A/N: All previous disclaimers and spoiler warnings still apply. Do not expect a new chapter until next Thursday or Friday.

Sometimes, when the light hit her face at just the right angle, he'd remember how beautiful she'd been on their wedding day. Not just at the altar, when he'd raised her veil and claimed her trembling lips with his own, but later, back here in this apartment with her gown pushed off her shoulders and her breasts exposed to the light and his eager mouth and hands. She had been lovely.

Ain't that a word? his father mused. You know what it means, but if somebody asked you to describe it, you'd have no words, only that picture of Rebecca in your mind. Loveliness is the most subjective idea in the universe. For some, it's the sunset on a Hawaiian beach, red and fertile and strangely ancient. For others, it's a rose, and for the fat cats at One Police Plaza, it's wakin' up to discover that their pants still fit. But for you, it's the sight of Rebecca with her gown pushed off her shoulders and her lips plump from your kisses.

Getting her home was all you could think about during the reception. The weddin' was for you and her, but the reception was for us-your mother, mostly. She'd been dreamin' of your weddin' since the day you were born and plannin' it since you hit puberty. She'd been robbed of the chance to play dress-up with her daughter thanks to you, and so you were the good son and let her have that much.

Even I gotta admit she went a little gaga. She swooped down upon a nervous, harried Rebecca and nit-picked her tentative ideas. The intimate settin' Rebecca had hoped for suddenly became a hotel ballroom, and the list of invitees swelled from maybe fifty to five hundred. Your ma picked the table linens and the glassware and the music, and she woulda picked the menu if Rebecca hadn't set her back on it. If Rebecca sealed and addressed envelopes, your ma would follow behind her and do it all over again.

It drove your girl crazy, and more than once, you came home to find her grittin' her teeth and clenchin' her fists in furious frustration. Bless her, but she never said mum about it because she sensed that it was important to you, and hell, maybe it was her way of makin' a peace offerin' to the woman who'd always hoped you'd come to your senses before you came to the altar. It didn't work on that count, but her willin'ness to try in the face of your ma's stubbornness cemented your adoration.

She used to joke that Grace was never her middle name, but she had it in spades. She did her best to make things as easy for you as she could, and she never batted an eyelash when you asked her to leave an open space in the bridal party, the space that would've belonged to Diana had you not taken her to that damned house. She just squeezed your hand and told you that if you wanted your sister to be there, that was fine by her. She said the same thing when you asked the caterer to prepare one more entrée than was needed. She didn't complain about the waste, not like your ma, who tried to take the plate as leftovers.

She bore more insults than she ever knew of. Your ma stayed with you on the mornin' of the weddin' rather than help Rebecca with her gown. She left that to Stella and Aiden and fussed over your dress blues. She straightened your starched collar and spit-polished a speck of imaginary dust from your brass buttons. While she did these natural, ordinary things, she tried to talk you outta getting married.

You look so handsome, she murmured fondly, and brushed the shoulders of your jacket. You'll make a wonderful groom. I just wish it was for someone else. A wistful sigh.

Ma, we've been over this. Plaintive, embarrassed, and Messer, who was servin' as a groomsman, got real interested in a brass planter full'a cheap, plastic flowers, and Moran excused himself to get ready to walk Rebecca down the aisle. I went to go take a fuckin' leak and a swig of whiskey from the hip flask stashed inside my blues.

I'm sure she's a perfectly lovely girl, Don, but that's no reason to settle.

Lovely. There was that word again, and you wondered if your ma knew what it meant. You didn't have the image of Rebecca slippin' out of her gown in the dim, bedroom light yet. That was almost ten hours down the road, but you had another. Rebecca's face as she watched a Derek Jeter homerun blaze through the sky above Yankee Stadium like a comet.

I'm not settlin', Ma. I love her.

She snorted. You love saving people. There's a difference. Don't confuse the two.

You'd tried to hold your temper in check 'cause she was your mother and you'd never raised your voice to her, but that remark prompted a brief flare of anger.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? you demanded.

Her face softened, and she cupped your cheek. I'm just not sure that she's capable of providing the type of companionship that a young man like you needs.

