#bartholomew. perhaps you are correct. perhaps there is a light to be found in the burden of existence | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

maevefiction · 6 years

Text

Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 23

When we arrived at Estelle J Wilson, there wasn’t a parking spot to be had. Even those earmarked for funeral attendees were taken, and as we drove past the main entrance to head around the block in search of one for ourselves, there they were…news vans from local affiliate stations WWL, WDSU and WGNO. A few feet down I spotted the paparazzi, four or so as best I could tell, lurking and waiting.

I turned to Tom, smirking. “Weh-hel, THIS is going to be a lot more interesting that I anticipated. Apparently.”

He pulled into an open space two blocks down from the funeral home and put the car in park. His right arm rose, then settled on my shoulder, hand grasping the back of my neck, massaging gently. “You okay to do this?”

I shrugged, enjoying the way the fabric of my dress seemed to float around my arms. His massaging continued in spite of my movement. “I’d like to tell you to turn around and go back to the hotel, but somehow I don’t think me not showing up for my mother’s funeral would improve upon the situation. And I know I’ll have to talk, because, hey-o, I can’t even run past them. But, on the bright side, at least I had the sense to wear my yoga shorts underneath the dress so there’s no chance of a wardrobe malfunction during any of this.”

Tom laughed, lines appearing around his eyes, relaying the story of a man who enjoyed doing so and had for his entire life. “Thank god for small favors. If I happened to get a look under there at this point they’d all be in for far more of a show than they’re equipped to handle.”

“Dude. Was that supposed to help? Because…not helping.” I leaned over and planted a sloppy kiss on his lips, then opened my door. The ibuprofen I’d taken had helped immensely, and I was fully capable of walking without crutches, albeit slowly. Chances were that using them, though, might garner some sympathy from the press. Tom watched me pull them out of the car, eyebrows raised. “One, I can move faster if I use them. Two, I want everyone to feel sorry for me. Sorrier. Don’t ruin my moment, Hiddleston.”

“Perhaps I should carry you instead if it’s attention you’re seeking.”

“Not attention. SYMPATHY. If you carry me, people will feel LESS sorry for me. Not part of the plan. Plus, it’s like, two blocks and you’d fucking keel over. Also not part of the plan.”

He got out of the vehicle and came round to the passenger side, my messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “Thomas, you are a god among men, unashamedly carrying your woman’s purse.”

His eyes lit up, and he pointed at it. “This? This is NOT a purse, darling. THIS is a EUROPEAN CARRYALL.”

I raised my forearm up as far as the crutch would allow. “Nice. Second Seinfeld reference of the day. High-five.”

The palm of his hand connected with mine, tenderly, and our fingers twined together. “Remember, I’m going to be right there with you. And if you don’t wish to say anything, simply don’t say anything.”

“Um, I’m sorry…I’m supposed to be the one telling YOU that, yes?”

He grinned impishly. “Tables, Maude. Oh how they turn.”

As we reached the news vans, the noise began, seven people shouting out questions all at once, cameras and mics pointed in my direction. The cacophony caused my brain to shift into crisis management mode, and I stopped dead in my tracks. Tom stood at my side, transferring his weight from one foot to the other. My gaze moved from one reporter to the next, looking them straight in the eye. The noise died down, then out. I took a deep breath and began to speak.

“Hello there. How’s everyone doing today?” They turned to one another, shoulders shrugging, faces contorting into expressions of puzzlement, unsure as how to proceed. “Under normal circumstances, I’d be happy to give you all the time you need, but I’m running behind as it is and have in inkling that it would be just a wee bit disrespectful if I were to be late for my mother’s funeral service. That being said, I think I DO have enough time for one question from each of you.” I pointed to the young, dark-haired woman in the floral print dress holding a WWL microphone.

She cleared her throat, then motioned to her cameraman to begin recording. The other two crews followed suit, and I assumed the paps were recording as well. “Ms. Gallagher, do you have anything to say regarding your ex-husband’s arrest?”

I had plenty to say. So, so much to say…ninety-nine percent of it unsuitable for television. “First, allow me to mention that the Winchester family has been in my thoughts ever since I heard the news. I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to have someone invade the sanctity of your home, where you’re supposed to feel safest. And someone armed…it must be terrifying. Mr. Bonaventura’s actions were deplorable, and I trust that the Louisiana justice system will dole out the appropriate punishment when the time comes. Next question, the gentleman from WDSU. And please, call me Maude.”

He was short, chubby and dressed in a tweed jacket that I was certain made him feel like he was in the ninth circle of hell. “Maude, is it true that he intended to break into your mother’s home but chose the wrong house in error?”

Suppressing the smile that fought to spread across my face was a daunting task. “That’s my understanding, yes.”

The reporter from WGNO didn’t wait his turn, and exceeded his inquiry limit within seconds. “Why would he need to break into her home? I’ve seen a copy of the will…it was to go to him, without question. Are you contesting it? Have you taken possession illegally? Did you lock him out? Is that why he did it?”

What a total douche canoe. I wanted to slap him, but stared him down instead as I prepared my reply. “Gosh, I think that was five questions, not one. I know, I know…math is hard, right? Anyway. My mother died intestate, which means the entire contents of her estate passes to me according to Louisiana law. The will that was in Mr. Bonaventura’s possession was revoked, and another was not created. You can contact her attorney, Bartholomew Stevens, if you have additional questions regarding the matter. As to why he did it, my guess is he came back to New Orleans expecting something, and when it turned out that something was actually nothing, he grew rather malcontented. Next question, you in the red T-shirt.”

He held out his phone to better capture our exchange, sun creating a halo around his blonde, curly hair. “Maude, is it true that Mr. Bonaventura cheated on you with your own mother, and that your father killed himself because of it?”

Tom muttered something under his breath, and I hoped I was the only one who’d heard. The inner calm I felt in the face of a question that would have caused a breakdown just days earlier made me feel damn near invincible. “Absolutely correct.” I pointed at the young Asian woman dressed in a bright purple track suit and pink Converse Hi-Tops. “You’re next, please.”

