A/N This one kind of took me by surprise. I really enjoyed writing it.
It's set post Season 8.
...and that's all I'm telling you. ;)
Hope you enjoy.
Mosaic
"Mr. Forman and I want you to move in with us."
The words hang in the air like spun sugar. Fragile, precious and golden.
(She's always associated Mrs. Forman with baking.)
"It's not Steven's," she blurts, shame tinging the words with harshness.
(Better to break the lattice herself then wait for it to shatter beneath her.)
Kitty's tone is soft and sweet, like one of her batters: "We know, sweetie, but it's yours – which means it's ours, too."
She places her arms around her, and the still-slim girl breathes freely for the first time in weeks.
This was never the plan. Never amongst her many dreams.
(Not without a ring on her finger.)
But this is the hand she has been dealt, and from the moment she first found out, the bigger shock was realising that she wanted it.
There is judgment, of course. And questions. But less of both once she moves in with the Formans, their name and home providing a mantle of protection (not to mention threats of Red's foot in asses).
She names the father early on. Asserts that he was passing through, that she does not know how to reach him.
But one person knows the overlap of time; she knows he will demand an answer.
One embittered conversation, where his gaze pins her like knives despite the shades, is enough to convince him it isn't his. That it's not his responsibility.
Their night together would not have happened if not for Mrs. Forman's "Special Punch". (Really by now she should know only one thing makes drinks "special" for Kitty.)
Juxtapose that with the information she was with another guy around the same time…
Confirming his opinion of her looseness will not be going down on her Best Days Ever list.
It will join its counterpart of Worst Moments of All Time, along with Michael in a towel and a stripper with a ring.
She knows she is now dead to him. Expects it.
So it jolts her like a spark plug unwarily grasped when she attends her first Lamaze class and finds him waiting.
An even bigger surprise is the tranquility in his eyes. (It's become more common to see anger there than Zen.)
"Look, I don't wanna be here any more than you do, but Mrs. Forman threatened to break all my Zeppelin records if I didn't come, so we're both just gonna have to suck it up, okay?"
The desire for a partner, to not do this alone, to be free of the stares and snickers...
She weighs herself in the balance and pays the price.
His hands on her stomach seem to burn through her clothes.
She wonders if he feels it.
"Honey, I wanted to talk to you about something. Steven's landlord is selling his apartment, and he doesn't have anywhere to go right now. How would you feel if he took Eric's old room?"
She shrugs her shoulders, conveying her indifference. They have chosen to share their home with her. She has no right to dictate who else they extend that invitation to.
Inside, her stomach tries to drop to her toes.
It can't. There's a tiny human in the way.
It makes her straighten her spine.
She will get through this.
She has to.
The day he moves in, they nod at each other in greeting. Her arms curl protectively over the slight swell of her stomach.
His presence is like sandpaper.
Smoothing and grating.
Eavesdropping is a terrible habit. But growing up alone in a mansion made it both entertaining and vital.
A soft push on the living room door goes unheard; a split second is enough to know it's her they're talking about.
She did not set out to listen, but the temptation is too great.
She retreats from view and cracks the door.
"Well, I don't know, Red – I think I'm gonna have to disagree with you." Mrs. Forman sing-songs like a gleeful canary. "Think of how he's been: insisting he be the one to take her to parenting class - even though you said you would, and then asking to move in so that he could help out more... Maybe they could make a real go of it. They could be a family."
Without seeing, she knows Kitty is bouncing on her toes.
Red's words are uncharacteristically tentative. "That's a hard load for a man to carry – raising a child that isn't his."
"You've done it several times," Mrs. Forman points out, love sheening her tone like gold.
A longer pause. "They weren't carried by the woman I love."
She retreats to her room to chew on her chagrin.
It's a shock, yet not a surprise. His gift for deceit is no news at all; nor is the nobility that spackles his bedrock like veins of quartz.
She's just not used to being its target anymore.
Her knight in tarnished armour...
No, it's not a surprise. He would never see a child go unfathered.
Even hers.
He knows too well what that feels like.
Previously she would have confronted him – stamped her foot that she has no need for his pity or charity. But pregnancy has hollowed her out to make room for something infinitely more precious. Other considerations are pushed back or pushed out.
Her baby will always come first.
And she needs a partner.
She won't rely on it too much, of course; he has shown his inability to stick at things more than once. But she'll take what she can get for as long as it lasts.
For the sake of her child.
(She is already mentally preparing for the moment he will leave.)
They silently map the house between them, divvying out the space.
Laurie's bedroom is hers; Eric's is his.
He holds the living room with Red - mostly because of sports - but she gets the den. Sits there in the evening with Kitty.
The kitchen and bathroom are variable. First come, first served, unless the Formans say otherwise.
The dining room is rarely invoked; only for special occasions.
The biggest surprise is the basement.
It becomes neutral ground.
How could something that once housed her best joys and worst pains be neutral?
Especially somewhere that was once intrinsically his.
She avoids going down there to start. But one afternoon Mrs. Forman asks for help with the laundry.
He is watching TV in a painfully familiar pose.
She puts the clothes in the washer and turns to leave, but his voice makes her stop.
