Chapter Text
He awakens, which is something John has never done.
Warmth and soft sheets surround him, embracing his body - his body? Yes, there are hands in front of his eyes, fists curled around white sheets.
“Arthur?” he whispers, confused and elated and terrified. But, no - everything is wrong - the words are spoken aloud and the hands are unfamiliar. John knows every detail of Arthur’s hands, every wrinkle and freckle and scar; he knows those knuckles and joints like they are etched into his mind.
He sits up slowly, unsteady. He does not understand; none of this makes sense. He is in a body - he can feel every inch of it - strange and heavy and unsettling.
Around him is a room. A bedroom, lit by morning light pouring in through a cracked window. The walls are patterned with teal wallpaper and there is an armoire, writing desk and chair. Whatever this place is, John has never been here.
Is this a dream? A nightmare, some mirage to torture him with? He is confused and scattered - he remembers that he and Arthur were… were separated; they were torn apart and then he was back in that horrible mind, and then -
No. He pushes the memory away.
Whatever this is, it’s better than that.
Something in the bed stirs, startling him. Someone in the sheets, warm and soft and -
“Arthur -” The name spills from him with reverence, quiet and deep. It’s him, his human, his fair freckled skin and russet hair streaked with silver, his sharp elbows and long fingers, and - and his face. He's never seen Arthur from this angle. Something blooms in his chest, warm and familiar.
Arthur stretches, yawns and blinks at John. It should not destroy him the way it does, this simple movement.
“What’re you doing up there?” Arthur’s voice cracks with sleep and he smiles with a unique crooked grin. John devours every little movement. He can barely breathe.
“Arthur -” John repeats, because this isn’t real, it can’t be real - this is a dream, nothing more.
“What?” Arthur is amused, looking at him like - John realizes he doesn’t know the expression. He’s never had to interpret Arthur's facial nuance before.
They’re interrupted by the sound of pattering feet. The door bursts open. John tenses, afraid for a moment that this will dissolve into a nightmare, that beyond the door there will only be monsters waiting for them, waiting to take Arthur away - but it is not a nightmare but a child. She bounces onto the bed and wraps herself around Arthur, giggling.
“Oh!” Arthur huffs a laugh. “Good morning, little monster. I see you’re up early as well.”
“I want ‘jacks, Papa!” Her voice is so young and high, and she is - she is -
“So no ‘good morning’ to me, then? I see John’s habits have had an influence.”
“I’m hungry!”
“Yes, I can see that. Alright, sweetheart, let’s make some breakfast. Would you go set the table? Do you think you could do that for me?”
“Mm-hm.” She nods, and suddenly it is so clear that she is Arthur’s - she has his eyes, his freckles, his smile. Her hair is messy and wild with curls (entirely unlike his) and she is so small, so fragile, so beautiful.
“Put out some milk for Babbs, too, please,” Arthur says as she disentangles herself in a fury of limbs and hair. “Not too much, alright?”
She giggles with this mischievous smile that breaks something inside of John, something warm and light and heady. He cannot begin to think of the name for this feeling.
Then to his utter surprise she launches herself at him - tiny arms curling around his chest, hair catching in his mouth, hazel eyes blinking up at him.
“Can we go to the pictures today?” Her smile is brilliant and entirely disarming.
“I - wh -”
“Faroe, sweetheart, let John be and go set the table.”
“But, Papa, I want to go to the pictures -”
“Off you go, love.” Arthur extracts her with a gentleness John has never seen before, and despite her complaints she scrambles off the bed and bolts out the door, giggling madly.
John’s ears are ringing as Arthur sighs and shakes his head.
“I don’t know where she gets all that energy. Such a little monster. Well, it appears that sleeping in is out of the question. We’d best get up before she starts putting doll clothes on the cat again. Come on, you.”
Stretching, Arthur slides out of bed and opens the window.
“You’re too obliging to her, you know,” he remarks. “That’s why she asks you for things like picture shows and pony rides. I think you’d lasso her the moon if she asked you, you big sap.”
