2. things you said too loudly
She presses a hand to her abdomen, the other hand pinching a thin white stick. Her hand trembles as she squints in the tiny window, then methodologically sets it down and picks up the box to read the instructions and symbols on the back again. The part of her that has been trained to think under duress matches the symbols on the box with those on the stick, and she nods to herself as she triple checks the other two tests and their boxes.
Positive.
She rests the stick on the sink and brings her hand up to her mouth, taking a deep, shuddering breath through her fingers as the implications start trickling down into her consciousness. Her pulse picks up until it's drumming against her ribs like a hummingbird, hand slipping under the hem of her shirt to move back and forth gently on bare skin. A baby.
They had wanted this, the both of them. The moment she had casually let slip that maybe she wasn't completely opposed to having a baby a couple of months ago, Lance had gone into full-fledged daddy mode, reading all sorts of inane articles on how to get pregnant, nagging her to start folic acid 'because you should start before you're actually pregnant Bob', and spending nights with his head in her lap throwing out baby names and vehemently arguing against 'Luke' and 'Leia'. He had been so disappointed that first month they realised she wasn't pregnant. But now…
It takes her a moment to realise she's grinning widely beneath her hand, and she brushes away tears as she stands and faces the large mirror in the hotel bathroom, lifting her shirt and pressing both palms flat on her belly. "Hello baby," she coos, blinking back tears. Laughter bubbles in her chest. "Your daddy is going to be so happy to hear about you."
It takes longer than she'd like since she can't seem to move without throwing up, but eventually she manages to unstitch the bottom of her ratty duffel where the bottom is padded thick. She probes with nimble fingers until she feels something hard, and fishes out the old burner phone from where it's nestled safely in the padding. It takes two more trips to the bathroom before she actually turns it on, and she frowns as she taps her stomach with a finger. "Don't make Mummy throw up again, baby," she warns. Unbidden, the thought of Lance doing the same pops up in her mind, and she can't help but smile.
She twirls the phone between her fingers idly, waiting for it to load, and perches on the edge of the untouched bed, her mind wandering. It settles on Lance, as always, and she sighs– they'd had a huge argument before she'd left for this mission, and while he'd left a text asking her not to die out there, she hadn't gotten any drunken voice messages alternating between rage and proclamations of love– very unlike him. Either he was upset and sulking over the fact that she'd left again almost immediately after months in her previous undercover op, or he'd finally started to pay attention when she said 'complete radio silence'. She feels a twinge of worry and sadness; it was probably the former, she convinces herself– Lance had never been one for instructions. She glances toward the bathroom where the three sticks sit on the counter and bites her lip; this isn't how she'd have chosen to tell him.
It's not the best timing, she thinks, as the screen flickers to life. She's on a mission, it's supposed to be deep cover and she's only just started forming connections– but there's no way she'll continue the assignment and risk her baby now, and Lance would have a conniption fit if she did, anyway.
She drums her fingers on the bed impatiently and wonders if there's even a point to turning her phone on at all– she wants to tell him in person, wants to see his face light up and eyes widen. He'll probably ask if it's some sort of belated April Fools' joke, she thinks fondly. She's not usually one to let her imagination run away with her– that was all Lance– but this time, she thinks that maybe she won't be far off the mark.
Her sigh of relief at the screen loading changes to one of dismay when she realises that the battery is almost flat. Her fingers fly over the faded buttons and she hits 'send' before thinking it through, anxious to reach him before the battery dies completely. It's only moments later that she realises what she's done, and she mentally berates herself for her impulsiveness. "At least your daddy will have some time to get over his shock and prepare his list of cynical questions," she smiles, brushing her fingers over her middle. She flops onto her back, intending a nap, but regrets the action immediately when her stomach churns. She stumbles into the bathroom gagging, kneeling over the bowl with her hair gathered to the side, and finally shifts to sit cross legged on the cold tiles. I wish you were here.
It takes a while for her stomach to calm, and she's rinsing out her mouth when the phone pings with a reply. She catches a glimpse of his name before the screen stutters and fades to black. "Oh well," she sighs. "I was headed home anyway."
-o-
She raps the door with the back of her knuckles and tucks her hand back into the pocket of her jeans, bouncing on the balls of her feet nervously. She's not sure if he'll be at home, but after her text message, she's almost entirely certain he would come home even if he weren't. Her fingers toy with the key in her pocket. She could let herself in, but she wants to surprise him like this; wants to see the look on his face when she tells him; wants to see his familiar grin spread wide across his face– maybe our baby will have your smile, she thinks.
Low muttering issue from behind the door, and her stomach starts flip-flopping again. The door clicks open and a familiar scruffy face peers out. The scowl on Lance's face fades quickly into one of surprise and he pulls the door open a little wider, mouth slightly agape, a familiar fierce longing in his eyes.
He can't believe his eyes; she never came home early from a mission, never,and there was no way this mission could have ended so quickly– he'd checked with Coulson the day after she'd left and he said to expect radio silence for the next few months at the least. It'd taken a huge amount of restraint on his part not to rail at the director for taking his wife away again, for putting her in danger again– surely she deserved some rest after a three-month op for God's sake?! He'd settled for throwing the phone against the wall instead, where it bounced off with a very unsatisfying thud.
