Note: Ahh! I'm late, I'm late, I'm late! (For a very important date XD) Sorry, guys, but this chapter will totally make up for it! I swear, you'll love this latest installment. Lots of plot-filled goodness. (Yes, I said plot. There is, indeed, a plot.)

Chapter Nine:

Marlin

"You're quiet today."

She turns to me slowly, laundry ready to be folded in her hands. Her brow furrows, and Celia replies simply, "Um, am I?"

"Yeah. Kinda." I cross over and grab some clothing out of the basket—one of Vesta's aprons—and let my fingers fold the stiff, sundried material into something resembling a triangle. "You've just sort of kept to yourself these past few days."

I hadn't been meaning to watch her, but I couldn't miss the listless movements from one room to the other, the blank smile so in tune with her soft hello, the way her eyes had stopped staring into reality but into a place so distant I couldn't reach it if I tried. Like a ghost, she simply drifted: apart from life yet forced to walk alongside it.

Vesta has been trying to get her to see Muffy more lately, but the last time they talked was sort of when all this started happening—which is to say, I guess, when all this started getting worse.

"Oh, it's just been a busy end of the season," Celia assures me, brushing away my worries with a wave of her hand. "There's a lot to think about." There it is again: that stupid, falsely cheerful voice. It's a pale imitation of the bubbly one she used to handle with ease, and it grates on my ears, a mocking echo of the past.

The stupid apron won't fold, so I toss it back into the basket and grab for something a little more up my alley. Like, for example, socks.

"Huh. Yeah, potatoes and carrots can be a real stress-factor," I comment, and the sarcasm travels breezily over her head. "You can, you know, say something if it's bothering you."

"If what's bothering me?"

Him. The baby. Anything.

I shrug. "You know. Stuff."

Her fingers catch on the dress in her hands, and it slips to the floor from her trembling fingers. Before she can squat, I sweep it up from the ground and hand it to her, thanks shining in her eyes. "S-sorry. I'm getting awfully clumsy lately."

"S'okay. We all drop things." I return to my socks, and lying them in their white rows, add, "Feels weird, doesn't it? Doing this again."

A small smile creases her lips. "You still haven't learned how to fold clothes," Celia accuses me, teasing. "How'd you get along without me?"

"I didn't."

The sharp, unexpectedly honest answer cuts like a knife, and Celia lowers her eyes to the dress she's folding, square by square. Her fingers run over the fabric slowly, and I can hear her whisper, "…I know how you feel."

For once, I believe her, and inwardly berate myself for bringing up that one damn topic I know she wants to avoid. Jack. Jack, Jack, damn freaking Jack. Even now, as we fold laundry, he's there, forming a wedge between us that's existed ever since she first started sneaking out by his side.

"Do you think it hurts more?" She's speaking again, and I stop brooding long enough to hear her question. Clearing her throat, she adds, "When someone's gone. Do you think it's worse than seeing them walk away, still breathing and alive?"

It's hell, giving yourself up to someone who'll cast you aside, and losing everything while they lose nothing. It's hell, letting someone inflict scars on your heart, while theirs remains untainted. But nothing compares to the torment of seeing her lips upon his, when you know yours were made so that hers would fit upon them.

My hand tightens into a fist, and I can feel my nails digging into my skin like daggers. "I can't answer that," I say instead, looking away. "I'm…not the person who'd know."

There's more than one way to lose someone. You can lose them to death, and mourn the time lost between you. You can lose them to disease, to distance, and to time. You can lose someone to another, and, as far as I know, that's the greatest pain of all.

But you can't judge that, can you? Not when you've only felt one pain, and never suffered the others. You don't have that right.

A hand alights itself upon my shoulder. "I'm sorry," she breathes, and then her voice cracks as her fingers slip away, clutching her sides instead. "I—I'm sorry." I close my eyes, wishing to God that she'd stop pitying me, when it's not doing me any good at all. It's too late for that, now.

"Celia, it's fine," I mutter, when we both know it's not fine. "Stop crying, alright?"

