Title: Forty Weeks

Rating: PG

Characters: Nate Ford, Sophie Devereaux, Team

Pairing: Nate/Sophie, peripheral Parker/Hardison

Summary: There are an average of forty weeks in a pregnancy. That means the team has at most thirty to prepare for the hardest job they've ever pulled: raising a baby. Sequel to Happy. N/S, but with heavy presence of the team.

Spoilers/Time Period: Set at the end of a hypothetical fifth season, does not dispute canon up through The Morning After Job. Set six weeks after Nate and Sophie tell the team in Happy, but all you have to know is that Nate and Sophie are married and expecting.

Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine.

Author's Note: I couldn't leave Nate and Sophie alone. This story will just show snapshots from Sophie's pregnancy, so it purposefully skips over time.

Part One

16 weeks

Sophie settles herself into the café chair with relief and annoyance. Relief, because she's not sure she could've gone another step, and annoyance, because even though it is a rather hot mid-August day in New England, a single hour of shopping on Newbury Street should not leave her so utterly exhausted. However, she is sixteen weeks pregnant, and, for the last two weeks, has yet to find a single thing that does not exhaust her.

Her constant companion/volunteer bodyguard sits down with more of an agitated air. It has only been an hour, and Parker was promised an entire afternoon of shopping for baby and pregnancy needs, a subject that completely fascinates the thief. Parker has also, in her over-protectiveness, become frighteningly attuned to Sophie's moods, feelings, and physical symptoms.

"Are you okay? Do we need to go home? Nate said…" she asks, brow knitted.

"Parker," Sophie soothes, a hand covering Parker's fingers as they nervously pick at a napkin. "I'm fine. I just need a bit of a rest, and then they have this darling boutique two blocks down. Nate is not in charge of me. He's not allowed to micromanage my pregnancy."

"Alec said he's just nervous and worried," Parker defends.

Sophie's annoyance softens. "I know. Let's grab a cold drink here, then call the men and see if they want to meet us for lunch in a few stores. We can do the rest of our shopping another day."

While the younger woman's hovering can be grating on her already frayed nerves, in the end she really loves the companionship of another woman, however strange, to share this with. Parker's eager attention and curiosity is rather endearing. Sophie remembers with affection the way Parker's face lit up when she'd first heard the baby's heartbeat on the ultrasound when she'd attended Sophie's doctor's appointment in Nate's stead.

"Okay," Parker relaxes, flagging down a waiter with a politeness Sophie has spent years breeding.

"Let's talk about something else. How are things with you and Hardison?"

Sophie knows that in Archie and Nate Parker has had father figures, however flawed, but that she has lacked for female role models; girl talk does not come naturally to her. They've made strides, though, and after a bit of token reluctance, as always, the younger woman spills her guts about her relationship with the hacker.

18 weeks

Sophie has always studied up on every role she's ever taken, and motherhood is no exception. Nate's pretty sure that she's read every single book available (and teases her accordingly).

"You know, we're genetically programmed to do this," he grins as she actually takes notes on What to Expect…, her legs across his lap as he watches an (American) football game, one of his hands resting idly on her slight baby bump.

"No," she answers, irritated that he doesn't understand how important this is. "We're genetically programmed to make sure a child survives to the age of procreation, not to raise one into any sort of decent human being."

"You're right, I'm sorry," he says, his litany for the past eight weeks.

"Stop placating me," she says idly, swatting his hand with the end of her pen. Then, to soothe any tensions: "Who's winning?"

"Pats're up by three. Eliot will be disappointed."

"Shouldn't you be downstairs in the bar watching with them?"

"I want to watch with you."

"Nate, I really could not care less about this stupid sport."

"Fine, I want to watch with my child so that it doesn't grow up to have its mother's snooty English prejudice against football. And you're still attached."

"American football," she corrects.

