A/N: All your lovely reviews mean so so much and make me smile. I am in the midst of all things revision so will likely be quiet with updates until I next get time in late May — I'm not neglecting writing completely!

Alicia straightens up from her stoop, plonking the iron upright on the board and not so much as wincing at the hiss. Deftly, she folds a tiny lemon shirt and leaves it atop the pile on the arm of the sofa. Steam crackles into the air and she roots for another garment. White with a collar: a dainty school blouse or yet another expensive work shirt of her husband's. She hopes for the former and delights when it is, knowing it requires much less care and attention to detail. Only on rare occasions does she do anything other with the laundry than ram it into a drawer folded, making her less than an avid ironer. Removing the creases from every last section of material will require a level of painstaking effort, and she doesn't much fancy singeing a black hole in it. Especially in the circumstances.

She imagines the conversation with dread. "I know we aren't talking, but I've just destroyed your shirt." He might sigh and adopt that funny frown of his, tell her it wasn't a favourite anyway and not to worry. The man who watched her walk down the aisle would probably stroke her hair back and thank her for trying, then cut off the excess and convert it to cushion covers for their bed.

Instead of musing over trivial things, she decides to give it up as a bad job. A valiant effort has been made to sort the family laundry. Most of the clothes successfully crease-free are Ethan and Delilah's — a crumple or two won't hurt the baby and definitely won't hurt her.

Having the house to herself is more than a little strange. Jackie has taken both kids for the day to give her some respite from her newly-acquired single mother status, or as good as, anyway. It doesn't feel like a Saturday. It doesn't feel like the weekend. It doesn't feel like anything. All the parenting books that she'd borrowed from the library warned her of feeling this way, having everything turn into a blur, but she'd brushed it off in the hope that she could pull through. Grimly, she realises she overestimated herself. Naïvety at its finest.

A clanging resounds through the hallway for a second, which causes her to stop still. Her throat constricts. She thinks of the key she purposefully placed by the kettle.

Taking a coat hanger for a weapon, she tiptoes forwards. It is but too easy to fear the worst. Burglaries have been common in the area ever since the local police department crumbled. She hears heavy breathing and stops again, panic rising in her chest. Another few inches of the carpet is covered before she decides to confront it and face up. There could be an innocuous explanation, like the creaking of pipes, or even simply hallucinations on her part—

'Agh!'

It is unclear, at first, whose scream is the loudest. A slow and steady stream of curse words escape Alicia's lips, and she thrusts the coat hanger into the chest of her anxiety perpetrator before stomping up the stairs huffing and puffing.

Of course. How could she have been so stupid, so thoughtless, so preoccupied, to imagine it would ever be anyone else?

Faintly she hears chuckling, which only serves as a further wind up.

'Sod—off, Ethan!' She collapses against the bedroom radiator with a little cry. 'Why did you have to do that?'

'Do what, exactly?' He returns, running a hand through his hair with weariness yet wry amusement.

Resenting this, she turns her back to him and faces out the window.

'What were you doing? Where are the kids? I never realised you'd be here. I still call. Every single day, yet it goes straight to answerphone. I—'

'Catching up on the chores.' She turns around again.

'The children?' He asks.

'They're with my mam.'

'Ah,' he exhales a little disappointedly. 'Right, sure.'

'You startled me, walking in like that.'

'... because that really was my every intention in my own house.'

'Oh piss off.'

In their earlier days, he'd flinch at the sound of even the mildest use of swearing. He is now used to it. They speak both languages: English and expletives in each other's company. Exchanging harsh words, name-calling and telling each other exactly where to go is now second nature to them.

He does not react and she hates him even more for keeping his calm when she lost hers in such an ugly way. She watches as he pulls open the wardrobe door, slots in the offending coat hanger nonchalantly and closes it again with a gentle thud. The blood spatter above his belt just accessorises the outfit; mess is proof of toil saving lives. With nimble fingers, he unbuttons the grey shirt in only a few seconds. Déjà vu washes over her in a strangely comforting way: many a time has she witnessed those hands weave their way down material. He slings it on the bed and enters the wardrobe again, in search of a new one. A white one with sleeves. There is a pause. His fingers brush against the cufflinks for clarification and she knows he remembers that night. Their first night.

With a throaty cough, he turns and locks eyes with her. It is not tentative, no air of caution — he means to do this and the flicker, the sparkle, millisecond of a gleam that resides there, however temporarily, is far from an accident.

