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Part 1 of we are working to completion
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International Fanworks Day 2022 - Classic Fic Recs, the very best ever, holy shit fanfics
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2018-04-12
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2018-11-14
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we built our own house

Summary:

There is a universe, somewhere, where they fail. This is not that universe.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: The Effective Escape

Chapter Text

There is a universe, somewhere, where they fail.

There is a universe, perhaps very near to this one, where Jacques Snicket doesn’t step out of the way of a falling rulebook, where his throat is cut on the floor of a dusty barroom that had once been a firehouse. A universe where Olivia Caliban is eaten by lions, where the Baudelaires make the treacherous journey up to the VFD headquarters alone and once again find only ash and ruin instead of answers. A universe where their sorrow is a never-ending circle, around and around.

But this?

This is not that universe.


 

So, Olivia Caliban thinks in the brief seconds she has left to think anything at all, this is how it ends. In the belly of the beast.

Below her, the lions, poor starved creatures, are roaring and snarling for food, any food - it’s hard to dislike them even as they’re about to devour her. She’d do the same in their position, probably.

At least the Baudelaires have escaped the same fate. If she’d accomplished nothing else, she’d been able to do that much for them. I’m sorry, Jacques, she thinks, I did the best I could.

She can’t help it - she screams when Olaf cuts the rope holding the platform over the pit, screams when gravity does its job and pulls her down.

In that moment, three things happen at once: Olaf lets out a high, cackling laugh, the crowd cheers, and something solid and sturdy collides with her, tackling her into the dirt safely on the other side of the pit.

It takes her a dazed moment to recover her wits, to swallow her aborted scream, to open her eyes and see what it was that had knocked her aside. She finds herself staring directly in the face of -

“Jacques Snicket?” she says, high, breathless. He’s overtop of her, tangled in her ridiculous skirts, hands braced on either side of her head, chest heaving with exertion. It’s a stunningly good look for him, especially considering it means he isn’t dead.

Stars, he isn’t dead - he’s not… he’s here, he saved her - he’s not dead . And neither, for that matter, is she .

“Olivia Caliban,” he says in greeting, flashing that soft smile of his. It hits her like a kick to the chest and drives out what little breath has returned to her lungs in much the same way.

There are hundreds of things she wants to say, ranging from the obvious - you’re alive, you’re here, you saved me - to logistical - how are you alive, how are you here, what will we do now - to euphoric - you’re wonderful, how could I have doubted you, you’re the bravest, noblest man I’ve ever met - to something deep and strong and private - I love, I love, I love - but she knows there isn’t time for any of it. Something in her digs deep, shoves it all aside to simply smile back, despite how nearly impossible it is to resist the urge to take his face in her hands and kiss him until all their problems go away.

“You’re late,” is all she trusts herself to say, and springs to her feet the second he rolls off of her.

Around them, the crowd is jeering. The circus and acting troupes alike are circling, edging closer, seeming to consider whether or not to pounce, to attempt to shove them both into the pit at their backs. It is only a withering look from Jacques that keeps them back, a look that turns his features to stone and makes him look very much like the storybook hero that had leapt into her mind the first time she ever laid eyes on him.

It makes him look like he could take them all and come away without a scratch, and perhaps they sense this, because none of them dare move within his reach. She spares a private moment to wonder about all the things she doesn’t know about this man, to wonder just how formidable he really is.

Olaf, for his part, seems momentarily too stunned even to speak. Olivia thinks that particular turn of events is long overdue.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t last. “Impossible,” he hisses once he’s recovered himself, “I killed you! This is a trick!”

“There’s no trick, Count,” says Jacques, “I’m really here, your plot has failed, and you’ll soon be spending a very long time in jail. With a legitimate jailer,” he continues with a scornful look at Esme. The disgraced financial advisor sneers at him in reply, baring perfect teeth. Olivia has never been a violent person, but the idea of knocking those gleaming pearly whites down her throat is, very briefly, an enticing one.

Olaf has many (many , many ) personal failings, among them a severe lack of personal hygiene and a sadistic streak a mile wide, but one thing he isn’t is slow . “We’ll see, Snicket,” he all but spits, and raises that horrible knife again.

Jacques wants to be noble, to finish the war with Olaf here and now; Olivia knows that like she knows her own heartbeat, like she knows how he takes his tea, like she knows that whether she dies in ten seconds or fifty years, she will never love anyone as much as she loves him.

