#throuple fic

Some days are easier than others.

Not good, necessarily. But manageable.

Your lovers always contently notice when you are better. The days you get out of bed before noon. The mornings you sit with Will on the porch while he drinks his coffee, wrapped in one of Hannibal's sweaters. The nights you actually eat dinner at the table instead of picking at it in bed.

For a while, things had felt… lighter.

You had been doing more. Speaking more. Existing outside the bedroom more often. Some evenings, Hannibal would find you in the kitchen while he cooked, leaning against the counter and just talking about what was on your mind. Other evenings you were in the garage with Will, asking him for the 15th time what fishing 'thing' that was, just to hear him explain it with excitement.

It wasn't like you just shook off your depression.

But it was something closer to living again.

Which is why Will notices immediately when the bedroom door never opened today.

Morning passed quietly.

Then afternoon.

The dogs paced more than usual, lingering outside the bedroom every now and then before wandering back downstairs. Even Winston looked uncertain, ears flicking toward the hall every time the floor creaked.

Will tried not to hover.

He knew what it feels like to drown under concern that sounded too much like obligation.

But by the time Hannibal texted to say he was stopping to pick up a few things before coming home, Will finally made his way upstairs.

The bedroom was dim.

You were buried almost completely beneath the sheets, turned toward the wall, so still he wondered briefly if you were even awake.

He leaned lightly against the doorway.

"Hey," he said softly.

No response.

Will glanced toward the window, toward the cloudy afternoon outside.

"I was gonna walk the dogs before Hannibal gets back."

Still nothing.

He stepped inside anyway. The bed dipped slightly as he sat near your legs, not touching you yet.

"You don't have to talk," he said after a moment. "Just thought I'd ask if you wanted to come."

His hand rested loosely against the blanket near your ankle.

"You've been in here all day."

Your shoulders tensed faintly beneath the covers, and immediately he regretted the phrasing.

The sound of claws against hardwood interrupted the moment.

Will barely had time to turn before Max barrelled into the room first, followed by two others crowding curiously behind him.

"Jesus Christ," Will muttered under his breath.

Max leaped onto the bed before Will could stop him.

The mattress jolted with the impact.

A second later, a cold nose was shoved insistently against your ear.

Then another sniff.

Then an enthusiastic lick against your hand.

You made the smallest sound, and instinctively pulled your hand away.

Max only took that as encouragement.

His tail thumped violently against the comforter while he nudged closer, whining softly.

Will watched the blanket-covered shape of you shifting slightly.

Then slightly more.

Your shoulders shook once.

Not crying.

A laugh.

Tiny. Barely there. But enough that Will felt something unclench in his chest.

Eventually, very slowly, you pushed the blanket down.

"Hey there..." Will murmured.

You looked exhausted.

Will reached over absentmindedly to scratch behind Max’s ears.

"We probably can't let Hannibal know he jumped on the bed."

You let a small smile linger on your lips at that..

"You know he will find out..." you mumble.

"Yeah," Will admitted.

Max sneezed directly onto the sheets.

Another tiny smile pulled at your mouth despite yourself.

And Will didn't push any further than that.

Eventually, you do get out of bed.

Will didn't rush you. He just stood when you finally sat up properly, gathering one of the dog toys from the floor and tossing it absentmindedly down the hallway for Winston.

The house felt less heavy downstairs.

You settled onto the couch beside Will with two dogs immediately begging for pets and cuddles. Max wedged himself shamelessly across both your laps while another curled against your legs.

For a little while, things feel easier.

Will tossed one of the worn rope toys lazily across the living room, watching the dogs scramble after it.

You found yourself petting Max absentmindedly, fingers sinking into warm fur while your breathing slowly evened out.

Will glanced at you occasionally, subtle enough that he probably thought you didn't notice.

You leaned toward him first. Your lips brushed his cheek once.

Then again.

Then the corner of his mouth.

Will huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, one hand settling automatically against your knee.

"You feeling a little better?" he asked softly.

"A little."

His thumb rubbed slowly against your leg.

"We could take the dogs out before it rains."

The words were gentle.

But the second he said it, something inside you sunk again.

Because walking the dogs meant showering first.

Changing clothes.

Brushing your teeth.

Finding clean socks.

Finding your shoes.

And then suddenly your brain was pulling everything else back in too.

The cups of cold coffee still sitting abandoned on your nightstand.

The laundry you wanted to do three days ago.

The promise you made Hannibal this morning that you'd at least tidy the bedroom today.

The bit of fragile warmth in your chest caved inward all at once beneath the weight of everything you hadn't done.

Your hands stilled against Max's fur.

"You don't have to." Will interrupted your spiralling thoughts.

You stared down at the dog curled across your lap instead.

"I thought I wanted to," you admitted quietly. "But now it just feels like…" You exhaled shakily. "Too much."

Will was silent for a moment. He wasn't disappointed in you, not at all.

Then he nodded once, "Okay."

He picked up one of the tennis balls from beside the couch and rolled it between his palms thoughtfully.

"We can stay here."

You glanced at him uncertainly. "But the dogs..."

"I'll let them into the backyard. You can watch from here." he suggested.

His eyes flicked briefly toward the massive glass sliding doors.

"And if you decide you want to come out later," he added, "you can."

The simplicity of it nearly made your chest ache.

Will stood slowly, the dogs immediately sprung to attention around him in chaotic excitement.

Max hesitated, though.

He looked between you and Will like he was conflicted about abandoning his post beside you.

Max stayed on the couch beside you.

You couldn't help smiling faintly as Will slid the backyard door open, instantly the dogs jumped outside excitedly.

Will lingered near the doorway instead of joining them immediately.

Like he didn't want you to feel left behind.

You give him a small wordless nod, he should go outside and play with the pack.

And so he did step outside, the dogs running wildly around the backyard.

You watched Will through the glass doors for a long while after that.

The dogs raced through the grass, muddy paws kicking up dirt while Will stood in the middle of them with the tennis ball, occasionally throwing it or tugging at a rope with another dog.

He looked… easy out there.

Not happy exactly. Will rarely looked happy in obvious ways.

But capable, functional, alive.

Alive in a way you suddenly didn't feel.

One of the dogs crashed into his legs at full speed and he stumbled slightly with a startled laugh, while another stole the ball from his hand.

You stared at the scene too long.

Will understood your feelings. Better than almost anyone.

You knew that.

You knew about the sleepless nights. The dissociation. The darkness he still carried around like something stitched into his ribs. You knew there were days he struggled to crawl out from underneath it too.

But somehow he still managed this.

He still got up.

Still walked the dogs. Still remembered things. Still functioned.

And you...

You spent all day in bed beside cups of cold coffee and promises you couldn't keep.

Your chest tightened painfully.

Maybe some people survived this.

Maybe you wouldn't.

Maybe you were losing.

Your gaze drifted toward Will again as he bent down to wipe mud from one of the dogs with the bottom of his sleeve, completely unconcerned with the mess.

And you felt like something left behind by it.

The losing dog.

The one that never quite caught up no matter how hard it tried.

Your throat burned suddenly.

Before the thought could spiral further, the sound of the front door opening cut through it.

The dogs outside immediately lost their minds.

You heard Hannibal's voice faintly from the entryway, calm and warm despite the pack of dogs suddenly rushing back in as they bounced towards the door, barking and jumping in joy to see him.

"Please, calm down," he said dryly, speaking to the dogs like they'd understand him, "You behave as though I've returned from war."

A moment later he appeared in the living room carrying several grocery bags in both hands.

Hannibal paused the second he saw you on the couch with Max.

And immediately, genuinely, his entire expression softened.

"There you are," he said quietly.

He set the bags carefully onto the counter before crossing the room toward you without hesitation.

He leaned down, one hand settling lightly against your jaw while he kissed you slowly, like he wanted you fully present for it.

"You're out of bed," he said fondly against your forehead afterward.

You nodded faintly.

Hannibal brushes his thumb against your jaw absentmindedly before glancing toward the backyard where Will was still occupied with the rest of the dogs.

"How was your day so far, dear?"

The question was gentle, trying to be casual and encouraging.

But suddenly it felt unbearable.

Because the truthful answer was nothing. You hadn't done anything and your day had been... empty.

Because the cups were still upstairs.

Because you said you would try today.

Your eyes drifted back toward the yard instead of answering.

Will was laughing quietly now as Harley refuses to give back the ball, darting away every time he got close enough to grab it.

You stared at him silently.

And beside you, Hannibal went still.

His gaze lingered on your face for a moment longer than usual, reading the absence in your expression.

"…Ah," he said softly.

His hand moved from your jaw into your hair instead, fingertips smoothing gently through it.

"You're comparing yourself to him."

You swallowed hard.

The sliding door rattled close a moment later, after Will and the rest of the pack returned inside.

Will pushed his slightly damp hair back from his forehead with the back of his wrist. There was dirt smudged faintly across his hands and along the sleeve of his henley where one of the dogs must have jumped on him.

He paused slightly when he noticed the atmosphere in the room.

His eyes flicked toward you first, then Hannibal beside you.

Hannibal sighed softly as one of them shook water off dangerously close to his trousers.

Will hummed before stepping closer to the couch. His fingers brush briefly against your shoulder as he passed.

Then he leaned in toward Hannibal.

Hannibal caught sight of the dirt still smeared across Will's hand at the last second and tilted his head back slightly with elegant disapproval.

"Please refrain from dirtying my suit."

Will kissed him anyway.

"You're impossible," Will murmured against his mouth.

"And yet you persist."

There was the faintest twitch at the corner of Will's lips as he pulled away.

Then he glanced down at himself, finally noticing the state of his clothes properly.

"Might have to shower before dinner," he said, rubbing at a muddy pawprint near his ribs.

"You absolutely will." Hannibal replied immediately.

Will rolled his eyes faintly, but there was no real annoyance behind it.

Hannibal's gaze shifted back toward you then.

You tried not to tense under the attention.

"You should go with him."

The suggestion caught you off guard enough that you actually looked at him.

Hannibal's voice remained calm, "It may feel less insurmountable with someone beside you."

The words settled heavily in your chest because that’s exactly what it felt like sometimes:

Insurmountable.

Will looked at you quietly, like he would accept whatever answer you give.

Which somehow made agreeing easier for you.

You swallowed once.

"…Okay," you said softly.

"Okay." Will repeated gently.

Hannibal's hand brushed once against the back of your neck, subtle praise hidden in the gesture.

─── ꒰ 🥀 ꒱ ───

hannibal nbc taglist . . .‧˚꒰🔦꒱༘‧ @ilovehorror-18 @kashimeowr @afw5 @andyinthemiddleofsixx

By the fourth morning after Pou’s surgery, the house has developed a new set of rules.

Arlo isn’t allowed near her right leg. The ice machine has to stay filled. Nobody can leave a charging cable where it might catch beneath a crutch. Laura keeps a medication chart on the refrigerator because Pou insists she’ll remember everything, then falls asleep halfway through insisting on it. You’re in charge of the brace straps because your hands are steadier when Pou’s pain makes her impatient.

The most important rule is the one none of you says aloud: nobody calls the injury a gift.

The rules are new. The habit of building a life around one another isn’t.

There was never a settled couple with you orbiting its edges. The relationship became three before any of you had finished deciding what the rest of your lives would look like, and the life that followed was built by all three of you.

Their marriage is a legal fact. Inside your home, it has never been a ranking.

Each pair has its own history and fluency. You know the difference between Pou’s stubborn silence and the silence that means pain has frightened her. Pou can hear when your professional calm becomes a shield. Laura knows when your need for order is useful and when you’re close to unraveling. You can tell when her humor is playful and when it is protecting something tender. Pou and Laura have their own language too, but it is simply one relationship among three.

Together, you have a fourth language that belongs to the family as a whole.

The public rarely understands that. Strangers see two wedding rings and build a hierarchy none of you lives inside. They call you a friend, a roommate, or the person who joined later. A life of shared homes, injuries, holidays, arguments, and ordinary mornings disappears beneath the easiest story to recognize.

Inside the house, none of you has ever needed the world’s permission to know better.

The injury has taken enough already. It took the end of Pou’s season, part of her anterior cruciate ligament and meniscus, and the certainty she once carried in the body that built her career. It doesn’t become useful simply because recovery will be measured in seasons rather than weeks.

Still, on that fourth morning, the future finds its way into the room.

Pou is stretched across the couch with her operated leg elevated on three pillows. The nerve block has worn off completely. Pain has hollowed the space beneath her eyes, and her hair is flattened on one side from an uneasy night. Laura sits on the floor between the couch and coffee table, coaxing Arlo away from the bag of ice with one hand while answering messages with the other.

You’re at the dining table with a folder open in front of you.

It isn’t the folder for surgery instructions. That one is blue and already soft at the corners from being carried between the hospital, the pharmacy, the physical therapy clinic, and home. This folder is green. You bought it three months ago, after the first conversation about children stopped feeling hypothetical.

Pou notices it when she wakes.

“That’s the baby folder.” Her voice is rough with sleep as she turns her head toward you.

Laura’s thumb stops over her phone screen. She looks at you, then at Pou. The glance lasts only a second, but you feel it anyway.

“I know which folder it is,” you say. You close it without snapping the rings. “I was putting away the insurance papers. It was underneath them.”

Pou studies your face. “You were reading it.”

“I was looking at it.”

“Those are different verbs,” Laura says gently. She sets her phone face down on the rug. “Which one was it?”

You lean back in the chair. You know the question isn’t a trap. You also know both of them have spent four days watching you so closely that concern has begun to feel like surveillance.

“Reading,” you admit. “A little.”

