The One with the Journal
Title: The One with the Journal
Author:lipstickcat
Pairing: Kowalski/Turnbull
Rating: PG
Notes: Sequel to The One With the Happy Ending. Word count - 1,024 words. Many thanks to llassah for beta.
***
Ray has been counting off the weeks since Turnbull told him. He's started keeping a diary, well, a scrapbook-journal-thing really. The pages are full of dates and scrawled notes; the date they moved in together, the phone number of that place in Chinatown for when Ren just has to have dim sum that instant, observations and notes on how the pregnancy seems to be going, how it should be going, you know, if he were a she.
There is a poem; short, bad, squeezed into the corner of a page. Ray’d written it the night after they’d got the first ultrasound scan. It’s a terrible poem. No one is ever going to see it. Words aren’t his thing, but that night as he sat in the dimly lit bedroom and watched Turnbull sleep they’d poured out of him in a big mess onto the page, and, to him, even though he can barely read his own hurried writing, they are beautiful. They are something he can hold on to, at least until the baby is born.
There are things tucked between the pages as well:
-The scans that didn’t make the fridge door, still far too precious not to be put somewhere safe.
-A recipe for breaded deep-fried Brie with cranberry sauce that he’d cooked all by himself, only to find that Turnbull had filled up on Kraft slices in the short space of time it had taken to fry. But he’d eaten it anyway and, through a slight case of heartburn, had told Ray that he could certainly cook that for him again sometime.
-The wrapping paper from the GTO Ren had bought Terence, so many months ago now, neatly folded and slipped into the back of the booklet. He didn’t know why he still had that; he shouldn’t under any circumstances still have it at all. But, he supposes, he must have gotten so distracted playing with admiring the toy car that the paper got knocked off the couch and then kicked underneath without him noticing, because that’s where he found it months later as he moved furniture around to make room for Turnbull to move in. Why he didn’t just throw it away then, he doesn’t have an excuse for. It’s easier to just accept that he picked it up, smoothed out the creases, and tucked it into his notebook. It seemed like the right thing to do, and that’s reason enough.
It’s been 22 weeks now, Ray knows because that’s what he headed the blank page in his journal with an hour ago. This was then followed by a note, which reads “They don’t make maternity clothes for 6'3" men. Had to make do with a tent.”
Right now, he is all business. The journal is balanced on the arm of his chair, a pen resting in the crease of the spine in case he wants to make any notes. He’s sitting with one foot tucked under him on the seat, his other leg stretched out under the coffee table. He has his glasses on and is completely engrossed in the latest parenting book he borrowed from one of the girls on the front desk at the 2-7. He scratches his thumbnail over the corner of his lower lip absently as he reads.
Turnbull is half sprawled across the sofa. He was knitting something that Ray hopes doesn’t have the bunny ears it currently appears to have, but now his needles have been put to the side and he’s dozing peacefully, hugging the daily expanding bump.
Some old black and white film is playing quietly on TV and, though neither of them are watching it, Ray has left it on as there’s something about it that contributes to the relaxed atmosphere. Half a year ago, Ray would never have dreamed this was how he’d willingly spend his Sundays off, but now it seems like the most perfect way to spend his time. Domestic. Settled. Still. And he’s not scared by it. Well, not enough for it to matter.
“OH!”
Ray looks up at Ren’s loud exclamation.
“Oh! Ray!” Ren’s struggling to sit upright, his hands splayed over his stomach.
Ray is leaping out of the chair in a split second, knocking the journal and parenting book to the floor with two dull thumps that he doesn’t hear. He’s already put his weight on his foot before he realises that it’s asleep and he tumbles, sprawling out next to the coffee table. Without missing a beat, he’s crawling, stumbling, hopping the rest of the short distance to the sofa.
“What is it? Is it the baby? Are you okay?”
Turnbull blindly gropes for his hand, jerking him forward to kneel in front of him. Pushing his sweatshirt up, Ren guides Ray’s hand to lie flat against his bump. Ray doesn’t understand; he’s babbling, asking if he needs to phone 911.
And then it’s the strangest thing; one minute there’s a whole world of panic and the tiniest part of that is registering as the solid curve of flesh beneath his palm. The next minute, something moves, flutters, ripples, pushes against his hand. It’s like something trying to get out from the inside of a blown up balloon.
“Oh.” His breath catches and that whole world of panic condenses down into this little all encompassing world of amazement.
Ray turns to face Turnbull. He knows that he’s all bug-eyed and fish-mouthed right now, but he can’t quite stop it. Turnbull smiles down at him, his eyes wide and excited. Movement rolls beneath Ray’s hand and they both gasp simultaneously.
Ray’s foot begins to tingle painfully. He barely notices as he rests his head against Ren’s stomach and begins to talk to it, gently telling a story about Little Red Riding Mountie and The Big Bad Cop, while Ren begins to play with his hair. This version of the story has a happy ending.
***
22 Weeks
They don’t make maternity clothes for 6'3" men. Had to make do with a tent.
The baby moved for the first time! Kicked me in the head! Is so my kid!
