AN: This story was inspired by a piece of fanart by (at symbol)Smollot called 'Goblin King Mugshot' (you can find her on Instagram). As soon as she first posted it in the Labyrinth Fan Fic Lovers FB group, I knew I had to run with it as a prompt. LFFL actually used it as a Friday Ficlet Prompt last September so I posted a snippet in the group, but hadn't actually gotten back to it until now (story of my goddamned life). Smollot is an amazing artist, so go forth and be amazed by her talent! She's done some amazing fanart of Tanglewood and How to Catch a Goblin King as well (I swear I am not biased – she'd super talented regardless) that made my cold dead heart beat!
Bluepixy13 also tackled this prompt and wrote, 'Jailed Magic' in October. It's a one shot (because she's organized and efficient like that) and a treat to read! Go enjoy and give her some love too!
The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.
Dorothy Parker
"Is this a Mrs. Sarah Williams?"
"Who's asking please?" Sarah shouldered the phone while she added more dish soap to the sink. She was already regretting answering the phone without looking at the display. She prepped her usual, 'I'm not interested in whatever you are selling that will transform my life' goodbye exit.
"This is the Rochester, New York Police department. Is this Mrs. Williams?"
For a moment Sarah panicked but she'd just gotten off the phone with Karen less than ten minutes ago. Too soon for something to have happened to any of them. She wasn't a contact for anyone else and she highly doubted they were calling about her stolen bike from last August.
"Yes… this is Ms. Williams." She dumped some cutlery into the water and readjusted the phone as the timer went off on the oven.
"Do you accept a call from a Mr. Jareth Williams?"
"Sorry," she mumbled, still distracted by the confluence of events, "from whom?" She slipped an oven mitt on her soaking hand and opened the oven door. A fraction of a second later she yelped as the heat instantly seeped through the damp material and scalded her palm and fingers. Dropping the casserole dish on the stove top - splashing marinara sauce everywhere - she ripped the offending culprit from her throbbing hand and by rote plunged it into the sink full of water.
Which was of course very hot.
"Fuuuuuuccccckkkkkk!" She immediately dropped the phone, which of course bounced off the counter and onto the floor.
After she'd managed to get her scalded skin under a steady stream of cold water, she bent awkwardly, now fully irritated, and retrieved the receiver just in time to hear the caller say in an equally if not more irritated voice, "…your husband. Mr. Jareth Williams. Do you accept the call or not?"
That's when the sink began over flowing onto her feet.
It took a moment for her to reorient herself. Her socks were soaked. Her hand was throbbing. The counter was flooded. Marinara was on the wall. The phone was still cradled against an ear, which she could only surmise was committing outright mutiny against her by mixing up the words so nefariously.
She screwed up her face in a belated thought. "Lisa? Is that you, you little shit? This is so not funny. Me tricking you into flashing the delivery guy was hilarious but it was April Fools and you should have seen it coming. It was two years ago. Plus you went on three dates with him and said he was hung like a-"
"Ma'am." It was definitely not Lisa. "Do you want to speak to your husband or not. This is a serious matter and I would suggest you treat it as such." The cop speak was unmistakable.
It occurred to her after the fact that she should have just said, 'I don't have a husband' and hung up the phone. Moby Dick would have been a short book and spared a lot of high school students if Ahab had stayed on land and took up knitting. But she didn't because this time the right words were too late in coming. What she said instead was, "… how… why do you think he's my husband?" There was a part of her – the very naïve and foolish part - that still hoped it was a strange and highly improbable but totally legitimate coincidence. A misunderstanding. Nothing more.
"Ma'am," the term of address was beginning to sound less and less deferential, "I don't know what's going on in your relationship right now and whether or not you're trying to make him suffer. And I don't really care to be honest. But we know he's your husband because he told us so. Although he actually only gave his name as Jareth at first. Just Jareth. When we explained we didn't care if he was Madonna reinventing herself again, he finally gave us Williams as his family name. He also made some very strange claims to royalty, threatened more than a few officers with something called 'the Bog', and is generally acting like he owns the place despite being handcuffed to a desk." There was an undercurrent of pained exhaustion in the voice.
Oh yes. It was definitely him.
"When asked for someone to call he gave yours. I would imagine he's regretting doing that almost as much as I am right now. He also didn't know your number," there was an expectant pause as the caller waited for a viable explanation, "but remembered your home address," they continued when none was forthcoming. "Look, if you are having second thoughts about him I frankly don't blame you and can even recommend a good lawyer - my cousin Vinny - but we need to get this all sorted first. If you aren't his wife just say so and he becomes the city's problem. He can go back in the drunk tank for the night and a public offender will be assigned if needed. You can go about your night, ma'am."
