Caitlin Kittredge - Bone Gods

Pete stood, and sat on the very edge of his mattress. Jack tugged her closer, and even though she knew it wasn’t the time, Pete put her head down on his chest. She could hear his heart beating, steady and strong despite the weight he’d lost and the paleness in his face.

“I know we haven’t talked about it,” Jack said quietly. “But I don’t ever want to fucking talk about it, and I don’t have the fortitude to make myself do it right now, so please don’t look at me like that.” He passed his fingers through her hair before wrapping them around her shoulder. “I’m fucked. I went down the rabbit hole and I know it. I can’t believe you’re even here.” He sighed, chest jumping. “You have every right to bloody hate me.”

“Jack.” Pete sat up, and looked at him. “Stop it. Right now.”

His eyebrows drew in. “What?”

“The fucking pity party,” Pete said. “We’ve all been desperate, Jack. Yes, you fucked up. But that doesn’t give you the right to decide whether I hate you or not. That’s for me. And I don’t. So change the fucking record.”

Jack stared at her for a moment, then pulled her into a kiss, harder and longer than she would have thought him capable of in this state. “What the fuck did I ever do to deserve you?” he mumbled against her lips.

“Shit,” Pete said, and did smile then. “You’re just fucking lucky.” Jack let her go, stroked her face.

“Tell me what’s wrong then, luv. I’m here. I’m not going. I want to talk, about you at least.”

Pete put her hand over his, curled their fingers, held them in her lap. She allowed herself to contemplate for one moment if this turned out all right. She could have a baby, and have Jack. Have him accept what had happened and stay, rather than pulling his usual act of vanishing when things got the slightest whiff of a commitment about them. They might not be in love, or even on firm ground with one another, but they could work this one thing out. The third time could be the fucking charm.

Or he could run off as usual, leave her alone and pregnant with the Black growing around London by the day, and her bargain with Belial hanging above her head like a crushing weight. He could call her a slag or a whore, he could shout, and tell her it was all her fault.

She could have the baby and be no better than Juniper and Connor, one disappeared and the other so present he nearly suffocated her.

Jack could relapse and use, and be the same junkie father she’d seen a dozen times over on the Met: sad-eyed kids, no money, no sort of life.

She and Jack could be a lot of things, Pete realized. But she wasn’t psychic, and she couldn’t see the future, and she didn’t bloody want to. It would be her stupid choice, and Connor had at least given her that much. She could step up, and she could make it when it counted.

Pete squeezed Jack’s hand and moved closer to him on the bed. “Good,” she told him. “Because we’ve got lots to talk about.”