Pou shifts as if she means to sit up. Pain catches her before she gets far, tightening her mouth and pulling a sharp breath through her nose.

You’re beside her before you decide to move. “Don’t.” You slide one hand behind her shoulder and keep the other clear of her knee. “Let me move the pillow first.”

“I can sit up.”

“I know you can.” You adjust the top pillow and help her ease higher. “You don’t have to prove it every time you want to have a conversation.”

Pou waits until the pain recedes. Her hand closes around your wrist, warm and firm. “Come here.”

You sit on the edge of the coffee table. Laura shifts until her shoulder rests against your knee, making a shape out of the three of you without announcing that she’s doing it.

“We said we’d keep talking,” Pou says.

“We also said we wouldn’t make decisions in a crisis.” You brush a loose strand of hair away from her face. “You’re four days out from surgery.”

“I’m aware.” Her eyes flick toward the brace. “It’s been a memorable four days.”

Laura rubs her palm over Pou’s forearm. “She’s right, though. We don’t have to decide anything today.”

“I didn’t say we had to decide.” Pou looks from Laura to you. “I said I don’t want the conversation put away for a year because my knee exploded.”

“Your knee didn’t explode,” Laura says.

Pou lifts one eyebrow.

“Fine. It medically exploded.” Laura presses a kiss to the inside of Pou’s wrist. “My point is that healing is enough work right now.”

“And my point is that I’ve already lost control of one part of my future.” Pou’s grip on your wrist loosens, but she doesn’t let go. “I don’t want to lose the right to talk about another one.”

The room quiets.

This is the part of Pou’s fear that strangers rarely see. They see control when she gives instructions, courage when she keeps playing, leadership when she turns pain into a plan. You’ve loved her long enough to know that sometimes the plan is only the shape fear takes when she refuses to let anyone hold it with her.

“Okay,” you say. “We can talk.”

Laura tips her head back against your knee. “With one condition.”

Pou looks wary. “What?”

“Nobody makes a final decision while you’re taking prescription painkillers and calling crackers lunch.”

“I had soup.”

“Yesterday,” you remind her.

“Soup has longevity.”

You feel Laura’s quiet laugh against your leg. Even Pou’s mouth curves.

It’s enough to let the conversation begin without making the room feel like a hearing.

You retrieve the green folder and sit on the rug beside Laura. Pou reaches down until her fingers find the back of your neck. Her touch is slow, absentminded, familiar. The three of you don’t open the folder right away.

“I’ve been thinking about carrying,” you say.

Laura’s hand covers yours on the carpet. Pou’s fingers still.

“I know,” Laura says.

“No, I mean I’ve been thinking about it honestly. Not the version where I decide I can tolerate anything because it’s the cleanest way to protect both of your careers. Not the version where being pregnant forces the world to see that I’m a parent.” You draw one knee toward your chest. “The actual version. The appointments. Everyone having an opinion about my body. Losing control over what happens inside it. Being watched more closely because people already think our family is public property.”

Pou’s thumb moves once against your skin. “And?”

You look down at the green cover. You’ve said pieces of this before, during late-night talks and one careful session with your own therapist. Saying it now still makes your throat tighten.

“And I don’t think it would be good for me.” You press your fingertips into the folder’s edge. “I think I could survive it. That’s not the same as thinking I should do it.”

Laura turns fully toward you. There’s relief in her face, though she tries to soften it before you can read it as agreement made without you.

“I don’t want either of you to tell me I can’t,” you say quickly.

“We won’t.” Laura squeezes your hand. “This is you telling us what you need.”

Pou watches you with the stillness she usually saves for the final seconds of a tied game. “Are you choosing not to carry, or are you waiting for us to give you permission not to?”

The question lands cleanly.

You take a breath. “I’m choosing not to.”

Pou nods once. Her eyes shine, but her voice stays steady. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.” She reaches farther, and you rise onto your knees so she can cup the back of your head. “Your body was never the price of admission to this family.”

The words undo something that months of research couldn’t touch.

You bow your head until your forehead rests against the couch cushion beside her hip. Pou keeps one hand in your hair. Laura folds around your back, cheek settling between your shoulder blades.

“I still want to be a mother,” you whisper into the cushion.

“You will be,” Laura says. Her arm tightens around your waist. “If this is what we choose, you will be.”

“Nothing about that changed,” Pou adds.

Arlo chooses that moment to shove his nose beneath your elbow. He wriggles into the narrow space between you and the couch, tail striking Laura’s shoulder with enough force to make her wince.

“Excellent timing,” Laura mutters.

Pou scratches behind his ear. “He’s confirming the family vote.”

You lift your head and look at them. Laura’s hair is falling into her eyes. Pou looks exhausted, sore, and certain. Arlo is attempting to climb into all three laps at once.

The certainty doesn’t erase the grief. It waits until after dinner, after Pou’s medication, after Laura has helped her wash without getting the incisions wet, and you’ve settled the brace back around her leg. It waits until the bedroom is dark and the house has gone quiet enough for you to hear the ice machine cycling in the next room.

You’re lying on your side with your back to both women when Laura’s fingers touch the sleeve of your shirt.

“Are you awake?” she whispers.

“No.”

Her hand curls lightly around your upper arm. “Very convincing.”

You close your eyes. Pou is propped behind you with her leg elevated, which has rearranged the bed into an obstacle course of pillows. Every few minutes, the sheets rustle when she tries to find a position that doesn’t pull at the surgical sites.

“I’m relieved,” you admit into the dark. “And I hate that I’m relieved.”

Laura moves closer without crowding you. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to want it.” You pick at a loose thread near the cuff of your shirt. “I wanted carrying to feel beautiful when I imagined it. Sometimes it did. Then I imagined being touched by strangers, being photographed, having every change in my body treated like public evidence. I felt trapped before it even happened.”

The mattress shifts behind Laura.

“Come where I can see you,” Pou says, her voice softened by exhaustion.

You roll carefully, avoiding the edge of the brace. Laura settles between your bodies, one hand remaining on your arm and the other resting near Pou’s hip.

Pou studies you in the dim light. “Relief doesn’t mean you didn’t want the child.”

“I know that when I’m talking to someone else.”

“Then tonight you can borrow us.” Laura brushes her thumb across your sleeve. “We know it for you.”

Your mouth tightens. “There’s still a part of me that feels like I gave something up.”

“You did,” Pou says.

Laura looks over her shoulder, but Pou keeps her eyes on you.

“You gave up one version of how this might happen,” Pou continues. “It’s allowed to hurt even if it’s the right decision. I’m not going to make it smaller so you can feel certain faster.”

Tears sting your eyes. “You’re heavily medicated. You shouldn’t be this emotionally competent.”

Pou’s mouth curves. “Write down the time. It may not happen again.”

Laura laughs softly, then reaches back until she finds Pou’s hand. She brings it forward and lays it over yours. Pou’s palm is warm. Laura’s fingers close around both.

“If we have a baby,” Laura says, “we’re going to be frightened and joyful and sad about things that don’t cancel each other out. We should probably practice.”

You move closer until your forehead rests against hers. Pou reaches over Laura with some difficulty and strokes two fingers down your cheek.

“I still need you to tell me if this changes,” you whisper. “If I start acting like I’m fine because the choice is made.”

“We’ll tell you,” Pou says.

“With unbearable gentleness,” Laura adds.

“And binders,” Pou says.

You laugh wetly. Laura kisses the corner of your mouth. Pou makes an impatient sound until Laura shifts enough for you to reach her too. You kiss Pou carefully, one palm against her jaw, feeling the tired smile that touches her lips before you draw back.

The three of you remain awake for a while, hands joined between your bodies. Nobody tries to turn the grief into doubt. Nobody treats relief like a confession.

For the first time since the baby folder appeared, deciding not to carry doesn’t feel like losing your place.

It feels like telling the truth from inside it.

Pou waits six weeks before she tells you she wants to carry.

In that time, she learns to bend her knee past ninety degrees again. She graduates from two crutches to one, though she keeps abandoning the remaining crutch against walls and having to send someone back for it. She goes from sleeping in broken two-hour stretches to making it most of the night. The angry surgical swelling recedes enough that you can see the outline of her kneecap.

The rest of her recovery refuses to move as quickly as she wants.

On the morning she raises the subject, she has just returned from physical therapy in a temper. Laura is at the rink. You’ve blocked the first hour of your workday so Pou won’t come home to an empty house after her reassessment.

She drops her crutch against the kitchen island. It slides to the floor with a clatter.

“That’s going well,” you observe from the counter.

“I hate that thing.” Pou lowers herself into a chair and glares at the crutch as if it has personally delayed her return to play.

You set a mug in front of her. “What did your therapist say?”

“That I’m progressing normally.”

“Terrible news.”

“I don’t want normal. I want fast.” She wraps both hands around the mug. “They added two exercises and took away one because my hamstring is compensating.”

“That sounds like responsible medical care.”

“You sound like Laura.”

“Take it back.”

Pou gives you a tired smile. It fades when you sit across from her.

“What else?” you ask.

“I talked to the surgeon.”

You wait.

“And the team doctor. Separately, because I knew you’d ask.” She traces the rim of the mug with her thumb. “I asked what pregnancy would mean for the reconstruction and the rehabilitation timeline.”

The kitchen seems to narrow around the sentence.

“You asked for yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Pou.”

“That’s my name.” She reaches across the table before defensiveness can harden either of you. “Listen first.”

You let her take your hand.

“Nobody has cleared anything yet,” she says. “I’m still early in recovery. I’m still taking medications that have to be finished. They want strength benchmarks, a stable range of motion, and a fertility specialist involved. If we did this, it wouldn’t be tomorrow.”

“You’ve thought through the medical part.”

“I’ve started to.”

“And the rest?”

Pou looks toward the back door. Arlo is asleep in the square of sun beside it, paws twitching through a dream.

“I know what it looks like,” she says. “I get hurt, they tell me I’m probably out for the next year, and suddenly I volunteer because my schedule is convenient.”

The bluntness startles you.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” you admit.

“I know.” Her fingers close around yours. “But I don’t want to carry because my knee made me available. I’ve wanted it for a long time.”

You search her face. “You never said that.”

“Because you were already treating your body like the answer. Laura was worried about taking another full season away when she still had a choice. I didn’t want to put my want on top of everyone else’s fear.”

“That sounds suspiciously like hiding your fear behind what everyone else needs.”

Pou’s mouth twists. “I’ve been told I do that.”

“By two very intelligent women.”

“One intelligent woman and Laura.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. Pou’s eyes warm at the sound.

Then she turns your hand palm-up and presses her thumb into the center. “I want to know what my body can make when it isn’t making goals or speed or pain. I want to feel our baby move. I want this in a way that scares me because wanting anything I can’t earn through work makes me feel out of control.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m also terrified,” she continues. “I don’t know how pregnancy will feel in a body I’ve only trusted as an athlete. I don’t know how I’ll handle being slower again after spending months fighting to move normally. I don’t know what the public will say. I don’t know if I’ll miss hockey so much that I resent everything, and I don’t ever want the baby to carry that.”

“You wouldn’t be allowed to carry that alone,” you say.

“I know.” She lifts your hand to her mouth and kisses your palm. “That’s part of why I want it.”

You shift your chair closer. “Does Laura know?”

“That I asked the doctors, yes. That I’m ready to say I want it, no.”

“Why tell me first?”

Pou doesn’t look away. “Because this part belongs to you and me. You told me what it cost to decide you shouldn’t carry. I needed to tell you what wanting it feels like before all three of us talk about the practical pieces.” Her thumb moves across your palm. “And because I know what strangers will say if I carry. They’ll make my marriage to Laura the center of the story and treat your motherhood as something we allowed. I wanted you to hear from me that this is ours before anybody outside this house gets the chance to misunderstand it.”

The care in that choice hurts almost as much as the fear beneath it.

You stand and move around the table. Pou pushes her chair back enough to make room for you. You sit sideways across her good thigh, careful of the brace, and loop your arms around her neck.

“I don’t know yet,” you murmur.

“You don’t have to.” Her face settles against your chest. “I just don’t want you to think I’m doing this because I’m broken and bored.”

“I don’t think you’re broken.”

“Bored?”

“Unbearably.”

Her laugh moves through both of you. She holds you tightly, one hand spread across your back.

When Laura comes home that afternoon, she finds you and Pou on the living room floor with the green folder open between you. Pou has abandoned her crutch in the hallway again. Arlo is lying across the fertility-clinic brochure.

Laura stops with her skate bag still hanging from her shoulder. “Did I miss a meeting?”

Pou looks at you.

You know the question before her eyebrows finish lifting. Laura reads it too from across the room. Time has given every pair its own shorthand and taught the third person to recognize when that shorthand is carrying something that belongs to everyone.

The glance between you and Pou carries the question into the open. Laura waits because she understands it, not because she has been left outside it.

You nod.

Pou holds her hand out to Laura. “Come here. I need to tell you something.”

Laura sets the bag down and crosses the room. She takes Pou’s hand, then reaches for yours before she even sits.

“Good something or bad something?” she asks.

“Necessary something,” you and Pou say together.

Laura closes her eyes. “I’ve created a monster.”

The three of you laugh, and then Pou tells her.

She says it without turning the injury into fate. She says she wants to carry, that she has for years, that she’s frightened of what pregnancy could do to her recovery and relieved she finally has time to consider it without calculating which games she’ll miss. She says the doctors haven’t promised anything. She says she won’t proceed unless all three of you believe it can be an act of desire instead of sacrifice.

Laura cries before Pou finishes.

“I’m not dying,” Pou says, alarm breaking through her careful speech.

Laura wipes under one eye with the heel of her hand. “I know. That would be a very different meeting.”

“Why are you crying?”

