Blackbird

by SpookyMormonHellDream

Modern AU, E/C. Dr. Erik Riley had always been alone, with few exceptions - he'd expected to remain that way indefinitely. However, an administrative error forced a young medical student into his life, setting in motion a series of events that would change the both of them forever, if only he would allow himself to overcome his own troubled past.

34. Bless the Broken Road

Author's Note: Welcome back (yet again) y'all! Thank you thank you thank you for sticking around and much love to ya for it. Here we're finally making some progress, and as such, just a quick note to please bear in mind that this story is not over yet! We've still got quite a ways to go before the end of it, so sit tight and be on the lookout for more updates, which should start to come about more regularly again now that my semester/MA is winding down (scary that they're actually letting me be a master of anything, but hey, it's English lit, after all :P). Anywhoodles, on that note, please let me know what y'all thought of this chapter, etc. etc., you know the drill. Finally, the title of this chapter comes from the Rascal Flats song of the same name. Enjoy!

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Chapter 26 - Bless the Broken Road

Erik

I would be lying if I didn't admit that there were several points - even once I'd resolved to be honest after the psychiatrist had asked me to take her through the day of the shooting, and to explain whatever I could remember in detail - wherein I was certain that I might actually have to stand up and walk out of that office entirely, never looking back on it again. However dramatic, the notion was unbelievably tempting just the same. Getting through that conversation obviously wasn't easy - but even so, seeing it through to the end still felt like a significant accomplishment on my part, all things considered. So, rather than obsessing over the difficulties I'd had leading up to it, I chose to focus solely on that accomplishment instead. I needed to focus on it, alongside each positive takeaway that Dr. St. James had so carefully reminded me about while we spoke. Because otherwise, I knew that I'd only end up dwelling on the negative aspects of the day that had stayed in my mind, and little else. That was one part of my overlying problems in the first place, falling down into negativity. I had to keep going forward; hindering that progress in any way was just another brand of slow self-destruction that I couldn't excuse. Preventing it whenever possible, as I was trying to now, was far better than the alternative.

When all was said and done with Dr. St. James and the risk management coordinator, I was eventually cleared to ease myself back into my role in the surgical department, doing so at a relatively slow pace before I would be completely reinstated to work at full capacity. Once that was done, my former duties and privileges would resume in turn, or so I had been told. In reality, though, none of that would be happening at all until a very specific list of conditions was met first, which, when I thought about it logically, was fair. The main caveat attached to my dismissal from the meeting with Dr. St James, in the end - other than being informed that I'd only take my patients on a limited basis initially - was that I would need to check in with her at least every other week during the coming months, ceasing those visits at her discretion alone, in addition to keeping up regular appointments with my own social worker. Then, whenever I did start taking shifts again, I was instructed to sign over the demanding cases to other surgeons as well, doing so whenever necessary until I'd had a handful of check-ins to my name without showing any red flags. From there, everything else that was left to handle was largely a matter of adhering to formalities, and making sure my mental health stayed intact in the meantime.

Altogether, my livelihood had become tentative, though it wasn't absolutely hopeless any longer; my attempt to continue working at the hospital wouldn't be easy, nor would I have a quick transition back into familiar waters. But even so, reaching this agreement with Dr. St. James and the risk management department was simple enough - considerably more so than I'd expected. The worst of it really had been the arrival to the agreement, and that was over and done with, the upsetting elements of everything I felt had been parsed through during the appointment itself. By the time the clock had counted down the minutes remaining, I had gone over hurdle after hurdle after hurdle, passing the better part of that morning doing exactly what I had dreaded for so long, but doing so was still a hell of a lot better than the outright avoidance that had been so appealing to me before, because it meant I was doing something right; I knew I would do well to remember that in the future.

Recounting each point of this new information to Christine, when we'd met up again after my appointment, took only moments for me to say - but sharing that information with her was a substantial relief to me all the same.

"I'm proud of you, babe," she said once I'd finished speaking. As I replaced my surgical mask and murmured my thanks to her, she beamed up at me while we waited side-by-side at the elevator banks to leave psychiatry - her smile then a serene expression that I always loved to see in her. She'd kept a trace of that smile even as we arrived in oncology.

As we walked in, however, I strongly suspected that this version of the smile had more to do with her excitement over telling our friends and colleagues about the baby than it did about any pride she felt on my behalf; to be honest, I was grateful when that relatively carefree energy seemed to pass on to me as well. I wouldn't say that I felt it to the same degree that she had, but I did feel immensely better than I had the last time we were together just before my appointment, and that undeniable contrast had helped to ease some of the awkwardness that I'd probably feel under different circumstances. All eyes were on us as Christine gathered as many people as she could in the doctor's lounge, saying simply once enough people were there with us that we were going to have a baby girl in the spring, and that she'd wanted to finally share the news with them. Some of them had initially appeared surprised, others less so. Still, I didn't take the time - nor did I have any great desire - to speculate about the few less-than shocked responses I saw. If we were the subject of inter-departmental gossip, then this wouldn't be the first time, and very likely wouldn't be the last. And anyway, compared to the bigger picture, I knew from experience that there were much worse reasons to garner unwanted attention from one's coworkers than through talk of an unplanned pregnancy. Better that talk come from good news than bad.

Christine fielded each congratulatory response that followed, prompting me to contribute only every now and again, thank God. For the most part, she was content to continue acting as the mouthpiece for the both of us, and she shone in the role. So, I just stood on the edges of her fragmented conversations - some of them about whether or not we'd decided on a name, others about possible baby shower plans to come, or of due dates, of everything else that was so new to our colleagues that we'd been living with for several weeks already. I'd actually almost smiled at the notion, the near-absurdity of how normal this felt even now - even as it was still technically brand-new. We were first-time parents by all accounts, yet we'd found - or were at least gaining - so many answers to that many more questions. We were actively making sure that we would be ready for our daughter's arrival long before that day came, and we were doing fairly well with the process at that. Everything about our situation was still so surreal, but it ultimately felt right.

That thought, though, was interrupted suddenly when Meg appeared at my side, pulling me away from the larger group with the obvious intention of speaking to me directly.

Once she'd seemed to determine that we were far enough away from anyone that might overhear us, she began with feigned casualness, "Christine said you're supposed to be heading back to work soon, yeah?"

I nodded, "That's the plan."

"Good. It sounds like you're doing better, then."

"I think so."

"Well, you know I'm still mad at you," she said almost primly. And while I'd immediately appreciated that she'd dropped the standard play of decorum as quickly as it had been adopted, I couldn't deny my resulting annoyance that we were having this conversation again, either - so much so that I'd nearly missed her next words, "But I am glad you're getting back to surgery."

That statement, I didn't doubt at all - but, I also didn't doubt that she was just as angry as she'd claimed. Meg had been more than understanding when Christine left their lease and came out to Schamberg to live with me, had even attempted to extend that understanding further when Christine later informed her friend that we'd stay together as a couple despite our near-breakup. But, in the end, Meg's patient generosity had only extended so far where I was concerned, and she'd been brutally honest about her reservations toward me. Still, although I wasn't necessarily surprised by her protectiveness, and although I didn't expect to be forgiven instantly for my past transgressions, it was disappointing to me just the same that, in my mind, I was being punished for them this long after the fact, in one way or another. In this case, even though Meg and I had really never been close friends, we had been friends to a degree through Christine. In turn, the tension existing between us now was unwelcome, but I wasn't willing to grovel to lessen it; I was tired of having everything I'd done wrong held against me - it wasn't helping. But while I believed that Christine recognized that ineffectiveness as well as I had, she also wasn't inclined or ready to let go of the pain of my mistakes entirely, and thus Meg was prepared to go to bat for her at all times, and so I'd had no idea whatsoever of how to handle this part of the situation in that regard.

