Chapter 1: Together

It all started with a remark from a co-worker who had noticed her green-tinged complexion as she stood over the fryer.

"Maybe you're pregnant."

Amusement coated the words of such a ridiculous notion and even Emma, whose prickly demeanor had earned her a reputation of scaring the customers in the recent months, couldn't help but snort at the absurdity of it right along with Mark as he flipped a hamburger.

This proved a nice distraction - diverting her attention from the way her feet throbbed, burning with an ache that had developed during the hours spent standing on them in worn shoes at least a half-size too small. Sweat dripped down her temple too, irritating her skin and sticking to blonde hair that had freed itself from a secure pony tail. Occasionally, Emma would have to wipe at her forehead, pushing her hair back to stop the moisture from sneaking behind her glasses before it could obscure her vision.

This picture went nicely with the inspiration for Mark's comment - Emma swallowing thickly, pushing down yet another wave of nausea, turning slightly so she wouldn't have to watch as the excess grease poured out the side of a vat of fries, barely winning the battle that she had valiantly fought all throughout her shift.

(And nearly every other time they had placed her in front of the fryer before then.)

It was just the heat. The combination of the humid Florida summer and a busy kitchen stuck in the middle of the lunch rush combining to act like a pressure cooker.

"It's like cooking in Hell, really," she would often say, a place Emma regularly compared Florida too. She had endured just about every possible living condition, good and (mostly) bad, throughout her long and colored list of past addresses, but she and Tallahassee's climate had yet to find a way to get along.

(Maybe if it actually had a beach.)

Just the heat.

Because she wasn't pregnant.

She couldn't be.

That was just ridiculous.

(Right?)

She snorted derisively once more and moved on. Until she stopped, blinking owlishly, the realization hitting her like a cartoon character taking a ton of bricks to the head, math clicking inside her head, another explanation forming for what she had merely excused as the stress that came with moving and living on the straight and narrow.

Mark slipped the salt shaker out of her hands and Emma blinked again.

"Shit." She gave the fries a vigorous shake, attempting to evenly distribute the precarious amount of salt she had apparently poured on during her distraction.

"I was just kidding," Mark insisted, shifting uncomfortably, almost as if him saying the statement somehow made him responsible for it coming true.

"I know." She snatched the salt back, adding a defensive, "And I'm not. Pregnant. I'm not."

"Of course you're not." He looked no more comforted by the words than she felt.

The rest of her day moved like molasses and by the end of her shift the gossip had spread to the entire staff and a good dozen of the patrons. No less than seven of their regulars had congratulated her on the good news and Gretchen had kindly offered to take her to get the test done. But Emma waved her off, wanting ... no, needing the privacy of her own bathroom to try and sort out ... well, whatever this was.

She rushed to the bus stop after clocking out and as she stood, desperately clinging to a metal bar in the middle of a smelly, over-stuffed bus, Emma cursed the stupid generosity of her past self. Because Neal had the car on Wednesdays. Something she had insisted on. She had even tried, of course, pushing it on him every day as his work took him even further downtown than hers at even later hours, but their combined stubbornness had forced them to compromise, both finally agreeing to a daily switch-off.

(Emma really hated the bus.)

She got off a block from their local grocery store and sighed with relief when she passed through the automatic doors, cool air hitting her face, and washing over the thin sheen of sweat that the summer smog had left behind. She meandered through the aisles, willfully distracting herself, putting off the inevitable as she filled a cart with things she and Neal didn't really need until, with nowhere left to go, she came to a stop in front of the home pregnancy kits. Rows and rows of smiling women and fat babies and different brands stared back at her. She looked and looked, scanning prices, wondering if they could really afford to cut corners here but unsure of what she should look for instead.

Her stomach turned, her lunch threatening to make another reappearance and Emma decided screw it, shoving a good half-dozen tests into her cart, later placing them oh-so craftily between the milk and the Lucky Charms. As if that would somehow save her from the knowing glances of the pimply-faced cashier no more than a year or two younger than herself.

(It didn't.)

(At least she didn't steal them.)

Four glasses of water, two bowls of cereal, and three and a half tests later Emma sat on the edge of the tub, shaky hands rubbing up and down her hole-torn jeans as she waited for the second hand on her stolen watch to make its final required round.

