Chapter Text
You haven't tended to the garden yet this morning.
The sun rose some many hours ago and instead of padding outside to check the plants, you'd rolled over to burrow your face in your wife's neck, inhaling faint remnants of the perfume she dabbed onto her skin the previous morning. Her hair is braided in two, your own handiwork, and with her stomach rising and falling with shallow breaths, you had adjusted slightly, a curious finger tracing the outline of her scar.
She'd hummed your name - voice timid and light, a result of waking from a deep sleep - and you'd merely turned back into her, making a small path of three kisses across her collarbone.
"Good morning," you'd murmured, a fourth kiss joining the others.
Now the sun rids you and Donna's room of its typical shadows and paints her features gold with its light. She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing you've ever seen; tendrils of slightly waved hair falling around her face and spilling loose over her pillow, she leans herself up on her elbow to get a better look at you, a smile you have come to known as one she saves just for you sleepily pressed on her face, tired eyes falling shut even as she reaches a hand to touch you.
"Have you been awake long?" she asks, a yawn slightly splitting her lips. "I thought you were going to be awake at dawn, to check your garden."
"Our garden, Donna," you correct, hardly above a whisper. The skin of her hand brushes heat into one of your cheeks, deepening her sleepy smile, and you lean into it, grateful for the contact. "I was waiting for you, but you've slept most of the morning."
This gets her attention, her good eye opening to stare at you. She blinks slowly, her long sleep still hard to shake, and says, "It's the cold, my love. Do you not feel its chill this morning? Angie said you were shivering last time you came back from the village. But it's worse now, so much colder. I can feel its harshness in my bones."
"It's become more bearable," you lie. "Go back to sleep, I'll wake you later."
It is cold. You're inclined to agree; despite the ardency of Donna's body close to yours all through the night, the temperatures have dipped drastically in the past few weeks. There's frost clinging to the windows each morning you wake, and once you're finally out of bed and ready to head into the yard, you spend a considerable amount of time brushing snow from the front steps. And once you're back inside and brushing clinging snow from your jacket and hair, Donna's always lingering in the kitchen waiting for you with a mug of hot tea she made herself and her cheek presented to you for a kiss.
Regardless, you've found yourself sleeping worse than usual. It has little to do with the cold and more with what you've been keeping from Donna - upstairs in a room of dolls you know your wife doesn't often frequent, you've been slipping out of bed after she falls asleep to work on something for her. A gift, to thank her.
You'd written Salvatore three months ago to ask to borrow a book from his private collection, something to refresh your memory on what Donna's favourite flower looks like. Since then, you've spent hours working in the dead of night to make sure your present is perfect and worthy of Donna's own talent, collapsing back into bed beside her a few hours before dawn to avoid arousing suspicion. Last week, she'd caught you leaving and had taken your wrist in her hand moments before you had planned to slip entirely out of bed. You lost an entire five hours of work that night, with her curled against you all night and too peaceful to disturb.
Now, it's ready. It's taken twelve weeks, three redoes, and a few visits into the village to see Duke, but it's finally done and you were awake most of the night watching Donna's nose crinkle up as she slept and imagining the expression she'll wear when you give it to her.
You settle back on your pillow, staring at the reddened tip of Donna's nose. She's awake, you can tell - either from the way her amusement tugs at the corner of her mouth or her bare leg brushing intentionally against yours.
You relax the tension locked in between your shoulder blades and say, "You have one hundred and seventeen eyelashes on each eye."
Donna raises an eyebrow, eyes still closed, and says, "You are very intriguing."
You smile at her, freeing your arm from the warmth of the blankets to take a wispy lock of her hair and twirl it around your finger a few times. Her hair is impossibly soft and clean, free of split ends and so dark on top that it covers the small patch of grey's hiding behind her ears. You've learnt from many years together that she likes it when you touch her hair, like the many times you've plaited it for her or when she can't bring herself to wash it on her own, and she'll lean her head back in the bath and let you help. Or now, your finger gently tugging at her hair, and the weary breath that deflates from her lungs.
Donna turns her head to kiss your palm, letting her touch linger before letting you be. It's an invitation of sorts - one you know well, and very rarely decline.
Your hand settles on her cheek, guiding your mouth to hers. She returns it lazily, hot breaths mingling and slow hands touching each other's bare skin. Donna's mouth shifts its attention to your jawline, teeth gently scraping the skin and eliciting a breathy moan from your lips, her dominant hand so warm on the cold patch of skin of your stomach that it's nearly unbearable how good she makes you feel.
Her other hand combs gently through your hair, tugging ever so slightly at the root. She's making an effort to not disturb the mess of it this morning but you wish she would; there's a needy warmth spreading throughout you, and you're seeking the solace of her slender fingers.
