Emma

Trinity was tired. The kind of tired that seeped into your bones, and made every move an effort. The kind of tired that made the mere idea of continuing on seem impossible. The kind of tired that brought stings to her eyes but without the energy to let them fall. 

It was almost ten at night as she climbed the creaky stairs in her apartment building. The elevator had been broken since August. It was now January. She had been kept late catching up on charting after a mass casualty event. A drunk driver had caused a seven car pileup, resulting in five lives lost, two of which had belonged to children. Of course, the drunk driver walked away with a broken arm.

Just one of those shifts. She shivered, despite her many layers and the work of climbing the stairs on her deadened legs, still feeling the hands of desperate family members clinging to her, begging her to do the impossible. If she closed her eyes, she saw the kids, so small and gray looking, lying motionless on the table. Unreachable. Futures cut short.

She needed to sleep. She needed a meal. She needed a long, hot shower to attempt to wash the unease and grief away. But above anything else, she needed you.

She was unsure about you, a couple years before, when you approached her about her extra room. You were bubbly, cheery, almost overly so, and an illustrator for children’s books. She almost thought you were joking, until you showed her some of your work.

Whatever reservations she’d had, you were undoubtedly the most reliable and normal applicant of the bunch, and she was running out of time before her roommate moved out. When she told you you’d gotten the room, you actually hugged her, and squealed, “We’re going to have so much fun!”

Fun, as it turned out, for you, could be anything. You wore a constant smile, even as you panted in the sweltering city heat bringing your many boxes, cleared the congested shower drain because the landlord was taking too long, or dealt with Trinity’s foul moods after particularly difficult shifts. It took much less time than she expected for Trinity to get used to you.

You always prepared her a drink in the morning, coffee, matcha, even took the time to pour her Monsters into pretty cups with twirly straws. You drove her to her clinicals and classes even though most days you worked from home yourself, and dare she forget her specially packed lunch, you would ride your flowery, tasseled bike to drop it off for her.

You brought fresh flowers for the apartment. You got her specific comfort foods when you grocery shopped. You even learned how to make adobo, her favorite, when you knew she was going through tough times.

All it took was one fortnight trip to visit your family, leaving her all by her lonesome, for her to realize she didn’t ever want to be without you. Two weeks she spent grumbling and moaning around her strangely empty apartment. It took one whole week of your vacation for her to accept exactly why she was so upset, and another three days to come to terms with the fact that you would be in her life forever. Because if you weren’t? She wasn’t sure how she would manage.

When you finally arrived back to your shared place, back home, where you belonged, Trinity picked you up from the airport. The blinding smile you gave her as you rushed towards her car, weighed down by souvenirs and snacks you just couldn’t help buying for her, cemented it all in her heart.

“Oh my god, Trin, I have insane family drama to share!” you had said as you approached. “Remember my Uncle Dave? Well, his divorce just went through.”

As you yapped, Trinity took each of your bags from around your arms. You moved to open the trunk, but she merely dropped them where they were, and pulled you closer.

“— I mean, she’s a grown woman, technically, but she can’t even rent a car! What the hell is Uncle Dave think —”

Before you could have even raised a brow at Trinity’s odd behavior, she snaked one arm around your waist, one hand cupped your cheek, and she kissed you. All nerves that came with falling for your best friend, the ifs and hows, the anxieties, melted away as you kissed her back.

When you broke apart, she looked into your dazed eyes. You were smiling, of course you were. You wrapped your own arms around her neck, giddy.

“I missed you,” she said honestly.

“I missed you, too.”

And from then on, it was you and Trin. Trin and you. You allowed her to lay herself bare, and proved to her that you weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. You were a unicorn to her, after years of toxic, short-lived, harmful relationships. You were gentle, and kind. You loved her, just as she loved you.

And now she got to do this. Jam her key into the sticky lock, push open the door, and see you. You were sprawled out on the living room floor, surrounded by sketches, and discarded ideas, and every color of pen imaginable. Your headphones were on, clearly blasting since you didn’t immediately turn around to greet her.

Trinity took a minute just to admire you. She loved to see you concentrating. You furrowed your brow, and your tongue poked out of the corner of your mouth. You looked almost angry at the page, though Trinity knew you well enough to know that this was you at your happiest.

