A.N.: I searched high and low for a proper name for the baby and Mztlynne and I were thrilled with "Bronwen," and its meaning. Then I sat down to write this and realized it's apparently a girl's name. It was Mztlynne's opinion that it really didn't matter, so I'm going with it. If it just ruins the immersion for you...I dunno, write me, or something, and I'll apologize profusely.

Part 2: A secondary note from Mztlynne: "I like that until 'apologize profusely.' I'd tell them how much I don't care." Add a finger snap, and you just got told, son. So you can still write me, but I may or may not apologize profusely.

In European tradition, turnips and rutabagas were used for Jack-o-lanterns, not pumpkins, so there's a little fun fact for the day for you guys.

The Aunties were inspired by women of a similar position in the opening of Karen Essex's bio-novel, "Kleopatra," (which remains one of my favorites, and she actually graduated from the grad school I'm attending, so super bonus to me).

Childbirth is totally gross, guys. DON'T Google it for reference in your stories unless you absolutely have to, believe you me (I tip my hat to all you mothers out there, props to you and then some).

You Can Go Home, but You Can Never Go Back

They named the child Bronwen, which, in the old tongue, means, "Darkness and purity." It seemed fitting, given his parentage. The goblins had never had a Prince before, and the excitement of the event was almost more than could be borne. A solid week of celebration took place in the Goblin City; the goblin ale flowed more liberally than at any time in their past, it took days for the haze to clear, and the damage to the City when the raucous partying was at last concluded was almost as much as what the Queen had done when she'd first been to the City all those years ago.

But who cared that their sovereign Queen had visited a rock caller upon the City in the past? It was all worth it to have a little Goblin Prince! Indeed, the wiser goblins of the library didn't even bother correcting the false notions that ran rampant through the halls: namely that, yes, there had been Goblin Princes in the past – but so long ago, it just wasn't worth bringing up. Prince Bronwen was a treasure.

Certainly his mother thought so; despite a difficult term for one so young and rather thin, she doted on her boy. Where before she had been prone to bouts of sadness that broke the hearts of her subjects, now her every waking moment was consumed with the child. If he was not with her as she performed her various tasks throughout the Castle, she almost assuredly was with him in the nursery. Many mothers have difficulty adjusting to life with a newborn: the Queen simply adored her child. She had the advantage, these four months, of having magic to assist with the more difficult tasks in child-rearing, but she bore what difficulties she was subjected to with remarkable patience. Certainly it was of a help to her that she had been required to assist in the care of her little brother in the Aboveground, but her husband was shockingly supportive. Like his wife, if he was not busy tending to his Kingdom, he was with his family in a strange, unfamiliar fog of happiness.

Unlike many royal families Under or Above, the child was even brought to court hours, provided he was up for the noise and frenetic energy of the place; the goblins came to expect him, and even decried his absence. And when he was there...

Wog was making faces at his future sovereign, pulling on his floppy, goblin lips and wiggling his long ears. At four months, Bronwen was just learning to smile and laugh, and this was to the great delight of his subjects, who never tired in capering before him. The royal babe was sat on his mother's lap, held up with her delicate hands, and his kingly father leaned lazily against his throne and smiled down at the boy.

"Flaaaagh!" noised Wog in perfectly goblinish nonsense speak.

"Bluuuur," agreed Nogtwit as he bent backwards so that his head fit between his legs.

Bronwen laughed with uproarious, chubby-cheeked giggles and smacked Wog right between the eyes with his snake-tailed rattle. His father gave a warm, soft smile, smoothing a gloved hand along the infant's soft, wispy blond locks. "There's a good boy, Bronwen...good practice until your legs are up for kicking."

The Queen Sarah disagreed, holding her son's tiny, chubby hand in her own. "Bron, we don't hit. It's not nice."

"Nonsense, Sarah. They're his goblins to hit."

"Jareth-" The disagreement was stopped by rowdy goblins bringing in yet another wheelbarrow full of turnips into the Throne Room and dumping the root vegetables in the central pit of the hall. It was with excited cries that the others pounced upon this fresh delivery of vegetation, and it caught the attention of both the Prince and his mother. "What are you guys doing with all of those, anyway?" She certainly hoped they weren't going to be provided as a meal for the royal family, not after all these goblin paws had mauled them.

"Decorations!" one devoted and excited goblin cried.

"For Samhain!" added another.

Yes, fall had come in full swing to the Underground: the leaves were brightly colored and delicately crisp; the air held a delicious bite to it, one that promised fleshy apples and chilled nights. Colorful leaves were being hung as streamers throughout the City, along with skulls – which was a little less savory to the Queen. Candles were lit constantly, twenty six hours, day and night to celebrate the fiery end of summertime. Cinnamon and clove hung like incense in the air – and the goblins were carving turnips on the Throne Room floor.

"What kind of decorations?" Sarah asked, adjusting Bronwen's place on her lap, which made him gurgle appreciatively.

"Jack-o-lanterns!"

"Will-o-the-wisps!"

"Keep away the bad fairies!"

Sarah's brow furrowed in confusion. "Shouldn't you be using pumpkins?"

"Pumpkins?" The goblins looked at one another, baffled. "No?" Poor Queen; a very sweet girl, but just not the brightest when it came to these kinds of things.

"How pumpkin scare away bad fairy?"

"I would think you guys would be enough to scare away any bad fairies."

There was a thoughtful, appreciative, "Ohhhh," from the Queen's audience, as this was considered quite complimentary. Still, Bugwit shook his head as he ripped pulpy flesh from the inside of his own turnip with his long claws. "Turnip lantern work best."

"When I was a little girl..." Queen Sarah's soft mouth was turned up in a gentle smile as she bent down and picked up one of the finished turnips, turning it in her hand; her son pawed at it with rounded fingers, his attempts to put it in his mouth thwarted by his watchful mother. "Daddy would drive me to this farm outside town, and there was a pumpkin patch. We'd get cups of hot apple cider and spend an hour picking out the biggest, the best pumpkin." The memory was a happy one, and she seemed happy in the retelling of it, a finger stroking the soft, round cheek of her beloved child. However, the knowledge of loss was becoming abundantly clear in her pale green eyes. Her looks wavered with the threat of emotion. On his throne, her husband scowled. "I always told him how strong he was, cause he could carry it to the car all by himself, and then we'd go home and we'd..." A sudden sniffle. "We'd-"

"Court hours are done." The King stood from his seat, the goblins all looked with wonder and a touch of melancholy; as they could not tell time, they had no idea that court hours were supposed to continue for another twenty minutes at least, and Sarah looked up from her place on her throne with round and wet eyes. Jareth's conduct was not cold, but it brooked no question. He touched his wife under the chin and said in a low, clear voice, "Time for the child to have his afternoon nap, my love." The motive was clear to Sarah: no more reminiscing today.

When Sarah feels about ready to burst, the Aunties come.

That is not their true title, she is not sure what that is, and nobody tells it to her; but Jareth calls them the Aunties, and that is enough. She has never seen him act with as much deference and respect to anyone before, not even the High King and Queen. He bows when the old hags enter the Castle doors. When prompted to, he chastely kisses wrinkled hands and sunken cheeks without showing the slightest hint of disgust, despite their horrible appearance. These women have long, ratty hair in all the shades of grey and silver. Their limbs are all bones and skin, baggy and softened by time. Their eyes are covered by drooping lids, and spittle hangs at their dry lips. Sarah finds them horrible, at least at first.

But Jareth will not let her run from them. When she seems about ready to turn and do her best at waddling to the safety of her room, he holds her by the upper portion of her right arm – tightly, but not painfully. Round and heavy as she is now, Sarah knows she can't do much in the way of running anyway.

"But who are they, Jareth?"

