Hi. So ... I'm sorry (ducks to avoid flying objects). I know I came out and was like, "There will be TWENTY FIVE installments and then dropped off the face of the earth. But it's been quite busy! Insanely busy, in fact. And we got a new cable package, so we lost HBOGo, which makes rewatching episodes and nailing characters' voices pretty tough. But ... hopefully this sounds like them? And makes up for some stuff, namely, my lack of attention to this story? It's part screwball, part portrait-of-a-marriage, and I hope it's in character. I seriously would love your feedback.
I'll be upfront about the rest of my progress: I'm partway through the next two, and have the rest of them (it'll either be twenty-four or twenty-six now, so they each get the same number of POVs) mapped out. But, Thicker is giving me massive writer's block, on a Sloan chapter, so that might get my scant time/attention next. But rest assured, I love this story/these characters, and will be working to keep it going.
Title from "For the Summer" by Ray, of course.
July
Pregnancy, Don quickly realizes, is nothing like what either of them had been expecting (If they had been expecting anything, which they hadn't. Obviously.). It's a little bit like those weeks after losing your virginity, where you expect it to be immediately apparent and people to just know, but it's not and they don't. Small things change immediately — they almost entirely stop showing up at Hang Chew's; Sloan has a thing of crackers on her at all times; he starts coming in when she does just in case; her boobs seem absolutely huge — but no change is significant enough for someone who doesn't observe them obsessively to notice.
After their weekend in Newport, which basically consisted of sex, food, and holding Sloan's hair while she puked, they return for a 7:45 doctor's appointment Monday morning. He'd had his entire morning cleared, which was a good thing: The doctor needs to know everything. He has no idea how much he weighed at birth, or whether or not his brother was a full-term baby, or what his mother's blood type is.
The gynecologist — call-me-Michelle — reassures them that the baby will be fine despite all the caffeine Sloan's had in the last two months, weighs Sloan, and chides Sloan for being slightly underweight, which Sloan blames on the morning sickness. Then it's blood tests — Sloan gets poked, he flinches. She rolls her eyes and pats his hand.
Finally it's time for the ultrasound. He positions himself by Sloan's head, squeezes her hand. The machine whirs to life, and the tech brings out the scope. He winces, because he figures it has to hurt. Sloan rolls her eyes, and gently presses his cheek to turn his head so he's staring at the monitor instead. At first it's completely black, but then it makes a whoosh noise and suddenly there's shadowy images undulating across the screen. The tech maneuvers the probe, and suddenly — "that's it," call-me-Michelle says, pointing out the the particular blob. "That's your baby. Congratulations, Mom and Dad."
They both stare at it for a minute, then he breathes out, "Holy hell." They stare at each other, excitement and awe in their eyes, before they both start tentatively, nervously laughing. He starts pressing kisses to her face, and she starts crying, just a little, and gripping his hand, hard. Michelle and the tech give them a few seconds. The computer captures the image of the fetus, and after a few clicks starts blinking '7 weeks, 5 days.'
"You're a little farther along than I expected, but that's good," Michelle remarks. "Based on what you're measuring, I'm going to give you a due date of February 5."
And just like that, they become the something's parents. Michelle snaps a picture and prints out two copies — it's fuzzy and indistinct, but undeniably there. This is real. It's amazing. He's scared — shit, he's terrified — but this is extraordinary.
"How should we tell people?" he says, lacing his fingers through hers as they leave. He wants to skip. Is that normal?
"I … I don't think we should tell anyone. Not for a while, at least," she says, her brow furrowed. "Well. We should probably tell our families. But you aren't supposed to tell, you know, other people until after the first trimester."
He shrugs. "You heard her. At eight weeks, there's very little chance of, you know … things going wrong. And besides, Will and Mac already know."
"Yeah, but we tell people at work and someone says something to someone else, and then Charlie wants an announcement and then we get recognized on the street or people on Twitter start saying things and … I don't know. It's so early … don't you just want to keep it between us, for a while?"
