Mission: obtain weekly groceries.

Every Tuesday at 2:30pm, you’d leave the house and head to your favourite local grocery store.

List in your hand, you’d traverse the aisles looking for whatever you needed while trying to make sense of your scruffy rushed writing and trying to ignore the doodles sprinkling the page.

First, you picked up some bananas. You chose the browner ones over the bright yellow bananas as you preferred the over-ripe taste.

Then, you picked up a bottle milk. Semi-skimmed being your favourite for your daily coffees and teas.

Next on the list was pasta, the swirly kind.

As you approached the shelf, you realised the pasta was no where to be seen.

Mission status: failed?

Tilting your head upwards as you scan the array of shelves in front of you, you spot the bag!

On the top shelf.

Far far out of your reach.

Mission status: failed. Harder than expected.

Your short stature does not help in the situation at hand. But will you let it stop you?

Nope.

Stretching onto your tippy toes, you reach as far up as you can to try and even so much as touch the bag of pasta.

When that fails, you bend your knees and with a huff you jump, flailing your arm to grab the bag mid-air.

This really isn’t working.

Groaning, you stomp a foot onto the linoleum floor, absolutely ready to give up on your weekly mission.

Mission status: failed.

Until…

A strong arm reaches above you and grabs the bag with annoying ease, holding it out in front of you.

“‘ere ya go darlin’” a mystery voice grumbles.

Looking up at your pasta-saviour, you’re met with a man your age with slicked-back hair in a police vest, his deputy sheriff badge telling you all you need to know.

God, he’s handsome.

You take the pasta and place it in your cart, murmuring a polite thank you with wide eyes and rosy cheeks.

“Be careful now, can’t ‘ave you climbin’ the shelves round ‘ere can we?” The man teases, before shooting you a wink and walking away, his long legs taking him far from you before you even process his actions.

Looking down at the bag in your cart, your thoughts are consumed by the hope that you see him again next week.

And as Gator hops into his patrol car, he can only hope you’re there the same time every week.

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and yeah, he’d been lying if he said he didn’t check you out every time you wore that ridiculous cheerleading outfit they pretended was a uniform. the top stretched tightly across your chest, the pleated skirt barely covering your ass — it was laughable, and steve wondered if you knew how much of a cocktease you were being.

so, that night after the team’s big win, when everyone’s celebrating at a closed party at the hockey house, he approaches you. he’s clean and freshly showered and he’s tired, but he needs this — he hasn’t fucked in months and the pressure of keeping up with practices and games and studies is really getting to him, and he’s convinced you’re the only one who can help him.

you raise an eyebrow when steve walks over to you, all wide brown eyes and flushed cheeks from drinking too much beer, and tap your finger against your solo cup.

“to what do I owe the pleasure, harrington?” you ask, tilting your head curiously.

“I was wondering,” he says, placing his hand against the wall, to the side of where you’re standing, “if you’d wanna come upstairs with me. talk a little? somewhere a bit more private?”

you laugh at that, but it’s not the flirtatious kind girls normally respond with, and steve’s confused where he went wrong.

“that’s your big line? you just want me to go up to your room with you?”

steve shrugs. “yeah, I guess.”

“right,” you murmur, taking a drink from your cup, “yeah, I’m not fucking you, harrington. try your luck somewhere else.”

you give him a flat smile, pat him on the shoulder, and slither out from his grasp to go get another drink.

That’s how everyone’s told you it’ll be with your first. There’s been no end to the stories you’ve heard about how you and Gator are destined to fumble along blind in this. 

Gator rounds the corner, your daughter tucked tight into his chest in a hold that looks suspiciously similar to how you’ve seen him carry a football. “Baby– babe, where am I takin’ her?” 

You trail behind him, peering over his shoulder to check that your daughter’s face is still caught in that sleepy, contented expression you already adore. “Just– just go to the living room, I guess,” you offer helplessly. “I don’t know, Gator. She’s not asleep yet.”

“Okay. Okay,” he repeats, a renewed focus in his step as he ever-so-carefully treads toward the living room. 

Your daughter June was born at 6:14 on a Monday morning. June like June Carter, the one country artist you and Gator can ever compromise on; June like your favorite month of the year, sticky-sweet, playful, full of tall, emerald grasses and rope swings suspended over creek beds and barbecue smoke in the air. Gator had joked that she must have had the basics of life down already, waking your asses up right before the start of the week. Tillmans were always good at being difficult. 

