Author's Note: Hiya everyone! And thanks so much to all the kind and patient readers and reviewers! I promise, cross my heart, that I'll have the next chapter up on Friday morning (even if that means giving myself racoon eyes. I know this chapter is somewhat lighter on comedy, but I couldn't talk myself out of not including it. Maybe it gave you a small smile or two. Hope so anyway.


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After that posting of the new chapter on Friday morning (I'm in Tucson, AZ), I feel I owe it to people (still very flattered that they're showing interest) to put some serious work into Brothers Halliwell. The chapters for the end of Day One are nearly complete. All the dialogue is there, just need to fix the narrative and I'm good to go. I promise I'll put all my energy into it. They just put a new Starbucks next to my house so if all else fails... I have a good feeling about it though.


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My House, My Home: (Flashback)

There's a strange sort of something that happens when love runs true: It hurts to breathe. The mere thought of our loved one, be it passing or meditative, and we are filled with such depth of feeling that it literally hurts to breathe.

It's a peculiar pain, this one. It doesn't burn like the anger that precedes forgiveness, and it doesn't sting like the rejection from those whose acceptance we crave. It's an ache, raw and tender. It swims like a creature from the deep in our bellies, it clings to our lungs like honey to a comb, and it stretches our heart muscle until the organ doubles in size, and when you're truly in love, it does all three at once, just as if had for Luke and Noah countless times. It's a precious sort of ache, one that knows the fabled sweet sorrow, having seen the other side of goodbye.

But most peculiar of all: When this hurt is awake and moving within us, our body tells us to breathe shallowly. As shallowly as possible – to not breathe at all would be preferable, but then we'd have that whole fainting thing to deal with – but rather than heed our body's warning, we go directly against its council: we breathe more deeply. We thicken our lungs with more air than they would willingly allow, all in the name of intensifying this mysterious pain. And to be sure, it is pain.

No wonder love is a mystery.

On the night in question, both loves of Luke's life were present in his eyes, as his husband sat in Grandma Emma's rocking chair (a gift). It was old. Very old. Made from the beloved oak tree in the back yard of the farmhouse, that fell at the hands of lightning in a spring thunderstorm. Harvey Snyder, Emma's late husband, had made it himself. Countless nights Emma had made a ritual of sitting and rocking babies to sleep, both her own children, her children's children, and soon, the first of her many great grandchildren. But now, it was Noah's turn. As he sat, craving parental wisdom, he hoped the chair's antique wood had somehow soaked up the secrets of the family matriarch's maternal magic, and would pass them on, maybe whisper them to him, were he to sit and listen long enough. He wasn't rocking though, nor was his son in his arms, but in his crib, trading sleep for wakefulness and back again. And Noah watched, bare-chested in his boxer shorts, elbows on his knees, leaning forward, endlessly in awe of the rising and falling of the tiny tummy. Please don't let me screw this up.

Noah had known what it meant to be protective of another human being – he was ferociously protective of Luke – but this child, this defenseless baby boy was his to keep safe. Colonel Mayer would never know he existed. Neither the man nor the remnants of him trapped in Noah's mind would go near him. He'd make sure of it.


"Now how did I know that I'd find you here," Luke said from the open doorway, stilled by a sight he never dared dream he would see. "I'm starting to think we should've gone with the one bedroom apartment, since you've pretty much moved into the nursery."

Noah's eyes never left his sleeping son. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"With all the sitting in the dark?"

"I think something's wrong." "Yeah, I know. All the sitting in the dark," Luke took his first whispered steps into the room. "What's the matter, my love? Is the magic gone already?"

Noah kept his voice low. "I meant with the baby."

Luke looked at the sleeping bundle. "Hmm. Two eyes, ten fingers, ten toes, three heads. He looks fine to me."

"Luke, I'm serious."

"Then it must be Tuesday."

"He hasn't cried all night."

"I know. It's like we're cursed," Luke was arriving at Noah's side now. "What's got you wound so tight?"

"He should've cried by now."

"Well it's only three o'clock in the morning. Give him time."

"I think he might be autistic." Luke just stood there and looked at his husband for a moment. "Please tell me you're kidding."

Noah finally met Luke's eyes. "Right. Because that would be so funny."

"Our baby sleeps through the night and suddenly he's Rain Man?" Luke shook his head. "That's it, you are grounded from movies until further notice."