So, it just made the most sense to resolve that I simply wasn't going to upset Christine by dwelling on my conflict with Meg in the meantime, that I wasn't going to do anything to make her feel like she had to choose between me and her best friend, especially with the baby on the way. We'd had more than enough going on as it stood.

Sighing as I reminded myself to focus on that idea, I lowered my voice and responded, "Believe me, Meg, I do know you're still mad at me. So can we call a truce at some point soon? It's been too hard on Christine to think that you and I aren't getting along. She cares about you."

"Right. And I care about her. Which is why I don't like the idea that the man she loves so much could be so ready to walk out on her. And why I don't like the idea that she's still living with that man even though he could easily break her heart again."

"Why don't you just tell me what you really think," I bit back, smiling sardonically. Then, feeling petty, went on to argue, "You accepted us living together when it first happened - "

" - When it first happened, being the key word - "

" - Besides, you know it wasn't that simple, so - "

" - But I've had a lot of time to worry about her - "

" - So don't act like I'm not looking out for her best interest - "

" - Relax," Meg interrupted, holding her hands up in as placating a manner as she could probably find within herself, "I know that's what you're doing, Erik, and I know that's not the only reason you've stayed with her. Look, I'm not wanting to get into it with you again here, alright? I just wanted you to know where I stand."

"Just in case I suddenly forgot?"

"That would be correct. Just in case."

In spite of my frustration, I had to laugh at that. I respected her honesty, if nothing else, and therefore opted then not to press the issue; this was neither the time nor the place to do so, nevermind that I didn't want to burn more bridges with this woman than I already had.

Before either of us could add anything to our stubborn exchange, Christine approached, her stance purposeful as she grew closer. Taking my arm in both of her hands once she was beside me again - a gesture of mingled affection and means of keeping me calm, I assumed - she said, "I hope I don't need to put you two in a time-out."

"Of course not," Meg responded brightly. Then, embracing Christine quickly and kissing her on the cheek in parting, continued, "Congratulations again and again and again! So, we'll talk more later, alright? Oh," she added when she began to walk away, "Don't forget to tell Samantha before you leave. She'll want to get in on baby shower planning ASAP."

Once Meg was gone, once we were more or less left alone there in the doctor's lounge, the others needing to get back to their own work by then as well, Christine asked me, "Was she telling the truth? Or should I have interrupted your argument sooner?"

"We weren't arguing, sweetheart," I responded wearily - it wasn't the first time I had needed to give her this reassurance, although at least my words were closer to being honest this time than they had in the past, "Everything's fine, we just need to keep working this out."

She said nothing else to that, and from there we'd quickly decided that now was a good chance to leave oncology to make our way to surgery. Christine took the communicative reins when we arrived there, just as she'd done in her own department, and I was grateful once more for her continued initiative. The scene there had played out very much the same as before. Her announcement was met with a similar blend of excitement and bemusement, of surprise and speculation, followed by rapid-fire congratulations and of prying questions - it truly felt as if everyone that was present had referred back to the same script as their peers. Still, for the most part, I didn't think anyone was being insincere, so I just listened and responded whenever it was polite to do so, otherwise appreciating them with my silence. However, out of all of the people that were working on the surgical service that day, there was one voice that had remained conspicuously absent throughout and after we'd finished sharing our news - Raoul Chaney was there in our lounge, and he had obviously heard everything that was being said around him, but he'd said nothing in return even so.

To an extent, Christine and I had expected as much from him; yet it was still impossible for me to miss the look of hurt and disappointment that had flashed in Christine's eyes following Chaney's poorly-disguised brush-off, the pained expression staying there long enough for me to see just how badly her oldest friend's disapproval affected her, before she schooled her features back to mock-contentment.

"Do you need to go talk to him?" I whispered a short time later, subtly pulling her away from a group of interns for a moment to address her lingering agitation, to try to find even the most half-assed solution for it, if that's what it came down to - if doing so would somehow help her feel better, because her pain was terrible to witness, "Or do you want me to say something to him?"

"It's fine, Erik. I knew he'd be upset."

"Upset, sure. But now he just looks pissed off."

"Then let him be pissed off. I'm not responsible for how he reacts to my business."

Catching her gaze again, I looked at her more closely for a time, gauging her words, her demeanor - gauging whether or not I did in fact need to act in her defense then, regardless of her insistence that I leave this alone instead. Ultimately, I determined that engaging with Chaney that day would only be a mistake. Christine was right, she wasn't responsible for his poor reaction to something that didn't involve him; neither of us were, and making a scene wouldn't accomplish anything. So, I kissed her forehead and accepted her words, hoping that the small gesture would at least be of some comfort to her, and turned us both around to talk to Dr. Reyes. She had been in mid-approach by then, already starting her own long succession of questions, smiling at us as she walked; with that earnest expression, I decided to enjoy the coming conversation and ignore everything else that had happened before it. Not for the first time that day, I reminded myself that this experience should be one that we'd immersed ourselves in entirely - I wasn't about to let Chaney's bitterness destroy it. We couldn't speak freely for the time being, but I could only hope that Christine might find the same determination as I had; she'd deserved far better than having her past come back and collapse the happiness that we were building now.

~~oOo~~

When I began taking half-shifts at the hospital again some time later, it was immediately apparent that I had been away from surgery for far too long; inactivity had slowed me down even during relatively simpler cases. It had taken first admitting to my wounded pride for one-on-one mentoring time with Dr. Reyes, along with several visits to the skills lab over at the UIC medical school to practice those once-familiar procedures, before I felt comfortable taking on the serious surgical cases on my own once more. Starting out, I'd done just as Dr. St. James had required of me and only accepted certain patients, among her other conditions, but stepping back all the while and focusing on getting familiar with the tools of my profession again, I was able to realize that there were benefits to keeping my mind occupied as I readjusted to an environment that, though indirectly, had nearly killed me; it wasn't easy - exactly as I had assumed it wouldn't be - but after time I was ready to walk through the doors of my department without my anxiety taking control, able to go down to the emergency room for a case or consultation without succumbing to a state of all-out panic from the memories it would now always hold. That didn't strictly mean that I wasn't entirely without lingering dread over my circumstances, but it was a dread that was more manageable than it had been in the beginning, and I counted that as a small victory.

For a while, I was given a wider berth by my colleagues than what I'd already been used to, making my presence in the department that much more awkward than I would've preferred, even compared to my own standoffish, isolated treatment of them in the past. But although their distance was markedly different from what it had been before, part of me could understand that distance - part of me could understand in turn that none of us knew about any exact methods of moving on with the day-to-day of surgery after what had happened in our hospital. Nothing in the world could've ever truly prepared us for that singularly life-altering event, and we'd all reacted to it in exceedingly different ways, from what I'd been told by the few people that were still willing to discuss it with me. Making up my mind to ignore my subsequent frustrations, I had instead just accepted yet another unanticipated outcome of the shooting, letting the present situation play out in whichever other ways it was meant to, and go from there. Honestly, without that perspective, I was fairly certain that I would've been driven insane by such strange events.

