December 11th
She sleeps later than she usually does, a fact she notes the moment her eyes crack open to a room bathed in sunlight despite the closed curtains. To an alarm clock staring back at her with bright red block letters telling her it's well past lunch, and she scrambles for the broken memory of Rick waking her to take her morning meds before letting her head fall back against the pillow.
Her whole body hurts, drained of energy despite having hours to replenish it, and she buries her sigh in the crook of her elbow, swallowing back pointless reprimands for the parts of her seemingly failing to work.
But she forces herself to roll out of bed, knees protesting when she puts her weight on them, head aching when she steps from the bedroom into the bright artificial light of the living space, to find Rick sitting on the couch, staring at her with worry gleaming in his eyes, written so evidently in the draw of his features.
He looks like he barely slept, like he did when he used to force his body to stay awake as long as possible to make sure she was still breathing through the night. Like she did when she'd tried to force herself to do the same, watching the rise and fall of his chest to remind herself that his lungs were no longer failing.
It's a split second glance past the smile usually plastered across his face, the optimism she envies. A look into the man who'd been panicked after he'd watched her die, who had been so scared she wouldn't live that he'd encouraged his doctor to find another way, any way, to save her, even if that meant giving her his own heart. Who cried with her the day she'd taken the pregnancy test, his worry as visceral as her own for those moments before he'd felt the need to reassure her.
Like he always does. Like he's still doing.
And if she didn't still feel panic stutter in her chest, climbing the ladder of her ribs to clog her throat, lace up her spine to haunt her mind with constant whispers of all that could go wrong, if it wasn't all so overwhelming and shattering at once, she would try to return the favor. Offer him smiles and promises that it will be okay like he's offered her.
Instead, she slips into the room with quiet footsteps, reaching out to take the hand he offers, allowing him to draw her to sit on the cushion next to him. He loops an arm around her waist, holds her to him until she's sinking against his side, into the warmth of his arms around her and the comfort it offers, no matter how slight.
"How are you feeling?" he asks.
Her response is instant, without hesitation, dragged out only by the lingering fog in her mind. "Tired," she mumbles. "Like I didn't sleep."
He squeezes her side, tightening his grip on her as he does so, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. "You were tossing and turning a lot," he tells her. "I'm surprised you didn't wake yourself up."
She hums, shrugs one shoulder because he knows as well as she does why she didn't. That her body was too exhausted to drag itself from the abyss of sleep, however chaotic it may have been. That she's long since been well accustomed to sleeping through the panics of her mind, the physical manifestations of it that wrack her body.
His hand tightens at her side again, and she looks up to see worry darkening his eyes, twisting at his lips, so evident, as though he's unwilling to hide it any longer. Or incapable, just for this moment when she's slept far too long and her body still feels broken and the baby moving within her is doing nothing to soothe the assault of worries on her mind, on her heart.
"You're stressing yourself out," he whispers, understanding, sympathetic and she almost wishes it was accusing, that he could see the harm she's causing just as she does. "But none of this is your fault. And there's nothing you can do to change it."
Words well in her chest, accusatory and rude and fueled by exhaustion and she forces herself to swallow them before she can hurt him any more. Before she can spit out the I know that curls at the tip of her tongue and remind him that all that could be done to prevent this is not getting shot, not needing a heart transplant.
And therefore having never met him.
So she buries herself in his arms instead, twisting in her seat so she can draw her feet up beneath her to keep them from going numb. Her head falls from his shoulder to his chest, sinks farther until she's lying against his thigh, curled up against him as tightly as the swell of her baby bump will allow.
She hates the ease with which her mind starts to go out again, her body thanking her for the change in position by silencing its aches as much as her ability to force herself to stay awake. Forcing her to acknowledge the poor sleep she got and sink into the cushions beneath her, her husband's touch, the draw of unconsciousness that tugs at her despite her feeble attempts at protesting.
Rick combs his fingers through her hair, tugging knots from the strands with gentle motions that only have sleep becoming more appealing, more inevitable.
Her hand curls into a fist against his thigh, thumb pressed to the spot where her head aches from simply being awake, frustration leaking into her tone when she whispers against the cotton of his pajama pants. "I'm tired."
Not just physically. Of being sick. Of risking making their son sick. Of knowing it's her fault.
She knows he knows that too, feels it when his movements come to a halt, his body tensing underneath her only to relax again, slipping back into the version of himself that doesn't worry, just cares for her and their son.
"I know," he breathes. "So sleep. We'll take it easy today."