The goal here was a negative, obviously, even if logically she knew that one negative couldn't possibly outweigh the three positives already mocking her from the sink alongside that woman, all smiles and glee, they had plastered on the cardboard box. She turned that over, her hand flinching back as if burnt, the expression unfortunately already seared into her brain. That was how a potentially expectant mother should feel. Emma, meanwhile, had only managed to add dread and overwhelming fear to her earlier queasiness.

So, in a manner entirely outside her character, Emma hoped anyway.

At the very least she wanted to be absolutely, one-hundred percent sure when she told Neal.

(She did have to tell him, didn't she?)

"Em?"

She jumped, head turning, wide eyes taking in the whole of the tiny bathroom as if expecting Neal to bypass the door and materialize right there next to her.

He didn't -

"Babe?"

- But he was right outside now. Emma had completely failed to hear him come in; an especially hard task considering the squeaky door hinges and the 'can't move without tripping over each other' feel of their tiny apartment.

"Fuck," she murmured, springing to her feet, her movements erratic as she stepped toward the door. She should probably just meet him outside, right? Only ... what if he needed the bathroom? Proof positive laid out on the sink for the world to see. Emma turned on a dime, moving to remedy this until, struck by another dizzying wave of nausea, she clutched at the tiled wall, collapsing back onto the edge of the tub.

"You in here?" Knuckles rapped on the door.

He'd always had horrible timing, popping up at the least opportune times. Like in the middle of a car heist or when she tried to sort through her dirty laundry - hole torn bras and underwear unfortunately included.

"Yeah," she replied, calling out to him. Or she tried to. But the word caught in her throat, coming out in this frog-like, croaky-whisper thing. Barely able to hear it herself, she kinda doubted that Neal had managed to catch it, forcing her to try again.

"Hey." And typical Neal, he kept his voice all low and easy going. Relaxed. She could practically see him in her mind leaning right up against the bathroom door, never mind what she might be doing. Living together in the bug for six months had made them both somewhat negligent of things like privacy and personal space. But even if he did have a habit of lingering-borderline-hovering (how she viewed it depended solely on her mood), Emma also knew that, locked or not, he wouldn't just barge in.

(Still. She had definitely remembered to lock the door.)

Emma swallowed thickly and, as her leg shook, bouncing up and down involuntarily in a way that had nothing to do with a musical beat, she managed a hesitant, "Hey," putting forth a great effort to sound normal and not at all completely freaked out.

(She'd give herself a six, maybe seven, for execution.)

Neal, far too used to picking up the slack when she failed to carry the conversation (a fairly common occurrence), starting talking - this sea of white noise downed out easily by her own running thoughts. Quietly as she could, considering everything in their apartment squeaked, creaked, or clattered, she unrolled some toilet paper and began to wrap the tests up in it. She wanted, half-desperately, to focus on him and, at the very least, the low baritone of his voice (because it was soothing and, maybe, when she wasn't freaking out, a bit of a turn on), but noting that the last stick had pumped out a nice, clear plus sign too only caused another horrifying wave of panic to wash over her. Thoughts (how could she have been so stupid), and worries (they barely made enough money to support themselves), and worst case scenarios (this would obviously send Neal running) assaulted her mind and only the sound of her name, in the form of a sharp but worried question, managed to break through, drawing Emma back to the present as she tried to swallow past the growing lump in her throat.

"Yeah?" The single word came out with far more apprehension than she would have liked.

(Sooner or later she should probably try to at least start moving past the monosyllables and one-word answers.)

Neal didn't notice, his voice holding only the bare bones of concern as he asked, "Everything alright?" Maybe he suspected that she had a bad day, but he certainly wasn't worried about the prospect of something catastrophic and life-changing having occurred since they had parted ways that morning.

(This would change everything.)

"Fine," she insisted in this bright sort of way that wouldn't even fit Emma at her happiest. She had to tell him. Something. She both knew and planned on that. Still trying to wrap her head around the concept herself, however, meant she just ... hadn't quite figured out the how of it all yet. Not in a way that didn't include her usual bluntness. So, in typical Emma fashion, she focused on something a bit more practical.

And far less emotionally taxing.

