THE RETURN HOME to Seattle granted Reagan the biggest breath of fresh air that she had taken in awhile. From the moment her and Dave's plane touched down at the Sea-Tac airport, she had been overwhelmed with relief, her mind miraculously clearing like fog once she took in the haloed clouds of mist hanging over her favorite city.

As promised to herself, Reagan had spent the last few days of February revolving herself exclusively around the little realm of paradise that she and Dave had created. It had been easy for her to slip comfortably into that mindset; from the moment she had walked through the door of their apartment, she had been met with nothing except sheer delight.

"No way!" Reagan had shouted, dropping her bags. Sitting proudly in the center of their tiny living room and taking up its usual mammoth amount of space was Richard's old drum kit, complete with Reagan's lucky drumsticks lying on the snare.

"Did you know about this?" she'd exclaimed, running over to the kit and eagerly touching the fading gloss on the toms. Dave had grinned back at her guiltily.

"Yeah, I did. Kate called once you flew out to meet me Hawaii and asked if it would be okay. I said sure, told her where the spare key was and then Robbie and your dad drove out to set it all up."

Her heart had immediately swelled. Giving up the kit must have been a sacrifice for both Robbie and her dad — Robbie, because he'd decided to finally take up drumming, and Richard because of the weight of the memories that the kit carried with it. Their love, as well as their support, had been made abundantly clear in the gesture.

After gawking a little longer over the image of her childhood drum set sitting in the apartment, she'd called home to thank Richard for the surprise. He had sworn that it was nothing, insisting that the kit rightfully belonged to her and missed her company anyways. She had bit her lip through a smile as he'd said so. He'd always talked like that — as if instruments had feelings, namely the beloved kit that he'd hauled around for years.

"Think of it as an early baby shower gift," Richard said.

"I'm not having a baby shower, Dad. No way. And if that's the gift, don't you think it's a bit contradictory to having a soon-to-be newborn in the next room over?"

Richard had laughed and conceded that his daughter was right, but reinforced his original point, which was that it was important that Reagan be reunited with the drum set that had shaped and molded her character since she'd been old enough to play. She had thanked him several times again, promising to visit soon.

Shortly after making that promise, Dave and Reagan visited the Abner household the next day, driving to Olympia for a home-cooked meal and quality time with Reagan's family. Kimberly had impressed everyone by remaining on her best behavior, going as far to even ask Dave questions about Nirvana's tour though Reagan knew her mother could barely understood half of what made touring so special to a band. It hadn't mattered. She was just happy to see her family functioning normally for once, especially in the presence of Dave, who only seemed to add cheer to any room he walked into.

The first of March rolled around swiftly and left Reagan thinking about the weeks she had left to endure being pregnant. May fifth had been slated as her due date and as far as she was concerned, it could not come soon enough.

"My back hurts," she complained to Dave. They were sitting on the couch, Dave juggling both of Reagan's sock-clad feet and a guitar in his lap.

"I'd say that I'd rub it for you, but I'm in the middle of pairing these chords to this bridge and —,"

Reagan lifted one foot in the air and jabbed it towards Dave's face. He caught her ankle and pushed her leg back down, narrowly missing the playful dig of her heel into his cheek.

"Pay attention to me!" she said in a very uncharacteristic whine, wiggling impatiently in her cocoon amongst the couch cushions.

"It's music time right now," Dave said in a voice reserved for speaking to kindergarteners. "If you would like to participate, your drum set is right over there."

Reagan frowned. "Did you not hear what I said? My back hurts. I can't sit and drum right now."

"Air drums it is, then," Dave said. He did a quick demonstration before adjusting his guitar in his lap, grabbing his pen, and returning to the notebook opened on the coffee table.

"Are you writing a song?" Reagan asked. Dave flashed her an annoyed look, one that clearly asked if she was being serious.

"No," he replied sarcastically. "I'm writing my last will and testament. Which of my band t-shirts do you want me to leave to you?" He raised his pen in the air with mock surprise before his face fell flat into another bemused expression. "Oh, wait. You already fucking took all of them."

"Funny. Hey, are you going to show that song to Kurt? Haven't you heard the joke about the last thing a drummer says before he gets kicked out of a band?"

Dave's eyes flickered to Reagan's face, more piercing and dark than they'd been before. As ornery as she felt, she could tell that it was most likely time to stop messing with him. She had touched one of his special 'nerves,' the ones that were ultra-delicate and awakened an unpleasant version of Dave marked by a temper that wouldn't cool. Even though she was properly aware of this, it didn't stop her from feeling a swooping, longing feeling that tickled a pathway down her legs.

