ONE SHINY GUINEA

A/N: People have been-Hey guys. People have been asking me for an update on this story so I managed to come up with a completed plot. I also added a chapter. I know. Be mad. So Chapter 3 is now Chapter 4. And the new Chapter 3 is the additional chapter. And pink is the new orange. If I don't get new pink clothes everyone will hate me. The chapters make sense with story structure (although none of these chapters relate in a linear sense).
I'll also repeat the chapters are an AU of the situation which was already AU. So this chapter is AU^2. I'll explain more in the end A/N.
Also rated M so enjoy. I really mean it. Rated M. I'm not bolding it. I warned you. It's rated M. If you read it and get morally corrupted I'm not responsible for you or your like.

So Chapter 1 was pretty good, but how about this?

One Shiny Guinea

Chapter 2

Two Times

The door jams, swollen with the summer heat. He uses the palm of his hand, fearless of prospective slivers, to bash it back into frame. Remembers with the last thunderous strike, the hasty text he received in the middle of class. In the middle of a test. Room shrouded in a hush, the sounds of pens scratching away at paper. His cell devouring the silence by vibrating eight times in his back pocket. The teacher, an ancient, skeleton of a man, unscrewed his legs from where they were stacked up on the corner of the desk and dropped a single eyelid at him.

He was in drowning level deep with her, which is why his phone was in his pocket. Was supposed to be in his bag. The text from his girlfriend, the one about her headache, her going to sleep, to shut the fuck up when he came home, how under no circumstances would there be anything remotely near an encore of yesterday afternoon. He'd be lucky if he got to see her before they went to work tomorrow. Probably would have got in more shit. But then in the middle of getting reprimanded, the teacher's phone rang; generic electronic bell and the man rose onto his two angled stork legs and left the room. Didn't come back.

Half an hour later an official released him, told him to consider this a missed class and that there would be another one held at a later date. Just after the time the higher ups selected who the new leader of Team Three would be. Just nodded and left at that point, would rather curl up beside her on their day off than be in some stupid class anyways. Or at least be in the same general vicinity as her.

But Jules—Listens intently to the house. Doesn't creak or sigh from humidity covering the wood in a gummy layer. An adhesive which sticks the pads of his fingers and feet to the floors and walls. When he battered the door, there was no immediate onslaught from upstairs. If she was here, she would've pounced on him from over the banister using a spindle as a club.

Doesn't dare walk near the stairs in case she's still boarded up there. Won't until he has some peace offering. Supper? It's still a little early, but he could pop out to the store and get a few things for a barbeque, a case of be—some more aspirin. Was going to go when he paid the—

"Oh shit." It's loud, raucous as he bursts into the kitchen. Was supposed to pay the hydro bill on the way to class. Since he almost lives with Jules, without the direct acknowledgement, he pays the hydro and the cable. While Nat does the same at his apartment. He can't do it online because all the utilities are set in Jules' accounts; he has to do it from the bank.

Supposed to do it this morning before class started, but he forgot because he was cramming for the test. Was cramming for the test because he was supposed to study yesterday. The day was forgettable. A regular, unexciting day shift which ended at the predetermined 3pm. Left plenty of scorching daylight for frolicking activities to be postponed while he sat slightly fuming on the couch. Had every intention to study. Textbook on the coffee table. Notebook and pen ready to go over hastily scribbled, barely legible notes. Then she strolled down the stairs.

Glimpsed at her over the horizon of his notebook, immediately all of his slack muscles gained some rigidity. Didn't know whether it was some kind of tease, or test, or just a sick coincidence, but she might as well have fan danced down the stairs in lingerie. It would've had the same effect. "What—What are you doing?"

"Ms. Lefebvre keeps bugging me about the rhododendron bush in the backyard. Says if I don't go trim it she's going to uproot the whole thing." She clunked open the hall closet, arm parallel to the white door trim. Stretched one of her pale, toned legs up. Balanced faultlessly on a single foot while her free arm hugged her leg to her ass. Then shook out the strained muscles and repeated the exercise with the other leg. Every time she moved, the cuffs of her khaki shorts hitched higher.

"Oh." Tactics, schematics, hostages, negotiations, the history of the SRU, all went to shit. She bent forward, half disappeared into the closet. The action danced the short cuffs, dragged the tan material up on her legs.

"Where the hell are the shears?"

Lower body poked out of the closet as she rooted. Followed the lines of her legs up to flawless thighs to her ass, tight in her shorts. He licked his lips. Her hand braced the frame, knuckles blanched from exertion. Straightened, and adjusted the short-sleeved black blouse over top of her shorts hiding a certain tattoo.

"Did you hear me?"

"What?"

"Where are the shears?"

"We moved them out to the garden shed so we could put the stepladder in there." Written notes and recommended reading in his textbook looked like hieroglyphs. She swiped at her forehead with the back of her hand. Chest heaved once. Swaddled chest. Captured chest in need of rescue. He was feeling awfully heroic.

"Ugh, don't mention that stupid ladder." Stepped with quick strides between him and the coffee table. Ponytail beckoned him, a coquettish curling index finger.

With exact timing, he reached out and hooped his arms around her waist. She squealed, ill-prepared for his touch as he hauled her down into his waiting lap.

"Sam."

His lips found the side of her neck. Kissed slowly down to the hollow of her throat. Tongue flicked lightly, relished in the slight taste of her. Hands traced down the curve of her body, enticed through her light shirt. Fingers tickled under. Rested on the skin below her navel, just above the hem of her shorts.

"Sam." Was more breathless this time. Her body arched against his, neck stretched to allow him access; arm bent back so her fingers could comb through his hair. "Don't you have things to—"

"So let me do them." Face was upside down against her chest. Tongue slithered along her collarbone. Licked butterfly stitches into place. Cupped a breast through her shirt. Felt the lace material of her bra. Knew exactly which one it was. Black lace, thin straps, two clasps.

She kissed his neck. Once, twice, but then faltered. "We can do this later, you need—"

"I've missed them." Nimbly plucked down the row of buttons on her blouse. Head angled almost painfully to suck against the swell of her right breast.

"Oh my God— you saw them this morning."

Flung the sides of her shirt open. Felt her stomach flex, flush hot under his splayed fingertips. How her muscles twitched when fingers dipped inside her shorts. "That doesn't count." Sipped at her flesh, grew anything but satiated. "The two second flash of you getting dressed doesn't count. I didn't get catch up with them."

"I swear—"

Flipped her, blouse dangled and fell into a black puddle at his feet. Had this icy glare which essentially stops sex on the entire block. But his lips found the side of her neck again, felt her pulse quicken. Felt her shoulder pillow his cheek with bare, soft skin. Felt her fingernails scratch against his chest through his shirt. Felt her lips tug on his earlobe.

Mouth trickled down to where he kneaded at her covered breast. When his hands reached back to undo the clasp of her bra, her hand seized his wrist. "If that woman digs up my rhododendrons—"

"I'll buy you an entire grove."

