Archive of Our Own

“Which one do you have?” Holland asks, too exhausted to even consider lifting his arms to check the bracelet tag wrapped around his son’s ankle.

Jackson makes a soft sigh of a noise as he shifts on the chair next to Holland’s bed. Court and Holly are both conked out on the short sofa against the wall, Court curled most of the way into Holly’s lap; in a desperate bid to keep any of their four— four!, Holland panics again— children from waking up, both he and Jackson are staying as quiet as they can.

“I’ve got Baby A,” Jackson tells him, his soft voice rumbling with how low he’s keeping it. “First one.”

“Okay, that’s the one I’m naming,” Holland replies with a lazy tilt of his head in Jackson’s direction.

“You get to name the baby I’m holding?” Jackson asks.

“I told you I was going to name the first one, and I’m going to name the first one,” Holland bites back. “I didn’t carry and birth these motherfuckers with your massive monster shoulders just t—”

“Alright, alright,” Jackson stops him before he gets too worked up and wakes up one or more of them. “Do whatever you want. It doesn’t matter to me.”

Holland hums, tired, his head tilted against his pillow as he stares down at the baby in the crook of his arm. The twins are identical, he’s been reliably informed— and can tell just by looking at them, Jesus Christ, even all squished-up and brand-new and fucked-looking, they’re exactly the same— so it’s almost like he’s looking at both of them when he looks at just this one. Baby B, apparently.

“Hmm.” Holland evaluates the baby he’s holding, then glances towards Jackson. “I kind of had a name in mind. Well, I had a name for a girl and a name for a boy, so. Fuck it, glad you’re taking one, since apparently you only make boys.”

“Mm.” Jackson’s voice is so low, it feels like it vibrates through Holland’s chest. He relaxes, sighs, watching Jackson as he lifts his arm to examine the baby he’s holding more closely. “You better name him right. He’s pretty cute.”

“Well, yeah, he’s mine,” Holland reminds him. The chuckle of a laugh he gets from Jackson in response makes him feel all warm inside. He tries to tell himself it’s just the medications pumping through his veins, but he’s pretty sure it’s mostly just Jackson. And the kids. Goddamn them. “Jesus fucking Christ. They really are actually identical, aren’t they? Goddamnit, I’m going to mix them up, I already know it. Fuck. We’re fucked.”

Even as he says that, he looks down at the baby in his arms again. Second-born of the twins— and his last overall, if he has any say in it, because fucking hell, it can be such a fucking misery carrying and birthing them— and he’s just so small, laying there, the tiniest baby Holland’s ever had, just sleeping away with him like he isn’t less than a day old.

“Hey,” he says, jostling him in a slight bounce. His newborn’s brow wrinkles before he whines in his sleep, his whole face crumpling up, his hands opening and closing, his face turning against Holland’s chest. “Oh, shit— Hey, hey, you’re okay— Fuck— I’m sorry, shh, go back to sleep.”

The fussy creature in his arms settles slightly at the sound of his voice, even if he has no clue what is even being said to him. He blinks blind, bleary, bright blue eyes in Holland’s direction, wet with unshed tears, and Holland runs his thumb under one to swipe the wetness away, holding him closer against his body.

“Sorry,” he whispers down to him again, and his son’s tiny hand curls up against Holland’s heart. “Oh, shit. I love you.”

Jackson snorts a laugh. “Don’t make it sound like such a problem, Holl.”

“Shut up,” Holland tells him, voice soft, eyes still on his baby. It never changes, this feeling. Every time. It’s like he’s just been waiting for him— for both of them. “Is it weird that I missed them before now?”

There’s a moment where Jackson quietly turns that over before answering, “Nah. I get it.”

Holland hums, head still knocked to the side. He catches his son’s tiny hand in his and presses a kiss to his palm, his fingers curling against his face. Everything about him is just so small.

“How’re we going to do this with four?” Holland whispers.

“We’ve both got two hands.”

“Jack.”

“We just will,” Jackson replies, like that means anything. We just will. Holland would love to see that. Every time he tells himself he’s just going to do something, he usually either ends up fucking it up or never doing it at all.

Four fucking kids. What the fuck is wrong with them?

“What if one of them— Like, what if they get hurt?” Holland asks. “Or they run off, or—”

“Well, Holly always comes back,” Jackson stops him to point out, and Holland levels a glare at him in the darkness. He looks tired, too, but Holland has claimed a monopoly on exhaustion for the day. “Holl, it’ll be fine. Nobody is running off. They can’t even move. Jesus Christ, they’ve each only shit once in their lives. We’ve got time before they’re moving or escaping or— really doing anything at all.”

Holland is huffily quiet for a moment before correcting him, “The first one shit twice.”

“Did you?” Jackson asks the sleeping baby in his arms. “Good job, kid.”

“The second one’s already puked on me twice, though,” Holland adds. “Waste of good food, if you ask me, I worked fucking hard on that.”

“Really? Nice,” Jackson comments down to the second baby, and Holland groans, shutting his eyes against the headache threatening to throb behind them. “What? I’m impressed, they’re impressive.”

“Well, I’m fucking freaking out,” Holland says, attempting to keep his tone on the lighter side of freaking out, but he can tell Jackson hears the genuine distress and panic in his voice. “I’m— Jack, there’s four of them.”

Jackson is clearly waiting for more. When nothing further comes, he prompts, “Yeah. And? We knew there would be.”

“But now,” Holland points out, struggling to stay quiet, “there are. And I have to keep them alive, and— and—”

“Well, what the hell am I, chopped liver?” Jackson asks.

“You know what I mean,” Holland hisses. “You’re actually good at this. I’m— I’m, you know—”

“Stop it,” Jackson cuts him off. “You’re a good dad, Holland.” He earns a disbelieving snort for that, but he doesn’t break pace. “You are. Quit fishing.”

“Yeah. Well. Ask Holly how good a dad I am,” Holland replies, each word lower and more serious than he intended them to be.

The quiet in the room deepens, darkens. Holland keeps his eyes down on the baby in his arms, unable to stop himself from loving him so much he knows he’d do anything for him, terrified— as he always is— that he’ll still end up being the one that hurts him the most.

“She’d tell you you’re a good one,” Jackson finally says, and Holland flicks a skeptical, knowing glance up at him, since they both know the truth. Holly’s told him before that he’s not a good father, multiple times, in no uncertain terms. It doesn’t matter if years pass; he can still hear her voice in his ears, telling him the truth. He still knows that she’s right. He’s a bad dad, and a fuck-up, and a liar, and a cheat, and everybody hates him, and— “We’ve all fucked up before, Holl. C’mon. You’re exhausted, you just pushed two kids out of you, you aren’t thinking straight. Holly and Court love you. What, do you think I’m not a good dad just because I—”

“Stop it,” Holland interrupts him. “You know you’re good at it. You’ve always been good at it. It’s not the same.”

