AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think!

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If anyone had ever told Merle Dixon that he'd be a family man, he'd have laughed right in their face. He might have said the only way that he'd ever have a kid was if he knocked up some woman on a one-night stand. But, then, she'd just be gone the next day, and she'd take the kid with her. There was no telling, really, how many little seeds Merle might have planted throughout the years of his life, but he'd never heard from any of them. Merle knew that bastard kids and mothers who would rather forget how they came to be mothers did not make a family, though.

Merle would have thought someone was full of shit if they'd told him that, one day, he'd be married—and that he'd like the feeling of that band on his finger—and that he'd happily clear the old furniture out of his brother's room to make a place for a little Dixon to live…one that was anything but a bastard, and whose mother was pleased with the way in which she came to be a mother.

Yet, here he was—barely recognizable to himself in the best way possible.

Merle had never loved anyone or anything the way that he loved Andrea. He'd loved his Mama, and he'd loved his brother, but this was a different kind of love. He'd never felt this love before. And he'd never felt, before, the feeling in his belly that he felt when the doctor showed them the weird ass little thing on a screen and said "there it is." Merle had felt equally as suffocated, in the best possible way, when Andrea had said "I do," and he'd realized they'd both actually meant that shit, and when they heard the rapid-ass thundering of a little heart that was probably smaller than the tip of Merle's pinky finger.

Merle had never loved before—not quite like he loved now—but now? Merle loved, and he loved big, and hard, and hungrily—and it scared the ever-loving shit out of him that one beautiful woman and a baby that he could fit in the palm of his hand, a baby he'd never really even seen before, could have so much control over him.

Merle hated to feel like he didn't have control. He knew, though, that he'd lost it. Still, Andrea loved him enough that she gave him what control she could…that which didn't naturally fall to her and wasn't hers to gift.

And Merle loved her even more for that, because he knew that she didn't have to give him anything, but she chose to give him the control she knew he needed—and she trusted him to wield his power in a way that was good for both of them. Andrea believed he was a good man—and that was as new to Merle as the feeling of love that warmed his chest.

"Where the hell you at?" Merle called out, settling into his chair. The tree they got was buck ass naked, but it would do for now. Tomorrow they could put the decorations on it. Tonight, it would just smell good and settle. "Andrea—don't make me come lookin' for your ass." Merle laughed to himself. He really wouldn't mind it if she made him come looking for her. Sometimes she liked that. She liked him to find her. She liked to pretend that she hadn't wanted to be found. Sometimes, she liked to pretend that she wasn't interested in him, and he had to make her see that he wouldn't be turned down by someone he wanted so badly. Sometimes she liked it rough, but sometimes, so did he. She liked it to hurt just enough, she said. She liked for him to hurt her just enough. She had certain things she liked—things he might have never thought she would, but he didn't judge, and she returned the favor. He liked it, too, when she hurt him back with teeth and short-shorn nails and, sometimes, a few good slaps at the right time to really spur things on. Merle twisted off the top of his beer and dropped it on the floor beside his chair. He'd pick it up later. He drank a long swallow of the beer. Of course—if he did go looking for Andrea, and if he did find her, it was all pretend anyway. Everything was pretend, except what really mattered. They both liked the pretend. He liked, too, the quiet time afterward when they loved each other up really good and tended whatever wounds they'd inflicted on the other. Those times weren't pretend, and he liked the quiet when they curled together and racing pulses slowed into satisfied sighs and whispered promises that nobody was leaving the tangle of arms and legs any time soon.

Andrea didn't make Merle come looking for her, not this time. She came out of the bedroom. She'd washed her face. Her make-up was gone, and Merle was happy for it. He liked her face better when it was just her face, just as nature intended it to be.

"Come here," Merle said, patting his lap. "Come sit on my lap, Sugar."

"I don't wanna play, Merle," Andrea said. Merle eyed her a moment. His stomach twisted, and he tried to wash away the uncomfortable feeling with another long drink from the bottle that he'd drain in a moment.

"Come here, Andrea," Merle said, putting more demand behind his tone.

"I mean it Merle," Andrea said. "Strawberry. I don't want to play."

