My knees were cold against the tile of the bathroom floor. My stomach was pressed roughly against the rim of the toilet, my right hand pulling my hair out of my face. I could clearly hear the sound of his knocking on the bathroom door, each knock getting louder that the one before it. I hastily flushed the toilet while wiping my mouth with a wad of toilet paper. I didn't bother to stand up to unlock the door for him, rather crawling feebly across the floor and swinging the door open. I slumped back against the wall, drawing my knees up to my chest. I could feel my face getting red under his scrutiny, and before I could talk myself out of it, I was throwing myself at the toilet again.

That made a total of three times this morning, this being the second that he was aware of. He kicked the door closed gently before kneeling behind me to gather my hair into a loose ponytail with a rubber band he had found under the sink. His hands made their way to my back, to rub circles there, but I flinched away from him. Another wave of nausea hit me then, and he casually flushed the toilet and grabbed a cup of water from the sink.

When I pulled my head from the toilet after five minutes the water was by my knees, and he was sitting on the rim of the bathtub with his head in his hands. I drank from the glass greedily, pausing only to refill the water. The cool liquid soothed the burning in my throat, and for once putting something inside of my body didn't make me sick. I made my way over to him, sitting with my back pressed against the cold porcelain of the tub and sighed.

"I'm sorry." He wispered, reaching out to take the plastic object I had been clutching in my hand for the better part of the morning. I relinquished my hold on it, angrily wiping at the fresh onslaught of tears that had managed to escape my eye ducts. I opened my mouth to say something, but all that came out was air. With a gag, and a sob, I was leaning over the rim of the bathtub, ready to crawl into the drain and die.

"I'm so sorry." He said again, this time ignoring my flinch and holding me to him as I cried.

I avoided him and our home for the next week, choosing instead to stay an extra week at Girls United, trying desperately to wrap my mind around the situation I had suddenly found myself in. Trying and failing I might add. It pained me in the worst way to know that I was growing his child inside of me, the knowledge coming forward a mere week after we had broken up. After we decided that I deserved a forever family, and not just a forever boyfriend. I thought so highly of him then, as did moms.

Moms. The word stings the back of my throat with bile at the thought of it. Of them. How happy they were to know that whatever they thought was going on between Brandon and I had been put aside, and I was finally ready to be their daughter. I couldn't help the tears that fell at the thought of having to see that look of disappointment on their faces once again. I casually laid my hands on my stomach while I stared up at the sky in moms' backyard. Rubbing a small circle there, wondering if I was growing a boy or a girl.

But these thoughts were dangerous because there's no way I could keep it. There's no way they would let me keep it. I let the thought drift off, closing my eyes as a cloud moved from in front of the sun, and a gentle breeze embraced my body. I felt him lay in the grass beside me, too close for siblings, but too far away for lovers.

"Hi." He says, quietly as if there were eavesdroppers in the yard with us.

"Hi." I reply, turning my head to look into his green eyes, using my hand to shield my eyes.

"How are you?" He asks, gesturing to my stomach and the hand rested there. Genuinely concerned for my well being. I shrugged, lifting the corner of my mouth in a smirk.

"Okay, I guess." I answer, lifting myself up onto my elbows, glancing around the backyard to make sure we were completely alone.

"I can't keep it." I say, flopping back onto the ground, turning my face from his. And suddenly, as if we were in a damn movie, the clouds covered the sun shrouding us in daylight darkness

"Why not?" He demands, eyes wild now with anger, and hatred, and fear. I shrug my shoulders, turning away from him to look over the fence.

"It's not sensible, B." I whisper, wiping my hair out of my eyes. "Your moms are going to adopt me."

"So." He says harshly, reaching out to grab my wrist. I look down at his hand, trying to will him to let me go. I sigh, turning to look at him.

"We can't raise a baby, B. We're still babies ourselves." I say, standing up, effectively removing his hand from my wrist. I turn away from him, wiping the tears from my eyes.

