I mean HELLO to the people who are still reading this story - you people make my world spin quite literally.

I think these next few chapters will have people either banging their head against a wall, screaming out into the night, or saying "I KNEW IT ALL ALONG" down in the comments. Any and all responses are acceptable, I just ask that you understand the story is still far from over, and I PROMISE I have things all ~planned out~.

Thank you endlessly for all of the comments on the last chapter. You! People! Are! Incredible!


Chapter 48

"And Lot's wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human. So she was turned into a pillar of salt. So it goes."
― Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five


The memories of Tom do not release Florence, but they do fade, weaving into a tapestry of her life, like a painting seen long ago at a museum. Brilliant, resonant, and then gone, only hazy recollections remaining to try and understand that one momentary view into infinity. Some days she dwells on him – during her morning coffee, when she catches an unnamable whiff of something clean, on the night of Samhain or when her mother exclaims that something is beautiful. She does not begrudge herself the thoughts, even if she does endeavor to silence them. They were a part of her, an undeniable truth about four years of her life that she could never take back.

The memories fade, but the physical marks he left upon her home are removed – scrubbed clean piece by piece. Tom was a conquistador, a naturalist arriving upon her shore and attempting to claim something that had already been found by those native to the place. She thinks of Adsila, of her great-grandmother's people, and she feels new resolve settle within her as she blights out one by one the signs of his presence upon her land, reclaiming something that had never been his.

It starts with the wardrobe. She, June, and Cash spend the better part of an afternoon removing the clothes she'd purchased for him, folding them and placing them in boxes to be donated. The wardrobe itself she levitates out behind her house and proceeds to demolish splinter by splinter with a NoMaj axe. The act leaves her drenched in sweat and eyes red from crying, but the weighted mantle that she bore day in and day out was perhaps a fraction lighter.

She burns the notes he wrote her. She has them all – essays he'd edited and scraps of writing he'd copied and the long, Latin spells he'd written when he'd challenged her to fly. Florence indulges, reading them all one last time, admiring each perfect letter, the well placed commas and succinct phrasing before crumpling them in her hand and tossing each piece of parchment one by one into the flames. Florence tells herself it is the smoke that brings tears to her eyes this time, but even this lie does not change the fact that she spends the rest of the evening curled on the rug before the embers, shaking with the weight of the words she had just lost.

Florence goes through each book in her personal library, boxing away those titles she had purchased for Tom's benefit, and anything else that no longer tickled her fancy. Tom Riddle had once told her she was limited in her views of magic. Well maybe I am she thinks to herself, tossing A Loremaster's Guide to Elemental Transfiguration into a box with all the other rejects. Florence is good at Herbology, and at Potions, and she could sing to trees and stir the wind and she could fly, and she would be damned if the ghost of Tom Riddle would belittle her for the other failings where practical magic was concerned. June and Cash deliver the boxes to Owen's residence in Savannah where he is now operating the Allman Shipping Empire, her father having retired only a few months prior. If he has any suspicions over the unexplained gifts, he never voices them to his sister.

Florence fights with herself for nearly six months before she decides to take down the painting Tom had given her of Atalanta. After all,she had been the one to truly introduce him to Greek Mythology, why should she be forced to remove that symbolism from her own home? But eventually she could not deny even to herself that each glance at the painting reminded her of a different figure, of a midnight blue set of eyes, of a piercing laugh that tugged at something within her chest. However, decision finally made, Florence found that she could not remove the painting. Her parents, Owen, Albion, and even Forsythe each attempted to remove the painting using a variety of charms, hexes, and NoMaj methodologies, but each was forced to agree that a permanent sticking charm had at some point been applied to the painting, and that it was now as much a part of the home as Florence was. When they'd left with their hands in their pockets, Florence had cast a charm on the figure within, confining the often wandering Atalanta to her golden frame. At least she can no longer follow me about the house, and this fact like so much else would have to be enough.

Florence ships her Glenn Miller records to Radella with a note asking her to visit, and she dumps all of her loose-leaf tea that she'd purchased for Tom into the river, remembering the way his eyes had flashed red during their first ever conversation at the mention of a revolution he knew nothing about. She throws out the vases of dried flowers and reorganizes the sitting rooms and purchases a new quilt for her bed – one that Tom has never shared with her. She writes to MACUSA to have them cast nullification charms on the pocket watch portkey Florence had bestowed upon Tom, and when Albion and Margaret announce that they are expecting a daughter, she gives them the diamond and pearl necklace Tom had presented her with on the night of her debut. If Albion ever tells Margaret where Florence received it, she never discovers.

