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Chapter Text

The letter arrives inconspicuously amongst the morning post. Stacked between bills and private letters, Thomas completely misses it the first time around. It lands on the later pile and doesn’t get looked at for the rest of the day.

Mrs. Hughes sits on one of the sofas in his office and sips on a glass of port while he sorts through his mail at his desk when the letter finally gets the attention it came in for.

“What the-?” Thomas mutters, staring at the envelope.

“What is it?” Mrs. Hughes asks, turning in the cushions to look at him.

In lieu of an answer, he holds up the high-quality paper, turning it to face her. She can’t be bothered to stand up after a long day of teaching and instead squints her eyes and tilts her head to try and make out what he means. Eventually she sighs. “I can’t see anything.”

Instead of making a quip at her old age, Thomas says: “It’s from the embassy.”

“Oh, my.” She takes another sip of port.

“Yes, oh my.” Thomas takes his letter opener, and with far more care than usual, slides the envelope open. A quick flash of light rushes over his hands and through his body. It tingles, but is gone in a blink, and the letter stays whole. He passed the identification check. Wary, but with practiced motions he takes out the paper and unfolds it.

Dear Mr. Thomas Barrow,
Headmaster of the Alfean School for Specialist Training and Magical Education,
Lieutenant Colonel, SAMC 605 (223-86)

The Government of Solaria celebrates another year of growth, freedom and safety. We appreciate the work and trust the School of Alfea has given the Government, and thank you and your students for your service to our country.

To honor our relations Her Majesty Queen Luna II. of Solaria will pay a visit to the School of Alfea on the 24^th and 25^th of September this year. Her Majesty is looking forward with pleasure to meeting the young and inquisitive minds of the fairies and specialists you teach and welcomes the opportunity to see more of the school and its practices. We are confident that Her Majesty’s visit will help to strengthen the ties of friendship between the School of Alfea and its country.

Please wait with your preparations for further instructions to ensure a smooth and pleasant realization of the hereby announced visit of Her Majesty Queen Luna II. of Solaria to the Alfean School for Specialist Training and Magical Education.

With Cordial Good Wishes,

Gwen Dawson
Internal Relations Office

“And? What does it say?” Mrs. Hughes calls over her shoulder.

Thomas can barely tear his gaze from the page and his response is as automatic as it is baffled: “The queen is coming.”

On Friday they make a trip to the pub – Thomas, Daisy, the Bates’ and Phyllis and Molesley. There are enough other staff at the school for them to be able to slip away and take an evening off. Thomas had waited to tell them, holding off for the right moment, or so he had convinced himself. He can’t deny that tonight presents itself as quite the opportunity, with drinks that can soften the blow or ease the aftermath and the general excitement of a weekend ahead lifting everyone’s mood.

When they are well into their second round, have played darts and exchanged weekend plans, he clears his throat. After a few seconds, the table falls silent.

“I’ve had a letter.” Thomas opens, and then decides to just get it over with. “The Queen is coming for a visit to honor the work Alfea has done for the country. Or summat like that.”

The reactions are as different as the people sitting in their booth are – Daisy looks annoyed at best, Anna laughs excitedly and claps in her hands, Bates frowns, and, well, Molesley seems close to fainting and Phyllis has her hands full with keeping him anchored to their planet.

“Whatever for?” Daisy grumbles.

“To put her nose in our business, that’s what for.” Thomas grumbles and blames his bluntness on the alcohol coursing through his veins.

“Oh, but it’s exciting, isn’t it?” Anna chirps with a smile.

“When was the last time she came to Alfea?” Bates asks and, for the sake of his wife, lifts his lips in a hint of a smile.

“About twelve years ago- I think?” Thomas takes a sip from his pint. “And that was because of the reparations after the war, since they had to build the entire castle from scratch again.”

“Ah, thank god for the war – I don’t want to live without a fireproof sim room anymore.” Daisy knocks three times on the wooden tabletop. Phyllis frowns at the questionable first part of that statement but doesn’t interrupt.

“Whe- when will she honor us with her presence?” Molesley, having recovered as best as possible under the given circumstances, whispers with a dry mouth.

“In two months, the last weekend of September.”

Phyllis frowns. “On a weekend?”

“I doubt the Queen cares much for our work-life-balance.” Thomas intones, then shakes his head. “Anyway, I won’t force anyone to stay. If any of you have plans or want to take the weekend off, let me know and I’ll arrange it. Mrs. Hughes and I are the only ones who’ll have to be there.”

“Oh, I’ll be there, and if it’s the last thing I’ll ever do!” Molesley ends the statement with a breathy laugh, closing the topic on a more high-spirited note than Thomas ever could have managed.

Weeks later it turns out that Thomas had, apparently, been wrong in one aspect: Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson are required to be there during the visit, or so Mary Talbot, chairwoman of the school board, informs him. She made no secret of her upset at Thomas’ seeming lack of preparations regarding Her Majesty’s visit, and instead of talking to him like a sane adult, simply reinstates Carson as headmaster for the upcoming weekend. It takes two hours for that to really sink in and when it does, he wants to either cry, laugh hysterically or sucker punch the chairwoman with the very letter that had literally instructed him to wait for further instructions. He doesn’t do any of the three, but almost hands in his notice at the blatant distrust and lack of respect the school board throws in his face during their meeting.

“And what role am I supposed to play in this, then?” He asks, affronted, watching Mary and her father seated in the visiting chairs in front of his desk. She arches a brow at his tone and Robert fumbles.

“Well, you could be a sort of-”

“With all due respect, I’d prefer not to be a sort of anything.” It shuts him right up. “I will surrender my position for the duration of the visit, if I must, and return to my place when Her Majesty is gone, if you so wish.” Mary’s brows almost vanish in her hairline, corners of her mouth tugged up in sheer disbelief at his tone. For a moment she seems lost for words in the face of his audacity. Thomas is so hurt by the whole affair he can’t even enjoy it, which only serves to sour his mood further. Robert, in the meantime, tries to smooth the waters. “Now, Barrow, let’s not rush to-”

“I hope Mr. Carson will handle the visit to your satisfaction, Mr. Crawley, Mrs. Talbot. Now, If you’ll excuse me-” He stands and gathers his things. “I have a class to teach.” And with that, he leaves them in his office, slamming the door on his way out.

He should probably start counting the days he has left as headmaster.

In class, Albert asks him if he’s had bad news. Seems like his poker face isn’t what it used to be anymore.

He and Mrs. Hughes pass the news to the kitchen staff later the day, after a meeting with the other teachers in which Thomas had broken the news and had been confronted with an avalanche of questions and, following that, universal indifference. Which hadn’t smarted at all, thank you very much.

“…so Mr. Carson will take over from Thursday till Sunday, and I’ll be back on Monday.”

“What, they gave him his job back, just like that?” Daisy asks in disbelief.

“Since he is apparently more suited for a royal visit than I am, yes, they did.” Mrs. Patmore makes a weird little grunting sound at his tone.

“But he was fired for a reason-”

“Now, now, Mr. Carson was not fired, he just retired early.” Mrs. Hughes tuts. “I trust everything will go just as smoothly under his command as it would under Mr. Barrow’s.”

“I just don’t think it’s fair – when Thomas hasn’t done nothing.” Daisy frowns, head bobbing in Thomas’ direction.

“It’s not our job to decide whether it’s fair or not, especially not yours, Daisy. The board decided it, and then so be it.”

“But-”

“I’m not saying you have to be happy about it, but you’re going to have to live with it.” Mrs. Hughes shuts her off sternly.

Thomas is torn between siding with Daisy, to keep at least some of his pride and dignity intact, and staying calm and professional. Since he already threw his temper tantrum, and right in Mary’s face at that, he supposes he’s got to do something to balance that out again. “I don’t like it either, but there it is. So if you have any concerns or requests you wish to discuss with me before the visit, I’ll be in my office until six tomorrow, then Carson takes over. Any matters concerning the visit, you will from now on have to sort out with Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes – I’m no longer part of it.”

Daisy frowns even harder and even Mrs. Patmore seems disgruntled at the sudden change in command, probably because it means she’ll have to talk the menus over for a third time.

Thomas turns and exits the kitchen, leaving them to their grumbling, and Mrs. Hughes follows him. They make their way through the maze of hallways of the staff area.

“Thomas-”

He knows what she wants to say and has absolutely no desire to talk to her about it – to talk to anyone about it, really, since it wouldn’t change anything about the fact that this, this thing the board is pulling right now, comes dangerously close to what had pushed Thomas into a bathtub and a razor into his wrists not three years ago. He interrupts her sharply: “I’m going to the gym. Tom wasn’t there when I told the others, and he probably hasn’t heard of it yet-” Thomas pushes open the suppliers’ entrance and steps out onto the school yard. Bright, warm rays of sunlight greet them. It seems a bit inappropriate considering the dark feelings inside his chest.

“Thomas- stop!”

He turns around at her sharp tone. Is she really going to do this? Now? “What?”

She softens immediately, so apparently yes, she is. “Don’t take it personal.”

“Shouldn’t I?” He snaps with narrowed eyes. “I’m not sure.”

Mrs. Hughes takes a step towards him, her hands moving as if she wants to hold them up placatingly. As if he were an animal, unpredictable and wild and in need of calming. “Mrs. Talbot just wants everything to go well-”

“And she obviously doesn’t trust me with that.” He cuts her off.

“She’s a perfectionist.” She tries again. “And you know how she feels about Mr. Carson. Please don’t see it as a reflection on your work.”