"Difficult to say." He sighs through his teeth. "I have heard they are old fey mothers who now share their wisdom with those about to bear children – that is the only time they appear, when they are needed, and then they move on again."

"But I'm not supposed to be due for another-"

"Majesty..." One has approached Sarah and taken her hand in warm familiarity. Because Jareth is fixing her with his hardest looks, Sarah represses the urge to shudder at the touch. The old crone's other hand has come to rest upon her swollen belly, and the Queen bites her lower lip nervously. "Ahh, your mortal blood serves you well, I see. Strong and healthy, like a goblin babe."

Sarah turns her head and sees Jareth preening like his owlish nature warrants. He's proud to hear such things, and the girl just turns back to the bent and ugly woman before her, and gulps a little.

Healer Orso has said she has at least a week, perhaps even two, before the child will be born. Yet the Aunties herald a different time line, and have been there now two days. In those two days, Sarah finds herself alone with them throughout the day, and watches with greater and greater interest: they lay out clothes and rags for when the time comes, they prepare clean sheets on a spare bed and clean copper kettles for heating water. They have a strange chair with an open ring instead of a seat, and they unpack from their strange carpet bags powders and jewels, talismans and salves. Curiosity overpowers Sarah's sense of revulsion, and she finds herself drawn in by these strange, powerful women. They speak in low, laughing, cackling voices, and they smile their toothless smiles at her. They seem to like Sarah.

And the Aunties are right, and the Healer wrong. On the third day of their stay, Sarah feels the pangs. She is seated at the table with Jareth, who flicks lazily through his morning pile of papers while Sarah feels strangely unable to eat, despite a normally (and understandably) ravenous appetite. Her hands suddenly grip the arms of her chair and her teeth clench; the pain isn't extreme, but it is sudden. "Jareth." It's all she can say. He turns to face her, expression mainly bored, but at her suddenly heavier breathing, his eyes widen and he stands slowly from his seat at the table.

Most of the hours that follow are a blur of pain and bloodshed. The Aunties grip her arms with their spindly fingers, and she has no idea how, but they seem to carry her off to the room they've prepared. Healer Orso is all protestations, he says he ought to be there for the birth, that they are to lay her down so he may tend to her. The Aunties shut him out, and seat the girl on that strange stool of theirs. One chuckles lowly in a gravelly voice. "Never lay down, sweet Majesty," she laughs. "That is to make it easier on them, not you."

"What do I do?" The girl's breathing is labored. She closes her eyes and tries to think about how Karen was when they drove to the hospital. Deep breaths in, deep breaths out, quicker and quicker. God, the pain is worse than anything she could have imagined! Tears have started dripping down her soft cheeks, and it's barely begun.

"Bear down, sweetness," another coos, patting her cheek and pressing on her shoulder. "It's all prepared, you'll take to it in no time. Bear down."

She is unaware, but hours are passing. Hours of screaming pain that only grow worse and worse. The bear sneaks in from time to time to report to the King, for the Aunties will not allow him in and say nothing to him. And even when Orso is there, they hiss and bat at him as fiercely as any animal defends its territory. Sarah doesn't really care who is there. She wants it all to end and for the pain to stop. "Jesus Christ, he could have at least magicked up an epidural for me!"

"A fascinating idea," Orso says with misplaced excitement as he checks the Queen's vital signs. "Tell me, what is this thing, and how does it work?" The bear is dragged out before an answer is given, not that one was coming.

Sarah's eyes have closed because the sweat has dripped into them so much there's no point in keeping them open. The Aunties lift cups of water to her lips periodically, but her voice is shot from screaming. The pain is going to kill her, she's sure, when she hears the agitated voice of the women around her. "Out, Goblin King. This is the sacred space of women, it is not for you."

"If you think I will stand in the hallway like a dunce and listen to her screaming, you are very much mistaken." His hands are bare when they circle around her arms, and his skin is cool. She leans into the touch for a moment before the panting leaves her breathless and she starts to give a voiceless scream again. His hand is wrapped around her throat, his fingers pressed at the column of her neck, but it is tenderly done. And even if it were not, she is in too much pain to have noticed. "Hush, Sarah," he says in that honeyed voice of his. He sounds so calm, but just for a moment – for one half of a second – Sarah can catch the shadow of his face in the corner of her salt-stung eyes, and she can sense the trembling within him. "I will allow no harm to come to you." A crystal has formed in his other hand, and he holds it close to her mouth. "Breathe in, precious thing. Close your eyes and trust me." There is no other choice, she's desperate for any relief, and obeys without hesitation. The bubble bursts around her, and she feels a cool sensation sliding down her throat, relieving the raw feeling inside of her. And the pain, the pain begins to fade, too. And then, one great last moment of pushing, and-

Two Aunties have dragged the Goblin King off his Queen, clucking their tongues and wagging their bony fingers at him all the while. Another, Sarah can just barely make out through the haze of sweat and tears, is washing blood and mucus off some screaming, wriggling thing, a long cord dangling over the old woman's arm. Her bloodshot eyes are fixed there, and she knows Jareth is not moving either, and this his gaze is just as locked.

An Auntie is encouraging her to press out the last of the awful, necessary things within her, another dabbing a cool, damp cloth against her fevered skin. Both guide her from the chair, which sticks to her sweaty skin, and guide her gently to the bed. Sarah doesn't want to go, she wants to see what's happening, but her legs feel like gelatin, and her voice is too broken for her to protest. When she finds pillows fluffed beneath her head, at last she is able to see: Jareth is holding a bundle swathed in pale blue silk, bouncing very slightly on his heels – and the Goblin Queen has never once seen him look more enraptured.

"A boy, Majesty," an Auntie coos as she forces a cup to her lips with some vile concoction within it, and persuades her to drink. "A Goblin Prince. How well you did, for one so young." A boy. Jareth was right – he is always right.

But that hardly matters now, Sarah's eyes have not left her husband and the infant in his arms. "N-no..." He was always taking everything; after all the work she'd done, she deserved- "Ja..." Her voice fails her.

It's enough. The King's head snaps up, and he crosses quickly to his bride, pressing the child gently into her shaking arms. "Look, Sarah. Look, precious, precious thing." His lips are refreshingly cold against the flushed skin of her forehead, and looking at the red-faced little bundle, Sarah feels like sobbing again, no matter how it hurts. "You did it. Look at what we made together." The child opens bleary, hardly seeing eyes, and steals his mother's breath: the right eye, blue, like his father's, and the other is not, also like his father; the left eye is a brilliant and bejeweled green, like Sarah. The fingers of one of Jareth's hands have woven into her hair and she most definitely is sobbing again. "I knew it...I knew, the moment you left, that you would be-"

"Most Gracious Majesty, a word, please." Orso is standing by the window, swaying awkwardly on his big, bear paws. The Aunties are moving around while goblins studiously clean the mess, and with remarkable silence. Sarah hears the women as they murmur to her: when she awakes, they will speak to her again, give her their final lessons, and then move on to other brides and other mothers. The rest will be up to her – there should have been sisters and mothers and aunts beside her to help in the days to come, but there it is. She nods and thinks about how good it will be to have those hours of sleep, but before she can think of that, she finds her gaze arrested by the silhouettes of the healer and the King in front of the burnt-orange window.

Lowly, she can make out snatches of the words: rest for the Queen, more rest than she will want, weeks of it and in bed. Not to be disturbed or upset, but with the deepest respect for the mind-blowing work her body has put her through in the last several months, and what it will do in the months to come. Instructions for the fact that she is not to be touched for a month and a half, not in the way husbands touch wives. Bland, clinical and soulless repetitions of how much she will bleed, and if she bleeds more than this much, to fetch him right away for the life of the girl. It's too much for Sarah to begin keeping track of, and she's glad Orso isn't speaking to her about it, for once.

