Bill sighed and arranged the pile of papers on his lap a third time, his eyes never leaving the top page, never stopping in their relentless pursuit of the information printed on the paper. He only glanced over his half-glasses once in a while at the television, keeping abreast of the weather updates. His lip curled upward in a snarl when the weather girl informed him that the snow probably wasn't going away for another day or two. He flipped to the next page, then the next one, then back to the first one. It was as if he were re-checking something, mumbling to himself.

Even though he was digging through the banker's box he'd brought from Washington, the box I'd come to hate because it seemed to take up most of his time and attention with whatever information was kept inside it, it was comforting to have him busy there and to be able to watch him. I tried to keep the evidence of pain to myself, because I knew he'd only be all over me. The pains were coming noticeably faster. He was going to be a son of a... and I was going to be producing a son of a... one hell of a lot faster than I thought I would.

Bill looked up from what he was doing, the slightest movement or groan attracting his instant and total attention.

He seemed to relax visibly, a bit preoccupied with what he was reading. The almighty Box was resting on the bed at Bill's feet.

He didn't sound like he'd even really heard me. I contemplated telling him that monkeys were flying out of my ass or something similarly outrageous just to gauge the depth of his preoccupation. Instead I wondered, for what must have been the zillionth time, just what the hell was in that box that was both fascinating and upsetting.

He pulled off his glasses and sighed, rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger.

Finally, I had his attention. Something in my voice woke him up from his reverie, the papers forgotten for the moment.

He grunted, then began reading again where he left off.

Shortly a contraction hit that made me twist slightly. Things were getting intense.

He dropped the pile into his lap and stared at me over his half-glasses.

If he was going to start carrying on like some television goof I was going to find a way to bust him in the chops.

I noted a twitch in the corner of his mouth, a slightly suppressed smirk hiding there.

He rested a hand on my belly, and began to read again. After a few moments, he pulled his glasses off again and slipped out of bed to grab a beer.

I rolled over, still uncomfortable. I landed on one of the papers and pulled it out from under myself. I noticed a name at the top, 'Eliot William Gerard'. Who the fuck was that?

The paper was a memo, written by someone who's name I didn't recognize, to another unknown person. The memo read,

Too many names... Eliot William... William Eliot? Samuel Philip Gerard... codename Strannix? I felt confused, as I often did when I strayed too far into the murky waters of Bill's business. But... Sam? I almost didn't hear the footsteps as he returned. I replaced the paper and settled back, trying to arrange my face into neutral lines.

When he arrived, he was carrying a coke. One look at her, and he'd misinterpreted the crampy look on her face for pain.

I felt anything but fine. It seemed like a major truth was going to be exploded at some point and I had no idea what it was going to mean when it was, and so the prospect scared me.

Bill snorted.

He picked up the pile of papers and dumped them unceremoniously back into the box.

I did something monumentally silly. I wrapped my arms around my belly, as though to shelter the child still within it from some reality more confusing than the one we already had in store for it.

He climbed back into bed and stared at the television, glaring even more than usual. He seemed disturbed somewhat.

He didn't turn his head.

I twisted through another contraction and so was forced to ignore his smartass remark.

Mind games. What fun they were.

He finally looked at me.

Now I was annoyed. No good reason, I just was. It went with the territory. He had to consider himself fortunate that I wasn't trying to strangle him. Yet.

Oops.

The television screen winked black. Bill turned to me. Solid.

I glared at the box, the fucking box that he'd been living in lately.

Well...there was nothing left for him to explain, or so I thought.

The anger on his face was replaced by a sober look.

He smiled, without humor, but with something else that may have equaled sadness.

I hesitated for a moment, gathering my thoughts.

It was something I would have normally been proud of--I'd rendered Bill speechless. Either that, or he just didn't want to talk, which was likely, as well. I was feeling at a loss, myself.

The conversation ground to a halt, the way it tended to when it wasn't accomplishing anything.

He lapsed into silence.

No, I wasn't stupid, I was bright enough for most things. I wasn't the one hiding the evidence of a brother and a sister... and that brother could be...

I searched his face, looking for some indication that the only conclusion I could come to was the correct one. I wasn't going to find anything, but it didn't stop me trying. Damn him and his inscrutable bullshit. There were times, when he did this to me, that I wanted badly to clout him upside the head and say 'damnit, I'm not one of your fucking baby operatives that needs to know how to think on his feet, just tell me what you want me to know.' But I never did, because then he'd say 'need to know, baby, and you don't' and I'd be just as frustrated for a completely different reason.

