#this might come across as odd to americans but pumpkin pie just isn’t really a thing in the uk + ireland

[zippityzap]

I tried pumpkin pie for the first time yesterday and it was SO delicious

[starkerforlife6969]

Starker - The Beach War

Peter loves the sunshine.

He loves the sand under his toes, the little shore-line waves bumping against his ribs, he loves the sound of gulls swooping low, but he loves the sunshine most of all.

Steve warns him not to spend too much time out in the sun. Steve buys him sunscreen and umbrellas and hats.

But if the damning red crest over the bridge of his nose is anything to go by- Peter takes little heed.

“I’m going to aerobics,” Peter chirps sweetly, pouring coffee into Steve’s mug and reaching for his headband on a Tuesday morning.

His husband, in slacks and a still-unbuttoned shirt, looks up from the morning paper with a small, curious smile. “Didn’t you go yesterday?”

Peter nods, “I like it.”

“Alright. I suppose you deserve to enjoy yourself. Now that I’m officially a ballot candidate, thanks to you.”

Peter smiles warmly, reaching over to kiss Steve’s mouth and wipe the toast crumbs from his husband’s chin. “We all collected those signatures.”

Steve laughs at his modesty. “It’s one step closer to stopping Stark from destroying this town. I won’t rest till it’s done, Pete. Bucky’s coming over today, to help with the campaign.”

“Okay. Well, there’s lasagne in the fridge left over, will you two be alright?”

“Yeah.” His blue eyes run over Peter’s face. “Have you been wearing suncream?”

“Yes,” Peter lies, but is it really a lie? He tries to. He does, at least like, 50% of the time. Maybe 40.

Steve accepts it easily, and kisses Peter again, and then Peter’s out of the door and into the sunshine and free.

***

Class is perfect. Adrenaline-pumping, vibrant, fantastic, and it fills Peter with energy and when it’s over, dripping with sweat as he heads into the cool, air-conditioned bliss of the mall and wiggles his toes in his shoes.

He’s free the whole day.

He’s going to spend it in the water. On the beach.

He buys a danish from the new mall store, and is heading for the automatic doors when it catches his eye.

A familiar face. Or rather, fifteen of that unfamiliar face, splashed across a display for the new colour tvs. Beck. Peter stops despite himself and watches through the glass as fifteen Quinten Beck’s lecture on how environmental restrictions are really just restricting progress.

Peter takes another bite of his Danish and warm icing dribbles down his fingers. He licks it off angrily. Ugh, Beck. He was a dick in college, and he’s an even bigger dick now. What did Peter ever see in him?

He scoffs, turning away, only to come face-to-face with-

Oh. Handsome. Very handsome. Peter can’t help but be a little winded at the tanned skin, groomed hair and expensive suit and then-

Oh. Shit. It’s Tony Stark. Is it? It must be. It looks like him from the papers, and the interviews and- Yes. Yes, it is. The camera’s, already flattering, still don’t do him justice. It’s Tony Stark. Standing right here, in the mall that he had all those trees chopped down to make.

“You seemed drawn to him, and then you scoffed. It doesn’t speak to you?”

Peter blinks. Stark’s voice is lovely. Smooth. Just how it sounds in the adverts. “Oh!” Peter hums, hastily swallowing his mouthful of Danish. Stark’s eyes are roving over him- not even subtly. What is he looking for? Peter shifts a little in his workout gear. These shorts are very short, he must look- there’s probably icing on his lips and- “I don’t- I wasn’t drawn to him.” Peter insists, “I just know him- uh, Beck. I know him in real life.”

“I see,” Stark grins, eyes all amused, “do you have one?”

Peter blinks. He watches Tony’s eyes dip over his form once again. Rest on his lips. Peter licks them reflexively. He knows Tony isn’t married, but- “I do. I’m uh- I’m married. Sorry.”

Tony laughs, and Peter feels his cheeks flush. “I meant: do you have a colour tv? I know you’re married.”

Peter frowns. How is that possible- oh. He glances at his ring and manages a little laugh. “Perceptive.” He hums.

