Ok, this really, really, REALLY was never meant to be more than a one-shot. It was supposed to be brutal, and awful, and painful.

Apparently I succeeded, because I had a lot of people telling me they couldn't believe I broke Ryan and Taylor up.

So for all those people who can't live with the depressing ending, I give you this: the fix.

And for those of you who can live with it? You don't have to read, or you can, or you can read and pretend it's a totally separate fic. That's what I'm doing.

Either way, I hope you enjoy it.

Thirty-six days, eleven hours and forty-two minutes.

That was how long it took him to realize he'd made a mistake, signing those papers. He'd been at work, talking to a client about the number of bathrooms they wanted in their office building when it hit him: he should have fought for her. He should have told her it was a stupid idea – that they were just being stubborn.

Everyone else had seen it; everyone else knew it was wrong. Summer had protested through the whole horrible process, Seth had questioned his judgment. Sandy and Kirsten had looked at him with pity. At the time he'd thought they felt bad for him for having to go through this. Now he knew they felt bad for him because he'd been making a mistake, but couldn't see it.

Thirty-six days, eleven hours and forty-two minutes.

He remembered the exact time he'd put his pen to the paper, because he had wanted to remember to the minute when he stopped moving forward. Two thirty-seven in the morning. It had been a Tuesday. He just wasn't sure what he was supposed to do now, because she was in France, and the paperwork had gone through. It was over. He'd let her slip away from him.

He remembered a time when he'd fought for her; when he'd gotten up in front of thirty women and one smug French bastard and read a poem he'd written for her. How had he gotten from that – from knowing so surely that he needed her – to letting the temperature of the air or her preference for a well-balanced meal come between them?

Right now, though, he was getting impatient. But he figured that if he'd waited this long, he could wait another five minutes. It wasn't her fault he'd come a half an hour early.

But he was nervous. His heart was in his throat, his stomach tight, ready to rebel against him. His palms were sweaty – he kept rubbing them on his jeans as he looked around for the familiar sight of her. And it wasn't like he could eat to pass the time – his stomach couldn't handle it, and even if it could, he couldn't read the menu. Because it was in French.

He remembered the smug look on Summer's face when he asked her to call his ex-wife, to tell her that he had something for her and that he'd hand deliver it. He remembered the way Summer had smiled through the entire phone call, agreeing on a time and place for them to meet, so he could give her the things she'd left behind.

Except she hadn't left anything behind. At the time, the plan had seemed brilliant: just get her to meet him. Somewhere. Anywhere. He'd fly to France if he had to. All of which he did, but he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do now, because he had nothing to give her. She hadn't left anything behind, and she'd come into the restaurant to find him empty-handed with nothing to say.

The café door swung open, and he turned to her, standing with the sun blazing behind her, blocking out her features, reminding him so forcibly of Marissa that for a moment he felt like he was sixteen again, in the car with Sandy and pulling away from the strange new family that had taken him in and the ethereal girl next door. But she wasn't Marissa. She wasn't in the ground. She had been his wife, and he'd let her go, but he wasn't sure who she was now.

She moved forward so he could see her. She'd changed. Her hair was darker – he guessed because she didn't have the California sun to bleach it out like it used to. It was longer than it had been when he last saw her, settling in waves over her shoulders. She looked beautiful and it broke his heart. His gaze traveled over her, stopping at her stomach; at the way it curved out ever so slightly. And when he met her gaze again, he knew; and she knew he knew, and she didn't say anything as she sat down.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" It didn't seem to matter that he was supposed to have something for her; neither of them were fooled. He wondered if she'd known from the beginning that he'd been lying; that he'd just wanted to see her. Because she didn't ask him why he was here – she just leant forward to rest her arms on the table and she shrugged.

"No." At least she was honest. He used to love that about her. He remembered when he loved her because she wouldn't lie to him – everyone else lied to him. Even the Cohens lied to him, to 'protect' him from the truth. He used to love her for never lying to him. But right now he wished she would; he wished she would lie and pretend she would have told him eventually. And she knew he wanted it. "I was scared." He knew she must have been. She was alone, in a new country, divorced, finding out she was pregnant. She had no friends to turn to, because her only friends knew him. And as much as he wished he could, he couldn't be angry. "So what now?" He didn't want children – it had been part of their problem. He couldn't handle children. It was why she wasn't ever going to tell him.

