Archive of Our Own

I'll Look After You

The icy rain beat down on Sam and Lil's front yard, as if the grief lodged in Clay's chest needed to manifest in the skies around his car, now parked in front of Sara's parents' house. Considering he had avoided his in-laws for so many years out of deep-seated guilt and grief, all roads seemed to lead here more and more frequently since Quinn's miscarriage started their new year in a haze of grief. He closed his stinging eyes and listened to the rain beating down around the Stingray, trying to conjure the mantras Sara's quiet confidence and belief in him had embedded in his soul: Character. Integrity. Heart. Surely, she couldn't have meant the same heart now feebly beating a pulse of agony against his ribcage. It was broken and had been from the moment Quinn had lost their baby and almost bled to death in the process.

Fed up with the pain threatening to burst out of his chest, Clay stepped out of the car. The spray of icy rain was almost welcome, quenching the fire of pain and loss as it pelted down on him. The sensation couldn't last, but the numbness was a welcome respite from trying to hold his family together for so long. Before long, his jacket was soaked through, and a bone-deep shiver shot down Clay's spine. Locking the car, he moved up the porch steps, beating the same path he had so many times before: to plead his case for Sara's hand in marriage, to fight for his right to have Logan back in his life. This house had seen some of his darkest days; this was just one more to add to the heap that was his life.

Clay raised a trembling hand and rang the familiar doorbell. His damp fingertips left moisture clinging to the button. The blast of warm air swirling around his icy frame when the door opened made the congestion already building in his head feel unbearable. His ears were throbbing, his sinuses full to the point of bursting, and as he paused in the hallway to peel off his soaking wet jacket, a deep, chest-rattling cough tore loose, bending him forward until his eyes watered. Quinn’s hand hovered uncertainly in the air, like she wanted to rub his back but was still too stunned to move. When the fit finally eased, he wheezed faintly, throat raw, and straightened up — only to find her standing at the end of the hall, in the doorway to the living room, staring at him.

"What are you doing here?" she asked softly, a new fragility to her voice that had only been there since their dream shattered.

"I c-could ask you the same th-th-thing." Against his will, Clay's teeth chattered, the deep chill settling over him like a shroud of ice. He pressed a damp sleeve to his nose, but immediately knew it was a bad idea. "Excuse me," he rasped, burying a volley of sneezes against the cold fabric. When the fit finally passed, he straightened up with effort, dabbing at his streaming eyes with his already soaked sleeves.

"Bless you," Quinn offered. "That sounds awful. Seriously, where have you been?"

"Working." Clay shrugged, grimacing when the gesture made his heavy limbs ache. "I can't fix what happened to us. But at least I can help other people get their dreams, right?" His expression was bitter, most unlike the man she loved. "Or at least, I thought I could."

"What does that mean?" Quinn approached him slowly, keeping her arms folded around herself as if to hold her own broken pieces together. "You're a super-agent, remember? You can handle anything." She raised her eyebrows slightly. "Even though, if I'm completely honest, you look like something the cat dragged in right now. And my parents owned the meanest cat in the world, so I do speak from experience."

Clay sniffled thickly and gave a shaky laugh. "Yeah, well…that's fair. I feel like something that cat of yours coughed up and then trampled all over." His voice was a whisper of its usual self, ragged and raw. He frowned thoughtfully, and it made the feverish glaze in his eyes more apparent. "Wasn't Haley middle-named after that creature? He can't have been all bad, then."

"That was just my parents running out of creative juices after so many of us." Quinn moved towards him slowly, her socked feet making no noise on the carpeted floor. "What was so important at work that it couldn't wait until our world isn't spiralling with pain? You're something else, Clay Evans."

"It's what I do when sad shit happens that is out of my hands," Clay told her flatly, afraid that any emotion might push the raw tickle in his aching throat over the edge. "No matter what else happens in my world, I have to be able to say I'm a good agent."

"When has anybody ever questioned that?" Quinn reached towards him, a hint of tears in her eyes again. "But seriously, you're burning up, Clay. Your forehead's on fire, and your voice sounds like a gravel truck got into a bar fight with a cheese grater."

Quinn grimaced at the strain in his voice when he tried to laugh. A shaking fist covered his mouth when the tired chuckle turned into a dry, hacking cough. "That's…pretty accurate," he croaked. "My throat feels like I gargled broken glass. And I really need a tissue…or ten."

