A/N: I love the Captain. And I love Maria. And I love the two of them together even more. But every time Georg breaks up with Elsa and she leaves with tears in her eyes I always think the same thing…would someone please hug the damn Baroness? No…? Just gonna go propose to the governess? Alrighty then...
I've never written Max or Elsa before....hoping they aren't to miserably out of character. :)
Disclaimer: I do not own the Sound of Music. If I did, Rolfe would have met an unfortunate end the first time he showed his Nazi face and stole screen time away from Christopher Plummer….
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The sheer fabric of the drapes hardly impairs her vision. The grounds below are presented to her in perfect clarity; the moonlight frames the lush Austrian landscape in a soft, almost heavenly light. Absently, the Baroness wonders if it is indeed some celestial trick that renders the gazebo the lights focal point, pale shafts of moonlight streaming through each glass pane. The night ought not to have a center; everything ought to be concealed in inky blackness at such an hour. Nevertheless, the moon continues to caress the gazebo and its two inhabitants.
Her heart wrenches painfully in her chest as her gaze slides over the couple once again, their features clothed in shadow. Regardless of the halo behind them, the distance or the darkness, it is impossible not to guess their identities. Standing so unbearably close together, arms wrapped so tightly around the other as though the world around them might fall away at any given moment.
She tries to remember when Georg ever held her in such a manner. It takes only a moment to realize he never did. The ache intensifies.
As Georg and the governess lean into each other once more, Elsa turns away, unable to watch any longer. She walks to her closet, fetches her suitcases, and prepares to make her exit. She has to get out of the house; she must get out and away from the villa. It is a nearly maddening shriek in her thoughts, almost as vivid as the latent pain pooling in her gut. She deposits the bags on the bed, turning to her dresser.
She leans heavily against the polished wood, closing her eyes. Behind them is the image of her former fiancée and his new love, lost in each other in a moonlight gazebo. In the silence of her empty room, the Baroness chokes down a sob.
"Are those tears I see in your eyes, Baroness?"
Elsa sniffs disdainfully, knowing without looking precisely who is leaning so causally against the doorframe, tone teasing her, "Don't…don't be silly, Max, you know very well I don't cry. It's merely…allergies." She wipes a hand violently across her eyes to be certain.
"Oh? Allergies is it? And could it be a certain governess you are allergic to, darling?" The impresario favors her with a sympathetic smile, his customary bravado and sarcasm briefly set-aside in exchange for a genuine sort of affection. Max steps over the threshold, coming to lean beside her, watching as expensive clothing is shoved into suitcases with a disregard that seems nearly offensive. He plucks one of the slighted dresses from the impressive pile, smoothing out the already forming wrinkles, folding it neatly. He replaces the filmy evening gown in the suitcase, eyeing it solemnly before flicking his gaze back to his friend.
Elsa deposits another armful of clothes on the bed, keeping her head dipped low, chin nearly touching her clavicle. It shames her to admit it, but there are tears in her eyes. There are beads of moisture trickling steadily down alabaster cheeks. In her mind, the Baroness counts Max as one of her finest friends, even still she has no desire to allow him to see her in such a state of disarray, her perfect façade shattered. Unlike that…governess, that little creatures whose arms her fiancée has found refuge in, she does not wear her heart on her sleeve. She has no desire for the world's pity.
As valiantly as she tries to rally her spirits, infuse them with some semblance of the refined, nearly haughty, elegance she is renowned for, they fall flat, bitterness seeping into her tone, "Yes, fatally." The ache in her chest certainly feels fatal, though whether it stems from the mortal damage inflicted upon her pride or the loss of one of her finest friends is impossible to determine. In all honesty, she has no desire to determine it.
She tugs the suitcase closed, laying both hands heavily upon the top, eager to change the subject, "I'm returning to Vienna, darling. You will try and behave yourself for Georg while I'm away, won't you?"
The man shrugs, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. His posture is completely stiff, something entirely unlike Max. The man, seldom at a loss for words, and certainly never without his own lazy charm, finds himself wringing his hands; he bites his lip and laughs nervously. "Had you asked me that only hours earlier I would have been forced to oblige you."
"And now?"
He smiles, reaching over to pat one of her hands, "Now I am not so certain, ma meilleure moitié. Every ounce of this old man is aching to defy our friend." Despite her poor spirits, she manages a little laugh. It places her on the receiving end of one of the impresario's seldom seen, but most impressive, glares, "Is it so wrong that I should jump to defend you, dearest?"
