Home

noun

the place where one belongs

This was ridiculous.

She'd been sitting in her car, parked just round the corner from his five bedroomed detached, for at least twenty minutes now. The key he'd given her ten days ago weighing heavily in her pocket – well, no. It was actually attached to the keychain currently dangling from the ignition, but the metaphor still stood. A tugging, insistent, relentless nag wherever she went. A constant reminder that he wanted her in his life, no boundaries or walls between them. No locked doors.

And it wasn't as if she hadn't been to his place in the days since; over the past week or so she and Emma had spent near enough every evening with him and his troop. It had all been very … domestic. She hadn't actively chosen to start spending so much time there either, even if they were now A Thing. It had just … happened. A new habit formed simply due to convenience and chance and Jac's complete and utter intolerableness.

See, the Thursday after she and Adrian had become A Thing, Emma's nanny had decided to quit – the fourth one in three months – a mere fifteen minutes before her charge was due to be kicked out of school. Jac's insufferableness had been cited as one of many reasons why the resignation had been made. Over a text. Naturally, she'd been ready to castrate Cameron fucking Dunn with a dull scalpel just because he'd been the first person that she' d seen within five minutes of receiving the news. The entire situation had felt like a personal insult. A slap in the face. A deliberate fuck you from the universe to prove just how shit she was at this parenting thing.

Which was when Adrian had swooped in (not at all like a white knight on a prancing pony, or a gleaming superhero with a red cape or anything) and arranged for Steven to pick Emma up. "One more won't make a difference," he'd pointed out as Jac tried to protest, flashing that reassuring smile that never failed to make her heart melt. "An' Theo's been bangin' on about Emma coming round t' play for ages."

That evening she'd followed him to his place, intending to collect Emma and then go – Waitrose closed in half an hour and she had nothing in the fridge – but sweet little Ella had cajoled her into joining them for tea. Eyes wide and imploring as she wheedled her way past Jac's instinctual and habitual need to run screaming from any form of social interaction. So, she stayed. And it'd been easy. Thoughtless. Not one child batted an eyelid at her presence on the other end of the dining room table. Emma sat happily between Theo and Evie, legs swinging wildly beneath the table as they dangled off her chair, trading silly faces with Mikey, and chatting animatedly with Ella as if she did it every evening.

Steven had assured her, as he'd pulled on his coat and stepped out onto the tattered welcome mat, that he'd continue to pick up her unruly child from school until Jac was able to make other arrangements. And though she still had her reservations about the man, though she still couldn't quite trust him the way Adrian did and accept that he wasn't going anywhere, she'd thanked him nonetheless. He wasn't Paula. As if to prove that point, just before the door closed Emma cheekily managed to yell out, loud as she possibly could, "Bye Grandad!" from the top of the stairs. She'd then erupted into a fit of giggles with Theo, the pair of them scampering away.

So that had been that.

Jac groaned, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel. Why was this so damn difficult?

Because she wanted to use the key. That's why. Stupid thing had been burning away in the back of her mind all week, and though he'd no once mentioned it whenever she rang the doorbell, not mentioned it at all in fact since the day he'd given it to her, she couldn't help but wonder if he was thinking it. Thinking, why give it to her at all if she wasn't going to bother to use it?

Oh for fuck sake! This was utterly ridiculous. She yanked her keys out the ignition and wrenched open the car door. Fuck it. Fuck it fuck it fuck it.

Evie was wandering aimlessly down the stairs, with her face glued to the screen in her palm, as Jac half tripped over the threshold. The teen glanced up and something like fear shot through Jac's body. A flaring, frenzied, flash of panic at being caught letting herself into the house.

"I – erm," she cleared her throat, babbling uncontrollably. "Your dad gave me a key and–"

"I know," Evie said, utterly unfazed. Evidently the phone in her hand, buzzing and pinging insistently, was far more important than catching her father's sort-of-girlfriend-they-hadn't-got-that-far-yet halfway through the door. And since the doorbell hadn't rung, it was clear as shiny crystal that Jac had just let herself in. "You gotta take your shoes off," she added as Jac stood rooted to the spot, clutching painfully tight to the key in the lock, door still wide open. "Or y'know Ella will hassle you 'bout it. She's weird and annoyin' like that."

