Bruce Wainright has (onerule) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-11-23 01:35:00 |
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Entry tags: | batman, catwoman |
Who: Luke & Wren
What: Post-birth adorbs. (2/2)
Where: Sunrise Hospital.
When: Recently.
Warnings/Rating: None.
He didn’t want to think about her running away or sneaking by him, not just then, not with his daughter in his arms, and so he was glad that she didn’t push the topic. “Beautiful, of course,” he mock sighed. “Can’t forget that.” He’d gotten a lot more accepting of the term of endearment, no longer seeing it as something emasculating but rather just another sign of how she loved him. And, though he’d never admit it, he’d grown to kind of like it. Beautiful was the complete opposite of how he usually thought of himself, and he liked that she could see beauty in him when he had such a hard time seeing anything but the ugliness of what he’d done. It didn’t even register that he hadn’t argued that he wasn’t sweet, as he would have in the days following the party, and he took the kiss a pleased sigh without questioning why. He laughed, quietly, when she said she wasn’t sure if she could breathe, because he knew exactly how she felt. “I feel the same,” he admitted, his gaze drawn down to the bundle in his arms again before he looked back up at her. There was fear, nervousness, but a thrill, too, something like excitement that came on the heels of happiness. He’d felt it with Gus, but the shock of finding out he had a four-year-old child had dulled some of it. Now, it was pure emotion.
Of course he had no control over whether or not the baby would cry, but he hoped fervently that she wouldn’t and silent repetitions of that hope were repeated as he carefully shifted the baby from his arms to Wren’s, fingers twining nervously once they were free. But the baby didn’t cry, didn’t fuss, and he exhaled in relief as she sat back at smiled down at the tiny bundle. He looked at the two of them-- stared, really, drinking in the sight greedily, as though they both might disappear if he so much as blinked. Luke had no idea what he’d done in his life to deserve this, and maybe he didn’t deserve it at all, but it was his and he wouldn’t lose it. His wife. His daughter. His son, at home, eagerly awaiting their return. His throat was tight and his chest ached in a good way, a pleasant sort of pain, but he didn’t realize he was crying until he felt wetness on his cheeks and realized they were tears. The way she whispered to the baby only made it worse, and he quickly tried to wipe them away with his fingers, rubbing at his eyes and blinking to clear his vision. “You look like a natural,” he managed, voice thick with emotion and a smile that wavered.
The mock sigh made her smile fondly. "You're a lot better at not wincing when I call you pretty or beautiful," she said, and part of her missed the boy he'd been, the one that had squirmed and disapproved and wanted to be called something manly. But, more even, she loved that he'd stopped thinking it was insulting. Beautiful was the best word she could come up with for what he was, what she saw when she looked at him. She still thought he was pretty, but she let that one slide these days, though she still slipped. And it wasn't her fault. She'd thought him pretty from the very first time she'd seen him. Pretty, in the way untouchable things were then. Good things, things not made for her. But here he was, and she could touch him, and that brought back the unwanted memory of the party, of her insistence that God was out of her reach. Blasphemer, but she didn't care. He was her religion, and nothing cemented it more than this moment. And his laugh made her warm, and she thought she might burst from being happy, and she was so scared of blinking and losing it all. "I think breathing is important," she said as he looked down at the baby. Delia. She wasn't used to genders or names yet; it would take a little bit of time.
"You're staring," she whispered a second later, sheepish and stupidly shy, without even needing to look up to know. Because really, she had no right to be shy. She'd done everything imaginable in her life, seen everything imaginable, and yet he could still turn her into the blushing girl that she'd never been. She looked up with a smile, but the smile faded once she realized he was crying. "Don't-" she began, leaning forward without thinking and pressing a kiss to his damp cheek, the worries about the baby slumbering in her arms all forgotten. "What's wrong? I-" she began, but the words overlapped with his claim that she looked like a natural, and she realized that maybe they weren't bad tears. She'd seen him cry before, but she could only remember a few times in all the years they'd known each other that it was about something good, and the realization made her smile a giddy, happy little smile, even as her lips brushed his cheek again. "You're really happy?" she asked, still wanting the verbal verification. And she'd believe him now, because there wasn't any lie in those tears, and there wasn't any lie in his smile from earlier. "You're not sorry?" she added.
And the baby didn't seem to mind all the talking and the moving, because her only reaction was to spit out the hospital issue pacifier and send it rolling across the floor as she blinked open blue eyes and yawned, a tiny, fabric-covered fist coming up to take the place of the pacifier in her mouth.
