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smilingformoney · 20 hours ago

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It's me... Hi, I'm the problem it's me... ok, it's only fun if you like Taylor Swift haha If you have inspiration, do you think you could write a very, very, veryyyyy fluffy story ? I let you choose the character, the oc just need a lot of comfort, love and support haha

Title: Soft Spot

Summary: Sinclair Bryant has one for you and you’re starting to suspect you’ve got one for him too. Especially when he brings you tea, calls it a potion, and kisses your forehead like it’s sacred ground.

Pairing: Sinclair Bryant × Fem! Reader

Warnings: None

Author's Notes: Sorry for taking so long to respond to this request.

Also read on Ao3

It all started with a sneeze. A small one, barely there. Then another, and another. You’d tried to hide it, of course—you always did. You tucked your face into your sleeve, turned away from the barn door as if the cold wind was to blame. But Sinclair Bryant noticed.

He always noticed.

Even when he pretended not to. Even when his mouth kept moving with some ramble about wool quality or rainfall percentages or the way sheep could recognize up to fifty different faces—“scientifically proven, love, I read it somewhere, probably in New Sheep Weekly or the Lancet, not sure which.” Even then, he’d noticed.

And by that afternoon, you'd been banished.

Well—not quite banished. Relocated. Relocated firmly to the old wooden porch swing wrapped in at least three layers of patchwork quilts, a mug of scalding tea in your hands (ginger, lemon, honey—he’d quadruple-checked the ratios), and orders not to move.

“Sinclair,” you croaked from under the wool blanket fortress, “this is ridiculous. I just sneezed.”

“Six times,” he said pointedly, head popping up from behind a small herd of lambs like a disapproving meerkat. His blond hair glinted under the late sun, a straw hat pushed too far back on his head. “Eight if we count the ones you tried to stifle in the hayloft.”

You sighed, nursing your tea. “I work here, remember? You don’t have to do my job and lecture me.”

He was already herding the fluffiest of the ewes toward the pen, still talking. “You used to work here. Now you’re my girlfriend. Entirely different category. No sick days when you’re just an employee, but when you’re someone’s treasured, beloved companion in life’s brief and chaotic adventure—”

“Clair.”

“—you get tea, and blankets, and an absurd number of nose kisses if you’ll ever let me near your face again.”

Your lips twitched.

“You’re doing my job,” you called out after a beat, quieter this time.

“And loving it,” Sinclair chirped back. “Marigold and the twins told me I’m doing splendidly. Didn’t you, sweet girl?” He bent down to stroke one of the ewes, cooing softly. “She says I’ve got a natural herder’s soul.”

“You paid me to do that. You shouldn’t be out there—”

“Nonsense,” he said, waving a hand. “I’d pay double for the privilege of chasing these woolly creatures about if it meant you’d stay put and let me take care of you. Honestly, you’ve been here months, and this is the first time I’ve had an excuse to fuss.”

You tried to suppress a smile, cheeks warming. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“I know,” he beamed, already knee-deep in mud, one trouser leg caught in a fence. “Isn’t it grand?”

You sipped your tea, watching him gently scoop up a stubborn lamb and cradle it against his chest like it was made of glass. There was a gentleness to Sinclair that never quite matched his brilliance. He could talk for hours about economic fluctuations, quote poetry from memory, and then trip over his own shoelaces because he got distracted by a particularly soft-looking cloud.

But his eyes—those ever-changing hazel eyes—were always on you when it mattered.

Ever since Natalie. Ever since that betrayal, Sinclair had been cautious. Wary, yes, but watchful. Not possessive—never that—but attuned. Even when he rambled about the chemical structure of lanolin or how sheep recognized pitch in human voices, you knew he was watching your fingers tremble around the tea mug. Clocking the flush in your cheeks. The tired slouch of your shoulders.

And now here you were, bundled up and warm, doing absolutely nothing but basking in the golden hour light, watching your reclusive, sheep-obsessed, softly brilliant boyfriend whisper secrets to his flock while you got to fall in love with him all over again.

“You’re gonna catch a cold too,” you warned, sniffling.

Sinclair paused mid-step, glanced up, and grinned. “Then you’ll have to take care of me. And I quite like the sound of that, actually.”

You rolled your eyes, but the fondness in your chest bloomed like spring through frost. You looked around, letting your eyes sweep across the familiar sprawl of land now bathed in the warm blush of late afternoon. The farm had changed—more than you’d ever admit aloud. Two years ago, it had been barely hanging on, a sheep farm in its final wheezing stretch of breath. The fences were half-rotted, the barns crumbling, the staff overworked and underpaid.

And then Sinclair Bryant had arrived.

He’d driven up in an ancient Volvo and a coat too expensive for mud, stepped out onto gravel in gleaming brogues, and declared—with the sort of breezy finality only a man with millions could afford—that he was buying the place.

You hadn’t believed him. None of you had.

But he had. Bought it outright. Kept the staff—every last one, including you. He didn’t fire anyone, didn’t tear it down to build a wellness resort or some corporate retreat center like everyone feared. No, Sinclair had just... moved in.

The first few weeks were strange. He barely left the main house—some grand, creaky Victorian heap with ivy strangling the brickwork and chimneys that coughed when it rained. He kept odd hours, wandered at dawn in robes and slippers like some misplaced philosopher, and spent most of his time pacing the fields or sitting in the barn with a lamb in his lap and talking.

God, the way he talked.

Not just to the animals—which was bizarre enough, considering he held full-blown one-sided debates with a sheep named Lord Baa-bington—but to you, to the others, to himself. Endlessly. Passionately. One minute it was Greek stoicism, the next it was whether or not sheep experienced envy. You’d learned more about pasture rotation and planetary retrogrades in a week than you had in all your years on the job.

At first, you dismissed it. Chalked it up to rich-people eccentricity. Maybe he’d lost a bet. Maybe it was a tax shelter. You tried not to think about it too much.

But then weeks passed. And he stayed.

He fixed the fencing himself. Badly, but with conviction. Painted the front gate a shade of blue he called optimistic periwinkle. Donated money to the local school, hosted an accidental sheep yoga class (you still didn’t know how that had happened), and learned all the animals’ names by heart. He brought books for the break room. Memorized everyone’s birthdays. Hired a therapist for the overanxious border collie.

And slowly—painfully slowly—you began to understand.

He hadn’t come here to turn a profit. He hadn’t come for prestige or because it made sense. He’d come here to stay.

You’d watched from a distance, wary at first. Always quiet. Always withdrawn. You’d never been the kind of person who filled silences. You didn’t like being noticed, didn’t trust ease. But Sinclair... Sinclair made space.

He talked and talked and talked—and never once asked you to match him. He just... filled the room with his gentle, earnest noise, and let you breathe in it. Let you exist beside it. He didn’t demand conversation. He offered it like bread.

And, somehow, you found yourself changing. Without even realizing it.

Now, as you sat beneath the porch awning, watching him wander through the field with a crooked fence post tucked under one arm and a paperback stuffed in the back of his jeans, you let the moment wash over you.

Sinclair paused halfway through the pasture, his blond hair lit up like a halo in the evening light, and turned suddenly as if sensing your gaze.

“You’re thinking again,” he called, grinning. “Don’t deny it, your face always does this thing when you’re thinking too hard—it’s very serious. Very noble. Also slightly terrifying.”

You raised your brows. “It’s my face.”

“Yes, and I adore it,” he called back. “Even when you’re giving me that look like I’ve just asked if sheep should vote. Which, by the way, not the worst idea—”

“Clair.”

“Yes, love?”

You smiled. “Nothing.”

He beamed at you from across the pasture, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun, the other absentmindedly petting a lamb that had ambled up to his side. The wind caught the hem of his jumper, tugged it just enough to show the ridiculous sheep-print boxers he insisted on wearing for luck.

And somehow, in that absurdly perfect moment, you realized something simple and true:

You weren’t just grateful he’d saved the farm.

You were grateful he’d saved you, too. Just by being exactly who he was.

Soft. Brilliant. Rambly. And yours.

Later that night, with the sheep finally tucked away in their pens and the sky spilling stars across the quiet countryside, Sinclair Bryant was still fussing.

You sat curled on the battered old sofa in the sunroom, one of his oversized cardigans swallowing you whole, a book open on your lap—though you hadn’t turned the page in fifteen minutes. Not with him pacing the floor like a man preparing for battle.

“Okay,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice low and distracted as he examined the tray he’d brought in. “Chamomile or peppermint? Wait—what did the book say again? Something about antihistamines and natural oils—bugger it, where’s the ginger?”

You sneezed.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Just a small, exhausted, perfectly average sneeze.

Sinclair’s head snapped up like someone had just set off a flare in the room.

“There it is again!” he declared, hazel eyes wide with alarm. “You’re not better. I knew it.”

You groaned softly, burrowing deeper into the cardigan. “Clair, I’m fine. People sneeze. It’s a normal bodily function.”

