She told him all about her conference. The lectures, the competitions, the robots, the people she met. She told him about the Peanuts character statues in the park across from her hotel. She told him that it's completely different from Chicago or New York, but it's a neat city. She's only really ever lived in three. As experienced as she is, Danicka has been very few places. Going to Prague with him in March was the first time she'd even been overseas.
He's done work on their odd little den, improvements here and there where he could. She continues to keep her apartment in the city, staying there most of the week and coming back home, as she calls it now, and has called it for some time, on the weekends. Kando stays with her. She stares out the floor to ceiling windows at the apartment. She mouses in the basement. Lukas told her, sometime between their trip to Prague and her trip to Minnesota, that his packmate is getting married this summer. On a beach. In San Diego. He got to help her mate propose, in a roundabout way.
Danicka has been busy since coming back from the conference. She had homework to catch up on. And the spring quarter is one of the most demanding, with the fewest breaks. She's seemed tired, and it makes her seem a trifle... withdrawn. Her mind wanders as she watches the world outside go from the last chill of winter to the growing, burgeoning warmth of spring. He finds her hunched over homework in the lab of her apartment or the study of their den, yawning even as she reads, as she types.
The moon outside is waxing very close to full. She's home. It's late evening, and her car pulls into the driveway, then the garage. The door closes behind her and the automatic light overhead comes on. Danicka exhales and gets out of the car, walking around to the passenger side. That's where Kando is waiting in her carrier, mewling softly. She carries her out of the garage and across the little path Lukas made to the house. At the bottom of the stairs she sets the carrier down and lets her cat out. Kando slinks out rapidly, stretches, shakes herself, stretches again, opening her mouth widely, showing her teeth. Looks at Danicka as though to remind her that she'll be expecting dinner soon, and takes off into the basement to find her litter box.
Danicka leaves the carrier where it is and heads out again to the garage to get her laptop bag and the pop-out crate from the trunk that has a slide-up handle and a set of wheels. Her books are, after all, tomes of mystery and scientific enigma. They are heavy. She wheels them inside, leaves them beside Kando's carrier, but takes her laptop bag upstairs. The bottom of the stairs is very crowded. She checks her watch, knowing it will likely be a while before Lukas returns from tonight's hunt, if he is coming home tonight at all. She puts food and water in Kando's dishes in the kitchen. She fills the water kettle and sets it on the stove.
Sits on the couch, her laptop bag resting against the side of it. Kando comes upstairs after a while and looks at her, then trots into the kitchen to eat the mixture of wet and dry food that has been prepared for her. Danicka turns on the television, curled up against the arm of the couch to wait and see if, tonight, her mate comes home.
LukasOn some level, this sort of waiting is something Danicka has lived with for all her life and will live with for all the rest of her life. Waiting to see if her mother will come home tonight. Waiting to see if her mother will ever come home again. Waiting to see if her mate will come home tonight. Waiting to see if he'll ever come home again. It's something she has in common with Vladik's mate, hundreds of miles away. It's something she has in common with every kin -- every fighter in this war -- who's ever waited for their loved one. The only difference is whether that wait is one of anticipation, or dread, or fear, or longing, or any of the myriad of complex and subtle emotions that fill the human heart.
Her mate does, in fact, come home tonight. She hears the garage door opening outside a little before eleven. Not a late night for Lukas, all things considered. His car pulls into the garage, and she knows that he already knows she's here because he sees her car. The front lock clicks and then his presence is in the entryway, his presence is in the house, he's tripping over the crate of books and fumbling to turn on a light. Take off his shoes.
It is May. It's a warm year, an early spring. He's in shirtsleeves and jeans, peeling his socks off before he comes barefoot up the stairs. He sees her when he comes up the stairs into the living room. It's not an exaggeration to say his eyes light up at the sight of her. They do light up. He smiles at her, quietly, crossing the living room to drop his socks off on the stairs where he'll take them up later. Then he comes over to her at the couch, bending down to kiss her temple -- her lips, if she raises her face to his.
