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wistfulcynic · 4 years

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Their Way By Moonlight: Broken (Chapter 16)

In which the chapter title says it all, really.

For @thisonesatellite and @ohmightydevviepuu and @katie-dub, YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID 😘😘😘 (and shoutout to @winterbythesea for filling the gaping holes in my video game knowledge)

SUMMARY: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time Emma is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from Henry and anyone else who might help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Killian have the ability to share their dreams, and are working together in secret to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from a new and dangerous foe.

Rating: M

AO3

Broken:

All her life Emma had loved to sleep, but she wasn’t the biggest fan of naps. Sleep, to her, involved putting on comfy, loose clothing, making the room as dark as possible, burrowing into her pillows and blankets and letting oblivion wrap her in its soothing embrace for at least eight hours, preferably more. Obviously, those perfect conditions didn’t happen often, but still a girl could dream.

Naps, she felt, were like fast food sleep. They met her most immediate needs but left her feeling heavy and groggy and a bit gross. Exactly the way she was feeling now. She peeled one sticky eyelid open and groped for her phone, groaning when she saw the time. Ten past six. She’d slept for over two hours, and Neal would be here in less than one. Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, she tried to force her foggy mind to focus.

A burst of triumphant laughter sounded from the living room, followed by a dramatic groan.

“Right, you’ll pay for that,” snarled Killian’s voice.

“Oh yeah?” Henry crowed in reply, “Who’s gonna make me?”

Emma heaved herself up out of bed and went to the curtain that separated her and Killian’s bedroom area from the main part of the apartment. She peeked around it and grinned at the sight that met her eye. Henry and Killian were on the sofa, controllers in hand, playing what was apparently a very hotly contested game of Battlefront II.

She thought back to when Killian had first begun attempting to play video games with Henry in New York, hampered by his missing hand and his general bafflement as to why anyone would want to sit for hours in front of a flickering screen, shooting imaginary bolts of light at each other. He seemed to have gotten over that in the past year, she thought, and now with his modern prosthetic he was able to manage the controller and navigate the game deftly enough that Emma had a sneaking suspicion he might be letting Henry win.

Although, she thought, as Henry racked up another kill, pumping his fist as his character respawned into Han Solo and Killian’s eyebrows snapped together indignantly, maybe not.

She pushed aside the curtain and went to sit on the arm of the sofa next to Killian, who flashed her a brief smile before returning his attention to evading Henry’s digital assault on him.

“Hey, guys,” she said, unable to resist letting her fingers sift through Killian’s hair. She still found it difficult to go too long without touching him. “Who’s winning?”

“The lad has a temporary advantage,” Killian replied grudgingly.

“Temporary my ass.”

“Language,” Killian rebuked, and Henry snorted.

“That’s rich coming from Mister oh bloody hell,” he retorted.

“Perhaps, but when you swear in front of your mothers I get the blame.”

Emma chuckled and Killian paused the game, looking up at her with the soft, adoring smile that never failed to make her weak. “How are you feeling, love?” he asked. “Rested?”

“Yeah, I guess.” She shrugged. “Kinda groggy. Do you think I have time for a shower before Neal gets here?”

“Aye, a quick one.”

“And you don’t need me to help with anything?” Emma looked around the apartment. It was as neat and tidy as ever, the way Killian always kept things.

“No, everything’s prepared for dinner, it just needs cooking. Go have your shower, then Henry and I should probably freshen up too.”

“What? I’m fresh!”

“Your mouth is, perhaps,” said Killian, quick as a flash. “But as this is meant to be a nice meal, please indulge me by putting on a shirt that isn’t covered in dog hair.”

“Ugh, fine.” Henry rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. Neither could Emma.

“What about that nice grey one I got you?” she suggested.

“Mom, I outgrew that like six months ago.”

“Oh.” The little flare of loss and regret was familiar now, but no less sharp. “Okay.”

Killian squeezed her knee sympathetically. “It has been replaced by another nice grey one, however,” he said. “Which I happen to know is clean and ironed and hanging in your room. Wear that.”

“Fine,” sighed Henry. “Can I finish kicking your arse at Battlefront first, though?”

“You can try,” said Killian.

They were making dinner together.

Mary Margaret knew it was happening, she was here, she was experiencing it. She could smell the rich aroma and hear the sizzle of frying onions, could hear the rhythmic sound of knives on a chopping board as she and David sliced mushrooms and minced carrots. Hell, she was the one doing the mincing. But she still couldn’t quite believe it.

It had been David’s idea. When they finished their lunch at Granny’s that afternoon he’d walked with her back to her office, as slowly as they could get away with, then lingered even longer by the door.

“This was fun,” he said. “I had fun. Did you?”

The thread of uncertainty in the question squeezed Mary Margaret’s heart and set her mind racing. What if—she could barely entertain the thought—what if David felt as she did? What if he wanted the same things? What if he was just as unsure of her as she was of him?

What if—this was the scariest what if of all—what if she actually told him what she wanted? That’t she’d like to give their marriage a real shot?

What would happen then?

“I did,” she replied, slightly breathlessly. “A lot of fun.”

David’s smile widened. “We should do it again.”

“We should,” she agreed, as her heart raced faster.

“Like tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah.” David nodded eagerly. “Let’s eat together tonight. Let’s make dinner.”

“Make dinner? I can’t cook!”

“Me neither. It’ll be fun. Half raw and half burnt maybe, but, you know—” his eyes seemed to bore into her “—ours.”

“Ours,” she repeated, wishing she could draw some air into her lungs. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he echoed.

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay.” His smile was so soft, his eyes warm. “I’ll get some stuff. Ingredients and things, and I’ll—see you at home.”

Home, thought Mary Margaret, letting her eyes caress his ass as he headed back down the street, then jerking them away when she realised what she was doing. Maybe they could actually have one.

And so now here they were, standing next to each other in their kitchen, chopping vegetables and browning meat in an attempt to make spaghetti.

“Shouldn’t be too hard, right?” said David, opening an old cookbook he’d unearthed from the back of a cupboard. “We just follow the instructions.”

They browned their meat and added their veggies and a can of tomatoes, several pinches of herbs and a generous glug of wine. The aromas were amazing and the kitchen warm and steamy and Mary Margaret took off her cardigan, draping it over a chair, and when she turned back David was watching her, his gaze hot and almost tangible on her bare arms. She caught her breath and he seemed to catch himself, his eyes flying to hers, their gazes catching and holding, lingering as they began to move towards each other, slowly as if in a dream, drawn by the tug of attraction they could no longer ignore. David’s fingers gently traced her cheek and hers gripped his shoulders, and when their lips touched—so softly at first then harder, growing desperate—it felt right and natural and like coming home, and also sent the sharpest spike of lust through Mary Margaret’s belly that she could ever remember feeling.

She couldn’t remember it, yet it was so familiar. This was familiar. David’s lips on hers, the silky slide of his hair between her fingers, the breadth of his shoulders, the firm comfort of his arms around her making her feel safe and treasured. Loved.

Then his hands slid over her hips to cup her ass and all she could feel was the frantic certainty that if she didn’t get him naked, right now, she would die. She sank her nails into his shoulders and rolled her hips against his, swallowing his moan and adding her own as he hoisted her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist and then—

“Wait—wait,” Mary Margaret gasped, tearing her mouth from his. She was still a sensible woman, no matter how lust-drenched she felt, and just enough of that sense remained to remind her not to burn the kitchen down. She leaned over and turned off the burner beneath the bubbling spaghetti sauce, then wrapped her arms tightly around David’s shoulders and kissed him fiercely, telling him with her lips what she couldn’t put into words. What she felt for him, and everything she hoped that they could be.

When they broke apart he stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time, like she was his sun and moon and stars and everything in between.

“Mary Margaret,” he breathed. “I want—”

“Me too,” she gasped against his mouth. “Me too. Let’s—upstairs?”

The icy blue of his eyes had never been so hot. “Fuck yes,” he said.

That evening Archie returned to the small, draughty room he rented in the boarding house where most of the mine workers lived. His body felt as exhausted as it always did after a double shift, his mind as fallow. He collapsed onto the small sofa that doubled as his bed with a sigh and let his head fall into his hands and his eyes fall shut.

The cushion beside him shifted and sagged as Pongo leapt onto it, his tail swishing across the threadbare cover. Archie looked down at the dog with a faint smile that grew wider as Pongo covered his chin with sloppy kisses then settled down to rest his head in Archie’s lap, gazing up at him with warm brown eyes full of trust. Trust, and love. Archie’s heart swelled in his chest and the worst of his exhaustion seemed to lift, lightened as all burdens are by the presence of a friend. Tears prickled behind his eyes as he stroked Pongo’s silky head.

“Good boy, Pongo,” he said. “That’s my boy.”

“Your love does not see them. He sees you.”

Oisín’s words rang in Regina’s ears as she stood examining her reflection in the mirror in the loft’s small bathroom. Carefully she applied another coat of lipstick then brushed a tiny crumb of mascara from beneath her eye. She’d managed to resist the urge to put her glamour spell back on but not the one that had drawn her into the market on her way home from Emma and Killian’s to pick up a stash of land-without-magic cosmetics. It was all well and good to talk about trusting people with the truth of her appearance but did have standards, after all, and no intention of going on a date with nothing whatsoever on her face.