“Not when I’m responsible for your wellbeing, it isn’t,” he replied, rushing over with the urgency of someone delivering an antidote, a fluffy pair of socks clutched in one hand. “Feet. Give them.”

“I already have socks.”

“Yes, but do you have these socks?” He held them up like a magician unveiling a rare treasure. “Cashmere. Purple. Warm enough to trick your toes into thinking it’s July.”

You stared at him, utterly defeated by the glint in his eye. “I love you,” you mumbled, sliding your feet into his lap.

He beamed. “I know.”

As he tugged the socks over your toes—gently, reverently, like you were some recovering Victorian invalid—he started to ramble again. “I read this thing once—well, skimmed it really, I was in a queue and it was printed on the back of a cereal box—but it said colds thrive when people are stressed, so really, your recovery is directly linked to how thoroughly I can pamper you.”

“That’s not science.”

“Could be. If we believe hard enough.”

You sneezed again. He froze.

“Right, that’s it,” Sinclair said, standing so suddenly your feet bounced off his lap. “I’m making the lemon potion again.”

You blinked. “Please stop calling it that.”

“Potion,” he insisted, already disappearing into the kitchen, “because elixir sounded too dramatic, and tonic made me feel like I should be wearing suspenders and selling it off the back of a wagon.”

You could hear him rattling in drawers, humming something that suspiciously resembled the theme song from The Muppet Show. Despite your sniffles and the persistent tickle in your throat, you smiled. He was ridiculous. He was overbearing. He was utterly relentless.

But God, he was yours.

Five minutes later, he returned—triumphantly balancing a steaming mug, a plate of biscuits, and a hot water bottle shaped like a cartoon sheep. “Name’s Fergus,” he said, plopping it beside you with pride. “He’ll watch over you while you rest.”

“I’m not dying, Clair,” you laughed, but you snuggled Fergus anyway.

“I know,” he said softly, settling beside you with a sigh, tugging you gently against his chest. “But every time you sneeze, it’s like my whole nervous system goes into alert mode. You know those ducklings that imprint on the first thing they see and follow it forever?”

“…Are you the duckling in this scenario?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation, wrapping his arms around you. “And you keep sneezing, so my instincts are screaming tend! protect! administer honey-based liquids!”

You snorted into his jumper.

His voice dropped to a murmur, breath warm against your temple. “Let me take care of you. Just for tonight. No sheep. No chores. Just you. Me. Fergus the hot water bottle. I’ll even read to you.”

You tilted your head, eyeing him suspiciously. “From what?”

He grinned, already reaching into the pocket of his cardigan. “The thrilling and highly underrated classic ‘The Secret Lives of Sheep.’”

You groaned. “Clair, no—”

“Hush,” he said, flipping it open, clearing his throat with exaggerated pomp. “Chapter Eight: Social Hierarchies in Ewe Groups. ‘Though often underestimated, sheep display a wide array of social—’”

You laughed until you coughed, and he immediately paused, rubbing slow circles on your back.

“Alright,” he said gently, voice still warm with amusement but laced with concern. “That’s enough academic seduction for tonight.”

You leaned against him, the sheep book abandoned on the armrest, your fingers twisting into the wool of his sleeve.

“I really am okay,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair. “But you don’t have to prove it.”

You closed your eyes, the sound of his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. The farmhouse creaked softly around you, the scent of lemon and ginger in the air, and the warmth of Sinclair’s arms wrapped around you like a second quilt.

Maybe you were a little sick.

Maybe the sneeze would come back in a few minutes and he’d spring to life like a golden-haired butler hopped up on Victorian medicine ads.

But for now, you were safe.

You were warm.

And Sinclair Bryant—rambling, over-attentive, hopelessly endearing Sinclair Bryant—was exactly where you wanted him to be.

#SOFF BOI #ofc he loves sheep #it’s the Mary in him 🙂‍↕️#sinclair bryant

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smilingformoney · 6 days ago

Text

Champagne Problems

Chapter 11. Never Not Mine

Lionel/Reader

Summary: Lionel Shabandar is inevitable.

Word Count: 12k

CW: 9/11, cancer

AN: Thank you everyone for going on this ride with me ♥ I'm sorry I had to break your hearts a couple of times, but Lionel needed some serious character development. See you all at the next fic I write that spirals out of control ✌🏻

All chapters here!

Read on Ao3 or WattPad or below the cut:

1997

Leaving was the hardest thing you’d ever done.

You didn’t even realise how integrated your lives were until you had to separate them. Even living abroad, you still had plenty of belongings in Lionel’s apartment, and you had to ship them all off to Connecticut. And stashed away in a safe at the back of a wardrobe in an empty room, you had a six-year-old letter from a bank, confirming that your account had been set up. Just as you’d asked, they’d never written to you, and it was only from an off-hand comment from Lionel that you even remembered the account existed.

You made an appointment with the bank and arranged for the account to be closed and the entire balance to be wired to your US account. Although they couldn’t give you an exact figure that would land in your US account, as they couldn’t account for the receiving account’s fees for a large international wire transfer, they could tell you what they were sending.

Your hand clapped over your mouth when they gave you a seven-digit number. Not to stop yourself from gasping, but to stop yourself from laughing.

You were a millionaire. The sum Lionel had given you six years ago had been much lower, but with interest and exchange rates, you’d managed to sit on that sum until it made you a millionaire.

You didn’t tell Cole what was happening. You didn’t want him to change his mind, to think he had to go back to England to keep his parents together. He had to follow his own path, and you wouldn’t let him hold himself back for your sake.

You also didn’t tell Sinclair — not until you were back in the States, and he found you sobbing in the back garden one night.

He didn’t ask you what was wrong. He just sat next to you on the swinging bench and put an arm around you. He was a little sweaty, having just come back from playing cricket, but you didn’t care. You were just glad to have him, because soon enough, he would be gone too.

“You broke up with Lionel, didn’t you?” Sinclair said eventually, once your tears had subsided enough that you’d be able to talk.

You nodded and sat up, wiping the tears from your cheeks.

“Was it because of what happened? My accident, I mean?”

You shook your head.

“No, Sinclair, it wasn’t that. It gave us cause to think, but… it’s not your fault. I hope you don’t think it was. We just… we’re on different paths. Mine’s here, and his is in England.”

Sinclair took your hand in his. “I’m really gonna miss you.”

”Yeah, me too,” you agreed with a sniffle. “But — it won’t be like last time, okay? I’m not gonna cut you off again. We can still be friends.”

“Oh, thank god!” Sinclair sighed with relief. “Good, I don’t wanna lose you again. So I can come visit you?”

“Please do! You can come and visit me as much as you want. And if I ever come back to England, you’ll be the first person I call. I won’t stay in touch with Lionel, at least not at first, it’ll hurt too much. We might have to talk about Cole occasionally, but otherwise…” You sighed and shook your head. “If we’re on separate paths, it’s best we stay on them.”

Sinclair nodded. “I understand. And, hey, maybe… maybe one day your paths will reconnect again.”

“…Maybe,” you said.

But you doubted it.

- - -

2012

Lionel didn’t see you again until fifteen years had passed.

It was completely unexpected. He was hosting a gala, and sweet-talking a very strange but rather amusing Texan woman who he cautiously hoped might have the real Haystacks Dusk, and trying not to blow up at Harry Deane, who was once again getting on his last nerve.

“That isn’t a nudist gathering! Someone’s been having you on,” Lionel said irritably when Deane suggested the Eden Retreat was some sort of nudist gathering. Yes, he liked to walk around naked, but in the privacy of his own home. He had no desire to go to some sort of gathering to get his kit off. “It’s one of —”

Lionel froze, staring at a figure that had just emerged from the crowd. Even if you’d been wearing a mask, he would have recognised you. Fifteen years wasn’t enough time to forget the way you held yourself, the shape of your body, the colour of your hair.

Before he managed to compose himself, Deane put his foot in it.

“Crikey, is that [Y/n]?”

You turned your head when you heard your name, your eyes met Lionel’s, and suddenly the whole world fell away.

You looked incredible. You were older, of course - you were both nearly sixty now - but still you were the picture of beauty, your hair and dress modest but more elegant and damn well sexier than any other woman there.

Lionel barely noticed his feet carrying him forward as he went to greet you.

“Who’s that?” PJ, the Texan woman, half-whispered to Deane.

Deane looked at you with a smirk.

“That, my dear, is [Y/n] [L/n]… and she may well be the deus ex machina we needed to pull off this little stunt.”

“Dayus what now?”

“She’s the reason Shabandar bought Haystacks Dawn in the first place. She’s the reason he never married — too hung up on his first love. He proposed to her twice, and she turned him down both times. Men like Shabandar, they like to chase the unattainable — and he’s been chasing her for forty years. Haystacks Dusk might be just the thing to finally win her over.”

