Oxford, England
September 2012

Found an island in your arms

Carefully, I steer my bike around a corner, making sure to keep my balance. I've never been much of a bike rider and haven't touched one since graduating from school (you don't ride a bike in New York unless you have a very definite death wish), but here in Oxford, a bike feels just right. It absolutely adds to the general feel of it.

Humming softly, I pedal along the street, letting my gaze drift over the houses on either side. Oxford, it has to be said, is pretty. Very pretty, even. In many ways, it's everything New York isn't, which makes this change of scenery more drastic, but I'm enjoying it all the more for it. I loved living in New York and my corner of Brooklyn was much less imposing than the steel towers of Manhattan, but… well, it certainly doesn't beat Oxford for prettiness.

Out of the portfolio of houses suggested by Melissa, I ended up choosing one in the suburb of Jericho, which sounds very "and did those feet in ancient times", but is really a sweet, old-timey place. It's apparently also a very coveted area to live and just a ten minute-ride away from Oriel College, which is pretty convenient. (Though, to be honest, I don't think any two spots in Oxford are more than a ten minute-ride apart. It's pretty, but also pretty tiny.)

Rounding another corner, I steer my bike into our street. The usual gaggle of photographers has convened across from our house, but a quick headcount says it's not more than five. When we moved here, there were enough of them to seriously disrupt traffic (which didn't endear us to our new neighbours), but after over two weeks of not much happening, the majority have moved on to more interesting matters.

I'm almost tempted to give them a cheery wave, as befitting my current mood, but have the good sense to refrain. If boring pictures make their numbers dwindle, boring pictures it is.

Our new home is a semi-detached terrace house and it's so quintessentially English that Mum very nearly squealed when I showed her a picture. It's all yellow brick and bay windows, decorated gables and swirly things atop the roof. "Victorian," announced Walter after one look at the same picture and I'd never dare to question him on matters such as these.

Hopping off my bike, I push it up the short driveway and lean it against the low wall separating our property from the one next door. I take my bags from the front basket, not bothering to secure the bike. It's hardly going to get stolen with highly trained police officers watching the house every minute of the day.

I've only seen two of them lurking around, meaning Ken isn't home yet. This is just the basic contingent to secure the house. Were he in, his personal security detail would be present as well, significantly beefing up numbers.

Letting myself into the house, I toss my keys on a table in the hall and drop my handbag next to it, before making my way to the kitchen with the shopping bags.

The house is as gorgeous on the inside as it is from the outside. It has panelled walls, friezes, antique chandeliers and not one, not two, not three, but four genuine fireplaces! It's a tad excessive, to be honest. (To be absolutely honest, it's also about three sizes too big for just two people, but after three years in the Shoebox, it's heavenly to have a bit of space.)

Bypassing the drawing room with its squishy sofas and the bay window (fireplace number one) andthe semi-formal reception area (fireplace number two), I enter the kitchen, where a many-knobbed stove occupies the space of what once must have been fireplace number five.

The open-plan kitchen is easily my favourite room in the house. Ceiling windows keep it light and airy and the two double doors lead out into the charmingly overgrown garden. It borders Oxford Canal, a few steps leading right down to the water, a feature I love about the house and Beckett absolutely detests. According to Ken, he complained at length about security issues and having to protect the canal as well, but… that's his job, right?

Beckett also had the nerve to advocate for putting an officer permanently in the basement bedroom. Ken laughed at the mere suggestion, which was convenient, because that way, I didn't have to. As it stands, the bedroom remains empty, while we turned the attic into a shared study. The first floor holds a guestroom (fireplace number three) and our own bedroom (fireplace number four), which has a huge en-suite bathroom that is absolutely my second favourite spot in the house.

(Look, I said it was excessive!)

Placing my bags on the counter, I reach for the remote control to Ken's outsized stereo and press 'play'. The familiar opening notes of Year of the Cat waft through the room and I feel a painful pang. Quickly, I forward to the next song (the mercifully felineless Penny Lane) and take a deep breath. I'm in a good mood. I will stay in a good mood.