She pushed the door closed and let her bag fall quietly to the floor as she slipped off her shoes. It was your cat, Franklin, who finally alerted you to your girlfriend’s presence. The fat little Torbie stopped batting at the back of your pen, and trotted up to Trinity, slithering between her legs. You followed him, whipping your headphones off and dropping your Sakura, visage brightening at once.

“Trin,” you said simply, with a tone that suggested as though her being there was the greatest thing you could ever wish for.

She could tell by the cracking of your limbs as you stood that you hadn’t moved in quite some time. Sometimes, when you got locked in a flow, she’d have to remind you to eat, drink, even go to the bathroom. You became all consumed in your work. Normally, she’d just reprimand you, ask when you’d last eaten, and force some dinner into you because the answer always disappointed her. But this time, perhaps because she was exhausted, perhaps because she was already feeling the weight of her limitations after such loss as she’d experienced today, the idea that you might have needed her and she wasn’t there had those aforementioned tears rising to the surface.

Your smile immediately turned down into worry, and you gathered her up in your arms. She buried her screwed up face in your neck.

Trinity still wasn’t very good at letting herself be vulnerable, and crying to her felt like one of the most vulnerable states you could be in. She still sometimes got the urge, at those first signs of sobs, to run and hide herself away, lest anyone perceive her as weakened . You were trying to help her out of that.

Your arms went around her middle, under her jacket, hands rubbing slowly up and down her spine. You didn’t ask her what was wrong, just let her collapse into you as you swayed back and forth. It was a feeling of such safety, warm and tender and steady, that she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt before you, even as a child. To know that no matter how ugly things got, you would smile, and open your arms, and tell her you loved her.

When the worst of her weeping was over, and her shoulder stopped shaking, she raised her eyes to meet yours. You wiped her cheeks.

“First, a shower,” you said softly.

It wasn’t a command, but somehow, not a question either. Your hands didn’t leave her for a second as you removed her coat and led her to the bathroom. Her eyes were tired and sore, and as if somehow sensing this, you turned only the lights over the sink on. You sat her on the toilet seat while spinning the shower to life.

“Dennis?” you asked.

“Farm,” croaked Trinity.

The roll of your eyes made her smile slightly, cracking the trails of dried tears lining her cheeks.

You had been waiting for her, as usual, that September night after her first shift, with a steaming pot of adobo on the stove to celebrate her first day as an intern. The impulsive decision to bring home her abandoned colleague without asking you had Trinity just a touch less enthusiastic to face you. It was your home too, and she never wanted you to feel disrespected or ignored in your relationship.

But, after all, you were you. You welcomed the new addition with open arms, set him a plate at the table, and transformed your old bedroom-turned-storage room into a comfortable, homey place. Naturally, you’d become just about as protective over your bumbling huckleberry as Trinity had, and you weren’t a fan of his commitment to Amy and her farm.

Trinity half expected you to start another rant about unhealthy boundary crossing, but you seemed determined not to be distracted. You removed her scrubs, compression socks, underwear, and bra, forcing Trinity to move only when strictly necessary. Then you undressed yourself, and while waiting for the water to heat up, ran a brush through her thick dark hair.

When you were satisfied, you helped her overworked muscles lower her down into a seated position on the floor of the tub, so she was facing the wall. Then you began to shampoo her hair.

She closed her eyes as your perpetually inkstained fingers worked their way through the grime and sweat that accumulated under her too tight ponytail. You lightly scratched her scalp as you went, and whether you meant to or not, started humming a soft tune under your breath. Either way, Trinity appreciated it.

There was a time in her life when Trinity didn’t think she’d ever get where she was. Scarred body on display, back turned and eyes closed, and still feeling safer than she ever had. As your soapy hands slid down, working the knots from her neck and shoulders, salt burned her eyes again. This time, though, as tears of relief.

She was home. She was safe. She was human. Tomorrow would be another day, and no matter what, you’d be by her side. Days of mere survival were over for her. In you, she had a soft place to land. Always.

You whispered assurances to her as you methodically rinsed the shampoo from her locks. You told her you loved her, she was strong, how proud you were of her. When you were done, she spun herself around to face you. While you worked the green apple and mango body wash over her skin, she traced her hands across your form, reminding herself you were real.

“All clean,” you said, shutting off the water.

Dripping on the bathmat, you wrapped her in a warm, soft towel. It wasn’t until you had her sat at the kitchen table, drowning in fuzzy pajamas, with a bowl of leftovers steaming in front of her, that she found her voice.

