Author's note: Thanks to all those marvellous people who have favourited and followed this story! And of course a huge 'thank-you' goes to those who simply enjoy reading it as well.

ThatGirl54: Nina's mother is going to continue being an issue. I wanted to let Stephen get off easy, but then I changed my mind... He can take it. ;-)

Bharm: Momma Stewart is the Ice Queen of Hartford. Brightening up is not in her repertoire, but she does love her daughter...

xthefirestillburns: Thanks for reviewing. I love "Luck of the Irish". One of the best collection of Sheamus-stories I have come across so far. Well-written and intense. Thanks for putting those out there and encouraging people to take part in the contest.


His smile fell when he took in her serious facial expression. He had wanted to get this particular part of the conversation started by cracking a joke; unfortunately the topic seemed to have a rather sobering effect on her. If that hadn't been made clear to him by a look at her face, her words certainly drove that realization home.

"Having children is a big step and I've spent a lot of time thinking about it," she paused, trying to collect her thoughts. Being thirty, she was at a point in her life where that topic had come up frequently and she had had to deal with it. "I know that I want to take that step eventually, but only when it feels right. I mean I like kids, don't get me wrong, but they are a huge responsibility... I don't want to mess up another human being's life. Sometimes I doubt I'm mom-material..."

"You're being too hard on yourself," he frowned, clearly not approving of her self-deprecating attitude. "Why wouldn't you make a great mother? You're caring, funny, sweet, determined..."

She smiled softly and squeezed his hand. "Thanks for saying that, but you're leaving out moody and headstrong. Those two adjectives sort of mess up the list."

He shook his head. "Nah, I've got a bunch of other nice things to say about you, so I'm not too worried..."

"If you say so..."

"I do and I'm usually right about things...," he told her determinedly.

There was a brief moment of silence between them. She broke that silence by blurting out the following, inevitable question: "So you definitely want to have kids?"

"Yes. Eventually," he admitted, "is that a problem?"

"Not a problem," she shook her head. "Well, if eventually means right now, then 'yes'. So maybe you should tell me what you mean by 'eventually'?"

"Eventually means when my life has quieted down enough, so I can actually be there to see those children grow up," he explained.

She nodded slowly, processing his words. "Okay... You know that the fact that we're talking about this right now is kind of strange, right? I'm not used to this. I've never been in that type of relationship where the issue of children was brought up..."

"Why?" he wanted to know.

"I don't know. Maybe it just wasn't that important. Or maybe it's never come up before because it wasn't necessary to talk about that sort of stuff...," she thought out loud.

"Well, it becomes necessary when you're trying to figure out whether you'd work out in the long-run," he told her softly.

"I guess," she nodded. "Also I like I said before. I'm not a very motherly type. But there's something to think about..."

"Something to think about," he repeated, "So that means that this isn't a definite 'no'?"

"Exactly," she hesitated and blushed a little before she continued, "I think there's a good chance of me warming up to the idea. We'll see. Besides, thanks to Tim I'll have plenty of opportunities to practice. I get to try out being an aunt first and see how that works for me... Aunt Nina. Has a funny ring to it, hasn't it?"

"Aunty Nina," he smiled. "Would that make me Uncle Steve?"

"Probably," she smirked.

"Uncle Steve sounds like the type a guy who wears felt slippers and smokes a pipe," he made a face. "Maybe I'll let them call me Sheamus. Now that's got a nice ring to it... Uncle Sheamus."

She laughed. "Right. Cause Sheamus is so easy to pronounce for a toddler. Much easier than Steve..."

"Not a difficult decision when it comes down to being funny-old-slippers-guy or the cool-wrestler-bloke," he pointed out with a shrug.

"Just out of curiosity, cool-wrestler-bloke, how many children are we talking?" she asked him.

"I'm Irish, so I was thinking six...," he joked and she threw herself back on the mattress with a grin and an overdramatic "Oh, my God!"

"Six?! We'd better get started now then, if you want to have six children."

"We'd better not." He let himself fall back on the mattress next to her. "We're gonna end up with six wee brats with me temper and your big mouth. It's gonna be hell..."

