Toby wondered what had possessed Andrea to choose his apartment for the site of the conversation. His office walls were covered with framed news articles and diplomas and photographs and posters, but his apartment walls were largely bare. Luckily for Toby, he'd convinced CJ to spend half a Saturday apartment-hunting, and so his walls were a soothing sage instead of the bright white or sickly beige of a typical rental.

Still, the entire space lacked that lived-in feeling. There were no half-read magazines, no clean dishes on the rack, no snacks to serve unexpected guests.

He did, however, have glasses for the bourbon she'd brought.

Which was good, because being Andrea, she launched right into it. "I still want a baby."

He stared at her in disbelief, the sight of his luminous ex-wife perched on his beat-up couch bringing back other conversations on this same subject. This time, though, he couldn't imagine why she felt the need to announce her desires to him of all people. "Okay," he answered after a time, lifting one shoulder in shrug.

Andy gave him an exasperated look. "Toby, you know I'm not dating anyone--"

Toby grimaced, placing the glass of bourbon on the endtable. "Andy, I don't know where you're going with--"

"Yes, you do." She held his gaze, her expressive features confirming his suspicions.

"Andrea, we've been through this--"

"Not exactly this," she answered stubbornly. "We're not married."

Toby laughed harshly. "You think that constitutes enough of a reduction in your stress level?"

"Stress was a possible factor, Toby," Andy answered. "There's no final answer in this kind of thing."

He picked his glass up again and took a healthy swig. "I thought two years of failed fertility treatments was our final answer."

Andy's eyes sparkled with tears, but she refused to shed them. "Toby, we were both campaigning. We were stressed. We were barely ever in the same city except for scheduled trips to the doctor." She shrugged, spreading her palms in a show of vexation. "And the miscarriage could've--"

"Can we please not talk about this?" Toby couldn't look at her, couldn't bear the exquisite pain on her face.

"It was never about not loving you," Andy said quietly. "It was never about not wanting you to be the father of my children, Toby. It was just... Everything was too much there for a while."

Toby stared at his hands, at the waning sunlight sparkling through the glass at him. He closed his eyes briefly. "I don't know if I can go through that again."

The silence lingered for a moment, then her fingers touched his arm, slid down his wrist, and took his hand. "I don't know if I can, either. I know that I can't do it alone."

Toby opened his eyes and held her gaze. "You really want to do this?"

"Don't you?"

He thought about a little girl with curly red hair and a baseball glove, and he squeezed Andy's hand in affirmation.