This wasn't just plain terrible, this was fancy terrible. This was terrible with raisins in it.
Dorothy Parker
Sarah snatched the phone from his outstretched hand. "Hi… Dad?" She glared at Jareth.
"Sar-" Her father's milquetoast voice abruptly cut off as Karen apparently performed her own game of telephone grab.
"Sarah!" It came out more invective than salutation. Certainly not an auspicious start. "Your father is having a heart attack right now."
"…What?!" Sarah was more confused than actually concerned.
"Well, no not really," Karen assured her unnecessarily. "You know how he gets." The phone was smothered for a moment, though the next words were still audible, if muffled. 'Oh, yes, you do get that way, Robert! We will talk about it later.'
Sarah was well versed in that tone and knew what her father was in for.
'Yes, yes, I'll tell her. Go back to dying.' "Sarah!" Karen had evidently returned the phone to her mouth. "This is very distressing news. Very distressing. How could you get married without telling us?"
Sarah sputtered in disbelief, almost choking on the inanity of it all. "How could you possibly believe that? Of course I'm not married." She glared at Jareth again, but the effort was wasted as he'd apparently lost interest in the dumpster fire he'd started and was instead flipping through one of her photo albums.
Karen continued as though Sarah had not even spoken. "Your father was so looking forward to giving you away." The phone was smothered again. 'Yes, you were, Robert. Every father is.' And then Karen pin-balled back. "Though a girl should be married at your age."
Sarah rolled her eyes.
"I think it's a decision that shouldn't be rushed into. I mean…" there was a pregnant pause from her step mother, "what did you wear?"
To Karen, bless her heart, that would have been paramount.
Sarah thought about giving the phone back to Jareth so he could reap what he'd sowed. He was the cause, after all. It was only fair.
Fairness had never gotten her far, however, and there was a reason you didn't give pyromaniacs a gas can. "It was a nude ceremony, Karen," Sarah answered glibly, "but very tasteful. Minimal." Sarah inwardly grinned at her own quip. "Just the way you like it."
The dead silence on the other end meant Karen was finally listening. So was the Goblin King – photo album still open but temporarily forgotten.
Sarah turned her back on him in case she ruined her moment by laughing.
"Be serious, Sarah!" Karen admonished shrilly. "And what is all this about him taking our last name?"
"Karen," she began emphatically slow. "I'm fairly certain the last traces of serious died a few hours ago. All that's left is whatever this conversation is right now-"
"Are you with his child, Sarah?" Her step mother's voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, but it cut across the copper wires like a razor blade to the ear drum.
"With his child?" Sarah repeated incredulously in a much louder, and more disgusted tone at her step mother's unexpected and even more unfortunate choice of words.
"It would make sense," Karen rambled to herself, "as you were looking so terribly puffy the last time I saw you-"
"I am NOT pregnant, Karen!" Sarah felt the plastic of the receiver creak in her grip. "And I can assure you, I never will be – not with his child. Not even if pigs fly."
There was another laden pause. "Does it… does it not work?"
Jareth's head snapped up and the photo album was shut with a snap. Sarah didn't bother to hold back a laugh at the new turn in the conversation. She wondered if Briggs' ears were burning at the station.
Karen's voice had dropped impossibly lower. "Because they make these little blue pills that worked for your father-" The phone muffled again. 'It's nothing to be ashamed of, Robert. Many men your age use them-' Karen returned to the phone instantly. "Oh dear, he's not your father's age is he?"
Before Sarah could reply, the damaged receiver was plucked from her hand by a gloved one.
"Much older, I'd wager," Jareth replied candidly. "Though I assure you, everything is in working order. Your daughter has only to say the word and I'll happily supply her with as many babies as her fickle heart desires. Whether she keeps them is another matter, of course. She doesn't have the best history with-"
Sarah snatched the phone back, imagining the mounting look of horror on her step mother's face. In other circumstances it might have all be worth it.
