Sara stood at the window, stared at the closed curtain, and wondered when Lincoln would stop pacing. She wasn't sure how long it had been, but it just seemed to be working him up. Each lap compounded whatever he was attempting to quell, and she knew it would be bad when he finally decided to unload.

"Just say it," she said clearly, but he didn't even break stride. "You're making me dizzy."

He did a few more laps before he turned on her, and the violent anger evident in his expression made her draw back instinctively.

"I don't want to say it," he growled, approaching her rapidly, "because I know how it sounds. But I can't stop thinking it. How long did it take you to decide to have an abortion when you thought it was mine? Because I saw how long it took you to decide not to when you found out it was Michael's."

Sara was rendered speechless, even though she saw it coming. But without intending for it to happen, she got her Irish up, and she was on her feet, in his face, poking a finger into his chest. "There was no contest," she spat, "because having your baby would've meant owning what's been happening for the past four months!"

She hurt him with her words, she knew it, but she was too far gone to back down. Lincoln didn't show any signs of slowing up, either. "And what do you think having his baby will be owning up to?"

She pushed him fiercely, both hands against his chest, causing him to stumble backward over a pile of laundry, but not lose enough of his balance to fall. "What do you want me to do?" She cried, her body beginning to tremble, "You want me to abort Michael's baby?"

"I don't want you to get an abortion. I didn't want you to get an abortion an hour ago! But you did, and I want to know why."

"I told you a million times already."

"You told me you didn't want an addicted baby. So now that Michael's the father none of that matters?"

Her breath hitched as his voice wobbled a bit with the last few words, and all her anger faded away. He already knew the truth; he just needed to hear her say it out loud. Sara opened and then closed her mouth. The words wouldn't come. Instead she opened the curtains and gazed out on the waves roaring below.


Lincoln sat on the edge of the bed, watching both Sara and her reflection in the mirror. She'd gotten out of the shower and walked into the bedroom in bra and panties only, then gazed into the full-length mirror like her body was alien to her. He wondered how they'd both been so blind as he focused on the distinct rounded bump of her abdomen. Christ. He'd been snorting coke and watching her feed heroin to Michael's child.

"Don't look at me like that." Sara said, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm the Holy fucking Vessel."

Lincoln rubbed his hands over his face. He wished she'd stay out of his head for a change, or that he wasn't so damn transparent.

"He hasn't been resurrected," she continued.

"I know that," he snapped.

"You haven't touched me in days."

He searched for her eyes in the mirror again, but she was looking down at her body, gently poking at her stomach. Sara was right. He hadn't laid a finger on her since before the clinic, despite the fact that they shared a bed every night. She grabbed her robe from the hook on the wall and wrapped it around herself, tying the belt just below her breasts, making her stomach look that much larger. She crossed the room to stand in front of his knees, the smell of her peach lotion sending a tingle up his spine.

"You've been clean for a week," she said quietly, "and things are starting to come clear. Just be honest with me."

He sighed and looked up into her eyes. "Now that I'm straight I can't pretend like it's just fucking," he said quickly, feeling his cheeks flush.

"You weren't that good at hiding it when you were high, either."

Her words hit like a punch to the gut, and he lowered his face to his hands. He felt the bed shift as Sara sat down next to him, placing a hand on his thigh. He thought back over the past four months, same as he'd done all week, trying to pinpoint the moment when his feelings had changed. The problem was that he couldn't find it, and that made him wonder if the feelings had been there all along. That single thought had terrifying implications.

"We need to shelve this conversation," he said, turning to face her.

"Why?"

Lincoln covered her hands with his own and squeezed gently, "Because I want to wait until you're clean, too."