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reciprocityfic · 10 months

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you

title: you fandom: little women pairing: theodore laurence x amy march rating: t summary: laurie is nervous on his wedding night.

you

They marry quickly - for practical purposes, of course. Aunt March can no longer travel, and it would be inappropriate for her to travel back to America with only him and his grandfather to accompany her. And her staying there in Europe until they manage to find a proper chaperone is out of the question; not only does she need to see her family, but the thought of being apart from each other for an indefinite amount of time, an ocean between them, is simply unbearable for the both of them.

He promises he'll give her a proper wedding when they get back to Concord, on their way to the chapel the morning they say their vows. She protests, saying that she doesn't need it, that he and her family is all she needs, but he persists, because she deserves more than rushed vows in an unfamiliar church in Le Havre. He whispers to her about all a wedding would entail - the beautiful dress she would wear, the elegant party they would hold with beautiful music and delightful food, the way he would dance with her - and her eyes slowly light up.

"That does sound lovely," she relents, and he smiles.

So they marry quickly, and afterwards go to where they're staying for the evening before heading to England the next day. His grandfather had found the nicest hotel in the city, and when they arrive, they are greeted with the finest champagne and a small cake baked especially for them from the kitchen. They sit in the parlor and eat it with his grandfather and Aunt March, who has become even more high-strung as her illness has progressed. She complains about everything - the china patterns, the temperature, the wallpaper in the room. He only half hears her, though, and leaves it to his grandfather to placate and entertain the woman. His only focus is his bride. His wife.

His Amy.

When the four decide to part for the evening, he leads her to their suite with slow steps, his heart pounding in his chest. He's been with several women before, but this is different - it's Amy. And he doesn't think he's ever been more anxious in his life than he is now.

He barely manages to open the door; his hand shakes as he attempts to put the key into the lock. Eventually, he succeeds, and he opens the door, stepping back for her.

"After you, my lady."

She fights a smile, and looks up at him for a moment before curtsying slightly.

"Thank you, my lord."

He watches her as she walks into the room, taking one deep breath to try and calm his nerves before following her and closing the door behind them with a soft thud.

They don't speak; instead, he sits down on the bed and watches her as she moves around. His grandfather has arranged for their things to be dropped off here, and she looks through her luggage before pulling out a brush and a thin white nightgown. He gulps, his fingers twitching against the sheets.

She sits down at the vanity and begins to take the pins out of her hair. He gazes at her, and catches her eye in the mirror as she reaches down for her brush. She averts her gaze quickly. He frowns; maybe she doesn't want to do anything tonight other than sleep. She's still mourning Beth, of course, and although the day had been happy, it had also been exhausting. Not to mention the long journey they were to begin tomorrow.

It's her decision. He doesn't want to pressure her, and he doesn't want to think she would be disappointing him. He wants her desperately, yes, but he's also willing to wait for her. He'd wait for her forever if it pleased her.

Just as he's about to tell her his thoughts, she speaks.

"Would you help me with the buttons on my dress?"

He looks up, and their eyes meet in the mirror once more. This time, she doesn't look away.

His mouth goes dry, but he manages to answer her gently.

"Of course."

He gets up, takes four long steps towards her as she stands and presents her back to him. He's immediately reminded of that day in her studio, when he'd unbuttoned her smock. It had been the first time he'd realized that his feelings for Amy March ran much, much deeper (and much, much differently) than he thought they did.

He pushes aside her long blonde hair; he doesn't think he's seen Amy with her hair down since she was a child. He immediately wants to run his fingers through it, to see what it looks like splayed out on the bed as she lies below him. But right now, he has a mission to complete, and a dress to unbutton.

But again, his hands shake, and he fumbles with the first few buttons like a fool. She turns around and looks at him curiously, but then, her face softens.

"You're nervous?" she asks, and her voice is almost incredulous. He'd already mentioned the fact that he'd been with other women before. She'd flinched when he told her, and he hated it. He wished he could take back every moment he had ever spent with someone else. But then she'd sat up straight and taken his face in her hands.

"It doesn't matter," she’d told him. "The important thing is that it's only the two of us now, always."

"Forever," he'd told her earnestly.

So he understands her confusion; he should be an expert at undoing the back of a dress, and he is, typically. But yes, he's nervous.

"Why?" she asks.

"Because it's you," he answers simply.

It's Amy. The love of his life. And she deserves nothing but perfection, something she can remember for the rest of her life with fondness and love.

"Are you nervous?" he asks her.

She blushes and looks down, but shakes her head firmly.

"Why?" he asks, echoing her question.