Her face was an expressionless mask. “According to Passages Hospice, you never visited your mother there prior to her death. Is that accurate, and if so, why?”

“Yes. That’s correct. As to why…my mother suffered from alcoholism and Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Though, in actuality, it was everyone close to her who did the majority of the suffering. Her cause of death was alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver. The last time I saw her was in 1998, when I walked in on her and Mr. Bonaventura during an intimate encounter. No-contact is a widely accepted method for dealing with toxic people in order to facilitate recovery. I was contacted by the hospice when she passed as I’m the only next of kin. Gal in the tank top…your turn.”

The tank top was an old-school wife beater, paired with khaki shorts that reached her knees. Her white- blond hair was short on one side, long on the other, with pink tips. “My sources tell me that you’re an alcoholic too. True or false?”

My jaw tightened. They’d obviously been speaking with ‘mourners’ in spades, and it was no surprise that a good number of people here still thought of me as drunkard Mary’s drunkard daughter. “In September of 1996, my boyfriend was killed in a car accident. Shortly after his funeral, I discovered I was pregnant. Soon after THAT, I miscarried. I found myself unable to cope with such profound loss and used alcohol to self-medicate. Since I honestly can’t say whether I wasn’t capable of stopping or just chose not to during the time I was drinking, alcoholic is probably an applicable term. I’ve been sober for seventeen years, though. Last question, gentleman with the man bun.”

He laughed briefly, then frowned slightly, as if he was reconsidering asking what he’d planned to. “Hello, Maude. I spoke with Mr. Bonaventura’s current wife, Anna Beth, this morning via phone. When I asked her how she felt regarding his arrest, she expressed relief and indicated that he abused her verbally and physically. Is that something you experienced during your marriage to him?”

I gave a curt nod. “Yes. It was. Unfortunately, it was something I’d endured for years in my own home prior to marrying Mr. Bonaventura, so it didn’t seem abnormal to me until after I removed myself from the situation. If my sources are correct, Anna Beth was very young when she met and married him, as was I. It is my hope that this incident will allow her to move on with her life, heal and find the peace she deserves. Okay, folks. Apologies, but that’s all I have time for. Thanks so very much for your cooperation.”

Man bun raised his hand, then pointed to my walking boot. “Maude, I’m pretty sure we’re all wondering how that happened. Would you mind…”

My eyes rolled skyward. “Damn, and here I thought you wouldn’t notice.” Laughter rang out. “I wore heels to dinner last night, and they got the best of me. Right down on my ass in the middle of the Palm Court Café. It’s just a sprain, two weeks and I should be good. Seriously, though…gotta go. You all enjoy the rest of the day.”

They stepped back and to the side, allowing us to pass. Four crutch swings later Tom appeared in front of me, the admiration in his eyes flooring me completely and freezing me in place. Two steps brought him close enough to lean in to kiss me, admiration replaced by ardor and fire, grasping the back of my neck with one hand, sucking my bottom lip into his mouth so forcefully that I came. It was a tiny orgasm, over and done in two seconds, but an orgasm nevertheless. His grip on my neck tightened, and I knew he must have felt me shudder. He deepened the kiss, and as our tongues met I heard camera clicks, faint, as if they were down at the end of a tunnel, far away. A distant repetition of ‘Excuse me, Ms. Gallagher?’ grew ever louder, finally snapping me back to reality. I pulled back, looked past Tom to discern the source, and was mildly humiliated upon seeing Reverend Thompson standing there. His face was as red as a cherry tomato, the flush extending down his neck and, I assumed, beneath his clerical collar.

He cleared his throat, hands clasped behind his back. “Ms. Gallagher, we’re about to begin. Follow me, please.”

Tom remained in front of me, a look of astonishment on his face as he mouthed the words ‘Did you…?’ I plastered a polite smile on my countenance, nodding at him as I addressed the reverend.

“Apologies, Reverend Thompson. Thank you for your patience. Lead the way.”

As we walked toward the entrance Tom fell into step beside me, whispering in my ear. “An orgasm. From a kiss. MY kiss. Man alive, I feel like a fucking rock star right now.”

My head spun in his direction, ponytail swishing back and forth across my neck in its wake, eyes narrowed. His mouth dropped open, then closed again as he reached out to touch my bare shoulder.

“Maude, I’m sorry, that was a dreadfully self-centered thing to…”

I grinned and shook my head, speaking softly as he removed his hand. “I’m just screwing with you, Thomas. That lip thing…it…DID something to me. Anyway. Allow me to assure you that you are a fucking rock star. MY rock star. And as an added bonus, it would have REALLY pissed my mother off to know that I was making out with the sexiest man alive at her funeral.”

“That’s not a title People magazine has bestowed upon me as yet, Maude.”

“I’m well aware of their prior woefully inadequate choices. But I just did.”

“And that’s infinitely more meaningful, of course.”

“Nice save, Hiddleston. If they don’t put you on the cover soon, though, they’re going to be getting some…calls.”

We’d reached the front door, and Reverend Thompson held it open for us. The service was being held in the same room as the viewing, and as we approached I could see it was packed well beyond its limit. After pausing for a moment to prepare myself to walk the gauntlet, I opted to do so without the crutches, resting them against the wall to the right of the doorway. Reverend Thompson motioned for us to enter before him, and Tom offered his arm. I gratefully accepted, and as we crossed the threshold all heads turned, row by row, gazes fixed upon us. Tom’s face was expressionless, the dark blue of his button down shirt reflecting in his eyes, black trousers sitting low on his hips, black leather tie perfectly knotted at his neck. Even less graceful than normal due to the height difference of my walking boot and my black Birki, I kept myself in check by counting the number of steps it took to reach the front of the room where the closed casket rested, covered in a blanket of pink roses. Two seats were vacant in the front row, on the aisle and next to Anne. The whispers began when we were halfway there, fifteen steps in. My head remained high, jaw firmly set, as I passed by the throng of people who’d decided attending the funeral of someone they hadn’t given the remotest shit about in order to obtain a firsthand account of the event so they could later spread any juicy gossip they managed to gather was an ideal way to spend a summer afternoon.

