Disclaimer: If I owned this … well, I'd be a rich man. Because, with all that money, I could totally afford a sex change. Right.
No goblins were harmed in the writing of this fic. And I hope you won't harm me, when I tell you that I lied. Again. It's a horrible habit. This is part 2 of 4.
Rated T for language.
My True Love Gave to Me
Part 2
"Brush a large baking sheet with remaining butter."
Sarah brushed.
"Place braided dough on baking sheet and form into a ring."
Sarah grabbed the baking sheet. Then, rolling her eyes at her own inability to follow instructions, she gritted her teeth and awkwardly inched the braided ring onto the sheet from the counter. The ring slid meekly into place, as if sensing her ill temper.
"Press bean, doll, coin, or trinket well into dough so that it doesn't show."
Sarah
held up a single coffee bean with a mock flourish and let it fall
onto the ring. She looked at it narrowly, and then pressed it into
the dough with one finger. Die, coffee bean, die!
The
dough closed around the bean with a fwoop.
She
sighed. Dreams or no dreams, goblins or no goblins (Kings or no
Kings, her mind whispered) – the poor bean hadn't done her any
wrong that she could think of. And it would end up ground into powder
and digested before the week was out, through no fault of its
own.
"Sorry."
Sarah snapped her mouth shut on the word - what the hell? "Why am I apologizing to a damn coffee bean, for crying out loud? Shit!"
She snatched at the printout. "Cover dough with damp cloth, and set aside again to rise for about 45 to 60 minutes."
"Fine ..." Sarah set the dough rather more carefully on the stove top, dusted off her hands, and tried to think of something to do. Something that didn't involve thinking about goblins.
"Sock it to me, Goblin King -" she muttered. Then – "Oh – right. Socks."
And she headed upstairs to look for them.
Forty minutes later, Sarah's apron was dusty, her elbow was bruised, and her head was beginning to pound – in time with a mental chorus of goblins singing: "No socks, no socks, nah-nah nah-nah na-aah nah!"
"Stupid socks!" she snarled. Then she kicked her parents' dresser. "Ouch! Frick on a stick!"
For she had found nothing. There was neither hide nor hair of any sock to be seen – no rayon, no silk, no wool, no polyester (one of her father's many sartorial mistakes from the sixties) – even her own nylons were missing.
"And those aren't even socks, you idiots!"
Why she was so sure goblins were responsible, she could not say. Was it intuition? Observation and deduction? Occam's Razor?
Instinct, more like. Sarah walked downstairs, glowering to herself. While socks, and pens, and crucial memos had a tendency to run off and hide around her – more often than not at the moment they were most desperately needed – she had never heard of, had never experienced, an all-consuming vortex of Murphy's Law descending on an unfortunate house and sucking up all the socks therein.
Besides ... she could have sworn that three – not one, not two, but three different voices had tittered when she had thwacked her elbow on the doorframe.
She stomped into the kitchen and set the oven to "preheat at 375 degrees." Then she took the now-puffy braid, and brushed a mixture of egg white and milk over it. It dripped down onto the baking sheet. Sarah didn't care.
The oven would take ten minutes to heat ... Sighing, Sarah decided to kill the time by making frosting. She quickly mixed "confectioners' sugar, lemon juice and 3 tablespoons of water in a deep bowl" – "God, the fucking joy of cooking –" she snarled, as the combination overflowed the Tupperware container she had tried first.
Frosting finished, she put dabs of food coloring paste into three small bowls, and dumped sugar over them. "Green, yellow, purple," she sang, pouring the colored sugar into plastic bags. "And a partridge in a fucking pear tree!" She left a vicious purple thumbprint on the crumpled printout.
Sarah froze – had that been a snicker?
She stared down at the paper. It looked oddly forlorn, crumpled and stained as it was.
Her voice gusted out in a sigh. "Why am I in such a bad mood?" Sarah tried to straighten the paper, failed, then looked around. "It's not like I don't like being at home ... and this cake is going to be fine ..." Mechanically, she opened the oven door, deposited the baking sheet inside, closed it with a thump. She set her digital watch for thirty minutes.