For a second they both fell silent, probably because inevitably they had to imagine what those children would look like. Children with his blue eyes, fair skin and her light brown hair. That didn't sound too bad now, did it? Still the subject was about to become too serious, so they both continued to make their jokes about it.

"Well, one thing is for sure: We'd spend a bunch of money on sun screen. Combine my pale skin and yours, we're going to end up with children so pale those old mayonnaise jokes won't even work on them," she chuckled. "They'd be practically translucent."

"Oi!" he grinned. "Don't get started with these bloody jokes. I absolutely resent them. I'm only that pale because I'm ginger."

"And I love every inch of your creamy white skin," she cooed with a shit-eating grin and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "It's like you're chiseled from stone. From alabaster."

"Alabaster? Really? Oh, I'll put some manners on you, little lady!" He propelled himself forward and she soon found herself pinned underneath him. His eyes had that mad expression to them again that had his adversaries in the ring on their toes. On her the effect was different, however. She always felt a feeling of giddy anticipation when he looked at her like that.

His fingers sneaked underneath her shirt. He was going to tickle her until she begged for mercy. He started moving his fingers experimentally. There was no reaction.

"I'm not ticklish," she told him triumphantly.

"That's what you want to make me think. Everyone is ticklish, I've just gotta find the right spot," he wiggled his eyebrows at her. He traced his fingers once more over her sides. "Sure this doesn't do anything?"

"Positive," she told him with a smile. "Well, it feels rather nice, but definitely doesn't tickle."

His hands traced lower, over her thighs. "You were going to find out whether I was ticklish or not, not start fondling me," she admonished when his fingers briefly kneaded her legs.

"Can you blame me? I'm a starved man," his eyes shone in the dimmed light of the bedroom. She held eye contact with him and eventually shook her head as if she wanted to shake off a daze. "Damn! Don't say things like that. It makes me want to jump you."

"Jump me? You're free to do that any time, me darlin'," his fingers had made it to the hollow of her knee and she tensed, because she knew what would happen next. He started tickling her and she muffled the little squeal that was threatening to break out of her by covering her mouth with her hands. He continued with an evil glint in his eyes. If she could have erupted in loud giggles, it certainly would have been less of a torture for her, but with her mother sleeping next door that wasn't an option.

She was breathing heavily by the time he finally asked: "Do you give?" She nodded vigorously, especially because he still had his fingers in place to break out a fresh round of torture.

"Take back that alabaster remark right now!" he demanded.

"I can't," she told him. She was lying on her back, trying to catch her breath. "I was 50 % serious."

"I'll be damned!" he laughed. "Alright, luv, if you have to be all mushy and sappy, could you at least not make it sound like you're quoting a Dropkicks song? Might make a fella think you're being ironic or somethin'."

She frowned. "A Dropkicks song? Which one?"

"What was it again?" She saw him frown in concentration. He hummed a few notes then grinned. "I'm a man of the night, a real ladies delight See my figure was chiseled from stone…,"he sang softly.

"Kiss Me I'm Shitfaced?" she supplied with a smile.

"Yeah, bang on. That's the one."

She laughed and let out a content sigh. "I've really missed this," she smiled, gesturing with her index finger between the two of them.

"You've missed what?" he smiled and lay down beside her, his head propped up on his left arm.

"Being silly with you. You're the only one who brings out that side of me. I like it. Makes me relax. It's great."

"Well, you're stuck with me, luv. So you'd better. Talking about being stuck, what are your thoughts on marriage?" he leaned over her. The nonchalant delivery of that last line had her almost choke.

She blinked at him wide-eyedly and he had to chuckle a bit at the silly expression on her face. It was priceless.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully after she had finally caught herself. "If I get married one day, it must be a very private, low-key ceremony. It's not about everybody else, but about two people who love each other. I don't want hundreds of people staring at me. It would make me feel self-conscious. I think the only three people who have a right to be there are: the groom, the bride and a priest or a justice of peace."

"Sounds about right."