Was a decent enough answer because the black lacy bra snapped free. Thin straps slipped down her shoulders, his lips chased their paths. Cups fell slack and empty into his hands; fingers barely weighed the ornate material before tossing her bra to the floor. Mouth tumbled from her shoulders to her collarbone. Felt her hands tug at his own shirt. Interfere by tugging on his own shirt.

Rolled her hips in his lap when he refused to shed his shirt. Supposed to remind him of the purpose, but he wanted to take it slow. Lately they'd been rushed. Sometimes rushed was good. Rushed was better than nothing, but it made him crave solidarity with her. The elongation of every single second to appreciate it.

Answered her by engulfing one of her breasts with his hand, kneaded it, fingers caressed in lazy tows as his tongue found the dip in her collarbone. Littered kisses over the opposite swell. Slowly supplied more moisture, more suction as he traveled towards the center. Ignored the steady round of her hips bobbing against his. The struggle in his jeans.

When she was on the verge of verbally challenging him, he closed his mouth over her nipple. Flicked his tongue hard and alternated with softening swirls, with cheeks nuzzles as his fingers copied his mouth's actions to their best ability. Thumb brushing with intent. Petaled skin puckered at his touch. Free arm slung around her waist, pasted her to him. Her hands burrowed in his hair, angled around his neck as the muscles in her stomach hitched with each whirl of his tongue, each rub of his thumb. Ear so close to her chest, heard the quietest of gasps. Didn't help his jean situation.

Listened to the sound of her raspy breaths, of his lips as they smacked sloppily from one breast to another. Each one nuzzled and kissed. Pampered and adored. Flesh glowed with the talent of his mouth. Noticed he left a moderate sized hickey in the center of her chest where her cleavage blossoms. Low enough it should be covered by her uniform.

Felt guilty, emotions uncontrolled and marked her slightly. Hands wilted from her breasts, slid around her back. Cradled the curve of her spine while he placed a kiss atop of the bruise he inflicted with an overzealous mouth. A mouth that hungered for a certain flavor of skin. More than just evocative peeks in morning bedroom occurrences. In the beautiful domesticity of sharing a bathroom. In the slivers of sunrises of skin in dressing for work.

She tipped his head up, caught his lips apparently unaware of the hickey or unconcerned by its birth. Would probably hear about it later. Plumpness of her lips undulated his. Tongues spiraled, roped together. Wisps of her hair tickled at his knuckles while ensconcing her head. When she tugged his shirt, he complied.

Breasts, damp from his mouth, bumped his chest as she embraced him. Bare chest to chest. Could synch up their heartbeat. Shivered when her fingers skimmed lightly over his chest, over his stomach and towards his jeans.

"You have one?" She was already undoing his zipper. Painful strain eased until her hand clasped around him. Skillful and perfect as she awaited his answer.

He was solely responsible for protection, the condoms, and since all of his spare time was spent at work or in class he hadn't had time to pick up any. She kept warning him, wouldn't doubt her walking away at any moment. But he was sure there was one left.

"Wallet." Shifted his back into the couch as she shimmied his pants and boxers to his knees. He fought them off the rest of the way with the heels of his feet. Watched her lean back to the table. The arc of her body, the expression on her face, the position of her breasts, as she retrieved his wallet. Sure enough there was an emergency condom.

She brought the corner of it to her mouth, and tore the wrapper with her teeth. The act alone was enough to keep him satisfied without the company of her hand. She spat the corner over her shoulder and discarded the rest of the wrapper with their clothes. Switched her hand to travel teasingly along him as she rolled the condom down to his base. Stroked gratuitously once, than twice.

"You're not playing fair." Groaned as her hand stroked a final time, then ghosted away from him. Milky thighs straddled his. Smoothness of her skin obscured by khaki shorts.

"Oh, so now you're impatient." Exhaled against his neck. Full lips pressed, teased just like the outfit. Squeezed the inside of her thigh, quick and playful. A warning.

She laughed almost yelped at the sensation. Lips met his once more before she planted her knees into the couch cushions. Sprouted upwards, hand slipped to her shorts to eradicate the clothing obstacle. Breasts jiggled with the movement. Stomach muscles taut. Her navel dizzied in his face and he craned his neck to smack his lips just above the line of her shorts.

She giggled once, balance pose disrupted by his talented tongue strumming against her belly button. Her hand clamped down on his shoulder. One of his hands molded to her ass, to keep her stance concrete, while the other undid her zipper. "Sam, not now."

Kept kissing as her shorts glided down her legs in the lapse of a zipper. Pooled at her knees. Mouth found the top of her thighs peeking out under the straight edge of boy shorts. Hasn't found anything softer, smoother than her skin. Doesn't want to. Anchored a finger in her panties, as he kissed above the line. Yanked down and kissed her exposed hip.

"Sam." Was gradually nuzzling lower, cheek against her thigh. Knew she was aroused. Could see it, feel it, smell it. But wanted to taste it. Dipped down when her hand predicted his next destination and materialized in the way. "I mean it. Not today."

"Okay." Abandoned the side of her panties and directed her hand away. Kissed the back of it in apology. Knows how she gets sometimes. Should've backed off before because for every second he doesn't a year of trust between them disintegrates.

But she replaced his hand on her hip. On the folded edge of her panties and rubbed at the back of his ear. Grinned at her, lopsided and tugged off the last article of clothing. Quelled the need to litter kisses all over what he considers perfection, what she still shies away from. Her hands flattened against his shoulders as she lowered herself down on him. Lips bundled, skewed to the side. Breasts traced down his chest. One hand guided himself in, the other guided her by her hip.

They paused for a moment; he dipped his forehead to rest against hers. Felt embraced completely by her. Swallowed by her. Connected on every single faction. Lips plucked at hers, first innocent, then heated. When their tongues began to mingle, her mouth offering him amnesty, her hips rocked. His thighs twitched with the first few rounds, but caught the rhythm on the third. Bucked up when she rolled down. Her breasts bounced with the beat, enticed him. On the sixth he captured a nipple in his mouth and she laughed breathlessly.

Lips sucked a trail over her chest. Hands latched to her hips to keep her steady. Kneaded in time with her rolling. Her arms linked around his neck, compressed her chest to his. Sucked his lobe into her mouth. Licked along her raised collarbone, and his own breath hitched. Rocking quickened as she grew tense. Pressured down against him with strokes of ecstasy. Thrust up into her and felt her contract around him as she gasped into his shoulder. Lips full, wet, and opened against his bare skin. Muscles vacillated, triggered his own reaction and he inadvertently pumped his hips a few more times to a beat that no longer existed.

She collapsed against him. Chest to chest. Her cheek pulled against his shoulder. Lips trembled against his skin as she grinned at him. Pale skin adopted a blush across her chest and shoulders. Her lips dyed a darker, more erotic shade of scarlet. Kissed the dappled complexion on her shoulder. Then the strained cords on the side of her neck. Then found her deliciously red lips, still tasted of honey and everything he considers home. Lapped at them with his tongue.

Pain concentrated in a sting at the back of his ear and she pulled her hand back from flicking it. "No round two, Braddock."