Weird pregnancy hormones, she thought, trying not to think about how she would like Dave to handle her whenever he got into one of those special, pissed off moods.

"I'm sorry," she said. She sat up and leaned close to him, her upper body hunching over her belly which had seemingly grown exponentially bigger since the February. "I know I'm being a pushy asshole."

"It's okay. You're pregnant. You can get away with almost anything."

"If you're not too busy," Reagan said, adjusting herself so that she tucked her legs beneath her, "I would love to hear this mysterious new song that you're working on."

"No can do. It's under wraps until further notice," he said, smiling when Reagan shimmied closer to him with a pout pursed on her lips.

"But I want to hear it," she maintained. "Don't I get special listening perks or something? I'm your wife."

"Nope. You have to wait."

"I don't think I can stand for that."

"Look," Dave laughed. "Once Gracie is here, I'll play it for you, okay?"

"Push a baby out, get a song in return," Reagan reasoned. "I guess I can live with that."

A pang of hunger distracted her from the campaigning to hear Dave's song. It wasn't her usual hunger pains, the kind that required one of Dave's specially-made BLT's. Instead, she craved a frozen flavored ice pop — Dave had bought them for himself, but she'd been putting them away faster than he could grab them.

She went into the kitchen and rifled through the freezer until she settled on a flavor (blue raspberry, the kind that stained her tongue and refreshed her the most).

"We're going to need to buy more of those, aren't we?" Dave asked as Reagan sat down beside him once again, sucking on the ice pop greedily.

"Yep," she said. "We'll get more when we go shopping for Gracie."

"Reags," Dave began, setting his guitar down by its neck. "Instead of us buying everything, don't you think —,"

"No," Reagan replied before he could finish. "Don't ask me about a baby shower. I'm not having one."

"Come on," Dave urged. "It would be a whole party dedicated to you and Gracie. We'll get stuff that we need for her. And you know my mom would love it."

Reagan ignored the twinge of guilt that she felt when Dave mentioned Ginny. Of course his mother, and sister no doubt, would have loved to take part in a baby shower welcoming the new addition to their family, but Reagan wouldn't allow it. It wasn't going to happen.

"I hate parties," Reagan said. "Especially when they're for me."

"Fine, it's not for you, then. It's for Gracie."

"Ugh," Reagan said, rolling her eyes. "Don't try to make me feel bad."

"Look, all I'm saying is that you're turning down a bunch of free shit for the baby," Dave rationalized, talking with his hands. "We could use those things."

"It's not like we don't have a joint income," Reagan shot back bluntly. "We'll get it ourselves. And people will probably still try to gift us that stuff anyways, regardless of whether or not there is a baby shower. Shit, Dave. I don't even know enough people to make an actual invite list."

"I thought you would want to have one," Dave said. "Even if it was just because you were happy to be having a baby with me."

Reagan opened her mouth to protest, but Dave silenced her, shaking his head.

"Don't do that. Don't twist what I'm saying. I get where you're coming from, I really do," he said. "You don't want a bunch of people fawning over you and touching your belly. I know."

"I hate when they touch my belly," Reagan groaned, just to assert her point. Dave had certainly hit the nail on the head when describing her aversion towards the idea of a shower. The thought of sitting in the center of the room packed with gushing females talking about her baby didn't sit right with her. Having Gracie felt like an exclusive, private matter. She willingly accepted the love and devotion from those closest to her, but it had always been her call regarding how much of that she actually let in.

Admittedly, even with her due date looming closer, having a baby still didn't even feel real for Reagan. She supposed that the weight of truly being a mother would not hit her until Gracie was physically in her arms. Maybe then would the fast-forward function ruling her life be finally paused. Perhaps time would entirely stop when that moment came.

"Are you pissed at me?" Dave asked.

"Nah," Reagan answered. She busied her fingers by breaking up the ice pop beneath its layer of plastic in her hands, feeling strangely childlike as she did so.

"You don't have to have a baby shower," Dave said. He picked his guitar back up and laid it in his lap, staring earnestly at Reagan.

"I already knew that. You're the one who is just now accepting it."

He rolled his eyes and she laughed, never unable to not enjoy a moment in which her cleverness outdid his. Quietly, she softened her laugh into a giggle and finished her ice pop, watching as he picked up where he left off and brushed his fingers in gentle plucks across his guitar strings.

In what was akin to a hushed whisper, Dave sang, mumbling lyrics under his breath and pausing every now and then. There was no real rhyme or reason to what he was doing and Reagan knew that he mustn't have had any solid plans with the song formulating in his mind. It was just a relaxing thing to do, something that lulled them both into a state of mutual peace.

