#selina. girl. buy a vibrator.

[tozettastone]

the other thing worth knowing about the long halloween is that catwoman is absolutely CARRYING batman through this whole three hour carnival ride

sometimes literally

[dcbicki]

I am a terrible person for doing this, but 42: “I need a hug.” For Dan/Amy. Because I’m sure whatever way you wound up using it would be hilarious.

Set post s7, could be seen as AU or canon divergent depending on how badly the writers cock up next season.

“What the hell?” Dan mutters the words, watching her from across the room.

He makes slow strides to approach her, but he stops himself just before he reaches her side, looking on as an intern hands her a fresh snack.

Her face is redder than he’s ever seen it, but he can’t tell if she’s flushed or just pissed off. (It’s probably the latter. This is Amy, after all.)

“Finally.”

Jesus.

“Fine. I’ll sit down with that waste of a womb, and I’ll have tea.”

Selina’s ranting again, probably something about the British ambassador she has a meeting with next week.

Dan doesn’t really give enough of a shit to listen. And he’s too busy watching Amy tear into a blueberry muffin – and almost swallow a piece of the freaking’ wrapper – to pretend to give a single flying shit.

She has her phone in her free hand, and he can tell it’s ringing because the phone is way brighter than it should be and it’s fucking vibrating in her palm.

“Are you gonna get that?” He asks, and it must have been louder than he thought because everyone turns to look at him, and for once Dan isn’t a fan of being the centre of attention.

“No.” The blonde just scowls, shoves in a final piece of muffin before she tosses the casing down into the trashcan beside her desk, “Why?”

“Because it’s ringing and you’ve got, like, fuckin’ iPhone OCD, or some shit.”

Amy mumbles something under her breath, glancing down at her phone just as the call ends. She shrugs, tossing her phone down on the desk, but he can tell she’s hiding something.

“Dan?” Selina calls him, and he whips around to face the petite woman, “Are you done? Would you care to rejoin the other Misfits Toys?” She nods her head towards Kent and Ben.

“Sure.”

Amy’s phone rings again, just then, and she actually steps outside of the room to take the call this time. (Selina doesn’t even bat an eye at her.)

When the room falls silent and they’re all quite clearly waiting for him to quip something up, he suggests having a “tit à tit” with the brit – even if the thought wasn’t really there and he’s not sure what the fuck one of those would even consist of. Selina buys it.

“Tit à tit.” She rubs her hands together, and her rings clash and grind together, “I don’t not like it.” She says, “Kent, can we-”

He zones out again as soon as the conversation picks up, and he uncrosses his legs when Amy hangs up the phone outside. It’s not like he’s staring, he’s just… What the fuck is up with her?

“Just go.” Selina kicks him with the toe of her stiletto, in the fucking shin, and he’s up and out of the room before she can change her mind. “Don’t be fucking in that coat closet. The paint’s still wet.”

Whatever.

“What are you doing?”

The door’s shut behind him, and Amy’s staring up at him now. Her face is a little paler than before, but her eyes are wide (more bug-eyed than their usual), and she looks… teary. She looks on the verge of actual fucking tears.

“What the fuck happened to you?” He definitely didn’t sign up for this. “What, did your battery die?”

“My dad had another heart attack, you prick.” Amy informs him, and her arms are folding over her chest in such a defensive way that he’s not sure they’ll ever uncross.

“Oh.” With a gulp, he tries for a smile (though it’s definitely more sinister than he intends it to be), “Does this mean he won’t be making Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Are you-” Her eyes darken, and he’s positive she’s gonna punch him in the face, “Fuck you.”

“I’m just… Look, I’m sorry.” He offers, and his arms flap against his sides. His face is anything but comforting, he knows. Well, shit. What does she want?

“I need a hug.”

“What?”

He can’t have heard that right.

“Just,” she starts, and she takes two steps closer to him. Her arms don’t outstretch – if anything, she just folds in on herself even more, “I need a hug, asshole.”

Well, that took a turn.

“OK.”

Dan doesn’t move to hug her, instead just waits for her to force his arms open, which… yeah, she’s obviously going to do that.

“Fuck’s sake.”

He rolls his eyes, shuffles closer until he can pull her into him, wrapping his arms around her smaller frame. She’s still against him, though, stiff as a cardboard cutout, and Dan has to rock her (shake her) before she sinks into him, “He’s not gonna die.”

“He might.” She doesn’t sound like she’s crying, but he thinks she’s perfected the art of masquerading tears by now. (And he knows she’s crying because he can feel the wet patches start to form on his chest, seeping through his shirt.)

Great.

Since when is she one for affection? Or, well, touching? Since when is he one to comply?

“So, he might not make it to Thanksgiving then?” He asks, joking, but maybe she takes it more seriously than he means it. It’s not like- “Ow! What the fuck?”

Her hand is at his waist, having just pinched the taunt skin over his ribs. “Could you be less of an asshole for just five fucking seconds?”

“Fine.” He grumbles, moves his arm from around her waist to her shoulders.

She tucks her head in under his chin, and he can smell the floral shampoo she used that morning. It smells of daisies and- Fuck.

“I’m just saying, it’s one less person to feed. And we all know your sister’s little brats eat like fuckin’ Gremlins.”

“You’re not supposed to feed Gremlins, dipshit.”

She’s crying, but she’s still her because she’s calling him names, and everything is actually kind of… normal.

“Even better.” He whispers, and Amy hiccups, and he knows she’s smirking against his chest – her face is all mushed into his shirt and, oddly, he doesn’t mind. “Now we just need to get the kid to eat his fuckin’ greens.”

“He’s a year old, Dan.” She reminds him, and then her hand drops from his waist and she grabs his belt, hooks a finger through one of the hoops. “He’s healthy.”

“True.” He nods, tilts his head to the side in a way that makes her look up. The tear stains are faint, but they’re there, and he’s so tempted to tell her- “Well, you look like shit.”

“Fuck off.” She says, pulling on the belt loop, forcing his front into her, “You signed up for this.”

“Any chance I can get a refund? I didn’t sign up for the daddy’s girl tears and all that shit.” He reminds her, “I signed up for you, Brookheimer. Not your whole batshit family.”

“He could die, Dan.”

“Right, but-”

“You married into the batshit so now you’re just gonna have to deal with it.” She pokes his side this time, a little harder than the pinch, “Grow the fuck up.”

“No offence but I think I grew up plenty when you shot my fuckin’ kid outta your vag.”

“Care you grow up some more?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m pregnant.” She tells him, and then she fucking smirks. “Again.”

Fuck.

