There is a portrait which hangs over the mantlepiece. In it, John and Hero stand shoulder-to-shoulder, looking out at the world together as husband and wife. John admires those delicate brush strokes which caress flushed cheeks, capturing silken curls, and the fullness of her rosebud smile. A loveliness which pales only to the woman herself.

There are other paintings; the same couple, in different positions and a growing number of children. They look happy. All of them, happy.

John considers his own likeness — cutting features, a subtle curve to the corners of his mouth — this man who is husband and father, at peace with the world. And he searches for himself.

:-x-:

John called their children changelings, but if anyone can change their skin, it is him. Shifting with the music, dancing the marionette so no one suspects him the puppeteer.

Of course, whatever new skin he dons, it will always chafe. His talent was cultivated for survival, not pleasure. Her husband has an honest temper, if a lying tongue. He would sooner cut the nobles who scorned him than simper for their favour. But his father's patience only stretched so far. Thus, he learned to play their game.

Except, he had taken off his mask for Hero. She had learned charmed words from a handsome smile were no guarantee of happiness or security. She could not love anything less than the raw and ugly truth.

She knows each of his scars — on the surface and underneath — has touched every inch of his skin, as he has touched every inch of hers. She knows him down to his marrow and yet this man across from her — attempting civil if stilted conversation with her father — does not know the count of her freckles or where her skin stretched in childbirth. He does not lean into her shoulder or toy with her curls. When her fingers brush his hand, he flinches, and her grip tightens around her fork, its pattern embedding into her palm.

When it is time to usher the children to bed, he pads after her like a lost duckling. She longs to turn, push back those ink locks and smooth the wrinkles from his brow. But she cannot bear to watch him recoil again. So she keeps her gaze ahead and cradles Tonio close.

Convincing the children to sleep is always an uphill battle but the promise of a story has them piling onto Leo's bed — Snug, Snout, and Quickly beside them. She settles in the chair next to the bed, conscious of John hovering in the doorway, as if he has not listened in a thousand times before.

"What story would you like?"

"Something magic!" Clarissa demands. "With a clever girl."

"And there should be a prince! And a beast!" Leo adds.

"Bee-sstt, yeah!" Tonio claps and topples against Snout.

Hero smiles. "Very well… I will tell you the story of a cursed prince and the woman who fell in love with him despite his beastly nature."

The children cheer. Coal eyes scorch her neck but her voice does not falter as she begins.

"Once upon a time… there was a young, selfish prince with a very bad temper…"

:-x-:

Hero pecks each of her children on the forehead as she tucks them into bed despite their groaning and bids them goodnight, leaving them under the protection of the dogs. She makes her way along the hall, unsurprised when she turns the corner and finds John leant against the wall.

She approaches with a tentative smile. "Did you enjoy the story?"

He inclines his head, fixing her with a dry look that has her biting her lip, it is so him. "Falling in love with one's captor may be a poor message for the children."

She could bathe in that drawl. "It is the theme of redemption, I prefer."

"You are a saint, lady."

His tone is mocking, but that is the cut of his tongue. Hero knows how he sounds when he means to wound. This is not it.

"Miracles happen when you give people a second chance."

"It must be disappointing to see all your efforts reversed." His face is impassive. She knows this feint.

"The efforts were yours. And I do not think them reversed." She reaches around him, opening the door to the master bedroom. "Come, this is no place for private conversation."

He hesitates, then follows her inside. The door shuts and they are alone. The room is cast in candlelight, shadows flickering. Tension exudes from his shoulders, stoking her own nerves.

She clasps her hands together, a tremor passing through them, and offers a smile. "At ease, I shall not ravish you."

His face convulses, closing in on himself, and she curses her blunder. "Do you enjoy making me your fool?"

"No, of course not. It is not my intention — John, please. I am your wife, not your enemy."

"There are some who would consider them the same."

"I hope you never think of me so."

He regards her, mouth pursed in a thin line. Long ago, he would have appeared unreadable, but now she knows him better. She sees through his defences, the walls he erects between them. Her heart pangs at being shut out once more.

"As I said, lady… you are a saint."

Her hands knot in her skirts. "I swear, if this is leading to some remark about you being the devil…" his face shifts and she throws up her arms, "You must be the stubbornest soul I have ever encountered — and I am cousin to Beatrice and Benedick both."

His eyebrows shoot up. "So those butting goats did wed."

"Oh," she blinks and her ire snuffs "Yes. All the preparations had been made for a wedding… someone ought to make use of them."

John hums, that familiar sound soothing the hairs on her neck. "I am not surprised love was disguised in their loathing, only that pride allowed them to confess it."

She laughs. "For sure, it was a Herculean feat. One I am unsure would have been accomplished without Benedick's defence of my honour. Only then could Beatrice trust his heart and give her own in return."