She gave herself a final once-over just as a knock sounded at the door and took a deep breath to quell the butterflies in her belly. It didn’t work, not even a little, and they fluttered more frantically than ever as she went to open it.

Robin—no, John, she reminded herself firmly—smiled when he saw her, a smile that had warmed and softened considerably over the past few weeks.

You look lovely, Regina,” he said, producing a bouquet of wildflowers from behind his back and offering them to her, almost shyly. She caught her breath. He’d brought her flowers before, many times during their slow, cautious courtship, but always from the florist. Tasteful, professional arrangements that a banker would choose, nothing at all like this handful of blooms he’d clearly picked himself.

“Where—where did you get these?” she asked, taking them from him and breathing deeply, barely stopping herself from burying her face in them.

“Ah.” He looked a bit abashed. “From the woods. If you don’t like them—” He reached for the bouquet but she snatched it back, cradling it to her chest.

“I love them,” she said. “They’re just… different from the ones you brought before.”

“Indeed. It was the most peculiar thing,” he explained, stepping into the loft as she held the door for him and following her to the kitchen where she took out a vase and filled it with water. “Every morning I go for a run, as you know. Always around town, along the same route. But this morning—I don’t know what it was but I just felt the need to get out of civilisation, into nature.” He shook his head wryly. “I’d barely had that thought when I found myself jogging down the road that cuts through the forest on its way out of town. I was feeling brighter than I had in some time, lighter somehow, and then I noticed a footpath leading off the road and into the trees, and on a whim I followed it. It led through some dense trees and then opened into a little clearing with a tiny rock pool surrounded by the most stunning wildflowers.” He caught her eye and smiled. “They reminded me of you.”

Regina flushed with pleasure at the casual sincerity of the compliment and returned her attention to her flowers, arranging them in the vase and admiring their colours in the fading glow of the evening light.

“So I took note of the location and went back there just now to collect some for you,” he concluded. “Do you really like them?”

“They’re beautiful,” she replied, looking up again to see he had moved closer to her—so close—close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek and hear the hitch in it, see his pupils dilate as he too became aware of just how close they were.

They’d seen each other nearly every day since she’d asked him to lunch, sharing coffee and meals and conversation but only rarely touching. Touches between them when they did occur were gentle, restrained. Cautious.

(“Regina,” said Emma, coming up behind her as she stood by Granny’s outer gate, watching Robin return to work after their first lunch date. “I’m really glad you’re happy. But… don’t forget he’s cursed, okay?”

“As if I could,” snapped Regina. “It’s kind of obvious in the way he doesn’t remember me.”

“That’s not really what I meant.” Emma shuffled her feet, her face the picture of both deep discomfort and grim determination.

“Well what did you mean?”

“Just that he—he doesn’t have control of himself. He can’t make decisions like he would if he weren’t cursed.”

Regina frowned. “Are you saying that un-cursed he wouldn’t be interested in me? Because I can assure you—”

“No! That’s not—look—” Emma crossed her arms over her chest, clutching her jacket sleeves so hard her nails left grooves in the red leather. “Don’t sleep with him, okay?” she burst out, flushing at Regina’s outraged glare but barreling on. “I know it’s none of my business and believe me, I really don’t want to be talking about it, but just—don’t. Cursed people can’t consent, and—” she took a deep breath “—I know that’s something my parents had to deal with after the first curse.”

Regina scowled, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the twinge of guilt that needled at her. She’d cursed Snow and Charming to those lives with full intent to hurt them as much as she could, and while she wasn’t precisely sorry for it her own recent experiences had given her a new perspective on what she’d put them through.

Things between her and Robin hadn’t exactly been friendly when the curse struck the Enchanted Forest, and while she’d had a whole year to think about that he had not. She’d spent those moments of the past year that weren’t consumed with her fear for Henry’s safety thinking about Robin and the way she’d treated him, wondering what might have happened if she’d been less scared, if she hadn’t let that fear make her so snappish and bitchy to him. Emma was right. Un-cursed, Robin might not wish for her to touch him.

That thought hurt far worse than she’d expected.)

But she wasn’t thinking about that now, not with him so close and leaning closer… not when her heart was pounding and her breath short… not when his lips touched hers and she just… melted into the kiss. Melted into him, unable to think of anything now but how right this felt, how right they felt, and how profoundly she wished she hadn’t fought against it for so long. She felt consumed by him, by them and by this moment, and neither Emma’s words of caution nor her own regret, nor even the ominous shifting and creaking of the magic in the air around them could pull her attention away from it.

When Belle arrived home she carefully removed the books Killian had lent her from their bag and placed them on the small table in her living room, taking a moment to let her fingertips trail over them, across the cloth bindings and the leather ones, tracing the titles and the authors’ names, and the illustrations on their covers. They all looked so fascinating she couldn’t wait to dive in and lose herself in the tales they carried within their bindings. And she knew exactly where she would begin.

(“It’s an adventure tale,” Killian explained as he handed the book to her, his eyes twinkling at the way hers widened and her hands trembled with eagerness. “A heroic quest to rescue a prince and reunite true loves.”

“Ohhh,” Belle breathed. “That sounds wonderful.”

“I figured you might like it,” Killian’s grin was warm. “I can tell already that you have excellent taste.”)

Belle made herself tea in her favourite cup, the one she saved for the most special occasions, and carried it carefully to her sofa, curling her legs beneath her and tucking a fluffy blanket around them, and a plump pillow behind her back. She sipped the brew with a contented sigh, and then she opened her book.

Neal Cassidy was no stranger to disappointment. It was always there, clinging to him like the smell of stale cigarette smoke he carried home with him each night from the Rabbit Hole, harsh and acrid and never wholly gone even when his clothes were freshly washed. The disappointment was the same, ever present, hovering in a cloud around his head, wherever he was, for as long as he could remember.

He’d had dreams once. At least, he thought he had. He must have, everyone did. He’d had dreams and he’d had a family—or at least he’d had a father, though he could barely remember the man, no more than a hazy impression of a hunched form and a plaintive voice.

I love you, son.

But that was a long time ago, impossibly long it sometimes felt, lifetimes ago. He was alone now, and had been for—well, for as long as he could remember. He worked as a janitor because he could do no other job, he drank alone because that’s what everyone did in Storybrooke. Each night the Rabbit Hole was silent but for the blaring music that was always on its speakers, patrons scattered throughout the dingy room, staring into their drinks and pretending the rest were somewhere else. Possibly pretending they were.

He worked as a janitor at the town hall, every day the same, sweeping and mopping and scrubbing, always under the sharp eyes of Mayor Green. Eyes that watched him more closely than a mayor really ought to watch a janitor, and with a smug, triumphant gleam that made him itchy and uncomfortable.

And then one day Mayor Green was gone, replaced by Mary Margaret Nolan. Deputy Mayor Nolan with tentative determination in her eyes, who greeted him with a kind smile and didn’t watch him as he worked, and who one astounding day had called him into her office to inform him that he owned the pawn shop.

(“It belonged to your father, apparently,” she said, “and he left it to you. I’m sorry I only found the records yesterday, they must have gotten lost. But the pawn shop is yours, and if you’d like to open it again, well, more business in town wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“Um.” Neal’s head was spinning. He didn’t know the first thing about running a business. And yet… “Yeah, sure. I can try.”

When he unlocked the pawn shop the next day it was dark and dusty, with that stale smell places get when they’ve gone too long without exposure to fresh air. Neal stood in the doorway feeling the full weight and scale of the task that lay before him and how very poorly equipped he was to tackle it. He was seriously considering locking the place back up and never thinking of it again when a voice spoke behind him.

“Hi,” it said. “Are you gonna open this place?”

Neal turned. He didn’t recognise the boy—not surprising as he didn’t recognise most people in town—but his bright, cheerful expression lightened Neal’s heart and gave it an odd twinge.

“Uh, yeah,” he replied. “I’m gonna try. I guess.”

“Cool!” exclaimed the boy. “Can I help?”

Neal frowned. “Shouldn’t you be in school or something?”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Oh yeah.” Neal didn’t know much about kids but he was pretty sure this one was still a bit young to be going around talking to strangers. “Um, where are your parents?” he asked.

“My dad’s at work,” the boy replied, like he was expecting just that question. “He owns a bookstore.”

“He does?”

“Yep. I helped him get it set up, so I know what needs to be done. I could help you too.” He shrugged. “You know, if you want.”

Neal kind of did want. He wasn’t sure just how much help the kid could actually be, but just the idea of having someone around, of not having to do everything by himself, made the weight on his shoulders seem lighter. Still, a kid he didn’t know… “You sure your dad wouldn’t mind?” he hedged.

“He won’t,” said the boy decisively. “But I can call him if you like, to be sure.” Again he sounded like he’d been expecting exactly this development. Neal’s frown deepened. He wondered if he was being played somehow, though he couldn’t imagine how or why.