She’s closer now and Thomas sighs, his shoulders sagging down. There’s no point in fighting her. His gaze wanders over their surroundings when he speaks, returning to her only when he’s finished. “You know, I have worked here for thirteen years – been here even longer – and I’d like to think I’m good at my job. But I’m starting to wonder what it will take to get my work recognized and appreciated.”

She searches for an answer but isn’t able to come up with one. Disappointed now, and angry that she had forced this conversation onto him without knowing how to end it herself, Thomas nods. “Right.” He leaves her standing in the court yard.

“So, what are you gonna do?” Tom asks, heaving gym mats on top of each other while Thomas leans against the wall of the specialists’ training hall and watches.

“Thought about visiting Rose – we’re not that close, but they’ll have me. If they come down too, to see the spectacle, I could even babysit.” It’s the first time Thomas’ thoughts have allowed him to see a silver lining in this mess, and he gladly takes it. There are worse ways to spend an evening than with a one-year-old air fairy that’s about as fussy as a sack of potatoes.

Tom pauses to look at him. “I meant about Carson.”

Thomas shrugs, irritated. “What am I supposed to do about him? I can’t very well usurp him from his throne.”

“But you can’t just let him take over.” Tom says it like it’s a fact, self-evident in its nature. Thomas is vexed by it.

“I don’t see what I can do about it. Mary decreed it.”

“But Robert’s the decision maker-”

Thomas scoffs. “Please, we all know Mary is the puppet master of the entire board. What she wants is what she gets.” There’s too much bitterness in his voice, and Tom looks at him with a hint of worry now. Thomas clears his throat. “Anyway, a break will do me good. Who knows, if the Aldridge’s won’t have me, maybe I’ll go on vacation. Last minute is always cheapest.”

Thomas going on a holiday is as probable as Mrs. Patmore handing in her wooden spoon to go on stage at the cabaret. He’s taken a total of three holidays in his entire life, two of which had been for funerals and one of which had been practically forced upon him when, well. When he had failed to kill himself. Talk about drastic circumstances.
Tom knows as well as he does that as long as Thomas can stand on his own two feet he'll work. But through nothing short of a miracle, he doesn’t press. Instead, something softens in his gaze and Thomas seizes the chance to ask about Sybbie – there’s nothing like enquiring about a man’s daughter to distract him from his pity.

In the evening, when Thomas already retired to his suite, Phyllis knocks at his door. He knows it’s her from the rhythm of the raps. “It’s open!”

She’s quiet as she enters, hanging her jacket neatly between Thomas’ and settling her shoes on the shoe rack. Her very presence is enough to begin calming the turmoil inside him.

“Have you eaten yet?” She asks making her way to where he stands at the open window, smoking.

“Not particular hungry.” He breathes out smoke, aiming it out into the cold dark night.

“I brought some leftovers from the kitchens, if you want.” He turns to look at her and the containers in her hands and almost smiles. He knows it’s a lost battle, to pretend with her when she knows him so very well, and it has nothing to do with her being a mind fairy. With a sigh he turns back to the window.

“Thank you. Just put them- somewhere.” He waves his hand. Soon rid of the food, she comes to stand next to him. For a moment, they simply look out and watch the dark settle onto the woods surrounding Alfea. He’s careful to aim the smoke he exhales away from her.

“What did they say?” She asks quietly.

“Basically, that I’m surplus to requirement.” He huffs out a hollow laugh. For the first time, he lets all the bitterness and frustration and hurt show without restraint. With her, and only her, he is safe to do so. “Not like that’s anything new.” He shakes his head, taking another drag. Phyllis lifts a hand and threads it through his hair, playing with the strands, still damp from the shower. As always, he can’t deny a gentle touch, and leans almost unconsciously towards her. “Maybe I’m just expecting too much. It’s barely been two years since Carson left, of course they’re still pining after him.”

“I don’t know if it’s about who they like best.” She argues softly.

Thomas shakes his head. “No, it is. I know my work’s just as good as his, they simply don’t trust me.”

“Is it not enough that we trust you – Daisy, Andy, Mrs. Hughes. Me?”

Thomas shakes his head, exhausted. “No.” He whispers. “I wish it was, but it isn’t. Not in this.”

She nods. He’s suddenly overcome by gratefulness towards her. There aren’t many who wouldn’t think him ungrateful and selfish, who’d understand him, but she does, and she does so without asking questions or doubting him. Sometimes he wonders what he has done to deserve her.

“Have you been sleeping better?” She asks after a while.

Thomas turns away to stub out the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray and shrugs. “As well as it’s going to get.” She isn’t pleased with his dismissal, he can see it in the way she looks at him. He doesn’t really feel like going into it any more though, so all he adds is: “Been getting cold, hasn’t it.”

Phyllis hums. She knows what this means – it’s cold, so his hand aches more. And when it does, the memories aren’t as far away as they should be. Especially at night.

Many people, from psychoanalysts to the school board to Thomas’ employers and the majority of Alfea’s staff know in varying degrees about his PTSD – but Phyllis is the only one he’d have trusted with it, had it been up to him to share his weakness with anyone. Because that’s what it was, a weakness, and a shameful one at that. And sometimes it feels half the world knows about it, and Mary declaring him unfit for work hadn’t done that any favors.

Phyllis stays for a little while longer, but they don’t talk much more. He’s occupied with his thoughts, and she gives him the space he needs. She leaves with a hug and a kiss to the cheek.

Thomas brings a small bouquet of dahlias to her classroom the next morning, enchanted by Daisy to have a prolonged lifetime. The students aww and whistle and Jordan Hale dares to make a joke about him being sweet on her. Thomas reminds him that even if he had a love life, it wouldn’t be enough to distract him from the fact that he’s still waiting for the boy’s essay on transubstantiation in non-solarian fairy communities. It shuts him right up.

Thursday morning, Carson enters the headmaster’s office at 7 o’clock sharp. Thomas looks up as he bustles in and exchanges a look over Carson’s shoulder with a consternated Spratt standing in the doorway. For once, he is on the same page as his secretary.

“Mr. Carson.” He greets him, rising to his full height behind the desk.

“Mr. Barrow.” He nods, smiling his usual complacent yet pompous smile. “I am here now.”

“I can see that – thank you, Spratt.” The secretary lifts a brow, then leaves as slowly as possible. It seems to take an eternity for the door to eventually click shut.

“I trust everything has been well at Alfea?” Carson asks jovially. He is in an exceptionally good mood which only serves to grate on Thomas’ nerves.

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Good, good. That’s good to hear.” He looks at Thomas, waiting. When Thomas doesn’t budge, his smile becomes strained. “I believe I have everything I need for the moment, thank you, Mr. Barrow. You may go.”

“…Excuse me?”

Mr. Carson clears his throat, readying himself for one of his lectures. “Mr. Barrow, as you may recall I have been made Headmaster of Alfea for the duration of the visit of Her Majesty, starting on Thursday. Today is Thursday. So, I thank you for waiting for me for a successful handover, but now it is time to let me do my work.”

“…It’s your work now, is it?” Thomas’ bitterness is audible in the words. He hates how his control always slips when he needs it the most.

“Yes.”

“Then Spratt shall show you to your office, so as not to waste any more time-”

“Naturally, I will be using this office.”

“…But this is my office.”

“It is the headmaster’s office. And considering that, as of today and for the next three days, you are not the headmaster of Alfea anymore…” By god, that man is testing him. Thomas puts his hands on the desk and leans forward.

“And you will be? You’ll be the one teaching the third years all about elemental sublimation in twenty minutes? Or be with the first years at the stone circle at nine, or with the fourth after luncheon?”

“I won’t return to teaching, Mr. Barrow, I am simply here to organize and direct the Royal Visit.” Carson evades the challenge. Thomas’ eyes narrow, anger rolling inside him. He can feel his fire lashing upwards, fueled by his emotions. It takes considerable strength to not let it show.

“Mr. Barrow. If you would…?” Carson steps to the side, hand directed at the door, impatient. And in the end, as it had always been and probably always will be, Thomas gives in and leaves.

When he’s at the stone circle with the first graders, his demonstration of how to use the sacred ground to amplify one’s magic is grander than usual. His flames fan out, engulfing them all for a minute without touching as much as a blade of grass, burning angrily away without destroying anything, and the students clap and look at him with big eyes and excited smiles.

At least some people respect him, even if they are a bunch of hormonal teens who don’t know any better.

Chapter Text

Thomas is in class when, the next day, the first Royal Convoy arrives. It brings numerous guards and a handful of staff and should quite thoroughly disrupt whatever Carson has managed to pull together until now. Thomas almost regrets not bearing witness to the first meeting of the Head of Command and his old boss.

He’s at the stone circle with the fifth graders, working on elemental substantiation, when they get interrupted. Heavy boots trample along the path, uniforms rustle and Albert’s eyes glow faintly lilac as he informs them of a handful of newly arrived guards coming their way. Thomas pauses the lesson and lets the students mingle while he rounds the rocks. He takes a stand where the pathway opens into the clearing and waits. Soon enough, the uniforms of the Solarian Army emerge from the thick forest. There’s five of them, and Thomas can’t help but feel uneasy when they form a tidy line right in front of him. A woman, older than Thomas and stiffer than a stick, steps forward.

“This is the stone circle, yes?” She demands. Thomas narrows his eyes at the tone, but nods. “Good. I’m General Webb, Second In Command of the Royal Guard. We are here to secure the southern border of the school. Please don’t feel interrupted in your teachings, Mr. …?”