“There was a car accident,” she said. “Five people died. Two kids. Brothers.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. “It’s hard to see as much death as you do.”

She nodded, stirring her food unnecessarily.

“Sometimes, I just don’t get it,” she sighed. “Why the people who live, live, and the people who don’t, don’t. Who gets to decide?”

“No one,” you said, locking your fuzzy-socked feet around her ankle under the table. “And certainly not you. I know that if you couldn’t save them, they were never going to be saved. It was out of your control.”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“I do,” you said. “And you know my rule. No serious decision making or existential musings past eight PM.”

When Trinity had managed to choke down half of her meal, you both headed to bed, leaving the dishes and the cleanup for the next day. She realized, as she sunk into the silky sheets, how nice it was to be home. Though she thought about it all day long, imagined spending her night with you, what you would do, it was never quite as good in her head as it was in real life.

She rested her weary head upon your chest to hear your heartbeat, steady and strong underneath layers of very much living tissue and bone, and blood vessels pumping life across your body.

Franklin hopped up after her, wiggling in between your warm bodies, purring contentedly.

“I love you,” she muttered, eyes already pulled shut.

She stayed awake just long enough to hear you say, “I love you more,” and to feel Franklin’s scratchy tongue against her hand, before she drifted off to sleep.

---

You had thought, rather foolishly, that your fourth year of residency would be a time of celebration. Hooray, you survived almost half a decade of being over worked and underpaid! As a reward, you get to add the stress of job hunting, rigorous interviews, and three AM panics about possibly having to move!

You shouldn’t have been surprised, because that was how life as a doctor was. No breaks. You barely got to celebrate graduation from med school, busy worrying about residency. Nonstop, every day, a barrage of stress, anxiety sweats, and minimal sleep.

You hadn’t always known you wanted to be a doctor. You’d actually gotten a degree in marketing, something you’d thought was a safe bet, before you realized how depressed desk jobs made you. You spent your mid twenties jumping from mediocre job to mediocre job, sure that you just hadn’t found the right one. It was your volunteer work at a trauma center not dissimilar to this one that showed you the light.

Running around, solving problems, keeping your mind busy? That was what you were meant to do. So, you’d scrambled to get your prereqs together and applied to medical school. Your parents thought you were crazy, especially when your residency brought you so far from home, but before long they were texting you symptoms, and pictures of moles, asking for advice.

Perhaps it was the space from your family, the states between you, that made this transition seem even more difficult than the last one. You were in your thirties now, but felt remarkably childish when you cried to your mom about interview outfits. You were drowning. Really, though, it was just the busywork, signatures and business casual pants and 401K talks that had you feeling so stifled. Never the job itself. No, your work in the ER each day was all that kept you going.

And after a sleepless night like the one you’d had, you weren’t just glad to be back, you were hungry for it. You drank it all in as you walked through the door; the yelled orders, the open cases piled high, the squeak of the rusty wheel on the sandwich cart. It was chaos, yes. But you wanted nothing more.

“Good morning,” said Jack gruffly, eyeing you and your smile. “Why are you doing that?”

“Smiling?”

“Yeah, stop it,” he said, clicking into one of the computers. “It’s freaking me out. Are you on something?”

“Just excited to get to work today,” you shrugged.

“Well, have fun,” he said. “I’ve got a toothache and two stomach pains who’ve been here since eleven last night, stable for now but getting a bit restless, and we only just sent the last victim of an MVA up for imaging, so expect most of them to be sticking around for a while.”

“Excellent,” you said.

“Wait a minute, it’s five in the morning,” said Jack suspiciously.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you said innocently. “I’ll take chest pain in three.”

Jack grumbled something as you dumped your bag right at the hub and ran to work, desperate. Was it a bit sad that work was your biggest sense of joy and livelihood? Maybe, if you wanted to listen to society and its breeding, heteronormative forward ideals. To you though, life was okay. Or it would be just as soon as you figured out where you were going to work next year.

And, sure, maybe you were a little lonely, and okay, yeah, like super pent up, but by the time you reached home at the end of your day, you were too exhausted to worry about such things. Not the healthiest approach, but it was just temporary.

You bounced from room to room, picking up slack and running errands just to have something to do until handover. When Jack finally called you back to the hub, it was to find most of the day shift already assembled.

“When did you get in?” asked Robby, looking worse for wear with his eye bags and worryingly large cup of coffee.