When they make it to the sofa, Gator hesitates, looking back at you. “Here— sit down, mama. I’ll bring in the bags.” With the care of someone diffusing a bomb, he hands you your daughter, ushering you back toward the couch. You accept the baby and sit down, grunting a little at the strain on your sore body. “Forget the bags, Gate. Just come sit with us for a second.”

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, shaking his head. You frown a little at the speed with which he abandons the two of you, like he can’t stare at your daughter for too long or she’ll somehow combust. He’s always hated to feel like a coward, but he's fleeing the room right now.

When he finally returns, all the bags stowed in your bedroom for the two of you to bother to unpack later, his expression isn’t any less full of that humming, restless anxiousness. He shifts from foot to foot, wringing his hands a little, like he’s waiting for you to assign him another task. Like he needs you to. 

“Gate,” you say again, attempting to soothe him with your voice as you gently bounce your daughter in your arms, “Baby, I don’t think you’ve sat down since this morning. Why don’t you just take a breath– stop moving for a second.”

He shakes his head immediately, clapping his hands together. “Can’t. Can’t sit down.”

“Why not?” you press him.

“Too much to do,” he explains, looking around the living room like he’ll find some sort of chore there. But the house is clean, there's a casserole in the fridge to heat up if you get hungry later, and the only thing left to do is unpack the hospital bags, which shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. You made sure everything was settled before you left, and he knows it.

“There’s nothing to do,” you argue mildly. “She’s not even due for another feeding.”

Gator starts pacing, back and forth and back and forth. He’s not looking at you. “Think I forgot to lock the truck. I should go–”

“Gator,” you interject, your voice stern. “Why won’t you settle down?”

Gator finally turns to you, his lips set in a line. “Because if I take a second to think, I’m gonna start thinking about the fact I have a fuckin’ kid,” he hisses, like the low tone will stop her hearing him.

“Oh, and it’s just sinking in now?” you snap, wishing you could keep your temper even. Damnit, but you’re tired and still sort of in pain and you smell like a hospital. And you wish your husband could get his shit together so you could be the one complaining right now. 

“Yeah, kind of, baby,” Gator fires back, running a hand through his hair. He drops into a crouch suddenly, blowing out a breath. “I’m freakin’ out. I’m freakin’ out, mama.”

“Breathe, Gator,” you order him, grateful he's at least talking about it now. “You freaking out isn’t gonna make her any less… born.”

“I can’t do this,” he heaves. “I can’t be a dad. No fuckin’ way.”

“You’ll figure it out,” you reply dryly, unperturbed. “Better get with the program, cause she’s here.”

“I’m a fuckin’ idiot!” he protests, rising from his crouch to spread his hands and stare at you. “I can’t figure shit out. I’m probably gonna pass that to her.”

“You’re not an idiot.” you say firmly. “You figured out how to be a husband, didn’t you?”

“Barely,” he snaps.

“Gator,” you meet his eyes, turning your baby in your arms to show him her face. “Look at her.”

You watch as his eyes fall slowly to June, and his posture shifts almost imperceptibly— tension melting, expression softening. The panic fades little by little and then altogether.

“Shit or get off the pot,” you tell him. “If you’re gonna get on board and be a dad, now’s the time. Do you want her?”

Gator nods, stare caught on her sleepy face.

“Good,” you finish, eyeing him. “She wants you, too.”

He hesitates. “Can I—“

“Hold her?” you guess. “You don’t have to ask, Gate. She’s yours.”

With hands that you can tell are still shaking slightly, he lifts her out of your arms again, that tiny bundle of blankets and soft limbs, and tucks her into his own. His eyes are locked onto her, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “Hey, girlie,” he musters, his voice low and scratchy. 

Your lips pull upward, your brow knitting. “Is that better?”

Gator nods, biting his lip as he stares down at her. He starts rocking a little, side to side. 

You rise from the couch, getting close enough to peer into his arms and run a finger down June’s soft cheek. You mumble softly to her, “Your dad’s fucking crazy, just so you know.”

“Sorry,” Gator tells you, real emotion in the word.

