Natasha barely registered Clint’s hand still holding hers, barely noticed the exchange between him and the doctor. It was too much to take in at once, too much to digest after years or believing it was all impossible. She had never let herself wonder if she wanted children because it had never been a possibility; it had barely crossed her mind to even consider it. She had shoved it to the back, buried it deep with the body of the child that had never lived. All thoughts of a family had died that day, and now she didn’t know what to feel. What is one supposed to feel when the impossible is suddenly possible?

She listened to what the doctor said but didn’t really hear it. He spoke of appointments, of fudging numbers to give them more time. Three months. That was only two weeks away. Two weeks and the worse risk would be over.

The worst of a normal pregnancy.

“I just want to make certain I’m clear,” she said after a long moment. Her voice had lost that hollow tone, and something else had taken it’s place. She now sounded calm, deadly calm, and suddenly all business. “What you’re saying is that I was wrongly informed, that it was only the conception that was difficult, and now that that is done there would be no difference between this pregnancy and anyone else’s? You are saying that it is not even high risk?”