And Jareth? Jareth has those bare, elegant fingers of his pressed against his chin, his mouth turned down thoughtfully, his posture straight. He nods once, twice, more than three times at what the healer – his inferior – tells him with the greatest care. He protests not once, nor grumbles. He looks, for all the world, like a man deeply invested in what he is being told, and when all the talk is finished, when the room is at last nearly silent, Sarah feels her eyes are about to droop closed.

But before they can...there is the feeling of depression upon the bed, and she feels those long fingers stroking her streaked and tangled hair away from her red, sweating face. She feels a mess. Jareth tells her she is beautiful, that he is proud of his Goblin Queen. So many things to feel, so many ways this is all wrong...But she can feel the warm weight of her son against her arm, and none of those things matter – not the abduction or the yelling or the fighting. She doesn't care how it happened, but she has somebody to love, somebody to love her.

And Jareth – horrible, selfish, conniving and wonderful Jareth – made it all possible.

It was nearly seven thirty; the child would be asleep soon. Evenings were spent in his company, sitting on the floor while his little hands grasped at his many soft, colorful toys. Most ended up in his mouth, so Sarah was careful about what he was allowed to have, and had strict orders for their cleanliness. The magic of the nursery obeyed, and so did the goblins. Everything she said, everything she did seemed to revolve around Bronwen's care and comfort. More storybooks and Underground histories with more colorful pictures for her to read to him. More soft, plush toys – this one a Fiery with wobbly arms, this one a wolf done all in fur. More clothes and shoes done in silks and suedes, velvets and brushed leather. Sarah had a problem common to all teenage mothers: her entire world was her baby. An older woman, one who had the benefit of perspective, would know that she could love her child without the exclusion of care for her own life. Sarah didn't have that, and so she obsessed over Bronwen and what was best to make him happy and strong. The only one who could have changed that was her husband, and as he liked the current situation, he was disinclined to alter it. Perhaps it didn't matter. Sarah was now at least happy for something; for all the stress and torment pregnancy had put her through, the instinctual love she bore her issue beat all her fears to dust.

And for his part, Jareth was relatively docile now, calmer when in the presence of his family; he was less likely to snarl at her or be demanding, or at least with less vigor. Each night, after the evening meal and before the royal couple retired, they spent their time with the Prince in his nursery, endlessly amused by his newest antics, laughing and adoring. An outside observer would have found it quite touching, and perhaps, in its own way, it was.

Tonight, a fire roared in the grate to warm the Prince's room; if he were exposed to so much as a draft, the Goblin Queen would have earned her title in rage for the negligence of others. Bronwen was able to sit on his own now, and his massive head no longer wobbled on an unsteady neck. In his tiny fists, he wielded a soft toy horse, made in a patchwork of different colors, and he smashed the poor thing repeatedly on the soft carpet of his floor. His mother watched him from just a foot or two away, her back resting against a settee as she sat on the floor, skirts spread in a wave around her. She laughed and cooed over his every movement, totally absorbed in what her son was doing. "Is that fun, Bron? Is the horsey running?" Prince Bronwen briefly turned in the direction of his mother's voice, but was soon back to his playing. The Queen instead addressed his father, who leaned elegantly over the settee and watched both his precious things with a relaxed and easy expression. "Karen's books all said that babies don't form attachments until they're six months old, but Bronwen's so smart, I think he's way ahead of that."

"Hm," was the lazy, easy reply, the Goblin King enjoying the warmth of the fire and of his little family.

Sarah cooed to her child again, but Bronwen quite ignored her this time. "Browen loves his mommy, doesn't he? Mommy's little prince...and when you grow up, you'll have magic, and a throne, and a Kingdom, and everything you ever want, I promise." She seemed ironically unaware that a King getting everything he wanted was the cause of her troubles in the first place; but for his part, Jareth rolled easily off the settee, and quite surprised his wife by laying himself perpendicular to her on the floor, head in her soft lap. His gloved hand found hers and he threaded her fingers into his hair, eyes half-closed in sleepy, easy pleasure as he looked up at her. Sarah's mouth had parted into a soft, red O of surprise, and she just looked down at her husband.

"I have never been more a king than in this moment," he addressed her in his low, smooth tenor. Sarah's confusion doubled, but she did not move or stir beneath his head. "Not at the head of an army, not claiming a throne. But here, with a Queen, and an heir that assures my Kingdom for eternity..." He pulled her hand from his hair and kissed the fingers fiercely before returning them again. "You have given me everything, Sarah." The girl's throat constricted, the Goblin King could perhaps see the lump that moved as she tried to swallow. Why did he have to talk like this, or look at her with those fiercely flashing eyes of his? Eyes that spoke of possession and passion, promises of pleasure and of power, if she but played the game with him. Sarah's breath came in shorter gasps, and he leaned up slightly with his forearms resting against her round thighs. "Well, not everything." His gaze slipped to her mouth, and Sarah felt desire pooling within in spite of herself. "You can hardly blame me for being selfish and greedy...I'm so used to having my own way..."

"Jareth-"

Anything she had to say was cut off by the gentle pressure of his fingers gripping her chin, angling her so that their eyes both drooped low, but still met one another's gaze; dark looks that she knew all too well were passing between them. "What is there left to want, hm? How about the love of a woman...the only woman that matters. Ahh, if such a girl worshiped me, if she let me worship her...how could I want for anything?" His soft, dry lips were tantalizingly close, and Sarah's own were still parted with her surprise and with her longing. She felt herself pulled in closer to him with every soft breath, like he was a star, and she the orbiting planet. Something was threading the air, crackling against her skin and hair, and she might have said it was magic, but it was far more primal than that. Lean forward in only the slightest of ways, and she'd be able to catch his mouth with her own, tease and taste him, slip the tip of her tongue against his lower lip in the way that elicited that low growl of his. She liked that – she knew he did as well. She was just about to give in to the urge to do just that, when-

There was a faint squeak as the toy horse was hurled against the opposite wall, and Bronwen had begun his angry bawling. "Oh, baby!" The Goblin King ground his teeth together as his Queen slipped out from under his weight, hurrying to their child and scooping him into her arms. "Somebody's just a little grumpy, isn't he?" Bronwen was near to screaming his reply, fists tightening on the collar of his mother's gown. "Bedtime, bedtime, shhh..." She bounced him expertly in her arms as his fussing slowed. Jareth sat back against the settee as the unseen Nurse laid out the child's sleep clothes and Sarah unfastened his current outfit, voice soft. "We can start a story while we get ready. Once upon a time, there was a handsome prince that everybody loved, and he was strong and brave and smart and loyal..."

Sarah's voice took on a beautiful lilt when she spun stories; she did not get too many sentences farther before the boy's eyes were drooping and he was nearly poured into his footed pajamas. Jareth rose and stood behind his wife as she tucked their child into his elegant, dark wood crib, rearranging toys and blankets and generally fussing. She spoke again with another of her longing sighs. "He needs more blankets."

"He has perhaps several hundred in the wardrobe."

"But those aren't good enough, not for him!" She turned from her spot by the crib and found she was pressed very closely to her husband, who was chuckling at her. Sarah's eyes dropped a little, she even blushed in that pretty way he liked. "Well, it's getting colder. We should get him some blue fleece ones, he likes blue."

"I'm not sure he really cares."

"Of course he cares, Jareth. They can be fleece and wool, but only if it's soft, I don't want anything to scratch his skin. Babies are sensitive, you know."

"Oh yes," he breathed against her cheek, his fingers brushing against her chin again. "I know..."

