A/N: I mean, this is fluffy as f**k so consider yourselves warned. If you like my fics for the angst, you can pass and wait for another one :D. I should probably go over this again but I have also already procrastinated studying enough to write this, so here it is, with all its flaws :). Enjoy!
And also, of course, ealice, happy birthday!
Daisies
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I could take your name, just claim me.
I'll save you if you save me, 'till we're pushing up the daisies.
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Pushing Up The Daisies – Lily Allen
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The evening is dark already through the windows of her apartment; they've switched from tea to beer about an hour ago. It's part of their Sunday night routine, now, between a mess of casefiles strewn over her kitchen table and her old Norah Jones records playing quietly in the background. He listens to her argue (or pretends to, at least), an irritated frown framing her forehead as her words reach him, quick and indignant at something that he said - he always says something, doesn't he?
This time, it was a snarky comment about how if the coppers really listened to her, they'd never have grounds to arrest anybody and she has a bottle of Hop House lodged between her fingers when she pushes back, threatens to spill its contents on the floor with every movement her hand makes in an attempt to prove her point. He stares, mesmerised, and thinks they probably drink too much (she smokes too much, that's for sure) and yet, she's this starlight in front of him that never seems to fade. Her eyebrow rises when she finishes another one of her innocent-until-proven-guilty rants, finally looking across at his end of the table; she swallows a gulp of her drink, rolls her eyes when she notices his staring, glares back.
"What?"
Clive has gradually become something of a permanent fixture in her flat since she came back from her failed northern-bound escape (she lasted three months, in Bolton, her mother's endless passive-aggressive comments about her life making it hard to breathe – nothing cures homesickness like being home, she guesses) and it's been a few weeks since she first realised she doesn't really mind waking up to the sound of his shower when he comes back from a run in the morning. It wasn't easy, at first: she felt like she wanted him gone more than she wanted him there but eventually, Billy passed away and she took his hand and muttered stay, hoping that he would. He makes her think of the frames she meant to put up on her walls years ago, how she ended up letting them gather dust at the top of her shelves, undisturbed and in plain view, never quite ready to be thrown away, never quite secured either. He's in her flat more often than not, these days: after work, on the weekends (his hands on her hips, mouth tracing the line of her jaw), and her heart seems to rest when she's next to him, quiet, like she's never been scared of anything.
She laughs as he stays silent, just looks at her with a smile on his face. "What?" she repeats, again, slightly teasing, this time around.
He's always thought she was beautiful, Martha Costello, but not in the sense of the word that usually holds meaning to him. She's not just hot or sexy (although, she is, he thinks, every time they run into each other in court and he catches himself imagining the curves of her body hidden under her gown – not very professional, he's got to admit) but meaningful and flawed like a puzzle to be assembled. His brother, Steve, used to love doing them, he remembers, on Sunday nights or for afternoons on end, fitting painted cardboard piece after painted cardboard piece, slowly revealing Big Ben, Westminster and the London Bridge before their eyes. Clive is in love with Martha, sure (as Harriet said, has been half in love with her since the day he met her – and even then, he's not sure 'half' really quite cuts it) but there's something else, too, an odd sense of pride and belonging at the thought that she's let him approach, these past few months, cautiously studying him from afar before letting him step in, playfully asking: what? under the roof of her apartment and almost not fearing his answer, even on one of the darkest nights of December.
