Author’s Note: Drabble that’s been in my drafts for ages and ages. Thought I’d post it because I desperately need to clean out my drafts folder… and hey, why not right?
Saturday was always your favorite day of the week. You loved nothing more than being with Yongguk. The soft laughter, the quiet slurping of ramyeon, the dimmed conversations of the latest drama humming on the TV, the hushed nothings when both of your walls came down, and you didn’t have to be anywhere, you didn’t have to be anyone. You just were.
You had fallen in love with the man in front of you, not just the charismatic front he had on stage doing what he was so passionate about. You loved the man with a beautiful smile and a contagious laugh, you loved the man that hummed to himself when he was writing. You loved the man that was so in harmony with the peace of the world you’d have to stop to see. He had a soul that you were drawn to, so loving and intelligent. Bang Yongguk was your entire world.
When work or school was rough, you thought of him. His arms holding you safely in their embrace. His hands that would so gently stroke your hair when you were upset or stressed. His husky voice that was so soothing when every nerve in your body was frazzled and exhausted. There was nothing better than him.
Saturday nights were your nights. Simple dinner, simple conversation and just simply… being together. More often than not you’d spend the night in your apartment. Eating whatever you could make together with the food in your fridge, choosing a movie you’d both decided on earlier in the week, just spending the one on one time together, being in one another’s arms.
On the rare Saturdays you’d both decided to go out you’d always seem to find some little cafe or ramyeon shop that was near empty, and enjoy each others company and some good food. Your pinkies linked across the table, as you ate and talked about the first things that came to your minds. You’d often follow the dinner with icecream and a walk, hands still linked together as you went. You loved your nights together, there was no need for worries or stress or anything else but the other person.
You’d love sitting on an empty park bench, glowing underneath the moon’s pale light together, with mumbled ‘I love you’s’ and ice-cream flavored kisses. You’d stay out until the both of you were sleepy enough to retire back to your apartment, from time to time you’d be so sleepy you’d fallen asleep on him, your head resting upon his shoulder. He’d always take you home, your cheek pressed against his warm back as he carried you back to bed.
The best part of your night together was the goodnight. Plans of your future together lingered in the air, fingers intertwined as you debated the details. If you’d live in the city or the country, maybe the suburbs? Would you travel? What pets you would choose together, your future home together. How many kids you’d have eventually, whether they’d look more like you or more like him, what they’d be like and how much they would be loved. When sleep had nearly overtaken the both of you, silence filling in the air more than conversation. Your lips would press together in a goodnight kiss, his arms wrapping gently around your waist, your cheek snuggled against his chest. The soft drum of his heartbeat lulling you to sleep.
Home is where the heart is, or so they say. As far as the truth of sayings go, you’d surely believe it. It didn’t matter where you were or how often you even saw each other. Saturday was home. Because when you were with him, you were home… and there was nowhere you’d rather be.
He finds it long after they’ve settled into the house.
…Long after he has grown used to the gentle hum of her phone at late hours of the night; long after she arrives home one day to find him bent over a freshly dug flower bed, both hand and hook buried deep within the soil, a row of buried petunias trailing in his wake.
Long after she comes to terms with his solitary walks; long after he begins to understand that there are days when even the soft press of his hand against the small of her back will not be enough.
The house is no longer a shell– there are balled up socks buried beneath couch cushions,
(“Henry, why do you continue to vex me with this habit of yours? Just place them in the basket, like so…”),
photographs on the walls,
(“For a one handed pirate you’re pretty good with that camera.”
“Careful Swan, or you may just end up with a rather large portrait featuring your more unflattering side.”
“Oh, so now I have an unflattering side, huh?”
“It’s bad form to use a man’s words against him, love. I was merely calling you out on your name calling.”
“Yeah, well it’s bad form to tell a woman she’s got a bad side.”
“But someone should be placed in charge of reigning in your conceit.”
“So now I’m conceited?”
“Hold still. I need a portrait of you with that lovely gleam in your eyes.”
“Photograph, it’s called a photograph, Killian…”),
…and the sound of footsteps a constant reminder of what she had ached for in those solitary weeks as its sole occupant.
I was cleaning out my drafts folder and I found this. I wrote it just after Slabtown aired and I was trying out a new style, which I’m not very good at. It’s short and not very good or interesting. But hey, I guess at this point it makes more sense than the show.
Sometimes he gets scared, and sometimes he just gets angry.
Sometimes he sees that black car in his nightmares and he chases after it but his legs are made of lead and he’s stuck in quicksand.
Sometimes he can’t say her name, sometimes he worries he’s forgotten her.
And sometimes when he looks at the scars on her face he just wants to bash his fists against a wall until they bleed.
It started the night she told him about Gorman, told him everything. Told him what that asshole did to those girls, told him that Joan unpicked her own goddamned stitches just so she never had to be near him again. Told him about the lollipops and how she smashed the jar over his head and let the undead take care of the rest. Told him how her skin still crawls when she thinks of his hands on her, his saliva in her mouth.
He’d listened. Listened to every word. Tried not to clench his jaw, tried not to ball his hands into fists, tried not to rage.
And he hadn’t. Somehow he hadn’t. Hadn’t let her see, hadn’t let her know. But when he went back to his room, back to his space that he hated because it wasn’t him and it wasn’t her and it wasn’t them, his knuckles had bled and red rivers ran down the walls until he’d stuffed his fist into his mouth to stop himself from screaming.
The servants gaped, stopped their chores in their tracks, staring unashamedly as the crown prince strode through the kitchen. On his heels were the reigning King and Queen, whose smiles did little to quell the anxiety the Prince’s focused stare elicited.
Breaking right, Prince Sherlock rushed down the hallway and took the spiraling stairs downward in great leaps.
At the bottom was a small door, the top curve barely reaching his height. With an excited, triumphant smile, he opened the door and swept inside.
The occupants of the room looked up from their work in surprise. Sherlock glanced from one to the other until his gaze landed on a girl in the far corner. A broad grin spread across his face and he hastened toward her.
Garbed in a thick apron over long-sleeves, her hair pulled back and covered with a handkerchief, the servant girl stared at him over the body in front of her, which she has obviously just about to prepare for burial. Her eyes were wide and fear showed plainly on her face.
‘Y-your Highness,’ she stammered, belatedly remembering to curtsy and fumbling in her nervousness.
‘Did you think you could hide from me? That I wouldn’t eventually figure out who you were? A pretty dress and mask can’t disguise your intelligence and heart from me.’ He skirted the table and lifted her head with a finger. ‘Molly.’
She raised her gaze hesitantly, obviously fearing the consequences of her brash masquerade. But even in her fear, Sherlock could see the pride, the intelligence shining in her eyes, and knew that he had finally met his match. And at the ball his parents had thrown, against his wishes, with the hope for this very outcome.
Oh, he would never hear the end of it.
But as Sherlock did what he wanted to do from the moment he spoke with her at the ball all those weeks ago, and kissed her, one hand cradling the back of her head and the other wrapping around her slim waist, he knew she was more than worth the familial ribbing.
And as soon as he was able to convince her, she would be his wife.
Neither noticed the gaping servants or the proud Royal Family watching as Molly hesitated only for a moment, then kissed him back in kind, her arms coming up and around his neck. Sherlock yanked the covering from her hair and her brown tresses cascaded down, their softness tempting his fingers terribly.
Unable to hold back their smiles, they parted all too soon, hearts beating wildly. He took in the sight of her flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes, and felt his heart give a great leap right into her hands.
All along the woman he hadn’t even known he’d been looking for was working beneath the stone floors of the castle all this time.