Whoa, okay there, Messer said from behind your ma. He passed one hand over his face and stretched his lower lip, and the other hand ran through his hair. I'm, uh, I'm just gonna head on out there and make sure that everybody who needs a good seat got one, all right? I'll see you in a few, there, Don, all right? He clapped his hands together, checked his watch, and scuttled out of the room before you could answer him.

It took you a minute to process what she was implyin', and when it clicked, you understood why fearless Danny Messer had tucked tail and run. You gaped at her, torn between the knee-jerk impulse to defend your girl and the filial instinct to keep your sex life and your mother as separate as possible. You'd been baptized in the Church, but we'd never been devout. Still, the idea of admittin' to your ma that you'd had premarital sex made you squirm like a kid and blush to the roots of your hair.

You settled for the neutral reply of, It'll be fine, ma, and adjusted your uniform cap for the twentieth time.

What about children? she insisted. Are you sure she's even capable? What if-?

Ma, that's enough. That's none'a your business. I'm not even sure we want 'em.

We or her? she snapped, and then her shoulders slumped. I just want you to be happy, she whispered, and rested her head on your chest.

She suddenly looked old and small, and a lump formed in your throat. She was wrong and bein' needlessly cruel, but she was your ma, and she'd loved you long after I quit. You never wanted to disappoint her, never wanted her to look at you the way she did the night Diana died and you came home with guilt in your breakin' heart and freezin' piss inside your clothes. She'd been crushed, and you've never forgotten the betrayal that'd flickered across her face when you came home and Diana didn't.

You'd spent every day since tryin' to make it up to her, to be a son good enough to fill two pairs of shoes, and now she was askin' you the one thing you couldn't give. She was askin' you to choose between her and your girl, to break the heart of the loveliness waitin' for you at the altar to keep her twice-shattered heart together.

I love you, ma, you said quietly, and enfolded her in your arms. But I love my girl, and I'm not marryin' anybody else. 'M sorry. I never wanted to disappoint you.

She looked up sharply at that and straightened so that she could look you right in the eye. You have never disappointed me, Don, and you never could. From the day you were born, you were special. I'm just a silly old woman who doesn't want to admit that you're not the tiny baby they laid on my chest just yesterday. There were tears in her eyes, but no anguish. Just wistful resignation. She patted your shoulder. Go on. Get married. Make her happy. Be happy.

You're really okay with this? Elated.

As okay as any mother gets about losing her baby to a young girl. She adjusted your glove.

You ain't losin' nothin', you promised her. You're just gainin' a terrific daughter-in-law, you'll see. You kissed her forehead.

She chivvied you toward the door that led to the altar. Go on, go on now. Don't keep her waiting. It isn't polite, and I raised you better than that.

You blushed and ducked your head. Yeah. Yeah, you did. I love you, ma.

She closed her eyes like she was capturin' the moment forever, and then she smiled. I know you do. Now get out there and become a husband.

So you did. An hour later, you were Rebecca's husband, escortin' her back down the aisle toward the front steps of the cathedral. She was radiant and happy and laughin' as folks in the congregation and the photographer snapped pictures. You caught a glimpse of your ma as you came up the aisle, and she was smilin' through tears. I love you, ma, you mouthed, and she waved.

Then it was on to the reception, that monstrous gala neither you nor Rebecca had wanted. A sea of vaguely familiar faces getting hammered on the family dime. You still don't know how everything was paid for, and you're afraid to ask. You sat on the dais with your new bride and ate prime rib with rosemary and mint glaze and held her hand underneath the table, and when the time came, you got up and did one last act of kindness for your mother.

You danced with her and called her Mommy one last time, and her face lit up. Things have deteriorated between her and Rebecca since then, and there's been unfairness and ugliness from both sides. Sometimes, you consider cuttin' your ma outta the picture until she makes peace with the fact that Rebecca isn't goin' anywhere, but then you remember that conversation in the church dressin' room, when she had the guts to let go. You swallow your frustration and work the balancin' act between the two.

But we were talkin' 'bout loveliness, and how you counted down the hours until the social niceties were fulfilled and you could take her home. You eventually did, in the limo your ma had insisted on, and you felt conspicuous and too flashy as it pulled up to the curb to let you out. You got Rebecca outta the car as quick as you could, tipped the driver a twenty, and bustled her outta the cold.

