Author's Note: So this is a Jesus x Emma fanfic, because I was inspired to write it and there doesn't seem to be many out there. I love them together and think they're adorable together, but no matter if they stay together as end game or break up (I hope for the former) they'll always have a connection to one another. I wanted to explore this said connection, in a way that I feel it would be seen if they were end game. :P

So, the timeline of this fanfic in its present day is 10 years after where the show is right now. They're 26 years old. Without giving away much, the italics are flashbacks, if not also indicated by line breaks, and bolded parts are either character's thoughts, or a tonal emphasis; it's easy to decipher between the two when reading.

I do switch perspectives once, but if I were to continue this, I'd want some more of it in Emma's perspective as well, seeing as most of it (almost all) is in Jesus' perspective. I know how I'd keep going if I were to, but for right now, this is seen as more of a one-shot given the time and place.

Tell me what you think, I love to hear from people, and whether or not you'd want me to continue! With that, I give you: "Baby Love"

It felt like a reversal; he was taken unexpectedly off of his feet, slammed to the ground and for a moment the wind was brutally knocked out of him as he struggled in his opponent's grip, unable to escape, this time.

Everything was in a frenzied rush, they'd gotten to the hospital, and a nurse had started wheeling her back to Labor and Delivery without so much as a blink, nonplussed by the occupation she's probably had – judging by the aging of her face and hands – for more than twenty years.

This unnerved him, it was disconcerting, because here they were, a frightened and uncertain couple in their mid-twenties, in the hands of somebody who seemed very indifferent to whether or not they had a successful birth or not, whether or not they actually left the hospital with the baby whose arrival they'd been anticipating for exactly eight months and three weeks, to the day.

"Ems, it's going to be okay. I promise you."

"You can't promise me something like that, Jesus."

He nodded, fairly agreeing in silence.

"Well, I can promise you that no matter what happens in that delivery room, I will be with you every single step of the way. Just like you were, with me. I wouldn't have gotten so far as to fully recover, with only minimal and far and few in between side effects, if it wasn't for you."

She shook her head, her face twisting in downright agony as another contraction passed through her.

"You can't say that. It wasn't just me, now was it? But I appreciate what you're doing, nonetheless."

Squeezing her hand just as she squeezed his, although with much more force, he looked ahead and watched as the nurse turned her wheelchair into a room in the Labor and Delivery ward.

"Alright, Ems. This is it. Are you ready?" He smiled at her. "I sure as hell am."

Jesus pulled her close and kissed her forehead, inhaling the scent of her skin; it wasn't any froufrou perfume by some celebrity, or any other guy's cologne, thank god for that. It didn't really smell like anything special, anything he could otherwise name, but still, he loved it.

"I missed you. When you were gone."

She took a deep breath that he felt against his chest, and sighed. "I missed you too, Jesus. And I'm sorry for not, you know, calling you, and breaking my promises to video chat. I swear, babe, we just got caught up with the bot. I wasn't screwing some foreign guy behind your back or anything."

That last bit came out in a tumble of a bashful giggle and shamed, bated, breaths.

"That wasn't funny," he told her, but when she smiled, he let it go, biting his lip to keep from screaming as he kissed her again.

Nipping her bottom lip softly, he whispered into her mouth – "you better not have been, Ems. I love you too much, and you love me too much, right?" - and by the shiver that elicited, it was clear she'd been thinking of him on that trip, even if her words denied it forwards and backwards, her body would contradict.

It wasn't even a sexual comment, nothing to necessitate physical intent, but by the way she reacted, it was as if it were, as if he'd just ask her to have sex with him on his bathroom floor, which, now that he thought about it, would actually be kind of hot. They could have a quick shower together, their hands being hands, touching everything within reach, and after, they'd trip over the sill in their haste, and she'd curse – both at him and at her own klutziness, shit, as they sunk to the floor, their next movements anything but elegant. Now he was the one shivering.

"I know," she murmured into his ear, winding her hand into his hair. "I just…I love you so much, and seeing you suffering like this…I don't like it."

Jesus put his lips against the side of her head, grasping onto the hand that was in his hair, and they stood like that, in his bedroom, the one he shared with Jude, both poised to rip each other's clothes off, or to just cuddle, for hours on end, until they fall asleep. He thought it could go either way, and that he wouldn't particularly care which way it went.

That was how much he missed her; he missed feeling her in his arms, in any and all capacities and he missed hearing her voice, explaining to him how exactly girls can put guys in a headlock, because, admittedly, sometimes, as Mariana so graciously pointed out the other night, he could be a sexist asshole. He was one, until he met the one and only Emma Kurtzman: the girl who wrestled, and was damn good at it, the girl who loved math, and science, and would probably go to a great school after graduation and engineer the hell out of electrical projects (was engineer even a verb in that context? Who cares if it is, she'll do it anyway).

She'll do it, because she's an amazing girl, an amazing woman, an amazing person, someone he loves more than the man he was named after in culture, and ironically at that, because Ana seemed to be as far from religious as someone could get. Although, he wasn't religious either, and didn't even acknowledge his impartialness to the whole thing, so that scale didn't say much.

What did though, was that he loves her more than he's ever loved someone before, more than he ever could love another person, ever, in his lifetime. Lately, he's been playing with hypotheticals, and this hypothetical, of never loving another girl as much as he loves her, ever, until he dies, is a crazy one, an amazing one.

"I know, Ems. I know…it kills me, because…it killed me because…to think that you don't love me anymore, or that you don't want to be with me anymore…because of this stupid thing, this TBI…"

"Oh Jesus," she cooed into his ear, and he wanted to pretend not to notice the way her breathing became heavier, with sudden, sharp intakes of air as she took her bottom lip underneath her teeth, stifling the sob at the back of her throat. He absolutely hated that this was upsetting her so much. It upset him too, but frankly, what didn't set him off these days?

"I hope you know that I'm not that shallow. And I never will be. When you love someone, you stick with them through thick and thin, you help them when they need it, however you can. And I'll help you. I'll always help you, Jesus. I'm not just going to give up on you. Whatever you need, I'm here, because I love you."