But putting away the groceries doesn't do much to distract me or lift my mood, so it's only when I finally hear the front door closing that I feel myself perking up.

"I'm home," comes Ken's voice moments later.

"Kitchen," I call back, reaching for the remote to switch off the music.

When he appears in the doorway, a wide smile on his face, some of the weight lifts from my shoulders.

"You're cooking?" he asks, a teasing glint in his eye, and ambles closer.

"I got the groceries, so you can cook," I correct, holding a bunch of carrots under his nose for inspection.

Ken grins. "Might be for the best."

I swat at him with the carrots, but he ducks just in time, laughing outright now. As he does, I notice that he's wearing a plain old T-shirt and a pair of chinos.

"You took off the uniform," I observe, sliding my lower lip forward. (He was at some veterans' thing and they like to stick him in a uniform for those. I just would have liked to have seen him wear one in real life for once, not just on TV.)

Still laughing, Ken takes the carrots from me and wraps his arms around my waist. "What is it with you women and uniforms?" he teases.

"What's with you men and high heels?" I shoot back. "We don't wear them for comfort, you know."

"No." He shakes his head. "You wear them because they make you taller and you like the way they make your legs look."

Drat.

He's right.

He knows it, too, because he's grinning widely now. I can do nothing but turn up my nose at him most haughtily, but Ken just leans down and captures my lips in a kiss. A proper one that I allow myself to melt into.

Some very pleasant minutes later, I'm up on the kitchen counter, with my shirt (and, I fear, the carrots) somewhere on the floor. Ken's kissing my neck and it feels nice enough that I am almost tempted to let his earlier impudence slide. But two can play at that game and it's time he remembers.

Sliding a hand into his hair and tugging lightly, I ask, "What about dinner?" (It would have had even more effect if I weren't quite so breathless, but it'll have to do. Besides, he's unlikely to notice.)

"Later," he murmurs against my skin, his breath sending a shiver down my spine.

Composure, Rilla!

I give his hair another tug. "Not later. I'm hungry."

For a moment, I think he's going to ignore me (and I'm pretty sure if he had, I would have gone along with it), but then he lets his head drop forward against my shoulder, groaning. "You're cruel."

"That's me!" I announce cheerfully, pushing him away a bit and hopping down from the counter. His eyes, noticeably darker than usual, follow me, but he stays put.

"You're cruel," he repeats, which earns him a delighted laugh from me.

Taking a deep breath, Ken pushes a hand through his hair. "Would this not have happened if I had kept on the uniform?" he grumbles.

"Well, you never know until you try," I inform him, still doing little to hide my amusement.

"You're laughing at me," he observes. "I hope you know I'm going to find a way to make you pay for that later."

"Oh, I'm counting on it!" Giving him my sauciest smile, I close the gap between us to press a kiss to his lips that might be short but makes up for it in intensity. When he raises his arms to entrap me, however, I quickly swirl out of reach.

"Dinner, dinner," I singsong from the safety of the other side of the counter.

Ken just stands there for a few seconds, staring at me, but then he, too, has to laugh, if probably despite himself. Shaking his head, he wonders, "Why do I put up with you?"

"Because you love me?" I suggest blithely.

"Because I love you," he agrees with a smile. "No other explanation for it."

And it's the best kind of explanation anyway.

Reaching out a hand for me, he ask, "Come back here? I promise I'll be on my best behaviour."

"So long as you also promise to be on your worst behaviour later tonight…" I trail off, raising both eyebrows meaningfully.

Ken, once again, shakes his head at me. "Tease."

He's probably right on that account, too.

Coming closer to him, I hoist myself on the counter again, only this time, it's to observe him going through the groceries I bought and selecting those he wants for tonight's meal. (The carrots, I notice absently, still languish unloved on the floor.)