She also knows, with the same utter certainty, that they are seriously outnumbered, and that there are three terrified orphans just outside this tent who cannot be left alone even a single second longer, and that if they fight this battle here and now, they won’t win.

So she does the only thing she can think to do. She grabs his hand and tugs once, just gently, just enough to get him to look at her. He does, and when their eyes meet that’s all it takes to convey her thoughts on the situation.

Something about him seems to sag, just a little, perhaps with the knowledge that he’ll bear this burden longer yet, that all the years of pain and grief won’t end here, as he’d no doubt hoped. She reads the look in his eyes as easily as she reads tea leaves. I can’t go on. I’ll go on.

We’ll go on. She squeezes his hand, warm and strong in hers, and wills him to understand, just once more.

He reads her loud and clear - of course he does - and in the next second flashes her another one of his trademark soft smiles that makes her feel like the butterflies in her stomach have taken up the watusi. And then he turns on his heel, still holding her hand, and races for the exit.

There’s a cry of outrage from behind them - Olaf or Esme, she can’t be sure - followed by a strange whirring sound. Jacques yanks her out of the way just in time for Olaf’s knife to come flying past her face. Time seems to slow, for just the briefest instant, and bizarrely she catches a glimpse of her own wide-eyed reflection in the serrated metal - it’s so close and so sharp it takes a lock of her hair with it when it buries itself in the bleachers at her right, much to the consternation of the still-jeering crowd.

“Too close!” she gasps, unable to say anything else as Jacques all but drags her through the tent flaps and into the blistering desert air. It’s a fight not to stumble over her skirts - honestly, the lack of maneuverability in this getup is astounding given that it was designed by a group of secret agents. She finds she much prefers the leather trousers she’d worn to scale the apartment building while they’d been searching for the Quagmires, and not just for the way they had made Jacques fight not to stare at her, either.

“Baudelaires!” she calls, wrestling her mind back to the present and off the very handsome and very-much-not-dead man still keeping a vice grip on her hand, “ Baudelaires!

“Olivia!” She spots Klaus first, or rather his head, poking out from the entrance of her private tent - oh good, they’d had the presence of mind to run for the provisions she’d packed before they ran for the getaway carts. Clever children. She really quite adores them.

Violet and Sunny’s heads emerge next to their brother’s, and all three children don identical looks of shock when they set eyes on Jacques.

“How-?” Violet tries, but Jacques waves her off, winking despite his urgency as he breezes past her.

“I’ll explain everything later. We have to hurry.” He lets go of Olivia’s hand so he can better lift the box of food she’d prepared, and she misses his warmth instantly. Klaus has already got the box of books, save for the earmarked copy of The Incomplete History of Secret Organizations , which Olivia quickly takes up herself. Violet hoists Sunny higher on her hip, and as one they all look to Jacques, who nods at them.

“Let’s go.”

When they step back out onto the grounds, the carnival is already burning.

Smoke fills the air as tent after tent catches fire, and people are trampling over one another in their haste to get clear of the danger. Olivia reaches with her free hand to latch on to Violet, who latches onto Klaus, whose hands are full, so Jacques grabs his shoulder. Together, they form an unbreakable line against the tide of people, who, after calling for entertainment in the form of bloodshed mere minutes before, are now scrambling for their own lives. There’s an irony there, but she’s too distracted to put it into words.

“Oh no,” Violet groans in a voice that is entirely too full of despair for someone her age, nodding towards the roller coaster at the far end of the park. The carts she had spent all night fixing for the journey up the mountain are now consumed in flame. “Our ride out!”

“Never fear,” says Jacques, already moving to the opposite end of the grounds, “We’ll take the taxi.”

Sure enough, his trusty yellow cab is just there, parked behind a rather disturbing sign depicting a clown that weeps even as it smiles.

“How did-?” Olivia tries, only to cut herself off halfway through as the answer comes to her. The previous Madame Lulu had taken his taxi to go after the sugar bowl - clearly Jacques had intercepted her. Lucky thing too, otherwise they’d all be quite stranded.

The children pile into the back as Jacques stuffs the supplies in the trunk to the best of his ability around the books, and then all but dives behind the wheel. It’s not a moment too soon - she can see Olaf’s own disgusting vehicle through her spyglass, peeling away from the burning carnival grounds and aimed dead for the Mortmain Mountains.

