#dwcastxover

[lostinfic]

Nubivagant 3/3

(adj.) wandering through or amongst the clouds; moving through air; from the Latin nubes (“cloud”) and vagant (“wandering”), c. 1656.

Summary: Based on the movie “A walk in the clouds” but on a sheep farm in the north of England, at Christmas. During the war, Betty ran away from her grandfather’s farm with a man. Now that he’s left her and she might be pregnant, Betty must go back and face the family she abandoned. When Colonel Mercier finds her crying at the train station, he offers to pose as her husband. Tags: Hurt/comfort! fake married! sharing a bed! huddling for warmth! and many more! Pairing: Jean-François Mercier x Betty Vates Word count: 6700  Rating: Mature Part 1 |  Part 2 |  Ao3

December 24th, 1945

A ledge ran the length of Marnie’s kitchen, from the top of the cupboards, over the door frame to the window overlooking the backyard. As far as Betty could remember, the containers stacked on it had fascinated her: opened tin cans, glass bottles in green and milky white, ceramic jars with cork stoppers, earthenware pots glazed like the sea in winter, even old snuffboxes, and in between them, seashells, wooden thread spools, pine cones and chipped porcelain figurines, mementos gathering dust. From the ledge hung copper pots, tea-stained cups and bouquets of dried herbs tied with string. She used to imagine her grandmother was some sort of witch. As random as this assortment looked, Marnie knew exactly what each contained. She reached for a small wooden box and sprinkled its content in her boiling pot of soup without a second look.

The scent of vegetables and broth filled the room. The same, and only, Christmas record played on a loop in the living room: “Silent Night”, “Adeste Fideles”, “O Little Town of Bethlehem”, “O Holy Night”, “It came upon a Midnight Clear”. The same record every holiday season. Unconsciously following the rhythm of the songs, Betty sprinkled salt and mixed butter and flour together to make dough.

“Remember before the war,” Margaret said as she chopped carrots, “when Daddy took us to York one Christmas.” At the time, their father had already enrolled in the British Expeditionary Forces and knew he might leave his family soon, but hadn’t told them. He had wanted to make their last Christmas together special.

“The funfair!” Betty said. “Remember the ice rink with that huge pine tree in the middle. And you fell arse over kettle!”

“Oi! You can talk, I remember how scared you were in the chair-o-plane.”

“Only at first,” Betty retorted. Vertigo had struck when her feet had first lifted off the ground and she’d tried to grab her sister’s hand. But then the exhilaration of flying had overcome fear. Her sister and grandmother recounted other souvenirs of Christmas past, but Betty kept thinking about that feeling. Her pulse quickened, and she smiled at the memory. The next best thing to falling in love.

Betty’s gaze slid to the window, seeking Jean-François’ tall, lean frame through the mist. He walked out of the barn, carrying a ladder. She’d found some old clothes for him, denim trousers and a wool jumper she’d knitted herself quite a few years ago.

For all his distrust of the newcomer, Grandpa Marshall didn’t hesitate to ask for his help. One might say, he was abusing it even. Jean-François worked harder than anyone.

Grandpa Marshall held the ladder as Jean-François climbed up to the barn. Some roof shingles had come loose during last night’s storm.

“He might just win your grandpa after all,” Marnie said, looking over Betty’s shoulder. “Honest, when I first saw him I didn’t think he had it in him for hard work.”

“Me neither.”

“Where are you gonna live?” Marnie asked, cleaning the sink. “England or France?”

“I— I don’t know.” Betty wiped her hands on her apron, and looked around for something to do.

“Didn’t you talk about it?” she insisted.

“He wants to go back to France, see what it’s like first, you know, after the war.”

Marnie sighed. “Don’t tell your grandpa. You in France, Sarah, Margaret and Eric going back to Leeds like your aunts… He still blames me for giving him only daughters and granddaughters.” She left the kitchen, shaking her head and mumbling.

Betty sat at the table, a massive sturdy thing, its scratched surface a testament of its age. In the family for generations, it had seen every meal, every quarrel and celebration, even some amateur dental surgeries and a birth.

Betty sprinkled flour on the table and rolled the dough which Margaret placed into pie pans. Her mother added the sweet apple and raisin filling, Sarah didn’t say a word, lost in her own world as she often was.

Jean-François’ hammering echoed inside the house. Betty imagined this becoming her daily life. Cooking good, hearty meals, the kind rationing had prohibited for the past years, while her husband worked outside. They would manage the farm together, the money, the cattle, the sales. Her grandfather was more of the “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it” persuasion, and that had served him well, but times had changed, people and their needs too. Betty had so many ideas to improve the business. She wanted other breeds of sheep to diversify their production and merchandise. They could sell woollen garments in London, in the shops.

“I reckon it’s flat enough now,” Margaret teased. Betty had absentmindedly rolled the same piece of dough for the last five minutes.

“Sorry.”

“I can’t believe you still look at your husband like that after two years, it’s like you met yesterday.”

Betty babbled some answer. She couldn’t deny she was falling for her pretend-husband.

Jean-François had said he hadn’t loved anyone else in the eight years since his wife’s death, and here she was, fancying another man two months after Craze had left her. What would he think of her changeable heart? Of course, the circumstances were very different. And if she was honest, her feelings for Craze had dwindled many months before he left, she’d stayed with him out of necessity with a good dose of delusion.

“We all did it,” her mother said, out of the blue.

“Did what, Mam?”

“Left home for a man. I did it for your father. Margaret did it to get away. Look where that took us. I bet you thought you was different.” Beside her, Margaret snorted, a jeering little sound.

Not so long ago, Betty would have endured, accepted even, her mother’s words. Now she didn’t know how to deal with the anger it aroused in her. She fought the urge to run away. “Maybe I wouldn’t’ve been so easily convinced to leave if you didn’t say things like that to me all the time.” Her voice quivered, and she quickly lowered her gaze, but she stayed on her chair and squeezed the dough, hard enough to tear through it.

 The fact that it was Christmas Eve made no difference to the sheep, so on top of preparing tonight’s party they had to get on with their usual chores. In between, hanging stockings and stirring the Christmas pudding, Betty fed the animals and gathered eggs. She didn’t meet Jean-François all day and started worrying he was avoiding her. Last night she’d heard him arguing with Grandpa Marshall, saying she was kind and strong, but after she feigned sleep and moved closer to him, he left her bed. Then this morning, it looked like he was trying to sneak out even though he denied it.

At the end of the afternoon, when he headed up to their bedroom, she followed him. His duffel bag was opened on the bed, and he was placing clothes in it. Her stomach dropped, suspicions confirmed. “If you wanna go so much, you just need to say. M’not keeping you.”

“I said one more day and I’m staying, well, two more days. No train on the 25th, I suppose.”

“Yeah.” She’d known right when they’d first discussed it that no trains operated on Christmas day. “So you don’t want to go?”

“I was looking for this,” he explained, holding up a camera. “I thought my sister would like it. But perhaps your family would too. No husband would come empty-handed to meet his new family in-law for the first time.”

“A camera? You sure?”

“I can buy another one for Gabrielle. I noticed there are no recent portraits of your family on the walls. I could take some pictures later when everyone is dressed up for church.”

“Dunno how Gramps will feel about that. It’s an expensive gift.”

“Would it make him feel better if I told him I… borrowed it from MI6?”

“You didn’t!”

He shrugged with a little grin. “I had it for a mission and forgot to give it back.” He opened a flap at the front of the camera and pulled out a retractable lens. He raised it to his eye. “Smile.”

“No way! I look awful,” she replied, smoothing down her hair. The shutter clicked. “You rascal!” She ran to his side of the bed, and he jumped out of her grasp. Another click. “Stop it!” she demanded, laughing.

“Last one.” She pulled out her tongue, but he took another photo anyway. “I’m sure they will be beautiful.”

Betty shook her head indulgently. “You’ll have to tell us how to get the photos developed, before… you know.”

Jean-François put the camera back in its leather case and sat on the bed. He smoothed his trousers unnecessarily several times. “I should be honest with you,” he said at last. “You’re right, I was trying to leave this morning.”

“Oh. I… I understand.” She turned her back to him and fiddled with objects on top of the dresser. “I mean, Gramps making you do all this work and you’ve more important things to do, I’m sure, with other people.”

“No, that’s not it. I’m worried that the longer I stay here…” Their eyes met in the mirror above the dresser. “I’m afraid it’s making things more difficult.”

“Difficult how?” she asked, joining him on the bed.

“With you family. And between us.” He relaxed his leg, and his knee touched hers. “Elizabeth, the more time I spend with you—”

Margaret burst into the room. “Come! Quick!” Betty and Jean-François ran down the stairs with her, and followed her outside.

Eric had fallen through a hole in the upper part of the barn. He clutched his leg, screaming in pain. They cleared the wooden planks and hay that had fallen over him, and carried him to the house on a makeshift gurney. He didn’t bleed but might have broken a bone. They fussed over him as they waited for a doctor.

Betty never found out the end of Jean-François’ sentence.

After the doctor’s visit, Jean-François showed the camera to Grandpa Marshall, and they spent the afternoon photographing the homestead. The old farmer glowed with pride, planning to send these pictures to newspapers and to family members abroad.

They ate cabbage soup for supper, leaving room in their stomachs for treats later on. As the women did their hair and make-up in preparation for Mass, the men shaved and took out suits they only wore once a year. Presents appeared under the tree, and carollers sang on the streets. Neighbours and friends came by with homemade gifts. The excitement in the air was tangible. Betty felt like a kid again. She and Margaret, ran around with curlers in their hair, laughing at the smallest things as they searched for something to wear in lieu of lipstick. “I can’t wait until we have mascara again and proper stockings,” Margaret sighed.

“Me too,” Betty replied, but she wasn’t really listening, instead examining her appearance in the mirror. “I can’t wear this.”

“You have to, we need to leave soon and Gramps wants a nice photo of us all before.”

Betty searched every closet in the house and found a green dress with a tulle skirt. Still struggling with the back zipper, she joined her family in the living room. “Can someone help me with this?” Her heart skipped a beat when she felt Jean-François behind her, his hands rested on the small of her back. He jiggled the stuck zipper and leaned in to get a closer look. His breath tickled the skin between her shoulder blades. He had to reach inside the back of the dress to fix the zipper, and when it finally moved, his fingers slid slowly up her spine with it. He swept her hair aside so it wouldn’t get caught in the metallic teeth, and his touch lingered on the nape of her neck as he closed the button at the top of her dress.

“All done,” he said, hands still on her.

“Thank you.”

Marnie’s giggles effectively ended their moment. “Look up,” the old woman said. As the whole family stared, Betty realized they were standing right under a branch of mistletoe.

“Come to think of it, we’ve never seen you two kiss,” Grandpa Marshall said.

Betty and Jean-François exchanged a look. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she covered her mouth with her fingertips.

“What do you say, ma belle?”

This was her only chance to kiss him, but she tried for nonchalance. She shrugged. “Tt’s tradition.”

“For the sake of tradition,” he agreed, cupping her cheek. Betty wet her lips, her heart pounded in her chest.

“What’s going on here?”

Betty startled, recognizing the voice. Two men came in, Donald and his father, Grandpa Marshall’s best friend. Salutations and cheers followed their entrance.

“Who is this?” Jean-François asked in a low voice, still toe to toe with her.

“He’s the man I’d’ve married if I’d stayed.”

“I see. Perhaps it can still happen for you.”

He walked away, but Betty grabbed his arm and pulled him back to her. She lost her nerves, and Jean-François looked at her with eyes full of questions.

“I don’t want him,” she said.

His hand returned to her cheek, and she grabbed his tie. The smallest smile graced his lips before he gently pressed them to hers. They kept the kiss chaste because of their audience, it still left Betty weak in the knees.

“Do you think we have convinced your family?” he asked, his mouth just an inch from hers.

“Not sure yet.”

He chuckled and kissed her again.

“Alright, enough of this,” Grandpa Marshall said, pushing them apart. “We’ve a picture to take.”

The whole family gathered in front of the Christmas tree, Jean-François adjusting their positions to fit in the frame.

“Jean, come here, with us,” Marnie said, Grandpa Marshall grumbled but she shushed him, “let Donald take the picture.”

*

The whole village, hundreds of people, gathered on the parvis of St. James church. Men smoked while women talked, and children chased each other overexcited to be up so late. The night was alive with lights and laughter that eclipsed the stars.

At the bottom of the stairs leading up to the tall doors, Betty slowed down. “D’you think he knows we’re not really married?” she whispered to Jean-François.

“Who?”

“God,” she replied as if it was the most obvious thing.

“Do you not want to go inside?”

She gave this some thought. “That’s probably worse, innit?”

“We’re not doing anything an unmarried couple should not do.” Satisfied with his answer, Betty took his arm and they walked up the stairs.

Marnie told him the railway company had built the church for its employees in the 1880s. The interior design reminded parishioners of that fact: red and yellow brick walls, pews like benches in the station waiting room and a font cover shaped like a railway engine wheel.

The real centre of attention that night was the choir of boys and men, in white robes, each holding a candle, the only light in the church. Their voices was but a hum above the chatter.

With every person they met, Betty had to explain she wasn’t, in fact, dead as her grandfather had told everyone. She seemed relieved when the service began.

Mercier wasn’t the most religious man, but he took some comfort in the thought that something as horrible as the war they’d lived through had a larger meaning. That his survival and the death of his friend were not random. This Christmas, more than any other one, invited to contemplate life and death and one’s place in it all. As the reverend spoke, he saw it in the faces of everyone around him: the frowns and the knitted brows, the teary eyes and white knuckles. Gratitude and grief, sadness and relief.

He reached for Betty’s hand, and wondered when doing that had become so natural.

The Marshalls were generous people, after mass, they opened their door to everyone. The house filled with friends and music: violin, guitar, accordion and bagpipes. The living room became a dance floor and the windows fogged. He took off his tie and jacket. There were flapjacks and hot cider, and Betty’s arms around his waist. She introduced him as her husband to anyone who asked. They called her Mrs. Mercier. And he played along. They both did. Perhaps a little too much. He hoped these people would never compare the stories they told them or they would find some serious discrepancies. The story of their wedding, in particular, they embellished with every repeat. What started as a “short civil ceremony”, by the fifth time had become “a gorgeous ceremony at St Paul’s cathedral, with the French National Orchestra playing as I walked down the aisle. Jean-François had just helped them escape the Nazis, you see.” A good undercover agent would never do such a thing, but it made Betty smile so he didn’t care.

When old neighbours told him embarrassing stories about Betty’s youth, he noticed she hid her face against his arm, so he encouraged them to continue. More than once, young Betty had gotten in trouble when trying to help. “Oh, you must have been, six or seven, when you fell off our apple tree,” a woman remembered.

“Said she was trying to return baby birds to their nest,” a man added.

“I still got a scar,” Betty said, pointing a faint line on her arm.

He touched it carefully, and hated Craze for abusing her big heart.

“You have scars too, don’t you?”

“A few. Here.” He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and pulled the lapel away to expose his collar bone. Her fingers danced along it, slipping under the shirt to touch the spot of raised, pinker skin. He could smell the cinnamon on her breath, and he wanted to kiss her again.

She dropped her hand and gaze. “Want something to drink?”

“Yes, whatever you can find.” She walked away so quickly she bumped into her aunt.

Mercier ran his hands down his cheeks with a groan. He had to pull himself together, he was here to help Betty not make things harder for her. Despite that good intention, when she came back and found her seat taken, he patted his knee in invitation.

“You sure?”

“You would not be the only one.” Around the room, three other women sat on their husband’s lap. “If you don’t want—”

“No, no, that’s okay. That’s the normal thing to do.” She sat sideways of his knees, keeping most her weight on her own legs. He wanted to pull her closer, feel her full weight on him. He drank instead. The Jubilee Stout she’d brought him tasted of roasted grains and licorice, and made him long for a full-bodied Cabernet Sauvignon or a fine Cognac.

Betty discussed with Mrs. Jeffrey, the woman they’d met at the train station on their arrival. As Betty talked, she relaxed further against him, and he drank some more to keep his hands off her. “So, I never got the full story of how you two met,” Mrs. Jeffrey said.

Mercier began to tell the story he’d prepared. “I was chasing after German spies who’d tried to pass off as French refugees.”

“Goodness gracious, German spies? Here?”

“Yes. They lured me into a trap, and when I escaped I had to hide. I found a place in the woods, behind the farm.”

“When I found him… I needed help,” Betty said, and Mercier frowned at her deviation from the story they’d agreed on, but she continued. “I’d hurt meself. In the forest. I’d slipped on the rocks, in the river, you know the place.”

“Beside the old bridge, yeah? Our Johnny fell there too, nearly drowned, he did.”

“Yeah, that’s the place. Well, you see, Jean-François he didn’t have to help me, could’ve ignored me, kept hiding, but he didn’t. He rescued me.” She cupped his cheek tenderly, and, never breaking eye-contact, he placed a lingering kiss on her palm.

“And you helped me too, to recover from my injuries,” he said. “I knew I had to go back to London. Duty called, but I didn’t want to go. The more time I spent with her, the harder it became to leave. So I asked her to marry me. I would have waited,” he added, also going off script. “If she’d wanted to stay with her family. I would have understood.”

