Title: Breach (2/2)

Universe: Post-The Following

Rating: PG/PG-13

Pairing: Claire Matthews/Ryan Hardy

Summary: Part 2.

x x x

"I don't think I'm quite gone yet, Mom."

I stare speechless at my son as he stands on the threshold of my bedroom. I'm still trying to reconcile the sight of him with my certainty that it was my husband in the room with me; my mind is having a hard time keeping up. Kind boy that he is, Joey gives me a minute to gather myself.

"Oh," I say finally, my breath escaping me. "I didn't know it was you, honey."

He nods, and scratches one wrist with the other hand. "I know. You thought I was Dad." He pauses, and takes a couple seconds to study his shoes. "That was nice, you know. All that stuff you said about him."

"I love him," is all I can think to say. I feel like a child. All my answers are silly: basic and emotive. "And you," I add quickly. "I love you, too." I search for his eyes, and lock onto them as I lean forward. "Do you have any idea how much I love you, Jay?"

He is shamed at my declarations, for again his eyes fall away. I've forgotten how sensitive he is to his emotions these days. When he was a little boy, he used to cry out his love for me, proud and happy. He used to hug my knees and put his cheek out for me to kiss and nestle in my lap when he was tired or wanted attention. He used to call me 'Momma.' Now he mumbles hurriedly, his voice low, "Yeah, I know, Mom. Love you too."

He says nothing else for a few seconds, and though I open my mouth to speak, I find I don't have anything to say, either. Or at least, I don't have an ability to say what I want to say convincingly or persuasively enough. At least not yet.

But soon enough the silence gets to him, for he seems to crack, and then the words burst forth. The next couple sentences come out of him so fast I almost can't understand them.

"I'm sorry," he blurts out. "I—I didn't mean to sneak in here and spy on you or anything. It's just that—you said come in, and I did, but you weren't looking at me so I thought you were still mad and I didn't know what to say or how to start—" He's drawing closer to me now, almost at the edge of the bed. "I didn't mean to swear at you before; I promise I didn't, Mom. It just came out because I was mad and I was scared and I just…" Finally, his voice slows down and then peters off. "I'm sorry," he finishes in a quiet whisper. "I didn't mean to get mad and I didn't mean to eavesdrop."

"It's okay," I hear myself say, though it goes against every parenting instinct I have to write him off on things like this. How will he learn? I think. But I also know that, right now, there are more important things for us two to talk about.

"I'm sorry too," I tell him. I want to turn away and hide as I confess my most recent sin, but I force myself to sit up and look my child in the eye. I want to be a good example for him, not another bad one. "I never meant to upset you the way I did earlier tonight. I never meant to scare you. And I wish…" I can feel the tears threatening but my son is looking right in my eyes and there's no way I can turn away now. I can't keep hiding from him. "I wish I could say that I didn't mean what I said before," I whisper, feeling my eyes fill and praying they won't overflow. "I wish I could act like what I said was just a slip of the tongue or a superstition, but…" I close my eyes for a second, and reach out to wipe away the couple tears that squeezed out before they get a chance to fall down my cheeks.

"That wouldn't be true, honey," I force out, lifting my eyes and finding his once more. Mine must be red and waterlogged, I know, but he stares right into them nonetheless. I wrap my arms tight around my knees, and as I hug them to my chest, I suddenly wish Ryan were still here with me to have this conversation with Joey. I need someone to fill in the gaps I can't say. I need someone to speak when I can't breathe. I need my husband so badly it hurts. "And I… I'm sorry I'm this way, Joey. I'm sorry I can't be more optimistic or—or realistic, but when it comes to your father I've learned to expect the worst. That's just what I've done; that's how I've survived. And it isn't a good way to live, I know that. To be this scared… It isn't healthy. It's corrosive." I suck in a breath and, with a burst of courage that comes from somewhere I can't name, I reach for my son's hand, and pull him to me so we're sitting side-by-side at the far corner of my bed. "But I don't want you to feel like that, Joey. I don't want you to live like that." I manage a little smile. "I want you to be happy and I want you to feel safe." I squeeze his fingers in mine. "I want better for you than what I have, than what I am. I always have."