“Barrow.”

It makes her lift a brow. “Barrow? The headmaster? I thought you were indisposed for the duration of Her Majesty’s visit.”

“My duties have been narrowed down due to personal reasons.” He recites the response he and Mr. Crawley had agreed upon. It sounds an awful lot like I didn’t want to do it, so they had to call in my predecessor, and to keep from adding anything else he clasps his hands behind his back, clenching his fist away from their eyes.

General Webb looks at him for a second, face unreadable, then nods. “Very well. We won’t disrupt you any further.” She turns and the guards ease out of parade posture. With a nod from their General, they fan out – all except one. Blond hair, slight swagger in his step and by far the most handsome of the bunch, he comes up to Thomas.

“She can be a bit blunt.” He says with an apologetic smile. It’s out of the blue and it stops Thomas from returning to his students, so he doesn’t appreciate it as much as the other seems to expect. But he’s approachable enough and, well- Thomas may be old news, but he can appreciate something nice when he sees it.

“No harm done.” He answers, trying to smile in the way Anna always says makes him look nicer.

“So, you’re the mysterious Headmaster Barrow?”

Thomas frowns but can feel the corners of his mouth jerking up in earnest now. “I don’t know about mysterious.”

“Oh, no, you are. They told us you’d be off-site, yet here you are, teaching like nothing’s happened, with an explanation that’s nothing more than a flimsy excuse- pardon my words.” He chuckles, but it does nothing to ease the indignation shooting up inside Thomas. But before he can argue, the guard’s voice drops, lowering in volume but not in confidence. “I think that’s an enticing premise- of course, I could be wrong, but…well, I’ve always had a thing for a good mystery.”

Oh.

Thomas’ mind comes to a screeching halt and in lieu of an answer warmth sneaks into his cheeks. It’s been far too long since he’s been flirted with. At a sudden loss for words, he clears his throat and ducks his head, trying to hide his surprise.

The guard’s smile widens, and he juts out a hand. “Ellis, Richard Ellis. Second Vice-Superintendent of Her Majesty’s Royal Guard.”

Thomas takes his hand, latching onto the change of topic gladly: “Second Vice? How does that work?”

“I’m the sub. On visits and such, I’m sent forward for the preparations while the Principal Vice-Superintendent Mr. Miller stays, of course, with Her Majesty. He’ll come with her, and then I’ll be returning to London to prepare everything to be ready upon their return.”

“So…Mr. Miller is the one who does the actual guarding?”

“Unless he’s ill.”

“…Is he often ill?” Thomas teases before he can talk himself out of it.

Instead of answering, Ellis throws him a look and Thomas can’t help but grin. “I see.” They share a chuckle, and Thomas suddenly realizes that the tension from before has all but melted away.

“I won’t keep you any longer.” Ellis nods, gaze trained at something behind him. Thomas turns to see what he means and, well – he likes his students curious, but not that curious. Albert’s eyes shine violet. “Mr. Hamish, do you want to join the first years and revise the fundamentals of privacy?”

The young man blushes, eyes immediately turning to their usual brown. “Sorry, Mr. B.” He murmurs as his peers giggle. With a sigh and a nod, Thomas bids Ellis goodbye and heads back to his students.

In the course of the day, three more vans arrive, bringing another troop of guards and even more staff. Added to that, the local police sends three truckloads of officers, to help in securing the school and its surrounding land. Thomas understands now why they had been told to keep their own preparations to a minimum – nothing they could've possibly planned would be able to stand this. He imagines Mary sitting in her study and having a breakdown as she witnesses Carson failing. Sooner or later she’ll come to realize that Thomas, at the very least, couldn’t have done any worse than the old bag, and the thought is almost consoling.

In the afternoon, when Thomas is done with his lessons and officially jobless for the next two days, his return to the main building of Alfea is a return into chaos. Staff rush about, Royal and Alfean alike, guards stand in the way and in the kitchens Mrs. Patmore has gotten into a screaming match with the newly arrived royal cook. Daisy stands at the sidelines like a referee. Thomas slides up next to where she leans against the dishwasher and whispers: “Wanna bet on who’s the first to have a stroke?”

“Oh, Mrs. Patmore, no doubt. That Courbet is at least a decade younger.”

“But twice as stressed, look at those wrinkles.”

Daisy chuckles. “Says the one whose hairs started turning grey at twenty-five.”

“Oi! Better grey hair than wrinkles. I can always dye.” They look on for a few more minutes. “So he’ll take over the menus?” Thomas muses with a frown.

“Oh, if only – he’ll do everything. Breakfast to midnight snack, anything Her Holy Majesty might so much as glance at.” She sounds sufficiently exasperated.

“What are you guys supposed to do, then?”

She shoots him a look. “We’re allowed to cook for the staff.”

“That’s nice.”

Daisy sighs and shakes her head. “I really don’t know what all the fuss is about. She’s just a person, like you and me, she is.”

“Don’t say that too loud-”

In her exasperation, Mrs. Patmore slams the meat mallet she had been holding on the table next to her and a resounding bang echoes through the room. Thomas flinches as a sharp stab of pain shoots through his left hand. The entire kitchen falls silent.

“Oi, what are you lot looking at? Get back to work!” The head cook snaps at them before stomping out the doorway. Slowly, with hushed voices and sneaking glances exchanged, everyone returns to their tasks.

With a grimace, Thomas shakes out his hand, phantom pain lingering in his muscles, reaching all the way up to his elbow.

“Are you alright?” Daisy asks from his right.

“Yeah.” He nods, slowly moving his wrist and bending his unmoving, stiff fingers with the assistance of his right. The ache begins to sink back under the surface, settling in his bones where it usually lingers.

With a shrug, Daisy pushes off the dishwasher. “I’m gonna go make sure she doesn’t take it out on the plates.” She begins to walk backwards, asking as she goes: “I don’t suppose you can do something about all this?”

Thomas, holding up his hands and suppressing a grimace at the pain the movement causes, replies lightly: “I don’t even work here anymore.”

On his way from the kitchens, Richard Ellis catches up to him. He falls easily into step with Thomas when he doesn’t stop, and Thomas silently congratulates the man on his adaptability.

“Mr. Miller arrives tomorrow, alongside Her Majesty. Means I get the evening off.” Thomas makes a non-committal sound in the back of his throat and takes a sharp turn to the left. Ellis follows. “You’re free now too, aren’t you?”

Thomas throws him a look. “If wanted to or not.”

Ellis’ brows lift. “The plot thickens.”

“It’s really not as exciting as all that. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“Even a molehill can be discussed over a few drinks – how about it? I’m off to see my family in York, but I’m free after.” He looks at him expectantly. Thomas can’t help but frown.

“…York? There’s not much going on in York.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. I grew up there.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. I grew up in Stansbury, just outside Manchester. Thought it was the most exciting place for the better half of a decade, and then I realized it was barely more than a dumpster of a harbor divided by three streets.”

“Now I have to take you, just to prove you wrong.” Ellis smiles, almost challenging, and it alights something inside Thomas he hadn’t known had gone out. He almost runs Anna over because he can’t look away from him. “Oh- Shit, sorry-”

“No harm done.” Her smile is slightly strained as she straightens her dress and sighs. But before Thomas can take it personally, Phyllis comes up behind her, looking just as harried as her colleague. “Is it always like this, Mr. Ellis?”

Ellis smiles good naturedly. “Pretty much. A Royal Visit is like a swan on a lake – grace and serenity above, demented kicking beneath the surface.” Strangely enough, Thomas is the only one huffing a laugh at the description.

“Thomas, can’t you swap with me – I regret ever thinking this was going to be fun.” Anna jokes when the four of them step to the side to let a group of officers through.

“I’m afraid Mr. Barrow is already spoken for, at least for tomorrow evening-?”

Thomas doesn’t know what to make of this steamrolling, not even with the questioning tilt his words take on towards the end. “I haven’t agreed to anything-”

“What’s this about?” Phyllis tentatively cuts in.

“Mr. Ellis has asked me to join him to York tomorrow, seeing as we’re both free with nothing better to do.”

Phyllis’ eyes flare violet so quickly that no one but Thomas notices. Her lips tick upwards in a gentle smile, and with a slight nod she eases the tension in his shoulders. “You should go, get away from all this for a bit.”

“That settles it then. We can borrow a car, drive up and I’ll come find you as soon as my mum releases me.” Ellis smiles, making it all seem very easy and uncomplicated. He leaves them standing in the hallway before Thomas can object.

“Was that what I think it was…?” Anna asks, trying and failing to hide her smile.

“If you mean an invitation for a date- I have no idea.” He exchanges a look with Phyllis. “All I know is that he’s very determined.”

“Always a good sign.” Anna assures him, petting his arm, and Phyllis smiles.

In the evening, everything is a mess and Thomas is suddenly very glad for Ellis’ offer concerning the next evening, be it as friendly or as romantic as it may. He watches as his colleagues get snuffed and kicked to the side on their own turf, and they don’t take it lightly. No one seems to have expected the guards invading privacy quite so much and the staff taking over quite as many of the duties – the two camps begin to draw battle lines and he wonders where that fighting spirit had been when not even two days ago Carson had taken over Thomas’ job. They would do good now to listen to their own advice of not taking it personally. Or they should not have given it to him in the first place. Hypocrites, the lot of them.

Thomas begs off for a cup of tea in the kitchen and gets almost run over no less than five times on his way there and back. In the main hall, he finds Carson. The imposing man is reduced to huffing and puffing and flustered stuttering under the Royal Staff’s myriad of questions and demands. No one seems to listen to him. Thomas can’t say he feels sorry. When there’s a slight lull in in the storm he ambles over.