She looks back up at him, the sweetest smile on her face. For a moment, he remembers her face the first time they ever met, her staring up at him from her seat on the floor, her eyes shining with the firelight.

I'm Amy.

Now, she reaches out and takes one of his shaking hands in hers, kisses his palm and then holds it to the side of her face.

"Because it's you."

She smiles softly, closing the space between them and standing up on the tips of her toes to kiss him. And when her lips touch his, his heartbeat finally begins to steady.

a/n: champagne problems is coming soon!

#amy x laurie #laurie x amy #amylaurie #little women 2019 #little women #amy march #theodore laurence

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reciprocityfic · 1 year

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reciprocityfic · 1 year

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champagne problems, chapter eight

title: champagne problems fandom: little women pairing: theodore laurence x amy march rating: m summary: amy accepts fred's proposal, and laurie comes home and marries jo. but instead of it being the end of something, it's just the start of something bigger.

(or, how laurie and amy find their way back to each other.)

chapter one: champagne problems chapter two: right where you left me chapter three: it’s nice to have a friend chapter four: the end is here chapter five: moments that we stole (on begged and borrowed time) chapter six: this godforsaken mess chapter seven: love slipped beyond your reaches

author's note: i so, so apologize for this long break. thank you to everyone still reading after all this time. it means more to me than you will ever know, and inspired me not to give up on this story.

cracks of light

My Dearest Amy,

I’ve been dreaming of you. In my mind, you are beautiful and joyous. In my mind, you are eagerly waiting for my return. And in my mind, you love me still, despite my absence and all my mistakes.

I miss you desperately. Although my dreams of you are pleasant, they are no substitute for being by your side. I understand why you haven’t written back, but it still pains me to not hear from you. I hope you are well. I hope you are happy, as you are in my dreams.

Know that I am working every day to secure our future together. I hope to return soon, but there are a few more things that must fall into place before I can come home to you. Know that I think of you every moment. And know, above everything, that I love you.

Wait for me, my love, please.

Forever yours, Laurie

She jumps slightly as someone knocks on the door to her room. Carefully, she folds the letter in her hands and goes over to her desk, opening the top right drawer and placing it on top of all the saved letters that came before it. She stares at the heap for a moment, runs her hand over the top of it. She can feel the indent of the pen strokes on the delicate paper. She imagines him alone in a hotel room, writing by candlelight, pen gripped tightly in his fist as he put words down on the page.

Her heart aches.

I miss you desperately.

She misses him desperately, as well. And she wants to write to him more than anything. But she’d solemnly resolved to live with as little of him as possible in his absence; after all, it was something she would have to get used to, almost certainly. She still can’t see a future for the two of them - not one together, at least. Although Laurie has been insistent in his letters that he’s working toward a way for them, he hasn’t erased the doubt in her mind or the sinking feeling in her stomach.

She’ll have to live without him, and there was no time like the present to practice. Which meant no writing back. No sketching him. No visits to his home - not even any visits to Mr. Laurence. She even avoided talking about him as much as she could.

“Amy? Are you there?”

She jumps again; this time, it’s at the sound of Marmee’s voice. She walks to the door, opens it to find her mother standing there, a sweet smile on her face that almost distracts from the slight concern in her eyes.

“There you are. You’ve been up here a while. Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” she says simply. She’s never told her mother that she comes up and locks herself in her room for sometimes hours reading Laurie’s letters, but she suspects Marmee knows anyway. Her mother always seemed to know everything about her. It would be bothersome if her mother was anyone other than Marmee .

“Good,” Marmee says, her gaze relaxing. “You have a visitor, dear.”

She freezes, and feels all the blood rush from her face. It can’t be…

Her mother reaches out quickly and takes her hand.

“It’s not him,” she assures her. “I would tell you if it was.”

She lets out a shaky breath, and looks down at the floor, cursing the disappointment that floods through her. She even feels tears begin to gather behind her eyes. She doesn’t know how her dread regarding seeing Laurie again can exist alongside how much she misses him, but the two of them do exist, creating a war inside her and constantly tugging her heart in two different directions.

“Come,” Marmee beckons, turning towards the doorway. “It’s not good to keep company waiting.”

She follows her mother down the stairs, idly trying to figure out who would be here to visit her specifically. It’s always a family event when Meg comes, and Marmee has already confirmed it’s not Laurie.

Could it be Fred? For a moment, her stomach fills with dread. But then, she remembers that his response to her letter ending their engagement and calling off their wedding had only arrived two days ago, and it had been postmarked from Berlin. It’s impossible that he could’ve made it here by now. And she doubts Fred ever wants to see her again; his letter, though polite, was quite curt, to say the least.

