When she blinks herself awake, she becomes aware of two things: it's morning, and the familiar warmth that she's become accustomed to, pressed flush against her back, is missing. Her face tightens at once, her eyes fixed firmly on the normalcy that is her bedside table, unseeing. Is he really gone? She needs to know, but she's afraid to turn around to find out, to make it real. There's tension in her belly, heavier and more hopeless than any longing he's roused in her these past few days – a dread that's too thick to swallow down.
A low jingling noise is perhaps the sweetest sound she's ever heard, the gentle tug on her still-bound wrist more comforting than any words can express.
She turns quickly enough to startle them both, meeting a pair of wide, mismatched blue eyes and exquisitely arched eyebrows. The Goblin King is lying on his back, still deliciously bare – still here – glancing at her like she's some new and exotic creature. He graces her with a small smile before turning back to what's currently occupying him. There's a scroll clutched in his free hand, and several more – lots more, actually – spread out on the sheets around him, alongside folded parchments, some torn open, some yet to be touched. He's clearly been busy while she's been sleeping, but dammit, he's here, he hasn't left her after their late night tryst, he's-
He's still stuck on the end of her wrist – a willing prisoner, perhaps, if she keeps him entertained, but a prisoner nonetheless.
"You're still here," she mumbles.
Jareth snorts. "Don't sound too happy to see me, love," he says, without looking up.
"But it- … we're …" She trails off, then rattles their joined wrists, for whatever good it does.
"Still attached? Yes, I had noticed." There's a brief quirk of his lips, but it's gone as quickly as it appears.
"Is … is everything okay?" she asks him, knowing it isn't – not really.
"Of course, precious. Why shouldn't it be?"
A polite enough lie; the answer is obvious, but she's too ashamed to speak it. She bites her lip, stopping herself from replying. There isn't really anything she can say, nothing useful, anyway. They've been as physically intimate as they can possibly be, unless there's some exotic fae way of sex he isn't telling her about, and though her body's greatest wish has been more than granted, it's obvious now that there's more at stake here. They need to talk about what it is she wants, probe further into what attachment really means after all the years they've known each other, but the thought of trying to express any of her jumbled emotions still makes her feel ill.
Thankfully, Jareth doesn't seem to be angry or upset at her over his imprisonment, simply busy. He's still poring over his letters, apparently forgetting or not caring that she hasn't answered. She knows she should leave him be, but deep down, there's a part of her that does want to talk. After what they shared last night, she needs something more from him, and she isn't going to get it by staying silent.
She thinks back on all the times they've been in each other's company in the past, how easily the conversation flowed between them during the wishes she made. She always wanted for him to stay, for their talks to be longer, harbouring a hundred different things she wanted but didn't quite dare to ask him. Ironic, then, that now she has him here indefinitely, she's struggling to give voice to a single syllable.
"You're … really in demand," she says, kicking herself the moment the words emerge. Of course he's in demand – he's a king.
"It's a rather busy time of year," is Jareth's mild answer. "There are certain … expectations of me."
She raises her eyebrows. "And these are all expectations you can meet while you're stuck here with me?"
Jareth allows himself a small smile. "Not traditionally, no, but … well, needs must, and all that."
Oh, great. She shifts, even more uncomfortable. "What is it you're supposed to be doing? If you weren't here, I mean."
"Sarah, you needn't trouble yourself with-"
"What, your duties? The fact that you're somehow expected to run a kingdom from a one bedroom apartment? Tell me."
The Goblin King sighs. "Some minor complications may have developed during my brief absence, but really, it's nothing that can't-"
"Jareth."
"Fine." He gives a detached little wave of his arm. "Apparently, my goblins are revolting." Sighing again: "Even more so than usual. They've taken a much greater advantage of my absence than I anticipated, and my castellan is less … shall we say, well-equipped than I am in dealing with their shenanigans. He writes to ask that I do something, before he's entirely overrun," he says, tapping one of the parchments.
There's a little twist of panic in her stomach, having already seen for herself what his goblins are capable of. Still, she feels a small smile curve her lips, injecting a little hope into her words. "It can't be too bad yet, right? Just the one little letter."
Jareth starts to rub his temple with his free hand, as if it pains him. He nods, and out of nothing, an avalanche of similar scrolls comes tumbling to the bed covers. "From the past couple of days," he announces.
"Oh."
"Indeed." With a small wave and a jingle of their chain, the scrolls disappear again, each vanishing in a puff of blue glitter. Still massaging his temple, he gestures at the rest of the messages with his chained hand. "Correspondence from friends and acquaintances, last minute requests from guests, some tedious business about some minor border disputes in the south, nonsense about catering, a rather insistent noise complaint – which is impressive, given the distance of the neighbouring castle. I haven't quite worked out whether that's the goblins' fault or not yet – plus a lot of other senseless quacking." As he points at them, each scroll vanishes in an identical burst of glitter – gone, she knows, but not forgotten.
She gives him a small, helpless smile. "Sounds like a hell of a mess."
