She missed him, too, as she tried to comfort herself in bed. At about three in the morning, the hospital called her, told her he was asking for her, urgently. She hopped in the car still wearing pyjama bottoms.

When she entered the room, he was on his back again with his swollen body nested in those pillows. His frantic eyes were already focused on the door, waiting for her. They widened with recognition above the oxygen mask on his face, and she ran to him. "They started hard," he said, looking terrified, already slick with sweat. "Contractions."

"But . . . you can't go into . . . what are they doing about it?" He immediately grimaced, gasping, and she knew she was seeing him have one, grabbed his arm while he rode it out. It was so damp she had trouble holding on, and she wondered how many he'd already had to struggle through on his own.

It took a while before he'd calmed down enough to talk again. "They gave me something to try to stop it. I have to wait and see if they go away. If they don't, then . . . I think they're going to do it. Cut me open. Today." His voice was shaking. She held on to him, offered comfort, started telling him stories, anything she could think of to try to calm him down. All the novels she'd read in junior high, started on song lyrics when she started having trouble remembering those.

He'd locked both hands hard around the bottom of his huge bulge. When Madison tried to dislodge one of them so she could hold it, there was so much tension in his arms that they felt like they were made of wood.

"Hey," she said. "Relax, remember? Just relax. Don't push." He was making a whining noise high in his throat; he stayed rigid. The tension began to ease a little, and she rubbed his chest. "Norman, it'll be better if you try to calm down. Come on. You're in the hospital. You're going to be okay. They're monitoring everything." She hoped.

"Feel it," he replied, and tried to grab for her hands. She obediently wrapped one hand around where his were, and, immediately, she could feel it. There was a hard, hard, round bulge just above his pubis – a head lodged so firmly downwards between his narrow hips that it was distorting the flesh between them. He'd been pushing up against it as though he were trying to shove it back into his body. "It feels like it's pushing me open."

"Ohhhhhh, Jesus," she said, involuntarily, and immediately regretted it; his whole body immediately locked back into rigid fear. "I'm sorry. It's going to be okay. They're not going to let that happen. Does it hurt?"

"Only during contractions," he admitted. "But it feels wrong there. Like it's going to come out no matter what."

Does it feel better to hold it back like that?"

"I don't know," he said, again shoving at it with both hands. "A little."

"Okay," she said. "That's my job now. I'll keep the pressure on it until this is over. You relax. Relax everything. Arms, legs, back, neck, everything. You're stressing yourself out. Breathe slow."

He tried; she wanted to get into the bed with him again, but now she was afraid to move her hand. "I want to get up," he said, after another contraction had finished rocking his body, shoving that round head against her palm. "I can't stand it in the bed any more. I want to walk around for a minute." Madison could see why he wouldn't want to be in that bed, particularly. He was drenched in his own sweat, his gown sticking to his body, his sheets sticking to his gown, his hair spiked wetly back from his face.

"I think we have to ask someone if that's okay," she replied. "I don't even know how to unhook you from stuff, or if you have to take the oxygen with you, or what. Do you want me to go ask, or do you want me to stay here?"

He hesitated. "Stay here," he said, finally, and she felt a little guilty about making him confess aloud his need for her.

Doctor Carey scrambled in after a while, looking rumpled. "How's it going?" he asked. "Are they slacking off? Might take a little bit." He checked a screen, impassively.

"Feel this," Madison said. "There's like a head coming out." Carey plunged his hands to the spot in question, felt gently at it, grimaced, nodded.

"You still don't have a birth canal, Mr. Jayden – Norman? Can you hear me?" Norman grunted, eyes shut. "But your uterus has been becoming more and more distorted as it tries to accommodate those big babies and everything else in there. Feels like one of them figured out there's supposed to be a way out in that direction. I'm sure it's very uncomfortable, but if you're not in pain, you shouldn't worry. Norman?" The man in the bed barely flinched; Carey gave up and began addressing Madison, instead. "We're going to be monitoring him pretty closely. I'll set him up for a scan now to make sure his uterus isn't getting stretched too thin anywhere. He'll be all right. I'm going to get you a hernia belt for a little support, and we'll see if that feels better."

Norman began to groan again and arch his back, and Carey took charge of him for a few minutes: told him he needed to stop holding his breath during contractions, reinforced the need for him to relax.

"He said he's really uncomfortable," Madison said. "Wants to walk around."

Carey nixed the idea, explaining that it would only encourage labor to proceed. But the two of them helped Norman to turn over onto one side for a while, when the tortured muscles just around the front of his pelvic bone started hurting so badly that he was having trouble talking. The belt helped, Carey insisted on holding off on painkillers for the moment. The doctor was in and out of the room, darting questions, Madison simply stayed.

The contractions did fade, eventually, but it was a bad wait while they did. Norman was clearly on the verge of tears by the end of it, which she once again politely didn't mention. It was apparent to Madison that it wasn't the pain that was wearing him down, but the lack of control over absolutely anything that was happening, the fear of finally being forced to come face-to-face with the alien life in his body, the cruel inevitability of the cesarean section.

The readings on the monitors dipped, and Norman was decreed safe for the moment, with strict instructions to hit the panic button if he felt that strange labor start up again. He was still visibly uncomfortable, rubbing tentatively at his settling bulk, but so exhausted that he dropped into deep sleep even as Madison readjusted the pillow behind his back. She crawled into his bed again, determined to at least catch a nap there until someone made her leave by force. It was a pretty good nap, all things considered.

Carey let her stay put, eventually reappeared to check on his patient again. "Hey, listen," she said as she woke, blinking at the doctor. "Can you give him like a sedative or something when he wakes up? Valium? Xanax? I don't even know. He's so . . . so fucking scared that I don't think he can cope. Look at him, he's still absolutely soaking."

Carey bit his lip, considering Norman's chart, his white face. "I don't know," he said. "I guess I could try to set him up with something really low-dosage, but he's pretty fragile, yet, and you know he doesn't have the best track record in terms of drug sensitivity. I'd like to hold off until we have to sedate him for the cesarean. Because we're doing the hysterectomy as well, we're going to knock him out entirely for the whole thing. I was hoping that waiting this long would let him build up some strength before we go in there – it's some pretty major surgery – but he's not responding well. His body just keeps sending all of its resources to the uterus, instead of letting him have any for himself, and I don't think there's anything we can do about that."

"Can't you just do it now?" She glanced guiltily at his still face, glad he wasn't awake to hear her nervous question. "I mean, if he's having contractions so hard, he's ready to be done, right? They're trying so hard to get out."

"We're going to see if he can last at least until tomorrow. Everything really is supposed to happen, then. This will be safer if we can stick to the plan, rather than an emergency. Really, he's in poor enough condition physically that it might be better to simply have the cesarean and wait for him to recover before doing the rest of it, but we've agreed that we're worried enough about . . . we should probably just get everything out at once."

"What about food? I don't think he's got any energy left, period." She leaned her forehead on him for a second.

"Yes, I think so. If he wakes up and asks for some, we've got enough time yet for him to work through a meal. He shouldn't have much – probably won't want much, anyway. I'll leave instructions, all right? You can probably take a break. Go home. Get some sleep, yourself. We're going to do a few little tests on him."

The phone rang again, early, pulling her out of her sprawl in bed; the hospital.

"Okay," Carey's came at her over the line, cautiously. "I promise I won't be mad if the answer is yes, but did you take him home with you somehow?"

"What? Are you serious? After last night?"

"You're sure, now. I know you were worried about how frightened he was here."

"Yeah, but I'm more worried that he's going to go into labor again and die. Why would I – are you saying you lost him?"

". . . it's starting to look like a real possibility."

"Oh my god. Oh, god, I'm coming back in." He started to protest, but she hung up on him.

There was significant chaos when she arrived at the hospital. "We're still looking," the doctor assured her as soon as they saw each other. "If you weren't helping him, he probably couldn't have gotten far on his own. Someone will have seen him, he's pretty unmistakable at this point."

But it slowly became apparent that he'd disappeared, hadn't been seen since the last shift change. And nobody would admit to having noticed him going anywhere at all – not on foot, not in a wheelchair, not on a stretcher. Carey was visibly frustrated, Madison was frightened and furious. "His top speed was probably like two miles an hour," she said. "He was the size of a mobile home. He was hooked up to like ten things. Seriously, he snuck out of here? What the fuck."

"I have worked with this hospital for almost a decade and nothing this retarded has ever happened," the doctor replied helplessly. "I was not . . . told anything about him being taken somewhere else."

