A modern post-canon sequel where these two get all the love they deserve.
More than 150 years ago, they met for the first time only to be torn apart. Now, in the early 21st century, Lizzie (Elizabeth) knows nothing of her past life aside from fragments that come to her in dreams. She's researching entomology at Clerval University, and her lab is equipped with a beautiful greenhouse. In the evening, a mysterious tall man tends the plants, and she feels a connection with him she can't explain. Adam privately recognizes her from so long ago but assumes the resemblance must be a coincidence. After decades alone in his cottage, he's carved out a peaceful life for himself, but everything changes when Lizzie's old memories begin to resurface.
#angst with a happy ending, second chances, reunions, temporary amnesia, recovered memories, eventual smut, purring, touch-starved, emotional hurt/comfort, immortality
i'll learn to breathe deep and make peace with the stars
spirk | 21k | emotional recovery
“I didn’t know you had it in you, Mr. Spock,” Jim says.
“In the end, I did not,” Spock counters. “I submitted myself to arrest and pled guilty at the court martial.”
“Yet you accomplished what you meant to in the end,” Jim points out. “And the court martial was a farce.”
“True,” Spock acknowledges. He raises an eyebrow. “What will you do about it?”
“Mutiny, Spock? Stealing my ship and gallivanting across the galaxy in it? Oh, I don’t know.” Jim smiles. “Congratulate you, I suppose. I’m proud.”
“I broke a dozen Starfleet regulations,” Spock protests. “I should have been sentenced to death.”
“And we’re all grateful that you were not,” Jim says. “You stood up for your former captain. For what you believed was right. You’ve done the same for me a dozen times over; I can’t begrudge you doing it against me, just the once.”
“I hoped that you would see it this way,” Spock agrees. “I owe Captain Pike my life many times over, and I was the only one in a position to save his. Can you imagine such a fate? For a man such as him?”
“It pained me greatly to hear of it,” Kirk agrees. “And I didn’t know him half as well as you did.”
“I am sorry to have to go behind your back in such a way,” Spock concedes. “It was not my intention to cause you such stress.”
“It’s alright, Spock, no harm, no foul,” Jim says, although he’s not entirely sure it’s true. He is still feeling out of sorts about the whole thing somehow, which is why he’s here in Spock’s quarters talking to him about it instead of cozy in bed with a book like he ought to be.
Spock seems aware of this; the look he gives Jim is entirely too knowing. “Jim,” he says. “You know that you have my utmost respect, and under any other circumstances I would, of course, defer to your judgment. It was simply the risk of the death penalty that kept me from speaking to you.”
I couldn’t bear it if you died over this, hangs in the air between them, unspoken but loudly expressed all the same.
Jim sighs. “I couldn’t bear to lose you, either,” he says, reaching out to touch the back of Spock’s hand. “Just so we’re clear.”
“I had to try.” Spock is looking down at their hands, chastened, but he looks up now, locking eyes with Jim. His are deep and full of emotion. “I had to.”
Jim smiles. “You wouldn’t be you if you hadn’t.”
“Thank you for your understanding.” Spock takes Jim’s hand in his properly, squeezing it once. “I am, as ever, grateful.”
“And I’m grateful to have the best first officer in the fleet,” Jim agrees, squeezing his hand back.
After the events of The Menagerie, Jim has been struggling with anxiety attacks. Spock believes they're because he doesn't trust him after he committed a mutiny; Jim is certain there's something more going on. How will their fledgling relationship survive? And how will they manage command of the ship, when their emotions are pulling them in a dozen different directions?
A story about recovery, love, and really big moles.
For the @carry-on-au-fest I used a prompt by @fiend-for-culture which was a Cyrano de Bergerac AU in which Simon asks Baz to write letters to help him court Agatha, but Baz's letters are so beautiful Simon falls in love with him instead. I took some uh, liberties with that, including infusing quite a bit of BBC Merlin... but hopefully you enjoy the outcome regardless :)
Little Flowers of Eloquence (T, 15k, complete!)
King Simon must marry for strategy, but that doesn’t mean he can’t also marry for love. He decides to court the Princess Agatha via letters, but encounters one barrier: he’s never had a way with words. The solution? He’ll have Baz, his accomplished and elegant servant, write the letters for him. Agatha will fall in love, and Simon will be married by Midsummer. It will all work out perfectly.
