do you believe in fairytales?

it was a beautiful townhouse. it was about three stories of brick and black shutters with overflowing flower boxes beneath the windows. it was elegant without being flashy. it was lived-in without looking old.

he'd hummed his acknowledgment and continued walking.

that should have been the end of it.

but it wasn't.

because the next week she pointed it out again.

and the week after that… and the one after.

soon it became part of their routine.

coffee, pastries, the townhouse.

every single saturday morning and every single time they passed it, her pace slowed.

sometimes she'd admire the little balcony on the second floor, or the iron railings, even the huge windows that flooded the interior with sunlight. and other times she would just smile at it quietly before continuing down the block.

jack never teased her about it.

he just listened the way he always listened.

collecting and gathering every detail she offered without her realizing it.

it was like he was storing them away somewhere safe.

—

months later, she was standing in front of the pastry display at the coffee shop when jack casually mentioned the open house.

she looked up immediately.

"what.. really?" she said is disbelief. “i didn’t see a sign, though. are you sure?” she said in the middle of taking a bite of her banana loaf.

"yeah they’re showing the townhouse today.” he repeated with that signature sideways smile. “it’s a private showing.” he shrugged.

the excitement that lit her face was instant and for a moment, jack almost felt guilty because she had absolutely no idea…

when they arrived, the house was somehow even more beautiful inside.

sunlight spilled through oversized windows, warming polished hardwood floors and pale walls.

the entire place felt bright, open and comfortable.

it was a place that people built lives together and they could feel the warmth of a loved and cherished home.

jack spent most of the tour watching her instead of the house.

watching her wander into every room with wide eyes, watching her run her fingertips along the bathroom countertops.

watching her stand in front of windows and imagine things.

he knew she was imagining things because she'd always done that. her imagination was everything that made her into the dreamer that she was.

even in their tiny conversations, or while walking down the street.

she saw dreams everywhere and a beautifully bright future in every empty space.

"this kitchen is incredible." she mused, as she rounded the kitchen island and peered out the windows that rested right above the kitchen sink.

her voice echoed softly through the room as jack leaned against the doorway.

her shoulders sank as she peered into the lush backyard garden.

"It is." he said as he watched her in quiet awe.

she moved toward one of the windows, sunlight caught her hair. the sight of her standing there nearly stole the breath from his lungs.

because she looked like she belonged there.. with him. he nearly groaned at the sight of her. her hair falling behind her shoulders while she playfully pretended to wash the dishes.

he smiled wildly as she looked behind her at him and wiggled her eyebrows, causing them both to giggle.

it looked like she wasn’t visiting.

or imagining.

she was just belonging.

as if the house had been waiting for her this whole entire time.

the realtor eventually left them alone to explore.

that was when the trouble started.

because the more she saw, the more she fell in love with it.

and the more she fell in love with it, the more impossible it became for her to hide her disappointment.

by the time they reached the living room again, she was trying very hard to be realistic.

jack knew that look it was the one where she talked herself out of wanting something.

it's okay," she said softly.

nobody had even asked a question.

jack raised an eyebrow as she laughed a little sadly.

"this place is just..." her gaze drifted toward the windows.

the fireplace.

the staircase.

everything.

"it's perfect." she hummed as jack placed his hand on the back of her small back. her words came out as barely more than a whisper as she looked up at him.

jack felt something squeeze painfully inside his chest.

because she wasn't being dramatic.

or materialistic, or unrealistic, she just genuinely loved this place.

the same way she loved old bookstores and small coffee shops and rainy afternoons cuddled with a good book.

she loved things completely, with her whole heart.

"a girl can dream, right?" she said softly to him. her smile small.

jack stared at her for a long moment— long enough that she did a double take when she wanted to pull him out and go back home.

"w-what?" she looked at him in confusion.

his hands slipped into his pockets, a nervous habit which was one she rarely ever saw.

then he nodded toward the room around them.

"good thing you don't have to." he nodded earnestly.

confusion flickered across her face. she laughed his name, "what are you talking about?"

"you don't have to dream about it, baby."

the silence that followed stretched before he finally said it.

"i bought it."

she blinked…once…twice.

the words clearly didn't fully register and he wanted to kiss her stupid as she gave him a look of purse confusion.

"i bought the townhouse, baby.” he said stalking closer to her, his shoes echoing throughout the kitchen.

still nothing.

her mouth opened slightly.

closed.

opened again.

jack fought back a smile because for someone so smart, she looked completely lost.

"you..." her voice disappeared.

jack nodded trying to get it out of her.