“I’d still like it if you called me handsome or sexy instead,” he teased, “but I guess beautiful’s grown on me. Pretty’s still pushing it, though.” In his mind, she was beautiful. She was pretty. But maybe there were different kinds of beauty, and maybe he was finally realizing that, even if he didn’t see himself the way she did. And if she liked calling him beautiful, well, he wasn’t going to tell her to stop; she could call him anything she liked and he’d never actually tell her no. He was so very bad at that, at denying her what she wanted. “Breathing is important,” he agreed with a quiet laugh. “Between you and Delia, though, I don’t know how I’m going to manage it. All that beauty’ll take my breath away.” Complimenting her was something he enjoyed on principle, but he liked being able to make her blush, too, even after all this time.
He knew he was staring. He knew, and her whisper made him smile even through the tears, the ones he couldn’t seem to stop, indicative of the kind of happiness he’d never thought he would have. He started shaking his head as soon as she spoke, as she kissed his cheek, wordless denial, because nothing was wrong but he couldn’t seem to find the words to say so. “It’s not bad,” he managed shakily, an attempt at an explanation, but then she smiled and he knew she understood. He took a deep, deep breath and exhaled slowly, wiping the lingering dampness away. “Yeah, baby, I’m happy. I’m really, really happy.” He shook his head again when she asked if he was sorry because god, he couldn’t have been any less sorry than he was right then. “Not even a little,” he vowed, entirely forgetting about not disturbing the baby and kissing her impulsively, salty wetness and hitched breath against her mouth.
It was the sound of the pacifier hitting the ground that drew his attention downward, as blue eyes opened, and he couldn’t help laughing. “Look at her, she knows what she likes and doesn’t like already.” He trailed the back of one finger over her soft cheek, the caress a careful thing, and his smile softened. “I still can’t believe she’s ours,” he admitted, looking up.
"You're handsome and sexy too," she conceded easily, without any hesitation or need to lie even the tiniest bit. "And beautiful. And pretty," she finished, the last bit a conspiratorial whisper that came with a fond, fond smile. His comment about not knowing how he was going to manage to breathe made her smile a shy smile, and her fingers found his jaw and traced it, featherlight and silken and barely any touch at all. "You and Gus are beautiful too," she reminded him, though she'd just told him he was beautiful a few seconds earlier. As for Gus, Gus was almost achingly beautiful with his strange and odd quiet, and he made her heart hurt a little bit. But hugs made that better. Gus was quiet and too attentive for his age, but he was always willing to be hugged or kissed, and he was free with hugs and kisses in return. "You're only staying a little bit, then you're going home to tuck Gus in and sleep there," she decided. It was an abrupt decision, and she blurted it out without thinking, silencing any immediate protests he might make with a press of lips to his. The kiss came with a whimper, and she didn't mind the baby hearing. Maybe she should worry about that, but she didn't worry about it with Gus either. She didn't think anything bad could come of knowing that your parents loved each other, nothing bad at all.
And then the staring and the kissing, and she'd figured out that it wasn't bad by the time he spoke. It was her turn to stare when he assured her that he was happy. She was trying to memorize how he looked, to look long and hard enough that she would never forget. Red eyes, damp cheeks and that smile on his face, and she wanted to remember when they were old and grey, rockers and walkers and fading memories. The impulsive kiss was met with a sob of emotion, and she parted her lips and demanded, demanded, demanded. In that moment, she just wanted everything to be like the sharp edge of the knife, unforgettable for its clarity, and the kiss was no different. But the pacifier fell, and she was laughing a moment later at the idea that the tiny girl she was carrying was already being defiant. When he touched the tiny cheek, she looked up, watching his face. "If she's already being difficult, she's going to drive you really, really crazy when she wants to start dating," she said, shifting the baby back to him, for him to carry. After all, she was kicking him out for the night, so he should hold the baby a little. "I can't imagine growing up with normal parents, having a normal life," she said without thinking. It didn't strike her so much with Gus, and maybe that was because he was a boy; but it hit her now, just how many things Delia wouldn't need to experience. "Not that we're really very normal," she added with a knowing little smile.
