Trying Again
By LadyChal
Spoilers: Teensy one for "Hail & Farewell"
Author's Note: First of all, don't get too excited. This story is several years old and had been posted on another archive. For some reason I thought I'd posted it here as well, but only recently discovered I hadn't (after somebody stumbled across Memorial Day and left the first review I've had in years...) At any rate, I do like to keep all my fiction together, and this is as good a place as any to do that.
Secondly, this is a part of my "Memorial Day" universe, so if you want to understand everything that happens in that AU the best way to catch up is to read all my JAG stories in the following order: "Speak to Me in the Middle of the Night" (actually an NCIS/Singer based fic, but still very important here, "Lion Among the Lambs," which is basically Mac and Webb from Kershaw's POV, but ties in with all the background of what Webb and Gunny end up doing for Kershaw for the next decade of their lives, then this story "Trying Again," follow it up with "Memorial Day," "The Richter Scale," and "Do Not look for me in Death," all posted here. I have a few unfinished in betweens that I may get around to some day, but yeah... don't hold your breath.
This started out as my response to the 200 word flash fic challenge, but after four pages, I declared it a miserable "Flash" failure. However, somebody yelled at me to not to throw it out. So I didn't.
Thanks, as always, must go to Patty for betaing this for me and catching all my typos and verbal dyslexic moments. However, I also probably should give a small nod of thanks to Paula B. and Judy and a few others who kept asking for a further trip down this little side track from the Memorial Day universe. It never ceases to amaze
me how a few short paragraphs that I threw into the Memorial Day story on a whim have come to take on a life of their own, but this particular little anecdote has. This is basically an expansion of a flashback from Memorial Day, so if some of the dialogue feels familiar, its because I stole it from myself! :)
As always, it's Webb/Mac, and I make no apologies for that. I'm sure there's a hundred thousand good Harm/Mac pieces out there, if that's what you are into, go read that. However... if you are into the occasional stroll on the dark side... This might work.
Trying Again
By Lady Chal
By all rights, it should be a night like any other, but from the moment he walks into the house, he senses something different in the air.
Damn. She cooked.
He removes his trench coat slowly and hangs it on the stand just inside the back door, his brow furrowing as he identifies the simmering aroma of oregano, basil, garlic, onion and tomato, and hears the faint bubbling from the kitchen underscored by the soft strains of Mozart. Edging cautiously through the empty kitchen, he
glances to the wide trestle table where they usually eat, and notices that it isn't set. His frown deepens as he notices the soft, flickering glow through the doorway beyond. He pauses at the door to the dining room and stares in surprise at the twin tapered candles, their light sparking fire in the gold rims of the china plates, the
polished silver and the crystal stemware arranged neatly on the table.
Panic shoots through him as he searches for a reason. God, did he forget something? An anniversary? A birthday? No, that's impossible. All the important dates are in his PDA, and even if that had failed him, his answering service, his long standing arrangement with the florist, and Miranda, his ever-efficient administrative assistant, certainly would have reminded him.
Although he supposes this does explain his wife's momentary silence earlier this afternoon when he called to tell her he was going to be late tonight.
"Late, as in `don't wait dinner?'"
He'd smiled wryly at the phrase, which too often served as her only warning of an unexpected departure that could last for days… or weeks…or even months.
"Late, as in `start without me, but leave me a few scraps.' I know how it is with you Marines and your appetites."
"I'll save you a bone or two," she'd said dryly, and hung up the phone.
Now, standing in the middle of their dining room, taking in the candles, the crystal, the fresh cut flowers and the china they only ever bothered to drag out for dinner parties and holidays, he wonders how long she's been planning this…and why.
Shrugging out of his suit jacket, he drapes it across the back of his chair and freezes as he notices the wine cooler placednear h is side of the table with two bottles nestled among the chips of ice. Both of them are open. He reaches towards the cooler, turning it until the candle light shines through the tops of the dark green bottles, making their contents visible. One of them is full. The other isn't.
He stands there for a moment, a bit unnerved and tells himself that he isn't going to look. He trusts her. Of course, it's always dicey when you live with an alcoholic, but they've managed to lay out their own ground rules and adhere to them so far. She doesn't mind his having a drink with dinner, but he always gets his
own, and his liquor cabinet –although well stocked—is always kept closed and discretely placed in his study. Out of sight, out of mind is their motto. This is something out of their ordinary pattern, but it does appear to be a special occasion.
