A/N: In all honesty, I'd forgotten that I wrote this a few months ago. There's a notable lack of the Brackenreids here, which is odd, considering they were most certainly the couple that was established first.

Spoilers for On the Waterfront, Parts 1 and 2. Can stand alone. I figure that it's the least I could do, especially because of what I did to this family in my earlier posted fics! You all have been so kind to me and really made me feel welcome. Enjoy, my friends.

One Quiet Moment

For the first time in a matter of months, Thomas Brackenreid awoke to the scent of bread baking.

Before going down to check on the state of his domain, he spent considerable time in the washroom grooming his mustache. He'd return to the helm of Station House Number Four the next morning, and there was no reason to appear unkempt. That meant bidding good riddance to the likes of Hamish Slorach and all manner of unsavory characters they'd just arrested along the waterfront. Yes, it was crucial that he looked his best.

Some might call it a comeback, but Thomas was more inclined to call it a return to his former grace. The O'Sheas no longer had any power over him, nor could any of their kind circumvent the unstoppable power of the law. That treacherous woman Cecily McKinnon was behind bars, where he was sure she'd stay for the rest of her natural life as soon as the particulars of the case were brought to light.

Although his legs and back still pained him, aching reminders of his beat down at the hands of those long dead dock workers, he felt rejuvenated at the prospect of a new day. John and Bobby were off at school, leaving him alone in the company of his lovely wife. Perhaps they might even catch up on a good deal of romance that had to be forgone because of his injury. Really, the possibilities were endless for the day ahead.

Yes, life was good for Inspector Brackenreid. He'd gotten a good dose of a more docile lifestyle over the course of the past few weeks, and he was more than looking forward to a swift return to normal. As he made his way down the stairs, he made a point of giving himself a rakish glance of encouragement in the mirror.

He found Margaret in the kitchen, surrounded by the ingredients necessary for a batch of her delicious homemade bread. The sleeves of her dress were rolled up high, and flour coated her forearms up to the elbow. As she kneaded the dough, turning it over and over again with the palm of her hands, her hips swayed gently with the rhythm of the old tune she was humming.

A dozen cookies, most likely oatmeal, were cooling on a metal rack by the stove. They were the very same recipe that she'd bring to the station house on a slow afternoon, garnering many a compliment from the constables that didn't have an equally talented homemaker in their lives. Thomas couldn't resist partaking in one.

"Those are for the boys," she said absently, not looking up from her task. It confounded him how she was able to sense what was going on in the home without even looking in the direction of the activity. Then again, his own mother had been like that as well. Perhaps it was what those blasted suffragettes would call woman's intuition.

"They're delicious," he assured her, also helping himself to a pinch of sugar from the ceramic jar that held it.

Margaret finally deigned him worthy enough of her attention, pinning him under her scrutinizing gaze. It reminded him of their first interaction all those years ago when he, as a strapping young armed forces veteran, had wandered into her father's general store on a slow afternoon to inquire after a job.

In her haste to restock the shelves for the evening rush, she'd mistaken him for a customer. "Tell me if you see anything you like," she ordered hastily, before stooping over to pick up a box.

Eyeing her shapely rear end, Thomas had replied, "I'm looking at it."

Without any warning at all, the young woman had drawn herself up to full height, leaned over the counter, and slapped him across the face.

Back in the present, he decided that his lovely wife was being too damned uptight considering the extraordinary amount of luck they'd run into as of late. Pinching a bit of flour from the cutting board, he flicked it at her blouse.

"Thomas!" She gasped, jumping backward. There was no harm done, really, for when she baked she tended to wear the oldest and most threadbare of her skirts. When she was sure that the offending substance hadn't stained her clothing, Margaret looked up at him. The glint in her eyes could only be described as mischievous.

Before he had the chance to get out of arm's reach, she had procured a handful of sticky dough and pressed it into his face.

He threw his head back and laughed loudly. No matter how much they argued about this and that, no matter how much she immersed herself in such ridiculous causes as the Temperance League, she was always the very same firecracker that had initially caught his eye.

The two lost themselves in a flurry of limbs as clouds of flour and sugar flew. The initial intention of baking bread was all but forgotten as they engaged in a bit of juvenile merrymaking.

Their food fight came to an end when the inspector slipped on a mound of dough, sliding several inches and pinning his wife against the cabinet. She was still laughing when he began to deposit soft kisses on her cheeks and collar bone, that same high-pitched whinny of amusement that he'd missed so much.

From the foyer, the telephone rang.

"If you'll excuse me, madam, duty calls." It was with some difficulty that Thomas managed to tear himself away from her and approach the device. The make and model were identical to the kind used in the station house; in fact, he was quite sure that they were one of the first homes on the street to have one for their own personal use. He was sure that it was Murdoch or Crabtree, calling to tell him the laundry list of tasks they had to accomplish by the end of the day. They would surely need his counsel in the matter.

His eyes then strayed to their shiny new phonograph, a gift from Mr. Edison himself that had been meant to buy their cooperation in the case against James Pendrick. While the inspector was never in any mood to take bribes, he'd accepted the present in good faith. It had been so long since their house had been filled with music…

Ignoring the intrusive sound of the telephone, he cued up one of Margaret's ballroom tunes. It wasn't his preference, all soft brass and wailing strings, but he knew how much she loved that record.

Back in the kitchen, his wife had wet a dry rag in the sink and proceeded to half-heartedly scrub at the mess they'd created, as if she wasn't sure how she'd get around to cleaning it all. Clearly, their jovial mood had been broken.

Bending at the waist, he asked, "May I have this dance, Mrs. Brackenreid?"

Her gaze flickered between her husband and the tremendous amount of flour and sugar that was still covering the floor and nearly every other surface in the kitchen. Suddenly, Margaret dropped the rag and went to join him.

"You certainly may," she replied, beaming up at him. Carefully, he placed one hand on the small of her back, the fingers of the other intertwining with hers, and the couple settled into an easy waltz.

From the hall, the telephone rang once more.

Margaret and Thomas continued to dance.

The End