"Okay. Okay." But he kissed her several more times. Just snapshot kisses. Side of her neck, behind her ear, her temple, her cheek. She snatched the side of his face and kissed his cheek, rubbed it in with her thumb. Eyes hooded with satisfaction as a slanted grin crossed her face.

Hands formed to his shoulders again as she shifted her hips against him. Wanted to add that if there wasn't going to be a round two, she shouldn't wiggle around so much. Instead his hands shot to her hips. Steadied her until she was stable on her knees again.

They both noticed it at about the same time. She had the pad of one foot on the area rug. Took her first step from the couch and noticed it. Peered down at her nude body and questioned "Why— ?" Simultaneously he reached down to remove the condom and tie it off. Recognized it didn't look customary, like most of the condoms did before he tossed them. Full.

"It broke." The break only grew larger, more noticeable, more mocking as he dragged it off. There was a little inside, but more inside her.

"It—"

"It broke." Expressed again, more urgency in his voice. They'd escaped chancing it once before, a month after they rekindled their relationship. It was either chancing it or break up at a random pit stop on the way back to Toronto. He was lost and tired. Her every word was just fuel for his anger and they had the biggest fight they'd ever had, before yesterday. Chanced it in the back seat of his SUV.

Waited a half a month. Nearly three weeks of his nightly 'spontaneous' trips to the grocery store preempted by his question of if she needed anything. Tampons? A goddamn pregnancy test? She barely talked to him. But finally exited the bathroom one day when he was at her house and expressed, 'I got it.' Rejoicing was had in the streets. Alcohol was drunk. A baby after a month was—

"You have to—"

"Yeah, I'm going to go shower."

He never studied for his test. She never trimmed the rhododendron bush. He redressed and tossed the condom. Pissed in the half-bath underneath the stairs. Flushed and heard her yelp from the decapitation of cold water. Winced and yelled, "Sorry."

Cleaned up the front room and sat on the couch and waited. Just waited. Because they needed to discuss everything. Whose fault it was that the condom broke. His. But she did put it on this time. Why they didn't have more condoms. His. But she did wake up early one morning and rub against him knowing what it would lead to. Who wanted to have sex in the first place. Him. But she could've said no. He backs off whenever she says no.

But she was completely serene about it. Acted like it didn't happen and when he brought it up she explained there was nothing they could do now but wait. They would deal with what they got when it happened. Her calmness ignited him, she was the one with commitment issues, but it was suddenly acceptable to create a life when they were living two half lives together?

She asked him why he was freaking out, and he answered, "Because I don't want to have a fucking baby."

It 's both the truth and the untruth. Would love to have a baby with her. Just not right now, just like he didn't want to when they were reunited for a month. Not right now when he's trying to get a better job. When she won't even let him move in. When she won't marry him. There's an order, he's military and can't fuck with the order.

But she didn't get a chance to hear his weak excuses. Just drifted past him, face muscles limp and sunken. Eyes on the floor. Tiptoed up the stairs and slammed the bedroom door so hard a framed picture of them at the beach crashed to the floor. Spent the night cleaning up glass and trying to figure out the probabilities. Of him passing the test without studying. Of her actually becoming pregnant from a broken condom. Of their relationship surviving his outward declaration of hatred for their unborn children.

The white sheen from paper clashes brightly against the wooden kitchen table. The empty frame weighs it down. Beach photo curls in the humidity. Scrawled out in her chicken scratch is a curt note. She got called into work. She paid the hydro bill. The bitch next door dug up her flowers. Jules is going to be lethal tonight.

A door slams again. This time the front. Harder than his own absent jamming of the wood into the frame. Weather roasts his brain. A baby wouldn't be so bad, not the worst thing in the world. Maybe it would warm her up to the idea of at least letting him move in completely. But knows that won't happen. He'll love it the moment it's born. Hold it, and bond with it in ways unexplained. Then their lack of commitment will lead to their break up. She'll take it and leave. Only see it on weekends. She'll move to an entirely different city. Ferrying their goddamn baby back and forth. He grew up with his father absent all the time. She grew up with no mom. They could do better. So much better. If she wanted to.

Stomps about in the front room, no doubt a side effect from the headache because usually she's stealth as hell. Only gets to hear her when she wants to be heard. Left his sneakers by the door, she hates that. Surprised she hasn't punted them into the kitchen and at the back of his head like it's a goalpost.

"I'm sorry about your flowers." Resets the note on the table. Tries not to be jealous of himself in the picture of them at the beach. Stupid, smug bastard who had her so happy. You're going to fuck it up. She still doesn't respond to him and he starts to grow angry again. Is she really going to ignore him? For how long? Until they find out? After? It's scary, but he can imagine being in a delivery room with her, him addressing her, and her turning away from him. Shrouding him in classroom level silence.

"Jules, are you really going to—" Shuffles back into the living room like he's climbing the stairs to the gallows. But stops short of pulling the noose around his neck, because the person in their living room isn't Jules.

"Sure did a number on the room." Cop's small feet clomp over spilled layers of wreckage. The coffee table capsized, his notebook from class ripped, paged masticated, digested and spit up. TV smashed on the floor, spider web cracking through the screen, smokes slightly from the mess of wires still connecting it to the outlet. At least it's not sizzling anymore.

Sits on the couch. Her couch in her living room though they both live here. He destroyed her living room while beating the shit out of the guy in it. Various explanations for his behavior. Constructs itself in a set of ever steeper concrete steps. "There was a guy in my living room, what would you do?"

That's a small portion of it. Anger was a larger portion of it. Almost all of it in fact. Anger about what had happened yesterday between him and Jules on this exact couch, ironically the only thing spared in his torrential violence. So angry and if he was at the SRU and she was ignoring him with four more guys latching on to kick him while he was down, he would've been hitting the shit out of a punching bag. Well, he didn't have a punching bag; he had a druggie in his front room.

"Poor sap picks a random house to break into and it belongs to a cop." The burly officer tries to shake his head with a deep chortle, but his neck is nonexistent, so it transfers into spinal twists. Pauses with his hands on his hips, imitates a tea kettle as he investigates the wall of pictures. Pictures of him and Jules. One square lighter in color. One picture missing.

Lets out a low whistle to finish his charade and turns away from the wall. Tips the brim of his hat up so his tiny, side set eyes are fully visible. "If I had something like that to protect, I would've whooped this guy's ass too."

"She doesn't need protecting." But that's exactly it. The main reason he beat the guy within an inch of consciousness. What if he was still in class? What if Jules didn't get called into work? If she was the one he pulled a gun on. What if she was knocked out from her headache pills and he crept upstairs and—it just made him keep hitting. Gets that people are going to threaten her on the job, that it comes with the territory, and that bulletproof vests are going to do shit to help, so he has to be hyperaware. But the thought of someone, inside their house—even the idea of them threatening her, it makes him want to beat up the guy all over again.

