A.N.: Surprise, bitch! I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me! Well, I thought so, too. The last fic I wrote was way back in 2012. I don't even know if I can write anymore. As always, I have no idea where this came from and no idea where this is going. This one is set in Boston, although I don't know why – I've never been to Boston, or anywhere in the US, really. If there are any inaccuracies, please don't hesitate to let me know. I know Elsie as a journalist is not really very original, but they do say write about you know… and this is all I know. Not a native English speaker, so if you see any mistakes, again, don't hesitate to let me know. Would love some feedback, suggestions, anything. Help me. I don't know what I'm doing.

Disclaimer: Nope

x

She looked at her phone for the first time in three hours and sighed. Nothing. Not a call, not even a text. She knew he got off work no later than 8pm every day, and he always called her while on his way home. Sometimes she wouldn't be able to talk much, so caught up she was on whatever was happening in the newsroom at the moment. But she always looked forward to the calls, even if he had nothing to say except ramble on and on about the boring meetings he had during the day.

She hated this. She hated waiting for men. She hated feeling so dependent on one. Even it that man was Joe, and even if he was the nicest guy she'd met in years. But, she sighed again, he wasn't really, was he?

"You okay?"

"Fine" she lied, not wanting to burden her friend with her silliness.

"Sighing a lot" Beryl was so engrossed in the article she was typing that Elsie doubted her friend would hear her reply, but she answered anyway.

"He didn't call"

"What was that, love?"

Elsie didn't bother replying. Beryl was concerned, sure, but she also needed to finish her review and have the editor take a look at it before the paper went to print, which was less than two hours from now. It seems Beryl was always almost falling behind – getting things finished at the last possible minute, but always to perfection. Elsie envied her; sometimes she wished she didn't live such a carefully planned life. Look at where it had gotten her.

She had finished her work for the night, which was surprising, considering she rarely ever left before midnight. She didn't want to go home and feel sorry for herself, and she didn't want to call Joe demanding to know why he hadn't called – even she knew she would sound stupid. So she sat at her desk in the almost empty newsroom, conjuring up many scenarios that could explain why he decided to forego their nightly ritual.

She had met Joe at a bookstore – they both reached for the same book, in a scene straight from those romantic comedies she would never admit she loved. He was charming, and his accent made her feel comforted in a way. Apart from Beryl, she didn't have any friends from back home. He commented on her Scottish brogue straight away; even after six years in America it hadn't lessened a bit. They went for coffee and that was it. Now, almost ten months later, they had an established relationship and routine. But, as it always is with these things, their relationship looked much more perfect than it really was.

During their second month of dating, Joe had gone out with a girl he met at a bar. They had a one night stand, but Elsie didn't begrudge him that – they were nothing serious at that point. What she did disapprove of was that he never told her about it, that is, until the girl called him on Christmas Day, two months later, to tell him she was pregnant and planned on keeping the baby.

The girl, Marianne, was seven months along now. They were having a little girl and although Elsie tried to hide it for the sake of her relationship with Joe, it killed her. She had always wanted kids, but a rather nasty farming accident had taken care of that when she was 19. And now, the man she loved was having a baby with another woman and she could do nothing but watch.

Oh, but she was going to be like a second mother to that child, he always told her. After about two weeks of separation, they had decided to get back together and keep building their relationship. They were in love, weren't they? That's not something you take lightly, that's not something you throw away just because the man you love is having a child with someone else, right?

She had been ashamed to tell Beryl, though. For months, she had hidden from her best friend the complicated situation she was in. She didn't want to be judged (not that Beryl would), she didn't want to feel weak for not leaving a man her friend would certainly tell her she needed to leave. She told herself she was just getting accustomed to the idea of being stepmother first, before telling the world and their mother about it.

So she accepted it. All of it. She didn't say a word when Joe cancelled lunch with her because of an ultrasound appointment. She didn't say a word when he took her out to choose her birthday gift and they ended up only shopping for the baby. She definitely didn't say a word when he had to leave halfway through the dinner she cooked (she never cooked) because Marianne thought something was wrong with the baby (Braxton-Hicks contractions, it ended up being).

