300 REVIEWS GUYS?! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! THANK YOU SO MUCH!

Be warned, this one is longer than usual.

But on a side note: WHO HAS READ LADY MIDNIGHT?!

I HAVE LESS THAN 200 PAGES LEFT AND OML. NO. I MUSN'T SPOIL ANYTHING.

GO. READ ON BEFORE I RUIN THE WHOLE THING FOR YOU.

I glare at the side of my brother in-law's pale, white head. He curses viciously under his breath, picking up the crumbled pieces of paper that were supposedly the instruction manual for setting up the two cribs.

"I know I'm hot—," the moon-haired man begins, seated on the floor; long legs sprawled in two different directions. "But staring at me like that is just borderline creepy."

I scoff loudly at the dry remark. "Your sister is hot, you…not so much." And as he turns to glare at me, bright green eyes narrowed to slits, I smirk, resisting the urge to chuck the hammer sat beside one of the paint cans at his head.

"You don't get to talk about my sister, especially after the way you've treated her." My smirk falls instantaneously, my eyes dropping back down to the paint spatter on my shirt. The gray-purple colour stands out starkly against the black material of my shirt—Elephant Gray, I think Isabelle called it at some point.

"What did you think, anyways?" Jonathan drawls. "That you could keep on going the way you were and Clary wouldn't leave you? Or were you just too tied up with your own issues to even notice her?"

I grit my teeth, restraining myself from unleashing the biting remark I have thought up. Instead, I say, "I didn't know there was anything wrong, if I had I would have cancelled my tour immedia—"

Jonathan waves his hand in dismissal. "Yeah, yeah. I've heard it a million times over from my sister, almost like she practiced saying it to herself when no one was around." He glances upwards at me, his gaze burning the side of my face. "You don't see what everybody else sees, do you?"

"What, that Clary is sad? I know that, despite whatever you might think, and it kills me to leave her and—"

"That's not what I meant rock star—not necessarily."

"Then what did you mean?"

Jon sighs, dropping the practically useless piece of paper to the floor, running a hand through his messy hair. "She's so blindly in love with you—though I can't bring myself to see why—so much so that she no longer cares about the consequences—about the Hell that she can and has walked through for you. She doesn't care about her own health, Jace, and—either way, I'm certainly no professional, but I watched her getting sadder and sadder until she stopped eating, she stopped painting, drawing.

"Right before I stupidly brought her to Philadelphia, she said something to me—," he looks down, pursing his lips, the corners of his mouth downturned. His eyes flicker up to meet my own once more, his expression inexplicably sad, his eyes shining brightly with a variety of flickering emotions. "She said 'I'd be lying if I said I felt as though I had much more to live for other than the life growing inside of me.' There was more but it's all hazy now…And I don't think anyone who hadn't witnessed her saying all these horrible things would believe the raw pain in her voice. 'It hurts, Jon, I want it to stop. I want to stop feeling this way.' Hearing her say that…it-it…it just about broke me."

My heart seems to have stopped beating entirely. I feel as though the appendage has got caught in my throat and fallen through the bottoms of my feet all at once. I just can't fathom—I can't wrap my head around this.

I can't imagine Clary ever saying such things. But the look in Jonathan's eyes…no one could possibly fake that sort of pain. I don't think the world has had the pleasure of meeting someone so talented quite yet.

Before I can open my mouth, Jon says, "And before you go opening your big mouth, know that it won't do you any good; I'm not Clary; I won't bring her back to you."

For the first time ever, his words stun me into complete and utter silence. Robotically I nod, turning back to the wall, partially cloaked in purple-gray paint.

~Clary~

I don't think I've ever had such an awkward family dinner ever since the first time I brought Jace home. And that is saying an awful lot—because that was nine years ago.

My mom has attempted conversation about three times now, though my dad just keeps pushing food around his plate, occasionally shovelling a forkful into his mouth. As for me, I'm sitting with my back hunched, staring down at my nearly completely full plate of food. Isn't being pregnant supposed to make you eat like your life depends on it?

"Honey, you should eat something. Maybe a little bit of tea would help—"

"Jocelyn, she's barely eaten since she got here a week ago. What makes you think she'll eat now?" My dad's voice is imposing, always has been, but there's a gentle edge to it, his eyes soft and worried as they land upon me. My head seems to spin like a carnival ride despite the fact that it's stuck firmly to my neck.

"I was just hoping she might—it isn't healthy for a young lady, pregnant or not, to be eating so little." My mother, always having been the calm voice of reason in an argument or heated conversation, lowers her eyes onto her own plate dejectedly; she knows I won't eat anything.