“Yeah, why don’t you do that,” he said. Let this play out, at least.

The boy took out his phone and tapped on its screen, then held it to his ear. “Hey, Dad,” he said. “I’m at the pawn shop. Yep.” His eyes flitted to Neal’s face and then away. “There’s this guy who’s gonna get it open again and I offered to help him but he wanted to be sure it’s okay with you… uh huh… yeah… okay.” He looked up at Neal. “My dad wants to talk to you.”

“Oh. Um, sure.” Neal took the phone from the boy. “Hello?”

“Hello,” said a voice, a deep, smooth, accented one that gave Neal another odd twinge, less pleasant than the one inspired by the boy. The voice was friendly, but it made Neal tense, his fingers flexing on the boy’s phone. “I hope my son isn’t troubling you,” it said.

“No.” Neal had the oddest urge to contradict everything this voice said. “He’s not.”

“Good. He sometimes lets his enthusiasm overwhelm his common sense. If he’s bothering you, feel free to send him away.” The voice was light and careless and Neal bristled at its lack of concern for the kid’s feelings.

“He’s not bothering me.” Neal glanced at the boy, who was listening intently.“He offered to help, and actually I could probably use it.”

“Excellent.” There was a hint of amusement in the voice now that Neal found deeply objectionable. He scowled. “Well, let me know if he causes you any trouble,” the voice continued.

“Sure thing,” said Neal shortly, and handed the phone back to the boy before he snapped and said something much longer. The boy took it back with a bright grin. “So I can stay?” he asked. He listened for a moment, then sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know. Okay. Okay, bye!” He ended the call and stuck the phone in his pocket. “I’m Henry,” he said, holding out his hand. “Henry Jones.”

Neal took the hand, feeling that twinge again as the small fingers wrapped around his own. “Neal Cassidy.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr Cassidy,” said Henry. “So, where do we start?”)

Henry Jones turned out to be just as enthusiastic as the voice had warned, bright and cheerful and actually very knowledgeable about running a shop. As was his dad, Neal discovered, when the man arrived later that day to pick up his son. Neal had ignored the funny twist in his gut at the sight of them hugging and forced a smile as the man—Killian, as he introduced himself—cheerfully inspected their progress and answered a lot of the questions Henry hadn’t been able to, and even some Neal hadn’t thought of yet. And Neal found himself taking the man’s number, almost gratefully, and even calling it, just once or twice, whenever he hit a snag he hadn’t anticipated.

Though he liked Henry very much Neal had weirdly mixed feelings about Killian Jones. He couldn’t seem to quell the hostility he felt deep in his gut whenever they met, the twisting anger and resentment that at most times simmered low but at others flared so high they licked right at the edge of hate. This despite the fact that the man was never anything but perfectly nice and helpful and by all appearances the kind of loving father Neal wished like hell he could remember. He tried to like Killian, he almost liked him. But that gut reaction was too troubling to ignore.

And that was how he came to find himself at ten minutes before seven p.m. walking straight past the Rabbit Hole and towards the harbour, turning down the small street where he could see the sign for Jolly Roger Books hanging from a wrought iron hook above the shop’s wide doorway, swinging gently in the chilly evening breeze.

Neal set his jaw and rang the bell, and a minute later Henry’s cheerful face appeared. “Come on in, Mr Cassidy!” he said, pulling the doors open. “You’re right on time.”

It was a typical night at the Rabbit Hole. The bar’s interior was smoky and dark though the sun was still in the sky outside, adorned with neon signs in precisely the wrong colours and a ceaseless blare of music from the speakers. Not bad music, not exactly, but bleak and melancholy and a strain on the ears, and just loud enough to make conversation impossible, should anyone wish to converse.

Generally, no one did.

A handful of patrons sat at random around the dark and grimy room, staring into their drinks or off into space, not looking at each other, not so much as a civil nod. This was not the place for civility.

It was a typical night and no one expected otherwise, none there hoped for any more or less from their drinking place or from their lives.

And then the music stopped.

It stopped abruptly, with no hiss of interference or record scratch, just silence that fell with the grace of an anvil and was in itself so deafening that it took a moment for those present even to register the change.

The town records clerk was first to notice, rousing from his reverie and frowning as he looked around, his eyes meeting the confused gaze of the librarian sitting one table over to his left.

“What happened?” he asked.

The librarian shrugged. “Maybe it’s broken?”

“Wouldn’t be a bad thing if it was,” said the clerk, and the librarian snorted.

“Maybe they’ll switch it for something good,” another voice chimed in, this one belonging to a man the clerk vaguely recognised. Did he work for the bank? No… the insurance company, maybe?

“Let’s hope so,” the librarian agreed.

“I hope so,” said a fourth voice from behind the clerk’s right shoulder. “If I never hear that whatever-stank again it will be too soon.”

“Hoobastank,” supplied the librarian, and they all groaned.

“Even the name’s bloody awful,” said the clerk, and the other men all nodded their agreement, sliding their chairs ever so slightly closer as they did, drawn by the unifying power of a shared grievance.

On the other side of the bar a similar conversation was occurring.

“Finally, I can hear myself think,” growled Leroy, still glaring at his beer like it had done him a personal wrong, but doing so in peace and quiet at least.

The man down the bar to his left sneezed, startling the man down the bar to his right, who had been dozing into his mudslide. “What?” said the sleepy man. “Wha’s happ’nin?”

The sneezy man wiped his nose with an enormous handkerchief. “Something’s wrong with the music,” he said.

“What music?” asked another man from further down the bar, blinking wide, guileless eyes. “Was there music?”

“Of course there was music,” growled Leroy, glaring at the dopey man.

“Loud music,” agreed the sneezy man.

“Kept me awake,” muttered the sleepy man as his eyes drifted shut. Leroy snorted.

They all turned to look as the door to the back room opened and another man entered, wringing his hands anxiously and blushing bright pink, the sweat on his forehead glistening beneath the neon glare of the bar lights.

“Um,” he whispered, far too quietly to be heard over the faint buzz of conversation that now filled the bar. He tried again. “Um,” he said, slightly louder.

Leroy felt a flare of anger oh his behalf. This bashful man was just trying to get their attention and no one was taking any notice.

“HEY ALL OF YOU,” he shouted at the very top of his lungs, turning so that the men at the back of the room would be sure to hear him too. “THIS GUY HERE IS TRYING TO TELL US SOMETHING,” he continued, pairing his bellow with a nasty glare that killed every last conversation in the room. “WHY DON’T YOU JERKS SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO HIM?”

The bashful man was pinker than ever but he nodded gratefully at Leroy. “Um,” he said for a third time, and every ear in the place strained to hear him. “I—I’m so sorry, but the music seems, ah, to be, er, broken.”

“What’s wrong with it?” called the clerk.

“I don’t know,” the bashful man confessed. “I can get someone in to look at it tomorrow, but it’s too late to do anything tonight. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said the librarian. “I’d rather talk with this group of scoundrels than listen to another note of that shit.”

A chorus of “ayes” and “huzzahs” rose from the men around him, the clerk and the insurance man, and several others who had gathered around them to raise a pint in merriment together. Men whose day jobs left them drained and hopeless and who now preened in delight at being referred to as “scoundrels,” knowing it was as far from the truth as anything could be and yet feeling that somehow, deep in a place they hadn’t known they possessed, that secret place that brought them dreams of forests and campfires and glad camaraderie, scoundrels they might actually be.

“Doesn’t bother us—achoo!—either,” said the sneezy man, who had moved to sit next to the sleepy man and nudge him with a gentle elbow whenever he began to doze off. Leroy noted that the dopey man was now flanked by two companions, one white-whiskered with round, wire-rimmed glasses and the other wearing a broad grin that Leroy suspected ought to annoy him but instead made him feel like he’d found something long missing from his life. The happy man raised his glass to Leroy, and Leroy raised his in return.

“Doesn’t look like there’s a problem here,” he told the bashful man. “Why don’t you join us—” he’d meant to say join me, but the us he spoke instead felt far more right “—for a drink?”

The bashful man looked over at the group in the far corner, now laughing uproariously and toasting each other’s exploits, then back at Leroy. “Okay,” he said. “I’d like that, I think. Thanks.” He smiled shyly. “Thanks for everything.”

“No trouble at all, brother,” replied Leroy.

Neal followed as Henry raced up the winding staircase to the third floor and burst through the door to the apartment. Through it Neal could see Killian standing in the middle of an open-plan living space with his head bent towards that of a blonde woman, whispering in her ear. Their pose was unmistakably intimate, his hand curled around her waist and hers resting lightly on his chest, their heads touching. They turned when he entered the room and both smiled, strangely rigid smiles, Neal thought.

The woman’s face he could swear he recognised, though he couldn’t place it, and vague recognition definitely shouldn’t make him feel so angry at the sight of them together, or cause a stab of jealousy to pierce his gut when Killian’s fingers tightened on her waist and he pulled her almost imperceptibly closer.

So why did it?

Neal forced his emotions down and returned their smiles in kind and Henry, seemingly oblivious to the odd tension in the room, said, “Mr Cassidy, this is my mom, Emma.”