You run a hand down his arm. “I’m gonna go to the bedroom for a bit. Just take a second with her and breathe, okay, baby?”

He nods again, looking a little lost for words. “You’re not worried I’m gonna break her, or something?” he asks, glancing up as you leave his side. 

You snort, roll your eyes, and don’t bother to reply. And when you glance back at him, that little action looks like it shocks Gator most of all. 

Gator Tillman is going to be killed by his daughter June. He knows it for a fact.

She’s staring up at him right now with that sleepy, wrinkled, barely-awake newborn face. She’s got that baby smell, like warm milk. And her black eyes, the ones that are just learning how to blink, are fixed on his. 

Gator has black eyes. He’s always hated his eyes. They’re too dark, like twin pits in his head, boring into other people’s faces, setting everyone on edge. And he gave them to his daughter. And they don’t look so bad on her, as a matter of fact.

June blinks up at him, her face blank. She’s scrutinizing him, judging his reaction– he can tell. Maybe she sees the softness in his face, the way he’s completely crumpled in front of her, and knows already what a loser he is for her. 

But that’s just how it is now– unavoidable. Gator Tillman is a loser. He’s lost. He cares too much, loves too hard, has altogether too many things to lose, and so he’s been defeated in the game he’s been fighting his entire life. The love swarming in his chest is so huge, so unshakable, that he knows instantly this is what his dad always warned him against feeling— devotion to the point of weakness. Loving something so much it could control you— could kill you, just like the look in his daughter’s eyes is. And right now, holding June, he’s struggling to remember why he ever bothered to fight it in the first place.

“You don’t say much, do ya?” he asks her, the words quiet enough that his wife won’t hear him from the bedroom. 

June blinks back. Doesn’t so much as babble. 

“Gonna be an easy baby?” he asks her, bouncing her a little. “No cryin’ all the time? Give your mama a little break?”

Another blink. 

“You’re quiet already,” he observes, jaw ticking. “I was always screamin’ as a baby. You must not be a Tillman after all.”

June’s mouth opens in a little O as she yawns widely– like his self-depreciation is somehow boring to her. She gets that from her mom.

“Bet you’re gonna be the best baby there is,” he murmurs. “Probably gonna beat all the other kids by a mile.” He shifts on his aching feet, his gut twisting a little as his own words ring an old bell in his head. “Aw, who am I fuckin’ kiddin’?” he complains, blowing out a breath. “I’d be fine with it if you were the biggest loser on Earth.”

She stares back up at him, making no move to struggle against her swaddle, the pinning of her tiny arms.

“You don’t know much ‘a anything, do ya?” he realizes. She might have his eyes, but she’s nothing like him– doesn’t have the capacity to be. Nothing’s learned or set in stone. Nothing’s infecting her the way it did him, passed down by each carrier of their last name, willed into being like it was a simple fact of who they were. There’s no evil in her– no cruelty. No violence. He’d see it in her eyes if there was. “That makes two of us,” he huffs.

Slowly, he shifts the baby slightly in his arms so she can see around her, then turns in place. “Chair,” he says, gesturing to the armchair that’s become cemented as his in the time he’s owned this house with you. “Couch,” he tells her. “You can have that seat if you want. Mom likes the left side.”

He goes on naming furniture like a lunatic, letting June’s eyes sweep over it, assessing. She must be smart, he thinks to himself– smart enough to already know what’s happening around her, to look into her dad’s face and read him down the blackened core of who he is. Smart enough not to have gotten her brain from him. 

He doesn’t know what to do about any of it. He doesn’t know what to do now– letting his baby girl judge him, going completely still under his stare, giving him that same look he’s so used to– the one that says, well, kid, you better not fuck this one up. Better be good for her. Better figure it out before he inevitably mars the first perfect thing that’s ever been put in his hands. 

But his panic has faded, pushed back into some crevice of his chest. He’s breathing June in, and that scent, the compact weight of that little bundle, is calming him completely. He stays like that for a long moment, his daughter inches from his face. She lets out a breath through her nose.

“Alright, fine,” he mumbles, softer than he’s ever said anything. “I’ll be your dad.”