My father's hand, titanic in comparison to my small one, moves to cover my own. "Clary, you know your Mom is right. You need to eat something—if not for yourself, for those babies."

I nod, and taking in a greedy gulp of air, I force down some food though I know it'll come right back up sooner rather than later.

I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, sagging into my bed. I don't understand—I thought the morning sickness was done and over with.

The trilling of my phone breaks the drowsy haze that had settled over me momentarily. The caller ID tells me that it's Jace and I decline it, tossing my phone back down beside my hand. What seems seconds later, though it could be minutes or hours and I wouldn't care, my phone rings again. This time, though, it's Isabelle.

"Izzy?"

"Mhmm, I bet you're glad it's me and not your incessant husband using my phone again, huh?" Such a thing had already taken place about six times, give or take. Jace is adamant about talking to me but I just can't will any shred of myself to care. I feel utterly worn out after putting in so much effort to a seemingly one-sided marriage that I just need a break.

"You could say that. But why'd you call? It's got to be important if you chose to disturb my…peace." The word makes me crinkle my nose in—not disgust, necessarily; it was just a very poor word choice.

Isabelle makes an odd noise. "Peace?" She laughs. Her voice suddenly drops to a low whisper, leaving me to assume that a certain golden-haired boy is eavesdropping. "You still can't keep anything down? At all?"

I shake my head, dropping my own voice to the lowest possible whisper—the last thing I need my parents knowing is that while they go and do whatever it is they do during the day, I'm starving and unable to eat because I only prevail to puke up my innards. "Nothing; I forced myself to eat, stupidly hoping it would stay down, but it didn't." My throat burns with each breath, each word spoken, and each time I swallow it feels like I'm swallowing knives instead of saliva.

"Oh, babe," Isabelle says softly. I can easily picture her solemn expression, her inky hair falling in front of her wide, coffee eyes. "I hate that you're in so much pain. Is that it, pain? I'm not quite sure what else to say."

I laugh softly. My throat stings with renewed vigour at the action. "Sure, we'll go with that Izzy. What have you been up to in my absence, anyways?" What has Jace been up to?

"Besides going through divorce papers? I've been mediating fight after fight between your husband and brother."

"I hate that I'm not there helping you through all of this crap Iz, I really do. I haven't talked to Si, but—I just—I can't believe he did something like that."

"Neither can I," Isabelle says dryly. Isabelle has never been one to dwell on the things that have hurt her or that have caused her pain. She likes to move on fast—the fast lane is where she has and always will belong. It's one of the things I admire most about her. Now, if only I could be more like her instead of being who I am, curled in on myself and praying to a God I know I don't believe in to stop me from drowning in sadness—or whatever the hell this is.

"H-how is he—d-do you know?"

Isabelle makes a contemplative noise. "To be totally honest with you, Clary darling, I'm not sure. He doesn't want to get divorced but I can see it when he looks at me that he's not happy anymore. And if I want to be honest with myself, I don't think I was happy anymore, either."

"Wow that was profound." I remark. "But—I mean—is it all right if I say I'm happy for you guys?"

I can virtually hear my best friend shrugging all the way from New York. "I guess; I don't really see why not. I'm happy with your brother and I can't say for Si."

"Wait, hold on a second. Did you, Isabelle Sophia, just say my brother?"

Silence meets my words. After a few beats, she sighs dramatically. "Fine, yes. You caught me. And I swear if it's not okay I'll totally stop whatever it is Jon and I have going on. I'm your friend Clary and there isn't anything I wouldn't do for you, so if this makes you uncomfortable at all, just tell me and I'll break it off with him. Just say the word. I swear, Clary. I promise on Max, if that helps at all. Though, now that I think about it, that probably wasn't a good idea but I mean—"

"Izzy, stop, breathe—something!" I exclaim quietly, pressing my free hand flat against the duvet cover on my bed, relishing in the soft feel of the fabric against my palm, the smell of my favourite peach blossom laundry soap wafting up from the fabric.

Isabelle draws in an audible breath. "Okay, I'm good…I think." And just as she starts chuckling slightly uneasily, I hear shouting coming from her end. The connection begins to diminish, the sound of Isabelle shouting at the top of her lungs at who I assume to be Jon and Jace is faint, her voice cracking rather loudly in my ear.

