#whenfearlosespower

Tomorrow was, so far, not better. It was the same as every day since The Argument had been, except worse, because this was the first day post taking his leave from Scotland Yard that George had attempted to do anything more strenuous than fetch a new bottle of whiskey. And last night? There had been no whiskey.

(He’d returned from seeing Gladys off in a cab with every intention of pouring himself an oversized nightcap, only to find a collection of emptied bottles next to the sink that he’d somehow failed to notice while in the kitchen before. His immediate reaction, once comprehension had set in, was a sickening rush of utter despair. His next reaction had been to angrily smash one of the bottles in the sink. His final reaction had him sinking to the floor with ugly hiccuping sobs and burying his face in his hands until the numbness came back.

A double dose of laudanum was needed to get him to sleep.)

Morning dawned with a throbbing headache, a dry mouth, and extreme lethargy. George did not want to get up. But he told himself, Gladys will be disappointed in you, and somehow that was enough to see him into the bath for a wash and a shave while his coffee brewed. After downing a cup, he managed to get dressed. Fully dressed, with all the requisite trimmings. He tried to make himself feel a little better by choosing his favorite waistcoat and tie. It didn’t work.

By the time lunch found itself approaching, George had gulped down another cup of black coffee and was sitting at the kitchen table, twiddling his thumbs and anxiously tapping a foot on the floor. He still felt in no condition to be going out, or socializing, or acting as if his heart wasn’t a smear on the bathroom floor of the Metropole’s Royal Suite, but there was nothing for it now, was there. He’d made his commitment, and now he had to follow through.

...that was a really bad choice of wording. Commitment. The thing Harry had thought him stupid for making.

Dear Gladys,

Your brother and I are shagging each other now.

George absolutely did not write that sentence down as an opener to his latest letter. But he imagined doing it anyway, just for the shock value, even though he was fairly certain she would never speak to him again if she knew the truth about his relationship with Harry. If he put it on paper, could see it in print, maybe that would help this new development feel real, instead of something he still could barely believe had actually happened. Was happening.

And yes of course he was fully aware that they weren’t really shagging each other. But it was close enough. And Gladys probably wouldn’t care to make that differentiation anyway. She’d be horrified no matter what.

I hope this letter finds you still well, and you find this letter readable. Letters are after all private things, and yours should be no different; so I have taken the liberty of obtaining the tools necessary to write in Braille, that you need not be reliant on a third party to read my correspondence to you. Just the same, you may write to me in kind and be assured of my ability to read it. I am a quick study, and I have a book to help guide me should I need it.

He had said nothing of his plans in any of his previous letters to Gladys, intending for it to be a surprise. George meant what he had laboriously spelled out using slate and stylus, though. Letters between two people were only meant to be read by those two people, right? That privacy was something he had previously taken for granted, but came to actively think about after he began exchanging letters with Gladys. You couldn’t share anything meaningful with each other if a third party was involved. It wasn’t personal. And that wasn’t really fair to Gladys, who deserved to have her privacy just like every other sighted person in the world.

Thus, he had decided to learn how to write (and read) in her language.

It was slow going, writing out his letter and then transcribing it into Braille. For one thing, he had to spell out each word backwards. And the slate for punching in the raised dots in an even manner on paper needed constant re-positioning. Reading her return reply, which he did hope would be in Braille, was going to be even more laborious. But he was determined to make it work.

Harry will be on tour with his show soon so of course he is working himself to the bone in preparation. Adelaide of course is worried for him. I have tried to reassure her that he surely knows how to take care of himself by now, but I think I am having little effect. She will miss him terribly while he is gone.

As would he, but Gladys didn’t need to know that. George didn’t mind sharing details of his everyday life with her, but he was careful to frame them in such a way that made him appear to be Harry and Adelaide’s good friend only. Their neighbor, only. Not a lover, not a housemate. To that end, he wrote about his latest adventures in photography (double exposures could be clever) and pencil-pushing at Scotland Yard, asked how she was doing at settling into life in New York, and related the results of Victoria’s book of artwork from Harry and Adelaide’s wedding.

You make an appearance in several of her sketches and full-color portraits, of course. I believe she captured your likeness quite well. And before you think it, as I imagine you will, you do not detract from the loveliness of the artwork at all.

Until next time, I remain,

Day four of the awkwardness circus had Adelaide ready to talk.

