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shineonmalcolmbright · 4 years ago

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Shine On, Bright: Chapter Twenty-Four

Table of Contents

Present

How does one mentally prepare themselves for a family get together? Ainsley runs her own news story in her own head. There has to be answers to such a question then again it sounds closer to Buzzfeed clickbait for the regular family, not the Whitly family. It’s a question for people who needed to wrestle with the fact their uncle is a racist or their grandma has too much pent up internalized misogyny.

How does one mentally prepare themselves for a family get together after you interview your serial killer father despite your mother’s wishes? You come bearing gifts and pray to the heavens you can survive a night of consistent passive-aggressiveness.

Reporters crowd the front door as if there’s story to share. She pries her way past them, steps up to the door, and looks out over them. Everybody there comes closer ready to eat her alive. Jokes on them. Her fears are none, it’s what happens when you’re a young girl who befriends ghost kids and never really gets to know her dad because he killed people.

All of the reporters act as if she’ll throw them a bone and let them know the truth, a truth about the Junkyard Killer and The Surgeon. Instead, she looms above them with a smirk and a prepared comment in her mind.

“Any breaking news about my family is mine to report, thank you.”

The gall of them to think she’d answer a single question other than the words that just fell out of her mouth. Please. This is her life, this is her story, she herself is a reporter and it's her narrative to tell.

The reporters call after her begging for more but she whisks herself away into the house. There are bigger sharks to battle. Her mother being the main villain of the day. Her and all her disappointment locked up inside her castle.

Piano music plays, it adds to the play-acting of a happy holiday. Maybe for somebody who eats up nostalgia, they’d be happy to hear it in the air. Christmas lights decorating note one tree, but two. The first being smaller and near the doors where Jessica stands looking at ornaments. None of which were really dedicated to their lives because what was there to say about the lives of the Whitlys?

Each would have a different answer.

Malcolm would say their past haunts them.

Jessica would say she half remembers laughter in barbiturate induced sleep.

Nobody was going to ask Martin.

And Ainsley also did not have an answer.

“Hello?” Ainsley calls out as she enters their not so humble abode. Her fingers are crossed that Malcolm beat her there. Please let Malcolm already be there.

Jessica turns to face Ainsley armed with her trademark smile (if she were so allowed to file for on). She acts as if she isn’t lost in some thought. To be honest, Malcolm’s the only one who’s right: Their past still haunts them. Either way, Ainsley reaches out her gift of wine pretending nothing’s wrong. It’s a regular family about to have a regular family Christmas dinner! A game they both could play all day and night if she so chose. Jessica says no greeting but an Ah as she continues her charade of a smile. For most families, charades is a game where you have a partner and guess what the other is acting out. For them, it’s “What the hell is on [insert Whitly in Question]’s mind?”

Taking the wine bottle she looks at it and by look, it really is a glance. “You. . .brought a twist-off.”

Still no hello, Hi, There you are!, Malcolm’s on his way, or Glad you could make it.

Jessica is the first to lose at their game of charades, sarcasm enters her chuckling as she pulls the wine away leaving Ainsley there holding onto nothing but air and not ready for this, not any of this.

Jessica: 0 Ainsley: 1 Malcolm: TBD

She should’ve taken her advice to mentally prepare for this night. And where the hell is Malcolm? He needs to be around, right there at the moment, but no, he’s probably too far gone obsessing over murder forgetting his family remains in the land of the living.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Ainsley grumbles, looking at the pristine tree.

There were little white birds perched on branches. The only current statement of Malcolm in the house. How odd something like that is what lasted in their decorations. A not so bad Whitly past, Malcolm loved birds for whatever reason. Then again only a child like him could be obsessed with ornithology and forensic psychology or whatever it was he loved.

Ainsley fumbles with her hands and turns to watch her mother drop the bottle of wine off with snow globes and other miscellaneous Christmas decorations, each and every one curated to look the best as if people wanted to visit their murder abode.

For someone so careful about spearheading the correct questions, Ainsley slips. Her hands slip free from one another as if she can casually grab onto some parental approval. Somehow the words just happen to fall from her mouth, “Did you watch it?”

Really? Really? She had to ask her mother that? Today was not going to end well.

Jessica faces Ainsley with such an exasperated sigh. “No comment.”

Again with the slipping, all of the slipping. Somehow something knocks something loose and Ainsley needs her mother and her brother and needs them to be there for her. She wants their support, she wants their compliments, she wants instant gratification and for a chance to not let a past haunt any of them.

“Can’t you at least try and be happy for me?”

It’s another wrong question to ask and so obvious by the way Jessica stares at her. Charades no more.

####

Malcolm fidgets with a present in his hand. He’s picking at the edges of the bow on the box knowing it’ll mess it up but he can’t stop. His other hand starts a beat on the edge, he scans the area around him. Making sure he’s safe. Tries to convince himself he’s safe as his brain protests: Danger, danger.

It’d be great if danger actually lurked behind corners. Instead, there’s people walking by him, lost in fits of giggles or chuckles as holiday spirit does its best to eat them all up inside. There’s a part of his brain that for some reason doesn’t accurately compute situations right leaving his brain to protest again and again: Danger, danger.

He grips the present a little too hard but doesn’t want to ruin it. Somehow this gift needs to survive its journey to his mother’s, but he can maybe spare some time to purchase something new if tragedy befalls. Only she’s expecting him soon. But anxiety rings in his brain, it swells up with its warning: Danger, danger.

Danger grabs his shoulder, whirling him around with one loud grunt of a Hey. It’s Owen right there. Shoving his shoulder as he glares at him. Malcolm’s stuck in fight, flight, or freeze all over again at the sight of him. Whatever happens, he can’t fall back in time. It’ll let more danger sink in especially with Owen snarling at him right before so many people casually moving around on all sides. Not that anybody looks up and away from their holiday cheer.

“Malcolm Whitly,” Owen spits out at him. His boozy breath is stale, he’s not drunk but he’d been drinking for some time that day. So much anger is built up in those words, his name. Malcolm Whitly. “I always knew that you were a liar.”

Anger is seething through Owen’s brain, it’s coursing through his veins. It’s as if somebody created him from the raw emotion itself. Even with being in the open and the world ready for Malcolm to run, he feels as if he’s stuck in a corner or stuck in a room like so many years ago, trapped. Trapped, trapped, trapped. He’s trapped in his tracks all over again with Owen sizing him up, volcanic and without any chance for cheer.

“And I didn’t recognize you till I saw your hand.”

Malcolm looks down, his handshakes. He covers his movement as if he doesn’t quake.

“You can change your name, but you can’t change who you are.”

The words slice straight through him. It’s enough of a push to start the slow fall, him falling out of the present and into the past. Then again, the past and present are always happening at once, two timelines wrapped up with one another, both of which he can’t escape, not at all. Trauma can turn anyone into a time traveler, but if only it were half as romantic as it sounded.

Malcolm clenches his teeth letting pain break apart his thoughts, Don’t fall, don’t fall back, don’t fall, don’t fall out of time again. . .

Except there’s two of him and two of Owen. A Young Malcolm stuck inside the Overlook again and again, it’s like he picks up the phone daily to make the call, all after the hotel got to him, his father that is so there’s him making the call about his father after he wants to hurt Gil then the local police showing up.

Not that Colorado is halfway across the world, but it seems like it really does even with Young Malcolm there and here in New York City with Younger Owen who is all fury, more so then Now Owen.

Younger Owen with Young Malcolm inside a room with so many memories of his father moving at his fingertips across the table while Younger Owen demands: Tell me the truth. Tell me what you did. Are you Daddy’s little helper? You Know more than you are saying. His words sped up, full of fire, nonstop. Tellmehowhedidit. TELLME!

Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut, his jaw is cracking under such pressure as his headache grows. The ringing in his ears block all the cacophony New York. Younger Owen and Young Malcolm may be gone but he still has Owen to worry about in the present as he teeters off balance. Maybe he can fall into a car and let it break him away from the situation thanks to a necessary ride to the ER.

A small voice reminds him.

Inhaaaaale. . .

One.

Two.

Three.

He doesn’t even make it to four out of the five seconds he needs and looks straight at Owen who’s keeping a close eye on him. But something about Owen has changed. The ringing’s too loud for Malcolm to parse through any of his thoughts. Maybe it’s for the better. He doesn’t want to really go there.

“I’m not my father,” Malcolm informs him, he shakes his head like it’ll get the ringing to start. It hurts, hurts his brain and his jaw clicks as he speaks.

Owen doesn’t laugh out loud but Malcolm can still hear it, his thoughts becoming either clearer or louder. Either way, there’s laughter. Owen points at himself, “Are you trying to convince me?” Then he points at Malcolm. “Or are you trying to convince yourself?”

Malcolm hangs tight to the present letting it weigh him down in the present where he belongs. His jaw pops, pops, pops while Owen won’t shut up. He looks at the way the ribbon frays feeling the urge to pick it apart again.

“‘Cause if you’re trying to convince me, save your breath!” The last word Owen shouts, spittle sprays with each letter b-r-e-a-t-h. Each covered with the stale alcohol of Owen’s morning. He grabs Malcolm’s coat and Malcolm continues to hang there. His jaw pop, pop, popping in an attempt to breath. “‘Cause I was right.” Owen’s fingers dig into his chest. Feels as if bruises are already blooming there. Malcolm kind of, sort of, looks up at him while still avoiding eye contact with Owen to watch the fraying ribbon of his present. “There was someone else.”

There was someone else.

“But you always knew that,” Young Malcolm says while he’s standing off to the side, one step off the curb and watching the scene unfold. Malcolm glances at him, it’s more or less of an accident because Owen might be mad if he looks anywhere else. “You always knew there was someone else.”

Malcolm returns his focus to Owen finding words for the present. “I know why you’re angry. You dedicated your life to The Surgeon’s case.” He pauses allowing a moment to survey any change in Owen’s expression. “You were right.”

He hesitates again even though Owen’s not really registered yet what’s been said for Malcolm to read. “I did know something. At the Overlook, my father had-had a person. . .who stayed with us and I forgot about him, but I have reason to believe he was or he is The Junkyard Killer.”

Some reason Malcolm keeps closing the space between them. His jaw is popping and his hand is quaking. It’s a lot, so much. “All I have are-are fragments of a memory.”

11/08: Woke up in library. Thought I went to bed.

The past is back, intertwined with the present. Young Malcolm with a knife as he runs through the hedge maze sinking deep into snow with madness chasing after him. My boy! Come on and take your medicine!

11/08: Woke up in library. Thought I went to bed.

Him trying his best to journal and to remember as he keeps falling through time and waking up, waking up, waking up in strange places. Yet with so many stories about death at his fingertips and ghosts whispering all about him. A woman who threw her children off the roof and hanged herself in the basement. A girl last seen in the elevators only to go missing. Mob violence as shooters took out a hit on somebody in a room. A man who lost it and annihilated his entire family because the hotel told him it’d be better for all of them. There was a man stuck inside a bear suit, he died of asphyxiation. A woman who slit her wrists in her bathtub and then another woman without a story who he found in a tub in Room 217. (Maybe he could’ve saved the woman he found in Room 217.)

11/09: Woke up in ballroom (?). Remember going to bed. Mother said something about taking a pill to sleep better. Don’t remember falling asleep.

Owen is hanging onto each and every single one of Malcolm’s words. This is what he’s known and waited for all his life. It’s bouncing all around him as exclamation marks, Malcolm tries to ground himself into the present still letting his Christmas present weight him down.

11/10: Is it possible to not remember falling asleep but waking up? Feels like haven’t slept for days. Ask somebody about it.

“Only The Surgeon and Paul Lazar know what happened. . .” The words are coming so fast. He can’t stop any of them now. They’re falling right in the open for anybody to collect but especially for Owen to piece through.

11/11: Woke up in bar, heard music, heard voices. Father found me, we talked, said to talk to him, didn’t hear all the noise. Ask him about it later?

Malcolm’s practically shouting at Owen. “. . .But my father is in solitary and when I tried to find Paul, the FBI kicked me off the case for being too. . .”

Before Malcolm can finish his own words, Owen butts in finishing his sentence for him. He knows, he knows, he knows. “Obsessed?”

11/12: ????

Malcolm stares at him at such a loss. There’s nothing else to say because Owen said it all and he’s still saying it. He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.

“Unhinged? Making it personal?” All the anger of Owen has since peeled away, his hands dig deep into his pockets as empathy becomes him. Malcolm nods. “I kind of know the feeling.” They stop talking for a split second. Owen looks him up and down with a new emotion crossing his face, one Malcolm can’t quite read. There’s a softness to him. “Where are you in the Turner case?”

11/13: Woke up in bed. Last thing I remember, boiler room. Looking at newspapers. Then nothing. Is there something wrong with me?

Malcolm sighs unable to make eye contact again. “We think the killer has something to do with one of his old cases, but we haven’t found anything yet.” Words that probably should have stayed locked up in his mind and not out in the open as puzzle pieces for Owen to play around with. But he knows, he knows, he knows.

Owen kind of smiles, it's a brief thought, a memory that’s just out of reach for him. Good thing he explains out loud though, Turner had a-a place where he kept everything that he didn’t want to release to official case files. I can take you there.”

He means it, too. Malcolm doesn’t even know how to emote because Owen really means it, too. His brain is working its way already across the city to this location, ready to dig into some research to help Turner out, not Malcolm, but Turner. He huffs out a Come on, which is so easy to miss. Maybe Malcolm imagined it or heard it in Owen’s thoughts because he’s already walking away forcing Malcolm to half walk-half run after him to discover the secrets Turner hid.

11/14: Woke up in the bathroom. Don’t remember falling asleep there, but I tracked mud all across the floor. There were leaves in my hair. I was able to hide my notes before mother found me in the bathroom. She was furious asking me where I had been and didn’t like that I kept telling her: I don’t know. Because I don’t, I don’t know where I was or where I went and I don’t know what’s happening to me.

#Prodigal Son #The Shining #shineonbrightfic #Malcolm Bright #Owen Shannon #Gil Arroyo #Prodigal Son fic #Prodigal Son fanfic #Prodigies #Malcolm Bright Whump

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lastbluetardis · 5 years ago

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Family of Six (9/14)

After James and Rose bring their newborn twins home, they work to find a balance between all four of their children, and each other. Ten x Rose AU, Soulmates AU.

This chapter: Explicit, 7400 words

Ages of the Tyler-McCrimmons at the start of the chapter: James: 39, Rose: 33, Ainsley: 9, Sianin: 6, Twins: 1 month

If you like reading my stories, consider leaving me a tip? Or leave a reply on this post to tell me what you thought? And as always, reblogs are very much appreciated so more people can see this.

Next update: October 10th

AO3 | TSP | FF | Perfectly Matched Series

Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9 | Ch10 | Ch11 | Ch12 | Ch13 | Ch14

Even though they only had another week and a half until Rose was potentially cleared for sex again, time seemed to mock them and moved slower than usual.

It wasn’t helping that they felt perfectly normal and were desperate to resume all normal activities with each other. What would begin as a simple chaste kiss would rapidly dissolve into snogging and heavy make-out sessions, leaving them both aching and frustrated for more.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Rose pleaded when James absolutely refused to cheat and partake in actual intercourse.

“You could get an infection that festers and gets worse and worse until you finally have to have all of your lady bits scooped out, which then creates more problems and pain and infection and then you die and I have all this guilt and depression hanging over me for the rest of my long and lonely life.”

He was only partially exaggerating.

Rose rolled her eyes and swatted his chest. “That’s a tad dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. But please Rose. I don’t want to accidentally hurt you or cause you to get an infection. We can wait another four days.”

“I don’t think I can. I will literally die right here in your arms and it’ll be all your fault. Go ahead and fester in that guilt for the rest of your long and lonely life.”

James chuckled. “Now who’s being dramatic?”

“Certainly not me,” Rose said sweetly. She sighed heavily. “Fine. No actual penetration. But can we keep going as we were before I go and take care of it myself?”

“With pleasure,” James growled, pulling her in for a hard kiss.

While they tried not to combust from sexual frustration—honestly, it was ridiculous how frustrated they were, considering they were getting each other off in other ways—Sianin continued to make very slow progress in adjusting to life with the twins.

James and Rose lowered their expectations, realizing they were wanting Sianin to be as positive about the twins as Ainsley was. Instead, they tried to balance baby-free and baby-busy time with Sianin. They would ask her if it was okay that they were holding a baby when Sianin wanted to cuddle up on the couch and read or watch a movie. They were pleased when she began saying ‘yes’ more than she said ‘no’. And on one memorable occasion that they made sure to document thoroughly, Sianin actually said yes when asked if she wanted to hold a baby.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart!” Rose praised as she snapped photo after photo of her daughter holding Hannah in her lap. Sianin was tucked in James’s lap as well, and while he had his hands at the ready, Sianin was supporting the brunt of the baby’s weight.

Sianin beamed proudly at her parents, then down at Hannah. She took one of her hands away from where it was wrapped around the baby’s lower half and poked Hannah’s fat cheek.

“Squishy,” Sianin said, grinning. “Squishy, squishy, squishy.”

James stifled his laughter and in turn poked one of Sianin’s cheeks, making her giggle.

“You’re squishy too,” he said. “Not as squishy, though.”

Sianin prodded Hannah’s other cheek, and just when she pressed down, Hannah’s cheeks lifted with her mouth as she smiled at them all.

“Oh!” Rose gasped. “Look!”

“She’s smiling!” Sianin said.

“You made your baby sister smile for the first time,” James said warmly.

“She’s cuter when she smiles,” Sianin said, tracing her fingertip along Hannah’s upper and lower lips. The baby squirmed and smiled again.

James, beaming with pride, looked up at Rose and saw tears brimming in her eyes as she grinned at her family. James pecked a kiss to Sianin’s hair.

“Ooh, is she smiling?” Ainsley rushed over to them and plopped onto the couch beside James.

“Yep! I made her smile first,” Sianin said smugly.

“Cool! Can I hold her?”

“When your sister’s done,” James said.

“I think I’m done. My arms are starting to hurt,” Sianin admitted.

“Yeah, that happens,” James reassured. “Even my arms get tired if I hold them for too long.”

After snapping one more photo of her family, Rose set her camera to the side and helped make the baby transfer from Sianin to Ainsley.

That moment seemed to be a turning point for Sianin, albeit a small one. She still craved individual attention from her parents, but as long as the twins were being quiet and smiley, she would play with them if someone else was playing with them. She had yet to seek them out on her own, but James and Rose considered it progress that she at least was joining in.

Her nighttime wanderings in and out of their bed declined as time went on. While she found her way into their room most nights, but she didn’t stay as long as she used to; very rarely did she sleep with them for the entire night. Her problem of wetting the bed seemed to be all but non-existent too. They were pleased that their child finally seemed to be moving in a positive direction.

Despite the night she’d crawled into bed with them, Ainsley seemed to be perfectly content with their new additions to the family. She frequently helped with the babies, and was happy to hold one of them as often as she could, and she delighted in doing anything she could to make Maddie and now Hannah smile.

“You really love being a big sister, don’t you?” Rose asked, a little awed by how wonderful Ainsley was with the babies. She and her eldest were curled up on the couch, each of them cradling a baby, while James put Sianin to bed.

“Of course,” Ainsley said. “What’s not to love about it?”

“Well, lots of things. Just look at Sianin.”

Ainsley wrinkled her nose. “Sianin needs to get over herself.”

“Ainsley,” Rose warned, glad that Sianin wasn’t around to hear her big sister say that.

Her cheeks pinkened, and she muttered, “Sorry. But still. She’s being such a baby about it. Why can’t she see how amazing Hannah and Maddie are?”

“She was the baby of the family for nearly six years,” Rose countered. “And the presence of two newborns has made me and your dad divide our attention between four kids instead of two. And your attention on her has lessened as well.”

Ainsley looked startled.

“Sianin adores you, Ains,” Rose said.

“I adore her, too,” Ainsley said. “But now I also adore Hannah and Maddie.”

“Well, it might seem to her like you don’t love her as much now,” Rose said with a small shrug.

“That’s ridiculous,” Ainsley argued.

“That’s a six-year-old’s logic,” Rose said simply.

Ainsley went silent and leaned down to press a kiss to Hannah’s scalp. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Rose said.

“Why’d you and Dad wait so long to have more babies? Surely Sianin wouldn’t be having as much trouble if she were younger when a new baby arrived?”

An ache crumpled Rose’s chest, but she forced it away. “We didn’t intend to. But sometimes a baby takes a while to make.”

“Oh. So… you and Dad were trying for a long time?”

“You were…” Rose pressed her tongue against the backs of her teeth as she counted back. “...four or five, I think, when your father and I decided we were ready for another baby.”

Ainsley looked stunned. “Why’d it take so long? That’s four years! And you and Dad… well…” Her cheeks turned scarlet before she blurted, “You have sex a lot! So why’d it take so long?”

Rose couldn’t help but laugh to dispel her embarrassment and lingering hurt of precisely how long it had taken to get pregnant. If only it had happened sooner, maybe Sianin wouldn’t be struggling as much…

She resolutely blocked out that thought. There was nothing she could do about it now.

“I don’t know,” Rose said quietly, reaching over to smooth Ainsley’s hair behind her ear, then to stroke the back of Hannah’s hand. “The important thing is that it happened, and your dad and I were blessed with two healthy baby girls.”

Ainsley nodded and when Hannah made a whimpering grunting noise, Ainsley kissed her temple and bounced the baby gently. Rose thought her heart might beat its way out of her chest with how much love she felt for her children. To channel some of it, she hugged Maddie tightly and pecked a line of kisses across the sleeping baby’s scalp. Maddie’s fists flailed, then settled, clenching Rose’s jumper tightly in her fat little fingers.

When Rose returned her attention to Ainsley, she saw the thoughts churning away in her eldest daughter’s mind and patiently waited for Ainsley to speak.

It took nearly a full minute, but Ainsley finally whispered, “Did it upset you and Dad that it took four years?”

“Yes,” Rose answered honestly and simply.

Ainsley nodded to herself. “So that’s why…”

Rose’s breath caught in her throat. “That’s why what?”

“I thought something was wrong,” Ainsley said more to herself than to her mother. She glanced up at Rose. “You and Dad were a bit sad. And then you weren’t anymore.”

Rose’s mouth was dry. She and James had tried so hard to keep their disappointment contained. It had worked all too well, considering they each broke each other’s heart. But she’d thought they’d hidden it from their children. She’d always known Ainsley was a perceptive child, but didn’t realize just how sensitive her daughter was until now.