But, just my luck, those strange events didn't mean that everyone I worked with had chosen to avoid me altogether. As it turned out, I'd still had Chaney to deal with on a regular basis, much more closely now than before I returned as if by design, and with our recent discord added to our interactions at that. After the day Christine and I made our announcement about the baby, she hadn't spoken to Chaney once, nor had he seemed to make any clear efforts to reach out to her; the source of their animosity was obvious, and yet the immutable truth of their shared past had done nothing to help Christine feel any better about it since that strain on the friendship was first introduced. But while I had to encounter him almost daily as per the requirements given to the interns, he was at least smart enough not to start any arguments, smart enough not to try to mention Christine at work. And anyway, there simply wasn't much either of us could do when one party wasn't willing to communicate outside of the workplace, and therefore Christine made me promise not to confront Chaney about how he'd upset her with his reaction. Grudgingly, I'd agreed to that promise, and I intended to keep it unless or until Chaney forced my hand.

Despite my immense dislike for the man, though, I really didn't have a reason to believe that he would start any arguments until one late-afternoon proved otherwise.

A decidedly chaotic shift had left me exhausted, and as soon as I saw the opportunity to do so, I secured an empty surface at the admit-desk to finish up my charting for the day, grateful to finally be standing still even as I'd had to stay hunched over to an extent to get my work done. Lacking any better location that wasn't already taken over by groups of doctors and nurses, I felt comfortable settling there for as long as I needed. For the most part, those that passed me while I reviewed file after file left me alone, and the droning sounds from within the department steadily became their own kind of background noise, rather than a distraction. Beyond pausing to check my phone and respond to messages there every now and again, I wasn't interrupted at all until Dr. Reyes approached to ask a question, but even then, the discussion that came about from it was short-lived, and I didn't foresee anything else delaying the handful of charts I'd had left. But then, as I returned to what I'd been doing and Reyes tried to leave again, a group of interns and residents had rushed by, Chaney among them in the overcrowded section of the hallway before the admit-desk, and when he'd gone past Reyes, he had also pushed her directly into my side as he moved. I tensed at the sudden and forceful contact, gave an audible sign that I was in pain as a result, and both of them stayed next to me and immediately began to apologize.

I wanted to yell at Chaney then and there for his carelessness, wanted to accuse him of running into Dr. Reyes on purpose. But even though I knew that he wasn't currently my biggest fan, I also knew that this incident hadn't happened because of any malice on his part - he was petty, sure, but unprovoked physical retaliation was beneath him.

Besides, in all fairness, it was my own fault that the contact was so painful to begin with - I'd been too careful with the healing surgical incisions on my chest and stomach while I was in recovery, and as such, had allowed stiff scar tissue to develop over the months between then and now. That wasn't an uncommon occurrence following such an invasive procedure, but the scar tissue had gotten sensitive, and being caught off-guard like this with one wrong move had always sent shots of pain through me. The physical discomfort wasn't really something I took issue with for long, wasn't something that was too difficult to get past - rather, it was these small, unexpected reminders of what happened that bothered me well after the fact, and always whenever I felt like I was getting back to normal. Case in point, I was able to come to work for all of my shifts for weeks by then, yet bumping into someone, just as I'd done a thousand times before getting shot, was now a problem; because it hurt, and because it made me think for far too long on the memories about why it hurt.

I was so beyond fed up with those memories, still so unbelievably angry about them, even as I'd distantly realized that this incident would need to be addressed with Dr. St. James the next time we saw each other. If I hadn't forcefully reminded myself about my promise to Christine, I would've loved to yell at Raoul Chaney then simply for the sake of fully shifting my focus back to the present. He could've easily been the target of my ire. Incidentally, it was Dr. Reyes that had inadvertently taken on the role of shifting focus herself, saving me the hassle.

"Are you alright? Hey, look at me" she demanded, and probably a demand that was repeated, if her tone was any indicator of how little I'd paid attention during the last few moments.

Drawing myself to stand up straight, I cleared my throat, "Yeah...just adhesions."

"You haven't been working on them?"

"Does it look like I have?"

She sighed, "Erik, you can't let scar tissue get out of hand like this. There's PT that can help with it, and other things. And you of all people should know that."

I raised my hands in an exaggerated gesture of defeat, "I'll take care of it."

Seemingly appeased, she nodded, "Make sure you do," then added with a wry smile, "I really don't want anyone questioning my work."

"You maimed my blackbird tattoo, your work speaks for itself."

Laughing at my mock-indignation, she waved dismissively as she turned to leave, "Take better care of yourself, Dr. Riley."

Though amused, I didn't call after her to give a response - I intended to finish what I'd started so that I could end my shift and get out of the hospital. No more delays. I was tired, and I missed Christine; more than anything else, I'd only wanted to be home with her. But Chaney had lingered nearby during my exchange with Reyes, seeming to be waiting for me to acknowledge him there. So, suppressing the urge once more to yell at him, I just asked, "May I help you?"

"I didn't know you had tattoos."

I scoffed, "We both know that's a lie. You've seen me in scrubs every time we've gotten ready for a surgery together, so you've seen my tattoos - "

" - Ah, that's right...But, yeah, so I'd mostly just wanted to say again that I'm sorry," he stammered, which I found rather uncharacteristic, sweeping a hand absently toward my chest, "We were trying to get to a morbidity and mortality presentation downstairs. So, I wasn't paying attention to where I was going."

"Alright...well, thanks. It's fine," I said, thinking that he'd cleared his conscience and expecting that to be the end of it; but when he still didn't leave, I nearly snapped, "Is that all?"

Leaning against the edge of the admit-desk, he replied, "No, I guess not. I was also just wondering how you were doing, how work's been since you've gotten back."

Good Lord, was he serious? I'd always hated small-talk - I loathed small-talk, actually. Nothing could make me enjoy participating in that awful social expectation with anyone, nevermind that I was so unwillingly partnered with Chaney for this particular ordeal, and nevermind that he had seen me almost every shift since I'd returned to work anyway. We didn't need to have any drawn-out, intimate conversations for him to gain an accurate enough idea of how I was doing since then. I hadn't completely lost my mind during a shift yet, didn't believe I would any time soon, and none of my patients had died under my care. On the whole, I thought I was doing well with what I had. And at this point, Chaney was really only succeeding in filling the air with empty words, because every piece of information that he was asking for had never been kept a secret. He'd had no real reason to ask; or, if he was absolutely intent on knowing something, then he could've at least had the sense of courtesy to consult the rumor-mill before bothering me about it. But still, his concern had seemed sincere enough, so I made myself bite back my escalating annoyance, uncomfortably aware that the people around us could hear most of what we were saying, and decided instead to act generously toward him - perhaps more so than I might have otherwise.

Even so, my response was succinct, given that way primarily with the hope that he would take a hint from my brevity, "Work's been fine, I'm doing better," I shrugged, "There's not much else to report, though."

"Oh. Well, that's good. We were all kind of surprised that you came back at all, actually," he continued, "Since Moreno didn't, and - "

" - Stop," I cut him off. Out of already-limited patience, only then did I begin to wonder if he had ulterior motives behind this discussion, because his train of thought now felt out of place, and was rapidly becoming intrusive. Noting that, I continued sharply, "Why are you talking about that, Chaney?"

But he was unfazed by my anger, "It's only an observation."

