Chapter Text
The rain continued steady for the next few days. It created a small uptick in MVA traumas arriving at the Pitt, because hydroplaning was nobody's friend, but the weather was just shittily miserable enough to actually cause a slight decline in their patient numbers overall. Plenty of people were going to look outside at the rain blustering against their window pane and decide the hell with it, the funky rash under their armpit could wait another day to get checked out.
Of course, that meant that when someone did walk in through the PTMC doors, it was generally for good reason—doubly so when it was their wife who bullied them into it.
Friday was a scheduled admin work day for Robby—and god, he knew there was a reason that spreadsheets had to exist, but was it a good one?—but he swung by Reception in the Pitt on his way out that evening. He needed to double-check a few things with Lupe, to make sure he had the ward clerks' backs before next week's budget meetings. Individually each proposed line-item change was small, but a bunch of small changes could add up to a big mess. Plus, given what had gone down with Smith last year, Robby knew it was better to have a quiet word with Lupe that didn't leave a paper trail.
This meant that Robby had a clear view out into Chairs when the couple came in: the pony-tailed woman marching determined towards the window, insurance card already brandished in her hand; the man trailing her, looking pale and sweaty and reluctant. Even without being able to hear what the guy was saying, Robby could easily make out his mouth forming the words But I'm fine.
The woman got close enough to the window that Robby could hear her say, muffled, "You're not fine, Jerry!"—and there and then the man's knees went out from under him and he coughed up the first great gout of blood. People shouted, screamed, scrambled to get away from him.
Robby dropped his bag and phone where he stood and roared for backup and a gurney, now, before hurrying out through the doors and into Chairs.
"He was complaining that his stomach hurt and he was feeling light-headed," the woman was saying, frantic, as Robby felt for a pulse. "He said it was just the tacos from lunch, but I said if it was the tacos then why did no one else get sick, and my mom's cooking isn't—"
And then Jack and Olive were right there with the gurney, and between the three of them and Ahmad they got Jerry up onto it in one smooth movement and they'd started to push it back through to the ED just before Jerry's back arched and he vomited again, another bright gurgle of blood.
"Trauma One is open," Dana called as they came barrelling in, and after that it was just the work, and fuck, Robby relished every time he got to handle a case with Jack. The satisfaction of it went bone deep. Who else could he have alongside him who'd match him step for step, who else could go toe-to-toe with him and love the dance no matter how wild the music got? Who else got Robby so thoroughly that when they spoke at moments like these it was generally more for the benefit of those around them because it was so easy for the one to anticipate the other's next steps?
"Intubation, Minnesota tube?" Jack confirmed, while Olive rattled off a series of declining stats.
"Yeah," Robby said, pushing up his shirt sleeves and pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves. "Supine's not gonna work."
"Nope. Inclined or upright?"
"Upright gets it done the first time," Robby said, and then they went from there: patient elevated—etomidate and succ pushed, 8-0 tube to start—Robby positioning himself on the back of the bed behind the patient to get the best view of the cords while Jack worked to angle the head just right—even with steady suction it was impossible to visualize because the blood was coming and coming—but Robby trusted to the feel of it, to Jack anticipating what he needed and then—"There, hold it"—in, bagged, end tidal good, Minnesota tube in, stabilised, and Jerry was sent off to the tender care of Walsh and the good folks in surgery for cauterisation of what looked to be some nasty oesophageal varices.
Robby rolled out his shoulders, satisfied.
"Nicely done, buddy," Jack said once the door swung shut behind the gurney, leaving just the two of them in the room.
It was the first time that Robby had been alone with Jack since their not-quite fight, maybe the first time they'd been alone in this room since the night of the Fourth. Jack looked even more tired now than he had then, the spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose standing out stark against pale skin, and just the sight of him made Robby want to say stupid, reckless things.
"Teamwork," Robby said, hoarse, looking away. He was suddenly acutely aware that he'd been caught on the right arm by one of the bursts of blood from Jerry's mouth, and that his button-down was a total loss. "Thanks for the assist."
Robby pulled off his shirt and binned it there and then, glad to see that at least his undershirt had escaped unscathed. Having to strip off a bloodied tank top in front of the scrub dispenser was exactly the kind of thing that Santos would spot and tease him about forever. As it was, he was able to slip into the restroom to wash off his arm and hands before looping around to the lockers to retrieve a spare hoodie. Not the most natural combo with slacks and dress shoes, but Robby would take that over developing hypothermia on the way home.
