"Now, breathe."
But Nika can't seem to follow those instructions – not when she's leaning into every fold of 47's firm body, his legs bent at ninety degrees like every other "partner" and in the class and Nika's back pressed into his chest.
"Partners, take mommy's hand and make sure to exude calm. Make sure to let her know that "it will be okay" with every breath."
47 dutifully does as he is told, slowly and without any signs of hesitation. His entire performance in this class, in fact, has been textbook perfect.
Nika had originally tried to sign up for this class without his knowledge (as if she can actually hide anything from him, Nika swears he was chemically altered somehow to possess a sixth sense).
One time, she wants to surprise him by cooking a nice dinner, so she makes a trip into town to pick up all of the ingredients. By the time she returns, she's exhausted (she's exhausted a lot of time, not that she would admit it) and puts all of her gathered food into the spare refrigerator in the small guest villa, laying down shortly afterwards in one of his thirteen thousand white button downs for a short nap (so she's been napping a lot lately – she's pregnant, it's allowed).
Three hours later, after a "short nap" snowballs into a full-blown deep sleep, Nika wakes to the smell of herbs and cheeses wafting through the room. She stumbles downstairs only to see 47 in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the exact meal she had planned to make them for dinner.
"How did you even know what I was going to make?" she asks, still groggy with sleep.
"You left the recipe on the iPad downstairs," he replies, matter-of-fact.
Okay, so maybe Nika Boronina is not the stealthiest when it comes to keeping a secret – but still, she had tried much harder when trying to sign up for the classes on her own.
"Where did you get those?" she asks, with a little too much accusation in her voice.
If her voice is a surprise to him, he doesn't flinch or startle.
"They were in the desk drawer."
Okay, so maybe she didn't try that much harder.
"Right. I guess what I really meant is why are you looking at all of my pamphlets on birthing classes?"
"It says that mothers should sign up with a partner."
Bastard. Doesn't even answer her question.
"And?"
"Who did you sign up to be your partner?"
"Nobody – you don't have to have a partner to be in the class, it's only a suggestion."
"Okay."
"Why are you so interested in my birthing classes all of a sudden?"
"Are you supposed to have a partner in the class?"
And now they're here, Mr. and Mrs. Sampson, expectant parents. He's a private contractor and she works for a boutique vineyard (owns it, really, but that would bring too many questions – "how did you come to own a vineyard?" being one of them).
He's playing his part to a tee – careful, concerned, a loving husband to his pregnant wife. And she plays off of him like Taylor to Burton, leaning into his embrace, relaxing her body against his as he presses a kiss to her temple. And it's easy for her to forget, for a moment, that they're not two ordinary people who fell in love and created this baby, marriage and then child in that order.
As he reaches for her hand, she holds it over the stretch of bump at her midsection. She can't help but think, though, how this baby could not possibly be more loved.
The doctors are talking to him. Why are they talking to him? And not her? She's the one with the fucking baby inside of her. She wants to yell at him, but she's hit with another wave of pains, and she gasps, shooting up away from the backrest.
"They want to induce labor."
"But it's too early. He's too early."
"The doctors say that it is the best chance to keep you from hemorrhaging out."
He looks calm, but there's a tightness in her jaw that she's trained herself to see.
"So it's my life or his?"
"You can both survive, Nika."
"Promise me you'll take care of him."
"Nika."
"Promise me," she grits out, a mix of pain and determination.
"It doesn't have to be a choice – "
"Promise – "
"I promise."
So that's that, he respects her wishes. Doesn't tell her that she doesn't know what she's talking about. Doesn't argue that her life is more valuable.
"Even if I die, you'll have to do it without me. Keep him safe, but tell him I love him. Make sure he knows. Okay?"
He nods. No words this time.
And even though she's scared and in pain and so fucking tired, she feels a calm wash over her (maybe this is what 47 always feels like) because she knows that he will honor his word and that her child will never fear as she feared and hurt as she hurt and cry as she cried.
Her hands go limp in acceptance of this, and as they slip towards the bed, he catches one hand and holds it, firmly against the contours of his own body.
"You have something to live for, Nika."
And even through the hazy clouds of pain and exhaustion, she sees herself so clearly sitting in his hijacked Audi, with his gun pointed to her head, telling him that she has no reason to give for her life.
And it might be drugs taking effect on her, but all she wants to tell him, that crazy calm fucker, is that he has a reason, he is a reason, they are a reason, they have a reason to live.
But before she can tell him any of her thoughts, she feels the weight of darkness pulling her asleep. She finds herself wondering if her child will indeed be a boy. And her world goes black.
" – became the first emperor of Rome, bring with him his most trusted general
When Nika wakes up, the first thing that hits her is the sunlight and the sound of his voice reading aloud. The second thing is pain.