"I've got something to tell you," I declare as Ken fills a pot with water.

"What is it?" he asks, putting the pot on the stove – and pinching my side as he passes, making me yelp.

"That's your best behaviour?" I mutter and see a grin appear on his face, though he tries to hide it.

"You wanted to tell me something?" he reminds instead, placing eight or nine potatoes on the counter next to me.

I shake my head to decline the offered potato peeler (I'd only end up cutting myself anyway) and announce, "I've got a job."

"A job?" repeats Ken and looks up in surprise. (His hands, I notice, pick up a potato to peel it. How he can do that without looking fascinates me quite a bit.)

"A job," I confirm, feeling satisfied.

"I didn't even know you had an interview," he remarks, picking up the next potato.

"They called me spontaneously this morning and asked whether I could come in," I explain. "With nothing else on the agenda but grocery shopping, I could."

"What kind of job is it?" Ken asks, suddenly a little hesitant. "Not waitressing again, I hope?" After a moment, he seems to realise what he said, because he quickly elaborates, "Not that there's anything wrong with waitressing. It's just…"

He lets the sentence hang, but I know what he's saying.

"It's awfully public, waitressing," I agree. "I got a pretty good taste of that back in New York and I'm perfectly disinclined to go through it again. Lots of people just showing up to take oh-so-subtle photos of me with their phones." I shudder at the thought.

Ken reaches out to lightly brush the tips of his fingers along my still bare arm. "That's what I meant."

"I know you did," I smile, catching his hand and pressing a brief kiss to it.

He taps a finger against the tip of my nose, before withdrawing the hand to peel the last potato. "So, tell me about the job?" he asks.

"Oh, it's probably very boring," I reply blithely. "It's just plain old office work. Ostensibly, my economics degree convinced them to hire me, but I suspect it will be lots of secretarial stuff. On the plus side though, I'll be in an office with no customers coming in and if I have to answer the phone, I can always call myself Miss Moneypenny to throw them off."

"Because they wouldn't find that unusual at all," Ken points out with a grin as he pops the peeled potatoes into the simmering water.

"I know, right?" I beam at him. "It's a fool-proof plan!"

Swinging my legs a little, I watch him pour oil into a pan and place it on the stove. After pre-heating the oven, he starts on chopping garlic and onions, but only gets halfway done before suddenly stopping and placing the knife next to the chopping board. "Would you mind putting on a shirt?"

Judging from his somewhat frustrated voice, he's been holding that in for a few minutes and I bite back a satisfied smile. "But this is one of my favourite bras," I tell him innocently, looking down at the garment in question.

"Just put this on, will you?" he asks, picking up my shirt from where it lies next to the forgotten carrots and pressing it into my hands.

"Sure, if it helps you focus," I tease.

Ken just glowers in return, resuming his cutting with a little more force than necessary. I pull the shirt over my head as asked, but don't do anything to stifle my laughter.

"Why do you want a job anyway?" he wonders while picking up the pan and moving it to distribute the oil more evenly. "Are you afraid that Oxford won't keep you busy enough?"

"Hardly." I shake my head, grimacing a little. "I'm sure Oxford will know how to keep me plenty busy. It's a visa issue, mostly."

He scrapes the garlic and onion into the pan and turns to look at me, frowning. "I thought your visa allowed you to study?"

"It does," I clarify quickly. "But technically, it was originally conceived to allow us little colonists to work here, meaning you have to prove that you either do have work or are actively looking for some. Now, from what I gather, they usually accept full-time studies as well, but after the mess with the Americans… well, I figured I'd make sure to be a stickler this time around."

"Makes sense," agrees Ken, appearing thoughtful. "Does Oxford have a problem with you working? I seem to remember they discouraged it in undergraduates. Not that I ever had a reason to look it up myself, of course."

"Obviously not, your job being unpaid and everything," I deadpan.

Ken grins. "Paid indirectly and in ways so complicated that not even Oxford understands them," he corrects. "The royal finances regularly reduce even highly-trained accountants to tears."