He grinned when she agreed that he was handsome and sexy, and the smile became a laugh and an exaggerated sigh when she tacked on beautiful and pretty. “I guess I can live with that.” Her touch made him sigh again but this time it was different, softer, pleasure and warmth wrapped up in the sound. “He still pulls faces when you call him that,” he said of Gus being beautiful, but he suspected the little boy would get used to it just as he had. Already he was much more affectionate, no longer shying away from hugs and kisses, and while he might always be on the quiet side he’d made a lot of progress in the time they’d had him. She was right in thinking he would protest her decision that he go home because he planned on doing just that, but her kiss effectively silenced him for a few moments. Her whimper made him forget about arguing, at least just then, and it was with tangible reluctance that he broke the kiss and pulled back.
When he was younger she’d been able to make him blush all the time, and while he didn’t get shy or embarrassed that easily these days a warmth still spread across his cheeks as she stared, and his fingers twitched, the impulse to bring them to the back of his neck as he had all those years ago stifled. This kiss was harder to break, and it was his turn to whimper, wanting more, and it was only the baby’s defiance of her pacifier that distracted him enough to draw his attention elsewhere. “Don’t,” he groaned, when she mentioned Delia dating. “We have a lot of time before that happens. Like, thirty years at least.” He gave her a questioning look when she shifted the baby back to him, but his hesitation only lasted a moment before he cradled her gingerly against his chest, tiny muffled sounds made around the fist in her mouth the only noise she made. A tinge of something like sadness entered his expression when she said she couldn’t imagine growing up with normal parents; he knew her life had been anything but, and he wished he could somehow make that different for her. But the past was the past, he couldn’t change her childhood, and all he could do was make sure Gus and Delia grew up happy, as normal as possible, with only good memories when they looked back. “No, we’re not exactly normal,” he agreed. “But we’re close enough.” And then he remembered her deciding that he was going home, and he shook his head belatedly. “I’m not leaving, by the way. Gus knows. He’ll be fine. I won’t sleep at home,” he added, before she could protest. “I’ll be calling the hospital every ten minutes to check in and the nurses will go crazy.”
She smiled when he said Gus still pulled a face when she called the little boy beautiful. It was true, and it was actually getting worse as Gus got older and understood the differences between beautiful and handsome. But she told him anyway, because she could tell there was still a smile beneath all that squirming and face pulling, and she thought Gus needed the affection, even if he pretended he didn't. She still remembered the early days, when they hadn't been able to get him out from under the bed for days. Maybe it made her a little too huggy, a little too kissy, but she couldn't help it. And she couldn't remember the last time the little boy had locked himself away, and that was good. It didn't mean that what she'd done was fixed; it could never be fixed. But it was still really, really good.
She loved that blush that spread across his cheeks. Sometimes, she forgot they were still young. Sometimes, she felt old enough for creaking bones and the end of things. But that blush of his reminded her, and she smiled her own giddy and girlish smile in return, the obvious reluctance when he drew back from the kiss making butterflies flap their wings in her belly. Suddenly, four weeks seemed like an endlessly long time, and her fingers slid along his lips and chased old regrets with the touch. Because she couldn't remember any just then, though she should. In seconds, she would remember all of them, but not just then with him blushed and kissed. And she could only laugh at his groan at the mention of the baby dating. She looked down at the tiny girl, and she shook her head in mock sympathy. "Your père is going to be really, really difficult. I can tell. I hope you're ready for that," she said in an exaggerated whisper before she transferred the tiny girl to Luke's arms. "I think you might get a decade before she has her first crush, if you're lucky." And she wondered, then, if she would become jealous of the baby. She knew women did it all the time, become jealous of their daughters. She reached down and traced the shell of one little ear with her fingertip thoughtfully, considering his comment that they were close enough to normal. She didn't think so, but then she'd never thought conventional parents were important. She'd loved her maman, for good or bad, and she knew he'd loved his parents too. Maybe that was experience enough? Having loved like that, regardless of how normal the experiences were. She looked up when he said he wasn't leaving, and she slid past him slowly, carefully, intending to pick up the discarded pacifier. "You should go and rest. You never listen anymore. When we were kids, you always listened," she said, but she kind of liked that he didn't do that anymore, however frustrating she found it at times.
