AlexVicry

Robby liked to watch you. Jack said it was creepy, but you didn’t mind.

You were full of color, from the way you dressed, to the way you decorated, to your personality. It was pleasing to the eye and soul alike, like every word, smile, and movement you made left a bright rainbow streaking in its wake. You were delicate, like a flower, in your motions, but strong in your convictions.

You smelled good, too. Somehow, though they were everywhere, your apartment never held the aroma of cats. Your skin smelled like apple body wash, your sheets like citrus dew, and the air like whatever seasonally appropriate concoction you had boiling on the stove. The combination of all three seemed to smell like sunshine itself.

And your energy. The ease with which you seemed to operate. Robby, the broken down, traumatized old doctor, hardly recognized himself when he was with you. It was like you took half the weight he carried around, but somehow, it didn’t bog you down at all. You were like a mythical metal, taking in only that which made you stronger. And according to you, every experience had its merit.

The days Robby started with you were good ones. The days without, felt sour. Simply observing you in your natural habitat, getting ready, washing up, tidying, purring to your cats, was lifegiving to him. More fulfilling than any hobby he’d tried to force himself into before, at the bequest of a quickly ghosted therapist. 

If he could do it with you, Robby was eager to do anything, no matter how mundane. It took the laundry from your arms to fold, took the sponge from your hand to scrub, took your feet into his lap to massage. Happily.

These were just some of the reasons Robby listed in his forty-five minute long rant explaining why moving in together would be a wonderful idea.

He didn’t just want moments in the sun. He wanted to live in the sun. Lounge to his heart’s content.

“I mean, I already spend most nights at your place anyways,” he said. “I have a key. And your neighbors know me. Eloise has totally come around to me.”

You laid over his lap. It was a balmy summer day in August, and the rain currently pounding the pavement below was the first reprieve from the stifling heat you’d had in days. The moment the clouds overtook the sky, and the first few drops tapped against the window, Robby hardened in his resolve to finally speak the words that had been on the tip of his tongue for months.

Rain reminded him of you. It had rained on your first date. Rained the day he told you he loved you, blurted it out, despite how early it seemed. You’d smiled and said it right back. It was raining again, and more than anything in that moment, he wanted you to say yes.

He hadn’t exactly given you a chance yet, though. After “I think we should move in together,” he launched immediately into his explanation, without giving you a second to formulate a response. Now, the better part of an hour later, he was finally winding down from his passionate speech. You’d listened patiently, humming and nodding, wrapped around him.

He fiddled with your stripy shorts as he ran out of words.

“Are you done?” you asked gently.

“Yes,” he said, pink in the face.

“Okay,” you said. “Let’s move in together.”

Robby pictured himself, should he have been so lucky for you to say yes, jumping to his feet with you in his arms, spinning you around, drowning you in frantic kisses. But when he heard those words from your lips, so long awaited, he collapsed under the comfortable blanket of relief and joy. All he could bring himself to do was sink into your hold, squishing his face into your warm neck. He laid on top of you, tangled in you, for hours into the night after that. You held him tight, playing with his hair, unable to stop your smiling so long as you could feel Robby’s against your skin.

The next day, you woke up bright and early to get a head start on classroom set up. As an experienced teacher, you weren’t naive enough to leave all the work until the last possible month. The school printers would have issues with all the tech people out on vacation and unable to fix them. Storage offered was often iffy, and in your second year teaching, you came in August first ready to set up, only to find that a leak had destroyed half of your decorations and supplies.

You never made that mistake again.

Robby insisted on accompanying you whenever he wasn’t working, helping to reach high places, and use his old handyman skills he gained helping his grandmother around her house. Indeed, your sticky lock hadn’t been bothering you for a while, and the top windows actually opened now.

That day, though, Robby seemed more interested in getting a jump on apartment hunting.

“You don’t like my apartment?” you asked, as he set up his laptop on your cluttered desk.

“I love your apartment,” he said, sliding on his glasses. “I hate your landlord.”

By lunch, you had cut out and laminated all twenty-six of your kid’s colorful nametags, and Robby had flagged several promising looking places to visit. It seemed simple. They were nice places. But none of them seemed quite right to Robby.

The first open house you attended, there were a pair of young huskies that howled bloody murder at the snap of a door closing, or the TV. The next, it was not enough natural light. The one after that, too much natural light.

“It’d be a workout just to get some simple privacy!” Robby argued, gesturing to the floor-to-ceiling windows.

You? You were flexible, as always. You were no stranger to shitbox apartments, what with living on a teachers salary all your adult life. You knew how to brighten a place up, even the dankest, grayest places.

Where Robby saw cramped, you saw cozy. Where he saw old and dingy, you saw charming and vintage. Where he saw ugly, you saw potential. 

But it was going to be his house too, and you wanted him to be happy, just as much as he wanted you to be happy. You were quite content being dragged from showing to showing, while running out your lease with Robby by your side.

By the end of August, however, you had no choice but to start packing up. Robby kept insisting the right place would be just around the corner, and it wouldn’t serve you to renew the lease, which would expire in September. So you agreed to just move into his apartment until the “right place” decided to finally make an appearance.

And it did, about one week into the school year. You were bubble wrapping the last of your picture frames, when Robby returned from work looking much more excited than a man just off a twelve hour shift should have. He set down his things, toed off his shoes, and planted a big kiss on your lips.

“Hello,” you said.

“Hi,” he said, collapsing down next to you on the floor. “I’ve found the perfect place.”

You raised a brow.

“While you were at work?”

“Yep,” he said happily, scratching Lisa behind the ears. “An old teacher of mine is retiring, and he’s moving to Florida and selling his house. It’s an old brownstone downtown. It’s closer to the hospital and your school.”

You had to set down your tape. Living in a classic brownstone in the city had long since been a dream of yours, but you’d never be able to afford it. And in a prime spot like the one Robby was describing? It seemed too good to be true.

“That sounds… amazing,” you said truthfully.

“It is,” he said, beaming. “It will be. I promise.”

He hadn’t broken a promise yet, so you agreed to go see it that Saturday. Robby’s old teacher and his wife were very nice people, who seemed excited to move on to the next chapter in their story, away from the toxic highs and lows of medicine and the hustle and bustle of the city. The place was both everything you could have dreamed of, and your worst nightmare.

The large apartment you had in mind, which already seemed luxurious to you, was quickly blown away by the reality of the massive, three story rowhouse you explored. There was brick, and real hardwood floors, and big windows. The ensuite bathroom was ginormous, far bigger than anything you’d ever peed in before. Everything from the deck, to the open kitchen, to the ornate banisters filled you with both dread and excitement.

“It’s served us well for thirty years now,” said Mrs. Hinsen fondly. “Robby assured me it would be in the best of hands.”

“Yes, it’s very important to Sarah that it goes to someone who won’t go modernizing,” said Dr. Hinsen. “Someone who’ll care for the wood, and preserve the molding, and such.”

And you wanted to explode, because of course you wouldn’t think of tarnishing such a beauty as this. After the tour, the couple left you to discuss. Robby was watching you apprehensively.

“Tell me this isn’t perfect,” he said, watching your wide, sparkly eyes rove around the room.

“It’s perfect,” you said. “But Mikey — five bedrooms. Three stories. A deck. A fireplace. A laundry room.” He nodded. “We can’t afford this.”

“Yes, yes we can,” he said, grabbing your waist gently. “They said they’d let it go at a better price for me. And I’ve spent years saving up for something just like this.”

You bit your lip.

“You can afford it,” you said, smoothing the collar of his shirt. “But I —”

“So let me,” he interrupted. “Just let me take care of you. Please?”

You let out a breathy laugh.

“Robby, this is — this isn’t like buying me lunch, or the fancy whiteboard markers,” you said. “This is a house.”

“It’s our future,” he said softly. “Besides, if teachers were paid what they deserved, you’d be able to buy a house ten times bigger than this.”

You shook your head, but you were already tearing up. Robby rubbed his thumbs back and forth on your hips. It was a lot. It was bigger and better than anything you could have imagined. But maybe, for the first time, you didn’t have to work yourself to the bone. Because Michael was watching you with his big brown eyes, brimming with happiness, begging to do this for you.

Before you could change your mind, you were nodding.

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

That time, Robby did spin you around and jump for joy.

And so began the process of moving in. You realized that you had much more stuff than you thought, but it still wasn’t enough to fill the new place. You got a lot of cardio running up and down the many sets of stairs, at your old apartment, Robby’s old apartment, and the three floors of your new house. You ordered runners for the stairs, rugs to fit spaces much bigger than your old ones could, and a real dining table with matching chairs.

The cats settled in pretty quickly, chasing each other through the halls, and looking out the windows for hours at a time. You could tell they were still getting acclimated to having this much space, and you were too. You had a bedroom, a cat room, and a craft room, and still had two more empty ones to spare.

You liked being able to decorate a front stoop that was really all yours, and you pictured sitting out with a bowl of candy on the fast approaching night of Halloween. Robby screened in the back deck so the cats could get fresh air like they’d never had before. Harry, in particular, loved it. You’d find him out there any time, night or day.

It was a dream. You pictured yourself hosting Thanksgiving dinner, and birthday parties. Your book club would finally have a steady meeting place. And yes, maybe one of the spare bedrooms would be converted to a nursery, one day.

The first really chilly October day of the season found Robby grumbling, sniffling, and sent home early with a cold. Even still, it sent a thrill through his congested chest that home meant this.

The leaves crunched underfoot as he dragged them up the steps, past the pumpkin display you set up, and through the unlocked front door. Through his clogged up nose, he was hit with the unmistakable scent of something rich and savory cooking on the stove. The lights were on, and he could hear you humming along with a Nat King Cole record. He could picture you even before you were in his sight, swaying as you stirred.

“Moony?” he called out, kicking off his boots haphazardly.

There was a clang, a pattering, and you appeared around the corner. You were wearing your usual beaming grin, along with a frilly apron, a pair of star strewn pajama pants, his hoodie, and your worn slippers.

“You’re home!”

You hopped over to bestow upon him a hug and a sweet kiss. He glanced at the clock, and saw that it was four in the afternoon. You started undressing him, taking his bag, then his sweater, then his scrub top.

“Yeah, what are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you had the spelling tests to grade?”

“I do,” you said simply, hanging up his things and steering him further inside. “I brought them home. I didn’t want you to come home and crash without eating anything.”

“How —”

“Dana called me when she decided to send you home,” you said simply.

“Meddler,” he mumbled halfheartedly.

“She cares about you,” you said. “I’m making you a stew. Go shower, I already set out comfy clothes on the bed.”

“Wait,” he said, “how was your day?”

“Good, I’ll tell you once you’re showered and full. Pip pip! Off like a bunny!”

He let the steam loosen up some of the gunk in his head, then slipped into his fleecy clothes. With the day’s stress washed off, the exhaustion was settling in. Not the frantic, nagging exhaustion being at work gave him, but the safe, warm, cozy exhaustion you brought. It was nice, because deep in his bones he knew he was safe, and this was where he would rest.

When he slouched back out to the living room, it was to find a steaming bowl of something delicious waiting for him on the coffee table, and the couch made up with bed pillows and blankets. You sat on the floor with your back to it, grading papers with concentration scrunching your face.

“Sit down, mister,” you said without looking up, jabbing a thumb behind you at the inviting set up. “And before you do anything, drink that entire glass of water.”

“Yes ma’am,” he croaked, collapsing readily, and grabbing the cup.

While he drank, Lisa wandered up to settle on his chest, purring. With protest, you scooched her down to his lap so you could replace the glass in Robby’s hands with the bowl. He still gave her some scratches in between bites.

“Good?” you asked, tucking the blanket up around him.

“Great,” he said. “Thank you, honey.”

You leaned back against his knee and kept grading, glancing backwards every so often to ensure he was still eating. It wasn’t until the bowl was completely empty that you set it aside, and pushed him back onto the stacked pillows.

“Get some rest,” you said, kissing his forehead.

“Hold on,” he said, clutching your hand with all his remaining strength. It wasn’t much, but you stayed perched next to him anyway. “You have to tell me about your day now.”

You smiled, and leaned against him. Your free hand went to his hair and began brushing it back in slow rhythmic motions.

“Alright,” you said, thinking. “Well, I think Tommy and Andre are finally friends again. They really let a silly tiff about a Kpop Demon Hunters pencil case go way too far. And I think the new book of the week is going to be The Little Mouse, the Red Ripe Strawberry, and the Big Hungry Bear.”

By the time you had explained the plot of the book to him, both Robby and Lisa were fast asleep. You smiled fondly, pressed one last kiss to each of their heads, and turned back to your papers. With the roaring fire, Eloise lounging on top of the half-filled bookshelf, Harry trying to get a sniff of your dinner, and the love of your life safe and snoozing comfortably behind you, you were content.

You had to pinch yourself when you remembered that this was the norm. From now on, it would be you and your Mikey, Mikey and you, for all the years to come.

---

requests open!

robby masterlist

You couldn't help but immediately look over at Pope, to see if he was coming, and you saw Craig's eyes narrow at the movement. He'd become accustomed to your incessant desire to know if his older brother was coming to an outing before making a decision. Pope hadn't noticed yet and Craig was granting you mercy by not exposing you, a rare thing for him to do.

You turned your head slowly, dropping your feet back on the floor. "Uh no, sorry." 

Pope didn't seem like he was going, no acknowledgement from him at the mention of Deran's bar, and the bar wasn't much fun without him. You only went in the hopes that maybe his hand would brush yours as he handed you a drink or that you'd feel his thigh pressed against yours. You liked how he made you feel taken care of. He always did get overly protective in a drunk crowd.

Craig shot you a disappointed look. "You leaving me with those losers, seriously?"

You shrugged, and Pope straightened his posture, indicating he was listening. You shifted your foot on the floor slightly till you felt it nudge his. He didn't move.

Craig sighed, leaning forward with his elbows on his legs, as if you'd actually disrupted his plans.

It wasn't like half of the time when his flirting didn't work on you, he'd just leave you in the corner with a "you'll be fine right?" and leave to go flirt with other girls. It was a tedious loop with Craig; if it had not been for Pope you probably wouldn't have spoken another word with Craig after the third hangout, during which he spent the whole day using pickup lines on you.

It wasn't long until Deran joined the little gathering in the living room. You lifted your legs onto the couch, knees drawn up again, drowning out their voices, entirely missing Pope's expression as you pulled your foot away from his. Craig got increasingly louder as he often did and it was evident that he was high. His pupils the size of the moon.

Pope was about to suggest you go hang out by the pool, when your head snapped up from where you'd been pulling threads from your shorts.

"Skateboarding?"

Craig brightened up, the way he always did, when he finally had your attention on him despite Pope being in the same vicinity. "Yeah, skate competitions are happening tomorrow afternoon." 

You shook your head. "No, you said Pope used to skate."

Craigs face fell. Of course. You always only cared about Pope. He reluctantly looked at his brother, before he slumped back against the couch, letting Deran reply for him. "Pope used to skate all night," 

You looked at Pope, to see if he was uncomfortable with the way you were all talking about him, but he seemed rather content, even joyful if you dared to say so. So you use it as encouragement to continue asking.

"Really?" you asked, your attention still on Pope.

"Really," Craig responded, almost annoyed, as if reliving those nights. "Never let us on the ramp. He'd just skate back and forth for hours until the police had to get him off his board."

You let out a laugh at that. "No way?"

Pope let his eyes drift to yours, letting you know it was true, and you shook your head in amazement. 

"That's so cool," you smiled, and you could see Deran grin as he looked at Craig.

Deran was more than aware that Craig was interested in you, it wasn't exactly a secret. It seemed to bring him a lot of joy that you rejected him, unlike most girls in his life (and material to torment his younger brother with)

Pope met your eyes, before looking away again, startled by the sheer admiration in your pretty eyes. 

"Cool?" Craig spit out in disbelief, but Deran smacked his bicep, cutting him off before he could spew out the insult he'd held ready on his tongue. Craig shot his brother a look, before deciding he had enough of this. "Come on, let's go."

Meanwhile, you were still looking at Pope, not even noticing the two brothers leaving. "Can you do tricks?"

You could swear you'd heard Craig mutter something about how he could do tricks, but you blocked his voice out immediately. 

Pope nodded. "Yeah."

You were ecstatic. "You never told me about that," you said, almost offended, as if he should have told you about himself, as if some little pastime from his adolescence was so vital for you to know.

He blinked. "Didn't think it was important."

"It is to me." you straightened up on the couch and turned to face him. "Why'd you stop?" 

"Smurf signed me up for boxing lessons," he replied, and watched your face fall.

"Right," you said quietly, tilting your head and observing him.

You weren't overly vocal about your distaste for Smurf, but Pope knew you like the back of his hand. He'd notice how you'd perk up when you heard her car in the driveway and how you'd instantly make an excuse about needing his help with something simply to get him out of the house. He appreciated it more than you realized. You always had an excuse to get him out of situations with Smurf. Even on nights when Craig and Deran were out of the house, you'd ask him to drive you somewhere, and then invite him for a walk on the beach.

"Can you still skateboard?" you asked, still interested, even though the mention of Smurf made you frown just a second ago. Pope nodded, and you lit up even more, if that was even possible. "Do you have a skateboard?"

He stared at you, and he furrowed his eyebrows, not entirely sure where this was going. "It's in my car."

"Will you show me?" And Pope was ready to get up, but you held him back with a touch on his forearm. "Your tricks. Not the skateboard," you clarified. "There's a skateboard ramp close by isn't there? We could go."

You were being blunt, you knew that, even he seemed taken aback by it. But Pope Cody on a skateboard? It's like every girl's fantasy, particularly yours. 

"Now?" He straightened up on the couch, his body leaving the warmth of the back of the couch, watching you shrug.

"If you want to," you backed down, uncertainty seeping in, dampening your enthusiasm of seeing him on a skateboard.

His eyes darted over your face, and you anxiously averted them, sliding your feet back on the floor, turning your body away from his. 

"Yeah, sure."

And before you knew it, he'd gotten up and headed towards his car. You stayed on the couch mouth open in shock, before jumping up and following him.

Half an hour later, you were standing next to a skateboard ramp, Pope next to you as he held a skateboard in his hand. 

You cast a peek at him. "So you just dive into this pit, no helmet, no nothing?" you asked, regretting your decision to come here. 

What if he hurts himself? If you saw blood on his body as a result of you asking to come here, you weren't so sure you'd be able to handle it. God knows he was injured all the time and you couldn't take it if it was because of you this time.

"Yes," Pope replied, now looking at you. "I'll be fine. I've done this before. Never gotten hurt before." 

He opted not to tell you about the time he'd broken his arm, because that was a singular mistake, that should not have happened, and was the result of a distraction from Craig.

You hummed weakly, concern evident in your eyes. Pope looked away from you, warmth spreading in his chest.

You were so visibly concerned about such a minor issue, which made him happy. He felt like a jerk. But he was relieved to hear that someone cared about him getting hurt and was actively trying to prevent his skin from turning blue and purple. 

Sometimes he felt like everyone didn't like him until he had some discoloration on his body, as if he had to prove to everyone that he'd been worthy in the last previous few days. What he was worthy of he wasn't sure. Kindness surely not. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten compassion from someone other than you. Perhaps tolerance. He'd be offered forbearance as his family walked past him in the bathroom where he'd be carefully cleaning his wounds alone, wounds that he shouldn't have had to take care of had it not been for them. They didn't care as long as their issues were resolved for them. But not you.

You came here with him because you'd heard he liked skateboarding. You'd decided to spend your free evening watching him do something he enjoyed, simply because you cared about him. That was enough for you to waste your evening on him.

He let the board hit the floor, sliding it forward a bit before stepping with his foot in the middle of it to halt it. Your gaze shifted lower, first to the board and then back to the pit. 

"That's deep," you said quietly, and his lips twitched.

"I'll be fine," he murmured, and then took off. 

You clamped your palm to your mouth, stifling any gasps tried to escape. You saw him skate to the other side before returning to your side. And then you watched him do it a few more times, until your hand slid away. Instead, a smile formed in place as you watched him with admiration.

You felt like a teenage girl watching the cool skater boy do cool tricks for you and show off.

Though Pope wasn't showing off, he was just delighted to be back on the board. It felt like home, more than Smurfs and less than yours. It was nice. He felt the air touch his face, and his shirt flutter faintly. He could've stayed here forever. 

Minutes flew by, and then he was back next to you, board in hand, looking at you with expectant eyes.

"That was— amazing!" You seemed so utterly delighted, it made him smile.

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah!" you said excitedly. "You're really good at this. I mean I knew you would be, but still!"

He looked down at his board, almost caught off guard by how a small wooden thing like this could cause his heart to flutter so much. "You wanna try?"

"What?" your smile fell.

Pope's eyes darted over your face. "Do you want to try and skateboard?"

"Down there?" you asked, voice high-pitched,

Pope shook his head. "No, just stand on it. Skate a bit."

You looked down on the concrete. "What if I fall?"

"I'll stay close," he said, tilting his head to see your expression. You looked down right terrified, truly terrified, and he'd never seen you like this before. And it was almost strange that his favorite thing in the world could instill such terror in you. You practically lived in his house, and spent so much time with Smurf yet this was the thing enticing this much fear in you? They were all criminals for gods sake.

"Okay, but—don't leave," you mumbled.

Pope dropped the board on the ground, the sound loud in the deserted park. He let one foot stop it from rolling away fully, looking at you expectantly.

"Do I just—get on?" you asked, cringing at how stupid you sounded. What else were you supposed to do? Jumping jacks?

Pope didn't make fun you instead he nodded slowly, eyes watching you carefully. 

You stared at the board for a while, before slowly approaching it. "Okay, wait, I don't think this is a good idea," you mumbled as soon as one foot was on the board, feeling it move underneath you.

He glanced up at you. "It's a great idea. Come on." His hands up now, palms up, and reaching for you. You eagerly took his hand, for you were never one to pass up an opportunity to touch Pope.

His hand closed around yours, and he stayed still, waiting for your other foot to get on the board. And he was so patient, gracing you with the same patience you've always given him. "You won't let me fall?"

Pope shook his head. "I won't let you fall," he said quietly, trying to ignore how hard your hand squeezed around his. He brushed his thumb across the back of your hand in reassurance.

You reached for his other hand, squeezing it tight, if not tighter than a second ago, and then you stepped on the board, letting out a squeal when you felt it roll a little, hands snatching away from Popes and reaching for his shoulders, where your thumbs pressed hard into his collarbones, almost making him groan.

"Sorry, Sorry!" you gasped, still clinging on to him, clearly apologizing for your reaction rather than the fact that you'd almost just dug a hole through his skin with your thumbs.

Pope managed to still you, your hands finally loosening on his shoulders. "You're okay. It's not rolling anymore," he comforted you quietly, endeared by your panic, despite the thumping pain in his chest.

"Sorry." you winced again, embarrassed as you stood still, looking down at the board.

"Stop apologizing." His hands were now resting on your waist, right above your hip, and you felt yourself lean forwards into his touch, before remembering you were standing on a wooden board with four wheels. 

"What do I do now?" you mumbled.

"Try to stand on the board without my help,"

Your eyes widened. "What? No." You shook your head, hand tightening on his shoulder again, worried he'd back away now. "You said you wouldn't let me fall."

"I'm not. I just want you to stand on the board," His hazel eyes lifted to meet yours, to check if you were genuinely bothered by his idea. No, you just seemed nervous.

"Right," you mumbled. You stared down for a while before finally shaking your head. "Nope! Bad Idea."

"Uh, uh," Pope was shaking his head already having expected this reaction, his hands still firmly on your waist. "Good idea." 

You looked up at him and there was such a happy glint in his eyes, your resolve wavered immediately. If this could bring him even an ounce of happiness, who were you to deny him it?

"Just let go slowly, okay?" you eventually said quietly, and Pope nodded.

He slowly let go, and you stood there on the board unsteady, before panic surged up in you and you quickly hopped off the board and right into him. The board collided with one of the ramps as it sped away from where you leaped off of it. 

"Oh I'm so sorry!" you swiftly released your grip on his biceps and headed for the board. You picked it up, turning it left and right, seeing if you'd damaged it.

"I think it's fine." You looked anxious, so worried and terrified that you'd broken it, but Pope just took it out of your hands gently.

He turned it, and it looked fine, and even if it wouldn't have been fine, he wouldn't have minded. You could break everything, including his heart, and nothing would change about the way he'd feel about you.

"It's fine. You didn't break it," he said, now finally looking up at you. "Are you okay?"

You looked at him, smiling sheepishly. "Aside from the embarrassment? Yeah, I'm fine." You shook your head. "I'm not cut out for this."

He shook his head, making a firm decision in his mind, that he wasn't letting go of this until you learned to appreciate skateboarding as much as he did. He wanted you to know exactly how freeing it could be. "Sure you are. I'll stand behind you."

"What?" You asked with a startled expression watching him set the board back on the ground.

"I'll stand behind you," he repeated slower. He straightened up again, one foot on the board. "You don't have to do anything but stand in front of me. I'll do the pushing."

You stared at him. "That works?"

"We'll make it work." Pope assumed you were considering the logistics of standing on a board together because you were always thinking about the logistics of things. 

And yeah, sure you were, but not in the way he thought. You weren't concerned about slipping off or not fitting on the board. No, you were thinking about how he would have to hold onto you. There was no way for him to stand behind you on the board without touching you, and even if his hands didn't hold your waist, his chest would push against your back, and you'd feel the warmth of his body on your own.

You wanted it badly.

So you just nodded silently, muttering a quiet "okay." 

Pope placed his foot on the board to prevent it from rolling off away as soon as you got on it. You did it shakily, and then you were standing on the board, Pope's hands hovering above your waist to ensure you didn't fall off.

"Are you sure we won't get hurt?" you whispered.

Pope considered getting you a helmet and other safety gear for a second. He was certain that Lena had left some lying around the house. The helmet was pink. You liked pink and he liked pink on you.

"I won't let you fall," he murmured, looking down at your feet. He stooped down a little. "Straighten your feet," he mumbled, his palm around your ankle adjusting it for you. 

You followed his instructions, allowing him to set you up properly, but you were still off balance. You swayed and to stop yourself from face planting into the hard cold concrete, you quickly groped for the back of his neck. "Sorry, sorry!" you hastily gasped, when you heard him huff, caught off guard by your palm suddenly hitting the back of his neck.

"Was my fault," he shook his head, finally straightening up. He shouldn't have touched you without telling you. He never did that.

"You ready?" he asked, and you shook your head as you stared down at the ground. 

Lots of concrete. Lots of concrete to fall on.

"I'll go slow," he said quietly, hoping it was just a small comfort to you. 

He was thoroughly enjoying this. Too much even that he was starting to feel bad. He knew you were scared, but this was just too much fun. He adored skateboarding and he adored you even more. Combined, he was thrilled.

He put one foot on the concrete, and you immediately let out a small gasp when he gave the first push. He swiftly grabbed your waist fearing you'd jump off again. 

"Was only one push." he mumbled into your hair.

You scoffed. "It was a fast one."

He grinned against your hair and tightened his grip on your waist, squeezing softly as the skateboard moved slowly across the concrete. It was slow, dreadfully slow, but he could feel the terror in your body, and he didn't intend on scaring you even more.

When he went faster, your hands went to his, still around your waist. "Slow down please," you whispered, gripping tightly, and he gently let his arms wrap around your waist fully, giving you more to hold on to which you did. Clinging hard, nails digging into his flesh, as he rolled once again, slower as you requested. 

"This is nice," you whispered, not sure if you were referring to Pope's strong arms around your waist, his nose in your hair, or the skateboarding. You weren't so sure it was the latter.

You were going so slow, and Pope wished he could show you how enjoyable it really could be. To just go from one end to the other and to actually feel free for once in your life. 

But he knew that this was your limit for today.

And so he brought the skateboard to a halt, and gently curved his lips at the puff of relief that emerged from your mouth. You swiftly stepped off the skateboard, his hands releasing you, and he opened and closed his fist, missing your warmth. 

You turned to him, a wide smile on your face. "That was fun!"

You were happy.

Pope curled his lips lightly into a smile. "Yeah, it was," he responded, seeing you stare down at the skateboard still in astonishment. You managed to stand there for two minutes. Even Pope was in disbelief. He'd been convinced you would leap off after five seconds.

He couldn't have known that you could be on the Titanic right now, and you'd still refuse to get off if Popes arms engulfed you like they had just now. 

You wouldn't have gotten off if he hadn't stopped the skateboard.

You moved a little pebble across the concrete before glancing up. "You can still skate if you want."

Pope wrinkled his eyebrows. "Think I should drive you home. It's getting late."

"So?" you shrugged. "We're adults and this is fun." You tilted your head smiling, as you watched him. "Right?" you added, hesitant.

You were constantly so unsure of everything. It drove Pope mad. He simply wanted you to be know, for once, that he enjoyed having you around. 

"Yeah, it's fun," he nodded, rolling the skateboard back and forth under his foot as he watched you, thinking. "You won't get bored?"

You shook your head immediately. "I like watching you. Your tricks are cool."

