Work Text:
AGATHA
It's my turn to pick the music. I put on something quiet and upbeat and watch Niamh nod in approval.
We're in my car, today. (Well, not my car, technically.)(It's my parents, but they've given it to me until I decide what I want to do.) Niamh's car is in the shops, getting a brake change or something.
I let her drive. She likes it more than I do.
We're silent. It's not awkward—there's just nothing to be said. It's not like at school, trying to be friends with Penelope, when we'd lapse into quiet just because we don't have anything in common.
I like Niamh. I think. I don't know if I've every truly liked anyone. I think I did love Simon, though, at first. It just turned into more the love of a brother, a friend, than a boy I was supposed to love.
There hasn't been any great revelation. No sheet lifted away to reveal the world of love and attraction. I don't think I'm gay.
But I like kissing Niamh, and she likes me too. She told me so.
Simon and I are more alike than I would've guessed, I think, tilting my head back against the seat. Niamh's short hair ruffles in the breeze, and it looks so much better than when she kept it long.
I watch her drive and listen to the music and I think it's the happiest I've been since I came back.
…
We park outside the gates of Watford.
I get out and take a moment to stretch, using the elastic on my wrist to tie my hair back. (I've long learned it's better too, on these trips.)(These goats like to chew, as it turns out, and long hair is an easy target.)
I go around the back and get my bags. I've been staying at the barn longer and longer, turning it into something more habitable. Niamh and I are staying for two days to fix up the kitchen, this time. Simon will be here tomorrow to help—Baz's aunt got him a job with the construction company working on the Pitch's house in Hampshire. They're building another house, he told me, a temporary one, while the dead spot heals,
I don't know why Fiona did it. She never seemed to like Simon much. Maybe for Baz, or to annoy Malcolm Pitch. I don't really care to find out.
"Coming, Wellbelove?" Niamh calls, already at the gate.
"On my way, dear!" I shout back and watch her flush. I didn't take Niamh as the kind of person to be affected by pet names—didn't take myself as the type to use them—but it seems to be one of her weaknesses.
I swing my bag over my shoulder and go to meet her at the gate. Niamh twines her fingers through mine and play-scowls as we head towards the back fields.
The goats swarm to me, all but one ignoring Niamh. I don't let go of her hand as I reach down, stroking over wiry-soft wings and feeling damp snouts push into my legs and sides.
Watford was my home, once. Not as much as Simon, of course, or Baz, but it was home more than the stifling presence of my parents could be. More than sterile, bare walls.
Watford was my home, once. I'm making it be again.
And this time there's Niamh, standing beside me, and the warm, compact bodies of magic goats around us.
I smile.