"It's not funny," she said, as sternly as she could manage when the sight of him cracked her already broken heart even wider. Quinn guided him down onto the couch and pulled a blanket over his lap. "You're shaking." She frowned as she grabbed the tissues and sat down beside him. "You always do this, run yourself into the ground like a damn martyr."

"Can't help it," he muttered hoarsely. "My family needed me. Nobody needs a miserable, broken wreck."

"And now your lungs probably need antibiotics," she shot back, but her hand stroked through his damp hair with such tenderness it made his chest ache in a new way.

"I just need you," Clay mumbled, sagging against her shoulder. But just as his eyes were about to drift shut, his breath hitched again. He raised the soggy wad of tissues clenched in his fist and sneezed so hard that the force of it shredded them. "Ugh, sorry," he groaned, pinching his sore nose with the fresh tissue Quinn handed over. "God, I can't stop. Everything hurts, Q."

"I know," she murmured. "I know." She didn't move as he leaned against her, just held his hand while he wiped at his nose for the thousandth time. "Let me take care of you now, okay?"

Clay sniffled, eyes bleary and overflowing again; not just from the cold, but the exhaustion and everything they'd lost. "Only if you promise not to tell Mom about this," he rasped, offering her a hollow smile.

Quinn kissed his temple. "Your secret's safe with me. But I'm going to be obnoxiously nurturing, just warning you."

"Could be worse," he sighed, beginning to doze as her fingers moved tenderly through his damp hair again. "Could be alone."

"You're not," she whispered. "Not now, not ever. Come on, let's get you to bed for a little while."

Sam and Lil's guest bedroom was dim, save for the halo of warm yellow light from the small lamp on the nightstand. Clay lay propped up against a stack of pillows, the covers bunched around his waist. His sinuses throbbed mercilessly, the pressure pounding through his temples, and each breath dragged noisily through a throat that felt like it had been scraped raw with sandpaper.

He'd long since lost count of how many times he'd sneezed. His nose was red and raw, a crumpled pile of tissues accumulating beside the bed. He shifted under the blankets with a groan and reached for another tissue just as the congestion overtook him again. One, two, three harsh sneezes burst out, so painful that Clay felt he might never speak again. The last one left him slumped forward, utterly spent. He coughed weakly, trying to catch his breath, then collapsed against his pillow with a rattling groan, eyes squeezed shut.

The door creaked open. Tiny footsteps padded into the room, followed by a hesitant whisper: "Dad?"

Clay opened one eye slowly and turned his head toward the door. Logan stood there in pyjama pants and a hoodie three sizes too big (probably one of Clay's) clutching a juice box in one hand and a bright blue tissue box in the other.

"Hey, buddy," Clay croaked, flashing his son a weak smile. "Shouldn't you be asleep by now? It's late."

"I heard you sneeze like five times," Logan said, solemn as he crossed the room. "That last one sounded like it tried to break your lungs."

"Felt like it, too," Clay admitted, rubbing at his nose miserably. "You didn't have to come check on me, though."

Logan shrugged and clambered onto the bed beside him, placing the juice and tissues carefully on the nightstand. "You take care of me every day. Now it's my turn."

Clay chuckled—then winced as it turned into a coughing fit. "You got a whole...hospitality service setup, huh?"

Logan leaned over and pulled the blanket up to tuck it around his dad's chest. "Your nose is all red," he observed. "Like Rudolph. Only less magical and more…gross."

"Gee, thanks," Clay said, grabbing a tissue and blowing his nose, sounding like a drowning elephant. “You're really—” He pitched forward into the tissue; the wet, messy burst soaked straight through, and a looser aftershock chased it. “—really building up my self-esteem here, Wolverine.”

"Bless you, again." Logan crawled onto the bed beside his father and pulled another tissue from the box. "Want your juice?"

"Please," Clay rasped. His voice cracked on the word. Logan popped the straw into the juice box with the dignity of a full-time nurse and held it out. Clay sipped weakly and gave him a thumbs up. "You're hired."

"Good," Logan said proudly. "I already told Grandma that if she tried to come fuss over you again, I'd kick her out. You've got me now."

Clay tried to laugh again, but ended up pressing a tissue over his nose instead as it twitched violently. Stifling the next sneezing fit made his eyeballs ache.

Logan patted his shoulder like a miniature doctor. "I don't think you're supposed to hold them back like that."

Clay's eyes closed, exhaustion dragging at every limb. "Clearly, Dr. Wolverine knows best," he sighed hoarsely. "Thanks, bud…for the juice, the tissues, and the professional-grade sass. Your mommy would be very proud of all of it."

