Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All the others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.
Spoilers: "Slaves of Las Vegas" and "Lady Heather's Box"
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JIM
It's a beautiful evening, and I've got the woman of my dreams in my arms as we sway to the music; over her shoulder I can see the ocean, the little waves curling onto the beach, and the sunset breeze is just cool enough. And then I realize that--
--We're both naked. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but before I can decide, Heather pulls her head back and tells me it's time to get up.
Dammit. It's a dream.
It takes a minute to pry my eyes open. But there's my beautiful bride, leaning over me with a sultry smile; too bad that in reality, she's already dressed. "Coffee's on, darling," she purrs, and I make a grab for her.
I'm too sleepy to make it quick enough, and Heather slides out of reach with a laugh. I glare at her, trying not to grin. "Come back to bed."
She shakes her head and folds her arms. "I'd love to, but I have a meeting in an hour, and YOU have to be at work thirty minutes after that."
Dammit again. I glance over at the clock, and sigh. "If you insist."
Heather comes back into range to bend down and give me a quick kiss, and I resist the temptation she presents, instead just enjoying the moment. I reach up to touch the Tadpole--much more than a bump now, at seven months.
Then she's straightening again, running her own hand over her stomach in a circular motion. "Excuse me a minute."
She vanishes into the bathroom, and I keep my amusement to myself. "Peeing for two" was how Doctor Phair put it, and it's a good thing we don't go in for long car trips most of the time, because it seems like Heather is in there half the day.
I stretch again and pull myself out of bed, reaching for the robe I dropped on the floor this morning. It's been a long week and I'm short on sleep, but somehow having Heather around makes it easier to get up--or maybe she just puts me in a better mood, I'm not sure.
By the time I've finished my shower and shave and come down to the kitchen, Heather's finished scrambling eggs. We usually take turns doing dinner, but most of the time she handles breakfast, because she HAS to get up and eat something.
Given how long it usually takes me to wake up, I'm not complaining.
I pour a cup of coffee and suck some of it down gratefully. "Refill?" I ask, then realize that Heather doesn't have a cup at all.
She shakes her head and scoops the eggs onto two plates. "My tummy's not happy this morning."
I nod and sit down. She's way past morning sickness, but it's been replaced with heartburn, which the doc says is normal. Heather keeps grumbling that she didn't have this problem with Zoë, but sometimes I wonder if she just doesn't remember.
Heather sits, and starts buttering toast. "Are you working later?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "No, tonight's the night that Pauline takes over as Mistress pro tem. We're going to discuss the schedule, and then I'll come home and probably spend the night online."
I nod, and swallow my mouthful. I'm not much of an Internet user myself, but Heather's an expert. When we moved in to the new place, she got some kind of setup so she can go online from her laptop anywhere in the house.
Me, I'm just happy if I can get my e-mail at work.
"How's the Tadpole?" My eyes drop to the swell of her tummy, which is just visible above the table.
Heather drops a hand to it for another rub. "Busy today--lots of bumps." She's got that small secret smile I've seen before on pregnant women, the kind that sort of makes a guy feel left out but also makes him feel all protective.
"Well, remember what I said. The kid gives you any problems, I'll take care of it." I give her my best cop glare, and Heather chuckles, the low sound I love to hear.
"Yes, darling," she teases, and I have to grin back.
It's been a long time since I've been part of a family, or shared space with someone else. We're still in the early stages here.
But I've got a really good feeling about this.
HEATHER
The house is quiet when I get back after meeting with Pauline, but it's a welcoming sort of quiet. The lights are still on next door, despite the fact that it's after midnight, and I have to wonder if our neighbors are puzzled by the hours we keep. We've met the couple across the way, who both work at Desert Palms, but our conversation wasn't long enough to go into detail about working the night shift. It's hard to run into one's neighbors past eleven, anyway.