Sarah diverted her eyes back to the crib, her fingers brushing against a lock of the child's silky blond hair, so much like his father in almost every conceivable way. "Or we could get orange ones, for Samhain. Or black! So it's with the holiday. We could get some decorated with bats, or with pumpkins. When I was home for Halloween, we dressed Toby up as a pumpkin, and I got to take him trick-or-treating." Sarah's eyes were sparkling for a moment, but Jareth's jaw was stiff again – and wisely so, for almost immediately, those green eyes of hers were going soft and damp. "Dad and Karen let me do it all myself, and we got tons of candy, because he was so cute...A-and after that, Toby only wanted to go trick-or-treating with me, or he'd start crying, a-and-"

"Sarah." Jareth's hand tightened over hers where it gripped the railing of the crib. "Stop this at once."

Her face was turned away from his and she had the back of her free hand pressed against her eyes in an attempt to hide her tears from him. Why did the girl always have to do this! One step forward and two steps back, that's how it always was with her! Give her a throne, she'd say she hated him; give her a family, she wanted her old life. It was infuriating. "S-stop what, I haven't said anything. I don't even ask you anymore, do I! It wouldn't matter if I did-"

"I refuse to have this argument with you again."

"Then don't." She had pulled her hand out from under his, turning away and rushing for the nursery door. "Don't say a word."

The door closed with enough force to stir the child in his crib, but luckily, he did not cry again. Instead, he opened his own mismatched eyes and fixed them on the sharp face of his father. Jareth was back to grinding his teeth, and he slid his thumbnail between the sharp points to give himself something to gnaw. "Your mother is impossible, Bronwen." Bronwen blinked sleepy eyes, but did not protest. "And she was crying again. I swear she does it just to upset me, she loves to rankle me, I swear she gets off on it." Jareth leaned over the crib and gazed at the child: sharply up-swung eyebrows, unreal eyes, a flash of gold and silver hair, and sharp cheekbones – all daddy. But the soft blunting of the nose, the fuller lips and the gentle green of that left eye, all the things the King loved about his wife, all the ways he was proud to see her in the child she'd finally given him, after so much time of bargaining and baiting. With another sigh, the King of Dreams let his soft, gloved hand trail against the boy. "...I have a feeling Daddy is going to have his advances rebuffed tonight." Bronwen gurgled, as though engaged in this conversation. "Oh? And just what help were you, hm? Or are you on her side and enjoy tormenting me?"

The baby boy flashed a toothless grin and slid a pink thumb into his mouth.

She's mostly been confined to her bed for more than the last month. She hadn't minded at first, still so tired and so sore, but now the boredom has become a kind of agony. Sarah knows she's not fully well yet, but surely confining her like she were dying of consumption isn't going to help either! She's been allowed to sit in a chair instead of in a bed, and recently was guided to the library with lots of hands to catch her. The rest of the time, though, it's usually in bed.

But she gets to spend lots of time with the baby. He sleeps a lot, and when he doesn't do that, he eats. Just a few weeks old, he needs a lot of rest. He's not all red and pathetic anymore; no, Sarah thinks he's beautiful. Beautiful like his father, but in a babyish way. It's no fun being cooped up, but when she has Bronwen, she's never alone.

He was born just a bit after her nineteenth birthday – and isn't that a scary thought, a whole year Underground. Now it's summer, and the green of the trees taunts her as the limbs sway outside her window. Jareth spends his breaks with her, during the day, taking tea or eating meals. She hasn't been eating as much as she was, and at first he fusses, but now it seems alright. He calls her his little bird when she pokes at her food, and she has no idea why it always makes her blush.

At night, he sleeps beside her, and he often wraps her in his arms – but that's all. Oh, kisses here and there, pressed against her temple or her hair, a few more feverish ones that brush her lips, but he stops swiftly after that. He has not complained, not even once, about the lack of intimacy, which astounds her. It's actually kind of nice, in it's own way; she gets to be near him without being his piece of meat. She feels a little closer to him now, talks to him, learns things she hadn't thought about asking before.

But after more than a month on bed rest, Sarah is bored. And she makes her unhappiness well known when her husband comes to see her in the afternoons. She whines, she pouts, she makes as much noise as possible until one day – finally – he strides into the room with his jaw set in an irritated line. Before she can ask any questions, he has wrapped her in a blanket and scooped her into his arms, as if she did weigh no more than a little bird. She hasn't felt the world shift beneath their feet in quite some time, it makes her nauseous for a moment, but then they're out in the King's garden, and it's all she can do to catch her breath.

Wonderful, everything is wonderful! A warm breeze blows over soft grasses, the flowers are full and fragrant, and the leaves of the trees are all brilliantly green. She's giddy when he sets her gently down on a stone bench, but she's ecstatic when a smart goblin nurse presents her bundle of joy to her.

Sarah worries while Jareth looks over her shoulder at him. "Shouldn't he have another blanket? He's going to catch cold."

"Sarah, it's the middle of summer."

"Then he ought to wear a bonnet! Sunburns aren't good for babies!"

Jareth sighs and laughs a little in the back of his throat. "How right you are, precious thing. Best to get him out of the sun, then, hm?" A snap of his fingers, and a blanket is unrolling itself beneath the shade of a massive oak, and Jareth carries both his most prized burdens there together, as if the weight were nothing more to him than a feather. Sarah doesn't mean to, but she finds herself giggling with girlish glee.

An hour is passing in the happiest way she could ever have anticipated. Goblins are bringing water with different fruits swimming in them to cool Their Majesties, and Jareth talks to her like someone that matters – like he wants to know her thoughts and not dismiss them. He does not railroad her, the way he usually does, and they talk about books and they talk about magic; they talk about different aspects of the Kingdom, things he promises to show her, when she's well, and he actually listens when she gives her opinions on matters of state. He's never done it before. She can't begin to guess at the changes, but she thinks maybe being forced to keep his hands off of her has led him to appreciate qualities of hers he had not bothered to look closely at before. Whatever the reason...she's happy.

When the sun is growing just a little too hot for princes, the goblin nurse is back again. Sarah fusses over the boy for a moment or two, correcting the old, gnarled creature on how best to hold him and what he likes to have for his naps. The woman stares at her Queen like she has completely lost her mind, and perhaps she has, but her instructions are finally brought to a close when Jareth's hands close over her own.

"It will be fine, precious," he assures her, and she reluctantly believes him. For not wanting this child, she would kill now should anyone harm a hair upon his royal brow. A true Goblin Queen.

They're alone together now, and Sarah can feel his eyes upon her face in a hungrier way than they'd been when the child was present. She tells herself she feels annoyed, because obviously Jareth has been buttering her up just to make her willing to go to bed with him again, but her body apparently isn't listening to this instruction, for the rest of her burns with electric excitement at his nearness. He must have said something before he brought his lips to hers, but neither of them recall what as soon as it's said. Instead, there is only the kiss, the gentle crush of mouths that have secretly missed one another. She'd almost forgot the soft warmth of his tongue, of the way she rather liked pulling gently at his lower lip. She'd almost forgotten the way it made his eyes flare, the way it made her feel so powerful and...warm.

"Stop me, Sarah." His fierce claw of a hand is wrapped gently around her shoulder, unsure if he is pulling her in or pushing her away. Sarah's breathing is heavy and she can't take her eyes from his mouth, while her primeval mind only wonders why he isn't kissing her again. "Tell me no, or I won't stop myself."

Sarah's tongue wets her lips, her eyes still focused on his, and she simply gives her head a little shake. "Mnm," is the only denial she'll give before she presses her mouth, warm and needy, against his own. He clutches her closer, and she's alive with a heat that has nothing to do with the season. Her mouth has never been so hungry for his, so grasping. He lays her back against the blanket and her hands snake into his hair without needing to be told. Their kisses are fervent, but their movements are slow. When he takes her, it's achingly gently, like a priest might worship his goddess, with reverence and awe for her. Sarah can tell the ecstatic moment this time will be intense. Six weeks of abstinence, that's what the healer said. In the six weeks that follow that, the Goblin King will be the most tender, the most considerate lover in the Underground. Sarah would not have given him credit for it, when first they were wed. Now, he stokes a fire in her that could consume them both with its intensity.