"I'm going to let you go, Iz," I say into the receiver, though I'd bet money that she didn't hear a single word I just said. And as I run a hand through my tangled hair, stray strands still pasted to my forehead from when I'd vomited up what must have been everything I had barely managed to keep down this past week, I end the call, sighing wearily as I allow my phone to drop to the bed for the second time that night, a soft thud following.

Just as my eyelids begin to fall, I hear the distinct shrill of my phone ringing. The sound resonates, seemingly bouncing off of every available surface, seeming to come straight out of the walls. But maybe that's just me. Maybe that's just because I know exactly who it is.

Without warning, I feel my throat burn; I allow my feet to carry me to my en suite, unable to care that I've just run across the floor like an ogre, or that salty rivulets are already rolling down my cheeks until they're no longer rivulets, but two wet smears down either side of my face.

And when I kneel in front of the porcelain bowl, nothing but water tinged watery red comes up, though I continue to dry heave as though my life depends on it.

It is only when my body feels completely and wholly drained of energy—if I thought how exhausted I felt before Izzy called was horrible, this is indescribably terrible—that I stop dry heaving. My throat aches, and my head is spinning, and I can hardly bring myself to look down into the toilet bowl.

My heart seems to stop, throwing itself up and into my throat, and fall into my empty stomach all at once. The water, once clear, is now tainted with red—so much red.

There should not be that much red.

My knees feel weak, I feel lightheaded, like I could fall over at any given moment. My lower lip quivers, and I feel so purely, wholesomely terrified at the sight of all that red—of all that blood.

This isn't normal.

This isn't normal.

"Mom," I call out weakly, my voice hoarse beyond belief. My throat stings viciously when I swallow, and I feel so, so thirsty all of a sudden. "Mom!" I force the word out, I sound so scared, even to my own ears. I hear the panic that thickly laces my voice, the exhaustion coating my tongue.

Distantly, I register the sound of my bedroom door opening, the sound of footsteps hurrying through the square room, the sharp gasp and deep intake of breath when the footsteps halt at last. My vision is blurry when I look up; all I see is a smear of scarlet and blue.

"Clary, my baby," Jocelyn gasps, her voice piercing the air. "Val, what's wrong—I don't know what's wrong with her!" My mother all but screams, though I think she tries her best not to sound as scared as she is—for me. There's never been a time when my mother didn't know what was wrong, never a time when she didn't know how to fix a problem; I'm scared.

I'm so scared.

What is happening to me? I think, panicked and terrified and all of the above. They all seem to combine into one emotion that devours me, that has me convinced I'm going to die—but not just me: my babies. My babies are going to die, too.

They can't die, my babies can't die! I internally scream, leaning into Jocelyn's shoulder, listening as she weeps silently, hearing the few words exchanged between her and Valentine as he speaks hurriedly into what I can only presume to be my cell phone.

My mother smoothes down my hair, brushing it away from my face. The cool air splaying across my skin feels glorious—or it would, if it weren't for my head feeling as though it weren't attached properly; it seems to spin a hundred miles per second and I just can't keep up.

"My little girl…you'll be alright, I promise Clary." Is it wrong of me to wish, even in this state that I'm in, that it was Jace holding me, his scent of lemon and laundry soap and sunshine embracing me instead of that of lavender and lilies and cinnamon?

"Jace," his name slips out involuntarily as I allow Jocelyn to hold me tightly—tighter than she's held me in the past six years. The sound is soft, feeble, barely audible, but somehow, amazingly, someone hears it. I feel strong arms slipping under my knees, supporting my neck as they lift upwards.

"He'll be there when you wake up, Clare, you have my word."

~Isabelle~

I think Jace might kill us all.

He presses down the gas pedal once more, the engine purring, seeming to accept the challenge. His tawny eyes, entirely focused and narrowed slightly, stare unblinkingly at the road ahead of him, at the twists and turns, curves and signs of the road. He pays attention to next to none of it, taking a sharp left around a bend. I think he's going to snap.

Scratch that, I think he has snapped.

But even as we speed down the road, at a highly illegal rate, my pulse consistently jumps, my palms sweat and I'm nearly positive that I'm edging the line of a nervous breakdown—and I've never even had one!

Clary, my mind screams, almost as if it expects a response from the redhead. You have to be alright Clary, I can't lose you.

Jonathan sits, ramrod straight in the backseat, blinking as if he's trying to will away tears. In all the years I've known Jon, I can't really remember ever seeing him cry. Then again, I never did really notice him in the shadows all those years ago.