He needed to retrieve his bag and phone from Chairs before he could leave, but stopped on the way there when he realised that Jack hadn't left the trauma bay. He was still standing there, arms folded and head down, seemingly lost in thought. Robby frowned. It had been a gory, touch-and-go case for sure, but both of them had handled a lot worse, both together and separately.
Robby poked his head around the door. "You good?"
Jack looked over and stared at him for an unnervingly long time before he said, so rapid-fire that it almost seemed like one long word, "You want to come over tomorrow to watch the game?"
"Uh." Robby blinked. "Sure? Yeah, that'd be cool."
"Good," Jack said.
"Good," Robby said.
"Good," Jack said again. His nose twitched, once. He turned and walked out of the other door of the trauma bay.
"Okay then," Robby said, very slowly, to no one.
Robby lost count of the number of games he'd watched from his usual spot on Jack's sofa years ago, which meant of course that on Saturday afternoon he found himself in the overpriced deli in Lawrenceville, panic-buying a host gift. That seemed like the considerate thing to do.
He thrust the bags at Jack as soon as he answered the door, leaving Jack blinking at him in confusion.
"This is, uh..." Jack unpacked the haul onto his kitchen table. "I didn't know they made organic pretzels. Or mustard. And this is, frankly, this is a lot of meat."
"Well, they only had the charcuterie boards for six people left," Robby said, jamming his hands into his jeans pockets. "Oh, and the sparkling water is from Japan. It's got probiotics in it."
Jack paused for a moment, looking down at the platter of salami and soppressata and chorizo with his eyebrows somewhere up near his hairline, and then said, with the air of an explosives expert who's been asked to figure out which wire to cut on a particularly complicated bomb, "Why don't we go on through to the living room?"
The room looked as cosy as always, although the late fall chill outside had clearly prompted Jack to turn on the gas fire and stack some folded throws on the armchair. May was in her pack-and-play; Robby realised with a pang that she'd mastered sitting upright since the last time he'd seen her. She was busily engaged with smacking the heel of her hand against the head of a stuffed giraffe, but when she realised her dad had returned she looked up at him and squealed with delight.
"We're maybe overdue for some sleep," Jack said, stooping to pick her up and settling her on his hip. "Hey, May-bug, you want to say hi to Robby before you go catch some Zs?"
May didn't make any objections, so she stayed on the sofa with Robby while Jack went to get a feed ready for her. It was amazing how much she'd grown and changed in just a matter of weeks. Robby had no clue if she remembered him from before, but there was a canny glint in her eye as May sat, slightly wobbly, on his knee and took him in.
"I think you've got my number," Robby said, sing-song, and leaned over to kiss her on the crown of the head. "I think you've got me all figured out, huh? Tiny whizz kid."
May gurgled, and then reached up and tried to tug at Robby's growing-out beard.
"Yeah, okay," Robby said, wincing as small, sharp fingernails dug into his chin, "you know what's up."
While Jack got May settled in her crib, Robby turned the TV on and switched it to the right channel for the game, but then had to mute it because he didn't think he could bear listening to any other voices right now. He stood up. He inspected the new additions to the bookshelves: two framed photos of Jack and May on her adoption day. He sat down. He went and fetched the envelope from his coat pocket, and then sat back on the couch trying not to fidget with it until Jack came back.
"You good?" Jack asked when he came back in. He cocked his head, studied Robby for a moment. "You want a beer? Or an intimidatingly fancy pretzel? Or did you actually eat dinner, brother, because there's time to order pizza before the game starts if—"
Robby shook his head. "No, yes, I mean, no, I did eat, but..." He gestured at the sectional. "Could I talk to you about something?"
Jack's brow creased, but he sat down, all his attention focused now on Robby. "What is it?"
Now that it came time to actually hand it over, Robby felt silly. Maybe he'd overstepped his bounds a bit; maybe he'd presumed a bit too much. But it was too late for second-guessing. "I meant to give this to you on her adoption day, but then I guess things got away from me a bit," Robby said, which was a lie but he pressed on, holding out the envelope to Jack. "Just, you know, something to mark it."
Jack slid the slim sheaf of papers out of the envelope, skimmed through them with steadily rising eyebrows. "I mean it very sincerely when I say this," he said when he got to the last page, his tone the kind of deliberate that came only after great effort, "what the actual fuck?"