And Pope felt his heart squeeze. Deran and Craig had always made him feel terrible about how much he enjoyed skating, calling it boring and stupid. Smurf didn't like it either. No one ever did. Yet here you were, standing and asking to stay late in an empty dark skatepark because you thought his tricks were cool.

He shook his head in disbelief, unable to hide the emotion you always managed to elicit in him. "Yeah, okay," he agreed, before quickly driving off.

And before you knew it, you were seated on one side of the ramp, feet dangling, watching him skate around. The emotion in your eyes never wavered and your admiration did not fade into boredom. If anything, your eyes began to light more, and your smile grew brighter.

Pope wasn't sure if he'd ever felt this appreciated in his life before, this acknowledged, this cherished.

After a while, he stopped his skateboard next to you, finally settling down next to you, legs hanging down onto the slope too, shoulder against yours.

His skateboard was set on the side, purposefully not put in between you so he could get as close to you as he could. You gently brushed your shoulder against his, before turning your head. "Where do you keep your board? Don't think I've ever seen it before."

Pope tapped his thigh slowly. "I keep it in my car, and sometimes a storage unit."

He didn't mention that he'd been hiding it from Smurf. He figured it was a given, and you didn't say anything either, well aware why the skateboard was kept away so far from his own room.

You looked back down at the dark ramp, thinking, before reaching inside your pocket. It had been weighing on you, figuratively and literally for weeks now, but you hadn't dared to hand it to him just yet.

But you figured now was good enough, intimate enough.

You plucked the key out of your pocket, turning it over in your hand before taking a deep breath and returning your attention to him. You reached for his forearm and only when he met your eyes, did you touch him, gradually turning his hand over until his palm was exposed on your thigh. You placed the key in his hand.

"For you," you managed quietly. "It's a spare key to my apartment." You glanced up, seeing his wide eyes as he stared at the small key. "I know you don't like to stay the night, but—I just—I want you to know that you can."

You chewed your lip nervously, having expected the silence but still feeling rattled by it. "You can keep your skateboard there. You won't have to worry about anything getting stolen and—and you can also use the key to just…. crash on the couch or the spare bedroom if you want. Up to you really."

He was still not saying anything, but he'd lifted his head now, watching you stammer through every single word. 

"I just want you to know that you have a place to go to, in case it all gets — too much." If you bit your lip any harder you'd start bleeding, so you licked your tongue over your lips. "You can come over any time. Even if it's the middle of the night or—or if I'm asleep." you glanced at the skateboard next to him. "I have an empty corner in my living room. I'm not sure how exactly you're supposed to keep skateboards, but we'll find a way, and you know— if you ever wanna collect boards, you're welcome to stack them in my apartment."

You turned your head, now staring at the trees surrounding the park. You'd just spoken a lot. Even Pope was surprised to hear you talk this much.

He glanced back down, closing his fingers around the small metal key, brushing his thumb over it. "Thank you," he said quietly, trying to convey as much gratitude as possible in just two words. 

He wasn't sure if it'd ever be enough for what you had done for him and for what you were still doing for him, but it's all he had for now. It's all he'll ever have. 

He wasn't sure how he could ever repay what you had given him. What you'd brought into his life. Small craters in his body were filled with your compassion, kindness and love, which he had never expected to have filled, having just accepted that they were merely parts of his body. 

He was so grateful he could cry.

You nodded, a light smile tugging at the corner of your lips. Your eyes shifted to the sky, noting that he needed a moment to reflect on what you'd just given him.

You watched the sky, and it wasn't until a minute or two later that Pope finally put the key in his pocket, and you let out a sigh of relief, as if you'd been afraid he'd reject you.

He brushed his shoulder against yours and he followed your gaze up to the sky, watching the stars. The sight was pretty. Pope seldom looked up. 

His life required him to stay in the moment, to never think about what happened or what was going to happen. He never got to just look up and enjoy the dark canvas filled with glimmering stars. He turned his head, seeing you smile to yourself as you gazed at the sky. And he couldn't help but wonder if you were simply happy with the scenery or because he'd chosen to accept the key.

You sweep through long halls in a dress that flows behind you, covering the shadows with lace and silk. You run out to the empty yard and slam into Dean, right where you knew you’d find him. Standing with the stake in his hand that he drops, in favor of spinning you off the ground and cradling your trembling body. One hand cups the back of your head, and the other digs into your hips. You trip trying to pull yourself closer, and drops a thick arm under your thighs, hauling you up into his arms.

He’s warm. So warm you let yourself pretend this is real. You bury your face in his neck and dig your nails into his neck. Wherever he is—the real Dean—you hope he can feel the dull, claiming pain. You hope he knows that you brush wet, swollen and tear stained lips over the crescent dents after, trying to push them a little deeper into his skin. You’re allowed to be possessive and selfish here.

Because, no matter how much it hurts you to know, it’s not real. 

Dean guides your face away from his neck, tugging your hair gently, forcing your gaze onto his. Tired, glassy eyes flicker like a jumping engine, a heart being shocked back to life. His mouth works in that tiny way, where he’s trying to think of something to say but only seems to know how to touch. He brushes your hair once, twice, and third time with this thumb sweeping over your cheekbone, his lips parting with a long, broken sigh.

You press a tender, worried kiss to his lips, and he snaps. His hand fists in your hair. He stumbles back like he’s been punched, kissing you until you’re both breathless and drunk on a phantom taste. He trips his way to a soft pile of grass in the courtyard, somehow managing not to come up for air. Dean lands flat on his ass and holds you over his chest, attacking your neck and jaw with brutal lips, sucking tiny bruises before flicking his tongue over the ache. You dig your fingers into his hair, biting back wrecked moans.

Dean grabs your chin, squeezing your cheeks and shooting you a stern, lust-blown glare.

“Don’t be like that, Princess,” he mutters, grazing his mouth over your puckered lips. “I gotta hear you. Lemme hear you.”

He traces his fingers teasingly up your side and nips at your lower lip. You let out a high, pathetic whine, and he smirks.

“There she is.”

Dean kisses you again, before gliding his mouth back down. There isn’t an inch of your skin he doesn’t seem determined to mark. Your moans echo off the courtyard walls, and his grunts vibrate against your skin, sending tiny, sweet shivers up your spine. Your shirt gets peeled off, so he can mouth at your breasts. He traces the curve of your ass and sits you right on the growing bulge in his pants, but never does anything more than rock his hips.

If Sam ever got a peak in your head, he’d vomit and then say something about you not even letting yourself feel good in a useless fantasy, and then you’d punch him in the face. Holding Dean after he cuts off the… other stuff, it’s just as good as anything else. You just need him, really. To be close for a fleeting hour of rapid sleep, where you can trace over his Golden features and beg the stains on your skin to keep you dirty, because the idea of being clean sounds so harrowing you think it might eat you alive.

“You doing alright up there?” Dean murmurs against your skin, his face buried between your breasts, and you nod.

There’s a long, aching sting at your eyes. You hug his head and breathe deeply, trying to burn the sweet smell of cinnamon into your nostrils. 

Dean says your name, splaying his fingers on your lower back. He tries to lean back, but you hold him in a headlock, the tears streaming down your cheeks. He grunts and pries at your forearms, grabbing your wrists with light hands and forcing your grip to slacken. He smiles faintly, at your scrunched up, snotty nose and red eyes. It’s tired. Everything about him seems tired, but he still smiles, as if you’re the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs, taking both of your hands between his. “It’s gonna be alright, you’re gonna be alright.”

He kisses his knuckles, trapping yours, and you sob so hard it shakes your body. You’re not worried about you. You’ve learned, for better or worse, that you really always will get through it. The universe doesn’t seem all that open to letting you tread down that other path.

But you’re worried about him. You’re worried about him in a way that almost cleaves you in half, that threatens to be the only thing that could possible overrule the universe, that frays the already weak threads that stich up whatever foul, glorious thing you’re made of. You’re held together by hooks and needles, at this point. You’re twisting yourself into knots that half ease right here, in Dean’s arms, but all that happens is your heart spills and spills and spills, until the rotting grass is overgrown and stained with silver dew.

Dean glances down, but doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t say much but soft reassurances, until you’re able to speak again. His thumb pets down the bridge of your nose, and—if you’re shaking so much the ground starts to shake with you—he flips you onto your back and hold you until you the weight makes you breathe.

Tonight is one of those nights. He traces over your face with the most cautious touch, his face twisted with a heavy, painfully blatant longing. Hooded eyes shine, scanning over your crumpled features. His mouth hangs open, like he’s trying to inhale you, the same way you hold his fisted hand over your lips. Just trying to get a little extra of something you’ve never been able to be satisfied with. Something that’s never going to be able to be close enough.

“Better?” He rasps, when your breathing steadies. You shake your head, your lips wobbling and he sighs. “Yeah, I know.” He kisses your brow, brow knitting like he’s in pain. “I know.”

He never tells you much, but there isn’t much your brain seems to need to hear. Sam’s alive. They’re working to get back. Dean loves you, and he swears up and down and left and right, on his both his babies—you and the damn car—and his mother and brother and Scooby Doo boxers and Led Zepplin cassettes, that he’s going to come home and say it to your face again. You tell him he already has, and he laughs and tells you that you have no idea. He asks you about things, every single time. How’s Claire. How’s Jo. Are you talking to Cas again, have you spoken to Eileen at all, has Crowley come crawling out from underground. You tell him the truth, and sometimes he makes a face like he wants to argue. Sometimes he does argue, and you think you miss him so much you’re going mad.

“You gotta talk to Cas, sweetheart, who the hell knows what the angels are up to-“

“No.”

Dean sighs your name, and you shove his chest with a flat hand.

“You talk to him, if it’s so important.”

“I’d like to,” Dean mutters under his breath. “Could tell him to talk some sense back into your smart ass.”

You shove him again, and he just catches your wrist and guides it away.

“I’m serious,” he says, strict and heavy, even as he drags his thumb over your knuckles and uses a soft, coaxing tone. “If I get back and you’re still fightin’ with Cas, I’m gonna be pissed.”

And you just hold his gaze, your throat closing up so tight the words have to break to get out. “So come back,” you whisper. “And prove it.”

India is hot in the middle of April. Wet and hot, mud always coating your boots and dirt getting under your nails, a sticky warmth filling up your lungs with every breath, a million smells that remind you of Dean flooding your senses and making you press your lips tight enough to crack.

He’d love it here. The people and the food, the bartering and the TV and, again, the food. He’d pull you through the markets with your hands locked, spending half an hour talking to one seller about his fish before storming off for a reason he sputters trying to explain. You’d kiss his cheek and ask if he wants to go fishing. He’d light up like a child and drag you back to the hotel, kissing all over your face as you stumble through the door, giggling like a lovesick fool in his arms.

Instead, you lean against the old table in the warehouse, sharpening your knife and ignoring the muffled curses of the man in the chair. Bobby’s bottle shines green, in the dim, flickering light. You kick your bag a little away from your feet, dancing and humming while you wait for everyone to calm the hell down.

For him, specifically, to calm down. You tied him up in the nice binds, you’ve given him a lot of wiggle and breathing room—Jo was worried he’d get out, you know he won’t—and brought him some very expensive and stolen lamb that he didn’t get to eat, because he tried to bite your fingers off. He’d have it pretty good, if he’s stop overreacting. You’re the one who should be freaking out, and you’re perfectly calm. The Silver is bright and smooth and calm, iced over your veins and melded into your muscles. It moves when you move, and screams when you scream, and it’s like learning to walk all over again, but you’re doing it. And you’re calm.

Psychotic, the man before this one said. You sliced his hand open and dripped salt on the wound, for that one. It wasn’t the claim, but the way he said it. Like you were just some crazy, scorned bitch. Which another former captive called you, and he lost his tongue, but he’d also crossed your very, very clear line about Claire, so you think he earned it.

That’s why this one can call you whatever the fuck he wants. You’ve been called worse, and you’re past caring what kind of whore or slut or bitch or cunt you have to be. If anything, it’s a compliment. It means they’re afraid.

The man spits something, then chokes and thrashes the chair. The chains rattle unpleasantly against the floor, and you shoot him an unimpressed look.

“Neal, I can’t understand you,” you remind him, and his eyes narrow. “And remember what we talked about? Good behavior?

Neal’s face curls and contorts into something like a sneer. You sigh and spin your knife in your hand, pushing off the table with a tiny kick of your feet.

“This,” you wave the blade over his general, rather rude demeanor. “Isn’t good behavior. This isn’t how we earn speaking privileges again, buddy. I don’t want to have to remind you again.”

Neal’s eyes flash with fury. He growls something and you stop right in front of him, crossing your arms and scanning over his locked down body with a frown. He’s been here almost two weeks, and all you’ve really gotten is an uncooperative attitude and a lot of insulting comments about your body. You would’ve thought he’d give up after a while. The rest of them did.

You tap your foot and chew on your lower lip. Neal’s gag is getting dirty, but it didn’t exactly start clean. Maybe you’d soaked it in dirty dish water, before stuffing it in his mouth. He deserved it. He made a comment about Claire that he was lucky to survive.

Luck that came with being one of the last Alphas left. If there had been hundreds of them before, the count is down to double digits. You, Cas, and Crowley sort of did a lot of damage to the population, leaving only the smart ones that evaded capture, and know to stay underground. Those are the ones like the Alpha Vampire, who you haven’t been able to find after months of looking.

And then there are the ones who didn’t get caught because they were too stupid to be worth it.

The ones like Neal.

There isn’t a corner of the Earth you don’t think is worth ripping up to find Dean. For a week after Michigan, you thought God might have taken him. Jo barely managed to talk you down from truly, fully losing it, and she only got the chance because of your exhaustion from killing Eve.

“You felt God grabbin’ me, right?” She’d said, holding your hands and pleading in a way that was so unlike Jo, you’d managed to focus on her words. “You told me, you felt God yankin’ me away, just like you felt my mom. Like you felt him tryin’ to grab Bobby. You woulda stopped him, if he was goin’ for Sam and Dean. You woulda,” she’d squeezed your hand, even as you’d stared at her with empty eyes. “I know it. You know it. Hell, God himself knew it, so- Wasn’t him.”

You’d blinked at her, and nodded slowly. She was right. It couldn’t have been God. He’d vanished from the sky again, so you couldn’t ask, but you knew. One of the only things that had saved you, in that moment, was that you hadn’t been wrestling with God to pull Sam and Dean back. You would’ve detonated, if you had. But instead they’d just vanished, and you’d been hit by the despair before the wrath.

It had been long. Long and harrowing and cold, in the week after. Jo says you barely spoke, and you have to believe her, because you don’t really remember that much otherwise. It’s all a blur of a bed that didn’t have the warmth it was supposed to, showers that you were afraid to take and scars of Gold you traced with trembling, fearful fingers. The only sharp memory is the fight with Cas, and even that is sanded around the edges. You’d drifted until Jo reminded you that it couldn’t be God, and it had been like slamming against a rock. 

If it wasn’t God, it was something else. Something weaker.

You could kill something weaker. You could do it without destroying yourself, and dragging the rest of the world down with you. You could get Dean home.

In the days after that, you’d moved fast. Kevin had been sent off with Meg, who promised to keep him away from Crowley. You and Jo had packed up Bobby’s house and left, looking for something. Anything, that would even tell you where Dean had landed. That would tell you how to get him home.

“Listen,” Meg had said before you separated, low and careful. “Things like that bone? My daddy told me to be careful with them.” She’d given you a pointed look. “Told me they had kickback.”

Kickback.  

A rebound of power, Rowena had explained. An aftertaste, but everyone in a few yards gets it shoved down your throat. Dean and Sam got dragged somewhere. All you had to do was drag them back.

Which means all you have to do is figure out where they got dragged.

It’s a harder task, than you originally thought. You’ve gone after countless people and beasts and entities for answers. God convicts who were willing to talk without anyone needing to be tortured, rogue angels who looked for you to help, demons who you trapped and witches and cult members who got to find out exactly how many of the rumors have been true. And in all of them, from the annoying to the unless to the rude, Neal is, by miles and margins, the fucking stupidest.

“I’m going to take out your gag,” you tell him slowly, leaning down over his chair. “You’re not going to call me any names, I won’t cut out your tongue, and we all win, okay?”

Neal eyes the weapon, inches from slicing his cheek. You smile sweetly and flick your wrist, taking out a lock of his hair, and he flinches. Like a little fucking bitch.   

“Okay?” You prompt again, and his throat bobs.

He nods. You beam, and saw at his gag with a wide smile. The cloth falls and you let it hang around his neck, watching with raised brows and a warning curve to your lips. Neal glares at you, and you tip your head, letting your hair brush over his cheeks. He recoils back, his breathing shallow and hot over your face, and you smile in slow, smug satisfaction.

“That’s a good boy,” you purr, drawing yourself back up.

Neal—the idiot—snaps.

“You little fucking bitch-“

“Ah,” you slam the gag back up to his mouth, choking him on the fabric. His eyes flicker, hatful and beady and small. You sigh. You really wanted to do this the easy way. “That’s not what we talked about,” you tug the fabric tighter, and he grunts. “I’m being very nice right now, and you- You didn’t even eat the food I bought you! Do you know how hurtful that is?” You roll your eyes. “And- Even if I didn’t buy it, I still got it for you. And you call me a bitch? Rude.”

You shove him back and let go of the gag, taking a large step back before he can spit in your face.

He tries. He always tries, because he’s an idiot. You dodge it without blinking, but it lands only a few inches away from Bobby’s bottle. The old wood sizzles and hisses under the venom. You turn back around with a furious flurry and rage in your chest, a growing winter storm that Neal seems to feel, with how he goes still.

“Do you know what happens?” You ask slowly. “If you destroy that bottle.”

Neal opens his mouth. You don’t give him a real chance to respond.

“I kill you,” you spit, taking a large step forward. Neal’s fingernails and lips are starting to go purple. The warehouse creaks under your feet, as slow frost spreads over your feet.

“I didn’t hit the damn bottle,” Neal tries to snap, but it’s weak. His voice cracks, and his eyes are too wide. You hold a finger to your lips and shake your head. He swallows loud enough that you can hear it, and you smile.

“I kill you,” you repeat, honeyed and low. “And then I track down every one of your children, and I kill them too. Then I open Purgatory, and I kill all of you all over again. Do you understand.”

Neal’s eyes narrow. For a second, you think he really might be stupid enough to test you, but he only nods.

“Great,” you spin you knife, kneeling down to his height. “See? Isn’t it easy to listen to me?”

Neal’s mouth ticks. He still doesn’t speak, and you sigh.

“Now, I know you’re going to try and tell me you have no idea where the Leviathan bone goes, but if you do that, I’m going to have to cut off your hand. And I don’t wanna do that. It’s gross, it smells bad, now I have to get rid of a hand- You get it,” you shrug. “So, if you’d be so perfectly kind to think a little bit harder, maybe we can figure out a version of this where you only lose your finger.”

The column of Neal’s throat works. His jaw does a funny little motion, and you grab his cheeks with a sigh, pressing the knife to his throat.

“I told you to stop doing that, it’s not going to work.”

“Fuck-“ Neal pushes out the words through his teeth little bits of spittle landing on your skin.

It burns, but the sores heal in seconds. Cockatrice venom doesn’t do much to you, apparently. It’s still annoying to have to heal it.

“Fuck- You-“

“Everyone’s trying,” you say dryly, pressing the knife down until a thin bead of blood coats the blade. “Where is my Dean.”

“I’ve told you, I don’t fucking know-“

“Liar,” you lean closer, eyes narrowing. “I know you’re a liar, I know what Mommy taught you, I- I fucking know-“

Your voice breaks, and the frozen coating over your hands is giving way to pure, raw wrath. You will get him back. You have to get him back. There is nothing ahead of you, if you don’t get Dean home. This power is useless if you can’t find him, life is useless if you have to feel all of it but you don’t get to have something that’s just yours, everything has been nothing if you don’t get to have Dean.

And Neal sees it, between the shattered cracks of the Silver, waxing and waning like an ocean storm, crashing up high enough that the chains turn to roots and the pain under all of it becomes so obviously, dangerously clear.

Most Alpha and demons caved under it. They’d been trying to barter or mock, not understanding that the rumors about you and Dean didn’t cover the thinnest scope of your love. You’ve long learned that people talk about the Winchesters and their strange little monster. The demon boy and his black eyes and breakdowns. The brute hunter that carves through anything in his way, to get to his baby brother and his girl.

The Magdalene. The Whore. The Bride, who’s stuck herself to the brother’s side and sleeps in the brute’s bed. They say everything about you and Dean. That you fuck like rabbits, that he sits at your feet like a dog, that you follow him around like a lovesick schoolgirl and crawl into his lap with blood on both your hands.

And yet it takes that peak behind your fury, for them to get it. To understand that they are not looking at some tragic little star-crossed love, some Bonnie and Clyde pairing that talks big and shoots bigger.

They are looking at a Horror. They are looking at something that can’t fit in their little minds, who could sweep over lands and mold them in her name, who could hold the stars in her hands or bring paradise to the earth, but only wants one, perfect, sweet idiot of a man.

And you don’t have him right now. There’s no Dean, to tell you that you need to sleep, or breathe, or think your plan through a little bit harder. They call him the Brute Winchester, but he was the only thing that could ever get you to bow your head for a leash. He could’ve saved them. He’s not here, so there’s nothing but you, and an unending pain that you need the world to fucking feel.

Neal sees it. He blinks and leans back, under the blinding floodlight of the truth. They all do.

But most of them see it as something like a supernova, that’s going to consume them if they don’t look for cover or cower.

Neal is an idiot. Neal smiles.

“You don’t know how to get him back, do you,” he coos. “Little Whore, bragging about killing Eve and not even able to find her little boyfriend. You’re what they’re afraid of. You can’t even track him like the fucking mutt you’re supposed to be.”

You cover Neal’s mouth with your hand. Your eyes squeeze shut, your breathing shallow, your palm burning at Neal tries to bite it.

You are the weight of the roots under your feet, happy to be alive, to be connected, to grow instead of sink. You’re the cold fear of the ground, worried the heat will come, but won’t be enough to thaw it. You’re the sky far overhead, filled with so much it’s not sure what to call itself, unsure what it even is if not empty.

It is everything. You are everything. The leather cord of Dean’s amulet is stuck to your skin, trying to hold onto you when he can’t, and you are everything.

This Alpha is nothing. So you make him everything too.

When you open your eyes, Neal is frozen. His eye sockets have been overgrown with flowers that burst from under the lids and through the pupils. Grass and thin weeds grow under his nails. You uncover his mouth, and branches burst forward, a million tiny birds taking off in a swarm. You wipe the trickle of water that falls down his chin and sigh.

Better than the last one. He got a little too confident, said that Dean was probably hiding from you, or begging God to take you so you’d leave him alone, and got turned into a pile of brushel and kindle that burned rather easily, to nothing but flecks of ash in the air. You think Dean would be proud of you for controlling it. Neal only got turned into a blooming corpse, once he earned it.

And he was wrong. He was wrong. You press your hands flat against the table and take deep breaths, repeating it over and over and over. Pushing the thought out of your head like a parasite being fished up your throat. You will get Dean back. There is nowhere in the universe that you can’t reach, no cage you can’t rip open to get back to his side. Lucifer and Michael couldn’t hold you. Some little rebound of a magic bone isn’t going to out preform God’s favorite sons.

But it has. You haven’t found him.

But you will. You will. You chew on the inside of your cheek until you taste blood. Your fingers twitch and curl, trying to burrow into your palms, and you scrape them along the table instead. It starts to hurt, the pressure building under your skin and bubbling over in your chest. It hurts more than the brief sting or stab of a bite or cut ever would. You squeeze your eyes shut and grab your knife, driving it straight into the wood. You lean over, rubbing your face like you can push back the burn in your eyes and heavy stress on the bridge of your nose. A dam, threatening every second to break.

You pinch it and try to breathe slow. If you let yourself drown in the blood, pounding in your ears, you can almost hear Dean’s voice, coaching you through it.

In and out. Easy for me, Princess. Just breathe. I’ve got you.

He doesn’t have you. He said he was going to. He said he wouldn’t leave and now you’re fucking alone, suffocating on thick air in a warehouse, grabbing at wood like it’s not just going to rot under your fingers, and you’re not about to slip away into nothing, nothing, nothing, you’re going to be nothing again and you should’ve saved him, why didn’t you save him, what foul kind of use are you to the world if you can’t save the best thing about it, if you can’t do anything but cry and run around and be nothing-

Your breathing is ragged. Sharp. There’s a dull sting to your palms, and you open your eyes to find you’d started scratching at your palms until you drew thin lines of blood. You swallow, a boulder settling in your throat that you’ve never been able to dislodge alone. Bobby’s bottle shines in your periphery, knocked onto its side and cradled in a little nest of grass and leaves. Containing yourself when you use your powers- It’s a work in progress. You right the bottle with a mumbled apology you know he’s never going to be able to hear.

And you think you almost got away with it. You drag Neal’s body out back, and flick Dean’s lighter until you’ve got a sweet little flame going. You watch it for a moment, bending light in the sunrise. It seems to know you’re not Dean, whenever you use it. There’s a shadow of distrust that almost puts it out, but then it realizes it’s you, and that seems to be close enough.

You know it sounds crazy—even for you—but all of Dean’s things miss him. You wear his shirts to bed, trying to pretend he’s still there to hold you in the dark, and the fabric clings to the Gold on your skin the same way you cling to its collar, inhaling every last bit of cinnamon and grass until you can almost pretend Dean is there. You have his keys in your pocket, and they keep begging you to drive back to  an empty home. They seem to think that he’ll be there, and don’t listen when you tell them that he’s gone. He never goes, they demand. He’s just waiting for you at home. And you shake your head and clean his guns—and you do a bad job, but he’ll fix it when he gets home—and they seem to be the same kind of restless he is, where they’re itching for something to get in front of. Something to defend. They ask you with every touch, if your safe. They beg you to let them help, when you tell them you’re fine. The bullets say they exist to lodge in the skulls of your enemies. You tell them they’re being a little dramatic, and put them back in Dean’s actual bullet box with a sigh.

And you really, really almost get away with it.

Neal’s body burns, and you throw the rest of it into the backwoods river, asking the water to carry it where no one will ever find. You go back inside and clean up, rubbing your eyes and fighting a yawn. You’ve been up all night. Your eyes are drooping and your skin is raw and sensitive, a live nerve that wants to peel off your iron-heavy bones. There isn’t an artery in your chest and neck that isn’t trying to burst. A joint or tendon in your gut or legs that doesn’t want to snap. You hold it together, with the thinnest of wires. You jabbed them through every inch that threatens to unravel and pull them tight, because you don’t have the privilege of falling apart.

But you’ve never been lucky enough, to not have something go rancid and soft. To not trip over the only loose stone, and plunge face first into freefall.

You stuff all your tools and knives—you lost the Blade, throwing it at Dick Roman’s eye, and replaced it with a smaller set Claire found in China—into the bag. You wrap Bobby’s bottle in a woven cloth and wedge it between your books. You check the ground for anything else, and there it is. The loose stone. The branch that your wire catches on, that pulls you right apart.

Dean’s box slid a little under the table, when you kicked over the bag. You have to stretch to grab it, and frantically wipe off the quickly gathered dust and cobwebs. Your fingers linger on the latch. Your knees draw to your chest, and you stare at the silver detailing until your vison blurs.

Hot tears land on the back of your hand. A shattered, uncontrollable sob rips from your throat, and your shoulders pull tight. You’re curling into a ball around the box, dropping your face between your legs and shuddering with every single breath. The air feels like it’s burning up in your body. The soil beneath you becomes rich and wet, and the wood behind you mends from time, setting down roots in a place nothing else has been allowed to stay.

You scream so loud it bounces off the walls, and outside, the river seems to scream back. Lightning cracks, somewhere faraway. You scream again, and thunder rolls through the air. It’s loud because it’s trying to find him. Because if it’s loud enough, it will glow like a beacon in the dark, and Dean will come home.

You need him to come home.

It’s a while, before you’re able to stand again. Your legs are shaking, and there are no warm arms to hold you upright. You wipe your own tears, and little dandelions bloom when they hit the muddied earth. You gather yourself, because no one else will, and that was only a fissure. You can stich up a fissure.

A break—a true, untenable break—will not leave a living world in its wake. Not a world that isn’t molded to your hands. Salvation. Damnation.  

You wonder if Azazel knew that the only difference between the two would be whether or not you got to have Dean. You’re sure he didn’t. He would’ve let Dean die in that hospital bed if he did. Long before you could save him. When you weren’t capable of much more than squinting at a soul or stomping out a demon like a spider that jumped on you in the shower.

It would be the easy thing, to let yourself break. But this world deserves better than a righteous blight. There are still things in it, that you can find to be beautiful. The river spit up nuggets of gold, gathered on the bank like shells on a beach. The morning glows like you’re wandering through Dean’s heaven, when the sun splits over green mountains. You have Bobby in your bag, and you’re going to get him back. You have Dean’s box, and if you explode, you’re never going to find out what’s inside.