Tom continued to hold my arm until I was comfortably seated next to Anne, then took his place at my side. Anne patted my knee as Reverend Thompson half-jogged to the front and began. I put my right hand over hers and squeezed, and Tom reached out to take my left one in his. After the introductory portion of the service, I zoned out, Reverend Thompson’s voice becoming very similar to that of the adults in a Charlie Brown cartoon. All I heard was ‘wah wah, wah wah wah wah wah, wah wah’, and eventually even that faded away into nothing. Man bun’s words haunted me, and my thoughts turned to Anna Beth. I’d been strong enough to get away from Will on my own, but I’d actually had somewhere to get away TO, the funds to get there, AND enough to start over with. Those were luxuries she did not possess, and there were three children she’d need to support on her own going forward as well, another hurdle I hadn’t had to clear. Marrying at such a young age had more than likely put her in a position wherein she had little to no employment experience, and few marketable job skills…or none whatsoever. Though I’d intended to donate the proceeds of the estate sale to the Metropolitan Center for Women and Children, I found myself seriously considering sending them her way instead. It would have to be done anonymously, of course, and Barty already had a way to contact her. Part of me felt as if I’d be slighting the many to help the few, but in this instance it was personal. We had an ill-fated kinship, Anna Beth and I, born of lies emanating from a man who’d used us for his own nefarious purposes, violence and mental abuse his means of controlling us so we’d never dare to question a single blessed thing as he fulfilled his unscrupulous objectives.

The sound of the crowd around me rising to their feet derailed my train of thought, and I left my seat as fast as I possibly could, not wanting anyone to have the slightest indication that I hadn’t been paying any attention to the service. At all. Tom’s arm slipped around my waist, and we remained where we were until the rest of the room cleared. Anne offered to join us at the cemetery, asking to hitch a ride in our rental car as she’d taken a cab to the funeral. I was pleased to discover that the news trucks had departed, but the paps remained, photographing and filming Anne and I as we waited for Tom to bring the car round for us. At Greenwood it was just the three of us, the hearse driver, and the folks responsible for the interment procedures. I remained back at least fifteen feet from the crypt, silent the entire time, having already said my final goodbyes to the people who’d brought me into this world. We left for as soon as they began the closing process, and I looked back over my shoulder one last time as we made our way out of the garden, wanting this moment to be my last memory of my mother. Dead. Gone. Sealed inside a coffin, inside a mausoleum, never to speak new words that could hurt me ever again. And that was enough to shift the specter of the past from translucent to transparent…what used to only allow light to pass through while masking the details was now completely clear, entirely visible. The thing about the past is this…it’s always present. There’s no escape from it. You can run, you can hide, but it will inevitably find you. There is, of course, a better solution, one I’d finally been brave enough to attempt. Face it. Embrace it. Remember it. Learn from it. And, most importantly, try your best to not let it fuck your life up too badly along the way as you moved further and further beyond it.

Tom and I bid Anne adieu as we dropped her off at Café du Monde, then hurried back to the hotel so we’d have enough time to change, pack, check out, and arrive at the airport by four. Our flight was scheduled to leave Louis Armstrong International at five-thirty and arrive in New York at nine-thirty, and if the gods were feeling generous we’d be settled into my apartment an hour or so later. Or, I should say, our apartment. A foreign concept as far as I was concerned, but one that made me deliriously happy. And that was something I could totally get used to.

**************************************** The duration of our first-class flight was primarily spent sending each other naughty text messages, each one filthier than the last. Afterward there was much debate as to who started it, but I refused to confess even though I was guilty as sin. He was just sitting there, in his cargo shorts and white V-neck T-shirt, up against the window with the sun reflecting on his pretty fucking face, driving me insane.

The hollow at the base of your neck, right above your collarbones. My tongue needs to be there. Like, now. – M

Go ahead. No one will notice. We’re in the last row. – T

Hmm…is it me or did that make your nipples hard, Thomas? I can see them right through your shirt. Guess they’ll be the next stop for my tongue. – M

The first stop for MY tongue is going to be your mouth, Maude. Running it over your lips, your teeth, then thrusting it in and out over and over until your moaning alerts the passengers in front of us. –T

Back and forth we went, until the final exchange.

I’m going to work my cock into your ass, inch by inch, until I’m buried inside you. Then I’m going to slip three fingers into your pussy and fuck you with them as well, so I can feel my cock from the INSIDE through the oh-so-thin wall that gives both of us so much pleasure as I pound your ass relentlessly, my thumb massaging your clit until you want to scream…but since you can’t, I’ll be forced to cover your mouth with my hand in order to keep you quiet. – T

And just as you’re about to come, I’ll invite you to fuck my mouth. As soon as you pull out of me, I’m going to drop to my knees and suck your cock so hard you’ll see stars. I’ll sneak my index finger in my beside it at some point, get it nice and wet, then run it between your ass cheeks until I find that glorious pucker. My finger will keep moving round and round the rim as I keep licking at and sucking on your cock, loosening you up, stretching, until you’re ready…then in it goes. Then out, then in. Again and again. I’ll wait until I feel your rhythm start to falter, then I’ll press my finger down on that magical spot inside you and swallow you whole as your come shoots down my throat, hot and sticky. You’ll have bruises on your knuckles for a week from biting down on them so hard. – M

That broke him. He stood, put his hands in his pockets to hide his raging hard on as best he could, pushed past me and locked himself in the bathroom. When he returned he was smirking, and I’d thought I wouldn’t need to, but he kissed me, long and slow, and I found myself in the loo a few moments later, pants around my ankles as I attempted to rub one out so I could make it home without fucking him in the back of the car that would be waiting for us. Or on the plane. In front of everyone. My phone dinged, and I bent to pull it out of my pants pocket. He’d sent me a video he’d made during his turn, hand on his cock, jerking himself off, standing right in the same spot I was in now. That was all the inspiration I required, and then some. I deleted it as soon as I finished, then texted him to remind him to do the same. Even though his face wasn’t visible, it still wasn’t something that should be kept around. Despite the fact that I wanted to watch it a thousand more times.

