"Daddy!" Cecelia squealed, bounding into the room and onto the bed. "Is it time already?"

"Daaad!" Phillip echoed, bringing up the rear, his short legs pumping for all they were worth. He jumped up and down beside the mattress, grasping at Jim's blanket-covered thigh.

Jim lifted him up, concealing a grimace. "Just about," he said, shoring up his voice against the weakness that wanted to make itself known. "Are you guys excited about going trick-or-treating tonight, or what?"

Cecelia let out an incoherent squeal. It bore no resemblance to language in general, much less English in particular. The sound pained Jim's ears, quite literally. It probably would have, even without the benefit of enhanced hearing, although he supposed he couldn't be sure.

"Yeah yeah!" Phillip added, squirming in Jim's arms like a Mexican jumping bean. In all likelihood, he was copying his sister. He wasn't quite old enough to really understand what the fuss was about, but his excitement was no less real.

Jim kissed his son's plump cheek, because he wanted to and because he still could. "I can't wait," he said honestly, because he couldn't wait for this to be over.

Not the trick-or-treating. That was going to be fun, but he had to get through this first. And this he dreaded, down to his bones, to his very fucking soul.

God, they were so young… so innocent. They didn't have the first clue how much it hurt, even with industrial-strength painkillers. That was intentional. Jim wouldn't have burdened them with such knowledge, not at the tender ages of five and three.

For once, he'd chosen not to take any industrial-strength painkillers. Not one… not tonight. There was a half-empty box of fentanyl patches behind a childproof lock in the bathroom, along with a bottle of injectable morphine, but he didn't intend to spend this particular night floating in a woozy state of half-consciousness.

Reminding himself that this part was temporary–no matter how much it sucked, which was a hell of a lot–Jim beckoned Cece over. He wrapped an arm around each of his children. Already, they were hairier than usual.

His arms, of course. Not the children.

"How's your monthly visitor?" Pam asked, poking her head through the door.

Jim had heard and scented her coming, of course. Fortunately, their cycles weren't aligned–never had been, and (God willing) never would be. If such a thing ever happened, he knew they could ask either of their parents to watch the kids for the night.

He snorted in response, shaking his head a little. "That's what I love about you, Beesly. The way you manage to stay fresh and relevant."

Forcing his eyes open, Jim gazed longingly at the plate in her hands. He wasn't exactly capable of humor at the moment, but he made his best effort to play along for Cece and Phillip's benefit.

"It's good for the gander," she needled him with a sympathetic smile, reminding Jim that he made the exact same joke every time Pam's period started.

And he always would. "Thanks, Mother Goose. So when do I get to see the allegedly amazing costumes you've cooked up?"

"They aren't cooked, they're raw," she ribbed him, glancing down at the plate.

Jim groaned quietly, more from pain than exasperation at this point. "When do I get to see them?" he repeated quietly. He was hurting so much, he could have cried.

He didn't let himself.

Pam noticed, of course. "After yours is all set." Moving beside the bed, she stroked his shoulder with fond fingers. The onset of symptoms was simultaneous with the howl, as she was fully-aware.

Cece jumped up and down on the bed, almost literally bursting with excitement. "It's gonna be the best! The best in the west!" she sang to a tune that she was probably making up on the spot.

"Candy's the best!" Philip added exuberantly. Naturally, he joined in the jumping, even though he was too young to be in on the secret of the costumes.

“Trick or treat! Smell my feet! Give me something good to eat!”

“I will not smell your feet, Ceece,” Jim said, pretending to be appalled that she would say such a thing. By this point, he was having difficulty schooling his features. He glanced at Pam and let his eyes do the talking. He said nothing, because he knew he wouldn’t have to.

Jim would never have guessed that Pam would stick it out through this, because this particular shit was something that nobody on the planet should be expected to put up with. And he hadn't.

Expected her to, that is. He'd given Pam the opportunity to back out, entirely without animosity or acrimony… just once.

She hadn't. In fact, she'd gotten pissed as all hell halfway through the conversation, taking legitimate offense at the faintest suggestion that her life might be better off without this particular burden weighing her down. She'd reminded Jim, fairly tearfully, of a certain set of vows that she'd taken in front of a certain set of people they cared about, not to mention a certain deity.

But, she'd reminded him, even if their families and God ceased to exist, she'd vowed to him to be there… In sickness and in health. For better or for worse. And it didn't matter how worse things got, she wasn't leaving, so help her God.

Jim had cried buckets of grateful tears that night. He hadn't been stupid enough to bring up the topic again, nor would he. To do so would be an insult, and he wouldn't dream of insulting the best thing that had ever happened to him. It had been the rockiest of all fucking roads. But, through it all, Pam had been his rock.

Because she was the best.

Jim hadn't gone into this whole marriage thing knowing how best Pam would be. And now he wanted to cry so much that he couldn't not.

Silently, his eyes begged her for privacy. A single teardrop (which he dashed away before it could track its way down his cheek) served to drive the point home.