A/N: Given the length that this storyline is slowly developing, this damn thing could have been a separate fic of its own. It's a shame, too, because I don't want to break it up by posting other self-contained chapters between these parts, so I've been having to post things I finish while this is ongoing over on Tumblr for now (esta-elavaris). I just did not anticipate this being such a thing, but there are already 20 additional pages of this storyline in my document folder, and it's still not even halfway done. Yikes.
ANYWAY – on another, exciting, note…I finally started writing that Boromir/OC fic that the lovely folk over on Tumblr have been talking me into for a while. The first couple of chapters are up, it's called Here, Where Fire Grows – and I haven't been this excited about writing a fic since Catch the Wind, so please check it out if it sounds like your kind of thing! It is a modern!OC, but she's quite different from Theodora, and there's a twist to it - in that she has no memory of her life before she ends up in Middle-earth, because I was determined not to just write the same thing all over again. I actually wrote Norrington fic because I didn't have the balls to attempt Boromir fic, so my past self is watching on in despair at what I'm attempting now. Prayers are appreciated.
There was no chance for Theo to linger outside of her house, staring at it and re-familiarising herself with her former home - noting what had changed, what hadn't, and how much justice her memory had done it. They couldn't afford to do that, not yet, and James seemed to have even more difficulty with that than she did, trying to soak up as much of his surroundings as possible from the short walk, into the front door. They were barely inside before she was being accosted.
A part of her had feared that her dogs would no longer remember her, after she'd been gone for so many years. Those fears were destined to go entirely unfounded, because she'd barely stepping out of the tiny entranceway and into the sitting room before she was accosted by the two great lumbering rottweilers she'd missed so much. Stumbling over themselves and each other to get to her, they whimpered like puppies and took turns barrelling one another out of the way so they could try to situate themselves in her lap, smothering her so she couldn't leave again.
Every so often, one would break away from her to sniff at James, and then quickly return - as though they could only conduct their inspections for two seconds at a time in order to make sure she wasn't thinking about escaping. How would she ever leave them again? Purposely this time? She was already blubbering like an idiot now, and she still had the full visit ahead of her yet.
"You're going grey!" she sniffled, scratching at their necks "When did my babies get so old?!"
"Around the same time your dad did," her father snorted kicking the front door shut behind him.
"She missed them sorely," James said to him.
"It's been mutual. They've spent the last few years staring at me like I was the one who got rid of ye, Theo."
"They're smart," she teased, pressing her forehead against Ronnie's "They know to look at friends and family as suspects first."
It took a hell of a lot of time for her to extract herself from her dogs, not least because every time she moved to pull away and stand they would all but dive-bomb her and smother her with love all over again, eradicating any heart she had to move. Thankfully, her dad took the lead and showed James around the downstairs of the house - the kitchen, the sitting room, and the open-spaces room that branched off of it that might be vaguely hand-waved away as a study but was really just a space for whatever random items they had no other room for. A computer, a bookcase, as well as backpacks filled with camping gear, and some workout equipment - none of it managing to look particularly tidy even though it wasn't strewn about.
James was in the kitchen when she stood, marvelling at the sink and the taps despite a distinct wariness when it came to touching them.
"Sorry about that," she said.
The look he gave in response more or less dared her to keep apologising, although the hand he rested at her back took any edge out of it.
"You needn't concern yourself with holding my hand through our every moment here," he teased.
"That's a shame. I quite like the close proximity. Don't tell me you're getting sick of me already."
The joke he didn't even justify with an answer, but instead he chuckled, turning his attention back to the sink.
"I believe you used the phrase an excess of convenience on more than one occasion," he commented quietly - perhaps worrying that if her dad overheard from the living room, he'd take it as an insult to the home.
"Mm. I talk a big game about whether it's good for us in the grand scheme of things, but it's great when you're exhausted - or sick. Easy access to cold, clean water. Baths. Tea. Washing machines. The only good thing about being sick was always the excuse to binge-watch absolute shite for a couple of days straight…back home you just have to suffer. Well, most do. The ones without the perfect husbands who don't mind reading to them and keeping their spirits up."