She paused, and took his hands in hers, squeezing, forcing him to look at her, straight on. "You need to understand that just like you, I haven't fully accepted – no, wrong word – understood, what's happened to you, what is happening to you. But you're still Jesus. You're still my Jesus…and I love you just as much as I did before all of this…I'm sorry I've kind of been absent lately…I just needed time to breathe…to figure this all out….you know?"

"I know," he said, rubbing his thumb along her cheek. "I needed that time too. I just wish we had it together, and not apart. I needed you, Emma. I still do."

That hit her hard. He could see it the way her face crumpled and deflated, in the way those little pouty lips, that, depending on his mood, he either found incredibly beautiful, or sexy in an otherworldly way, downturned at the corners, collapsing entirely in the middle so her smile was gone, and he found himself feeling guilty as hell; that gorgeous smile of hers, the one that showed every last one of her teeth, the one that showed that adorable dimple, exclusive only to her right cheek, was his favorite physical feature of hers.

Sure, she has rocking legs with calf muscles that even he was envious of (and he'd take that to the grave) that were womanly enough so they didn't alter the litheness of her body, and a nice chest, but her smile takes the cake. The dimple makes it an expression of a downright tease, but on the other side of that, it gives her the expression of a child, radiating purity and innocence, to their very core. When she smiled at him, which before all of this, was as often as she'd talked to him, he was always so conflicted, tongue tied, and this was went as far back as to when they first met, when they ran into each other (almost literally) on the beach. "Well that's cool you know, doing it on your own."

"Ems, hey," he spoke softly, lifting her chin with his finger and then placing a gentle kiss to her lips when she looked up.

"I'm sorry, okay? I'm not angry at you…for pulling away after…you know…I'm not angry at you for any of it…anymore. I was, but…only because you didn't tell me about it. Any of it. I just wished you'd have put your faith in me before…I know that it was your choice, ultimately, and that I'll be a dad one day – just that now's not the right time. I understand, Ems. Why you did it. And I don't – I don't hate you for it. I could never."

She gave him a semblance of her smile, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. "Thank you. For telling me that." Hugging him close, she continued. "You don't know how much I needed to hear you say that."

He could remember seeing her face, massacred by tears and makeup, seeing her hair, sticking to her damp cheeks, flat against the pallor of her skin, waves of anguish making ripples in her frustrated expression. "I thought it was for the best!"

He'd rather die before he hurt her like that again. "I don't hate you," he repeated quietly into her hair, tightening his grip around her waist.

Just then, the door to his room slammed open, and there, standing in the hallway, was none other than Mariana, being her obnoxious self, as per usual. Jesus loved his sister dearly, she was his twin, and they had that hokey twin-sense bond people talked about, but she could be a real idiot sometimes. Bless her heart, as his grandma would say.

"Jesus, Moms need you to – oh, hello, Emma. Fancy seeing you back around here."

Emma raised her head from the crevice of his neck and blushed, raising her hand slightly as if to wave but then put it down like she thought better of it. "Look Mariana, I'm sorry about the other day. I was a real asshole, I know that. It's just –"

She tilted her head up to look at him for only a second, before tearing her eyes away and staring at Mariana again, standing there with her arms crossed, waiting for an explanation. Like she was owed one. "What?"

"Your brother and I…it's been tough," she sighed. "Really tough. But we've talked it out and I think we'll be okay now. Better than okay," she smiled at him and he leaned down to kiss her again.

"I just…I didn't really mean what I said. We'd like to have you back on the team, when the suspension is lifted. If you want."

Mariana smiled and clapped her hands together. "You mean it?"

When Emma nodded, his sister launched herself at his girlfriend, tackling her in a bear hug, the very same one he himself was also famous for giving. It must be a twin thing.

"Oh, Emma, thank you! I really want us to be friends again, because I miss you and seeing as you and Jesus…everything's good between you two now, it won't be awkward. I'm so, so, sorry for – "

"It's okay, Mariana, really," Emma reciprocated her hug. "I'm kinda done talking about it, okay?"

Mariana let her go and nodded solemnly. "Okay. So we're friends again?"

"Friends," Emma agreed. "By the way, you give hugs just like your brother."

He laughed, surprised that she noticed and even more that she said something. He pulled her back against his chest by her waist. "But mine are way better, right?"

He spun her around to face him before she could respond, and hugged her even tighter than Mariana had, his arms nearly encompassing her entire body. "And my hugs come with kisses."

She laughed when he kissed both of her cheeks, twice over, like a slobbery dog. "Don't you love my kisses, babe?"

"Mm mm…" she mumbled, attempting to speak against his lips, now. "Not really, no," she answered, when their lips parted a moment before joining together again, as he deftly maneuvered his tongue into the equation.

"How about now?" he breathed, attaching their mouths again. "Oh, yes." Her voice was rough, almost husky. "Very much, actually."

"Okay, gross! I'm out of here," Mariana declared, and before she could get too far, Jesus took a break to call out, just loud enough so his sister could hear: "could you close the door?"

"Yeah, but Moms are going to kill you if they know Emma's upstairs with you. All you've been talking about is sex, apparently. Cut it out, horn dog."

Emma's laughter was the only thing anybody else could hear before the door was shut, leaving them in their own little world for the time being.

He could remember the first time they almost kissed. She had come to his grandpa's funeral unannounced, looking cute in a dress the color of the occasion, and handing him a casserole dish – a kugel – with that damn smile on her face. She'd introduced herself to Lexi, unprompted and unceremoniously, over video chat, and when she smiled as she said her name, with an embarrassed though comfortable enough to keep talking sort of wave, he could see that Lexi had felt threatened. What he hadn't known in that moment was that she had a right to be.

After what was more of a celebration of life had begun to wind down, he walked her out, and before saying goodbye, he'd just stared at her. He'd noticed that her hair was curled, in loose ringlets, brushing her shoulders with the daintiness of a girl, not at all like the person he knew on the wrestling mat. It was somewhat exhilarating to see her in that light, wondering what her lips would feel like on his, as he was sure she was thinking too, by the look in her eyes and the transparent way she asked about Lexi. "How long is she going to be in Honduras?"

