In my last chapter of Iris, I posted a preview of this story. Kiruya, in her review, wrote "The sneak preview, is that a new fic? I hope so! The descriptions of the rings is wonderful. Sounds like a nice feisty J/S fic. Hope to read it soon!"
Oh Kiruya.
How wrong you are.
Jareth hadn't had sex with his wife in two months, seventeen days and twenty-five hours. After beginning and ending each day by making sweet, slow, passionate love to her for nearly two years, it was a jarring and unwelcome change. There were no more surprise sessions in the throne room, no fireside flings, nothing. Sarah could barely look at him. Their bed was now a place strictly for sleeping, and usually, he went to bed and woke up alone. Either she'd retreated to another suite or collapsed on the couch in their sitting room. She was leaving him without setting foot outside the castle.
He couldn't blame her. After they'd lost the baby, he could barely look at her without hating himself. He couldn't imagine what she saw when she looked at him.
His friends had no sympathy for him. Fae women miscarried all the time, their bodies too delicate or thin to handle the rigors of pregnancy. If anything, he was treated with scorn. Human women were supposed to be hardy, especially those who'd been changed. At first, he'd been angry himself, but then he saw the blood soaked floor of their bathroom. There wasn't an idle puddle, but footprints and finger width smears revealing Sarah's agony as she fell to the ground.
She lay in their bed, pale and dying for nearly a week. To the embarrassment of the healers and midwives, he'd never left her side, tears streaming down his face as she fought just to breathe. His kingdom suffered, the goblins submitting to chaos without the firm hand of their king. He'd never known thankfulness until Sarah opened her eyes.
'I'm sorry' was the first thing she said, and he knew then that there would never be another Sarah Williams. There would never be another woman period. This was it, and there was no way he was letting her go.
Then came the silence, weeks and weeks of it. She would wander the labyrinth for hours at a time, only returning when the sun set. They slept on separate sides of their bed, an invisible but well-built line separating the married couple.
But no longer. Jareth was done grieving, and he wasn't about to let her go, even when she seemed determined to leave.
Special circumstances like theirs called for special actions, but their answer to his question seemed simple enough.
He would simply have to seduce her.
Hopefully in time for Christmas.
Cotton hospital gowns were never comfortable. Whenever she had to wear one, Sarah felt naked, even with a million snaps up the back. They were hideous too, with ugly flowers dyed into the itchy fabric. As if that weren't embarrassing enough, she was on her back, lying on a paper covered table. Her feet were propped high in the air, caught in iron stirrups more suited for a torture than a gynecologist's office.
Then there was the fact that somebody other than her husband, the man she lost her virginity to, was poking around her vagina. Despite the latex gloves the doctor was wearing, nothing could keep her from wincing every time Dr. Singh touched her in places she didn't know she had.
"How long did you bleed for?" Dr. Singh asked with all the care and concern of a dead mollusk. Sarah couldn't begrudge the small Indian woman though. She'd been kind enough to gently warm the speculum before inserting it. Besides, she didn't know if she could handle any more sympathy.
"I bled steadily for eight days, and on the tenth day I pushed out my last blood clot." God, that had been humiliating. Both she and Jareth thought to worst was over, only to have to call the healer yet again at three in the morning. Neither of them slept that night.
"It's not uncommon for the entire lining of the uterus to detach after a miscarriage. Now hold your breath and count to ten."
Closing her eyes after sucking in a breath through her teeth, Sarah made it to three before Dr. Singh withdrew the duckbill speculum. It went out with this really odd squeaking noise that had to do with the device's hinges, and not her lady parts. Still, it was just creepy.
As she lay on the table, looking up at the flickering fluorescent lights and slightly stained tiles of the drop ceiling, Sarah knew that Jareth would hate her for sneaking around behind his back. This was something she needed to do on her own though. If she found out she couldn't have children with him standing at her side, she knew she'd never recover.
"You can take your feet down now." Sarah heard the snap of rubber as Dr. Singh took her gloves off, and the whir of chair wheels sliding across the linoleum floor. Immediately she sat back up, tucking the folds of the hospital gown firmly between her thighs. Everything was remarkably dry, which was surprising, but she was still without her panties. Dr. Singh had probably seen hundreds of other women, but Sarah wanted to believe that what they had was special.
Dr. Singh looked very much like a goblin. The woman was small, with leathery skin and frizzy black hair tucked back in a sloppy braid. She was graying at the temples and her face was perpetually droopy. But she was human, which was enough for Sarah. The last thing she wanted was a goblin prodding her down there.
"I don't understand why this happened to me," Sarah admitted quietly as the doctor scraped her pen over a clipboard. Her hand was so fast that Sarah couldn't even recognize her writing as actual letters. It was like doctors had their own secret language.
"Largely it comes down to chance. There's really no way to tell. You were healthy during the time of your pregnancy, you weren't around any hazardous chemicals, and you neither smoke nor drink." Dr. Singh turned kind, but detached brown eyes on the woman sitting timidly on her examination table. "Most likely the zygote didn't attach to the wall of your uterus."
Sarah wasted no words or time on her reply.
"Am I infertile?"
"It isn't your fault, Mrs. Williams," Dr. Singh scolded lightly. Sarah smiled lightly. Not because of what Dr. Singh had told her, but because she said missus Williams. When they married, Sarah simply became the Goblin Queen; but Jareth took on her last name, and whenever they went Aboveground, they were announced as mister and missus Williams. It seemed a fair trade.
"This is just a case of bad luck. Both of your ovaries are functional, cycling and producing eggs appropriately. I won't tell you that you can always have another baby, because I know you wanted this one." Dr. Singh returned to her clipboard, filling in charts faster than any computer could even process.
Nodding, Sarah's mossy green eyes drifted down to her bare feet dangling above the ground. The very tips of her toenails were fuchsia. It had been two months and seventeen days since she'd gotten a pedicure. She remembered it clearly. That morning, she complained about sore feet, so Jareth pulled out some sweet-smelling oil and massaged all the pain away. Then, as a lark, he picked out the most nuclear shade of pink he could and went to town. As her toes dried, they got a little frisky on the kitchen table, and afterwards when she went to clean up… that was when it happened.