You’ve been telling yourself you’re waiting for him to be back. You know, deep in your gut, that you just can’t. You can’t name why. You can’t justify it. But you cry when you see it and you don’t want to open it without him.

You don’t want to do any of this without him.

You have to. It’s either that or giving up, and you’ve been running too long to let your feet fail now. You’re going to get through this.

You always do.

The motel you’ve been staying at is on the nicer side. You have a large room and complementary breakfasts. There’s a pool that only has a handful of bugs in it, at any given time. The wallpaper is peeling but the bathroom is clean, and the water pressure is strong, and the beds are covered in so many pillows you can almost shape them into a perfect Dean, whenever you sleep.

Not that you sleep much.

You took three hours, somewhere around twilight, and headed to the warehouse around midnight. You unlock the door and slip inside before anyone should be up.

And yet, waiting for you on the bed with a glare, Claire is wide awake. Her arms are cross and her chin is jutted up in that way Dean used to say was all you. The Lady is curled in her lap, Indy is flopped at her feet, and the Phoenix chick—Sparky, Claire’s been calling him, and you haven’t really been able to stop her—is pecking at her hair. You almost laugh at the absurd sight. Claire doesn’t look that amused.

“Where did you go,” she whisper shouts, and you kick off your shoes with a sigh.

“You don’t need to worry about that, Claire-“

“Yes, I do! What if there was another break-in, what if the police showed up, what if the leviathans came back-“

“Did you have another nightmare?”

Claire scowls. It’s not an accusation, but you know she takes it as one. She’s trying to play up the gum-like toughness Dean always carried with his every word and step. The sense that bending him was impossible, without him snapping back like a rubber band. She’s been doing that hewn, tight jawed expression whenever the police do come around—you dispose a lot of bodies, and people in India are really annoyingly observant—and doesn’t seem open to hearing that you really don’t need her to grow up for this.

If anything, you’re still a little annoyed she talked you into coming. You wanted her to go back to Jody, but she flat out refused. She locked herself in the Firebird and said she’d go on a hunger strike. Jody said she could take her anyway.

A selfish part of you didn’t want to let her out of your sight. Not after Michigan. Not when there were all too familiar bags forming under her eyes, and paranoid twitch that made your heart ache—that reminded you of Sam—every time the wind got a little too loud.

She’d been allowed to come on the rule that she’d listen, stay out of your warpath, and continue with school. Staying out of the warpath just means no hunting. School just means the homeschooling curriculum you stole from Bobby and Rufus. Dean’s going to have some things to say about that, when he gets home. He’ll be welcome to. He can shout at you and argue all he wants, as long as he’s in front of you. As long as you get to hear his voice.

You dump your bag on the floor and bite your cheek. You’re doing your best with what you have. It isn’t much. It’s better than nothing at all.

“Claire,” you say gently, keeping your voice down. Jo’s passed out, in the other bed. If you wake her up, she’s going to have opinions. “It’s okay if you are having nightmares-‘

“I’m not!” Claire snaps, too fast, too loud. Jo stirs a little, and you give Claire a stern look. She swallows and bows her head, her voice dropping back down. “I’m not,” she mumbles. “I- I just couldn’t sleep.”

You sigh, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Indy eerps, rolling onto her back and nosing at your knee. You rub her stomach, watching Claire in your periphery, letting her words linger in the hum of the fan and wet morning air.

“It’s not like I wake up screaming,” Claire grumbles, and your mouth twitches.

“I know.”

“Do you? ‘Cause you keep saying I’m having nightmares, so it sounds like you don’t-“

“Claire.”

She curls back, under your flat stare. You sigh and lean forward, touching her knee lightly. She keeps her gaze locked down, just as stubborn as always.

“I have nightmares,” you say softly, and Claire’s scowl deepens. “Dean has nightmares. And he never wakes up screaming.”

That makes her pause. She looks up with a poorly hidden surprise, pulling at a loose string on her shorts. You smile sadly and squeeze her knee, leaning a little further. Like you’re telling her a secret, even if you’re sure Dean would tell her the exact same.

“I wake up,” you murmur. “Because he’s not making any sounds.”

“That- But-“

“He snores,” your smile turns misty. Tired and fond and a little smooth around the edges, the weight of missing him settling right at the top of your chest. You stave it off for now. For Claire. “He snores like a fucking machine.”

Claire makes a face like she’s trying to fight off a laugh, and your cheeks ache just a little less.

“So when he’s quiet,” you say, watching her carefully. “I know something is wrong.”

Claire presses her lips in a thin line. She stares down at her fingers, and you let out a slow breath.

“He gets stiff. I realize I woke up because he was squeezing me, or lying on top of me, or just- Grabbing me. His face does that frown,” you pinch your face up, trying to mimic Dean’s worried and angry scowl, and Claire’s throat bobs. “And he breathes really heavy, and I- I wake him up. Carefully, but- I know whatever he’s dreaming about- I- I have to get him out of it.”

And it hurts just to think about. It makes every space around you feel bigger, to speak about him. Some small part of your brain thinks that if you do it enough he’ll just appear, but the rest of you knows better, and doesn’t want to talk about him at all. But that little part, it’s loud. It expands and begs, every time you indulge it. Spreading memories in every dip and space in your ribcage, pushing just to the right of your heart until you think you’re going to burst.

You can almost see him, in the longest corners of the room. The sun plays a cruel trick where the golden light takes his shape, and you can’t help yourself from looking. In case it is him. If it is, you’ll need to grab him before he vanishes behind the clouds. Tell him that if you’re not dreaming of him, you’re having nightmares. The boring kind, where you wake up screaming in a pool of sweat that’s already collecting algae, reaching for him and only finding an empty bed, then screaming louder. Nightmares that would make him take your face between his hands, that he could tell you weren’t real. John isn’t going to kill you in front of him and Sam. Bobby’s soul isn’t going to be ripped from your hands like Jo’s. Sam isn’t going to crumble to dust in your arms, falling apart too fast for you to put him back together.

You don’t know what Dean had his nightmares about. They were rare for both of you, when you shared a bed. After you’d wake him up, he’d bury his face in your chest and refuse to speak until the sun rose, his hands mapping your body and his back flexed and tense until he convinced himself he was allowed to relax. Then all you’d get was a kiss and mumbled thanks, before he clambored out of bed for coffee. You always had guesses. You pieced things together from the low, pained groans and pleas that would push themselves out, before you managed to wake him. You have the same kind of guesses about Claire.

But she’ll talk about it when she’s ready. You don’t need to know what the nightmare is about, to seal over the damage for a single day. It’s just a band aide on an open wound, but it will stop the infection. You’ll worry about the scar, when you’re not trying to keep her from being cut wide open again.

“Everyone has nightmares,” you duck, forcing Claire to meet your gaze. “But they’re just nightmares. The leviathans are gone. Jo can handle the police or a monster, and anything else- I won’t let it hurt you. Okay?”

Claire’s silent for a long while, and you wait. You have no time. You’re willing to stretch what you do have thin, for her.

She nods, and you bite back your sharp relief, just squeezing her knee one more time and taking a deep breath through your nose.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You offer, already knowing the answer.

Claire shakes her head. You glance over at Jo, fully knocked out and starfished, obvious to the world around her. You’d been planning to catch a few hours before she and Claire woke up, but the motel has strong coffee, and you’ve slept less for longer.

“You wanna watch a movie?” You offer, and Claire sits up. You laugh, and it’s small but real.

Dean would be proud.

You settle against the headboard, Claire tucked into your side, the Lady padding over and curling between your bodies, and Indy splayed over your legs, her tail whipping back and forth over the sheets. She’s almost the size of a Great Dane, now. It’s getting harder and harder, to sneak her around. You’ll call Rowena later. Ask about a shielding or illusion spell, or make one up if she can’t help.

Sparky stays on Claire’s head. They seem to have developed a bond you’re not willing to try and break. You offer the chick a finger, while Claire picks out a movie, and he nips you, nudges you for a pet, and then immediately turns back to Claire’s hair.

They motel has most of the channels. Claire asks you what you want, but you know she’s just trying to be polite.

“Whatever you want,” you tell her, and she smiles. She picks an old western that’s near the start of its run, and slumps down into the mattress. You only half watch, your eyes lidded and glazed. You’re all but asleep with your eyes open, the voices and music all blending into a white noise that threatens to lull you into sleep.

“Did they help?” Claire asks quietly, and you frown at her, unsure if you heard right. “Whoever you were- With,” she clarifies, still staring at the TV. “Are they going to help you find Sam and Dean?”

The question is so small. So unsure, like she’s not sure that she’s allowed to ask it. You twist the skin of your finger and tip your head back, trying to let the headrest carry the weight of it. The lie. The pair, that you don’t want rolling off of you and poisoning her.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think they might.”

Claire hums, and it doesn’t matter how much she believes you. She relaxes, and that ease leave a wake, settling over your skin and tendons and knotted organs. You let out a breath, and it doesn’t catch in your throat.

You don’t sleep. Not fully. But your eyes fall, and your body goes as loose as it’s allowed, and you drift in and out of the world without so much as a nightmare or tear. Claire knocks out on your arm, and the sun pushes over the sky and through the curtains. The weight of Indy comes and goes. A door creaks, and you twist enough to see Jo gone from the bed before you’re pulled back under. It’s not fruitful sleep. It’s bobbing through the calmest parts of the ocean, able to breathe, never able to fully rest.

You’ll find the land. You’ll make it, if you have to.

For now, you just drift.

Jo’s at the table with a coffee, when you finally drag yourself out of bed. Indy’s sitting at the foot of your bed, watching you with wide, curious eyes. You tuck Claire—fully asleep, but still angled like she’s  trying to watch TV—under the sheets, and pad over to Jo’s side. Indy bounds after you, dropping her chin onto your knee and whining softly. Jo rolls her eyes and pushes the coffee across the table, shooting Indy a distasteful glare.

“She’s actin’ like I let her starve,” Jo grumbles. “I took her out. Got her- Really the biggest fuckin’ fish you’ve ever seen. I mean, I still don’t know how she got the whole thing down, it was-“

She holds her hands up, almost all the way apart, and you laugh softly. “She’s a growing girl-“

“She’s grown big enough. We’re gonna have to make a fuckin’ stable.”

You raise your brows. “We?”

Jo shrugs. You both know who we is, and it’s not anyone in the room. “He will,” she doesn’t say his name. You think, sometimes, she’s worried it will set you off, like cutting the wrong wire on a bomb.

“Sam thinks she’s going to be as big as the house,” you murmur into your coffee, and Jo makes a face.

“That’s too fuckin’ big.”

“Yeah, but- At least Dean will get to build his barn.”

Jo stares at you, for just a little too long. You know she hears it. Dean will. Sam thinks.

“Have I told you he wants to build a barn?” You ask, still not meeting her gaze. Silently begging her, to just go along with it. Just right now, while you can’t bear to do anything else.

“No,” she says slowly. “Don’t think you have.”

“Well, he does. He told me he wants to build a barn, a farm, a house, and a garage. I told him he doesn’t know how architecture works, and he- He just said he’d figure it out.” You laugh to yourself, watery and almost floating through the air. “The annoying thing is he probably will. He’ll skim one book and say he’s got it, and then I’ll blink and he’ll have a house.”

Jo says your name. You ignore her.

“I mean- One time I asked him how he built my car, and he just said he put stuff together in the way that made sense. That doesn’t mean anything, but- It worked. He always makes it work.”

You choke on the last word. Jo reaches for your hand, and you curl it into a tight fist. She mutters your name, and you shake your head, tears pricking at the edge of your eyes.

“Don’t,” you whisper, staring at the table. “Please.”

Jo sighs, but doesn’t say a word. She grabs your hand, and you immediately grab it back, trying not to dig in your nails. You watch the coffee slush around in your mug. It’s going cold. Everything, from the sink pit in the hollow of your chest to the churning in your gut, is going cold. Jo’s hand is warm. It keeps your fingers from shaking, and that keeps the world from shaking with it.

Sometimes, you wonder why she sticks around too. She could’ve gone with Meg or Charlie or Adam. She could’ve gone with the Amazons. Could’ve left to look for her mom, even if you’re more than willing to be Ellen is trapped with God. But Jo just… Stays. So maybe people stay, and you begin to feel like a leech. Draining them to make yourself bigger. Suctioned onto their kindness, unable to do anything on your own.

You’re learning, that sometimes, people just… Love you.

You lean on Jo until you’re both about to topple, and she holds you up until you can drag her off the edge of the cliff. You press Sam until he’s about to break, and he doesn’t try to lock you out or push you away. You run around like a pigeon that can’t quite remember where home is supposed to be, and Bobby waits for you to remember how to turn around and find your way back. You screw up again and again and again, and you learn so slow and love so quietly and spill your guts all over Dean’s hands and chest and thighs, and he just cleans you up and stays. He loves you, without any kind of payment or justification. You rip yourself up to try and find some part of you that’s good enough for him to touch, for any of them to touch, and they just… ask you to put yourself back together.

They love you more with the cracks, even if they let the infection of you creep out. They love you when you’re small and withered, they love you when you’re consuming and so alive you can’t bear it, and you’re learning it in the slowest, hardest way possible. The way that involves contorting into every possible shape, before Dean takes you and tells you he likes this one just fine. The way that has blood under your nails and dirt on your knees and foam at your mouth, snarling and snapped like a rabid animal until you learn to trust the water again. It almost kills you, but the blood dries, and you-

You get better.

You miss Dean with more than you can fit in your heart, but you eat, and try to sleep, and you stick with Jo and Claire. You miss Dean, and—without realizing it, like the crawl of a shadow across the ground—you never doubt if he’s missing you.

“The alpha get us anything?” Jo asks a little before Claire gets up, and you shake your head. “And- You didn’t-“

You give her an apologetic look, and she sighs you name.

“You can’t keep fuckin’ killing them-“

“He was saying some very mean things,” you snap defensively. “You would’ve killed him-“

“Of course I woulda killed him! But you’re supposed to be better than me!”

You nose wrinkles. “No, I’m not-“

“Uh- Yeah. You are.” Jo rolls her eyes, leaning back with a huff. “You’re ‘supposed to torture ‘em and then say, you think that’s bad,” she turns her voice into a mockery of yours, and you frown. “Just wait until you meet my little friend.”

“I’m not Scarface, Jo-“

“Yeah, you are.”

Your mouth falls open. “No, I’m not- I don’t even- I’d never run a drug ring.”

Jo makes a doubtful expression, and squawks when you throw a balled up napkin straight at her head. Indy shoots over the table, cooped up and eager to fetch, and Jo topples back with a shout. You laugh, covering your mouth with a hand, and Jo chucks the napkin right back at your face. You block it.

You don’t block Indy.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” Claire sits up, her hair falling over her face, swollen with sleep. You wish you had an answer that wasn’t childish and insane. You don’t, so you take Claire for breakfast, and flip Jo off over your shoulder.

She’s right, in the long run. Maybe you shouldn’t have killed Neal, but there are other Alphas. Other angels, other demons, other pagan gods that can—that will—help you. You don’t let yourself think of another option, for the whole day. You have to help Claire with school. You have to read and get lunch and call Kevin and get dinner. The world might stop when you’re caving in, but when you’re keeping yourself just upright, when you’re rushing through the day like it’s a current, and you’re just waiting to be spat out the other side, time does nothing but plow on forward.

You read anything you can find. You and Jo scout for leads on other Alpha’s, while Claire does her homework with a sour expression. You look online, Jo makes a few more calls on leads. If you didn’t know better, every day would just feel like a very long, strange case.

“What was that thing you were tellin’ me about?” Jo asks, peering at the translation notes you’ve scribbled through countless notebooks and loose pieces of paper.

You hum, not looking up from the Book. You always think you’ve read all of it, only for new pages to appear out of thin air. It’s suspicious. You’d think it was God, if you didn’t know he hasn’t been watching you for months. “What thing?”

“Y’know, the thing-“

“I tell you about a lot of things, Jo-“

“Yeah, but- This one was all magic and shit.”

You give her a dry, blanket expression of annoyance. She rolls her eyes.

“C’mon. It’s- What the hell else am I supposed to call it?”

“I don’t know? Its name-“

“I dunno its name- It’s-“ She sighs, glaring at the air. “You know, that magic spot thingy. You went lookin’ for one when Dean was- Well-“ She cringes slightly. “Last time.”

Your frown deepens, pulling down in thought. The magic spot thingy. “You mean the Vortex points?”

“Yes- Yes,” Jo snaps, leaning forward with a wide grin. “That. Why don’t we try that?”

“Um…” You look at the book, then the notes. Your hands flex, and your mouth falls a little open.

Why don’t you try that? Why haven’t you tried that?

“Because we don’t know where Dean is,” you answer yourself softly, and Jo’s face falls.

“Oh. Right- That’s- Never-“

“But,” you cut her off, your brain turning too fast to track. “If- It’s stronger there. Everything. Bridges, spells, enchantments-“ You swallow. “Prayers.”

Jo blinks. “You want us to… pray?”

“No,” you close the book, mouth set in a grim line. “I want Dean to pray. Somewhere- Somewhere I’m able to hear.”

Jo’s doubtful. You don’t blame her. Whatever let you hear Dean’s prayer in Heaven, whatever let him call you from across the world, over and over and over again, you don’t know how it works. You know it’s woven just to the right of your heart. You think it might be that part of you that’s embedded in him, that branch of love that grew over him, that he never pushed out. The mechanics don’t matter right now. If Dean is praying, you aren’t hearing it. If you can hear it, you can try and trace it.

“Like a radio signal?” Jo asks, and you nod. She sighs. “But- What if we ain’t able to do that?”

“Then,” you say, dark and firm. “We figure something else out.”

Jo doesn’t argue past that. This is the kind of thing, where she knows far better. It takes you the rest of the day, but there’s a Vortex point in the Himalayas. It’s a long trip. You work out a spell, that will get you there and back in a day. Claire gets clear instructions not to leave the motel room for anything, while you’re gone.

“We’re leaving at sunrise,” you tell her. “We’ll be back by sunset.”

And you don’t say hopefully. You don’t say you’ll try. You will be back by sunset, whether you have something or not.

You hope you have something. You need it. You need anything, to weave into another wire. Another way to keep yourself going, an extension of the rope you’re hanging onto, something metal you can from into a new rail before you reach the end of the line.  And you can almost convince yourself that this, this single, small mission, will be it.

You’ll go to the Vortex point, pull Dean out of the ground like a potato, and go home. If you really let yourself play pretend, you’re going to the Vortex point for nothing but research. You’re going to do some experiments, collect some data, and call Sam on the drive home. You’ll try to tell him about what you found. Dean will try to steal the phone, and Sam will lock himself in the bathroom so he can’t. You’ll smile to yourself, at the sound of him banging on the door. The moment you get home, Dean will sweep you into his arms and kiss you up against the wall.

“Sammy was bein’ a dick, sweetheart,” he’ll mutter, his arms caging you against his body.

You’ll giggle against his lips and pull on his shirt, unsure what to do with yourself but melt into him. He’ll carry you to bed, ignoring your false protests. You’ll sit on your knees when he tosses you onto the mattress, watching with wide eyes and an embarrassing heat pooling between your thighs, as he peels off his shirt. He’ll ask you about the hunt. You’ll forget everything you wanted to tell him, until he smiles fondly, cups your face, and bends down to kiss you stupid.

“Missed me, huh?” He’ll tease, his thumb gliding over the nape of your neck, and you’ll nod. Hopeless. Entirely his, in ways you think he still doesn’t quite understand.

“You have no idea,” you’ll whisper, and he’ll grin like he won a prize.

“You have no idea,” you whisper to the dark.

And if the day passes fast, with odd normalcy and smiles that only bring a little bit of guilt, the night drags. It buries you, until your lungs are stuffed and you’re sure you’re never going to see the morning again.

If you don’t have a lead, you spend the sleepless hours trying to practice. You coax a spring to shoot out of the ground, you ask an old bush to light itself on fire, you convince a river it would be better flowing north. You’re getting stronger. More comfortable, in being everything. It doesn’t hurt, when it’s not against your will. The soreness that lingers in your body after gets smaller and smaller every night, and you find yourself getting bigger and bigger.

You still don’t understand most of what you can do, but no one does. So you just test the limits, and find that the boundary is further past your fingertips than you could’ve possibly dreamt.

It’s a good distraction, until it’s not. Until you remember why you’re not letting the Silver go dormant again. Until you push a little too hard and the Spiderweb flares like the core of the Sun, rocking from the force of a solar storm.

You let yourself be weak. You spent so long in self-pity, so long trying to be small and fragile. Small and fragile things don’t survive in the wild. Small and fragile things get put in cages, and it doesn’t matter what kind of light they’re made of. They don’t have enough of themselves to break free.

Stand tall.

You are.

But it took falling, to learn how. And it cost you Dean, and now you sit on the curb of a packed street in India, surrounded by hundreds of people. Entirety alone.

The darkness doesn’t swallow you anymore, but the brighter you let yourself get, the longer the shadows become. The pain grows like a bacterial infection, finding every place it can settle and overtaking your view of the world. The guilt becomes acidic. The sorrow you didn’t let Claire see presses back up like magma, demanding and burning in your lungs. You wander the streets for somewhere that’s louder than your head, but even the most crowded bar can’t compare.

A million songs, a million men, and million unwanted touches as people shoulder past you or trying to take the empty spot next to you. None of them are Dean, so all of them are wrong. One bold drunk tries to follow you out to the street, and you cover your ears, crouching in the gutter and begging the darkness to swallow you whole.

It doesn’t. It swallows him, and spits him back out when you ask it to. He stares at you with a gaunt, sober face. You smile and know it’s nothing but a manic, crude mask. You leave him on the ground, and keep wandering for that cove you know you won’t find.

It won’t even exist, until you get Dean back. And that just makes the pain bigger. You really don’t know where to put it, when there’s nothing to distract you. It’s just you, and the pain, and everything else in the dark. Rain might fall for you. The wind might pick up, to howl for your grief. The colors dull themselves, and the golden lights glow until the marks of Dean on your body seem to glow brighter than the stars. But that’s still all just fucking pain.

There isn’t a thing you wouldn’t do, just to feel it a little less.

A year ago, you would’ve taken you knife to the soft, unblemished parts of your skin. A punishment for daring to, even in the smallest of ways, be clean. But if Dean comes back and sees new scars, he’s going to have questions, and then you’ll have to answer them, and he’ll make that mournful, adoring face, and you’ll feel all the guilt just slamming back into you like a freight train. So you find other options.

You steal a bottle from one of the crowded bars. You drink until you can’t tell were you stop and the infinite waterfall of stars begins. You wander the streets and smile at the birds. You trip over loose pebbles and they unfurl into silver butterflies that blend into the night sky. You crouch, back on the curb, the bottle tight in your hand, and you whistle until your slow, haunted song is being sung back by every bird in the city.

You smile at nothing, tears streaming down your cheeks. You pour the rest of the bottle out in the gutter, and hope that wherever Dean is, he gets to be drunk too.

Somewhere in your addled brain, you figure out that you’re in no state to go back to the room. You stumble wherever the wind carries you, and find yourself at the motel pool, your feet dangling in the water and the blue, neon light dancing on your bare thighs and hands.

And you know you’ve been here before. And you know you’re going to be here again.

You sit at the edge of the pool, watching the light swim in the water before. It’s beautiful. That irreplicable chlorine blue, vibrant and glowing on your skin in the dark. Quiet wind blows over the marshes behind you. You breathe through your nose and smooth out your tennis skirt. You remember this one. In about five to six hours, it’s going to be coated in blood, and Bobby’s going to burn it in his backyard.

It’s a shame. You really liked it.

You feel him before you see him. The world shifts a little Golden. Warm fingers trace your arms, then your wrist. A thick thigh pressing against yours, and a hand slowly drags up, splaying over your lower back. Chapped lips press to your temple, and you lean your head on his shoulder, letting your eyes drift shut.

“You remember this?” Dean asks quietly, and you hum.

“Of course I do.”

He swallows, loud enough for you to hear. You turn your face into his neck, and he pulls you a little closer. There isn’t a space between your bodies that you leave untended. Your arms wrap around his torso, and his mouth rests on the top of your head. His breathing is slow. Steady. His heart pounds in that way you memorized, before you even let yourself admit that you needed him. You used to press your fingers together until you could feel your own heartbeat, and you’d try to pretend it was Dean. You must’ve gotten good at it. This almost sounds real.

“You were so pissed at me,” he murmurs, and you roll your eyes.

“You called me a spoiled brat.”

“Well- In my defense, sweetheart, I really thought you were.”

You lean back to glare at him, and he catches your chin with a knowing smirk. His thumb drags over your lower lip, and you pout, trying to make your glower the savage, blinding one that lends you that title of Whore Beast. Instead you think you might just be mimicking a bunny. Dean taps your nose, and it scrunches. His smile widens, and you try to hide your face back in his body. He doesn’t let you, holding your chin with a firm but gentle grip.

“Mighta been right,” he teases, light dancing over every word. “Look at you.” He flicks your nose again. “Spoiled brat.”

Your glare doesn’t seem to be focused enough to block out the building eruption from every part of you that matters. It’s made of longing and love and an inability to ever really be mad at him. Not when he says ‘brat’ the same way he says ‘baby’ and ‘princess’. Like there isn’t a thing he could think of, that wouldn’t be endearing. Like there aren’t any words that capture whatever he thinks of you, so he just settles for calling you like a lighthouse, shining only to guide one ship back to shore.

“I am not spoiled,” your voice is breathless, and Dean chuckles, leaning just close enough for you to feel the heat of his lips.

“Guess I gotta step up my game, sweetheart,” he holds your gaze, and your flush might be enough to set this misty, scared little world on fire. “You’re supposed to be so spoiled you can’t even remember what it feels like to want.”

You flatten a hand on his chest for balance. Your lips part, and Dean leans a little closer, his fingers curling on your hip. You take a ragged breath, and his nostrils flare.

And you remember what it feels like to want. You remember it so clearly, because it’s still reflected behind you, fading on the horizon, stretching so long you don’t know how you ever got to the other side. You remember wanting so bad it was cannibalizing, wanting so bad you lost sleep, lost sight, lost balance. You did nothing but want, did nothing but memorize the landscape of a world you were sure you’d never be allowed to step a single, dreadened foot upon.  You wanted so bad you sat on the alter, begging to be a sacrifice he’d use to find himself someone he deserved.

And you remember him walking up to you at that alter, pushing you so carefully down, and using his body to pin you there. To keep you with him, whispering something too close to a vow against your skin, moving the marker of what was holy. The alter was only stone. You and Dean, upon it, where the only things that mattered in the world.

Dean’s brow has furrowed. He’s scanning over your features with worry, his murmur of your name soft. You wrap your arms around his neck and climb into his lap, and he holds you steady with a light, revertant touch. It seems to wash like steam over his whole body. It’s in the way his shoulders relax, in his eyes, gleaming with a pooling adoration, and in the soft, awestruck downturn of his lips. You used to think he only looked at you like this in your dreams. You’ve long learned that if there’s one thing you can never trust, it’s the reflection staring back at you, even only an echo of it on another person’s face.

“I was so mad at you,” you remind him, and his throat bobs.

“I know,” he rasps. “Said that. I think.”

You nod, pressing further forward. “I thought you hated me,” you whisper, and he shakes his head.

“Never. Never hated you, I- Hell, I tried, but-“ He swallows, a desperate edge creeping over his voice. “Couldn’t. Never could. Never did.”

You hum, looking down to your fingers. You trace his collarbone, and you could swear he shivers. “I hated you,” you mumble, and his hands twitch.

“Yeah?”

You nod, and Dean takes a ragged breath.

“When’d you-“

“When you left me,” you look at him under your lashes, and he seems afraid to move. “When you died, and you- You didn’t let me say goodbye.”

“Didn’t wanna hurt you,” he defends, but it’s weak. You just stare at him, combing through the stubble on his jaw. It’s getting longer. You haven’t seen in him in this kind of tight tee-shirt in so long, you forgot how thin they were. How they clung to his arms, how you could see every breath, even the stumbling, unsure ones. That, combined with the thickening, borderline beard he has in your dreams, it’s enough to make you fall for him all over again.

The first time you were here, he had a baby face and a smile that was only smaller than his heart. He slouched more, and never seemed willing to grab you with tighter hands than you held him. You wonder what kind of handprints he would’ve left, if you told him to hold on however he wanted. You think it would be closer to something like now.

You think that if you met Dean with this shirt and those eyes and these calloused hands, you might’ve fallen lower than your knees. You might’ve crashed into him so fast that neither of you would’ve had the time to even consider pulling away.

When he gets home, you’re hiding his razor and dragging him to the mall. He’s earned it. You’ve earned it. He’s too pretty, to bury under layers of ugly lumberjack clothing.

“Do you hate me know?” Dean asks, and you can hear it in the rare crack in his tone. His fear of the answer.

You thought he would’ve known better, from being nothing but a bought of madness, woven together from a love that spreads like a flood across everything you’ve ever known.