Lionel heard nothing of Deane’s scheme. He only saw you.

He stopped in front of you and drank in the sight of you. You looked back at him challengingly with an amused smirk.

“Are you going to say hello or are you just going to gawk at me?”

Lionel smiled.

“Hello, [Y/n].”

“Hi.”

“You look… absolutely incredible.”

“You look old. Are those liver spots?”

Lionel’s lips twitched with the threat of a smile.

“I can assure you, I still have the heart and the stamina of a lion. Though I must ask what you’re doing here.”

“Sinclair invited me. He said you’d found Haystacks Dusk.”

Lionel laughed. “Is that what it took to bring you home? Well, I’m yet to verify its authenticity, so don’t get your hopes up too high. I’ll be having it appraised a little later. Perhaps you’d like to join us?”

Your eyes darted to the side. Lionel glanced in that direction, and remembered Deane and PJ.

“Ah, yes. Introductions.” Lionel hovered his hand behind your lower back and guided you back to the strange duo. “Deane. You’ll remember [Y/n], of course.”

“How do you do,” Harry said politely, and you smiled. He was still trying so desperately to be like Lionel. When would he learn that he was wonderful enough as he was?

“And this is Ms Puznowski. She’s brought us Dusk all the way from her trailer in Texas.”

“Howdy! You can call me PJ!” exclaimed PJ, sticking out her hand to you, and you shook it with a small laugh to yourself. Lionel must be optimistic about the painting — there was no way he’d associate himself with someone so boisterous otherwise.

“Nice to meet you, PJ,” you said. “How did you end up with a long-lost Monet?”

“Oh, it’s been in my family long as I can remember!” PJ said, glancing at Harry. “Reckon my grandpappy found it during World War 2 — oh, hey! You boys get your bellies full?”

PJ waved enthusiastically at someone behind you. You and Lionel both turned around to see you were being approached by a group of Japanese men, who all seemed to be very drunk, very happy, and each holding a plate of half-eaten food.

“Blast, here they come again,” Lionel muttered under his breath. “I would rather not have to talk to them. Can’t we just do business?”

You laughed.

“Don’t you laugh,” Lionel hissed.

“I can take care of these old boys,” PJ said confidently, and she strode past you to greet the men.

“Gentlemen,” Lionel said politely as they came within earshot. “Found some nourishment, I see.”

PJ grinned at the men conspiratorially. “Have you boys heard of a little thing called live karaoke?”

One of the men said something to the others in Japanese, apparently translating, although they were already smiling in amusement. They apparently loved the idea, because they agreed with a cheer, and PJ enthusiastically beckoned you and Lionel to follow her and her gaggle of drunk Japanese businessmen towards one of the gazebos.

You tried to back away, thinking “live karaoke” with a bunch of drunk businessmen sounded like hell, but Lionel grabbed you firmly by the shoulder.

“Oh, no, you don’t. I’m not suffering through this alone. We have to keep her sweet if she’s going to sell us that painting.”

“Us? This is your deal, Lionel, not mine,” you said, though you came with him, if only for the entertainment of watching him suffer.

“Dawn is yours as much as it’s mine, so Dusk must be too. Besides, this is why you came here tonight, is it not?”

“It’s why Sinclair invited me. It’s not why I came.”

Lionel looked at you with a curious frown, but he interrupted himself with a groan when he spotted PJ and one of the Japanese men talking to the band.

“Who are those guys?” you asked, and Lionel explained his plan to acquire a large amount of Japanese television channels from them.

“And what’s she got to do with them? They seem friendly.”

“I took her to my lunch meeting with them.”

“Why?”

Lionel didn’t answer. You looked at him, then rolled your eyes.

“You’re such a peacock.”

He shrugged. “She’s quite good, actually.”

“What, in bed?”

“No, at networking. As to her abilities in bed, I couldn’t possibly comment.”

“Really?” you said with surprise. “She’s kinda hot, and I don’t see a ring on her finger. You’re not trying to sleep with her?”

“Not anymore.”

“No? What changed?”

Lionel looked down at you with a smirk. “There’s a much more beautiful woman at this gala I’ve got my eye on.”

You elbowed him.

“Cad.”

He just laughed.

The band struck up a song, and the man Lionel had told you was called Katsuhara started to sing in perfect English.

“Hey, Shabby!” PJ exclaimed as she bounded up to him. “You wanna dance?”

She showed off some of her moves, and Lionel laughed politely. She held her hand out to him.

“C’mon, let’s show ‘em how it’s done!”

Lionel glanced at you with an expression that screamed help me!

You slipped your arm through Lionel’s emphatically.

“Actually, Lionel was just asking me to dance.”

“Indeed I was,” Lionel said quickly, catching on. “Excuse us.”

He ushered you a few feet away to a slightly less crowded spot and put a hand on your waist while the other picked up your right hand.

“I can’t say this is how I expected this night to go,” Lionel said with wry amusement. “First you show up, now you’ve got me dancing.”

“I’ll have you settling down next.”

Lionel pulled you in closer and his eyes flashed dangerously.

“Darling, I made it perfectly clear I was willing to settle down with you. It’s you that buggered off to America, as I recall. What brought you back to England?”

“Cole did. Hasn’t he spoken to you?”

“No, it’s been a while. Is he alright?”

You hesitated.

“Maybe we should talk privately —”

A cheer interrupted you, and the band changed suddenly from swing to some upbeat folksy song. You looked over at the small stage, and laughed to see PJ was literally letting her hair down and preparing to sing a song about Texas.

“I don’t know why you wanted to fuck her,” you said to Lionel with amusement. “She’d just ride you and say ‘yeehaw’ when she came.”

Lionel laughed — a real laugh, not the fake laughter he’d been placating PJ and the businessmen with all evening. He looked down at you as if he’d just realised something.

“You know what? I think I’ve rather missed you.”

You smiled smugly.

“I know.”

- - -

Later, you gave Lionel some space as he sweet-talked the Japanese businessmen, and instead you found Sinclair, who was sitting at a table with a baby on his lap, playing airplane with a spoonful of food. The table was littered with dirty plates, which told you his kids had already stuffed their faces and run off.

“Hey, golden boy. How’s the little one?”

Sinclair looked up at you as you sat down at the table and grinned. “Hi, [Y/n]! She’s great, but she’s very stubborn about eating. Not like me at all. But you’ll learn, won’t you, Lily?”

“Bah!” Lily replied, apparently excited to hear her own name, and Sinclair took the opportunity to land the plane in her mouth.

“I saw you and Lionel talking. Are you getting back together yet?”

You rolled your eyes with a smile. “Come on, Clair, don’t get ahead of yourself. Where’s your man?”

Sinclair pointed to the band where his partner, Sam, was tuning his guitar. Sam seemed to sense the attention on him, because he looked up, grinned, and waved enthusiastically at you both.

“Never mind me and Lionel — when are you two getting married?”

Sinclair bit his lip.

“I dunno. I haven’t asked yet. What if he’s planning to ask? How does it work when there’s two men, do you both propose?”

You laughed. Sinclair had adopted six children, and somehow he was raising them all on his own. He had nannies and housekeepers to support him, but he was never an absent father. He was always there at the dinner table, and even with his happy-go-lucky attitude, he still managed to keep them all in line. And when his mother died and left him a sizeable inheritance, Sinclair quit full-time work and became a consultant, working on his own schedule, which allowed him to be at home with his litter of children.

It also meant he had time to host even more parties. At one such party, he found the guitarist for the band he’d hired had been pulled into playing games by some of his youngest, and the rest had been history. Sinclair was what Cole had described as a “late bloomer” — he’d been over fifty by the time he realised his serial monogamy with women in his 20s and 30s was, at least in part, overcompensation for something else.

“Maybe you should ask Cole, he’s the expert,” you said. “But I’d say if you want to ask, you should ask.”

“It’s not too late, is it? I mean, I’m fifty-nine and I’m not getting any younger…”

“Exactly, you’re not getting any younger. You could live another thirty years still, you know. And besides, how can it be too late? It’s only been legal for two years.”

“Do you ever regret not getting married?”

You looked over at Lionel, who was currently deep in negotiations with the Japanese businessmen. He held himself with such confidence, oozing charisma as he sweet-talked them, fake-laughing with charm where appropriate and furrowing his brow in concentration when the talks turned serious.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “We’ve lost out on so much time together because of stubborn pride. But I’ve had an amazing life in America. Would I give that up to have been with him…? I don’t know. I wish I could have had both.”

“I was so angry with him when I found out.”

You looked back at Sinclair with a frown. “When you found out what?”

“That he stayed in England because of me. If I’d known, I would have stayed in America and adopted there so we could all be together! But then again, I wouldn’t have my kids, I’d have different kids, and I’m sure I’d love them just as much, but I love the kids I have now, and if I could change things - if I could go back and stay in America so you and Lionel would be together…”

Sinclair hesitated. You smiled and placed your hand over his, knowing full well what his answer would be.

