Work Text:
“And what do all the great words come to in the end, but that? - I love you - I am at rest with you - I have come home.”
- Busman’s Honeymoon , Dorothy L. Sayers
Her hand is shaking as she struggles to fit the key into the lock. The whole ring slips out of her grasp and she exhales sharply bending down to retrieve it.
“Ma’am?”
Eric has been quietly surveying their untroubled street - he is always so good about waiting until she is safely inside. The key finally slides into the lock and she turns back to nod at him. “Good night.”
“Good night, Director.”
The house, the grandest either of them have ever lived in, is even more quiet than the street. Her light coat is draped on the hook and her suitcase is wearily placed against the entryway and then she leans back against the sturdy front door, closing her eyes. The familiar smell of home loosens something in her chest.
She has lost track of how long she rests against the door when she becomes aware of small footsteps on the stair.
“Mum?”
“Sarah, love, what are you doing awake?”
She scoops up her pajama-clad youngest daughter and holds her tight for a moment before slowly heading upstairs.
“Bad dream,” comes the muffled reply, “and then I thought I heard the front door.”
“Bad dream, hmm?” She feels Sarah nod against her shoulder. “Do you want me to read you a story to help get you back to bed?”
“No, Mumma, I’m fine now. Missed” - here there is a yawn - “you.”
Sarah is tucked back into bed, worn floppy rabbit and all, and Peggy makes the rounds to the other smaller bedrooms in the house. All present and accounted for, she finally pushes the door to her own bedroom open. A groan almost escapes her lips after she slides her heels off and in a fluid motion, she shrugs out of her blouse and skirt and crawls into one of Steve’s abandoned shirts.
She only gets to sitting on her side of the bed before the dam finally breaks and she has to clamp her hand over her mouth.
He doesn’t say anything, he rarely has to. Instead, she feels him shift in bed and prop himself up on one elbow, rubbing her back. The stream finally slows and she lets him pull her into bed, into the circle of his arms. He lays light kisses on her temple and cheekbone and runs his hand over her arm soothingly.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” she finally says, haltingly.
His response is to hold her tighter. “I’m glad you’re home, Peg.” He drops another kiss at her hairline. “All right?”
“All right.”