When she wakes a second time, she's back in their bed, curled up on her side and surrounded by pillows, the duvet cocooned around her, tucked beneath her, warming her from the chill of poor circulation. And though she doesn't remember being lifted from the couch, she can imagine her husband ensuring her comfort, being careful as he tucks her in to avoid waking her, slipping away with nothing but a quick kiss to her forehead.
He's not in the bedroom with her, his side of the bed barren, but it only takes a flick of her gaze over her surroundings to spot him in his office, sitting in the seat she usually occupies, but it's angled towards her now, towards a gap in the items lining the shelves.
The sigh falls from her lips quietly, the roll of her eyes met with the slight upturn of the corners of her mouth. His gaze snaps to hers when fabric rustling echoes through the room, as she disentangles herself from the duvet wrapped around her, forces herself to sit amongst the nest of pillows he'd made for her.
She slips from bed as gracefully as fatigue and pregnancy will allow, finding her balance as she walks into the office. His book is already set aside, his features alight with tentative happiness when he reaches for her, pulls her onto his lap.
He knows the weaknesses of her body too well, as proven by the way he lifts her legs from the floor, turns her so they're hanging over the armrest, a little more level with the rest of her body. A little less likely to go numb. His thumb smooths over her knee cap, the other rubbing circles into the base of her spine.
"You don't have to watch me sleep," she tells him, even as she smudges a quick kiss to his jaw in silent gratitude for his love, his concern.
"I know," he huffs. "I was just making sure that–"
"I was still breathing?"
She lifts her head from his shoulder to watch his genuine response flicker across his face, a myriad of worry and guilt and fear that obliterates his smile, breaks her heart in the process. Her forehead falls to rest against his before he can continue from there, return to his facade of simple optimism and promises that he's sure she'll be okay when there's so little indicating that as the case.
"I'm not going to die on you, Rick," she whispers, breathing the words across his face, and despite the constant haunting of concern in her mind, there's a twist in her gut telling her that is true. "I'm not leaving you," she adds, fingers tripping along his jaw to force his gaze to meet hers. "I'm not leaving him."
Rick's responding nod is quick, maybe too much so, but it's enough to have her pressing her mouth to his in reassurance, have her pressing herself tighter to him, breathing promises of her life past his lips.
He pulls away slowly, a hand braced at her waist, the other having settled on the round of belly. His smile blooms happy, now, no longer drawn with fear, with failed attempts at portraying optimism where there's worry. He coasts his fingers up her side, kisses her one last time before speaking.
"I have a surprise for you."
"You do?"
His grin spreads wide, his response coming without words. His hands press gently, help lift her back to her feet so she's standing in front of him. He stands with her, looping his arms around her waist from behind, leading her with minute footsteps from the bookshelf walls of his office into the living room that lies beyond.
The couch where she'd fallen asleep this morning isn't even visible anymore, hidden beneath layers of sheets and blankets. Dining chairs have been dragged into the room, aligned with the couch's armrests, covered in the same bedding, forming a makeshift roof and walls over their living room floor.
She twists in his arms at the sight, already smiling at the flicker of insecurity in his eyes, his always adorable attempts to make her happy. "You made us a blanket fort?" she asks.
He shrugs one shoulder, as though it isn't standing so obviously before them. "I figured we could hide away in it, watch movies all day. Take it easy, you know?" he says. "But only if you want to. If not, I can tear it down and–"
Her lips press to his cheek first, and then to his mouth, a hum of contentment spilling from her chest when she feels him smile into the kiss. His hands clutch tighter at her middle before he lets her go.
He drops to his knees first, making a show of pulling back the flaps at the entrance to the fort before stopping between them, turning back to face her. She takes the hand he holds out, allows him to help her lower herself to the floor before crawling past him, into the cavern of bedding that hides the sunlight, the world, allows her to sink into a single moment with her husband sitting just a few feet away and her son stirring within.
The inside of his blanket fort is full of pillows, of more blankets that she's sure he stole from every room in the house besides the master. And when he crawls inside, he goes straight towards where he laid out piles of cushions against the couch, creating a seat that he reclines against, welcoming her into the cradle of his thighs.
Her back presses to his chest, head lulling against his shoulder as he bands one arm around her middle, holds her in place, certainly feels their baby's movements against his palm. He reaches back with the other, swipes his tablet from the couch cushions behind him and rests it against her thighs.
"So, since we're taking it easy today, I figured we could live in our blanket fort and watch Christmas movies," he explains.
She hums. "Sounds good to me," she promises.
