A/N: New story! Woooo.

I've been wanting to write some more about their time as professors, and I finally got this idea rolling. If you have more ideas that you'd like to see explored, let me know and I'd be happy to try and write them!

This will be multi-chapter, so be sure to follow the story and if you don't already, follow me as an author :-)

thanks, hope you enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE

Each time this has happened, she can remember it vividly. The first time—which she had no idea what was happening, then—was when Isabelle caught her throwing up in her office. The second time, Elizabeth knew right away when she'd woken up nauseous one morning. The third time was the one and only time they'd been expecting it to happen, and not long after they'd wanted it to happen, it did.

Of course, all three times, they wanted it. It wasn't that it was so out of left field that they were left in a compromising position. It was a shock the first two times, a surprise that they eventually came around to know as their daughters, Stephanie and Alison. They were all pure joy mixed with a bit of fear and worry and anxiety, as any parents feel when they realize they're bringing new life into the world.

So this time, as she's standing surrounded by Harvard walls and smoothing her hair out in the bathroom mirror, she feels all those emotions again. This time, more shock than joy, more worry than excitement.

They were finished having kids—they'd known Jason would be their last. After 9/11 happened only a month later, they really knew it would be their last. Henry had offered that October to have a vasectomy, and Elizabeth took him up on it quickly. She was too covered in work at the CIA to even consider the possibility of having any kind of surgeries—having Jason was enough to set her back, and then the terrorist event happening right after made her really drown in work.

Six years later, she shouldn't even be having this thought. She shouldn't be looking in the mirror as she has for the past four minutes, messing with her hair, smoothing her eye makeup, and forcing herself to take deep, controlled breaths. She shouldn't have been waking up nauseous for the past two weeks, she shouldn't have thrown up this morning at the hotel, and she shouldn't have had to veer off from Henry while he walked down to the conference to slide into CVS to grab a cheap pregnancy test.

None of this should've been happening.

Yet, here she is with two pink lines staring up at her as the test lays on the counter below.

She drops her eyes back down to the test and runs the palm of her hand against her hair, pushing her bangs away from her face as her breath hitches. How is she supposed to break this to Henry?

Six months ago, the Conference on Theology and Ethics—CTE—reached out to Henry about a speaking opportunity at their conference being held in October at Harvard Divinity School.

"I just don't know if I want to travel right now," Henry had said to Elizabeth as he stirred the spaghetti in the pot. She was setting the table in the room adjacent while the kids did their homework.

"We have to eventually," she realized, knowing, too, that she was nervous to leave the kids behind. The Virginia Tech shooting last month had them both shaken up, and both being professors, they had been extra protective over their kids lately and staying safe for their children. That summer, only Henry worked on campus while Elizabeth decided to stay back with the kids.

Somewhere in both of their logical minds, they both knew that things could happen anywhere—that this was probably unlikely to happen again so close to home. But their parent minds were scared, dumping logic behind for a while until it all smoothed over again.

He sighed, grabbing the hot pads and picking the pot of spaghetti up, bringing it into the dining room and setting it down on the table, "Do you think we're making the right decision to go?"

She shrugged, looking up at him as she lays the last fork down, "I think we can't shelter ourselves and our kids forever." She whispered.

After that summer, Elizabeth and Henry returned to their departments at the University of Virginia. Henry's book released smoothly in August of 2007, Elizabeth was enjoying teaching her first graduate-level class, and the kids, they hoped, were safe in their elementary school and middle school. By Labor Day, the constant, niggling worry had mostly disappeared.

"I will never understand how you get so many papers graded," Elizabeth mumbled to Henry as he climbed in bed with his measly stack of three papers left. "I still have eleven to go."

"I have less students," he reminded.

She shot him a look, her hair falling down over her eyebrow, "Three less," she quipped.

"Here," he said, setting his pillow up behind his back before reaching over and taking four essays off the bottom of her pile. He looked down at the rubric that was beside her, though she wasn't using it, and scooted it closer to his own leg so he could see it better. "There. Now we'll both be awake for a while." He said, giving her a smile.

She sighed contently, her shoulders relaxing from being up around her ears, and looked back at her paper. She flipped to page four of the essay and heard Henry grunt. She didn't want to look, she didn't need the distraction. But then she felt the bed rocking a little, and she looked over to see him deep into this paper with his fingers resting on his chin. "Good paper?" She asked curiously, looking over to see if she could see the name on the top. Moran. He was one of her best undergraduates.