“It’s okay, I understand — I chose Cole, after all. A parent’s first choice should always be their children. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think Lionel was being entirely truthful. It wasn’t just you. I think he stayed for his mum too, and for his home.” You gestured around. “This place is his home. He’ll probably die here. Then God only knows what’ll happen to it. It’ll be Cole’s, I guess… he’ll probably turn it into an art museum.”

Lionel jogged over to you then, with a wide grin on his face that told you his conversation with the businessmen had gone very, very well.

“Sinclair! It’s time for your favourite part of the night.”

Sinclair glanced down at his empty plate of food.

“Second favourite part,” Lionel corrected himself.

“Oh, the fireworks! Great, I’ll get Ben to take Lily inside.”

Sinclair hoisted Lily up to hold her against his chest and wandered off to find his eldest son, who was an adult now, though he’d been a sullen teenager when you’d last seen him. You found yourself alone with Lionel now, who was still wearing a proud grin.

“Will you join us, darling? A drink to toast to the deal, which of course I have just expertly sealed, then perhaps we could have a look at the painting.”

“That sounds wonderful,” you said sincerely, and you stood up from the table. “I do really need to talk to you privately, though, Lionel. Maybe after the painting?”

“Yes, of course. We can do anything you like after the painting.”

Lionel put an arm around your waist and confidently escorted you back to the businessmen, and a waiter appeared out of nowhere to hand out glasses of champagne.

“Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,” Lionel said to the businessmen as he took his glass of champagne from the waiter’s tray. “This is [Y/n] [L/n]. She’s one of the best business analysts you’ll ever find.”

“Hello! Good day. I am your interpreter from Konichiwa Media Group,” one of the men said with a smile and a bow. “I am Chuck. This is Mr Katsuhara Cho.”

The man next to him, who’d been singing earlier, smiled and bowed.

“Lovely to meet you,” you said. “I saw your performance earlier. Dean Martin, right? Very old-school. Your English was excellent.”

After translating, Chuck said, “Mr Katsuhara thanks you for your kind words, Mrs [L/n]!”

“Oh, no, it’s Miss,” you said quickly. “I’m not married.”

“Hmm, I wonder why that is,” Lionel muttered, and you elbowed him. Instead, he plastered on a smile, and raised his glass. “Well, gentlemen, a toast — to the deal!”

The businessmen cheered and everyone sipped from their glasses just as the fireworks flew into the sky and illuminated the entire gala in colourful lights.

You surprised yourself with how comfortable you felt, at Lionel’s side as he played host and charmed businessmen into deals. You felt like you could take on the world like this — as if you were the Queen to the King of the World. Was this what you’d been missing out on for all these years?

“Hey, Shabby,” came PJ’s voice as she appeared at Lionel’s other side.

You looked over at her, and she looked with amusement at Lionel’s hand on your hip.

“Where on earth have you been?” Lionel asked.

“Well… ‘bout that. Seems Harry ran into some trouble up at the house. Didya know there’s a lion running about up there?”

Lionel cursed. He turned on his feet and handed his half-drunk glass of champagne to a passing waiter as he stormed off towards the house. You exchanged a glance with PJ, then seemed to simultaneously decide Harry might need some protection from an angry Lionel; you both followed, you disposing of your glass with the same passing waiter, and managed to catch up with Lionel just as he entered the private gallery of his house.

“Hey, so when you say a lion running about…” you said to PJ as you walked as fast as you could in your heels.

“I mean a great big jungle cat with claws and a huge mane,” PJ replied. “You know — a lion.”

Lionel had a real pet lion. Of course he fucking did. He’d talked about it in the past, but you thought even he wouldn’t be so ridiculous as to keep a lion as a pet.

“God, Deane, this is so typical of you!” Lionel yelled as he stormed up to Harry. “What on earth were you doing larking about up here creating a nuisance? More than a nuisance, a bloody dangerous situation. PJ could well have been mauled, and all to no end.”

Harry said something in reply, but you weren’t listening to their argument. You were looking at Haystacks Dawn.

It had been so long since you’d seen it. Once upon a time, it had been a symbol of your love. You would stand in this very room with Lionel and bask in the history of your love story that it encapsulated.

But now… you felt no such connection to it. It was just a nice painting.

“Zaidenweber,” you heard Lionel announce.

A door opened to the side; a man stood in the doorway, holding a magnifying glass neatly.

“I am pleased to inspect,” the man said in a heavy German accent, and clicked his heels together.

“…Has he just been standing there all evening?” you whispered to Lionel.

Zaidenweber approached the Haystacks Dusk that was propped up on an easel next to Dawn and began to inspect it meticulously.

You looked over at Lionel. He was watching Zaidenweber anxiously, and you subtly slipped your hand into his.

Although Lionel had been fixated on pairing Dawn with Dusk, you had no such eagerness. Sure, it’d be nice for the pair to be together again, but it was Lionel that wanted it. They belonged together, he used to tell you. “Dawn needs Dusk like I need you.”

Would Dawn have left its home to be with Dusk?

You practically felt the excitement coursing through Lionel’s veins as Zaidenweber declared the painting genuine. His hand squeezed yours, and you got the feeling he was about to do something very stupid. Until —

“Bollocks,” Harry Deane announced.

With a flourish, Harry decried the painting, and rubbed it clean — revealing a portrait of Queen Elizabeth underneath.

There was a long, tense silence, interrupted only by Zaidenweber throwing up in his mouth. Lionel’s grip on your hand turned from excited to angry. His jaw tightened, and everyone waited for him to react.

“Martin… I’m disappointed,” he said with surprising calmness.

“Imagine how I feel,” the German replied, almost on the verge of tears. “Auf Wiedersehen, meine Lieblinge.”

With a small bow of his head, Zaidenweber left. Lionel’s hand slipped out of yours as he whirled on PJ.

“And as for you — you’re either rather clever or not clever enough. Either way, it’s clear that you’re of no further use to me.”

“Speaking of clever, what did you expect?” PJ said with a roll of her eyes. “It was hanging on a wall in a trailer in Texas. And besides, I was never gonna be any use to you.”

“Well, no harm done,” Lionel shrugged, though you sensed he was deeply disappointed. “Just a bit of a waste of time, that’s all. Well, Deane, against expectations, you seem to know what you’re on about rather. You will continue in the job.” He slipped an arm around your waist again. “Now, if you’ll excuse us…”

“I think not, sir,” Harry said.

You looked at him in surprise. You’d never heard any sort of “no” come out of Harry’s mouth before, and certainly not towards Lionel.

“…You think not, what?” Lionel asked, equally surprised.

“I think not regarding continuing in the job. I’m afraid I can no longer render services to a man who’d willfully insult the intelligence and moral character of a woman I have so come to admire and respect.”

Harry looked at PJ with a smile, and she smiled back.

Oh… You understood now what was going on. Harry Deane had found himself someone new to crush on.

He looked back at Lionel and squared his shoulders. “You are a boor, sir, and a bully. And I’ve had enough. And as for you, [Y/n] —”

“Me?!” you said in surprise as Harry turned his attention to you.

“Yes, you. I don’t know what you see in this man, but you must know you deserve better.”

Lionel scoffed. “Oh, and I suppose that’s you, is it?”

“It’s anyone with an ounce of respect for other human beings,” Harry retorted.

“Harry… I appreciate your concern,” you said sincerely. “But I’m a big girl and I can make my own decisions.”

“Very well,” said Harry stiffly. “In that case, I’ll just gather up my kit and bid you a semi-fond farewell.”

You watched as they left. Lionel, bemused by the entire situation, turned to you as soon as you were alone.

“You can make your own decisions, can you? And what decision might that be? I seem to recall that we broke up fifteen years ago.”

“And you’re the one with your arm around my waist.”

Lionel didn’t dispute that. If anything, he held you firmer. He looked up at the two paintings and sighed.

“I really hoped it was the real thing,” he muttered bitterly.

“You don’t need Dusk, Lionel. Dawn is the one that’s ours. And we don’t need that, either. The love we always said was in Dawn — it wasn’t, really. It was in us.”

Lionel looked down at you curiously.

“Why are you here tonight, [Y/n]?”

“Cole wants to propose to his boyfriend. So does Sinclair. And… it got me thinking about you.”

Lionel raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” you said, giving him a playful shove to his chest — and you didn’t move your hand away, instead letting it rest on the lapels of his jacket. “I knew I’d have to see you again, but I wanted it to be on my own terms, rather than being forced and awkward at their weddings. And when Sinclair told me about Dusk… it felt like the right time.”

Lionel cupped your face with his hand and rested his forehead against yours gently.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said softly.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it sooner.”