"Doesn't mean you can't give it." There's raw crunching of valuables and knickknacks crushing underneath the cop's cloven hooves as he returns to the overturned coffee table. Legs broken, a crack gestating down the center. "I hope you were insured."

Shrugs. Not sure if she is or not. Still trying to settle his heartbeat. Sniper breathing. Glad he was the one who sustained a fat lip, black eye, and a cut on his cheek. Not her. What if she couldn't protect herself because she was protecting something else, something they created on accident that he abused the second it happened?

"You want me to call your wife?"

"She's not my wife."

"Really?" Cop chuckles as he scratches harshly, pen drilling into his notebook. Fleshy tongue darting out from between bright white teeth. "I'd get on that or I'm liable to come back here and swoop her off her feet myself."

He has gotten on that—well, physically and abstractly. Has asked her to marry him. Not formally, down on one knee with a ring. Not jokingly either. Had his arms wrapped around her waist while they watched the sun set by the peer. Sky full of warmth, his arms full of love and he asked what she thought about marrying him. They're not married, that's what she thought.

"You want me to call her anyway?"

"No, she's at work. It's fine."

"Ah, I get it." Points the pen at him and chortles again. Hears mucus being gargled. Eyes disappear in the shadow of his hat and his face develops into two rows of teeth like a great white shark. "Give you time to clean up before she gets here."

"Yeah. Sure."

"Frame's shot." Partner pipes up from where he's been standing in their doorway for the last fifteen minutes. Fat cop cuffed the guy, took him to the car, and this skinny guy's just been staring at splintered wood. Waiting for Christmas mistletoe and someone to kiss. "Gonna have ta find somewhere else."

"You and the Missus got somewhere else to stay?" Cop's pointed boot tip knocks through debris. Flotsam washed to the shore. The wreckage of his relationship strewn all over the scuffed hardwood floors for people with metal detectors to find and take home as underappreciated mementos.

"She's not my Missus." Shakes his head and blood sprinkles, a few drops from his face dab over his forearm and soak into his jeans.

Cop bends with his knees to pick something up. Doesn't let his hands completely touch the ground. Large stomach, an inner tube under his clothes, blocks the movement. He always wonders how cops get the weight. Keep the weight. Can work with the weight. Chase someone down. Humpty Dumpty bobbles to him. Lets the silver condom wrapper from last night flutter into his blood blotted lap. Didn't clean up as good as he thought yesterday. "Sure she's not."

"Julianna?"

Stuffs the wrapper in between the couch cushions when the cop is distracted by another man calling out his girlfriend's name. Steve the fucking paramedic came to visit to cherry a perfect night. Dumbelled lip twitches as he sneers. Doesn't mind that Jules is still friends with him, or that Jules has friends, or guy friends or anything like that. It's that Steve doesn't hide his feelings for her. It's dangerous because he did the same thing and after burning down her resistance, he won.

"Who are you?" Chunky cop jostles his whole body when he takes lumbering steps forward. Hat tipping up, side eyes inspecting Steve as a threat or a snack.

"That's Steve the paramedic."

Cop glances over Steve once. Head retracting into negative neck space. Buds at least four chins. Squinting a beady eye he questions, "You a paramedic?"

Blood flows slow and thick from a cut he assumed was minute in size. Given to him by the serrated trigger and harsh handle of a handgun. Glances up from the blood smeared across his thumb from his dabbing explorations and huffs, "Obviously."

"Uh uh. Don't you start giving me attitude." Cop flips back. Cartwheels on his feet. A man so large with the speed of a bear. Swings a stumpy, hairy paw towards him, a finger jabbing in accusation. "We had a good rapport. You give attitude, you're going to get it back."

"Okay." Winces a little as fingers dip directly into the tear in his skin. Into a pool of deep red blood, the same color as Jules lips last night when he couldn't stop kissing them. Tongue touches the center of his bottom lip and for a second he can taste honey instead of copper. "Sorry."

"Mmm." Thick brow rolls like jelly while he shifts back to Steve. Steve, who stands perfectly still despite the mess, despite his injuries, despite obviously only coming to help Jules. His face is the same cardboard cutout smile. Hides all real emotion behind a plastered mask. "You get the guy in the back of the cruiser?"

"My partner's taking care of him." Keeps the grin, spooled and stretched tight. A towel wrung of water. The cop investigates his painted on eyes. The best work of ceramic and robotics any of them have ever seen. Finally Steve taps the red lunchbox tucked underneath his arm. "Can I—?"

"Yeah. Sure."

Red box ends up at his feet. Among the torn pages telling him violence is a last resort. To always hear the subject's feelings before launching a physical attack. Didn't even let the guy get in a mixed syllable before tackling him. Took three hits in the face with what he found out later was a gun. Then brutally ballroom danced with the guy. "What happened? Is Jules—"

"Jules is fine." Exhales through his front teeth. Spit and blood froth at his bottom lip. Boil and stick into the craggy thick skin. "She's at work."

"That's good—" Snaps on rubber gloves. A single finger rifles through the compartments of the box until it brings back a pitiful piece of gauze. His head snaps up in sudden realization. "I didn't mean—"

"I know what you meant."

Bends forward. At his hips, not at the knees like the plump cop who's on their porch with his skinny partner. Steve's finger jabs into his jaw. He squints his eye to ward off the pain. "You didn't call her to tell her about the tornado alley in her living room?"

Can see that call perfectly. Hey Jules, you know how I might have knocked you up yesterday and then told you that I didn't want our fucking baby? Well I've been real angry since then and there was a druggie who broke into the house—I know right. So anyway I kicked his ass. Oh no, the front room is a mess. A horrible, horrible, not even flea market worthy, mess. So now you can pay for a new front room and our illegitimate child. "No. It's not like she can do much about it."

Steve hands him the piece of gauze and points to his own lip. "Things, uh—"scratches at it awkwardly as he bows his head, digging through the red box some more. Hesitant to ask. Hesitant to help. "Things okay between you two?"

Narrows his eyes. The same surge of heat flashing through him. Raw rage, the need to defend. Taps the cotton at his lip. Focuses on the nips of pain. "Great."

"Shame about the coffee table."

"The coffee table?"

"Yeah, it was her grandma's."

"Oh."

"So was that cabinet." Gestures to a capsized china cabinet in the corner. Drops of sweat surface on the back of his neck. Wrecked her whole life. One of the doors ripped from the hinges, glass shattered. Just another empty frame. All the dishes within smashed to puzzle piece fragments. "And her bed frame."

She never tells him anything. The origin of anything. The reason for anything. Why she painted rooms certain colors. Why she picked certain patterns or pieces of furniture. Where she got things. Pictures on the wall. Candles decapitated on the floor. If their fragrances trigger some happy memory for her. He asks, starts to ask and she cuts through his question with a look, or a subject change. He lets her, because he loves her, God he loves her, but he knows nothing about her because she won't let him know anything. It's how he doesn't know she won't take their baby one day and run. Lets it feed his—Her bed frame? Steve saw her bed. Steve the stupid paramedic saw her bed. Motherfuc—"What the he—"

"I think her grandma gave them to her because she was the least likely to break or sell them." Vials, packets collide within the lunchbox. Just a kid going to school. Fingers reappear sudden at his eye. Prod the tender skin like a meat tenderizer. Dig down under they feel bone like he's charting a topographical map. "You know her brothers."