They’d never really had a proper chance to be teenagers, to be young and in love without the weight of a burden beyond their years placed upon their shoulders. It wasn’t fair, all that lost time, and maybe by now they should have been grown up and mature but Luke had never cared much for what the world thought they should be. Nowhere was it written that they had to be serious and boring, and he didn’t see why marriage and two kids had to change their dynamic. The way she smiled at him, all giddy and girlish, made him feel like a bashful teenager all over again, and he couldn’t help smiling as she ran his fingers over his lips. “I’m not going to be difficult,” he protested, half-laughing. “But I know what guys are like, especially teenagers, and she’s not wasting her time with some jerk.” He could make sure Gus grew up differently, make sure he learned to respect women, but having a daughter was so much scarier because he had no control over other people’s sons. “A decade isn’t long enough,” he muttered, shaking his head. He had no idea that she was even wondering about becoming jealous of the baby, and he would’ve told her she was nuts if she mentioned it. He loved his kids, but his love for Wren was different, deeper, and nothing could ever compare. Maybe people were supposed to love their children more than anything and anyone, but he couldn’t change how he felt.
He knew what it was like to have parents who loved him, and he thought that might be enough. Caring, wanting what was best for your kids, those were the important things. “I can rest here,” he said, watching as she slid past him, and his fingers closed around her wrist before she could pick up the pacifier. “Don’t. You’re supposed to be resting too,” he told her with a fond smile. “And I do listen. I always listen. I just don’t always agree with what you tell me to do.” He flashed a teasing, boyish grin, and the baby in his arms, watching with wide blue eyes, smiled around the fist in her mouth.
"You're going to be very difficult," she countered with mock sagacity, her smile belying the serious tint of her words. And it was hard not to laugh, because it was endearing, really. "What if she's stubborn, like you, and doesn't listen when everyone tells her to date someone different?" she asked, unable to hide the smile on her lips. She wouldn't have been able to smile about that years ago in Seattle, when Thomas' dislike of her felt like something sharp between her ribs. But it was easier now, because she was pretty sure no one could talk him into leaving, not even her. He might fall in love with someone else, because she still didn't think there was any way to prevent that, but he wouldn't leave her because she was bad for him. The events after the party had proven that; if anyone was going to leave for his own good, it was her, not him. She kissed his cheek when he declared that a decade wasn't long enough, the press of lips slow and lingering, and her smile a tangible thing against his skin. "Can we freeze everything? Just like it is now? Can we make it stop and never change?" she asked as she brushed her lips against his jaw, the question a whisper she knew that he couldn't agree with. But she wanted it. She wanted everything to stop, pause, stay.
The baby's smile made her smile in return. "She likes you a little, I think," she teased, not that she was surprised by that at all. He was a great père; she couldn't imagine a better one, no matter how she tried. "And you won't rest here," she said knowingly, "and Gus will wake up without you there," she countered, not expecting the grip to her wrist that came a moment later. She looked down at his fingers, the white sleeve of her nightgown partially hiding his hand from view, and then she looked back at him with an arched brow over entertained grey. But she left the pacifier where it was, and she stretched her arm out, reluctant to break his grip as she slowly moved toward the room's sofa, not wanting the bed yet. Her steps were tiny and careful, and she made a contented sound as she sat down on the plush cushions. "Bossy," she finally said, but she was a little glad she hadn't bent down to pick up the pacifier, in the end. "Okay. You listen, but you ignore my really, really good suggestions," she amended, and that teasingly boyish smile made her heart ache in the very best possible way. "I would tell you to come here, but you're obviously busy," she said playfully, as she carefully curled one bare leg beneath herself.
He opened his mouth to protest, paused, and shook his head with a smile. They were both pretty stubborn, which meant she was going to be a handful when she was older; then again, Gus hadn’t been too bad yet. Maybe she wouldn’t be like either of them. “I’m not the only stubborn one, first of all, and secondly, I was different,” he asserted. “We were different. You weren’t bad for me, Wren. Not then, not now. The people who didn’t want me to date you were judgmental hypocrites who should’ve kept their mouths shut.” Maybe that was harsh, too much so, but it was true. Thomas and Max judged too much, they always had, and he’d hated it. Now, he’d just stopped caring; they still didn’t approve of his relationship but he didn’t need, or want, their approval anyway. He sighed when she kissed his cheek, the hint of tension which had slipped into his shoulders ebbing away as though it’d never been there at all. “I wish we could,” he said softly, when she asked if they could freeze time and keep it from changing. “We just have to make the most of the time we have, every single day.” His fingers slid over her cheek, the touch fleeting, as her lips brushed his jaw, one arm cradling the baby and keeping her against his chest.
