Disclaimer: Don't own them.

A/N: un-betaed so if you see something really messed up, please tell me. Thanks.

They sit in the car quietly. He reaches over and grasps her smaller, softer hand in his larger, calloused one. She stares ahead.

The sun is shining, casting its brilliant light over all the people bustling around them.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

She breathes deeply, looking through the windshield at a nervous squirrel scampering up a tree. She eyes the tree like it holds some mystery. Maybe it does.

"I know." She doesn't look at him. She can't bear to look at him just yet.

"It's my fault," he chokes out.

It's not.

"No." She shakes her head. "It's just as much my fault as yours. Don't blame yourself."

It doesn't matter. She knows he will take the guilt and hold it close to his heart for years. It will be one more burden he takes to the grave.

She looks at him then, feels the way his fingers slide between hers and squeezes. She squeezes back.

They did this together. They are still doing it together.

She lifts her other hand to her stomach and glides it under her shirt. The skin there is smooth and flat. She hadn't started to show yet.

His grip tightens.

He wanted this child. She, after much consideration, did not. No matter how she did the math, she couldn't come up with an equation that made it a good decision for her. For them.

Their relationship is tenuous in the best of times. It seems almost like a fluke that they are together at all.

He had almost lost her, almost seen her stripped of her career, her family, her entire life's work. She had almost lost him, almost seen him sink back into the dark depths of himself, almost seen him destroyed by a power hungry ex-lover with a penchant for explosions.

She'd gotten pregnant during their first time together; a frenzied shedding of clothing and heated mouths and fingers after an all night alcoholic binge to drown the fears each of them tried to forget.

They had both felt so alive.

"I understand if this is the end," she starts. He wanted this child.

He jerks his hand as if he burns from her words.

She startles and looks at him. She looks deep into his eyes. A myriad of emotions flash in them.

"No." His voice is firm. This escape from death has awakened something in him. He wanted that child. He wants her more.

"You're not in this alone."

His words echo into the space. This is consistent. This is his truth, her truth. Their truth.

"I know," she says. He's always meant it. He's always been there, but right now his words mean something deeper than ever before.

She turns back to look through the windshield. The sun is shining and the squirrel is long gone.

They sit quietly in the car and hold hands.