Hesitantly, I reach my hand back. He takes it, squeezing hard. The action allows just the smallest hint of relief to flood my system. "How much longer, Jace?" My voice is small and meek to my own ears. Where I, much like my best friend who's life may possible be hanging on a thread at this very moment, don't like to show my weakness—it makes me feel pathetic and helpless. I've never liked that feeling, and neither has she.

Jace curses profoundly, dropping the coveted F bomb multiple times as he runs an anxious hand through his tousled golden locks. "I don't know Isabelle," he snaps finally. "Pray to that good for nothing God that it's less than half an hour, though."

Sighing, I run a hand through my own hair, pushing back the long dark strands hanging down by the sides of my face. "Okay."

"Can't you drive any faster Herondale?" Jonathan demands from the backseat, his grip on my hand tightening fractionally, though not unnoticeably.

Jace growls something under his breath. "I'm driving as fast as I can without risking killing us, asshole. Not only is your sister in the hospital, but my wife and children."

"My sister, my niece and nephew, are in the hospital, too, asshole. Isabelle's best friend and God-children." Jon snaps, dropping my hand completely in one swift motion, rubbing both of his hands over his knees.

"Don't you think I know that?!" Jace booms, nearly jerking the steering wheel violently to the right. If he had we might have crashed into a ditch but this is fine—we're fine, Clary is fine, my little babies are fine. Everything is going to be absolutely freaking fine.

The waiting room is crowded, and the way Jon, Jace and I storm in, looking frantic and completely in over our heads, only makes us look like complete lunatics, I'm sure.

Jace takes long-legged strides, gripping the edge of the receptionists' desk with a scary calm look on his face. "What room is Clarissa Herondale in?"

The receptionist looks up lazily, coming very close to falling off her chair as she jumps in surprise at the face glowering down at her. "R-room four-twenty-six, third f-floor." In what looks a nervous manner, she pulls at a loose strand of hair hanging down by her ear. Jace spins on his heel, heading for the stairs—which, mind you, he takes three at a goddamn time—not waiting to see if Jon and I follow. And we do, obviously, because that's Jon's little sister, that's my best friend up there, possibly suffering and in pain and crying.

The door to Clary's room is swinging shut by the time Jonathan and I reach the landing. Jon slows to a stop, his arm coming out to stop me going any further. He turns his head to look at me. "Maybe we should wait—give them they're time."

"Like hell I will," I shove past him. "I need to know she's okay, Jonathan. If I lose her—"

"You're not going to lose her Isabelle, but she needs to see Jace right now."

"I. Don't. Care." And with that, I shove the blonde away from me, pushing open the door to Clary's room just as a streak of red hurries out.

~Jace~

My breathing is irregular and I can't stand not knowing anymore than I could three minutes ago, speeding down a near empty road.

When I push open the door to Clary's room, Jocelyn and Valentine are already in there, Valentine, ever the comforting husband, is rubbing his hand up and down Jocelyn's back as she sits, hunched over in one of those god-awful plastic hospital chairs, crying.

Oh god.

Valentine looks up as I enter; he nods solemnly, leaning back down to whisper something into his wife's ear. Jocelyn, too, looks up and nods softly, abandoning her hospital chair only to dart out the door as it opens.

In a hurricane of dark hair and heels, comes Isabelle, her dark eyes glowing, and brows furrowed ever so much. "She's alright?" She looks to Valentine for confirmation.

"Yes, Isabelle, she'll be completely fine." She nods her understanding, seeming to slump as she looks from me to Clary and back to Valentine. And so differently from the girl who stormed in but seconds ago, does she exit after Valentine—who so graciously holds open the door for her.

Silence follows their retreat outside.

"Clary?"

"I don't want you here."

Her words startle me, and I could swear I nearly rock on my feet.

"What?" My voice sounds completely stunned and utterly, hopelessly confused to even my own ears, the word tumbling from my lips before I can comprehend what I've said.

Still, Clary doesn't turn to me. "I don't want you here, Jonathan." Her voice is sharp, piercing my chest as though someone had just expertly thrown a dagger at me. "What part of that do you not understand?"

I open and close my mouth a few times. The only time I can recall Clary so vicious and biting and just closed-off, is when we broke up for the first time. We were eighteen and despite being legal adults, we acted like children.

And that's exactly what we're doing here, except it feels more real, like there's a knife to my throat; one wrong move and my blood will coat these bleak white-blue tiles.

"Are you still mad at me?" I blurt. The words, much like before, fall from my mouth without my permission—my body does not do things without my permission; it never does. Over the years, I think I've become accustomed to the fact that I will do things I would not normally do, spontaneously or involuntarily, when she's around.