Only his Dittany tree survives the cleanse, and this because it is a living thing that Florence cannot bear to end. Despite loving a murderer, she finds that she cannot become one herself.

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It is nearly a year to the day that Tom and Florence parted ways that she decides to replant the fields that had been burned. The sight of charred, blackened branches outside her window had not grown easier to bear, but as her workload increased with her father's retirement, Florence had been unable to find time to uproot and replant the entire field alongside all her other duties.

Dew soaks through her tennis shoes as she marches across her back lawn, the sky above her still pale blue in the early gasps of the morning. Florence stretches her arms above her, letting her head fall back until her neck and back give satisfying pops and her arms flop back to her sides. There is a slight breeze in the air, and drawing closer to the charred remains of the field Florence can hear the whistling of wind through the branches, spot the bursts of vibrant green where new lift has sprung from the ashes. Without thinking, a smile smears across Florence's face.

"Have you figured out what you're going to do with this plot?" A deep voice calls out from behind her, and Florence turns to see Forsythe strolling across the dew soaked grass, two cups of coffee – one in each hand – precariously balanced as he approaches. Florence waves at him, waiting for him to catch up with her before accepting her mug with a small thanks and proceeding once more towards the edge of the field.

"No, but I did get Albion's blessing not to put Dittany back in," Florence says, sipping once from the steaming mug. Forsythe, or more likely June, had added the cream just how she liked it.

"I see, that's what you needed my help for," Forsythe laughs, and his green eyes crinkle in the corner as he smiles at her, his copper curls pale in the early morning light. Florence blushes at the obviousness of her request. She had not seen much of Forsythe, nor any other for that matter, over the past year. Between work on the estate and devesting her home of old, dusty memories, Florence felt as if she'd hardly breathed. But the opportunity to plant something new had arisen, and much to her own chagrin, Florence realized she had little to no expertise in large scale growth beyond Dittany, and so she'd called in Forsythe for a favor.

"Are you going to sell whatever you're putting in, or is it for aesthetics?" Forsythe says, cupping both his hands around his coffee mug as if to keep the warm. His skin is a deep olive, and Florence spots at once a smattering of pale scars along his knuckles that weren't there before. Noticing her gaze, Forsythe holds his hand out for her inspection.

"What happened?" She asks, running a finger along the ridges of his knuckles. His skin is warm beneath hers, the scar tissue soft as baby's skin.

"Riding accident," he laughs, pulling his hand away. "Got thrown off and dragged behind my horse, and my hand was caught under me."

Florence feels her stomach roil at the thought, but she shakes her head and smiles at him before returning her gaze to the dead trees before her. Florence had not been horseback riding in months, and a twinge of guilt runs through her at the thought. I owe Viola a ride she vows silently to herself.

"So sales or aesthetics?" Forsythe questions again, pulling Florence from the recesses of her mind and back into the moment.

"Aesthetics," Florence decides on the spot.

"Looks like I owe Albion money – I bet him you'd want to sell whatever you put in," he admits with another easy smile. This time it is Florence's turn to laugh, her brows racing up her forehead as she surveys him incredulously.

"Never thought you were the betting type," she points out.

"Well, you invite me over out of the blue – first time in over half a year – to help you replant a lot you could plant on your own," he says with a shrug, taking a sip of his coffee before continuing. "I think it's fair that Albion and I were a bit confused."

"You two are worthless. If I wanted to sell whatever I put in, I'd have just replanted Dittany."

"Fair enough," Forsythe agrees with another smile. Florence stares at his teeth – she'd forgotten how much he smiled.

"Opting for something new," she adds after a moment, squinting as the first few rays of light peek over the edge of the trees. Pressing a hand to her brow, Florence sets off down one of the rows, her shoes sinking into the still damp earth beneath her feet. Forsythe follows without comment, his boots cracking a stray branch every few steps.

"I now your expertise is in Azalea, but I want something flowering, and ideally something low maintenance. I can't put in a full English Garden," Florence explains, glancing over her shoulder at Forsythe, he nods at her but makes no comment, as if encouraging her to continue. "I don't know if you have any recommendations, I thought perhaps magically modified Hydrangea – something that would bloom year round."

"I think it's a good idea," he voices. "But I think a guelder-rose has more blooms, and they grow larger if you're looking to make a statement from your back porch. Or you could plant Camellias."