“I… I’m sorry you picked up on that,” Rose murmured.

“But that was still a while before you got pregnant,” Ainsley said, a question in her eyes.

“Your dad and I realized we were focusing on what we didn’t have rather than what we did have,” Rose said.

Ainsley rested her head in the crook of Rose’s shoulder, beside where Maddie’s head lay. Ainsley kissed her mother’s neck, then Maddie’s head. “I’m glad you got pregnant.”

Rose pressed a kiss to her eldest’s hair. “Me too.”

“Do you and Dad want any more kids?” Ainsley asked.

“Not sure,” Rose admitted. “It’s something your dad and I will discuss in the future.”

“So you’re definitely not trying right now.” The sentence was more of a statement than a question.

“Well, we can’t quite be intimate right now,” Rose said, her cheeks heating.

Ainsley started and looked up at Rose. “Really? Why?”

“Giving birth is sort of a complicated process for a woman’s body,” Rose explained. “It’s not good for a woman to have sex for about a month or so after giving birth.”

“Oh… But… I’ve heard…” Ainsley trailed off a little awkwardly, then cleared her throat. “Or is it… just Dad?”

“Just Dad what?”

Rose jumped at James’s voice directly behind them. Ainsley said nothing, so Rose responded, “We’re just having a bit of girl talk.”

“Oh, then by all means, don’t let me interrupt,” he said, moving into the kitchen.

When the tap started running as he began the dishes, Ainsley said, “So…?”

Rose groaned to herself, hoping Ainsley would have dropped the subject. “There are certain things we can do together that isn’t full-on sex.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Mhm,” Rose said vaguely. “One day, when you decide you’d like to be intimate with someone, we can further discuss this subject, yeah?”

Ainsley wisely recognized the closing of the conversation, and she rested her head into the crook of Rose’s neck.

oOoOo

Finally, the morning of Rose’s six-week check-up arrived, leaving them giddy and excited.

“I swear, if she says I’m not ready to have sex, I’m going to break down and cry right there on the exam table,” Rose said after she ushered their two eldest children towards the car.

“I might break down and cry too,” James said. He pecked a swift kiss to her mouth. “Good luck. Drive safe. Let me know the verdict. I’ll see you when you get home.”

While Rose dropped their two oldest children off at school, he bundled up their two youngest children in their car seats and drove the short distance to his father’s house.

“You two are going to spend the morning with Grandad!” James cooed. “‘Cos Mummy and Daddy want some private alone time, and you babies have a knack for wanting something at the most inconvenient time. That’s not a slight against you girls; babies and children everywhere have no concept of timing. But today, Mummy and Daddy want to spend a long period of uninterrupted time together, you see. Well, you won’t see, which is the point.

“Grandad is very excited to see you,” James continued, drumming his thumbs absently on the wheel. “He loves you so so much. You girls are so loved by everyone. Aren’t you lucky, to have so many people who love you?”

He pulled into the driveway of his dad’s house and continued talking nonsense at his babies as he unbuckled their tiny bodies from their seats.

“Hey, mate!”

James turned his head towards his father’s voice and gave a small nod in greeting, as his hands were full with Hannah.

“Here we go,” James whispered, transferring his baby to his dad. “Grandad’s got you.”

He then turned and took Maddie out of her seat. He followed his dad inside.

“I’ve opened up the windows. I thought the fresh air was nice.” James hummed in agreement; he’d always loved the smell of fresh spring air. “But if they get too cold, I’ve got extra clothes for them. Grandad’s got you beautiful girls covered, eh? Grandad’s gonna take such good care of you while Mummy and Daddy are away. He won’t let those precious handsies or feetsies get cold, no he won’t.”

James smiled as his dad babbled at his babies.

“Right, I’ll be off,” James announced, and he leaned down to press a feather-light kiss to his babies’ foreheads. “You’ll be the sweetest of angels for your grandad, won’t you, my precious darlings?”

He cooed down at both babies until they each smiled at him, making him beam in return.

“Oh! Hannah’s smiling too?” Robert gasped. “What a clever, clever girl!”

“Yeah, she just started the other day,” James said, unable to resist leaning in for another kiss. “Are you all set here? Rose and I will have our phones. Call us if you need us.”

“We’ll be fine,” Robert assured. “Go on. Have fun!”

While he hadn’t told his dad why he and Rose wanted a babysitter for the day, James’s ears burned a little.

“Yep. See you later,” he said. He blew a kiss to his girls then left his father’s house and drove home.

Rose wouldn’t be home for at least another hour yet, so James busied himself by cleaning the house. No matter how often they vacuumed, their carpet was always covered in crumbs. When everything was vacuumed, he washed the kitchen floor, which was always sticky. He thought about cleaning the bathrooms, but didn’t particularly want to smell like bleach when Rose got home.

Instead, he pulled a page from his dad’s book and flung open all of the windows, letting the fresh air into the house. Throughout the month of March, the weather had been unseasonably chilly and damp. It seemed like it was finally turning around though—today was the first day Ainsley and Sianin hadn’t needed to wear their thick winter coats to school.

James then moved to the kitchen and rooted through the fridge for a snack while also wondering what they could make for dinner later. As he munched on an apple, he began marinating chicken with teriyaki and soy sauce.

As he chucked the core into the trash, a smudge of blue on his wrist caught his eye.

The lady bits are fully healed! Our shag session is officially on!

James chuckled and wiped his sticky hands before replying. “Woohoo! The twins are spending the day with my dad, which means we have the house to ourselves.”

Excellent. Y’know, I always read about those couples who scheduled shagging sessions and I thought it was ridiculous. Yet here we are.

“With four kids, I imagine we’ll have to set up a schedule,” he joked.

Just as long as we still have some moments of spontaneity sprinkled in there.

Oh, I nearly forgot! I may or may not have picked up a surprise for you while I was out the other day…

“Oh?” he asked, his throat going dry.

Mhm. You can see it when I get home. Which will be in about twenty minutes. I’m in the car now. See you soon xoxo.

James’s imagination started going into overdrive as he wondered what she might have for him. Well, he knew what she probably had for him—there was only one thing it ever was when she said she had a surprise for him during the type of conversation they were currently having. Lingerie. But the specifics were a mystery to him. Shape, style, color, fit…

The beginnings of desire coiled in his belly as he waited impatiently for Rose to get home. To keep his mind occupied so he wouldn’t lose himself to his fantasies and thus be far too worked up when Rose arrived, James re-alphabetized their books and movies. They were already more or less organized, but the girls—particularly Sianin—didn’t quite take proper care to put the films and books back exactly how they’d been before.

He’d finished the bookshelf and was contemplating re-ordering everything by a different parameter when he heard the sound of an engine cutting off outside their house. He glanced out the front window and saw Rose getting out of her car. He sprang to his feet and moved to greet her at the door, not caring if he was acting like an over-excited dog.

“Hi!” he said with a grin when the door swung open.

“Hiya. Ooh, smells like spring.”

“I opened up the windows,” James said. “It’s a beautiful day out. First we’ve seen the sun in a while, eh?”

“D’you really want to talk about the weather?” Rose asked, cocking her head at him.

“Well, what else is there to talk about?” James asked, nonchalantly stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Hmm, you’re right,” Rose said with a wink, and she turned away from him to set her keys in the dish and toe off her shoes by the door. “Though I suppose we could talk about what to have for dinner.”

“I’ve got some chicken marinating in the fridge,” he answered with a shrug.

“Pity. I guess we’ll just sit in silence for the rest of the day?”

“Or we could discuss… dessert.”

James finally stepped forward and into Rose’s personal space. She sucked in a sharp breath and tilted her head back to look up at him.

“And what would you want for dessert?” she breathed, her pupils dilating.

“Something soft.” He braced his hands on her hips, gripping them tightly to keep his hands from ducking under her jumper. “Something sweet.” He leaned in until they were nose to nose and their breaths mingled in the same space. “Something sinful.”

Rose let out a small noise that nearly broke his resolve. But he kept his hands at her waist and his lips a millimeter away from hers, basking in the growing tension.

“S-so a chocolate cake?”

James laughed, but the sound died in his throat as Rose reached up and fisted her hands in his shirt before closing the distance between them. Their teeth clacked together as their mouths met in a hard, wet kiss that made his knees go weak.

“Cheeky bastard,” she growled against his mouth.

“You love it.”

“Cocky bastard,” she amended.

“Emphasis on the cock,” he purred.

“Keep that up and I won’t show you what I got for you,” she said, though there was no bite in her tone. It was hard to make threats when breathless.

“Oh, I’m sure I could convince you otherwise.” James moved his hands to her bum and he shifted slightly until one of his legs was between hers. He pulled her closer, pressing his hip and thigh tightly against her. She let out a choked moan, her fingers tightening in his shirt. “I can be very persuasive.”

He rocked his hips torturously slowly, even as his growing erection begged for harder, faster contact. But his own denial was well worth the pitiful whimpers coming from Rose. His movements were deliberate as he guided her into a slow grind against his thigh, keeping a vice grip on her arse and hips to keep the pace steady.

“James,” she breathed.

He didn’t reply. Instead, he leaned down to plant feather-light kisses across her neck. She shuddered in his arms; goosebumps prickled across her skin, and he laved his tongue across a patch of them at her neck.

“Please,” she groaned, arching her hips against him. He scooted back a few inches to compensate. “Goddammit, James!”

“Still wanting to keep my surprise to yourself?” he asked.

“Since you’re being a twat, yes,” she grumbled.

He snorted. “Let’s compromise, shall we?”

He slipped his hands under the waistband of her jeans and knickers to cup her arse in his palms. Her knickers felt soft and delicate against the back of his hand. He tried to ignore the impulse to touch them directly to get a better idea what they were made of and how they contoured to her body. Instead, he held her arse firmly and guided her hips into a grind that was still slow, but gave direct pressure where she wanted it.

She let out a strangled noise from deep in her throat as she worked with his rhythm. He felt himself hardening further in his pants the longer Rose worked herself against him. Just before he was about to sneak a hand out of her jeans to adjust himself, Rose’s trembling fingers moved to the front of his trousers. She unbuttoned the front and carefully pulled the zipper down, which provided him instant relief.

“Thanks,” he whispered into her neck.

“Can’t have my favorite part of you getting all pinched and damaged,” she drawled.

“Pfft. Now, I said this was a compromise. I’ve done something for you…”

“And I did something for you,” she countered, reaching into the front of his jeans but not his boxers to angle his cock upwards so it could throb to full hardness, unimpeded.

“So I suppose we’re at a stalemate?” he mused, even as he ached to press his erection into her hand.

Rose made a noise of agreement. “Guess we’ll stand here like this forever.”

“Hmm, I think my dad might have a thing or two to say about that when he drops the babies off this afternoon.”

“Damn. We’ll just have to get on with it then,” she lamented.

“You make it sound like such a chore,” he said with a pout.

“It’s a bunch of work, keeping my husband satisfied.”

James rolled his eyes even though she couldn’t see. “But worth it.”

He moved his hand suddenly around to the front of her knickers so that when she rocked her hips, he replaced the solid length of his thigh with his fingers. She cried out half in surprise and half in pleasure when he allowed his middle finger to glide through her slippery wetness.

“James,” she gasped.

“Hmm?”

“I’m already close,” she admitted.

“Perfect,” he said into her ear.

He’d nearly forgotten he was teasing her neck, but when he felt her shiver, he licked a line down her neck as far as he could without getting a mouthful of her fuzzy jumper. As his fingers worked at her clit, his teeth nipped and scraped her neck. He wasn’t quite able to reach the sensitive patch where her neck joined her shoulder, not without moving the collar of her jumper, but both hands were busy and he didn’t want to move them.

So he made do, kissing and licking and biting at her skin while one hand kneaded her arse and the other stimulated her swollen clit.

“James!” she whined urgently.

“Come for me,” he growled, scraping his teeth across her neck as his finger circled faster and faster.

She groaned and trembled in his arms, her hips working clumsily against his hand. A few seconds later, she stiffened against him and arched her neck as a high moan escaped her throat. He kissed the column of her neck as her clit pulsed rhythmically against his fingertips.

His cock was throbbing with need, and it took every ounce of restrained to not rut against her hip and join her in her pleasure.

Rose slumped bonelessly into his chest, panting for breath as he skimmed his fingers around the outer ridge of her clit. She hummed appreciatively and tucked her face into his shoulder.

“Surely that’s worth me seeing your surprise,” he said, his voice gravelly.

Rose giggled into his shirt and moved her face to peer up at him. Her cheeks and neck were flushed. She leaned away from him just far enough to lift the hem of her jumper up her body and over her head. She chucked the fabric to the floor, leaving her naked from the waist up except for a lacy midnight blue bra. If he could even call it a bra. The cups only went half-way up her breasts, barely covering her nipples. The band beneath her breasts looked incredibly sturdy, though, giving her the support she needed while also managing to look sexy.

“You’re beautiful,” he croaked. He reached out and skated his fingertips across the tops of her breasts, then between the valley of them. He took grab care not to touch them too directly, lest he want to get sprayed with milk.

“D’you like it?”

“I love it,” he said, his eyes raking across her body. “You’re beautiful.”

She beamed at him. “My tummy’s still very flabby. But y’know what? It did an amazing job at growing two little babies, so who gives a fuck?”

James chuckled and he stepped up to her. He ran his fingertips up and down her belly. Though nearly six weeks had passed since she’d given birth, her stomach remained a bit rounded and saggy and was striped with deep red stretch marks. “It did an incredible job. In all, it made four beautiful little babies. I love your clever, flabby tummy.”

“Git,” she said warmly, pinching him.

“Your git,” he said. “So does it come with bottoms, or are you naked under those jeans?”

“Eager to see more?” Rose crooned.

“Absolutely. Or do I need to give you another orgasm before you remove your trousers?”

“Now there’s an idea,” Rose said. “Like strip poker… but with orgasms. But alas, I really want to feel more of you and these jeans are getting in the way.”

“Let’s move to the bedroom,” James suggested, pressing a kiss to her shoulder before stepping back.

He winced when his erection rubbed against his pants as he walked, but soon they were in the comfort of their room and made quick work of getting naked. He spared a moment of appreciation for her knickers before he tugged them off of her and threw them to the floor. Her bra stayed on, both because it made her breasts look fantastic and as a reminder for him not to touch them.

He laid her back on their bed and kissed his way across every inch of her body, even up and down her arms and legs to her fingers and toes, making her squirm and laugh. He eventually settled between her thighs where he lavished attention to her swollen clit, licking and sucking and rubbing every aching, needing part of her.

When he went to slip his fingers into her and finish her off, she reached down and grabbed his wrist.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, peering up at her.

“Nothing. I want you in me, is all. Not your fingers. You. Please?”

He could never refuse her. With a parting kiss to her clit that made her whimper and shudder, he crawled up her body and settled his erection against her curls. He ground their lower halves together lazily while she fumbled to open a condom foil.

They got him sheathed and lubed in record time, then he slid slowly into her. Her muscles clenched him tightly, choking a moan out of him. He trembled above her as he kept himself still. He leaned down and caught her lips in a frantic kiss, their lips and tongues tugging and pulling and pushing.

“You can move,” she panted against his mouth. “Slowly.”

He nodded and squeezed his eyes shut as he kept kissing her, then he carefully retracted his hips before easing himself back into her. He did this a dozen times before her nails bit into his shoulders and she hiked her legs higher up his back, allowing him to slip in deeper.

“God,” he gritted out, arching his hips hard against her on his next inward thrust.

She let out a squeaking cry, hugging him tighter when he did it again.

“Good, so good,” she babbled. “James, move.”

“Yes ma’am,” he panted, finally picking up the pace. It felt so good to make love with his wife again like this. They’d had to suspend the missionary position when her stomach grew too big, but now he relished being able to lay atop her with her arms and legs clamped around him. She held him tight, cradling his entire body into her own. The love and security he felt made his stomach swoop and clench in warning. “Not gonna last, love. S-sorry.”

“S’okay. Me either. Just keep moving like that and don’t you dare stop,” she ordered, lifting her hips into his to meet his rhythm. “Don’t stop, James. Don’t stop. Love you, love this, love you.”

Her speech dissolved into mindless chatter as she spurred him on. She was doing too good of a job, though, because sooner than he would have liked, the building pressure in his gut plummeted and burst outward.

He barely managed to grunt out a garbled warning before he arched his hips, seating himself as deeply as he could go as his release shattered through him. Pleasure prickled across his skin as he gasped and moaned his way through wordless syllables.

“That’s it,” she groaned, “that’s it, right there right there right there…”

Her hand moved from his shoulder to the place where they were joined, rubbing herself to completion a few seconds later. Her back bowed off the bed as she cried out a mixture of curses and his name. She wrapped a hand around the nape of his neck, clumsily guiding him in for a kiss that ended up being their cheeks pressed together.

James kept his hips moving for her, drawing out her pleasure as well as his own. He panted raggedly, his heart racing, his vision spotty, and his brain unable to comprehend anything except the rush of endorphins and love coursing through his body.

When the pulsing of her muscles around his cock ceased, he settled his weight on top of her. He kept his upper body supported with his forearms, not wanting to smash her breasts, but he let his lower body press against hers fully.

“Oh, James,” she sighed, humming out a breath.

“That was incredible,” he whispered, peppering kisses across her neck and jaw. “So incredible.”

“Can we do it again?” she asked, her words slightly slurred in her post-orgasmic bliss.

“In a little bit,” he promised. He pecked a kiss to her lips then said, “Gonna dispose of the condom.”

She whined in protest when he drew back, slipping out of her in the process. He took the condom off of his softening cock, knotted the top, and dropped it blindly beside the bed. He heard it thwack into the rubbish bin.

“Nice shot,” Rose said, turning on her side to face him.

She opened her arms for him, and he immediately nestled in for a hug. He slipped a leg between hers, pulling her flush against him. His fingers painted long lines up and down her spine as he buried his face in the crook of her shoulder.

“What do you want for your birthday?” James whispered.

“Another orgasm like that.”

He giggled into her skin, and pressed a kiss to her neck. “I can do that. But materially? What do you want?”

“I’ve got everything I want,” Rose said.

“Ro-ooose,” he whined.

“Ja-aaames,” she parroted.

“You’re so unhelpful,” he grumbled.

“You know what I like,” Rose said with a shrug. “But you don’t need to buy anything. Spending time with you and the kids is gift enough.”

“Would’ve thought scheduling a sleepover for the kids would’ve been a better gift,” James teased.

“Or that,” Rose said. “I love the kids, but it’s nice to get a break from them.”

“Tell you what. I’ll see if Ainsley and Sianin can have a sleepover with one of their friends, and if Dad can take the twins. You and I can have a quiet night in for your birthday.”

“Sounds good,” Rose said. “Now, if you’re done blabbering, someone promised me another fantastic shag today.”

“I never said it’d be fantastic,” he said. “You’ve set the bar way too high now. What if it’s rubbish?”

“Oh, shut up. You’ve never been a rubbish shag,” Rose said, halfheartedly swatting his bum.

“Now you’ve jinxed it,” he whined, even as a grin was threatening to split his face in two.

“Fine. If it’s rubbish, you’ll have to redo it and shag me a third time to try to redeem yourself,” Rose drawled, tracing random patterns across his arse. “Sound like a plan?”

“Sounds like a plan,” he agreed, catching her lips in a kiss.

Their second round of lovemaking was not, in fact, rubbish. However, they partook in a third round, just in case.

oOoOo

James spent the next few days coordinating sleepovers for his children. Ainsley was the easiest—she would be staying with her best friend, William. It was common for her and William to spend nights at each other’s house, even during the week.

The twins were the next easiest—his father was more than happy to keep the babies overnight.

But for Sianin… Either the parents of her friends had plans for the night of the twenty-seventh of April, or they didn’t permit their children to have sleepovers on a school night.

James had nearly resigned himself to the fact that he would either see if his father would mind keeping Sianin as well as the twins, or that Sianin would be spending the night with him and Rose. It wouldn’t change his plans too much—apart from the fantastic birthday sex he’d promised Rose—but he had hoped to get a night alone with Rose. They hadn’t had one since the twins were born.

Miraculously though, one of William’s mothers offered to host Sianin as well.

“It’s no trouble at all,” she told James. “William gets along well with her, too. And she’s about the same age as our other boy; they can entertain each other. I know my wife won’t mind keeping Sianin, too.”

James profusely thanked her over the days leading up to Rose’s birthday night, and again that evening when William’s mother texted him saying that all the kids were picked up and they were going out for pizza.

“And remember, if Sianin wants to come home at any point during the night, please call us. I’ll be by to collect her and bring her home, no matter the hour.” James had warned William’s mothers that Sianin had been struggling lately, and that she frequently found her way into their room at night. While she claimed to be really excited for the sleepover, he didn’t know whether her excitement would last all night long.

Nevertheless, with all of their children gone from the house, James and Rose settled in for an evening of relaxation and birthday celebration. They’d had to take a rain check on Rose’s gift of birthday sex thanks to the arrival of her period, but regardless, they enjoyed a date night at home without the distraction or interruption of kids.

James made dinner and dessert, and they enjoyed a small glass of wine apiece before switching to sparkling water. After dessert, James presented Rose with a wrapped package. In it was a brand-new silk kimono in a shade of indigo so dark it was nearly black, but was iridescently purple when it caught the light just right.

“Oh, this is gorgeous,” Rose breathed, and a prickle of pride swelled through him.

“There’s more,” he said, reaching out to rub the soft, sleek fabric between his fingers.

Rose pawed through the bottom of the box and found an assortment of all of her favorite soaps, lotions, and oils, as well as a packet of homemade coupons for things like “please let me have an hour away from the kids” and “free body massage from your favorite masseur (your husband!)”.

“You trying to tell me something?” Rose drawled when she took a look at the anti-wrinkle face mask.

James rolled his eyes. “Shut up. You already use these. And you know I know that you use them.”

Rose pecked a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you very much for my at-home spa treatments. Can I cash in this foot massage tonight?”

“Absolutely. I won’t even charge you a coupon since it’s your birthday.”

“How generous of you. Let me wee first and get set up with the pump, then you can start.”

“So needy.”

While waiting for Rose to return, he loaded and started the dishwasher, then began rooting through her box of lotions and oils. He selected a few options for her and opened them up to sniff as he waited.

