A/N: Eeeek, two chapters in one day? Who am I? (I should've been doing school work all day, but I needed a break. It's been a helluva week, you know?)

Let me know what you guys are thinking/liking about/hating about this story :-)

Hope you enjoy!

Elizabeth

She opens her eyes and looks at the sidewalk behind him, seeing the ice forming around them. She sniffles, "We should get back inside," she says.

"I think we should just go home, don't you?"

"No," she says, pulling away from him and looking up, "I didn't want to tell you because I didn't want you to cancel your fun today, Henry."

He laughs quietly, shaking his head, "The panel isn't really all that great—they won't miss me if I tell them I'm not coming," he says, shrugging, "I'd rather just spend the rest of the day with you in Boston," he adds.

At that, she couldn't argue with him. She, too, would like to spend the day with him in Boston, so she just nods and murmurs, "Okay," before he takes her hand and they walk back in together. He tells the people who run it that he has to leave earlier than expected, thanks them for the speaking opportunity, and leaves his books with them.

"My UVA colleagues can get them on their way out." He instructs, and Elizabeth makes a mental note to try to remember to make sure he's messaged them later.

As they walk out of the conference center and onto the campus, she looks down at their feet, lost in her own thoughts again. She's not even sure she feels relieved now that Henry knows—instead, she just feels scared. And, honestly, a bit mad. How could he ever think she was cheating on him? She'd never even so much as looked twice at another man, let alone slept with him. She shifts her hand from his into her coat pocket, but he immediately notices.

"Babe," he says.

She looks over at him, "An affair?" She asks.

He sighs, looking forward and shaking his head, "Can you imagine what it's like to think for the past six years that you don't have the ability to get your wife pregnant anymore, then all of a sudden your gut is telling you she's pregnant and then, not only your gut, but your wife is telling you she's pregnant?" He asks, then looks over at her. "Because I don't see how I could have thought anything else, babe." He admits. "I was so hurt—but I didn't want to bring it up to you. I thought maybe my gut was just wrong. I wanted it to be wrong because, again, there was no way that I could be the one." He breathes, pausing.

She thinks on that for a moment. He's right. There was no way that he physically should've been able to impregnate her, but somehow, it has happened. And though it hurt her deeply, she knows that he must've felt hurt, too. "That wasn't any excuse to accuse me," she points out. "You should've just asked first."

"I did," he reminds.

She shakes her head, "You should've asked not when I was already so upset, Henry. Back when your gut was telling you things." She says, swallowing hard and looking back down at her feet as they touch the sidewalk. "I wouldn't have been so hurt that way."

"It was never my intention to hurt you," he says softly.

"It was never my intention to hurt you," she replies, sniffling from her cold, runny nose.

They walk in silence for a few minutes, then he looks over at her again, "How long have you known?" He asks.

"This morning," she says, "Well, I think some part of me has known for the last week—but I couldn't…I couldn't bring myself to think about it." She admits. "All those midterm papers and winding that down…I didn't even have the time to think about that."

"Yeah," he mumbles, and she sees him nodding out of the corner of his eye, though he's staring straight ahead as if he's in a trance.

She shoves her hands down into her coat pockets more, raising her shoulders up around her ears tighter to let the coat cover more of her lobes and neck. Everything right now feels like it should be snowing, but it's just ice on the ground, and otherwise looks like fall. As she's watching a leaf fall in front of her, off to the side, she feels a warm streak down her cheek. Then another down the other side. And then, her breath hitches.

Henry immediately reaches into her coat pocket, sliding his fingers between hers. He gently tugs to get them to stop walking, resting his other hand on her hip. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I am so sorry for ever thinking that."

She shakes her head, "It isn't even that, Henry," she whispers, "Another kid? Four kids?" She asks, the weight of the situation finally truly hitting her. She thinks about the fact that she's going to have to start all over—Jason's just turned six a few months back, Alison is eight, and Stevie…oh God, having to tell her thirteen-year-old daughter that she's pregnant is not something she's ever wanted to do.

She watches as he reaches up and rubs his gloved finger across her cheek, drying the cold and wet spot. He doesn't say anything, and she wonders if he, too, is wondering how they're going to do it all.

