Work Text:
The original purpose of the small room at the west end of the Laurence residence remained unknown, but Amy was drawn to it nearly the instant she moved in. It was on the second floor, down a long hall and the second-to-last door on the left, and so comfortingly small in such a spacious house. Its dusty nooks and crannies proved suitable to stash her pencils and brushes in, and one of the two windows provided a view to where she grew up. When there weren’t parties to attend, family members to see, or any other events to look pretty for, Amy liked to set up her easel by her preferred window and live a quiet existence. Even if for just an hour on a sun-stained summer day, she stood there, sweating and creating, wondering if anyone’s breath had ever fogged up these window panes before her own.
One afternoon, Laurie wandered into her converted art studio. He was strutting around in that hips-first, hands-in-his-pockets kind of way, like he was expecting the rest of the world to follow him from room to room, but he wasn’t explicitly asking for it.
Upon seeing him, she jumped. And, well, Amy couldn’t be sure why she jumped, because he hadn’t even parted those smirking lips yet to disturb her peace. But she jumped, just an inch or two off her stool, and her paintbrush came down on the canvas at a very unintended spot. Having just been refreshed with a dip in the orange paint smeared on her palette, the brush deposited an unwelcome splotch of bright color in the direct center of her work in progress.
“Laurie,” she sighed, managing to withhold most of her surprise. “Now look what you’ve done.”
He raised his brows at her and sauntered forward, pockets bulging with gangly, slender hands. The beginnings of a puzzled grin traced the corners of his mouth. “I haven’t been in the room a minute—”
“Look,” Amy repeated, gesturing at the ruined painting.
Laurie circled around the easel, coming to a stop behind her and bending over her shoulder to examine her work. “What’s the matter?”
She rushed another exaggerated sigh through her lungs, just to make a point. Then she pointed at the orange blotch bursting in the middle of her pastel landscape scene. “That. Orange explosions don’t naturally occur in uninhabited wheat fields, you know.”
“And you’re suggesting I’m the one who put it there?” At her nod, her husband only chuckled and kissed the side of her neck. “Well, if my artistic opinion is worth any merit—”
“It certainly isn’t much to speak of.”
“In any case, I think this is a wonderful development,” Laurie said. “If you didn’t plan to add bright colors, why have the orange on your palette?”
Amy blinked. “It was meant to be blended into a sunrise,” she admitted, staring at the quickly-drying clump of bold paint. “It was meant to be subtle.”
Laurie rolled his shoulders and straightened, heading over to the window and gazing out for a moment. “If there’s any space for suggestions— not to imply there is— I do adore that orange. Maybe you could expand on it in that painting.”
“Adore is quite a strong word,” she hummed, considering the unfinished piece through thoughtfully narrowed eyes. “You present a compelling case, my lord.”
He beamed. “Pleased to hear it.” He moved back across the room, wading through a shaft of sunlight because god forbid this man ever walked normally. Then, with a final overdone bow, he added, “M’lady.”
“Oh!” she cried, annoyance piercing her fingertips and making her drop her brush again. “Do you want me to chase after you?” Amy called after him, but he’d already disappeared down the hall. Her annoyance was quickly overpowered by a series of girlish giggles that shook her entire body.
That night, she fell through the ice again. It was a recurring nightmare that always prowled around each corner of her mind before eventually coming to the forefront again. First she would pursue something she couldn’t see, then the ground would disappear under her feet, plunging her into icy waters that cut her skin like shards of glass.
Whenever the dream decided to torment her, she was never able to get back to sleep once it jolted her awake. It bothered her that her mind shrouded her target in darkness, because she knew very well who she was chasing that day. Amy sat up in bed, running her fingers over clammy skin, and spared the slumbering Laurie a glance. All limbs, a soft snore distorting an otherwise perfectly calm face. Knife-sharp shoulder blades poked through the skin of his bare back. Some nights he would be woken by her thrashing and he was willing to sacrifice his own sleep to spend an hour holding and comforting her. Tonight was not one of those nights, however— and Amy didn’t mind. She was caught in more of an independent mood, anyway.
She’d fallen asleep in Laurie’s arms naked as the day she was born, and now regretted that decision because the night had made the room freezing. Sweeping her loose hair out of her face, she slipped out from under the covers and stumbled through the poor light into a robe. She tied it securely around herself then struck a match to wake up the worn down candle on the nightstand.
Amy worked her way down the hall, then turned onto another. The emptiness of this house was far more pronounced at night, with an endless array of gaping furniture and unfilled rooms. Dust danced in the moonlit air around her and skeletal shadows from the trees outside dappled the walls. Amy didn’t much mind stirring up any stagnant dust the housekeepers had missed, though it did remind her of Laurie’s expressed desire to one day liven these dead corridors with the pattering of smaller feet (and they would be nice, small, feet, given that their children inherit her lovely feet).
It was a desire she shared, fueled by something Meg had mentioned once in passing, that her and John’s home had felt so big and empty before the twins were born. If their tiny cottage had felt barren, that only meant this great big house was a million times worse, even as much as Amy adored it. Beth had loved it here, too, fingers at the grand piano. And Jo— Jo, who was in New York penning her next novel with both motivated hands— she would be sprinting through these halls hollering with her arms spread wide. Jo had always wanted more space, demanded it, took up as much of it as she could with her voice in the same way Laurie filled a room with his arms and legs.
Amy reached her little art studio, setting her candle on the one windowsill. She left the door propped open because she knew she wouldn’t be disturbing anyone, then went to open the window facing Orchard House. Sweet summer air swirled inside, lifting her hair off her shoulders and tickling her neck. Amy had been abroad— she’d been on a boat in the heart of a vast ocean, she’d been in blooming gardens in Paris— but still nothing compared to a Massachusetts breeze.
