Title: The Power of Love (1/?)
Author: Jules
Pairing: Mark/Clare
Rating: PG-13, though it may be R later.
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, neither is the song.
Author's Note: This fic was inspired by "Love Will Keep Us Alive" by The Eagles.
Summary: Set in the future after The China Garden ends. It's the eve of their first anniversary and Clare's having more than a few doubts.
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Clare sat on the window seat in the living room of the little house on Kenward Farm. Mrs. Carlton-Winters, Mark's mother, had moved out shortly after Mr. Aylward's death to run some stables of his on the other side of the village. Mark hadn't wanted to live in the main house, and Frances was still occupying the converted stables, so she and Mark decided to move in together into his childhood home. It was hard to believe it had been nearly a year since the ritual.
Clare gazed out the window and across the field to where Mark stood in the sun, working side by side with the other farm hands, though he didn't have to, to get the horses prepped for harvest season. There was one horse, a new wild mare that Mark had affectionately dubbed Rosie, who just didn't seem to want to cooperate. 'A free spirit' Clare thought to herself amusedly, 'just like the others'
Clare got up and teetered into the small kitchen and stirred the stew she'd left cooking low on the stove. She poured herself a tall glass of milk and headed back to her perch, inwardly noting the slight sway in her gait with mild disdain. She curled back up on the cushion and pulled her knees in as far as she could. 'Pretty soon I won't even be able to get up here, much less curl up' she thought to herself. Her pregnancy was nearly halfway through, and while it showed, it wasn't too terribly noticeable, but it was enough to bother her with her already irritable mood. She was cranky and upset something she couldn't remember the last time she hadn't been, which had led to increasing tension in the tiny home.
She finished off the milk, looking out once more past the fields, to the horizon, where the afternoon sun had begun to set. 'Another day gone' she thought wistfully. Turning her attention back to the fiasco that was unfolding in the field, she watched Mark wipe the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand which he then rubbed into the hem of his dark shirt. He had enough sense to know that no manual labor could be accomplished in leathers, but he still wore black shirts and trousers, often making Clare wonder how he didn't faint from heat stroke in the summers.
Clare turned from the window and moved to the couch cautiously. Her slower pace aggravated her and her nausea even more so, as it was what kept her indoors all day instead of outdoors, with the soothing sounds of nature, a good shady tree, and a book. She settled on her side, fluffing the throw pillow beneath her head, and scooting one beneath her feet as well, which were beginning to swell, much to her disappointment. Sighing, she pulled the little afghan blanket with the raven's nest pattern that her mother had made them up to her chin and began to doze.
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That was how Mark found her an hour later when he came in for the night. He left his boots at the door and shut the screen door softly behind him so as not to disturb her. She looked peaceful and content, snoring softly, though he was certain she was in no better a mood than she'd been in at lunch when he'd come by to check on her and make himself a sandwich. They'd had a brief quarrel that had ended in her screaming about him being too overprotective into the door that he'd slammed behind him to escape her wrath.
Mark came around the couch and placed a soft kiss on her cheek before continuing down the hall to their bedroom to change out of his work clothes and shower. He smiled to himself when he passed their bed, the sheets to which were neatly turned down, pillows fluffy and white. He knew Clare hated housework, and yet she did it without fail, probably because of her excessive anal-retentive streak, something about which he also knew a great deal and teased her often. He stripped off his black shirt and jeans, throwing them in the hamper he passed. He climbed under the hot spray and let it relax his muscles. He could feel some of the stress ebbing away and wished that their relationship could be repaired with the same simplicity. Groaning inwardly, he lathered and then proceeded to wish the day's grime away.
Clare woke moments later, but did not rise. Instead she listened as the shower shut off and Mark stepped out and began to walk as quietly as he could around their room, dressing in a muscle shirt and drawstring pants. She waited for him to exit their room and come back to the den to find her awake, but he didn't come. She wondered what could be holding him up and then realized he probably didn't want to be around her after earlier, not that she could really blame him. She had overreacted a bit she supposed. 'Chalk it up to hormones' she thought cynically, but still she couldn't shake herself of the weird feelings that had plagued her as of late. She was more bitter than she liked to admit, as she considered herself a pretty cheery person most of the time.
Curious as to what was keeping Mark, she rose slowly and padded softly down the hallway. She stood in the entryway to their room, leaning gently against the doorframe, and watched Mark. He'd settled onto their bed, stretched out, eyes closed and hands under his head. She couldn't decided if he was resting or deep in thought, but decided not to ruin the moment just yet.