I braced for a contraction. He was still staring at me when I relaxed.

He smiled thinly.

He had me there. Beau Dork and the Real Slim Shitty were blood brothers, and sometimes I was ready to swear that they'd not only been switched on me but that some sort of alien swap had taken place.

Annapolis spoke gently.

A simple nod. I felt the breath go out of me in a rush. It was the most heinous sort of dishonesty one person could commit against another and this had been done to a faithful servant by the government he had sworn to protect. I could scarcely believe he was handling it so well. I'd have been enraged.

He said nothing, had nothing to say.

The nod again.

One of the level brows hiked upward, briefly. Bill wasn't necessarily a man to resort to the graceless shrug, but that eyebrow made his meaning clear. He didn't know, either.

Faint scrabbling noises reached my ears. I turned and waited and eventually a tiny, tiny round brown face with milky blue eyes slowly going green, appeared over the edge of the bed. Miniscule claws sank into the bedding, pulling the little body up. It was followed, presently, by an equally tiny apricot face. Bear's babies were coming up to sleep.

I reached out a hand. They trundled themselves to me and set to chewing on my fingers before settling down.

I was about to ask him what else he could tell me about his newfound history when phone rang. This caused the kittens to startle and lose interest in my fingers. They swarmed busily across my legs to Bill. They liked nesting on him when he'd let them, and now he was too preoccupied to object much.

Codename... made up... fake... and it was all he could identify himself by now. Whoever Eliot William Gerard was or had been, he had been replaced by a man with a codename. It made me sick to think of what they'd done to him.

Baby cats, done chewing, settled on Bill's thighs and prepared for sleep.

On television, the Weather channel was doing it's hourly update. The feed from Milwaukee ended and they returned to St. Paul. Roark looked utterly exhausted, and Sam appeared to have been mauled by an even Bigger Dawg than he was. Sammy was turned toward the camera and his face was set. I stared, like a child confronted by an obvious truth that had been neither obvious, nor the truth, a short time before. I saw that kind of look on Bill's face all the time. He'd been wearing one like it while he waited for me to add two and two.

I watched Sam rear back in his chair and ram his fingers into his hair.

Sam's voice was rich with sarcasm.

Hopper stalked gracefully up the length of Bill's leg. He sniffed the sleeping babies thoroughly. As he was occupying himself in this fashion, Bear leaped up onto the foot of the big bed and lay down, her eyes on Hopper, watchful.

Damned if he would ever admit that a situation was bigger than he was. He probably had never had reason to make such an admission before. There was a lot of face to be saved here. If he needed to hide behind my condition to do it, I would let him.

Oh, shit.

Bill handed me the phone.

Hopper opened his mouth, applied his tongue to a small ear. Hm. No response.

I ignored one of Bill's blacker looks.

Hopper enclosed a round head in his adult jaws. Apparently he had finished tenderizing and was now preparing to eat. The kitten beeped but Mom was already on the move. I heard her land the first one on Hopper's head, and this was followed by a flurry of slaps and a growl. Hopper released the baby and bounded away. His expression clearly said 'what the fuck was that?' Bear instantly wrapped herself around the kittens, purring loudly, and began a furious washing of the head of Hopper's appetizer.

Sammy was being thorough.

The phone disconnected. I leaned into another contraction.

Bear meowed briefly at him.

Bill closed his eyes, looking somewhat haggard.

It got to be midmorning. I'd been at it for about eight hours and it felt like it was going to go a lot faster than the last one had. Corinne had called once right around eight o'clock.

Bill was, at least, pleasant.

I was in the middle of a contraction and it hurt to laugh, but then it hurt to do much of anything so there wasn't much difference. As usual, Bill got the response he'd wanted.

Toland was terse. Normally, he joshed me around a little bit, but Bill's no-nonsense attitude was plainly rubbing off on him.

Bill hung up the phone and shifted the kittens from his lap. H had renamed them at some point during the night and was now insisting that they be called Boris and Natasha. He muttered something at them as he attempted, for the tenth time, to settle them at the foot of the bed. He rose long enough to plug a tape into the VCR and then returned to bed to stretch out. Natasha rose onto spindly legs and marched stubbornly, climbing onto his thighs and curling there. After a moment or two, the much sturdier Boris joined her.