"Very good paper," he admitted.

She watched him for a second, then bit her lip when she saw his new glasses. As much as he hated that he had to wear them, she loved the way they looked on him. She glanced down to her own essay she'd been reading, squinting at the words to make them clearer. She knew that it was time to break down and get reading glasses—even at thirty-five her vision was starting to wane when it came to reading papers so often. But she didn't want to. She couldn't let herself admit defeat yet.

She looked back over at him, "You're really hot for helping me grade," she teased, raising her brow.

He looked at her, raising his brow, too, and letting the corner of his mouth pull up into a smile. He finally smiled fully, then looked down at the paper. "Don't start."

"Why?" She immediately responded.

"Because we have about fifteen papers to grade between the two of us."

"It can get done tomorrow," she reminded, "It's Labor Day."

"We're grilling out tomorrow with—"

"Henry," she stopped him, setting the stack of papers that she had over on her nightstand. She rolled over, crushing her rubric sheet underneath the weight of her body, and slid her hand up his boxers, "I'm starting."

"Yes, you are." He breathed.

She wracks her brain for all the information the doctors gave to she and Henry when he'd had the procedure done all those years ago. How could this have happened? They knew it wasn't completely foolproof, but it seems after six years that it would've been behind them.

The door opens to her right and she grabs the test off the counter, hiding it in her closed fist the best she could. "Oh hi," the other woman says, "I'm Julia Heltz," she introduces, giving Elizabeth a smile. Elizabeth manages to get one smeared on her face, though she's unsure of how she must look. "Your husband and I are on a panel later today. You're Elizabeth, right?" She asks.

Elizabeth nods, "I am," she says, reaching out her hand that didn't have the test in it and shaking the other woman's, "It's nice to meet you."

Julia looks at Elizabeth's face again, the silence clearly showing she's thinking about something. Elizabeth knows it probably has something to do with the smudgy, once-wet-now-dry-again makeup and the faint stain of tears that had run down her cheeks.

"I'll see you later at the panel," Elizabeth says finally, breaking the quiet.

"Right!" Julia says, "It was nice meeting you."

"Nice meeting you," Elizabeth replies before heading to the door.

She walks out into the hall and looks right, then looks left, wondering where Henry has wandered off to already this morning. She eyes the table with the schedules, so she makes herself walk over and take one. As she reaches out for one, she remembers the test she has balled up in her fist, and she opens her purse as if she's looking for something, then shoves it down deep and zips up the pocket. Her eyes return to the schedule as she walks away from the table, searching desperately for Henry's name. She sees the panel, she sees Julia Heltz and a man named Roger Limb, but she doesn't see that his name would tell her where he is right now.

"Elizabeth," she hears from somewhere behind her. She turns and looks over her shoulder, seeing Henry walking up to her casually. The smile on his face makes her want to smile, but she only manages a tiny one in return, "I've been looking everywhere for you," he says, coming up and kissing her on the cheek.

She smiles a little more at him and takes another look at his outfit—a nice button-down shirt with a sportscoat over the top. He looks, in all ways, like a professor. She hadn't seen him in his coat yet this morning—he'd been wearing it under his large coat as they walked their way to the school. "I like this," she says, her voice coming out a bit shaky.

Immediately, his eyes focus in on her, and he rests his hand around her wrist, gently moving his thumb in an up-and-down motion on the top of her hand, "Are you alright?"

She nods quickly, "I'm okay," she says, "I'm not feeling the best," she admits, unable to completely lie to him. She knows she still looks a mess. "I stopped at the drugstore to get some Pepto," she reminds him.

He furrows his brows, "I didn't know it was that bad," he says, "Do we need to leave?"

"No," she immediately replies, shaking her head, "This is a big deal for you." She says.

It is a big deal for him. Not only is he presenting on the panel today, but he's also the keynote speaker, and this weekend is a huge opportunity for him to promote his new book. She isn't going to mess that up for him.

"But it can be put on the backburner if it needs to be," he tells her, lowering his voice. "Are you sure you don't want to leave?" He asks again.

She nods, "I'm sure," she says, leaning in and kissing him sweetly. She has to pull herself away before she makes a scene, not wanting to let herself linger there too long. She is, after all, here as a colleague and not as his wife. Her nametag even says, "Elizabeth McCord – University of Virginia." She supposes, in a way, that she's here as both his wife and a colleague. That McCord last name means something. "What are you attending next?" She asks.