He rewarded her patience with beautiful tales of the perfect life they would have when the baby came. He would have joint custody, and he and Elsie would buy a nice place to live and have marvelous weekends together. All three of them. They would get married, of course. Maybe move away from the city, so he could raise his little girl in a better environment.

Elsie listened to all of this with a smile on her face, trying to silence the tiny voice in her head that said she didn't want any of this. She didn't want dates cancelled at the last minute. She didn't want to make plans for three (plus Marianne). She didn't want to move away from the city. She didn't want to be a stepmother.

But she wanted Joe, didn't she? Well, then, he came with a package. Really, it could be worse, much worse. This wasn't a bad thing, none of it was, and Joe hadn't done anything wrong. So why did she feel such anger towards him sometimes?

She suspected it was because while she did everything she could think of to accommodate him and his situation, they had never spent a night at her apartment, even though it was much closer to her work. Or maybe it was because, in ten months, he had met Beryl, her best friend, once. Or maybe it was because he couldn't bother to learn her sister's name, despite Elsie talking about Becky all the time. Or maybe, probably, it was because he was always surprised when she defended Clinton over Sanders, even though anyone who'd met Elsie for five minutes knew how much of a Hillary supporter she was. Maybe it was because he had never been able to give her a gift she'd truly liked. Maybe it was his complete lack of interest in her work. Maybe it was because he didn't know her friends, would rather stay home when she invited him to a party with her co-workers. Maybe it was because he insisted on inviting her for dinner during the week, even though he knew she worked nights.

Or maybe it was all of it.

Men were all like that, weren't they, though? They didn't immerse themselves in their partners' lives like women tended to do, right? So Elsie shouldn't be upset that she knew all of Joe's friends but he hadn't met Becky, her only living relative, not even once, she kept telling herself. Men. All the same, anywhere.

But then she would remember Ian, the big but harmless lad she had dated for a few months back in Argyll, when she was so much younger and so much stronger. She remembered how he would always inquire after her mother's health, would always remember if she told him Becky was having one of her fits and ask about it the next day. How he would call and offer to help out with the farm's books when he knew she had to study.

Then there was Kent, the lovely professor she'd dated during her first year in Boston. How he had brought her dinner to the newsroom that time when she off-handedly complained she'd been so busy she hadn't eaten anything all day. How he'd remembered she had never tried Mexican food (a comment made once, weeks before) and took her to a small but wonderful restaurant and made her feel so cared for. But then he had gone to teach at NYU, and that had been that.

There had also been Richard, a fellow scot. A very handsome but awkward doctor whose idea of wooing was telling her she had such beautiful eyebrows (she had laughed, and that had granted him a second date). He adored Beryl, and seemed fascinated with Elsie's work, always full of questions (as if Journalism was really something as fascinating as Medicine). She remembered how he went on a business trip to Chicago and came back with gifts for her and Becky, which warmed her heart. How he got a spot for Becky at a better institution, how he asked a colleague he trusted to help with her treatment. But after two years, he had gone to join Doctors without Borders in Syria, and that had also been that.

And then there was Joe. Only Elsie kept thinking more and more these days that maybe there shouldn't be Joe.

She had never been very religious, but when it all started she thought that maybe it was a sign from God: Joe needed her, he needed her to be strong for him, he didn't have his life on track yet despite being almost 40, he needed her help. But lately she'd been thinking that it had, indeed, been a sign from God: a sign she should get the hell out of there, and fast.

"I did it!" She was startled out of her reverie by Beryl screaming at her computer.

"You finished the review?"

"Oh, I finished it alright. The little bugger didn't want to come out, but I made it happen, oh, I did" Beryl answered "What's Barrow's branch again?"

"I'll do it" Elsie said, already dialing it "Hey, Thomas, can you please print out Beryl's C4 page and my A3 so Gregson can take a look at them before he goes?"

"Sure thing, Elsie" the graphic designer replied "Are you gonna need a lift home later?"