"Hi," he whispers, though it's not that late; though their neighbors won't hear them talking; though they don't have a baby sleeping upstairs yet. He slides his arms around her then, gives her a squeeze.
DanickaBoth Danicka and Kando react instantly to the sound of the garage door opening again. Kando lifts her head from her little bed by the couch, ears twitching, whiskers quivering for a moment. Danicka, at a-little-before-eleven, wakes up. The television is still on, but the volume is quiet. She breathes in deep and rubs her eyes, lifting her head from the arm of the couch. She turns the t.v. off.
She hears him fumble over her books and Kando's carrier and smiles to herself, faintly. When he comes up the stairs and turns the corner into their oddly shaped little living room, she smiles at him. She's sitting up on the couch, her hair pulled to one side, curled slightly. Her jeans are boot-cut, their dark dye faded. Her feet are in dark grey socks. Her shirt has the sort of low-cut neckline that she can pull off because her breasts are small and tender. It's dark brown, with a floral and lace applique across the left side of the chest, from the apex of the V to her shoulder.
He comes. She kisses him. He says hi, whispering and smiling. Kando lays her head back down; it's just the male. Nobody important or very loud. She curls her paws under and closes her eyes, tail tucked around her legs and twitching occasionally.
Danicka is hugged. She moves her legs, inviting him to sit next to her, to keep his arms around her. On the coffee table there's a coaster, and an empty cup that once held tea. She leans into him, and rests her head on his shoulder, and exhales.
And without preamble, or warning, or build-up:
"Jsem tehotná."
LukasHer mate has a bag over his shoulder. It's that charcoal-grey-and-orange one he's had for a couple years now, which he likes very much. He takes it to Charles Schwab, stuffed with investment statements and tax slips. He takes it to Kate's, stuffed with maps and blueprints when something big is about to go down. He takes it home at the end of the day, and usually he takes it upstairs to drop in the study.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, Lukas hugs his wife and she shifts, an open invitation to join her. So he slides the strap of the bag down from his shoulder, sets it under the coffee table. The couch dips as he sits on it. They'll have to get a new one at some point. This one's starting to sag. That's part of having a house and a home and a den, he thinks: endless upkeep. He's grousing in his mind, but it's goodnatured, and secretly he loves it: loves that slowly over the months they've torn up the ugly concrete in the front yard, put in a nice lawn, laid down pathstones. That they've redone the outside of the house so that everything actually matches, everything's a nice warm brick now. That they've redone the kitchen too, upgraded the cabinets, replaced the sink with something that doesn't either run too hot or too cold.
There's a small birdbath-fountain on the front lawn too, now. And their water spirit burbles out there most days now, though its fountain is still tucked carefully away in one of the closets, waiting for winter.
Lukas exhales as he leans back on the couch. His arm settles around Danicka. She rests her head on his shoulder. It feels right: that's where her head belongs. They were made for each other. They've known each other for a hundred lifetimes. A thousands. He's thinking about this, closing his eyes, relaxing into the moment, and she says
something that makes his eyes flash instantaneously open. He's silent for a second, silent and still and caught out of time by his own astonishment. Then, softly:
"Jsi si jisty?"
DanickaDanicka can almost hear the recognition of the words vibrate through Lukas's body. He asks her a question which is, in a way, a little silly. She laughs, breathily. "Samozrejme," she chides him, still curled against his side. "I wouldn't tell you if I wasn't sure."
Her hand comes to rest on his knee. "I'm due in December." She glances down at her still very flat stomach. "I feel bad for her," she muses, because it's not quite real. "I feel bad for you, too. I hope you understand if your birthday isn't as big a deal for a few years."
LukasOf course, she says, and Lukas
lets out this laugh, this burst of sheer joy. "Baby," he says, squeezing Danicka against his side, "that's amazing." And he kisses her temple again, very firmly, nuzzling against the side of her face as she goes on to explain that she wouldn't tell him unless she was sure. And that the baby -- she -- is due in December. Which is in seven months. Which means she conceived a good two months and change ago. Which means all that quiet worrying was just silly, because she's obviously every bit as fertile as that insane half-sister of hers, the one with six kids.
