Disclaimer: I own nothing belonging to Little Women; it all belongs to the Louisa May Alcott estate, Paramount Pictures, etc. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: This is an experiment for me, as I have never tried to write a LW story before, but I wanted to have a try at it, as part of me has always felt that Jo and Laurie should have been together by the end. I merge pieces from the book and the '94 film here, and (obviously) change the relationship between Laurie and Amy. For the purposes of this little fic, I'm also assuming that Jo did not go to New York.

An afterthought: This story has gained a significant amount of conversation between Laurie and Marmee, more than I ever intended. However, it isn't something I've seen often in the LW stories on this site, and I think allowing the two of them to talk to one another solves a lot of textual and emotional dilemmas. Let me know if you like it.

My grateful thanks are given to my friend Autumnia, who has been a patient and discerning reader yet again.

Mending Our Mistakes

Dearest Teddy,

I hardly know what to write, or how to write it. Being at a loss for words, even with a pen in my hand, adds one more layer of strangeness and pain to my days.

Beth is gone.

Oh Teddy, Beth is gone, and nothing will ever be the same. She went two days ago, just after nightfall, like the serene angel she always was. We were all with her, Marmee and Father and Meg and Hannah and I, and she smiled at us before she passed.

Father is silent, Marmee is devastated, and although I try so earnestly to be a help and comfort to them both, I feel numb. We reached Amy and Aunt March by telegram, but Aunt is not well enough to travel. Amy is alone with her sorrow in Vevey, and although that pains me and I wish she were here, I seem to be detached even from my own thoughts. The only thing that seems real in all of this coldness is you.

Please come home to us.

Your Jo

Theodore Laurence felt ice settle around his own heart as he slowly took in the letter he had just opened. He had reached for it eagerly upon seeing Jo's distinctive, spiky scrawl, and then had grown more and more sorrowful and dismayed as he read its contents. Poor, dear Beth, who had suffered so tranquilly for so long, was finally taken from them. He felt tears forming in his eyes at the thought of the gentle little sister who had so selflessly loved them all. In a way he was grateful that she was no longer suffering, but he knew that his other family would be lost without her. It hurt him to think of Marmee, the woman who was the closest thing he had ever had to a mother, grieving for the daughter who had been her constant companion.

And Jo, his Jo, sounded nothing like herself. She was always so strong, so determined and controlled, and this brief, jagged attempt at communication spoke of a heart broken in a thousand places, of a mind scarcely comprehending its own grief and despair. Jo's letters were usually vivid, descriptive, and lengthy, overflowing with her vibrant personality. The brevity of her letter, of her very sentences, told him just as much as her words.

She was pleading with him to come home, and he would. No matter what their parting had been like, she needed him, and he would be there.

First, however, he had to go to Amy. His remaining little sister needed comforting.

Jo sighed and brushed the hair out of her eyes as she leaned over the warm dough on the counter, kneading it mechanically. Although her cooking skills had improved only marginally, she had finally mastered the art of bread-making with Meg and Marmee's help. Now she could create a loaf almost unconsciously, going through each step with scarcely a thought. It had stood her in good stead over the past weeks. She did her best not to think, for all thoughts were of Beth and Laurie and all of them brought grief.

When they had placed Beth's body in the ground, Jo had kept her arms around her parents as Marmee had sobbed into her husband's chest. For once her mother was so overwhelmed with emotion that she could not keep up the brave face she normally showed to the world. Her father had been murmuring prayers, dealing with his grief in the quiet, steady way that marked everything he did. Jo had felt nothing at all. It was not until after the funeral that the full realization of her sister's death had rushed into her body and mind. She had gone into the room where Beth had spent her last months, looking around at all of the objects that seemed to speak silently of her sister. The sheer force of her sorrow caused her to crumple onto the bed, holding one of Beth's beloved dolls in her hands. Marmee had found her, still and white and silent, and coaxed her to leave and go up to her own bed. The next morning, Jo had risen to help Hannah with the chores and had not stopped working since. Exhaustion made sleeping possible, and she craved activity to keep away the silence.

She had just set the dough into a bowl and covered it once more when a knock sounded on the front door. Jo frowned to herself; who on earth could that be? Marmee was out, having resumed her charity work, and Father was in his study and not expecting anyone. Futilely trying to wipe the flour from her hands, she pulled off her apron before walking through the front hallway.

Lifting the latch and opening the door, she found herself face-to-face with Laurie.