“Like fuck, it’s not,” Jackson argues, shifting in his seat to sit more upright. The baby he’s holding doesn’t even fuss, just keeps right on sleeping against his chest. He looks so small, comparatively. “I—”

“Holly loved you the second she met you,” Holland just keeps insisting, floodgates open now. “Court basically turned you into his living teddy bear. And I’m just th—”

His baby sucks in a watery gasp of a breath, anxiously and automatically reacting to Holland’s nervousness. Holland is already looking down, shushing him again, holding him closer. He can’t even hold him right; he doesn’t see Jack making one of their kids cry when they’re barely old enough to breathe.

“Sorry, sorry,” Holland whispers downwards to him. “You’re fine. Go back to sleep, kiddo, I got you. Everything’s okay.”

Despite his words, the baby scrunches his face up before he whines again. He blinks his unfocused blue eyes in the vaguest direction of Holland’s face before he’s huffing and shifting against him once more, hands flailing with uncoordinated muscles, trying to shove his face closer into his chest.

“Goddamnit. He already hates me, too,” Holland complains, voice a little too high, a little too panicked. “Are you seeing this? How does he already hate me? Do you think he kn—”

“He does not hate you,” Jackson argues. “Hey. C’mon. He’s just getting comfortable. Holl, you do the same thing when you’re asleep. You don’t hate me, do you?”

“A little bit,” Holland grumbles, lying, carefully shuffling the baby he’s holding in a twist like he’s a little rotisserie chicken, turning him against his chest like he’s clearly wanting. “Sometimes.”

“Shut up.” Jackson carefully rises to his feet, still without disturbing the baby he’s holding. It’s three of his big steps between his chair and the bed, but Jackson still manages to make that look easy without waking anybody up. Traitor.

Holland watches him arrange himself beside him on the bed. Just a few hours ago, everything was complete chaos; Holland hardly remembers the finer details of the day. It’s like time jumps and skips, from waking up drenched, to Jackson all but throwing the three of them into the car with him to drive twelve times the speed limit to the hospital, to Holland nearly ripping both of Jackson’s arms off when he’d gotten too close during a particularly painful moment right before the first one had been born—

It had all just been very, very hectic.

Lucky him, all he had to do was focus on birthing the stupid gigantic twins that had no right being as big as they felt they were at the moment. No matter how small they look outside of him, Holland maintains that they were too big for twins on their way out; it was a lot to focus on. Jackson was left to take over everything else: to corral their bickering children, to keep them occupied so Holland could focus, to encourage Holly into setting up the camera, to coax Court into preparing to mark the babies as soon as he saw them, to prevent Holland from jumping out of the window the second eyes were off of him.

For all the fucking racetrack shitshow spectacle of it all, it could have been worse. There wasn’t all that much time, ultimately, to dwell on the chaos or the pain or the shock of having to birth one right after the other, which suited him fine. In the end, there was barely any time between them at all. Jackson told him it was only about five minutes before both were suddenly here; for Holland, it had been both five weeks and five seconds. In one moment, they’re telling him the first baby’s coming, and in the next moment, two were there, thrown across his chest, smearing their disgusting fluids everywhere, and Holland had dragged his rubbery arms up to hold them close despite how repulsive they were. He was no better off, he figures.

Hours later, now, everyone’s comparatively clean, and calm, and Holland glances up towards the couch, watches Holly and Court sleep in a puddle together. One of his sisters is supposed to come pick them up when she gets off work to let them sleep at her house tonight with their cousins, but that’ll probably still be another hour or so, at least.

Again, Holland is struck by how similar the twins look to Court when he was a newborn. Honestly, though, if it weren’t for how similar Courtland looks to himself— and the fact that he saw him come out of his own body in the first place— Holland would’ve assumed he wasn’t involved in creating him at all. He’s just so much like Jackson— and always clinging to Jackson, always and forever ready and willing to do exactly what his Papa asks of him, always following him around like a little shadow, always clinging to him if they’re within eyesight of each other.

A decade ago, Holland might’ve said he wanted more children after Holly. After his wife died, he couldn’t imagine a world where he could even take care of the one he did have. Now—

Now, Holland adjusts the loose blanket wrapped around his son when he fusses again, looking away from Court and Holly down to the baby in his arms. He’s got a tiny yellow hat on— at least that’s different between the twins, since the marks Court made on their feet have already been covered over by ink and subsequently washed away— while his brother’s hat is red. Displacing him slightly in his hold, Holland tugs at the rim of his little hat, pulling the soft yellow fabric down a bit further, snug and secure.

“Twins,” Holland mumbles, looking from the baby in his arms to the identical baby in Jackson’s. “What are the fucking odds, right?”

“Your sister has two sets of twins,” Jackson reminds him. Holland glares at him again. “I’m just saying.”

Though he lets his agitated squint last a playful second longer, Holland is almost immediately distracted by the twins again. He shifts, wriggling his legs a little bit to get closer to Jackson in bed, letting the babies’s heads get closer to each other again. Something warms inside of him looking at the two of them, thinking about how they’ve always known each other, how they’ll always know each other. He settles knowing that they’ll have each other forever, even when he’s gone, even if they have nobody else. Maybe twins aren’t so bad.

“Did you bring the quilt?” Holland asks quietly.

“Yeah.” Jackson looks from the baby in his arms to Holland’s bag on the windowsill. Holland just gestures with an elbow, already shuffling the twin he’s holding to rest in one arm so he can take his brother in the other. “You sure you’re not gonna mix ‘em up?”

“They don’t even have names yet,” Holland points out. “Would it matter?”

Jackson exhales a laugh as he leans over him, ginger in pressing the first twin into the crook of Holland’s empty left arm. Still, the kid doesn’t wake up; Holland’s hoping that bodes well for the future, since the second twin keeps waking up a bit every time Holland so much as breathes wrong.

The ancient quilt Jackson pulls from Holland’s bag like a magician’s trick is massive, frayed at the edges, discolored in patches. It overflows even Jackson’s arms as he spools it up to bring back to him, an old thing stitched together by Jackson’s grandmother for him when he was born. Holland secretly— or, probably, not-so-secretly— finds it extremely, stupidly endearing that Jackson has kept his own baby blanket this long.

This blanket is also one of the first of his belongings that he migrated over to Holland and Holly’s place when he started staying there more steadily. It’s the blanket Jackson used to drape over Holly when she’d fall asleep on the couch, tucking it in neatly around her. It’s the first blanket Court ever slept in when he was born, and it’s the blanket Jackson drapes over his own shoulders sometimes still to this day, and it’s the blanket Holland likes to curl up with and bury his face in when he’s the only one home, because it smells like his family and it’s probably his favorite blanket in the world, so sue him.

“Can you put it over both of them?” Holland asks, keeping his voice soft still.