And it does, anticipation of a quiet day in with subtle infusions of Christmas curling within her as she watches him turn on his tablet, find the list of movies they can watch on it.
She selects one, sinking deeper into his when his chuckle rumbles through his chest, when his smile presses to the top of her head, and gets lost in the beginning of It's A Wonderful Life.
"Are you up for a game?" Rick asks after he's cleared the table, against Kate's protests, and loaded the dishes into the dishwasher.
Her immediate response is a narrowing of her eyes, a confused twist of her lips as she regards him. He turns back to face her, an easy smile on his face that has her apprehension fading, her distrust of his love of extreme entertainment and surprises dissipating. He would never do anything to risk harming her or the baby, but–
"What kind of game?"
He steps towards her slowly, holds out his hand, and helps pull her to a standing position when she takes it. His free fingers trip along her side to find, where it so often lands when they're standing. "Just a board game. I grabbed a few from upstairs." He leads her back to the fort, offering gentle assistance as she crawls back inside, where a small pile of boxes is in the middle. "Monopoly? Life? Oh, maybe Sorry?"
But her gaze is tripping across the fort, landing on something else he must have snagged from upstairs, slipped back into the fort while she'd been in the bathroom.
"Looking for kisses, babe?" she teases, raising a brow as she motions with a point of her finger to the spring of mistletoe just barely holding onto its spot where it hangs from the sheet overhead.
He shrugs, even as his smile morphs to something equal parts sweet and teasing. "I mean, I wouldn't object to a kiss," he tells her.
"Oh, you wouldn't?" she returns. "Well, good to know."
His hand presses harder against the base of her spine when she turns her head to catch his lips with hers, humming against the press of his mouth as he pulls away. He squeezes her middle quickly before slipping away, crawling deeper into the tent towards the board games she'd almost forgotten about. She does the same, returning to the pile of pillows they'd laid against earlier, falling so the cushioning supports her spine, so her head can lull against the edge of the couch.
"You up for this?" he asks. "Because we could watch another movie or–"
"A board game's fine, Rick," she tells him. "But maybe a simple one?"
He nods, quick and simple, smile widening as he reaches over to grab Sorry from the top of the pile. He holds it up between them as though to get her confirmation that it's simple enough, only laying the board across the floor between them when she smiles in silent agreement.
She helps him set it up despite his protests that she just relax, rolling her eyes as she reminds him that it's merely shuffling a deck of cards and arranging four pieces of plastic in a circle on the board. And though he usually favors it—and she usually lets him have it—he insists she go first, allowing her to draw a two from the top of the deck.
The game is quiet, simple enough for her to sit back and enjoy even as hours of wakefulness continue to steadily drain her of her energy. Her head remains resting against the couch cushions at her back, her hands reaching lazily to draw cards from the deck he'd set too close to her, to move the her pieces with every turn before he can insist on doing it for her, saving her the effort of leaning forward.
He suggests time and time again that they end the game before it's finished, reminding her that she's winning anyway, that he'll allow her to be deemed the champion if her body is demanding rest that Sorry won't allow. But her protests are silent shakes of her head, raises of her brow, pointed motions as she reaches over, snags a card from the desk and makes a show of playing her turn.
But by the end of the game he's playing most of her turns for her, moving the pawns under her watchful gaze, smiling every time she draws closer to the finish.
The moment she wins, he's setting the board aside in a rush, crawling over to sit at her side, his arm draped over the couch in an invitation she doesn't hesitate to accept. She nuzzles herself against his chest, pressing her ear to where she can hear the thud of his heart beyond the cage of his ribs.
He's gentle when he hooks a finger under her chin, lifts her face towards his and leans down to press a kiss to her lips, soft and sweet and drawing a sleepy smile to her face.
"A victory kiss," he whispers when he pulls away, allows her to settle back into his embrace as he drops a quick kiss to the top of her head.
She hums, nodding her head slowly to press herself tighter to him, feel the soft cotton of his teen under her cheek. "Thank you," she breathes.
"For your victory kiss?"
The puff of laughter breaks free, almost silent as it falls into the silence, echoed by his own as he kisses her head once again. "No," she answers. "For relaxing with me today. For helping me forget…"
About the rise in her blood pressure. The threat it poses to her. The threat it poses to their son.
When he kisses her head a third time, he lingers for a moment, pulls away onto to breath his response into the strands of her hair. "Always.'
And it's the last thing she hears—besides the steady beat of his heart under her ear—before she drifts off to sleep.
As always, immense gratitude goes to Lindsey for all her help.