A morning breeze carries life and sea salt and the sound of cars on the street. On unsteady legs John steps from the bed to gaze out the window. They are above a town street busy with morning traffic: people and vehicles and horses, and the trees are bright with yellow and green leaves. Heavy clouds frame a steel gray bay, and far out at sea rain blurs the horizon in mist.
“You alright?”
John turns, unsure of how to answer that. He nearly chokes at the sight.
Arthur is stripping bare in a casual, easy way as though they have done this a thousand times before. The morning light brings out his freckles and sharp edges. John has never seen him from this far away, never seen the whole of his body so completely. Arthur looks… well, is the only coherent word that comes to mind. No longer emaciated and gaunt, he is fit and handsome. He looks younger than John remembers.
He is solid and real and achingly close - and this isn’t real, it can’t be, John know this is just a dream, just a fantasy -
“John? Darling?”
Arthur moves nearer, still bare. John steps back, bumping into the windowsill.
“Arthur.” That is the only word that he can think to say, the only name that means anything at all. He doesn’t understand - I left him - Arthur was gone, they were separated, John was lost - but now he’s here, undeniable and tangible and in a body that John can reach out and touch.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Arthur says with that crooked grin. He’s so close. Somehow it feels closer than when they shared the same body.
John grazes his fingers along Arthur’s forearm, marveling at the fine hairs and scattered freckles, the strong muscle underneath.
“You’re real.” He should think of something more substantial, but that is the only thought that seems to matter.
“I certainly hope so. What’s wrong? Did you have nightmares again?”
Arthur is staring up at him with a bright, inquisitive expression. John likes the healthy red flush in his sharp cheeks. Those eyes should not make him feel the way they do; he has spent thousands of hours looking out them. There is no reason they should make him nervous.
“Yes,” John says faintly. “Nightmares.”
“It’s alright, darling. It’s just you and me here, together. No monsters.”
And then Arthur does something impossible, something John never thought -
He wraps his arms around John’s waist and kisses him.
Arthur stands on the balls of his feet - John is much taller - and presses his chest into John, warm and soft and here.
John’s heart races - he didn’t know it could do that - and he is frozen, confused and - something else. Something good.
“There,” Arthur says, grinning up at him. “Better.”
“Why did you do that?”
Arthur barks out a laugh. “I think you need some coffee. Come on, get dressed.”
John stands mute as Arthur throws on an outfit - underwear, slacks, shirt - and pads barefoot out of the bedroom. He calls over his shoulder, “You’re making the eggs this time.”
John leans hard against the windowsill, unsure of anything.
He knows this isn’t real. It can’t be. This must be some mirage conjured by the King, something that will inevitably be used to torture him, break his mind. Nothing that happens here can be trusted.
And yet.
He finds clothes for himself in the armoire - it’s obvious which are his: black shirts and large suits that Arthur would swim in - and dresses slowly. He’s distracted by the sight of himself in the mirror. A man - a human - tall and dark and strong, stares back at him. Unknown and yet strangely familiar. He has no idea what to make of that.
The sound of voices leads him to the kitchen, where the child - Faroe - chatters happily to a small gray cat winding around her feet.
Arthur busies himself in the fridge, setting things on the counter.
“Faroe - table, please.”
“But Papa, I’m teaching Babbs a trick! See, watch. Papa, watch!”
Arthur looks over his shoulder as the child holds up a piece of something - meat, perhaps - above the cat. The creature mows and stares up at her.
“Come on, Babsy! Up!”
The cat meows again, and then flops on its side.
“Aww,” she whines. “Stupid cat!”
“Faroe, be nice. Babbs isn’t a dog. Now, go set the table like I showed you.”
“But, Papa -”
“No ‘But Papas’ - now, please.” There is this tone in his voice John has never heard. A father’s voice, he realizes.
“Come, Faroe,” John says suddenly, surprising himself. “I’ll help you.”
Her face lights up when she notices him. She runs into his arms before he has a moment to think. She’s so light, a cloud in his arms, all wild hair and bright eyes and crooked smile. Arthur’s smile.
“Uncle John, did you know cats have whiskers?”
“I, uh - yes, I did.”
