Disclaimer: Only Rose is mine.

Once Upon A Time

Chapter Five

Silence was the only sound that could be heard in that library for a long moment. In that moment, Rose did not look at Ichabod; indeed, she looked at everything else in the room but him. She averted his pleading gaze for as long as she dared, until she could not stand the silence any longer. She looked at him then, her chocolate eyes made all the brighter for the tears that sparkled within them, and said, in a quiet, hoarse voice so unlike her, "You cannot possibly know how long I have waited to hear you speak those words."

He let out a great shuddering breath at this, a breath he had not known he was holding, and leaned into her. He embraced her tightly, wrapping his arms around her in a grip that wordlessly promised he would never let her go. She did the same, slipping her arms underneath his and digging her nails into his back, clutching at his skin beneath the cloth. And together they wept.

They wept for joy, they wept for their long and mutual foolishness, they wept so that they might dry the tears from each other's eyes. And eventually they pulled away, but still held firmly to one another's arms, each wrapping their long and slender fingers around one another's elbows. She chewed on her bottom lip, trying to stop a dam breaking in her eyes and flooding her face with salty droplets. He sniffed once and blinked twice, employing a different method to stop his tears.

After another moment of silence, Ichabod reached up and ran his hand along her moist cheek, splaying his fingers and pressing them gently into her flesh. He placed his left hand on her other cheek, so that he held her face gently in his hands. He ran his thumb along the flesh beneath her eyes, wiping away her tears. He stared at her for a moment after that, just stared at her, then whispered, "It took a blind old woman to make me see how beautiful you are, believe it or not."

She smiled and attempted a small laugh. "You're a smart man," she said. "You would have figured it out sooner or later."

He leaned his face nearer to hers, so that their foreheads touched. She brought her hands up and twined her fingers in his as he said, "Yes, but I wish it would have been sooner. Then perhaps I could have done this some years ago." And of a sudden, he pulled away and leaned in again, claiming her lips in a passionate kiss.


They lay together on the floor for a long time after that, as the sofa could not hold both of them. They held hands and talked about anything, everything. They laughed and smiled and kissed some more. There was a time, during one of their spontaneous fits of laughter, that he unexpectedly wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her on top of him. She stopped giggling then and stared down at him, her raven hair falling over her shoulder and brushing his cheek. She rested her head on his chest and sighed contentedly. "God, I love you," she breathed, sounding sleepy.

He hugged her shoulders and said, "And I love you." He sighed as well. "I still can't believe I didn't realize it earlier."

"It's all right," she said. "I don't blame you. Men are slow about these sorts of things. It is a rare man who will admit his feelings and act upon them accordingly." She smiled, even though he could not see it. "You are a rare man, Ichabod."

"And you are a rare woman, Rose," he said.

"I am not," she retorted. "There are plenty of women out there who have a difficult time restraining themselves when you enter the room."

He gave a silent laugh, ruffling her raven hair with his huffing breath. "I suppose," he said, "but none of them can hold a candle to your intellect and beauty."

"Well, if Ichabod Crane thinks I am intelligent," she said, "then it must be so." They were silent for a time, smiling madly, but then Rose became serious. "Ichabod," she said, "I must confess that I am frightened."

He pushed her away at that, setting both of them upright. "Of what?" he asked worriedly, his ebony eyes shining with concern.

She sighed, but it was not a contented sigh. "I did not want to say anything," she said, "that might spoil the moment, but I feel I must voice my concerns. Yesterday, after you left, my parents received a visit from Mister Hall."

"James Hall?" Ichabod asked.

"Yes," said Rose. "He and I exchanged a few polite words, and then he disappeared into the east drawing room with my parents. I fear they are plotting my marriage."

"But James Hall," Ichabod said again. "He is more than twice your age."

"They do not care," she said. "He is wealthy, that is all that matters to them."

Ichabod embraced her again, rocking her slightly as she began to weep into his shoulder. "Hush, hush," he said softly, stroking her hair. "I shall not let them do this to you. I shall not let them take you away. I love you too much for that."


The next day Ichabod and Rose rode to the jewelry shop to display the topaz. Ichabod explained to Rose his strange bargain with the jeweler, and she laughed and smiled and marveled at how odd people could be. He was glad she was not upset; it was a strange request, and he himself was wary. But Rose seemed to think it all right, and if anything went wrong, he would be there to protect her.

So they entered the shop, and Rose gasped at the sight of so many sparkling stones, and Ichabod called out to the back of the shop, "Hello?"

A moment later, the jeweler emerged from some back room, and he grinned a wide grin. "Ah, it's you!" he cried jovially. "Did your special sweetheart like the topaz?"

"Yes, she liked it very much," Rose said, emerging from behind a display case that held various diamonds.

The jeweler gasped and beckoned her forward. He lifted her chin and fingered the jewel, smiling at her all the while. "Oh, it's beautiful," he said. "And so are you," he added. "A pretty stone for a pretty girl."

She smiled in reply and said, "Thank you. It is indeed very lovely."

"Ah, your boy chose a good one," the jeweler said, and released her. "Speaking of which, I never did catch your name, boy."

"Ichabod Crane, sir," Ichabod replied.

"And what's your name?" the jeweler asked the girl.

"Rose Hughes, sir," she told him.

"Ah, Ichabod and his Rose," the jeweler said, smiling widely. "Well, I hope you two spend many a happy day together. And I hope you think first of me for all your jewelry needs. Now get out of my shop and have a good time."


The rest of the day was spent puttering around town, looking in this shop or that, whatever caught Rose's fancy. There was even a horse race that day that attracted a particularly large crowd, and Rose was able to win a small sum of money all on her own. It was quite a pleasant afternoon, actually.

Until Ichabod returned home, that is.

He bid Rose a sweet good-bye and entered his home, smiling and cheerful. However, his spirit was quickly crushed by a scream from the kitchen and the sound of a crash. Of a sudden, his enraged father came storming out of the kitchen and into the main hall, his hair disheveled and his waistcoat unbuttoned. He spotted Ichabod in an instant, and the terrified boy backed up until he was pressed against the wall.

But not even that could stop his father's wrath.

The man came up to him and slammed his hands into the wall on either side of Ichabod's head, essentially trapping him. "Where the bloody hell have you been?" he screamed, and his son cringed.

"I was out with Rose," he answered quietly, turning his head away.

"You will look at me when I speak to you!" his father commanded, and grabbed his face roughly. He forced Ichabod to look him in the eye as he yelled, "You will tell me where you are planning to go before you leave! You will not run off for an entire bloody afternoon without an explanation! Is that understood?" When Ichabod made no reply, he slapped the boy hard across the face, then asked again.

"Yes," Ichabod said weakly, his face throbbing with pain.

"Good," his father said, and he released his son. And as he stomped off down the hall, Ichabod held his sore cheek and sunk slowly to the floor, weeping silently.


Shit, I'm like, full of angst. Wow, I must have a lot of repressed anger issues. Writing really does relieve stress, though. Thank God for it. The blood is the life, Sikerra.