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Fever Pie.

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He's impossible. There's no hope of denying it, he's always going to be difficult. He's doing too much, already. He should be resting in bed, but no, not Denny Duquette, the man who was going to die who came back to life.

"Duquette." I say loudly standing in the doorway of our bedroom where I've just caught him changing the bed sheets. He turns around and smiles sheepishly when he sees me, as usual.

"Angel," He says, trying to smooth over what he was doing, kicking the dirty sheet away onto the floor, as if he could hide its existence, I shake my head at him as I enter the bedroom and settle down the laundry basket on the chair in front of the vanity he got me for my birthday.

"Bed." I order, picking up the sheet and wrapping it up before throwing it into the basket, he huffs but follows my order, picking up the book I got him to read from the side table as he goes.

"I didn't ask you to move in with me so you could be my slave," He says while I pick up the dirty clothes, I brush off his complaint, we both know I'm far from a slave and we both know I don't get to do a lot of housework between hospital visits and my shifts.

"I like being domestic." He groans at me and I can't help but to laugh at his dramatics, a macho man that can't stand having a housewife. Who'd a thought.

"Come to bed?" He pats my side of the bed and as tempting as it is I know I'll burn the pie in the oven if I spend anymore time in here.

"Please?" He pouts and I mutter about the unfair advantage someone with a new heart has over their wives, he laughs but it turns into a cough and then he groans and sips the water I left for him.

"I'm fine," He says firmly when I try to take his pulse, there's a smile on his lips so I take it and frown, a little fast.

"Izzie." Denny complains pointlessly when I move to get the thermometer out of the side drawer, I brush off his complaint and turn back to him with it in hand. He crosses his arms over his chest like a child refusing to take their medicine, I laugh and try to get him to move, he doesn't.

"Denny, let me take your temperature." He smirks and shakes his head, miming locking up his lips and throwing away the key, I shake my head and try not to laugh. A child!

"Duquette." It's a warning but he just keeps his arms crossed and waits for me to give up, we both know I won't be.

"Fine," I settle back onto my knees, crossing my arms over my chest. He looks doubtful, knowing that this is a play, but he can't figure out how.

"But," He watches me as I admire the engagement and wedding rings on my finger. Heirlooms from his grandmother and mother.

"All I'm saying is that you may have money but I know a killer divorce lawyer." I glance at him over my rings and show him that I'm not bluffing, he looks as if he wants to call it, the set way of his jaw and the unfaltering eye contact. He doesn't. The tension from his body goes and he drops his arms.

"Ouch. And here I was thinking you were just some young innocent li'l doctor?" He says as I pop the thermometer under his arm and start counting, I smirk triumphantly as I climb off of the bed, going to rescue the pie.

"Growing up in a trailer park, it'll teach you things." I say over my shoulder as I pick up the laundry basket and head out the bedroom, Denny grinning after me.

"I bet." He says, settling down to read his book until I return.

I'm busy with the pie and starting dinner and getting the laundry on so I don't go back to the bedroom for awhile, long enough for Denny to venture out and find me, the thermometer in his hand as he leans against the kitchen doorway and watches me pour in the batter for a batch of muffins while the pie cools on a different surface and the pasta sauce simmers.

"A little fever, that's all." He says, putting the thermometer down on the side as he steps into the kitchen and makes a beeline for the pie. I intercept him, hands on his chest, grin on our faces.

"What? I don't deserve a little reward for my good behaviour?" He bats his lashes and smiles with all the innocence of a devil, I smile back as my stomach flutters. As if they're reminding me of their existence, my heart pounds as I take my hands back.

"You do, but the pie isn't what you want." I Say, nervous as I reach into the back of my jean pocket for the stick that'll change everything for ever. Denny looks at me as if he doesn't get what I'm saying.

"Shut your eyes." I say quickly, excited, eager, impatient, he looks as if he wants to draw out the moment but I guess something in my face tells him now's not the time for games so he does as I ask and shuts his eyes, planting his feet and crossing his arms over his chest. Waiting.

I take his hand into mine and put the stick in his palm. His eyes open and he stares at the pregnancy test in his hand. 

"I'm pregnant, Denny." It's like there's a pause in time, his face changes, I remember seeing the look before, I never thought I'd see it again. The same face he made when he found out he was getting a heart. Like his whole world was changing, his life taking shape, he showed me, in that moment, just a glimpse of the man he once was, before the heart and the hospitals and the cage. Now he's showing me all over again.

"I don't wanna be dramatic," He starts, voice emotional and eyes glittering.

"But I'm really, really, gonna need you to repeat that. Slow, like I'm a kid." He looks at me like I'm his world and I break out into a grin, one as big as the day I told him he was getting a heart, the day he proposed, the day of our wedding, tears running down my cheeks as I close the distance between us, take his hands in mine and put them on my belly.

"We're having a baby, Denny." I whisper, my voice wavers with emotion and we fall into each others arms, clinging to the other. Happiness flowing all around us as we take in this perfect moment. Our perfect happy family.