And just then it hit him hard, like a punch to the gut – images of her pregnant, of going to the doctor together, of laying in their bed, hands laced as he talked into her stomach so his child could know his voice, of making her breakfast, of standing in the hospital room with her, of encouraging her, of going outside to tell everyone he was a father.

"Come home." He still had the house. Because – despite all of his plans – he couldn't let go of the one place that reminded him of her, that still smelled like her. He looked up at her, and he knew exactly what she was thinking; it hadn't worked out the last time, and a child was no reason to stay together if they wouldn't be happy. It wouldn't be fair to the child, and it wouldn't be fair to them. And even though he wanted more than anything for her to come home again – to be with him again – he couldn't help but remember that he was an Atwood. He wasn't sure they could make it work.

So they sat in silence, in the French café, as people moved around them while they stood stagnant. He'd said all he could – it was her turn, and he knew he'd wait years if he had to until she spoke. "It's a boy." She took a deep breath, like it was suddenly real, and she put her hand on the table, and he reached across and laced his fingers through hers. It was so familiar, so comfortable that it was an unconscious movement.

"Come home." It didn't matter their differences. He was going to have a son, and it didn't matter anymore that she liked throwing parties that he hated to attend. It didn't matter, because he could picture their life; teaching his son to play soccer, taking him to the Cohen's, playing with Seth and Summer's children, snatching moments between caring for him to remember how he was created in the first place, having a second child – another boy, because that's what Atwoods had.

"Do you promise to fight with me?" Her voice was a scared whisper, but he saw the hint of a smile on her face, and he knew this was right, because she thought like him. She knew that if they fought harder, they could make it. She knew that if they were determined to make it work, they could.

It's what he had come to realize while she'd been gone. It's what made Sandy and Kirsten work, it's what made Seth and Summer work. They worked, because… because they worked. Every day for them was a constant battle, a fight to stay together and not let the little things get in the way. He hadn't seen it until his own marriage had crumbled – the way Kirsten would close her eyes for a few seconds and take a deep breath, before opening them and looking adoringly at her husband. Or the way Sandy would go out surfing every morning and come back with a smile on his face. Or the way Seth let his sarcasm shield him, or the way Summer lashed out her fury.

They worked damn hard at their relationships while he'd watched his fall apart, because he hadn't wanted to fight. He'd been so determined not to fight, because fighting was bad. It made his parents split, it got him into trouble. He hadn't seen the difference between fighting and fighting for your marriage. He saw it now, and he knew she did too. She saw the difference between trying to make their marriage work and letting their marriage work. She'd always been so wrapped up in trying to be perfect for him; trying to be the perfect wife, because she didn't want this marriage to fall apart like her first one had. She'd tried too hard, pushed too hard. And looking at her now, she knew it.

"I promise." He would fight with her. They would yell, they would scream, they would throw things, they would rant to Seth and Summer, they would let the Cohens give them advice, they would ignore the advice, they would yell some more, they would get over it. He was determined to make it work, even if they didn't get remarried – because that was just dooming them to the Atwood curse again. But who said they had to be married? Why couldn't they live together and have children together, and just not have the rings? Julie and Frank were making that work.

She squeezed his hand lightly, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the surface of the table. It felt like he was moving through molasses as he leant forward, bringing his mouth to hers, heart pounding in his throat, hand tightening around hers.

Forty-two days, seventeen hours and twelve minutes since he'd last kissed her.

It was a tentative kiss – unsure and fearful of the future, and he was reminded, suddenly, of the train ride where they'd said goodbye for four years: leaning across the table, their future spread out before them, the wildly uncertain dreams and hopes.

Forty-two days, seventeen hours and twelve minutes.

Thinking about it, it wasn't a long time. This could have gone on for years; it could have gone on forever. He could have spent his life being stupid and stubborn. Being unhappy.

He could have, but he hadn't.

He wasn't sure if they could make it work, but he was certain he would try this time.

Review

And you can thank Ave for bugging the crap out of me until I posted this (and somewhat beta-ing it for me). You owe me the next chapter of SMC, chica.