Jo simply stared at him. It wasn't possible. He couldn't be real. She had written him just after Beth died and heard nothing since – no letter, no telegram, no flowers, no travel plans or condolences. He could not be standing on her doorstep. He looked weary, she noted absently, weary and sad, which were characteristics she hardly ever associated with her best friend.

The two of them stood for a minute or more, looking at one another, until Teddy finally took a hesitant step forward, reaching out a hand to touch Jo's cheek. "Jo," he said compassionately. "Jo, I am so sorry."

Jo shuddered and closed her eyes, lifting up her own hand to enclose Laurie's. His hand was warm and soft and solid underneath her fingers. "You are real," she whispered, her voice choked. "Oh, Teddy, please don't disappear again."

Teddy brought her into his arms in one swift motion, wrapping himself tightly about her thin frame. "I'm here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!" he murmured, using the same words he had years ago when Beth had first fallen ill.

Clinging to him, Jo cried for Beth at last.

Marmee found them standing in the hallway when she came home half an hour later, and she exclaimed in worry over Jo, who was still sobbing into Laurie's shoulder. Under Marmee's gentle instruction, Laurie lifted Jo as though she were a child and carried her to her room, then paced outside the door while Marmee helped Jo change into her nightclothes and get settled into bed.

Several minutes later, Marmee stepped out into the hall, laying her hand on Laurie's forearm. "Jo is quieter now, but she's asking for you, and I would very much like her to sleep if she can. She's exhausted. Would you be willing to sit with her, Laurie?"

"Certainly, Marmee," he said solemnly, giving the older woman a hug. "I don't mind at all."

Marmee nodded. "Thank you, dear. I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

Laurie went into the bedroom that Jo had to herself, now - and that in itself spoke volumes about the separations Jo had endured the last few years, he noted sorrowfully. Jo was in bed, her dark hair unbound and scattered over the pillow, the covers tucked comfortably up to her shoulders. Even in the candlelight he could see the dark smudges under her eyes, mute evidence of the grief and the restless sleep that had been plaguing her while he was away. Her eyes were closed but her breathing was shallow, and one hand was twisted tightly in the quilt. Her brow was furrowed, too; whatever thoughts she was having, they clearly were not peaceful.

Laurie approached the bed on tiptoe. He took the chair Marmee had placed next to Jo, and as he sat down he carefully unclasped Jo's hand from the fabric of the quilt and entwined her fingers through his own.

Her eyes opened and focused on him, and the pain in their depths nearly took Laurie's breath away. He had never seen so much anguish in Jo's face – not when Beth had first become so ill, nor when she had been petrified with fear for her father, lying wounded in a hospital in Washington, not even when she had refused him a year ago. He raised their joined hands to his cheek, trying to convey some small amount of physical comfort.

"Teddy," she whispered. "Teddy." Her voice broke, and tears began to slide from her eyes again. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I should never have let you go away. I was so confused and upset and angry – and then Beth began to get worse, and eventually we knew there was nothing we could do, and I just tried to take care of her until she – don't go, please don't go –"

Jo was almost babbling, her voice shaking as she tried to repress the sobs that were threatening to overwhelm her for a second time. Laurie couldn't bear it; he rose and arranged himself on top of the quilt, so that he could put one arm around Jo and the other up over her head, stroking the hair around her face with his long fingers.

"Shh, Jo, sshh," he soothed her. "It's all right. I won't go anywhere, dear, I promise. Just sleep. I'll be here with you until you do."

He murmured tenderly to her until her tears stopped and the tension in her body relaxed. An occasional sob still shuddered through her, and periodically her eyes flew open to make sure he was still present, but Laurie waited patiently for her to drift into an untroubled slumber.

Almost an hour later, Laurie rose from Jo's bedside. Her breathing was soft and even now, the weary lines in her face smoothed away in unconsciousness. Laurie noiselessly left the room and closed the door behind him. He went down the stairs to the parlor, where he found Marmee slowly drinking a cup of tea, pausing to contemplate her thoughts between sips.

"Mother," he greeted her softly, leaning down and kissing her check. "Jo is finally asleep. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Marmee shook her head, managing a smile. "No, my dear. You have already done enough by coming home; we have all missed you so. Just sit with me."