After that, she couldn't bring herself to face Jareth. He'd just been so happy. The baby wasn't an accident. After months of talking and arguing and questions, they finally agreed that it was time. They'd been married three years. Having a baby was logical. Conceiving a baby was downright fun. Losing the baby had hurt like nothing she ever knew.
"I'm not going to prescribe any antibiotics since there isn't an infection," Dr. Singh said unexpectedly, knocking Sarah from her reverie. "Don't be afraid to try again, but don't do it until you're ready."
Nodding, Sarah reached out to take the clipboard, anxious to sign whatever would have her on her way home lickety-split. She was ready to try again. Not the baby, it would be a long time before she'd even think of trying, but it was time to maybe get back in the saddle. Jareth was prime real estate. If she didn't stake her claim soon, she could be bought out by a higher bidder.
Three signatures and two initials later, Sarah was getting redressed. Sneaking out that morning had been trickier than usual. For the first time in weeks, Jareth had slept in. Ever since that morning, he'd wake up before her. She knew he was giving her space, but lately it had been too much space.
That was about to change. She had an appointment for a bikini wax and enough money to buy the entire Victoria's Secret franchise, but she only needed something tasteful and incredibly revealing.
'Red roses?'
'No.'
'White then?'
'Absolutely not'.
'She likes wildflowers. But it's winter, and there aren't any wildflowers. Maybe lilies? That doesn't seem like a good idea, they're funeral flowers. I'm planning a seduction, not a wake.'
The flower girl stared in awe at the beautiful man wandering her small greenhouse, looking like a king in his finely cut suit, tight leather gloves and gleaming black loafers. Even as he talked to himself, he seemed absolutely regal.
She hadn't even heard him come in. One minute she was alone, and then poof. Suddenly the most unusually handsome man she'd ever seen was pacing in between rows of freshly cut flowers kept alive in buckets of lightly-bleached water. He barely even looked at the different blossoms available, apparently quite content to just talk out loud.
"Carnations are ordinary. Sarah is not ordinary. She never was."
Whoever Sarah was, the bitch was fucking lucky.
The gorgeous stranger marched up to the refrigerators where the orchids were kept. Since they'd been forced to bloom out of season, they weren't as pretty as they could be, but they were still gorgeous. Almost as gorgeous as him.
Not really.
"You! Girl!" he barked after a moment, stomping towards her with a vicious glare and stiff shoulders. His shoes thudded like horse hooves, shaking the small building like an earthquake. He couldn't have been more than one-hundred-eighty pounds!
"Are you married?" His hands slammed down on the counter, making her squeak in alarm. Looming like an angry lion, he leaned towards her, nearly nose to nose. Damn, what a hunk.
"No." This was the truth.
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"No." That was a lie. Maybe he was planning on breaking up with Sarah?
"Don't lie to me." Maybe not.
Hesitantly, she nodded her head, hoping her eyes were apologetic for the lie. Whether or not they were, the man pressed on.
"Tell me – if you're boyfriend was to woo you, what kind of flowers would you prefer?"
Sputtering, the girl shrugged her shoulders, her mouth opening and closing as stupidly as a dying fish.
"Well, he brings me my favorite flowers. What are Sarah's favorite flowers?"
The Handsome Stranger reeled back as if struck, his expression one of abject horror and misery.
"I can't do that. She won't appreciate it."
Wow, so Sarah was a bitch.
"Why not?"
Snarling, the Handsome Stranger spun on his heel, stiff as he walked over to a pitcher of tulips. They were really pretty. She didn't know what cultivar they were, since she wasn't a botanist like her boss. That was for nerds. She was just working there so she could have some pocket money to play with at the mall.
The petals were a dainty shade of pink, with the very tips dusted snow white. A similar white racing stripe ran down the spine of the petals, bleeding into the lime green stem. The Handsome Stranger slowly peeled off his gloves, until every inch of his perfect, pale skin was revealed. Her mouth watered at the sight of his smooth, long fingers. Dude, he must've played the guitar or something! Those hands would make any rocker jealous. They probably felt great between Sarah's –
"My father brought them to her after she miscarried. I don't want to remind her of that. I don't want to remember it."
Oh.
Ashamed of the direction her thoughts had wandered, the Flower Girl fought against crying. Her cheeks burned with a blush so red she probably looked like a chili pepper.
"Red roses are the way to go then. They're classic, like Humphrey Bogart or Cary Grant."
The Handsome Stranger's face slowly swiveled towards her, his face dark with derision and indignation.
"Do I look like Humphrey Bogart or Cary Grant?"
The Flower Girl swallowed, hoping the knot in her throat was just a burp.
"Rudolph Nureyev then?"
Sarah wasn't in the business of getting bikini waxes. She didn't need them. Unlike most girls with her hair color and type, nothing was out of place really. The hair on her arms and legs were baby fine and blonde. She didn't even have the shave above the knee; and unlike most gorgeous men who acted like Jareth, Jareth himself actually preferred 'adult' women. Adult women had boobs, and hips, and… other womanly accessories. But if she planned on seducing him, she was going all out.
"You want landing strip or all gone?" the Russian beautician said with a Bond villain accent as she stirred a small pot of melted wax. She'd already trimmed everything that needed trimming, and oiled up Sarah's pelvis. It had been slightly creepy, but the fragrant oils apparently opened up her pores even as they numbed her skin. She'd take any break she could.
"What does 'all gone' mean?" Sarah asked as she shifted uncomfortably on the butter soft leather massage table.
"All gone mean all hair. Everything from lining of your bottom to inner folds."
The lining of her bottom to her inner folds? Did she mean the wax would go inside…?
"Landing strip. Let's go with the landing strip."
Later, as she was shrieking out her pain, Sarah offered up a prayer to God, thankful that he had given her the wisdom to choose the landing strip over 'all gone.' Then she prayed that she would have the wisdom to never do something so fucking stupid ever again.
All women liked chocolate, and Sarah was no different. On the first anniversary, she'd even painted herself with it in lieu of preparing dessert, since fire and brick ovens were a complete mystery to her. But, dear Lord, there were just so many choices. Light, dark, milk, seventy-percent cacao, bittersweet baking bars and even chocolate bark. Jareth remembered when chocolate meant pondering truffle fillings, and not the actual beans themselves.