"No I don't. Haven't met them."

"Oh, well." Fingers retract and for the first time that stupid permanent grin gains some character. Some smugness to it. Some superiority. Little flick in the corners. Steve bends forward, head dipping, shadow consuming the first sincere grin he's ever had. Fingers return with a second piece of gauze. "Don't take it personally. I mean they're all over the place. It's hard to get them together. When we dated, I only got to see them once."

The rage compacts in his chest again, and he snorts it out through his nose. Two hot bursts of fury. Doesn't pluck the bandage offered to him. The only reason he doesn't knock Steve's hand away is Jules. He's already pissed her off to the point of capacity. Him hurting Steve, beating Steve, throwing Steve like a big gangly dummy around the living room like he wants to would only exacerbate things. "Look, I get that—"

"Sam?"

And then he's never been more relieved Steve's around. She's home, and he's definitely going to need medical attention when she's through. Wonders how many times he can apologize before the sincerity evaporates from within his words. Knows it already has. After the first 'sorry'. Nothing he can do anyways, it's all up to her.

Steve stands, towers over him. A relative of the same grin playing at the corner of his mouth. Smugness because he fucked up. Ignores it, just strains his lips. Skin numb in a weird tightness he hasn't felt since high school. A rubbery weight dangling. In the doorway she shoves past the invalid partner, still concerned with the framework. Sets a warpath directly towards him in their disrupted living room.

Can't watch as she approaches because he's seen her face slackened into discontent too much lately. Can handle and dispose of her rage fine, it's the disappointment he doesn't do well with. Looking in her eyes, discovering a fresh varnish of tears, knowing he caused them. When she gets close enough he clears his throat, eyes steady on a wick connecting two halves of a broken candle, scent he'll never know the importance of. "Sorry I messed up the—"

"Are you okay?" Flounces to the arm of the couch, her hands immediately preening his face. Fingers softer, lighter, cooler, tidier than Steve's previous pulverizing of his face. Curve over his eye socket. Trace his lower lip. Then both hands end up low on opposite cheeks, fingers splaying. She examines him with narrowing eyes. Lasts longer than a minute. A good moment of silence for the loss of their living room. Her brown eyes simmer into his.

Finally blinks, comes out of her pensive coma. Drops a gentle kiss onto his forehead and cradles his head gently to her breasts. Combs a hand through his hair while his hands hook around her waist. Tries not to think about where they were at this time last night. Where they'll be at this time next year. Or the fact that from contact with his cheek, he knows what bra she's wearing.

"I wrecked the living room." Speaks into the open collar of a different short-sleeved blouse. Goosebumps blossom on the creamy swell of her left breast hidden by fabric, but visible to him by perspective. Marking the center of her cleavage is a red bruise which his lips could form around. Recreate perfectly. He was right about the bra. He likes this one more.

"Shut up." One hand caresses his neck. Barely there strokes. The other curves around to hug his back. Her chin settles on the top of his head. Nests in his hair. Feels it angle. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine Jules." Hears the grin in Steve's voice, pictures it seeping out through a beam and gritting teeth.

Is fine to let them converse about him. Happy where he is, in a dismantled living room he destroyed with unbridled rage that someone might threaten her in, of all places, their home. Happy hearing the frantic but steadily settling beat of her heart. Like a frightened bird in a cage, flaps around until it collapses back onto a branch.

Hopes Steve can sense the fuck you in his blissful grin while his cheek compresses to her faultless skin. The intoxicating aroma of her, the placation of her fingers ruffling his hair or her lips dropping a wayward kiss into the crown of his head. "What about the cut? Does it need stitches?"

"It might need some butterfly stitches." Random jostling of medical accessories. Red lunchbox closes with a double snap. "It might heal on its own though. You could take him to the hospital to be sure."

Her chest expands, contracts as it gathers and retains air to sigh it out. Hand tickles along his jaw, falls from his back, her body flexes as an indication for him to release her. Would hold her until someone physically pried them apart, but what happened yesterday is still a reality.

With reluctance, his arms slide from her waist, her hips her thighs. Unintentionally cause her to shift with discomfort. Eyes snag his for a second, a fraction of a second, before they flit away, incapable of keeping his gaze. Glides off the arm of the couch, eyes dropping into the debris and carpet stains.

Meanders to Steve, one arm slung around her stomach. A punch in his. Communicates to him she still remembers what he said. Is nowhere near forgiving him. "Thank you, Steve." Reaches her arms up around his neck, pulling him into a friendly hug. "Really. I appreciate it."

She doesn't do it to inspire jealousy within him. But it does. Like the buried side to the coin. What their lives could still be. Him watching them embrace from afar and still know what her touch is like. Steve watches him from over her shoulder. Painted eyes tinting with jealousy, can't camouflage it with the same cheesy grin and peaked brows.

"No problem, Jules." Steve hugs her tightly, hands spreading across her back. Over the bra he guessed. The bra only he should ever have knowledge of because he bought it for her. Hugs her a little too long, almost challenging.

He sucks in his fat lip. Forgets it's bruised. Exhales sharply at the pile of scaly blood waiting for him to taste. The punch of the tender tissue being stabbed by his tongue. The sound of his torment causes Jules to glance over her shoulder at him, his tongue still poking the crack in his lip. She disengages from the hug.

"It was good to see you." Steve adds and continues to the door. Obviously defeated, like every time they meet. Only, he knows they've met when he's not around, even by happenstance. On the job, on the street. Wonders how she acted. How Steve acted. How she spoke of him and their relationship, which is stuck and ageless. "Even though it wasn't under happier circumstances."

"Good to see you too, Steve." She waves him off. Wants to see the action as dulled and sweeping him out of her house. But it's true. Genuine. She was happy to see him because she doesn't have a lot of people from that part of her life that she likes, that she trusts. That idiot happens to be one of them, and it irks him, because maybe she trusts Steve in a way she doesn't trust him. Because Steve has fathomless knowledge on her that he doesn't.

"Come on." Tugs his hand like she did the first night they both ventured back to his apartment. Told him there was no place she'd rather be, even though she won't take the steps to make it concrete.

But her hand is in his. Not stuck stationary in quicksand or tar for archaeologist to dig up years later. Willingly placed in his hand, as his head was willingly placed to her chest. Willingly bends forward and kisses the puffy skin around his eye lighter than air. "Let's go to the hospital you Big Ox."

A curtain shrouds them from identical units in the rushed downtown emergency room. Can't count all the times he's been here. For her gunshot wound. For his supposed concussion. For Natalie's bruised face. For her blood loss. Should just live here, rent out one of these units. Would save the roiling in his gut every time they cross through the automatic doors. Fears one time he'll cross the hospital threshold with her, and he'll leave without her.