“No,” you breathe. “I- I was never good enough at it anyways.”

Dean’s mouth twitches up. He lets out a broken laugh of relief, cradling the back of your head. “Well, I guess we’re made for each other, huh?”

You nod, because there’s nothing else you could possibly be made for. You could cure the world of yourself, of other disease, of the devil and God in one fell swoop or scream. You could walk through the gates of Heaven, you could raze the castle of Hell, take all that promised world and rule over it the way God wants you to. Even without Dean, you’d still be doing it for some kind of love.

There is much, much more you can do than love Dean. But there is no world where you want to do everything, and not have Dean at your side. You have long decided that greatness does not negate your love for him. Your love for him only allows you to be greater.

Dean kisses you, and you press over him with everything you have. He’ll be home soon.

You both tumble into the water, as fast as you’ve always fallen together, and you don’t let go of him until the dream slips away.

Jo woke you up with a glass of water in the face. You told her that wasn’t necessary. She said it was, because you were crying in your sleep. You check the motel mirror before you go, and scowl, because she was right. There are tear stains on your cheeks, and a bloodshot ring around your pupils. You fix it, and ignore her smug look. There’s a job to do. Steps to be taken, that might be forward, or backward, or nothing but a standing march in place.

The fun part is finding out.

“This is- So fuckin’ cold-“ Jo hugs herself tight, bundled in about five jackets and poofy shoes that make her walk like a penguin. “How the hell ain’t you cold?”

You shrug, kneeling in the snow and brushing flakes off your shorts. It was like this at the other Vortex point too. You’d gotten to the top of the mountain in Brazil, and all the jungle heat had just felt like… nothing. Like you were floating through a perfectly regulated room.

“I’m gonna die,” Jo mutters to herself, rocking back and forth on her feet. “I’m gonna die, just ‘cause Dean had to stab a dick, I’m gonna die-“

“Stop saying you’re gonna die,” you tell her flatly, scooping away the piles of snow. “You’re not gonna die.”

“Yes, I am-“

“With that attitude, maybe.”

She glares, hard enough it prickles on the back of your neck. You sigh and sit back, giving her a pointed, expectant look.

“You know, the faster we do this, the faster we go back.”

Jo pauses. She looks out over the mountain—mostly just gray shadows in an infinite sea of white—and her nose wrinkles. You go back to scooping and sorting through your bag, waiting for her to catch up. She huffs. You hum to yourself, pulling out your knife and digging it into the spot you want.

There’s a loud scoff, and the snow shifts as Jo waddles over to your side. You smile at her, and she sticks out her tongue, before quickly pulling it back in with a wince.

“What’re we doin’?” She squints at your knife, and you grab her mittened hand, guiding it around the hilt.

“You’re hold that there,” you say, moving to your feet. “And I’m getting rid of the snow.”

“Alright,” Jo nods, then looks up with wide eyes. “You’re- What-“

“Shh,” you snap, and she snaps her jaw shut, looking from you to the falling snow like you’re crazy.

And you are. But you’re also getting better at it.

You stretch your arms, plant your feet, and close your eyes. You’re the snow. You’re the snow, falling from the sky without care for where it’s going, know only that it is will either find more of its kind and they will survive together in long, strong banks, or it will land somewhere hostile, and die alone. It goes with the wind, because it doesn’t have much of a choice. Not a single snowflake has ever even thought that there might be another way.

So when you offer it, every single one of them falters. Jo gasps softly behind you, and when you try to glare at her, you realize why.

The snow didn’t just stop in your head. Every single flake is suspended in the air, glowing like diamonds over the endless mountains. Rays of sun split through the thick clouds, and the light fractures in a million colors, giving the world an impression that it’s been trapped in a prism. Your hands fall slightly, stunned by the never-ending rainbow, the glory of a world that only carries one kind of life, getting to remember what it hasn’t been allowed to see in countless years. The snow doesn’t move. It just hangs there, clinging to your every breath, waiting for you to tell it what to do.

Jo covers her mouth with her hand, and you take a slow, concentrated breath. You press your hands out, and ask the snow to move, just from here, just for a little while.

There’s a flurry of white. The cold bites your skin for a half second, and you have to cover your eyes. But when you look again, you see it.

The snow is gone. It’s piled up on the edge of the cliffs and flown to other mountains, scattering across the land to grant you access to what you knew you’d find.

The stone courtyard is wide. The columns are tall and the statues of everything from monkeys to lions to tigers are finely detailed with gold. You look at Jo, still crouched on the ground, holding your knife like a life raft. She doesn’t seem sure where to look, and you understand. The temple is massive. A feat of architecture, at this elevation, built likely longer ago than either of you can imagine. You turn in a slow circle, and it would steal your breath if you weren’t so focused on it.

That small, pulsing pull, just to the right of your heart. It’s magnetic, but completely still. You press your hand flat on your chest, almost trying to pull it out, and it gets a little stronger. The Spiderweb sparks in return, and you know. That’s your Dean.

You close your eyes, trying to follow the thin, static thread that powers it like a cable. You tug a little too hard, and everything vibrates and turns to colors and a rush of gold and purple and green and blue and silver. You loosen too much, and it starts to slip through your fingers like fine sand. You kneel down, bowing your head and just trying to feel it.

Just feel it, Princess.

You’re trying. But all you can make out is his voice. Deep and rough in a way you haven’t heard in a while. Scraping at the edge of every word, like he’s hasn’t been drinking water. Croaking in his throat like he’s been shouting. He sounds tired, and it makes your heart flip.

Yet still, you can’t make out a single fucking word.

You try. You try so hard, and Dean’s voice gets so loud you reach back, some instinctive, foolish part of you thinking he’s going to be right behind you. He’s in your ear, saying words that you can’t understand, that you can’t even begin to unscramble, because it seems to be really nothing but noise. You start to pant, scraping at the ground and doubling over. Jo breathes out your name, and you shake your head.

You can hear him. He’s out there, he’s alive, he’s praying to you so why can’t you fucking hear him, you should be able to hear him-

He says your name. It’s clearer than all the snow on the mountains, and your eyes shoot open. You let out a strangled sound, and he says your name again.

“Love you,” Dean rasps, and you can almost feel his breath on the back of your neck.

And you scream.

You scream so loud lightning cleaves through the mountains behind you, righteous and desperate to break something the same way you’re broken. You scream until you can’t hear the wind or the snowfall or Jo calling your name. You can only hear Dean. I love you, baby. Baby, I love you, easy, baby, I love you. It echoes around the valleys. Your head hurts so much you think it’s going to split open like a geode. Your back hurts like the sky itself is pressing down, but you’ve never had the resolve of an Atlas. You’ve never had the strength. Jo grabs you. You hold her back, trying to keep your feet on the ground.

The whole world becomes a blur of color and light and Dean’s voice, and then there’s just… Silence.

The hum of a fan. The rustle of sheets and eerp of Indy, romping across the small room as you fall to your knees. Claire says something you can’t hear, and Jo pulls her away. You hug yourself, trying to hold onto just a little bit of it. That kernel of Dean, already melting back into the Spiderweb with the rain, a heavy downpour on the roof, blowing in through the window, turning to something it didn’t think it could be. Something that doesn’t thaw, but flows through every bit of life, in the woods, the streets, the sewers and out into the ocean.

Jo takes Claire out. She says it’s for food. You know it’s so you can be alone, and you’ll thank her for it, when you can feel anything outside of yourself. You don’t want Claire around you like this. Dean would’ve done the same thing.

And he’s out there. You scratch at your chest and wrap a hand around your throat to calm down, but repeat it over and over until it’s embedded in your head. He’s alive. Dean’s alive. He’s out there, and alive.

The Lady curls in your lap, and Indy noses at your hand until you scratch her ears. Even Sparky darts over to sit on your head, pecking at your head until you offer in a finger, and move him to perch on your shoulder. Slowly, just like always, you come down.

He’s out there. Alive. Tired, but still able to speak. Still bothering to think of you.

Your gaze drifts to the box. Innocuous, peeking out from the folds of your bag. He wanted you to have it. He probably thinks you’ve already opened it.

I love you.

You crawl slowly across the ground and pull it out. The Lady and Indy poke at it, the Lady quickly losing interest and jumping on the bed, Indy seeming to recognize it as something of Dean’s and letting out a loud whine. You pat her head, settling against the foot of the bed, toying with the latch until it just… unclicks.

And you don’t know what you expected. A knife. A ring. A nice perfume, or more lingerie. Something important. Something worth giving you, then asking you not to open in front of him. You’d formed a curious mental list, of what that could possibly be.

You never once considered a pile of paper.

You frown. The box is overflowing with loose paper after loose paper, all of them covered in Dean’s blocky, uncoordinated scrawl. Sam used to say he had the handwriting of a fourth grader, and you’d smack Sam upside the head, because the little fucker didn’t teach himself the alphabet.

You miss him too. It’s smaller than that chasm of Dean that’s split through your spinal cord, but that’s a unique kind of pain. Sam alone is enough that you keep picking up the phone to ask him a question, before remembering he won’t pick up. If you asked Sam about these papers, he’d tell you to read them. He’d probably take one and just start reading it himself. At his invisible direction, you take the one off the very top. It’s crumpled. Almost a year old, if the date—April 17th, 2011—is correct.

It’s addressed to you.

Princess, 

Come home. 

You blink, the paper crinkling under your fingers. April 2011 you were in Heaven with Cas. And Dean-

Dean was writing this. For you.

I know that I’ve spent the last few months pissed at you. I know I wrote about twenty damn letters about it. A deep breath. Your biting your tongue enough to sting. And I know you’re gonna read them and only think that I hate you, but I don’t. Never did. Never could. 

You love something, you want it to be better. Heard that on TV, once. Might’ve been on the radio. Shit, maybe Sammy or you said it. But it’s the truth, baby. I love you, and I want you to be better. Not you, but you. I want you to be okay, and you aren’t okay. Not when you’re making crazy decisions like you think no one’s going to care if you go off the deep end. I care. Bobby cares. Sammy cares. And it goddamn kills me, that you think we don’t. So I need you to be okay.

I love you.

You close your eyes. It takes a moment to remember how to breathe. A moment to rub your eyes and collect yourself, so that the words don’t just float off the page.

You fucking killed me again, and I still love you. I’ve been trying to tell you. You never goddamn listen. You’re too smart for your own good, sweetheart. Can talk yourself into anything, and I- 

i think i feel you, sometimes. think i felt you now. its insane, but i feel you. the air smells more like you, and i can hear something that dont got words, but it sounds lie like you. and i know thats freaking batshit, but stranger things, right? you feel like an angel. you feel like everything good. and i wish you could understand that. sammy says you dont know. you gotta know. i wish i knew how to tell you. i wish that you’d believe me, when i did. 

i can show you. i know people can say things all they want and you dont believe them. got that spelled out for me, when it took me pinning you to a wall for you to realize maybe i wanted to fuck you. so ill keep doing it like that. ill help rowena get those souls out of you. ill kill eve for you. i wont let you pull that shit again, cause im about to make it real clear that i love you, and you can think nothing about me all you want (you probably should) but nothing you say is gonna make me love you less. i let you boss me around about a lot, princess. youre not getting the upper hand on this. you break my heart, you either stitch it back up like my hands or leave it like that till i die. but no one else is touching it. so deal with that. 

Not much for life updates. Had to tie Sammy’s shoes yesterday, cause he keeps falling over whenever he does them. Been taking Claire out to shoot bottles, she’s getting pretty good. Rowena ate dinner with us, which was weird, because I didn’t even know she ate. I don’t think she sleeps. I know she doesn’t cause I’m not either. 

I love you. And you’re going to goddamn feel it. 

Yours, DAW  

The world can’t be spinning. Your heart can’t still be beating. The edge of the paper crinkles too loud, and you drop it, terrified you broke it. Just as fast as you let it go, you pick it up. You read it again. A third time. You can hear him behind you, like at the mountain. You never goddamn listen. He thinks you might hate him. Never did. Never could. I love you. And you’re going to goddamn feel it. It’sso clear it presses on your nose, it burns in your chest, it rattles something so deep inside you the whole world seems to tilt. But not off axis.

Something flips, and you feel sick, but your feet are beneath you in a way they haven’t been maybe your whole life. Like your neck was snapped, but it just righted a part of your spine that had been wrong. Everything was upside down.

You read it until you’ve memorized it. You count the I love yous—all seven of them—like a squirrel stocking for winter.  

Then you remember the rest of the box. Not a box of paper.

A box of letters. A supply of them, enough that he barely seemed to be able to fit them all.

You fumble with the one in your hand, dropping it back at the top and pulling out the one beneath it. April 16th. You don’t read it yet, checking the one before that. April 15th. One for each day. Back through March, February, January, December. You dig all the way to the bottom, trying so hard to move fast and not rip a single page. The very first one is shorter. Dated February 21st, 2010. A little less than month after you and Sam fell in the cage, and stained with something that smells like beer.

Princess,

I don’t know how to do this. I’m going to spell things wrong. You’ll know what I’m saying. You usually do. One time I said boom and meant Molotov, but you got it. Sammy said I was the luckiest asshole alive, because he would’ve just made me go to bed with how much I was drinking.

I’m drinking more now. 

Youd be pissed.

I miss you.

This is shit. I’ll try again in the morning.

I love you

DAW.

Eight. Eight I love yous. Twelve, if you count the ones he said to your face. Twelve drops of love that hit you like a tsunami, that shake your world like falling stars. You hold it to your chest and close your eyes, tears burning over your face. You smear them like warpaint, before looking at February 22nd. He spells everything wrong, and you laugh because you can almost see his pretty face, scrunched in concentration. He doesn’t say he loves you in this one, just he says he needs you, and that’s more than enough. You grab February 23rd, and he talks about needing you to come home, and Bobby hating him for letting you jump in, and drinking rubbing alcohol—god, you hope he didn’t—before signing off.

I’ll be back tomorrow. 

Wait for me. 

I’m sorry. 

DAW.

You can’t keep reading. You can’t even see through the tears. You clutch the letters to your face, hyperventilating and shaking and feeling it. It’s so easy it makes you furious you didn’t let yourself have it sooner, and that just makes you cry harder, and soon your throat is too closed up and your nose is stuffed and your whole body has this bone deep exhaustion that can only let you sit there and feel it. All of it, unrelenting and permanent and inevitable, the same ways as yours.

Just through the scraps of paper in your hands, you can feel Dean’s love.

But you can’t say it back. You can’t have it without worrying it’s going to be taken away. You can’t just have a good thing and cherish and worship it, without looking out the window and waiting for the sky to warn you. For it to try and take it away. You can only bathe in it and fight for it and scream for it until you run out of breathe in a world where the air changes direction, just to blow your way.

And you’re glad you didn’t let the Leviathans kill God.

But you.

You can’t fucking wait to do it yourself.

Sam and Dean were celebrities. The icky, dramatic kind, that got their faces plastered on tabloids and everyone loved to hate. Dean had always thought everyone was exaggerating about it, but there was no way to ignore the truth. Not now. When it was punching him in the face.

There wasn’t a single monster in Purgatory that didn’t know the Winchesters. They had some nicknames. Some legends and rumors. Sammy got the good end of the stick.

“Beware the Younger,” Dean read off the tablet, smirking at the carved words. “Taller than the trees, colder than the winter. Demon boy- They’re all really hung up on the demon thing, huh?”

Across the firepit, Sammy sighed. “I did start the apocalypse,” he muttered, and Dean shrugged.

“Yeah, but who hasn’t. Don’t get a big head, Sammy, it’s gonna fall off your titan body.”

He laughed, and Sam made a face. “Come on, Dean, there’s no way it says that-

“Demon boy, head bigger than his heart, titan body that cuts through the world. Tower on the sunrise, never let him know your name, never let him know your game- Oh, they’re rhyming now- Never tell him where you come from or go, never make a deal you don’t plan to break.” Dean’s nose scrunched. “Dude, you sound like Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Shut up,” Sam muttered, looking around the dark woods. “What about you? Little burger man, head of ass?”

“Haha,” Dean flipped him off, squinting down the tablet. “Handsome Winchester, cooler Winchester, just surrender right now ‘cause he’s gonna kick your ass-“

“Gimme that.” Sam snatched the tablet out of Dean’s hand, and Dean laughed, letting it echo through the forest.

Sammy had warded the perimeter. They should be set for at least five hours. Enough to eat, breathe, sleep, patch up. And if something was determined enough to break through, they were already prowling past the wood line. Dean letting himself get a rare laugh wasn’t gonna change a thing.

“Fear the Elder,” Sam read and Dean leaned forward with a smirk. “Moving like the Mountains and unforgiving, blood on his hands and gold in his teeth. Silver tongue, red heart, beating louder than the sun. Never falters. Never turns around. No path he can’t tread. Man of God, Killer of God, End of the line, more vengeful than the most foul beast. Do not take what is his. Do not make his smile fall.”

Dean shrugged, a half-satisfied press to his lips. “Hey, y’know- Could be worse. I sound pretty freakin’ cool, you just sound like a knockoff bigfoot-“

“And never spill Winchester blood,” Sam said, his face falling, grim and pained. “Where the Whore will be able to smell it.”

Dean’s jaw locked. Sam glanced up, heavy, apologetic regret all over his puppy-dog face. Dean stretched at hand, beckoning Sam to pass it back over. He did, slowly, like he already kind of wanted to take it back.

“We don’t need to worry about this, it’s- She’s not here-“

“Do not think of the Whore,” Dean muttered, and Sam fell quiet. “If you need think of her, you are already dead.”

Dean swallowed, and he wanted to break this damn tablet in half. Sam bowed his head, watching Dean carefully, speaking like he was trying to talk down a damn jumper.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Dean,” he muttered. “And- I mean, that’s a warning, not a call to battle.”

Dean grunted and dropped the tablet on the ground. He knew She wasn’t in any danger of a monster taking her out. Not like Sam and Dean were.

But She wasn’t alright.

Dean didn’t know how long he and Sammy had been stuck here. Time moves differently in these places, and Purgatory nights seemed to crawl twice as long as the days. They’d touched down a lifetime ago, figured out that they were pretty much screwed, and never had a second to tally up the weeks since.

They’d made an agreement. No giving up. Not on each other. Not on getting back home. They’d either stay alive long enough for someone topside to yank them out, or figure out a way home themselves. Dean thought She and Cas might work it out in the first month, until She told him that she hadn’t spoken to Cas since some big fight after Michigan. Dean should’ve seen that one coming. He loved Her to death and past it, but she’d never exactly been open to people telling her what to do, or stopping her, or getting in her way. Cas had—under Dean’s instruction—done all three.

He’d tried to soft pitch the idea that maybe Cas had just been listening to Dean, and it was more his fault that he’d landed his ass in Purgatory. She hadn’t given Dean the impression that she listened.

But She could figure this out herself. Weird stuff was her specialty, and there wasn’t much weirder than being trapped in Purgatory. Dean tried to give Her all the help he could, from the other side. There wasn’t much. He didn’t know anything about any of this, and She didn’t think he was real.

He’d thought about telling Her. He thought about it until his head hurt. He opened his mouth and choked on the words. He got a half-confession out, then looked at her a little too long and lost his voice. She might not believe him. She didn’t seem to, whenever he got too close to the truth.

A few nights ago, he’d written out this whole damn speech. Sammy had been knocked out, Dean had been on watch duty, and he’d used his makeshift knife to scratch the words in the dirt. He’d look up at rustles in the woods, or one of Sam’s bigger sleep-snorts, but that was it. He was going out next. He’d see Her, and she wouldn’t know she was seeing him, and it was one of those things Dean knew was going to bite him in the ass about, if he didn’t deal with it soon.

It’s me, Princess. Really me. Real me, Dean. Your Dean. Not a dream Dean- He’d laughed to himself, then groaned.

There was no good way to do it. The more he thought about it, the worse it got. This wasn’t a monster of his own making, it was an infection he’d already let sit too long. It was already a big if, whether or not she’d believe him. There wasn’t much he could say to prove it, when she thought he was just a figment of her imagination. If he told Her something about herself, she’d know it. If he said something about himself, She’d think he was making it up, and he’d have no way to convince her otherwise. She’d think it was too good, too easy to be true. Dean would’ve thought the same thing two years ago. Before Death. Before soulmates.

And if he got her to listen, there wasn’t an explanation that wouldn’t end there. Soulmates.

Dean had sort of dug himself a very big, very deep grave with this one. He kinda wanted to tell Sammy, just to give the kid a good laugh at his expense.

He only had two ways through this one. He said soulmates, and She didn’t believe him—pretty likely, as even if it made perfect sense, if there was one thing his girl had always been good at doing it was talking circles around herself until she believed up was right and left was down—and she didn’t believe the dreams were real, and Dean got stranded in the grave. He’d prove it when he got home, and She’d blame herself for not listening, and have a pretty big freakout, and then calm down and kill Dean for keeping that from her for a whole year.

Or he said soulmates, and She believed him, and she dragged him out of Purgatory by his ear just to kill him. For keeping that from her. For a whole damn year.

He’d groaned and kicked dirt of his speech, dropping his face into his hands. He was screwed. He was so fucking screwed, he might as well start figuring out how he wanted to decorate the doghouse.

And he knew making it, that this wasn’t going to be his best call, but he didn’t have many others to choose from.

He wouldn’t tell Her. It wouldn’t work. She didn’t trust Her own head, enough for Dean to talk her into it. And with everything She’d told him, there was more than enough for her to worry about. If he told Her, the small sanctuaries of their dreams would just turn into another place for her to freak out. She’d ask him to relay theories to Sam, and demand to see all his injuries, babying and smacking him at the same time when he told her how he and Sammy had dealt with the latest rush of vamps.

Dean knew it could be called selfish. He didn’t care. Not for this. Not when the dreams were all he goddamn had.

If you need think of her, you are already dead.

Dean almost snorted. He did nothing but think of Her, and he felt kinda dead. He and Sammy were both just cutting their way through the motions, mechanical and unwavering until they came out the other side.  

“You made any progress on that map thingy?” He muttered, and Sammy sighed.

“No, not really. I- I don’t know, Dean, how useful is it even gonna be-“

Dean cut him off with Her name. “She’ll wanna see it. You two can geek out about rivers or whatever, soon as we’re out.”

Sam’s mouth twitched, doubtful and quiet. His eyes dropped to the dirt, Dean leaned forward on his log, making his voice firm.

“Sammy, don’t make the freakin’- grieving wife face-“

“Why not?” Sam snapped, but it wasn’t forceful. It was just… tired.

They were both so damn tired.

“I mean, what the are we even doing, Dean? Wandering around, hoping we don’t die in the morning? We don’t even have a clue where to start, where this ends-“ Sam waved a hand, his voice raising. “All I do is try not to lose it and shoot you by accident, and all you do is make- Make stupid jokes and pray before bed! You, Dean, you’re praying.” Sam scoffed. “I’d think you were a shifter if we didn’t test each other every freakin’ day. I mean, who are you even pray to. Who’s going to care?”

Sam’s shout lingered in the air. He let out a heaving, long breath—Dean had a feeling he’d been holding it in for a while—and slumped back down. Dean stared at the fire, at the long shadows, flickering in the dark.

Sammy wasn’t wrong. He had been praying. Every night during his watch, every day when he stopped to take a piss, he was about three Hail Mary’s away from calling himself an altar boy.

But he couldn’t think of another damn thing to do.

He said Her name, slow and hallowed. The most important word in the world. He could swear that, in the starless Purgatory sky, something glowed past the dark.

Sammy looked up with a frown, and Dean swallowed, repeating Her name, a little louder this time.

“I’ve been prayin’ to her. Every night.” He shook his head. “And- I know it ain’t doing much, but- Hell, Sammy, I can’t stop. It’s gotta get help her, right? I tell her where we are, I tell her what we’re seeing, everything. That’ll help.”

“I don’t know,” Sam said softly. “I mean, why would she even be hearing it? I know- In Heaven- But this isn’t Heaven. Cas can’t hear our prayers down here-“

“She isn’t Cas.” Dean muttered. “It’s- It’s different-“

“No, I- I know, Dean, but- She doesn’t exactly take prayers, dude-“

“She takes them from me.”

Sam fell silent. Dean sighed, staring at his hands. Caked in mud. Cold and clasped together. He felt goddamn sick.

“We’re- Me and her-“ The words just wouldn’t come out. Not without Dean twisting them. “We got a soul-bond.”

“A soul-bond?”

Dean grunted an agreement, and Sam stared at him.

“What- What the hell does that even mean-“

“Means what it means,” Dean snapped. “Means she should be able to hear it, when I’m the one praying. But- I don’t know, Sammy. Some kinda wire must be getting crossed, ‘cause I don’t think it’s working.”

They were silent for a moment. Dean glanced up, only to find Sam still frowning at him. There was that far-off look on his face, though. Like he was more in his head than out there with the rest of the world. Dean leaned into his vision, waving for attention, and Sammy blinked.

“Huh?”

“Nothin’, just- Earth to Sammy,” Dean narrowed his eyes. “What were you doing the nerd eyes about.”

“The-“ Sam sighed. “I told you not to call it that-“

“I’ll call it what I want,” Dean shrugged. “What’s up.”

“It’s- I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing,” Sam said it all small, and Dean knew it wasn’t nothing.

“Sam…” He warned, and Sam caved quick.

“Just- What if- And I’m not saying this is it, but-“ Sam glanced up, then back to Dean, dropping his voice. “We’re in a weird spot. And I know he doesn’t stand much against her or whatever, but- He can pretty easily mess with you, Dean. No offense.”

Dean scowled. “How am I not supposed to take offense to that-“

“Because it’s God,” Sammy hissed. “And you’re like- A dude.”

“A dude who stole his wife,” Dean muttered under his breath, and Sammy rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, dude. That’s my point. Maybe he’s not super happy about that, and he’s… I don’t know, messing with the prayer signal.” Sam’s throat bobbed, his voice getting tight. “And she… She just can’t hear you at all.”

And a critical, cardiac thing in Dean plunged. His lungs faltered like they’d collapsed, and his heart slowed to a titanic pace, and his jaw tightened so much he knew that—if She was here—She’d grab it and pry it open and yell at him about grinding his teeth.

She had to have been hearing. She had to know he was in Purgatory, that he was looking for a way back to Her, that he loved Her. God was a son of a bitch, but he owed Dean that much. Dean had saved his damn life. He’d given everything—mostly for Her, but God sure was reaping the benefits—and the bastard didn’t get to just swoop in. To take Her away from Dean, when She needed him.

If She hadn’t been hearing him, She- She might think he was dead.

Sam said Dean’s name, worried and tense. Dean waved him off. He didn’t want to talk about this. Not now. Not when he could feel parts of the ground crumbling, and he couldn’t afford to lose his footing.

“I’m getting’ my two,” he grunted, moving down to his back. “Wake me up to trade watch.”

Sam sighed and gave him that sad, pitiful look again, but he knew better than to argue. They could go to bat about strategy, about next moves, about food or camp or any other damn thing, and they’d work it out. It was the closest to the team Dad had trained them to be, for better or worse.

But Dean wasn’t gonna talk about Her. Not in any way that might turn to a fight.

He twisted so his back was to Sammy, closed his eyes, and counted himself luckier than most. At least he still got a part of her, even if it was going to vanish from his fingers by morning.

If you can hear me, he prayed. And Christ, I hope you can, I’m coming home, sweetheart. I swear I’m coming home. I’ll hold on if you hold on. Fuck, I’ll hold on for both of us. Just don’t give up on me. Dean squeezed his eyes tighter, fighting off the burn. I love you. All the way down, remember. You and me. Just you and me.

And all Dean heard in response was the howl of the wind, high above his head, untouchable, untamable, and wild in the dark.

Dean didn’t count the money on the table. He remembered exactly how much there had been. He remembered exactly how long it had lasted, before he’d needed to make some difficult calls. He turned over a few bills in his hands, and wondered if there had been another way. One where he’d stretched everything thinner, while keeping Sammy in one piece. There wasn’t going to be any avoiding the rougher parts. There never was. You didn’t get outta the mountains without crawling through the caves. But if he’d been a little smarter, maybe the would’ve come out with a few less bruises, or he could’ve taken more bullets.

“What’s the money for?” She murmured, and Dean wrapped his arm around Her shoulders, pulling her almost fully into his lap.

“Nothing,” he lied easily. She didn’t have to worry about it. Dean knew She was probably doing enough of that already. “You have a good day, Princess?”

She shook Her head, her lips pursed into a swollen little line, her whole face crestfallen and her body shaking like a damn toy poodle. She climbed over him, legs hooking around his waist and head bowing. Dean knew Her well. He cradled the back of Her head and kissed her brow, frowning against the warm skin.

“Fight with Jo?” He asked quietly, and got no answer. “You talk to Cas-“

“No,” She mumbled, and Dean sighed.

He left Her cling to him. She almost burrowed Her face into his neck, and when Dean spread his fingers on her lower back and pushed Her closer, she let out a soft, sweet little noise and eased fully into his arms. It filled Dean with a strange, warped kind of pride. He was caring for Her. She was letting herself relax, and he was willing to bet a real cut of money that she hadn’t stopped moving since he and Sammy had vanished.