He just wishes he knew what the occasion was.
A soft rustle alerts him to her presence, and he can't help but feel like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar as he turns to face her. He tries not to look self-conscious as he drops the bottle back into the ice. But when he sees her standing there in that blue silk dress, with one dark winged brow arched high in suspicion, he knows he doesn't stand a chance in hell.
"Checking up on me?" she says lightly, but there is a note of challenge in her voice.
He shakes his head faintly, an appreciative smile curving at his lips as his eyes rake over her. "I think I'd rather just check you out."
She comes to him then, and kisses him, and, even though he tells himself he wouldn't have questioned her, he's still reassured by the sweet flavor that lingers on her lips.
"Mmmm…" he mutters, savoring the flavor and diving in for another kiss. "I'd definitely rather just check you out."
She swats him gently and tosses him a saucy smile, letting him know all is forgiven. Reaching for the bottle, he pulls out the one that is half empty and holds it up to the light.
"I see you started without me," he says dryly as he refills her glass with the sparkling grape juice.
"You told me to," she replies, taking the glass from him.
He reaches for the untouched bottle of wine and fills his own glass. "Is there anything left? Or am I going to have to order a pizza?"
She shoots him a disgusted look. "Sit down," she says, nodding to his chair. "It's almost ready."
The table is built for eight –it can seat twelve with the extensions—but she sits beside him where she can be close, rather than across from him and a great, empty distance apart. They eat quietly, and he asks her about her day, hoping that, in drawing her out, he might find an explanation for this unexpected evening. But
it appears that her day was as average as his. No big court cases won. No promotions looming on the horizon. Not even an interesting new assignment to sink her teeth into. It leaves him at a total loss.
"All right," he says at last, pushing back his plate, "I give. What's the occasion?"
She is silent for a moment, contemplating the flame that dances on the top of the flickering taper between them. "I want to
talk to you about something."
"So I gathered," he says, tilting his head slightly to indicate the candles, the flowers, the china and the wine. "I've been sweating for the last half an hour trying to figure out what it is that I've forgotten."
She doesn't smile at the jest, and seeing her uncertainty, he reaches across the table to take her hand.
"You've got my attention," he says seriously. "What is it you want to tell me?"
Her gaze darts wildly, the brown eyes alighting on his only momentarily before darting nervously away and then coming to rest upon him again. She draws a small, uneasy breath.
"I want to try again."
He doesn't take her meaning at first and his brows draw together in confusion as she flushes slightly and looks down at their joined hands.
"A baby, Clay, I want to try for another baby."
No.
The word rips through him with such a visceral force that for a moment he's afraid he actually uttered it aloud. He sees the small wince of pain, realizes just tightly his fingers are clenching around hers and quickly releases her hand to reach for his wine glass.
"I see," he says carefully, taking a deliberate drink. A slow, queasy sensation is sliding to the pit of his stomach along with the wine, but he struggles to control it –to control all of the roiling emotions her words have unleashed inside him.
"Are you sure that's wise?"
The small shrug she gives him is less than reassuring. "The doctor says that I've healed. That it's possible to try again."
"He also said that it would be unlikely," Clay reminds her, "and that it could be damned dangerous if we did. I don't want to chance that, Sarah. Your life is the one thing I'm not willing to risk."
He sees the pain written on her face and knows it for the same ache that burns within himself. He wants a child just as desperately as she does… has imagined in his mind's eye that tiny dark haired boy or girl with that perfect blend of his features and hers. But he also knows that he's not as brave as she. He can't endure that joy… that hope, that sweet promise of a future, only to have it ripped away again. Nor is he willing to go through that hell and the terror of losing her, not even for the promise of such a precious being. He just can't do it.
Setting down the glass, he reaches for her hand again and closes his gently over hers, tracing the fine bones of her wrist and fingers, tilting them so that the fire of her diamond solitaire sparkles in the candle light.
"There are other ways," he says softly. "We can adopt… or find someone to help us…."
"No," she says firmly. "Call me selfish, but I want a baby that is ours -yours and mine and no one else's. If… if this doesn't work, then maybe we can consider adoption." She swallows hard and grips his hand, willing him to meet her eyes. "But I want this, Clay. I know what it feels like to carry your child. I want that feeling again. I want to have our baby, and I'm not willing to share you, or it, with someone else in order to get it."