"i bought it." he said cocooning her into his arms as if to block her away from the rest of the world.

another heartbeat passed.

then another.

finally her eyes widened.

not a little.

a lot.

the kind of realization that arrives all at once. it was sudden and overwhelming and her heart was beating so fast she could have sworn that he could hear it.

"f-for us?" the question cracked in the middle.

jack's expression softened immediately.

"yeah." his voice was gentle, “so we can have somewhere that's ours."

the tears arrived instantly.

jack sighed.

because of course they did.

she slapped both hands over her face.

which somehow made it worse.

"sweetheart—"

"you bought me a house?”

his laugh filled the room. "i bought us a house."

"a whole house, jack."

"technically it's a townhouse." he teased causing her to let out a watery laugh.

then immediately started crying harder.

“i want you to decorate it however you want and i’m gonna help you.” he said softly, moving her hair behind her shoulders as she looked up at him. “we’re gonna make it ours.”

the next thing jack knew, she was throwing her arms around his neck as he wrapped his strong arms around her small frame.

of course he caught her automatically.

strong freckled arms wrapping around her waist as she buried her face against his chest.

the familiar scent of coffee and aftershave surrounded her instantly.

safe, comforting, home.

kack rested his chin on top of her head, holding her tightly. neither of them spoke for a while.

they just stood there in the middle of their future living room as the sunlight poured in around them.

the house quiet and waiting.

finally she tilted her head back enough to look at him.

her eyes were red and her cheeks damp.

beautiful.

"you remembered." the words were tiny they made jack frown.

"remembered what?" he wanted to know, as he wiped his thumb against her wet cheeks.

she laughed softly. "the windows."

his expression immediately melted because of course that's what she was talking about.

not the price, or the size and not even the investment of it all.

the windows.

the thing she'd mentioned months ago during a random walk.

"the balcony." her voice trembled.

"the flower boxes."

jack brushed his thumb against her bottom lip as it quivered.

"i remember everything you tell me." he mused.

and judging by the way her face crumpled, that might have been the most emotional thing he'd said all day.

—

later, after the realtor returned and paperwork was discussed and the reality of it all slowly settled around them, they found themselves standing on the little front patio.

the one she'd always admired and pointed out dozens of times.

jack handed her the key, simple and unassuming. yet somehow heavier than anything she'd ever held before.

she stared at it in her palm, then up at him, then back at the house.

their house. their future.

their home.

jack leaned down and kissed her forehead softly before giving the smile that destroyed her every single time because it was the kind of smile he reserved only for her.

"what do you say we go back and start to unpack" he hummed.

and this time, when she looked at the townhouse, she didn't have to imagine anymore.

Ma Kent snorted softly from across the table. “At this point, that baby’s probably ninety percent mashed potatoes.”

Clark looked entirely unashamed. “They will be a very healthy, growing baby.”

You bit back a smile.

That was the thing about Clark during your pregnancy, he hovered.

Did you need water? A pillow? Another blanket? Less blanket? A snack? Different snack? Did your back hurt? Were your feet swollen? Had you rested enough? Too much? Was the baby kicking enough? Too much?

The man treated your pregnancy like the world’s most important mission.

And it made him very, very easy to fluster.

And suddenly, sitting there at the table with Ma and Pa Kent, watching your husband lovingly shovel corn onto your plate like he was personally responsible for feeding both you and the baby, the idea struck.

You looked down at your half-full plate thoughtfully.

Then, very gently, you asked, “Clark… am I allowed to have some more?”

Clark didn’t even look up.

“Of course,” he said immediately, mouth still full, already spooning another helping onto your plate. “You barely ate any! Here, have more chicken too.”

You pressed your lips together. You continued carefully, in the smallest voice you could manage. “Are you sure?”

Clark blinked at you. “Sure about what?”

“That it’s okay for me to eat more?”

Clark stared at you for a long moment. Then looked at your plate. Then at you again.

“…Yes?” He sounded deeply confused.

You nodded solemnly, “Okay,” and resumed eating.

Clark reached for the biscuits.

“You want another one?”

“Yes please.”

“Here you go, my love.” He handed it over immediately.

You sighed as your prank failed, silently waiting for another opportunity.

-

Said opportunity was when Ma Kent brought out dessert.

Her specialty peach cobbler was still warm, the smell filling the kitchen instantly.

“Oh my goodness,” you sighed dramatically. “That smells amazing.”

Ma Kent smiled warmly. “Go on, honey, have some.”

You coached your face to look anxious, worried, then slowly turned toward Clark.

“…Am I allowed?”

The room went silent.

Clark froze with the serving spoon halfway in his hand.