He wouldn’t know the first thing about doing it right. When you’d told him you were pregnant in the first place, he’d barely made it through the hugging you and reassuring you and smiling like it felt like good news long enough to get you out of the room– just in time, ‘cause the second you were gone, he’d run to the bathroom and puked his guts up. And he’d spent the following nine months being out-of-his-mind terrified. And two days ago, watching you grip his hand as you bore down, he’d thought that maybe that anxiety attack bullshit you were always goin’ on about might be worth looking into. 

But he’s not thinking about any of that right now. His daughter is in his arms. She weighed 6 pounds, 4 ounces when she came out– so tiny. A fraction of what he’s been training himself for years to lift, and yet every time he holds her, she’s pinning him down. She’s a fragile, delicate little thing. She’s the heaviest thing he’s ever carried. 

And his breathing is even. And his throat has lost its tightness. And he’s staring back into her black eyes and promising himself silently that there isn’t a minute of an hour of a day of the rest of his life that he’ll waste not being the best father on the planet for her. He doesn’t care what it takes– promotions at the station or years of therapy or unravelling the screwed-up neurons in his brain one by one. He’d die for her, easy. He’d do it in a second. But he’d change for her, too. And there’s no violence left in him except for the magnitude of what he feels in his chest for her. 

Gator leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, fighting the sting in his eyes. “Love you, girlie.”

June blinks, as if satisfied by his words. And then her eyelids lower slowly, and she goes to sleep in his arms.

It’s later and dark outside when the three of you start getting ready for bed. 

June has been passed out since five o’clock, and you and Gator have been trading off holding her while she sleeps since then. You’re already getting rather good at doing things one-handed, to your own pride.

But now, you’ve been sitting in your bedroom for almost fifteen minutes, and you haven’t seen Gator since he left to go set June in her crib in the nursery. Slowly, you ease off the bed and make your way down the hallway toward the room. The door’s slightly ajar, the only light coming from the glowing nightlamp in the corner. You find Gator standing over the crib, his hands braced on the wood as he stares down at a sleeping June. 

You come up behind him and wrap your arms around his middle, pulling him close to you. His hand moves to cover yours, but he doesn’t break his stare.

“Come to bed,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond. When you peer over his shoulder, trying to glimpse his face, you realize his jaw is clenched tightly, his eyes soft. Like he’s torn between fierce protection and gentle care.

“She’s not going anywhere,” you tell him quietly. 

“I know,” he murmurs back. 

You stay with him like that for a second, your fingers scratching lightly against his stomach.

“She’s so little,” he finally admits, eyes locked onto June’s sleeping face.

You hum in reply, a smile pulling at your face. He says it like it’s shocking to him– like it’s worrying him. Like he thinks if he looks away, that vulnerability that’s always felt like a curse to him will rear up and bite him again, and all the good things in this nursery will disappear. 

“Nothing’s gonna happen to her, Gator,” you assure him, the words soft.

He shakes his head. “It might.”

“The monitor’s on,” You remind him. “We’d hear her cry. You sleep light, anyway.”

“Something might happen,” he repeats, firmer. The way he’s gripping the wood tells you just how terrified he is. 

“You built the crib,” you go on. “You know how sturdy it is. And you set up the alarm system, too.”

He shakes his head again, unconvinced.

Your hands keep scratching at his abdomen, trying to calm him. “You need to sleep, baby. You’ve been up for forever. Come to bed.”

“Can’t.”

You keep holding him, understanding the paralysis that’s keeping him poised here— the protecting hes telling himself he needs to do. Gator had told you once that he’d never felt like he owned much— never had much that was his alone. And the things he did possess— the people he cared most for, his wife and his daughter—those were to be held onto with an iron grip. Those were to be safeguarded at any cost; one that outweighed his own trauma and hurt and self-loathing. That’s who Gator was— iron-fisted. Iron-hearted.

You see it now, in the set of his shoulders, the breathing your daughter has seemed to inexplicably steady. The determination in his stark face turned gentle, turned diligent, filled by devotion. 

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” you promise him. “We’re gonna be good, Gate.”

So many promises are wrapped up in those few words. We’re gonna be safe. We’re gonna do this right. You’re gonna be the dad she needs you to be. You wonder if he hears it, or if it’s another of the sweet nothings you sometimes attempt to utter into the abyss his father carved into him.

But Gator’s hand tightens over yours, and as he squeezes you back, he only says, “Okay.”