“Your mom!” Neal cried in astonishment, then wondered why he was astonished.

“Yep!” Henry’s bright grin faded slightly at the look on his face and Neal attempted to smooth his features as Emma stepped forward and offered him her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said.

“And yo—” Neal began, when he realised in a flash of memory where he’d seen that face before. “Wait—did you say Emma? Emma… Swan? The sheriff?”

“That’s right.”

He could place her now, sitting at the end of the table at the town council meetings, sighing and tapping her pen impatiently. Neal frowned again as he tried to remember what he knew about Emma Swan. It was… not much. He didn’t know much about anyone in Storybrooke, and for the first time that felt wrong. He stared at her as he strained to remember, watching as she toyed absent-mindedly with the chain around her neck, the ring on her wedding finger catching the light.

“You’re married?” he shouted, and that gut feeling flared again when he saw her glance back at Killian, silently seeking support from her husband.

“Yeah, we—” Emma began, but Neal interrupted her.

“No,” he said, forcing the fury and jealousy down again and making an attempt to smile. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Of course you’re married. Henry’s parents.”

“Yeah,” Emma smiled in relief and from the corner of his eye Neal could see the tension drain from Killian’s stance. “Hey, don’t worry about it. Come in and sit down, Neal. It’s okay if I call you Neal?”

“Sure.”

“Do you want a beer or something?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Neal was starting to think he needed a hell of a lot more than a beer, but it was better than nothing. His gut was roiling and his head felt stuffed with cotton balls, and there was a distant buzzing noise in the back of his mind, like white noise from a broken television. He tried to force himself to think, to remember more about Emma, about Killian, about all these things that seemed to be teasing at the edges of his mind, but the harder he tried the louder the buzzing grew. He gave his head a hard shake and then another, and ignored Emma’s surprised look when she returned from the kitchen in time to catch him doing it. She pasted on a smile and handed him a beer.

“So Henry tells us you’re reopening the pawn shop,” she said, sitting next to him on the sofa and taking a pull from her own beer. She smelled like flowers, clean and sweet, and gods, he could swear it was familiar. Her scent slammed into him like a Mack truck, carrying memories of something he could feel but not touch, as powerful as they were indistinct. Why couldn’t he remember?

He gulped his beer and tried to concentrate on her question. “Yeah. I guess,” he said. “Kinda sudden, I know. I just found out recently that the place used to belong to my father.”

“Oh?” Emma’s voice rose a bit too high on the question.

Neal frowned at her. “Uh huh. I don’t remember much about my papa—er, I mean my dad. So it was a pretty big surprise to find out about it. But Henry, he’s been a major help with everything. I probably couldn’t have done it without him.” He looked at Emma and warmth bloomed in his chest. “Thanks for letting him come by.”

“Of course,” she said with a smile. “But you know, with Henry it’s sometimes hard to stop him.”

“That’s what, um, Killian said.”

“What did I say?” asked Killian, perching on the arm of the sofa next to Emma as Henry came to sit on the floor.

“That sometimes when Henry decides he wants something there’s not much we can do to stop him,” Emma replied.

“Aye, unquestionably,” said Killian. “The lad is a force of nature when he sets his mind on a thing.”

There was so much pride in his voice as he said it, and so much pleasure in Henry’s answering grin, and so much love on Emma’s face as she looked between them and her fingertips absently traced patterns along Killian’s thigh as his played with the ends of her hair, and suddenly it was all just too much. They rose up and they choked him, all the feelings between these three people and the ones churning in himself, and it was too much and too strong and too confusing, and the buzzing in his head was so loud he could barely think straight.

Blindly he set his beer down, hoping he managed to get it onto the coffee table, and lurched to his feet.

“Is everything all right, mate?” Killian’s voice hovered just at the edge of his consciousness, and the mate made Neal want to punch him.

“I’m fine,” he growled. “I’m just—not feeling very well. Think I should go.”

“Oh.” Emma stood as well and approached him cautiously, taking him gently by the shoulders, her hands warm through the fabric of his t-shirt. She tried to catch his eye but he evaded her.

“I’m really fine,” he said, stepping back. “I just gotta go. Maybe we can do this another time.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” she said.

“Are you sure?” Henry asked. He was clearly trying to be calm but his eyes were so disappointed, and again Neal felt a surge of emotion that was far too strong for the circumstances. He shouldn’t care about disappointing some kid he only met a few weeks ago. But he did. He did.

“I just—I feel like—” he stammered, groping desperately for the words he needed to say, to explain. And then Henry stepped forward and hugged him.

Henry hugged him, and Neal’s arms came around the boy in return, automatically, naturally, like they’d done it before. He looked down at Henry’s eyes, big and brown and so damned familiar, so different from the clear green and blue eyes of his parents.

Was that even possible?

“I—” he tried again, but Henry interrupted.

“Please stay,” he said. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I—damn it.” Neal snarled. He wanted to go, wanted to run, fast and far away from all of this mess and tangle of emotions hot as fire and memories thin as smoke. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear for Henry to be disappointed in him.

“I’ll stay,” he said, and the world exploded.

Sleeping curses broke elegantly, the Dark Curse dramatically, but this odd chimaera of a hybrid curse, cobbled together from odds of this and ends of that, bound by Oz magic and twisted through the mirror world… this curse shattered. It burst into shards like the very mirrors that made it possible and Emma, Regina, and Zelena gasped in unison as they sensed its fracture. There was no burst of light, no gasp of awakening, just a sharp shock and then memories and then…

The world blurred, shifted, settled, and then snapped back into focus. The colours and shapes and sounds of Storybrooke were themselves again, the breeze through the town was warm and welcoming and the trees in the forest tall and straight, their eerie menace wholly gone.

Emma looked at Killian, eyes wide.

“What is it, love?” he asked, reaching for her and pulling her close. “What was that?”

“I think…” Emma lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think the curse just broke.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“I—I felt it. I felt it shatter and its magic is… well, it’s everywhere.”

Neal was staring at Henry, blinking rapidly, then a huge grin split his face. “Henry?” he said, pulling his son in for a bone-cracking hug. “Oh my God, Henry. I’ve missed you.”

“Um.” Henry was still reeling from what had felt like an earthquake. He looked past Neal to where Emma and Killian were standing with their arms around each other, whispering frantically, then his eyes lit up with triumph as the pieces fell into place. “Have you?” he said.

“Yeah, kid.” Neal loosened his hold and ruffled Henry’s hair. “I did. I—wait.” The smile faded from his face, replaced with a scowl as he turned to Emma and Killian. “What’s going on here?”

They exchanged a look. “What do you mean?” asked Emma. “You were cursed—”

“Yeah, I know that, but I mean you—you two—” He gestured at them, his scowl deepening as they unconsciously drew closer to each other. “You aren’t actually—it was the curse for you too, right? All this is just the curse.”

“No, mate,” said Killian gently. “We weren’t cursed. Emma was briefly, sort of, but Henry and I never were.”

“Then you’re really—” Something dark and angry flared in Neal’s eyes.

“Yeah,” said Emma. “We’re married.”

“You married him,” sputtered Neal, almost choking on the words. “The pirate? The one who fu—” he broke off with a glance at Henry “—who took my mother away. Him, of all people.” He stared at them, shaking his head, then gave a bitter, grating laugh. “So much for your word, huh Hook?” he said. “You remember, your word that you gave me, to back the hell off and give me a chance to be a family with my son and my—well, her.”

“A lot has happened since I made that promise,” said Killian, as calmly as he could when the nasty curl of Neal’s lip was making him wish he was wearing his hook. “A lot has changed Bae.”

Neal hissed an angry breath. “Don’t call me that.”

“Neal, then,” Killian amended. “As you like. We have much to discuss, lad, why don’t you—”

“I’m not a lad,” snapped Neal. “I’m as old as you are in this realm, maybe older. I’m not that boy you knew.”

“You’re right of course. I’m sorry.” Killian’s voice was genuinely contrite now, his expression sorrowful. “I do know that. Sometimes I just—forget.”

Emma’s arm was still around his waist and she squeezed him reassuringly. “Look, I know there’s a lot we need to talk about,” she said. “And I promise you, Neal, we will explain everything. But right now the curse has just broken and people are going to be confused. So can we table all this, please, until we’ve had a chance to figure out what we have to do?”

“Do for what?” asked Henry. “Isn’t the curse broken?”

“Yeah it is.” Emma shivered at the sharp, dangerous feel of the magic that had come untethered by the shattering curse. “But that’s not necessarily the end of our problems.”

“So what do we need to do?” asked Killian.

“I’m not sure yet. Let’s start by finding Regina. And my parents.”