He nods his understanding. Frankly, he finds the idea of a surrogate just as distasteful, but he'd be willing to submit to it if it made her happy… and kept her safe. Her silence weighs upon him and he knows she's waiting for his answer, just as he knows what she's hoping that answer will be. But he can't give it. It's too much.
Instead, he shakes his head. "I don't know," he says at last. "I need some time to think about this."
She slowly withdraws her hand from his, her disappointment clearly written in her expression. "Time is the one thing we don't have a lot of," she reminds him. "Neither one of us is getting any younger."
He closes his eyes. "Please, Sarah…"
She looks at him for a long moment. "Please" is a word he doesn't use often. In fact, it's almost foreign to his vocabulary.
"All right," she says quietly, and rising from the table, begins to gather up their dishes.
He stands to help her, but she shakes her head. "It's okay," she says quickly and reaches out to ruffle his hair. "You look like you've had a long day. Why don't you go grab a shower? I can get these."
He looks down at his slightly rumpled clothes and then casts her a suspicious look. "Is that supposed to be a hint, Colonel?"
"You're the spook, you figure it out," she says saucily, but the levity in their banter doesn't ring true, and he realizes she needs the space just as much as he does.
"All right," he says draining his wine glass and rising from the table. "But don't say I didn't offer."
"Oh, no," she says archly as she carries their plates out into the kitchen, "it was a landmark moment."
Her barb elicits an appreciative smirk that fades as he looks again to the table. She obviously put a lot of thought into this: The food… the candle light… that dress… His heart twists slightly in his chest as the realization strikes him. She probably was hoping they could start tonight. Spying the cork lying on the table, he picks it
up and jams it back into the wine bottle, then reaches out and quickly snuffs the candles with his fingers, feeling as if he's putting out their hopes as well.
Walking down the hallway to their bedroom, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of his vest, he tries to ignore the guilt that rises within him, making the wine and her excellent meal weigh like lead in his stomach. He'd move heaven and earth to make her happy, but leave it to Sarah to forever ask the impossible of him.
A baby… God, could they really go through all of that again?
Tossing his jacket on the bed, he shrugs out of his vest and sends it flying in the same general direction as the jacket. Toeing off his shoes, he picks them up and carries them into the walk-in closet, dropping them on the low shelf that runs around the baseboard of the closet. His riding boots, his fencing and running shoes, and his two pair of wingtips and Italian loafers in black and brown respectively, are nearly overwhelmed by Sarah's endless assortment of pumps, sandals, heels, slippers, sneakers, boots, and other miscellaneous footwear that flows through the closet in a general riot of color.
He sighs as he bends down to pick up a pair of three inch heels in pearl gray satin, spangled with sequins and rhinestones that have fallen to the middle of the floor. Frowning, he contemplates the shoes. He's not sure he can remember ever seeing her wearing them. In fact, as he glances down the row of dresses and evening gowns that hang on her side of the closet, he has no idea what she'd wear them with, anyway. They don't seem to go with anything in her wardrobe. Shaking his head, he makes room for them –barely—on the shelf. She'd seemed like such a practical woman when he met her. He'd had no idea he was marrying Imelda Marcos.
Fingers working almost automatically at the knot of his tie, he turns to the full length mirror mounted to the wall in the back of the closet and studies his reflection. The face that greets him is bland and expressionless and he is intrigued by the dichotomy. The CIA has taught him well. On the outside he appears calm, unruffled and very nearly vacant. One would never know that on the inside he's quaking.
A baby. Just the thought of it is enough to tie him in knots. His fingers pull at the tie and the silk slides from his collar in a long, smooth motion. Draping it through the tie rack just beyond the mirror, he struggles to undo the top button of his starched linen shirt, all the while studying his reflection in the mirror.
He's forty-four years old. The face and body that were so lean in his youth as to be almost slight have broadened with age, making him appear more muscled, solid and compact. His hair is just as dark, thanks in part to prudent applications of Grecian formula, but the hairline that once spread evenly across his forehead has started to recede into a noticeable widow's peak. He's in good shape for his age, but his age is starting to show.
Sarah's right. Time's catching up to both of them, and if they're going to have a family, they can't afford to wait much longer. He's just afraid they might've already waited too long. They knew going into this that it wasn't going to be easy –or even likely— that they could conceive. They had both their age and their respective medical problems working against them. His, the result of the torture inflicted upon him in Paraguay… hers, from the cyst that had required the removal of one of her ovaries. Still, they'd agreed to give it a year of trying on their own before seeking medical help, and they'd been a few months past that point and just on the
verge of visiting a specialist when Sarah had discovered she was pregnant.