Her body feels as if it's been run over by a tractor repeatedly. And there's an ache lower in her pelvis as if –
"Where is he?" she finds herself asking 47, before her eyes can even find him in the room.
She hears a thud from the closing of a book, but she can't wait that long.
"My baby? Where is he?"
"He's here, Nika. Try not too move too much. Your body is still recovering."
Recovering from what? What had happened? Her baby – oh, god.
"Your son is right here, Nika."
And as her vision comes into focus, she becomes aware of 47 coming towards her, looking more disheveled than she's ever seen him – his whiskers visible against his jawline and hair uncombed against his head.
As jarring as that sight would normally be, right now Nika can only think of one thing –
And then she sees him. So small, lying in a plastic box of some sort next to her bed, one of his branch-like wrists tagged with a hospital bracelet that looks comically large. Baby boy Sampson, she makes out.
Her eyes trace him hungrily, and her body tries to follow, with pain and protest as she leans towards him. She scours every bit of him with her vision, from his rosebud lips to his skinny frog legs to his perfect pair of baby feet. And all the while her mind races with so small, so fragile, and his tiny chest rises and falls, breath after breath assuring her of his presence.
The drip of a warm, wet tear onto her forearm alerts her to the fact that she is, indeed, crying, just a moment before she opens her mouth to take in a breath that morphs into a sob midway.
"Oh, god," she exhales.
"He's here, Nika. The doctors say he will be okay."
"Is he - " she hiccups, "is he - "
"He's healthy. He's okay," 47 finishes without his usual patience for Nika to finish her words.
"Can I hold…"
She knows her arms have the strength. She knows.
47 shakes his head.
"Not yet."
Her disappointment is instant and visceral in a way she has not felt in years, since she was a child herself.
"Okay. But he's - " she's interrupted by a sob, "he's okay?"
"He's okay. He has his mother's strength."
A strength she feels draining her right now. Her eyelids are closing against her best efforts.
"He…" she smiles, accepting the sleep that washes over her.
She cannot tell if she dreams up the sound of 47's laughter at her gloating.
The next time she wakes, there is no sound of 47's voice reading about Roman emperors or South American history and there is no sunlight anymore, and she panics that she may have dreamt everything about baby boy Sampson.
"Nika."
She blinks. He's sitting in the same armchair as before, in the same clothes, but it looks like he may have combed his hair a little this time.
"How long have I been asleep?"
"Three days the first time, about half a day this time."
Three days? She missed out on the first three days of her son's life. There's a stone of despair that sinks in her chest.
"The doctors said we might be able to hold him in a few days."
And then the stone shatters, with a loud burst of hope.
"Really?"
She tries sitting up, as if that will make that day come faster. The pain is more subdued this time around.
"They say he might even be strong enough now, but they want to keep him incubated just to make sure."
His words sit between them for a few moments, and then another thought occurs to her.
"Have you left the hospital at all?"
"No."
"Where have you been sleeping?"
And he doesn't say anything, only glances at the armchair he just stepped out of, and she knows that any sleep he has gotten this past week has been sitting upright in that chair.
She wakes to the familiar sound of murmuring over the baby monitor, his side of the bed empty, cool sheets letting her know he's been out of bed for more than just a few minutes.
Drowsy with sleep, she listens for a few moments.
" – Genghis Khan's death, his empire did not disintegrate like many of his predecessors. He left behind the foundations of an administration and a legal code. His fam – "
A sharp mewling breaks up the steady rumble of her husband's voice. She sighs and turns over at the familiar sound.
Soon enough, she hears the padding of bare feet on the carpet leading to their bedroom.
"He's hungry."
"I know, I heard his hunger whimpers."
47 comes to the edge of the bed, sits down, and then waits for Nika to unbutton the front of the white button down shirt of his she's taken to wearing to bed.
His fingers brush against her skin as he places the baby, his whimpers dissolving, against her breast. His hands linger for a moment and he brushes a hand over Leo's head. She really shouldn't be having the thoughts she's having now. This unclassified want of him, combined with the child in her arms, combined with her lack of experience with desire or a non-aggressive partner, makes her dizzy with confusion.
"He shouldn't be too hungry, since you fed him only a few hours ago, but I think he might have just wanted to see you, and he knows this is the way to make that happen."
He speaks, snapping her out of the swimming of her thoughts.
"Smart boy, that's my son."
47 smiles, his gaze fixated on the child, his eyes full of a love that she could barely have dreamt for her son. And she knows, whatever feelings she may be having, her son has a father at least.
It's times like this – when she sees him, without a shirt, clad only in his black silk boxers, pacing up and down the hallway, reciting facts about the Great Pyramids of Giza to the infant in his arms – it's times like this when she wishes she could just say those words to him. I love this. I love our family. I love you.
But she knows that would throw off the gentle balance that they have. The agreement. The silent understanding between them that they are partners in keeping their son alive and protected from the dangers of the world. And she shouldn't want more, because what she fucking has is more than she's ever known to exist in the darkness around her.