"You're welcome," Logan whispered, snuggling in beside him under the covers, one hand still resting on Clay's arm. "You'll feel better soon. You always make things better for me. Now it's my turn to help."

Clay's nose was running again, but he didn't have the energy to reach for another tissue just yet. He let Logan's warmth soak in instead, his head resting back as sleep crept up again. "You're the best medicine I've got, Wolverine," he murmured.

Logan smiled sleepily, proud and quiet. "Yeah, I know."

When bedtime came, Quinn stood in the doorway for a long moment, just watching her boys. The dim light from the bedside lamp cast a warm glow over the small scene: Clay reclined in the bed, tissues scattered like snowfall over the blanket, while Logan lay curled at his side, one arm slung across his father's chest like a safety harness he refused to unlatch. The sight of them made Quinn's throat tighten.

Clay had fallen asleep again, face slack with exhaustion and the telltale congestion of a miserable cold. Even in sleep, he looked flushed, and a sheen of feverish sweat dotted his forehead. His chest rose and fell unevenly, a faint wheeze audible with every exhale. Logan, whose mop of hair stuck up in three different directions, was still half-awake, his eyes blinking slowly as he cradled the tissue box like a stuffed animal.

Quinn padded into the room quietly, bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. "Hey," she whispered as she crouched beside the bed. "How's our patient?"

Logan lifted his head groggily. "He snored for a while, then sneezed so hard I thought he'd shoot off the bed," he reported solemnly. "But he drank the juice. And he's warm again."

Quinn reached out and gently pressed the backs of her fingers to Clay's forehead. Still warm, but not as hot as before. His hair was damp and limp with sweat, stuck to his temples. She tenderly smoothed it back. He barely stirred, only muttering something unintelligible and turning his face into the pillow.

"Nice work, Dr. Wolverine," she said softly to Logan, who gave a sleepy thumbs-up.

"Can I stay?" he asked, already halfway to dreamland. "Just for a little longer?"

Quinn didn't answer with words. She climbed carefully onto the bed behind him and pulled the blanket up around them both. Logan sighed and tucked his head under her chin with the ease of routine, while she draped an arm over both her boys. She rested her hand lightly on Clay's chest, over his heartbeat. Still there. Still thumping stubbornly beneath her palm. Quinn closed her eyes. Her fingers found his under the blanket and wrapped around them, squeezing once. Clay didn't wake, but he shifted in his sleep, leaning toward the warmth, and his breath caught on a raspy little sigh.

"I'm here," she whispered. "I'm sorry for trying to run away with my pain. But I'm here now." The room was quiet now but for the sounds of slow breathing, congested snuffling, and the rustle of blankets. Logan was out, limp with sleep. Clay stirred once, murmuring something that might have been her name, barely audible, just the rhythm of it in his hoarse whisper. She kissed his forehead, the damp skin cool against her lips. "Rest, baby. I'll keep watch."

And she did.

The first thing Clay noticed when he blinked awake was how thick his head felt, as if someone had stuffed cotton in every crevice and then sat on it. His sinuses pulsed with a dull, insistent throb, his throat was parched and rough, and his nose…ugh, his nose. It might as well have been made of cement and regret.

But then he shifted slightly and realized he wasn't alone. A warm weight was draped over his chest. Logan. Another one was pressed along his side; fingers loosely tangled in his. Quinn.

Clay blinked again. The room was pale with early morning light, casting soft halos around them. Quinn's hair was a blonde tumble against his shoulder, and Logan was curled between them like a kitten who'd fallen asleep mid-rescue mission. He turned his head slowly (very slowly, because any fast movement was a crime this early) and found Quinn already watching him, propped slightly on one elbow. Her eyes were tired but clear. And filled with mischief.

"Good morning, Mr. Snuffles," she said.

Clay groaned. "Don't."

She leaned closer and gently pushed a lock of sweaty hair off his forehead. "How's the head?"

"Somewhere between 'run over by a garbage truck' and 'cursed by a spiteful god,'" he rasped. "How do I look?"

"Like a damp, sneezy caveman who fought a tissue box and lost," she said, deadpan. "But hot."

Clay snorted; or tried to, but it came out as a congested honk, which triggered a snicker from the little lump still fast asleep between them. "Oh God," he croaked, covering his face with a hand. "I married a bully."

"You married someone who loves you," Quinn corrected, her teasing gentling into something far warmer. "Even when your hair looks like it held a rebellion in the night."