"I just want something that doesn't reek of effort, ingrate," Jareth hissed at the perky sales associate. The twenty-something blonde bimbo probably knew absolutely nothing about chocolate, but she seemed determined to impress the goblin king with her limited knowledge and incredibly buoyant breasts that were barely contained by her black turtleneck.
The twit giggled as she pulled yet another tray of marbled dark chocolate something or others.
"Well, extra dark chocolate is all the range, and it's totally in vogue to pair it with unusual flavors, like lavender and paprika. It's, like, wicked cool." Jareth narrowed his eyes as the sales girl twirled a lock of her expertly highlighted hair around her fingers.
"So not only does it taste like the ground, it's now spicy and smacks of dead flowers? Because nothing says romance like bitterness and burning taste buds. Whelp, just give me something classic."
"But it's what all the celebrities are doing!" she whined, crossing her arms over her stomach like the spoiled child she was. She made the Sarah who ran his Labyrinth look like Mother Theresa. "And you've totally got a rocker look, so you should totally try it. Dude, you could definitely pull it off."
That was the sixth time she'd called him 'dude', and if she did it again, she was going to find herself short one kidney. Or perhaps he'd stab her in the mouth. She'd probably never been stabbed there. It would be a learning experience for her. Sarah ran the Labyrinth; this girl would have an icicle rammed through her painted cheeks. Hopefully, like Sarah, she'd calm down and grow up.
"Give me two dozen truffles. Twelve will be milk chocolate. Of those twelve, six will be filled with caramel while the other six are filled with peanut butter. You will also procure for me six white chocolate truffles with raspberry filling. The final six will be dark chocolate with peppermint nougat. Do it now."
The sales associate gasped in outrage, but just as he was about to savor his victory, her blue eyes darkened with obvious lust.
"Ooh, I love being told what to do. Are you busy later?"
Rather than respond, Jareth looked at a little girl who stood but three feet from him. A spell muttered under his breath drew her attention, ensnaring her so soundly that she'd do anything the Goblin King said.
"Hello, my sweet honeycomb. I want you to point at this lovely young woman here, take a deep breath, and then say 'I wish the goblins would come and take you away right now.' Can you do that for me?"
The little girl nodded, a smile splitting her sweet face nearly in two.
"Excellent."
Sarah hobbled around the fancy lingerie shop awkwardly, her legs spread as far apart as she could force them. Considering that she was knock-kneed and had full thighs (that Jareth swore were softer than any down pillow), it made moving around awkward. But, damn it, it hurt down there. She'd stopped the Russian before she got carried away, but now the tight press of her long johns and jeans were agonizing against her skin. It was also pretty cold to boot, even with all the layers. The glittering, Christmas wonderland of downtown Boston was romantic and beautiful, but it was cold and snowing, and her lady parts were practically bare now that all her hair had been ripped out. It was the one place she definitely didn't want frostbite, and it was the one place she was probably going to get it.
Gently scratching the juncture of her hip and thigh for the millionth time, Sarah meandered through the vast Victoria's Secret, thoroughly confused as to what her size was when it came to corsets. At home in the Underground, she only wore corsets to formal functions, and that was to keep her from spilling out of her favorite square-necked gowns. They were tight and made her chest smaller. Jareth usually had to cut the laces with a knife. All of these corsets were flimsy scraps of satin pieced together with plastic piping instead of real boning. They were ruffled and flowery, more form than function. Sarah's corsets were utilitarian at best, all crafted from soft cotton and hand forged metal. They were the exception, while bras were the rule. Her husband was proud that she was a 'thirty-four D', and routinely commented that they were his two best friends, scolding her whenever she complained that they weren't as high as smaller chests.
But now they were a huge pain in the ass. None of these pansy ass corsets would support anything, let alone actual human breasts. But they were all so flashy, and she wanted something new. Jareth had seen all of her undergarments. Sometimes he helped her get in them, but usually he helped her get out of them; and while he preferred her naked and writhing above or beneath him, she just wanted to look pretty. On the verge of tears, she was just about to grab one and go, when someone laid one motherly hand on her shoulder while stroking her back with the other.
"Are you alright dear? You look ready to faint." Unlike every other stick insect working at there, the woman holding her was older, probably in her forties or so. She was much shorter than Sarah, and fat too. A tape measure hung around her neck, nearly invisible under the mass of salt and pepper curls falling around her shoulders. Her face read age and maturity, but a sympathetic smile kept her from looking dour or forbidding. This was someone's grandma.
"I don't know what I'm doing. None of these will look like they'll fit." Sarah waved her hand over the rack of peony pink polka dotted teddies.
"Well that's because they won't. This particular design doesn't call for an underwire, which makes it great for girls with impossibly tiny bottoms and chests. A real woman like you needs support, and you won't find it over here." Gently pushing on the small of Sarah's back, the sales lady pushed her over to a mannequin wearing what almost looked like a real corset.
"The fabric on this one looks a little thicker, because it's actually lined with the same satin you see on the outside of it. Both cups have an underwire, and the detail on the front is actual boning. It's plastic, but it's the best we have."
Nodding, Sarah gave the outfit a lingering once-over. It was the deepest shade of red she'd ever seen satin dyed, with a single row of ruffles trimming the hem and bust line. There was real lacing in the back, and clasp closures in the front. It looked like it would hold everything in place, and the matching lace underwear weren't just an afterthought.
"But it's not enough. Tonight has to be special, and this looks kind of ordinary." What did it matter? The whole point of this exercise was to be naked eventually, and for some reason, that terrified Sarah. Had she let herself go? She'd lost some weight, having foregone regular meals for a few months now. Certain bones were showing that had no place being visible, like her spine and ribs. It was more than that though. A little, horrible part of Sarah's deepest, darkest fears firmly believed that if she and Jareth hadn't had sex the morning of her miscarriage, they would still have the baby. Maybe being so rough had jostled her uterus in the wrong way. It was completely untrue, having more to do with old wives' tales than actual biology, but when she was looking to blame somebody besides herself, it was there.