“Couple hours ago,” you said. “Wanted to get a head start. Clearly you had other ideas. Rough night, chief?”

“Oh, you know how he gets when he has to work back to back,” said another voice behind you.

You turned. Dana was smirking at you, sunglasses resting on her head. She had two bags in her hands, one of them yours.

“Should have known it was you cluttering up my station before the shift even started,” she said, tossing your bag to you. “Don’t let it happen again.”

“Good morning to you too, gorgeous!” you trilled, smiling back. “You, of course, look lovely as always. With that complexion I’d guess a full eight hours.”

She snorted. No one in the pitt had gotten more than six hours of sleep as long as they’d worked there, as you very well knew. But this was your game. You flirted hopelessly with your beloved charge nurse, she quipped back, and it worked. You lived for the banter the two of you could stir up at a moment’s notice, over empty boards to the middle of hectic traumas, like instinct.

She was an odd bird, to you. You liked to flirt a little, even with the guys if you thought it could get their faces to heat up enough to make you laugh. You were a menace when Whitaker first joined the team, even caught Jack off guard once or twice. But with Dana, it was different.

There was this fire between you, simmering, lighting you up each time you got going. Those rarer occasions when she flirted back made your heart turn. You scanned every room you entered hoping she’d be there. And yet, after almost four years, you hadn’t cracked her.

She had three daughters, two in college, one in her final year of high school. She was divorced but on good terms with her ex husband. You knew her favorite color, her preferred brand of cigarettes, her birthday, and you loved knowing those things. Getting to know her was a joy.

But there were some more pressing questions on your mind.

You’d never known her to have a relationship besides the amicably ended marriage. She was a little older than you, maybe older enough to raise a brow or two, but nothing gross. But if she thought that was an issue, surely she wouldn’t flirt with you? Then again, she might not be gay. Everyone knew you were. Maybe Dana assumed everyone knew she wasn’t?

You had even gone as far in the past as to ask Princess and Perlah for intel, at the risk of having your little crush exposed, but they had little more information. She married young, before either of the gossipy nurses had started at PTMC, and they hadn’t heard any dating rumors since the split.

You had been tempted, when you first became acquainted, to dig for more. It was in your nature after all to take problems head on, get your hands dirty, and find a solution. But something held you back. Maybe it was the fact that you were colleagues, that she had kids, that you liked the way things were too much to push it. You moved on, allowing yourself to appreciate her beauty, passion, and wit from the sidelines without crossing any boundaries.

But when Dana stopped you at the end of the shift and proposed a wine night, to celebrate, she said, you’d readily accepted. 

That was how you found yourself in her living room in the first place, surrounded by Samira, Cassie, Perlah, and Princess. It wasn’t out of the ordinary, gathering for some drinks, though it was the first time you’d been in Dana’s house.

“It’s a great place,” you said, glancing around while everyone poured themselves some wine from Dana’s special stash. Cassie and Perlah said they were fine with just pomegranate juice and seltzer.

“Yeah, I got it in the divorce,” said Dana, handing you a glass. “Otherwise I’d never be able to afford it alone.”

You took a sip of your wine and hummed. You were nothing close to a connoisseur, most of your wine having been drunk in absence of anything stronger, or on the side of a meal someone else paid for. Still, you could tell this one was nice, rich and smoky. You weren’t surprised Dana had great taste.

“What are we celebrating, by the way?” asked Princess after a deep draw from her cup.

“Our best fourth year residents over here, of course,” said Dana, gesturing to you and Samira, who smiled sheepishly. “Soon to be attendings at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center!”

Everyone let out some whoops, and you just shook your head.

“Samira’s the only one who’s got a confirmed position,” you said seriously. “Who knows where I’ll end up.”

“Oh, relax, Robby practically told me himself that you’re in,” Dana waved away.

“Really?”

“Everyone knows you’re his favorite,” said Cassie, and the others tittered agreements, but you shushed them and turned back to Dana.

“Wait — what exactly did Robby say?”

“He said you worked wonderfully with the team, and your prospects were good,” she said.

You scoffed.

“He was just being nice,” you said gloomily, taking another hearty sip.

“Nah, he had that look,” she said. You shook your head in confusion. “Trust me, that ‘I can’t say it but I’ve made up my mind’ look. It was actually nice, usually that look means bad news.”

It was hard to explain how you were feeling. There was an initial rush of relief, followed by several pangs of doubt. It was a big hospital, with lots of applicants.

