Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eve's face presses into her hands. She's shocked, to say the least. This is so sudden, so unexpected, so—

She doesn't know what to do, and stares at that small pink and white stick sitting on her bathroom counter.

Her left knee bounces vigorously and her underwear slides a bit further down her calves. She runs a hand through her loose, dark brown curls, wondering how she's going to share this information, and if she's going to tell anyone , actually. Because, she thinks, this just... This can't... It just can't be real.

And yet, there is a warm, frisson feeling that is bubbling up from her stomach and into her chest, almost like glee. She presses a hand to her mouth, and she almost smiles.

But this result—and she lets out a small, involuntary, nervous chuckle about it—was something she couldn't believed when told, and she's now sitting in her bathroom because she had to have a second, third, and fourth opinion just to make sure and to see for herself, to have physical, undeniable proof in her hands.

And now that she does, she begins freaking out in her second-floor apartment bathroom, staring down at the pregnancy stick.

She's pregnant.

She's pregnant!

She presses a palm to her forehead as her mind begins to race, only interrupted as a chill runs through her, causing her to shutter. She's been ill for weeks, so she should be back in bed and under the blankets because she likely only has half an hour left until her husband comes home. And, she will get an earful from him if she isn't back in bed by then.

Eve gathers herself and washes her hands. She then leans her weight on the edge of the sink, anchored by her palms curling around the slick porcelain. She's been horrendously tired from her illness that she now knows the cause of; her hair is disheveled from being bedridden for the last two weeks. She pokes at her cheek, noting the effect on her complexion, and makes a mental note to attempt at drinking more fluids; hopefully, she'll be able to hold that down now.

An additional fear is that she's already used up all her sick days from work.

Earlier that same afternoon, Eve had attended a doctor's appointment for a different trial of medication to rid her illness and nausea. At first, she had been riding on the last waves of spontaneous irritation since awakening—because the antibiotics previously prescribed weren't working and her symptoms had only worsened; she's still congested, the cramps make it difficult to fall asleep, and now she can barely hold down solid foods. So, she hasn't been in the best of moods, and had consequently practically thrown her husband out the front door when all he'd done was express concern for her well-being.

She had been overreacting, she knows. But also, she's been frustrated due to her state, not knowing its origin then, and she'd been feeling quite clingy lately, and her husband's inspecting her as if she was his latest reporting assignment hadn't helped.

"It's been two weeks," he'd said that morning before she tossed him out. "I really think you have a virus. You should call—"

"I said get out!" She whined, and threw an empty plastic cup at his head which he caught effortlessly. "Go do something useful, like—go on to work before Perry chews you out, too." No sooner had she spoken, she rushed to the bathroom again as her stomach turned itself out.

Once she coughed, rinsed her mouth with tap water, and pulled herself to her feet, Eve pushed against her husband's brick wall of a chest until he was outside the front door and turned the locks. If she hadn't, he'd skip another day, missing work, and she couldn't have him babying her so much just because she has a little flu.(She knows his heart was in a good place, given that when she'd been this sick, she had to stay in a hospital.) Her husband called through the door that he needed his things; she cracked the door, tossed out his briefcase and jacket, then locked the door back again. His responding chuckle was heard through the door.

Eve knew he was right about needing to see a doctor and had made an appointment, realizing this wasn't a simple stomach flu and having passed the level of comfortable acquaintances with their bathroom toilet.

Except, when she described her symptoms to her doctor, and after a urine, blood, and then cervix test—because it couldn't be true, it couldn't be possible after all this time—the doctor cleared her throat, tapped her clipboard, and reveals that the results had not changed for either of the tests. Eve rambled on about her speculations that her tests must have been mixed up, then doubled down on her denial by saying she must have caught a current, circulating virus because she hadn't skipped a day of her birth control.

Her doctor had let her speak, watching the dots connecting behind Eve's eyes. At her turn to talk, the doctor clicked her pen on the clipboard, and announced with a careful smile, "Congratulations. You're pregnant."

Eve had sat with wide eyes and mouth ajar on the patient table. Her doctor asked if she was alright, knowing Eve's medical history. She needed to gather her thoughts; for over two years, she'd come to the acceptance that she wouldn't be able to conceive, and now… Here she is.

She felt that her disbelief needed to be eradicated by physical proof, not just results on paper. So, afterwards, Eve visited the nearest drug store on her way home and bought three different brands of pregnancy tests. And here, back in her bathroom, they all give the same little plus, or blue lines, or digital YES on its tiny screen. Two tests are currently in the trash bin, hidden in wads of tissue.

Eve wipes off the end of the newest test and then wraps the pee end in a few sheets of toilet paper, and tries to figure out how to go about all this. It still doesn't feel like it's sunk in entirely.

She rakes her fingers through her hair again, teasing the loose curls to one side and making a mental note to take an actual brush to it sometime. The test shows a positive. She glares down at it, feeling bile beginning to rise up her throat once more.

Well, now she knows why she had been sick for the longest time. Now she knew why she felt bloated, and as if she had the more persistent cold despite taking all the medication she knew of… Then, a bubbly, gleeful sensation arises. Her stomach gurgles and she hopes that it isn't the glass of Sprite she had an hour ago coming back up.

Lately, she's barely been able to hold anything down, and struggles to keep down the medication she'd been prescribed for her nausea and the vitamins she was advised to take along with it.

Glancing at a clock, she now has about twenty more minutes until her husband returns. Unless he has other engagements to attend to, he can be expected more or less on time.

Eve brushes her teeth and uses the mouthwash before sliding under the bed covers right as the front door opens. She hides the test in the pocket of her baggy jogging pants and sinks into the memory foam.

Eve decides to hide the news until she figures out whether it's too early or not.

When the door clicks shut, there's shuffling accompanied with grocery bags being placed on the counter, and she waits until he pokes his head inside their bedroom. Eve is laying on her side, drifting off to sleep when she sees him.

He grins. "I thought you'd be sleep."

Eve's returning grin is heavy and tired—she'd only gotten four hours of sleep the night prior. "Yeah, not quite."