It had started to snow, and there was a light dustin' of it on your jacket by the time you got inside. She brushed it off with gentle fingers, and then she reached up with both hands and removed your cap. She held it on her lap for a minute, and then she set it on the bed with delicate reverence. She smiled at you, shy and soft.

What now, Detective? As if there was any question.

The matin' dance. Feather-light caresses and kisses that got deeper and more purposeful the longer they went. She fumbled with your buttons, and it took a long time because the bastard condition that haunted her wouldn't relent even then. It took her twenty minutes to undo three, and her hands were shakin' with need and mountin' frustration. You helped her out, but not before you slipped her dress off her shoulders and glimpsed your vision of loveliness.

You helped her get you outta your clothes. Even the black dress socks. And then you stood in front of her and just let her see you. Your stomach was unscarred then, and you were ten pounds lighter, and the way she let her gaze linger over you made you feel like a god. It also made you horny as fuck, and you couldn't resist touchin'. Why not? She was yours now. The priest had said so. Even more importantly, she had said it in front of God an' everybody.

So you cupped her breast and made her whine and rolled her peaked nipple between your fingers and made her pant and moan. Lust made her a fuckin' goddess, and it didn't take you long to get her outta her dress. It took an effort not to tear it, though. You touched and tasted and teased, and even though you'd done it a thousand times before, it was somehow sweeter that night. Maybe it was 'cause you knew it really was forever, or maybe the Church had been right about somethin', after all.

You offered to use a rubber that night, but she plucked the packet from your hands and tossed it to the floor.

No, she murmured against your mouth as your fingers dipped between her legs. Now we take our chances. Besides, I've heard bareback is more fun.

It was more fun, and she gasped and shuddered at that first unencumbered contact.

Oh, my God, she managed, and you laughed.

You took her slow and hard and often that night and throughout the next day, and by the time you lurched outta bed late the next afternoon, you were both a little spraddle-legged. There were many times durin' that marathon session when she was beautiful, sweaty and taut with comin' her brains out, mouth open and eyes rollin' while her hands opened and closed spasmodically in the sheets or around your shoulders. But from that night on, loveliness has been defined for you by the way she first looked when you slipped the dress off her shoulders.

You hope it'll be replaced by another image someday, that maybe you'll get to define it by the gradual, persistent roundin' of her belly with your unborn child. Or maybe by the sight of your kid lyin' on her belly, screamin' his displeasure to the delivery room lights. Maybe it'll be somethin' as mundane as watchin' her change a diaper. You know it will be replaced, though, because that Lessing bastard couldn't get the job done.

Loveliness was what Lessing had stolen from her with his bomb. He had drained the light from her face and made her small and brittle inside her clothes. He hadn't noticed it until he'd come home from the hospital. Until then, he'd been too high on morphine. But then he'd gotten home and seen her-really seen her-and his heart had broken. She'd been too pale and too quiet, and he'd been so wracked with pain that he couldn't help her. So, she'd been left to fend for herself while he recovered.

Then her hand had come down in the wrong spot, and everything had gone to hell. She'd withdrawn completely, and rather than shake her out of her cocoon, he'd buried himself in rehab and fixed his eyes on the prize, a return to the job that had nearly claimed him. He'd told himself that she'd wanted it that way, that she'd perk up once things went back to normal.

Then he'd come home one night to find her listening to Credence Clearwater Revival on the boombox and sitting in a pile of broken dishes with blood on her hands, and he'd finally gotten it through his thick skull that she was not okay. He'd gathered her up as best he could and coaxed her into crying it out. The relief in her sobs when she realized she had his attention had burned like lye against his skin, and he'd closed his eyes against a wave of shame.

He'd started looking after her then, doing like he should have done in the first place. He'd called her from the bullpen every day to tell her that he loved her. Sometimes, he'd crept into the locker room or the parking garage and sung stupid little ditties into her voicemail. He'd come home and cooked her dinner, recipes from his Aunt Lucia that were guaranteed to stick to her ribs and fatten her up. Meatballs and stroganoff and lasagna. Piroges and thick stews and soups. And then he'd hovered over the kitchen table while she ate every last spoonful. When she'd finished, he'd carried her into bed and watched her sleep, and when the nightmares sent her thrashing to the floor in a panting, sobbing heap, he'd been there with a glass of water and the reassurance that he was still there.