Ma Kent blinked. Pa Kent’s expression changed immediately into a frown.

“Allowed?” Ma Kent repeated.

You looked down shyly. “Well… I just wanted to check first.”

Clark looked like his soul had briefly left his body.

“Why would you…what do you mean allowed?” 

You kept your face perfectly straight. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Upset me?” Clark nearly choked. “Why would it upset me?”

Ma Kent’s eyebrows shot up.

Pa Kent set down his fork, slowly and very carefully.

Clark turned toward you so quickly his chair squeaked against the floor.

“Honey, what are you talking about?”

You blinked innocently. “The cobbler.”

“The cobbler…”

“Yes.”

Ma Kent turned to Clark at the same time he looked at you incredulously.

“Clark,” she said carefully, “why would she need permission to eat dessert?”

“I—she doesn’t!” Clark’s brows were furrowed with concern, slowly feeling like he was unnecessarily put on the hot seat. “Why would you need my permission to eat cobbler?!”

You shrugged lightly. “Well, you may not want me to eat any more.”

Ma Kent slowly turned toward her son.

“Clark Joseph Kent.”

Clark’s eyes widened in immediate horror.

“No! No, no, no—Ma, I swear—”

Pa Kent crossed his arms.

Clark looked even more panicked.

“I have literally never stopped her from eating anything in her life! She eats whatever she wants, whenever she wants. I've actually been actively encouraging her to eat more because she sometimes forgets in the afternoon and the doctor said…" He caught himself, and looked back at you. "What is going on?”

You tilted your head. “But maybe you didn’t want me eating cobbler specifically?”

“Why would I not want you to?!”

Clark looked moments away from a full system shutdown.

“Honey,” he said frantically, stumbling over every word, “I have never, not once, told you what you can or can’t eat. Or do. Or wear. Or…anything!”

Ma Kent was now openly suspicious. “Clark…”

“No! Ma, listen to me—I swear, she does whatever she wants! Constantly! Happily! And I support her! Enthusiastically!”

You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s true.”

Clark pointed at you wildly. “See?!”

“But maybe secretly you don’t like how much I eat?”

Clark looked genuinely devastated.

“What?! No, Ma, Pa, listen to me. I’ve never told her not to do anything she wanted! Ever! If anything, she tells me what to do!”

He turned back to his parents, fully distressed now.

“I am not controlling! Right? I’m not controlling.”

Pa Kent finally spoke, voice low. “Son…”

Clark turned toward him in absolute panic. “Pa, I swear to God, I have never denied her anything in my entire life! I don't restrict her eating. I don't restrict ANYTHING! I don't tell her what to do. I would never." Clark's voice had taken on the slightly desperate quality of a man watching a small fire and patting his pockets for something to put it out with. "She has complete autonomy over everything. Every single thing. I've never once told her she couldn't eat or do or–"

"Clark," you said.

“--have anything she wanted, I mean she went through a period in the second trimester where she wanted a very specific brand of crackers at two in the morning and I flew forty minutes to three different stores to find them, I have the receipts, I can show you the receipts–”

“Clark.”

“--and I don't know what this is right now but I need everyone at this table to understand that I am not and have never been–”

“CLARK.”

He stopped his rambling.

He looked at you.

You were smiling. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Then suddenly you were laughing so hard you had to hold your stomach.

The entire table stared at you.

“Oh no,” Ma Kent whispered, already realizing.

You wheezed helplessly, tears gathering in your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m sorry…I was joking.”

Silence.

Clark blinked.

“…What?”

You covered your face, laughing harder. “It was a prank, baby.”

Clark stared. Ma Kent burst into laughter instantly.

Pa Kent leaned back in his chair.

Clark remained frozen. “You…”

“I’m sorry,” you laughed again. “You were just so easy to fluster.”

Clark looked deeply betrayed.

“I thought Pa was about to kill me.”

You grinned at Pa, “He was in on it,” you confessed, remembering how Pa chuckled gruffly when you told him about your plan.

Clark dropped back into his chair dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.

“I cannot believe you.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek sweetly.

“I’m sorry I scared you, honey. You're a wonderful husband," you said. "Why do you still have the receipts?"

He put his arm around you, and you could feel him giving up on the wounded dignity, the whole structure of it just gently collapsing.

"Souvenirs," he said again, quieter, “I didn’t want to forget anything about your pregnancy. And so that I could show our baby that I would do anything for them.”

You smiled at him, cupping his cheek tenderly before giving him a kiss. Clark turned pink.

"Forty minutes,” he reminded you, “Three stores."

"I know."

"In the rain."

"It wasn't raining."