"I want this." He says after me, and I can hear how broken he sounds. And it breaks my heart into a million pieces. I inhale, turning to look at him.

"I'm sorry." I tell him, and I walk away.

It was three weeks later that I approached him outside of the school. For the better part of these weeks he had tried to corner me, using his eyes to try to persuade me to keep our child. Our zygote, fetus, it. Because I couldn't give it a face or a name, because that would kill me. He had dark circles under his eyes to match my own, and I gripped the shoulder strap of my bag tightly in both hands. I could plainly see the pain etched into his face, the beard he was letting grow in because he didn't care to shave it anymore. And I would bet my last ten dollars that he had worn that shirt yesterday.

"I'm going on Friday. Cutting seventh period." I said, letting the truth settle between us like an ocean... Causing this continental drift to grow bigger. And the thought made me sad, because I had given myself to him, I loved him. The realization hitting me harshly, causing tears to sting my eyes, and fear to grip at my heart. He scoffed at me. Gripping my wrist once again in his hands.

"Callie, please." He begged, his green eyes searching my own. Hoping for there to have been a change, hoping. "Don't kill our baby." He whispered, drawing his hand towards my stomach. I ripped my arm out of his grasp, glaring at him. Anger radiating off of me as well as fear.

"I'm not killing anything." I hiss at him through my gritted teeth. "I'm scared, Brandon. And I'm not running away, I'm dealing with my problems this time." I whisper harshly to him. I pull the sweater that I'm wearing down again, covering the bump that had already started to grow there.

"It's my body." I continue, hating myself for even saying that fucking sentence to him. "I will do with it as I please, and if you don't want to come with me, then you don't have to. I'm sorry I told you." I finished before turning my back on him and walking away.

It didn't take him long to catch up with me on the walk home, and I was happy that he was walking beside me. I drew from him a small sense of comfort, hoping silently that he had accepted my decision. But knowing in my heart that he hadn't. When we reached the house he unlocked the door and ushered me inside. Brandon climbed the stairs after me, sighing sadly as I walked into my bedroom and closed the door.

When I awoke on Tuesday morning there was a sweatshirt on the edge of my bed and I immediately recognized it as his favorite. Pinned inside the pocket was a note containing one sentence.

"You're starting to show."

I didn't know that I could sob so hard into a piece of cloth. Or that by the time I was done crying I had woken Mariana who gave me the dirtiest look I had ever seen. And so I quietly showered, and dressed, and walked downstairs for breakfast wearing his sweater. And in his eyes I didn't miss the small fleck of hopefulness that had flashed there briefly.

On Wednesday afternoon he walked home behind me again, protecting me in a way. Protecting what he felt was his, and a part of me could appreciate that. But another part of me wanted to scream and cry and claw his eyes out. Because why the fuck hadn't he worn a condom, or better yet why didn't I make him?

And did a part of me actually plan this, did I actually think I could have my cake and eat it too if I had gotten pregnant? I didn't think I could be that devious, but then again...

I didn't realize that we had passed the house until I felt my feet sink into the sand, and a quick look behind me told me that he was still there. I cursed myself for leading us to this open area, where he could speak to me freely, and make promises aloud to match the notes he had been slipping me since Monday. I stopped short, ready to turn and run back to the house, to the safety barrier my wooden door provided me with. To a place where I didn't have to see those piercing green eyes. But my body had another idea and soon I was retching into the nearest trash can, the smell of it doubling my nausea.
And he was there like always, producing a water and a ginger ale and some saltine crackers. And I smiled up at him after I was done, with I'm sure, some spittle on my chin, but he just reache up and wiped my mouth with a paper towel he had also produced.

"I'm trying." Is all he said, before sitting down in the sand. In that moment I could have decided to run back home or sit in the sand with him, and I chose to sit and stay and fight. And I really don't know why.

