|Subject: Chapter 234 - Part 2 (16 and above) (end of chapter 234)
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Date Posted: Wednesday, April 05, 09:47:28am
In reply to:
's message, "Dreams in the Dark (chapters 221--?)" on Monday, February 13, 07:24:07am
It took the poor, sick woman a second to compose herself--and, even when she did, she mostly hid behind her husband, her voice husky with her illness. "Sorry to greet you like this, Andrew, but I look like Hell." Whatever Hollywood standards Zalman was supposed to enforce, she was definitely breaking every one of them now.
He looked up to give her a brief smile, but respected her privacy, other than that. No one wanted to endure prying eyes, when they were sick. "You look beautiful, as always," he assured her. And, despite every sign of her illness her countenance wore, he meant every single word.
She only snorted in return. "Don't lie. You'll start me off again." It was Hell enough, as it was. She was only comforted by the light stroking of Michael's thumb over her temple, the glass of ginger ale he offered her probably the only thing keeping her from returning to that hideous room immediately; her thoughts were coarse, as she whispered them to him. "Morning sickness, my ass." He smiled at her lovingly, but the disgust only continued. It was more like morning, afternoon, and soon-to-be evening sickness--never seemed to end. There was a sigh, as her thoughts trailed back. She should have known that she had had it too good up to now; her head shook. This was undoubtedly the beginning of a truly horrible next six months.
This estimation of time till the birth was only supposition right now, no one quite certain so early on. Still, she was almost hoping for an earlier date--whatever her soon-to-be distance from her beloved. She just wasn't certain that she could take another seven months of this.
Andrew knew he was unneeded here--knew, even more, that Michael's fears were entirely unnecessary. Nikita had no interest in anyone outside of her husband, wanted only Michael to console her; something in him mourned. If only whatever was driving them apart would stop at last.
He rose, then, starting to go--but his thoughts did turn, remembering the only offer of help he could really make. "Can I bring either of you anything?"
It was definitely what the woman most wanted to hear--but her concerns were not for herself. "Please bring Michael something to eat." Her deep gaze met his. As much as she treasured him for staying with her, for all the concern he was so generously showing, she was worried. "He needs it."
There was a protective near-growl of a response to this request, her husband's interest focused on nothing which might concern him. "'Ki-ta . . .," he began.
She let him get nowhere, her gaze so begging. "Please" was all she said, before his sighing look fell. When she was certain he had given in, she turned to Andrew--still mostly hidden behind her husband. "You can make it a sandwich but definitely something."
Michael was staring at the floor. "Something . . .," he started.
"Got it." Andrew's hand stopped him, understanding the rest: something without much scent. He almost laughed, pondering his choices. Well, it was a classy sort of train, but it should still have some very bland ham sandwiches about in the other sections--something like what you would get at an Automat. That should be scentless enough not to bother her. "And you?" he asked, half-out the door.
"Bring her a new ginger ale with lime and another banana," her husband interjected, before she could speak. Once he thought about the poor man carrying all of that, he nodded back to him briefly. "Ask Joseph to bring them, if you would."
Their visitor nodded, happy to be able to help somehow. And Nikita was right, as well; Michael needed the nutrition. For a man so fiercely protective, he could easily forget to look after himself; Andrew's head shook, as he shut the door behind him, heading down the passageway. He supposed, in the end, that they would both need whatever help they could get.
The couple themselves were grateful, agreeing--each far too concerned about the other to worry enough over themselves. His hand stroked her sweat-drenched hair over her ear, looking deeply into her eyes. It was probably a foolish question, but it was necessary--if only to show his concern. "Are you alright?"
She shrugged. "I'll live." Her smile deepened. And so would their child. It was the dream they had worked toward for so very long. Someday, she was certain, they would reach their goal--would live together as, at least, a somewhat normal family; her smile warmed him through, both of them in agreement. It *would* happen. And whatever suffering they had to go through on the way would be worth it for that.
Extra note: According to my dictionary, the word "bisexual" came into the language sometime around 1815-25. Still, I'm not certain how well known it was in this era, at least in the context used both in this chapter and generally in society. If I've erred, and it was a well-understood term, at least in certain circles, I apologize. There are just times when the limits of my knowledge definitely come into play. %)
[End of Part 234]
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