“Why are you here again, Mr. Carson? So you could keep control where I’d fail, was that it? I- I forget.”

The elder fumbles for words. It’s been a long time since Thomas has last seen him so stressed. He should have stayed with his vegetable beds. “Mr. Barrow, would you mind-?” He points towards the retreating backs of his latest opponents.

Thomas has no inclination to help him whatsoever. “I’m not on duty, Mr. Carson.” He isn’t even sorry for the smug smile playing at his lips. “You are.” And he takes his cup and retires to his rooms.

Thomas meets Ellis once more before they leave for the evening – it’s short, but sweet, if Thomas dares to read the things into the other’s words he’d like to hear so much. He’s still not quite sure about Ellis’ intentions, but he seems a nice enough chap either way and Thomas doesn’t mind their outing. They drive up in one of the Queen’s Guard’s vans. Thomas doesn’t know if they are allowed to, but Ellis seems sure enough and they fill the way with easy chatter and tentative glances. When Ellis stops the car in front of a pub, they talk for ten more minutes before Thomas can prize himself away and out of the car.

“I’ll come as soon as I can.” Ellis leans over the seat Thomas has just vacated, speaking through the opened window.

“I’ll be waiting.” Thomas assures, and Ellis smiles. They look at each other for a while, then Ellis clears his throat. “I gotta go, or I’ll never be able to get there on time.”

“Of course.” Thomas shuffles away from the car, giving him space to pull off. They exchange a last glance and a smile and Ellis seems as reluctant to leave him as Thomas is and it does weird things to his stomach. He doesn’t dare hope, not yet, but it’s a close thing.

The pub is nice, cozy even, with low warm lights and well cushioned chairs and beer that’s not half bad. Even the patrons are alright, quietly chattering and keeping to themselves. But that doesn’t make it any better when Thomas has sat in it for over two hours, alone and growing more pitiful with the minute. By now, the bartender has adopted a sympathetic little smile personally reserved for Thomas only, and he gets one thrown his way every ten minutes. He starts constructing plans for the most graceful exit he can manage under the circumstances, most of which involve a sudden fire, either engulfing the entire house, only the booze, maybe the bartender and his stupid smile or just Thomas – burning him straight to hell because right about now hell seems a lot more accommodating than reality.

He curses Ellis and his lies – Had he lied? Or had Thomas read, once more, too much into too little? – for the umpteenth time, gets another pint and lights a small fire on top of his beer. The bartender immediately tsks, no magic inside, and smiles once more his disgustingly sympathetic smile when Thomas snuffs the flame. Fed up, he turns to get his wallet, to pay and get out of here, when his eyes catch on something – or rather, someone. He’s handsome, leaning against the bar with his mustache and rolled up sleeves, and it takes only one slightly too long exchange of gazes to make him and his pint slide up next to Thomas.

“You look a bit glum.” He opens.

“That may be because I am.”

He tuts. “We’ll have to do something ‘bout that – I’m Chris.”

“Thomas. Tell me, do you like playing the knight in shining armor to random strangers, Chris?” Thomas doesn’t know if he’s annoyed or flirting or just plain tired, but he doesn’t have anything to lose anymore, so he doesn’t care as much as he maybe should.

Chris leans closer, letting his eyes languidly slide over Thomas’ body. When he looks back up, there’s a glint in his eyes. “If they’re as beautiful as you.”

Thomas’ eyes widen. Even Ellis hadn’t been so blunt. (Thomas wishes he had.) Chris smiles at his reaction. “You wanna get out of here, Thomas?” His name drips from his lips warmly, like it is something to enjoy with a smile and closed eyes, and Thomas blushes before nodding. Yes. He wants to.

Chris takes him to a gay club. Thomas had no idea York had any gay clubs, never mind the good kind. The music is loud, coming from a live band, the alcohol flows and the place is brimming with such exuberant joy that Thomas has a permanent smile on his lips after only half a drink.

It’s good. It’s lovely. He even forgets about Ellis and his stupid ruse.

Chris introduces him to his gaggle of gays, as he calls them, in which the owner of the club is included. They absorb him into their midst as soon as they hear the sob story of an evening he’s had so far and Thomas dances with every single one of them. When he returns to the table Chris pulls him upon his lap and kisses him fervently and Thomas melts at the obvious adoration getting bestowed upon him. Chris swallows the embarrassing little sounds he can’t stop from leaving his throat, and his hands are so steady around his hips and on his back that Thomas finds it harder and harder to be bothered by any of it. In here, he’s allowed to light a little fire, and when he inflames their tequila shots Chris looks up at him with something a little more in his eyes than before and whispers: “I’ll never let you go again if you keep it up like that.”

They leave together, rather drunk and jolly and Thomas leans on Chris’ shoulder as they make their way to his apartment.

The sex is amazing. Thomas has never had sex with an earth fairy before, and he’s more than willing to allow Chris’ vines to sneak around his wrists and wrap around his arms and torso. (He knows he could burn them in seconds.) Chris whispers into his ear how beautiful he looks like this, tied up and wanting, how next time, he’ll make him a gag if he wants, or a blindfold out of flowers and it is only a matter of minutes between Chris’ heated thrusts, his hushed words and the gentle touches of leaves against his overheated skin and he is gone. He swears he can feel the ground rumble as Chris comes shortly after.

They cuddle afterwards, fall asleep with the other in their arms, but wake up separate and hungover. Thomas doesn’t feel particularly put out by it and during breakfast, slowed down by headaches, they eventually come to the same conclusion.

“We’re better off as friends, right?” Thomas asks.

Chris nods immediately, wiping coffee from his upper lip. “Oh, definitely. Don’t get me wrong, you’re lovely and this Richard Ellis is a right idiot to let all that slip-” He waves across the table, encompassing all of Thomas’ body and Thomas blushes, ducking his head to hide his smile. He’s done this a lot these last days, he notices with a start. “But I don’t think the two of us could best what we already have.” Chris winks, making Thomas’ gaze dart away in an attempt to avoid another wave of warmth creeping into his face. “Let’s keep it that way. I’ll give you my number, and if you ever need to talk, or blow off some steam…” He trails off, meaning perfectly clear.

Thomas allows himself to accept it, what Chris offers him so willingly and openly. It keeps him afloat until he’s sitting in a train, bound north, back to Alfea and remembering how yesterday, he had made the same journey but the other way around, in a car and with someone by his side.

Anger and disappointment flare in his chest and he plays with a little flame in his cupped palms to distract himself for the rest of the journey.

Thomas isn’t prepared for what awaits him upon his return – how could he be?

After the long trek from the nearest train station up to the school, he’s intercepted by Ellis, right outside the gates. His gaze is sharp, intense, a far cry from the softness they had shared yesterday – which apparently hadn’t been anything more than a fluke, so the comparison is actually quite fitting. Thomas hopes he gives back just as good, and that there’s no trace of the hurt he feels in his voice.

“Where have you been?” Ellis hisses.

“I could ask you the same.” Thomas looks at him coldly.

“No, Thomas, I mean it.” He presses on, tone almost frantic. “Where have you been? Where did you just come from?”

His insistence, so out of place after what he had done, snaps Thomas’ patience. “Fucking York, what do you think? That I walked through the night, ‘cause you drove off to god knows where-”

“And what did you do there?”

Thomas’ stares at him for a split second. “…Are you for real right now?”

“Thomas- What. Did. You. Do?”

“It’s none of your bloody busi-” He doesn’t get further. The gate opens and emits rows upon rows of guards. Ellis immediately backs up from him, slinking between the uniforms that fan out and surround Thomas in seconds. He watches with wide eyes, frozen to the spot, as they draw their weapons and direct them at him.

Even Ellis.

“Mr. Barrow.” General Webb steps up, face a stony mask. “You are hereby arrested for the attempted assassination of Her Majesty Queen Luna II. of Solaria. You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say can and will be used against you.”

What-

The guards move, their steps loud and their hands rough as they yank his arms forward and push his sleeves back. Webb comes up with two gleaming rings in her hands. With a twist of her wrists the bands snap open, revealing themselves to be long metal rods, and when she holds them close to his exposed forearms, they wrap around them like vices. Thousands of needles press into his skin and it burns and Thomas yelps as much out of pain as of shock – something is wrong, the very moment the metal touches his skin, but his mind is still lost at around the time Ellis had stepped into his path.

Thomas can feel his gaze on him when they load him into the back of a truck, and in a last attempt to connect to the present moment, to get it all back under control, he frantically turns his head and locks eyes with him. There aren’t any answers in his gaze, features set in an inscrutable frown. It gives nothing away. The door closes with a heavy metal thud and Thomas is left reeling and alone in the backseat.

After twenty minutes he notices that he can’t feel his magic anymore. There are only the cuffs, burning hot and painful against his skin, and nothing else. He can feel his hands start to shake, arms and legs, shoulders, everything. He feels sick to his stomach, claws at the metal embedded in his arms, fruitlessly, and tries in vain to get his breathing back under control.

His magic is gone.

Chapter Text

Webb dismisses all of them. Except Richard. He should have known, should have expected it really, but that doesn’t hinder his heart from missing a beat and his chest from growing tight when she steps up to him.

“Ellis, what did you say to him?”

“…I’m not sure what you mean, General.” His voice is steady and even, not betraying anything.