As we circled LaGuardia, I began singing Frank Sinatra’s ‘New York, New York’. Quietly, I might add, until Tom joined in, then a good number of the other passengers in first class, turning it into an impromptu sing-along that grew loud enough as we reached the final chorus to warrant a shushing from the flight attendant. We disembarked, picked up our luggage, and found the driver holding a sign with GALLAGHER written on it. Tom had given the company my name in an attempt to avoid any unnecessary scrutiny, but it turned out to not make a difference as this was New York, where no one gave much of a fuck about how famous you were. I’d seen Madonna try to cut line at a bagel shop once, only to be rebuked none too gently by everyone already waiting, resulting in her taking her place at the back of the queue, laughing and saying she should have known better than to do such a thing on her home turf. There was not a single soul standing still as we followed the driver to the curb, everyone looking down and walking quickly as they sought to fulfill their own personal missions.

Forty-five minutes later we arrived at 250 Mercer Street in Greenwich Village/NoHo, a wide smile spreading across my face at the prospect of being home, growing ever wider when I turned to Tom and it hit me that for the first time since college, someone I loved was coming home with me.

He leaned over me, peering out my open window, craning his neck to see how high it went despite the fact that it was dark.

My hand found his thigh and settled there. “It’s 16 floors in some spots. Building was erected in 1888, renovated in 1979 and remained rental apartments until 1986 when it went co-op. My dad bought it in 1995, for exactly how much I don’t know. He signed it over to me for a dollar a few months later, and I didn’t pay any attention at all to the paperwork. Surprising, right? I’d have to pull the deed to find out the amount. Now it’s worth around eight hundred thousand or so, but I don’t care, because I am NEVER selling it. I’m on the 5th floor. And yes, there are elevators. Thank god.” I opened the door, stepping on my right foot gingerly. The pain was back, mainly because I was a fucking moron and not only forgot to take my ibuprofen but had packed it away in my suitcase instead of my carry on. The crutches were in the trunk, and the driver brought them around first for me, the followed with our luggage.

Tom came out on the curb side as well, stretching, arms up over his head, T-shirt riding up just enough to reveal his belly button and the start of his happy trail as he glanced around at the street signs and location. “The Village, yes?”

“Technically it’s right on the border of Greenwich Village and NoHo. Best of both worlds and all that. Washington Square Park is right over that way…” I pointed in the correct direction, but it looked like I was pointing at air since it wasn’t visible. “You can totally see it from my window.”

Tom tipped the driver, who’d brought the luggage right to the door for us when he realized it was way too much for one person to carry. The glass door opened towards us, and out stepped Murray Goldberg, my favorite doorman. His uniform was black, with gold trim and buttons, exactly the same as it had been when I’d moved in, and, according to him, as it was when he started back in 1987. He was in his mid-sixties, not much taller than I was, with thinning white hair and gold-framed John Lennon glasses.

“Well, well, well…look what the cat dragged in. If it’s isn’t Miss Maude Gallagher. You were supposed to be back for the July 4th weekend…how I worried and worried!” He chuckled as I half-embraced him, crutches tucked to my side with my elbows.

“Oh please. You are so full of shit, old man. You didn’t even notice I was gone. And besides, look what I brought back with me!” I released him and gestured to Tom. “Murray, this is Tom Hiddleston. Tom, Murray Goldberg.”

Murray glanced at Tom, then rolled his eyes at me. “So THIS is why you went AWOL.” He held his hand out to Tom, who shook it vigorously. “Nice to meet you, Tom. Welcome to 250 Mercer.”

Tom grinned. “Thank you, Murray. Pleasure to meet you as well.”

Murray looked puzzled for a moment, and I knew it had dawned on him that Tom was an actor, but he shrugged it off and poked my arm, suddenly switching to a thick Brooklyn accent. “Englishman, eh? Whatsamatta, New York guys not good enough for ya anymore?”

I snorted. “Nice. Offend him before he even has a chance to see the place.” We all laughed, and I pointed to my walking boot. “I’m injured. I don’t suppose you can dig us up a luggage dolly from somewhere?”

He shook his head at Tom. “Been back less than five minutes and she’s already a giant pain in my ass. Wait here.”

They loaded the cart while I watched, and Murray wished us a good night as we headed for the elevator. Tom wheeled it inside and I punched the 5 button quickly, hoping to avoid company. My strategy was successful, and less than a minute later the stainless steel sliders opened, my white apartment door visible from where we stood. It turned out that crutches were useful for holding elevators, but I felt completely useless as I watched Tom struggling to drag the cart up over the lip and onto the grey carpet.

I pointed to the left. “C503. That’s us, right over there.” Grabbing my messenger bag off the pile of luggage, I fished out my keys, put the correct one in the deadbolt, then pushed down on the handle. The door swung inward, and I reached in and flipped the light switch. I turned around to see Tom, his eyes wide and slightly misty. I grinned, leaned my crutches against the sideboard and threw myself at him, arms wrapping around his waist. “Welcome home, Thomas.”

****************************************

To the right of the door, behind the bathroom, was a metal staircase that led to the loft. Tom unloaded all the luggage there, then brought the cart back downstairs to Murray. I fumbled around in the sideboard drawers, looking for my spare apartment key. It was way in the back, buried under entirely too many takeout menus…all of which reminded me that I was starving. The stove clock said it was 10:55. Most of the Thai and Chinese places would be closing soon, but The Bagel Café/Ray’s Pizza was open, and they had a huge menu to choose from.