Jackson doesn’t speak, just starts neatening the blanket in his hands, straightening out the edges, evening it so he can fold it over and over itself until it’s a more appropriately-sized rectangle for the twins. As huge as they’d felt before they were born— and they’d felt fucking huge, Holland’s still not backing down on that— they seem really, really small out here in the world like this. Tiny, and exposed, and vulnerable. The quilt helps.

“See?” Jackson murmurs as he smooths the fabric over the two of them— and, by extension, Holland. “Bad dad, my ass. Bad dads don’t give a shit about blankets, Holland.”

“Don’t fucking curse, Jesus Christ, you’ll give them bad habits.” Holland glances up at Jackson, finds him already watching him with that look he gets sometimes around him. “What do you want, Healy? What, I haven’t given you enough today? You want t—”

Jackson quiets him in a single instant, leaning down and stealing a kiss from him, taking his air and the remnants of his complaint before Holland can so much as blink. When he does manage to blink, it’s slow, and syrupy, and his eyes end up shutting as he leans up into him. Catching his face between his two hands, palms big and warm against his cheek, Jackson kisses him in this unhurried, throat-deep way that has Holland panting into him, the only sound in the silence.

His tongue glides in a soft stroke along Holland’s, making his belly twist. Holland’s eyes drift back open just as Jackson separates them, pulling back one centimeter at a time until their lips separate again.

Jackson doesn’t go far. He kisses the corner of Holland’s mouth, then the curve of his cheek, in the crook between his own thumb and forefinger still holding his face in place. When Holland looks up at him again, Jackson is so close, so close, that Holland could count each of his eyelashes, and his pores, and the tiny lines that crease the corners of his eyes.

“What was that for?” Holland asks softly, just between the two of them.

“Because I love you.” Jackson parts from him, scoots himself to sit next to Holland in the bed. They barely fit together, but Holland just shuffles against him with a wince. “Careful.”

“You’re just lucky I didn’t tear, or I’d kill you twice,” Holland mumbles as Jackson gets his hands around his waist and slowly pulls him closer, until he can get Holland tucked against him, the twins scooped together in his lap.

“Thank you, by the way,” Jackson says. When Holland tips his head in his direction, Jackson’s eyes are on the boys.

“For them?” Holland asks. “You’re welcome. Wasn’t easy.”

“For all of them,” Jackson amends. “All of this. I wouldn’t have a family right now without you, Holl. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘bad dad’ to me, either.”

“Well, you’ve always had horrible judgment, so. Just trust me on this one, alright?” Holland lets his head fall back against Jackson’s shoulder. Jackson’s warm behind him; his arm encircles him, curls upwards to run his fingertips through Holland’s hair. It probably looks like shit right now. He probably looks like shit right now. For once, he doesn’t care. “Don’t forget, you’re brawns, I’m brains. You have no clue what you’re doing without me, big guy.”

“Right,” Jackson says, lips brushing Holland’s temple. “Well, guess I’m too stupid to go anywhere else, then. Without your expert expertise.”

“Guess so.” Holland rubs his thumb in a slow circle over one of the boy’s bellies, the one in the yellow hat. Second-born, he thinks. The youngest. The smallest. The baby. Holland’s tired. He’s not sure. Jackson’s keeping track, though. Probably. Hopefully. “Hey, Jack?”

“Mm-hmm?” Jackson hums. His other hand has fallen down to rest against the other twin’s side, slowly rubbing his tiny arm up and down. He looks so small; they both do.

“Thanks,” Holland says, and earns a kiss to his temple. “We should probably give them names.”

“Let’s just wait until they’re older and let them tell us which one’s which,” Jackson replies. “We’ll just swap them around until then. Easier, right?”

“Jesus. Maybe I’m not the bad dad, here,” Holland says. Jackson snorts, leaning his head back against Holland’s pillows. “Did you actually already have a name in mind?”

Jackson reaches over, pushes up the soft little brim of the second twin’s yellow cap. “Mm.” The baby fusses under his hand, arms stretching up to grab at him without coordination. When he latches onto Jackson’s ring finger with both hands, tiny fingers curling tight around the one single digit, Jackson exhales. He just stares down at him, watches him cling to him with the superstrength of a newborn. “Jesus, March. Look at ‘em.”

“Yeah.” Holland watches the twins for a long, long moment before he turns to glance towards Holly and Court on the couch again. Holly sleeps laid-out now, adjusted at some point while he wasn’t looking, her spine curving against the back cushions as she squishes herself into the sofa in her sleep; snuggled into her, his face against her chest and his head tucked under her chin, Court sleeps soundly, his mouth open, drooling on her, huffy little snores escaping him just like Jackson’s when he sleeps. Holly’s blonde hair spills over Court’s head while they sleep, each strand a color-match to his own. It’s nearly impossible to tell where they separate.

Holland can’t stop just— looking at them. He can’t help but—

Well, he just doesn’t like to think too much about that first year after his wife died. Losing Grace had— He just— He didn’t know how to live without her, how to cope with her absence, how to deal with her presence being replaced by guilt and loss and nothingness. Worse, he forced Holly to figure it all out practically on her own before he even remotely started getting his shit together for her. He’s glad he found Jackson at the same time that he hates himself for not being able to function without him.

If he regrets anything in life— and he regrets a lot, so, top of the list is saying something— he regrets Holly having to grow up too fast after losing her mother, about not being the parent she deserved to have left. The amount of times he thought that it would’ve just been better, easier, if it’d been him who died— that Grace would have known what to do if it’d been just her and Holly left behind with him gone—

It doesn’t change anything, though. She’s gone, and he’s here, and he doesn’t deserve it, but it’s still the truth, and he regrets it all the same. He tries to be the person Holly deserves— deserved then, deserves now, always has deserved the entire time. And, if nothing else, he thinks he’s better than he was, more often than not. At least now when he fucks up, he tries not to make it anyone else’s problem but his own.

He can’t ever change the past, but he can try to make the future better. He tries to remind himself of that. It was hard, for a long while, but— Holly makes it easier. Jackson, and Court, and the twins, now— and their home, and the job— it’s all so much easier, with them. It’s not easy, it can still be so hard, but— it is easier. Better.

“Jack,” Holland murmurs. Jackson turns his face against his, stubble scraping Holland’s skin along his cheek, then up beside his eye. “Thanks.”

“What for? You’re the one putting the work in today,” Jackson replies. “For once.” Holland lightly bumps his head against Jackson’s in admonition, his attention refocusing on the twins. The first is still fast asleep; the second continues to cling to Jackson’s hand while he waves it slowly back and forth, watching his little arm match each movement. “Geez. You seeing this?”

“Yeah, pretty cute,” Holland mumbles. When that twin yawns, tiny face crinkling up and briefly swallowed by how big the yawn is for such a little creature, Holland huffs, his chest tightening like a squeezed toothpaste tube. “Can’t even fucking believe it.”