"Karen? Are you listening?"
"Of course I am listening!" But the phone was almost immediately passed again, this time to Toby.
"Hey, Sarah. Congrats on getting hitched and not being knocked up." The phone muffled and there was the sound of a motherly shriek. "I mean," Toby's voice turned robotic (Sarah could almost feel his eyes rolling through the phone), "we are very disappointed in you, young lady."
"There! See?" Karen had taken the phone back. "You've even upset your brother!"
Sarah could hear Toby protesting that he was not in fact disappointed and was happy he wouldn't have to wear a stupid suit and carry an even 'stupider pillow' as an overgrown ring bearer.
Sarah bit back a smile. "Look, Karen-"
"No, actually it's Bill," a strange masculine voice replied.
Sarah's brow furrowed, having now completely lost the plot. "…Bill?"
"Bill Sullivan," the unknown voice continued awkwardly. "New next door neighbour. I don't think we've met actually. Sarah was it? I just came over to borrow a shovel from your father. You see my daughter's guinea pig died and-" There was more muffled coaching off phone. "But uh," he sounded distinctly uncomfortable, if resigned, "I just wanted to tell you that not inviting your parents to your wedding has deeply hurt them." A pause. "Deeply. Very... uh, deep. Ly."
"Thanks for your input, Bill," Sarah replied dryly, wondering if he'd enjoyed their little family show so far. "Very sorry about your daughter's untimely loss. Say, Bill? Could I use that shovel when you are done? I may have some pressing grave digging needs myself." She shot Jareth a meaningful look. "Now if you don't mind, can you put me back on with someone in the household I've actually met before?"
"Sarah." It was finally her father again. He sounded tired. She could relate.
"Dad, listen," she enunciated carefully so that her voice carried to all ends of her apartment. "This is all a very – VERY - stupid practical joke by a very – VERY - stupid guy with a very - VERY - small brain and an even smaller sense of boundaries. In short, he's a man-child who likes to play dress up. I wouldn't marry him if guinea pigs put a show on Broadway."
There was another pregnant pause. Thankfully the only thing pregnant in the near vicinity.
"So you're not married?" And not with child, was the unasked follow up. His voice suggested relief. It occurred to her then that her father really didn't know her all that well.
"Of course not, Dad," she replied thickly, stung by the realization. "What kind of fool do you take me for?"
"I don't know, Sarah." The relief had morphed into something not so nice, but definitely fatherly. "The kind that invites a 'man-child' with a 'very small brain' into her apartment at night?"
"After bailing him out of jail," Jareth added helpfully, demonstrating that preternatural hearing again. Without missing a beat, Sarah turned and chucked a heavy, hard copy book at him. He caught it deftly and mouthed back, 'man-child?'
"So if you're not married," Robert continued in his most gravely serious voice – the one he reserved for special parenting occasions, "why is he in your apartment tonight?"
Sarah got the impression everyone was listening for her response. Maybe even Bill, possibly with the dead guinea pig awaiting burial still in hand. Lucky fuzz ball.
"Dad…" she began. It took ten minutes more of interrupted explanations, as the phone was passed between Karen and Robert - Bill and Toby having evidently escaped - for Sarah to finally hang it up again. She vowed to bury the phone along with Jareth. She hadn't wanted to justify to her father that she could have an entire fleet of sailors over if she wanted - it was really none of his business – and not with Jareth listening. But she had, which had certainly not helped matters in any way. She only managed to end the phone conversation and avoid having her father come right over – Bill and his shovel in tow – if she agreed to have family dinner with them the following night. And bring her man-child house guest. Sarah had reluctantly agreed, but only because she planned to renege and make excuses in person when she arrived alone.
She'd bring a conciliatory pie. Everyone loved pie, right?
Her stomach gave a rumble of protest at not being filled with anything, let alone pie.
Sarah unplugged the phone from the wall and tossed another book at Jareth. This time the yellow pages. "Give me babies?!"