"I went shopping," she told him, "I got cereal and pasta and those cookies you like. You know, with the chocolate and the peanut butter. And -"

The door rattled, the handle jostling, Emma's attempts at small talk (her fatal mistake) getting cut off as Neal tested the door, obviously trying to see if she had, maybe, left it unlocked and then sighing with the realization that she hadn't.

"Emma, baby," his tone had changed, the words thick and laced with obvious worry, "What's going on?"

That automatic nothing was ready, halfway off her tongue before she snapped her mouth closed. One more single word answer really would have Neal picking the lock so she turned the word into a sigh, a heavy sort of thing, before admitting, "I need to tell you something."

She sounded small.

Neal didn't miss a beat.

"You can tell me anything." He kept his words sincere but calculated, putting forth an obvious effort to both stay calm and soothe her. A nice attempt, really, and one that she appreciated. It just didn't work because, well, she had already passed a certain level of freaked out-ness. "C'mon out. I'll put the water on for the hot chocolate and we'll talk."

But Emma didn't bite either because quite suddenly, she didn't want to leave their small, cramped bathroom. Ever. Call it irrational, especially for her, but the door that separated them had become her safety net. Her buffer, really. Because right now everything bad and terrifying existed inside their ridiculously tiny bathroom while everything good and safe remained outside of it, on the other side of that door, completely unblemished. That's how she wanted it to stay. She didn't want to see the look of horror that would inevitably grace Neal's face when she told him. And she definitely didn't want to face the Neal-shaped hole he would leave behind when he went running for the nearest exit. Because it had to end that way, didn't it? This would be what finally pushed him over the edge, officially marking the difference between a young couple playing house and the cold shower of reality.

How could it possibly go any other way?

(She just needed to get it over with.) (Before she somehow managed to talk herself out of it.) (Though, honestly, did he really even need to know?) (Scratch that. Bad question.) (Of course yes.) (Yes, he did.)

"We'll work through it, baby," he insisted after a tense moment, "whatever it is."

"It's kind of big." Okay, understatement. "Really big, actually." And then, finally, "I'm pregnant."

The words just sort of burst out of her, getting jammed together in her attempt to pull off the proverbial Band-Aid. Maybe she should try repeating them? Just to make sure Neal had heard her correctly. But instead she just let it hang there, awkward and terrifying, waiting to see if the next sound to reach her ears involved the front door slamming shut.

It wasn't.

After a tense period of silence, one of the longest she ever had to endure and second only to the one that had followed the equally terrifying admission that she loved him, the familiar sounds of a fellow thief at work reached her ears.

Now he picked the lock.

Emma rolled her eyes and unlocked the door, causing it to swing open unexpectedly and giving Neal, who muttered a distracted, "Shit," as he tumbled into the bathroom, a more comical entrance than he obviously intended.

"Hey," he murmured, sounding awkward as he sat down on the tub somewhere near her, but not right up against her like he would have usually. And okay, honestly, no more than an inch of space sat between them, but in that ridiculously tense moment it felt like a mile.

"Hey." She kept the word tentative, eyes trained on her lap because she hadn't quite figured out how to look at him just yet. Not even when he had already managed to surpass her expectations.

A heavy and all-to awkward silence fell over them, but in her own weird way Emma found it kind of comforting. Well, almost. Obviously she didn't know what else to say, but neither did Neal apparently. And he always had a cup overflowing with shit to say. So equal footing. Good. Emma liked that.

She settled on unwrapping the tests, laying the four whites sticks and their positive results haphazardly across her lap atop their toilet paper wrapper, deciding to give him everything she knew (which, admittedly, wasn't very much).

"I think it happened in Portland." Eyes still trained on her lap, she watched as one of the tests disappeared, gently picked up by Neal's unusually hesitant hand for him to examine. "It's been a couple of months since I ..." Well, he probably didn't want to hear about that so she rushed ahead, the heat rising in her cheeks. "I thought it was just stress. From all the changes, y'know? But I guess not."

She sniffed and then, whispered to her lap like a dark secret, she added, "I'm scared, Neal."

"Emma," he breathed, her name heavy and weighted down with understanding and remorse, as if he knew that he couldn't say or do anything just then that would suddenly make this huge, terrifying thing any better or less fear-inducing. Something that, for Neal, risked turning into a guilt that would eat away at him if left unchecked. But, at the same time, that single murmur of her name also told Emma that he hadn't necessarily given up on trying to find the right words for her either.