Tony lifts an eyebrow, a little quizzically. “No.” He says slowly,  “I know who you are, Peter Rogers. I saw the “Save our Wave” campaign. You and your husband. Smart way to launch. Ocean in the background. You looked….radiant.”

Oh god. Tony Stark knows who he is.

Peter brushes his hair behind his ears and doesn’t know what to say. “Uh...thank you.”

Tony grins. “Good ad. But it won’t be enough. It can’t stop progress.” Tony steps forward, so they’re a little closer than what’s proper, and his voice drops into something lower. His fingers graze Peter’s bare shoulder. “But I’m not sure you want to stop progress, do you, pumpkin?”

Is he talking about his aerobics outfit? Or the fact he was watching colour tv? Or the fact that he’s in the mall, having just finished a mall class, eating a mall-pastry, and watching mall-tv? Despite the fact that he’s supposedly against the mall.

Peter ignores the ripple of goosebumps that spread across his skin. He lifts his nose, but Tony still towers over him. “I do not agree wih Quinten Beck.” He snaps. “I’m sorry, but we do care about the environment. And we’re not going to have our beach destroyed for another mall.”

He pulls away then, pushing past Tony.

“Peter,” Tony says, and he can’t help but look back. Tony stands there, stupidly handsome, hands in his pockets, and his voice is as cool as the ocean-breeze when he says, “If I were married to you, I’d put you in my campaign videos too. You’ve got a face that changes minds, sweetheart.”

Another furious, heated blush, and Peter bumbles out into the sunshine.

Beach. He needs to go to the beach. Stat.

***

Peter’s freckles always make their debut in the LA Summer.

He serves a pitcher of ice-cold lemonade as he, Steve and Bucky take lunch out on the patio.

Bucky and Steve are pressed close together. It’d be odd, if it wasn’t so commonplace. But Peter expects it now. They’re childhood friends. It’s fine, probably. He tries not to think about it too much. Because he knows Steve. And Steve is kind and loyal, and even if he wanted to- he wouldn’t cheat on Peter.

Unfortunately, Peter thinks Steve might want to. More and more lately, now that Bucky’s basically been living here to help with the campaign.

“Thanks, Sweatpea,” Bucky murmurs, as Peter refills his glass.

For the man who’s stealing away his husband, Peter should probably like Bucky less. “No problem, James. Do you guys want more pecan pie?”

“It’s alright, sugar. Steve and I will eat at the community luncheon.”

Peter blinks. He turns to Steve, who looks away bashfully.

“What?” Bucky asks, reading their faces.

“We were invited to the Harrisson’s gala this afternoon.” Peter points out, still looking at Steve’s face, “it’s a great opportunity to raise some funds-”

“It’s a stuck up crowd,” Bucky points out, not incorrectly, “not exactly who we want associated with Steve’s campaign.”

“Right,” Peter hums, because Steve had a choice between him and Bucky, and Bucky’s already won.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” Steve says earnestly, reaching his large hand across the table to take Peter’s. Bucky looks away. “I just feel the luncheon has a lot more to offer. You can go to the gala by yourself, can’t you? You’re more than amazing without me dragging you down.”

Not true. Peter thinks, because as much as he loves being free, Steve’s all-American home spun wholesomeness always leaves a trail of admirers.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “You guys have fun.”

He collects the rest of the dishes and takes them inside, unaware that he has a Bucky-shaped shadow until he’s corned next to the kitchen sink.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky says, bowing his head, and Peter half-smiles. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I knew you guys had already-”

“It’s alright.” Peter says softly, “I think he would rather be with you anyway.”

Bucky’s eyes snap to his, ice-blue and frightened and hopeful. “Pete…” he says, voice a little raw. “It’s not…”

“You guys alright in there?” Steve calls from outside.

Peter ducks under Bucky’s arm, and it isn’t very difficult to make his voice bright when he calls back: “Just fine!”

***

The Harrison’s own a ridiculously nice estate, and Peter only feels a little out of place. He’s in the dark blue silks he brought with him to LA all those years ago, and Mr Harrisson greets him warmly at the door.

