Ficlet: Fourth Time's a Charm
This is a Valentine’s(ish) story. Yes, I suck at deadlines. Let’s just pretend April 18th is the new February 14th. Kinda like fedoras are the new invisibility cloak. Sound good?
Not beta’d; blame the mistakes on me.
Also, it's long. Really long. Almost 5,000 words long. My bad.
Title: Fourth Time's a Charm
Author: chebomic
Rating: R for language and stuff.
Spoilers: None. It’s Valentine’s Day a couple years after the finale. Assumes the baby was born around Thanksgiving and is now two years old.
Archive: Just lemmie know.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them, they belong to someone else, I’m not profiting in any way, just for fun, etc.
A/N: You should probably read Not What I Expected first; you might have a WTF moment otherwise. Same alterations regarding Rafe; he went to college not training camp. Olivia’s POV.
A/N 2: Briefly mentions Olivia’s rape. And when I say briefly, I mean briefly.
We’ve been together for, what?
Three years?
I guess it all depends on when you think it all started, which is debatable.
Natalia swears-swears-that she was in love with me before the My Two Mommies debacle, that she was just in major denial about it.
“I knew what I wanted, I just didn’t know that I wanted it.”
That’s we she told me during our first dance together at the double-wedding after she came back. What she meant, I have no fucking clue. But I’ll take it.
Now, like I told her that same day, I was in love with her even before Gus died.
She didn’t believe me at first.
“Olivia, come on. How could you even say that? We hated each other.”
True. But there’s a fine line between love and hate, which is what I told her.
“OK then, Captain Cliché. Then explain to me exactly when you fell for me.”
“Dancing,” I’d stated matter-of-factly.
“Dancing? We’ve never danced until, well, now.”
Again, true. “You danced with Emma. Twirled her, actually.”
“What?”
I couldn’t believe she didn’t remember.
“I was dying, you were hovering and Emma wanted to be twirled...”
“So I twirled her for you,” she’d finished.
“You did.”
She hadn’t forgotten. Lucky me.
“You knew that early on?”
“Mmm, think so. You were a good twirler. And you loved my kid.”
“Our kid.”
“Exactly.”
Anyway, whatever start date you want to stamp onto our relationship, today is our third Valentine’s Day as an official couple.
Can you believe it?
I sure as hell can’t.
But it is. And the sad part about it is that this will be the first one we actually celebrate. Let’s just say that in the past we haven’t had the best luck when the fourteenth day of the second month rolls around.
The first time it came was when the Bear was just a few months old.
That one can be summed up pretty quickly: We forgot.
Completely spaced it.
Not until Emma came home with a stack of Valentines from seemingly every boy at school did we realize.
Woops.
Blame the Bear.
Thanks to her, Mommy and Mama were running on empty and wearing burp cloths as T-shirts.
Sorry, Cupid.
The second one, well, that definitely wasn’t romantic.
Natalia actually ended up in jail on that one.
Just an overnight hold, but still.
Natalia went to jail.
Tee hee.
You see, Jeffrey had decided to come back from the dead that day.
Just waltzed back into town all alive and talking about how he was just protecting us from Edmund.
I was pretty sure Edmund was dead, but you never know with that asshole.
So, I wasn’t mad at Jeffrey.
I called him a fucking moron and slapped him, sure.
But I wasn’t mad.
Natalia, on the other hand, was.
But not because he had fucked with the entire town, deserted Reva and Colin, or put our eldest daughter through living hell.
No.
She was pissed because he showed up on our porch.
Oh, Jeffrey.
Stoopid Jeffrey.
It only took me a couple months after I moved back to the farmhouse to realize that I couldn’t keep anything from Natalia.
Anything.
So after a few weeks of pretty consistent nightmares and two unwarranted trips to the hospital to appease my overbearing girlfriend, I’d just come out and told her.
Probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, considering I just blurted it out.
“When I was sixteen I was raped. By Jeffrey.”
Bam.
There it was.
She wanted to know, and now she did.
She’d cried, I’d cried.
“He’s lucky he’s dead,” she’d told me.
I believed her.
And so when Jeffrey had showed up on our porch looking for Ava-who just happened to be in town for a visit-Natalia went ape shit.
Came busting out the front door with the Gummi Bear in tow shooting Natalia-shaped daggers at him.
She handed me Francesca and told me to go inside.
I did.
An hour later Jeffrey was at Cedars with several icepacks on his groin, five stitches on his eyebrow, a couple bruised ribs and a broken nose.
Good times.
Wisely, Jeffrey told Rick that he’d just tripped, but Natalia had walked in with a smug grin on her face so Remy decided to throw her in a cell for a bit.
No charges, nothing. Just a little time to cool off.
I’m not sure we’ll ever top that Valentine’s Day, but this one is going to be fucking fantastic.
I’m going to put a disclaimer on that statement by saying this: I hate Valentine’s Day.
The whole thing is just ridiculous.
Fabricated.
A consumerist fauxliday manufactured for an über-capitalist society.
Stupid.
I’ve always thought so.
And now I’m going to amend my previous disclaimer: I love Natalia Rivera.
Are you getting my drift?
Olivia’s love for Natalia Rivera > Olivia’s hatred for Valentine’s Day
Valentine’s Day be damned, I’m making my woman happy.
And if I do say so myself, I’ve started off quite well.
By the time Natalia made it downstairs for breakfast I already had the coffee brewed and both girls fed. There was a vase of fresh picked daisies waiting on the kitchen table, too.
Simple, but she loved it.
And I got see the dimples come out early.
Bonus.
When she finally noticed the real surprise she actually squealed in delight.
All I’d done was take that old piece of molding from her apartment in Chicago and put it in the doorway between the kitchen and the washroom, but she freaked out.
“How did you do this?”
“Hammer. Nails. Mild cursing.”
“It’s wonderful,” she’d said. "Now I can keep track of all our kids in one place.”
“Not to mention that it looks better as part of an actual door than just leaning by the hat rack.”
She’d rolled her eyes at me, not liking the sarcasm. But it keeps me from getting to mushy, so sarcasm is a must.
And tonight, when the girls are with their respective baby daddies, I’m making her dinner.
Again, it’s simple. But that’s what she likes, so that’s what she’ll get.
Right now we’re in Company waiting to meet Rafe for lunch. Ever since Christmas he’s been coming back on weekends more often. I have this feeling-it’s a bit unnerving really-that he’s checking up on me. Waiting for me to fuck up so he can be there to pick up the pieces. I don’t like it, but I’ll prove him wrong.
