Hi everyone :) Happy Friday! I'm working Sunday, but I'm OFF tomorrow and I'm so excited! I'm going to spend the whole day outside by the pool! Wooooooo :) I hope you enjoy this chapter, and your weekend! And don't forget to drop me a review!

Chapter 35,

Brooke guided Jay from the foyer to her bed, using her own body to support his stumbling weight. She had so many questions, so many things she wanted to say, but she knew any words she spoke now would be futile. Jay wouldn't be able to hear a word.

He was too drunk. He was too sad.

So instead she brought him into her room, slowly and carefully removing his rumpled clothing before helping him into bed. She wasn't surprised when he was asleep in moments.

She busied herself getting ready for bed. She had already removed her makeup when it became apparent she wouldn't be going to the premiere, but after the return of Jay to his rightful place, she didn't need the flannel pajamas anymore. She slipped off the heavy layers, and then moved to slip into one of Jay's shirts.

Tonight, she didn't choose the soft, worn ARMY t-shirt. He didn't need that reminder. Instead, she lifted the navy blue Chicago PD t-shirt from his suitcase and slipped it on.

When she walked around to her side and finally got into bed herself ten minutes later, she scooted her body to the center, wrapping her arms tightly around Jay. He seemed to wake up at her touch, but she didn't loosen her hold, trying to use to her body to convey the words she couldn't articulate.

She was surprised when he had snuggled his body against her like a child and began to weep. Even with his eyes closed, she could see the full, large tears stream down his face as he hiccuped uncontrollably.

"It's okay," she whispered, even though she it wasn't.

"You'll feel better after you get some sleep," she whispered, even though she knew he wouldn't.

She wasn't sure he would ever feel better again.

In the darkness of her New York city bedroom, she remembered back to five months before, to the first time Jay had had a nightmare in her bed. She had held him then too, waking him slowly and encouraging him to unload his baggage onto her. To let her share the load.

He had told her about the funerals he had been to, the broken families he had been witness to, he told her about his friend Mouse who was still overseas. She had sensed, even then, that he had felt responsible for those deaths. That he wasn't just sad for them, and he hadn't just felt guilty for surviving when they hadn't. He felt responsible.

He was their leader. And he thought he had failed them.

And the Jay Halstead she loved, well, she knew he would never fully be able to get past that. Nothing could ever make that better for him.

Even if she knew it wasn't his fault at all.

After what felt like hours of tears, he finally slept the night in her arms, sleeping off the alcohol, and she hoped, sleeping off the hole he had dug himself into. She stayed up the whole night, cautiously listening to him breath, attuned to every movement of his chest, every change of his heartbeat.

"Hi," he whispered groggily several hours later. Jay had woken up in a tight hold, completely hungover, with a pounding headache.

Unfortunately though, it wasn't one of those hangovers where he woke blissfully unaware of the night before.

No. He remembered everything.

He remembered sitting at the bar ordering shot after shot of their cheapest whiskey. He remembered looking up Kevin Connell's home phone number, and leaving a long, apologetic message on his wife's answering machine. First he had apologized for the article, and then he apologized for everything that had lead up to it.

He was pretty sure he cried through the whole thing.

Then he has repeated it twice more, leaving long messages on the answering machines of the wives of the other two soldiers.

The soldiers that were dead because he had valued his own life, his own freedom, his own sanity, over the lives of the men on his team.

When he was finished with his phone calls, he had drank some more. He hasn't even bothered voicing his request for shots of whiskey, instead just signaling the bartender to keep them coming. He drank until he couldn't see straight, until the world seemed fuzzy enough that he could tolerate it for just a little while.

He wanted to blackout. He wanted to stop remembering.

And so, he drank more. But it hadn't work. Nothing had worked.

After his last round, when the young blonde at the bar approached him, asked him if he wanted to get out of here, he had said no. For the first time in his life, he hadn't even been tempted. All those other times, he had slipped into bed with a stranger because he hadn't wanted to be alone. But not this time.

That's when he had finally paid his tab at the bar and stool from the stool. He steadied himself just enough to find a cab, to find someone take him home. Because tonight, he didn't wanted to bury himself in a stranger. He wanted to bury himself in Brooke.

It was only when he saw her in her apartment, looking effortlessly beautiful in oversized flannel pajamas, that he realized why he had left the warm apartment and had gone drinking in the first place.

Ever since he had helped save Sam, ever since he had held Brooke's hair back through her morning sickness, ever since he had started making fast food runs in the middle of the night and tuna melt runs in the middle of the day, Brooke looked at him like he was her hero.

Brooke loved him the way he had been waiting to be loved his whole life. She loved him the way each of the the now dead soldier's had been loved by their wives. Like it simultaneously consumed all of their energy and was also completely effortless all at the same time.

And if it was possible, he was pretty sure he loved her even more than that.

And so he wasn't sure he could bare to see her face once she had read the article.

But for some reason, when he had spoken those words to her, when he admitted that every word in the article was deeply, deeply true, that he was a coward, that he had left his man in the hands of a subpar leader, she hadn't flinched.

Her eyes didn't widen, her face didn't reveal the disgust he felt in his own heart.

If anything, she looked more in love with him than she ever had before. More connected.

With one look she had sealed their fate, and had allowed himself to fall apart in her arms. Because Brooke Davis knew every part of him, and she loved him anyway.

"Hi," she whispered back, her voice awake and clear, a surprising contrast to his morning mumbles.

"I, uh-" Jay began, knowing he needed to explain, to apologize for the night before. Even if she seemed okay, they hadn't actually had a conversation. He hadn't verbalized anything yet.

