It Takes Madness and Courage to Live as We Do

1. Who is the early bird/who is the night owl?

Ann wakes quite suddenly, to darkness. It takes her several sleep-addled seconds to come back to her senses; for the first moments, she had been certain that she was at Crow Nest, that the clock was about to strike, that the whispers would begin.

But her mind remains blessedly quiet, and the sheets that engulf her are not the silk she is accustomed to at Crow Nest.

She is at Shibden.

And Anne is missing.

She reaches out a hand to touch the sheets beside her. They're cold. If Anne was ever there, she's been gone for a while.

For a moment, Ann debates what to do. She's never been very fond of the dark, cowardly and foolish as that may seem, and the idea of stumbling around unfamiliar places doesn't appeal to her.

But she misses her wife, and she ought to see where she's got to. If it was the other way around, Anne wouldn't have hesitated.

Have some courage, she scolds herself, and fumbles for the candle and matches at her bedside. When the candle flares into life and casts a small pool of light around her, she pushes the covers away and slips out of bed.

The flagstones are freezing on the bare soles of her feet, but she ignores the discomfort, padding over to the door and pushing it open. On the threshold she pauses for a moment more, gathering her wits, then pushes onwards.

She has a good inkling of where to start.

As she'd suspected, there is a soft glow emanating from beneath the crack in the door of Anne's study. Some of her nerves receding now that she's in close proximity to her wife's whereabouts, Ann tiptoes across the landing, wincing when the floorboards creak, but there's no movement from the neighbouring rooms—Aunt Anne and Captain Lister are likely too deaf to hear anyway, but she wouldn't want to disturb Marian's rest. Anne might not care, but she very much does.

Besides, she'd rather not have any unbidden witnesses. Even here, at Shibden, surrounded by so much kindness and love, they have to be careful.

Holding her breath, as if that makes any difference at all, she creeps up to the door and gives it the lightest of knocks, a ghost's touch. She hears the soft whisper of moving papers from inside, then the scuff of shoes against the floorboards, and finally Anne's face appears in the crack of the door. She opens it wider when she realises that her wife is standing on the threshold, and Ann ducks under her arm to slip inside.

"You should be asleep," is the first thing Anne says to her. She is always so attuned to her needs. In her whole life she has never felt this safe and loved with another person, not even her dear family. Anne goes above and beyond the care expected every single day.

Which is why she feels she should return it. She doesn't always feel confident or able to, frail and frightened as she can be, but when she feels brave, she must reflect that love and care back at her wife.

"So should you," she points out. "Do you even know what time it is?"

Anna shoots a sheepish glance at her pocket watch, abandoned on her desk. Ann sighs.

"Of course you don't," she says affectionately. "It's past three in the morning, dearest."

"Good heavens, is it really?" says Anne, squinting at her pocket watch for the truth of it.

"Surely this can wait until the morning now," Ann says, then amends with a smile, "well, until a little later, at least. The dawn will be upon us soon enough."

"Hmm, I suppose you're right," Anne sighs. Ann can sense her reluctance to leave the task unfinished anyway, ever striving for perfection. She leans across the desk to pluck the quill from her fingers.

"Come on," she says. "The bed is cold without you. Don't keep me waiting any longer."

Anne's eyes darken at that. "What sort of fool would I be if I denied my wife?"

"A big one," Ann agrees. She holds out her hand, and Anne takes it. Her fingers are still stained with wet ink, but she doesn't mind. It wouldn't be her wife if she wasn't constantly pockmarked, be that with ink or dirt.

They remain holding hands as Anne flits around the room putting out the candles. Then they steal back across the landing to their own quarters.

Anne presses gentlemanly kisses to her knuckles before excusing herself to change for bed. Ann crawls back beneath the sheets, watching her wife's methodical routine with great interest. She loves to see those stiff layers peeled away, this incredible, enigmatic woman left open and vulnerable for her eyes only, watching her transformed into something softer in the intimate darkness. In the day, to the outside world, she is fearsome and severe, harsh and austere. Here, in the deep of night, she is simply Anne. Never anything less than proud of who she is, but more obtainable. Knowable.

Ann rejoices in the fact that she is the only woman who will ever really know her again. Be privy to all of her triumphs and tragedies, to support her in the way that Anne always has done for her.

Anne bounds across the room and into bed. She blows out the candle, then spends the next few moments getting comfortable on her side. When she is satisfied, she reaches out for Ann, pulling her closer.

"Come here, my little Adney," she murmurs in her ear. "I've missed you this evening."

"So much so that you didn't even realise what time it was," Ann teases, but she presses back against her wife anyway, for there is nowhere on the whole earth she'd rather be than in her arms, feeling those thin, sold plains against her.

Anne presses her lips against the back of her neck, and Ann closes her eyes, focusing on the sensation, on the way that Anne squeezes her tight. She never feels safer than she does in these moments, with her wife keeping all of her doubts and fears at bay.

"I love you," she whispers into the darkness.

Anne makes a muffled sound against her in response. She's never been as forthcoming with those three words. At one time, it might have bothered her, especially with the spectre of Mrs. Lawton hanging over them. But now she is secure in the belief that Anne feels the same way, even if she doesn't express it verbally as often. Because she feels it instead, in every single moment that they share: in the tender fingers that sweep tendrils of her hair out of her face; in the soft brush of fingers against her own; in soft kisses pressed to her neck; in the way that she checks in to make sure that Ann has eaten, or encouraging her outside for fresh air, or rubbing her spine after a painful episode.

Love is not words. It's actions.

She takes Ann's hand in her own now, rubbing her thumb over the ring that sits on her finger. Another silent gesture that says so much: that even now she can't believe that she has a wife, that she is grateful to God for bringing them together, that she will honour the sanctity of their joining for the rest of her days, even if they're the only two people who will ever know.

Ann closes her eyes, losing herself in the soothing sweep of Anne's touch.

And, before she knows it, she's slipped into dreams.

"Adney? Adney, wake up."

At the sound of her name, Ann groans, turning her face further into her pillow. Anne's hand lands on her back, heavy and warm.

"Adney," she coos. "It's time to get up."

"It's too early," she complains.

"It's seven-thirty."

"Exactly—too early!"

Anne huffs in self-reproachment. "Actually, it's much later than I intended to rise. I have a thousand and one things to do today. I should at least be a half-dozen tasks in."

"So what have you woken me for?" Ann whines. "I had no plans for the day!"

"Well, I thought we could enjoy a nice breakfast together," says Anne cheerfully. "I won't be back until tea, so we won't have the chance to see each other much today."

Ann groans, making a show of throwing the duvet over her head. This is unholy. Anne should not be so bright after so little sleep.

But that's the thing about Anne Lister, isn't it? She is a force of nature. She is almost a goddess herself, bending the world to her whim.

Bending her wife to her whim.

"Adney." The tone is wheedling, coaxing. "My little Adney. Please, my darling, look at me."

With a disgruntled sigh, Ann peers out from her cocoon. Anne shoots her that pleased, slightly crooked grin. It tempts Ann to venture further out of her nest, if only to see that beautiful grin widen.

"I've already called Eugenie," she says. "She'll be here in a minute. But before that…"

And with that, she leans forward to mesh their mouths together. It's soft. Intimate. Filled with love. Wonder. At what they've managed to build between them. Of what there is to come in their future.

And despite the early morning and the fatigue, Ann is suddenly filled with the optimism of what the rest of the day will bring.

Because as long as she has Anne by her side, it's sure to be another day filled with inexplicable delight.