"It was drizzling." Clark sighed deeply. 

You laughed, then immediately reached for the cobbler.

Clark instinctively grabbed the serving spoon and loaded a giant portion onto your plate.

Everyone at the table burst into laughter again.

Clark looked around defensively.

“What? She’s eating for two.”

-

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The first mistake the Night Court made was assuming you were decoration.

Not intentionally or obviously.

They were too polite for that.

But you saw it in the way their eyes moved over you when they entered the meeting room.

Briefly, if not dismissively.

A female beside Eris Vanserra.

Something ornamental, perhaps.

Something placed at his side to soften the image of Autumn’s new High Lord.

You did not correct them.

Eris noticed.

Of course he did.

The corner of his mouth shifted just barely. 

You didn’t look at him.

“Try not to look so pleased,” you murmured.

“I am not pleased.”

“You are nearly smiling.”

“That would be unbecoming.”

“Then by all means,” you said softly, folding your hands in your lap, “continue suffering.”

Across the table, Cassian’s brows rose.

Azriel’s shadows shifted once behind his shoulders.

Rhysand, to his credit, noticed the exchange for what it was.

A warning.

Mor noticed something else entirely.

Her gaze lingered on Eris with the same familiar disdain it always held.

Cold and sharp. Nothing if not practiced.

“You’ve redecorated,” she said, glancing around the council room. “How charming. I almost forgot where we were.”

Eris did not respond.

He only looked down at the treaty papers in front of him.

You watched the movement.

The restraint it took him not to bite at her.

Rhysand cleared his throat.

“We’re here to discuss the border villages.”

“Then let us discuss them,” Eris said.

His voice was smooth.

It always was in rooms like this.

The meeting began as most meetings did.

With maps and numbers. Along with men pretending history had not shaped every inch of land they were negotiating over.

Rhysand spoke well.

You would give him that.

Azriel said very little, but missed nothing.

Cassian shifted in his chair like diplomacy physically pained him.

And Mor…

Mor watched Eris like she was waiting for a monster to show its teeth.

You let it continue for twenty-three minutes.

Twenty-three minutes of clipped words. Quiet tension. Little glances that held nothing but daggers. Along with subtle jabs dressed up as moral certainty.

The last straw was when Mor finally said, “Forgive me if I find Autumn’s sudden interest in protecting vulnerable people difficult to believe.”

Eris’s fingers stilled on the paper.

Only for a moment.

You gently set down your tea.

The cup barely made a sound against the saucer.

But somehow, the room noticed.

Mor’s eyes flicked to you.

You smiled.

Not warmly. Not cruelly. Politely.

The sort of smile court ladies were taught to wear even if swallowing poison.

“Difficult to believe,” you repeated.

Mor lifted her chin.

“Yes.”

“How interesting.”

Cassian leaned back slightly.

Azriel’s shadows went still.

Eris did not move beside you.

He knew better.

Mor’s gaze narrowed. “Do you have something to say?”

You tilted your head.

“I was deciding whether it would be rude.”

“And?”

“Oh, it’s terribly rude I’m afraid.”

Rhysand’s attention sharpened.

You turned your cup once, slow and deliberate, before looking back at Mor.

“But since we are clearly past the point of pretending this room is governed by courtesy, I suppose I might as well.”

Eris exhaled once through his nose.

Almost amused.

You continued.

“You speak of Autumn’s cruelty as though anyone at this table intends to dispute it. We do not. Autumn has teeth. It has always had teeth.” Your gaze swept briefly toward Eris. “Some of us have spent years removing them one by one.”

Mor’s mouth tightened.

“But what fascinates me,” you went on, voice still calm, “is the Night Court’s remarkable talent for selective outrage.”

Cassian straightened.

Rhysand’s face went very still.

There it was.

The shift.

The moment they realized you were not decoration.

You smiled again.

Softer this time.

“You condemn Autumn for what it allowed to happen beneath Beron’s rule. Fair. You should. But I do find it curious how rarely that same scrutiny turns inward.”

Mor’s eyes flashed.

“Careful.”

You looked at her then.

Truly looked.

“I would advise caution, Morrigan,” you said softly. “Not because I fear what you might say, but because I know what you have chosen not to.”

The room went still. 

You leaned back slightly in your chair.

“Careless would be asking why the Court of Dreams feels entitled to sneer at every cruel tradition in Prythian while still ruling over the Hewn City.”

Cassian’s jaw flexed.

Azriel said nothing.

Rhysand did not look away from you.

Good.

At least one of them understood where this was going. 

Mor’s voice was low. “You know nothing about the Hewn City.”

