Author's Note: Well, to be honest with you, I mostly wrote this fic for – I believe it was – Silent Bob 546, who wanted a wee (little) bit of romance in this fandom. Asketh and I shall… provideth? Help me out here, Sethoz! Fellow thespian… thespians unite! Stop it, Clez, you're scaring people. Ah, good advice, I think I shall stop. Yeah, but anyway, it was a little thing… and this follows pretty much from 'Empty Spaces', and if you haven't already, I suggest you go and read that so you can understand this one properly *wink* although it should be pretty straightforward anyway. Shutting up now… oh yes, just a note. Becky Thatcher is always – and I mean always, lol – based on Keira Knightley in my work. Just so you know…
It had been a few months since he'd been in America, but he wasn't certain whether or not he missed the country at all, with its hustle and bustle, and its constant activity at all hours of the day. True, he had travelled a lot, but until recently, he had always looked forward to returning – to coming home as it were. Perhaps it was due to the circumstances under which he had last left that filled him with a secret sense of anxiety. He was nervous, and fully aware that it was probably quite obvious… more obvious than he would have liked to admit. Was he doing the right thing?
But then again, as he stood there and thought about it, Allan Quatermain had died to save him… to ensure he lived on and had a second chance at everything.
Special Agent Tom Sawyer could not forget that.
So it was, that when he stood at the foot of the ramp to the Nautilus, Tom suddenly felt more certain about what he planned to do. It was the right choice. The person watching him from the head of the ramp certainly seemed to think so as well, as he threw Tom a knowing smirk and nodded from underneath the shading peak of his trilby hat, the collar of his black leather jacket pulled up to hide the fact that he had no back to his head.
Tom smiled in response, and turned to the small man standing behind him, who was holding timidly to the reins of a large black horse, which snorted impatiently and tossed its broad, noble head. It stamped a hoof, and shook its shaggy mane from side to side, swishing its tail as if keen to set off.
"Good luck, Sawyer," Rodney Skinner called from the opening of the Nautilus. Tom looked over his shoulder, realising that the submarine could very well be the reason for the man near him appearing so timid. It wasn't exactly something you saw every day in a sleepy town like St. Petersburg after all. Compared to a ferry, the Nautilus was a sight to behold… there was no mistaking it. Tom was still surprised that Captain Nemo had brought the vessel in this far.
Taking the reins from the man, he paid him the money he owed for the use of the horse, and swung into the saddle, slipping his boots firmly into the iron stirrups. He shifted his grip on the reins, holding them in one hand, and waved half-heartedly to Skinner.
The 'gentleman thief' – an oxymoron if ever Tom had heard one – was the only one the American had told about his true reasons for being in Missouri, out of all the places he could have gone. He wondered why he had stored so much confidence in the invisible man, until he remembered Mongolia. He supposed that the saving of a life created a bond between two people… and Skinner had certainly saved Tom's life, putting his own at risk. It still amazed and confused the American that the cocky thief had even bothered with such a heroic act, whereas before, his main concern had always seemed to be whether or not his scotch was running low. As for his reasons about being in Missouri, the others thought he was visiting family.
Not likely, Tom thought wryly, and turned the horse slowly, before looking down at the man again. He was quite short, even by local standards, and now that Tom had the added advantage of the horse below him, the man seemed tiny. He looked up at the agent with wide brown eyes, clearly nervous, his thinning black hair combed over to one side to try and cover the fact that he was aging… and not very gracefully.
"You're sure Miss Thatcher still lives on the hill?" he asked politely, trying to keep the enthusiastic animal steady.
The man shuffled, as if eager to make his presence felt elsewhere, and nodded. "Sure am. Positive, sir. Good day."
As he scampered off, Tom called after him, "I'll get your animal back to you."
The man did not reply, and soon vanished into the town. Tom furrowed his brow. Why had he been so nervous? With a smile, he looked back to Skinner, who was turning to head inside, and waved again, calling out, "I'll be back soon."
"Take your time," was Skinner's lazy reply, and he grinned at Tom, before disappearing altogether.
Tom stared after him for a moment, before the ramp started to rise. They had already agreed that the Nautilus would head off to somewhere more private for a couple of hours, and then rendezvous back here with Tom after he had taken care of what needed doing.
Sighing lightly, that same gnawing sense of doubt bothering him again, he urged the horse on. He hadn't ridden in a while, but he had no reason to believe that it would all come back to him. He had – after all – managed to hold the reins one-handed without falling off. The thought brought a smile to his face as the horse started into a brisk and rhythmic trot.