It had been a slow, careful process, this reassembling of his shattered china doll, but he thought they'd turned the corner at last. She'd perked up about six weeks ago, regained some of her former swagger. She smiled more easily, and her laughter rang throughout the apartment more and more often. Last night, he'd caught her humming and dancing in the kitchen, and he'd joined in without daring to ask what had inspired the mood. It was enough that she was happy.

Their lovemaking had returned to normal, too. The first few times after the bombing, she had been desperate and ragged and clawing, her body locked around his, not in a sweet, seductive twine, but in a rigid, possessive clench. Her moans had carried a note of anguished need that had frightened him, and her eyes had been tightly shut, as though she were afraid to open them and find she'd been fucking a bittersweet memory.

But it was all right now. Her body had finally begun to relax when he took her to bed. She was soft and warm and pliant underneath his hands when he touched her, and his caresses drew only pleasure from her lips these days. And the best part? She looked him in the eyes when he moved inside her, lips curled into a fond smile or parted in slack-jawed want. Her eyes occasionally flickered with nascent panic as dark memories threatened, but it could be dispelled with a kiss or a deft, languid roll of his hips. She had returned with him to the present and left the past where it belonged.

She had been pretty lately, but tonight she was radiant, propped against the sofa with a steaming bowl of chili on her lap. She brought a spoonful to her lips as she studied the Monopoly board in front of her.

"Rebecca, this ain't chess," he prompted, amused. "You either go or you don't." He took a sip of beer from the bottle in his hand.

She put the spoonful of chili in her mouth and swallowed. "Even so, there's no need to be hasty."

He snorted. "Hasty, my ass. You just don't wanna move 'cause you know you're gonna land on Park Place, and you don't wanna pay up."

She eyed her dwindling piles of multicolored money and scowled. She put down her spoon with a disgruntled plop and reached for the silver shoe that marked her place on the board.

He couldn't resist needling her. "So, I thought you said you bein' a mathematical genius gave you a tactical advantage."

She harrumphed at him as her piece landed on one of his properties and gathered up the fee, pincing the thin bills between her shaking fingers. "Theoretically, it should," she sniffed defensively. "Practice seems a bit different. I can calculate the statistical probabilities of certain rolls all night, but what I should have done was plot the probabilities of you landing on a given space and the likelihood and appeal of putting a property there." She jabbed a stiff finger in the direction of the green plastic house that squatted smugly on the square.

"In other words, you're a sore loser." He took a long pull of beer.

"I am not," she countered in wounded indignation. "I just…don't like losing. Besides, I haven't lost anything yet. I still have money." She thrust the gathered bills at him.

"Sweetheart, you're lookin' at the Monopoly champeen." He plucked the proffered money from her outthrust hand and tossed it atop his growing pile.

She ate while he sorted his ill-gotten gains into the appropriate stacks. "OCD," she muttered around a hearty mouthful.

"It's called organization, and you might wanna try it some time."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded, but her eyes were twinkling. She knew it was only gentle play.

"It means I've seen your desk in the office. It's a wonder you can find a damn thing in there." He picked up the dice and shook them in his palm.

"There's nothing wrong with my desk. I just have my own filing system. It's not my fault if you've got an uncreative mind," she retorted loftily.

"I don't have a creative mind, huh?" He eyed her over the glass mouth of his beer bottle. "I don't hear you complainin' about my uncreative mind when it comes to other things."

"Oh? Like what?" She was trying for nonchalance, but the faint blush in her cheeks betrayed her.

"Like what? You know exactly what I'm talkin' about."

Her lips twitched in a stifled grin. "I think so. Have you ever considered the possibility that you've overestimated your talents?"

"Naw. Why? You complainin'?"

"Mmm," was her only answer, but she reached out and squeezed his hand. Just play, babe. That's all. "Now, hurry up and roll."

He laughed. "Look who's bein' hasty now," he said, but he rolled with a flick of his wrist.

God, but it was good to play with her again, to talk and have the words slip easily from his mouth, unfreighted by all the things too painful to say, those raw, weeping wounds that had brought too many conversations to a screeching halt. After the bombing, they had developed a joint speech impediment, starting a sentence only to stop it in mid-stream because it led back to the lip of the forbidden abyss of When He Got Hurt. Only recently had the music returned to their mouths, and he could happily have sung all night.