"I merely meant that given my position as Goblin King, I could provide you with a steady supply of unwanted babies, wished away by foolish, selfish girls." He smiled at her widely, showing too many teeth. "Your mind is positively filthy, Sarah.
She stomped towards her kitchen. Jareth followed at her heels, and when she turned he was standing in the doorway taking up too much room as usual. His expression curled into one of distaste.
"Did you know you have some kind of orange fungus all over your wall? Ah – there's the culprit." Before she could react, he hefted the now cold and slightly misshapen casserole and dumped it out into her open garbage. The congealed mixture of cheese, meat and pasta slid out in one squelching plop. "Best rid of it." He looked again at her stained walls. "I think it might have been breeding."
Sarah gaped at him, and then her eyes fixed on the open garbage with her pitiful casserole lying in massacred on top.
Her stomach demanded bloodshed. "Get. Out."
It was Jareth's turn to look slightly incredulous.
"Get out," she repeated evenly. Her students would have warned him that the quieter she got, the angrier she was actually getting, and at this level it was best to ask to be excused to the safety of the washroom. "I don't care where you go, but you aren't staying here." She walked back out of the kitchen and jerked her front door open.
Jareth followed silently, his expression now more amused than surprised. "I told you I'm not a vampire, Sarah. I'm not going to be propelled out of here by mere words."
Sarah's thousand yard stare didn't waver. "Maybe not. Seemed to work last time though. And you have to leave regardless, don't you." It wasn't really a question.
Jareth's eyes narrowed dangerously, but he didn't refute her claim. He crossed the threshold and turned back towards her – his face changing again into a winsome smile that in no way reached his eyes. "Sarah, I-"
She slammed the door.
For the first time since she'd moved in, she locked all four antique locks, relishing each snick if only because she was certain he would hear them from the other side.
Taking a deep, calming breath that didn't really work, she walked back into her kitchen. Mulling over the contents of her fridge until it beeped at her in annoyance, she finally pulled out a jar of pickles and padded towards her bedroom in resignation. He certainly wasn't trying to break down the door. The disturbing part was that she wasn't sure whether or not she was disappointed.
Sarah tried not to wonder what he was doing while she ate half the jar and graded papers. She tried not to wonder what he could do while she ate the other half. She tried not to wonder what he would do while wishing she had another jar of pickles. Her pen slashed across page after page. A lot of students were going to get Ds.
She eventually fell into a fitful but dreamless sleep. When she woke, it was to bright rays of early morning sun filtering through her south east facing windows. And to stale pickle breath, which she would not recommend to anyone. It was also to that blissful, but unfortunately brief, period of waking fog where you forget the events of the previous evening – that you made a fool of yourself at a work party… or that you lost someone dear, and for an ephemeral moment grief loses hold… or that the Goblin King himself had come back into your life like a wrecking ball, to the soundtrack of cell doors and hysterical stepmothers.
Sarah still forgot about Jareth as she brushed away pickle breath, her stomach feeling slightly sour. She forgot about him as she showered and got dressed for the day. She even forgot about him as she blearily brewed her coffee…
Until she turned, mug in hand, and looked at her orange splattered walls…
… and then at the phone that was unplugged…
… and then finally at the corpse of her casserole lying in her trash can.
Sarah immediately sped to the front door, hot coffee sloshing over onto her bandaged hand, making her breath catch. Wincing, she carefully peered through her peep hole.
Nothing. An empty hallway.
But if you turn it this way…
… no, definitely still an empty hallway.
Sarah sipped her coffee, savouring the burst of acidity tempered by the velvet of the cream. Unlatching each of the locks, she pulled open the solid door and peeked out tentatively just to be sure.
Nothing.
He was gone like a bad dream vanquished by morning. Although just like a nightmare, he was gone but not entirely forgotten.
She didn't have the time to question the infinitesimal, but confusing pang of disappointment she felt, before the door across from hers opened inward.