"You always hear that it's never too early to start, right? Compound interest and whatever." Robby shrugged, awkward. "She should be able to choose to do whatever she wants, med school or, or whatever, and I know you'll help her out but kids are expensive and what am I doing with it all anyway, it's just sitting in my account—"
"Robby."
"—Obviously what's in it right now won't pay for college, but that's the max I can contribute in a calendar year without tax implications for you, and next year I'll add—"
"Robby."
"You can't actually reject it, because the account is legally in her name and I'm the named administrator but—"
"Holy fuck, will you stop talking and let me think about this?"
Robby shut his mouth with an audible click of teeth.
Jack set the papers down on the coffee table. He rubbed his hands together, staring into the fire, for what felt to Robby like several hours before he said, "You know, I invited you over here today because I wanted to talk to you, so well done on making me feel like the back-up act to your big gesture, you... you fucking stupidly generous jackass."
"I have no idea what to say to that," Robby eventually confessed. "Or what that even means."
Jack turned to look at him, green eyes bright, and probably at some point Robby was going to have a long conversation with Mitch about why it had taken Robby so long to realise the name for the invisible thread that kept him tethered, a security and a lifeline both, to this man.
"What I mean," Jack said, "is what would you do if I kissed you right now?"
Robby gaped at him.
"Yeah, okay," Jack said, looking tired. He closed his eyes. "Thought so. Okay, whatever, let's just—"
Robby held up a hand. "Kiss me?"
"No, the other person sitting on this couch right now," Jack snapped.
"Since when have you wanted to kiss me?" Robby was bewildered.
"Since you shaved the fucking beard." Jack stood, started to pace up and down the length of the living room, speaking with impressively staccato speed. "Not that I'm in favour of that, by the way, your body your choice but I'd strongly prefer if you don't ever go that direction again, but I opened the door and there you were standing in front of me and instantly I thought 'huh, he's cute like this but he's so much hotter with the beard', and then there I was having to deal with the realisation that I didn't mean that hypothetically, I was sexually attracted to my best friend and maybe, huh, actually in an ongoing way—all while sleep-deprived and watching Die Hard—"
"Jack." Robby felt faintly light-headed.
"—and then I go to Pete and I say, hey, Pete, do you think me and Robby would be just a sex thing, hypothetically, if I was to make a move or something, and he laughed at me, man, laughed, and right when I finally get up the nerve to actually address the big fucking dancing elephant in the room, you show up and make a grand fucking gesture—"
Robby stood, crossed the room to stand in front of him. "Jack."
"I had a whole speech planned out in my head, you know? No bees this time." Jack was looking anywhere but at Robby, fidgeting. "To say hey, man, I'm sorry I've been a bit weird the past while and it's fine that you don't feel like how I feel but I'm going to try my best to get past it. I'm not expecting anything. Because you're one of the best friends I've ever had, and if I lost you, too, it would d-destroy me."
Robby took a step closer.
Jack squeezed his eyes shut. "Look—"
"You remember," Robby said, speaking over Jack, wondering at how he could feel both outside of his own body and fully within it at the same time, "how you once told me you thought your therapist thinks your life is funny? A sitcom?"
Jack opened his eyes, looked warily at Robby. "Kind of."
"Well, sadly, it's probably not a sitcom that's going to win any awards any time soon," Robby said, reaching out and curling the fingers of one hand around Jack's right wrist. "Too predictable. Too simple. Ending everyone saw coming. Because you want to kiss me and I..."
Jack went very, very still, his eyes searching Robby's face with a kind of wild desperation shining out of them.
Robby leaned closer. "... I'm kind of stupidly in love with you. And I think I'm going to kiss you now."
"Do not," Jack choked out, "do not say that if you don't—"
Their first kiss was a tentative thing, Robby brushing his lips against Jack's slowly, giving him time to think—because what if Jack decided that a hypothetical Robby was one thing, but a flesh-and-blood one was another? What if Jack finally realised that Robby was too much? What if he left? But Jack didn't pull away. He stood there, resps shallow, and he let Robby kiss him. He let Robby kiss him, warm but hesitant, breath gently hiccuping; let Robby kiss him, his free hand coming up to trace, trembling and tentative, the strong line of Jack's jaw.