“What if I had whiskers?”
He cannot stop the smile that splits his face; hers is infectious. “That would be strange.”
“But then - Uncle John, but then I could fit into small spaces!”
“I don’t understand.”
“Like this -” And she burrows her face into his armpit, giggling madly. John doesn't mean to but he’s laughing, and he’s never, ever laughed like this. There is no cold satisfaction, no dark anger, no cunning retribution. This is a kind of felicity he has never known, not even with Arthur.
“What are you doing?” he chuckles.
Her head pops up, and her hair is even wilder. “That’s why cats have whiskers! For small spaces.”
“I see.”
John glances over and Arthur is watching them with this soft, fond expression.
“Come, child,” John says. “We’d best set the table before your father loses his patience with me.”
John sets her down, but she threads her tiny hand through his and leads him to the cupboards. He kneels down and whispers, “Would you show me how to do it? I’ve never set a table before.”
She lights up as though he’s asked her to demonstrate her favorite dance, and proceeds to direct him through all the plates and utensils and glassware. Her pushiness reminds him so strongly of Arthur that he grins the whole time, following her exact instructions. She clings to his hand. When he has to let go she clutches the side of his slacks, eyes following his every movement.
“Faroe, did you feed Babbs?” Arthur asks when the table is set.
“Mm-hm.”
The cat mills about her legs, meowing loudly.
“Faroe.”
She giggles. “No.”
“Go on, then. It wouldn’t be very fair if we were to eat and Babbs was hungry.”
She pours a small saucer of milk with precise care - “Not too much, now,” Arthur directs - and sets several slices of meat onto a plate. The cat circles her legs. John worries it might trip her but they manage to navigate everything in the end. Just like us, he thinks.
Arthur is busy at the counter, measuring and pouring and mixing. Unsure what to do, John fusses at the table. He's never cooked before.
“Hey, you.” Arthur glances at him. “I thought you were supposed to make eggs.”
There is a warmth in his eyes that says he’s teasing, and John loves everything about that expression on his face.
Faroe tugs on John’s hand. He kneels down so she can whisper in his ear. “Do you need help?”
He nods, smiling. She is ethereal and perfect and John has no idea how Arthur spawned such an amiable child. He was never this considerate.
She takes up the task easily enough, pulling out pans and utensils and ingredients. The stove is intimidating at first, but she shows John how to light the burner at a low setting (he does the bit with the match; there is no way he’s letting this child anywhere near flame). He realizes this cooking business isn’t so hard.
That doesn’t stop him from burning the eggs.
“Mother f -” he curses under his breath, annoyed. Arthur slaps his hand with a spatula.
“Language,” he chides with a wink.
“We’ve crossed worlds and killed monsters,” John mutters, “but somehow this is more infuriating.”
“You’ll get the hang of it. Although,” he adds, grinning slyly, “it might help if you turn the burner down.”
“God dammit -”
The spatula smacks John again. “That wicked tongue of yours -”
John snatches the utensil away. “Keep hitting me with that thing and I might hit you back.”
“Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you?” Arthur looks at him in a way that makes John coil inside; that crooked grin and those bright taunting eyes; and suddenly John wants nothing more than to drag him back into that bedroom and lock the door and push him against the wall and -
“Hmm,” Arthur chuckles, amused. “I like making you blush.”
“I -” John clears his throat, thoughts racing.
“Papa!” Faroe cries, and it’s like John is doused in ice water. “Is breakfast ready?”
“Just about, love. Go sit down.”
Arthur shoos him away from the stove, and John sits down across from the child, dazed. He’s not sure what just happened.
This chimeric scene feels like something out of a dream he has kept secret even from himself, a pastel vision of a life he never imagined. The kitchen, the child, the cat, and the sounds from the street below. Sunlight streaming in through the windows. And Arthur, separate from himself, happy and alive.
It isn’t real. John knows it isn’t real.
But he wants it - he wants it so badly to be true. There is nothing more he has ever wanted.
Arthur and John breakfast in contented silence while Faroe chatters about anything and everything that comes to mind. John likes the rise and fall of her voice, a sweet cadence that reminds him of Arthur.