@katie-dub @kmomof4 @teamhook @stahlop @mariakov81 @snowbellewells @thejollyroger-writer @jennjenn615 @tiganasummertree @lfh1226-linda @winterbaby89 @ultraluckycatnd @resident-of-storybrooke

#cs fic #cs ff #cs ff au #canon divergence #3b canon divergence #alternative 3b #captain swan #captain cobra #captain cobra swan #background outlaw queen #background snowing #curses #cursed storybrooke #broken curses #no tlk #more of a group-lk #bring back the love #their way by moonlight #profdanglaisstuff

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izzy-b-hands · 4 years

Text

You Send Me: Chapter Eight

Tag List: @xmxisxforxmaybe

Did I seriously include the song this fic is named for in the fic? Of course I did lol. Part of this fic is self-indulgence, another bit is wanting to write good fic y’all will enjoy, and the other part is getting more people to listen to Sam Cooke.

Also, much like Freddie, I’m a gay who can’t drive. I’ve had a few lessons on an automatic, was too terrified to learn stick at all, so if the driving in this chapter is questionable...yeah. There’s a reason I made description in that section brief lol. In my defense, Freddie is also involved in that portion, so this is the blind leading the blind here, but doing their best. Points if you notice the real life driving mistake I made when I had lessons that I included in this fic!

My love to all who read/like/reblog!

“Come dance!” Freddie, usually shy in public, was officially drunk enough to be less shy, and it was adorable.

Until now.

“I don’t dance,” you insisted. “I’m content to watch you lot go.”

“You said you like Sam Cooke,” he protested, pointing at the jukebox, which at this bar held almost exclusively ‘50s and ‘60s sock bop sounding pop music. “That’s what’s playing, and what we have queued up. Come on, let yourself have some fun!”

Blessedly, it switched to a slower favorite of yours, You Send Me, as Freddie pulled you out of your seat. This, you knew you could manage.

And with no one there aside from the bar staff, the band, and the crew, you could actually enjoy it, letting your arms wrap around Freddie to hold him close while you swayed. It maybe wasn’t ‘dancing’ exactly, but it was lovely, and his smile was well worth it.

“I bet you can sing this well,” Freddie mumbled. “I want you to sing it for me. Go on.”

“Freddie,” you blushed. “Maybe later.”

“Later,” he nodded. “Fine. In the next hotel room, you’re going to sing for me.”

You shook your head and laughed. “Sure. If we’re both awake by then.”

Even though you were refraining from drinking more than a sip of whatever Freddie was having, you figured you would still be exhausted from running about with them. They were fun, but energetic fun, more than you were used to from working the same venue each night.

The crew fell away from their professional personas as well, and you chuckled as you drifted with the group to the next bar, one arm holding Freddie close and mostly upright, the other tugging John in line, as he would turn to look at whatever caught his eye as you went down the road, and would occasionally forget to continue walking as he did.

Crystal and Roger were mostly holding each other up, and Brian was trying to tally exactly how much each of you had already had to drink, in what seemed to be an attempt to ensure no one got any drunker. Adorably, he kept getting distracted by the sky, desperately working to point out various stars and constellations to whoever was closest to him, disparaging the brightness of the city lights that made them hard to see.

You could only compare it to kittens, or puppies, let loose in a yard for the first time. Interested in everything, with unsteady legs, barely able to recall exactly what their original goal in moving was.

Somehow, the next bar still agreed to serve you all, though you again found yourself not wanting to drink much at all. It was more fun watching everyone else get sloshed, the playful barking at each other over the drinking competitions that started over already half-drunk pints of beer. Besides that, someone would need to have most of their mind present to get everyone back to the van.

The idea was to drive right away, and make the two or so hours to Kalamazoo so everyone could rest before the show. However, the more everyone partied, the more you wondered if that was an achievable goal.

Sure enough, getting them back to the van was chore enough.

“I’m not ready for the van,” John mumbled. “I hate that thing.”

“You helped pick it out,” you giggled.

He was draped over your shoulder, feet stumbling along, trying to hold hands with Freddie behind your back. “I know. It was cheapest, and safest, but it’s so ugly. You know, you know, it won’t even be the booze that makes me sick, it’ll be the interior of it.”

“It’ll be the booze for me,” Freddie said cheerfully, before patting you on the back and stumbling to the nearest trash can on the corner. It sounded painful, but he grinned even as he stumbled back. “No more for me. Too much, much too much already. That’s a funny word, much...”

John groaned as Freddie continued to rhapsodize about the word ‘much’, and you focused on keeping them both walking.

Granted, the trail you were following was an odd one, with Brian and Roger and the crew leaning on each other just ahead of you, laughing and walking in anything but a straight line. More importantly, you didn’t recognize anything around you.

“Lads?” you asked.

No response, everyone was in their own little world.

“Guys?”

Nothing, but Freddie let his face fall against your neck and mumbled something that sounded like “What?”

“Are we going the wrong way?”

Brian was the one to stop dead, so fast that Roger smacked straight into his back. “This isn’t where the van is.”

“No,” you said slowly. “I think it’s back the way we came. I think, at least.”

Had Brian been sober, you figured he would have led the charge back the other way. But drunk Brian was easier to panic, and panic he did, dropping to sit on the nearest curb.

“How’re we going to get back? I don’t know where we are, and if you don’t know where we are,” he threw up his arms in apparent frustration. “Then we’re done for.”

“I don’t know about that,” you said, and tried to swing John and Freddie with you to a payphone on the other side of the road. “How about I call the driver, hm? Maybe he can just drive and find us.”

“Y’mean me?” the crew member that usually drove popped out from behind Crystal, nearly tripping as he did.

“Oh for pity’s sake,” you muttered. “Did you all forget we have to drive to Kalamazoo before the morning?”

Mentioning the next city’s name was a mistake, because it utterly destroyed them.

“What a stupid fucking name,” Roger laughed, slipping to sit down by Brian. “Like kazoo. Or harmonica. I’m going to name a city Timpani.”

“You’re going to buy a city just for that?” Brian asked.

Roger shrugged. “What better reason to buy one?”

“Property taxes,” John said decisively, earning another round of laughter, but as far as you could tell he was deadly serious.

“Okay,” you said. “I technically have a license. I’ve never driven a van, or much at all, but I can do this.”

Only Freddie seemed to glom onto what you were going to do. “Are you going to leave us here, and go get it?”

“Don’t have a lot of other choice, love,” you replied, and helped him and John to the curb. “Just stay put, make sure no one is sick all over themselves, and soon enough we’ll have you on the van, alright?”

“I should come with you,” Freddie insisted, struggling to his feet. “I’ve only had...I didn’t count the drinks, but that’s fine. You can drive, I’ll just help you drive well.”

“Freddie, you don’t know how to drive at all!” Roger called.

“Well, technically I don’t either,” you admitted. “I mean, my granddad bribed the instructor to pass me...and I have been in a car, behind the wheel before...for an afternoon, at least...”

You looked down at the sensation of John’s hand on your leg.

“I believe in you,” he said, again so serious you would have thought this matter was life-or-death. “Bring us our ugly fucking van.”

“It isn’t that bad, John,” you sighed. “You’ve got to forgive yourself for that, my man. You really do.”

You left them then, Freddie stumbling along beside you, and pondered exactly how different a van might be compared to a car, and hoped to god it wasn’t a stick.

“Driving is overrated,” he mumbled as you took him by the arm, keeping him close so he wouldn’t get lost in the small crowds on the sidewalk. “But flying is expensive. How do people get around in this country?”

“You drive, or you find the money to fly, or you hope there’s a train or subway in your area,” you replied. “Or in my case, you walk when you can, and are incredibly thankful and kind to those who provide you with rides when you need them.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “That’s why your thighs are so big. I mean I like that, that they are. But it’s the walking. Lots of muscle. Good thighs, those. I wish we had a hotel room tonight, so I could appreciate them properly.”

You blushed, grateful that the people out and about didn’t seem to give a shit about the two of you wandering, and Freddie speaking less than quietly, though you didn’t think he was aware of that in his current state. “Maybe once you’ve sobered up, hm? If we make it to Kalamazoo on time, and all.”

He nodded, only to suddenly dash away from you as you approached the venue, lurching towards the van.

“Please be careful!” you called, patting yourself down for the van keys.

The keys that were not in any of your pockets.

Because they were with the driver, back many streets away.

“Freddie,” you said softly as you watched him struggle with the van door. “Have you ever picked a lock?”

----

“We owe Roger one,” Freddie sighed as you finally clambered into the van. “I’ve never been so glad he liked breaking into my hotel rooms.”

Roger’s method, at least part of it taught to Freddie, had been enough to crack the lock and let you in. As a bonus, it has also sobered Freddie up a decent amount.

He settled into the passenger seat and watched you sit behind the wheel. “So. You have driven before, at least once?”

You nodded. “It didn’t go great, but I have.”

He nodded slowly, matching your nods, as if that would somehow make the van go on its own, as the two of you stared at the steering wheel. “By didn’t go great...”

“I was supposed to do a three point turn on a really narrow dirt road, and sort of ended up more in the ditch than on the road. My granddad had to help me get it back on the road, yelling the whole time, it was horrid, honestly.”

“Can sort of see why you don’t drive more, knowing that,” Freddie said. “But you’ve got this.”

You sighed, and then realized that, without the keys, the van would not go anywhere. “Oh fucking hell.”