He threatened to flush under her compliment, scoffing a little and shaking his head, the hand at her back winding around to rest on her hip as she continued.
"I don't know how we'd get by without Hope and the rest of the servants back home, but here they'd have pretty much nothing to do. You'll see that for yourself quickly enough."
"It…will take some adjusting," James said finally "There is much to adjust to."
"It's jarring for me and I was born n' raised here," she agreed "Although it's strange seeing you here."
"Funny, then, that you are the least strange thing about all of this for me."
"Who would have ever thought we'd see a day where you'd say that?"
He smirked, but was diplomatic enough not to answer. When they returned to the living room, her dad was waiting for them.
"I got you some clothes that should do for the time being until we can get you out shopping yourself, but I don't know how well they'll fit," her dad said to James, who offered his thanks.
It likely wasn't easy for him, Theo knew, to have his father-in-law buying him clothes and generally being in a position of having to look out for him while he found his feet in this time. Theo was just grateful that he bore it with grace, despite his pride.
"If there's anything you need just put together a list and I can run out tonight and get it," her dad said "Theo, all your things are right where you left them. So's your room."
"Really?"
He coughed, bashful to admit that he might have somewhat slightly missed her - or perhaps still reluctant to have the big emotional moment that was in the post right now, in front of James.
"Just a heartfelt tribute to Norman Bates, really," he said with a strained smile "Speaking of, if any of your clothes seem all stretched out it's probably from me dressing up as you at night."
Theo glanced at James, half-expecting him to look bemused and ready for a crash-course explanation on the hit movie Psycho, but instead he was looking between her and her father with the look of someone who had just unpuzzled a great mystery. When she raised an eyebrow in silent question, he looked away and instead reached down to the pouch that they'd secured tightly from his belt, undoing the ties that kept it in place.
"On the matter of our keeping here," he said "Theodora and I thought it might be prudent for us to contribute in some way to that."
As he spoke, he handed it to her dad. They'd filled it to the brim before leaving home. Accepting it with a furrowed brow, he opened it and pulled out a handful of the jewellery it contained.
"Absolutely not," he shook his head immediately "Take it back."
"Da," Theo said sharply "We don't need it - and we don't want it. We're two grown adults, we're going to be here for a while, and we can't have you paying our way the whole time from your own savings."
"I'm happy to do it," he said with a firm shake of his head "Of all the problems I've had these last few years, buying my daughter and her lad a few dinners has been the best of them by a mile."
"This is all eighteenth century jewellery, genuine, and in remarkably good condition," she wouldn't budge "It'll be worth a bloody fortune. Pretend you found it in some great grandmother's attic, or out in a field with a metal detector, and cash in. It's all the stuff I refuse to touch, and it wouldn't be right for us to sell it back home ourselves."
"Oh? There's a taboo against spare cash is there?"
"They were gifts," Theo argued "This one was from Elizabeth, but it has some less than stellar memories attached to it, so I'm not going to wear it again, but if I sold it or gave it away in a setting where she could even possibly get wind of it, it could lead to some hurt feelings."
As she spoke, she stepped forward and brandished the ruby choker she'd worn to the party Governor Swann threw to celebrate James and Elizabeth's engagement. Beckett had returned it from his stash of seized goods once they were restored in his good graces. Part of Theo wondered if the little prick hadn't sensed the bad memories attached to it, and that was why he'd given it back. If anybody had claim to that sort of power, it would've been Cutler fucking Beckett. Or Jack, she supposed. But he was more inclined to use that power for good. Mostly.
"This one," she continued, pulling out a far more simple silver bracelet "Was from a merchant sailor who we provided security for last year."
"He took rather too much of a shine to Theodora," James supplied drily "His taste may be applauded, but his sense of propriety cannot."
He was one to talk. More than one of the local women were all but in love with him back in Keswick, but now was neither the time nor the place for that discussion. Considering he never gave the slightest shred of encouragement to it, and the fact that Theo was well aware of who her husband was and how criminally handsome he was, she wasn't particularly irked over the whole thing anyway.
