*****070:

Rafe

I lay awake after Aubrey faded off. The silky skin of her side warm under my thumb as I rubbed it absently, thinking.

It had been an emotional day.

I'd woken feeling confident and righteously sure of myself. I had not realized Madonna had tricked me until seconds before she announced it. My confidence had carried me most of the day. I was confident that Aubrey would be pissed when she realized I'd lied to her--- and I had been evasive, really just not wanting to confront one more thing when she was already stressed about our pregnancy and three adopted kids.

And she'd done the run off thing--- which in split seconds of seeing her dawning comprehension--- I knew she'd do. I was actually only semi- glad she'd called Ben.

Ben.

She'd called Ben.

Ben was the closest thing to a soul mate I think I had ever had. Maybe me and Troy and him had been soul mates. Maybe we still were.

Aubrey had called Ben. She had to call someone, but she hadn't called her own siblings--- she hadn't called Kell. Or Marshall, she'd called Ben, and he had dropped everything and come at her call.

I was a little jealous of that.

I could admit it.

I wanted her all to myself.

I didn't want to share her even with Ben.

I scooted out from beside her, knew she was sleeping much heavier since getting pregnant, and I pulled on shorts and a t-shirt and padded down to the basement to my sound room. I used to just wake up and computer jam in my bedroom--- if I was alone. But I was never going to be alone again. I felt no resentment.

The tradeoff was great.

I flipped the light switch after shutting the door and went to the piano--- No---- the drums. I sat at the set and started a light pattern.

A drum solo right now was what I needed.

Drums were primitive. They were necessary--- like breathing.

I thought about the kid.

Besarion Darajan.

What a name.

I'd looked at him closely. He looked like me. He was scrawny--- I'd been that scrawny. His fingers were long and knobby. Like mine. His hair was dark, his eyes blue, his skin pale, his beard already coming in at twelve. He was tall--- I'd gotten my height early as well.

Was he mine?

I blinked and stopped playing, the sticks hanging from limp fingers.

I'd looked into his eyes.

I didn't feel anything.

Not recognition, not rejection, nothing.

I felt bad for him. If he was mine, that was the worst possible meeting ever. He must have felt like a piece of meat on a block. He must have felt like I was judging him--- possibly comparing him.

Would he want to suddenly be a part of my life? Did he know the ambitions his mother had for him? To change his identity? To include him in a lifestyle he was obviously not used to living yet. Had his grandpa raised him? Someone else had probably raised him, Madonna was noticeably lacking, and noticeably uncaring.

I started drumming again, hard, beating the surface as if it were able to take my anger away. I was already a dad. I was getting to know my own troubled adopted kids. They were the perfect kids for me. They were shaping up to be interesting--- bilingual, curious, well behaved, humble---- I loved introducing Virgil to new things, he just took it all in so much and secretly wanted to try everything.

And yeah--- they had moments of their own anger, moments of deep pain and killer confusion. They were too little to know gratitude, or acceptance, or tolerance, or to understand what had happened to them. But I loved that I could hold them, and love on them, and do my best to give them security.

And the thought of having quads. I beat the drums harder, faster, with harried energy--- electric.

Quads.

Quads!

Four freaking babies. Four boys? Four girls? Four needing to be fed, diapered, played with--- four!

Would they all four make it? What would losing one look like? Devastating, or a relief?

I felt anger at the unfairness of us losing another baby. I didn't know how I'd handle it. The last one had been pretty painful.

And having quads was dangerous. It could be dangerous to the mother.

I mean--- we were going to our first real appointment--- at ABCSC soon.

I realized I had closed my eyes. I opened them and the light was uncomfortable.

And Aubrey was standing in the doorway.

She wore shorts and one of my t-shirts--- and her hair was down, her feet were bare. I jerked my head at her and played a small rhythm. Her walk was graceful--- but like a dancer, kind of swaying. I think she was sleepy.

She stood in front of me, stepped into the seat and leaned against my legs. I breathed her in and reached around her to keep beating the drums and cymbals. I knew she wouldn't know what I was talking about if I started talking drum lingo to her, so I simply played around her, and she put one light hand on my wrist. Aubrey's hair was always floating, and she was aware that it did, so she usually held it to one side. This she did now.

