#mostly we are all just here for papa clyde

[aclamclriver]

and i’ll come home to you

dedicated to  @oh-adam​  for being such a supportive  enabler  friend !

he’s never wanted to do anything as perfectly as he wants to do this.

clyde logan doesn’t smile much.  it’s just a fact of the matter:  life took a bit too much delight in beating the smile out of him.  he’s known to break,  once or twice,  but it’s not a reoccuring habit.  his family sees his smiles more often,  but they’ve learned,  too,  that sometimes,  clyde’s happiness comes in a quiet,  contented silence.  that’s all there is to it.

so jimmy logan knows,  upon seeing the grin that lights up his baby brother’s face,  that clyde must be  real  happy about something. 

he doesn’t even get the chance to ask,  because as soon as he opens the door  (  gobsmacked,  because  when  did clyde logan ever just drive up to lynchberg for the hell of it,  without giving a little notice beforehand?  )  his brother has got his arms wrapped up around him,  and he  lifts.  and jimmy logan isn’t a real sack of feathers,  but with the way clyde is holding on,  he’s practically  weightless.

“what in the hell     ?!”  jimmy starts,  before he realizes that you’re standing just a bit behind,  looking a little sheepish,  and clyde looks  teary,  and there’s a lot of confusion in the general midst of things before clyde manages to string together a coherent  “we’re havin’ a baby!”

and then jimmy is hollering,  and tackles clyde right off the front porch,  and the two of them are just wrestling around out of sheer emotion,  and your laugh echoes over the whole thing.

--

even though clyde doesn’t waste time telling mellie and joe the good news,  he still hasn’t quite come to terms with how  real  it is until you’re sitting in the doctor’s office,  holding his hand as he bounces his leg in nervous anticipation.  there is something finitely  real  about being here,  surrounded by people who have known him as the unlucky logan for god knows how long;  he imagines he’s sharing their thoughts,  of  how  could clyde logan logan ever land a girl so pretty,  let alone knock her up?  

he was up all night,  thinking about ways this could go wrong:  a missed heartbeat,  a defect,  something off,  something  painful.  he watches you sleep and imagines you in pain,  and the twist in his gut is so bad he has to squeeze his eyes shut on the thought.  he’s quiet at breakfast;  he barely says a word on the drive over.

it’s a whirl of words and stripping you into a little gown that has no back to it  (  and he  really  must be down,  not to make a comment about your ass  ),  and then slyvia leaves the room to grab something,  and clyde remarks,  soft and tender,  “i promise i’ll be the best man i can for ya  ...  for you and the bean.”

and when you reply,  without hesitation,  “you already are,  my love,”  clyde can’t help but cry a little,  burying his face in the junction between your shoulder and neck,  his hand tangling with yours.

slyvia,  upon her return,  doesn’t comment on it,  and he’s grateful;  he’s even more grateful when she does her magic,  and clyde hears his baby’s heartbeat for the very first time.

he bawls right there in the exam room,  and slyvia records a clip for him to take home,  and listen to whenever he wants.

--

"you can’t quit coffee!”  you protest,  mouth agape as clyde resolutely dumps his morning roast in the trash.  “clyde,  you work more than forty hours a week!  you’re not even fully alive until you’ve had a few cups!”

“if you can’t have it,  i’m not havin’ it,”  clyde says resolutely,  and he dumps the filters,  too.  “already threw out the beer and wine in the fridge.  ‘sides,  i’m cutting down on my hours.  jake can help run the bar.  i’m not leavin’ you by yourself.”

he’s dead serious,  too:  you know he drained all the beer down the sink the other night,  and the bottle of merlot mellie gave him disappeared the other day.  he’ll be quick to check ingredients for baby-approved formula next,  and you know he’s about three steps away from baby-proofing the trailer.  you haven’t even started to show,  and he’s already talking about upsizing,  better rugs,  and a nicer bed,  and something pretty for the baby     

you slip your arms around his waist,  forcing him to meet your gaze as you tilt your head up to look at him.  clyde never can resist the chance to hold you,  and he does so now,  the corners of his lips slipping upwards despite himself.  “you’re the perfect father already,”  you say sincerely,  and clyde’s cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink.  “but you  need  your coffee.  besides,  what happens if you’re dead tired and something happens?  you need your energy,  baby.  i promise,  i won’t try and murder you for a sip of dark roast.”

you’ve got him,  and you know it,  but it doesn’t hurt to push your advantage a little.  “and,  you know,  you’re gonna need your energy to take care of me.  i’m gonna be all over you more than usual.  maybe i wanna make little logan twins.”

he groans at that,  hips rolling forward just slightly at your words.  “no fair,”  he protests,  and you know you’ve got him good.

--

“what about patrick?”

clyde’s hands slip over the gentle roundness of your belly,  palm cupping the curve of it as you rest your head back against his chest.  the water is still warm,  the ache in your shoulders settling as you relax into clyde’s solid frame.  the sonogram slyvia printed for you a few hours earlier is already taped proudly to the fridge,  with the gender a surprise for the actual birth.  clyde had said,  on the drive home,  trying in vain to stem his happy tears,  that you should probably start thinking of names.