“New York, I have missed you so very much. Where else can I get breakfast delivered to my door in the middle of the night if I want? And cannolis. And cake. And…”

My musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. I opened it just a crack, peeking out and pretending to be wary. “Yes?”

Tom raised a brow and grinned.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

He feigned exasperation, arms crossed, frowning and tapping his foot.

“Oh, right. You’re that totally hot guy who followed me home from Hawaii.” I opened the door fully. “Well, come on in, I guess.”

Tom grabbed my waist, bending down to kiss my neck. “Totally hot guy wants to drag his totally hot woman to bed, but he’s suffering the effects of food deprivation and fears his performance will suffer unless calories are consumed forthwith.”

I passed him the extensive Ray’s menu, pulled my phone from my pocket and hefted myself onto one of the kitchen bar chairs, mentally noting that finding the ibuprofen should be next on my to do list. “Let me know what you want. I’m going to add my stuff to the order while you’re deciding.”

I ordered a Meat Lover’s Omelet with bacon, home fries and toast, an everything bagel with scallion cream cheese, a slice of strawberry cheesecake, a large orange juice and a large black tea with cream and sugar. Tom was still perusing the menu. I managed to be patient for a bit, but then leaned forward, putting my face between him and the paper.

He laughed. “Someone’s nearing hangry level orange.”

“Mmm, not quite yet but if you don’t make up your mind soon things may get ugly before the delivery guy gets here.”

“Well, no one wants that, do they? I’d like a large Irish Crème coffee, a cranberry scone, a Gone Bananas smoothie, a Greek salad and a deluxe cheeseburger with bacon, please.”

“Dude, your order is even weirder than mine. I’m impressed.” I entered his items and my credit card info, then pressed the submit order button. Forty minutes according to the website, which was unusually fast. I slid off the chair and stood on my left foot as I reached for the crutches. “It’ll probably be an hour before it gets here. There should be some water and soda in the fridge, though, in case you’re thirsty. I’m going to go scare up some ibuprofen so I can maybe walk upstairs at some point this evening.”

Tom shook his head. “No, stay. I’ll get it for you. Where is it?”

“In one of my suitcases. I think. All I really know is that I packed it.”

“Do you keep any here in the house?”

My mouth dropped open. “Well, shit. Yeah. The bathroom, cabinet under the sink. Wonder how long it would have taken me to come up with that? Oy. It’s the door behind you, on the right.”

He came back, shaking the bottle, then went around the corner into the kitchen, opening the stainless-steel refrigerator door and letting out a low whistle. “Soda, water, basic condiments and some whipped butter. Toss in some ancient moldy leftovers and a few bottles of beer and it would be identical to mine. Though mine’s just white. Not fancy and shiny like this one.”

He passed me a bottle of water across the counter, and I quickly swallowed two tiny red pills and stuck my tongue out at him. “It used to be much shittier, trust me. Back in 2011 everything was in such bad shape I said fuck it and decided to put the money into renovating it. Plus, I needed more storage options. For books. Want the official downstairs tour?”

“Indeed I do.”

I pointed at the kitchen. “Where you’re at…that’s the kitchen.” He smacked my hand gently and rolled his eyes. “Countertops are concrete, back splash is glass tile. Gas stove over yonder, mainly used for boiling water and reheating takeout food. Next to the fridge is a Fisher & Paykel DishDrawer. It’s a dishwasher, but it pulls out like a drawer and takes up a lot less space. We won’t talk about how much it cost. It’s embarrassing, and I didn’t really NEED it but damn, it’s really fucking cool. Don’t open it, though. I think I may have forgotten to do them before I left. After seeing my mother’s house I don’t like the cabinets as much as I used to, but at least they have stainless pulls instead of gold. Bathroom next.”

Tom rounded the corner and followed me the seven steps to the washroom. “You’ve already seen this. And you’ve looked in the cabinet under the sink. Hopefully there’s nothing too embarrassing in there, though I tend to keep most of that stuff in the loft. Floor is teeny tiny marble tiles, walls are subway tile, because, New York, and the shower is black glass tile. I love glass tile. I have no idea why, but I do. The overhead light in there is awesome…I abhor showering in low light. Can’t see shit. The fixture is a Grohe, and it’s got a rain head AND a massager. In retrospect, I would have gone with just the massager because the rain head gets water in my eyes constantly. And here we have a sink, and the excrement receptacle. Very exciting, no?”

He chuckled. “Excrement receptacle. I’m stealing that one, if you don’t mind.”

I waved my hand. “Sure, fine, why not. Now, let’s adjourn to the living area. To your left is the sideboard, where I keep all the crap I don’t have another place for. The mirror above is handy for making sure there are no boogers hanging from my nose before I leave the house AND for watching myself burn things in the kitchen. Up next are these very cool metal lockers that function as my coatroom and general storage. They all have a different combinations and I don’t know the two on the far end so please don’t turn the dials. To your right is a dining set that is not anywhere within the scope of my usual taste, but it was a gift from Anne when I first moved in and part of her parent’s estate so it remains. Recovering the seats in black leather made them more palatable. There’s a matching hutch on the wall behind it, which I use for books instead of dishes. The rug is from her, too. Sorry, am I rambling? Just let me know if you want me to shut up.”

He shook his head. “No, I’m enjoying this immensely. This…this is the place you call home. I want to know every detail, the how, the why, the significance of each and every thing and what it means to you.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Yeah, well, we’re only going to be here for three days and I did plan on leaving the house to do stuff so…anyway.” I gestured to the windows. “Those are eight feet high, the ceilings are twelve. There’s a remote on the coffee table that opens and closes the shades. Some people don’t mind parading around in the buff in front of the entire city, but I try to avoid it. Emphasis on TRY.” He laughed. “The bookshelves are custom…I designed them myself. Underneath are storage cabinets, which hold more books, my speakers, and some DVDs and CDs. The rug under the coffee table is also from Anne, and the white sofa…I have no explanation for it other than it had clean lines and metal feet. How it’s remained unscathed in light of my clumsiness is a mystery. The chaise part is pretty cool, though, and the TV’s on a swivel so I can turn it in that direction. Both pieces of art are things I found while traveling. The one by the windows was at an estate sale in Boston, and the big one is from a gallery in San Francisco.” I held my hands out to the side at shoulder level. “So, that’s it, I guess. If you turn around you’ll see the loft, and as soon as my meds kick in we can go up and unpack. Oh, wait. One more thing. Here’s your key.” I reached into my pocket, then held it out to him, allowing it to lay flat on my palm.