"Poor sods," I reply cheerfully.

"I'll be sure to relay your commiserations," promises Ken as he starts slicing celery.

"Do, please," I nod. "As for Oxford, rules say that they're fine with graduate students working up to eight hours a week. Which should count as part-time work for the visa people, so everyone is happy."

Ken makes a thoughtful sound. "They would be, but are you sure you can get it all done? I just think it could be a lot on your plate. Settling into a new country, doing a master's degree at a university such as Oxford and working on top of it… I don't want you to take on too much."

Feeling a rush of affection for him, I give him a reassuring smile. "I'm good, I promise. All settled in, too!" Raising my hands, I playfully indicate my sitting position.

"Yes, you are," he acknowledges, dropping a kiss on the tip of my nose as he passes me to finally pick up the carrots from the floor. "Just tell me if there's anything I can do."

"I will. Scout's honour!" I raise my hand into what I'm reasonably sure is the Scout salute, but only manage to keep my straight face for about three seconds before the grin breaks through.

"I'll hold you to it," warns Ken good-naturedly. Separating some carrots from the bunch, he peels two of them before starting to cut them into small cubes.

Watching as he works, I add, "Everything else aside, I also won't mind having a bit of money of my own to spend again. I haven't been on a good shopping spree in ages!"

Apart from frivolous spending money, the rest of my finances are pretty solid though. Aunt Mary Maria – who absolutely adored Ken, which was definitely a rabbit hole-kind of experience – has tuition covered and my parents wire me money for food and rent and other essentials. (Incidentally, I'm reasonably sure the rent I pay doesn't cover half the house, but it's all Ken will accept.)

"You're not drafting me to come along on the shopping trip, are you?" Ken asks over his shoulder, his head half-stuck on the fridge.

"Not to worry. I can dress myself," I assure. "I've done it for a while."

"Glad to hear," he remarks with a grin as he emerges from the fridge, holding a container with left-over chicken and broth from Sunday dinner.

As he adds both to the mixture in the pan, I suggest, "I thought we could do a movie night sometime this week though. Rent a couple of movies, get some popcorn… the works."

"Do you have anything in mind?" he enquires while sticking a fork into the potatoes, still cooking in their pot.

"I do, actually," I reply eagerly. "See, there's this movie Madonna did about the fictional British King who married an American divorcee sometime in the 1930s. Wouldn't that be fun to watch?"

Ken pauses and I know he's trying to think of a way to decline without hurting my feelings, but when he sees me grinning widely, his shoulders relax markedly. "Enjoyed that, did you?" he grumbles.

"I did," I confirm happily, causing him to glance darkly into my direction. (Or it would be dark, if his eyes weren't sparkling in amusement.)

"I don't get the premise of that movie anyway," he opines as he grabs the pot from the stove to drain the potatoes. "It never happened. It would never have happened! The only king we had in the 1930s was King Victor and he was not only around 70 but also married to a very formidable German wife. Family lore claims he was pretty afraid of her."

"Doesn't make for a very entertaining movie though," I point out.

"Probably not," he agrees.

Humming thoughtfully, I add, "Alternatively, do you want watch the movie that has a Mongolian Death Worm terrorising Atlantic City?"

"I do not and neither do you," declares Ken, shuddering. "I'm perfectly sure that just watching it would kill off brain cells."

"True," I agree blithely, earning me a relieved smile from him.

Ken proceeds to add cream and milk to the potatoes and starts squishing them into mashed potatoes, while I let my thoughts wander a little. Perking up suddenly when a particular thought strikes me I ask, "Oh, hey. Has anyone ever done a movie about you?"

"I wouldn't know and even if it existed, we would not watch it." His answer comes so quick and sounds so final, that I have little doubt that yes, such a movie totally exist. I must remember to hunt it down!

But this, I decide, will be a surprise, so I just answer with an amiable, "Alright then." His suspicious gaze, I meet with my most innocent smile.