“Do you ever feel like you’re dreaming?” he asks Arthur while Faroe tries in vain to teach tricks to the cat. “But you’re really awake?”
“Sometimes. Late at night, I suppose. Why? Is that why you’re so quiet this morning?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know how to explain it. I just… doesn’t this all seem so…”
“So what?”
Sublime is the word on the tip of his tongue. John shrugs. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”
“John…”
“Papa! Can we go to market today?”
“I suppose so. We need to pick up some groceries in any case. Why, what would you like to do there, my love?”
“Mrs. Prachett said her cat had kittens, and she’s taking them to market to sell, and I really, really, really want to go see them, Papa, can we go see them?”
“Faroe, we can’t get another cat.”
“We don’t have to get one, I just want to see them! Mrs. Pratchett said they’re all different colors. And she said one of them has spots like a leopard! Please, Papa. Can we go see them? Please.”
Arthur looks skeptical. “Alright. We can go look at them. But that’s it. I don’t want you asking for a kitten once we’re there.”
“Pinky promise, Papa!”
To John’s bemusement she sticks out one tiny pinky and wraps it around Arthur’s.
“Pinky promise,” he repeats, fondness in his voice.
“Oh, and can we go to the candy store?”
Arthur chuckles. “You really are a demanding little monster today, aren’t you.”
Faroe catches John’s eye and he winks. She giggles into her hands.
Leaving the apartment is more arduous than John would have anticipated - the child requires a level of attention he is not accustomed to. She is easily distracted, loud, verbose, and prone to random, startling questions that entirely derail his train of thought. He decides there must be something very wrong with him because there is no reason why any of those things should fill him with such fondness.
He looks at Arthur and the feeling blossoms, inexplicable and beautiful.
John has never before walked down the street as a human. He is disarmed by the morning breeze, the smell of the sea, the cool wetness of dewdrops off the apartment awning. Although he has spent time in this world, very little of that was attended with any level of sensation. He thinks of Arthur’s hand and foot, these single points of awareness that connected him to this plane of existence. How much time he and Arthur spent in pain and fear and worry.
So much time taken from them both.
Several people greet them on their walk: an elderly woman with a hairstyle contemporary to the previous century; a pair of men who appear to be on their way to the shoreline, buckets and fishing poles in hand; several children who run by with shrieks of delight, a whirlwind of limbs and braids and dresses; a woman who stops and asks Faroe if she’s been doing her homework, and how is the cat (John surmises she is a teacher).
Some of them nod at John, but others are wary, glancing at him sideways. Several people whisper to one another, throwing them suspicious looks. They must make a strange trio, John's imposing figure next to Arthur, slight and pale, and Faroe between them, chattering a mile a minute.
“You’re glowering,” Arthur mutters in his ear as a woman passes by, looking nervous (John feels Arthur’s breath on his neck, shivering against his skin).
“What? No, I’m not.”
“I see. So that’s just how your face is, then?”
“I don’t know. What else should I do with it?”
“Smile, perhaps. You could try looking less as though you want to murder everyone who walks by.”
“It’s not my fault if they take it that way.”
“You are such a facetious bastard.”
John prods him. “What happened to ‘language, John?’”
Arthur sighs, but there is a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “You bring it out of me. You know, I used to be such a cordial, well-behaved man before I met you.”
A surprised laugh bursts out of John. “I don’t believe that for a moment, Arthur.”
“Well. Perhaps not. But I was more civil, in any case.”
“Hmm. I think I prefer you direct and demanding.”
“You say that now but whenever we’re arguing I think you're prefer it if I'd just capitulate. You do like telling me what to do.”
“I believe the feeling is mutual.”
Arthur gives him another one of those looks he can’t quite decipher: sharp and warm and inviting.
John clears his throat. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll practice smiling more.”
“Only, do try not to look so much like a psychotic vampire while you’re at it.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Faroe bounds up to them suddenly, taking John by the hand.
“Uncle John! Uncle John! We’re almost there.”
“Yes, I see that, child.”