“there was a patrick in my platoon,  in iraq,”  clyde replies,  his lips ghosting over the nape of your neck.  he’s always been affectionate with you,  but ever since you got pregnant,  he’s been hard put to keep his hands off you.

(  you don’t mind that at all  ).

“was he nice?”

“nah.  kind of an ass.”

“alright,  patrick is out.”

his chest rumbles with the vibrations of his chuckle,  and you smile.  

“what if we have a girl?  maybe we can name her margaret,  for your mama.”

“i’d like that.”  your hand covers his over the curve of your belly,  fingers splayed out.  “if we have a boy,  what would you name him?”

he’s silent for a time,  though his lips continue to trace up the slant of your neck.  if it weren’t for those slow ministrations,  you might have thought he had fallen asleep       the steady rise and fall of his chest was quiet and peaceful,  his heartbeat steady.

“i always liked alexander graham bell,”  he says at last,  his voice a soft timber that wraps itself around you like a blanket.  “did a report on him,  once.  maybe alexander?”

“i like alexander,”  it rolls off your tongue,  sweet like sugar.  “margaret logan and alexander logan.  i like them both.”

“margaret and alexander logan,”  clyde repeats,  and you can hear the soft swell of emotion in his voice.  “i can’t wait to meet ‘em.”

--

“clyde,  it’s nine pm!  you can’t close it down!”

clyde flips the dish towel onto his shoulder with a well-practiced flick of his wrist;  his good hand slides marvin’s twenty back along the counter.  “it’s my bar,”  he states,  coolly and calmly.  “i can when it’s my little wife at home.  so clear out,  because i wanna see her.”

“but      !”

“s’my bar,  marvin.  i can shut it down,  too.  and my lady is pregnant,  and i wanna see her,  so don’t  make  me throw ya out.”

marvin takes the hint.

--

“mm,  baby,  s’at you?”

you twist slightly,  the better to see clyde in your half-asleep state,  only to feel his arms come around you,  and lift you clear off the couch.  there’s a mildly unsettling moment,  when gravity tilts,  and your hands clutch at the blanket you had wrapped around you,  but clyde is steady:  he doesn’t so much as let you slip.  

“you fell asleep again,  baby,”  he says,  voice rich with affection,  and you realize he’s carrying you to bed.  “that couch ain’t good for your back,  either.”

“wha       clyde,  don’t carry me!”  oh,  god,  the poor man:  you’re absolutely  huge  by now,  too heavy to think about,  and clyde only has one good  hand       “i’m too heavy!”

“you’re not heavy,”  he says,  like it’s the most natural thing in the world.  “you’re my wife.”

and you’re not sure why that gets you;  you bury your face in his chest and cry as he carries you all the way to bed,  and you keep crying as clyde peels your clothes away,  and lavishes you with kisses,  pouring adoration into every single one.

--

a little pain is normal,  you tell him,  and he believes you,  he  does       but he doesn’t like it.  watching your face screwed up in pain as the gripes squeeze your belly and shoot your nerves full of hurt:  it hurts him,  too.  he kneels down so that his face is level with your belly,  hands hovering slightly over the sharp curve of your stomach as he watches you,  quite at a loss on how to help.  sylvia said that the only thing to do was ride them out,  and clyde trusts slyvia as your doctor,  but he hates       hates       that advice.

“it’s gonna be fine,  clyde,”  you say,  though he can see how tight your shoulders are,  how you’re holding yourself rigid in your seat.  he hates it,  wishes he could take it all instead.  

he settles,  instead,  for murmuring softly to your belly,  “hey,  littlest logan,  don’t hurt your ma so much.  i love you both too much to watch it.”

he doesn’t know how much that helps,  but the tensions in your shoulders seem to ease,  just a little.

--

you’ve turned over again for what feels like the fourth time in five minutes when clyde asks you,  sleepily,  if you’re alright.

“bean won’t stop kicking,”  you mutter,  and you love your baby more than life itself,  but you want it to be  quiet.  you feel like your liver has turned into a punching back,  your bladder into a soccer ball;  your whole belly is trying to contain a being that is dissatisfied with its parameters.  shifting doesn’t help,  but lying still is agony;  you’re half tempted to walk about the trailer until you drop from exhaustion.

clyde rolls over,  shifting closer until he can get his arm around you,  and rests his hand flat against your stomach.  almost instantly,  the movement ceases;  you watch,  mouth agape in astonishment,  as clyde runs his palm in smooth circles over your belly.  though his eyes are closed,  you can see the faint little smile on his lips.

“guess we know who the favourite it,”  you say,  unable to resist the tease as you shift closer to clyde’s warm form.

the smile on his face widens.  “bean loves you too,  baby.  just needed pa’s touch.”

“ahh,  i see.  suppose this is different from when  i  called you daddy  ...”

clyde bursts out laughing at that,  and you shift closer still,  smiling into sleep.