“Ready!” Rose chimed, skipping down the hall with the milk pump in hand. She stripped off her top and plopped down on the sofa, wiggling her toes at him.

“What scent?” he asked, moving to the floor.

“Surprise me,” she said. “And get back up here. You don’t need to kneel; you’ll kill your knees.”

She pivoted on the couch so her back was up against one of the armrests, and she gestured to the opposite side. He settled himself on the couch opposite her and spread a towel under her feet to contain any dripping oil. He rolled her trouser legs up her calves then poured a bit of oil into his palm and began his massage.

“Mmm. Jasmine?”

“Yep,” he said, working the oil into the bottoms of her feet. “Lie back and relax.”

She did, closing her eyes and letting him pamper her. She looked a little ridiculous, sitting topless on their couch with a breast pump attached to herself, but his heart did a somersault in his chest and he fell in love with her all over again.

He massaged her feet until she was finished pumping. He then took the bagged milk, scribbled the date on the front, and put them in the fridge. When he returned to the living room, Rose had her bra back on but not her shirt.

“Can we do a topless cuddle?” she asked sheepishly.

“Of course. Always. Are you all right?” Rose usually asked for naked cuddles after they’d had sex, or when she was feeling low and wanted a deeper connection with him. He hoped she wasn’t feeling sad.

“With the house empty, I want to take advantage of naked time,” she explained. “And with summer just ‘round the corner, I want to take advantage of cuddle time before we’re too hot and sweaty to want to touch each other.”

“Unless I’ve made you hot and sweaty for an entirely different reason,” he replied, winking.

She rolled her eyes. “Get over here.”

James grinned and tugged his jumper over his head. He sat beside her, sighing at the press of skin.

“It’s silly, but I miss the girls,” Rose murmured, mindlessly stroking her fingers around his belly button. “The house is too quiet.”

“Well, if you’d like, I can start shouting at the top of my lungs about how I made a really big poo today,” he answered.

Rose snorted and pinched his stomach. “Parenthood is so weird, isn’t it? When the girls are at home, I wish I could get time away from them. And when they’re gone, I wish they were here.”

“I feel the same,” he said. “But I am very, very grateful to get some one-on-one time with you.”

“Do you ever wonder about married life if we weren’t soulmates?” Rose asked.

“What d’you mean?”

“Like… let’s say we weren’t soulmates, and we grew up apart and met other people and got married and had kids. Do you think we’d be as happy with that spouse as we are with each other?”

James was silent for a moment. He couldn’t imagine being married to anybody but Rose. He couldn’t imagine any other children than Ainsley, Sianin, Hannah, and Maddie. When he tried to conjure up an alternate-reality wife, she ended up looking, sounding, and acting like Rose again.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I would like to think so. I hope that I would have married someone who makes me deliriously happy every day, who wasn’t only my spouse, but also my best friend. But it’s hard to think about. You’re my literal soulmate. You accept me with all of my faults and flaws; you make me want to be the very best version of myself that I can be, because you deserve the absolute best out of a life partner.”

Rose snuggled deeper into his embrace, and pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

“Your turn,” he prodded. “Do you envision your alternate self with a sexy hunk of a man that makes you the happiest you’ve ever been?”

“I’ve already got that,” she said, giving him a squeeze.

His heart soared with happiness. “And you say I’m a smooth talker. Look at you and your sleek, silky words.”

Rose giggled. “I’ve got another hypothetical: let’s say we weren’t soulmates, yet we somehow managed to find each other and get married and whatnot. Do you think our relationship would be what it is now?”

“Ooh. Hmm…” James absently rubbed the tip of his nose from side to side through her hair. “I think it would be fairly similar. Though maybe with more moments of shoddy communication than we already sometimes have. We’ve been working on communication since we were kids, and we still occasionally mess up. And since we’ve known each other for so long, we basically know everything about each other, which makes the trust we have much deeper than if there were things that were a mystery about us.”

“Yeah. That’s what I think, too,” Rose said.

“Where is all of this philosophizing coming from tonight?”

“Oh, just thinking. Our life is incredible, and it’s amazing that we’re sitting here right now surrounded by the life we have. For example, literally none of this would exist as it is if ten years ago, we decided we weren’t quite ready to become parents yet. We might have four kids by now, but they wouldn’t be the kids we currently have. They might’ve been all boys. We might not live in this exact house. We might’ve moved up to Scotland the moment we got pregnant the first time. Or the second. We probably wouldn’t have twins. It’s so incredible that the stars aligned so many different times to give us the life we have.”

“That’s deep,” James said, even as a lump built in his throat. He periodically found himself thinking about the utter miracle that was his family. “You sound like me. I’ve been rubbing off on you too much.”

“I love all the ways you rub off on me,” she said, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as she grinned. “I guess I’m feeling a little pensive tonight. A good kind of pensive. I’m appreciating all of the wonderful things in my life and loving that I get to experience it all with you.”

James took her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up. He nuzzled his nose against hers for a moment before pressing a series of long, soft kisses to her mouth.

“I’m very glad we’re soulmates,” she murmured between kisses.

“Me too, my love. Me too.”

If you’ve read to the end, consider leaving a comment or reblogging? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

#ficandchips #doctorroseprompts #dwfic #doctor who #ten x rose #ten x rose au #james x rose #au #soulmates #soulmates au #family fic #baby fic #kid fic #romance #my fic #family of six #perfectly matched series #soulmates verse #lemons

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izzy-b-hands · 5 years ago

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After the Afterlife Chapter 2

Fun fact: I have managed to scare myself at least three times while writing this, specifically because I chose the few things out of actual horror movies/stories that scare me thinking that would be the best option somehow, and despite it disrupting my sleep, I do not plan to stop doing that!

After all, if I can scare myself, I can scare others, right?

Eggsy is scared, that much I know for sure. Poor thing can’t catch a break, and it isn’t over yet either.

But he’s got this.

Probably.

We’ll find out.

Anyway! This is a shorter chapter, so he’ll be fine probably. Nothing too bad can happen in a short chapter, I always say.

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

He woke to an empty bedroom. Light shone in through the bedroom window, and he stumbled out to the hall, phone in his hand, to look for Roxy.

“Breakfast?” he called, anticipating something of a response about whatever she’d chosen from the frankly too vast amount of food in the fridge. They had prepared as though they’d be there for three months, not a week.

Nothing.

He checked the nearest bathroom, but it was empty, as were the others on that wing.

“Roxy?” he called out into the kitchen, but was met with nothing.

He made his own morning routine quick, showering and cleaning up and dressing as fast as he could so he could check for her outside.

But the doors wouldn’t open. Not the front doors, or any of the others to the outside.

“Okay,” he called out to the apparently empty halls. “Dad? What’s this about? Why can’t I find Roxy, or go outside? If this is your doing-”

The sudden darkening of the hall interrupted him, leaving him in the dark without anything to try and cut through it aside from his phone flashlight.

As predicted, like the night before, it did nothing to the shadows around him, as if they were made of something thicker than regular darkness.

“Please stop,” he tried, hating how desperate and scared he sounded. “Why can’t you just tell me what you need? Is it the pendant, is that it?”

A crash, down the hall, towards the room he’d remembered last using with Tilde.

“Ains and Roxy are never going to let me forget they were right about this,” he muttered, half to his father and half to himself. “Can you at least let me see a little, so I can get there?”

A small beam of light appeared in front of him, and led him slowly down the hall to the room.

He combed the room as if he was searching for something life-saving, scrabbling underneath each piece of furniture, until-

“Ha!”

The pendant was a bit dusty, but otherwise no worse for the wear, still on its chain.

“I found it!” Eggsy held it up to the shadows. “So this is over now, yes?”

You still don’t get it.

His father’s voice, angry.

“What don’t I get? Talk to me!” Eggsy shouted as he put on the pendant. “You can’t just expect me to read your mind!”

I didn’t raise you this way.

“You weren’t there!” Eggsy rebutted. “You were dead, and it was just me and Mum! And she-”

You could have stopped her.

“From what? Remarrying? Having Daisy?” Eggsy spat. “Look, I-Dean is horrible. But what was I supposed to do? I was a kid. And Daisy...she’s the good that came from all that. I wouldn’t give her back for anything; I’m lucky to have her as a sister. You would have me erase someone as good and sweet as her just to get rid of the bad that happened to be a part of it all? As if I even could.”

Dying wasn’t my fault.

“I fucking know that!” Eggsy shouted, loud enough he figured Roxy had to somehow hear him, despite the shadows clouding him, so heavy that he couldn’t make out the room around him. “But you can’t put it back on me, that I was supposed to somehow stop Mum from making her own choices in relationships and men? Do you know how mad that sounds?”

The shadows slammed him against the wall, or where he figured the wall must be, and he winced.

“Why are you doing this? Are you that angry over it all? She isn’t even with him anymore, it’s just her and Daisy now, on their own.”

YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!

The tears were flowing again, and he didn’t even try to stop them. Perhaps his father hadn’t seen the ones he’d shed as a child, missing him as desperately as he had. As he did.”No, I don’t! Because you won’t look beyond yourself in this. Did you expect her to never change, to not try and adapt to losing you? I’m not saying Dean was a good choice, I’d never say that, but you’ve got to give her a break.”

Harry told you to take care of her!

“I was a child!” Eggsy tried to wipe some of the tears away, as they obscured his vision even more than the shadows. “I was scared, and lonely, and missed you, and hated how sad Mum was, and hated how I couldn’t do anything to make it better. I tried to do something that would make you proud, I was going to join the Royal Marines. And maybe I didn’t stick with that, but that was for Mum’s sake, and now I’m here! I’m in Kingsman, doesn’t that mean anything?”

His father’s face was in his, but it was disturbing to see. As if he was looking into the grave, seeing the missing flesh, the rot. It was his father, but not the same kind face that had been there for him when he was young.

You need to know what it was like. To sit and watch it happen, and not be able to do a damn thing. You’ll know now.

“The hell do you mean by that?” Eggsy asked, slumping to the floor as his father backed away from him. “Oi, what the fuck does that mean?!”

His father only shook his head, and continued to walk away from him, until he disappeared.

He stood, and wiped away more tears as he tried to walk forward.

Glass.

“No, no, no, not this again,” he moaned. “I can’t, I can’t handle this, let me out.”

He tried every possible direction he could move in, but he could only take a step or two forward before hitting what felt like glass.

“Roxy!” he screamed so hard it hurt. “Come help me! I don’t...I don’t know how, just figure something out please!”

He could hear the irritating whine and crackle of the spirit box then, and he would have leapt for joy if there’d been room.

“Roxy! Can you hear me through that?”

“Eggsy?”

Her voice was like sunshine, bright even though it sounded so horribly far away.

“Yes! Roxy, he’s got me trapped somewhere, somehow. I don’t know in what, or where-”

“This is a mirror,” Roxy’s voice came again, slightly fainter this time. “How are you in a mirror?”

“If I knew that, don’t you think I’d be out by now?” he yelled, then winced. “Sorry, I”m sorry. That isn’t fair, I’m just-I’m scared, Roxy. Please, get me out.”

“I-I know mirrors can capture spirits after death,” Roxy said. “But you aren’t-”

The sound of her footsteps, going away, and he couldn’t stop himself from screaming again.

“Roxy! No, where are you going?! Come back!”

You’ll get it back when you’re ready for it.

“Fuck you,” he spat, and didn’t regret it like he wanted to, like he felt he should in speaking to his father. “You’ve got my body sitting somewhere, haven’t you?”

It’s safe. Like I said, once you understand, and have spent your time here...then you’ll get to go back. Once I’ve taught you better, how Harry and your mother should have taught you.

“I want to go back now!” Eggsy shouted. “I have a mission to complete, so I can let Tilde know never to come here again, and warn her family the damn palace needs an exorcism! I have Ainsley-”

Who?

“My boyfriend,” Eggsy continued, frowning at the interruption. “You’ve been around to see me, but you just stopped checking after I moved, all because the damn pendant was here and not with me?”

I will find him.

“No you fucking will not!” Eggsy spat. His eyes and sinuses ached from the crying, but he couldn’t seem to stop. “Leave him alone, you hear me? You shouldn’t be able to go to him anyway, I have the pendant on! Ah, you didn’t think of that, did you?”

I have ways.

“Shut the fuck up,” Eggsy muttered, and sat on what felt like the floor. “Don’t you love me, anymore? The dad I knew would never do anything like this to me, or to anyone.”

Death can change a person. You’ll see.

Then silence.

#text post #LeeH writes #Kingsman fic

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ficbynic · 7 years ago

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T A K E C A R E - Chapter 10 - North Hampstead Pt. II

"It's funny, isn't it?" he then asked, ending the silence. "What?" "How I feel like I know you, but I don't." "What do you mean?" Emilie smiled but frowned her eyebrows.

Story page (Catch up!) | Author | Talk to me | Read on Tumblr only.