The first time they actually kissed, well, the first time she kissed him, was after that wrestling match, to see which one of them would be warming the bench. He had it. He was so close…until he wasn't. Until he had her pinned down on that mat, and her eyes flashed – she wasn't seeing him as her opponent, or team mate, she was seeing him as the boy she may or may not have a crush on, the boy who stood in front of her on his porch, with a Pedro's snapback on his unruly curls, getting into a heated debate about kugel with her and smirking; the boy who told her that he had no idea when his girlfriend was coming home. None at all.

He saw her differently, too. She wasn't like him. She was pretty. Not girly, really, but pretty, attractive, with a spitfire attitude and a flirty persona he didn't know was deliberate or not. Once he saw her that way, like the girl she was, the girl he was just friends with, he loosened his grip on her arm. He couldn't hurt her pride by having her lose to him. No way.

She was angry. She'd stalked off after he'd congratulated her and he followed, asking her what was wrong. When her hand touched his cheek, he was surprised, even more so when she leaned in and kissed him, and not a pathetic excuse for a kiss, either. Her mouth was warm, soft, almost comforting against his and damn him to hell because he didn't want it to end. It did, much too soon, and all she said to him before leaving him standing there, still shocked and confused by the kiss was: "god, you make me mad."

When he saw her twitch from the bed and groan quietly in her sleep, he was reminded of the time, nearly fifteen years ago, when he was a hormonally imbalanced male adolescent, otherwise known as a perpetually horny teenager, and she was his girlfriend, a hard sell in the sex department, with her stupidly tight jeans and t-shirt that hugged her taut abdomen, with a nicely forming six pack.

Being both a wrestler and a dancer, she had the luxury of a shapely body, curves and all, that he loved to grasp in his hands when he held her hips in place when she would teasingly, or not so teasingly, try and walk away, excuses on her lips and a light blush on her cheeks.

"Jesus, we have to study. You want to ace this test, right?" "Your sisters are home." "If you must know, I'm on my period."

That last one made him choke on his soda, and the carbonation burn the inside of his nose. All she did was laugh and walk away towards the front door, indolently swaying her hips, and calling over her shoulder. "You asked, Foster. I answered."

One particular day though, they were lounging on the couch, barely paying attention to the movie that was playing in front of them. Well, he wasn't paying attention. He was too busy watching her pay attention, her eyes glued to the screen, a light blue naturally, but even lighter with the frosty sunlight of an early spring day coming in through the windows. She had her fingers pressed against her lips, showing just how focused she really was on the dumb romantic comedy they were watching, and he sighed, pulling on a strand of dark hair that had come loose from her braid.

"I'm calling it now. He's going to end up with April in the end. Even if Emily is his wife. Ex-wife. Whatever."

"Emma?" he asked, hating to break her concentration, just because she looked so adorable, relaxed and the opposite of shy as she draped her legs over the rest of the couch, her head on his legs, as if she already were a permanent fixture in their home. He loved it. So, he let her watch in silence for a few more minutes when she didn't answer him.

Then, he tried again. "Babe?"

"Huh?" she angled her head to look at him. "Did you say something?"

Pressing pause on the remote control and changing his position slightly, he cleared his throat and put on a voice he hoped sounded at least remotely seductive as she sat up.

"I'm a little bored, actually…I think you and I can find something much more interesting to do…"

Pushing himself lightly onto her, he found her lips, which had been pursed in confusion before he kissed her and a smirk overtook them.

"Oh yeah? You think?"

Jesus smiled into their kiss, roping his hands through her hair and kissing her neck, just how she liked it. "Mhm…."

They were into it for a minute. Really into it, actually, as he felt the straps of her bra just underneath her tank top, the black straps peeking out from underneath her shirt, almost daring him to go for it. He reached for the left strap and slid it down her shoulder, but then her hand stopped his as she separated from him.

"Your Moms could walk in any time, Jesus. We could get caught."

"Isn't that the fun of it?"

She narrowed her eyes at his devilish grin and shook her head.

"Never have I ever gotten caught making out with my boyfriend, by my boyfriend's parents, on their couch. And I don't plan on having a drink after saying that anytime soon either."

"Oh, come on, Emma. I promise you, we won't get caught."

Again, she shook her head. "I don't trust you."

Undeterred, he leaned over her and kissed her once more, advancing to her neck. "I'll kiss your neck…for as long as you want…"

As he continued to lavish her neck and she squirmed with impatience that he totally got off on, he surprised her by taking her hands and pinning them above her head. "And we can do a bit of this…."

"Jesus Foster!" she admonished in a breathy, desperate gasp. "You're terrible."

"But you love me," he teased, grinding his hips against hers, noticing how already, she was fighting against his grip; not in an I-want-to-be-free-so-I-can-touch-you way, but a don't-let-go-of-my-hands-you-asshole-or-we'll-never-do-this-again way.

In the months they'd been dating, he learned that she loved the anticipation of things, the build-up, and the tense, twisting pull in the bottom of her belly, right before everything fell: like Dominos or a volcanic eruption. Maybe that's why she enjoyed chemistry so much. It reminded her of sex. Sex with him.

"That I do," she managed, struggling against the blinding force of his grip on her hands, and his motions across her hips and pelvic region. "Dammit."

As they kept going, the sloppier they got, and in no time at all they were physically sweating, and only half clothed. Her skinny jeans hung very low on her hips and the little pink G-string surprised him, enough that he almost whispered 'nice panties, babe' in her ear, but only made that comment in his head, so that he avoided getting slapped across the face. Or worse.

"Oh my – Jesus Adams Foster! What in the hell do you think you're doing, young man?"

His mom didn't sound particularly angry, and it was more with a soft, understated, realization that she scolded him; more like she was yelling at herself for letting two teenagers, who were dating, to stay home unsupervised.

The two of them rushed to separate, and he saw her scrambling to straighten her top, before realizing that she didn't have one on anymore, and with resignation, pulled her bra strap back onto her shoulder from where it had been, halfway down her arm.

Stef saw this, and in true Stef fashion couldn't resist saying something. "Emma, honey, you're still undone at the back."

As Emma blushed, mumbling a pointless apology while doing the clasp back up, Jesus saw his mom smirk.

