Disclaimer: no mine
A/N: This chapter killed me. It's not even as long as the others and it took me days to write. I can say that I'm pretty satisfied with it.
He decides that trying to sleep is a waste of time and mentally congratulates himself, rather sarcastically, on being able to decide on something at all. Because making up his mind about things hasn't been his forte as of late. He rolls out of bed and senses a shift in her breathing that tells him that she's still awake but doesn't want him to know. Doesn't want him to know she knows he's getting out of bed. Because if he knows she's awake, then they'll have to talk about what happened today. And neither of them wants to talk about it, seeing as it's already keeping them both from sleep.
He knows there is no going back to the way they were yesterday. He knows that something big and impenetrable has appeared without warning, settling itself in between them and the past, the way things used to be. The day before with its quiet peace and comfort and stability. This is new, this is scary, this is unknown territory. The teenage boy inside of him that still fears adulthood and commitment and the dark, shady halls of the mansion at night wonders why he hasn't packed his bag and bolted by now. That's the natural thing to do; it's what his instincts are screaming. But the larger, louder, and calmer part of him that is an adult and is committed and now relates the halls of the school with reconciliation and champagne realizes that he loves her and needs her and that running would be near the stupidest thing he ever does. Especially if the Wolverine takes up his trail.
It's not that he doesn't want to be here. He just wants some answers. He just wants to know what the hell he's supposed to do.
He decides to breathe in and breathe out and take it from there.
He caught her, disheveled and rushed, as she walked quickly and fluidly into their apartment somewhere in the early afternoon. Small paper bag in one hand. Straight to the bathroom. He figured it was that kind of business. The kind of business that meant he'd be keeping his hands to himself for the next four to six days. But then five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. The toilet flushed a few times but he never heard the shower start or rustling in the cabinets or any other tell tale signs that signaled she was doing one of the normal bathroom approved activities.
She came out several minutes after he stopped keeping track, in the vicinity of half an hour and mumbled something along the lines of stopping by the clinic for paperwork concerning her CRNA certification. He didn't think to stop her.
In the trash can in the bathroom, where he was so used to seeing his dull razors and cure needles and empty rolls of toilet paper, where three opened home pregnancy tests. He couldn't bring himself to look close enough to see the results.
When she came home a few hours later, she looked like she couldn't decide if she wanted to sleep for days or get mind numbingly drunk. She shuffled in with her purse clutched to her chest and toed her sandals off with violent force. She looked over at him, where he had been sitting in shock and gripping terror since she had left and uttered two words:
"False positive." The cure has traces of hCG in it. It fooled the Error Proof Test.
Fucking error proof my fucking ass, he thinks. How does this feel to women who really wanted their fake babies? Then the thought that maybe, just maybe, she had wanted it to be true, stabs its way into his guts and his skin starts to crawl with panic and nervousness.
What if she had really been pregnant? What if the levels of Human Chorionic Gonadotropin in the cure had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that there was a little cluster of cells in her belly growing into something that looked an awful lot like a person? A person that was half him and half her.
Would they have kept it? Would she have even let him have a say? Would he have to marry her? Do I want to marry her? He can't decide on any of those things. He doesn't know the answers.
He decides to breathe in and breathe out and take it from there.
One Year and Nine Months. That's how long they have been together. Eight Cures. Nineteen Dinners. Twenty-one Months. A couple of grating visits to Mississippi and a handful of bruising run-ins with the father figure that is Logan. Fights and make ups and slammed doors and cool sheets, it all bleeds together as he sits on their couch, the location of so many of they break downs and build ups, that he can't separate any one memory into a clear picture. All of this, maybe lost, because she's not actually pregnant.
She wanted the baby. He can see that now. It's clear in the way she didn't speak and looked so tired and refused to let him touch her when they climbed into bed. She wanted the baby because it's in her nature as a woman and a caregiver and a daughter of the south to want a family with the man she loves, even if there are no front porches with rocking chairs and tall glasses of iced tea.
The red numbers on the cable box read 5:18 AM when he hears the door to the bedroom open and can feel a gentle puff of air cross his face from the movement of it. She kneels down in front of him and he flicks on the table lamp so they can look at each other.
Past her squint as she adjusts to the sudden illumination of the room, he can detect fear in her eyes. She's scared that whatever has placed itself between them and yesterday has now grown between the two of them as well.
"We would have figured it out," he says and reaches to touch her cheek.
"But is it what you would have wanted?" she questions anxiously.
"I told you I wasn't running anymore," he responds.
"That's not an answer, John! I don't want it if you don't want it too!"
He sees the same unflinching honesty in her steady gaze that he saw the night they drank and argued in the small pub six blocks down all those months ago and he knows she means it. She would give up everything her insides and instincts tell her she wants just because he doesn't.
And so he decides, without any sarcasm and uncertainty, that that kind of sacrifice shouldn't be made by someone who already gives up her soul every three months so he can touch her while she's naked. He decides that now is the time to be adult and committed and totally without fear. I do want to marry her.
"I want it too."
Oh my God, what am I going to do, he means it. He wants it so much his chest aches from it.
"But let's, you know, I'd like to make an honest woman out of you first."
She giggles with relived tension and relief.
"I'll want a real proposal too, soon, you know," she reminds him as she gets up and settles next to him on the couch. "But you don't need to worry about that right now."
He decides to breathe in and breathe out and take it from there.