It’s...better than he thought it would be. It turns out he doesn’t really need Steve. At all, actually. He’s clever and he has his degree and he knows a lot about the environment. People like him. They respond to him. It’s-

“Just look at you,” comes a whistle, and Peter turns slowly to see Tony Stark in a tuxedo.

Fuck. It’s a very tasty sight. Tastier than the crab rolls being handed out, and they were pretty damn incredible.

“You’re just working the room, aren’t you, honey?” Tony drawls, voice dripping with appreciation and something low and dark and-

“I’m uh, I’m trying,” Peter manages, feeling his cheeks flush.

Tony looks like he wants to step closer, but he doesn’t. Peter kind of- maybe a little- wants him too. “And where’s your very lucky husband?”

“Oh, he’s...he’s not here.”

Tony’s eyes light up. “Really? Well, how about you and me get some air?”

The Harrison’s house sits on the beach, and Peter kicks off his shoes and is pulled down onto the sand as easy as breathing.

God, the ocean air. He rolls up his trousers, sinks his feet into the cold, trembling waves.

“Just look at you,” Tony hums, and Peter turns to see he’s being watched, and Tony’s skin looks even better lit by the sunset.

“You said that already,” he points out, feeling bolder, braver, now that he’s out on the beach.

“Well, maybe that’s because I can’t stop looking at you.”

Peter blushes, before stepping into the water a little further. “Are you going to join me? Or do you hate the ocean as much as you claim?”

Tony obligingly toes off his shoes. “Never said I hated the ocean. Don’t get me mixed up with Beck. I just know that sometimes we’ve gotta sacrifice things in the name of progress. Technology. The future.”

Tony pulls off his bowtie, slips off his jacket, and then comes and wades into his knees.

“Gotta sacrifice things,” Peter echoes, “like the ocean. Like trees. Who needs ‘em, right? They only give us oxygen.”

Tony grins at him. “You’re a firecracker, aren’t you, Peter? I thought you liked my mall. Or wasn’t that you? In that gorgeous little aerobics get up? Eating one of those danishes- to die for, aren’t they? Wasn’t that you, sighing at a colour tv?”

Peter scoffs because he doesn’t have a comeback, and he glances out at the horizon.

“You were mine, sweetheart, you’d be purring away with that tv at your feet. I’d buy you a hundred if you wanted ‘em. You wouldn’t want for anything.”

Jesus. Peter tries to stifle the flood of arousal that courses through him. “I’d be wanting for a husband that cared about protecting our coast line.” He manages, though it sounds a little weak.

“The coast line,” Tony hums, reaching a hand down to plunge into the water. “The beach. You a surfer?”

“No, I just...I like the beach, it makes me feel…” free “...it’s the beach. It’s nature. It’s not for us to bend and re-shape for another mall, Tony.”

Tony chuckles, “I do like to hear you say my same.”

Peter scowls, and heads back for the sand. A few splashes later, Tony follows. “You can’t...I don’t know, you can’t seduce me into supporting you.”

Tony’s hand grips around his wrist just before Peter reaches his shoes, and he’s looking up into very dark brown eyes, and a very, very appealing mouth. “I’m not trying to change your mind.” Tony murmurs, “I’m just trying to see where it is you stand. You like the mall, you didn’t mind the trees being cut down there, but the beach. The beach is where you have a problem. It’s your line.”

“It-it’-it’s not about me.” Peter stutters, feeling exposed, “My husband is the one running for-”

“And I am trying to seduce you. Have been since I saw you in that advert. Couldn’t get you out of my head. Thought they’d hired a model at first, and then I found out you were married to him. I couldn’t believe it.”

Oh. Warmth buzzes through his skin, flattered and delighted and giddy, Peter doesn’t know what in the name of hell possesses him to say: “He’s not going to be my husband for much longer.”

Tony’s eyebrows lift in surprise. Then he smirks. His hand is still wrapped around Peter’s wrist. “That so?”

A few other guests pull out onto the beach now, and Peter spots Mrs Harrisson in the distance.

“Save our wave, Mr Stark,” he whispers, unable to stop smiling, as he gathers his shoes and heads over.