Lionel smiled sadly. “You had to live your life, my love. And I was too selfish to change mine for the sake of yours. Could you ever forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Li. It was no one’s fault. We just… had different priorities. But it was the right thing, wasn’t it? I mean, if we’d convinced Cole to come home — or Sinclair to stay in America — neither of them would have met their boyfriends. Sinclair wouldn’t have that litter of children he has. And if I’d left Cole in America on his own…” You swallowed. “It would have killed me to be so far away when the towers fell.”

Lionel kissed your forehead, then pulled you into an embrace, holding you tightly against his chest as you both recalled the one and only phone call you’d had with him in the intervening years.

- - -

2001

It was an ordinary Tuesday morning. You didn’t start work until 10am, so you were in the middle of eating breakfast when the phone rang.

You ignored it at first, your mouth full of bacon, but when it rang again almost immediately, you stomped over to the landline and picked it up irritably.

“Someone had better be dead.”

“I take it you haven’t turned on the news.”

“No, mystery caller, I have not turned on the news. Why, who’s dead?”

“For Christ’s sake, [Y/n], turn on the fucking news! Is Cole with you?”

You frowned. “…Lionel?”

“Are you watching the news or not?”

“Alright, alright, gimme a second. Which news?”

“Any. It’s on every channel here, it’ll be on every channel there.”

You grabbed the remote and switched the TV on. You changed the channel to the first news channel you could think of, and promptly dropped the remote onto the floor.

“Holy shit.”

You stared at the screen. The camerawork was shaky, some poor sod clearly having run out quickly to capture the footage and stream it back to the studio.

Your heart dropped as you read the headline scrolling across the screen.

LIVE: HAVOC IN NEW YORK CITY AS PLANES CRASH INTO WORLD TRADE CENTER

“Do you know where Cole is?” Lionel asked again urgently. “I’ve been trying to call him but I can’t get through. His school’s nearby, isn’t it?”

Panic shot through your heart. Cole was a teacher now at NYAA — which was about a mile away from the World Trade Center.

“I don’t — oh my god —”

Lionel sighed with frustration on the other end of the phone. “[Y/n]! I need you to talk to me!”

“I don’t know! I don’t know, Lionel, I don’t know where he is! I don’t keep a tracker on him! But he’s probably there, he’s probably at work.”

You heard the sound of something smashing — as if Lionel had just thrown a mug or plate against the wall.

“Fuck! Right — you stay there. Don’t go into work. Can you try calling him on his mobile?”

“Yeah, I will. Can you — wait, is your New York office nearby?”

“Yes, I’m watching their coverage right now.”

You switched the station to Lionel’s American news channel - which you usually avoided - and sure enough, they too were covering the crash; the smoke fumes were visible from their office tower.

“I’ll call Cole now. I’ll call you back as soon as I hear anything.”

You hung up without a goodbye, and hit the speed dial button for Cole’s cell phone. Each ring felt like an age, your fear rising with each second that went by without an answer. Then —

“I’m okay!”

You’d never been so relieved to hear your son’s voice in your entire life. You clutched at your heart and sank into a nearby armchair.

“Cole, where are you?!”

“Walking up Lafayette Street. The whole area’s being evacked ‘cus of the dust, but I’m okay, Mom, I swear. Cal’s with me, he’s okay too. Listen, I know you and Dad don’t talk but —”

“He already called me. I said I’ll call him as soon as I hear from you. Just get as far away from there as you can, okay? And if it’s really smokey, put a wet cloth over your face. If you can find a train station that’s running, I want you to come here as soon as you can, okay? Bring Callum too if he doesn’t have anywhere to go.”

“Yeah, good idea. We’ll do that. See you soon, Mom. Love you.”

“I love you too.”

You hung up the phone and called Lionel back immediately.

“Is he okay?” he said by way of greeting as soon as he picked up the phone.

“He’s alright, they’re being evacuated from the area. I told him to come here if he can get on a train, but they’re probably all ground to a halt. Callum’s with him too, they’re both okay.”

Lionel sighed with relief. “Thank fuck.”

“Everything okay?” said a female voice in the background.

“Yes, they’re being evacuated,” you heard Lionel saying. “Will you get a message to the New York office, please? … Yes. Thank you, darling.”

Your stomach twisted a little when you heard him call whoever was with him darling.

“Tell him to call me as soon as he gets in,” Lionel said to you. “I want to know he’s safe.”

“Of course. Are you at the office?”

“Yes, why?”

“So he knows where to call. Is it the same number?”

“Yes. Look, I’ve got to go. Tell him to call me the moment he steps through that door, alright?”

“Yes, of course I will. Um, and Lionel…”

“Yes?”

“…It was nice to hear your voice again. We should do this again sometime. But, y’know, without the mortal peril.”

You heard him chuckle on the other end of the phone.

“Perhaps we should. Bye, [Y/n].”

“Bye.”

- - -

But you didn’t do it again. Lionel never called you, and you didn’t dare call him, so you got on with your life. He was inescapable, of course — not only did he continue to be famous and to amass more money and power, but he still had a relationship with Cole, and you stayed friends with Sinclair.

Eventually he became background noise, and you were able to live your life. You progressed in finance and became a well-respected business analyst with many high-profile clients, and you even met someone else and got married, though that ended after seven years. But most importantly, you watched your son become the successful artist you always knew he could be, all while teaching at NYAA.

As for Lionel, he put his head down and got to work. He was busy taking over the world, he didn’t have time for relationships. He kept himself satisfied with an ever-expanding little black book of phone numbers of supermodels, pop stars, actresses — any beautiful woman who came into his orbit and found herself charmed him ended up in that book, and whenever he needed a good fuck, whenever he needed to shake himself of the thought of you, he’d call one of them up and he’d have one of the world’s most beautiful women in his bed at the drop of a hat.

But the most beautiful woman in the world — she eluded him. Until now. Because now you were here.

You wandered the gallery aimlessly with Lionel, just chatting, catching up, swapping stories. You laughed when you discovered you’d both had the same reaction to Sinclair getting a boyfriend, and Lionel forgave you for not going to his mother’s funeral, and you didn’t forgive him when he told you he’d been diagnosed with cancer ten years earlier and not told you.

And when you told him you’d been married for seven years, only to be served with divorce papers when menopause hit before you could get pregnant again, Lionel paused at a window and was silent for a long time, staring outside, lost in thought. Outside, you could see Sinclair with his parade of adopted children following him to the buffet table for seconds like a mother duck and her ducklings.

“I can’t have any more children either,” Lionel said quietly after an age. “The treatment made me infertile. I don’t want children, but…”

“...You liked having the choice.”

He looked back at you and nodded.

“Yes. I could always change my mind. Then, one day, I couldn’t… and that was it. Sinclair has no biological children. Cole’s all that’s left of our bloodline. Do you think he’ll ever…?”

You shrugged and perched yourself on the windowsill.

“I don’t know. Maybe. But if he does — at least they’ll be Shabandars.”

Lionel smiled with real, genuine pride — not the egotistical pride he carried himself with day to day, but real pride. Cole had - with your blessing - taken his surname around ten years ago, and he intended to keep it when he got married.

You glanced back out the window. The Japanese businessmen were still helping themselves to all the food and drink they could. Sinclair was currently balancing Lily on his hip and a plate of food in his other hand, watching as the rest of the ducklings piled their plates up with food.

“So… you’re single now, are you?” Lionel asked with feigned casualness.

You looked back at him and chuckled. “Yes, Lionel, I’m single now. It’s very difficult to date in your 50s. Not for you, I’m sure, but for us ordinary folk, it’s hard to find new connections. Especially when an old one won’t stop haunting you.”

Lionel frowned with bemusement and shook his head. “[Y/n]… you are many things, but ordinary is not one of them.”

“No, but I am, Lionel,” you insisted. “I’m nobody. I should be nothing to you. I was just the girl lurking behind the art block when you snuck out for a fag. I could have been anyone. It was only luck that it happened to be me you met that day.”

“If I’d met anyone else behind the art block, I wouldn’t have fallen in love with them. I didn’t fall in love with you because you were there, [Y/n]. I fell in love with you because you were you. And it’s because you’re you that I’ve been completely unable to hold down any relationship with any other woman.”

“Really? Not because you’re so busy being rich and important? I seem to remember you telling me that was the problem before.”

Lionel waved a hand dismissively. “Excuses. I made it work with you, didn’t I? I could have made time for any other woman if I really wanted to — but I didn’t want to. They weren’t worth the effort. You were. You were the love of my life, [Y/n]. You do know that, don’t you?”

You glanced out the window again. Sinclair and his kids were gone again, probably trying to restart live karaoke in the gazebo.

“You still are,” you said quietly.

“Hm? What was that?”

You glanced back at Lionel and blushed when you saw how intensely he was looking at you.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, but Lionel took your chin between his fingers and forced you to look at him.

“I’m the love of your life, am I?” he said, leaning forward with a teasing smirk.

His lips were dangerously close to yours now, that smug smirk you both loved and hated threatening to come ever closer.

“You know you are. Why else do you think I keep coming back to you?”