Which also means she was pregnant already in Prague, when they stood near that fountain they'd seen before in another lifetime. When they went to the house he grew up in, and the land her family owns. When Red Vengeance borrowed her body for a while. When she went farther and deeper into the Umbra than most anyone ever does.
"I think part of being a parent is giving up the right to make a fuss on your birthday," Lukas adds. "I barely remember celebrating my parents' birthdays growing up. I knew when they were, and we'd wish them a happy birthday when the day came, but ... it wasn't a Big Deal, not the way our birthdays were."
His hand is big and warm on her still-very-flat stomach. He covers her abdomen for a moment, smiling at it. Then he's just smiling at her.
"Jsem stastná. Dekuji, zes mi."
DanickaThe truth is -- though it doesn't matter much, not really -- that Danicka was not pregnant when she allowed Red Vengeance to take hold of her skin. She was not pregnant when she kept staring at that fountain, thinking of how it reminded her of something, how old it was. She was not pregnant when she woke up briefly in the Umbra, screaming in pain as her hands were torn asunder. She was not pregnant when Lukas carried her, in his most terrifying form, through the city streets to get her somewhere warm and safe.
But she was pregnant, or becoming so, when they flew back to the United States. She was pregnant after he hunted with her blood-sister, after he came back to her, after he came back to himself. When he felt clean again. When he knew she was safe, and they both knew just how connected they were to their kin, to their land, and to each other.
Really, it doesn't matter now. And it won't matter in December, when Lukas will -- most likely -- completely disregard his own birthday in order to celebrate his child's, and Christmas for his child, because very little will please him as much. Even now he is eagerly, happily moving his palms onto her belly, as though he'll feel something different. He doesn't. She doesn't. Other than tired. Other than somewhat stunned.
It's all a little surreal.
But she laughs at what he says. "No, I was just going to keep my mouth shut about it for a few months and see if you noticed my tits getting bigger."
LukasOf course, there's nothing there to feel. No subtle swelling yet. Certainly no kick against his palm. Absolutely nothing for him to coo at, nothing for him to say hello to -- though the urge is certainly there, to bend to Danicka's belly and say something horrendously silly like hello, little one to a tiny little mote of rapidly-developing proto-humanity inches beneath her skin.
He still puts his hand on her body. And then he bursts into laughter again, a fuller laugh this time that comes all the way from the bottom of his lungs, and now Kando is looking at him because she was wrong, he is very loud.
"I don't know about that," he says, "but I think I'd finally notice something was up when your belly started getting in the way of the sex." His hand is still on her stomach. He rubs his palm against her, around and around, warm circles through her shirt until he decides to just go ahead and reach under her shirt. And now his hand is on her skin, the callouses on his palm rough against her smoothness.
"So, it's a 'her', is it? Can you even tell this early?"
DanickaKando's eyes are judgemental slits as she stares at Lukas. Danicka's are slanted from pleasure, crinkled at the corners. Lukas is happy. She is exhausted, but Lukas's energy feeds her, surrounds her, and he mentions her stomach getting in the way of sex -- of course! And now his hand isn't just sitting on her belly but rubbing in circles, lifting the soft cloth up so he can touch her skin instead.
She keeps laughing. He keeps laughing. She kisses his cheek. "No," she tells him. "I've just decided. I think once she's born and it's me, Kando and her, plus your packmates and then Irena, you'll finally be significantly outnumbered." Danicka sounds quite self-satisfied. She snuggles against him, smiling. Looks up at him, trailing her fingertips over his jaw. "But it doesn't feel real," she whispers.
LukasLukas's cheek is rough beneath her lips. Scratchy. He leans into her kiss, smiling. "You're going to jinx it," he warns. "Keep talking like that and it'll come out a boy just to spite you."