NOVEMBER 2017 "Charlie," Emilie warned, making her way from the kitchen area back to the dining table where both of the girls were having their dinner, "Don't make such a mess, please. You haven't been good at dinner time lately, have ya?" Just like yesterday evening, Charlotte wasn't eating. She was playing around with her fork again, poking in the mashed potatoes, avoiding her greens. Emilie was getting quite sick of it. "You don't want to go to the naughty step, do ya?" Little Charlie looked up, apparently recognising the words, knowing what they meant, but confused as to why they were used addressing her. "Charlotte has never sat on the naughty step before," Denise told Emilie, confirming what Emilie had already suspected. "Well, maybe we should try it, because you girls should eat your dinner, shouldn't you?" "I'm eating my dinner," Denise objected. "Yes, you're doing well, Denny, but Charlotte isn't," Emilie explained, "And if Charlotte doesn't eat well she'll get hungry during the night and she'll wake up. We don't want that, do we?" "No. I don't like it when she cries at night." "No, neither do Mummy and Daddy, so that's why we have to make sure Charlie eats her food." Emilie didn't understand why Charlie wasn't eating. She had to be hungry. It wasn't like Emilie allowed a lot of food in the afternoon. It was like any other day and normally, Emilie was amazed by how much Charlie could fit into her little stomach. Meanwhile, Charlotte wasn't making any progress, ignoring her nanny's previous warnings. "Charlotte, come on, eat your food," Emilie ordered again, "You need to eat at least a few more bites." Emilie could feel herself getting more and more annoyed. It was only Wednesday. There were still a couple of hours left of her work day and then there were two more days until half term break would finally be over and things would get less chaotic next week. Also, she hadn't heard from Harry and she also didn't like the prospect of not being able to see him or properly talk to him for the next few days. He would be in Manchester tonight, Glasgow tomorrow, and then it would be another long day of work until they could potentially meet up again on Friday night. But even those plans weren't made yet. Everything was still up in the air. Frustration getting the better of her, Emilie moved towards Charlotte, fetched her fork and brought a bite of mashed potatoes towards her mouth. Even though it was just a small bite and she'd initially obeyed, opening her mouth, Charlotte didn't swallow down her food, instead spitting it back out on the plastic plate in front of her. "Charlotte, please!" "That's actually really messy," Denise commented. "Charlotte, that's naughty! We don't spit out our food!" But Charlotte wasn't done yet. With an angry look on her face, her little hand reached out towards her plate, getting hold of whatever had just been in her mouth. She held the food in her fist for just a second before, without thinking of it twice, she brought up her little arm to the side and shamelessly threw the food on the floor. Emilie couldn't believe what she saw. "Alright, naughty step." She immediately stood up from her chair to pick up Charlotte and carry her to the stairwell in the hallway. The bottom two steps were below the child gates that Emilie made sure were always locked, and were used as a "time out" if the girls were misbehaving. Well, so far, the naughty step had only been used when Denise was misbehaving. But that was about to change. Charlotte didn't really know what was happening. She hadn't really reacted when Emilie had abruptly taken her from her high chair. When she sat her down on the bottom step of the stairs, Charlie's lips were still a tight line. Without explanation, Emilie left the hallway, leaving the door to it open, and returned to the dining table. Soon enough, Charlotte came running, entering the living room again, perhaps thinking this was a game. "No, Charlie, naughty step." Emilie picked her up and carried her to the stairs again, making sure she sat down on the bottom step before returning to Denise. Yet again, Charlotte left her spot and came running and the process repeated itself. "She doesn't understand it," Denise spoke, bringing one of her last bites of food to her mouth as Charlotte came running towards them for the third time. "She will," Emilie argued, hoping the words didn't come out sounding too harsh. After about four or five times, Charlotte seemed to understand it wasn't a game and they weren't having fun and Emilie was actually upset with her. She started whining when Emilie brought her back to the staircase and sat her down on the bottom step again. After maybe seven times, Charlotte understood she wasn't going to get anything from running back to the dining table and she kept sitting on the bottom step of the stairs. Emilie let out a big sigh, her breath shaking, and joined Denise at the table. Adrenaline was pumping through her body, wondering if she was doing right by introducing Charlotte to the naughty step like this. If felt weird to have been the one using this form of punishment for the first time. Emilie felt like it should've been Catherine or David. But then again, Emilie was the one raising the kids five days a week, when Catherine and David only had two full days a week with their children. That part of her work was still weird to comprehend to begin with. After sitting at the table for a minute or two, Emilie decided the time out had been sufficient. She returned to Charlotte in the hallway. "Charlie, this is the naughty step. You sit here when you are naughty," Emilie explained, simultaneously wondering if this was perhaps a bit too much to try to make clear to a 22 month old. Emilie's brows were raised as she looked into Charlie's teary, big eyes. "You didn't eat your dinner. And you threw your food on the floor. That's very naughty." Still, Charlotte was gazing at her. "Do you want to go back to the table to Denny?" "Yesh," little Charlotte muttered out, already standing up from the bottom step of the stairs. But Emilie wasn't done teaching her a lesson. "Are you gonna be good and finish your food?" "Yesh," she repeated, tears brimming "Are you gonna say sorry?" "Sowwy," she then cried, reaching out her little arms towards Emilie as big tears fell down her chubby cheeks, "Cuddle!" Emilie picked her up and held her shaking body close. She was properly crying, tears staining Emilie's shirt. "Alright. Shhh, honey, it's alright," Emilie soothed. All of a sudden, she felt guilty and bad for having been so strict. Maybe Charlie was too young to understand it all. She swallowed away her own emotions, feeling like tearing up herself. Charlotte reacting like this broke her heart. She'd always reach out her little arms and demand a hug, but never like this. Not when Emilie had been the reason of her tears, anyway. After a while of walking around the room, calming Charlie down, she stopped sobbing and was ready to sit in her high chair again. When she did, Denise made a nosy comment, actually enjoying seeing Charlie got punished while she wasn't. Charlie frowned, but after that, she was all fine again. Bath time went alright and the girls seemed to be in good spirits, making Emilie forget about the dramatic dinner time and the way she'd punished Charlotte earlier. Until Denise brought it up the second Catherine came through the door at around a quarter to seven. "Charlie had to go on the naughty step!" "Did she?" Catherine was putting away her work bag and was still in her coat, but didn't fail to give Emilie a questioning look. "Yeah, I figured I'd have a go and try and see how she responded to it," Emilie said, feeling like she had to defend herself. "And?" Emilie went on to tell her that Charlotte didn't seem to understand it at first, but eventually did and kept sitting on the bottom step. "Alright. Well, that's good. If you feel like you need to use the naughty step, feel free to do so. We trust you to know when it's appropriate." "Do you? " Emilie thought. Things like this were still very awkward and weird for Emilie to be dealing with. She didn't know what Catherine really meant. For all she knew, she could be complaining about it to David tonight without Emilie ever knowing. "Oh, Emilie, before I forget," Catherine then started, "Would you mind babysitting tomorrow evening? David will be out and a friend of mine just asked me if I'd meet her for dinner." A punch in the gut was what it felt like. Emilie was making twelve hour days taking care of two little girls. Babysitting would add another few, not only being in charge of putting the girls in bed, which, in Denise's case, was quite the task, but also being responsible for the girls staying in bed. "Sure," she replied nonetheless, feeling like she couldn't say no, especially not after tonight's eventful dinner and not knowing how Catherine really felt about using the naughty step method on little Charlie, "No problem." ~~ "It's absolutely draining. This week has been the toughest week so far. It's like it's my first week here. I've literally got a huge headache. One is one, two is twenty, I swear to God, everything's so much tougher now that Denise is here all day." Emilie was sitting on the Ainsley's sofa on Thursday night after another exhausting day. It was nearly nine o'clock and Denise had only gone quiet at around eight-thirty, after it took over half an hour to get her to go to sleep. Harry was currently on stage in Glasgow. Emilie was talking on the phone with her Mum, making sure to keep her voice down, because she didn't know when either David or Catherine would get back. "I'm sorry to hear that, honey. Just one more day and at least Denise will go back to school, right? It will be back easier that way, right?" "Yeah, I guess so." "What are you doing in the evenings, then? Maybe it's a good idea to get out and be away from the house, even if it's only for a little while. It might help you, mentally, when you physically get away from it all." Emilie instantly thought of Tuesday night, having dinner at Harry's. It was one of the most relaxing evenings ever. "I tend to get super tired so I haven't really gone out and done anything," she lied to her Mum. "What about just going for a walk after work? Or visiting the new friend you made? Or does she not live within walking distance?" "It's one tube stop away. But, yeah, tomorrow evening, maybe," Emilie went along with it, not thinking about Tilda though, but about Harry, who by that time should've returned to London. She wanted to spend time with him. "Anyway. How is everything going back home?" "We're all fine, Em. Gitte and Viktor are fine. So is Jo. He was actually going to talk to you about maybe coming over for a weekend." Emilie was embarrassed and disappointed in herself realising she didn't feel excited about that prospect. "Was he?" "Yeah." "Oh, I thought he would be busy with school." "He is very busy," Agnes agreed, "But he misses you and wants to check out London with you for a couple of days." Emilie thought about Harry and how she wanted to spend more time with him while they could and how Jonas could potentially get in the way of that. She felt like a horrible sister. "Okay." "So what are you up to now?" her Mum asked. "Are you staying up until Catherine or David comes home?" "No, I don't think so. I'll be here in the house for another while to make sure the girls are fast asleep and then I'll be off to my room." ~~ On Friday afternoon, Emilie again allowed the girls to watch TV. She was prepared to again watch Charlotte lose interest after a while and to see Denise's eyes were slowly getting tired from watching the massive flat screen. She wasn't prepared that Denise insisted on watching Madagascar 3 again. Emilie could barely stand the sound of the music that started whenever the evil little French lady appeared on the screen, ready to hunt down the animals. Are you back yet? She knew it was only three o'clock and had no idea when Harry would be making the trip down to London, but still, she felt like asking him. They texted this morning, talking about the shows, Harry telling her about spending time with family and catching up with friends. They didn't speak about when they would see each other again. It took a while for Harry to reply. I'm on my way down, I'll be in Hampstead by five. Do you have plans tonight? Let me check. Emilie nervously ticked her fingers against the back of her phone, awaiting Harry's answer. If he had plans tonight and couldn't hang out, of course, she'd understand. She wouldn't blame him for having a social life and other people to spend time with. But she'd hate it if they wouldn't be able to hang out. If that were to be the case she could imagine herself either going to a bar with Tilda or some of the other girls and get tipsy, or lie in bed all night and end up crying. I don't! Want to come over? ~~ At around seven o'clock, Harry's gate clicked open after Emilie entered the correct code. She made her way along his driveway, putting her phone back into her pocket, when she noticed the front door flung open, Harry already standing in the doorway. "Hey," she greeted him. "Hi." To her surprise, Harry welcomed her with a kiss. A quick peck placed on her lips before he stepped aside, letting her enter the hallway. A very good start of their evening, Emilie thought. "I get a notification when someone's entering the code," Harry explained how he knew she'd arrived. "How are you?" "Good, good. Tired. But I'm fine. I'm so glad this week is over!" "I can imagine." He took her coat when she removed it from her body and put it on the coat rack before they entered the living room. The previous time, Emilie was met with different smells of food being prepared in the kitchen. The house now seemed quite empty and silent. A few candles were lit, adding to the calm vibe in the living room. There wasn't any indication that anything was happening in the kitchen. "Didn't feel like cooking me a full meal this time?" Emilie joked. Harry didn't immediately answer. "Don't worry, I'm kidding, I wasn't expecting you to." Harry smirked. "I'm glad you're so fond of my cooking. But I was thinking we could order something in, if that's alright." "Of course!" "Are you into sushi?" The Japanese dishes were delivered only half an hour later. Harry had gone quite overboard, ordering lots of different selections, accompanied by side dishes. They had dinner sitting down on the soft, long pile carpet in the living room, eating from the coffee table, and quickly ended up on the sofa after they finished their food, lying closely beside each other, once again a blanket draped on top of them as they watched typical English Friday night shows on the telly. They were mostly talking over them, though, telling each other about their week. Emilie yawned. "I don't want to move for the next twelve hours." It was nine o'clock and Emilie felt at peace lying next to Harry, who had wrapped his arm around her shoulder, keeping her close. "You can stay over, if you'd like," Harry then offered. "At least you wouldn't have to leave the house for the next twelve hours." Emilie was a bit startled by Harry's suggestion. "Oh, I... Uhm..." She was stammering, not knowing how to reply to his suggestion. "I didn't bring any stuff..." "I've got stuff," Harry simply answered. "Spare toothbrush, something for you to wear, what more do you need?" Emilie raised her brows up and down and thought. "Not a lot," she admitted. "You don't have to stay if you don't want to, of course," Harry said, eyes focused back on the television screen, "But it would be nice." "Yeah. Yeah, it would." It only felt natural when Emilie found herself in Harry's bathroom just an hour later. It hadn't been awkward. It hadn't been weird. There were no unspoken implications of what was happening. It was all very organic, it all happened naturally. Emilie was just going to spend the night because it felt nice to do so and she didn't feel like leaving. Harry had given her an upstairs home tour and showed her around. When they ended up in his bedroom, he'd straight-forwardly asked her where she wanted to stay. In one of the two guest bedrooms, or with him. Emilie felt a bit embarrassed to admit she'd like to stay with him and share beds, but Harry had just smiled, making her feel at ease throwing in a cheeky comment about how he thought she made a good choice. When Emilie was given the privacy to get ready for bed in Harry's bathroom, a smile appeared on her face when opening the drawer Harry told her she would find some "toiletries and stuff" she could use. A bunch of toothbrushes, toothpaste, and bottles of body wash and hand soap were kept in the drawer. Peaking in another drawer Harry had pointed out, Emilie even found makeup wipes and skin care products she was assured she could use. It was only then when Emilie realised that Harry was no stranger to wearing makeup for shows or photo shoots. After she was done getting ready for bed, she returned to the bedroom where Harry was waiting for his turn in the bathroom. She was now bare faced, wearing the clothes that Harry had given her. A large, black shirt of his, and a pair of light grey, thin fabric sweatpants. "Those look good on you," he commented when laying eyes on her, "Comfy for bed?" "Yeah, they're great, thanks." "Good. I'll be right back." Emilie meanwhile put away her clothes and her bag, putting her phone on the nightstand and got in bed, her back against the headboard. After only a few minutes, Harry appeared again, wearing a grey T-shirt and what seemed like black boxers. It was quite the surprise for Emilie to see him dressed so... scarcely. And Harry noticed. "Don't look at me, I'll get self-conscious," he squealed, hurriedly making his way to the other side of the bed. Emilie rolled her eyes. "I think we both know you don't." He laughed. "It's just that I haven't seen your tattoos before," she explained. "And I haven't seen yours," he argued. "Oh, yeah, because I'm covered in them." "Well. I wouldn't have been able to tell." "I don't have any," Emilie honestly told him. "Ah, don't give it away," Harry smirked, "Spoiler alert." He got in bed next to her, his flirty remark sending a chill down Emilie's spine. "Or is this your side, normally?" she asked him, referring to the side of the bed she was now occupying. "No, you're good. I'm mostly towards this side, actually," Harry answered with a smile. "Your bed's really comfy, so far," Emilie then commented, moving to lie on her side, facing Harry. "You think?" "Yeah." "Good." He moved closer towards her, looking into her eyes before pressing his lips onto hers. The kiss was long and slow. Time consuming. Sensual as they explored each other. No one or nothing that could stop them. The sounds their kissing produced made Emilie's mind go wild, lying there in Harry's bed, Harry lying there with her wearing just a T shirt and underwear. When Emilie opened her eyes after, she figured she must've looked just as sleepy and comfortable as Harry did. "It's funny, isn't it?" he then asked, ending the silence. "What?" "How I feel like I know you, but I don't." "What do you mean?" Emilie smiled but frowned her eyebrows. "When's your birthday?" Harry asked in return. He made Emilie chuckle, not expecting him to ask such a random question. "February fourteenth," she replied. "Valentine's Day?" Harry's eyes were wide. "No way." "Yep." Emilie smiled, taking in the expression on his face. He was absolutely gorgeous. "Ninety-four, right?" Harry asked again. He'd known because she told him before that she was twenty-three. "Yeah." "So what's it like to have your birthday on a holiday? Do you get twice as much presents or is it the other way around and you end up missing out on stuff?" Emilie frowned. She didn't really celebrate Valentine's Day. Not if she was single, that is. She'd only spent two Valentine's Days being in a relationship. She thought about her ex and how he had kind of gotten away with giving her one present, although it being slightly bigger than he would have probably gotten her on just her birthday or just Valentine's, but she never got "twice as much", as Harry'd call it. She told him, simultaneously cringing that she was going into detail about her relationship with her ex boyfriend. Harry knew she had one significant past relationship that lasted for about a year and a half. She'd told him on the way back from Golders Green when Tilda having a boyfriend back home had been brought up again, because of the weird guys in the bar. Harry had managed to kind of indirectly ask her if she was dating a lot, being here in London, which led to Emilie opening up about her past relationship. She thought that for now, that was more than enough information. "Well, I'm going to remember to buy you two gifts, then," Harry commented casually after hearing her out. He was yawning after, changing his position in bed a bit, moving to lie on his back. His hand stayed up near his face after yawning, scratching the stubble on his chin. Emilie's heart did the thing again. Did he really just give her a reason to believe that he'd still be in her life by February next year? After she would've left London? Emilie could only hope he was being serious about his prediction. Realising she was hoping he was serious about it brought along a weird feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Isn't your birthday near mine?" she managed to change the subject. "First of February, yeah," Harry answered, luckily not being weird about the fact Emilie had known his birthday, a random fact anyone on the planet with an Internet connection would be able to find with just one Google search. Still, it was weird. "Ninety-four." "Ninety-four," Harry repeated and confirmed. It was funny how they were so close in age, although Emilie didn't really have any other experience in past relationships. Emilie's ex had been her age, as well, just four months older. Harry seemed like he had a lot more life experience, though. Of course he had. Being taken away from home at just sixteen obviously results in growing up quicker than the average teenager. "Tell me more about what you studied," his voice then sounded. He was back lying on his side, facing Emilie again. "I studied Danish, focusing on language and literature. Bit of history, as well. I minored in psychology. I also did some English and journalism courses." "What do you want to do for a job?" "I don't know. I haven't got a clue." Emilie smiled. It was something she hadn't been thinking about at all since arriving in London. In a way, she still didn't quite believe she graduated university. Maybe that was one of the reasons she decided to leave home. Just to let it simmer for a while, getting her head around the fact she was done studying. She also didn't feel like going for a full-time proper job yet, before having travelled. Staying in London wasn't only a great opportunity to go abroad, it was also a way to kind of postpone the process of trying to find a job. "I like languages. Obviously. I like to write, as well. I don't know, I'd also like to get into doing research again. I liked working on my thesis." "Mmhm," Harry hummed. He was just gazing at her, his eyes soft as they focused on particular parts of her face, always returning to her eyes. "That's great. I would have absolutely no idea what you'd be talking about." Emilie laughed and she noticed how her expression of amusement made Harry smile in return. "You know tons of things I have absolutely zero knowledge of," she said. Coming to think of it, she figured Harry had close to no education. Emilie, even though highly educated herself, knew that it meant nothing. Harry was proof that you didn't need to have a university Master's degree in order to be intelligent. "What about your siblings? Younger brother. And your sister's older than you?" "Jonas is twenty-one, he's in university. My sister Gitte is twenty-five, she works in finance. She just moved in with her boyfriend, Viktor. They bought their first house together." "That's nice. Close to... where you're from?" "Holmegaard." Emilie grinned because she told him the name of her hometown before and it was clear that he'd forgotten. It was probably quite hard for him to pronounce it, though. "Yeah, it's pretty close, about half an hour drive. It's nice for my Mum now I'm not at home and Jonas is back at his dorm for uni." "Yeah. My Mum misses us like crazy whenever we're gone, me or my sister." "What's your sister doing?" "She's into the blogging thing. She writes for websites. She's always been great at that." "Cool," Emilie honestly commented, "That's something I'd also love to do." "Yeah?" "Yeah, I guess." They talked some more about random things, Harry bringing up the show he had in Stockholm, on Sunday. They talked about Scandinavia and if Stockholm, where Harry had been on multiple occasions over the years, was anything like Denmark and the places Emilie had grown up visiting. They were both extremely tired, though, and it wasn't long until Harry turned around to dim the lightning in the room, the surroundings turning pitch dark. They were both more than ready to fall asleep. "Good night," he then softly spoke. "Night," Emilie repeated. "Is this okay?" Emilie felt him moving up to her closer after she turned her back on him, wrapping his arm around her waist. "Yeah," she assured. In fact, it was more than okay. She exhaled deeply. "Good night, Harry." "Night, Em." Emilie's eyes had already been closed, but when he called her that, they immediately shut open again, her heart skipping a beat. Em. A nickname given to her by the people who loved her back at home, ever since she was little. She knew it was an obvious one. How else would you nickname someone named Emilie? But it was a special one, to her. Not just anyone called her that. She wouldn't allow just anyone to call her that. But hearing it come from Harry's mouth felt wonderful. ~~ It must've been around three am when Emilie woke up. She smiled when she saw Harry peacefully asleep next to her, his face towards her. He was snoring a bit. That wasn't what woke her up though. She simply needed the toilet. As quietly as possibly she got out of bed, careful not to touch Harry or move the duvet from his body. She made her way around the still unfamiliar bedroom, her hands in front of her in search of the door to the attached bathroom. Flicking on the light, she let her eyes get used to the sudden brightness. The first thing she saw was her reflection in the mirror. A blissful feeling took over her as she saw herself wearing Harry's shirt. She nearly cracked a smile when she realised she liked it on her. When she returned to the bedroom a minute later, she was surprised to find Harry sitting up straight in bed, balancing his weight on his left hand behind him and using his right hand to rub his eye. "Hey," she whispered, "What're you doing?" "Oh. I... I thought," he mumbled in reply, "I thought you'd left." Emilie furrowed her brows, making her way back to bed. "Why would you think that?" "Don't know." She climbed back in, the warmness underneath the blanket immediately engulfing her. "Why on Earth would I ever voluntarily want to leave this amazing bed of yours?" Harry didn't respond but followed Emilie's example, laying down and resting his head on the pillowcase again. "You'd be crazy to think I'd randomly leave in the middle of the night." "Good," he mumbled, his voice hoarse. Emilie watched him lying next to her. His eyes were opened, scanning hers. "Go back to sleep," she whispered. "Come here, then." He reached out to her, his hand finding its way to her waist, pulling her in closer. Emilie's face was now pressed to his chest, her arms naturally finding their way to wrap themselves around Harry's torso. The next time Emilie opened her eyes, the room had lit up significantly. She figured it must've been well into the morning, the sunlight creeping through the curtains, the room no longer pitch black. It took a few seconds to realise the noise that woke her up wasn't the familiar sound coming from the alarm set on her phone, but from another buzzing noise that echoed through the room. She then realised it was Harry's phone, sitting on the nightstand at the other side of the bed. All of a sudden, she felt Harry's presence right beside her, moving in his sleep, before eventually seeming to wake up, as well. He sighed a few times, letting the buzzing sound continue. He then coughed before moving to the phone to answer the call, turning away from Emilie in an attempt to let her sleep, not knowing she was already awake. "Jeffrey," he greeted the caller, his voice full of sleep. It was evident he had been asleep until his phone rang, just like Emilie had. Emilie instantly knew it was Harry's manager. Harry told her about him on multiple occasions. They were best friends, but also business partners, which could become quite complicated, Emilie assumed. What would Jeff Azoff be calling about on a Saturday morning? "I'm well, still in bed, how are you?" Harry spoke again before he paused. "No, I skipped training this morning." Emilie frowned. She couldn't quite distinguish the sounds coming from the phone even though the room was dead silent. Harry must've lowered the volume. "Sure, what is it?" Harry then was silent for a bit, apparently listening to whatever was important enough for an early phone call on the weekend. He sighed once or twice, his free hand going through his hair, before finally replying. "I actually thought I was quite clear on all of that. So... No. I'm really liking it this way, actually. How it is." The guy on the other end of the line was starting to talk again. Emilie focused and could catch something about tour and hotels. Jeff was listing advantages, it seemed like. With that, his voice was rising. Easier, convenient, less travelling, cheaper. "I've told you in advance and I'm sorry, but I'm not gunna change it. This is how it's gunna go." Harry seemed quite determined but it seemed like Jeff wasn't letting him get away with it that easily. "But this isn't America, is it?" Harry asked in return. "I just like getting back home, I don't see how that's so difficult to understand?" Jeff's voice sounded again. "I get that, but they can always reach me. Everyone can. Besides, when did we have any of those problems on the road in the States?" He paused but there wasn't an answer coming from the other end of the line. "Exactly. I'd understand it if there were other things planned in between, like, radio shows or interviews, awards shows, but I've purposely decided against that. So I can get home every night." It started to make sense to Emilie now. Jeffrey wanted Harry to stay on the road with the band and the crew, instead of flying back to London after every concert. "So instead of the hotels and the transportation and the flights between cities, just arrange the jet to fly me from London to the show and back every night." Harry listened to what was being said on the other end of the line again. "There'll be days in between shows and I don't like staying in hotels. I've done that before. It's not like I can properly go out and explore, you know that." Another brief silence Emilie couldn't make anything of. "It's got nothing to do with that," Harry spoke, "Jeffrey, nothing's gunna make me change my mind." He laughed without humour and turned around in bed again, slowly finding his way back to Emilie. "Then cancel them," he lowered his voice a bit, "Have someone cancel them. I've made it clear that I wanted to get home every night weeks ago." Jeffrey's voice sounded again, before Harry answered. "I am. Alright, thanks." It seemed to end the phone call. "Cool, I'll see you then. Bye. Thanks, bye." With a sigh, he turned back around to put his phone away before returning towards Emilie's side of the bed. His arm was instantly wrapped around her waist again. Before he had the chance to move closer to her and press his front against her back, Emilie turned around to face him, seemingly awaking from her slumber. Her narrowed eyes met his. "Hey." "Hey." "What was that?" she mumbled, finding comfort in his arms, not letting him know she was completely aware of what was just discussed over the phone. "Nothing, babe," Harry assured, moving his thumb along her cheek. Butterflies were fluttering in her stomach hearing him use that term of endearment. It didn't keep her from speaking up again, though. "You were talking-" "On the phone," he interrupted, "Nothing important. Let's go back to sleep for a little bit, alright? It's only nine." Emilie hummed in agreement and closed her eyes again, crawling up to Harry a bit closer, her chest soon pressed against his. | < Previous chapter | Next chapter > | | Story page | Author | Talk to me |

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emberwritesthings · 7 years ago

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Viola Esoterica

(This is an older piece that I put through revisions to use on a writing application.)

“You have so much cool stuff!”

Ainsley looked up from the bubbling cauldron to make sure that Ianthe wasn’t touching anything she wasn’t allowed to touch. The treehouse that Ainsley lived in was stocked to the canopy with all sorts of plants and other often dangerous magical necessities, haphazardly organized according to some system that only Ainsley understood.

She would never admit it, but it didn’t really make sense to her either.

Currently, Ianthe was examining the many rows of mason jars filled with seeds. Each jar had a label bearing both the name and scientific name in Ainsley’s sharp, precise handwriting. Ianthe had often expressed amazement at the sheer variety of Ainsley’s collection, a collection painstakingly assembled through centuries of dedicated work.

“Do you use all of these?” Ianthe asked as she plucked a jar of belladonna seeds from the shelves, examining them.

“At some point or another, yes,” Ainsley said as she stepped over, gently taking the belladonna jar from Ianthe and replacing it.

“For your work? Spells, hexes, rituals, all that?”

Ainsley blinked. “...yes. ‘All that’, as you so eloquently put it.” She stepped back to her cauldron. “Do you require more seeds?”

Ianthe, despite her more mechanical and scientific leanings, had started up her own witch’s garden from a generous donation of starter seeds from Ainsley. Ainsley still couldn’t believe how long she’s spent painstakingly assembling the perfect list for Ianthe, packing the bag with seeds that smelled like Ianthe’s favorite aromas - metal shavings, hazlenut, machine oil, freshly cut grass....

“I need a wide variety of ingredients for when people come to ask me favors, or if I decide to help them ahead of time anyway.” Ainsley’s non-Ianthe visitors were rare, being as far removed from society as she was, but they still happened.

She cast her eyes over the shelf for a moment before finding the desired component, taking a jar full of bright red seeds down. Moving back to her cauldron, she popped open the top of the jar and sprinkled a small handful of the seeds into the bubbling concoction. The roiling liquid gradually turned from bright acid green to deep red, and the smoke coming from it turned from purple to black. Little lightning bolts jumped back and forth inside the smoke clouds, to Ianthe’s fascination.

A thought occurred to Ianthe, and she glanced up from the cauldron. “What if I need a favor?”

Ainsley instantly tensed up, looking up at Ianthe with a careful, guarded expression. “Why? What do you need?”

“Nothing! Sorry, I- I don’t need anything. Right now, I mean.” She waved her hand in front of her, clearing the metaphorical air between them, hoping to calm Ainsley down. “But if I did, what would the process be for that? You can do anything, right?”

“Oh. It’s. It’s, uh, it’s jus-” She sighed, her words running together and falling to pieces as her mind dropped from full alert. Ianthe, though, was waiting for an explanation. “If you need...something...done, something that you can’t do, you come to me. I’ll mix something up here, and it will happen, such as with this.” She indicated the cauldron. “But favors require payment. I cannot work for free.”

Or I will pay more than I have left, she mused.

Ianthe nodded, rubbing her chin with a dark hand. “Payment, like...money? Do you use that out here? I think I have some with me.”

Ainsley sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Talking with Ianthe gave her a headache, just as often as it secretly delighted her. Sometimes, both at once. “Oh, you poor child...no. I don’t deal in money, money means nothing to me. Payment can be all sorts of things. Blood. Luck. Reputation. Life. Souls. Time. Thoughts. Memories. It depends on the nature of the favor.”

“Mmm, I see,” said Ianthe with a nod.

“And I always collect,” Ainsley declared, her voice taking on a distinct edge - one that wavered slightly despite her hoping it wouldn’t. “I am a witch, Ianthe, and whatever favors you want me to do for you will be paid in full eventually. I’m sure you have been told to never trust the fey, Ianthe and you should thus never trust me...unless you are desperate. I can give you your wildest desires, but they will exact a heavy toll.”

As if on cue, the liquid in the pot boiled over, bringing forth a long hiss from the fire as it turned the flames bright blue. The smoke spewing from the liquid was blood red, and the lightning bolts had turned black, jagged bits of midnight leaping to and fro in the clouds.

Ainsley tapped the pot with her stirring spoon, and it instantly died down, allowing her to fix her gaze on Ianthe. She must have understood. Please, Ianthe never ask me for anything. There was silence for a moment as Ianthe thought, and then...

“So what if I wanted, say, a sandwich?”

Ainsley’s shoulders drooped as she realized that her words had flown right over Ianthe’s head.

“Or...oh! I know! Wait here!” With that, Ianthe dashed from Ainsley’s cabin, leaving the witch alone and confused. Still, she had a spell to finish and bottle, so she devoted her attention to that, a part of her wondering whether Ianthe was foolish or fearless.

Around ten minutes later, Ianthe reappeared and offered a bouquet of flowers to a surprised Ainsley. The surprise came from both the gift at all, and from the flowers themselves - they were bright and cheery, and made entirely of metal with painted details. Beautiful polished bronze roses and iron lilies, copper daisies and delicate golden sunflowers, and even a few dark belladonna buds.

“Here! Does this count as payment?”

“It…what? For what?” Ainsley was about to tell Ianthe that this wasn’t how it worked, but one look at Ianthe’s wide smile and hopeful eyes shut that down right quick, and the words faded away from her lips.