"Do you want me to go downstairs?" he asks, wondering if she's sick of him. He knows he's been hovering (over-)protectively close these days, but it's hard for the control freak within him to have his whole happiness wrapped up in her fragile body. If something were to happen to either of them, he couldn't pick up all of the pieces of his heart again.

"No, no. I was just asking. It's something the three of you usually do together."

She marks a few more notes down.

"I like Eliot and Hardison, but I'd much rather be up here with you. It's not a hard choice," he tells her, his eyes smiling.

Her hand covers his and squeezes.

"Do we want to find out if it's a boy or a girl? We have the appointment next week," she asks, his attention now diverted from the game.

He tilts his head, considering. "I don't see why not. What do you think?"

"Oh, the whole idea of waiting is silly. It's a surprise in two weeks just as much as in the delivery room, and I won't be on the fun painkillers. Besides, then we can decorate the nursery."

"Always looking for an excuse to go shopping," he shakes his head, squeezing her hand and shifting his attention back to the game.

"Did you find out with Sam?" she asks hesitantly.

Sophie doesn't usually like to talk about Sam; her own guilt and what-ifs from that time play a role in that, but so does the way that Nate flinches at his son's name. Still, they have agreed to talk more openly about him, so that their child will know about his or her older brother.

"Yeah," Nate says after a deep breath. "Did up the nursery in blue and racecars, focused on boys' names."

Sophie smiles. "Names. Have you thought of any yet?"

It's an exceptionally important topic for a woman who has not gone by her given name in decades, first out of necessity, now by choice.

Nate groans. "No. I'm still having trouble believe it's real."

She sets aside her book and pen and scoots closer. He slides his hand up to her bent knee and clicks off the television.

"Me too," she admits softly. "I never imagined us here. I'm not sure I even consciously hoped. I thought this was something I had missed."

He smiles. "Yeah, I have to say, when you shot me that one time, I never thought we'd end up here."

A sharp heel to his hip punishes his teasing, earning his rare, warm laugh.

"You shot me back!" she defends. "In the back, I might add. Not very gentlemanly of you. I cannot wait to tell our child that bedtime story."

"You'll do no such thing. At least not without me there to defend myself," he grins, pushing her back onto the sofa.

"And how exactly do you intend to do that?" she sparkles at him, hands traveling up to his shoulders.

"Apologizing. Worked the first time," he shrugs.

"You're incorrigible," she complains, even as she leans up to kiss him.

They neck a little like teenagers, because they've somehow arrived at this place where they can, where they've stopped chasing and waiting and can move (are moving) forward together.

"Boy or girl?" she asks breathlessly as he presses a few feather-light kisses into her stomach, her fingers threaded in his curls.

"Healthy," he prays into her belly.

The front door opening cuts off her teary response.

"Aw, c'mon. Y'all've got a bed right up the stairs!" Hardison complains. "Ow!"

"Leave them alone," Parker scolds, "Nate's talking to the baby."

She, of course, doesn't follow her own advice, inserting herself between Nate and Sophie on the couch. She pats Sophie's stomach, as has become her custom, and greets:

"Hi, baby."

"Hello, Parker," Sophie says warmly as Nate sighs and looks back to Hardison, who has, of course, already poured himself a glass of orange soda.

"Where's Eliot?"

"Pouting," Hardison grins. "Didn't you see that last drive?"

"No," Nate says pointedly.

"Oh, well, the 'Boys were mounting a heck of a comeback, but then their QB threw an interception and your cornerback ran it into the end zone."

Hardison then recreates the touchdown dance.

"It's like they're speaking another language," Sophie directs to Parker, who has pulled her box 'o' locks out from under the couch.

"Not really. They've been teaching me," Parker says.

Nate gives up the hope of alone time with his wife for the next few hours as Sophie shrugs sympathetically at him. He tosses the remote to Hardison and contents himself with listening to Parker, somewhat accurately, explain American football to their grifter in her strange, Parkerish way, while Hardison flips through the million channels.