He gets her hesitance, he really does. Her big economist brain can't help running the odds, calculating what could go wrong (he does that, too, but since he's not a genius it's a more generic worrying). Beyond that, he knows she'll be uncomfortable with any attention about this. She's not famous-famous, but she'd certainly be told by the network to pimp it in People, she'll get chatter on Twitter, she may even get photographed at brunch or Gristede's or whatever. All of those things strike her as strange, even fundamentally wrong and intrusive. She's rigorously private, guarded even with those closest to her. Her preferred method of telling everyone she's pregnant, he knows, would be to simply go on maternity leave one day in February and return three months later. He gets to be the private citizen and beyond that, he's the guy — his body won't be changing, won't be up for public scrutiny. He has to respect her opinion on that.
"Sure, but it's going to get a little obvious at some point," he says. "When are you thinking of telling?"
"Sixteen? Twenty weeks? Early September, I guess, we tell people." He scoffs, because she is tiny and there's no way they're going two extra months with this, but she says, "Hey. I'm serious, mister. What's wrong with that?"
He schools his face. "Nothing. Let's wait and see, okay?" he says. "The first trimester, at least. That's another month." He likes that. It gives him time to get used to it. Still, he's a little disappointed. Mostly he's disappointed he can't shout it from the rooftops, but Sloan would kill him.
"Hey," she says as he starts to pull her down the stairs, and she tugs him back. She kisses him, deeply, and he responds by resting his hands on her waist. She pulls back, ghosts her hands over his cheekbones and then digs her fingers into his hair. "I'm a little scared but … I'm really excited about this." She studies him carefully, like she's worried he might be disappointed in her. And frankly, that's a little alarming.
So he smiles back. "I love you. Let's go get breakfast. Plain yogurt and saltines sound good?" She makes a face as he laughs.
Not telling people, of course, would be much easier if they didn't work sixteen-hour-plus days and if Sloan's morning sickness didn't last all day (and if her moods stabilized, though that might be just directed at him).
"Do I look like I've just spent the last twenty minutes dry-heaving?" she asks, only half-joking, as she fixes her hair post-puke one afternoon a couple days later. It's a miracle, but somehow she hasn't thrown up on air or had to make a mad dash to the bathroom in the middle of a meeting yet. Any other time of the day, though, and she's on a couch trying to quell vomit.
"You look fine, just … here," he thumbs some caked-on vomit from the corner of her mouth. Ew.
"That's disgusting," she says, scratching the same place to make sure that it was all gone.
"You're beautiful even when covered in vomit," he says chivalrously, but that sounds cheesy so he smirks. "That's what I'm supposed to say to my pregnant wife, right?"
"You're an ass, and I should kiss you since I haven't brushed my teeth yet," she threatens, but with a smile. He's thankful for that; these days, she just as easily could have started crying. But she walks ahead of him. "We're late. What do you think Charlie's going to discuss today?"
"Same thing that's in every long-term planning meeting," he shrugs, opening the door and gesturing for her to hurry up. It's a monthly snooze-fest: Assignments for overseas shoots, lectures that the anchors aren't using Twitter enough, and strategy for long-term coverage of elections and the Middle East. "You think Marina from politics will bring that popcorn again?"
"Oh, yes, what would a meeting be without Marina's delicious popcorn," Sloan mocks, rolling her eyes.
He rolls his eyes too. "Come on, Sloan, I like the cookies'n'cream popcorn. I mean, seriously. It's cookies. And cream. Popcorn. The person who invented it … genius."
"She's just trying to make everyone else fatter," Sloan says darkly. "As if I need help in that regard."
"Ok, A, shut up, you're the skinniest pregnant person I've ever seen," he says, keeping his voice low. "B, what the hell is your problem with Marina? I think I've seen you talk to her twice. And C, Cookies. And cream. Popcorn. How can you not want that?"
She's opening her mouth to retort as he opens the door to the conference room for her, and they slide into the two extra seats that Mac has saved for them. They're the last of the two dozen attendees to arrive, so they're lucky (and unlucky) that she nabbed the seats.
"So glad that the two of you can take the time out of your busy schedules to join us," Charlie snarks as they enter. "Were you napping on your couches again?"