Laurie took the easy chair across from her, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. He was longing to talk about Jo, but he knew that Marmee would want to know as much as he could tell her about the rest of her family. "I'm so sorry that I didn't bring Amy with me. She wanted to come desperately and we conceived of every possible plan to try and get her here, but in the end we couldn't think of one that wouldn't cause an absolute scandal. Aunt March was still far too unwell to come home, and Mrs. Carroll has to stay with her. Grandfather has also been ill, was in Vienna besides, and still had business to attend to. Amy couldn't come with just me, you know, for although she will always be a little sister to me, the fashionable world would hardly see it that way," Laurie finished, managing to look apologetic, uncomfortable, and vexed all at once.

Marmee nodded and reached out to pat his hand reassuringly. "I know, Laurie, and the two of you made the right decision, as hard as that must have been. I'm sure Amy was glad to see you and comforted to know that you would be here."

"She was," Laurie agreed, relieved by Marmee's approbation. He had feared she would be upset by Amy's absence, but he should have realized that she would grasp the difficulties of such a situation at once. "I have a long letter from her in my overcoat, meant for all of you. She made me promise to keep it with me at all times, and so I have."

Mrs. March looked at him soberly, with the keen glance Laurie recognized all too well. She was trying to figure out a puzzle about one of her children – or in this case, several of them, Laurie suspected. He knew the train of thought that was moving behind those eyes, and he braced himself for the conversation ahead.

"Laurie," she said slowly, "I am not your grandfather, and perhaps I have no right to ask this. Yet I think of you as part of our family, and you know that I have always been just as concerned about your well-being and happiness as I am about the happiness of my girls. You said a moment ago that you still think of Amy as your little sister. Does she feel the same about you? Are you still an older brother to her?"

Laurie spoke with care, but his face was suddenly that of a boy again – direct, frank, and open – and Marmee knew that he was being as truthful as possible.

"I am," he said emphatically. "We had that all out when we first ran into each other in Nice. I was – I'm ashamed to say it, Mother – I was everything you and grandfather hoped I wouldn't be: dandified, lazy, flirtatious, and altogether abominable. I told Jo before I left that I was going to the devil, and I succeeded very effectively for the first part of our trip. When Amy saw me she disapproved, I could tell, but she's normally too well-mannered to upbraid anyone, and just then I couldn't bring myself to care. It wasn't until we quarreled one day that I began to see what I had done to myself," Laurie said, shaking his head as he remembered.

He smiled ruefully before going on. "Such a lecture as Amy gave me! My word, but that girl can be a queen when she is provoked! She told me every single thing I was doing wrong, said that she was ashamed to call me a brother and that the rest of you would be ashamed of me too, and wound up the performance by saying that she was glad Jo had refused me if this was the sort of person I was becoming."

Marmee shook her head in distress. "However much you might have deserved a scolding, she should not have been so harsh with you."

"No, it was exactly what I needed," Laurie disagreed. "I had forgotten she had so much temper, and it was like someone had held up a particularly clear mirror, or doused me with ice water. I realized that I had let my pride and hurt rule my life, and I had abandoned my principles in my effort to forget. I had become the type of man that you tried so hard to protect Meg from all those years ago, someone who would have been part of Ned Moffatt's crowd. I had been horribly, horribly selfish. I've never been so ashamed of myself in all my life, Mother, and I hope never to be again," he finished earnestly.

"I hope so too, for your sake," Marmee said kindly. "You've learned a hard lesson or two this year. Self-indulgence often creates more heartache than it cures, and running away from difficulties doesn't solve them. So you and Amy quarreled, and she called you her brother even when she was angry. Was there anything else that made you sure?"

"Oh," Laurie said, his cheeks coloring slightly. "Well, after she brought me up with such a whirl, I said some very impolite things about her relationship with Fred Vaughn – insinuating that she would stoop to marrying him for his income and so forth. If I had had any doubt about her feelings for me, they were gone after her defense of Fred. She really does care for him very deeply, and she was rightfully offended by what I said. It was disingenuous on my part as well, for I know that no one brought up by you could be so heartlessly mercenary. I simply wanted to wound her, since she had left me so exposed. We made it all up afterward, but it was terrible at the time."

Marmee shook her head again, looking as though she could not decide whether she was amused, exasperated, or just plain angry. "Well, I am glad you have mended things between you, though I am sorry that you were both upset enough to hurt each other. Amy has mentioned Fred Vaughn in her letters, although she is considerably more careful about what she says concerning him than she is when talking about you. I suspected that she cared for him based on that alone. She is much more capable of consciously guarding her feelings than Meg or Jo."