“I’m pretty sure she just thinks it’s funny, because I almost always do what you want, no matter what it is.” He glanced down and murmured unintelligible, soft sounds at the little girl that were more babble than actual words. “I will so rest,” he protested, looking up again. “Gus has a houseful of animals and the sitter, and he knows I’m here with you and Delia. He won’t be upset, he’ll just bounce around the house impatiently waiting for us to get home.” Plus Gus had his phone number, and ever since he’d taught the boy to dial properly he’d had no qualms about calling him whenever the desire struck him. He was just as reluctant to release his hold on her wrist as she was to break it, and he watched her make her way to the couch with concern, ready to leap up at any moment just in case despite the baby in his arms. But she made it, and he exhaled when she sank down onto the sofa. “Bossy? Me? Never,” he said in mock outrage, and he laughed when she said he ignored her really, really good suggestions. “Baby, I love you, but I think you and I have different ideas of what a really, really good suggestion is,” he teased. He watched unabashedly as she curled her leg beneath her, and looked back down at the baby. “Your mother likes driving me crazy,” he confided in a loud whisper. “And she’s really good at it. Please don’t take after her.” He stood, then, careful, expecting her to cry with each step, but the baby seemed content enough even when he gingerly laid her back in the plastic bed. She waved her arms a little and put a tiny fist back in her mouth, which made him laugh as he turned away; he knew better than to think it would always be like this, and he knew the coming months would involve a lot of crying, but they’d get through it. Millions of parents around the world did, after all, and so could they.
It didn’t matter that she was in a nightgown, or that she’d given birth hours before; he still thought she was beautiful, curled up on the couch, and his expression said as much as he approached. “You look kind of lonely,” he remarked, lips twitching as he fought a smile, and he sank down onto the couch next to her.
She knew she was stubborn. She hadn't been, once upon a time. But it had happened without her noticing, and by the time she'd noticed she didn't know how to get rid of it. The girl she'd been would have let him do anything he wanted, would have let him have anything he wanted. There was still some of that, but there were things she just wouldn't let him do - like blame himself for things, think bad things about himself, flirt with other women. And she fought to leave, which she never would have done before; she wouldn't have fought. So, she knew he was right; she knew she was stubborn, and she looked down sheepishly, and she would have kept her gaze downcast if he hadn't insisted they were different. She looked up, grey eyes bright and ready for arguing. But he was so decisive in his comment about people judgmental hypocrites, and she just looked at him. She could argue. She could argue, because she thought he was wrong, but she was pretty sure he'd just argue back. "You could have fallen for a sweet, nice girl with a degree and a family, who didn't have a million arrests to her name," she finally said against his cheek, because it was so hard to stay quiet, especially when she thought he was wrong. But she pressed a kiss to his lips immediately, silencing him from argument. "I know you don't agree," she whispered, pulling back reluctantly once his fingers slid along her cheek.
And then she was settled on the couch, and she was giving him a look when he insisted that he would rest in the room. She didn't believe it, but there was a smile lingering on her lips at his comment about doing whatever she wanted. And she couldn't take her eyes off him when he murmured those soft little nothing sounds to the baby. "I wish I had my camera," she said, and she knew she'd be putting the camera to good use once she got home. It was a habit now, capturing moments and freezing them. It was a digital world, and she knew that, but there was something wonderful about a photograph that she could hold in her hand, a tangible memory, something that she could touch. She scoffed a little when he said he wasn't bossy, because he had become a little bossy in the past year. She shouldn't like it, but she did a little, and she understood that she had probably caused it in the first place. And it was hard to argue with him about her ideas being good ones. Really, it was, because if she'd been allowed her own way, he wouldn't be here with her, and he wouldn't be putting the baby down in the plastic bed, and he wouldn't be walking toward her. And after a childhood completely devoid of selfishness, she had moments where she couldn't help but be selfish, and this was one of them. "She'll have you wrapped around her finger before you know it," she said of the baby, who would probably give them less than an hour of quiet before she woke up screaming for milk.
She turned a little on the couch, once he sat down beside her. "I do like driving you crazy, though," she admitted in a playful whisper. She tugged on his sleeve, wanting him closer, and she slid her bare leg over his thigh carefully, scooting closer herself. "Hi."
His words of protest became a muffled sound against her lips when she kissed him, and while he didn’t necessarily mean that her being stubborn was a bad thing she did drive him crazy more often than not. She could wear him down like no one else, too; she was the one who pulled back, not him. “No,” he agreed, firm but more subdued after the kiss. “I don’t agree. You are nice and sweet, and I don’t care about degrees or families or how many arrests you have. Those things don’t define a person.” People who were perfect on paper weren’t necessarily perfect in reality, and he was unshakable in his belief that she was the best woman for him, the only woman for him.