"And you think I'm cranky now…"

"Noah, what happens if he sleeps through tomorrow night? Are you gonna check his head for three sixes?"

Noah's sigh was understated - nothing new there - and when he spoke, he sounded neither angry nor frustrated; he sounded lost. "Fine."

But nothing made Luke feel more needed than helping his lost boy find his way again. "Look… I'm sorry," he told him, settling into his lover's lap and draping an arm around his shoulder. The bare skin felt so warm. "I'm always asking you what you're feeling and then when you try to tell me, I don't listen." He felt Noah's body loosen beneath him at this admission. "So," Luke said, more breath than voice, "talk to me."

Noah chose which words would best convey his dilemma with minimal embarrassment: "I think our son hates me." But it was still quite embarrassing.

While Luke's impulse was to say "That's crazy", his evolving communication skills, plus the fact that apparently Cymbalta really can help, offered up: "What makes you say that?"

"I've been sitting here for two hours waiting for him to start crying. I figured if he was already crying when I picked him up then I couldn't take it personally."

To this Luke answered back, and without judgment, "You're serious, aren't you."

"Luke, the only time he ever cries is when I'm holding him. When I'm not he's okay. Too okay, like a little pod person."

"Tell that to the stretch marks."

"He's fine when you hold him, when Lily holds him. Holden, Damian, Faith, Natalie, Emma, Casey. It's a good thing we don't have a paperboy or he'd like him better too. Everyone else, he's quiet as a Sunday, but the second someone hands him to me…" Noah' s voice had begun to lose some of its distance. "…and I'm the only one who's changed a diaper in this house for three days in a row because he always waits until I'm holding him to… you know."

"Honey, you're seeing things that just aren't there," Luke said, and silently scolded himself for allowing the listening skills to desert him again. He realigned, then, "I can see how it might seem that way, but there's no reason for him to time his bowel movements according to who holds him."

Noah scoffed. "Well then my timing is pretty crappy," he said. "Literally."

"Or…" Luke laughed quietly. "Maybe he just likes the way you change him," he said. "Don't give me that look. I'm serious. I've seen you work your magic. If there's ever an Olympic diaper changing team then Baby, you are bringin' home the gold."

But Noah's humor was slow to awaken. "No," he said simply. "No, he sees the real Noah. The evil Noah that no one else sees." He had meant it as a joke, and it almost was.

"Babe, getting a little creative in the bedroom hardly constitutes evi-…"

Noah rushed his hand over Luke's mouth. "Luke, what if he's awake? He could hear you."

Luke kissed the hand. Placed it back on his knee. "Well maybe he can," he said, "and if someday he hires the world's greatest hypnotist, he might actually be able to find out what I'm saying, but until then…" He started to stand up.

"Wait… wait where do you think you're going?" Noah pulled him back onto his lap. Held him there. "You're not going anywhere."

Luke could never resist Noah's beckoning. Wouldn't want to. "Look, Honey, I get it," he said, and sailed his fingers through waves of dark hair. "I understand how having a child can bring up your own parent issues. It's the same for me."

"Oh really?" said Noah. "Lily workin' the street corners these days? Holden been on any killing sprees? Damian joined the slave-trade movement?"

Like it or not Luke had to admit: the man had a point. "Is that what this is about?"

"Isn't it always?" There was no joy in Noah's chuckle. "When in doubt, choose the Colonel," he said, his eyes once again fixed on the baby. "I just know that one day this little one's gonna look at your mom, your dad, and your father and then he's gonna look at me and wonder where my side of the family is." Noah had made the following decision long ago, but never voiced it: "I don't ever want him to know," he told Luke, part revelation, part demand. "I don't ever want him to know that he's the grandson of a murderer, a kidnapper, and a prostitute." He felt Luke's gaze settled on him, heard him say, "Well, Babe, if we don't tell him then someone else will."

Of course they would. Both of Noah's parents had been high profile fodder for the Oakdale gossip mill, two secrets that would never keep. How had he managed to entertain the possibility of secrecy?

"Noah, listen to me," Luke said, "I promise you that someday, and sooner than you think, you're not gonna have to wonder where you end and the Colonel begins, because, Noah, whatever the reason your father is the way he is… Whatever the reason your mother chose the life she did. You – are not them. And you never could be. And our son's gonna know that, whether you tell him our not, because our son is gonna know you. Not your father."