Spooky, everything covered in old bedsheets. Fitting for October. Cartoonish little ghosts, stationary and a bit smelly—shit, smelly, the whole place was reeking. Not making the best impression here, Harry. He didn’t think it through. Most of his projects started this way: a half-arsed excuse posing as a plan, a murmuring disquiet in his chest. No-no-no turned into maybe, into fine, into you know what? And then charging forward. Harry liked this part best: charging forward. Which was how he found himself here, sitting on the hideous carpet in the middle of his living room. Why was it so hard? The carpet, he meant. Rough material, scratchy on his skin. Hard.
He told Malfoy he wanted to get rid of it. Of everything, that he wanted it all different, new. And Malfoy stood there, with his jacket and his clipboard, tapping his chin with this look on his face. Came close, really close, and said:
“We can’t change everything. Would be silly, anyway, trying to make it new instead of better. If you trust me—”
And Harry was breathless with how much he wanted to shout it, with how it itched and scratched under his skin. Couldn’t find the words, just nodded. And Malfoy smiled, shook his head, like he didn’t quite believe it, like it didn’t matter. Said he’ll take the job, thank god. But only if Harry promised not to be an arse about it.
A bit hard, that.
“Potter?”
He jumped to his feet with a start. Completely missed the keys jangle, the light footfalls, the usual signs of Malfoy in the house. Normally he had a few seconds to prepare, to breathe, but like this, caught—Harry coughed himself to near-death, rubbed his eyes till they stung.
“Bad time?”
He forced himself to blink, to look up. Malfoy, long-legged, in his jacket, neat hair, this unsure line of his smile.
“Pardon?”
“Did I come at a bad time? You seem… preoccupied.”
“Oh. Oh, no, not—you’re fine. I was just… strange, isn’t it. All this empty space.”
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Well, the furniture won’t arrive until Monday. You signed up for this, remember.”
“I know, I know.”
He sighed, overburdened but a little fond about it. “Come here, give me your hand.”
“Wha—” it was instinct, more than anything now, obeying him without a second thought. Malfoy took both of Harry’s hands, placed one on his shoulder, stretched the other out. Put his own hand on Harry’s waist. “Malfoy?”
“Empty can be good,” was his explanation, which Harry only barely caught. “Leaves space for movement. Dance, you berk, I know you know how.”
“Why…?”
“You’re too tense,” he said. Was his voice always like that? Low and so soft? “If we’re to be working together, I need you to learn how to relax.”
Harry let himself be twirled. Malfoy’s slanted smile, the way he smelled, lemony-sharp, some of the most captivating powers in this world.
Hard. Why was it all so… hard.
Continue reading on AO3 - or under the cut for tumblr formatting!
*
By the end of October Harry knew he had a serious problem. It wasn’t so much how tiny little changes made such a transformation in the place he thought he knew. Wasn’t the scented candles, or the potted plants taking over every flat surface, or the new rug instead of the hideous carpet, the soft one. It wasn’t even the new bedsheets that appeared in his cupboard, ones that didn’t make his skin itch.
It was this: in the middle of his living room, sprawled on the sofa in socks and a house coat—where the fuck did he even get that?—hair still wet, moaning with absolutely no shame around something chocolatey and terrible.
It was this: Malfoy wouldn’t leave.
Or perhaps it was that Harry didn’t want him to.
“Horrid day,” he was saying, possibly to Harry. Licking his fingers clean one by one, on purpose. “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve had to put up with at work.”
“Wouldn’t,” Harry murmured, in consent or in outrage, he couldn’t tell.
“That numbskull Felpps. Telling me he thinks he’s more suitable for the job. My job. I swear I nearly cursed him dry. Difficult, stopping myself.”
“Dry,” Harry repeated. Partly a question, with Malfoy’s wet hair, with the fact his clothes were all neatly folded on the table. Trousers, shirt, jacket. Boxers. Right there on top of the pile. On purpose, on purpose, he was doing all this absolutely on purpose.
“Well, that was before the rain had started, you see.” He stretched on the sofa, endlessly long and impossibly tantalising. “Do you have decent tea, or are you going out to get some?”
Harry closed his eyes. Opened them. Closed again, a little startled with what he was seeing. A sliver of pale skin, Malfoy’s thigh peaking from underneath the robe. “Beg your—what?”
“Tea. You promised me tea. Remember? You said, Malfoy, you should come over to mine, I’ll make some tea, good tea this time. Come dry off your lovely, lush arse on my new sofa, revel in the comfortable yet stylish decoration you were so clever to—what? All right, maybe you didn’t say all that. But I got the gist.”
Maybe the problem was how he made him laugh. How he was impossible, and unbearable, and so fucking funny it made Harry’s chest hurt. For whatever reason. He shook his head but sighed, having already given up (long, long ago).
“Fine. You just lie there and be useless, I’ll go put on the kettle. Would you like another of your—biscuits, or whatever it was you brought?”