Unbeknownst to her, Mark had known the second she'd approached, her fragrance wafting over him like a spring breeze. He stayed quite, not particularly wanting to rehash the turmoil of late, but was apprehensive of her gaze. He heard the doorframe creak and he opened his eyes to see her turning away.
"Don't go," he croaked out softly.
"I didn't know you were awake," she replied, just as low.
"I was just thinking," he said, answering her previous thoughts. He sat up and patted the bed beside him, motioning for her to sit. She moved forward steadily and cautiously, her weight barely shifting the mattress as she scooted towards him, stopping just short of his embrace. He thought her slightly rounded features cute, though if he told her so it would probably lead to another skirmish.
He opened his arms and waited for her to ease herself against his side. She did so, though slower and more tentatively than he would've liked. As she sank into the covers next to him and basked in his warmth, he tightened his hold around her upper body. They remained like that for a few minutes, reserving their conflicts just enjoying each other's presence, something they hadn't done in a long time, until she spoke, breaking the silence.
"I'm sorry," she said softly into his chest.
"It's ok," he said, bringing one hand up to stroke her hair softly before continuing, "I'm the one who should be sorry, it's more my fault than anything." She acquiesced, not really wanting to argue over who was more to blame, but he continued anyway.
"I'm sorry that what we have isn't perfect, but I'm really trying, Clare," he said, turning to face her. She smiled up at him, gently raising one slim hand to brush the dark tendrils off his forehead. She was unable to remember why she'd been so angry with him earlier, which made her slightly frustrated because he always seemed to have that effect on her.
She wrapped her arms around his middle, her hands slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, trying to dissolve herself into him. They fell into another period of masked silence, until his stomach began to grumble. She giggled softly at first; her pitch increasing as he suddenly but carefully whisked her up in his arms effortlessly and started off in the direction of the kitchen.
"What'd you make, it smelled delicious when I came in earlier," he half questioned, though he had a pretty good idea already. She turned her head up to face him from her position cradled against him and replied, "Stew, my dad's old recipe."
"Let's eat, I'm starved," he said, placing her gently in her chair and serving them both.
"So I noticed," she said, laughing, which faded into a smile as he picked up his fork with one hand and clasped her hand in the other. They ate quietly, allowing a tentative peace to settle briefly on the household; happy to put off their discussions turned arguments for another time.
Author: Jules
Pairing: Mark/Clare
Rating: PG-13, though it may be R later.
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, neither is the song.
Author's Note: This fic was inspired by "Love Will Keep Us Alive" by The Eagles.
Summary: Set in the future after The China Garden ends. It's the eve of their first anniversary and Clare's having more than a few doubts.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Clare sat on the window seat in the living room of the little house on Kenward Farm. Mrs. Carlton-Winters, Mark's mother, had moved out shortly after Mr. Aylward's death to run some stables of his on the other side of the village. Mark hadn't wanted to live in the main house, and Frances was still occupying the converted stables, so she and Mark decided to move in together into his childhood home. It was hard to believe it had been nearly a year since the ritual.
Clare gazed out the window and across the field to where Mark stood in the sun, working side by side with the other farm hands, though he didn't have to, to get the horses prepped for harvest season. There was one horse, a new wild mare that Mark had affectionately dubbed Rosie, who just didn't seem to want to cooperate. 'A free spirit' Clare thought to herself amusedly, 'just like the others'
Clare got up and teetered into the small kitchen and stirred the stew she'd left cooking low on the stove. She poured herself a tall glass of milk and headed back to her perch, inwardly noting the slight sway in her gait with mild disdain. She curled back up on the cushion and pulled her knees in as far as she could. 'Pretty soon I won't even be able to get up here, much less curl up' she thought to herself. Her pregnancy was nearly halfway through, and while it showed, it wasn't too terribly noticeable, but it was enough to bother her with her already irritable mood. She was cranky and upset something she couldn't remember the last time she hadn't been, which had led to increasing tension in the tiny home.
She finished off the milk, looking out once more past the fields, to the horizon, where the afternoon sun had begun to set. 'Another day gone' she thought wistfully. Turning her attention back to the fiasco that was unfolding in the field, she watched Mark wipe the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand which he then rubbed into the hem of his dark shirt. He had enough sense to know that no manual labor could be accomplished in leathers, but he still wore black shirts and trousers, often making Clare wonder how he didn't faint from heat stroke in the summers.
