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I
It's a spur-of-the moment joke on the bridge, the result of two days of nonstop strain and single-minded focus which haven't allowed either of them a minute or an inch in which to decompress. Helen's mind has been stuck on Guillaume. Max's mind has been stuck on Helen. It's not jealousy—he'd meant every word he'd said to Floyd; they've both got pasts—but it's a sudden and violent rush of unexpected insecurity, that maybe he can't love her the way she needs to be loved, and he needs to get the words out tonight before he chokes on them.
As they approach the mural, he realizes that the view of it from up here is better the closer you get to the ground. So, he starts to crouch, and then—on a whim, just to see how she reacts—he changes his mind and turns it into a kneel instead. He can't explain exactly why he does it. Maybe the idea of making her laugh—that sing-song tone he knows so well that he hears it in his dreams sometimes—is a protective measure, just in case this conversation ends up breaking his heart.
He knows she's fallen for it the second her hand flies reflexively to her mouth, and by that point he has no choice but to roll with it and hope she sees the funny side. Fortunately, Helen's got a soft spot for dry humor, or at least the outcome of the surgery has left her in a forgiving mood, because she throws a few half-hearted punches at him and practically yanks him to his feet with strength far beyond what she appears to possess.
And then she doesn't break his heart. Far from it, in fact.
After, when they're all talked out and wrapped in each other's arms, still watching butterflies below, Max whispers into her hair, "I really got you with the kneel, didn't I?"
Helen keeps stroking his side, her hand underneath his jacket for warmth. "Remember five minutes ago when I said you gave me butterflies?" She asks, not lifting her gaze from the pitch black swirl of water passing beneath them.
"Mmhmm?"
She drops her chin and turns to look up at him from under sarcastically raised eyebrows. "I'm starting to think they might just be moths.”
II
He's lying face-down on the couch when she gets in from her late clinic, a sorry stack of paperwork strewn around him on the floor and a forgotten pen tucked behind his ear. She doesn't say anything when she sees him, just smiles knowingly and leans over him, dropping a gentle kiss on the back of his head.
"I thought hospital paperwork was bad," he groans, pushing himself up into a sitting position and pulling her towards him in a fleeting moment of need. Sometimes, when it's been a long day, he craves physical closeness with her, and nothing quite sits right in his head until he gets it. Helen shrieks as she loses her balance at the suddenness of his movement and lands squarely in his lap, shaking with laughter at the unexpectedness of it.
"Visa paperwork is a different league," she empathizes, wrapping her arms around his neck. "It'll be worth it, Max."
Max nods. He doesn't know if she needs his reassurance that he's still on-board with the plan right now or if she's just in a tactile mood too, so he slips his arms around her waist and interlaces his fingers at the small of her back. "It would be so much easier if we were married, you know."
This time, she only freezes for a fraction of a second before breaking into a grin so wide that Max finds himself kissing her dimples. "Nice try, Mister. I'm not falling for that one again." Her laughter tickles his cheek as her thumb starts to gently massage the top of his spine.
"What makes you think I'm kidding?" he asks, voice half an octave higher than usual in mock outrage. "One trip to city hall and it cuts the number of forms I have to fill out practically in half." Keeping his arms around her waist, he slides her off his lap and onto the couch next to him, and then lowers himself to the floor on his knees in front of her, resting his head in her lap. "Please, baby. I'm literally on my knees."
She shakes her head, bemused. "Consider this an exercise in perseverance." After a second, she adds, "And also romance. That's one knee too many."
III
"Jesus, Helen.”
Blinking slowly to bring himself back down to earth, chest still heaving and sweat-slick, Max flops back against the pillows and reaches both arms out in front of him in the hope that one of them will reach her. They both end up landing limply by his sides, but she understands the gesture and crawls up his body to nestle into them instead. Uninterrupted Sunday mornings are few and far between in their apartment these days, what with the everyday chaos of a toddler who doesn't believe in sleep, and the brand new chaos of trying to pack up all three of their lives for an international move. With Luna in Connecticut for the weekend, they've very much taken the opportunity and run with it.
"You really kept that one up your sleeve," Max teases, feeling the soft rumble reverberate against his chest as Helen chuckles, clearly recalling exactly the moment which is also playing back in his mind's eye.