“Because you never told me you wanted to carry.” Laura shifts close enough to cradle Pou’s face. “You told her first.”

Pou’s expression changes. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” Laura glances at you, her smile wet and unguarded. “I’m proud of you.”

Pou looks briefly horrified by the emotion in the room. You lean in and kiss her cheek.

“You did say you wanted a baby,” you remind her.

“I didn’t agree to feelings.”

Laura kisses her other cheek. “Too late.”

Pou turns her head and catches Laura’s mouth. The kiss is brief and tender. When they part, she finds you again, drawing you close with a hand at the back of your neck until she can kiss you too.

Arlo lifts his head from the brochure and sneezes.

“He has concerns,” you say.

“He’s worried about resource distribution,” Laura replies. She reaches down to rub his chest. “You’ll still be the baby.”

Pou rests her forehead against yours. Laura’s shoulder presses into your side.

The conversation lasts two more hours.

Nobody votes.

Nobody promises.

By the time the light outside turns gold, the green folder has filled with new pages. Medical questions. Emotional questions. Career questions. A note in your handwriting that says every pair has to keep talking on its own, because one family conversation can’t replace three private relationships.

At the bottom of the last page, Laura writes a fourth question.

How do we make sure the law sees all three of us?

None of you answer it that night.

It’s the question that follows you into everything that comes next.

The family lawyer’s office overlooks a street lined with maples just beginning to turn red.

You notice the leaves because you’re trying not to stare at the legal pad in front of you. You’ve already filled three pages while waiting. Pou has written nothing. Laura has drawn a tiny paw print in the margin of the information sheet and labeled it ARLO, INTERESTED PARTY.

“He does have a substantial interest,” Laura whispers when she catches you looking. “Primarily snacks.”

Pou’s knee bumps yours beneath the conference table. She’s out of the brace now, though she still walks carefully after long periods of sitting. Her rehab has reached the stage where strangers think she’s healed, and she has to explain that walking into a room isn’t the same as being ready to play professional hockey.

The lawyer returns with three glasses of water and a thick copy of the notes you sent ahead.

“You’ve done a great deal of research,” she says as she takes her seat.

Laura makes a quiet sound beside you.

“It’s her love language,” Pou explains.

“It’s my profession,” you say. “I work with queer youth and LGBTQ families. I need to understand what systems can do to people before I help them walk into those systems.”

The lawyer nods. “Then some of this will be familiar. It may still feel different when it’s your family.”

It already does.

The three of you have always lived without a primary couple. Care moves toward whoever needs it, and family decisions move through all three relationships. Nobody interprets one partner to another because each of you knows how to speak directly to the other two.

Outside your home, people simplify you anyway. Pou and Laura’s marriage is visible in a photograph. Your relationships with each of them require an explanation. The lawyer has done nothing unkind, but her vocabulary has already arranged the room into birth parent, spouse, and third party.

You know those are legal roles. Hearing them still feels like watching someone redraw your family with two people in the center and you in the margin.

She begins with Quebec.

You know the terms before she says them. Parental project. Filiation. Birth parent. Spouse. Donor. You’ve read the government pages in English and French until the section numbers follow you into sleep.

Knowledge doesn’t make the explanation gentler.

“If Marie gives birth in Quebec,” the lawyer says, “her filiation is established by birth. Because she and Laura are married and the conception would occur through assisted reproduction within their parental project, Laura can be recognized as the other parent.”

Her gaze moves to you.

“Quebec law doesn’t currently provide a route for three simultaneous filiations in this circumstance. You wouldn’t be included on the act of birth as a third parent.”

Your pen stops moving.

Pou’s hand covers your thigh beneath the table. Laura’s fingertips settle against your wrist.

You keep your voice level. “A cohabitation agreement, guardianship nomination, wills, medical powers, none of those create filiation.”

“Correct. They’re important protections, and I would recommend them. They aren’t substitutes for legal parentage.”

“Adoption?” Laura asks.

“Quebec doesn’t simply add a third parent through adoption. One existing legal relationship would generally have to be displaced. That isn’t the outcome any of you want.”

Pou’s thumb presses into your leg. You don’t know whether she means to ground you or herself.

“Ontario is different,” you say.

The lawyer nods. “Ontario permits a written pre-conception parentage agreement among up to four intended parents, provided the statutory requirements are met. Marie would have to be a party as the intended birth parent. Laura would have to be a party as her spouse if you use assisted reproduction. You could be the third party. If the agreement is properly completed before conception, all three of you can be recognized as parents when the child is born.”

“And all three names can appear on the Ontario registration,” you say.

“Yes.”

The single word fills your chest so quickly it almost hurts.

Laura reaches beneath the table and threads her fingers through yours. “Then we go to Ontario.”

Pou goes still beside you.

You feel it before you look at her.

The lawyer continues, explaining independent legal advice, the difference between an intended birth parent and a surrogate, and the importance of completing every document before insemination. She warns that moving home to Quebec with an Ontario record naming three parents may still create administrative friction. Provincial systems don’t always accommodate families with grace simply because another province recognized them correctly.

You write all of it down.

Pou asks sensible questions about health coverage and residence. Laura asks about travel consent and school forms. You ask what happens if you’re in a hospital with the baby and neither of the other two can be reached.

By the time the meeting ends, your legal pad has nine full pages.

In the elevator, Laura leans against the mirrored wall and exhales. “That was a lot.”

“It was clear,” you say.

Pou stands on your other side, one hand braced lightly against the rail. “Clear isn’t the same as simple.”

The doors open into the lobby.

You step out first. “No. It isn’t.”

The disagreement waits until you get home.

It begins quietly, which is how the most important disagreements usually begin in your house.

Laura makes dinner. Pou completes the evening set of rehabilitation exercises beside the kitchen table. You spread the lawyer’s handouts across the island and begin sorting them into three stacks.

Quebec. Ontario. Supplemental protections.

The papers refuse to lie flat. Every time you smooth one page, the corner of another lifts beneath your hand.

“We should schedule separate counsel,” you say. You square the Ontario agreement with the edge of the counter. “The fertility clinic won’t start anything until January at the earliest, but I don’t want this rushed.”

Pou anchors a resistance band around the leg of a chair. “We haven’t decided where we’re doing this.”

Your fingers pause over the Ontario stack. “I thought we did.”

“Laura said Ontario in the office.” Pou slowly extends her healing leg, her jaw tightening with the effort. “That isn’t a decision.”

Laura turns away from the stove. The wooden spoon remains suspended above the pot. “I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“There isn’t another place where all three of us can be legal parents from birth.” You press your palm over the papers to keep them still. “That seems decisive.”

Pou releases the band with controlled care. “For you.”

The two words are quiet. They still land like a door closing.

You look at her. Pou’s expression changes almost immediately, but the hurt has already found somewhere to live.

Laura lowers the spoon to the counter. “Pou.”

“I don’t mean her parentage is only important to her.” Pou plants her good foot more firmly against the floor. “I mean the location has other consequences for me.”

“I know that.” You hear the distance in your own voice and can’t soften it.

“Do you?” Pou gathers the resistance band into two precise loops. “Because since we left the office, you’ve talked about Ontario like the only thing left is paperwork.”

Your hand moves to the green folder. “Paperwork is what decides whether I’m our child’s parent or the woman who happens to live with their parents.”

Laura flinches. Her fingers curl around the edge of the counter.

“That isn’t what you are,” Pou says. She leans forward, abandoning the band beside her chair. “It isn’t what you’ll ever be.”

“In Quebec, you give birth, and Laura is protected because she’s your wife.” You lift the Quebec information sheet and hold it above the open folder. “I’m protected because both of you promise you know what I mean to the baby.”

“I know that isn’t enough.” Pou’s hand settles over her healing knee. “I know what the law is doing to you.”

“The law isn’t doing it alone.” Your voice cracks before you can steady it. “It’s sitting on top of what people already assume when they see you’re married. Every system starts with the two of you as each other’s automatic people and waits for someone to explain why I’m in the room. The life I’ve built with both of you disappears before I finish introducing myself.”

Laura takes one step around the island. She stops when your shoulders rise.

“We don’t see you that way,” she says. Her palms remain open at her sides.

“I know you don’t intend to.” You slide the Quebec sheet into the folder. “Intent doesn’t change which two names the government recognizes before we do anything extra.”

Pou draws a slow breath. “And legal recognition doesn’t change what labor will be like inside my body.”

Your anger falters, but the ache beneath it stays.

Pou presses her palm into the muscle above her knee. “I know what it feels like to be injured in a hospital where everyone is speaking my first language. I know what happens when I’m scared, and English gets slower in my head. If I’m in labor, if something goes wrong, I don’t want to translate pain before I can explain it.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Laura says. She looks at Pou first, her expression softening around the fear in Pou’s voice.

You lower the Ontario agreement into the folder. “And I shouldn’t have to ask permission to take my own child to a doctor.”

“I didn’t say you should.” Pou’s fingers tighten against her thigh.

“Then what are you saying?” You place the supplemental protections on top of the other pages.

“I’m saying both things matter.” Pou pushes herself to her feet too quickly. Her knee buckles just enough that one hand strikes the tabletop. “I’m saying I need you to stop treating my language, my doctors, and my family like preferences that can be solved after the legal problem.”

You move toward her on instinct. Pou raises one hand, not to reject you, only to show you that she has regained her balance.

You stop anyway.

Laura stands between the stove and the island, her eyes moving from Pou’s pale face to your hands resting on the green folder.

“We can find a compromise,” she says. Her voice is careful, already trying to build a bridge across the room. “Pou and I can look at hospitals near the border, and then we can bring the options to you.”

The room goes silent.

Laura’s mouth parts. She hears herself one second too late.

“No,” she says quickly. “That isn’t what I meant.”

You don’t answer.

You place the last handout inside the green folder. Then you straighten every edge, even though the pages are already aligned. The metal rings click shut beneath your fingers.

“You and Pou will look,” you say. Your voice is so controlled that it barely sounds like yours. “Then you’ll bring the options to me.”

“I meant because she’s the patient and I know some of the medical contacts.” Laura steps closer to the island. “I wasn’t putting you outside.”

“You didn’t have to mean it.” You slide the lawyer’s business card into the clear pocket at the front of the folder. “You just described the two of you making the decision and me being consulted afterward.”

Pou closes her eyes. “Mon amour.”

The endearment nearly breaks your composure. You press both palms against the closed folder.

“I can’t be the person you consult after the married people decide where their baby will be born.”

“Our baby,” Pou says immediately. She takes one uneven step toward you. “Yours too.”

You pick up the folder and hold it against your chest. It feels like a shield. It feels like evidence.

“It didn’t sound like mine just now.”

Pou’s face folds around the pain of that sentence.

Laura reaches toward you and stops before her hand crosses the edge of the island. “Please don’t walk away thinking we’ve decided anything.”

“I’m walking away because if I stay, I’m going to start explaining why that hurt.” You tighten your arms around the folder. “And I can’t survive giving a professional presentation on why I’m part of my own family.”

Laura’s eyes fill. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“I know.” You turn the folder so the green cover faces your body. “That’s why I’m done talking right now.”

Arlo lifts his head from his bed near the pantry. His nails tap against the floor as he follows you around the island.

Pou says your name.

You stop at the mouth of the hallway but don’t turn around.

“I need space,” you say. “Please don’t follow me.”

Neither of them does.

You carry the folder into the bedroom and set it on the dresser. For a moment, you consider putting it in a drawer. Instead, you leave it in plain sight with the spine facing the room.

BABY.

The label is written in your handwriting.

You sit on the edge of the bed and press your hands between your knees. Arlo settles across the doorway rather than coming closer, his broad body forming a quiet barrier between you and the hall.

The house doesn’t become silent behind you.

Laura turns off the burner. A cabinet opens. Ceramic touches the counter. Pou’s crutch scrapes softly against the floor after she gives up pretending her knee can tolerate standing.

You don’t mean to listen. Their voices carry anyway.

“I didn’t say she wasn’t the baby’s parent,” Pou says. Her voice is tight and uneven. “I would never say that.”

“I know.” Laura’s answer remains gentle. “But that isn’t what she heard.”

There is a pause. You picture Laura leaning against the island and Pou sitting beside the abandoned resistance band.

“She heard me say her concern was decisive for her,” Pou says.

“Then she heard me say you and I would look at hospitals and bring the choices to her.” Laura releases a shaky breath. “We spent an hour being told the law sees you as the birth mother and me as your wife. It sees her as nobody unless we build the right agreement in the right province. Then we came home and sounded like a married couple making a plan.”

The mattress shifts beneath you when you curl forward.

“That wasn’t what we were doing,” Pou says.

“I know.” Compassion warms Laura’s answer without taking away its weight. “She’s been watching systems choose the two of us since we began talking about a child. Tonight, we sounded like we chose the two of us too.”

Pou is quiet long enough that you hear Arlo sigh in the doorway.

“I’m scared,” she says at last. “I don’t want to give birth somewhere I have to search for English while I’m in pain. I don’t want my mother hours away. I don’t want someone deciding what happens to my body while I’m still trying to find the words.”

“Those concerns aren’t selfish.” Laura’s chair moves closer. “You need to tell her exactly that. You can’t tell her that legal parentage is only decisive for her, and I can’t become your spokesperson or make a plan with you before she is in the room.”

Pou draws a breath that shudders on the way out. “Ontario makes my body feel like the price of proving she belongs. If I don’t choose it, I’m afraid she’ll think I chose you over her.”

“She doesn’t want you unsafe,” Laura says. “She wants not to be erasable.”

The word settles heavily in the hallway.

Erasable.