“He’s got a head start,” warns Olivia as she slides into the passenger seat, already knowing where he’s planning to go.

“I know a shortcut,” Jacques replies as he throws the car into gear and takes off. She hopes this shortcut shaves off enough time to allow for his careful driving habits, but then it’s unlikely he’d have mentioned it if it wouldn’t.

“Jacques, how did you survive? We saw your body!” says Klaus, still wide-eyed from the events of the day. Olivia turns to look at the man seated next to her, her own eyebrow raised in question. Relief is still pounding through her veins, strong enough to make her eyes water. And to think, just an hour ago she’d believed she’d never see him again.

“We Snickets have always been good at faking our own deaths,” says Jacques casually, “My brother in particular was exceptional at it. But I had no idea Olaf planned to frame you children for my murder, otherwise I would have found an alternative. I was hoping the news would reach my colleagues in time to stage a deus ex machina and get you out of there.”

“They did,” says Violet, “It just didn’t work.”

“So I heard. I’m sorry Baudelaires, it seems we’ve failed you at every turn.” He’s quiet for a moment, then glances at them through the rearview mirror. “I understand you were able to rescue the Quagmires.”

“Reebo!” says Sunny.

“What my sister means to say is that we did. Olaf was hiding them in the Fowl Fountain, but we broke them out and Hector took them up in his hot-air mobile home. Olaf can’t reach them now,” says Klaus.

Olivia and Jacques trade glances. Hector had been a disappointment on multiple levels, not the least of which had been because he had fainted instead of defending an infant against a murder charge, but at least he’d been able to do something .

Considering the circumstances, she tries not to blame him too much, but it’s difficult. No wonder he hasn’t been an active volunteer for over a decade.

“You were very clever. Your parents would be proud,” says Jacques. The silence that falls over the car in response is so heavy it nearly chokes her.

“Jacques,” Violet says after a long moment, so quietly her voice almost doesn’t carry to the front seat. When she doesn’t say anything else, Jacques turns to glance at her over his shoulder.

“Yes, Violet?”

She doesn’t respond for so long Olivia almost thinks she isn’t going to, but it hardly matters because she already knows what the girl wants to ask. Olivia is curious about the answer herself.

Finally, Violet swallows, grabs Klaus’ hand, pulls Sunny closer, and asks, “Did one of our parents survive the fire?”

Jacques doesn’t startle, exactly, but his brow furrows abruptly, seemingly in confusion. “Why would you think… Ah. ” His expression clears only to fall again half a second later.

“You were at Heimlich Hospital. I take it you saw the file my siblings and I had been working on in the Library of Records.” It’s not a question.

“You said there was evidence someone else had survived the fire,” says Klaus.

Jacques sighs once, heavily. When he looks to her, she knows . There’s been a misunderstanding, a costly one, and her heart breaks for the children all over again.

“I’m so sorry, Baudelaires,” he says. One of them, she’s not sure whom, gives a sharp, pained gasp like an aborted sob, hopes dashed before he even finishes speaking. She wishes she could stop the car and hold them.

Hope, Olivia knows, is like fire, beautiful and bright and often necessary for life - and when deferred it can burn twice as fiercely.

Poor dears, she thinks, preemptively rummaging in the glove compartment for tissues.

“There have been so many fires recently that it can be difficult to keep track of them all, and of who survived and who didn’t,” Jacques continues, staring dead ahead with an intensity that makes her wonder if he’s really seeing the road, “but the fire I spoke about in that file wasn’t the fire that destroyed your home.”

There is another moment of silence, more thick and oppressive than the desert air outside.

“Gah,” Sunny says softly, and it’s a long while before one of her siblings can translate.

“She wants to know who it was,” says Klaus finally, “the survivor you were talking about.”

Olivia finally locates the tissues and hands them back, but none of the children are crying. This, more than anything, breaks her heart - how much loss have they endured, how many times have their hopes been dashed for them to accept this news with stoic resignation rather than grief?

I should have thrown that crystal ball at Olaf’s head, thinks Olivia, and perhaps Jacques senses something of her thoughts, because he leans over and takes one of her hands in his. She grips him back as tightly as she can.

“The fire I was discussing was the fire that orphaned the Quagmires,” says Jacques, “and the survivor was their brother, Quigley.”