---

but the idea is that she works at this diner he always goes to, and they chit chat a lot. she’s new in town (like moved in a couple months ago), knows no one, just hangs out with her coworkers. neither her or gator make a move but they obviously like each other, and the other waitresses are like “oh my god girl stay away from the tillmans are you insane??” and she doesn’t want to date a customer anyways (or actually she just thinks he’d be interested in sex only and she definitely doesn’t want to bring that drama into work.) so at some point she goes out with some friends and starts seeing a guy but it’s some casual thing that turns sour fast and she gets rid of him. then finds out she’s pregnant. she’s out of work for like a week because she’s so sick, and gator is sad he goes to the diner and her smiley face isn’t there to give him coffee and listen to his stories. so when she’s back he asks her out and she’s like, “i really don’t want to do hookups with customers, i’m sorry.” and she walks away, doesn’t even give him a chance to explain or defend himself. she goes out by the alley, has one of the other girls give gator his bill because she’s hormonal and upset that this guy actually wants her and shes pregnant. gator finds her out there and he’s awkward and gator😭but he really enjoys talking to her and he doesn’t want his question to mess things up between them. she once again is like, “no, no, you didn’t…i just don’t sleep with customers.” and gator is quick to clear the air, “well i wanted to take you on a date and all that, ya think i just want to fuck?” and something about hearing that he actually wants to date her, makes her cry more. the poor man is so confused lol. she says, “i’m pregnant gator.” and he’s quiet for a minute and then goes, “but are ya single?”

they’re not gonna just start dating from that, because she’s still like, “you don’t want to date me, i’m literally pregnant with another man’s baby???” and he just doesn’t care, he likes her so much, and she thinks he’s literally insane. but he’s fucking persistent, and he wants to help her out if he can. he’s offering to go to the doctor with her and all this stuff like he’s the dad and she is so confused by him.

like i said there’s a lot i haven’t worked out yet completely, obviously this isn’t going to follow the plot of fargo lol, im not quite sure what im going to do with roy? like if he’s alive he’s like in jail or some shit. gator is trying to be better because he’s not under his dad’s thumb, he’s not even living at the ranch.

i think she might actually give him a chance at dating even though she still thinks he’s insane, after shes been having to skip work more and more because her morning sickness is so bad. he comes over at 7pm after his shift with groceries and her rent is paid?? and she’s like, “you don’t have to do this….its not even your baby.” she feels like she’s said this to him a million times. but gator just shrugs, “not gonna let ya starve and be homeless??” but then her morning sickness gets to the point where she can’t keep anything down at all, and she’s not at work day after day and he’s worried. so he goes over there (or maybe she calls him, not sure yet) and he honest to god thinks she’s dying (she’s not she just has that thing where her morning sickness is god awful, i can’t remember the term and i’m just typing this whole thing on my phone so). he takes her to the hospital to get fluids and something to help her quit puking and she looks less like she’s on death’s door and can keep food and water down. he stays the whole night, he calls off of work, he does all this stuff and they’re not even dating…it’s not even his baby! she still thinks it’s insane but she finally says yes on the date.

so yeah he ends up being the dad who stepped up!! and she honestly can’t believe that he wants her, it’s one thing before she’s showing but when she’s massive and he still wants her, and thinks she’s the hottest thing ever. he’s scared but also wants all this with her, but obviously he’s scared of screwing things up or being a bad dad or just doing the wrong thing. either way though, that’s his baby, he doesn’t give a fuck what dna says but he also wants to respect her wishes if she doesn’t want the baby to have his name and blah blah. (but the little babygirl ends up being a tillman lets be real here.)

It had been a couple weeks since your first run in with a certain handsome cop at the grocery store. And it was safe to say things had changed.

As luck would have it, you’d seen the cop every Tuesday since; he’d pass you your bag of pasta, wish you a good day, and disappear down the aisle before you could brush away your butterflies and formulate a response.

In addition, your stomach has since swelled with the life growing inside of it, and your bank balance had shrunk.

Being a single mother wasn’t all you had expected, your manchild of an ex having left you high and dry after finding out about your pregnancy. Sure, It was hard having to pay for baby things and necessities, but you hoped knew you’d be able to push through.

So now, your mission was to simply make it through the week.