That was the first time they'd gotten caught. There was more, because as they got older, they actually got more naive in choosing places to do it – his room, with the door wide open; the kitchen floor (that time, at sixteen, they had just seen the pilot episode of How I Met Your Mother, the show she'd been begging him to watch ever since she'd started it the week before. He had the idea, while watching Marshall and Lily celebrate their engagement, and she'd gone along with it – 'why not?'); the kitchen table (afterwards, he'd made a mental note to thank Sex in the City for that one, because holy shit).

The most adventurous, and most embarrassing, was the stairs leading up to the second floor (he would forever curse both Meredith Grey and Derek Shepherd for romanticizing it, and his girlfriend, for falling for the trick of its fake appeal. He had bruises that stayed purple for two weeks on his tailbone, and constant reminders from Mariana about what she'd seen, accompanied by constant, tacky jokes). His sister actually had the nerve to talk about the tawdriness of the event in her wedding toast, as Emma's maid of honor, and everybody who hadn't known and would have gladly went their entire lives without having known about it, now knew.

He couldn't help but think now that their sex life would slow down, if not stop altogether now that Mia was here. Sure, they had a lot of pregnancy sex, early on, in the second trimester, even pushing it as far as literally a week before their daughter's due date, which had then induced labor, something that wasn't planned, and here they were, seven hours later.

"Jesus?"

Emma was looking at him with hooded, tired eyes, her hair damp and sticking a little to the skin of her shoulders, still wet from her shower a couple hours before. She seemed exhausted, but completely keyed up, just the same, and before he had never thought that type of emotion could exist; not until they had entered the hospital at four o'clock this afternoon, and then five hours later, when he witnessed the insane miracle of childbirth, when he felt that way too, just, obviously not to the extent she did.

The tears still came freely down his face, and he could taste them on the flesh of his lips, when he held his baby girl in his arms for the very first time, but his whole body didn't feel like it had been run over, again and again, by a hundred pound freight train (her words, not his).

He then argued that she still looked beautiful, despite the sweat and the tears and the ratty hair; she still looked beautiful because the smile on her face was angelic; it was so blissful with this transcending peace that, in his opinion, every new mother should be downright jealous of.

"Yeah, Ems? You're awake. Did you sleep okay?"

She nodded, shifting a little on the bed as she sat up a bit more, with a small smile at him.

"Could you hold her, please? I need to – um – use the bathroom."

He smiled at her, coming over to the bed to take the infant from off of her chest, but not before softly kissing her forehead.

"Are you sure you're okay to get up? You don't need any help?"

"I'm fine."

When he tried to support her arm as best he could with the baby, she shook him off. "Seriously. I'm good. I got this. Just don't wake her."

With that, she got up albeit very slowly and left the room, even as he didn't feel very comfortable about it. If it were up to him, he'd call a nurse to escort her, but she wasn't having any of that; exactly like the way she never really had any of what he would say, back when they were not-seriously dating. At least, that was the term he'd use for what they'd been doing, because friends with benefits sounded cheap and dirty, like motel sex, and she was the last thing he'd ever call cheap and dirty.

"Oh my god, no Mariana, I'm not wearing this. No. Way."

That got his attention. He could hear his sister's response, and within it, the thinly veiled exasperation, along with her signature eye roll.

"You look sexy as hell. What's wrong with it?"

Sexy he thought to himself, sexy as hell, a mischievous smirk forming his mouth, and mischievous other things, forming elsewhere. She looks sexy as hell …right outside my bedroom door…

"That's exactly my point, Mariana. He sees me as an intelligent, sporty, kick ass person, who just happens to be a girl. I don't need him seeing me like – "

"Like what, Emma? He already can't keep his paws off of you, as if you haven't noticed, he grabs at your hips and ass every chance he gets – creep. He already knows you're sexy, naturally, but now you just get to show him that you can work at it, too."

"Oh geez, Mariana. No. Besides, I feel like I just ate the entire Atlantic Ocean. My love for blueberry scones is a curse. He doesn't want to see this."

He could just picture the way she was combing her fingers through her hair and biting the inside of her cheek in that nervous way of hers. The forcefulness of her voice was becoming less intense though, almost as if she were actually thinking about possibly, maybe, letting him see her in…whatever it was she was wearing right now.

"Shut up. You've literally got the best body I've ever seen in my entire freaking life. Maybe I should start wrestling."

Jesus scoffed underneath his breath from where he was lying on his bed, now only pretending to listen to music.

It seemed that Emma had the same thoughts as he did, because she also scoffed, and from his vintage point, he could just see the color of her hair, falling down her back as it usually did, as she shook her head.

"Stop it, okay? And we don't want you mucking up that pretty little face of yours now do we?"

He was so glad she hadn't decide to cut it shorter for the summer just yet, because he wasn't ashamed to say that, when they were making out, or doing other, X-rated things, his hands usually went to her hair, carding his hands through it, all the way down until his fingers untangled the matted parts at the end, usually gotten from wrestling practice, when she struggled getting her hair out of the messy bun she'd stuck it in, or any other up-do. She always tells him that she loves when he does that, specifically using the words 'playing with her hair' – and so it's for both of them, because Jesus Foster loves to please his girl.

Suddenly, as Emma moved out from behind Mariana's doorway, he could see her back to him. More accurately, he could see her bare back, with strings tied around her neck…black ones. 'Holy fuck,' he mentally cursed in slight delirium at the thought of what could be clothing her body right now. 'She's wearing a bikini. A teeny, tiny, little thing that barely covers the – '

"Emma, honestly. Be a girl for once. No. Scratch that. A woman. Be a fierce woman that slays all of mankind with her Victoria's Secret Angel body. If you don't want to do it for Jesus, so god help him, do it for me. Do it for all us women out there."

He could practically see Emma's hand to her forehead even though she wasn't facing him. The way her back arched forward made it clear that she was leaning closer to Mariana, probably shaking her shoulders, knocking some sense into her, telling her to shut up – things, as siblings, he, Brandon, Jude and Callie do on a daily basis.

For once though, he wished that it wasn't happening, because he actually agreed that Mariana's idea was a good one. Scratch that, a very good one, he thought, staring intently at the small cluster of freckles in between her shoulder blades.

He loved those freckles, and he rarely ever saw them, because she put the effort in to cover them up whenever possible, and he'd tease her, when they were naked and in bed, when she couldn't possibly cover them: he'd kiss them over and over, trace them in a continuous pattern, and tell her that she was ashamed of her Swedish roots.