He returned her look with one of his own, all exaggerated innocence, and he knew this was one battle she wouldn’t win. She could wear him down, sure, but he could wear her down too sometimes. “You’re going to take endless pictures once we’re home, aren’t you?” He didn’t say it like it was a bad thing, though; he beamed, pleased by the thought, and he knew once he went back to work he’d be the guy who never shut up about his kids and showed everyone the same pictures over and over. He’d never tried to hide his family life, just the opposite. He was proud of what he had, after all, so why act like it was something to be ashamed of? There was the occasional teasing since he probably made more personal calls than any guy there, but Matt was good with it and no one really gave him a hard time about it. He gave her a look when she scoffed but didn’t comment, because yeah, maybe he had gotten a little bossy. But sometimes he had to be, especially when she got ideas in her head that made no sense at all; like leaving being a good thing, for example. “Just like her mother,” he teased, of Delia wrapping him around her finger, and it was true. Everyone knew Wren could get him to do just about anything, and he so rarely denied her what she wanted. Some men, he realized, needed to be the dominant one. Some men wouldn’t do what their wives wanted so willingly, but he didn’t care about other men.
“I know you do,” he whispered back. He acquiesced easily when she tugged on his sleeve, sliding closer, and he wrapped his arms around her waist carefully. “Hey.” Quiet and fond, and his gaze turned searching when it found hers. “Are you happy?” He was; he was happier than he’d been in a while, and he never wanted it to stop, but he wanted her to be happy too.
She knew he didn't care about any of the things other people cared about. He didn't care that they were constantly almost broke because she didn't earn any money, and he didn't care that MK made fun of their clothes and their lives. He didn't care, but she did, and she wasn't going to let that rest once things were back to normal. She'd intended to make a fuss about it right after the baby was born, because she'd gone right back to work after Gus; she didn't see why she couldn't now. But sitting there, on that couch, she felt tired in a way she hadn't five years ago. And maybe time didn't pass without being noticed, because even sick, she'd had more energy at nineteen than she did right then. Nothing was wrong, and everything had gone right, and she still felt like she could maybe sleep ten hours straight if they let her. She knew it wasn't going to happen, not with the baby needing food every four hours. The nurse had taught her to pump after Luke had gone, but there was only enough left for one bottle, and then she'd need to wake up, regardless of what happened.
"I'll take endless pictures," she agreed. "I hope you're prepared. Gus is used to it now, being in front of the camera all the time." She paused. "I was thinking, I've been using Saint's darkroom, but I don't want to take the baby there until things calm down with whoever's after him. Maybe we can convert the attic?" She loved the space in the attic, and she and Gus constantly napped up there, under the windows, but there wasn't much space. And while she wouldn't mind risking herself to go develop pictures at Saint's, she wouldn't take Delia there. And she would have argued, if she knew what he was thinking about dominant husbands. Okay, so she had a tendency of getting what she wanted, but he was really, really good at putting his foot down these days. He was giving, but he wasn't really a pushover, not about big things, not anymore. But she didn't know what he was thinking, and then his arms were around her waist and nothing seemed to matter anymore. "Right now, I'm so happy I could burst," she said honestly. "I didn't think I would be," she admitted apologetically, looking toward the sleeping newborn for a second. "I didn't think it was a good idea, and I didn't think it would be okay, and I'm still scared. But I wouldn't change this for anything," she admitted, eyes going damp. "With Gus, I didn't even hold him," she said, her voice dropping to almost nothing. She didn't want to start crying, though, and she leaned forward and cupped his cheek before kissing him, kissing the tears away. Her fingers slid against his skin, until they were tracing his jaw, and the kiss was a sigh against his lips, a soft thing that was all wound up in yearning. "Je t'aime," she whispered as she drew back.
He was almost defiant in his refusal to care what others thought of them, which was the result of years upon years spent caring too much about outside opinions, of nearly killing himself to please everyone around him. MK could say what she liked; she was jealous, vindictive, and cruel, and he wasn’t going to waste time on someone like that even though the change in his old friend made him sad. She was nothing like the girl she’d been in Seattle, and maybe none of them were the same, but she’d changed for the worse. And they struggled with money from time to time, but they always regained their footing. They were fine, he’d make sure they were fine, and he didn’t want her pushing herself to go back to work just because she thought she needed to ‘do her share’. He was glad, admittedly, that she hadn’t brought up the topic of work yet, and he was hoping she’d at least give herself a couple of weeks to recuperate before starting up her insistence that she find a source of income.
