AN: Just wanted to say thank you for TheDayOfRickening, your reviews have been encouraging me to keep going on this. And to all others who have commented, thank you! Just felt I should acknowledge and send a thank you to those reading, it means the world to me that people are enjoying this. As always, please leave constructive criticism and comment if you feel so inclined! I want this story to be as great as it can be and the more feedback I have the more I know what needs to be worked on and how I can change it!

Purple Rain

I never wanted to be your weekend lover
I only wanted to be some kind of friend, hey
Baby, I could never steal you from another
It's such a shame our friendship had to end

He was gone. Like a frightened bird flying away, he left no trace. His bed was made. His coffee untouched. His hearty laugh and witty humor ceased to exist.

Arthur was gone.

Her heart longed for things to be different. But she knew him, she knew he wouldn't leave his family for her, and she'd never respect him if he did. She just wished that, for once, things would work out for her, that her fantasies of what the future holds weren't dramatically interrupted by death or an unexpected old flame returning to collect the father of her child.

Still, like embers in the night, she sat alone with her cup of tea, and took comfort of what once was, even if it was only for a short time. Her thumbs found comfort at the lip of her mug, warm steam tickling her skin, the wet heat reminding her of the first week of Arthur's short stay, when he'd awake from his sleep screaming in agony, his bed soaked in blood, and she'd hold him close and wipe the tears from his eyes.

He was so strong, but his limits were obvious. Nobody reacts well to having to tear their own arm off, and his mental state was even worse, not knowing which of his friends were still alive or dead, being unable to contact them, being betrayed, facing death head on. The strong man before her crumbled into a boy once he felt the freedom to be vulnerable with her. He told her everything, even the incriminating things, even what he did to Mrs. Downes and her boy.

She forgave him, and she gave him permission to forgive himself, and his journey of healing began in more ways than one.

And how quickly did she find herself at the edge with him, her heart begging her to jump, her mind telling her it was disgustingly too soon, and she'd ruin her relationship with him if she didn't take a step back and reevaluate her feelings.

It was infatuation, the desire of security, loneliness. She did everything to excuse the way she felt about him. But she couldn't help it. The moment she saw him helping Mary down from the carriage, her heart broke. The excitement of seeing Arthur coming home safely dissipated into a sorrowful feeling. She knew instinctively, from the way he glanced at her, from the way he reached for her hand, his nervous look when he caught her eye.

Those baby blues of his gave away everything. And she knew that even though he was holding her as tight as he could, that he had to go. He needed to be with his family, and she'd never beg for him to stay or try to convince him of an alternative.

She could never take him away from the life she couldn't give him, from the fatherhood that he would never experience again if he stayed with her, married her. She couldn't give him a family, and he didn't know that.

But when she left to pack his bags and looked back as he made his way towards Mary, her broken heart told her she needed to tell him how she felt, even if it derailed everything, even if it made no sense, even if it changed his mind, even if he would one day hate her for it.

He needed to know that she was falling in love with him too.

So, she tore a page from his journal, and sat down on the bed, and she let out a tear or two as her heart raced against her chest, begging to be let out, begging for her to run from this room and tell him herself how she felt, face to face and with Mary in view.

She knew what he was telling her back there as he broke the news; she knew the words that would be coming from his mouth had she not stopped him. She couldn't let him say it, because she wouldn't be able to tell him to go otherwise.

She grabbed his pencil and wrote I love you too.

Without a second thought, she folded it in half and stuffed it into the bag, then took it out, her mind strangling her heart into silence.

She walked back to the living room with the bag in hand, her note in the other. She looked out the window, the man she was falling for, the woman who was taking him away. The scene reignited her desires, her mind derailed, her heart won. She stuffed the note back in the bag and walked out the door.

Sitting alone now, with her cup of tea, she regretted it.

She felt guilt, the guilt she had now placed on Arthur. If he didn't know that she loved him too, then he'd have an easier time readjusting to life with Mary, at least, that's what she thought.

In reality, Arthur was just as confused and guilt ridden as Charlotte was.

It had been little more than two weeks since he had moved in with Mary and the baby. He discovered that Sam was a frequent visitor, coming by every few days to check up on things and assist Mary however he could.

Whatever desires he held in private, he absolutely was in love with Mary as well. While she insisted they were only friends, it was obvious he wanted more, whether Mary did too or not.

Arthur saw the flirting firsthand, playing dominoes with them, admitting his tinge of jealousy only to himself as she reached out for Samuel's arm, laughing, or how they'd both get up to get Morgan when he awoke from his naps, or the way she openly complemented Sam and the way he was with the baby.

That was Arthur's son, but he couldn't admit it. He had no good reason to offer assistance with the baby when Sam was around, and even when he wasn't, he felt totally pathetic even trying.