"One day I'm going to figure out what floor HR is on, Charlie Skinner, and you're going to rue that day," Sloan says. "Sorry. Where were we?" Marina has brought the Dylan's Candy Bar popcorn again, this time an amazing peanut-butter-cup variety, and he happily pours out two handfuls. Sloan rolls her eyes. He's going to blame it on the hormones, especially since she ends up eating half of his portion. They zip through Egypt, Syria, and Snowden coverage when Charlie says, "And finally, to wrap up — the Royal Baby."
"Come on. This is not news," Mac groans. "This is procreation. Hundreds of thousands of couples do it across the globe on a daily basis." She's about to say more, but she winces as if kicked. Don looks at Sloan, who stares straight ahead.
"You're the last person who can criticize this, you know," Will says. "The future of your monarchy is at stake. You have a personal stake."
"The monarchy is secure for at least sixty years already. Does this add to the discourse? Does this give the voter —"
"Oh, for crying out loud, it's a pretty lady in nice hats who's having a pretty baby," Will says, irritated with his fiancee's point. "This story is crack; it's completely addictive and they'll keep paying for it. Over and over again."
"Ok, stop, George the Third and General Washington," Charlie says. "Sabbith. You're going. Congratulations."
"What?" Sloan asks, startled.
"You're going. They're not releasing the due date, so we're kind of shooting in the dark. We'll send you with a one-way ticket on the tenth, and we'll book you back after she delivers. You'll probably be gone a week."
About seventy-two emotions cross Sloan's face, and he struggles not to go all "macho blowhard" (her term) on the assembled talent and executive producers. "I'm an economist," she finally says, "with two Ph.D.s. Not one. Two. Who hosts the seven o'clock hour. On politics, the economy, and the news of the day. And you want me to sit outside during a heatwave and not, you know, report on the economy or other news for two weeks?" And she has a doctor's appointment on the thirteenth where we're supposed to hear the heartbeat, Don wants to add. Plus, the puking. The constant puking. His fingers itch. Sloan grabs his hand to make him stop fidgeting.
"A week. Plus. In London. Whispers from CNN say they're sending Anderson. Why the hell are you complaining about this?"
"Because it's, I don't know, not my usual area of coverage? I'll look ridiculous? It pulls me away from my show, which I'm just getting off the ground?" Sloan says. "You know what? We'll talk about this later. Let's talk about the ACA, or something equally as exciting."
"I'm with Sloan, I think it's demeaning to send the pre … a pretty, similarly-aged anchor to cover the birth," Mac chimes in. He can't tell if it's because Mac worried about the pregnancy or because she does think it's demeaning. He guess it's mostly because she thinks it's demeaning.
Charlie gives her a look, makes a low whistle and goes, "Christ. The two of you. Moving on."
After the meeting is adjourned, Charlie comes up to Sloan, making a 'What the hell, Sabbith?' gesture. "Let's go to your office," she says, keeping her head down in the throng.
"Ya think?" he says. "You really think?"
"Now, please," she says.
"Who is the head of news and who is the anchor here?" he asks. "What the fucking fuck, Sabbith?"
"Look, I've got to be at a pre-tape in an hour so maybe save the righteous indignation." Sloan leads Charlie into his office and Don follows to make sure she doesn't break her resolution and tell him she's pregnant.
"Keefer, I get that you two are married, but you don't need to be here. This isn't a tree for you to pee on. You need to go do things for Elliot, things that I pay you for!"
"No, he stays," Sloan says. "I'm not going to London, Charlie, I can't. Most importantly, it's crazy demeaning to me and hurts our coverage overall. Two Ph.D.s. The seven o'clock hour. I'm not fucking around here."
"This will expand your brand, Sloan. You're already more than an economics reporter; you're in news, energy, defense, elections, as an anchor. This pushes you into lifestyle."
"I am in lifestyle. I've reported on the Pope and a country-music star who had a stroke and shoplifting celebutantes," she says. "I'm not going. Moreover, it's a mistake to send me. Send Mercida or Chung or someone else who doesn't sound like a complete idiot when prattling on about shoes, but don't send me."
"I thought this would be a nice reward! You're doing great. Starting Line is settling in well and gaining an audience. So, London for a week." He's using that cajoling, expansive, Grandpa Charlie tone that he often uses to wheedle. It usually works like a charm on Sloan, but she's not falling for it today.