Clare turned from the window and moved to the couch cautiously. Her slower pace aggravated her and her nausea even more so, as it was what kept her indoors all day instead of outdoors, with the soothing sounds of nature, a good shady tree, and a book. She settled on her side, fluffing the throw pillow beneath her head, and scooting one beneath her feet as well, which were beginning to swell, much to her disappointment. Sighing, she pulled the little afghan blanket with the raven's nest pattern that her mother had made them up to her chin and began to doze.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
That was how Mark found her an hour later when he came in for the night. He left his boots at the door and shut the screen door softly behind him so as not to disturb her. She looked peaceful and content, snoring softly, though he was certain she was in no better a mood than she'd been in at lunch when he'd come by to check on her and make himself a sandwich. They'd had a brief quarrel that had ended in her screaming about him being too overprotective into the door that he'd slammed behind him to escape her wrath.
Mark came around the couch and placed a soft kiss on her cheek before continuing down the hall to their bedroom to change out of his work clothes and shower. He smiled to himself when he passed their bed, the sheets to which were neatly turned down, pillows fluffy and white. He knew Clare hated housework, and yet she did it without fail, probably because of her excessive anal-retentive streak, something about which he also knew a great deal and teased her often. He stripped off his black shirt and jeans, throwing them in the hamper he passed. He climbed under the hot spray and let it relax his muscles. He could feel some of the stress ebbing away and wished that their relationship could be repaired with the same simplicity. Groaning inwardly, he lathered and then proceeded to wish the day's grime away.
Clare woke moments later, but did not rise. Instead she listened as the shower shut off and Mark stepped out and began to walk as quietly as he could around their room, dressing in a muscle shirt and drawstring pants. She waited for him to exit their room and come back to the den to find her awake, but he didn't come. She wondered what could be holding him up and then realized he probably didn't want to be around her after earlier, not that she could really blame him. She had overreacted a bit she supposed. 'Chalk it up to hormones' she thought cynically, but still she couldn't shake herself of the weird feelings that had plagued her as of late. She was more bitter than she liked to admit, as she considered herself a pretty cheery person most of the time.
Curious as to what was keeping Mark, she rose slowly and padded softly down the hallway. She stood in the entryway to their room, leaning gently against the doorframe, and watched Mark. He'd settled onto their bed, stretched out, eyes closed and hands under his head. She couldn't decided if he was resting or deep in thought, but decided not to ruin the moment just yet.
Unbeknownst to her, Mark had known the second she'd approached, her fragrance wafting over him like a spring breeze. He stayed quite, not particularly wanting to rehash the turmoil of late, but was apprehensive of her gaze. He heard the doorframe creak and he opened his eyes to see her turning away.
"Don't go," he croaked out softly.
"I didn't know you were awake," she replied, just as low.
"I was just thinking," he said, answering her previous thoughts. He sat up and patted the bed beside him, motioning for her to sit. She moved forward steadily and cautiously, her weight barely shifting the mattress as she scooted towards him, stopping just short of his embrace. He thought her slightly rounded features cute, though if he told her so it would probably lead to another skirmish.
He opened his arms and waited for her to ease herself against his side. She did so, though slower and more tentatively than he would've liked. As she sank into the covers next to him and basked in his warmth, he tightened his hold around her upper body. They remained like that for a few minutes, reserving their conflicts just enjoying each other's presence, something they hadn't done in a long time, until she spoke, breaking the silence.
"I'm sorry," she said softly into his chest.
"It's ok," he said, bringing one hand up to stroke her hair softly before continuing, "I'm the one who should be sorry, it's more my fault than anything." She acquiesced, not really wanting to argue over who was more to blame, but he continued anyway.
"I'm sorry that what we have isn't perfect, but I'm really trying, Clare," he said, turning to face her. She smiled up at him, gently raising one slim hand to brush the dark tendrils off his forehead. She was unable to remember why she'd been so angry with him earlier, which made her slightly frustrated because he always seemed to have that effect on her.
She wrapped her arms around his middle, her hands slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, trying to dissolve herself into him. They fell into another period of masked silence, until his stomach began to grumble. She giggled softly at first; her pitch increasing as he suddenly but carefully whisked her up in his arms effortlessly and started off in the direction of the kitchen.
"What'd you make, it smelled delicious when I came in earlier," he half questioned, though he had a pretty good idea already. She turned her head up to face him from her position cradled against him and replied, "Stew, my dad's old recipe."
"Let's eat, I'm starved," he said, placing her gently in her chair and serving them both.
"So I noticed," she said, laughing, which faded into a smile as he picked up his fork with one hand and clasped her hand in the other. They ate quietly, allowing a tentative peace to settle briefly on the household; happy to put off their discussions turned arguments for another time.