She slowly sits up, tosses her thick legs over the edge of the bed as he approaches, and he gathers her in his arms. She wraps her arms around his neck when he leans down low enough.

"Feeling any better today?"

Of the last few times she isn't running to the bathroom, she's curled around the bicep of her husband or in the crook of his side.

She hums, "Kind of." Then she shrugs, leans her head back to give him a peck on the lips before standing and swaying for a moment. "I went to the doctor's today and got some medication—"

His mouth is already parting in a smile, ready to say, "I told you so." She holds up a hand for pause, but his smug grin remains.

"And she said that I should be sick for only a couple more weeks," Eve finishes.

His brows furrow and his grin drops. "A couple weeks? How long is a couple? Two—or three? Are you sure this isn't something more than a flu or a stomach virus? Did you ask that—"

Eve shakes her head while adjusting the sleeves of his long-sleeved shirts she's wearing—one that's too big for her and drapes past her knuckles. "She just said that it should eventually lift on its own."

She decides to be purposely vague and not reveal the test because right then, she decides that she'd gauge his reactions to the hints she'll drop, aiming to make him figure it out.

It's been five years that they've been married, three and a half more that they've been together prior. And as bad as the thought is, Eve can't shake the fear of, what if he isn't excited this time? What if after all these attempts before, he's grown tired, tired of having his hopes dashed and wouldn't want a baby anymore? Sure he's mentioned having a little family before in the past, and had made passing comments that the babies on commercials were cute and adorable. But as Eve is watching him, she's suddenly filled with doubt that he'd want to go through with this, not to mention the self consciousness she feels towards herself. It may be her overthinking and over-worrying, but even if it turns out that her fears are false, she is partially afraid to find out, to tell him, remembering their heartbreaks from before.

Eve nervously twists the gold band around her finger.

"So, I have a few more days to spoil you, then?" he grins.

Eve insists that he doesn't have to do that, that she doesn't want him to do it. But he's already planning to make soup that night and that's what he's already started in the kitchen and claims that "There's nothing you can say to change my mind."

Later, she makes her way into the kitchen and presses against his back, humming in content and appreciative of his warmth, then slips her hands into his pockets.

Unfortunately, Eve wasn't able to hold her soup down. Between her coughing with her head in the toilet bowl, she calls apologies to her husband then weakly encourages that her nausea will be gone in no time. In reality, it feels as if it only worsens by the next day.

Eve calls in to work the next day, too. She's still slightly congested but still can't trail too far from the bathroom toilet and has reduced to nibbling only on saltine crackers. Meaningless to say, her boss isn't too thrilled to get another phone call requesting for more time off and apologies. At first, her boss doesn't believe her, but then Eve suddenly has to rush to empty out her stomach again. Her boss hears it in the background and grants her request with a sigh.

By the time her husband returns home, she's fallen asleep on the bathroom floor, curled up on the pillow she asked for before he left that morning. A packet of saltine crackers is half eaten and lying beside her, the top of the column twisted closed. Her husband sneaks quietly to the best of his ability, but six minutes after walking through the door, he hears her vomiting again. When Eve lifts her head up, he's standing in the bathroom doorway with a glass of ginger ale in one hand. She thanks him while panting into the bowl and looking miserable , flushes the toilet, wipes her face, and drinks a third of the glass.

She ignores his expression of worry, pulling herself to her feet and shuffling to their bed where she collapses with a groan, forces a smile on her tired face, and asks about his day, desperate for entertainment.

As he talks, she fidgets with his hands, plays with his watch, cleans under his fingernails, rubs the wrinkles of his knuckles. He shares about his boss' rants, of the sudden rush in the late afternoon due to an interstate pileup, about how two more lunches were stolen from the break-room refrigerator, about how a coworker almost fought the pizza deliverer, and then how two more coworkers almost fought with each other.

Eve had slid to leaning against his side, drifting off to sleep when the ginger ale rose back up her throat. From the bed, he grimaces as he listens, hears her cough; her hands gripping the sides of the porcelain bowl and she shutters,her shirt sliding off one shoulder. He wrinkles his nose.

"Hey, where are you going?" Eve is lying face down on their king-sized mattress, arms propped up under her as she sits up. She's pouting, covetous, and he registers that she's been a lot more clingy lately. She reaches for his arm that swings her way and misses, whines that he should stay here. She's remained home for nine days now.

"Down to the store," he answers plainly, rolling to sit at the edge of the bed. "We're out of coffee. And toilet paper, and Adobo seasoning."

She's whining now even though she knows that the trip shouldn't take long.

She watches him pull his arms through a sweater.

"Oh good. 'Cause while you're out, can you pick me up some of those fig cookies? The Fig Newton ones?" she perks up.

He nods, pocketing his keys.

"Oh, and some of those tiny cans of grape soda?"

"You can't have grape soda."

"But I've really been craving some and—"

"You're not having grape soda, Eve. You've finally haven't been puking for a day now."

"Fine," she groans, pauses, and then begins speaking innocently once more. "Then can you get me something else?"

"There's ginger ale in the fridge." He's sliding on his shoes now.

She whines.

"No burgers either! That stuff's too greasy for you—"

"Hey! I know what I can and can't eat, mister!" She snaps, joking, but not. "And one last thing?" she calls.

He's at the door now.

"Can you get me some pastries from that bakery down the road? The one on the way there?"

He's about to object again but pauses.

She presses, "Pleeease ?"

He hesitates, eventually caving in.

Eve smiles, triumphant. She is silently thankful that she hasn't felt too nauseous lately.

"And one more thing?"

He waits.

"Can you carry me to the kitchen? My knees are still hurting from the bathroom floor."

He tries not to smile, and feigns aggravation instead. He makes a loud grunt as he shuffles her on as if she's weighed down, both knowing that she isn't at all, not to him. She seems tiny on his back, her feet bare and in tickling proximity.

He's checking the mail on his way out when he notices another coupon ad. He turns it over, seeing that it's for Johnson & Johnson products, and gives a huff, dropping them off on top of the neighbor's mailbox instead before leaving, taking his mail with him.