"It does?" she gave him an astonished look. She had expected him to have more traditional ideas on marriage, but it seemed they were on the same page there.

"I couldn't help but noticing you saying 'IF get I married', you don't want to get married?" He seemed genuinely surprised that she might not want to walk down the aisle. She was the first woman he met who didn't seem too keen on the idea of marriage. It got him curious.

"Only if it makes sense..."

"'Only if it makes sense'," he mockingly repeated. "Come on, don't be so evasive," he pinched her cheek.

She made a face and swatted his hand away. "Alright, I have a hard time believing in forever and ever, if you must know. I'm a realist at heart. If you look around, there are hardly any couples who have been married for a long time and are still happy."

"Well, there would be me parents," he said matter-of-factly. His tone had a certain adamancy to it. It made her realize something about him that she had so far not figured out. He was a romantic at heart. Unlike her he seemed to believe in happily-ever-afters. It was kind of cute. No, cute sounded so deprecating. She didn't think any less of him because of it. Actually, if that was even possible it made her think more highly of him.

So instead of teasing him mercilessly, she said: "I don't know your parents."

"That can be fixed," he told her and saw her gulp, which made him smile. "Relax. Me ma' is not an old dragon like yours..." She lightly punched his upper arm for that remark.

"Alright, alright, hold your guns! I was just messin' with ya. Your ma' is a lovely ol' lady," the irony in that statement was hard to miss.

"We get along like a house on fire," he added. In fact it was apparently mutual dislike at first sight. It did seem to preoccupy him too, because his next question was anything but humorous and delivered with an accompanying preoccupied frown. "By the way, what do I do about that, luv?"

"You've got to be patient, I guess," Nina shrugged.

"Great, one of me all time strong suits," he said and rolled his eyes. "Have I mentioned, we're getting away from the topic of how you might or might not want to marry me one day?"

The way he put it, made the question very, very personal. She blushed and looked down. They had resumed their positions from before again, him leaning against the headboard of the bed, her sitting cross-legged on the mattress next to him. He placed his index finger underneath her chin and made her look at him. His face was calm and relaxed, but there was also a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. It was that latter emotion that had her scooting forward a little until she was sitting so close to him their breaths almost mingled.

"Before I met you I used to tell people I never wanted to get married. You've had me going from 'never' to 'if'. That's already quite an accomplishment. I'm sure you can get me to say 'when' instead of 'if' as well, if that's what you really, really want," she told him.

"Sounds like I have you wrapped around me little finger," he smiled triumphantly.

"Don't get any ideas, Red," she smirked. "You had it about right when you gave me 'The Taming of the Shrew'."

"Red," he scoffed. "How original!"

"Sorry, if that didn't quite meet your high standards. I think I can get a bit more creative. Do you prefer Freckles? 'Cause you've got all those cute little freckles on your nose," she teased.

"I swear sometimes I have no idea why I put up with you," he said and rolled his eyes dramatically.

"Let me think about that... Ah!" she beamed at him proudly, "It's because you love me and worship the ground I walk on, right?"

"That's gotta be it, luv," he told her softly, his voice lacking any trace of irony whatsoever.

"Now, don't do that. That's a low blow."

"What is?" he smiled innocently.

"Don't go around saying things like that. You're being too nice. One day you're bound to make me cry."

"I don't want to make you cry, luv." He pulled her into a hug against his chest. "All I want is to see you happy."

"I am happy. I am with you."

"Oh, you! Shut up!" he told her laughing softly.

"Why?"

"'Cause you don't want to see me get teary-eyed as well, darlin'. It's an ugly sight. I get all red-faced..."

"So this," she pulled back and motioned with her hand at his hair and then at his face,"... and this is finally one color? Cool! Can't wait to see that!"

"Do you even listen to what you're saying, luv?! You want to see me cry? Seriously?" His eyebrows practically disappeared into his hairline.

"No, I want to see the blush that matches the hair. Oh, look! If you get all huffy like that it almost does the trick...," she threw him a naughty grin.

He growled playfully and pressed a silencing kiss to her lips.

