Things have settled down for the most part. I'm stable. Our relationship is as good as it was when we first started dating, except now it has the strength of one that's years older. We're having good conversations, talking about topics that normally would have scared both of us away. She's dropped some not so subtle hints to me about two monumental events.

She likes big weddings. That was hint number one. The idea doesn't scare me anymore. I've figured out when I want to ask her. Barring any more crises, I'm going to do it in the fall. That by itself scares the shit out of me, but I wouldn't give up the feeling for anything. This is the easy part. Our lives won't be much different than they are now and I'm getting plenty of practice at this husband thing.

Huh. I never thought I'd use that word in describing myself. It really drives home the feeling of being needed, of being important. "Boyfriend" has always had an undertone of being temporary, disposable. I like the way "husband" feels-- complete.

Hint number two. I nearly had a heart attack. "You're okay with the idea of kids, right?" I told her I was and I was expecting her to respond with a, "Good, because...". This is where my forward thinking snags. I know I have plenty of time to resolve this issue; she said as much herself, but right now, I don't see the same side of me she sees. She believes I'm perfect father material simply by the fact that I'll do anything in my power to not be like my father. She's right; I will, but that doesn't mean I'll be a great father.

On a very basic level, I spend most of my time at 1PP. 14 hours and then some while other nights, depending on the case, I don't go home at all. That happened a lot before I met her...simply because I didn't want to go home. There was nothing here for me; sleeping was a waste of time better spent figuring out what everyone else had missed in the investigation. Now I have a reason to go home and the need to stay at work all night hasn't arisen yet, but I'm sure it will and I'm sure I'll do it. I'm a self-diagnosed workaholic. I'm lucky I know all the pets' names...

Tolstoy, Audrey, Shakespeare...Dante? See, I don't.

If you look deeper, you'll find that there are dark layers to me that I grapple with in my daily life. I can look in a mirror and see another me staring back, but he's looking at me with these cold, murderous eyes. Sure, by not becoming him, I scored a point for the nature argument of that age-old debate, but I have six more black marks against both my nature and my nurture. Genetically? I don't know much. The schizophrenia is there, there's no denying that. But what kind of genes do I get from my father? Realistically speaking, Brady is my biological father and just the idea of passing on his genetic material... on the other hand, the man I grew up believing to be my father could actually be my biological father, in which case, solidifies my propensity towards alcoholism. I was prone to it just having grown up with it, but having it encoded in my DNA makes the likelihood that much greater. Hell, I'm already half way there as far as alcoholism is concerned.

I want to have kids with her. I really do. I just don't know if I can do it. At this point, with this many unknowns, I almost feel like I should let it pass me by, like it's a pipe dream. I'm too old, anyway.

I don't know.