"Your choice of observation is impeccable," I ground out. By then, whether or not he did have anything specific to say to me, I didn't care to stay long enough to find out what it was; my scars were still bothering me enough to be distracting, I'd had work to do, and I truly just wanted this irritating half-conversation to be over, wanted to be able to bow out as politely as I could, and I needed that to happen immediately.

Chaney, however, had other ideas, "So, you and Christine are having a baby."

And, there it is. Finally.

At that, I nearly rolled my eyes and laughed in his face in quick succession - it had taken him long enough to get to his point, and while I was shocked when realized that I hadn't guessed what it was sooner, I still made sure to answer curtly, to stand at my full height, "We are."

"Do you guys know what you're having yet? Or does Christine want to be surprised? She didn't want to find out with ours, boy or girl," he went on - as if he wasn't actually talking to me then, and I didn't miss the emphasis that he put on certain words, didn't miss exactly how deliberate this look into his shared past with Christine was.

I didn't want to play along - but I also couldn't stop myself from saying rather arrogantly all the same, just to spite him, "We're having a girl. Christine made sure we found out together."

Chaney nodded stiffly to that, and almost instantly losing his thunder, he relented from whatever the hell he'd started, saying only in response, "That's good...Um, I'm sure you're both really looking forward to having a daughter. Congratulations to you both," then, shifting partly away from me, he added, "Anyway, I need to get going. Have a good afternoon."

"Should I tell Christine you said hi?" I asked pointedly, ignoring his attempt to leave this on his own terms and trying to get him to just call a spade a goddamned spade instead, "Or do you want to be the one to call and say it yourself. I think you owe her an apology, if nothing else."

"Just...just tell her I send my best."

"Right, I'll do that," I said as he turned away, then muttered to his retreating form when he was out of earshot, simply because I was feeling particularly vindictive, "You fucking prick."

Working on anything substantial after that uncomfortable meeting felt impossible, even once I was left alone again, and it wasn't long at all before I'd decided to accept defeat and take the charts home with me; I could get them done there just as thoroughly as I could at the hospital, if not more so from improved concentration.

As I gathered up the charts and stopped to get a few things out of my locker, I determined that I wouldn't allow another conflict like the one I'd just experienced with Chaney to take place again - that was completely out of the question, bar none, because it had unnerved me, and because there was no way in hell that I wanted my personal and professional lives to combine with one another. I never had wanted that, and it felt like a lifetime had passed since the last time I'd had a legitimate reason to have to draw explicit lines between the two worlds. Those were lines that I unquestionably would not concede to crossing - to even being blurred - and coming as close to doing so as today had at least served to reaffirm the merit behind my long-established professional standpoint. In being perfectly honest, I shouldn't have let myself get placed into that position to begin with, but I wouldn't make that mistake again. I would have to tell Christine about what had happened that day between myself and Chaney, but going forward, that was going be the end of my regard toward the man outside of surgery. The last thing either Christine or I had needed was an ongoing conflict with anyone, and I didn't want to add more stress to Christine's life when she'd already had so much, but she also had the right to know the truth whenever it involved her, and this instance certainly had.

When I got home an hour or so later, I found Christine upstairs in our bedroom, laying sprawled in the middle of the bed under her favorite throw blankets, Rex and Willow lounging dutifully nearby. She had Futurama playing on her laptop set up on one of the nightstands, although at first glance, she didn't appear to be watching the show with any obvious interest, light entertainment though it was. Judging by those details as I walked into the room, I knew that she'd had a rough day without having to ask - after her relatively easier shifts, if she had the time, she would go over new publications or case study notes from her coworkers, or raid our now-combined bookshelves and read for fun, usually saving television for relaxing before she went to sleep, if at all. But even then, she would watch whatever she'd decided to play. That she was neither working nor engaging with the cartoon that she had chosen then spoke volumes about the kind of day she'd experienced, and almost out of nowhere, my heart ached for her. Wordlessly, I moved to lie down beside her, kissing her before she could say anything to me first. It was all I could do for her then for simply being, and still I knew it would never be enough. She did so much for the people she loved, she genuinely cared about the patients she treated in her specialty; she was so good, and she deserved every bit of good that she put out into the world returned to her tenfold.

Yet that wasn't always the case - of course it wasn't, and I hated that it wasn't always the case, hated the fact that there would inevitably be something that tipped the balance against her. I knew that I had to tell her about what had happened to offset an otherwise uneventful workday, and that maybe it was one such situation that wouldn't feel quite so upsetting once some time had separated us from the bad blood that inspired it. But these were circumstances that I would just as soon have hidden from her completely nonetheless. Because I also knew that, in spite of how inconsequential they might seem in the future, for the present they would undoubtedly upset her. Noting that, I approached our coming conversation on light footing. And unsurprisingly, though to my dismay, as I explained my experience with Chaney, I saw an unmistakable weariness in Christine's eyes as I spoke; I saw that expression cloud what had only a handful of moments before been an accomplished sort of weariness, watched as it devolved into one of resignation, and in turn, I sorely regretted ever getting involved with Chaney's nonsense in the first place. Christine was still so hurt by his original silence, and now that I was placed that much further in the middle of their tacit fight - now that she was aware that he'd done something to escalate it at all, whether or not he'd realized exactly what he had done - those hurt feelings seemed to multiply with every word I said on the matter.

"All this time, he could've just called me, or, hell, even texted. We could've had this out a long time ago," she huffed when I'd finished giving the brief version of what happened; I had made it a point not to leave my own pettiness out of the narrative, but admittedly I still felt no small amount of validation when Christine had sided with me on my reactions earlier in the day. We were both sitting upright now, facing each other in the middle of the bed, and for the moment, that position was oddly helpful in its own way - it made Christine feel that she wasn't responding with total inaction, if even only symbolically. Without pausing, she pursed her lips in frustration before looking up at me again, "He didn't have to go after you to prove anything."

To that, I weighed my words before speaking again, although not because of any newly discovered sense of altruism. Rather, I didn't want the details of my account to be misunderstood or misinterpreted - Chaney was in the wrong, plain and simple, but on the other side of the issue, I wasn't going to be said to have embellished anything for my own sake. So I responded carefully, "I don't think he necessarily went after me. He just saw an opportunity to talk to me outside of surgery, and he took it. He's an asshole, but he's not stupid."

She answered with a humorless laugh and quirked her eyebrows in annoyed agreement, but then said, "Still, I wonder if I need to go to HR, or - "

" - I don't think it needs to come down to that," I shook my head, then explained, "He had a tantrum today, that's all. We didn't actually fight, and he didn't threaten either of us, and I don't honestly think he wants to. Today could've been worse. Besides, he won't get any satisfaction from riling us up if we choose not to react."

"That's very practical of you."

"Weird, right?"

She smiled, though it faded too quickly, "But I can't believe he'd do any of this at all! I'm so tired of it, Erik. I'm so tired of feeling like I've done something wrong here, like he's punishing me. And how dare he bring up my last pregnancy to you! If I called him right now - "

" - Then you'd be giving him what he wants."