“No,” you agreed. “I know what survived the retelling.”

You tilted your head slightly before continuing 

“Interesting that you speak so confidently for someone whose version of events requires several omissions to survive.” 

Mor stood slowly.

“You have no right to speak to me about what I survived.”

There it was.

The part you had been waiting for.

Your smile faded.

Not because you were afraid.

Because some things deserved seriousness.

“No,” you said. “I do not.”

The room stilled.

Even Eris glanced at you then.

You met Mor’s gaze without flinching.

“What was done to you was monstrous. No one in this room should deny that. I certainly will not.” Your voice lowered. “But your pain does not make every omission holy.”

Mor went utterly still.

“You have allowed them to believe one version of the story because it is easier than dragging the whole thing into the light,” you said. “And perhaps you had reason. Perhaps silence was all you had. I will not fault a girl for surviving the only way she could.”

A breath.

Then another.

“But I will fault a court for building policy around half a truth and calling it justice.”

Rhysand’s eyes flicked, briefly, toward Eris.

Eris remained expressionless.

But his hand had shifted closer to yours on the table.

Not to stop you.

Not to guide you.

Just there.

Mor’s voice was colder now.

“And what truth do you think you know?”

You folded your hands again.

“The kind men leave out when the facts are inconvenient.”

A sad smile played on your lips. 

“The kind women bury because being believed costs too much.”

For the first time, Mor had no immediate response.

Good.

You had not wanted to hurt her.

Not really.

But you were very tired of watching Eris bleed quietly under everyone else’s certainty.

“You may hate my mate,” you said, and only then did your tone sharpen. “That is your right. Hate him forever, if it comforts you.”

Eris’s gaze moved to you.

You did not look at him.

“But do not sit in his court, at his table, beneath laws he bled to change, and pretend your hatred is the same thing as truth.”

Silence pressed against the walls.

Cassian looked between you and Mor, unusually quiet.

Azriel’s shadows curled close to his shoulders.

Rhysand leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.

You picked up your tea again.

It had gone cold.

Mor did not sit.

Not immediately.

Her face was pale with anger, but beneath it there was something else.

Something older. Something less certain.

Eris finally spoke. Calm and measured.

“My mate raises a wonderful point.”

Rhysand looked at him.

Eris’s eyes did not leave Mor.

“Do you intend to discuss the border villages,” he said, “or continue mistaking personal history for governance?”

Your mouth twitched.

Only slightly.

Mor saw it.

Cassian definitely saw it.

Rhysand looked as though he was reevaluating several decisions at once.

Good.

That meant they were listening.

You took one careful sip of cold tea and set it back down.

“Now,” you said pleasantly, as though you hadn’t just gutted the room and asked for the next topic. “Shall we return to the villages, or would anyone else like to confuse emotion with policy first?”

Cassian muttered something under his breath.

Azriel looked down.

Rhysand looked at you for a long moment.

Then, finally, he said, “The villages.”

You smiled.

“Excellent.”

Beside you, Eris reached for his wine.

Not to drink.

To hide the fact that he was smiling.

You leaned toward him just slightly.

“Poorly done,” you murmured.

His gaze slid to you.

“What was?”

“Hiding your amusement.”

Then, so quietly only you could hear:

“I wasn’t trying very hard.”

Taglist

@illyriassweetheart

His precious Cane Corso named Lily weighs a whopping 85lbs. She is the best trained dog you have ever met in your life, courtesy of Brendon himself.

She sits, retrieves, lays, and gives paw all on command. Not to mention she has never needed a leash, ever.

When he adopted Lily, he had just made attending. He loved her more than he would ever admit. She was completely loyal to him and only him, until you came along.

She had always liked you, but the second you moved in it was like she was yours. Brendon rolls his eyes at the whole ordeal.

He would get home and you would both be under a blanket on the couch sound asleep. What you referred to as: Lily and Mama’s afternoon nap. When he dared get closer, Lily would nearly growl at him, threatening to interrupt your moment.

“My baby princess Lily” you cooed down at her.

“She’s not a baby.” He would say firmly.

You would scoff, “just ignore him baby girl you’re the most perfect baby.”

He would feign annoyance, but you don’t miss the way his lips twitch at the corner.

He would walk into the kitchen to her taste testing homemade treats from recipes you would find online. She sat patiently next to you as you peeled one off the tray.

“This one has fish oil in it to help with your dry skin and joints Lily girl,” you would explain to her in an extra soft voice like she understood you.

The little wag of her butt as you spoke made Brendon smile. It also made his heart skip a beat that you cared so much about her. He hadn’t even noticed the dry skin until you pointed it out.