Jac blinked, shocked at the total disinterest as Evie disappeared down the hall. It took a moment before she was able to shrug the incident off, truthfully grateful for the lack of fanfare. She half wondered if Evie had known that not making a fuss was the best way to mark the occasion. Shaking her head, Jac closed the front door and kicked off her shoes, adding them to the endearingly messy pile under the coat stand. She wasn't quite sure why it was endearing. The unordered chaos should have had her palms sweating. Then she caught sight of Emma's trainers, scattered among the clutter; two little white shoes that instantly brought startling clarification to explain away her ease and comfort. Before she moved away from that irritatingly small space between the door, the coat stand, and the bottom of the stairs, she couldn't help but bend down and tuck her own shoes neatly to one side of the heap.

Thundering footsteps belonging to someone rather small and rather excited tumbled down the afore mentioned stairs, causing Jac to glance over her shoulder. "Oh," they said, completely underwhelmed. "It's just you Mummy."

"You sound rather annoyed that I'm here, face-ache."

Emma shrugged. "Well … yes. I am Mummy." Jac raised an eyebrow, which in turn had her daughter's eyes rolling in their sockets. "We're gonna watch Big Hero Six!" she explained as if it were obvious and Jac should already know this. "Theo and Ella ae waiting because I needed a wee, so we absolutely can't go home until we've seen Baymax!"

She laughed, absolutely no idea who Baymax was supposed to be. "Well go on then," she encouraged, interrupting her daughter's prattling of 'balalalalalalalala'. "Or they might decide you're taking too long and start without you."

Emma's face was one of 'they bloody better not!' as she rushed past Jac into the living room. Chuckling to the sounds of Theo assuring Emma he'd never let them start the film without her, and Ella's confirmation that he'd hidden the TV remote to ensure it, Jac proceeded down the hallway. Almost walking right into Evie as Fletcher Spawn #1 made her return trip, a glass of something in her hand and her eyes still pasted to her phone; she'd emerged from her from merely for refreshment then. Typical.

"Dad said we're gettin' takeout for dinner," the teen informed her as they squeezed past one another in the narrow hallway. "He don't wanna cook."

"That's fine by me." But Evie was already halfway up the stairs. Jac shook her head, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Adrian's kitchen floor was cold against her bare feet.

Mikey stood at the skink washing mud off the new football boots Jac had got him for his birthday last month. Kid had refused to speak to her for almost a week after he'd learned that she'd given away Gary the dog to Frieda. In the end Jac had conceded defeat and realised that, without Gary, football was the way to Mikey Fletcher's heart. She'd lied when Adrian had asked her how much the branded Nike boots had cost, giving him a figure for less than half the actual amount. Mikey was still wearing his equally muddy (and sweaty – god why did teenage boys have to smell so much? It was as if now that he was officially an adolescent, he'd become a hundred times grosser) football kit. How, exactly, he'd gotten covered in so much muck when it hadn't rained since the day she and Adrian had become A Thing was a question Jac refrained from asking. She doubted she wanted to know the answer. So that was four Fletchers and her own child accounted for.

"Where's your dad?" she asked by way of hello.

"In the garage. Fixin' somethin' or somethin' I think." He shrugged, unconcerned, hadn't even glanced over his shoulder to look at her. Hadn't questioned her sudden, unannounced, presence in his dad's kitchen. Evie might have given him a heads up, though it was probably more realistic that she'd just entered the kitchen to seek out some juice from the fridge, and not bothered to utter a single word to her brother. Jac supposed it was a good thing that Adrian's kids were no longer perturbed about her and Emma being there so often. Maybe this whole key to his house thing wasn't completely nuts after all. Maybe she ought to think about giving him one to her place…

Hold up. One step at a time there Naylor.

"You'll clean all that dirt off the sink when you're done, right?" she checked, unable to walk past without saying something about the mess he was creating. "And take a shower before you stink out the entire house?"

"Yes mum!"

Jac bit her tongue. She was beginning to suspect being a shit was part of Fletcher DNA.

Adrian's radio was tuned to a classic rock station and he was humming along discordantly to Livin' on a Prayer, the loud music mingling with his voice to fill the tepid space. Well it could have been worse, Jac mused as she glanced around, it could've been bloody Tom Jones or something equally nauseating.