Laurie wondered what, precisely, Jo had revealed about her own feelings in the last few months, but he let the remark pass. Jo had asked him to come back, and although she was almost ill with grief, the very fact that she had wanted him gave him hope. He would wait to see what Jo would tell him – and he might learn more simply by listening, rather than pressing Marmee for information.

"Fred is a good man; I knew him at school, you remember, and he is truly an upstanding person. Far less harum-scarum than yours truly," Laurie said with a little, self-deprecating smile.

"I'm glad to hear it," Marmee smiled in return. "I liked him very much when you brought him to visit us, but boys are apt to be different among their peers than with family. If you know Fred to be a dependable person in all company and situations, that is a great comfort."

"He is," Laurie affirmed. "Amy quite vehemently reminded me of the fact," he added ruefully. "If you would draw her out a little bit about him, Mother, and let her know that you approve, it would help her. She worries that you won't; he is quite wealthy, you know, and hasn't known you all as long or as well as Brooke and I."

"My poor girl," Marmee murmured. "I'm afraid I've neglected her while Beth was so ill. She does her best to seem cheery, and it is harder to decipher her just from her writing, when I cannot see her as well."

"No one could possibly blame you," Laurie said, pressing her hand. "You have had so much on your shoulders."

"So Amy is in love with Fred, and you are still in love with our Jo," Marmee summarized affectionately. "She wrote to you?"

Laurie flushed and then paled, but his dark eyes were full of emotion as he pulled Jo's short missive from his vest pocket. The action earned him a truly amused glance from Marmee, and he lifted an eyebrow in question.

"If it wasn't enough that you crossed an ocean to come back to Jo, all I would have needed to see was where you kept Amy and Jo's letters," she said in explanation, her lips twitching. "Amy's in your overcoat, but Jo's in your vest."

Laurie gave a quiet, surprised laugh, but Marmee's face was already becoming solemn again as she scanned the little letter, and at the end of it she gave a long sigh. "I am amazed she actually sent this to you," she said, looking up at him again. "It is so unlike her, so fragile."

"I know," Laurie whispered, his face reflecting all the worry that had been in his heart since he left France. "It frightened me. Has she been so self-contained, then, since Beth died?"

"Yes and no," Marmee said wearily, pressing her fingers between her eyes in an unconscious gesture of pain. "She is driven; she works at some sort of task almost constantly. She has been unfailingly attentive to her father and to me; she spends time with the families that we try to help, she is constantly helping Hannah in the kitchen or the garden, or helping Meg take care of Daisy and Demi. She has tried to drive away her pain with work, but she does not write, and she refuses to talk about Beth except when someone else mentions her. It has been so clear to us that she was suffering, but she would not talk to us. She never really grieved."

Marmee sighed, pausing to drink before she continued. "Today was the first time she has cried, and somehow I am not surprised that it took you to draw that from her. The only moments of vulnerability I have seen are a handful of occasions where she would stand by your old post office or would go down to where you would talk by the stream. I-I watched her because I was worried," Marmee admitted, a trifle shamefacedly. "I wanted to be there if she needed someone, but I didn't dare approach her. Mr. March and I have both been afraid of what it would do to her if someone tried to breach her defenses before she could cope with her grief."

Laurie nodded, his throat too constricted to say anything. Jo had been light as a feather in his arms; he had been astonished when he picked her up, remembering the more substantial form of the girl who used to fly across the ice with him in exuberant abandon, or dance with him, unseen, in the hallways of his grandfather's house. When she had opened the door to him, he thought his heart might break at the deadness in her eyes. It had seemed impenetrable until he stepped forward to touch her. The flood of emotion that had been released as she realized he was home, that he really was standing in front of her, had been heartbreaking.

"She has missed you, all this long year," Marmee said gently, compassion filling her features as she took in Laurie's expression. "Whenever she retreated anywhere, it was always to somewhere that reminded her of you – the post office, the creek, the garret, even your grandfather's stables. She would work and help Hannah and nurse Beth until she could not bear it anymore, and then disappear for an hour or so. She always came back a little more peaceful, if no less sad."

Laurie let out a shuddering breath, his face shadowed with consternation. "I should not have stayed away so long."

Marmee was silent for a moment, then set her teacup down decisively, as if coming to a decision. "I owe you an apology, Laurie."