I put on some soothing piano solos to get me in the mood for work. It's a CD by one of Jim's colleagues, some kind of private pressing; the music is complex and smooth both, the sort of jazz that conjures up smoky venues and laid-back geniuses on stage. We've actually got speakers in most of the rooms; Francisco insisted on installing the system as a wedding gift, saying that he got a deal on it. I didn't ask. He handles the Dominion's maintenance with superlative skill, and I've learned not to question.
I kick off my shoes, make myself another cup of chamomile tea--it helps with the sour stomach--and settle on the couch with my laptop. It's time to start investigating birthing centers. Both University Hospital and Desert Palms have great maternity departments, and I know there are a couple of other centers in Las Vegas that are not directly connected with medical facilities, so I pull them all up. The latter are mostly for comparison, however; Jim, who is skeptical about anything less than a maternity ward to begin with, has already stated emphatically that he wants me within arm's reach of a "real doctor" in case something goes wrong.
I can't say that I blame him. If I weren't diabetic, I might be tempted by some of the smaller centers, but for the safety of the child, we really need to be at a hospital. I linger over some of the more outré options offered--it would be fun to tease Jim with the idea of giving birth underwater, for instance--but finally I settle down to serious research.
As it happens, there's not a lot of difference between the two hospitals' facilities. Both offer environments that are much less clinical than the room where I gave birth to Zoë, and both are high-quality, accredited places. In the end, I may just ask what Dr. Phair recommends.
The next step is looking into Lamaze classes. I took them prior to Zoë's birth, but a refresher course would definitely be welcome, and Jim will--I hope--want to be a part of them. He's never said much about Ellie's birth, but given the time and the circumstances, I strongly suspect that he wasn't very involved.
Fortunately, the city that demands so much from its guardians also provides--there are classes available at almost any time of day or night. I write down a few of the more convenient ones to give Jim later, so he can decide which one fits his schedule best.
And then, after that burst of efficiency, I close my laptop and set it aside, and stretch out on the couch so I can rub my stomach. It's very odd--I've been cutting back a little on my hours since we got back from our honeymoon, but this is the first time in quite some time that I've been idle at home, and it feels strange. I was planning to continue part-time at work for a while, but Dr. Phair told me quite firmly that I needed to take it easy for the rest of the pregnancy. Not that there was anything wrong, but as she said, we wanted to keep it that way.
And any dominatrix worth her whip knows that there are times when even the Mistress must obey the expert.
I'm no further than a phone call away, of course, and I can go in if need be, but frankly I don't expect there to be much need. I've long wondered why Pauline, who is superlative at her job, has refused to strike out on her own…and I'm still wondering. But I have no doubts that she can run my Dominion with an iron hand under the proverbial velvet glove.
Though she really prefers silk.
My Dominion. It really is mine, both legally and in spirit. I built it from the ground up; I designed its aspects, planned its layout, chose its clients and its décor and its atmosphere. I delegate now, yes, but I have final control over everything from the schedule to the costumes to the tiny detail on the crop handles.
And yet…
And yet, it doesn't seem to be quite the lodestar that it has been for me since I started it. My interest hasn't waned, exactly, but it has changed.
I feel the bumps and pokes of the small being within me, and imagine her or his tiny form, for a little while longer still enclosed and protected. It isn't this child that has shifted my focus, nor is it my beloved Jim; they're part of the change, I guess, but not the cause. It's just that I am thinking of doing…other things.
Maybe it's because my Dominion has reached its optimum level. It's the perfect size for its market, and there are no major projects waiting to be accomplished. I have as many regular clients as I can handle and a small waiting list. Creation has in large part given way to maintenance.
Not that this is a BAD thing, by any means. But I'm finding I have the urge to create again.
The market for my Dominion's services tells me something--that there's a market for a more individualized service. And there's an idea blooming slowly in my mind.
Classes. Courses for those wanting to learn how to be proper dominants. Classes in the rules, the rituals, the traditions--and the practicalities. How to express that side of one's nature without bringing harm to others or oneself.
It's still a small idea, without much detail as yet. But as I shift into a more comfortable position in preparation for a nap, I nurture it carefully. This has potential.
