Work Text:
Here’s Where We Begin
The smell of pine needles is so quintessentially Christmas that it makes the whole house joyful, despite the terrible chill of winter. It’s been only a couple of weeks since his illness, and though Charles is under strict instructions to avoid the snow, he had insisted on bringing in the Christmas tree for the family. And so now it sits pride of place in the living room, decorated with small ornaments that Charles carved from soft wood, and paper drawings done by Mary. Even Mrs Clarke had contributed, crocheting a small hanging angel and a number of snowflakes, all stuck to the branches with string.
Laura’s contribution had been crocheted letters, one for each of their first names, which had frustrated her mother when presented with a red and blue A instead of the requisite MrsC. Laura had laughed, finding it rather delightful, and hung it right in front with the rest of them. It has moved since then – to the back of the tree, around to the front again, and eventually settled on the side, out of sight from the front door but still visible from her rocking chair.
Charles can only laugh long and hard every time Mrs Clarke gets eye of it; her face scowls in displeasure and she huffs as she looks away. She always gives him a look too, but he has learned by now to ignore it.
It’s his second Christmas here in Somerville and he has so much to be thankful for he doesn’t know where to begin.
But there is still something not quite settled between him and Laura – something tentative since he recovered and explained his fever dreams to her. She had seemed, if not offended, then pensive about their meaning, despite his assurances that it hadn’t felt right – that being back in his old house with a vision of his ex-wife has felt out of place in every way.
He wonders if the holiday season is the best time to bring it up, but if not now then it will never happen, and he learned the hard way what happens to a marriage when things go unsaid. He doesn’t want that kind of distance to ever grown between him and Laura.
And so he resolves to speak with her about it, preferably before Christmas day so they can enjoy their time off together.
He finds his chance on a Sunday afternoon, just before dusk settles. There is no paper to run that day, and the children are tucked inside by the fire with Mrs Clarke, Mary completing her dreaded sums for holiday homework and Henry asleep in his basinet. Charles is out at the wood pile under the eaves of the work shed, with Laura hauling loads of cut pieces to the porch for easy retrieval at night. It’s not exactly private, but it’s as secluded as they can get in the middle of winter.
When she returns to where he’s working, Charles stops and places the axe upright on the chopping block, leaning his arm on it. Laura looks at him curiously, confused that he’s interrupting their steady working pattern.
“Something the matter?” she asks.
“You tell me”
She gives him a look and rolls her eyes. He knows it’s a petty response, and not one she appreciates, but if he gives her room to move she will avoid this conversation, he just knows it; he doesn’t want that. She ignores him and goes to pick up the half-armful of wood on the ground, her infamous temper ironically coming out in her own brand of petty ignorance of his mood.
“Laura-“ he starts, but gets cut off by her no-nonsense tone.
“I won’t deal with passive-aggression Charles, you know that”
He sighs and nods – he does know that. But he doesn’t move to resume his work and so she stops too, looking at him steadily. She throws her small armful back into the ground and places her hands on her hips, expectant but patient with him.
“What’s going on?” she asks, all business. He knows not to argue with that tone – part scolding mother, part boss, all spelling trouble if he doesn’t get over himself and spit it out.
“I can’t help but feel you’re a little… frosty, if you’ll pardon the pun”
They both try to ignore the softly falling snow that has started again, lest they burst into giggles at the ridiculousness of it all.
“Frosty?” she asks, almost affronted. “In what way?”
“Since I was sick”
Something like worry flickers in her eyes at the mention of it; she could never convey to him how scared that experience had made her, especially given Will’s death. To be confronted with her husband’s fallibility had been difficult.
“Are you mad about the dreams I had?” he asks.
She looks thrown by his question, but quickly rights her mind. It’s not a difficult logical leap to find the crux of what he’s asking, and she steps forward a little more under the shelter, crossing her arms as the chill makes its way up her sleaves.
“Of course not” she says. “They’re dreams, Charles, not something you have any control over”
“Then why do I feel as if you were offended?”
She sighs. She did have mixed feelings about them, and perhaps she’s not as good an actor as she thought. He reaches out a hand and gently taps her elbow, a gesture and encouragement to speak.