She glances up at him as she steals another sip of her beer and realises they've spent the weekend together, again, and that she can't remember the last time they didn't. They went shopping for groceries, yesterday, and worked for a bit, went to the cinema afterwards, saw a shamefully bad American anticipation film, laughed so hard tears rolled down their faces. Chris Pratt and Jennifer Lawrence nonsensically battled against the wraths of a broken spaceship while the both of them fought for control over a bag of popcorn – she'd wanted to see I, Daniel Blake and he'd argued for La La Land so at least, she laughed, a compromise had been reached. With evenings like those and the days slipping past their fingers somewhere between jokes and kisses in the blink of an eye, the end of December hovers dangerously close, now, dark afternoons and freezing rain wetting the pavement, fake foamy snow building up in window displays of shops on her street. She declined his invitation to join him at Shoe Lane's celebratory party (too many memories, and it really wouldn't be the same without Billy, anyway) so they've compromised, too, on lunch at his parents' on Christmas Day. At the time she actually agreed, she didn't feel like driving up to Bolton (too many memories, there, too) and it didn't occur to her that it would be much of a big thing until she realised that his whole family was going to be there, uncles and aunts, siblings and kids and that, well, there's this inexplicable nervous ball building in her stomach at the thought that they might not like her. She's never liked the word relationship (every human contact is a relationship of sorts, isn't it?) but she thinks his family might be the kind of people who do, like her grandfather who won't understand why she's still not married at almost forty years old.
Worry over something he can't quite pinpoint seems to ghost over her face, for a moment and it's a fleeting thought that hits him, at first, but the moment it reaches the front of his brain, it's overpowering, like it's always been there, lying under the surface, just waiting to be picked up. He looks at her, now, as she hides her concerns behind a smile and remembers sitting in a park last summer, her bare calves under a flowy skirt brushing against his jeans in the shadow of a tree; she made rings and crowns out of daisies, ephemeral pieces of jewellery, the underside of her nails slightly tinted green by chlorophyll. I love you, he thought, again, and maybe that's when it all came into place, without him even realising it. He's noticed it happening more and more often these days: she'll do or say something extraordinary like it's the most natural thing in the world and he'll steal a glance at her and think: that's it; she's it.
There's a lot of banter between them, these days, a lot of words and laughter between kisses and light touches and it's occurred to her that they're them again, partners in crime like they've always been, but not only that: it's started to feel to her that there's nothing else that she wants to do at this point in her life other than embrace the adventure, with him, and trust him. They don't work together, anymore (she's settled into another set just on the opposite side of Temple Church; she can still see his desk through the window of her new room) which she thinks has helped alleviate some of the tension. It's been replaced by another kind of tension, though, on nights like tonight, when their initial gazing game turns into a contest, briefs and papers soon forgotten and: "Thoughts?" she teases with a smile on her face as she notices the way his look lingers on her like the tip of his fingers sometimes do on her skin. He swallows heavily, his stare still not leaving hers; she bites her bottom lip and crosses her legs under the table, thinks yeah, Clive, go on. They've both got work to do, she knows, and she really shouldn't be thinking about what else they could be doing, right there on her kitchen table, and yet here she is, and well, she can't even bring herself to feel sorry about –
"Marry me."
When the words leave his mouth, she doesn't move, still, but he sees her gaze follow his as it settles on an open binder between them. Atop of it rests the black jewellery box he's opened, a single, solitary diamond laid down between them. He's been carrying it around for weeks, now, waiting for the right moment but it's just occurred to him that the right moment might not exist, as such, that it probably is always there, somewhere, every time he hears her laugh, or speak, or cry and thinks he might just be the luckiest bastard this world has ever seen. She reminds him of Sinéad from one of those Ken Loach movies she insists on showing him: funny, strong and dignified in a way that she doesn't even know she is. She doesn't touch the box, just looks up at him and he holds her gaze, smiles, insists. "Marry me," he repeats, piercing stare locking on hers.
It occurs to her that it feels like being underwater, sounds blurred below the surface, mouth wide open like she's going to drown. She can't seem to tear her stare away from him, hoping for some kind of reassurance that he is drunk (or sick, or joking) but something's off, like he isn't, like he means it, like –
"Here's what I want, alright?" he starts, then, and tries to explain. Explain, then, to the best of his ability what possessed him to entertain the possibility that she might say yes, a few months ago on one gloomy, autumn afternoon. He walked past a jewellery store and the thought slipped inside his head like the proposition just slipped past his lips, now, like the most obvious thing in the world, his own personal conviction of the only, possible verdict. It hits him that he's got to formulate more coherent thoughts, now, though, has got to make it clear to her, too, and make a case for himself, for her, for them. "I want you in a white dress," he says. "The whole works, walking up Middle Temple Lane and I want my parents to be there, your mum," he smiles, almost laughs.