Underneath the protection of the great oak tree, Jareth is so tender that it steals Sarah's breath away – and she knows she is dangerously close to falling completely in love with her husband.

Sarah had fallen asleep in the nursery, more tired than she expected; Bron had been fussy before his nap, and Sarah had not wanted to leave him before he fell asleep – she felt guilty, otherwise, like a bad mother neglecting her child. She had been in the rocking chair, and Bronwen had been in her arms. She fell asleep long before he did, but, despite her lack of knowledge, he had slept with his head pillowed against his mother's breast.

The chair, however, was rocking, and a voice was penetrating Sarah's sleep, and it was all waking her. "Get up."

"Hmm...?" She realized now she wasn't holding Bronwen, and had been about to fly into a sleepy panic – but Jareth pressed his finger against her lips. Sarah blinked her green, tired eyes and looked where he was pointing. He must have moved Bronwen to the crib, and the child was fast asleep. Sarah just blinked again; what could he want?

"Get dressed," he whispered in his low, smooth voice.

"I am dressed."

"In these." He held out a bundle wrapped in brown paper, tied with a simple string, and Sarah took it with curious hands. When she did untie it, it was...her clothes, her real clothes – or her old clothes, she wasn't sure which was correct. A pair of jeans, a white blouse.

Sarah just looked up at him. "What's all this for."

"Don't argue, Sarah." The Goblin King's eyes flashed dangerously, narrowly. "I am truly not in the mood." No, he very clearly was not.

…

The world had shifted around her, and it seemed to last a lot longer this time. It made her head swim, a slight ache, and everything felt dark. Oh...no, it just was dark. Sarah's eyes blinked in the inky blackness of night, and felt cold, October air hitting her skin. She rubbed her hands against her arms and she started slightly at a sudden tiny, bright flash to her left, about eye level. It passed to a dull glow, though she could see hands in that one moment – black leather gloves; Jareth, then. The glow faded to almost nothing, and her nose pricked at a sudden, pungent odor.

It was...a cigarette. Sarah turned her face up to her husband, slightly relieved by his warm presence beside her, and saw his strange eyes close as he took a long, satisfied drag on the cigarette. "I didn't know you smoked."

He held the smoke for a moment before letting it slip between his pale lips in a soft, "hush..." "I like to indulge in mortal vices when I'm in the Aboveground, dearest – well, when it's in an unofficial capacity."

She coughed slightly, a hand going to her mouth as the smoke cloud stung her eyes. "It's a terrible habit, you know."

His thin lips smirked at her as he took another, long puff. "I'm a terrible man."

It was definitely Jareth's voice greeting her in the dark, but it certainly didn't look like Jareth: the man beside her had darker hair, blonder, less platinum; and rather than being wild and straying in all directions, this coif of hair was far shorter, and swept in an arc against his head. Sarah's fingers actually twitched with the sudden urge to touch it – she had never seen Jareth in a mortal disguise. She wondered if he would feel the same as always, or subtly different? Would it be wrong, or pleasant? Or perhaps a little of both, which was usual with him. His dress was mortal, but not really all that different from his usual. Along with the black leather gloves, he had a jacket of tight, burgundy leather, and a pair of even tighter, dark washed jeans. He looked like the sort of man who might pull up on a motorcycle and give her father a case of apoplexy.

...if she were being honest, he looked like the rock stars she used to sigh over with her friends. He looked downright sexy.

But with Jareth, Sarah was never honest. She couldn't afford to be.

"Where are we," she instead asked around a cough, squinting against the acrid smoke that stung her eyes.

"You mean you don't recognize it? My, my, I suppose that means you really are at home with me, my love."

"Recognize...?" Her voice trailed off and her head swiveled in the dark. Recognize what? What was there to recognize? No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than her voice caught in her throat with a pained gasp: this darkened street, this was her street! This was Castle Heights Avenue, and all the porches of all the old Victorians were dotted with round pumpkins. The old elm tree was spilling its yellow leaves into the gutter as always, which mean meant Mr. Peters would be grumbling over his rake again. She could smell wood-burning fireplaces from the smoke that poured from every chimney, and it was all so acute, all so natural, it felt like she had never been gone at all. This time, it was more than Jareth's cigarette smoke that was stinging her eyes.

Sarah was a mess of desperate trembling, excited and overwhelmed beyond measure. Her head darted this way and that until she spied the darkened steps of her own house. The porch light was off, and why would it not be? They certainly weren't expecting company, at this time of night. She took the steps two at a time, remembering how she'd run home from the park with Merlin, and later with Toby, though that was much more a brisk trot with his little legs. She stood before her door and shivered head to toe. The very moment she'd been longing for, dreaming about, praying and crying for for one and a half years!

….what should she do?

A younger version of Sarah would have been furious, but she actually turned to look at her husband with parted, questioning lips. Well, right or wrong, what was there to say? She was knit to him now, and there was no escaping it. His own mouth smirked at her around his dying cigarette. With delicate fingers, he let it drop onto the pathway and crushed it under a thickly heeled boot. Sarah glanced at the movement and back up at him, and Jareth elegantly twisted his wrist in a gesture that she should go ahead. "Well? Knock, precious."

Sarah knocked. Her hand trembled as she held the brass ring between delicate fingers, but she knocked. For a moment, there was silence. Then, of a sudden, she could hear the light stomping of feet coming down the hall, through the foyer; if she closed her eyes, she could still see every detail, the pictures on the wall, the chandelier hanging high up on the ceiling, where its tiny crystals were impossible to keep free of dust and cobwebs. She was simultaneously so excited and so scared that she was convinced her heart would burst. Sarah's palms sweated, and she wanted to run away – to where, she was unsure, but far and fast and just not stop until the feeling would be worn out of her.

The door opened.

It was her step-mother. Karen was still wearing her power suit from work, this one in dark blue, and her pumps made her an inch or so taller than her step-daughter. There were a few more wrinkles around her blue eyes than Sarah remembered, and for a heartbeat or so, the two women just stood in the doorway, staring at one another.

After a long silence, where not even a breath stirred between them, Karen at last spoke, a tremble in her voice. "...S-Sarah?"

Sarah felt sure she was smiling, but it was painful, and tinged with a bit of sadness. "Hi, Karen."

Mrs. Williams gave a sudden cry, taking the girl's face in her soft hands with her long, painted nails, and pulled her to her in a crushing embrace. "Oh, Sarah! Oh God, is it really you? Oh God! Robert!" She had turned her head and nearly shrieked down the hall, her voice was ringing shrilly in Sarah's ears. She felt the twitching of Jareth's hand at her elbow. "Robert, come here right now!"

Karen still had her right hand on Sarah's cheek as the girl heard the thudding of her father's steps from the dining room. The out-of-place Goblin Queen could feel her palms start to sweat again with her nerves. "What is it, hon- Sarah!"

The moments were passing in a blur of shouting and screaming and hugging and crying. Crying? Oh, those weren't just the tears of her family, Sarah realized, her own were slipping freely down her cheeks as she was yanked into the house, embraced, kissed, turned this way and that, peppered with too many questions to even begin to answer. Still unnoticed, her lordly husband had walked calmly over the threshold and closed the door behind him, where he leaned with all the elegance of a predator in repose. Toby had come running at all the noise as well, and he bounced up and down on his feet when he wasn't busy pulling at the leg of his sister's jeans. Jareth watched him with a more keen interest than he did the rest of the proceedings.