Speak of the devil, here he is.
“Hey guys.” He scotches in the booth next to me and bumps my shoulder.
“Wafe!”
“Hello, Miss Fran-Stan,” he leans over me and bops the Bear on the nose.
“Rafael,” Natalia sighs. “Please stop calling her Fran-Stan. Or Franny-Panny.”
“Or Frying Pan!” Emma pipes in.
“Alright, Ma. OK.” He looks properly chastised and reaches over again to bop her on the nose once more. “Hello, Miss Bear!”
“Rafe!” Natalia groans and bangs her head on the table, muttering something about why her own children must encourage her crazy girlfriend.
“Fiancée,” I correct her from across the table.
Francesca is now growling at Rafe, who is pretending to be afraid by hiding behind his menu.
“So, Ma,” Emma starts, “you ready to be wooed?”
“Wooed?” Rafe inquires.
“Ooooze?” The Bear tries to copy her big bro but frowns. She knows that didn’t come out right. “Ooood. Ooood.”
“Wha-wha-wooed,” Emma explains.
“Ewwwed,” Francesca tries.
“Let’s hope not,” I mumble, taking a sip of my water. “Yes, Rafe. Wooed. Tonight I am wooing your mother. It’s our first Valentine’s Day.”
He frowns at me.
“Long story.”
“Whatever you say.”
Blake comes over to take our order, and doesn't shy away from showing us her shiny new engagement ring.
Talk about being ewwwed.
I mean, Frank? Really? Gross.
Poor Doris.
“He proposed today!” she explains, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“That’s great!” Natalia kicks me under the table and motions for me to say something.
“Peachy.”
When she and Natalia are done comparing rings-Frank’s taste is questionable-Blake finally goes to place our order.
“Aren’t you glad I didn’t buy you that lump of coal?”
“Olivia, be nice. Her ring is…special.” I snort at this. “And you got me a cookie at first. So I’d be quiet.”
She’s got me there.
Emma starts giggling and we all look over to see that Francesca has a green crayon shoved up her nose.
While Natalia works on removing foreign objects from our daughter’s nasal cavity, Rafe and I peruse the menu and ignore each other.
I’ve been staring at the word lettuce for a good while when he clears his throat.
“So.”
“So.” This is going to be a groundbreaking conversation, I can feel it.
“You’re wooing Ma tonight, huh?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Hmmm. Want some advice?” He sets down his menu.
I stare at him.
“Don’t fuck it up.”
Straight to the point, I see.
He smiles and then busts up laughing, swatting me playfully on the arm.
Two pizzas and four sundaes-Natalia wouldn’t let me have one-later and we’re pulling into the farmhouse driveway. Rafe went to see a movie with some friends, but the girls are in the back seat waiting impatiently for the car to stop so they can go play.
I swear Francesca is just as energetic as Emma.
Nature vs. Nurture, me thinks.
I put the car in park and the Bean pushes the door open and starts running to the backyard.
More like a backforest.
“OUT!” the Bear screams, tugging excitedly at the straps of her carseat.
Natalia laughs and climbs out of the passenger’s seat, opening the back door and unbuckling the poor kid.
“I’ll be back,” she informs me.
I get out of the car and watch my wife-to-be carry our littlest about halfway to where Emma is and set her down, telling to her to be careful before letting her waddle off.
I make my way into the house and Natalia is not far behind me.
“The girls are in the treehouse,” she says when she comes inside.
“Mmm.”
I’m trying not to look at her because if I do I’ll jump her. She’s wearing some jeans with one of my Beacon shirts. It’s too big for her, but the combination of hanging and clinging it’s doing on her lovely chest leaves little to the imagination. I told myself tonight was going to be romantic, so I refuse to go there right now.
Refuse.
“Do you want a snack?”
“We just ate.”
I’m sitting at the kitchen table and staring down at the newspaper. Suddenly I’m overcome with an unusual interest in the crossword.
Four across. Lights on fire. Seven letters.
Simple. I write it in.
N-A-T-A-L-I-A.
She walks up behind me and peers over my shoulder.
“I’m not sure that’s what they were looking for,” she chuckles.
I frown. “What else could it be?”
She shakes her head thinking I’m being silly. Perhaps she assumes ignites would be a better choice, but that wouldn't work with five down. Body part. Three letters.
A-S-S.
No silliness here. Crosswords are serious business. And these are serious answers.
“Want some?” She gestures at the jar of peanut butter in her hand.
I shake my head no. “I’m saving room for the delicious meal I’m making you tonight.”
She laughs. Why is she laughing? I told her this morning that I used to be a chef; apparently she thinks I’m lying. Consequence of not mentioning it in three years, I guess. Eh.
“I couldn’t really eat at Company,” she says. “I always feel like Marina is hovering and Frank is going to pop-up out of nowhere. Makes me paranoid.”
“Welcome to my life,” I mutter.
She opens the jar up and dips a finger in, coming out with a good-sized lump. It disappears into her mouth and her finger comes out with a pop a second later, leaving a little bit on her bottom lip.
She’s fucking with me.
She knows peanut butter is my weakness.
Sneaky.
“What?”
“What?” I parrot.
“What’s sneaky?”
Why am I always saying shit out loud?
“Nothing, crossword puzzle. Five letter word for sly. Sneaky.”
“That’s six letters.”
“Right.” Damn her and her counting skills.
She giggles a bit and wipes at her lip. I guess she figured out I wasn’t falling for the peanut butter.
Point Spencer.
She gets up to put the jar back in to pantry, gliding her hand reverently across the new, mismatched doorway as she goes.
“Oh no.”
“What?” This seems to be number one on my list of limited vocabulary for the day.
“I got peanut butter on it! Rafe’s ten year mark is smudged!”
She’s staring worriedly at the doorframe, and decides the best way to address the issue is by using the corner of her shirt to wipe at it. Then she grabs a pen out of a drawer and goes over the mark again.
“Better,” she sighs.
And then she takes off her shirt.
“What are you doing?”
She’s not allowed to do that.
“Rinsing the peanut butter out,” she explains, sticking the shirt under the faucet of what she likes to call our rustic washbasin.
She grabs another shirt from on top of the drier and starts putting it on. It’s one of my work shirts. White button up.
Uh oh.
She leaves it hanging open as she works on the shirt and turns back to me.
“So what do you wanna do until Jane gets here?”
“I can think of a few things.”
“Like?”
“Uhm.”
Well, there are lots of things I can think of but I refuse to do them. Because, like I said before, tonight is going to be romantic. I’m not fucking it up now.