This is only Elizabeth's second year of teaching at UVA, and now she's had already had her class load adjusted to be even heavier than it started this semester. And next semester—she assumes she's about six weeks pregnant or so, and that means she'll be due at the end of the spring semester. The thought of having to teach at eight-months pregnant makes her body ache. And, not that she's old, but she's thirty-five. She's older than she ever wanted to be while having a baby. She realizes her bottom lip is quivering now, and she gets so frustrated at herself for crying that she just wants to scream. But she holds it in. She balls her fists up in her pockets instead, digging her fingers into her palms as hard as they could stand.

She tilts her head back and blinks a few times, trying to keep from crying more.

"Maybe four kids is what we were always supposed to have," he says, another sad attempt at making her feel better. Even he didn't sound convinced of his own statement.

"Three always felt perfect." She whispers, not looking at him.

"Four will too, won't it?" He asks, resting his other hand on her other hip, now sliding both hands to the small of her back and rubbing gently with his fingers through her heavy coat. "Remember how scared we were with Stevie?"

She sniffles. She does remember how scared they were with Stevie—she was terrified because she was alone, but then when he came home even, they were both so scared of being parents. They'd planned on being parents down the road—not now, not this young, especially not before Elizabeth had gotten established at the CIA—but there was no slowing time. By the time he'd come home from overseas, there wasn't even a chance in denying it anymore—she was six months along and looked it, too.

"That was different," she points out, "We were scared because we were first time parents."

"Why were we scared?" He asks, "All the unknowns, and we didn't know how the hell we'd afford to pay for a kid and how to even raise one, really. We were scared at the surprise of it all. It happened so quick."

She finally looks at him, dropping her chin down to find his face.

"It's new right now," he reminds her, bringing his hand up to her face again and thumbing at her cheek, "It's scary and new."

"Aren't you scared?" She asks shakily.

He nods slowly, shrugging, "Of course I am," he whispers, "I'm also just…I'm scared that it even happened in the first place." He admits. "I'm scared for you, and I'm scared for…everything. I'm always a wreck bringing new life into this world."

She takes a shaky breath, nodding. They have both agreed all three times that the part about a new life in the world is the scariest—not keeping it alive, not feeding it or clothing it or even the chaotic diapers, but the fact that they are responsible for raising a decent human being. She feels a lump in her throat and looks across the street at their hotel, just down another block. "Let's get inside," she whispers, "I'm freezing."

When they get into their room, she realizes how quiet he'd been since admitting he was scared. She sits down on the bed after stripping her coats off, laying her gloves on top of that and kicking her shoes off. She watches as he's doing the same in front of the mirror. He unbuttons his cuffs after taking the coat off, then unbuttons his shirt, then slides it off his shoulders and back onto a hanger. That was, after all, his best shirt—the only one they ever get dry cleaned. He walks over, shirtless, to his tee and slides it over his head, then undoes his belt buckle and steps out of his pants and into a pair of sweats. She thinks to herself that she should've done the same—this pantsuit is uncomfortable.

She sits up a little more and reaches for her button on her pants, then unzips and slides her pants off onto the floor. She feels too exhausted to even pick them up. Henry turns around and grabs them, picking them up and folding them.

She watches, tilting her head a little as he tosses the folded pants onto her bag, "Want your sweats?" He asks her.

She simply nods, and he brings them over to her along with her tee, too. She takes the soft material in her hands and squeezes, then takes a shaky breath. "Thanks," she whispers, feeling suddenly very awkward. She slides into her pants with some difficulty since she refuses to stand up, then tosses her shirt off and the new one on. Shimmying herself backwards on the bed, she sets the pillow up behind her back and watches as Henry crawls in. She takes a deep breath and waits for him to set his pillow up, too, then plops over with her head resting on his lap.

She feels the vibration of his chuckle up against her head, and it makes her smile as she closes her eyes. His hand is pushing her hair back, and his other hand is resting on her side. "Exhausted?" He asks.

"Such an accurate word," she replies, rolling onto her back and looking up at him. She lets another moment of silence pass by, then looks at him again and smirks, "Remember what we used to do in hotels when we were first married?"

He raises his brow, and then after a second, he laughs, "Raid the hotel snack bar?"