She tucked it between us, and I leaned into her, making us one. I felt her swaying, and realized she had closed her eyes.

I heard songs--- music in my head. Ben always said I had a general sort of idea in my head when I composed, but my approach to the tunes was sort of a yin and yang type of situation. I'm very impulsive, and I'm not very patient. I'm not gonna sit around and fiddle with amps or anything. I want to go, and I'm ready to fly. I have the general idea--- I hear it inside my head--- and Ben and Troy--- they figure out how to actually execute it. I think they actually have to conspire before I get there when we're working on a song, and how to get a good sound. I'm impossible--- no I'm next to impossible to work with if they can't hear my music ahead of me. My mind works so fast, I'm already singing backup vocals in my head while they're tracking guitars.

I don't play the drums on any tracks. Troy was too strong of a personality to allow it. I could experiment with anything else I wanted to, but the drums were his. I can goof around on them--- I can even practice for real, and be good, but I'll never play drums on an album.

I couldn't hold my hands the same with Aubrey between them.

Eventually I stopped.

I laid the sticks down and rested my forehead against her back, then reached around to cup the little baby bump. It was getting bigger. I let my fingers wander, and eventually dip. Aubrey squirmed. I moved my hands higher and quit being provocative.

I liked that there were no words.

But it seemed impossible to leave them out when so much needed to be said.

Suddenly I wanted the waves and the wind to say them for me.

Aubrey sensed my need to move and slid off the tiny seat between my legs and without looking back at me, simply went to the door and started up the stairs. I followed her, hands on her hips. I directed her to the back doors, and slid them open. We went out into the cool wind and the stars. I left her standing there and went back into the den where we'd placed an ottoman with a big cut out inside for blankets. I retrieved the first one, a heavy, fluffy fleece thing the kids loved. It was orange and gray and yellow, but you couldn't see that in the dark.

I wrapped us in it and we laid on the lounge together, side by side, that funky way we like to lay occasionally. This time it was noticeably awkward with the babies between us. She had to put her leg over my hips, and cradle the baby bump lower. Which put her face lower, and as she tilted back up at me, I just started kissing her.

This was reminiscent of the tour. We'd lay on that tour bus bunk together, even though there was room for both of us technically, the middle of the mattress sagged just enough that it was easier to sleep spooning, either direction. The lounge was about that big. I kissed her gently, reminding myself of those nights--- when kissing her had to be controlled so as not to excite us into going too far.

And there was always the terrible knowledge that going too far with Aubrey would lose her. Literally. I knew that about my woman. Breaking certain laws and commandments would kill her, change her forever. I couldn't be the cause of that. She was too precious.

I thought about Madonna. I barely knew her. I couldn't even remember her personality, except that she was vain and fast. She wasn't a good lover, not caring or considerate, it was about the sex, not about me. They were all like that--- all my former lovers. They cared about themselves in sex, not about pleasing me. Oh, they had the right equipment and that pleased me. And I am a lover that doesn't mind doing all the work. Nor did I allow them to sit back and not perform at all. But it wasn't the same as having a person who loved me and didn't care about the sex, only about loving me. There was purity and innocence in Aubrey's and my lovemaking. It wasn't about the thrill, or the high, or the next orgasm, or making one last longer than it should. It simply wasn't about the sex.

It was like we spoke and continued conversations in our minds and hearts, for the first time in my life, making love had that element of connectedness. It took on an otherworldliness that transcended dimensions and linked us in ways we couldn't completely comprehend, but understood that afterwards we were left better and stronger and more in tune than before. There was that spiritual element that didn't bear scrutiny, but was a gift from God.

There was no memory with any other woman that even touched how I felt about this woman. My life was complete and perfect with her in my arms and my heart, and nothing could hurt her--- or take her away from me. I felt the sting of tears at the thought and tasted that coppery glint of saliva. Aubrey caught it and pushed on my eyelids, pushing the water out, and then wiping it. She wiped my tears, and kissed them away.

I woke to the sky a glorious cloud wash with the sun peeking over the eastward hills, the wind rushing around us, and creeping into any unprotected spot. Aubrey woke at the same time, and turned on her back, taking the blanket with her.