“Feeding the ducks,” I offer.
She shuts off the faucet and starts wringing out the shirt. “Uh. Sure. If that’s what you want.”
I don’t.
“There should be some older bread in the breadbox,” she half-yells as she stretches to hang up the shirt on a hook above the drier. “Grab it.”
Now that’s the best advice I’ve heard in a while.
I know I have the will power of an ant, but fuck romantic.
I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again.
Sex isn’t always polite.
And now isn’t the time for me to start minding my manners.
I get up from the table and walk over to her. She turns around just as I’m about two feet away from her.
“What are you doing?”
“Grabbing it,” I explain, picking her up and setting her on the drier.
For about two seconds I think she is going to scold me about how I’m not supposed to lift anything heavy, but instead she just smirks.
She planned this all along.
“Sneaky.”
“Yup,” she nods, grabbing the back of my neck and pulling me into a kiss.
She wastes no time shoving her tongue in my mouth, and I gladly return the favor.
Yum.
Tongues are magical little creatures, aren’t they?
I move to her neck and push her-my-shirt open even more.
“Olivia.”
I’m a little too busy to answer so I just ignore her and continue on my merry way.
“Hurry up,” she commands, grabbing my hand and pushing it down.
I’ve just shoved my hand down her pants-she’s going commando again, yay-when I hear it.
Sounds like screaming.
I ignore it, filter it out. She does too. Probably the kids playing Franks and Robbers again.
Plus, there are more important things at the moment.
Like, for instance, my hand in her shirt.
Or her legs wrapping around my waist.
Or the way her hips are now moving against my other hand.
All more important.
I start nibbling her ear, licking it. She likes that, I know. And I like the cartoon-like “oh my!” that comes with it. Win-Win.
“Fuck, you’re so wet.”
“Liv…” Her legs tighten around me, and I really wish her God made humans with four arms, because I’d really like to grab her ass right about now. Unfair.
And there it is again.
The screaming.
Only this time we both freeze.
It’s the Bear.
Shit.
I reluctantly separate from her and she lets out a little grunt, her feet landing lightly back on the floor.
She starts to frantically zip her jeans, and I run over to the sink.
“Olivia, what are you doing?”
“Washing my hand!”
She looks at me like I’m the stupidest fuck to ever walk the planet, buttoning her shirt back up as she does. She skipped a button, misaligned one, I don’t know. I see boob.
“It’s got…stuff on it.” That came out more like a question than I’d planned. Huh.
“Stuff?”
“Your stuff!” I point accusingly at her.
“Well, when you’re done getting my stuff of your hand, why don’t you come help me find out why our youngest daughter is screaming bloody murder. Sound good?” She huffs out the door and slams it.
Point.
I guess the stuff doesn’t really matter.
But my hands already under the faucet so the stuff might as well go.
Gone.
When I finally get outside Natalia is carefully making her way down a nearby hill with Francesca wailing on her hip.
Shit.
How the hell did she get all the way over there that fast?
Superhero.
They’re at least a hundred or so yards away, but Nat looks pale. Real pale. As pale as Marina I’m-A-Bitch Cooper would look if she didn’t bathe in a vat of self-tanner on a bimonthly basis.
And then I notice that Emma is hightailing it behind them.
In the opposite direction.
Oh, fuck no.
“Emma Jellybean Spencer! You turn that little ass around. Right. Now!”
I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but that kid ain’t going nowhere if she knows what’s good for her.
And she must, because the second I scream her name she stops, turns slowly around, and then starts sprinting in the other direction.
Down the hill, past Natalia and the Bear, smack into me.
Umph.
“Jellybean, what is going on?”
I’m on the ground now. There’s a rock lodged oh-so-conveniently in my crack and I can feel that I’ve scraped my elbow in the fall. Pushing myself up on my hands, I peer over Emma’s head briefly to look at Natalia.
Still pale. Pissed too, it seems.
“I told her not to, Mommy!”
My attention is brought back to the Bean, whose stringy-ass limbs are locked awkwardly around me, making it difficult to get up off the ground.
Between Nat’s face, Francesca’s wailing and Emma’s sudden reversion to calling me Mommy, I know something’s wrong. Big time.
“Put her down, Olivia.”
Whoa. Angry fiancée. Not cool.
“I can’t.” My hands leave their resting place under the Bean’s bum and I flail ‘em in the air a bit, proving to her that the kid has a death grip on me. “What’s going on?”
She’s about fifty feet from me now, and she shifts a bit and starts walking to me sideways.
Sideways. Like a fucking show horse.
“What the fuck is going on, Natalia?”
This is just ridiculous.
For one, I’ve got an abnormally lanky eleven year old latched onto me, sobbing incoherently into my shoulder. I think I heard “don’t let her kill me” somewhere in there. And I definitely heard “I’m so fucked”, which I’ll have to address later.
Then, my other kid is latched similarly onto her Ma. Again, there’s sobbing. The screaming-one-second-hiccupping-for-air-the-next toddler type sobbing. The type that actually hurts to watch.
And Natalia is fucking side trotting at me. All pale and pissed and glaring.
“Put her down, Olivia. Now.”
God! What the hell does she want from me?
“I. Can’t.” I repeat, this time spinning in a circle to show once again that Emma’s might as well be superglued to my torso.
“Emma. Get down. NOW.”
Natalia’s ten feet away now, and I’m actually scared by the tone of her voice. The Jellybean immediately scrambles off me, but stands right at my side grabbing my wrist with both hands.
“Olivia, sit down.”
“Sit down?” I am not a dog. I may be her bitch, but I am not a dog. “No.”
“Sit,” she points at a large rock a few feet away. “Now.”
“Natalia, I don’t know what you’re playing at, bu-”
And that’s when I see it.
Red.
All over Natalia’s shirt.
How the hell did I not see that?
Everything gets quiet.
Natalia is saying something, I see her lips moving. She’s pointing at that fucking rock again. I look down at Emma-who has her eyes covered-and then back up at Francesca.
I wasn’t imagining.
My baby’s arm is hanging. Maybe dangling is a better word. It’s just there. Bent funny. Wrong.
There’s blood.
And there’s bone. I see bone. Coming out of my two year old baby’s arm.
She’s crying. Natalia’s still yelling, pointing. Emma’s tugging on my shirt.
And I’m dizzy.
Fuck.
I’m so dizzy.
Where’s that fucking rock?
Why’s it all dark all the sudden?
Man, it’s cold.
Ow.
My head hurts.
And so does my ass.
And my elbow.
What the fuck?
Oh. My. God.
Do you hear that?!
