A/N: This one is rather sad. Do not read if you do not want to be sad. You have been warned.
She hated these boxes. What they stood for. She almost couldn't stand it. But Henry's presence helped her do what needed to be done.
He hated the boxes, too. He had begged and pleaded with every God imaginable that they wouldn't need the boxes. He sighed in remembrance of those few precious weeks of bliss, grabbed another pack of unopened onesies, and shoved them in a box marked "unused clothes". His eyes flashed back around to his wife, checking on her constantly. She had insisted on helping him pack up the nursery. Now, though, she was staring at a pack of diapers.
"We sure bought enough of those, huh?" she said wryly, throwing the unopened pack toward the others. He said nothing, just continued to pack the boxes. She moved across the room toward him, helping him fill the box with new clothes their son had never gotten to wear. He looked up as she started shaking, throwing the clothes down angrily. She started tearing clothes out of the boxes, throwing them around, screaming. He couldn't do anything but watch as his wife kicked clothes and boxes and bottles around, yelling at every God she could think of, cursing them for taking her baby. After a while, she crumpled, and that's when he stepped in.
He held her tight against his chest, rubbing her back soothingly, assuring her that it would, eventually, be okay. She looked up at him, tears streaming hot and steadily, leaving his shirt damp and warm.
"It's not fair, Henry," she mumbled, voice hoarse.
"I know, sweetheart," he said, kissing her head.
"Babies aren't supposed to die, Henry," she said.
"I know, sweetheart," he repeated, pulling her tighter.
"He never even had a chance," she muttered. "It's funny, though, how he had a hole in his heart, and now there's one in mine."
Henry hated thinking about that hole. Not only because it took his son, but because of how many hours they spent with him in the hospital, trying desperately to fix the hole. But Noah James Spencer left them at the ripe age of six weeks.
"How are we supposed to get rid of all this stuff?" she said, looking up at him. He wiped the tears from her eyes, kissing her softly.
"Salvation Army?" he suggested. She sighed.
"I'm sorry about destroying hours of work," she said.
"It's okay, sweetheart. You deserve to be mad," he said.
"You haven't done that. Hell, all you've done is taken care of me. How fair is that?" she asked.
"I've learned that life isn't fair, Karen, and ive stopped expecting it to be," he said, and then grinned a little, "and Ive been going to the gun range with Lassiter."
She laughed, the first laugh he had heard in the three weeks since the funeral.
"You are a wise old man, Henry Spencer," she said, smiling. "Have you spoken to Shawn?"
"A few days ago, yeah. He's still pretty torn up. He'd gotten used to the idea of a kid brother. A couple of months ago he was telling me about how when Noah got old enough he was gonna take him on his motorcycle, and how 'awesome' it was gonna be," Henry said, resting his head on top of Karen's.
"Not ever in a hundred million years would any of our children get on a motorcycle with your son," she said seriously. Henry smiled.
"I know, sweetheart," he said. They sat silently for a while, surveying the room.
"I guess we should get back to it, huh?" she asked. He nodded. She stood and helped him to his feet.
They repacked and packed boxes until everything was gone. Except the rocking chair.
"You wanna just keep the rocking chair?" he asked. She nodded. "Alright. You go pick up Iris, I'll take the rocking chair and the boxes downstairs, and we'll meet for ice cream?"
She smiled, and pulled him into a brief but passionate kiss.
"You always have a plan. We'll see you in half an hour at the pier?"
"I'll be there. I love you, sweetheart."
"I love you, too, honey. Always."