A/N: lul I couldn't even remember what my own OC's looked like it's been that long. Thank you – and I mean THANK YOU to everyone who has stuck by reading this for (almost) two years and everyone who's clicked on for a looksie. Your reviews have been well worth it and have brought a smile to my other-wise drawn face (I need a job or more unemployed friends). I really mean it, thanks. Also, if I don't make it 'm' now I'll have to later. Just warning you.

Laurie stared at the empty space beside him. The sheets lay tangled at the base of the bed, some covering his feet, the rest waiting to be pulled up by absentminded lady-like hands. The room still smelt strongly of perfume and he had to close his eyes to stop the feeling of loneliness that threatened to drown him.

It was only at this point of consciousness, in this time where his lids felt heavier than his limbs that Laurie permitted himself to imagine a life without mistakes. Where the space beside him was waiting to be filled by an American, not the Italian woman who was singing softly in the bath next door. Certainly, he dwelt and obsessed over Jo in brighter moments of wake but in the moment before sleep took hold he found himself desperately alone and his imagination frantically wild. It was here that Laurie's compositions were born and verses of grey eyes dominated the space left in the white sheets warm from the French afternoon sun.

His eyes began their slow roll back under red lids and he imagined that it was Jo whose sweet voice reached his ears. Laurie imagined she had said yes and that they had travelled Europe and he had never met anyone with blue eyes and a French accent and that his bed belonged to them both. He imagined that the footsteps approaching the bed were clumsy, eager to climb into that empty space and fill it with warmth and well-known love, the only love he had ever wanted. God how he wanted.

She'd whisper 'Teddy' and her long arms would fall about him, pressing the shape of her beloved body to his and they would fit. And he would be falling asleep in the scent of books and ink not lace and sugar, she would be Jo and he would be himself.

Himself, he thought drifting into a colourful sleep that did not involve the woman he clutched.

…

Laurie woke to the sound of pigeons scratching at the window. Blinking he scrubbed his face with his numb hands, sparing a second to look at the space beside him. Isobella was not lying expectantly beside him and from the state of the room she had left eagerly that morning for an audition. Laurie smelt roses and he knew she had been nervous for she only saved that particular perfume for an event to impress. Groaning he swung his long legs out of bed and lumbered out of the room into the still-unfamiliar living room and kitchen in one.

On surveying the cramped room Laurie discovered the pitcher of milk he had bought yesterday and quickly downed the remains. He wondered over to the sofa, a new affair with even more tears than his previous couch the colour he loved and quickly picked up the newspaper. He scanned the pages, forcing his eyes to follow word by word. He had to keep busy, had to keep occupied or else last night's dream would creep back and he would be on his back moaning not in pain but in release with a head of chestnut hair he knew better than his own kissing him in ways he'd never known.

Laurie cringed, dropping the paper in defeat. It wasn't any use. His dreams had taken a dramatic turn and they were heading down a road he knew led to his self-destruction for they contained events that would never, never in a never-in-a-million-years never happen. Jo had become the star of every thought, no longer just waking and Laurie knew where this lead. The events in Venice were hardly favourable and yet her presence had returned and Laurie found himself thinking of her in ways he hadn't for years.

He looked around the room; seeing the single window shut tight he ventured over to open it. Only too late did Laurie remember why Bella had kept all the windows closed as a wave of Parisian air hit his nostrils. Recoiling from the smell Laurie slammed the window shut, ignoring the shuddering of the pane against the sill as he turned back to the 'new' blue sofa.

He wouldn't let his life fall apart. Not again.

Looking for something to keep him busy, Laurie spotted the plain black board that held his manuscripts. He shuffled into the kitchen and pulled it off the table, feeling a little silly when a wave of nostalgia hit him at first sight of a crotchet. It was like climbing onto a buoy and clutching for dear life having been lost at sea for days. Laurie permitted a half-smile at the folder of sheets in his hands and he leaned against the table-top thinking he'd found his saviour a second time.

He knew how to stop himself from drowning and he was going to make good of it this time. If he should continue to earn money from such a living then it would be no loss and if he should only be stuck with Bella and her bell-voice and this small Parisian hovel he was by necessity to call 'home' then he should survive. The legacy of his mother would ride him through this resurfacing pain that took form as the ghost of Jo.

…

Jo turned away from the smartly dressed figure Henry presented and settled her eyes on the view that was Rome. She smiled under the sun, the warmth running through her limbs in the face of such grand architecture, even in ruin. Jo thought of Amy and the small sketches of hers Jo kept tucked away in a folder that held more than one precious memory in a bag that never really unpacked wherever she went. Instantly recognisable was the Forum and Jo grinned to see the many winding roads, narrow with stalls and busy Romans who walked by ignorant of the unique 'scape that was their home.

"Come along, we can't keep Mrs Rossini waiting all morning, Jo."