"Damn, baby, but this is good chili," she commented, and gave a contented belch. "One of your aunt's recipes?"

It was his father's, actually, one of the few his old man had. The man was king of the slapdash sandwich eaten in three enormous bites over the kitchen sink, but chili was one food the man could cook. That, and the best mashed potatoes in New York. He'd remembered the recipe as he was sorting through Aunt Lucia's recipes and had decided to make it, though he wasn't sure why.

The fuck you ain't, said Gavin, but there was no anger in it. You made it 'cause it was comfort food, the best comfort food, and you wanted your girl to be comforted, to feel loved and safe. Just like you did whenever you ate it growin' up. Ma always gave you her chicken soup when you were sick, and it was good, but in the back of your mind, you always wished it was your old man's chili.

He almost always cooked it on a Thursday. Wednesdays and Thursdays were his days off when he was still on beat, and chili was really a two-day affair. The second half of Wednesday he spent chopping tomatoes and measurin' spices, standin' at the counter in his uniform pants, a knife in one hand, beer close to the other, and juicy tomatoes on a cuttin' board in front of him. He'd chop and dice and curse at the newscasters on TV, and if you wandered into the kitchen to roll your dump truck on the linoleum, he'd call you over, ruffle your hair, and offer you a piece of tomato, pinched between his rough, grown-up fingers. That tomato tasted sweet as candy, and you hovered around his legs, hoping for more until he shooed you away.

He was up and cookin' by nine A.M., and by noon, the whole house was filled with the mouth-waterin' aroma of simmerin' chili. You'd run down the stairs in your socked feet and clamber onto your father's lap, narrowly missin' his balls as he sat readin' the newspaper in his easy chair.

Mornin', Donnie, he'd grunt, and ruffle your hair.

Is the chili ready, Daddy? you'd ask, bright-eyed and hopeful, and he'd laugh, a deep-throated rumble that vibrated against your back.

Not yet, kiddo, but when it is, you'll be the first to know.

Promise?

A police officer never lies, Donnie, he'd say solemnly, and brush hair outta your face.

Ok, Daddy. Trustin', never knowin' how full'a shit he was on that score. You'd sit with him a while, pretend to be interested in the black-and-white words without any pictures, and after you'd pestered him into readin' you the Garfield comic, you'd slide off his lap and run up the stairs to peek through the bars of Diana's crib to see if she was awake. Sometimes, you'd poke her awake and play innocent when your ma came in to see why she was screamin'.

Diana came to join the chili fest as soon as she could wobble upright. She'd toddle into the kitchen with her bottle in one drool-covered hand and her diaper crinklin' with every step. She'd sway beside your father like the world's smallest and most earnest drunk and grunt at him until she got what you got, a slice of tomato. Then she'd plop right down on the kitchen floor, drop her bottle, and eat it with uncoordinated relish. Then you'd drag her away to wash her hands and amuse yourself by herdin' her around the livin' room for a couple'a hours.

Every once in a while, you'd poke your head into the kitchen and ask, Is it ready yet?, and Diana would follow you, cawin' in her strange, baby language. He'd tell you no, and an hour later, you'd ask again. It was a game, and you'd play it until you heard the patience thin from your old man's voice.

You knew it was done when you heard the metal ladle bang on the side of the steel crock pot, and you'd drop whatever you were doin' and race into the kitchen. Diana would come, too, toddlin' to beat the band, and the two of you would stand around your father's legs like yippin' puppies.

C'mere, Donnie, he'd say, and squat on his haunches with a spoonful of chili in his hand. This'll put some hair on your chest.

You'd take the bite and swallow, and then you'd run into the bathroom to see if it really did put hair on your chest. You'd lift up your shirt and stare intently into the mirror over the sink in the hopes of seein' coarse, black hairs sproutin' there. You never did, and you always left disappointed. When the hairs finally made their appearance shortly before your thirteenth birthday, you knew why; modern biology had snuffed the notion of your Pop's hot chili puttin' hair on your chest. But in the back of your mind, you wondered anyway, mused that maybe it just needed a cumulative effect.

He never gave Diana the chili, not when she was so little, and that made you feel special. It was somethin' just between the two of you. He gave her her first spoonful when she was four, and you still remember askin', Did you gots hair on your chest, Diana? Your father nearly choked to death on his beer.