Noah closed his eyes, rested his heavy head against his lover's chest. "I think I've been kidding myself, thinking I had any business becoming a father. It's too soon. We're too young. The timing's all wrong…"

"Or, maybe…" Luke said, "the timing is perfect."

Noah looked up. "How do you figure?"

"Well, maybe becoming a father is the perfect thing to help you finally make peace with your own."

Noah shut his eyes again, hoping his mind's eye would shut with them. "How many times am I gonna have to make peace with that man?" he asked. "What if I never do?"

"Well I think going into therapy is a step in the right direction. Don't you?"

Noah sighed through his nostrils. "Yeah, but it would've been nice if someone had told me it'd just make everything feel worse before it gets better."

Luke nuzzled his cheek against the top of his love's head. No one would ever guess his hair was so soft. "Would that have made a difference?" he asked. "I mean, would you have still gone if you'd known it would bring up all of this old… stuff?"

"I… I dunno," said Noah, shaking his head "I mean, I know it was the right thing to do, especially for our son's sake – I don't ever want my issues with my own father to get pushed off onto him – but…"

The silence seemed to move about them, giving the quietness a life all its own. "But...?"

Oh to be gifted with words, Noah thought, but of this he was certain: the truth couldn't sleep forever, and he was feeling particularly truthful at the moment. Having Luke on his lap and in his arms made it less terrifying somehow. "Remember when you told me that I was selfish with my feelings, and that I kept pushing you away… and for stupid reasons?"

Luke shook his head, not in denial, but in his own embarrassment. "Noah, you know what I'm like in a fight. I just…"

"No, Luke, you were right," Noah told him, "but not for the reasons you think." He took the first of several respites he would need if he was to make it through all he wished to say; he should have shared these truths with his husband long ago. If only he had known how. "It's like… from the very beginning, you've been this… this place where anyone who needs to can go and stay and rest for as long as they need because… this place, it would never turn anyone away, especially someone who just needed a place to belong. And this place…it's safe, and it's welcoming, and…" He rested again, let warm breath melt his body's stiffness, then braved forward. "I've been to that place, Luke… And it's warm, and it's beautiful, and for me, it's home. And when I'm not there, I'm lost."

Now… Noah thought, Now for the hard part: "But then there are people like me… people whose doors have been closed and locked for so long that even they don't know what's behind them. And I just feel like… like I'm one of those places. Luke, I have no idea what all's inside me. When I was growing up, anytime something happened that scared me or made me feel something I didn't understand, I pushed it down without even looking at it or trying to understand it. It was the only way I knew how to survive." Survival, Noah thought, seemed such an overrated thing where the love of your life is concerned; to spend all those years building walls you would someday have to learn to take back down again, one brick at a time. "But I'm still doing it. I've done it for so long that I don't even know I'm doing it anymore. I just… I shove everything inside and lock the door… and maybe I don't know what all's in there but with everything that's happened, the people I come from, the people who've hurt me…" He smoothed his thumb in a circle over the back of Luke's hand. "…the people I've hurt… I know that whatever's in me can't be pretty; it's gotta be a big mess. And you say that I'm not letting you in, but the truth is, Luke, I'm not letting me in either, because… I wanna be for you what you've been for me. And I've been so scared to let you all the way in because I know that… that once that door opens, there'll be no closing it… It's gonna be that big, dark, ugly mess, and I've always hoped that I could find a way to fix everything without you having to see it the way it is now, so that I could make it a place I know you'd want to be, and a place you'd want to stay." He tried to meet Luke's eyes, and to his relief, he could. It surprised him how easy, frightening, and natural this moment seemed. "Does that make me a coward?"

Luke brushed the back of his wrist below his eye, letting the tear that trickled down end its journey along the back of his hand. "Ya know, you're really getting' good at that whole words thing." He sniffled to keep his nose from leaking, then cradled Noah's weary head close to his chest. Now it was his turn. "What if I told you that I've already seen more of this place than you think?" he asked, sinking into his husband. "It's like… like I've looked through the windows and peeked through keyholes and, yeah, maybe I can't see everything," He kissed Noah's forehead, then rested his cheek where his lips had been "but I can see enough to know I'm still completely, absolutely, totally in love with this place. And you're wrong about it being ugly. Yeah, maybe it needs some cleaning out, but that's only because there's a bunch of stuff that doesn't belong there… stuff that other people left behind… stuff that it's time to give back, because you never should've had to keep it to begin with. But the place itself, it's… it's warm, and it's safe, and it's beautiful… and I want it to be my home so badly, but… I'm willing to wait until the caretaker lets me in. Maybe he could just let me visit every now and then, just for a little while, and maybe later he'll let me stay a little bit longer. And then hopefully one day… he'll give me my own key."

