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You're Gonna See it Someday; It's Affection Always

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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 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 a back alley, 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.”