"You could've hit your head on something."

"But I didn't."

"Only landed yourself one step closer to a knee replacement. Perhaps it would be better not to try to scale the Christmas tree next year."

MacKenzie gently lifted Will's leg, shoving pillows underneath. The ice pack landed with a plop and Will groaned.

"I'm in charge of Christmas morale," he said. "The angel goes on top of the tree and I couldn't send you up the ladder. Your center of gravity has significantly shifted."

"Says the man who lost his bet with gravity when he decided to balance on the windowsill instead of using a ladder. Don't move," Mac added when Will shifted uncomfortably.

He softened. "MacKenzie, I'm fine."

She smiled, the one that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. "I thought the angel was going to wait until everyone's here for Christmas Eve."

"I wanted everything to be ready." He didn't speak further and Mac didn't push him. How many of his Christmases had been marred by smashed decorations, holiday peace broken by drink-fueled rage? How many years had he paid for a generic, tastefully decorated tree to display for company parties, tossed to the curb on December 26?

She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I'm going to clean up the glass, then we'll get that knee wrapped and some meds into you."

Will's mouth quirked up at the corner, that mixed smile of pain and pseudo-bravery Mac had always found fascinating. She knew his knee was hurting more than he'd admit.

"I'll be here," he said.

She went into the darkened living room. Will had caught his foot in the string of lights lining the windowsill and pulled the plug loose from the wall, but the tree lights were still brightly blinking red, green, blue, and white. She stood for a minute and let the sight transfix her, trying to shake the heart-stopping memory of Will slipping and toppling into the tree, the sickening thud of him slamming into the hardwood on all fours. He was fine. They'd all be fine.

As she swept up the glass and turned off the lights for the night, she heard Will plucking at his guitar. He left it in reach of the bed now and it was their routine for Mac to stretch and toss and turn while Will played. The varied repertoire, from musical theater to lullabies, was usually enough to calm both Mac and baby. Tonight she came into the bedroom to strains of Silver Bells. Will stopped strumming and stared.

"Keep playing," Mac said. She made a detour to the medicine cabinet for the ACE wrap and Percocet. Will — the man who skipped therapy and carried prescriptions around in his wallet for a while in lieu of taking anything — would want to fight the pills. But they needed the sleep. Tomorrow they had coverage of the Obamacare enrollment deadline and Americans evacuated from South Sudan and marriage equality in Utah.

She perched on Will's side of the bed with the supplies. She slipped a pill between his lips and forced a glass of water into his hand.

"Take this," she ordered. "You'll sleep and you'll feel better."

He swallowed, rolling his eyes. Better to obey than to argue. He thought he'd lost his chance to learn the futility of fighting with a pregnant woman and there was the added benefit of Mac being right. He needed to manage his throbbing knee enough to at least hobble between his office and the studio tomorrow.

"'Atta boy," she quipped. Lifting the warming ice pack, she wrapped Will's knee. She winced as he hissed; she'd hit a tender spot.

"Sorry."

"S'okay," he said drowsily.

Readjusting his legs on the pillows, she circled the bed and climbed in beside him. She turned on her side facing him, her stomach filling the space between them. Will gave her a small dreamy smile.

Mac stretched up and kissed him. "Go to sleep, Billy. Everything looks beautiful."

He was quiet for a few minutes and she watched his body grow heavy as he sank into the bed. She played with his fingers, turning off the lamp as his breathing deepened.

"Merry Christmas."