BEEPING.
No fucking way.
“When do you think she’ll wake up?”
That is definitely Natalia’s voice.
Shit.
“Whenever her stubborn ass feels like it,” Rick answers.
“Asshole,” I mutter.
With great effort I blink open my eyes, only to be met by the ugly fluorescent glow and puke green walls of Cedars Hospital.
Great.
“Oh, hey there, Olivia. So glad you decided to join us!”
I’m going to beat the shit out of this guy some day.
“Rick.” My eyes are adjusting quickly and my vision unblurs just in time to see the infamous Dr. Bauer hand Natalia a clipboard. “What happened?”
“Just sign it and you are free to leave,” he ignores me. “The nurse will be in to take everything out shortly. See ya, Spencer!”
Natalia walks over and I hear the door click closed in the background.
“What happened?” I ask again. “Don’t tell me I had a heart attack.”
“You didn’t have a heart attack. You just decided to sit on the rock with your head instead of your butt.”
What rock? I frown at her in confusion but before I can voice my question the door flies open.
“Mommy!”
The Jellybean runs over and practically jumps onto the hospital bed, earning a stern Emma Spencer from Natalia in the process.
“Mommy?” I mutter. Since when does she call-oh.
Oh.
Now I remember.
Kitchen. Sex. Screaming. Hill. Francesca. Blood. Ew.
“Are you OK, Mommy? I’m sorry. Does it hurt? Are you mad? Will you forgive me? Can you tell Mama not to hate me?”
Dang. This kid shoots of questions faster than Katie Couric at Sarah Palin.
“I’m fine, Bean. Don’t worry.”
The door opens again and Rafe walks in, carrying what looks like a passed out Bear in his arms.
“Feeling better, Mom?” he smirks.
Little punk.
“Fine, fine,” I wave him off. I point at the little human he’s carrying. “Gimme.”
Emma moves off the bed so Francesca can sit on me and decides that it’s her turn to be held by her big brother. He grunts a little at the size difference but smiles nonetheless.
Upon further inspection I realize the Bear’s not passed out, just, well, drugged up.
“Hey, Grrrr.” I give her little tummy a poke.
“Grrrr,” she giggles, drooling a little as her head lolls to the side.
“What the hell did that idiot give her?”
Natalia chuckles and shakes her head.
I don’t find this funny.
“Just a little sedative to calm her down and some pain meds,” she reaches over to ruffle our babies Diana Ross head. “She’ll be fine.”
“Grrrr,” Francesca confirms with a nod. “Lawly!”
She reaches into her pants and pulls out a lollipop. I don’t think this bodes well for her teen years.
“Rick gave it to her for being so brave,” Natalia fills in.
“A lot braver than her Mommy,” Rave chirps.
If he weren’t my son I’d smack him.
“Were you a big girl, my Gummi Bear?” I refocus my attention on my baby, who’s now sucking on her lawly, wrapper included.
Natalia rolls her eyes at the nickname, she still doesn’t approve.
Deal with it, I tell her with a glance.
“Ya I wud big, Grrrr,” she smiles.
“I’m so proud,” I say, grabbing the lollipop from her mouth, taking off the wrapper and shoving it back in before she can complain. I hand the slobbery paper over to Rafe, who looks slightly disgusted before tossing it and wiping his hand on his jeans. “And look, you got a cast too!”
“Ya!” she agrees, smacking the plaster shell against my cheek to make sure I knew it existed.
Ouch.
“It’s black,” I point. Her pudgy fingers look extra small poking out from the cast, and I can’t help but think that thing is going to reek in no time.
Francesca grins and screams happily, “I’s nunya!” She swings her arms wildly in the air.
I stare confused.
“She’s a ninja,” Emma giggles. “That’s why she jumped out of the tree.”
“Jumped out of the-”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Natalia cuts me off with an unhappy glare.
I’m guessing she has some things to say to me about watching old kung fu movies with the girls at night, so I’ll just have to inform her that kung fu masters are Chinese and ninjas are Japanese. Not the same, and therefore not my fault.
The Bear suddenly decides I’m her pillow and plops down on me, all the while holding her injured arm awkwardly in the air.
“You alright, kid?”
“Sweep,” she mumbles into my shoulder. The poor lollipop has been deserted and is now sticking to my shirt a few inches from where her little chin rests, mouth open and drooling red lollipop goo.
“Ah,” I soothe. “You’re tired, aren’t you my Gummi Bear? Wanna go home with Rafe and Bean?” My fingers run through her tangled curls, and I plant a kiss in them.
She nods.
“How come I don't get a nickname?” Rafe teases as he sets Emma down.
“Oh, I’m working on it. Don’t fret.”
He frowns and I laugh as I help him lift Francesca off of me.
“I’m fretting.”
“Get outta here,” I ruffle his hair when he leans down and surprises me with a kiss on the cheek. “We’ll have a beer when I get home. Talk about chicks.”
“Olivia,” Natalia scolds.
“What? He only comes home every once and a while and I’ll be damned if my little fainting spell stops us from some mother-son bonding.”
Rafe shakes his head and blushes a little. “See you in a bit, guys.” He makes his way out the door with Emma close behind.
“Chicks?”
Natalia’s standing at the foot of the bed looking half annoyed, half amused.
“Yup. Dr. Phil says that finding common ground is key to forming a solid foundation between a step-parent and child. We both like chicks. Common ground, baby.”
“You’re weird,” she says, sitting down on Rick’s rolling stool.
“Whimsical,” I correct. “Part of my charm.”
“Right,” she remembers. “One of your many.”
“That sounded sarcastic, dear.”
“That’s because it was sarcastic. Your charms are limited.”
“Not what you said in the kitchen,” I mumble.
She rolls right up beside me on the stool. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s what I thought.” She leans over and gives me a quick kiss.
“I’m sorry I fucked up Valentine’s Day.”
She shrugs. “I fucked it up last year.”
I decide to ignore the f-bomb and just smile back at her.
“True.”
She rolls a little closer on the stool, biting the inside of her cheek so that a sad, lone dimple appears.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “I just can’t stand the sight of blood.”
She sniffles a bit and lowers her eyes.
“I know you can’t,” she concedes. “But I can’t stand to see you hurt.”
And now she’s crying.
Ugh.
“I’m fine.” I grab her chin so she’ll look at me.
She nods. “I love you.”
“I know.”
“You love me too.”
“I know,” I repeat.
“So,” she smiles, grabbing my hand while carefully avoiding the IV line and letting the tears roll down her face. “I guess our first Valentine’s Day will have to wait another year?”