"Where have you been?"

"What's happened?"

"Are you alright? Oh, Sarah!"

"Stop." Her voice was weak, choked with emotional tears, and she rubbed the back of her hand against her eyes. "S-stop...I-I'll tell you all about it, but I...really want to sit down."

"Of course you do." Karen was smoothing down her hair, mussed with static and kisses. "We'll sit at the table, I'll put the kettle on, we'll..." The usually strong and direct woman lost her voice, her bright blue eyes at last landing on the strange figure at her door. "...who is this?"

Jareth grinned with those sharp teeth of his, and Sarah found herself staring at the floor; she knew he wasn't going to make this easy on her. "Just Jareth will do, Mrs. Williams," he smiled, his gloved hand outstretched. "The pleasure is all mine."

"I...um...welcome?" was all she could say, and it came out more as a question than as a greeting. The air had grown more tense. Sarah cleared her throat.

"Let's sit, huh?"

"Yes, of course, honey. This way." No one let Sarah go as she was dragged into the dining room, as if afraid she'd vanish again if they did. Karen disappeared into the kitchen for the barest amount of time necessary to put on the fixings for tea, and everyone sat around the table with a tense, awkward silence – everyone but Jareth, anyway. His Majesty stood a few inches behind his wife's chair and declined a seat, leaning instead against the smooth papering of the wall.

He did, however, retrieve the package of cigarettes from his pocket. Robert cleared his throat. "Jareth, I apologize, but we don't smoke."

The Goblin King gave a tight smile around the tip of the cigarette and gracefully inclined his head. "No bother at all, Mr. Williams, really."

Sarah fixed him with an irritated glare. "Smoking would be bad for Toby," she hissed; it figured he wouldn't think of anyone but himself with these things. With that scolding, the King sighed (did he roll his eyes, just a little?) and slid the small tube back into its paper package and that back into the pocket of his leather jacket.

"Sarah..." Her father began it awkwardly, but it was in his strong, clear voice. The girl's eyes closed; how long it had been since she'd heard her father's voice. "Sweetheart – all that matters is that you're home now, so you don't have to tell us anything, if you don't want to. But...where did you go, the night you disappeared?"

"You didn't run away, did you?" Karen's fingers were drumming the table anxiously as steam wafted up from her porcelain cup. "We told them you wouldn't do that, that you had lots of friends at school, and you had scholarships for Columbia, and-"

"Karen, let her talk."

"N-no," Sarah whispered, finding it harder to look them in the face. She was about to lie to her family. The thought was a horrible one; but what else was she supposed to do? Tell them the truth? That she'd once wished away her brother, and that in saving him she'd sealed her own doom? Even if Jareth kept them from putting her in a mad house, she knew he wouldn't like her version of events, and it was him she had to live with, as sure as she drew breath. "I didn't run away...I didn't want to go."

"Someone took you, then, didn't they?" Two sets of eyes immediately fixed on Jareth, her father's and her step-mother's. Toby was five and didn't quite understand what was going on, he was enjoying hot chocolate and the presence of his sister.

"It wasn't him!" Sarah insisted quickly, sitting up straighter in desperation. That one was going to be the biggest lie of all, it felt difficult to even say it, but she had to. The last thing she could handle would be a screaming match between her family and her husband.

"Well...who?"

"I...I didn't ever really know him."

"What?"

Robert was about to rise from the table. "I'm calling Sergeant Stark."

Sarah almost flung herself across the table, arm outstretched. "Daddy, no!"

"Sarah." He reached down and squeezed her fingers. "I understand being scared, wanting nothing to do with this. But it's been a year and a half, the-" his voice was breaking. "The searches we put out for you-!"

Karen interrupted, taking her other hand in her calm, controlled way; she had always been good at that. "What your father means, dear, is that even if you don't want to do this for yourself, if someone is out there abducting young women, surely you want to keep other girls safe."

"W-well...that guy's dead." Her parents' jaws dropped. She could feel Jareth pinching the bridge of his nose behind her, could hear his sigh. Great, Williams. Just keep digging that hole. "Toby, cover your ears."

"But I want to-"

Karen covered her belligerent son's ears. "What, Sarah?"

"I, um...he was trying to, so I..." She nodded firmly. "I killed him – it was self-defense."

Her father was staring at her. "...how."

Shit. This shouldn't be so hard; the only thing she could think of was Jareth's threats to rip King Tothian limb from limb. The image was not a helpful one. "A pipe," she said in a small voice, wishing she were the actress her mother was. "Like, a big one, just...wham."

The Williams couple looked at each other. They looked at their girl. They looked at the man behind her. "And...Jareth?"

"Oh, uh..."

Jareth leaned forward, gripping the back of his chair. "I found Sarah shortly after her escape." His lies slipped easily from his tongue, like he was well practiced; Sarah wondered what kind of lies he might tell her. "It was I who helped her get home."

There was a long silence. Karen released her son's ears. "Toby, I want you to go in the kitchen and get more tea."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes." The boy scooted off his chair and ambled into the waiting kitchen; Robert and Karen immediately shifted their focus back to the girl at the table. "Sarah, were you sexually assaulted?"

"What?"

"I'm still calling Sergeant Stark."

"Dad, no!"

"Answer me, Sarah."

"Oh gawd...technically?"

"Technically?"

"W-well!" she started with an awkward defense. "I mean, I did say no, but then there was a lot of saying yes – and I know that doesn't make it better, but-"

"Don't worry, Sarah. We're going to get you doctors – therapists. It's all going to be okay."

"Karen-"

"That's enough." She could hear a snap from behind her, and the world went quiet. Sarah stared straight ahead, her hands still caught in her step-mother's – but the woman wasn't moving. Her father was still half-risen from his chair, in an awkward position he'd never actually hold in real life.

Ah...but this life wasn't quite real. Time had been stopped. Sarah turned and looked up at her husband.

"You're doing a fantastic job, Sarah." Jareth was...irritated. His arms were crossed over his chest, he tapped his toe with impatience. "Well done."

"Well, what was I supposed to tell them," she hissed, pulling her hands from Karen's frozen fingers. "You didn't warn me we were coming, you didn't tell me what you wanted me to say."

"Ah, so this is my fault, is it?"

"How is this not your fault!"

The Goblin King just huffed; a crystal had appeared in his hands, and he rolled it back and forth across his fingers, over his knuckles, along his thin wrists. "...not to worry, precious. I'll get us out of this, hm?"

Sarah's heart jumped into her throat. "I-I'm not ready to go y-"

"Hush." He pressed the crystal against her lips; it felt icy and she winced a little. "Just something to make this go more smoothly, not to worry..." With that, he pulled the crystal back to his own mouth, blew gently upon it, and Sarah watched it burst into a million tiny, glittering parts. This effervescent dust floated gently through the air for just a moment or two – and the world grew warm and lively again.

Karen was sitting back slowly, blinking warm, sleepy eyes. She looked across the table at her step-daughter and smiled. "Sarah." Her tone was light, scolding, teasing – playful. "We're just happy to see you, honey, but you could have just told us you were eloping."

"W-what?"

Her dad was leaning far back in his chair, an equally contented smile on his tired lips. "Yes, we would have understood, you know. But if this is what you wanted – as long as you're happy-"

"Dad." Sarah stood up, a little horrified. This was not what she wanted. She wanted to turn and slap Jareth across the face; that son of a bitch. Getting them out of a messy situation was one thing – making it seem like this was all okay was quite another.

"You know how difficult marriage can be, Mr. Williams." Jareth had a smile on those horrible, pale lips of his, and Sarah could feel his gloved hands at her waist, pulling her back in; he felt warm. She wanted to kick him, to bite him, to scream – and simultaneously, felt the most disgusting urge to bury herself in his coat. This went too deep. Maybe she did need a therapist. "But love is love – we soldier on."