“I think I’m as prepared as I’ll ever be,” he grinned. “Just make sure you get my good side.” He frowned at the mention of Saint, more specifically whatever trouble he’d gotten himself mixed up in, and he didn’t like the thought of her potentially getting involved with or without the baby. Personally he had no intention of letting them return there even if things did ‘calm down’, but he kept that to himself and nodded instead. “Yeah, sure. I’d feel a lot better that way,” he admitted. “Just let me know what you need and I’ll do it.” He knew nothing about darkrooms or developing pictures, never mind how to convert a room into one, but he could learn. And hearing her say she was happy was exactly what he’d hoped for, and he didn’t think he’d ever stop smiling, not even when she admitted that she hadn’t expected to be happy. “I wouldn’t change it either,” he told her. “And I’m scared too, but it will be okay.” His expression softened when her voice dropped, because he couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to have her child torn away from her so quickly, but whatever reassurances he’d intended were lost when she kissed him. He leaned forward without thinking, arms going just a little tighter around her, and he was reluctant to let her pull away, a quiet whine escaping as she drew back. “I love you too,” he breathed, and he should have let her rest, should have coaxed her to lie down with him until the nurses came in or the baby started crying, but he couldn’t help himself. He tugged her against him and slid one hand up to her jaw, coaxing her into another kiss. Just one, he told himself, and then he’d let her rest.
She didn't like to think about MK anymore. She missed her old friend so much, and she didn't even understand where everything had gone wrong. It was easy to blame it all on now, on the drinking, on Adam, on the baby. But things had been bad from there very beginning here. She'd tried and tried to make it okay, to get back what they'd had in Seattle, but she'd never been able to actually do it. And she knew MK had lost the boy she'd loved, and she knew MK still held it against her that she hadn't been around when it happened. But her old friend, the girl she'd been so close to, she would have understood that being homeless and sick meant falling out of touch. This MK, she didn't understand, and Wren's features went sad, sad for just a few seconds. But she didn't let it drag her down, and she didn't let the guilt of having a healthy baby eat her up. She'd tried to help MK, and she knew Luke had too, and nothing had gotten better. In fact, things had only gotten worse, and now she and MK didn't even talk to each other at all, not even as a formality.
"All your sides are good sides," she told him, and she didn't even think she was exaggerating. He could do no wrong as far as she was concerned, and there was no one more beautiful in the world. As a maman, maybe she should have thought her children deserved that particular compliment, but she couldn't help it. She lived for the man on the sofa with her, and she'd happily die for him too, and there was no changing that. And she wasn't surprised when he said he'd feel better about her using the attic instead of going to Saint's. It was only temporary, but Saint wouldn't actually tell her who was after him, and she knew he was back to investigating whatever had gotten him hurt. Until Delia was registered in the police department's infant care during the days, it was probably best for everyone. "It's only for a little bit, so you won't have to do much. Just board up the window and carry some things upstairs for me," she said of what would be needed to convert the attic into a darkroom. And she was calmer now. Now, she thought they might be okay, that they might be able to juggle it all - finances, children, doors. The way his expression softened only made her melt a little more, and she chased the kiss when he whined, wanting to claim that sound for herself. The arm around her waist made her shift a little closer, carefully, and she didn't care about how tired she was, not just at that moment. She closed her eyes when he slid his hand along her jaw, and now it was her turn to whimper needily, before he even managed to kiss her. Her fingers tangled up in the front of his hoodie, and then they slid beneath the fabric greedily, tugging at his shirt at the same time, wanting warmth and skin and contact. Fingertips slid along the skin just above the waistband of his pants, and she drew a line of kisses along his lower lip, warm breath and intentionally not letting him capture her mouth again. "I get to drive you crazy for four weeks," she finally breathed, as she dragged her eyes open again, mischief in the happy-bright grey.
He didn’t need to ask why her expression turned sad for those brief moments. Losing MK for her would be the equivalent of him losing Jack, and he knew if that ever happened he’d take it hard. They’d been so close in Seattle, after all, and he wished more than anything that he could somehow mend their friendship. But he couldn’t; he couldn’t even help her, no more than he could help Adam. They spat in his face, and hers, every time they tried, and they couldn’t sacrifice themselves trying to help people who were dead set on wallowing in their own misery and dragging down anyone who came close.