"Lance," she says, tears pricking at her eyes and laughter bubbling up her throat. Her fingers brush his arm, pulling him in; she can't wait to tell him, she's been picturing his reaction from the moment she found out, and oh God she's missed him.
He gives her a quick onceover; no bruises or bandages or wounds, thank God, but then why was she here? He frowns, scrutinising her face a little more carefully, and she looked pale, and tired, and there were purple bruises under her eyes from lack of sleep. He would wonder if she's ill but her smile was so radiant it made her face glow, and her eyes were shining with tears and filled with so much joy that he eliminates illness straight off the bat– no one could be this happy to be sick. The last time he'd seen her this happy was when he'd asked her to marry him, properly, instead of while fighting off a bunch of assassins– although she'd laughed and glowed like this too.
Her smile is contagious and he feels his lips curl up to mirror hers; his hands reach up of their own accord to cup her cheek, her neck; to pull her into his arms, to tease out the reason behind her brilliant smile, to tell her Sweetheart I've missed you so much, and I'm not letting you out of my sight for the next few months and I'll tie you up if I have to– but then a faint tinkling laughter sounds from behind him in the apartment, and with a sudden rush of panic, he remembers where he is and what he's doing and forces his arms to his sides.
For a moment she thinks he's going to embrace her like he always does and her body relaxes in anticipation, but then he's stepping outside instead into the apartment, pulling the door just to, and her laughter catches in her throat. She tips her head in confusion, a question on her lips, uneasiness knotting in her gut. "Is someone in there?" she tries to ask as lightheartedly as possible, ignoring her growing apprehension and resisting the urge to press a hand to her abdomen. He wouldn't notice her movement, she's sure, but she doesn't want to draw attention to it just yet.
"No!" he says panickedly, "No." His hand drifts toward the doorknob and she catches the motion out of the corner of her eye; she feels her neck prickling and her body growing cold– Something's wrong. Lance kicks himself mentally and drops his hand, she's a spy, did you think she wouldn't notice, and nonchalantly corrects, "Yes, I've a friend over." It's a blatant lie and they both know it. She bites her lip, wondering whether to call him on it, but he looks distracted, and she wonders if it's fair to him to automatically assume that it's a woman, even if she knows it is, she just knows, and she has a mental tug-of-war with herself over his fidelity.
His mind races as he tries to think of a way to get Bobbi away as quickly as possible; he can't afford for her to be here right now, not with her less than ten feet away separated only by a slab of wood. His Bobbi was more than capable of taking care of herself, and he knows she can take the woman out without blinking an eye, but he would rather not risk it. He still hadn't managed to find out who the woman was working with– if they turned out to be dangerous, he would rather Bobbi was far, far away from them.
So with some difficulty, he schools his features into one of indifference and annoyance. "Bobbi," he says coolly, and he sees the precise moment when the light in her eyes goes out, replaced by confusion and hurt. His gut twists, I'm sorry Bob, I'll make it up to you when this is over, I promise.
Some of his regret must reflect in his eyes, because she frowns and steps forward, hand outstretched in concern. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly and jerks away, and she flinches, arms falling limply to her sides. "What's wrong?" she asks softly, almost sadly, and it's his turn to frown, because this is the part she normally lashes out and demands that he stop being a child and they start on their predictable downward trajectory. But then he hears her calling his name, and the anxiety and desperate desire to get Bobbi far away return in full measure.
"Nothing," he bites out harshly, dropping his gaze to a random spot behind her shoulder, trying to listen and discern the woman's movements in the apartment. He looks up and meets her eyes briefly, and the pain in her eyes feels like a knife to the chest. He steels himself and summons as much indifference as he can, "You're supposed to still be on mission, Coulson said it was a long one– why are you here?"
I'm pregnant. Two words, maybe it would bring Lance back to her, erase this cold distant stranger. "I–" But she looks up to his face and sees his shuttered, impatient expression, and her voice catches in her throat. This isn't how she wants to tell him; she doesn't want him to stop being angry at her simply because she was carrying his child, and she doesn't think she can bear it if she tells him and he remains coolly indifferent. Something in her breaks at the thought of him rejecting her– them. She'd imagined all his reactions, or thought she did– she never thought to account for the possibility that he might not care. Maybe the argument they'd last had was the last straw, maybe he'd finally had enough, maybe he'd finally stopped caring, finally stopped lov– "Nothing," she echoes back instead, trying not to let her thoughts run away with her. She bites her lip, eyes brimming with tears despite herself. "I should go," she whispers, turning away.
