A/N: So the first chapter of TTTWLB is about to time out in my backroom, which means we've gotten through three of the most productive months of fan fiction I've ever had. Just this story has a hundred-plus follows, sixty-plus faves, a hundred-thirty reviews, and over twenty-three thousand hits. Thank you all very much, for this, as well as the other faves/follows/reviews/hits that have come to my various other things in the time being. At least we still have plenty of fic ahead of us!

Chapter Twenty-Six: May 1941

Despite the large amount of people just one floor down, the school was quiet as Clara sat up in her office writing. John let out a small snore and rolled over on the couch; the shipyard needed to keep to schedule and with much of their staff still missing from injuries it meant double shifts for the able-bodied that ended up tiring out him before he even came home. Clara looked at the letter she had in front of her and read it over.

Dear Gwen and Ruby,

I'm sorry it took me so long to finally write you back. Lots of my former students had written to make sure I was alright and I had to let them know straight away. Everyone has been very worried, which is understandable. You remember how I said my dad was working in America? He came back a week after you left and took the first train he could to see us. No, he didn't sleep in the office (he took the next train back), but he'd still be here if the house made it through.

Mr. Smith and I are glad to hear that the both of you are doing well and getting along with the Lethbridge-Stewarts. You are good girls and very brave for going even though you didn't want to. I heard about the lie Mr. Smith told the coach attendant—please do not lie. I know he did it to protect you, but that does not mean everyone was safe. Lying can be very dangerous, especially today.

Other than that we're doing okay.

Clara paused and looked at the last sentence. After a lecture about lying, that certainly was a bald-faced one. She sighed and picked her pen back up to continue.

Other than that we're doing okay. Well, okay comparatively. Mr. Smith is working a lot of hours now to make sure the ships get built on-time. The nightmares I was having, the ones that kept me up so late, are slowly going away. They're still there though, so I wouldn't say I'm better. Mr. Smith says it's the rosemary working, but I still think he's being rather silly. The agency is no longer going to send me children to place, but I got taken on as a full-time teacher at the school so we can stay. Remember Miss Grant? The Year One's teacher with the wide mouth that gets easily excited? She joined the Army, which left a position to fill. Miss Chaplet took Year One, so I now have her class. You're the last children to be placed from here, and I am so very glad that we could put you in a nice home.

The pen stopped moving and Clara hesitated. She turned the page over and continued.

Girls, things are hard. I know neither of you are stupid—in fact I think you are both very clever little ladies—but I don't know how much of what is going on you actually understand. This is not good or bad in any way, but I want you to know that it's okay to not understand things right now. You both will, one day, if you don't already, and I want you to know that no matter what there are people who love you despite all this. I am proud of you both for doing scary things because even the adults understand little these days.

Write again when you get the chance, but not before you write your mum. Rupert too, if you can manage.

Take care,

Mrs. Smith

Clara folded up the paper and neatly copied the address from the envelope the girls had sent. When she was done she looked up at the wall above her desk—it was always filled with drawings from her students, but there were two new ones with fresh folds. One was of a grand house, presumably the one they were staying in, with both a wood and a lake not far away, and the other was of four cats. The large cat was brown with grey stripes, the medium cat was brown without stripes, and the two small cats, kittens really, were light brown and red. Clara smiled and put the sealed envelope in the basket on the side of her desk; post wouldn't be picked up until morning anyways.

Rolling her chair away from the desk, Clara stretched and sleepily kicked off her shoes. She stood and quietly opened the office door to hang on the knob the wooden 'OCCUPIED' placard that John had found. They imagined it had belonged in an office once, or maybe somewhere else, but it was theirs now as it had been lying on the pavement between the school and the shipyard with no one in sight to claim it. She shut the door again and turned off her desk lamp; John wasn't the only one who needed and early go at some rest.