He peeked out from behind his fingers. "And you stayed?"

"Of course I stayed," she murmured, squeezing his hand. "You stayed for me when I wasn't even conscious after we lost the baby. It was my turn."

His voice cracked a little when he spoke again. "I didn't think I'd wake up with both of you still here."

Quinn's expression softened even more. "We're here," she said. "All of us. And I'm not letting go again. Life only hurts worse without you. Both of you. This is how we'll survive."

Clay gave her a sleepy, slightly sappy smile, then sniffled wetly and reached blindly for the tissue box on the nightstand. "Okay," he rasped. "But can we start the not-letting-go after I blow my nose?"

Quinn laughed softly and rolled onto her back. "Fair. But just so you know — when you're fully upright again, I'm making you tea, soup, and a haircut appointment."

Clay gave her a suspicious side-eye. "What does my cold have to do with my hair?"

"Nothing," she said sweetly, cuddling Logan close. "But I'm making executive decisions while you're weak."

"Noted," he sniffled, already burrowing back into the pillows. "I love you, you little tyrant."

"I love you more," she whispered. "Now go back to sleep before Logan wakes up and starts lecturing us about hydration again."

An hour later, Clay had migrated to the living room couch, cocooned in two blankets and surrounded by used tissues like some tragic, congested phoenix rising from a pile of Kleenex ashes.

Quinn was in the kitchen humming softly, mostly to distract herself from the sound of his sniffling, when she heard it again: A yelp of a sneeze, followed by two more in increasing volume and breathless frustration.

After the third, Quinn peeked around the corner with her eyebrows raised. Clay sat on a couch, clutching a crumpled tissue in his fist, looking as dazed as if he'd sneezed his soul out. "Bless you, sir. That third one shook the floorboards."

Clay groaned into his disintegrating tissue. "Pretty sure I ruptured something."

"You want to rate that sneeze combo on a scale of 'tickly kitten' to 'tsunami of doom'?"

He sniffled thickly, blinking miserably at her through glassy, swollen eyes. "I'm thinking somewhere around 'nasal apocalypse.'"

"Sounds about right." Quinn padded into the room with a mug of tea. "Here. Drink this so you don't shrivel up and die on me."

Clay accepted it gratefully but didn't sip right away. He was too busy rummaging for another tissue as his breath hitched again. "Disgusting," he grimaced after the tickle in his nose decided to morph into another hacking coughing fit.

"I've seen worse," she said, setting down the mug and taking a seat beside him. "Remember the day after Dan tried to drown you? You projectile-sneezed a lozenge across the bedroom. You don't remember, but I do. Never found it, either. Still haunts me."

He scowled, still looking pitiful. "What is wrong with you?"

"What can I say?" Quinn teased, making him squint at her with exaggerated suspicion when she handed over the clean tissue he'd been scrambling for. "Let's call this payback for you not letting me tell your mom about yesterday's meltdown."

Clay smirked weakly. "You said you wouldn't."

"I said I wouldn't tell her how big your feelings are," she corrected. "I never said anything about not impersonating those feelings for comedic value. I've been play-acting with my sisters since I was little, and I can cry on demand. It would be a great show." He opened his mouth to protest, but another sneeze exploded out of him before he could speak. "Oh my God, babe." Quinn reached for a fresh tissue and handed it over. "That one sounded like it knocked something loose."

"My dignity, maybe," Clay muttered, wiping his nose for the tenth time in five minutes. "I can't breathe, I'm sweating, and I think that last sneeze fractured something."

"You're very brave," Quinn said dryly, pressing a kiss to his temple, then recoiling slightly. "Yup. You're basically a human space heater. If you don't drink that tea, I'm calling your mom and telling her all about what a stubborn fool her son is."

He shot her a bleary glare but obediently took a sip. "You're mean when I'm sick."

Quinn's teasing smile faltered; "I'm mean because if I wasn't laughing, I'd be crying," she said softly, threading her fingers through his. "It's okay to be a mess. Lord knows I've been there plenty lately. Just...let me take care of you, okay?" Clay sniffled and nodded, too tired to argue. "Good," she said gently, curling beside him and stealing part of his blanket. "You rest. I'll keep the tissues coming."

"I love you, you know that?" he rasped, letting his eyes drift shut.

"I was kind of hoping," Quinn murmured, already pulling the tissue box closer. "Now, please, go back to sleep."