(She liked that. The trying. Because he was still there.)

He swore under his breath and the remaining tests disappeared from her lap, finding their way back to the sink before Neal returned to her side. Minus the space this time. Instead he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her tight against him, slightly chapped lips kissing the top of her head as she burrowed into the space between his neck and shoulder while one of his rough, calloused hands found a sweaty one of hers, squeezing tightly with silent promises and reassurance.

"We'll figure this out, okay?" he whispered passionately somewhere near her ear. "Like everything else. Together."

Emma pulled back, just enough so that she could look at him. Like really look at him, taking in the determined set of his jaw and the spark in his eyes. The intensity of it, the certainty, nearly took her breath away and, just for a moment, it manage to put all her worries and doubts on a sort of mute. Because right then (and before too) he had managed to do something for her that no one else had. He stayed.

Naturally, she still had her doubts. Figuring things out, as he said, seemed like an impossible, herculean task. Because how? How could two former thieves with a shit-hole apartment, furniture liberated from the curb, and only a few bucks to their name possibly go up against this huge, life-changing thing with any sort of success?

But even then Neal had managed to stumble on the one thing that had any chance of making her feel better in that moment.

(Only of course he had said it purposefully because he knew her and exactly what she needed because he needed those things too and so really, how could she have possibly thought he'd just leave so callously?)

(Maybe because it was what everyone else had always done.)

"Together," she echoed, testing the word before her lips inched up, hinting at the ghost of a smile.

"Together," he repeated, firmly, leaning into her playfully. "It's in the rules, remember? And who knows, right? A baby might be fun. I always -"

Emma blinked and then cut him off, refusing to wait to find out what he always, instead focusing on: "Baby? You want to keep it?"

"Well, yeah." His brow furrowed. "What else would we do with ..." He caught on and his shoulders slumped a bit, "Oh."

"I hadn't thought about it." Honestly, still stuck on the pregnant part of it all, Emma hadn't even had time to get to baby yet.

That probably came next in the list of steps though, huh?

But here's the thing: Emma didn't know that much about biology or science or where she came down on the 'exact beginnings of human life' question and so, other than maybe a pro-choice stance, she had never really thought about what she would personally do if she ever found herself in that ...this particular situation.

(Because she was only seventeen and she was always so careful.) (Well, sorta.) (She might have, obviously, gotten caught up in things.) (Once or twice.) (Maybe.)

Now obviously, she knew what she couldn't do. Because she couldn't do anything remotely like what her parents had done to her. Or Neal's even, considering what little she knew about his murky history.

That wasn't the same as this. Not exactly. But that didn't stop it from pulling at her gut, twisting into something akin to guilt. Because she had made a choice, stupid as it was, and now she had to deal with the fallout. She could just push it down, lock it up, and forget it existed like she did with everything else she didn't feel equipped to deal with.

(Like her parents had so obviously done with her.)

"That's okay." Neal was all awkward supportiveness as his voice cut through her thoughts. "We've got time."

(She could at least let him in on the thought process.)

"I just don't want to be like them." A hint of disgust laced her final word, the statement bursting out of her because she absolutely could not let herself turn into anything remotely like the people who had thrown her away like used trash, not even considering her worthy enough to find a fucking hospital. She just couldn't. "I wanna do better. So I want to have it and I want it to have a home. And maybe that's not with us." Like she said she hadn't gotten that far just yet. "But we could at least find it one, couldn't we?"

And, okay, maybe it was stupid and just a tad irrational to base a major life decision like bringing a child into the world on showing up two people she had never even met, but this urge had taken root deep within her very core, pushing her. She needed to do better than them. As if this was a test and her actions would produce the results that could, potentially, mark the difference between the woman she hoped to become and the scared, lost girl she couldn't quite shake.

"We are not like them, Emma." He managed to rival the firmness made in his earlier vow of together. "We're not. So yes, we'll give this baby everything we didn't have. I promise. Family, a home." And then, more hesitantly, as if testing an invisible line, "love."

Dread meant she couldn't even offer Neal some of her trademark skepticism in the face of his own idealistic optimism. "We don't have anything."

Neal, however, stood his ground. "We have the important things. And the rest we can figure out." A beat. "If you want."