"Okay," she blinked with a dazed grin on her face when he pulled back. "That's one way to settle an argument."

"No, unfortunately I'm doing it all wrong," he shook his head. "That's positive reinforcement. It doesn't make your bad behavior go away. And there's more positive reinforcement heading your way, because I've got a present for you."

"Since when do you know about positive reinforcement?" she asked.

"Since my sister is a psychologist?" he supplied, upon which she muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'Shit!' He chuckled. "Now stop swearing, close your eyes and stretch out your left arm."

"What are you going to do? Pour some slime over it as a punishment?" she asked, nevertheless she closed her eyes.

"Whatever gave you that idea? I'm not that much of a bastard... Well, on occasion..." She let out an unladylike snort. "Sometimes," he amended. "But definitely not now, alright?"

"Alright," she agreed and stretched out her arm. She had her eyes closed as well, just like he had asked. "Happy?"

"Yeah, good girl," he patted her head. Shortly after she heard him move about in the room, open the zipper of his bag and pull something out. The mattress dipped under his weight when he sat back down. The telltale sound of gift wrapping paper being torn filled the room. Then she heard a soft jingling noise.

"Hmm, sounds interesting," she said and took in a sharp breath as something cool and metallic wrapped around her wrist.

"Handcuffs?" she teased. "Oh, baby, you shouldn't have… I told you I wasn't going to run..."

"Haha! Very funny. Stop acting the maggot, luv," he reprimanded her. "You can open your eyes now."

She did as she was told. Her eyes immediately landed on her left wrist. There was a silver bracelet dangling from it. She inspected it more closely. A small silver four-leaf clover was hanging from it and on the covers of her bed there was a Tiffany's box and torn gift wrapping paper. Her mouth fell open. "I repeat myself. You really shouldn't have…"

"You don't like it...," he concluded with a disappointed expression on his face.

"I do. I do!" she exclaimed and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "It's beautiful, but it must have cost you a fortune..."

"May I remind you I'm not exactly destitute," he told her. "And you need a bit of luck since you keep telling me you're the world's biggest klutz, which I think is deffo a big exaggeration."

"Deffo," she echoed and chuckled.

"That's what sticking with you after this?" he frowned.

She didn't notice his frown because her eyes were still fixed on the four-leaf clover. There appeared to be something engraved in it. She raised her arm in front of her face to inspect it more closely. It was their initials. Without any further ado she grabbed the stunned Irishman in front of her by the collars of his shirt and pressed a lasting kiss to his mouth.

"I take it you like it," he said after the kiss had ended.

"Like? That's putting it mildly! I love it," she told him. "I'm never taking it off again."


Nina went downstairs to get her mail. She was humming some song under her breath as she jumped down the last three steps and came to stand in front of her letter box. She had to leave for work in roughly an hour and Stephen and she had gotten up earlier, so they could spend some more time together, while her mother continued dozing on the couch.

Nina pulled back the sleeve of Stephen's shirt; she was wearing it over her dark grey dress like a coat. It got in the way as she stretched out her hand to get her mail from that little compartment in the wall and she pushed it back. She quickly browsed through the letters, as she made her way to back to the elevator. Half of them, especially the bills, were a waste of paper. There was one envelope that gave her pause, however and made her heart race. It was from the publishing house she had sent her short stories to roughly a week ago. She wanted to rip it open as soon as possible, but suppressed the impulse for now. No matter what was inside that envelope, whether it was another one of those politely put and impersonal refusals or an acceptance she wanted to open it together with him, back at her apartment.

She pressed her finger a couple of times on the button for her floor, she practically ran down the corridor to her apartment, her hands shook when she fumbled around with her keys and finally managed to get the door open. Her feet skittered over the tiles of the kitchen floor when she came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room. Stephen turned around giving her a surprised look; he had been fixing them scrambled eggs and the pan was still standing on the stove behind him.

With a maniacal grin she waved around the envelope in front of his nose. Oh, right! She hadn't told him yet that she had sent her short stories to several publishing houses. It had happened during those three weeks of that silly self-imposed silence between them and there had not been the right moment to tell him yet. Fortunately he was rather smart and quick about figuring out things on his own.