"I'm trying not to love you Callie. Hell, you going in two days to abort my baby..." He choked a bit, muffling with the back of his hand what I thought to be a sob. "It's killing me. And I want to lock you in your room until it's too late, because I want you and I want this. But I can't be that guy." He continues. Closing his hand over his mouth for a moment, his eyes going glossy with tears.

"I'm scared." He continues, reaching out to place his hand close to mine. "And if I'm scared, then you must be ten times more scared." His slender fingers take hold of mine, squeezing them gently. "But we made that baby out of love, and I know..." He sighed, reaching out to touch my cheek.

"I know you love me Callie." He says, leaning in to press his lips to my forehead, and I melt into his touch. And for the first time in weeks I feel my body relaxing. I lean closer into him, placing my head on his chest as we lay in the sand. And for a brief afternoon I let myself believe that everything will be okay. So we lay there with his warm hands pressed against my bare belly underneath his favorite sweatshirt, and my arms around his neck. Finally sleeping...

Thursday dawned with claps of thunder to hide the rolling nausea I was experiencing behind Brandon's closed bedroom door. Jesus was in the bathroom early this morning, and so I had rushed into his bedroom, dropping to my knees by his desk, and emptying my stomach onto discarded pieces of sheet music. Brandon was out of bed in seconds, shutting his bedroom door and flicking on his radio, to help hide the gruesome sounds of my vomiting.

The nausea was violent this morning, and once again he rubbed small circles on my back. Soothing me with just his presence. My throat was raw as I sat back on my legs, falling into his embrace. Every piece of me hurt, my head, my heart, my throat. And so I sobbed into his chest, crying tears of pain, and sorrow, and unfairness. I cried because I was one day closer to Friday, one day closer to completely shattering anything I could ever have with this boy.
As soon as I knew I wasn't going to vomit again, I picked myself up off of the floor and walked to the door. I stopped with my hands on the doorknob. Sighing in defeat. I spoke evenly, quietly, and I knew he had to strain to hear me over the music, and the thunder, and my tears.

"2 o'clock tomorrow. 7340 Miradian Road. Building number 205." And then I walked out of the door. I flinched when I heard the crash coming from his bedroom, steeling myself inwardly, convincing myself to walk to my bedroom. Stef came running out of her bedroom, gun drawn and a panicked look on her face, and she looked at me, signaling to get out of the hallway. Another crash came from his bedroom, this time louder and I clapped a hand to my mouth as a sob ripped through me. I clutched my stomach, whispering I'm sorry repeatedly as Stef opened her son's bedroom door.

And once again as if in a movie our eyes locked, and my heart broke at the scream that ripped through him as he hefted his keyboard against his bedroom wall. With my back to the wall I sank to a sitting position and cried at the sight of Stef cradling her now sobbing son to her chest, her gun lay forgotten at her side. Just another weapon of destruction that wasn't needed when I was around.

Friday morning approached with sunshine and birds chirping and not a reminder of the storm yesterday had brung. Brandon's room was tidied now, and the boy was missing from the house. A hastily scribbled note was left on the island, something about needing air and getting breakfast with his dad. I hadn't slept the night before and every little sound was making me jump. There was a queasiness in my stomach, something so far from the normal nausea, that I wished I could throw up to ease the uncomfortableness of it.

And this morning I managed to eat a full breakfast, even the greasy bacon, and god how I had missed bacon. But he wasn't there to share in that with me, and that caused my heart to hurt, and the smile to slide off of my face.

When I got to school, I looked for him, hoping he would be around so that I could explain everything to him. But there really was nothing left to explain was there? I had made myself clear, spitting out the address to the planned parenthood clinic yesterday with little to no regard of how he was feeling. And so I shouldn't be feeling sorry for myself but I am. The day passes too quickly in my opinion, and before I know it sixth period is letting out and I'm terrified now.