"Camellias," Florence exclaims, turning to quickly she almost spills her coffee down the front of her clothes. "Why didn't I think about that, I love them. Adsila used to grow them between some of the fields for fun."

"If you want Camellias, I have an order form back at my house that I can send over by eagle later today."

"That'd be brilliant, Forsythe," Florence says, and she can feel how wide her smile is because it is the first time she has done so in months, the muscles in her face stiff with unfamiliarity, with lack of use. The smile he gives her in return is warm, sage green eyes gentle upon her face.

"What are you going to do about all these trees?" He asks at last, and his voice is quiet, aware as he is how the question will hurt her. Florence feels the corners of her mouth turn downward, and her eyes seek the remains of the Dittany tree closest too her. She'd thought about this for months, but it did not make putting it to words any easier.

"I'll sing to the earth. Usually during harvest the staff cuts them down, but I'd prefer the land to have them. Swallow them or something like that," Florence whispers, and her throat is oddly tight, the chill crawling down her spine at odds with the cloudless sky and the chirping of finches and robins in the distance. Without thinking Florence rests her hand on the blackened trunk next to her. There is a puff of ash where her hand meets the bark, and then Florence feels the familiar rush up her skin as the residue of Tom's magic claws its way up her arm. She shivers, pulling her hand away at once, unprepared for the feeling, for the memories it threatens to unveil.

"I was sad when I heard about the trees," Forsythe's voice murmurs behind her, and Florence whirls on the spot. She'd forgotten in the brief moment when she'd felt Tom's magic that she was not alone. His face is soft, but his jaw is set, as if he is fighting back some form of anger. "I don't know why you two ended things, in the end it doesn't really matter. But he had no right to do this to your land. The trees at least were innocent."

"He let some of my saplings die," Florence tells Forsythe, her gaze never wavering from his. She's never told anyone beyond Illini this, but a year after her world had been knocked askew, she finds herself strangely open to the idea of sharing this detail with Forsythe. "That night I went to surprise him, I found his apartment abandoned. He hadn't been living there for months, and all of the saplings I'd given him had been left un-watered." She feels a tear roll down her cheek, and then another until finally all that remains of Forsythe's face is a watercolor of olive skin and sage green. Florence takes in a shuddering breath, tilting her head back to feel the sun upon her skin, and wills the tears to stop. "They were so sad looking – brown and shriveled. I thought I'd never seen anything more terrible, but then he came…" the sobs return. Florence scrunches her face tighter, forcing the words out of her mouth. "He came, and he burned down my fields, and he laughed while he did it."

She doesn't remember bursting into tears for a second time, but she feels the heaving in her chest and the sudden warmth as Forsythe pulls her into a hug, cradling her head against his chest with one large, callused hand. Florence presses herself against him, her hands snaking around his waist, nose mashed against the buttons of his shirt that smells of soil and rust and something distinctly male. For several moments he holds her, and Florence allows herself to be held. She cannot remember the last time someone did.

"Here," Forsythe offers, reaching into his back pocket and pulling a navy blue bandana from his jeans to hand Florence when her sobs subside slightly. With a watery chuckle Florence takes it and wipes at her eyes. He waves her off when she tries to give it back.

"Thank you," Florence says with a thin smile. "I'm sorry about that."

"It's fine," Forsythe assures her, and his hand twitches by his side for a moment as if he was going to reach for her, and then thinks better of it.

"I've been such an ass, I haven't even asked how you are," Florence mutters, again attempting a weak smile as she runs the back of her hand across her cheek to mop up the remaining tears. "How are you? How's the farm? And Mary Helen?" Forsythe's face flickers, and one large hand reaches behind his head and scratches the back of his scalp.

"I'm good. The farm is doing really well – the new azalea varieties have been blowing up on the market," Forsythe says with obvious pride. His eyes flicker to Florence's for a moment, and then he looks out over the Dittany trees, his gaze narrowing slightly. "Mary Helen and I split up. It was amicable, just wasn't going anywhere."

Florence feels a sinking in her gut.

"I'm so sorry, Forsythe, I didn't know – I wouldn't have brought it up –" she splutters, crossing her arms before her chest like some form of menial shield. Her stuttering brings his gaze back to hers, and he laughs slightly. For the first time, it doesn't reach his eyes.

"It's alright, Florence. I know you didn't mean anything by it. We broke up almost nine months ago – I don't really even think about it anymore," he admits with a small shrug, as if embarrassed by his ability to move on. Florence feels a welling of envy within her at his capacity to pick up his life and move forward, but she squashes this at once.