She props her chin up languidly on his chest as if surveying the damage she's done, with a wonderfully dark kind of pride glimmering in her eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she says, and it almost scares him how much he wants her in that moment.
She knows—of course she knows—but clearly she wants to hear him say it, and who is Max to be the arbiter of what gets her off when she's just been responsible for one of the best orgasms of his life. "That thing you did with your tongue. I might have to marry you for that, you know."
She rolls her eyes, but she can't keep the look of irritation in place for long enough for it to be convincing. "It's a shame," she says, lowering her lips to the soft skin between his collarbones and sucking the beginnings of a hickey there, following it with a series of lighter, teasing kisses across his chest, swirling in no clear direction; a map to nowhere. "Before you made that joke, I was thinking I could do it again."
Max exhales, and it's half laughter and half disbelief at his luck. "Marriage?" He scoffs. "Who said anything about marriage?" He holds up his hands, gesturing to the room at large at the absurdity of the accusation. "If this is living in sin, then I want to live here forever."
He loses the ability to talk not long after that, which, all things considered, is probably for the best.
IV
It's only fitting that they finish their last day at the Dam in their spot; tucked out of sight on the rooftop, staring out over the darkening expanse of Kips Bay below them. It's only just started to feel real to Max—that they're done, and they're a few days away from absolutely everything changing—and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't worried that Helen might start to interpret his silence as him having second thoughts. (He's not, but that doesn't mean the magnitude of what they're doing isn't dizzying when he thinks about it for too long.)
"London's got some great rooftops," Helen says to the sky, like if she looks him in the eye her concern for him will be too obvious, and the moment will be ruined.
Max grins and looks down at his hands, forearms resting on the cold railings. "Can I tell you a secret?" He asks, casting his mind back to the first day they'd crossed paths up here, on their own separate escape missions. They'd each kept to their own sides at first, only shuffling indirectly towards each other in alternating moves as the conversation had taken a turn from small talk to soul searching.
She nods, and from the look on her face he knows she understands what he's saying.
"After the first day, I only ever came back up here for the company."
This time, it's a genuine accident. He's looking sheepishly down past his hands, trying to stave off the tiny pang of guilt that comes whenever he remembers he'd had feelings for Helen while he was still married; feelings which very much didn't fit under the labels of doctor, deputy or friend. They'd stood up here after the snowstorm and almost, almost put words to it—this electric, agonizing connection they've had ever since that first day. But neither of them could, and what good would it have done, anyway. Max's lowered gaze catches sight of his untied shoelace, and without thinking, he stoops to tie it. Helen's breath catches in her throat, and the world is so quiet up here that he actually hears it.
"Did I just..." Their eyes meet, as his back knee comes to rest against the cold flagstones. Max grins from ear to ear. "I just got you again!"
Helen's eyes glaze over, and for a horrible second he thinks they're about to fill with tears. He's massively misjudged this. "That was cruel, Max," she sniffs, pulling her coat tighter around herself.
"God, Helen, I'm so sorry," he says in a panicked rush. "If I'd known it would upset you, I would never have made the joke." He's babbling, but he can't stop himself; he needs to make it right. "This time it really was an accident, I thought, because the other times—I didn't realize you—"
Watching the expression on her face change, he stops. It's back to neutral, so quickly that it's jarring, and then she's laughing; a deep, triumphant laugh that leaves him completely bewildered for a moment until understanding hits him.
"Oh, that was sick." Max can't contain his own laugh at the realization that she's played him. He ties his lace and gets back to his feet, shaking his head in amusement at her smug grin. Secretly, he loves that she gives as good as she gets. He wants it to be like this forever.
V
Serwa Sharpe is a force of nature. Exactly which force she is, Max hasn't quite decided yet, but right now, after a family dinner so tense that he's almost missing the predictable awkwardness of Connecticut, he's somewhere in between labeling her a forest fire and a tsunami. From the way things are going, it doesn't seem like she's his biggest fan either.
London was always going to be full of surprises, but Max hadn't expected the biggest surprise of the move to be that Helen and her mother seem to mostly communicate in tight-lipped glares and soft tutting noises that would be almost imperceptible to Max if he couldn't feel Helen flinch by his side after each and every one of them. Strained doesn't do the true nature of their relationship justice. Helen's trying to keep the peace—he can tell she's trying really hard—so instead of calling Serwa out, he talks about Helen's work at the clinic and about how they're settling in, because the world would come to an end if someone somewhere couldn't be instantly won over by the Max Goodwin charm offensive.