"He's almost there. I can put him down in a few minutes if you want to go to sleep."
But still, there's the want in her.
"Okay, I'll wait up."
They haven't stopped sleeping in the same bed since he discovered her nightmares, though the nightmares have slowly subsided. She supposes the nights he spent sleeping in the armchair next to her in the hospital room should count as well, since he was close enough to hold her hand and talk to her. She had asked him if he talked to her while she was unconscious, to which he had simply replied "sometimes," but just the thought of him sitting by her, watching over her, for three days and three nights is enough to make her heart swell, almost in pain, at how much care he's shown for her.
And thoughts like that do nothing to help with her want.
When he returns from putting Leo down for the night (who hopefully can sleep for a full six hours tonight), she's playing with her wedding ring, tracing the simple gold band with her thumb.
"Is he asleep?"
"Yes."
Her husband slides in next to her, adjusting the comforter over both of them as he climbs in. As he reaches to switch off the light, she turns her body towards him, kissing him.
He kisses her back. If he is surprised, he doesn't show it. And when she turns him onto his back, straddling him against the headboard, he raises an eyebrow but doesn't stop the movement of his lips.
But when she reaches to pull his boxers down, her hands shake, and he stops her then, leaning back with his eyes closed.
"Nika," he says softly.
"Do you not want to?"
He opens his eyes and looks at her.
"You're not recovered."
"Recovered?"
"Leo's birth. It was difficult."
And whatever Nika was expecting 47 to say, this wasn't it.
"And if I was fully recovered, would you want to do this?"
"Assuming you mean sex, if you want to, then yes, but only when the doctors say it's okay for you."
And in the aftermath, as they lay there, her head resting in the crook of his neck, she thinks of two things that keep her heart thrumming with excitement. One – he wants her, but more importantly, cares about her wants more than his own. Two – for all of his silence and monosyllabic sentences, there's never been a person in her life who's been more clear about his intentions and thoughts when she asks about them.
She gets her clean bill of health from the hospital the following week. And when Dr. Martine hands her the piece of paper clearing her for all physical activity, she doesn't know whether to laugh or to jump up and down.
As she sits in the passenger seat on the way home, however, another feeling begins to build inside of Nika. Fear. As 47 expertly handles the twists and turns up to their home (home, that's a strange word for Nika), she feels the nerves and fear creeping over her.
She's not afraid of 47, but she's afraid of how it will be between them. Despite her own confusing desires, she's never known sex to be anything but a bartering tool used by her or a battering punishment used against her.
She wonders if his own wants will blind his normal care and restraint, if he'll unleash the part of himself similar to the Belicoffs of the world. But then they're home, and he kills the engine and steps out, holding the door open for Nika as she remains lost in her own thoughts.
"Do you need more time?" he asks, and she looks at him, patiently waiting, and she knows – despite all the doubts running through her head – that he will never be like Belicoff.
"No, I'm ready."
She steps out of the care, placing her hand into the crook of his arm as she's done many times now. Instead of letting go, she shifts her weight into him and smiles into his shoulder.
And he leads her to the door, ushering her home.
She wants to be able to, she really does, but when she positions herself over him, his hardness brushing against her, something in her tenses and panics.
Her mind flashes back to dimly lit rooms and multiple men laughing and leering, the humiliation of being nakedly splayed out and on display for them.
She tries to move forward, regardless, but when she pushes down on him, she lets out a sob, as her mind moves to her 14 year old self, being examined at an auction house, fingers prodding her and exposing her, losing her virginity in the flash of a casual business transaction only to be brutally used for days afterwards.
Her second sob barely leaves her before 47 shifts upwards from his reclined position against the headboard, carefully sweeping her leg up so that she is no longer straddling him but rather cradled in his arms like a child. He pulls a silk sheet over their naked bodies and does something unusual (for him, anyway).
He begins to talk to her.
"We were trained to be able to resist any sexual advances."
Her sobs slowly still, as she listens to him, intrigued by the first volunteering of any information about his own upbringing.
"They accomplished this by forcing us into sexual encounters from a young age, only to beat us or torture us after the fact, sometimes simultaneously. This way we would always associate sexual activity with danger and pain."
His words sit in the large space of the master bedroom as Nika slowly processes what her husband has just told her.
"How old were you?" she doesn't trust her own voice, but she wants to know.
"They started as soon as we hit puberty, for most of us it was around the time we were twelve or thirteen."
She's curious, she can't help it.
"When you're with me, do you think of it?"
"Sometimes."
Another man would have lied to her, she realizes, told her "never." But her husband isn't another man, and she finds her heart beating faster at his response.
"We can take this slowly," he says.
And even though she's no longer sobbing, she stays cradled in his arms the whole night, silently mourning the innocence they both never had while hoping for the one that they carve out for themselves.