Freddie fumbled with the glove compartment, and tossed an extra set of keys to you. “Thank god we paid extra for those. Never thought we’d need them, but here we are.”

Getting out of the lot was easy enough; it was a big open area with no other vehicles in it at the time.

Detroit traffic, however, was a different beast.

“I literally would kill to be doing anything else,” you muttered.

“As long as it isn’t me you would kill,” Freddie chuckled. “But I get it, this is...not great. Let’s not say bad.”

But it was bad. You crept forward as much as you could manage, only to get not a single spot you were fast enough to drive into so you could join the traffic.

“Maybe you’re overthinking it,” Freddie said gently. “I don’t know that this is really right, but next time you see an opening, just gun it? I suppose?”

“Anything is better than sitting here,” you replied, and the next chance you got, you took.

Thankfully, it seemed Detroit drivers weren’t unused to sloppy driving. Sure, ninety percent of them were flipping you off, but you were in your lane, obeying the speed limit, and braking with enough room (maybe too much, at a few stops, but you preferred that to accidentally hitting anyone.)

Even so, you had to nearly ask Freddie to pry your white-knuckled hands off the steering wheel once you’d reached the rest of your group and parked in the lot of the bar nearest to them.

“Are you good to drive?” you asked the driver as he led the rest over.

“Sure,” he replied, while you watched everyone else make their way into the van.

“No, really,” you said. “Traffic is terrible here, if you aren’t sober enough, then we need to wait.”

He muttered something under his breath, too low for you to hear, but nodded. “Fine. We’ll be close on time, but we’ll see if we can sleep it off here for a bit.”

You headed for the van, only to dash away as John came running back out of it, making it a good few feet away before he lost his stomach over the pavement.

“I told you it would be the interior,” he said, as he tried to wave away your hands.

“Let me at least help you up,” you insisted, and it was a relief when he let you grab him and carefully pull him up. You managed a quick wave to Freddie, who watched as you helped John back onto the van.

He looked tired, and like the beginnings of a hangover were starting to claw at him, but he smiled as he looked on, and that made the whole situation better.

Though you were still incredibly glad you wouldn’t have to drive the van to Kalamazoo yourself. The streets of Detroit had been more than enough, thank you very much.

#text post #LeeH writes #Queen band fic #freddie mercury x reader #freddie mercury x male reader

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geekmama · 7 years

Text

The Kensington House

Pure fluff and kid!fic besides, this is the 26th part of my Time of the Season series, and written for the Where prompt in the BDT of prompts I’ve been working on - 98 down and 2 to go!

There was something amiss. Sherlock knew it as soon as he laid eyes on his wife, on returning to 221B earlier than his text that afternoon had originally estimated. Molly was very happy to see him, but there was something around her eyes, and in her smile, and in her embrace when she rose from the dinner table and came round to greet him. The baby must have been put to bed already, but the three older children were their usual selves, each of them vying for attention and yammering on when Sherlock was frowning with narrowed eyes, striving for wordless communication with their mother.

But then Jon popped up with, “Oh, and Lady Smallwood came to visit today, she walked in just when we’d started playing pirates!”

And Will laughed. “Yes, we were bashing about with our swords, even Daisy. And Lexie was helping Mum with the laundry, so the place was a complete tip! I think Lady Smallwood was pretty shocked, she didn’t stay for tea or anything--”

“But Daddy!” Daisy broke in, tugging with some violence on the sleeve of his Belstaff. “She asked us to dinner tomorrow -- all of us, not just you and Mummy. At her beautiful house! May we go, pleeeease?”

Sherlock pried Daisy’s little hand from his coat and gave it a squeeze, though he raised a brow at Molly’s expression. “Is that what it is?”

He saw that she was tempted to brush it off, but then she gave a rueful chuckle. “Well, yes, a bit. Not that I blame the children! If it hadn’t been pouring buckets all day, we could have gone out somewhere, a museum and the park perhaps. But with Lexie barely on the mend from that virus...”

“Yes, the weather was far too cold,” Sherlock agreed. “It’s ridiculous for the beginning of May, and particularly inconvenient on a day when these tiresome brats are out of school and must be kept occupied lest they tear the place apart.” The tiresome brats merely laughed at this, and hugged him, and he couldn’t help smirking. But he said to Molly, “Not the best way to spend your day off. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to stay and help. ”

“Greg needed you,” Molly shrugged. “And we managed -- though I believe Will was right about Alicia being shocked. Mrs. Hudson let her in and we didn’t hear her coming up the stairs, so there was no time to put things to rights. But we can discuss this later, if you like. I believe your greedy sons have left you at least a few scraps of dinner! Come sit down.”

But Daisy, dissatisfied at this put-off, said, “But Mummy, Daddy, can we go tomorrow? If we promise to be good?”

The thought of his children on the loose in Alicia Smallwood’s elegant Kensington mansion was enough to strike dismay into the heart of a stronger man than Sherlock Holmes, promises or no. But Molly reiterated in her “Mummy’s Serious” tone, “Your father and I will discuss it later!” and Daisy sighed, dramatically sulky as only a four year old -- his four year old -- could be, but ultimately accepting the delay without further complaint.

Alicia might be known as Lady Smallwood, Associate of the British Government, but she was also very much a woman and a mother, and was not at all impervious to the sight of three of the four Holmes urchins, all dressed to the nines and fairly dancing with anticipation of a high treat as they made their way into the gate and up the front walk, their wary but resigned parents in tow.

“No running! And remember: your best manners,” Molly was heard to say, probably for the tenth time.

Alicia chuckled as Mycroft came up beside her at the door and took her hand in his.

“Let’s hope you’re still amused two hours from now,” he murmured.

“Oh, hush,” she said, giving him a severe look. “You know you love them to pieces.”

Mycroft gave a sigh of resignation. “I do, but I prefer them in small doses, rather than en masse.”

Alicia chuckled at that. “They’ll be fine.” She turned back to greet Daisy as the little girl cast off restraint and flitted ahead, up the walkway.

“Look at my new dress, Aunt Alicia!” she exclaimed, as she bounced up the few marble steps to the wide porch. She stopped to smooth the skirt of the pink satin confection she was wearing. “Isn’t it lovely?”

“My dear, you look ravishing,” Alicia assured her, bending down to kiss her cheek.

Daisy sweetly returned the favor, and then said, brightly, “Hello, Uncle Mycroft! We’re here!”

“So I see,” said Mycroft, the laughter in his voice almost entirely free of disapprobation.

“Look, lads!” said Sherlock, too brightly, as the rest of the family approached in Daisy’s wake. “Uncle Mycroft is here, too! Now we’re guaranteed a fine selection of cake!”

Alicia narrowed her eyes at Mycroft’s brother but refrained from comment as Molly had the matter in hand with raised brows and a useful jab with her elbow.

Unfortunately, he only simpered at Molly before turning his teasing gaze on his brother again. “Things must be slow at the office with both of you able to be here,” he remarked.

“An accurate observation,” said Mycroft, “and a fact for which we must all be thankful. Boys! You look very smart -- and uncomfortable. I thought school was out several hours ago.”

“We had our music lessons just before we came,” Jon said, wrinkling his nose. “Madame insists we dress like gentlemen.”

“Ah, so I recall now, and very proper, too,” said Mycroft with approval, “though if your parents permit you might at least remove your ties -- God knows your father hasn’t worn one in years. Molly, my dear, you look as ravishing as your daughter.”

Molly, who wore a lacy white cardigan over a light blue sheath that prettily accentuated her still-slender figure, said warmly, “It’s good to see you, Mycroft.”

“And you,” said Mycroft, with real sincerely, smiling down at his sister-in-law.

“Alicia,” said Sherlock. “You’re looking well.”

Alicia raised a brow. “Thank you,” she said, then silently mouthed one word at him: Behave!

He made no verbal reply, just assumed a comically wounded expression and placed his hand over his heart.

Alicia rolled her eyes and and turned back to the little boys. “I see that you’ve brought along your violin, Jon, and we’ve just had the piano in the drawing room re-tuned. Will you two favor us with your latest pieces?”

“Yes!” said Jon with alacrity, and Will smiled, too, his eyes lighting at the prospect of sitting down behind Alicia’s beautiful baby grand. “But can we play in the back garden after?”

Alicia laughed, remembering the astoundingly grubby but eminently satisfied look of the three the last time they’d been allowed the run of the back garden. The lawn and shrubbery were quite extensive for a home situated in the middle of London -- which was, of course, one reason for tonight’s invitation. Alicia said, “If your parents permit, yes, but you should probably wait until after we’ve had dinner. Now come in, all of you, and let’s have some music!”

The children had been on their best behavior, both prior to dinner and throughout the rather formal meal, sufficiently awestruck by their surroundings to be quieter and more careful than usual, and actually put into use the manners they’d been taught. Now they had been released to play in the back garden while the light lasted, much to Molly’s relief. The house was not at all “childproof”, for Alicia’s three children were grown and had been gone a dozen years or more. None of the three had elected to settle in the noisy bustle and excitement of London and now rarely even visited the metropolis. Alicia’s eldest, the current Lord Smallwood, had settled at the country estate with his wife and son, shortly after the death of his father; her younger son had emigrated to Australia in his early twenties and was still gainfully employed in the music industry when he wasn’t indulging in some extreme sport or other, to which his mother was forced to turn a blind eye or go mad with worry; and the daughter of the family had married a Scots physician and was settled in a picturesque little town outside Edinburgh, busily raising a pair of ginger-haired twin girls and apparently more than content with rural life.

