Note: Aw, my reviewers are too good to me, I swear. This chapter is…er…okay, so once again, I hate the flow. Part one of it and part two were written at different times, which is why I think they don't quite connect well.

Chapter Seven:

Marlin

"I'm so damn stupid."

I cross my arms on the countertop, the smell of alcohol and intoxication clogging my senses. It's a fairly busy night at the Blue Bar, and as I wait for my Stone Oil, Muffy busies herself traveling to-and-fro to please all us loveless men. We're the regulars: Gustafa, who lost Nami to the allure of travel long ago; Grant, whose wife loves Brussels sprouts more than she'll ever love him; and Patrick, who has yet to let Muffy strut her stiletto heels out of his dreams. We're a sorry lot, but if misery loves company, we've got it all right here.

"So stupid—damn it all, Muffy, I need my Stone Oil," I groan, slamming my head down. The quiet clink of glass sounds by my ear as the blonde places my drink beside me, filled to the brim. It's just my luck that Griffin is handling the others tonight; I've got Muffy all to myself, for whatever good that is.

"Honey, if this has anything to do with Celia, I'm sure it ended badly," she assesses. She leans on the counter anyway, eyes staring at me as they wait for me to pour out my heart and soul.

It's kind of disconcerting, to be honest.

"Why do you think everything I have to say is about Celia?" I complain.

"Because it usually is."

"To hell with conformity."

I down my glass, and she purses her lips in thought, already reaching towards me for a refill. "So what's up, then?"

"Celia," I admit. Dammit.

A smile toys with her lips, and as she prepares my next drink, Muffy says, "Either I've got woman's intuition down, or I've been a barmaid for too long, huh?"

Or maybe I'm just easy to read. Either way.

"So is this about Jack, or Celia, or what?" she inquires, handing back the newly-full glass.

"Both. Neither. I don't know," I reply, shaking my head. "It's…complicated. One moment, all you want is to be alone, because being with someone hurts too much to bear. And the next, you're completely and totally...damn, what's the word…"

"Dependent?" she offers.

"I don't know, sure. Dependent. Though I guess it's more like you want them to be dependent on you. Am I making sense?"

"Not really, but I've got all night," Muffy grins. "And if we get you drunk enough, you're sure to tell me all about it and then some."

It's actually a pretty tempting offer; there's something freeing about being able to proclaim your insecurities knowing you'll forget you ever voiced them. I stare into the murky depths of my drink, and sigh. "I'm doing it again, Muffy," I say softly, my hand tightening into a fist. "I'm falling into the same damn rut I did years ago. I—I'm pathetic. One glance, one talk, and suddenly everything I've put behind me just resurfaces itself. I have no control over my emotions, I guess."

I don't think the alcohol is what's affecting me as I shiver, truth's cold hand grabbing hold of my heart. Self-control. That's what I need. Self-control: the ability to pick and choose which emotions to react to, and to omit the ones that hurt me. Hell, the ones that already have hurt me.

A sad, knowing laugh creeps past the blonde's lips, and I feel a manicured hand rest atop my palm. "Marlin, that's human, you know. We all make the same mistakes over and over again. How else can we learn, if we don't screw up every once and awhile?" She pats my hand reassuringly before pulling it away. "We all play with fire until we get burned."

Drunken laughter fills the silence between us as Grant raises his drink high and announces he doesn't give a damn about Samantha, or any other woman for that matter. Sure, it's easy to say all that when you're not thinking. Everything's easier when your brain goes to mush and your conscience goes blank. People make all sorts of mistakes when they're drunk. It's all too simple to say you didn't mean anything if you weren't thinking straight to begin with.

So what's your excuse when you're stupid and sober?

"I know it's too late. I know she's mourning. Hell, I know I don't have a chance with her—that I never did. But as much as I should hate her, as much as I should give up…I'm burning myself again, Muffy." I shut my eyes, clenching my hand into a fist. "What the hell is wrong with me? She still loves him. Damn it all, she still loves him. She's probably still falling apart inside, and by now you'd think I'd have let go, but…but I…dammit!" My fist pounds against the countertop, and I lay my head down in shame, my unsaid words screaming in the silence.

Stone Oil trickles down into my glass as Muffy prepares one more drink, handing it to me. "From one broken heart to another," she smiles. "This one's on the house."

And together we toast to heartache.

Little things make all the difference in life. Whether it's the small pink towel that decided to sneak itself by your own washcloth, or the extra plate by yours at the table, or the sudden ability to smell dinner and actually look forward to it, one little thing—one person—can make all the difference. Ripples spread from the smallest disturbances. Everything shakes, everything trembles. Everything changes.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The defendant's watering can clatters to the ground as she jumps with a started yelp. She'd been standing there for a while unnoticed, humming a pleasant tune as she watered the crops. Now, her wide brown eyes survey me as she pants heavily, murmuring, "O-oh, Marlin. You scared me."

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't be out here." I bend over, picking the watering can off the ground and holding it accusingly in front of her startled face. "Any reason you decided you should work the field? Because I can think of at least a dozen more as to why you shouldn't."

Celia wrings her hands, biting her lip. "Vesta wasn't up yet, so I thought I'd help her out," she mumbles. "She doesn't have to do everything by herself, you know—I don't mind helping."

