On the Future
It had been hard to get back together after everything.
Ultimately, for whatever reasons, she had betrayed and lied to him and about the most unforgivable things. They had ceased all communication abruptly for almost two years, followed by a continued silence as they served out their time in prison for their respective crimes. He was released first and wandered lost for a long while, getting drunk regularly, having flings and one night stands. For a time it seemed like he was falling back into the rut he'd been in for those two hellish years after SL-9.
And then he went to see her.
It was a spur of the moment decision and he probably was a little intoxicated at the time, but it was right and she was right and for the first time in countless years he had felt at ease. She had apologised profusely without asking for his forgiveness—something she didn't expect from him, in all likelihood—but days afterward he'd realized by himself that he'd forgiven her. Everything was long over and done with and in the end there was still something that drew him to her.
They met up shortly after she'd been released. He'd felt that same rightness, the same contentment and they began to see each other again on a regular basis. Things had changed from before—both had aged, had sobered. He was no longer so reckless and carefree, all walking in with guns ablazing. There were times when he had to be left alone, when she couldn't cheer him up or bring his thoughts out of him. It put a strain on their relationship, he was aware: he could see the stress she suppressed in her features. She must have wondered at least once or twice if he did care for her, if there was another woman in the equation. Still, she understood. She told him she had decided and would never leave, never hurt him again.
He moved in with her. He slept in the same room as her, split their bills and their cooking and their chores but they never talked about the future. They went on with their lives, now joined more closely, and did not ever bring up the subject though they were both getting on in their years. He did not care for the topic; she, meticulous planner that she was, surely dwelled on it often but did not confront him with it. That is, till she had gone to the doctor one day and come back with news.
She was on the pill of course, but through some odd twist of fate—not that they hadn't had enough of those already—they had become part of that impossibly small percentage when it failed. Of course they had sex often, plenty of it, so though the news came as a surprise it was not entirely a shock.
She asked him quite seriously if he wanted her to get an abortion. That had caused quite a spat till they realized the answer for both of them was no. Finally, they sat down and talked about what they were going to do. The future, for once, was touched upon briefly.
As the days passed and she began to experience morning sickness he had been supportive. He'd attended those doctor visits, read a few of the books she had checked out from the library. He began to report pangs and food cravings. She didn't believe him till he swore off steaks and ribs.
They had gotten married at his insistence because he wouldn't have a child out of wedlock. Old fashioned beliefs perhaps, despite their earlier living in sin. The wedding was a simple ceremony, with less than thirty people attendant. Close friends and Ema, as they didn't have any other family between them.
Her belly began to swell. He looked up massage techniques and took care of her.
The day he had first heard their child's heartbeat, his eyes had shone. When the baby started kicking actively he'd laughed and claimed that it was a boy. An ultrasound confirmed it. They began to think of names, but the process did not last long; both had already chosen, had already known what it was going to be.
At his insistence they'd gone to classes together, learning how she was to breathe, and how he was to support her. He'd lean his ear down to her swollen belly and talk to it and sing for hours at a time, till she nearly lost her patience.
She had woken up one night to an empty bed. It was a source of alarm till she found him in the room beside theirs—what they'd designated was to be the nursery—painting the walls sky blue and dusty desert yellow with saguaro cacti on the horizon. He had taken classes without her knowledge and with them eventually built a crib, a changing table, a dresser in the following weeks. He decked out that room, Old West style, with his own two hands.
When the final month came he was more nervous than she was. He actually grew overprotective and wanted her to limit her daily activities so as to not be so strenuous on her body. At her firm insistence that she was fine and that she still needed to work, he had needed some time to cool off.
When the final week came he had gotten rather melancholy. He isolated himself again, putting further stress on her during a time she really didn't need it. But she took it in stride, and he was there for the birth.
It was not a pretty sight. It lasted a great many hours and he did not want to witness it again. The doctors had to do a bit of cleaning before handing the baby to her, and she was weak and pale but smiling. When she held their child to her breast, she had never looked more beautiful to him.
Afterwards, she had offered the tiny living, breathing bundle to him—their son—and he raised him up in his arms and looked.
He had Neil's eyes.
He had cried then, cried and smiled and held the baby to him and rocked him in just the manner he had been taught. He was a father, a husband, and there was that bright future that they'd never really talked about, that future he'd never thought they'd reach.