"No." The one word is cold and cutting; the knife seems to have slit my throat and blood pours slowly from the open wound, soaking my shirt and pants, running down my arms and dripping off my finger tips onto the tiled floor.

"Are you sure?"

"I was never mad at you." Clary sits up, her voice softening marginally when she meets my forlorn expression.

"Then what were you?"

"Hurt."

~Isabelle~

"Clarissa is suffering from Hyperemesis Gravidarum. Really, it's quite common and non-life threatening." He nods his head at us, nearly in a condescending manner. I don't believe I've wanted to punch someone in the face so badly this past week as I do him.

"How about saying that in English for all us non-med-school graduates?" I arch a brow at him, allowing my arms to cross over my chest, cupping my elbows in my hands.

"It means," his eyes flit down to his clipboard. "That Clarissa is suffering from severe morning sickness. And all that blood you said was in the toilet?" He looks pointedly at Jocelyn and Valentine. They nod, Jocelyn clasping Valentine's hand for dear life. And somehow, dressed in pajamas, they don't look completely, totally ridiculous like you might have expected. "If she's been unable to keep anything down, her throat must be raw—it's like blowing your nose too much and it starts bleeding, if that makes any sense."

"So you're saying she's been throwing up so much that it irritated her throat, and that's where the blood came from?" Jonathan glances at the doctor skeptically.

The doctor nods, seeming beyond exasperation. "That is exactly what I mean." And with that, he turns on his heel and walks back through the doors at which he came, at the end of the hallway.

I slouch into Jon's side. He runs his fingers lightly up and down the side of my arm. "Did you know about this? The morning sickness?" He murmurs into the crown of my head.

"I did," I nod. "I kept quiet because Clary didn't want to worry anyone—she didn't want anyone to fuss over her. And, quite honestly, I think that's justifiable. Though she didn't tell me it was so bad." I frown, feeling my forehead crease and the corners of my mouth tilt down. I wish, sometimes, Clary would let people know—let people know what's wrong so they can fuss over her and make things all better. But she's stubborn, and tirelessly so.

It's a damn good thing I love her and care about her so much or I think I might have strangled her by this point in our friendship.

"Mom, Dad," Jon sighs, pressing me further into his side. Heat emanates from him like it would from a fire; I relish in the delicious heat. "Maybe you should go home, get some sleep. While your sleep-deprived state gives me inspiration for my writing, I don't like seeing the two of you looking like this."

Jocelyn laughs, and it sounds so much like Clary's laugh that a pang goes through me, a sharp needle prick in my chest. I had been worried and scared as Jace sped down the road to get us here. What if it had been serious, more serious than it is right now? What if I had actually lost my best friend? What would I do then?

No, I think, pushing away the imposing questions that loom, still, in the shadows of my skull, waiting for the perfect time to crawl back and take centre stage.

"She'll be okay?" My voice is quiet, muffled slightly by the fabric of Jon's shirt.

"Physically, yeah, sure. But mentally and emotionally? I can't really say for sure, but I'd think already having almost suffered a miscarriage would have terrified her more than I can comprehend, and all I can imagine my sister thinking about is those two little babies and whether or not she was going to lose them for real this time." His words numb me, provoke me to think.

And I don't think that I have ever agreed with Jonathan about anything in my life more.

~Clary~

Hurt.

The word betrays my impassive, closed-off expression—I can tell, just by the look on his face as he stands across from me.

Jace blinks, and when he opens his eyes, they've gone cold.

I haven't seen him this way since high school, and I think out of everything I hated most about him back then, it was this: this cold look in his eyes.

"I don't—I shouldn't have said that," I murmur, turning my back to him, missing the view from my studio, the busy street, the sun—the way it rose and set every day.

I feel the bed sink down to my right, and when I turn my head, there he is. Jace sits on the edge of the bed, looking out the small window I'd been staring out of just seconds ago.

"I'm not good at this."

"You're good at everything."

He turns to look at me, his aureate pools suddenly ablaze with a fire that's been absent for so long now. "Don't say that, it's not true."

"Do you want to bet?" I challenge, raising my eyebrows at him. And for a second, it feels like we're eighteen again, bantering even when we're supposed to be fighting, supposed to be sad and hurt and hating each other.

"I really don't," and despite himself and the atmosphere strangling all the oxygen in the room, the left side of his mouth quirks up in a half-hearted grin.