"It makes me look weak, it diminishes my credibility, it introduces unnecessary questions about who is covering my two shows, and we don't know when this baby is going to come," Sloan says. "I could be there for weeks, sitting out there and knitting with whatever sun-kissed brunette the Today show sends. Also," she pauses, ramped up, and Don knows what is coming, and he cringes, "given that I'm pregnant too, and puking every two hours like it's in my job description, I really don't want to engage in some charming 'Where-is-the-restroom-oh-you-mean-the-loo' banter with a policeman on the street outside the hospital." She stops, slightly shocked at her own outburst.
Charlie's mouth drops open.
"I think it's called a bobby over there," Don says, for some levity.
"You're pregnant," Charlie says blankly.
"Yup," Sloan says, biting her lip. "Ten weeks tomorrow."
"You got her pregnant?" Charlie says, his voice rising demandingly, and Don flashes back to Charlie catching them making out during Valentine's Day last year. Jesus, was that sixteen months ago?
"She was there too," he says, trying for calm. "I didn't …"
"Not now," Sloan cuts in.
"You were there and enjoying it, I think that's an important distinction!" Don protests as Charlie blanches.
"You just pulled the pregnancy trump card on me to get out of going to London?" Charlie's in disbelief, but there's a hint of pride in his eyes.
"You can say congratulations now," Sloan smirks, crossing her arms.
He gapes between the two of them. "I didn't even know you two were —"
"Oh we weren't," Sloan cuts in.
"Completely unplanned," he assures Charlie.
"And you two are —"
"Happy? Coping? Yes to both," Don says, smiling at Sloan. She has that lovely, inscrutable smile on her face that she gets when she's really happy. It glows. Then she snaps out of it.
"So you can't send me to London," Sloan says, her eyes wide and worried.
"No way in hell you're getting on a plane until — when are you due?"
"February 5th."
"You're not getting on a plane until March, then," Charlie says decisively. Don is glad that their boss is old-fashioned as fuck. Borderline sexist too, but he'll take it.
"Thank you," Sloan says.
"Congratulations. This is why you bought those couches."
"Yup," Sloan nods.
"And you know, we're still not telling anyone," Don cautions, since it's what Sloan wants. "Our families know, Mac and Will know, and that's it."
"And Bethany and Linda, to make me look not-pregnant for as long as possible," Sloan adds. "But yes other than that, we're not telling anyone until September."
"September? I'm supposed to keep this to myself until September?" Charlie asks. "Sloan! Don! This is good news! This is shout-from-a-rooftop good news."
"That we don't want people know until we're a little farther along," Don explains.
"And even then, we're not making any sort of announcement," Sloan adds definitively.
"Bullshit you're not making an announcement," Charlie interrupts. "You're talent, Sloan. You are on air every day. Viewers are going to notice."
"If it's noticeable, then why do I need to make an announcement?" Sloan counters.
"Let's cross this bridge in a while, OK?" Don says, feeling a headache coming on. "Since, you know, we have work to do?"
"Fine," Sloan says. Charlie insists on giving them both hugs and gets a little teary as he congratulates them another four times and says that they're going to be great parents. Don suspects he'll send them a bottle of Scotch sometime within the next twenty-four hours. As they're heading downstairs, though, Sloan tugs his upper arm and says, "Charlie's going to be our downfall. I can feel it."
"You think?" He still can't believe she told him, but she's been so emotional lately he's wary of mentioning that. The other day, she yelled at him when he told her her skirt did not, in fact, make her look fat.
"Oh yeah," she nods. "He was the reason everyone found out we were dating and he'll be the reason everyone finds out I'm pregnant. You have to watch him, Don. Watch him."
His wife has officially lost her mind.
Her prediction comes true, though. A bottle of Scotch arrives on his desk by that afternoon, tied with a pink and blue ribbon and attached to a clutch of balloons. Charlie then replaces Sloan's normal chair with something more ergonomic and a lot of buttons, the type of chair that could probably brew coffee if asked. Charlie also yells at her from across the newsroom to put on flats whenever he sees her wearing Louboutins.
