A/N: Eeeeeeek! I can't stop now! This series won't leave me alone! Doesn't it realize I have real work to do? Doesn't it know I need to earn my paycheck so I can eat? No, apparently not. The next in the Late series.

Livid

Well, it seemed like the John Hopkin's boys were right about the anxiety and hormones. Grace lay in her bed, wide awake and staring vacantly at the dark ceiling above her, avoiding her clock as it ticked over the same sixty numbers over and over again. It was late. She wasn't sure how late. She didn't like checking. Hence the ceiling. She was pretty sure that since she felt so scared, it was mostly anxiety that was keeping her awake. Then again, she was also fairly certain that, because she was feeling exposed and lonely, hormones were lending a hand.

She put her hands over her stomach for the millionth time that day. Her warm palms heated the skin around her bellybutton. She smiled weakly, hoping some of that warmth transferred to her little one. She'd laughed softly when she'd Googled pictures of a fetus at seven weeks. Apparently, her baby looked like a sea monkey in a bubble. He was currently residing in oxygen-rich tissue, sipping idly from her available nutrients with his own little straw. She smoothed over her stomach muscles. He was welcome to sip whatever he liked. She'd eaten enough salads and fibre for twenty babies in her lifetime. Carefully, she pressed her fingertips down. She wanted him to feel her presence. The last thing she wanted was her little guy sitting in the dark feeling just as lonely as she was. Nope, from here on out, she was going to make sure that he was awash with kisses and hugs and plush toys. He was never going to know the pain of not having Wayne as his father. Part of her didn't really think it was possible. A child from such a daddy would always feel that part of him was missing. But her rational mind told her to quit being ridiculous. Her baby would be fine with just her. They'd make their own little world. She'd give him anything. Everything. And he'd never know what a colossal mess him mom truly was.

A ball of tears blocked her throat. Damn hormones. They messed with her almost constantly now. They made her feel guilty about the pathetic way she'd broken the news to Wayne. Almost as guilty as they made her when she thought about her baby growing up in his warm, patient shadow, then remembering that it was only her smaller, infinitely weaker shadow that the little one would seek shelter in. Her child would barely know him. Worse, Wayne would almost certainly find someone else to settle down and have a family with. The idea of him with another woman making other children while she cradled his firstborn in her arms and watched from afar made her sick. And lonely. God, with the loneliness.

She sniffed and coughed. No. This was not how she was going to spend the next seven months. She would not be a mopey mom. It was pathetic. It was useless. And her sea monkey deserved better. She would be strong, if only for him. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She and the monkey needed sleep. Internet doctor's orders.

Flipping on her side, she snuggled deep into her bed and pointedly shut out the room around her.

Her peace barely last five minutes. A thunderous pounding smashed into her living room door and jolted her into a sitting position. One hand went to her stomach. The other, to her Glock on the night stand. Who the hell was trying to break down her door? Slipping out of bed and tiptoeing quietly, she made her way to the front room.

The pounding didn't stop. They crashed, one after the other, into the flimsy wood and rattled the chain. She slowed as she approached it, letting her fingers slid over its cool surface before letting her eye settle against the peephole. She inhaled sharply at her visitor.

Wayne.

Her squinting eye widened as she watched him through the distorted fish bowl lens. He was still in his suit. It had been picked at, his tie missing and his shirt pulled and open at the collar. His long body was comically bendy and wiggly, like a spaghetti noodle. But she didn't laugh. His face was inches from hers, his gazing drilling into the little glass button, sensing but not seeing.

"Grace," he barked at her. "I hear you. Open this door."

She gulped. She knew his voice, of course, and yet didn't recognize it now. His tongue was cutting the words as they left it. They were hemorrhaging rage.

Setting her gun on the entry table by her purse, she undid the deadbolt and slowly slid the chain out of place. She opened to him uncertainly, looking up, as always, into his steely expression.

"Wayne?" she greeted questioningly.

He didn't answer. He merely barged in, sweeping by her and turning quickly around. Facing her, he reached above her head and slammed the door shut, keeping his arm braced over her once he'd done so. Grace shrunk back until she was flush against the door. He followed, leaning until they were inches apart. Frightened by his behavior, she kept herself small in front of him, just daring to look up.

His voice might have dripped with rage, but his eyes were swirling with frost. She crossed her arms over her chest, fighting off the chill. In her tank top and boy-cut panties, she wasn't prepared for such frigid temperatures. With his trembling free hand, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, well worn and heavily creased. He held it under her nose.

"Are you fucking kidding me with this?" he hissed at her.

Her eyes widened at his question. "My letter? No!" she replied earnestly.