Her brow furrows; she doesn’t know that many other people. Not anymore. In fact, she’s utterly confused when she walks into the front room with her mother, until she lays eyes on the person in a chair next to her father, chatting pleasantly.

“Mr. Laurence,” she says, and the old man looks up from his conversation.

“Amy, my dear,” he replies, smiling fondly at her.

Her face brightens, despite everything, as Mr. Laurence stands and walks over to her. In the time during Beth’s illness and after her passing, the man had truly become like a grandfather to her and her sisters. She’d missed him dearly, she realizes, as a few tears begin to gather in her eyes.

Before Mr. Laurence reaches her, though, his face becomes serious, and he asks Marmee and her father to give the two of them a moment together. Anxiety creeps up her spine as her parents leave the room. Surely this has something to do with -

“I have news from Laurie,” Mr. Laurence tells her, interrupting but confirming her thoughts. Dread must show on her face, because the man quickly reaches out and takes her hand.

“It’s nothing bad, I assure you,” he says, leading her to the sofa. As they sit, Mr. Laurence sighs. “But Laurie said to be careful, because he didn’t know how you would react.”

The old man squeezes her hand as her stomach churns. She turns her face away and stares at the floor, not wanting him to see her reaction to the news, whatever it may be.

“He’s coming home,” Mr. Laurence murmurs.

Her hand - still grasped in his - tightens reflexively, and she squeezes her eyes shut. She’s silent for a few moments, waiting to speak until she’s sure her voice won’t tremble.

“When?” she finally breathes.

“His train arrives tomorrow morning.”

She doesn’t cry, surprising herself. Instead, something quite like shock runs through her veins and stimies her emotions. The idea that Laurie will be in Concord less than twenty-four hours from now seems almost unfeasible to her. She’d spent so much time trying to avoid and forget him - even the concept of him. She’d honestly wondered if she would ever see him again, despite what he wrote in his letters. And now that he’s coming back, she isn’t sure what to feel.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Mr. Laurence asks, after long moments of quiet.

She feels numb. Like so many different emotions are pulling on her at the same time that they’ve overloaded her brain and heart and broken her.

“Yes,” she decides, “I’m alright. Did he - do you know what he’s been up to all this time?”

“I needed him for a week in Boston about a month ago,” he tells her. “But other than that, I haven’t a clue.”

She nods, and then pulls her hand away from the old man’s, wrapping both of her arms around herself. She feels strange. Maybe stranger than she’s ever felt.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Laurence,” she says, “but I’m afraid I need to excuse myself.”

“Of course,” he says, without hesitation, and stands up as she does. “It was nice seeing you again, dear.”

She smiles at him politely, and then starts towards the stairs. Before she exits the room, though, she hears Mr. Laurence’s voice echo from behind her.

“I do sincerely hope everything works out for you, Amy.”

She stops, and looks over her shoulder. The old man gazes after her, his eyes shining with sincerity. Before she realizes what she’s doing, she walks quickly towards him and envelopes him in a hug.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, then squeezes her eyelids shut again. She can feel inklings of the pressure behind her eyes from tears, but they do not fall.

After a moment, she steps back from him. She almost feels embarrassed, but when she looks up, Mr. Laurence is smiling down at her. She nods at him again, and then starts back towards the stairs.

When she’s finally in her room and has closed the door behind her, she exhales loudly. She still feels muddled and unsteady, and anxious energy starts to bubble up inside her stomach. She paces back and forth in the small room for about a minute before pulling the chair out and sitting down at the desk. She sighs, and then reaches into the bottom right drawer and pulls out a sketchpad and pencil.

When she was a child and needed to calm down after a quarrel with one of her sisters, she’d come up to her room to draw. Art has always soothed her, and she hopes it will soothe her now.

She turns her head to the right to look out the window, but sees nothing that captures her interest. She sighs in frustration, and then turns back to the blank paper in front of her. Slowly, she picks up her pencil, tapping it against the edge of the desk twice before putting it to the page.

She writes down his name. Laurie . She drops her pencil, and traces over her small, neat penmanship, lets her fingertip linger over the letters. Suddenly, she picks her pencil back up, writes his name three times more.

Laurie

She decides to write him, that it will be easier to slip a letter under the front door of the Laurence mansion this evening instead of facing him in person tomorrow. But she gives up only a moment later; she’s never been good with words, not like Jo. And, in any case, she can’t get her thoughts straight. The only word that comes to mind is his name.

Laurie.

Laurie, who’d written to her unfailingly time and time again even though she hadn’t written him a single thing in response. Laurie, who'd said goodbye to her all those months ago, promising he’d find a way for them. Laurie, who’d had the courage to confess for the both of them. Laurie, who’d kissed her and held her and loved her like she was the most precious thing in the world. Laurie in the rain. Laurie in his study that first day, drunk and sorrowful.