"The cake's going to taste great, and the living room's clean, so why am I –"
She heard a thud. A muffled sound, and a fit of giggling, also muffled – and some exaggerated shhhhhh noises –
The noises were coming from the living room.
Calmly, she placed the plastic bags of sugar into the pockets of her apron. You might need to blind them. Coolly, she slipped on her shoes. You might need to run. She padded on silent feet through the hallway, through the dining room, and around the corner –
Sarah stared.
Three dirty goblins stared back.
There was a laundry basket teetering on their heads.
"You little bastards!!" Sarah screeched. She grabbed the feather duster from where she had left it on the coffee table and pelted towards them, aiming for the basket – they screeched back, and scampered away. T-shirts and underwear flew across the floor. The laundry basket flew up into the air. The house lights flickered, the Christmas tree fell over – and Merlin the Second ran into the room, barking –
- only to howl at the fireplace – the empty fireplace – through which Sarah, the goblins, the feather duster, and several pieces of dirty laundry had fallen out of the world.
The first thing she realized was that while goblins apparently bounced, humans did not.
The second thing she realized was that said goblins had not stuck around to help whoever it was making all the groaning noises, electing instead to flee, squeaking shrilly.
The third thing was that the person making the groaning noises was herself.
The fourth thing was that she was lying on smooth flagstones, which looked – she squinted – which looked to be made from marble, or granite, or something with flecks of mica in it –
"Sparkle, sparkle –" Sarah slurred. Ouch. It hurt to talk.
The fifth thing she realized –
"Oh, shut up," Sarah fumed at her mind. She sat up. Her head swam. "Crap – that hurt –"
"I should think so," said a low voice.
Sarah froze.
"Mmm. You know, that only works when you're the same color as whatever you're hiding in – and, Sarah dear, you do not match my stonework."
She blinked hard, once, twice, and reminded herself to breathe. Breathe in – nice and slow. In and out. In and out.
But her breath caught in her throat as the Goblin King – holy shit it's really him – floated forward in a soft fall of white down and grey cloth – easing out of the gloom like a ghost looking to return the cloud it had stolen for a cloak –
"– really leaves much to be desired."
Sarah gaped. He had been speaking, and she hadn't heard him – how could she not have heard his voice –
"What?"
The Goblin King tsked at her. "Your landing technique, Sarah." At her blank look, he arched an eyebrow. "The first rule of flying is: always know how to land."
"It is?"
"You must have hit your head harder than I thought. Yes, of course it is. Only slightly lesser known is this: always know where you are going. Or perhaps it is: always respect the right of airway, which is to say – yield to eagles, condors, vultures, falcons, owls, and Kings."
He trailed off, an odd expression on his face. "And from your looks, Sarah, it seems as though you knew none of these things."
Sarah closed her eyes. Her head hurt. "I had forgotten …"
His voice was closer. "Forgotten what?"
Her head was throbbing. "How much you talk. I mean –" Sarah opened her eyes a crack and felt her neck prickle as she realized how his face was closer too – how he was staring at her with birds' eyes – owl eyes – she could see them, even in the dark, although they shimmered as though they were part of a mirage. "You talk too much."
Owl eyes narrowed. "Do I?"
Sarah nodded – ouch – then croaked, "Yep."
The Goblin King stared a moment more, then shook his head. He passed one hand over his mouth – he still wears gloves, Sarah thought – and drummed his fingers against one cheekbone. Noticing her watching him, he blinked and dropped the hand to his side, and then spoke: "What are you doing here?"
His words were soft, but she had a headache. "What?"
"Let me rephrase that. What are you doing here …" he tipped his head and raised his eyebrows. "… precious thing?"
Sarah felt her eyes go wide, and then she scooted away as quickly as she could – but her back ran into a stone wall, and then she broke her fall with one hand and gasped – "Ow, that really hurt –"
"What is it?"
His voice was so quiet that she didn't registered a faint rustle of feathers and fabric until she looked up, into his eyes – his eyes right in front of hers from where he was kneeling down –
Sarah yelped and jerked her head back. He froze.
She held up a hand –my good hand – shit the other must be broken – in front of her face. "Don't –" she stuttered. "Don't hurt me –"
"What?" His voice cracked.