"I wonder if this one has a snack bar?" She asks. "I would die for a honey bun."

"Die for one?" He asks, raising his brow again as if he's scolding her.

She snorts, "Fine, I'd do some really shady stuff for a honey bun."

He bends down and groans, "Damn, I'm getting old," he murmurs as they both hear his back crack before he kisses her on the lips. She helps him slightly by lifting her head up a little into his lips, too.

She smiles, "Me too," she says, not letting the irony of their situation pass by.

They "sneak" down to the hotel lobby, searching around for any sight of food. Sneaking wasn't really their thing anymore, and in their early days of being together, they also weren't great at sneaking, but they agreed it had added to the thrill of it, even if the snacks ended up being something they had to pay for. He taps her on the arm and nods to his right, and she lays eyes on the snack area. "Perfect," she whispers, following him in.

She grabs a bag of plain Lay's and a bag of Chips Ahoy, and as he searches for what he wants, she looks around for a sign to be sure they weren't supposed to be paying. They'd made that mistake once, and then the hotel ended up charging them because they got caught on the camera. It hadn't been their intention to steal—they just didn't know this one wasn't free. She sees he has a Hershey's bar and some Cheetos, and they make their way back up to the room with, what feels like, their loot.

When they're back in, she plops down on the bed with her snacks. Henry had stopped at the vending machine, getting their traditional bottle of Coke to share—and then getting an extra just in case. "Just like the old days, huh?" He says, crawling up on the bed with her.

She laughs, "Except we have a middle schooler and are both working in the private sector as professors," she points out, still sometimes amazed that their lives have come to that. She never imagined working in the private sector—she assumed she'd retire from the CIA. And sometimes, like right now, she misses that job. It hurts her heart more than she wants it to when she thinks about the CIA position.

He laughs and nods, opening his bag of Cheetos first. She's already gotten her bags open, and she can feel him watching as she places a Lay's chip on top of her Chips Ahoy cookie. "I'll never get over that," he murmurs.

She raises her brow and looks at him as she crunches down on her concoction, "Over what?"

"That," he says, nodding toward her bags. "The weird mixes."

She shakes her head, "You know this isn't just a pregnancy thing."

"Oh, I know," he says, "I remember when you first did it a few weeks before we got married. I simultaneously knew I was going to marry you yet was also a little weirded out."

She snorts as she chews her chip-cookie, shrugging innocently, "It was something Will and I did," she reminds him, though she's told the story a thousand times, probably, over the course of their fifteen-year marriage. "It became our thing."

"Well," Henry says, chewing on a Cheeto, too, "I'm glad it hasn't rubbed off on our kids."

She smiles, thinking about them again. She leans down and rests her head on his shoulder as she chews, listening to him crunch, too. For a moment, she thinks again about his cheating accusation, and how badly it hurt her. She's tried to move past it—he's apologized, and she can imagine how hurt he probably felt, too. But it's still bothering her whether she wants it to or not. She takes a deep breath, swallowing her concoction, "Do you trust me?" She asks.

He looks down, "Where'd that come from?"

"Just…answer."

There was enough silence that made her alarmed, and she was about to sit up before he finally responds, "I do trust you," he whispers. "I…I got scared, but I do deep in my heart trust you."

She nods slowly, sticking another chip on top of her cookie, then popping it into her mouth and crunching.

"We'll figure it out, you know," Henry says.

She sighs, "You keep saying that."

"What else am I supposed to say?"

The words make her rigid, and she sits up a little before leaning her back against the pillow and headboard. She supposes he has a point, but his statement, somehow, is annoying to her. She swallows hard, clearing her throat, "I can't stop thinking about the kids." She admits, shaking her head and trying to move past his statement. "Stevie's already going through enough, and now I have to explain this to her. She's thirteen, Henry. And God…Jason and Alison. How do we manage this on top of everything else?"

"We don't have to figure it all out today," he reminds her.

"And what about work?" She keeps going, starting to spiral more than she needed to at this later evening hour. "What about when I'm eight months pregnant and having to teach three sections of poli sci?" Her voice wavers, "I didn't want to start over." She says, shaking her head, "Not like this."