I snort. “Well, you know what they say.”
“What’s that?”
“Fourth time’s a charm.”
Not beta’d; blame the mistakes on me.
Also, it's long. Really long. Almost 5,000 words long. My bad.
Title: Fourth Time's a Charm
Author: chebomic
Rating: R for language and stuff.
Spoilers: None. It’s Valentine’s Day a couple years after the finale. Assumes the baby was born around Thanksgiving and is now two years old.
Archive: Just lemmie know.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them, they belong to someone else, I’m not profiting in any way, just for fun, etc.
A/N: You should probably read Not What I Expected first; you might have a WTF moment otherwise. Same alterations regarding Rafe; he went to college not training camp. Olivia’s POV.
A/N 2: Briefly mentions Olivia’s rape. And when I say briefly, I mean briefly.
We’ve been together for, what?
Three years?
I guess it all depends on when you think it all started, which is debatable.
Natalia swears-swears-that she was in love with me before the My Two Mommies debacle, that she was just in major denial about it.
“I knew what I wanted, I just didn’t know that I wanted it.”
That’s we she told me during our first dance together at the double-wedding after she came back. What she meant, I have no fucking clue. But I’ll take it.
Now, like I told her that same day, I was in love with her even before Gus died.
She didn’t believe me at first.
“Olivia, come on. How could you even say that? We hated each other.”
True. But there’s a fine line between love and hate, which is what I told her.
“OK then, Captain Cliché. Then explain to me exactly when you fell for me.”
“Dancing,” I’d stated matter-of-factly.
“Dancing? We’ve never danced until, well, now.”
Again, true. “You danced with Emma. Twirled her, actually.”
“What?”
I couldn’t believe she didn’t remember.
“I was dying, you were hovering and Emma wanted to be twirled...”
“So I twirled her for you,” she’d finished.
“You did.”
She hadn’t forgotten. Lucky me.
“You knew that early on?”
“Mmm, think so. You were a good twirler. And you loved my kid.”
“Our kid.”
“Exactly.”
Anyway, whatever start date you want to stamp onto our relationship, today is our third Valentine’s Day as an official couple.
Can you believe it?
I sure as hell can’t.
But it is. And the sad part about it is that this will be the first one we actually celebrate. Let’s just say that in the past we haven’t had the best luck when the fourteenth day of the second month rolls around.
The first time it came was when the Bear was just a few months old.
That one can be summed up pretty quickly: We forgot.
Completely spaced it.
Not until Emma came home with a stack of Valentines from seemingly every boy at school did we realize.
Woops.
Blame the Bear.
Thanks to her, Mommy and Mama were running on empty and wearing burp cloths as T-shirts.
Sorry, Cupid.
The second one, well, that definitely wasn’t romantic.
Natalia actually ended up in jail on that one.
Just an overnight hold, but still.
Natalia went to jail.
Tee hee.
You see, Jeffrey had decided to come back from the dead that day.
Just waltzed back into town all alive and talking about how he was just protecting us from Edmund.
I was pretty sure Edmund was dead, but you never know with that asshole.
So, I wasn’t mad at Jeffrey.
I called him a fucking moron and slapped him, sure.
But I wasn’t mad.
Natalia, on the other hand, was.
But not because he had fucked with the entire town, deserted Reva and Colin, or put our eldest daughter through living hell.
No.
She was pissed because he showed up on our porch.
Oh, Jeffrey.
Stoopid Jeffrey.
It only took me a couple months after I moved back to the farmhouse to realize that I couldn’t keep anything from Natalia.
Anything.
So after a few weeks of pretty consistent nightmares and two unwarranted trips to the hospital to appease my overbearing girlfriend, I’d just come out and told her.
Probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, considering I just blurted it out.
“When I was sixteen I was raped. By Jeffrey.”
Bam.
There it was.
She wanted to know, and now she did.
She’d cried, I’d cried.
“He’s lucky he’s dead,” she’d told me.
I believed her.
And so when Jeffrey had showed up on our porch looking for Ava-who just happened to be in town for a visit-Natalia went ape shit.
Came busting out the front door with the Gummi Bear in tow shooting Natalia-shaped daggers at him.
She handed me Francesca and told me to go inside.
I did.
An hour later Jeffrey was at Cedars with several icepacks on his groin, five stitches on his eyebrow, a couple bruised ribs and a broken nose.
Good times.
Wisely, Jeffrey told Rick that he’d just tripped, but Natalia had walked in with a smug grin on her face so Remy decided to throw her in a cell for a bit.
No charges, nothing. Just a little time to cool off.
I’m not sure we’ll ever top that Valentine’s Day, but this one is going to be fucking fantastic.
I’m going to put a disclaimer on that statement by saying this: I hate Valentine’s Day.
The whole thing is just ridiculous.
Fabricated.
A consumerist fauxliday manufactured for an über-capitalist society.
Stupid.
I’ve always thought so.
And now I’m going to amend my previous disclaimer: I love Natalia Rivera.
Are you getting my drift?
Olivia’s love for Natalia Rivera > Olivia’s hatred for Valentine’s Day
Valentine’s Day be damned, I’m making my woman happy.
And if I do say so myself, I’ve started off quite well.
By the time Natalia made it downstairs for breakfast I already had the coffee brewed and both girls fed. There was a vase of fresh picked daisies waiting on the kitchen table, too.
Simple, but she loved it.
And I got see the dimples come out early.
Bonus.
When she finally noticed the real surprise she actually squealed in delight.
All I’d done was take that old piece of molding from her apartment in Chicago and put it in the doorway between the kitchen and the washroom, but she freaked out.
“How did you do this?”
“Hammer. Nails. Mild cursing.”
“It’s wonderful,” she’d said. "Now I can keep track of all our kids in one place.”
“Not to mention that it looks better as part of an actual door than just leaning by the hat rack.”
She’d rolled her eyes at me, not liking the sarcasm. But it keeps me from getting to mushy, so sarcasm is a must.
And tonight, when the girls are with their respective baby daddies, I’m making her dinner.
Again, it’s simple. But that’s what she likes, so that’s what she’ll get.
Right now we’re in Company waiting to meet Rafe for lunch. Ever since Christmas he’s been coming back on weekends more often. I have this feeling-it’s a bit unnerving really-that he’s checking up on me. Waiting for me to fuck up so he can be there to pick up the pieces. I don’t like it, but I’ll prove him wrong.
Speak of the devil, here he is.
“Hey guys.” He scotches in the booth next to me and bumps my shoulder.
“Wafe!”