He keeps his hand on her wrist and grabs his schedule from the inside pocket of his sportscoat, struggling to unfold it with one hand but refusing to let go of hers. She smiles tiredly, reaching with her free hand to help him unfold it. He raises his eyes in her direction, smiling a little, "I'm going to the panel on integrating technology into the classroom," he says, bringing his eyes back up to her once he finishes reading. "Where are you going?"

Her stomach feels like it's about to flip over again, but she looks down at his paper, "I'm going to go to…" she pretends to read, to study hard, to think about it deeply, "Whatever you're going to."

He chuckles and brings his hand up from her wrist, placing it on her cheek, "Thanks for coming with me, babe." He whispers, "I'm glad you're here."

"I'll put up with the religious studies geeks for one reason only," she reminds him, giving him another little smile.

Once they find some seats midway back from the presenters, she stares at the projector screen above them, her mind racing with every thought she feels burdened to keep to herself. She looks down at their hands locked together, thinking briefly she should just tell him now, just get it off her chest. He wouldn't want her to keep it from him. He would want to know.

When she was pregnant with Stevie, she had to wait. He was overseas, back for a few more months after being home on a brief leave due to his grandfather passing away. She couldn't get ahold of him right away that time, but she knew she could soon. With Alison, there was no way to keep the secret. He'd seen it, too, and she wonders sometimes if he knew before she did, even. He can tell when she's getting sick before she ever feels the first sniffle come on, so she still thinks he may have known. With Jason, she was so excited—so relieved. She'd immediately been able to tell Henry that morning before they both went off to their respective jobs.

Now, she doesn't want to throw him off for the rest of the day. This keynote speech is huge, and the panel is also a great opportunity to get his name more well-known, and ultimately, sell more of his book. Money is something they typically don't worry themselves over, but with three kids—now four—money gets a little tight occasionally. Selling this book is a nice income boost for their professor salaries.

She squeezes his hand and he looks over at her, furrowing his brows, "Are you okay?" He asks.

She nods, though she feels sick again, "I'm okay."

The presentation begins, and about halfway through, she hears her phone buzz in her bag. She pulls out her Blackberry and sees a text from the babysitter, Jackie. "Hi McCords! Just wanted to check in for today. The kids are all doing great. I took Stevie to her friend's house, and Ali and Jason and I are off to get hot chocolates before doing some shopping."

Elizabeth breathes a sigh of relief—she's always worried about the kids, even when she's not actively worrying about the kids.

She sees she has six emails: two from students asking when they're going to get their grades from their second paper, two random ones from the University, and one from the chair of her department:

"Professor McCord,

Due to an unexpected faculty absence, we need to make immediate adjustments to your teaching schedule. We are requesting that you take an additional course for the remainder of the semester, and that you add a course to your next semester's teaching load.

This course is critical to our political science curriculum.

Please confirm your availability by the end of the day.

Best,

Dr. Hindman"

She sighs and closes her eyes, her phone resting against her leg as she thinks about the amount of work that she'll have to do. Not only is it difficult to take on more students, but students that she hasn't taught all semester. They just finished midterms. Her head begins to throb on the right side, just above her eyebrow.

It's not like she can tell Dr. Hindman no, seeing as how he didn't really give her the option to do so. If she tells him no, she's not a tenured professor, and she could be sending her last email. So she hovers her fingers over the keyboard, then finally types:

"Dr. Hindman,

I'm available.

Prof. McCord"

Short and sweet.

She looks up to see Henry staring at her, "All good?"

She shakes her head, "Dr. Hindman just gave me another class this semester and next," she whispers quietly.

He knows what that means just as well as she does—lots of work. He just presses his lips together, blinks a few times, then squeezes her hand again as she tucks her Blackberry back into her purse. With his hand wrapped around hers, they sit there just like that the rest of the time, and minutes later, Elizabeth starts wondering how in the world she's going to manage the extra work with being pregnant. There's simply no way.

After the brief Q&A, they stand up, and she immediately feels like she's going to throw up. She makes herself do some deep breaths as she reaches for her purse, but she feels like bolting. Not wanting to alarm Henry, she squeezes his hand and kisses his cheek, "I'm going to go back to the hotel for a while I think," she says, "I'm not feeling my best. But I'll be back for the speech."

He frowns, shaking his head, "I'll take you," he says.

"No," she replies, "I don't want you to miss out on any of the sessions." She says, looking around at all these scholars that he should be talking to rather than her who he can talk to all night if he wants, any time he wants to. "I'll be alright."

