Here is the final chapter in this drabble-verse AU. Thank you those of you who have/are reading, and I shall take prompts in this universe on tumblr if you wish to send them.

For flailinggirl and miscreant rose. :D And as always, hugs to all of my lovely readers!


She cannot breathe.

They'd just crossed an ocean—an ocean, for God's sake—after surviving a war, after she'd given birth out of wedlock and cared for a newborn in the midst of bombings, rations and parental scorn, after she'd wondered and prayed for two years without knowing if she'd ever see him again, after living day to day without any assurance he still lived. Walking up a few steps shouldn't be so intimidating.

But it is. Oh God, it is.

She's staring at the house, she cannot help it, the absolute American-esque quality of it striking her squarely in the gut as Isaac tugs at her collar.

"It's alright, Mary," Charles whispers, and she exhales audibly, kissing her son's dark head as her eyes never stray from the front porch. "They're going to love you."

She nods absently, wondering how he can be so certain that his parents will love and accept his recently acquired British wife and son, remnants from a war that took him across the Atlantic and into her life.

"And if they don't?"

The fear escapes her before she can call it back, and she bites her lower lip as he kisses her forehead.

"They will," he assures her, touching Isaac's nose playfully. "And they know you're coming, so this isn't a surprise." He stares at her, easily reading that his reassurances are doing very little to placate her overly-sensitized nerves. "Trust me. Alright?"

She does trust him. But she's not entirely certain he is right. His arm tightens about her waist, and she inhales as deeply as she can, absorbing the breeze on her face as it rushes against her legs and toys with her hair. She wishes Aunt Tessa were here as she stands so very close to the unknown, the unknown who are now her family.

"Ready?"

She isn't, but she nods, certain he sees through her lie. But he leads her forward, one step then two, and she trembles as each one ripple up her limbs. Her legs feel leaden, her toes nearly numb, her ribs constricting as if the air is thinning with each step towards his house. What if they hate her, she asks herself for at least the thousandth time. God knows her own parents seemed to have no second thoughts about kicking her out and washing their hands of both her and her unborn child. Why should Charles's parents be any different? What if they see her as an opportunist who brazenly latched on to an American soldier as a means of extricating herself and her son from the rubble and aftermath of a world gone mad?

She holds Isaac all the closer, but the boy is curious, and he looks towards the door, pointing to it even as it remains closed.

"Yes, my sweet," she murmurs into his forehead. "We're going to the door."

"Doh?" Isaac echoes, looking to his father for approval, receiving it in spades.

"Door," Charles affirms, receiving a grin that reveals the boys two new teeth as they reach the base of the steps. He pauses, ruffling Isaac's curls and looking at her, and she feels the weight of lost time, time spent apart through no choice of their own.

"They'll love you," he whispers yet again. "Because you make me happy."

She's warm all over then with the exception of her fingers and toes, and she manages a smile, allowing herself to be wrapped up in all he means to her.

"Don't make me blush," she muses, her attempt at levity falling flat in her stomach. He kisses the tip of her nose, pulling back and tossing her that all-too smug smile she craves like air.

"But you're so cute when you blush," he teases, his forehead touching hers just as a noise catches their attention. They pull back, sucking in air as a graying man strides out and stands in the middle of the porch, his expression frozen and unreadable.

God—oh God.

"Charles," the man mutters, his cheeks quivering as they break into a smile that covers his entire face, and he moves towards the steps as fast as his cane will allow him, clearly refusing to allow one bad leg to keep him from reaching his destination.

"Dad," Charles cries, and he's engulfed completely before her eyes. Tears push their way through before she can call them back, trailing a crooked path down her cheek before Isaac brushes against her skin. Yet she doesn't want to call them back, this is too beautiful, too right to disturb. He is home—her Charles is home, and something lifts from her just at this, even though her own nerves still hover perilously near the surface. She hugs her own son closer, seeing her husband in a light unavailable to her until this very moment. She cannot help but relive the moment when Charles first laid eyes on Isaac—a moment seared into her very soul that now permeates every fiber of her being.

"My boy," his father mutters, his voice cracking with emotion as his hands clasp Charles's shoulders. "Thank God. Thank God."

The final words are whispered through anxious years of separation, and they men embrace yet again as Isaac gazes at them in wonder. The breeze flits up her skirt again, but she barely notices, squinting as the sun chooses this particular moment to emerge from behind tall, white clouds.

"Charles."

His attention is captured immediately, and she watches as her husband breaks from his father and stands immobile, almost as if he's just heard the voice of God. Charles then runs towards the woman, out-pacing her even though she reaches the top step with a stride rather perky for someone her age. She's petite with hair both brown and gray, and Mary bites her lower lip as Charles lifts his mother up in the air, receiving a squeal of both protest and delight in return as he swings her around once. They remain attached, still a part of each other, unwilling to let go, mother and son, Madonna and child. Her heart swells as Isaac reaches for her pearls, prompting her to bounce him gently on her hip and breathe into his hair.

She is witnessing something sacred—something she prays she will never have to endure. How would she ever cope knowing her son was a world away fighting a war that had no concern for how many lives it devoured in its wake? Just the thought of it nearly suffocates her, and she kisses Isaac's forehead, pressing her lips to soft skin just a moment longer to banish the mere possibility from her mind.

War is not something mothers of sons take lightly.

She feels the mood shift before she sees it, sensing that all eyes now rest on her and the boy in her arms. Her spine prickles, her mouth dries, and she takes a fortifying breath, bracing herself for whatever may come.

His mother walks directly to her, making Mary's spine tingle as she stares at her with an emotion almost otherworldly. Then the older woman touches Isaac's hair as she bites her lower lip, clasping Mary's arm gently with her other hand, her fingers nearly as cold as her own.

"Mary," she whispers as tears spill freely. "Isaac."

Even the breeze stills at her words.

They are then wrapped in an embrace that takes Mary by surprise, yet one she welcomes as warm liquid fills her veins and releases all fear. His mother draws back then, never slacking her grip as her lips move before sound can be uttered. But when the words arrive, they are a balm to her spirit, a beacon of peace and rest at the end of a very long journey.

"Welcome home."