Noah smiled, shyly. "Or maybe he can just leave the door open?" He held the smile a moment, before his face grew smooth and sincere. "Luke, you have that key. You know that. You've always had it, even before I did."

Luke tilted his head. "What do you mean, before you did?"

Noah's deep, slow breath gave rise to the slowest of shrugs. "Why do you think I always ran?"

Luke wondered at this for a moment. "I guess I've never really known exactly what you were so afraid of," he said. "You couldn't be afraid of me; I'm about as intimidating as a butterfly."

"Luke, I ran because you've always had a bigger hold on me than you think." Noah was suddenly taken by the way the moonlight made his lover's fair hair seem silver, before blinking back into the moment "But to open all that up, I mean... Are you sure you know what you're asking?"

Luke the innocence in Noah. The kind of helpless innocence that people have while they're sleeping. "It doesn't scare me," Luke said at last.

Of course it doesn't, Noah thought. When it came to feelings, what did frighten Luke, if anything? "So…" Noah kissed his lover's neck, then asked, somewhat awkwardly, "When can you move in?"

Luke's soft laugh was colored with affection, as was his kiss, which Noah returned with a depth that caught Luke off his guard. The comfort it offered them both gave Noah the courage, when their lips parted, to say, "Promise me something."

Luke smiled. "Anything."

"Just…" Noah sighed. "Just don't let me push you away."

Luke's eyes held Noah's gaze as he slowly shook his head. "Not a chance."

"Luke, you know me. You know I'm gonna try. I won't even know I'm doing it, but…"

"Hey, hey, hey. Look at me," Luke said tenderly. "You have nothing to worry about."

"You sound so sure."

"Well, that's only because I am."

Noah so envied Luke's certainty. "Care to share whatever it is that's giving you this… annoying confidence?"

Luke let out a string of quick, quiet laughs. "Just think of it this way," he said. "You know how I get when I really want something?"

"God, do I ever…"

"Yes or no will do, thank you."

"Sorry."

"The election. Finding Reg's killer. Finding out what Damian was up to when he first came back. Finding you when your father had you…"

"Right."

"All of those things put together," Luke said, "don't even come close to how much I want to be with you. To make a life with you. To make a family with you."

The only word Noah's mind could conjure was, "Oh."

"So what it comes down to is this: Which do you think is stronger? How much you wanna push me away? Or how much I wanna keep you close?"

Naturally, no thought needed. "When you put it that way, I guess you're right," said Noah. "I don't have anything to worry about."

There was a stirring sound in the crib; Luke slid quickly but gentlly off of Noah's lap, took the two steps to their newborn. "Heeey there, angel," he said in a voice that danced.

"Oh God, he's awake."

"Relax, Babe, I think you can take him."

"Don't be so sure. A few alligator tears outta this little guy is all it'll take to eat me alive," said Noah. "Luke?" His eyes flashed. "Luke? Honey? Sweetie? Baby? What are you doing?"

"Well…" Luke began, a sly gleam in his eyes, "from what I can tell, the only piece still missing from this puzzle is that you wanna hold your son." Having picked up their child, he leaned forward give him to Noah.

"Luke, I mean it." Noah shot up from the chair, stepped back. "If you hand him to me and he starts to cry I swear I'm gonna start to cry too."

"So cry then. It won't kill you."

"How do you know?" Noah's body tensed, head to toe, as Luke settled their child into his shaking arms. As he feared, the baby made an unsettled sound, the sort that warned that crying wasn't far behind. "Aw God." Noah held him out. "Luke. Here. Take him. He doesn't want me."

But Luke took a quick step back. "Honey, I'm sorry but this is for your own good," he said, and turned on his bare heel to go. "Just remember, babies can smell fear."

"Luke?"

"I'll be back in a few minutes to check on you."

"You're leaving me alone? With the baby?"

Luke said over his shoulder, "Don't worry. He doesn't bite."

"Only 'cause he doesn't have teeth yet."

"That's kinda my point." By now Luke's voice was echoing from the hallway.