I suspected Bill would make a noise, eject the kittens yet again, and get up to remove the tape. He had no time for reality-based television unless it was CNN or C-Span. If he wasn't glued to his beloved talking heads, he wanted a movie or sports, rarely, a documentary or newsmagazine show.

I grunted, through a tough one.

Boris and Natasha slumbered peacefully. Downstairs, Yazzy bugled, which set Gus and Hewey off. Bill watched the taped program. Woodrow came into the room, licked Bill's hand once and then stretched out on the floor. Outside it continued to snow and blow with ferocity unequaled in my memory.

Bill hated these programs. He said he'd seen enough of people's bloody insides, he had no interest in seeing more unless he had no choice. I had once asked him why he watched thrillers, horror movies, and slasher films since they were full of entrails and blood and he said Hollywood was full of shit.

At that moment, he was disgustedly growling at the television.

We were back to the Weather Channel, more Doppler radar, more gloom and doom from the anchor desk. Bill slumped against his pillows.

I reached for his hand and laced my fingers through his. The contraction that followed caused me to twist in my place. He never flinched, never withdrew his hand.

Yazzy bugled again. Bill went down to make sure he was warm and fed and not under attack. I made my way to the bathroom, spread the blankets and lay down. It felt like time. When the next contraction hit, I started to push.

Bless the man, I though, for not urging me to stay put. Woodrow padded into the room, sidestepped my legs, and lay by my head.

Soon, I couldn't even hear Bill. I was concentrating on the job at hand, pushing when the muscles were exerting their greatest force, resting and gathering strength when they were not. Though Bill waited with me, knelt close and kept himself ready to help, there was really nothing for him to do. There would be no baby until my body was ready to relinquish it, and in the meantime it was up to me to work to make that happen.

When I looked next, Bill had the telephone nested in the curve of his neck and was listening carefully. His questions were short and to the point. He parted my knees and cast a sharp glance at the territory he revealed, getting familiar with the field of work.

His hands disappeared, though I felt nothing particular happening there. The pain was all-encompassing, leaving no room for delicate sensations. I worked with it, within it. I had no time for sloppy seconds, turgid thoughts about the miracle of motherhood, the wonder of babies. I had done this before, as my mother before me and her mother before her and on back to when the first monkey had given birth to some odd looking thing a little short on hair and big in the brain pan. I knew the program. I just wanted to do the job a little better, for the sake of the child.

Something... big... left... me. There was the distinct feeling of separation. Another hard push... something slid, turned and slid more. I wished I had more time to concentrate on the feeling. It was hardly miraculous, but it was so unique.

Bill was still on the horn.

He lifted the child free, and for lack of a better place, deposited him on my belly.

I woke up several hours later, back in my bed, cleaned and changed and tucked in securely. The portable crib was next to the bedside table, and dogs were jockeying for position to get a look inside.

I looked to the voice. Bill was in my hardwood rocker, reading from a handful of papers, his box at his feet. The television was off, the blowing snow outside told the continuing story better than the Weather Channel. Bill's place in the big bed was occupied entirely by cats, everything from Tank all the way down through Natasha. Yazzy was curled in Bill's lap--apparently Tank had whanged him one on the nose.

Bill grinned, one of those rare ones.

Direct challenge. And if I accepted the challenge, his response would be equally direct.

The hell with it.

I glanced over at the mass of swishing tails. Gus had his snout in the crib and seemed to be licking busily. I heard a small and angry yelp. It made me grin. I remembered my first glimpse of the newest member of the clan--smeared with blood and vernix, masses of black hair plastered wetly to the little round skull, yelling. He had opened his eyes, brilliant and black, and had glared at me as though I was personally responsible for his current state.

I had said with what was left of my voice, and the baby had put out his tongue and leered at me.

There was a general exodus of cats and the dogs retreated strategically to the hall. Woodrow put his head around the doorframe, curious.

The head was withdrawn.

I tried, and eventually succeeded, sitting up. The portable crib was on wheels, and I was able to grab it and pull it towards me.

The names rolled right out of his mouth. Bill had given this some thought.

He said it simply and with finality. The subject was closed.