***

He and Steve have sex that night.

It’s the best sex they’ve had in a long time. Passionate, erotic, and Peter knows why. It’s because he was just with Tony, and Steve was just with Bucky, and they’re both pretending.

Afterwards, still warm from the haze, they look at one another.

“I’m so sorry, Pete,” Steve whispers, voice-choked up, and Peter brushes away his tears.

“Don’t be. Where you are, it’s where I am. You and Bucky are made for each other.”

“You have someone too?” Steve asks. Peter nods. “Okay. Okay, but not till...not till after the campaign. Divorce…” the word makes him jerk a little, and Peter soothes him, “it could rock things.”

“After the campaign,” Peter nods, and they sleep in each other’s arms, and maybe it shouldn’t feel like everything’s going to be okay, but it does.

***

Steve annihilates Tony in the televised debate.

Peter knew he would. Tony is clever and pithy, but Steve is earnest, and kind, and people can see that. They can feel that. Tony handles it as well as he can, but it’s clear by the end of the interview- Steve is ahead.

Peter swims back towards the shore.

He’s still wet as he pads into the mall and heads for the pastry-store.

“I’ll get that,” Tony says, appearing from nowhere and handing over the money before Peter can fish his wallet from his ocean-wet shorts.

Tony’s hand is on the small of his back then, guiding him towards the food court, and soon Peter’s eating his pastry on a plastic red chair, and looking at Tony with wide, innocent eyes.

Tony breaks first.

“So, your husband’s campaign is a little stronger than I thought.”

Peter laughs. The sound seems to make Tony light up, and that just- Peter’s stomach tightens.

“My advisor’s are a little worried.”

“Steve is very good.” Peter agrees, taking another bite.

Tony leans across the table, and his cologne makes Peter want. “I’m better, though, Pete, is the thing.”

“Are we still talking about the campaign?”

“Let’s get dinner.” Tony says suddenly, “please. I know it’s early, but I am burning with it, Pete. I think about you all the time, I can’t keep staking out beaches and malls hoping to run into you.”

“What if someone sees us? What about Steve’s campaign-”

“It’d hurt mine just the same. Who gets the sympathy? The man being cheated on, or the man who slept with a married guy?”

Peter pulls the pastry apart with his fingers. “Just dinner?”

“At my house.”

Peter laughs, scandalised, “dinner at your house? How easy do you think I am?”

“Not easy at all. You’re fucking difficult, sweetheart. Look at what you’re wearing, fuck, it’s like you want to torture me.”

Peter tries not to blush and fails. His voice is gentle though, when he voices his main concern: “And what happens if once you’ve...once we’ve...what happens then? Curiosity satisfied, you might not want to see me anymore.”

Tony reaches across the table to touch Peter’s hand. Peter looks around worriedly, but nobody is paying them any mind.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Tony whispers, more serious than Peter has ever seen him. “Peter, I would never get bored of you.”

“It’s happened before,” Peter says weakly, and doesn’t realise how true it is until it’s spoken aloud. The pain for the divorce yet to happen ripples across his chest. Oh god, where has this been? Someone loved him once, and then found someone else-

“I’m gonna crush him.” Tony vows, voice vicious, as soon as he spots the glitter of Peter’s tears. “I’m going to destroy his campaign-”

“No, no,” Peter insists, sniffling, and managing a small smile. “Steve is- he’s a good guy, Tony. A good guy with a good cause, you don’t need to,” Peter huffs fondly, “you don’t need to protect my honour.

“Alright,” Tony says, a little bit like he’s unconvinced, so Peter squeezes his hand.

“I want to have dinner with you. I want to feel your hands on me- I- I think about it all the time. And afterwards, I want...more.” Peter looks down at their hands. “You said you’d get me anything.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Tony whispers, “I’m going to give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

***

The mall gets made.

In the next town over. The beach is saved. Steve wins.

They divorce.

Steve hugs him. Bucky hugs him. There’s a lot of crying, but then Peter’s being picked up in a ludicrously nice hot-red car, and there’s Tony and kissing and a house in Malibu right on the sand.