“Incredulous,” Jackson says. Holland makes an inquisitive sound, still watching their child like a fish in an aquarium. “Means ‘unable to believe something very surprising or shocking.’”

“I mean, I wouldn’t say I really find it shocking,” Holland protests. “I make cute kids, you seen my fucking kids?”

“I’ve seen them.”

“The best,” Holland insists as the younger twin finally closes his eyes all the way again. “Yes. There you go, kid. Good job. Not so hard, was it?” He strokes the side of his thumb down the soft slope of his nose. “Your Papa better give you a good name.”

“Didn’t fuck it up last time,” Jackson reminds him.

“Nah,” Holland replies. “Just ended up with a kid named Courtland.”

“It’s my grandfather’s name,” Jackson protests before he glances at Holland. “And it was your suggestion.”

“Well, fuck me for trying to be nice.” Holland watches as, bit by bit, the second twin’s grip on Jackson’s hand loosens, loosens, loosens, further and further until he’s going limp with sleep again. “See if I ever try it again.”

“Oh, no, what am I going to do?” Jackson asks, voice flat and dry. Holland just huffs, watching his new favorite show of his children sleeping. He wonders how often they’ll successfully get all four of them sleeping like this. His hopes are not high.

“You know, Grace is the one who picked Holly’s name,” Holland tells him, even if it’s a story he’s told before— and still, Jackson hums in acknowledgment as if it’s the first time he’s heard it. “I told her it was a dumb idea. I picked Holland myself, it’s not like it was some family name, but— She just kept telling me how much she loved the name, no matter what, if Holly’d been a boy or a girl, she wanted to name her after me, and then— Holly was here, and it was just—” Holland half-shrugs. “I don’t know. Grace was right, I guess. She looked like a Holly.”

“She’s a Holly,” Jackson agrees.

“Still a stupid name to get stuck with,” Holland still protests, even though he can’t imagine his daughter with any other name, by now. His late wife’s optimism that naming their child after him wasn’t the worst possible thing in the world still rings through her; he’s more grateful for it than he ever was before.

“Could be worse,” Jackson replies. “Could’ve put Josephine first.”

Holland grins. “You should’ve heard Holly the first time she read Little Women. She started reading so young, right, and she’s reading this five-hundred-page book bigger than her head, and a few pages in she just threw it right down on the floor and started yelling, ‘You named me Jo March!’ right in my face.”

“Well, you did,” Jackson says.

“Did not.” The first twin readjusts a little in sleep, his little brow furrowing before he settles again. “That’s what Grace kept telling her, she kept saying, ‘Be glad I got to name you Holly first,’ and then they’d both blame me, and when she—” Holland catches himself, stops, halfway caught between the moment he’s in and the moment he’d been remembering. “Jesus. Sorry.”

“Holl. It’s fine. I’m not upset you were married,” Jackson reminds him. “I was, too.”

“Little bit different.”

“Not really.” Jackson lets his head fall against Holland’s again. “Besides, what, I’m going to be mad at her? Or at you? For what, existing? Loving each other? Giving me my daughter, what? Seriously. I should be thanking her, if anything.”

Holland wants to make a smartass comment in response, but nothing immediately springs to mind. All that comes up are ridiculous tears, prickling at the backs of his eyes.

“You would’ve liked her,” Holland says instead of being an asshole. “A lot. And she— God, she would’ve loved you, actually. I would’ve never heard the end of it from you guys together, I swear to God, you would’ve driven me nuts.”

“Mm.” Jackson bends his hand up again, rubs his thumb in a slow circle over the hinge of Holland’s jaw. “Next time.”

Holland huffs. “Yeah. Next time.” He’s still watching the twin in the red hat, the first-born of the two, and he says, “I’ve got a name for him.”

“Yeah?” Jackson asks. “Anything good?”

“I only pick good names, shut up,” Holland complains. “No, I know what I want. I want to name him Colton.”

Jackson pauses.

“Shut up,” Holland repeats.

“I didn’t say anything,” Jackson says. “I literally didn’t say a single word—”

“It’s a good name,” Holland insists. “Doesn’t it sound like a movie star name? Like, tough guy, John Wayne, sort of—”

“You think we’re having a tough guy, John Wayne baby?” Jackson asks him.

“I don’t know,” Holland hisses. “Babies all just lay there. He’ll be a whole person eventually. Besides, it— I don’t know, you won’t let me name them Jackson, but Colton, like— It kind of sounds something like it, doesn’t it?” He lets his weight relax backwards against Jackson again. “Got the same kind of mouthfeel.”

“Mouthfeel,” Jackson repeats, as if tasting it himself.

“Yeah.” Holland tilts his head back. “Don’t you think?”

With the initial suggestion passed, Jackson seems to be actually turning the name over in his head. Rather than looking at Holland, his eyes are on the baby, and he tests the name out as he lays one huge hand over his belly, the baby’s body practically disappearing beneath his palm. “Colton.”

“Mm.” Holland watches the baby, too. “Think about it, right? Jackson, Colton. Jack, Colt. Fits right in.”

Another moment pauses before Jackson asks, “You don’t think it sounds too much like Courtland?”

“Just say you don’t like it if you—”

“I like it,” Jackson cuts his protest short. “Hey. I like it.” He experiments again, focuses on the baby. “Colt. Colton. Hey, Colt. Colt, put that down. Colt, get that shit out of your mouth.” A quiet laugh exhales out of him. “Nah, you’re right. That’s his name.”

“Yeah, damn right it is,” Holland says. “I put a lot of thought into that, thanks.”

“Dangerous for you,” Jackson replies, earning another glare. He doesn’t return it, though, not for a long moment. Instead, he just keeps studying their baby before he looks up at Holland again, and Holland’s momentarily surprised to see the intensity and depth of emotion written across his face in the darkness. “Holl— Thanks, thank you. That’s…”

Whatever words he’s searching for, he seems unable to find them exactly. Holland wonders if what he’s experiencing is something near what he, himself, felt when Grace had suggested naming Holly after him.

“Yeah, well.” Holland nudges his face up into Jackson’s, since his arms are too full to reach for him like he might otherwise. “You know I love you.”

Jackson exhales a wet laugh. “Maybe I like a reminder, now and then.”

“These fucking kids are your reminder, what do you mean?” Holland asks. Jackson doesn’t reply; he just keeps sitting there, their heads pressed together. His skin’s so warm.

It takes a while, watching them in the quiet, before Jackson speaks again, asks, “What about a middle name?”

“Oh, yeah. Duh. Right.” Holland sits up a little bit more. “I decided to take your lead, actually. Turns out you do have a good idea now and then.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jackson asks.