[dcbicki]

Chapters: 9/? Fandom: Veep (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Amy Brookheimer/Dan Egan Characters: Amy Brookheimer, Dan Egan, Selina Meyer, Gary Walsh, Richard Splett, Ben Cafferty, Kent Davison, Jonah Ryan, Sophie Brookheimer Additional Tags: Suggestive Themes, Rating May Change, Unplanned Pregnancy, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Angst, Hurt/Comfort Summary:

In which Amy’s pregnant, and Dan already has a plan mapped out for them. -

If she’s in this for the long haul, then he will be, too. If she’s keeping this baby (his baby), then he’s keeping her close by. If she’s ready for this, for change, for restless nights and shitty diapers at two o'clock in the fucking morning, then he’ll join her.

They fucked, and now they’re fucked.

Nothing major.

That’s what the doctor says, and Amy has a hard time believing her.

They hadn’t been waiting long in the emergency room before she got called in and checked over. Dan had explained what happened, carefully kept his hand from grazing her skin - because she kept pulling on her sleeves, because she didn’t look like she wanted him to touch her.

“It’s nothing to worry about?”

Try as he might to deny it, he’d be worried. Or, at least, he’d been experiencing what he assumes is concern. Not that he has much to go off. He’s never really been one for… sympathy or empathy or, you know, worry.

A tightening in his gut, as though something is wrenching his intestines too tight? His heartbeat speeding up, pounding away inside his chest, reminding him that he does in fact possess the organ? The uncontrollable urge to hold her hand, tell her something reassuring, even though he doesn’t do the latter because he can’t? That’s worry, right? That’s concern? Nothing less, nothing more?

That’s concern. Yeah. Obviously. What the fuck else could it be?

“Nothing major?” She sounds almost incredulous, as though some part of her might actually want things to be worse. It’s the tone in her voice that captures Dan’s full attention.

It’s subtle, but he catches it, knows how to unravel each and every layer of her being in a way that escapes her.

“No, just a little spotting.” The doctor folds her hands in her lap, swivels around to face them, “Never anything to worry about, usually. But I do want you to take it easy-”

“Easier.” Dan corrects before she can finish, eyes wide, gaze focused on the top of Amy’s head.

“Right. Yeah. Easier than usual. Maybe try and lighten your workload, if you can? I know I’m probably asking for a lot here, but you need to take better care of your health, Amy.” She practically sanctions with a nod, condescending, “Resting a lot more has never done anyone any harm.”

“So it was, like, what? Stress bleeding?” Amy sighs, puffing out her chest as she lies back down on the uncomfortable bed. The paper sheet rustles and she winds her shoulders back and forth, perched up on her elbows. “The kid can’t chill out for a second, huh?”

“I don’t, uh-” Her doctor stands, wipes her hands down her coat, “Anyway, since you don’t want to know the sex, I won’t just blurt it out.” She looks at Dan then, tilts her head toward the hallway, “You did.”

“Yeah.”

Of course he fucking did. Of course he wanted to know if he was gonna have a mini-me to model after himself, or a mini-Amy to fuck up just as he had her mother.

Leaving the room, he catches the faintest mumble slipping past Amy’s lips, something along the lines of “Narcissistic prick.”

Sure, Amy.

When the door’s closed behind him, he whips his head around to face the doctor, arms folded over her chest, face strict, and he honestly feels like she’s gonna dropkick his ass into next week.

“She needs to fucking rest.”

The hall-side manner on this one-

“I know that.” He frowns, keeps his hand wrapped around the handle because standing in a hospital corridor without Amy is a little unnerving. There’s, like, sick people down the hall, and like-

“It’s good that you know that, but you need to actually help her.” She nods, informing and clear, “You two seem very co-dependant, and that’s great, but it’s also a risk factor. Because she’s relying on you to be there, and you need to support her.”

We were like five minutes away from fucking before we had to rush here, lady. I think that means I’m pretty fuckin’ reliant?

“I bought us a fucking apartment, for fuck’s sake. What, is there some kind of etiquette for expectant parents I’m not aware of?” He slides his free hand in his pocket,  ignores his phone when it vibrates, distracting him.

He’s pretty sure that answering a text or a call right now is gonna go against everything this chick is rambling on about. He has to at least make it look like he gives half a crap.

She sighs, heavier than he thinks she needs to, and then her voice lowers and she glances down the hallway and back to his face, “If she keeps depriving herself of sleep, or if she overexerts herself, it’s not gonna be good for her or the baby.”

“Okay?” He’d shrug, but maybe that’d be a little too douchey- “You can spare me the fuckin’ lecture though, doc. If you think she’s gonna prioritise the kid over her job, you’ve clearly know jack about her. She’s all work. She breathes in responsibility like it’s fuckin’ oxygen, all right?”

“Look, it’s great that you’re involved, and it’s great that you’re meeting all her needs, but you need to remember that she chose you.”

She didn’t though, did she? She didn’t choose me. She got stuck with me. We got tied together by some kind of ridiculously thick, incredibly knotted, tar-soaked tether.

“She chose you, which means you have to be her fucking compass. You have to remind her to sleep. You have to remind her to eat - because, oh, she’s underweight, by the way. Crush those vitamins into her meals if you have to. She needs to be healthy, and stay healthy.”

“She’s not, like… dying though, right?” Because, you know… That’d just be the cherry on top of the sundae that is this last year. Jesus!

“Would she have to be dying for you to pull your head out of your ass?”

Dan grunts, leans his head back against the window of the door, forcing himself to not turn around and stare at Amy through the glass. She’s probably on her phone, texting Selina or Ben, bitching about him.

“No.” He clears his throat, shoots the doctor a look from above, eyes heavy - because, you know, it’s still the middle of the fucking night and they’re still in the hospital - “What if she doesn’t want the kid?”

“What?” Her shoulders lower, and her nose crinkles and Dan’s not blind - she’s actually kind of cute, in a nerdy way. But that’s- “Are you saying she’s trying to harm the baby?”

“What, no! Fuck no.” He shakes his head, chews at his lip for a second, hands shifting along the doorframe, “No, she’s not that batshit. She’s just a little-”

“Neurotic? Shrill?”

“Tense.” He’s never liked it when people say she’s shrill, because she’s not. She’s just- “And because she’s tense, she’s kind of a fuckin’ mess. And because she’s a mess, she’s a little… You know.”

He shrugs now, nonchalant because he’s calm despite his nerves, because he’s mastered the art of feigning calmness when he needs to.

“A little tense.” His brown eyes damn near bulge, and his neck stretches and this fucking doctor looks like she wants to bitch-slap him.

“She’s pregnant with your child.”