"Sarah?"
It was her elderly and eccentric neighbour, Mrs. Parker.
Sarah smiled. "Hello. I mean, good morning," she corrected herself quickly.
Mrs. Parker had once upon a time taught etiquette lessons at a distinguished all-girls school, and had never really retired it seemed - sometimes mistaking Sarah for a student, not a neighbour. She was mostly harmless and Sarah had decided she'd was a good soul underneath all of her airs and often acerbic tongue. She'd reportedly once come from very old money, her family connected to the Vanderbilts and Rockefellers, but her father had made some shady business deals that had run afoul and eaten her trust fund before she'd really even been out in society. Then he'd taken the coward's way out and had disappeared with what little liquid assets they had left to the continent, leaving her mother – a woman of impeccable breeding but no practical skills – to survive in a social circle that was as happy to shun her as it had once been to toast her. Edith (though someone of Sarah's younger age was never to use her first name) had managed to leverage her pedigree into teaching other spoiled girls which fork to use, how to cross their ankles, what kind of conversation was appropriate for what kind of social event… and when their parents weren't looking, how to be self-sufficient independent women. In her dated, but expensive flowing wraps, and her elaborate turbans, she was a throwback to a bygone era of American royalty – a walking, talking Great Gatsby character – whose personal tragedy was that the world had embraced excess and largesse of a different, more modern kind.
Mrs. Parker had amassed enough money, selling much of her jewellery, and working for people who'd once been her peers, to live alone comfortably into old age. As far as Sarah knew, she'd never married, though from the expensive hand-painted portraits and numerous photographs in her apartment, Sarah knew she'd been a great beauty and would have been a catch, even with the loss of her wealth. She went by the title missus nonetheless, because by her own words it was never wise to advertise that a lady lived alone. Sarah had often wondered if part of Edith's reticence to ever had been due to watching her father single-handedly damn them all. Edith would never put herself at another man's mercy. But that was not the sort of thing one asked Mrs. Parker unless one wanted a stern reprimand, delivered with a sharp rap on the knuckles with the ivory handled fan she always carried with her.
"I see I've caught you at a bad time," Edith remarked. "You haven't had time to style your hair or dress your face yet."
Sarah was in fact already wearing makeup and had brushed her hair, but those were the kind of slightly-caustic but well-meaning comments one expected from the unconventional lady. Sarah smiled wanly.
"Oh my dear, you've injured your hand!" There was genuine concern in the Edith's voice. "I've got a bottle of Watkins' Mercurochrome I can fetch for you."
"Uh, thank you, but I've already treated it." Sarah had once tried to explain the dangers of using old, outdated and often toxic medicine, but to no avail. "Have a wonderful day, Mrs. Parker. I just came to…" she glanced around quickly, "collect the paper."
Mrs. Parker gave a lady-like sound of displeasure. "Nothing but salacious nonsense these days, penned by men with more time than sense or wit." Sarah was quite certain Edith had been something of a bluestocking in her day, and wondered what a force she might have been with a fortune to back her.
"No doubt," Sarah agreed, waving the rolled up paper and backing into her apartment.
"Oh Sarah," Edith's voice took on a note of unmistakable censure. "Before you attend to your coif, I wanted to discuss your visitor."
Sarah's hand shook, sloshing more now lukewarm coffee, but she recovered enough to feign innocence – the kind Mrs. Parker probably saw right through after all her years in a girls' school.
Edith's shrewd eyes confirmed as much. "Yes, your gentleman visitor last evening. The one you left on your door step, but didn't come to retrieve like that paper."
It was hard to tell where that might fall in the social gaffe hierarchy. Was it ruder to kick a guest out, or better not to be alone with a male after polite visiting hours? And she was entirely unsure of where goblin kings lay on that scale.