“I’d like some more flowers!” Ianthe immediately turned back to the rows and rows of mason jars, looking intently at the seeds. “I want my garden to look as good as yours does someday, so I’d like to take some more seeds. And I paid you in my own flowers. Is that a fair trade?”

A gentle warm sensation rose in Ainsley’s chest, and she didn’t have the heart to tell Ianthe that no, no it wasn’t, and that she would have to collect later.

But maybe this time I won’t have to collect, a desperate thought whispered to her. This could work out someway, right?

“Y-yes,” she mumbled to Ianthe’s eager smile. “Yes, it is. I’ll pick some seeds out for you. But just this once, okay?” I’m dangerous, Ainsley wanted to say. I’m dangerous and tricky and I will destroy you softly, lovingly, and completely. Go. Go away, leave me in peace, and never speak to me again.

Instead, she said nothing, looking out over her plants and wondering which to give. As she pondered her collection, she thought back to her own first encounter with a witch.

It had been in this very wood. She was young, much younger than she was now, perhaps by a few centuries. She’d approached a cabin innocently, stopping to admire the rainbow of flowers that grew in the witch’s garden. The woman herself had been tending to them, stroking their leaves and beaming down at them with a certain special kind of pride

I love your flowers!, Ainsley had said.

Thank you, the witch had replied. They like you, too.

Ainsley had smiled wide, bending down to sniff them. They smell amazing.

As flowers do, the witch had said. But, you must be careful, child. I see many beautiful flowers in your future, but one of them will ruin you.

You can see my future?

The witch nodded. Here. She plucked and then handed to Ainsley a violet flower with large, broad leaves and heart-shaped petals. This is for you, if you want it, but accepting it comes with a price - one you may not expect. Do you want this flower?

Ainsley remembered reaching out for the flower after thinking for a moment, rationalizing that it was a small gift, so it must only come with a small price.

How wrong she had been.

Ianthe left soon after that, a pouch of seeds in hand and an unfathomably bright smile on her face. As the faded memories of the centuries since that day swirled in Ainsley’s mind, she realized that in all of her time since, she’d never actually looked up the name of the flower she was given that day. She recalled it, above almost all else, with crystal clarity.

Ainsley pulled one of her plant journals from the shelf, flipping through it with a small sense of dread. On a base level, she knew that this would not end in joy or happiness. She knew what the name of that flower would be. She knew before she turned the page and found the flower, one with beautiful heart-shaped purple petals and broad leaves. She knew before she flicked her eyes down to read the description.

She knew that this was all going to end in a storm.

Viola esoterica. Known for vibrant purple color, broad leaves, and a sweet, light fragrance. Found in forests, elevated fields, and other areas of high rain and abundant shade.

Common name: ianthe.

#ainsley #ianthe

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alexisluthor · 5 years ago

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Deep Dive of Prodigal Son Episode, “Death’s Door”

*Spoilers Ahead*

In the prior episode, Martin talked about how he sometimes "improvised." We see him actually doing it in his flashback. He took the runner because it was an easy opportunity. There's a real Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde thing going on with the doc. In one instance, he's the concerned doctor, the surgeon who saves lives. On the other, he's a manipulative psychopath. What really screwed him over with this 'kill,' was his desire to be all powerful. He likes playing God, stretching time, which tracks with his career as a surgeon. He gives life and takes it away, it's the ultimate narcissistic profession for him. He can teeter on the edge of life and death and come out the hero. In the ep., we know that 'flashback' was all how it had truly happened, up until the moment when he opens the box and its empty. (Just before that, as he's speaking to his victim, you can hear her inside breathing and moving)

He even manages to maintain control of his hallucination when he realizes that it is *his* nightmare, and therefore, can manipulate it. He takes control of his torment in a way that Malcolm has never been able to.

It's interesting that even as she stabbed him, and he lay dying on the floor, that he's psychoanalyzing himself... i.e. you're the embodiment of all my victims. In that case, I can't help but wonder if the number of times she stabbed him has any relevance. It must, right? Is that how many victims we/the police have yet to know about?

Another valuable tidbit in Martin's nightmare is when he admits to why he does what he does. He speaks of his mother very vaguely - "maybe she didn't love me enough. Or maybe she loved me too much." But when he talks about his father...and how he, "did bad things" to him...it leaves little doubt in my mind that he was abused as a child - physically, maybe sexually. Perhaps it is for this reason that he asserts his dominance over his victims by making them helpless and then killing them.

Also, something that's fascinating is Martin's idgaf attitude. He encourages her to finish him. However, the second she mentions Malcolm - he suddenly very much cares. Perhaps his inability to protect himself as a boy, or protect his family from an abusive father figure has bled over into his desperate desire to protect his own family. He admits that monsters are real - and if he's the biggest monster of them all, then he can protect those he loves. Right? That, and I believe that Malcolm is Martin's greatest achievement. He sees Malcolm as an extension of himself, as his legacy. It's fascinating that Martin says the same two words to Malcolm before and after the incident..."My boy." A claiming of that ownership. And as Martin awakes from his coma, you can see the relief evident on Malcolm's face.

In the ep, Jessica also tells her new attorney that Malcolm...saw his father "do things." Which raises the question, what did he see? She didn't say, "he saw bad things" i.e. the girl in the box. No, she uses a verb, which denotes that Malcolm has personally witnessed some atrocity. I personally find it very concerning that Jessica, at some point, knew that Martin was a killer and yet, it was Malcolm who turned him in - not her. Also, she was the one paying the attorney for Martin's trial, wasn't she? So if she didn't like the direction he was going in, she could have stopped it - right? Pulled the funds, forced him to get a subpar defense attorney. But instead, she makes it sound like a surprise! Trials are quite slow...there would be no surprise. He couldn't have plead out, or there would have been no trial. And how much of that trial did Malcolm see or testify on?

So what now? Martin essentially blackmails his family with his 'secret' knowledge but why? What could he possibly want? A little more freedom? More time with the fam? A transfer?

As a viewer, you know that the truth about WHO stabbed Martin will surface eventually - and when it does - it's going to be ugly. Malcolm is essentially living a lie by omission. He tells Dani that he's going to do better AS he's essentially lying to her face. It's also shocking that he's handling stabbing his father so well. His psyche is more fragile than an expired egg and yet...no nightmare scene? No hallucinations of his father's corpse following him around? Sure, he had a moment of pause at the convention, but he's handling the whole thing well. Too well. Plus, he ignores updates about his father when his mother's entire future is on the line? Maybe he enjoyed stabbing Martin a little too much...just as he enjoyed cutting off that dude's hand. Maybe he's more like his father than he'd care to admit, too scared to go and visit because he might feel something other than hatred. He basically 'dealt' by 'not dealing' in this episode. Yet, he seems more stable than ever. But you KNOW that he DOES care about what happens because when Ainsley texted him, he did rush to the hospital. Anyway...

Just like the perp in this ep, part of Malcolm wants to hang onto the past...to the good times when Dad was just Dad, a good father. Life was simple, memories were sweet. But even when you're freely remembering the old times, you remain trapped and unable to move forward. In the end, Martin valued waking up more than the thrill of another kill - something he hasn't 'tasted' in 20 years - because he would rather have a ruined reality as a prisoner than remain trapped in a fantasy in which he's free.

#prodigal son #prodigal son theories #ps #tom payne #michael sheen #Martin Whitley #malcolm bright #malcolm whitley #ainsley whitly #jessica whitley #FOX #prodigal son spoilers #spoilers #fanart #my art #prodigal son fanart

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theletterunread · 7 years ago

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Homecoming

This story follows Reflexes.

After falling two stories, I saw a flagpole sticking out of the wall and, still remembering the chapter books about the scientist-adventurer and his daughter, I reached out two open hands for it. It bent with audible strain under my weight, but it didn’t snap, and once I was sure it would hold, I shuffled three inches at a time down the pole to the wall. Six or so feet below that was an awning, which I dropped onto. The sidewalk was only ten feet below me now, so I turned on my stomach and scooched slowly down the canvas until my feet were dangling flat above the ground. I dropped onto the balls of my feet, rocked backwards, and fell on my butt. (In case you find yourself in this position, you’re actually supposed to roll forward, as that’s the momentum you’ll be carrying from the fall, but I wanted to protect my belly.) Aside from a few bruises, and a strain in my shoulders from stopping myself on the flagpole, I was fine. (Honestly, since there was no lingering effect from the fall and the details of the stunt are boring to me, I would just as soon have ignored them, but the action scenes are the part of this story people always ask about, so…)

I looked up at the building and saw that I had been taken to the Meatpacking District, apparently into one of the few warehouses still used as such, not converted into a boutique. There were scorch marks around the frame of the broken window and while I was staring up, Molly, Stephanie, and Anastasia, charred and bleeding but still alive, stuck their heads out looking for me. After taking a second to feel relief that I hadn’t killed them (it was self-defense, but I had no desire to put “blew three women to pieces” on my spiritual resume), I took off south, figuring the zigs and zags of Greenwich Village were a good place to elude pursuers.

The streets were still empty. On 13th Street, I passed an off-off-Broadway theater that I had gone to years ago to see an evening of one-acts in which my classmate Elle was performing. She was playing a young housewife in 1962 who has to assuage her daughter’s fears when she sees President Kennedy on television speaking alarmingly on the Cuban Missile Crisis. The point being, I think, that there is a time when all children learn the fallibility of grown-ups, or maybe that there is something in a woman that naturally rises to the occasion when her child needs protecting. Whatever. It was a dumb play when I first saw it, and even on that day, as a soon-to-be-mother perhaps in the midst of a deadly calamity, I found nothing of value in it.

I walked a little while longer. The next time I actually considered my surroundings was on Washington Place when I realized that I was in front of my old apartment, obviously subconsciously drawn there. Of the five apartments I’ve had in New York, this was the only one that I truly loved, and I would have lived there forever if I could’ve. The situation was straight out of one of those old Dawn Powell novels about Manhattan: the townhouse was owned by Kathleen, a widow who rented out rooms at life-alteringly cheap prices to young women looking to get started in the city. It was an act of extreme generosity and I never knew why she picked the women she did to be her beneficiaries. There were surely hundreds of interested tenants who would have offered her more rent. I never asked her for an explanation, figuring that age had either made her beatific or senile, and both of those are impossible to talk to.

Tenants usually cycled in and out within a year, but Celia, Ainsley and I all moved in within six weeks of each other and stuck around for four years. We got along in all the ways that roommates have to, and in a few of the ways that friends must. Things ran cold as often as they ran hot, and sometimes the two of them ganged up on me out of what I can’t identify as anything but boredom. You know, the sort of thing where I’d mention that at lunch with a high-school classmate who was in the city, he kept staring at my chest, and I’d get from my roommates a rolled-eyed, “Welcome to life” response. But the next month, I’d mention in a tossed-off way that I was similarly gawked at by an intern at work, I’d be scolded by both of them for not taking it seriously. (I’m not saying this happens to me all the time, it’s just a convenient example that, sure, does happen enough to be a convenient example.)

I left the apartment once Celia and Ainsley got serious with their boys. Again, in a window of only six weeks or so, Celia got engaged to her boyfriend, Seth, and Ainsley, not to be outdone, got married to Ilya, a Russian student whom she’d met a year before during his summer in the city. The two couples were both starting to weigh the pros and cons of New Jersey versus Long Island, so the writing was on the wall: I packed up and left, figuring it was only right to leave the apartment wide open for the next iteration of young women. Or so I put it at the time. As I say, I could have lived in that apartment forever, but I didn’t want to stay around Celia and Ainsley any more. It wasn’t that I was jealous – I had no desire to get married, especially not to the prizes they had picked (Ilya, when I met him, told me that he didn’t care what work his wife did, as long as she made less money than he did, and Celia’s fiancee Seth was a monomaniacal body builder) – but that I didn’t want to face their condescension if they decided to think I was jealous.

None of these fine details were on my mind at the moment. I just needed a safe place to stop. There was no answer at the garden level door, so I walked up the stoop and tried the parlor level, where Kathleen usually kept herself. With a little difficulty, somebody opened the door. I first noticed the cast on her arm and next saw that it was Ainsley regarding me impassively.

“Yes?”

“Oh! Ainsley, I didn’t know you were still here. It’s Paige!”

She still didn’t react, which I took (and I guess this was where my insensitivity started) as indication that she didn’t remember me.

“I used to live here with you. You and me and Celia.”

“What’s going on, Paige?”

“Um…I recognize the craziness, but what’s going on is somebody just tried to kill me. They’re the same people who blew up the subway.”

“The subway?”

“You heard about the subway, didn’t you? Didn’t you notice that there was nobody out on the streets?”

“I’ve been in here working.”

“Well, could I come in for a bit? I can explain what’s happening.” Another blank look. “Or not. I would just rather get off my feet for a minute and think. Please.”

Ainsley stepped back and, with her uncast arm, gestured me up the stairs to our old apartment.

“I can’t believe you’re still here,” I said, kind of to her and kind of to the house. “Except for the broken arm, you look just the same. There’s no change.”

“It’s like I don’t even exist when you’re not around.”

I laughed, but she just said, “Have a seat.”

“Thank you. Actually, could I grab a glass of water?”

She sighed and walked into the kitchen. Over the sound of the running faucet she spoke to me. “When you spend time speaking English with someone who’s still learning it, and walking them through it, you notice all these little things that native speakers don’t get. And that one, ‘grab a glass of water,’ became one of my least favorite phrases.” She came back in, handed me the glass, and sat on a far couch. “It’s needlessly aggressive: ‘Could you grab that? Could you grab that?’” She punctuated this with angry hand gestures.

I wanted to be a good guest, but I felt this wasn’t worth simperingly apologizing over, so I just kept the conversation moving. “I assume it’s Ilya you were teaching?” Ainsley nodded and I was at least able to pick up in that gesture her discouragement against me continuing down that line of discussion. “And what about Celia? Is she still here too?”

“No, actually, I don’t really know where she wound up. I haven’t been all that interested to find out. Kind of like…” She started to say, and I cut her off with my next question – though I can now guess what she was going to say.

“But you decided to stay?”

“I own the building.”

“Noooo,” I said with genuine astonishment. “That’s amazing. How did that happen?”

“You left. Celia left. I was the only one here when Kathleen moved to Arizona. She gave me the first look because she didn’t want to put it on the market where just anybody could…”

“It was cheap, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing about you, just that it would be hard for anybody to afford a townhouse unless the price was–”

“One million is what I paid. What’s that?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty cheap. Wow.”

One million dollars, though still the quintessential “a lot of money,” is no money at all in New York real estate. Another negative feeling started to bubble up: I was jealous of Ainsley. Credit this as much as you want (though I think I’ve demonstrated to you so far that I’m an honest person), but I hadn’t felt jealous of another person for a long, long time. However, since I had moved out of this apartment, I had been steadily fantasizing about owning a townhouse in New York, a respectfully old-fashioned home where I could establish myself as permanent part of the city. I wanted five narrow stories from the cellar to the roof, a skyscraper for one. I wanted a place where I could hook up my own washer and dryer, anchoring me, making it clear I was never moving away. I knew that I would appreciate the house more than Ainsley, who I could still remember talking excitedly about “a big yard in Central Islip.”

I pushed that negativity away. “I’m glad it wound up with you, and not somebody who’d…ruin this place.”

“Ruin how?”

“Tear it down? Well, that’s probably not allowed, since it’s an old building. But somebody who would gut the inside or let it become pied-à-terres. It just makes me happy that…this place means a lot to me and I’m glad its going to somebody else who loves it and isn’t just looking to trade up for huge property out in the suburbs. What if Kathleen had sold it to somebody who was…you know, ‘Oh, I have to get out of the city every other weekend to recharge.’ As if this isn’t the only place in the world that isn’t exhausting.” I believed everything I said, but the withering atmosphere filling the space between us had me rambling and dropping the end of every sentence into quavers and hesitation.

“Even if I did want to get out of the city, I’m stuck here now. I’ve sunk all my time and money into this place.” Ainsley stood up, took my glass from me, and walked back into the kitchen. I thought she was getting me a refill, but she came back empty-handed. I noticed, for the first time, how un-lived-in the place look. There was only as much furniture as one person would use.

“You’re not renting out the rooms?” I asked.

“I don’t have any interest in roommates any more. Celia and Seth were enough.”

“Seth moved in?”

“After you left, Celia convinced Kathleen to let Seth take over your share of the rent. He was the first guy she ever let live here. He probably hastened her to retirement.”

“Was he still–”

“A piece of shit? Yes, he brought all of his weights. There are cracks in the floors upstairs from where he dropped them.”

She was mad enough about this that I didn’t ask her the question I’d actually been going for: was he still taking steroids? My appraisal of Seth was encapsulated entirely by a discussion one night when we were both in the kitchen at the same time. He was telling me that he’d got Celia interested in weight-lifting, and was trying to turn her on to SARMs, his preferred muscle-building drug, which he kept in handy syringes. He set the scene for me: “I see her in her gym outfit – I got her these amazing shorts – she looks so good. I’m trying to focus on training her, but I don’t know whether I want to fuck her or inject her. I guess they’re both the same!”

“I shouldn’t admit this,” I said to Ainsley, “because I shouldn’t admit that I even cared, but one night I looked up all his old pictures from years before we knew him, and he was just this stick-insect boy.”

“I think he had Marfan Syndrome.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s the Abe Lincoln condition.”

“Oh. Well, in any case…skinny guy becomes steroid guy. The insecurity is pretty obviously accounted for.”

“What do I care what turned him into a pig? Why do you even care?” Ainsley said, and I lost the rapport we’d been building up. “When I heard he got popped, I actually cheered.”

“Popped?”

“He was all over message boards talking about those drugs, buying and selling them. The feds got him. Probably just to have him flip on a big-level distributor, but he’s probably too stupid to get that and will wind up going to jail himself.”

Suddenly, a complete memory came back to me. “There’s one thing I’d give him,” I said. “I overheard them talking in Celia’s room one night, and they were getting mushy, and he said that he liked her upper lip hair.”

“Why?”

“That’s what Celia asked. And he said, ‘Because when I see it, it means I’m close enough to kiss you.’ So, I don’t know. I thought that was a nice thing to say.” Up to this moment, I had never felt anything positive about Seth, so I was surprised to hear myself talk like this. Later, I looked online for any sort of psychological explanation for this, and it seems like it may have been a self-regulating effort by my brain to counterbalance thoughts of schadenfreude with more charitable ones. If you’ve ever been so happy you cried, or found a baby or a puppy or a kitten so unbelievably cute that you wanted to “eat it up,” your brain has made a similar recalibration for emotional equilibrium.

Ainsley was adjusting her sitting position and delicately moving her cast, so she took a moment to respond. “You really think so? I think it’s more manipulative than anything else. To bring up an insecurity like that, to subtly reinforce it? To make her think it would be a problem if she went with any other guy?”

It was so obvious, I was embarrassed to have suggested otherwise, and tried to restore a disdainful position. “Maybe it was the steroids, too. He’s way into body hair.”

But it was Ainsley who was giving off all the disdain. She just stared, unimpressed at my joke. I ventured another line. “I’ve got that going now too, actually. Since I got pregnant, I’ve had more hair.”

“Why are you expecting me to care about this?”

By this point, I knew a line like that was coming, but its not something you can really prepare for. “I’m not expecting you to care about anything,” I said, generically. “But we are catching up after several years–”

“Exactly, Paige! Thats exactly the point! It’s been years. You left right when things got ugly, you stayed completely away. I didn’t hear anything from you until you come up today with your problems.”

“I didn’t come here with my ‘problems.’ I came here…well, whatever. I don’t think I stayed completely away, I’m sure I sent you some text or something on Facebook since then.”

“That’s not really meaningful communication, though, is it? It’s what you do when you’re trying to collect your credit while still staying comfortably away.”

“What are you accusing me of staying away from?”

“You bailed out and left me with Seth and Celia. I had to handle all their shit.”

“Ainsley, the only ‘shit’ there was in this apartment was from the two of you coming at me all the time.”

“So you just shutting yourself in your room when she’s screaming at me because she thinks I moved her food in the fridge? That didn’t happen? And you didn’t just, ‘Hey, I’m leaving,’ one day, with no forewarning? I had to live with Celia and Seth, with nobody on my side.”

“That is completely nothing. I supposed to protect you from fridge fights? Also, I left because you were all getting married. Why am I expected to do more on this than your husband? Or take care of yourself, for that matter.”

I’ve let this play out uninterrupted so you could see how overwhelmed we were both getting and see the emotional errors that I was making, but I now have to break in to elide the details of this story that need to stay hidden. What I will say is that that after finishing school, Ilya came back to the US and moved in with Ainsley, and that once he came over from Russia permanently, they found that absence was the secret sauce of their romance. Without it, there was nothing to obscure their incompatibility, no “make the most of the time we have” to enliven their ordinary sex life. The night before their formal wedding ceremony, they stayed up late talking, agreed that they should put an end to the marriage, but felt too guilty about having brought out their far-flung families to cancel the party.

They figured an exit strategy would come to mind and they could end the marriage cleanly, but one never did, and they stayed together for almost two years. And rather than growing increasingly distant and numb towards each other, they got mean. There were screaming matches and possessions thrown out of high windows. Once, before Ainsley left on a work trip, Ilya scrubbed the magnetic strips off her credit cards with steel wool – this really happened – and colored them back in with a magic marker, stranding her without money in a foreign country.

(Obviously, only some of this was in what Ainsley told me during our fight. The rest came in research that I’ve done for this book. And regrettably, my attitude towards the story while she told it was not as sensitive as it is in this summary.)

They finally separated after that, but divorce wasn’t the end of it. Six months later (one month before I arrived for this reunion), Ilya re-emerged, and I have to get even more vague here. This all butts against my earlier vow to always tell the truth, but there’s a terrible part I have to completely excise from this story. It’s not that I’m afraid that Ainsley will find out I used her life as grist for the mill – she’s probably the only person in New York who’s immune to my celebrity, and I suspect she’s going to pointedly avoid this book – it’s that it would be wrong, full stop. I’m not writing this book to make money or increase my profile, but those things will happen, and it would be ghoulish for me to profit at all from this awful turn in her life.

I just have to ask you to please trust me when I say that something terrible happened when Ilya came back…something bad enough that even hearing about it had a permanent effect on my speech. I no longer make jokes about a certain topic, or even use rhetorical expressions based around it. Again, I’m sorry for being so vague, especially given that this is actually a decision I’d advise other people to follow. The emphatic vocabulary surrounding tragedy is temptingly powerful, but consider the effect an unprompted, untelegraphed appearance of certain words or imagery might have on somebody who’s lived through the actual pain of those events.