“Yeah, and she didn’t wanna be.”

“You both- She made the decision to keep it. If she has questions, or if she needs help taking care of her situation, then she can come see me. But in the meantime, you’re her fucking lifeline. Go and buy her a burger and fries or something.”

“Pizza.”

“What?”

“Pizza. If we’re talking junk food, she prefers pizza.”

“I don’t give a shit.” The doctor shrugs, brushes past him and pushing his hand from the handle.

She’s staring up at him, and Dan realises that he’s stood still with his mouth open, as though he’s on the verge of saying something.

Oh.

He blinks, lifts one shoulder - because he's chill, and he’s calm, obviously - and he raises both brows curiously, the smallest traces of a smirk forming on his lip because, well…

“Is it a boy or a girl?”

“Christ, that thing again.”

It’s more observation than question, but he shoots her an inquisitive look all the same, because he knows it’ll piss her off - but mainly because he fucking loathes that particular piece of clothing.

It’s just so grey, and so bland, and so blah! and unlike anything else she owns. He doesn’t understand why she owns it, much less chooses to actually wear it. It’s not exactly flattering- 

“What?” Amy shakes her head, keeps her gaze focused on the television screen across the room. “Nobody’s asking you to give a shit.”

She brushes her hair behind her ears, pulls her legs up beneath her on the couch, almost like a child. She tugs the nightgown down her thighs, pulling the material around her knees until her legs are tucked in, warmer.

“You’re not asking me to give a shit but I’m still free to give a shit.” He shrugs, uselessly as she doesn’t pay him any attention.

Noticing her refusal to even look at him, Dan rolls his eyes, swipes his beer from the countertop and makes his way over to her.

They’d bought takeaway and he’d practically have to shove three slices of pizza down her throat. She hadn’t spoken to him at all, and he hadn’t tried to speak to her after one or two failed attempts.

You’re her fucking lifeline.

Her lifeline.

Yeah, because that wasn’t putting a lot of pressure on him. Jesus. Should he just serve up his balls on a platter right now and get it over with?

He questions his decision sometimes; wonders how he ever agreed to this, or rather, how he was the one to suggest this in the first place.

We’ll move in together, and it’ll be easy. We’ll get engaged - fake or real, who really cares? - and it’ll fun. We’ll have a kid, and we’ll be a family.

Maybe he was drunk when he thought this’d be a good idea. Because, really, who’s he kidding? This - being with her all the time, having to spend more time focusing on her and the kid than on himself? It’s fucking insane.

It’ll be easy, and it’ll be fun, and we’ll be a family. Okay. But what if he’s not ready for that? What if he fucks everything up because he jumped in while the sharks were still circling? What if he ruins everything because he’s in deeper than he wanted to be?

What if he ruins her life, and their kid by proxy, because he thought he could take care of something, of someone, he never deserved in the first place?

What if-

“Okay, fine.” He grumbles, pulls at the strings of his sweatpants until they loosen just the slightest. “You wanna play that game?” His brows raise, and he tosses himself down on the sofa, almost smacking into her head with his shoulder.

Amy grunts, shrugs him off when he purposely nudges her leg, knocks into her knee, “What the fuck?” She glares at him out of the corner of her eye, pulls a face when he sips (loud, too loud!) from his bottle. “Fucking hell.”

“What?” Dan asks, and she can tell he’s on the brink of fucking winking at her because he’s just that much of an ass. “You wanted to play.”

“I’m not playing a game, you fucking infant.” She says, “Just because I don’t feel like wearing something, fucking what, inviting, you think I’m trying to mess with you? Grow the hell up.”

“You wear that back in Nevada for the human beansprout?”

Choosing to ignore him - he did ignore her first, after all - she pushes at the buttons on the remote, flicks off C-Span to settle on some european channel airing one of those gritty old black and white movies.

She doesn’t even give a shit what it is or what it’s about, but she turns the volume up purely to spite him because he starts talking again as soon as she settles the remote down.

But his voice gets louder, and she’s never wanted to gag him more.

“What, you can’t find anything in colour? We’ve gotta watch this medieval shit?”

He whines, sighs, and she knows that he only does it to gauge a reaction, to make her react.

“Could’ve put on some porn, given at least one of us something fun to watch.”

“For fuck’s sake.” She mumbles the words below her breath, teeth grinding, but he hears her all the same.

Dan smirks down at her, nudges her bicep with his elbow, “What was that? Did you just say something?” Nudge. Nudge. “Ames? You have something to say?” Smirk. Nudge.

“No. And it’d be great if you could quit being an annoying weirdo.”

“I’m being weird?”

Again? Fuck her!

“I’m not the one who was offering to cook dinner, Dan.” She points out. “I just wanted to sit here, and see what latest fuckups our piss-stained country was dealing with tonight, but you- You keep… You keep talking and fucking asking me shit and I’m sick of it.”

“I’m trying to be comforting-”

“Well, don’t. Because it’s not fucking comforting, and it’s not reassuring. You don’t have a comforting bone in your fucking body so I don’t even know why you’re pretending you do. It’s just irritating. You’re irritating.”

She runs her fingers through her hair, focuses wide eyes on the coffee table, trying her hardest to ignore his movements, the way his Adam’s apple bobs and his right eye twitches just the slightest.

“God, I fucking hate this. I hate having your kid. I hate being pregnant with your kid. You- You’re fucking toxic, and this kid- It’s poisonous. It’s got your fucked-up DNA and it’s just gnawing at my insides like a fucking virus.”

His face seems to stiffen at that, all tired eyes and tightly-drawn lips, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you done?”

“No.” Amy says, turning to face him then. Her expression’s blank, her eyes clear. A strand of hair falls at the side of her face, but he won’t move it, move to touch her. “I should’ve just had an abortion.”

She means it, in all fairness. And he believes her, knows she means it.

Her life would be so much simpler if she wasn’t pregnant, if she wasn’t being put through the ringer every fucking day. Life would just run much smoother. She could just get up and she could do what she wanted and she could fucking drink.

She wouldn’t have other (happy) pregnant women smiling, or single women judging her. She wouldn’t have greasy old men ogling her breasts (even though they haven’t even fucking grown that much - but it’s not like she wasn’t already used to that). She wouldn’t have Dan following her around like a fucking puppy, shoving a ring on her finger, trying to turn her into his latest pet project.

She wouldn’t be Selina’s little bitch. Well, not as much. She wouldn’t be tired and cranky and horny and messy and bitchy all the time. Well-

“You really think that?”

“Yeah. And you know, it’d be easier for you, too. You could go back to fucking half of the East Coast. You could take that fucking ring back, or force someone else to wear it. I don’t really care.”