As if reading your mind, she complies, the hand gripping your waist tight enough to bruise playing with the hem of your panties. She pushes them down slightly, innocently enough to be a mistake but the sounds bordering on desperate that are building in her throat give her away. And she's soon brushing the pads of her fingers down your thigh, drawing them closer to where you ache for her most, before she moves them away and you gasp indignantly against the corner of her mouth.
Your free hand grips her shoulder with a despondent sigh. "Donna," you rasp.
"Patience, tesoro."
She leans up, hand between your thighs moving with featherlight precision to rest on your waist. It's telling, you think, and lie back for her, tilting your head to the side to give her access - and she takes it, grazing her teeth against your neck before drawing her attention further down, her hand on your waist achingly too far away. She likes this, you can tell from the arousal darkening her eyes and the soft whine that sounds in her throat in response to your hand resting on her lower back. She wants this. Wants you.
She takes her time moving down you, kissing from the base of your throat to between your clothed chest, hands fumbling with your shirt to gain access to the smooth expanse of skin previously hidden. And it's when she's nearing your navel with soft, admiring touches, and she gazes up at you and it strikes you how good she looks nearly between your thighs - and between your thighs. Like now, with her mouth breathing warmth against you, her fingers drawing absent-minded shapes against you. There's a hesitant moment before she moves back up you and she kisses your mouth, carding her fingers through the sleep-addled hair closest to your scalp, and she affectionately nuzzles your nose with her own.
"Can I?" she whispers.
You want to say yes, but...
But -
Oh.
Your gift. And you promised Angie that you'd show her the flowers blooming in the garden before lunch.
Whining, you lean up on your elbows, Donna's hand tangled in your hair follows, though its grip loosens.
"I want you to, but I have something for you first," you say, and allow a moment to cherish the subtle surprised lift of Donna's eyebrows. "It's, uh - it's upstairs, in the room furthest from the stairs. Can I show you?"
Donna pursues her lips, fingers releasing their grip on your hair to delicately brush her knuckles against your cheek. Her approaching smile - expression torn between endearing confusion and gratefulness - soothes your nerves. "Of course, my love," she murmurs, and her smile softens upon your gaze meeting hers.
You're the first to turn and tug aside the covers, inhaling sharply as the air immediately diminishes the warmth from your skin. You're practiced in this, though; the morning scramble to get dressed in time to recover as much body heat as possible, before you're traipsing through the unusually cold halls of House Beneviento. So, it's familiar, and more so with Donna, who is already fully dressed by the time you've managed to shimmy your pants on. Little time to lose, you waste no time grabbing your jacket and zipping it up securely, before a quick glance for Donna reveals her standing patiently in the doorway.
"I thought you said you weren't cold," she says, with a sly grin.
You roll your eyes playfully at her. "I'm not. The clothes are just out of habit, you know how it is."
Donna fights a mocking grin. "Of course. Habit."
You slip by her and out into the hall, squeezing her hand in recognition when she slips it into tours. You've taken to avoiding the room at all costs to not draw her attention to it, so leading her to it intentionally after three months of steering her away from it is unusual, and you know she's growing more and more curious with each step. You can almost feel each of her glances at every door you near, her inquisitively wondering which you'll stop at and what you've hidden within it that could possibly be so important.
Until - finally, after walking up the stairs and around a dozen corners - you're drawing to a stop in front of the room you've spent the past three months diligently working on Donna's gift in.
So, you do the only thing left to do and open it, greeted by dim sunlight and the faded yellow paint on the walls.
Against the wall furthest from the door sits an old wooden chest. You recall a dozen or so times Donna's asked you to find something specific in it, from a button to a roll of ribbon to a strip of aged fabric that once belonged to her long departed mother. Now, sitting in is a creation of your own; sewn together from fabrics you purchased in the village and decorated with a few small embroidered flowers you wasted many, many hours trying to get right.
You release her hand and take the key for the chest from your jacket pocket, efforts to open it stalled by your shivering hands. It isn't until Donna steps silently forward and places a splayed hand on your lower back, wordlessly soothing and encouraging, and lovingly urging you to get it right. You do, twisting the key and pushing back the lid of the chest.
"Can you, uh - can you close your eyes, please?"
Donna complies immediately.
Oh, you love her.
You push aside the various contents of the chest to find your gift, carefully rested at the bottom to avoid accidentally being found. You took the liberty of wrapping it in a large square sheet of spare fabric and tying it together with a ribbon of Donna's favourite colour. It looks so simple in your hands, but you're proud - you've done this yourself and you've worked on it for so long, and finally being able to give it to its intended recipient is a victory that you allow yourself a moment to feel pleased about.