"That's simple my dear. We have all sorts of hose and garter belts. We even have shoes, but if your husband makes it as far as your feet, it's time to start seeing new people."
"How did you know I was married?" Sarah asked, fairly startled. Did she look like a married woman?
"Your wedding band, my dear!" Grandma Sales Lady chuckled, tapping the ring finger of Sarah's hand with glee. "I must say, it's unusual, but it suits you."
Sarah offered up her own weak giggle, looking at the brown and blue stones with a faint smile.
"So what do you suggest?" Grandma Sales Lady's grin was wider than the Pacific Ocean.
"Well, we have a matching thong, garter skirt and black thigh high fishnets that would just look darling against your pale skin. Are you Irish my dear? You look Irish. Ah, it doesn't matter. You wait right here. Your jean size is an eight, yes? I think you'll want to go with a large for the panties, just so you don't get any uncomfortable wedgies as you're getting down to business."
Grandma Sales Lady was darting all around the shop, grabbing package after package of naughty undergarments, but Sarah's eyes were drawn to the most masculine item available for purchase. At first she thought it was for actually for a man, but the mannequin had boobs, so it must've been for women.
It was a set of pajamas made from plaid flannel, in a million ugly shades of red and green. The pants were long and loose fitting, with a drawstring waist and back pocket. What could possibly be stored back there? A single unwrapped condom? If that's what it was for, then it was completely pointless, because no one would want to sleep with someone wearing fuzzy jammies. The top was no better. It was shapeless and boxy, kind of like an oxford shirt, complete with a notched collar and button down closure.
The little sign at the mannequin's feet promised that the sleepwear would get softer with every wash, and that women deserved to sleep in something soft and cozy.
All around her, the world seemed to disappear into the background as Sarah fingered the cuff of the shirt, her mind going blank as her skin met the warm cotton. It was simply hideous, and obviously Christmas themed, but pajamas were somewhat of a weakness for her. Jareth was quite content to sleep nude, and most of the time she was right there with him. There were some nights, however, where she just wanted to put on something comfortable, with long sleeves and forgiving hemlines, something that could match her monkey slippers and terry bathrobe. This fit the ticket.
"Can you tell me how much this is?" Sarah asked Grandma Sales Lady as she returned, her generous arms laden with mysterious packets of odd fabric. There was even a feather boa, which Sarah wouldn't be purchasing, no fucking way.
"Forty dollars," she answered smartly. "Not including the bra beneath it."
Sarah could imagine herself lounging about like some horrible flannel Christmas monster. In the first few days following her miscarriage, she'd remained mostly naked, and then she had to wear some formal silk nightgown so she could remain in bed while people paid their condolences. She'd longed for pants and a sports bra.
"I'll take it."
Apparently Grandma Sales Lady worked on commission, because she was more than happy to pull a pair of the pajamas from the back room. In total, Sarah spent about three hundred dollars, but the money was well worth t. She had a 'come fuck me' outfit for Jareth, and something to cuddle in afterwards. It was almost as good as being actually excited about what she planned on doing to and with him.
He had the candles, the chocolate, the wine, everything he needed to woo his wife back into their marriage bed.
So why was he so nervous? Jareth stood inside of their room, carefully surveying his work. The room was awash in opulence. White furs were spread on the ground in place of Sarah's Persian rugs. The purple velvets and creamy cottons of their bed linens were replaced with layer upon layer of crimson silks. Jareth had moved their favorite couch, the one they often read to each other on, to the foot of their bed. In its place was a table laden with pots of melted chocolate, bowls of fresh fruit and even some sweet cakes. They'd never eaten fondue together. Now seemed as good as any to try it.
As he adjusted the cuffs and collar of his embellished tailcoat, Jareth frowned. He knew why he was nervous. Never before in his entire marriage had he needed to actually try at seduction. It just seemed to come naturally, or at least Sarah was usually as ready to play as he was. None of his male friends enjoyed such intimacy with their wives. He could see their jealousy clearly. If he and Sarah leaned too closely or laughed too loudly, it made them green with envy. He was one of the lucky ones, marrying someone he loved, liked and was sexually attracted to. Most men had wives who could only fit one aspect, if any at all.
Casting a quick glance at the mirror, he inspected his attire. Although his wardrobe was as endless as he wanted it to be, he'd gone with the exact outfit he'd worn during the first time he touched her, at the ball where they whirled and twirled. There were no blue streaks in his hair, and he certainly wasn't wearing the copious amounts of cosmetics (since that had been her fantasy, not his). But it seemed fitting, right even. Or as close to right as he could manage.
Maybe this wasn't the way to proceed. This was all so stereotypical, so very mortal and mundane. Roses and chocolate were for unimaginative human men proposing marriage to women they fully expected rejection from. He'd already suffered through the agony of waiting for 'yes', and he'd come out the victor. He shouldn't have needed to go through it again.
'But what choice do I have?' he thought as he adjusted his dove grey gloves, pulling on the cuffs for the millionth time. 'This whole situation is intolerable. Maybe I should just chain her to the bed and make love her me like she used to.'
"Holy fucking shit!"
Nearly tripping over his own feet, Jareth spun around, his eyes widened until he saw his wife.
Who just happened to be wearing a little black dress and very high heels.
There were… and the candles… were those roses?
No.
No no no no no.
This wasn't happening. This couldn't have been happening.
Sarah surveyed their transformed bedroom with some horror. It just wasn't fair! She was supposed to be the only one planning something romantic. But no, Jareth had to go and steal her thunder, just like he stole everything else.
She stood still as a statue as he examined her, without any obvious lust or longing in his two-toned stare. In fact, he seemed downright confused. And why not? Sarah just wasn't a little black dress kind of gal. It was pretty though, the dress, that is. The woman at the ridiculously overpriced store had said it was a sleevless mini dress. To Sarah, it was just short. The only thing that kept her bare arms and legs from being completely slutty was the relatively high jewel neckline.
Although she hated them, because damn it, they itched, she was wearing the fishnet stockings. They led to pair of hooker red, patent leather pumps with a pointed toe that could cut ice. She was perched on heels so high and slender that for all intents and purposes, she was stilt walking. They were Jimmy… Jimmy… Jimmy Something, and even though money was no option, shoes that cost more than five-hundred dollars should've been ridiculously comfortable. These weren't, and she had no desire to break them in.