She shrugs, quickly, and she licks her lips. It’s petty, sure, but- fuck him and his fucking half-assed attempt at codling her. Her legs pull up, and she’s pulling at the bottom of her nightie.

“Think about it. You wouldn’t have to face me in this.” One brow hitches and then she laughs, a small chuckle, “I’m sure there are plenty of women out there right now, drunk out of their minds, wet enough that you just could glide right in.” She does the hand gesture, stares him down, watches as his face turns from pale to rose.

“You want to Dan, don’t you? You can go. Go fuck someone else. I know you want to. Hell, you know, I want you to. Maybe that way you can crawl out of my asshole for five seconds and I can fucking breathe.”

“You want me to leave?”

Maybe this would be better. Maybe he does want out. Maybe he’s had one foot out the door this whole time. Maybe she’s right.

Amy nods, and her face gives off nothing but honesty. She’s learnt over the years. Well, no. She can control her emotions, sometimes. It’s just- He’s so annoying, and he’s always there, and she’s so fed up- “Yes. I want you to leave." 

"Fine.”

He stands faster than she can look up, and he’s downing the rest of his beer so quickly that she’s almost positive he has a head rush. The green bottle slams on the coffee table - thankfully it isn’t glass because she is not up for cleaning that mess, and he definitely wouldn’t clear it if he smashed it - and he’s heading towards the front door no sooner than he’s rounded the couch.

“Don’t forget a condom. Wouldn’t want anybody else being burdened with your fucking offspring!” She shouts, screams almost, folding her arms over her chest, not even bothering to look over the back of the couch.

It’s not that she’s sulking, or even being dramatic. She’s just- Done. She’s done. With him, with the way he’s acting. There’s only so much Good Dan she can handle, and he’s pushed her to the breaking point.

He grumbles something, but she doesn’t give enough of a shit to ask him about it. He slips on his sneakers, pulls a jacket over his arm - it is still March - jangles his keys in one hand (rattles them, more like) as though the noise is going to get her to look at him.

“I’m leaving.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ll bring you back that used condom, shall I?”

“Not if you get hit by a bus first.” She whispers to herself, looking down to her lap. Her fingers fidget, and she pulls her shoulders higher, broader.

The cushions of the couch do little to make her comfortable, and her neck tightens, throat dry, when the door opens and slams behind him.

“Asshole.”

Turns out, his mother had been in the guest room the whole time. She’d fallen asleep by the time they came home from the hospital, but the slamming of the front door had woken her up, made her walk into the living room with confusion clear on her face.

She’d joined Amy on the couch after unsuccessfully suggesting the blonde catch some sleep. She was headstrong, that was for sure.

“Danny is… He’s complicated.”

“Everyone’s complicated, that doesn’t make him special.” Amy says, “He’s just a shit.”

“Okay, yeah, he’s a shit.” Marie nods, offers the gentlest of smiles. “But he’s a lot less of a shit than he used to be. You know that.” She pats Amy’s arm, retracts it quickly when the blonde glances down at the gesture. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She shrugs, shaking her head twice. “I do know that.”

“I think you know why.”

“I just figured he was lobotomised as part of his CBS contract.” Amy smiles, or tries a smile at the very least.

Marie can’t help it if her son’s an absolute waste of space sometimes. She can’t help it if he’s a unbearable pain in Amy’s ass. She can’t help it if he’s the only one to ever make Amy at least consider ass- Then again, she did make him, so… Maybe she is to blame.

The older woman grins, keeps her arm thrown over the back of the couch. “He’s a lot to handle, I know. I raised him, Amy.” She reminds her with raised brows as though she’s read the blonde’s mind. “I didn’t raise him like that, but that’s- He grew into that.”

“You mean he hasn’t always had a moisturising routine and a groomed sack? That’s like music to my fucking ears.”

“I mean,” she starts, trying to ignore that last bit, “He’s not the boy I raised. We taught him well. We were good parents, in our own way.” She adds.

Amy frowns, chewing at the inside of her lip. “But?” They clearly fucked up as parents somewhere along the way.

“Then his dad cheated, and I stayed at first, and I think it took a toll on him. He started thinking he could get ahead in life by using women because that’s what his dad did, thought of himself as some kind of new age casanova. Bankers, all suits and assholes, I tell you. It was ridiculous really.” Her fingers thread through her fringe and she pulls it backwards with a slight shake of the head and a chuckle, “Should’ve kept him home until he was twenty-five.”

“He’s so awful, honestly. My dad fucking hates his guts, by the way. You can’t blame him.” Amy tells her, “He slept with my sister.” Why did she throw that out there? Fuck, why did she just-?

“What?” Marie’s voice dips then, and she seems to sit up straight. Amy would laugh if the memory wasn’t so- “That little fucker.”

“Yeah. We were- well, not in a good place because we’ve never been in a good place, but- Yeah.” She nods, confirms, smiles a genuine fucking smile when his mother groans aloud in some kind of understanding, “Not gonna lie, I haven’t entirely forgiven him.”

“You shouldn’t forgive him.” She shakes her head, and then her hand is on Amy’s shoulder again and it isn't not reassuring. “Don’t forgive him for that. Forgive him for being needy and clingy and melodramatic if you can, but, heck, don’t let him get away with that.”

“I didn’t. I got the fuck out of dodge first chance I got.”

“You mean that tall guy you got engaged, too?” She questions, “I saw your interview. It was painful, to say the least. But, well, at least you dodged a bullet with that one. He didn’t look like much.”

“He was just… Ah, I didn’t even know.” Amy waves a hand, blinks rapidly to force the memory out of her mind. “He was so bad at sex.”

“Compensating for the micro-penis with his height?”

“Something like that.” Marie nods, all wide brown eyes and curled-up corners of her mouth, and she has the exact same face Dan does when he’s intrigued, interested for all the wrong reasons, “Like, I didn’t even have to do anything. He just wanted me to lie there and then he had the nerve to bitch about it, saying I was boring?” She scoffs, “I don’t think I even came once.”

Marie gasps, and Amy’s so close to laughing at this entire situation. Is she fucking… gossiping with Dan’s mom? Lord fucking help her. Damn this fucking baby for making her un-Amy. Damn this fucking devil child for normalising her even just a little bit.

“Fucking hell.”

“And then I came back to a shitty job where my boss, who I’ve spent like a fucking decade of my life working for, back-burnered me in favour of Richard, and now look where I am.”

Knocked up with your evil son’s sadistic spawn and it’s fucking destroying me? Carrying Rosemary’s fucking baby, cranked up a notch or two?