“I liked how you used my mom’s maiden name for Court,” Holland tells him. It’d been a hard sell at the time, but Gentry works, Holland thinks. It’s a big name for a little kid, but Holland thinks it suits him, same as he’s feeling now with Colt. “And if you’re not letting me use your name, I figured I could use your mom’s maiden name. Waste not, want not. Get it?”

“You want to use her name?” Jackson asks. “You want to use Seavers? Seriously?”

“It’s a cool name,” Holland protests, looking down at their son again. He’d liked the idea when he had it, and now, when their baby is actually in front of him, he can’t help but think that he was right, that the name fits. “Don’t you think it’s a good name for him? I think it is. And, besides, you liked your mom. Fuck it, why not?”

“Fuck it,” Jackson echoes. “Yeah, alright. Fuck it. Gotta show people he’s my kid somehow.”

“You’re just jealous,” Holland remarks as he swipes his thumb underneath the hem of Colt’s tiny hat. “Besides, some babies are born with light hair and it ends up darker later.”

“Yeah, not with my luck.” Jackson spends a long moment just looking down at the blonde babies in Holland’s arms— which are, sort of, in his arms, too, since he’s got Holland practically in his lap. “Guess I can’t be too mad about it.”

“Yeah, grow up,” Holland says, and Jackson huffs a laugh. “What’re you naming the other one? And don’t fuck it up, I’m not making any more of these for you to try again.”

“We didn’t plan to make these ones, either,” Jackson reminds him, earning a glare shot sideways.

“It’s your own damn fault, by the way,” Holland whisper-exclaims, just barely remembering to keep his voice down. “If you could just keep your fucking hands off me—”

Jackson apparently can’t keep back his laugh, given the way it escapes from him in a rush. “Oh, it’s my fault?”

“Yes, it’s your fault, you—” Holland looks to the couch, makes sure Holly and Court are asleep, before he hisses, “—horny fucking animal—”

“Whoa, hey, I wasn’t the only one there,” Jackson interrupts. “Besides, I didn’t say I don’t like them. Just didn’t expect them.”

“Well, you better like them,” Holland insists. “Jesus Christ, they’re stressing me out though. Two was bad enough, but— Fuck, four? I just want to, like— put them in a bubble. That I can lock. Do you think Holly would get in willingly?”

“Again, they’re not going anywhere,” Jackson says. “Holly can take care of herself. And probably punch her way out of a bubble—”

“You’re mocking me,” Holland cuts him off. “Don’t mock me—”

“I’m not mocking you, hey, c’mon,” Jackson says, turning his face into Holland’s. “Hey.”

“I’m not looking at you.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“C’mon, babe, look at—”

“No.”

“Fine, I’ll build them a bubble,” Jackson says, and it’s nonsense, but it’s nonsense that makes Holland smile. “How’s that? That make you happy?”

Holland pretends to consider it. “Alright, I’ll take it.”

“‘I’ll take it,’” Jackson repeats in imitation. “You need sleep, you’re sounding crazier than usual.”

“Not until you tell me his name,” Holland reminds him, and gestures with a slight lift of his arm, just barely moving the second twin, their last baby, five minutes younger, a few ounces smaller, still technically unnamed. “Otherwise Frankie’ll get here first and trick you into naming him something lame.”

“What’s wrong with her kids’ names?” Jackson asks, and Holland rolls his head back against Jackson’s shoulder to raise an eyebrow at him.

“She unironically named her son Gus,” Holland reminds him. “Gus! And that was her first choice—”

“Alright, relax,” Jackson stops him. “I’m not naming him Gus.”

“Good.” Holland settles again, shifts against him with another wince. His head is heavy, his body is sore, he’s starting to fade. Jackson’s right, he should sleep soon, but he doesn’t want to. Stupidly enough, he wants to spend more time with the twins, as if he hasn’t spent the last nine months with them constantly. It’s just different, now. Getting to see them, hold them.

Jackson’s quiet for a moment before he says, “I was thinking we could name him Ryland.”

“Ryland?” Holland echoes, voice flipping up at the end in a sort of question. “Ryland. Ryland. Hm.”

“What?” Jackson asks. “No good? I thought it sounded nice. Kind of fancy.”

“Ryland,” Holland tries again, saying the name while he takes in the child, trying to tie the two together. His son shifts again in sleep, turning his face against Holland’s palm. “Where’d you hear that one?”

“Read it in a book,” Jackson says. “A long time ago.” He pauses. “You can tell me if you hate it.”

“No, I don’t hate it,” Holland tells him, and finds he means it.

“It sounds sort of good with Courtland,” Jackson continues justifying. “And Holland.”

“Now you’re just showing off,” Holland says. “Ryland. Hmm. That’s not bad, actually. It’s unique.”

“Holland—”

“I’m serious,” Holland insists, still unable to take his eyes off their son. “I really like it. It fits him, don’t you think?”

Jackson’s hand moves from Colt over to Ryland, blanketing his body from his chin down to his knees, he’s so small, and Jackson so big. His thumb rubs rhythmic circles over his chest as he looks him over, takes him in; Holland does the same, just watches him sleep.

“He’s tiny,” Jackson comments. “I don’t remember Court being this tiny.”

“He wasn’t,” Holland reminds him. “But Court didn’t have another kid in there stealing all his food.” Jackson hums his agreement, still watching their baby. “What about a middle name?”

“Hm?” Jackson asks before seemingly processing the question. “Oh. Uh. Well— Don’t get mad. And you can say no.”

“Oh, Jesus, what are you thinking?” Holland asks. “‘Don’t get mad?’ What could you possibly want to name him that would make me mad?”

Jackson’s quiet for long enough that Holland starts feeling a vague, though genuine, sense of alarm. He’s just about to ask what the hell’s wrong with him when Jackson suggests, “I thought we could use Grace.”

It’s like something in Holland’s brain sparks and lights and explodes, sets aflame, because he can’t really think for a second, engulfed in the blur of sensation. Some days, even thinking her name is hard; when he hears it out loud, it can be a gut-punch, or a warm memory, or both, and he doesn’t ever get to decide which. Right now, it hurts, and it doesn’t, and he has to tilt his head back, forcing the tears that spring up to recede, trying to stop them from immediately falling.

“We don’t have to,” Jackson tells him hushed, hurried. “I’m serious. It’s just an idea— Dumb idea—”

“No,” Holland stops him, and shakes his head. “No, just— Give me a second.”

“Okay,” Jackson says. He’s so quiet, letting Holland lean against him and try to breathe. After a moment, he squeezes his eyes shut and has to fight not to openly cry. A squeak comes out of him that he buries a moment later; it’s all he can do, really.

It’s a minute or two of heavy breathing, but Holland eventually manages not to burst out sobbing. Should’ve saved this for later, maybe, when he wasn’t drugged and exhausted and on the verge of shattering to pieces. Not until he knows he can breathe again without instantly crying does he look down again, taking in his child, thinking about giving him her name.