"Jay," she said, cutting him off. "You know it wasn't your fault right?" She moved her body back so that she could look into his blue eyes, and then she gave him a soft, gentle smile, hoping he would grasp how much she meant those words.

Jay shook his head, feeling suddenly disappointed. It was his fault. He needed Brooke to understand that. He needed her to understand that he carried that knowledge with him everyday, that there was more he could have done and he hadn't done it. He needed her to understand, and love him anyway. Could she do that? "I was their Leuitenant Colonel, their leader," he explained.

"Your tour was over," she cut him off once again, combing her fingers through his hair. "You were allowed to go home. You were allowed to stay home."

He shook his head once again. "I put myself first," he said, looking down, his voice full of disgust.

"Baby," she said, taking her hand and lifting his chin so that he was looking in her eyes. "You never put yourself first. You were saving lives in the Afghanistan, and now you're saving lives in Chicago. Your life's work has been to put other people first." She paused for a moment to make sure he truly heard the words she was saying. "If it hadn't been those three soldiers, it could've been Dawson. It could have been Burgess, or Atwater, or Rixton. You have their back, and you put your life on the line for their's everyday."

Jay thought about her words for a long time, and they sat silently in bed, neither of them uttering a single word. After what seemed like an hour, he took a deep, steadying breath before finally speaking again. "Thank you," he whispered.

"For what?" She said, shaking her head like she hadn't done anything.

But she had. With her words, she had made him feel a whole lot lighter.

Because he had never actually thought about it quite that way before.

He had always been like that, though. Maybe he just liked being hard on himself, but he had always found it easier to focus on the bad that had come from his decisions, not the good.

"For being here," he finally said, answering her question. "For knowing everything and for still being here anyway."

"Jay Halstead," she said, pressing her lips against his lightly before leaning back and grabbing his hand, slowly pressing against her swollen belly. "Where else would we be?"

000000

"I'm sorry we didn't make it to the premiere," Jay said, his hands linked in Brooke's. They were seated in the back of a black town car that had just picked them up from the airport, and now that everything had calmed down, he remembered that they had missed the big movie premiere the night before.

"I'm not," she said dismissively. "I'd much rather see the movie from the comfort of my own couch."

"In your flannel pajamas?" Jay smirked, raising his eyebrow slightly in her direction.

"You got a problem with my flannel pajamas?" She teased, mocking insult.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he said, before leaning into whisper, quiet enough that the driver wouldn't overhear. "How am I supposed to touch your legs when you wear those."

He pressed his warm hand against her thigh, and even with the fabric of her pants dividing their skin, the shiver that he elicited had him smiling from ear to ear.

She rolled her eyes in response, trying and failing to suppress a smile.

"Ms. Davis," the driver interrupted. "We are here." The car had just pulled outside Brooke's apartment in Chicago, and the driver began to get out to help her with her bags. "Mr. Halstead, if you don't mind, I will bring up Ms. Davis' bags and then I'll be down shortly to take you home."

"No rush, Todd," Jay said, casually. He leaned over the seat to press his lips against Brooke's. "I'll see you later?"

"You really have to go back to your place?" She asked, immediately kicking herself for the whiny, almost desperate tone her voice had taken against her will.

He hadn't been home in days, and as much as he didn't want to leave Brooke and his baby for one minute, he had to at least stop at home. He probably had mail stacked so high it was exploding out of his box, he had to drop off the rent check that was already two days late, and he should probably check and make sure the place hadn't burned down. "I have to get my mail," he said, lamely.

"I know," she said, trying to sound calmer, more dignified this time around. "I'll miss you though."

"I'll miss you too, baby," he replied, letting her know he wasn't the least put off by her pouty tone, that the feeling was entirely mutual. Then he kissed her once more before she slid her purse over her shoulder and got out of the town car.

Jay watched her walk inside, the driver following closely behind with her bags. Too many bags for the length of their trip to New York, he thought, but that was his girl. Always dressed to the nines, prepared for any occasion, packing at least three pairs of shoes for each day. He was really going to have to insist on some more closet space. Or at the very least, he wanted to put some built-ins in the spare bedroom closet for his clothes.

Also, he wanted to get one of those tables near the front door with a few drawers for the mail. Brooke always had stacks and stacks of mail at her apartment, and it made his overly-organized, likes-everything-neat-and-tidy brain hurt. And she could even put flowers on it and make it pretty if she wanted to, but they really needed something functional in the foyer. That way they could have their bills in one drawer, personal mail in another, and maybe they could put keys and such in a third.

There was so much to do before the baby came. He also wanted to install a few extra lights in their spare bedrooms. Modern apartments always had so much natural light, but they never had enough actual lights. And once it got dark, he wouldn't be able to see.

Also, he was considering making one of their spare bedrooms an office. Brooke already had hers set up, and the baby would take the larger spare room, but their last room was still bare.

And wait - when did he start thinking of it as their apartment?

When had that happened?

As soon as he had the thought, though, he realized those thoughts had been there forever. Since the day Brooke had told him he was going to be a father. Or maybe even before.

Jay got out of the car then, and quickly moved into the building, taking the elevator up to the top floor. Before he lost his nerve, he marched right over to her door and knocked twice.

It took Brooke only a minute to swing the door open, "Todd, did you forget something-" She stopped speaking when she realized it was Jay standing at the door, not her driver. "Jay, what are you-"

"What if all my mail was here?" He asked, his voice coming out a little bit breathless.

She didn't say anything at first, just stared at him with a mix of shock and confusion on her face. "What if all my mail was here because I lived here?" He tried again. "What would you say?"

She smiled widely, and grabbed his hand, gently pulling him inside. Her smile didn't fade even as she kissed his lips.

"I'd say it's about damn time."

xoxo

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