“It’s a shame your children don’t care for the city,” Molly commiserated, as Alicia stepped up beside her, near the window where she had been surreptitiously keeping an eye on her brood. “You must miss them.”

Alicia gave a little shrug, though she was smiling as she looked out at the children in the garden. “Oh, I don’t know. It gives one a good reason to indulge in frequent holidays. Mycroft and I were in Scotland just last weekend, for example -- Allison and Amabel are growing up so quickly! And I believe it won’t be long before they and their cousins -- my oldest boy’s children -- will be able to come visit us in London, whether their parents accompany them or not.”

Molly smiled. “That will be an event.”

“To be sure. They’re already anxious to meet their little Holmes cousins.” But then Alicia chuckled. “Heavens, I can just see -- and hear -- Mycroft.”

Molly gave a small snort of laughter. “We’ll have to get him a bottle of his favorite wine for the occasion. Or even brandy! But he’s been very welcoming to our little savages this evening. I was a bit surprised you dared to invite us, after that display at Baker Street yesterday. Not our finest moment.”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Alicia. “Entirely understandable under the circumstances! And there’s not a mean-spirited bone among the lot of them. Really, Molly, you’ve done an amazing job with them.”

“Well, thank you, but Sherlock has a great deal to do with it, too, you know. He’s a wonderful father.”

“Marriage and fatherhood seem to have been the making of him, certainly,” Alicia agreed. “Gave him something to think about other than his beautiful, brilliant self, which was exactly what he needed. Still, who would have guessed, nine years ago?”

“Well… I did,” Molly said with a smile.

“So you did.” Alicia turned to Molly and considered her thoughtfully for a few moments, and finally Molly raised an inquiring brow. Alicia said, as if in reply. “Speaking of yesterday… not that that has anything to do with it, really, it merely reminded me why… well… I assure you I’ve had it in mind for months...”

Amused at this uncharacteristic rambling, Molly asked,. “Alicia, are you quite alright? What did you have in mind?”

Alicia took a deep breath through her nose, steadying herself, then glanced around before meeting Molly’s eyes again. “Do you like this house?”

Molly laughed. “Well, of course. How could one not?”

“Yes. Well. I like it, too. But it wants… a family. It was made for a family, all those years ago, and of course it was a splendid home for mine when the children were growing up, but… they’ve been gone a long time, now. And my husband… well. In any case, I was wondering… would you and Sherlock like to have it?”

Molly stared, gave a choking exclamation of “What? Alicia, you--”

“Rent free, of course,” Alicia interrupted, as though Molly hadn’t spoken. “Though there is still the upkeep -- I use a service now, and they are most efficient, if a trifle costly, though with the children you might want to hire some staff -- not necessarily live-in, though there is certainly room, there are quarters for at least two or three persons off the kitchen. And there are the taxes. But I’m given to understand the two of you could well afford those things and still keep Baker Street as an office for Sherlock, and as a second… ah… bolthole? Guest house? In any case, I don’t suppose you’d care to give it up. You have done such a lovely job renovating it since you and Sherlock married and the children began to arrive.”

“Alicia! You cannot be serious!”

“I am, though.” A little smile tugged at Alicia’s lips. “I have finally acquiesced to Mycroft’s wishes and consented to move into his house. There is some refurbishment already being done there in preparation.”

“Oh!” Molly smiled. “That’s wonderful! Are you… that is--”

“I have not yet agreed to marry him. We are still in negotiations on that point.”

Molly laughed. “Oh, Alicia, you are… the completest thing. To keep The British Government on a lead for all these years…”

Alicia chuckled, and looked quite smug. But she said, “So. Will you discuss it with Sherlock? Since little Alexandra came along it is all too apparent to those who love you that 221B Baker Street will soon be filled to bursting. Here there are enough bedrooms for each of your children to have his or her own with plenty left over for guests, a playroom, an office. I won’t be taking much of the furniture, just a few favorite pieces, and you can keep what you like, and replace the rest at your leisure. Daisy, and even the boys might like to pick out new furnishings for their bedrooms, for example. They still share a room at 221B, I believe?”

“Yes,” said Molly, feeling quite dazed. “John’s old bedroom, though they’re getting so big… and we’ve been in a quandary about Lexie, now that she is getting older. She can’t stay in our room much longer.”

“And here she won’t have to!” Alicia said cheerily. “There is a lovely little bedroom that would be perfect for her, just across from the master suite.”

“The master suite!” Molly repeated, even more dazed. Not that she and Sherlock had not been blissfully happy in his bedroom… well, their bedroom, for almost a decade now. But still…

“Would you like to come upstairs and take a look around? And I believe Mycroft has been presenting the proposal to Sherlock while we’ve been talking, and I haven’t heard any explosions. I take it as a good sign, don’t you?”

“Oh, Heavens. I don’t know what to say, Alicia. Why… why?”

“I don’t want to sell -- the property just gets more and more valuable. But I don’t want it to sit vacant, either. And lease it to strangers? I… I just don’t think I could do it. Think of it this way: you and Sherlock will be doing me a great favor.” Alicia laughed again at Molly’s apparently obvious bewilderment. “Come! Pull yourself together. The children will be fine out in the garden for half an hour. Let’s go see what Sherlock thinks, and the two of you can take a look at the rooms upstairs -- go all over the house, in fact, so you can make an informed decision.”

It was after midnight and he and Molly were in bed, but not sleeping. Far from it. They were both lying on their backs, staring at the deeply shadowed ceiling. Holding hands. Still both astounded at the way their world was being overturned.

Sherlock thought one minute that he couldn’t do it, then the next he remembered that he would not be leaving 221B, precisely -- he would still spend a great deal of time there. And Baker Street was just as close to the boys’ school as the Kensington house. He could imagine his sons racing over when class let out, if he were not out on some case; doing their homework or playing until he should be ready to journey home.

Home.

They could still practice their music here, after school -- Mrs. Hudson would grieve for it, else.

Ah, Hudders. What would she say to all this? She was getting on in years, of course. Didn’t make the journey up the stairs with tea and scones nearly as often lately. Visited her sister in Devon more, though that lady’s health was failing rapidly, from what he gathered. That would be a blow and no mistake. And it might not be long before she herself… well. Time was a cruel master to all, even their timeless landlady (Not your housekeeper! -- he grinned briefly in the black night).

There’d be room at the Kensington house for her, too, if it came to that.

Ten bedrooms. Lord. Not quite as bad as Musgrave, but along those lines.

They would have to acquire a housekeeper.

And a second violin for Jon to keep at 221B. The spinet could stay, since Mycroft had a fine instrument of his own and Alicia had told them she was content to leave her baby grand with the House. William would like that -- and Molly. And the girls, eventually. Daisy was nearly old enough to begin lessons already.

But… it still hurt to think of leaving. After all the work they’d put into 221B (and C) to create a suitable environment for their growing family. Of course, they had not realized just how much their family would grow when they’d begun the renovations.

Four children. Who would have thought it, a decade back? And yet here they were with a houseful -- and nothing yet done to prohibit a potential fifth. They’d have to think seriously about that, or risk another surprise. Alexandra had been a delightful one, to be sure, but five children? It seemed excessive, to put it mildly.

Though his parents wouldn’t mind. They reveled in their role, Mummy dismissing the bother with a wave of her hand, and merely hiring some neighbors’ daughters, lively teenaged girls, to help out when Will, Jon, and Daisy were to stay more than a night or two. And Lexie, soon enough.

And he gave a slight snort of laughter at the thought of denying his own happiness.

“What?” Molly whispered, turning her head on the pillow to peer at him, squeezing his hand.

He squeezed back. “I am… counting my blessings, I suppose.”

She let go of his hand and turned onto her side to face him, fingers rather shyly smoothing the soft material of the ancient T-shirt he wore. She said, “Do you think the Kensington house would enhance them?”

“I think it might. I think we’d be fools not to accept. Our children are not going to stop growing.”

She chuckled. “No! Though sometimes I wish…”

“What? That time would stop?” He moved to face her and put his hand on her waist.

“Yes,” she said, and, closing the final gap, kissed him.

He smiled beneath the kiss, bittersweet.

He’d always known there were two sides of the coin called love, which was why he’d shied away from it for so many years, and even this issue, the inexorable march of time, was an ever-present weight. Pain was always part of the joy -- and perhaps made the joy all the sweeter.

Doors closing.

And others opening, down the way.

“I’m a lucky man,” he whispered, when he could.

“You are,” she whispered back. “And a brave one, too.”

But he laughed softly at that, knowing that it was only she who allowed him to be so. Physical courage had never been an issue, and he had never lacked confidence in his intellectual abilities. But love… the one thing that truly mattered… that had required assistance.