It was a generic garage filled with nick knacks and boxes; overflow storage for items that wouldn't fit in the house or needed to be accessed often enough for the loft to be out of the question. A washing machine churned cheerfully next to a stationary tumble dryer, vacant and waiting with a load in a basket sat atop it. An empty space had been cleared near the garage door allowing room for Adrian to work; tools and parts and other nameless items scattered around him in what Jac truly hoped was ordered chaos. Someone – she doubted it had been him because the thing looked positively ancient – had built a sturdy workbench against one wall. She chose to perch against it, content to just watch while he fiddled, oblivious to her presence, with the engine to a half assembled old motorcycle.

At work they were always busy, always rushing and moving and hardly having a chance to pause for breath, let alone take a moment to just watch. It was nice. Peaceful. He oozed serenity and sincerity; a grounding wire to discharge those pent up biproducts of her undiagnosed and unacknowledged PTSD. Anxiety. Irritation. Frustration. Soft flesh peeked through a small hole along the join of the left sleeve of his fraying t-shirt. Paint stains and grease stains littered his well-worn jeans, betraying years' worth of constant use. There was something special about being able to see him like this, she decided. Relaxed and happy and completely at ease. He wore odd socks.

Adrian twisted in the direction of his toolbox, searching for another implement Jac didn't know the name of, and caught sight of her bare feet. Painted toes. His eyes rose to meet hers, a warm smile on his face. "How long y' been there?" he asked gently, turning the dial down on the radio.

"Not long," she lied. "New project of yours?" she nodded at the pieces littered around him.

"Next door was gonna chuck it," he shrugged, tossing the screwdriver back into his toolbox. "Caught them tryin' t' load it into a skip when I got home yesterday evenin'. The old fella was plannin' to rebuild it, but he died a while back before he got the chance. Think he was an enthusiast or somethin' back in the day. Anyways the Mrs wanted it gone an' said I could 'ave it for a few quid."

"It's a Harley Davidson."

"Yeah. Some XR model, I think. When it's done you wanna take it for a spin?"

She smirked. "Sure. If you think you can handle it."

He grinned up at her. "Anythin' t' get you int' them bike leathers." Adrian's eyes raked over her, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip. Rather than looking away, feigning interest in something else, pretending she couldn't feel the weight of his gaze lingering on her, Jac watched him watch her. It was strangely intimate yet comforting at the same time. Thrilling, yet calming. "You look good," he murmured.

Jac rolled her eyes. "I've just spent four hours in theatre and another two before that in an emergency MDM with Touchy Feely–" she checked herself, because after last week it was only fair that she used the woman's actual name, "with Ange and His Grand CEO-ness. I look anything but good."

She'd just gotten out the shower that morning when Hanssen had rung. The Imperial March echoing loudly and ominously until she'd answered the bloody thing. All she'd had time to do was pull on a pair of jeans and a jumper, load Emma (still in her pyjamas) into the car and race round to Adrian's while texting him to at least warn him of the situation. She'd handed over her groggy child to a bemused Evie on the doorstep, and then dashed off to the hospital at Hanssen's urgent request. It'd been while she was in the middle of the MDM that she'd realised she'd not even had time to slap on makeup; hair twisted into a tangled knot on the top of her head.

Adrian returned to the engine, fingers sticky and black with grease. "I've seen ya worse."

"Oh. Charming."

"Ain't been scared off yet 'ave I?"

"Yet has a rather uncomfortable ring to it."

She watched his shoulders rise and then fall heavily in a weary sigh. Watched as he reached out a hand to turn off the radio, plunging the tepid space into silence – save for the rumble of the washing machine and the hum of the florescent lights above them. "I ain't goin' nowhere, Jac," he said into the quiet.

Jac shifted on her feet, she knew that. Could feel the truth of it in her bones. But that didn't mean she could trust the unfamiliar feeling.

"I'm not … I ain't him. I swear, I'll never–"

"I know," she interrupted, because otherwise he'd start talking about it. And she absolutely did not want to talk about it. Ever. "I know. Okay? You don't have to promise me anything. Promises can be broken, and neither of us needs any more of those weighing us down." She bit her lip, his words from last week playing on her mind, encouraging her to prattle on. Jac spoke to her chilled toes, a small shrug on her shoulders. "But the doubts that he's left me with? The fear? It's not going to go away, Adrian. Not today, not tomorrow, not even in ten years' time. You're just going to have to accept that, otherwise what are we even doing?"