He'd always thought that he'd finally known what joy was on the day he'd married Sarah, but those few brief months had taught him how wrong he was. For that short time they'd laughed and loved and played like children themselves as they debated names and baby furniture and what color to paint the nursery. For that brief
instant in time, he'd allowed himself to hope, they'd allowed themselves to dream. And then, it all came crashing down around them.
He's never really talked to her about the miscarriage. He's listened, though. He's held her while she cried. That first night, crowded in beside her on that narrow hospital mattress, and many more in the privacy of their own bed. He's silently borne both her grief and his, flinching at that look in her eye when they pass a
school or a toy store or a park playground, reaching for her hand when they pass by a young mother pushing a stroller or hauling a carrier with a sleeping infant. He's listened to her sadness, her anger, her guilt and self-recriminations for not being able to hold on to their baby. And he's never failed to tell her that he loves
her, that he doesn't want her to blame herself, that it isn't anyone's fault. Least of all hers.
But even so, he's never really talked to her about it.
He's never told her of the sheer terror he felt, sitting there in that emergency waiting room wondering if he was going to lose them both. He's never spoken of the private, awful bargain he made with God, to take the baby if he must, but leave her in his life. He's never admitted to the guilty relief he felt when the doctor came to tell him they had lost the baby, but that she would live.
He's never dared to acknowledge that small, cold voice inside of him that whispers maybe it's for the best.
He isn't meant to be a father.
He, of all people, should know that.
Half-turning, he glances up to the top shelf where his suitcase, garment bag and a well-worn canvas duffle sit half packed and waiting for the next trip to Baghdad or Jakarta, Moscow or Kabul or wherever the hell it is the decide to send him next. It seems as though he spends more time out of the country than in it. It's a hell of a lot to ask of Sarah as it is, and a damned lousy thing to do to a kid, especially if something should happen, and he didn't come home.
It's already happened once.
Unbuttoning his shirt as he walks to the bathroom, he glimpses the long scar that runs the length of his ribs, a memento of his visit to Indonesia. It was supposed to have been a simple operation, a bait and switch extraction –two weeks at the most. Then that storm had blown up in the Malacca Straits, the extraction team
had drowned and everything had gone to hell.
He'd never dreamed that Kershaw would go so far as to have him declared dead. But after Paraguay, and Van Dyne's death, Harry had been obsessed with the possibility of a mole within the agency. He couldn't say that Kershaw had been wrong. Hell, the day the operation had gone south, the Company had exposed an Al-Qaeda agent, a Middle Eastern official with friends so high up the Washington ladder that the even the Vice President was publicly defending him on the day of his arrest. He knows the old man was only trying to protect him, but even now, he wonders if it was worth the price.
He saw what it'd done to his mother when he finally came home –the age in her eyes… the heart break and despair that'd been written in every line of her face. He knows what it's done to Sarah, as well. He remembers how it very nearly destroyed the fragile, tentative love that'd begun to grow between them. He sees it even
now, each time he must leave her. That small flicker of fear in her eyes, and the silent, unspoken question:
Will you come back to me?
And if you don't… will it really be for good?
And if you die, will I ever know the truth of it? Will it
ever be safe to grieve you? …and let you go?
He hasn't the heart to tell her that the answer to all of those questions could very well be no. But he did warn her that it'd never be safe to love him.
Thank God Sarah Mackenzie was never the kind of woman to play it safe.
It kills him to think that he may put her through that again someday. He can't bear the thought of doing it to a child. He remembers too well what it was like when his own father didn't come home. No explanations. No confirmations or denials. No peace of mind or acceptance of grief. There was nothing, really, save a hope that
dwindled a little more each day until one morning he just woke and understood that his father was gone.
No, he tells himself bitterly as he turns on the shower, it's better to leave things as they are.
Turning on his heel, he strides back out to the bedroom to look for his robe. But his mind is churning too intensely, and he walks past the bed, past the closet and into the hallway. Memories push his reluctant feet one after the other, to the door at the end of the hall… the door just beyond their bedroom… the door that he's not allowed himself to open for most of the last six months.