With her hands held out and her eyes closed, Donna is as composed as she always is. Though it falters when she registers the new weight in her hands and your voice telling her she can look.
She pulls the ribbon first and then pushes the wrap aside, movements graceful. Until she's setting them aside and finally has your gift in her hands.
Donna's hands - thin and pale and familiar - smooth over the fabric, her gaze admiring the practiced seams you spent too long perfecting. There's a soft smile tugging at her lips, that widens when she glances back at you, a polished fingernail experimentally hovering over the patterns in the corner you spent too long embroidering there by hand. A lily, her favourite flower, and a rose; they're growing in wild bunches around the rocks on the edge of the Beneviento house and some of them sit half wilted in a vase you made, spreading their lasting floral scent throughout the walls you call home.
"You did this for me?"
A thoughtful gift, though keeping it a secret has been a struggle. You wonder if Donna ever grew suspicious during your periods of absence, when you'd leave her side while she read in bed to disappear for a few hours in the middle of night, or if she noticed the pinpricks decorating your fingertips from amateurish sewing.
Still, you smile in return. You're sure it's more nervous than you'd like, but can't bring yourself to care with her hand reaching to take yours to squeeze it in appreciative thanks. Her eyes smooth over the light fabric, before a thought crosses her mind and her eyebrows gently furrow -
"My love," she murmurs, then, breathier, "Amore mio."
And that's new. She's only ever called you that with her mouth warm against your neck and her teeth gently grazing your skin, when her hands are spreading heat through your chest and she's kissing her way slowly to your jawline. Never like this - vulnerable in a different way than when you're making slow love and her mother tongue forgets to be shy.
Amore mio - fond and loving.
"Amore mio, I mentioned the lilies seven months ago," Donna whispers, disbelief and tenderness wrapped around her words. Her slender fingers gently graze once again over your embroidery, and the white lily you placed in the corner for her, before she adds, "This is… it's beautiful, your needlework is very good. Where did you learn?"
"I've watched you plenty, you know," you reply, face brightening with pride. "It's a lot harder than you make it out to be, but I got there. And a couple months ago, when you stitched those leaves onto the hat you made for Angie, and I asked you how you did it, and you showed me, remember?"
Donna beams at you, cheeks dusted with pink. "I do."
"Well, I learnt then," you give her hand a squeeze. "Or, technically, a few months ago after I tried to imitate how you had embroidered Angie's hat and realised it's, like, incredibly difficult. I had about a dozen pinpricks in each finger, and I almost caved and outright asked you to do it for me."
And she laughs. Donna laughs - it's the most beautiful sound in the world, light and airy and so genuine that even she seems to notice it's been a time since she laughed quite so loud. But the traces of it remain on her face, accentuated by a softening smile and her hand lifting yours to her lips to press a kiss to your inner wrist. Her other hand remains still clutching the fabric you gifted her with care, absentmindedly smoothing her thumb over your cross stitch in the corner; it's not as practiced as her own, but you think that part of the charm might be that you tried anyway.
She seems to think so, at the least.
"I'm glad it's your handiwork, and not mine," she says. "It makes it more special that you did it yourself. Only for me."
Donna's eyes shine with unspoken emotion, and you reach your free hand to brush a loose lock of hair from her face, tucking it with care behind her ear. Her skin is smooth brushing your knuckles, and she subconsciously leans towards you - her eyes, typically shrouded under her undone hair, meet yours, gaze flickering between your lips and eyes with intent. There's a brief pause where you consider making her ask - because you like her like that, voice quiet and breath warm and tentative fingers curling in the hem of your shirt - before you decide against it, because as appealing as it is, simply kissing her sounds more appealing.
You press your hand against your cheek, brushing your thumb over the skin, and Donna exhales, grateful for the contact. Your hands fall from each other's in unison, her free hand cupping your hand on her cheek. It's a simple action but takes your breath away all the same; it's the way she looks at you, with such adoration that your heart almost flutters out of your chest when you meet her eye.
Donna simply waits, content to savour this moment. Your other hand, warm still from her own, rests on the nape of her neck, your thumb faintly tracing the line of her jaw. Donna's lips are slightly parted and in the small distance between your face and her own, you once again note the way her pupils dilate in anticipation of the kiss and in reaction to you so close in her proximity.
"My love," she whispers.
You kiss her.
She responds immediately, hesitating for hardly a second before her mouth is parting for you and her hands curl in your shirt before sliding underneath it. The skin of her palms are impossibly delicate and intricate in their movements, resting carefully on either side of your waist and absentmindedly smoothing over your skin.