"Christ, eight months?" Florence says, attempting to lighten her tone into something resembling a joke. "I've been out of the loop for a bit haven't I?"

"You've been…distracted," Forsythe agrees, his tone somewhat cool. Florence feels a bristling along her back as her pride flares momentarily, an acrid taste spreading across the base of her tongue, but this too fades after a moment.

"I've been a bad friend," Florence murmurs after a moment, uncrossing her arms and shoving her hands in her pockets. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well," Forsythe says with a smile and another scratch to the back of his head, his voice deep and rolling and steady against the rising and falling of Florence's emotions. "I took bets with your brother about why you'd bother to ask me for help. Nobody's perfect."

They smile at each other and make their way back towards Florence's lawn, discussing Camilla varietals and the possibility of putting in a wisteria trellis down the center of the two fields. They pause when the horizon opens up before them, and Forsythe turns to tell her farewell, but Florence stops him.

"I'm going to give the trees to the land now," she says, again making her mind up on the spot. No time like the present. "Will you stay?"

She doesn't have to voice that she cannot do it alone out loud. With a small smile, Forsythe nods, holding out his hand for Florence's empty coffee mug which she hands him. Untying her shoes, Florence tosses them over her shoulder before settling into the familiar stance, the words she has been practicing within her mind surfacing once more.

Florence's voice is barely more than a whisper when she begins, the slightest breath of wind, but soon her feet are beating a familiar rhythm upon the grass, her hands raised before her, the air humming with the familiar metallic stench of magic. Beneath her the earth shakes, and her voice grows stronger, the words coming faster. Florence lifts her face, and although her eyes are closed, she can feel the sun drying the salt upon her skin, and with a smile she calls for the land to open. Before here there is a sound like a thousand simultaneous shots from a rifle, the cracking of kindling within a fire, and she feels the world shudder beneath her.

When she opens her eyes, nothing remains of the burned fields but a large swathe of overturned soil. A fresh palate. A new beginning.

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The hose lets out one final whine as Florence twists the tap shut, letting the last coil fall onto the stack before returning to the wash stall where Viola waits for her, large brown eyes blinking in the afternoon light. They'd gone on a long, languid ride around the perimeter of the property after Florence's shift had ended, but it had worked her horse into a lather and she was paying the price with a full washing down now. Having avowed to herself to reinvest in her own life after Forsythe's visit nearly six months ago, Florence had once again picked up riding amongst other things. There were more dinner parties – some even at her house – and she spent weekends in Savannah with Owen or shopping in Charleston with Tallulah or attending plant shows with Forsythe to learn about new florae they could add to their repertoire.

"I'll have you dry in a moment," Florence says, patting the side of Viola's neck. The mare bobs her head slightly, the halter rattling faintly as if nodding her thanks. Florence reaches for a wet brush, but before she can start wringing the water from her horse's hide, there is a shriek and the clattering of heels on the concrete floor.

"Florence!" The voice shouts, and tossing the brush back onto the rack, Florence skitters out into the main hall only to see Radella streaming towards her, black hair wild and unruly as she runs down the hall. The dainty girl is red faced and beaming, and her hand is outstretched before her as she moves in at an angle that can only mean one thing. Florence's mouth falls open.

"Ohmygod," she rushes so that the three words become one, clapping her hand over her mouth. Radella shrieks again, screeching to a halt before Florence, her hand just inches from her face where the massive diamond could not be unseen. "Oh. My. God! Radella, congratulations!"

Florence pulls her friend into a hug, lifting her tiny frame off the ground and spinning her in a circle. They both scream in unison, a manifestation of the light, weightless feeling that is building within Florence on her friend's behalf.

"Did this just happen?" Florence asks, setting Radella down and taking her hand once more to admire the ring.

"A few hours ago," she admits, her pale skin pink with pleasure. "Owen took me out to drinks overlooking the river, and then he asked me when we got back to his home."

"We're you surprised?" Florence asks, her head reeling with shock. "I can't believe he didn't tell me he was going to ask! That little weasel!" Radella's head falls back with laughter at Florence's indignant expression, and Florence feels a clenching in her gut at the happiness that is etched into every line of her friend's face. Twenty years old and engaged and fated to have a very happy life. Florence's own life had turned out very differently.

"I was speechless," Radella says conspiratorially. "I wish you could have been there, I was so surprised I couldn't even speak, and Owen got so nervous that he asked a second time and then a third before I could give him an answer!"