After inquiring for a good half an hour around the dock, Tom had managed to find out that Rebecca 'Becky' Thatcher still lived in what had once been the widow's house up on the hill. After the old woman had passed away, and Becky had come of a decent age and inheritance, she had invested in the property and eventually moved in when it was deemed she was too old to live with her judge father any longer. Of course, Tom had no doubt that the – now old – man missed his daughter dearly, but… in all fairness… who wouldn't? It was Becky Thatcher after all. She was sweet, honest, considerate and compassionate…
And the last time Tom had seen her, she had snubbed him completely.
Swallowing dryly, and frowning slightly as he passed through the town – fully aware that he was being watched less than subtlely – Tom remembered Huckleberry Finn's funeral. He had tried to talk with Becky… oh how he had tried, with all the strength he had had in his heart. She had just ignored him, turned away, and even Joe Harper – a long-time friend of Tom's since early childhood – had insisted the agent leave her alone. That had hurt… the fact that a good friend of Tom's had told him to leave… he hadn't expected it. But he had paid heed to it… and now he was back nevertheless. He couldn't just leave Becky to mourn Huck all alone… he knew she was in pain, as he was too, but that didn't mean she had to sit and bear it by herself. They needed to talk, especially after the incident at the dock before he and Huck had left.
He remembered how Becky had kissed him… a real kiss, not like when they had been children and gotten 'engaged'. He smiled at the fading memory, and sighed lightly once again. All through the mission with The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, Tom had thought on and off about that kiss… the way she had held him and told him to come back… the way he had, and Huck hadn't… not alive anyway. Of course, he was getting the order of things muddled, and he only joined the League after the death of his partner, but… the order was inconsequential. All that mattered was he didn't forget just why and how Huck had given his life.
That's twice someone has died to save me, Tom realised with a furrowing of the brow, sadly. On his way to Becky's house, he made a stop at the graveyard, dismounting the horse at the fence, and tying the reins loosely but securely so the animal would not wander off. He entered the graveyard, a place where he and Huck had loved to come for adventures as children, and even as he walked through the headstones that were set out in the manner of a weak labyrinth, sounds and images flashed chaotically through his mind, such as the murder by Injun Joe, and the dead cat he and Huck had been 'messing' with.
Closing his eyes as he came up on the grave, he felt the memories of 'happier' times fade and dissipate, even as he opened his eyes again, and took in the sight of the name carved into the stone.
'Huckleberry Finn'.
Tom took his hands from his jacket pockets, and crouched down almost as if to be at eye-level with the headstone, leaning his arms on his knees and staring at the name etched in the surface before him. Tentatively, he ran a hand over it, as if to confirm its existence, and he felt a great swell of melancholy and guilt in the very pit of his stomach, rising swiftly. He saw the single flower sitting at the foot of the stone, and knew immediately who had placed it there: Becky.
"Dammit, Huck," he mumbled softly, seeing that the ground covering the grave was starting to resemble the rest around it, barely visible as a point of a recent addition. "Why did you have to do that, huh?"
He received no response from the grave, as he had suspected… the dead could not talk. As a child, he had believed differently, but now he knew better. He was older… had more experience under his belt… his innocence was gone, lost to him forever. Sure, he still held his optimism up for all to see, a brave face for a brash young American who indisputably could not feel grief, despair and loss. The others didn't see him this way… perhaps, when Tom wasn't looking and when he was out of earshot, they might talk about him, see through his charade and look at the real him… but if they did this, they never showed it.
He hovered over the grave for some twenty minutes, wishing he had brought something to lie on the headstone in remembrance of his old friend. He gently touched his hand to the top of the grave and muttered, "See ya' around, Huck."
With that, he reluctantly turned away, and walked back to the horse where it was still tethered, mounting it again, and turning it away from the melancholy graveyard and the sorrow and misery held within, along with painful memories. He didn't want that right now… the last thing he needed when he planned to see Becky was to be filled with grief and guilt about what had happened. Tom supposed that might have been the problem last time he had tried to talk with her, to apologise. His words had fallen on deaf ears then… it couldn't hurt to try again.
As he rode, at a steady canter now that he was out of the busy centre of the small – yet undeniably lively – town, Tom passed a group of children heading home from school, laughing and playing games. He smiled as he passed them, and they watched the mysterious young man as he carried on his way, no doubt wondering who he was, and what he was doing heading to young, kind Miss Thatcher's house.
It did not take him long to come up on Becky's property, within a good ten minutes steady walk of the graveyard that he supposed she visited regularly. The flower had been evidence enough of that. He sat there at the foot of the lengthy garden for a long time, staring at the house with a sense of hesitation swimming within him. Did he really plan to go through with this, when it could only end in heartbreak at bringing up the hurtful topic of Huck's death?
