Chapter Text
When Tom steps into the room, the first thing he sees is the little life she's holding in her arms.
The life they made.
He'd always known their daughter was very much alive. The various kicks and movement and the sound of her heartbeat and the images on the ultrasounds all told him, but he knew it deeper, from his heart.
But his heart, now, feels like it's going to stop.
It's been incredibly hard, these last three months. And he knows he is entirely to blame. It is his fault that they are not together, that they are not a family.
He doesn't like to admit it out loud, but he knows.
Sometimes he wants to tell himself that she just doesn't love him enough. If she did, she would accept that there are simply too many temptations for a man like him, and he's not a saint, he is as far from a saint as it gets. She should accept that his independent nature doesn't allow him to commit to one woman the same way it did others, but would know that he would always come home to her, that he loves her and no one else, and never will. In his way, he is incredibly loyal, even now. He wants to tell her that if she looks at their relationship, she would see that at no time had he ever failed to meet any need she had. He would have provided for her, cared for her, protected her, loved her. He wanted to give himself to her the way he had never to any other.
Was it so much to ask for a release? For a taste outside of their routine?
But he knows the answer to that. He knows the rest of the world doesn't operate that way. And that when he asked her to trust him, to give him that chance he desperately wanted, he knew it was expected, that she would be his one and only. It had been an enormous effort for her to trust him. Her instincts TOLD her she couldn't, yet she had. And he had thought he could live up to that trust.
So much for that.
"Here, Tom," she says, those stunning violet eyes that had bewitched him from the first second she'd set them on him, rising to meet his, her voice gentle, lacking the scorn and rage that had become commonplace for her these last few months, "meet your daughter."
She gives her over to him. The bundle weighs much less than he expected. He touches Cosette's hands over the blanket, but she doesn't pull away -- there is no chance she would ever endanger this precious little miracle. She waits until his hold is secure and then pulls back. She is even smiling as she watches him with the little girl.
Little Beatrice.
"She's magnificent," Tom chokes, his finger brushing over the little hands, the soft curls she came with from the womb, the tiny nose, lips, cheeks. Big blue eyes that might change color (but he doubts it) squint as they examine him. Little as she is, she scowls in intense concentration as she studies him, focusing the vision that is still blurry from as little as a few feet, trying to figure out who this new person is.
"I know." Cosette sits up with her hands spread on her thighs. "She's probably going to need a feeding soon, though, but I wanted...I mean, you are her father." She sounds resigned. And something else. Tom looks up at her.
He doesn't dare ask to stay. He knows she won't let him. She wouldn't let him hold her as she pushed their child into the world. She wouldn't even let him stay in the room.
Beatrice yawns, her eyes drooping. "I think she's tired," he says.
Cosette nods. "She's not the only one. You can put her there," she motions with a finger. The plastic bin that the hospital uses for a cradle sits beside her bed. Tom wants to hold the child longer, though, but he gives in and sets her down.
He knows this is his punishment. He is still undecided on whether he deserves it.
"Maybe this isn't the right time," Cosette says, "but I think we need to talk."
Tom looks at her, puzzled. "You're exhausted, da---Cosette. You should probably sleep when she does."
"I know." Heavy eyes stare at him. "But I don't know if I can, until I tell you something."
His heartbeat flutters. He sees a nearby chair and pulls it closer to her bed, but keeps a distance. He leans forward to listen, his elbows resting on his knees.
"Beatrice is my child, and your child," Cosette says, and her eyes are completely devoid of the bitterness, the vitriol they would sparkle with whenever she looked at him during these last few months. When hormones had completely taken control and she was a walking bag of emotions, all of it negative, all of it heaped on him.
"It would be wrong of me to prevent you from being her father. Provided you do actually want to be her father."
Tom swallows past the lump in his throat. It hurts, her implications. But he's not surprised by them. She had believed all his other words, and look at where it had gotten her, she said as much in heated moments. Why should she ever believe anything he ever says again?
"I do," he says, steady.
She nods. "Then this is what is going to happen. As of right now, you and I will never, ever speak of what happened. Ever again. I will no longer hold it against you, and you will never apologize or try explain it. Do you understand?"
He frowns. His hopes, ridiculously, peek their heads out from behind their barricades, where he had safely banished them during the emotional war between him and Cosette. "Does that mean--"
"No," she says, in a low tone that is not malicious. "As the Taylor Swift song goes, we are never, ever, ever getting back together. You and I are completely done as...well. But as parents, we sort of have no choice now, do we?"
We always have choices, Tom thinks, but says nothing. He's said so much these last few months. The words rise, they fill his brain, but he makes himself stay silent. If she hasn't heard him before, she won't hear him now, and if he pushes to hard, this tenuous truce will break before it can take root.
"So," she continues, eyes going to their little bundle that is snoozing contentedly, "all hostilities will cease. This isn't about you or me anymore. We cannot be hateful or mean to each other, not in any way. A child absorbs it like a sponge. I won't risk her being harmed by...by what happened." By what you did, is what she wanted to say, Tom knows it.
"I will be polite, even kind to you. We will accommodate each other, work together, even enjoy each other's presence, or pretend to, when it's needed. We will never, ever speak a harsh word to or about each other, as of this moment."
Tom feels those hopes peek out farther. Is the coast clear? Is there finally a cease-fire?