He looks over toward the window, "Okay," he says, "Be careful. Let me know when you get to the room?" He says, half-demand and half-request—typical when it comes to her safety.

She smiles, nodding, "I'll let you know."

She walks back into the conference center and makes her way to the room where lunch is held, clutching onto her purse the entire time. Her alarm had to go off twice in order for her to finally get up from her nap, and when she stood up, it felt like her feet had cinderblocks tied to them. But she finally made it back, and she wasn't going to miss this speech for the world.

Henry is standing up beside the stage, talking to some people when she walks in. Though people are directing her to the buffet, she's politely declining. All she really wants to say is, "If I eat that I will throw it up." But she just smiles, telling them, "I'm good, thank you."

He finally glances her way and she waves at him, walking up and sitting down at the table closest to the podium. "I heard a handsome religious scholar was going to be giving the keynote speech on Aquinas today," she says, smirking, "I knew I just had to come."

"Well, aren't I a lucky guy to be that religious scholar giving a speech on Aquinas?" Henry teases, leaning down to kiss her. "Feeling better?"

She nods, only a half-lie. She isn't as nauseous, but her illness has now been replaced with exhaustion. "Better." She coos, trying to give him a false reassurance as best she could. "Knock 'em dead." She says, then giggles a little, "Can you say that at a religious conference?"

He snorts and kisses her forehead once more before standing up straight, fixing his shirt that's tucked into his pants. "I'll consult the handbook." He jokes, winking at her before walking back to the place he was standing prior.

All throughout his speech, she couldn't stand to listen to an actual word he said. Instead, her heart felt like it was bursting from her chest, trying to get to him, trying to talk to his heart somehow and tell him the secret it was carrying. But she sat, instead, with her arms folded against her stomach, watching as he delivered what seemed to be a beautiful presentation on Aquinas. Though she's married to one, she is no religious scholar herself.

"Okay," Henry says, walking down to the table after everyone had their time with him, "What's going on with you?" He asks.

Typically, she might take those words as a sign he wants to fight—a sign that he's picking her apart and adding fuel to the fire. But right now, she hears the concern in his voice, and she feels an immediate sense of guilt wash over her. "What do you mean?" She asks, buying herself some time to decide if right here in the middle of this room with other religious scholars is where she wants to deliver the shocking news to him.

He sits down beside her, and she knows she either has to tell him here or tell him they have to leave now. The way his jaw is set to the side, the way his eyes are somehow soft yet also birds-eye hardened is telling her that she's caught. He knows something's wrong, and she can't continue to worry him like she's doing. His arm slides to the back of her chair, and she feels like she's going to jump from her seat and run, but she makes herself stay.

"We need to talk," she whispers, blinking at him and trying to make the blurriness go away. "Not here."

As soon as she says that, all the hardness in his eyes go away, and he's even more worried than before. He leans in a little, then pulls away as if he's suddenly realized something. He looks at her for a long moment, then looks around the room, "Did something happen?" He asks, the hardness back.

"What?" She asks, taken off guard.

"Did someone…harass you?"

The way he asks it makes her furrow her brow, "No, Henry," she breathes quietly, shaking her head, "No—that's—that's not it at—"

He looks at her again and it causes her to stop mid-stutter. He's hurt—something about him says he's hurt. She studies his eyes again, looking side-to-side at each of them and trying to understand what's going on behind them. It occurs to her, maybe, that this wasn't the best way to announce anything at all. She scoots her chair back from the table, standing and hoping he's going to follow. When she grabs her purse, she looks at him where he's still seated. "Aren't you coming?" She asks.

He's still staring at her, dazed, "Elizabeth, did you—"

"Henry," she stops him, "Just come talk to me. Please."

The shakiness in her own voice startles her, but she tries to take a deep breath and settle her nerves. She refuses to cry in a room full of colleagues—though there's only one other person here from UVA, she still feels like all academics are colleagues in one way or another. With one blink of her eyes, she's begging him to just get up, to just follow her.

Finally, he rises to his feet, and she starts making her way out of the room, not letting the prying eyes go unnoticed around her as she leaves with the keynote speaker in tow in a seeming hurry.

"Elizabeth," Henry calls out behind her.

"Not here," she says, not turning around. Her vision is blurred as she's looking at the exit doors, looking out at the cold, rainy weather of Boston. She sniffles as she shoves the door open, and she walks down away from the door a few feet.

"Elizabeth, what the hell is going on?"