She hears his footsteps fading down the hallway as she carries the last few dishes to the kitchen and she swallows hard. She really doesn't know what she'd expected. Surprise, of course… concern…. worry… She'd even braced herself for an argument. She should've known better. Clay's never argued. Brooded, yes …but he's
never argued. Even so, she'd been prepared for almost any kind of a reaction-except for the one that she'd gotten: the silence, the tensing of his body… that flat, impenetrable look that told her nothing of what he was thinking –let alone feeling. She hadn't been prepared for that at all.
She feels the anxiety coiling inside her, curling its way through every muscle of her body as she remembers his cautious reply. He needs to think. Why in the hell does he need to think? Doesn't he know? Doesn't he understand what this means to her? To them? Haven't they already agreed to this? Hadn't he assured her they could try again? Unless….
…Unless he had changed his mind.
Oh, God. Her hands grip the edge of the marble countertop, the knuckles turning white as she considers the possibility. What if he had? What if he didn't want a baby now? She draws a deep breath and forces herself to stay in control. If he doesn't, then they'll deal with it. They'll talk about it, and discuss it, and come to some sort of a compromise. They excel at compromise.
But she doesn't want to compromise, damn it! She wants a baby.
She wants their baby.
They've already waited too long.
She's scraping the last of their dinner down the garbage disposal when she hears the soft hiss of the shower turning on. But half an hour later, as she starts the dishwasher and turns out the lights in the kitchen, she realizes the water's still running.
Moving down the hallway towards their bedroom, she frowns slightly at the faintly ominous sound of that gentle spray against the tiles, but reminds herself it wouldn't be the first time that he's fallen asleep in the shower. A quick glance at the bed where the vest and suit coat still lie tossed upon the comforter assures her of his presence, but as she peers into the bathroom and sees the light shining uninterrupted through the frosted glass, her mouth tightens. Mindful of the wet spray, she reaches in carefully and shuts the water off before turning on her heel to head for his study. It also wouldn't be the first time he'd snapped on his computer to check email and lost track of time, either.
But his office is dark, his computer and papers untouched.
Her frown deepens as she steps out of the study, closing the door behind her. It just wasn't like him to wander off…
Her thoughts still as her gaze travels the length of the hallway and she spies the open door… the door just past their bedroom… the door neither one of them has had the heart to enter since that awful day.
She finds herself walking down the hallway on silent, cat feet and feels her breath catch in her throat as she hesitates and peers inside. He's standing in the middle of the room. His shoulders are slumped and his hands are thrust deep in his pockets as he stares at the shadows and shapes that thrust themselves out of the darkness to reveal a room unfinished and a hope unborn.
Two paint cans, a roller and pan, and a few trim brushes gleam softly in the moonlight that filters in through the bare windows to wash its way down the pale yellow walls. A roll of wallpaper border, some sponges, and a utility knife are scattered across the top of the small white dresser. The matching white crib stands lonely in the corner, its emptiness mocking them. Her gaze travels to the delicate lines of the old Shaker-style rocking chair that stands beside it, faint traces of moonlight casting a soft shine in the glass eye of the fluffy yellow duck propped upon the hard maple seat. Clay had scowled at the chair and called it an antiquated relic, but Porter had relinquished it with a sentiment that couldn't be denied, and Sarah suspects the simple piece is one that has lulled generations of Webbs to sleep. She wonders if it'll ever rock another. Somehow that chair seems even emptier than the crib.
She pulls her gaze back to him and dares to wonder what he must be thinking, but it's only when she looks past him into the mirror, and catches a glimpse of the expression on his face that she finally understands: It's not that he doesn't want a child.
It's that he'd wanted this one.
"Clay?" She speaks softly, but her voice echoes loudly in the half-finished room, with no carpet or curtains or quilts and soft toys to soften the volume. The slight jerk of his shoulders tells her just how deeply he was buried in his own thoughts. His eyes meet hers in the mirror with the briefest of acknowledgements, before she loses him again to the empty moonlight and the darkness of his thoughts.
The picture of desolation that he makes is too much for her to bear, and she goes to him, wrapping her arms about him from behind, her cheek pressing firmly against the blade of his shoulder, her eyes finding his in the mirror above the dresser. He takes her hands in his, pulling her arms more tightly around him, but the odd, stony expression on his face never wavers.
Rising slightly on the balls of her feet, she presses a soft kiss against his neck, feels the press of his head against hers as he leans into the contact, see his eyes close tightly in the reflection of the mirror. She holds him tighter now, her hands making small, soothing circles on his chest.