Suddenly, she’s in pink collars, sweaters, bows, eating homemade treats, and laying next to you by the pool while you tan.

You even bought her a cooling mat and a small umbrella so she could lounge next to you comfortably in the sun.

“Babe. She’s a dog. She doesn’t need a wardrobe.” He would say as he watched you pick out her sweater before your guests arrive.

“Bren. She’s a pretty princess. She absolutely needs a wardrobe, and she’s absolutely wearing the matching Louis Vuitton sweaters that I bought for us.” You said seriously.

“Wait wait wait. Let me get this straight. You bought mother daughter sweaters for you and the dog? From Louis Vuitton?” He said shocked.

You nodded, not phased by his tone, “it’s not rocket science babe, and technically you bought them.”

You threw a wink his way that knocked the wind out of him. And he couldn’t deny how cute you both looked in your sweaters.

Even though he huffed as you made him take pictures of you and Lily together posing.

Although he rolled his eyes at you and teased, you knew deep down he loved it, because Brendon Park didn’t endure anything he didn’t like.

Jack's eyebrows shoot up. He takes a look around, and you're struck by the realization that you're still at work, offering to have your boss smell you. You should turn and run, but then you consider the fact that just yesterday in the very same ED, Jack did give you a hundred bucks to spend on yourself. Sugar daddy shit, you think. This could get complicated, more so than it already is. But, honestly? A little mid-shift sniff might not be the worst thing in the world.

Jack seems to think so too, because he nods. His eyes scan the surrounding area. He must deem it safe, because wordlessly, he leans in. You bare your neck, the spot where you had rubbed your perfume-covered wrists. Wait, your wrists! Why aren't you offering up your wrists?

It's too late to ask that question, because Jack inhales, long and slow. You hold your breath, eyes fluttering as you attempt to ignore the pounding of your heart.

"Smells– Smells great," Jack pulls away, clearing his throat. You try not to look too disappointed when he smiles tightly at you, "What else?"

You blink, "Uh… nothing. That's it."

Jack scowls, "Seriously? I gave you a hundred bucks. Why didn't you spend it all?"

"I did."

"On two things?"

"Dr. Abbot, that's just how expensive this stuff is. Why do you think I was going to just buy the drugstore one?"

Shit, now you feel bad. You should have just lied, told Jack that you cleared out the store. It would make him so happy, but the idea of lying to Jack after you're already indebted to him makes you feel ill.

"I told you to let me know if you needed more. Why didn't you?"

"Because I don't!" Jack shakes his head in disappointment. You press, "Jack, you gave me a hundred bucks. One hundred bucks that you didn't need to!"

Jack nods, chewing the inside of his lip. He sighs, and when you think he's done with this matter, Jack says, "Why don't we go together?"

"Huh?"

"We'll go together, you just pick out what you want and I'll use my card."

The offer before you is tempting, incredibly so. A blank check. You've never had one of those before, and at Sephora? It's almost too good, but you can't let your fucking boss become your sugar daddy. No way.

"That is an incredibly kind gesture, Jack, but I… I can't say yes."

Jack shrugs, "Okay. Well, we're still going."

"Jack–"

He raises his hand, "Not up for debate, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. He has got to stop calling you that.

"No, it's not. Because I can't let you do that, Dr. Abbot."

"Look, you can't afford the things you like, and I'm offering to foot the bill," Jack puts a hand on your shoulder. He leans in. "So do you want nice make-up for free or no?"

*****

"It's not gonna break back here?" You say, shutting the trunk of Jack's car. You offered to put his wheelchair in the back. It's the least you can do, considering that for the last hour and a half, Jack followed you through Sephora, taking every product you merely tested on your hand and dropping it in the basket that sat on his lap.

When all was said and done, Jack paid five hundred and eighty-three dollars. You could have dropped dead right at the cash register.

"What is?" Jack asks, sticking his head out of the window.

"The chair?"

Jack scoffs, "No. She's fine."

"It doesn't need to be—?"

He hits the side of the car twice, "She's fine. Get in."

Jack doesn't have to tell you again. You round the car and hop into the passenger seat, where your (heart-stoppingly large) bag of makeup sits on the floor.

Jack waits until you buckle to start the car. He drives carefully, eyes glued to the road. You, however, keep yours on him.

You decide to break the silence, "So, are you like a pay pig or something?"

Jack blinks, "A what?"

So… not a pay pig. Good to know.

"Are you… are you trying to be my sugar daddy?"

Jack pulls a hand from the steering wheel, swiping it down his face, "No, Jesus, sweetheart. No. I… I like to help. I have a lot of money, and you don't."