"I know, Mom."

His voice is soft, almost a whisper. I hold my tongue; I know there is more he wants to say, but he needs to build up the courage.

"I just…" He starts and then stops, closing his eyes. But I squeeze his hand, encouraging him on. We need to work together from here on out.

My touch must have bolstered some confidence in him, for when he next speaks, he's sitting up straighter and he's looking me in the eye. I can see the fear there, the worry, but at least he's speaking his mind.

"I just want to know why you won't talk about him with me anymore. We used to talk."

"I know." I duck my head down as I nod because I still have a hard time owning up to my own child about my mistakes in childrearing. He deserves better than what I've given him. "I know that we used to talk about him, Joey."

I can feel him staring at me, but childishly, I refuse to look up. I don't want to see any more judgment in his eyes; I don't want to see any more anger. Not from my only child, not from my baby.

His voice is very quiet when he next speaks, and as close as we are, I nearly have to strain to hear him.

"Is it…because of Ryan? Is that why you won't talk about him anymore, because you married Ryan?"

"No, no, no." I lift my head as I shake it, all childishness gone from me now as I meet my son's eyes. He needs to hear this directly from me and know it's true. "It's not because I married Ryan. My not wanting to talk about your father has nothing to do with that. It's more about…"

It's not that I find myself faltering again, stumbling. Instead, I'm inundated by all the things I have tried so hard to hold in; they are rioting at the gates of my lips, clamoring to be let out and to be free. Vying to be heard.

I take one breath, then another. And then, following my son's example, I let the floodgates open.

"I used to be able to separate the two—the two forms of your father, in the years after his first arrest. I knew he committed these horrible crimes, but part of me was still able to see the man that had loved me in spite of all that. I was able to remember the life we had had together; the baby we'd made that we both loved… And for a while, all that sustained me. I talked myself into believing that all of that was real because I needed it to be real. Otherwise, my life with him… It would mean worse than nothing.

"But then, once he broke out and had you kidnapped, once he started coming after us… All those delusions were over. There was nothing left then, not even the memories. Once he put you in danger, I was finished with him. Finished with anything we had ever been." I take a deep breath, forcing myself to meet my son's eyes. I try a shaky smile, and somehow it holds. His smile flickers in return, acknowledging my gesture. "And I know it's different for you." I take both his hands in mine now, and grip them tightly. "I know it is so different for you, baby. He's your father and I understand your curiosity. I understand wanting to know where you came from, especially since I've remarried. And it's… it's okay to be curious. But I need you to know that it's very hard for me to revisit him now, and it's not because of Ryan. It's because of all that happened back then, all that he put me through, and put you through. All of it… It still scares me. And talking about it just brings me back to that place, to those fears." I can feel my chin trembling, my throat closing, but I know I have to get the last bit out. If my son is ever going to trust me again, I have to be fully honest with him now. So I force the words out: "And even though he's gone, even though he's in jail and on death row, I can't help it. He still scares me and I—I think he always will scare me."

I feel different after I say it. Not like a weight has been lifted—my life is not that easy—but almost as if the weight has shifted. The fear is still there; it will always be there. But acknowledging it aloud, especially in the presence of my son, has done something. It's chipped away at the fear. It's pushed it a little further from my everyday consciousness. I find I actually feel better. That is, until my child tells me—

"He still scares me, too."

I blink, startled by this, though I know logically I shouldn't be. Although I've done my best trying to police how much he is exposed to information about his father's crimes, I know my son has been going around my back for years researching it. But I thought it was always just about fulfilling a morbid curiosity for him, as if Joe were some sort of freakish circus act that he just happened to be related to. But finding out that he is just as real—just as terrifying—to my son as he is to the rest of us…

I try my hardest not to let my face change as I look at him. I try my hardest not to let the cry of despair escape from between my lips, nor to let the tears brimming in my eyes fall. He doesn't deserve to see me like this. He doesn't deserve to feel like this.

Oh, God!