"You… look nice," Jareth said after a moment, offering up a weak, but encouraging smile.
"So do you?" she replied, cursing the way her voice rose at the end, making her statement seem like a question. "Did you do all this?"
"Uh… yeah."
Well, duh. No shit he did all of this. Why else would he be wearing the same clothes he wore on their first date, unofficial as it was?
"Are you hungry?" he asked as she walked towards the table. She could smell the telltale richness of warm milk chocolate and the vanilla goodness of freshly baked cake. It was great, but her stomach was rumbling for real food.
The plan was to go home, take him to dinner, and retreat to a cushy bed and breakfast somewhere in New England where the window overlooked the ocean. But nope, that wasn't happening.
She didn't wait for him to pull out her chair, and he didn't offer. Stiffly, they sat down across from one another. Her eyes were fixed on her plate, and apparently so were his, because she couldn't feel the cool mint of his starlit magic prickling along her skin. Mechanically, she ate without a word, dipping and nibbling without enjoying any of it. The faint strains of a classical score filled the air, but it couldn't cover the clanking of silverware or their lack of conversation.
Minutes passed by, hushed and slow. It was like eating dinner when Linda and her father were still married.
"You hair is pretty," Jareth offered helpfully as he reached under the table. A brief word of thanks rested just inside her lips, but they were trapped as he pulled out a red, heart shaped box. She nearly laughed at the sight of it. The velvet wrapping could only mean one thing – store bought chocolate. 'Godiva' was embossed in gold leafed, loopy script. He must've gone Aboveground the same time she did.
Touching the stiff, tight coils, Sarah grimaced as she felt the layers upon layers of mousse and hairspray. Her hair looked great, but felt like shit. It was like caressing a Brillo Pad, and nothing read sexy like steel wool and industrial cleaning chemicals.
"I guess so," she said with a shrug. Inwardly, she add 'this blows'. If they continued on in this vein, both of them would probably turn gay, just because sleeping with a member of the opposite sex seemed like hell. Whether or not that member of the opposite sex was your spouse.
"Why don't we… go to bed?" she said without preamble, liking she was saying 'add eggs to the grocery list'.
To which Jareth replied, "Okay."
Wow.
Talk about romantic.
As Sarah stood up from her chair, she marveled over the surrealism of the situation. So far, things weren't exactly going as planned. Was that a bad thing? She honestly didn't know. All she knew is that if she had to endure one more minute of sitting at that table, she might just vomit; and the last thing she wanted was to reenact The Exorcist.
Jareth approached her with a tremulous smile, looking just as uncomfortable and underwhelmed as she felt. His hands were as light and shaky as the wings of songbird caught in a child's clumsy hands. They smoothed over her shoulders, trailing down her arms. Somewhere, his gloves had disappeared, and the smoothness of his bare skin nearly tore her skin clear off.
He had yet to kiss her as he fumbled with the exposed zipper, and Sarah feared that maybe the teeth had got caught on her corset's lacing. But then he was drawing the slider down her spine before helping her step out of the tiny dress. She'd almost completely forgotten about her undergarments, her nerves were eating her up so; but when his brows disappeared into his bangs, she certainly remembered.
Nearly falling flat on her ass, she kicked the gown away, staring at him nervously as his dual-tone eyes raked over her. Goosebumps trailed in the wake of his bewildered stare, her toes curling and hands fisting over her hips.
"Did you do this for me?" he questioned, fingering the ruffles of her red satin garter skirt. The thing barely cresting the jut of her hipbones, so his palm accidently brushed her thong. He hissed as he realized… his mistake. It killed Sarah to think of it that way, but she knew it was true.
She wondered what she looked like to him. After wiggling her way into those tiny scraps of cheap fabric, she admitted that they at least fit. The woman looking back from the mirror wasn't her though. She was gorgeous, in a dominatrix werewolf bitch way. The corset didn't do much. It didn't cinch her waist or support her chest all that well, but it did nice things to her shoulders and belly. Her butt looked good in the thong, although she'd probably have to get it out with a shovel. As for the thigh high fishnets, well… at least they distracted from the paleness of her thighs.
As expensive as the shoes were, she knew he wouldn't like them. After running the Labyrinth, she'd grown another two inches. It wasn't much, but it put her that much closer to being as tall as Jareth. He prided himself on the three inches that separated them, so she indulged him by wearing flats or going barefoot.
And now she was as tall as him, thanks to those heels. It made her just a little bit sick, although that might've been everything else. He didn't seem to notice though. He just took her by the hand and walked her over to the bed. The silks slithered around her hips as she sat down, so slick and perfect that she nearly slid off. When Jareth started getting undressed without fanfare, she did slip a little bit. Backwards though, thank Christ.
"Sarah," he said as he knelt before her. With utmost reverence and fear in his eyes, he carefully removed her shoes one by one. She couldn't help but notice that he threw them towards the fire. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Yes. Of course. Why wouldn't I?" To prove her point (which was murky), she drew her legs onto the bed, reclining against the pillows in her best 'come hither' pose. Jareth arched one finely shaped brow, but didn't question her as he moved to lie beside her. One hand caressed her hip, while the other skirted along her inner thighs.
"You don't have to do that! I'm totally and completely ready. Yep. Bring it on."
Bring it on? Bring it on? Was there a dumber phrase she could've used at that moment?
"You got it babe."
Yes. Yes there was.
They came to some silent agreement that probably went along the lines of 'let's get this over with so I don't miss the evening news.' She spread her legs, giving him room to lie between her thighs. There were some kisses, but they were cold and close-mouthed, never drifting anywhere interesting. It was like kissing a sibling.
Then he pressed into her, and it hurt, because she wasn't quite ready, and he wasn't either, because he didn't slide into her like he usually did, because usually he was hard and smooth as a freshly sharpened knife, and ow, oh God, don't start thrusting yet, no, do, because I can do this, just take a deep breath, lay back quietly, your husband worked hard on this, and…
And…
And…
I'm going to cry.
