Hope you enjoy. Thanks again to those who've reviewed. I hope to have the next part up relatively soon. Hope someone's still reading! x

"Hey," she answered, nestling her phone precariously with her shoulder.

"Hey, you."

Just two words and his fatigue was palpable, causing her to wince. "Any sign of wrapping up? You're missing some really lame TV."

"Cursèd blindness, how do I live without late night TV?" He sighed heavily in her ear. "No sign of release yet, I'm afraid. Gutierrez is officially MIA. Joan's about ready to bust the proverbial nut."

Annie inhaled. "I should be out there, Auggie."

A pause. "No, you shouldn't. I'm on it. You've just got to resume desk duty at 0900 hours tomorrow."

Annie shook her head, sitting up. "Forget Joan's proverbial ball-sack, Gutierrez is the needle in the proverbial haystack. He's no doubt-" Her stomach pitched, cutting her off. "Oh god." She moaned.

"Either that's more nausea or you realised you've left yourself wide open for one of my infamous blind jokes."

She rolled her eyes, inhaling deeply.

"Just breathe, Annie."

"Come home to me soon." She murmured. "I gotta' go lay down."

"I'll see you soon." He said gently.

After ending the call, Annie forced herself up from sofa. The incessant nausea and near-incessant sickness losing its appeal – how on earth is pregnancy meant to be enjoyable?

She padded upstairs to the bedroom, and after kicking her slippers off, managed to crawl into Auggie's side of the bed, burying her head into his pillow. Just breathe, Annie, he repeated within and she inhaled him.

She'd rest first, then pick up the slippers…

Filling her lungs with Auggie, she permitted herself succumb to sweet oblivion… and then her eyelids were lead; she needed to blink a few times to allow her brain to register the dull blue-grey gloom around her. Refusing to acknowledge what felt like an abrupt end to her nap – had she actually slept? – Annie groaned and turned to the clock:

5:04AM.

AM. Morning.

Shit. She sat bolt upright, fighting a sudden wave of nausea. Futile. She jumped from the bed, lunging for the toilet as she entered the small ensuite bathroom. She just about managed to pull her hair away before her stomach contracted, once, twice, three times and Annie dry-heaved.

Her eyes welled with tears; the lack of a warm hand on her back was painfully apparent.

Then the guilt waltzed through and hand in hand her self-pity, provided the whip for her self-flagellation: Auggie's once again spent nearly 24 hours working miracles for his – their – livelihood, running on adrenaline and caffeine, no doubt battling a crippling headache, while she's feeling sorry for herself because she's forced to hold her own hair.

She remembered that migraine he developed the day after the move, and the cruelty that particular headache imposed on him.

He's carrying on, carrying her, while she's crumbling left, right and centre. Who's got his back?

Annie Walker pushed away from the toilet and stared hard at herself in the bathroom mirror.

At 7:23AM, Annie placed a streaming paper cup on Auggie's desk. "Your 9, double shot. Black." Then she pressed a small box into his hand. "Advil."

He pressed at his keyboard and lowered his headphones. When he turned to her, she saw the relief. "Annie. I could kiss you right now." Then, "How you feeling? How's the nausea?"

Annie crouched low, placing her hands on his knees for leverage. "I'm OK. I just –" She gazed up at her Auggie, drinking in the day old stubble, the shadows under his eyes, the headache knotting his forehead, the dryness of his lips. "I just –" She felt the familiar biliousness again and exhaled. "I just love you." She murmured. "I've been an idiot lately."

Auggie shook his head, gently stroking her fingers with one hand while locating his coffee with the other. "Not idiotic. Pregnant." He sipped. "There's a difference."

She offered a wan smile at his attempt to lighten her mood. "I worry I'm wearing you down."

He shook his head at her. "No, Annie. You're –" A pause. "Hold up, phonecall –" He let go of her hand to touch his earpiece. "Anderson."

Annie glanced up at his screen, noting the extensive code displayed; a frenzied mess of hashtags, backslashes and bizarre half sentences. She shook her head. He'd tried, briefly, to introduce her to the wonders of "languages" he was fluent in, yet her linguistical prowess just didn't stretch far enough.

She felt him tense, and she directed her stare back to him.

"Helen. Christ. Long time." A pause. "No shit. How are you? What time is –" Auggie sought her fingers again, squeezing. "What? You're there? No, I – we – moved. Why didn't you –"

Annie pulled her hands away, raising herself up to perch on his desk. She folded her arms. Helen. Who the hell was Helen? What sordid part of his history did she belong to?

He continued, his tone as placating to the invisible woman on the phone as it had been with Annie. "Helen. Hang fire. It's OK. I'll text you the address. I'll be home in about an hour." Another pause. "No, it's fine. I'll see you soon. Drive safe."

Silence.

Auggie sighed and sank bank into his chair. Then he leaned forward, and started typing. Their address. He was texting their address.

Annie just stared at him. Incredulity slapped her. "Auggie? Planning on asking me before inviting women over to our house?"

He grimaced, and he began gingerly massaging his temple. "Helen's my sister."

She retched. She bolted for the ladies.