I don't know why, but I find I never truly expected him to be scared of Joe like the rest of us are. Joey saw firsthand so very little of the brutality his father had to offer; in fact, he saw another side of the man altogether. And I always thought those civil, relatively warm interactions between the two of them all those years ago would stick in Joey's mind more than anything else he could read or watch. But I suppose imagination is a weapon like any other, and Joey's has been steadily working against him for years. He's certainly given it enough fodder.

It makes me want to weep, realizing that he's now on the same playing field as the rest of us. Of course Joe never physically hurt him or threatened him to his face, not like he did with Ryan and I, but for the first time, I'm wondering if the doting-father act he put on with our son was somehow worse. I've spent years being grateful that Joey never actually saw what his father was truly capable of. But maybe he saw something worse. Maybe he was scarred in a different way.

I think about how torturous it was for me, to be forced to pretend that I wasn't frightened of him, to go so far as to even make him believe that I loved him again, when all I could think about was escaping. All I could think about was getting away from him while I was still alive. The pressure had made me feel like I was going to die.

Maybe Joey's experiences were more similar to mine than I ever thought.

"What are you scared of? What is it you think he's going to do?"

The words are out of my mouth before I can call them back, and even though I see the surprise flash through Joey's eyes, I don't renege. I find I not only want to hear his answer, I need to hear it. I need to know just how alike we are.

Joey demurs for some time, until I assure him that I understand what he's going through. I get the irrational fears, too—and I see them as rational, just like him. I spend many minutes squeezing his hands in mine, promising him that he can tell me the truth now, swearing that I will understand anything he has to say. By the time he opens his mouth to speak, he's nearly on the verge of tears:

"I…I'm scared that he'll come after you and Dad and me. I'm scared that…" The shaking stars in his fingertips. Before I can grip them in my hands, he clenches his two together and stills them in a practiced manner that tells me he's been dealing with this fear for a long time. He shakes for not more than twenty seconds when the rest bursts out of him, busting through a five-year-old dam:

"And he'll kill Dad, won't he? That's what he'll do, when he finds us. He'll kill Dad and then he'll take you and me and—and—he'll—" Joey's voice cracks open like a fissure in the earth, and everything falls into it. He launches himself into my arms, sobbing, before I even know what to do. But the instinct to comfort my child is buried deep inside me, a place untouchable by trauma, and even if I hadn't already spent half my life caring for this boy, I would still know what to do. Without a conscious thought, my arms wrap around him and I pull him tight to me, whispering reassurances in his ear as I stroke his hair and rub his back.

"Everything's okay, Joey. Oh, sweetheart, everything's fine. We're okay, honey."

I rock him against me, like I used to when he was an infant. His tear-streaked face is pressed close against my chest. His hands fist the back of my nightshirt, clinging to me with desperation.

"You're okay, I'm okay, Dad's okay."

I realize I'm mimicking my husband's entreaties from earlier in the night, and I close my eyes in gratitude. He is a blessing, this husband of mine. A savior.

I bury my face into the crown of my son's head. "There isn't anything to worry about, sweetheart. All of this is hypothetical, anyway—remember that. He isn't the one that escaped; it's someone from Greenfield—"

"But he could!" Joey tears himself from my arms as he shouts, his face alive and furious and shining with tears. "He could break out, you said it yourself! And he's done it before, it's not like he doesn't know how!"

"Joey. Look at me. Look at me." I take his face in my hands and hold it tight. Perhaps too tight. But he doesn't shrink from me. He must know as well as I do that he needs to hear this. "I am going to tell you what is going to happen to him. Are you listening to me?"

I wait for him to nod. To choke out a hoarse "Yes."

"All right. First, he is going to wallow in that prison cell for a little while longer. A few months maybe, or a few years. Then, there's going to be a date set for his execution. Do you know what's going to happen then?"

Through the vice of my fingers, my son bites his lip and then shakes his head. And my heart breaks as I watch him because I know now that he's telling the truth. He isn't playing dumb; he actually doesn't know what's going to happen. He doesn't believe that this will ever end.

"They're going to kill him," I say quietly, keeping my eyes locked on his. "They're going to strap him down to a gurney and they're going to inject a couple different drugs into his system and he's going to die, right there on that gurney. There are going to be doctors there, to make sure he's stopped breathing, and to make sure that his heart has stopped working." I stare at my son until I'm certain he's absorbed this. "Do you want me to tell you what he's not going to do?"