At first, it was just a hitch in her breath. Then it was a hiccup ratcheting out her throat. Before long, her lungs stopped functioning properly. She just couldn't get enough oxygen past her lips. Her chest quivered as she sucked down mouthful after mouthful of hot air, but not even a thimble of the stuff made it past her throat. She closed her eyes, wincing as Jareth moved just a bit too quickly within her. Dear God, it felt like she was being rubbed raw.
And then, to her complete horror, a single tear wiggled its evil way from the corner of her eye, streaming down her temple. Jareth paused mid-stroke, and although it was a small blessing, another tear escaped, and then another, and another, and she was sobbing.
Sarah covered her face with her hands, weeping loudly into her palms. Her keening wail filled the room, loud and insistent.
"Get off!" she shrieked as she pushed at Jareth's chest, her nails scoring his skin into shallow strips. "Get off of me!"
He withdrew just as she violently shoved him away. He rolled off of her, letting her move away to her side of the bed. Her shoulders shook with the force of her crying, and the god damned corset that wasn't so flimsy was only making it worse.
"Sarah, I," Jareth began, but she cut him off.
"I can't talk about this now," she heaved. "I need some space."
She needed space?
Absolutely not.
"There will be no space between us. There will be no more disappearing everyday without so much as a word. You are my wife, and we will talk about this now," Jareth ground between clenched teeth, grabbing his wife around her waist before she could dart away. Sarah gasped as she was pulled back against his chest, and the force of the blow knocked them to the ground, falling to the carpet in a tangle of blankets and pillows. Jareth hissed as his shoulders slammed into the floor, but the pain was minor once he realized Sarah was clinging to him and crying. Now was the time to say everything he needed to, when she was vulnerable and receptive.
"I can't lose you because of my own inadequacies. I wasn't there for you when you needed me most." Jareth swiftly rolled them until she was beneath him, straddling her knees so she couldn't squirm away. He pulled down on the cotton sheet covering her face, heartbroken as her tear stung eyes came into view. But he couldn't be soft or reassure her. Not yet.
"I needed you too though, and I need you now. I need you to stay. I need you to talk to me." Desperation had crept into his tone, but his hold had gone from iron to velvet, one of his ungloved hands cupping her cheek even as the other pinned her shoulder to the floor. She turned her head away from him, but into his palm, her lips trembling against the sensitive skin of his inner wrist. If she bit down, she could kill him. If she left now, she would kill him.
"If you let me, I can be everything you need. You've always been everything I needed, and maybe that's why I recovered sooner," he pressed on, her tears disappearing under the sweeping softness of his thumb.
With his heart in his throat, Jareth carefully moved off of her, kneeling by her side. There was a breathless moment where she looked ready to flee, her green eyes wild and unfocused as they darted about the room. But then her gaze flickered back to him, fresh tears sliding down her temples. He at least had her for another minute.
"Don't shut me out, Sarah mine. Hit me, hurt me, ram a spike through my hand, but don't shut me out. We need to be able to talk about these things."
This was it, the moment that would decide the rest of their lives. As always, she held all the power.
"I don't know what to do," she finally said, alleviating his worries. She was talking. It was more than they had done in months. "You wanted the baby so much and then it was gone."
"But I wanted you more," Jareth whispered, carefully gathering her against his chest. He slipped his hands beneath her back, his breath a relieved sigh as she wrapped her arms tightly about his throat. "I still want you more. If we never have children, that's alright."
"You want children. You love them." Sarah's tears were hot and slick against his neck, paired perfectly with her stranglehold on his shoulders. She was hugging him though, and it was wonderful. "I can't ask you to give that up."
Jareth smiled into her hair, still stiff and curly with hairspray.
"You don't have to."
As her tears subsided and her hold grew tighter, Jareth would be lying if he said he wasn't elated, but it was a quiet joy, one born out of maturity and understanding. This was marriage. It wasn't a grand apotheosis, or an exquisite Shakespearian tragedy. It was two adults quietly forgiving each other for all things said and unsaid.
"Jareth," his wife murmured, pulling away just enough to look into her husband's eyes. Her elegant makeup now streamed down her face like a harlequin's kohl and ochre. "I'm not leaving, but could I have fifteen minutes alone to clean up? I just want to go to bed."
He was just about to reprimand her. The urge to fly off the handle was one he could rarely resist. However, as he grit his teeth and looked over her shoulder, he saw the dinner table, still scattered with uneaten chocolates and flat champagne. The roses, ostentatious and unoriginal, glared at him, their petals chanting 'you only bought us because we seemed appropriate.' Yes, cleaning up seemed like the right thing to do, but…
"Ten minutes."
In the privacy of her bathroom, far from the warmth of her husband, Sarah visually unraveled. She done it mentally, physically in there, what with the bursting into tears while her husband was inside of her. It hurt a little bit, since she'd been a bit dry and he'd been a little soft (something neither of them had ever experienced), but not so much that she sob like a little baby. What had pained her so much was knowing not only was she not ready for intimacy, she may never be again. Then Jareth manned up, and stuck his foot in the door. If he wasn't going to leave, neither was she.
She was, however, going to take off that stupid negligee the sales lady pushed on her. It was too tight, too small, and she just wasn't the slinky lingerie type. Sliding over to her perfectly normal Aboveground toilet, Sarah collapsed onto the lid, grateful that the plastic was cool against her butt. She got to work on her garter belt and stockings first, ripping them off with obvious delight. Fishnet was meant for catching trout, not thigh highs. Her skin striped red with little diamonds that burned like coal. The thong that seemed so sexy was now halfway up her ass and gradually migrating further north. It was shed next, finding a cozy home in her trash bin.
The corset took a bit of contortionism with the wire hanger it came with, but eventually it joined all of its expensive slutty friends. The makeup and hair were easy enough to deal with. She just hopped in the bathtub and set the showerhead to hurricane. It didn't get off all of her runny mascara, but at least it reduced the smudging from 'panda' to 'week old black eyes.'
God, what a mess she was, she realized as she turned off the water. The girl patting her hair dry in front of the mirror had grey skin and sleepy eyes, and black hair that was at best clean. But there was a wedding band on her finger, nicer than any other she'd seen before. For all appearances, it was understated if a bit weird.