Blinking, Sarah peeked through her fingers. "Goblin King – don't hurt me – please –"
"It's Jareth," he snapped. "And why in the name of the Labyrinth would I hurt you?"
"Um." Sarah tried to think; it was difficult, with her head pounding. "Because you sent me – bad dreams –" Shit. She felt the pressure behind her eyes that always presaged a crying jag; the last thing she needed right now was to start sniffling – fuck fuck fuck, oh, here come the waterworks –
She felt a tear slide down her cheek.
But then she heard something strange – registered it as a soft sound caught in the back of Jareth's throat – and then she felt a finger without a glove – eep – trace the tear from her eye to her jaw, and –
Sarah blinked. Suddenly, her cheekbone didn't hurt. "What was that?"
Jareth looked gravely at her. "You definitely hit your head harder than I thought. I don't know the particulars –" he reached one careful hand to her forearm, circled the most painful part of it with his fingers, and she could almost hear the hurt dissolve – "but I saw enough to know that you took a header straight into my balcony."
He touched her shoulder. The pain melted away. "Oh," Sarah said, feeling dizzy. She swallowed some of the blood in her mouth – ick. "Why don't you know the particulars?"
Jareth grunted. "I was too busy untangling myself from some branches – after a certain novice –" he flicked a glance at her and placed a hand on her ankle – the hurt there evaporated – "as I was saying, after some insufferably rude person thought it would be fantastic fun to barge into my flightpath and send me to get better acquainted with an oak tree."
She smiled, and winced as she felt blood well up from her split lip. "I wish I could have seen that."
He gave her a sour look, and folded his fingers around her injured hand. "Quite." A sudden warmth spread through her knuckles; Sarah gasped. "My apologies," Jareth murmured, "This one's a bit more complicated."
"What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" He glanced up at her again. "Magic."
"Wow." Sarah waited until he released her hand, then held it up and flexed her fingers. "Wow. You should put this in a bottle and sell it."
"And thereby return my kingdom to solvency, and be renowned through goblin history as King Jareth the Fiscally Responsible – not that they could spell it correctly – what?" For Sarah was wincing. "What is it?"
"My head – I don't know –" Sarah squeezed her hands together and tried her best to make the two shimmering Jareths turn into one, in her vision. "My head still hurts."
"Ah." The two Jareths were looking at her, an unreadable expression in their four eyes. "Well, I can do the same thing – but I'm warning you, I have to – touch your face for it."
"Oh … Well, that's O.K." She drew her knees up, and wrapped her arms around them. "I guess."
Jareth – the Jareths – carefully held out his – their – hand – hands – whatever– Sarah looked into his eyes, and kept looking even as the four resolved into two, as she felt a tingling warmth radiate from his palm, through her temple and into her thoughts – oh –
She felt her own eyes widen. "How do did you do that?"
He did not move his hand away. "I told you – magic."
"Well," and Sarah shifted her cheek from his palm – calloused, she thought randomly – "well – so –" and all her memories came flooding back. She stiffened. "If it's that easy to make my thoughts all –tingly – then how do I know you haven't been sending me those horrible dreams?!"
Jareth sat back, and draped his hand with its fellow, over his knees. "I have no power over you."
Sarah looked at him suspiciously. "Really."
His lips tightened. "Yes, really."
"Then how did I get here?"
Jareth shrugged, his eyes hooded. "Undoubtedly the same way you survived crashing into four rock-callers' worth of limestone. Blind luck."
Sarah inhaled. "But I got here – all by myself." At his nod, she felt a strange bubble of – something – in her heart – "Holy shit – you mean I can fly?"
He half-smiled. "I believe you can fly. Badly, of course – and you land even worse."
"And those dreams?"
The slight smile turned into a frown. "I'm not quite sure – although I suppose it depends on your neighbors …"
"My neighbors?"
He nodded. "If you are beginning to explore your powers, then you might be picking up on the strongest dreams of those in closest proximity to you –"
"The strongest dreams – O.K., that would explain why I'm not stuck in Macy's every night, thank God – Karen never was big on the imagination – but – but wait – powers?" Sarah realized she was babbling, but she didn't care. "Powers?? If I have," and she gulped, "special powers, why are they showing up now?"
