So here goes a bit of fluff :)

Also, the song I mention - Lucky by Jason Mraz and Colbie Caillat.

Week 12

She's doing his Sunday crossword, while he's playing on his iPad. They're on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, his arms wrapped around her; she's cuddled next to him. Both are wearing matching NAVY t-shirts, their standard lazy Sunday attire.

"Its fingernails and toenails are starting to develop."

"Really? Already?"

"Yep." And she's smiling, because she loves that he knows that, she loves that he thinks it's important, and interesting and amazing enough to tell her; she's smiling because for the first time since they decided to keep it, he seems as excited as she is; she's smiling because despite everything she can't remember the last time she was this happy, the last time she was this at ease. Everything's going to be OK. She can feel it in her gut. And her gut, well lately it's grown back into its infallible self.

Week 13

She's sitting on the kitchen counter with a tub of Ben & Jerry's, and she's singing along to Lucky, her voice getting lost in the track; music is swallowing the whole room up.

"Really, Liv?"

"Hey, I'm pregnant I get to have ice cream for breakfast."

"I wasn't commenting on the ice cream. I know better." And he's looking at the speakers, with an unmistakable smirk.

"I love this song and I don't care that you think it's cheesy, or that you think it's girly. It cheers me up." He turns the volume down.

"When's your appointment next week?" And there's an instant change in the mood.

"Wednesday." And she's looking at the floor, trying to will the tears away, hoping he won't notice, but of course he does. And he's standing between her legs, lifting her chin up with his finger, and brushing the lone tear away.

"It's going to be OK." He sounds certain. He's not, and she knows, but it's easier to believe than to question.

"I know. It's just hormones." She sounds sincere. She's not, and he knows, but it's easier to believe than to question.

"It can put its thumb in its mouth now." She smiles weakly, the mood barely lighter. He needs to do better. And with that he's turning the volume up again, and he's singing, using her ice cream spoon instead of a microphone. And with that all the worry is gone, the bubble is back on; her laughter bouncing off of its invisible walls. And she thinks to herself - despite everything, she's lucky – to be in love with her best friend. It's cheesy, but she doesn't mind, instead she simply smiles.

Week 18

"Honey, I'm home." He calls out from the doorway, barely managing to stifle a laugh.

"In the bedroom."

"Hi."

"Hi." She's standing in semi-darkness, getting ready for bed. He stops in his tracks taking her in. She's curvier, but still petite, the biggest change being her breasts, which seem like they're about the pup out of her bra. She sees his face and blushes slightly. "You look beautiful. I missed you."

"I missed you too. I didn't expect you until later tonight though."

"I managed to get on an earlier flight. And now I'm glad I have."

"I need to get new bras."

"You could just walk around topless."

"Oh, yeah?" And she's unhooking her bra, slowly dropping it to the floor, walking towards him.

"Liv, you know what the doctor said."

"But I'm horny." And she's pouting and he thinks it might be the most adorable thing in the world. "And she's looking at his crotch, a smirk on her face, "And clearly you are too."

"I am. But no sex. So we're going to cuddle. And talk. And if you behave maybe even kiss a little."

"I don't want to cuddle, and I don't want to talk." And he's walking her over to the bed, she's taking off his shirt and putting it on her. He lies down and pats the space next to him, his eyes inviting her in. "Fine." And it's drawn out, and petulant and they both chuckle.

Once they're comfortably wrapped around each other, intertwined, he kisses her temple and says, "You know it can hear your heartbeat now."

"Yeah?" And she's looking up at him, a wide smile stretching across her face.

"Yeah." And they cuddle, and they talk and it's all either of them could ever want.

Week 22

"It's been ten weeks. I've been stuck on bed-rest for ten weeks. I'm bored."

He chuckles, but she doesn't look amused.

"What can I do to make it better?"

"Let me go to work?"

"It's Sunday." He's barely stifling a laugh, but at this point, he knows better.

"So tomorrow? Just for a day?" And he's giving her a scandalized look, a look that says – no way in hell, and over my dead body – all wrapped up in a neat little smile.

"Just for half a day?" And she knows she's fighting a loosing battle, but she doesn't care. She has time, all she has is time. Endless time. At home. With Angry Birds, Ellen, and a stack of books. All these books that she kept buying, but never read, leaving them for 'one day'; movies she hadn't seen, because she was too busy living; songs she hasn't heard because she was too never stopped to listen, to let them in, let them wash over her, let them impact her. But now, she has time. All she has is time.

"Not even for half a day." And he's walking over, wrapping his arms around her belly, his head bent down to her shoulder. "How about we play a game?"

"OK. I can play a game." And she grinds against him and then slowly turns around, slipping her hands under his shirt. "Livvie…" He knows what he has to say, but it's been long, too long, and really – he doesn't want her to stop. "Not that kind of game." And he's kissing her head, but it doesn't do the trick for either of them. She's upset, she's frustrated and she's scared, and he is too, but one of them has to stay cool.

"Look you know I want to." And he's pulling her in, kissing her neck, pressing into her back. "But you know we can't. So instead we're going to play a game."

And she's relaxing in his embrace, holding onto his arms, the moment, the anger – gone. "What game?" She's giving in, to reason, into him.

"The one where I suggest baby names and you shoot them down?"

"Really?" And she's excited now, almost giddy. But then there's a flash of fear, panic in her eyes, "Is it too early? I don't want to tempt fate."

"It's just baby names." And they both know that's a lie. It's hope, it's a promise; it's faith overcoming the fear; it's letting themselves fly, despite the chance they'll crash. It's the acknowledgment of this little life.

"How about Clementine?"

"Great name for an orchard."

"The baby's got taste buds now."

"It's still a no."

"Party-pooper." And with that they're bursting into laughter, their voices filling up the space, filling them.

Week 27

It's 3am on a Sunday and she just has to have cupcakes. So she's up in the middle of the night, baking. She's trying to reach the paper cups on the top shelf, when he gently lifts her up, kissing her neck.

"What are you doing up?"

"Well when I realized my pregnant wife wasn't in bed I got worried." And there's a hint of seriousness in his tone, not quite masked by the nonchalance.

"I'm sorry." And she is, realizing what must have been the first thought he had. "I'm OK. Just hungry."

"You're meant to be on some semblance on bed-rest. So how can I help?"

"I'm fine. I just couldn't sleep and kept having cupcake fantasies. You can go back to bed. You don't have to stick around for the crazy."

"Hey, you're my crazy and I love my crazy."

"In that case take a seat and keep me company?"

And he does. And he's watching her waltz around the kitchen, looking for anything containing sugar to put in the cupcakes. His navy shirt is tied up in a knot just above her perturbing belly and he notices how much it has grown over the past couple of weeks. And he's smiling unconsciously.

"What?"

"Nothing. You just look very pregnant."

"I am very pregnant."

'I know."

But then her face changes, and instantly he's alert. He's been waiting for something to happen, for something to go wrong, for months. He's constantly looking out, constantly worrying, constantly waiting.

"It's kicking." And her hand is reaching for his, putting it on her belly.

"That's because it can recognize our voices now." And they're feeling their baby kick, and it's magical, this life they've created. And he finally succumbs, finally lets go, believes his own memo – it is going to be OK. Nothing is going to happen, nothing will go wrong. He's done waiting for death, they're waiting for a life.

Week 30

He wakes up, and for the first time in three weeks the nagging feeling is back. He looks over at her, but she's firmly asleep next to him. Peaceful. His feeling is wrong. And he pulls his hand up to stroke her cheek, and in an instant everything in him sinks into a bottomless pit.

"Liv, wake up!"