It's much later in the morning when they wake again, and it's amazing what a little freshening up can do to ruin the day, particularly when she has to let him handle everything. Neither of them bring up the topic of what happened in her bed, and she can't decide if she's disappointed or relieved by the fact. She doesn't have the luxury of much contemplation, not while she's in company, and with no sign of being left alone any time soon. The grumbling of both their stomachs puts any question of meaningful discussion on hold for the time being.
They eat breakfast mostly in silence, and, in his case at least, shirtless. He refuses to put on anything to lessen the distraction, and she's too embarrassed to ask. The sight of his smooth chest and long hair lying over his bare shoulders makes for a most interesting sight over her cereal and coffee. She wills herself not to get too caught up in his allure, but it's proving more difficult than she could have ever imagined. The small golden length of their chain lies between them – a strange accessory to her tiny kitchen's table – but it's what he holds in his free hand that her eyes keep returning to.
He's eating a slice of what both of their realms call 'fairy bread', and though the treat he's conjured looks more natural, somehow, than the pre-sliced loaf that lies on her kitchen counter, the butter and rainbow-coloured sprinkles topping it look the same. She has no idea how his stomach can tolerate such sweetness so early in the day. Then again, only a few minutes ago she had no idea goblin kings even ate such things to begin with. Most of the fae folk like their sweet things, he informs her, with a slow, deliberate glance down at her body.
He makes no further comment as he munches on his breakfast, and she's blushing as she stares quickly down at her cereal again, all but ready to drown herself in the milk. Clearly, he's thinking about what just occurred between them too, but damned if she's going to be the first one to say it aloud. How much easier things were back in those good old days before– only yesterday, before that first kiss that had damned them even occurred. The sexual tension whenever he flirted with her was always enough to make her hope and dream, but now that she's finally experienced just a little of what he's got to offer …
She can't let herself finish that thought, taking a larger sip of coffee than usual and almost choking when the hot liquid burns her tongue. She gives a low moan, and worries he'll think it's because of him, but Jareth's attention seems to lay with his breakfast once more, a small smile on his lips as he devours the sweet bread.
She wonders, if they're going to be stuck together much longer, if he'd like to try Lucky Charms, or if leprechauns would be reaching too far. For all she knows, his kingdom could be at war with them. She has a moment to consider that, his goblins and the cutesy fairies and leprechauns she saw in picture books as a kid, all fighting some tiny and epic war, maybe with the Keebler Elves leading the vanguard. As ridiculous a picture as it is, since her journey into the labyrinth, she knows nothing is impossible. She's shared her life with the surreal since she was a teenager, and now, god help her, she's sharing her bed with it, too. Her coffee cup does nothing to hide her snort of laughter.
After the food, she gives explicit instructions to make sure she's washed and dressed appropriately, blushing all the while as she watches his smug face show he's only growing more pleased with himself. She can still hardly look him in the eye, not when she thinks of what happened between them, but he appears to have no such troubles. She envies him his self-assurance, but envies the tight leggings he wills himself into even more as they hug his every curve. He's a distraction in himself, and she spends most of the afternoon forcing herself to stare at the wall, rather than him as they sit side by side on her couch again. If they're not going to talk about what urge came over them both that morning, then they at least need to talk about a way out of this mess, so that it won't happen again.
"Do you have any ideas? Any ideas at all?" She's not really holding out much hope at this point, but when she finally glances at him, there's a moment where Jareth's face brightens, and she actually dares to believe.
"We could go back to bed," he suggests, lips and eyebrows curving upward simultaneously.
She groans and pulls one of the couch cushions over her face. "It's great to know you're taking this seriously. I'm supposed to be at work tomorrow – don't you think it's going to look a little strange if you're tagging along with me?" She moans again, and kicks at the floor. "I'm going to have to take a sick day."
"Is that really such a bad thing? You do seem rather stressed. You look like you could use a break from all of this."
She scoffs her derision, but she thinks it loses some of its effect, muffled as it is by the cushion. "How is taking a break going to free us? Besides, it's not like we can actually go anywhere while we're cuffed together." A warm hand falls upon her knee, and though she knows it's supposed to be comforting her, the casual intimacy of his touch only makes her more tense.
"Sarah, I can take us anywhere. Say the word, and we can end up in the most beautiful, most remote part of my realm where the only person who'll see you will be me."
Oh, and that just makes her body draw more taut. Exotic, romantic vacation time with the Goblin King; what fun they'll have, just the two of them, together in the middle of nowhere. What fun they'll get up to, with no one else around to see them. "We're not going anywhere until we've figured this out," she tells him, relieved to hear her voice carries a steadiness her mind is far from feeling.
She hears him sigh. "If you insist, pet." He releases her knee, leaving her only with frustration.
There's a rustle of paper, and a gentle pull on their chain. When she shoves the cushion aside, she sees that he's arranged himself in front of the coffee table, and he's in the process of writing a letter, the parchment before him soon filling up with his large, looping scrawl. She doesn't quite dare question the magic he's used to conjure everything, seeing the dark blue candle and small metal stamp waiting beside it – what must be his royal seal.
She's reaching panic stations over an office job, while he's calmly preparing instructions for whoever runs things in his kingdom whilst the king himself remains in absence. For all she knows, his whole realm could hang in the balance, and she finally feels something other than anger and self-pity unfurl in her chest.
Empathy and Jareth should not even exist in the same train of thought, and yet here she is, turning to him and offering a small, guilty smile. "We can go there if you need to," she says softly. "I don't want to be the reason your whole kingdom is put on hold."