In an effort to placate him, she grasps his hand, giving it a playful squeeze before returning to her packing once more. She speaks more to her clothes then him, fingering the delicate material of her golden evening gown. The one she wore at that grand and seemingly glorious party. Both the memory and the dress are shoved aside as the unpleasant feelings prepare to resurface once more. "Only when I am not in need of defending; you know as well as I that Georg will be infinitely more happy with the little Fraulein then he ever could have been with me."
"Ah, such a saint! Ever gracious, even forced to wallow in misery whilst her affianced knows true joy."
She chuckles again, knowing this time the true bitterness will shine through. It does; her friends face falls visibly, instantly apologetic and he is again reaching out for her hand. She waves it off absently, fiddling with the ties of one of her gowns instead. "Oh, you can be a beast! Better one of us happy then neither."
"Mmm," he responds vaguely, watching in amusement as she continues to abuse the slip of material. She tugs the laces much too harshly, an audible rip sounding through the room. A loud huff escapes the refined lady, the laces are dropped, and a small smile twists up the corners of her friends lips. He nods towards her unfortunate dress, "but, as you have so aptly demonstrated, misery loves company. Ergo you would have both been perfectly content."
"How silly of me to argue with one such as yourself."
"Very silly, precious. Now, come sit with me before you manage to mangle any more of your innocent apparel." As if to make certain of this, he sets the suitcases on the ground, brushing the rest of her clothes, the ones fortunate enough to avoid her frenzied packing, to the top of the bed. Finished with his endeavors, he pats the spot beside him.
Had she been feeling only slightly more cheerful, she would have chided him for such a suggestion, slipped lightly back into their casual, teasing, entirely easy, relationship. Had she been only slightly less tired and more herself she would have inclined her head at a haughty angle and marched across the room to settle herself in one of the plush armchairs, grinning at him all the while.
Tonight she feels neither cheerful nor herself. Tonight she has lost her fiancée to a governess. Tonight she deserves a little comforting. The Baroness, that creature composed entirely of preternatural grace and impossible beauty, let's out an exhausted little moan, rearranges the crimson material of her skirts and settles herself beside her friend.
The position is familiar, sitting so closely together, though the gravity of the situation is not. Instead of a playfully flirtatious remark, Max wraps an arm around her shoulders, entirely silent. Instead of teasingly insulting him, Elsa leans her head tiredly against his chin, sighing. Somehow her free hand finds itself in his. She's too drained to care or protest. There is only the comforting warmth of her dear friends proximity and the overwhelming desire to succumb to sleep. Somewhere in the back of her foggy mind, she expects him to break the silence with a joke, make light of the entire situation. He does not.
In an odd celestial turn, she speaks first, smiling in self-deprecation, "Don't laugh, Max, but a…a very small part of me…thinks it is best it turned out this way…"
"A very small part, hmm? The one that is not allergic to our good Fraulein?" She swats at him half heartedly, making as though to pull away. He squeezes her back to his side, chuckling, "Oh, stay still; you know I cannot help but tease you. I'm not meant to be in such serious situations."
"No, last I checked you're meant to abuse your wealthy friends and exploit the populous of Austria."
"Hah! You know me well, Baroness." The conversation lulls, both simply…content. Elsa absently straightens his tie, smiling, thoughts completely turned away from the Captain and his governess, so thoroughly cheerful in the gazebo. She doesn't mind. Certainly, their relationship had never had that desperately romantic quality to it. He had not sought her out in the dead of night in a moon lit gazebo to confess his love. Their romance, as it was, had been based more on a deep, mutual respect, entirely platonic in nature. His little…obsession with the governess was a creature of an entirely different nature, composed all of violent, almost destructive, feeling and brash, soul-consuming love.
Love…
She wonders when the word began to taste so bitter on her tongue, more a curse to be spat then a girlish aspiration once held so close to her heart.
It is, as always, Max who shakes her from her unpleasant reverie, squeezing her shoulders gently enough to signal he is still present. From the odd quirk of his brow she knows he's worrying over her again. When she flashes him another pacifying, entirely soulless, smile, he hugs her a little tighter, tone so impossibly cheerful that it must be feigned, "And what could be so interesting that it pulls your attention away from your Max?"
"You would fault me for thinking now? Brute."
"Call me old fashioned, but someone so lovely should not be expected to think."
"Brute."
"So you said," he heaves an over-dramatic sigh, "Very well, I'll bite. Tell Max what occupies your thoughts."
"Love."
"How dreadful."
She laughs, "Oh, Max. You are one to have around at such a time. My poor little heart, broken to pieces, and you, disparaging about love."
"Mmm, isn't that the sort of person you want around? Would you prefer me to go on and on about what you've lost? Darling, you may the look the part, but I know you too well; the role of spurned lover is one you are not destined to play."