Mrs. Jeffrey dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “You two are so sweet, I wish you a lifetime of happiness.” She pinched their cheeks and left.

Betty sunk against him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Are you tired, ma belle?”

“A bit, yeah. It’s past two am.”

They fell silent, observing the people around them, some celebrating, some snoring. They didn’t interest him as much as Betty, her warmth through his clothes, the faint scent of soap on her skin, the tiniest of freckles on her nose. Desire pooled low in his stomach.

“Jean-François.” She had a hand on his, not just resting there but pushing it away lightly, and he realized he’d ventured quite high up her skirt.

“My apologies, I— I think I need some fresh air.”

Mercier welcomed the night air and its cooling effect on his ardour. He rounded the corner of the house and lit a cigarette, taking a long drag. “Merde.”

He kept thinking of Olga, A.K.A. the countess, “am I overplaying my part?” she’d asked on their last meeting before she was killed.

Laughter and songs came through the window. Every person Betty had introduced him to as her husband she would have to tell he’d left her. The lie had gotten out of proportion and would make life harder for her rather than easier. This was why he should have left earlier.

The back door opened, he heard voices but didn’t see them from his side of the wall. “What’s the deal with Betty and that husband out of nowhere. Thought you was gonna marry her, Donald.”

“I was. Dunno what she’s thinking, takin’ up with a stranger. This land could’ve been mine. Now it’ll go to some French knobhead. She’ll never fit here with a man like that.”

*

The last guests left past 3am, and Betty searched around the house for Jean-François. She hadn’t seen him in the last hour. Not since she’d stopped his wandering hand, she hadn’t minded it, it just wasn’t the right moment or place for that. She hoped he wasn’t upset. She asked Marnie and Margaret, but they hadn’t seen him either. He wasn’t in the bedroom nor the washroom.

Finally, she found Jean-François asleep in an armchair in the closed summer kitchen. He looked too peaceful to wake him up, besides he’d have to get up in just a few hours for farm work. It was cold, so she covered him with an afghan blanket and brushed stray hair off his forehead. She laughed softly at his gaping mouth.

The old floorboards creaked, and Grandpa Marshall sidled up to her. Thumbs hooked under his braces, he considered Jean-François then his granddaughter. “Does he make you happy?”

“Jean-François— yes.”

“You sure? You don’t look it, not always. What happened, Betty?”

“It’s war, Gramps. Death and… and deceit. I can’t be the innocent girl I was before and that’s alright.”

“Well, war was easier to live through here. We was safe.”

Betty sighed and walked away, picking up empty bottles and glasses as she went. Her grandfather followed her to the kitchen. Of course, he had to pick a moment when she was sleepy and he’d drank to talk. She wiped her hands on a tea towels. “Dunno what to tell you, Gramps. I know I let you down. I can’t explain why I did what I did. Not entirely… Will you ever forgive me or d’you want me to leave?”

He sat down at the table, groaning at the ache in his joints. “To be fair, I knew it was coming,” he said.

“How d’you mean?”

“You don’t say much, luv, never have, but that don’t mean there’s nothing going on in that nugging of yours. With you father’s death, and you mother’s… You needed something else.”

“I do love the farm so very much, though.”

“I know. I know. Just tell me you found what you was looking for.”

“A bit, yeah. I know a thing or two about meself I didn’t know before.”

“And you found him.”

“I’ve still got a lot to think about.”

“Dunno thinking so much will do you any good, but you do what you gotta do.” He stood up and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You can stay here as long as you need too.”

“Yeah?”

“Come here, my lil’ chicken.” He gave her a hug, and for a brief moment, she felt like the happy child she had once been.

Grandpa Marshall went to bed, and Betty looked out the window with an unburdened heart.

“You would have let me sleep in that chair all night?” Jean-François asked, he held the afghan around his shoulders which made him look like a tall child.

“Didn’t want to wake you. You coming to bed, then?” They walked sluggishly up the stairs together. Jean-François collapsed on the mattress.

“Your family certainly knows how to throw a party.”

“You had a good time? Did it take your mind off your family?”

“Yes… Of course, now I’m thinking about them.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry!”

“I’m joking.” He crossed his arms under his head, stretching his torso in a way that pulled his shirt out of his trousers, and her eyes lingered on that sliver of skin. “Betty?”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

“Do you need help with your dress again?”

She didn’t. “Yes, please.” She sat on the edge of the bed, and he rose to his knees. She let him brush her hair aside.

“I think I heard you reconcile with your grandfather,” he said, opening the top button.

“Yeah, I think we’re on the right track.”

“I’m happy for you.”

He pulled the zipper all the way down, knuckle dragging down her spine as he did it. She stayed on the edge of the bed, dress sliding down her arms.

“D’you think I should tell them the truth?” she asked, looking at him over her shoulder.

He’d laid back down already, eyelids drooping with sleep, but he made an effort and propped himself up on an elbow.

“Why do you want to tell them? Don’t do it for me.”

“No, I mean, I do hate that they don’t know what you’re doing for me, but I’ve just realized I’m gonna have to lie to them about it all me life.”

“I shouldn’t have made you lie to them.”

“You did the right thing. Not sure I’d’ve taken that train without you.” She squeezed his hand. “I just feel I should be honest.” She sighed, too sleepy to consider the matter further.

“That’s very noble of you.”

She admired his ring on her finger. “Yeah, I reckon I should be knighted too.”

Jean-François chuckled and pulled on her hand so that she fell on the bed beside him. “I dub thee: chevalière de la Lune.” He patted both her shoulders then booped her nose.

They rested their heads on pillows, blinking slowly, smiling at each other. They should change out of their clothes before falling asleep, but she didn’t have the energy to stand up.

“Can you hold me? Just for a little while?” Betty asked.

“Sure.” He opened his arms, and she snuggled up to him. His hands rested on her back where her dress gaped.

“Happy Christmas,” she whispered. She pecked his cheek but he turned his head at the same moment and their lips met. They froze until Jean-François moved his lips, and she returned the kiss. A gentle kiss, sleepy and unhurried. Afterwards, she kept her eyes closed for a second, savouring the tingles on her lips.

Betty rested her head on his chest, and they fell asleep in their fancy clothes.

*

Sunlight danced behind her eyelids, shifting yellows and whites, compelling her to wake up. Although she resisted the pull of the morning, she became more aware of her surroundings, of the soft rise and fall under her cheek, of a heartbeat where he ear rested, of an arm over her. She smiled and pressed her nose to the soft cotton of his shirt. And she thought there would be no more war if everyone had such lovely mornings. The thought made a giggle bubble her throat and her stomach vibrated with it against Jean-François. He inhaled deeply and tightened his arms around her. “What’s so funny?” he mumbled.

“Nothing.”

Unpleasant sensations eventually caught up with her: full bladder, pasty mouth, pins and needles in her arm. He protested when she moved, but eventually let her go. She tiptoed to the washroom so as not to get caught by her family, she had every intention of going back to bed. She rinsed her mouth and freshened up with a flannel. The floor was cold under her bare feet and she rushed back to the room to dive under the covers. Jean-François was still in bed, but she thought she could smell mint about him.

They lay face to face, and she removed one of her hair from his shirt as an excuse to touch him.

“I could kill for a good cup of coffee,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Too much to drink?” She rubbed his forehead to alleviate the headache. He leaned into her touch until his head rested on her pillow. She ran her fingers through his hair, and his eyes fluttered shut.

“I only had two beers, but I didn’t get a lot of sleep. And I love coffee.”

“You can have a coffee tomorrow. You’ll be in France.”

His eyes opened, he searched her face, his brow furrowed. She shied away from that inquisitive gaze, tucking her head under his chin. He smoothed strands of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingered on her jaw. “I want you to come with me to France.”

She stilled. She couldn’t have heard him right.

“Please say something.”

She looked up at him, and she found in his eyes the same sincerity and concern that had touched her at the train station. “You really mean it.”

“Yes… I think I could use someone with me. And you are so very lovely to be with.” Betty smiled wide behind her fingers. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes! I mean, it’s only polite I return the favour.”

“This is not about politeness.”

Betty’s heart swelled in her chest, pushing laughter up her throat. She couldn’t stop smiling.

“May I kiss you again?” he asked.

“Oh, please do.”

From the way he wet his lips and looked at her, she knew this kiss would be different. A spark flared in her stomach. He brushed his nose down the slope of hers, and the first press of his lips was a featherlight caress. Without the pretence of mistletoe and her family watching, he took his time, building up the kiss. With each touch, the spark in her grew. Her mouth parted on a sigh, and he sucked on her bottom lip. Their legs entwined and fingers tangled in hair. He deepened the kiss, claiming her mouth, letting his hunger take over. And she welcomed it. He held her so tight, this fingertips reached her ribs.

In the last months, with sadness and anger plaguing her heart, intimacy had been far from her mind. But now, her body awoken from its hibernation, desire returned to her cells, and her pulse thumped between her legs. She canted her hips, pressing against him. The kiss turned messier. Wet smacks and panting breaths filled the room. She clawed at his shirt as if to rip it off him. A groan rewarded her ardour.

Jean-François pulled away suddenly. His eyes were wide, his lips kiss-swollen.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’m finding it hard to keep my promise to stay out of your knickers.”

“Oh, sod that promise.” She tugged on his collar to bring him back to her, and he laughed against her lips.

Jean-François pulled her dress down to her waist, his mouth following the fabric, pecking down her neck, across her collarbones, licking at the lacy edge of her bra. She removed it as fast as she could, and he kissed the red indentations left from sleeping with the bra on, a tender touch on each side of her breast then to the soft undersides, until her nipples were hard enough to graze his teeth over them.

Betty arched into his touch, trapping his leg between hers, squirming with a delicious sort of restlessness.

His hand sneaked under the layers of tulle, caressing her thighs and dragging his nails in a way that turned her skin to gooseflesh. She spread her legs without a moment of hesitation. He cupped her sex over her underwear and she bucked into his hand.

“Betty?”

“Keep going.”

His fingers slipped under the fabric, and he quirked an eyebrow at her readiness. He removed his hand from under her skirt, showed her his glistening fingers.

“I like you,” she said shyly.

He gave his beautiful fingers a lick. “You like me a lot.”

She hid her face in the crook of his neck and he kissed her hair. “It’s okay, ma belle.”

His light strokes of her folds became bolder, and she soon forgot her embarrassment. “Like this, please.” She guided his touch to a spot that made her gasp.

He moved faster, and she fisted the sheet. “Oh, God.” He studied her, the way she bit her bottom lip and squeezed her eyes shut, learning what elicited shivers and gasps.

“Look at me.” She opened her eyes, and he added a finger with a twist of his wrist that made her cry out. She put her hand behind his neck, bringing his forehead to hers. Their breaths mingled as her body went taut. And he swallowed her moans of release.

Betty fell against the pillow, every muscle felt like jelly. “Thank you.”

He chuckled at that and lay beside her,tracing lazy patterns on her stomach and chest. He was still completely dressed but his hair was a beautiful mess.

“I haven’t forgotten you,” she said, “I just need a minute.”

“I will be right here when you’re ready.”

“I bet you will.” She kicked off her dress and knickers. “Can I... be on top?”

“Hop on.” She chuckled as she straddled him. 

She began with his wrinkled shirt, exposing his chest. Licking her lips, she caressed his flat stomach, the shelf of his ribs, the sparse hair on his pectorals. She was already rolling her hips where he bulged, and took some perverse pleasure in soaking his chic trousers. She inched lower down his legs and unbuckled his belt slowly, then dragged the zip down even slower. His groan of impatience was delicious, she stroked him through the cloth, enjoying the way he hardened under her palm.

“I didn’t know you were such a tease,” he said.

“It’s not teasing if I see it through, though.” She flashed a mischievous grin.

He pulled her in for a kiss, nipping at her bottom lip. She rubbed her nose along the stubble on his jaw, smelling his skin, faint traces of woodsy cologne and his natural musk. He gripped her hips, tried to tug her down on him, but she resisted.

“Just wait a minute, you’ll love this, I promise,” she said, and started to kiss down his body.

Her hot breath, inches from his pants made him twitch and hit her chin.

“You deserve a reward, don’t you think?”

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to.” And she found she really meant it. She wasn’t trying to please him beyond her own comfort zone, she was being honest. He already knew everything about her and had never once judged her, she doubted this, of all things, would be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Betty kissed his hip, and he caressed her hair, and oddly chaste gesture given what she was about to do.

She pulled down his pants, just enough to release his cock and lick the length of it. He raised himself up on his elbows to watch her. His eyes were dark, his mouth agape, holding his breath until the next touch. She revelled in that look, this beautiful man who desired her.

She gathered saliva in her mouth and kissed his tip, she let him push up past her lips. His stomach flexed with each panting breath. She sucked on the head, and he cursed in French. She released him returning to teasing licks.

“Are you enjoying torturing me?” he asked.

“Immensely.”

“I’ll get back at you for this. There are so many things I want to do to you.”

“Tell me,” she asked, returning her mouth to his cock. He sucked in a breath and tried to focus on describing all the places where he wanted to make love to her, starting with the train to Paris. His voice was lower, rougher than usual, his French accent thickened. She could feel herself swelling and slickening, the throb of her own arousal as she imagined it with him.

She bobbed her head faster. He’d stopped talking now. Her free hand rested on his thigh, and he laced their fingers together. When his grip tightened, she stopped. “You can finish like this,” she said, “or we can continue.”

“Continue.”

She straddled him again. He didn’t penetrate her, but let her glide up and down his cock, coating it in her wetness. She caressed her breasts and rolled her hips languorously. He swallowed hard, and she watched the muscles in his neck work. It aroused her as much as the friction between her legs. When he rubbed his thumb over her clit, her rhythm faltered. She braced herself on his shoulders, grinding faster. The old bed squeaked and rattled. He licked the sweat up her neck and kissed just below her ear.

“Jean-François, I need…”

“What do you need?”

“I need you, in me.”

He rolled over her. He cupped her cheek and looked into her eyes in a way that made a lump rise in her throat.

She wrapped her legs and arms around him, holding his as close as possible as he slowly pushed in her. They moaned in unison, and he stilled, filling her. He throbbed and swelled in her. His breath was ragged, his teeth were at her shoulder. She needed him to move but she treasured this closeness, this unity. She kissed him, pouring her heart and soul into it.

When they parted, there was marvel in his eyes. He rested his forehead on hers and started moving, careful, sensuous rolls of his hips meant to make her feel every inch of him. And they lost themselves into each other.

*

When they finally left the bedroom, the table was already decked with the best china and Christmas crackers for lunch. The pudding steamed in the copper boiler used to heat water for washing, turning the kitchen into a sauna.

“About time,” Marnie said. “Help me with the mutton, will ya.”

“Sorry, we overslept.”

“Didn’t sound like sleeping,” Margaret muttered.

Betty joined her grandmother at the counter, even the men helped prepare the meal.

As they sat around the table, paper crowns on and laughing at Grandpa Marshall’s stories, Betty’s eyes drifted to the window, to the Howgill Fells awash with sunlight and the sheep grazing peacefully. It felt familiar and new at the same time. She would return here, of that she was sure. Under the table, Jean-François laced their fingers. Whatever 1946 had in store for them, they wouldn’t go through it alone.

Thank you for reading! Stay tuned for more of Jean-François and Betty in 2018 :D

[plxviophile]

You know it’s sort of funny with me. Cause in my personal preference I can’t ship David characters with anyone else but Billie characters. But Billie is the total opposite for me. I can ship her with anyone. Her and Jenna? Hell yea! Billie and Matt Smith? Yes please. Billie and Jodie? Oh hell yea. Maybe I’m just weird about it though xD

Hey, listen that’s okay! I wasn’t asking you to ship Hardy x Clara (I believe I said in the post “If you’re able to and it’s your choice”, but I’m glad you’re open to a wider variety of ships! For me it’s easy because I ship the Doctor with multiple people and I’m so beyond down for David and Jenna. But, Billie is quite shippable!! I just want anyone out there who does ship more than the ‘traditional’ ones to know that it’s okay! I’d love to see more dwcastxover in the future! Hell, put a Billie x Freema character there too! There’s just so much to explore, and that’s okay!! To me, that’s what makes it fun! Thanks for bein so awesome and I would love it if you made some stuff for what you suggested!!

[lostinfic]

Mercier x Betty  British Raj AU

The word ‘dance’ comes to mind, their own choreography of gazes exchanged across the room, brushes of hands and half-spoken confessions. They orbit around each other, destined never to collide it seems; Mercier is upper class, Betty is a governess. And he’s spying on the family whose children she swore to protect. But in this foreign land of spices and silk, of golden gods and lush forests, where cultural norms clash and wane, even destinies must yield to desire.

Rating: Mature  Word count: 3.9k Beta: @fadewithfury​ <3 Thank you anon who prompted a Victorian AU that became this, and to my French anon for inspiration; Don’t let the pretentious summary fool you, this is plotless and shameless romantization of India, and an excuse to write UST and sneaking around. Warnings: drinking, smoking, kids because Betty is a governess. You don’t need to have seen either show. 