Jack pulled back a little and opened heavy-lidded eyes to stare some more at Robby—and then he smiled.
He smiled, he grinned, and their second kiss was—fuck, it was like putting a lit match to touchpaper.
Jack surged forward against Robby, meeting him measure for measure, kissing him with such fervour that it made Robby's head spin a little bit. When was the last time he'd been kissed like this, not with mere want but with a kind of joyous desperation to it? Jack made noises, low and earnest in the back of his throat, that had Robby shivering. This, this was—
They kept losing the rhythm of the kiss, one or the other of them smiling into it too much for it to stay smooth or practised, Jack's hands roving everywhere, and yet it was still one of the best kisses Robby could remember. Jack. This was Jack, his Jack, and Jack wanted him, too.
They shuffled around the coffee table, an unorthodox two-step, and then Robby was letting Jack push him down against the couch, down, down, Jack's lovely weight settling on top of him, and—
"Shit," Robby said, fighting to focus between drugging kisses, "your leg—the baby—"
"For fuck's sake," Jack hissed, moving his way down Robby's body, "I was in the army, Mike, you don't think I know how to give head quietly?"
Robby blinked up at the ceiling.
It turned out that Jack wasn't lying. Turned out that he clearly did have quite a bit of experience at this, because his mouth on Robby's cock was slick and electric. God. Robby had to bite down on the side of his own hand to muffle the noises clawing their way out of his mouth, because clearly a few tipsy make-out sessions in nightclubs in his twenties didn't train you the way Uncle Sam did.
"This is," he panted as Jack worked his pants legs further down his thighs so that he could lick and suck at Robby's balls, "you are, fuck—"
Jack pulled back just enough to be able to look up at Robby's face, and his grin now was all mischief. "Gonna take the loss of language skills as a compliment on my expertise, here. In the interest of reciprocal feedback, you should know I like hands in my hair."
"Showboating jackass," Robby grumbled and Jack laughed and got back to it and oh, he was... he was lovely, Robby thought, vaguely, which was maybe objectively a stupid thing to think about a grown-ass man, a military veteran and a supremely competent physician, one whose big hands were currently holding Robby's thighs apart while he took Robby's cock deeper and deeper into his mouth. But there it was, Robby thought, tangling the fingers of his free hands in Jack's silvered curls—there it was, that was the word for him. Lovely. Dear.
A man who was so embedded in Robby's life that it was impossible now to think that there had ever been a time before Robby had known him.
And so Robby gave himself over to it, to all of it, let himself think of nothing but the pleasure and the joy of him and Jack together—Jack's hands holding him down, anchoring him—of nothing but the need for him to be quiet, quiet, the breath huffing out of him every time Jack swallowed around him—
Robby keened, sharp and unthinking, as he came; clasped Jack close as he shook apart in turn, working himself against Robby's hip and gasping into the crook of his neck.
It wasn't the first time that Robby had had to tuck his cock back into his pants and shuffle from a living room through to a bathroom to clean up after sex. It was the first time for him to do that while someone hissed at him not to forget to bring the baby monitor with him.
"We've got the night-time couch sex down," Jack said cheerfully after another lingering kiss, "but you'll want a good night's sleep and a solid mattress under you before we see what I can do to you in the morning with a second wind and a bottle of lube."
Robby felt himself turn bright red.
Jack went off to lock up the house and to check on the baby. In the bathroom, Robby splashed water on his face, wiped himself down with a washcloth, swirled his mouth out with mouthwash. He took off his jeans, folded them, left them on the dresser in Jack's bedroom, and then crawled into what he had already started to think of as his side of the bed.
Was that nuts? That was probably nuts.
All of this was. Nuts, crazy, selfish. What had he been thinking?
By the time Jack got into the bed next to him, breath minty fresh and his approach to sleeping attire more 'clothing optional' than Robby's own, Robby was lying stiff and quiet. Jack bulldozed his way right past that, wrapping himself around Robby like a tenacious octopus, before saying, "You're overthinking things."
"You don't know what I'm thinking."
"I know you."
Carefully, Robby rested a hand on Jack's side; just as carefully, he said, "I'm still fucked up, Jack."
"And?"
"And? You have a kid, a life—"
Jack yawned ostentatiously.
"Oh come on," Robby said, exasperated. "We need to talk about this."
"Sure, yeah," Jack said. "But an actual dialogue, man, not whatever self-martyring bullshit conclusion you're galloping your way towards."