“Hello, Miss Fran-Stan,” he leans over me and bops the Bear on the nose.
“Rafael,” Natalia sighs. “Please stop calling her Fran-Stan. Or Franny-Panny.”
“Or Frying Pan!” Emma pipes in.
“Alright, Ma. OK.” He looks properly chastised and reaches over again to bop her on the nose once more. “Hello, Miss Bear!”
“Rafe!” Natalia groans and bangs her head on the table, muttering something about why her own children must encourage her crazy girlfriend.
“Fiancée,” I correct her from across the table.
Francesca is now growling at Rafe, who is pretending to be afraid by hiding behind his menu.
“So, Ma,” Emma starts, “you ready to be wooed?”
“Wooed?” Rafe inquires.
“Ooooze?” The Bear tries to copy her big bro but frowns. She knows that didn’t come out right. “Ooood. Ooood.”
“Wha-wha-wooed,” Emma explains.
“Ewwwed,” Francesca tries.
“Let’s hope not,” I mumble, taking a sip of my water. “Yes, Rafe. Wooed. Tonight I am wooing your mother. It’s our first Valentine’s Day.”
He frowns at me.
“Long story.”
“Whatever you say.”
Blake comes over to take our order, and doesn't shy away from showing us her shiny new engagement ring.
Talk about being ewwwed.
I mean, Frank? Really? Gross.
Poor Doris.
“He proposed today!” she explains, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“That’s great!” Natalia kicks me under the table and motions for me to say something.
“Peachy.”
When she and Natalia are done comparing rings-Frank’s taste is questionable-Blake finally goes to place our order.
“Aren’t you glad I didn’t buy you that lump of coal?”
“Olivia, be nice. Her ring is…special.” I snort at this. “And you got me a cookie at first. So I’d be quiet.”
She’s got me there.
Emma starts giggling and we all look over to see that Francesca has a green crayon shoved up her nose.
While Natalia works on removing foreign objects from our daughter’s nasal cavity, Rafe and I peruse the menu and ignore each other.
I’ve been staring at the word lettuce for a good while when he clears his throat.
“So.”
“So.” This is going to be a groundbreaking conversation, I can feel it.
“You’re wooing Ma tonight, huh?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Hmmm. Want some advice?” He sets down his menu.
I stare at him.
“Don’t fuck it up.”
Straight to the point, I see.
He smiles and then busts up laughing, swatting me playfully on the arm.
Two pizzas and four sundaes-Natalia wouldn’t let me have one-later and we’re pulling into the farmhouse driveway. Rafe went to see a movie with some friends, but the girls are in the back seat waiting impatiently for the car to stop so they can go play.
I swear Francesca is just as energetic as Emma.
Nature vs. Nurture, me thinks.
I put the car in park and the Bean pushes the door open and starts running to the backyard.
More like a backforest.
“OUT!” the Bear screams, tugging excitedly at the straps of her carseat.
Natalia laughs and climbs out of the passenger’s seat, opening the back door and unbuckling the poor kid.
“I’ll be back,” she informs me.
I get out of the car and watch my wife-to-be carry our littlest about halfway to where Emma is and set her down, telling to her to be careful before letting her waddle off.
I make my way into the house and Natalia is not far behind me.
“The girls are in the treehouse,” she says when she comes inside.
“Mmm.”
I’m trying not to look at her because if I do I’ll jump her. She’s wearing some jeans with one of my Beacon shirts. It’s too big for her, but the combination of hanging and clinging it’s doing on her lovely chest leaves little to the imagination. I told myself tonight was going to be romantic, so I refuse to go there right now.
Refuse.
“Do you want a snack?”
“We just ate.”
I’m sitting at the kitchen table and staring down at the newspaper. Suddenly I’m overcome with an unusual interest in the crossword.
Four across. Lights on fire. Seven letters.
Simple. I write it in.
N-A-T-A-L-I-A.
She walks up behind me and peers over my shoulder.
“I’m not sure that’s what they were looking for,” she chuckles.
I frown. “What else could it be?”
She shakes her head thinking I’m being silly. Perhaps she assumes ignites would be a better choice, but that wouldn't work with five down. Body part. Three letters.
A-S-S.
No silliness here. Crosswords are serious business. And these are serious answers.
“Want some?” She gestures at the jar of peanut butter in her hand.
I shake my head no. “I’m saving room for the delicious meal I’m making you tonight.”
She laughs. Why is she laughing? I told her this morning that I used to be a chef; apparently she thinks I’m lying. Consequence of not mentioning it in three years, I guess. Eh.
“I couldn’t really eat at Company,” she says. “I always feel like Marina is hovering and Frank is going to pop-up out of nowhere. Makes me paranoid.”
“Welcome to my life,” I mutter.
She opens the jar up and dips a finger in, coming out with a good-sized lump. It disappears into her mouth and her finger comes out with a pop a second later, leaving a little bit on her bottom lip.
She’s fucking with me.
She knows peanut butter is my weakness.
Sneaky.
“What?”
“What?” I parrot.
“What’s sneaky?”
Why am I always saying shit out loud?
“Nothing, crossword puzzle. Five letter word for sly. Sneaky.”
“That’s six letters.”
“Right.” Damn her and her counting skills.
She giggles a bit and wipes at her lip. I guess she figured out I wasn’t falling for the peanut butter.
Point Spencer.
She gets up to put the jar back in to pantry, gliding her hand reverently across the new, mismatched doorway as she goes.
“Oh no.”
“What?” This seems to be number one on my list of limited vocabulary for the day.
“I got peanut butter on it! Rafe’s ten year mark is smudged!”
She’s staring worriedly at the doorframe, and decides the best way to address the issue is by using the corner of her shirt to wipe at it. Then she grabs a pen out of a drawer and goes over the mark again.
“Better,” she sighs.
And then she takes off her shirt.
“What are you doing?”
She’s not allowed to do that.
“Rinsing the peanut butter out,” she explains, sticking the shirt under the faucet of what she likes to call our rustic washbasin.
She grabs another shirt from on top of the drier and starts putting it on. It’s one of my work shirts. White button up.
Uh oh.
She leaves it hanging open as she works on the shirt and turns back to me.
“So what do you wanna do until Jane gets here?”
“I can think of a few things.”
“Like?”
“Uhm.”
Well, there are lots of things I can think of but I refuse to do them. Because, like I said before, tonight is going to be romantic. I’m not fucking it up now.
“Feeding the ducks,” I offer.
She shuts off the faucet and starts wringing out the shirt. “Uh. Sure. If that’s what you want.”