"Luke?" Noah's rise in volume elicited a cry from the enfant. "Oh, God, Vlad I'm sorry, baby."

There are moments that help define a life. Moments which, were they points in a connect-the-dots picture, were you to miss them, would wreck the entire image; they're that important. Seldom do we see their significance while they happen. But not so this night. This night, in that moonlit room, Noah knew that the man who walked out of that nursery, assuming he could convince himself to do so, would be changed.

The room itself, a modest twelve-by-fifteen feet in size, felt as large as Carnegie Hall, with Noah alone on the stage, the moon as a spotlight to mock his solitude. The cries from the child in his arms showcased the nursery's resonant acoustics. "Shhhhh…" Noah whispered. "Vlad, please just… What am I doing? What am I not doing? Please, just gimme a sign. Anything." Maybe motion would help, he thought, and started to slowly pace. "Vlad, there's nothing I wouldn't do for you but, trust me, you don't want me to start singing." But that didn't stop Noah from coming frightfully close, since the child wasn't leaving him many other options. But before (further) humiliating himself, Noah decided to try having a conversation with the tiny, helpless, but still intimidating little presence in his arms. "Come on, baby, pleeease don't cry." Okay, Noah, you can do this. Just pull it together. Deep breaths. In and out. "Okay, Vlad. I don't know what else to do, so… I'm sorry if you're not happy with me, but you know, you really could do a lot worse." Whoa… Where the hell did that come from?

This awkward declaration was strangely enough to spark a tingling confidence in the young man, and while marveling that some part of him must believe it – that reaction had come from some place real – he noticed that his son's cries had begun to relax into melodic coos. "Awww…" the new father said, falling further in love. "I swear, if you were any cuter…"

For a long moment, he could bring himself to do no more than watch his child. He had never imagined that another soul could equal Luke in beauty.

"Well, now that I've got you all quiet…" It occurred to Noah that his son probably wouldn't break were he to make a gentle bouncing motion. "I just want you to know that… even though I'm not the expert your daddy is at expressing myself, you have no idea how much I've thought about what it'd be like to have you… about what I'd tell you once you finally got here. I just… I don't think there's any way to tell you how badly I want this… How much I've wanted my chance. I mean… I can't wait to tell you it's okay to cry when you skin your knee… And if I catch you in a lie I'm gonna tell you you did a bad thing but you're still a good person… and I even want my chance to not yell at you when you get a dent in your fender – No crashes though, okay? Just a tiny little dent. That's all I'm asking – But… before you skin your knee, I'm gonna have to help you learn how to walk. And if I'm gonna catch you telling me a tall tale then first I'm gonna have to teach you how to talk. And unless the state of Illinois has a change of heart, it'll be about fifteen years before I can teach you how to drive." A bubble of spit popped on the baby's lips; Noah smiled. "But until I get the chance to do all that… I should probably tell you that, with all the rest of it, I don't have the first clue what I'm doing… I can't promise you I'll be the best father in the world but I can promise you I'm gonna try harder than any father in history every has. So just… Just bear with me, okay? I can be a real idiot when it comes to knowing what other people need from me. Just ask your daddy. But I'm trying. And now that you're here, I'm gonna try even harder." The baby cooed contentedly, wrapped his tiny palm around his Papa's little finger and squeezed. "Ahhh, that's it" Noah said in a whisper. "Something tells me that... you and me? We're gonna get along juuust fine."

Noah sensed Luke's presence in the doorway, but gave nothing away. "So," he said to his son, "Are you gonna be pushy and bossy like your Daddy? Or patient and wise like your Papa?"


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I've had several people ask me (understandably) how the children were born/where they came from. Actually, I figured I would leave that totally up to the reader. I've intentionally used ambiguous wording that would allow someone to interpret the manner of the boys' births in pretty much any way they choose. Some people find the concept of male pregnancy to be romantic. More power to them. If someone wants to believe that Luke gave birth to all of the boys then I completely support that opinion. If people want to believe surrogate mothers were involved or if it was adoption or a combination, then by all means go for it. I do have my own very specific ideas as to how the boys arrived but I would really rather people interpret the situation however they would like. So, hurrah for male pregnancy, hurrah for adoption, and hurrah for surrogate mothers. Anything goes.

Oh! And the oldest son's name is Vladimir (called Vlad for short) and the adult version is to be introduced in the next chapter.

Take care!

Sincerely,
Alwyn