I turn, and she's doubled over, her hair cascading over her face like a brown curtain. As she clutches her arms protectively over her womb like a shield, she gasps. "N-now…Marlin, I—I think it's—"

My blue eyes widen. "The baby."

Good God. Not now.

I hate doctors. I always have. I hate the way they always smile at you, promise needles don't hurt when they do, and try to make jokes about how crappy your health is. But I guess, really, what I hate is knowing that for once, there's someone out there who has more control than I do over my own life.

Or, in this case, Celia's.

I'd half-dragged, half-supported her to Dr. Hardy's, cussing at the top of my lungs about how damn inconvenient it was that Vesta was in town this afternoon. She'd hobbled alongside me, panting, and followed me without complaint, fully trusting the stupid guy screaming profanities out of his mouth.

After practically breaking the old man's door down, and replying to his question of what was wrong ("What the hell do you think is wrong?! She's giving birth, dammit!"), I watch as Dr. Hardy lays Celia on his bed and unties her apron.

"Help her," I seethe as he slaps on his gloves, Celia still moaning in pain. "For God's sake, do something!"

He lets his good eye glare at me momentarily, and comments, "Calm down, Marlin. You act like I've never done my job before." He turns his back to me, and I pretend that his stupid unprofessional boxers and sandals aren't annoying me to death. What kind of doctor goes around like that? Has a fake mechanical eye? Births a woman in his bedroom?

A cry from Celia attracts my attention, and as she groans to Dr. Hardy that her water broke, he nods in understanding. Cheeks burning, I look away as he pulls away her underwear, and he calls out, "Boy, get me some of the pain medicine on the counter."

"Pain medicine?"

He sighs, as if I'm some sort of idiot. "The little bottle with the red stripe. Today, please."

Celia moans again, and Dr. Hardy begins to whisper words of soft encouragement in her ear, as if simply being quiet can calm her down. I snatch the bottle off the counter, and grunt, holding it forward. "Here."

"Well," Dr. Hardy announces as he takes it from my hands, "that wasn't so hard, was it?"

I try, desperately, to ignore the look in Celia's eyes as her face contorts in pain, the way her breathing has become more hesitant, more ragged. "Maybe I should go," I say slowly, backing away. "Maybe, I mean, I shouldn't be here." Suddenly a hand latches onto my arm, and I'm pulled back to see a frightened pale face.

"Don't leave me," Celia whispers, eyes wide. "Don't let me suffer alone."

I don't want to see her in pain. I don't want to hear her shouts. I don't want to think that this is all because of his child, that Jack is the one inflicting all this torment upon her. This isn't my place; this is his job. I don't belong here.

But still.

I thread my fingers between hers and kneel beside her on the cold wooden floor. Wiping the sweat from her brow, I let my fingers trace over the wrinkles tightening on her angelic face as another contraction racks her body. "I won't," I say simply, meeting her gaze. "I won't leave you. Not this time."

It was during the first year I'd known Celia that she had the nightmare. It was in the dead of night, and Vesta had been snoring by me loudly enough that I couldn't get some decent sleep. Bleary-eyed, I decided I might as well get some water, and walked towards the sink. That's when I heard it: the tiny pitter-patter of footsteps above.

Curiosity won over me, and I started up the stairs to see Celia huddled on the ground, hugging her pillow close. A candle burned beside her, newly lit and casting shadows on her face. She glanced up at me, shivering, and I remember how dark those eyes were, how afraid.

"Wh-what do you want, Mr. Marlin?" she swallowed. Valiantly, she tried to suppress her terror with a smile, but her body betrayed her, shaking like a leaf.

"Something's wrong, huh?" I stated, not caring for an answer as I sat down beside her, the candle between us.

"Oh, it's nothing," she mumbled into the pillow. "I mean, it's no big deal—"

"But you can't sleep." I leaned back against the wall, my shadow dancing in the light. "Sounds like a big deal to me."

She started to protest, then thought better of it and turned away, leaving only a head of tousled brown hair in my sight. "It's just a dream, that's all," Celia sighed. "Just…an awful, awful dream."