“Maybe,” was all you said.

You and the others spent the next several hours playing drunk jeopardy, a fun idea in theory ruined by the fact that two of your number weren’t even buzzed. Perlah and Cassie obliterated the competition, much to Princess’s chagrin. In all the chatter, another bottle or two of wine got drained, and you found yourself feeling warm and comfortable in the corner of Dana’s lush couch.

“This is a great lamp,” you said, while the others argued over points.

“Isn’t it?” said Dana. “I just got it, fiftieth birthday present from my girls.”

“It’s beautiful,” you said, eyes roving the side of her face.

She smiled at you.

“Ya know, you don’t need to worry as much as you do,” she said quietly. “You’re a great doctor, and you’re gonna end up where you’re meant to be. Don’t stress it.”

“Easier said than done,” you laughed.

“That’s always true,” she said. “Just wait. You’ll get the call any day now, sweetheart.”

Normally the pet name rolled right off your back, but the slight haze from the one set your face ablaze with heat. You smiled wider and leaned into her, knee to knee, hip to hip, your arm curling under your head against the back of the couch.

“You grew up around here, didn’t you?” you asked.

“Born and raised,” she said.

“How’d you stand it,” you asked. “I mean, by the time I left my hometown, I was dying to get away.”

She shrugged.

“Cities are always changing,” she said. “Just enough to keep it interesting, I guess. Besides, it’s much easier to expand the world you already have than to make a whole new one somewhere else.”

“That’s definitely true,” you chuckled. “You have to take me on a tour sometime, though.”

“You’ve lived here for four years.”

“Ya, not the generic tourist tour, the Dana Evans tour,” you said, grinning. “Deep cuts. Embarrassing high school stories. The shitty restaurants you’re loyal to.”

Her lip quirked in that familiar way.

“Those are stories for another day,” she said. “I’d better go wrangle the troops before things get violent.”

And she pulled away to round up the others. Disappointed, but not deterred, you and your wine decided to go for a little walk. It was like every dormant desire and curiosity for the woman you spent almost every day with was back at full force. You craved knowledge, like you were a dying man and the cure to your ailments lay in the life of that mystery.

You strolled around the house while the others were distracted, taking in the vases filled with slightly drooping flowers, the piles of mail, and the pictures hung all along the walls. There was no doubt Dana was a proud mom. Her daughters’ faces smiled down at you from almost every surface, recitals, graduations, vacations, sports games.

When you reached the bottom of the stairs, you glanced around. You told yourself as you ascended them that it was harmless snooping, so why did you check no one was looking?

You padded along the hallway, glancing into the open doorways. There were four open doors, one bathroom, and three bedrooms. At the very end of the hall, a fifth door was closed. You approached it, thinking.

You definitely shouldn’t. A closed door is a clear sign. You weren’t about to go barging into someone’s personal space like that.

Right?

Again, the wine, or so you told yourself, was just the touch of careless energy you needed to push yourself over the edge. The door creaked as you opened it, but after a pause raised no alarms from downstairs, you tiptoed into the room.

It was nice, exactly what you’d expected it to be. Ornate rug, king sized bed, glossy, embroidered curtains over blackout blinds. A shiny wooden dresser stood against the wall, brass handles shining as you flicked on a lamp. Dana’s room was different from the rest of the house. Only one family photo, from when her daughters were much younger, rested on her nightstand. On the walls were beautifully framed pieces of art you’d never seen before. Across the dresser were more photos, but not of chubby babies or trips to Disneyland.

It took you no time to identify Dana, some twenty-five years younger. Longer hair, less smile lines, but this laughing girl was undoubtedly the same woman you knew so well. The smile, the eyes, they screamed Dana.

The biggest difference was not her appearance, but her activities. These photos on the dresser depicted her out at bars with friends, singing her heart out at karaoke, going on what you could only imagine was spring break at sandy, tropical beaches.

“What are you up to, trouble?”

You jumped at Dana’s sudden presence. You should have left, apologized profusely and gone downstairs to get your coat. Instead, you smirked.

“Snooping,” you said. “Didn’t know you were a wild party girl, Dana.”

She didn’t look mad, just amused, so you thought she’d probably had about as much wine as you. She sidled up next to you, taking a frame from your hand and examining the picture inside it.