"Talk to me," she whispers, her voice softly pleading.
He exhales slowly, but there is the faintest tremor in his breath and it betrays the emotions that roil beneath that silent exterior. When he speaks, she can hear the fine tension in his voice and knows his grasp upon his emotions is tenuous at best.
"I was thinking," he says at last, "that I'm not sure I'm up to this again."
Disappointment washes over her and she wants to argue, to tell him that he's wrong, that this is the only thing that will heal the pain. Instead, she bites her tongue. It's so rare that he opens himself to her so completely, and she knows that she has to let him talk. There are so many layers to Clayton Webb that even she is rarely allowed to look fully upon his heart. A single word, the smallest misstep, and she knows that he will draw back into the silence of himself like a turtle into his shell.
She can't afford to let that happen. Not now. Not about this. She has to know what it is he really wants, even if it's the one thing she doesn't want to hear.
And so she says nothing.
She closes her eyes and presses her face against the hard plane of his shoulder as she fights back the tears, and her silence is more compelling than any words she might have spoken.
"Maybe," he says softly –so softly as to barely be heard— "Maybe this is God's way of telling me I'm not meant to be a father."
He draws another sharp breath and this time, he cannot hide the ache in his voice. "This is the second time, Sarah. I don't knowif I can handle losing another child. It hurts too much."
The second time. His words strike a small, icy blow straight to her heart as she understands his meaning. He's only ever spoken of it once, but she knows exactly what he's talking about. He's talking about the other baby, the one that drowned with Lauren Singer in the icy waters of the Potomac before it ever had the chance to live.
She holds herself very still, not wanting him to know how much his words have affected her. She can't seem to put a name to the wrenching emotion that courses through her as she thinks of that other child. It's not jealousy or anger, or even pain and guilt, but rather an odd indescribable mixture of all of these things. The
fact that he created a child with another woman, a woman she knew and never particularly liked, is something she has accepted, but doesn't like to think about. But now she knows that he's thought if it more than he's ever let on.
She reminds herself that it's her he loves, it's her he's married and that that is all that counts. He's told her that he never loved Singer, that what'd happened was a casual affair, a one night stand between two lonely people. She must take him at his word. It's a hard thing to do with a man in his line of work, a leap of faith made even more difficult by the fact that he's already lied to her once. That's the worst thing about Clay's deceptions: they're never intended to hurt her, only to protect her from the truth and it only ends up hurting both of them all the more.
The compromise they've reached is to simply not discuss it. But even that is not as simple as it sounds. Just as he cannot bear to hurt her, she cannot stand to see him silently struggling with his demons. And tonight, the demons seem to be winning.
As desperately as he wants to keep her out of it, she can't let him fight them alone.
He's fallen silent again, and she rocks him gently in her embrace, pressing a small kiss against his shoulder. "What hurts too much?" she asks him, even though she already knows the answer too well.
"The wondering," he says finally. His voice is dull and distant. "Wondering who they might've become, what I could've done differently. Maybe it's better this way. If I don't come home one of these days…"
"I don't believe that!" she said fiercely, spinning him around to face her. She gripped his face between her palms, forcing those bleak hazel eyes to meet hers. "Neither do you."
His silence, and that haunted look frightens her a little and she searches frantically for something –anything—to combat it. He's thinking of his own father, she realizes, of his own grief for a man who never came home. She strokes her thumb across his cheek willing him to look at her.
"You're mother told me once that the only thing that kept her going when your father died was the fact that she had you. The first time you left me, I didn't even have that. I felt so lost… so lonely. Would you really want to do that to me, Clay? Would you really want to leave me alone?"
She hears the shuddering breath, sees the dam break behind his eyes, and pulls him to her. He presses his face tightly into the hollow between her neck and shoulder and feels the harsh word whispered against her skin.
"No… God, no! But…"
Her fingers still in his hair. "But what?" she asks softly.
He pulls his face from her neck and presses his forehead to hers. His eyes are closed and his throat trembles convulsively as he rocks his brow slowly against hers. "Nothing," he murmurs.
Her fingers clench tightly in his hair, demanding his attention and his eyes fly open in surprise and pain to lock with her furious brown ones.
"Damn you, Clay! Don't you dare shut me out! Not now! What were you going to say?"
Her anger touches off his, and something hard and hot flashes briefly in his eyes. But it's quickly extinguished, replaced by a cool reserve. She curses silently to herself. His walls are up. He'll never tell her now. But surprisingly, after a moment's hesitation, he speaks.