"You know how much I've messed things up before," Robby said, feeling his breathing hitch embarrassingly. Jack was his best friend. He'd had a front row seat to every fumble, fuck-up and all-round fiasco of Robby's for more than a decade now. Robby couldn't fathom how someone could know everything about him and still want him.
Jack tightened his grip on Robby. It was so hard not to just melt into it, into the strength and solidity of Jack's touch. "And I know how hard you try, Robby, and I know how big your heart is. I can also tell you from the kind of excruciating insight you get through having your ass metaphorically kicked on a regular basis by your therapist that if we only ever let ourselves go for the things we knew could never, ever go wrong for us, then none of us would ever do a single fucking thing. So."
Robby closed his eyes. "Impeccable logic."
"But wait, there's more," Jack said, sweeping a hand up and down Robby's back in big, soothing strokes, "because if you're spiralling about like, 'oh, no, but it's impossible for poor little me to have any kind of relationship beyond six weeks, seven max—'"
Robby opened his eyes. "I don't sound like that."
"'—and so I'm going to deny myself a chance at something with this hot, single dad who could be causing a lot of drama in the parent-baby group down at the library if he ever accepted any of the phone numbers he gets offered'? If that's your issue? So fucking what."
"Jesus, Jack."
"Hush, I'm busy dismantling all your self-denying bullshit here, let me cook," Jack said, and pressed a haphazard kiss to Robby's collarbone. "How long have we known one another at this point? How long has it been since you've been someone I'd take a bullet for? Since you helped me through some of the darkest fucking moments of my whole fucking life, huh? Years. Sure, now we've got our dicks involved—"
Robby snorted.
"—but buddy, it's been you and me for years now. You and me." Jack's hand travelled up, nails scratching blunt against the nape of Robby's neck. Robby shivered, the breath sighing out of him.
Jack bit, very gently, at Robby's shoulder and continued, "The sex part is pretty fucking great, and I'm dying to get my mouth all over you, swear to God, don't think I don't intend to make you come six ways from Sunday, but the sex doesn't change all that much. This could never just be some one-time thing. That kid asleep in the other room is my family and my heart, but Michael, so are you. So're you. You're not alone. And if you just let me, just give me that chance, I'll prove that to you. All you have to do is tell me you want this, too."
Jack was like a space heater against him, eyes bright, expression expectant, and the thought of so much of what Robby had ever wanted just waiting for him on the other side of an okay was overwhelming. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. He took a deep breath.
"Okay," Robby said, and the word on his tongue had the weight of a vow. "Yes."
Sometimes it had felt to Robby like the only real way he had for marking the passage of the seasons was by how the parade of injuries and illnesses in front of him changed. Other people lived; Robby marked time. Allergies in spring, heat stroke in summer, flu outbreaks in fall, frostbite in winter, allergies in spring, and so the cycle began again.
Now, Robby had May's eyes there to see the world through. Everything to her was a fresh wonder, and for her sake and for Jack's, Robby made himself see the seasons change in places other than beneath the sodium-white lights of the Pitt.
He stayed late less; he used his vacation time more. He was there to help Jack cope with a moping, teething May; to cheer May on as she crawled across the lawn or pulled herself upright against the couch; to see the blissfully stunned look on Jack's face the first time May called Jack Dada, and the outraged expression on hers when she started to realise what being told No meant. May had her first tastes of all things mashed—banana and potato and avocado—and the serious expression on her face as she smacked her lips together and contemplated whether she liked a particular food or not was so like Jack that it made Robby's heart ache to see it.
("There's our good girl!" Jack said when May started hitting her bowl repeatedly with her spoon and sent porridge flying everywhere, all over the high chair and her bib and onto the floor. "Hitting it right on target, good job. Jeez, how did you get it into your eyebrow? Uh. Oh shit, Robby, little help here?")
Robby was aware that he was maybe becoming a bit obnoxious with the baby photos, especially once he finally sold his place and moved in with Jack in February, but Dana didn't seem to mind.
"Happiness is a good look on you, cap, you should keep that up," she said to him in the middle of a joint smoke break (her) and microwaveable noodle break (him). "Now come on, show me the rest of them, we don't got all day here and I have to see what she looked like in the hat."