There’s a wedding, and teasing, and arguments. There’s sex. A lot of sex. There’s swimming and living and life under the sun.

There’s a thousand things. A million things.

And every day with Tony promises more.

When Peter wakes up, ready for the beach, Tony slathers him with suncream and for some reason it doesn’t feel like he’s trapped.

Maybe it was never about the suncream.

He still loves the beach. And the sunshine. And the gulls swooping low and the sand under his toes, but-

But he doesn’t need it to feel free. He feels free right here, in bed, tangled up with Tony and the promise of more.

[desperationandgin]

Deep As The Road is Long (Part 1, Chapter 8)

Rating: Slightly Mature

Also Read On: AO3

A/N: I promise, this is the 8th chapter in 28 chapters. The journey is a long one. I hope you’ll trust me.

Read Previous Chapter

November 2015

Thanksgiving, as cobbled together by two non-Americans, turns out not that badly. It wouldn’t have happened at all if Faith hadn’t been captivated by commercials on television, but the ads for the Macy’s Parade clenched it. For as passionate as she’d been about Halloween, she’s just as enthusiastic about Thanksgiving. Together, father and daughter looked up traditional foods and they needed to have turkey, that was a given they decided together. Jamie let her pick whatever else she wanted and by the time he was done writing a list (dressing, not stuffing, because stuffing in the bird was too weird, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, dinner rolls, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie), he’d realized it was too much food. He ordered everything because he couldn’t cook it all in the small apartment but nevertheless, it was too much food.

Naturally, he’d had to call Claire and invite her to dinner.

The night before, Faith couldn’t sleep at all. They’d picked up the food and he was right - it was more food than he’d even imagined. She’d said plenty of times that there was enough for everyone back home and for a while they talked about when they could go home again. He’s glad she wants to be back at Lallybroch, but hates not knowing what it would do to him and Claire. He likes her; more than likes her, really. It’s something he didn’t consider for himself again, and with Faith being sick, he hadn’t thought there was room for any feelings other than fear, sadness, and guilt.

It changed one day while she was adjusting an IV. Jamie stepped out of the room, just to give Jenny a small update over the phone and when he looked back in through the window, he’d watched Claire. Watched the way she laughed freely with Faith, the tender kiss she’d placed to the side of her head while hugging her. He watched the way Faith brightened to see Claire and something shifted in him. Claire Randall didn’t just care. She truly loved these children, and he knew then that someone this giving deserved to be loved and cared for in return.

Of course, he had no idea then if he was the right person for it. He still doesn’t know and he might not be, but he’s decided to do his best, while he can.

The promise of a parade and seeing Santa Claus has been too much for Faith to bear, so they’re up early, coffee brewing for Jamie as he gets her settled on the couch with the parade on. He smiles at every exclamation (It’s Sesame Street! Da, look, a Dora balloon!) as he sits on the couch beside her and watches. He watches her face, the way she bobs her head along to a few songs she may or may not know. It’s less interesting the fewer bits she understands or recognizes, and after not sleeping at all the night before, she falls asleep during a Broadway performance (School of Rock). Jamie lets her sleep until the very end, then gently wakes her so she can see Santa. It makes her so happy, something so small, and he answers all of her questions the best he can about how Santa will find them all the way in America. (He already sent Santa an email about it, so it’s fine, he promises.)

Shortly after the parade ends and some sort of dog show begins, Claire arrives, arms loaded with more food that has Jamie eying her as he relieves her of the load. “Did ye no’ hear me when I said we have enough here to feed an army?” he asks with a barely suppressed smirk.

“I heard you, but this is my first time to really celebrate an American Thanksgiving, too. I heard rumors of sweet potato casserole with marshmallows on top and that’s too odd sounding not to try. And I thought we might as well have a pecan pie. Tradition, Jamie,” she says with a faux ‘tsk.’

After he helps her put things down in the kitchen, his lips press to her forehead, then her lips.

“Where’s my little greeter?” Claire asks, only realizing now that there was no shout of happiness to see her.