“I wasn’t offended” she says, looking at him. “I was... embarrassed”
Of all answers he was expecting, it was not that, and his disbelief must show on his face because she steps a fraction closer, her arms folded a little tight, though if from cold he can’t tell.
“You and Kris had this whole… life… in the future Charles. One that I cannot even begin to fathom, not least because you lived in another time-”
“I left all that –“
“I know you did, and you wanted to be here. I know. But in a very dire situation your mind took you back there, and part of me can’t help but feel… or ask, rather… why you needed to do that?”
He is always struck anew when Laura shows vulnerability, because he so readily associates her with strength; steadfastness. To see her unsure of something, most of all herself, hurts in a way he wasn’t prepared for when he started this conversation. He thought she was mad, or upset, maybe even a little bit jealous, but it didn’t occur to him that she would take his obscure vision as a sign he wasn’t wholeheartedly invested in his life in Somerville, or that he – god forbid – saw her as some kind of second fiddle. They have unambiguously built a life in the shelter of their shared devotion to each other and their life together. For all she had worried at first that he might regret his decision, they have come so far from those first tentative days; he thought they had moved past the fear of the future catching up to them.
He sizes her up, notes the crossed arms and uncertain expression. He knows she has chinks in her armour – a heart full of feeling and a soft soul underneath her capable exterior. The real Laura, the woman he fell in love with, enjoys a picnic by the river and threads daisy chains with her daughter, finding joy in the simplicity of the very life that drew him here in the first place. He hates that she might, even for a second, entertain the thought that he is unhappy. And it’s not as though he hasn’t thought on this question himself – why did he go back to Kris in a crisis? But more than that, why was he envisioning himself in St Louis and yet still so desperate to return to the past – to his present.
“I think” he starts, giving his answer the consideration it deserves. “That I was looking for closure. I made up my mind to get on the train so quickly that I guess… there were a lot of loose threads left hanging”
Laura looks as though she understands his answer, but she also looks confused. “You’ve been living here coming on two years now” she says, brow furrowed. “Has this need for closure been there all this time?”
She looks betrayed, like he’s been holding in this secret from her; like he’s been living a lie and never bothered to tell her. But he hasn’t, at least, not consciously. They talked so much about his choice and it is as surprising to him as it is to her that there’s anything left for his mind to mull over.
“I made peace with my decision the second I got off that train for the last time” he says to her, his eyes beseeching and very serious. She believes him – he can see the way her shoulders relax a little, the comfort of his words ringing true. “I think I just needed to say goodbye to Kris for good. To know that she was okay… I left so abruptly and I didn’t get a chance to say that much”
Laura nods, her eyes flickering down as she considers that for a moment. It wasn’t the same for her and Will. He was sick for days, in and out of lucidity enough that they could exchange words – conversations that hurt, him telling her to take over the paper, to take care of Mary, to find love. At the time she’d been mad at him for saying it, sure that he would pull through and those would be unnecessary promises; angry that it seemed he was giving up before his time. But upon reflection they were a relief, and lightened the burden on her heart. It gave her reassurance that he would be happy she had continued his work, and that she had found love again. Will’s dying words to her, though immensely painful at the time, had given her the closure she needed later to move on with such strength and surety.
Charles didn’t have that from Kris; she knew it troubled him that he could never contact his old family and let them know he was so happy. Perhaps, now that she reflected on it, it made perfect sense that his confused mind would send him to Kris while he was searching for answers. She tried to be understanding of that, and looked back at him with a gentler expression.
“And you have no regrets?” she asks. Just one more time she wants to be sure that his love of this place will always be stronger than any lingering pining for his old life.
“I have a lot of regrets” he says. She looks surprised. “I’m sorry I ever lied to you, and hurt you like I did that day by the river. I hate that I was too scared to speak up to Kris in the first place. But coming back? Living here, with you? With our children? No…”
He reaches out and cups her cheek with his gloved hand, eyes tender with love for her.
“… I don’t regret that one bit”
Laura smiles and leans her cheek a little more into his hand. A shiver runs through her as a wind runs through their space, and Charles notices and steps right into her to wrap his arms around her. They hear the creak of the porch door and Mrs Clarke pokes a head out, shouting at them and waving her arm to gesture them inside. The light snowfall is getting gradually heavier, and they have enough wood stocked by the door that they can abandon the job for now.
