OK, so this chapter isn't very much longer than the last two, but the next chapter will be longer, I promise. I'm also alternating Ronnie and Jack's perspectives (as much as you can do that while writing in the third person!) so the next chapter will be Ronnie again. Hope you like...

She worked late the next few nights, and he wasn't entirely sure if she was going to bed when she got in. In fact, he wasn't convinced at all, more than once he woke in the night to find himself alone in the bed, and one night he found her asleep on the sofa, magazine open on her chest in what had obviously been a futile attempt to stay awake. And his attempts to help her were equally futile, while he could sometimes coax her into napping during the day (it really wasn't that hard, she was so exhausted that if she sat down and relaxed for more than about five minutes her eyelids began to droop), any suggestion that they might talk about it was met with a frosty glare. Finally, after waking one morning to find the bed not only cold, but the sheets painstakingly mussed so that it looked like she'd slept there, he decided to take action. That night, when she crept in at some ridiculous hour of the morning, he was waiting.

"What are you doing up?" Her tone was sharp, and the look in her eyes was unreadable. She knew exactly what he was doing, and was fortifying her defences.

"Waiting for you. I thought maybe we could talk."

"Jack..." Her voice wasn't sharp anymore, it was flat and defeated-sounding, and he hated that, that she'd lost all her energy, her spirit. "Can we not? I'm too tired to do all of this now."

"Really? You're tired? Well it might help if you actually went to bed once in a while!" He hadn't meant to snap, really he hadn't, but he loved her so much, and he couldn't stand watching her do this to herself. She was killing herself right in front of his eyes, and it was killing him too. And it was just so frustrating, trying to help her only to be pushed away over and over again.

"I do go to bed!" She snapped back, though she must have known that she was fooling no-one. She was just so bloody stubborn.

"Yeah alright." He retorted, once again goaded by her refusal to let him in. "As late as possible, and for as little time as possible! Have you even looked in the mirror recently, seen what you're doing to yourself? And it's not just you you're hurting is it?"

There was silence. His words hung in the air, leaden and unforgivable. Too late he realised their significance. The look of devastation flashed through her eyes (before she buried it under layers of ice) and he realised what he'd said.

"Ron...I...I didn't mean..."

And the worst part was, he really hadn't. He had meant her, not the baby. But he knew what she would be thinking, just as sure as he knew that he'd just screwed everything up. It was too late now, she was leaving, picking up her keys and her bag and stalking from the flat. In the doorway, she turned to him, her eyes blazing with a cold fire.

"Well, Jack, why don't you try dreaming about your father..." She paused, faltering on the word. "...hurting you every night, and then see how much you want to go to sleep?"

With that she was gone, slamming the door behind her, and Jack knew two things. One, that she wouldn't be coming back, not without a lot of persuasion. And two, that neither or them would be getting any sleep that night.