Clay had dozed off mid-sniffle, a limp tangle of blankets and overheated misery on the couch, his latest tissue still clutched in one hand. Quinn was curled next to him, quietly scrolling on her phone, when the unmistakable sound of enthusiastic footsteps thundered down the stairs.

She barely had time to look up before Logan appeared in the doorway, holding a metal mixing bowl with both hands like it was a sacred treasure.

"Dad?" he said in a loud whisper that was, in fact, not a whisper. "Are you awake?"

Clay groaned and cracked open one eye. "Barely."

"Perfect," Logan said brightly. "I made soup."

Quinn sat up straighter, wary. "Soup? Like, real soup?"

"Totally real," Logan said confidently. "I used water, ketchup, garlic salt, and a string cheese stick, because calcium is good for you. And I microwaved it for ninety seconds. Twice. For safety."

Clay gave him a look of utter horror. "You...what?"

"I call it Logan's Super-Soup. It smells kind of weird, but it's red, which is a power color." Logan held the bowl out proudly. "Want some?"

"No." Clay coughed weakly. "I mean...thank you, bud, but I think I need actual broth and not…whatever that is."

Logan looked offended. "Rude. I worked really hard. It's basically medicine."

Clay rubbed his eyes, groaning. "This cold's bad enough without adding food poisoning to the mix."

Quinn reached over and accepted the bowl. "We'll…admire it for a while, okay? Maybe I can take a picture and get it framed," she said diplomatically.

"Fine," Logan huffed. "But you're both missing out." He turned to Clay with renewed purpose. "Okay, then you need the humidifier. You're supposed to breathe in steamy air, so your nose doesn't explode."

"My nose has already exploded," Clay muttered. "Multiple times. We're—" he broke off with the now-familiar hitch and buried another sneeze in one corner of his blanket. "Way past prevention."

"Bless you!" Logan called cheerfully over his shoulder as he scurried off. A moment later, the sound of clunking plastic and a victorious "Aha!" echoed from upstairs.

Quinn chuckled and leaned over to kiss Clay's burning cheek. "You have your very own wellness coach now."

"Great," he croaked. "Where's his certification? Because I think this soup is a crime against humanity."

Before she could answer, Logan returned, dragging the dinosaur-shaped humidifier from his bedroom. It looked extremely smug for an appliance. "Meet Steamy Rex," Logan declared. "He's here to fight your mucus."

"Oh my God," Clay whispered, wheezing with laughter and congestion. "I'm going to die surrounded by ketchup broth and dinosaurs."

Logan ignored the drama and plugged in the humidifier. Almost instantly, a warm mist began to fill the room.

"There," Logan said proudly, planting his hands on his hips. "Now you're going to be better in, like, thirty minutes." Clay sniffled, blinked at the rising steam, and sneezed three more times in fast, exhausted succession. Logan didn't even flinch. He just held out another tissue like a knight presenting a sword. "Told you. He's working already."

Clay accepted it with a croaky laugh. "Thanks, Wolverine. You're the best sick-day partner I've ever had."

"Obviously," Logan said, flopping onto the floor with a comic book. "Now you can stop sneezing and start healing. A Wolverine-shaped humidifier would be even better than Steamy Rex. He has healing powers, you know."

"You have all the healing powers I'll ever need, kid." With another tired little sigh, Clay lifted his arm and pulled Quinn close. "Is this okay? Even with the risk of knocking you out with this monster of a cold, too?"

Quinn leaned back into the couch, the warmth of his arm around her shoulders, and smiled. "Totally worth it. I wouldn't have it any other way."

Clay, sniffling and congested but finally surrounded by warmth, family, and a dinosaur full of steam, managed a genuine smile. "Yeah," he murmured. "Even if I never breathe through my nose again…we're definitely gonna be okay."

Hours later, the house had gone still. Outside the windows, the rain had slowed to a misty whisper. Inside, the humidifier's gentle puffing sounds filled the silence, still gurgling faithfully beside the couch where Logan now lay fast asleep, his arms flung wide, one foot tangled in the throw blanket as if he'd tried to kick a villain's butt in his dreams.

Clay sat on the edge of the couch, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, another warm mug of tea held between both hands. His face was pale in the dim light, eyes heavy-lidded and nose still raw, breath slightly wheezy from the weight of congestion that hadn't quite let up.

Quinn returned from the kitchen with her own mug and dropped into the armchair across from him, folding her legs underneath her. She watched him quietly, the tired way he blinked down at the steam rising from his tea, his fingers trembling slightly each time he brought the mug to his lips.