Sighing harshly, she looked away from me once more, seeming to gather her fleeting composure with the gesture. As she did so, she'd placed both hands on the swell of her stomach, encircling it with her protection and absently rubbing small patterns onto the softness of her shirt. Our daughter was right there between us then; it still amazed me that she existed, unseen for now, waiting under the safety of her mother's heart, and I was so grateful for that safety. Christine had been so afraid of losing her in the beginning, heartsick at the thought of losing our daughter as she had her first baby, and I understood that fear more than I could ever admit. I'd never said as much, hadn't wanted to add any more fodder to her very real fears, but the dread of an unexpected loss had interrupted my thoughts more than once at the start of Christine's pregnancy, back when I'd had little else to do but recover and overthink and worry. Chaney was supposed to have been a father, and had that chance taken because of a flaw that would probably never be explained, yet he had mentioned that part of his past to me so readily, almost offhandedly - and I had wanted to wring his neck for that alone. Combine that with everything else he'd done to provoke me in the past, to provoke Christine since their relationship ended, and I could openly admit to hating the man even as I'd just resolved to keep away.

Unaware of what anger-driven images I was conjuring then, Christine took a deep breath and concluded purposefully, "I'm all for ignoring him if you are."

"Absolutely. And we're starting now," I said with equal determination, lying down and shifting her gently to lay beside me, "I can't stand that little bastard, and I'm not going to have him try to ruin anything else for us. I just want to spend this time with you, uninterrupted."

Moving as close to me as her stomach would allow and pulling the blankets up around us once she was settled, she laughed, "I like the sound of that."

Simply nodding in response, I placed one of my hands on Christine's stomach, very near to where hers had been before we'd laid down; from there we both stayed quiet for a time, comfortable in each other's company and just reveling in this rare and unexpected moment of near-absolute calmness, reveling in the familiar sounds of the cartoon playing over her shoulder, of Willow purring at the head of the bed, of everything that proved we were there, and that we were doing well regardless of more than one difficult start.

That was exactly what I'd wanted, that distinct sort of familiarity, and something that I was sure Christine had needed then as well, as much as I had. Considering that, I noticed that the baby was especially active under my hand in spite of our relative stillness, and not for the first time I mused that she'd probably grow up to be a night-owl much like I'd always been, and much to Christine's dismay. But that thought, as suddenly as it had occurred to me, also pulled me right back to the context of the present, far and away from the future with my child that I was steadily constructing within my mind's eye - Christine was still so tired as we lay together then, and although she'd gotten visibly upset by Chaney's latest slight, the fact remained that her day had already been draining enough long before I'd gotten home and told her what happened. I didn't want to do or say anything more that would only serve to dampen her mood that much further; hell, I didn't want to ignore any aspect of her wellbeing if that could be avoided. A guilty, nagging part of my mind decided that I had unwittingly ignored it anyway.

So I asked, initially distracted when I caught the way the setting sunlight from the half-drawn curtains shone in her eyes, in her hair, before brushing a lock of it behind her ear to bring myself back to the present, "Are you alright? I mean, what happened at work that made you come straight home to Matt Groening?"

She laughed, "Nothing bad, at least for a day in oncology. It was just busy, and I really felt like a beached whale today."

"You're not," I insisted nonchalantly, but at her stern glance, continued seriously, "But I understand," then, after a pause, "It's crazy, she's almost here."

Christine nodded her response to me as I had to her before, making the gesture slowly as she seemed to think about precisely how little time was actually left before her due date.

We had already talked about that, or somewhere along those lines, so many times in the preceding months, had already talked close to excessively about the fact that finishing out her internship would definitely need to be delayed by her weeks of maternity leave, about how much her exhaustion and achiness had increased the further along she got. And admittedly, those discussions weren't always entirely cheerful, didn't always have us looking ahead optimistically; among all of the good to be found in our situation, we had also both experienced more than one moment wherein we'd wondered whether or not we were ready to be parents, often citing the dark shadows of our own absentee parents as a consistent factor hanging over our heads and contributing to our doubts. We had both experienced the kind of anxiety that made us question whether or not we were good enough to raise this baby at all, because from the beginning of her existence we knew that she deserved the world and more, just as I knew that Christine deserved that much. But still, at the end of those handfuls of hesitant conversations, confident anticipation always took hold of us eventually, and we were able to break ourselves and each other from the worst of our concerns, were able to remind one another that those concerns were - for all that they were inconvenient and unwelcome - incredibly normal.

It was better that we focus on such normalcy and all it entailed than to leave ourselves to constantly wonder if piss-poor parenting was a genetic flaw, or simply bad fortune for us both. This certainly wouldn't be the first time the topic came up between us, at any rate.

Once again, Christine was unaware of what I was thinking when she spoke, "I can't wait until she's here. But oh my God, I'm so tired. I have to say, that's a big part of why I can't wait."

"Distract yourself. Tell me something good that happened to you today."

"No, you talk for a while. I want to hear your voice."

Conceding immediately for her sake, and making an effort in turn to put everything I was thinking about and dwelling on aside for now, I spoke in a low tone - and unsurprisingly, she ended up falling asleep before I'd even gotten a chance to say anything of great importance.

~~oOo~~

Chaney didn't bother either of us after that day, nor did he seem especially inclined to do so, for that matter, and after time the incident just lost its sense of urgency for us altogether; I didn't doubt that the man still had a thorn in his side over us, but regardless, he had apparently decided not to be vocal about it again after that one short-lived confrontation.

As it stood, Christine and I had resolved fairly quickly not to waste any more of our time or energy worrying about something that was well beyond our control. Chaney was a grown man - he needed to come to terms with the trajectory of his ex-girlfriend's life and the way she moved forward with it on his own, and as such, we didn't need to check in on him about that process in the meantime. It was his hangup to be dealt with, and one that wasn't worth the workplace awkwardness for me, and certainly not worth the stress for Christine. And anyway, other priorities had swiftly become our sole focus, and with them that focus would remain long after they were considered.

Toward the beginning of April, when the weather finally warmed up and we'd felt some semblance of motivation as a result, one of the last projects that I'd had left to tackle in the house was to paint the baby's room. Christine had specifically wanted the once-plainly decorated room turned lavender, and so that's what she would get.

By then, all of the furniture was put together, and we had gotten pretty much everything we needed for the baby, at least for her first months of life when almost everything for her would be outgrown rapidly. Until the bedroom was ready, all of it was simply waiting in boxes and bags to be organized properly. What we hadn't accumulated ourselves had been gifted to us - Christine's friends had thrown her their long-anticipated baby shower a week or so before that point, an occasion from which I'd been given a reprieve. No one had ever outright said so, but I believed that my absence had been intentional, a favor granted to keep me from having to handle the fuss of so many people around all at once. Samantha had given the party a 50s-theme, one that she'd declared, in her terms, a "no boys allowed" event by default, and thus I'd been barred from it entirely. All in all, I hadn't minded staying away for the few hours it had taken up; the less time that I'd needed to spend socializing, the better. It was Christine's day, the baby's day, and in the end we were both simply grateful for the shower for what it was.

Now that it was over, though, we were reminded once again of how much had to be done before we ran out of time completely, and so I set out to continuing the effort.

Generally, I hated painting. I'd gotten most of the main rooms of the house done upon first moving in simply to counter the clinical, strangely suffocating white walls that had been everywhere at the beginning, but that had been the end of it. Yet even so, the whole process of painting my daughter's bedroom, despite the fact that she wouldn't have any awareness of the purple hues that her mother had chosen for her for quite some time, was honestly a rewarding experience on its own - it was another feat in trying to figure out how to be a father that made my child seem that much more real to me, that much more of a tangible little person waiting to grow up in that space. Moreover, it was something that I was doing for her that I knew I could do the right way, and bearing that attempt at encouragement in mind, I welcomed the steadily-evolving sense of domesticity that followed.