This is the second time they've gotten this junk mail mixed up with the neighbor's. The incident started five months ago and it had begun to irk him. He pulls off from the curb still slightly fuming. He flicks on the radio, presses one of the buttons that holds pre-programmed stations and finds the local jazz station.

Unfortunately, he hits another obstacle: he doesn't realize until he's about to order from the bakery that he doesn't know what pastries to get for his wife. And while he's got the phone to his ear and trying to pick more favorable selections, the cashier grows a grin as he orders practically one of everything behind the glass.

"Sad girlfriend?" the cashier asks, thinking this is an apology delivery.

"Wife," the other clarifies, giving a polite half smile.

"Oh," the cashier smiles. "Funny... I remember my mom was the same way when she was pregnant with my little sister two years ago. I don't know why this reminded me of that..."

And he smiles. "No, I doubt she is." He means Eve.

"Is what?"

"Uh, pregnant." He hasn't spoken that word in many months now and it felt weird to the tongue.

His polite grin fades as a memory sets in—a sterile white antenatal office, the diagrams of vaginas and their insides hanging on the walls, of the needles and tests and sample cups spent. Of the hard gray chairs they sat in as the doctors delivered the news, and him locking himself in the bathroom with faint sobs heard, at home and Eve curling up in bed but not falling asleep for hours.

He frowns, the topic bitter and morose. "I highly doubt that." But he smiles gratefully and takes his three large boxes—getting some for himself of course—and leaves a generous tip.

He eats his box of doughnuts on the way home.

Eve is on the living room couch when he returns . The television is showing the Rachel Ray morning show's dish of the day, and as if on cue, her stomach rumbles. She immediately calls him over and pulls him down by the shirt collar to plant a chaste kiss on him.

He hands her one of Kelso's Bakery boxes and goes to empty the single bag of pharmacy store purchases in the items' designated areas. "What was that for?" he asks about the kiss.

Eve doesn't look over her shoulder at him. She begins eating from the box, taking a jelly-filled donut first, and remains glued to the tv screen. "Oh, nothing."

And he pauses, staring. He can tell that she's up to something but remains silent about it. He finishes emptying the plastic bag and comes to sit down next to her.

"Found another of the neighbor's junk mail in ours again. You think I should report this time? Or at least let them know that it's still happening?"

Eve hesitates for a beat, and has to force herself to continue chewing. She hopes that she looks discreet.

This is the umpteenth time that they've received mailed coupons about maternity and baby product companies. But actually, they were all subscriptions she hadn't canceled—they had all been from subscriptions that she both forgot and hadn't been emotionally ready to cancel.

Eve denies calmly, states that it isn't such a big deal and that the coupons could possibly come in handy. He doesn't think much of it.

As her eyes are on the screen, he reaches for a pastry from the large box. Eve smacks his hand without looking away and he draws it back as if truly hurt.

On screen, the guest cook advertises a bottle of wine. They were cooking steaks and a sort of wine sauce.

Eve's stomach rumbles again and her husband looks over and sees that she's already emptied a second of the box of sweets with no seeming sign of slowing down. Also, that her hair is pulled up in a messy bun and there is a dust of sugar crumbs on the left ends of her mouth.

"Are you eating those or inhaling them?"

She pauses, glances down at the open box in her lap, and then smacks him on the arm. She's not surprised that he stays still as a rock.

He grins nonetheless. "No but really, be careful with those. I don't know why I bought all those..."

It's nearing four in the afternoon and he's off work today, so he's happy to run around for her.

"Look here," she finishes chewing, and swallows. " I'm the one sick here. You don't get to patronize me."

"I don't get to patronize you when you're sick?" He's grinning; they're both joking.

And Eve realizes her words were mixed up. "Shut up." She begins eating a stuffed guava pastry. "Don't pick at me for what makes me feel better."

But he's laughing now and when he finally catches his breath, wipes the smear of jelly from the corner of her mouth with a thumb. She looks down, embarrassed. He licks his finger clean.

"I'm sorry."

His brows begin to draw together. "For what?"

Her mouth opens and she almost admits it all, almost tells him, but she herself is too afraid that this is just another slim possibility and it's just going to slip through her fingers, be yanked from her grasp and doesn't want to get his hopes up too.

Eve snaps her mouth closed. She claims that she thinks she left some things in the oven and if he could take it out for her. He gets to the oven and there's a single hotdog bun on the rack.

He calls, asking if she had been preparing to make hotdogs, assuming she must have gotten mixed up.

Eve hesitates. "Sure!"

"Well why didn't you just use the toaster to toast the bread?"

Eve's jaw hangs open and doesn't know what to say. He doesn't get it.

It's three days later and she has a doctor's appointment later that day for nausea and then to the drugstore for vitamins and lemon juice.

At first, her husband doesn't want to leave her when she empties her stomach that morning, and then moments on her pale complexion. But she shoos him out the door again and he hurries to work.

Before shutting the door, she keeps it cracked ajar and hears him checking the mail and then curses under his breath at finding another advertising coupon. Eve keeps her giggles to herself and shuts the door and then gets dressed to leave. She pukes one more time before walking out the door forty-seven minutes after her husband.

It takes twenty-eight minutes to get to the antenatal clinic.

And her thick, curls are pushed back by a headband and she's wearing a pair of yoga pants because she feels so bloated and the doctor chuckles at this, claiming that she looks like she's doing "just fine." But she's tense and fears that there's going to be a claim that there's no longer anything there and she'll return home saddened, sullen, and emotionally numb again, and doesn't relax until the appointment is over.

The doctor guesses why she's worried on the first try. And Eve nods, feeling slightly ashamed, and slightly embarrassed. She's asked why and explains that she's turning thirty-six this year and that this all should be so much easier than it is and that she doesn't want to put her husband through yet another disappointment because they have wanted this so, so badly for so long now.

The doctor closes her eyes and exhales through her nose once Eve finishes, and then gently informs that there are other methods: insemination and adoption. Eve admits that they're still afraid overall, not to mention the prices. She doesn't say that some of those methods aren't possible for them.