She probably— honestly, Grace probably would have teased him about it, and told him there were better names that he could pick, why would he waste his last shot on her name— he can practically hear it in her voice.

“Grace,” Holland echoes with a warble. He sniffs in an attempt not to be too loud. “That’s— Okay.”

“Do you really like it?” Jackson asks. “I’m serious, you don’t have to. You can say if I’m being stupid with that. Tell me to fuck off.”

“Nah, it’s not stupid,” Holland says. He gives a little shake of his head, feels his heart race too fast in his chest. “Not stupid, Jack. Just… I’m just— You know? What I mean?”

Jackson’s nose nudges the shell of Holland’s ear before he kisses his temple again. “Yeah, I know.”

“You did this on purpose,” Holland accuses him. He can feel the huff of Jackson’s breath against the side of his face. “Getting me all emotional over giving my son a girl’s name.”

“You kidding me?” Jackson asks him. “You named yourself Holland.”

“And?” Holland demands. “It’s a good name. And I was fucking fourteen, can you relax?”

Again, Jackson doesn’t answer. He just leans into Holland, lets Holland lean into him.

“You make me crazy,” Holland tells him.

“You were already crazy.” Jackson keeps watching their twins, so Holland, after a moment, does the same, looks down at them, watches them sleeping alongside one another. “Are you positive?”

It takes a while before Holland says, “Grace would’ve laughed at me.” After a pause, he says, “I know it’s stupid, but I wish she could’ve met them. And you.” He can’t stop looking at Ryland, watching him, thinking about— “You’re really sure?”

“I thought about it a lot,” Jackson says. “Figured maybe it’d be nice, if you wanted.”

It’s taking a lot for Holland to hold himself together. He already knows what it is to have everything and lose it, lose it in a second, lose it the moment his back was turned. It’s difficult to trust when he’s happy, impossible to believe he’ll ever consistently feel good.

“Can you, umm—” Holland starts, then has to clear his throat when his words catch. “Would you mind bringing Court and— and Holly over here, please?”

Jackson glances towards the couch. He can feel him hesitate, and he waits for him to protest, or to point out that the children are sleeping, but he doesn’t. As always, for whatever reasons that Holland will never fully understand, he indulges him, and he listens, and he goes.

With a grunt, Jackson sets Holland aside on the bed. He pauses to make sure he’s steady, a hand on his shoulder as Holland settles against the pillows, both twins tucked up close against him. They’re barely functional— Well, honestly, they’re not even functional, just two little tiny bodies wrapped in their family quilt, and Holland still loves them so much already that he could just fucking scream.

Court’s easier to bring over; barely five years old, still so small, he’s easily lifted into Jackson’s hands when he scoops him up and carries him to Holland. He fits easily into the space Jackson left behind; he tucks him against Holland, lets his head rest against his hip as he curls up into him in his sleep.

Bigger, and older, Holly’s a bit more difficult to move without waking; she blinks up at Jackson when he starts to lift her, brow furrowing from the crooks of his arms.

“What’s wrong?” she asks in a blur, words running together.

“Your Dad just wanted to see you,” Jackson tells her in a quiet voice, trying to keep his tone soft so she doesn’t wake up too much. “You good?”

Holly yawns, pressing the heel of her hand into one of her eyes, and nods. As grown as she might act, and nearly be, she still lets Jackson carry her to the bed and set her into the remaining space, sandwiching Court between her and Holland.

“How’s that?” Jackson asks, and Holland nods, letting his head fall backward against his pillows once again.

“Is it dumb,” Holland asks in return, “that I sort of— I wish I could just— stay here forever? Or, like, at least, for a long time, I just— I want to stay here.”

Jackson leans over the side of the hospital bed, practically hanging over the back, hooking Holly’s hair behind her ear. She’s already falling back asleep, and Holland watches them, the four of them, his children, that he doesn’t deserve and still somehow is lucky enough to have, before he tilts back to glance up at Jackson, waiting for him.

“Nah,” Jackson says. “I’d stay here, too, if I could. As long as you were here, too, I mean.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Holland taps the pad of his thumb against Ryland’s cheek as light as he can.

From behind, Jackson starts stroking Holland’s hair again. After a moment, Holland feels him press a kiss to the crown of his head.

“I was thi—” Jackson starts before he’s interrupted by a light knock on their door. The darkness is cut by a stream of light, a shadow centered within, and Holland blinks in the vague direction of the brightness.

“You have a visitor downstairs,” a nurse whispers into their room. “Can you come sign for her?”

“That’ll be Frankie.” Jackson leans down over the side of the bed to kiss Holland’s cheek. “I’ll go get her and be right back, alright?”

“Yeah, okay,” Holland agrees, and watches as Jackson hesitates, eyes skimming over them, before he goes, following the nurse out of the room, leaving them once again in the darkness and silence.

Holland glances down again, watches his four children sleeping in a heap on and around him. Holly, a curved parenthesis on the edge of the bed, one hand wrapped up in the edge of the quilt; Cortland, squished between his sister and his father, curled nearly into a ball; Colton, dead asleep, a warm weight in the crook of Holland’s arm; Ryland, limbs tucked up, as close to Holland as he can get. He doesn’t deserve any of them— and yet, here they are.

“I’m sorry,” he says downwards. “I love you so much. And— And Jack’s gonna build a bubble, right, and you’re all going to be safe forever, I swear.”

“Dad,” Holly mumbles into his pillows. “Be quiet.”

Holland nods, leaning back again. His head falls against his pillows, too, and his gaze slides to the side, tilted towards Ryland.

“I love you,” he repeats, “I promise,” and he doesn’t get an answer. They’re already sleeping.

In the present, Holland sits in his seat, the world blurring past around him, his mind elsewhere entirely. He’s the only one of his family still awake on the airplane, and he tried to sleep earlier, but he just couldn’t get it to stick.

Instead, he’s watching over the others while they sleep. The cabin is dark, the seven of them the only passengers on board. The crew has largely left them alone, except to offer food, drinks, occasionally a blanket— but Holland knows the energy they’re giving off, and he’s not sure what Court said to them but, whatever it was, they seem inclined not to bother them.

There’s just the darkness, the silence. Everything is quiet, barely lit by tiny blue emergency lights that cast shadows across everyone’s faces. Claire sleeps curled-up in her extended seat, spread out like a bed; Court had been watching over her for a long while, stroking her hair, before he ended up dozing off beside her. Holland didn’t have it in him to wake him back up. He’s been doing too much these last few days.

Jody had tried to talk to Colt for a long while before realizing she wasn’t getting too many verbose responses. He’s been an exhausted, quiet version of himself, a strange and empty shell, when he’s not letting his emotions override him entirely. Holland understands, but it still breaks his heart, twists something in his chest, to see him like this.