"Are you saying you do not think I will march down those stairs in tears and rage at Georg for betraying me in such a manner?"
"As appealing as seeing you in a rage would be, yes, that is precisely what I am saying."
She laughs, patting his arm, "I do believe you just complimented me, darling."
"Complimented you!? Me? Never, you must have heard me wrong." He flashes a toothy smile, "So, tell me, Baroness, is it love lost that has you in such a singular state of disarray? I don't believe I've seen you so horribly bedraggled."
"Love lost? I don't believe so. This is simply little Elsa, licking her wounds and mending her affronted pride."
"Liar."
"I am not lying, Max," and it is true. She isn't. Her heart, as desperately as it aches, is not suffering the ill effects of a love lost. It does mourn, but not for the loss of a lover. It's an the loss of an old friend she finds herself mourning. First Agathe, now Georg, both lost to her. She sighs, patting his leg, "As desperately as I love Georg, I fear...we two never were able to get around to being in love."
"He is in love with her."
The Baroness stares at their joined hands, absently brushing her thumb over his palm. The simple, rhythmic motion is oddly soothing, a gentle balm on her frayed nerves. She chuckles lowly to herself, squeezing his hand, "I know, darling. What else would motivate a selfish creature like me to surrender such a man?"
He throws her an impossible smile, one so infectious that it forces the corners of her own lips up. "Come now, it won't do to have someone so beautiful so distraught. What say we raid Georg's wine cellar once more, for old time's sake?"
Elsa tosses her head, "And here I was under the impression that Max Detweiler needed no excuse to pillage the von Trapp cellar…" As if physically struck, the man clasps a hand to his chest, face screwing up in feigned injury.
"You wound me, Baroness! I may not need an excuse but it never hurts to have one."
A drink actually sounds lovely, though she doesn't vocalize the thought. Max's ego is massive enough without her intervention. She ends up pandering to it anyway, "Oh, Max, I don't know how I will ever survive without you. Vienna will seem so dull after all this."
"Ah! You come to realize the unfortunate truth. Everything is dull without Max Detweiler in your life. Tell you what your dear, old, Max will return with you to Vienna, and we'll find you a perfectly eligible bachelor. With money. Lots of money. And no attractive young governess. "
"That sounds lovely, darling, but impossible. Georg is going to need you here."
"Elsa, the man has seven children and a postulant as his betrothed. I believe he can spare me. Believe me dearest, love may not have found me, but I am quite adept at finding it for others."
The remark earns him a disbelieving stare, "That's exactly what you told Georg and I when you convinced us to put our friendship on hold for…this."
Again, that ridiculous smile, again he squeezes her hand blithely, "Precisely, and unless there's another Fraulein Maria traipsing about the countryside you are destined to be successful."
"So far your matchmaking has met nothing but failure."
Her protest does not deter him in the slightest. If anything, the man looks more intrigued by the prospect. From the childish glint flashing in his eyes, he is already composing a list of suitable prospects in that ridiculous head of his, "Yes, well. Let me try again. Then it will only be half failure."
"If I was feeling more myself I would rebuke your offer." Both realize the statement is false; neither comment on it. Max, to his credit, simply shrugs it off.
"Then I shall be grateful that you are thoroughly exhausted in spirit. Now come, darling, I believe we've wallowed enough for one night. Let's drown our collective sorrows in strong liquor and questionable morals."
She quirks a brow at that, "Questionable morals?"
He nods, still grinning, "I never go anywhere without them. Now, get yourself up. We're going drinking."
"Oh Max…"
"No, 'oh Max-ing' me. That broken heart of yours is bleeding all over your finery. I'll be doing Austria a civic service mending it."
She feigns surprise, "The Max I know would never engage in civic service."
"And he will continue not to. I intend to state at you quite lewdly the entirety of the evening. That will have to be compensation enough."
Despite the gravity of the evening, the ache in her chest, her wounded pride, she finds herself laughing without a hint of bitterness. It is oddly comforting to know that, whatever hellish turn her life might take, Max will be the single constant. The Baroness nudges his shoulder lightly with her own, "Thank you."
He smiles, turning to place a kiss against her forehead, "Think nothing of it, darling. I was due for a gentlemanly moment one day." The impresario rises, turning to flash a final smile before crossing to leave the room.
Alone again, Elsa stares around her empty chambers, dresses shoved to the head of the bed, a half-filled suitcase at her feet. A single shaft of moonlight manages to tear itself away from the gazebo to shine through the curtains. It brings another smile to her face.
Slowly but surely, the ache in her chest begins to fade.