And he's looking at her belly again. His hand is under her shirt, his knuckles stirring the fabric as he rubs, circles, finally comes to a stop. Just rests his hand there, warming her, covering her, thinking to himself that she looks tired; she's seemed tired lately. He wonders if it's because she's pregnant. Or busy. Or both. Her voice has dropped to a whisper again. The pads of her fingers drift along his jaw, scritching through his beard. He looks at her.
He wonders if the baby will have her eyes. Or his. Or eye all her (his?) own: some recessive color from somewhere back in the boughs of their family trees. Under Danicka's shirt, Lukas's thumb sweeps a gentle arc against her stomach.
"It feels real to me," he whispers back. "But ... very big. Unexpected, even though we've been expecting it for months. I don't quite know what to do with it, or how to prepare, or ... god, we're going to have to read so many books."
Danicka"It's actually very tiny right now," she tells him mildly, taking him quite literally. It's not big at all. 'It', being the small proto-baby already growing inside of her. Or she. Or he. Not that that matters, either.
Books, he says. This is how he will fix all the things. This is how he will prepare. Danicka just smiles at him. "Maybe I'll read the books, and just tell you what you need to know. Otherwise you're going to worry yourself to death and annoy the shit out of me every time you read about some completely unlikely problem that could arise."
She rubs her knuckles softly on his jaw, and pulls him down to kiss her briefly. Danicka lays down. She really is tired. And some of it is, in fact, because of what her body has been up to without letting her know until just recently. She keeps looking at him, while he touches her stomach and thinks of eye colors and ...everything.
"Mostly we wait," she whispers, putting her hand on top of his hand, because he's starting to tickle her with all his idle fondling. Her fingertips rub between his knuckles. "In a few weeks we can go hear her heartbeat. If you can go with me. But I know you won't always be able to."
LukasThat makes him a little sad. He wants to go. She knows he wants to go. But they both know, too, that he won't always be able to. There's every possibility he'll miss hearing his firstborn's heartbeat for the first time because he'll be across the state line with his pack, tracking down some tainted shipment on its way to Chicago. There's every possibility he won't be there for those prenatal milestones, the checkup at x weeks and the checkin at y months.
There's every possibility he won't even be there at the birth. Won't be there in the waiting room, pacing a hole in the carpet. Won't be there in the delivery room, holding Danicka's hand and looking terrified and terrifying all the nurses and the obstetrician. Won't be there to see his daughter coming out, won't be there to see her wrinkled red face and the big gawp of her mouth as she lets out her first wail.
There's every possibility of all that. There's every possibility, too, that he won't live to see his firstborn grow up, ride a bike, graduate high school, get married. They know all this. Still; it threads a fine line of sadness through his happiness. His hand quiets under hers, warm and protective now over her stomach.
"I'll try," he promises. Which is all he can really promise. And he leans his head against hers again, quiet now, breathing slowly and steadily beside her for a few moments.
"Let me take you to bed," he whispers then. "You're tired."
DanickaHe hasn't taken his hand off of her since she told him. He's gotten closer, closer still, even as she's laid back. They are turning sideways, adjusting themselves on the couch until he reclines behind her, holding her back to his chest, keeping his arm around her ribs. Their child, what there is of it so far, could fit in the palm of that hand that covers her stomach. Lying on their sides, now, he can actually feel a slight firmness that wasn't there before, a roundness beneath the flat of her skin. Not much. Not much at all. But for someone who knows her body so well, so intimately,
he can feel the faintest hint of change to come.
"Mmm," she says, which isn't really saying anything at all. Just murmuring agreement. She is. But: "I keep thinking. About how I had wine at dinners during that conference, and how I've been drinking tea and coffee. Less, because we've been trying, but still. I keep thinking about it and wondering if it's going to be okay. And wondering if ever time I lift my laptop bag I might be doing some damage. I feel fine. I'm tired. My appetite's been all over the place for weeks now and I've gotten a lot of headaches, but... otherwise I feel fine. I just worry that I might do something wrong."