 

The children are quiet after that, a heavy, solid sort of quiet that comes with physical and mental exhaustion. Olivia privately wonders how long it’s been since any of them have gotten a full night’s sleep, and her suspicions that it’s been entirely too long are confirmed when they all drop off one by one as Jacques makes his steady way up the mountain.

He’s still holding her hand, stroking a thumb across the back of it absently, and staring out the windshield. Every so often he’ll glance in the rearview mirror at the children, as though checking to make sure they’re still there, before shaking his head and fixing his attention back on the road. Aside from one brief, heavily-encoded phone call to Jacquelyn at the start of their trip, he has barely spoken a word.

“Where is Quigley now?” she asks about two hours into the drive. She’s careful to keep her voice low so as not to disturb the children.

Jacques sighs, shakes his head. “We don’t know. It looks like he escaped the fire using one of the tunnels that connected his parent’s mansion to Dr. Montgomery’s, but by the time we tracked him there he was already gone. My sister is looking for him now, but so far she doesn’t have any leads.”

“Maybe he’ll go back to Dr. Montgomery’s?” Olivia says, “Could someone set a watch?”

“There’s nothing to watch,” he replies, “his home burned too.”

Of course it did, Olivia thinks, but doesn’t dare say. Things are bleak enough without her being unnecessarily negative.

“You should rest,” he says, looking over at her with such an openly affectionate expression she feels heat rise to her face in response, “we’ve got a ways to go yet.”

That… doesn’t sound like a bad idea, actually. It’s been almost a full week since she’s had anything more than a few hours of sleep a night, and none at all in the last two days. Nodding, she closes The Incomplete History of Secret Organizations , which has been lying open and unread on her lap since they reached the foot of the mountains, and pulls her feet up. Or she attempts to, anyway, as doing so involves yet another exasperating fight with her skirts - she resolves to burn the thing the first chance she gets.

Well, she amends, considering, maybe not burn it. Throw it off a cliff, maybe.

Jacques’ mouth quirks in amusement at the length of time it takes to get herself situated. She narrows her eyes at him in response and scoots closer to lay her head on his shoulder, curling into his side. He goes stiff for only the briefest second, more from surprise than discomfort. Despite his dashing good looks and the iron strength of his character, she gets the distinct sense that it’s been a very long time since anyone has laid a hand on him in gentleness. The knowledge makes her tuck herself as close as she possibly can to him out of pure spite, as though she can make up for this neglect through sheer force of will alone.

He’s as sturdy and safe as he ever was, and smells like tea and dust and leather. When he shifts a few moments later, it’s only so he can throw his arm around her and rest his own head against hers. It’s practically impossible not to fall asleep in such a warm, secure position.

“Wake me when you get tired,” she says, allowing her eyes to flutter shut, “and I’ll drive for a while.”

“Of course,” he says, which means he almost definitely plans to let her sleep until they reach the gates of the VFD headquarters.

“And don’t think I don’t want to talk to you about what happened in the Village,” she continues, feeling a wave of exhaustion tug at her senses, attempting to draw her down into oblivion, “I still want to know exactly how you survived, and exactly how you plan on avoiding that scenario in the future so I don’t spend weeks thinking you’re dead.”

“Of course,” he says again, much softer, and she might be imagining the sudden, brief pressure against her crown - the telltale brush of a kiss.

She smiles as she lets the dark overtake her, secure in the knowledge that this time, he’ll be there when she wakes.


 

Jacques tells her the VFD headquarters would once have been bustling no matter what time of day or night it was, stuffed to the brim with volunteers from all across the world dedicated to assembling whatever knowledge they could get their hands on and putting out fires, both figurative and literal.

Now, it stands mostly empty, maintained only by a few caretakers stationed here for general upkeep and information relay. Both the schism and the arson outbreaks have worked to cull their numbers significantly, and they haven’t been able to obtain new volunteers quickly enough to make up the gap.

It is for this reason that once Jacques pulls into the garage of the headquarters and guides them past no fewer than ten levels of security involving biolocks and passcodes relating to obscure literary references, there is no one to greet them, and the halls are nearly as dark and cold as the mountain outside.

“We’ll stay here until we get word it’s safe,” Jacques explains, but he doesn’t say who will be sending word, or where they’ll go once they get it. Olivia sighs and adds the questions to her ever-growing mental list of things to ask him once the children are safely abed.