It’s another Tuesday, and you’re once again stood infront of the pasta shelf, neck craned and eyebrows furrowed as you stare up at the bag of swirly pasta. There’s no point in trying to get up on your tippy toes - knowing you’d practically tip over from your centre of balance being changed due to your baby.

Where is your cop?

“Darlin’” You can hear the smirk in his voice before you even turn to face him.

“I was starting to think you weren’t coming.” Teasing him, you watch as he grabs the bag with ease.

“Wouldn’t miss this for the world, angel.” His calloused fingers brush yours as he passes you the bag, and you gaze up at him with doe eyes and a soft smile.

“You got a name or do I gotta keep callin’ you darlin’?” He drawls.

Once you tell him your name, he repeats it with a smile, as if he’s testing how It feels on his tongue.

“What’s your name?”

“Gator Tillman. Deputy Gator Tillman.” He drawls, a smirk growing across his face.

“Ooo deputy huh?” With a giggle, you place the bag into your cart, the groceries in it decreasing by the week.

Gator’s eyes flick down to your cart and a flash of something shatters his soft expression.

“Ain’t got much in there, sugar. Y’right?” Brows furrowed, he leans down to catch your gaze once again, his filled with concern.

“I’m okay, thank you.” You smile and nod, not wanting him to worry, “Have a good week Deputy!” As you push your creaky cart down the aisle, a strong hand stops you.

“Darlin’, if you need anything, and I mean anything, you call me.” Gator hands you a Stark County Sheriff’s Department card, loaded with his phone number. You take it, and he stares down at you with a smirk. Lifting his hand, Gator’s thumb brushes against your cheek.

“Take care now.”

And with that, the handsome cop deputy was gone once again.

But now you had his number.

And you’d certainly be using it.

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there’s loud giggling coming from deep in the house.

honestly you didn’t realize how much you missed it until just now, just realizing how lacking it was, how quiet the house was without steve’s loud footsteps and constant bumping around.

“Aurora-“

you call gently, just as steve rounds the corner, his hair a million different ways and a smirk pulling at his lips.

“Speak of the devil.”

you say lowly, hoping that the only person who heard it was steve and not his twin that is two steps behind him, constantly colliding with the back of his legs.

“Mama,” she buries her face into your legs until you kneel down, moving the mop of curly hair out of her eyes when she speaks again. “Can Papa stay?”

it’s a question, not a demand.

“Oh,” steve says quickly, panic evident in his eyes. this is definitely not something he was prepared for, “honey-“

“Baby,” you coo, the spoon resting on the oven, “We have an early morning tomorrow-“

“and-“ steve’s knees crack as he kneels on the tile of the kitchen, his hands a claw as he tickles her belly, “someone has to get some good sleep because someone has a birthday tomorrow. I wonder who that could be-“

she giggles, her hands go into steve’s hair as she gently pulls at it and he continues to tease her:

“who’s birthday is it tomorrow? Hm, I can not for the life of me remember-“

she giggles, climbs onto his knee and pulls at the corner of his eyes, pulls at the corner of his lips until he’s smiling:

“it’s mine, Papa!”

he gasps:

“it’s yours?!” he shakes his head, “absolutely not. you’re my baby you aren’t allowed to get older-“

you have to turn away. it’s too sweet, reminds you of when things were briefly okay-when steve was home and didn’t have dark bags under his eyes, when he would actually come around and help-those long nights out when he came home reeking of cigarettes and in stained clothes, how your voice cracked as you begged to not be a single parent (or at least, what felt like one)

steve’s eyes flash to yours as he stands, Aurora thrown over his shoulder. his voice drops as he leans in, and you try to ignore how you can feel his hot breath against your ear:

“i’ll leave soon. i’m sorry-“

suddenly meek and mild, not the steve who made himself known, had no problem with that-

“Papa,” Aurora sticks her head out from behind his back, “Stay for supper? it’s just me and mama-“

his eyes snap to yours. his, wide with worry and like a deer in headlights, trying to not fuck up this co parent thing.

“Baby-“

“Mama,” Aurora pleads, “Please?”

her eyes are wide and sad and they suddenly look very much like steve’s

“Well,” your eyes shoot to steve’s, “If Papa doesn’t have any plans-“

Aurora doesn’t hear that part. hears exclusively the yes that she got and squeals as steve tries to steady her on his shoulder.