“Profiteroles. And yes, please. You should have some too. All chocolate and cream and everything nice, you’ll love it.”
The sudden lump in his throat wasn’t a good sign. Harry tore his glance away to look at the plant pots, the candles, at the tapestry on the wall, anywhere but at the sofa. Maybe the real, heart breaking problem was how everything Harry loved was drenched in Malfoy’s touch.
*
He was going to tell him. Today.
Harry always took the stairs when he dropped by: third floor, good for his cardio, for his arse. Also, a solid excuse for when he stormed through Malfoy’s door all breathless.
The office was tiny, barely enough space for a desk and a chair, let alone two. Harry didn’t hate it. Did find it awfully parching, the way Malfoy overheated the room with the windows always closed. Curtains always drawn.
(“I’m not that afraid of heights,” he said one night in Harry’s empty flat, smelling of paint and tequila, lying down on the new, soft rug. “Not really. I just don’t like… it’s still in my head, you know?” and Harry lied and said he did. It was hard to concentrate, with the little freckle under his jaw, the way his eyes went wide, searching.)
Three stories shouldn’t get his heart racing so much. Harry was severely out of shape—out of his mind, at least. He’s made the decision. Couldn’t wait any longer, had to tell him.
If only it wasn’t so…
“I come bearing pastry,” he announced himself in, cowardly, bag thrust out as a shield. Malfoy was likely to be less annoyed at the disturbance if provided food, and sweet was always better, with him.
(He proved it that night, demolishing every pack of biscuits, laughing and shouting and tackling him down, “Stay, Potter, stay.” Shoving a piece of chocolate into his mouth: “here, try this. You like it, don’t you?” and Harry laughed the hurt of it away, desire stinging in his eyes, heart in his throat too bitter to taste anything sweet.)
Malfoy looked up from his paperwork, that pinched look between his eyebrows. “Potter? What… gods, do come in. Pastries, you said?”
“Felpps again?” Harry squeezed himself at Malfoy’s elbow. Pretty nice, having a small office. He was already thirsty though, already far too overheated. He was going to tell him, had to tell him already, couldn’t not. How much he… had to tell him.
“You won’t even believe it. Saying I’ve been all distracted and—what did you get me? Please say almond croissant. I’d kill for an almond croissant.”
(They fell asleep on the floor that night, curled around each other on the new, soft rug, the one Harry loved, laughing until Mrs. Tullberry next door shouted herself hoarse. Malfoy fell asleep first; Harry kept watching the way his chest rose and fell, rose and fell, sick to his stomach with want.)
“Here.” He pulled a croissant out the bag to Malfoy’s delighted shriek.
“You gorgeous son of a bitch, I love you, I swear it.”
Harry almost said it back, automatic, but when he raised his head Malfoy was too busy with the pastry, no eyes for him. So he swallowed the words, summoned a smile. Couldn’t. So much for charging forward. “Better now?”
“You’re magic,” Malfoy dabbed his mouth with the back of his hand. Looking so serious, so pinched, so lovely.
Maybe tomorrow.
*
Harry was making cupcakes for Teddy’s school drive when the doorbell went off with a rusty yell. Still hasn’t fixed it—not that he was keeping things wrong with the flat to draw Malfoy back in, that’d be ridiculous. Just… didn’t matter, actually. Harry still hasn’t told him, seemed like he never would. Finding courage was usually brainless, effortless: just lean in and go. But with Malfoy, everything was always backwards. And Harry cared for him, so much—fuck—enough to be scared.
A rasp on the door made him jump, remember himself. Wiping his hands on the apron, wiping his face on a sleeve. Probably Ron, forgot his scarf. Or Ted coming back to check on his cupcakes, although he’d Floo, wouldn’t… maybe it was Malfoy, forgetting that he still has keys. That he stole Harry’s heart and then fucked off for two weeks, some ‘design exhibition’ in Paris, that he wasn’t supposed to be back until next Tuesday. Most likely it was Mrs. Tullberry, with some new complaint about the bins. Something mundane, something annoying.
Another knock, the doorbell again. Harry rolled his eyes. What could possibly be so urgent when—
Everything happened all at once: Harry only just twisted the knob and the door flew open, a livid storm burst in, pushing Harry back so hard he hit the wall, that his glasses fell off his nose and dangled from one ear. “What…”
“Fucking freezing outside,” Malfoy, Malfoy, it was Malfoy, what was he, how was, Malfoy—“For crying out loud, forgot how to open your door?”
Forgot his own name, was more accurate, forgot how to breathe. “What—Paris?”