Laurie, who’d stayed too long at his own wedding just to dance with her.

Laurie in Europe. Laurie, who’d proposed marriage to her. Laurie, who’d had the habit of gazing and smiling at her for moments too long. Laurie, who’d visited her day after day after day in France during Fred’s long absences, seemingly trying to make up for his bad behavior by spending time with her. Laurie in her studio at Aunt March’s. Laurie, who’d unbuttoned her apron and called her beautiful and asked that she make her last portrait one of him. Laurie, who’d forgotten about her and embarrassed her in front of everyone she thought mattered at the time.

Laurie, who’d been there to catch her when she flung herself into his arms on that street in Paris.

Laurie during her childhood. Laurie, who’d bitterly left Concord and Jo behind. Laurie, who’d helped her make flower bouquets the day before Meg’s wedding. Laurie, who’d written her weekly at Aunt March’s house while Beth was sick, updating her on her sister’s condition and the family as a whole. Laurie, who’d run alongside her on the beach during her first trip to the ocean. Laurie, who’d given her a key to their mailbox in the forest that had a green ribbon because he said it matched her eyes. Laurie, who’d saved her that day at the lake, carrying her home and whispering that she would be alright into the cold air. Laurie, who’d bandaged her hand with the utmost care. Laurie, who’d noticed her outside his window. Laurie, who’d looked at her curiously after she introduced herself to him that first night, her eyes shining, and smiled.

Laurie, who, even though his attention had been absorbed by Jo, had taken the time to whisper to her, “Hello.”

Laurie.

“Laurie,” she whispers into the air, and the corners of her lips turn up.

***

She’s restless the next morning. She wakes up before the sun rises and can’t fall back to sleep; every time she closes her eyes, Laurie’s face appears behind her lids. So she lies on her back and stares at the ceiling until she hears the rest of the house stir.

Even Marmee, Father, and Hannah can’t calm her, though. As they sit at the table, she can’t help but glance at the front door every minute, almost as if she can hear the beginnings of the knock she’s expecting. She’s barely picking at a piece of bread during breakfast when she registers her mother’s voice.

“Meg should be coming today, with the twins and John.”

“It is Wednesday already?” her father answers. “The week seems to be flying by.”

“Oh!” Hannah exclaims gently. “I promised Daisy last week that we’d bake something together the next time she visited. I’ll have to look at what we have around.”

“I’m going to go for a walk,” she says suddenly, tossing down her piece of bread and standing up abruptly. “I’m not feeling well, and I think some fresh air might help.”

It’s not far from the truth. She does feel unwell. She feels like the walls are closing in on her, and her family’s conventional conversation grates at her brain and patience.

Her family knows better than to protest, and as they say their goodbyes, Marmee gives her a sympathetic, knowing, sad smile that makes her heart clench. Before she leaves, she runs upstairs and grabs her sketchpad and pencil.

He’s been gone so long that it’s already spring again, and it’s warm enough outside today. The sun is shining, but there's still a certain chill in the air when the wind blows that harkens back to winter. She’s forgotten her coat, but decides against going back for it. Instead, she wraps her arms around herself tightly.

She doesn’t know where to go at first, but her feet lead her, and she follows them without question today. She ends up on that beautiful hill where he’d proposed to Jo. Where he’d confessed his love for her and kissed her for the first time.

She sits down on the sloping ground, her art supplies still clenched in her fist. She brings them into her lap, puts graphite to paper. She intends to draw the landscape in front of her, and she starts without thinking. She’s a few minutes into her work when she realizes that, instead of trees and earth, she’s drawn the outlines of his face.

She stares down at the paper, pausing for a moment, and then goes back to work, purposefully drawing him this time. The way he looked that day, right before he pressed his lips to hers.

And if you don’t leave now, I might kiss you .

She hadn’t left. She’d stayed. And he’d kissed her.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there drawing him - his windswept curls, red and pouted lips, eyes dark and purposeful - but she drops her pencil into the grass when she’s done, and flexes her cramping hand; she’d never been able to teach herself to be ambidextrous, as Jo had.

She leans back slightly and examines her work, and can’t help but press her lips together in a sad, incredulous grin. She’d tried so hard to forget him - she’d spent months trying to forget him - and had failed miserably, it seems. Although she hasn’t seen him for months, she’s captured his details with near perfect precision. She lifts her hand and runs her fingers over the pencil markings.

“I thought you’d given up on art, Raphaela.”