The brunette pries, “At least tell me my boy gets you off? Please tell me Danny isn’t incompetent in every aspect of his life?”

What the fuck? So, he obviously inherited that from his fucking mother.

“He’s, uh… dedicated?”

“Yeah, he gets that from his dad.”

Amy’s so desperate for information, mainly so she can use it against him. She knows next to nothing about his father, and having something to use against Dan? Fucking score.

But her fatigue overpowers her curiosity, and she’s standing before she can contemplate the decision any longer.

“I’m gonna-” Amy nods her head towards the hallway, and she sniffles when the chill of the dimply-lit living room finally reaches her skin. Pulling at the sleeves of her nightgown, she shifts from one foot to the other, trying not to make the situation awkward.

“Right, yes.” Marie stands, copies her actions.

She runs her hands down her sides, and nods once, twice (in the slightest way). She smiles down at Amy because of course she’s just as tall as her son - or, well, he’s just as tall as his mom - “Goodnight, Amy." 

The blonde offers the smallest of smiles, baring teeth and batting tired lashes, "Yeah. Uh, night.”

She waits until Marie’s down the hallway before glancing at the door one last time. It’s well past two o'clock, and he’s probably balls deep in some skanky college grad by now.

Fuck him.

“Are those flowers?”

It’s the crinkling of the plastic around the stems that has her half-awake eyes flickering open, in curious suspicion.

“Yeah.” He grumbles more than speaks, and she feels him say it, breathe it, more than she hears it. “We missed Valentine’s Day.”

Because it’s early March and we don’t do that.

“Are they for me or for your conscience?”

Dan grunts, and can hear his shoes hit the floor carelessly as he kicks them off, “Both.” He lies flat on his back, his shoulder pushing against her curved back, all bone digging into spine. “Mostly for you.”

He doesn’t smell of anything other than beer and tequila. He doesn’t smell of cheap perfume or expensive perfume or anything feminine.

She doesn’t want to be that person, that girl who checks his pocket and scrolls through his phone, but- He doesn’t- She isn’t that person, doesn’t need to be, won’t be.

“Was she good?”

“Fucking- really?” He’s facing her now, she can feel it. His breath runs over the back of her neck, and she pulls her legs up tighter into her body, knees to abdomen. “You’re really asking me that?”

“You know what, I don’t care.” She rolls her eyes behind closed lids, forcing her eyes open to stare at the dresser across the room. “Just don’t touch me. I don’t wanna catch anything.”

There’s a huff, a pant, from his side of the bed, and then he’s flipped over, facing her back completely. He curls both arms in front of himself, resting them between both of their bodies. “I didn’t need to sleep with anyone else, Amy.”

“How comforting.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“What, do you want a fucking medal?” She hopes to Christ he can’t see her reflection in the mirror on the wall, hopes he can’t see the look of anguish on her face right now. It’s not that she cares, it’s just- He’s- “Congratulations, Dan. You successfully kept your dick in your pants for one night. I’ll buy you a plaque tomorrow.”

“I don’t-” He starts, pauses to collect himself. His voice softens, and she doesn’t like it this time, “You know, I kept thinking of you.” He stops, seems to wait for her to spare him a glance over her shoulder before continuing, “I was just… picturing you. Sat on the couch, by yourself, watching that shitty old romcom as though it was gonna bring you any kind of comfort. I thought ‘I could do this. I could fuck that pretty redhead across the bar. And I’d probably enjoy every second of it’.”

“Then why the fuck didn’t you?” She sounds aggravated, she knows, but he’s riling her up on purpose and it’s infuriating. He’s smoothing circles around her itches, covering her in goosebumps when she’s already freezing.

Yes, I get it, you dick. You can go out and fuck whoever you like. You can go out and-

“Because I kept thinking of you. Okay? Because you sitting there looking all glum and fuckin’ miserable as I left the apartment earlier? That wasn’t- It wasn’t fun. I thought of you, and I felt guilty. And I don’t even know why because it’s not like you give a shit about me. I mean, fuckin’ hell, Amy, would it kill you to try being with me?”

Being, as in- What?

“I did try.”

She swallows, holds back a breath she isn’t sure she wants to set free. If he hears her sob, or hiccup, or fucking cry- If he-

God for-fucking-bid. She sits up, refuses to face him, “You made me try, so I tried, and I failed.”

“I don’t want you to try because it’s what I want. I want you to try because you want to. I want you to try because it matters to you, not because you think it’ll make things easier.”

Easier, because easy is impossible. They can minimise the pain. They can place boundaries where normal people don’t need them.

Dan copies her, moving to kneel behind her. His hands fall to the mattress, touching the edge of her fucking nightie, “You’re no fucking picnic and this is not easy, and it’s not gonna be fuckin’ easy because if I don’t want to kill you then you want to kill me, and we’re probably doomed for fucking failure anyway, but I want you to try.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.” She tells him, shooting him the briefest of looks over her shoulder (again), “What you want is the kid because you think it’ll give you some kind of fucking purpose, because you want to exploit it or something. What you want is this little fantasy that you’ve dreamt up where we have a family and you convince me to marry you after so many years and we live happily ever after in political fucking bliss. It won’t work. It never works.”

“You don’t know that.” Dan says, like an overconfident little brat, like the eager frat boy he probably once was.

His tone frustrates her, and the way his knee digs into her lower back pisses her off, and the way his hand is so close to her leg makes her blood boil, and-

“Try me.”

“What if I don’t want to try?”

“I’m not asking you to put on a pretty white dress and walk down a fuckin’ aisle, Amy. Just, give me something here. Meet me halfway.”

“If I meet you halfway, then you’ll just grab on and drag me down your dark fucking path to hell.”

She moves her shoulders, lets the cold air running through the apartment blister her skin. It isn’t cold enough, doesn’t sting.

Placing one hand on her waist, Dan pulls at her side until she’s facing him. He cups her chin in his hand (forcefully) when she refuses to meet his eye, “Amy.”

“What?”

He tilts her head, waiting until her gaze falls on his mouth because it's enough. He’ll settle for that.

“We’re already going to hell.” He informs her as though it’s fact, “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re kind of already a package deal.”

“I don’t want to be.”

“If you didn’t, then you’d look me in the eye and calm the fuck down.”

She can’t do it, can’t force herself to stare right at him, stare him down and let him know that she-

Damn it. Damn him.

“Do you know why I want you to try?”

“Because you’re a fucking sociopath and you need constant validation?”

“Because this,” Dan waves his free hand back and forth between them, watching as she watches him, lets it wrap around her elbow, “it could work. We can work. We can be great.”

