Work Text:
A Bump in the Road
Jim thought his days of domestic bliss were long behind him until he met you.
You.
It was Sunday and, though he would never admit it to anyone, he had grown used to sharing lazy mornings, breakfast in bed, and waking you up with sloppy yet passionate kisses everywhere he could place them.
Throughout your few years together, Jim had always known his wife to be a heavy sleeper and never much of a morning person, so when he woke to find your side of the bed empty and cold, he knew something was wrong.
He groaned as he dragged himself from bed, running his fingers through his scalp in hopes of subduing the mess of his morning hair before reaching for his blue flannel and a pair of boxers.
It certainly felt like a Sunday. The sun had barely risen and the little cabin you had made into a home was still enveloped in dawn’s soft silence and darkness.
As he got out of bed, he felt a breeze, noticing the door to the porch was ajar. There you were, gazing towards the lake, still shivering despite the warmth of your velvety housecoat.
“The hell are you doing up this early?”
“Don’t want to talk about it”
“Rather be standing out here by yourself then? Bed’s getting cold”
Approaching you from behind, he wrapped his large arms around your waist and began to caress your hips, enveloping your slight frame in his size and warmth.
Usually, this made you feel safe. You loved feeling the masculine strength of him and the gentle curve of his soft stomach pressed firmly against you.
Usually.
But not today.
Snapping, you pulled away from him and towards the sliding glass door.
“I said I don’t want to talk about it, Jim.”
You really should have known that this was futile. Jim was a big man. One who could always have his way with you, something you had always welcomed, though perhaps a bit too enthusiastically.
It was, after all, what had got you into this mess to begin with.
Predictably, you did not get very far and as he tugged against your housecoat, a thin piece of plastic fell from your pocket, clattering against the weathered wood of your deck.
“For fuck’s sake, Jim.” you spat, as you bent down slowly to pick up the plastic stick, placing it in his hands.
“You happy now?”
Silence.
Not a sound except heavy breathing as you watched him make sense of two little red lines.
Despite being married to the Chief of police for nearly two years, you had never fashioned yourself to be a motherly type and assumed Jim had felt the same. Though he never talked about it much, your days together would sometimes be coloured by faint whispers of his old life with Diane and his little Sara.
He must’ve been a great dad. The best. But that part of his life was long behind him and you couldn’t possibly stand there, hoping he would agree to try it all over again simply because the both of you had been sloppy and careless one too many times.
You knew how much his heart ached.
Jim’s voice was the first thing to break through the prevailing quiet. “You…” he whispered.
Your body tensed as you braced yourself for the worst. Would he be upset? Your husband, though always gentle with you, had garnered numerous reputations over the years, none of them as a result of his patience.
“....are gonna get real fat, Mrs. Hopper.”
He chuckled while you stood there, dumbfounded.
“Jim, seriously, I —”
He cradled you in his arms, carrying you through the doorway and back into the warmth of your bed.
“Can’t let the woman carrying my kid freeze to death out there.”
You were exasperated.
“Jim, I’m sorry I….We haven’t talked and… Sara. Your Sara. And I —”
He cut you off
“You” he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead “are going to be an amazing mother.”
You stared at him while soft tears began to fall.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
“Don’t remember the last time I was this okay with anything. But only if you are.”
You were scared as hell, but you nodded
“Yes.”
By now, 8 months had passed.
You awoke in agony one Sunday morning.
As it turned out, your husband had been right all along.
You had gotten fat.
And cranky.
And hungry.
And sore.
At this point, you were counting down the days until all of this was over.
Admittedly, however, you had grown to love how protective and doting Jim had become.
The way he never left your side.
The way that he would take every opportunity to place his hands on your growing bump; taking care to shower it in kisses and soft rubs.
When your feet ached, he would massage them.
When those stupid cravings of yours became insufferable, Jim would go on snack duty.
You couldn’t help but smile as you remembered the night you broke out into heavy sobs, lamenting the lack of strawberry ice cream in your freezer.
How quickly he drove off to the store and how happy he was to curl up on the couch with you afterwards, shovelling messy pink spoonfuls into each other’s mouths.
The sound of his laughter when he told you how relieved he was to have found someone to be old, miserable, and fat with.
If everything with that little bump of yours went according to plan, this would be your last quiet Sunday for a while.
Your last little bit of leisurely domestic bliss before someone so new and so small came into the world.
You weren’t scared, though.
Not anymore.
You had Jim.
He was holding you.
And it was Sunday.
And you were ready.