“Who bloody cares about Paris,” Malfoy huffed, so close, so close, Harry’s mind was melting with it. “The exhibition was rubbish. Everything was bland and boring. Too many profiteroles and none of your stupid face. I couldn’t stay there one more minute.”
“I don’t…” where was his courage, damn it, where were his words, his ability to string simple syllables together into something coherent, “Malfoy—”
“Shut up.” He dug an accusatory finger in Harry’s chest. Eyes squinted in anger, in determination. “I’m done waiting for you. Done, did you hear me? Will not stand for it any longer.”
Difficult, stopping myself, Harry thought, madly, both hands sending forward entirely on their own. One to wrap behind Malfoy’s neck, one to cup a flaming-hot, flushed cheek. Can’t stop.
“I may be scared of heights,” Malfoy babbled, still with that look in his eyes, “of being too—but I’m not scared of you. I’m not scared of you, stupid, stupid, gorgeous, stupid—”
Laughing came out wrong, unstoppable, breathless, but it brought Harry’s face the tiniest of inch further, till his nose was touching Malfoy’s. “Just kiss me, you miserable arse. Kiss me. Please.”
“You kiss me,” Malfoy pouted. It made the line of his mouth soften, made Harry’s whole body ache.
Obeying him was second nature, by now. Harry leaned a tiny bit more, and finally charged forward.
*
“Stop trying to outdo me, git.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes and added another layer of whipped cream onto his disastrous masterpiece. “If I’m to win Tedward’s competition, I can’t let personal matters affect my creativity.”
Harry grabbed the string that tied the apron behind Malfoy’s back and used it to pull him closer. “Not a competition. It’s for his school. There’s nothing to win here.”
“Not with that attitude,” he huffed. Allowed himself to be tucked under Harry’s arm, squinting his nose. “And what’s this supposed to be? Some sort of… cupcake… winter wonderland?”
“It’s just icing.” Harry dipped a finger into the bowl and offered it. “Royal icing, basically all sugar. You’ll like it.”
He wasn’t thinking this through, because when did he ever; they only had a couple of hours, and the way Malfoy’s tongue twirled around his finger…
“Hmm. Not bad. Could be a touch sweeter?”
Harry sighed, in affection or in contentment, he couldn’t tell. “That’s it, no more sugar for you. It’s becoming a serious problem.”
“What do you know? You’ve no vision.” The line of his eyebrows, challenging and dear. Harry laughed, squeezed him tighter.
“Well, I’m the one running a bakery.”
“And I’m your best customer. Think I’d know what I’m talking about.”
“Don’t think you ever do,” Harry said, but it came out raspy. He was too busy boxing Malfoy’s cheeks in his hands, trying to kiss his squirming, flushed face.
“Off—get off me, Mr. sticky hands! Can’t believe you of all people opened a bakery. Didn’t even know what profiteroles were, two years ago.”
There were lots of things he didn’t know then, but Harry didn’t say it. He could tell what’d happen: Malfoy would call him a sap, give him that pinched look, the one Harry couldn’t resist. Then say something entirely innocent, like ‘come here’, and Harry would burst. Charging forward used to be his favourite bit, but there was something nice to this too, the anticipation.
Malfoy titled his head. “What?”
“What?”
“What’s your problem?”
Mostly this: their tiny kitchen, so full they have to stand close together, choose to stand even closer. The way Malfoy’s mouth looked after he kissed him, ravenous and careless. Their flat, properly theirs, as it always had been, secretly and then not. Discovering his love for sweet things, for a certain sweet-tooth and a barely-sigh. Malfoy, his, here. Not at all a problem.
“You,” Harry summarised with a devilish smile. “You’re always my problem. Why don’t you untie that apron and let me—"
“Fiend,” Malfoy grunted, a little fond about it. “We must finish first. Be a good boy for me now, and tonight, when we get back, I could…”
“Yes?” Harry buried his face in the crook of his neck, already delirious.
“…Watch you do the dishes.”
The groan came out a bit nasal-y. That arse, whom Harry loved, loved, loved. Couldn’t have imagined being loved back would feel like this: so hard, always moving, and so, so unbearably sweet.
Find the complete Robin’s Flufftober 2022 on AO3 or here on tumblr!
Pre-canon, the Walrus crew takes a ship with an unexpected captive on board: A mermaid, shackled below deck. James wouldn't believe it if he weren't seeing it with his own eyes—especially when he sees the mermaid's face. He's heard tales of such creatures changing their appearance to match the likeness of an observer’s loved one, but witnessing it in reality is something else altogether. What he does not realize yet is that the encounter will change his life forever.