Hands clasp tightly in his lap because they haven't spoken a word since they left the mess of her house. Since they packed a suitcase and popped it in the trunk of his SUV because that's what the spot at his apartment building is registered to. She drove them here in complete silence, mouth tight in contemplation. Always on the verge of speaking, but never uttering a mashed word. Like she always suddenly remembered what happened yesterday. What he did. What he said.

He waits on the gurney. She folds into the corner of their allotment. Beside the dormant heart monitor. Leans against the avocado wall. Chipped and picked at by a thousand nervous people. Index finger fastening to her lower lip not unlike his a day before around the elastic trim of her boy cuts. Front teeth shred her nail away. Arm hugging structuring arm to her body.

"I'm sorry about your front room. About your cabinet and coffee table." Apologizes again because it's all he can do. Can't apologize for what he wants to in fear that she'll burst out of the unit, out of the hospital, out of the city and out of his life. Only get to see her briefly for small talk before weekend pickups.

"It's fine." Drops her hand, ducks her head telling him it's not. Won't look at him. Instead becomes absorbed in the sick mesh of colors decorating the curtain. None of them correspond in any plausible connection.

"And about you having to pay the hydro bill."

"It's fine."

"And about your flowers."

"I don't give a shit about any of those things." Voice wavers, triumphs for only a word, then dives into weakness. Into a tepid, emotional state. Fingers tremor, flicker away from her face, then relax as her chest, her ribs fall in sequence. "I came home and some cop told me a guy attacked my boyfriend in our house. Do you know how I felt?"

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, you're fine." Scoffs, chin almost to her chest, arms devour her body. Wishes he could give her the love, the reassurance, the comfort with his own arms. Wishes he knew she wouldn't shove him away if he tried. "And apologizing for every single thing except the one you should be. The one I hope you feel guilty about."

"How the fuck did this go from—"

"Because I was so relieved you were okay, Sam." A laugh grates in her throat. Expels ruefully. A single tear plummets from her right eye. Swerves inebriated down her cheek before dangling from her jaw. "I was so relieved you were okay, and then I realized we're not okay. Not after what you said."

"I didn't mean for it to be so harsh—"

"It's not just that." Swipes along her cheek with the palm of her hand. Wants to kiss away her tears. Gather her in his arms. Swat at her hair curling, sleeping silky in a ponytail. Follow the pattern on the hem of her blouse with his fingertips. "We want different things, Sam."

"You don't even know what I want."

"It's obviously not a fucking baby."

"We don't even know if you are—"

"But I want kids some day. Some day soon." Elbow stable on top of the heart monitor, her face melts against her forearm. Fatigued, like she's annoyed at explaining this to him, but they've never talked about it. They've never talked about anything. "Not today Sam, but soon."

"I'd love to have kids with you too someday soon." It's not a lie. Doesn't want to have a family with anyone else. Definitely doesn't want her to have a family with someone else. Most definitely doesn't want someone else raising his kids with her. "But I want to do things in order."

"In order?"

"Jules, I asked you to marry me, you said no. You won't even let me move into your house. You won't let me meet your brothers. You won't tell me anything about—"

"You proposed after a month, Sam. A month. It was—And there's no connection between babies and marriage."

"There is a direct connection between babies and marriage." Their disagreement absorbs volumes. Hitting the loud crashes of arguments they save for home or pit stops on the way back to Toronto. Drown out the din of the bustling emergency room they're splat in the middle of. "People get married and then they have babies."

Her fingers massage her left temple, eyes slipping closed for a single second. Remembers her headache for the first time. Inactive to him during the commotion. The rotating police lights, the sirens, the packing, the downtown driving, the medical forms and hectic waiting room. Drift half open, not in satisfaction, but exhaustion. Tone plummets to a surrendering whisper, "Because that's the only way things ever happen."

For her sake he levels his speech. Sands the sharp edges to not tempt any more pain. Copies her gentler pitch. "It's the right way to do things. The way I want to do them. "

"Really?" His concession earns him her movement. Unglues herself from the far corner. Eyes even dart up to briefly meet his. Stops before him, sandaled feet pigeon toed. Fingers bounce off each other. Face dips to hide her expression, her emotions. Her hair swerves against her neck. Naturally and smooth like a river. "Was it right to be with me when it was against direct orders?"

Can't even comprehend her question. Can't understand her doubt. Launches a hand, capturing hers as she flinches, tries to withdraw. "You're different." Reels her towards him, hesitant at first but then she shuffles the final foot. He grabs her other hand, reveling in being close to her. "You're worth it."

"Our baby would be half me, Sam." She places his hands on her hips so his fingers splay across her navel. A stomach, her stomach which could house the final stake in their relationship. It's an action that terrifies him to no end. "You're telling me you couldn't—"

Rips his hands away from her. Disguises the aggression by sweeping her hands to his mouth, placing a kiss on her ring finger. "And you're telling me you wouldn't marry me knowing you're the only woman I've ever loved? The only one I'll ever want?"

Their connection dissolves. Shatters, glass from her grandmother's cabinet doors all over their living room floor. Splinters in his hands and heels. Lets her hands fall from his mouth. Her body drift from the embrace. "I guess that answers it doesn't it?"

"Jules—"

"I'm going to get a cab, stay somewhere else tonight."

"Don't do this." Shakes his head once, but doesn't twitch a muscle to chase her. Can't spend his life chasing her when she leaves. She wants to leave for a reason and eventually he'll get tired of following her. Of crawling through the desert without a drop to drink. Of letting her decide everything. "We should talk this out."

"We just did, Sam." Pauses, bisected by the gap in the curtain. Bright fluorescent lights illuminating the emergency room provide her with a blank background. Occasionally personnel journey too close to the curtain and create human sized shadow puppets against the disgusting sea of colors. Expects her to charge out, shout angry curses at him so when he finds her later he'll have hell to soothe. But her face is disappointment again. Blended and sloping brows, a frown that connects the pain in her heart to his. "You said enough for both of us."

A mess. A big fucking mess. It's what he left in Jules' living room. It's how he left their relationship. It's what half of his face is bloated into, train tracks of seven stitches sewn into his cheek; butterfly stitches indeed, Steve the fucking paramedic. It's what his apartment looks like now that his sister's been its only permanent resident. Kicks a pair of boxers that do not belong to him underneath the couch, ignoring the fact they even exist. Maybe not the only resident.

Hits enter on his cell phone again, and it blips through her number. Flashes ten digits onto the screen. An automated voice greets him. Tells him the number's not in service right now. Basically tells him to fuck right off because his girlfriend's shut off her phone. Is holed up in some hotel, and he can't stop thinking she's not safe. Can't help thinking she's already started running.

Wonders again if their relationship is worth combusting because of their differentiating views. They've always had them. They're both stubborn as hell. It's usually what turns them both on. Got in an argument about a stepladder. He bought it so she wouldn't break her neck when changing the kitchen light bulbs. Stood precariously on piled kitchen chairs like a circus act. She refused to use the ladder because she didn't need it. He warned, then predicted that she was going to fall.