I was somewhere on that train of thought, absentmindedly splattering paint on one of my old and faded black t-shirts as a result - the mass-produced Army logo printed on the front of it now sporting the evidence of my carelessness - when Christine called me to come downstairs.

As soon as I'd gotten to the living room, I was already asking, nearly breathless from rushing out of the baby's room, "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah! I just wanted to talk," she responded brightly from her place on the floor in front of the couch. What part of me that had been concerned as I made my way to her had immediately calmed down again upon seeing her - she was obviously relaxed then, looked comfortable as she added to whatever she'd been working on inside of the notebook that she was holding in her hands, "Sorry, I forgot you were working on the baby's room today. Do you need to go back up?"

"No, it's fine, I'll take the excuse for a break," I said as I moved to sit beside her. Then, gesturing toward the notebook, said, "That again?"

"Yes, Erik, that again," she responded with mock-impatience, and I couldn't help smiling at her tone, even though at the same time I'd somewhat dreaded that we were likely about to replay a conversation that had yet to be resolved, "We can't refer to her as 'Bean' forever. She needs a name."

Returning her words with a long-suffering sigh, I leaned my head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling as I did so.

Ever since we had found out that we were having a girl, the discussion about what her name should be was raised over and over again between us, a seemingly-endless discussion never yielding any concrete decisions, in spite of how much of our combined efforts we dedicated to the subject. It didn't matter how many times we addressed it, we could still never quite agree on one that felt right to either of us, one that felt like it would fit the idea of our daughter that we'd been shaping for so long, and if the discussion didn't end in resignation at our repeatedly failed attempts, then it bordered on a fight, all depending on the words leading up to the inevitable conclusion. I didn't want that to keep happening, and I never thought something so outwardly simple would prove to be such a problem; yet less than a month from the due date, we were no closer to naming our child than we were months before.

"I suck at naming," I said after a beat of silence, my attention still trained sightlessly above me, "I didn't even name Rex. That came from the people that trained him."

"Then let's call them and see if they can help."

"Or just stick with Bean."

She laughed, "That would be cruel, and you know it."

"Bean Durant-Riley," I continued, exaggerating as if I hadn't heard her, "She'll grow up to be a hippie. Her future's already laid out for her, it's perfect."

Another laugh, "Sahra told me they had so much trouble naming Zach that they threw a dart at a baby-names book for him."

"Actually, besides the dart, that's not far from the truth."

Christine smiled, but sobered in the next instant, "You said Durant-Riley."

Not expecting that, I turned to look at her directly, "Right, why?"

Her voice was soft when she spoke again, "I want her to have your last name."

"Just mine?"

"Yes. Just yours."

At that statement, I sighed again, painfully aware of the significance behind the issue of what the baby's last name was going to be.

To be exact, that if our relationship had gone in the direction that I'd wanted it to in the first place, then this wouldn't even have to be an issue to be debated now. It wasn't the first time that I would be reminded of my botched proposal, and certainly not the first time that I would have reason to fiercely regret the way I'd gone about it, to regret the fact that there was still absolutely nothing that I could do to change that part of our past. Christine had made it clear to me that she didn't want to address that topic again in any depth for the foreseeable future, that she wouldn't change her mind just yet, and I had to acknowledge that her decision for not doing so, that the logic behind it, was sound - she was hesitant to take that step after everything we'd gone through, nevermind that we'd had far more important things to take care of before we could even begin to figure out how we could move forward with our relationship. I understood what was at stake whether we got married or not, why we needed to tread carefully. But understanding that didn't make it hurt any less, either, and for the moment, I just needed to try once more, couldn't stop myself from saying something on that point.

"I'm not opposed to her taking Riley…" I began slowly.

"But?"

"But the circumstances are less than desirable. And you know why. You could take my name too, Christine. You know you could, and you know how much I want you to."

"Let's not think about us right now," she said, nearly pleading, and I reminded myself then not to let this get out of hand and badger her just because I was feeling stubborn, "Forget everything else for a minute, I don't want anyone we work with going off and assuming that we're only getting married because of the baby, like we've forced ourselves to stay together so we can raise our poor pathetic bastard child or something."

If nothing else, I appreciated the humor, "She wouldn't actually be a bastard child if we were married, you know."

"That's not my point. What if people think - "

" - Fuck what people think, babe. Whatever they think, they're wrong. Every last one of them, they're wrong and they're colossal jackasses for butting in."

She rolled her eyes and laughed all at once at my bluntness.

But then she went on, her own tone instantly turning firm, a painful contrast from the levity we'd just been attempting, "Erik, I really don't want to do this again. Not right now," she said, emphasizing her words, then, maintaining that more serious tone, she added, "Come on, we need to name this poor baby."

Nodding, knowing when I was about to get myself into trouble, I let the issue lie once more, and bringing her attention back to the half-forgotten notebook, I pointed at one of the columns of hastily scribbled names that was up for consideration, "What about this one? I think it's the only one I've consistently liked, honestly. That was your grandmother's name, right?"

"Right...Josephine," she said fondly, and with that endearing expression, again I found myself engaged in our original conversation. She paused a moment to study the page, intently now, as if testing the name in her mind with the hope that doing so would bring immediate answers, before seeming to lose some of her enthusiasm, "I'm not sure. It rhymes with my name, I feel like that might end up driving us all insane after a while."

"I don't think that'll happen," I shrugged, "We can find a way around it, if it does turn into more of a problem than it needs to be. Either way, it has my vote."

She scoffed, albeit good-naturedly, "At least one does. Finally," then she turned to look at me again, "It's promising. I'll think about it."

~~oOo~~

We had decided, after several more rounds of the same discussion regarding the subject, to name the baby Josephine Marie, for Christine's grandmother and for my godmother, shortening it to the nickname Josie when we saw fit, a term of endearment that occurred nearly instantly, as if we somehow knew even before meeting her that it would be her preference as she got older.

Altogether, the names really did make perfect sense when we finally took a step back from all of the needless second-guessing surrounding the problem of finding them at all, and just settled on them - it was a small wonder that choosing had ever been such a problem to begin with; but then, we'd taken it so seriously that I couldn't bring myself to be surprised that the process had lasted as long as it had, either. It was important to us, we had given the process its due attention, and in the end we were satisfied with our choice. We gave those names to our daughter, very much the most important person to the both of us, largely to honor the two women who had become namesakes in whatever way we possibly could, the women that had influenced us so much when we were young, and that we were now missing terribly at this important juncture in our adult lives. Once we'd determined what the baby's name would be, that in the end it was fitting, it was only a matter of actually continuing to wait for her to arrive, and the day she was born, when it finally happened, was truly surreal.

Christine went into labor close to her due date - nearly to the exact day that her OB had originally estimated, in fact - and thankfully without any need for medical intervention beforehand. Although, regardless of that, she was absolutely miserable by that point just the same, more physically worn down then than she had been in the time leading up to the birth. Dealing with Braxton Hicks contractions regularly during the preceding weeks - each occurrence of false labor steadily increasing in intensity every day - added on to everything else that she was handling, had been uncomfortable for her, to say the least, and those early indications of oncoming labor had only served to exacerbate her discomfort that much further, until it was almost constant. So when she woke me up well before sunrise on the last day of April, correctly determining that false labor had officially turned into active labor, that declaration was obviously accompanied by no small amount of relief on Christine's part, in spite of the definite pain to come. From there, we were able to handle the early stages of it well enough at home. Paying close attention to the baby's movements and the signs in Christine's body that told us when to react and how, we spent the majority of our time simply handling everything that came next, until after a full day spent in the house trying to relax and seeing to any last-minute tasks in equal measure, it was time to leave for the hospital.