I didn't prod her, but after a few moments, she explained anyway, pressured by my silence. "I was home," she whispered, lifting her face from her pillow. "I was with my mom, and my brothers and sisters, and suddenly everything went wrong. Mom—" Celia choked on her words, then tried to mask her worry with a laugh, saying, "Well, it's only a dream. But Mom…suddenly Mom wasn't standing by my side anymore. She'd fallen, and when I tried to wake her up, she—she didn't. I had to take care of them all, every single one of my siblings—except they were multiplying, and there were more and more and more of them!" The laugh turned to bitter, frightened tears as she buried her head in the pillow again, sobbing. "But it's just a dream…just a dream…!"

Hesitantly, I brought my hand toward her, then pulled it away. What was I supposed to do now? Hug her, tell everything would be okay, hold her in my arms? I wasn't good at comforting people; I never had been. Stiffly, I kept on watching, wishing I could find a way to make those tears stop flowing. "You know," I spoke instead, "I lost my mom when I was about your age."

She blinked, curiosity causing her to hold in her sobs. Encouraged, I continued gruffly, "It wasn't anything really unexpected—she was sick, and her illness had spread. Medicine wasn't as good back then, I guess. When she finally did die, everything became real; the disease wasn't just a word doctors threw around, it was a death sentence." I paused, closing my eyes as the memory was dusted off and the words came alive in my mind. "I remember finding her clothes and taking in the smell of her perfume, just to remember what it was like to breathe in her scent when she held me the tight in her arms. I'd try, in my room, to remember her laugh and the way she'd yell at me when she caught me with Dad's secret stash of beer out back." I smiled despite myself. "God, I missed her."

Celia had inched closer to me, her bony legs poking me in the side. "I—I can't imagine how it must really feel," she murmured apologetically. "To really have that happen to you."

I shrugged. "Well, over time things change. Vesta was always there, and I haven't missed much from what I can see." I didn't tell her how terrifying those first few nights were, how when the lights were off I'd light a candle, just as she had, and tell myself everything was just a dream. I didn't tell her how my father had never recovered from my mother's death, and had drunk himself dead. I didn't tell her how, right now, the very disease that had killed my mother coursed through my own veins, and how the doctors told me that, unlike my mother, I'd survive.

I didn't tell her any of this, but that night, I'd told her more than I'd ever told anyone about myself, including my own sister.

"…I'm sorry I've kept you up," Celia apologized, biting her lip. "Here I am, having nightmares over something that hasn't even happened, while you—"

"Don't worry about it." I brushed by her, lifting the candle and placing it on her nightstand. "Just get some sleep, okay?"

She got up, gangly legs poking out from beneath her nightgown, and she stood in front of me, a whole foot shorter than myself. Then, without warning, I found her arms around me in a tight hug, as she murmured, "Thank you, Marlin. I am sorry."

And I wondered, fleetingly, how my mother could have known this girl would be the one I'd want to protect forever and always. I wondered if there was such a thing as fate, if it was possible to get things right the first time.

"Anytime now, Celia. Just push; I'm ready."

Her body heaves and she lets out a long, frantic cry as her stomach knots in pain. She tosses her head, her thick hair sticking to the beads of sweat upon her brow, screams in a mangled voice. I've lost all feeling in my hand for these past hours as she's squeezed it, transferring as much pain as she can to my warm, ready palm. "God help me!" she cries, writhing in agony. "Oh, God—oh, God—Jack!"

I don't know if she's praying, if she's talking to me, if she's cursing the man who's brought her to this misery. But I stroke her hand, and reply, "I'm here."

I'm not him, but I'm here. I can't heal you, but I'm here.

Then a bloodcurdling scream rips from those perfect lips, and a second sound pierces the air to match it: higher, new, and unsure. Her fingers fall limp in my hand as her tense body jerks once more tentatively.

"Congratulations, Celia." Dr. Hardy smiles, examining the bundle in his arms with his one good eye. "A beautiful baby girl. Jack would be proud."

She wraps the child in her frail, shaking arms: a red, wailing bundle of new life. Her eyes soften at the edges, and she whispers, "Jack…yes, Jack would be proud. Wouldn't he?"

And I watch, unable to move as I see her holding the final gift Jack has given her, and know that I can never give her half as much.