“Because the lioness knows she belongs with her lion,” Lionel purred. His lips ghosted against the skin of your jawline, and you hated yourself for the way his warm breath on your cheek sent a shudder of arousal through your body.

“Lionel, if you’re gonna kiss me, then kiss me.”

“As you wish,” he said with amusement.

Kissing him again was like the first breath of air after being underwater. It was desperate, it was wet, and you didn’t think you could have gone any longer without it.

Lionel pushed you back against the window, hands on your thighs as he pushed your skirt up to allow you to wrap your legs around his waist. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders to cling onto him as you kissed him desperately, and this time, you had no intention of letting go.

In the grounds, Harry and PJ were getting ready to leave. PJ looked up at the big old country house — and spotted something in one of the windows.

“Hey, uh, I don’t think Shabby’s too put out by our li’l trick,” she said, nudging Harry to get his attention.

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

PJ nodded up towards the window with an amused smirk.

Harry looked up. He adjusted his glasses slightly as he peered through the evening light to see… you, back pressed against the window, wrapped in a passionate embrace with Lionel, apparently battling to devour each other’s faces.

“Ah.”

He quickly looked away, turning his attention back to PJ. He rather felt like he was spying on something private.

“Well, I wish them the best,” Harry said, and he meant it. “She deserves better, but if that’s what she wants…”

Lionel unstuck his face from yours to catch his breath, and he glanced outside. The Konichiwa men were still eating his food. Despite his little tantrum, Deane and PJ were still there too — and PJ seemed to have spotted them in the window.

A deal that had gone very well, and one that had gone south — but Lionel didn’t care, because the mere possibility of Dusk had been enough to bring you back to him.

PJ watched as Lionel lifted you up and turned to carry you away from the window. She caught a glimpse of your face, laughing, and she smiled.

“You get him, tiger,” PJ murmured, then hooked her arm through Harry’s as they turned to leave.

You thought Lionel would carry you to the master bedroom, the room you’d made love in so many times in the 90s, but he carried you past the double doors and down the hallway — back to his childhood bedroom.

The bed was neatly made up, ready for its guest, and you could tell Lionel no longer occupied the room because the bedsheets were a simple cream colour, instead of the royal gold he’d decorated his teenage bedroom with.

Lionel laid you down on the bed and climbed on top of you to kiss you again, hands grabbing at your dress as if clawing at it enough would get it off.

You’d spent so many hours in this room, making out and awkwardly fumbling and learning each other’s bodies. You remembered the first time you made out in this bed and Lionel had jizzed his pants from the excitement of touching your boobs. A far cry from the proud lion with hours of stamina he’d been years later.

And now here you were again, lying on the same bed, Lionel slipping his hands underneath the hemline of your dress so he could paw at your breasts.

Lionel Shabandar, it seemed, was inevitable.

Sinclair’s words from earlier came back to you. I’m not getting any younger.

Neither were you. You had maybe another few decades in you, but you’d already wasted enough of your life.

“Lionel…”

He grunted, his lips too busy kissing your neck to form words.

“Will you marry me?”

Not much could freeze Lionel in his tracks when he was devouring you — but you’d found the one thing that could short-circuit his brain.

He raised his head slowly, blinking, as if he’d just woken up from a very long slumber.

“…What did you just say?”

“I asked you to marry me.”

Lionel stared at you incredulously.

“Now? Really? Not the first time, when we had our lives ahead of us — not the second time, when we were in an established, long-term relationship — no, now you want to marry me? When we’re almost sixty and haven’t been together for fifteen years?”

Put like that, it sounded almost silly.

“Yes,” you said.

Lionel grinned. “Took you long enough.”

He kissed you again, and this time, when he grabbed at your dress, he pulled it down, causing your breasts to pop out, and he took one in his mouth with fervent passion. With your skirt bunched up around your waist, he had little in the way of barrier as his hand dove between your legs and pawed at your heat.

“I’ll take that as a yes?” you said with amusement as Lionel sucked on your breast, and when he released it and looked up at you, his perfectly styled white hair was sticking up out of place slightly.

“I thought that was a given. I’ve been waiting long enough. Lions are profoundly patient, you know. Only when their target’s in place do they… strike.”

He slipped two fingers inside you very suddenly, and you gasped.

“Yes, I’m going to marry you,” Lionel growled. He retracted his fingers slowly, then pushed in again sharply, causing you to whimper. “And right now, I’m going to fuck you.” Another thrust, another whimper. “I’m going to reclaim this cunt, and no one will ever. go near it. again.”

He began fingering you roughly, his wrist pumping with abandon, and he watched with hunger in his eyes as you moaned beneath him.

“This cunt is mine. You are mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours, Lionel,” you promised, and you meant it. “I’m all yours…”

“Good,” the lion grinned as his lioness succumbed to her place with him. “Now, let me remind you just how perfectly we were made for each other…”

- - -

Admittedly, neither of you had the stamina you once did. It used to be that you could fuck all night and still get up in the morning, but now, you lasted little more than an hour before you both collapsed, exhausted, onto the bed. Still, Lionel had managed to make you cum twice in that time, and he’d lasted an impressive amount of time before finally emptying his balls inside you.

“I can’t say this is how I imagined tonight going,” Lionel said with amusement as you rolled onto your side to face him and threw an arm across his chest lazily.

“No, you imagined you’d be fucking that Texan woman instead.”

Lionel shrugged. “Maybe. But that would have been meaningless. This, with you…”

He looked at you and smiled.

“This is everything.”

“How long before someone comes looking for us, do you think? And by someone, I mean Sinclair.”

“It’s unlikely. He’s got his litter of children to look after now, and he won’t want to tear himself away from his boyfriend for too long.”

Lionel gently stroked your hair and kissed the top of your head. You laid there in silence for a little while, just holding one another, until Lionel finally spoke.

“You said earlier you came back to England because of Cole. What did you mean?”

You hesitated, then pushed yourself up to sit up against the headboard. You pulled the duvet up to cover your naked body, and Lionel knew from the look on your face there was something wrong. He sat up too, allowing the sheet to cover his lap as a feeling of dread hit him.

“[Y/n], is he alright?”

“He has cancer,” you said quietly.

Lionel’s heart dropped. A thousand questions ran through his mind, but he kept his mouth shut, knowing you’d expand in time.

“We couldn’t afford the treatment out there, so we came back. I told him he didn’t have to, that you’d pay for it if he asked, but… I guess he never asked.”

“No,” Lionel said, his voice unusually subdued. “No, he didn’t. He didn’t even tell me. Is it…?”

“We don’t know. He’s still going through treatment. They could have caught it earlier if…”

You sighed and ran your hand over your face.

“He never went for any fucking pap smears. Too embarrassed, he said. Idiot.”

Lionel shook his head incredulously. “Embarrassed? What, that he —?”

“Yeah.”

“I told him, multiple times! If he needed money for surgery, I’d pay for it. He always said he didn’t want it.”

“He didn’t. He still doesn’t. I don’t really understand it any more than you do, but I don’t think we need to, really, do we? Our job as parents isn’t always to understand his reasoning… just to accept it.”

“Not when it ends up with him getting fucking cancer!” Lionel huffed. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Why didn’t he tell me?!”

“I dunno, Li. Maybe the same reason you didn’t tell me you had fucking cancer.”

“This is different, he’s my son! You were my ex. If I’d told you, what would you have done except pity me? I didn’t want that.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want your pity either.”

“I don’t pity him, I’m bloody pissed off at him! And don’t say he didn’t want my money either, because cancer is not the time to make your bloody ‘I don’t need your money’ point.”

Lionel sighed. He’d always wondered if he should have told Cole, at least, about his cancer. If he had, maybe Cole would have come to him earlier, knowing he’d understand what he was going through…

You took his hand and interlocked your fingers with his. Lionel looked down at your conjoined hands and smiled despite his frustration. You were here. You were really here.

“I’m going to marry you,” Lionel said decisively. “And I’m going to apologise to our son for not telling him about my cancer, and I’m going to smack him for not telling me about his. Then he’s going to beat the damn thing just like I did, because Shabandar lions are stronger than that fucking disease. If you want to move back to America when he’s recovered, then I’ll move with you. I’m not going to be a coward this time, [Y/n]. I’m the fucking lion. Our son will survive, we’ll all get married, and I’ll continue taking over the world from wherever you want to go.”

“What about Sinclair? He’s the reason you stayed here.”

“I’ll kidnap him and bring him along if I have to. His litter too, I’m not afraid to pull a Cruella De Vil. Kidnapping puppies, I mean, not skinning them and turning them into coats.”

“You might have had the cheekbones for it when we were kids, but not anymore,” you said, poking at his cheek playfully. “Not with your old man flab. Anyway, I don’t know yet if we’ll go back. But… whatever we decide… do you mean it? Will you be there?”