After a few more candles were added, the room was decently lit and well aired out, so Amy set to work. She pulled her easel toward the lively window and examined the painting from earlier. It appeared entirely different by candlelight, the orange splotch its own flickering flame in the mellow glow.
Tonight’s events were prefaced by a straight month of relentless weather. The snow currently blowing through Concord might’ve been a deterrent for many people, but the Laurences were not ones to turn down an energetic party. Even with Jo as the hostess, attending still entailed a bit of dressing up and a fun little trip in the covered carriage, so Amy was certainly game.
Having finally finished her next book, Jo decided to return to Concord for good and make something out of the old estate Aunt March left her. Tonight was like a housewarming party and a welcome back celebration for her. When Laurie and Amy pulled up to Plumfield, it was alight with festivities and so very different from the way she knew it growing up. Of course Aunt March never directly told Amy about her decision to leave the place to Jo, but Amy had a feeling the decision was made the day they left Europe, when her ornery mentor glimpsed the way Amy curled into Laurie’s side in the carriage, dressed head to toe in grieving black yet bearing a delicate smile when he reached for her hand.
Now they entered the house arm in arm, but soon had to break apart to accept several hugs and cheek kisses. Amy hugged Meg and hugged Jo and hugged the twins and hugged her parents. Marmee’s gaze lingered just a little longer on her youngest daughter, and as if she knew Amy was already planning to snack minimally, skip the champagne, and cut the night short, she said, “There’s something different about you, my dear.”
Jo leaned into the conversation before ducking back out to attend to other guests: “That’s what spending ample time around Teddy will do to you. She’s gone daft.”
Amy kept her lips sealed, only providing half a clue via a sly glance exchanged with Laurie, who also didn’t say a word. Sometimes, they’d agreed, it was nice to keep certain things to themselves, and this was one thing they wanted to share between just the two of them for a little longer.
“Oh, well. I suppose it’s just been too long since I’ve seen you both,” Marmee conceded, then pulled both daughter and son-in-law into another embrace. She had just seen them on Tuesday, of course, but nobody objected with the fib.
Amy lasted about three hours before exhaustion started to settle in her bones. She broke away from the crowd, wandering up a back staircase. At one point she had practically been the master of this house, in the days when she spent long hours here when Beth was sick. If she managed to slip past Aunt March’s radar, the place was hers to explore. After a trip down a narrow corridor caked with dust, Amy emerged into a more familiar area and without realizing it, ended up in the room she used to stay in.
She perched herself on the edge of the bed and let her eyes slide shut. She had only herself and her thoughts here, though she doubted that she was the only one who could hear her conscience anymore. The faint trill of piano crawled up the stairs— Jo must’ve insisted Friedrich play another set. In another world, it would be Beth on that seat.
It didn’t take long for Laurie to trace her. For once he entered the room at a normal gait, hunched over as he hurried to sit beside her. He snagged her gaze, and she was met with round eyes and a forehead crinkled like tissue paper. “Are you alright?” he asked, putting an arm around her shoulders.
She thought back to when he first kissed her in France, when he cupped her face in his soft hands and for just a sliver of a second kissed her grief away. When the emotions came flooding back a moment later, they were joined by a new worry: how could she ever be loved by someone who had fallen so deeply for her sister? How could she take up residence in a heart that had been occupied by someone else for so long? For a while, Amy had toyed with the idea, molded and reshaped it in her hands until she got used to the feel of it. That past was a condition of loving Laurie, and the potential for an incredible life with him far outweighed that concern.
She didn’t think her feelings exploded vehemently the way Jo’s tended to, sparking fiery flurries of yelled words. Aunt March instilled in Amy the mentality that to preserve good manners, angry words must be saved until they could be screamed into a pillow in private. Instead Amy freed each and every little nag in her mind, crying gently into Laurie’s chest that day in the carriage. Her sister was gone and her childhood was gone and she was so frustrated because all she’d ever needed was right in front of her all along. She loved being abroad but nothing compared to whisper-telling stories with Beth late at night when they should’ve been asleep, and acting out those ridiculous plays Jo wrote, and curling up in the parlor to drink hot cocoa the night before Christmas. Nothing compared, and all along Laurie had been right nearby, at a proximity neither of them had understood yet.
It took growing up to appreciate that closeness, and Amy cried into his expensive shirt that day in the carriage because all of this had always been right within her reach. She could stuff herself into a corset and paint all the flowers and rivers and people in Paris but she was tired of swallowing the fireworks.
“I’m fine,” she told Laurie now, leaning into his embrace.
“Really?”
“Really. I’m more than fine.” Amy pressed her cheek into his shoulder, craning her neck to peer up at him. He was a sun she could stare at all day. She reached up and tangled her fingers in his endless curls.
He blushed and looked down, twisting his wedding band around his finger. “If you’re tired, or— or feeling ill, we can go home.”
“Mmm,” she yawned. She stretched out along the bed and laid down so her head rested in his lap. “I’m home when I’m with you, my lord.”
More scarlet rushed into his cheeks. “Do I deserve such boundless admiration?” His words were broken up by a slight laugh that went right to her heart.
Amy turned onto her back, hair disheveled and dress spilling over the bedspread. She held out her waiting hands, and once they were joined with his she rested them on her lazily rising and falling torso. “Always,” she assured him. As she drifted off into slumber, her mind briefly flashed to an unfinished orange blotch painting buried somewhere between sketches of an angular jawline and chestnut curls. She had thought it ruined, but her fool Laurie Laurence declared it unfinished, so it must’ve been so. And Amy would have an endless supply of Concord summers to complete it.