The appointment lasts for an hour and fifteen minutes. When done, she's given a prescription for nauseating medicine and a name of vitamins to take.

Her next appointment will be in three weeks. It's learned that she is about 5 weeks pregnant.

"From the looks of it, you look normal and healthy."

"If by normal and healthy you mean feeling like you're a bloated mess and you can't hold down anything without ginger, then I hope this is going to have to be some strong medicine."

It's almost a week later and Eve tries the bun clue again.

The medication feels to be working and she's had minimal sickness and is ready to call back in to work when her husband walks through the front door. He practically shoves the thick paper coupons—Huggies and a Wal-Mart catalog this time—into the kitchen garbage and she can tell that he is up to here with them.

She's on the sofa reading and barely listens to him grumbling to himself in the kitchen. She fingers the crease in her current place in the novel she's reading, the fingers of her other hand rub across the buttons to the remote aimlessly, nervously. From the corner of her eye, she watches him stomp to the bedroom and the door closes. His briefcase drops and she could hear his shoes hit the wall of the closet. She held the remote in her hand now purposely so he couldn't turn to the news. She needed his undivided attention for once, for now.

She pulls the already oversized sleeve over her hands and brushes a curl away that strays from her messy bun.

Her pulse beats erratically. She couldn't concentrate on reading.

When he exits, no more than two minutes later, he is in jeans and a steel blue Metropolis Sharks t-shirt. Still huffing, he trudges around the back of the sofa, heading straight for the door. Confused, Eve watches; there's no stopping him now.

"Where are you going?" Her neck cranes over the back of the sofa, eyes following him. There's an empty cup of ice cream on the coffee table and a half-full glass of ginger tea.

"Out." He slides one arm through a button-down flannel shirt.

"What?"

"Eve, I'm going out," he snaps.

She reminds him that he forgot his glasses but he doesn't seem to hear, or to be listening. She frowns, not being able to remember the last time he's been this perturbed. " Clark! "

He whirls around, tone holding a biting edge. He hadn't even gotten his other arm through his shirt. "I'm going to go talk to Mr. Mahoney downstairs to stop leaving their junk—" He inhales through his nose to calm down.

A heavy silence is held in their apartment.

Her neck rests on the back of the couch, still watching him. He couldn't even look at her. The junk mail is just an excuse because the real problem, the real sensitivity is something else entirely, but it still is triggered by the majority of the content they have to throw out weekly. Eve wishes she had canceled those prescriptions to parenting magazines weeks ago.

She rubs a page of her book between two fingers. "Okay. But don't beat them too severely." It was a dry joke. She hears his steps making their way to the door again. "Hun? Can you hand me something before you go?"

His answer is more of a sigh, aggravated, antagonized.

"Can you take the wine bottles down from on top of the pantry?" She fidgets more, hearing him go to the kitchen, and then the glass set on the counter. "And," she stood from the sofa, limping slightly at a sudden sprain, "can you take my thing out of the oven?" Eve wrings her fingers. She hears the oven rack pull out. His grumbling silences.

Everything silences.

Oh god. She frets how he is going to take this. She doesn't want to repeat this, have him fall back into deep despondency—but it's been almost two months, much longer than the first time, and—surely she's just too hopeful, too optimistic. But she doesn't even know if he wants this, doesn't try to ask how he'd feel if it actually—no, surely she's overthinking it. She's overthinking it. She's overthinking it. He wouldn't get angry. He would look at her surly and unsated. Right?

His voice rang from around the corner from inside the kitchen. "Did you dump a whole bag of hotdog buns in the oven?"

She doesn't answer at first. She lies: "oh, yeah! I was... I was making something... Uh, chili ."

"Chili..." He raises an eyebrow in suspicion. "You sure you can eat chili?" Glass is heard clinking on the counter.

"Chili? I meant hotdogs," she lies.

There isn't a response. Glass is heard clinking again.

"Clark?"

"Yeah?"

She listens further, but it's quiet. "Are you drinking the wine?"

There is a "no" that sounds like it follows a swallow of something. "Most definitely not." He coughs.

"Really?"

He hesitates. "Yup."

"Then are you still going to go rant to the Mahoneys about the mail?" she asks as he exits the kitchen.

"Yup. I was just getting ready to. This's been going on for too long and if no one says anything, then nothing's going to get done—"

"Do you really think that'll do it?" She highly doubts it, but still.

He shrugs.

"Wait, before you go, I need to tell you something."

"Don't." Her voice is low, moderately hoarse. "It's—it's not their fault, Clark. Don't... Don't do it."

"And why should I?"

She doesn't know how to answer that. Instead, she lies: "Because I already did."

He looks off to the side, down at his feet, out the window. He doesn't know what to say.

Eve fidgets with her fingers. Wrings her fingers. Picks underneath her fingernails. Twists her wedding ring around.

"Well," she begins. Hesitates. Swallows. Inhales to steady herself, realizing that there was no going back now in case this were all to blow over. "I went to the doctor, and... Well... I don't know how to say this..." She shuffles on her feet, and doesn't look him in the eyes; knows his stare is focused and it's stern, inquiring. "You know how you said you've always wanted a family? Well... Now we may have that chance again, because... I'm pregnant!"

Their apartment is quiet, unsettling so. The traffic outside and from the neighbors across are the only noises. Eve wishes that she had a pen so that she could drop it to the floor.

Clark's reply comes slow and in a low voice. "You... You're pregnant?!"

Eve nods, still unable to look him in the eye, into those impossibly blue eyes.

He scoffs. Chuckles. "I'm gonna be a dad... I'm gonna be a dad!" He runs a hand through his short curls.

She remembers what happened last time, and is straddling the fence to remind him. "If you're—I don't know—upset or unwinding of this, I understand. Just... Tell me, and don't leave. Please. Just—I don't know—I can't—if you—" Her sentences stick together from anxiety and speculation. She's dazed when she feels a breeze and finds herself being smothered in hugs and kisses

"I would never leave you. I'm so excited for this baby!"

