006

He awoke before dawn, feeling an ache in his back that had him wincing when he rolled over. The sheets smelled like sweat and sex, instantly nauseating— the reek of sour booze was still coming from his pores and in that split second before the stupor of sleep cleared, he heard them scuttling, scratching. The rats.

"Shit," he muttered, closing his eyes. "Lyv, you hear that?"

"Mmmpf," she rolled towards him, grabbing at the sheets he'd taken with him. "Close the window," she murmured, half-asleep, "s'raining."

It was. The sound he'd mistaken for claws on concrete was actually rain pattering on the awning beyond the patio doors. They'd lived here for a grand total of two days and already it felt right. The anxiety faded as quickly as it had come— last night had been a wash for him. He hadn't even been involved in the second half of the match. Instead he'd been brawling with Richards in the crowd. He hadn't known that Deuce had been taken out by some newcomer with a chair. And when Lyv had told him about it upon arriving backstage, he'd had no real name for what swept his body. Thinking of it as rage as he limped out of the building, it was reconsidered to regret upon reaching the parking lot without further incident. He wanted to go back and apologize but instead he let his wife usher him into the car before sliding behind the wheel.

Rolling out of bed with a groan, he stretched and then put his feet on the floor as his calf muscles locked up. "Fuckshit," he ground out between clenched teeth, whispering so he didn't wake his wife up. Each footfall made him wince, as if the very movement cost him something vital. A grim smile graced his lips as he pushed the sliding patio door open, stumbling outside onto the balcony. The breeze was cold as it grazed his shoulders, running from one to the other as if tracing the letters tattooed there. He shivered and said nothing, simply glaring up as if the dawn-bleached indigo above held the answers to all things debated in nocturnal hours. The water was turbulent, tossed by the wind, making the moored boats of the neighbors rock— watching them brought back that vertigo he'd felt laying in bed.

Inertia felt down to the bones left him lingering in the darkness of the open doorway, cutting a crooked as shit silhouette against the pre-dawn sky. He knew she was watching from the shift in her breathing— she had her tells. They both did. They'd been together long enough that their odd little idiosyncrasies were matched.

"Mmmm... Jax?" She called his name, rubbing her hand on the mattress where his warmth still lingered before swinging her legs over the side. "Come back to bed, baby. I'm cold." The weight of her gaze pushed his shoulders into a deeper stoop.

"I let him down."

"What?"

Hunched and dark, he looked like shit as he took a few steps, coming to stop against the railing. "I should call him. Does he even have a phone? I don't... I'm not even sure he does. I should get him one. Put him on our family plan, maybe." Maybe it was the Glenlivet talking but he felt an odd sort of shame mixed with regret. He felt responsible and he was thinking concussion and severe spinal trauma and all those things he'd heard when he was being strapped to the surfboard after Legacy had let him drop off the top of that third cage tier. "I gotta tell him I'm sorry. I got distracted. Richards pissed me off and—"

"I'm sure he understands," Lyv whispered, her voice soothing. Wind swept through the open doorway, pre-emptively filling the void as she walked out to join him at the railing, feeling the light misting of rain on her skin. It felt good, turning her silk nightgown sheer.

She touched his hand where it rested against the railing, feeling his fingers twitch slightly as he turned his head. "I fucked up."

"No. You didn't." Staring into his eyes was like looking into the twilight sky, that dark and untouchable expanse of blue-black of the starless heavens mirrored in his soul. The void was in him tonight, alright. She lifted a hand up to cup his cheek, feeling dampness there. Was it the rain or was he really this deeply troubled over letting the Holmes kid fend for himself? "Jax, honey, it wasn't your fault. You didn't know and you were keeping that Stylish Wolfman guy occupied." Normally he'd have laughed— she liked to mangle their pretentious nicknames for that singular purpose. Instead he no-sold it like a motherfucker, drawing a sigh from her lips. "What is it?"

"I dreamt about the rats again." The words came out in the silence between them and the vacant humming in his ears shifted to the dead white noise of a broken connection. Tentative fingers spanned the yawning chasm between them and then he pulled her close, crushing her against him.

"Baby, no."

"Yeah." He bit his lip, shaking his head at that sound of dismay in her voice. "It's probably the belt."

It wasn't. He knew it. Eventually the piper was going to show up at the door. That's what it meant. Eventually he'd have to pay and then it'd be all over.

"What's gonna be over?"

He didn't realize he'd said it aloud until she asked. "My career. This joyride... I like this place, Lyv. I don't wanna lose it. I feel important here. Fuckin' validated, even without that belt."

"It's o—" He pushed her back and she flinched, expecting violent rejection. Instead he wiped away her tears with one callused thumb— she had no idea they were even there until that moment. "Jax... I... please don't..." fumbling to fill silence with clumsy words, a jumble of half-assed thoughts fell from her lips as she tried to capture what she was feeling. Worry? Joy? Sadness? She was a mess and it wasn't just the hormones. There was something about this shift in her husband that had been playing with her for weeks. He'd been calmer and she was growing more anxious by the day.

Those eyes remained impassive, unreadable as they flicked back and forth, trying to divine her secrets, "what is it, Lyv?"

She said nothing, staring up at him as she licked her lips. I love you, her eyes said.

He finally spoke four words that shattered her heart into a million hope-silvered fragments with one blow. They'd put down roots in Florida, of all places. It had to mean something, everything when coupled with that whisper: "you know me best."

"I do," she replied, resting her head against his chest. "I know you inside and out."

"Tell me again. Tell me I'm wrong."

She did it without hesitation, without flinching, her eyes locked on his, bracketed by the shadowy smudges of the remains of the mascara she'd been wearing when they'd fallen asleep in that post-coital embrace.

"Alright then." He nodded, gently drawing that nightgown off over her head before tossing it aside, leaving her standing there nude.

She didn't try to hide. She loved the way he looked at her, hungry and possessive, as if she was the most desirable woman on the planet. Who cared if the neighbors could see? Let them look! "Let's go back to bed," she whispered, shivering as she reached for him.

There was a little swell to her belly now and he rested his hand over it, feeling that ache in his chest at the thought of that life growing inside her. "I believe you. It'll be— we'll be— okay."