General Webb narrows her eyes. “Be careful. You’re sailing close to the wind, Mr. Ellis.”

On his way back inside, Richard gets intercepted by Daisy, practically foaming at the mouth, and a frantic Ms. Baxter. Apparently they’ve watched it all unfold from the next window.

“What the bloody hell, Mr. Ellis?!” The small cook yells when he is still a few feet away.

“You said you’d keep him out of it.” Ms. Baxter’s quiet voice is filled with tension, and it is just as bad as Daisy’s fury.

“I was too late.” It’s all Richard can muster up as defense and it’s shit. He shrugs, helplessness looming at the back of his mind. Daisy crosses her arms, gaze demanding. “Then what now?”

“I’ll speak to Wilson, try and get in on the interrogation-”

“Interrogation?” Daisy repeats with widened eyes and Ms. Baxter grows pale.

“Yes, interrogation, as is mandatory in every case.” He lifts his hands, trying to placate them. “I have plausible proof for Mr. Barrow’s absence and can testify as a witness. They’ll hopefully find more after my statement.”

“Hopefully? That’s not enough!”

“Well, it’s all I can give you right now! I’m doing everything I can, but, to be frank, it doesn’t look too good for your Mr. Barrow!” Richard blurts out, matching Daisy’s tone. He wants the words to hurt, throws them out to show them the headmaster is theirs not his, not a problem he should be having but has, thanks to them. (But who is he kidding – last night he had fervently wished for Mr. Barrow to become his problem, and his alone.)

“What do you mean?” Ms. Baxter asks carefully. It’s admirable, how she keeps her composure in a situation like this.

Richard’s eyes flit through their surroundings and he tries to clear his head. Should he tell them? He’s not allowed to pass any information of on-going investigations, especially not to civilians. But he feels like keeping anyone working at Alfea in the dark when one of their staff is concerned is an endeavor close to impossible. From what he has seen so far, they are more tightly knit than some families related by blood. It should be strange, and it is, but it is also somewhat charming, almost reassuring.

With a sigh, he caves and continues in a more controlled tone: “We checked the traces of the magic used last night. And while there weren’t many, the results are quite clear on each batch – it matches Mr. Barrow’s. To a tee. Military-trained, skilled, above the age of thirty. The pattern of the attack suggests it was planned, yet the execution implies the bearer was under heavy emotional stress.” Richard stops for a moment, unsure of how to continue. “I’m not sure I should say, but- well, in our ranks it’s not much of a secret, why he retired from the army…” Ms. Baxter’s gaze grows hard. It’s unsettling, witnessing her usually so pleasant features morph into something so unwelcoming, and Richard is quick to continue. “Be that as it may – all this in itself is proof enough to warrant an arrest, and the fact that we have an eyewitness, someone who’d have no ulterior motive for denouncing him – I’m afraid it’s all rather conclusive. Straight-forward even.”

“But it’s not – he were in York!” Daisy protests. “You drove him there yourself, you’ve got-”

“But we separated, and when I went to meet him, he wasn’t there anymore – so, I’m sorry, but he does not have an alibi. At least not one I can confirm.”

“Maybe he was with someone else.” Ms. Baxter suggests, Daisy nodding by her side.

“Let’s hope he does.” Richard doesn’t know if he includes himself in the statement or not. His feelings for Mr. Barrow have taken multiple turns and tumbles in the last twenty-four hours and he has trouble making out which ones still apply. He doesn’t want him to have an alibi, because to have an alibi for an entire night meant you’d have to spend the entire night with someone, and that just about cracks his heart. But of course, he doesn’t want Mr. Barrow to be guilty either. Because that would mean he had simply used Richard as a cover, had lured him away and faked his way into Richard’s heart and mind and it would mean that everything they might have shared in the car had been nothing else but a fluke. Richard doesn’t know what would be easier – to hear that you’ve been simply a warm body to warm the sheets for the man you might have possibly been falling in love with, or to hear that you were used as a failed cover-up on a criminal crusade that had nothing to do with you, not even in the slightest.

He supposes in the latter option there’s at least some dignity left. But it would send Mr. Barrow behind bars, and some stupid, stupid part of Richard screams and cries at the thought of the man in orange coveralls. It wants to keep him as far away from their broken penal system, criminal or not.

“I want to attend the interrogation.” Richard says without preamble when he enters Wilson’s temporary headquarters in Alfea. The Head of Command leans over a desk, scanning documents with General Webb at his side. It means Miller and Smith are with Her Majesty in the locked up East Wing now. He looks up at Richard’s entrance, lifting his brows.

“What interrogation, exactly?” His eyes are sharp, drilling into him. Richard had never liked how his character stood so harshly against his round face and average height.

“Mr. Barrow’s.” He comes to a stop in front of them, returning the gaze evenly.

Mr. Wilson lifts off the table, straightening. “And why, prey tell?”

“I believe I’m in possession of valuable information, regarding his case.”

“…And you can’t tell us this information beforehand?”

“I’m afraid not. Sir.” They look at each for a moment, during which Webb’s face turns sour. Luckily, Wilson likes his independency, especially from his austere side hand, and relents with a sharp nod. “Very well. We’ll start tomorrow at seven.” He returns to his documents and Richard, knowing not to test his luck, turns sharply on his heels. He feels Webb’s pinched gaze at the back of his head until he shuts the door behind himself.

Mr. Barrow is already seated at the table when they enter the interrogation room. His hands are cuffed to a bar on the tabletop, with not much leeway to move and he doesn’t look like he has slept a wink. Pale and with dark rings under his eyes, he sits there awaiting them. His shoulders are tight, gaze wary and drawn, and a shadow of stubble only serves to emphasize his wan features. The sight sends a pang through Richard’s treacherous heart. Yet, despite the obvious exhaustion, Mr. Barrow sits straight, chin held high and gaze defiant.

“Do you know why you are here, Mr. Barrow?” Webb opens after sitting down opposite their detainee. Richard stands to her left, slightly behind her, and Mr. Barrow has yet to look at him, eyes solely trained on the General.

“No.” He says shortly. His voice croaks from disuse, but he doesn’t show any sign of discomfort.

“Would you like me to tell you?” General Webb continues. Richard doesn’t like the slightly sardonic smile playing at her lips, and Barrow doesn’t either, judged by his furrowing brow. He takes a breath after a moment, answering tersely: “What I want is a lawyer.”

“I’ll tell you why you’re here.” Webb continues as if she didn’t hear him. “You’re here because yesterday evening someone attempted the assassination of Her Majesty Queen Luna II. of Solaria when she sat down to join dinner with the heads of Alfea.” Richard is sure that must have stung, but Barrow doesn’t show any kind of reaction, face carefully blank. “That someone was a military-trained fire fairy above the age of thirty-five. They must have been intimately familiar with the secret passageways leading through the entire school to pull off what they did, planned everything out – and yet were erratic at best when performing the trick. Too emotional to have real control – ring any bells?”

Mr. Barrow doesn’t say anything.

“You were seen on-site, Mr. Barrow. You were identified, unmistakably, by a witness. There’s no reason in playing a game of hide and seek.” Webb snaps, untypically short-tempered. When Mr. Barrow still doesn’t reply, she adds: “You won’t gain anything from this. The evidence is right there, and it won’t vanish through keeping silent. You’re only digging yourself deeper, Mr. Barrow, do you understand that?”

Mr. Barrow narrows his eyes, and his gaze wanders to Richard for a second – it’s full of accusation, brimming with hurt. It’s masked behind the stony façade he had worn until now, but there, and Richard wonders why he allows himself to slip up now, while he’s looking at Richard. He stamps down on his feelings before they can react, but the picture is burnt in his mind, right alongside the desperate last glance Barrow had thrown his way when they had arrested him. (That man had far too expressive eyes – he’d have a tough time of being a criminal if his poker face was as bad as that.) The headmaster turns back to Webb. He slowly leans forward. They watch him, almost holding their breaths in anticipation as to what will leave his lips. Richard’s heart selfishly mumbles please, don’t let it be a confession, please not while Webb probably hopes for that very thing-

“I want. A lawyer.”

General Webb and Richard join Wilson and Officer Lawton, who the police had sent as consultant, in the next room, leaving Barrow with a guard. They can see him through the screen, and Richard positions himself deliberately with his back to the glass.

“That’s not his first time in an interrogation room, that much is clear.” Lawton states. As always, Richard has trouble reading the fairy, hair slicked back, eyes distanced and body-language closed off. The police-badge on her chest tilts as she crosses her arms.

Webb sighs irritated. “Do we have any records of an earlier arrestment?”

“Yes, actually, we have – seven years ago, he was inspected for sexual harassment, but the charges were dropped before much could happen.” Wilson holds up a file.

Webb frowns. “Harassment? Not what I was hoping for.”

“What happened?” Richard asks, despite her dismissal.

Wilson sighs but recounts the facts without having to open the file. “Apparently, he kissed a co-worker who was rather drunk and un-aware at the time, and a friend of his saw and reported him. The victim, a James Kent, didn’t press charges and his friend pulled back his accusations, so the police stopped investigating. But the files describe Mr. Barrow as uncooperative and very tightlipped during the interrogation, and it seemed there was more beneath the surface than they let on.”

“How so?”

“Jealous students, mingling teachers, gossip all-around – the crime happened in an altogether toxic environment, the file assumes.”

Toxic? Richard can think of many words to describe the staff of Alfea, but toxic isn’t one of them. He frowns but keeps his doubts to himself.

“So, what are we going to do? Allow him his lawyer?” Lawton looks around at them.