"I couldn't refuse it without looking like a prat, but I'm hardly going to wear it, either. You're doing us a favour by taking it. Please," she said.
"There's enough here to last a lifetime," he pointed out shrewdly.
"Good," she replied "Call it my peace of mind policy."
Whatever arguments he had died on his lips then and there, before he sighed and nodded "I know a guy who could probably turn these into cash. I'll call him now, then I'll go out to get dinner if you want to finish up the tour on your own."
Well. As alone as they could be with the dogs still shadowing them.
There was simply too much to explain to James if she was going to stop at every little thing, and before they'd even finished up downstairs they'd agreed that they'd take things as they cropped up rather than trying to cover everything during the introduction. Still, it was a reminder of just how different her life was now when she saw how more things were a cause for interest than were not.
But, and this she noted with quiet amusement and a distinct flutter in her chest, no matter how much time he paused over things like light switches, showers, cans of deodorant, and stereo speakers, he lingered far longer over the photographs.
The ones framed on the walls in the hallway were mostly family ones - her with her grandparents, her uncles, her cousins, her dad. She'd never really noticed just how many of them featured her until it sent a pang through her heart as she imagined her dad having to walk past them every single day before he knew what had happened to her. When she tried to busy herself with dragging him swiftly past the collection of school photos all in one bigger frame, he wouldn't have it at all, smiling in amusement at the gangly teen that had eventually become his wife.
"You're laughing in almost every single portrait here," he pointed out as the trail led them into her bedroom.
The photos here were only a little different - ones from her prom (he took a moment to cough and flush at the strapless, mid-knee length dress she'd worn), some from concerts, and many that featured nobody at all save for some of the best views she'd come across while hiking on her travels.
"You haven't changed," he added "Always laughing."
"I like to think my looks improved a bit," she snorted "The dramatic side-fringe was certainly a moment. But we don't really whip out the cameras when we're feeling sad or angry."
In truth, she knew whatever lack of change he'd detected in her demeanour didn't extend to her appearance. Even the most recent of the photographs here showed the difference. While she'd always been in reasonably good shape thanks to a general inability to just sit still, whatever softness there had once been was long gone thanks to the demands of eighteenth century life. She wouldn't be winning any body-building competitions, but it had definitely hardened her in some way. Of course, then there were the scars. The borderline invisible silver cat scratches at her brow and her lip (the first of the scars she'd acquired in her new home) that were difficult to find even when she searched for them.
The one on her stomach was less so, and she still wasn't quite able to consider it without much emotion. It wasn't like being in her old bedroom had her unemotional either, though. Her dad had spoken truly - everything was more or less where she'd left it. As far as she could remember. The walls were still a faded fern green, they were still dotted with photographs and band posters (despite however many people had begun to insist that she'd outgrown putting her favourite musicians on her wall), there was still a burn mark on the window sill from when her eighteen year old self had sat there, leaning all the way out of the window to try and stealth-smoke a joint. Even the little TV she had propped up on her dresser drawers opposite the bed still had the DVD for The Crow lying out next to it. She'd watched it the night before she'd been transported - a detail she hadn't even bothered to remember before now.
Had it always been this small? It wasn't even especially small, but compared to what her home was now - the one she shared with her husband, that she'd built with her husband, her old life looked laughably tiny in comparison. In more ways than one, even, for back then an adventure would be a gig, a McDonald's, and a night spent drinking in the living room of whatever friend was up for hosting that night. Since then she'd come to reevaluate her definition of that word. Now it involved swords and curses and mortal peril.
It was so strange. Like she was standing in a stranger's bedroom. How many times had she walked through that door, flopped down onto this bed, after a long, annoying day and allowed the feeling of sheer relief to just wash over her? And now it just felt like she'd stepped into a museum dedicated to a life that was no longer hers. Like if she got too comfortable and touched any of the artefacts, she'd be scolded for it.