He lifted it slowly, the pads of his fingers brushing delicately against my hand, the connection creating a current of what felt like a thousand volts. It surged through me, and when I met his gaze he burst into tears. I wound my arms around him, crutches falling to the floor with a metallic whump, kissing each wet cheek in turn as my own eyes began streaming.

Wiping at his eyes with the back of one hand, his other arm around my waist, he smiled softly. “Wow. Sorry about that…I just…I…not even seven days ago I was certain I’d lost you forever and here we are, actually, finally in New York and you’ve welcomed me into your home…into your LIFE…and I’m just…I’m…so…so…GRATEFUL, Maude. And thankful. All that we’ve learned about each other, how much closer we’ve grown…which, honestly, I wouldn’t have believed to be possible, given how close we already were…I feel…unburdened. Lighter. Freer. I feel…ALIVE. So very much alive.”

His mouth was on mine before I had a chance to speak, and when he did the lip thing again I lost my mind completely. One hand was up my shirt, caressing my breasts first over then under my bra, the other down my shorts, inside my underwear, two fingers abruptly thrust inside me, pumping in and out. I glanced at the stove clock as I undid his zipper and wrapped my hand around his throbbing cock. It read 11:25. At least fifteen more minutes before dinner arrived. Plenty of time.

He whimpered pitifully as I began stroking him, voice breaking when he managed to speak. “Oh…Maude…I wanted to wait and take my time but…ohhhhh, GOD…I’m afraid I’m more than a little desperate for you, my love. May I have you, please? Now?”

I walked him backward toward the coffee table, fumbled for the remote and hit the button to close the shades, then grabbed waist of his shorts and pushed them down over his hips until they fell unceremoniously to the floor. He did the same with mine, dragging my panties with them, pausing to allow me to lean on him as he lifted my right leg to pull them over the boot. Our mouths met again, mine open and waiting for his tongue. His kiss was at first gruff, then yielding, gasping as I sought to imitate the forcefulness he’d displayed when sucking on my lip, pulling his into my mouth with a ferocity I hadn’t known I possessed. I felt myself being lowered onto a surface, which I assumed was the chaise portion of the couch, but wouldn’t have cared if it was a bed of nails.

Suddenly his weight was upon me, cock hard and leaking against my entrance. He broke the kiss to hold my head in his hands, our foreheads almost touching, gazes locked. “I love you, Maude. I will love you all of this life, and in each and every one that follows. I will love you as the world turns to ash around us. I will love you as the universe collapses into itself, and in the blackness of the eternity that awaits, I will remain, with you, at your side, holding your hand, never to let go. This love…it knows no bounds. It is forever. Two souls made one, together unto infinity. I love you. I love you.”

He shifted his hips, pushing himself inside me, slowly, stilling when he hit bottom, and I wept against his shoulder, hands at his waist under his shirt and grasping his hips. He wrapped his arms around me, hands in my hair, his lips on my neck, kissing every spot over and over.

“I love you, Thomas. Never let me go. Please. Never let me go.”

We began moving together, all gentleness cast aside as we raced at breakneck speed to feel the completeness that resulted only when the physical and the spiritual combined. His hips slammed against mine so savagely I knew I’d wake tomorrow to bruises, and my hands moved further up and under his shirt, fingernails digging in, then raking down his back as the head of his cock nudged my cervix and I came, pleasure and pain intermingling, a chasm opening and suspending us in a single instance of time and space as I felt his cock pulsing in tempo with my walls, then erupting its liquid fire inside me, like a volcano buried deep in the ocean floor.

The only sound in the apartment was our breathing, both of us panting and gasping. Tom rose up on his elbows, conducting a visual inspection to determine if I’d incurred any damage.

“Fuck, Maude…I’m so sorry…that was positively barbarous of me…are you all right? And your ankle…I forgot about THAT altogether…”

I placed my palms on his chest. “Barbarous is a bit harsh, don’t you think? I’d go with delightfully uncivilized. Either way, it was electrifying. And I’m fine. How’s your back, though? Let me see.”

“My back? Why?” He whipped his shirt off and slipped it under me as he pulled out and turned around. Eight welts stretched from his shoulders to his waist, four of them bleeding in spots.

My hand flew to my mouth, dampening a loud gasp. “Now that there, THAT’S barbarous. You. Are. Bleeding.”

He craned his neck to see behind him, then got up and went to look in the sideboard mirror. I got up, and hobbled over to stand next to him, clad only in my T-shirt.

“Tom…shit…I’m like…SO sorry. Yikes. I’ll go get some peroxide…”

He started at his reflection, head tilted, puzzled. “I didn’t feel that. At all.” As he turned around to face me, his hands reached for mine, grasping them. “What I DID feel was you. Us. I want you to know, Maude, I meant every word of what I said. Every word.”

“I know. Thank you. I…I…I’m not sure if I can formulate a reply that would convey my own feelings adequately…”

A kiss cut me off, his tongue forcing its way past my lips and teeth to reach mine, and when he pulled away he pointed at the couch. “You already did, my love.”

The blush began in my already flushed cheeks and spread all the way down to my breasts. My gaze shifted from his face to the floor. “Oh.”

Tom chuckled. “Suddenly modest, are we?”

I let go of his hands in order to cover my face. “Oh. My. GOD. Shut. UP.”