The crowd has increased exponentially - a market bursting into life around the corner, full of people and chatter and noise and a wild array of scents. The crowd stretches down several street corners, stalls and booths sprouting like mushrooms along the walkway. A flower vendor explodes with color and floral smell, the florist busy wrapping bouquets as a line of women squabble over roses and hyacinths. Flashy dresses flap in the breeze at a seamstress’ stall, and nearby dozens of people mill by the farming vendors, haggling over vegetables and canned goods. John cannot remember seeing as many people in one place. It is overwhelming and breathtaking.
“Uncle John, can we go find the kittens?” Faroe stares up at him, eyes shining.
“I suppose…”
“Oh, so you’re going to sneak off with John so you can convince him to get you a kitten.” Arthur swoops in, scooping Faroe up in his arms as she shrieks and giggles.
“No, Papa! I’m not!”
“Oh, no? You weren’t going to ask him for one?”
“No, Papa!” She shrieks with laughter as he blows a raspberry on her neck.
He sets her down as she pants and giggles. “Alright. Go find your kittens. I’ll pick up some groceries and - if you’re very good - a few sweets from the chocolatier.”
Faroe’s eyes go comically wide. “Really, Papa?”
“Only if you mind your manners. And don’t boss John around. Do you think you can do that?”
“Mm-hm.”
John does not mistake the mischievous look in her eyes. She really is her father’s daughter.
“Come find me when you’re done. I won’t be far.” He looks at John, smiling softly. “You’ll be alright?”
“Of course, Arthur.”
Faroe tugs on his hand, hard, and then they’re headed into the market.
It is hard to believe that Arthur would trust him with his daughter, John muses as they amble down the street. Faroe chatters ceaselessly, pausing every few steps to examine something at a booth. Not so long ago Arthur thought him a monster, a murderer. The last thing he would have trusted John with was Faroe’s safety. But in this vision - whatever it is - Arthur looks at him with the sort of utter trust reserved only for... Well, only for someone John is certain he is not.
But the idea of letting Faroe come to harm is… abhorrent. The thought fills him with such sudden rage that he is taken aback, overwhelmed by its fury.
He glowers darkly at a passing family, who shy away from him with stricken expressions, before he remembers what Arthur said. Smile.
“Uncle John.” Faroe tugs at his hand. “Do you see the kittens?”
He looks about, a strange feeling of deja vu sweeping him. How many times has he done this exact thing for Arthur? At least here, in this strange fantasy, they are looking for something utterly benign.
“I don’t, child.”
She looks so put-out that he feels guilty of all things. Before he can think too much about it he says, “If you like I could carry you on my back. You’d be able to see much farther.”
She brightens instantly, beaming that disarming smile. He lifts her up (she feels like a bundle of sticks; so small and light). She squirms onto his shoulders, all knobbly knees and gripping fingers, her dress bunching under his arms. He thinks he could carry her for miles and miles like this and he wouldn’t mind in the least.
“Where to, Faroe?”
“I don’t see them.”
“Let’s wander around, then.”
They amble, and Faroe’s high-pitched voice is oddly centering. He wonders if this is how it was for Arthur, someone babbling in his ear without any restraint. It’s an unnerving thought.
“Uncle John! Over there, I see them, I see them!”
They make their way to a slower part of the market where several vendors display various farm animals. Penned goats nibble at passing legs, hoping for scraps; an enormous pig snores in the washed sunlight; clucking chickens peck mechanically on the tossed hay.
Faroe squirms off his back without another word, bolting to a nearby stall where a middle-aged woman with black braids and a severe expression sits knitting a sweater. She glances up at Faroe’s cry and her face softens.
“Hi, Mrs. Pratchett - can I see the kittens?”
“Hello to you, too, Faroe. Are you doing well today?”
“Mm-hm. Can I -”
“And your father? How is he?”
“He’s fine. Can I -”
“And your…uncle. I see he’s with you today.” She eyes John speculatively. He waits several paces back, unsure what to do.
“Yes. Can I see the kittens?” Faroe bursts out, unable to contain herself.