"Have I ever said that I didn't?" he didn't snap – but almost. Not that she would have blamed him. Her insecurities and doubts frustrated her too. She wished she could just abandon them on the side of an unnamed road as casually as her mother had abandoned her. Wished she could live her life without distrust and paranoia and fear constantly following her wherever she went. With nothing to say, Jac refrained from snapping back at him. No one said this would be easy.

Adrian turned back to his engine.

"Pass us the torque wrench will ya?" he asked a few silent minutes later; clearly having already moved passed the moment, rather clinging onto it until it festered. Which was Jac's habitual method of dealing with disagreements. The ease with which he could let something go still startled her, but perhaps that was because she was always so ready for confrontation. Always poised to defend herself, to lash out, to fight back. To make a stand because if she didn't then no one else would. It'd become a necessity. But there was no need with him because it wasn't an issue; he'd simply stated a fact and she'd allowed it to rest as just that. How positively adult of her.

"The what now?"

"The wrench," Adrian repeated. "It's that thing next t' you, nope – other side." Jac glanced at the array of equipment by her hip. It all looked the same to her, a mildly terrifying tangle of nameless implements. She picked up the least threatening item. "No, that's just a spanner. It's – th' other thing." What other thing? Could he possibly be less vague? Jac set the spanner down, the corners of her mouth tilting into a faint smile, and picked up something else. "No! Not that one, th' other one!" He sat back on his heels beside the partly disassembled engine, pointing and gesturing vaguely at the pile of tools on the workbench. Most of them half rusted, pitted with age, dents and chips and gouges betraying their mistreatment. Jac must have picked up a dozen heavy implements before she managed to select the one Adrian was after. "Yeah," he praised, a relived sigh slipping out, "that's it."

She had absolutely no intention of remembering what it was she'd just fetched for him. His exasperation had been amusing, and the prospect of winding him up further played on her mind. She could already see how easily it could, and would, turn into a game; he knew damn well she was a quick study, and continually passing him the wrong item would drive him right up the wall. Jac stepped away from her perch and slapped the cold, heavy, metal thing into his waiting palm – blackened and coated in grime.

"Blimey," he remarked. "That were painful."

"Shut up, Adrian."

"You'd make a terrible scrub nurse by the way," he added conversationally, faffing with something on the engine.

"No I wouldn't," she protested, folding her arms across her chest. "I know every surgical tool there is, and what it looks like – this is just…"

"Jus's what?" she got the feeling he was humouring her.

Jac cast a glance across the space, filled with boxes and clutter and parts and tools and mess. She prodded another pile of tools with her foot. "Madness," she decided. "Utter madness."

Adrian snorted. "This," he indicated his chaotic workspace, "is why I'm so good in theatre. Back when I were a lowly mechanic, everyone would call their tools somethin' different – so you had t' know what were needed, not what they was askin' for."

"So you really are a mind reader then?"

"Mind reader?" he queried distractedly, tossing the torque wrench or whatever it was called into his toolbox without even using it. Adrian rose stiffly to his feet, casting his gaze around for something else as he absently wiped his hands on his trouser legs, adding to the multitude of stains already there. His eyes fell on her, an odd expression on his face. It sent a shiver up her spine and caused her heart to begin pounding within her ribcage.

"What's that look for?" she demanded after a few moments under that unfamiliar scrutiny.

"This look?" he smirked, pointing at himself.

"Yes, that look."

"This is my 'I'm gonna kiss ya' face," he explained, still grinning. "It's one you ain't seen, 'cause I've always been hidin' it, so I'll forgive ya this time for not recognisin' it. Next time, however…" Adrian advanced toward her, intentions clear – and honestly Jac wasn't about to complain.

Until she caught sight of his blackened fingers.

"Nu-uh," she shook her head, backing away. "Nope! You're not coming anywhere near me, Fletcher. Not with those hands."

"Oh c'mon!" he protested, reaching out for her. "It's jus' a bit of good clean grease."

"And this is a new jumper! It's white. It'll never wash out!"

"I'll buy you 'nother one."

"You couldn't afford it. Not with your pay-check."

"Which one of us is part of the Board of Directors again?"

Jac rolled her eyes. Prat. "You're still not coming near this jumper with those hands," she warned.