Lionel cupped your face with his hand and pulled you in for a kiss, deep and firm, with none of the desperate hunger he’d been kissing you with earlier — this was a statement, a promise.

“I’ll be there,” he swore when your lips parted. “This pride will never be separated again.”

- - -

If you didn’t know any better, you might have thought that Lionel had scared Cole into remission.

His anger was something to behold, but Lionel seemed to forget that Cole wasn’t a cub anymore — he was a lion in his own right. He was a 40-year-old man now, and he didn’t need balls to give as good as he got when he found out that Lionel hadn’t told him about his own cancer.

You and Sinclair were both there when they had their shouting match, which somehow ended with manly tears and hugs and apologies from both of them.

“Men,” you muttered with a roll of your eyes as Lionel and Cole hugged it out.

“I know, right?” Sinclair agreed, and you laughed.

Cole was given the all-clear within six months. Time would tell whether the treatment had rendered him infertile, but he’d frozen some eggs anyway, just to be safe. He had every intention of carrying on the Shabandar bloodline, and if he had to use a surrogate, so be it.

To celebrate, Cole and his boyfriend, Liam, went on holiday to Paris — and came back both sporting engagement rings, as they had apparently both had the same idea to propose on the Pont des Arts.

Sinclair spent so much time dithering over whether or not to propose to Sam that you wondered if he’d been replaced by a clone — it was a far cry from the Sinclair you’d reunited with in 1989 when he’d proposed to Natalie after six months.

Sam, in the end, became the impatient one and proposed — if asking “when are you gonna marry me, sunshine?” in the middle of a game night double date, when you and Lionel were discussing your plans to have a double wedding with Cole and Liam, counted as a proposal. Apparently it did, because Sinclair’s face lit up brighter than you’d ever seen it and he practically pounced on Sam to pepper his face with kisses.

“Oh my god, is this what we subjected him to in ‘71?” you cringed later that night, trying your best to use the pillows to muffle the sounds you did not want to hear.

Lionel just laughed. “I think we should cheer them on.”

“No, don’t!”

“Who do you think’s on top?”

“Stop it!” you protested, but you were laughing.

“I bet it’s Sam. Hey, Sam, are you on top?” Lionel called through the wall, and you wished the already soft mattress in Sinclair’s guest room was even softer so it could swallow you up.

“You know it!” Sam’s voice called back.

“You are not getting laid tonight,” you grumbled to Lionel from between the pillows.

“Oh, I knew that already. I’m not getting hard while listening to my cousin’s sex moans. Unless you want to find somewhere else in the house to fuck? Or we could go out into the garden…”

You pulled the pillow away from your face to give him an unimpressed frown.

You ended up in the garden.

- - -

It took a while to plan the wedding. You didn’t care much for the most part; you just wanted to marry Lionel. Plus, you’d already had a wedding, and you didn’t want the stress of planning another one. Agreeing on details between two people had been hard enough; agreeing between six would be impossible, especially when four of those were strong-willed gay men, and the fifth was Lionel Shabandar. Who on earth had had the brilliant idea to have a triple wedding? (Oh, wait… that was you.)

So Lionel put on his best bossy businessman hat and delegated different responsibilities. Sinclair, of course, was in charge of the wedding breakfast. Sam, as the resident musician, was in charge of the reception music — which had to be a live band, of course, not a DJ. Cole, the artist, headed up decoration. Liam, the level-headed practical yin to Cole’s chaotic yang, planned the guest list and the logistics of how three wedding ceremonies was even going to work. And you were left to budget the whole thing, because even though Lionel was the richest man in the country, he didn’t get there by spending with abandon, and you certainly weren’t going to start your marriage off with irresponsible spending.

Lionel gave himself what he claimed to be the most important job of all: location. At first he suggested St Paul’s Cathedral, because it was big and grand and expensive, and very exclusive, but you bonked him on the head with your budget folder when he suggested that.

“Ow! What was that for?” he grumbled.

“We can’t have a religious ceremony, you numpty. This wedding is two-thirds gay.”

“Oh, right…”

His second choice was the Orsay Museum in Paris. It wasn’t usually hired out for weddings, but with the power of Lionel’s chequebook, anything could become a wedding venue.

You and Lionel flew out to Paris to meet with the museum directors and sweet-talk them into hiring it out as a wedding venue (aka for Lionel to flash his chequebook at them). When you’d visited forty years ago, you’d thought you’d seen it all, but it turned out there was an entire ballroom you’d missed out on. It was big, it was grand, and it was exactly to Lionel’s tastes.

“It’s perfect, don’t you think, chérie?” Lionel murmured in your ear as he held you from behind and you both surveyed the grand room, imagining your wedding ceremony. “The place we fell in love.”

“Will the others like it, do you think? I know it has meaning to us, but…”

“If it weren’t for this place, Cole might not exist,” Lionel reminded you. “None of our lives would have taken the paths they did. Who’s to say if Sinclair and Sam would have met?”

“We’d have still fallen in love, Li… just somewhere else.”

“Perhaps. Who knows? But this place was the start of it all.”

“Surely Winchester College was the start of it all?”

“Yes, but I’m not getting married at my old school. And to answer your question — I think they’ll love it. Cole will certainly love that it’s in an art gallery, and Sinclair will love that there’s a restaurant. Liam and Sam, I can’t speak for so much, but why wouldn’t they love it? When you marry a Shabandar or a Bryant, you know what you’re getting yourself in for. They wouldn’t be marrying into our family if they didn’t love having the best of the best.”

“…Alright, but we’re still showing them pictures of it before you write any cheques.”

Lionel grinned and kissed your cheek. “Just wait, love. This wedding will be one for the ages.”

As part of the deal to hire out the museum, Lionel agreed to loan Haystacks Dawn out to them for a year, free of charge. The museum sent their own staff to personally escort the painting to Paris, and as Lionel had meetings all day, you attended the house the day they were due to arrive.

While you were waiting for them, you wandered into the gallery to have one last look at it. You’d never looked at it alone before, you’d only ever been with Lionel. It felt a little like you were saying goodbye to it.

It had felt strangely empty ever since the day of the gala, like the love inside it had dissipated. But it hadn’t, you knew that much; the fact you were still in love with Lionel after so many years was testament to that.

You stepped closer to it, admiring the detailing — and that was when you noticed something was off.

You’d spent so much time looking at this painting, you knew its every detail, and you certainly knew how it was framed. You’d spent enough time with picture frames to spot little details, such as the way a canvas fit, sometimes a little loose, sometimes a little tight, and Dawn had always been slightly loose. But, looking closely at the corner, the canvas was now tight. Not too tight; it fit perfectly. Almost too perfectly.

But you knew Lionel hadn’t had it reframed. You knew the frame as well as you knew the painting itself, and it was definitely the same frame. So what had changed?

You carefully examined the fit of the canvas along the entire frame, and it was the same all the way around — perfectly fitted. From a distance, it was almost impossible to notice, but this close up, you could see it. The canvas was, even if just by a few millimetres, just a little bit smaller.

Praying Lionel’s security alarm was smart enough to recognise you, you took hold of the frame and very, very carefully lifted it from the wall, then turned it around and propped it up against the wall. to examine the back.

A small piece of paper was sticking out of the seam between the back plate and the frame. You gave it a tentative pull, and it came loose. You unfolded, and it read:

Ha ha :) - HD

You stared, confused, trying to think what HD could possibly mean. High definition? Hard drive? Huntington’s Disease? Harry… Deane?

The paper fell from your hands. You picked up the painting again, rehung it, and looked closely at the detailing.

It was good. Very good. But Harry had already proven he had access to forgeries so good they could fool Martin Zaidenweber.

And he and PJ had disappeared for an unusually long time that night…

- - -

Fortunately for you, Harry Deane had lived in the same flat for the last twenty years, so when you banged furiously on his front door, you weren’t disturbing some innocent new resident.

He opened the door with a frown. He had a coat on but unfastened, as if he were in the process of either going out or coming in. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in the flat, which was good, because you didn’t want any witnesses when you murdered him.

“[Y/n]? What a lovely surprise. Is there something I can do for you?”

You shoved him in the chest with both hands, and he took a step back.

“Where’s our fucking painting?!” you demanded.

“Er - painting? Wh - what painting?” Harry stammered.

“You know what painting! Haystacks Dawn! The one you replaced with a fake! It’s good, I’ll give you that, it took me a while to notice. Then I found your little note! Suppose you thought he’d never find it? That no one would notice? You bastard, Harry Deane! I thought we were friends!”

You punctuated every sentence with another shove, until Harry had been backed into his kitchen.

“I — I’m sorry, I didn’t know it meant that much to you!”

“That was our painting, Harry! It might just be a pretty picture of some fields to everyone else, but to us it’s different! It means something! It’s ours. It’s us. And you — you took it! Why? As some middle finger to Lionel? Are you that fucking cowardly that you’d rather steal from him than grow some fucking balls and tell him how you feel? Where is it?!”