A few days after this night at the table, he’d be out with Sammy at the park, and the kid would ask him about girls. What was ‘up’  with them, how he was supposed to talk to them, why Dad didn’t like either of them hanging around them too long. Dean could chalk up a lot of Sammy’s lapses in charm to Dad giving him the impression that the prettier the girl was, the more likely she was to be venomous or something.

And Dean had done his best to combat that, but he’d been a bit of an idiot. He hadn’t met Her yet. He hadn’t known how good the world could get, when you had something so beautiful it caught all the light and cast it around her, like a diamond that melted into water, a river that swept Dean away to a kind of paradise he should’ve known better than to fight.

He’d told Sammy then that women were like dogs. He’d barely been thirteen. He’d been failing most of his classes, scraping by with hands covered in things a boy’s hands should never know, and he’d been trying to get big enough to match Dad’s shadow. Dad said women were like dogs. All different kinds of them, loud or quiet, loyal or violent, lazy or constantly running around for attention. They brought you joy, but they were just damn dogs. Nothing you wouldn’t do for yours. No real, logical need  for them outside of a companion.

Sammy had been doubtful. He’d always been smarter than Dean anyway.

But Dean knew better now. He needed Her, just for the damn logical reason of a third, better opinion than he and Sammy were going to offer. He needed Her to swoop in like of God from the Machine and save their asses, and he need to feel Her outside of these dreams. He needed Her to be okay. It was better than nothing, that he could take this wolf of a woman and turn her into a snuggling koala, but She didn’t think it was real. And Dean didn’t know how that was going to carry over into the real world.

“You gonna be alright?” He asked, because even if She lied, at least that meant she had some fight left.

She leaned back and stared at him. She had those doe eyes again, and it made Dean swallow. He couldn’t fuck her in here. Not when She didn’t think it was real.

Her eyes dropped to his lips, and Dean’s tongue darted out, almost against his will. He muttered Her name, and she leaned forward until their brows were resting together, her breathing short and ragged. Dean rubbed a slow circle on Her back, almost purely to ground himself. She stared at his mouth, then slowly dragged her gaze up, and Dean thought he might choke on his heart.

“Don’t gimme that,” he said, pleading and quiet, and She shied a little back.

No. Dean couldn’t have that. He grabbed Her neck, keeping her forward, and let their lips brush in the lightest possible touch.

“C’mon, Bambi,” he said, soft and teasing. “Look at me.”

She did. Tears made Her eyes glow, and Dean dug his fingers into her soft skin, trying to keep her together with just a touch. Even one she didn’t think was real.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he said, and it came out like an order. He was past caring. “Got it?”

She nodded. It was small. Tight and unsure. Dean took it anyway.

“C’mere,” he pulled Her closer, moving into a deep, slow kiss. She made that pretty little sound of surprise, like she still didn’t expect it to always feel this good. Dean pressed his tongue on Her swollen lower lip, and she shivered, pulling herself closer by her thighs.

He smiled against Her lips. He didn’t rush. This was all he had. This was what he was fighting to get back to.

He wasn’t about to let a single moment slip through his fingers. Not now. And never when he got home.

✦chapter 74

✦End note: sooooo much planned this season. 2 secrets i believe. many many things :). thank you for reading! Chapter Title from Ain't No Mountain by Marvin Gaye

✦If you like this story, please reblog, like, or leave a comment! <3

That's an exaggeration—he'd tell you so himself later, with that easy grin and a dismissive wave—but in the moment, lying on a stretcher with a piece of shrapnel the size of a two-pence coin lodged in his left shoulder and a look on his face like he's more annoyed than injured, it certainly seems like a contender.

"Don't move," you tell him, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves as the medivac shudders and banks.

"Wasn't planning on it," he replies through gritted teeth, and then, because apparently, he's incapable of not being charming even while slowly bleeding out.

"You always this bossy, or am I special?"

"Just for the ones who are too stupid to duck."

He laughs a short, startled bark that immediately turns into a groan when the movement jostles his shoulder too much, so you press your palm flat against his chest and push him back down firmly.

"Don't bloody move, Sergeant."

He groans in pain and obeys. "Yes, ma'am."

Then his eyes find yours; warm, hazelnut brown, and sharp with pain but alert, and he holds your gaze for a beat longer than necessary until you look away first.

And you start working on his wound, cleaning it with a gentleness that you usually have no time to spare.

That's how it starts.

The friendship builds the way military friendships do, namely in proximity and repetition, in shared meals and overlapping schedules and the intimacy of being two people who exist in the same small ecosystem of a forward operating base.

You're not 141—not technically.

You're attached to the medical unit that supports their operations, one of a handful of combat medics who rotate through depending on the mission profile. But somehow, Kyle Garrick's name keeps appearing on the ops you're assigned to, and somehow, he keeps finding his way to your table in the mess until the space next to you becomes his space without anyone deciding it should be.

He brings you tea. Not regularly or performatively, but on the mornings after bad nights, the kind where you've been elbow-deep in someone's chest cavity for hours and the adrenaline crash leaves you hollowed out and shaking at four a.m. And he doesn't say anything about it. Just appears with two mugs, sits down, and talks about something mundane like football scores, a podcast he's been listening to, and the ongoing sad saga of Soap trying to grow a moustache, until the tremor in your hands eases and you can hold the mug without spilling.

You learn Kyle in fragments.

He's from London—Battersea, specifically, which he brings up with a particular local pride. That he reads more than anyone else on the team and never talks about it unless you ask, and that he can cook, properly cook, not just the sad bachelor reheating that passes for cuisine among most of the men on base. And that he calls his mum every Sunday without fail, even from a FOB in the middle of nowhere, even if the connection is shit and they spend half the call saying, “You're breaking up,” at each other.

However, the fact that he looks at you differently than he looks at anyone else, that he keeps to himself.

But you notice it anyway, the way you notice a change in a patient's vitals before any machine can tell you—gradually, then all at once.

How his eyes track you across a room; how his voice shifts when he talks to you—softer, lower, a register reserved exclusively for your frequency, and the way his hand lands on the small of your back when you're walking through a crowded corridor and stays there a beat too long, warm through your shirt. And neither of you mentions it.

Then again, you don't mention a lot of things.

The rule is established on a Tuesday night in a shipping container that serves as a break room, four months into whatever this is.

You're sitting on the floor with your back against a supply crate, sharing a bag of crisps and a companionable silence. Kyle is beside you; close enough that his shoulder presses against yours and you can feel the warmth radiating off his body while you're watching him read something on his phone.

The blue light catches the profile of his face, and the thought that surfaces in your chest is so sudden and so clear that it knocks the breath out of you momentarily.

I could love you so easily it terrifies me.

Kyle looks up, catches your expression, and whatever you let slip onto your face in that unguarded second makes something in his eyes shift and crack open. He turns towards you, and you can practically see the words forming on his lips, can feel the entire trajectory of what's about to happen.

"Don't."

He stops, closes his mouth. Your heart stutters.

"Don't say it, Kyle."

Silence follows. Not uncomfortable or confused. Kyle knows exactly what you're asking. His jaw works, his eyes search your face, and you watch him weigh the cost of obedience against the cost of defiance.

"Why?" he asks eventually.

Because if you say it, I'll have to fucking feel it and it will distract me and I can't fucking allow that. I can't do my fucking job if I'm worrying about whether you're coming back to me. Because I've watched women lose men in this line of work and I've seen what it fucking does to them and I can't. I fucking can't, Kyle.

Your face stays neutral and then you don't say any of that; you merely look at him, and despite your charade, he reads it on your face the way he is trained to read hidden clues.

"Okay," he breathes and his shoulders slump some, but you have to ignore it.

And that's it. Okay.

He goes back to his phone. His shoulder stays pressed against yours. The bag of crisps sits between you, and after a minute, his hand dips in and retrieves one, and the crunch of it in the silence is so absurdly normal that you almost laugh.

Kyle never says it.

He doesn't need to, because it's in every cup of tea, every quiet walk, every time his eyes find you across a crowded room and stay. It's said in the space he keeps beside him that is always yours; in the way he says your name and makes it sound like the answer to a question he's been carrying for years.

Kyle looks at you like you're the sun, and he never says a word, and you keep pretending you’re not the one burning.

The op goes sideways at 0344 hrs, and you're not even supposed to be this close to the action.

The medical station is set up two hundred metres back from the primary assault position, behind a concrete barrier wall that provides decent cover and a clear line to the extraction point.

You've done this before—dozens of times, probably more. All the waiting, the radio chatter, the controlled calm of a medical team standing by while operators do what operators do.

Then the radio crackles with a voice you don't recognise, young and tight with panic, calling for a medic, and you're moving before the call sign finishes.

The rookie's name is Leon. Lance Corporal. Twenty-two, maybe twenty-three; you don't ask, because asking how old they are makes it worse when it goes bad. He's lying on his side behind a low wall, and there's blood—too much blood, dark and arterial, soaking through his fatigues and pooling beneath him on the packed dirt.

You drop to your knees beside him, and your hands are already moving; pulling your gloves on and shears out, eyes flickering and assessing while your voice does the thing it always does, shifting into that calm, steady register that has nothing to do with how you feel and everything to do with what he needs.

"Leon, I'm here. You're alright. I've got you."

"Hey—h-hey, Doc—" He's talking. Talking is good. It means conscious, means his airway is free, and that means precious time. His voice is thin and reedy, in shock, but he's trying to grin, and the sight of it—this young man, someone’s boy, grinning up at you with blood on his teeth—makes something behind your sternum compress.

"Y're pretty," he slurs. "Has anyone—has anyone told y-you that?"

You pull your gloves on, snapping them in place. "Save it, Casanova. I need you to stay still."

"'M just saying—" He coughs, winces, keeps going because they always keep going. "If I'd known the medic was this fit,” he tries to lift his hand to gesture, but drops it with a guttural groan, “I would've—would've gotten shot sooner."

"Hilarious. Now don't move."

You're cutting his fatigues open, working fast, locating the source of the bleeding. Lower abdomen, right side, bad but not the worst you've seen. And when his hand suddenly does come up, it’s to catch your wrist in a weak grip.

He’s trembling, but insistent.

"C-careful," he sputters, and his eyes, so wide and glassy, scared beneath the bravado, flicker down to his chest. "Careful with—be careful with my heart."

You pause to look at him.

His hand releases your wrist and pats clumsily at his breast until it finds his chest pocket, just above the body armour line, and you can see the edge of it poking out. A photograph. A Polaroid, slightly bent and stained, tucked against his chest like a talisman.

"My girl," he mumbles, and his grin softens into something private and unbearably young. "That's—that's m-my girl in there. Don't let it—Don't get blood on it, aye? She'll—she'll kill me—"

Your hands don't stop. They never truly stop. You reach into his pocket with two fingers, extract the Polaroid, and tuck it safely into your own vest without looking at it, because if you look at it, you'll see a face, and if you see a face, you'll think about someone waiting at home for a phone call, and if you think about that it will stay with you.

"Safe with me," you assure him, and your voice doesn't waver, because it can't.

"Cheers, Doc." His eyes are drifting. "You're—You're proper lovely, y’know that? My mum would—my mum—"

"Stay with me, Corporal. Eyes open. On me."

You work efficiently; packing the wound, applying pressure, calling for the stretcher team, and relaying vitals in the clipped shorthand of someone who has done this too many times. All while Leon keeps talking about his girlfriend, his mum, and the puppy he's going to get when he's out, and you let him, because the talking means he's alive and the noise means you don't have to think.

You hand him off to the stretcher team eleven minutes after you reached him. He'll live. The wound is ugly but the bleed is controlled and he'll make it to the surgical team and he'll live, and you stand up and your gloves are soaked and there's blood on your knees and the Polaroid is still in your vest pocket, pressed against your chest.

Be careful with my heart.

You walk behind the barrier wall. You make it four steps before your legs give out.

It's not the blood. You can handle the blood. It's not the fear, you manage the fear, that's the job.

It's the fucking Polaroid.

It's this kid—this stupid, brave, terrified kid—lying in the dirt with his insides trying to escape and his only concern being a photograph of a girl who's probably sitting in a flat somewhere right now, watching telly, not knowing, not feeling it yet, the way she will when the call comes, the way she'll carry it for the rest of her life even though he'll live, because now she'll know how close she came to a world without him in it.

And you think about Kyle.

The looks you share and rules you’ve set; the metaphorical photograph you've been carrying in your own chest pocket.

What if it was him on that stretcher? What if it was his blood on your gloves?

What if the last thing he said to you was your name and he never got to say the rest because you told him not to?

Your breath hitches while your vision blurs. And your hands, usually so steady and reliable, are trembling so badly you must press them flat against the concrete wall to keep them still.

"Hey."

You flinch at Kyle's sudden voice behind you. He must have come to find you first after falling back with his comrades. Always seeking you out, even in the middle of a warzone.

You hear his boots on the gravel, the careful approach, and you know without turning around that his face will be open and concerned, and you cannot look at it right now.

"Don't."

The word comes out sharp, like a warning shot fired from a position that's already been overrun.

His footsteps stop.

"Don't—come closer. Don't—I'm fine, Kyle, I'm—"

Your voice breaks on his name, shatters like glass in your mouth, and the silence that follows is awful and filled with everything you've been refusing to say for months.

Kyle doesn't come closer, but he doesn't leave, either. You can hear his long exhale as he waits at a distance of three feet behind you.

And you press your forehead against the concrete wall, not crying but swallowing against the lump in your throat, because if you start you know you won't be able to stop.

Instead, you breathe, counting, pulling yourself together because this is hardly the place. And then you straighten up, strip off your soiled gloves, stuff them in the waste bag at your hip, and walk past him without meeting his eyes.

"I'm fine," you say again.

Kyle doesn't answer, but you feel his gaze on your back all the way to the medical station, infuriatingly warm and steady.

Two days later, they’re stateside again.

It's half-nine in the evening and Kyle is sitting on his sofa in his flat, wearing grey joggers and a t-shirt, not doing any of the things he normally does to decompress after deployment. He's just sitting, one arm along the back of the sofa, staring at nothing, turning a thought repeatedly in his head like a stone in his palm.

The radio is on. It's always on nowadays. The flat is too quiet without it, the silence too close to the kind of silence you sit in on a rooftop at two a.m. waiting for a target to emerge. It’s set on some station that plays a mix of old soul and R&B that he doesn't actively listen to but lets wash over him like white noise.

His phone buzzes with a message from Soap.

kid's stable. docs say full recovery. told him you said cheers.

And Kyle types back: Good. Thanks.

Three dots. Soap is typing. Kyle watches them pulse.

you alright mate?

Yeah. Why?

didnt seem alright on the flight back. neither did she.

Kyle stares at the screen while the cursor keeps blinking in the empty reply field.

whats going on between you 2?

He could answer that, type the ugly truth, and tell his best mate that he loves her and she won't let him say it and two days ago she nearly broke in front of him and he had to stand there and watch, but the words look kind of wrong on a screen. Impersonal. They look wrong everywhere Kyle has come to realize lately. They've been sitting inside his chest for so long they've calcified, become part of the architecture, load-bearing walls he can't remove without the whole structure coming down.

Nothing, he replies and sets the phone face-down on the cushion beside him.

And it's so far from nothing that the word feels like a lie in a foreign language, technically incorrect but functionally necessary.

He thinks about the wall, and you pressed against it; your forehead bowed against concrete, your hands shaking for the first time since he's known you. You looked like a woman who was coming apart at the seams, and something is burning behind his chest to know why, because it’s not about that young soldier. Partially, maybe.

And then Kyle ponders about the fact that you walked past him afterwards and said, “I'm fine,” in a voice that was the exact opposite of fine, and he let you go, because that's the deal. That's the bloody rule. You drew the line months ago, he is staying behind it like an obedient little soldier, and he watched you walk away and he didn’t follow.

And he's so fucking tired of not following, but it seems to be the only way to even keep you around.

Kyle drops his head back against the sofa and closes his eyes. The radio murmurs something slow and warm into the dim flat, and the candle on the coffee table that you gifted him some time ago flickers in the draft from the cracked window.

He should sleep, eat something, and call his mum, who will hear it in his voice immediately and ask what's wrong and he'll say nothing again, and she won't believe him, but she'll let it go.

Instead, he sits in the semi-dark and the candlelight and the quiet music and he thinks about you, the way he's been thinking about you for too damn long. Since that day he found himself with a bullet hole on a stretcher, looking up at you for the first time like he was seeing an angel.

His phone buzzes again, but he doesn’t check it.

A few seconds later, there is a knock at his front door. Soft, almost reserved, like the person isn’t sure if they want the door to be opened.

Kyle's eyes open and his heart does something hopeful before he gets up and crosses the flat, floorboards warm under his bare feet. And when he reaches for the door handle, unlocking and opening the door, you’re suddenly standing on his doorstep, looking like you haven't slept.

You're in civvies, hair undone in a way he's rarely seen with shadows under your eyes and a tightness around your mouth that he recognises as the last line of defence before something collapses entirely.

Your head tips back to meet his gaze and his eyes lock on yours while the radio plays softly behind him, and the candlelight throws warm amber across the hallway, and the summer air drifts through the cracked window carrying the smell of cut grass and distant rain.

"I don't know how to do this," you admit suddenly, and your voice is so small that he barely recognizes it from the usual commanding and steady tone you use in the field.

And Kyle doesn't speak, because he doesn’t trust himself not to break this fragile moment, so he holds your gaze for one long, careful moment, and steps aside to give you the option.

The door opens wider. The warmth of his flat presses out towards you; cedar candle, the low murmur of the radio, the quiet of a space that belongs to someone who keeps it tidy because chaos fills enough of his life elsewhere, and you look at the open doorway, then back at him, standing beside it, ever the patient friend who says nothing because you told him to.

You walk inside, passing him tentatively.

The flat is warmer than the night outside, dimmer. The overhead light is off; just the candle on the coffee table and another on the kitchen counter, casting everything in a soft, amber glow that smooths the edges of the furniture and catches in Kyle's eyes when he turns to face you.

"Tea?" he asks, already moving towards the kitchen, because this is what he does. This is the language he speaks when words aren't enough. Acts of quiet service, offered without ceremony.

"I don't want tea."

He stops; his back is to you, and you can see the line of his shoulders through his t-shirt, the tension he's holding there carefully the way he holds everything, and he turns around slowly.

"Okay," he says. "What do you want then?"

The question is simple and open, contains no pressure and no presumption, and it nearly undoes you on the spot, because Kyle Garrick has been asking you this question in a hundred different ways for over a year and this is the first time you're going to answer it honestly.

"I don't want to talk about what happened."

"Alright."

"I don't want to," you inhale, make a vague gesture which makes it clear that you’re currently just winging it like he is, "debrief, or process, or—"

Kyle nods, his brows set in focus. "Alright."

"I want—" Your voice catches as you look at him properly, standing in his kitchen in joggers and bare feet, candlelight warm on his skin, watching you with those steady brown eyes that have never, looked at you with anything less than complete, unwavering attention, and the thing inside you that's been holding, holding, holding for months finally gives.

Your shoulders sag as you deflate in surrender. "Kyle… I want you."

Those words fall into the space between you, and the radio fills the silence that follows—some song fading out, a beat of static, and then the opening notes of something slow and aching, a voice you recognise, deep and rich and full of longing.

…When your baby leaves you all alone…

Kyle's expression doesn't change; doesn't light up in triumph or crack into relief. He just looks at you, and his eyes are so warm, so full, that you understand, suddenly, what it must have cost him—all those months of silence, of holding the shape of this feeling without being allowed to name it.

…And nobody calls you on the phone…

You cross the kitchen towards him, drawn in like a magnet who has finally been let go, until you're standing close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest and see the way his breathing has changed to something deeper and deliberately controlled.

Your hands come up slowly, like you're approaching an animal that might startle, except the only thing that might startle here is you. Your fingers brush the sides of his neck, trail up to his stubbled jaw, and your arms loop loosely around his neck, your wrists crossing behind his head.

…Don't you feel like crying? Well, here I am, baby…

Kyle's hands find your waist; tentative like a question at first, and then settling, his palms warm and solid against the fabric of your jumper, thumbs pressing gently against your ribs.

You sway together. It's not a dance, not really—there's no rhythm to it, no form, just two bodies finding each other in a dim kitchen and moving because standing still feels impossible. Then his forehead tips down to meet yours, and your noses brush, and you breathe the same air, and the song washes over both of you like warm water.

…Come on, cry to me…

"Be careful with my heart," you whisper.

His hands tighten on your waist, a fractional compression, like a held breath.

"Always," he replies, and his voice is rough and low, barely more than an exhale, and he means it the way he means everything he was allowed to say to you—completely, without reservation and caveat.

You allow yourself to kiss him.

And it's not the desperate, hungry collision you expected—not the dam breaking and the flood taking you both. It's slow, careful. His lips meet yours softly, like he's memorising the shape of you in case you change your mind again, and then his hand slides up from your waist to the side of your neck, his thumb against your jaw, tilting your head just slightly, and he deepens it; more present and intentional. The kind of kiss that tells you he has been thinking about exactly this for a very long time and he isn’t going to rush a single second of it.

You melt into him. Your fingers brush over the short hair at the back of his head and his arm wraps around your lower back, pulling you flush against him, and the sound he makes vibrates against your lips and settles somewhere deep in your chest.

"Kyle—"

"I know, babygirl." His mouth moves to your jaw, your neck, pressing slow, open kisses against the skin there. "I know."

He doesn't say the thing he wasn’t allowed to say before. Even now, even with your body finally pressed against his like this, he doesn't say it yet, because you told him not to, and he's a man who keeps his word, even when keeping it is killing him inside.

"You can say it," you whisper against his temple frantically as if you might be running out of time now. "Kyle. You can say it."

He pulls back, studies you, and the expression on his face, the sheer, unbearable relief of someone who's been holding a breath for over a year, makes your eyes sting.

But Kyle doesn't say it with words.

He says it by lifting you with his hands under your thighs and carrying you down the short hallway to his bedroom, where the window is cracked open and the cream curtains shift in the warm summer breeze and the sheets on his bed are clean, cool, and tucked into the corners with military precision like everything else in his flat.

He lays you down like you're precious; someone he's been trusted with and intends to deserve.

"Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs, kneeling over you, and his hands are trembling as he reaches for the hem of your jumper.

You blink up at him, heart fluttering with sweet anticipation. "It's not too much."

And his eyes soften at your reaction when he notices your pulse thudding in your neck. "Tell me anyway."

He pulls the jumper over your head slowly, his eyes travel over you, drinking you in, and the weight of his attention is heavier and warmer than any touch.

"You're—" he starts, stops and shakes his head like he cannot quite fathom what he is seeing, and a breath that might be a laugh escapes him. "Christ."

"Eloquent."

"Shut up." He's smiling now, that private, soft smile that he only ever gives to you, and he dips his head and presses his mouth to the hollow of your throat while you arch into it, your hands gripping his broad shoulders.

He undresses you slowly, treating every piece of clothing removed with the same care, the same deliberate attention; his mouth following his hands, pressing kisses to your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, the inside of your wrist. When he pulls his own shirt over his head, you reach for him immediately, clammy palms flat against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath heated skin.

"Kyle." Your voice is barely there. "Please."

He settles between your thighs, and the solid weight of him makes something deep and yearning in your chest crack open and spill over at last.

His mouth finds yours again, slow and thorough and devastating; his tongue sliding against yours as his hand trails down between your bodies, his fingers brushing against your cotton panties where you're already wet and wanting, and the sound you make into his mouth is small and desperate, and nothing like the woman who holds men together on battlefields.

"I've got you," he murmurs, and his fingers move over the damp fabric; slow circles, gentle pressure, learning you slowly until your back arches and your face is hot.

Then his fingers hook under the edge of your waistband to slide your panties off and leave you bare.

When your legs part wider for him, Kyle nuzzles the crease at the apex of your thigh, inhaling your scent deeply while a shudder ripples through his body.

"You smell incredible," he groans shamelessly, and before you can get flustered, his tongue flicks out to taste your swollen clit and the keen you let out makes him curse again. "Fuck. And you taste even better."

Your eyes roll back when Kyle starts licking you in earnest; sucking your clit between his supple lips, flickering his tongue against the sensitive pearl and slipping one, then two fingers inside until your hips buck and you come beneath his tongue with a moan that dissolves into a drawn-out sigh.

"Kyle," you mewl needily, and he understands immediately.

The aching and yearning, and the knowledge that you’re finally allowed to get and take what you have been craving for so long. It’s as exhilarating as it is dizzying.

He presses the softest kiss to the tuft of hair on your mound before crawling up your body with a look of purest devotion and hunger in his eyes that causes your breath to stutter.

You sit up to help him slide his joggers off, and when you realize that he was going commando all this time, your lashes flutter at the sight of his cock. Long, uncut, and thick, slightly curved upward, a vein throbbing along the underside of his shaft, with velvety skin and his fat tip flushed mauve.

"Bloody hell, Kyle."

He ducks his head, looking sheepish. "What?"

Reaching out, you grasp his length carefully, keeping one hand on his hip, and give him a few slow strokes that make his defined abs clench and his head tip back with a hiss.

A clear pearl of precum beads at the slit and your mouth waters.

"You’re so beautiful," you whisper in awe, thumb swiping over his tip reverently.

Now he is the one getting flustered, and the only thing keeping him from coming undone then and there is taking over control again.

"Not nearly as beautiful as you, love," he murmurs, pushing you back onto the mattress.

You make a choked sound and hide your face in one of his pillows, but he pulls it away and the smile he flashes then, boyish and delighted, sears itself into your memory.

Kyle caresses your waist and feels the goosebumps pebbled on your skin, and when he squeezes a pillow under your lower back, you lift your hips for him. His cock twitches, a drop of pre dribbles onto your thigh.

"Can I? I’m clean." His chest is heaving, his pupils blown as he drinks you in underneath him; all lax, beautiful and trembling while he rubs his thumb over your puffy folds, spreading them to see your pretty, wet hole.

You nod jaggedly, spreading your legs for him, heels digging into the mattress.

"I need words, love," he tells you, rubbing your clit maddeningly slow and watching your pussy clench around nothing. "Fuck, babygirl."

"Yes, Kyle! Fuck, please—" Your voice pitches and cracks, body wound tight, and when he kneels between your thighs, gripping his cock at the root, he finally pushes inside you, and the world stops spinning.

He does it slow, agonisingly and exquisitely so; working all eight inches into your needy cunt with one hand braced next to your head, the other holding your thigh while his forehead presses against yours; his breath ragged against your mouth, lips brushing yours in a barely there kiss.

The feeling of him is overwhelming at first; the stretch and the fullness, and the rightness of it all. And your hands grip his back, fingers flexing against the muscles, while your legs go slack for him, inviting him deeper, because close isn’t close enough now.

"Fuck—" The word punches out of him, bitten off and breathless, and his hips still for a moment, cock buried deep, his whole body taut with the effort of not moving. "You feel—God—"

"Move," you whisper. "Please move."

Always obeying you, he moves. Long, slow strokes that drag the curve of his cock against every nerve ending, his hips rolling into yours with an unhurried rhythm that matches the pace of the song still drifting faintly from the kitchen. His hand cradles the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he watches your face with an expression that is so open and so tender that you have to close your eyes against it.

"No," he says softly. "Look at me."

You open your eyes. His face is still close, and you observe how his lips part with each thrust, and his brow furrows with both concentration and restraint, his eyes bright and dark and full of everything he's never said.

"Yes," he breathes, "just like that."

You come apart again; still not the shattering, violent kind of orgasm, but the kind that builds like a tide, rising and cresting until your body tightens around him in long, rolling waves as his name falls from your lips like a plea or confession, like the answer to a question you've been afraid to ask.

"That's it," he murmurs, his pace never faltering, carrying you through it with the same steadiness he has been carrying everything so far. "That's it, baby. I've got you. 'M, fuck, right here."

Then his eyes flutter shut when his own release follows yours as you squeeze and convulse around his cock mercilessly. A shudder that starts in his spine and rolls through his entire body, his hips pressing deep, breath hitching as he bites his bottom lip and buries his face in the curve of your neck with a groan so raw that you nearly come again.

He stays nestled inside you, shifts his weight to keep from crushing your body into the mattress, even while his own body is quaking with the onslaught of oxytocin; mouth against your shoulder, hand still in your hair, heartbeat pounding against your chest.

The breeze moves through the curtains. The flat smells like cedar candle and summer air and him. The scent you've been breathing in for over a year and pretending it didn't make you feel safe.

"I love you," he says and it sounds like a breath of relief.

Not triumphant but truth. Stated plainly, simply, the way you state a fact—the sky is up, the ground is down. I love you.

A tear slips from the corner of your eye and runs down your temple, disappearing into your hair. Then another and another. Quiet, soundless tears that come from somewhere so deep you didn't know it existed until you were guts deep in a young soldier, saving his life while he spoke about his love waiting back home.