"Your father would have wanted to walk you down the aisle, Sarah!"

"Now, now, it's whatever Sarah wants."

She turned her head from side to side, gaping at them a little. They looked like they were drunk, it was the best way to describe it. She felt like she might scream at any moment – and then Toby came into the room, carrying the box full of teas. He had a skeptical look on his face, the look of a child who knows some sort of important conversation is happening, and one who does not trust the adults speaking. He didn't look like her parents. For whatever reason, Sarah found that to be a relief.

"And is your marriage difficult, pumpkin?" Her father seemed to be trying to soothe her, pouring more hot water into his cup.

Sarah opened her mouth to speak, but Jareth beat her to it. "Extremely."

Her jaw snapped shut, she turned to look at him. "Wha...Jareth..."

He spared her a very small glance, but was selecting a variety of tea for himself out of the box Toby had placed on the table; he seemed to dislike most of the options. Sarah wasn't surprised, she'd never seen him drinking bagged tea before. "Sarah and I disagree – quite a lot. About coming here, for instance."

"Didn't want to meet the in-laws, hm?" The King gave a polite smile in response and delicately poured water from the pot into an empty cup. "Well, what changed your mind?"

"Sarah."

"Me?"

Another glance, but he was giving his unwrapped teabag a peremptory sniff. "When she is unhappy, what else can I do? I promised to be her slave, and here I am."

"This is gross," Toby grumbled, yanking open another package of powdered cocoa and spilling it more onto the table than into his cup.

"How right you are, young Toby."

"Well," Robert was laughing in his sleepy, enchanted way. "At least you're aware of it, that's way better than some of us ever do."

Sarah felt herself staring around the table; she hadn't dreamed of coming home being like this, not at all like this. She had known an explanation would probably be necessary, but as going home was just a fantasy to her, she skipped over most of that. Jareth had never figured into this dream of hers, and she bit her lip. If she asked to stay, what would he say? No, of course. It didn't mean she couldn't ask, couldn't beg and scream and cry-

She wasn't going to.

Instead, the girl slid slowly back down into her chair, felt her husband's hand briefly stroking her hair and shoulder before returning to fuss with his sub-par tea. This was what she had not anticipated – being different when she came home. It had seemed just getting home was the answer to all her problems, but here she was, and the problems were already worse. She couldn't stay here, this life was gone forever, gone with her innocence and her past – a crystal spell didn't fix anything. And what about Bron? If she stayed here, how would she be different from her mother?

Sarah slid her hand up so that it covered Jareth's gloved one, where he possessively held her shoulder. It stirred the Goblin King, he looked at her – and finally and quietly took the seat beside her.

They talked until it became very late. At first, Sarah was upset, because in its own way, none of this was real, this lie about elopement, this false congeniality. But then she considered – she hadn't seen her family in a year and a half. Did it even matter what the circumstances were, so long as she was home, so long as she was with them again? The love was the important part, not the details, not sizing up every way her life had gone wrong the moment she turned eighteen. If she did that, this moment would be lost to her forever, just another miserable memory in a self-pitying life.

So she gave in, in a sense. She smiled (slowly), and relaxed (eventually), and even was able to laugh at a few of the jokes her father told, and even one or two of Jareth's dry quips. But no magic, Sarah well knew, lasted forever; Jareth was putting his hand on her knee more and more frequently, a kind of warning, to her mind. Toby's head was drooping with exhaustion, and Karen was talking of putting him to bed, despite his whines and protests.

"At least let me show Sarah my costume first!" he pleaded, his voice a high whine, his eyes almost black with exhaustion.

Sarah smiled. "Of course I want to see your costume. You go put it on, we'll wait."

Jareth stood, and Sarah tilted her head up at him. "Do I have permission to smoke in the out of doors?"

"What? Oh, certainly. The backyard is right through-"

"Thank you. Sarah," he said it, not really as a question, but not quite as an order, his gloved hand held down to her. She looked at it briefly, back up at his face – and didn't feel bad taking it this time. Her parents went to clean up the tea things, and where Toby had spilled along the table. Outside, the night air was very clear and crisp and cold, and Sarah could see her breath as she stared up at the faint light of the stars. Leaving soon, leaving soon...the notion both terrified and relieved her; she was too used to the Underground. Yup, Stockholm for sure.

Jareth was fiddling with the cigarette between his lips, almost chewing it. "Well? Am I less your monster now, your villain?"

She felt her lips twitch into a smile in spite of herself. "You're sensitive about that, aren't you?"

He was glaring at her as he raised the lighter up, the fire a beautiful, glowing flicker in the dark. "This would generally be the part where you level your hatred against me and beg to stay."

Sarah sighed, tucking her hands into her back pockets in an attempt to warm them. "And you would deserve every word of it."

"Would I?" It was a growl, but to her, it was a desperate show of bravado. He is so sensitive...

She just barely glanced at him with green eyes. "What do you think, Jareth?"

He paused, the cigarette lit but the lighter still held up. After a moment, he flicked it closed and returned it to a pocket, back to his neurotic puffing. "A question I choose not to answer. Instead, I will ask if my generosity is at last to be appreciated, or if I shall be railed against when I take you home?"

Sarah sighed again, her head dipped forward so her chin rested against her clavicle. "No, no arguing tonight."

Jareth had gone very still across from her, and it made Sarah pick her head back up and tilt it just a little to the side. "...not tonight?"

"Would anything change?"

"Pardon me, but I think that, in itself, is change."

Her smile was a little weak, a little sad, but it was real, it was hers. "Guess so."

He was staring at her, which was a little unnerving – but more so was when he plucked the still-lit cigarette from his lips and hurled it uncaring into the dark yard. Sarah watched it bounce once, twice, with a nervous bite of her lip, but the thing extinguished itself harmlessly in the dewy evening. Sarah didn't get a chance to scold him, he had suddenly wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her tightly against his chest. The breath swooshed out of her lungs in her surprise.

"You understand, don't you?" One hand was stroking down her long, silky hair more rapturously than she could ever remember before. The other clutched her so tightly she almost couldn't breathe. "Why I cannot let you go? It's selfish, I know that, I am a wicked, self-centered creature. But I cannot let you leave me..." It didn't sound threatening this time; it sounded nearly desperate with emotion. "I took you, Sarah, because that was my duty, because I had to. I keep you because I need to."

"That doesn't sound very different..."

"Doesn't it?" He tilted her chin up to him with his thumb and forefinger. It was difficult to move because there was so little space between them. "What is it you wish me to say, you frustrating, lovely girl? That I adore you? That I have never wanted anyone the way that I want you? Is it weakness you want out of me?"

"N-no."

"What, then?"

Oh, so many things, some of them she'd told him before: respect, care, thoughtfulness... but...Jareth had brought her mother to the Underground when Sarah was lonely, and tonight he had taken her home even though it was abundantly clear it was the very last thing he had any wish to do. He was terrible, and selfish, and cruel and sadistic – but given that, didn't that make these efforts all the more significant? She smiled softly, a hand coming up to rest along his sharp cheek. "I can't come back….Bronwen's at home." She could see his eyes flash – because of their child, because choosing him over the family that was left behind, because of what she labeled as home. "I understand, Jareth."

She saw his eyes flicker with some strange emotion in the darkness, and he kissed her palm. His voice was a whisper in the inky blackness: "It's time we be going, precious thing."

"Wait." She gripped the collar of his coat, stroking her hand along his face. "Please, say we can come back. I-I have other things to say, I want to tell them about the baby..."

"Someday, perhaps." He took her fingers and kissed them, and she knew he wasn't just putting her off.