Eve shifts from shocked to relief as he transforms from delighted to happy to ecstatic.

He's hugging her waist, bombarded with excited questions about the baby. About how far along she is? When is she due? When did she first find out? Has she done any strenuous activity? Has she eaten anything? Offering to treat her to whoever she wants even more.

She laughs, his cheek pressed to her flat stomach. She remarks how Perry is "probably going to flip"  when she tells him, the man having been like a godfather to her.

Clark freezes. He hadn't thought of that.

Chapter Text

Despite her excitement, Eve refrains from telling anyone about her pregnancy other than Clark. In fact, she told him first because she knew he'd eventually figure it out on his own, anyway. For the rest of that afternoon and when she wasn't regurgitating into the toilet, Eve nursed a full cup of ginger tea that Clark made sure remained piping hot.

They were both excited, happy, even. But, neither are willing to speak about it so soon. Since that day she told him, the anxiety has returned and made a bed in the pit of her gut. She feels as if time ticks by slowly, as if she's waiting on something, for something. She knows what it is, and tries desperately to vanquish it from her mind.

Clark could feel it too; although he had been ecstatic about the news, he's since quelled his emotions. Watching Eve and turning to scanning her body and vitals when he was sure she wouldn't notice, their mutual worries are loud and not able to be ignored. So, every once in a while, such as when she's sitting on the sofa and spacing out, he'd take her hands and reassure that nothing has happened and she needn't be so worried. But, it was always with the remembrance of "yet" being unspoken but knowingly included to his words.

There isn't a need to worry yet. Nothing bad has happened yet.

And she'd listen and nod, and he'd give a small smile to help reassure, but it doesn't go away so easily.

In that coming Friday evening, Eve snuggles into his side when he finally returned from work, like she's been doing as her sickness ebbed—sometimes it's as they watch television, sometimes while reading a novel and lying in bed. She had already answered all his initial questions but they hadn't spoken anything else about her pregnancy since. Eve can tell that he's wanting to ask more but refrains himself—and, she can feel his eyes always on her, always tracking, always concerned.

Sometimes, she'd rub a hand along the pudge of her stomach where her womb is, and thinks about all the other times she failed to carry. Every time, she'd gotten excited and hopeful, and every time...

Once, when catching her doing this while they'd been watching a broadcasted movie, Clark paused, thought for a moment, licked his fingers clean of potato chip dust, and easily lifted his wife from her seat to sit between his legs. He tried to be comforting by hugging her to his chest before digging back in the chip bowl and focusing on the screen. He originally aimed to distract her—and it worked for a time, until the potato chips began churning in her stomach and she was too tightly wrapped in blankets and Clark that she couldn't stand in time so she wrenched the bowl from his hands and puked inside it. Clark froze; all he could do was witness. Eve apologized between coughs and offered to get another, different bowl of chips. Clark shook his head, the color having drained from his face, and assured that he's lost his appetite for the night.

The overhanging anxiety and worry are mostly sourced from fear—that if Eve were to speak about it too much, then this would be another repeat, and their hopes and happiness would be bashed once again. For the first, second, and other times that followed, she never made it past her first trimester. Granted they had all been planned meticulously—her temperature taken, a calendar was followed, and she kept her doctors on speed dial—but the most recent miscarriage was in the second trimester, which she thinks seems to be the marker of when things would go wrong.

Additionally, Martha, Clark's mother, had been informed of Eve's pregnancy at that time, and had been excitedly helping them prepare further when she got the phone call that Eve was rushed to the hospital.

So, in her small, shared apartment on the outskirts of Metropolis, Eve counts down the weeks until then, both fretting that another fail would happen but hoping that it wouldn't and this time that everything will work out.

One night when she mentions that the sickness feels worse this time than during the others, this spoken while lying in bed and after having been able to keep her meals down for three days straight, he looped his long arm around her, rubbing a thumb along her hip. He couldn't think of anything to say or counter with. She wasn't looking for any words, only comfort, and found it as she drifted off to sleep, curled into her husband's wide chest.

When Eve is allowed back into the office, it's two weeks later and she's now nine weeks along. The sickness has almost entirely gone. They still haven't told anyone she's expecting, still holding breathes themselves and because it's still early. There's an appointment set for her second ultrasound; a small part of her is dreading the appointment.

She ultimately returns to work later than she initially planned to only after she was strictly instructed to work from home, believing she'd been hospitalized due to the severity of her sickness. This was after she was kicked out because she believed in the failed assumption she could handle being more than seven feet from a toilet. Unfortunately, Eve ended up hurrying to a bathroom or dunking her head into her wastebasket a total number of three times before she was made to leave—at no help that half of her coworkers were afraid she'll vomit on them at any given time and the other half were convinced she's harboring a contagious virus.

Her husband, however, and to no surprise to Eve, agreed all too much that she should stay home. Of course, she tried to argue against it, but he deflected her every time. And because this happened with a small audience of their work peers, Eve finally huffed and gave in while Clark smirked in sly triumph. To punctuate it, he'd helped her pack some of her needed work materials, mentioning things she shouldn't forget and packing things she didn't need. Eve sarcastically rolled her eyes and tried to take the box from him when he finished, but his grip didn't budge. Instead, he kissed the top of her hair and let her simmer about it.

"You worry too much," she lightly chided as he walked her to the elevator, and pressed the button since his hands were full.

"Lemme know when you've made it home," he said, ignoring her well-worn comment.

When the elevator opened, she readied to take her things, but he dodged her to enter the elevator himself. Eve shook her head.

"You think Perry's going to let you do this? I'm sure he's going to need you for something."

He shrugs a shoulder. "He's gonna have to. The least I can do is walk you down and get you a taxi."

Eve bites the inside of her cheek to withhold a smile. After the years of marriage, he still insists on things like this, despite them going against his boss' wishes. As the elevator chimes and its doors open to reveal the ground floor, she rests a hand on his arm and softly thanks him.