Interrupting his mashing efforts for a moment to stir the mixture still on the stove and add some peas and corn, Ken turns back to me with a thoughtful expression, "Movie night sounds good, but we could also go to the movies if you want. Properly."

At this, I raise both eyebrows to almost comical heights. "Go to the movies? Like, go to an actual cinema? In public?"

(It's not like we've never left the house since I arrived in England, but we stayed pretty well cooped up, just revelling in the fact that for the first time in over a year, we have all the time in the world. Which means that, while I have ventured outside to explore the town and Ken has kept up with his royal schedule, we have so far spent date nights at home, wrapped up in one another.)

He smiles wryly at my exaggerated surprise as he takes up murdering the potatoes again. "Yes in public. We can't hide forever, right? I think it's safe to say we've been company enough to each other these past weeks, but when classes start, we need to find some form of normal. And normal includes going out together and doing things normal people do. In public."

The snarky part in me wants to ask how he would know about what 'normal' entails in the first place, but I know it would be unfair, especially given that he's obviously trying to get this right.

"I'd like to go to the movies," I therefore reply and my smile is absolutely sincere.

"Great!" Leaning over the potatoes, he gives me a quick peck. "There's a Kerouac adaption out. On the Road."

Feeling dumbstruck for a moment, I just stare at him, horrified. When my voice finally cooperates again somewhat, I hiss, "Over my dead body!"

Ken keeps his expression serious much longer than I would have, before finally breaking into a grin. "Sorry. Couldn't resist!"

"Well, try!" I grumble, but I'm having a hard time to keep from laughing as well.

"I will." A beat. "Try, I mean."

Grabbing the remaining carrots, I throw them at him but he ducks away and they land on the floor – again.

"Not Kerouac then," he observes as he checks the vegetables and, having obviously decreed them to be suitably cooked, starts spreading the mashed potatoes on top the mixture. "How about Anna Karenina instead?"

"Is that the one where Earl Vronsky is played by a teenaged milksop with an abundance of blonde curls and a worrying lack of, well, hotness?" I wrinkle my nose. "No, thanks, I'll pass."

"Being hot isn't all Vronsky is about," argues Ken. I can't see his face, given that he's currently popping the food into the oven, but he sounds distinctly amused.

"But a big part of it. I need to believe that she'd give up everything to be with him, right? Which means he must have something going for him and Milksop just doesn't," I explain, waving my hands around to underline my point. "I mean, have you seen the moustache?"

Ken's laughing and I highly suspect he's laughing at me, so I make sure to push my lower lip forward in a pout. After all, I'm right.

"Not a fan of moustaches then?" he asks, still doing little to hide his laughter.

"Grow one and I'll leave you," I warn darkly.

"Wouldn't dare," he promises, leaning over to give me a kiss that lingers a little longer than probably intended.

When our lips part again, he stays close to me, one hand drawing light patterns on my back. (It's slipped below my shirt, too, which just proves my point. It was a waste of effort to put it back on.)

"How about the new Woody Allen then?" he suggests.

That's when I realise that he knows about all these current movies because he's planned this. A proper date, out in public. Our first in nearly a year.

"Sounds good to me," I agree, feeling myself soften.

"So it's a date!" His smile is so brilliant it's contagious and I find myself beaming back at him.

A moment passes before I notice his expression shifting. With a glance at the oven, he casually remarks, "This needs bake for about forty-five minutes. Any idea what we could do in the meantime?"

"Mhhh," I hum as I slide my arms around his neck and allow him to pick me up from the counter. "I could think of a few things…"


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Break On Through (To the Other Side)' (written by Jim Morrison, Ray Manzarek, John Densmore and Robby Krieger, released by The Doors in 1967).


To Guest:
Yes, I figured since Aunt Mary Maria has never shown herself useful before, making her cough up the money wouldn't come amiss. I don't feel a bit bad about it either ;).