He roared with laughter, the sound echoing in the open space that surrounded us. I turned on my heel as quickly as my injury would allow and opened the bathroom door, looking back at him over my shoulder.

“I’m still going to get you some peroxide, in spite of the fact that you’re a complete and total asshole.”

The laughter continued as I searched the drawer, then abruptly ceased as someone knocked on the door and loudly announced ‘delivery for Gallagher’.

I took off my T-shirt and tossed it to Tom. “Here, put this on. And don’t forget your shorts. I’ll hide in here. There’s tip money in the dish on top of the sideboard.”

Figuring I might as well pee while I was in there, I giggled as I sat down on the seat. “Excrement receptacle. Damn, I’m fucking hilarious.” I could hear Tom thanking the delivery guy as I finished up and washed my hands, followed by the sound of the door closing. He was in the kitchen when I came out, removing the food from the bags and placing it on the counter, sorting it into two piles. I put my underwear back on and dug a T-shirt out of my luggage. There was no way to be sure whether it was clean or dirty, but it passed the sniff test so I deemed it wearable.

We ate at the dining table, him snatching half my bagel and a good sized chunk of my omelet. The cheesecake and the scone went in the fridge so we’d have something on hand that passed for breakfast, and as he loaded the silverware into the dishdrawer (which had been empty, thankfully) a yawn escaped him, so powerful he dropped the fork he’d been holding.

I bent to pick it up, remembering he’d been up hours before I had. It seemed a physical impossibility that the press encounter and funeral had occurred earlier that same day, and suddenly all I wanted to do was lie down with him snuggled against me. He closed the drawer and pushed the start button, and I reached for his hand.

“Come on, you. Time for sleep.”

He let go, shaking his head. “We haven’t unpacked, nor have we texted Luke and Simon to let them know we arrived safely and to find out if they have as well, and we still have to call Norman…”

I grabbed my phone from my shorts, which were still on the floor where he’d dropped them. “There. Luke and Simon texted. Where’s your phone? Let’s text Norman, too.” He passed it to me. I typed quickly.

Hey – just wanted to say thank you for reaching out, and no worries. The internet, as they say, is forever. Appreciate you noticing and providing clarity as to the source. Hope filming the rest of the season is going well. Best, Gallagher & Hiddleston

I turned the screen so Tom could read what I’d written.

He nodded. “That’s perfect. Thank you.”

I hit send, set my phone on the sideboard and turned off the downstairs lights. “Let’s go. Move that ass.”

He snorted and followed me up the stairs. It felt like it took forever with the stupid boot, and I dreaded having to pee during the night. I turned back the covers, then stood by the dresser at the bottom of the bed and removed my shirt and panties, Tom’s arms winding around my waist from behind, holding me in place so I didn’t fall over as I wrangled the underwear over the boot.

His voice rumbled in my ear. “So, this is where the magic happens…”

“Ummm…if you’re referring to solo magic, yes. Lots of it. But other than that, no. Not in a long, long time, anyway.”

His grip loosened and he stepped back, silent until I turned around.

“Maude, I’d forgotten he lived here with you…I’m…”

I raised my hand to stop him. “Shush. There’s no longer room in my heart, or my head, for anything other than what’s right in front of me. What happened can’t be changed, nor would I want it to be. Life is meant to be experienced in the moment. If you dwell on the past or focus on the future, you miss everything in between. Trust me. I know. And I’m so very, very done with missing out. Now get those clothes off.” I held out my right arm, palm up, towards the platform that held a queen size mattress. “This way to my bed, sir.”

#your light in the mist #chapter 23

10 notes · View notes

darnedchild · 7 years

Text

Molly Hooper Appreciation Week Part Deux - Day 2

A/N : Welp, I like to use these *insert whatever theme* Weeks as an excuse to step outside my usual fic writing comfort zone – so today we try generically vague possibly Regency AU! (But it could be Victorianish. To be honest the entirety of my ‘research’ for this thing consists of once reading some historical romance novels where people have hot monkey sex in carriages—which is tragically not a thing that’s going to happen in this fic, sorry.) Look, history is really not my strong suit (see also math and geography).

On FFdotNet and Ao3

Molly Hooper Appreciation Week Part Deux - Day 2 - ___ At First Sight (Fanworks focusing on first meetings)

The Mayfair Murderer

Another peal of grating, almost crystalline laughter stabbed through the air like a shard of broken glass. Sherlock didn’t bother to conceal his grimace and one of the more delicate ladies standing nearby visibly wilted.

He continued to weave his way through the overly crowded room with determination, as if he had a destination in mind or some real purpose other than simply escaping the oppressive crush.

If it weren’t for his promise to Mummy, he would have made his excuses and left long ago.

Hadn’t he suffered enough already?

His eyes scanned the room, searching for Watson. Between the two of them they would surely be able to come up with a suitable need to be called away immediately. They had done it before.

Sherlock blanched as he caught sight of his brother in the next room. Mycroft’s posture was perfect as he lead his young wife through the Quadrille. Up until the marriage two seasons prior, Mycroft would have done his best to avoid such dances; but Mrs Holmes (Anthea, not Mummy) enjoyed them and Mycroft enjoyed pleasing his wife.

If Sherlock had thought Mycroft’s marriage would have lessened the pressure towards making a match of his own, he was sorely mistaken. Once her eldest son was settled (Into what Sherlock might have suspected was a love match if not for the way his brother continued to insist that caring was not an advantage.), Mrs Holmes had turned her gaze toward her youngest.

He had managed to avoid his familial responsibilities for several years, hiding behind Mycroft’s bachelorhood as an excuse to continue to avoid obvious match-making efforts disguised as social obligations. But Mummy had put her foot down at the beginning of the current season and Sherlock had been forced to agree to ‘make an effort’ to find a wife of his own.

That was quite obviously not going to happen here, however.

He ducked through a set of open doors that lead out to the garden and nearly ran into a young woman standing just outside. She had been lurking just in the shadows, watching the others dance. Probably with a wistful and longing expression, he thought unkindly.