Mrs. Pratchett obliges, smiling jocosely. She points, and Faroe runs to a large, topless crate, oohing as she gazes inside.
John wanders over, curious.
“How are you today, Mr…Doe?” She looks him over, clearly unsure what to make of him.
“Just fine, Mrs. Pratchett.”
“And your… brother?” It is evident she understands that he and Arthur are in no manner related.
“Shopping for vegetables, I presume.”
“I see.”
He joins Faroe at the crate, crouching next to her. Her wild hair bobs about as she looks from kitten to kitten. They’re several months old, furry, and - as promised - a multitude of colors and patterns.
“Uncle John!” she says in a loud whisper. “Do you see the spotted one?”
He does. It’s small - smaller than the rest - and its eyes are wide and blue. Its black spots stand out against its blond coloring, and it has two white feet. He reaches out a tentative hand. The kitten hisses, puffing up, before it sniffs his hand for several long seconds. Then it gives a tiny mewl and bumps its head against John’s fingers. He cannot believe how small it is.
“Strange thing, that one. It might look sweet, but it’s the runt of the litter,” Mrs. Pratchett remarks, busy at her knitting again. “Hard to keep alive through the winter, poor things. And they make terrible barn cats.”
“Does it have a name?” John hears himself asking.
Mrs. Pratchett hmphs. “I only name the ones that stay with me. You can call it whatever you like.”
John looks at Faroe, and she watches him with large, hazel eyes, far too intelligent for a child her age. Arthur’s eyes. She says nothing, and he says nothing.
The kitten is soft and warm and fragile in his hands. He doesn’t remember picking it up, but somehow it is burrowed in the crook of his arm. He looks again at Faroe. She smiles, mischievous and lovely.
He thinks she will make an excellent politician one day.
“John. Why is there a kitten in your pocket?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“John.” Arthur lets out a long-suffering sigh. His arms are full of grocery bags - John takes two, carrying them easily in one hand. He realizes how much he likes this body, its strength and power. He likes that he can help Arthur the way he was never able to help before.
“Papa! Did you go to the candy store?” Faroe bounces on her heels.
Arthur gives her an ironic look. “Didn’t I say something about how candy is only for good behavior?”
“But, Papa! I didn’t ask John for a kitten, I didn't. I promise!”
“It’s true, Arthur,” John says, trying not to grin. “She never once asked.”
Arthur’s indignant expression warms him. “Then why, in God’s name, is there a kitten in your pocket?”
John glances down at the tuft of fur poking out of his coat pocket, the bundle warm against his chest. He looks back at Arthur’s miffed face. “She said it might die in the winter.”
“Who said that? You know what -” He takes in a breath through his nose. “Never mind. Look, if I had known the two of you were going to conspire against me I never would have agreed to let you move in.”
“Does that mean we can keep it, Papa?” Faroe is flushed and grinning so wide John thinks she might pull a muscle.
“No. Yes. I - I don’t know. Can we just - oh, Christ. Let’s go home.” He stalks off, muttering under his breath.
Faroe looks distressed.
“Uncle John? Is Papa angry?”
John kneels down, taking care not to squash the kitten. “No, child. Well, he might be a little annoyed at me. But you haven’t done anything wrong, alright?”
She doesn’t look convinced.
“Don’t worry, little one. He’s just throwing a tantrum. He’ll get over it soon enough.”
Faroe giggles into her hands. “Does that mean we can keep her?”
“I believe so. What do you think we should call it?”
Faroe ponders seriously, face screwed up. “How about Ginger?”
“She’s not very orange, though.”
“Spots?”
“A bit on the nose, maybe.”
“Mm. Fluffy!” She grins wide.
“That’s a sweet name.”
“Fluffy! Fluffy, Fluffy, Fluffy!”
John chuckles. “Excellent choice, Faroe. Come. Let’s go find your father before he throws another tantrum.”
It starts to drizzle, cool and misty. A spring rain. Giggling, Faroe hides under John’s long coat, tiny arms wrapped around his waist. In this way they amble down the street, he and the child and the cat, in search of his human. John thinks that he has never been more content.