Yours, Mine, Ours
Grant has always been a light sleeper – it comes with the territory of being a specialist –, and yet now he doesn't wake until the toilet flushes, but by the time the bathroom door opens and Skye stumbles back into the room, he already has the lamp on the bedside table turned on.
"Do you really have to burn my retinas out?" she grumbles wearily, shielding her eyes from the harsh light of the lamp.
She looks like a mess – not very much different from her usual middle-of-the-night mess, but bad enough that his throat tightens; her eyes are barely open, her hair a big mess of long curls (it'll be a nightmare getting the kinks out, he knows), and she is only wearing a greatly oversized plaid shirt (he'd bet she snatched it from Mack's laundry, because "it's big, and warm, and comfy, and you don't wear plaid, Robot. Shame on you") over her panties, with only a couple of the buttons made up, and even those are miss-matched. (If he didn't know how miserable she must be feeling, he'd find her adorable.)
"Were you sick again?" he asks, concern evident in his voice as he pushes down the head of the lamp.
Skye only gives him a weak little wave of her hand as she walks back to her side of the bed.
"No. I had to pee," she tells him, resigned, before practically falling into the bed face-first. "I thought this part, this going-to-the-bathroom-every-hour–thing, wouldn't come until near the end," she complains, her voice muffled by the pillow. "Urgh… I'll have to read all those books Jemma got me. Just to avoid any further unexpected, nasty surprises."
He tries not to chuckle at her as he pulls the duvet over her, but he is having a hard time about it. (He can't help it – he has been feeling kind of giddy ever since they learned about the baby.)
As symptomless as her pregnancy was in the very beginning, now at nine weeks, it is turning to be a special kind of torture: bouts of nausea is tormenting her through the day, she just can't stand certain smells (like Hunter's cologne; although it was funny when she marched up to him and told him straight that he can't wear the scent again until she popped this baby), she is often drowsy, having to take a nap in the middle of the day, she easily gets dizzy, her breasts are tender, and the newest: she needs to go to the bathroom all the time. (But on the upside, her sex drive seems to be increasing – now, he's not complaining about that one.)
"That might not be a bad idea," he tells her, soothingly brushing through her hair (his fingers get stuck in the mess of curls). "I've already looked into some of them; they're not that bad."
There's a couple seconds of silence, and then, "Your kid hates me."
Her sudden proclamation in the dim stillness of the room is so absurd that he laughs out loud.
"My kid?"
"Yes," she says, turning towards him and propping herself up on her elbow. "It's the best if we make it abundantly clear early on: when it's all adorable and lovely, it is my kid. When it's a menace tormenting me, it's your kid. Right now it won't let me sleep," just to punctuate it, her sentence is interrupted by a yawn, "so it's your kid."
The corner of his mouth twitches into a faint smile, no matter how hard he tries to keep a straight face.
"Then let me apologize in my kid's stead," he says, leaning in and placing a small kiss on her mouth. "Sorry," he whispers against her lips. "Now try to sleep – you need rest." He sneaks a hand under the covers and places it on her still flat belly, rubbing it gently. "Both of you."
"Hm, okay," she murmurs, smiling, her eyelids are dropping as she lowers her head back on the pillow. "Hm… our kid is going to be so loved…" she says softly, barely audible, and then a moment later she is already asleep.
Grant can't help but grin as he turns around to turn off the lamp.
"I have absolutely no doubts about that…"
(Barely an hour later she bolts from the bed once again, this time actually to throw up.)
(He can't wait for the first trimester to end.)