"Neal."

This time she did load down his name with skepticism, mixing it with her continued uncertainty, only trailing off when she caught a glimpse of those puppy dog eyes and that earnest expression, both of which made Emma want to do all sorts of ridiculous things like believe in the impossible. Impossible like Tallahassee. But she had to think realistically. Because realistically they had to consider the fact that they barely did well enough for themselves. Which fine. Emma didn't need or want big and fancy, and maybe she'd always figured that if Tallahassee got to be too much then they could always just chalk it up to some sort of failed experiment and go back to living out of the bug. But they couldn't do that with a baby. Babies needed things and things cost money. Money that Neal didn't make nearly enough of at his miserable excuse of a job that he had secured under his new fake name and she only had that stupid part-time gig where she barely made minimum wage. Getting that had been a near-impossible task for a teenager without even a diploma to her name so Emma couldn't exactly imagine adding pregnant to the list and suddenly finding something better.

(None of that, by the way, even took into consideration that she knew absolute shit about kids and parenting.)

"We could do it," he insisted with far too much confidence for someone who had endured everything they had. She didn't understand it. How he continually held onto all that hope and optimism that the hard slap of reality had beaten out of her so long ago.

(A part of her couldn't help but admire him for it, wishing she could somehow do the same.)

She pressed her lips together, chin pointed down as she looked at him over her glasses, offering a wry, "You said that about Tallahassee."

Neal ran a hand through his hair, pausing where wild curls met skin to rub the back of his neck, his jaw turning into a tense line. She had treaded too close to dangerous ground, somehow stumbling upon a remarkably similar start to their first big argument, about a month or so into their new adventure when Emma had decided that they obviously weren't cut out for Tallahassee and when he had accused her of giving up, she had made a shot about his naivety and things had escalated from there, both obviously too tired and too cranky to care that they had laced their words with cruelty and unfairness.

(It had all led to some pretty fucking fantastic make up sex, though. Y'know, day later when they could no longer stand the not talking thing and just apologized, both agreeing to meet somewhere in the middle, Emma promising to not give up so easily while Neal swore that he would start taking their situation more seriously by looking at things with a bit more realism.)

"I didn't mean it like that." She rushed to get the words out." I just don't want this to be like everything else, where we just decide something on a whim. We can't. Because it's more than just us now, y'know?"

"I know." Quiet contriteness shifted back to his earlier resolve. "And it won't be. But Emma, baby, it's like you said, right? You don't wanna be like your parents. Well, I don't want to be like mine either. So If I honestly thought I'd turn into a dick or that I'd go looking for an out five or ten years down the line then I wouldn't say that I could do this. But I think that I can. I want to. And I know we could do it."

He believed that. She could just tell. But as much as Emma wanted to believe that his words would stay true forever, she knew that no one could really say where they would find themselves in five or even ten years down the line. People change. Neal had even said as much about his own father.

(And they couldn't just think about themselves anymore. No matter what they decided to do.)

Emma sighed and leaned back into his side. He smelled like cardboard and dust and not at all very Neal-like. Not that she had any room to talk. Sometimes it felt like she just sweated pure fast-food grease - what, with the way it seemed to ooze from her pours.

They worked. Ate. Slept. Then worked some more. That's all they did now. With an added emphasis on work.

Emma wanted to sleep, just sleep, for like a year.

(Maybe then, when she woke up, everything would have sorted itself out.)

But that wasn't practical or remotely productive and so Emma forced herself to move beyond those four tiny plus signs. This seemed like confirmation enough, really, but a doctor could tell them when and maybe what next. Never mind what they would ultimately decided or even what they could afford. Because experts? They came with information, advice, and possibly judgment. Two of those things, at least, led to informed decisions.

(Hopefully.)

"Let's find a doctor first. Check things out. Before we try and decide anything."

Neal nodded minutely, "Yeah, sounds like a good idea." His lips found her temple once more, fingers trailing a soothing path up and down her arm. "We're gonna be okay, y'know? It's like I said. We'll figure it out. Together."

Emma still couldn't say the same. Not with any confidence or certainty. But the simple fact that she wouldn't be alone helped ease her worried thoughts. To the point, even, that she no longer felt like she might lose her lunch.

"Together."

And for now that was more than enough.