And then I sigh, and sit up. No nap until I hit the bathroom…again.
JIM
It used to be that when I got off work, a lot of times I wouldn't go straight home. I'd swing by the grocery store for something, or stop off at the bookstore to see if the latest Pamela Dean novel was in, or maybe spend an hour or so at one of the quieter bars off the Strip. Nobody was waiting for me at home, so I had no reason to hurry.
Nowadays, I like to go straight home. Half the time the house is still empty because I'll beat Heather there, but it's a lot nicer to go home to a space you share with somebody you love. And now that she's not working…
But today, halfway home, I pull over into a convenient parking lot and shut off the engine. There's something I need to do before I get home, something that has to be done in private. It's not that Heather can't know about it, but this won't be easy, and I don't want her to have to hear me yelling at someone clear across the country.
I punch in the number slowly. I never got around to telling Karen I was seeing someone. Not that it's any of her business personally, but she deserved to know that she wasn't the beneficiary of my life insurance any more, and I've been putting it off. Hindsight tells me I should have done it earlier, then this wouldn't be such a shock and I'd stand a better chance of getting what I want without a hassle.
But it's not Karen who answers, it's her mother. It doesn't really surprise me; the two of them were always pretty close.
"Hi, Elaine," I say in response to her neutral "hello". I don't expect her to recognize my voice any more, but I hear her pull in a breath.
"James. How are you?"
It's her polite voice, and I know she's no more interested in my health than I am in telling her about it. "I'm fine. May I speak to Karen, please?"
"She's lying down right now. Is there something I can answer for you?"
Now, Elaine never thought I was good enough for her little girl, but when Ellie died we kind of had a fragile truce, and it occurs to me that if Elaine's willing to help me out, this could go a lot smoother. "I don't know, maybe there is. Do you still have the stuff boxed up from when Ellie was a baby?"
She hesitates a second. "We might, yes." Which is as rhetorical as my question. Neither of them throws stuff like that away; it's all probably sitting neatly folded and waiting for who knows what.
"If you still have my aunt's christening gown, I'd, um, like to have it."
This time the pause is a lot longer. Elaine's a smart woman; I know she's picking up on all the stuff I packed into that sentence. I chew on my lip and wait for her to answer. If she decides to get nasty about it, I can remind her that the gown technically belongs to my family, but that kind of thing is hard to enforce at this distance--
"I believe we do," she says at last. Very slowly, so she doesn't pick it up, I let out a breath. "Is that all you need?"
"That's it," I tell her, letting her know we won't have to squabble over old toys or booties. "You can just send it to me care of the LVPD; I'll reimburse you the postage."
"I'll do that. And don't worry about it." She hesitates again. "Congratulations."
Wow. There's no sarcasm in her tone. I'm…floored. "Thank you," I say, and mean it. "And for the effort."
"Take care," she says, her voice neutral again, and then she's gone.
I close my phone and sit back, relaxing a little. That was a whole lot easier than I expected, and probably easier than I deserved. I'll have to write Karen a letter, tell her about the policy switch, but I don't think she'll bother calling me up to complain about it.
I hope.
Maybe it's the fact that I don't have to worry about that call anymore, but I'm really tired by the time I get home. I fit my car in next to Heather's Miata in the garage, and it suddenly occurs to me that while we got a really nice car seat from Catherine as a wedding present, the Miata may not be all that practical a vehicle for hauling around a newborn.
I set the thought aside for the moment and slog inside. The main floor is full of Gershwin and the smell of…mmm…pork loin, I think. My mouth starts watering on the spot, and I pull off my badge and gun to set them down at the little table near the garage door.
And then I look down at the holster in my hand as another thought hits me.
I'm still standing there when Heather's hands snake up over my shoulders. Normally when she comes from behind she wraps her arms around me, but she really doesn't have the room for that anymore; even this way I can feel her bump pressing against my back. "What is it, darling?" she asks. "You've been staring at your gun for at least two minutes."