The loyalty and perception and faith of one Molly Hooper had been necessary to complete him.

He reached up and brushed the auburn hair back behind the perfect pale pink shell of her ear, seeing the colors in his mind’s eye, even in the shadows.

How long had it been since they’d made love in the clear light of morning, or through a long, golden afternoon?

And yet, the darkness enhanced one’s other senses.

Touch.

Smell.

Taste.

“I love you,” he replied, still whispering.

“I know,” she whispered back.

And, sensing his need, she gave herself to him once again, in that well-practiced way she had… skill… infinite tenderness… an old comfort…

Yet somehow, she could still surprise him… somehow it was always, always new.

Mycroft was stuck in his office, but Alicia was able to escape for a few hours on the evening of the Big Move, accepting the invitation to join his brother’s family, John and Rosie Watson, and Greg Lestrade for a celebratory dinner of Thai take-away, and to see the changes that had been wrought at the Kensington house.

Alicia had moved out nearly two months before to facilitate matters, and was happier living with Mycroft than she had imagined possible -- and he seemed content, too. He had twice reiterated his proposal that they should marry, and she had almost accepted the last time. Perhaps it would not needlessly complicate their lives. Perhaps she was making too much of a fuss over it. She knew many women who were on their third or even fourth marriage -- and most of them were divorcees, a situation far more difficult than her own. Being a widow, with her children grown and getting on with their lives, really did simplify matters.

She was still mulling over this subject as she arrived at her former residence, and did not move on until she’d exited the car and had entered the front gate. Walking up to the door, however, she noticed how neat the small front garden looked, with three new rose bushes, a new bed of pansies beside the porch, and the bits of lawn very well-tended. The front door had been repainted, too, a shiny black, and it now sported a knocker very similar to the one on the door of 221B Baker Street.

She used the knocker in the manner for which it was intended, and it wasn’t more than twenty seconds before the door was thrown open by Jon, with Daisy just behind.

“Aunt Alicia!” said Jon -- or half-shouted, really. “Wait till you see my bed! It’s even better than it looked in the shop!”

“She has to see my room first!” cried Daisy in the tone of a four year old who’d gone without her nap and reached the limit of her patience with her older brother. She gripped Jon’s jumper with both hands and tried to pull him out of her way with some violence.

But Sherlock had apparently heard Alicia’s knock, too and was coming up just behind the children. Seeing what was toward, he snapped, “Enough!” in so sharp a tone that Alicia gave a little start herself, and the children turned to him wide-eyed.

Jon was carefully silent. Daisy, however, began to whinge, “But Daddy! Jon--”

“But Daisy,” Sherlock interrupted, bending down to look her in the eye. “You’ve been skating on thin ice for the last hour and if you utter one more word you’ll find yourself staring at the most boring corner I can find in this house. Alone. Until I say you can move, not your mother or Uncle John. Do you understand?”

Alicia tensed, fearful that the little girl would be rash enough to put her father to the test. But, thankfully, she did not. Daisy merely lowered her gaze, lip quivering.

Sherlock straightened to face Alicia, “Welcome to the madhouse.”

Alicia replied, sympathetically, “Long day?”

“My God, you’ve no idea. Come into the dining room,” he said, leading the way. “The kitchen’s set up, and the bedrooms -- and they do look like something out of Parenting Magazine. But the tour can wait. We were just setting out dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” came a tiny, discontented voice from behind them.

“Shut it!” came Jon’s hiss, just as Alicia glanced over her shoulder. Jon was giving Daisy’s arm a surreptitious squeeze in warning, even as he favored Alicia with an innocent smile.

Sherlock wisely feigned deafness and led the way into the dining room.

Less than an hour later, John and Rosie had departed, Sherlock was discussing a case with Greg over some brandy, and Molly led the way up the staircase, carrying little Alexandra, Will and Jon racing ahead, and Alicia Smallwood bringing up the rear, hand in hand with a now smiling Daisy.

Daisy’s smiles were in strong contrast to the pout she’d maintained throughout dinner, much to her father’s annoyance. Molly, tired as she was, had been rather amused, however, and had quietly reminded Sherlock that his daughter came by her pout honestly, and the avowed lack of hunger, too. John and Greg would have picked up on this, both friends hinting at numerous recollections of a certain consulting detective who’d been renowned for his petulance in the past, but they’d cut the teasing short, not because of Sherlock’s glare, but in consideration of the fact that Will, Jon, and Rosie had been all ears.

But it wasn’t hard to understand why Daisy and her brothers were anxious to show off their new bedrooms. Lady Smallwood had accompanied them when they’d all gone furniture shopping a few weeks ago, and now at last she would see the results.

Alicia had convinced Daisy that they should “save the best for last”, so Will’s room was shown first. He’d opted to keep the simple and elegant cherry furniture already in the room, only enhancing the collection with a new roll top desk to match. There were several movie posters on the walls, Star Wars, Avengers, and the like, and the framed print of the periodic table that had hung in Sherlock’s room for so many years held pride of place above his new desk. All the bedrooms had walk-in wardrobes and Will’s now held stacks of board games and neatly organized bins of Legos, action figures, and other small toys. Molly said to Alicia, “Admire it now -- it’s not likely to look this tidy for long!”, but Will, who was now ten and feeling very grown up as the eldest, said, “It will if I can keep the brats from destroying it!”

Jon retorted, “Who needs your old stuff? Come on and see mine, Aunt Alicia!”

Jon, too, had chosen a desk for homework and art projects, but had also fallen in love with a sturdy bed frame designed to look like a race car. Much to his delighted surprise, his mother had approved the purchase, though his father had been less pleased with the idea when he’d been informed. However, when the bed had arrived and Sherlock had seen its beauty and quality, he had become much more enthusiastic. He and Jon had run with the theme, and the walls were now adorned with a number of pictures and posters of race cars, and Sherlock had installed shelves for Jon’s collection of model cars. His beloved trains were relegated to the wardrobe, but Alicia noted that his old Thomas the Tank cuddle pillow was waiting for him on the new bed.

Daisy’s room was last, and certainly by far the best, at least in Daisy’s opinion. The entire room had been redone in pink: pink furniture with lovely hand-painted flowers; fuzzy pink throw rugs; gauzy pink drapes on the window and canopied four-poster bed; and tiny pink rosebuds were patterned over the newly installed wallpaper. It might have been overwhelming, but Molly had insisted on using paler shades of pink along with a judicious use of white, and the result was really quite soothing.

“Goodness!” exclaimed Alicia, taking it in. “It looks rather as though it dropped from Heaven!”

Molly chuckled. “Now all it needs is an angel to take care of it!”

“That’s me!” Daisy piped up.

“Hmmm,” said Molly doubtfully. “I don’t know… there was that little display at the dinner table. An angel would not have behaved so -- or at least she would have apologized to her father for giving into her weariness, even after a long day of moving house.”

Daisy looked between Molly and Lady Smallwood uncertainly as she worked this out, but then, coming to a decision, exclaimed, “I’ll be right back!” She ran from the room and could presently be heard yelling, “Daddy! Daddy!” as she pounded down the stairs.

At four in the morning, Sherlock was lying abed, caught up in a comfortable and eminently satisfied tangle with the wife of his bosom, the two of them having inaugurated the Kensington house in the best way imaginable, after recruiting their strength with a few hours’ sleep.

“Now it’s on its way to being home,” Sherlock murmured into Molly’s ear.

And she laughed, and turned her face to his, and kissed him. “I love you,” she said.

“I know,” he returned with a smile.

There were a great many more kisses, and some happy sighs, and cuddling: plenty of the most delightful clichés. But presently Molly extricated herself with a whispered, “Have to use the loo!” and Sherlock lay back contentedly against the pillows, stared at the shadowed ceiling, and thought once again what a lucky man he was.

He must have started drowsing again, for suddenly Molly was there, whispering his name again. “Hmm?” he said, opening his eyes. The light was dim, but he could see she’d put on her dressing gown.

“Get up for a minute!” she said softly. “You have to see the children!”

He frowned, but did as she asked, throwing on his own dressing gown and padding after her over the thick carpet, following her out the door.

“Are they alright?” he asked. “Lexie’s still asleep, isn’t she?”

“Yes. It’s the others. Come see.”

She didn’t pause at Daisy’s half open door, nor at Jon’s, but went straight over to Will’s room and motioned for him to peek in -- and there they were, all three of them curled up together in Will’s big bed, Daisy in the middle, and all of them sound asleep.

Sherlock turned to Molly and made a silent pantomime of outrage. “Tell me again why we needed to move here? We might just as well be back at Baker Street!”

But Molly shook her head, grinning. “They’ll get used to it. But now it’s really home for them, too. Don’t you see?”

There was nothing for it. He had to take her in his arms and kiss her again. “I love you, Mrs. Holmes,” he said finally.

“I love you, too,” she returned, a trifle breathless.

The proper exchange.

He took her hand up, said, “Come, then,” and, in the lovely silence before dawn, he led her back to bed.

~.~

#Sherlock #sherlolly

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