She’d stomped off to Scotland Yard before either Harry or George were awake, of course, so they were spared her lingering grouchiness at being made fun of for her fear of spiders. Once George arrived at work, he was presented with a gradually thawing cold shoulder. Because it was hard to stay angry with him when the sight of his face lighting up in laughter like a bank of electric lights was still fresh in her memory, and she loved his grin. By the time he left for home, they had made their peace and all was well between them. Which meant Harry needed to get the same treatment. Not about the incident with the spider, though -- but about George. And how it seemed like Harry didn’t care that their sergeant missed them.

Apparently, she needed to explain her concerns in a bit more detail. There had, evidently, been some miscommunication going on between the three of them. Sorting that out needed to be done sooner rather than later.

So when she got home, she kissed George hello and went to go find Harry in the library.

As George had hoped for all of them: 

Now that he was more or less recovered from being shot and at back at work again; Harry and Adelaide were married and home from their honeymoon; nearly all of the awkwardness between him and Harry had resolved itself; and no one was dying, returning from the dead, showing up announced to cause drama, being cheated on or kidnapped, starting scandals, or otherwise causing a disruption in their lives--they were finally able to start settling into a routine. Having a life together, instead of just weathering an endless chain of events together. 

Which was basically what the past year or so had felt like. Events, one after another, tripping them up and holding them back and running them over and leaving them tangled in the wreckage, hardly able to catch their breath before the next calamity hit. His mother would say God was testing them--or testing him, since she didn’t know it was a journey all three of them had been on. Him, Harry, and Adelaide. Together. (Or not at all. He was fairly certain that still held true.) Maybe God was testing them. He shouldn’t even be here, sharing this life with them; they shouldn’t have ever invited him to share it, so they were all being punished as a result. Well, the joke was on the good Lord above, then. They’d made it through the proverbial storm. They’d made it through and they were all the more stronger and--dare he say--happier for it.

Adelaide resumed her work at Scotland Yard, having made it clear to Chief Inspector Merring that she expected to be treated just the same as she had been before her marriage. When she was in uniform, she was still Constable Stratton. She would put in the same hours with the same dedication as she always had--the first to arrive, and the last to leave. For his part, Merring informed the bullpen that anyone caught addressing her by her married name would find themselves written up. Mrs. Houdini did not work with the London Metropolitan Police. Special considerations, malicious jokes, and any form of harassment would not be tolerated either. (Harassing Adelaide Stratton was his job, thank you very much.)

George continued on with desk duty. Merring had taken to pairing him with Adelaide on assignments, even before the wedding; he’d come around to accepting that she was actually competent at her job--shutting down an anarchist cell tended to have that effect--as well as recognizing that she and George worked well together. (If he believed that was due to George having stepped in on enough of her cases with Harry and Doyle, and having warmed up to her after she helped save his life, well... they didn’t disabuse him of that notion.) She did the interviewing and evidence collecting, he did the analyzing and hard thinking. It was almost funny that Merring didn’t even see it as handing Adelaide the real bulk of the cases; in his eyes, pounding the pavement was drudge work, and it kept her out of his hair to boot. George accompanied her when he could, which wasn’t nearly as often as he would like.

It was still more than a little humiliating, having to admit that he really wasn’t capable of much exertion beyond the degree of, say, a brisk walk. (That non-shag with Harry? Had ended up doing him in for the rest of the day.) It had been over six months since that horrible night in Spitalfields, and George was still a shadow of the man he had been. Physically limited, easily tired, in constant pain. He almost didn’t even notice the pain anymore, not unless something happened to make it flare up--it had become a part of his existence like his heartbeat, or breathing, or blinking. Just there. Always there. Hovering around the edges of his consciousness, wearing him down. The doctors had repeatedly emphasized the fact that his recovery would be a very long one--in their estimation, he was still only just getting started--but it was still very disheartening at times. 

George kept all this to himself. He’d made the choice to throw himself in front of that bullet, and he’d done so accepting whatever consequences came of it. (Up to and including his death.) That meant he didn’t get to complain about the disabilities he was now living with. It was difficult at times, and he hated being so limited, but he would still make that choice all over again if he had to. No question. He had vowed to do everything in his power to keep Harry and Adelaide safe, and regardless of Harry’s thoughts on that vow, George had every intention of keeping it. For as long as they would have him, and even beyond that.

In Calais, France, a train was departing from a station and giving one of its passengers a serious case of deja vu.