Between my firm palms, my son's head bobs. Eager. Frightened. Hopeful.

"He is not going to escape. He is not going to rise from the dead. He is not going to touch you or me or Dad. Instead, he is going to lie there and he is going to die—and then you and me, we are going to be done with him. We are going to be finished where he is concerned. Do you understand me, Joey?"

I have a frantic urge to shake his head in my hands, to demand an immediate answer. But I force myself to give him time, as he has done for me.

Eventually, he nods. "Yes, Mom, I understand."

I gather him in a hug then, because I know he needs it, and I quietly relish in tight feel of his embrace. It's been a while since I've felt so needed by him, years since I've really felt like a good mother to him. With Ryan here now, I think most of the more delicate aspects of my son's childrearing has inadvertently fallen into his camp. And I do not begrudge him—or anyone—this fact. I recognize daily the blessing Ryan is to my son: an adult who will talk to him like he's an adult. A parent who can answer his questions without judgment or fear, who can guide him, who can help him come to terms with his past in order to live with it. He is a true father to Joey—sometimes, I think, he's more of a father to him than I am a mother—and I am eternally grateful to him for the role he plays in my son's life.

But still, it's nice to be able to hold my child and know that I can comfort him in ways no one else can.

"I love you, Jay," I whisper into his shoulder, pressing my lips against the cotton of his t-shirt.

He shifts, sniffs, in my arms. "Love you too." And then: "Thank you for talking with me tonight."

I squeeze him tight one last time before pulling away. "You don't have to thank me, honey. Or—you shouldn't have to. I know I don't talk about these things with you, that I haven't for years, but I…I'd like it if we'd be more open with each other. I meant what I said before, Joey. I don't want to be cut off from you anymore. I want you to come to me when you're scared, just like you do when you're happy. I want us to be the way we were before he came back."

"Me too."

I offer him a small smile, letting myself relax some. "Good, then," I say, a bit more brightly than usual, realizing we must be at the end for tonight.

But my son's returning smile is subdued, and I know in a heartbeat that we aren't finished yet. In all likelihood, we won't be finished for a while.

My voice drops, but I don't allow my heart to follow. "What is it?" I ask him softly.

This time, he doesn't look away. He doesn't hesitate. He looks right at me and asks, "Do you really think he's going to get out sometime and come after us again, Mom?"

I bite back a heavy sigh. I know what the right thing to say is: No. I can hear my husband whispering the word in my mind, urging me to alleviate this burden from my son's widening shoulders. But I can't.

The fear of reprisal is too real to me; its horrific scenes are always playing out in the back of my mind whenever I find myself sleepless in bed or alone on semi-deserted streets at night. Ryan and Joey were right: his breakout isn't an if to me; it never has been. It's a when. He will break out and he will come after us, because that is the course my life has taken thus far: ride the good road, nice and slow and happy, and watch it all inevitably career towards hell. No turn-offs, no breaks. No good deeds going unpunished, at least not any of the ones I make.

In the end, I don't even have to answer aloud. Joey knows what I don't want to say, and he saves me from having to speak. "So if he does break out, what would happen to us? Where would we go?"

I shrug, folding my legs beneath me. "Anywhere. Somewhere that we could blend in easily. Someplace we could disappear."

"So we would get to stay together?" Joey's voice rises with hope.

I hesitate at the question. Despite what I said earlier, I do not know everything about witness protection. I don't know much, even. Just the basics—what the FBI and the US Marshals Service and my lawyers have warned me about over the years—and this is not the basics. I would love to say that we would all get to stay together if Joe were to break out and come after us again, but now that I think about it, that sounds like just about the worst possible course of action that the marshals could take with us. Three birds with one stone. Jackpot.

"Maybe you should ask Ryan that question," I begin, hoping to put it off, but Joey disallows me.

"I'm not asking Ryan," he counters. "I'm asking you: If he breaks out, do you think we'd get to stay together?"