Jareth laughs softly, then stretches in the early morning sun. "Perhaps now you'll appreciate my need for certain … distractions." He seems to really notice her for the first time that morning, his eyes beginning to gleam as he turns his body towards her. After pressing brief kisses to her mouth and cheek, he bends his head to her shoulder, mouthing warmly at the crook of her neck. "Hello," he greets her, his free hand moving to cup her breast through its confines, "and a very good morning to you, too," he says, grinning as her nipple peaks to attention for him.
It would be so easy to just let lust take them over again – her ruined underwear now lies discarded on her bedroom floor, in testament to that – and she finds herself glad he hasn't shredded the rest of her nightwear too, lest she be entirely powerless to resist him right now. He's already urging her to lie back, kissing at her neck, but she pulls away to look him in the eye. "Letters," she says. "Goblins. Kingdom. Responsibilities."
He groans as if the words cause him physical pain, and buries his head between her thinly-covered breasts. Smiling now, she threads her fingers into his hair, cradling him to her for just a moment before trying to urge him away. "You're not going to find a solution in there," she tells him.
"Mmmph. I might, if you'd only let me conduct a thorough search." His words are delightfully muffled, his hot mouth managing to do a surprising amount of damage to her willpower through her woefully inadequate t-shirt.
"Off. Now."
He groans his reluctance, but eventually complies – though not without pouting. "You really are a wicked temptress."
"Maybe later, when we've taken care of business."
"Hmm. All the more reason to get on with it, I suppose. I'll grant Gaelan permission to meet with us at his earliest convenience." He summons the necessary implements, scrawling a brief response, folding it over, and sealing it with hot wax so dexterously that she doesn't have to worry for her sheets. When it, too, vanishes into the aether, he turns to her once more, lifting an eyebrow. "Before he replies, I don't suppose we could-"
She folds her arms as best she can with the chain and gives him a small scowl. "You suppose correctly."
This time, his sigh sounds like it's been dragged up all the way from his feet, positively world-weary. "I do so hate always being right."
At Gaelan's request, they meet on what Sarah supposes must be neutral ground. They appear to be far away from the castle, emerging in the spacious, sunlit clearing of what seems to be a thick forest. They're surrounded by beautiful trees, their trunks a pale silver, their large leaves turned a deep, luscious orange. Whatever strange fruit hangs heavy from their branches seems to glisten like jewels, stunning amethysts and winking rubies. It's her first time in his realm in well over a decade, her first glimpse of the wondrous world outside of his labyrinth, and she's so fascinated that it takes her a moment to realise they're not alone.
"Your Highness, welcome."
The high, clear voice makes her jump, but the sight of the man to whom it belongs surprises her. 'Castellan' brings to mind an image of a stuffy, old, possibly bearded man, wrapped in long robes and reams of musty parchment – a learned man, wizened by his long years of loyal service. No doubt Jareth's castellan is already far older than she herself is – truly, nothing in this realm is as is seems, ageless and impossibly handsome king included – but he's so far from what she expected, she can't help but grin. She only stops herself from giggling out loud by telling herself how unspeakably rude it would be.
Gaelan looks like he's only just stepped into his twenties, a shock of thick, reddish hair topping an impossibly youthful, impossibly worried face. In place of old-fashioned robes, he wears a white shirt and modest dark leggings, paired with a fern-green cravat and matching waistcoat – smart, but harried-looking as he rushes toward them. He gives Sarah only the most cursory of nods, looking for all the world like a nervous intern on his first day at the office, before he turns his attention to Jareth. "Sire, I'm so glad you could come. I'm s-"
"Do you mean to tell me, given this ridiculous place of meeting, that I've been ousted from my own castle?" the Goblin King demands.
Gaelan's face works for a moment, caught between horror and shame. "Wh- … well, of course I tried … they're just so … I couldn't quite deal … that is to say, yes." The squeak on the last word turns it into a question, and then the poor man is full of apologies and explanations, which Jareth quickly dismisses.
"Yes, well, I'm not exactly well-suited to deal with much of the kingdom's business myself at present," he confesses. He raises their joined wrists, and Gaelan's eyes widen as he sees their chain. "Of course, you will speak of this to no one, and I, in my generosity, will in return rid you of your current … predicament."
Gaelan is quick to agree. "Yes, Sire, thank you, Sire. I'm sorry to have called on you for such a thing, but-" He falls silent a moment, still eyeing their chain. "Sire, does this mean you won't be attending the festivities for Mabon?"
Sarah can't help noticing the way Jareth's eyes flit towards her for just a second before answering.
"That," he says, "remains to be seen. I will be in touch."
"But, Sire-"
"No more for now," Jareth tells him. "As you can see, I'm not equipped to remain here for long, at present. I will attend to those blasted goblins presently, and you," he says, waving an arm and sending scroll after scroll of correspondence tumbling into and out of Gaelan's grasping arms, "will attend to these." While the poor man goes scrambling after the few he's dropped, Jareth heaves a deep sigh, and pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "After all this is through, remind me I owe you a drink. Until then, please don't disappoint me."
To his credit, despite looking like he's just swallowed a firey head-first, Gaelan manages a nod, threatening to send his precariously balanced load toppling anew. "I won't, Sire."
"I'm counting on you, Gaelan."
Jareth slips his arm around her waist once more, and as the world starts to shift around them, she hears him whisper against her hair. "Now for the fun part."