Laurie shook his head in protest, attempting to forestall her. "No, Mother, truly –"

"Please," Marmee entreated him. "Let me say this, my dear. It will ease my heart and perhaps help you and Jo." She caught his young hands in her older, work-worn ones, and not for the first time Laurie was humbled by this woman's care for him, by the strength and tenderness that seemed such a part of her. He knew, from what little Jo had told him, that some of the endless patience and cheerfulness she now displayed had been hard-won and difficult to master, but it only made him respect her all the more. She had loved him like a son despite all his faults, and he found that he could not deny her request. He gave a little nod, waiting for her to continue.

"When Jo refused you a year ago, I thought she had made the right decision, despite the pain it caused you both," Marmee began. "You were both such headstrong creatures, and you argued so often, that I did not see how you would ever get on. Jo was – and is – fiercely independent, and you seemed determined to make your life a social whirlwind, even before you went to Europe. Neither of you seemed inclined to bind yourselves to anyone, even to each other."

Laurie opened his mouth, but Marmee put a finger to his lips with a wry little smile of motherly understanding. "I never doubted that you loved Jo, Laurie," she continued. "I was concerned about your mutual ability to compromise with one another and lay the groundwork for a permanent relationship. Compromise was something that the two of you struggled with even in friendship, and I was afraid of what marriage might do to your relationship. I was also worried about Jo, more than I even admitted at the time, I think."

Laurie thought of several things to say, but in the end he only asked, "Why?"

"She will tell you some of that herself, I am sure, but she was profoundly confused about her feelings for you, and upset by how quickly everything was changing," Marmee explained. "I had not foreseen how much Meg's marriage would affect her; she did not want our family stability shaken again when it had just recently been put back together. At the same time, she felt stifled by the demands of home life, as though she had lost the ability to make any decisions for herself or control what was happening around her. For someone who craves independence and control as much as Jo, that is a dangerous mixture of feelings."

"And I was only making things worse," Laurie said in realization, his eyes wide. "How could I have been so blind?"

"You are by nature honest and impetuous, Laurie, and you were in love," Marmee said, again with an understanding smile. "There is no need to be ashamed of any of those things; they are all qualities to be cherished. But this is where my apology comes in. What I did not see, then, was the extent to which the two of you had become each other's touchstones, underneath the occasional contentiousness of your friendship. I might have done well to remember how much Jo is like me; you would never think it to look at us now, but Edward - Mr. March, that is - and I had quite the spirited relationship when we were young. We disagreed frequently, about everything from leisure occupations to politics, but we loved each other a great deal – and still do. Sometimes opposing qualities in individuals can bring a great deal of strength to love, particularly if they learn to cherish those differences rather than be vexed by them. I could have – should have - helped you, and for that I am sorry," Marmee finished.

Laurie sat in silence for a few moments, contemplating everything he had just been told. It clarified some things tremendously; never had he understood so clearly why Jo had resisted all attempts to alter their friendship. She had desperately wanted the one thing she relied upon the most in her life to stay the same, at a point when everything was changing all around her and she had no power to stop it. Nor had she been sure of her own feelings for him, and he had forced her into trying to define them. He should have been more patient, and not put her into a position where she felt the only thing to do was push him away.

"You don't owe me an apology, Mother," he finally said quietly. "I have had a great deal of time to think this year – more than I wanted, in fact – and you were perfectly correct to worry the way you did. How did I react to Jo's rejection, except to act in the very way she – and you – expected me to? She refused me because she could not contemplate one more momentous change in her life, and so I did my best to eliminate her from my existence, without bothering to notice how distraught she was. How could she do otherwise but say no, when she could scarcely sort through her own emotions? She did try to tell me," Laurie admitted regretfully. "I just couldn't see it then."

"Still, I feel that I might have saved you both some heartache, had I been just a little more reflective," Marmee said. "Even mothers aren't perfect, no matter how much we might wish to be."

"Your children don't need perfection, just love, and the best counsel you can give," Laurie said warmly. "The rest will sort itself out."

"Thank you," Marmee said gratefully. She stood, straightening her skirts, and Laurie rose as well. To Marmee's surprise, he enfolded her in a hug, bending his tall frame to rest his head on her shoulder.

"Bless you for taking me in all those years ago," he murmured. "You gave Grandfather and me the family we had lost."

Marmee's eyes filled with tears, and she squeezed Laurie tightly before releasing him and quickly brushing the evidence from her cheeks. Laurie smiled at the return of her businesslike demeanor as she looked him up and down.