Tumblr | Ao3

1 | Falling

Calcutta, August 1902

As soon as Mercier exited the Raj Bhavan and stepped out from under the shade of the portico, the sun assaulted him. He tugged at his stiff high collar. It wouldn’t last, leaded clouds loomed on the horizon.

Monsoon season was almost over, the violent showers now few and far inbetween, giving way to the more tolerable days of Sharad Ritu, the fourth season of the Hindu calendar with the autumnal equinox as its midpoint.

Mercier walked towards the river Hoogly, intent on enjoying the city before having to shut himself indoors because of the heat.

Early morning was the busiest moment of the day. Even before sunrise, natives and foreigners alike took advantage of the cooler temperature to conduct their business. The clocks had barely struck nine when Mercier left the government house, having approved a transit between Calcutta and the French territory of Pondichéry.

He navigated between sweetmeat sellers, water carriers and liveried chaprassis, and beasts too, as numerous as humans, oxen pulling carts, gharry horses wearing blue beads and sacred bulls eating marigolds. Dust rose under their hoofs. And the smell of them reminded him of the stables on his estate, in a much quieter part of the world. How incongruous to find something so familiar halfway around the globe, and that such a foul smell should make him smile.

He reached the shore and stared absentmindedly into the flow, brown waters, a shade like café au lait, stirring memories of lazy Sunday mornings with his wife.

Mercier shook his head free of these melancholy thoughts, and instead settled his attention on the large steps descending into the river. No, not the colour of café au lait but of chai masala. Locals and pilgrims bathed there, washing clothes and cattle. The thrum of women’s gossip and fakir’s prayers reached his ears. A couple knotted their robes together and dipped side by side as a little boy priest showered them with petals.

In every city he’d lived in there had been such a river. The social and commercial center of the city, bustling with activity and yet nothing appeased him like walking along the banks. The Seine, the Thames, the Danube, the Vistula, the Rhine… And once again his mind wandered with the river, joining the Ganges and flowing to the Bay of Bengal and into the Indian Ocean; the same route he’d arrived in this country.

His steps took him towards the port where the wind impregnated the great white sails of the P&O ships.

He did not miss France per se, but his freedom. Always an independent spirit despite his military career, he went from one European capital to the next, to spy or fight, taking unpaid leave when things didn’t go his way. India had promised such liberty. But after four years, the close-knit community felt claustrophobic. The occasional mission kept him on his toes, but he’d imagined a work far less administrative.

He’d missed another Exposition Universelle and the summer olympics in Paris. He’d thought about leaving India before. But this country always had a new marvel in store to convince him to stay a while longer. Whenever melancholy had swept over him before, he’d discover a new sport, new food, new landscape to remind him there was much left to discover and enjoy. What would it be this time?

Anyway, he had an important assignment to complete before he could take his leave.

Mercier stared into the waters again. There were no steps here, but a steep wall, four feet above sea level, that dived into the river. Waves broke against the stone and a refreshing salty mist sprayed his face.

“Oliver Douglas Wigram, come back here!”

Mercier perked up at the name; Lord Wigram was part of his assignment, someone to report on, but he had yet to secure an invitation to his home.

“Oliver! It’s dangerous!”

A woman, Lady Wigram he assumed, ran and shouted, holding up her yellow skirts. A little boy, no more than four years old, ran past Mercier, giggling as he glanced over his shoulder at his pursuer.

Out of nowhere, a donkey headbutted the boy, sending him into the port’s deep waters. Mercier froze, agape. Oliver resurfaced, gesticulating wildly to keep himself afloat. Mercier started removing his jacket. He barely had one arm out that the woman dived straight into the river, her hat flying off behind her.

The strong current dragged Oliver away. Lady Wigram swam steadily to him. Mercier ran along the edge, trying to catch up, preparing to jump. Water swallowed the boy, and she dived under. His heart stopped as they disappeared, but she emerged with the child in her arms.

She was a good swimmer but her layers of clothes and corset would weigh her down. They didn’t need a third person in there but something to pull them out. He grabbed a thick rope, unwinding it from around a post, and threw it at them. It fell too far.

With one arm around the crying boy, the woman had trouble keeping her head out of the water. Mercier threw the rope a second time. It landed right beside them, and she grabbed it immediately. With the help of other men who’d witnessed the incident, Mercier pulled them out of the river.

An old sepoy caught Oliver, and Mercier hoisted Lady Wigram by her underarms. He laid her on the ground and knelt beside her. Brown curls stuck to her face, and he wiped them off as she coughed water. Her breath was short and laboured, her eyes wide and panicked. She clawed at her dress, and he realized what she needed. Running his fingers over her torso, he located, under the fabric, the front hooks of her corset. With some fiddling, he managed to free her. As soon as she could breathe properly, she looked around, searching for the boy.

“He’s here, my lady, he’s alive.”

She crawled to the boy. Oliver safe in her arms, she sagged with relief against Mercier’s chest. He couldn’t help but close his arms around them.

“Shhh. You’re fine, you’re safe,” he whispered to soothe the lady’s tears.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, pulling away and wiping her nose on her sleeve.

“There is nothing to be sorry about. Can you stand up?” he asked after a moment.

She nodded, and he helped her up to her feet. The old sepoy offered to get them a carriage. They sat on a bench near the road to wait for it.

“Oh, my Lord! Thank you for saving us. Thank you,” she said. “Oh, where’s me head at, I didn’t even ask your name.”

“Colonel Jean-François Mercier. It’s a pleasure to meet you Lady Wigram.” He kissed the back of her hand.

“Oh. I’m not lady Wigram.”

“I heard you say the boy’s name, I assumed…”

“I’m just the governess.”

“A pleasure all the same. And your name?”

“Betty Salinger, sir.”

“A governess? You do not look like one.” He looked pointedly at her colourful promenade dress.

She sniffled as she fingered a muddied lace trim. “It’s me— my day off,” she explained

She looked at her ward, but didn’t express discontentment at his presence on her day off. She attempted to clean his face with her soaked handkerchief, and Mercier offered his own. It didn’t do any good, the child still looked a right mess, soaked to the bones with a runny nose and one shoe lost.

“Her ladyship will kill me dead.”

At that, Oliver’s lip wobbled and his eyes welled up again.

“Oh, no, no, sweetheart, don’t worry, I didn’t mean like that.”

“Because you saved her son?”

“I let him run off.”

“Children will do that. The donkey pushed him.”

Betty nodded, but worry lines still bracketed her mouth. The poor woman was dishevelled, her chignon slid halfway down her hair, and her corset still gaped under her dress.

“Perhaps if your clothes were clean and dry, the accident might not appear so severe.” He pulled a dead leaf out of her hair.

“Is it that bad?”

“We could stop by my house so you might fix your appearance and the boy’s, and dry your clothes.”

Her wide, uncertain eyes settled on him, mouth slightly agape. “Is that proper, sir?”

“Oh, of course, my apologies… My sister will be there.”

She relaxed. “Yeah, if you would be so kind, it might make matters better.”

*

The carriage stopped in front of a large white stucco house with a classical portico. Above the entrance, hung a French flag, the heat had caused the blue and red dyes to bleed on the white middle.

Taking in the size of the building, Betty’s eyes widened and shifted between Mercier and the house.

“It is not all for me. It doubles as the French consulate,” Mercier said. “The west side is offices and guest rooms.”

“There are people in there?” She crossed her arms to cover herself.

“Come this way, I will make sure no one sees you.”

He guided her around the house to a side entrance.

Oliver was getting impatient, clinging to Betty and demanding to go home, but he stopped whining as soon as he saw Mercier’s two pointer dogs. His giggles and the dogs’ soft barks attracted Gabrielle to the room. Back from calling on a friend, she removed her gloves and feathered hat.

“Have you gone fishing, brother?” she teased as she eyed their soaked guests.

Mercier introduced his younger sister and explained the situation.

Gabrielle promptly put an arm around Betty’s shoulders. “Good heavens, what a fright you must have had. Come with me, we will find you something dry to wear. Jean-François, please have the cook prepare something.”

He watched the three of them walk up the stairs with an odd pinch to his heart. He could trust his sister to take good care of them. No doubt Gabrielle’s congeniality would soothe Betty’s nerves better than he could. But it felt wrong to let them out of his sight. Of course, he couldn’t follow, Betty was about to undress. Not that he was averse to witness that.

Clucking his tongue at his own silliness, Mercier headed for his rooms. He changed out of his clothes, damp from holding Betty, trading the layers of jacket, waistcoat and cravat for a loose linen shirt.

He unlocked his roll top secretary and sifted through files for the one on Lord Wigram.

Douglas Wigram had been doing business in India for over a decade but only moved permanently to the country eighteen months ago. Although his business partners worked mainly in Bombay, he now lived in Calcutta, on the eastern side of the country. He had made enemies in Bombay, amongst which trade partners from the French territories of Mahé and Pondichéry. Rodier, the Governor General of French colonies, had put him on the list of potential enemies who believed India should be united under the British crown.

By taking Oliver back home, Mercier might meet Lady or Lord Wigram and perhaps secure an invitation for some upcoming gathering at their house. From then on, it would be easier to assess if Wigram was a threat.

After stopping by the kitchens, Mercier joined the women on the white marble verandah. In the corner, a punkah wallah with a string attached to his toe stirred a large cloth fan suspended from the ceiling on a wooden frame.

Betty was sat on a reclined Planter’s chair, and, standing behind her, Gabrielle braided their guest’s long brown hair. Both wore loose muslin wrappers, strictly speaking these garments were dressing gowns, but had been widely adopted as day wear in India, perfect for the heat if not quite appropriate to entertain company. Gabrielle tied the end of the braid with a ribbon and laid it over Betty’s shoulder. Water from its tip seeped into the white fabric and a wet ring grew above her breast. She noticed and swept the braid behind her, but Mercier’s gaze lingered on the sheer spot, then on her delicate sun-kissed collar bones. She clutched the fabric on her chest self-consciously, and he averted his eyes immediately.

He cleared his throat and turned to the bar caddy, chiding himself for ogling her. The poor woman was stuck between borderline indecency in the company of strangers and the wrath of Lady Wigram. Yet the light tan of her skin told him it was not her first time out of the house wearing little.

“Brandy?” He offered Betty a glass which she accepted but didn’t bring to her lips.

“None for me?” Gabrielle complained as she sat down on a large cushion.

“Only for those who have rescued someone today,” he replied, drinking from his own glass. “How are you feeling miss Salinger?”

“Better, thanks,” she answered, eyes downcast.

“In this sun, your clothes will be dry in no time,” Gabrielle assured her.

Mercier turned his attention to the garden below. The chirping of blue-breasted quails and Himalayan flamebacks made him search for their colourful plumage amongst the garden shrubs.

“What kind is that?” Gabrielle asked pointing at a small bird with iridescent feathers perched on a palm tree.

“A sunbird, I believe, green-tailed.”

“My brother loves birds and all wild animals,” Gabrielle said. “Do you love nature and animals, miss Salinger?”

“Oh yes!” She covered her mouth, tampering down her own enthusiasm straight away.

“The wildlife of India is marvellous, don’t you think?” Gabrielle insisted.

“The flowers are beautiful, I shall never tire of walking in the Wigrams’ garden.”

“How nice. You love the flora and my brother loves the fauna.”

It’s only out of respect that Mercier didn’t roll his eyes at his sister’s matchmaking attempt. Gabrielle was all but married to Armand, and, before leaving her brother, she endeavoured to find him a companion.

“Do you hunt, Colonel?” Betty asked.

“I have been on a few expeditions.”

“Have you ever killed a tiger? I hear they are terribly dangerous and bloodthirsty.”

“I saw some last year. I was invited to a hunt with a few generals and lords at the domain of the Maharaja of Surguja. They are magnificent creatures, but I did not kill any.”

When their party had arrived in the forest, servants had already baited and drugged the tigers. There was no danger, and certainly no honour, to killing them. So as not to insult his esteemed colleagues, he’d held his tongue and pretended to miss his mark.

“His lordship made a carpet out of the first one he caught,” Betty said. “I always walk around it.”

He smiled at her, and she averted her eyes.

“How is the boy doing?” he asked.

They looked at Oliver, chasing after the dogs.

“Brave lad, he had quite the adventure… oh, what’s the point of fixing me dress, he’ll tell her ladyship everything anyway.”

“He seems quite taken with the dogs, perhaps it’s all he shall remember,” Gabrielle said.

“Let’s hope so.”

Truth be told, Mercier worried more about the dogs than the boy, he was now pulling at their tails and ears.

“Achille. Céleste,” he called.

The dogs joined him, Oliver on their heels. Mercier showed him how to pet and play with them.

“You don’t have to do that,” Betty said, “I should take care of him.”

“It’s your day off, is it not?”

She didn’t voice another objection, instead leaning back and taking a sip of brandy.

“He was lucky you know how to swim. It’s quite rare amongst young women,” Mercier commented. When she offered no explanation, he asked, “where did you learn?

“Me father, sir.”

“Did you live near the water?”

“No.”

He wondered if her reluctance to speak stemmed from shock or shyness. To put her at ease, he told her of a river, near his family’s estate in Boutillon where he used to swim. No more than two-feet deep, but still his mother had forbid him to go. “So of course, I went there every occasion I had.”

“And I followed,” Gabrielle added. “Even after you left, I kept going.”

“Not by yourself, I expect.”

“I always managed to find some company…”

He smiled indulgently at his sister. She used to tease the village boys mercilessly. They did anything she asked as long as they believed they had a chance with her, which, in actuality, they never had. One of them received the scold of a lifetime for bringing her tobacco.

He rolled a cigarette and handed it to his sister. She never smoked in public, etiquette forbade it, but he wanted to check Betty’s reaction. A sort of moral test, to assess if he could use her to spy on Lord Wigram. Betty frowned at Gabrielle exhaling smoke, but he thought it was more from curiosity than judgement. Interesting.

A servant brought a platter of jalebi, deep fried curls of batter dipped in sugar syrup and saffron. Oliver dashed to the plate, grabbing one jalebi in each hand.

“Slow down, sweetheart, don’t spoil your lunch.”

But the adults were as eager as the kid. They emptied the platter in no time, the crystallized exterior crunched under their teeth, and they hummed with delight, sucking their greasy fingertips. Colour returned to Betty’s face, cheeks flushed, her lips tinted gold with saffron, and glistening from the sweet oil. He caught her eyes as her tongue darted to the corners of her mouth. For the first time, she didn’t look away.

“Me granddaddy did, live by the water I mean, near the Eccup reservoir in Leeds,” she said.

“And that is where you learned to swim?” Gabrielle asked.

“Yeah... We went there in the summers,” she added, gaining a little confidence. “Daddy was in the Navy. He knew water can be dangerous, but he didn’t want us to be afraid of it.”

“You certainly were not afraid of it today,” Mercier said.

“Wish I’d stayed longer in the water, it was quite refreshing,” she admitted, hiding a laugh behind her hand.

That made him smile. Perhaps it could be arranged, he’d heard of some rivers one could swim in just outside the city. He refilled their glasses of brandy, offering one to his sister this time.

“How long have you two been in India?” Betty enquired.

“I arrived fours years ago, and Gabrielle joined me a year later. You know what they say, women come to India for two reasons: because they are married to empire builders or because they want to be.”

“I will hear no such thing, Jean-François! It may be unladylike, but I came here because I wanted to see India.”

“And you prefer piano players to empire builders,” he replied, referring to Armand.

“Hush!” She poked him with her toes. “And you Betty, why did you come here? Looking for the perfect man?”

“The only interest I have in men, is making a good one out of Oliver.”

“I like her, brother, you should rescue governesses more often.”

Realizing what she’d said, Betty blushed and glared at her glass of brandy. “As good a man as his lordship, I mean… I should go, we will be late for tiffin. Come on sweetheart.”

“I want the doggie,” the child replied, hugging Achille’s neck.

Betty gently pried him away.

“You can come back to see them again,” Mercier said impulsively, earning a surprised look from Gabrielle.

While Betty and Oliver put on their now dry clothes, Mercier had the driver prepare the buggy. He put on a waistcoat and jacket again, and fixed his hair to make a good impression on the Wigrams.

Although Betty and Oliver looked in better shape, their outfits were still the worse for wear. It saddened him to see her smile now turn into a frown.

“Thank you for your help, Colonel, but I’m afraid it will not do much good.”

Mercier’s ancestors had been knights, and he found nothing awakened the chivalry in his blood like the distress in Betty’s doe eyes.

“Let me take you home and talk to Lady Wigram. I will tell her it’s my fault.”

“I appreciate it, sir, but why would you do that for me?”

“Yes, why would you do that?” Gabrielle echoed.

He could not reveal he wished to make the Wigrams’ acquaintance to spy on them. But he didn’t have to take the blame for that. The truth was he couldn’t stomach any criticism coming to Betty when she’d so bravely jumped in the water before he had even gathered his own courage to do so.

*

As they neared the house, Betty chewed harder on her bottom lip and wrung her hands in her lap. She fussed over the child’s appearance. “Oliver, sweetheart, what did we do this morning?”

“I played with doggies.”

“Yes, exactly, that’s what we did. All morning. We played with the dogs. Do you remember their names?” And she kept on asking about the dogs, to make sure it was all the boy would talk about.