Caught her one day mid fall, saw the chair clatter from behind the island and dove like he was catching a baseball. Did catch her, bundled in his lap. Took a moment to hold her, asked if she was okay and then gave her shit for not using the ladder. She gave him shit for not changing the bulbs himself. Really didn't have a response to that. He's taller. It's easier. So now he changes the bulbs. That innovation was christened with sex on the kitchen floor. The stepladder went into the hall closet. The sheers went to the shed. A condom broke and the world went to hell.

Hits enter again. Ten digits flash by. Doesn't even ring once. Just the automated voice telling him to give up, because he's fucked up majorly this time and he'll be lucky if he gets hit for child support in nine months. Wouldn't have been so bad if she just answered with a maybe. Maybe she would marry him. Maybe there was a hypothetical future with him besides what may or may not result from a broken condom. Would've been nice to decide that future for themselves.

Chucks his phone to the coffee table. Littered with fashion magazines, lip gloss, a dirty dish, and numerous rings from not using coasters. No aspirin or Tylenol or any tablet in a relatable family. Natalie can forget her dirty dish and half of the makeup the department store has to offer, but takes all the pain pills in the place.

Dumps a pile of tank tops, skirts and dresses from the couch onto a chair in the corner. Remembers when everything was neat. Remembers when he lived here and knew where everything was. Remembers when she showed up one day, barely got through the door and he kissed her. Hands everywhere because it was like the first time he could breathe in three years. When she tagged him home that night and slept in his arms. How he would disengage from her cuddle on the couch and tell her he had to head home. Kiss her like wasn't going to see her in six hours at work. How when she did the same thing here, he wrapped around her and wouldn't let go.

Rubs his temple, fingers cautious of his plumming eye. Wonders how her headache is. How the shift was. What the hot call was. Wants to tell her about the test that happened but didn't happen. The stork he has for a teacher who flew the coop. How all he needs is a cigar and he could be a mascot for baby products.

Eye flutters as his revelation comes full circle. Can't escape it. Head falls over the ledge of his leather couch and he stares at the stucco crescents trapped on his ceiling. Stared at them with her head heavy on his chest in sleep. Fingers fanned out her hair, traced the sigh of a tattoo on her lower back.

Should call her again. Is going to. Will keep calling until he gets through or until the automated voice tells him a different message. Or until he doesn't and calls up Spike to trace her movements through the cab company. Reaches for his phone but there's a knock on the door.

God help him if it's the owner of the boxers come back to claim them. He's already beaten up one guy today; has absolutely no qualms about kicking another stranger's ass. By the keep of the apartment he could say the guy was ransacking the place. Moans as he stands, the room staggers around him, his eye booms a little. Unlocks the chain without any hesitancy because after the last twenty-four hours nothing—

But she's there. In the same blouse and khakis as before. The same blouse where he can see the hickey he left on her chest perfectly. Another accident. The first of a never ending trail of decimation. Ponytail abandoned, hair loose around her face, sticking slightly to her neck from the heat. Mouth pinched to the side.

Pushes right past him. Just like the first night. Breezes by his stable arm because there's nothing more he wants than her with him in any form. Nothing more he fears than that euphoria being disrupted by her disappearance. By her removal.

"I brought you some stuff because I figured—"

"Where the hell were you?" Cracks under the pressure of being normal. Shuts the door, locking it. Knowing it doesn't do anything against stopping druggies with guns coming in to threaten her. Doesn't stop her from leaving.

Arches an eyebrow at him, unpacking things from a white plastic bag onto the counter. The counter where he placed her. Hand skimmed the smoothness of her thigh. Lips tasted the suppleness of her skin in renaissance. He really did breath again that day. Feels his chest settle at the sight of her tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "The grocery store?"

"And you couldn't turn on your phone?"

"Didn't really feel like talking to you."

"Then why are you here?"

"You know what? I'm asking myself the same—"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. God, don't leave again." Hands bump her biceps. Muscles tense at his touch, but slowly relax fitting her expression. "Please don't leave."

"I came here because my stuff is still packed with yours." Steps back from him. His hands lose contact with her, but he trails her around the counter. So afraid if he's not near, she'll stray. He won't be able to find her. Plastic bag rustles as she brings out cartons of premade food. "But I thought you probably hadn't eaten yet. And then I thought Natalie would've used all your Tylenol for hangovers. And then I thought there wouldn't be anything in the freezer for you to put on your eye but calorie-wise dinners."

A yellow bag of generic frozen corn hits the counter once as she breaks the contents. Mistakes the abuse for mislaid anger, but she hands him the crinkling package and points to his eye. "They were on sale. We used peas on the farm."

Bunches the leaky plastic bag to his eye. Doesn't feel better, but doesn't really feel worse. Mostly feels like an idiot standing in a dirty apartment with a bag of corn stuck to his face. She rips at the cardboard box to free the pills. "Why didn't you just use ice?"

"Because ice was reserved for my dad's scotch." Disables the child lock, yanks out the cotton and plops two pills into his hand. Leaves two in her closed fist as she marches to the fridge.

"How's your headache?"

"It hurts like a son of a bitch." Hands him a single bottle of water. Probably the only thing left in the fridge besides Kool-Aid. Natalie and her eighty different colors of liquid sugar. Tries to nudge the bottle back so she can take her pills first, but she ignores the action. Reluctantly, he swallows his first. "I didn't come here to talk about my alcoholic dad or my headache."

"I know." Pills sort of jam in his throat because it's the first time she's admitted to having an alcoholic father. They usually just dance around the subject until she changes it, which happens within the first three sentences.

"I thought about how you reacted. Why you would react that way." Shoves the pills into her mouth. Swallows them with a swig of water. With ease. Sets the bottle back onto the counter beside the makeshift buffet of food. "I thought what would make me act that way. The only thing I could think of was fear."

"I'm not afraid."

"You have to be afraid of something to react like that." Cheek to shoulder, she peers at him as she forages through the cupboards for dishes. All of them appear empty except for random packets of Kool-Aid. "Disappointing your parents? The change in lifestyle? Another person relying on—"

"What about you and your inability to commit?" Smashes his face into the freezer bag. Finds solace in the pain. How it distracts, from his autopilot and aflame relationship, his maybe baby, the family heirlooms he destroyed earlier, the coked up man brandishing a gun in what would be his living room if she would let just fucking commit, his disgusting sister and her Kool-Aid addiction.

"Sam." Returns with white paper plates decorated with navy blue dots. A blue line. Two blue lines. A pink plus. Three white diamonds in a ring. "After a month of dating, you asked me to marry you."

"It was six weeks." Sighs into his hands because he memorized the day. Knew the day perfectly because he knew something important was going to happen on that day. It was a few days after the obliteration of their first pregnancy scare. Didn't think the memory would be her crushing him at the peer. Didn't see her until work two days later. Didn't say a word to her. What was he supposed to say to her? 'No' was pretty final.