"You look exhausted," she said tremulously, trying to regain her composure. "Is there anyone at home to open the house for you?"

"I would think so, but in all honesty I couldn't say," Laurie replied. "I came straight here; I had the trunks sent to the house from the station, but I didn't even announce myself to anyone."

"Well, for the moment you can stay here," Marmee announced briskly. "I'll send word over that you've arrived, and it will give your housekeeper a day or two to get things in order. Jo will want to see you, and you can have the extra bed upstairs. Now that Meg and Amy are gone, there's more room than there used to be," Marmee said, a trifle sadly, but she squeezed Laurie's arm in reassurance.

"If you're sure I won't be in the way, I would appreciate it," Laurie said gratefully.

"Don't be silly," Marmee scolded him lightly. "You would never be in the way, Laurie; this is your home, too. Now, I'll find some of Edward's things for you, and you can go upstairs and sleep as long as you like. If I know you, you hardly slept a wink on the trip back, which means you have weeks of sleep to make up for."

Laurie turned to go, but he paused as a thought struck him, turning back to catch Marmee's hand. "You'll call me if Jo wakes? I promised her I would be here – I don't want her to think I've gone."

"Of course," Marmee answered, as if it were a foregone conclusion. "I'll be back in just a moment."

Laurie changed into the nightclothes that Marmee brought him as quickly as possible. She was right – he was exhausted, though he hadn't known it until this minute. The weeks of emotional upheaval as he traveled to Amy and tried to give her comfort, paced the deck of a steamship across the Atlantic, worried about Jo, and tried to process his own grief, all caught up with him as a warm, dark wave of sleep swept over his body.

"Laurie. Laurie, dear, wake up."

Laurie sprang awake at Marmee's soft touch on his shoulder, coming back to full consciousness almost instantly. Somewhere in his mind it registered that his reaction wasn't normal; as tired as he had been, it should have taken him much longer to wake up. Clearly some part of his subconscious had still been aware and waiting.

"What is it?" he asked swiftly, sitting up and searching Marmee's face. She looked calm, however, and his heart slowed.

"I was about to wake Jo and take her some breakfast," Marmee explained, sensing his anxiety and wanting to ease it. "It's after nine. I thought you would like a chance to clean up and eat as well before you see her. Do you have clothing, or shall I send Hannah to fetch some from your trunks?"

Laurie shook his head rapidly. "No, I have a change of clothing in my valise."

"Take your time," Marmee said with a smile. "Come down when you're ready and Hannah will make a plate for you."

"Thank you," Laurie said gratefully. Marmee nodded and slipped out the door, while Laurie rose and ran his hands over his face. He felt worlds better after having a sound night's sleep, but he was still mentally weary, and the need to see Jo and assure himself that she was well was increasing every minute.

He rummaged in his traveling bag for his comb and straight razor, then went over to the nightstand and gratefully made use of the hot water and soap that Marmee must have brought up with her, shaving and washing the sleep out of his eyes. Clean clothes felt heavenly, and altogether Laurie felt more human than he had in a month or more.

He made his way downstairs to the kitchen, where Hannah was already putting together a plate from the leftovers of breakfast that morning.

"Good morning, Master Laurie," she said cheerfully. "It's good to see you home again."

"It's good to be home," Laurie said with a small smile; Hannah's assumption that this was his home warmed him through.

Hannah gestured for him to sit as she set the plate on the table, and Laurie sat obediently. One did not challenge Hannah in her own kitchen. He ate unobtrusively, not wanting to disturb Hannah in her work, and when he rose he gave the startled housekeeper a kiss on the cheek.

"Thank you, Hannah," he said warmly, and the motherly old lady simply gave an embarrassed shake of her head.

"You're welcome; off with you," she said good-naturedly.

Laurie went quietly up the stairs, trying to avoid any noise that would bother Jo or her mother. He needed to go over to his own home and see to things there; he knew the formidable Mrs. Reynolds could easily take care of whatever needed to be done, but he should unpack his trunks and some of the correspondence and business materials he had brought with him. It would only take a few minutes and would give Jo more time to get settled. It was entirely possible that she was going to be embarrassed and prickly this morning; she had shown more emotion yesterday than she had in months, and such displays had always left her feelings defensive.