"Who would even take him?" Madison asked. "That doesn't make any sense. You're his doctor, I'm his legal proxy. Who could take him somewhere else?"

Carey apologetically shook his head back at her, didn't really answer the question. "We know he's tried to try to ignore his medical needs before. Maybe he did sneak his way out by himself, though I'll be damned if I know how." They kept looking: surveillance equipment that should have picked him up was mysteriously malfunctioning.

Madison wanted to scream at everyone, but mostly just cried, instead.

Norman didn't reappear.

Oh I hope you finish this story soon, I cant wait!

One week passed. Madison, long trained in investigative reporting, called out every resource she could think of, spread her nets far and wide. She sprang on every lead she scrounged up; there weren't many, but the flurry of her activity was the only way she could keep herself sane.

She called Carey repeatedly just to tell him she didn't know anything, hadn't heard anything, and he listened to her silently. At least he was answering her calls, now.

"Okay," he said once, after she'd run out of breath again. "I don't know what else to tell you. I didn't . . . look, wherever he is, he's probably not doing very well."

She knew Carey was trying to gently prepare her for what would almost certainly happen to an overly pregnant and possibly mentally ill man without medical assistance. She didn't want to hear it, started screaming at him. "I'm not stupid!" she yelled. "You don't have to say it!" Carey still kept taking her calls after that blowup, but he had no more information for her.

Finally, she called Jim, the man she'd met in Norman's hospital room. It was nearly 2 a.m., and she knew she shouldn't be calling him at that time, but she did it anyway.

"I'm so sorry this is Madison Paige Norman's gone," she shoved at him in a rush.

". . . zuh?" He'd clearly been sleeping.

"Norman Jayden. He's been gone for over a week. He's missing. Do you know where he is?"

"This is Special Agent Jim Hinata. Any . . . wait, what?Jayden's missing?"

"Please," she said. "Please, help, if you can. Oh, god, I'm so scared."

"Call Paul Gleiss," he was already blurting at her. "Doctor Paul Gleiss. Hold on, I'll look up his number. I've got his home number. It's the middle of the night. Missing? That doesn't make any sense."

Madison repeated the process, tried to mentally run over her story as the phone rang at the new number. Again, she rehearsed all her information as it rang, unsure if she was able to make sense. As soon as the call was picked up, she heard: "Mmm?"

She exploded: "Hi hello it's Madison Paige we met I'm so sorry Norman's gone. I'm so sorry, Norman's missing, he's been gone for like a week, I'm so scared.  Norman Jayden. Please help? Tell me you can help."

"I have to . . . one minute, grabbing another phone." There was a long pause, and she heard scrambling and scrapings. "I'm sorry, it sounded like you said Norman Jayden is missing?"

"He went away," she sobbed. She'd been awake for far too long, and she knew it, but she was having so much trouble controlling what she was doing. "He's just gone. Over a week now. He just disappeared. Oh, please, if you know anything, tell me where he is."

"I . . ." another interminable pause. "Okay. I don't know. I don't. This is news to me. But I will start asking. Okay? It's about three in the morning, and I can't do much right now. I . . . my clearance . . . I can ask. I will try to find out if, if anyone knows what happened. Go back to bed. Nothing we can do right now."

She clung to that promise desperately. Madison had apparently begun to live in a wholly nonsensical universe; everyone but her appeared to know that something was happening, but nobody would tell her about anything that was happening. And none of it, none of it, appeared to be bringing Norman back to her. Her arms ached with emptiness.

Another week passed, the second, one of denied phone calls, panic. She was starting to try to think about what it would mean for Norman to be dead, what it would mean to her life, who she'd have to call, how long she might have to grieve.

Then, she got another phone call in the middle of the night.

"Please come," Norman gasped at Madison over the phone, and she nearly had a heart attack. "I just need them out. Please."

She didn't take the time to think. "Where are you? I'm coming. Are you having contractions again?"

"No." He sounded like he was just about at the edge of hysteria. "I'm in . . . in the Mond hotel. Room 115. Please. Please come help me." It sounded like he'd dropped the phone. She shot out of the apartment so fast that she'd run all the way to the car before she realized she didn't have the keys and had no fucking idea where the hotel even was and it was way too cold to be doing this without any shoes on. She ran back in and got her act together, fled again for the car with a little more preparation. She had her phone, now, a comforting lifeline for help, but she needed to make sure where he was before she used it.

The hotel was easy to find. She made it to the room he'd named, knocked. "Norman, it's me. Madison." She knocked and called several more times, started to wonder if she should get a manager to open the door for her, wondered if he was actually there. Finally, the door began to creep open.

She could immediately see why it'd taken him so long to answer the knock. She didn't know yet what Norman had been doing all that time, but it was clear what the infant life inside him had done: grow. Grow, and grow. His belly had rudely shoved all of his clothing aside to expose its massive expanse, almost perfectly round, the skin looking too tight to allow it to droop. Stretch marks had exploded across its surface. He was desperately trying to support the weight of his belly with one thin arm, leaning back against the wall, but his back was so terribly curved that he couldn't quite manage to reach underneath his heavy dome.  She jumped to help him.

"No," he panted. "No pressure!" When Madison had last seen him in the hospital, he'd gotten so big that he'd looked more ridiculous than anything. Now, far past that point, he simply looked frightening. And frightened. A man carrying something in his gut the size of a German Shepard.

"Can you –" She wasn't even sure what she was going to ask before he interrupted her.

"No. Help me . . ." He sagged lower on the wall, listing in the direction of the bed. ". . . lie down . . ." She tried as best she could to follow the conflicting indications he was giving her; grabbing him low beneath his massive middle cearly distressed him, but she couldn't figure out how else to support his body, help move him across the room. His arms were so thin again. He had already been panting for breath as he answered the door, began gasping desperately as she eased him onto the bed. He collapsed, clearly exhausted, into an odd prone position, his breath not slowing. Madison frantically wiped his hair back from his face, trying to look into his jerking eyes, realized that his enormous belly protruded out so far out that he couldn't lie fully down on his side.

"Oh, Jesus," Madison said as he tried to catch his breath underneath her. "You are in labor."

"No," he gasped.

"Panic attack?"

He shook his head. "No room. Can't breathe." He stopped talking to gasp some more. "Can't eat." His face looked gaunt again, haggard, older. Like he'd gained a decade in two weeks. He stank, badly.

"Why didn't you call –" she didn't even know why she was asking a question at this point about why he'd acted erratically. "Okay, I'm on it."

The tendons were standing out in his neck as she phoned Carey. She'd clearly woken the doctor up, and it took a minute for him to become coherent.

"What?" he repeated. "Who?"

"It's Madison. I've found him. I found Norman. He's still pregnant. He's in really bad shape."

"What does that mean? Bad shape how?"

"Um, uh," she looked him over quickly. He was still wheezing, trying to shift his body on the bed. "He's having trouble breathing. Standing. Hell, he's having trouble just lying down. He's big. Like, crazy big. It's . . . really, really wrong, how pregnant he is. He says he can't eat. He's . . . I don't know, he's in pain, but he says it's not labor pain. He . . . oh, Norman." He was slithering uselessly against the sheets. She wanted to help him settle, but didn't know where to put her hands, how he needed to be positioned to give him relief. She realized what the smell was, beyond simply his unwashed body. "I don't think he has bladder control. We need an ambulance. Mond Hotel, room 115."

"Yep. Okay. Pencil. 115. Got it. I'll meet you at the hospital. Bye."

She hung up. "Norman, someone's coming to help. How can I help you right now? What do you need?"

He looked as though a pinprick might burst him, as though he might even welcome it. "Crushing me. I gotta get it . . . under . . ."

She bit her lip. "Okay, I think I see. Hold on, I am going to roll you forward for like just a second." She did; he was hard to lift, and he moaned piercingly as she twisted the tight muscles in his torso. She got a pillow in place just under his ribs and experimentally let him drop again; that position let him more closely approximate lying on his side, the hard ball of his belly ballooning out and slightly down, hanging off of his ribcage rather than being forced back into it from the pressure of the bed. "Is that better?"

"Yes," he replied, but his face remained drawn, and spasmed a few seconds later. "Ah, god." He tried futilely to reach at the pain behind him. He was a little too uncoordinated to make it. Madison fumbled at him again, trying to ease the amount to which the weight was now straining different muscles, and he rushed to say, "No, leave it. Leave me like this." His voice dropped further. "Hold my hand." His breathing improved – it was still shallow, quick, but not as labored.

She grabbed one of his hands, stroked his face with her free one, wanted to cry. "Why did you run away from the hospital?" she asked.