He gently plucked the envelope from her grasp and his eyes fell on the name of the publishing house. "This doesn't mean what I think it does, right?" he gave her a look that was wavering between pride and incredulity.

"Yes, it just might," she answered eagerly. She was barely able to contain herself anymore. This was worse than waiting for Christmas Eve as a child. "Open it!" she urged him on. Of course now of all times he chose to display his gentlemanly side.

"Are you sure...?"

"Stephen, I'm damn sure! Now open that stupid envelope already!" she hissed, but miraculously managed to keep her voice down in order to not wake her mother who was sleeping next door. It was only seven in the morning after all and there was no need to rouse her from her sleep.

Stephen was left unfazed by her display of temper. By now he had learned that most of it was only smoke and mirrors. "Relax!" he told her with a grin. "I've got this."

Her answer was a strained noise like an 'aaaah' and an energetic gesture towards the envelope. He ripped it open and pulled out the letter. She watched his familiar blue eyes flit over the lines written on the piece of paper, trying to interpret the expression on his face. When a smile started spreading on his face, she grew even more impatient. "Let me see!" she demanded, quickly stepping next to him to study the letter as well. Her eyes fell on phrases like "We are happy to...", "We would like to congratulate you on..." and finally "It would be our pleasure to publish your material". "This can't be real!" she shook her head in complete disbelief.

"Looks pretty real to me," he told her with a reassuring grin on his face as he watched the expression on her face change from hopeful to completely euphoric. With a loud squeal she launched herself forward and he caught her in his arms. She pressed a rather wet and sloppy kiss to his cheek and then pulled back to do a little victory dance in front of him. "I'm going to be a published author! I'm going to be a published author!" she sang while she was performing moves that oddly reminded him of one of Fandango's performances. He watched her antics with a grin and the teasing words: "Stay like that. I'm going to quickly zip over to the bedroom and get me mobile!"

His comment alerted her to his presence once again. She hugged him again. He was starting to feel like an over-sized cuddly toy by now, but he let it happen, because he loved her and secretly, but rather begrudgingly, enjoyed every minute of it. "Steve, do you know what that means? How often I've tried. This is like the holy grail!"

"I know. I'm happy for you, luv," he told her and hugged her more tightly to him. There was a smile on his face now too.

She pulled back to look at him. "You're amazing. Do you know that? Thank you," she told him. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" she peppered his cheek with kisses as she repeated those words, leaving him wondering whatever he had done to merit this.

"This sure is a pleasant change from being swatted on the arm and told off. Whatever's gotten into you, luv?" he asked with a smirk.

"Don't you remember? You wrote those little annotations next to my stories back when you read them? I found them and they sort of got me inspired to revamp a lot of my stuff. Well, actually I rewrote about half of it, but that's beside the point. The point is that it was those little pencil written, scrawly..."

"Oi!" he interjected.

"Alright. Those not so scrawly notes from brilliant old you that got me inspired to change a lot about the plot and the characters. You're like my...," she grinned, for now keeping the word in, "Oh hell! You're like my muse," it burst out of her. There was definitely a teasing undertone to her smile now, which he immediately picked up on.

"Aren't muses usually a bit more posh?" he asked.

"Stephen...," she inclined her head to the right, her tone was indulgent. "A bit more posh? I don't need some pompous, pseudo-intellectual ass to get me inspired..."

Despite her reassurances, it was moments like that he was reminded of the fact that they came from two completely different backgrounds. She had probably been read Shakespeare sonnets as a little baby, while his dad had told him stories about football and his mates down at the pub. "Some people, most definitely including your mother by the way, would say I'm not posh enough for you. They'd say we're from two different worlds..."

She made a grimace and waved him off nonchalantly as if he had said something completely ridiculous. "Phew! That's stupid! Two different worlds..."

"Brawns and brains... And we know who takes which part," he told her.