I sucked it up, and snuggled on my side, my head on her breast. I could hear her heart beat, better than the drums. Her arms came around me and played with my tattoos, like she memorized them. She couldn't see them, but I knew she was tracing them. That was a thing I didn't understand. My devout little Mormon girl, who loved my ink--- against her religion, against her beliefs, but it told me that--- she saw me--- me the man, me the person, me the guy I had been and me the guy I was now, and she loved the whole package, and accepted me, and above all else, not God, not above God, but encompassing God, she loved me the way that He loved me. For me.

You can't buy that kind of love.

I breathed her in. She was like music to me. Only in my songs did I feel that connectedness, as if the universe were speaking to me. To have something tangible, in Aubrey, to hold on to, was supernal.

We watched the cloud show cross the sky in a glorious sunrise that spoke of another hot winter day in Southern California. Each cloud had the gray and even charcoal mass, and then the ethereal orange and pink--- mass color from the sun, that exquisite and unmentionable color that shot through it and captured it with a kaleidoscope of ever changing light. Nature had not done that for me till Aubrey. I was all in my head and in myself.

Neither had places, and history done that. But I had felt the connection, I assumed was all Aubrey--- until I went to the temple, and found it there as well, and knew it wasn't all one person, it was all wrapped up in creation, and creation was all wrapped up in God.

There were stars still. The house blocked the actual lining of the sun as it rose, but lit the moon and the stars as they faded gently away from view. I knew they were still there, the way I knew my children were still inside sleeping, and I knew that my song was still in my head waiting for me to access it.

She cleared her throat and I knew the spell we'd woven of no words was about to end.

She absently stroked my hair away from my face.

"If Besarion is your son, he's welcome in our home."

I took a deep breath. "Besarion is not my son. But he's a very unfortunate young man, growing up with a crack whore for a mother. I was thinking about gifting him with a trust fund for college when the time comes. She can't know about it."

"And he can't give it to her. Legally, you'll have to make it so he only gets it if he comes to America and gets away from her. He can't be allowed to even give her a loan."

"I agree. I'll tell John."

"Rafe, if he is your son, he's welcome to our life. He's welcome to visiting and living here if it happens that way, and to whatever the rest of our children have."

I sighed. She was too good, too accepting.

It had taken her a few minutes to digest the whole thing--- mostly I think it was the fact that I'd kept it from her. I wish I hadn't. She just--- recently--- with the onset of her pregnancy, and the threat of miscarriage at every turn, seemed so vulnerable. I didn't want to cause her any more stress.

Plus, I'd gone through some kind of weirdness a while ago, before Christmas. Trying to control things. The miscarriage had been out of my control--- the kid's lives previous to me were out of my control, there was too much going on. I wasn't used to being that out of control.

I'd gone through my weirdness so fast I'd barely had time to recognize that I was going through it.

I was stressed. I needed to stop that.

"Let's go for a run."

She stretched like a cat and I held her back and realized I liked yoga better with her than running. We could do some spinning--- and then go to the pool. We needed a pool here.

"What time do you think it is?"

"I don't know, five?"

She stretched again and then curled into me for warmth and I snuggled her carefully against me. This was the only time I could hold still for long. Usually, I was too wired. But holding Aubrey when she wanted to be held usually kept me calm.

Today she did not want to be held long.

"Let's bike. We haven't biked since the tour. I miss it. Let's go bike in Hollywood Hills."

"Seriously? Why would you want to bike there?" I helped her up and we shivered into each other.

"And then let's have lunch at--- someplace cool, your choice. And then let's go visit---.

"Griffiths Observatory. I've never been there. Let's go."

Aubrey's delight was obvious. "The bike kid trailers are still in their boxes."

"The guys are going to be at the studio in a couple of hours."

"Anita will be here soon."

She glanced at me and started laughing. "My friend. We load it on thick, don't we?"

"There's so much I want to do. With life. With you." I pulled her back to my side, and looked down my nose at her, taller than her, making her look at me. Her eyes sparkled.

She tiptoed up and kissed me. I felt the baby bump against me hard, like a little basketball.

I kept her there, on her toes, my eyes open, kissing her with gusto, and then reached down and cupped the baby again and ran my hand up under the loose t-shirt, and shook my head. There was just so much I wanted to do.

******