Henry takes a deep breath and sets his bag aside, letting the chocolate bar fall to his side, too, off his leg, "I don't think we were meant to start over, babe," he admits, "Maybe this is just happening…because…" his voice trails for a moment, "Because it's happening. I don't know."

For the first time, she finally feels heard. She feels like he's getting the weight of it, too, and she can breathe again. She hadn't realized how restricted everything had felt prior, but now that she has the freedom, she knows.

"I don't have any real answers," he concedes, shaking his head again, "I'm worried sometimes that we're barely holding it together as is. And…"

"And what?" She prods, looking over at him as he stares forward toward the turned-off TV.

He's still barely shaking his head, "What if this is the thing that makes it all fall apart?" He asks, "The moment I stop asking myself that question is the moment it will fall apart."

She swallows thick, looking down into her lap and knowing, unfortunately, that he's right. Admitting you have it all together, that everything's great—that's when you stop trying. She looks over at him again, noticing now all the lines of exhaustion in his own features, too. The room, suddenly, feels too quiet. The ticking of the clock too loud. She shifts a little, pulling the blanket up closer to her hips as a coldness spreads through the air.

She opens her mouth, then closes it, and swallows the lump in her throat. There's nothing she can say to make it better, just like there's nothing he could say to her to make it better. Somehow, though, knowing he's scared makes her feel slightly better, yet so much worse. Nothing can stop this feeling of collapse, she's afraid.

So she just breathes out, saying, "I'm scared too," she whispers, though he never said this time that he was scared. But she can hear it in the way his voice just slightly shakes, the way he mumbles some of his consonants, "But I'm here." She says, sliding her hand on top of his and squeezing it tightly.

For a while, they both sit in silence. Their snacks no longer the center of attention, neither of them willing to push further into the unknown at this moment. There's nothing they can rely on to guarantee they will be okay, that they'll make it out of this and onto the other side—whatever the "other side" consist of—but there never has been anything to rely on. Just themselves. And they're still here, that has to count for something, and they're trying to figure out the next step, which also has to count for something.

And for now, that'll have to be enough.

Though she knows it'll have to be enough, she can't stand the way this room feels right now. She sits up straight and slides her legs off the edge of the bed, slowly getting to her feet and shuffling over to the balcony doors. She slides the door open, thanking the conference for putting them in such a nice room, and goes out to the railing. She leans against it, looking out over the city so much older than she. She breathes in the cold air, feeling her lungs come alive again and burn with the sensation.

Henry

He watches her leave the bed, everything around him feeling cold as she moves her way to the doors. His eyes never leave her, though she never looks back. He kicks himself for wanting her to look back when she'd only just left the bed, but he feels empty without her beside him right now. Finally, he gives in as he watches her lean against the railing, getting up and going out to meet her.

He gently slides his hand across her lower back, rubbing as the cold air immediately fills his veins. He wonders how she's stood out here so long without a jacket—nothing more than just this tee and her sweatpants. The only sound between them is his shoulder popping and the hum of the city below. She never looks at him, but he watches the side of her face as she looks down, then looks up at the stars. Finally, after probably two minutes of total silence, he speaks, "Maybe we need to take a step back," he says, and the words must startle her because she whips her head around quickly, facing him, "Not from us," he adds quickly, "But from everything else. Just focus on getting through the day, figuring it out as we go." He says, "It's how we've always operated together."

Her face softens a little, and she looks away from him again, up at the stars. He thinks he might see some liquid forming in her eyes, but she blinks a few times and he doesn't see it anymore. "I just don't know how to be okay." She whispers.

Any other time, he might have thought that to be a bit of a dramatic statement—maybe even a little pregnancy-induced drama. However, he feels it too. He doesn't know how to be okay, either. Their lives haven't exactly gotten stable since Elizabeth left the CIA, and he's not sure they ever will feel as stable as they once did with them both teaching like they are. Their kids are getting older, too, and everything about raising a young teenager feels incredibly unstable. It's all uncharted territory. He's not even sure a teenager has charted territory as he thinks about it.

"Neither do I," he admits quietly, shaking his head.

She falls silent again, and he wants to beg her to say something, but he holds back. Deep down, he knows she needs to think this through—that's how her beautiful mind works. She will think it out and it'll all end up okay in the end, but for now, she needs to panic about it. "Let's make it through tonight," he whispers, "The rest will come when it comes."

