Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Sorry for the long break between updates. It's been a crazy week with getting ready for school to start and giving the bunny her eye drops (she doesn't like them--the scratches on my arms can attest to that...) but I'm back. As soon is starting up again, I doubt I'll be able to update 2-3 stories a day anymore, but I will make an effort to update as frequently as possible. Thanks for all the reviews and support for me and the bun. For those who read most of my stories, I should have an update for 'Destiny' and 'Leave of Absence' tonight. Hopefully. :)

More reviews to motivate me, yes?

Chapter Nine:

Debbie was different. I didn't know who to discuss such a thing with—my mother hated her, and I wasn't really close to anyone else who knew her well enough to notice the little things. She was different with Wesley, and at first I had chalked it up to almost losing him in the plane crash. After all, she had risked her own life and well-being to carry him safely from the plane, so she obviously loved him a great deal… maybe she felt bad for being a less than attentive mother in the past. Maybe her near-death experience had made her rearrange her priorities…

But still, she wasn't the same, and I wasn't sure all of it could be attributed to the plane crash. Certainly, a traumatic experience like that can make you think about your life but she seemed… more sincere. She smiled sweetly, she tried to help even though she was only just retraining her hands to do the things it had been used to, before the burns, and she… she looked at me, differently.

It was affectionate, but still not the same look I'd gotten used to when we were dating… and her eyes, were they just a little darker than they had been before? And she… moved differently. That might be due to the amount of weight she'd lost—her doctor had said it had been dramatic, and considering how small her frame was already… But still, she rarely looked at my mother with animosity, merely looking like she was sad that they didn't get along. And a few days after she came home, I had had to run in to the lab to go over the serial case with the night shift.

When I came home, the light out by the side entrance of the garage, where the garbage cans were kept, was on… my mother and Wesley were asleep, but Debbie wasn't. I had knocked softly and opened the door and, finding her awake, apologized softly for not taking my pajamas out before I left… I simply hadn't thought of it. She had attempted to speak—to tell me it was okay—and ended up giving me a sad half smile of understanding.

I had pulled my pajamas out and asked if she needed anything before bed and whether she'd taken her pain medication, which she assured me she had, and slipped out, wondering why she was still awake. She'd had a book on the nightstand, but Debbie rarely read anything but Vogue so I hadn't put much thought into it. When we dated, she had expressed loving the classics… maybe she was feeling nostalgic.

Still, it didn't sit right with me, and after a moment of hesitation, I moved back downstairs and out the side door—taking a bag of trash with me, for some reason feeling the need to justify my snooping in my own trash—and opened the large, black, city-issued can. There was a black garbage bag on top—obviously taken from the garage rather than under the sink—and I knew I hadn't put it there. With a sigh, not even certain I wanted to know at this point, I pulled it out and put the white trash bag I'd carried out in its place.

I glanced behind myself and tore it open, finding several things which I had seen at one time or another, though I had little interest in looking at them closer… but it seemed strange that they were being thrown out… all of her thongs, her impressive collection of vibrators that she'd begun amassing once I moved to sleep in the spare bedroom. I used to have nightmares filled with the buzzing sounds. There was a notebook which I had opened previously and had no desire to do so again—it had been shocking and painful enough the first time—and stacks of letters from her various admirers, as well as the jewelry box which held their tokens. There were pictures too, which I refused to look at, as well as her diaphragm.

I replaced the bag in the trash and moved back inside, making myself a cup of coffee even though I was headed to bed, mulling over this. Debbie had been a rather manipulative woman from time to time—seducing me even after I'd moved out of the bedroom simply to prove that she still could, despite how much she'd hurt me in the past—but this didn't seem like her.

If she were playing some game—manipulating me into believing she had changed when she hadn't—why would she have thrown these items out at nighttime? Why not do it in front of me? Granted, it was less suspicious that way, but Debbie had never been very subtle.

But if she wasn't playing a game and she was truly turning over a new leaf… what did that mean for our family and my relationship with her? I had no intentions of allowing her back into my heart, nor allowing myself back into her bed. Would she expect such a thing, since she was changing and we'd never divorced? How many indignities did she expect me to endure before I could no longer forgive her? She had saved Wesley's life, and I would stand by her forever for that… but that didn't mean she had any claim on me as a man, anymore.