But that was a charitable thought that only came to me later. At the moment, I brushed past the details of her shattered life, stung by her notion that I was the worse friend.

“Well, putting all that aside and focusing on us,” I said, “which is all I think you can expect me to do…I was always pushed around by the two of you. Maybe – maybe!” I yelled to stop her from interrupting. “Maybe you two treated each other like shit separately from me, but when I was there, it was always against me: you rolled your eyes at everything I said, I couldn’t get an inch in any conversation. I couldn’t have any friend over without you two squeezing us out of the living room because you didn’t want to share the space. When you two got engaged it was dialed up! Every single thing about me was trivial in your eyes after that. So…it’s baffling to me that you even wanted me to be there for you. Let alone that you’re upset I wasn’t.”

“You can’t understand why I’m mad at you?”

“I understand it makes sense in the reality that you have, but no, before I came in here, I had no idea you were thinking this. I had stopped thinking about what you were thinking. It seemed like that’s how you wanted to do it.”

“You didn’t know that I was ignoring you?” Ainsley asked in a showy, and-that’s-when-I-realized sort of voice. “You just said you don’t even notice when I’m gone from your life. Do you even feel guilty about how selfish you’re being?”

At first I latched onto the word “guilt,” and it threw all sorts of thoughts into my mind: pleading text messages I never answered, a habit of subtly accentuating my emotional wounds to inspire guilt in other people, reflexively and cruelly laughing when a friend told me she was interested in exploring the furry scene. And worst of all, a memory of my first month in New York, walking up Broadway between Union and Madison Squares and seeing a tiny, twitching sparrow on the sidewalk, stunned and shattered by a collision with a window…and leaving it there. It would have been so easy to pick it up and leave it in the cool dirt of a tree basin where it could have recovered, or at least passed in peace. But I kept walking.

Then I clocked the word “selfish,” and pushed away all those thoughts that might have led to softness, and kept fighting.

“You ignore me all the time. You ignored me when I was living in the room next to you, you and Celia grinding down every single thing that I did or said.”

“What is it supposed to be, Paige? I ignored you or I attacked you? Which is it?”

“Yeah, obviously, you didn’t ignore ignore me. Just ignored everything about me. So why am I supposed to notice something now? It’s the same way it’s always been. What’s the difference between you’re not talking to me because you hate me and you’re not talking to me even though you love me?” I said this firmly, even as the sentiment turned to soup in my head. Of course there’s a difference, a one that’s immediately understood once you’ve been on the transmitting end of both kinds of silence.

“Nobody’s trying to get you to notice anything, Paige. I didn’t ask you to come over here again when I’m trying to work. You showed up…you don’t even know what you want.” And if she hadn’t used that phrase, I would have soon enough.

Hearing those words out loud triggered the memory: I was sitting, in all likelihood, in the same chair I was now in. It was the middle of the night. I had come home from a date with a boy I’d seen a few times. Our first meeting was inauspicious: I was sitting in Riverside Park when he came up asking me to pay a fee because he “caught me not smiling!” I responded with a truly pissed off, “why the fuck should I be smiling?” but it turned out he was just collecting for some non-profit dedicated to mental health, and that was their scripted opening line. (I’ve tried to figure out what charity it was, but that’s not the sort of detail you can Google, and nobody I’ve asked was ever solicited by the same group.) I felt bad once he made that clear – people with bad jobs don’t need to be yelled at as well – and I guess I was weakened enough to let him have my number.

On our third date, I agreed to go out with him somewhere in his neighborhood, mainly because I was curious to see Inwood, which had always looked to me, on maps, hinterlandish without being actually inconvenient. He showed up looking “natty” (his word) and took me to a brick oven pizza restaurant where he made his drink selection based on an excited discovery of “angostura bitters” in a list of ingredients – all of which is of a piece, I now see. But he was polite and listened when I talked, so I acquiesced when he asked if I wanted to come back to his apartment.

We sat on his couch before a TV that showed a paused video game. Instead of ignoring it or shutting down the system, he picked up a controller and asked me if I’d ever played the game. I said no, I was an adult, and he unpaused and started explaining it to me. It involved a lot of sneaking around in some mutant-filled horror world. He directed my attention to the TV screen just in time for me to watch a body-horror monstrosity jump out of a window and split open a bystander. I told him that I didn’t want to watch any more. “You don’t like violence?” he asked.

“No,” I said, and then, before that could settle me as a square, “I don’t think we need to censor it, but I think it’s something we should…”

He smiled. “It’s tricky. You don’t even know what you want.”

I flipped it around on him. “Do you ‘like’ violence? Isn’t it something we should all try not to like?”

“No, that’s a good point. I don’t even really like gory violence that much. I’m more into psychological horror. Do you know about the live burials in Thessaloniki?”

You can guess what they were: true stories from distressingly recent dates of people stupidly, needlessly condemned to a horrifying end when they were accidentally buried alive. I lost my calm when he said, “they heard screams underground,” and actually clamped my hands over my ears. He pulled my hands down and said, “And, and, and…when they opened the coffin, the fingers were all cramped and there were scratches all over the inside.”

I excused myself to go to the bathroom, turned on the sink, and under the noise of the faucet, snuck out the front door. Normally I would have let a bad date know that and why I was leaving, but this time I ducked out of his building and walked to the subway constantly looking over my shoulder. The A was running local, but even in the hour it took me to get to West 4th Street, I still couldn’t get my head clear of bloody visuals, and my chest felt tight no matter how many deep breaths I took.

I came home, made it up one flight of stairs, but couldn’t go into the dark upstairs bedrooms. I stayed in the living room, with the lights on, for ten minutes before Ainsley, coming down to drop her dirty dishes in the kitchen, saw me. “Are you back from your date?” she asked.

I recounted the evening exactly as it happened, without adornments, working unsuccessfully to stay unaffected. Ainsley let me talk until, attempting a dry conclusion, I said, “So you understand why that didn’t work out.” At that, Ainsley came over and sat on the arm of the chair and stiffly hugged my shoulders. “It’s not good for people to deliberately upset you,” she offered. “It’s only okay if somebody does it as a joke…like, making you feel upset in a light and fun way where you don’t actually feel upset. And you’re in on the joke.”

I realize (and even realized then) that this sounds incredibly robotic and awkward, and it was. But it was no less sincere for all that, and in fact, it was even more moving for being so stilted. Anyone with a honeyed voice can toss off a soothing word like it’s nothing, but for somebody to go out of her comfort zone, to let herself sound so clumsy just to give me a little comfort, she must care about me. Maybe not most of the time, but there was something indivisible there.

It all came back to me, and though Ainsley was still pumping poison into the air, I felt no desire to fight anymore. She had made the last attack (“You don’t even know what you want”) and was waiting for me to return it. But I just sighed and stared at the wall, attempting to recompose myself until a phone rang in another room and Ainsley left. She was gone for several minutes, which let a number of apologies build up in my head. I figured I would start with the present, telling her that she had no reason to feel bad for winding up where she had, that maintaining this townhouse was vital to New York. And I wasn’t just saying that to be nice. Though it’s me who has been designated the city’s savior, it’s really – and this isn’t false modesty – the daily people who keep the old junky apartments standing and maintain the parks to a capped degree of modest cleanliness and refuse to give up on the subway – they deserve support and acclaim for keeping New York from turning into the gilded country club it always threatens to be.

Getting up to follow Ainsley into the other room, I heard a crunch beneath my feet: an old, disgusting syringe. Seth had been shooting up all over the house, apparently. The needle was still attached, and I thought of how easy it would have been to accidentally stick myself and, depending on what was in the barrel, how quickly it could have changed or even ended my life.

All the pieces didn’t come together there. But enough of them did. A line was strung between that idea of sudden injections and my recollection of the first thing that happened that morning – the conversation with Stephanie on the stalled train – and from it so many other details hung: the attack on the subway, the disappearance of Dr. Shimin, the celebrity tunnels under the city, the code names that Molly and her cronies were using. There was now a unifying thread between everything that had happened. I didn’t know that I needed to go to the bookstore, but it was an informed guess, the best I had. And there was no time to search for a better one.

Ainsley still hadn’t returned, and though I knew speed was of the essence, I hated to leave without turning down the heat between us. I checked every room in every floor of the building twice, but she was gone. I left for the bookstore wishing that we could have made amends since I needed all the good energy I could get on my side if I was going to stop an assassination.

#short story #New York City #townhouse #roommates #steroids #guilt #buried alive #fight

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captivesrp · 7 years ago

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Alaric ignores the aching in his jaw as he continues to clench his teeth in an effort to keep from yelling out in objection to the scene before him.

He had finally found a degree of sleep the night before, and his rude awakening had been the first in a series of events that have greatly agitated him. He and the other captives had been gathered together without their task leaders, facing Symbre and the other brigands across a clearing. It did not take long before he had understood the meaning of her words:

“You have trained hard, learned much, and it is time you learned why you are here.

“Your training has revealed a piece of the reason. Some of you may have speculated and investigated beyond that. I can tell you with full confidence that you have not landed upon the truth, because the truth is beyond legend. The truth is legend.

“We have reason to believe a creature roams this forest; a creature with magical blood worth more than the treasure of Aurduw the great chief, more than all the gold in the Chaerodeui mines. A creature that can only be found—and killed—by a child.

“Ainsley. Alaric. Cydwag. Anwen. Heulwen. Ffrewgí. Murchadh. Ashrille. Wyddryr.” Symbre's level gaze falls on each child in turn. “I can no longer address you, as a group, as children. You have proven yourself greater than that—you are warriors, druids, peers—but, for a little while longer, you remain children, and that is your greatest strength. Because of your youth you have access to glory beyond age, and, when you have killed this creature, you will no longer be viewed as children but as heroes. A cornerstone of legend.

“Will you participate in our quest as a hunter alongside us and claim those titles? You have proven yourself worthy of a place in my tribe, and many of my tribespeople have volunteered to enter into blood pact with you to make you blood members of the Gwaedwn tribe. We are the tribe that will forge the future. Join us, or hunt as a captive, to be nameless and forgotten by the storytellers.”

A number of brigands step forward, each presenting a vouch for one of the captives---Anwen, Murchadh, Ffrewgí, the guide Wyddryr. Symbre raises her left hand and offers a vouch for any of the others.

Alaric watches with disdain as four children move forward to accept the blood pact, cutting hands and locking eyes with their own abusers. His anger begins to tear through his already scant control. They were fools, all of them, to trust the people who had taken them from their homes. They were blindly accepting their roles as nothing but a means to an end---to serve the tribe until they had run out their time . . . or their usefulness.

Symbre wraps her cut hand after finishing the pact with Ainsley---Alaric averts his eyes when his former tent-mate looks his way. “Will any others accept the invitation and stride into the future as one with us, participating in the glory and comfort owed to members of the Gwaedwn tribe? Alaric, Anwen, Heulwen, Ffrewgí, Cydwag—you have strengths that we could put to use, gifts that could propel you into the stories that travel our land.”

The woman receives only silence in response. Alaric is truly surprised by the number of captives that remain standing beside him.

“So be it,” intones Symbre. “Your names will be forgotten, your efforts unsung; you have chosen to remain as captives and shall work for the Gwaedwn as slaves.”

Alaric smirks to himself. He would most certainly rather live as an unwilling slave than somebody’s mindless pet.

Symbre brusquely divides the children---captives and new tribespeople alike---into three expedition groups. Alaric, with Anwen and Wyddryr, is placed under the guidance of Logain. Alaric makes the others come to him, his legs firmly planted in place, his mind replaying Symbre’s speech. One detail sticks out to him more than any other: the magical blood of the mysterious creature, worth more than gold.

Eventually, he is forced to stir. Logain takes charge of the little group and leads them in some basic training exercises around the village proper. Evening falls, and Alaric finds himself, along with the other children that had refused Symbre’s offer, back at the tents. Only three now remain in the space. Alaric begins to see the distinct line now drawn in the sand between the two groups within the camp---clearly the new tribe members have been provided upgraded quarters.

He and Anwen settle down in one of the tents, though it is not long before someone calls Anwen outside and Alaric is left to his thoughts. His mind is stuck on the creature, the new paths its existence opens for him. What really is the value of its blood? How come only children can hunt it? Alaric’s mind fills with potential answers to his own questions, but none properly click and his curiosity continues to fester.

When Anwen returns, Alaric can see contemplation troubling her face beneath the tightness of stress.

“How’re you doing with . . . all of this?” Alaric questions, gesturing at nothing.

“I'm . . . still trying to figure that out. I knew things were going to change sometime, but . . . I wasn’t expecting that.”

His own thoughts exactly. Alaric cannot help but smirk.

“How are you doing?” Anwen asks.

Alaric takes the opportunity to voice the plan that has been forming in his mind since the morning. “I have a plan. We both know we aren’t in the tribe’s good graces right now, and most likely never will be. Symbre said the blood of the creature is powerful---powerful and very valuable. If we can find this creature and kill it, we’ll have something that they desperately want.” He looks up from the shadows to Anwen’s eyes, trying to gauge her reaction. “Once we understand exactly what its uses are, we can run away from this hellhole. I don’t expect to find any help from the ones that joined the tribe---they’ve made their decision. Besides, if they’re stupid enough to believe the lies Symbre has told them, I doubt we can get something of use from them anyway. Can I trust you to help me in this? I know your loyalties lie with Murchadh as well, but we all must choose a side in the end, to survive.” Alaric can see the effect of his words on Anwen immediately. She looks down at her hands for a few moments that feel like lifetimes to Alaric, long enough to place just a shadow of a doubt in his mind, one that embeds itself deep into Alaric’s thoughts.

“You can trust me,” the reply comes.

“I hope so,” Alaric whispers in return, the doubt growing bit by bit.

Another few deafening moments of silence pass by before Anwen bites her lip and slowly draws some food from her pockets.

She says, “Murchadh gave me this. He said he joined the brigands so he can help the rest of us escape.”

Her apologetic tone fuels the doubt growing in Alaric’s gut, a sensation that swiftly turns into sharp fear. Fear that Anwen’s loyalties will never lie with him, that he will once again be alone. “You should eat,” he mutters, aware of the cold distance in his voice but unable to control it. He lies down and faces the canvas wall. Silence falls again, until Alaric is sure Anwen has fallen asleep.

Anwen’s voice is a delicate whisper, yet somehow it fills the whole tent with portent. “What—what was it you were going to say—that time we were talking and Ungant made us stop?”

Alaric holds his breath, not wanting to reply because he knows he cannot tell the truth. He cannot seem weak in front of anyone, not now---not ever---and that means that whatever he felt he could share with Anwen before needs to be concealed now. “I don’t know,” he says, forcing himself to say something. “I was just really tired. I think I was just speaking nonsense. Anyways, goodnight, Anwen.”

This time, the silence holds reign, and not a word is said for the remainder of the night.

* * *

The next few days are as exhausting as ever for Alaric. Training ended with the blood pact and now his days are filled with actual slave labour. Firewood, animal guts, and dirty laundry populate his every waking moment---his, and the other slaves’. Alaric notices Anwen constantly reaching out to the others, helping them with their tasks even as she completes her own. She seems fueled by an urge to connect with them on any positive level, whether through encouragement, empathy, or a helping hand. Alaric does not know if he has ever seen someone as selfless as she.

And then it is time for their departure. The first group has already gone and returned without hide or hair of the creature and Logain has gathered his group together bright and early to begin their own attempt. Supplies and weapons are handed out: Alaric receives three thin spears and a longbow with arrows; Anwen, a knife, basket, and cloth bandages; and Wyddryr, a broad-bladed bush sword and fifteen paces of rope.

As they assemble their items onto their persons they notice Symbre making her way over to them. She locks eyes with each of the three children before speaking. “Before you embark on your journey, I’d like to wish you luck and success in your endeavours. Be cautious with every step you take, and remember, you have five days to return to us. Any delay will cause us to become concerned, and I’m sure you understand why we don’t want that.” Her cold gaze sweeps over the children a final time, then she turns and vanishes back into the village.

Whatever Alaric may think of the woman, he has to admit she has a presence.

Soon after, they find themselves trudging north through the forest to receive instructions from a man Logain refers to as Crow-watcher, the mystic and guide of the Gwaedwn. The terrain along the way is harsh and the weather does not help, drenching them in an unending downpour.

Alaric is concurrently agitated and exhausted when they finally reach the mystic’s lean-to at what he suspects is midday, or close enough to count. Alaric is surprised the flimsy structure has not fallen over in the rain.

Logain pushes through the children and pulls aside a fuzzy green hanging to enter Crow-watcher’s lair. The children follow. Inside, Alaric’s heart begins to race. Apprehension fills him, though he is careful that his expression does not betray his emotions. He can feel Anwen tense up beside him as well. Wyddryr seems more curious than concerned.

They immediately notice the man sitting on a carved stump, his back to them. His head is thrown back, his eyes unblinking and absent. It seems as if he is looking out at an open sky and not at the wooden roof. The children stand silently, waiting. After some time, Crow-watcher lets out a long breath and shifts on his seat.

Logain steps forward, bending so that his head does not brush the various roots and growths hanging from the roof. “Crow-watcher, this is the next hunting party.”

The man turns towards the group, crouching above his stump, viewing each one of them individually with an intensity that outmatches Symbre’s by far. He nods his head at them and gestures for them to come closer.

Alaric flicks his eyes at the slatted walls as he creeps forward with the others, noticing upon them carved glyphs and images beyond his comprehension.

There is no warning from Crow-watcher---he suddenly throws a handful of something into bowl holding a floating candle. The flame bursts into multiple tongues, each a different colour, then dies, leaving a trail of smoke. A sickly-sweet fragrance fills the air around them as the mystic chants in a low voice:

Now, listen close, for Ptarmigan, my loyal friend, does tell: the Creature has just left, again, a sign, so follow well: “Stare deep into cold Berin’s eye as you depart,” he sings, “and hold the course until you spy his fallen tongue, that brings his frozen voice from heaven down. Look in his eye no more but let his voice direct you now— its poem and its roar— search for its source, but ere you find’t, away, turn ye, and list t’ Sacain’s voice, in confines wind, to call you to its midst. “In dark’ning air continue on, take care your feet don’t sink!, and onwards go ’til sharp upon your noses burns a stink. Don’t stop to bathe, but climb and see a forest painted red. A hill within this wood, will be— to it, now, you must head— but ware, for mystery is kin to everywhere this creature’s been.”

The following silence communicates the children’s shared confusion and awe.

After a few moments of silence, Logain thanks Crow-watcher, then turns and gestures for the children to follow him outside. Alaric and Anwen move with Logain but Wyddryr’s sudden question stops them dead in their tracks:

“What is this creature that we are to hunt?”

Crow-watcher’s reply comes immediately without falter:

Unique, she is—or he is, or they are— no creature is her like, which is of purest, iridescent white, or darkest, purest coal; which is of ungulate design, or feline—antlered, hornèd, furred, or smooth. Reclusive as the Spring in Winter be, no words define, no eyes can find, her ageless mystery.

There is another period of silence as the three children consider the meaning of another riddle.

“Thank you, Crow-watcher,” comes Logain’s gruff voice once again, and he swiftly turns and steps out of the cabin with his charges at his back.

Rain once again batters Alaric’s face as he and the others collect in a semicircle outside the lean-to. They are quiet. Logain is the first to speak, and his farewell to the group is not ceremonious or stately. He reiterates Symbre’s warning a final time before starting on his way back to the Gwaedwn village.

With the chill of the wind and rain travelling down Alaric’s back and Crow-watcher’s stare and riddles dangling in his mind, he realizes that, as usual, the answers he seeks will only be found, not given.

#alaric #chapter seven

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lastbluetardis · 7 years ago

Text

And Babies Make Five and Six (8/16)

Summary: Sometimes the things we want the most stay just out of reach. But after an extra helping of heartache as they try for a third baby, James and Rose are blessed with double the joy.

Trigger warning for infertility for select chapters–this is one of those chapters.

Ten x Rose AU

This chapter: NSFW (not very explicit), 10,300 words (another long one)

We’re finally at the climax of the story! This chapter was so hard to write, in more ways than one. I rewrote this approximately ten million times, and I’m really proud of it.

Betaed by the marvelous @chocolatequeennk. This is also for @doctorroseprompts and actually for a real prompt this time! It’s for the domestics prompt (yeah yeah, I know it’s not in the TARDIS, but it’s still life at home).

AO3 | TSP | FF | Perfectly Matched Series

Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9 | Ch10 | Ch11 | Ch12 | Ch13 | Ch14 | Ch15 | Ch16

James took the lead on planning their trip to Paris, and by the time December first arrived, he’d booked a hotel suite and arranged a flight for them.

December passed in a blur. For Rose, she was busy scheduling holiday shoots and arranging her team’s holiday vacation schedules. For James, he was swamped with frantic students panicking about their final exams.

But finally it was time to drive to Scotland to celebrate the holidays. They only arrived on Christmas Eve this year; it was the soonest Rose could take off work, considering she was taking off the week after the New Year.

The combined giddiness of being in the Scotland manor and the impending arrival of Santa Claus made it difficult to get the girls to go to bed. They were wound up during the final Christmas film of the night—How the Grinch Stole Christmas!—and they asked to watch another movie all throughout their bedtime routine.

“You know the rules,” James reprimanded as he oversaw Sianin’s clumsy attempts at brushing her teeth. He stepped in to help with her molars when he saw she was content just to brush her front teeth.

“But Daddy!”

“But whatty?” he whined, grinning when she giggled through a foamy mouth of toothpaste. “Rinse and spit.”

He then guided her to the room across the hall from the master suite, where Rose was tucking Ainsley into the full-sized bed that the girls would be sharing. Sianin took a running leap and jumped on top of her sister.

“Santa’s comin’ Ainsley!” she shrieked, bouncing excitedly.

“I know, Sian,” she answered, her eyes lit up in excitement. She turned to face James. “D’you think he’ll like the biscuits we left out?”

“Definitely,” he said, eager to scarf down the biscuits that were on the coffee table as soon as the girls were asleep. “But it’s time to sleep. And remember, no presents ‘til seven.” He pointed to a clock on the wall, where Rose had put a sticker of a Christmas gift on the ‘7’. “Right, Sian? Seven o’clock.”