“Oh, asleep. She didna sleep much last night, then woke up earlier than the Almighty Himself to see the parade.” It hadn’t even started yet, but what could he possibly deny that little girl? “Which means I have ye all to myself for now,” Jamie murmurs before kissing her again with his hands at her hips. His tongue seeks permission to taste, and when her lips part there’s a low groan of approval into her mouth. Slowly, he presses her against the fridge, one hand wandering up and down her side now before slipping under her shirt.

“Feeling me up in your kitchen?” Claire asks with a grin against his mouth.

“Too much?”

There’s a laugh now as she kisses him again, pulling back briefly. “No, not at all. Very romantic. Just you and me and the turkey.”

He laughs into their next kiss and his hand resumes its travel, fingers lightly ghosting over her stomach before cupping her breast, dragging his thumb across a nipple even through the fabric. He can feel her shiver and in a way, it isn’t fair. They certainly aren’t going to do much more than this with Faith asleep on the couch, and Jamie raises his head to look at Claire and the way her cheeks have flushed with want. “We should…” He swallows, drawing his hand away and holding onto her over her clothes now.

“Right,” she breathes out, hands relaxing from the way they’d been gripping the back of his shirt.

There’s an offer for her to stay overnight on the tip of his tongue, but it’s been such a long time, for both of them, and he isn’t sure he’s ready. Parts of him certainly are, but taking her to his bed and making her fall apart with their clothes still on are two very different things. With the lack of invitation comes something else; one thigh between her legs as he kisses her again and drinks her moan. He relishes the feel of her hands back at his shirt, tugging downward desperately.

“Jamie...”

“I changed my mind. Christ, I want to see ye fall apart again,” he breathes out, encouraging her to use him, to use the friction. When she begins to grind against him shamelessly he groans and a hand moves back under her shirt as his lips press to the side of her neck in heated open-mouthed kisses.

There’s just enough pressure that she has to rock with no restraint as she concentrates on the sparks of pleasure that blossom low in her belly. She can feel it when she has the perfect spot, but it isn’t enough friction. It’s maddening, so before she can think about it, really, she gasps out one simple two-word command. “Touch me.”

Jamie’s head rears back almost comically fast as he looks at her, trying to be sure of what she said. Her eyes open slowly, and God the arousal has blown them wide; he knows by looking at her that he heard correctly. With her permission, his hand carefully moves to the button of her jeans, the zipper, working them both enough that he can slip his hand beneath the denim and fabric of her underwear. The moment his fingers touch her flesh he grunts, low in the back of his throat, to feel how wet she is.

Her reaction is slightly more, body jolting as if kissed by lightning. She’s not quiet by nature but she’s trying, pressing her lips together tightly while he touches and she jerks into his hand, fingers finally circling and stroking exactly where she needs him. “There, right there,” she gasps, holding onto him, pressing her face to his neck. He moves faster and the pleasure turns from simmering to explosive in a matter of seconds as she comes apart, letting out a sob of relief that’s muffled by his neck.

After a solid minute goes by, Jamie moves his hand, softly kissing her lips now. “That’s what I wanted to see,” he murmurs, turning his head to let his nose nuzzle against the side of hers.

Once she can breathe again, Claire takes a deep breath and pulls back, looking at him and exhaling contently. “How did I know you’d be good with your hands?”

The resulting laugh is a little too loud and it rouses Faith, but it doesn’t matter now. While Jamie cools off in the kitchen, Claire goes to join the other part of her company on the couch, happily wrapping her up. Not long after, the three of them sit to eat together, trying the new foods, deciding that cranberry sauce is delicious mixed into the dressing, the burnt marshmallows are terrible, and pie is really all that matters. They eat enough to put themselves into food comas in the living room afterward. Jamie lays along the couch with Faith spread on top of him, and Claire curls up in a recliner, fully reclined and asleep in the chair about ten minutes into something animated bouncing on the screen.

Friday, while the rest of the world shops, Claire goes back to work after promising Faith she’ll see her on Monday for her checkup. For Jamie and his daughter, it’s a lazy day spent watching movies. She doesn’t stay awake for most of them and he’s content to hold her, fingers idly playing with the little curls on top of her head while he watches Moana alone.