Kyle lifts his head and sees the tears. And he doesn't panic, he simply brushes his thumb across your temple, catching the wetness, and presses his lips to the damp trail it leaves behind.

"I know," he whispers. "It’s been a lot. For both of us."

You close your eyes and let it come. The crying you've been holding in your chest like a clenched fist for months—years, maybe, longer than Kyle, longer than the rule, all the way back to the first time you knelt in the dirt beside a bleeding stranger and realised that this was your life now, and it would cost you, and you would pay the price and pay it and pay it and never let anyone see the bill.

Kyle holds you through it.

…Here I am, baby. Come on, cry to me….

Eventually, the tears slow and your breath evens. His hand moves over your hair in long, rhythmic strokes, and the radio in the kitchen has gone soft—a late-night DJ speaking in a low murmur between songs—and the candle has burned down to a warm glow.

"Stay. Here… with me."

It’s an offer, the same way everything he's ever given you has been an offer. Open-handed and without strings; yours if you want it, though you know he would crumble if you’d decline.

You press your face into his neck and breathe him in.

As the phone rang, part of you hoped he wouldn’t answer. When he asked you about it the next time you saw him, you’d wave it off as a butt dial and he’d be none the wiser.

“Hello,” he said through the phone, leaving your plans quashed.

This was awkward, you had been on four dates with the guy over the span of two months, and now you were calling him in the middle of the night. “This isn’t a booty call,” You blurted, cringing inwardly and banging your head back on the passenger door of your car.

Spencer laughed lightly, “I didn’t think it was, what’s going on?”

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” You asked, his job had a lot of long hours, and you didn’t want to bother him if he was catching up on sleep. If he was even home, “Wait, where are you?”

There was a rustling on his end of the call, “No, I wasn’t asleep, I’m at work. We just got off of a case.”

You let out a sigh of relief, at least you weren’t being a total nuisance. “Sorry, I don’t mean to bother you. I just… my tire blew out on the highway and my jack broke and no one else is answering their phone,” you told him, verging on rambling.

“You’re kind of cutting out, where are you?” He asked, he sounded concerned, and if there was a moment where you weren’t sure you still had feelings for him, it was fleeting.

Looking to either side of you for a mile marker, you stood up, looking at the ground so you didn’t step on any metal, “I don’t really know. There aren’t any signs, I’m somewhere on 28, I think?”

Spencer cleared his throat, “Do you have your location on your phone?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think I have enough service to check it,” you said, all you could see were trees.

You could hear him talking to someone, holding the receiver away from his mouth, “That’s fine, I’ll have someone look, just stay on the phone.”

It would seem that dating someone in the FBI does have its perks, “Oh, cool.” You overheard Spencer explaining your situation to someone, hearing the other person in the room say something about Reid’s girlfriend and you couldn’t help but smile. The two of you were very unofficially official.

“Hey, I’ll be there in half an hour,” An elevator dinged in the background. “Is that alright?”

You hummed, leaning your hip against the front of your car. “I mean, I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

Another ding of the elevator, “Will you do me a favor?”

In exchange for this? You’d do just about anything within the realm of legality, “Name it.”

“Get in your car and lock the doors,” he responded. “Turn your hazards on because right now you’re a sitting duck. If someone doesn’t see your car, they could hit you.”

As a favor, he was asking you to make sure you’re safe, “Okay, I’m getting in now, should I leave the car running?”

You heard the sound of a car lock disengaging through the phone, “As long as the cooling system on your car is in good shape, it shouldn’t be a problem to leave it running while you wait. Just remember what I told you about the hazards.”

Nodding despite the fact that he can’t see you, you got in the car, turning the key in the ignition before pushing the button for your hazard lights, “Okay, I’m in the car.”

“I can’t drive and be on the phone at the same time, but I’ll be there soon. Don’t unlock the doors for anyone except for me,” he told you, and you thanked him for his help before hanging up and settling yourself in your driver’s seat.

You pulled the hoodie you kept stashed in your car over your head, your school mascot—a panther—proudly displayed in the front, and made sure your car doors were locked. If you said you weren’t a little unnerved, you’d be lying to yourself.

Spencer had a worrisome job; it was something you were aware of before he ever asked you on that first date. It became alarmingly obvious to you when he revealed that he’d been shot a few months prior, which was an appropriate second-date conversation with an FBI agent. It made sense to you that he’d be concerned about you, in your idle car, on the side of the road, but you wondered if there was a case that he was thinking of. Someone with a flat tire who had met an untimely demise.

Shuddering, you turned up the heat in your car, flipping through radio stations until someone knocked on your window. You jumped at the noise, hitting your head against the roof of the car before looking outside to see Spencer. Sighing in relief, you unlocked your car door, and he opened it for you, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Is your head alright?”

You peered up at him, casually leaning over your car door. “You cut your hair,” you observed. You’d seen him just last week, where his hair still touched his shoulders, and now it was considerably shorter.

Self-consciously, he reached up a hand and thumbed one of the tendrils, “Yeah, it just got too long—and heavy.”

Resisting the urge to ruffle his hair, your head bobbed, “I like it. Did you do it yourself?”

“You can tell?” He asked, following you around the back of your car to your busted tire. Spencer sets his tire jack down before looking back at you, putting his hands on his hips.

Grinning at him, you shrugged, “I teach kindergarten, I’m basically a professional at noticing DIY haircuts.”

On a towel that you had previously set out, the two of you sat along the side of your car, and you tried to ignore the fact that Spencer still had his weapon holstered. It made sense, he’d come straight from work, but you wondered if there was a reason he didn’t leave it in his car. “Where’s your lug wrench?”

“I can change it myself,” you insisted, “I just needed a different car jack.” You gestured to the pieces of yours that were now all over the side of the road.

Alarm flashed on Spencer’s face, “Nothing fell on you, right?”

You shook your head, “No, just a cut from the metal.”

Holding out your hand, you let Spencer take a look at the cut on your palm. “When was your last tetanus shot?”

Blinking rapidly, you frowned at him, “Uh, when I was in college?”

“That might need stitches,” he responded, letting you take your hand back. “I’ll change your tire, I don’t want you using that hand for anything,” he informed you, pushing the hydraulic jack beneath your car.

Butterflies swarmed in your stomach as you watched him take your old tire off, muttering under his breath about how your old jack was practically an artifact, seeing how it literally fell apart under pressure. “How was your case?” You asked softly, fully aware that you were likely opening a can of worms by asking about work.

Spencer’s movements faltered slightly at your question, “It’s closed. We were in Boise,” he answered tactfully, leaving out any case details and cluing you into the fact that he didn’t want to talk about it. “What are you doing out here?”

You sighed, leaning back on your hands and watching him work, “I had a meeting with the other schools in our conference. It’s annual, and this year they happened to pick the school furthest away from mine.”

“Well, I suppose it worked out well that your tire blew out so close to me, then,” Spencer said, swapping out the busted tire for the donut and looking over at you. There was something nervous in his eyes, and you didn’t know if it was related to work or you.

Humming, you tried to watch the tire rather than just watching him, “Is there something bothering you?”

He was tightening the lug nuts on the spare tire, “Are you driving home after this?”

You furrowed your brows, “Yeah, where else could I be going?”

“It’s almost a two-hour drive to your place from here,” he reminded you, his tone laced with concern. “You won’t get home until almost one in the morning,” the displeasure in his voice was plain, but you don’t have anywhere else to go. “Plus, you really shouldn’t travel that far on a spare tire, they’re not made to travel far distances.”

Crossing your arms in front of your stomach, you let your shoulders slump forward, “So, what do you suggest I do? Get a hotel?”

Spencer mumbled something inaudibly, trying to finish tightening the bolts on the tire before sighing, “You can stay with me,” he blushes, a swipe of pink across his cheeks.

Your lips parted in surprise, “Uh, I don’t… I’m not…” you faltered. Utterly failing to come up with a good enough reason to tell him no, “I don’t want you to feel inclined. This isn’t what I was looking for when I called you for help.”

He let the car down, staying quiet while the two of you cleaned up, and Spencer swatted your hand away when you tried to pick things up. “So, you can come back to my place tonight. My work-issued first-aid kit has your name all over it,” he told you, eyes flickering down to the cut on your hand.

“Okay,” you breathed, unable to conjure a reason to refuse his hospitality.

He was grinning at you, hair just barely brushing his eyebrows, “So tomorrow, maybe we can get coffee and drop your car off to get a new tire?”

You smiled back at him, “That sounds great, date number five.”

“You know where you’re going, right?”

“Yeah,” you’d been to his place once to pick him up, “Hey, Spence?”

He turned around, fishing his car keys from his pocket. He looked ready to respond to you, but you pressed your lips to his before he had a chance to speak.

You kissed him softly, whispering against his mouth, “Thank you for coming.”

He chuckled lightly, gently resting a hand on your waist, “Thank you for calling.” 

Andrew bought the Doppler three days after dinner. He did not announce it. Of course he did not.

He simply appeared in the bedroom doorway after Andie had gone down for her nap, holding a small white box in one hand and wearing the expression of a man who had absolutely not been caught doing anything questionable.

You were sitting against the pillows, one hand resting over the gentle curve that had started to show if you wore the wrong shirt and stood at the wrong angle.

Thirteen weeks. Just out of the first trimester.

Still early enough that some part of you felt careful saying anything too loudly.

Far enough along that your jeans had become enemies. The house knew now. That was the strange thing.

Not the whole world. Not everyone. But the house.

Andie knew in her strange, partial, toddler way. Craig knew quietly. Deran knew loudly, badly, and with a worrying amount of emotion he kept insisting was hunger.

The baby was no longer only yours and Andrew's secret.

And somehow, instead of feeling exposed, it felt held. You looked from Andrew's face to the box.

"What did you buy?"

"Something."

"That is immediately suspicious."

"It's not suspicious."

"You're standing in the doorway like you committed a crime."

His mouth twitched.

"I didn't."

"Andrew."

He stepped into the room and handed you the box. You read the front. Then read it again.

Then looked up at him.

"A Doppler?"

He stood there with his arms folded loosely, trying very hard to look casual.

"Yes."

"When did you buy a Doppler?"

"After dinner."

"After Craig and Deran left?"

"Yes."

"That night?"

"Yes."

"You emotionally discovered Amazon?"

His expression did not move.

"It had good reviews."

"Oh my god."

"And returns."

"Andrew."

"I read the manual already."

"You haven't even opened it."

"I found the manual online."

You stared at him. He stared back, unashamed. You should have known.

Andrew Cody had never met a feeling he could not partially manage with research.

You looked down at the box again.

A little picture of a smiling woman on the front. A clean white device. Soft blue lettering. A promise that felt much bigger than plastic and gel.

Your chest tightened.

"You want to hear them again."

Andrew's face changed. Barely. But it did.

He looked toward the drawer where the scan picture lived, tucked beside the tissue-lined box that held the first positive test.

"I think about it," he said.

His voice was quiet. No defence. No joke. Just truth.

You softened immediately.

"I know."

"The sound."

"I know."

"At the scan, it was..." He stopped, jaw moving once. "It was quick."

You remembered. How could you not? The dim scan room. Your hand in his.

The screen turned toward you. The tiny flicker.

The short, fast sound that had filled the room and made Andrew cry before he seemed to realise crying was happening.

You remembered the look on his face afterward, like some door had opened inside him and the light had hurt.

You held the Doppler box against your lap.

"It might not work straight away."

"I know."

"Even at thirteen weeks, sometimes they're hard to find."

"I know."

"If we can't hear anything, we do not panic."

"I know."

"Say it like you believe it."

He looked at you. A pause.

"I am willing to pretend convincingly."

You laughed. That was better than a lie. Andrew's mouth softened.

"I thought maybe..." he started, then stopped.

You waited. He glanced toward the hallway.

Andie was asleep down the hall in her little bed with Baby Duck under one arm, still wearing the big sister shirt because she had decided it was now emotionally essential to her survival.

Andrew's voice went lower.

"I thought maybe she could hear."

Your heart melted so quickly it almost hurt.

"Andie?"

He nodded.

"If you want. If it works."

You looked down at the box. The thought arrived all at once.

Andie lying beside you, curls wild, hands too curious, asking if the baby was sleeping.

Andie hearing her little sibling's heartbeat for the first time. Andrew watching that happen.

The room blurred for half a second.

"You're going to make me cry over medical equipment."

His eyes softened.

"You cried over a tissue-lined box."

"You made the box."

"That was practical."

"You lined it with tissue paper."

"The test was rolling around."

"The test was not rolling around."

"It could have."

You smiled through the tightness in your throat.

"When?"

"Tonight?"

"You want to do it tonight?"

"If you feel okay."

"And if Andie feels cooperative?"

His eyebrows lifted faintly.

"So no."

You laughed.

"She might."

"She thinks Baby Duck is a healthcare provider."

"Baby Duck has experience."

Andrew's gaze dropped to the box again.

"I want her to hear them before everybody else gets..." He waved one hand vaguely.

"Loud?"

"Deran."

"Same thing."

His mouth twitched. You reached for his hand. He gave it immediately.

"She'll hear them tonight," you said. "If we can find it."

His thumb moved over your knuckles.

"And if we can't?"

"Then we try again another day."

He nodded once.

"I can do that."

You looked at him.

"Can you?"

"No."

You laughed again, and this time he did too. Small. Quiet. Relieved.

Down the hall, the monitor crackled once. Both of you turned automatically.

Andie shifted in her little bed but did not wake.

Andrew watched the screen for a second longer than necessary. Then looked back at your stomach.

Your hand moved there without thinking. His eyes followed. The baby was quiet. Hidden.

Already known now, but still mysterious. Still impossible to imagine fully.

A heartbeat once heard in a clinic. A flicker once seen on a screen.

Tonight, maybe, a sound in your bedroom. A sound your daughter could hear too.

Andrew squeezed your hand.

"Tonight," he said.

You nodded.

"Tonight."

Waiting for bedtime with a two-year-old was psychological warfare.

Especially when the two-year-old had been told there was a baby in Mama's tummy and now considered herself both informed and in charge.

Andie spent the afternoon saying "baby sleep" at random intervals, sometimes to your stomach, sometimes to Baby Duck, once to a banana.

She wore her big sister shirt over a long-sleeve top because she had refused every other outfit.

The shirt had already gained a tiny smear of jam near the duck and a mysterious blue mark you suspected came from a crayon.

You had stopped fighting it. Andrew had looked at the smear and said, "It gives it character."

You had pointed at him.

"You are only saying that because you don't want her to take it off."

"She likes it."

"You like it."

"She likes it too."

Andie had patted the letters.

"Big."

Andrew had gone quiet for the next nine minutes.

At dinner, she sat in her chair with Baby Duck beside her plate and pointed at your stomach with a piece of pasta.

"Baby pasta?"

"Not yet," you said.

Andie frowned.

"Baby hungry."

"The baby gets what Mama eats."

Andie looked down at your plate. Then back at you.

"Mama eat."

"I am eating."

She pointed at your garlic bread.

"That."

Your stomach, still dramatic even at thirteen weeks, objected immediately.

Andrew reached for the garlic bread before you could say a word.

"Mama's not having that."

Andie narrowed her eyes at him.

"Dada eat."

Andrew looked at you. Then at the garlic bread. Then, like a man accepting his fate, took a bite.

Andie nodded, satisfied.

"Good Dada."

You covered your smile with your water glass.

Andrew chewed with the solemn resignation of a man being parented by his toddler.

After dinner, he washed dishes while you sat on the sofa with Andie tucked against your side, Baby Duck lying face down on your thigh.

Andie kept lifting your jumper. Not high. Just enough to peer suspiciously at your stomach.

"Baby?"

"Yes," you said for the fifth time.

"Baby come out?"

"Not yet."

"Later?"

"Much later."

"After nap?"

Andrew made a noise at the sink. You bit your lip.

"No, baby. Not after nap."

"After snack?"

"No."

"After moon book?"

"No."

She looked offended. You brushed her curls back.

"The baby has to grow for a long time first."

Andie looked at your stomach again.

"Baby slow."

Andrew turned off the tap.

"Yes," he said. "Very slow."

You looked over at him. He was smiling, but there was something tucked behind it. That ache again.

Wanting time to move. Wanting it not to move too fast.

Knowing exactly how much could change before he felt ready. You knew that look.

You had worn it yourself.

Andie lost interest in gestational timelines and shoved Baby Duck toward you.

"Baby kiss baby."

You pressed Baby Duck gently to your stomach.

"Hi, baby."

Andie beamed. Then immediately grabbed the doll back.

"Mine."

"Yes," Andrew muttered. "Siblinghood is going to be smooth."

You laughed.

"Very."

When bath time came, Andie attempted to wash the big sister shirt. While wearing it.

Andrew had to negotiate her out of it with a promise that it would be waiting for her after bath.

You stood in the bathroom doorway, watching him kneel beside the tub, one sleeve shoved up, his hand steadying Andie as she made Baby Duck "swim" in a washcloth because the actual doll could not get wet.

"Baby hear later?" Andie asked suddenly.

Andrew stilled. You did too.

She was looking at him, bubbles on her chin, curls damp against her forehead.

Andrew's eyes flicked to yours. Then back to her.

"Maybe," he said softly.

"Baby heart?"

Your chest tightened. You had explained it earlier, very simply. Baby has a tiny heart.

The Doppler might let us hear it.

Andie had immediately patted her own chest and said "Andie heart," then Andrew's, then yours, then your stomach.

Baby heart. Andrew's throat moved.

"Yeah," he said. "Maybe baby's heart."

Andie nodded.

"Baby loud?"

"We don't know yet."

She splashed the water once.

"Baby loud."

Andrew looked up at you. His eyes were already soft. Destroyed pre-emptively. You mouthed, You okay?

He gave you a look that meant no and also stop asking because the answer is obvious. You smiled.

By the time Andie was in pyjamas again, the whole house seemed to know what was coming.

Or maybe that was just you.

Andie had insisted on the big sister shirt over her pyjama top, which meant she was now wearing ducks, stripes, and a level of authority no child should have after seven o'clock.

Baby Duck was tucked under one arm. Soft duck under the other.

She marched into your bedroom like she had been invited to lead a meeting.

"Baby heart," she announced.

Andrew, sitting on the edge of the bed with the Doppler box beside him, looked up.

His face did something soft and helpless.

"Yes, baby girl."

You sat back against the pillows, trying not to feel nervous. Which was useless. You were nervous.

Of course you were nervous.

The Doppler might not find anything. The baby might be tucked too low, too far to the side, too small for the little machine to catch clearly. You knew that. Andrew knew that. Both of you had repeated it enough times that the words had become almost meaningless.

Still. Wanting was wanting. And wanting had teeth. Andrew had already read the instructions twice.

Then again. Then watched a video with the sound off because Andie had been in the room.

You had caught him doing it and said, "Are you training for the Doppler Olympics?"

He had said, "Yes." No humour. No shame. Just yes.

Now he picked up the little device and held it like it was far more fragile than it was.

Andie climbed onto the bed beside you with the confidence of someone who had never considered being unwelcome anywhere.

"Baby Duck too."

"Baby Duck can listen," you said.

"Soft duck?"

"Soft duck too."

Andrew glanced at the two stuffed witnesses.

"The whole medical team."

Andie nodded.

"Team."

You laughed softly. Andrew looked at you.

"You ready?"

"No."

His mouth softened.

"Me neither."

Andie immediately copied, "Me neever." That broke the tension enough for both of you to laugh.

Andrew leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

"You're ready."

Andie patted his chest.

"Dada heart."

Andrew blinked. Then nodded.

"Yeah."

She pressed her tiny palm against his shirt, looking very serious.

"Thump."

"That's right."

Then she turned and put her hand on your chest.

"Mama heart."

"Yes."

Then, slowly, with more concentration than you expected, she moved her hand to your stomach.

"Baby heart."

Your eyes filled. Andrew went very still. You covered Andie's hand gently with yours.

"Yes, sweetheart. Baby heart."

Andie looked at Andrew.

"Listen."

Andrew swallowed.

"We'll try."

He looked at you again.

"Okay?"

You nodded.

"Okay."

You lifted your jumper just enough. Not much.

The curve of your stomach was still small, but it was there now if you were lying down and knew what to look for. Andrew knew. He had known every tiny change before you told him.

Andie leaned forward immediately.

"Baby?"

"In there," you said.

She stared at your stomach.

"Door?"

Andrew turned his face away. You bit your lip.

"No door."

"Baby stuck?"

"No, baby's not stuck."

"Baby hiding," Andrew said softly.

Andie looked satisfied with that.

"Baby hiding."

Andrew opened the gel. You braced yourself. It was cold anyway. You hissed.

Andrew's head snapped up.

"Sorry."

"It's just cold."

"I could have warmed it."

"You said that last time."

"I mean it every time."

You gave him a look. He looked back. Andie reached out one finger toward the gel.

"No, baby," you said quickly.

Her hand stopped.

"Goo."

"Yes. Goo."

"Baby goo?"

"Doppler goo."

"Baby Duck goo?"

"No."

Andrew muttered, "Thank god." You laughed. He turned the Doppler on. Static filled the room.

Andie froze. Her eyes went huge. You immediately looked at Andrew.

"Volume."

"I know."

He lowered it quickly. The static softened but stayed there, fuzzy and strange. Andie leaned closer.

"Baby?"

"Not yet," Andrew said. "That's just the machine."

"Machine loud."

"Yes."

He moved the probe slowly over your stomach. You watched his face.

That was easier than watching the little screen.

His brows were drawn in focus, mouth set, shoulders tense in a way he was trying very hard to hide.

Andie watched his hand. Baby Duck lay across her lap, forgotten for once. Static. A rushing sound.

Nothing. You breathed in slowly. Then out. Andrew glanced at you immediately.

"Okay?"

You nodded.

"Fine."

Andie looked at you.

"Mama fine?"

"Yes."

"Mama no sick?"

"Not sick."

"Baby sick?"

"No," Andrew said quickly. "Baby's not sick."

Andie nodded once.

"Baby hiding."

He looked down at her. His face softened.

"Yeah. Baby's hiding."

Static again. A slow thumping sound appeared, heavy and familiar. Andrew paused. Andie gasped.

"Baby!"

You shook your head gently.

"That's Mama."

Andie frowned.

"Mama loud."

Andrew breathed out a laugh.

"Mama has a good heart."

You looked at him. He did not look away from the Doppler. You felt yourself soften all over.

Andie put one hand dramatically over her own chest.

"Andie loud."

"Very loud," Andrew said.

"Dewan loud."

"Yes."

"Baby loud?"

"We'll see."

He moved the probe again. Nothing. Static. A brief squeal.

Andie frowned at the Doppler.

"No."

"I agree," you murmured.

Andrew's hand shifted by tiny degrees. He was being so careful it almost hurt to watch.

The room stretched around the sound. Static. Wrong heartbeat. Static.

A quick little flash of something that disappeared before any of you could catch it.

Your stomach tightened. Andrew noticed. He always noticed.

"We can stop," he said softly.

Andie looked up.

"No stop."

You laughed weakly.

"Thank you, boss."

"Baby hiding," she insisted.

Andrew looked at her. Then at you. His eyes were asking a different question now.

Not can we continue? Not are you scared?

More like, how do we do this with her here if we do not find it? You reached for his wrist.

"A little longer."

He nodded.

"A little longer."

Andie set Baby Duck down beside your hip and crawled closer.

"Careful," Andrew said automatically.

Andie looked offended.

"I careful."

"You are medium careful."

She accepted this.

Then, very gently, she lay down beside your stomach, her cheek against the blanket near your hip, close to where Andrew held the Doppler.

Your heart stopped. Not literally. It felt like it.

Her curls spread against the bedspread. One hand tucked under her cheek. Baby Duck shoved against your side. Her big sister shirt wrinkled beneath her.

She turned her face toward your stomach and whispered, "Hi baby." Andrew's hand froze.

Your eyes burned immediately.

"Andie," you whispered.

She pressed one finger to her lips.

"Shh."

Andrew's face crumpled for half a second.

He looked down quickly, like he could put himself back together by concentrating.

The Doppler shifted slightly in his hand. Static crackled. Then— A sound.

Fast. Faint. There and gone. You sucked in a breath.

Andrew went completely still. Andie lifted her head.

"What?"

Andrew's voice was barely there.

"Wait."

He moved the Doppler back. Too far. Static. His hand shook once.

You placed your hand over his. Together, you guided it slowly. A breath. Another.

Static. A rushing noise. Then there. Fast.

Tiny. Galloping. Not perfectly clear. Not like the clinic equipment.

A little fuzzy under the static. But there. There. There.

The room changed. Andie froze with her cheek still close to your stomach. Andrew stopped breathing.

Your hand covered your mouth. The heartbeat filled the bedroom in quick, impossible little beats.

Andie's eyes went wide. She looked from the Doppler to your face. Then to Andrew.

Then back to your stomach.

"Baby?"

Your voice broke.

"Yeah, baby."

Andrew did not speak.

He was staring at the Doppler like it had opened a door in the middle of your bedroom.

His eyes shone immediately. He had heard it before. At the scan.

In a room that smelled like antiseptic and paper, with a sonographer and a machine and your hand crushing his.

But this was different. This was home. This was your bed.

Your daughter lying with her cheek near your stomach. Baby Duck pressed to your side.

The big sister shirt wrinkled against Andie's little body.

This was the baby's heartbeat filling the room where Andrew slept beside you. The room where the positive test was tucked away. The room where he had whispered to your stomach when he thought you were asleep.

A tear slipped down his face. Then another. He did not wipe them away. Andie watched him.

"Dada cry?"

Andrew blinked. A broken laugh left him.

"Yeah."

"Dada sad?"

He shook his head, eyes still locked on your stomach.

"No, baby girl."

Andie considered this. Then turned her face back toward the Doppler. The heartbeat kept going. Fast.

Faint. Alive. She listened for three whole seconds in a silence that felt impossible for her.

Then she smiled.

"Baby loud."

Oh. You laughed and cried at the same time. Andrew bowed his head.

One hand still held the Doppler steady, but the other came up to cover his mouth. Baby loud.

The simplest thing. The truest thing.

The title of the entire moment, spoken by a two-year-old in a duck shirt.

"Yeah," Andrew whispered, voice destroyed. "Baby's loud."

Andie patted your stomach. Not hard this time. Gentle. Like he had taught her.

"Hi baby."

The heartbeat flickered under static. Andrew made a sound that was almost pain.

You looked at him through tears.

"Record it."

His eyes lifted to yours.

"What?"

"Record it."

"You sure?"

"Craig and Deran will want to hear."

His face shifted. A thousand things moved through him at once.

The instinct to keep the moment private.

The ache of knowing what it meant to hear about beginnings later.

The knowledge that this time he could share the beginning while it was still happening. He nodded.

"Okay."

He passed the Doppler to you carefully, guiding your hand until the heartbeat stayed steady.

Then he reached for his phone from the bedside table. His hands were not entirely steady.

You saw it. He opened the camera. For a second, he seemed unsure what to film.

Your lifted shirt was not much exposed, but still, this was your body. He looked at you. You nodded.

"Just her," you whispered.

His face softened. He shifted the camera toward Andie.

Toward her little face pressed beside your stomach, eyes wide, curls messy, Baby Duck tucked under one arm.

The heartbeat filled the room. Andrew's voice, behind the phone, was rough.

"Andie."

She looked up.

"Yeah?"

"What do you hear?"

Andie smiled.

"Baby loud."

You laughed softly, tears sliding into your hairline. Andrew's breath caught behind the camera.

"That's your baby brother or sister."

Andie frowned.

"Baby sister?"

"Maybe," you said.

"Baby brother?"

"Maybe."

Andie looked annoyed.

"Baby."

Andrew gave a wet laugh.

"Yeah. Baby."

She turned back toward your stomach.

"Hi baby."

The heartbeat fluttered under her voice. A few fast seconds. Too precious. Too much.

Andrew kept recording. His hand steadied the phone, but his breathing did not.

Andie lifted Baby Duck and pressed the doll's face gently against your stomach.

"Baby Duck hear."

You closed your eyes. Andrew whispered, "Can Baby Duck hear it?" Andie nodded solemnly.

"Baby Duck big sister too."

The recording captured your laugh breaking into a sob. Captured Andrew's shaky inhale.

Captured the Doppler's fast, tiny gallop.

Captured Andie, entirely unaware that she had just destroyed both of you, patting Baby Duck's back like the doll needed comfort.

"Good baby," she whispered.

Andrew stopped recording before he completely lost the ability to hold the phone.

He set it down carefully. You turned the Doppler off. The sudden silence was huge. Too huge.

For a moment, none of you moved. Andie lifted her head.

"More baby."

You wiped your face.

"We'll listen again another day."

"Baby sleep?"

"Maybe baby is tired."

Andrew let out a soft, wrecked laugh. Andie nodded like this made sense.

"Baby nap."

"Yes. Baby nap."

She patted your stomach once more.

"Night baby."

"It's not bedtime for baby," Andrew said, voice still rough.

Andie looked at him.

"Baby nap."

He nodded immediately.

"Baby nap."

You smiled.

"That's what I thought."