Clara slipped into her nightdress, careful to not knock anything out of the packed cupboards as she put her day clothes away. She then crawled over John and laid down in the tiny crack between him and the back of the couch. His vest was pungent, smelling of sweat and metal and scorched things, but that was fine. Laundry was tighter now and it wasn't their turn to use the machines until the weekend. At least he had bothered to hang up his work clothes in the corner instead of falling asleep in them again.

"Mmmpf," John grumbled, wrapping his arm around her and shifting as to better accommodate the second body on the couch. Clara wiggled into her extra space, still finding the fit a bit snug.

"What was that?"

"Goodnight," John muttered, voice heavy and distant as though he were still dreaming. His hand found her bottom, then the small of her back, holding her absentmindedly in the dark room.

"Goodnight," Clara echoed. She closed her eyes and listened to the ticking of the clock as it attempted to lull her to sleep.

Very suddenly, the pipes in the wall gurgled, hissed, and banged, jolting her awake. Her chest began to constrict and her breath all but left her. Clara began to shake as she bit the insides of her lips shut and tried to not cry. John's chest rumbled as he woke up, taking note of how heavily she was shivering.

"Hey, I'm here," he murmured. He moved his hand until it was making slow circles on her back, comforting her gently. "You're alive, Clara. We're in your office right now and soon we'll be in a house again. We're going to make it."

"I couldn't stop myself," she wheezed, her voice barely above a whisper. "They just… came down…"

"Yes, but you made it, which was something that happened despite what came down." John kept his eyes closed as he cocooned his limbs around his wife, trying to make her feel as secure as possible. "What's your plan, Clara Smith?"

"I plan… I plan to make it through this war," she replied hoarsely. "We'll have a house again. When the war ends, you will go back to working on books and I will keep on teaching. There's going to be so many kids we won't know what to do with them all."

"You'll teach?" he asked. John already knew her answers to all the questions he was asking, but repeating what she was planning, what she was controlling, helped Clara calm down. "Who will care for the kids before they go to school?"

"The cot, the play mat, and you," she replied. "My dad will still complain about the trains and government whenever he comes to visit, and you will get a soufflé on your birthday, and our children will never know war or want, and we will be very, very happy."

"…and damn everyone who says otherwise," he said. "Twelve kids?"

That got a laugh out of her, small but there. "Way too many."

"Only one?"

"If that is nature's limit; I'd rather have more." Her voice was leveling out as she was beginning to physically calm.

"Boys or girls?"

"Healthy."

"Ours, or former students?"

"Whatever happens."

"We'll rebuild the house on Wissforn," John assured. "We'll get that sixth generation in, as long as I've got the cornerstone and you." His mind wandered to a small wooden crate in the bottom of one of the cupboards, where indeed one of the old stones from his house was being kept safe for when he could put it on their new mantle. "You are stronger than they think you are, Clara. I know this for a fact."

"You sure…?" Her voice wavered uneasily and he pulled her head so it rested flush against his chest.

"More sure than anything in my life," he replied. She was still shaking, but less so than before. He knew there was a chance she'd still be shivering for a while yet, but as long as the worst convulsions had passed, it was only a matter of time her chills would subside. "Goodnight, Clara. I'm right here."

"Goodnight, John… and thank you." She pressed her face further into his chest, feeling his heartbeat against her cheek as her mind raced. Grey and rubble, injury and what-ifs, filled her thoughts as she attempted to clear her mind. Instead she tried to think about her husband, their life, and what they wanted to do with the years ahead. As silly as it felt, she concentrated on the future that had been put on-hold the moment they signed their marriage license and shifted into park as they hid in the cellar. It was the only thing she could really hope for, despite all lack of certainty, and the only thing she really had aside from the body piled up against hers that smelled of hard work and entirely too many tins of beans. Clara knew though, that as long as she had John she was the luckiest girl in the world, and that they were going towards the uncertainty together.

Eventually her thoughts began to blur together and her eyesight became hazy. She wrested an arm free from John's grip to pull down the blanket from the back of the couch. It covered them awkwardly, but it was enough to help keep her warm, the final touch before she drifted off into sleep.