"I don't want you to leave me alone, either." The words are delivered in a colorless monotone. Calm and emotionless, he watches for her reaction.
She stares at him speechless, not quite knowing what to say.
He takes a step back from her, putting space between them, and his face is that strange, impenetrable mask that she hates. But the words that flow out of him, so carefully monitored, cut straight to her heart with their painful honesty.
"You almost died, Sarah. I nearly lost you and there wasn't anything I could do about it. I sat there in that waiting room for hours and nobody would tell me anything, and all I could think of was that none of this was worth it. None of this was worth your life. If the doctor had come to me then and told me I had to make a choice, I would've chosen you, Sarah. I still would."
"What exactly are you saying, Clay?"
"I'm saying…" he hesitates, and collects himself, forcing his eyes to meet hers unflinchingly.
"I'm saying I don't want a baby, Sarah, not if it means losing you."
Her breath seems to leave her body, her knees turn to jelly at his words, but somehow she manages to keep her feet.
"So you don't want children?" she asks softly, her heart feeling as if it's tearing within her chest.
"No…" he pales as he sees her stricken look, "Yes!" he says quickly and moves to touch her, but she throws her hands up, balling them into fists and landing them on his chest.
"Damn it, Clay! Don't tell me what you think I want to hear! Tell me the truth! Do you want kids?"
He freezes and she can almost see the war he is waging within himself as he struggles for his final answer.
"Yes," he says at last, and the word is barely a whisper. "I want kids, Sarah. I want a houseful of them. I want boys with your eyes and girls with your smile. I want that as much as I've ever wanted anything. But…" he draws a ragged breath and she can see the pain shining dark and tortured in the green of his eyes. "…but I
don't want to go through that again. I don't want to lose you."
Slowly, he raises his hands to close them over hers, still fisted on his chest and draws her closer to him. "We can adopt," he offers again, "-a whole orphanage if you want. But I think we need to accept that maybe this just isn't meant to be."
"Do you honestly believe that?"
Something crumbles in his expression, then and she knows that he doesn't want to believe it any more than she does. He's just afraid. Afraid to hope. Afraid to love and lose it all again. She pulls his head back to her shoulder and feels the shift in his ragged breath as it collapses into shuddering sobs. She lowers him to the floor with her, and holds him tightly, rocking them desperately back and forth as the hot tears soak through the thin silk of her dress.
She brushes a kiss against his ear and croons softly as she soothes him. The shaking of his body reverberates through her and she can't hold back the hot dampness that spills its way down her own cheeks.
"Oh, Clay," she whispers, "It's not that it's never meant to be. It's just not meant to be right now. We've got to believe that."
A long time later, when he lies quiet in her arms, she turns her head slightly and studies him by the moonlight that slides across the hard maple floor where they lay. He must sense the intensity of her gaze, for though he does not raise his head from her shoulder, his softly muffled "What?" reverberates slightly in the unfinished room.
She strokes her fingers through his hair. "Nothing," she says finally. "I was just thinking."
This causes him to turn his head slightly, the sharpness of his chin pressing against her breast, his eyes burning with curiosity. "That's dangerous," he murmurs. "What were you thinking about?"
Her fingers slip from his hair to trail along his cheek. He turns into her touch, pressing into her fingertips like a cat wanting to be stroked, but freezes when she finally answers. "I was thinking that you'd make a good father."
Something flickers in his eyes, but she can't quite decipher his expression.
"You sound pretty sure about that."
"I am."
His laugh is faint and hollow. "And here I thought you were a logical woman." He levers himself up onto an elbow and pulls himself across the floor until he is laying beside her, face to face, eye to eye.
"Whatever led you to that outlandish conclusion?" he asks,his eyes burning dark and green with an emotion she cannot name.
"You did."
He frowns slightly, obviously not understanding the winding path of her intuition, and she smiles at him, reaching out to caress his cheek and brush away that downward turn of his lips.
"You doubt yourself, Clay, a little too much I think."
"What's not to doubt, Sarah?" he asks seriously. "You know the life I lead… the things I have to do. You've seen the way it can affect me."
There's resignation in his eyes, and she knows what he's going to say almost before he says it.
"I'm barely home enough to be a husband to you. What makes you think I'll be any better as a father?"