Like Court, Jody attempted to stay awake, watching over Colt beside her, but she didn’t last long. She dropped off in a bundle in her seat; Colt had wordlessly draped a blanket over her, tucked a pillow beneath her head, reclined the chair for her. All stiff, mechanical movements, but he did them all the same.

Jackson almost lasted longer than Colt, but he ended up falling asleep sitting up right next to Holland. He’s been holding his hand the entire time still, even though his muscles have gone lax; he can’t bring himself to let go. He hasn’t been sleeping any better than Holland has. Holland lets him sleep.

And even though he fought, too, Colt had been the last to drop off. He balled himself up in an uncomfortable-looking fetal position, his head on his forearms, folded against his armrest. Once he knew he was truly asleep, Holland had just leaned over and carefully moved him, pushing the armrest up and out of the way so Colt could stretch out a little further, his head pillowed on Holland’s lap.

Holland can’t stop looking at him.

He looks so much younger when he’s asleep like this— especially after these last few days that seem to have aged him years. His face is relaxed, his muscles loosened; Holland can’t stop stroking his hair back from his forehead, just studying the tiny details of him like he used to do, counting every pore and freckle and hair and wrinkle and scar, making a full map of him in his head, like he can never do again with—

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, ignoring how much it wavers, Holland shoves the thought away, but it just comes blasting right back. He can’t shake it, can’t stop thinking about Ryland, can’t stop thinking about his son, remembering him, picturing him at five minutes old, and five months, and five years, fifteen, twenty-five, all versions of him superimposed on top of one another. It’s all that can fit in his brain right now: Ryland laughing, Ryland crying, Ryland ranting, Ryland screaming, Ryland thinking, Ryland eating, Ryland blushing, Ryland teasing, Ryland angry, Ryland scared, Ryland sad, Ryland happy, Ryland, Ryland, Ryland, until there’s no space for anything else.

The breath Holland tried to suck in blows out shakily. He tips his head back, trying to regain himself, but he can’t. His composure’s gone, and fuck it, he doesn’t want it back. It doesn’t matter. Nothing seems to matter except one thing, and he can’t change anything about it, can’t do anything about it.

When he knows he’s not going to cry all over his face— again— yet— he lets himself look back down at Colt. The same face as his brother’s, technically, and yet, to Holland, they’re so different. He remembers being afraid, when they were born, that he’d mix them up; now, years later, he can’t imagine ever confusing one for the other. They’re too themselves.

Ryland should be on his other side. He just keeps thinking that, that— that there’s this hole, right there, opposite Colt, where his twin has always been and isn’t anymore, never will be again. Colt’s twin, Holland’s— God— fucking damnit, his baby, no matter how old he is, and how many times Holland fucked up with him, he was his.

“Hey,” Jackson says quietly into the darkness, the silence, his sleepy voice gruff and low. Holland blinks; his blurry vision clarifies slightly. He hadn’t noticed when he started crying.

“Hi,” Holland whispers back, still watching Colt sleep. There’s nearly a good inch of scruff on his face growing into a messy beard. The shadows under his eyes look like bruises. Holland wants to wipe the years away from his face and go back to when they were all younger and just— just stay there, forever.

“How are you feeling?” Jackson asks, when the quiet stretches on for minutes instead of seconds.

“I don’t know,” Holland tells him. He really doesn’t. He can’t begin to put into words what he’s feeling. “You?”

“Yeah,” Jackson replies. There’s no more to it than that, Holland thinks.

It’s almost worse that he’s had to do this twice now. He had thought it was bad before, when Court would disappear for stretches of time without telling them where he’d be, or when Holly would take a case so dangerous that Holland would stay up for days until he saw her again, or Colt would be on some intense shoot getting himself thrown off of buildings. Holland would stress out constantly, pretending he wasn’t freaking out while constantly freaking out, and then, when— When he lost Colt—

When he lost Colt, and his life suddenly screeched to a halt— When the last thing he’d seen of his son was a grainy video of some boat exploding on the other side of the world, when he’d been told Colt was on that boat and no, he did not survive, he had likely died in the fire, burned just like Grace had burned, and no, they hadn’t found his body yet, but he would be notified when they had, their condolences given without any truth to them because the world thought he was a murderer, and a corpse, and all Holland could think was, ‘No,’ was, ‘Not my son, not Colt,’ because he knew it, he knew it—

Or, he likes to say he knew it.

What he knew was that he was being told things about his son that didn’t make sense. His fun, reckless, sensitive son, who always made everyone laugh, who was the first to try something new, who wouldn’t cross the street without making sure he was holding Ryland’s hand— His son would never have done any of the things they’d said he’d done.

To Holland, that included dying. His son couldn’t die. Not while Holland himself is still alive, not ever. His children don’t die. They can’t. It’s— It had been unfathomable, before.

If he had believed anything from then, though, it was that Colt had died.

He knew he wasn’t a murderer, he knew he wasn’t a criminal, because he knew Colt. He knows Colt.

But he didn’t know that he was alive.

With every hour that passed, it got more real, living in a world without Colt, where his son was dead, and it would only be a matter of time before they fished something out of the water that had once been his son but wasn’t anymore, but was, because it would have been Colt, the same face that Holland had watched grow up from the moment of his birth, and he couldn’t— he couldn’t—

He remembers everything from then. Most times, he pretends like he doesn’t, like his memories have all become one traumatic blur until Colt was back home and everything was fine again.

Holland can’t ever forget it, though. Not how it felt to hear that his son was dead, that horrible wrenching inside of him that had been worse than pain, had been like he stopped existing, had destroyed him from his core out to his skin until there was nothing left of him. Not when he’d seen Jackson’s face that first time, like he’d never seen it before, and knew it was true, because nothing else could make Jackson look like that, and it had demolished some additional fragment left inside of him that he didn’t even know remained. Not—

Not when he’d had Court show up on their doorstep, already having seen it on the news before they could reach him, Holly tear-stained and furious ripping out from his passenger seat, demanding to know what happened— them seeing their faces, feeling how Holland had felt, losing him, knowing it was real—

And not when they realized that Ryland wouldn’t know, because he’d been in classes all day, and tried not to check his phone as an example, and Holland had to— to go to him, and— and then, the first face that Ryland had seen when he’d walked out of the school had been Holland’s, and just— he didn’t even need to see the rest of their family there. He already knew something was wrong in that instant, Holland could tell, he already knew just from looking at him, and he’d just fallen apart.

It’s horrible to think, and horrible to compare, and horrible to know, but the way Ryland’s face had crumpled then looked just like how Colt’s had just the other day. It’s something Holland never wanted to know, that his identical sons have identical expressions when they learn they’ve lost the other.