You look at the green folder on the dresser. Months of medical questions, legal research, and cautious hopes fit inside it. You had closed it in less than a minute.

“The law already chose us,” Laura continues, her voice breaking. “We have to understand how terrifying that is before we ask her to trust we won’t.”

“What do we do?” Pou asks.

“We don’t solve it without her. We give her the space she asked for. At bedtime, we ask if she wants us in the room. If she does, we apologize without asking her to make us feel better. Tomorrow, if she’s ready, all three of us start again.”

The conversation ends in quiet household sounds. A spoon against a bowl. The refrigerator door. Pou returning carefully to her exercises while Laura counts under her breath.

Hearing them understand doesn’t undo the moment at the island. It does loosen the certainty that they had already chosen each other.

When Laura knocks, she remains outside the open doorway. “I left soup for you. You don’t have to eat with us.”

“Thank you.”

Her eyes move toward the green folder. “We won’t touch it without you.”

Your throat tightens. “Okay.”

Laura leaves the bowl on the table in the hall. 

You eat half after it has gone lukewarm.

That night, the distance comes to bed with you.

Pou has been cleared to sleep without the brace, but she still builds a wall of pillows around her knee. Laura changes in the bathroom and returns wearing one of Pou’s old shirts. You fold the day’s clothes over the chair twice, even though they were already neat.

The green folder remains on the dresser.

Nobody asks who should lie where.

You take the outside edge instead of the middle. Laura notices. Pou notices the way your fingers keep smoothing the same fold in the sheet. You read the concern in both faces before either speaks.

Time has created three private languages in this bed. Pou and Laura can read each other. You and Pou can too. So can you and Laura. Nobody is fluent in only one relationship, and nobody has to be translated through someone else. Tonight, the lawyer’s categories have made every glance between Pou and Laura look like proof of a hierarchy you know they don’t live by. Knowing better doesn’t stop your body from bracing.

Laura sits in the middle of the mattress but leaves a clear strip of untouched sheet between your bodies.

“Do you want us here?” she asks. Her fingers close around the hem of her shirt. “We can sleep somewhere else.”

You lower yourself onto your pillow and face the room rather than the wall. “I want you here.”

Pou’s shoulders ease before she can hide it.

“I don’t want to be touched,” you add. Your hand curls beneath your chin. “Not tonight.”

“Okay.” Laura shifts several inches farther away. She moves carefully enough that the mattress barely responds.

Pou keeps both hands resting on top of the blanket. “Okay.”

The quiet that follows is painful, but it doesn’t feel punitive. Neither of them reaches across it.

Pou looks toward the folder. “I’m sorry.” Her voice catches. “When I said Ontario was decisive for you, I made your parenthood sound like a preference you were asking us to accommodate.”

You press your lips together.

“It felt like you were telling me the certificate mattered because I was the only person insecure enough to need it.”

Pou closes her eyes. A tear slips into her hairline.

“I was defending something I need,” she says. “I turned your need into the thing threatening mine. That wasn’t fair.”

Laura twists the blanket between her fingers. “And I spoke like Pou, and I were the decision-makers. I put you outside the conversation while I was trying to solve it.”

“You made it sound like a problem the two legal spouses would solve and bring to the partner no document recognizes.” Your voice breaks on the final words. “Like our whole relationship could become a consultation.”

Laura’s face crumples. “You aren’t an addition to anything. This family has always been something the three of us built. Pou and I didn’t make a finished life and ask you to step into it.”

“I know that’s not what you intend.” You swipe one hand beneath your eyes. “But I need both of you to understand how quickly I can become one on paper. At the lawyer’s office, the family was Pou, her spouse, and the third party. I could feel everyone trying not to look at me when she said it.”

Pou’s fingers tense against the blanket. She doesn’t lift them toward you.

“I looked at you,” she whispers.

“You did.” You take a shaky breath. “Then we got home, and when the choices became hard, you and Laura became ‘we.’ I became ‘you.’”

Laura covers her mouth with one hand. Pou turns her face toward the ceiling, tears slipping silently toward her temples.

“I heard you talking in the kitchen,” you say.

Both of them look at you.

“I wasn’t trying to listen. I could hear you.” You glance toward Laura. “Thank you for helping her see it.”

Laura lowers her hand. “I needed to see it too.”

“It still hurt that you had to explain me.” The words come out smaller than you intend. “Not because Pou normally understands you better. She doesn’t. We can all read each other. It hurt because I walked away wondering whether one afternoon in that office had made her hear the legal spouse more clearly than the partner the law called a third party.”

Pou’s face goes still. Laura’s hand drops from her mouth to the blanket.

“I heard you before you left,” Pou says. Her voice trembles. “I didn’t understand the full shape of it until Laura said it back to me. That isn’t the same as not believing you.”

“It feels close tonight.” You turn your face into the pillow for one breath before looking at them again.

Laura’s eyes fill. “I don’t want my voice to be the thing that makes yours credible.”

“Neither do I.”

Pou presses both palms flat against the blanket. “Then I need to listen before Laura has to explain what I should’ve heard from you.”

You turn toward Pou. “And I heard what you said about being afraid. I don’t want you giving birth somewhere you feel lost. I don’t want you translating pain. I don’t want your mother far away because the law made Ontario easier for me.”

Pou’s breath breaks into a small sob. She keeps her hands where they are.

“I don’t know how to give you everything you need without losing what I need,” she says.

“I don’t know either.” You let the answer remain imperfect. “I’m not asking you to solve it tonight. I need to know I won’t be handed the solution after the two of you decide what you can live with.”

“You won’t,” Pou says. She looks at Laura, then deliberately returns her gaze to you before continuing. “I won’t research hospitals without you. I won’t speak about the baby as though parentage belongs to Laura and me until we choose how much to share.”

Laura nods. “And I won’t make myself the bridge between you. We’ve never needed one. Every pair in this relationship knows how to speak for itself, and family decisions belong to all three of us. I won’t let the marriage become a shortcut that changes that.”

Your chest aches with the desire to believe them and the memory of how easily the exclusion happened.

“I believe you mean that,” you say. “I’m still hurt.”

“You’re allowed to be.” Pou’s voice stays rough. “You don’t have to touch me to prove we’re okay.”

“We aren’t okay yet.”

Pou nods, tears shining across her face. “Then you don’t have to touch me to prove we’ll get there.”

The distinction loosens something inside you.

Minutes pass. Laura reaches toward the lamp, then stops.

“Are you ready for the light to be off?” she asks.

“Not yet.” You look at Pou’s rigid posture. “What number is your knee?”

Pou hesitates. “Five.”

“Truth.”

Her mouth pulls into a tired, unhappy line. “Six.”

You look at the medication chart on the nightstand. “She can take the next dose.”

Laura reaches for the bottle and water. She helps Pou sit higher against the pillows, keeping the care on her side of the bed so your boundary doesn’t have to compete with Pou’s pain.

Pou accepts the tablets from Laura. Her eyes remain on you as she swallows.

“Thank you,” she says.

You nod. You don’t adjust the pillow beneath her ankle. You don’t reach for the loose strand of hair caught against her wet cheek. Loving her still moves through you as instinct, but tonight you let Laura take care of her body while you protect your own.

Pou doesn’t punish you for it.

When Laura settles again, she remains in the middle without filling the space on either side. Her hands rest over her stomach.

“Can we make one decision tonight?” she asks.

Your muscles tighten. Laura sees it.

“Only about tomorrow morning,” she adds quickly. “Can we agree nobody opens the folder until all three of us are ready?”

You look toward the dresser.

“Yes.”

Pou releases a careful breath. “And nobody researches alone.”

The words echo the promise you had almost made at the island before the hurt was rushed into resolution. They mean more now because no hands close over yours to seal them.

“Agreed,” you say.

Laura turns off the lamp after asking again. Darkness settles across the room.

The bed holds three separate bodies. There is no hand at your waist, no ankle brushing yours beneath the blanket, no familiar weight of Pou’s arm reaching across Laura to find you. The absence hurts. It is also the shape of the boundary you asked them to respect.

No one tries to make it smaller.

“I love you,” Pou says into the dark. Her voice is unsteady. “I know that doesn’t repair what happened.”

“I love you too,” Laura says. “You don’t have to answer.”

You stare at the outline of the green folder until your eyes adjust.

“I love you both,” you whisper. “I’m still here.”

Pou makes a broken sound and presses her face into her pillow. Laura’s breathing shakes. Neither of them reaches for you.

“We’re still here too,” Laura says.

Sleep takes a long time to reach you.

Every time the mattress shifts, your body wakes before your mind does. Pou moves carefully because of her knee. Laura turns onto her side and then onto her back. Neither movement crosses the untouched strip of sheet around you. They are keeping the promise. Your nervous system still treats each small sound like the beginning of another conversation in which your place can change before you understand what is happening.

Eventually, exhaustion drags you under.

In the dream, you’re back in the lawyer’s office.

The conference room is too bright. The windows overlook a hospital corridor instead of the street. Pou is at the far end in a hospital bed, her hair damp against her face and a newborn bundled against her chest. Laura stands beside her wearing the same expression she wore when she saw the positive test in a future that hasn’t happened yet.

There is so much love in both of their faces that for one suspended moment, you forget to be afraid.

Then you try to enter the room.

The lawyer steps in front of the door and holds out the green folder.

“Family only,” she says.

“I am family.” Your voice wavers.

The folder opens in her hands. The birth certificate is inside. Marie-Philip Poulin. Laura Stacey. Two names written in permanent black ink. Beneath them is a blank line that keeps shrinking while you watch.

You reach for a pen. The lawyer closes the rings over your fingers.

Behind the glass, Laura bends to kiss Pou’s forehead. Pou turns the baby so Laura can see their face. Neither of them looks toward the corridor.

You strike the glass with both palms.

Pou finally lifts her head.

“We’ll bring the options to you,” she says in Laura’s voice.

The hospital door closes.

You wake with the words trapped in your throat.

Your body jerks upright so violently that the room tilts. The comforter tangles around your legs. Air catches high in your chest and refuses to move lower. For several seconds, you can still see the certificate. You can still feel the metal rings closing across your fingers.

“Don’t close it.” The plea tears out of you before you know you’re speaking. “Please don’t close it.”

Laura is awake immediately. She reaches toward your shoulder on instinct.

You recoil.

The movement is sharp enough that your back strikes the headboard. Laura freezes with her hand suspended above the untouched sheet.

Pou pushes herself upright too quickly. Pain cuts across her face, but what she sees in yours stops her from reaching for you.

“No touching,” Laura says at once. She draws her hand back against her chest. Her voice is breathless but steady. “I remember. I’m sorry.”

You press both hands over your mouth. The sob still escapes between your fingers.

Laura turns on the lamp at its lowest setting. Warm light fills the room. It reveals the folder on the dresser, the pillows around Pou’s knee, and the empty space all three of you had preserved.

“You’re home,” Pou says. Her voice shakes. She braces both palms beside her hips so you can see she won’t move closer. “You’re in our bedroom. The folder is on the dresser. Nobody touched it.”

You look at the green shape across the room. Your vision blurs until the letters on the spine disappear.

Laura lowers herself back against the headboard. She keeps more than an arm’s length between you. “Can you tell whether you’re awake?”

You nod too quickly. The room swims again.

“Words,” you manage. “I need words.”

Laura’s face crumples before she brings it under control. “Okay. We can give you words.”

Pou swallows. “You’re here. You asked us not to touch you, and we aren’t. You asked us not to leave, and we’re staying.”

The reassurance is exactly what you need. Hearing it makes you cry harder.

Your gaze passes over Laura and finds Pou.

“Pou.” Her name tears out of you.

Pou leans forward as far as the pillows around her knee allow. “I’m here.”

You shake your head. The motion makes the room pitch, but you keep looking at her. “No. I need you.”

Pou goes completely still.

“Me?” The question escapes before she can stop it. Shock opens her face, followed so quickly by hope and fear that you can’t separate them.

You nod. Your hand lifts from the comforter and reaches across the space Laura occupies between you.

Laura looks at your outstretched fingers, then at Pou. She doesn’t ask Pou what should happen. She looks back at you.

“I’m between you,” she says softly. “Do you want me to move?”

“Please.”

Laura slips out from beneath the blanket and moves to the foot of the bed. She gathers her pillow with her so the middle opens fully. The movement is quick but unhurried, as if making room for you is the most natural answer in the world.

For one frightened second, you remain against the headboard.

Pou doesn’t reach across the new opening. She braces one hand beside her hip and keeps the other loose on top of the blanket.

“I can’t move quickly because of my knee,” she says. Her voice trembles with the effort to stay calm for you. “You can come to me. I won’t touch you until you tell me.”

You push the comforter away and cross the mattress on your knees. Your hands shake so badly that one slips against the sheet. Laura starts to rise from the foot of the bed, then stops when you catch yourself.

Every person in the room waits for you.

You reach Pou and close your fist in the front of her sleep shirt. The fabric twists around your knuckles.

“Hold me.”

Pou’s breath catches. “Are you sure?”

You pull her shirt harder. “Please.”

Pou opens her left arm.

You fold into her.

She receives you against her uninjured side, one arm wrapping around your shoulders while the other settles carefully across your upper back. Her hold begins tentatively. When you bury your face against her neck and clutch her with both hands, she tightens it by degrees.

“Like this?” Pou asks against your hair.

“Tighter.”

Her arms close firmly around you.

The first sob tears through your body hard enough to shake both of you. Pou makes a soft sound and cups the back of your head, keeping her movements slow enough that you can anticipate every one.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers. “Only because you asked. If you want me to let go, I let go.”

You press closer.

Laura remains at the foot of the bed. She pulls the discarded comforter over your legs but stops below your knees, never letting her hands come near your body.

