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“I’m fine,” forced conviction in her voice while he carries her to their bed, her head on his chest for a moment, eyes closed and brows furrowed. “It’s nothing.”
He lets her down on the mattress gently, her back against the headboard, head heavy and tilted to the side, her hands on her lap. He sits in front of her, reaches out to caress her cheek, she looks at him, he brushes the hair out of her face and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“You know, that’d be a lot more convincing if I hadn’t just picked you up from the bathroom floor.”
She winces at that, shakes her head. “I thought I was going to be sick.”
“And then you decided to stay on the floor?”
“Felt like a good thing to do,” she chuckles.
“Tifa…”
His other hand is running up and down her leg in a soothing manner, his eyes glowing blue with concern. She takes his hand in hers, gives it a squeeze, and he notices, once again, how small her hand is compared to his. “Cloud, it’s just morning sickness. I’m fine.”
“I know, it’s just…” he doesn’t want to tell her how worried he is about the fact that she can’t keep food down, that she’s tired and pale most days now, and that it cuts him to the bone seeing her like this. He doesn’t want to tell her how worried he is because it’s not her fault and he needs to believe that what he’s been reading in the pregnancy books he’s bought is right, that all of her symptoms are normal and there’s nothing bad going on.
Because bad things have aquired a taste for him and they lurk at every corner; he can sense it there, hovering, waiting, ready to strike and catch him by surprise and take them away from him, the family he’s fought so hard to have, fought so hard to keep and over the past four years he’s been learning and relearning how to keep the anxiety down, the damn feeling that has been infused within his bloodstream since he was little, exacerbated by all the tragedy that came later, the feeling that now flares up at the first sign of distress and turns morning sickness into something else, forces him to ground himself and hold on to the little things like the smell of vanilla on her skin, the dark of her messy hair, the knowledge she’s alive and in front of him, his Tifa, all his and he has loved her for so long, wanted this for so long that it’s hard not to be scared of anything that can possibily harm them.
He finds himself placing his free hand on her stomach, staring and contemplating in the way parents often do. He looks up at her to see a smile on her face, an orange glow from the lamp on the nightstand all over her, giving her dark brown eyes that gleam he adores so much.
“If something doesn’t feel right let me know, okay?” he asks, finally pulling her into his embrace, arms wrapped around her, his need to shelter her from the world apparent. She nods, sighs contently as he rests his chin on the top of her head. They remain quiet for a while and he’s almost certain she’s fallen asleep when her voice proves him wrong:
“We’re almost through the first trimester,” she yawns as he strokes her hair. “Then we can tell everybody.”
It sounds like superstition but it’s love and care for the children. They know how the kids will react once they learn about the pregnancy, they can hear the cheers and the hugs and the guesses about the baby’s gender, the name suggestions, the how are babies made talk. Both adults know the joy it will bring just like they know how much can happen in the first months of pregnancy and the last thing they want is to crush the children’s hearts with tragedy. The same can be said about their friends and so they wait, hoping for the best, preparing for any unexpected blows.
Sometimes he thinks it’s funny how parenthood sort of happened to them. Marlene instilled in them a different type of responsibility, and when Denzel came along, that responsibility only grew. It’s the kind that means putting the children’s innocence and comfort above everything else. Paying bills, working extra hours, saving money-it’s all for them, so that they can have whatever they want and never go hungry or feel like there’s anything missing. It’s the reason Cloud doesn’t complain about spending hours on the road under the burning sun and the reason why Tifa doesn’t utter a single word about the pain in her legs and her headaches from working at the bar every day.
The reward is watching Denzel running around, healed, making Marlene laugh until her belly hurts, sneaking out of their beds at 3:00 am to watch TV in the living room on mute thinking that he and Tifa are sleeping, completely unaware of it.
It’s all worth it.
There’s always a bit of doubt here and there. They do wonder if they’re not seeing something or being too overprotective, but they’re always sure that they can do this. Even if sometimes they don’t know how, they can do this. It’s been his secret dream ever since he fell in love with Tifa, all those years ago, ever since he made that promise and imagined their future together, sealing their fate at that well.
It’s probably why safety and warmth spread through his veins when he found out about the pregnancy, probably why he can’t wait for what’s to come.
“The next appointment is Friday, isn’t it?” he asks her. “Or is it Saturday?”
“Friday,” her drowsy, sleepy voice makes him chuckle. “We’ll probably get to hear the baby’s heartbeat.”
He smiles, plants a soft kiss at the top of her head and makes a mental note to cancel the deliveries he has that day. He hasn’t missed a single appointment so far and he doesn’t plan on breaking the chain now.