Arrived at the house, Betty had hoped to slip under the radar but Lady Wigram was in the hall. She was a good looking woman, but her pale skin, droopy eyelids and oddly slow demeanour gave the impression she was permanently drowsy.

She took in their clothes and asked: “Good Heavens, what has happened?”

“I fell in the river,” Oliver said before running off to his room.

“My horse pushed him,” Mercier said right away, “it was frightened when the boy came running. Miss Salinger was with him. He fell in a stream, hardly a river, and—”

“You let him run off?” Lady Wigram spoke daintily, but accusation and contempt spiked her words.

“I— I’m sorry… the horse and…”

“She immediately jumped in too, to grab the boy, most courageously.”

Lady Wigram huffed and sent Betty to her room. “You cannot possibly eat lunch in this state.”

Betty’s eyes welled up, and, shoulders bowed, she walked away. As he watched her disappear up the stairs, there was again that odd pinch to Mercier’s heart.

“Really, madam, miss Salinger is not to blame.”

“There is no need for that, Colonel.” She looped her arm through his, guiding him to the front room. “The girl is a lost cause, but my husband knew her father and he’s sentimental, you know how these things go. We make do with her flaws, poor girl.”

Mercier ground his teeth.

*

When he returned home, Gabrielle was waiting for him at the dining room table. He knew that amused glint in her eyes, and only reluctantly sat down with her.

“You like her,” she said in French with that teasing lilt.

“I need her. I have to learn more about Lord Wigram’s business in Calcutta.”

“So you are using her to be in the Wigrams’ good graces.”

“Exactly.”

“Hm.”

“… What is it?”

“And how does taking the blame achieve that?” she asked. “Wouldn’t it have been better to present yourself as a hero, or to at least side with Lady Wigram on staff’s incompetence?” Although she’d formulated her sentences as questions, he knew she was only mocking him by stating the obvious.

“It worked—” he showed an invitation to a dinner party at the Wigrams’— “it’s all that matters. I can complete my last assignment.”

And with that mission done, he would be able to leave India. The governess was his ticket out… or the marvel that would make him stay another while longer.

Chapter 2: Observing

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What would we call Eccleston x Piper fics? Obviously not Teninch but maybe...Ecclepip—ahh! Someone more creative than I should come up with this! XD

Ecclepip lol! Bilston? Pipecc? Chrisbi? 

I still think DWcastxover is a good idea to cover all possibilities.

[lostinfic]

Alec had hoped Hannah’s presence would keep the nightmares at bay. But maybe it’s too much to ask for two blessings at once. He wakes up gasping for air and wishes she didn’t have to see him like that. But she hugs him without a word, and he finds that it’s not so bad after all.

[lostinfic]

The escape artist / True Love

It’s a friendship unlike any they’ve ever had. They couldn’t be more different. Holly sees strength in scars and beauty in a broken world. And Will may be a brilliant barrister, but sometimes he’s all out of arguments. He likes that she could be right, that it may not be all as bad as it seems.

[lostinfic]

Inner voice

Pairing: James Neil Arber (the decoy bride) & Fanny Price (Mansfield Park)

Rating: All-ages

Word count: 440

For my teninch fic bingo card: fighting over the last bite

A silhouette in James’ peripheral vision made him look up from his laptop screen. A young blond woman stood by his table.

“Hello!” she said.

“Oh, not you again.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault I keep showing up.”

“Then who’s fault is it?”

“Yours.” She smiled wide and bright. “I’m your conscience.”

James’ head dropped to his keyboard with a groan.

“May I?”

She tucked her long skirts under her legs and sat down in front of him. Her period clothing really clashed with the Starbucks decor, but he’d seen more outrageous in L.A. before.

 Fanny Price had been appearing to him for the last month or so, ever since his agent had convinced him to write a modern day adaptation of Mansfield Park. He had his qualms about it, obviously, but his agent had cajoled him into it— the fox and the crow— praising his writing style, and dangling before him promises of great sales and a TV adaptation. At first, he would only see Fanny from a distance, on the subway or walking in front of his flat, then she’d started smiling, waving, and now she was talking to him.

“My conscience, really?”

“It is kind of my main character trait, a strong moral sense. If you don’t know that about me, you should step away from the keyboard immediately.”

James gawked at her. She took a bite out of his cheesecake.

“Oi, that’s mine.”

He pulled the plate back to him with a glare and took a bigger bite.

“Tell me what you’re worried about, James.”

He sighed and looked out the window. “It could ruin my career. I’d be the bloke who tried to write Austen, that’s not what I want to be known for. What if it’s a disaster, I’ll— Will you stop eating my food?”

Fanny swallowed another piece of his cake. “It’s so much better than what Mrs. Norris cooks.”

“You’re fictional!”

“Yes, so it’s all going in your stomach anyway.”

James picked up the piece of cake with his hand and stuffed it in mouth. Despite his best efforts, it wouldn’t all fit in, and he almost choked himself. He put the remaining half back on the plate.

“Oh, James.” Fanny stood up and put her arms around his shoulders, rubbing his arm to comfort him.

She was just a figment of his imagination, yet it felt so real, so soothing.

“I’m afraid I’ll never write another book,” he confessed. “If I don’t write this one, I… I don’t have any other idea.”

“See, don’t you feel better now that you’ve admitted it to yourself?”

James shrugged.

“You’re a brilliant writer,” she added.

“You think?”

“Yes, I do. I’m sure you can write this adaptation if you want to. But it’s more of an ethical matter, isn’t it? You have to ask yourself: WWJD?”

“What would Jesus do?”

“No. What would Jane do?”

“I think she had more integrity than me… I should talk about it with Katie. I didn’t want her to know I’ve been struggling, but she’s my wife.”

Fanny’s lovely smile and warm arms around him slowly faded. When he looked down, the last of his cake had disappeared too.

[lostinfic]

Missing scenes.3

Pairing: Alec Hardy x Hannah Baxter (sdoacg)

Summary: Short "missing scenes" from Broadchurch 2, if Hannah were there.

Rating: mature-ish

Word count: ~1600

A/N: I'm getting ahead of myself since these scenes could easily tie in with the fic I'm working on. I just love the idea that they've known each other for ages and were friends before.

For context: Adrift

Catch up here

Sunlight filtered through Hannah’s eyelids, shades of orange and pink moving to the rhythm of the waves. The mattress shifted, and she felt a kiss, more scruff than lips, on the back of her neck.  She caught Hardy’s arm when he tried to move away from her. There was something she needed to ask him, but her mind was too hazy to remember.

  “You gonna let me go?” his voice was thick with sleep and laced with amusement.

  Eyes still closed, she shook her head and tightened her grip on his limb. He traced idle circles around her navel, and all her sluggish senses zeroed in on that pleasant sensation and the way it echoed lower in her body. Warmth dripped from his fingertips and pooled between her legs.

“Do that thing again,” she mumbled, trying to push his hand further down.

“This?”

  He tickled her and she automatically curled in on herself, giggling.

  “No, stop, stop! The other thing, the nice thing!”

  She arched her back and pushed his hand lower between her legs.

“You’re very high maintenance,” he whispered against her neck as his fingers skimmed her nether lips.

“You love it.”

“I love you.”

  She craned her neck to catch his lips. Morning breath aside, these lazy kisses, early in the day, were amongst her favourites and she missed them when they were separated.  As his fingers started making good on their promises, his phone alarm blared.

  “Please snooze.”

“I’ve already snoozed three times. Some of us can’t afford to stay in bed all day.”

“Some of us do their best work in a bed.”

  She stretched languorously hoping to change his mind, but his warm embrace left her. Reality caught up with her. She remembered now what they were supposed to talk about yesterday but never had: he’d said she wasn’t safe in Broadchurch and should leave.

  She turned on her back to look at Hardy. He was propped up on one arm, looking down at her, his eyes a soft, clear brown in the morning light. She gently swiped his fringe to the side to get a better look at him, and he smiled lightly.

  “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

  She touched a patch of gray on his beard that had appeared a little prematurely as a result of the last year’s stress. He disliked being reminded of it, but she thought it suited him. It also reminded her of how long they’d known each other and how far they’d come to finally be able to share a house.

  Her heart clenched.

  She didn’t want to go.

  “You alright?” he asked.

“Yeah, fine, erm, shouldn’t you get dressed?”

  She figured that sending him to work would delay the conversation and therefore her departure for at least another day. Postponing was fine until she started worrying. After all, she had no clue whatsoever about the kind of danger she may be facing. When she walked up the high street later that day, she found herself glancing behind her in case anyone was following, and her favourite café was suddenly populated by potential murderers.

  She knew Hardy was working on something despite the fact that he was no longer a DI. She’d seen him lock up files in a drawer, and he’d get lost in thoughts a lot, the kind of thoughts that made him clench his teeth. She hadn’t asked any questions so far. She’d clung to their peace and happiness, hoping foolishly that it would last. But now she had to know.

  She was in the middle of a conference call when Hardy came back home. She covered the receiver with her hand to give him a quick kiss before getting back to arguing.

  “No, it’s 12 inches long, I’m telling you.”

  She giggled at the astonished look on Hardy’s face.

  “Not what you’re thinking,” she mouthed.

  She finished her call and sat on the kitchen counter, legs flapping nervously. While Hardy dried the dishes— she’d washed them earlier but he refused to let them dry in the rack— they chatted about their day and the trial beginning tomorrow.

  “Did anyone talk to you or come to the house today?” he asked.

“Only people I knew… maybe it’s time you tell me what’s going on.”

  He put the towel away and placed his hands on her jeans-covered knees. His serious expression made her stomach drop.

  “There’s someone from a past case,” he spoke slowly, “a killer who walked free.”

“The Sandbrook case?”

He nodded slightly.

“He may be back in the country, and I’ve got things— people— to take care of, and I can’t worry about you at the same time.”

  Oh.

So that’s it, she would be a distraction, a nuisance.

  “So, what’s your plan?” she asked curtly.

“I can’t tell you that,” he answered, crossing his arms.

“Can’t or don’t want to?”

“I don’t want to.”

At least he was honest.

“But you’re gonna tell Ellie?”

  The look he gave her clearly indicated that he had intention of getting into that argument. She looked down, fiddling with the tassels of her scarf. She didn’t want to be that kind of woman. She wasn’t even jealous, just… confused.

  “Please, Hannah. If he’s really back… if he wants to hurt me and he knows about you…”

  He rubbed her arms and gave her a pleading look. He didn’t need to finish his sentence for a spike of fear to shoot through her guts.

  “What if he does hurt you, though?”

“He won’t. I’ll be fine. I’ve got it covered.”

“You said that the last time and you almost killed yourself, so forgi—“ The words caught in her throat, she pressed her lips to the back of her hand, trying to reign in her emotions, before talking again. “Forgive me if I’m not exactly reassured.”

  He stepped between her legs and wrapped his arms around her. His strength had always been her weakness. She tucked her head under his chin and took a few deep breaths, the woodsy undertones of his cologne soothed her.

  She didn’t want to cry, but she’d been so scared to lose him last year, and all that fear was resurfacing now.

  “I’ll be… careful,” he said.    

She snorted.

“You expect me to believe that?”

  His silence spoke volumes. They remained embraced without speaking a word, hearts heavy and minds heavier. There were so many things at stake and the foundation of their relationship suddenly seemed too brittle.

  “It’s not just that, though,” she said, leaning back on her hands, “I mean, finally, after years, the timing was right, we’re free and ready and happy… I don’t know….”

“You have to understand, Hannah, it’s not that I don’t want you here, but I need to finish this and after—“

“It’s always gonna be after something, though, isn’t it? After Christmas, after the divorce, after this case, after—”

“After your clients.”

  They glared at each other, and Hardy stepped away from her, crossing his arms and leaning back against the opposite counter.

  “There are other people involved: witnesses, parents... I didn’t ask Ashworth to come back.”

“Maybe not, but it must’ve been your plan all along, no?”

“What are you after, Hannah? Want me to choose between you and getting justice? M’not gonna do that.”

“’Course not!”

  Only heartbreak would result from that, whichever he chose.

  She hopped off the counter and walked to the front room window. She looked out at the clusters of lights blinking in the violet night around the harbour. When her eyes defocused, she caught sight of Hardy’s reflection on the glass pane; he was standing in the doorway, hands in pockets, looking at her. She mulled over what she wanted to say to him and how to say it to him. Finally, she turned around.

  “I love you, Alec, and I want you to finally close that case… no that’s— I want you to find peace, that’s what I want, even if it means that we have to be separated… but I’m scared for you and for us.”

  She covered her mouth with trembling fingers, waiting for his reaction. The distance between them felt so cold.

  “And I’m scared for you, so…”

“Great, so we agree on that.”

  She chuckled wetly and they each walked towards the other. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and let his thumb linger on her cheek, looking at her with eyebrows drawn together.

There was so much he wasn’t telling her.

She’d never wanted to get involved in someone else’s problems until now. Wanting to help went against every self-preserving mechanism she’d ever had.

He must have guessed from the way she squared her shoulders, that she was about to protest because he shook his head. There was a sadness in his eyes and yesterday he’d said he wanted to be selfish and keep her here. It wouldn’t take much to change his mind. She knew it and he knew it. But it wouldn’t be the best way to help him.

  “I’ve got a meeting in Bournemouth tomorrow, I’ll leave after,” she said, "just... promise me you'll take good care of yourself, and of Ellie too, and you'll call."

  He nodded and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. That was hardly a promise.

  “You know, once it’s over I probably won’t need to stay in Broadchurch.”

“London?”

“Could be.”

  Her weak smile mirrored his own, both unwilling to get their hopes up, but she took his hands and squeezed them affectionately.

  “I’m hungry, let’s get something.”

  She started walking away, but he pulled her back to him by the hand. He kissed her and that kiss told her more about his love and fear than any words in any language could have. 

Part 4

[lostinfic]

Carlisle/Hannah (or Belle) + "You look a bit lost." (i would die) :3

Thank you for your prompt, this was so much fun to write! And having to watch videos of Peter Carlisle was definitely an added bonus.

“Fucking Blackpool,” Hannah muttered.

She looked between the map she got at the train station and the street around her that looked like a haunted amusement park.

“I know right, tackiest place this side of the Atlantic, I hate it.”

Hannah turned to the man who had just walked up to her on the sidewalk. He smiled before stuffing a piece of pink cotton candy in his mouth. She shivered, the texture of that particular sweet never failed to make her cringe, like nails on a blackboard.

“You look a bit lost,” he said.

 “I’m looking for the Bellagio hotel.”

“It’s on my way, we’re almost there.”

“Almost there is not good enough in these shoes.”

Carlisle looked down her business suit and toned legs to a pair of vertiginous red stilettos.

“How do you walk in these?”

“It’s an art,” she replied, tossing a blonde fringe off her eye with a charming sway of her head.

He threw the remaining cotton candy in a nearby rubbish bin then took his car keys out of the pocket of his long black coat. He dangled them in front of her face.

“Is this good enough?”

She smiled and looped her arm through his. He guided her across the street to a police car.

“Are you arresting me?” she asked, her playful tone hiding a sudden anxiety.

“Getting paid for sex ain’t a criminal offence, paying for it is, you should know that. I’m Peter Carlisle, by the way,”

“Belle.”

“Sure you are.”

He opened the car door for her and once she was buckled in, he started driving down High street, passing by flashing arcade signs.

“He’s not gonna be there, the John, we have him in custody.”

Hannah squinted at him, trying to decipher if he was telling the truth. He couldn’t have been this fast, could he? How would he even know who the client was?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied.

Carlisle snorted.

They drove two more blocks before coming to a halt in front of what must have been a luxurious hotel in the 80’s. Hannah looked out the window at the chipped pastel paint and gold columns that had long since lost their shine.

She looked at Carlisle who was clearly holding back a laugh, it dug cute dimples in his cheeks. She plastered a smile on her face and walked out the sedan. She was halfway up the steps when something made her turn around. Carlisle had rolled down the car window.

“Rooooooxanne! You don’t have to wear that dress tonight, walk the streets for money, you don’t care if it’s wrong or if it’s right.”

Hannah burst out laughing, she shook her head and entered the building.

When she walked out of the hotel half an hour later in a bad mood and flat shoes, she found Carlisle leaning against the hood of his car, eating chips out of brown paper.

“Told ya, he wouldn’t be there. Fancy a drink?” he asked.

“I fancy getting the hell out of here.”

“Tough, next train’s in two hours. C’mon lass!”

She followed him to a pub on the Promenade and chose a table at the back. They were the only patrons except for a few professional alcoholics at the bar. The sunlight betrayed the age of the place, revealing cigarette burns on the formica tables and beer stains on the white upholstery.

“Is this the best you can do?” she asked with disdain.

“There’s my hotel room but it’s not a date, I thought me not paying for your drink would indicate the unromantic nature of this meeting.”

She was starting to find him rather amusing. A few more hours in this town might not be so bad after all.

“So go on then, tell me how you knew who my client was.”

He explained that she was clearly expensive and this not being the touristic season, there weren’t many men in town who could afford her services. It just so happened that the man they had arrested wasn’t above cheating on his wife and paying for sex. He slid a picture of Ripley Holden across the table and asked if it was him, but it was her first appointment with this particular client.