“I’m still here,” she says.

You reach one hand blindly toward the sound of her voice, then stop before your fingers leave Pou’s shirt.

Laura sees the conflict move through you.

“You don’t have to reach for me too,” she says. There is pain in her expression, but no accusation. “You don’t owe us equal comfort every minute. If Pou is who you need, I’ll help make that safe.”

The patience in her voice makes another sob break loose.

Pou holds you through it. She doesn’t turn toward Laura for guidance. She knows how to read the difference between the way you cling when you want pressure and the way your shoulders tighten when you need room. Her attention stays on you.

“Do you want words?” Pou asks.

You nod against her neck.

“You’re in our bedroom,” she says. Her thumb moves once through your hair. “You came to me. You’re in my arms because you chose to be. Laura is at the foot of the bed because you asked her to move. The folder is on the dresser. Nobody touched it.”

Your fingers tighten in her shirt.

“There was a baby.” Your voice is muffled against her skin. “You were both in the hospital room. I could see you through the glass.”

Pou’s body tenses beneath you. Her arm remains steady.

“The certificate had your names,” you continue. “When I tried to get inside, the lawyer said family only.”

Laura closes her eyes. A tear slides down her cheek.

“You didn’t hear me. Then the door closed, and Pou said you’d bring the options to me.”

Pou’s breath leaves her in a wounded sound. Her hand pauses at the back of your head.

“Do you want me to keep holding you?” she asks immediately.

“Yes.” You turn your face deeper into the curve of her neck. “Don’t stop.”

Pou resumes the slow movement of her hand. “I won’t.”

“My words followed you into sleep,” Laura says. Horror makes her voice thin.

“Both of yours did.” You lift your head enough to see her. Pou loosens her arms only as much as the movement requires. “I know you didn’t mean any of it like that. I know the dream isn’t what happened. My body doesn’t care what I know right now.”

The sentence lands visibly.

Laura looks at the space she vacated in the center of the bed. Pou looks down at your hands still clenched in her shirt. They had known you were hurt. Now they can see that the hurt reached the part of you that used to turn toward both of them without needing permission.

“You flinched from me,” Laura whispers.

Shame tightens your throat. “I didn’t mean to.”

“No.” Laura shakes her head immediately. “Don’t apologize. I’m not saying it because you did something wrong. I’m saying it because I need to understand what my words did.”

Pou’s arm tightens protectively around your shoulders. “Then she reached for me.” Wonder enters her voice before she reins it in. She looks down at you. “I don’t think that means you forgive me. I don’t think it makes what I said smaller.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Okay.” Pou presses her cheek against your hair. “Then this is only comfort. You don’t owe it another meaning.”

The answer lets you settle more of your weight against her.

“You needed us, and we were also the reason you were afraid,” Pou says. “Both things happened because of what we said.”

“For a second, I didn’t know if either of you was safe.” You grip the shirt at Pou’s waist. “Then I needed you so badly it hurt.”

Pou’s eyes spill over. She keeps her breathing even beneath your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Please don’t make me tell you it’s okay.”

“I won’t.” Pou adjusts her hold when your shoulder begins to slide, centering you more securely against her. “It isn’t okay because I didn’t intend it. You can be in my arms and still be angry with me.”

Laura wipes her cheeks with both hands. “Do you want me to stay where I am?”

You look at her through swollen eyes.

She is perched at the foot of the mattress, neither part of the embrace nor removed from the moment. She isn’t waiting for Pou to invite her closer. She is waiting for you.

“Come up here,” you say.

Laura moves to the open side of the bed and sits level with your hips. She leaves several inches between her body and yours.

“Closer?” she asks.

“A little.”

She shifts until her knee touches the edge of the blanket covering your legs. The contact is indirect and easy to escape.

For the first time since leaving the lawyer’s office, your body recognizes the relationship you have actually lived all this time. There is no permanent center. Care moves toward whoever needs it. Tonight, that person is you, so Pou and Laura orient themselves toward you without looking to each other for instructions.

Pou rubs one slow line down your back. Laura waits with her hands visible in her lap.

“I don’t know how to want you both and be hurt by you both,” you whisper.

“You don’t have to make it orderly,” Laura says. “You can need Pou now. You can want me closer later or not at all. You decide how we stay with you.”

You study her open hands.

“Give me one.”

Laura turns her right palm upward and holds it still on the blanket.

You reach from the safety of Pou’s arms and place your hand in hers.

Laura’s fingers close only after yours do. She doesn’t pull you away from Pou. She holds the hand you offered and nothing more.

The shape that forms is both new and familiar. Your cheek rests over Pou’s heartbeat. Pou’s arm supports your shoulders. Your hand lies inside Laura’s. Neither of them is touching the other. Every point of connection begins with you.

The realization hurts. It also quiets something frantic inside your chest.

Laura takes one slow breath. “Do you want us to talk, or do you want quiet?”

“Talk.” Your answer comes immediately. Silence feels too much like the closed hospital door. “Just don’t talk about the law.”

Laura nods. She begins with the room.

She tells you the lamp is on. The curtains are closed. Arlo is asleep across the doorway with one paw twitching against the rug. The green folder is on the dresser exactly where you left it. Tomorrow is still tomorrow. No forms have been signed. No hospital has been chosen. No one has made a decision while you slept.

Pou follows when Laura’s voice begins to shake. She tells you about the soup cooling on the nightstand because Laura forgot to carry the bowl back to the kitchen. She tells you the resistance band is still looped around the chair, and Arlo tried to steal it once before bed. She tells you her knee hurts, that she is frightened, and that she loves you. She tells you none of those truths removes any of the others.

Their voices move around you while their bodies stay where you placed them.

Your breathing begins to slow.

Pou shifts beneath you when pain catches in her knee. You begin to pull away immediately.

“No,” she says through a careful breath. Her arm stays loose enough that you can leave. “You didn’t hurt me. My knee needs a different pillow.”

Laura looks to you before moving. “Can I fix it while you stay there?”

You nod.

She circles the foot of the bed and adjusts the pillow beneath Pou’s ankle without disturbing your position against her side. When she returns, she offers her hand again rather than assuming the connection remains available.

You take it.

Pou’s surprise hasn’t disappeared. You feel it each time you settle closer, and her breath catches. She teaches herself not to react as if your need is a gift she has earned. She simply makes room for more of your weight.

“Can you stay awake until I fall asleep again?” you ask.

“Yes,” Laura says. Her thumb brushes yours only after you tighten your fingers around hers.

“As long as you need,” Pou adds. She draws the blanket higher around your back. “Do you still want me holding you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m holding you.”

Laura recalls the ridiculous paw print she drew on the lawyer’s information sheet. Pou insists Arlo would demand independent counsel and payment in cheese. The attempt at humor hurts, then helps. A broken laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.

Both of them smile. Neither treats the sound like forgiveness.

When your eyes begin to close, fear pulls them open again.

“Still here,” Pou says each time, her heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

“Still here,” Laura echoes, her hand warm around yours.

Eventually, you fall asleep in the center of the bed.

Pou remains awake long enough to feel your grip loosen from her shirt. Laura quietly cries without releasing the hand you chose to give her. Neither of them speaks across you or turns your need into a conversation about their guilt.

The words said during the day had not been intended to harm you. In the middle of the night, neither of them can pretend intention protected you from their effect.

There is hurt that hasn’t been solved.

There are still three people in the bed.

For tonight, reconciliation looks like Pou holding you because you asked her to, Laura staying close because you invited her, and both of them allowing your needs to define the shape of the relationship until morning.

The compromise begins with a hospital you already know exists.

That makes you feel worse before it makes anything better.

Two days after the argument, you sit in your home office between sessions and stare at the website for Hôpital Montfort in Ottawa. You know Ontario’s parentage framework. You know Montfort is a Francophone academic hospital with a family birthing center. Ottawa is close enough for Pou’s family to drive and far enough that nobody can pretend the arrangement is effortless.

You also know you didn’t mention it at the lawyer’s office.

You had assumed Pou would reject anything outside Montreal. She had assumed every Ontario hospital would make her reach for English while afraid. Each of you protected yourself by deciding what the other would say before she could say it.

Laura appears in the doorway with lunch and two coffees. Her gaze moves from your face to the monitor. “Montfort.”

“You knew about it?”

“I found it last night.” She pulls the second chair closer. “I didn’t want to bring Pou an answer without you.”

You close your eyes briefly. “That’s growth.”

“It was excruciating.” Laura hands you a sandwich. “I had to keep a useful thought inside my head for almost twelve hours.”

Your smile fades quickly. “I knew before the meeting. I didn’t raise it because I thought Pou would prove my legal place was negotiable by saying no.”

Laura’s hand settles over yours. “Fear makes all of us efficient. We skip asking and start preparing for rejection.”

Together, you read about French-language prenatal sessions, obstetric services, birthing rooms, and neonatal support. The questions you write belong to all three of you. Can Pou remain with her Montreal team through most of the pregnancy? Can she know the Ottawa team before labor? What happens if the baby comes early? Will the chart identify three intended parents? Can her mother stay nearby without reorganizing every cabinet in the rental?

Laura adds the last question.

“She labels things,” Laura says gravely.

“Useful things.”

“Everything.”

You turn back to the screen. “I need Pou to know I understand why French matters. I don’t want this to sound like I found a solution and now she has to be grateful.”

“Then don’t present a solution.” Laura taps the handwritten questions. “Present a place to start.”

That evening, you find Pou in the small home gym with a towel around her neck and frustration bright in her eyes. She has finished her approved exercises. You can tell because the foam roller is abandoned beneath the bench and her rehabilitation notebook lies open to a page covered in angry checkmarks.

You sit on the floor a few feet away.

“I need to apologize,” you say.

Pou reaches for her water bottle. “That sounds ominous.”

“I knew there was a French hospital in Ottawa.”

She stops with the bottle halfway to her mouth.

“I didn’t know whether it could work for us,” you continue. “I didn’t bring it up because I assumed you’d reject it. I was so prepared to defend my parentage that I decided your answer before you gave one.”

Pou lowers the bottle. Her face doesn’t give you immediate forgiveness.

“Why did you think I’d reject it?”

“Because it isn’t Montreal. Because your parents aren’t fifteen minutes away. Because the doctors who reconstructed your knee and have followed your career wouldn’t be in the building. Because I know you’ve spent years being expected to function in English under pressure, and I thought even a French hospital in Ontario might feel like a compromise you shouldn’t have to make.”

She leans back against the weight bench. “It might.”

“I know.” You keep your hands loose in your lap. “I should’ve let you tell me that.”

Pou watches you for a long moment. Then she pats the floor beside her.

You move closer. She’s warm from exercise when you settle against her side.

“I’m still angry you didn’t say it,” she admits.

“That’s fair.”

“I’m also relieved it exists.” Her head rests against yours. “That’s annoying.”

“Deeply.”

Pou takes your hand and places it over the scar at her knee. The skin is still sensitive, so you don’t move your fingers. You let your palm rest there, feeling the heat of healing beneath it.

“When I got hurt at the Olympics, I knew what people were asking me,” she says quietly. “I knew the English words. But pain made everything far away. I kept translating in my head before I answered, and every second felt like someone else was deciding what happened to my body.”

You look up at her.

“At the hospital here, they spoke French. I didn’t have to be Marie-Philip Poulin answering correctly. I could just be hurt.” Her mouth tightens. “I need that if I’m giving birth. Je veux pas avoir à traduire quand j’ai peur.”

You don’t need fluency to understand. She doesn’t want to translate when she’s afraid.

“You won’t,” you say. “That has to be part of the plan, or it isn’t our plan.”

Pou’s shoulders drop.

“And I need my name on the birth record,” you continue. “A promise that I’m the baby’s mother inside this house won’t protect me outside it. I’ve watched families lose hours in emergency rooms because a form couldn’t imagine them. I’ve watched a teenager’s safe parent get called a family friend because the legal documents weren’t strong enough. I can’t walk knowingly into that with our child.”

“You won’t,” Pou says. “That has to be part of the plan too.”

You sit with both truths between you.

After a moment, Pou bends and presses her lips to your temple. “Show me the hospital.”

Laura joins you on the gym floor with her laptop. The three of you watch a virtual tour in French. Pou pauses the video every few minutes to translate details you missed. Laura writes down phone numbers. You add the hospital to the list for the lawyer and circle it twice.

Three weeks later, you drive to Ottawa.

Pou is quiet for most of the trip. Her knee stiffens in the passenger seat, so you stop halfway and walk slow circles through a service plaza while Laura buys coffee. Pou’s fingers remain linked with yours the entire time.

At Montfort, the obstetric nurse greets all three of you in French, switches to English when you ask, then returns to French whenever she addresses Pou directly. She doesn’t make the transition feel like an inconvenience. She asks each of you what you want to be called. When you explain the planned pre-conception agreement, she adds a note to the sample chart so the care team will see three intended parents.

Pou asks questions for nearly an hour.

What happens if she needs an emergency cesarean? Can both partners stay? How does the team accommodate a reconstructed knee during labor? Can she bring records from Montreal? Can her rehabilitation team coordinate with obstetrics? Can she speak only French when she no longer has room for English?

The nurse answers in French first.

You watch Pou’s face change as she listens. The tension around her mouth eases. Her shoulders lower. She’s still calculating risks, because Pou will calculate risks while choosing dessert, but she’s no longer defending herself from the room.

On the drive home, Laura twists in the back seat to look between you.

“Well?” she asks.

Pou keeps her eyes on the highway. “We need a place to stay near Ottawa at the end of the pregnancy.”

Your breath catches. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a conditional yes.”