The tone is casual and detached.
The words are not.
"Little House on the Prairie is on."
It becomes a weekly ritual.
Then a nightly one.
They rarely speak, but the silence is not uncomfortable.
She does not hate it.
Much like bowling.
They are in the basement when it happens.
And it happens three weeks early.
He has just returned from the store with her ice-cream and Gummy Bears. (She does not seem to get actual cravings - but who could resist that kind of power?)
The pain comes on suddenly, and the intervals are surprisingly short.
Beneath the waves of crippling cramps, she wonders if this is how the baby will approach everything in life – an eagerness to rush ahead, to fling itself wholeheartedly at what's to come.
She hopes it will retain that. That life won't teach it to hang back and be cautious, as it has done to her.
He is more concerned with the fact they are alone. That the Formans are visiting family and are several hours away.
"Of all the freakin' nights!"
She is oddly calm. Amused by his panic.
Her comparisons to Eric are not well received. He represses his irritation, which only makes him twitch more.
"We have to get you to the hospital."
The cheerleader fragments that remain roll their eyes.
Well, duh…
Then something gives way deep within.
A tearing where it should not be.
A rush of liquid between her legs. The wrong kind of liquid.
His eyes rounding in horror.
Her cheek pressed to the cold of the basement floor.
When did she lie down?
His voice throbs with fear and something else… It takes her a moment to identify it.
It has been a long time since she heard tenderness from him.
(She has never heard terror.)
"Jackie, baby - stay with me. Stay with me! Please. God, baby. Please! Please!"
It's then she realises she's dying.
There isn't enough energy for fear or bitterness. (There isn't enough time.) The Formans will take care of her baby. She knows it in her bones… But there is one last gift she can give her child.
That she must give her.
She manages to push the words out. Words he most likely wouldn't hear if he hadn't hauled her into his arms. If his cheek wasn't pressed to hers. A cheek that's oddly wet.
"Steven, she's yours. I lied. I'm sorry. Take care of her, okay?"
"Damn it! Don't do this, don't do this! Don't leave me..."
He begs her to stay like her presence is vital.
Like he needs her by his side.
She takes that thought with her as she slips into darkness.
A shining piece of light.
It's the cry that makes her surface.
She's never heard it before, but she could have picked it out a room with the cast and crew of the Brady Bunch at full volume.
That's her baby calling for her.
Before her lids have fully lifted, she feels a welcome weight in her arms. A scent like summertime.
She looks down to see a cap of tightly curled hair, a little pink face nudging her chest.
It matches the blanket she's wrapped in.
She blocks out everything else in the room, everything else in her body. Her baby's needs come first.
The relief once she starts feeding is indescribable. (The sensation may take longer to get used to.)
"Is she alright?" Her voice is urgent despite its weakness.
"She's perfect." The words are gruff but heartfelt.
She closes her eyes in a moment of denial, though she already knew he was in the room. (She's never been able to unlearn his presence.)
She does not regret making the admission… but it was easier when she didn't think she'd be around to feel the fall-out.
She opens her eyes and looks at him, ready to flinch away.
His uncovered gaze is steady; there is no anger there. Nor surprise.
"…you knew." A statement, not a question.
"You've never been able to lie to me." Slight emphasis on that last word.
"You must hate me." Another statement, clipped to hide the tremor.
He shakes his head as his hand surrounds hers.
Electricity dances where he touches – she tries to tell herself it's weird.
(She's never been very good at lying to herself either.)
His expression is peaceful.
Her mystified feelings are less so.
"Don't you want to know why?"
"I know why, doll."
Her heart judders in her chest. She sternly bids it back where it was.
It doesn't listen, releasing emotion with every pulse.
"How can you be okay with this?" Whose voice is that - rising with suppressed sobs?
(She hasn't cried in nine months.)
"You're alive. I'm in a forgiving mood."
She blinks repeatedly; a few tears slip free. She does not know this boy – this man – so full of grace.
(She has not seen him for a long time.)
"Jackie… We both know you lied about the other guy. And we both know why you didn't tell me right away. But we also both know you were gonna. That's not something you could leave unsaid. You're too good for that." His unvisored eyes declare his sincerity. "The moment you let me come to classes, the moment you let me move in - you knew I knew the truth. Your head just had to catch up with it."
He brushes his lips to the hand he is holding.
"When did you get so wise?" Her mind was shattered glass, but the pieces are coming together.
A crooked grin. "I've always been wise."
"When did you get so kind?" A catch in her voice, with all the betrayal in the world in it.
And all the hope.
"When my head caught up with my heart."
His arms are around her; their child lies between them like a heartbeat.
"You don't need to apologise, Jackie. I do. For a lot of stuff."
His pieces were tightly bound, but they are falling into her hands like a jigsaw.
She remembers what it is to know him better than himself.
"When did you start loving me again?" Her voice sounds strange.
It has been a while since it bore the weight of joy.
He shakes his head in wry acceptance.
"Can't start something you never stopped."
His words reseal the fragments. Healing as mother's milk.
She breathes freely for the first time in years.
And remembers what it is to be whole.
fin