“These are my college days,” she said fondly. “Did a lot of partying back then. I’d go out almost every weekend. No idea how I even managed to graduate.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” you said, walking backwards until your knees hit the edge of the bed.

You flopped down, somewhat rudely, probably, onto someone else’s bed without permission. Dana joined you, still clutching the photograph. 

“Are you still friends with those girls?” you asked.

“Sure,” she said. “I mean, we all got pretty busy. Still talk from time to time. The redhead is Sarah, and that’s Marsha in the skirt.”

You nodded absently, setting down what was left of your wine. Before you could say another word, they were zapped from your mind by Dana’s next sentence.

“That’s Caroline. We used to hook up.”

It took several seconds for you to remember how to breathe. It was good you had already put your drink down, because you surely would have dropped it.

“You dated a woman?” you asked, in a hushed voice.

“Dated might not be the right word,” she said. “We were fooling around. It never turned into anything real.”

You leaned closer, watching her face.

“Did you want it to turn into something real?”

Her eyes lifted at last, locking onto yours. She looked thoughtful.

“That’s hard to say,” she said. “At first, we only did it when we were drunk. Then it was whenever we were ‘bored’. She was a year ahead of me, though. I started dating Benji after she graduated, and not much later, we were married.”

Suddenly, it struck you that there was no noise, either up or downstairs. You knew her youngest was at her dad’s. The only sound in the room was heavy breathing. When did it become heavy?

“Where are the others?” you asked.

“Gone home,” said Dana, and her eyes flickered down to your lips.

“You ever wonder about… what would have happened if you and Caroline never lost touch?” you muttered.

In lieu of a response, Dana brushed her nose against yours. That was all you needed to close the gap. Her lips were warm, and soft. She tasted like wine, but behind it you could just barely pick out the nicotine gum she popped like candy.

Your teeth clashed slightly as the kiss turned needy. Your hands explored her back, one slipping under her sweater. Hers were fisted around your belt loops, pulling you closer. Consciously or not, you responded in time.

When you broke apart for air, you used the heated second to remove your top. Then your fingers teased the hem of hers, asking for permission.

“This is a bad idea,” she panted, but her dilated pupils and swollen lips told another story.

“Maybe,” you said, in between the kisses you pressed against her neck. “Maybe it’s a great one.”

Her hand fisted momentarily in your hair as you sucked a spot just under your chin. You smirked, tucking that one in your back pocket, just in case there was ever a next time.

“We work together,” she sighed.

“So do Robby and Abbot, and everyone knows they’re together,” you said. “And I guarantee we could do a better job at hiding this than they do.”

Dana let a cackle slip, and you couldn’t hold in your giggles as you tugged her sweater. This time, she raised her arms above her head, allowing you to easily slip the fabric off. You tossed it aside, gently pushing her back against the bed. Then you swung one leg over her hips.

“I think you made the right choice, gorgeous,” you whispered, kissing down her chest. “I’m not some drunk kid going through a phase.”

Dana let out a contented moan, wiggling her hips around. You rolled yours once, twice, against hers, allowing yourself the juvenile zip of pleasure you got from the friction. You leaned down to press your lips against hers, soft tongues tangling messily.

“You’re too pretty,” you mewled. “To work as hard as you do. Let me take care of you.”

“Just this one time,” she said, hands clasped desperately over your hips, urging movement.

You smirked, playing with her waistband.

“Sure,” you said. “Just this one time.”

If you were really getting a job offer at PTMC, maybe you’d turn it down. If it meant more of this, you’d turn down every offer you got. Just as long as it wasn’t really just one time.

---

The overhead light in your kitchen hums faintly as you cook. The butter finally melting into a puddle at the bottom of the pan. The sizzling the chicken makes when you place it down starts to mix with the quiet clacking of Eddie's laptop keys where he's hunched at the island. I just wanna spend time together. He'd mumbled as he kissed your shoulder. Not even a full thirty seconds after, there he came, following you into the kitchen like a little lost puppy. He's got his reading glasses on too. He refuses to let anyone other than you and the girls know he has them (Gareth knows). He'd actually rather die. He's got one socked foot hooked around the rung of the bar stool and he bounces his other leg gently. 

"Why is this thing asking me for a password? What even is my password?" He mumbles, more to himself than anything. "I swear to God, Bats. Technology was not this hard when we were kids." 