He snorted a gust of air. She felt his anger blast over her. She gulped again. His presence was triggering reactions in her that she could scarcely control. His lowered head and broad shoulder line was doing nothing to help her 'Inter-Personal Interactions,' as Dr. Zheela had called them. She'd been feeling so miserable before this moment. Now her paternal 'protector' was here, trapping her with the wall of his body, his body heat reminding her of the many nights she'd burrowed into it and giggled when he curled right back around her.

She shook her head. Focus.

"I meant it, Wayne. There's no need for this. Really. I'll be okay."

He threw the paper down between their feet and used that now-free hand to roughly cup her chin. "Again, I ask if you're fucking with me," he rasped darkly.

Anger and tears filled her eyes. "God, Wayne. What do you want to hear? That I'm sorry? Again? Is it your job? Is it your girlfriend? Geez, I promise not to tell anyone, okay? I'm sure Cho and Jane and maybe Lisbon will guess, but they're good people. They'll keep their guesses to themselves. Nothing is going to change. Stop looking at me like I did this on purpose just to mess up your life."

He gasped and the frost broke in his eyes. They went round, shocked at her statement. His arm above her slid down the door and fell against her other cheek until he was cradling her face in his hands. His gaze moved all over her features, the way he hadn't done in months. She let him look. She wanted him to see her sincerity. He had no cause to be mad. She'd handle this. He'd never see so much as a Beanie Baby, she'd make sure of it.

His gaze on her lips, he whispered. "You're the mother of my child and I find out with a Post It and a doctor's note?"

The anger drained out of him right in front of her. Disbelief and sadness replaced them in a flash. Her brow contracted in confusion. "I didn't know what else to do. I told you that. Plus," she slanted her eyes away from his as he continued to hold her face, "I didn't want you thinking this was some weird bid for attention. It's not, I promise. It's just a fact. Our protection failed at some point. Now I'm pregnant."

It was the first time she'd actually said the words out loud, even to herself. She flinched as they left her. They must have been electrified, because they caught Rigsby and made him flinch, too.

He gave a gravelly moan and yanked her close, his hands traveling from her face, down her back and gripped her hips. Grace gasped at the suddenness of his move. For the first time in ages, she was wrapped in him again, so warm and soft and hard and sweet that she couldn't stop her arms locking around his shoulders and hugging him back.

"Jesus Christ, baby," he whispered into his hair. "How could you do this to me?"

Whimpering and rubbing her cheek against his in an unbidden need for male reassurance, she whispered back. "I don't understand. Tell me what I'm doing that's hurting you so bad."

He pulled back in amazement. "You left me," he answered in simple, devastating words. "And now you're leaving me all over again. With my baby." Still holding her hips, he held her away from him and looked down in awe at her flat stomach. He dropped to his knees, staring avidly.

"My baby," he rasped as he pulled her tank top up from her pantyline, until her tummy was revealed to him. He slid his thumbs along its smooth lines. Grace gasped again, her eyes fluttering. He used to touch her that way when she pinned him to their bed, his hands on her waist as she rode him, gently or savagely. He always screamed from both.

"Yes," she replied, her eyes still closed.

He looked up at her blissful expression and growled. Tugging at her arms, he pulled her down to her knees as well, pulling her tight into his chest once again.

"My woman," he claimed softly in her ear.

"Hmmm," she hummed noncommittally. "No need. You have another."

"Shut up."

She pulled back a bit to gauge him. He'd certainly never told her to shut up before. She cocked her head, unsure if she should be angry. He pressed on. "I've dated. That's all. They're nothing to me, not next to you. Once I read your letter, I called her and broke it off." He gripped her shoulders and shook gently. "You. You're what I want and you're mine. You gave yourself to me."

Her hands were stroking along his chest, under his jacket. She couldn't seem to stop. Building up a network of helpers during her vulnerable state, right? Or maybe she was just stupid in love with him. Either way, she felt affection radiating out of her pores, saturating him with Damsel-In-Distress vibes. He felt them. His grip tightened in answer to them.

"I didn't," she denied wanly.

He snorted angrily again at her forgetfulness. Reaching down, he picked up her poor letter from where he'd thrown it and opened it to her. His finger caught one sentence. "I'm pregnant. And yes. It's yours," he read to her. His finger then skimmed to the bottom. "Yours, Grace."

He tossed the letter aside again and pulled her close again. His height, even on his knees, his scent, his eyes, Grace couldn't protect her heart against his aggression as he put one hand on her belly and one on her cheek. "See?" he kissed her as he spoke.

"You're both mine."