I sneak out the back and make my way to the metro station, sliding onto the bus unnoticed, paying the fare silently, and slipping a pair of headphone onto my ears. I stare straight ahead for the thirty minutes I'm on this bus that reeks of cigarette smoke, and urine, and month old coffee. And even though I want to vomit, I can't be late for this appointment, because it's literally now or never.

I've been sitting here for about five minutes after checking in, my phone is clutched tightly in my hands, and I keep checking the time. Watching as the minutes tick slowly by, and he doesn't show up. And in the back of my mind I already knew that he wouldn't, because he's expressed exactly how much he doesn't want this to happen today. And so I can't blame him in the slightest for not being strong enough to hold my hand today, I don't think I would be able to do it if the roles were reversed.

There's a woman sitting to my right and she keeps looking at me in agitation, clearly taking in he sight of my stomach. I look at her own, and notice that it's flat, not like these other women sitting here. And I silently wonder if she just became pregnant, or just finished being pregnant. The woman notices me staring at her, and she smiles sadly at me.

"I'm infertile." She says, answering my question and making me feel completely ashamed in one fell swoop.

"I'm another teen statistic." I respond with a blush. She smiles warmly at me, moving a seat closer.

"May I?" She asks, gesturing with her hands to my stomach, and I stare at her.

"Sure." I respond, choosing instead to let her feel this life I was about to discard.

"There's always adoption." She says to me after removing her hands from my stomach. I nod my head, having already thought of that.

"If I have it, the father will want to keep it. And I can't do that to him, or his family." I respond, wiping at the tears that have fallen from my eyes. The bell above the door jingles, and I look over at it, half expecting it to be him, and knowing that it isn't. But imagine my surprise when I turn my head and see him. His hair is a mess, and he looks like he's been crying, and he might be just a bit drunk. But he stands in front of me, getting down on both of his knees, and places his head in my lap. I automatically reach down to play with his hair, closing my eyes.

"I'm sorry." He says to me, lifting his head up. His hands reach up to wipe my tears. "I shouldn't have pressured you into keeping the baby. I'm here to support you no matter what you decide." He says. I nod, smiling down at him before I hear my name being called.

The room is cold, and sterile, and impersonal. There was probably another scared woman here ten minutes before me, and there will be another here after me. And so I strip down and get into the gown they ask me to, and I sit on the table, and I'm grateful that I wore socks today, because my feet are already cold. And the queasiness that I felt this morning is back tenfold, and my heart is racing, and my eyes are producing tears faster than I can shed them, and I can't seem to breathe. But Brandon is here holding my hand, and patting my hair back and he's whispering soothing things to me. I don't pay attention to much until he whispers a name to me.

I look at him bewildered, sputtering.

"What did you say?" I ask him rudely, snidely, already hating the answer I know he was about to pop out.

"Tegan, I would have pushed to name it Tegan." He says to me, already casting his eyes downward, ashamed that he had even pushed it this far. And the tears come faster now, and my ass is cold, and I'm terrified. And I look at Brandon and I know, I just know.

"Get me out of here." I say to him, slipping my leggings back on, and my boots, and his sweatshirt. He looks at me as if I've lost my mind, but the love shining in his eyes reminds him not to question me, because he's getting what he's been begging me for for an entire week.

We approach our home at ten that night, already fearing the backlash we would be getting for our hands being clasped tightly together. Moms are sitting in the living room, sharing what looks to be a bottle of red wine between them. They look happy and relaxed, and I'm scared to ruin that for them. Brandon, sensing my tension, lifts our clasped hands to his lips, and kisses the back of mine so gently.

"I'll start." He promises, and I'm suddenly not scared anymore, and when he opens the door, allowing me to enter first, I smile, and whisper Tegan.

A/N: Just a little something I thought could come from when the scene fades to black in 1x14. You know after Brandon serenades Callie, and they talk about kitchen tables and flat screen TVs, and pancakes. And oh yeah, the kiss. I hope you enjoyed.