Sometime in the night, during the still-inky blackness of a Sunday morning, a soft whimpering of his name finally rouses Jamie from sleep. Listening in the dark for a few minutes, he finally hears it again, Faith calling out for him. Out of bed and tugging a shirt on, he goes to her room where he can hear her, crying, whimpering. “Mo leannan,” he murmurs with a frown, sitting and reaching for her and immediately waking fully at the touch. “Christ, ye have a fever,” he says, feeling her now, realizing how hot she is.

“Daddy, I dinna feel good.”

He tries to quell the panic, the feel of his stomach rising up to his throat. “Where does it hurt, Faith?”

After a few moments of her quietly contemplating, thinking and sniffling, she looks up at him with wide blue eyes. “Everywhere.”

He begs her to be more specific, and then he’s on the phone out in the living room, calling Claire in a panic. There’s no time to register the groggy sound of her voice. “She has a fever, Claire. She woke and said she’s in pain.” Jamie pauses, choking on his fear for a few precious seconds. “She said her bones hurt her.”

Claire’s fully awake at that, sitting up in bed. “Get her to the hospital. Now. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Take her, Jamie.” She doesn’t bother with reassurances to ease his panic. They both know, they know rates and statistics; her because she has to, him because of sleepless nights researching. There’s a second, though, a heartbeat of silence they can both feel, a shared twist of their hearts before she hangs up and throws on a pair of scrubs. Everything about this is urgent to her, personal. She knows a line has blurred, but if she stops to refocus now, she won’t be able to do her job.

When she arrives she nearly jogs into the ER, upset to see that Jamie’s still in triage with Faith, knowing it’s protocol until a doctor decides to admit. She takes it upon herself to do so but before beginning all the tests, before finding out something concrete, her hands take Jamie’s, looking right at him and holding on tightly. She says nothing, he says nothing. Whatever comes next, she’s there.

It takes eighty minutes from the time they have the MRI done to Claire viewing the results on a computer monitor. Looking at them, she simply closes the tab and takes a breath, steadying herself. She’s done this before. She has to do it now and she’ll have to do it again in the future, most likely. Her own dam can’t break. It has to be locked down for her to make it through this part. But as soon as she walks into Faith’s room, as soon as Jamie looks at her, she knows that he knows. When he joins her in the hallway, one of her hands reaches out to rest on his shoulder. She wants to vomit and would rather do that than say the words. But she has to tell him.

“It’s back, Jamie. It’s spread.” Too far.

He knows without her having to say more; if there was something to be done for it he knows she’d look the way she did the first day they met: ready to fight, ready to give the cancer hell. He doesn’t ask where it’s spread to. Maybe he should. Does it matter?

“How--how long?” He can’t look up, can’t meet her gaze, and instead stares at the floor.

“A few months.”

“A number, Claire. Give me…”

“Two. Maybe three good months, Jamie.”

Those words are the knife to his heart and he leans over, hands on his knees as a sob tears through him. Claire’s arms go around his body and somehow they wind up right there on the floor, his forehead pressed to her shoulder. She’s been here, she’s held parents, it’s nothing the nurses haven’t seen before, but it’s different for Claire. One hand makes its way to the back of his head, rocking while he weeps against her. She whispers that she’s sorry, feels her heart twist in her chest because she promised to do the best she could. Had she? Did she think of everything or did she fail Faith because she wasn’t good enough?

When he’s quiet, Claire rubs his back and then carefully stands, helping him up. “I’ll sit with her if you need to--”

“No. No, I have her,” he tells her, voice broken. Without saying anything else or acknowledging Claire further, he walks back into the room and leaves her standing alone in the empty hallway. Blindly, she walks to the bathroom and locks the door, pressing her back against it. Before a cry can choke its way out of her she covers her mouth and squeezes her eyes shut tightly. On Thursday, she watched a sweet little girl eat her way through an American tradition.

Now, she’s going to die.

Slowly, Claire sinks to the floor, crouching as she buries her face in her hands and sobs.

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