"Lots of people don't have money."

Jack puts the hand back on the wheel, "Listen, do you want it or not? Because I can drive back and return it all."

Your eyes widen, "No, no! I'm not saying not to do this, just…" You bite your lip, debating whether or not you actually want to do this. Fuck it. "Usually when a man spends a shit ton of money on a woman, they expect…" Sex. Okay, maybe you don't want to bring that up with your boss, even if this situation is weird as anything. "They expect something in return."

"No, sweetheart, no. Shit, I'm sorry. I– I don't expect anything from you."

You ignore the way your heart sinks. Jack is your boss, you tell yourself. Your boss. Your boss. Your boss.

"Nothing? Jack, you just spent six hundred dollars on me. On top of the hundred dollars from yesterday."

Jack grows quiet. He pouts before nodding, "I did. And I'd do it again and still not expect anything from you. Got it?"

You bite your lip, "Got it."

From then on, it's nothing but silence in the car. He keeps the windows down. It doesn't do much. You wonder what it would be like to drive with him outside of the city, where Jack can really drive. Windows down, high speed, the wind in your hair.

You bite the inside of your cheek, heat rising to your face. Just because Jack decided that you're his charity case of the month doesn't mean that you should be fantasizing about road tripping with him.

You try your best to wipe that image from your mind until, finally, Jack is pulling over in front of the familiar exterior of your apartment building.

"This is me," you try to joke. "Uh, thank you, Dr. Abbot."

You get out of the car, your bag of splendors in your hands. You close the car door, but the car doesn't move.

Jack wrings his hands together in his lap, "Could we talk more?"

"Oh," your heart begins to pound. You step closer to the car. "Yeah, of course."

"Great, um, over dinner maybe? I think there's some things we should talk about."

"Dinner?" You echo.

Jack's neck flushes, "Or now, if—"

"No, no! Dinner's fine, Dr. Abbot." Trying to remain casual, you tack on, "Maybe I can finally pay."

Jack's lips curl, "Eh, maybe. I'll text you?"

You nod. "Sounds good." With one last smile, you turn, making your way to your place.

“He sent another fifty,” you say.

“Oh my god.” 

Your phone starts to ring in your hand, Clark’s profile photo in the middle of the screen: his sleeping face tucked over your heart. You giggle to yourself as you answer, doughy bread in your mouth. “Hi, sorry, I’m chewing.”

“That’s okay, honey,” he says, sounding cheerful and worried all at once, “what’s up? Is that gonna be enough?”

“Oh, er, my card declined. I’m getting lunch with Cat.”

“Downstairs? I can come down, sweetheart, I have my wallet.” 

“No, I already paid for it.” 

“Aw, great, I was worried for a second there.”

“I can send it right back to you, now,” you say, feeling ever so slightly guilty. You don’t know what you were expecting, but his urgency makes you wanna kiss him stupid, not trick him further. “Thank you, for– for being so quick. You saved me the embarrassment.”

“That’s okay, I don’t need it back–”

“Well, no, I can’t keep a hundred dollars just ‘cos you sent it, baby, I– my card declined, but it was the card reader, that’s all.” 

“Just keep whatever you paid for lunch, then, and use the rest for lunch tomorrow.”

“It’s a sandwich." 

“Then you can have sandwiches all week.”

You meet Cat’s eyes, failing to hide your unyielding elation. He’s such a catch. “Okay. Clark, I’m sending it back, okay?” 

“Don’t tease me, I got so excited.” 

You laugh and hang up on him. 

Clark texts you ten seconds later: If you send it back to me I’m gonna send it back to you. Have a good break, see you later? <3

“I bet he will,” Cat says, having read the screen upside down. 

You text Clark back: Yes!! Can I come home with you? 

Yeah honey meet me by the elevators? I’ll be waiting for you 

“He is such a dork,” Cat says, eyebrows raised. “But I’m happy for you.” 

You’re feeling pretty good about it all yourself. You and Cat finish lunch and head your mildly separate ways. You’re in the print room today supervising, and it stretches into the uneventful afternoon. By finishing time, you’re excited to give Clark a kiss and sneak his hundred dollars back into his pocket somehow, but he’s not waiting by the elevator. 

It’s tempting to keep the money. He did sound excited for you to keep it, as strange as that might be. He rejected your offer to give it back, then tried to compromise that you could keep it. He'd pay for your lunch all week. 

Would he give you money for nothing at all? He was just worried, right? But when there was no problem, he didn’t want it back. 

It doesn’t hurt to poke around a little. 