Checking into the labor and delivery wing had gone smoothly enough. Once we were settled in to the assigned room there, once Christine had changed into a hospital gown and had been set up with an IV and fetal heart rate monitor, it wasn't long before the obstetrician determined that everything was going as it was supposed to, and that we just needed let nature take its course until the anesthesiologist arrived to offer some relief to Christine in the form of an epidural; but as we waited for that, in the meantime she was left shifting between walking around the small space to ease her discomfort and lying in the bed, trying all the while to focus on getting through each forceful contraction, and eventually just staying put there and attempting unsuccessfully to get some rest. After a while, I'd moved to sit behind her on the bed, coaxing her to lean back against my chest, if doing so allowed her the chance to just calm down for a time. When she'd eased herself against me, it was still several moments before she was able to find a comfortable position, and even that was barely so. She was in pain and exhausted, taking both of my hands in hers and grasping them tightly each time she felt another contraction.

There was so little that I could really do for her then, so little else that I could do to help beyond returning her grip, beyond leaning my head on her shoulder and whispering reassurances into the skin of her neck; I hated not being able to do anything besides offering that sense of comfort. It didn't feel like enough, not by half. Whenever I was in my own OR - when I was acting as a surgeon and an expert in my field, rather than as an entirely inexperienced partner in this regard - I could always provide for my patient, one way or another, could do whatever I needed for them to help them along to recovery, and to keep them out of pain while they were under my care. For Christine, though, all I could do was just be there with her, just continue holding her hand tightly and offering comforting murmurs and encouragements, stay with her when she'd cried upon getting the epidural some time later; and while I was well aware that my presence was enough, that it was the only thing in my capacity to give, it certainly didn't feel like it. But I had to brush that of all aside for her sake. My getting anxious wouldn't do anything but make her upset, and anyway, this experience wasn't about me. It wasn't about what I could or could not do, but rather was about reminding her of everything she was capable of then - that was the most important factor to keep in mind.

So I stayed by her side, and together we just kept waiting. The hospital was, of course, never silent during our time within its walls, providing us with a strange kind of background noise to punctuate the occasion - and yet to be honest, it was one that was oddly soothing to us both, reminding us, though perhaps unconsciously, that we weren't alone in this at all. We weren't alone in the struggle and anticipation to reach this once-in-a-lifetime milestone in the form of the birth of our first child. That thought was always somewhere in the back of my mind, that unfamiliar sense of affinity with the other parents, and I'd brought the notion up later on, when the day began to fall into night; by that point, at Christine's request, I had laid down next to her when she was nearly dozing, her pain finally reduced enough that she could try for some much-needed rest, and her smile at my words is one that I'll never forget. In that state, each of us keenly feeling the weary effects of the long day behind us, we continued to speak to each other about that and so much more before she fell asleep, talked softly while the people in their rooms around us either slept restlessly or met their own babies in a thrill of emotions, our words coming in hushed tones under the bar-light shining on its lowest setting above the bed about our mingled fear and excitement. We spoke to the nurses that were coming and going as the night progressed, when Christine had woken up again, listened to the OB update us on Christine's status...and we just waited.

She had labored for a long time, and ultimately what we had assumed for months would be an end-of-April birthdate became the first of May officially, in the early hours of the morning just past sunrise. But for all of the hours that she had spent laboring, especially overnight after her short time sleeping when the labor had gotten to be at its most intense once more, the delivery itself went quickly by comparison - nearly enough so to be overwhelming with how fast everything had changed for us, at the sheer magnitude of that change with every second that it took to unfold. Before we knew it, she was assisted in moving into a better position, being told to push, being told to focus and to breathe evenly throughout the birth, and thanks to all of her incredible effort we saw the baby coming into being right in front of our eyes. Despite the medical personnel that surrounded us during the entirety of the process, it was still unimaginably intimate for me to witness even so, intimate to gain that immediate and profound understanding of what exactly Christine and I were sharing between us as I looked on, one hand at her shoulder, the other held fast to her own hand, accepting when she held tightly to mine to the point of pain in return, as she worked to bring our daughter into the world.

"Come on, Christine," the nurse across from me said near the end, her encouragements highlighted by the cheerfulness of her words that spoke volumes of her years of experience in her profession, "You can do it, we're all ready to meet your baby!"

Christine cried out one more time then, seeming to instinctively shift forward as she closed her eyes and gripped my hand that much harder. And then all at once, surrounded by bright lights and neonatal medical equipment and an outpouring of voices cheering her on, the baby was there in her rushing debut - she was finally there before us, crying that distinct, wavering yet powerful cry of a newborn. And I swear to God that time stopped, that the entire world had ceased its turning in that instant, just for her.

With tiny fists flailing indignantly at the sudden coldness of her new environment, Josephine Riley was held up carefully in the doctor's hands for us to see for the first time, before being placed on Christine's chest. Breathing hard in the wake of her effort, she'd let go of my hand to focus on the baby by then, and yet I had barely noticed the abrupt loss of contact - rather, I couldn't find the strength or the willingness within myself to look away from this scene, couldn't give anything less than my full attention to this first real glimpse of my daughter, or of Christine holding onto her, simultaneously laughing and weeping before she stopped to catch her breath, to whisper her welcomes and endearments to the wailing baby in her arms. It was amazing, all of it. This was my family - in a very real sense, I'd been given a family in an instant, so different from the one I'd known before, and it was staggering. For the first time, I felt complete. She was safe and healthy - she was ours. I couldn't think of any other accomplishment that made me more proud. The fact that I almost hadn't lived to see this day was never far from my mind, but in those moments, the thought returned to me with a driving force. If there was life after death, then I knew without a doubt that I would never have forgiven myself for missing this turning point.

Several beats had passed before I realized that I'd been crying, because until then I hadn't even noticed, and then was barely aware of the movements I'd made in turn to brush the remaining tears from my eyes and try to laugh it off - it was only when Christine forced my gaze back to meet hers that I had returned to the present entirely. When she smiled up at me, the image of her with our baby securely in her arms engraved itself in my memories from then on.

I was at her side again immediately, leaning down to kiss her firmly before shaking my head, still somewhat in a state of disbelief, "You're amazing, Christine, you did so well," I murmured, moving to sweep the hair that had come loose from her ponytail back behind her ear as I continued, "I'm so proud of you, sweetheart. I can't say enough how proud I am of you."

Another smile, "I'm so glad you're here, Erik."

A thousand meanings accompanied those words, but they didn't need to be spoken aloud or broken down further, not then. And so I just responded simply, "So am I."

Immeasurable moments passed after that exchange, and from there I had accepted when I was asked to cut the umbilical cord, had stayed close by - both from my own drive to do so and at Christine's insistence - when Josie was taken away to be cleaned up, to be weighed and measured and properly swaddled, and when all the while I was charged with filling out what I could of the birth certificate. Christine and I didn't speak very much when we three were eventually reunited, didn't speak much to one another or even in general, beyond agreeing to the nurse's offer to take a picture of our new little family on my phone, a picture in which I felt myself genuinely smiling with almost no effort in giving the expression; but beyond those small adherences to the tradition of documenting our daughter's birth, it seemed that there really was nothing that we needed to say then. For the time being, we just needed to exist, felt the draw of sharing space and letting the gravity of the occasion settle around us.