She'd laugh and insist they were just birth marks, nothing more, because her last name was German, as far as she knew, and then she'd tease him for unwarrantedly researching her, because how else would he know that Kurtzman was first a Swedish name? "Why are you so obsessed with me, Foster?"

"Fine, I'll do it. But only because I spent hours looking in the stupid store and spent a whole paycheck on it. So I might as well put it to good use. But the beach…" she trailed off, sighing in defeat as Mariana clapped her hands.

"Yay! Okay, now go strut into my brother's bedroom like your only thought is tearing his clothes off."

"Mariana, seriously? Come on. Don't say stuff like that, please, he's your brother. For the sake of my sanity, just don't."

'So it is a bikini…thank you dear lord in heaven.' Jesus groaned a tiny bit louder than he'd anticipated, and it made both girls stop dead for a few seconds.

"Okay, if he's doing what I think he's doing in there…I'm not interrupting his Jesus time. No way."

Mariana grimaced and stuck out her tongue, while Emma's reaction to her own words was unclear.

"His door is wide open. He is not doing what you think he's doing. Besides, who knows if that was even him? That could be Brandon, or god forbid Jude…"

"Oh my god, Mariana. Seriously, please stop. Besides," her voice dipped into a sultry octave, sly and barely above the decibel of echoing footfalls. "I know exactly what Jesus sounds like…and that was a Jesus moan."

"Ew!" Mariana squealed, miming vomiting. "You pay way too much attention to the unimportant things, sweetie. How they sound when you do things to them isn't your biggest issue. It's the reciprocation factor. I don't have Mat's rumbly groan committed to memory, and neither should you. "

Emma laughed. "By the way you just said 'rumbly groan' it's safe to say that you're a total hypocrite. And Jesus doesn't have a rumbly groan. He has more of a raspy sigh, it's loud, too, which I know doesn't really make sense but if I hit just the right spot…trust me, it makes complete sense then."

Mariana covered her face with her hands and screamed softly.

'Drama queen. And raspy sigh? That's not a very masculine sound. She's probably got it wrong. I swear it's not like that…is it? Oh god.'

"Oh my god, shut up, Emma! That's my twin brother you're talking all dirty about."

"I know," Emma replied, and he could actually hear the spite coming off of her tongue. "Serves you right for making me wear this stupid thing."

Mariana rolled her eyes. "Come on, best friend. It's my birthday. Stop being verbally abusive. And," she winked, "it's your boyfriend's birthday, too. I bet he's waiting for you to waltz in there and be like: 'happy birthday, babe. Wanna wrestle?'"

Emma laughed again, but it wasn't all in humor. "I do not sound like that. And just because we're on the wrestling team together does not mean we actually wrestle each other for fun…all the time…"

At her confession, he couldn't help but chuckle. 'Practice makes perfect. Practice also leads to slightly aggressive sex, too.' At that thought, he moaned again.

"See? There he goes again. Briefs in a knot because he can probably hear us talking in here. All about the outfit you're wearing."

"Boxers," she said quietly. "Jesus wears boxers."

"Oh, for god's sake, just shut up and go," Mariana told her, shoving her shoulders and pushing her out the door. "And tell him he forgot to wish me a happy birthday at breakfast this morning."

"Well that's ironic."

Those were her last words before she was standing in his doorway, not saying anything now, with her hands placed delicately and with mild uncertainty, on her hips, her left one cocked to the side.

"Oh, baby," he moaned at the sight of her, the full sight of her, facing him. He stood up and made grabby hands for her, hooking his thumbs inside the lace of the revealing corset, thinking to himself that for the amount of clothing that she had on, she may as well be stark naked.

Hugging her hips, and making a beeline for her ass, he pulled her all the way into his room and kicked the door shut with his foot, though the last words he made sure Mariana could hear was "Christ, you look so goddamn sexy in that."

It was more of a purr than spoken words, but he knew his sister would get the gist. Convincing Emma to go through with her birthday present to him just now was enough, she was off the hook for his next seven birthdays. When Emma pushed her hand against his chest and made him crash against the adjacent wall, and her hair, done like a 50's pinup girl from a dirty magazine, brushed his cheek, he took back his earlier statement. His sister didn't need to get him anymore birthday presents, ever.

"Can you guess where we're going?"

"Uh…" his head was still a little dizzy from seeing her like this, and it only intensified after she roughly mauled his mouth with her lips and tongue. "The bed?"

They'd gotten so much better at the whole having sex thing since they were fifteen, and so whenever the opportunity presented itself, he didn't hesitate.

"No, Mr. Wise Ass. We're actually leaving your bedroom."

Jesus pouted. "Wait – no – what –"

Emma rolled her eyes and pressed her face into his neck and began to kiss and suck on his clavicle. "Relax doofus, we're still going to have sex. Don't worry your horny little head."

"I wasn't," he argued. "Honestly. You wouldn't deprive me of sex on my eighteenth birthday."

"Try me babe," she said against his skin, moving to kiss his lips again. "But then I'd be depriving myself of an orgasm or two, and why would I want to do that?"

"Because you're acting in schadenfreude."

"Really? Another German word?"

"How do you know it's German?" he challenged her, beginning to give her neck the same treatment she gave his.

"Because," she moaned softly, attempting, he could tell, to grasp onto the mental strength it took to speak, even if she just wanted so badly, and obviously, to let herself go, right here. "Schaden means hurt in German. So, Foster, what does it mean?"

He smirked, pushing her up from off of his chest, and keeping her in place. "It means you're acting in a way that's taking pleasure in seeing people's misfortunes. Or, in your case, because you'd be missing out on at least four mind blowing orgasms, your own."

She raised her eyebrows. "Four, really? Somebody's confident."

"And I have a right to be, trust me," he spoke very low and gravelly as he snuck his hand in between her legs, roaming teasingly, before applying a tiny bit of pressure where the pulsing came from, but achingly, not enough.

"Ah, ah, ah, yes…a little more babe, please…Jesus, come on…you love me, right? Stop screwing around, Foster and do your thing."

"My thing? Hm…what exactly is 'my thing'?"

He was teasing her, taunting her with gratification that was within reach, just not hers. And it sucked. For her.

