Reviews are appreciated. I still do not own "Crimson Peak" - I don't even own Tom Hiddleston. I for one am entirely fine with him owning himself, as a matter of fact.

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Sir Thomas Sharpe was to be married for the fourth time in just over ten days time, and he perhaps reflected on this where he stood with one hand upon the windowsill in the well-appointed drawing room of the Cushing family, in the house which was now to be his home.

Maybe he thought of how different it was from his own home, Allerdale Hall, with its red clay and sinking manor house, with all its creaks and moans and shadows. Edith's father owned it now, of course, or Edith, ultimately, or she would; after the wedding.

Sir Thomas did not miss it. He listened to the scritch scratch of Edith's pencil - a beautiful thing gifted to her by her father - as she wrote on a new novel, and felt the warmth of the fire behind him. It was winter, already, but it was far less gruesome here, not a thing to be feared but merely some gentle snow and winds which had Edith smile and twirl with her scarwes flowing in every direction. Sir Thomas did not mind it, not the winter, not the winds, and certainly not anything which had Edith's eyes shining like that.

He did not sleep in the house, of course, that was not allowed until they were married, but he spent most waking hours here, tinkering with small mechanic things or watching the world outside. His favourite time during the day was when Edith was done with her projects and her writing and settled down to read in front of the fire, always in the large sofa stood there, and preferably leaning against his chest, instead of the cushions.

He liked the gentle way she was always touching him, always so peacefully, never rushing, like she had all the time in the world to simply run her fingertips across the skin of his hands, wrists and fingers. His sister had never been gentle; and she had certainly never allowed him the touch of anyone but her.

He knew that their separation was for the best; even he could feel how she was smothering him, by the end, but he had expected to miss her. Instead, all he felt was exhaustion. He guessed that maybe his will to do anything at all would return as the spring did, but for the moment, sitting there, playing the parth of a sofa cushion with internal heating for Edith was really all that he wanted. All that he managed. Maybe the court was right. Maybe he had no will of his own to speak of. No, that couldn't be right; he had wanted Edith, wanted her still, more than anything.

He would need a project in the future, something to do, with which to occupy his mind; he was not stupid, of all things, and he knew that, but for now, all he needed was here. Was her, even. At the sound of his name, he turned towards the voice and smiled automatically.

Edith watched as Thomas willingly came over and sat with her. He seemed to have lost all initiative, deprived of his sister, but she held on to her resolve to wait. He didn't give her any impression of him being unhappy, merely dulled, and she knew, somehow she knew, that she had only to wait for him to return to her. She needed to be patient, that was all.

Not that this, on its simplest level, was very difficult or even half as time-consuming as it was in spirit, she reflected as she ran a hand over his shoulder, watching him to see his reaction. He leant back against the cushions just behind her, letting her settle against him without a word. Physically he was right beside her, always willing to oblige, to sit with her, speak to her, be touched by her, but his heart was clearly far away. His eyes were somewhat dulled, tired; but they were open, and that was enough - because he had said it was his way to close them to anything which made him uncomfortable.

Was his heart still in England? She considered, watching the slight motion of him breathing, looking out into space wordlessly as he was so often doing ever since the trial. Did he miss his family home, his sister, his inventions?

Tryingly, Edith took his hand, pulling it slightly towards her, not encountering any resistance on his part, but no recognition, no interaction, either. That grew increasingly common as the days passed, this lack of any reaction.

Edith found herself smiling in delight as she started to run her fingertips along the life-line in his palm and he unconsciously leant into the touch, tilting the palm upwards and opening his hand to her; still there though he was so hard to reach. As long as that was true, she'd be happy to wait. For him to return; wherever he had gone.

Edith relaxed against her favourite sofa cushion and read on, not leaving her literary world for hours. When she did, her father had returned home and was sitting before the fire, but Thomas was sitting in almost exactly the same position as she'd left him in, his hand still resting where she'd put it against her arm, as if he'd actually become a pillow or blanket. She didn't like it.

Thomas watched Edith tense as she left her book, and gently stroked a hand across her shoulder. "What's the matter, Edith?" "Are you alright?" He tilted his head a little, ignoring the fact that her father was watching them. "Yes. Just tired," he smiled reassuringly, not wanting that concerned expression in her eyes to spread. "What was your book about? Any nice ideas for the future?"

Mr Cushing studied the pair as his daughter put down her book, having sat there reading ever since he got home an hour earlier; her husband-to-be, that strange english aristocrat, sitting next to her staring into mid-air without a sound or movement all the while.

He kept watching as the englishman, whom he still wasn't all that fond of, as he didn't understand him, seemed to come alive at the sudden movement next to him, and the animation on Edith's face as she described something in response to a question he had asked.

It was a strange match, to be sure, and nobody could ever convince him that his daughter couldn't have done far better than this wary, rather useless baronet, but as long as she was satisfied with the choice, he would have to do, and that was the end of it.