"Still with me?" she asked softly.

"Barely," he rasped, voice still gravelly. "Everything hurts. My throat feels like I tried to gargle steel wool, and my ribs might file a formal complaint after that bloody sneeze marathon."

Quinn chuckled faintly, but her smile was full of affection. "You sound a little better, though. Less apocalyptic."

Clay sniffled thickly. "Just wait. I'll probably sneeze my soul out again in five minutes."

"You've already sneezed out most of your brain cells today," she teased gently. "Keep your soul where it is, I value it too much."

"That might not be a bad thing," he murmured. "Less brain means less grief."

The humour in Quinn's expression faded a little. She sipped her mug of tea slowly. "Is this about Sara or the baby?" she asked gently.

"It's a little bit of everything, I guess," he sighed, the weight of all their loss in that single exhale. "I can't afford to be that broken ever again, Q. After my dad died, I was the one who held everything together, you know? Mom was shattered, my sisters couldn't stand each other, and even at eighteen, I took on the role of Mom's protector, because that's what Dad told me to do, the day he said goodbye and got on that wretched plane that exploded halfway through the flight."

Quinn wordlessly handed him another tissue when his voice broke, triggering the remnants of the infection lodged in his chest. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "My dad wasn't exactly old when he died either, but our family's always been tight. I can't imagine feuding siblings on top of the grief. You saw how even Taylor came to her senses in time when we lost my mom."

"You'd think the universe would give it a rest after throwing that loss at a teenager, wouldn't you?" said Clay bitterly. "But no, God wasn't done with me until He ended the life of a twenty-five-year-old with zero warning, right before my eyes. Sometimes I still wish I could have stopped that light from going out in Sara's eyes. I don't see her so much anymore, but lately my dreams have been a weird mix of Sara and…a tiny baby with no clear face."

Quinn's throat tightened. She lowered her mug and stood, crossing the space between them until she could slide onto the couch beside him. "You're allowed to miss her. And the baby. That doesn't mean you're not here: with me, with Logan. If we have to go to sad and dark places, we do it together from now on. Okay?"

"I don't ever want to be that checked-out zombie I became after losing Sara again," said Clay miserably. "I'm worried that at some point, I won't be able to hold space for your pain anymore. I never want to stop being the guy who makes everything better for you, Quinn. But right now, I don't know how to do that."

Quinn's arm slid around his shoulders, like a weighted blanket against the shroud of grief. "You don't even have to try to be that guy for me. It comes naturally. You make things better for me just by existing. I can't believe that even needed to be said. I love you, completely and insanely, and forever."

He turned his head just enough to nuzzle her hair. "It's just…sometimes this whole thing feels too big."

"I know it does," Quinn whispered. "But we're still standing. You're still sneezing your lungs out, drinking tea, and watching our kid sleep with one sock on. You're here."

"Oh God, you…" Clay's breath stuttered, and he barely raised the crumpled tissue in time to catch another sneeze. A second came right after, and his breath hitched for a few extra beats, then, eyes glassy. "You jinxed me. I was so sure I was done." She didn't flinch, letting his pause speak for itself, masking a pain too big for words. "You know what the worst part is?" he whispered at long last. "I keep expecting life to get easier. But I think it just…keeps moving. It doesn't wait for you to catch your breath…which right now, I literally can't. Crazy, huh?"

"Bless you." Quinn kissed his still-warm forehead gently. "Maybe we should stop waiting for it to get easier. And just let it be hard. Together."

Clay closed his eyes. Her touch was warm, her presence anchoring. Beside them, Logan murmured something in his sleep and turned over, one hand patting the couch as if to make sure they were still there.

Clay looked down at his son, then over at his wife. For all the ache, he felt something settle inside him. Not peace, not yet — but the slow, steady beat of survival. "Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For not giving up on me. For staying. For seeing all the broken parts and not walking away."

"I love the broken parts, too," Quinn whispered. "Especially when you let me carry them for a while."

They sat in silence, wrapped in the dim and the hush and the soft hiss of Steamy Rex doing his duty. The night stretched long and quiet around them. But for the first time in a while, it didn't feel like the pain was sucking all the oxygen from the room. The pulse of love was fighting back against the darkness now, steady and eternal. Someday, that would be enough to bring them peace again.

A/N As if the story this takes place within wasn't loaded with enough angst, I zoned in to re-visit one of my fave chapters for more sick and suffering Clay. Enjoy! xx