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Asami is tired. She is the kind of tired that seeps into her skin and exists deep within her very bones. Her typically brilliant mind is fogged over and sluggish, and she's uncomfortable in a way she never has been before. When she starts to shake and sweat, she accepts that it's probably better for Future Industries, better for her, to simply call it a day.
Gathering her things, she tries her best to give instructions for her absence but finds it difficult to focus for more than a moment. An unbearabe wave of heat hits her, making her cheeks flush pink and sweat pouring off of her while her head throbs in time with her heartbeat. She tries to remember what she's eaten—if she's eaten—but the thought of food causes her stomach to clench, bile immediately rising in the back of her throat.
She makes it halfway home before she realizes she left her things back in her office. It's too late to turn back now and her stomach hurts bad enough she wouldn't even if she could. Besides, she could always send Korra if she really needed something, but right now she just wants to make it home to bed.
Asami practically staggers over the threshold, leans heavily against the door she just closed behind her and groans. The noise pitches into a whine when she sees Korra. Korra, who had wandered into the foyer at the sound of the door. There's a slight tilt to her head when she meets Asami's gaze, a silent question passes between them, and then Asami finds herself tucked into Korra's arms, being carried gently to their bedroom. She allows her head to loll against Korra's shoulder and breathes in the wonderful scent of ocean and citrus. Her whole self relaxes, soothed by the safety of Korra's love.
She doesn't realize she's fallen asleep until Korra presses a light kiss to her forehead, murmurs something about jook. Asami is too tired, really, to listen; too tired to do more than hum and flutter her eyelids before falling back into sleep.
She wakes again to fingers carding through her hair and the sound of an old Fire Nation lullaby her mother used to sing to her, the sound breaking something open inside of her and making her weep. Korra gently bends her tears away, traces careful patterns over her jaw and down her neck, across her shoulder, before sliding over the skin of her arms. Korra's fingers continue their path, trailing down, down, down, over her hips and to her stomach, where her hand settles to rest, fingers splayed open. Asami's hand finds Korra's, her fingers threading between Korra's with a slight squeeze.
Asami knows it's impossible, but in that moment, she knows—swears she can hear that third heartbeat. Korra must know, too—can perhaps feel it—because soon she's humming that lullaby again, her fingers flexing slightly over the skin covering Asami's womb, a soft smile touching her lips.