From the backdoor, she could hear Toby's little voice calling, "Sarah!" For one heartbreaking moment, it was like nothing had ever changed – but everything had changed. Sarah knew that.

She quickly rushed back into the house, hearing Jareth's unhurried step behind her, and smiled in the kitchen as Toby twirled slowly, and then faster and faster, all in a circle. "A tiger! Karen must have spent a lot of time on that costume."

"A lot of time," the woman sighed, but she smiled even as she did. Toby was obviously thrilled.

"Will you take me trick-or-treating this year, Sarah?"

Her throat constricted painfully. "Not this year, kiddo."

"But why? You're home now, aren't you?"

She bit her lips and shook her head. "No. Can't go back to your kiddie bedroom when you're all grown up."

"How true." Jareth was sliding his hand into the crook of her elbow, and Karen was hushing Toby before a tantrum of exhaustion and sadness began.

"It's alright, Toby," she reassured, picking the boy up; he was swiftly becoming too heavy, and Sarah felt a major pang for that. She was losing her brother's childhood, but perhaps more than that, how long before she could no longer pick up Bronwen? She had to get back. "I know it's sad, but we'll have a good time anyway, I promise."

"We have to go," Sarah began, even as Jareth strode past her to the front door, waiting expectantly. Still, she hesitated, a hand on her father's arm. "But...but if I didn't come back for a while, you'd know how much I love you guys, wouldn't you?"

"Sarah-" her father began, his voice a concerned chuckle.

"Wouldn't you?" she insisted, green eyes wide and a little damp.

He smiled and pulled her into an embrace. "Of course we would, pumpkin. Nothing would ever change that...and we love you, as well." Sarah sniffled slightly, and nodded; kissed her father on the cheeks, her brother on the lips, and even received a warm hug from Karen. She didn't want to say goodbye, but goodbyes had to be said. They were. She joined Jareth at the door.

They stood in the dark for a moment, Sarah's head bowed, trying to control the riotous feelings that warred within her. Relief, happiness, despair, loss...mortal life was complicated, and so was immortal life, it seemed. No easy way to win. Still, she turned and looked at Jareth with clear, strong eyes. "I'm ready," she nodded, and wrapped her arms around his torso, her head resting on his chest, waiting for the world to melt away. It didn't; he was chuckling at her close embrace. Her eyes slowly blinked open again. "W-what..."

He was purring, running his gloved fingers through the perfect fall of her hair. "I have one last gift for my darling little Queen..."

"What is it?" she asked cautiously, tilting her head up to face him.

"A surprise. Take me to the park."

"The park?"

"You must remember. It's not far from here, I know, where you had all your little games of make believe."

"But how do you know about-"

He silenced her with a soft press of his lips against her own. "The park, Sarah." It was strange to walk there in the dark – stranger still with Jareth walking quietly along beside her. No words were exchanged in the tiny trek, just marching along past long-shuttered businesses and blinking stop lights. The park was a long, green paradise, dappled with trees and a lily-flecked pond. She remembered every single inch of it so well from childhood, and yet, it took on a different look in the dark – a little spooky, a little...exciting, she had to admit, wrapping her arms about herself to retain a little more heat. Jareth instead just held her in a tight embrace from behind for a moment, surveying all around them with a well-trained eye. "Hmm...and where is the little stone bench you used for your audience, dearest?"

How did he know all these things? "That's across the foot bridge," she hesitated, but he slipped his hand into hers. It was nice, his fingers were warm against the chill, October air.

"Take me there." She did, still quiet, eyes wide and round to make use of the minimal light. She couldn't stop a smile to see it, the place she'd so often performed to an audience of one, her dog. It felt a little intimate to be there with Jareth now.

"So?" She turned to look at him, but he had moved away from her. "What's my surprise?"

"A confession, of sorts." He had wandered over to the stone obelisk that the art council had long ago put up.

"I already know you're a baby snatcher."

"Ah," he held up a finger and she could feel more than see his mouth smirking; his other hand rested against one of the smooth, stone sides of the point. "But did you also know I am a hopeless romantic?"

"This should be good." Her breath caught in her throat, a tiny squeak, as he suddenly hauled himself on top of the cement statue with the grace of an acrobat. She bit her tongue to keep from telling him to be careful, but he balanced on the sloped sides as if it were the most natural thing in the world – and he beamed smugly at her from there.

"Did you never notice, my sweet, during your theatrical performances, a bird sitting and watching you?"

"A bird?"

"An owl, to be more specific." He raised a hand and beckoned her closer with a come-hither motion of his finger. Sarah wished he wouldn't do that, because his pose made her nervous. All the same, she stepped quietly toward him. "A barn owl."

Her breath was catching again. "You-?"

"Me," he said with a mocking look of apology on his smirking face. "I lay before you my greatest weakness, Sarah: you."

Before, she might have felt appalled. Strange as it was, she actually felt flattered, and wrapped her arms around herself again for more than the warmth. "Why?" It was all she could think to ask.

"Because." His voice was whisper quiet as he leaned closer to her, his lips a breath away. Sarah found herself leaning in without consciously willing it. "Who dreams like you, Sarah, darling? Who believes like you do? Who is faced with a challenge greater than all the world and still surmounts it?"

She wet her lips wit her tongue and swallowed hard. "Me?"

"Only you. This is not your present."

Her eyes closed and she gave a soft sigh. "What is it?"

She heard, rather than saw, him slide down from the obelisk, his boots scraping against the concrete. "You were asking about helping you bring out more of your magic." She nodded, eyes still closed. "You're a true Queen, you take power in the Underground. I feel safe helping you with...this." His fingers were sliding through her hair, and yet it felt subtly different than any other time he'd caressed her – like it was a different kind of silky, or not as long, or thicker, or- "Open your eyes, my precious thing."

She did – and she was shorter, but still standing on the muddy edge of the pond. What...Sarah looked down into the water – and a black, bird face stared back at her. She gave a surprised scream, hopped backwards – nearly fell and yet found herself righting her position with her wings. Jareth was laughing at her, but it wasn't unkindly. "What...what-!" she was stammering – was she even speaking at all? She thought she heard herself screeching like an owl, she couldn't be sure, and she hopped closer to the water, staring at the smooth reflection. An owl, she was an owl! The long curved beak and disk-shaped face of a barn owl, but all dark feathers in blacks and browns. The feathers that lined the circle of her face were all soft and brown, and rather than tawny wings with spots of grey, hers were all black. "I know what this is!" she cried, moving from foot to clawed foot. "It's the opposite of albinism, it's mela...mel..."

"Melanistic," he finished for her, and he reached down and guided her onto the smooth, thick leather of his sleeve. "A black barn owl. It stands to reason; your complexion is dark, not fair."

"Oh, Jareth!" Her wings were beating with excitement, she felt...happy! She preened her feathers and pulled out tufts of soft down with the greatest pride. "Look how beautiful I am!"

His tone was very serious as he stroked one finger along her smooth feathers. "You are always beautiful, Sarah." If she were herself, she might have blushed. Instead, she felt his lips press against the cold, smooth surface of her sharp beak, and felt the feathers melting away, her form stretching back into shape; it wasn't painful, more the warm sensation of stretching her muscles after a heavy sleep. His lips were still pressed against the bridge of her nose, and Sarah was smiling.

Her eyes glittered as they met his gaze. "You'll teach me to fly?"

"Oh, yes." His voice was husky and he pressed his mouth to hers. Sarah let him in, and a little gladly. "Shall we away, my precious thing?"

Sarah's arms wrapped around him, indulged in the warmth he radiated. He was terrible – but he gave her gifts. Terrible and good, all in one man. Jareth was never boring. She nodded, and the pair disappeared from the park, leaving nothing behind but a small pooling of soft glitter. They had a little nestling at home to return to.