Of course, Don is also hovering like an NSA drone, Will makes her sit down frequently, and Mac's drinking tea in solidarity. Sloan, when not yelling at them to stop treating her like she's made of porcelain, snaps at junior staffers, which she never does. There might as well be banners declaring Mission Accomplished.
"So, uh, not to pry — actually to be completely honest, I'm settling a bet — is, uh, is there any chance Sloan is pregnant?" Jim asks a few weeks later, scratching the back of his neck in his disarmingly affable way as he hovers in Don's doorway. He's not surprised at the questions; beyond everyone's weird behavior, Sloan's figure has been subtly changing — her breasts are bigger, and her stomach, normally so flat, has taken on a small but definite roundness at almost twelve weeks. In response, her wardrobe has taken a hard right from her normally form-fitting stuff into looser outfits with high waists (according to Linda, those were 'empire' waists), which is probably significant enough for Jim or Maggie to notice. Plus, there's nonstop coverage of the Duchess of Cambridge's labor, which has been going on all day (Kate Middle-whatever is already at the hospital, apparently. Don could care less about any pregnant woman besides Sloan). In the newsroom, Tess and Tamara have put up a "Welcome Baby Cambridge" sign, ordered pink and blue cupcakes, and are wearing fancy Ascot hats as they work. There's a charged, off-kilter energy to the entire day.
Don looks up. "People think she's pregnant? Who's the bet between?" He tries for modulated disinterest.
"Maggie and Neal."
"Who's on which side?"
"Maggie says yes, Neal says no."
"Why do they think she's pregnant?" He leans down to pet Clem, who is underneath his chair.
Jim gives him a pitying duh look. "Uh, just … you know. Signs. Lots of signs. And things."
"'Signs, lots of signs, and things'?" he repeats. "How much is at stake?"
"Dignity and a hot dog."
"That's all this is worth? Get out," he says, suppressing a smile as he gestures to the door.
Jim smirks, pleased to have an answer. "You realize you basically confirmed, right? No comment is actually a comment."
"I'll see you Saturday for tennis!" he shouts as Jim exits.
Twenty minutes later, he spots Maggie, clutching a hot dog, hug Sloan. Uh-oh. He jumps up, because this could end very, very badly (at least, he comforts himself, Sloan's done with morning sickness so there's no chance of projectile puking).
"I'm so happy for you," Maggie coos, jumping up and down just a little.
"Maggie, don't —" he cuts her off from saying anything else with a firm shake of his head. "Jim, the hell?" he turns to her boyfriend. He thought it was clear with nonverbals that it (if there was an it) was being kept under wraps.
He shrugs. "Neal bought the hot dog. I just reported the no-comment comment."
"What the hell is going on?" Sloan asks. "What are any of you talking about?"
Sloan's got an edge to her voice, and luckily, they are not dealing with a complete idiot in Maggie. She gulps and says, "The ratings! For Starting Line! I'm so happy for you. And this hot dog? That's just random. It's just a random … a random street hot dog." She smashes the rest of it in her mouth. "Yum," she says, through a mouthful.
Sloan cocks an eyebrow and turns to Don. "Let's talk, yes?"
He raises his hands in exasperation, but follows her into her office. She flops down on the couch, causing Clem, who's napping, to whine and plant her head in Sloan's lap. Sloan's grateful, and starts stroking the dog's forehead. "What did you tell Maggie?" She doesn't seem teary, just exhausted.
"Nothing," he swears, sitting next to her. She curls her head onto his shoulder with a slight whimper. "Neal and Maggie had a bet about whether you were pregnant, Jim was sent to me to settle it, I dodged like Ben Stiller, and I guess he … deduced … and told Maggie she won."
"What side of the bet was she on?"
"That you're pregnant," he says, trailing his fingers down her shoulder.
She scoffs. "I don't even look pregnant."
"Eh," he hedges, fingering the seam of her structured shift dress, and she elbows him. "Hey. I think that's a good thing," he says, kissing her hair. "I'm pretty excited about it. You are pregnant, you're beginning to … blossom —"
"Blossom?" she snorts. "What book did you get that one from?"