"It was insane. We were just getting to know each other again." Finally she came over to the apartment. Nat answered the door. He was moping on the couch, arms crossed over his chest, heels dug into the pristine coffee table. Nat warned he was in a serious mood and then snuck out to go get Kool-Aid or makeup.

"It was romantic because I love you more than anything." Sat down next to him, hand caressed his cheek and she apologized. Explained that she was in love with him without a doubt, she just needed a little more time to fall in love with the idea of marrying him. How much time?

"Isn't it better that we didn't rush things?"

"And a baby's not going to do that?"

"And forcing a marriage isn't?"

"Jules." Scoffs because their stubbornness stains them, permeates their attitudes. On lesser things, things like life endangering balancing acts on kitchen chairs, he submits to. Can't on this. Won't on this, because she'll never be willing to meet him halfway and he'll always be chasing.

Slams her corn on the counter. Ambles to the couch, his once unspoiled couch now covered in scuffs and dulled. Flops in the deflated cushion, eyes on the crescents again. "This isn't going to work. Usually there's some middle ground but—"

Another depression as she sags into the conjoining cushion. Corn plops to the graffitied coffee table. Both her hands, soft, cold, a little wet from the bag, clasp his like a buoy floating in the ocean. "Just tell me what you're so afra—"

"I'm not afraid." Reclaims his hand like she replaced it on her hip. The hip he drizzled with kisses yesterday night. The hip where his palm planted and fingers spread out to tease maybe accepting the idea of having a baby.

"I don't know why you're so ashamed to admit it." Drops the freezer bag on his knee, but won't touch him. Cold juices seep through denim. Blot over orbs of maroon bloodstains. "I'm terrified."

Flops the bag once. Then twice. Then takes the bait. "Of what?"

"Of money. How we'd pay for it. What I'd do for a job. If I'd go back, I mean we could get alternating shifts, but it's a dangerous job and that wouldn't be fair. Mostly of something happening to you. Then I'd just be left alone with this baby and I'm afraid I'd be so depressed and so fur—"

"I'm already terrified something's going to happen to you." Clusters the bag at his eye. An improvised confessional. Can't deal with her reactions. What she thinks of him. Her disappointment. Her voluntary abandonment. "I lie awake because there've been too many close calls. One of these days, it's not going to be a close call. You out there pregnant, you out there with a baby, I'd need heavy medication."

Tender fingertips lick at his neck, curl into his hair as she attempts to calm him. Scoots closer to him, her thigh brushing against his. Yesterday straddled his. Came together with his. Might have created something with him.

"I'm terrified you'd leave," muffles it into his hand. Ashamed to admit she'll abandon him. She did once. Didn't go far but still left him solitary in a coffee shop. "One day you'd just get tired of being with me. Just take our baby and go."

Hand falters from his face and his heart aches. It burns because it feels like she's already fleeting. Running from his lack of faith. "Sam, why would I ever—"

"I'd just have to watch you, and them, make a new life with someone else." Shoulders grow slack with morose. He pictures it so perfectly in his head like a living nightmare. Like watching her with Steve. Watching her and his baby with Steve when all he wanted was to make things a little more concrete. "I'd feel like I'm the outsider when you're the only thing I've ever wanted."

Cool fingers reappear at the point of his chin. Pry the corn bag from his face and let it tumble to the rug. Tip his bowed head forward until he views tear laden eyes. Nears her face to his, tip of her nose breezing his. "I will never want anyone else but you. I've never loved anyone like I love you and I don't want to."

It's the middle ground. The compromise. He can deal with not being married to her. With technically living in different houses. Even if there happens to be a baby Braddock, he can deal with it. Because he's never believed anything more than what she just told him. All the rage, the fear, the depression, flushed from his body with each caress of her words.

"And I promise not to take our babies to Iqaluit and dye their blond hair in an attempt to keep them from you."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Stops her attempt to kiss him with a solid hand to her shoulder. Instead she twists it into a slight embrace. Maneuvers so her back is against his chest and slumps into his lap. "'Babies'? How many hypothetical children do we have?"

"None since you don't fucking want any." Head barely lifting from the crook of his neck, she kisses a bruise under his chin. Fingers trail over the contusion as her brow furrows.

"A word of advice though, I do want babies, Braddock." Collects herself into a sitting position, her hands on his shoulders, just like a day before when only a condom broke. Pecks the swollen skin blooming around his eye, then the gauze covering his seven stitches, then a bigger bruise by the height of his cheekbone. " And I'd prefer to have them with you, but if you don't want mine, then I guess I'll have to go find someon—"

"Hey, I never said I didn't want babies." Restrains her from rising, hands on her sides. Loll in grooves of her ribs as she chuckles at his immediate worry. "Especially ours. I just expressed I wasn't particularly fond of having them right now."

"Well neither do I." Yanks on the collar of his shirt with raised eyebrows and a sarcastic grin. "But then a condom broke and we might have made one, so I had to consider it an option."

"You're scared."

"Terrified."

"Me too, but if it's in there—" Flattens his hand to her stomach. Doesn't wrench it away. Remembers it swaying before him yesterday. Enticing him with smooth skin and the even rhythm of her breaths. "I want this fucking baby."

Draws his face to hers. Lips reconnect. Mingle in her honey sweetness. The familiarity that's always been with him. Will always be with him. Her tongue dabbing the bruise on his lower lip. Pressure and exertion accelerating as her tongue slips into his mouth, body undulating into his. He withdraws, a modern miracle because his hand is just shy of covering her breast and the beautiful handpicked bra he bought. "I don't have any more condoms."

"Are you kidding me? After this, I'm never having sex with you again."

"This has been the best twenty-four hours of my life."

Chuckles and kisses him one final time before stretching out along the disheveled couch. He mirrors her pose, lies behind her. Lets her use his arm as a pillow, the other falls over her chest. Plays with the lace trim on her blouse. "Once the door gets fixed, and you redo the front room—"

"Of course."

"I want you to move in. Permanently." Shifts sideways, hand tugging on his collar again. "Sell this shack to Natalie and let her bomb it." Huddles against his chest. Arm closes around her waist, chin resting against her shoulder. Fingers absently twirling a strand of her hair. "We can switch the hydro bill to your name and you won't have to get up early to go to the bank."

"After I move in." Her arms loop his neck, face burying in his shirt. He strokes her back, evoking shivers from her. Not used to air conditioning. "And we find out you're not pregnant and this was just a weird occurrence of planets and tides or something." Hugs her tighter to him. Hand rubbing her arm trying to spark heat. Fingers stray to her left temple. Massage gently as he continues, "I want to marry you."

"You know, if you ever once took the time to ask me properly, I'd probably say yes."

A/N#2:
1. Each chapter is COMPLETELY unconnected. But will involve the general plot of a break-in, a hospital scene and an apartment scene. The differences will be which characters are where when what happens. Of course POVs and situations are apt to change with chapter.
2. Once a chapter is done. It is done. There is no contination. So Chapter 2 will not continue in Chapter 3 nor will it continue in a oneshot.
3. The next two chapters will also be M. Your welcome or I'm sorry.
4. There may be a maybe baby

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