It felt like an entire lifetime--no, several lifetimes--since Adelaide had last been here: fresh off the cross-channel ferry, swallowing down the dwindling vestiges of her abominable seasickness, settling into a well-appointed cabin on a southbound train headed for the Mediterranean. The destination was different this time around, but everything else was almost uncomfortably the same. Uncomfortable because of how that last trip had ended. The beginning of their long night, as she tended to think of those days, when she thought about them at all. (She tried not to. But it was inevitable that she would, on occasion. Just as it was inevitable that she would find herself thinking of Benjamin at odd moments for the rest of her life.) 

She was certain that Harry was feeling the similarities, too. There was no way he could have failed to notice them. But she was equally certain that he would be determined not to dwell on them--not just because avoidance was what he did, but because they were officially on their honeymoon. And he’d been looking forward to this for ages. She’d been looking forward to this for ages, for the same reasons she had loved their stay in Italy: being somewhere where no one knew them, where it was just the two of them, just Harry and Adelaide. Just Mr. and Mrs. Houdini. No worries, no cares. Just time spent together.

And shagging every chance they got, no doubt. She knew her Harry. She knew how he’d ruined her. Why bother pretending otherwise?

They were getting down to the wire now. The magic hour was nearly upon them. Almost time to get Adelaide walked down the carefully laid-out aisle and handed over to Harry, until death do them part.

George was pacing a short track in the hallway outside the doors to the Royal Suite, absently clenching and unclenching his right hand, running over a checklist in his head. All the RSVP’d guests ought to have arrived and been seated now; he’d left the execution of that to Doyle, Theodore, and Jasper, as all of Adelaide’s side was helping her get ready. (Victoria and Florrie to assist with her dress and hair, and Gladys to simply keep them company. Harry’s sister wasn’t being sidelined because they didn’t think her capable, but rather because she wasn’t familiar with the room or where she would need to seat people. George had decided to err on the side of not putting her in a stressful position.) Harry had been greeting all the guests as they arrived. The officiant had arrived as well. Everything seemed to be in place and ready to go. Which meant he had his cue to hook Harry by the elbow and take him with to look in on Adelaide.

(He had some things he wanted to say, before the ceremony started.)

Happy One-Year Anniversary, @whenfearlosespower​!

On June 18/19, 2016, you posted the intro to our first log (We Don’t Get To Take Breaks) and I tagged you back. And thus, MAGIC WAS MADE. Here’s to one glorious year of dumpster chat mode, accidental OT3s, more AUs than you can shake a stick at, your sentient TV, MULTISHIPPING, creeping on my sister, Hawke looking into the camera.gif, so much sinning we can never be cleansed, ANGST DRAMA AND PAIN, Michael Weston’s chest, and Adam Nagaitis’s face. I think that about covers the insanity. Long may we shitpost.

The next three days passed in an almost ridiculous feeling of general contentment.

No, things weren’t one hundred percent perfect. Harry and George were only just beginning to gingerly feel their way back into being something more with each other--less than sexual, but more than platonic. A little uncertainty and awkwardness in the air was to be expected. But with both of them determined to move much more slowly this time, and George’s promise to not initiate anything unless Harry did so first, the process of finding their legs had less of the impression of being aboard a speeding train and more of taking a stroll through the park. A little bit sweetly fumbling, instead of reckless. And it gave George a sense of reassurance, rather than the impatience Harry was afraid he might feel. It was much more difficult to crash and burn when you were carefully measuring each step you took. Slow was good. (And this was probably the only instance where Harry would wholeheartedly agree.)

George was still quietly plagued by what he’d done, the night of Harry and Adelaide’s engagement. All three of them were still plagued by their own nightmares of the recent past.

But on the whole, the state of their threesome--their imperfect triangle--was perhaps the most stable it had been in a long time, if not ever. Harry was longer torturing himself in an attempt to protect George from desires he wasn’t certain he could handle. George himself was no longer afraid that Harry was pushing him away, and he was feeling much more secure in his place in their trio. They were both actively working, and working together, to resolve the awkwardness that had been festering and occasionally boiling over ever since Christmas. Adelaide had both of her boys, and they were happy, healthy, and safe.

For three days, they breathed easy.

The morning of the fourth day--and the fifth since the engagement performance--dawned quietly. It was an off day for Adelaide, and she was looking forward to doing a great bunch of nothing. George had suggested getting her to pose for his camera; boudoir shots would probably end up being taken, because of course, but he also wanted to play with taking double exposures in a controlled environment. But at present, all three of them were sleeping in. Harry was in the middle spot. George, who had been utterly delighted (not to mention relieved) to have not been asked to finally return to his own bed, was curled up against his back, one arm slung over Harry’s waist. Adelaide was, as per usual, nestled against Harry’s chest.

From the library, there came the sound of the telephone ringing.