Getting a taxi could be said lied on the sight of Eve, although Clark was taller and seen first, the heavy box effortlessly balances in one hand. Inside, he stuck his head in and gave the address to their neighbor's home instead of Eve's own. Clark noticed that the driver paid his instructions little mind, his gaze bouncing from the cars speeding by to Eve in the rear-view mirror. So, before leaving, Clark cupped the back of Eve's neck and brought her in for a possessive, open mouthed kiss—it wasn't without making purposeful eye contact with the driver. Clark let the taxi drive off once giving the hood a pat that rocked the carriage and left the driver confused and a bit shaken.

Now that Eve has returned to work with a better bill of health, things have only gotten more intense: On the trip here, Clark is always exactly one step behind her, his exuberant affection turned into increased monitoring and only seems to be getting worse as time goes on. Still feeling sluggish, she asked if he could run ahead and grab an extra expresso shot per a routine she normally makes in the morning. When he returns, he'd gotten her tea instead.

"How is this supposed to wake me up?" she complained.

Without looking at her, raising his own coffee to his mouth, he defended, "I read somewhere that pregnant women shouldn't have—"

"Too much coffee," she says in unison with him. "Now how much have I had today?"

"None. But that—" He'd been about to drink when her hand outstretches in an assertive, silent request for his cup. He frowns and doesn't abide, taking a loud slurp instead.

She can smell the caffeine and creamer as if it's right under her nose. "Please?"

Clark loudly sighs and hands her his cup, eyeing her carefully the entire time.

As they enter The Daily Planet's lobby, he's not a step further. Eve waves and greets coworkers with a well-crafted face of untroubled peace; her large husband behind her nods silently in greeting.

On their way to the elevator, she advises, "When we get up here, I need you to have your head in the game again, one hundred percent." She means for him to focus solely on work and not so much on her. At her side, Clark's mouth opens as he begins to speak but she interrupts him, continuing to speak. "You know I don't leave the building. And if there's something that happens, I'll call you. Okay?"

His mouth closes. The half-emptied paper coffee cup is steady in his hand. They're at the back of the elevator while a few others pile inside. Eve knows he isn't satisfied with her request and likely won't comply by it, but she speaks it nonetheless. For him to focus less on her right now—before they know anything for certain—is the best either of them could do. Just like everyone, their jobs need to be done.

"Plus," she adds, "a distraction will be... Beneficial. Good. Needed."

He doesn't say anything, only wrinkling his nose at a man's cologne that's a bit too strong.

"Also, I'm going to try to talk to Perry sometime today."

Clark opens his mouth again, this time in a question Eve already anticipates.

"I'm not going to tell him," Eve answers. "It'll be about my absences. I need to make up the time I missed."

"Don't overexert yourself," he advices, speaking lowly and standing tense at her side. From the corner of her eye, she notices his posture gaining a small hunch as the elevator rises—a purposefully constructed facade.

Eve couldn't help but crack a smile. She jokes, "Don't worry. I won't pull a muscle while brewing coffee for everyone else."

From over her shoulder, he watches her entering a reminder into her cellphone's calendar to make a doctor's appointment at her OB/GYN. "I'm serious," he says, right before the doors open to their floor.

"I know." She selects 'Enter' on her keypad then puts away her cellphone. "See you later. Have a good day, Mr. Kent." She pats his cheek in an affectionate tease.

The sigh Clark makes is heavy and disappointed, watching her wave over her shoulder, smiling, and leaving for her own work station in the opposite direction. "And you, too..."

Eve remembers watching Lois Lane meander around the floor while big and round with her son, Jason, five years ago. Eve had watched her, as did everyone, and smiled politely at her jokes and ills. Back then, Eve and Clark had already purchased appropriate wedding rings because they had been dating and preparing to marry themselves, meanwhile Richard White was relentless in his pursuit to wed Lois, excited for their oncoming wedding date. The fact that she'd gotten pregnant ahead of their agreement became only a little bump in the road, but nothing more.

Eve remembered watching Lois' lean to stand, her stomach obvious and protruding through her maternity shirts and dresses, and the times she accidentally bumped against every sudden, too-short corner. Back then, Eve had looked up at Clark and noticed something behind his stare as he watched Lois. Eve, of course, questioned him about it, blatantly asking if he's thinking about Lois since they dated for several years prior, and given that they're all still working together.

He had answered, "No," and nothing further.

When she noticed it again, Eve directly asked what he's thinking to cause the look across his face. Clark only pressed his lips into a tight line, gone stoic, and said that it was "Nothing," before walking away.

Eve revisited the question twice more on unrelated occasions but received similar responses. Only on the fifth time did he sigh and reveal his thoughts he'd only just been able to identify and dissect. Six months later, and after speaking with a financial advisor, Eve took her first pregnancy test.

Now, five years later, Jason is that equal number in age and Lois still has not missed a beat on her workload or in venturing out into the field for stories—her only pause being during her maternity leave for birth and several months after. Even before her leave and ss imagined, neither Richard nor his uncle, the Editor-in-Chief Perry White, agreed to the majority of Lois' proposals for assignments. And, much to her chagrin, Lois was confined to majority desk work and only to interview non strenuous, stressless stories—this was backed up by her doctor, which Richard never missed a chance to playfully remind her of.

Jason—Perry's only grandnephew—has made himself comfortable at Lois' desk that is far too large for him, his crayons spilled out among her papers and notes, and he's enthusiastically telling Jenny Jurwich about his latest drawing of his favorite tv character. He's here visiting his mother, much to the chagrin of his father, Richard, due to it being his day off—also because Jason had a tantrum when his father told him "No," and Richard didn't have the willpower to fight Jason on it, but Jason's large smile and childlike fascination of every humdrum aspect of The Daily Planet makes it worth it.

Not far away, there's a discussion between Lois and her husband, Richard White, that includes harsh whispers, crossed arms, and squared shoulders. Eve glances away from the scene and back to Cat Grant who's been complaining about an intern's assignment, nitpicking all the tiny errors throughout it.