"Did I?" he said, and grimaced as his free hand trembled uncontrollably on his distorted surface. The circles under his eyes were like gouges in his face. "I didn't know. It's a blank. I woke up here."

"How long ago?"

"Don't know. Maybe a week." That would leave one week unaccounted for.

"God, why didn't you call me?"

"Trying to remember why I was here."

"When did it get this bad?"

He shook his head, but his face crumpled a little. "Couple of days."

"Norman." She had no other words, simply squeezed his hands in hers. If that was correct, if his time sense wasn't distorted, no wonder he looked so destroyed. It must have been a herculean effort to make it to the door, after a few days of this. A wonder he'd even managed to call her.

As the thought crossed her mind, he mumbled: "So sorry I wanted to stop," and his face relaxed, eyes closing.

She was puzzled: "What?" The tendons in his neck disappeared. "What, Norman?"

A few seconds later, he juddered, and his eyes snapped back open while the pain shot back into his face. He gave a strangled sob.

"Norman, talk to me."

"So tired," he said. "But it hurts so much."

"Tell me about it. Where does it hurt? Your back, I know. Where else?"

"All here," he said, and traced the tips of his fingers gingerly along the circumference of his belly. "My legs. Everything. Everything inside."

"Can I help you?" He shook his head, grimacing. His lips were dry, cracked. "Do you want some water?"

"No," he replied. "Hold my hand."

"I am, Norman. I'm holding it. I'm not going anywhere." She squeezed, for emphasis, and he genuinely looked startled, as though he'd forgotten she was already doing that, or had never noticed in the first place. "Norman, where did you get your clothes?" She realized that she'd never seen before what he was currently wearing – and, at this point, she knew his wardrobe like the back of her hand. They looked like maternity clothes – in fact, the urine-soaked pants looked like real honest-to-god maternity pants, with the elastic front, the kind she'd never dared get him because she knew he would have objected to their appearance. Both shirt and pants looked as though they had been roomy, had only recently become too small for the current monstrous growth of his belly – the pants were pushed low in front, almost to his crotch, the shirt hiked high to his chest, so as not to put any pressure on his straining skin.

"I don't know. Woke up in them." The mystery of his journey here was only becoming more confusing.

"What's the last thing you remember before that, sweetheart?"

"I've got enough as it is," he responded vaguely, and, after a second, seemed to relax again, eyes closing – that same little abrupt collapse out of reality. Madison stared uncertainly at him, unsure as to which of the two states was worse. Even without her interference, he gasped his way back into consciousness, writhing slightly.

She squeezed his hand again. "Norman, do you want me to help you move again? Would it help if you changed position?"

He looked at her as though she'd suddenly arrived from Mars. "Is this really happening?" he asked.

"Yes," Madison said firmly. She spread her fingers across his hot face. "I'm here. Help is coming. Do you want to move?"

"I can't breathe."

"I know. I know, it hurts. I'm so sorry it hurts so much. I want to help you with it. Do you want to get on your hands and knees?" She wasn't actually sure if she could manage to help him through that one, but if he needed it, she was determined to do her damnedest.

He shuddered. "No. I can't. My legs."

There was a knock at the door, and some words shouted that she couldn't understand. Madison felt a sort of panicky hope rising. "I've got to let go, Norman. Help is here. I've got to let them in." He looked confused, grasped weakly at the sheets as she detached herself from him.

There were, after all, EMTs at the door, stretcher and all. They looked polite, wary.

"Ma'am?" one of them started.

"Come in," she said, pulling the door wide open. "Come in. Oh, thank god. He's on the bed." She fussed after them, frantically, as they entered. They stopped briefly in shock as Norman came fully into view for them.

"Holy Jesus," one of them said, softly.

"Well," the other one said, snapping into motion, "That is what the man said we'd find. Let's get him going."

"He's in a lot of pain," Madison said in relief as they recovered from their surprise. "So much pain. Please give him something. Please, anything. Aspirin would be better than nothing."

One of them shook his head at her, as they moved to the bed. "We're going to load and go, get him to the hospital fast as we can, but his doctor needs to see him before any pain medication happens."

The other one was leaning over Norman. "Norman Jayden?" he asked. The man in the bed jerked in terror.

"Madison?" Norman asked. "Madison?" He began to wheeze again.

She moved so she could get into his line of sight. "It's okay, Norman," she told him. "It's okay, they're going to help. Calm down. Breathe as best you can. He can't breathe," she immediately added to the man already talking to her. "He can hardly breathe at all."

"That, we can try to do something about."

They started working at Noman's heavy body. Madison was jabbering helplessly, knew she was doing it, couldn't stop. "It's okay, Norman. Gonna go end this. Gonna go end this forever. I'm so sorry. I'm going to hold your hand soon as I can. I don't think he's slept in days. He keeps getting confused, passing out for like a few seconds." It was almost unnecessary to say so; he'd just done it again, and the EMTs double-checked the oxygen mask they'd put on him as Norman began jerking back awake. He said something incoherent.

"You're riding with us?" They'd gotten the stretcher into motion.

"Oh Christ yes. He will have a fucking stroke if I don't." She didn't know if she was making any sense, any more. They started moving out of the room, across the parking lot, and into the ambulance.

Every time Norman woke up, he was either fumbling for her frantically or rolling his eyes in terror as the scenery kept changing in front of them faster than he could follow.

"What's happening?" Norman asked once. Madison was still trying to figure out the answer to that question when he fainted again. Finally, in the ambulance, the EMTs let her just kneel beside the stretcher, wrap Norman in a loose hug, so that he didn't have to panic any more, could just wake up and feel her holding him. But under the oxygen mask, he'd started to regain some color in his face.

She had to let go when they got to the hospital, had no idea where to stand, how to maneuver herself so that this could all go as quickly as possible. They all moved inside together, and she caught sight of Carey's face, hardly responded to it as Norman began to wheeze again.

Norman looked frightened, overwhelmed, by the lights, the commotion, people. She put her hands toward him, and he locked on to Madison's wrists, his bony fingers surprisingly strong.

"Help," he gasped, his eyes searching her own. "I don't understand what's happening."

"Shhhh," she said automatically. "All right. You're getting help. It's almost over, honest." He nodded, flickered back out, collapsing, his hands relaxing.

Carey swore. "Okay, Madison," he said. "We're going to have to ask you to leave in a minute so we can do a better job of helping him. But right now, you stay here and keep him calm as you can until we're in a better position of understanding what he needs. Just got to get a better idea of where he's at, at the moment."

Norman came awake again, trying to clutch at the front of that grotesque pregnancy. It was so large, swelling his belly out so unreasonably, that he couldn't get his hands to its far edge. Madison tried to smile at him. "Hey," she said. "Relax, sweetheart. Just keep talking to me. Or listen. Do you want to listen to some stories?" She knew she sounded idiotic, couldn't stop it.

"Yeah," he said, and jerked under her hands. "Tell me some stories." At least he didn't mind how stupid it was. She began telling him all about college, j-school, not even sure what she was saying. He didn't quite make it through to the end of the one about how she'd cheated a little on her final for History of the English Language before he lost touch with reality again.

Norman's eyes rolled up for a few seconds, then back. He managed to meet her gaze again. "I don't want to do this any more," he said, shaking.

"I know, sweetheart. Oh, I know." He closed his eyes and she barked at Carey: "You've got to give him something! Jesus, he's suffering!"

"I am. You just keep talking to him, let me do my job."

Madison gathered Norman's hands back from around himself into her own, reconnecting the two of them. "Hey," she started desperately. "You been keeping up with the news? The earthquake coverage has been pretty amazing." She chattered at him, stroking his face, pausing whenever Carey explained something that was going on or needed to ask questions.

The doctor did rattle at them briskly as he worked. Finally, there was a promise of relief: "Giving you an epidural, Norman. You're going to lose some feeling in your lower body, some control. Don't panic. That's on purpose."

Madison could have kissed Carey. She kept telling Norman everything that popped into her head. They turned him in the bed, cleaned him up, got him worked into a hospital gown. Madison shushed him continuously as he choked in distress at the hands pressing around his body, reassured him that it was okay, that they were helping. Eventually, he began to cry a little.

"Is it worse?" Madison asked, anxiously. "What's wrong?"

"It's better," he mumbled, and his shoulders slumped; his mouth began to go slack. She waited anxiously, but this time he didn't wake back up. She caught Carey's eyes fearfully.

