Saints
By Felicia Ferguson
feliciafergusonmha@yahoo.com
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None really, though it could be a companion to Salvation
Summary: A subdued celebration for an unexpected holiday.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
1/1
Marguerite stared out from the balcony past the treeline, almost to London itself, a strangely sad smile
flitting across her features. Unaccustomed to the feeling, she almost didn't even know herself. They had
been here a year. Many months longer than what had been expected or scheduled.
And today was Sunday. All Saints' Sunday, in fact. If she closed her eyes, she could almost hear the
pealing of the bells as Londoners hurried through the brisk autumn air on their way to church. In addition
to the normal service, there would be a reading of the names of the departed. 'Would anyone have listed
mine?' she idly questioned as her fingers gripped the wooden railing of the balcony. 'Or anyone else's for
that matter?'
Challenger was a visionary who had given up family for the sake of knowledge. Summerlee's wife had
died years ago and their children were scattered around the globe. Malone, in her understanding, had been
alone in London. Work as a war correspondent didn't leave much time for marriage and children. And
Roxton, ah, yes, the good lord. He was certain to have family who would miss him. But had they given up
hope knowing his penchant for adventure and excitement? And then there was she.
Marguerite sighed audibly. A slight creak of the balcony wood behind her and a soft voice broke her
reverie. "Why so pensive, Marguerite?" the cultured tones of Roxton asked.
She smiled wanly in response then returned her gaze to the trees. "Just wondering if anyone was saying a
prayer for my soul today."
Roxton's brow furrowed with confusion until he saw the calendar which rested nearby. Never having
thought that Miss Krux was a particularly religious person, he moved the calendar aside and leaned on the
railing beside her. "Marguerite, I must say, I'm surprised."
She tossed him an arched looked. "Why, Lord Roxton, did you think me a heathen?"
He cocked an eyebrow at her and replied, "Your usual behavior more than speaks to that."
Instead of the quick come-back which he had expected, Marguerite looked down at the railing. " I'm
certainly no saint but I have faith -- about the size of the proverbial mustard seed."
Roxton flashed her favorite grin and took one of her hands, lacing their fingers together. "I was told once
as a young boy, that saints come in all shapes, sizes, and personalities. There may be hope for you yet."
"Highly doubtful, given my penchant for greed, as you have so often pointed out," she shot back, her eyes
resting on their joined hands.
Sensing the undercurrent of insecurity, he squeezed her hand and offered, "We *are* alive, Marguerite.
Whether or not the world knows, doesn't matter." He lifted her chin with his free hand bringing her gaze to
his. "And we *will* get home."
She smiled at his words then leaned up and placed a soft kiss at the corner of his lips. Releasing his hand,
she turned and walked back toward the tree house. Just before she reached the door, she paused and
murmured, "Thank you, John."
Roxton watched as she entered the kitchen and headed back to her room then whispered, "Anytime, love.
Anytime."
By Felicia Ferguson
feliciafergusonmha@yahoo.com
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None really, though it could be a companion to Salvation
Summary: A subdued celebration for an unexpected holiday.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
1/1
Marguerite stared out from the balcony past the treeline, almost to London itself, a strangely sad smile
flitting across her features. Unaccustomed to the feeling, she almost didn't even know herself. They had
been here a year. Many months longer than what had been expected or scheduled.
And today was Sunday. All Saints' Sunday, in fact. If she closed her eyes, she could almost hear the
pealing of the bells as Londoners hurried through the brisk autumn air on their way to church. In addition
to the normal service, there would be a reading of the names of the departed. 'Would anyone have listed
mine?' she idly questioned as her fingers gripped the wooden railing of the balcony. 'Or anyone else's for
that matter?'
Challenger was a visionary who had given up family for the sake of knowledge. Summerlee's wife had
died years ago and their children were scattered around the globe. Malone, in her understanding, had been
alone in London. Work as a war correspondent didn't leave much time for marriage and children. And
Roxton, ah, yes, the good lord. He was certain to have family who would miss him. But had they given up
hope knowing his penchant for adventure and excitement? And then there was she.
Marguerite sighed audibly. A slight creak of the balcony wood behind her and a soft voice broke her
reverie. "Why so pensive, Marguerite?" the cultured tones of Roxton asked.
She smiled wanly in response then returned her gaze to the trees. "Just wondering if anyone was saying a
prayer for my soul today."
Roxton's brow furrowed with confusion until he saw the calendar which rested nearby. Never having
thought that Miss Krux was a particularly religious person, he moved the calendar aside and leaned on the
railing beside her. "Marguerite, I must say, I'm surprised."
She tossed him an arched looked. "Why, Lord Roxton, did you think me a heathen?"
He cocked an eyebrow at her and replied, "Your usual behavior more than speaks to that."
Instead of the quick come-back which he had expected, Marguerite looked down at the railing. " I'm
certainly no saint but I have faith -- about the size of the proverbial mustard seed."
Roxton flashed her favorite grin and took one of her hands, lacing their fingers together. "I was told once
as a young boy, that saints come in all shapes, sizes, and personalities. There may be hope for you yet."
"Highly doubtful, given my penchant for greed, as you have so often pointed out," she shot back, her eyes
resting on their joined hands.
Sensing the undercurrent of insecurity, he squeezed her hand and offered, "We *are* alive, Marguerite.
Whether or not the world knows, doesn't matter." He lifted her chin with his free hand bringing her gaze to
his. "And we *will* get home."
She smiled at his words then leaned up and placed a soft kiss at the corner of his lips. Releasing his hand,
she turned and walked back toward the tree house. Just before she reached the door, she paused and
murmured, "Thank you, John."
Roxton watched as she entered the kitchen and headed back to her room then whispered, "Anytime, love.
Anytime."