Adrian stared at her, his chest heaving and eyes blazing. Then he shrugged, picking up a rag and wiping his hands with it – although the desired effect of cleaning the muck off was diminished by the fact that the rag was already dirty. Jac watched as he chucked the thing in the direction of his toolbox. Fingers just as black and filthy as they had been before he'd rubbed the oily cloth all over them. He stood facing her with his hands on his hips, gaze unblinkingly. "So take it off."

It took a moment for his words to register. "What?"

"Take. It. Off."

She spluttered. "No! I – just wash your hands!"

"If I go out there," he explained patiently, pointing in the general direction of the house, "one of the kids'll want somethin'. D'you really wanna risk that?"

He had a point.

"Baby, you look hot. Sexy. I fuckin' love this look on you." Jac glanced down at her jeans and jumper, hardly a thrilling combination. "But I need t' touch ya – needed t' since the moment I saw you was here – so please, take it off."

"I'm not wearing anything underneath," she confessed.

"Even better."

She was torn – truly torn. Because on one hand she really, really, wanted to kiss him. Wanted him to press her against the old workbench and kiss her as though his life, and hers, depended on it. Wanted to feel his hands on her, the warmth of them against every inch of her skin. On the other … removing her top would reveal her scars. That angry red gash under her ribs and the discoloured incisions down her spine. Startling white lines on her abdomen.

And yes, he knew they were there – had seen the slash in her side when he'd changed her dressings after the shooting. Had said nothing when she'd asked him once or twice (or a few times more) to check the surgical wounds on her back were healing, some undercurrent of doubt over Gaskell's competency nagging at her even then. He knew she'd given her mother a kidney and that she'd had a cyst on an ovary which, until the tests came back clear, had been considered cancerous. Knew that Emma's hadn't been a natural birth.

But it was one thing knowing she had scars, and for him to observe them while they were within a clinical environment, another thing entirely for him to see them now. When he was looking at her in a way that suggested he'd very much like to fuck her against the nearest surface.

"Aid–" She managed to stutter out the first syllable of his name, fingers toying with the hem of her new jumper, before they were interrupted.

"Daaaad!"

He swore. "I'm gonna bloody kill 'em."

Turned out that when Theo hid the TV remote, he'd hidden it so well that he couldn't find it again. Much to Ella and Emma's aggravation. There was a lot of yelling and accusing and heightened emotions when Jac followed Adrian into the room that had once resembled a comfortable living space. Now it just looked like a bomb site. At least Mikey had cleaned the sink Jac reasoned half an hour later, when the remote had finally been found, and flaring tempers settled. She hadn't been sure the kid had known how. He still smelled though.

"Little shite does it on purpose I swear," Adrian grumbled as he joined her in the kitchen.

"Hides the remote?"

Adrian nodded. "I'll put 'em all t' bed. Come down t' watch a bit of footy or catch up on Game of Thrones or somethin', but I'm stuck watching some shitty kides' TV show because fuck knows where he's stashed the thing! So when I go up t' ask him – could ya turn the tap on?" he requested suddenly, interrupting himself. Jac blinked, then stirred into action. "Cheers m' dears – so he just goes 'Oh I don't know daddy! It wasn't me daddy!' and then he has the nerve t' tell me it's his bedtime an' he has t' go t' sleep!"

She watched as he stuck his hands under the tap, still grumbling about his youngest child. It had never really occurred to her, until she'd been watching him in the garage, that he had just as much dexterity with his fingers as she had – that his hands had once been the tool of his trade as much as hers were. Which was odd. She'd known he'd been a mechanic before being a nurse. Knew what it entailed. The number of times she'd been stuck waiting for some twat in greasy overalls to MOT her car had given her a fair idea of what was involved. That and various TV dramas and Hollywood blockbusters. Unfortunately, Adrian's next words didn't help with the direction her thoughts had tumbled in.

"You was gonna take it off," he smirked.

Jac tried to glance away, failing to hide the way her lips twitched in amusement, but it was almost impossible not to look at him. "I don't know what you mean."

He nudged her. "Yeah you do. If Mikey hadn't called me, you'd of taken it off." Adrian reached past her, deliberately holding her gaze as he seized the dishtowel. "An' as much as that thing looks good on ya," he continued conversationally, "bet it'd of looked even better on the floor."

Her lack of response was enough for him to know, instantly, something was wrong. "What?"

She shook her head, shoulders rising and falling. "Nothing."

