Disclaimer: Duh, people. They do not belong to me. They belong to DWJ. What a coincidence. I mean, none of my characters are happily married. No-no. They haven't even gotten past the sexually-tense bickering stage yet.

Chapter V:

The costume was really old, thought Polly. And really ugly. Plus the dust in the boxes was invading her sinuses and making her sneeze. She figured it was a good idea to just throw the whole thing away, so she picked it up and started downstairs to do so.

No! Mute-icide! Don't throw it away! My mute! A voice chased her down the stairs before it's owner even saw her, and she rolled her eyes. Tom always knew when something to do with music was being damaged, disrespected, or disposed of, and reacted according to his cellist's brain.

With a dull thump, Polly set the box down on the sixth step, then also sat and waited for Tom to get there and retrieve his precious mute.

It didn't take long. Within seconds, her husband was there, rummaging frantically through the box of junk. Polly just sat there and pointed out that that was what happened when he put his stuff in the attic. If he was going to use it, good lord, keep it in the apartment. His gaze behind his glasses went sheepish at that, but she knew he'd do it again. And again. No matter. It was hard not to love him, even if he was so hypersensitive about some things...

He'd found it, then. Yes, he was cradling that mute like a baby. Polly didn't quite manage to control her snort.

He turned his head to her and smiled wickedly.

She waved her hand about offhandedly, mostly to hide her blush. Of course not, she said snobbily and turned her head away from him.

A big hand ran through her hair, messing up her half-ponytail. While it teased the elastic out and her hair flew loose in a big pale cloud, she leaned into it's owner's faded anorak.

Of course I am, she muttered into his bony shoulder. His appreciative chuckle made her vibrate all over, feeling as staticky as her hair.

They got up and brushed themselves off as soon as the uncomfortableness of the stairwell hit them, and Tom chivalrously carried the rest of the contents of Polly's box down to the curb to be taken away with the trash. Polly herself made her way back up to the kitchen and started on some instant noodles. She wasn't the greatest cook, that was Tom, but she could sure manage most things that came in a box or can with average results.

Tom moseyed his way up shortly after, sniffing at the air and, not commenting, getting out a ceramic bowl and spooning heaps of steamy noodles into said vessel. It was too much to ask, as it went unsaid, for him to get Polly's bowl too. She snorted again and collected her own food and sat cross-legged across from him on their living room couch. There was a big flowery rocking-chair that was his favorite, right in front of the cheap color television set, where he watched music channels and public TV programs with no abandon. Polly (secretly) preferred to tape his concerts on it. For some reason, watching her husband saw away at that cello overjoyed her at any time-- especially during long bouts of writer's block. That she could write about whenever.

There was no sound for a while but Tom's loud slurping noises as he practically inhaled his noodles. Polly's were going inevitably soggy and damp by then, as she tried not to laugh at the speed in which he ate-- it seemed a wonder that he could do so so fast, when he was otherwise so easy-going, so...well, there was no denying it, he was turtlish. That was the word (if one excluded his driving; though as he was no longer immortal or needed to be very heroic often, his hero-driving had subsided to a state where he didn't actually run the risk of killing anybody, but was often very exciting for the passenger).

We seem to have gotten a letter from a mysterious person, Tom finally said bluntly.

Polly stopped stirring her noodles and looked up at him with an obvious question in her face.

No, no, nothing to do with...her. This is from a Mr. Chant.

Chant? As in, monks? Or magic spells? She asked uncertainly, not really wanting to broach the subject of enchantments but thinking of them nonetheless.

Tom frowned, Well, yes, you could put it that way.

Polly thought wryly that he seemed to have run her up against his silence completely unawares and tried very hard not to let the awkwardness of it stop her.

What does he say? she ventured after a moment of letting the silence run it's course.

That we are needed. He gives an address... Now, let me see... and plunked his bowl down on the edge of the radiator, levered himself carefully out of his chair, and did something that involved a lot of papers and the kitchen table. A few moments later he came back with a rather crinkled letter written on yellowed paper---was that parchment?

said Tom, Here we go-- 101 Parsons, Heathersfield.

Somewhere out on the moors, right? That's what, forty kilometers?

Yes, something like it, he confirmed vaguely. No matter that that was an oxymoron-- Laurel had really changed their lives. Tom was never definite on anything anymore--except, of course, when it came to loving Polly-- since he was so afraid it would come back to bite him.

Should we go?

He swiveled around to her quickly, meeting her gaze squarely. I--yes, I think we should. He asks... he wants our help with something to do with his ward and her...young friend, James, he gulped audibly, then cleared his throat with a noise like an engine revving up. It's about magic.

A small noise came out of Polly's mouth, unbidden but there. For a moment she went very white, then looked at Tom like he had just escaped the local mental facilities.

Y-you're not...serious!?

Something happened, but she wasn't sure what. There she was, pale as death and sitting stunned on the couch with a bowl of lukewarm noodles on her lap, then suddenly she was clinging to her husband, the noodles joining his on the radiator with very little transition and no stability. Even as she thought it, something went crash, but she didn't care, she was too busy making sure he was real, smelling the dryer-smell of his sweater and the shampoo-and-cologne smell of him.

He was making frantic shushing sounds, smoothing her hair, rubbing her back, shhh....shhh...It's okay, I'm fine, you're fine, it's gonna be okay.

She had barely calmed down when he kissed her very softly, on the forehead, the eyelids, the mouth. Of course, she kissed him back, and the moment of uncertainty was over, they were all happy young couple (A/N: Or should that be horny young couple'? Just Kidddddiiinnngggg...bwwhahaha). It wasn't long before they had sunk back onto the couch, and they did not speak of the letter again until the next day.

Author notes/Review replys:
And....
1. I know that Tom is older than Polly (young couple line there at the end), but I'm guessing by a rough of ten years. Therefore, Polly being 22ish, that would make Tom 32ish. In my opinion, thirty-two is still quite young. That's just me though.
2. Some people interpret the end of F&H as meaning that TomPolly can only be togther in dreams and not in the real world, but I think they just wordplayed their way around Laurel's . So this is how I see it-- Tom and Polly, married, in the real world.
3. In this, Tom is still with the quartet and doing fairly well (enough to occaisionally be on TV), and Polly is a writer.
Plebian Princess: Thanks! What a compliment!
BOB: Thanks, buddy. Glad you like!
Bricoleur:Aww, man, violists are totally cool! Same here for being new... and writing fanfiction. Definitly not a thing I usually do, but since I've been on this site and giving critique for ages, I rather thought I should have a shot at it too. What I'm really, secretly doing when I say I have no time to update is writing Crimson Kingship and an untitled Tam-Lin ish thinger starring a girl named Genivive . Thanks so much for , like, being a violist (imagine that!).
Swillgress: Wow. That's all I can say. I may not agree that using other's characters is wrong (it's so much bloody fun, that's all there is to it), but man, you can write a fanfiction-crushing review while still making me feel flattered and happy inside .
Silversilk: What an awesome, faithful reviewer. I'm really glad to have you around to goad me into writing!
Beatrice: Ever thought of going into jacket-summary writing? DWJ could use you!
Siobhan: Tahnk ya very much tips hat.