She trails a finger along his jaw and strokes her thumb across the dimple in his chin. "The fact that you worry about it so much." Pressing his chin lightly between her thumb and forefinger, she summons his full attention. "Too many people never stop to ask themselves if they're up to being a parent. They just decide they want babies, and they have them. Sometimes, they don't even want them. You're not like that."
He scowls slightly. "Being realistic about who I am doesn't change anything. I still don't have anything to offer a child. Heck, I'm not even any good with them. You've seen me with the Roberts kids."
She chuckles softly. "That's hardly a fair test. Some days Bud and Harriet aren't any good with them, either. Nobody goes into this prepared, Clay. You have to learn as you go."
She shifts slightly, the hard maple floor making her back ache, and her expression sobers. "But you're wrong, you know. You have plenty of things to offer a child."
His disbelief is clearly written on his face. "Like what?"
Rolling to her side, she props her head upon her arm. "Like all the things you give to me."
"A new Corvette and a Platinum Visa?"
"No," she says seriously. She's not going to let him joke his way out of this. "I mean love, Clay… and generosity, and kindness, and wisdom."
She scoots closer, her face only inches away from his. "You are a tender, loving and sensitive man. You listen to me, offer advice when I ask it, but you never push. You accept me for who I am and you never demand more than I can give." She smiles wryly, "And I know sometimes I ask too much of you, and you still try to come
through for me, even when it isn't in your power to do it."
He smiles faintly. "So you're saying that I spoil you?"
"Sometimes," she allows. "When I'm wrong, though, you call me on it. Even when I don't want to hear it."
"Which is usually all the time," he observes.
"Usually," she agrees. "But you never get angry with me, no matter how many buttons I push."
This elicits a small laugh from him. "You do like pushing my buttons," he says suggestively, "although there may be one or two you haven't found yet."
Wicked amusement sparks in her eyes. "Oh, yeah? Where?"
A knowing grin spreads across his face. "That's Need to Know, Colonel."
She arches one brow and trails her finger down his chest. "Maybe I need to know."
"I guess you'd better start looking then, hadn't you?" he challenges.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"You're right, I would."
She shakes her head at him and rolls onto her back with an exasperated sigh. Damn him. He was a master at changing the subject, especially when the topic danced a little too close to the things he didn't want to talk about, namely himself. He's almost succeeded in distracting her, but she's not about to let him get away with it
this time. They're too close for her to back down now.
She stares up at the ceiling fan above their heads. The white wicker blades cast long shadows on the unadorned wall. From somewhere deep within the house, the furnace kicks in. The air circulating through the vent above their heads causes the little yellow ducks adorning the pull chains on the fan to sway gently. Their silent motion only serves to punctuate the stillness that has fallen over the room.
"I'm serious Clay. You'd be a good father. I'm not naïve. I know it wouldn't be easy. Nothing worth doing ever is. And I know the risks just as well as you do. I live with them every time you walk out that door. But I think they're worth taking."
He sighs heavily and pulls her against him. Kissing her temple, he buries his nose in the softness of her hair. "Do you really want to be a single parent, Sarah? That's what you'd be signing on for… maybe permanently. My job isn't going to change, and I'm not sure I can, either. I've done it for so long, it's a part of who I am."
"I know that." Her voice is small against his chest. "I'm not asking you to quit. Not that I would mind if you did, but you're right. It's a part of who you are, and I have to accept that. But I can't accept the loneliness, or how empty this house is when you're gone. I need someone to hold, Clay, and there are just too many nights when you're not here to do that. I want a piece of you to keep with me, just in case you really don't come back."
He's so silent, so still for so long that she's almost afraid to move. Finally the air leaves his lungs in a long, shuddering breath and he tilts his head to press a kiss upon her forehead.
"Okay," he says at last.
"Okay?" she asks, not certain she's heard correctly.
"Okay," he repeats, and his voice is stronger now. "We'll try again."
She can't hold back the tears that threaten to spill down her cheeks and she hurls herself against him, raining kisses down upon his face… his eyes… his cheeks… his nose…
His mouth…
Finally, he pulls back. His hands frame her face, thumbs brushing the dampness from her skin. His eyes are dark and intense as they fix upon hers and she can see the disquiet that still burns within them. Something squeezes a little around her heart.
"Clay," she asks softly, "are you sure?"
He waits a long moment before answering. "No," he says honestly, and then dives in for another kiss.
"But you are, and that's good enough for me."
FIN