"Poor, O," Florence laughs, squeezing Radella's hand one final time before letting go. "I'm assuming you've just been to see my parents and Albion and Margaret?"

"Yes, I think Eudora started planning the wedding on the spot she was so excited," Radella says, looping her arm through Florence's and tugging her towards the entrance to the stables. "And I met baby Lois – she's an angel."

"She's a crier," Florence snorts, but she smiles anyway.

"Owen says you were made godmother?"

"Albion assures me he already regrets the decision," Florence says through another smile. "Lois Eudora Allman – named for both her grandmothers and now with me for a godmother, bless her heart."

"Owen's back at the big house, your father's gone to the cellar to get a bottle of champagne to celebrate," Radella says, pausing just outside the stables.

"I've got to dry Viola and put away my tack, but I'll be there soon," Florence assures. "Don't wait on me."

Radella lets out a small, girlish scream and then turns on the spot, disappearing with a small pop while Florence returns the way they had just come. In silence she finishes her work, leading Viola back to her stall, fighting to keep her mind blank. Days, sometimes weeks, pass now between thoughts of Tom, but the sight of the diamond ring waving before her face brings unbidden the thoughts of her own proposal, of what she had turned down.

Marry me, Florence. Magic has crafted your soul for mine, we were always meant to be as one.

Florence has forgotten many details over the intervening months, words falling to sentiment and then into a cloud of irreparable haze, but those have never faded. She recalls them as if he stood before her now, ring box clutched in his long, delicate fingers. It is with some surprise that Florence realizes she never even looked at the ring he'd offered her – she has no idea what it looks like. With a small sigh she figure eights her bridle and hangs it upon the appropriate rack before picking up her wand from the shelf and apparating to the main home in order to join the festivities.

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The wedding is a small affair, held in a NoMaj church near the heart of London where Radella grew up attending before Hogwarts. Florence's mother had nearly fainted when she'd heard of the NoMaj tradition of marrying in the bride's home city, but she'd been appeased when Radella and Owen both promised to hold a one year anniversary celebration on the family estate.

Radella's black curls and emerald eyes are resplendent in her ivory satin gown, Owen's narrow face full of more emotion than Florence has ever seen in her life as Radella makes her way down the aisle. Florence watches from the front row, a stinging in her eyes that she tries to blink away, smile after smile stealing across her lips. The ceremony is plain and simple, but Florence thinks she may care for it more than any wizarding wedding she's been too. Without all of the excess, Owen and Radella take center stage, and even years later she can recall the way their eyes looked when they met, the smiles that had spread across their faces as the other said I do.

The reception is held a few blocks away in a gleaming hotel lobby. Clifford had taken it upon himself to pay for two full bars – one in the public eye for the NoMaj guests, and one down the hall and through a concealed door for wizarding guests. The band is a full brass ensemble in full swing by the time they arrive, and Florence's feet tap upon the marble floors of their own accord as she makes her way towards a bobbing and weaving tray of champagne flutes.

"Florence!" A deep voice calls just as she is about to reach the thin, crystal flutes. Turning with mild exasperation, she sees Forsythe making his way towards her, a tumbler of Firewhiskey in one hand, and in the other a flute of champagne which he holds out to her. A flush crawls across her skin at the gesture, and she accepts it with a small curtsy.

"Thank you, Forsythe. My favorite you know," she says, taking a small sip, relishing in the way the bubbles play across her tongue. She opens her eyes to find him staring at her, the strong lines of his face at odds with the softness she finds there. Her cheeks redden further.

"I do know," he says, somewhat sheepishly. "And I also know that you love to dance, so finish that drink, down another, and then we can hit the dance floor." His easy smile makes Florence bubble over with laughter, simultaneously touched by his gesture and pleased by the invitation.

Forsythe's dancing has not improved since their last foray into this territory at Florence and Tallulah's debut, but his calloused hands hold her tight and he is quick to laugh at his mistakes, and before she knows it one song then three have passed and they haven't separated. They move across the dance floor, spinning and swaying and stealing drinks from passing trays which they help each other finish. They cat-call at a dancing Owen and Radella, and then run giggling hand in hand to the other side of the floor when they catch sight of Eudora Allman sending them death glares. Dancing with Forsythe is easy and comfortable, and she wonders why they have not done this more as the alcohol begins to take a warming affect upon her system. When the music takes a slow turn, Florence's arms slide up to grip his shoulders without thinking, Forsythe's own finding her waist with practiced ease.