For the time being, it was enough.

~~oOo~~

Later, I was standing in the hallway just outside of our postpartum room, finishing the phone call to Gene to impart the news about the baby, when Nadir and Sahra arrived as planned, and more or less when they'd planned, to my surprise. They had Zach in tow then, the child holding on to a teddy-bear as he walked quickly ahead of his parents to greet me, the bear a bright pink and overly feathery monstrosity that he'd already gone into great detail about the process of choosing as a gift for the baby, one that he'd insisted upon giving her the day she was born and not a moment after; as such, I recognized the toy immediately, laughing inwardly at the child's generosity, if not at his unconventional taste. Finishing my goodbyes to my grandfather, I smiled as they approached, and then tightly embraced Nadir and Sahra in turn.

"Do we get to see the baby now?" Zach asked as soon as he'd had the chance, looking up at me as he attempted to appear taller than he actually was - nearly six years old by then, he no longer wanted me to pick him up and carry him everywhere as he had when he was younger, but he'd still always made it a point to remain close by regardless, never straying too far whenever he felt the need to be involved in the adults' conversations.

"If Miss Christine is ready, and if you use your inside-voice the whole time, then we can see the baby," Sahra interjected sternly to her son before I could say anything, subtly reminding him of his manners, then to me directly, "Is she up for visitors?"

I nodded, "Go ahead, she's excited to see you guys."

Sahra took Zach's hand in her own, very likely as a means of keeping his enthusiasm in check, but Nadir hung back rather than joining them, gesturing for me to do the same. As soon as Sahra and Zach left and closed the door behind them, he smirked - an entirely conspiratorial look that was typical of him - and pulled a cigar wrapped with a pink band from his shirt pocket.

I laughed at the sight when he handed it to me, "How very old-school, I love it."

He shrugged nonchalantly, "I had to keep with the 50s thing from the shower."

"Well, thank you," I mock-saluted, "Seriously, I do love it, I mean it. This is great."

"I figured you'd appreciate it. This is a big deal, you're a dad today!"

"Please, I'm still adjusting."

He nodded gravely, returning my laughter before moving on, "Good phone call, I take it?"

"It was. Gene wanted to know everything, weight, length, full name and credentials, everything to tell his friends."

"Looks like he's enjoying being a great-grandfather already."

"He's ecstatic. He had to miss this part with me, you know?" I smiled, a bit too sadly for the circumstances, yet oddly fitting at the same time, "It means a lot to him to have this all now."

"What about you? Seriously, how're you feeling?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"You're still freaking out."

"Right. In the best way possible."

"That's normal."

"It's fucking insane," I said emphatically, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, trying to find the right words to describe exactly what I was thinking then, "I'm so in love with her already that I want to launch myself into space, it's ridiculous."

He rolled his eyes, but smiled, "Don't worry, you'll get used to it. Come on, let's head in. I'm ready to meet my niece."

Pocketing the cigar myself, I held out my hand with a dramatic flourish to tell him wordlessly to lead the way back to our families, and left the conversation there, satisfied that I wasn't expected to say anything even remotely close to making sense for the immediate future. Nadir understood where my mind was staying that day, I didn't need to attempt to translate anything about it to him - he'd gone through it all before, and he knew what I wasn't able to say. Afterward, the Khans' visit wasn't extensive or intrusive at all - it lasted just long enough to meet the baby and to congratulate us, but they were gracious in not needing to be hosted or entertained. Upon leaving, they'd promised to stop by the house once we had been discharged from the hospital, assuring us that they'd readily serve as our reinforcements while we adjusted to our life with a newborn, and we accepted that offer with more gratitude than we could adequately describe. Josie was our first, possibly only child, but despite our inexperience, we were well aware of the sleep deprivation that was in store for us, and any help that we could get on that front was beyond appreciated.

When Christine and I were alone with the baby again - when she was done feeding and had fallen asleep in the clear-sided hospital bassinet - I sat down carefully alongside Christine, now curled up on her side facing the baby, and said bluntly, "My love, we've had a hell of a day."

She laughed, pulling me to lay down with her, "My love, we've had a hell of a year."

"That's an understatement. I can't believe how much has changed, though. This time last year was nothing like now."

She didn't speak for a moment, and in that span of time I thought that she'd fallen asleep again as well - but then she turned to face me, a new sadness in her eyes that was jarring for me to see after the absolute joy that had been there before, and with a sigh, she said almost inaudibly, "This time last year, I thought you were getting ready to propose."

I paused, taken aback by where her thoughts had taken her, all things considered, and weighed my words before I responded to her with the truth, "I was getting ready to propose, Christine…The right way. And I hate myself for missing the chance. Everything's different now."

Shaking her head and seeming to think better of what she'd set in motion as suddenly as it had happened, she amended in a haste, "Don't worry about it...Like you said, a lot's changed."

"No...honey, look at me. I still want to marry you, that hasn't changed," I said evenly when I'd captured her gaze again, laying my hand on her cheek to keep her attention on me, on what I needed to say to her, perhaps now more than ever, "I still want to marry you. Because I love you. But if it takes years, or even if it never happens, I don't want you to think I'll love you any less," and nodding toward the bassinet, I added firmly, "I'm not abandoning either of you."

"I know," she replied, and even though I didn't necessarily think that she was trying to convince either of us of that assurance, it still stung me to remember that there would remain that one single goddamned shred of doubt for as long as my mistakes were close to the forefront of both of our minds. Doubt that wasn't there last year, before the baby and my shameful reaction to her unexpected presence, before the shooting, before everything had gone so terribly wrong. And then, as if confirming the pain I'd just been recalling, she continued, "But I don't know how long I'll have to worry that this isn't what you wanted for your life."

My response to her concern was almost instant, "I wanted to be normal, I wanted to be in a family. Then I met you, and I wanted that for you more than I did for myself," I sighed, hesitating before I went on, "Honestly, sometimes I think I wanted more than I could give you."

"But are you happy?"

"What? Yes, of course I am," I said insistently, shaking my head and pulling her as close to me as would be comfortable for her, "Christine, please, please know that I love you. Both of you, and I swear to God that I'd do anything for you and our daughter. You're my family, this is my whole life. I can't even begin to describe how much that means to me. Happy isn't enough. I'm not going to just walk away like it all meant nothing."

She didn't say anything to that - I suspected then that she'd believed that whatever conversation would arise to follow this one could wait, it seemed, at least until we'd both come down from the high of barely-contained emotions after Josephine was born - and in her wisdom, she went on instead, "You know what? Meg's asking for pictures," she said as she moved away from me enough to reach for her phone on the bedside table, "I wanted to send the one of all three of us together, the one the nurse took a little while ago. Is that alright with you? She'll share it with every single person she comes into contact with today, fair warning."

Not inclined to second-guessing the decision, I agreed. It surprisingly was easy to set my personal reservations about mixing my professional and private lives aside - nevermind for a minute what had just taken place, I was so proud, and this, more than anything, was an occasion that I'd wanted to share. And, truth be told, I'd also just wanted something to distract me, however temporarily, from the pangs of guilt that I was feeling then. Because even though the conversation about our relationship was over, it was only over for now, I knew, and it scared me to death that I wouldn't be able to convince Christine of my continued commitment to her in the future.

With Josie sleeping close by, though, that beautiful living reminder once again of everything that was at stake, that distraction proved to be short-lived.