"Do we?" she narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't tell me you're getting insecure just because my mother gave you a couple of funny looks yesterday..." He shrugged his shoulders and she sighed, clearly exasperated with him. "In case you've been wondering, you're both the brawn and the brains, the whole package. I'm just the brains. And you've inspired me to do this," she held up the letter in his face to make her point. "So shut up about being insecure, Mister-I-like-to-strutt-around-in-my-trunks-in-fro nt-of-billions-of-people!"

"Alright," he amended with a smile. "If you say so..."

"I do. What is it anyways with you and that stupid feeling of inadequacy? I don't get it. I don't get it at all." She stood on her tiptoes and clasped his face between her hands. She looked deeply into his eyes as she said the next words. "You're my favorite person ever. There's nothing I don't like about you. And I'm picky about who I do or do not like. So suck it up! I don't ever want to hear anything about you not being right for me, because you're just right."

"Just right?" he echoed dumbfoundedly.

"Just right," she confirmed.

The moment was interrupted by two things occurring simultaneously. The scrambled eggs he had been preparing started smoldering, with smoke rising from the pan and everything and her mother announced her presence by clearing her throat. Stephen took care of the burning food, quickly taking the pan off the stove and putting it in the sink, while Nina greeted her mother with a fairly unenthusiastic 'hello'.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Mrs. Stewart announced with a grin that made it clear she didn't care whether she had interrupted anything or not. "What's going on in here? Not much of a cook, are we, Mr. Farrelly?" The mocking, almost taunting tone of her voice when she said the last sentence made Nina snap. It was the last straw after all those pointed remarks from yesterday.

"Mom, please stop it. He's not one of your former students! Can't you just leave him be for once?" Nina glared at her mother, ready to give her a piece of her mind, but before she could get that far Stephen took matters in his own hands.

"I might not be able to whip up a duck flambé, Mrs. Stewart, but even me skills in the kitchen are enough for some scrambled eggs," he told her coolly. "And I'd appreciate it if you got off me chest, because I am not really a threat. I'm just the poor fella who's completely smitten with your daughter. So if you've got a problem with that, you can either continue making those little comments of yours or you can suck it up and leave us in peace. Personally, I'd prefer the latter of those two options." After he was done ranting, he nodded at her once for good measure and then left the kitchen with the words: "I'm gonna go shave while you talk to your ma', Nina."

Her mother gave her a look like 'what the hell has just happened'. Nina was happy to tell her.

"What can I say? You pushed him too far," she shrugged her shoulders apologetically. "And before you ask," she held up her hand admonishingly, "you better get used to him being around, because this is for the long-haul."

Mrs. Stewart rolled her eyes. "Goodness gracious! You couldn't have picked anyone more bourgeois?"

"Mother!" Nina's tone was sharp and forbidding.

"What? I only want what's best for you," her mother told her innocently.

"Good," Nina replied, "Have a good look at this!" She thrust the letter into her mother's hands. "Wanna know how I got there? Because of his help."

Mrs Stewart's eyes widened comically as she read the letter. "But that's... that's..."

"Wonderful? Great? Awesome?" The older woman nodded. "His thoughts exactly. That's why he burned the scrambled eggs."

Mrs. Stewart sighed. She had just learned two things from the events of the still very young day. Her daughter was clearly serious about being with that Irish caveman and that, if she didn't at least make an effort to welcome him in the family fold, it would end badly.

"So given the fact that the two of would clearly starve to death, how about you come over to dinner tonight?" She had only forwarded that invitation very reluctantly, but in her heart of hearts she knew it was the right thing to do, because a slow smile started spreading on her daughter's features.

"I'd love to, but I think he'll need some convincing..."

"If it helps any, I can repeat my invitation once he gets back from shaving."

Nina could already imagine the sour expression on her mother's face as she would be extending her courtesy to a man she hardly knew, but had decided to dislike on first glance. Nina wanted to change that, not make matters worse, so she reassured her mother that that wasn't necessary.

"No need. I'll tell him later," she smiled and hugged her mother.

"That way you can also tell your dad about the letter and the fact that you're going to be a published author soon," her mother told her and patted her daughter's head affectionately.