"Four straight dances together," Florence tuts, smiling up at him as she presses her chin to his chest. Forsythe cracks his own grin in return, his five o'clock shadow more pronounced in the candlelight. They spin slowly, the sound of a lone horn ringing across the room accompanied by a crooning voice singing a song Florence doesn't know. "Our mothers are going to talk."

"I can think of worse fates that having my name tied to yours in the local gossip," he says, and his hand slides further around to settle at the small of her back. Florence rolls her eyes at him, but she suddenly can feel the way her body is pressed to his, and she stiffens slightly, halting their spinning.

"Can we get another drink?" She asks, ignoring the knowing look in Forsythe's eye as he nods, taking her hand and pulling her behind him through the crowd. He leads her down the hall to what she assumes is the wizarding bar, when suddenly he tugs her down a side hall and presses a glowing button, a door before them trundling open. Forsythe tugs her inside with a wicked smile, his arm wrapping around Florence's waist before he presses another button and the elevator begins to surge around them.

"I've never been in a non-wizarding elevator before," Florence marvels, watching as an arrow above the door shows how high they have climbed. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see," Forsythe says, and the hand on her waist tightens with boyish excitement, his olive skin flushed with anticipation. Florence rests her head against him and enjoys the remainder of their trip upward in silence, allowing herself to be amazed by the NoMaj inventions that sometimes rivaled magic, warmed by the heat of Forsythe's bear-sized body.

At last the door dings, and a small marble landing room is revealed to them. Taking her hand without hesitation, Forsythe leads her out and down the hall, turning at the very end and pulling Florence through a heavy door and out onto the roof of the building. Florence feels her mouth fall open as the London skyline twinkles before her, another ripple of shock passing through her when she realizes it's been almost three years since she last visited the city. How the times have changed.

"My dad took me up here earlier. We're staying in the hotel," Forsythe explains, pulling her after him and over towards the railing. Florence wishes she had a thousand more eyes in her head, letting go of Forsythe and ducking past him to lean across the railing and peer down at the late night revelers below, the telltale flash of automobile lights moving along the streets. There is a rush of warm air, and Florence's hair flutters around her face, her skin rippling with goosebumps, although whether it is from awe at the view or the breeze she does not know.

"It's amazing," Florence gushes, turning to her side to see Forsythe leaning with his hip against the railing, adjusting the cuffs on his tuxedo seemingly without thought. Her next line of praise falls silent upon her lips as she takes in once more the now recognizable softness in his gaze, the gentle flicker of his eyes to her lips for one moment and then back to her own umber stare. He smiles, and then looks back the way they came, as if abashed to be caught in the act of admiring her.

"What?" Florence probes as he begins to laugh quietly, his head falling back so that Florence can trace the Grecian profile of his nose, the square line of his jaw, the curve of his throat. She's never noticed these things about Forsythe before, not really. He'd always been handsome, and he'd been her best friend's older brother. She'd never stopped to see those traits that made him uniquely attractive, but here, staring at his laughing face backlit by the London skyline, Florence is overwhelmed by all the things she's never seen before. Her jaw goes slightly slack.

"Just laughing at myself I guess. Eighteen year old me would have cut off an arm and a leg to get you up here alone with me," he says, and his voice is rich and slow. Florence swallows.

"And what about the twenty…" Florence blanks, realizing that she doesn't even know how old Forsythe is any more. "How old are you anyway? Christ you must be ancient," Florence laughs, and she feels the glow of champagne through her veins, the flush across her skin as his sage eyes meet hers once more.

"Twenty-five thank you – same age as Owen," he says through a luminescent grin.

"And what does twenty five year old Forsythe think about having me alone on this rooftop?" Her heart pounds within her chest, and glancing down at her hands which are still wrapped around the railing, she notes that her knuckles have turned white.

"Well, as it turns out, the twenty-five year old Forsythe feels much the same as the eighteen year old Forsythe might," he confirms, his smile fading slightly as he moves a step closer. Their hips meet against the rail, and Florence can feel the exhale Forsythe releases upon her shoulder.

She watches without moving as he lifts a slightly trembling hand to her hair, tucking a stray strand of caramel waves behind her ear. When she does not stop him, Forsythe's hand glides down to her neck, pausing there where he can run his thumb over her pulse.

"I've only ever been good at one thing in my life, and that's plants," Forsythe says with a quiet chuckle, but his face is serious, green eyes wide and earnest. "So forgive me if I say this wrong," he pauses, his thumb and ember burning a trail across her throat. "But I think you're wonderful, Florence. Wonderful and beautiful and just the right mix of strong and crazy."