“Could you do me a favor and tell me if he ever tries to contact you again?”

“No, I don’t do that,” Hannah replied.

“A prostitute with principles, that’s new.  Next thing you know, politicians won’t be corruptible anymore. Where is society headed?”

“Oh sod off! Confidentiality is paramount in my line of work, I take it very seriously.”

“Oh and I admire your dedication to protecting the identity of kinky bastards.”

“And I admire your dedication to make other people do your work for you.”

He smiled at her. This banter was entertaining to him. That was one way to pass the time, but she knew a better one. She ran a hand through her hair and leaned forward, preparing a flirty quip.

“I’m not asking for work,” Peter said, “I’m asking because I’m in love with his wife.”

Oh. She reclined in her seat. After a minute, she looked down at her watch, took a last sip from her drink and stood up.

“Already? I thought we were having a very enjoyable time.”

He stood up as well. She pulled on the lapel of his jacket and slipped her business card in his breast pocket.

“Call me, if it doesn’t work with his wife.”

“I will!”

[lostinfic]

Alec Hardy and Badger from Foxtrot. Prompt "You look familiar" :)

Thanks for the prompt!

What the bloody hell is wrong with this world? Strippers abducting people? Hardy locks the handcuffs around the blond woman’s wrists.

“I’m arresting you for the kidnapping of Jacob Addams—“

“You look familiar, haven’t I seen you at the club?” she asks, seemingly unfazed by being arrested.

Somehow, the first thing that comes to his mind at the mention of a club is that Groucho Marx quote about refusing to join any club that would have him as a member.

Alec scoffs.

“You have the right to remain—“

“Yeah, yeah, a stag-do, 2 months ago,” she continues, her face brightening up.

He feels dizzy at the mere mention of the stag-do: there had been beer, followed by whisky, followed by tequila and who knows what else.

“Your mates, they’d paid me to give you a lap dance.”

Alec stills, his hand on her wrists, forgetting what he’s doing. He suddenly remembers stumbling into a dark room with a disco ball, an undulating silhouette and someone helping him sit down in a chair. “They tell me you haven’t been with anyone since your divorce,” she’d said in a sultry voice. She’d run her hands over him and it had felt so good to be touched by a woman. She’d grinded in his laps, snaking her hips above his crotch to the music of some awful song about candy shops.

Hardy closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, his head spinning again just like it had that night.

“You started crying, I didn’t know what to do so I gave you a blow job,” the blonde woman adds.

There’s an acrid taste in the back of his throat like acid reflux or nausea. The memories keep coming back to him, fast and blurry like travelling through a vortex: staggering out of the club and getting in a cab, fumbling with a bra, rutting between a pair of long, shapely legs, an excruciating headache and a promise to call.

“Badger?”

“Yes!”

“Bloody hell.”

[lostinfic]

Broadchurch x Secret Diary of a Call Girl AU

Of course, he noticed she’s beautiful. He’s not blind and that’s too short to be a dress. But he puts his jacket on her shoulders and ignores his colleagues’ roguish laughter. It’s not why he offered to take her back to London, she’s obviously still in a state of shock. 

He drives all night just to make sure she gets back home safely.

“Thank you detective”

“Will you be alright?”

“I don’t know… could you come in? Just for a minute, I’ll make you a cuppa.”

[lostinfic]

You and your heart.5

Pairing: Hannah Baxter x Alec Hardy

Rating: teen and up

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Ao3 FF.net

Author's note: thank you, thank you, thank you. I am overwhelmed by the positive response to this fic. 

Previously:

“That’s my taxi,” Hannah says, reaching for the car door at it comes to a stop, “The Waldorf Hilton, please.”

She gets in but can't help looking back at Hardy. He looks defeated, drained.

“Wait,” she rolls down the window and hands Alec her keys, “guest bedroom is on the second floor.”

 She tosses her head back and takes deep breaths, trying to reign in her emotions. She can’t do this right now. There's whoring to be done. She takes a pocket mirror out of her purse. All that black eye shadow, fake eyelashes, blood red lips, she barely recognizes her reflection. But Belle smiles at her confidently.

 As the cab approaches the hotel, she receives a text message. It’s from Alec.

“I didn’t want you to leave. I wanted you to come to the doctor with me.”

  She feels the blood drain from her face as understanding dawns on her. That morning, back at the train station, he’d told her the time and place of his appointment. She hadn’t made sense of it back then. With everything from Alec rebuffing her kiss and laying far away from her in bed to her increasing anxiety over whether or not he knows, she’d completely missed his point. Her mind had construed his words into what she dreaded the most, disregarding every little thing that spoke of his affection. They say people only hear what they want to hear. It’s true she couldn’t wait to get rid of him but not for the reasons he imagined.

 “Shit!” she hits the seat with her fist, prompting a worried look from the driver.

The taxi decelerates in front of the luxurious hotel and the cabbie tells her the price for the ride. She doesn’t react. She’s staring at her mobile, reading Alec’s text over and over again. He needed her and she wasn’t there for him.

“All right, luv?”

“Erm, no... turn around please.”

He hesitates until she gets a stack of pound notes out of her wallet.

“Turn. Around.”

  There’s not a light on in the house, everything is as she left it, no suitcase or shoes by the door. Only the swish of her sequined dress and the clatter of her stilettos disturb the silence. She dumps her purse on the table and walks up the stairs, calling Alec’s name. With butterflies in her stomach, she waits for an answer but she doesn’t get any. Finally, she finds him in the dim guest bedroom. He’s sitting on the grey duvet, engrossed in the wood grain of the floor. Legs crossed at the ankles, she stands in the doorway and bites her nails. She should have thought of something to say on the drive back. He breaks the silence first with a hoarse voice she doesn’t recognize.

“I kept thinking of that day, on the boat,” he says, rubbing a thumb in his palm.

She’d held his hand.

The thought of him, alone in a cold and sterile hospital room, breaks her heart.

“I’m so sorry...I was so sure you’d had enough of me.”

She pleads with her eyes, trying to convey her regret. He studies her features, running a hand through his hair while he considers what she said. She steps closer and hesitantly takes his hand between hers. He lets her.

“It’s awrite, I suppose,” he says, “I know what I’m like.”

His fingers are cold despite the summer heat and she rubs them softly.

“So, we’re good, yeah?” she asks and she hates the quiver in her voice.

He nods but it’s not enough to reassure her.

  She guides him out of the room and down the stairs to the kitchen. She kicks off her high-heels and fills the stainless steel kettle. The situation requires a good cuppa. While she takes out her favourite mugs and fancy tea tins, he sits on a stool at the counter and observes the chic interior.

“It’s very white,” he comments, clearly disapproving of her decorating choices.

She shrugs and pours water over the orange blossoms and white tea leaves, making them swirl in the glass teapot.

“Why d’you need to make it so posh for?”

“Have you finished? My house, my way.”

He utters a non-committal grunt. While the tea steeps, she joins him on the other side of the counter. Alec retreats in his thoughts, bad ones by the looks of it. She doesn’t know what to make of his sullenness. Anger would be better than the dejected look on his face. She wants to ask how it went at the doctor’s but you can’t force these things, not with Hardy. So she doesn’t say a word and pours the tea. She gets lost in the steam rising from her cup and disappearing in the soft light of the pendant lamp.

  After a few sips, Alec finally talks. He recounts what happened at the hospital, keeping his eyes on the cloudy liquid in his mug. He received test results from his latest checkup. His health hasn’t improved as much as they’d expected. It’s going to take longer than he’d been told before he can even think of taking the physical endurance test necessary to get back to work. Even then, he’ll probably be relegated to a desk job – if he’s lucky. His voice croaks on the last words, he clenches his teeth and tightens his grip on the cup.

  She can’t think of anything to say except for platitudes meant to reassure herself more than him. Instead, she rubs his hunched back, her hand warm from holding her tea.

“Did you tell him you’d started working out again?”

“Aye, he said it would help.”

“I really wish I’d been there for you.”

He finally looks at her, trying to smile but only one corner of his mouth rises.

“It wasn’t just for me that I wanted you there.”

He rolls the sleeves of his gray shirt, avoiding her inquisitive gaze.

“Why, then?” she insists.

“I thought you had to know what you were getting into – how ill I am – before...”

“Before?”

“You know,” he moves his hand back and forth between them.

“Oh! That why you didn’t kiss me the other night?”

He lets out a short laugh.

“Still can’t believe I managed to resist that. You were practically throwing yourself at me.”

She nudges his ribs playfully and he smiles, it almost reaches his eyes this time.

“So, you wanted to? Kiss me, I mean.”

And there’s really nothing quite as adorable as the grumpy DI Hardy blushing. He tugs on his ear and gives her a sidelong glance and there’s that pull in her chest she’s learned to associate with him, with her feelings for him. Now would be an ideal time to kiss him except her mobile rings.

  She digs in her purse and one look at the screen informs her that it’s her client -- the one she left hanging at the hotel. She leaves the room to take the call. Trying to make it as short as possible, she uses the good old “personal reasons” excuse. She might lose a client but she won’t lose someone she cares about. Not again. After hanging up, she stops by the bathroom and washes her face, scrubbing off the layer of make-up. While she’s at it, she decides to change into more casual clothes. She trades the dress for the extra-long violet tee hanging behind the door. She looks at the sequined garment in a puddle on the floor and thinks it’s like shedding a skin. Or an armor.

  When she comes back into the room, she finds Alec pouring over her handbag, carelessly left opened on the kitchen table.

“You should also know that I know you’re a prostitute. High class escort by the looks of it,” he says, taking her completely by surprise.

She falters, her mouth opening and closing several times as she processes his words. Her heart pounds like a drum.

“How d’you know?” she asks, holding her breath.

“DI,” he points a thumb at his chest.

“For how long?”

Much to her surprise, he reveals that he’s had his doubts since the last time they saw each other, over two years ago. A few things had tipped him off. In his line of work, he’d met both sex workers and legal secretaries -- only one of those can afford the kind of clothes and house she has. That and some of the things she’d said in the past weeks. Hannah collapses in the nearest armchair. She covers her mouth with her hand as dozens of questions jostle around in her brain.

“Why d’you let me come to your house, then?”

He shrugs casually, hands in his pockets, barely frowning.

“I owed your father a favour, I didn’t care as long as you weren’t doing it in Broadchurch.”

She mulls over this new information, finding that his reason leaves her a little disappointed.

  After a moment of heavy silence, he sits down on the white leather ottoman in front of her. He rests forward on his elbows, the back of his fingers brushing against her bare knees.

“Listen, Han... There’s always more to people.”

Something in the way the hard line of his lips softens, in the way he looks straight in her eyes, feels sincere. It makes her lean forward to pay closer attention to what he has to say.

“We see a different side of people, you and I, a side they don’t show the rest of the world. But we know they’re not just criminals or perverts... and I’m not just a DI and you’re not just an escort.”

“A minute ago you were devastated ‘cause you might not get back to work,” she points out.

It wasn’t the right thing to say. At least, it didn’t come out too snarky. He doesn’t hold it against her. In a way, his older age is what she likes the most about him: he’s mature and wise and he can handle her. He merely quirks an eyebrow and continues with his train of thought:

“My job... it’s never been just a job, you know?”

She nods emphatically, he might as well have been talking about her.

“And with Danny’s murder, I...”

He sighs deeply, averting his eyes once more. She rests a hand on his forearm and he goes on to say:

“Sometimes it’s... self-destruction. So we have to remember it’s not all we are.”

  Her eyes well up. A jumble of pleasant and unpleasant emotions swirls through her: the joy of having someone who understands and the bleak reality of her situation. She loves her work, she’s good at it, brilliant even, but she fucked up. She let Harry mess with her head and play on her insecurities. She alienated people.

  Alec cups her face, slender fingers cradling her jaw like fine porcelain, and he wipes a stray tear away with his thumb. She leans into his touch and it becomes more like her cheek caressing his palm than the other way around.

“Sometimes I think that maybe it’s not that I like my job so much but that it’s become an excuse to keep people away,” her throat cracks and hurts, her face contorting as she tries to keep the corners of her mouth upwards. “But what else can I do? What will you do?”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure there’s plenty you can do,” he replies dully.

“… Right.”

She reclines in her seat. A “now what?” hangs in the air.

“I think I’ll become one of those hippie farmers,” Alec says, “I’ll raise wild chickens and grow organic Brussels sprouts or something,”

Hannah laughs through her tears, wiping them away with the back of her hand.

“And I’ll become a bee keeper and sell overpriced honey to vegans,” she adds.

“And you’ll be a successful writer.”

“Yes, well, actually, I already am.”

He smiles and she gets the sudden urge to hug him. Following her impulse, she gets up and wraps her arms around his neck. He sees himself as old and weak but to her he’s a solid, comforting presence. Even in London he smells of their beach house, pine and sand. With her exacerbated sensitivity, the contact triggers another wave of emotions, these ones all positive. He hugs her back, nose buried in her golden curls. After a while, she lets go to sit sideways on his thigh. She keeps one arm around his shoulders, playing with the short hair at the base of his head.

  “I mean it you know,” he says, “you’re young and healthy and smart. You can do anything you want.”

He really believes it, believes in her. And there’s that overwhelming feeling in her chest, a tightness. Fear. That she doesn’t deserve it -- him. She can barely breathe and she needs to look away from his eyes. But he holds her chin and her gaze, makes her believe him.

“You. Can do anything.”

Her fear decreases a notch and her chest feels tight for a whole other reason, her heart swelling, pushing at her ribs, unable to contain all this love and begging for more. His eyes are already kissing her. His thumb whispers over her lips, slightly pulling on the bottom one just as her tongue darts out. She feels the tip of his nose first, like a tentative nudge, her eyes close and she tastes his gasp. Dry lips press against hers, salty with her tears. She’s been kissed many times before – never like that. It appeases and excites her all at once. His hand delves in her hair as it grows hungrier and she molds her body to his, depriving herself of oxygen for the sake of desire. When they part, she keeps her eyes closed for a few seconds, resting her forehead on his, savoring the warmth spreading from her lips to her heart.

  “Are you coming back to Broadchurch with me?” he whispers.

“Yes”

“Just to be clear, by that I mean that I want you to come back with me and live with me in the beach house for as long as you need –but not in the guest bedroom.”

“Oh well, in that case –”

He stifles her giggles with his mouth and she feels him smile as he kisses her again. And again. And again.

  A/N: This is as far as I had planned to take that story. I feel that if I were to continue, there would need to be an actual plot and I have too much work coming up to take that on. I might write a sequel, there is still so much to explore with these characters, just not right right now (unless one of you wants to grade all of my students' papers and finish my master's degree).

ETA: Bonus chapter !!

[lostinfic]

You and Your Heart.4

Pairing: Alec Hardy x Hannah Baxter

Rating: teen and up

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Ao3 FF.net

Author's note: This one is on the short side because I decided to split part 4 in two so you'd get an update sooner. Thanks for sticking with me :)

ETA: Part 5

Previously

“Can I sleep with you?”

The words leave her mouth before she’s even aware of her need. He remains silent, too silent, like he’s holding his breath. The tautness of his body tells her he’s alert rather than asleep. Still, he doesn’t reply. She regrets asking. He didn’t want to kiss her, he won’t want her in his bed. She turns on her heels but at the same moment he scoots over, making room for her. Without a word, she slips under the soft cotton sheet, curling into the residual body heat. [...]

She brings her knees further up and Alec’s hand moves to cover her feet. His touch soothes her

She tries to hold on to a string of memory, to stop it from floating away. The hazy sensation of something itchy on her cheek and neck, of damp skin on hers, of safety, slips from her fingers as she wakes up. She feels sluggish, it’s as if the room hasn’t cool down over the night. She blinks slowly and through her eyelashes, she sees Hardy’s profile, his beard ginger in the early morning light. He’s lying on his side, hands tucked under his arms, eyes opened. He’s far away from her. Well, as far as he can be considering that she’s taken over more than her fair share of the bed. Yet the distance between their bodies feels like it’s a mile long, a valley in the mattress, a river of blue cotton separating them. She reaches out but her arm his heavy with sleep. Against her will, her eyelids close. Alec touches the tip of her fingers, bridging the gap, and she drifts back to sleep.

Some time later, a persistent seagull rouses her. She groans and squirms feebly, entangling herself in the bed sheets. She hears Alec’s throaty chuckle.

“Stop laughing at me,” she mumbles in the pillow, more awake this time around.

 “Budge up, I need to take a leak.”

With the bed pushed against the wall, he can’t get out without climbing over her. She curls herself in a way she imagines makes more room for him to pass. The mattress rocks under her and she feels him of each side of her body. She grabs the nearest limb, weakly holding on to it but it slips out of her grasp. She hugs his pillow instead and dozes off once again.

  A clunk on the bedside table, the sharp smell of dark-roast coffee and a brush of fingers through her hair, make her resurface. She picks up the sound of footsteps around the room, of drawers and zippers. He might have said something about going to the gym. She kicks off the sheets and starts stretching her arms above her head, her back arching off the bed, her t-shirt riding up her torso. The room is silent. She checks if Alec is still there. He’s gaping, there’s no other way to put it. She runs her hand over her exposed stomach and then a thumb under the waistband of her shorts. When their eyes meet, he walks to the bed. He puts his hand on her wrist.