“You’re biased,” he told her, ducking his head with a quiet laugh. He didn’t say anything when she said using the attic would only be for a ‘little bit’, because he’d seen the shape Saint was in; someone had done a number on him. Whoever it was, he didn’t want them anywhere near Wren. Sticking your nose where it didn’t belong was dangerous in Vegas, dangerous for trained professionals and even worse for people, like Saint, who had no idea what the hell they were doing. If he wanted to keep his mouth shut and keep taking risks, fine, but he wasn’t dragging Wren down with him. “You could use it permanently,” he suggested lightly, without lingering, and he nodded at what she requested of him. “Boarding up a window and carrying boxes. Sounds easy enough.” He hadn’t been able to resist kissing her before and her whimper just made him want more, rising towards desperate, and it was hard to remember that they were in a hospital room and they weren’t supposed to do anything for four long weeks; she always had that effect on him. He was open-mouthed want and heat until her fingers slid across his skin, which caused his breath to hitch, and the line of kisses along his lower lip made him sigh, half pleased and half frustrated. The next four weeks would be an interesting test of self-restraint for him, and the thought made him laugh. “Yeah, I know,” he breathed. “And I bet you’ll love every minute of it. But for now, you need to rest.” He leaned back against the arm of the couch, pulling her with him, careful not to tug too hard.
"I'm not biased. I just know the truth," she said about all of his sides being good sides. She didn't realize he was planning anything about the attic, and she didn't even realize he was being internally disapproving. She knew she had to be careful with the baby, but he didn't have anything to worry about where she was concerned. She would have reminded him that he'd trained her to defend herself a long, long time ago, and she still practiced with her butterfly knives when he wasn't around, because it wasn't a skill she wanted to lose. Nothing was going to happen to her; she wasn't like Saint. She knew what it was to hurt someone, and she knew what it was to kill someone. But she didn't want the baby around that, so she smiled when he said he'd carry up the boxes, not paying much attention at all to the suggestion that she could use the attic permanently. "I think you're strong enough for a few boxes. Maybe," she teased, and then it was all lost in that kiss. She was breathing quick and shallow by the time he laughed, and her grin was a nearly hidden in a brush of lips against his cheek. "I will," she admitted of driving him crazy for the next month. It was her favorite little game, and they both knew it. But she knew he was right about resting, and even the kiss couldn't make her forget how tired she was, not now that it was over. She let him tug her, and she went without any resistance. She was ginger, careful movements and a few whimpers as she claimed his shoulder for her pillow. She was sure the nurses would come and frown, because the bed was over there, but she didn't care. She sighed as she settled against him, sore and limbs heavy with tired. She should tell him, she thought, that she would probably fall asleep fast. But then she forgot almost as soon as she had the thought, the warmth a lulling thing. She sighed, not yet asleep, but nearly there in an instant. "Rest," she managed, just that tiny, muttered and nearly unintelligible word, laced through with exhaustion as it was. She really should kiss him again, she decided. She would. She didn't need sleep. But of course she didn't move, not beyond lifting her wrist for a moment, the hospital bracelet sticking to the skin as her arm dropped back down again.
He didn’t argue with her when she said she saw the truth; he didn’t want to argue, not now, and maybe letting her have her convictions just this once couldn’t hurt. As for worrying, that was just part of who he was no matter how capable she was and it wasn’t going to change anytime soon. Even people who knew how to defend themselves could get hurt. He’d been trained, after all, and he’d still let them both be kidnapped, still been shot, not to mention all the horrible things that had happened to everyone around them. He couldn’t forget Jude, couldn’t forget Briggs, couldn’t forget Alexander. But those were dark things, parts of his past he didn’t want to think about; he didn’t want anything to ruin how he felt right then, happiness beyond his wildest dreams. “Maybe?” His mock outrage was cut off and forgotten in the kiss, which he was loathe to lose, and even the simple brush of lips against his cheek sent a thrill down his spine. He folded an arm behind his head for comfort as she settled against him, the other draped over her as his fingers rubbed circles on her shoulder. “Yeah, rest,” he whispered, and he smiled when she dropped her arm, knowing sleep had claimed her. He’d intended to stay awake himself but she was warm against him and he was tired. In the midst of his struggle to stay awake the door opened and one of the nurses entered, but instead of the disapproving frown he’d been expecting there was only fond exasperation, before she crossed the room to check on the baby. She nodded, as though to confirm that yes, she was fine, and that was when he lost the fight and sighed, allowing his eyes to close and sleep to overtake him.