Florence swallows at this admission, and she can feel the way his thumb moves with her adam's apple. Everything inside of her is tight, her skin flashing between too hot and too cold, her eyes riveted to his as if there is nothing else in the world in that moment. She wants to tell him he is beautiful too, but she hasn't thought anyone was since…well since him, yet forming the words seems like an insurmountable task. Instead she lets out a shaky breath, and Forsythe smiles.

"You know, I'd love it if you'd say something right about now," he encourages gently. "I'm not drunk enough to sit here in comfortable silence after an admission like that."

"Just the right mix of crazy?" Florence prods, her voice airy as her head becomes lighter, unsure what else to say. Forsythe snorts.

"You talk to trees, Florence," he explains, but his voice is without judgement and his thumb begins to move once more, his fingertips pressing into her shoulder and easing her tension. "But what about the rest of it? I'll say it again if you'd like – so you know I meant it – "

"Forsythe, you don't have –"

"You're beautiful," he interrupts, and his fingers dig further into her skin. "And you're wonderful, and I've woken up thinking about you every day for years since that morning you came over to my house and I showed you my blue azaleas."

Florence reels at this fact, her gaze swimming slightly as she wracks her brain back through the intervening years to discover just how long ago that was. At last she realizes that it was during the spring of 1945, almost five years ago now, and her incredulity grows.

"But Mary Helen?"

"What about her? I wasn't going to sit around waiting for you. You were with him, and everyone thought the two of you were going to get married," he says, and Florence nods, more to herself than anyone else.

"Did you end things with her for me?" She asks. Forsythe's hand on her shoulder flexes for a moment, but he does not withdraw.

"No," he says, and his deep voice is cooler than she has ever heard it. "Despite my feelings for you, I can safely assert that not every decision I have made was with you in mind."

"Of course not," Florence agrees, embarrassed by her own insinuation. They fall into silence again, Forsythe's hand cupping her neck, the tips of his fingers pressing into the muscle along her back while Florence collects her breath, the whirling thoughts that seem to be floating away upon the London breeze before she can register them.

"I," she whispers at last when his hand stills and it feels as if he may pull away. Florence glances up at him again, and she notices that he is not taller than Tom, but he is broader – stronger. "I am not accustomed to having to think about my feelings," she admits. "When I was with… with Tom I never stopped to think at all, it just all happened, and at every turn I just knew how I felt about him and what I wanted. And then after…well… after him, I tried not to think about my feelings at all."

Forsythe's hand is warm against her skin, and Florence can feel the calluses that run across his palms. They are working hands, worn like old leather, but no less soft because of their use. He nods at her words, but does not speak, giving her room to continue. Florence swallows again, wishing for the first time that the wedding could have been in America – that they didn't have to hold this conversation in a city that sang with the memory of him, the ghost of what she'd lost.

"I don't know how I feel about everything you've said, but I do find that I care enormously that you think them," she whispers, this time her own turn to give a sheepish shrug. Forsythe's eyes are wider than the moon, the look on his face like melted butter that makes continuing to speak one of the more difficult things Florence has ever done because Christ he's beautiful and how had she never seen it before? Truly seen it. "And I don't know if I'm ready to jump of this balcony with you tonight, but I think…I think I'd be open to finding out."

Forsythe's other hand finds her waist, shifting her slightly so that they are front to front. His thumb slides up her neck to press into the hollow beneath her jaw, tilting her face up towards his. She can smell the Firewhisky on his breath, but also the floral scent of azalea he never escapes and the musky scent she has come to learn can only be Forsythe. It is a pleasing mix, and Florence breathes deeply.

"I suppose," he says with a strangled half grin and a shaking laugh, "it would have been too much to hope for you to express your undying love for me after all these years." His honesty makes the pocket of levity that has been living within her chest all evening bubble over, and Florence laughs, loud and long and she reaches for him, her hand wrapping around the lapel of his jacket to steady herself. Forsythe laughs too, the hand on her neck moving at last to run through her hair, fingers pulling deliciously at her scalp until she is humming with pleasure.

"Perhaps," Florence agrees once they have settled. "But I'd like for you to know I think you're marvelous, Forsythe. And ungodly handsome, and probably the most kindhearted person I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. And whatever feelings I still have to figure out, none of that will change."

"Are you trying to give me a big head?" He teases, but Florence is so close to his face she can see the flush across his olive cheeks and the smile that threatens to break across his façade. She's amazed by the openness she finds written into his skin – not a mask in sight.