"Strawberry right the fuck back at'cha, Sweetheart," Merle said. "Now—bring your ass over here. I just wanna talk to you."

Andrea frowned, but she came over and sat down on Merle's lap. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her so that she was more comfortably seated. She eyed him, and he couldn't help but smile.

"Just makin' sure you comfortable," Merle said. "Don't want you slidin' off on in the floor. Now—you gonna tell me what the hell happened between this mornin' when you was all smilin' and talkin' my ear off and this evenin' when you come in lookin' like your cat got runned over?" Andrea frowned at him and Merle put his beer down on the floor to free the other hand. He wiped it on the arm of the chair before he touched Andrea's face, not wanting to shock her with the cold condensation on his fingers. "Doc told you our lil' Peanut's doin' just fine. Gotta bake a while, but they all gotta do that. Told you that—you ain't done nothin' wrong. You a good Ma, right? Say it." Merle hesitated only a moment before he put a touch more command behind his voice. "I ain't askin' again, Andrea. Say it."

"I'm a good Mama," Andrea said quietly.

"So, your ass ain't forgot how to speak. Tell me what's goin' on. I wanna fuckin' know, Andrea."

"I'm—fat," Andrea said.

Merle chewed on that for a moment.

"You seen Shane?" Merle asked. Andrea shook her head. "So—what the fuck happened?"

"Merle—nothing has to happen for fact to be fucking fact!" Andrea snapped. It was a little too sharp, and a little too sudden, for Merle to believe, for even half a second, that nothing had happened. He hummed at her. Before he met Andrea, he never would have believed that he would have cared so damn much about making a woman feel good. He believed in pleasuring a woman and, in fact, it was one of his greatest sources of pride that he could say, at least since he'd realized there was such a thing and wasn't some pimply ass kid just trying to scratch an itch he didn't fully understand, that he'd never sent a woman home before making sure that she got off at least once—no matter how bad the fucking lock-jaw had to be sometimes. Still, that aside, he wouldn't have wanted to put time into how the hell she felt inside her head. That was an investment that was never worth Merle's time—not for some hellcat that would be out the backdoor as fast as it could get opened.

But Andrea—curled up in his lap even now, though she was clearly sitting a bit rigid with her discomfort—was a lap cat and, furthermore, she was his lap cat. He hated to see her hurting because it hurt him like a splinter festering in his chest.

He hugged her against him with the arm that was still loosely holding her onto his lap. He massaged her hip.

"You know I'm a full-fledged fuckin' carnivore, Andrea," Merle said. "I like meat, and a lot of it. Flesh. Somethin' to bite. Sink my teeth into. Hold in my hands. You know I like enough to get me a good damn mouthful—don't wanna gnaw on damn bones like I'm starvin' to death." Merle licked his lips, and he meant it. "I like your ass—you know how damn much I like your ass. I like your tits—an' them thighs you close around my damn head when it gets too good for you. Sugar—I ain't wantin' no damn waif I gotta be scared to break. I couldn't fuck you like I like to fuck you if I was thinkin' your ass was gonna break just when that shit was gettin' good to the both of us."

"You can sugarcoat it however you want, Merle, but…a fat stomach isn't sexy."

Merle dropped his hand from holding Andrea's face and rubbed it over her stomach. He massaged his fingertips into her skin. He resisted his temptation, even then, to bite the shoulder nearest him, through her shirt, because he hadn't lied—and he did love to sink his teeth into her…not too hard, just hard enough. She didn't want to play right now, though, and he respected that she only used "strawberry" when she meant it.

"You talkin' shit about this stomach?" Merle asked. "This stomach right the fuck here where my kid is? I don't like people talkin' shit about what's mine, Andrea. And all of this? It's fuckin' mine."

"I'll just be fatter after the baby…"

"Mine, too," Merle said. "I don't like you talkin' shit about my wife, neither."

"Merle—be serious for a minute?"

"I'm serious as a fuckin' heart attack," Merle said. "Andrea—I like your face. I like your body."

"But you could change your mind…"

"You changin' yours?"

"It's different—you never wanted this…"

"I never had this," Merle said. "There's a damn difference."