"I thought that might happen," Carey said. "We'll have to monitor him carefully, but I think he's really just, well, looks like he's totally exhausted – only the pain was keeping him awake at all. So now that he's not feeling it? He's just doing what his body needs. Sleep. Sleep is good. Examining him while he's unconscious is going to be more difficult, but we'll give him some time to recoup. Go take a break. I'll have someone get you when we're done with him for the moment."

Madison paced in the hallway. Some break. A nurse eventually came to fetch her, and when she walked back into the room, Norman looked like a tangle of tubes and wires. She gasped.

"It's okay," Carey said, gently. He was still there. "I know, it looks pretty scary. Here, let me tell you what they're all doing." Madison didn't feel like she gave a rat's ass, but once he patiently explained what everything was for, she was able to start calming herself down more.

"What's wrong with him?" she asked tearfully. "Is he in labor? What happened?"

"There really is just about no room in there. His uterus, and the twins, have . . . they're taking up more space than is available. They've grown that fast. So, I'd guess some of that pain is from carrying the extra weight, but some of it is just because everything in that area is getting squeezed. Hard. He's . . . I'm sorry, this is going to sound terrible, but he's in a kind of vice right now. No one's meant to accommodate that sort of rapid growth, and nothing on his body is built for any of this." Carey's voice took on a frustrated tone. "Because he's still not a woman, he's just a man with a uterus. One that's hurting him in strange ways. None of this makes any sense. But we're going to be able to take care of this. We are."

"Oh, god. Oh, Norman. Is he just, like, way overdue? Or is something else wrong?"

"Well, frankly, this is not supposed to happen. I mean, it doesn't happen. Ever. Those babies are . . . they've kept growing in a way that they really shouldn't, and I have no idea how. He's got to be overdue, and both of those babies should be struggling. Instead, they look like they're fine and he's in trouble, and that's not . . . there are physiological reasons why that doesn't happen. I don't think we'll understand much more until this is all over with and we can . . . look at everything."

"Can that be right now? The cesarean?"

Carey looked apologetic. "Very soon. But he's simply so damaged at the moment that we want to get him a little more stable, first. The dehydration is especially problematic; we might just wait until that's evened out a little and then just go for it. We're going to take care of him, all right? I am sorry about not doing a better job of pain management before this. I am. I'm trying. This has been overwhelming for me, as well. It's a tightrope we're walking now, between stabilizing him and letting the pregnancy keep draining him, but I think we're making the right decision. I'm glad we know where he is now, though I bet not as glad as you. You can sit with him, if you want to. This should all be over soon. And, Madison – let him sleep, but you stay as long as you like, or as long as he'd like you to. Don't let anyone tell you different."

Wonderful! Keep on truckin'!!!

She did sit with him; it was a long vigil. Norman didn't wake up, not properly, for the whole time she was there. He jerked and gasped a little in his sleep, dreaming of something or other.  There were some times when she let herself rub him between his shoulderblades until he quieted again. She hoped, wished, that she was helping, that he was sleeping because he could feel her there, but she wasn't sure how much of that was true and how much of it was her telling herself stories to feel better about the whole thing.

He did start to look better; he was a little pink in the face now, and his breathing was slow and regular. As he slumbered, she moved her hand cautiously across that big belly, feeling at its contents. It felt so hard, so tight, that she was afraid to press at it, but there were a few spots where she thought she could feel bulky obstructions, probably parts of small bodies.

"Please wait," she begged them, both hands spread around that bulge. "I know it's not your fault, but he needs to be okay, too."

The surgical team finally came for Norman early in the morning while Madison was dozing, one of her fingers hooked around his hospital bracelet because she felt so badly that she needed to keep hold of him. She cried when they took him away, and it made her feel childish, stupid, but she couldn't stop. She could barely take her hands off him.

"He didn't wake up," she tried to explain. "I have to talk to him first. I need to say all the important things. 'I love you,' and 'Let's keep them,' and . . . there are so many important things."

They took him, but only because they finally palmed her off on a nurse who was patient enough to put up with her hysteria. The nurse patiently coaxed her into having breakfast to make her feel better, and Madison started to understand Norman's resentment at being manipulated into eating. She stormed off, ate, fell asleep terribly hard in yet another waiting room. Every nerve on her body felt shot. She didn't mean to fall asleep.

Then she came awake flailing; someone had their hand on her knee, was touching her in a way that made her feel violated, and she kicked out frantically.

"Stop." She blinked, focusing. "Stop it!"

The man in front of her was flinching, backing up rapidly, and it took a few moments for her to blink her way into recognizing Doctor Carey.

He had his hands raised protectively. "Calm down," he tried. He looked as tired as she felt. "It's just me."

"Oh," she fumbled. "Oh, oh my god, I'm sorry. What's wrong?"

"Relax. Surgery's over. Can I talk to you about it?"

"Oh, please." She was starting to gasp a little. "Oh my god, what went wrong?"

"No, no," he reassured her. "Nothing went wrong. Bad circumstances, but everyone should be fine. The twins are excellent, Norman is recovering. Calm down."

She stared at him. "For real?" It didn't seem possible.

He rubbed at old stubble on his face. "Absolutely. Norman's going to have a pretty long recovery time, but the babies are in absolutely excellent shape. They really are. I know you had some conflict over what was going to happen to them, but they've got some pretty good futures, health-wise. Honestly, they're so puzzling I wish I had an excuse to keep them longer, but they're probably going to head out of here pretty soon."

She had trouble imagining them outside of Norman. "After all that? They're fine?"

"They're amazing," he assured her. "The adoptive parents are on their way; the timing of this whole thing was a little unpredictable for everyone. Really, everyone, I think."

His phrasing was strange. Madison hesitated, then ventured: "We never asked, if, you know, boys or girls. Because –"

Carey was already nodding understandingly. "Fraternal," he said. "One of each. One very, very big one of each. Absolutely healthy. Pretty adorable, even."

"Can I see them?" Carey hesitated. "Oh, come on," she said. "Fuck the legality of it."

"All right," he said. "I guess you probably deserve it."

Madison was strapped into a gown and gloves before she was allowed behind the scenes in the nursery, into the room where the twins were being held; most of the other occupants were premature infants at risk of infection. There was no mistaking Norman's twins – set in a pair of bassinets by themselves, slumbering, slightly bruised-looking, fat, enormous. They easily outweighed any of the infants Madison had seen on her way in.

"Man," she said, awed. "Those are some big babies. Poor Norman." One of them squirmed slightly, shoved a fist towards its mouth, and she melted at the motion.

"Prettiest blue eyes you ever saw, when they're open." Carey sounded a little proud. "They had a little bit of a rough start because of the anaesthesia, but they're really ridiculously healthy. They're not built like newborns, not really. I mean, their muscle tone isn't great, but that extra time they had in there . . . see those fat cheeks? They're already much more developmentally old than they should be. Lucky babies."

She luxuriated in the sight of them; strong, pink, heavy. "God," Madison had to say, "They're so gorgeous. Oh, wow." And then one of them – the girl, she guessed, judging by the pinkish baby blanket – opened its eyes, and Madison bit her lip, hard. The blue in there was intense, startling, a neon blue, blue curacao blue. It wasn't at all like Norman's washed-out pale blue-green eyes, or like her own brown ones. It was a miracle of color.

Madison looked up at the doctor. "I want to take a picture," she said. "Just one picture."

Carey's face still looked uncomfortable, but he was already nodding. "All right. No flash, right? Not good for babies' eyes."

She nodded. "Can I have like a minute? I just . . . a minute?" Carey excused himself, and Madison slumped, trying to decide what she need to do next: line up the shot, or steal those gorgeous children, or cry.

Finally, she dug her efficient little digital camera out of her pocket, got a snap in view of both babies' faces; the girl opened her eyes again, those beautiful glittering blue eyes, and Madison took the shot, no flash. The girl went back to sleep, and the woman slowly, carefully, looked around the room, then made her move: leaning in, her face covered by the paper mask, she softly pressed her obscured lips against one baby's forehead, then the other.

"You made it," she whispered. "I'm so glad you made it."

But her anxiety over how Norman was doing was still keen. Madison tried to dull it by checking the framing of picture; it had turned out well. Those two swaddled, fat babies were curled towards each other like pudgy commas, one of them peering up towards her sleepily. The eyes glimmered even in the picture. Carey came back in.

"That's about all I can give you," he said.

"Can I . . ." She didn't know how to finish it. "They're almost mine, you know. They were almost mine. Could have been ours."

Carey looked upset, exhausted. "There's no legal . . . not really. If you'd done something earlier, but now? With the forms signed? And, I mean, if you had the genetic proof that you were a parent, it'd be different, but . . . I don't know what else to say."

