Disclaimer: DOH

A/N: I am so so so sorry for forgetting this chapter. I don't know how it got past me.

In the absence of fear, what is there? Hope? Freedom? Resolution? Desolation?

She turns her face into the pillow she's washed enough times to drown out the smell of him, but still the memory lingers of his head forcing its way to steal away her spot, though his pillow is just as comfortable.

The muted light from the street post slithers through the curtains she hadn't closed completely as she fell into the bed, casting faded blue rays of desperation on the white comforter spread around her body.

It's not fair, she breathes, closing her eyes and gripping the corner of the pillow tightly. Why does he do this to her? Why does he make it so much harder? And why does she keep falling for it, for him, when she knows she can't afford to be broken again?

It'd taken her months to get used to the fact he wouldn't be a part of her life. She'd been even more sure after he'd found out, that everything which had happened was just too much for both of them. She'd accepted it; she'd had to. But he always did have a way of turning her on her head, doing the exact opposite of what she expected.

Why does he care now? What does he possibly want from her since he made it so clear over five months ago that he was finished?

Cameron releases the pillow, letting her hand fall down to crux of their relationship. She feels the kick of feet and wants to smile, desperately, but the kicking stops as quickly as it began and everything is as it was.

Three weeks and her life will never be the same, at least that's what she hopes for. Fear is all that's kept her going this far, pushing her and holding her back, giving her an excuse for not being too excited.

-(Cameron)

It's no surprise. She brings the coffee cup to her lips and takes a generous sip as the last duffel bag hits the floor next to the others. If anything, she's surprised he's held out this long like a puppy that still walks up to its master after the two hundredth rock thrown at it.

He stands there, hands in his brown leather jacket that makes him look like he's eighteen and trying too hard.

"You'll call me…if you need me?"

Cameron blows on the hot brew, not sure if it's cowardice or blissful resignation that won't let her look at him.

"I have your number, Chase."

With a slow bow of his head, he shuts his eyes as he counts to five. It should be hard. She's supposed to be finally falling apart and telling him why she doesn't have to children with him, opening herself up and saying how she's felt these last four months, not sitting here as if it's just another Wednesday.

Then again, he's supposed to be sitting beside her, patient as always. He's supposed to understand that every time she turns on her back and ignores him as they lie in bed, she just needs time to adjust. It's only been four months. He should wait. His selfishness needs to be put on hold, but he looks at her and sees one more day that adds onto another and suddenly his life is more than half-way over and he's still waiting on her.

One more chance, take it, he says to her silently as he walks behind her and puts a hand on her thin shoulder. Muscles tense, her breath waits, and he can't feel her anymore. She's made her decision, and maybe she'll change her mind. He just can't stay here, stuck with her in foolish denial.

"I'll be ready, Cameron. Just…just tell me."

His footsteps pause and the door opens and closes. She sits down her cup and looks ahead, staring blankly at her apartment. It never ends. Disappointment. It follows her, she follows it, and then it's too late and there's nothing left.

The bourbon scorches his dry throat, tightens his muscles, makes him ache at the familiar taste it brings and the loneliness it makes him forget. There's a momentary pause in noise as the stereo switches to the next track and the slow rhythmic piece begins to meander through the air that's been suffocating him since he walked in.

It's not fair, he breathes, closing his eyes as the vicodin kicks in and his leg's screaming minutely decreases enough for him to think. What is he doing? What does he want? Why can't he leave her alone?

It should be easy to walk away, deny the kid that's his in blood only, to keep living like he has been. She'd let him. She probably even wants him to because of the way he's treated her. Maybe the most respectable thing to do is to walk away for good and let two people escape as unscathed as possible with the third stuck in misery that's far too close to be called home.

But he's selfish. He remembers her love, the same he's mocked her of from the beginning of their acquaintance. She used to love him so fiercely, even when he didn't deserve it, even when he didn't want it. He can still see that look in her eyes when she smiled at him, when he first held the door open for her, when he pinched her rear as she walked by, when she was underneath him and panting near his ear.

Maybe, if she wasn't pregnant, it wouldn't be so hard. There wouldn't be so much hesitation marking each of his actions, so much fear at letting himself feel content with her. The kid complicates matters. He can hurt her and feel guilty, which is survivable. They would get over it, move on with or without each other. If he hurts that child, all he'll feel is shame. And he knows he will.

He comes with no guarantee, no apologies, no remorse. Not father material in the least.

In the absence of fear, what is there? Courage? Happiness? Denial? Abandonment?

His trepidation has led him here, safe and alone. It gives him an excuse for pushing her away. It lets him say he can't deal with a child. It keeps everything the same, spinning and spinning, a constant. It dances with misery to keep him cuckolded, a Calypso to his Odysseus.

It's time to let go. Damn the consequences if just maybe, maybe it doesn't hurt so much anymore.

His eyes lower, the softness of sleep cradling him, and he wonders if he'll still feel this way in the morning.