"I wrote it down." You say, not looking up from where you were cooking. "In the notebook next to you." You say just as the front door slams open. It's followed by the loud and familiar sound of two pairs of shoes hitting the floor in two very different rhythms. Alice's hit the floor lighter, quicker, like she didn't do more than kick them off and go. Roan's are heavier. She drags in. 

"Mom?" Alice calls, rounding the corner to the kitchen. "We're home." 

Roan rounds the corner right behind her, dropping her backpack to the floor with a thud so loud that Eddie considers he may have just been shot at for a brief moment. "This is so stupid." She murmurs, dropping herself into a chair at the dining table. 

Eddie peers at her over his laptop, glasses sliding down his nose slightly. "Well good afternoon to you too, sunshine. Who are we hating today?" He asks softly. 

"My history project." She snaps and shakes her head, brown curls flopping this way and that. "It's so dumb. It's about a tree. A literal tree, Dad." 

Alice, who had heard about this damn thing the entire drive home, is digging through the fridge when she smirks. She grabs a water bottle and opens it, leaning against the counter, laughing lightly, What kind of tree, Ro?"

"A bottle tree." Roan sighs. "Like, people put glass bottles on the branches to "trap spirits" or whatever? It's so…" She gestures, trying to find the word. She settles for one, "weird." 

Eddie's fingers stop tapping and his mouth pulls tight. "A bottle tree?"

Roan nods, but keeps going, too worked up to stop now. "And I have to make a model of it and do a presentation or something. There's like… no real and normal information on it. It's like… all folklore and ghosts and tall tales and stuff." 

"My mom used to make one." Eddie says softly. 

That stops Roan, mid-sentence. Alice looks over at him, holding a newly found string cheese halfway to her mouth. You glance over your shoulder. He's not looking at any of you. He's staring at the edge of his laptop and then he shrugs. "When I was little… She made one outback. She used blue bottles mostly, were the ones my dad had around the most. Used to tell me it'd keep things away." 

Roan frowns a little, letting her eyes drift over to you when something pops in the pans. "I… like ghosts and stuff?" She asks softly. 

Eddie nods and lets out a quiet laugh, but it doesn't sound amused in the slightest. "Yeah. That was the idea." He shrugs one shoulder and closes his laptop with a soft click. He slides his glasses off his face and places them down on top of his laptop. "I used to freak myself out real bad at night. Thought every creak in the trailer was something." 

Alice leans her elbows on the island's counter top. "Did it work?" 

He glances at her finally, there's a flicker in his eye as he smiles. "I mean… I made it to adulthood so… Jury's still out." He chuckles. You watch as he pushes back his stool and stands. He moves around the island, his hands finding your arms as he steps up behind you. They rub up and down once and he presses a soft kiss into your hair, right at your temple. "Smells good." He says softly. Then before you can even try to respond to him, he turns and heads towards the stairs. They creak with each step he takes. 

The kitchen settles into quiet after that. Alice blinks, confused. "Okay…"

Roan frowns. "What was that?" 

You reach out and turn the burner down, giving the chicken bites a quick stir as you buy yourself a second to think. 

Alice nods as her sister, "that was kinda weird, wasn't it?" 

You glance towards the stairs then, then back to your girls, agreeing. "It was." You sigh, setting your spoon down on the porcelain rest Alice had made you when she started taking advanced ceramics. "He's been thinking about his mom a lot more lately."

Roan's expression shifts then, from a frown to something more akin to concern for a 14-year-old. "Why?" She asks softly. 

You shrug, leaning your hip against the counter as you talk to them. "He always does this time of year." You say softly. "Reminds him of her. Just happens. Stuff comes back around." 

Alice nods a little and peels open her string cheese, "We could make it like… not lame." She says as she looks at her sister. "The bottle tree thing." 

Roan shakes her head. "It's always gonna be lame." 

Upstairs, you hear something shift. Then comes the faint thud of a drawer opening. You glance towards the ceiling, picturing him up there all alone. He's probably sitting on the edge of your bed, digging through things he hasn't seen in years. You can even imagine that faraway look in his eyes that you hate so much. 

"Hey." You say softly, catching both of your daughters attentions. "Bring your stuff back in here after you decompress. We'll figure the project out together." You tell Roan and she just nods. The pan of chicken crackles again. Dinner. Oh right. You still have to get dinner on the table. The world keeps moving, even if your husband is falling apart a floor away. You turn the burner down even lower, making sure Alice would check on it if you were gone longer than five minutes, and step away. You just needed to keep the food warm long enough to check on Eddie. The girls drift off, Alice spread out on the couch with her phone, that you made sure has a timer set for five minutes on, and Roan at the table with her homework open in front of her. "I'm gonna go grab your dad." You tell them.