"Say 'You're welcome,'" Madison said. "Say, 'Everyone is going to be okay and you didn't completely fuck up.'" She was choking, had dug her nails so deep into her palms that they hurt.

Carey put one hand lightly on her upper back, and she immediately realized that she didn't want it there, though she thought she had. "You're welcome?" he tried.

She flinched away from his touch. "I just want them. And Norman, I want him. I want, I want . . ." she had trouble explaining it. "I think I want too much."

"This has been pretty hard on you," the doctor conceded. "Do what you need to. I'm leaving. You have my number, but everything should be okay now. The adoptive parents seem like good people. It's all right. This will be all right."

She couldn't stand his touch, though she'd never minded it before; she fled. Madison went back to waiting to see Norman, curled herself into one of the battered chairs in the waiting area. She felt like she was about twelve years old, knees up to her chin, frightened of the future. She stared at her camera for a while, then turned it back on and studied the pictures. The special pictures.

She'd always taken so many pictures, in the life she had before this life. Taking pictures of the amazing things she saw was the way she got her first big break as a writer. Taking pictures was part of her experience with the Origami murders, how she got to meet Norman in the first place, and how she got the book advance money she was living off now through all this insanity. And she'd taken pictures, so many pictures, of Norman for the last few months. She'd deleted almost all of them immediately. Almost all.

They'd all been taken, of course, while he was asleep; he might have thrown her out entirely if he'd ever caught her at it, and god knows what might have happened to him after that. Snapping the shutter of the digital camera at him had become a way for her to fix her own memories in her mind, more than having any kind of actual permanent record. But she'd kept one, just one, saved in not just her memory but her camera's, as well.

It was of one of the good evenings. It was back when Norman had been so big he looked due, but before he got so big it was hurting him all the time, when he was clumsy and uncomfortable, but still alert, curious, sometimes even playful. Madison had fumbled during dinner, accidentally dumped spaghetti on both of them, and he'd had an absolute field day making fun of her about it. She'd snapped a picture of him on the sofa afterwards – sleeping, still nursing a faint smile on his thin lips from teasing her until she was laughing helplessly and telling him that she was going to gag him with a dishtowel. His hands were wrapped around that big pregnant belly, and there was a big splotch of marinara sauce splattered along one side of the snugly-fitting shirt, because he'd refused to change after the small disaster.

"It's your fault," he'd insisted. "Why should I do more work because you don't know how to serve food?"

". . . because your shirt is disgusting and you should have some goddamned self-respect?"

"I used to have self-respect before you ruined my life forever with spaghetti sauce."

"You're asking for me to dump the entire rest of the pot on you, asshole."

"See? You're abusive." The man talking clearly hadn't been reasonable Norman, but it hadn't been total dick Norman, either, because total dick Norman wouldn't have kept doing something so long that was making her laugh so hard. But it was a Norman that made her want him to hold her all over again. And he had, sometimes, held her like she'd wanted to, as she curled up around just how big and warm and needing he was. Because sometimes, it was nice to be needed that badly.

She'd taken the picture because she'd thought it was so funny that he was so obviously unaware of the single strand of drying pasta that was still stuck to one thigh of his sweatpants, out of his line of sight beyond his bulge. She'd kept it, the only one she'd kept, because he'd looked so unusually content – that barely-there smile, his sleepy embrace of the children inside him. She'd taken so many pictures in her career, but never one she could show to so few people and that she valued so much.

And that was what she had, now; two pictures. Norman, sleeping, contented; the children, half-sleeping, two brilliant blue eyes flashing up towards the lens. That was what she had from those months of fear and love, just those two pictures. Such a small world.

She finally got in to see Norman, though she was warned that he was deeply unconscious and probably would be for some time. He looked small, shrunken, ghostly as always. She supposed that the one good thing about it was that he could now be on as much pain medication as he needed, could sleep forever if he wanted to. Maybe he could think of it as being like a dream, a nightmare; she suspected he'd try that, anyway. She clung so determinedly to his bedside that she was there when he finally opened his eyes.

"When are they going to cut me open?" he asked drowsily, as soon as he saw her.

"Already did it, Norman. You'll all done. You're just healing."

"I'm not pregnant any more?" He looked like he was having trouble taking it in.

"Not a bit. And you never will be, again."

"I still can't sit up." He flailed, vaguely.

"Stop trying to. I don't think you're supposed to, you're just supposed to rest. You had some major surgery. Your body's pretty wrecked right now. And you've got an incision healing in your front. A big cut, they said. New scar."

He looked like he got it, then, but she had to tell him about it a few more times before it seemed to sink in, before he stopped asking about what he thought was still the upcoming surgery. It took almost a day for him to process the information. His recovery was painfully slow; she ached to show him her picture, but hesitated as long as he was so confused. Maybe there was still time, time to get him to rescind his decision about the adoption, once he saw those adorable fat commas that she'd captured with her camera. She didn't know how the laws worked.

On the second day, he was smiling vaguely at a plastic cup of Jell-O when she walked in, and she was glad at the expression on his face: "Hey, Norman, you feeling pretty good?"

"I farted," he announced, and Madison had to work so hard to conceal her laughter that her chest actually began to ache. "I can eat stuff."

"Great," she choked, trying not to giggle. "So eat."

"I don't want to." Norman still looked weirdly pleased at the idea of his liberty to eat or not, even smiling down at the gelatin that looked like he'd taken about one spoonful off the top. "I'm done now."

Madison sniggered as she grabbed his cup and spoon. "There's a lot left here. You could probably use more. Norman?" He was blinking slowly at her; his expression claimed that he wasn't sure what she was saying. "Please, really, I'd really like you to be a little more awake before I talk to you about something."

"Mmmmm," was all the response she got.

"Are you sure you don't want to eat any more?"

"Not hungry," he murmured. "Not."

"Are you really not, or just lying to get rid of me?" But he'd already gone back to sleep.

A nurse came in, and Madison worriedly asked, "He hardly had any of this. Is that okay? He's half-starved. Should I wake him up and get him to eat some more?"

"He should be all right," the nurse replied, gently. "He's getting most of what he needs right now through that IV."

Madison bit her lip, slightly embarrassed. "I've been taking care of him for a long time," she admitted.

"Looks like you did a good job," the nurse said. "He – look, we're not supposed to talk about him to anyone. I guess you know why. But that must have been very difficult. I hope he recovers fully, I do. And I think he's got a pretty good shot at it, and some of that is probably because you were taking care of him."

Madison wanted to marry her. "Thank you," she choked out. "Thank you, so much." The nurse gave her a final smile, finished swapping out Norman's IV bag, and left.

There was someone already in the room when Madison showed up the next day; the visitor was wearing a suit, peering at Norman's monitors. She couldn't recognize him from the back, but as he turned, startled, to face her, she blurted out his name in surprise:

"Paul!"

Paul Gleiss looked panicked. Norman was dead asleep in the bed beyond him.

"I've been trying to track down his doctor," he said, without greeting her. "But this damn place is in chaos, and for some reason they won't just give me Agent Jayden's chart just because I say I'm a doctor. I didn't – okay, I didn't plan ahead very well when I decided to come here."

"Oh." She thought. "I think this is one of Doctor Carey's days at his clinic."

"Fuckin' idiot, 'scuse my French. Would've thought of that if I'd taken a minute. How's he been doing. Since." He didn't have to say since what.

"He's on a lot of painkillers, I think," she said. "But I guess you know that."

"Yes, and that fucking messup is why I'm here, 'scuse my French," Gleiss said, unexpectedly. "There's some he shouldn't have. A lot."

"Oh. But wouldn't that, I mean, wouldn't his records – what's wrong?"

"It's possible that not all his medical records got sent through. In fact, I'd bet on it. Don't worry, he won't drop dead. I'm just going to check some things that'll make his recovery easier."

". . . what are you even talking about?"

Paul examined her steadily, shook his head. "Pretty technical stuff. Don't worry about it."

"Doglice." Norman was apparently semi-awake. Madison had no idea what he'd said, but Paul seemed to.

"Agent Jayden. Good, you're up." That was a vast exaggeration, but the blonde doctor jumped into eager motion. "Let me look at you for a second." Paul took Norman's chin gently, peered into his face, looked up at the monitors again. Norman scratched himself, sleepily, but didn't resist.

Eventually, Norman managed a follow-up: "Look, I'll feel better tomorrow."