“Careful, Dan. You almost sound romantic.”

“Not so much romantic as pragmatic.”

Amy rolls her eyes, can’t help the faint smile that starts to form at the sheer thought, “Because you’ve got that sad little fantasy playing on a loop in that fucked-up head of yours and you're just about delusional enough to think it could it actually be real.”

“Because you’re the best thing for me.”

“Is this where you propose for real?”

“Would you wear a pretty white dress if I did?” His brows raise, his face teasing, so smug he may as well be chewing gum with his mouth open, sloppy. “You wanna take a trip down the aisle?”

She snorts, “Not even halfway. Besides, my dad would never let me marry you.”

“What are you, sixteen?” He asks, “You don’t need Daddy’s permission to marry me.”

“He’d fucking kill you. I’d probably be the one handing him the shovel to dig your grave in his backyard.”

“You wouldn’t even help out your poor husband?” His fingers crawl up her elbow, dance along her bicep, tugging at and riding up the sleeve of her shirt, “You wouldn’t wanna die with me?”

“And miss out on the funeral? No fucking way. I’ve got so many stories to tell people. Gonna piss all over your name and reputation. Maybe start a bonfire, burn all your fucking suits.”

“Yeah? You can wear this piece of shit to my funeral if you want. At least I won’t be around to see it.” He scrunches it up between his fingers, and she looks down when his face turns from amusement to astonishment, “Not gonna lie about it, it’s actually kind of soft.”

“See? Who needs lace panties…”

She nudges him this time, stretches her legs out and moves her body around so her back is resting against his chest. His left hand slips to her side when they’re both lay down, resting his arm beneath her pillow, and his right hand reaches around her front, fingers curling, threading through her hair, crook of his elbow comfortable around her neck.

“Well, I mean, you could still-”

“Shut up.”

Dan scratches his brow with the hand at her front, blinks, thinking. He can feel her breath on his skin, feel the hair of his forearm stick up at the sound of her voice, warm despite the broken radiator.

“D'you wanna know the sex?”

“No. Don’t care.”

“It’s a boy.”

She hits him, smacking his arm with the back of her hand, “You prick!”

“Amy?”

She doesn’t reply, only makes a little grunting noise, backs up into him as though that’ll suffice.

“This kid’s so fucked.”

“I know.” She agrees, grabs her pillow from his hand and pulls it closer, pressing her face into the cotton, pushing her backside further into him because he’s warm and his body is, she finds, a perfect harmony of softness and roughness. “Dan?”

“Yeah?”

“I hate roses.”

“I know.” There’s a low chuckle, and she feels his fingers tighten in her hair, gripping and grasping but not quite pulling, “I left the peonies in the kitchen.”

It’s subtle, the way he remembers everything about her - so subtle that he doesn’t even know he’s doing it most of the time. He knows how many layers she has, knows just how to unravel each and every one. He knows her inside and out, knows just how to calm her down, how to rile her up when he wants to.

He knows what she needs when she needs something, knows how to handle her when she spins, falls and loses herself. And, in some way, he think she’s come to rely on him. And he likes it, likes that she needs him sometimes. He kind of likes being her compass, her fucking lifeline.

Nobody else gets her; understands her when she needs it or possesses her when she wants it. Nobody else worries, has an aching feeling in the pit of their stomach when she’s even in some pain. Nobody else cares enough to try with her.

That’s concern, right? Nothing less, nothing more?

Maybe, maybe not.

It’s only when she kicks him in the shin and grabs his hand that he thinks it might be more than that, more than a little feeling.

It’s only when she falls asleep and he finds calmness in the steady rhythm of her breath that he thinks this might be more than a fleeting thing, than a passing emotion.

“Asshole.”

Fuck.

He’s never been good with emotions, identifying them or processing them, but- Shit, he didn’t ever want to feel this.

What the fuck is he supposed to do now?

That’s love, you fuckin’ idiot.

[dcbicki]

“You’re Gonna See it Someday; It’s Affection Always”

Fandom: Veep Characters: Dan Egan, Amy Brookheimer Pairing: Dan/Amy Rating: T (use of mature language) In which Amy’s pregnant, and Dan already has a plan mapped out for them.

He’s a fucking snake with the eyes of a hawk. Of course he’s up to something. She knows him, better than anybody else probably ever has, ever could.

“And now you’re gonna eat.” He reaches down, picks up a rounded bowl. “Eating for two now, Amy.”

She’s seriously gonna stab him with a fucking spoon.

----

He’s thought long and hard about this. Well, that’s to say he thought of it, considered it for like twenty minutes, and then made up his mind.

He didn’t even need to consider it– not really, not hard at least. It all just seemed rather obvious, now that the cards were in place and the inevitable was no longer deniable.

He knocks once, twice, knows she’ll answer despite it being so late at night because she’s Amy, and she just will.

Dan bounces up in his heels, waits for the wooden door to Room 206 to open and its guest to greet him. He frowns. She’s probably wearing that awful fucking granny nigh- “What?”

Nope. She’s still wearing that dress that looks like a long blouse. It still stops at her knees, still shows off traces of her bra underneath. Oh.

“What?”

“What?” Amy scowls, eyes drawn tight and lips thin. Her body is hard, tense. Fuck. “You knocked on my door, Dan.”

Right. “Can I come in?”

There’s no ‘please’, not even a hint of one coming soon. There are no cherries on top of this, no sprinkles to garnish their massive fuck-up.

“No. And you’ve got one minute to say whatever bullshit you’ve been reciting in your head before I scream.”

She wouldn’t. He’s sure of it.

“Well, aren’t you a fucking delight?” Maybe sarcasm wasn’t really the right idea to start things off, he judges based on the look she gives him. Whatever. “You really want me to let everyone on the floor know of our little sexcapade, Amy?”

“Goodbye, Dan.”

The door doesn’t shut because he pushes a hand up flat against it, and she removes her own, backing down against her will. She still glares up at him, though. She can still look like she hates him, at least.

“You could’ve told me you weren’t on the pill.”

On second thought, maybe blaming her isn’t gonna go down too well either.

Fuck him, and fuck his finger-pointing.

“Yeah, well, you could’ve used a condom.”

One hand curled around the doorway to her room, he sighs, slight aggravation showing in his tone (because she’s not letting him in, because she’s blaming him), “I was told-”

“A low sperm count doesn’t mean no mean sperm count at all, you fucking dildo.”

Dan smirks at that (because he’s an ass, after all), and he leans in closer, “More like a vibrator, angel.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Besides,” he shrugs, still towers over her even though she refuses to let him into the room, “You weren’t bitching about the lack of condom when you were riding my dick.”

