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Frannie couldn't stop staring at the sleeping baby in her arms. She watched every intake of breath, every exhale. Her pulse spiked when his little face twisted into any expression other than serene sleep.

She was waiting for him to cough. She was expecting him to sneeze.

Even though she knew the flu wasn't here - it was contained to their world and it hadn't followed them here on their clothes (even if it had, she'd burned hers shortly after coming through to the Nexus, even the time she'd just walked into her bedroom in Maine for a few minutes before backing out in horror.

Still, Frannie watched her son sleep, listened to the soft silence of breathing unencumbered by snot or phlegm or whatever had choked the life out of her world. Against every odd there was, she was here, Stu was here, and her baby had survived arguably the most stress filled pregnancy ever, to arrive a respectable 6 pounds 9 ounces, with a pair of lungs announcing his arrival. Loudly.

If Frannie could remember how to pray, she would have right then and there.

Gathering type post - tag Frannie, tag each other (feel free to top level with Frannie asleep if you want, or just outside the room). If your pup saw the stationery post, feel free to jump to the conclusion that the hotel's only pregnant woman popped.)

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"If you have friends here, it's the best way, anyway," Joan said. "Support networks are important, especially for new mothers."

As soon as she said that, though, she winced, and smiled apologetically. "If I ever start to sound too much like a know-it-all, just tell me," she said. "I used to live with people and help them get back on their feet, so I've got an itch to counsel people all the time."

Fran was quiet for a long moment, staring at her son and thinking about how long it had taken her to really connect the bump in her stomach to an actual growing baby, and the world she was still mourning. "I think I'd probably be the last person to shun any sort of counseling. My life the last six months has been like a long, neverending nightmare. So counsel away?"

Joan had to look abashed, just slightly. Not because she was ashamed of what she used to do, but simply that her work was more hands on than any psychiatrist. "I was a sober companion," she said. "Not a proper counsellor. I helped addicts - I would live with them and help them become accustomed to living a life without their drug. In a way it was counselling through a trauma, but addiction is also very different from that. I just know that sharing and being around groups, and helping yourself live as an individual and a piece of a whole, can help emotional healing."

"Oh," Frannie said, feeling both embarrassed and confused at the same time. She'd never imagined that there would be any sort of a calling for that. Maybe she lived in Hollywood?

"I'm sorry for making that jump. I didn't mean to go all leech on you. I think I've lost a lot of my social conventions, living in a world where you could go days without seeing another human apart from the ones you're traveling with."

Joan laughed a little in embarassment herself, but she muffled it with the back of her hand; she didn't want to startle the baby.

"No, I'm sorry," she said. "I'm usually a lot smoother, but I've never, well, talked to anyone from another world who went through what you did, so I'm a little rusty myself." If there was one thing Joan didn't like to do it was make people feel ill at ease - well, unless they deserved it, of course. Frannie definitely didn't. "You're not leeching. I know leeches and you're definitely not one of them."

"Maybe we can just meet for coffee and talk about the places we've come from and the really strange place we've found ourselves?" Frannie offered.

Peter, for his part, was looking up towards the new voice.

Joan smiled. "Sure, that would be great," she said. "You know, I'm always worried about accidentally offending or startling someone in this place. You never know who is used to what. I try to look at it like visiting a different country, and trying not to upset the locals."

Noticing the baby's movements, Joan leaned forward, smiling. "His eyes are so bright," she remarked.

Fran moved Peter so Joan could see him better, pulling the blanket a little away from his face. "They look like old eyes to me," she answered, nodding. "Like he knows just what happened to us, even though I know that's probably not possible and he's just getting used to life on the outside."

He also looked so much like Jesse. Another cosmic, stupid irony and one she could have really, really done without.

"They say babies may have stronger awareness of their surroundings than we do," Joan said. "I was never a maternity doctor, but there's still a lot of myth and superstition in medicine. Only because we can't fully rule it out yet. He can tell you feel safe, I bet."

"If so, I'm going to hope he doesn't remember any of them. I know one day he'll ask about his father, but I'm not in any hurry to have that discussion." Something occurred to Fran that she'd never thought of, not until this moment. "I don't even have a picture of Jesse to show him."