“Seven o’clock is present time,” she parroted, wriggling under the covers. “Coffee then presents.”

James and Rose shared a laugh, and they fussed with the blankets, making sure each child was comfy and warm enough.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, leaning over Sianin to give Ainsley a kiss. He then kissed Sianin’s forehead. “I love you both.”

“Night, Daddy.”

He stood from the bed and watched Rose kiss their daughters, then flicked off the light and shut the door.

They retired to the living room to place the gifts beneath the tree and munch on the plate of biscuits. Just as they were about to call it a night and head to bed, knowing tomorrow morning would come way too soon, they saw headlights through the front window.

A few minutes later, the front door of the manor opened.

“It’s started snowing!”

James and Rose walked to greet Donna and her family. Flecks of snow were in her hair and she was positively glowing. Married life was suiting her well.

“Maybe Ainsley and Sianin will wake up to a white Christmas,” Rose mused. She stepped forward and offered hugs to Donna, Lee, and Wilf, and a tight smile to Sylvia. Even after all these years, the woman still put her on edge. But she seemed to be in a good mood that night. “Merry Christmas, everyone.”

“We’ve g-g-got a bit of n-n-news,” Lee said excitedly, wrapping his arm around Donna’s waist.

“We’re pregnant!” she cried, giggling.

Rose’s heart dropped and she heard a dull ringing in her ears. James stiffened beside her and she hoped he had the good sense of smiling.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Rose said. Her cheeks hurt as she forced a grin across her face. Her mouth felt dry.

“It’s funny, we weren’t trying or anything,” Donna said. She passed her hand over her flat belly, and Rose felt slightly nauseous to watch Lee rest his hand atop hers. “It just sort of happened, y’know?”

Rose felt a hand fumble for hers, and she reached out to twine her fingers through James’s. She squeezed, and her nose burned with welling tears. It wasn’t fair that Donna got pregnant without even trying.

“Congratulations.” James’s voice sounded slightly hollow, but in their elation, Rose doubted Donna and Lee even noticed.

“You still have all of your old baby things, don’t you?”

Rose turned her attention from the happy, expecting couple to Sylvia. For the first time in Rose’s memory, Sylvia looked proud of her daughter.

Her words finally sank in, and Rose’s stomach knotted, knowing exactly where Sylvia was headed.

“Why don’t you donate it to Donna and Lee?” Sylvia continued. “Money’s a bit tight for them, what with the new mortgage and all…”

“Mum!” Donna hissed.

But Sylvia kept speaking. “…And you obviously don’t need it anymore.”

Tears welled up in Rose’s throat, making it hard to breathe. James’s hand was clenched so hard around hers that it hurt, and she knew her grip was just as tight. She wanted to snap at Sylvia that that was none of her damn business, but she knew if she opened her mouth she was going to burst into tears.

James, however, seemed slightly more composed. His voice was hard when he asked, “And what makes you think Rose and I are done having more children?”

Sylvia blinked. “Aren’t you?”

“No,” Rose whispered, and she squeezed James’s hand one last time before she slipped hers out of his grasp. She turned and walked passed Robert, who was looking at her so sadly that it made her first tear fall, and she moved down the hall to the master bedroom.

She paced around the room as she pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, willing her tears away. She only had a few seconds before James would come find her. She could currently hear raised voices from the front room, and she had half a mind to go back out and tell them there were children trying to sleep just the next room over.

Thirty seconds later, a knock sounded on the closed door.

“Rose?”

“Yeah, come in,” she called, wiping at her eyes.

James slipped into the room and shut the door behind him. He stepped up to her and wrapped her into a hug. Neither of them spoke, and a few minutes later, another knock sounded on their bedroom room. Donna’s voice came from the other side. “Can I come in?”

James looked down at Rose, and when she nodded, he called her in.

Donna slipped through the door then latched it behind her.

“I am so sorry,” she said, her face tight with worry. “I didn’t realize Mum would say that. We didn’t know you’ve been trying for another baby… Even still, she shouldn’t have said that.”

“Thanks,” James said.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel badly about…” She gestured vaguely at her stomach, and Rose gave her a small but genuine smile.

“Don’t. This really is wonderful news,” she said sincerely. “A baby will change everything, but it’s such a good change.”

She stepped up to enfold Donna in a hug, then started asking when she was due and how she was feeling.

The snow had continued overnight, and though not much accumulated, there was a fine dusting of white coating everything the next morning. Ainsley was entranced at the sight, and they watched the sun rise through the tree line and sparkle across the fresh snow.

But the excitement of snow dimmed when they saw the pile of presents beneath the tree, and by the time all of the gifts were opened, the snow had melted in the morning sun.

Christmas passed in the same manner as previous years, though it seemed like tension had settled over the house. Whenever somebody congratulated Donna and Lee or asked them about the baby, Rose could feel everybody’s gaze flicker to her and James. She wanted to shout at everybody to mind their own bloody business, but instead, she actively engaged in the conversation about Donna’s pregnancy with gusto, forcing down her bitterness as she did so.

Luckily Ainsley and Sianin didn’t realize anything was amiss, and their presence was one of the only things keeping Rose from going mad.

It was finally time for her and James to head to the airport for their flight to Paris.

James felt on edge for the first day of their trip. After he and Rose checked into the honeymoon suite he’d booked for them, they decided to sightsee. Donning jackets, hats, and scarves, they stepped out into the chilly Paris street and started to walk, with no real destination in mind.

His hand brushed against hers, and he felt something unclench in his stomach when she fumbled to twine their gloved fingers together. She gave his hand a squeeze as she stepped closer to him and rested her head against his arm.

“It’s amazing here,” she marveled, her breath puffing out in front of her face. She looked up at him and flashed him a genuine smile that went all the way to her eyes. His lungs hitched at how beautiful she looked. “Thanks for suggesting we come here. We needed this.”

He nodded mutely and leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead.

It was impossible to not feel the romance of the city. The beauty of the old architecture was everywhere, and all of the restaurants seemed to be designed for couples.

The day of their anniversary, they went shopping for nice dinner clothes to wear that night. James found a smart-looking suit rather quickly, and he shivered when he saw Rose’s eyes darken when he stepped out of the dressing room to model it for her. She hadn’t looked at him that way in so long. While they hadn’t made love yet on their trip, James was hopeful that tonight would be the night.

After purchasing the suit and giving their room address for delivery, he walked with Rose to find a dress for her. They spent the next two hours in the shops, and James felt a little bad that he had no opinions, but he thought she looked fantastic in everything.

When she eventually decided on a little black dress that would complement his suit, James excused himself for a few minutes.

“Loo break,” he lied smoothly, and he pecked a kiss to her cheek and slipped out of the store. He wandered across the street to a jewelry store to pick up the order he had placed a couple weeks ago. He pocketed his gift to Rose, then joined her in the shop, where she was finishing paying for her dress.

Their evening was perfect, and James couldn’t have been happier. Rose was delighted when he showed her the earrings he’d bought for her. Platinum metal had been worked into the shape of a rose, with a diamond set into the center.

“Oh, these are beautiful,” she gasped when she opened the box.

“They’re a new design,” James said. “When I saw them, I couldn’t resist.”

“They’re absolutely wonderful.” She carefully took them out of the box and put them in her ears. When they were secure, she rocked onto her toes and pecked a kiss to his lips before turning away from him. She moved to her purse and reached into a side pocket, where she withdrew an envelope.

He took it from her and pulled out two pieces of paper. Admission tickets for Palais de la Découverte, a science museum right there in Paris.

“I know we said we wouldn’t have a formal itinerary,” Rose said as he scanned the back of the tickets for the various exhibits, “but this looked like something you would love.”

“Thank you,” he said earnestly. “But what about you?”

She furrowed her brows. “What about me?”

“It’s our anniversary,” he said. “Surely a stuffy old science museum won’t interest you.”

“And you’re saying the stuffy old art museum we toured yesterday interested you?” she shot back.

He felt his neck grow warm.

“Well… the art was pretty,” he said sheepishly. “But you loved it so much and listening to you explain everything to me made it much more fun and interesting.”

She smiled softly at him. “You do know I feel the same way when you talk science to me, yeah? I love seeing you get all excited. I know we have vastly different interests and different definitions of what we call fun, but as long as I’m with you, anything is fun.”

James’s heart fluttered in his chest, and he fell in love with his wife all over again. He stepped up to her and wrapped his arms loosely around her waist as he ducked down to press his lips to hers. She smiled into the kiss, and he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Thank you very much,” he whispered, pulling back from the kiss to look down at her. “I’m really excited. They’ve got a planetarium! I haven’t been to one of those in years!”

“I’ve never been,” Rose said, seeming to catch onto his enthusiasm.

“What?” James squawked. “How have I been your husband for eleven years and not taken you to a planetarium before?”

“Dunno, but we ought to get going. The taxi’ll be here soon.”

He nodded and pressed a parting kiss to her forehead before he stepped away from her. He grabbed her coat from the rack and held it open for her. When she fastened all of the buttons, he offered her his arm and affected a posh accent to say, “Dinner awaits, milady.”

She giggled and looped her arm through his. “Lead the way, good sir.”

He guided her to the taxi he’d called for and helped her into the back seat before he walked around to the other side. They were driven fifteen minutes across town to an elegant and expensive-looking restaurant. The floors were a dark, glossy tile with a long, narrow rug that spanned from the front door to the host’s desk.

“Reservation for Tyler-McCrimmon,” James said as they approached.

They were taken back immediately, and James admired the restaurant’s interior. Chandeliers hung across the ceiling, bathing the restaurant in a soft, yellow glow. The tables were spaced far enough apart to give illusions of privacy.

James pulled out Rose’s chair for her before he sat across from her.

The ambience of the restaurant created a quiet intimacy for them, and when they weren’t holding hands, their legs were intertwined beneath the tablecloth. The wine they drank made them warm and bubbly, and when they swayed together on the dance floor, they stole kisses until they couldn’t stand the need for propriety anymore. They paid for their meal and waited in the lobby for their taxi.

As the driver took them back to their hotel, they snogged in the backseat until they were broken apart by an awkwardly-cleared throat. James paid the man then wrapped his hand around Rose’s and guided her back to their room. As soon as the door closed, Rose pulled him down for a kiss. They snogged lazily against the door for many long minutes, teasing each other with kisses and touches until they were both aroused beyond coherence.

When he suspected Rose was going to suggest they go to bed, James began kissing his way down her chest, then he dropped to his knees. He heard her inhale sharply, guessing his intent, and he smirked to himself as he hiked up the skirt of her dress and slipped her knickers down her legs.

“You’re beautiful,” he mumbled against her hip as he kissed and nipped his way to her inner thigh. She parted her legs for him, and he pressed one last kiss to the seam where her thigh met her hip before he moved his mouth to where she was wet and throbbing for him.

It barely took any time at all, much to James’s delight. As he licked and sucked and caressed her in all the ways he knew she loved, she cried her appreciation and her pleasure, until she finally lost herself to her orgasm, panting his name as he worked her though it.

Her thighs trembled and her chest heaved, and James felt relieved. He guessed he hadn’t lost his touch after all. And when they eventually stumbled to bed, kissing and pawing at each other’s clothes, he settled between her thighs to give her another orgasm. When they finally joined together, he coaxed a third orgasm from her before he followed her in bliss and pleasure.

As she lay beside him, boneless and out of breath, James felt more at peace than he had in a long time.

The rest of their trip passed with them both in good spirits. They didn’t make love every night, but James wasn’t too bothered, not when Rose was looking at him like he hung the stars for her as they played tourist around Paris.

The made love on their last night in Paris, and similarly to their anniversary night, James worshipped Rose and her body until she tipped over in pleasure three times.

Upon coming home, James was relieved that the tenderness between him and Rose remained. They had regular movie date nights after the kids went to bed, and even if they didn’t make love after every date, they often snogged like teens on the sofa during most of the film.

Rose seemed happier than he’d seen her in months, and her attitude was infectious. The new year seemed to bring with it a new start for him and Rose. They rekindled the spark that had been missing, and it felt like the weight of the world was no longer on his shoulders.

When Rose’s period arrived a week and a half later, they weren’t surprised. She’d reached peak ovulation the day after Boxing Day, and what with the busyness of the holidays, they’d only managed to squeeze in one round of lovemaking before traveling to Scotland.

However, it seemed to shatter the illusion they were under, and once again, their intimacy cooled. James wanted to cry when he saw himself and Rose falling back into their regular routine. Wake up, get the kids ready, a kiss goodbye—if they remembered—go to work, collect the kids, come home, have dinner, have family time, put the kids to bed, go to bed. Repeat. They rarely had a date night until Rose entered her fertile cycle. They didn’t make love any other time, either.

James stopped initiating sex outside of her ovulation cycle, knowing he would be shot down nine times out of ten. His confidence in himself and in their relationship was all but gone. As the end of February approached, bringing them back to Rose’s fertile cycle, James found it difficult to engage in sex.

Despite himself, he couldn’t help but think that Rose didn’t want him anymore. Their anniversary had convinced him otherwise, for a brief period of time, but obviously the magic spell was broken, and Rose was back to being indifferent to him. He hated it, and he hated himself, and some nights, he hated Rose too. He wished they’d never started trying for a third baby. Maybe then his wife would still be in love with him.

oOoOo

Rose didn’t bother putting on pajamas, as she knew they would only be coming off later that night when James came to bed. She was two days in to her ovulation cycle, meaning they were due for another shag.

But when James came to bed nearly an hour later, he went through his usual nightly routine then turned off the light. It wasn’t unusual for them to shag in the dark, but it seemed like darkness was becoming the new normal for their lovemaking sessions.

James crawled into bed and leaned over to press a kiss to her lips. It was chaste and static, with just lips and no tongue or movement of their mouths at all. Rose reached up and twined her fingers into his hair to deepen the kiss as she tried to tug him closer, urging him on top of her.

“Wait, Rose, no,” he said, pulling away. “No, Rose. Not tonight. I’m really not in the mood.”

Rose dropped her hands and had to bite back the protest. She was ovulating. They only had a small window of opportunity before she became infertile again, and they had to make the most of this time. But he’d said no. She would not force him to have sex with her when he didn’t want it.

“Okay,” she said softly. All of a sudden, she felt exposed by being so naked. She wished she could get up and put on at least a t-shirt, but getting out of bed to put clothes on felt too awkward. James had seen her naked hundreds, if not thousands, of times, and she hated that she felt so uncomfortable around him right now.

She swallowed down the acidic taste in the back of her mouth and rolled over to try to go to sleep. But sleep didn’t come as swiftly as she wanted. She couldn’t help but feel so defeated. It was almost three years since they decided to try for another baby. But it was only recently, within the last year and a half or so, that she’d really felt the heartbreak of their failure. Of her failure. Of her body’s failure. James never said anything to indicate it, but he must be getting frustrated with her. He wanted another child so badly, but she was keeping it from happening and he was just too nice and polite to tell her.

But if he wanted a baby so badly, he should know that they needed to have sex when she was ovulating for that to happen. Then a thought struck her that made her insides go cold. What if he just wasn’t attracted to her anymore? Wouldn’t that explain why he didn’t seem interested in sex anymore? Why they made love—no, shagged—in the dark? Why he got it over with as quickly as he could? Why he’d just rejected her?

Rose squeezed her eyes shut against a swell of tears as she worked on convincing herself that her soulmate still wanted her.

The following day, Rose worked out how she could try to woo James. She made arrangements with Robert for him to pick the girls up and keep them for the night. After work, she went to the grocery store to gather the ingredients for the dinner she’d planned for them.

When she got home, she cleaned the house and put the girls’ toys in the box in the corner of the living room. With a half hour to go until James was off work, she quartered potatoes on a baking sheet and seasoned them before slipping them into the oven and setting the timer for an hour. She then went to get a quick shower so she could shave her legs and feel clean and fresh when her husband got home.

She wrapped her hair in a towel then moved to her dresser to find the matching bra and knickers set that James particularly enjoyed. It was a lovely dark plum set that he had given to her on last year’s birthday. The bra did wonders for her breasts by accentuating her cleavage, and the knickers were so comfy, despite the skimpiness of it.

With her underwear on, Rose moved to blow dry her hair until it fell in soft waves around her shoulders, then she reapplied her makeup with a light hand. After that was done, she moved to her closet and picked out a soft cotton dress that clung to her curves nicely.

Feeling rather pretty, Rose skipped to the kitchen to get the rest of dinner started. She seasoned the salmon and green beans. When the timer reached fifteen minutes left, she took it out and put the salmon and green beans onto the sheet. She slid the food back into the oven.

James was due home any minute, but she wanted to give him a minute to freshen up if he wanted to before they sat down to dinner. As the food cooked, she worked on lighting candles around their home as she picked up her iPad and made a romantic playlist.

But the oven timer went off fifteen minutes later, and James still wasn’t home. She kept their food in the oven to stay warm as she went to see how much longer James would be.

“Dinner’s getting cold,” she texted, sending a winking kiss emoji.

It took a few minutes, but finally he replied with, You and the girls start without me.

Her heart fell. “The girls are at your dad’s. I thought you and I could have dinner alone tonight.”

I’m not done here. Sorry. Save me a plate.

Rose set her phone down on the table with more force than necessary as she scraped her fingers through her hair. She felt hurt and annoyed, but more than that, she felt humiliated and rejected. She’d tried so hard to make a perfect night for her and James, but he didn’t want anything to do with it or her.

Feeling stupid, she blew out the candles and turned off the music before walking down the hall to get out of her nice clothes. She washed her face of makeup and changed into her comfiest pajama set, which incidentally included one of James’s shirts. It had stopped smelling like him a long time ago, but she still loved wearing it.

Deciding to not waste the food she’d made, she plated her dinner and put a second serving on a different plate, which she set in the microwave for James for whenever he decided to come home.

After she finished her dinner, she packed up the leftovers and stuck them in the fridge for tomorrow, then grabbed a carton of ice cream and settled onto the couch to let one of her favorite movies soothe her aching heart.

But not even The Runaway Bride could help, especially when she remembered why it was a favorite of hers. It was one of their go-to date night films, when she and James decided they wanted a quiet night in together. They both knew the movie by heart, and James would often act out the scenes—quite terribly and with outrageous accents—just to make her laugh.

Tears filled her eyes at the memories of James quoting the more romantic moments of the movie, to which she would usually catch his lips in a kiss and they’d spend the rest of the film making out on the sofa. She ached to get back to that. It was what she wanted for her date with James tonight. A nice supper together, maybe dancing together if a song they both liked dancing to came on, then a movie together on the sofa.

Even if they didn’t get around to making love, that would’ve been fine. She just wanted to have a romantic night with James. But it seemed he didn’t want to have a romantic night with her.

The ice cream sat as a hard lump in her stomach and left her feeling half-nauseated. She set the carton to the side and swiped at her stinging nose as her first tear fell. James had to have known this was a date, and still he didn’t want to come home.

Her chest hurt at the realization that her husband wasn’t attracted to her anymore. He couldn’t even bring himself to have sex with her anymore, outside of ovulation. But judging from the night before, he was even putting that off as much as he could.

Tears streamed down her cheeks and it felt like she couldn’t breathe. Sobs ripped up her throat as she tried to figure out why James didn’t want her anymore. He’d said time and time again that she was all he would ever want, but he obviously was wrong.

She just wanted her husband back. She wanted it to be like it was before when they were so in love with each other and they could make each other happy. Before she was beaten down every month as she failed to get pregnant. She didn’t want to feel this broken anymore, and more than anything, she wanted James to want her again.

Meanwhile, across town, James finally shut down his computer and gathered up his bag and keys. It was dark when he stepped outside, and his gurgling stomach reminded him of how late it really was. At least there would be a plate of food waiting for him when he got home, even if his daughters weren’t. His dad must’ve asked to take them for the night. Thinking back, James remembered his dad telling him he’d wanted to take the girls to a play. He thought it wasn’t until next month, but he shrugged to himself. He must’ve gotten the dates wrong.

The house was relatively dark when he got home, minus the light from a lamp in the living room and the glow from the TV. He heard the familiar dialogue of one of his favorite movies, and an ache of longing lodged in his chest. He and Rose hadn’t watched that movie in longer than he could remember, and he wondered why Rose would choose to watch that particular movie, especially when he wasn’t there to watch it with her. Unless the movie wasn’t as special to Rose as it was to him. That thought sent a stab of pain through his chest.

He sighed and set his keys in the dish and moved to heat up something for supper. His stomach rumbled when he saw the plate of salmon in the microwave. While he loved dinners with his daughters, he enjoyed when he and Rose ate alone and could cook adult food that the girls wouldn’t touch. There were times when he or Rose would make two different meals, but that was often too time-consuming and thus they were left eating foods compatible with a child’s palate.

As the meal heated up, James turned to leave the kitchen, but he stopped when he noticed the candles on the table. They were half-burnt down. He glanced around the kitchen and saw Rose’s iPad hooked to their stereo.

A heavy weight settled into his stomach. That weight hardened when he walked to their bedroom and he saw a dress and his favorite lingerie set on the floor.

“Oh, shit,” he whispered, realizing that Rose had intended for them to have a date night. And he’d mucked it up. “Shit!”

He shed his work clothes and pulled on casual clothes before going to apologize to his wife.

“Rose, I…”

The sight that greeted him nearly stopped his heart. Rose was bent double and wracked with sobs on the sofa. The sound of her gasping breaths restarted his heart and made it pound throughout his body as he rushed up to her. He felt numb as his brain frantically came to conclusions as to why she was crying so hard, and he prayed that his daughters were okay.

“Rose, what is it?” he asked, rushing up to her. He moved the carton of melted ice cream from the sofa cushion so he could sit down beside her. “What happened? What’s the matter?”

Impossible though it seemed, she began crying harder when he wrapped his arms around her. His body was shaking as he tried to get her calm enough to tell him what had her so upset.

“Please, you’re scaring me,” he whispered.

Rose gasped in a breath and manage to choke out something that sounded like “you don’t want me”.

“What?” he asked, sure he misheard her.

Rose drew in several shuddering breaths and sniffed hard before she whimpered, “I don’t know why you don’t want me anymore! It hurts so much.”

James’s eyes burned and his stomach roiled. What did she mean he didn’t want her? He would always want her.

“Rose, love, calm down,” he said. “Breathe for me. Deep breaths. And tell me again. Why on Earth do you think I don’t want you?”