He doesn't pass up the opportunity to have a little fun with it though, after hearing something egregious pass between them in hushed tones in the kitchen, as he stands round the corner in the hallway, helping Luna into her coat.
First, Helen. "Mum, will you please lower your voice? It's about reconnecting, that's why I'm here."
In response, an angry whisper. "Have you lost your mind since the last time I saw you? You've dragged your ex-boss half way across the world so you can raise his child for him and reconnect with everything you abandoned here?" She kisses her teeth, and the contempt is visceral. "You're not even married," she finishes.
Helen's half second of silence is all it takes for Max's outrage to bubble to the surface. He hoists Luna onto his hip and makes it to the kitchen doorway in two long strides, not caring whether or not he's interrupting them. "I mean, you're totally right on every count," he directs at Serwa, watching Helen's eyes go wide in shock in his peripheral vision. "Apart from the last, because that's one we're going to fix. Overdue, in fact. Helen—" he pauses, shooting her a quick but calm look. "Do you think the registry office on the high street can fit us in tomorrow morning? Because at least then your mom can refer to me as your husband instead of your ex-boss when she's insulting us."
Both sets of eyes are on him now. Helen's still wide; wary. Serwa's, more interestingly, have a spark in them that he's so far yet to see. The corner of her mouth twitches like she's putting considerable effort into suppressing a smile. She turns to Helen and puts a hand on her shoulder; it's the first sign of physical affection Max has seen pass between them since they've arrived. "Well," she says, curtly. "At least he's got backbone."
It's the tiniest of victories—paper thin, shaky ground—but it's a victory just the same.
&
"Max, when you mentioned a day out south of the river, I won't lie, I thought you meant Blackheath. What on earth are we doing in Dulwich?"
It's springtime, but Max is starting to learn that in London you dress for the weather you want rather than the weather you have, so Helen's in her first summer dress of the year. He's pretty sure it had been inspired by the sight of Luna in her new pale blue cardigan this morning; Helen's dress is exactly the same shade, like the idea of them matching had been the push she needed to embrace the change in seasons.
"I always thought you were kidding when you talked about the divide," Max says, giving nothing away as he leads them away from the Overground along a leafy, suburban street. "But it really is a thing, isn't it?"
"It's a big city," Helen shrugs, pausing at a junction and holding her hand out expectantly for Luna's so they can cross together. "Being territorial makes it feel more manageable. Oh—" she looks up at the comically large modernist building which has just appeared out of nowhere between some nondescript blocks of flats on the main road. "I didn't know there was a museum here."
"Do you trust me yet?" Max asks her with a grin, watching her face to check for clues that she might recognize the name of this place. Nothing.
"Verdict is still out on that one," she says, skeptically. "Plenty of museums north of the river."
"Oh, but we're not going into the museum."
She quirks an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything. Max takes Luna's other hand and they walk past the museum down a side-street, stopping every few paces so that they can swing Luna out in front of them by her arms. The gardens they reach are completely hidden from the main road, so that if you didn't know what you were looking for, there's not a chance you would stumble across them. They're sprawling and varied and bursting with the vitality of spring; terraces, immaculately sculpted displays and grasslands filled to bursting with wildflowers. At this time of day, the whole thing acts like a sun trap, tingeing everything in sight with the pale yellow hint of the summer that's to come.
"Okay," Helen acknowledges, as they let Luna run back and forth across the path ahead of them to burn off some steam. "I trust you a little bit."
Max slips an arm around her waist. "Just a little bit?"
They weave their way between flower beds and sculptures and covered terraces, watching Luna tear up and down rows of tulips with absolutely no regard for the peace and tranquility of the gardens. She's never been a fan of the indoors, and watching her start to grow in a city with a little more green space, a little less containment, Max is starting to see echoes of himself in her.
The path they're on leads them through the wildflowers, past a bandstand from which they get a surprisingly good view of the London skyline—'It's all backwards, it feels fundamentally wrong' Helen jokes, with Luna sitting cheerfully on her shoulders—and finally to a blue corrugated iron structure that looks half way between a shipping container and a greenhouse, peaks of glass forming a stepped roof which juts out at strange angles. Max is dimly aware that he hasn't spoken for a few minutes as the nerves start to twist his insides into knots, and Helen must be aware of it too, because something feels loaded between them as they reach the entrance of the building and find it secured with a rope barrier.