It’s been full dark for a while now; the clock on the taxi’s dash reads just after two in the morning. Despite sleeping for the better part of the day, the children are still moving like zombies in the snow.

She doesn’t blame them, the poor things - their last few months have consisted of nothing but a constant flight from enemies and the emotional rollercoaster of being traded back and forth between abusive, neglectful guardians and genuinely kind ones who either died or were too frightened to fight for them.

It’s different this time , Olivia thinks resolutely as she takes in their faces, still smudged with dirt from their circus troupe disguises, it’s going to be different this time.

As usual, Jacques has prepared everything well in advance - one of the volunteers stationed here has gotten a suite ready for them, so they make their way down the darkened, eerie hallways to seek further respite. The children walk in an dazed shuffle-huddle, blinking at the grand, though dim and somewhat dusty, state of their surroundings. Olivia is doing the same, at least a little, but she’s also hyperfocused on the Baudelaires, which is why she’s the first to react when Violet stumbles. Olivia catches her just in time to keep her from crashing to the ground and likely landing on the still-sleeping Sunny in the process. The infant gives a brief, startled cry, sharply awakened by the sudden movement, and clings tighter to her sister.

“Careful,” she says, brushing the older girl’s hair out of her sleep-heavy eyes. The emotional toll of finding out their parents really weren’t ever coming back must have been greater than even she’d anticipated, and there’s something to be said for the kind of release that comes with being able to grieve around people you know won’t exploit it. It’s usually as cathartic as it is wearying, and these children have months of pain left to work through.

“Do you want me to carry Sunny for you?” she offers, overcome with a sudden desperation to do something, anything, to help relieve even a little bit of the burden these children have carried for far too long.

She’s not prepared for the way Violet just… freezes, eyes wide, and looks to her brother as though for help. Klaus goes oddly still at the same moment, and some kind of war plays out between them. Violet’s hand tightens ever so slightly in the back of Sunny’s sweater, and Olivia thinks, Oh .

They are polite to the point of personal injury, these children - never rude even in the face of mortal danger. Olivia knows they have no wish to refuse her, but equally strong is their desire to not hand Sunny over. She doesn’t know precisely why, but given their situation, she can guess.

Dear things , she thinks with a pang of affection so sharp it nearly brings tears to her eyes.

“It’s okay,” she says, and it is, “let’s just get you kids in a real bed, okay?”

She pretends not to notice the way Violet’s shoulders sag in relief, and settles for walking just a bit closer, ready to catch them should either stumble again.

Olivia wonders if that hasn’t been all they’ve needed from the beginning.

Jacques has stopped a little ways ahead, politely waiting for them all to catch up. When they do, he continues leading them down a series of twisting hallways, each as stately and sweeping as the last, until he comes to one that’s lined with numbered doors on either side as far down as the eye can see.

He stops at the seventh one on the right and frowns down in moment of brief bemusement at the oddly-designed locking mechanism, which curls like a spider around the doorknob. Then he turns to her with a playful gleam in his eyes and beckons her forward.

“Vernacularly Fastened Door,” he explains, and she recalls with a private thrill what she’d read in The Incomplete History of Secret Organizations .

“What’s the clue?”

“The volunteer who assigned us the room told me it’s the title of a book, the theme of which is that a rural life of moral simplicity, despite its monotony, is the preferable personal narrative to a daring life of impulsive passion, which in this particular context only leads to tragedy.”

She blinks at him. “And you don’t know this one?”

He grins at her, setting the butterflies in her stomach to dancing again. “All volunteers know this one. The question is, do all librarians?”

“It’s Anna Karenina ,” says Klaus from behind her, stealing the words right out of her mouth, “our mother read that to me a few summers ago. She said it was the only heavy lifting she liked to do in the hot months.”

“Very good, Klaus,” she says with what she hopes is a comforting smile as she types in the code. The door clicks open with very little fanfare beyond a somewhat eerie creak, and the five of them stream inside.

They step into a large, but cozy-looking parlor, at the opposite end of which is a wide window that overlooks the cliff the headquarters are set into. Like just about everywhere else so far, it’s coated in a thin layer of dust, but that doesn’t detract from its loveliness.

There’s a well-stocked kitchen to the side, and beyond that, another row of doors that lead to bedrooms. There are three, to be precise, and Olivia guides the girls into one and Klaus into the other. The children are in dire need of showers and fresh sets of clothes, but while nothing can be done about the latter until morning, she insists they handle the former before they settle in for bed.