“Don’t do that.”

He kisses her, more scruff than lips, just on the corner of her mouth, too quickly for her to reciprocate.

“You’re sending mixed signals,” she says.

“We’ll talk later.”

She doesn’t dwell on the implications of his serious tone, it’s too early for that. She wets her lips and tastes his breath.

  She sits up, back against the wooden headboard. It’s only 8 am, she enjoys each sip of her coffee and the day ahead of her. She finds herself reluctant to leave his bed. Already, she’s examining strategies to sleep here again tonight. However, Hardy’s inconsistent behaviour, wavering between sweet gestures and keeping his distance, leaves her uncertain.  

  Only once her mug is empty and her bladder full does she leave his bed. She casts one last lingering look at his room and closes the door. She cuts her morning routine short, skipping her Pilates exercises in favour of spending some quality time with her favourite grown-up toy. “Best way to start the day,” she thinks as she sinks back into her pillow.

  When Hardy comes back, she’s fresh out of the shower, eating toasts with apricot jam in front of her computer. He reaches the top of the staircase and leans on the banister, breathing heavily, his face red.

“All right?”

“I ran...” he pants.

He drinks from her glass of juice then stretches his arms above his head, exposing the dark stains under his armpits.

“Eeww, gross,” she jokes.

He looks at her with a playful glint in his eyes. Before she has time to understand what he’s doing, he’s hugging her and rubbing his sweaty forehead against hers.

“Get off me, you stink.”

She pushes his chest weakly, laughing too hard to defend herself properly.

“There, you stink too, now.”

“Urg, you’re the worst.”

He winks and enters the bathroom. She turns back to her computer with an eye roll and a last chuckle.

  Her characters are investigating at a sex club which is based on one she has visited before. Her inspector is faced with the peculiar conundrum of threatening someone who actually enjoys pain. She considers the situation and decides that it’s all in the way he will look at the suspect. The intensity in his eyes might be enough to scare him into divulging confidential information. This idea brings to mind how Hardy looked at her yesterday. How dark his eyes had been, almost predatory. It makes her wish she was one of his suspects.

And that’s when she realizes how much of her inspector is based on Alec.

“Oh fuuuck.”

She slaps a hand over her forehead. What if he noticed last night? She reads back what she’s written in the last few days. It’s so obvious, it’s embarrassing. With a grunt, she buries her face in her hands.

   “Hannah!”

She jumps at the sound of Alec’s angry voice. She’s reacting as if she’d been doing something wrong, as if he’d read her mind. He’s standing in the bathroom doorway, towel around his hips. His face has lost any trace of his earlier playfulness.

“Your hair. In the drain. Again.”

She collects herself, relieved it 's something so unimportant. The man used to live with two women, it’s nothing he’s never seen. Well, there is a lot of hair. And it is a little repulsive. She picks up the sudsy web of hair and unidentified grime, her upper lip rising in disgust.

  When she comes out of the bathroom, Hardy is standing behind the desk, entirely focused on her computer screen, reading. She remains silent, undecided. She is both embarrassed by what her story reveals and curious to see Alec’s reaction. She observes him, the sparse hair on his chest, the dimples in the small of his back, the way his fingers curl around his bicep. She remembers the way they curled around her neck yesterday, how it had made her feel. Heat blossoms in her once again. She makes a tiny, high-pitched noise in the back of her throat and he turns around. He smirks but then frowns and runs a hand through his hair and over his mouth.

“You know how they say you should write about what you know...”

Her heart thumps in her chest as she wonders what his words imply, what he knows.

“This would be a prime example of it,” she replies.

Another half-truth.

“I see... I need to go to London on Thursday.”

  ###

  Hardy eyes her suitcases.

“You packed everything?”

“Yep.”

She keeps her answer short or else she might say something snarky. She can’t blame him, it’s his house. You can only live so long with a guest. Especially if said guest is a little too forthcoming and displaying unrequited lust. At least, that’s what the rational part of her says. The irrational part, well, it had hoped therefore it hurts.

  It wasn’t much of a discussion. He said he had an appointment with his cardiologist and asked if she wanted to go back to London at the same time. She didn’t need more to know that she wasn’t welcomed in his home anymore.

  She had taken things too far or came on to him too strongly. Or maybe he’s just an emotionally unavailable git. He didn’t offer any explanation. She didn’t ask.

  She spends most of the two-hour train ride listening to the messages on her phone. He works on a crossword puzzle and she offers no help even when he asks, too busy taking cryptic notes in her little black book. Better get back in the ring as soon as possible. She has this stud of a client, an American businessman, who will be in town. He’s exactly what she needs right now: young and rich and he looks like a movie star. He’ll fuck Hardy right out of her system.

  The noises of London – honking, the metallic grinding of the tube and people shouting in several languages – make her smile. Her first day back home consists mainly of enjoying the many luxuries her house provides. She soaks in her jet tub and dances around naked to Madonna. She orders chicken tikka masala from her favourite restaurant and opens a bottle of white wine which she drinks by herself while Bambi talks. That night, they go out dancing and she comes back home in an advanced state of inebriation.

  When she wakes up, her head is throbbing and she drooled on her pillow, there’s a phone number written in her palm. And yet, her first thought is for Hardy. His doctor’s appointment is this morning and it’s an important one for his future as a DI. She worries and she has half a mind to call him but she refuses to take the first step. She’s bound to see him again, sooner or later.

She drags herself out of bed to swallow an Advil with a glass of water. It’s nothing a little retail therapy can’t cure. A shower and her favourite day dress and she’s out the door, heading for Bond street in Mayfair. She runs her hand along the sumptuous fabrics and splurges on lingerie. For lunch, she stops at Tsujiki Sushi and spends an hour with a charming Austrian art collector. In the afternoon, he follows her around the jewelers, holding his black umbrella over their heads. She gets back home with a dozen bags and a new name on her list of clients.

  After a much-needed nap, she starts getting ready for her night with the American client. It’s more than “shit, shower and shave” as Stephanie used to put it, especially considering how low maintenance she’d been in Broadchurch. It’s more like: exfoliate, wash, wax, pluck, moisturize, dry, curl, make-up, dress, lubricate, nail polish, pack a bag and call a cab.   

  On her way out, she finds Hardy sitting in her driveway, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. She gasps at the sight of him.

“What are you doing here?”

His head snaps up and he frowns as he takes in her appearance.

“Didn’t your father call?”

She shakes her head.

“How long have you been here?” she asks, noticing the empty water bottle at his feet.

“They’re babysitting for Jackie... I can’t stay there tonight.”

His words are slurred as if enunciating them requires great efforts. He gets up with a grunt and starts walking towards the street, dragging his feet.

“Wait!”

“Naw, it’s fine I won’t bother you.”

He waves dismissively without looking at her.

“You’re not bothering me.”

He snorts.

“You could hardly wait to get rid of me yesterday.”

“What?”

He’s reached the street and he’s looking from side to side, for a cab presumably. She calls his name and pulls on his sleeve but he doesn’t acknowledge her.

“You’re such a hypocrite! You can’t throw me out and then act like I’m –“

“Throw you out?”

The conversation turns into an argument over the exact words he used rather than the message he wanted to convey. They shout and speak over one another until they’re all out of breath and angrier then they were just five minutes ago. A black cab turns at the end of the street and he raises his arm to stop it.

“That’s my taxi,” Hannah says, reaching for the car door at it comes to a stop, “The Waldorf Hilton, please.”

She gets in but can't help looking back at Hardy. He looks defeated, drained.

“Wait,” she rolls down the window and hands Alec her keys, “guest bedroom is on the second floor.”

She tosses her head back and takes deep breaths, trying to reign in her emotions. She can’t do this right now. There's whoring to be done. She takes a pocket mirror out of her purse. All that black eye shadow, fake eyelashes, blood red lips, she barely recognizes her reflection. But Belle smiles at her confidently.

  As the cab approaches the hotel, she receives a text message. It’s from Alec.

“I didn’t want you to leave. I wanted you to come to the doctor with me.”

Part 5

[lostinfic]

You and Your Heart.3

Pairing: Alec Hardy x Hannah Baxter

Rating: teen and up

Part 1 Part 2  Ao3 FF.net

Author's note: Bonus points if you can guess the movie that inspired the end of this chapter. Also, check out the pretty graphic the lovely August rain did for me.

ETA: Part 4  Part 5

Previously:

Alec’s ex called him and Bambi called Hannah for her birthday which made her realize how little she wants to go back to London.

 He studies her face, brows knit together. He gently swipes a strand of hair off her forehead, tucking it behind her ear and he’s got to stop doing tender things like that because her heart can’t take much more.

“I’m fine.”

He blinks slowly and nods. They move on to another subject when he suggests they go out somewhere nice to celebrate her birthday. She agrees immediately, she just needs to shower and change first. She’s halfway up the stairs when she hears Alec call her name. She looks back down. He’s leaning against the banister, clutching his hands.

“S’like you said before about burdening people with your problems…you can, you know, burden me.”

He grimaces at his own poor choice of words and seems relieved when she smiles.

“Same here.”

 * * *

 “Come on Baxter! I’m hungry,” Alec shouts from the other side of her bedroom door.

Hannah walks out.

 “Nude or taupe?”

She holds up two pairs of high-heels in front of his eyes. He pulls a face, his expression somewhere between confusion and annoyance.

“Urgh, you’re useless.”

“I’ll remember that next time you want to ask me another question about police work.”

She notices he’s wearing that moss green oxford they saw in a shop window last week. The one she said he would look good in. She was right.

She follows him down the stairs and out the door, stepping into the sunny evening. They choose to go to their favourite local pub, nothing fancy. Her blue ombre dress might be a bit posh but it’s her birthday. The King’s Arm is within walking distance of the house, just on the edge of the town center. They cut through a residential neighbourhood, passing by rows of slightly different townhouses and roller skating teens. The mouth-watering smell of BBQ hangs in the air. It stirs up nostalgic feelings and souvenirs of family vacations in Sandbrook. It only serves to remind her of the generation gap between them.

“I remembered something about you today from when you’d visit with your family,” he says, “your father wanted to go fishing and I don’t like being on the water but I didn’t want to tell him. We were supposed to stay close to the shore but we sort of drifted and I wasn’t feeling too well. You noticed and you moved to sit next to me and you held my hand.”

He looks at her with something like affection on his features, as if it had been a significant moment. She smiles back but can’t help adding:

 “Really? I was scared of you.”

Hardy cracks up.

“I think that started after I caught you kissing the boy next door.”

“Oh right.”

The back of her hand brushes against his and he hooks his little finger with hers. The contact is so unexpected, so pleasant, it bubbles up inside of her and she can’t stay serious. She swings their hands exaggeratedly between them and Alec pretends it annoys him.

  He lets her hand drop when a couple waves at him from the other side of the street. This time, Alec stops to chat. They talk about the new mayor and their summer vacation plans. When he asks about the woman’s pregnancy, she caresses her bulging belly and announces that it’s a girl with something like relief in her voice. The whole time, Hannah tries to figure out where she knows them from.

“Nige says he saw you at the gym. You do look better than you did,” the woman remarks.

“And with a pretty lass on your arm,” the man adds, giving Hannah the once over.

Alec tugs on his earlobe and stammers an introduction. Mark and Beth. The Latimers. She’d seen them on the news. They shake hands and she wonders if they can tell how ill at ease she has suddenly become. Hopefully it will pass because they’re invited to next week’s Sunday lunch. As they walk away, Hannah takes Alec’s arm and whispers in his ear: “don’t worry, I’ll help you pick out the wine and the flowers and the chocolates.”

“Shut it,” he replies, trying and failing to pull his usual grumpy face.

  Shortly after, they reach the bar. It’s your traditional English pub with dark wood tables and air as thick as the grease in the frying pans, except maybe for the decidedly avant-garde art adorning the walls.

“So, how old are you now?” Alec asks as he pulls out her chair.

“29... You?”

“40”

“Really? I thought you were older what with you being a friend of my parents’ and all that.”

“Thanks,” he replies sarcastically.

He explains that he was a friend of father’s youngest brother at first. It occurs to her that they have the same age difference than her parents do. She peruses the sticky menu but she can’t quite stay focused. Her attention keeps drifting to Alec. She studies the fine lines at the corner of his eyes, an anachronism on his freckled face. There’s something about the realization that he’s not, in fact, that much older than her that changes her perception of their relationship. This, whatever it is, seems more… normal -- even though she hates that word. He smiles at her for no particular reason and he looks even younger.

  When Alec orders a salad and sparkling water the waiter keeps his eyes on him as if asking “And for you, sir?”

“She’ll have the... burger?”

Hannah nods and adds:

“And a pint of ale.”

  While they wait for their food, she tells him about Bambi’s call, her pregnancy and her marriage to an aristocrat. She mentions that her friend is a prostitute, gauging Alec’s reaction carefully. He frowns, lips tight but his eyes are far away. She’s not even sure he heard her. When the waiter brings their plates, he snaps out of it briefly, just long enough to turn away from her and swallow a handful of pills which never fails to make him grimace. Whereas their silences have been of the companionable kind lately, this one is slightly distressing. He stares at his plate, eating in a mechanical way. She’s starting to think that he didn’t really want to go out with her tonight.

  Hannah eats her sloppy burger and scans the pub crowd for anything more interesting than Alec’s contemplation of lettuce. There’s a bloke at the bar staring at her. He looks smart: crisp white shirt, fashionably messy hair, young. She smiles, just a little but it slips into something flirty. It’s second nature.

  Alec clears his throat and she looks back at him immediately.

“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” he says in a grave voice that makes her stomach drop.

“What is it?”

A movement in her peripheral vision makes her focus veer unintentionally. Smart guy is getting up. Alec turns around to look at what caught her eye. Both men nod at each other. Smart guy takes it as an invitation to come over.

“DI Hardy.”

“Oliver,” he replies coldly.

“It’s just Olly actually.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“Right,” he turns to her with a much warmer smile, “and you must be Hannah, auntie Ellie told me about you.”

They shake hands and he pulls up a chair next to her. He starts bombarding her with questions about her stay in Broadchurch and her life in London. When he learns it’s her birthday, he buys her a drink.

“Something girly and pink and sweet,” he tells the waiter.

She gets another pint with a little umbrella in it which she puts in her wavy hair.

  The journalist is likable if a little overbearing with all his questions but Hardy’s face is getting bleaker by the minute. He has slopped down on his seat and crossed his arms on his chest.

“You’re going to write an article about her too?” he snaps after Olly has asked Hannah a very personal question.

There’s something like an accusation in his voice.

“Maybe I should, it certainly helped your reputation.”

“Did it?”

“People like you now, don’t they?”

“They pity me.”

She recognizes the uptight Alec of her first days in Broadchurch and she has no desire for a repeat performance. As nicely as she can, she lets Olly know that it’s time for him to go. They exchange contact information and make vague plans to hit the clubs together.

  As soon as the journalist is out of earshot, she turns to Alec to ask him what he wanted to talk about. Unfortunately, he has left to pay the bill at the bar. He’d looked so serious and preoccupied. She apprehends the conversation, concerned that she might have overextended her welcome and that he’s going to ask her to leave. So when he comes back to the table, she doesn’t ask. She loops her arm through his and puts on her most charming smile.

  “The longest day of the year,” she comments, looking up at the sky when they exit the pub.

Despite the moon, it’s all wild blue yonder with just a little orange in the corners. They go back home, taking the narrow path along the beach rather than the street. She wobbles on her high-heels, not the best footwear for the sandy and uneven trail. Hardy steadies her with his hands at her waist.

“You’re pissed!”

“I’m not! It’s those bloody shoes,” she replies, taking them off.

“I told you to put on the naked ones,” he jokes.

“Not naked, nude, it means flesh coloured.”

His only answer is an exaggerated eye roll. The uneasiness that had been building between them fades away, replaced by lighthearted chuckles. They keep on walking, his hand on her lower back. They’re in no hurry. The air is warm, the night is young, their eyes are bright. And she hopes she read too much into his earlier sullen mood.

  “I’d like to read your novel,” he says after she mentions receiving an e-mail from her editor. 

His request leaves her open-mouthed. She has yet to tell him about the real nature of her novel.

“It’s just a draft…” she counters weakly, biting her bottom lip.

“So?”

In reality, she would love to get some feedback from Hardy. It’s the least she can do considering how much he’s helped her.

“You’re really interested?”

He nods decisively. He wouldn’t ask if he didn’t mean it. Head tilted, she rubs her chin, considering the possibilities. Finally, she agrees, thinking she’ll show him a part without sexual content. It’s not like he’s going to read a whole chapter.

  Once they’ve reached the house and wiped the sand off their feet, Hannah heads upstairs. She changes into something more casual -- a wide neck t-shirt and gingham shorts -- then tries to find a suitable passage for Alec to read. He carries a chair from the kitchen and sits down right next to her, his body heat adding to the balmy night air.

   “Shouldn’t I start reading at the beginning?”

Lea’s routine consisted mainly of reading research papers on women in the workplace which would inevitably lead to fantasies about being fucked on a conference table by two CEOs and masturbating between coffee breaks. Her thesis was progressing slowly.