"I wish I could say you would," Paul continued. "Gonna ease off the pain meds a little here, Agent Jayden. A lot, really. You're gonna be hurting tomorrow. Just stick it out."

"Right." Norman looked confused.

"And you still need to eat better. Work on that."

"Not hungry. Gonna."

"Yeah?" Paul was shaking his head. "You feel sick to your stomach?"

"Yeah." Norman's eyes shone palely up at the older man.

"Well, do your best. I've got to go talk to your doctor. You call me when you get back on your feet." Norman nodded unconvincingly, and Paul turned to Madison. "Really. I'm not sure how much of this he's following. Get him to call me when you think he's back on his feet."

Madison nodded, slightly awed, and followed Paul into the hallway. "I didn't know his stomach wasn't feeling well," she blurted, guiltily. "He didn't say anything. He never says anything. Getting him to talk to Doctor Carey is like pulling teeth."

"Well," Paul replied, "Agent Jayden, like most of us, has his priorities. Carey can only save his life. I have the power to save his job, and he'd have to be way more screwed up than that to forget it."

That didn't make her feel any better about how she ranked in Norman's priorities. "Do you have to take him off the pain medication? He was just in so much pain for so long . . . this is almost the first time in months where, when he's awake, he doesn't look like . . . where I don't see him cringing because he can't stand it."

Paul looked irritated, then scanned the hallway quickly. "You don't strike me as a stupid woman," he started, his voice very low, and she jerked her head back, stung by the implication that she was acting like one. "You can't seriously be telling me that you think what I just saw in there qualifies as 'awake.' Or even 'not in pain.' That's a man who doesn't know whether he's in pain or not because he's too drugged up."

It took her five seconds of staring before she started to lose her mind, became nearly incoherent with profanity and rage. "I have – fuck you, you don't even fucking – where the fuck have you been? I'm the one who –"

He was already turning away. "This is not a conversation I'm going to have in a hallway. Goodbye."

"I'm his fucking proxy!" she screamed at Paul's retreating back. "You need my permission! You're not doing shit without telling me what the fuck it is!" He jerked awkwardly back towards the violence in her voice. Absolutely everyone who could see them was staring in shock.

"Find an empty room," Paul said. "Right now. If you want to do this, let's do this."

A scurrying nurse, clearly trying to avoid further disaster, pointed them towards a place they could have privacy. They followed each other into the empty hospital room at a safe distance.

"I'm not trying to torture him," Paul started, even while the door was closing behind him. "I'll see if I can get him on something else. Not going to be an equivalent, though it'll do something to let him manage. But that is not going to continue."

"Why?"

"Because that is what needs to happen."

Madison was so tired of those kinds of explanations. So tired. She started to droop. "I've held him – I've watched – all the shaking, and puking, and losing his mind. All the pain. All the fear. All the scares. Seeing him when he was more pregnant than anyone could possibly ever be, and holding his hand. Fuck you, Paul."

"No, fuck you." He looked almost bored. "You want to hold him while he shakes and pukes and hallucinates and shits all over again? Because that's how he'll end up if he doesn't get off that shit pretty much right now."

"What?" She hadn't been ready for that one.

"You're now wasting my time." His face had become coldly impassive. "Agent Jayden's screwed up. I know how. I know why. You don't. Don't think you have some sort of moral authority to get in my way. If you care, you'll let me stop those drugs right this goddamned minute. He's got to get off of what he's on. Other people could deal with that regimen. Not him, he's fried too much of his brain. So fuck off, lady. Stop wasting my time." He was no longer apologizing for his profanities, and the effect was actually terrifying. Madison was suddenly intensely aware of just how alone they were in the room.

"He needs it?" It was the best she could manage.

"He does."

"Okay. You could just say that without . . . okay." She felt like she'd lost something important, but didn't know how else to end this. Paul shook his head at her and turned back towards the door, started yanking it open.

Madison had one more volley left in her: "Paul, back in your office, when you said the FBI had fucked him up, what did you mean?" That rangy Viking frame immediately froze in the doorway. It gave her the courage to keep going: "Come on, what have I just lived through with him?"

Paul Gleiss dropped his hold on the door, let it swing shut. Madison's stomach dropped a little as he turned to face her – his expression looked like she'd just kicked him in the belly. Maybe even killed his family. There was uncontrolled sorrow, there, and she finally let herself believe what she'd been suspecting.

"You fucker," she immediately said. "I take back everything I ever said about you not being a total asshole. You total asshole. You knew. Oh, god, Carey knew this whole time, knew something was up, that's why he waited so long, wouldn't take the twins out early. You all knew. You've been putting him through this on purpose."

Paul jerked a little. "As god is my witness," he said, "When you came into my office, I had no idea any of this was underway. And when you called, when he was . . . when you called, I didn't know anything about it, either. I'm trying to salvage what I can. I'm trying. I'm trying to save Agent Jayden's brain, and his job, and anything else I can save."

"You took him, didn't you." She was on a roll now. "When he disappeared. The FBI took him and did something with him for a week and then dumped him in that hotel room. What did you take him for? Why did you stretch this out?"

Paul wouldn't meet her eyes.

"I'm gonna tell Norman." She was so high on fury she could hardly get her tongue to work. "I'm gonna tell him the FBI got him pregnant. It did, didn't it."

"First off, I'm pretty sure you'll realize just how stupid that sentence sounds if you think about it for a second." Paul didn't look angry any more, just sad. "Secondly . . . look, I bet you're not even old enough to remember those commercials. The luggage commercials with the gorilla. That makes me feel ancient, thinking that you probably haven't seen them. They were pretty simple, really – mostly just footage of a gorilla beating the absolute hell out of a suitcase, to show how durable it was. Samsonite, maybe."

"What?" His shift in gears was too hard to follow, particularly when she was so angry.

"In theory, it's a pretty good idea. You design something that's intended to be tough, to take care of itself and anything inside it, and you send it out on a little bit of a trial run, unannounced so as not to skew the results. And then that trial run turns out to be just about a worst-case scenario, which is even better for you, because you can see just how tough that suitcase is once the gorilla starts hammering on it."

"What the hell?" She understood what he was saying. She didn't want to.

"The only danger, really, is that the test might not last as long as you want it to. Need it to. No matter what that gorilla does, you still need it to last the appropriate amount of time. At least forty weeks, for example. So you take steps to ensure that it will. And it turns out to go so well that you decide to see if you can push it just a little further. See just how much punishment your invention can take."

"It doesn't make any sense," Madison wailed. "Why him? Why call me in? Who called me?"

"It's no good if the gorilla beats itself to death, is it?" Paul covered his face with both hands and sighed, then took them away. "Okay, fine, the metaphor is getting a little tortured. Listen to me. Special Agent Norman Jayden is a valuable asset. He is. He's good at his job; you know that. He'd be very, very hard to replace. But someone decided that all this was worth it to teach him not to make trouble. Do you understand? He didn't want to play any more, and now it's been explained to him that it's not his choice to make. Even as valuable as he is, he's been taught now not to ask questions. Now, just how many questions do you think you're safe asking? How much do you think you're worth to people who would do this?"

Madison's adrenaline shot a little higher. She backed up.

Paul shook his head wearily at her. "That wasn't a threat from me," he said. "That was an explanation. The idea of . . . I have no interest in hurting you, all right? Christ, I'm not a doctor because I'm okay with the idea of hurting people. I don't work with the FBI because I want to harm a single damn soul, it's because I want to . . . just . . . see justice done. And it's just, it's justice, that you get some kind of an explanation, even as half-assed as that one. I'm not going to do a damn thing to you. I'm just going to ask you to not talk about it. You've been living with him for a while now, haven't you? Just what do you think it would do to Norman Jayden to confront him with the idea that his job put him through all this? He's not an idiot. Either he's figured it out and he's dealt with it, or there's something in his brain that won't let him figure it out and he's protecting himself. Don't take that away from him."

"You're the worst man on the planet," Madison said.

"Today?" Paul shrugged himself up to his full height. "Yeah, I am." He pushed his way out the door, looking deeply unhappy.

Norman was all the way out again when Madison got back to his room. She looked at his slack face for a minute, then at the doorway, then gave in to her impulse and slid into his bed. It was much more awkward this time, as she tried not to crowd him, avoid his IV lines, but she needed the sensation of their bodies touching again. She touched gently with her fingers, trying to remember where the incision and the bruising were so she could avoid them, at where that terrible pregnancy had been clinging to him. He felt totally different under her hands – still bulging far more than when they'd first met, but soft, now. A literal vulnerable underbelly to match the ones she'd found in his emotional life and in his mind. He woke up a little bit.