Eventually, the soft combination of Dave's guitar playing and his voice put Reagan to sleep. She barely scratched the surface of a deep, unconscious slumber before she felt his fingers carefully caressing her hair away from her face.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you up," Dave said, drawing his hand away as Reagan opened her eyes.

"It's okay. How long was I out?" she yawned, realizing she had sank into a slouch.

"Only half an hour. Do you want to go back to sleep?"

"That depends. Are you still songwriting?"

"I'm done now. Why? Does my songwriting bore you that much?"

"That's not it at all. I just liked falling asleep to the sound of you singing."

Dave laid himself down over Reagan, linking his fingers through hers and squeezing them tightly. He smiled at her, both amused and touched by her sentiment.

"I don't think you can actually call what I was doing 'singing.'"

"It was singing to me," Reagan insisted. "And I loved every second of it."

"I'll sing you to sleep any time you want," he offered. "Are you tired now?"

He smoothed back her hair and leaned in closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath on her lips.

"Not anymore," she said softly as her heart fluttered eagerly in response. It was a girlish kind of thrill that she would never get used to, mainly because Dave was the only person who'd ever made her feel such a things. She kissed him and he kissed her back sweetly, holding in laugh at her sudden tenacity.

"You're hilarious when you're pregnant," Dave remarked once Reagan broke away from the kiss to take a deep, winded breath.

"Am I?" she asked, blinking innocently.

"Yes. It's funny to watch you throw a fit, fall asleep, wake up and then try to take advantage of me on this here couch."

"I am not trying to take advantage of you!"

"You totally are. You're seducing me with your blue raspberry lips and honestly, it's kind of working."

"Good. Kiss me again."

Dave granted her wish but ensured that the kiss remained quick and tender, not permitting it to grow any deeper than that. He chuckled when she tilted her head back and sighed.

"Maybe that's one thing that hasn't changed," he said, skimming his lips from her cheek to the curve of her jaw.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you trying to do me every chance that you get. Remember the first time that you visited me at Kurt's old apartment? I had to pretty much fight you off with a stick!"

"Shut up," Reagan mumbled, closing her eyes and feeling the slow onset of more sleep. She could feel Dave's fingertips entangling themselves in her hair, combing lightly through each individual tendril. It was soothing as she balanced between a state of sleep and alertness, unable to decide whether or not she wanted to slip back into dreaming.

Dave started humming and upon recognizing the tune, Reagan cracked a single eye open, peering at him curiously.

"Are you really doing that?" she questioned.

"Doing what?"

"Humming along to the Temptations."

"It can't be just punk rock all the time, Reags."

"Your taste is eclectic," she mused.

"You can thank my mother for this one. She liked the Temptations."

He continued on, this time singing snippets in the same quiet voice he had used earlier when playing guitar. Reagan could feel herself falling in love with him even more, a feat she didn't think possible, as he sang. A slow smile spread across her face.

"'My Girl,'" she said, identifying the song.

"A classic," Dave said back in between his quiet crooning.

"I don't get it. How did you go from writing a song that undoubtedly requires guitar riffs, loud drumming and you probably screaming the lyrics to 'My Girl' by the Temptations?"

"It's kind of funny, actually," Dave grinned. He drew the back of his hand lovingly down from Reagan's shoulder to the swell of her stomach, pausing once he reached the top of it.

"Explain," she ordered.

"I told you that I'd show you the song once Gracie is here. And after that . . . I don't know. It's really fucking corny, but that song, 'My Girl,' came into my head when I thought of her. When I thought of Gracie, I mean."

Reagan peered into his eyes, seeing them turn away bashfully. As soft as he could be, she knew that this admittance was the ultimate example of his delicate heart. It was interesting to consider that within the same day, she'd also thought about his temper. He could be everything and anything, but as he laid with his body close to hers talking about their daughter, she knew right then who Dave really was, even though she'd known it all along,

"Keep singing," she suggested after a beat of silence.

"Now you put me on the spot."

She ignored his complaint and nestled closer into his chest, deciding that it was alright for her to indulge in another nap if it meant that Dave would be there too. It had been too long since they'd been able to enjoy such simple things together and she had sorely missed those moments, those very ones that she wanted to commit to her memory forever.

Dave started humming again, eventually singing once Reagan's eyes began to droop close. She didn't stay up to hear whether or not he finished the rest of the song, though it didn't matter. It was comforting to know she had all the time in the world to hear it completed.