“I don’t think so...” she scrolls down faster, “Here, Lea is arrested.”

Her stomach twists in a knot as he starts reading. Biting her thumbnail, she monitors his reactions.

“Stop staring at me,” he says without turning his head.

  At first, he comments the story, things she got right or wrong, things he finds funny. However, as the sexual tension between the two characters builds, he becomes quieter. He reads on and, knowing what happens next in the story, soon she’ll have to stop him. But then, Alec’s hand moves from the back of her chair to her shoulder. It rests lightly on the exposed skin where her shirt has slid off. She glances out of the corner of her eyes, without turning her head. No sudden movements. As far as she can tell, he’s focused on the computer screen, seemingly unaware that he’s now touching her. If he reads any further, he’ll find the inspector slipping a hand under Lea’s skirt, described in explicit details. Now would be a good time to stop him. She doesn’t. Because his touch, however involuntary, is anything but chaste. It has turned into something more like a grip. The rough pads of his fingers weigh down on her flesh as if holding her in place. It creates a warm pressure in her lower abdomen, dancing like a flame, licking at her inner walls. She wants him to find out. Get a rise out of him, in more ways than one. She lets him read on.

  His hand travels slowly to her neck. The last time he’d touched her there, it had made her feel peaceful. This touch is different. His slender fingers curl around the nape of her neck. They press into her skin with a hint of nails. His thumb starts tracing tight circles next to her jugular. Arousal shots through her from his hand and down her spine. It makes her pulse thump between her legs. She inclines her head, exposing more of her neck. Hardy finally looks at her, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. She’s never seen his eyes like this before, tenebrous, intently holding her gaze. She moves towards him and offers her mouth.

  Alec stands up rapidly almost knocking off the chair.

 “Well done, Baxter.”

He disappears in his room. Hannah stares at his closed door with bewilderment. Something is stopping him from acting on his attraction. He has doubts, maybe even qualms. Maybe he did believe her when she said she was a whore. Maybe it has to do with what he wants to talk to her about.

  She turns back to her computer and immerses herself in the fictional world she has created. The one where Lea’s relationship with the inspector has moved from the occasional shag in unusual places to making love in bed, on a Sunday morning. A world in which he doesn’t reject her.

  She writes on for over an hour until she has to describe a fight scene involving a policeman but lacks the technical information necessary to make it realistic. She tries to move on to another part of the story but it nags her and hinders her ability to write.

  She knows it’s foolish but she does it anyway. Hardy’s bedroom smells of him, tangy and masculine, the kind of odour that triggers the most primitive part of her brain. Thanks to the opened window and cloudless sky, she can make out his sleeping form in the dimness.

 “Alec?”

She nudges his shoulder, lightly at first, then more insistently. He blinks slowly and takes in a deep breath as he stirs from sleep.

“What do you call that thing, it’s like a gun but it doesn’t shoot bullets, just sort of zap,” she asks in a hushed voice.

“Google it,” he mumbles, rolling over on his left side, away from her.

“Aleeec?”

“Sod off,” he mutters into the pillow without any real anger.

“Can I sleep with you?”

The words leave her mouth before she’s even aware of her need. He remains silent, too silent, like he’s holding his breath. The tautness of his body tells her he’s alert rather than asleep. Still, he doesn’t reply. She regrets asking. He didn’t want to kiss her, he won’t want her in his bed. She turns on her heels but at the same moment he scoots over, making room for her. Without a word, she slips under the soft cotton sheet, curling into the residual body heat. With great effort, she tries to keep her breathing light and quiet. She stares at the stretch of his skin illuminated by the moonlight, willing him to turn around and talk to her. Shortly after, he turns to lie on his back. He’s closer. She wants to lay her head on his chest and curl up against him. But she doesn’t.

  She brings her knees further up and Alec’s hand moves to cover her feet. His touch soothes her.

Part 4

[lostinfic]

You and Your Heart.2

Part 1 Ao3 FF.net

Pairing: Hannah Baxter x Alec Hardy

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: I tried to figure out a creative way for Hannah and Hardy to meet (not escort/client) and see what they could bring to each other's life.

After her separation with Ben, Hannah needs to lay low for a while and figure out her life while Hardy, although he would never ask, needs someone after his heart surgery. Her father suggests she goes to live with him for some time. They share a beach house in Broadchurch and they find much more than solace in each other.

Author's note: thank you for all the likes and reblogs and nice tags and nice comments, it means a lot to me.

ETA: Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Previously:

“Do you miss working?” she asks Hardy even though she knows he will go back to work once his doctor allows it.

Unexpectedly, he admits he does and he opens up about feeling useless and purposeless.

“It’s like you said, about me being locked up and sulking.”

“I’m sorry,” she pats his calf, trying to convey her compassion, “It’s not that bad, you’re going to the gym and that lady at the library was totally chatting you up.”

“Aye, I suppose I’m doing better now.”

He places his hand on her exposed neck, his thumb lightly stroking her skin and an uncommon feeling of peace washes over her.

   Whether it’s because she’s writing erotica or because she hasn’t had sex in almost three weeks, Hannah doesn’t know, but Hardy seems to get more handsome by the day. Skinny becomes svelte. Scruffy and unkempt becomes tousled and sexy. She starts noticing little things like the way he traces idle circles on the table with the tip of his fingers and his arse.

Longing.

She’s not used to that, not when she can get any man she wants.

Unfortunately, jumping the bones of her parents’ friend seems like a spectacularly bad idea. Not to mention, a little oedipal. She doesn’t want to be that girl with father issues. She chases the thoughts away but every once in a while she catches herself staring. Much like she’s doing now. Alec is pacing the kitchen, walking slowly around the kitchen table as he talks on the phone with his ex-wife. And there’s just something about the way the muscles of his back shift under his threadbare t-shirt as he runs a hand through his hair. And it just so happens that the bright, late afternoon sunlight, brings out the ginger in his hair and turns his eyes to a beautiful golden brown. Then he rubs the back of his neck and she remembers how it felt yesterday when he touched her own neck. The serenity. The warmth.

  “Fuck, I need to get laid,” she thinks, “maybe I should go out tonight and find someone.”

Shaking her head, she gets back to folding clothes. She finds that manual labour helps jog her creativity when her story is stalling. She gets the strangest bursts of inspiration while curling her hair or baking cookies. For example, as she folded a tank top earlier, she thought of a great plot twist: the inspector’s wife is not really dead. Maybe the same thing that happened to Lea’s sister, happened to his wife. Plus, it would create tension between the inspector and Lea, maybe it makes her a little jealous and insecure (which – obviously -- wouldn’t stop them from shagging senseless on the kitchen table). If only she knew where her inspiration comes from, she wouldn’t have to do so much cleaning around the house, her manicure is really starting to suffer.

  Hardy pulls her out of her thoughts when he flops down on the sofa in front of her.

“They should make getting married as complicated as getting divorced, people would think twice before doing it,” he declares, “she says hi, by the way.”

Hannah nods and waits for him to explain. She picks up a pair of jeans, stiff from drying outside, then a t-shirt, identical to the one he’s wearing.

“Do you own anything besides gray t-shirts?” she asks, folding it and adding it on top of his pile.

He doesn’t seem to hear her. He remains in his sagged position, head tossed back, jaw clenched, the phone still in his hand. Except for what her mother told her, she doesn’t know much about the reasons behind the divorce. He doesn’t talk about it. As far as she knows, it’s the first time he’s spoken with his ex-wife in the last weeks. He’s talked to his daughter a few times.

  “She’s been seeing this bloody shrink and every time we talk she’s had another bloody epiphany about what I did wrong. She’s the cheater! But nooo! It’s all my fault because I shut her off and didn’t communicate...” he says in a snarky voice.

He sighs deeply in a way that puffs up his cheeks. He remains silent but he’s doing that shifting thing with jaw he does when he’s preoccupied.

“The murder of those little girls... we’d never had a case so horrible. I shut her off but I was only trying to, to...”

“Protect her?” Hannah supplies.

“Yeah!” he says, emphasizing his agreement with a jerk of his hands.

“You thought she would be better off without knowing about your problems, that she didn’t need this burden.”

Alec nods emphatically.

“You didn’t tell her what was really going on and you forced yourself to smile around her even though you felt like crying.”

He peeks at her from under his fringe, squinting.

“I get the feeling we’re not talking about me anymore.”

“I hate it when you’re clever.”

He smirks and tugs on her arm to make her sit down next to him.

“Who was it?”

“Ben. He was my best friend and on and off boyfriend,” she says, toying with the hem of her peach sweetheart top.

She’s had a lot of time to think about what went wrong and she can only hope to have learned from her mistakes. Although part of her will always miss him and regret what happened, now is time to move forward. 

“I don’t really feel like talking about it.”

“Me neither.”

  She picks up the remote and turns on the DVD player, then selects the next episode of The West Wing for them to watch. She folds her legs underneath herself. The dip in the sofa brings her body closer to his. Or maybe she did that all by herself. It's like secondary school all over again, when you’d get a thrill from your knee touching a boy’s leg under the cafeteria table. Is he touching me on purpose? Am I standing too close? Is it too obvious that I like him? Except, she’s an escort, she knows when a man fancies her. There are little telltale signs of attraction, like how he’s leaning closer to her. That’s not something he would have done a week ago, he would have stayed firmly and stubbornly on his side. But now she can smell the fragrance of his body wash, fresh and green, like cedar and pine trees. The proximity is like static electricity, it makes her skin tingle and every hair on her body stand on end towards him as if to fill the gap between their bodies.

  After the opening credits, he extends his arm behind her back. Another telltale sign. The movement causes her camisole strap to slide down her shoulder, low enough to reveal a bit of lace from the top of her bra. His face strains with the effort to not ogle her cleavage. She doesn’t try to cover herself. Instead, she sinks further into him, the cotton of his t-shirt cool against her flushed cheek. It’s a shame there are only two episodes left, she would have happily spent the rest of the day in this very position.

  Halfway through the episode, her phone vibrates in her pocket, making them both jump as if caught red-handed.

“Hey babe! Happy birthday!” says Bambi in her sweet sing-song voice.

Hannah had turned her mobile back on this morning expressly for this kind of call. She gets off the sofa and goes up to her room as Bambi berates her for not calling.

  Hannah lies back on her bed, legs propped up against the wall and answers her friend's questions about daily life in Broadchurch, omitting her novel. Of course, she also talks about Alec, at length.

“Oh girl, you’ve got it bad.”

“Oh no, no, it’s not like that, it’s just... physical attraction,” Hannah mutters, “Anyway, what about you?”

“Weeeell... I’m pregnant!”

“Oh God, erm, I know this clinic and I hear they’re very nice –”

“No, Belle, it’s a good news. It wasn’t planned but we’re happy and Byron is sooo sweet.”

“And you’re sure it’s Byron’s?”

“Yes.”

Her answer comes a little too quickly but she chooses to ignore that and congratulates her friend instead.

  They keep chatting, Bambi bringing her up to speed with what’s going in London and the prostitution world. She talks about a nasty client she had last week and complains about Stephanie and Charlotte. Hannah realizes how out of touch with the real world she has become. Not only that, but that she doesn’t miss any of these people. Yet she used to think that they were the ones she belonged with. The only ones she could get along with. And the more Bambi talks, the more she recoils at the thought of going back to that world. Not prostitution in itself, she loves her job, rather all that comes with it. But there’s a voice, like a snake in her mind hissing: “You’ve got to go back. What else have you got?” She feels shaken, dizzy even. And as much as she likes Bambi, she can’t wait to end the conversation. She just wants to go back to her cozy bubble downstairs.

  Right after hanging up, she jumps off the bed and opens the window. The strong sea breeze sends the sheer curtains flying and her golden hair dancing. If only all her worries could be swept away, like blowing on a dandelion. She rests her head against the frame, taking in deep breaths. She can’t stay hidden in Broadchurch forever but she doesn’t have to go back right away. She can be just Hannah for a little while longer. She hears an old couple chatting in the street below, oblivious to her turmoil, and their bickering makes her smile. Yeah, a little while longer. That thought brings her some comfort.

  When she comes down the stairs, Alec looks like he’s been waiting for her. He’s leaning on the kitchen island, making an empty glass swivel between his hands.

“Is that for me?” Hannah asks, biting back a wide grin and tucking her chin in her shoulder.

He pushes a box across the tiled counter top. It’s gift-wrapped and there’s not a doubt in her mind that some shop clerk is responsible for the pink bow. The thought of Alec tying a ribbon is enough to make her snicker. She tears the striped paper with a childlike eagerness. It’s a paperback copy of Slaughterhouse-Five and a heavy book on fiction writing. There’s a short “Good luck with your project and Happy Birthday” scribbled on the first page. It’s the little heart next to his signature that makes her smile so wide.

“Thank you, I love it.”

“Not at all,” he replies, hands buried deep in his jeans pockets, a study in feigned indifference.

She moves to the other side of the counter. She kisses his scruffy cheek. The kiss turns into a hug. The hug lingers on. He doesn’t let go and neither does she and now her nose is buried in the crook of his neck, her body enfolded in his arms, firm chest pressed against hers and his hands splayed on her back. He’s so solid, she feels like she could hold on to him through a storm and come out unscathed. Her own shelter.

  When his hands move to her waist, she knows it’s time to let go. They part but remain well into each other’s personal space.

“Sorry, I think I needed that,” she says, eyes sliding away, hand gliding over her collarbone.

“Not a good phone call, then?”

She shrugs.

“It’s alright.”

He studies her face, brows knit together. He gently swipes a strand of hair off her forehead, tucking it behind her ear and he’s got to stop doing tender things like that because her heart can’t take much more.

“I’m fine.”

He blinks slowly and nods. They move on to another subject when he suggests they go out somewhere nice to celebrate her birthday. She agrees immediately, she just needs to shower and change first. She’s halfway up the stairs when she hears Alec call her name. She looks back down. He’s leaning against the banister, clutching his hands.

“S’like you said before about burdening people with your problems...you can, you know, burden me.”

He grimaces at his own poor choice of words and seems relieved when she smiles.

“Same here.”

Part 3

May I interest you in an Escape Artist/True Love crossover? Escaping Cozy Foggy

[lostinfic]

You and your heart.1

Pairing: Hannah Baxter x Alec Hardy

Rating: Teen and up so far

Words: 4199

I tried to figure out a creative way for them to meet outside of the escort/client dynamic. I wanted to explore what they could bring to each other's life. This is the result.

After losing Ben, Hannah needs to lay low for a while and figure out her life. Her father suggests that she visits a friend of their family in Broadchurch. Hardy is recovering from a heart surgery and, although he would never ask, he needs someone. What starts as a convenient arrangement turns into something more meaningful as they discover how much they have in common.

AO3 FF.net

ETA: Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Bonus

This story takes place less than a year after the finale of SDOACG and a few months after the events in Broadchurch S1.

“You could always go live with Hardy for a little while. Remember him?” Hannah’s father asks over coffee at her house.

The name brings back vague memories of summer vacations by the sea in Sandbrook and babysitting a girl half her age. Then later, dinners with her parents’ friends that lasted well into the night and a kitchen that reeked of beer the next morning. She’d last seen him about two years ago, she was too caught up in her own drama to remember what he was doing in London. That, and prostitutes usually try to avoid law officers.

 “What about him?”

“Well, you say you need a break from London and, I know you don’t like to talk about it but with Ben out of your life, I worry about you, darling.”

“Daaad.”

“Okay, alright, alright,” he holds up his hands almost in surrender, “anyway, he’s divorced now and he moved to some seaside town, in Dorset, your mother says he’s renting a beach house there, you could visit. Breathe some fresh air, relax, go to the beach.”

“What’s the catch?”

“Well, he’s just had heart surgery last May and, you know him, he won’t ask for help but he’s all by himself...”

Now she remembers why he was in London the last time, an appointment with a cardiologist. She remembers his scraggly hair and sunken eyes, his sullenness. She’d almost given him her business card.

  She argues with her father that she isn’t a nurse but he keeps saying how he’d be less worried if he knew she was with someone he could trust. In the end, the idea blossoms in her head, arrangements are made. Only when she settles in the train heading to Broadchurch on a Saturday does she remember that she used to be scared of him.

When she walks out of the train, the marine air embraces her. She scans the crowd for a someone past his prime maybe a little overweight. However, it’s a man stranding straight and tall that greets her at the station, not a grey hair in sight but in dire need of a haircut. She goes in for a kiss on the cheek and he tries to shake her hand and it ends up in a hybrid hug and nervous, humourless laughter. None of the usual pleasantries are exchanged on the way.

  It’s a tiny house shaped like the cliff atop of which it sits: one side all tall windows, the other side lower and a roof like a grassy slope. It’s a house for people who will spend all their short vacation time outside. People who won’t get sick of the kitsch nautical theme. It smells like hotels and sand. Generic, mass-produced, artwork hangs on the wall. For someone who lives in a world of beauty, elegance and fantasy, the decor is somewhat off-putting. He explains that touristic lodging was the only fully equipped accommodation available for rent at the moment. It does have a few redeeming qualities, most notably the spectacular view and all the natural light coming in as well as her bedroom. Indeed, her room seems to have escaped the curse of the owner’s bad taste. It’s snug and charming with its vintage peonies wallpaper and the wrought-iron bed painted white and the obscenely plush down quilt.