"Jac … tell me," he urged, nudging her with his knee as his hands were occupied with the dishtowel. "You jus' gotta tell me. I can't do anythin' if I don't know what I did t' scare ya."

"You haven't," Jac told him quickly, yet unable to meet his gaze. "I just…"

"Jus' what?" he asked, and she could feel him frowning at her. Out the corner of her eye, caught the way he ran an agitated hand through his hair as he set the dishtowel on the worktop.

"Doesn't matter," she murmured, not trying all that hard to shake the moment off. Seeking to avoid whatever turn this conversation had taken. Go join Tweedledum and Tweedledee in the living room as they watched whatever film it was that she could hear filtering through the partially closed doors. But Adrian wasn't having any of it; darting in front of her before she had a chance to even think about slipping away. Trapping her between him and the sink.

Her hands fell onto his shoulders, probably because she'd intended to push him away; somewhere along the way changing her mind. One slid down his chest to feel his heart beating, a steady constant rhythm she could lose herself in, and the other toying with the hair on the back of his neck. His forehead dropped to rest against her temple. There was, Jac knew, a rather easy out dangling tantalisingly before her. All it'd take was something along the lines of 'it doesn't matter Fletch,' and he'd leave her be. And it was tempting, very tempting. She tilted her head back to get a better look at him. He wasn't touching her – hands placed on the worktop either side of her waist – yet he wasn't about to move, or let her go anywhere, either. What a fucking considerate bastard.

"Look," he murmured, "I know you're used t' keepin' it all in. I know it's hard for you t' trust people – an' I know why that is. But you can trust me. Always."

"I know," she whispered. "I do … I'm just not used to it."

He placed a kiss to the top of her head. "Well I want ya t' get used t' it … however long it takes."

Jac's lips twitched into the briefest of smiles as she hesitated. Because, honestly, she wanted to get used to it too. And she knew that if she didn't tell him today then it'd only come up again. Probably during a far less convenient moment. She could picture it now; him naked and rearing to go, and then this hateful doubt springing itself upon her, ruining their entire evening. Ending with a row. In one of them storming out. It was stupid. Because she didn't care about them – not really. She knew he didn't either, knew he had them too.

He'd also been stabbed not long after that helicopter had crashed into the ED.

He'd expressed concern the other day about his dad letting the kids climb the big oak tree in the field behind his garden. Steven had simply, patiently, somewhat smugly, reminded Adrian about how he'd forever been up trees as a young boy. Adrian had then informed his father, rather tersely, that that when he was nine he'd fallen out of a tree, ending up in hospital with concussion, a broken ankle, and several stitches which resulted in the scar he carried to this day. All in all, an experience he did not fancy repeating with any of the kids. He'd also been stabbed not long after that helicopter had crashed into the ED. Required surgery and everything. Nearly lost his ability to walk…

These stupid marks on her body didn't matter.

"It's just … you know," Jac shrugged, still playing with his hair. "I look like a Picasso painting."

And he knew – immediately knew what she was talking about. Fucking mind reader.

"Them scars mean you lived," Adrian said firmly, pulling away so he could look her in the eye. "They're proof, right? Proof that you're here – an' that Emma's here – an' that you're alive. An' baby that's all that matters."

"It really doesn't bother you?"

"Not one single bit. You look…" he gave a little self-conscious laugh then, "you always look perfect. No matter what you're wearin' – or not wearin'." Adrian grinned at her, eyes twinkling. "It's like I said, it's a pretty jumper, baby, but it'd look absolutely amazin' on the floor."

"Oh shut up!" She pushed off from her perch on the counter, pushed at him hard enough that he rocked backward half a step, but he quickly snatched at her waist, pulling her into him before she could make her escape. That challenging, daring glint in his eyes again.

"Make me."

Falling in love with him – falling in love with his kids – wasn't really falling at all, Jac realised as she tugged on the collar of his t-shirt and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Cool, damp, clean hands crept up her spine beneath her new jumper. Fingers gliding over scarred tissue. It was walking through a door and knowing, for the first time in her entire life, that she was home.

That she was safe.

A/N : and so we have reached the end.

it's actually so surreal to me that i've finally finished it. the story went way beyond what i'd originally intended it to be, and veered down roads i wasn't sure it should be going at times, but here we are. at the end. hope you all enjoy it and are happy that our idiots have come to their senses (even if they may never do so in cannon...)

until next time ;)