I don’t.
“There should be some older bread in the breadbox,” she half-yells as she stretches to hang up the shirt on a hook above the drier. “Grab it.”
Now that’s the best advice I’ve heard in a while.
I know I have the will power of an ant, but fuck romantic.
I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again.
Sex isn’t always polite.
And now isn’t the time for me to start minding my manners.
I get up from the table and walk over to her. She turns around just as I’m about two feet away from her.
“What are you doing?”
“Grabbing it,” I explain, picking her up and setting her on the drier.
For about two seconds I think she is going to scold me about how I’m not supposed to lift anything heavy, but instead she just smirks.
She planned this all along.
“Sneaky.”
“Yup,” she nods, grabbing the back of my neck and pulling me into a kiss.
She wastes no time shoving her tongue in my mouth, and I gladly return the favor.
Yum.
Tongues are magical little creatures, aren’t they?
I move to her neck and push her-my-shirt open even more.
“Olivia.”
I’m a little too busy to answer so I just ignore her and continue on my merry way.
“Hurry up,” she commands, grabbing my hand and pushing it down.
I’ve just shoved my hand down her pants-she’s going commando again, yay-when I hear it.
Sounds like screaming.
I ignore it, filter it out. She does too. Probably the kids playing Franks and Robbers again.
Plus, there are more important things at the moment.
Like, for instance, my hand in her shirt.
Or her legs wrapping around my waist.
Or the way her hips are now moving against my other hand.
All more important.
I start nibbling her ear, licking it. She likes that, I know. And I like the cartoon-like “oh my!” that comes with it. Win-Win.
“Fuck, you’re so wet.”
“Liv…” Her legs tighten around me, and I really wish her God made humans with four arms, because I’d really like to grab her ass right about now. Unfair.
And there it is again.
The screaming.
Only this time we both freeze.
It’s the Bear.
Shit.
I reluctantly separate from her and she lets out a little grunt, her feet landing lightly back on the floor.
She starts to frantically zip her jeans, and I run over to the sink.
“Olivia, what are you doing?”
“Washing my hand!”
She looks at me like I’m the stupidest fuck to ever walk the planet, buttoning her shirt back up as she does. She skipped a button, misaligned one, I don’t know. I see boob.
“It’s got…stuff on it.” That came out more like a question than I’d planned. Huh.
“Stuff?”
“Your stuff!” I point accusingly at her.
“Well, when you’re done getting my stuff of your hand, why don’t you come help me find out why our youngest daughter is screaming bloody murder. Sound good?” She huffs out the door and slams it.
Point.
I guess the stuff doesn’t really matter.
But my hands already under the faucet so the stuff might as well go.
Gone.
When I finally get outside Natalia is carefully making her way down a nearby hill with Francesca wailing on her hip.
Shit.
How the hell did she get all the way over there that fast?
Superhero.
They’re at least a hundred or so yards away, but Nat looks pale. Real pale. As pale as Marina I’m-A-Bitch Cooper would look if she didn’t bathe in a vat of self-tanner on a bimonthly basis.
And then I notice that Emma is hightailing it behind them.
In the opposite direction.
Oh, fuck no.
“Emma Jellybean Spencer! You turn that little ass around. Right. Now!”
I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but that kid ain’t going nowhere if she knows what’s good for her.
And she must, because the second I scream her name she stops, turns slowly around, and then starts sprinting in the other direction.
Down the hill, past Natalia and the Bear, smack into me.
Umph.
“Jellybean, what is going on?”
I’m on the ground now. There’s a rock lodged oh-so-conveniently in my crack and I can feel that I’ve scraped my elbow in the fall. Pushing myself up on my hands, I peer over Emma’s head briefly to look at Natalia.
Still pale. Pissed too, it seems.
“I told her not to, Mommy!”
My attention is brought back to the Bean, whose stringy-ass limbs are locked awkwardly around me, making it difficult to get up off the ground.
Between Nat’s face, Francesca’s wailing and Emma’s sudden reversion to calling me Mommy, I know something’s wrong. Big time.
“Put her down, Olivia.”
Whoa. Angry fiancée. Not cool.
“I can’t.” My hands leave their resting place under the Bean’s bum and I flail ‘em in the air a bit, proving to her that the kid has a death grip on me. “What’s going on?”
She’s about fifty feet from me now, and she shifts a bit and starts walking to me sideways.
Sideways. Like a fucking show horse.
“What the fuck is going on, Natalia?”
This is just ridiculous.
For one, I’ve got an abnormally lanky eleven year old latched onto me, sobbing incoherently into my shoulder. I think I heard “don’t let her kill me” somewhere in there. And I definitely heard “I’m so fucked”, which I’ll have to address later.
Then, my other kid is latched similarly onto her Ma. Again, there’s sobbing. The screaming-one-second-hiccupping-for-air-the-next toddler type sobbing. The type that actually hurts to watch.
And Natalia is fucking side trotting at me. All pale and pissed and glaring.
“Put her down, Olivia. Now.”
God! What the hell does she want from me?
“I. Can’t.” I repeat, this time spinning in a circle to show once again that Emma’s might as well be superglued to my torso.
“Emma. Get down. NOW.”
Natalia’s ten feet away now, and I’m actually scared by the tone of her voice. The Jellybean immediately scrambles off me, but stands right at my side grabbing my wrist with both hands.
“Olivia, sit down.”
“Sit down?” I am not a dog. I may be her bitch, but I am not a dog. “No.”
“Sit,” she points at a large rock a few feet away. “Now.”
“Natalia, I don’t know what you’re playing at, bu-”
And that’s when I see it.
Red.
All over Natalia’s shirt.
How the hell did I not see that?
Everything gets quiet.
Natalia is saying something, I see her lips moving. She’s pointing at that fucking rock again. I look down at Emma-who has her eyes covered-and then back up at Francesca.
I wasn’t imagining.
My baby’s arm is hanging. Maybe dangling is a better word. It’s just there. Bent funny. Wrong.
There’s blood.
And there’s bone. I see bone. Coming out of my two year old baby’s arm.
She’s crying. Natalia’s still yelling, pointing. Emma’s tugging on my shirt.
And I’m dizzy.
Fuck.
I’m so dizzy.
Where’s that fucking rock?
Why’s it all dark all the sudden?
Man, it’s cold.
Ow.
My head hurts.
And so does my ass.
And my elbow.
What the fuck?
Oh. My. God.
Do you hear that?!
BEEPING.
No fucking way.
“When do you think she’ll wake up?”
That is definitely Natalia’s voice.