"Some expectant-dad guide on the Internet," he admits. He's been googling them way too much these days. She relaxes and chuckles softly, her breath fluttering over his collarbone as she tucks into his side. He feels the tension leave her limbs. "Look, I know you're concerned about … things happening, and I get that. And I don't think you need to announce it to your viewers if you don't want to. But … we are getting to the point where it's safe to tell our friends. And it might be nice, you know, to get to tell people and have them be kind of surprised. We put it off long enough, everyone will be able to tell. I like … most of the people we work with. So I think it'd be nice to, you know —"
"Share it with them?" she says, amused. She then turns deadly serious and starts repeating the arguments she's been making for days. "I know. I just … don't want this to turn into a major thing. I don't want this whole pregnancy to turn into … a water-cooler topic. Or something used to demand attention. One of my friends from college sent me an invitation to her gender-reveal party last year and it was … I was mortified for her. I don't want … any of that. I don't want a pink and blue cake pops, I don't want an ACN Facebook poll where people can vote on the name. When Charlie suggested announcing it on air …. I just … no. I can't do that, I —"
"Hey, hey, hey. I know all of that," he says. "And I don't want that either. And this … this is our thing. And I get that you're worried this will have ramifications for how you're perceived, professionally, and that you're concerned about privacy. Which, hell, I am too. I don't want us to Tweet photos after she's born or put anything about her on Facebook. But we have a few friends that we might want to share it with, and we're getting close to the point where we can't. It'll be obvious. And crap, Sloan, I'm excited about this. I mean, I'm fucking terrified,' she laughs, "but I do want to tell people. I want to tell Jim, and Maggie, and that jackass from Treasury that tries to flirt with you, and Hillary Clinton, and the clerk at the drugstore. But I'll contain myself to our friends, whenever you think it's time. I'm wondering if … maybe that's now. And if it's not now, it's going to be in the next few weeks. The baby's going to say he's here soon enough on his own."
She kisses him, taking him a bit by surprise. "His own, huh?"
"Or hers," he says, but he's pretty convinced it's a boy. Not that he wouldn't love a girl, wouldn't spoil her and threaten boyfriends and teach to play baseball and hog the front row at dance recitals, but he's got a gut feeling it's a boy.
"I love you," she says, kissing him once more. Then she stands, opens the door, and calls, "Neal! Jim! Maggie! In here."
"What are you doing?" he asks from the couch.
"Sharing with our friends," she smiles. They enter.
"What's up?" Maggie says, looking a little scared. There's a smudge of ketchup on her cheek. She self-consciously tucks her strawberry-blonde hair behind her ears.
Sloan crosses her arms, inadvertently making her stomach more prominent. She stares at them, lips pursed, still deciding. Finally — "This probably comes as no shock to any of you, but I'm pregnant," she says evenly.
"Yes! Congratulations," Maggie yelps, flying into Sloan's arms, as Neal fist-pumps and Jim presses a fist to his mouth in excitement. "I knew it," she crows after hugging them both.
"That's awesome," Jim adds.
"When are you due?" Maggie says.
"February. Early February," Don replies.
"And we're still not really telling anyone," Sloan says.
"Though Will and Mac know," Don concedes.
"And Charlie knows," Sloan adds. "But we're not announcing it; we're not making a big deal about it."
"It's a boy," Tess announces, her torso swinging into the room.
"There's no way to tell," Maggie says quickly. God. "Not right now, it's too early to know, Tess." He groans.
Tess cocks her head. "Kate Middleton's baby. Is a boy." She looks at Sloan. "Are you pregnant?"
"What?" Sloan sputters. "No. That's … that's crazy." She tries to make a girlfriend, please face and fails miserably.
"Oh my god, you're totally pregnant," Tess grins. "Congratulations!"
"Right, thanks. But we're not —"
"Did you tell them?" Gary slides in. "Because I bet boy and Neal bet girl, so pay up, Sampat. You owe me ten bucks."
"I am never betting on anything related to infants again," Neal groans as he pulls out his wallet.
"Yes, and guess what? Sloan has news too!" Tess says.
"I told you this would happen," Sloan accuses him, flustered. He shrugs and raises his hands— the train's left the station.
"Are you pregnant?" Gary looks at her, honing in on her chest. "Yeah, you're definitely pregnant. I knew it. Congrats!"