"It isn't."
He folds the finished letter in half, doing his best to cope mostly one-handed, with only a minimal tug on their chain when the need calls. He mutters something under his breath, and it sets the candle alight in a sudden and brilliant plume of flame, the wax beginning to melt almost at once. He tips the candle over the parchment, holding it there long enough for the deep blue wax to pool, so that he can press his seal into it. He does all this with such precision that Sarah wonders just how many times he's done this before, sending off letters to carry out his will while he's waylaid by some minor inconvenience or other.
"Oh," she says.
He makes everything disappear with a wave of his arm, but by then she's already staring down at the floor, deep in guilt.
"There – done," he says, and his voice is noticeably lighter. The hand that's chained to her own comes to rest reassuringly on her knee again. "No harm."
She stares down at that hand, imagining she can feel its heat sinking into her skin through the worn denim of her jeans. She has to fight down the desire to cover it with her own, to fall into his arms, his kiss. If they're chained together much longer, she can only imagine just how much harm it will do to her psyche. That gets her talking quickly enough, looking for freedom before she embarrasses herself, and soon they're deep in discussion again. They cover the same avenues they've already explored, getting nowhere and clearly starting to tire him out, but she's persistent. Eventually, she makes the suggestion of 'borrowing' a little of his magic to try and break the enchantment herself.
"You'll hardly allow for my magic to be used, and yet you want to try your entirely inexperienced hand at it?" His pale blue stare is incredulous.
"It can't make things any worse than you already have." She knows that isn't true – doesn't know the first thing about how to control a spell herself – but there's something about seeing his doubt that makes her stubborn enough to want to try.
"Absolutely not. I forbid it."
"Oh, so you'll refuse that request then. Good to know you're still capable."
"Only as it's completely ridiculous."
She rattles their physical chain just as firmly as he's rattled hers, though she's starting to get sick of the sound herself by now. "And this isn't ridiculous?"
"A simple attachment spell – that, once again, you requested, love, I find I cannot stress that enough – does not possess the potential to accidentally injure you or myself, tear some hole in the fabric of this world, destroy my kingdom … would you like for me to continue?"
"No, you're just willing for it to destroy my life, I get it. You must have some guide to magic, though … a … a book of spells, or something."
He smiles at that. "'Double, double, toil and trouble'?" He's mocking her again, but gently – though knowing that doesn't do a damned thing to help. "I understand your frustration, pet, I do, but it isn't that simple. There are forces at play here that would take far too long to explain. Though my kind are born with the ability, it takes centuries to even begin to learn how to control such power. If a few rhyming words were all it took to cast a spell, and bring about the exact desired result every time without fail, then every one of my goblins would long since have managed to turn themselves into turnips." He pauses a moment to consider that. "Though the smell in that part of the castle would probably be far more pleasant."
"So you trust me about as much as you trust a goblin then, is that it?"
Jareth rolls his eyes. "I do wish you would lose this delightful habit you have of finding insults in every word I utter."
She glowers at him. "You want insults? Curse words? I think I can manage a few even you haven't heard before."
"Oh, I sincerely doubt that." He reclines in his seat, giving a small one-armed stretch and a lazy grin, before murmuring something guttural that sounds halfway between a mumble and a croak.
"What was that?" she asks.
"A certain word in a certain language that hasn't been spoken in your realm for … oh, maybe fourteen centuries."
Leave it to him to take any chance to show off.She gives an angry little huff. "And what does this 'certain word' mean?"
He stifles a yawn with the back of his free hand, before resting both arms awkwardly behind his head, pulling her a little closer in the process. "I'll give you a hint: I was stroking yours this morning."
The sound of the cushion hitting his face is a lot more satisfying than the rattling of their chain.
When they finally go to bed, she's in the same position as the night before, dressed in the same oversized t-shirt. Only her underwear differs – she selected the plain black cotton herself, not wanting to give him any excuses. The magical menace who shares her covers is wearing fresh silks and nothing more – a good enough excuse in himself. She isn't sure if all fae are such sexual creatures, but she's certain the Goblin King must put them all to shame. Tonight, he makes no effort to keep his distance from her – it would be silly, after all, given this morning's little encounter.
He isn't quite spooning her, but she can feel the heat radiating from his bare chest, he's that close. She has a moment to wonder if he feels quite as awkward about this arrangement as she does, and then he speaks up, and he's positively cheerful.
"Goodnight, Sarah, love." His voice takes on that lower, teasing register she's grown so used to. "And, if our imaginary 'husband' and 'wife' don't discover us shacked up together this way, a good morning, too, I imagine, given the last one."
Sarah can only hope. She lies awake in the dark after that, listening to his breathing as it slows and deepens, whilst her own grows more rapid and shallow. How can he possibly sleep when he's put her mind into such turmoil? She can only imagine the new shame and delights the next morning might hold. Oh, and now she can't stop imagining them, remembering the heat of his mouth against her neck, the press of his hand, and the delicious feeling of his fingers inside her …
Unable to help herself, she gives a low moan, and then jumps slightly as a hand snakes around her hip, those long fingers splaying across her stomach.
"Go to sleep, precious," he tells her lightly, as though he hasn't been awake and listening out for her the whole time.
"Go to hell, darling," she grumbles back.
He chuckles softly. "You're sounding more like a wife already."
Her eyes widen in the dark, but eventually the soothing warmth of his body lulls them closed again.