“You didn’t want to come home for our date!” she wailed, her face crumpling again. Before he could tell her that he didn’t realize she’d planned for them to have a date, she continued. “Because you don’t want to have sex with me because you’re not attracted to me anymore.”

James clenched his jaw. “Excuse me? I don’t want to have sex with you?”

Rose sniffled and rubbed her hands across her face.

“You’re the one who doesn’t want to have sex with me,” he snapped, his voice cracking as his eyes stung with tears. “Unless you’re fertile, that is.” The insecurities James had been harboring for months reared up. “The only time you ever initiate sex anymore is when you’re ovulating. I’ve just become a bloody sperm donor, Rose! D’you know how that makes me feel? It makes me feel like my wife doesn’t love me. It makes me feel dirty and used!”

His voice had risen in volume as his hurt and loneliness from the last six months surfaced. But when he saw Rose’s face crumple again, he knew shouting wouldn’t help anything. She was hurting, too.

He inhaled deeply until he didn’t feel like shouting anymore, then he rested his hand at her knee.

“It hurts to feel used, Rose. You haven’t wanted to make love with me unless it was at a time you could’ve gotten pregnant. I know we’re trying for a baby, but it’s so hard to want to have sex, or to enjoy it, when it feels like I can’t pleasure you anymore.”

“What?” Rose asked, frowning. “You pleasure me all the time.”

“I don’t, actually,” James retorted. “You hardly ever orgasm when we make love. For the past few months, you’ve rejected my advances, and so I got nervous to even ask, which is why I stopped initiating sex. I thought you just weren’t into it anymore. But then when we did have sex, you wanted to focus on me, and that made me feel even worse because it was so obvious you didn’t want to be having sex.”

“That’s not true,” Rose said quietly.

“Well how was I supposed to know that?”

She shrugged and sniffled, and rubbed the back of her hand across her nose. James leaned forward for the box of tissues and he grabbed a handful. As Rose blew her nose, he stood and told her he was going to get them a glass of water.

When he entered the kitchen, the reminder of their blown date night made his stomach twist. The smell of his reheated dinner made him feel sick, even though he’d been famished when he got home. He ignored the microwave and instead grabbed two glasses from the cupboard and filled them with water from the pitcher in the fridge.

When he returned, Rose had turned off the TV and was mangling her tissue between her fingers.

“I’m sorry, James,” Rose murmured as he sat down beside her. She took the glass he offered to her and brought it to her lips for a small sip. “I’m sorry I’ve been blind to your feelings. I’d been so caught up in conceiving another baby that I didn’t think of you, and that’s awful of me to say, and I hate that it’s true.”

James sighed and Rose turned her head to meet his gaze. Dark shadows were under his eyes, and he looked so much older than she had ever seen.

“I feel like it’s my fault that we’ve struggled to conceive,” he whispered.

“No, James, it’s not—”

“But that’s how I feel,” he interrupted. “I felt like it was all down to me. I’m the one with the sperm, so obviously it’s my fault that we’re not getting pregnant because your body is fertile and ready to go. My sperm are the ones failing.”

Rose sucked in a sharp breath as anger swelled up inside of her. But my body isn’t ready to go, she thought bitterly. Not always. Not like yours is.

“How dare you,” she hissed, feeling hot tears prickle behind her eyes again. “How dare you!”

James blinked over at her in confusion, which made her anger spike, bringing with it all of the feelings of inadequacy she’d been harboring.

“Your body doesn’t live on a fertile cycle,” she said. Her hands were shaking so badly that she thought she might spill her water. She reached over and set it on the end table. “Your body is always fertile! But me? I have a five-day window to get pregnant. Five days, James! So how dare you say that my body is ready to go. It is not ready to go, and that kills me. I’m the limiting factor here. It’s my bloody fault that we only have a few days a month to try and make a baby, and if it didn’t happen, we had to wait another month to try again. And that was all my fault!”

Her tears spilled over, and she turned away from him as she tried to brush them away. But when James touched her shoulder and whispered, “Oh, Rose,” there was no stopping them. She hugged her middle as she tried to breathe, and when his grip on her shoulder tightened as he tugged her to him, she willingly went into his waiting embrace.

“Oh, Rose,” he whispered again, and she heard the anguish in his voice. “Rose, I am so sorry. I didn’t even think of it like that.” He wrapped his arms around her more tightly, tucking his head so his face was nestled in her shoulder. She clung to him, shaking as she tried to control her tears, and for a few silent minutes, he held her and rocked her gently as she cried for all of the hurt she’d been pushing down for too many months.

“For over a year now, I’ve felt so guilty,” she rasped. “Since the fertility tests. I only have a brief window of time to conceive a baby. And I kept failing you.”

His arms tightened around her. “No, Rose. No. You did not fail me. You could never fail me. Never ever. God, Rose. I had no idea you’d been pressuring yourself like that for so long. It wasn’t all down to you, love.”

James continued speaking softly to her as her tears fell, and Rose melted closer to him. Finally opening up to James and having him so vehemently dispel all of the fears she’d harbored of him resenting her lifted an enormous weight off of her chest.

Once her tears stopped, Rose pulled back and wiped her eyes dry. She sniffed against her running nose, and she turned away from him to find a tissue. She blew her nose noisily and tried to slow her breathing.

“Let’s finish our water then go to bed,” James suggested after they’d been sitting quietly for a few minutes.

While Rose was tempted to take him up on this offer—she was so bloody tired—she couldn’t. Not until they’d finished talking.

She shook her head. “No, we’re not done with this conversation yet. You said you felt guilty for a lack of conception.”

James dropped his head and muttered, “It doesn’t matter now. I was being insensitive and selfish.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Rose said. “You’re still hurt.”

James sniffed hard. She kept her head on his shoulder and rubbed her hand soothingly up and down his thigh as she waited for him to speak. But when he still wasn’t saying anything, she prompted, “You said you felt like it was your fault we weren’t conceiving. Which is ridiculous, just so you know. None of this is your fault. Okay? None of it.”

“How is it not?” he murmured miserably. “You and your eggs are perfectly healthy—”

“And you and your sperm are perfectly healthy,” she said, reaching out to take his hand. “We’ve been tested. We’re both healthy.”

“But—”

“No, James,” Rose said firmly. “I won’t let you do this to yourself. I won’t let you take the blame for something that isn’t your fault. Okay? If I’m not to blame for not getting pregnant, you aren’t to blame either.”

He sniffled and pressed his fingertips into his eyes, and she let him compose himself.

“James?” she asked tentatively. “Earlier, you said… you said you felt like just a sperm donor. That I made you feel like that.”

Rose watched his body tense up as he stayed silent.

“James, love, I never ever thought of you as just a sperm donor,” she said fiercely. “Hey. Look at me.”

Rose waited for a few seconds, and James finally exhaled shakily and lifted his head. His face looked shut-off and cautious, and Rose hated it.

“James,” she whispered. “Please believe me. I’ve never thought of you as a sperm donor. How could I? You’re my husband, and my soulmate. You’re the father of our children. I could never demean you like that.”

James’s muscles all loosened at once as he sighed.

“Yeah, I know,” he murmured quietly. “But Rose… it killed me to watch you being so passive when we had sex. You just… lay there. And when you started faking… I thought I’d… I thought I didn’t satisfy you anymore. And that you hated our sex life… hated sex with me. And that that’s why we only began shagging when you were ovulating, because you couldn’t bear to be intimate with me anymore.”

“No,” she said immediately, her heart breaking. “No, James. That’s not it at all. Oh, God.”

She scooted closer to him until she could wrap her arms around his shoulders. He let out a whimper and hauled her closer to him. His fingers clenched into her shirt and his stubble scraped across her cheek then ear as he buried his face into her neck. Her back twinged as it was awkwardly stretched, and so she leveraged herself into his lap and then cradled his head to her shoulder as his tears fell. They were hot and wet against her neck, and her eyes prickled in response to his pain.

“Oh, James.” She stroked her hand down the back of his head, hoping her fingers in his hair would calm it as it usually did. She turned her head and pressed her lips to the side of his head and kept them there as she murmured, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t think it was possible, but he managed to cling to her more tightly. The sounds of his stifled sobs broke her heart, and she let her own tears fall as she finally realized the agony he had been in for months.

“James, I didn’t hate—I don’t hate our sex life. Never.” She begged for him to believe her. “I had just gotten to the point where it felt like a chore. Like a means to an end. And I should have told you how I felt, but I didn’t know how. I’m so, so sorry I’ve made you feel inadequate, or like I was using you. Please believe me when I say that you are more than adequate.”

“I got so scared you didn’t want sex with me because I couldn’t pleasure you anymore,” he whispered raggedly. “And that you went through the motions when you were ovulating because it was necessary in order to make a baby. Then I thought maybe you were angry with me for not being fertile enough to get you pregnant. It’s all just been so hard lately, and I’ve been so, so scared, Rose, and I didn’t know what to do.”

She thought back to the times they’d been intimate over the last six months when it had seemed as though James had lost his attraction to her. She remembered all of the times he’d made love to her quickly, achieving orgasm in just a few minutes. While she hadn’t been in the right state of mind to take pleasure from their coupling, she loved watching him enjoy himself. There was nothing quite like holding him in her arms, feeling him moving inside of her, hearing him gasp her name as he reached the pinnacle of pleasure and spilled himself inside of her. She loved that moment, sharing that ultimate moment of intimacy and love with James.

So when he’d seemed to rush to get there, it had broken her heart. She’d thought he didn’t cherish their intimacy the way she did anymore.

But apparently she’d gotten it all wrong. She’d made James feel used and unloved. And in turn, that was how he made her feel.

“James, I never once thought you were unsatisfactory in bed. I love making love with you.”

“But I can’t make you come anymore,” he mumbled.

“That isn’t you, love,” she said softly. “I swear. You’re so wonderful and attentive to me. I’ve just had trouble enjoying sex because I felt the overwhelming pressure to conceive a baby. But believe me, I still loved watching you enjoy sex.”

“It was so hard to want to make love when I knew you didn’t want to,” James said. “Making love with you is something we do together. It something that’s just ours. And then you didn’t want it anymore, and that hurt. But of course I would never force you to make love when you didn’t want to. But then you didn’t even want to cuddle or kiss on the sofa or anything.”

“I thought I was being rude,” she whispered through numb lips. How had she misread this whole situation so completely? “I thought it was rude of me to want to make out with you but not make love afterwards.”

James sighed. “Your distance made me feel like you were upset with me. Upset that I wasn’t getting you pregnant, or that I was just being a rubbish husband and lover.”

“No. I was never angry with you for not getting me pregnant. It was kind of the opposite, actually,” she admitted. “I was angry at myself for being so infertile all the time, and then for failing even when I was fertile.” She took a deep breath, then continued, “And then I thought you just… I thought you weren’t attracted to me anymore.”

James lifted his head so fast that it cracked against Rose’s jaw. She rubbed the smarting area as she met James’s bloodshot gaze.

“How the hell did you come to that conclusion?” he demanded, wiping his eyes.

Rose shrugged. “I told you. I felt like I was failing you. And, well, I managed to convince myself that you thought I was a failure, too. I thought you’d been angry with me because I couldn’t conceive a baby, and I also thought you’d maybe just… I dunno… gotten bored with me. Between all of that and my feelings of failure, it was hard to enjoy our intimacy, or to feel like you were enjoying it.”

“Rose.” The hurt and betrayal was tangible in his voice. “You are the love of my life. You’re my soulmate. My wife! I promised to love you and cherish you and be your best friend for the rest of my life!”

“Even so, I could feel the apathy, James,” she rebutted. “It felt like you were indifferent to me and to our relationship, and it broke my heart.”

“I never meant to make you feel…”

“But I felt it anyway,” she interrupted.

James looked like he could argue, but instead, he worked his jaw for a few seconds. His shoulders slumped as he exhaled deeply.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. He reached up and cradled the side of her head in his hand as he leaned up to press his lips to her temple. “I am so sorry I’ve hurt you, Rose. I’m so sorry I made you doubt my love and devotion to you and our relationship. I promised to support you no matter what. Yes, I’ve been upset at our lack of conception, but never once was any of it directed at you. How could I possibly ever get upset with you over something like this?”

Rose shrugged and leaned into his chest again. She felt a little daft now, hearing him dispute her fears with such conviction.

She breathed in the smell of him and listened to the faint sound of his heartbeat. He wrapped his arms around her and they sat in silence for a few minutes, just holding each other. It was nice, Rose thought. It had been ages since they’d had a cuddle together.

She rubbed her fingertips through his arm hair as she steeled herself for her next thought. All of this hurting and heartache came about mostly from a lapse in communication, but also at their mutual stress and frustration of trying and failing to make a baby. She wanted another child so badly, but not at the cost of her relationship with James.

“I think we should stop trying for a baby,” she suggested quietly. “At least until we’re back in a good place. Because where we are right now, it’s not good. I’m so sorry, James.”

“It’s not all your fault,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. “I should’ve spoken up sooner. But I kept holding onto the hope that each month would be the month when we’d get pregnant and everything would be all right again. I kept convincing myself over and over and over again.”

“I know. I told myself that, too.”

They sat quietly together for a few long minutes, just holding each other.

“I think you and I should go away together,” James murmured a few moments later. “Just you and me. So we can focus on being us again. Without the stress or pressure or expectation of pregnancy, and without the distraction of the girls.”

“Okay. Yeah, that sounds nice,” Rose said. “We can see if Mum or Dad can come stay with Ainsley and Sianin. Your term ends the week after next. We could plan to leave then. That Saturday, maybe?”

James shook his head. “Mother’s Day is that Sunday. I want you to be able to spend that day with Ainsley and Sianin. We could leave later that night, or the next day.”

“Let’s see if my mum or your dad can watch the girls that soon, first,” Rose said. “We may need to wait until after Sianin’s birthday.” She pecked a kiss to his jaw, then slid out of his lap. “But we can figure all of this out later. C’mon. Let’s go to bed.”

James nodded and pushed himself up. He grabbed her half-empty glass of water and downed the rest of it before putting the glasses into the sink. Together, they double-checked that the doors were locked, then they made their way down the hallway. Out of habit, Rose glanced into her daughters’ bedrooms, even though they were empty and the beds were made.

When they got to their bedroom, they moved around each other as they readied themselves for bed. Rose finished first and crawled under the blankets and listened to James brush his teeth. A few minutes later, he emerged and walked around to his side of the bed, where he slipped under the covers.

“Nighty night,” he whispered, his minty fresh breath puffing against her face as he leaned over and pecked a chaste kiss to her forehead.

He then rolled over and hugged the corner of the duvet to his chest.

Rose stared over at him, feeling a little lost and disappointed. After the conversation they’d just had, and how he’d held her in his lap for most of it, she anticipated a little more warmth from him. Though she supposed she shouldn’t have expected anything else. This was part of their routine. They each stayed on their own side of the bed and exchanged perfunctory kisses with each other before rolling away from each other. She hated it.

She wanted to go back to the days where there were no sides of the bed because they cuddled too close to distinguish where his half of the mattress ended and hers began. She wanted him to snuggle into her side if only for a few minutes before he would sleepily roll away, but have his leg kicked out so his foot was near hers. She yearned for those nights where they stayed up far too late just talking to each other.

But it had been months since they’d had that. She racked her brain, desperately trying to zero in on the moment it all fell apart, but she couldn’t.

Their eleventh anniversary was fine—perfect, really—but it was a fluke. They’d gone back to bad as soon as they returned home. Ainsley’s birthday… James’s birthday…

She grew more frantic as she skipped backwards in the months and her memories with James were still so cold.

Tears threatened, and she blinked them away impatiently.

“James?” she whispered, hoping they could cuddle for a bit before trying to sleep.

But he stayed on his side as he mumbled, “Hmm?”

The sight of his back remaining facing her broke her heart, and her tears fell.

“Never mind. Goodnight,” she whispered. She rolled over onto her side to have some semblance of privacy as she cried.

She curled into herself and tried to swallow her sobs, but it felt like she couldn’t breathe. She sniffled to clear her clogging nose and cringed at how loud it was in their quiet bedroom.

“Rose?” James shifted behind her, and then his body was pressed along her back. “Rose, love, what’s wrong?”

The endearment and the concern in his voice, coupled with the way his body was curled around hers, made her face crumple. Her lungs were screaming for air, so she gasped in a breath and exhaled out a sob.

“Oh, Rose. Shhh. C’mere. It’s okay. It’s okay. C’mere.”

He leaned away and tugged at her shoulder. Rose readily rolled over and she buried her face in his chest as her tears streamed down her cheeks.

“No, it’s not okay,” she whimpered. “What happened to us, James? Why are we so broken?”

“We’re not broken,” he whispered, rubbing her back slowly. “We’re just…”

He fell silent, and the fact that her husband, the person who seemingly knew every single English word known to man, couldn’t come up with a different word than ‘broken’ set her off again.

“Hey,” he murmured. “It’s okay. Breathe. Just breathe. We’re gonna be okay. I promise. We’re not broken. We’ve just lost our way a little. But lost things can always be found again, especially if two people are looking for it together. Because you and me, we’re still the best team there is. Eh?”

The confidence in his voice reassured her slightly. If James believed they could be fixed, and find what they’d lost in their relationship, she would trust him. More than that, she would work with him to get them back to good again.

She sniffled and draped an arm around his waist to hug him to her.

“I love you more than anything, Rose,” he whispered.

She squeezed her hand into a fist around his sleepshirt and held him tighter.

“I love you, too, James.”

He nuzzled his nose into her hair and pressed his lips to her forehead.

“What did you want to say earlier?” he asked.

“Just wanted a cuddle,” she answered.

He stiffened.

“And you didn’t think you could ask for one?”

The hurt in his voice was palpable, sending a dull ache through her chest and down into her stomach. She shrugged.

“I thought you were still angry with me.”

“Oh, Rose. No. I’m not angry with you. I never was. I just feel exhausted. And… and a little empty.”

Rose squeezed him and rubbed her hand across his back before she made to move away.

“Sorry. I’ll let you sleep now.”

But he tightened his grip around her. “No. Please. Can we keep cuddling for a little bit?”

Rose relaxed back into his embrace and nodded.

They were quiet for a few minutes, just holding each other and content to listen to each other breathe. The quiet intimacy was nice and relaxing; they hadn’t had that in far too long.

They both eventually drifted off to sleep, still twined together. Rose awoke sometime later to James shifting beside her. He pulled his arm out from under her neck, and he flexed his hand a few times.

“All right?” she mumbled, rolling onto her back. Her neck spasmed from the awkward position it had been in, and she slowly turned it from side to side.

“Pins and needles,” he answered. He let out a long, slow sigh and tugged the duvet up to his chin. He rolled over onto his side but angled his body so that his bum was close to her hip. “Nighty night.”

Rose patted his hip and closed her eyes to get more sleep.

She didn’t awake again until her alarm went off. Her mind was groggy and confused; she felt like she could sleep for a few more hours yet. She heard James shuffling around behind her and groaning softly as he woke up too.

She grabbed her phone and silenced the alarm, then sat up.

“How’d you sleep?” James mumbled.

She glanced down at him and saw his eyes were still closed, but he’d turned to face her and was hugging the duvet to his chest.

“Like a rock,” she said. He heaved out a sigh and his hair fell into his eyes as he arched his back. Rose stroked her fingers through his hair as she asked, “How’d you sleep?”

“All right,” he said. “Had some odd dreams. Dreams where it felt like I was awake, so it didn’t feel like I slept.”

“Well, you’ve still got some time before you have to be up. Go back to sleep.”

Rose leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek before she rolled out of bed and got ready for the day.

Things were better with James than they’d been in months; however, a stiffness had settled over them. It felt like they were tiptoeing around each other, making sure they were being careful and cautious to not upset the other. Rose was frustrated. She knew it would take time and effort to get back to the comfortable relationship she’d once had with James, but there had been a tiny piece of her that had hoped everything would have magically fixed itself. It was daft, she knew, but still she’d hoped.

“Dad said he could come stay with the girls starting Mother’s Day Sunday night,” James said after they put the girls to bed.

“Good,” Rose said. “Where are we going, by the way? We ought to figure out hotel arrangements if needed.”

“I was actually thinking we could go up to the manor in Scotland?” James suggested. “So we’re not too far away, and we won’t have to worry about hotels and eating out for all meals. It’s somewhere familiar, and it’s a place we won’t get distracted by sightseeing. We can just focus on us. What do you think?”

“Sounds great,” Rose said, making a mental note to ask her boss for time off.

Lindsey was more than willing to let Rose have the week off.

“You’ve been pulling overtime left and right,” she said. “Take a break.” After a short pause, her boss lowered her voice and asked, “Is everything all right, Rose? Did something happen?

Rose shrugged and said, “I don’t want to talk about it. James and I are okay, but we really need to take a break alone together.”

Rose worked hard to finish up all of her in-progress projects, and she assigned one of her teammates to act as the boss for the week. By the time she was due to take her week alone with James, she had all of her work wrapped up and would start with fresh assignments when she got back.

Mother’s Day finally came, bringing with it a colorful bouquet from James, and cards that the girls made.

“Happy Mother’s Day to the best mother on the planet,” James murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple as he ushered her to sit down at the kitchen table. “There’s no one else I would want to be raising my children with.”

Rose smiled at him and inhaled the perfume of the flowers he’d bought her. The girls then sprinted into the kitchen and vied for their mother’s attention.

“Come here you two,” Rose giggled, scooping them both up, glad that they were still small enough to fit in her lap at the same time. She hugged her girls tightly and pressed kisses to their hair, feeling so much love and joy for the two people who were responsible for making her a mother. “Oh, I love you both.”

“Love you, Mummy!”

“I love you too, Mummy!”

Rose rocked her daughters gently and rested her chin on Ainsley’s shoulder as she looked at the cards her girls made for her.

Robert and Jackie joined them in the afternoon for a late lunch barbecue, and once everyone was fed, James and Rose took their leave.

“We’ll be home next Sunday,” they promised, hugging their girls tightly. “Love you lots.”

Giving their daughters a final hug and kiss, James and Rose loaded their suitcases into their car and drove off into the setting sun and hopefully towards a regeneration of their marriage.

<-- Ch7 | Ch9 -->

#ficandchips #doctorroseprompts #dwfic #doctor who #ten x rose #au #ten x rose au #james x rose #soulmates #my fic #and babies make five and six #perfectly matched series #lemons #themes of infertility #here it is!!!#i really hope y'all like it #and i'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter

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