“Since he has the right for one, yes, he’ll get his lawyer.” Wilson admonishes her. “Ellis will take care of that- but before you go, Mr. Ellis- would you like to enlighten us as to what exactly you know about Mr. Barrow that we don’t?”

It’s not how he planned this to go – he had wanted Thomas in the room, had wanted him to witness what Richard had to say, because as much as it is the truth, it is also a move, could maybe be seen as a sign, or understood as a message. (Richard himself isn’t sure what kind of message he’d want to send, but something inside him urges him on to send something.) But he can’t hold them off any longer, so he straightens his shoulders and clasps his hands and answers evenly. “On that evening, two days ago, I- as you may remember, I had some free time, since Mr. Miller arrived that day.”

“Yes, I know. You went to see your family.” Wilson interrupts, tone impatient.

“I did. But that’s not all I did. You see, Mr. Barrow was relieved of his duties too, and so we decided to…go out in the evening.” Webb’s eyes widen at the implication and Richard barrels on before she can interrupt. “We went to York, together, and I let him out at a pub, where he would wait for me while I was with my family.”

“Are you telling me he has an alibi?!” Wilson barks suddenly.

I wish I did, Richard thinks. He shakes his head. “No. Because when I returned, he was gone.”

Mr. Barrow doesn’t just get any lawyer – he gets George Murray, one of the best known and most influential lawyers there is, and the private attorney of the Grantham family. Webb might as well throw in her towel the very moment they get the news – Richard has no illusions about how this will end, and it might help save at least some of her dignity.

Their next interrogation finds the lawyer at Mr. Barrow’s side, calculated and alert, shooting down the lion’s share of their questions before Barrow even opens his mouth. The only matter they are allowed to discuss in any productive way, is his alibi.

“So, you left the school grounds at around 6 p.m. at the side of Mr. Ellis. Correct?” Webb is obviously frustrated, voice sharp and curt.

“Yes.”

“You went to York?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get there?”

Murray cuts in. “Mr. Ellis was responsible for their mode of transportation. Maybe ask him?”

“But I’m asking your client, Mr. Murray.”

Mr. Barrow looks at his lawyer, lips hesitating to open before the other nods. “Richa- Mr. Ellis took one of the Royal Guard’s cars. He said it was alright to do so, for him.”

Webb lifts a brow and turns slightly towards where Richard stands behind her – obviously, he is not allowed to do so, but he can’t bring himself to care about that when Mr. Barrow has just so blatantly tripped over his name. He had instinctively chosen his given name. Richard doesn’t dare, doesn’t want to read anything into the fact, but the slight flutter in his chest thinks differently.

“When did you arrive in York?”

“Around…7 p.m.”

Webb lifts a brow, noting something down. “It took you an hour to get from Alfea to York? Did you take a detour?”

Mr. Barrow honest to god blushes (He has no business looking so lovely, and Richard has no business liking it so much, not anymore.) and replies after a glance at his frowning lawyer: “No, we, um…we just talked.”

“Since when does talking slow down a car?” Webb asks.

Murray cuts in, frown still in place. “Perhaps when the one driving isn’t entirely focused on the task, General Webb. Must I remind you to keep your questions objective?”

The reprimand only serves to sour her mood. She shoots Murray a narrow-eyed glare before deliberately turning back to her interviewee. “So, you arrived at seven – where did Mr. Ellis let you out?”

“A pub. I think it was the…Dog and the Duck?” Automatically, Mr. Barrow’s searching gaze finds Richard’s. Before he can nod though, he seems to realize what he’s doing and tears his eyes away as if burned. “Yes, the Dog and the Duck.” He affirms himself.

“And how did the evening continue?”

Again, Mr. Barrow exchanges a glance with Mr. Murray and waits for his nod before he speaks. “Mr. Ellis told me to wait in the pub, that he’d get me when he was finished with his visit. He drove off and I went inside and had a pint.”

Webb scribbles something down. “And then?”

“And then I waited.” Mr. Barrow’s brows pinch together and irritation seeps into his voice. It’s the first time he’s not trying to hide his emotions, and the frustration is obviously directed at Richard. “I waited over two hours, but he didn’t show up.” His frown deepens and his eyes flicker shortly to Richard, who fights to keep his face neutral. “I took that as the sign it clearly was.”

“You left?”

Inexplicably, the frown vanishes and gets replaced by another blush. Richard blinks and looks away as to not get distracted. His wandering gaze finds Barrow’s carefully placed hands on the tabletop. One next to the other, palms down, fingers slightly bend – the ones on the left more so than on the right. Richard’s eyes rest on the glove, the pale leather encasing pinky and ring finger and the back of his hand up to the wrist. Just as he watches, Barrow moves his hand, just a tad, and Richard catches a glimpse of something dark between glove and shirtsleeve. It’s the metal of the magic-hampering bracelet, he realizes – it looks different from the last time he had seen it, when Webb had snapped the cuffs onto Barrow in front of the school gates. Something dulls the shining silver, a brownish film. Richard narrows his eyes to get a closer look and when Barrow once more moves his fingers in a nervous tap-tap-tapping motion his sleeve rides up for a second, and Richard recognizes the sight in front of his eyes: It’s dried blood.

Suddenly he feels sick. His heartrate picks up, his gaze flits to General Webb, because surely this can’t be true. But she sits unfazed next to him, asking questions and noting down answers as if she wasn’t a high-ranking military specialist trained to notice these kinds of details in every room she enters. Mr. Barrow moves the fingers of his right hand to hold the palm of his left and is too late to stop a painful wince from crossing his features.

This is wrong, shoots through Richard’s mind with startling force. This is so, so wrong. To try and tame his sudden anger, he deliberately puts his hands behind his back, clasping them so tightly he can feel the bones grating against each other.

“I left, yes, but- not alone.” Barrow’s words draw him back to the conversation – and widen his eyes when he understands their meaning. The surprise temporarily replaces the hot fury inside his chest, pushing it down as he holds his breath and waits for more. The headmaster continues unprompted, blush growing with each sentence. “A man made a…pass at me, and I didn’t refuse, since I…well. He took me to a bar, where we stayed for some time. Eventually, we, ah- we returned to his flat where we…um. Spent the night together.” Richard has trouble keeping his expressions under control. Something stabs painfully through his chest, and he clenches his fists even harder.

Once again, Richard Ellis had read an entire novel from a leaflet.

“…And does that man have a name?” Webb asks, vexed at the prospect of their prime suspect having an alibi.

He nods. “Chris, Chris Webster.” And of course, Mr. Barrow has his number.

As soon as they leave the interrogation room, Richard wants to ask about the cuffs – but they don’t give him a chance to even open his mouth, immediately assigning him to check Barrow’s alibi as quickly as possible.

He calls Chris Webster. The man confirms everything Barrow had told them, and then some. Apparently, Barrow has a thing for chatterboxes – highly opinionated chatterboxes, judged by the way Webster talks to him, as if he knows who Richard is, and what role he played in Barrow’s life. (Had played. If he’d ever had any role in it, it was certainly over now.)

The call turns the case around.

Now one testimony stands against the other. The evidence grows weak in the face of it, holed through by Murray and lacking from the absence of any new discoveries. After three more days, research finds an article which poses the ultimate blow to the rickety scaffold that had once been their solid case: The Five Most Fabulous Gay Bars in Yorkshire and Why You Must Visit Them and Thomas Barrow is right there on the front page, lightening up drinks from his perch on Chris Webster’s lap and looking absolutely piss-drunk. The article is shit, but it’s littered with photos, two more of which show the headmaster in rather telling situations.

They contact the photographer, presenting them with a penalty for violation of the data protection order, and get the photos, with date of recording and everything. And, well. It's indisputable. Mr. Barrow has an alibi.

He is innocent.

Chapter Text

“Let Ellis do it, why not? Since he’s so interested in the bracelets. And the man.” Webb had suggested with a sneer when they had discussed Barrow’s release. Wilson had lifted a brow but hadn’t reprimanded her for her forwardness, so Richard knows a storm will be coming his way.

The words follow Richard as he makes his way down to the cells. His heart pounds and he doesn’t know what he’s going to say, other than the usual. He’s not sure he wants to say anything else – Barrow, for all her cares, probably isn’t interested in anything coming from Richard, not anymore.

Richard opens the heavy metal door with sweaty hands and there he is, looking up immediately, eyes widening when they land on him instead of the usual guard. Richard swallows.

Barrow looks haggard, stubble coating his jaw and neck with any trace of styling gone from his greasing hair. As soon as Richard steps into the small room, he is met with the smell of old smoke and even older sweat, the odor of a body unwashed for days heavy in the air. Barrow’s suit is rumpled, a far cry from when he had first seen him wear it – god, it feels eons ago. Splotchy brown stains mar the white cuffs of his shirt and Richard consciously lets his gaze slide up again. Barrow watches him, gaze hard and defiant, waiting.

“We’ve got proof of your alibi. You’re found innocent, Mr. Barrow. We have no warrant for detaining you any longer.” Richard recites. He tries to smile, but it feels forced.