The lamp in her living room shades a soft light around them; she's always liked that lamp, likes moving it around to aim at specific things like her record collection, or the pictures on her shelf, or him.
"I want you to wear that ring," he adds, pointing at the box on the table.
When she glances at it again, she notices something she hadn't before, the way he's stuck a pink ribbon on top of it, like her mother used to do on Christmas presents. Big buckles, Martha, she used to say and keep your finger here while I tie the knot, will you?
"And I want you to take my name," he speaks, quick, finishes. "Because that's it: you're it."
It's odd: her heart is almost tame, in her chest, when it's usually always angry and passionate, screaming and kicking against her ribs but right now, she can hear the sound of her own breaths, distinct from the music that echoes in her flat. Come away with me, Norah says. And we'll kiss on a mountaintop. Come away with me and I'll never stop -
"I want to spend the rest of my life with you," she hears Clive say as her gaze finds his, again. Her eyes itch, like underwater, when he adds, smiles: "I love you."
Back when she was in Bolton, she found a box filled to the rim with old pictures of her mum and her dad, and herself as baby, with a full, happy grin and chocolate all around her mouth. There were pictures of her as a child, too, and later, fifteen years old with home-dyed black hair, crop top riding up her midriff half-covered by an oversized jean jacket. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss Sean, weirdly remembers the picture being taken, her words quick and quiet in his ear.
Well, she's too stunned to find the words, now – literally speechless – but maybe that's because she knows what it's like to mean them. She thinks of how they almost lost each other, back then: she listened to him speak in Chambers, Harriet nodding at his words and thought: who are you? They've been through a lot, the both of them, more than she ever thought possible, and although she's pretty sure she had no idea what love was at sixteen when she told Sean – crazy, infatuated – she definitely does, now. That's when her heartbeat finally spikes, she realises, in fear that this might be real, right here, that he might actually mean what he says. That he might know what she feels without her even having to say it, really. He laughs – at the look on her face, probably – and: "You're going to have to say something, you know?" he jokes but she can hear the tentative tone in his voice, underlying, the thoughts rushing in his brain.
She frowns, her gaze narrowing on his. "Aren't you supposed to bend down on one knee?" she asks, before she can think; her heart has gone from zero to one hundred in the span of seconds, blood rushing loud in her ears; she wonders if she might actually explode.
He laughs, head cocking to the side. "I would, but I don't think my knee would like it very much."
A nervous chuckle escapes her lips; she shakes her head at him, remembers: the day she met him, in Chambers, with his clean, new wig under his arm looking like he'd been born there, bred there - fuck, she thought and well, fuck me, too. The day she lost her Dad and he slept on her couch in her shitty flat out in zone 4, did it off his own accord because he knew she'd never ask, never admit to anyone she'd never really wanted to be alone. The day she left, too, almost two years ago, and the voicemails on her phone: Marth, where are you? Marth, why? She's not sure he ever understood, even after she tried to explain and retroactively put words on her broken heart, but then she's not sure she, herself, ever quite understood what ran through her head that night, either. She looked at the stream of water flowing down the Thames below her feet and thought: yeah, that's it.
Frankly, that's it, too, she thinks, now, because Clive is right. Clive is always right when she isn't, when she's dancing, breathless, in the dark depths of the ocean and he pulls her out of the water, jokes as wet, blond curls frame her face: Marth, you're not really a shark, are you?