'What about this one?' He asks quietly. 'Or perhaps too precious a keepsake to don and wear in the emergency department?'

She shifts her weight a little, rearranging her eyes on the carpet. Precious. A night full of deceit, guilt, alcohol and pent up feelings — summarised to him as precious. Her cheeks grow hotter and hotter.

'Best save it, I reckon. For the next time we set the world alight, if there'll be a next time.'

A tear dribbles down her face at his hesitance, the rawness, and her hand flies up to wipe it. It feels shameful having emotions, still feeling so soppy, still trembling at his every line, especially when she knows it's her duty to stick fast by the angry and distant other half that she's trying to be.

The worst thing of all is that she's in front of him, vulnerable. He knows and is actively paying no attention. Astute enough to know the weight of his words and how the delivery has just affected her, yet he continues on calmly buttoning up the plainer shirt he's found.

Boyish and defeated by the silence, he shrugs a little and glances at his own feet.

'I best be getting off then. Will you—'

Alicia is quick to jump in. 'Will I what?'

He pauses, annoyed at being cut off. 'A-are you planning on staying around?'

Her heart wants to comfort him, tell him of course there's nowhere she'd rather be. Independence is starting to feel murderous, more lonely than empowering, and her whole body is nagging her to drop the pretence and go home, tuck the children into bed with milk and a story and cuddle up on the sofa in front of terrible serial dramas or Emmerdale. She wants to play happy families again more than anything.

'I just came to do chores.' She says finally.

He cocks his head on one side, eyebrows knitted in his typical frown. Not fooled.

'I am perfectly capable of ironing, y'know, though you happen to underestimate me. I did look after myself and my man-child of a brother for a good five years. We got by.' He says.

'And your point is?'

'Come on, Alicia, what do you take me for?'

Her lip starts to wobble. 'I didn't want you to be without uniform.'

'This has nothing to do with any housework, does it?'

His face is contorted with sympathy and she has never wanted to break down more. How dare he do that?

'Of course it does,' she answers quickly. 'Why else would I be at home? It wasn't like I knew I was going to have company.'

'But you came because you were prepared to wait for a time when we could talk, because that's easier than answering my calls or voicemails, and far easier than saying sorry.'

'Believe me, Ethan Hardy, I'm not sorry about a thing.' She says, voice steadying.

'I don't mean apology-wise. I was referring to remorse for the sorry situation that we find ourselves in. You take me for an idiot. I see that you hate it every bit as much as I do—'

'I will do whatever it takes to minimise the pain of me and my children. If that means distance until we get those results, it does.'

'At the cost of causing me a shed load of grief! You have been gone for ten days. It feels like a punishment. Dropping everything and running is not a solution, Alicia, and you yet again do not learn!'

'Neither do you! We have had unprotected sex so many times, and it's resulted in two children. That's irresponsible. You knew I stopped taking the pill. Now I realise why we dodged all those appointments — out of your own fear and pride and not Seth's safety!' She retorts.

'What if we had a false positive result? Chorionic villus sampling and amniocentesis are not always accurate methods of genetic screening—'

She shakes her head, exasperated. 'We are fighting all the time. My mam and dad fought and I know exactly what it feels like when you are a scared little girl. Nobody was there to comfort me in the dark. All I could hear was shouting. I'm not having that for my baby, either of my babies...'

'That was years ago and-and we are not your parents!' He exclaims, throwing his hands in the air.

Alicia scoffs loudly, making it clear this comment has disgruntled her.

Ethan continues. 'I will always wipe Delilah's tears and chase away the monsters. She will never be scared. I want to provide stability and care for all of you, this disease is completely out of my hands—

'We are going round in circles,' recognises Alicia weakly. 'I don't have bad intentions.'

'I know you don't, but you must see how selfish you are being—'

She concedes with a tearful nod of the head. 'I need time to think.'

He stands there in thought for a moment, staring into space a little sadly. A brief check of the watch jolts him into action and he slips past her, briefly placing a hand on her shoulder as he passes.

Then he is gone almost as quickly as he arrived.

Ten minutes could've been mistaken for ten hours. She clamps a hand over her mouth in fear the repressed emotion will slip out while he's still lingering downstairs. The door slams downstairs and she sobs, wondering what she did to deserve a man who comes back time after time with only increased patience and understanding. And care.

She makes her way downstairs after a long while. The iron has happily eaten through a cotton top in her absence, only an 'I love you' away from setting fire.