Finally, having enough, Eve cuts off Cat's rant. "I just don't see how it's a detrimental issue. The kid's still in college; it's not like she's going to be an expert, Cat."

Being the lead editor of the Opinion section, Cat upholds a certain level of perfectionism which she imposes on everyone who touches her section, regardless of their department. Because of this, she isn't pleased by Eve's apparent nonchalance and squints her eyes in judgment.

But, Eve is unperturbed and shrugs, handing back the printed mockup. "Have you even ran this by a proofreader yet, or are you just complaining before getting the final product, again?"

"You know, with me being the Lead Editor of a section, I'd say I know a little more about this than you do. And you're talking a lot for someone who's never had interns herself and who's had to take twice as long to get her first story," Cat jeers.

"You know I didn't come on here to be a reporter," Eve reminds, glaring. "That isn't even where I work."

Cat scoffs with malice. "It shows. Not like you'd understand the process anyway."

Having developed a shorter tolerance lately, Eve decides to end this exchange as quickly as possible. "Cat, you came to me. Plus, I am one of the people who work in 'the process,' but it's okay if you forget. Now," she turns her focus away from Cat, much to her annoyance, "if you're so bothered by it, why don't you go talk to your intern and teach her. That's why you have her under you in the first place, isn't it?"

Cat snatches the mockup back with more force than necessary, pushes an insincere "Thanks" through her teeth, and returns to her workstation, her pearl necklace jangling. Eve massages her ears, noticing how the necklace sounds louder and oddly more noticeable than she remembers it ever being.

As Cat leaves, Alyse approaches—another coworker and a long-time friend of Eve's.

At Lois' desk, Richard loudly sighs and drags a hand down his face. Lois steps closer to him, seemingly pleading in her hushed volume and still talking. Eventually, Richard softens, then grins, then leans forward into Lois' space, close enough that it's intimate but without physical touch. Then, Jason calls for his mother, ending the intimate moment. Richard's grin widens and he ruffles his son's large, bouncing curls—which was inherited from him, with dimples on his light brown cheeks to match.

Eve is found spacing out while facing the direction of Lois and Richard. Alyse loudly knocks on her cubicle wall, startling Eve from her thoughts. "You okay in there?" she jokes, coming to check on Eve again since her return from her extended sick leave.

Further breaking her concentration, Eve gives her head and shoulders a shake then the explanation that she had only been thinking and contemplating. She's relieved to begin a conversation, which always seems inevitable when the two are together. But, during it, a hand had unconsciously found its way to rest on Eve's stomach again. It's such a small, insignificant action that she goes a long while without noticing. It's only when Alyse brings it to her attention in the midst of their conversation does Eve take notice.

"You're not sick with some kind of flu or disease, are you?" Alyse laughs lightly, trying to ease the sudden tension.

Now noticing Eve's hand placement and assuming it has to do with her conception history, Alyse asks, "How're you doing, really? Not just physically." And an eyebrow rises in concern. "Still have a bit of sickness?"

Eve pauses, thinking over her answer before speaking. "No. Not really. It's gone away mostly—which is good. Before, I couldn't hold down any solids. Or liquids for more than, like, thirty minutes." She then proceeds to open a bag of plain potato chips and eats four at once.

Alyse's nose wrinkles at the visual. She asks, incredulously, "What kind of flu did you have?"

Eve's face cracks into a stifled smile. "I'm not sick. I'm, uh, I'm doing just fine."

Alyse is understandably confused and for good reason. This news hadn't left Eve's home; not even her parents knew this time, or for the times prior.

"I'm, uh," Eve begins, suddenly bashful and gleeful at the same time, but she forces it down and sobers her features. "I'm fine, Alyse. Thanks, truly."

But her friend squints her eyes and reads Eve effortlessly. After knowing each other for over a decade, Alyse can tell that there's more to Eve's words. "What aren't you telling me...?" Alyse asks, slowly. "You're talking weird. And, you've been acting weird... You're eating way more chips than you usually do..." Alyse nods to the three discarded bags in Eve's wastebasket.

Eve watches her friend's eyes slowly widen and an eyebrow arches, but Alyse doesn't say anything, not wanting to make false assumptions, knowing anything could be the true cause.

Finally, Eve grimaces. "Can you keep a secret?"

Alyse rests a hand on her own hip. "Why do you always ask me that, knowing that I can't? But, you know what? I'm going to lie and say that I do just because now you've got to tell me."

Eve bursts into laughter.

"Why didn't you want to tell him?" Alyse asks after Eve shared the news. She's leaning against wall-to-ceiling window at a dead-end corridor outside the office. They've snuck away on the partial lie of needing a break. This is the only point of privacy in this building, knowing trips here are infrequent and it's less occupied than both the breakroom and the women's restroom.

Eve hesitates to answer, having grown solemn. "You didn't see him last time."

"Last time?"

Eve thinks about the doctor's offices, of the examination tables, the needles and samples taken. She remembers the time she wasted taking vitamins, checking her temperature, stressing, questioning, falling sick and then bleeding prior being rushed to a hospital; the smell of antiseptic and sterilized counters, grey chairs, and Clark standing tall and tense at her side, listening to different doctors give the same results over and over and over again. She remembers sitting down and talking it over with her husband, of looking at their specific, separate savings account dwindling. She had a speculation about why it wasn't working and Clark knew, too, but it didn't deter them, not completely. In fact, on two separate, prior occasions, she conceived without intention.

That hadn't lessened the depression that was brought because of it, or bitter emotions, or feelings of woe. And there wasn't a moment that sadness wasn't in his eyes, nor in Eve's. Her miscarriages had all been sudden, not all caused by stress. In fact, during her most recent one that happened two years ago, they had been gathering everything needed for a baby and a nursery. Then, if it had made it two more weeks, Eve would have been at the point when she could have felt the baby kick.

"Yeah," Eve continues. "This isn't, uh, isn't my first time... We've... Spent a lot of money on IVFs in the past, too..."

"Oh..." Alyse needs a moment for the meaning behind her words to register: They had money saved away for this; they've spent a lot of time on this. When it does, she softly comments, "And this time...?"