"You know. What it is. You…you've done it…plenty of times."

With her breath so heavy it was hard to speak around it, and she actually felt reduced to whine. And she never whines. Ever. She wasn't weak like that.

She felt him press harder and nearly screamed in delight. Fine, if he wanted to play hardball, they could do that.

"Babe…I think I'm going to cancel our plans. We were going to go to the beach and fuck each other's brains out after the sun sets, but you know what, I don't think I'm up to it. I think I might have the flu, actually, so you should probably get as far away as you can from me in case I'm contagious," she smirked. "Which is a very likely possibility. Very likely, indeed."

That did it.

"Okay. Fine, I give." He stepped away from her, and she actually let out a whimper, which he laughed at.

"Jesus! I didn't mean stop!"

He shook his head as he grinned. "Well what did you want then, Ems?" He was playing innocent, naïve, stupid.

"Ugh," she groaned. "You frustrate the hell out of me, Foster. You know that?"

They did end up going to the beach that night. And they did get sand in unmentionable places, as well as everywhere else. Emma ended up getting stung by a wasp on her lower back, and it swelled up pretty bad at first, so for weeks whenever he saw it he would call it a tramp stamp and laugh, which just made her more annoyed than she already had been about the whole fiasco.

It definitely wasn't as romantic as he pictured but when she explained her reasoning to him afterwards when they were lying on a Mexican blanket and curled against each other so tightly, to block out the unforeseen wind-chill, it made it all worthwhile, and the most thoughtful gift yet.

"Remember when you called me bossy, when I vetoed being on the beach for our first time?"

"Yeah. I'm still pretty broken up about it, to be honest with you, bossy pants."

She shoved his chest. "Shut up. Anyway, I wanted to let you – let us – experience it. Because it was something you saw as special and romantic. So…"

He buried his face in her hair, breathing in. She smelt like salt water and fresh hair, and for a moment he reveled in it. This is what he wanted back when he was fifteen years old and desperate for a physical bond. Making love. Sex. Whatever girls loved to call it. Personally, he settled on sex.

He just wanted this moment with her, laying here, wrapped up in each other afterwards, sweaty and hot, listening to the waves crash onto the shore with a calmed vigor, and the wind (that he wished was warmer) brush through their hair. And he got it. Finally.

"I love you. So damn much."

"I love you too. Happy Birthday."

When Brandon found out through Mariana's stupid big mouth a few weeks later, no doubt from Emma telling her the plan before it happened, he was weirdly indifferent. "I tried it with Court. It was terrible, honestly. But if you enjoyed it, I'm not ragging on you. Good for you, bro. What a gift. Totally beats my gift card to Sport Check."

That it did.

Ever since their precious baby came into the world mere hours ago, from the first time he held her, to now, the weight of her there felt foreign, different. He wasn't used to holding something so small, so lifelike, in his arms; he didn't grow up with any pets around, so there was no comparing it to holding a puppy or kitten, or even something like a hamster. There was no comparing it to anything, because the feeling couldn't actually be described verbatim, there was no way. It was just a feeling.

He felt responsible for this baby, this human life, felt like he needed to give her everything he could offer her in his power and even beyond it. He would strive to make her life the best he possibly could, to be her father, more importantly her dad, when nobody else ever could. He was the only one that could ever take on that role for her, would ever; he was the only one that would tolerate her singing the Frozen soundtrack at the top of her little lungs, the only one that would treat her to a popsicle before dinner without Mommy's knowledge, the only one that would help her deal with her ADHD (assuming she could very well have it, too) and he was the only one that would kick her boyfriend's ass up and down the block, if he ever dare to behave inappropriately with her (and that includes having sex at fifteen years old, god help them if their little girl follows in their footsteps with her boyfriend) or break her heart. Well, that last one was a lie. He wouldn't doubt Emma would love to help kick the guy's ass too, given her skilled repertoire in that department.

Jesus looked down at the infant in his arms; she wasn't just any infant though, he noticed that there were tells that made her his, and made her Emma's, and found himself staring with zero scrutiny, only fondness and awe. There were her eyes, a beautiful blue that were no doubt her mother's eyes, and the little sprouts of curls, fine and wispy now, that were both his and hers; already he could see that her facial features were slightly pointed, sharper, in that matured beauty she'd probably have to grow into, petite cheekbones already making faint indents in the snowy flesh of her face; she was a little pale, just like Emma, which faired nicely with the azure of her eyes, round and no doubt filled with curiosity, as she would learn to take in the world around her, and experience all kinds of things, literally one step at a time.

He couldn't wait until she learned to walk, when he would get to hold her tiny hands, only to let go and watch those chunky little legs wobble as she tentatively made her way over to her mother, who'd also be watching her with a huge smile on her face. "Come on, me-My, you can do it. Let's go baby."

He couldn't wait to take her to school, to drop her off at preschool and hug her hard and fast before letting her go, watching her toddle into the room of other kids her age, sit down on the carpet, pick up a Lego and start stacking, like she belongedthere this whole time.

He had no doubt she'd immerse into the academic world just fine, knowing that she'd be so smart just like her mother, with a brain for building the tallest buildings, addition and subtraction, long division, and soon enough, algebraic equations. When she looked down at the page, filled with x's and y's and intercepts and slopes, f's and g's, she wouldn't see alphabet soup, she'd see a mathematical equation waiting to be solved, and she'd do it in no time at all, then some poor sap next to her with a mop of hair that falls into his eyes is going to lean over and ask her for help – no. No, no, no. He wouldn't let himself go there just yet. Maybe never.

Maybe there would be a dating ban in their house, and…even as he thought it, he knew that was unrealistic and unfair. His baby girl would be growing up, every single day from today – August 14th 2026 – onwards, until one day, she'd be a teenager, with an attitude and raging mood swings, then a women, hell bent on moving out of her parents' house, to go onto bigger things, on her own.

Jesus sighed, gently rubbing his thumb along her sleeping face, her bow lips - another thing that tied her to Emma, pursed in thoughtlessness. It was just an anatomic reflex, because newborns couldn't dream, and if she could, what could she possibly be dreaming about? Probably exactly what he'd been thinking about. Taking on the world. Growing up.