Laura reaches between the seats and pokes her shoulder. “You’re having our baby. You can say a full yes with feelings.”

Pou catches Laura’s fingers and kisses them without taking her eyes off the road. “Yes.”

Then she reaches across the console for you.

You take her hand.

“All three names,” she says.

“All three,” you answer.

The decision becomes real when Pou tells her parents.

She makes the call from the couch that evening with the phone propped against the green folder. Laura sits at one end with Pou’s feet in her lap, working two fingers carefully around the stiffness above her ankle. You sit at the other end, your thigh pressed along Pou’s hip.

Pou begins in French. You understand the shape of the explanation more than every word. Ottawa. The hospital. The lawyer. Three parents. The baby. Her mother’s face changes at the mention of thirty-seven weeks.

Her father asks a question from somewhere offscreen. Pou answers, then rubs her thumb repeatedly over the seam of her sweatpants.

Laura looks at you. Neither of you interrupts.

When Pou’s mother speaks again, her voice is soft enough that Pou leans closer to the phone. Pou’s eyes fill.

“What did she say?” you ask after the silence stretches.

Pou wipes one cheek. “She said she wishes the law didn’t make me leave home to bring our baby into the world.”

Your chest tightens. “I’m sorry.”

Pou’s mother says your name through the speaker. You look at the screen.

She switches to careful English. “Not your fault.” Her expression is serious, almost stern with the effort of making sure you understand. “You are maman too. We come to Ottawa.”

The sentence breaks something open in you.

“Thank you,” you manage.

She waves the gratitude away and returns to French, already asking about dates, nearby hotels, what food Pou will want, and whether the rental kitchen has enough freezer space. Laura begins answering with the confidence of someone who has been absorbed into this family long enough to know resistance is pointless.

Pou turns her head toward you while her parents and Laura debate logistics. “You okay?”

You nod, then shake your head because the first answer is too simple. “I was afraid they’d think I was taking you away.”

“You didn’t.”

“The law did.”

“The law made the route harder.” Pou takes your hand and places it against her chest. “We chose the route together.”

Her heartbeat is steady beneath your palm.

Laura ends the call twenty minutes later with a list of food Pou’s mother plans to bring and a promise that nobody will reorganize the rental kitchen without consent.

“She didn’t agree to that last part,” Laura warns.

“She never does,” Pou says.

You lean across Pou to kiss Laura. Pou makes an offended sound at being used as furniture, then catches the back of your neck and keeps you close enough to kiss her next.

For a few breathless seconds, the coming months feel less like a chain of accommodations and more like something all three of you are allowed to want.

The pre-conception agreement takes longer than the word pre-conception suggests anything should.

Each of you has independent legal advice. Each of you signs declarations confirming that you understand the agreement and intend to parent together. The document addresses decision-making, financial responsibility, guardianship, separation, death, travel, education, medical care, and the fact that a child’s best interests can’t be reduced to whatever three adults wrote before they existed.

You appreciate that last part.

You also hate reading a paragraph about what might happen if your relationship ends.

“It doesn’t predict anything,” your lawyer reminds you. “It gives the child stability if the adults are in pain.”

You’ve said similar things to clients about parenting plans. Hearing it from the other side of the desk makes you want to throw your professional credentials into the nearest drawer.

At home, Laura finds you reading the separation section for the fifth time.

She takes the pages from your hands and sets them on the nightstand. “Come here.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s useful information for the next person who enters the room.” She opens her arms. “Come here.”

You move into them.

Laura leans back against the headboard and draws you between her legs. Her chin rests on your shoulder. For a while, she says nothing. She only breathes with you, one hand moving slowly over your sternum.

“The marriage already has rules for what happens if Pou and I separate,” she says eventually. “Signing papers didn’t make me expect our marriage to fail.”

“Your marriage also gives you rights before anyone signs extra papers.”

“I know.” Her hand stills. “And I can’t undo the fact that you had to build your security with more effort than we did.”

You turn your head toward her. “Sometimes I want you to say it isn’t fair without trying to make it hurt less.”

“It isn’t fair.” Laura’s mouth brushes your hair. “It isn’t fair that Pou and I got married with you beside us and the ceremony could name only one of the three relationships we were carrying home. It isn’t fair that photographs taught the public to see a married couple and someone close to them when you were already part of every promise we carried home. It isn’t fair that the law sees one relationship at a glance and asks the other two for supporting documents. It isn’t fair that you have to know more policy than either of us just to protect the same love.”

Your eyes burn.

She tightens her arms around you. “I won’t ask you to be grateful that Ontario gives us a complicated way through. I’m grateful you’re still willing to walk through it with us.”

You turn within her embrace and kiss her. Laura cups your face, holding you with a tenderness that doesn’t feel like pity or mediation. It belongs to the two of you.

When you part, you rest your forehead against hers. “I’m terrified that the baby will make the marriage look more real to everyone watching us.”

“Because they’ll see Pou carrying and my ring before they see you.”

“Because people believe whatever structure they recognize first.”

Laura’s eyes don’t leave yours. “Then we’ll correct them as many times as it takes. A child won’t make Pou my family and you our help. You’re my partner. You’re Pou’s partner. You’re this baby’s mother. Nothing about biology, marriage, or public convenience gets to reorganize those sentences.”

You close your eyes.

“And,” Laura adds, “if I ever make you feel like the help, you’re allowed to assign me diaper duty until university.”

You laugh wetly. “That isn’t an enforceable clause.”

“We can add it.”

The three of you sign the final agreement in November.

Pou wears a dark sweater and brings the good pen she uses for contracts. Laura brings pastries. You bring two forms of identification, three backup copies of the appointment email, and the original green folder.

At the signature table, Pou signs first because she’s the intended birth parent. Laura signs next because she’s Pou’s spouse and an intended parent in her own right. Your name waits on the third line.

For one terrible second, you can’t move.

The blank line is too small for the life you’ve built together, too ordinary for the difference it will make. Your hand begins to shake.

Pou notices. She puts down her pen and presses two fingers against your wrist.

“Look at me,” she says.

You do.

“What are you thinking?”

“That paper shouldn’t matter this much.”

“It matters because the world makes it matter.” Her thumb moves over your pulse. “It doesn’t create your place. It protects it.”

Laura stands on your other side. She doesn’t reach across you to Pou. She puts her hand flat between your shoulder blades, warm and steady.

“You lead,” she says.

You sign.

Your name sits beside theirs.

The lawyer witnesses the signatures. Copies are made. Dates are checked twice because the agreement has to exist before conception, and you’ve built too many hopes into it to let a clerical mistake become a crack.

Outside the office, cold air catches in your lungs. Pou draws you against her left side, careful of the knee that still aches in the damp. Laura wraps both arms around you from behind.

For several seconds, you stand together on the sidewalk while people move around you.

Nobody knows what you’ve just done.

That privacy feels chosen.

“Three moms,” Laura whispers near your ear.

Pou kisses your forehead. “Before there’s even a baby.”

You laugh, and the sound turns into a sob halfway out.

Neither of them tries to make it stop.

The fertility clinic teaches you that hope can be scheduled at seven fifteen in the morning and still run forty minutes late.

There are tests, consent forms, counseling sessions, medication reviews, and a long conversation about Pou’s reconstructed knee. Her surgeon clears her to proceed once her strength stabilizes and she’s finished the medications that conflict with treatment. Her physical therapist rewrites the next stage of rehabilitation with pregnancy in mind. The team doctor makes it clear that carrying a baby during ACL recovery won’t be treated as a clever use of an injured season.

“You’re allowed to want both things,” the doctor tells her. “You’re also going to have to accept that neither recovery will happen on a competitive timetable.”

Pou stares at the floor.

You lace your fingers through hers. “She heard you.”

“I heard her.”

Laura, seated on Pou’s other side, smiles at the doctor. “Hearing and accepting are different stages of her process.”

Pou glares at both of you. “I regret bringing witnesses.”

The first insemination doesn’t work.

Pou handles the negative test with unnerving calm. She throws it away, showers, completes her morning rehabilitation exercises, and asks whether either of you wants eggs.

You wait until she burns the first piece of toast.

“Come sit down,” you say.

“I’m making breakfast.”

“You’re attacking bread.”

“It knows what it did,” Laura says from the doorway.

Pou’s shoulders shake once. It might be a laugh. Then she sets the spatula down and covers her face.

Laura reaches her first. You turn off the stove and move in behind Pou, slipping your arms around her waist. Laura holds her from the front. Pou stays rigid between you for several seconds before the first sob breaks through.

“I knew it might not work,” she says against Laura’s shoulder.

“Knowing doesn’t make it nothing,” you murmur. Your cheek rests against her back. “You get to be sad.”

“I hate being bad at this.”

Laura’s hand moves through her hair. “There’s no score.”

“There’s a very clear result.”

“That isn’t a score,” you say. “And your body didn’t fail us.”

Pou’s hands close in Laura’s shirt. “I wanted to give you good news.”

Laura leans back enough to look at her. “You don’t give us a baby like a trophy.”

“We’re making a family together,” you add. “That includes the mornings when the test is negative, and the toast is a casualty.”

Pou lets out a wet laugh. The rigidity leaves her by degrees. She turns within the circle until she can see you, then pulls you into the front of her body while Laura keeps one arm around you both.

The grief doesn’t stay in the kitchen.

For the next three days, it follows Pou through rehabilitation. She counts repetitions under her breath and loses her place. She closes the fertility clinic’s patient portal whenever either of you enters the room. At night, she reaches for you and Laura in her sleep, then wakes embarrassed to find herself holding both.

You try not to turn the loss into a therapeutic process.

You fail on the third evening.

Pou is sitting on the bedroom floor with her back against the bed, stretching her hamstring. Laura is outside walking Arlo. You fold clean laundry nearby, giving Pou company without watching the exercise.

“Have you thought about what you need before we try again?” you ask.

Pou’s hands stop on the resistance strap. “I need the next cycle to start.”

“Emotionally.”

“I know what you meant.” She eases out of the stretch and stares at her extended leg. “I don’t want to have a session about it.”

“I’m not trying to give you a session.”

“You asked a therapist question in the therapist voice.”

The accusation pricks because it’s accurate. You put down the shirt you’re folding. “I’m worried about you.”

“Then be worried.” Pou’s voice sharpens. “Don’t make me explain my sadness correctly so it’s easier for you to hold.”

You go still.

Regret crosses her face almost immediately, but she doesn’t take the words back.

“That isn’t what I was doing,” you say.

“Maybe not.” She winds the strap around her hand. “It’s what it felt like.”

Pain rises hot behind your ribs. “I’m sad too, Pou.”

Her eyes lift to yours.

“I watched you fall apart and decided my job was to know how to help.” Your fingers close around the edge of the laundry basket. “I haven’t said that I looked at the empty result and felt stupid for already imagining who the baby might be.”

Pou’s grip loosens on the strap.

“I imagined carrying them upstairs when they were asleep,” you continue. “I imagined you teaching them to skate and Laura pretending she wasn’t crying. I know one negative test didn’t take a real child away from us. It still took the version I’d already started loving.”

Pou’s eyes fill. “Come here.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get to fix it because I finally admitted it.”

“I’m not fixing it.” She places the strap beside her. “I’m asking if you’ll be sad next to me.”

You lower yourself to the floor. Pou opens one arm, and you settle against her left side, mindful of the recovering knee. Her cheek rests on your hair.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I made the grief mine because it happened in my body.”

“It happened to all of us differently.”

“That sounds like a therapist sentence.”

“It’s still true.”

Pou kisses your forehead. “I don’t need the next cycle tonight.”

“What do you need?”

She thinks before answering. “You. Laura. Takeout. A movie where nobody gets pregnant.”

Laura returns to find you both on the floor, the clean laundry abandoned and Arlo’s leash still in her hand. She takes in your faces, drops the leash, and sits without asking for an explanation.

Pou reaches for her. “We’re being sad badly.”

Laura folds herself around both of you. “Good. I hate organized sadness.”

You order food and reject four movies before finding one with no babies, weddings, surprise test results, or inspirational athletes. Pou keeps your feet in her lap. Laura lies with her head against your stomach. Halfway through, the three of you laugh at something that isn’t very funny and don’t feel guilty for it.

The second insemination happens a month later.

Two weeks after that, you wake at five thirteen to an empty space in the bed.

Laura is awake too. She lifts her head from the pillow as you sit up.

“Bathroom,” she whispers.

Light spills beneath the door.

Neither of you moves at first. Pou asked to take the test alone. She said she wanted thirty seconds in which the answer belonged only to her body before it became a family event.

You respected that when the request was theoretical.

In practice, waiting feels like holding your breath underwater.

The bathroom door opens.

Pou stands in the doorway wearing sleep shorts and one of your old university shirts. Her hair is tangled. Her face is blank enough to frighten you.

Laura sits up. “Pou?”

Pou crosses the room without speaking. She holds the test out between you.

Two lines.

Your mind, which has spent months absorbing legislation, medical protocols, and statistical ranges, becomes completely empty.

Laura makes a sound beside you. Pou’s hand begins to shake.

“Is that positive?” Laura asks.

You look at her. “You know it is.”

“I need someone else to say it.”

“It’s positive.” Your voice breaks over the second word. “She’s pregnant.”

“I’m pregnant,” Pou repeats.

The three of you stare at one another.

Then Laura launches herself out of bed. Pou catches her with a startled laugh, and you wrap around both of them a second later. Laura is crying into Pou’s shoulder. Pou is crying into your hair. You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt.

Arlo wakes beneath the window and begins barking because a celebration has occurred without proper authorization.

“Shh,” Laura tells him through tears. “It’s five in the morning.”