Eve shrugs.

She watches Eve gaze down at Metropolis below—taxis, pedestrians, and honking vehicles. Occasionally, a dog trots by besides its owner, and a baby carriage strolls down the sidewalk. Clark and Eve are very private people and hardly tell anyone what's going on in their personal lives unless it's blatant. Alyse has witnessed Clark's attempts to court Eve, and then how it mellowed down over time to which Alyse took to confirm it worked and that they were dating. As a best friend, Alyse teased them about it but made sure her best intentions and sincere care were known. So, with something as serious this present topic, she wouldn't have known unless she'd been told, or until she started noticing Eve's stomach.

Alyse grabs Eve's hand and softly squeezes in comfort. Eve returns it with a small, weak smile.

"I'm still shocked, I guess... This wasn't planned this time, so I don't really know how to handle it." A sob breaks her words then, her emotions bubbling over. "I'm—I'm excited but I don't think I should be... Is that bad? And how I didn't want to tell him, but—you know how nosey he can be." She tries to laugh it off but fails as tears begin gathering in her eyes.

In front of the windows in the dead-end corridor, Alyse envelopes her friend in a tight hug.

Eve chuckles again against Alyse's shoulder. "I guess I told you because I wanted to ask you... Is it bad that I thought the possibility that he'd not want this one? I mean, not wanting to go through the risk of another... Of a repeat? Again. I know I sound silly and he was excited before, but... I don't know. After all this time... And it's been two years since..."

Alyse pulls back so they can make eye contact and Eve sees her for emphasis. "So, is it bad that you thought he wouldn't be as excited like he was before because you're both scared of repeating it? No, I don't think it's bad," she answers. "You didn't want him to know because you wanted to keep his feelings from being hurt, again."

Eve nods, grossly wiping her face with her sleeve.

"It's not bad," she repeats, "but would I have advised it? No. But, I should be asking you the same thing." Alyse asks, "Do you want this? How're you feeling about this?"

Eve inhales shakily and thinks over her words for a long minute. Finally, she answers, "I'm scared. For so many reasons."

The talk with Alyse lifts weight from her chest Eve hadn't realize was there. Once cleaning up in the restroom, she returns to the floor, and when she walks in, she notices Clark's head swiveling around above the heads and cubicle walls, seemingly ignoring Jimmy Olsen chattering at his side. But once he catches sight of Eve, he stops, calms, and lowers back to his chair.

One of the two televisions on the floor displays the news channel that runs during all the hours of the day. Currently airing on it is a reporter informing about a grand opening of a new community center followed by the arrest of culprits responsible for a series of car hijacking sprees. After, a few minutes is used to update the progress of forest fire control happening in California.

When she's turning towards Perry White's office, someone scurries out. Not a moment later, his head peaks out and his booming voice easily carries to where Eve is.

"Close the door," Perry instructs before Eve has completely steps inside his office. "I assume this is something important."

"It is. I need more hours." She gets straight to the point without batting an eye, and Perry stares at her for a long moment before continuing.

"You haven't even been here for a day and you're requesting more work."

Eve shrugs. "I've been out of commission for enough time. I—"

"I get that, I do, but..." He leans forward, motioning her to take a sit. His voice softens. "How have you been? The last time you were here, your face practically turned green," he jokes. "You got it all out your system, right? Took all your medicine this time?"

Eve grins politely and nods. "Yes, and I'm fine, thanks." Her gaze drifts from his concerned face to a glass figurine that wasn't on his desk before. She points this out, trying to diverge the conversation.

Perry picks it up to examine it fondly. "Yeah. Lexi's little girl got it for me. She won't tell me where, but if I had to guess, I'd say garage sale." He over the rims of his glasses, grinning.

Lexi is of Perry's daughter, whose own ten-year-old girl has developed a fond, childish attachment to her grandfather. Eve knows of Lexi, like several other of Perry's relatives, because their families are close—initially connected through the close friendships of her grandfather and an uncle, it spread from there to where both families could be considered kin. This secret has been kept from all coworkers, successfully keeping things professional.

"It's very cute," Eve agrees. "But about my increased hours—"

He waves as he places the figurine down with much care. "I'll think about it."

"Perry—"

"I'll have to see what else you can do," he explains, and Eve relaxes. "God, some of you are relentless," he comments without malice, and Eve chuckles. "Don't laugh too hard. Next you'll be running to the bathroom again," he teases.

Eve chuckles, her jaw dropping. "Hey! I wasn't that bad!"

"Sure, sure." Perry raises his hands in defense. "But really, everything okay at home?"

Eve purses her lips and slowly nods. "Yeah, I, uh... I think everything's okay. Mostly. It seems... I think so... Of course, some things are concerning—"

Suddenly protective and concerned, Perry unintentionally interrupts with, "What do you mean 'mostly'?"

At the same time, Jenny barges in, informing that Superman is on the news again rescuing victims of the California fire, and she hurriedly requests to be formally assigned to produce a piece about the incident—treating it very much like a race.

At the mention of the news, Eve doesn't falter, doesn't waver, and retains a facade of indifference belonging to any other bystander and not as someone with close relations. But, when she leaves Perry's office, she keeps an eye on the broadcasting news until the end. Then she keeps an eye out for her husband's return. By closing time, he still hadn't returned. Eve sends out a text asking for his whereabouts. Instead, his cellphone buzzes from the pocket of his suit jacket lying across the back of his desk chair.

Eve waits and waits until the last employee leaves, lying that she's trying to finish a layout. She scrolls through her emails and plays computer games until the janitor arrives. Only then does she grab her bag, Clark's belongings, then leaves for home.

When she exits the building as the last daytime employee, rain has turned Metropolis into blotches of greys and blues, lazy traffic lights, and quiet, impatient people rushing to get home. Unfortunately, Eve gets lightly sprayed with street water when a taxi slows to the curb near her, answering her hail. The ride back is long due to congested traffic and she's quiet in the backseat, so the driver turns on the radio. Sometime during the ride, her stomach rumbles.