Sherlock quickly took in the woman’s appearance: long brown hair that had been curled and pinned to the point of discomfort, dress a season out of date and a size too large, effort had been made to alter the dress to bring it more in line with the current fashion, clothing obviously borrowed.

She stepped to the side to let him pass at the exact moment he did the same. Then they both moved to the other side. After a third such motion, Sherlock sighed and put his hands on her shoulders to hold her still as he stepped around her.

She blushed and stammered, “I apologize, Mr Holmes.”

His name on her lips pulls him up short. While he freely admits he has a habit of dismissing people as unimportant, he can’t remember if he’d ever seen her before. “Pardon my forgetfulness, but have we met?”

“Oh!” Her gloved hand flew up to cover her mouth. Somehow her blush managed to deepen. “Yes. Well, no, not really. At the Bellamy ball. My uncle had only just finished introducing you to my cousins and was just about to . . . but Doctor Watson made it clear your services were required elsewhere and you had to leave. It was all rather sudden.”

Sherlock vaguely remembered the ball in question a week prior. He’d been bored out of his mind and insisted Watson rescue him.

She twisted her fingers together and looked at his feet, as if she were suddenly overcome by a fit of shyness. “It was the talk of the gathering for nearly half an hour. Until a certain Miss was discovered in the conservatory with Mr Fr-“ She broke off with a gasp and raised her eyes to meet his. Horror at her faux pas stained her cheeks a becoming pink.

Becoming?

She scrambled for another topic, clearly flustered. “I thought, upon first reading The Morning Post, that you must have been called away to assist with the murder in Mayfair; but I quickly realized that couldn’t have been the case.”

Sherlock had been growing bored, and half of his attention had been diverted toward the sight of Watson dancing with a blonde in a light blue dress; but the mention of murder had him returning his full focus to the woman before him.

“And why couldn’t it have been?” She was correct in that he had not been summoned to Mayfair that night, but he wanted to know why she thought so.

She laughed. Actually laughed! “Obviously once I read the details of the arrest, I knew the likelihood of the man they’d caught being the murderer was very low. I suppose it is possible that the Yard held several key pieces of information back from the public, but the detective in the paper seemed rather keen to show off. It was clearly a mistake you wouldn’t have been involved in.”

“Showing off?” There were plenty who would disagree with that assessment. Watson and Mycroft chief among them.

“Oh, no!” She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant at all, not that I know you well enough to say whether or not . . . I just . . . The suspect.”

Despite his usual reluctance to spend a second longer than absolutely necessary engaged in social niceties such as small talk, Sherlock found that he was no longer quite so eager to escape this one. “The suspect?”

“Well, he’s not the murder, is he? There was a witness who described the attacker as a dark man in a long overcoat with a cane, which he used as the murder weapon. Based on that description the suspect was stopped and arrested no more than five minutes later, several streets away. He was wearing an overcoat but possessed no cane.”

His eyes narrowed as he considered where she might be going with her comments. He was familiar with the case, and he shared her assessment that the man still in custody was not the one who had committed the crime (not that the constabulary would listen to him until they discovered another victim, which was inevitable judging from the destructive rage the murderer had demonstrated), but he wanted to know what had driven her to that conclusion. “He could have disposed of the cane in any street gutter or alley before he was caught.”

“True,” she conceded. “But how would he have managed to remove all traces of the victim’s blood and-“ Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper that had him leaning closer to hear her. “-viscera from his person in that short of time? I am given to understand that the body was nearly unrecognizable when it was brought into the morgue at St Bartholomew’s.”

How, he wondered, could she have possibly learned of that? The state of the victim’s corpse had most assuredly not been released to the public and would not have been in The Morning Post, braggart detective or not.

“Conceivably,” she continued, “he might have had another coat hidden nearby, which would presume the attack was premediated rather than a crime of passion as the detective stated. Regardless, there should have been some transfer under his nails or in his hair, something more to tie him to the crime than a vague description and a coat.”

That was remarkably similar to his thoughts when he’d first read the police report and been allowed to sit in on an interview with the suspect. He stared at her in silence for a long moment.

“I’m afraid this isn’t the type of conversation I’m used to engaging in at these . . . “ He waved his hand in the general direction of the ballroom. “Things.”

He’d meant it as a compliment of sorts, but it was apparent from the way she turned deathly pale that she had not taken it as such.

“Oh, I’m so . . . I see my uncle is . . . Pardon me.” And then she scurried away with her head down as if she had done something of which to be ashamed.

He followed her into the ballroom, but hung back against the wall as she crossed the room to stand near her uncle. Her uncle indulgently smiled down at her before introducing her to another man and handing her off for a dance.

Watson appeared at Sherlock’s side a few minutes later.

“Do you know that gentleman?” Sherlock indicated the man he was talking about with a subtle flick of his wrist and nod of his head.

“Hmm? Ah, yes. Mike Stamford. We both trained at St Bartholomew’s, worked together for a bit before I left for the war. I’ve heard he’s still there, teaching now.”

That could explain the young woman’s connection to the hospital, if her uncle had told her of the condition of the corpse.

“And his niece? What do you know of her?”

“I think he took her in when his sister passed this winter. Maggie, no Molly. Molly Hooper, I believe. Why?” Watson looked toward Stamford, his brow furrowed as if he were trying to figure out a mystery. Sherlock hated it when Watson did that, it made him look ridiculous.

Sherlock turned away from Stamford and began to push his way through the crowd toward his hosts, he’d reached the limit of his endurance for the evening and was ready to make his excuses and leave. “We shall be visiting the Yard tomorrow, Watson. I need to speak to Detective Lestrade regarding the Mayfair murder last week. And then, perhaps, a visit to St Bartholomew’s might be in order. I believe I may wish to speak with your friend Stamford.”

#molly appreciation week #day 2: … at first sight #sherlolly

17 notes · View notes