She stops finally, turning around and opening her mouth. Nothing comes out, though, and she feels her body shake. She's afraid she's going to sob, but he interrupts that thought.

"Are you cheating on me?"

"What?"

He looks so disheveled suddenly, as though he's lived five years between that speech and now. His forehead has visible lines, his eyes are concerned and upset all at once, "Did you cheat on me?"

"No," she stammers, shocked that he would even begin to think something like that. "What are you talking about?!"

"The way you're acting—" he stops, throwing his hands up in the air as she shivers. "Dragging us out in the freezing cold because you need to tell me something. You left me this morning and then you were gone for a while and—Elizabeth, just leave me with a little dignity and tell me who the hell it is because I—"

"I'm not cheating on you," she says more sternly this time, her teeth chattering when she finishes her sentence. "I'm pregnant." She finally gets out, though a bit more angrily than she had intended.

He stares at her, his hands limp down at his sides. Then he shoves them in his pants pockets and laughs as he turns around, walking away, then walks back toward her and gets closer. "This is seriously how you tell me?" She looks at him, watching as he grows more upset. Of all the reactions, this isn't the one she expected. "This is how you tell me you're sleeping with another man?"

"Henry!" She snaps this time, her fists balling up as she continues to stand there and shiver—the sprinkling-down of icy rain is starting to seep into her bones, it feels like. "I'm not sleeping with anyone else!"

He watches her bewilderedly, "I had a vasectomy, Elizabeth!" He all but yells, taking one hand out of his pocket and throwing it angrily in the air. "Six whole years ago!"

"I know!" She yells back, matching his tone now, though her voice still shakes. "Henry, listen to me, I have never slept with anyone but you in the entire time we've known each other." She begs, shaking her head and feeling her heart throb in her throat. "I would never do that to you."

When she finishes, she can't help but let out a cry, and then one that turns into a sob. Her body shakes more as she continues to shiver from the cold, wishing now that she would've done this inside. Though nobody needed to overhear the conversation they've already had up to this point.

She watches as he continues to stare at her, looking into each of her eyes. Finally, after about a minute of continuous studying, he takes his sportscoat off his shoulders and walks to her, wrapping it around her own shoulders. She shoves him away, though, shaking her head.

"I can't believe you'd think I'm cheating on you," she says, looking at him. "We made a pact. A vow." She reminds him, furrowing her brows. "I've raised your kids and I've followed you around and I've done things I didn't want to do," she says, referring immediately to the time he pushed her to stay home instead of going overseas after 9/11, "And this is how you think I'd do you in the end?"

"Elizabeth," he mumbles, shaking his head. He shoves his hands back into his pockets. "Are you sure you're pregnant?" He asks.

She cocks her jaw to the side, her tongue searching the ridges of her teeth to find something hurtful to say to him. But she can't seem to find anything, so she drops her eyes down to her feet and then tries to make herself go un-rigid, digging in her purse and finding the stick. She wants to throw it at him, but she just shows him instead, knowing he can't see from where he was standing. He must have believed it, though, or he has better eyesight than she thinks.

He lets out a sigh and walks away from her for a moment, shaking his head as he stands at the curb, then walks back over to her and wraps her in his arms. She wants to protest, she wants to curse at him and tell him to go away and tell him that he's worthless for ever accusing her of doing such a thing to him. But his body heat feels too good, and then, she hates to admit, his arms feel good. His touch. His smell.

"I don't know how it happened," she whispers, her face against his cheek. "But—"

"Shh," he whispers back, shaking his head as he runs her fingers along the edge of her hair, hanging down by her upper back. "You don't have to justify it. It happened. We'll figure it out." He whispers.

Moments go by, but she doesn't know how long. She just knows she's wrapped in his arms and safe. He pulls away gently from her, keeping his hands resting on her upper arms.

"Everything in me was saying you were," he admits, swallowing hard. "But I kept saying there's absolutely no way—that—" there was no need to state the obvious, and she realizes that's what he was about to do. He had a vasectomy. They shouldn't have ever had to worry about this again. "But in the end…"

"You've always been good at knowing," she reminds him, sniffling and rubbing her cold nose. She looks down again, "I…Henry, I don't know how we're going to manage four kids."

"Do we even know how to manage three?"

It's his sad attempt at trying to make her feel better, or at least to get a smile out of her, but she just looks up at him and cries again.

"Come here," he whispers, wrapping her tightly again. "It'll all work out in the end."