Um . . . oops? Please don't hate me?

Standard disclaimers apply. I accept no responsibility for emotional damage.

"Where on Earth have you been?"

He hears her before he sees her, his Katherine – he was so busy watching the sidewalk for cracks and loose stones that he hadn't even thought to inspect the house for signs of his wife. But she's there, as he knew she would be.

She's stationed on the porch, backlit by the lamp, her arms crossed threateningly in front of her. He can tell by the look on her face that she knows Davey's been home for hours – hell, Sarah was probably on the phone with her the second she heard the doorbell ring. Her eyes are ringed by dark circles and she's bone-thin, far paler than when he left her.

But God, she looks beautiful. His angel.

"I've been waiting for you . . ." Her voice is high pitched, and cracks in the middle of the sentence. But she doesn't have to wait any longer.

It's been two years, but somehow they still fall towards each other with more force than gravity. He's not sure who's holding up who. She still smells like ink and flowers, just like he remembered, and he wonders absently if she can still detect the scent the gunpowder on his skin. Sometimes he thinks he can still feel it resting there, heavier than all the smog in New York that he used to revile. He'll never complain about his city again, not when he's seen so much worse.

"Hell, I missed you, Ace." His voice breaks, but he doesn't care. She's always fixed him when he was broken before; there's no reason she would refuse to do so now. Anyway, he doubts she even noticed. She's far too busy clinging to him with a desperation he can't even begin to describe.

She doesn't know whether to laugh or hit him or cry, so she does some combination of both that starts with angry tears and ends with a long kiss. While he's been no stranger to breathlessness in his time away, his lungs all too often constricting in fear or anticipation, he hasn't felt this effect in quite a long while. He kisses her again, until the world is spinning and they both have to pull away lest they lose their balance and fall.

"I missed you too," she murmurs, over and over again, her nose buried in his freshly-washed collar and her body slack against his. It hurts, but he'd never tell her that. He just pulls her closer, his fingers digging into her thin shoulders, trying to reassure her that she's not dreaming, he's here. It's over.

He tells her as much. "It's over. Ace, it's over." It's a promise he's waited a long time to say.

She sniffs loudly, clearing her throat. "I put the kids to bed ages ago," she says softly, stroking his hair back from his face. What does she think of the new scars there? "They wanted to stay up but it just got so late–"

"Honest, I woulda been home hours ago, Ace." He feels so guilty that he forced her to wait these extra hours, disappointed his children yet again. But it's something he had to do. "I just had to tell Crutchie I was back, and I knew once I got here I wouldn't want to leave ever again."

She turns back toward the house, shaking her head but unable to scold him for that, and he moves to follow her. That's when he sees the subtle movement of her eyebrows deepening in a frown, and knows she's noticed it.

He's limping.

It takes a second for it to register, but when it does she starts panics immediately. "Oh my God, are you all right?" she demands. "You said in your letters that you were fine! What happened?"

"It ain't a big deal," he mutters, though the statement is undermined by the fact that he loses his balance and has to sit down on the front step. "Just gimme a minute."

"Jack." There are tears in her eyes now, and she grabs his hand and holds it tight. He's not sure who she's reassuring, him or herself. She's looking anywhere but his leg, he can't help but notice. Is it because she doesn't want to make him any more uncomfortable, or because she's afraid of it?

"Sorry."

She makes a sound very similar to a growl. "Please don't start this now. Not after everything. Tell me what happened."

"Just some explosion. I saw it was about to blow, an' there was a bunch of soldiers there. They were so young; just kids, really. They reminded me of– I had to get them out–"

"Of course you did." She cradles his head against her chest. "I would expect nothing less."

"Only, I wasn't quite fast enough, and it went off, and–"

"And what?" Her arms are still around him, though they're shaking now, but he pushes away suddenly. "Jack?"

He looks away. "There ain't much the doctors could do. They said I ain't gonna walk real good again . . ."

"Did you save the boys?" she asks gently. He nods. "Then there you go. We'll deal with the rest."

"For sure?" he chokes out, leaning back into her again. She shakes her head forcefully.

"For sure. I'm so proud of you, Jack. I can't even imagine what–"

He cuts her off with a kiss, deep and filled with everything they'd missed for two years. "Don't even try to, please. Just don't."

Unlike in the past, she doesn't push it.

They make it to the living room before they collapse – this time on purpose – in a tangle of limbs and fabric. At first it's clear she's worried about hurting him further, but that quickly fades. They are quick and quiet – the children are sleeping upstairs, and they're both exhausted already. But Jack is so glad to be close to her again – he could hold her in his arms forever and not even notice the passing time.

When he starts to walk back to the kitchen after, though, his leg gives out again and she has to practically carry him to a chair. He tries to hide the frustration from his face, but he knows she sees it anyway. She's always been able to see right through everything he does.

"I'll be right back," she murmurs, placing a gentle kiss on the top of his head and disappearing down the hall to the closet. When she emerges again, she has something long and wooden clutched in her hands. He takes the crutch carefully, almost reverently, and sets it in his lap.

"He'd have wanted you to have it," she murmurs, and he swallows, blinking rapidly and avoiding eye contact. His face is so sad all of a sudden, more somber even than when he found out Race was trying to take his place in the draft.

"I dunno, Ace," he whispers, his voice breaking. "It ain't really me, is it?"

But the next morning as he comes downstairs to greet the children for the first time in two years, newsboy cap back on his head where it should be, he's leaning on it as naturally as if he'd been doing it forever. And he might not be able to admit it, but he's glad this little memory of his friend remains to help him carry on.

Don't worry, this isn't going to be the last chapter or anything (though they won't be in chronological order after this). Well, it was going to be, but my lovely new reviewer rachelelizabeth-p wants more in between the last two chapters, and I realized it would be very cruel to leave it on this depressing note . . . In my defense, I've read that real-life Crutchie did not live very long, and think about it - it is very likely that Jack would have been drafted for WWI . . . So sorry, but it was bound to happen eventually. Please don't hate me?

On the subject of reviewers, I want to apologize to everyone who has reviewed anything in the past couple of weeks, because I replied to very few of you. Life got way crazy with all the college application and band stuff I had to do, so I am very, very sorry. Please don't be afraid to review now, because I will definitely reply to anything I receive in the future! I'm back for good now, hopefully! And reviews are confidence boosters!

Oh, one more thing - the thing about Race trying to take Jack's place was something I saw on tumblr, and is definitely not my idea (though I am unreasonably in love with it, hence it's appearance in this story). So if it's yours, please let me know and I will absolutely give you credit (or take it out if it angers you for any reason). Thanks!

Much love,
KnightNight