Get off the horse, his brain chattered, and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before swinging off the animal, which snorted and chomped on its bit. He patted it on the muzzle, and looped the reins through the fence reluctantly… the last thing he wanted was for the horse to ruin Becky's garden after all. He just hoped it wouldn't decide to snack on the flowers inside the fence.
He pushed through the gate, and walked slowly up the path. He heard someone around the side of the house, and the good old Tom Sawyer curiousity took a hold of him. He faltered in his stride to the front door, and poked his head around the side of the small but cosy building.
It was Abigail, Becky's… well; Becky despised the word 'servant'. She liked to think on Abigail as an aide, and so that was what Tom supposed he'd call her. The woman seemed to notice she was being watched, and looked up, immediately starting and holding a hand to her heart as she quietly exclaimed, "Why, Mr. Sawyer… you gave me an almighty fright!"
He smiled wanly. "Sorry, Abigail." He paused, and bit his lower lip gently, before asking, "Is Miss Thatcher home?"
"She certainly is, Mr. Sawyer," Abigail responded, and stood from kneeling in the flowerbed she was tending, brushing her muddy hands on her apron. "If you come on round to the back of the house, I'll tell her you're here."
"Thank you." Tom followed Abigail to the back of the house, where the door was propped open in the mild heat of autumn. The woman walked right on in after removing her gardening footwear, and slipped on a pair of house shoes.
"Come on in," she told him, and he looked to his boots. "Oh, don't you mind about those. They look clean enough to me. Come right on in, and close the door for me if you would."
Suddenly he wasn't so confident with being here at all, as he reached back and closed the door quietly and gently behind him. He stood in the kitchen, and waited, as Abigail disappeared. He heard her climb the stairs. Tom guessed Becky was in the study that she had upstairs… a sort of miniature library she had put together. Becky had always loved to read.
After a few moments, in which Tom had reacquainted himself with the layout of the house just from standing in one spot, Abigail came back with an uneasy look to her face. "Well… she said she'd let you on up there, but… if you want my advice, Mr. Sawyer, I'd be careful. She ain't in too pleasant a temper this afternoon all of a sudden."
I think I know why, Tom thought sadly, and nodded to her, muttering, "Thank you."
Abigail nodded her head, and walked over to fill the kettle, humming lightly to herself. Tom watched her for a moment, smiling, and then headed to the stairs and climbing them tentatively. He remembered how he and Becky had toyed with each other as children, vying for one another's attention and playing at jealousy to win affections… it had been foolish, but they had only been young. They hadn't understood at the time. He wished he had just left Amy Lawrence alone, and settled with Becky once and for all. It might have made this easier… it may not have happened at all.
He came up on the door to the study, which he found ajar, and he looked through the narrow opening to find Becky standing at the window, looking out, arms crossed over her chest loosely. Her golden hair was pulled back from her face in an elegant bun, with locks tumbling loosely around her beautiful face. She wore a delicate dress of fine fabrics, and even from where he stood; Tom could see the chain fastened around her neck.
"Well are you just going to stand there, or are you going to come in?"
Her voice startled him slightly, and he hesitated before stepping into the room. He closed the door gently behind him with a quiet click, and waited.
"Tom Sawyer…" she began, quietly, her accent soft but ever-present. "I didn't think I'd be seeing you again anytime soon. Did your little mission end?" The brilliant blue eyes met his face, and he wanted to cower from the fire he found in them, much to his surprise. She was still hurting, understandably.
"Becky…"
"What do you want, Tom?"
Sighing, Tom pulled his hands out of his pockets, and ran his fingers through his unruly blonde locks, saying, "I needed to see you… we should talk."
Becky faltered then in her confidence, and Tom noted the way her shoulders sagged slightly, and her head bowed just an inch. She was listening.
Now or never, Sawyer.
"We didn't exactly part on the best of terms, Becky, and I feel bad for that," he started at once, taking the time to ensure he said each word carefully and precisely so she would not misunderstand him or his meaning. "I needed to say that I'm sorry for what happened… that I didn't keep my promise."
Her graceful body turned from the window, and the light filtering through cast her shadow across the floor, as she regarded him seriously and at length.
"I know that what happened was my fault, and I wish more than anything that I could take it back, I do, Becky… more than anything." Now that he had started, he found it hard to stop. "But I can't change the past, and… and Huck died. He was my partner, and my best friend, and… and I said I'd bring him back, and I didn't… I failed you."
Their eyes met across the room, green and blue locking firmly and unsurely as the two young Americans stared uneasily at one another for a tense moment.
Finally, Becky uncrossed her arms, and looked down at her own shadow on the floor. "You didn't fail me, Tom."
His brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but all words failed, refusing to come into being.