"Okay, fine," I sigh, resting my head on his paint-clad shoulder—when had he been painting?—allowing the softness of the fabric, and the roughness of the dried paint to comfort me. He stiffens at the contact, and I have to fight the urge to pull away and move over on the bed. We're married; this should be natural. "What are you no good at?"

"Relationships."

I snort, feeling his gaze sweep down to land on me. "Would you like to point out anything else that's painfully obvious?"

He nods. "This view sucks. You hate hospitals. It smells like cleaner and death in here—"

"Death?" I ask through my laughter. Oh my god, how long has it been since I've laughed?

"Death. But moving on, my darling Clarissa, I want to—to not totally suck at this being a husband thing." He sounds so sincere, and I want so desperately to believe him. Should I, though? He's Jace Herondale, and I'm his wife, always hiding in the shadows and on the verge of falling back into that goddamn pit of sadness and despair.

If you ask me, that doesn't exactly sound like a match made in heaven. It sort of sounds like we were the only two people left over, so we got stuck with one another.

But before—before we used to be Jace and Clary: two teenagers too blindly in love to notice anything going on in the real world.

And I want that again, I really, really do.

More than that, though, I want my kids—our kids—to grow up in a stable home with parents who love each other more than anything else.

I look up at Jace. "I want that, too."

Yeah, so this chapter is all over the place. And before I have people screaming about it, NO, Clary has not forgiven her idiotic husband. Just thought I'd put that out there as a disclaimer of sorts.

So, listen, my wonderful reviewers. As much as I enjoy responding to you all, I really, really don't like that the reviews can sometimes outweigh the actual chapter in word value (if that makes sense). So I'm only going to reply to the ones that kind of provoke me. I'm really sorry but it just takes too much times, guys.

ThatBlondeALB: I don't know whether you should be grateful or scared either, tbh. But here's that Clace you, along with so many others, have been waiting desperately for. :))

Page1of365: Thank God, I know. Here's to the start of a better Clace marriage. I really love Jizzy, so, yeah, but don't worry about Simon: he'll be happy, too.

Janna: I'm glad you like my version of Jizzy. :)) Here's that Clace conversation you wanted. I hope this gave you a little insight, at least, at what putting together the twins' room looks like.

BrunetteAngel12: I really love showing you guys what's going on in each characters mind, so I'm glad you like me changing POV's. What'd you think he was doing at Izzy's? ;)) Unfortunately, I don't think we'll really be seeing as much of Jocelyn and Valentine as much for a little while...never fear, Clary will be home again sometime and her parents won't just drop off the face of the earth.

Yumna: How cool is it that you were the 300th reviewer? I think that's pretty cool. Honestly, I'm not sure how you still had faith in me after all I've put you through. Things have to get better after they go bad, don't they? Maybe not.

Debra Williams: Thank you! These babies will be Clace's undoing and their glue, if that make any sense. I'm glad you're enjoying. :))

Shauna Kullden: There will be Clace, but I can't promise it will end the same way. Interestingly twisted...hmm...when my friends ask me what this story is about, I'll tell them exactly that. ;))

Ads S: I savoured it. We're all good. NO, NO, THAT'S WRONG, YOU'RE DEHYDRATED BECAUSE YOU WERE CRYING OVER LADY MIDNIGHT. I really like your idea, btw, I'm probably going to use some aspects of it, if that's all right? I have a lot of free time too, because March Break! Hallelujah! But I mean I want something happy too. (Fingers crossed that you can sign in again.)

lostinthestoryforever: I'm really so happy and just astonished that this story made you feel that way. I still get all shocked and crap when people leave me the kind of review you did because I honestly don't think I'm that good of a writer. But thank you, nonetheless.

I'm A Writing Dreamer: Oops. Hope I didn't kill your soul, too. On a side note, the ship name (at least in my story) is Jizzy. glad you like the characterization btw. ;))

Bottlecap: I'm at Wal-Mart, what do we need, exactly, for world domination? Hmm, sorry about the length of Chapter 13, but why'd you stop reading other stories? (Aside from totally cliché, but tell me what was uber cliché.) I totally agree about Hodge and Seb, just to be very very clear. I apologize for even giving life to those son of a butternutsquash characters.

hs-zu: I apologize Miss Jackson? No, we both know I'm not actually sorry.

Okay, LISTEN UP!

I NEED BABY NAME SUGGESTION, BOY AND GIRL, NOTHING CORNY PLEASE.

ALSO, SONG SUGGESTIONS TO LSITEN TO WHILE I WRITE.

THANK YOU AGAIN.

SINCERELY, FUTURE WORLD DOMINATOR.