When Jackson— always the stronger of the two of them, always, in every way that’s ever counted to Holland— finally got the words out, Ryland had cried so hard, right there in front of his school, that he threw up in the grass. Court had had to practically carry him out of there and into his car, Ryland hysterical the whole way, refusing to believe it, insisting they were wrong, demanding he be allowed to call Colt and show them he’s fine, because—

Holland has never forgotten how Ryland had said it, how often he said it, the way he said it, on an endless loop, as if he couldn’t stop himself. He’d kept swearing up and down to them that he’d have known if Colt was dead. He just kept saying it, arguing over and over and over again, that Colt couldn’t be dead because he’d know, and he could still feel him, and he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t, until Court had snapped at him to just stop already. Ryland had cried harder after that, even after Court apologized over and over again, but Ryland still didn’t let up, never let them force him down.

That’s one of the things Holland remembers most from then. Ryland was fragmented, destroyed, but still kept insisting. He wouldn’t stop. No matter who told him to quit saying it, demanding that his grief wasn’t healthy, cursing him out that he wasn’t helping— He just knew Colt was out there, he kept saying it, even while he grieved and suffered with the rest of them, even while Holland failed to remember how to breathe and sleep and eat, even while they tried, they tried to process, to cope, to just get through it, but Ryland—

When they had Colt back, it’d been Ryland he went to first. Holland couldn’t even begrudge them that, no matter how desperate he was to have his son in his arms again, to feel his living body and know, know, that he was alive, that he was okay, that it was all fake, no matter how much it hurt.

But Colt didn’t go to Holland first, or Jackson, or Court, or Holly. When he came home to them, it’d been Ryland he fell into before anyone else, and Ryland had sobbed while he hugged him, the two of them fitting together like they always had, and Ryland had just kept repeating, “I knew it, I knew you couldn’t be gone,” over and over, because he had. Holland had seen it. Ryland knew. Holland said he knew it, but Ryland really knew it.

Colt hasn’t said anything like that about Ryland.

He hasn’t told them he still feels him, or that he’s still alive, or that he knows he’ll be back. None of the things Ryland kept repeating have come out of Colt even once, no matter how desperately Holland waits to hear something, to hear anything. It’s worse than seeing Ryland’s face on television, worse than reading his name in all these articles, worse than Eva Stratt telling him to his face that she’d chosen this death herself. It’s the most real confirmation Holland can trust that his— that Ryland is gone.

This is the second time in his life that he has lost a child— the third time in his life he has lost someone he loved more than anyone else— and he doesn’t know what to do about it anymore. There’s something inside him that he can’t put back together, this time.

Grace never came back. Colt— Colt came back. Ryland— is never—

“I know,” Jackson says. “C’mere. I know.”

He pulls Holland against his side, releasing his hand so he can put his arm around his shoulders instead, keep him close, tucked against him. They’re careful not to disturb Colt, to let him continue sleeping with his head in Holland’s lap. He just looks so tired.

“I can’t stop thinking about him,” Holland confesses in a choked whisper. He’s barely coherent, his throat full of tears already, thick and nearly impossible to speak through. “I c— I can’t.”

Jackson’s cheek finds the top of Holland’s head for a moment before he turns to kiss his hair. He stays right there, lingers; it’s only a moment later that Holland can feel the wet warmth soaking into the crown of his skull, and he feels Jackson tighten his grip on his shoulder, tight, tighter, clinging to him like he’d drown otherwise.

“Do you—” Jackson starts, but his words disappear in a rasp. He clears his throat as best as he can, asks, “Do you remember when they were born?”

“Yeah,” Holland replies. His voice is so small, so tight, he’s surprised it doesn’t just burst and disappear.

“I remember— God,” Jackson cuts himself off. His other hand comes up, covers his face; Holland just leans into him, keeps watching Colt sleep. “I remember looking at them and thinking how little they were and just— Remember how tiny Ryland was? Geez, I’d never seen a baby that small before. He scared the hell out of me.”

“Yeah,” Holland says again, even smaller, even tighter. He remembers it too well, as if it were yesterday, and, fuck, he wishes it were yesterday, wishes he could wake up and have all of this be a nightmare and shake it off and look over the edge of the bed and see their infant twins sleeping side-by-side next to him and start all over again. He’d protect them this time, he wouldn’t let them hurt like they’ve been hurt, he would do— anything.

“You kept saying you thought you were a bad dad,” Jackson continues above him.

“I was,” Holland argues. “I—”

“Holl,” Jackson says, in a tone that doesn’t invite argument. He sounds like he couldn’t fight with him if he wanted to; his energy’s all gone. “We did good with them.”

Holland’s eyes are burning. Everything inside of him is burning. “But Ryland’s gone. I j— I sh—” Holland shakes his head, his hand cradling Colt’s face. “I should’ve known. I should’ve— should’ve found him and stopped this and I d— I didn’t— I didn’t even— Jack, I didn’t—”

“I know,” Jackson says again. He doesn’t protest, not this time. Holland feels something cavernously wide and hollow opening inside of him, a yawning depth with teeth and heat. “I’m so sorry. He—” His voice cracks and splits at a jagged angle. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

His hands trembling, Holland shakes his head, doesn’t speak, can’t speak, wouldn’t know what to say even if he could. It’s all just repeating the same things, over and over; he should’ve gone looking for Ryland, he shouldn’t have trusted that he would just be okay, he wishes he could go back, he wants him to come home, he wants him to live, he’s sorry, he’s so sorry, he fucked up and he is a bad dad, he’s the worst dad, because he just— just let this happen, just let strangers take his child from him without even putting up a fight. He didn’t even know.

Colt shifts in his lap, brow furrowing a little in sleep. The way Holland instantly moves to comfort him is instinctive, automatic; he cups the back of his head in one hand while the other finds the center of his chest. Palm over his heart, he presses in, rubs circles there like he used to do to calm him down when he was small.

A similar instinct drives Holland’s eyes to flick over to the side, to the empty half of his lap, where Ryland used to be and should have been and isn’t. In his mind’s eye, he can still see his son’s face, how it was when he was a baby, a child, an adult— and, in this moment, he just sees that smiling child with a face full of sun-freckles and glasses too big to stay in place and a mess of blonde hair he was always tugging on, just grinning up at him, getting comfortable in his lap, yawning and curling closer and wanting to sleep against him while he rambled about nothing, about everything, about all the thoughts in his head, and it just— seeing him— seeing him, when he’s not there, it just— It just breaks the last unbroken thing left in him.

“I wish I could go back,” Holland whispers. The pieces of him that come up his throat are so sharp and so small that they tear him to shreds on their way out. He keeps staring at the place Ryland isn’t. “I just— I want to go back and stay there forever. I can’t— I can’t do this.”

It’s Jack that doesn’t have the words, this time. Not that there’s anything to say. He just holds Holland harder, closer, their skulls pressed so close Holland can feel the bone through his skin.

“I love you,” Holland says to Jackson beside him, to Colt in his lap, to Court and Holly asleep in their seats, to Jody and Claire curled up with them, to the empty space where Ryland should be. To Ryland. “I promise.”