I take a deep breath. I know what my son wants to hear. But I also know what he needs to hear. "I… I wish, honey. I wish I could say that I know we'll get to stay together if he were to escape. But I just don't know. From a strategic standpoint, it'd be asking for a massacre to keep the three of us together. The farther apart and less connected we are, the better, so he couldn't use one of us to trace the others. But…" I grasp his hands tight, getting nervous just thinking about it. "Honey, I would want us all together. I hope you know that. I always want our family together. But if it was about your safety, or Ryan's…" I trail off, not wanting to think about it.

But it's all my son wants to think about. All he can think about.

"Would you do it?" he presses impatiently, leaning forward. "Would you?" I can hear his voice start to crack, and it tears at me, rips something inside me that I hadn't realized was still vulnerable. "If they told you that you had to leave me and Dad tomorrow, and we'd all be going in different places, would you do it?"

I can feel my throat closing at his question, and my eyes start to prick. But I do not want to cry in front of my son. I cannot. He does not deserve to see me like that, not ever again.

"I would," I choke out finally, forcing down the sob that's threatening to escape with every haggard breath I take. "If it meant you two would be safe, I would leave in a heartbeat." I rush to squeeze his hands hard in mine, to find his eyes. "Oh, Joey, honey, I would do anything to protect you, I would die for both of you—I hope you know that that's the truth. I would put myself between you and him any and every day of the week, no matter what."

"Is that what you did last time?"

I'm sniffling, and wiping my face, as he asks the question, and so I'm not quite sure I get it all at first. I ask him to repeat it. But even the second time, I'm not certain what answer he's searching for. "Are you asking me if I tried to protect you from him the last time he escaped?" The idea tears at my heart on the way out—did he really not notice all I did for him all those years ago? I know it was so long ago now, but I would've hoped he would have remembered something of what I did for him. Something of what I sacrificed.

"No, I'm asking if that's what you did, at that place in the woods. That mansion where he kept us. I barely ever saw him once you got there and came to be with me. Did you…" His fingers start to shake in mine again. "Did you put yourself between me and him, Momma?"

"Oh, sweetheart…" I can hear the anguish in his voice, and mine matches it, because I don't know what to say to quell it, or how to explain everything that happened back then. "Joey…"

"I remember hearing you cry at night, in our room." He's crying himself now, but silently, unlike my heaving sobs of all those years ago that I always hoped, always told myself, he'd slept peacefully and obliviously through. "I—I pretended I was asleep because I was scared, I guess, and because I didn't know how to make you feel better, but I think even then I knew… I didn't want to know, but I did—" Joey's shaking uncontrollably now, and the tears are jumping off his cheeks. "He—He hurt you, didn't he? He tortured you to get to me, and that's why you're so scared of him still, isn't it? That's why whatever Ryan says doesn't help, because you know what he'll do when he has us again?"

"Joey…" I try to close my eyes to block out the fear in his words, to give myself a moment to think, but nothing works. Everything is rushing around me, and he won't stop talking.

"And you never said anything was wrong. All that time, you never said a word to me about him, or—or what he was doing, you just told me not to talk to anyone at that place. You'd told me we'd both be home soon, and not to worry about anything. Why did you do that?" His voice is growing desperate. "Why did you pretend to be okay for me? Momma, why didn't you say back then that he—?"

"Sweetheart, you were ten back then. There was nothing I was going to say to you because there was nothing you could have done." I don't bother explaining that I would not have told him what had happened had he been sixteen or sixty at the time. There are some things mothers hide from their children in order to protect them. I hide my child's father.

"I know that you want the truth now, honey, and that's fine. You deserve it. We will talk about it, I promise. But tonight…" I sigh, exhaustion pouring from me. "Tonight, you're just going to have to give me some time, all right? When I said it's hard for me to talk about these things, I meant it…"

Joe does not say anything to this turn of events, though I wish he would. I don't want to be the one to let him down just after having promised that I will always be open with him. But we have already struggled through so much tonight…

I close my eyes and bow my head, silently sending up a prayer that one day my son will understand all this. Silently begging God to protect what innocence of his might be left.

"I know he hurt you." Joey's voice cuts through my prayers, steals my attention. "I know he hurt you, and I know it was because of me." His tortured eyes find mine, his chin trembling. "I'm so sorry, Momma."

I shake my head, and roll my lips together to hold myself together a moment longer. "There's nothing for you to apologize for," I tell him quietly, when I can speak. "None of it was your fault."

"You and Dad can say that as many times as you want, but that won't make it true."

I find my son's eyes: red-rimmed, scared, angry. He has been duped, and he knows it.

As there is nothing I can say to make it better, we sit trapped in silence for minutes, forced together back into the past.

"Did… Was it…" More than once, my son tries to speak, only to have his own vocal cords rebel against him. Part of me wants to take his hand to encourage him to speak his mind, but the other part of me is terrified at what I might hear, what else he might want to do. Selfishly, I abandon him to his struggle, and sink into my own.

After what feels like hours, he finally finds his words. Or at least some of them.

"When you left me in our room to go be with him, did he ever… Did he try to…" My son has been holding my gaze boldly up until this point, but it is now that his eyes fall, and his voice, too. But I know what he's asking about even before he trails off into a frozen silence. And I know why he can't say it: because he's fifteen years old; because I'm his mother; and because—besides all that—rape isn't something that regular people talk about. And we have been trying so hard to be regular people these past few years.

I take a breath, grateful, at least, that I can quench those particular nightmares for him. I take his hands and cradle them gently in mine. "No, sweetheart, he didn't hurt me like that." I pause to draw in another breath, searching for a way to make this all as easy to understand for him as possible.

"He wanted me to be his wife again very badly," I begin, choosing my words carefully, for I know he will remember this conversation. "But at that point, I don't really think he was ready to force me back into that role if I fought against it, and I did fight. I didn't want to be with him. I didn't want to be that person anymore that I used to be when I was with him. I couldn't forget everything that he had done, let alone forgive him for it and pretend I loved him again. So I pushed him away and he tried to draw me back in the best way he knew how…" I chance a glimpse at my son and find him watching me intently. It doesn't look like he's breathing. "He kept me from you at the start," I say quietly. "You remember that, don't you? He limited my interaction with you in the beginning so that I'd have to go to him and beg if I had any hope of seeing you at all. As time went on, he made sure that he was the one giving me everything that mattered, everything that I needed: food, clothes, fresh air, you."

My voice cracks somewhat on that last word, and I try to hide it with a smile. I squeeze my son's fingers tightly, but he doesn't squeeze back. His hands are limp between mine, and cold.

"So…what did you do?" he asks, his voice blank and impersonal as he struggles not to feel. "If he kept me from you, how did you get it so we were staying in the same room, and spending our days together? What did you do?"

What did I do? Well, I played along. I did what Joe wanted so I'd get what I needed, that's what I did. I bowed to his requests. I played the part he wanted me to play. But I don't know if I can tell my son that. I don't know if he'll look at me the same anymore once he knows the lengths his mother is capable of sinking to.

But then I remember him swearing at me earlier, and I know he'll never look at me the same after tonight, no matter what I say next. Everything is already different, and everything will continue to be different. Why not tell the truth?

"I did what he asked of me, Joey. I did what I had to do to survive, and to keep you safe."

"What does that mean?"

I close my eyes, first fighting back the urge to groan aloud in frustration, then the urge to cry. The words We'll talk about it when you're older are on the tip of my tongue, but I know what a betrayal that would be to Joey if I were to say them aloud. So I swallow them, and open my eyes.

He's already watching me. I try not to flinch too visibly.

"It means…" I expel a breath, fighting for the right words. We already don't have the right time. "It means a lot of things, Joey. It means I had dinners with him when he wanted; I went to him when he called for me. It means dressed nice and I styled my hair and I smiled. It means I did my best to act like I wasn't terrified and repulsed every second that I spent with him."

"So you pretended?"

"More like I lied, but yes. I pretended."

Joey is quiet for a minute, and I wait. I know there will be more to come.

"How come he didn't see through it? The lie? The pretending?"

An involuntary smile flickers on the edges of my lips. "That's a good question, Joey. And I'm not sure. I've never asked him." I pause, and for the first time in years, I think willingly back to that time I spent with Joe, all those interminable weeks locked up in his strange castle. "I think he didn't see through it all mostly because he didn't want to. I believe he truly wanted me to love him again, to forget everything I'd seen and learned over the years. And so when I played along, I think he was just so pleased about it that he didn't even stop to think that maybe I wasn't being truthful. Or even if he did know that I was lying, I think he thought that, with enough time, the lie would stop being a lie for me and start being the truth. He'd always been very good at wearing people down, after all. Stood to reason he could do the same to me."

I look down, then. I don't want to think about what our life might've become had I been with Joe long enough to fully give into what he wanted of me. I don't want to think about what it would've done to Ryan.

"I'm glad it didn't turn into the truth," Joey says quietly, breaking the silence between us.

I look up and upon catching his eye, and give him a small smile. "Me too, Jay." I notice he's wiped the remains of his tears off his face, and despite some redness in his eyes, he looks like my boy again: content and quiet and thoughtful.

"Even with him still around, I like our life the way it is now. I'm glad you're married to Ryan and not back with him."

"So am I."

Joey doesn't say anything else after that, and neither do I. It appears we've exhausted all our fears and our words for the moment, and so for a couple minutes, we sit in silence beside one another. At some point, he reaches out for my hand, and then I pull him into a hug, and for a while, we just hold each other, wrapped up in the safety of each other's arms.

"I love you so much," I whisper into his ear after a few seconds, my chin resting on his shoulder. "I love you and I am so proud that you are my son. You are such a good boy."

The fabric of my shirt rustles as he presses his face into it. "I love you too," he whispers. I listen to him take a rattling breath. "And I'm proud that you're my mom. I know I wouldn't be here if you hadn't risked your life to protect me, and I'm grateful for that, Momma. Even when I'm scared, I—I know I only get to be scared because I'm still alive, because you were the one who kept me alive. So—thank you for that, Mom. For everything."

I have no words for that, so I just hold him close. Silently, over and over again, I thank God for my child. For his safety. For his happiness. For his wondrous, kind, and gentle soul. For his ability to be a better person at age fifteen than both his mother and his father have ever been in their whole lives.

At some point, there is the quietest knock on the door. I don't look up both because I already know who it is, and because my son is asleep in my arms and I don't want to wake him. His face is nestled against my chest, his head tucked in beneath mine, and I know any movement on my part, even the slightest one, could wake him.

Thankfully, Ryan comes into the room quietly enough that Joey doesn't even stir. When he sits down on the mattress beside me, he does so gently enough that the bed hardly even shifts beneath his weight.

"How'd it go?" Ryan's voice is so quiet behind me when he speaks that it's almost like telepathy. I can more sense what he's saying than actually hear it.

"Okay," I murmur back. "He'll have more questions, I'm sure, but…"

"But those are for another day," my husband finishes quietly. He presses a warm hand to my back in comfort.

I close my eyes in lieu of a nod, and lean back a bit until I feel his body there, supporting me. I lean my weight fully against his gratefully; holding Joey so long in such a rigid pose has exhausted me, and I relish the release of even the littlest bit of relaxation. My husband's hands are warm and welcome as they reach up to soothe the muscles in my back, but I don't recline any further than a few degrees for fear of waking Joey.

"Claire." Ryan's voice is in my ear, softly chiding. He knows what I'm doing. "Come on. You deserve to get some sleep, too."

But I shake my head. I don't need sleep right now. I just need to be here, with the people I love. I can't remember the last time I held my son like this, and—no, scratch that, I can remember it very clearly. Too clearly.

"It's almost dawn," I tell my husband, pushing the memories from that time away as I glance at our bedside clock. It reads 5:13 AM. A wave of exhaustion rolls over me and threatens to drown me at the realization, but I make myself beat it back. "I can sleep after we have breakfast."

"Claire." Ryan's voice is firmer now.

"I'm not going to leave him, Ryan. Not tonight."

"I didn't ask you to leave him." Ryan's whisper is a little distant now; I can still feel him behind me, but he's turning his head. I hear him rustle something atop our bed, but I can't turn my head to see without risking jostling Joey and accidentally waking him.