She sighed noticeably, audibly, and looked to him again with the faintest, most haunting and yet oddly enchanting of smiles. There were tears shining in her eyes as she said, "You did the best you could… and I was unfair to you. What I did at the funeral was rotten… I wish I could take back the way I behaved." She shook her head, a curl of blonde falling around her ear. "I don't blame you. How can I blame you? Whatever happened… it happened, and though it hurts to think about it, and I want to hate you…" She laughed quietly, a silvery peal of a sound that was confusing to Tom. "… I cant."
Although they were intended as words of comfort, meant to ease Tom and make him feel more at peace, he couldn't help but feel guilty again. He had expected Becky to be angry with him, greet him with more resistance than he had just witnessed… he was almost oddly disappointed.
She walked over to him, avoiding his eyes directly until she was standing in front of him. She toyed with the delicate locket hanging from the chain at her neck, and muttered quietly, "I… I missed you, Tom."
Tom was taken aback, and he looked down at her through his tousled bangs, and almost smiled. "I am so sorry, Becky."
Shaking her head, Becky sighed.
What she did next threw Tom as far from comprehension as was possible, as she reached up and pulled his head down to hers, kissing him firmly on the lips, before drawing away, her fingers lingering across his jaw for just a moment.
"I said… I don't blame you, Tom Sawyer. Some evils are more than one man can fight… Huck knew that as well as I did… like you should. He knew it was dangerous, and from what you told me at the funeral… he died a hero." She smiled with tears shining in her eyes. "It was what he always wanted."
Tom frowned, feeling the lump form in his throat as he saw the hidden grief in Rebecca Thatcher's face. He held back his own tears, and sighed, letting his forehead rest gently against hers. She did not draw away.
"I'm just glad you came back," Becky whispered, "I was terrified I might never see you again…"
He pulled his head from hers, and cupped her face in his hands. "I had to come back, Becky. I couldn't stay away knowing that you were in pain after what happened… if I hadn't come back… I would never have known…"
"Known what?" she asked when his sentence trailed off and faded away into deafening silence.
The end of the sentence was lost, even to him, and in response, he paid heed to the only action that fought for precedence in his trouble mind. He bowed his head down, and kissed her again, more passionately this time, feeling her hand on his waist. He wished he'd left his pistols on the Nautilus then, but was relieved when she ignored their presence altogether and leaned in to him.
A small clearing of the throat at the door made the two pull apart, turning their heads in unison to the door, where Abigail was smiling at them knowingly. "Pardon me, Miss Thatcher, Mr. Sawyer… I've made some tea. It's downstairs if you'd like it."
"Um… thank you, Abigail," Becky stammered, and nodded. Tom could only smile, his grief and sadness melting away.
Abigail closed the door behind her, and they heard her retreat, and even her fading footfalls as she made her way down the stairs. Becky looked back to Tom.
"What were you saying?"
"I wasn't saying anything," Tom breathed, stroking a lock of her hair from her cheek. He paused, furrowing his brow. "Was I?"
Becky smiled. Tom knew very well what they had been talking about, but it seemed that she was willing to forget about all the blame and sorrow that had clearly been dominating her days since their last meeting. He was equally as willing to let it fall away into the rear of his mind, ever remembered, but taking a back seat to moments like this. True, he would never forget Huckleberry Finn… such a thing was impossible. They had been friends for years, close partners, and Huck had died to save Tom's life against the Phantom.
But as he looked into the face of the girl – no, Becky was a woman – he had fallen for as soon as he'd laid eyes on her all those years ago, Tom couldn't help but forget the misery and sadness almost entirely.
"Do you…" she paused, hesitating, "… can you stay a while?"
He nodded. "Of course. If you want me to."
Her hand ran around the waist of his pants, and she looked into his eyes, nodding. "I want you to stay for a while."
He nodded as well, slowly, drinking in the delicate scent of her perfume, and unable to take his gaze from her blue eyes. It seemed she was in a similar situation. She leaned up to kiss him again, gently this time, and he reciprocated, even as she helped ease his arms out of his jacket. It fell to the floor, and he held her face softly in his hands again.
After losing her once, possibly more if he counted all the foolish antics as a hotheaded boy, Tom was more than reluctant to let go as they embraced warmly.
He guessed Becky felt the same way, as she held him close, firmly but gently in her own tender way.
And so they stayed there, for how long; neither of them knew.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Abigail smiled, as the tea grew cold.
A/N2: Okay, okay… odd, perhaps stupid place to end it. This took over as I was writing it. Correct any glaring mistakes, and feel free to give me a good sharp poke. But somehow… the angst always seems to assert itself in my work, doesn't it?
Anyway, love it or hate it… let me know.