"Don't ask me to fathom how your mind works." He gave her a snide look. "You're the one that thought that denting my balcony would be a bloody fantastic idea."
"Oh, give it a rest. It can't be any worse than your castle falling down." Sarah grinned widely, ignoring his glare, but then yelped as her lip split even further. "Ouch!"
"You deserve it."
"No I don't –ouch – and … oh shit." Sarah probed a tooth with her tongue. "Oh fuckity fuck fucking hell, if that's broken I'll have to go to the damn dentist."
She looked up, only to see Jareth's eyebrows at his hairline. "Really, Sarah, such language –"
"Oh, put a sock in it – wait." Sarah inhaled slowly. "Socks. Socks." She unclenched her hands and jabbed Jareth in the chest with one finger. "Why are you sending goblins to steal my socks?"
His mouth curled up at one corner. "My dear Sarah, I have not the pleasure of understanding you."
"Don't even start, you smartass – I know they've been stealing socks, and I want to know why – Jareth?"
Sarah trailed off. The Goblin King was staring off into space, his eyes blazing.
"… Jareth?"
"They wouldn't dare…" His voice was a low hiss.
"Um, Jareth – you're kind of – well, freaking me out." Sarah spread her hand to its full extent, and laid it against his chest. "Jareth?"
He flicked his gaze back to her. "How many socks?"
"I'm not sure – quite a few, since there are four people at home and we're all having trouble finding anything for our feet that isn't shoe-related –"
Jareth set his jaw. "If you will excuse me, Sarah – I must speak to my subjects."
"What?" She pulled at his pale shirt as he made a motion to rise. "You can't just traipse off like that and leave me here –"
"And why not?"
His eyes – owl eyes – had flicked back to hers, and suddenly …
Sarah swallowed. Her head didn't hurt, and he no longer had a hand at her temple, so why –
… why did she feel …
Jareth had gone still. He sat, oddly tense, as though waiting for her to move. He blended in perfectly with the pale limestone – Sarah had a strange feeling that if reality were to shift just a bit – if he were sitting on an Escher stair, and the stair were to fall upside-down, then he would disappear.
She licked her lips, nervously, and saw his eyes flicker –
– that's it, then –
– so …what am I going to do about it?
She tried to speak in a normal voice. "I hate the dentist, Jareth. I mean – I really,really hate him."
Jareth said nothing – and only tilted his head slightly. She felt a sudden, intense rush of memory: those same eyes, fixed on her, that same head tilt, in a ballroom –
She had thought he was about to kiss her –
"The dentist is an absolute bastard, Goblin King, and I hate him with the intensity of a thousand burning suns."
He frowned. "Call me –"
"Jareth," Sarah cut him off. "Jareth …" She leaned closer to him. "Goblin King, Goblin King, wherever you may be –"
"I'm right here."
"Shut up – you're wrecking the moment. Take this mortal hurt of mine … far away from me?" Sarah heard her voice go up into a squeak. "Please?"
Jareth looked at her, with no expression on his face at all. "You do know what you're asking?"
Not daring to speak, Sarah swallowed a lump in her throat. And nodded.
"Very well."
Jareth leaned forward – slowly, carefully – and framed her face with his hands. His long fingers smoothed her hair away from her temples; his thumbs traced her lips and she shivered as she felt the split heal –
"Before thirteen-o'-clock, please," she murmured.
And Sarah thrilled at the smile that she saw spreading across his face as he brushed his mouth over hers – and then she shut her eyes and twined her fingers through his own as they came together in a kiss that felt like a thousand hurts made whole.
To be continued.
And: holy moly, people, I'm writing fluff! Ack!! How did this happen?
Who can find the Pride and Prejudice quotation?
Thank you for all your reviews! A warning: there be crack!fic ahead. Stay tuned for 1) more goblins, 2) the Labyrinth National Anthem, 3) socks!! 4) fairy dust, and 5) Rodents of Unusual Size! Well, not the rodents. But another sort of animal - not dog, not owl, neither fish nor fowl. Any guesses?