"Don't play with that," he said.

"Sorry, Norman." She took her hand off his squishy middle, leaned her forehead against his unshaven face, wondering if it would be the last time he let her be so close. If after he didn't need her to put on his shoes and rub his back and tell him everything was going to be okay, he would decide he didn't want her around at all, didn't want to be around her. If he'd decide that she was too much of a reminder of that dark nightmare time in his life.  If she could show him that picture and have hiim want what she wanted. "Can I stay here just a little bit?"

"You may. I love you." She bit her lip, gently curled her body close as she could as she began to shake a little. "Are you crying?" he asked. "What are you crying for? Don't cry. It's not worth it."

--------------------
A/N:  This originally ended right here (it was, sort of bizarrely, written much earlier than other stuff that happens earlier in the story), with Norman's repetition of "It's not worth it" from when Madison was crying at a previous point.  I can do a little more if anyone's deeply interested, but the mpreg stuff proper is all done with.

This story had me hooked when it was in the old forum. You have no idea how glad I am to see it still alive on this one. I love the updates. Can't wait for more.

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE WRITE MORE. I AM REALLY INTERESTED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

When she walked into his hospital room the next morning, he looked tranquil, asleep, until she noticed his hands were clenched, his knuckles white.

"Norman?" she asked, and his eyes crept open at her. "Oh, honey, does it hurt?"

"Of course it fucking hurts. I can't fucking move." There was a furious edge in his voice that she hadn't expected. "That was a stupid fucking question."

". . . wow. Okay, I'm sorry. Can I help you somehow?"

"Doubt it." He was glaring at her.

"I . . ." this wasn't quite what she'd expected. "Maybe I'll come back later and see if you're in a better mood."

"Good, you cunt," he snarled at her.

That was a new one, and she recoiled away from him. ". . . what?"

"Fuck you. You fucking cunt."

". . . do you want me to leave?"

"Yes. No. Yes. It hurts a lot right now and you can't do anything about it. You can't do anything to make it hurt less, and I can't do anything about that look on your face you get when you're sad. And you look sad right now."

She caught her breath a little bit. "So you just called me a cunt because you don't like it when I look sad?"

"Fuck you, I know it doesn't make any sense."

She leaned forward and took one of his hands. "You should know by now that I want to help you feel better. If that means you want to curse me out, I'll sit around for that."

"You cunt." He was crying helplessly now, and she didn't want to do anything that would make him have to move around, so she pressed one of her cheeks to his.

"Oh, sweetheart. If it's really hurting you more to have me be here, I'll leave. But it makes me feel better to be with you. I miss you so much when I'm not with you. You look like crying is hurting you. I'll try to not look sad if you'll stop crying."

"Stop talking to me like I'm five fucking years old." He was grinding one palm into his breastbone, his face contorted in pain.

"Okay. I'm pretty sure five-year-olds don't swear as much as you do. You look like you've got your head together much better than yesterday, so I guess there's that."

"I feel pretty screwed up. I'm sorry I called you that. What the fuck is happening? Why does it hurt this much? I keep asking to . . . can you help me? Can you help me get some drugs? I know how fucked up that sounds, but it just hurts to move. And breathe. And be awake."

"I wish I could, Norman. That . . . there's this horrible man, Paul, who said you couldn't have any more painkillers. I tried to talk him out of it, but I guess he put the order through."

"Who the fuck is Paul?"

"Paul, um," she couldn't pull his last name out of her brain. "Big blonde guy. FBI doctor. Fifties, probably. He was in to see you."

"Doc Gleiss? He took me off stuff?"

"Yeah, sweetheart. Said it'd be better for you. I'm not sure why."

"I didn't even know he had a first name. Okay. Good to know."

". . . what, just like that?" She glared at him. "I come in and am all nice to you, and you swear at me, but he takes away your painkillers, and you just say, 'Okay?'"

"I said I was sorry." He was scowling again. "If Doc Gleiss stopped the meds, I guess he probably had his reasons."

She shook her head at him, but let the matter drop. "I think the twins are gone," she said, softly.

"Yeah," he agreed. "I signed some forms this morning about it. Soon as I woke up."

"You . . . really?"

"Yeah, there was something about it not being legal to sign away your parental rights until the kids are already born, so they were waiting for me to be lucid, I guess."

"There . . ." she stared at him. Her heart hurt. "If I ever see your doctor again, I think I might actually slap him. He talked to me like it was already a done deal."

"Don't start this again. You know it's what I wanted."

"I know." She chewed her lip. "I took a picture of them. They're beautiful. Can I show it to you?"

He looked uncomfortable. "If you think I'll magically change my mind, you're lying to yourself."

"I am. I'm lying to myself a little. But it's something I want you to see, also just because . . . it's something I want to share with you. Something I want the two of us to have together."

He shifted a little in the bed, and immediately flinched. "Ow. Jesus. You're gonna bug me until I say yes, anyway. Show me if you want to."

It wasn't the best response, but she'd take it. She fetched her camera out of her jacket pocket, turned it on. "Here they are," she said, softly. "One boy, one girl. Look at her eyes."

Norman was looking. When he saw that glint of blue, he felt his bowels twist. He knew that blue. That beautiful glitter was the exact color of triptocaine, of the shining blue drug he'd stopped taking nine months ago. He'd given birth to a baby with eyes the color of triptocaine. His punishment from Ferox was staring him in the face. A terrible noise started up in the room, and he didn't realize it was the sound of his own moaning until Madison started to grab at him. He couldn't bear the feel of her touch, and he couldn't stop the scream he was making, once it started. He needed to get away from her and her picture so badly that he started ripping out his IV tubes so he could try to get out of bed.

It was bad. He was screaming at first in fear, then in pain, as he tried to make his damaged body work well enough to run. Madison started screaming, too, once there was an orderly with one arm wrapped around her waist, trying to get her out of Norman's room so they could do something about calming him down.

Ultimately, Madison was actually carried out and deposited in the hallway by a man roughly the size of a Mack truck, while three other people tried to get Norman to lie back down and stop tearing his sutures. She kicked awkwardly at the orderly who was moving her. "Stop," she wailed. "I'm always the one who helps him feel better."

"Doesn't look like you are right now," he replied. "Stay out here." He closed the door in her face, and she pressed her ear against it, confused, frightened, listening to that terrible noise Norman was making and the flustered efforts of everyone else in the room who was trying to get him to stop. Ultimately, it did stop, but they wouldn't let her back in.

"Not today," a nurse said, grimly. "He needs to rest. Come back tomorrow, and maybe then."

It was hard to leave, but nobody would budge, and finally Madison was so acutely embarrassed at the sound of her own whining that she ran for the car. Back at the apartment, she kicked the sofa hard as she could, then laid down on it to see if she could still smell Norman's boy-stink in the cushions. There were a few faint traces left.

The next morning, she bolted out the front door so she could be at the hospital the very instant that visiting hours started again.

The nurse at the station down the hall regarded her suspiciously. "I'm not sure if you should go in."

"What? Why?"

"Well, yesterday, it . . . look, we had to restrain him, and he was still hurting himself pretty badly, fighting against it. There's all these notes on his records about not getting just about any kind of sedative, and it was very difficult to calm him down after the last time you were here."

"Just let me see him. I'll leave if he freaks out. I promise." It was a hard promise to make, but she meant it.

He was asleep in the bed, purple shadows under his eyes. Madison sat down next to him and stoically read one of her library books until he woke. Her stomach lurched instantly; he looked terrified at the sight of her face.

"Oh, Norman," she said. She wanted to grab for him, knew it would make things worse. "Don't be scared of me. Don't ever be scared of me. If you can't talk about it, then I won't try. How do your stitches feel? Does it hurt, today?"

He nodded, cautiously. "Think I did a little damage yesterday. As long as I don't move, it's not too bad." She sighed with relief that he was at least still talking to her.

That was how it went, as he started to recover over the next few days; he twitched a little whenever he saw her starting to look wistful, but he was tolerable, as long as they didn't talk about what she wanted more than anything to be talking about. Madison kept her pictures to herself, feeling the weight of those children like a hot little wound in her heart. He thanked her and squeezed her hand, and was even nice to her, as his body struggled towards being healthy enough so he could go home, but the twins were never mentioned. He worked ten times harder at getting better than he ever had at being pregnant. As soon as he could get out of bed, he hobbled around and around his hospital room on a walker until his legs shook violently beneath him, quickly learned that the secret to not letting his bare ass hang out was to wear two gowns, one around back, one around front.

