Imogen lay sprawled across her bed, staring up at the patterns on the ceiling; patterns that distorted themselves through the tears that swam in her eyes. One blink, and they began to course down her face. She restlessly turned onto her side, now facing the photograph that sat proudly on her bedside table. The photo depicted herself, holding her newborn daughter in her arms; gazing down at baby Violet with as much pride in her eyes that could possibly be displayed. It seemed almost unimaginable that, in just eight months, she'd be able to recreate that moment.
Christmas Day. Imogen had no idea how she'd be able get through the inevitable heartache that would ensue with the knowledge that she was missing her child's second Christmas. The thought of Louise being the mother figure in Violet's life; the one to kiss her goodnight on Christmas Eve, and help her open all her presents the following morning; was enough to drive Imogen to drink. Well, not quite enough. Even in the state of despair she was in that day, she knew how much of a terrible idea that would be. So, instead, she turned to the second most effective drug she could think of. Finn.
It was wonderful. Why had they waited so long to give in to their desire? She had missed his touch, and the sensation of his lips on hers. That feeling, of their bodies pressed together, created such unrivalled bliss that, whenever even the mere remembrance struck her, Imogen couldn't help but smile.
She wiped her eyes gently and sat up slowly, with her eyes still fixed on the photograph beside her. She examined her own countenance. One of her closest friends had been killed a matter of hours earlier, and its effect was evident in the redness that surrounded Imogen's eyes. Yet, in spite of that fact, they glittered with hope and adoration. Hope for the future, and adoration for the small bundle of joy that she cradled closely to her chest.
There's nothing to be scared of, Imogen thought to herself. You can do it again. And you'll do it right this time.
Not half an hour later, Imogen stood outside Marcos' house and knocked impatiently on the door. If Finn wasn't in, she'd wait. She couldn't turn away from this; nor did she want to. She didn't feel entirely ready for another child, but she knew there was no other man in the world she'd rather have for its father than Finn.
The door opened, and, with him stood right in front of her, Imogen's confidence faltered. In fact, it almost deserted her completely. But she forced herself forward, and cupped his face with her trembling hands. "Finn," she spoke, her voice hoarse and laced with uncertainty. "Can I come in? It's important." She'd stepped inside the house before even completing her request, and she gazed around to make sure nobody was within earshot. She had no idea how many people lived with Marcos now, and she didn't particularly delight in the thought of having an audience. The brunette took hold of Finn's hand and dragged him into the nearest room with an open door. She closed it behind them and gestured for him to sit down. Imogen herself felt far too edgy to do anything of the sort; instead opting to stand in a solitary corner of the room, somehow terrified of Finn's reaction.
On her journey to the house, Imogen had considered a thousand possible introductions to the subject. She had settled on none. There was no point in any preamble, she knew. She just had to tell him. "Finn, at Christmas... Ya got me pregnant."