"Eyes up, Cooper," Don says, irritated.
"Thanks, but please — we're … not saying anything," Sloan says.
"Seriously," Don says. "Nothing."
"An ACN baby, though," Maggie says, bobbing side to side and nearly frenetic with excitement. "Oh my god. This kid will be adorable. Well, as long as it doesn't get Don's ears."
"My ears are fine," he protests. Why do his ears get so much flack?
"Is anyone here covering the fucking news?" Charlie bellows from the newsroom.
"We should get back to work," Neal says. "Can we take you guys out tonight? After Right Now? To celebrate?"
Sloan takes a deep breath. "Honestly, that's a little late for me. Why don't we do a lunch in a few days?" she volunteers.
It's a bit of a crazy day. He tells Elliot, so he doesn't have to hear it through the grapevine, and he gets choked up and speechless, which is kind of awkward, so they hug in a very manly fashion. Sloan's not scheduled to appear on News Night or Right Now, so she heads home after Starting Line, texting him that she's taking the dog home. He hasn't seen her since she told the staff, and he's a little worried.
She's curled up asleep when he gets home, and he slides into bed behind her, running his hand down her stomach. Even though it's literally the tiniest hint of what's to come, he's in awe of the small bump.
She shifts. "Hey," she whispers. "I didn't catch the show. How did it go?"
"Went fine," he shrugs.
"Good," she says, blinking awake. As she focuses on him, she asks, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he says. She throws him a look before kicking him lightly. "Ow," he says.
"Don't mess with me. I'm pregnant. I have a sixth sense. What's wrong?"
"Everything's fine," he says. "I just … You're ok? With everything?"
To her credit, she doesn't dodge or swerve. "The pregnancy? No. I'm a little terrified. I'm excited, but I'm terrified. Aren't you?"
"Well, yeah," he says, because how could they not be terrified? "But we're almost to three months. I don't think we should rent out a skywriting plane, but I think we should tell our friends. And at some point in the future — October, maybe — I think you should say something on air. The speculation's going to drive itself after a bit, and that's going to lead to more attention. Which is the exact opposite of what you want to happen."
She flops onto her back. "I don't like being out of control," she confesses, like it's a furtive, dark secret.
He laughs. "I hadn't noticed," he teases.
"My body is slowly being taken over and doing this against my will. I'm not a control freak!" she protests, a hint of whine in her voice.
"No, you're not," he says, because that's true. "But you're an economist. You take calculated risks. You can't calculate this one, so it's bugging you."
She turns to him, surprised but a little irritated, he thinks. "Yes. Fine. I'm transparent."
"Hey," he says. "I think I know you better than the average bear."
"I know it's a small risk of something going wrong, but it's still there," she says. "And … I don't know, coupled with having to tell people and answer questions that would be considered seriously inappropriate under any other circumstances —"
"I get it, I do," he says. "I know we're going to agree to disagree about whether the odds of something going wrong are statistically significant or not since I'm basing my opinion on gut and optimism and not a computer model built by some guy with eight PhDs, but will you at least trust me on the media strategy since I am, you know, a well-respected executive producer on a decently rated cable-news show? And if you can't, can you at least tell me what I can do to be helpful? Because you're stressing yourself out a lot about this, and I'd like to at least be helpful."
She smiles, as if she's realizing that she's releasing a burden, and he realizes he should have said this weeks ago. Idiot. "Alright, I'll take your word for the media strategy, Mr. Well-Respected-Executive-Producer. I still get to be terrified, though, right?"
"As long as you're also excited," he says.
"Well that," she says, kissing him, "Goes without," kiss, "saying."
He holds her there a little longer, a kiss that doesn't start something but rather seals something. She moves under him slowly, languidly, positioning them for a round of lazy, content sex. He realizes, not for the first time, that he loves this, the way they can so casually and so confidently transition between emotional and physical intimacy. Not for the first time, he's awed that out of that, they've created something that will someday soon be a baby. For the first time, as his lips flutter over her tiny belly, he hears her whimper, then smile. They'll be alright.
So, thoughts on my slightly all-over-the-map chapter? Trust me, reviews are much appreciated and spur inspiration.