Just then, there was a sudden knock on the door, soft enough to hear but not loud enough to completely disturb. A nurse walked in with a purpose, donning scrubs and a chart, presumably Emma's.

"Sorry to bother you, but it's time for your wife to feed her now."

"Sure, okay, just um, give me a minute. Jesus, can you hand Mia over to the nurse please, while I get ready?"

He hadn't even registered Emma's return, and presumed she hadn't even spoken when she'd came back, because she was now in the hospital bed again, sitting up with her hair behind one shoulder and her gown pulled down on one side. She looked up from prepping herself to smile at him, as he gave the nurse their daughter to give to her, who already, seemed comfortable with the whole idea of breast feeding, something that still made him cringe as if he were still a teenage boy.

"She's a champ," Emma spoke to the nurse, or maybe to him, or to the both of them. "She latches on like she just knows."

Jesus smiled to himself. He knew she was smart. The nurse nodded, smiling too. "Some babies do. You're one of the lucky ones. I'll let you three have some privacy then. Just press the button if you need anything, Emma. You know the drill."

"Will do. Thanks, Grace," Emma responded, as she looked to him, and all he could think was: 'we really are the lucky ones. I'm the lucky one.'

"I'm so proud of you, Ems," he whispered when he made it to her bedside, kissing the top of her head. "You're just as much of a champ as she is, you know. I love you."

She was silent, basking in the compliment and staring down at their baby before her gaze moved to him again. "Thank you. I love you too."

Then, it seemed like she was struggling to say something else as she burped the baby and covered herself up again, when she was done, as Mia started gurgling and her eyes flickered in descending sleep. "Mia reminds me of her. I see her in Mia. That's why her middle name is what it is."

"I thought it was a family name." Bullshit. He knew damn well it wasn't. He knew exactly why she chose that name, and not just because it complimented Mia, either.

Feeling tears prick at the corner of his eyes, he buried his hands deep into his eye sockets, which, compared to the thoughts running through him now, that was the least painful thing in this world; when she combed her hand through his hair, he put his head down on her knees, holding back the sobs of raw agony that threatened to escape.

Every few years after it happened it would hit him anew again, as he got older himself and saw little kids running around playgrounds, or see a school get out for the day, uniformed children spilling from the front doors, squealing and laughing and talking so fast his head had started to spin, or children congregated on a field, playing soccer or field hockey or whatever team sport it was that was popular.

Once, on that field, he swore he saw her. He was twenty-two at the time, and this little girl looked to be about six years old. The right age. Her back was to him, but she had long, curly dark hair that stopped in the middle of her back partly concealing the number on her jersey – 5, his lucky number – and riding past on his bike, he stopped dead. He was ashamed to say he watched them for a bit, watched her, run around the field, kicking that checkered ball with the side of her foot, winding it around her opponents like she was the star player. She had blue, blue, eyes, slit in determination as she took a shot in the net, and it reminded him of himself, staring down his opponent on the wrestling mat back in high school. That alone took his breath away. He didn't regain it until one parent, a sweet looking blonde with a big smile and a classy wardrobe, called from the stands. "You got this, Jenny! Go, baby!"

When that little girl looked over to the stands with an embarrassed blush on her cheeks, he could finally breathe again. He wasn't relieved, or despondent, because he knew in his heart of hearts, that no little girl he saw could ever be her, no living child on this earth would be her. Ever.

Jesus had finally found the strength to walk, well more like stumble, down the stairs; he was tired, and actually, exhausted was a better word for it. Tonight had been a complete and total blindside, with his assumptions getting out of control, turning violent and into a vendetta.

He'd really believed that Brandon was screwing his girlfriend, and that Emma had been cheating on him, then gotten pregnant and aborted his brother's child. He knew now, that it wasn't true; he knew from the moment she looked him straight in the eye and said to him: "I love you, Jesus. I would never cheat on you." Those words, coming from her mouth after he'd gone so long, what felt like years, without hearing them, allowed him to trust her, to take her truth and make it his own.

Halfway down the stairs, he heard voices, three distinct, separate voices. First, he heard hers, a small, quiet, reserved voice that carried the accidence of heavy, body-wracking sobs. She'd been crying. Hard.

"I just don't know, you know? It's like, I don't regret it because I know for a fact that neither I nor Jesus are stable enough right now to care for a baby, a child. But I still…I still think about it. It hurts. It hurts like you wouldn't believe, but I can't let him know because I don't want to burden him with anything else."

His heart felt as if some invisible being had reached into his chest and ripped it from his body, and now there was only the hollowed, unfeeling beats in place of what used to keep him alive; he felt dead inside, and wondered if this is how it felt like for his baby – their baby – as death came for it so instantaneously, it didn't even have time to cry.

"Oh, love. It'll be okay. I promise you. Jesus loves you. He could never in good conscience hold it against you…"

This was Stef speaking, and in the cunctation of her words, he could hear the nuance of her thoughts, the doubt, the horrible, awful doubt she had. The doubt she had about him. 'I don't think' was what she wanted to say, was what she thought.

"Honey, did Jesus ever tell you about his sister?"

This was Lena, now. He watched as she put a hand on Emma's, laying there in her lap. Emma looked confused.

"Mariana?"

"No."

"Callie?"

Again, Lena shook her head, and he knew, had known from the word 'sister' and the way it was spoken – with a sorrowful acceptance and tinged with this burrowed grief that he just knew would forever be there, inside his momma, somehow. Maybe it was because he was now kindred in the spirit of lost souls to her, because now both of their babies were dead, and he could understand her in an emotional sort of way he hadn't been able to before, and he may never have gotten to.

"I lost a baby too. Miscarriage."

There was a pause, and then Emma saying "I'm sorry."

"Me too, sweetheart," Lena told her, clearing her throat in a regaining of composure and starting again.

"Francesca was her name. Frankie. I went in for a routine checkup and received some of the worst news of my life. There was no heartbeat."

"Miscarriage and abortion, they're different things, though. One's an accident, a horrible twist of fate and the other is on purpose."

Another lengthy pause enveloped the room in its already terse silence, and this time nobody said anything for a while. He was even careful not to breathe too loudly, in fear of being noticed.

Emma's next words were sudden, rushed, and unexpected, it seemed, even to her. "I dream about her a lot. Harriet. Like the character from my favorite book as a kid – Harriet the Spy."