It's her turn to watch him from the other end of her kitchen table, now, and over the closed Apple logo of his laptop, his fingers cross and uncross as he stares down at his hands. She waits until he glances up at her, tentatively, and smiles, nods, to herself almost. Her dad had asked, once, in a rare moment of lucidity when she drove up to Bolton one weekend; she told him about having drinks with her work colleague at The George the night before and: 'you like him, don't you?' he'd enquired, with a smile on his face. It's complicated, she meant to say, but then it really didn't feel complicated, didn't feel like Sean did, the constant sterile arguments and back and forth-s. Clive was a dick but he was also funny, and kind. 'He makes you happy, doesn't he? I already like him if he makes you happy.'
'Yes,' she said, then, and: "Yes," she says now, affirmative. It feels like catching the lifeline he's thrown her but also looks like he catches hers, too, with his smile, disbelieving, like out of all the things he expected her to respond, he really didn't expect that.
I'll save you if you save me, she catches herself thinking, a promise.
He holds her gaze for what feels like a century, just sitting there, in the middle of court briefs and Archbolds. He's trying to read her face, she knows, so she stills, for a minute, gives him what he wants.
"You're serious," he calls, realisation hitting him, words tumbling out as they did before. She likes seeing him at a loss for words, sometimes, like that night at the pub when she got a bit drunk and he a bit slow at saying goodbye to everybody at the pub; she went to the bathroom, came back, whispered in his ear: 'I'm not wearing pants, Clive, so we better go, now.'
She laughs and: "Yes," she says, again, raises an eyebrow at him. "Are you?"
She never gets an answer. He lifts her up from her chair before she even has time to see it coming, his arm quickly casting half the things on the table to the floor, papers falling around their feet. He sits her there, standing between her legs and kisses her, again and again, barely letting a rogue smile creep across her lips by giving her time to breathe. "I love you, Martha Costello," he says, dropping kisses against her collarbone and she puffs out a loud laugh, her hands in his hair.
"Reader," she corrects, but then she thinks of her father and: no. "Costello-Reader," she amends, thinks they can compromise on that, too. Clive glances up at her then, feels like he's seeing right through her. A smile twists the corner of his mouth, he shrugs: "Fine," he says. "Deal."
Her initial thought was not too far from truth, as it turns out, because he does end up taking her right there on the table as more and more objects clatter down on the floor, completely forgotten; she laughs, kisses him anyhow. Later, in bed, he slides the ring onto her finger and it sits there, for a while, she looks at it and a thought crosses her mind, it makes her smile.
"What?" he asks, raising an eyebrow and she laughs, kisses him with her palm resting over his heart.
"I love you," she says. It makes him still, for a moment, look at her. First time she ever says it but the words tumble out of her mouth like a pine cone rolling down a hill, natural, and she looks up at him, repeats: "I love you, Clive Reader." It's real, she thinks, has somehow always been real.
They forget to shut the blinds, that night, and the moonlight reflects on her ring as Clive lies next to her, fast asleep. There's a part of her that still can't explain how right it seems to feel, there, on her finger, like it was never meant to be any different. She smiles to herself, closing her eyes as she twists it inside her palm, thinks: yeah, her dad would definitely have liked him.
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[1] I googled it and it appears Hop House is sold in England but maybe this is an Ireland-exclusive I'm not aware of. If it doesn't exist, please accept my apologies for this slight inconsistency.
[2] The Chris Pratt and Jennifer Lawrence film is called Passengers. My advice is: if you haven't yet subjected yourself to it, don't watch it.
[3] Sinéad Ní Shúilleabháin belongs to Ken Loach and The Wind That Shakes The Barley (this one, you should definitely watch).
[4] Come Away With Me is, of course, by Norah Jones.
And, that's it, the rest of the ridiculous fluff belongs to me. I hope you enjoyed this. Please don't hesitate to comment and review, I'm just looking for another excuse to procrastinate before I get back to the dull, dryness of civil procedure.