Laurie reached his temporary room and quickly packed up the few things he had laid out, locking his valise with a decisive click. Almost at the same moment, there was a knock on the door behind him. He turned around expectantly.

"Jo is up and about, and most anxious to see you," Marmee told him. "I know that you need to go home and settle some things, but can it wait just a little longer?"

"Absolutely," Laurie replied promptly, relief washing over him. He had been afraid, after yesterday, that Jo would push him away again. Perhaps the Jo of a year ago would have done exactly that, but this Jo, this strange, fragile Jo who had written and practically pleaded with him to come home, did not have the same walls and defenses. Laurie found himself both grateful for that and immeasurably saddened by it.

He followed Marmee across the hall to Jo's room, and Marmee simply opened the door and gestured him in, giving him an encouraging nod before making her way downstairs.

Jo was standing by the window dressed in a simple black gown, her hair pinned back from her face but flowing down over her shoulders. She had her arms wrapped around herself, and Laurie thought privately that he didn't want to see her in mourning again for a long, long time. Black didn't suit her; it made her even paler and picked up the shadows under her eyes. Jo should be dressed in warm, earthy colors: russets and deep greens, golds and browns, the colors of autumn that reflected her passionate, exuberant nature.

Dear Lord, she looked so brittle. In that moment, Laurie simply wanted to protect her from everything hurtful in the world.

He must have made some slight noise, a sigh or a small movement, for Jo turned and caught sight of him standing in the doorway. She took one impulsive step toward him but then hesitated, and Laurie saw the indecision, the questions written all over her face. He stepped into the room, moving carefully, and gathered her into his arms without a word.

He felt her stiffen instinctively and then slowly relax. He lifted one hand from her back and lovingly stroked her hair, remembering how it had calmed her the night before. After a minute or two he felt her let go completely, burying her head in his chest and winding her arms around his waist.

"Teddy," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "You really are here. Yesterday feels like a dream."

"I really am here," he agreed, keeping his soft. A teasing remark found its way into his brain and he voiced it, wanting to remind her that he was, in most ways, still the same Teddy. "Surely Jo March doesn't doubt her own senses?"

A frisson of laughter ran through Jo's frame, and Laurie could feel the surprise that accompanied it. It made his heart ache; when was the last time Jo had laughed?

"I've doubted everything this last year, Teddy, senses included," Jo admitted, looking up at him. A trace of a smile remained on her face, but her eyes were still solemn and sad. "Nothing seemed certain anymore."

"I know," Laurie said, running a hand over her cheek. "I am so very sorry, Jo."

Jo's brow wrinkled and she frowned. "Sorry for what, Teddy?"

Laurie sighed, pulling her close again and burying his face in her hair.

"For disappearing. For not being here when you needed me. For not understanding how confused and scared you were – then," Laurie said carefully, a little afraid himself to raise the memory of that painful day. "I should have stayed. I should have been more patient. I was not fair to you."

"Perhaps not, but I was just as unfair to you," Jo retorted with a bit of her old crispness. She stepped away from his arms in order to look into his face. "I pushed you away instead of explaining myself; I took all the problems in our relationship and used them as excuses. I was frightened and confused, Teddy, but I should have been more honest with you. You deserved that, and I am more sorry than I can say. I don't – I don't deserve your forgiveness, but –"

"Don't, Jo," Laurie protested, his dark eyes reflecting his inner turmoil. "Can we simply forgive each other and begin again?"

Jo's smile was still hesitant, but it was sincere, and she nodded. "Yes."

Laurie sighed in relief and offered his own smile. "Good. Now would you please criticize my hat, or tease me about my hair, or throw a pillow at me, and make this conversation slightly more normal?"

Jo laughed – actually laughed! – and Laurie felt his heart lift. "I detest that suit; you look far too dandified," she said, her eyes dancing.

Laurie struck an affected air, hooking his thumbs under his lapels. "My dear fellow, I'll have you know that it's the latest fashion in Vienna."

"Be that as it may, it's hideous," Jo teased. "Your hair is wonderful, though," she added, her face softening. "It always did look better long. I missed your curls when you had that horrid short cut."

"Never again," Laurie promised with a grin. "I am no longer a slave to college fashion, and am happier for it."

Jo laughed for a second time and to Teddy's surprise, she enclosed him in her arms again, fiercely, with some of the strength he remembered.

"Oh, Teddy, I've missed you so!" she exclaimed tremulously. "No one ever makes me laugh the way you do."