It was like nobody could physically express any sort of emotion, that all they could do was just sit there, like statues, watching the invisibility of her words fade into the muggy, dark air of the room. Somehow, this gave Emma the strength to push forward, and she continued to talk, a mumble at first, before her shock and tears made her louder, but still barely above the whisper he struggled to hear.

"A few nights after I did it, was the first dream. It was so vivid, too. She was just this little cooing baby that laid in an incubator and kicked up her feet. I could see that above her head there was one of those cards, a pink one, as if the pale pink onesie never gave anything away, reading 'I am a girl!' And below that was 'my name is:Harriet Genevieve Adams Foster'

"That was the end of that one, I woke up and felt all tingly like I was being watched…by her."

'Genevieve' he thought from where he was sitting now, shielded by the banister. 'After Grammy Gen.'

"Oh…" Stef gasped, hugging Emma close and kissing her head, an action which Emma welcomed gratefully.

"Genevieve was my grandma's name, did you know that, sweetheart? Jesus absolutely adored his great grandma when she was alive. I still don't know what it was about her, but he loved her like nobody else."

Emma coughed, then sniffled.

"Well I'm glad she has a family name…I've always been wondering about it, actually. It seemed so random at the time, but now I understand, it's her connection to Jesus, to you guys…"

"Emma…I know it seems crazy and so complicated and weird," Lena told her. "But you're going to have that connection with her no matter what you do. Just like I have with Frankie. And I'm sure on some level, Stef feels it, too. I realize the circumstances are different, but the outcome is still the same."

Stef nodded. "I do. She's a part of me, too, even though I never carried her, or even had a part in the process…Jesus, he…he knows her too. He loves her too. And Frankie's just as much a part of the family from wherever she is as Harriet is now a part of you, of you and Jesus, of your family."

In response, Emma sighed, and everyone just didn't speak, appreciating the sentiment within those words, and at the same time, coming to terms with them. He tried it, too.

He stood up and finished his descent of the stairs, knowing he had to touch her, to hug her, to tell her that he was sorry, so, so, sorry, bury his face in her hair and cry.

"Ems."

Emma and his moms both looked up to see him standing there, and Stef moved over so as to make space for him beside his girlfriend on the couch.

"Jesus…I – uh- what did you hear?"

"I heard everything." He sat down beside her and squeezed her hand after giving her the biggest hug he could.

Staring into his eyes, he could see hers were bloodshot, the cloudy blue of an overcast sky, the sheen of fresh tears allowing him to see his own beaten reflection as they spilled over onto her weathered cheeks.

"Do you think she hates me? For aborting her? I killed her, Jesus. I murdered our baby because I didn't think we could take care of her. Mariana was right, adoption was an option and I just squandered it…do you hate me… for killing our daughter?"

Before he could say anything at all in comfort, Stef interjected.

"Emma, Mariana's not right. What if your baby ended up in an abusive foster home and had a crappy life, killed by an irate foster father? You never know. And you can't beat yourself up over all of these 'what ifs' honey. It'll lead you down a very dark path."

"But how can I not? A life in any capacity is different than no life at all."

Her voice was stoic, almost detached, and he wasn't sure if it was normal. It scared him, actually, which was ironic in the most angering way because not just a few hours ago, she was probably scared of him. She'd have a right to be.

"Trust me, Emma. It's not." Stef said, and the way she said it sounded like it hit home a little too hard.

"And Harriet could never hate you, you're her mother. If she hated you, you wouldn't dream about her," Lena added. "She wouldn't let you see her. And she's not in pain or suffering at all, is she? In your dreams?"

"No," Emma shook her head.

"She's always giggling and smiling. The last dream she was five years old and blowing bubbles, showing me how to do all of these different shapes."

She turned to him and blinked, two of her bottom eyelashes sticking together, as though she'd just come out of the rain, and blinked away an raindrop. He could pretend. He could pretend that it wasn't tears, and that she wasn't upset like this, for now.

"Harriet looks a lot like you."

Jesus took a deep breath, in attempt to take within himself every ounce of human courage. He grabbed her hands in his and squeezed, pushing her hair behind her ear.

"I know. I've seen her, too."

"I see her eyes, Jesus. Mia's eyes…they're the same as…they're hers."

Emma took a sharp breath, staring down at the baby's face as she opened her eyes. There was wonder there, the curiosity he'd seen the moment she was born, staring up at her mommy with parted lips as if to cry. When she let out that first wail, he felt such hope and joy for the both of them, for all three of them, and their precious Harriet, too.

"I think she sees us. I think she sees us here with her sister. I honestly think she was the one who helped me get better, not to discredit any of my family or you, but when I'd dream of her – my mom calls it visitations – she was really there, and gave me a lot of the strength and determination it took in therapy and rehab to break through."

She looked up to the ceiling, and as if by some sort of force, and not by the habit to mimic her mother's actions, Mia did too. She cooed and reached a hand up towards the florescent lights of the hospital room, a droopy, digestive smile sloping her mouth.

"You see that Ems? You see what she's doing? Harriet's there now. I just know."

Emma was quiet as she grabbed Mia's outstretched hand with her index finger, bringing it down to kiss it repeatedly, rousing a cute reaction as she squirmed a little in what he perceived as happiness.

"Hi, sweet baby. Your Mommy's here with sissy and Daddy. I know you're up there, little angel. I just want you to know that we love you so much, and we know that up there, with Frankie, making the other angels proud, is where you're meant to be."

"That's right precious," Jesus interrupted, quickly getting over any reservations of being heard by any passerby doctors or nurses. He could care less, if it meant sharing in this moment.

"We will always have a special place in our heart for you, but we also know that we have to…we have to move on…no matter how painful it is. When Mommy was pregnant with your sister, all I could think about was you. And that's not healthy. Mommy and I love you very much, and we'll never stop, and you can come visit us any time you like, but…Mia's here now. Do you get what I'm saying sweetheart?"

There was silence, which made a lot of sense, but still, he expected some sort of a sign. Just then, Mia gurgled and cooed, struggling against her mother's grip, reaching her hand towards the ceiling again.

"I think she does, babe." Emma whispered, kissing their daughter's temple. "I think she does."