Sarah froze for a moment in indecision. "I'm sorry if he woke you… he was uh, leaving, after dropping off some resources I needed for class." Edith had always respected Sarah's teaching profession, and she was banking on that.
"Indeed."
Sarah could tell by the polite noncommittal that Edith was not, in fact, buying any of it. "Well, I am very sorry for the disturbance, Mrs. Parker." Sarah tried closing the door again.
"No disturbance," Edith continued benevolently. "Though it has been some time since I've had to make up the spare room for an unexpected guest."
Sarah felt the floor shift beneath her. "Guest?"
Edith nodded her turbaned head. "I could hardly leave him to sleep in the hallway like a vagrant after he explained everything."
This time the art deco papered walls shifted. Sarah wondered if it was possible to be perennially trapped in a nightmare. Any minute twins would pop up to laugh at her misfortune, and the elevator that didn't exist would release a tidal wave of blood. Dear Overlook, please just take me now.
Before she could press to find out what exactly he'd explained, the culprit himself appeared in the doorway beside Edith. He'd removed his goblin armour, and was wearing only his dark pants and a white linen shirt; his shirtsleeves rolled up to expose lightly corded forearms. His hair had been tamed back and tied with a cord at his nape, though his features still proclaimed him anything but human. He was holding a heavy cast iron frying pan filled with thick crackling sausages and perfectly fried eggs, topped with finely diced chives; a tea towel was artfully flung over one shoulder.
"Breakfast is ready, Edith darling."
Edith? Darling?!
Sarah gaped - as much at the unexpected intimacy of his bare forearms, as at the casual use of her neighbour's given name. Sarah had lived there for three years and had not yet been afforded the honour.
Edith, who had shortened in her winter years, beamed up at him. "Thank you, Jareth. It smells absolutely heavenly."
Jareth?
He beamed back at her, and then with deliberate and deceptive casualness, glanced across the hallway. "Oh, good morning, Sarah." He looked back down at the pan held gingerly in his hand – the bare one not wearing an oven mitt or even his customary gloves - despite evidence the pan was sizzling hot. "What a shame. I'm afraid I've only made up enough for two."
"No a shame at all," Edith replied with the graciousness of a host presiding over a presidential dinner, rather than the strange parley going on across a hallway. "Why don't you two enjoy it. Sarah looks decidedly pale this morning, and I am watching my figure."
"As would anyone with eyes," Jareth replied with a wink.
Sarah had never seen Edith blush before. Admittedly it would have been hard to tell under all the stark rouge, but it was clear that the older woman had experienced a flush of blood to her paper-thin cheeks.
"Oh, you wicked rogue," she chided lightly. "Flirting before noon is so terribly European."
"But for me you must always make an exception. And flattery is never amiss when it's true."
Edith tittered. Actually tittered - and for a moment Sarah saw the years strip away to reveal the dazzling debutante she'd once been. Edith gave Jareth a lady-like nudge into the hallway. "Make up over breakfast as all young lovers should, and then return that perfectly seasoned pan to me, young man. You also promised me another game of Piquet to try and even the score."
Under Edith's keen stare, Sarah felt kneecapped into letting the Goblin King walk right back into her apartment. He paused meaningful on her doorstep, one brow raised in a how-do-you-want-to-play-this- game-because-I-am-ready-for-a-scene way. She was on the point of telling him where exactly he could put those sausages – the pan too - when Edith remarked how refreshing it was to see a gentleman waiting so politely to be invited in. When Sarah did nothing but glare, she pointedly added that it was a shame to see young ladies old enough to know better forget their manners.
"Come in, you absolute sewer rat," Sarah hissed low enough only he could hear.
Edith waited until he was inside before shutting her own door, satisfied she'd done her part by meddling in the lives of those that needed it sorely. They rarely thanked her (the temerity of youth) but she knew it was always appreciated. Once alone in her apartment, crowded with the tangible trappings of the former life she'd managed to save, she pulled a thin cigarillo out of a gold case she'd hidden in the folds of her voluminous caftan, and lit it; her expression pensive.