"Okay. Tell him dinner's ready before I starve to death." Roan mumbles, tapping her pencil eraser against her notebook. 

"Yeah, and tell him I found a way to recreate his mom's tree with the blue bottles."

You hum in acknowledgement, your hand trailing along the banister as you climb the steps. The stairs creak under your weight in the same places they always have. Your bedroom door is open just a little when you reach the top of the staircase. You wait, just watching. 

He's sitting on the edge of your bed, his forearms resting on his thighs. He's got something small in his hands, turning between his fingers slowly. His hair is falling forward in his face and his shoulders are rolled in just slightly. The shoebox he keeps in the closet— the one you recognize from the many years of memories stuffed into it— is open beside him. You take a step towards the door, pushing it open gently. "Hey?" You whisper.

He glances up and smiles a bit, "Oh, hey." He says softly, "dinner ready?" 

"Mm." You nod, stepping into the room. You move closer to him, running your hand over his shoulders and scratching at the base of his neck gently. "You go and disappear on me, Munson, I've gotta do a wellness check." 

That gets a huff out of him, "Yeah?" He looks down at the object in his hands. "Everything look okay from your professional standpoint?" 

You start to say something back, but then your eyes catch what he's holding. It's a small piece of blue glass. It's the neck of whatever bottle it came from, edges worn down with time. It catches the light streaming in from the window and shines it across his face. Eddie rolls it between his fingers, thumb brushing over the threads, "Yeah, uh… I think it's from that tree." He says softly, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. "Or one of 'em. She used to swap 'em out when they'd crack." 

You sit down beside him on the bed quietly. The house continues to move around you, creaking and settling. Alice's laugh rings out through the house and carries up the stairs. 

"I forgot I kept it." He admits after a moment. "It's been in my box for years and I just…" He sighs, his eyes still on that little piece of blue glass in his hands. "She swore that thing worked. Said the wind'd catch in the bottles, keep whatever it trapped from getting out… Made me feel a little better." He laughs, his eyes glassy. "Roan said bottle tree and it was like… suddenly I was six again and convinced something's watching me from the hallway, just this time I had no one there to fix it." 

You reach over, letting your hand settle at the warm base of his neck. You brush your thumb just under his hairline gently. He leans into you a bit and you kiss his temple. "You were a real creepy kid, you know?" 

"Oh, absolutely." He teases. "Prime nightmare fuel." 

You smile faintly, your thumb still moving slowly across his skin. "Are you okay?" 

He pauses for a moment and then nods, "yeah." He nods, finally. "Just feels weird, I guess…" His eyes flick down to the glass again. "It feels like I should remember her more than I do."

You nod a little, "baby, you were six years old. It's been a long time… and it’s okay that you don't remember as well as you used to.”

His lips press together and he sighs, nodding. "Yeah, I know you're right." 

You sit together in silence for a few more moments before you nudge his thigh with your knee. "C'mon." You say gently and kiss his shoulder. "Your children are about five minutes away from eating without you." 

He chuckles and nods, setting the piece of glass back into the box carefully. Then he closes the lid and slides it back under the bed. Getting himself back together for dinner with his wife and daughters.

~~~

“You're no fun,” Samira says to her she's led away.

Emery's hand briefly squeezes her shoulder where it rests. "I've been told."

They reach the elevator bay, a quiet haven to the bustling ER. Emery's hand slides off her, and that pesky sense of loss swells up inside her again.

“Remind me again why I can’t just wait down here for you?”

Emery presses the elevator button for her. “They’ll rope you into doing work for them, and you’re too committed to this hellhole to say no.”

“Not true,” she says under her breath.

Emery's jaw gets notably tighter. “You’re being a brat."

Before, Samira was content to tease. But frustration starts to build in her. Or at least, she thinks it's frustration. It's hot and makes her heart beat quicker, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She wants to push more, find an outlet for whatever Emery's orders are making her feel. 

Whatever it is, named or not, makes her open her mouth and fire back without thinking. “Shut up.”

Emery raises her brows and tilts her head a fraction, looking more amused than upset. She looks at Samira for a few agonizing seconds before speaking.