He'd ask Mary to just sit with him, let him hold his son, attempt, and fail, to bounce him on his knee or feed him. He just always ended up crying, and Mary would come grab him and pull him away, and Arthur felt like a failure again.

Curse Samuel's dual arms, surely that was the reason for his trouble.

He stared Samuel down from across the table, the man opposite him ignoring his obvious dissatisfaction with his existence. He was a fine man in general, fun and inviting and a perfect family man. But he represented everything Arthur was not, he was the very manifestation of everything he lacked as a husband and father.

Husband, Arthur thought to himself, imagine that. Me, a husband.

But seeing the way Mary treated her new husband-to-be took him back to the days when he did picture himself as a husband, a caring one, a gentle one. Was he ever a gentle man? Could he even be one if he tried?

No matter what he did, he always came back to violent tendencies, cruel thoughts, and sarcastic, callous speech. He imagined himself putting Sam through a wall for little more than the fact that he was a good man, and Arthur was not. He pictured himself walking out one night and stealing Samuel's carriage for the pure fact that it would ruin the man's day.

Emotions grew in his throat like a vine. He excused himself, made his way for the door, and walked through the falling rain towards the barn, the moonlight illuminating the edges like a halo, the crunch of wet gravel below his shoes reminding him of the night he nearly died.

Hell. He was sure he was in hell. Another man was raising his child and marrying his ex. The woman he had just begun falling in love with was miles away and would have never loved him anyways. His friends were either so far away he'd never see them again, or dead. And his infant son broke into tears every time he saw his face.

He sat alone in the barn, his quiet space as he had come to know it. It was the only place he could be alone with his thoughts, without the crying baby, without Mary nagging him, without Jamie asking him five thousand questions, without Samuel being, well, Samuel.

That green tobacco Jamie gave him was an incredible relief as well. The barn smelled like earth and skunk constantly, the scent becoming a comfort to Arthur as he retreated into his hideaway to draw and think. It helped him calm down his easily agitated mind, it relaxed his hand that couldn't manage to write what he wanted it to because it was not the right one. It helped him accept his mistakes and his ineligible handwriting, acknowledge the process, and be proud of the work that he did manage to accomplish.

But tonight, he wanted to write. Not a story or a poem or an entry in his journal. He wanted to write a letter to Charlotte.

The paper was worn from how many times he had begun and erased a sentence, desiring to get his thoughts out perfectly with no remorse. But words he tried to lock away kept leaping out onto the paper, and he'd scramble to rub them out and stuff them back inside, afraid unseen eyes would judge his secret desires.

Focusing his left hand, and hoping his writing was finally legible to anyone else but him, he penned his letter again,

My Dearest Charlotte.

Dear Charlotte.

Dear sweet beautiful Charlotte.

Fuck.

Life as a family man has its ups and downs. I had a son before, I don't talk about him much, it hurts to. It was easier to just move on rather than think of what he could have been, or who he already was.

Morgan is a great little boy. Mary is fake married to, or more so marrying, this man Samuel. He's a great father to the kid. In fact he's the best father my little Morgan could ask for. A better father than I've realized I can be.

The boy doesn't like me. I can't make him like me. He hates me, cries the moment I walk into the room. I can't even hold him, he squirms too much for someone with one arm to handle proper. Mary always has to grab him away, and I feel like I did something wrong even though I can't do any better than this.

He sighed as he penned the words, reading them again and again, wondering if this was too much, too tender to say in a letter.

But he really didn't have much choice, did he?

I know you knew what I was going to say, Charlotte. You're quick as a whip and more beautiful than-

There he went, the vulnerable romantic, his walls coming down. He erased it.

You're quick as a whip and sharper than the most beautiful blade I've ever held.

"That's the dumbest goddamn sentence I've ever written."

Regardless, he followed through. A bit of self sabotage might suit him well.

I love you, Charlotte. I love you the way a man loves a woman. I love you the way a man loves a friend. I love you the way a man loves a sister. I love you in all these ways and I can't hold it in anymore, even if I can only tell you on paper, I love you.

He ripped out the page, crumbling it in his fingers as he tossed it over his shoulder.

He dropped his hand to write again.

I want to feel your hair between my fingers, I want to feel your lips against mine, I want to hold you and if I still had two hands I'd never take them off of you.

I want to hear your heartbeat, I want to kiss your skin, I want to feel you under me and on me and in me, in my soul, touching my heart, intertwined with me. I want to make love to you, I want you to be my wife, I want you to be with me forever.

I can't explain why I feel this way, I just do. From the moment I laid eyes on you, I wanted to do nothing but protect you. I'd kill for you, I'd die for you, I'd lose my other arm for you if you asked me, and I'd go through my life like that, with no arms, but just as happy because I had you.