“You told me not to worry, and because I was as drunk as a freshman sorority girl lying face down in an back ally, I didn’t worry.”

He drank more than she did that night, and they both know it.

“It’s not my fault you couldn’t keep up with me.” He’d been six drinks in, and she’d been five. So close. Damn him.

“You were the one who kept buying me drinks.”

“And yet I wasn’t the only one completely trashed at the end of the night.”

“Fuck you.”

“Can I come in?”

“No. Go back to your room. Go fuck an unsuspecting twenty year old. I don’t care.” She wants to close the door, to slam it in his face so hard his fucking nose bleeds, bruises, breaks.

He won’t budge though, and he’s practically already inside at this point anyway.

He’s asking out of common courtesy, which is almost funny considering Dan is one of the rudest people she knows. He’s fake, too, though.

It’s ironic, because common courtesy was the sole reason she decided to tell him. She didn’t tell him because she wanted to, because she needed him or his money or his help. It was the right thing to do – to tell him of his impending fatherhood, if he wanted it – try as she might to fight it.

“I don’t want to fight, Amy.”

It’s not good for the-

“Well, if you’d have used the brain that the Wizard of fucking Oz gave you at birth, then we wouldn’t have anything to fight about in the first place.”

He kind of wants to tell her that they always find ways of arguing anyway, that there is always just something there as a source of heated conversation between them, a raw nerve left uncovered. He almost wants to remind her of how they once clashed over a flavours of fucking frozen yoghurt. He’s not blind. He knows how they operate, how and why and just how well they work together.

But he doesn’t – doesn’t mention their ever-present, ever-lingering need for eye-drawing disputes – because he knows it’ll only make matters worse. And they’re already in pretty fucking rough shape as it is.

We don’t have to fight now, Amy. We need to talk about this.

He’d tell her this if he wasn’t such a coward, if he wasn’t just two steps away from becoming a full-fledged sociopath, one who craved her attention and cherished her scoldings. It’s that five percent part of him needs to feel loved (so people say), he reckons.

He’d tell her this, but only if their deliciously twisted Machiavellian souls weren’t so damn twisted. He’d tell her this, but he kind of likes it when she hates him.

“Best put on those ruby slippers then, Dorothy. It’s gonna be a long fucking road ahead.”

Campaign trailing and tightrope walking and hormone-fucking-controlled screaming matches. All this until they become parents. All this until the emerald-tinted goggles wear off and all they’re left with is a fucking baby and a fuckload of diapers.

Fuck the wizard, and fuck that analogy.

“Can you leave?” Her lips purse, and he somehow knows that she wants to add a simple ‘Please?’ on the end of that. But she won’t. They don’t do manners. They don’t do nice.

Shoulders raised high and body hunched, her spine is probably fucking screaming out for help. He’s never understood how her spine hasn’t tensed up so much that it shatters into fucking pieces, but he’s always admired it from afar, from too close.

“No.”

No, because you said you pregnant with my fucking kid, so, I don’t know, we should probably talk about it. Maybe? Huh? No? Well, tough shit, Brookheimer.

Dan lifts a brow, in that sharp way he does when he’s testing her, messing with her. Except he isn’t really messing now, but his face has never quite mastered the art of expressing anything other than boyish overconfidence or sheer disgust, so he just looks like a fucking prick instead. Nothing new there then, Amy thinks.

“Why?”

Because we need-

“I ordered room service and told them to bring it here.” He shrugs, nonchalant, ignores the icy blue daggers her eyes bore into him.

Amy lets a moment pass before she speaks again, just watching as he ventures further into her room, not even asking for her approval now. He tosses that stupid beige coat down on the chair beside the dresser, sits down in said chair with one leg crossed over the other at the knee. And he’s grinning. Fucking asshole.

“What did you order?”

She didn’t dare eat enough at dinner, too distracted by his constant nudging and staring. They hadn’t spoken to each other all night; well, of anything other than Selina or her baby that is the White House, that is. They didn’t talk about what was really at the back of both of their minds, pushing its way to the forefront as only their evil fucking spawn could.

“Cravings kicking in already?” He’s messing now, and they both know it.

“Fuck you.” She ignores his look, utterly despises the smug smile – no, smirk – he keeps plastered on his face. She sits on the bed, phone still clutched in her hands. Ring, goddamn it. Fucking ring. “It’s a surprise,” she hears him say, all proud and sounding much like his usual self it’s truly disgusting.

Fuck him and his voice. Fuck him and personality. Fuck him and his shitty genes. Fuck, him.

“You know I can just call someone to come and drag you out of here, right?” She’s not lying, but he knows she’s bluffing. Her hands are sweating, the backs of her knees hot against the bed’s blanket. Is it abso-fucking-lutely vital that he keep staring at her like that?

He taps one hand against the armrest of the shitty chair he’s sat in, sighs in a way that lets her know he doesn’t give a single flying fuck about her threat. “Feel free, Ames.”

“You could at least wipe that shitty grin off your face.” Amy offers, flicking blonde hair behind the shoulder when it starts to stick against her neck, all warm and sweaty. Maybe she’s not pregnant, maybe she’s menopausal already and having a hot flash. Her doctor would disagree.

Just as I thought. You’re pregnant. Congrats, Miss Brookheimer. Would you like to call anyone?

She’d thought about it, about calling him then and there, about letting him know straight away. Hell, she’d thought about dialing his number and just handing the phone over to her doctor to let him learn the wonderful news from someone else.

Hello? Mr Egan? Congratulations are in order. You’re going to be a father.

She’d internally debated all options before making her decision. She’d considered every alternative available to her before making up her mind. She’s getting older, and time is moving faster, and she’s changed (somewhat) as a person.

Fuck.

It’s winter for fuck’s sake, why is her room so hot? Fucking heating.

“You don’t have to be involved. I’m not gonna hunt you down for fucking child support.” She’s a working woman with a job – undetermined, uncertain, unspecified as of yet. She can be a single mother if she has to be.

And she can picture him working alongside her all day everyday, purposely ignoring her pregnancy, and then intentionally avoiding all mention of the kid she’d surely talk about every once in a while. He’d be good at pretending, she knows.

If she told him to go, he’d walk. Quite happily, she thinks.

“You can get the fuck out.”

Of your room? Of your life?

Constantly circling each other’s orbit, casually dancing around an endgame. Maybe they had just been in denial of the inevitable.

“I think I’ll stay right here, thanks.”

His tone contradicts his meaning. He’s smug, but he’s serious.