Helen makes to turn back when she sees it, but Max shakes his head and gestures ahead of them, unfastening the rope so they can pass through.
"It's roped off," Helen says, confused. "I don't think we can—"
"Trust me, for real this time." Max holds out a hand, imploring her with his eyes. She takes it, winding their fingers together, and follows him inside.
The greenhouse is empty apart from the three of them, filled with dense green foliage, and is kept tropically warm and humid for the benefit of its inhabitants. Max feels Helen stop in her stacks next to him with a jolt and a tiny gasp as she realizes what's in here. Hundreds of butterflies flutter around the space, different shapes and sizes and colors, completely surrounding them. Her eyes flicker haphazardly around the space following the paths of several of them before they settle on him, wide with the unasked question. What is this?
Luna quickly darts off to chase something, and Max just about manages to call out a cautionary 'be careful, Lu' before she's hiding amongst the leaves and all he can see of her is her shoes. He refocuses on Helen, whose eyes are still firmly fixed on him.
"So, last weekend," he starts, seeing first confusion and then dawning apprehension on Helen's features. Last weekend had been entirely unremarkable, apart from that Luna had come home from nursery on Friday with a mother's day card for Helen, and without any kind of discussion or acknowledgement of the change, from that moment, she'd started calling her mum.
"We can talk to her about it," Helen says, misunderstanding him, as if he's anything other than elated that they have this bond with each other. As if he hadn't wanted it to be like this the first time he'd watched Helen hold her.
"I don't think there's anything to talk about," he softens his voice. "Luna knows that her friends' moms are always there for them, that they look after them when they're sick, they help them when they need it, and they tell them they love them every night before bed. And that's everything that you are to her." Helen's eyes have started to fill with tears, and he needs to make it through this part before they reach the point where they start to fall, or the lump in his throat is going to cut him off. "It must have only just occurred to her now that there's a word for it."
As he says it, she closes the few feet between them and tucks her head against his chest, breathing "Thank you for saying that," against his chest.
"There's something else," Max adds, his fingers tracing the straps of her dress as they zig-zag across her back. "After Luna showed us that card, I was on the verge of reviving the proposal jokes. But something stopped me." Helen goes tense in his arms, and he feels her breath hitch. Look at me he thinks, and she does; she leans back just a little and tilts her head up, inquisitively. There's intrigue in her eyes, and something else, like a nervous kind of hope. It's exactly what he's feeling himself. "I realized I really don't want to joke about it anymore. If Luna's figured out that she can call you something else, then I want to, too."
It must only take two or three seconds for him to take a step back, steady himself and bend into a kneel in front of her, but the silence stretches the seconds into what feels like whole minutes. The only sound is the beating of hundreds of pairs of tiny wings beating against the thick, humid air, making it feel like the space around them is vibrating.
"Helen, will you marry me?" He asks, tone calm despite his heart beating a hundred times a minute in his chest. There's a tiny part of his brain which worries that she might think this is an elaborate joke, but when her hand goes to her mouth he lets go of that fear, focusing on her face again. The tears are coming; he can see them pooling in the depths of her soft brown eyes, so to make sure he gets a smile out of her first he whispers up to her, "For real, this time."
She's back in his arms before he registers that she's moved at all, both of them kneeling on the floor, and when he feels her head moving up and down in what has to be a nod against his chest, Max exhales for what feels like the first time in a week. Helen's cheeks are wet with tears, and she's kissing him, he's kissing her back even as he wraps one arm securely around her so he can lift them both to their feet. The singular thought in his mind is that being in love with her is the easiest thing he's ever done.
"Is that a yes?" He asks against her lips, tentatively, even though the nod had told him all he needs to know.
"I would have said yes that night on the bridge," she laughs, her eyelids fluttering closed to stop the tears from falling. They stay like that for a minute, or maybe an hour, Luna eventually finding her way back to them and being enveloped into the hug by two pairs of clumsy, lovestruck hands. Max brushes the pad of his thumb over Helen's cheek to wipe away one last stray tear.
Yes, she mouths silently, as she opens her eyes.