  The first week is uncomfortable at best. They keep bumping into each other in the narrow staircase and their living arrangement leaves very little privacy for business calls or talking to Bambi with whom she’d promised to keep in touch. In the end, she posts an announcement on her website, sends a message to her regulars and shuts down her mobile completely.

  Alec is a decent host the first two days, showing her around, asking what she likes to eat, but when she asks about his dinner plans on Monday he replies: “We don’t have to do that-  that whole polite guest-host thing. You’re a big girl, you do your thing and I do mine.”

She tries to engage in conversation but he either lacks social skills or is not interested in talking to her. Plus, every time she offers to help she gets the impression that she’s just insulted him. In fact, she quickly learns that he’s very touchy about anything regarding his health or strength. It’s like walking on eggshells.

  Granted, she’s not the easiest of guests. In her defence, her flatmate days are long gone. Sure she’s had people staying in her house but that’s a whole different thing. So she may forget to wash her dishes or to put on decent clothes or spends too much time in the bathroom. As time passes by without any improvement she seriously considers going back to London. Not that she really wants to. Returning to an empty house is a daunting prospect.

  At least she gets to relax and focus on her writing project as well as pondering what she wants to do with her life, on the beach preferably. Plus Broadchurch is a lovely town. Except for the fact that walking down High street in sexy designer clothes makes many heads turn and rumours abound once the citizens find out she’s living with DI Hardy.

  The whole thing collapses on Friday afternoon. She comes into the living room wearing a short tube dress and a sparkling statement necklace. One glance and Alec’s face takes on that unhappy expression that digs dimples in his cheeks.

“You got something to say about my outfit?” Hannah snaps.

“Why?”

“Would it kill you to use more than one word when you speak?”

“Why do you need to dress up like that? It’s Broadchurch not New York.”

“Because I love these clothes and I look fit in this. What do you care?”

“You live with me and I’m a public figure.”

“Public figure,” she snorts, “you could’ve fooled me, you stay locked in here, sulking.”

Hardy glares at her then walks over to the kitchen, picking up a stack of mail on his way and putting the breakfast counter between them. His nonchalance while she’s so pumped up annoys her to no end.

“What are they saying?” she demands.

He shakes his head, eyes still on the envelopes in his hand.

“What are they saying, Alec?”

“That I pay you.”

“They say I’m a whore?”

“Yes.”

“What if I am?”

Now he’s looking at her, scrutinizing her face, trying to decipher whether she’s joking or not.

“That’s your business.”

“Exactly! Who cares what they think?”

He swallows, eyes sliding away. Then he nods, a tiny movement at first followed by a more decisive one. Hannah unclenches her fists and rubs her collarbone, deflating.

“I’m turning into one of them,” he mumbles, derisively.

“That’s why I love London, nobody gives a shit. Sometimes I go to the store in my jimjam so this dress is actually an improvement.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, the first hint of a genuine smile since her arrival.

“Do you need anything from the store?”

“Toothpaste.”

She picks up her Jackie O sunglasses and oversized purse but pauses with her hand on the doorknob.

“Tell you what,” Hannah says, flashing a mischievous smile, “let’s cause a scandal. I’m taking you out tonight. Laters!”

And she leaves before he can argue.

  When she comes back from the store, there’s a note on the table saying he’s at the gym. It surprises her given he has never mentioned any kind of physical activity since her arrival. Granted, he’s not a sharer. When she asks him about it later on, over a plate of orrechiette and shrimps, he admits that he’d given up training despite his doctor’s recommendation.

“And, I don’t know, this afternoon I felt... optimistic.”

He grimaces as if the word has a sour taste.

“Good for you.”

She beams and he straightens his shoulders.

“You know what else is good for your heart? Red wine,” she refills his glass, “cheers.”

“To your stay in Broachurch,” he clinks his glass with hers.

  Like a thunderstorm after a heavy, humid day, their earlier argument seems to have dissipated the tension between.

  The Italian restaurant is pleasant if a little ostentatious. They can’t help mocking the (very amateur) rendition of the Sistine chapel ceiling. But the low lights and intimate booths combined with the Shiraz help the conversation flow easily between them. They share anecdotes from past, carefree, days, agreeing that Jackie is annoying and revealing her father’s drunken antics. It helps that she has perfected the ability of keeping the conversation light and pleasant. Not that it feels like working. As predicted, some people stare and some even stop by their table more out of curiosity than politeness. He wasn’t kidding when he said he was a public figure. She gets the feeling that there’s a very specific reason for that notoriety but given his reaction when people recognize him, she doesn’t ask. He shrugs it all off. It’s like she said: Who cares?

  They walk back to the house, his suit jacket over her shoulders and their tipsy giggles disturbing the summer night peace. In the street, they come across Becca Fisher and her new boyfriend who stop them for a chat. Hardy doesn’t seem very keen on catching up and ends the conversation rather abruptly.

  This night out makes her realize that as distant as he can be with her it’s still not as bad as with other people and she warms up to him. She learns how he likes his tea and sits down with him after dinner to watch reruns of Dad’s Army. She asks after his daughter and his progress at the gym. When her bed breaks, she requests his help even though she could have fixed it herself. It’s a professional quirk in a way, trying to find out what would make this man happy, what he needs, what would relieve him. It would be easier if he paid her. She isn’t quite there yet, he keeps so much to himself. But his smiles become more genuine, reaching his eyes, and he goes as far as cracking a few jokes. He starts wishing her a goodnight every night and she wakes up to the smell of coffee even though he doesn’t drink it. And just like that, they have a routine of their own.

  Rainy days are spent laying on the floor, listening to the Beatles discography (in chronological order) and binge-watching The West Wing. On sunny days, she drags him to the beach or he drags her to the forest for a hike. They bicker about politics and ice cream flavours and her lingerie hanging on the washing line. Although more often than not they do separate things, someone else’s presence in the background is like an appeasing white noise. And they realize how lonely they’d been until now.

  And through it all, he never once brings up her job or prostitution. She tells herself that at least she was honest even though it doesn’t quite feel like it.

  ###

  In the living room, beside a flat screen tv and a blue striped couch, stands a one book bookcase. It’s a worn-out copy of Slaughterhouse-five, its screaming red and yellow cover contrasting with the white pine shelf. Just like Hardy, it doesn’t fit in this decor.

  One night that she can’t sleep, she borrows that one out-of-place book. She is hooked right at the first sentence: “All this happened, more or less”. She loves the style and the characters and the underlined sentences and the indecipherable notes in the margins. The next day, she brings it with her to the beach which prompts another fight between Hardy and her.

“It’s just a little sand, it’s already disintegrated anyway,” Hannah argues, flipping through the damaged pages.

“And you made it worse.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, I’ll buy you another one,” she replies dismissively which only seems to upset him further.

“It won’t be the same.”

“Aww, are you going soft over a book?” she teases.

He tries to pry the novel out of her hands but she hides it under her t-shirt which bemuses him. He looks at her with all the authority he can summon which only makes her chortle.

“Tell me,” she demands, “tell me what’s so special about this book.”

  Hardy turns on his heels with a muttered comment about her childish attitude. She hears him rummage through the fridge and sigh dramatically. When he comes back in the room, with a bottle of water, she’s sitting on the sofa, the book in her lap.

“I’m gonna go to the newsagent, you need anything?” he asks.

“Tell me.”

With an exasperated look on his face, he sits down next to her and she moves the novel away from him.

“Awrite, I got it when I was 16, not long after my maw died,” he begins.

It made his teenage self question everything around him. When he moved to go to college, he had only one suitcase and that book under his arm. The same suitcase and the same book that followed him everywhere he went in the following years before settling in Sandbrook with his wife. Somewhere along the way, he forgot about it until he packed his things to come to Broadchurch. Different suitcase, same book. The story became part of the narrative of his life. The book influenced the way he lived and what happened in his life influenced how he understood the book. Of course, he doesn’t say it in so many words. But it’s enough for Hannah to easily relate to that experience.

  At that moment, she remembers a sentence that was twice underlined in the novel: “They do not love one another because they do not love themselves” and wonders what it means to him. It certainly meant something to her when she read it. Never had a few words been so relevant.

  When he’s done talking, he tries to take the book from where it’s resting on the other side of her legs but she doesn’t let him, hiding it under her top once again.

“Stop doing that!”

“I wanna finish reading it. I’ll take care of it, I promise.”

His hand falls in her lap, squeezing her thigh affectionately with an indulgent smile. She smiles back, feeling something she hasn’t in a long time; Warmth in her chest and something like a pull but not exactly attraction. Endearment. She covers her mouth with the tip of her fingers as she contemplates this man she’s discovering and growing attached to.

“What?”

“Nothing... So, what other books do you like?”

  He talks about Sherlock Holmes and reading Harry Potter with his daughter which leads to films and her favourite on-screen adaptation of an Austen novel.

“You just like that bloke in a wet shirt.”

“Oh yes, Colin Firth,” she says dreamily.

  When they get hungry, they move the conversation to the kitchen, discussing The Catcher in the Rye as they prepare sandwiches with leftover chicken. Unsurprisingly, Hardy has no love lost for Holden Caulfield.

“He’s just confused,” Hannah reasons, “I’m sure you were like him once.”

“He’s a wee bastirt, is what he is.”

“Exactly, just like you.”

She splashes him with her hands wet from washing the lettuce.

“Oi!”

  He fills two tall glasses with unsweetened iced tea as she brings their plates over to the table. After a few bites in silence, she clears her throat and nonchalantly announces that she’s writing a book.

“That why you spend so much time on your computer?”

“Yeah. You noticed? You never asked. You’re not very curious for a detective.”

“I respect your privacy,” he shrugs, “So, what is it about?”

The question. So far, she hasn’t had to explain her novel to anyone beside her new editor so she takes a moment to gather her thoughts. She’s surprisingly nervous about revealing this. She goofs around a little bit before telling him, joking that it’s about a time-travelling inspector. At long last, she explains that the plot revolves around a young woman, Lea, a psychology student, who is convinced that something was done to her twin sister. Thing is, she has no way of proving it and the police don’t believe her. Desperate, she begins her own investigation but it quickly becomes more than she can handle. Hannah leaves out the fact that most of it happens in underground sex clubs and elite orgies or the fact that her main character has a torrid affair with a mysterious club owner. Erotica with a side of plot, well she’s working on the plot.

“And then, her sister is murdered and she’s the main suspect.”

Much to her delight, Hardy asks what happens next, his sandwich long forgotten.

“I don’t know, I’m stuck there! And I need to send my editor the first three chapters by the end of the month.”

  After her last two, relatively autobiographical, novels, she’d decided to give writing fiction a try. She’d participated in three creative writing workshops in London but it proved to be harder to write than she had anticipated. Hopefully, the peaceful (dull) way of life in Broachurch will help her focus on her project.

  That night, when they walk up the stairs to their bedrooms and he stops to say goodnight, she kisses his cheek.

  The next morning, when she walks out of her room onto the narrow veranda extending over the porch, she finds that Hardy has moved a small desk and a kitchen chair in front of the windows. He’s cleared the table of old magazines and unfinished crossword puzzles, replacing them with a stack of lined paper and a handful of pens in a pink mug. He gave her a nice place to write. A place for her in his home.

  When she enters the kitchen where he’s eating eggs and toasts, he doesn’t mention the desk but he peers at her over his mug when he thinks she won’t notice. She places her hands on his shoulders and kisses the top of his head.

“Thank you, Alec.”

“Don’t call me that.”

She ruffles his hair playfully. She’s not fooled by his grumpy attitude anymore.

  Hannah settles with her laptop and a cup of vanilla coffee, clicks on “Lea” and starts typing. Something Hardy said yesterday about the evidence to accuse Lea of her sister’s murder had made its way into her subconscious and she’d woken up full of ideas. The sound of the keyboard imitates the raindrops hitting the window pane and she finds that this weather suits her writing mood better than the sun of the past few days. She even opens a window, letting in the salty fresh smell of rain and keeping herself warm with an oversized cardigan wrapped around her.   

  The character of the police officer who arrests Lea starts taking shape. He’s an older man and a widower, Irish and most of all he has very unorthodox interrogation techniques (i.e. keeping her on edge of orgasm until she answers his questions). Hannah squirms in her seat as she writes the sexy scene. She sees it, as clear as day, in her mind’s eye the way his fingers would move between her legs, the dirty things he would whisper, his pouty lower lip inches from her ear, his scruffy cheek against hers, his whiskey eyes clouded over with lust. She’s not typing anymore. Hannah has one hand down the front her pyjama shorts, the other squeezing her breast through her thin camisole, and Hardy could come up any moment but she’s so close. She keeps her eyes on the staircase as her fingers move faster. When she imagines the detective bending her character over his desk, she comes silently.

  She leans back on the chair, breathing heavily. It’s a poor replacement for the sex she needs but it will tide her over until then. The rain dies down and she hears voices downstairs. After freshening up in the bathroom, she goes to investigate.

“Whoa, you look much better than last time. What’s your secret?” says a middle-aged woman with short curly hair standing by the front door, she looks up at Hannah, “Oh, I see.”

She gives her that look women give her all the time: fake smile and judgemental once-over. At least she put on a bra before coming into the kitchen.

“Hi, I’m Hannah.”

“Ellie, I’m a former colleague of Alec.”

They politely shake hands.

“She’s the daughter of a friend.”

Ellie frowns as if Hardy having friends is unimaginable.

“Are you going to invite her in?” she asks Alec.

“Er, yeah, of course, come in.”

 “No social skills that one,” she says to Ellie in a stage whisper.

“I know! He once showed up at my house for dinner with flowers, wine and a box of chocolate, said he didn’t know which one to chose. Called me Miller the whole evening.”

Good old female bonding over the inadequacy of males.

Hardy rubs the back of his neck, eyes moving between the two women and finally escapes the situation by making tea. Hannah guides their guest to the living room. They chat about the weather clearing up while Hannah removes her nail polish and other manicure items from the coffee table. Ellie is a very nice woman but something about Alec going over to her place for dinner and bringing flowers doesn’t sit right with Hannah.

“So, are you and him... involved romantically or otherwise?” she can’t help but ask.

 Ellie bursts out laughing just as Alec walks into the room with three teacups and a sugar bowl. He always seems to be able to carry more items than the average person with his lithe hands. He sits on the armrest beside Hannah while Ellie is still laughing and dabbing the corners of her eyes with her sleeve. Once she’s regained her composure, Alec asks how her sons are settling in their new town. The conversation revolves around work and people only they know and eventually Hannah goes back upstairs to work.

  She doesn’t dare revisit the sexy scene she just wrote choosing instead to focus on outlining the next chapter. She soon figures out that a lack of idea is not what’s stalling her but rather a lack of knowledge regarding murders and police work. And she just happens to have two cops at her disposition downstairs.

  She finds Alec on the porch, sitting on the wooden box that doubles as a bench, reading The Guardian. The humidity in the air from the rain and hot weather makes his hair curl on his forehead and she has to stop herself from running her fingers through his locks.

“Ellie’s gone?” she asks unnecessarily.

He smirks when he looks up at her.

“What?”

“Ellie said you like me.”

“So?”

 “And that you asked about my love life. You know you can ask me anything.”

She’s not sure what he’s implying but she wants to wipe that smug look off his face.

“Are you fucking anyone?”

Alec chokes on his water and she bursts out laughing.

“Er, no... you?”

“Oh I’m fucking a lot of people but I’m not in a relationship.”

He peers at her over his glasses.

“I can never tell if you’re saying the truth.”

“And you call yourself a detective inspector? Speaking of which, I have a few technical questions about police work,” she adds flashing her most charming smile.

“Sure.”

She sits by his feet, shoulder against his leg, her Macbook balanced on her knees. She inquires about the kind of evidence they gather on a crime scene, how long they can keep someone in jail and the equipment in an interrogation room. He tells her more than she asked for with an enthusiasm she did know him capable of. Therefore, she asks more questions. Every detail he provides feeds her muse and she struggles to keep up with all the ideas that spring in her brain. When her computer battery runs out, she saves her document just in time and places it on the floor beside her. She stretches her neck with a groan and swipes her long hair over her shoulder, the back of her hand brushing against his thigh.

“Thank you, that was really helpful.”

“My pleasure.”

She rests her head on his knee and closes her eyes, listening to the ebb and flow of the waves in the distance. With the touristic season starting, the neighbourhood hasn’t been this quiet since her arrival. She finds that she doesn’t miss the noises of London so much anymore.

“Do you miss working?” she asks Hardy even she knows he will go back to work once his doctor allows it.

Unexpectedly, he admits he does and he opens up about feeling useless and purposeless.

“It’s like you said, about me being locked up and sulking.”

“I’m sorry,” she pats his calf, trying to convey her compassion, “It’s not that bad, you’re going to the gym and that lady at the library was totally chatting you up.”

“Aye, I suppose I’m doing better now.”

He places his hand on her exposed neck, his thumb lightly stroking her skin and an uncommon feeling of peace washes over her.

Part 2