I’m staying. I’m here. This could work for us. This could for me.

This is a golden opportunity, and not just for him. Maybe it’s a blessing disguised as a fucking embryo, all devil horns and shit-eating smiles.

There’s a knock on the door before he can get another word out, suggest something she’ll either love or loathe. Dan hops up to answer the door, brushing past her legs with the coolest of drafts. She, despite herself, likes it.

“Room service.”

The door swings open, revealing a short white guy dressed in a low rent khaki-coloured uniform. He looks as though someone just killed his family pet, and Dan barely acknowledges him. Poor fucker.

He grabs the handle of the cart – the whole thing, not just a tray – and wheels it into the room before letting go of the truck to pull out some already-counted cash from his back pocket to tip him, “Thanks, buddy.”

Door slamming shut, he spins back around to come face to face with Amy, only a couple of steps away from him, eyes squinting in distrust. He smiles – that motherfucker – and makes a note of her phone lying on the bed. Finally.

“What kind of game are you playing?”

“Why do you assume I’m playing a game?” He has a new job, his own fucking business for Christ’s sake. He is settled… kind of. He’s a grown adult who fucks people and fucks with people as a favourite past-time. “Jesus Christ, am I not allowed to order food for the mother of my child?”

She feels something twist into a knot in her stomach at that, and it rises to burn in her throat. Bile. Vomit.

Don’t ever fucking say that again. Please. Jesus.

“You didn’t eat much at dinner.”

“You kept staring at me, and I had shit to do.”

“And because I was staring I know you weren’t eating.”

She chooses to ignore the slight hint of concern he’s showing. He’s a fucking snake with the eyes of a hawk. Of course he’s up to something.

She knows him, better than anybody else probably ever has, ever could.

“And now you’re gonna eat.” He reaches down, picks up a rounded bowl. “Eating for two now, Amy.”

She’s seriously gonna stab him with a fucking spoon.

The motherfucker ordered what looks like one of everything, and she would thank him if he wasn’t just so naturally, perfectly, plainly sketchy.

“It’s your fault, by the way.” She’s not claiming responsibility for their latest fuck-up, “You were the one who said you couldn’t get your fucking swimmers to the finish line.”

He holds up both hands, blamelessly, “Then I guess you’re just an extra special swimming pool.”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe later I’ll let you.”

Can she kill him with a spoon? Can they legalize spoon-killing? Fuck, she’ll settle for spooning his eyes if she has to.

Eyes narrowing, Amy finally gives in. Not for his sake, but because she’s hungry as fuck and there are like twenty dishes in front of her. Screw him, him and his tall, towering ass.

“Fine.” Those cravings aren’t going to kick in for some time, she knows, but she’s desperately craving something sweet. And that bowl full of caramel – is that fucking salted caramel? – ice cream looks near orgasmic.

Dan smirks, so much wider than before that it almost resembles a true smile, when she snatches the white bowl containing the dessert from his hands and sits back down on the mattress, completely ignoring the flashing notifications on her phone.

They can get to work tomorrow. Selina and her attention-seeking ass can wait. Nothing’s going to change because Amy ignored a couple messages. Well…

“Good?”

She’d toss the bowl at him if she wasn’t so damn hungry. So instead she just nods and raises a brow, challenging him, “Join me?”

He brushes off her invitation, making his way back over to the uncomfortable chair by the dresser, “You told your mom?”

Why, because you wanna fuck her too, and claim vagina-rights to all three Brookheimer women?

It takes everything she has in her to bite her tongue, to stop herself from saying this. Fuck him, and fuck her sister.

“She does love me.” He speaks more to himself than to her, and Amy scowls, lowering the pot down into her lap. It’s cold through the material of her dress, and she’s grateful.

The metal spoon clangs against the side of the bowl when she lets it slip from fingers, and she’s somewhat surprised when Dan leans forward and grabs it from her hands. Why the hell are his hands so warm? He’s supposed to radiate frost, not heat.

“My dad fucking hates you.”

“Your dad would hate anyone who touched you. Not just me.” He’s softening the blow to his ego, she notes. Asshole.

“He liked Buddy.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t.”

He’s not entirely wrong. Damn him.

“Whatever.”

There’s another bowl being placed into her lap then, and his hands remain cupped around the porcelain until she reaches for it. He retracts, carefully avoiding her touch.

“Are you trying to make me fat so you can add that to your list of reasons to bail? That’s low, Dan. Even for you.” Her tone is mocking, and he knows it. So he grins, because he knows her better than anybody.

“If I was gonna bail, I wouldn’t be making sure you were looked after.” It sounds deeper than he means it to be, he reckons, “Amy, if I was gonna abandon you…,” Dan pauses, glances down at her stomach for only the shortest of seconds, “or it… I wouldn’t be in here.”

Shit. He gulps, almost sighs until she cuts him off.

Eyes closed, she breathes through her nose, does that thing where her neck strains and her body tenses, “You can’t abandon someone unless you were ever there for them in the first place.”

“Well, I’m fuckin’ here, aren’t I?”

You getting worked up there, Danny? Gary would grin like a toddler on a sugar rush and Jonah would come out with some shitty joke that only he would ever find funny. Selina would tell him to sort out his goddamn sour puss and get on with it.

His lips are drawn thin, brown eyes wide, throat tight.

“Why the fuck are you in here?” She wants to shout, but it’s late and Leon fucking West is in the room next to hers. Then again, that twice-flushed turd’s probably got a glass pressed up against the wall right now anyway, eavesdropping on a conversation she’d rather not be having.

He’s a bastard – a heartless one, he knows – but he’s not a fucking deadbeat.

Fuck, his dad’s a deadbeat and his mom’s a saint, but that never stopped him from becoming Satan’s whore in male form. But that didn’t mean he wanted to follow suit.

(And her family’s no picnic either. He doubts she wants to turn out like either one of her parents.)

(And he definitely – oddly, he knows – doesn’t want her to end up like her sister, all unfathered kids and fried aspirations.)

(She’s not just some random woman that he fucked.)

(She’s smart, and his equal.)

(She’s fucking Amy.)

So we jump together. Butch and Sundance.

If she’s in this for the long haul then he will be, too. If she’s keeping this baby (his baby), then he’s keeping her close by. If she’s ready for this, for change, for restless nights and shitty diapers at two o'clock in the fucking morning, then he’ll join her.

No point in beating a dead horse when it’s already done and buried. No point in delaying the inevitable any longer, pushing fate past its due date.

They fucked, and now they’re fucked.

We jump together.

(She’s Amy, for fuck’s sake.)

“Because you’re gonna fuckin’ marry me.”