This would take some adjusting for them both, she suspected.
"I confess myself curious," James said, sitting down slowly on her bed only once they'd thoroughly run out of modern wonders for her to explain to him.
That in itself had taken a while, for even the bed itself was an oddity, and she'd talked herself quite hoarse. Almost everything in the room was connected to a memory - every trinket, knick-knack, and photograph. And even the small few things that were not prompted questions, down to details as mundane as how zips worked, or why she still had candles dotted around the room now that electricity had rendered them obsolete. She'd have hated to see how long they would have gone on if they hadn't been avoiding covering everything in one go.
"Oh?" she asked, sitting down beside him and wondering what she'd find herself explaining next.
The possibility that she wouldn't like what he was about to say was given away in how he hesitated, his eyes downcast rather than on anything in the room that might've caught his attention.
"These…plays," he said finally "The ones that provided you with your knowledge."
"Oh."
"Yes," he agreed "You have explained to me of their not quite being plays in the manner that I would usually understand the word. Having seen what Achtland showed me, I understand that sentiment more than I may have otherwise. And you have also explained that they may be watched anytime, at any place, without having to travel to a theatre…"
"James…"
"You must know why it is I have to see them," he said it outright "You must. I know you do. I can imagine why you would hardly relish the prospect, but I have to, Theodora. You understand that, surely."
"You're sure you won't settle for some particularly riveting bikini photos instead?"
"I'm quite sure," he said, and then frowned "What is a bikini?"
"On second thought, maybe the films aren't such a bad idea after all."
"There are three, you said. I recall your pointing out in Tortuga that at that point, we were hardly but halfway through the second of the trilogy."
Sighing, she stood and made her way to the bookshelf - which only just barely had more books than DVDs on it. She'd been a big believer in physical media back in the day; a hill which seemed an absurd one to die on now, given everything. The box set she was looking for was separate from the rest, from where her dad had retrieved them after his visits with Achtland. Taking them up, she slid the first from the sleeve.
"Part one is here - The Curse of the Black Pearl. I don't think it was originally intended to be a trilogy until they saw how well the first one did. Really took the world by storm. It covers from more or less Jack's arrival to Port Royal, to his escape after he was supposed to be hanged. The second, Dead Man's Chest, came later, spanning Beckett's arrival at Port Royal, to our- your bringing him the heart after Jack's death. The third, At World's End, covers their rescuing him and the Pearl from the locker, and their war against Beckett."
And the horrific, terrible thing she refused to put into words, of course. As she explained each one, she handed him the boxes and then watched silently as he peered at them in confusion - lingering particularly on the only image they contained of him. A tiny still, barely bigger than a postage stamp, from the three-way duel on Jones' island.
The first wouldn't be so bad to watch. Well, it would be about as pleasant as watching an iteration of her husband be madly in love with another woman could get. The second would be painful, for her because she knew it would be a particular burden to James. The third…the third would fucking suck.
But he was right. She did understand. Had she discovered that he wasn't supposed to be a part of the adventure she'd been tangled up in after awakening in that world, she'd be itching to know this other version of events - and what her fate might've been in them. Especially if he knew, and she did not. It must be a lot to bear, knowing that first introductions were not quite first introductions on her part, and he'd born it with his usual impressive stoicism. It wasn't her place to block him from seeing the films, and even if it was, it would be shitty of her to do so.
"Is there…a method to who features on this part?" he turned the case to the front.
"The primary characters," she sighed.
She could have lied, but she owed him more than that and he wouldn't thank her for it. Something clicked in his jaw, and she rested her hand atop his forearm. Who could blame him if he found that difficult? The movies spanned the most difficult years of their lives - and certainly the outright worst years of his life, as far as the version of events featured only in the films. To find out that, despite that, he hadn't even made centre stage for the advertising team had to sting.
"If it's any consolation, even if they showed the true way of things I don't think I'd be on them, either."
He hummed sourly.
"And Beckett's not on any of the covers, either," she pointed out.
That, at least, drew the shadow of a smirk.