“Japan! It’s in Japan,” Harry said quickly, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I sold it to Takagawa.”

“You sold it?!” you screamed. You picked up a nearby magazine and hit him on the arm with it. “You didn’t even want it, you just wanted the money?! You could have stolen any other painting! They’re all worth millions! Why did you have to take that one?”

“Because… it was his favourite.”

You stared at him incredulously. “Of course it was his favourite, you dolt. It was the only one that meant something! The love of two stupid teenagers is in that painting, all our hopes and dreams we had — and you sold it. Like it was…”

“A valuable painting by a famous artist?”

“Yes! Fuck!” you screamed in frustration. You threw the magazine aside and began pacing around with agitation. “This is — I can’t believe — how the hell are we gonna get it back?”

“You could just buy it back?” Harry suggested cautiously. “If it means that much to him, Shabandar will probably pay anything for it.”

“What? No! I can’t tell him!”

“Why not?”

You stared at him like he was stupid, because he was.

“Because you committed a crime, Harry! A really fucking big one! Do you think he won’t call the police? You’re lucky I didn’t bloody call them! I’m still not sure that I won’t, unless you can get that painting back.”

“G - get it back?” Harry stammered with wide eyes. “I couldn’t possibly…”

You folded your arms and stared daggers at him. “Why? Spent all the money already? How much did you get for it, anyway?”

“Er…”

Harry tried to avoid your gaze, but you just stared harder, and he caved. “…Fifteen million.”

“What?! That’s more than Lionel spent on it! And he still overpaid! Fucking hell. Well, where is this fortune, then? Because you sure as hell didn’t buy a new house with it.”

“Charity, mostly.”

You snorted derisively. “Charity. Sure. Because you’re sooo good and altruistic, right? What, am I meant to believe you’re some kind of Robin Hood?”

“Some people are good, actually,” Harry said stubbornly. “That may be hard for you to realise when you spend so much time with the likes of Shabandar, but I think you’ll find it’s true. Not everyone’s like him. In fact, I’d wager most people aren’t like him at all.”

“I’m not stupid, Harry, I know who and what he is. Better than you ever could.”

“Really? Because I worked with him for twenty years. You were together for — what, five, six years in the 90s?”

“I have loved him since I was 18 years old!” you shouted. “I have known every version of him, and I have loved every version of him! Yes, he’s an arsehole! Yes, he’s got an ego the size of Australia! And I love him, because I see through all that! It’s performance, Harry! It’s self-defence! Do you really think he was showing you his true self? You were his curator! You were one of thousands of employees! He didn’t owe you his true self! So yes, I know who he is — which means I know that if he finds out you stole from him, I won’t be able to stop him calling the police. We’re supposed to be lending Dawn to the Orsay, what the fuck do you think will happen when someone realises Takagawa also apparently has the original? Someone will figure it out, and it’ll come back to you! So I’m going to ask you again — where is the money?”

“…In my Swiss bank account,” Harry admitted. “Some of it went to PJ as payment for her part, but otherwise, I don’t even know what to do with that much money, to be honest. It’s just been sitting there.”

“Okay, great, so you can give Takagawa a refund.”

“I don’t know if he’ll agree to that…”

“He will if the alternative is the police showing up at his door with an extradition order for handling stolen goods. What about your friend PJ, huh? How do you think she’ll like being extradited for receiving proceeds of crime? And whoever it was that made the fake painting in the first place!”

Harry’s eyes went wide then.

“[Y/n], please — leave PJ and the Major out of this —”

“Then get me my fucking painting back!”

“Alright, alright!” Harry conceded, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I’ll get in touch with Takagawa.”

“Thank you. Was that so fucking hard? You’d better do it soon, because that fake’s going up in the Orsay for a year, and if someone realises it’s fake during that time and Lionel gets into hot water, I won’t hesitate to drag you into the pot. Capiche?”

“Yes, yes, capiche! Crikey, [Y/n]. I had no idea you could be so terrifying.”

“Yeah, well, you think Lionel Shabandar’s scary when he gets mad? You’re talking to the one person he’s afraid of.”

You checked the time. If you wanted to be back in time to meet the staff from the Orsay with the fake Dawn, you had to leave now.

“Get me my painting, Harry,” you said through gritted teeth, poking him in the chest for emphasis. “I can’t promise Lionel will be so forgiving if he finds out.”

Harry mumbled his assurances, and you stormed out, slamming the door shut behind you.

- - -

You had to give the Orsay the fake. You felt horrible about it, and you expected them to declare it fake at any moment, but they seemed happy with it when they picked it up. Lionel made sure his French news outlets advertised how generous he was being by loaning it out, which just made you more worried someone would notice there were two separate people on two separate continents claiming to have the original.

But you heard nothing. Your wedding day crept closer and closer, until finally, with only a month to go, you had a call from Harry confirming that he’d managed to convince Takagawa to part with the painting. He didn’t go into detail, but it sounded like he’d had to offer a little more than a refund in order to get it back.

You arranged for the painting to be delivered to the country house while Lionel was away on a business trip for the weekend. When he came back, you told him everything, although you didn’t get to the part where you recovered the painting before Lionel was on his feet, pacing around the room with anger, which might have been a little more intimidating if he wasn’t stark naked.

“I am going to strangle that little shit!” Lionel cursed. “What the devil does he think he’s playing at, stealing from me?! Wait ‘til the police hear about this —”

“Lionel, no, I promised him no police!”

Lionel stopped his pacing and whirled on you.

“He stole from me, [Y/n]! From us!”

“I know, Li, and believe me, I was pissed. I nearly beat him up in his own flat. But I convinced him to get it back from Takagawa.”

“…You got it back?”

“Yes, it’s downstairs. I was thinking we could say we have the original for ourselves and a reproduction for show, but there was a mistake and we accidentally gave them the reproduction.”

“How on earth did you get it back?” Lionel spluttered in disbelief. “Takagawa would never give that up!”

You shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Harry how he convinced him. But I told Harry that if he didn’t, the police would come down on him, Takagawa, PJ, and the guy who made the fake. He didn’t seem as shaken by the threat to him and Takagawa, but as soon as I mentioned PJ and the other guy, he folded.”

Lionel’s look of rage melted into a proud smile. “That’s my girl. I wish I could have seen my lioness in action. But are you certain it’s the original that’s been returned? I wouldn’t put it past Takagawa or Deane to just give us another fake in return.”

“Oh, it’s real. I knew as soon as I saw it. Didn’t you notice the fake felt… empty?”

Lionel nodded slowly. “I did… I simply thought, now that you were back with me for good, I was no longer using it as an anchor. Now that my love was here, in the flesh…. I didn’t have to see it in the painting anymore.”

“It’s still there, Li. It’s in us and it’s in the painting.”

Lionel smiled, but then he frowned in anger again. “Fucking Deane. It wasn’t enough to steal a painting from me, he had to steal our love too. And our love’s been hanging on Takagawa’s wall like a fucking commodity this whole time! Well, no more.”

He held his hand out to you with a grin and helped you up from the bed.

“Let’s go see it, shall we?”

You grabbed your robe on the way out of the bedroom, but Lionel didn’t bother. He strutted down the hallway naked as he always did, and a passing cleaner barely seemed to flinch at the sight.

“There it is!” Lionel announced as you entered the gallery and he found Dawn back in its place of honour.

Sure enough, it was the real one — he could feel your love story in every brushstroke. The day you met and he introduced it to you as his favourite; the summer you fell in love; his mother’s birthday party, your weekend in Paris, your first Christmas with his family. Your date that wasn’t a date, when you found Dawn up for auction and he brought it home for you; everything you’d been through in the next six years. The good, the bad, the just plain banal — it was all infused into this painting, this landscape of light over two seemingly ordinary haystacks frozen at the beginning of a new day.

He’d been so fixated on finding Dusk — but why? Because if he couldn’t have you, at least Dawn could have Dusk? Because if the sun was going to set on your story, it should set on the haystacks too? Or perhaps it was just because he was a greedy bastard who simply had to have the entire set.

Whatever the reason, Lionel didn’t need Dusk anymore. Of course, if he ever did find it, he’d give up a firstborn (not his firstborn, of course, but someone else’s) to get it. But he no longer had that obsessive need to bring Dawn and Dusk together. After all, if Dawn held your love story within its very fabric, it was apt that Dusk would never come — because your love story was the stuff of legends, forty years going and only just getting started. And in years to come, when you were both dead and buried, Lionel’s name would be in the history books, and yours alongside it.

Lord Lionel Shabandar, revolutionary pioneer of modern art and media, met [Y/n] [L/n], the first and only love of his life, at the age of eighteen. A chance meeting of two students changed the course of their lives and, some may say, the course of the art world as we know it…

#alan rickman #lionel shabandar #gambit 2012 #sinclair bryant #close my eyes #lionel x reader #champagne problems

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