"You said…"

"Well, I say a lot of shit," Merle said quickly. "A lotta damn shit, Andrea. And some damn times, it's easier to say shit than it is to say what the hell you really mean. If you want it and you don't got it…your ass ain't never gonna get it…it's easier to say you don't want that shit. But I don't change my damn mind. I don't even fuckin' like change. My old recliner wore out? I bought this one. Exactly the same. My old shoes wear out—I buy the same damn shoes. I like what the hell I like."

"So, what happens when you decide I'm worn out?" Andrea asked.

Merle laughed to himself.

"I'ma be dead by then, Sugar," Merle offered. She frowned and Merle touched her face again. "You ain't fat. But if you were? I'd like that shit, too."

"My face would be different. My body. All of it. It wouldn't be what you like…"

Merle laughed to himself.

"I like your face 'cause it's yours, and it's pretty. And them pretty ass green eyes? They gonna be there even when I'm too damn old to see 'em through my fuckin' cataracts. I ain't sayin' this shit all the damn time, Andrea, so you better open your damn ears and you better listen. You listenin'?" She tipped her head in a gentle nod. "Better'n any damn thing else? I like the way your body looks in the morning—layin' next to mine. I like the way it looks makin' me breakfast 'cause you know that I think breakfast tastes better if you make it. I like the way it looks gettin' snuggled in next to me to sleep to do the whole fuckin' thing again. I like the way it looks when…you fuckin' stay. So, if it's gotta be a little fatter while it's doin' that…" He shrugged. She frowned at him, and he caught her chin. She let him kiss her, and she even came to meet him. "Tryin' on the clothes was that damn bad?"

"I liked the clothes," Andrea said. She wiped at her nose with her arm, and Merle wished he had a tissue to offer her. He wiped a tear that slipped out of her eye with his thumb. "They had these—pads. We could put them on and they had different sizes. It helped you figure out what the clothes might look like, you know? As you grew."

"And that set you off seein' it? But, Sugar, he's gotta grow…if he don't, we in a real world of shit."

"No, it's not that…"

"Sugar—you about to exceed the limitations of my feeble-ass brain to problem-solve this situation. So why don't'cha just tell me what's wrong so we can put it right and I can work on talkin' you into rescindin' that there strawberry you threw out…even if it's just for a lil' sweet lovin' tonight."

The faintest hint of a smile curled up the sides of Andrea's mouth.

"I liked the clothes," Andrea said. "And the—looking in the mirror and thinking…he would grow, Merle."

"But…what'cha ain't liked?"

"That I was going to have to grow, too. And, maybe…you wouldn't like that. You wouldn't want us. Either one of us."

Merle laughed to himself.

"Over some extra…meat?" Merle asked. "You think I'ma throw every damn thing away over…a couple extra pounds?"

"Could be more than a couple."

"Holy fuckin' shit, Andrea," Merle said. "I can't get down in this hole deep enough to get your ass out. I don't give a flyin' fuck over some fat. I can't be more damn plain about it than that. I don't give a shit. Be big as the whole damn house if you want…just don't be pissed off when my feeble old ass can't carry you. That's all I'm askin'."

She laughed to herself, but big drops fell out of her eyes, and Merle wrestled out of his shirt because it was the best he could do for a handkerchief at the moment. Laundry was laundry, and he hoped not be without the need of his clothes before the night was over.

"You wouldn't be able to fuck me if I was as big as the house, Merle," Andrea said.

"Where there's a will, there's a way," Merle offered. "You know I love puzzles. And there ain't a problem too damn hard to solve if that sweet ass pussy of yours is the prize."

He winked at her, and his stomach fluttered at the smile that spread across her face. Maybe not every woman in the world could be charmed by such a statement, and maybe that's why the hell Merle had never found one that was the keeping kind for him, but he could usually find something to say or do that was just right for Andrea—proof, really, that she was just right for him.

She kissed him to confirm that gut feeling he had.

"I'm ready to go to bed, Merle," Andrea said. "I want you to take me there."

"Not 'til you rescind the damn strawberry," Merle said. "At least—not to do more'n sleep."

"I take it back," Andrea said. "No strawberry. Take me to bed? I want you to have…whatever it was you wanted tonight."

"Just so happens," Merle offered, "that I was in the mood for—somethin' soft and sweet. Just like you."