With the feel of a gloved hand on her elbow Jo faced her manager again and felt the smile die on her lips. "Of course, sorry." It was so easy to forget what fortune had brought her to such spectacular places until Henry, the voice of reason and reliance stepped in and reminded her sharply of her duties and appointments.

Still, it was difficult to dislike him for it when he would quite suddenly turn to her and smile. His eyes would turn the loveliest shade of green in their hazel depths and the surprise of it all made her thankful she had someone so sensible and caring to watch over her.

Presently Henry merely bustled her onwards into the crowd away from the lookout. His harried expression had become more and more the norm since their delay in Bologna and Jo could hardly blame the poor man. They were now two to three weeks behind according to his pocket-book schedule and she hardly had time to see anything or anyone in Florence let alone Rome. Often she would drift to sleep with a crossed brow thinking of her youngest sister's pictures and missed opportunities, particularly one that starred an almost-unshaven version of her old neighbour.

Having been pushed onto a trolley Jo thought of her pen. It most likely lay unused once more on top of her tartan-covered board folder that held the scraps of scribbling she'd managed to piece together along the tour. She thought of the few letters it likely held too and a lump of guilt formed in her throat for having not sent them. But the few lines she knew they contained of Laurie could never be read by home. The disappointment in his conduct and the altered state of his appearance she first felt when meeting him leaped out of the page and Jo cringed at the mere thought of her mother reading such lines.

As the trolley jostled her against the large Italian on her left Jo couldn't help but feel boxed in. Not only was she three weeks behind on tour, she was a month behind on letters. Heavens, she missed her family!

…

"I'd like to have a moment to myself, thank you Henry," Jo knew she slammed the door behind her but she was beyond caring. Having kept Mrs Rossini fifteen minutes late Jo walked in with an apology on her lips only to receive the most scathing review of her novel yet. Elbert James, a man who spent his time reading and keeping company with the English gentlemen of Rome, it seemed had been invited in order to hear the reading and instead provided his own blunt opinion that 'Miss March was hardly worth her fancifulness as evident in her inability to be punctual, her absentminded grammar and inattention to plot'. Jo had turned a beet red and spat equally judgemental things about Mr James' manner and use in the present society before marching out in burning temper.

It had only been when she turned for Henry's hand into the carriage that she saw her shameful behaviour marked in his own red face and hard eyes. But it was too late for apologies and Jo knew she had lost the majority of Italian favour within those two minutes of shouted words. She silently wondered as Henry passed the money to the driver whether her friendship with the Englishman – all traces of it thoroughly erased from his face and posture – was totally unsalvageable. And to Jo, her partner's friendship far outweighed the consequences of Italian sales and popular review.

The ride back to the hotel was painfully silent and Jo spent it worrying her new aubergine gloves. When the ride stopped she frowned at the over-stretched state of them and quickly pocketed them, thinking her gloves an ugly colour anyway. Purple had never suited Jo and wearing it in another country hardly proved it would.

Clambering out of the carriage unaided she waltzed into the beautiful yellow building without pause, determined not to look as foolish as she felt in front of Henry. Henry for his part kept as silent as she with a surprisingly unreadable expression on his face as he waved off the driver and handed what small articles he carried to the maid.

Now, Jo sat in the room she called 'hers' for the next three weeks feeling entirely remorseful. She'd embarrassed herself clearly, but Jo was no stranger to that feeling, her tongue and temper having landed her in bad form for company too many times to count. It was that she had embarrassed Henry too – Henry who had done so much for her, done so much to get her where she was. She had no real understanding of how much she relied upon him until his face turned stony as he helped her into the carriage. How much she had come to think of him as a close friend.

She wouldn't let her temper ruin this friendship.

Jo stood up suddenly and headed into the common room where Henry sat staring before papers. Slowing only when her nerves began to show, Jo waited beside the Englishman until she was noted.

"Henry, I'm desperately sorry." Jo paused unsure what to say next. He was watching her with such unsure eyes that she had no knowledge of her own confidence either and Jo found herself struggling to piece an apology properly together in her head. She cursed herself for not thinking this through. "You know my temper, and I'm sorry it got the best of me, I've tried so hard not to let it emerge but – well, I'm still very sorry Henry."

She stood there, hands twitching as she awaited his reply. Still Henry watched her with that unfamiliar look and Jo swallowed to ease the tightness in her throat and stomach. If he could only know how sorry she truly was! 'Oh,' Jo thought, 'I've really put my foot in it this time, and now I'll never know if we should be real friends.'

"Thank you." He said after a minute more of silence and pleading stares on Jo's part. Jo watched as he turned back to the papers without so much as a sniff or parting word. Effectively he propped his arm onto the table between them, leaning into the paperwork to signal the end of the conversation. Jo stood but for a minute in confusion before going back to her room and closing the door.

She had lost another friend.