A warm hand circles her upper arm and turns her around, tugging her to a hair's breadth away from him. "Bob– don't cry," he says desperately, quietly, and this is the Lance she knows, and loves, and what's wrong, why won't you tell me, and I'm having our baby, but his hand remains on her arm, doesn't come up to brush away her tears like he normally would. She knows it's entirely irrational and there's probably nothing going on, but it feels like someone's twisted her heart into knots and she makes to slip her arm away. But then he's searching her eyes, sweet and warm and worried and hers, and she has to bite her lip to stop it trembling, to stop herself from crying out in relief that maybe he was still hers, after all, and oh, she's missed him so much."Tell me," he pleads quietly, "Tell me, sweetheart."
Her resolve breaks at the familiar endearment and she reaches round to her back pocket to slowly pull out a slim white stick, handing it to him with a tentative smile playing on the corners of her lips. He takes it from her, frowning down on it bewilderedly, not knowing what it was or what it meant or why it would bring her back from a mission. And then he hears footsteps just behind the door and his expression changes to one of panic; his pulse rises exponentially until it's thudding like a drum in his chest, and he has to get her away, now, before she came out and saw Bobbi– he doesn't know if she has men lying in wait to take people out, he can't risk it, not with her, he can't–
Bobbi watches his expression change from concern to confusion to consternation, and the air rushes out of her lungs in a whoosh as if he'd sucker punched her in the stomach. He looks up at her in a panic, not really seeing her, and shoves the stick back in her hands. "I can't do this Bob, not right now, I can't," he says, glancing away behind him as if to get away from her, to escape, and her chest constricts and stomach knots and oh God she's going to throw up. She chokes back a sob, searching his face, hand reaching out to touch him. She wants to ask, no, demand why, why, isn't this what we wanted– what you wanted?, but he backs away, fist tight on the doorknob, and a moment later the door clicks open and a red-taloned hand snakes up his chest.
The blood drains from her face, she was right, she was right, she was right, and this must be a nightmare– she tries to search his eyes but he's turned his face away from her, toward the redhead. "Who's this?" The strange woman drawls, scratching down his chest with long nails. Bobbi watches in disbelief as Lance covers the woman's hand with his and presses a kiss to the back of her delicately manicured hand. Her own hands, nails bitten to the quick, twitch at her sides. "No one, darling, just an old friend."
Bobbi's hand comes up to cover her mouth, the other pressed tightly over her stomach against a violent cramp, and she tries not to gasp or cry or scream or vomit as the woman comes into view. She catches a glimpse of a creamy shoulder and the blood red of a scrap of lace as the woman carelessly shrugs on a sheer robe that hides nothing and tries to push past Lance. When he refuses to budge and instead moves to block the doorway properly, she tiptoes and peers over his shoulder, biting the meat of his shoulder and growling in what she clearly thought passed for seduction. Bobbi laughs inwardly scathingly at the slip of a thing, trying to mask and tamp the escalating hurt and hysteria in her stomach– he doesn't like petite redheads, princess, nice try– but then Lance turns to whisper something in the little minx's ear, turning enough to make sure she can't read his lips, and she gets a better view of the woman. Her red hair was mussed, beestung lips swollen, and bruises were blossoming in a familiar trail down her neck to her breasts, as if– As if…
Her face crumples and her blood turns cold and all the breath escapes her body in a soundless exhale. She's drained and empty and about to collapse and just wants to leave, but her feet are rooted and frozen to the spot– it was their apartment, their home, he'd brought another woman to their home– it would explain why he hadn't left any messages other than that first one asking her not to die out there– it would have been better for you if I'd died out there, wouldn't it, she thinks bitterly, and she doesn't realise she's said that last part aloud until he grits, "Not now, Bobbi."
"Who is she?" the redhead whines, pouting and rubbing her perky breasts all up and down his arm. He's not shirking away from her touch, she notes numbly, staring blankly at him; this must be a nightmare.
"No one, darling," he says hastily, throwing a careless glance at her while turning to usher his new fuck buddy back into the apartment. "Just one of those people trying to trap me into one of those things again."
Her stomach clenches and chest constricts with anger, and all of a sudden it's hard to breathe. She digs her nails into the flesh of his arm to yank him around, and her slap rings down the empty hallway. "How dare you," she snarls, lip trembling violently and tears spilling down her cheeks. Palm burning, she makes to turn away, and out of the corner of her eye she sees his lips begin to form her name and his hand jerk as if to pull her back, to explain, to tell her it was all just a misunderstanding, please Lance, tell me it's a mistake, it's a joke– then he lets his hand fall and turns and shuts the door, never sparing her a second glance.
-o-
When her phone sputters back to life later, she inhales shakily as she opens a message from him. Please, tell me it's a mistake. Then she realises it's the message she hadn't gotten to read earlier. She chuckles bitterly, scrubbing her face of tears, and tosses the burner in the trash.
To: Lance 'Jackass' Hunter
From: Bobbi Morse
I'm coming home, I'm pregnant.
To: Bobbi Morse
From: Lance 'Jackass' Hunter
Whose is it?
A/n:
Based on the tumblr prompt: things you said too loudly.
Strictly speaking, the 'loud' part here refers to the slap.
This chapter took ages to write, and to be honest, I'm still not satisfied with it.
But I still hope it hurts. -evil face- Let me know what you think! :)