A/N: This is my first Juno fic, so character inconsistencies are...more or less expected. I think I got Bleeker right. He's certainly passive, but anybody who falls for Juno has to have some measure of staying power when it comes to a sense of humor.

Here is the Church, Here is the Steeple



Lodged in between his bed and bean bag, what is left of 'Juno' is curled around the whole of 'baby'. Cushioned in her body, with her legs against it, her back a curl, her breasts –

Bleeker stops that line of thought before it goes any further.

A curl of dark hair on pale cheek, her body against the floor, a curl, a cradle, a mother.

"I think you're beautiful," he says, and watches as her hair curls in the air.



For the first time in her life, Juno looks shy as she walks toward him. She seems almost clumsy (but Juno's never clumsy, a distant part of him notices, she's got her own kind of maddening grace that makes him stare) as she lowers herself onto the chair.

Sensation, warmth, he chokes on heat and air and lust. The lines going down her back, the shadows along her thighs, the round of a breast, the aching curve of her mouth.

His fingers twitch with a bizarre desire for a tic tac.

His voice comes out as a crack.

(I've wanted this for a really long time)

Her voice is smooth, like chocolate, but there's a faint hesitation in it, and he's almost relieved to hear that she's as nervous as him, but her words make him stiffen and swallow.

(I know)

He fumbles for something to say.


Part of him screams at his lack of eloquence, but she moves, he gasps and grabs her hips, and he feels the chair groan underneath their bodies.

(We'll probably break it)

He's giddy, but words fail him and she kisses him. She's warm and clean and wonderful, the chair's about to buckle, and in this moment, here in dilapidated furniture, inside her, against her, fuck it, goddamn in love with her, Paulie Bleeker couldn't care less.



Ever since he fell in love with her, Paulie Bleeker's taken to watching Juno when he thinks nobody's looking, and if there's one thing he's noticed, it's Steve Rendazo.

If Bleeker were inclined to that kind of behavior, he thinks, as calmly as he can, he'd probably have done his utmost to make Steve Rendazo feel deeply regretful for mocking Juno.

(This is in part because he, too, has noticed that Rendazo has a crush on Juno. The likelihood of Bleeker ever admitting this to himself is slim to none.)

As it is, Bleeker grits his teeth and bears it, and reminds himself that Juno can take care of herself.

Fate, however, has many other plans, and while he desperately wants to wring Rendazo's throat for mocking Juno while she's pregnant, something interrupts him every time.

One day, he knows inwardly, he'll do something about Rendazo. Something that will stop him mocking Juno. And especially something that will stop him watching her when he thinks nobody's looking.


(Sort of)

It's the end of the year, and everybody is looking at their yearbook photos, pointing and giggling at the silly ones and signing one another's photos.

"Hey, Bleek!" says Juno. Her hair is falling into her eyes with wild abandon. She smiles, giddy and happy, "If you sign mine, I'll sign yours!"

The two exchange yearbooks. Bleeker's hand is shaking so much it's a wonder he can hold the pen. When he's done, he hands the pen back to Leah, who is busy talking Mr. Conyer into signing hers.

Juno smiles at Bleeker in a way he both adores and dreads and they exchange yearbooks again.

Bleeker reads her note, blushes bright pink and looks up to see Juno and Leah already leaving. He stares back at the yearbook.

Hey Bleeker! Spank off to this with motion lotion. Just kidding (sort of).

Your best friend




Bleeker rubs his fingers against her cheeks, softly wiping away the tears that make ugly tracks along Juno's face. He cups her face in his hands, bends down and kisses her.

Everything pours out just then. All the emotion she's choked back these past nine months glitter in her eyelashes and irises. Salt runs against her lips and on his nails.

His fingertips are rough with calluses from playing guitar all these long years, but they'll do, right up until he kisses every tear away with lips as sore and salt-dripped as hers.


Here is the Church, Here is the Steeple

Dawn pries its way through the curtains of his room, with rosy, curious fingers.

Bleeker's already awake, and watching Juno, one hand cupping her shoulder. The light brushes against her eyelids and she stirs. Unwilling to wake, she curls into Bleeker's bare arms, her naked skin and body pure delight on his. He brushes the back of his hand on her cheek and she reluctantly claws into consciousness. Brown eyes open. She smiles.

He can't help it. The joke is too good to waste.

"Am I as good in bed as I am in chair?" he whispers in her ear. She smiles, lets out a soft laugh, and tackles him.

"Mm-hm," she hums against his lips. Gently, Bleeker brushes her hair off her forehead and, with a smile made more of love than lust, he asks:

"You sure you don't want to re-check?"

She laughs properly now and, arms around his neck, tugs him into her, in every possible way that ever mattered.