Ahab was being given a last chance to put the harpoon down and take up handicrafts instead.
Sarah shuffled her feet, the squelching sound adequately summing up her feelings on the matter. "Did you say the drunk tank?"
"Only thing that explains the hair and cape. Not the strangest thing I've seen even tonight but it is a first."
No doubts at all then.
Sarah drummed her unburnt fingers on the counter and said the words she would most definitely come to regret later. "I… accept the call."
There was a pause as the receiver was transferred, a few mumbled words Sarah couldn't catch, and then the sound of a breath in her ear that she could somehow feel though the wires.
"Sarah…" he drew her name out with a sibilant hiss. "Sch-darling," he added with an unmistakable slur.
Despite standing in dish water and staring at her Jackson Pollock inspired piece in marinara, she felt a frisson of something indefinable skate down her spine at that voice, though she hadn't heard it in over a decade. It still made her stomach flutter and sanity pitch.
"Speaking," she replied after a fraught moment, choosing not to acknowledge the term of endearment.
"It sheems there's been a shlight misunderstanding requiring you're ash-ashishtance." Despite the slurred words, he still managed to sound imperious. It was more command, less supplication.
"So it would seem," she said, pursing her lips in mounting irritation. "The misunderstanding was of course calling me and expecting me to care."
There was another pause. "You wound me, dearest." He hiccoughed audibly. "I would be in your debt. And a Goblin King always pays his debts," he added in a lower voice meant only for her ears. The honeyed words felt more like a threat than a promise of restitution.
There was the sound of a sudden scuffle, the phone clearly being juggled, dropped, and picked up again. Cursing and another scuffle and then his voice in her ear, so clear he might have been standing in her destroyed kitchen right beside her.
"Come and get me, Sarah. Now. Before I lose my temper with these mortals."
Sarah swallowed thickly and pinched her brow; immediately hissing in pain because she'd used her damaged hand. It was the only reason she missed that he didn't sound particularly drunk anymore – his words and the implication perfectly clear. "I…"
The phone had evidently been recovered again however. "Ma'am," the original speaker sounded far less patient and far more exasperated. The kind of wearied public servant tone that suggested they didn't make enough money to put up with this kind of shit. "Are you coming or not? As I said, I am happy enough to make him someone else's problem."
In that moment, she recognized she was being given one last chance to not push the big red button next to the sign that said, DO NOT PUSH THE BIG RED BUTTON.
Curiosity killed the cat, or so the expression cautioned, but leaving a Goblin King to his own devices in her world seemed far more perilous, no matter what the story; and it was one she very much wanted to hear.
Sarah just hoped she had nine lives.
Bandaging her burn, she made a cursory attempt to clean the sauce one-handed but frowned as the wall remained stained a putrid colour of orange. She drained the sink of the soapy water and threw a few dish towels onto the floor to soak up the flood, then stared at her casserole mournfully, the thick crust of melted cheese slightly offset due to its summary plummet. Her empty stomach gave a loud gurgle in protest. She patted it in sympathy. Pulling on a thin coat, she tugged her boots on awkwardly and snatched her purse from the hall table – checking to make sure her wallet was within - before heading out the door into the cool evening air of early spring.
Having never been to the police department - any police department for that matter - it took her a little longer than it should have. Long enough for her to wonder what the fuck she was even doing. She slammed her hand on the steering wheel when she missed the turn, and then mewled when pain lanced across her injured palm. She really had to stop doing that. Glancing down at the address she'd written down, the paper slightly stained by her uneaten dinner, she made another turn and doubled back.
Finally spotting the distinctive blue and white sign she pulled onto Verona Street and parked the car in a visitor space. Her stomach gave a slight lurch as she pushed open the heavy entrance doors and she wondered if it was hunger, anticipation or fear. Or perhaps a festering melting pot of all of the above.
A very young looking, uniformed officer at reception paused while blowing on the coffee he barely looked old enough to drink, to nod at her in greeting.
"Er, hello," Sarah began awkwardly, feeling distinctly uncomfortable in the place despite knowing she'd done nothing wrong, but feeling guilty by association. "I'm here to…" her voice dropped to a whisper, "uh, bail someone out."