"You started it," Florence counters with a smirk. "But I already have a big head, so you weren't risking much."

"Thank you for telling me," he says, this time more subdued. "And I won't ever rush you, about anything between us," he begins, his voice taking on an odd echo. "But I also want you to know I'm not going to wait for you. I'm mad about you, Florence, but I—"

"You're an independent person who shouldn't have to wait on anyone," Florence cuts in, giving him an easy smile. "Of course you shouldn't, Forsythe. I wouldn't expect you too."

They stand in silence for a moment, this one warmer than any previous. Without asking if she can, Florence reaches for Forsythe's bowtie, tugging at it until it slips away, her fingers making light work of the top few buttons. He does nothing to stop her, but when she at last tucks the decorative garment into his jacket pocket, he raises a thick, copper eyebrow at her in question.

"You look better slightly disheveled," she says with a smile she knows is wicked, and Forsythe's responding grin meets her halfway.

"Our mothers really are going to faint. We've been gone for ages, and I'll be coming back undressed? What will Spectre think?" He gasps with mock horror, the hand around her waist growing bolder still until there is no air between them and Florence's head rests upon his shoulder. She snakes her arms around his torso, surprise by just how broad he is, despite knowing him her entire life.

"I can think of worse fates that having my name tied to yours," Florence murmurs, returning his words to him from earlier in the night."

"We should go back down."

"Hmm," is all Florence voices in return. Forsythe's hands fall from around her as he steps back, and with another flushed expression, he takes her hand, pressing her palm to his lips for just a moment before interlacing their fingers and beginning to pull her towards the door. Florence watches him as if in a trance. She has the tearing feeling in her chest that she gets when a new sapling first pokes it's head above the ground – a sight that is as familiar to her as sunrise, and yet heart rendering beautiful, as if it is the first and not the thousandth time she is seeing it, the birth of a new life that leaves her breathless.

"Forsythe," she says, planting her feet so that he's limited by the combined span of their interlaced hands. He looks back at her, and something in her gaze gives him reason to smile because he does so – full and broad and enough to make the warm spot in her chest increase tenfold.

"Yes, Florence?"

"If they're going to talk anyways, will you at least kiss me?" She asks, and something in her feels reckless, but something deeper, more innate, the desire to consume and mark and brand him as hers, burns brightly. Florence takes a step closer to him, her hand tightening around his. "I mean, if they're going to talk, let's at the least give the rumors a little credence—"

Her words are cut off by a pair of lips meeting her own, by one hand tangling itself in her hair, the other winding its way so far around her waist that he nearly swallows her. Florence's yelp of surprise is swallowed by the warmth of Forsythe's mouth – smothered by the taste of whiskey and the glow that seems to erupt throughout her system, blooming from where their lips move in tandem. Florence's hands bury themselves in Forsythe's hair, stretching onto her toes so that any air that may have existed between the two of them is crushed. She lets out an involuntary whimper when she feels his teeth close around her bottom lip, a shiver clawing its way down her spine.

They break apart a long moment later, both panting, eyes searching the others, sage and umber locked in a silent dance. Florence's mind feels hazy, overcome again with the thought that this had been right there all along, but before she can even think to form words, Forsythe's lips have found hers again. This time they are chaste but hurried, pressed to her mouth and her cheeks and the corner of her jaw as if he is making up for lost time.

"Florence," he whispers into her skin between kisses. "Fuck, Florence."

She giggles at the mangled way he says her name, at the fact that he is cussing because good, gentile Forsythe Blount has never cursed in front of a lady before, and something within her sings at having reduced him too it.

"Come on, honey," Florence laughs when Forsythe has at last released her enough for both of them to breathe. "Let's go back down."

He nods, leaning in for one final peck before wrapping an arm around her shoulders and leading Florence back towards the door. She glances out over the London skyline once more, her eyes searching for something she knows she'll never find, and then allows herself to be pulled inside once more.

She straightens Forsythe's hair as they wait for the elevator, he helps to wipe away her smeared lipstick, but all adjustments are thrown to the wind when the door dings and trundles open to reveal an empty lift. Within seconds Florence finds her back to the corner, Forsythe's frame boxing her in, and his lips are upon hers once more.


Do you love it? Do you hate it? Are you surprised? I have no idea what I think all of you will think, but let me just say this little conundrum has been in the words for MONTHS mwahahahah.

Everyone stay safe, get outside when you can, and drink lots of water! Xoxo