She nods, looking over at him and taking his hand. He looks down at the cold feeling in his palm, and he squeezes her fingers before she makes her way back to the doors and into the room, Henry following her closely. When he closes the door behind him, she turns around slowly and places her icy hands on his cheeks, her thumbs resting directly on the front of his cheek bones.

He wraps his arms around her body, pulling her chilled figure into himself and resting his palms against the small of her back.

For a moment, they just stand there. Neither of them losing the other's gaze, neither of them breathing too deeply to disturb the other. For a time, even, their breaths were barely noticeable, though in sync.

"You know I'm here," he whispers, barely even audible to himself. "Right?" He asks, just to make sure she has no doubts.

She nods, slowly leaning into him and pressing her lips against his, her hands inching around to the back of his neck and up into his hair. He pulls her in closer, and her body is resting against his now. When she pulls her lips off his, they immediately lock eyes, and this time he recognizes the silence as an understanding. She knows he's here. He knows she knows that now.

Her hands are tugging against the back of his head and neck, pulling his face close to hers. Their lips are almost touching, and he's closing his eyes, thinking she's leaning in for a kiss. Instead, her lips brush against his as she whispers, "I need you," and his eyes fly open.

He didn't think this would be happening—not after he accused her of cheating on him. Not after she's been so exhausted. Not after any of the day today, really. But before he can even respond, her lips are back on his, and he feels it deepening quickly. Her hands are now sliding down the sides of his neck, down his shoulders, and he pauses her by holding onto her arms.

He looks into her eyes before pressing a kiss to her forehead, "Let's go to the bed," he whispers, and they make their way over after he turns the lights off.

When they slide in, still fully clothed, he pulls the blanket up over her before resuming the kiss right where they were. He breathes for a moment, realizing the weightlessness of no urgency, no fervency or alarm. Nothing other than him holding her, and her letting him. He reaches down and pulls her shirt up over her head, pushing his head down to her chest and pressing a kiss to her breastbone before sliding her bra to the side, peppering kisses across her skin.

Her body arches into him, a sign she likes what's happening—a sign he's learned well over the years. His hands slide down to the curve of her back, the softest piece of her skin just above her pants. He slides his hand into the waistband, across her hip and in front of her body, finding everything that makes her tick.

She moans into his mouth, and he can't help but moan back.

She pulls away slowly, "I want you." She whispers. "I want you as close to me as you can get."

He swallows hard, kissing her slowly one more time as he lets his tongue drift across her lower lip this time.

Soon, they're utterly naked, complete and pure in each other's grasps. This quiet space only disturbed by the rustling of the sheets and the rhythm of their breathing, the quiet and muffled moans. For this moment, they're both safe, they're both secure. There's nothing that can break them apart.

When he realizes she's fallen asleep, her takes note of how she's sleeping. Her leg is tucked between his legs, and his foot is touching her leg somewhere. Her hair is tossed gently in front of her face from the side of her head, and he swears she's almost got a smile on her face. Their once-sticky skin now cooled, and his hand is sliding gentle swipes up and down from her ribs to her hip. He lets it stop on her abdomen, sliding it down quietly and softly as to not wake her. He flattens his palm there against her lower abdomen, closing his eyes and imagining what a fourth McCord might look like.

Will it be another boy? Yet another girl? He's okay with that, too. He's always felt it to be a cliché whenever people say, "I don't care what it is, just that it's healthy," but with every child, he's found himself believing in that cliché. They've been so lucky with their other three—all good kids, though not all of them great sleepers—but they were all healthy. And truly, he didn't care whether they were girls or boys. He was happy to have a son, but his daughters made him happy with their nail-painting and makeup-doing that they used to perform on him, too.

With his eyes closed, he silently speaks out into the ether, out into whatever holds their little baby's soul, "I'm your dad," he says, though it never leaves his lips. "And though you're…God, you're such a surprise…I'm so happy you're here. I will always love you, no matter what."

He lets a smile crawl up on his face, and he nestles into the pillows more. He feels the rising and falling of her chest against his chest, and his hand is snuggled in tight between their bodies as he falls asleep beside her—apart of her.