Shit.
“Whenever her stubborn ass feels like it,” Rick answers.
“Asshole,” I mutter.
With great effort I blink open my eyes, only to be met by the ugly fluorescent glow and puke green walls of Cedars Hospital.
Great.
“Oh, hey there, Olivia. So glad you decided to join us!”
I’m going to beat the shit out of this guy some day.
“Rick.” My eyes are adjusting quickly and my vision unblurs just in time to see the infamous Dr. Bauer hand Natalia a clipboard. “What happened?”
“Just sign it and you are free to leave,” he ignores me. “The nurse will be in to take everything out shortly. See ya, Spencer!”
Natalia walks over and I hear the door click closed in the background.
“What happened?” I ask again. “Don’t tell me I had a heart attack.”
“You didn’t have a heart attack. You just decided to sit on the rock with your head instead of your butt.”
What rock? I frown at her in confusion but before I can voice my question the door flies open.
“Mommy!”
The Jellybean runs over and practically jumps onto the hospital bed, earning a stern Emma Spencer from Natalia in the process.
“Mommy?” I mutter. Since when does she call-oh.
Oh.
Now I remember.
Kitchen. Sex. Screaming. Hill. Francesca. Blood. Ew.
“Are you OK, Mommy? I’m sorry. Does it hurt? Are you mad? Will you forgive me? Can you tell Mama not to hate me?”
Dang. This kid shoots of questions faster than Katie Couric at Sarah Palin.
“I’m fine, Bean. Don’t worry.”
The door opens again and Rafe walks in, carrying what looks like a passed out Bear in his arms.
“Feeling better, Mom?” he smirks.
Little punk.
“Fine, fine,” I wave him off. I point at the little human he’s carrying. “Gimme.”
Emma moves off the bed so Francesca can sit on me and decides that it’s her turn to be held by her big brother. He grunts a little at the size difference but smiles nonetheless.
Upon further inspection I realize the Bear’s not passed out, just, well, drugged up.
“Hey, Grrrr.” I give her little tummy a poke.
“Grrrr,” she giggles, drooling a little as her head lolls to the side.
“What the hell did that idiot give her?”
Natalia chuckles and shakes her head.
I don’t find this funny.
“Just a little sedative to calm her down and some pain meds,” she reaches over to ruffle our babies Diana Ross head. “She’ll be fine.”
“Grrrr,” Francesca confirms with a nod. “Lawly!”
She reaches into her pants and pulls out a lollipop. I don’t think this bodes well for her teen years.
“Rick gave it to her for being so brave,” Natalia fills in.
“A lot braver than her Mommy,” Rave chirps.
If he weren’t my son I’d smack him.
“Were you a big girl, my Gummi Bear?” I refocus my attention on my baby, who’s now sucking on her lawly, wrapper included.
Natalia rolls her eyes at the nickname, she still doesn’t approve.
Deal with it, I tell her with a glance.
“Ya I wud big, Grrrr,” she smiles.
“I’m so proud,” I say, grabbing the lollipop from her mouth, taking off the wrapper and shoving it back in before she can complain. I hand the slobbery paper over to Rafe, who looks slightly disgusted before tossing it and wiping his hand on his jeans. “And look, you got a cast too!”
“Ya!” she agrees, smacking the plaster shell against my cheek to make sure I knew it existed.
Ouch.
“It’s black,” I point. Her pudgy fingers look extra small poking out from the cast, and I can’t help but think that thing is going to reek in no time.
Francesca grins and screams happily, “I’s nunya!” She swings her arms wildly in the air.
I stare confused.
“She’s a ninja,” Emma giggles. “That’s why she jumped out of the tree.”
“Jumped out of the-”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Natalia cuts me off with an unhappy glare.
I’m guessing she has some things to say to me about watching old kung fu movies with the girls at night, so I’ll just have to inform her that kung fu masters are Chinese and ninjas are Japanese. Not the same, and therefore not my fault.
The Bear suddenly decides I’m her pillow and plops down on me, all the while holding her injured arm awkwardly in the air.
“You alright, kid?”
“Sweep,” she mumbles into my shoulder. The poor lollipop has been deserted and is now sticking to my shirt a few inches from where her little chin rests, mouth open and drooling red lollipop goo.
“Ah,” I soothe. “You’re tired, aren’t you my Gummi Bear? Wanna go home with Rafe and Bean?” My fingers run through her tangled curls, and I plant a kiss in them.
She nods.
“How come I don't get a nickname?” Rafe teases as he sets Emma down.
“Oh, I’m working on it. Don’t fret.”
He frowns and I laugh as I help him lift Francesca off of me.
“I’m fretting.”
“Get outta here,” I ruffle his hair when he leans down and surprises me with a kiss on the cheek. “We’ll have a beer when I get home. Talk about chicks.”
“Olivia,” Natalia scolds.
“What? He only comes home every once and a while and I’ll be damned if my little fainting spell stops us from some mother-son bonding.”
Rafe shakes his head and blushes a little. “See you in a bit, guys.” He makes his way out the door with Emma close behind.
“Chicks?”
Natalia’s standing at the foot of the bed looking half annoyed, half amused.
“Yup. Dr. Phil says that finding common ground is key to forming a solid foundation between a step-parent and child. We both like chicks. Common ground, baby.”
“You’re weird,” she says, sitting down on Rick’s rolling stool.
“Whimsical,” I correct. “Part of my charm.”
“Right,” she remembers. “One of your many.”
“That sounded sarcastic, dear.”
“That’s because it was sarcastic. Your charms are limited.”
“Not what you said in the kitchen,” I mumble.
She rolls right up beside me on the stool. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s what I thought.” She leans over and gives me a quick kiss.
“I’m sorry I fucked up Valentine’s Day.”
She shrugs. “I fucked it up last year.”
I decide to ignore the f-bomb and just smile back at her.
“True.”
She rolls a little closer on the stool, biting the inside of her cheek so that a sad, lone dimple appears.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “I just can’t stand the sight of blood.”
She sniffles a bit and lowers her eyes.
“I know you can’t,” she concedes. “But I can’t stand to see you hurt.”
And now she’s crying.
Ugh.
“I’m fine.” I grab her chin so she’ll look at me.
She nods. “I love you.”
“I know.”
“You love me too.”
“I know,” I repeat.
“So,” she smiles, grabbing my hand while carefully avoiding the IV line and letting the tears roll down her face. “I guess our first Valentine’s Day will have to wait another year?”
I snort. “Well, you know what they say.”
“What’s that?”
“Fourth time’s a charm.”