I sigh and set it down, and turn around to kiss her. "I need to get the gun safe out of storage."
Heather rests her hands on my shoulders, blinking, and I can tell that the issue hadn't really crossed her mind either. "Oh. Yes. Well…you have a little time to do it--the Tadpole won't be up to pulling things off tables for at least a few months."
I shake my head firmly. "Nope. I want my service pistol under lock and key by the time the kid's born. No loose guns in a house where there's a baby."
She glances over at the little table. "Maybe a smaller one? Your gun safe is rather large for that corner."
This is true. I don't own many weapons, just a couple of handguns and my father's rifle, but the safe would kind of stick out. "Maybe a wall safe. I think that wall's deep enough for one."
Heather nods, and lets me go, but I can tell that something's bothering her. I put my hands on her shoulders in turn. "What is it, hon?"
She hesitates, and I wait. Whatever it is, I can tell it's important.
"Jim…" she says finally. "Are you going to want to teach the Tadpole how to handle a gun when it's old enough?"
"No." No question about it, no way. "Kids and guns do NOT mix. If he or she wants to learn, they can wait until they're twenty-one."
Heather's shoulders relax, and she gives me one of those soft warm smiles that turn my insides to mush. "Then we're in total agreement, darling."
She leans in for another kiss, and I enjoy it. Just one more thing that proves we're right for each other.
Dinner is delicious--it always is. I remind myself to make sure to cook dinner on Saturday, since Heather'll probably be handling it during the week. I ask her how she liked her first day off, and she gives me that eye-rolling look that tells me she was probably bored out of her mind by eleven.
"I got a lot done," she admits, "but I'm certainly not used to spending so much time idle."
I set down my fork and lean over to put a hand on her tummy. "Just think of it as spending more quality time with the Tadpole."
"As if I could get away," she protests, but she's smiling.
x
Cream. That's all I can think of. Well, and chocolate.
It's not my fault, really. And it's funny, because I've never really liked that kind of metaphor--always seemed a little silly. I mean, comparing women to groceries? Nah.
But now, watching Heather undress…
She does seem to glow a little, but it's not that, or only partly that. She's put on some weight besides the baby itself, and while she's being extra careful, Dr. Phair says that she's right where she should be.
And that's what gets me. I loved Heather the way she was before, slim and sleek, and no doubt I will again. But now she's rounder, breasts and hips and thighs and the wonderful curve of her tummy--all soft, all rich and plump.
She looks so edible. And the best part is--I can.
So when she reaches for the long loose silky thing she got when she couldn't fit into her regular nighties, I shake my head. "Leave it," I tell her, and pat the mattress beside me.
She looks over and raises a brow, obviously debating, and I grin at her. "It's only going to come off again, sweetheart."
Heather sniffs, a little smile on her lips, and tosses the gown back over the chair. "No complaining later when my feet get cold," she warns.
I just hold up the covers so she can slide in. If I have my way--and I have no doubt that I will--she'll be plenty warm all night.
She snuggles up close, resting her hands on my chest and looking down into my face. I run one hand down her side to her waist and move in, feeling the roundness under my palm. A ripple runs under the skin, a tangible reminder that the baby is there, safe in the miracle of Heather's body.
A little, secret smile graces her face, and for a moment the three of us are quiet together, a nascent family. Then I let my hand wander back out and over, to the curve of her backside, and her smile turns wicked. "So what did you have in mind?" she asks, lowering her head so the words come out against my lips.
It's easy to fill my hands with the lushness of her rear, to open my mouth to taste her. "Dessert," I tell her, and demonstrate.
HEATHER
I really don't enjoy this part of the procedure, but it's necessary. Dr. Phair smears the gel around the dome of my belly and I shiver at the chill, and Jim's hand tightens on mine. He seems to have a need to touch me whenever we undergo this procedure, despite the fact that it is neither invasive nor painful; but I certainly don't mind.