One day, Madison walked in and he was gone again. She hit the nurse's station in a panic, demanding to know where he'd gone. A startled woman in cat-print scrubs said, "Think he just went for a walk, down that hallway." Madison flew in the indicated direction, nearly sprinting through the hall, until she found him mildly sitting in a chair, looking surprised at the sight of her frantic face.

"Oh, thank god," she breathed. "I thought you disappeared again."

He shook his head at her, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. "Needed a change of scenery. Sorry if I scared you."

"You look pretty tired." He did; even in his two gowns, he was shivering a little, looked worn out. "Should you maybe go back to bed?"

"Yeah, I've been thinking that." He quirked his weary mouth at her a little, but didn't move.

". . . you totally walked too far and now you're too tired to make it back, aren't you."

"More too sore to stand up again, but yeah, pretty much." His strained muscles were hurting him enough that he submitted when she found him a wheelchair rather than trying to get him to manage the walk back. That was just the first time she had to hunt him down, but he started doing it a lot – disappearing from his hospital room to explore – and she quickly got used to scouring the place for him. She found Norman all over the building, sometimes still upright, sometimes slumped into a chair. He could usually make it back to bed on his own two feet once she helped him get vertical and pointed in the appropriate direction.

"Did you pick the cardiac wing this time because you're trying to give me a heart attack?" she snapped at him once. "It's scary to have to look for you. I think the nurses are only letting you do it because you're such a stubborn jerk to argue with."

"I need to walk around; I was cooped up for so long I've got to get out of bed before I lose it. Lose it even more. And don't lie to me. You like worrying about me," he retorted, shuffling along. "Besides, this is helping me get better, faster," and she had to agree that it looked like he was right. He was wandering farther and farther, visibly putting weight on again.

In fact, he was so right that once everyone was satisfied with how his incision was draining and Madison had learned how to help him do home care for it, they let him go. After the first obstacle of getting out of the car and into the apartment, things improved even more rapidly.

Life back at home was strange – Norman still needed Madison's help with some things, including putting on the socks that were still his nemeses, but it was nowhere near as bad as it had been just before he'd gone in to the hospital. He was getting better now, not worse, and she kept constantly having to readjust to letting him fend for himself again.

"Going to go out for a walk," he announced one morning, dressed in sweats, and it took her a few seconds to process the information that he was voluntarily leaving the apartment.

"Oh," she said. "Just let me finish writing this paragraph, and I'll get my shoes."

"No," he insisted. "Just me. Need some alone time."

She didn't protest, though her heart sank a little. He came back shortly with a bag of Granny Smiths that he dumped on the table. "I bought apples," he announced, unnecessarily.

". . . thanks?"

"Don't you like apples?"

"I guess so. Wait, wait, is this like your version of getting me flowers?"

He didn't quite admit that it was, but did respond, "I don't own a vase. Why would I own a vase?"

"Well, then." She shook her head helplessly, smiling. "Thank you for the apples." He started doing it more and more, going out on morning walks and bringing her back little things, like a cat presenting her with prey: a cup of coffee, or a pack of gum, or a pint of ice cream.

She was still trying to figure out what it all meant, particularly after she reached for him in bed and he asked her not to. "It's still very sore," he apologized. "It's getting better, but it really hurts when you hug me, and I don't want you hugging me to be something I dread, okay?"

The first morning he walked into the bedroom naked after his shower, she stared at him in shock. It was only partially because his body looked like absolute hell – the scar tissue that was beginning to pucker around the wide incision on his belly was a violent purple, and he was oddly shaped, had a baggy droop of loose skin in front. Most of his pubic hair had been shaved off for the surgery, so he had a mess of untidy stubble where it had used to be. But Madison was less alarmed by that than by the fact that he'd never been comfortable naked around her, not ever, and now he was just . . . hanging out, dangling out, scratching lightly at his crotch.

"Wow," she said. "Good morning, you nudist, you."

"What?" He frowned at her, rummaging through his underwear drawer. "You've been taking off all your clothes in front of me for months. Which is not very nice to do to a guy you're not banging, incidentally."

"Don't think you were that interested in sex at the time," she retorted. "I just . . . you've always been so shy. I'm surprised."

"Oh." Dangling boxers from one hand, he peered down at the ruins of his abdomen, ran a hand softly over the damage. "I guess . . . it feels different now, because this is just me. All me. My body. It's not great, but I can work with this." He looked weirdly contented as he ran his fingers along the forming scars, and Madison thought she understood.

"It really was torture for you, wasn't it?" she asked softly. "Not being in control. Just about the worst thing that could have happened."

"It was bad," he admitted, and sat to start working his boxers on; he was still having some trouble bending over far enough to do it effectively. "Very bad. Could have been worse. I'm not dead, you know. And I guess I'm probably not much crazier than I was before it all started. And . . . well, it could have been worse." She watched his lean spine in silence for a minute as he struggled. Eventually, he got the boxers on, and continued: "Listen, have you thought about moving out of here?"

Her heart stopped. "Oh," she said, and it was all she could say for a minute. "I was wondering . . . I mean, I'd been hoping . . . okay. I guess if you feel like it's time . . . okay." She'd thought she'd start crying if it turned out he was done with her, but now she just felt more empty than really sad. Devoid of feeling. "It'll take me a couple of days to get my stuff together. And I'll need to get a ticket back to Philly. I took the train here, back a thousand years ago. It's not a super long trip. Boy, I bet all my houseplants are dead, now."

He'd jerked a little at the mention of the ticket, and was now looking back over his shoulder at her, turning a little towards her with difficulty as the motion pulled at the strained muscles in his torso. "I am sorry," he apologized. He looked distraught. "I was assuming too much. Sorry, I sort of haven't done . . . relationship . . . stuff with anyone but you. I'm trying to get better at it. I meant, did you want to start looking for a new place together. This one's kind of small for the two of us, and I've got some not-very-good memories of it now. But, of course, you should go back home whenever you want. Don't stay if –"

Now she started crying, and she hated admitting to herself that it was with relief. "You just sort of assumed I'd quit my job forever and move here? After all that?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "That was kind of an asshole for me thing to do. I'm sorry. I sort of can't imagine what it would be like if you weren't around any more. Even if maybe we could just visit each other on weekends for a while, we should probably get a different place here in town so there's more room for you."

"You were right to assume," she said. "I'd live in a tent and eat nothing but baloney sandwiches with Wonder Bread with you, if I had to. God, you're such an asshole. You practically just proposed marriage, and I'm not allowed to hug you because you said it hurts."

He had a tiny smile on his face now. "I'll take a hug. Oh, and a kiss. Right here." He pointed at his mouth. "Not one of those kisses on the cheek that you appear to think are charming."

She squeezed him softly, and planted the requested kiss, to which he responded emphatically before she drew back to meet his gaze. She knew that what she wanted to say was dangerous, but she had to ask. "Could it be a place big enough for kids? Our kids?" He froze in her grasp. "Not right away, but . . . sometime?" He wasn't looking at her, now. "Norman, I've got my limits too, you know. If the answer is, 'No, never,' I might have to think about that. I might not be able to do that." She waited.

"I don't think I could stand it," he said, finally. "Watching you go through what I just did. I think it would hurt too much to see you hurt that much."

"Oh, Norman." Madison squeezed him a little harder than she probably should have, and he jerked slightly. "It wouldn't be the same thing, you know that, right? Nobody goes through what you went through. Nobody, ever. That was weird, what happened to you. This would be something I want to do, and it wouldn't be so scary and confusing and dangerous."

"Yeah," he admitted. "Yeah, I can see that. Okay. I'm going to try to figure out what the hell is going on with my job this week. If that turns out all right, then we can start talking about it. You and me, we'd probably be okay on baloney sandwiches, but I'm not raising a kid that way. And I want to make the rule that I don't have to stop swearing, if we have one."

"Yes, you do."

". . . fine. Deal?"

"That seems like a good deal. I'd prefer a promise, but I know you can't make one yet." She was still holding on to him. "You know, that postpartum support garment I got you is supposed to sort of help you squish everything back together. Can't you just try to wear the thing?"

He groaned. "We've been through this. There's no room in there for my nuts."

She was smiling, smelling his clean body again, and he scratched lazily at one of her knees.

Because, for them, fighting a little bit would always be the easiest way to say I love you.

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A/N: And . . . the end. It's not the happiest ending, but it's pretty happy. Everyone gets a little bit of what the need. There's no way they would have been allowed to keep those kids, sorry. Those kids are freaks, and Ferox needs 'em for . . . something special.