“hope you weren’t busy.” you smirk. you’re teasing, obviously, as you stir the pasta on the stove.

“Go wash your hands, sweetheart.” steve says gently, sets her on the floor and watches as she runs towards the restroom, still squeaking.

“Nah.” He shrugs, leaning over the stove now, finally answering. “i had a frozen pizza with my name on it but honestly-“

his hand dips into the pan on the stove, where there’s some sauce the chicken lays in. his finger connects, drags through it and brings it to his mouth with a happy sigh before you can smack his hand away:

“no, no.” he finally says, wipes his finger on his worn jeans, “this was much better, anyways.”

“what, freezer burned pizza doesn’t cut it these days?” you tease back against your better judgment, “you’ve changed.”

He laughs and the side of his eyes crinkle and the bags under his eyes are more evident and you try to shake it off before you can over think it.

“Look-“

Aurora comes back into the kitchen, all but stomping as she gets to the table:

“Mama,” She pulls her chair back, “Papa can sit next to me. I’ll get him a plate!”

You turn the flame off the stove and reach over, grabbing a plate and handing it off to Aurora, who tangled her hand into her father’s and drags him to the table with his plate.

dinner isn’t even as uncomfortable as you imagined. you imagined him clearing his throat, desperately looking for something to say, or having to take an emergency phone call to try and make himself leave early-

instead, he listens contently to every word aurora says. gasps at the appropriate times when she tells stories, knows when to gently remind her to focus on trying to eat; he falls back into the routine you two had like no time had passed. it was comforting, in a way, but knew the familiar ache would come back when he left

instead, you ignore it for your daughter. try to push it down and make it a problem for tonight-already knowing sleep won’t be on the agenda anyways, so this is something you can overthink again and again until your forced to pace in your kitchen by the light of the stove-

“I mean,” steve clears his throat, “it depends on what your mama thinks-“

“Hm?”

you try to not make it obvious you weren’t listening, lost in your own thoughts.

“I said,” Aurora huffs, “Papa should stay and read me a bedtime story! for my birthday, mama!”

steve looks sad in his seat. like it hit him that he’s doomed to a lifetime of day before or day after, always belated birthdays with his daughter, always an excuse or a reason-

“Sweetheart-“

you can tell by the way steve speaks he’s setting it up to gently let her down, to try and slowly pull the dagger out of her back

“that sounds like a good idea to me,” you stay instead, “I think you have a new book Papa would like too-“

steve’s head snaps up so quick at your voice you’re briefly afraid he’s going to break his own neck.

“M-me?”

his finger is hard against his own chest, his voice borders on shock or disgusted, you aren’t sure which one yet-

“Put your plate in the sink, Rory.” you say gently instead, “And then you can show papa your book.”

she squeals as she hops off the chair, drops the plate and goes back to steve where her fingers tangled into his and she pulls him away.

enough time has passed and the house is quiet enough you can hear the sinks steady stream of water fall from the faucet, a leak you can never remember to fix, that you finally figure you should check to see why it’s so quiet.

your hands play with the bottom of the old shirt you wear, suddenly aware of the old clothing and how dirty and stained it is-how for a while, steve would be dressed up when he got home, when things were briefly okay-white button ups untucked out of jeans after a long shift, the buttons undone on the sleeve and how they were crookedly shoved up to his elbows-

a deep breath, insisting the worst-a toddler meltdown, steve frustrated and near tears or him just gone, somehow escaped through the front door as you devoured the silence of a dinner you haven’t had in years

instead as you nudge the bright yellow door open, you find steve-

the bed is far too small for him; his feet dangle off the edge of them and you know his neck and back are going to hurt the next day now-but instead of a meltdown he lays on his back in the too small bed and on his chest, a little head curled under his chin with the blanket drawn up to her own neck, eyes closed and fast asleep but steve still gently flips through the book, his voice low and steady as he reads gently in her ear-

“you’ve always had some special talent for being able to put her right to sleep.”

he laughs, closes the book and sets it on the nightstand where a picture of the three of them at a pumpkin patch years ago lays-Aurora on your hip, steve’s face pressed against yours and silly smiles on your faces, cheeks pink from the wind blowing-

“i’ve always said i was boring,” he sighs, ruffles Aurora’s hair gently, “Guess that confirms it.”