The sound of his voice startles her, and she nearly jumps off the ground before she registers that it’s him. It’s Laurie.

She’d been wondering what she would do when she was in his presence again for his entire absence. Would she scream, or cry? Would she push him away? Would she run to him? Would she still love him?

As it stands, she picks up her pencil from the ground, and speaks without turning to him.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Only a minute or so,” he tells her. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“It wasn’t a question, so I have no obligation to comment on it,” she retorts calmly.

“Alright, Amy,” he relents.

Amy . She closes her eyes, and lets the sound of him saying her name permeate her eardrums again. She can hear the smile in his voice, as well.

She hears the rustling of footsteps, and then he’s sitting down next to her. He’s close, but doesn’t touch her. Instead, he pulls his knees up to his chest, and drapes his arms across them.

“You didn’t answer my letters, either,” he points out, after a beat of silence. “I’ve learned to expect silence from you. Quite a change from how it was when we were growing up.”

She’s about to defend herself, but then she sees the grin on his face, out of the corner of her eye - she still hasn’t looked at him fully, yet - and realizes he’s teasing her.

“Stop it, Theodore,” she huffs.

“Only for you, Amy Curtis March.”

She can feel his gaze on her. He’s trying to make her smile, and she bites her bottom lip to hold it back.

Silence falls over them, and she’s overcome with subtle amazement - amazement that he’s here again, next to her, but primarily amazement that this is so easy . There is a future full of questions ahead of her, she’s sure, but this - being with him - is still one of the easiest things she’s ever done.

His voice removes her from her thoughts, though, with an sudden rush.

“I’m no longer married.”

Her mouth falls open, and she finally turns to look at him. (He looks beautiful - tired, but absolutely lovely. She would focus more on this if she wasn’t so confused at his statement, she’s sure.) He’s staring straight ahead, one of his knees bouncing nervously. She gapes at him.

“What are you talking about?”

“Jo and I aren’t married anymore.”

“You’re -”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, because she can’t even imagine it.

“We’re divorced, yes,” he says.

“That’s impossible,” she counters immediately.

“No,” he tells her. “It’s…difficult, but not impossible. You have to have a certain amount of money, and know the right set of people, and be willing to give up a few things…”

“Like what?” she asks, and he sighs deeply.

“Your reputation, mostly. Mine will take a hit, but Jo’s will fall off…quite a bit. At least around here. She said she’s staying in New York permanently. Still, I was afraid she wouldn’t agree. But then again, Jo March has never been one to care much about what other people think of her, has she?”

She can’t agree or disagree with his statement. She’s still too busy trying to wrap her mind around what he’s told her.

Divorced.

“It’s impossible,” she murmurs quietly.

“It’s not,” he assures her again. “Amy…”

He reaches out, puts his hand on her arm. A warm current that stems from his palm flows through her immediately. She stares down at his hand for a long moment.

“Divorced,” she whispers.

She covers his hand with hers tentatively.

“I’m…sorry,” she says suddenly. “I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your letters. I read them, though. I read them over and over again, and kept each one. They’re in a drawer in my desk, and I read them and read them and read them -”

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until he gathers her into his arms. She grabs on to the lapels of his jacket and sobs once, nestling his face into his neck.

“I missed you so much,” she tells him.

Because she had missed him, even if she hadn’t admitted it to herself. She’d missed him so terribly that the thought of it almost makes her ill, even though he’s here with her now.

“I missed you,” he murmurs into her hair. “My God, Amy, how I missed you.”

He hugs her closer to him for a moment more, and then pulls back. He reaches over to her, takes her face in his hand and tilts her chin up so he can look into her eyes.

“I love you,” he tells her. “I love you, and I don’t deserve you. Especially not now. But I want you, and

I want my future to be with you. I understand if you don’t - if we’re together, your reputation will suffer as well. So I understand if you -”

She kisses him quickly - to quiet him and his doubts that seem so silly now, mostly, but also because she’s missed kissing him so much . When they separate, he’s smiling, and even though a few tears stream down his cheeks, he laughs.

She breaks into laughter as well, and they laugh together until they can’t breathe. Anyone passing would think they were crazy.

But no one is passing. No one is here, except her and him. Amy and Laurie.

This is the way it was meant , he’d said, after he’d kissed her that first time.

Once they’ve calmed down, he reaches for her face again, and rests his forehead against hers.

“Amy. Will you marry me?”

He can barely get the question out before she gives her answer, teary and breathless.

“Yes .”

He smiles, and whispers, “Thank you,” before kissing her again, deep and slow.

She kisses him back, and feels, for the first time since she arrived back from Europe, that she’s finally come home.

#self reblog