He barks again.

Pou holds the test away from all of you before it gets crushed. “We’re having a baby.”

You touch the hand holding it, then Pou’s wrist, then the warm skin just below the hem of her shirt. There’s nothing to feel yet. No movement. No curve. Only the body you know and the knowledge that something has changed inside it.

Pou covers your hand with hers.

“Our baby,” she says.

You meet her eyes.

This time, there’s no hesitation in you when you answer.

“Our baby.”

Tag List

ʚ♡ɞ Larissa has gone through a lot of dry spells in life. She spent a long stretch of adult life alone when first returning to Nevermore and becoming Principal. She was constantly busy and never had time for anyone else in her bed, much less herself. So anything regarding sex was put on the back burner. It became hard when she thought about it, but after soaking herself in heaps of work, it wasn’t so bad returning to a cold bed.

ʚ♡ɞ Then… you. And Alcina, of course. But first you. You, who started at Nevermore as a faculty member. You were a hit with everyone - especially the Principal. She thought you were funny and intriguing, and often found herself gravitating toward you at important events and staff meetings. Her eyes would always seek you out, and her heart began to pound whenever she thought about you walking into the room. It was hard to come to terms with this ‘crush’ - she hasn’t had a very good track record when it comes to romantic relationships, one night stands, or interests. You, however, melted around Larissa. You became best friends in no time. The dynamic duo of Nevermore. Wherever she was, you were usually close behind if you weren’t busy with classes or lesson planning.

ʚ♡ɞ And soon enough! You kissed. One warm night in her office, with you leaning against the couch, your bare feet in her lap. There was a glass of wine beside her kicked off heels and a glass of easy champagne in your hand. You were never a heavy drinker - and you always wanted to keep your wits around Larissa. But she was so… spectacular. She made you laugh until you cried, snarking about this person or another, and her hand was so warm on your calf. Those polished fingernails of hers drew random shapes along your skin, and you couldn’t help but fall into a state of utter happiness. Pure joy. You were so content you could’ve fallen asleep. But then the night was ending and she was shifting to get up and you leaned forward to sit up and your faces were suddenly so close and neither of you could pass up the moment. Not at all. Two seconds later, you were sharing a slow hesitant kiss. It was a soft press, and then a breath, and then another soft press. It was easy to fall into it, but she slipped a hand onto your shoulder and gently pulled away. A small talk ensued about your jobs - and you said you were already looking for a place in Jericho. Working at Nevermore was lovely, but you needed a bit more independence. She said to let her know when you were ready to go and kissed your cheek chastely before letting you go, blushing madly as you went.

ʚ♡ɞ So you began dating. It was beautiful. Slow and steady and not at all boring. Larissa herself was so fascinating that even a night in together, with no other plans, was a good enough date for you. There were picnics, restaurants, nights at her office, walks around Jericho in the light rain, even a vacation to Paris once over the summer.

ʚ♡ɞ It was amazing! Perfection.

ʚ♡ɞ Until you walked into a bar one evening, took a seat at a booth, and heard a deep rich voice break the comfortable conversation. It was angry and loud. Distinctly feminine but also a bit scary. You instantly made eye contact with Larissa, who looked rather (appropriately) startled.

ʚ♡ɞ “I don’t understand how you ever passed Kindergarten! Did you lose your ability to read in the huge clown pockets of your ridiculous suit pants? It clearly says ‘served chilled.’” And hard hitting heels spiked against the wooden floor. “No wonder this hole has such a poor rating! You can’t understand a wine label! Thank god I’m opening a business here. You’ll be out within the month. I suggest you start packing. Goodbye!”

ʚ♡ɞ And from around the corner came a woman even taller than Larissa. You saw her first and your eyes flew so wide, your lover had to turn right around in her spot and go “What’s wrong??” before the words died instantly on her lips.

ʚ♡ɞ There was a raven-haired beauty, sleek and curvy, that came stalking around from the back office. Her lips? Deep red. Her eyes? Hidden behind sunglasses. She didn’t seem to care if it was nighttime. Her attitude radiated arrogance and strength. She was obviously pissed, and obviously pre-occupied, but something stopped her. You and Larissa, probably. But you didn’t understand how she saw you - she was looking away! Apparently that didn’t matter, as a second later she stopped - and her head whipped around to face you two.

ʚ♡ɞ Instantly, you sank back into the booth. Larissa looked at you with wide eyes. You looked at her with wide eyes. It would have been comical if you weren’t so nervous. She definitely saw you. And she looked expensive. Opening a business? Out within the month? Who the fuck is she?

“Excuse me.”

And like one person, you and Larissa turned to look up. She was, somehow, taller than your lover. Larissa stood at a beautiful 6’3”, but the stranger stood at… 6’9” probably. She looked nearly inhuman. Pale, striking, and her nails were so… sharp.

“I couldn’t help but notice you’re the only ones occupying this… establishment,” she spoke so properly, drawing out some of her vowels with a drawl. You swallowed. Larissa stared. “I must be honest, ladies. It’s really not worth your time. Why don’t I show you a better spot? I have a feeling you’ll enjoy it.”

You shared a confused, worried glance with your lover. The woman’s smile was sharp.

“I um- Larissa? Thoughts?”

Your lover blinked and quickly gave you a polite smile.

“I think it would be rude if we passed it up… what do you think, love?”

“Uh-”

“How about this,” the woman interrupted and placed her palms on the table, and her sunglasses slid down the bridge of her nose. Suddenly, you were both pierced straight through by sharp golden eyes. Definitely not human. You and Larissa shared a look. “To apologize for my… earlier outburst… I’ll treat you both to a brilliant dinner. I insist.”

ʚ♡ɞ And so you went out together. She said she’d send you back to pick up your car later and then you all packed into the back of a limo. Clearly, she had money. You clasped Larissa’s hand. And then the woman went soft with charm. She took off her glasses, shook your hands, and introduced herself as Alcina Dimitrescu. Instantly, you knew the name. Dimitrescu Winery. The vineyard. And this was the Queen Bee herself.

ʚ♡ɞ It was riveting eating with Alcina. She got the best service, the best food, and the rich restaurant you went to some miles outside of Jericho seemed to welcome her with open arms. You talked about your job, Alcina mentioned her new business opening in Jericho, and Larissa kept herself quiet about her job. She was always weary. Thank goodness that changed as soon as Alcina gave her a once over and engaged her in the most intriguing conversation. She wanted her to be comfortable. Larissa squeezed your hand under the table when Alcina asked about her job, and you squeezed it back. When Larissa finally spoke about Nevermore, Alcina lit up.

“It seems like a marvelous place. I know I would have loved going there when I was young.”

ʚ♡ɞ You talked politics, dinner, jobs, men, and women. Alcina could obviously tell you were involved - and you were so used to people mentioning it somehow that it was weird how she didn’t comment on it. Until she mentioned an ex-wife, and you squeezed Larissa so hard she had to stop herself from bursting out laughing.

ʚ♡ɞ Alcina made you both blush. She was so engaging, so haughty, and clearly flawed. But you and Larissa looked at her with sparkling eyes. It was a marvelous evening. You exchanged numbers.

ʚ♡ɞ And then there was another meet up. And another. And soon enough, you were three best friends. Three best friends with a shit ton of tension. By the time you and Larissa spoke about your mutual interest, you knew a lot about Alcina. You trusted her with everything. On one of her less busy days, she brought Larissa lunch because she forgot hers. And one evening when you were working late, she showed up with a cup of hot chocolate and coaxed you into going home. She was very sweet on you both.

ʚ♡ɞ Eventually, you had the talk. It was in Larissa’s quarters. Alcina had invited you over to her very luxurious apartment many times, but on that evening, you were lounging in Larissa’s living room. Heels all kicked off, Alcina’s wine on the table, and you came up with the half tipsy idea to play spin the bottle. It was silly, made them laugh, but you put the emptied bottle on its side and spun and soon enough you were kissing Larissa. It was a gentle, slow kiss. Then she spun and oh… oh. Of course. You’d both have to kiss Alcina at some point. And something in her eyes glinted with sadistic pleasure. Larissa was a little nervous, but she threw caution to the wind and kissed Alcina soundly on the lips. You were buzzing with anticipation and nervousness—which quickly slipped into desire when Alcina let out a filthy groan and kissed Larissa back. She was quickly overpowering, shuffling closer, but your lover pulled back with a raspy gasp - And Alcina leaned over the table, took the bottle, and pointed it toward you. No spin necessary apparently as she moved across like a lioness, grasped your chin in one hand, and pulled you into a deep kiss. Again, she groaned. Larissa was blushing all the way to her toes. You were nearly fitful with pleasure. And when she sat back, satisfied with her smudged lipstick, looking bizarrely outrageously handsome, you and Larissa shared a look. But Alcina spoke first.

“Forgive my… overzealous nature. I’m sure it’s no surprise. I have just been… eager.”

“For how long?” You asked her.

The smile she gave you was sheepish.

“Since the first time we shared dinner together…”

ʚ♡ɞ And of course that led to your amazing power throuple.

ʚ♡ɞ It’s the best relationship you’ve ever been in. They’re mature women, but also incredibly childish at times. Alcina especially. Larissa has a better handle of her emotions and yours. She just knows how to be a good partner - probably because she’s spent a lot of time alone, wondering about all the ways she’d treat her lover.

Alcina, however… well she has her moments.

They’re usually in the bedroom.

ʚ♡ɞ Her nature is incredibly domineering and on one of your official dates together, she explained herself.

“I don’t think either of you will be surprised, but honesty is of course the best policy,” she cleared her throat. “So I should probably tell you both that I’m a dragon.”

Her bluntness had you laughing, but she was not joking around. Larissa could only gape.

“A dragon? That’s your gene pool?”

“Indeed, draga.”

ʚ♡ɞ So it did actually explain a lot. Her possessiveness, her strength—she doesn’t know how to be any way else. And her lust for blood, too… it’s something you try not to talk about in depth. She tells you her practices are safe and consensual, and she’s not interested in fucking anyone who isn’t you or Larissa. The crassness has Larissa blushing, but it’s endearing. And you both trust her.

HOWEVER.

The Bedroom is a different story.

ʚ♡ɞ There, the differences in your personalities stand out a lot.

ʚ♡ɞ There, you are the small quivering submissive doll that Alcina loves to play with and the sweet little darling that Larissa loves to tease. It’s rather unfair, but when you get both of their hands on you, you can’t complain.

ʚ♡ɞ BDSM is a big part of your relationship, as I’ve mentioned in the past. It’s something that means a lot to all three of you, and the intricacies are something you learn with passion; so titles (for example) is a thing you indulge in often.

ʚ♡ɞ Alcina is Mommy. It’s just how it is. And Larissa is Miss. Or Mommy. Or Mistress. It really depends on how far gone you are. If you’re deep in sub-space and shy, she’s Mommy. If you’re feeling a bit brat-ish and frustrated, it’s Mistress. Alcina’s title also changes sometimes, but it’s usually Mommy. Something about it gives her a power trip - which she lives on of course. And it’s… whew. It’s WHEW.

୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧୨˚୧

I’ll probably do an NSFW Alphabet for both characters. What do you all think? Let me know ;)) Thank you for the support! - Rip x

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“Did it piss you off?” Yelena walked in behind you and you didn’t even break your stride, hitting blow after blow “Nope, just imagining what I want to on the bag” she chuckled low, walking wide around you “Would that happen to be your own face?” 

You hesitated just enough the bag nearly knocked you on your ass on the back swing. “What?” she shrugged “You’ve barely been out of your quarters in days. You don’t come for meals. You won’t even talk to Ava and John” you shrugged, rotating your neck in a tight circle then turned back to the bag “They don’t need me. As for everything else, I’ll be fine before the next mission”

Your fists started to hit the bag again, a pace slowly building. You felt better just saying the words out loud because they were true. John and Ava didn’t need you. They had each other. They loved each other, you were just… you weren’t sure what the hell you were but the fact remained they didn’t need you when they had each other. 

This last mission had been rough on everyone but you nearly lost a civilian because of a misstep. If you had been a fraction of a second slower that man would’ve been crushed to death. Your ribs still ached from getting him out of the way. You hadn’t let anyone know the extent of your bruising. You’d snuck to med bay to get an x-ray just to make sure you had no internal bleeding.

Ava had tried to check on you first. She caught you in the hallway outside of med bay. “Are you ok baby?” she’d tried to slip her arms around your waist but you’d known if she had you would’ve made a noise of pain. You’d side stepped her with a tense smile “I’m ok. I’m just going to head up to my quarters. I need a shower” at which she smiled “I’ll come with you. Keep you company. I can sit on the sink or something and talk to you”

You shook your head, offering her a smile and assuring her you’d be ok. Her face had fallen slightly but you’d pressed a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth before walking away.

John came to check on you a few hours later. Normally you would’ve emerged for some form of food by that time. That strong presence of his. You’d shook your head the moment you opened your door and he was on the other side of it “I’m ok” he’d stuck his foot in the door when you tried to close it. “Look me in the eyes when you say that sweetheart” 

You had to bite down on the inside of your cheek to not break under his intense gaze. “I’m fine John. I just need some rest” he’d tried to kiss you, tried to get you to come to his and Ava’s quarters to rest. You turned your head away from the kiss and told him you’d find the two of them later. That had been days ago now and looked like they were doing just fine without you.

“I don’t think that’s true. Just know we’ve all had fuck ups on missions. That doesn’t change the good you’ve done” Yelena’s voice hit your ears and you nodded “I know Lena, like I said I’ll be ok” she nodded once “Find me or Bob if you need us. Even Alexei will listen” , with that she walked out of the gym. You caught the bag, your chest heaving with exertion. 