Danicka is quiet a moment. She closes her eyes, curled against his chest. Whispers, eventually: "Tell me nothing is going to go wrong. And then tell me even if it does, it won't be my fault and you'll still love me."
She sounds so terribly, terribly vulnerable there. Her eyes are hot behind their lids. She holds his hand over her own body, as though afraid he'll retreat. Afraid he'll recoil.
LukasThere's a moment where he nearly interrupts her, laughing, telling her it's his job to be the worrywart around here. He doesn't, though. He doesn't because she goes on, and he realizes she's not just musing, she's not joking. She is genuinely, terribly worried, and vulnerable, and frightened that something might go wrong, that somehow what she's done or what's happened in the past or everything about the universe at large will collude to deny her -- deny them -- what they want.
And that he won't love her anymore, because of it. And that it'll be all her fault.
Lukas's heart nearly crumples in on itself. He wraps his arms around her: wraps both of them around her, one of them actually sliding under her so he can envelop her as completely as possible. He pulls her against his chest, as close as he can fit her, and holds her tight, tight.
"Baby," he says, "you have done nothing wrong. Nothing is going to go wrong. Nothing about you, or us, or what you've done or what's been done to you or any of that is going to make something go wrong. And even if something does go wrong, even if everything goes wrong, it will not be your fault. And I love you. I will never stop loving you. I have quite literally loved you across more lifetimes than we can count, and you know that as well as I do. Nothing can possibly change that.
"Don't be afraid, láska. Miluji te víc nez cokoli."
DanickaHe loves her more than anything. He will love her no matter what. He loved her before he knew her. And he will love her even when this life fades into mists and unwritten history.
Danicka lets him hold her like that. Tight. Close. She breathes in deeply and curls up, closes in on herself the way she didn't let herself do a moment ago. This close, he can feel her heart beating faster than it was before. All that fear. All that worry and remembered grief, unforgotten shame. That malingering feeling that something is wrong with her and will ruin everything for her.
Even this. Even him.
But Danicka does not argue with him. She breathes in deep, and she exhales slowly, and then she does it again. Then: one third, final time. She opens her eyes, and they're damp. She sniffs, and nods, but says nothing. She just lets him hold her. She just breathes.
Eventually they do get up off the couch. They go upstairs, Danicka's hand sliding along the banister. She thinks of climbing these stairs -- the ones from the front door, the ones up to their bedroom -- when she's pregnant. She wonders how big she'll get. If she'll feel dizzy. She wonders how on earth she's going to do laundry, with literally three flights of stairs between the basement and her closet. She wonders if any second now she's going to throw up.
Lukas, realizing he has no idea how to rear a child and he has so many books he has to read, only just now has an idea of how deep his mate's own streak of incessant worrying goes. At least around this.
She brushes her teeth and takes a clip out of her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. She mutters about how tired she is. The last thing on her mind, truthfully, is what happened in April. Just a few months ago. With Decker. She does, however, think about Christian in New Orleans. Smoking her maybe-last cigarette while she waited for a pregnancy test to complete. She does think about trying to stand up to her brother years before that, tell him no, she was running off with the father of her baby, and to hell with him. She remembers waking, two mornings widely separated, and knowing
I'm not going to have a baby.
She is frightened that the third of such mornings will be tomorrow, or the day after, or a week from now. It will take some time for that to ease. And, perhaps, some simple moments of pleasure like the one she felt when Lukas wiggled his hand under her shirt, looking for all the world like he wanted to pull it up and kiss her stomach and smile and say hello to a being who doesn't yet have ears, even if it does have a fully functioning liver. It will take time, and moments like that, and moments like the one she has when they crawl into bed together again.
That is when Lukas wraps himself around her almost completely, and again his hands slide over her belly, protective and almost mindlessly so, like he can't help it, and she laughs at him. Laughs with him. Laughs, just for the sake of it, because four months ago she was telling him she wanted to have a baby. And now she has one. Sort of. Almost. Soon.
That's the thought she falls asleep with. Even with seven months to go.
Soon.