Her nose brushes against yours in time to her hands, and the affectionately calculated way she touches you is not lost on you. She's like this often - pouring affection into each singular movement, so practiced in your body that she knows the right place to touch you and which strings to pull to make you dance.
"I have something for you, a gift," Donna says, lips skimming against the corner of your mouth. "It's outside. Might I show you?"
Lingering weakness from the kiss settling in your legs, you nod. You're hesitant to break away, craving her warmth and wishing you could merely sit in this moment forever. She's wearing a comfortable smile, her hands settled on your waist soothing the chill, and her messy braids spilling more loose hair down her back. You like her like this; relaxed and content, allowed to be herself because she's with you and you're home - though, you suppose you'd call the grimy walls of Karl's factory or the dark of Alcina's basement your home if Donna was with you.
"I was going to wait until after breakfast," Donna tells you, leading you through the halls. She's humming a song under her breath, something familiar enough to recognise but not familiar enough to place. "But," she starts, and she's slightly out of breath now, "you made me that beautiful handkerchief, and I want to show you before it snows too much. It's in the yard, we're not too far."
And you aren't. She's walking at a pace incredibly faster than her typical walk, which is comfortably slow and impossibly quiet. The bottom of her shoes click against the solid, cold floor and, with your hand in hers, she's less gentle than usual upon her descent down the front steps towards the garden the two of you have been caring for. It's going strong in the cold, and there's -
Oh.
The old wooden park bench you'd found covered under bunches of ivy last month sits beside the garden, scrubbed clean of dirt and decorated with patterned fabric you pointed at in Donna's room and told her you like. The cushions sitting on the bench are Donna's handiwork; she'd sent you into the village a handful of weeks ago to collect the fabric you'd readily assumed was to be set aside for a future dress for Angie. And the colours of it are undeniably striking against the neutral wood of the bench, painting the typically drab atmosphere of the yard in a new and brighter light, one you find entirely more comfortable and more fitting for your wife.
You're not sure how she moved it herself but you don't ask, stunned beyond words. You can hardly move and though your feet move you forwards and towards the bench, you don't remember how many steps it took from Donna at your back to be touching a shy hand against one of the cushions. It's different from everything else in and around House Beneviento, but there's a part of you that feels that it fits almost more than anything - for all Donna enjoys the dark and quiet, she is the most colourful person you've ever met, and her smile is light enough to stave off the shadowed halls of your home.
And yet, your mouth continues to stumble over itself for the appropriate words, before settling on, "I can't believe you did this."
The look Donna gives you is tender. "Do you like it?"
"Donna," you say, exasperated and meeting her gaze, "I love it."
"I'm glad," she tells you, hands nervously wringing together. "I admit, I wasn't entirely sure what you'd think."
You step towards her, unable to hide the noticeable sheen of your eyes. Once you're within her space and the heat of her body is close to warming your own, you settle your hands on her cheeks and kiss her. You'll never get tired of how her lips feel against yours, torturously perfect, and how regardless of experience or lack of, Donna is an exceptionally skilled kisser, from her hands finding every spot that drives you crazy to her tongue setting every single one of your nerves completely alight.
"Donna," your lips ghost against hers as you speak, finding enough breath between to say, "this is the most thoughtful thing anyone has done for me."
Her fingertips on your face are light, tickling along your jaw. "It was partly Angie, and she would say the same thing as I. You deserve it. And I love you."
"I love you," you reply. "So much, Donna."
She smiles. There's an uncertain expression on her face, before she glances back towards the steps inside and, despite the thickness of her coat and the sun bearing down on the both of you, shivers. The tip of her nose is tipped red and wisps of loose hair falter in the breeze. "Would you like tea?" she asks, "... and I'll get Angie. She was excited about seeing the garden again."
You agree with a grateful nod, crunching on orange leaves strewn over the ground with your boots and following closely behind Donna. She reaches the front door first and holds it open for you, bringing you into the welcome heat of your home and then slipping away to find the kitchen. You take a spare minute to peer around at everything - from the clothes hanging on the racks to your left to the surplus of dolls scattered with Donna-like care, perched on chairs and stacks of old newspaper and wearing clothes made from fabric you've given Donna over the years.
"Sugar?" Donna calls.
You answer her then shrug off your jacket, much too warm now, and follow into the kitchen. Donna is pouring freshly brewed into two cups, glancing up at you and offering a loving smile.
"I'll get Angie."
You look at Donna, and after one second too long of tracing her features with your eyes, reply, "I'll wait here for you both."
Doing your monthly rounds to the other Lords can wait until another day. Today you want to be home.