"I see…" his speech is slow, the sign of a racing mind, "...it is right then that he devised my punishment, for I injured his sweet cousin."

She stiffens. "That is long in the past."

"It seems there is much long in the past for me." Bitterness laces his words.

"You have the present," she offers, hope lodged in her throat like a shard of glass. "How… how do you find it?"

He stares at her, his eyes the ashes of every bridge he has ever burned and in them embers glisten. "Mystifying."

Her fingers still, enthralled as his lips shape the syllables.

"Well," she steadies her breathing, "there are worse words."

"There are worse fates." He cringes. "I do not mean…"

"What do you mean?"

His throat bobs, his expression pinched. "Any man… any man would be blessed to have such a… life."

She charts his thoughts like constellations. "And you have always thought yourself cursed."

His lashes flicker, unused to being seen, and she knows he is reevaluating his judgement of her. She sighs, exhausted. "John… I am not your jailer. I do not hold your memories ransom. Please, you can ask me anything."

"And if I ask to leave?" His voice is barren as the desert night, freezing her heart. "This is not a home I recognise. What if I desire a different life, other choices. You say you are not my jailer."

She reels back, grasping the bedpost, the air knocked from her lungs. He could not have produced a more devastating effect had he struck her. But words were always his weapon. Tears burn like frost upon her cheeks. She scrunches her eyes shut, curling in on herself.

"Oohh, how calmly you kill."

A flame crackles to life inside her chest and her eyes flash open. His cold, porcelain mask is cracked, concern weeping through. Under her gaze, he scrambles to piece it back together.

"You are like a goose," she seethes, fists balled at her sides as fat tears roll down her cheeks, "with its leg trapped in a hole, biting at anyone who tries to help."

His jaw goes slack, "A goose—"

"Yes, a goose!" She surges forward, hands flattening into a goose's head as she pecks at him, jabbing his chest, his arms, his stomach, his shoulders. "You — do not — deserve — a more elegant — comparison."

He shields from her assault, catching her wrists. "Peace! Peace!" His arms fold around her, securing her so that her back is to his front. His chin slumps onto her head, mumbling into her curls. "That was unworthy of me."

His breath flutters through her hair, voice worn and true. She fights not to fall into his warmth; this is the first time he has held her since the accident.

"I knew you would bite."

It has been a long time since his worse nature reared its head. She has forgotten the length of his fangs. She called him a goose but in truth he is a kicked hound, chained to a post, its ribs bruised and exposed, gnashing at its leash. He will savage anyone who ventures close, even the hand that feeds it. Hero has been attempting to pacify him while treating him like the same man from before the accident. And he is the same man. In all ways that matter, he is the same. But he is also that strange, feral creature she first met; half-man, half-beast, starved of all but hate. She should expect a few scratches.

John lets her go. Cold, she turns to him. His jaw tightens as he tracks her tears.

"I — was lying," he admits, as if his mouth is full of thorns. "I have no desire to leave. Not unless — not unless you want me gone."

He bows his head, shoulders bunching. Her fingers rise to touch him —

And fall.

"I could never want you gone. Plague that you are, I want no cure. John, I love you—"

"Stop. Please."

Her mouth shuts. He stands braced against further assault. She recognises this war between suspicion — the urge to wound before he is wounded — and a genuine wish to not cause her further harm. She is silent, her heart aching for this ragdoll man who, for all his skins and stitches, never could find a place he belonged.

Until her — and the home they built together.

But he no longer remembers. Does not know how to embrace the present without it crumbling in his arms — and is that not so him? This ridiculous, stubborn man. Her most frustrating love. It is not right. It is not fair. She wants to smash something so it too can feel what it is to be shattered. But she knows — she knows — it will bring no comfort, no resolution. Better she leave him now so he can lick his wounds. And she can nurse her own. If she lingers, it will only hurt them both.

"It has been a long day. I shall bid you goodnight."

She moves to the door. Not the one they entered through. The other door, which blends discreetly in with the wall.

His gaze narrows, only just noticing it. "Where does that lead?"

Exhaustion grinds her bones but the corners of her mouth still rise. "To my bedroom, of course. I will be there, should you need of me."

In truth, it is their bedroom, as he slept there more than the master suite. But now her touch repulses him. Her sheets will be cold.

Like a figure in a music box, John stutters. Then, throws his gaze Heaven-wards as if to say — can you believe this?

Mirth trickles through her and she slips across the threshold, into the adjoining bedroom. Her eyes hold his own until the door is shut and they are divided.

She presses her hand to the wood, heart beating in her palm.

.

.

.

With a shaking breath, she lowers her arm. Her feet walk her to the bed and she collapses, clasping her pillow. The dam breaks and her tears pour.

Please. Please. Please.

:-x-:

On the other side of the door, John listens to her muffled sobs. Slumping against the wall, he sinks to the floor, dragging a hand down his face.

He truly is a wretched villain.