Andrew leaned down and kissed Andie's hair.

She accepted it with the distracted generosity of a queen.

Then she crawled halfway over you to retrieve Baby Duck, knee almost landing somewhere dangerous before Andrew caught her gently.

"Careful."

"I careful."

"You are medium careful."

"Medium."

He helped her settle against your side while you wiped the gel from your stomach with a towel.

Andie watched with suspicion.

"Baby goo gone?"

"Baby goo gone."

"Good."

Andrew picked up his phone again. You watched his thumb hover over the video.

"You okay?" you asked.

He looked at you. His eyes were red.

His face was open and soft in that way that still felt like something private, even though Andie was sitting right there trying to put Baby Duck's foot in her own mouth.

"No."

You smiled.

"Good no?"

"All of it."

You reached out. He took your hand. The three of you stayed like that for a moment.

You against the pillows. Andie tucked against you, warm and heavy.

Andrew sitting beside you with one hand around yours and one hand holding a video that had somehow caught the sound of your family getting bigger.

Then his phone buzzed. Not with a new message. Just the screen dimming. He looked down.

"I'm sending it."

"Okay."

"To both of them?"

"Yes."

He hesitated.

"Deran's going to be..."

"Deran."

"Yeah."

"Send it."

Andrew opened the group chat.

The one Deran had named Emergency Contact Chaos months ago and refused to change because he said it sounded official.

Andrew typed nothing. He just sent the video. For a few seconds, there was no response.

Then the typing bubbles appeared. Craig first.

Craig: Is that—

A pause. Then:

Craig: Oh my god.

Deran's typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then:

Deran: WHAT IS THAT SOUND

Andrew's mouth twitched.

Deran: IS THAT THE BABY

Deran: WHY IS IT SO FAST

Deran: IS IT SUPPOSED TO BE THAT FAST

Craig replied:

Craig: Yes. It's normal. Breathe.

Deran:

Deran: DON'T TELL ME TO BREATHE I'M NOT THE ONE WITH A TINY HORSE HEARTBEAT

You laughed so hard you had to press a hand over your mouth.

Andrew looked pained and amused at the same time. Andie sat up.

"Dewan?"

"Deran heard the baby," you said.

Andie's eyes brightened.

"Dewan cry?"

Andrew looked at you. You looked at Andrew. His phone buzzed again.

Craig:

Craig: He's crying.

Deran:

Deran: I AM NOT

Craig:

Craig: He is absolutely crying.

Deran:

Deran: IT SOUNDS LIKE A TINY BABY HORSE

Craig:

Craig: He means congratulations.

Deran:

Deran: I MEAN WHY IS ANDIE SO CUTE IN THAT VIDEO

Another message came immediately.

Deran: ALSO CONGRATS

Then:

Deran: ALSO SEND IT AGAIN

You wiped under your eyes.

"Send it again?"

Andrew looked at the messages. Then at the video. Then smiled. A real smile.

Soft and stunned.

"No."

You laughed.

"Cruel."

"He can replay it."

Craig sent one more message.

Craig: Tell Andie she did a very good job listening.

You looked at Andie.

"Craig says you did a very good job listening."

Andie beamed.

"Cwaig good."

Andrew typed:

Andrew: She says Craig good.

Deran replied instantly.

Deran: WHAT ABOUT DERAN

Andie looked at the phone.

"Dewan loud."

Andrew sent that too. Deran responded with six dots, then:

Deran: Fair.

Craig:

Craig: She's very observant.

Andrew locked the phone and set it aside. Then he looked at you. The room had changed again.

Like it had when the heartbeat first appeared. Like it had when Andie said baby loud.

Like it had when the video flew out of your bedroom and landed in Craig and Deran's hands, making them part of the sound too.

The baby was no longer a secret. Not really. Still private. Still yours.

But not hidden. Not alone in a drawer. Not only remembered after the fact.

This time, people got to hear the beginning while it was still happening.

Andrew looked down at Andie.

She had settled again, cheek against your side, Baby Duck under her arm.

"Baby loud," she murmured sleepily.

"Yes," you whispered.

Andrew's hand moved to your stomach, above where the towel had wiped away the gel. No sound now.

No machine. Just his hand. Andie's head nearby. The baby quiet underneath.

Andrew's voice was low.

"She heard them."

You nodded.

"She did."

"Andie heard them."

"Yeah."

His throat moved.

"She gets to know from the beginning."

You smiled softly.

"You said that already."

"I keep thinking it."

"I know."

His eyes lifted to yours.

"They get each other from the beginning."

Oh. Your breath caught. And there it was. The new shape of it.

Not only Andrew getting to be there. Not only Andie knowing. But the two of them.

Your daughter and this baby.

Already connected by little hands on your stomach, by a heartbeat in a bedroom, by Baby Duck pressed against a curve Andie only half understood.

"They do," you whispered.

Andrew looked back down.

Andie had gone quiet, but not asleep. Her eyes were half-lidded, her fingers twisting in Baby Duck's sleeve.

"Baby sleep?" she asked.

"Probably," you said.

"Baby in Mama."

"Yes."

"Baby no come out?"

"Not yet."

"Later."

"Much later."

She nodded.

"After snack."

Andrew closed his eyes. You smiled.

"Sure, baby. After a lot of snacks."

That seemed to satisfy her. Bedtime took longer than usual. Of course it did.

Andie had heard a heartbeat in your bedroom and then been told she could not hear it again immediately, which she considered poor service.

She announced "more baby" three separate times during pyjamas.

She tried to put the Doppler box into Baby Duck's napkin bed.

She told soft duck, "Baby loud," with deep seriousness.

By the time she was in her little bed, still wearing the big sister shirt because apparently it had become sleepwear now, Andrew looked like a man who had been emotionally mugged.

You sat beside the bed while Andie tucked Baby Duck in, then untucked her, then tucked her again.

"Baby Duck hear baby," she told you.

"She did."

"Cwaig hear."

"Yes."

"Dewan cry."

Andrew made a sound from the other side of the bed. You bit your lip.

"Yes. Deran cried."

Andie nodded.

"Dewan loud."

"Very."

She patted her own chest.

"Andie heart."

Andrew's face softened.

"Yes."

Then she pointed at you.

"Mama heart."

"Yes."

Then your stomach.

"Baby heart."

Your throat tightened.

"Yes, baby."

She lifted her hand, tiny and sleepy, and patted the air toward your stomach from where she lay.

"Night baby."

Andrew looked down. His hand pressed briefly to his mouth.

"Night baby," you whispered.

Andie turned her face into Baby Duck.

"Baby nap."

"Baby nap," Andrew repeated softly.

Her eyes drifted closed. You and Andrew sat there longer than needed. You always did.

The nightlight turned the room gold around the edges.

The big sister shirt was wrinkled over Andie's middle, the letters half hidden by Baby Duck's arm.

She looked so small. Still so small. Two years and four months old. Big sister.

Medium boss. Baby loud expert. Your first baby, learning in tiny pieces that another one was coming.

Andrew's gaze stayed fixed on her. You watched him. There was no hiding it now. Not in this room.

Not from you. He was thinking about all of it.

Andie as a baby he had loved through prison walls and visits and distance.

This baby as a heartbeat under his hand.

The two of them now tied together by one sleepy toddler whispering night baby into the room.

Eventually, you reached across the bed and touched his hand. He blinked. Then looked at you.

"She's going to ask for it tomorrow," he whispered.

"The Doppler?"

"Yes."

"Probably."

"She'll ask during breakfast."

"Definitely."

"She'll ask if the baby wants pancakes."

"Also definitely."

His mouth curved faintly.

"And Deran will ask for the video again."

"Also definitely."

Andrew looked back at Andie.

"Good."

You smiled.

"Good?"

He nodded slowly.

"Yeah."

The word sat in the quiet room. Good. Not scary. Not too much.

Not a beginning he had to receive later in pieces. Good. You squeezed his hand.

When Andie was fully asleep, you stood carefully. Andrew tucked the blanket over her feet.

Only her feet. She would kick it off otherwise.

Then he crouched and picked soft duck up from the floor, tucking him near Baby Duck with the reverence of a man returning a sacred object.

You backed out together. The door stayed open a crack. Toddler bed rules.

In the hallway, neither of you moved at first. The house was quiet.

The Doppler was back in your bedroom. Craig and Deran had the video. Andie had heard the baby.

Andrew leaned his shoulder against the wall and looked at you. His eyes were still red.

You stepped into him. He wrapped one arm around you and placed the other hand on your stomach.

You rested your forehead against his chest.

"Big day," you whispered.

His laugh was soft and breathless.

"Yeah."

"You cried."

"Several times."

"You admit it now?"

"Andie announced it to everyone."

"She's thorough."

"She gets that from you."

You smiled against his shirt.

"Sure."

His thumb moved slowly over your stomach.

"Thank you."

You lifted your head.

"For what?"

His eyes searched yours.

"For letting me send it."

Your heart softened.

"Andrew."

"I know it was yours."

"It was ours."

His jaw shifted.

"And hers."

"Andie's?"

He nodded.

"And theirs."

The baby. You covered his hand with yours.

"Yes."

"It's just..." He looked toward Andie's door. "I don't want anyone hearing about things after if they don't have to."

Your chest tightened. There it was. The old ache. The reason all of this mattered so much.

The reason a video sent to Craig and Deran was not just a video.

The reason Andie's cheek beside the Doppler had nearly undone him.

The reason every beginning he got to share felt like something repaired, not erased.

You touched his face.

"They're not hearing about it after."

His eyes glistened again.

"They're here."

You nodded.

"They're here."

He leaned down and kissed you. Soft. Quiet. One hand still on your stomach.

The other at the side of your face.

Down the hall, Andie slept in her big sister shirt with Baby Duck tucked beneath one arm and soft duck safely returned beside her.

Somewhere across town, Craig had probably replayed the video twice in silence.

Deran had absolutely replayed it at least six times while denying that he was crying.

And in the room where the first test had been wrapped in tissue, where the scan picture lived in the drawer, where Andrew had whispered to your stomach before anyone else knew, the Doppler sat waiting for another day.

The baby was quiet again. No gallop. No static. No tiny rushing sound filling the walls.

But for a few minutes, the whole family had heard them. Andie with her cheek against your stomach.

Andrew with tears on his face. Craig and Deran through a shaky video and badly typed messages.

The baby had been loud. The house had listened.

And for the first time, the beginning did not feel like something anyone had to catch up to.

It felt like everyone was already there.

Authors Note - Please make sure to vote on which fanfic you want next.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Really, you're not. Clayton hands you his phone so you can read out the recipe he's supposed to be following (or trying to with his limit cooking skills) and in the process the screen gets swiped on, opening up his camera roll. You would have just gone back to the recipe, but then your eyes snag on a folder with your name on it and that's...well, that's just too good to pass up.

"What's this?"

"Huh? The recipe? It's cinnamon rolls, remember? You said you wanted to try to make 'em, baby," He's not really looking your way, just grabbing the bag of flour out of the cupboard and setting it on the side.

"No, this?" You shove the phone in his face and Clayton pulls back for a moment, letting his eyes adjust before taking in the screen sat on his gallery page, your finger pointing at the folder that he'd chosen not to mention when he'd found your own all those months ago.

"Oh, it's my folder..." He says it casually, partially hoping your curiosity would be dealt with, that you'd go back to the recipe and not investigate further the level of whipped he is for you...but he also knows that's impossible.

"Your folder?"

"My folder. Of pictures. Of you. Y'know, for uh, when i'm away and I miss you..." He clears his throat, hands busying themselves with rearranging all the ingredients to distract Clay from the potential embarrassment of you realising just how in deep he was. You're the one that's openly head over heels, he's always been the one that's managed to maintain some semblance of control about his feelings...to protect his ego a little, not that he isn't loving just...not openly a gigantic sap.

It felt personal. The folder. Like you'd found his diary, even though there wasn't anything incriminating in that folder, just pictures of you, a few video clips for when he missed your voice...nothing crazy, but still. He understood now why you reacted that way you did when he found your own album of photos. A deep fear in his gut that you'd think he was weird, crazy, a stalker.

"Can I?" It takes Clay a moment to comprehend that you're actually asking permission to look, that he could say no. That you're not just taking...you're asking.

"Uh, sure, I mean you showed me yours so I guess I should show you mine," He acts more nonchalant then he feels, turning to lean back against the counter top, arms crossed as his eyes zero in on you and his phone. There's a tense set to Clay's shoulders that give him away though and you kind of like it, making him nervous for once. The tables feel like they've turned.

You settle next to him, phone angled so that Clayton can see what you can as you finally press on the gallery album.

The first photo surprises you a bit, new, this day kind of new. You in bed, blankets wrapped around you, leg splayed out and hanging off the edge of the mattress, mouth open, drool on your chin, hair messy and tangled, eyes shut, still sleeping.

"This is from this morning?" Your mouth parts, opening a little shocked and surprised and Clayton just shrugs, "You look pretty when you first wake up,"

"My hair is a mess and I have drool on my chin..."

He just shrugs again, eyes shifting to his feet like he can't explain it because he can't. You're flawless to him, even when there are flaws, they just...they don't feel like it. Not when it's you. Like those flaws make you more endearing, you could do the most cringy shit imaginable and he'd still love you for it, find a way in his mind to make it cute.

You flick through the next few photos quickly. Candid photos of you when you were least expecting it, pictures of you doing something mundane like eating an apple or brushing Lucky or stopping to pet a stray cat. There's more than one photo of you in the morning, sleeping still, absolutely a mess and completely unaware. You pause on one, eyes taking the whole thing in. The way Clay's fingers brush your cheek in the picture, the drool on your chin, the slope of your shoulder as you relax into the pillow, dead to the world.

It doesn't hit you at first just what this all means, the photos, the clips, the sort of things he's collected, it takes a moment...and then it does. That in those quiet moments when you're not expecting it Clayton sees you and he wants to record and capture it for himself, for later. That the guy who acts too cool, teases you and pretends he's too cool for tiktok trends or the mini mic, is so utterly into you that he's collecting these images, these moments.

The next photo makes you laugh out loud, Clay's eyes on the side of your face rather than the phone, a soft sort of lovesick smile taking over his lips and his eyes. You're on the floor in the photo, hair splayed out, Lucky looming over you, big paws on your shoulders, tongue licking at your cheek as you laugh and try to gently shove the soppy thing away. To make matters worse your cat is at your feet, sniffing your socks and making a face like something just died.

"I miss you...when I'm gone, y'know?" He's sure he's said it before, that he's told you that, but in that moment it feels like he hasn't said it enough. You're...you make his life about more than just hockey, more than just how he leads the team or how many goals he scored that season.

"You miss my drooling in the morning?" You're teasing, expecting him to say that he doesn't miss that but...he does, stupid as it sounds.

"Yeah," He breathes out a laugh, eyes rising to the ceiling as if he can't quite believe it himself. That he actually misses the wet patch on his shoulder in the morning or the cold feet on his shins, "I love you when you're drooling, and I miss...I miss your voice when I'm gone and the stupid jokes you make...and...I don't know...I just miss you." His eyes fall back to his feel like he's scared to see judgement on your face, but if he just looked up all he'd see is love...because oh God do you adore this man. This quietly confident guy who brags about his golf skills but criticises his every move in the sport he plays professionally. This guy who's making cinnamon rolls with you when he hates cooking because you asked.

"Does it help?"

"The folder?" His eyes finally meet yours, cheeks flushed, pink on the highest points of Clayton's cheeks, the tips of his ears. His hand rubbing at the back of his neck for a moment.

"Yeah? Does it help?" Yours doesn't. Your album. It just makes you miss him more, but it's better than not having it. Like you enjoy the sort of pain it puts you through to listen to his voice on a recording when you can't have him next to you, to see pictures of him when he's not in front of you.

"Kind of...but not at the same time. It uh...it makes me miss you more," Clayton rubs at his chest like he can still feel the ache of missing you even though you're right there in front of him.

There's a moment as your eyes lock where it truly hits you how much he loves you....and that you'd always kind of assumed you loved him just a tiny bit more...that in reality you were wrong. He loves you so much, he was just quieter about it. While you were all over him, like an overly affectionate cat, he was quietly watching with heart eyes and an ache in his chest, like asking for that love was too much.

"You really love me, huh?"

His laugh is almost self deprecating, embarrassed that you know how much he loves you, not because you don't deserved to know but because deep down Clayton's a little scared you'll run away, find him too much and too little all at once.

"Don't tell the guys...but I'm so fucking in love with you I'd do whatever you wanted." You could tell him to eat dirt and he'd probably do it, complain the entire time, but he'd probably do it...and it scares him a little bit.

"Anything?"

"Anything. No matter how stupid or ridiculous." You lock his phone, stepping to stand in front of him rather than beside, hand reaching to slip it into his back pocket for a moment. Each step takes you closer until you're toe to toe, head tilted to look up at him, hands wrapping around his waist. Clayton meets your affection easily, large hands falling to your hips, sliding over your comfy trousers and digging into the fat there with the sort of familiarity only Clayton has with your body.

"Saaaaayyyyy more than one word on mini mic this season?" You lean into him biting your lip to cover your grin and all Clayton can do is roll his neck in protest for a moment, just a moment.

"Okay."

"Seriously?" You don't expect him to agree, eyes widening, grin big, chest puffing up with excitement, rising up on your tip toes as you look at him like he's just hung the moon in the sky for you.

The sigh he lets out is heavy and hard-done-by, but his smile is soft, accepting of his fate.

"Seriously, baby. For you...I will say more than one word on the mini mic.....i'll say two." You gasp, betrayal hitting you as you slap his chest lightly.

"Clayton!" His grin is infectious, so wide it makes his cheeks hurt, dimple fully exposed, teeth on display, eyes crinkling deeply at the corners...and it just makes him look so handsome that you can't even complain.

"What? You never said you wanted whole paragraphs or full sentences!"

"You're lucky I love you." Your arms slide around his neck, tugging yourself closer to him until your chest to chest, feet between his own, faces close together.

The summer nights in Germany were warmer than you had expected.

Even with the bedroom window cracked open, the air felt heavy, carrying the soft chirping of crickets and the occasional sound of a car passing along the quiet street outside. You had kicked the blankets away hours ago, and the small fan in the corner did little more than circulate the warmth around the room.

The two cribs beside the bed remained empty. Not because Ben and Anne were awake.

For the first time since bringing the twins home, both babies were sleeping peacefully. They simply refused to sleep anywhere except on their parents.

Lukas sat against the headboard without a shirt, one protective arm wrapped around Anne as she slept sprawled across his bare chest. Her cheek rested directly over his heart, her tiny lips parted while her breaths warmed his skin.

You were beside him with Ben tucked against your chest, nursing lazily despite having fallen asleep several minutes earlier.

Every time you attempted to detach him, his little face scrunched and his fingers tightened against you as though he could sense that you were trying to move him “They’re spoiled,” you whispered.

Lukas looked down at Anne, whose entire body seemed to relax further whenever he gently moved his hand along her back “They’re newborns,” he corrected softly. “They can’t be spoiled.”

“You say that because Anne has decided you’re her personal mattress.”

“She has good taste.” You rolled your eyes, though the smile pulling at your lips gave you away.

Lukas had been completely devoted to the twins from the moment they were born. During your pregnancy, he had worried constantly about whether he would know what to do. He had read books, watched videos and asked his parents so many questions that his mother eventually told him he needed to trust his instincts.

The moment the twins arrived, those instincts seemed to take over.

He changed diapers without being asked, paced the halls at night with one baby tucked securely against his chest and always made sure you had eaten before worrying about himself. He refilled your water bottle whenever you breastfed and kept snacks beside the bed because he had read that nursing made you hungry.

He cared for Ben and Anne with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

But there was something particularly special about the way Lukas treated his daughter. Anne barely needed to make a sound before he was checking on her. He could identify her cry instantly, even when you still needed a few seconds to determine which twin was fussing.

He insisted she slept better against him because she liked hearing his heartbeat.

The fact that she apparently required him to be shirtless was something Lukas was far too proud of “She won’t stay asleep if I put a shirt on,” he explained seriously.

“You’ve tested that theory once.”

“And she woke up.”

“She woke up because you hit the bassinet with your knee.”

“That is not relevant.”

You quietly laughed, careful not to disturb Ben. “You just like having an excuse to walk around without a shirt.”

Lukas glanced at you with a knowing smile “You like sleeping on my bare chest too.”

Heat immediately rose into your cheeks. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“I’m your girlfriend.”

“And she’s my daughter.” You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out, Lukas smiled triumphantly. “Exactly.”

“There was absolutely no logic in anything you just said.”

“There was enough.”

Ben suddenly shifted against you, making a soft, unhappy sound when you adjusted your position. His face scrunched, and before he could begin crying, you settled him comfortably against your breast again.

He immediately relaxed. From beside you, Lukas sighed dramatically, you glanced at him “What?”

“He gets you all to himself.”

“He’s eating.”

“He’s been asleep for ten minutes.”

“He likes the comfort.”

Lukas narrowed his eyes playfully at his son. “Those were mine first.”

For a moment, you simply stared at him. Then a laugh escaped you before you could stop it, Anne stirred against Lukas’ chest, her tiny eyebrows pulling together as though deeply offended by the noise. Lukas immediately supported the back of her head, whispering soothingly in German until she settled again.

“You’re jealous of your newborn son,” you accused, struggling to keep your voice quiet through your laughter.

“I’m not jealous.”

“You just claimed ownership over my boobs.”

“They were my favorite pillows before he arrived.”

“Lukas!”

“What?” he whispered innocently. “It’s true.” Ben released you long enough to make a disgruntled little noise before latching again, Lukas stared down at him “He knows.”

“He’s three weeks old.”

“He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

You shook your head, still smiling. “Stop competing with your son.”

“I’m not competing. I’m just reminding him that he has to share.” As though offended by the suggestion, Ben’s hand opened against your chest and his fingers curled into your skin.

Lukas pointed at him. “See?” Before you could answer, Anne began to stir. Her mouth moved against Lukas’ chest, and she released a small whimper as she lifted her head. Lukas immediately sat straighter “She’s hungry.”

“I know.”

You carefully adjusted Ben before reaching toward your daughter. Lukas passed Anne into your arms, but the moment he moved her away from his chest, Ben began fussing.

His tiny cry grew louder as Anne settled against your other side “He doesn’t like when I hold her,” Lukas whispered.

“He doesn’t like when anyone else gets attention.”

Ben continued to whimper while you tried to position both babies. Anne rooted impatiently, turning her head against you, while her brother seemed more interested in protesting than eating.

Lukas watched you for a moment before moving closer “Tell me what you need.”

“The nursing pillow.” He grabbed it immediately, carefully placing it around your waist. He helped you support Anne before gently adjusting Ben’s body so both babies could lie comfortably across you.

The second they were settled and nursing together, the room became quiet again. Ben’s little hand remained pressed against you as though claiming his place, while Anne’s fingers curled loosely beside her cheek.

You released a tired breath and leaned back against the pillows, when you looked toward Lukas, he was staring at you. Not casually, he was watching you with such open admiration that you suddenly became self-conscious “What?” you asked.

He shook his head slowly. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I know.”

You glanced down at yourself. Your hair was tied into a messy knot, your shirt was bunched beneath the nursing pillow and there were probably dark circles beneath your eyes from weeks without proper sleep “I look terrible.”

Lukas’ expression immediately changed “No, you don’t.”

“I haven’t showered today.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’m covered in milk.”

“I still don’t care.”

His gaze moved toward the twins, his expression softening as he watched them nurse“You’re feeding both of our babies at the same time,” he murmured. “How could I not look at you?”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly “It’s not exactly glamorous.”

“To me, it is.”

You gave him a doubtful look, Lukas shifted closer, resting one hand gently on your thigh “I mean it,” he said. “You carried them. You gave birth to them. Now they calm down just because they can hear your voice or feel you holding them.”

“They calm down with you too.”

“Anne does.”

At the sound of her name, Lukas’ eyes moved immediately toward his daughter. Anne was already beginning to fall asleep again, her sucking slowing while her body became heavier in your arms. Ben, however, remained determined “He’s going to stay there all night,” Lukas muttered.

“He’s hungry.”

“He’s always hungry.”

“He’s growing.”

“He’s possessive.”

You laughed quietly, Lukas leaned forward and brushed one finger over Ben’s soft cheek, he stopped nursing for half a second and frowned “He doesn’t like me interrupting,” Lukas observed.

“He’s jealous.”

“Of me?”

“Of Anne.”

Lukas looked unconvinced until Anne finished nursing and he carefully lifted her from your arms. The moment she was settled against his bare chest again, Ben released you and began crying.

Both you and Lukas froze “You see?” you whispered.

Lukas looked down at his son, then at Anne “Ben,” he said seriously, “she’s my baby too.” Ben cried louder, Anne responded with a startled whimper “Oh no.” Lukas immediately began rubbing his daughter’s back. “Don’t wake up, Prinzessin.”

“You have to take Ben too.”

“I only have one chest.”

“You have two arms.”

Carefully, Lukas shifted Anne to one side and reached for Ben with the other. You placed the little boy against his free shoulder, but Ben continued to fuss while staring in your direction “He wants you,” Lukas said.

“He wants to make sure you’re not replacing him with Anne.”

“I would never replace him.” Lukas lowered his face and kissed the top of Ben’s head “You hear that? Papa loves you too.”

Ben’s cries slowly softened, although he continued making small unhappy noises whenever Lukas kissed Anne “This is ridiculous,” Lukas whispered affectionately.

“He gets it from you.”

Lukas looked at you. “What does that mean?”

“You were jealous because he was breastfeeding.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

Lukas opened his mouth, clearly searching for an explanation,ou raised your eyebrows “He stole my spot,” he finally said.

“You’re both impossible.” Despite the protest, your entire expression softened as you watched him.

Lukas sat shirtless against the headboard with one newborn tucked into each arm. Anne was spread across his chest, perfectly peaceful again, while Ben remained against his shoulder, one tiny fist gripping the chain around Lukas’ neck.

Lukas looked exhausted.

His hair was messy, his eyes were heavy and there was a small milk stain on his shoulder from where Ben had spit up earlier. You had never found him more attractive “You’re staring now,” he said.

“I know.”

“Why?”

You smiled. “Because you’re a good dad.”

His teasing expression disappeared, Lukas looked down at the babies before swallowing softly “I’m trying.”

“You don’t have to try very hard.”

“I do.” He glanced at you again. “You make everything look easy.” you laughed under your breath. “Nothing about this is easy.”

“I know.” His voice softened. “That’s why I admire you.”

Your eyes burned with sudden tears, Lukas noticed immediately “No baby, please don't cry.”

“I’m hormonal.”

“I know.”

“You’re supposed to disagree.”

“You cried yesterday because my mom brought you bread.”

“It was good bread.”

“It was very good bread,” he agreed.

He carefully leaned toward you, still balancing both twins, and kissed you “You’re amazing,” he whispered. “Even when you’re tired. Even when you think you look terrible. Even when Ben steals you from me all day.”

You laughed through the tears. “You almost made that romantic.”

“It was romantic.”

“Until you mentioned being jealous of the baby.”

“I can be romantic and jealous.”

Anne stirred against his chest and tucked her face closer to him. Ben followed a second later, his body finally relaxing as Lukas continued gently rubbing both of their backs.

The room became quiet once more “You should put them in the cribs” you whispered.

Lukas looked toward the two empty beds “We could try.” Neither of you moved, Anne released a content little sigh and Ben tightened his grip on Lukas’ necklace “They look comfortable,” Lukas said.

“They always look comfortable on you.”

“So do you.”

He shifted slightly and stretched one arm toward you “Come here.”

“You already have both babies.”

“There’s still room.”

You carefully moved closer until your head rested against his shoulder, beside Ben. Lukas pressed a kiss into your hair while keeping both twins securely against his bare chest “There,” he murmured contentedly. “All my favorite people.”

“You won’t be saying that when your arms go numb.”

“They’re already numb.”

“Lukas.”

“But I’m not moving.” You smiled, closing your eyes as you listened to the steady beat of his heart beneath Anne’s cheek.

The cribs would remain empty for another night.

Ben would wake soon and demand to nurse again. Anne would refuse to settle unless her skin touched her father’s chest, and Lukas would continue pretending that he wasn’t secretly delighted by it. But with all four of you pressed together beneath the warm German summer air, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Dior, Miu Miu, Tom Ford, Chanel, and Prada are all brands that have somehow invaded your bedroom. Perfumes stacked neatly on a sterling silver stand on your dresser. Charlotte Tilbury palettes on your vanity, and Tiffany diamonds sparkling on your jewelry tray.

Despite your best efforts to tell him you really don’t need any of it, Jack Abbot buys you quite literally everything you show the tiniest amount of interest in.

It isn’t that you can’t afford it, you absolutely can. Years of medical school and brutal residency shifts had earned you a salary you were more than proud of, which made Jack’s habit of paying for everything simultaneously frustrating and endearing.

It started small. You’d pause a second too long in front of a perfume display, eyes widening at the price tag as you muttered something about how insane it was. The bottle would appear on your bathroom counter the next morning.