Think I sprained my ankle.
***
Author:lipstickcat
Pairing: Kowalski/Turnbull
Rating: PG
Notes: Sequel to The One With the Happy Ending. Word count - 1,024 words. Many thanks to llassah for beta.
***
Ray has been counting off the weeks since Turnbull told him. He's started keeping a diary, well, a scrapbook-journal-thing really. The pages are full of dates and scrawled notes; the date they moved in together, the phone number of that place in Chinatown for when Ren just has to have dim sum that instant, observations and notes on how the pregnancy seems to be going, how it should be going, you know, if he were a she.
There is a poem; short, bad, squeezed into the corner of a page. Ray’d written it the night after they’d got the first ultrasound scan. It’s a terrible poem. No one is ever going to see it. Words aren’t his thing, but that night as he sat in the dimly lit bedroom and watched Turnbull sleep they’d poured out of him in a big mess onto the page, and, to him, even though he can barely read his own hurried writing, they are beautiful. They are something he can hold on to, at least until the baby is born.
There are things tucked between the pages as well:
-The scans that didn’t make the fridge door, still far too precious not to be put somewhere safe.
-A recipe for breaded deep-fried Brie with cranberry sauce that he’d cooked all by himself, only to find that Turnbull had filled up on Kraft slices in the short space of time it had taken to fry. But he’d eaten it anyway and, through a slight case of heartburn, had told Ray that he could certainly cook that for him again sometime.
-The wrapping paper from the GTO Ren had bought Terence, so many months ago now, neatly folded and slipped into the back of the booklet. He didn’t know why he still had that; he shouldn’t under any circumstances still have it at all. But, he supposes, he must have gotten so distracted playing with admiring the toy car that the paper got knocked off the couch and then kicked underneath without him noticing, because that’s where he found it months later as he moved furniture around to make room for Turnbull to move in. Why he didn’t just throw it away then, he doesn’t have an excuse for. It’s easier to just accept that he picked it up, smoothed out the creases, and tucked it into his notebook. It seemed like the right thing to do, and that’s reason enough.
It’s been 22 weeks now, Ray knows because that’s what he headed the blank page in his journal with an hour ago. This was then followed by a note, which reads “They don’t make maternity clothes for 6'3" men. Had to make do with a tent.”
Right now, he is all business. The journal is balanced on the arm of his chair, a pen resting in the crease of the spine in case he wants to make any notes. He’s sitting with one foot tucked under him on the seat, his other leg stretched out under the coffee table. He has his glasses on and is completely engrossed in the latest parenting book he borrowed from one of the girls on the front desk at the 2-7. He scratches his thumbnail over the corner of his lower lip absently as he reads.
Turnbull is half sprawled across the sofa. He was knitting something that Ray hopes doesn’t have the bunny ears it currently appears to have, but now his needles have been put to the side and he’s dozing peacefully, hugging the daily expanding bump.
Some old black and white film is playing quietly on TV and, though neither of them are watching it, Ray has left it on as there’s something about it that contributes to the relaxed atmosphere. Half a year ago, Ray would never have dreamed this was how he’d willingly spend his Sundays off, but now it seems like the most perfect way to spend his time. Domestic. Settled. Still. And he’s not scared by it. Well, not enough for it to matter.
“OH!”
Ray looks up at Ren’s loud exclamation.
“Oh! Ray!” Ren’s struggling to sit upright, his hands splayed over his stomach.
Ray is leaping out of the chair in a split second, knocking the journal and parenting book to the floor with two dull thumps that he doesn’t hear. He’s already put his weight on his foot before he realises that it’s asleep and he tumbles, sprawling out next to the coffee table. Without missing a beat, he’s crawling, stumbling, hopping the rest of the short distance to the sofa.
“What is it? Is it the baby? Are you okay?”
Turnbull blindly gropes for his hand, jerking him forward to kneel in front of him. Pushing his sweatshirt up, Ren guides Ray’s hand to lie flat against his bump. Ray doesn’t understand; he’s babbling, asking if he needs to phone 911.
And then it’s the strangest thing; one minute there’s a whole world of panic and the tiniest part of that is registering as the solid curve of flesh beneath his palm. The next minute, something moves, flutters, ripples, pushes against his hand. It’s like something trying to get out from the inside of a blown up balloon.
“Oh.” His breath catches and that whole world of panic condenses down into this little all encompassing world of amazement.
Ray turns to face Turnbull. He knows that he’s all bug-eyed and fish-mouthed right now, but he can’t quite stop it. Turnbull smiles down at him, his eyes wide and excited. Movement rolls beneath Ray’s hand and they both gasp simultaneously.
Ray’s foot begins to tingle painfully. He barely notices as he rests his head against Ren’s stomach and begins to talk to it, gently telling a story about Little Red Riding Mountie and The Big Bad Cop, while Ren begins to play with his hair. This version of the story has a happy ending.
***
22 Weeks
They don’t make maternity clothes for 6'3" men. Had to make do with a tent.
The baby moved for the first time! Kicked me in the head! Is so my kid!
Think I sprained my ankle.
***