You logically knew you needed to take a step back, catch your breath. Unfortunately the heart didn’t listen to logic. You hollered at Siri to turn your music up louder, the bluetooth speaker straining as you took a swig out of your water bottle and turned your attention back to the heavy bag in front of you.

“What did we do?” the question echoed in the darkened bedroom of John and Ava’s shared quarters. You hadn’t spoken to either of them in days. John felt it even deeper than Ava, he’d pushed one woman he loved away before. Now that he was on the other side, he could vividly pick through his memories and see so many moments Olivia was silently begging him to reach out. All the times he was too far down in that hole to even think about making his way out.

He kept thinking about you turning away from his kiss. The fact that Ava said you wouldn’t let her put her arm around you and barely kissed her. Had he unintentionally missed cues from you? He racked his brain trying to remember any moments you reached out and he didn’t pull you in. He could think of any but if he’d managed to push you away too, how long before Ava was next? 

“I don’t know” Ava hated how uncertain her voice sounded. She was laying against John, trying to ignore how the bed felt a little too big now. They’d purposely gotten a bigger one after you’d joked that it wasn’t big enough for three to sleep comfortably in. Now it was a reminder that someone they loved was hurting in some way and wasn’t letting them in. She’d never really had a chance for relationships. You’d been there to encourage her and John, her rock in every way. It hadn’t really been a surprise when they both started falling for you as a whole.

“What if she just doesn’t want this anymore? She asked softly and John kissed the top of her head “We’ll figure it out. I promise” 

You stood at the island in the kitchen, leaning next to Bob. Little bob was nibbling on some lettuce in front of the two of you. You were on your third cup of coffee that Alexei swore was strong enough to know “any russian” on their ass.

You heard John and Ava’s voices and stiffened, keeping your eyes on the guinea pig. You strained your ears and could hear their light laughter, the sound of kisses being shared in the hallway just out of sight. They sounded happy at least. 

You shifted, rubbing a hand over your side. The ribs were healed at least. You could be put on the roster for the next mission, get the hell out of the tower.

John walked in, his arm around Ava and they both froze when their eyes landed on you. John was shirtless, Ava wearing one of his shirts. The shirt slipped down on Ava just enough you could see a dark mark showing and knew it was from John’s lips. John had faint nail marks on his back. Just like you’d told Yelena, they were in love. You were…  an extra.

“Morning” you spoke first, breaking the silence if for no one else’s sake for Bob’s. “Morning baby” Ava’s voice was warm, a smile slipping onto her face like the sun peeking out of clouds. You forced your heart down back into your chest from where it had leapt into your throat.  “Morning sweetheart” John greeted, eyes holding you in place. 

Bob scooped up little bob and nodded “Lena should be out of the shower by now” he scurried away and you muttered “Coward” under your breath. Ava walked over first, eyes trailing over you. You were wearing a tank and boxers, what you normally slept in but she was looking at you like you were dressed to the nines for a gala or something. “Can I touch you again or no?” 

You smiled slightly “I’m actually about to get showered. Bucky said something about a mission coming up” her face fell “A kiss?” you looked from her to John, his face twisted with something… hesitation? Worry? You weren’t quite sure. 

You scrubbed your hand down your face “Ava, John… I um… I don’t think I need to keep up this with the two of you”  she stepped back, body bumping into John’s. “What do you mean this?” John found his voice first. You shrugged, waving a hand between them “You’re both my closest friends. I love you… I never should’ve allowed myself to fall in love with you however so I think it’s better if we go back to being friends. You two remain you two and I go back to just being me”

Ava scoffed out a laugh “Wow. You’re going to tell us you love us the first time as you’re breaking things off?” you shrugged, blinking back tears “It’s better this way. You two don’t need me. You’re head over heels for each other. I saw it first hand as you fell. You do not need another person in this. I’ll always be here, always have your backs. I just won't have anything else” 

“We don’t get a say so?” Ava asked softly and you shook your head “You two are happy together. You were before that first night I ended up in your bed, you’ll continue to be. Now, I’m gonna go shower. Get your heads on right, we have jobs to do” 

You turned to walk out, keeping your head high and shoulders squared up until the time you stepped onto the elevator to your quarters then the dam broke and a sob ripped out of you. 

You loved them both. You would die for either of them over and over but they deserved to be happy. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t be with them. You could only imagine the fallout. Olivia’s lawyers may attempt to freeze visitation, the media would rip all of you apart. Someone had to be strong enough to do what was best. You shouldered it for them. Let them be a couple without the unneeded part. Three’s a crowd right?

_____________________

“Did that just happen?” Ava asked, feeling John’s arms slip around her waist. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll get her back” he assured her but she could hear the hesitation in his voice. He didn’t believe any word as he spoke them. 

“I love her as much as I love you John” she admitted in the quiet of the kitchen but he already knew. He nodded, pressing a kiss to her pulse “I know honey. I love her as much as I love you. She’ll figure it out. Just give her time. All we can do”

When a mission rolled in, you chose to sit between Alexei and Yelena at the debrief. Bucky raised an eyebrow when he noticed you not sitting near John or Ava but continued on. “Multiple combatants with civilians in the cross hairs. Be careful, clear as you go. Watch your partner's ass and try to make it back in one damn piece” 

Considering the team it always ended up with a super soldier partnered with someone. John with Ava. Alexei and Bucky rotated between you and Yelena. Today you’d drawn Bucky as your partner. You followed him down a side street, clearing each alley as you moved. “Do I wanna know?” he asked low and you shook your head “Nope. Keep moving”

The city was nearly cleared but there was one building left that needed to be evaced. You stood just shy of it with Bucky and watched with horror as a little girl, maybe six, walked into the open calling for the cat that was sniffing at trash across the way. 

Bucky called your name, tried to grab you but you were already moving. The sound of gunfire ricocheted around you but your only goal was the little girl. You made it to her, wrapping her in your arms and flipped tucking her small form between you and a wall. You felt a burning heat in your side and warmth dripping down your body. You were hit. You swallowed hard, forcing your eyes open. 

She was wide eyed “Hey” you greeted, looking up to see Alexei had joined Bucky in the far alley and Bucky was nodding that he was going to lay cover fire for Alexei. “See that big Santa looking guy?” the little girl nodded “He’s gonna come get you” “What about you?” she sobbed and you laughed weakly “I’ll be next. You first” you tucked your body around her, hearing Bucky holler for Alexei to go before more gunfire rained down. 

_____________________

John and Ava were just finished loading a truck to the evac site when they heard Bucky scream your name over the open comm line. Both of them froze. “EVERYONE ON ME NOW!” Bucky rarely lost his cool on missions but his voice broke in the end. 

They were moving without a word. They slid around the corner to see you slumped at the far end of an alley, a puddle of blood slowly spreading under you. There was too much gunfire. Bucky was covering for Alexei to get a little girl out of the way. “She’s not moving” Ava whispered, looking at John before hitting to bring her mask down. He nodded “Go, I’ll cover you” 

Ava phased to your side, hearing John bark for Bucky and Alexei to follow him or fall back and he didn’t give a damn which. Yelena ran to her side, the med kit already being ripped open as she hit her knees next to you. Ava’s hands shook as she touched you to roll you over, please don’t take her she thought to whoever was listening. 

You let out a low grunt of pain and she nearly cried from relief.

______________________

You felt a wave of pain slam into you as you were rolled over. Fuck, everything hurt. You forced your eyes open to see those brown eyes you loved looking down at you “Ava?” you whispered and she nodded, tears falling from her eyes “Hey” you felt Yelena tugging at your suit and groaned “That hurts. Where’s the little girl?

“It hurts because you’re currently bleeding out. The little girl is fine but if I don’t pack this wound you won’t be” you loved Yelena for never sugar coating shit. Your hand skimmed down your side, coming back coated with blood “Shit, that’s not good” your head fell back but Ava slid to let it hit her leg before the concrete. 

“You’ll be fine baby” you couldn’t think of anything but the fact that you’d made her cry. “Don’t cry, please” you whispered, she shook her head “Haven’t I told you and Walker to not order me around?” you laughed weakly but that caused a yelp of pain when Yelena shoved a handful of gauzed into the decent sized hole in your side. “He’s an ass, I’m concerned” your voice slurred a bit and you saw her and Yelena share a look. 

You could hear gunfire winding down, the sound of men groaning in pain. The solid thwack of John’s shield hitting bodies. “Guess he’s mad?” you whispered and she nodded “Pissed” you smiled, darkness tugging at your mind “I love you Ava, him too. Know that” she shook her head “Don’t you dare do that” 

Your blinks were slowing, your side wasn’t hurting anymore. You felt cold. “Wish he was out here. He’s always warm” you joked, eyes half lidded. She nodded, wiping tears away “Give him maybe thirty seconds and he will be love. He’ll hold you and get you warm” you nodded slowly, the motion making your head swim “Lena?” you called lightly and she looked up, typing on her communication wristlet “Yeah babe? Trying to get us a ride home”

“I’m tired” 

___________________

“I’m tired” you whispered right before your head lulled to the side. Yelena slid up, shaking you. Ava called your name, feeling for a pulse. Yelena moved her “Move. I need room” she stumbled back, hearing John’s boots “Ava?” her eyes stayed glued to your form, too still, too bloody “Please tell me we didn’t lose her..”

“I don’t know” she whispered, watching Yelena then Bucky work on you. One held pressure on your side. The other did CPR. Alexei was stealing a truck to get you to the evac location for a jet.

John and Ava stood there, neither of them breathing. Feeling like their very lives were in the balance. “Got a pulse, it’s faint but it’s there” Bucky muttered, picking you up and nodding to them “We gotta move, NOW”

You woke up slowly, feeling solid weight on your left arm and right leg. You forced your eyes open, groaning against the harsh lights of the med bay. 

Your eyes flickered down and the weight was John’s head on your leg and Ava’s on your arm. They each sat on different sides of your bed, fast asleep but touching you like they were afraid you were going to fade away if they didn’t. “What the hell?” you muttered about the time the door opened and Yelena walked in.

She looked from John to Ava “Bout time they fell asleep. They were up for about fifteen hours straight” you raised an eyebrow and she motioned to your side “You no longer have a spleen by the way. You scared the hell out of all of us. These two especially”

You felt a small smile flicker to your lips “I never wanted to hurt them” “You nearly left them. Whatever holdbacks you had, let go of them. Oh god I’m talking in partial defense of Walker” Yelena laughed and you felt John stir first “Very nice Belova”

“Well she’s talking you both up” you laughed and his eyes flew up to your face, arm stretching across to bump Ava who jolted up, eyes landing on you and a smile slipped onto her face “You’re ok” you nodded “Apparently” 

“Barnes has your blood type. Apparently the serum helps speed up healing” Yelena explained then pointed “I’m leaving now. I’ll let everyone know you’re awake”

______________________

You watched her go, feeling John rubbing your leg soothingly and Ava tracing shapes on your arm. It was like they were trying to soothe themselves as much as you. “I’m ok you two. I promise”

“We lost your pulse” Ava whispered, eyes searching your face. You smiled slightly “But I vaguely remembered I did tell you I love you before I passed out” John grumbled “Yeah but couldn’t hang on for thirty seconds for me” you rolled your eyes “You’re ridiculous”

He smirked slightly, waving a hand between you and Ava “I’m in love with the two of you. Forgive me for not thinking straight at times” you shook your head, looking back at Ava. “I’m sorry baby for scaring you” both of their heads shot up then “Did you call me baby?” she asked and you nodded “I love you, both of you. I’ve just..”

“Just what?” John asked so you took a deep breath “I didn’t want to be a third wheel. You were happy before me. You could be happy without me” “Forgetting that we’re in love with you too?” they both spoke in unison and your heart flipped. 

“I was also worried about the media or Olivia’s lawyers…anyone using this relationship against us” John shook his head slowly “Honey. Liv knows” your eyes widened “What?” he nodded “She knows. I already told her. You and Ava love EJ. That’s all she cares about” “What about media?” you asked and Ava rolled her eyes “Fuck them”

“So, I’m really yours?” you asked and smiles slipped onto both of their faces “If you’ll have us” John spoke low, Ava adding “But you’re moving into our quarters. They’re now yours too” you looked back at John who shrugged “You already know she makes the rules” you laughed lightly, holding a hand to your side “I guess I can do that..for a price” 

“Name it” John spoke first and you grinned “A kiss each?” Ava was on her feet first “Back off Walker” John shook his head with a laugh as she caught your lips in a gentle kiss, a relieved sigh leaving you both at the contact. You bought your hand up, cursing the iv because you couldn’t tug her closer. She grinned, leaning further in, flicking her tongue into your mouth.

When you pulled away to catch your breath she pressed another quick kiss to the corner of your lips “I love you” “I love you too Ava” John stood up, clearing his throat and she shook her head, a smirk slipping onto her face “Aww he looks sad” you cut your eyes at John who then leaned down. When his lips met yours it was a little less gentle than Ava’s but just as loving, you whined lightly and he grinned against your lips. 

When he pulled away you pressed a kiss to his jaw “I love you John” “I love you too” he whispered. You looked from him to Ava “So, we’re really together?” they both rolled their eyes “I have a type. Stubborn, pretty and a little stupid” Ava laughed and John grinned “You love us” 

“Damn right I do” she laughed and just the sound alone made your heart flip “So, when I’m healed..” you trailed off and they both cut their eyes at you “We’ll make up for it” John assured you with a wink and you felt your face warm “Looking forward to it” 

Ava pressed another kiss to your lips “But for now, we’re taking care of you. Like it or not” you nodded “Ok baby” she smiled “Good girl”