I sighed, dumping my coffee down the sink, and made my way into the bathroom to change into pajamas and make my bed on the office couch upstairs. It was not as large as the couches downstairs, but I wanted to be close if Wesley had a nightmare or if Debbie needed anything. My mother had been indignant when she discovered that I was sleeping on the couch—shouldn't the woman who had invited strangers into our marriage bed sleep on the couch? But it wasn't in me to suggest such a thing, even if she hadn't been hurt… and even if she didn't seem so very different.

Despite the effort I'd put into putting on pajamas, I eventually wriggled out of them. They wrapped around my legs and made sleep nearly impossible, but I had figured it was the best way to maintain a little dignity while parked on the couch. Debbie and I hadn't seen each other naked, or even close to it, in a long time… and my mother didn't need to exit her bedroom and see my morning wood. But tonight I was exhausted and uncomfortable and so god-damned confused over the woman I was married to who didn't seem like herself anymore—upsetting even if the changes all seemed to be positive.

I don't remember falling asleep, but I remember waking up—Wesley was screaming, and then I was running. When I reached his room, Debbie was already there, trying to wake him up. She looked at me frantically, and then my mother appeared in the doorway behind us. I moved over to him and shook him gently, calling his name, while Debbie ran her hands over his face. After a long moment, his eyes snapped open and his body tensed—he looked between us, uncertain, and then burst into tears, flinging himself into Debbie's arms and burying his face in her shoulder.

I watched her face carefully—her eyes were soft and sad, every feature bent in a loving expression. I turned to my mother and signed that she should go back to bed and that we could handle it, and after she left I turned back to Debbie. She used to sleep naked, or in tiny little lingerie dresses… but she was in sweats and a long-sleeve shirt and socks. …How strange. It certainly wasn't cold up here—the upstairs was the warmest part of the house. Too warm, usually. I sighed and sat in the rocking chair in the corner of his room, watching as she ran her fingers through his hair and hummed softly to him, because she still couldn't speak.

He fell asleep against her chest, his little fists gripping her shirt fiercely. She tried to lay him down, but he whimpered and stirred, so she laid in bed beside him and wrapped her arms around him. When she didn't try to free herself after ten more minutes, I leaned forward in the chair, squinting in the moonlight to see if she was still awake—she was, and her eyes were on me. I realized with a bit of surprise that I was nearly naked, clad only in boxer briefs, but I had nothing immediately handy to cover myself with.

I wished she would look away—I had gone to the gym often, when Debbie and I first started dating, because she was so young and beautiful… I felt like I needed to have a body she could desire, despite our difference in ages. She had been extremely happy with the muscles this effort produced, but I had stopped wasting the time when it became obvious we weren't going to have that kind of relationship anymore. Having her gaze riveted on me now, where my tummy was beginning to go soft, didn't do much to stroke my ego.

I sighed again and moved over to the bed. "Do you want me to help get him off you?"

She shook her head slowly, and at my raised eyebrow, she smirked softly. "I'll stay."

Her voice came out a thick, scratchy, rough whisper, but it was the first phrase she had uttered that I understood without gestures. I wasn't certain, shifting my weight from foot to foot, and then turned and reclaimed my seat in the chair. She gave me a pointed look, obviously sending me back to bed, but I couldn't sleep now… I was worried for my son and baffled by my wife and had adrenaline pumping through my system from the unexpected wake-up call.

"I'm worried about him," I say instead, and her face changes—so much more expressive than I remember it… every twitch of her lips is full of nuance, now—as she looks down at him. She runs her hand through his curls again and looks at me again, nodding sincerely. I exhale, leaning back in the chair and closing my eyes.

"I, uh… his doctor has been… recommending a psychologist. …Maybe we should take him in."

I expected her to resist—she could be rather scathing when it came to mental health—but I did not expect to see fear in her eyes. She hesitated, and then glanced at the boy tucked against her chest, giving him a sad half-smile. She looked at me again. She nodded, and I did too.