Sarah slammed the door behind them. The mood was somewhat ruined by the fact Jareth had already moved into her small dining area. He deftly deposited the hot pan on her wooden table, careful to slide the tea towel underneath. She watched incredulously as he turned and selected two plates from the glass-fronted sideboard, and set two places like it was the most normal thing in the world. He poured two cups of coffee from her still warm carafe and sat, reaching across the table to begin portioning the breakfast onto the two plates like they were old friends sharing breakfast. Beneath the sausages were golden crisp slices of fried potato.
Sarah shifted her weight, fury mixing with curiosity at what his game really was. She shook her head. "Outrageous."
Jareth snapped his fingers. "You're right. I forgot the toast." Without missing a beat he rose and snagged the last two pieces of marble rye from her bread box and popped them in her toaster as though he'd done it many times before.
Sarah found herself moving closer by rote and before she knew what she was doing, she was sitting distrustfully in the chair he'd pulled out for her. She was quite sure it was her stomach, not her brain, that had made her move. Facing the Goblin King across the breakfast table was not something she'd ever thought she would do. Naturally that made her mind wander to the occasions she'd normally share breakfast with a man in her apartment. She bit the inside of her cheek to avoid following in Edith's wake; according to the older woman, she wasn't wearing enough blush to hide it. Jareth returned to the table with two perfectly toasted pieces of bread and a pot of cream for the coffee.
She watched him owlishly as he tucked into his breakfast without hesitation, pausing only long enough to place a napkin on his lap. When she made no move to follow, he set his fork down and folded his hands across his plate in wry amusement.
"Even enemies can lay the sword down long enough to break bread together, Sarah."
Sarah, who'd found herself staring at his bare hands again, with their long, blunt tipped fingers, glanced up and almost felt childish sitting there refusing to eat what smelled delicious. She rallied slightly when she remembered the headache he'd caused her the evening before. "What are you really doing here? Are you ready to tell me now?"
"Enjoying a perfectly cooked breakfast with an old friend. Or enemy," he conceded, "as the mood strikes her."
Sarah snorted in a way that would have made Edith snap her fan.
"It's not poisoned if that's what you're worried over. No tricks. I really did cook this for your charming neighbour. I've never been one for murdering little old ladies."
"No, you just flirt with them."
Jareth's eyes widened and then turned flinty. There was laughter in his voice. "Is that jealousy, Sarah? Do you live alone because little Edith steals all of your potential lovers?"
Sarah snorted again. "She's more than welcome to you."
His head canted in a way that reminded her of a predator scenting prey, and there was a hint of something more than just amusement lacing his tone when he spoke again. "So I am a potential lover then?"
Sarah felt that insidious heat creep again. "I don't know what you are, other than maybe a criminal, whom I had to bail out of a drunk tank. And as to whether or not this breakfast is poisoned, and as to what services you perform for little old ladies, that's rather difficult to say. Who knows the end to your crime. Or your kinks."
Jareth threw his head back and laughed. "Touché."
"Did you tell her you'd just come from the drunk tank, by the way?" She absently stirred her coffee. "Because I feel your charm would wear thin if she knew."
"You are jealous," he tsk'd and took a bite of his toast with decided relish. "If you don't want me to fly into the arms of another woman, you shouldn't so rudely toss me out into the streets. Such mixed signals you send."
"I kicked you into a warm, well-lit hallway, not the streets. And that's only after you threw my dinner out!"
A look of disgust flashed across his face. "That orange monstrosity was your dinner?"
Sarah slammed a palm on the table and then winced at the fresh burst of pain. "It looked much better before I dropped it answering an unwanted phone call from the police department."
"It still looked as though I did you a favour in discarding it." Before she could snap back, he held his hand out expectantly. "Show me."
"What?"