Teddy drew her close, bending down so that his lips were next to her ear. "No one ever flies at me the way you do. May I try to make you laugh – make you happy – for the rest of our lives, Jo? Is that why you asked me back?"

"I asked you back because I couldn't bear having you so far away any longer," Jo confessed, tightening her grip on his vest as though she still needed to verify that he wasn't a specter of her imagination. "I didn't dare hope for anything more, not after the way I hurt you."

Laurie loosened his hold and looked into Jo's brown eyes. She hadn't answered his first question yet, but perhaps they needed to understand each other better before she could. "You were scared and unsure, Jo, and for good reasons. It was terribly selfish of me to think only of what I wanted, and not what you were feeling."

Jo gave him a shrewd, assessing glance. "Marmee told you?"

"Some," Laurie nodded in affirmation. "We spoke for a long time last night after you fell asleep, and while she wouldn't betray your confidence, once she had hinted at a few things the pieces began to fall into place. Jo, I knew Meg's marriage to Brooke had upset you, but I had no idea how trapped you were feeling by everything else that was happening – your father's recovery, Beth's illness, my being at school. I should have seen it; you dropped plenty of hints. You didn't feel you had control over anything, did you?"

Jo shook her head. "Everything was changing so quickly, Teddy. Father came home, and that was wonderful, but he was different. I knew he would be – I can't imagine what he must have seen – but it was hard to accept the changes in him. He was always quiet, but now he is solemn. The first time Beth became ill, when Marmee was in Washington, we were so afraid we were going to lose her, and she never was truly healthy after that. Then Meg and John got engaged, just as our family was back together again. Everything felt as though it was coming apart at the seams, and I couldn't do a thing to stop it."

"And then I tried to alter the one relationship you counted on the most and sent you running," Teddy said regretfully.

"It should have told me something when you left that day and I knew beyond a doubt that you were the most important person in my life," Jo said softly. "But all I could see was more uncertainty. I did love you, Teddy, even then; I just wasn't sure that it was the right kind of love, the sort of love you can build a marriage from." Uncharacteristically, Jo's cheeks turned pink; it was a tremendous relief to be able to say these things to the living, breathing Teddy, but it was also new and strange.

"I don't know that it was," Teddy said reflectively, surprising Jo. "There were so many things I hadn't considered, Jo. You were quite right to point out our flaws. I never thought about how to fit your writing into our life – what would happen when we disagreed, how we would resolve our quarrels – how we would manage the social interaction that is necessary for business but that you despise. I loved you greatly – I still do," he added, his eyes warm, "– but the practicalities didn't seem important at the time. They are important, and you were wise enough to see that."

"I was also hiding behind them," Jo countered wryly. "What I felt for you – what I knew I could feel, if I let myself – was just as frightening to me as all of the changes in our lives." She reached down to Teddy's side and took his hand, examining it as she traced his long pianist's fingers with her own. "I didn't understand then that being your best friend and loving you were not mutually exclusive, that the latter could be a natural result of the former, an extension of it."

The gentle caress of Jo's fingers over his was almost hypnotizing. It sent tingles up his arm and through his body, and Teddy had to make an effort to speak. "It can be," he breathed, struggling to keep a restraining grip on the hope flooding into his heart. "Has it become more for you, Jo? Has one become the part of the other?"

Jo looked up at him, and as Laurie saw the certainty in her face, the slow smile that she bestowed on him, he lost the battle with his own emotions. He wanted to believe what her eyes were telling him, wanted so much to know that she was his.

"I think it always was more, Teddy," Jo answered, reaching up to lay a hand on his cheek. "I only wish I had seen it sooner. I love you. I've always loved you."

Teddy gripped her hand that remained in his more tightly. "Will you let me make you happy, Jo? Truly?" he asked again.

Jo's smile grew even brighter. "Yes, Teddy. Truly – as long as you can bear having a wife with ink-stained fingers," she finished impishly.

Teddy swept her up bodily, spinning her around the room in joy as she laughed with happiness. "I'll gladly put up with it forever. You wouldn't be my Jo otherwise," he said as he set her down, his eyes shining.

He leaned his face toward hers and threaded his fingers through the hair at her temple, silently asking permission to kiss her. The last time they had done this had been painful for both of them; this time he wanted it to be with her full consent. Jo gave a little nod, the ghost of a smile still on her lips, before he gently pressed his lips to hers.

Everything was finally right with the world.