"But you will understand that this does not mean at any point that I am over what you did," she finishes in a flat tone. "I'm going to forgive you, Thomas, but forgiveness doesn't mean allowing you to do it again. You will not, at any time, make any appeal of me to consider renewing our relationship. I don't think that this should be that hard, as I'm pretty sure I've been nothing but a continuous source of grief for you, but I wanted us to be straight on this. I think I'm getting the harder end of the deal; I'm still very angry at you and it will take a lot of time to let that anger go. But Grandma always said, as you act, so shall you be. Fake it till you make it, as they say. So I'm going to try it. But I don't want to be worrying that you're going to misunderstand or misinterpret anything I do. And I certainly don't want you worrying about it, either. So can we do this? For Beatrice?"
Her big, violet eyes are pleading. She's so beautiful, in this disheveled, exhausted and strangely rational state. Clearly all the hormones are taking a break, fatigued by all the work and effort of getting that new life from one side of the womb to the other. He wishes, more than anything else in the world, that he could get up, put his arms around her, kiss her, promise her the moon and deliver it.
And he knows, in that irrevocable moment, what he's lost.
"Yes," he says in a clear, calm voice. "For Beatrice. I will do that." And for you, but he doesn't say it.
She nods. "Thank you, Tom. There's going to be stuff to work out, schedules and what-not. And Beatrice is going to need both of us, so we're going to have to be around each other quite a lot. I just want us to be clear. I don't want any misunderstandings. I don't want to ever repeat this conversation." She sighs, shoulders hunching as she falls back against her pillows. God, how much he wants to hold her! Soothe her and comfort her! But he can't. He's made a promise.
"I've got the spare room ready for you," she says, adjusting the blankets as well as herself, looking ready to fall asleep.
"Spare room?" Tom echoes.
"Well, Beatrice is going to need around the clock care for a bit. I figured you might want to stick close, but it's entirely up to you."
"No, I do, thank you, yes, but I thought your mother--"
"She's camping out on the couch," Cosette replies in a murmur. She's drifting off. Then she seems to realize she's missing something, glances toward the glass of water on her bedside, and looks too damn tired to reach for it.
One of Tom's favorite things about their relationship was how they always read each other so clearly and so well. Their bond had been nearly psychic. So it is pure instinct when he gets up and reaches for the glass for her and she takes it with a grateful smile.
She has smiled at him so much. If she is going to act like she forgives him, maybe some day she will.
He adjusts the blanket for her as she drinks deeply, even asks him to refill the glass. He's nearly giddy at this moment, even if it isn't real. She's letting him be close again. Even though, he reminds himself, viciously, that she is not with him. She will never be with him again.
"I'm not doing this for either of us," Cosette says as she settles back, giving the glass back to him. "Not for me or for you."
He nods. Those hopes duck their heads down, braced for impact.
"It's about her, Tom. For whatever reason, God gave her to us. We can't abuse that responsibility. We can't...we just can't."
Tears are in her eyes. Maybe it's hormones, exhaustion, whatever. He leans over, his hands lightly bracing themselves on the edge of her bed, looking intensely into her eyes.
"May I say one thing?"
She waits.
"You have made your feelings clear, and I won't forget them, I promise," he says. "But I want to say one thing to you, before I let it go, for good. I want to make sure you know my feelings."
She still waits.
"I love you."
The hurt flashes across her face. And then, she wills it away, closing her eyes and opening them again.
"I'm not saying that to upset you," Tom says quickly, before she can reply and spoil his intentions. "I just want you to know. That won't change."
"I'm tired, Tom. If you want to stay with Beatrice for a bit more, that's fine. But I'm going to sleep. Okay?"
He nods. She turns away, pulling on her sleeping mask. She always needed her sleeping mask, even in a pitch-black room.
Tom turns to the little girl. He imagines what this moment would be like if he hadn't done what he did. If he hadn't given in to his urges and desires. How he would be curled up on that bed with Cosette, with her head on his shoulder, and they would be talking, murmuring about their future, about Beatrice's future, until Cosette drifted off, and he could watch her sleep, a pleasure he'd only had once before in his life, on that night they'd made their little girl.
And that hurts more than anything. What could have been.
But still. Cosette's words have renewed his spirit. He will be a father to Beatrice. And it will be a good life, he and Cosette getting along, working only for Beatrice's good. Isn't that what parents do, sacrifice for their children?
Then Cosette's father's words ring in his ears. Something he had said when the two of them had been at her parents' place for dinner. Her second trimester had made her glow, and she was so beautiful that night, that he wanted to talk to her about them getting married. Tom had never in his life spoken about marrying anyone, but it felt right with Cosette -- and not just because she was carrying his child. She had already haunted him morning, noon and night for the two months of their break up. Sure, he'd had difficult break-ups in his past, but he couldn't recover from her at all. Something about her felt like she was the one with whom he was supposed to spend the rest of his life.
Cosette's father said one thing while they talked about what it meant to be a father, at dinner. "The best thing a man can do for his children is love their mother."
And he will do that. Even if he can never tell her again, never remind her. He will use that love as strength for Beatrice, and being the best father he is capable of being. He will love both of them and do as Cosette wants. She is willing to put aside her pain. Can he do less?
Tom kisses Beatrice's little head, and lets himself out.