Barrow watches him for a second longer, eyes narrowed. Then, he gives a sharp nod. Richard steps forward and carefully places the wooden casket he had brought with him on the narrow mattress, next to where the headmaster is seated. He tenses, shoulders rigid as the distance between them lessens, and stands before Richard can come too close. The action does something unpleasant to Richard’s stomach, and he clenches his jaw in annoyance. He snaps the lid open, revealing two empty ridges in a velvety inlay. Before turning around, he takes a breath, determined to get this over and done with as quickly as possible. But what he sees when he finds the other makes him falter – a wary gaze, focused on the box, and muscles coiled tight. There’s no trace of anger or dismissal towards Richard, attention focused entirely on what lays between them, tension lining every inch of his body. He seems to expect the worst. The thought shoots unbidden through Richard’s mind and melts something inside him. Suddenly, it becomes difficult to hang onto his anger much longer and he’s careful to speak in a steady, if professionally detached, tone. “It won’t hurt – not that much, at least.”

“…Do you know? Or have you been told?” The last words are said with a derisive sneer. Richard knows, as soon as their gazes meet, that it’s fear talking.

“It doesn’t matter, does it? You’ll want to be rid of them either way.”

Barrow’s face closes off. He grows rigid and crosses over with clipped steps, coming to stand in front of Richard. “Better get it over and done with, then, right? Gotta make them ready for the next one.” An invisible hand tightens around Richard’s throat, the scornful words cutting through him. He snaps his gaze upward, a burning intensity in his chest making him forget whatever else they had fought over.

“No.” He’s surprised by the force in his own voice. “No, I won’t. These won’t be used again-” Barrow scoffs, making Richard double up. “They won’t. I’ll make sure of it. They’ll never be used again.” He means every word. He has no idea how he’ll do it, but he will, and it’s all he can do to keep a promise from slipping out his throat.

Barrow falls quiet. Something softens between them as he averts his gaze and allows Richard to take his arms. As soon as he touches him, even through the layer of clothing, he can feel unnatural heat radiating off Mr. Barrow’s skin. His hands tremble, the muscles of his body hardened in anticipation, and Richard’s conviction grows even more.

Slowly and mindful of what he uncovers he opens the shirt’s cuffs and begins rolling the fabric out of the way. It’s not a pretty sight: Red, irritated skin, metal, biting tightly into flesh, and needles clawing the bracelets into place. For every puncture wound there are flecks of dried blood, and for every wrap of the silver around his arms there are surrounding bruises, angry and deep. Richard’s heart sinks as he reads the story the marks reveal – Barrow, loaded into the back of a military truck, alone and in shock, trying to open the bracelets with violent scratches all the way to prison, harming himself in the process and probably not caring much about it. He must have continued to try and escape the bracelets, even in confinement. Bruises of different color overlap one another, showing varying degrees of healing. The most recent, still red and angry, can’t be older than two or three hours.

Suddenly, the quarrel between them feels petty. It grows irrelevant in the face of this. No amount of leading Richard on or lying to his face about his intentions could ever warrant such a treatment. Never.

And this is only superficial. Who knew what the cuffs did on a molecular level, what they did in the mind, with the bearer’s magic. Richard grew up with a fairy sister – he knows a fairy’s magic is as integral a part of their selves as their mind and body are. To have it tampered with, and for so long… It can’t be good.

Richard takes a shaky breath. This has all become much more, so much more, almost overwhelming, in the last seconds- Before he can stop himself, he looks up finding Mr. Barrow’s gaze already on him, alert and careful, and whispers: “I’m sorry.”

The other huffs out a laugh – it sounds hollow in his exhaustion, but there’s something reminiscing of playfulness when he replies: “For dumping me, or the cuffs?” His accent is far stronger than it had been during interrogation, Richard suddenly realizes. He takes the words as the peace offering he dares to hope they might be.

“Both, I suppose.” He concedes, careful of the light grip he still has on the other’s arms, over his rolled-up sleeves. Then he frowns. “But I didn’t – how long did you wait?” He realizes, as soon as the words leave his mouth, that this is far from the best of times to have this conversation: In a cell, cold and dark, with Mr. Barrow literally shaking from exhaustion. But suddenly he needs to know, needs to clear what is so muddled up between them, needs to get it out of the way and get closer to him again. The grudge he had held onto before feels ridiculous now, and he wants to be free of it.

“Close to two hours.” Barrow replies, and perhaps his voice is a bit warmer than before, if also affronted.

Richard frowns. “Is that not reasonable?”

“…You think leaving a man alone in a pub for two hours is reasonable?” His disbelief brings more life into his features, slowly starting to light something inside him up again.

Richard likes to see it, letting his gaze linger as he explains: “I was with my family, and I hadn’t seen them in months- you know how it is, with everyone trying to catch up and talking over one another… I thought I had at least three hours, even if I cut it short for you.”

Barrow frowns. “You thought spending three hours alone in a pub is a price I’m willing to pay for an evening with you?” Despite the choice of words, he seems more bewildered than offended by Richard’s assumption. And, well- When he puts it like that.

Richard feels his resolve crumble. “…Yes?”

“I don’t even know you, Richard.” Barrow sighs, exasperated, and Richard’s heart sings at hearing his Christian name. He doesn’t fight the smile slipping onto his lips.

“We could always change that, Mr. Barrow.”

“I- it’s Thomas.” He huffs out a breath, gaze trailing away from Richard. He seems nervous, and it reminds Richard of their first meeting – him being forward, the other cautious but nonetheless pleased – only that beneath his hands he can suddenly feel tremors, running up and down his frame, and that the headmaster grows, if possible, even paler. He’s overwhelmed, and Richard could kick himself for bringing any of it up, now of all times.

“Alright. Thomas.” The name tastes wonderfully upon his lips. Richard gently guides him to sit down on the mattress, nodding at the silver still curling around Thomas’ forearms. “Let’s get these off you.”

“Right-” Thomas mumbles. Being reminded of the monstrous confinements still embedded in his skin is enough to put a strain in his voice and tighten his shoulders. The tense mask he had worn during interrogation – Richard now knows it was a mask, nothing more – slides back on. His eyes are fixed on the macabre tableau his skin paints upon his lap.

Slowly, Richard kneels down in front of him. He opens his hands, palms up, and waits. It takes a while, but Thomas’ gaze eventually finds his, and he seems to find something in Richard’s eyes that makes him lay his arms in his waiting hands.

The skin is hot, angry and sensitive beneath his touch, and Richard tries to be as gentle as possible as he circles his fingers around Thomas’ wrists, where the first metallic coil clings. He turns his hands just so, to reach the plates more easily, when something catches his gaze and makes him stop. Beneath the myriad of blemishes, almost invisible against the pale skin, shimmer two scars, one on each arm. They’re long, parallel to the bone, and it doesn’t take much to recognize them for what they are.

Richard’s heart gives a pang, he blinks, and then continues in his movement. He slides his thumbs up to rest on the first runic plates.

“Ready?” He murmurs.

“Just do it already.”

As carefully as possible he presses down on the plates, both at the same time. Thomas gasps above him, curling forward as his arms jerk back, trying to escape Richard’s grip. He tightens his fingers, keeps Thomas’ arms where they are and his thumbs on the plates as the rune’s magic rushes through him. It takes agonizingly long seconds, during which Thomas’ skin grows warmer and his breaths turn harsh – Richard chances a quick glance upwards and sees that he has squeezed his eyes shut, nose scrunched and lips curled in a grimace of pain. Richard wills the magic to work faster.

As soon as his clearance level is verified, the runes flicker and Richard eases his grip off the other. The cuffs snap open and curl into themselves, falling into Richard’s waiting hands. Thomas gasps at the loss as Richard catches the bracelets. He stows them away quickly, the quiet of the cell filled only with Thomas’ shuddering breaths, ragged whimpers falling unbidden from his lips as he curls in on himself, maltreated arms pulled protectively into his chest. He rocks back and forth, face hidden behind greasy bangs, and a sudden shudder runs through him. Richard watches, a feeling of helplessness spreading in his chest and tightening his throat, as the intensity of whatever it is rushing through Thomas makes him sag even further into himself with a groan. His breaths turn ragged, picking up pace, filling the cell in a harsh staccato rhythm. Richard’s heartbeat quickens too, and he closes the wooden box still sitting right next to Thomas, pushing it away as far as the space allows and taking its place beside Thomas. His hands hover awkwardly in the air between them – he doesn’t know if he should touch him or not, if it would help or only make it worse. Another shudder wrecks Thomas’ frame, and this time he doesn’t stop trembling.

“Thomas?” Richard tries past the lump in his throat. This doesn’t seem right.

Thomas doesn’t answer, but after a while his spine slowly starts to uncurl. Head lifting inch by inch Richard can make out his hands against his collarbones. They are cramped into tight claws, painful looking, hitting uncontrolledly against his collar with each violent tremor running through his wounded arms.

“Thomas-”

Thomas’ face scrunches up before suddenly going slack. He opens his lips in a voiceless sigh, features morphing into a picture of sheer relief. He starts to circle his wrists and clench his right hand, the fingers of his left, beneath the half-glove, still unmoving. His shoulders rotate slowly, straightening his posture bit by bit, as his neck moves from side to side. The motions grow more fluid with each passing second, almost graceful, his arms lowering down in front of him to hover over his lap. With a last quick flick to his wrists his eyes snap open and fire erupts from his palms. His irises glow orange, the tension slips from his frame and his lips lift into a wide, unrestricted smile. And with that, the unkempt hair and fuzzy stubble and days-old suit are suddenly gateways to the most beautiful sight Richard has ever seen.

Richard brings him to something that could amount to an infirmary, had they tried a bit harder. He waits outside while Thomas gets his arms treated. It’s only a few minutes, but the headmaster comes out looking even more exhausted than before and Richard wonders what they did to him in there. He doesn’t say anything as they make their way to one of the military’s trucks, this time officially, to drive back to Alfea. It’s oddly reminiscing of the first time they sat in one, only the two of them, headed for York.

