A/N: Takes place just before the events of DH.
Late June, wet and wretched and sweltering.
On an anxious whim she takes early leave from work and apparates to Diagon Alley. Teeth etching the inside of her cheek, nervous habit, as the apothecary stoppers the pregnancy test and twirls it three times with practiced hands. At home, under her husband's harrowed gaze, she watches as the silvery substance froths, sibilates, and settles to a dark and unmistakable blue.
(Say something, she'd whispered, in the silence. And then she'd wished she hadn't).
By mid July, the humidity has taken its toll. It makes the walls swell. It has them charming muggle fans to spin, spin, spin. And it renders her dismally sick, days on end. In the upstairs bathroom, her throat burns as she empties her stomach into the toilet. Ribs aching, she braces herself with shaky hands in an effort to stay upright. The relief of finally vomiting makes her feel like she's floating. Eyes closed, careful breaths.
Those foul-tasting remedies Remus keeps bringing home from Molly's make not a spot of difference.
(Earlier, he'd poured her a glass of the home-brewed antiemetic while she trembled at the kitchen table, his hands gently rubbing her shoulders as she drank. When she'd glimpsed his face, she wasn't sure which one of them had looked more ill. She'd found a broken teacup in the bin, and wasn't sure if he'd dropped it (hands shaking) or if he'd perhaps hurled it at the floor).
She sits back against the side of the tub. Slick white porcelain, blessedly cool against her skin. She thinks about crawling into the bath, about filling it with ice water. Fully submerged. With blind fingers, she reaches over to flush but only succeeds in knocking over a small basket of toiletries.
"Bugger," she exhales, harsh, as the contents clatter noisily to the tiled floor.
Remus' call of concern, echoing up from the kitchen, and she can't take in a deep enough breath to muster any response just yet. It's late, past midnight now, and he's been up every night this week, pouring over the details of the upcoming mission. The dining table has been turned into a veritable mountain of maps and assorted reports, which is just as well, since as far as she can tell he has no more appetite than she does.
She hears him then, setting aside whatever piece of parchment he'd been holding, footfalls growing louder as he climbs the stairs and carefully opens the bathroom door.
"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," she breathes, weakly, reaching out for him. But he is already coming to kneel next to her, and as he takes her hand she leans forwards to rest her forehead miserably against his shoulder. His other palm brushes gently up and down her back. Damp shirt.
"You're alright," he murmurs, and she wonders which one of them he is trying to reassure.
Though they've promised each other a proper honeymoon for when the war ends, if the thing ever ends, she can't remember what being well enough to travel feels like anymore. Sitting there on the cold tiles, she is completely, utterly exhausted.
(Yesterday, he'd begged for the hundredth time: Let me speak with Alastor about rearranging plans for Privet Drive. His back to her as he braced himself against the countertop. You're in no fit state to fly).
She watches through bleary eyes as Remus grabs the little cup that sits on the counter beside the tap and fills it a quarter of the way with water.
"Here, love," he murmurs, crouching back down in front of her, and with a gentle hand against the back of her skull, he supports her head so she can sip at it. When she has finished, he tucks her sweaty hair back behind her ears and she leans into him again.
"Bloody Gryffindor, this one," she whispers shakily into the wool of his jumper, her arms curling over her flat stomach, "giving us this much trouble already."
His throat moves against the side of her head as he swallows hard. Somewhere past the exhaustion, she wants to reach out and touch him, reassure him somehow before his mind runs away with him again. Her fists tighten instinctively, but her arms are folded snugly around her rib cage and she is altogether too tired to move.
He shifts again and she hears water swishing as he flushes the toilet.
"Sorry," she breathes. For the vomit. For the stupid joke. It seems she is always saying the wrong things lately, though the wrong things are so often the exact words she is desperate for him to hear.
He dismisses her apology with a soft sound, lips on the crown of her head.
The gentle hiss of the toilet ceases as the tank finally stops filling, and then there is only the sound of the little clock on the wall ticking its steady rhythm in quiet staccato beats.
Later, in their small bedroom across the hall, she watches from under thin sheets as he summons a bowl and a fresh glass of water from the kitchen. He sets them carefully down on the bedside table.
"Are you coming to bed?" she asks.
"Soon," he promises, but the reassurance never quite reaches his eyes. "I've got a few things to finish yet. Go to sleep, I won't be long."
He straightens up and glances warily through a crack in the curtains, watching the forest outside, before pulling them more firmly closed over the window. It is a nervous habit to which they've both grown accustomed. Though Remus has refreshed the protective enchantments, her heart aches as she notices, not for the first time, the way stress has settled itself around his tense shoulders.
(A particularly difficult morning, last week: You can't give birth in St. Mungo's, if the Ministry falls. His face had been pale, pale).
Before she can stop herself, she reaches out for him. "Remus," she whispers tightly. He turns and lets her take his hand. She pulls gently. "Please. Just for a little while."
He hesitates only a moment before stretching out beside her, over the bedcovers. He pulls her gingerly into his arms, settling her head under his chin. As he reaches toward the lamp and plunges the room into darkness, she curls her fingers into the sleeve of his jumper as if to hold him in place.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading!