Video Chat

Video: Noun

the recording, reproducing, or broadcasting of moving visual images

Chat: Verb

an informal conversation


"I'm so sorry," she began as soon as he picked but, "but I don't think–"

Emma chose that moment to hurl the contents of her stomach all over Jac's top.

She swallowed down her urge to curse as she snatched up a dishcloth, juggling her sick daughter on her hip, a plastic mixing bowl, Sarah the Pig, and – for some inexplicable reason – a pair of unicorn wellies. Emma laid her feverish head against Jac's chest, small arms strangling in their hold, snivelling pathetically as all poorly children were wont to do. But instead of triggering the innate mothering instincts that made every parent drop the world in order to care for suffering offspring, the sounds tugging on the strings of her heart just caused Jac's already perilously high stress levels to rocket through the roof.

All of this whilst on the phone to the man who, at this point, may or may not essentially be her boyfriend (although boyfriend suggested a level of immaturity that she liked to think they had both long since outgrown) as she tried to explain why she was cancelling the plans they'd made for the weekend. Plans that they had been winding the kids up over for the past fortnight because there was, as he'd pointed out to her, nothing more endearing and joyful than a child's excitement and anticipation ahead of a surprise. Even Mikey and Evie had been swept up in all the mystery and expectation.

But a hundred things suddenly now all needed doing at once and Jac had no idea which she ought to be tackling first: sick child? Cancelling plans? Washing? Food? Shower? Disinfecting the entire house? Wine? Sleep? Shoving her head in the oven?

Sacha wordlessly took the phone from her, saving the expensive device from its otherwise inevitable death when Jac finally dropped it and effectively making her decision for her. He lifted it to his ear, hand flapping in her direction in a shoo-ing motion, urging her out of the bug infested kitchen as he dug around under the sink for the Dettol. As she trudged up the stairs with her whimpering, clingy, queasy child, the redundant sick bowl, Sarah the Pig and the acrid smell of vomit, she heard Sacha begin to explain to Fletch the situation that they had arrived home to. What had she done to deserve them?

The thought flittered out her mind as she pried Emma's arms from around her neck, coaxing her toward the bathtub. But Emma was unwilling, in her sickness, to release her death grip and since she was covered in vomit, smelled of vomit, and swore she could taste vomit, Jac decided she might as well scramble in too. What the hell. If anything, the fact she was in the bath with Emma took the child's mind – for a few precious moments – off how miserable she felt. It'd been a good couple of years since they'd bathed together. Emma's eyes widened as she took in the lines and marks across Jac's body. The scar from the kidney transplant from hell, which had been extended when she'd had that ovarian cyst, and the line lower down where Emma had been cut out of her, had both long since turned white and pale. These marks Emma's eyes skipped straight over.

It was the dark, angry gash under her ribs, and the red marks down her back that drew her daughter's gaze like magnets. And as much as she hated them, as much as she loathed their very existence and the reminders that they left, Jac refused to let her daughter see them was wrong. As things to be hidden away and ashamed of.

A long two hours later she slumped onto her bed, unable to summon the energy needed to get dressed. If she didn't move her sheets would be damp and cold when she came to slip between them, and her hair an absolute nightmare come the morning. Four patients had puked all over her today, and then she got home to a child who decided that the insides of her guts looked better decorating the kitchen floor. And, naturally, as she'd settled Emma into bed after their bath, to top off her truly shitty day, the child had thrown up – again – all over the bed sheets. And Jac.

Just perfect.

Then there'd been the call from Hanssen – and she'd known it was Hanssen ringing because the other night in a fit of complete childishness she'd set his ringtone to the Imperial March from Star Wars, and as a result it now blared insistently whenever the CEO called – which she'd ignored. Only for him to ring again, and again, and again. And then when that didn't work, the insufferable workaholic atop his ivory tower had rung Sacha, who'd not the balls to tell their boss to kindly fuck off, and promptly passed the phone over to Jac while she was trying not to gag as she hosed off Emma in the shower.

Not until she was sure her daughter was asleep, and that Hanssen wasn't about to demand her immediate presence at the hospital, had she been able to slip into the shower herself and wash away the lingering smell of vomit. The water pressure keeping the steadily accumulating stress at bay for a blessed few minutes as she strove to regain something of an equilibrium. A feat which had become a delicate and increasingly difficult task in recent weeks. But she couldn't stay in the bathroom forever.

Rather than searching for pyjamas, Jac reached blindly for her phone in order to ring Fletch – only to remember that it was probably still downstairs. Yet, to get it would require pulling on some form of clothing because Sacha had firmly implemented an 'if I cannot walk around the house in just a towel then neither can you' rule shortly after he'd begun his residence at Hotel Naylor. Her eyes fell on her iPad, discarded under last month's medical journal on her bedside table.

She could iMessage him…

Grabbing the device, she powered the thing on and located the appropriate app. Her eyes nagged on the little camera icon in the corner of the screen and the only thing that went through her mind was how desperately she wanted to hear his voice. Needed to hear his voice.

"Don't worry 'bout t'morrow," were his first words to her as the screen flickered and his face came into grainy focus. He was in what she assumed was his bedroom; pillows propped against a black wood-slatted headboard and the glow of a lamp illuminating him from the left. Shadow and light playing on the contours of his face. Fuck he was beautiful. "Kids get sick," he smiled with a little half shrug. "My lot'll understand. We'll just do it another time."

Jac shook her head, shifting to ease the ache in her back and to clear the inappropriate musings from her mind. Ponderings on how unfair it was that he could be wearing nothing but a shitty t-shirt and, in her imagination, a pair of boxer briefs, be sat half hidden in shadow with his usually slicked-back hair in disarray and make her heart flutter like a teenage girl's. Her only consolation was that telepathy belonged to the realms of fiction.

His eyes darted downward, and she subconsciously checked that her towel hadn't indecently exposed her as she'd wriggled about in search for comfort. Not that she really cared – so tired of hiding and so, so comfortable with him. He'd seen every side of her by this point anyway, and if the sight of her fresh out of surgery or on multiple death beds hadn't put him off… He was watching her through the screen. Just watching. His eyes, full of a thousand unspoken promises, captivating in their sincerity.

"You should just take yours," she murmured, double checking the neckline of her damp towel in an excuse to break eye contact. "It's not fair on them if you don't go. We've been winding them up about it for weeks."

"It ain't fair on Emma – an' you – if we go without ya," he countered easily. "Oy! Don't be givin' me that look."

"What look?"

"Your 'what the fuck do I do when people won't stop caring about me?' look." Jac glanced away, dry amusement flooding her veins. "Y'know what? Honestly?" Fletch's tone took on a note of seriousness that had her instantly returning her gaze to his.

After a moment's prolonged silence, she shrugged a shoulder to say, 'honestly what?' because how was she meant to know what went on in his mind? Telepathy was a non-existent ability.

"You need this trip more'n they do. So there ain't no way I'm goin' without ya."

"I don't–" she shook her head and sighed. What was the point? She did. She really, really did. A day with him and the kids far away from Holby and the hospital and anyone they worked with. Where the only thing she had to worry about was … well, nothing. Because he had it all planned out and she trusted without hesitation and she had really, really, really needed this. "Thank you."

"You never 'ave t' thank me."

It was difficult to remember what they were talking about while he was looking at her like that. She was acutely aware of the very little she had on, and for the first time in over a year, she felt the uncomfortable tinge of vulnerability settle across her shoulders. A feeling that she couldn't remember having whilst in his presence since before she had been shot. "I, erm," she cleared her throat. "I got a call from Hanssen a while ago. Right in the middle of Emma throwing up everywhere, actually, so that was … fun."

Fletch pulled a face. "What'd he want?"

"Terry Cooper's in the ED."

"Your super-duper-special case that you 'ave scheduled for Thursday an' which you've been stressin' and panickin' about for the past six weeks?"

"I haven't been–"

He gave her a look through the screen of her iPad that stilled any protest. Okay. Maybe he wasn't completely wrong about her stressing. But panicking? Nope. No way had she been panicking. "Well it looks like I'm going to have to do his surgery tomorrow."

He shrugged a shoulder in a 'what can you do when it's the job?' sort of way. Then he narrowed his eyes, peering at her as he cocked his head to one side. "What else?" Unlike with their phone calls, there was no need for Jac to voice her confusion. A wry look coated his face as he elaborated. "What else is botherin' you?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. There's noth–"

Fletch snorted, causing a stab of heated resentment to flash briefly and irrationally through Jac's core. "Y'know that I know you well t' know when somethin's up with ya. It's half the reason t'morrow was happenin'. So why not do us both a favour and quit pretendin' like I don't know you inside an' out?"

"Adrian, I swear nothing's…" but she was too exhausted to try and figure him out tonight. "Whatever. You're a dick."

The corner of his mouth twitched. It took her a moment to realise why.

"Oh, grow up!"

"You said it!" he laughed, snickering like a school-boy in the back of class. "I mean, who even uses dick as an insult? No one over the age of, like, twelve that's for sure."

"Fuck you."

"See! Now, that's more like it." If she were braver, she would reach out and capture the mirth shining in his face – screen-shot it, or whatever Ella said it was called. Keep the grainy image forever so that if, when, this thing they had fell to shit, she would always have proof that he'd once looked at her as though she was his entire world.

"Hey, earth t' Naylor?"

"Hmm?"

"Where'd ya go?"

She shook her head, returning his gentle smile. "Nowhere. Just thinking." She picked at a loose thread in her pillow. "Perhaps it's for the best things have worked out this way. I'd have had to bail by the looks of things."

"You save lives every day. You go int' work, and you save people," Fletch told her in the low voice that Jac simultaneously wished he didn't use and yet adored when he did because of the shivers it sent down her spine and the thoughts that tumbled straight into the gutter. "An' the kids know it. They'd of understood."

She ran her fingers through her damp, tangled hair. How the hell did he do that? Maybe he could read her mind. "Why are we discussing some hypothetical that's not going to happen now?"

"Cause it matters t' ya." He murmured. "Cause you hate feelin' like you're letting 'em down."

When had talking about the kids become so inclusive? Had stopped being your lot and mine? Had just become the kids, them. How long before ours?

Jac forced herself upright at that. The iPad jolted to the floor and Fletch's amusement was tinged slightly with concern. "Oy, oy! Was it somethin' I said?"

"No – I … um … it's Emma," she lied as she picked the tablet up. "Sorry."

The frown he gave her suggested he hadn't bought it. "Alright. G'night, Jac."

"Night, Adrian."

The screen closed in on itself, his face vanishing from view. She was left staring at the texts she'd sent him at the end of her shift, back when the world hadn't seemed quite so vast and hostile and entirely out to get her.

Jac Naylor
off home. Pick us up at 8.30? xx

Adrian Fletcher
I'll do me best. Mikey and Ella ain't exactly rays of sunshine in the morning x
don't forget your swimsuit – I suggest the skimpiest bikini you can find!
ignore me. Wear whatever floats ya boat xx

Jac Naylor
they're going to be unbearable when they realise where we're taking them
see you tomorrow xx


"…an' so I was thinkin'," the video call connecting had cut off the start of his sentence. Jac rolled her eyes as she wrenched open the dishwasher. A cloud of hot steam fogged her glasses making it impossible to see while she stuck her hand inside, blindly searching the top rack for her favourite glass. Her phone was propped against the fruit bowl and she really didn't know why she'd answered the stupid thing. Habit, she supposed. He had become a bloody habit.

"What do you want?"

"Someone fell outta bed on the wrong side this mornin'," he joked cheerily. She threw him a glare which only got him grinning wider. His eyes flickered, taking in her attire. "You gotta go in?"

"For fuck sake!" she snapped. "I was always going to have to go in, wasn't I? That was the whole reason Hanssen called at whatever ridiculous hour it was last night!" Her hand shook as she pulled out the glass she was after.

"Bollocks," he said in what would have been sympathy if Jac hadn't been clinging to the last shreds of her sanity. "What 'appened?"

"Why do you even care?"

"It were just a question!" he said something she didn't catch. Her trembling extremity was causing as much water to spill out of the glass as the tap was pouring in. She watched the phenomenon with a detached curiosity, mildly aware of exactly where this was going to lead if she didn't get on top of things – and soon. Fuck damnit that what today was meant to be about! "Hey – at least look at me. I know I ain't showered yet, but this ain't smellivision." He grumbled something about why bothering to video call if she wasn't interested and the glass slipped from her grip.

"Shut up! Just shut up!"

"Jac, jeeze, what's all this for? I was only mes–"

"Cooper arrested half an hour ago, okay?! So I've got to be in, well, now. But Sacha got called in at three this morning because one of his guinea pigs rolled into the ED with an infection. So of-course he had to go in didn't he, because he basically bared his soul to a bunch of complete strangers to get that funding and Jonny is otherwise engaged, apparently, with his stupid fiancée and Emma is still feeling like crap warmed up and–"

"Alright," he soothed, "breathe. C'mon, y'know the drill." As much as his instructions to breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth irritated the fuck out of her, she listened. She obeyed. If only because it was the sound of his voice that grounded her rather than the words that he used. Guided her to shore like the beam of a lighthouse. Calmed her down from this unwelcome, but somewhat not unexpected, bout of panic.

When she looked up at the small window which granted her a glimpse into his morning, heart pounding but lungs no longer struggling for air and a tangled know of marginally eased tension between her shoulders, he was already staring at her. Something like guilt glinting in his eyes. "Look," he began by way of apology, rubbing his jaw, "what I was callin' to say before I got distracted was; d'you want me to 'ave Emma? Bit short notice t' be gettin' a babysitter."

Words babbled on her tongue. "I – Adrian, I can't ask you to–"

"You're not asking. I'm offering."

She bit her lip. "She's sick," why was she saying that? He already knew that!

"I know how t' handle sick kids."

"She's clingy," Jac warned. Reaching into the sink for the abandoned glass felt like sticking her arm into a vat of syrup; the air heavy and dense, making her movements slow, jerky, clumsy. Fuck. She hadn't slept particularly well last night either – parental anxieties and all that jazz. Now this? "When she's sick she's clingy."

Fletch shrugged easily. "All kids are. It's fine. I'll dump her on the sofa with a blanket and the ol' saucepan I keep just for these situations. She and Theo an' Ella can have a Disney movie marathon day or somethin'. We'll look after her."

She was already nodding, eyes closed and forehead resting on the cool worktop. "Thank you." I love you.

"I'll leave now then. Be there in ten – less if I don't get any red lights. Don't worry about gettin' her dressed, jus' get what you need sorted an' I'll do the rest."

"You sure?"

He shook his head. Exasperation twisting his smile. "Why d'you always have t' do that?"

She propped her chin on her forearm, peering at him as he grabbed his keys and looked for shoes and a jacket. "Do what?"

"Give me a million chances to change me mind," Fletch explained absently, calling up to Evie to say he was popping out and she was in charge until he returned with Emma. "Like you keep expecting me t' back out. Like you think I'm being delusional an' any sec I'm gonna wake up."

She had no answer for him.


She'd hoped that she could just waltz onto Darwin, check over obs and assess the situation – maybe rebuke Hanssen and everyone else for being so melodramatically pre-emptive. Thought that she'd just have to book Terry Cooper in for bed rest until Thursday, and then swan off again. Get back to Emma and begin to salvage something of her weekend. But it turned out Terry really couldn't wait.

Jac snuck off the ward around mid-morning in order to seek five minutes to herself away from patients and staff and Zosia bloody March … or Self … or whatever she was calling herself these days. She sat perched with a numb bum on the back stairs, hoping no one found her because dear god if anyone caught her video calling him during the middle of her shift … the rumours were bad enough as they were. Fletch's face flickered and glitched before coming into sharp focus.

"She's fine," he said before Jac could open her mouth. "Still feelin' off, but I reckon she just 'ad something iffy for tea at after school club yesterday. Ain't been sick yet so I got me fingers crossed th' worst has passed. She's a little grumpy though, 'cause I'm starving her jus' to be on the safe side."

"Does she have Sarah?"

Fletch rolled his eyes, amused. "Course."

"What about her–?"

"Yellow blanket?" he finished. "She didn't let me near the door 'til I 'ad it in me hand."

Jac ran her fingers through her tangled hair. Good. Good. "I got when she was born," she murmured. "Gift from Sacha. Whenever she feels off, she wants it and she's an absolute nightmare if I cant find it."

"I get it, it's a comfort thing," he shrugged, and she just knew by the way he was side-eying her that whatever he said next was going to be utter bullshit. "I found it in ya underwear draw by the way. Got y'self a nice fancy collection there. I take it that red set's jus' for me?"

She snorted. Loud. Free. And it echoed in the empty stairwell, a welcoming release. This was why she'd called. Because even when she was having the worst time of it, he could pry a smile and a laugh from her and make her feel … he made her feel like it was all going to be okay. Somehow. "If you think your imagination can handle it, Adrian, then yeah. Sure. I got them just for you."

His eyes sparkled with mischief.


Jac didn't intend to call him again. She really didn't. It was just that he'd sent her a photo shortly after lunch of Emma curled up with her head in Mikey's lap, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders as they sat on the sofa under a fluffy blanket, an array of soft toys around them, and Theo slouched on the floor by his brother's feet hugging an old saucepan and … well. A family was all she'd ever wanted for her daughter – all she'd ever wanted for herself – and for the life of her she couldn't think of a decent reason to explain why she was denying it to them both when it was right there in front of her.

Evie picked up. Weirdly.

"Dad!" she yelled over her shoulder toward the open door Jac could just make out. "Your girlfriend is on the phone. Again!"

"You answered just so that I'd have to hear you say that, didn't you?"

"You ain't denied it," Evie pointed out with a shit eating grin as Fletch came into view. "Hey!" the teenager complained when he yanked his phone out of her grip. "I was talkin'!"

"Talk on your own time," he said. The screen jolted and jittered as he walked out of the kitchen and down his hallway. "What's up?"

Jac settled back in her chair, legs propped up on her desk as she got comfortable. "She's taken your boys hostage then."

He laughed easily. "Oh she 'ad them wrapped round her little finger within five minutes of gettin' here. Mikey's such a sucker when one of them's sick. Hovering like a mother hen. Y'know he skived off school – twice – when Evie 'ad her appendix out?

"Well he's got his father's heart, clearly," she shrugged. "I think it's sweet."

"Don't let him hear y' call him sweet," Fletch warned, but the rest of his sentence was interrupted by Nicky barging into Jac's office. Files spilling from her arms, stethoscope flapping wildly from a shoulder, already halfway through her sentence. "…and the CT for Mr Yadim has just come back. I thought you might want to–"

"Yadim is Zosia's patient," Jac said without looking away from her phone. "Go bother her."

"Yeah, but she's–"

"Is there an ETA on the tech for Cooper yet?"

Nicky spread her arms, nearly dropping the tablet with the scan Jac had no interest in. "There's a lane closed on the motorway, so traffic's backing up. Probably about six pm at the earliest, according to the latest update from the driver." She hunched in on herself, preparing for Jac's ire; a face to blame for yet another disruption to a series of meticulously calculated plans.

"I'd start runnin' if I were you Nicky," Fletch piped up before Jac could think of something suitably witty yet scathing to say. "Her fangs are out!"

"Oh, shut up, Adrian!" the F2's eyes widened in confusion, and then in realisation as she noticed Jac's phone in her hand and the unimpressed look on the consultant's face.

Fletch grinned, fully intending to ignore her. "As y' can probably tell," he continued, voice louder because he had no idea where Nicky was in the room and wanted to make sure the junior surgeon could hear him, "Jac ain't in th' best of moods t'day." Miniature Mo didn't need telling twice; the office door swung shut to the sound of Jac muttering darkly under her breath.

"Stop slagging off the help," Fletch chided. "It ain't her fault."

She knew that. It was just easier to be pissed at Nicky than accept that there was nothing she could do until the equipment arrived. No point going home due to the risk of another cardiac arrest – or worse – because Terry wasn't remotely stable. She'd only probably have to turn around as soon as she got there (well, to Fletch's) if she did attempt to leave the hospital. Fucking hell almighty. At this rate it was going to be pushing eight at the very least before they could get Terry into theatre, and it was a four hour procedure – providing that there were no complications of course… Sacha was on-call tonight. She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. Jonny was busy.

As if he'd been reading her mind, Fletch broke the silence. "D'you want me t' have Emma t'night? If you're still waitin' on the tech to arrive, who knows how long it'll be 'til you're done?"

"You don't have to. I can arrange–"

"Jac," he warned, that exasperated smile back on his face.

She shook her head, as small smile creeping across her lips. "Okay. Yeah … yes. Please."


She could feel it skulking under the surface as she slammed the front door behind her. Hot prickling tears stinging behind her eyes. Loitering, waiting, for that one thing – that one stupid little thing – that would unleash them. Shadows loomed like distorted ghouls in the hallway, shapeless demons reaching out for her with the names of all those she had failed echoing in the loud silence. She stalked toward the kitchen fully intent on taking a leaf out of Serena Campbell's book. Maybe that would shut the monsters up.

Jac yanked open the fridge. Light tumbled out, illuminating chrome-finished appliances in a faint off-white glow. The lingering odour of disinfectant still permeated the room, masking the musky scent of now stale vomit. Alas, there was no wine to be found. She braced her hands against the bottom shelf, head hanging between shoulders, arms straining. God damnit! She slammed the fridge shut. Well perhaps it was for the best she reflected as she pressed her head against the door. She didn't need alcoholism on top of everything else.

It was still lurking in the back of her mind as she traipsed up the stairs and crawled onto her bed; dancing hand in hand with all the other doubts and fears and regrets buried deep within her heart. A great writhing messy mass of confusion and contradiction – what was she to do when the one thing she so desperately wanted was the one thing that terrified her the most?

The fact that it was only just gone eleven probably told him all he needed to know. Maybe that's why he didn't ask how the surgery had gone, or what time she was planning to go into work the next morning. He knew there would be no point. She sat with her back against her headboard in the darkness of her room, still in her coat, still with her shoes on. Knees tight against her chest and the soft glow of the lamp providing just enough light for the front-facing camera to focus on her image.

Fletch didn't say a thing. He merely lay on his side, his own phone probably propped against pillows or something, watching her through his screen. Waiting. Eyes grey in the dinge, but bright. Comforting. A sort of sympathetic, yet not pitying, never pitying, expression on his face. All she could hear was her own heart pounding and his steady breaths, faint through the speakers on her phone.

"I couldn't fix him," she said at last. Voice low, shaky, small. A heaving shudder raked through her body – head to toe – setting a quiver through every bone, every muscle, every molecule and fibre. Ghoulish fingers wedged between the cracks that followed, jerking wide with cruel uncaring abandon. "And it's stupid. It's pathetic! Fixing people is what I do. It's why I became a doctor in the first place. Fixing other people is easier than figuring out how to fix myself and–"

"You don't need t' be fixed," Fletch interrupted firmly, quietly. His gaze so piercing, so knowing, that it stripped her bare. "There ain't nothin' wrong with you."

And that was all it took.

Silent tears that just wouldn't stop. That had her shoulders shaking, trembling, caving, until her head buried itself in the crook of an elbow. Muffled sobs echoing through the dark, empty house. She clutched tightly, desperately, to the lifeline in the palm of her left hand. All Fletch could see was Jac's bedroom ceiling bathed in faint yellow light. All he could hear were the gentle, gut-wrenching sounds of her tears – because she'd probably grown up knowing that if she was going to cry, she had to do it quietly; that she had to sob into her pillow during the dead of night because no one was going to come for her. All he could do was wait. Watch.

Wishing he were there with her.

"Why are you always with me when I fall apart?" she asked some time later when she had kicked off her shoes and shrugged off her coat and her tears had dried on her cheeks. When she was cradling her phone between her clammy hands and staring at him, wishing that she could fall through the screen and into his arms. Into him.

Fletch rubbed the back of his neck as he shrugged. "Dunno. I guess … 'cause maybe you feel safe when you're with me? Safe enough t' let it all out. 'Cause you know I ain't ever gonna hurt you and I ain't ever gonna let anyone else either. 'Cause you trust me t' keep you safe when you're afraid."

I love you. I fucking love you. I love you so fucking much and it's terrifying me. "You're such a sap," she choked out weakly.

"You love it."

He was staring at her again, and somehow, she knew that he could quite happily spend the rest of his life gazing at her like he was. Because she could happily spend the rest of hers looking at him. And for a few moments she was able to forget they weren't in the same room. She could imagine what it'd be like to lay in bed beside him. With him. Could see the way his forehead crinkled and the way his mouth twitched and the sprinkling of grey in his beard. She wanted to reach out and trace a finger over the lines around his eyes, across his forehead, the corners of his lips. Wanted to feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her palms, his breath on her neck, warm hands a heavy weight on her hips…

"What d'you think you're doin'?" he demanded suddenly, abruptly, eyes narrowing. Jac recoiled, thrown for a wild moment. What the–? Those musings had been internal, hadn't they? She'd not voiced them, had kept them as always locked deep within herself … hadn't she? Shit. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck – oh … wait… Jac cursed internally as she realised that he wasn't addressing her, but someone else; his stern gaze focused on a spot behind her, behind his phone. No doubt one of his erratic offspring was about to be in some deep shit.

"Who is you talking to?" and Jac's heart throbbed in instinctual recognition.

Fletch broke into a tender smile, glancing at his phone. "Why don't ya come up her an' find out?"

A heartbeat later a face she knew better than her own filled her screen. "Mummy!"

"Hey, baby," she whispered, hoping the lighting was too dim for Emma to notice that she'd been crying. Her child was annoyingly astute at times. "You feeling better?"

Emma shrugged a small shoulder. "Little bit." She twisted and turned to Fletch. "I'm hungry."

"You can have somethin' in the mornin'," he promised. "I know it sucks, but we gotta be sure you're not gonna be poorly again, don't we?" Jac couldn't see Emma's expression as she contemplated his reasoning; abruptly the little girl lurched forward and wrapped her skinny arms round his neck.

There was a wonderous smile on Fletch's face as he hugged her back; then his gaze was swiftly drawn toward a second disturbance by his bedroom door. "Theo," he murmured, resignation tinged with exasperation coating his sigh. "Go back t' bed mate."

"Is Emma all alright?" Jac heard the little boy ask.

At the sound of her name, Emma lifted her head to look in Theo's direction. "Yeah, she's fine mate," Fletch assured his youngest. "Aren't you?" Emma nodded, wide eyes flicking back to the phone where her mother's image was displayed.

"Try to go back to sleep baby," Jac told her as Theo clambered up onto Fletch's bed.

She nodded, already rubbing her eyes. "Alright. N'night mummy. I loves you."

"Love you too," Jac whispered as she watched her daughter worm her way under the duvet beside her bestest friend in the whole wide world. Eyes drifting shut and her breathing deepening, calming, steadying to match the same rhythm as Theo's. Peaceful. Happy. Safe. "You're in the wrong bed, Naylor," Jac mumbled faintly to herself, watching as Theo draped a small arm around Emma, the pair of them snuggling up, already dead to the world, against

Then what she'd just said – and more importantly, that she'd said it out loud – hit her. Oh god … oh god oh god oh god…

Fletch cleared his throat, a hand subconsciously reaching out to the children. He fixed her with an unblinking gaze. His words a dare – a challenge. "Yeah. Yeah you are."

And there it was. That thing they had been avoiding since this whole ritual had begun.