"I'm not anticipating any problems," Dr. Phair says cheerfully as she picks up the transducer and fiddles with the machine. "Your twenty-week sonogram showed a fine healthy baby. But I like to keep a closer eye on mothers with chronic health issues."
I nod, watching as she presses the transducer firmly to my belly. Part of me keeps expecting to feel vibrations, even though I know that's nonsense, but there is only the pressure of the device as the doctor moves it across me. Her eyes are on the screen of the machine, which I can just see from this angle.
"Restless today," she comments, as the fuzzy image moves, one little leg stretching and then retreating. It's a thrill to see the picture, however unclear, of our Tadpole; I glance up at Jim, and he's staring at the screen too, absorbed.
Then he looks down at me and smiles. "It's a miracle," he says quietly, and I have to agree.
"Ah! There we go," the doctor says. "Do you still want to know the gender?"
Jim and I exchange one more look, and then he turns to Phair. "Yeah, that'd be good."
The last time I underwent this procedure, we asked to find out the sex of the Tadpole, but Dr. Phair couldn't get a clear enough image; the baby was in exactly the wrong position. Now she chuckles, and points to a portion of the screen that is no clearer to me than any other. "You have a little girl."
Jim's hand squeezes mine, hard, and I see him blinking a little. "What are the odds?" he asks, his voice slightly rough.
"About eighty-five percent," the doctor admits, moving the transducer again. "Sometimes the image seems to be perfectly clear, and then we get a surprise at delivery. But I think you're safe in picking out pink clothes."
A little girl. Another daughter. I would have been delighted with either, but I love the idea of an elfin girl with Jim's deep eyes and his laugh…
"Are you all right?" I ask him. He's still staring at the screen, and I can see the trace of moisture at the corners of his eyes, but then he blinks again and turns to me.
"I'm fine, sweetheart." And I can see in his eyes that it's true. He's lost one daughter, but he's gaining another. His free hand hovers over my belly, but it's still smeared with gel. "A little girl, huh?"
Dr. Phair sets the transducer aside and wipes my abdomen with a soft paper towel. "I'll run it past the radiologist, of course, and he'll get back to you, but everything looks just fine."
Jim lets my hand go, and takes the towel from her to finish cleaning me, a habit I find endearing. "We're still on target for mid-September?" I ask.
She nods. "Are you getting enough rest, Heather?"
"I'm only working from home, and not very much," I tell her. It's true that my energy levels have dropped over the past couple of weeks, and at this point I'm glad she ordered me to step down temporarily. The Tadpole is requiring more and more of me, and while I've been spectacularly fortunate with this pregnancy so far, I have no desire to push my luck.
"Good." She gives me a stern look. "Keep checking your blood sugar every few hours. Fluctuations are much more common in pregnancy, and while a mild episode won't harm the baby, it's wiser to avoid it entirely, eh?"
She pats my knee as I pull down my shirt, and I nod obediently. The health of this little one is of paramount importance right now, and I have no intention of arguing with her.
Jim helps me off the table, and we go back out to Dr. Phair's office for the usual reminders to eat well and rest, before leaving.
Jim insists on handing me into the car, a courtesy I find adorable; but when he starts the engine he doesn't back out of the parking space; he just stares out the windshield blankly. Worried, I reach over and touch his arm. "Jim, darling, what's the matter?"
He shakes his head slowly, and turns in his seat, wonder spreading over his face. "A daughter. We're going to have a little girl."
His hand spreads over my belly, gentle and reverent, and my smile answers his as my hand covers his fingers. "Are you ready?" I ask.
"Hell no," he answers promptly. But as he caresses the swelling of our child, I know he is. He's ready to be a father again, and the best one he can be.
He leans over, and we share a long, sweet kiss there in the parking lot before we separate to put on our seat belts. As he backs out of the space, a new thought fills my mind. We've gone over lists, discussed the issue…but we've come nowhere near a decision. "Um, Jim…"
He puts the car in forward and glances over. "Hmm?"
"What are we going to NAME her?"