Her arm reaches towards the watering can, but I yank it just out of her grasp. "You idiot. It's only, what, a few weeks until you go into labor?"

"That makes no difference," she argues, jumping once more to get the can. Her face has become red with the effort, and as she hops up once more, I pull it away further. "Marlin, I'm pregnant, not crippled!" she exasperates. I grin, enjoying this game a little too much for my own good. Celia gets worked up so rarely; it's frankly a funny thing to watch. She gets this childlike pout, puts her hands on her hips, and tries (but fails) to keep her voice rational and level.

"You know, I can go at this all day," I remind her. "If you really want to help out, you're not going to be able to use this watering can." I jerk my head towards the door, and add, "Besides, Vesta'll be waking up soon anyway, and she can get pretty damn hungry early in the morning."

Celia's face instantly paled. "I—I said I'd cook, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you did."

She sucks in a deep breath. "I completely forgot. I'd better go do that now—if I hurry, I can finish everything up by the time she comes downstairs, but—"

"Celia, this is Vesta, not the Wicked Witch of the West, alright? She won't send her flying monkeys after you if you don't make breakfast right on time." I tuck the watering can under my arm and start to go inside, Celia following behind me. "But if you're so damn worried about it, I'll help."

"Help cook?" she repeats, stunned.

"Why the hell not."

I'm going to be honest; I know little to nothing about cooking. What I do know came mostly from surviving years of my sister's cooking, which means I know enough to fix myself the country equivalent of a microwaveable dish. Meaning, of course, soup and salad.

"Have you ever made pancakes before, Marlin?"

I shake my head, and she smiles, already tying the cooking apron about her waist. "It's kind of fun. Making the batter, pouring it, flipping them—I don't know, it's just a fun breakfast food." She blushes suddenly, a bowl in her hands. "N-not that food is fun…er…it's the cooking, I suppose."

"I'll take your word for it," I shrug. She's already attacking the fridge, pulling out eggs and milk and a lot of other ingredients that I'll probably never remember the next time I'm stuck baking pancakes. There's something smile-inducing about seeing her struggle to bend over and peek into the fridge with that swollen belly, but at the same time, it's sort of painful to watch. Mostly because, I guess, I'm used to seeing a girl in that apron, and right now I'm watching a woman.

"Something wrong?"

She blinks at me, and I turn away, realizing I've been staring. "What do we do first?" I ask, and she relaxes her tense features as she begins to explain.

"Well," Celia beams, "we've got to get the batter made, so what we do to begin is…"

Everything sort of fades into the background, a sweet girl's voice speaking kind words as she gestures with her hands and points to the faded pages of a cookbook. Celia's smiling, and that strikes me as something both familiar and unexpected. Celia, from the day I met her, has been nothing but a beautifully optimistic and compassionate creature, giving away smiles for free. There had been a small, but noticeable, change between this new Celia and the Celia from before. One had seen the beauty in the world; the other the harsh reality.

Now, strangely enough, there seems to be a merging of the two: a benevolent grin plastered on a tired and weary face.

"Do you understand?"

I nod, even though it's clear to both of us that I'm lying. She sighs, and suddenly I'm being pulled by the arm and having an egg thrust into my hands. "Now crack it on the side," Celia instructs me, and I do so slowly; her hand is still upon my own. Fractures appear on the egg's white surface, and soon it cracks, and Celia directs me to the bowl. "Pour the yolk in."

The batter is beginning to take shape, and I steal one more glance her way, watching how focused she is on her work. She blows a strand of brown hair from her face, and brings the spoon round and round, stirring the batter into an even mix. "Do you remember the last time we cooked like this together?"

To my amazement, it's my voice that's spoken, and she glances up at me in surprise. "Y-yes…that picnic for Nina," she replies, the memory floating back into both our minds. "That was the spring before last, wasn't it? When we made the pastries."

"You worked all day making those damn things," I remember. "Those strawberry something-or-other—"

"Jellyrolls!" Celia finishes, grinning from ear to ear. "Nina had told me she'd loved them when she was young. And I had to send you—"

"All the way to the middle of nowhere to find all the freaking ingredients," I continue, shaking my head. "And when you finally started making them—"

"I slipped and fell into you, and the first batch squirted all over us!" she giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. "I couldn't get the jelly stains out for days."

God, it feels good to hear her laugh again—to hear me laugh again. For a few moments, we let the past consume us in all its innocent and untainted bliss, and we can forget that there's a baby about to born, that there's a husband who's dead, that there's a rift between us that has yet to heal.

"Marlin?" She leans back against the counter, and her smile fades ever so slightly as she cocks her head at me. "Do you ever wish…that we could go back again? Do it all over?"

Every day, I want to scream. Every damn day. Instead, I shrug, looking outside the window. "What would you do differently?" I ask instead, and the question causes her to flush in embarrassment.

"I—I don't know," she murmurs, relaxing her grip on the spoon. Her eyes glance upward in thought, fixed upon the ceiling. "I guess…I guess I'd appreciate it more. Be more thankful for what I have, you know?"

"But you wouldn't change anything," I mutter, turning away. "You'd keep everything the same."

She doesn't answer. She doesn't have to.