“come on,” you roll your eyes, “I have coffee for the road for you. Just how you like it.”

he hesitates for a second. a careful kiss to the crown of auroras head, before he starts the gentle dance of untangling himself from her. limbs appears slowly; an arm, a leg, a torso-Aurora never stirs; a heavy sleeper like her father as he ducks out of the room.

in the kitchen you carefully pour black coffee into a to go cup, making sure the temperature is right before putting half a packet of splenda (the yellow package only, the one you keep far in the back of the cabinet for him, for these rare visits, in hopes he’ll come back) before securing the lid and handing it over.

steve takes a sip, savors it as he groans and closes his eyes, really enjoying every sip.

“I needed that, honey.” he sighs, “thank you.”

honey hangs in the air and you try to not let it overpower you. try to not let him see the pink that climbs up your face with the old familiar name

i miss you, you think. the bed is too big without you. instead it comes out; “Any plans for the night?”

he takes another long sip of coffee before answering: “nah.” and he leaves it at that.

you snort, “i have a pack of 25 multi colored balloons that need to be blown up if you’re bored.”

you’re teasing. it’s obvious, at least you think. previous birthdays where steve would be poured over the scratched up table in the front room, slowly, carefully, blowing up balloons until he collapsed back in the seat always insists this is the last year he would be doing this. you tried to bite back the sting when you think that time actually was the last time.

“Yeah,” steve nods, locks his lips: “sure, i’ll do those real quick-“

“steve,” you scoff, “you don’t have to-“

he throws back the last of the coffee, shakes his head: “it’s the least i can do. always your least favorite part. i’ll be quick, and then i’ll leave, i promise.”

out of habit when he says promise your pinky goes in the air and as if he’s never left, hasn’t stopped doing it, his pinky immediately wraps around yours, shakes once, falls

“where the usually are, yeah?”

steve asks but doesn’t give you time to answer before he digs through the drawer, comes out with his victory, the small plastic bag of balloons.

steve sits on the couch, gently blows them up, acts like he doesn’t hate it as you carefully unfold the banner of letters that read out happy birthday in various pastel colors as you struggle you hang it over the picture window.

“why don’t you let me do this?”

you feel steve’s hand on the small of your back before you can even register his voice.

“remember,” he said gently, his voice low like he’s afraid he’s overdoing it, “before-you’d wrap the presents and i’d hang the banner-“

“because i could never reach the top-“

you both finish at the same time.

your hand is still in the air as you turn to face him: “and you always insisted on playing the beatles version of happy birthday as we did it. again and again-“

“i know,” he smiles, “and you’d always swear you couldn’t sleep the next three nights because it was stuck in your head.”

“that’s right.” you’re finally laughing, leaving out how you haven’t listened to that song in years now, “again and again-“

gently, he grabs the side of the banner out of your hands and has a hand on your hip as he gently supervisors you walking off the ladder before he takes your spot.

when he turns around you’re back and he knows from the old box in your hands immediately what’s next:

“the usual place?” he says gently, instead of the old comments he’d usually spit out; ‘again?’ or ‘this is so fucking stupid. she doesn’t want these pictures out’

you pass him the first photo, the frame half broken and super glued back together,permanent fingerprint stains on it that you can’t get out no matter how long you scrub or soak it-

“she was so fucking tiny.”

if you didn’t doubt yourself, you’d think steve’s voice cracked, bordered on a whimper as his fingers danced over the silhouette of her in the frame. the day you brought her back from the hospital; steve’s clothes are wrinkled and the bags under his eyes are big, even though his eyes are downcast and he’s looking at the tiny pink bundle of blankets in his hand with such a proud smile

“you were so afraid you were going to drop her,” you finally say as you set the final photo out, “i’m surprised i got you to take that picture.”

he carefully sets it on the table like he’s afraid it’ll break, but you realize it’s angled towards him as he sits back in the chair and brings a balloon to his mouth

“you can help me bake the cake,” you say gently as you sit on the armrest of what use to be his chair, “if you aren’t busy.”

your hand rests on his shoulder, plays with the tip of his collared shirt that’s wrinkled:

“might as well stay.” you try again. “p-please. Aurora”you shake your head, “aurora would be thrilled to see you.” you get out.

stay you think let’s get this right i can get this right

he nods slowly: “i’m here.”