But I know I don't have a chance in hell with you. You still love Cal, and I'd never blame you for that. You two shared a love that I'd die for, every woman I've ever laid eyes on thought I was a great man until they found out who I really am, then they turned tail and ran. I could never take the place of him, I could never live up to the man you told me Cal was to you.

But you know me inside and out. You nursed me back to health and you cried with me when I cried with nobody, not even myself. You know who I am and yet, you cared for me. You didn't leave me to rot. You could have and you didn't. That's more than I've ever asked for from a woman.

If you'd have me, someday, I'd gladly have you. I'd give you everything, I'd give my all to you. You would be my queen, I'd…

He dotted the page, his heart heavy from the pouring of emotions. He found himself soaking wet with feeling, tears leaking from his eyes, a warm flame in his belly reminding him that this wasn't a meaningless pile of words or the evidence of a pent-up man who hasn't had sex since his child was conceived. No, this was love, for sure, right?

He turned the page and put pen to paper again, this time sketching a figure, effeminate and soft. Her gentle eyes he wished to stare into again, her lips that curled into a smile whenever he'd crack a dirty joke.

She laughed at his jokes, she actually found his humor inviting and not off putting. That was perhaps the most surprising thing about Charlotte Balfour.

She was, in all honesty, only a day's journey away. But the distance felt like years, especially when all he wanted was to hold her close and fall asleep in her arms, smelling her hair, kissing her skin.

The last time her held her, that last hearty hug, that final moment of peace before his heart began to ache. Had he known he would have felt this way about leaving, he wouldn't have left, he didn't think he could have. He'd make his way to see Morgan, of course, but he'd take a bit longer, he'd take his own horse, he'd travel the distance to see her and Morgan, he'd do whatever he could to do right by the boy as well as right by his heart.

There came a knock on the stable door. Arthur didn't budge from his spot, simply turning his page away from his drawing so that his uninvited visitor couldn't see it.

"Arthur, everything okay?" Mary spoke, leaning against the barn door, feeling hopeless in reaching him.

"I'm just... Contemplating things."

"Like?"

He sighed, closing his notebook up, taking one more hit off his rolled cigarette before putting it out and tossing it aside.

He opened up the big heavy door to greet Mary, her sad eyes meeting red, teary ones. The rain had ceased and the scent of fresh beginnings hung around the misty, humid air.

"Were you crying?"

"No."

"Please talk to me, Arthur."

"I can't."

"Why."

He shook his head. "What do you want me to say, Mary? My entire life has been uprooted, again. I can't," he paused. "I can't be normal."

Mary held within her hand a folded piece of paper. She looked away, her eyes refusing to cross his while holding back tears. "That woman loves you, Arthur."

He looked down at the ground and shrugged. "Even if she did, doesn't matter now."

She handed him the paper. "I found this in your bag. I took it away from you. I was afraid if you saw it you'd leave but," she looked to the moon, pale and bright and beautiful, her teary eyes shined so gloriously in its gentle light, "you're miserable here, Arthur."

He took the letter, opening it up to reveal the words he longed to speak. I love you too.

"I've tried for years to get you out of my head. I've loved you since I was a girl. And I've never stopped loving you. But you don't belong with me, and I can't make you stay if your heart is somewhere else."

"What about Morgan?"

"I think it's best if you let Sam and I raise him. You can visit all you want but, I think it's best if you're his Uncle Arthur instead of his Father Arthur."

He nodded. "I didn't want things to end this way, Mary."

"You tried. You did your best. That's all I could ever ask of you, Arthur."

They stood in silence for a moment. The crickets sang around them, the sound of love and loss growing with every beat of their aching hearts.

He could tell Sam cared for Morgan far more than Arthur could muster. It wasn't that he didn't care for the child, or didn't want to be in his life, but he was never taught how to be a parent, a father. He didn't have a father. He barely had a mother. And he felt that Morgan knew he deserved better than a man who could only try.

Arthur agreed wholeheartedly, "I think it will be best for the boy this way."

"Me too."

He nodded. "Well, what next?"

"I guess tomorrow you can return home, Sam told me he'd let you take Lillie til you come round again for a visit."

Arthur chuckled, "Lillie? Really now?"

"You made quite the impression on him during dominoes I guess." She mustered a smile.

"You know that man loves you, right? He don't like men, and if he did, he don't anymore."

She rallied a sorrowed grin and stated, "I hoped you wouldn't get jealous of him."

"Oh, come on, I don't get jealous."

"When we were teenagers you'd slug any man who so much as said a word to me."

"I'm a changed man, surely you noticed."

"I did." She looked him in the eyes. "You're a lot more romantic than you were when we were young."

"Dying does that to you."

"No, Arthur." She stepped forward and placed a hand on his cheek, rubbing away the dust of a tear. "Love does that to you."