"Name?" The officer, probably a rookie, didn't look up again from his work – making it clear her request was not exciting nor salacious in the least.
"Sarah Williams. Sarah with an H," she added by rote as she handed over her license.
The officer blinked up at her blandly and didn't take the card.
"Oh… oh right. Not my name," she tittered nervously as she shoved it back into her wallet. "Um, Jareth."
"Full name, ma'am." There was that tone again, only milder. Probably because he was new enough not to be entirely broken. The I don't make enough money for this nonsense and the coffee is not nearly strong or Irish enough.
"Oh… I don't actually know his last name," she replied automatically. Because in truth she didn't. Or if he even had one. And she was tired, hungry and sore, and still wondering if it was the strangest dream she'd ever had.
The young offer scanned his book and then clicked a few keys on the keyboard. His eyes narrowed and then swiveled back to her. "We have a Jareth Williams…" He trailed off meaningfully.
Sarah felt heat suffuse her face and a renewed flush of irritability that she now looked like a complete fool. Right. He'd used her name. Which had started everything.
"That's the one."
The office stared at her for a long moment. His name on his pressed uniform said O'Brien and he had the closed-cropped titian hair to match. The motto on his badge read "To Serve with Pride". She guessed he was feeling less than prideful in his duties at the moment.
"You didn't know his last name was Williams, Mrs. Sarah-with-an-H… Williams?"
Sarah stiffened and frowned down at him. That was a whole lot of snark from a kid she might have babysat once upon a time. Even if he was so very dreadfully right and it was entirely deserved.
"Ms.," she corrected. "And it's been a really long day."
The rookie levelled her another probing look but then shrugged, clearly deciding she was harmless, and pressed a button below the wide desk. A recessed door to his right swung open with a pneumatic hiss. He jerked his thumb in that direction and then spoke into a call box, announcing her arrival.
She was greeted at the door by another uniformed offer, this one older, shorter and stouter. When he spoke she immediately recognized the voice from the phone. A cursory glance at his strained expression confirmed it.
"This way, ma'am." He sounded tired. And annoyed. She could immediately sympathize.
As they wove between the labyrinth of paper-laden desks on the booking floor, he kept side-eyeing her. On the fifth or sixth look she coughed pointedly.
He returned her stare evenly. "You 're very… normal." Unspoken but obvious was that he'd expected her to match the man they had in custody. Her so-called husband. Sarah was still bristling at the presumption.
But then she paused and did a double take, his comment forgotten, as they passed a windowed interior room. A camera was set up on a tripod, the wall behind marked for heights. On a suspended monitor a mug shot was still displayed. Likely the last one they'd taken.
Same dark armour, same unruly hair and those wildly marked eyes she could never seem to forget. His chin jutted ever so slightly and his thin lips were set defiantly in an even line.
In a word, he looked smug. The smuggest mug shot that ever smugged.
He held a placard that read 59640.
Following her line of sight, the officer snorted derisively. "I like him better that way." Sarah canted her head curiously. "Silent," he supplied.
As if to punctuate his meaning, she heard the mocking voice before she saw him when they rounded corner towards the holding cells.
"Finally." There was a note of censure in the word. But also something else. Perhaps anticipation?
The mug shot should have confirmed it, if nothing else, but she was still somehow surprised to find it was all real. To see the figure rise and emerge from the shadowy recesses of the dim cell to approach the bars. Gloved hands curling around them as his face came to rest between; all those stark angles amplified by the harsh overhead fluorescent lights of the holding pen.
"My wife." He drew the final word out meaningfully and smiled at her with too many teeth. "Come to take me home."
AN: Don't come for me because I started another WIP. I am as thoroughly disgusted with myself as you are. More so. But this will be a short one at least.
For my long time readers, I have not given up on Tanglewood, HtCaGK or OCaGK. I am working on all of them actively right now (shocking, I know) as well as the sequel to Thrice Bitten, called Thrice Bound. Finding time to write and edit is the challenge. I needed this distraction.
Hope you are all well and staying safe. I've become a complete hermit/ introvert lately. (*waves* I'm still alive just socially disconnected for my own sanity). Life is beating me up behind the slides at recess… But pretty sure we are all in that situation to some degree. None of us have escaped this past year unscathed I think. #Solidarity #HangInThere.
In brighter news I've finally got my vaccine booked for June 17 (woohoo). Maybe summer can be salvaged after all, eh? Can't wait to get my free 5G ('tis sarcasm)!