"Lay back," my husband says finally, lifting himself from the bed but still supporting my back with his hands. He lowers me slowly back onto the pillows, Joey sinking down with me. When I am finally able to recline fully against the mattress, I let out a sigh of relief, allowing my back muscles to finally fully relax. I still hold Joey against me, his head resting on my shoulder, his body next to mine, and for a second, we are at peace.

But then he blinks awake, yawning, and I know even the gentlest move was too much for him. "Mom?" he calls out blindly, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

I smile, brushing his hair off his forehead. It's getting a little long. "I'm right here, Joey. Go back to sleep."

"Is Dad—"

"He's here, too." I have to stifle a yawn. "And we're all gonna get some sleep now, okay?"

"But—"

"Joey."

His voice is meek, nervous: "I just wanted to know if they caught the guy."

I blink, finding my son's hazel eyes staring right back at me. They are bleary and reddened, but still awake enough to be concerned.

As if he were from another life of mine, I slowly recall the escaped prisoner that started this whole night. I don't know if I want to hunt him down myself to kill him or simply to shake his hand. He may have terrorized my family, but he also brought us closer together than we've ever been.

"Have you heard anything, Mom?"

"I haven't," I answer. I'm just turning my head when my husband reads my thoughts.

"Me neither," Ryan's voice sounds from behind me. I watch Joey's eyes change focus, drawn to his stepfather. "But we'll give it time. We'll check again in the morning, all right?"

Neither Ryan nor I mention that morning is less than an hour off.

Joey, flagging already, nods tiredly against my shoulder. "'Kay," he mumbles, his eyes falling closed. I relish in the safety he so clearly feels, here with the both of us. Just an hour ago, he never would've let his worries go so easily. He never would've drifted to sleep so peacefully.

There's shift from behind me, and then my husband is leaning over me. I watch as he reaches out to our son, and squeezes his shoulder.

"Get some sleep now, bud."

Joey mumbles something quietly in his sleep that neither Ryan nor I can make sense of. For a moment, we just stay and watch him. It's wonderful to see him at peace.

It's the gently creaking floorboards that alert me to my husband's movements. I turn my head to look at him in time to see him walking away, rounding the bed, only a few steps from the door.

"Hey," I call out softly. "Where do you think you're going?"

The briefest flicker of a smile appears at the edge of my husband's lips. "Nowhere," he replies. Then he comes around the side of the bed and lies down, next to us. Over Joey's side, I reach out for his hand. He grasps mine tightly, tighter than I've felt in a while.

It's then that I have a chance to look at his face for the first time in hours. He looks haggard, exhausted—as tired as I feel, but it's not his weariness that gets to me. It's the look I see in his eyes, the questions. He wants to know what we talked about, Joey and I. He wants to know what the damage control will be like tomorrow, next week, next month.

I squeeze his hand and shake my head before he can even ask. Whatever we might need to talk about, it can wait. It can all wait. "For another day," I tell him gently.

For a split-second, he looks like he might argue. But then he nods, and I even catch a bit of a smile. He takes my hand more fully in his, and guides it to his lips. He presses a kiss there, atop my pale knuckles. "Another day," he agrees.

We let our entwined hands fall then, to rest atop our sleeping child, and as I lay my head on my pillow, I catch a glimpse of my husband over our son's shoulder. "Love you," he mouths to me.

I smile, and mouth the words back, before letting my eyes fall closed. I let the promise of those words wash over me, wash over all of us, as we lie together. Joey, already asleep, is snoring quietly against my shoulder. I smile at the sound of his unperturbed dreams and open my eyes to watch him, trying to think of the last time I saw him so serene. It must've been when he was just a little boy, maybe two or three years old—before he knew anything of the world outside our home. Before he knew anything of violence or hatred or fear or sorrow.

I reach out to brush his hair from his forehead, so I might see his face better, and I am immediately rewarded as he instinctually nuzzles closer to me and my touch. I smile, and press a kiss to his forehead.

It's nice to know that that little boy's still in there somewhere, even after all this time. Even after all he's been through.

"Love you," I whisper to him, softly enough that he will not wake, but loudly enough so that he will hear it in his dreams.

And then I finally let myself rest.

x x x

Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! Reviews would be greatly appreciated.