The band was thin, made from pristine white gold. It was the perfect canvas for three small, round stones of identical size, totaling in weight about a quarter-karat. The flanking stones were clear and crystalline blue, while the center one was a deep shade of seal brown. They looked like chocolate diamonds and sapphires, and they were, but they came from no mine. Jareth had scoured them from the scales of an ice dragon, the vainglorious prima donna. Of course he'd go to the ends of the earth to find jewels that matched his eyes.
Not that he didn't work his butt off for his ring. Like Sarah's, his band was made of white gold, but it was textured like scales and wrapped around his ring finger three times in a serpent's coil. The head of the snake was set with two small emeralds that brought its eyes to life. Jareth thought it was a tremendous joke, always telling her how his fork-tongued bride scared off the unwanted advances of courtiers and courtesans alike.
"I could certainly scare them off now," she murmured to her reflection, swiping futilely at her mascara bruised eyes. When that didn't work, she gave up completely, reaching for the other pair of pajamas she'd purchased that afternoon. They were still soft, still comfortable and unsexy. Sarah tugged on the baggy pants, only briefly lingering on her flat stomach before tying the drawstring into a bow. The long-sleeved shirt hid all her curves, but after the disaster with the corset, loose was a good thing.
Sarah pulled her wet hair free of her collar, letting it rest wetly against her bathrobe. Jareth would dry it for her if she asked.
A rather familiar clock in the mirror appeared, reminding her insistently that she had exactly forty-five seconds before he came and got her. She was sorely tempted to let him come and sweep her into his arms, but he'd probably scold her, and that was something she was too tired to deal with.
"I'm coming!" she called out as she swung the door open. She had some witty retort waiting on the tip of her tongue, something that could lighten the mood, but her voice stilled as soon as she entered the room. Jareth had cleared away their dinner, the champagne and the chocolate. All of their furniture was as it should be. There wasn't a single rose to be found. Instead, there was a tasteful bouquet of pink and yellow tulips on her nightstand. On his bedside table, a small plate of gingerbread cookies rested on a tray next to two steaming cups of hot chocolate with melting piles of marshmallows.
Her husband was remaking their bed with several patchwork quilts and knitted afghans pulled from her hope chest. She recognized the sheets he chose. They were the soft jersey ones that he absolutely hated, but let her keep because she preferred to sleep with the fire banked, even in winter. Everything he did that night, he did for her.
"Hey," she whispered, her voice quiet and trembling with emotion. He seemed startled by her entrance, but as soon as he recovered, his eyes turned on hers, and his expression went completely slack. That blue and brown gaze trailed over her body, lingering on the red and green tartan, with some emotion she couldn't quite place. He just seemed completely dumbfounded.
Sarah nibbled her lower lip, rocking back and forth on her heels as she twisted her fingers in the fabric over her belly. It must've been too big, or uglier than she thought it was. Maybe he liked the corset and thigh highs. Maybe they'd never fly to the top of the world ever again.
"You are so beautiful," he breathed quickly, hushed and longing.
She'd had never been so happy to be wrong.
He walked towards her slowly, as if she was some skittish doe that would flee if he got too close. But she didn't leave, didn't move. She just stood there, staring stupidly at him as he came to stand before her, so close that the tips of her breasts brushed his chest. Jareth stared down at her, a thousand thoughts written in his knitted brows, some smoldering and delicious, others unsure and self-conscious. He lifted his hands to her face, cupping her cheeks with quivering fingers. Her lashes lowered as he brushed kisses over her eyes. So soft and achingly familiar, they spread warmth from the very ends of her hair to her tippy toes. She gasped at the sensation, the air rushing out of her lungs with a quiet squeak.
Something shifted then, broke inside of her. He was too far away. She wanted, needed to hold him. Her arms stole around his waist like iron bands, fingertips stroking the pearl necklace of his spine. His hands fisted in her hair, yanking her head back as he slid his mouth over hers, his lips smooth and hot and velvet. Sarah gasped, stealing his breath, replacing it with her own.
The ferocity of the kiss threw her for a loop, knocking her from the pedestal of misery she'd been dancing on. She moaned aloud, and he answered with a feral growl. There were no old memories in this kiss. It made her head spin with a bewildering, tingling sense of newness. The lingering sweetness of chocolate mixed with the champagne's bitter bite, and she drank it up like the flowing waters of the Fountain of Youth.
Two months worth of loneliness and self-loathing disappeared under the pass of his mouth, under the points of his not quite human teeth. He was her soldier, her general, and she kissed him like he'd just gotten home from the Great War.
When she came out of the bathroom, in her matronly, consuming pajamas, the world stopped spinning. Everything came to a halt as soon as he saw her flushed, pink face and damp hair. That was the woman he married, the artless, unadorned, extraordinary girl who shied away from the Hollywood starlet look because it reminded her of her mother. She had a sturdy, solid beauty that needed no satin nightgowns and feathered stilettos.
So before he could talk himself out of it, before his fears could consume him, he swept her up in his arms and gently reminded her that they were married. Everything would be okay, he wanted to tell her, but she beat him to the punch when she pulled him into that flannel bear hug.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice thick and deep with desire.
"Yes. Definitely. Shut up and kiss me," she pleaded, her pond green eyes begging and nearly black.
"I don't want to hurt you," he murmured even as his hands crept under her shirt in their quest to find bare skin. He groaned when they did. The heat emanating from the small of her back had him harder than stone against her belly.
"You won't. You can't," she moaned, rising up onto the balls of her feet so her rosehip mouth could nibble his chin and jaw.
"I can. I did." The memory of her tears slid down his chest like an ice cube.
"You never will again." Her hand brushed over his cheek, past his ear and into his hair. She yanked on the longer strands none-too-gently, taking a few of them as souvenirs. "Don't be a pussy."
Moving his hands to her face, he kissed her again, deeply, proving that he wasn't a pussy, as she put it. He moaned, trying to cling to his fears that this was just a step backwards, that she wasn't ready. But, oh stars above, her mouth and her hands sang of sweet, luscious sin. His blood oozed through his veins like melted chocolate, pooling in his belly and lower.