You’d complain that your work tote was falling apart. Three days later, a brand new leather one arrived at your apartment with your initials hand-stitched on the side in dainty gold thread.

You’d compliment a necklace in passing, and somehow Cartier already knew your address.

At first it was sweet. Then it became excessive. Which is why you now have enough designer items in your home to pay off someone’s mortgage.

And somehow… that still wasn’t enough for him.

・・・۶ৎ・・・

You’re standing in the Sephora checkout line, fully intent on spoiling yourself for once. Jack stands close by your side, seemingly distracted by his phone, squinting down at a text from Robby. You make a mental note to increase the font size later when he isn’t looking.

As the person in front of you finishes, you see his hand slip into his pocket out of the corner of your eye, reaching for his wallet.

“Jack,” you huff quietly, no real heat behind it.

“Hm?”

“Put your wallet away. I told you, I’m paying.”

He glances up from the screen, expression perfectly innocent. “Why?”

You turn to face him fully, arms crossed. “Because these are my things. I can buy my own makeup, Jack. You’ve already bought me three things today.”

His eyebrow lifts just slightly, that calm, steady doctor look settling over his features. He steps closer until his chest brushes your shoulder, voice low and warm against your ear.

“I like taking care of my girl. Why wouldn’t I?”

The cashier is smiling politely, pretending not to listen. Your cheeks are hot, fairly certain that they’re tinted a faint shade of red.

“Jack,” you warn, softer this time.

“You gonna stand here and argue with me, baby?” His hand settles lightly at the small of your back, thumb stroking once, slow and deliberate. “Or are you gonna let me pay?”

You exhale a defeated laugh, cheeks burning.

A small, satisfied smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. “That’s what I thought.”

He slides his card into the reader before you can make any move to protest again. While the cashier rings everything up, his arm stays looped around your waist, holding you close like it’s his favorite thing in the world.

・・・۶ৎ・・・

The drive home is quiet at first, city lights sliding across the windshield. You keep glancing down at the heavy Sephora bag in your lap, then over at him.

“You promised you’d let me pay today” you say, gently poking his arm.

Jack’s hand leaves the gear shift to rest on your thigh instead, squeezing gently.

“I said I’d try,” he corrects, voice low with amusement. “There’s a difference.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’re ridiculous. We’re both doctors, y’know? I don’t need you dropping half your salary on me every time we leave the house.”

He’s quiet for a moment, thumb brushing back and forth over your leg as he drives.

“You work harder than anyone I know,” he says finally. “Longer hours than me sometimes. You come home exhausted and still make time for us. Let me take care of you, sweetheart. It makes me feel good. Like I’m doing something right.”

Your chest flickers with undeniable warmth. You reach down and lace your fingers with his. “You do plenty right, Jack. You don’t have to buy me half of Sephora to prove it.”

“I know.” He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles without taking his eyes off the road. “But I want to. And I like seeing my baby have pretty things.”

The words settle warm and heavy in your stomach. Your eyes are soft as you study the side of his face.

・・・۶ৎ・・・

Back at your apartment, Jack carries the bags inside like they weigh nothing. You kick off your shoes and start unpacking the new products on your vanity, admiring the sleek packaging.

He leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that soft, focused look that always makes your heart feel 10 pounds heavier.

“You’re staring,” you tease, fighting off a genuine smile.

“Can’t help it.” He pushes off the doorframe and comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder. “You happy?”

You lean back into his chest. “Yes. Thank you… even though you have no self-control.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrates low and warm against your neck. “Good.”

You turn in his arms, looping yours around his neck. “But next time, I’m paying. I will hear no arguments.”

Jack hums, pretending to consider it. “We’ll see.”

“Jack.”

“Alright, alright,” he says, lips brushing your forehead. “I’ll behave.”

You narrow your eyes. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

・・・۶ৎ・・・

Forty minutes later you’re curled up on the couch together when your phone buzzes. A notification from the jewelry store you’d walked past earlier on the way to Sephora.

Order confirmed. Your custom initial pendant will be ready for pickup tomorrow.

You sit up slowly, staring at the screen, then turn to look at him.

Jack doesn’t even have the decency to look guilty. He just pulls you back against his chest with a lazy grin, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck.

“You said you’d behave,” you whisper, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

“I did behave,” he murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to your temple. “For a whole forty minutes. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

--- --- ---

Jack was standing at the kitchen counter in an apron, sifting flour, baking powder, sugar and salt in a bowl. Lizzie stood next to him on a chair, watching him with big eyes.

“Daddy, no.” She shook her head and reached for the whisk.

Jack raised an eyebrow, smiling. “I don’t think I’m taking advice from someone who can’t even make a sand pie.”

“DADDY!” Her voice rose and Jack was, once again, stunned how loud his little toddler daughter could be. Her eyes welled up. “IZZIE!”

He watched her for another moment and before she could commit to a full breakdown lifted her up and handed her the whisk. Her eyes lit up and she went to work with the determination of a small terminator. She whisked so hard that a cloud of flour rose from the bowl, making Jack cough violently.

“Okay, okay” he managed between breaths. “That’s enough. If someone lights a match in here, we’re not gonna survive, bean.”

She shrieked with laughter. He had to physically wrestle the whisk out of her hand to stop her. He lowered her down onto the chair again, looking at her. “Elizabeth, I have no idea where you get these tiny terrorist tendencies from but I suppose it’s daycare. You don’t have to verify, just nod once.”

She stared at him, blinking. Then she nodded slowly, her thumb in her mouth.

“I knew it” Jack said while adding milk, butter and the egg. “It’s always the place you’d least expect.”

Lizzie stood on her tiptoes, watching him mix the ingredients into a smooth dough, nodding along.

“You know, bean, the most important thing is - never get caught, okay?” Jack continued while whisking. “Committing a crime is easy. Not getting caught takes brains.”

You came into the kitchen, dressed in bright red Christmas pajamas and furrowed your brows when you heard Jack’s last sentence. “Um. What are you guys talking about?”

Lizzie turned around and squealed when she saw you. Her arms reached for you instantly. “Mommy! PANKY!”

You lifted her onto your hip, kissed her on the cheek and snuggled her close. “Yeah, I see - Daddy makes pancakes, huh? That’s what losers do.”

“Lose’” Lizzie repeated seriously, her thumb already in her mouth again.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “I prefer Daddy, you know?”

You snorted. “Well, that’s new then. I can recall a very specific situation where you asked me not to call you that anymore.”

“That was different.” He blushed and turned around, putting the bowl back on the counter and grabbing a pan.

You tucked a loose strand of hair behind Lizzie’s ear then yawned.

“The Coffee’s ready too, honey” Jack said while oiling the pan.

You smiled. “Thanks. But do you know what’s missing?”

Jack looked up, confused. “What?”

You walked over to the radio and turned it on. Christmas music filled the room immediately. Lizzie shrieked and started clapping.

“This.” You stepped closer to Jack, giving him a kiss. “Merry Christmas, husband.”

He turned toward you, pulling you in a careful hug because Lizzie was still attached to your hip. “Merry Christmas, wife” he whispered into your ear so that Lizzie couldn’t hear him. “Stop making me horny or you’ll see what happens to naughty girls on Christmas.”

You snorted again. “Apparently they get pancakes because they lied about the Hallmark movie yesterday. I’ve watched it before.”

Jack gasped and clutched his chest mockingly. “The whole thing was rigged? I never stood a chance.”

You tilted your head, smiling. “Exactly.”

Jack shook his head and turned back to the stove. The first pancake hit the hot pan with a satisfying sizzle and within seconds the kitchen filled with the warm smell of butter. 

“You know Lizzie - your mommy is actually a super criminal with slightly sociopathic tendencies. She committed the perfect crime with that Hallmark bet and got away with it. But then she returned to the scene of the crime and let me know because that’s her jam.”

You started laughing. Lizzie watched Jack while absently playing with your hair, perfectly content on your hip. “Mommy” she whispered.

You hugged her. “I’m not a sociopath, Lizzie” you said seriously. “I just don’t like it when my husband forgets how much more intelligent I am than he is.”

Jack gave you a grin over his shoulder. “Trust me, baby, I know.” He turned back. “... believe me I know.”

Twenty minutes later there was a knock on the door. When Jack opened it Robby stood there bundled up against the sharp December cold, balancing a bunch of wrapped presents and a paper bag in his hands.

“Merry Christmas!” He held up the bag. “I brought bagels.”

Jack stared, then glanced at his watch. “It’s way too early.”

Robby shrugged. “I was awake. And I do smell pancakes so you were up anyway.”

He pushed past Jack into the hallway, putting the presents on the dresser and shrugging off his coat. After kicking off his shoes he pulled Jack in a short hug - just a bump of shoulders, a small pat on the back - and turned around.

“So, where’s my favorite goddaughter?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “She’s your only goddaughter.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He shrugged. Before he could say anything small footsteps were audible. Small, very fast footsteps. Lizzie came bouncing out of the kitchen, her face and hands sticky with maple syrup, making a beeline for Robby.

“RARA!” She shrieked delightedly and stopped in front of him, reaching up. “UNC RARA!”

Jack furrowed his brows. “Maybe you should-”

Robby smiled and lifted her onto his arms without another thought. He realized his mistakes a moment later when she planted her gooey hands right in his face. You could practically see the light in his eyes go out. He turned toward Jack, holding Lizzie with outstretched arms, which only made her shriek louder. 

“Do I want to know what’s so sticky?” His voice was unnaturally strangled.

Jack grinned. “Relax. It’s only maple syrup. At least I’m eighty percent sure it is.”

Robby closed his eyes. “If it happens to be the other twenty percent I’m going to kill myself.”

Jack laughed. “That’s what it takes? Good to know. And now stop being so melodramatic. You can hand her over and clean up if you want to.”

Robby shook his head. “Nah, I’ll clean both of us up. I guess you’ve got more pancakes to flip, hm?” Robby walked toward the bathroom, still holding Lizzie away from him. She kicked her legs enthusiastically, shrieking and giggling like this was the best game ever. 

“Be careful” Jack yelled after him. “She got a new tooth and she kind of likes the taste of human flesh.”

Robby shrugged it off. “I expect a fresh coffee and at least five pancakes when I come back” he replied before closing the bathroom door behind them.

“Well.” Jack let out a breath, before walking back into the kitchen. “I guess we really are kind of married. Huh. Who would’ve thought.”

So a while later you all huddled around the coffee table which now served as a makeshift breakfast table. There was a lot of food - not only pancakes or the bagels Robby had brought, but also monkey bread, lots of bacon and smoked salmon, some fruit (more out of a guilty conscience) and more. You were sitting on the sofa, nursing your coffee working your way through it while watching Robby helping Lizzie unwrapping her gifts.

Or… he tried to.

He took one of the boxes and shook it lightly. “Look, Elizabeth, that’s for you.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide and starstruck. She reached out - and immediately grabbed the shiny bow attached to it. She ripped it off and planted a kiss on it. “IZZIE!”

Then she toddled away to sit under the Christmas tree, staring at the bow, giggling to herself.

Robby looked at you. “There’s a children doctor kit in there” he said confused. “Why doesn’t she want to see it?”

You stifled a laugh. “Michael, she doesn’t know what’s inside. I think that concept might be a little too abstract for her.”

Robby thought about it for a moment, then took another, smaller present. He held it up and shook it. “Look, Lizzie-lizzie-lizzie” he cooed, shaking it again. “Hey, girl, look - do you wanna know what’s inside? Huh? Do you wanna know?”

She stared at him, the bow forgotten. Then she crawled toward him.

“Ha, yes, come here, Lizzie-lizzie-lizzie, yeah, pst-pst-pst, such a good girl.”

You nearly choked on your coffee hearing that. Robby looked up, caught your expression and immediately realized what he’d just done. He shot you a deeply disgusted look. Jack, who leaned against the doorframe, started laughing.

Lizzie crawled into his lap and reached for the box. Robby tugged on a loose corner of the wrapping paper. She grabbed it and made an excited little squeal when she heard the satisfying ripping noise. A second later she turned into a tiny shredder - wrapping paper flew everywhere. And when she unwrapped the box she moved to sit between the pieces of wrapping paper, tearing it into even smaller pieces, looking absolutely delighted.

Robby blinked. “Um, Elizabeth, do you wanna open your gift?” He shook the box again.

She glanced up and shook her head. “No.” 

Jack tilted his head and sat beside them (groaning a little too loudly when his joints cracked), still holding his mug. “Bean, wanna come sit with daddy and have a look at all the gifts you got?”

Lizzie stared at him for a moment then tore another piece of paper without breaking eye contact. “No.”

He shot you a look. “Why do we even bother buying stuff for her?”

“I think it’s great she’s discovering her own hobbies” you replied dryly. “Maybe she’s going into the shredding business.”

Jack let out a sigh, reaching for his daughter. “Baby, come her, huh? Let’s open some gifts. We don’t want Robby to cry, right?”

Lizzie’s head snapped up. “Rara cry?” she echoed, her eyes suddenly widening. She stood up with all the dignity of a eighteen-month-old toddler and wobbled over to Robby. She planted both her hands on his knees, looking at him. “Cry?”

Robby stared at her for a moment, then glanced at Jack. “I guess we’re guilt tripping your daughter into opening her Christmas presents” he whispered. “Is that something we should do?”

Lizzie climbed into his lap, stroking his chin gently and planting a kiss on it. “Izzie pet.”

You took another sip of coffee. “Do you need any help redirecting her or are you good?”

Robby pulled Lizzie into a hug, kissing the top of her head. “I’m fine” he said. “But thanks, Lizzie, that was very helpful. I won’t cry anymore.”

She squealed then wriggled free, sitting down onto his lap, facing the gifts. Then she reached for the box. 

“That’s from your favorite uncle and godfather” Robby said, helping her open it and reaching inside. 

He held out a shimmering ice-blue princess dress with a glittering tulle skirt, sheer sleeves and tiny silver snowflakes scattered across the bodice. It also included a sparkling cape.

You blinked at it. “Oh, um, wow.”

Lizzie stared at it. “ESSA!” 

Jack blinked. “Um, is that something I should know?”

“Abbot!” Robby stared at him, deeply offended. “That’s from your daughters favorite movie. You need to know that.”

“She doesn’t have a favorite movie yet” you chimed in, but Robby still looked determined.

“We watched Frozen like three times the last time she stayed over at mine. She was completely captivated. And she told me she wanted to be Elsa.”

“Okay.” You took a deep breath. “My little daughter, who isn’t even able to form a coherent sentence, told you that she wanted to be that specific Disney princess?”

Robby shrugged and was already helping Lizzie into the new dress. “She didn’t tell me so much with words but with her eyes.”

“You’re completely overprojecting.” Jack laughed. “You’re spoiling our child worse than we do.”

“And I don’t care. It’s my duty as her godfather.” He zipped the dress shut and Lizzie started jumping up and down joyfully. “And she’s happy.”

You let out an overdramatic sigh and reached for another bagel while both men were cooing over how cute Lizzie looked. You had just taken the first bite when your phone started ringing. You glanced at the screen - it was a FaceTime request from your mom.

“Lizzie, it’s Grandma” you announced before taking the call. Your mom’s face filled the screen. “Merry Christmas, mom!”

“Merry Christmas, darling!” she replied with a wide smile. “I am not too late to watch Lizzie open her presents, right?”

“No, we just started. Perfect timing.” You switched to the back camera so it now showed the living room.

Jack smiled. “Hey, Merry Christmas!”

Robby looked up and waved toward the camera. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!” Your mom’s face lit up. “My two favorite men and my favorite girl! Now don’t let me distract you” she continued. “Go on, sweetheart, open the next one.”

Lizzie glanced up at the sound of her voice then immediately reached for another brightly wrapped present while Robby enthusiastically slid it closer to her.

“I think she got the hang of it” he said while watching her rip off the paper.

“Oh.” Your mom laughed softly. “Look at them.”

You rolled your eyes - what she couldn’t see because the camera was facing away from your face. “Mom…”

“No, seriously, he’s so adorable with her.”

“I know” you said with a sigh.

She shushed you. You gave Jack a look but he chose to hide his smile behind his coffee mug.

They unwrapped the present together. Robby reached inside and pulled out a wooden puzzle with an ambulance on it.

“That’s from grandma, Lizzie” your mom cooed.

Lizzie shrieked and clapped her hands.

“Thank you grandma” Jack said, smiling into the camera.

Robby put the puzzle on the ground and Lizzie immediately reached for the first piece, just to shove it straight into her mouth. Your mom laughed.

“That ambulance looks like it has seen things” you said dryly after looking at the puzzle.

Jack snorted. “It’s giving serial killer vibes.”

“No wonder it looks like that if people are shoving gurneys up their-”

“Kids!” your mother intervened, her voice firm. “There are children present.”

“Children? Plural? Are you counting Robby?” you asked with a grin.

“Stop tormenting poor Michael” your mom scolded. “He’s such a good man.”

“Mom…”

“And he spends so much time with your daughter.”

“Mom…”

“Even when he has this very demanding job with these ridiculous hours the still chooses to spend Christmas morning with his goddaughter. That’s just so nice of him. You should honor that more. He’s such a good person.”

“Oh my God, please, can we stop talking about Robby for five minutes?” you said with a groan. 

Jack started laughing and Robby looked incredibly smug. You tried to switch to the front camera again and flipped Robby off with your free hand. 

You just weren’t fast enough.

The gasp your mom let out was loud. “What is that?”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Show me your hand.”

You looked down at your hand - and froze. “Um.” You shifted the phone and reached out your right hand. “Why do you want to see my hand?” you asked, trying really hard to control your voice.

“The other hand, missy.” Her voice was firm and you immediately noticed that she wasn’t in the mood for joking anymore.

Jack and Robby shared a look. One of them mumbled a “Fuck!” and you couldn’t agree more.

You took the phone in your right hand again - and reluctantly held out your left hand.

The hand with the gold band resting on your ring finger.

The silence that followed was heavy. Long enough to make your stomach twist.

Eventually your mom spoke again. “Correct me if I’m wrong but this looks like a wedding ring.”

You closed your eyes for a second. Jack stood with surprising agility, crossed the room with a couple of steps and sat down next to you, his arm around your shoulders.

“We can explain” he said with a nod. “It’s-”

“Oh, I really, really hope you can explain that, Jack.” Her voice was icy. “If that really is a wedding ring I have a lot of questions I’d like answered.”

You swallowed hard, glancing at Robby who was very immersed in the ambulance puzzle while Lizzie continued to drool over every single piece. “... and that’s where the patients come to the hospital your favorite godfather is working, you see, they only come in via ambulance when they’re really sick - like having an MI, a myocardial infarction, or a stroke or an MVA, that’s short for motor vehicle accident, and…”

It threw you off for a moment then you shook your head slightly and focused back on your mom. “Mom.” You bit your lip. “I’ll tell you the whole story but please, you’re not allowed to yell. Okay?”

She narrowed her eyes and nodded once. “I’m waiting.”

“So, yeah, okay, yes, Jack and I got married.” Jack squeezed your thigh supportively but kept quiet. “We didn’t want to have a lot of additional paperwork for Lizzie’s daycare… and honestly we didn’t want to wait until next year. So… it was kind of a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

Your mom stared at you. “Lizzie started daycare almost three months ago.”

Jacks eyes widened. You opened your mouth and closed it again before shrugging a little helplessly. “Um, yeah. Exactly.”

“Are you telling me that you’ve been married for three months now?” Her voice was calm. Too calm. You knew that voice. It was reserved for major fuck ups. The last time you’d heard that voice was when you’d told her you’d gotten back together with Hunter.

You nodded miserably, your throat tight. “Yeah… kind of.”

“And neither of you thought it would be a good idea to tell me?”

Jack pulled you a little closer. “We didn’t tell anyone.”

She stared at him. “Why?”

You glanced at Jack. “We didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. It should just be… us.”

Your mom didn’t say anything for a long while. Then she cleared her throat. “I’m calling you back in a minute.”

And with that the line went dead.

You stared at the screen. Jack stared at you. 

Robby stared at both of you. “Well, fuck. She is not happy” he said in a low voice, before turning back to Lizzie.

“No shit, Sherlock” Jack replied flatly then pulled you in a proper hug. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

Your mind was racing and you felt bad. Like… awful. You pressed your face against his shoulder and shrugged. “No?” Your voice was barely audible. “I guess she hates me now.”

He started stroking your hair soothingly, pressing a kiss on top of your head. “She doesn’t hate you. She’s surprised. And I think that’s fair, yeah?”

You shrugged, pressing yourself closer against him, feeling his warmth and the reassuring beat of his heart. It wasn’t enough to ease the guilt in your chest but at least it was something.

Lizzie took the soiled puzzle piece out of her mouth and looked at you. “Mommy cry?”

Then she stood up and toddled over to you, holding out the puzzle piece toward you. “Mommy, no cry.” She shook her head and poked you with the piece. “Mommy.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to look up. 

Jack stroked her hair. “Mommy’s fine, Bean. She just needs a cuddle.”

“Cuddly?” She asked with big eyes, then climbed on the sofa next to you, throwing her chubby toddler arms around you and pressing herself onto you. “Mommy cuddly.”

“Thanks, Bean, that’s really sweet of you” Jack said, smiling at her. Then he glanced down at you. “You should thank your daughter too” he whispered.

You nodded slowly, then looked up. “Thanks, Lizzie. Mommy is already feeling better.”

Robby stood up and stretched. “I’m making another round of coffee” he announced. “Or something stronger? Irish coffee? Or a cheeky mimosa?”

You let out a shaky laugh. “No, thanks. Coffee is great. Thanks, Michael.”

“Uh-oh.” Robby stared at you. “You’re calling me Michael. Your mom really broke you.”

You narrowed your eyes.

He held up his hands. “Okay, yeah, sorry, too early.” Then he walked into the kitchen.

Jack looked at you. “Let’s open some more gifts, hm? That’ll probably make you feel better?”

You wrinkled your nose. “I doubt it. Maybe I should call her and-”

You couldn’t even finish the sentence because the phone in your hand started buzzing. Your heart stopped for a moment as you glanced down the screen, seeing your mom’s Face Time call.

“Oh fuck” you whispered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Jack squeezed your shoulder. “Come on, sweetheart, we’ll get through this. Together. Okay?”

“Fuck” Lizzie whispered reverently and nodded. “Fuck.”

Jack stared at her. “Okay, fuck, that’s something we need to take care of before she’s going back to daycare, but… okay, one problem at a time.” Then he looked at Lizzie. “Bean, you wanna go help Robby make coffee?”

Lizzie tilted her head, then smiled. “CAFFE!” She shrieked delightedly then scrambled from the sofa, running toward the kitchen.

“You good?” he asked you.

You nodded once, throat tight, hands clammy, and answered the call. The screen lit up again - but this time your mom wasn’t alone. She was sitting in the living room now, surrounded by relatives, each balancing paper plates on their knees, waving into the camera.

Your stomach dropped. “Mom?”

She looked straight at you. “Okay. Please repeat what you just told me.”

You swallowed. “Mom…”

“No.” Her voice was still calm. “Repeat it.”

You looked helplessly at Jack, who gave you a reassuring nod - probably while simultaneously dying inside and thanking God it wasn’t his family.

You sighed. “Jack and I got married in September.”

Your mom tilted her head. “Darling, I don’t think everybody heard that.”

“Mom…”

She folded her arms. “A little louder, sweetheart.”

You closed your eyes for a brief second, then took a deep breath. “JACK AND I GOT MARRIED IN SEPTEMBER!”

That was met with complete silence… which didn’t last very long. Then the room nearly exploded.

“YOU WHAT?!”

“... you got married?”

“Since September?”

“Oh my God!”

“Wait, what?!”

One of your aunts gasped dramatically, clutching her chest.

Eventually your mom sighed. “Thank you.” She looked around the room. “Now everyone understands why I’m upset, right? Even you, Myrtle? Or do you need another special explanation why my face looked like that after I JUST HEARD THAT MY ONLY DAUGHTER GOT MARRIED WITHOUT TELLING ME… hm? … No?... You do understand it now? … Good. Then keep your opinion to yourself next time, okay? … Yeah? … Good. Yeah, Merry Christmas to you too.” She turned towards the screen again, looking at you. “See, I’m not upset you two got married.” A pause. “I’m upset because my daughter has apparently been married for three months and I found out because she’s so rude, she had to flip off poor Michael while FaceTiming me.”

“I’m sorry, mom” you whispered, your face crumbling. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She let out a sigh. “It becomes kind of a tradition, right?”

You looked at her, suddenly puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“First your engagement, then the wedding… if you’re hiding your next child from me like that I’m going to disown you.”

Jack and you shared a glance. You haven’t told her about the fact that there wouldn’t be any more grandchildren in her future thanks to the vasectomy - and Jack nearly pleaded with his eyes that this stayed a topic your mom had no idea about.

“If we ever have another child you’re the first one to know” you said eventually, smiling, trying to suppress the giggle bubbling up in your chest.

“Thank you.” She sighed again. “You know, I would’ve liked the chance to be happy for you, you know?”

You swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too” Jack said. “But if you want to - we can send pictures?”

Your mother’s face lit up. “Yes! Yes, I’d love that! Send them to Uncle Zach's phone - he has one of those new phones with a bigger screen, then we can all look.”

Jack blinked. “Um, you mean - I should send it now?”

“Of course, now.” She clicked her tongue. “What else? Next week? Or to Easter? I already wasted three months so…”

He sat straighter immediately. He nearly saluted. Then he grabbed his phone and scanned through his pictures.

Robby appeared with Lizzie clutching onto his leg, holding a tray with four mugs, setting it back on the coffee table. “Two black coffees, one latte and one hot chocolate with extra marshmallows for our little Elsa here” he announced.

“No Essa. Izzie!” she declared, patting her own chest, then climbed onto your lap.

“Oh, hey Lizzie, my sweet girl” your mom cooed immediately, waving while the other relatives leaned in to have a closer look. “You look so beautiful. Did mommy buy you that?”

“No, Robby bought it” you said with a small smile.

Robby puffed out his chest, then sat down next to you, holding his mug. “Every woman deserves to feel like a princess, right?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Oh, Michael!” Your mom on the other hand looked delighted. “You’re so right. I’m so happy you’re Lizzie’s godfather.”

Jack looked up from his phone. “I sent a couple of pictures.”

Her head snapped towards her right. “Zach, did you get the pictures? … Huh?... What pictures? … The wedding pictures … Jack sent them… yeah, on your phone… yeah, come on have a look I wanna see my daughter wearing a dress… oh come on, move your backside over here!”

Zach appeared and sat down next to your mother, holding his phone like he was diffusing a bomb. It seemed like every single relative hovered closer to get a look.

Jack started to smile, pressing a kiss on your temple. “See? Everything’s okay” he whispered.

You nodded and watched your family coo over your wedding pictures.

“Oh my God, darling you looked so beautiful! That dress is stunning!” Your mother dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “And Lizzie in her sweet little dress - just like an angel.”

You smiled, watching Zach swipe to the next picture.

Your mother looked - and paused. She looked closer, then glanced at the screen toward you, narrowing her eyes.

“Michael.” 

Robby’s head snapped up and he spilled some coffee onto his trousers. “Yes, Ma’am?”

“You knew?”

His eyes widened in panic. “Um.”

“Don’t try to deny it. I can see you in this picture here.” Your mom pointed at the phone in Zach’s hand.

“Ummmm.”

“You knew and you didn’t tell me?”

Robby swallowed. “I… I… I wasn’t allowed to.”

“Michael - I expected better from you. I thought we were close.” Your mom was genuinely upset.

You glanced at Jack. “Close?” you mouthed, frowning. “What the fuck?”

Robby looked heartbroken. “I’M SO SORRY!” He pointed accusingly at Jack. “He made me promise.”

“Whoa.” Jack raised both hands. “Easy, tiger.”

Lizzie started giggling and raised both arms too. You smiled and guided them gently down again. “Wrong timing, Lizzie.”

Your mom looked at Robby’s face, that was half in frame. Then she sighed dramatically. “I suppose I’ll forgive all of you. But we’re still celebrating your wedding in May, right?”

Jack immediately straightened and nodded. “Yes, of course, Ma’am. We just booked the venue.”

“Good.” Your mom looked a little appeased. “And I want to have a say in the seating plan. No way you’re sitting me next to Myrtle. Or Bernie.”

Your eyes widened in horror. “Mom… neither of them are invited.”

She stared at you for a moment then started grinning. “Oh, that’s much better. Darling, I call you back in a couple of minutes, okay? Still want to see my grandchild unwrap the rest of her presents. But first I need to have a lovely chat with some people.” You could only watch while her finger tapped on her screen. The last thing you heard was her yelling “MYRTLE I NEED TO TELL YOU SOMETHING RIGHT NOW!”

Silence followed.

You all shared a glance before bursting into laughter.

“Oh my God.” You put your phone on the table, then pulled Lizzie closer. “Oh my God, she’s insane. Actually insane.”

Robby grinned toward you. “Yeah. I guess that runs in the family, huh?”

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You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise.

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