"Your hand," Jareth replied calmly, but there was an unmistakable note of authority in his voice. "You've hurt it. I wasn't in a position to help you last night."
Sarah clutched her bandaged fingers to her chest distrustfully, but it was the unfettered earnestness on his face that she found so disarming. She cautiously placed hers in his. He gripped her wrist lightly to unwind the coffee-stained bandages efficiently, but with care not to pull on the wound. The initial air on her scalded skin stung, but it was immediately replaced by his palm against hers. She wasn't prepared for the frisson of electricity that shot up her arm, so much stronger than the night before. Nor was she prepared for the comforting warmth of his hand as it folded around hers. She found herself careful not to meet his eyes. Unbidden a line from Romeo and Juliet had flitted through her mind before she could dismiss it. Stupid brats got what they deserved, she thought mulishly.
So focused on that strange tingling sensation, she didn't immediately notice the pain had stopped. When he finally, and almost reluctantly, released her, she pulled her hand back to examine it wide-eyed. The angry, reddened flesh was gone, replaced by soft unblemished skin that would have taken weeks to heal. She flexed it experimentally but felt nothing - no trace of the burn remained.
Feeling his eyes on her, somehow just as unsettling as his touch, she hid her hand in her lap and rubbed her palm on her thigh, trying to chase away the lingering sensation. "Cute parlour trick." Edith would have rapped her knuckles twice. In reality it had been a stark reminder that whatever his strange circumstances were, he wasn't human. And not powerless either. She would be a fool to let her guard down.
If Jareth was surprised by her lack of thanks, he didn't say anything and instead returned to his breakfast.
Perhaps feeling a delayed sense of guilt, she picked up her fork and knife and cut a small slice of sausage. It was cooked to perfection, not greasy in the slightest, but well-seasoned. Her stomach gave a grateful little flip at being offered something more substantial than pickles.
Jareth refrained from remarking on her quiet olive branch - perhaps rightly guessing that he'd receive a plateful of breakfast tossed at his head if he had. They ate in peaceful, if not comfortable, silence, punctuated only by the scrape of cutlery on porcelain.
"It's delicious," she offered gruffly, after she had cleared most of her plate. "I am surprised you can cook." It was the sort of back-handed compliment Edith might have given.
Jareth took a sip of him coffee, contemplating her over the rim. "Why? Did you think I spent all day catering to the whims of spoiled little girls?"
"Touché," she parroted back. She'd meant because he was a king, but was not going to acknowledge their power imbalance. "So when are you going to tell me why you're here?"
"Perhaps after you tell me why you came to my aid," he deflected. "You certainly didn't have to."
"I…" Sarah trailed off and then scrutinized his face before deciding that she would answer honestly. "I am not sure. I suppose I was curious." To see if it was all as she remembered, she didn't say. "Why me for one. Why now." She shot him a pointed look. "And I felt compelled to make sure you caused no more trouble here."
"Always the hero." There was an edge to his tone, but it vanished just as quickly when he changed topics. "So, dinner tonight."
All the grace he'd gained by healing her hand vanished too. "You're delusional if you think I will allow you within an inch of my family."
"Ah, there's the Sarah I remember," Jareth replied unperturbed. "Ever a martyr. And yet you promised. Do you lie so easily?" he taunted.
"Don't speak to me of lies. What exactly did you say to Mrs. Parker to ingratiate yourself? And why was she under the impression we were-are…" She gestured between them in mute annoyance.
"I didn't lie to her, Sarah. I was prepared to spend an uncomfortable night in the hall – at your whim might I add, isn't it always at your whim? – when Edith opened the door. She inferred it was a lover's spat and I merely failed to correct her. I do wonder what led her to that conclusion. Do you often leave discarded men pining outside your door at all hours?"
Sarah tasted victory. "So you're a discarded man pining for me then? That does ring true now that you mention it."
"No wonder your family was so shocked to hear a man answer the phone," he replied wryly.
