intact as she finally pushes the shirt off your shoulders. You tug it off the rest of the way, dropping it to the floor and she sighs happily.

"We have the whole weekend," she breathes, happy to have you to herself for two whole days.

She doesn't share well, but she's trying.

"Better make this last then," you tell her, and every time you smile you're amazed at how much easier it is than last time.

You finish undressing her slowly, taking your time divesting her of her pants and socks until she is lying under you in just her little lacy bra and panties.

"Mmm, I like these," you tell her, running your fingers over the lacy designs. Elle gasps as you cup her breast through the fabric, arching into your touch.

"Please don't tease me," she begs, squirming as she reaches behind her back, unsnapping her bra. When her fingers go to the waist of her underwear, you laugh, stilling her hands by covering them with your own.

She returns your smile, moving her hands away and raising her eyebrows in an exaggerated "I give up" expression, and you tug her panties down over her slim legs before kissing your way back up.

Her pale skin is flushed red, and every breath she takes pushes her breasts closer to you. All in all, she's far too beautiful to be real, and you suddenly can't stand another minute not being within her. You kick your jeans off and slide against her heated skin.

She pants out your name, and you think you'll never get tired of hearing her say it. Gabriel. The two of you don't put much stock in pet names, not when you're both still trying so hard to redefine who Elle and Gabriel are, and hearing your name coupled with such love (she hasn't said it yet, maybe doesn't know how to define it yet, but it'll come) makes every bad day worth it.

You slip into her with no resistance, and her back arches. She sighs happily, reaching to wrap her little hands around your biceps, holding you. When your fingers find her clit, teasing (you never promised not to) her eyes widen then flutter shut as her orgasm builds. Elle pulls her lower lip between her teeth, biting down as she arches back against you, her hips moving in tandem with yours.

When she comes, she nearly screams your name, and you lean down to kiss her quiet, following her into orgasm.

Afterwards, you roll over so she can lie on your chest, tracing little shapes and sparking to make the hair on your chest stand up. It doesn't hurt, just sends gentle tingles down through your toes. You love her, you know you do, but you're just as scared of voicing it out loud as you imagine her to be…but you can't imagine not having her anymore.

She's the most interesting combination of the Elle who rescued you (you always wondered why the broken rope had singed ends) and the Elle who in the end betrayed you. She doesn't like to talk about the time before, but you've reconciled in your mind that not everything she said was a lie.

She does think you're special, and she doesn't want you to go away.

She's overly dependent on you, and it should bother you but it really doesn't. She fakes it well in front of people, especially people who she thinks have power over her, but when it's just you and her (and the shorted out cameras, now, but you'll have to keep checking they aren't replaced) she lets her guard down and you realize just how much she needs to be reassured.

You wish you could take her out on a regular date, take her to some little spoken word gathering or an art show – you think she'd like something like that, but the idea of trying to assimilate into something else is a little overwhelming even for you.

She lights up like a damn Christmas tree when you tell her she's doing well and the fastest way to upset her is when Arthur implies she hasn't done everything she could, hasn't followed whatever instruction he's given her to the letter.

You're pulled from your thoughts when Elle shift on your chest, and she touches a finger to the tip of your nose.

"Where'd you go?" she asks, propping up her chin and looking at you, her eyes calm.

"Just thinking," you reassure her, tucking her mussed hair behind her ears, smoothing out the tangles, "nothing bad."

She nods, lets you have your privacy and drops it. Occasionally her sensitivity surprises you, because you still sometimes think of her as lacking a few of the basic social cues, and at times she really doesn't know when to drop a topic.

"Are you going to come with me tomorrow?" she asks carefully.

"Tomorrow?"

"I was gonna go see Dr. Weatherly..." her voice trails off. She's nervous, but she'll never tell you that. Never admit to being nervous.

"You want me to come?"

She nods, and the hope in her eyes makes her look about twelve.

"Okay. I can do that…you're sure?"

She nods again; giving you a brilliant smile, then nuzzles her head under your chin. You feel her breath puff hot across your chest and a whisper from her before she nods off, and you think you know what she said.

I love you.