Robby's first moment of real panic came about a month later, the day after May babbled something that Jack swore was 'Robby' and that Robby was sure was just wishful thinking on Jack's part. Because, he realised while he was making breakfast for the three of them, with each passing day the chances were going to grow that May would notice something had changed if he left—if she had a name for him, she would miss him if he walked away—would be fucked up if he, he—
"In for four, hold for seven, out for eight; in for four, hold for seven, out for eight." And Jack was right there, arms tight around Robby, lips pressed against his temple. "There we go, sweetheart, you're doing so well for me. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight, that's it. There you go. You're okay."
If Mitch thought that what Robby was doing was a stupid idea, he kept his own counsel. He listened while Robby told him about moving in with Jack, about the gradual realisation that a house that was the perfect size for two was too small for three, about the weirdly funny sideshow attraction that was seeing Jack Abbot go toe-to-toe with realtors and coming out on top.
("You tell me a house has four bedrooms, it should have four bedrooms," Jack said, jaw tight, fingers flexing against the car's steering wheel as they left the latest viewing. "Not two bedrooms, a large closet, and a 'generous alcove perfect for a cot' in the hallway."
"You make me find the strangest things hot," Robby said.
"No mocking, Michael."
"Who's mocking?" Robby said.)
Mitch listened when Robby told him with quiet amazement about how one afternoon, not long after Jack and Robby had received the keys to their new place, Jack had turned to him on the couch and said, "Hey, hey," until Robby huffed and lowered the book he was reading and looked at Jack over the top of his glasses.
"I like your face," Jack said, "We should get married." Said it like it was as simple like that; said it like there was no way that Robby would turn him down, and of course there wasn't.
Mitch listened when Robby told him about their quickie lunchtime courthouse wedding, with flower girl May taking a few teetering, ceremonial steps into the room ahead of them while she held on to her Aunt Dana's hands with grim determination.
Mitch looked on as Robby realised that he had already picked up the habit of playing with the ring on his finger, the one that matched the new one that Jack now wore.
"It's a lot," Robby said, staring down at the ring. There was still something amazing about how natural it looked there; about how inevitably right it had felt when Jack had slid it into Robby's finger. "Maybe it's all a lot, but it's... it's good?" He cleared his throat, looked out the window. "I think it's good."
"You're allowed to let yourself be happy," Mitch said.
And Robby was. He did. He let himself be Jack's husband, heart full whenever Jack held his hand while they watched TV, or grinned unabashedly at him after a neat save at work, or leaned over at the breakfast table and gently kissed Robby's crow's feet and murmured nonsense about how fond he was of them.
"They're just wrinkles," Robby said in laughing protest.
"They're empirical evidence of a life well lived, my friend," Jack said, and smiled, and kissed him again.
And Robby—tentative, terrified, determined—let himself be one of May's dads.
He did that even before the day they all trooped back to the courthouse so that Robby could stand in front of the same judge and make the same earnest promises that Jack had made when he'd adopted May a year before. Because after so long thinking that it was impossible, a thing that Robby was just not built for, it turned out that being a parent was almost easy.
It was May falling asleep against his chest while he read a book or watched TV, trusting him to be there when she woke.
It was May beaming at him when he walked into the room, or squealing in delight when he danced her around in his arms to the tune of whatever nonsense song he was singing to her, or holding up a cheerio for him to inspect before she ate it.
It was how he soon became her Roba, the child-speak counterpart to Jack's Dada, and it was one of the best things he'd ever been called—even when May was howling it with disapproval when Roba was being mean and wouldn't let her eat a bit of stale chip she'd found behind the sofa.
And it was this moment.
It was standing at the top of the steps in his swim trunks, May in his arms, while Jack and the mikveh attendant and the rabbi looked on in smiling witness. It was walking down into the pool, May wrinkling her nose at the tang of chlorine in the air and peering around her curiously at what to her surely seemed like a very funny kind of bath. It was how May didn't seem scared at all, as if she instinctively understood this was just the public sealing of promises that Robby had already made in his own heart. It was him standing there, warm water up to his chest, looking her in the eyes while she smiled at him and saying, "Okay, baby girl, here we go. You and me."
It was taking a deep breath and sinking down and opening his arms to let May go, it was the instinctive rush of terror at her immersion—and then the blessing, the blessing, of feeling his daughter reaching out through the living waters to return to him as together they rose back up—of knowing that he could never leave her, that he would never be left.