Clark exits the elevator with a blank expression. When he sees you waiting a few feet away with your shoulders on the wall, his face lights up. His eyebrows soften, his lips lift and go white from the force of his smile. 

“Let’s go home,” he says, grinning as he wraps his arm around you from the small of your back. 

You lean up and kiss his jaw. “Today was long.” 

“Too long, bubby.” 

Bubby. You give him a harmless shove, but Clark pulls you right back in. Keeps his arm on you all the way home, give the few seconds getting off of the tram, where he offers his hand to guide you onto the road. 

“So,” you say, “about earlier…”

“What happened earlier?”

“With the money.”

Clark narrows his eyes at you. “What about it? Honey, I already told you to keep it. It was yours the second I sent it.” 

“No, it’s not– Clark. I would much rather you take it back, I really don’t need a hundred dollars for a sandwich I already paid for. It was this–” You pause, giving him a bashful, sorry smile. “Cat wanted me to see if you’d complain or not, I guess. So I lied about my card declining, sorry. I am actually sorry, and I can’t keep the money in good conscience.”

“Ooh, in good conscience,” he murmurs, mirroring your smile, though his is more of a smirk. “Well, that’s okay. If you feel bad about it, send it back to me, no hard feelings.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Thank you, handsome,” you say. 

“What else is on your mind?”

“You… this isn’t supposed to sound like you need to say yes, but I guess I was wondering if you would’ve sent me it no matter what? My text literally just said can you send me money. I didn’t even say please, and I didn’t say it’s an emergency or anything.”

Clark shrugs at you. “Yeah, I would’ve sent it to you. I don’t care what it was for.”

“Clark, it was a hundred dollars.”

“Do you think you’re not worth a hundred dollars?”

“Not for no reason.” 

“In the moment, I assumed it was an emergency because you never ask me for anything, do you?” 

“Not really.”

“Would it shock you to know that I wish you would?” A curl falls onto his forehead, just above his dark brow. “You are the most important woman in my life. A hundred is nothing compared to that. I don’t really care what you want it for.” 

You’re pretty sure that’s an I love you. Maybe he’s saving the real thing for somewhere more intimate than the street, but that’s gotta be close. 

“Keep the money,” he says, kissing your cheek quickly. “I was still gonna send it back, even if you were just satisfying your curiosity. You didn’t lie to get it, you lied after.”

“You’re such a reporter,” you grumble, secretly very pleased. “Poking holes in my argument.”

(Clark sends you $50 the next day at lunch, with the text: Buy yourself dinner or whatever you want, do not send it back! 

Then: Please just take it. For my gratification if nothing else. Please!!

You text back: you’re being pervy 

The children were tense, and moving around was quiet for a long time. They followed Esme like ghosts, peeling away the Shelby name to the gypsy children beneath.

They got a dog and found a band of gypsies to wander with. They never stayed in one area for too long. The longest was the next spring, when they stayed in a valley for a few weeks.

Then came the first letter.

Polly Gray had lost her children to the system before, and had made a vow to herself that no Shelby would ever be lost again.

At first she sent letters to the towns she knew the Lees would be by, hoping Esme returned to family. When she heard nothing back, she began to pad the pocket of any man that was sent traveling, told to look for a hardened dark haired Lee girl with a gaggle of children.

Months went by before she began to get whispers back of such a family, but they never settled long enough to pin them down.

Esme finally received one. She opened it, letting out a laugh when she read "Tommy doesn't know I'm writing you, I beg..."

Weeks later, a man pressed a folded piece of paper into Polly's hand. She opened it, her lips pressed thin as she read the two sentences scrawled inside.

Yes, he does. Money for updates.

Polly might not have told Tommy, but he knew she would keep the children tethered to the Shelby name. He pretended to look the other way when he noticed small bills being taken from general funds and his informants leaving with pockets of scrap paper.

Tommy didn't want to lose John's legacy, but he had no qualms about keeping them at distance from the business that took away their father. Air between him and the next generation of Shelby might be the only thing that kept the name going.

Ada took interest in Polly's letters when she caught her reading one, her hand covering a sad smile.

Polly held the letter to her chest as she smiled at Ada.

"John's youngest began walking last month," she said quietly. "Loves to nap next to the family dog in the sun."

Arthur stayed out of it. Tom didn't speak about it, so he thought Tom paid Esme to go off and raise them away from the city. He watched his own child and wondered what it would have been like for him to be raised around his cousins.

Finn went deeper into Peaky business, determined to take John's place if he couldn't make a space in the family for himself. Deeper into the business and deeper into the chemicals he needed to keep his conscious quiet from the violence he partook in.