Charles waves his mother-in-law back inside.
“She beckons” he says, earning himself a soft hit of reprimand and a smile. She tries not to encourage the constant grouching between the two, but they’re so ridiculous that it’s often quite funny.
“Laura” he says, stopping her from moving away. “You were never my second choice”
The frankness of his words strikes right to the heart of the issue, bringing an unexpected prickle to her eyes, and she draws a deep breath to steady herself. He frames her face in his hands and kisses her sweetly.
“I knew you before I even met you” he whispers against her lips, and despite her efforts a tear breaks free and runs down her face, icy when the wind catches it. His thumb wipes it away. She buries herself in close to him, drawing literal warmth from his embrace, her cold face pressed against his neck where his scarf has slipped. He had told her about the drawing, of course; had recreated it in startling detail last year to add to his private collection of family pictures. He had told her why the sight of her that day had left him quite literally dumbstruck. She’d never been superstitious before meeting him, but destiny had played such a part in their story she has since become a believer.
His words sound like a reaffirmation – like renewing their vows – reminding her that there’s a lot more to their love than a simple choice between two women. She is always aware that Charles is a man out of time because it is evident in everything he does and believes. But it still surprises her – even scares her a little – to be retold that his choice was for her; that he came back because he had somehow fallen in love with the woman in the portrait, and that her life, and their family, was not a convenient holiday from reality, but instead the very place he was destined to belong. It was a great burden to think about, being so essential to the journey of another. She’d never felt that in her life before Charles. Even dearest Mary had her grandmother to lean on.
But Charles was here for her; was fated to fall in love with her, written in the stars as a single glance over her shoulder.
From behind them she hears her mother shout again – definitely something that sounds like idiots and catch your death – and they pull apart again and this time rush together through the thickening snow to the cover of the porch.
He stops her at the door, just briefly. “You okay?”
She smiles and gives him a quick kiss. “Better”
They step inside and walk straight into the wrath of Mrs Clarke, standing by the stove with a foul look on her face, no doubt fuelled by worry and love though you wouldn’t know it to look at her. She’s midway through fishing a potato pie out of the oven and she places it on the stove top, throwing the oven mitts quite violently onto the benchtop.
“What can be so important to talk about that you have to do it in the deathly snow, for goodness sake”
“It’s nothing, mother” says Laura, brushing her off as she very nearly gets away with stealing a finger swipe of potato off the top; her mother’s swatting stops her, and she retreats to the living room to see the children, a playful spring in her step.
“And you” says Mrs Clarke, rounding on Charles. “You’re just barely out of one deathbed”
“Happy wife, happy life” says Charles with a grin, and Mrs Clarke huffs at the expression but doesn’t argue. He shrugs and doesn’t even try to steal some pie, instead giving her a charismatic grin. Dinner will be soon enough, and he’d rather go spend time with his family anyway. “Need a hand with anything?”
Mrs Clarke just waves him away. “Off with you”
He chuckles at her and backs away with his hands up, more than happy to follow that directive.
He follows Laura’s footsteps, the smell of pine needles permeating the house but especially in the living room. The fading light outside calls for lanterns to be lit in addition to the fireplace that roars with warmth; the scene looks so ridiculously like a cheesy vintage Christmas card that it makes him smile. He made Mary a set of jenga blocks for her birthday – they’re still a good ninety years away from being available on the market, but it was a simple project and provides hours of fun. She has evidently abandoned her homework in favour of playing a game which Laura has joined. The chalkboard of completed sums sits across the room.
He reaches into the Moses basket on the floor and checks Henry’s forehead temperature, since he’s been sleeping near the warmth of the fire. Content that he’s not too warm, Charles focuses back on the game and laughs when an outraged Laura can’t find a single viable option to take. He takes a seat on the floor next to them and watches the tower predictably fall over when Laura pulls a block out, her face an adorable mixture of frustration and amusement.
She smiles at him as she immediately starts rebuilding it, stacking neat rows of three on the carpet as Mary primly informs him it’s his turn first go. He won’t argue with that.