“But we still have questions,” says Klaus, halting at his door.

“A lot of questions,” Violet insists. Both of them are stifling yawns, and Sunny is dead to the world on her sister’s shoulder again.  

“I know you do, Baudelaires,” says Jacques, soft and serious as he crosses the room so he can better look them in the eyes, “and I know you’ve been promised answers before only to have those promises broken, either by intention or circumstance. But if you can last one more night, I’ll tell you absolutely everything you want to know in the morning, all right?”

The three children share a long, measured look that seems to speak volumes. It’s Violet who finally answers, and when she turns back to look at him her voice is steady.

“We trust you.” It’s not so much a concession as it is a warning, and it makes something in Olivia’s chest swell with pride.

“Get some rest,” she says, hugging each child in turn because this, at least, she can do for them, “we’ll see you in the morning.”

The children bid them goodnight, and then Olivia is alone with Jacques in the parlor, feeling at once more exhausted and more alive than she has in her whole life. It’s an odd feeling, but slowly growing more familiar to her the more time she spends around him.

“Tea?” he suggests, and she nods. It’s never a bad time for tea, and he makes some of the best she’s ever had. Of course he does.

He disappears into the kitchen, and she takes the time to inspect the window on the far wall. There’s not much to see beyond - it’s a new moon and subsequently pitch black outside. There’s a steep drop below her though, if she remembers the blueprints right - she should be standing on what is essentially the edge of an abyss. The idea is vaguely thrilling, especially since there aren’t lions waiting for her at the bottom, and because Jacques isn’t dead.

She finds lot of things are improved simply because Jacques isn’t dead.

Somewhere behind her, soft music starts to play. She turns to investigate, and as she does she catches sight of her reflection with a jolt of distant horror. The makeup from her Madame Lulu disguise is running in wild streaks down her face, and her hair is in total disarray.

Now who’s the zombie , she thinks, and turns away to go freshen up - only to stifle a shriek of surprise to find Jacques standing where he hadn’t been just half a second before. He moves with near catlike silence for someone of his size, and she makes a mental note to be annoyed about it some time when he’s not standing so close, looking at her like… like she’s… like he -

“Olivia,” he says.

“Yes,” she replies, not as a question but as an answer, and he smiles at her, quick and playful, before taking her hand and pulling her into a slow, steady waltz. The music is coming from a gramophone in the corner, a sleepy jazz piece she recognizes but can’t name.

Together they spin and sway and twirl in perfect, easy harmony, and like this , she thinks, I want our forever to be just like this.

He pulls her somehow closer than she’d been before, and she rests her head on his shoulder as they slow to a stop in the center of the room. For a while they just stand like that, gently rocking back and forth in time to the music.

“Olaf is on his way here,” she reminds him. She hates that the arsonist manages to intrude on this private moment without being anywhere near them, but she needs to know they’re safe here. More specifically, she needs to know the children are safe here. Not that she thinks Jacques would have brought them here if they weren’t, but still.

“He won’t get in,” Jacques replies.

She thinks about the ashes of the Baudelaire mansion, and how quickly the tents of the carnival had gone up in smoke. “He might not have to.”

“I called Jacquelyn,” he says, “there are fierce and formidable volunteers waiting to apprehend that villain and his troupe all along the mountain. If he comes anywhere near VFD headquarters, he’ll be caught.”

That’s… actually quite a relief, she thinks, suddenly overcome. She closes her eyes and tries not to tremble beneath the weight of everything she feels for him.

Somewhere behind them, the teakettle whines. It goes ignored.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” she whispers, and feels his hand move from her lower back to cup her head.

“A thousand pardons, ma’am,” he says, low and soft like a prayer, “I didn’t intend to scare you and I’ll never forgive myself.”

She sniffs, then laughs a little to cover it, before raising her head to look him square in the eye. “Never?”

His mouth quirks, and she already knows what he’s about to say, so she makes a promise of her own instead, pushing up on her toes to cut off his words with a kiss.

Don’t leave me like that again , she thinks as she clutches at his jacket, willing him to understand.

Our story isn’t over yet, he seems to respond, spearing his fingers through her hair to draw her ever closer.

And Olivia smiles against his mouth, because this time she believes it.