"No, thanks, I'm out of here as soon as the pages come back edited. You still have a few hours to go, I guess?" Thomas lived two streets down from her, but usually worked until much later. She didn't envy his hours. Still, he always asked if she wanted him to take her home. She didn't understand why Beryl couldn't stand the lad – he was awfully sweet.

"Yep, Mary Crawley just got back from the mayor's son's wedding, I haven't started to draw her page yet"

"Good luck with that" now Mary, the gossip columnist, that was one girl Elsie could sure live without.

x

Hours later, she finally managed to get herself home. She had run out of excuses to hang around, and she was dead on her feet.

As she approached her house, panic rose in her throat: at her door, two men stood – or rather, one, very big man stood, and one sat, hunched over. Not exactly a sight a woman living alone wants to encounter as she gets home past midnight. For a second, she thought about turning around and running, but a familiar voice made its way to her.

"Elsie!"

Joe. Why he was waiting at her door she had no idea, he had a key.

As she got closer, she understood why. One look in his eyes and she knew.

He was drunk. Very drunk. Scathingly drunk.

Great.

"Are you Elsie?" the very big, very large, very intimidating man that stood next to Joe asked from under his very bushy eyebrows. Elsie liked him instantly. He looked like a character from a book she used to read to Becky when they were kids.

"Yes. And you are…?" She asked, trying not to look at Joe, who was now sprawled out on the floor singing Hit the road, Jack.

"I trust you know this gentleman?" The stranger ignored her and looked at Joe, who, at that moment, looked like anything but a gentleman.

"Yes. What happened?"

"He was at a bar in Hampshire Street. Had a bit too much to drink, started making too much noise and bothering too many people" she only now noticed he had the most refined English accent "Thought it best to bring him home before he got himself into any trouble"

"You are very kind" she said, making no move to help Joe off the floor.

"Only he seems to have lost his key. Which made me wonder if he really lives here, as he has led me to believe"

"He doesn't. But it's okay, I can take care of him. Thank you for your trouble, Mr….?"

The stranger opened his mouth to reply, but Joe chose that moment to latch himself onto Elsie's legs and yell "My favourite Scottish lass, you are, Elsie"

"Alright, alright, now off the floor, Joe" she tried, halfheartedly.

"Do you need help getting him inside?" the tall man asked.

"No, thank you. He'll get inside if he knows what's good for him" She snapped, uncharacteristically.

She stepped over Joe to open her door, and resisted the urge to kick him inside. She chastised herself for that thought – she was being unjust. He had left work and gone to a bar to get drunk – so what? How many times she'd done just that, after a stressful day? He had nothing wrong. He never did.

Thankfully, Joe seemed to sense her mood and got inside pretty quickly, although still singing hit the road, Jack, and don't you come back no more.

"Well, that's that. Thank you again for your trouble" she stepped inside and turned back to stranger, the light from the house illuminating his face so she could see it properly for the first time "Oh, my God. What happened?"

He touched his forehead, wiping the blood with a soaked-through handkerchief. "Nothing to concern yourself with. Is there anything else I could do before I go?"

"No, you've already done more than enough. Are you sure you don't want to come in? I could take a look at that for you" she tried again, knowing exactly what had happened.

"No need. I best be going now. Thank you, Miss….?"

"Hughes. Elsie Hughes"

"Goodbye, Miss Hughes" he tipped an imaginary hat and turned around, soon losing himself into the darkness. She stayed at the door until she could see him no more, and then for a bit longer, thinking about this strange man whose name she didn't know, this man who had clearly gone through a lot of trouble to bring Joe to her, even after Joe had most likely gotten into a fight with him (thus explaining the bleeding on his forehead – she was guessing the damage was done with a bottle), this man who had been so calm and kind through it all, this man who had thanked her as he left, and she didn't understood why.

"Hit the road, Jack, and don't you come back no more, no more, no more... Come on, Elsie" she heard from inside.

She sighed. Now she had that to take care of. Not really how she had planned on spending the night.

"Hit the road, Jack, and don't you come back!"

Hit the road, indeed.

x

TBC