"If you're so worried about hurting me," she gasped as she tore her mouth away from his. Immediately he felt starved. "Let me be on top."
Jareth laughed, attacking the buttons of her sleep shirt with wholehearted enthusiasm. "You can have me anyway you want, my darling."
This time, he swept her up into his arms, dumping her on the bed just to watch her bounce like a tennis ball. While she was busy laughing, he tugged her pants off with a simple flick of his wrist. She smelled like shampoo, soap and Sarah.
"Ack! Let me get under the covers at least," Sarah giggled. Like a gentleman, he pulled the blankets back, joining her as soon as she was sufficiently buried.
"Now where were we?" Blatant amusement colored his tone, perfectly partnered with the way he stroke his chin in thought. "Ah, I remember! You were just about to climb atop my thighs."
His Sarah grinned piquantly, looking as wicked and tempting as Aphrodite. She was his Psyche though, and that was better than any wild goddess of sensuality.
Still, he had to admit that her mouth was positively wicked as she feasted on his throat.
"I believe we skipped a few steps, Goblin King," she cooed, sliding her slim, fair hand down his chest to emphasize the point. Her fingers did positively wicked things to the muscled ridge running down the center of his belly, but nothing could beat the surety of her grip as she cupped the length of his arousal.
"I believe we did, Precious. How about you show me steps one through three? Then you can repeat them as many times until I can mimic them exactly."
Step one focused on deliciously long kiss after deliciously long kiss. Her mouth was soft and pliant, more talented at drawing out his pleasure than that of the best courtesan. Step two was just as fun, if not more so. Just as she stipulated, she straddled his hips, holding his head to her chest so he could nibble the tightly beaded tips of her breasts at his leisure. Sarah moaned and writhed anxiously, as he was just as talented at drawing out her pleasure. Step three…
What was step three again? Jareth was fairly certain it might've involved the little competition they had started. The rules were simple. Whoever made the other moan louder won.
After four hours, they came to a draw.
Sometime later, long after the fire had gone out, they were still basking in the afterglow. Both had retreated under the covers, unwilling to part even though their noses were freezing. Besides, will all of the blankets piled atop them, their sweat slick bodies positively toasty. Sarah had rolled onto her back, allowing Jareth to curl against her side, one of his arms pillowing her head. They were both smiling, incandescently and inconsolably happy, but there was still a pink elephant in the room that needed discussing.
Jareth's hand was flat on her belly, his fingers spread wide, as if searching for something. Sarah knew he was perfectly content, fulfilled even, because she felt the same way. Nothing was missing at the moment. But still, it was time to talk, as much as she hated the idea.
"Did you have any names picked out?" she asked quietly, covering his hand with hers, looping their fingers together. His smile turned a little sad, but it didn't go away.
"Yes," he admitted. "Castor, if we'd had a boy, Branwen, a girl."
Sarah's brows furrowed slightly. She knew he spoke many languages, she'd heard several of them, so it made sense that he'd choose a name she'd never heard of.
"Branwen? What does it mean?"
A quirky little grin pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"It means 'beautiful raven' in Welsh. It comes from the words Bran and Gwen. Bran translates as raven, while Gwen is the word for fair, blessed or white. I prayed for a little girl with your hair and skin." He paused, swallowing heavily. "What about you?"
"I'm afraid I would've cursed them to a life of mediocrity if I'd had my way. I was thinking Jennifer or David." Sarah's brows rose clear towards her hairline, as she realized that was the first time she'd ever said either name aloud. She'd pretended that if she didn't give the baby a name, it would be easier to handle. It wasn't. A fresh twinge of pain stung her heart, but not as badly as she expected.
"If we try again," Jareth began slowly, "and we don't have to, but if we do, let's not use any of those names." The unspoken 'because we don't want to give the living a name belonging to the dead' hung in the air, but Sarah only nodded and smiled.
"I wanted this baby, Jareth. I know I didn't in the beginning, that I fought you nearly every step of the way, but I wanted this baby. I would've loved to have seen a squished little face topped with downy blonde hair."
Sighing, she turned onto her side, facing away from Jareth. She felt him tense and then relax as she scooted towards him, until her back was flush against his chest. Almost instantly, of its own volition, his arm stole about her waist. He held her tighter than a seatbelt, his face tucked against her neck and shoulder.
"Please believe me when I say that I don't need a child to be complete," he whispered into her hair. "You are the only thing I need."
Chuckling slightly, Sarah closed her eyes, relaxing in her husband's hold. Before long, the need to sleep consumed her, but not before she had the last word. Wives were good at that.
"Merry Christmas, Jareth."
She felt his smile against her throat.
"Merry Christmas, Precious."
I know, I know, you all hate me. Here you were, expecting a hot and heavy Christmas special liberally sprinkled with pages of smut. I'm sorry for disappointing you, but I just couldn't leave this plot alone. If I disrespected anyone or made you uncomfortable, go ahead and hate me. I'll understand.
The idea hit me when I read Lanabyte's Precious Moments. It's absolutely wonderful, nice and fluffy with a side of hotness. It opened with Sarah and Jareth, um, actively conceiving a baby. In the end, they get their wish, but I couldn't help but wonder…
What if things hadn't gone so well? What if they lost the baby?
In no way is this an AU to her fic. This is completely separate and independent. Lanabyte, if you are reading this, which would be awesome, I mean no disrespect. You rock.
Some of you may be wondering why this story was quiet and lacking in urgency. Some of you may be pissed that this story didn't really have a climax. I would say that you are correct. It was rather quiet and subdued. Where was the big bang moment? When did this story crest?
It didn't. I know. But hey, it's done!
Address your hate mail to the North Pole. If you do, this may get a sweet epilogue on Christmas day, consisting of pure, sweet, PWP, lemon scented, adult type touching.
There are several references to the songs I was listening to as I wrote this. The most prevalent song was 'Top of the World', as sung by the Dixie Chicks. I played it nearly nonstop, because it just sounded right. Another one was 'Not Too Much to Ask', by Mary Chapin Carpenter and Joe Diffie. 'River', a song from Sarah McLachlan's Album Wintersong, brings up the rear.
I thank all of my readers in advance, and for those of you who hated this story, blame it on Mr. Scrooge.