You were thrilled when she spit it out. More time for you to be special. Her brain came down with a permanent case of common sense when she was seven, though, and you squabbled over who got the first bowl and the first spoonful after that. The worst ass-whippin' you ever took as a kid, you got because you elbowed Diana out of the way in the rush to be first to the pot. Not only did you not get any chili, but you got a sore ass and a night spent scrubbin' the fire escape with a toothbrush while Diana sat right by the window with her bowl so you could see every bite.

Chili was Diana's favorite, yet another thing you had in common, and you both looked forward to fall and winter because they meant pot after pot of it. You had it two or three times a month during those seasons until Diana died, and then you can't remember your old man ever makin' another pot. Maybe he did, for all you know. The fuckin' continental drift that exists between you now started then, and you tried to be in that house as seldom as possible, and even when you were, the door to your room was shut, mostly so you wouldn't see Diana's room across the hall, sealed as tightly as her crypt.

You thought it would be hard to make that chili again after all these years, that maybe memories would drift to the surface of the pot like scum when you stirred. And they did, but not bad ones. Good ones, sweet ones that made your chest ache with old happiness. You and Diana wrestlin' over the last bowl, and you goin' easy 'cause even then you knew that hurtin' girls was somethin' only bad people did. Christmas Day, buildin' snowmen and then comin' inside to eat brimmin' cupfuls to chase the cold outta your bones.

You still weren't sure you could eat it, but you could. Each spoonful brought another recollection, and you ate until your stomach bulged, dipped crackers into it and fed bites to Rebecca every so often. Not that she needed much help. She's polished off two bowls, or maybe three.

She was still looking at him in unblinking expectation.

"Family recipe, yeah," he answered at last.

An hour later, she was down to her last twenty and was waving it at him salaciously.

"Hand it over," he said, and beckoned.

"Are you sure we can't work out a deal, Officer?" she purred, and batted her eyelashes.

"You offerin' me a bribe?" he said gravely. "That's a felony, you know. 'Sides, that twenty ain't much incentive."

"Who said the twenty was all I had? I'm sure I could come up with other assets." She cast a desultory gaze in the direction of her cleavage.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Unless you're not interested, of course." Brisk.

"I'm pretty sure we can work somethin' out."

He crawled over the board, scattering plastic houses and money as he went, and swept her into a kiss. She tasted of cumen and oregano and tumeric, and he laughed softly into her mouth, suddenly grateful that he was still around to enjoy this, to absorb the way her dainty, blonde eyelashes fluttered in rhythm to his stroking tongue. This was normal, and so fucking good.

She was making the most delightful noises in the back of her throat, and her hands came up to fumble with the buttons of his shirt.

"Bed," she whimpered, and he was in complete agreement. He disengaged himself long enough to stand up and bring her with him, and when she was safe in the cradle of his arms, he kissed her again. She fisted her hand in the fabric of his shirt, and he was so fixated on the fire in her lips that he nearly walked them into the door. He got them into the bedroom and fell onto the bed with her. She gave an undignified, Unnf.

He reluctantly broke the kiss. "You okay?"

She laughed and tugged him to her. "Yes. You're just heavy, dammit."

"'M sorry. I'd better take a look." He pushed up her nightgown and began to mouth her soft belly. He was intoxicated by the soft, shuddering pants of bewildered pleasure. It was one of the rare gifts of her balky nervous system that no matter how often he mouthed or tongued or caressed, she always reacted like it was the first time she had ever experienced something so marvelous. He mouthed the cup of her belly and was rewarded with a jerky surge of her hips. "I don't see anything, but better to be safe than sorry," he announced, and dipped his tongue into her navel.

She moaned, and one hand came down to cup the back of his head. "To the victor go the spoils," she murmured unsteadily.

"Damn right. I should break out the old Monopoly board more often."

A thick, strangled caw of laughter." I was always better at Risk."

There was a hard incongruity to the pronouncement that made his heart stutter in his chest, but when he looked up, her eyes were distant and glazed with lust, turned inward, the better to revel in the sensations between her legs. She squirmed underneath him, and as he dipped lower, he could smell her, rich and simmering and wet. He flickered his tongue against her damp, clinging panties, and when she moaned and bucked beneath him, he promptly decided it didn't matter. The long, hot summer was over, and for tonight, there were no ghosts.