𝕊𝕋𝔸ℝ ℚ𝕌𝔸𝕃𝕀𝕋𝕐

“It’s gonna work,” he reiterated to her as she turned to face him, brow furrowed in concern, searching her face as she worked to even her breathing, calm herself before she had to appear on set, pretend everything was fine. And one gigantic issue niggled in the back of his mind, one Barry couldn’t shake even as she lay there in his arms, eyes foggy with tears, lips pale and cheeks red. “You sure you’re not mad at me,” he breathed, pulling back to better see her even though he could feel all she wanted to do was disappear into him, hide her face in his chest and pretend it wasn’t all happening. But he’d been the one to fuck her against the shower wall, he’d been the one to suggest he come with her in the first place to Toronto, he’d been the one receiving the brunt of her initial shock when the tests came back, when it had become real at last that this was happening, that her belly showed what the both of them had kinda just pushed to the side and refused to dwell on until it was unavoidable. 

He talks, though, and she blinks at him. Delayed. Lopsided, she feels. Everything just that bit too far on its axis that she can’t handle it. “What?” she asks, because she’s three paces down and her head hurts. Her throat is sore. She doesn’t want to go to set. She just wants to bury herself in him. Stay in bed and do nothing for the rest of the day. Not feel obligated to go back, when everyone knows. Everyone judges her. She doesn’t blame them – she’s sure that if the roles were reversed, if this were someone else in such a position, she’d be one to have an opinion on it. Perhaps it was karma. Perhaps she deserves it. She grips at him a bit tighter for a moment, a knot between her eyebrows and she breathes. In, out. In, out.

You’ll hate me. I don’t want you to hate me. We don’t have to do this.

Too late Barry’s gaze shifted focus back to her, sightless eyes bringing her face into his line of vision once again, grip tightening on her knees, hand reaching up to brush the hair back from her face, thumbing at the tears there. “Fucking assholes,” was all he breathed, in the most comforting tone he could muster, rising at last and sitting next to her on the bed, hand finding her thigh, resting there if only to keep them from clenching to his sides, or something worse. “It’s not your fault. It’s not like you planned this, it’s not like you knew they were gonna film again so soon, it’s not like -” Fuck. It’s not like she’d done this on her own, and a good portion of the anger coursing through his arteries was directed towards himself, for knocking her up, for thinking it was gonna be okay, that every morning could be like today, sleeping late and going to the grocery store together, arm in arm, discussing whether red or green peppers were better in fucking stir-fry. 

She was shaking like a leaf, breath coming in ragged snatches, and Barry hadn’t seen her like this very often, only a few times before, and less regularly since she’d gotten this part, finally fulfilled, finally doing what she’d always wanted to do, and part of him couldn’t help but remember the last time she’d come completely undone was also his doing. When she’d told him about the baby, when they’d slept together and pushed the thoughts of it aside, worrying about tomorrow’s problems tomorrow. Who was to say that wasn’t the thing to do again, Barry’s arm coming around her heavy yet gentle, pulling her back on the bed and into his arms, eye on the clock which read 12:45. Time enough to get her to set by 2, and the producer could fuck himself if he expected anything more after coming in here and making her cry before a full day’s work.

“I – I thought that it’d be after, y’know? Sometimes it can take a year – and it needs to air in the fall and… and we haven’t even finished yet, if they’d delayed it by a month or even two… It’d be fine,” But the time they wanted, it wouldn’t be fine. She’d be in the final handful of weeks, a month away, if not less. It makes her nauseous. She wants to throw up. She remains sat there, though, with Barry’s hands on her face. Gripping her knees until he moves until he can sit beside her on the bed. She presses into his side, breathes. Reminds herself that she needs to breathe. That it’ll be okay. Even if she doesn’t get another season, she’ll be more likely to be able to pick up another role. They’ll want to hire her given that her first main role after being unknown was the lead. One of the leads. That has to count for something, right?

As Barry rearranges them, Sally moves. Presses up against his side as they lay back and, in the back of her mind, she’s fully aware of the fact that she should be getting ready for work. That she should be pulling herself together rather than allowing herself to mope in her emotion. To soak it in and dwell on the fact that she doesn’t know what the future will bring them. That she’ll have to save the money from this and make sure that it all goes on the baby. They’ve managed to get by so far – she doesn’t really know how, doesn’t ask. Hadn’t thought about it much because they were getting by. Even with medical bills. Even with everything else.

Sally’s face alone was enough to fill him with an irrational sort of anger, and maybe it hadn’t been shouting, maybe it hadn’t been horrendous but it had upset her, her lips colorless, eyes distant, and Barry pulled her into his arms without saying a word, burying his nose in her hair and holding her close, arms wrapped around her as if he could physically keep whatever it was that had happened away.

“Fuck,” he breathed into her hair at last, pulling back and searching her eyes, hands coming up to cradle her face, thumbs smoothing there. “What did he say, did he fire you, did he -” Barry swallowed thickly. “Was he mad?” It was a stupid fucking thing to be mad at someone over, it was a good thing that was happening, for one, and none of his fucking business, for two, and also there was the very important fact that it upset Sally and therefore it was morally and unequivocally wrong in Barry’s book. He released her just long enough to pace a long turn the length of the trailer and too-hastily smooth out the wrinkle in the comforter, before returning to her, taking the enormous coat off her gently, revealing the jeans she’d donned that morning, the blouse that was pushed outward by the swell of her belly. He tore his eyes from the spot.

Barry walks in and Sally hasn’t moved from where she’d been leant against the counter, a frown on her face. A sad look in her eyes. She knows what she’s done now. She knows the consequences are something she’ll have to live with – but that doesn’t mean she likes it. Barry hugs her immediately and she clearly looks like she needs it – but she does. She does. Arms wrap around his middle and her eyes close. She breathes. Breathes. Forces herself to.

“Sally,” the producer began, pulling open the door with too warm of a smile, mounting the steps and seeing her nonchalantly putting away produce, as if sitting in the floor in a coat ten sizes too big for her and cramming bell peppers into a tiny refrigerator were completely normal things to be doing on a Thursday morning when she was about to have to be on set. “I spoke with your, ah, what’s his name? I spoke to him about the screaming incident, he assures me it won’t happen again. And Tiatjah and Celine in makeup told me that they knew about this, have been working with wardrobe to keep it from affecting your character’s look?” His eyebrows knit in a pitying expression. “Honestly, bravo to them and solidarity and shit, but you should have come to me at once. There’s things we can do about this, we could have counselled you, given you access to medical services, there’s things that actors sometimes have to sacrifice for their craft.” 

She’s putting away peppers, anything that she can fit in the fridge, when the door opens and her producer appears. Her heart hammers in her chest and then she almost wants to laugh. They don’t even know Barry’s name. He’s not been on set much, admittedly – but he’s been around enough that they should know. She doesn’t say anything about it. Doesn’t dare to, because she knows she’s going to be told off. Or yelled at. Or something. She doesn’t say anything about that, either. Just waits. Teeth against her lower lip as she raises up from her feet and stands, wipes her hands down against her thighs and waits. Waits for the rest of it. To be told that she’s fired, that she’s—