The reminder of the disastrous phone call, more than the banter, made Sarah push her plate away. "You had no right to say what you did last night." Even if the whole situation was so patently ridiculous as to almost be funny… if you squinted and were very far away from Karen. "No right to come back into my life either," after so many years of nothing, she didn't say, "to cause problems in some petty attempt at revenge or whatever this is. You may have charmed a little old lady into taking you in, but I know what you are. You are not coming to dinner. I bailed you out. I've done my good deed to defeated Goblin Kings. I didn't call on you. I didn't invite you back. I took pity on you. Don't forget that. Now feel free to walk right back out again." She slid back from the table and returned to her room to finish getting ready before work.
When she emerged again, her apartment was quiet. So quiet she felt that unwelcome and peculiar pang of self-sabotaging disappointment that he'd given up so easily. Which meant of course, that at any moment, the other shoe would fall… because nothing is ever as it seems. The dining room was empty, so was the kitchen. But she immediately noticed that the orange spatter was missing from the wall. She stood there, dumbfounded for a moment that he cleaned it, before noticing the time on the stove. She was going to be late. Sarah quickly headed for the front hall to collect her purse, satchel and coat. It was when she shrugged the latter on as she stood in the open doorway, that the weight in the pocket reminded her of what was still in her possession. She pulled it out thoughtfully; that same thrum of magic making her fingers tingle.
The necklace he'd not mentioned nor asked about, but surely wouldn't leave without…
It was that confusion, coupled with the confluence of events to come that allowed what happened next. Edith's door snapped open just as she felt a presence at her rear. Jareth stood behind her, the clean cast iron pan under one arm. Sarah stood caught between them, the amulet still in her hand. His eyes slid to it almost imperceptibly, and then across to Edith.
"Ah! Perfect timing," the older woman exclaimed. "Off to work then, Sarah?" She clicked her tongue. "It's a shame you didn't have time to see to your hair, but young minds await and I applaud your dedication." She then crooked an arthritic, but perfectly painted, finger at Jareth. "I will entertain your gentleman friend while you're gone."
Jareth inclined his head and passed by Sarah into the hall before she could protest at any of it.
"Did that hearty breakfast mend bridges?" Edith asked with a twinkle.
"Oh, I would say Sarah made her feelings for me perfectly clear," the Goblin King replied quietly. Almost cowed.
Sarah felt a sinister sliver of guilt begin to slice into her defenses. Perhaps riling Karen had been a little funny after all. Surely she'd laugh about it later. She also reminded herself to buy pie.
"Excellent," Edith beamed. "Then you owe me a game of Piquet now, young man. Say good bye now. I'll even permit a proper one."
Jareth turned back towards Sarah, and any guilt she felt vanished at the sudden spark in his eyes. He wasn't cowed at all.
"I'll see you at dinner, Sarah. As promised." And then the bastard ducked his head and kissed her.
AN: If Sarah could unhinge her jaw and eat him, she probably would. Can't wait for dinner. Is it just me, or is Jareth not telling Sarah something? Hmmmm.
The Overlook is a reference to The Shining. While I specifically referenced the movie elements, the book is far superior. I recently re-read it by it the lake on holiday, and I still say it is one of King's masterpieces.
The Romeo and Juliet line Sarah is thinking of is, "For saints have hands that pilgrims hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss." #TeamSarah - Romeo and Juliet were brats, and poor Mercutio got done dirty for it.
Mrs. Edith Parker is my fucked up mash-up of and nod to Dorothy Parker and Little Edie. You can smell the stale Chanel, her words hurt like knives, but you can't look away.
More updates in the works (to bigger and more important stories). No time to chat, but hope you deviants are all well and staying safe. I had my first drink on a patio since Covid struck (so very likely since summer 2019), after seeing the immersive Van Gogh exhibit as a birthday present (again my first time doing anything fun indoors in public since the world turned upside down). It was simply lovely. Happy halcyon days of summer!