“…Do you actually live at the school?” Richard asks after a while into the silence, propelled by sheer curiosity. His gaze is trained on the street, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Mr. Barrow flinch at his sudden words. He blinks quickly, straightening in the passenger’s seat and clearing his throat. “Sorry, what did you say?”

Richard hesitates. But Mr. Barrow doesn’t strike him as the sort of person who likes to have their moments of weakness commented on, so he simply repeats the question: “I wondered if you live at Alfea? Or do the teachers live separately?”

“Um, most of them live somewhere else, Blackbridge or Ripon. Some have cottages around, but it’s custom for the headteachers to live in. Makes it all…” He trails off, gaze drifting into nothingness.

“More convenient?” Richard offers carefully.

Mr. Barrow blinks again, then nods. “Yeah- yes. That. But Mrs. Hughes doesn’t live-in anymore…it’s mostly gone out of style, I guess.”

“But you do?” Richard chances a glance at him. The headmaster watches the scenery go by, but even in profile – and what a lovely profile it is – Richard sees the pinched line of his brows, the dark shadows beneath his eyes.

Barrow shrugs. “Got nothing else going on.”

“Really? I can’t believe that – someone like you must have avalanches of propositions.”

“…And what do you mean by someone like me, exactly?” His voice is suddenly sharp. Richard looks up, surprised. His gaze meets hardened pale eyes, staring at him challengingly.

Immediately, he tries to smooth the feathers he had accidentally ruffled. “Oh, no, sorry. Just, you know, with you looking the way you do and being so lovely and mysterious people must stand in line for a chance to get to know you.” Richard had felt the heat rise in his cheeks as soon as he had started talking, and when he chances a glance to the side he sees his blush mirrored on high cheekbones, replacing the cold stare.

Thomas speaks up after a moment of quiet: “I see, you’re still adamant about me being a mystery.”

“I want to get to know you.” Richard answers bluntly. Thomas’ head snaps around, eyes widened in surprise. “Lift some of the mystery, if you let me.” He adds to lighten the mood, shrugging. He can feel the other’s gaze on him, watching him from the side. Richard keeps his gaze on the street in front of them, and after a while Thomas’ joins him. A small smile plays at the headmaster’s lips. “Alright.”

The school’s nurse and official senior earth fairy Dr. Clarkson takes one look at Thomas’ arms and seems to know what happened to them. He shoots a sharp, disapproving glare at Richard, who lingers at the door. “Haven’t these devices gone out of service years ago?”

“For unauthorized use, yes. It’s still allowed for the realization of the law.”

“…The ‘realization of the law’, yes?” Dr. Clarkson challenges him but turns to tend to his patient’s wounds before Richard can answer. He doesn’t know what to say either way. Clarkson carefully takes stock of the damage done, tsks at the job the nurse at the station had done and starts to throw together an ointment. Thomas is quiet throughout, only speaking to answer the doctor’s questions. He sits like a wilted flower on the edge of one of the greenhouse’s beds and Richard fights the urge to engulf him in a big hug and to only let go when he doesn’t look quite so miserable anymore. Of course, he can’t, and instead wonders if he should leave.

Before he can decide quick footsteps sound behind him and a worried Ms. Baxter rounds the corner. She hesitates at the door, smiling at him in a polite manner. But as soon as her eyes land on Thomas’ rumpled form, he is forgotten and she rushes towards her friend.

“I’m sorry, they didn’t tell us when you’d be released – I would have gotten you.” She speaks quietly, lowering herself onto the mattress next to him. One hand immediately comes up to cup his face and Thomas all but falls into her embrace.

“S’alright.” He mumbles, back rounded and posture shot to pieces.

“Yes, now it’s alright.” She agrees, drawing him a bit closer to her chest. She doesn’t look like she plans on letting go any time soon. Thomas’ hands find her body, creeping across her thighs to hold onto her blouse tightly. Even from the doorway, Richard can see the tremors shooting through his hurt arms. The wounds, still unwrapped, brush against Ms. Baxter’s clothes, making the headmaster hiss. She shushes him, whispering into his ear and gently petting his hair. The sweet nothings seem to be the last straw – Thomas’ shoulders shudder, he turns his head to hide even more and then his breaths turn into sobs. They are broken, heart wrenching things wracking his frame and stealing air from his lungs. Ms. Baxter steadily runs a hand down his side and dots kisses onto his hair and keeps whispering things Richard can’t make out over the noise of Thomas coming undone. He looks away, wanting to give them more privacy, and finds Clarkson’s gaze. With one glance and a nod they leave the room and retreat to the hallway.

When they reenter the greenhouse, everything is quiet. The two fairies are in the same position they left them in, Baxter holding the headmaster closely to her chest. Clarkson wordlessly returns to his mixture, giving it the last finishing touches, while Richard approaches the fairies. She tightens her grip when he steps up, probably subconsciously, and Richard is sure to keep his shoulders down and his hands visible. His gaze trails over Thomas’ hunched form, face still hidden in the crook of Ms. Baxter’s neck. “Anything I can do to help?” He inquires, careful to keep his voice low.

“There’s not much any of us can do.” She replies, a hint of steel in her tone. He deserved that, considering who he is working for.

Dr. Clarkson comes to join them, bowl with the ointment in one hand, fresh bandages in the other. He settles both on the mattress next to Thomas. “Mr. Barrow?” He asks, voice gentle. When Thomas doesn’t react, Ms. Baxter smooths a hand over his shoulder and repeats in a whisper: “Thomas?” She gets a slow nod out of him. “Doctor Clarkson needs to wrap your arms. You don’t have to go, just turn a bit, alright?” Her voice is soft but steady. It almost seems like she isn’t doing this for the first time, Richard thinks, and suddenly the image of the scars at Thomas’ wrists flits through his mind and a lump forms in his throat.

With some more gentle prompting and the help of guiding hands, Thomas turns so he sits beside Ms. Baxter, thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder. One of her hands sneaks around his back, the other lays gently on his knee. Even though Thomas must be taller than her by at least half a foot, she watches over him like a hawk upon her nest.

Clarkson leans over, taking hold of his left arm, and scoops up some of the ointment. But as soon as the cool mixture touches his skin, Thomas flinches and sudden light glows between their bodies. The doctor jumps back with a hiss, allowing Richard to see: Small flames have erupted out of Thomas’ skin, dancing along his arm and flickering in and out of existence. Thomas blinks, orange gaze sluggish, before snuffing out the fire with a frown. “Sorry- I’m sorry.” He mutters.

“No harm done.” Clarkson replies somewhat stiffly, returning to his spot. “I’ll count to three this time.”

He does, and it works better. Slowly he works his way up Thomas’ arm, then the other. After a while, Thomas’ eyelids start drooping and he leans more and more weight against Ms. Baxter’s smaller frame. Tension leaves his muscles, and when his head lolls to the side, seemingly too heavy to hold up anymore, Ms. Baxter shoots a worried look in the doctor’s direction.

“No need to worry. I put some wolf’s root in the salve. It develops sedative qualities when it comes into contact with oils, but it’s harmless.”

He finishes wrapping Thomas’ arms and quietly instructs her on further care. Apparently, the wounds are not easily healed since they have been inflicted by runic power and should therefore be closely watched. Clarkson orders for the headmaster to look in first thing when he wakes up, and, with a nod, releases Thomas from his care after a final check of his ABC’s. Ms. Baxter strokes Thomas’ hair for a second longer, then slowly guides him up to standing. He sways as soon as they are upright and she doesn’t need to send a glance in his direction for Richard to step up and help her, taking most of the headmaster’s weight onto him.

“Thank you.” Baxter mouths at the same time as Thomas once more mumbles: “Sorry-”

“No, it’s alright. Let’s just get you to bed, dear.” She’s soft in her words, but resolute in her actions. As they journey through the school and to the headmaster’s suite, she keeps up a steady stream of encouragement, keeping them moving until they’ve reached their destination. Richard has one arm securely around Thomas’ waist, and he tries not to notice how wonderful he fits into his side while Ms. Baxter opens the doors they encounter. The fire fairy stumbles along, steps getting slower by the minute, movements sluggish.

“Maybe he should have stayed with the doctor?” Richard asks when he reigns in the other’s uncoordinated limbs for the third time.

“No, he doesn’t stay in the greenhouse.” Ms. Baxter answers softly but with an air of finality, coming to a halt in front of a set of wide wooden double doors. Richard can see the shimmer of blue identification magic passing over her as her hand settles on the knob, then she pushes them open.

Despite his curiosity, Richard barely looks around. He is too busy keeping the headmaster upright and moving and it takes him and Ms. Baxter’s guiding hands to finally settle Thomas on the edge of his bed.

“Could you get us some towels and water, Mr. Ellis?” Ms. Baxter tilts her head almost apologetically. “I’m afraid a shower is out of question, at least for now.” Richard agrees with her as his gaze wanders over Thomas’ sagging form. His eyes are closed, a slight frown marring his forehead as he concentrates to stay upright.

“Of course. Where-?”

“Oh, the kitchen is right through, and the bathroom directly behind.”

Richard nods, turning to retrieve what she asked for. He makes his way through surprisingly old furniture, probably antiques or close by, and can’t help but catch a glance at the frames hanging here and there on the walls. Most of them are photos of classes, taken on graduation day with big smiles of relief on the student’s faces. In each of them, the headmaster stands to the side, smile barely half as wide but with unfathomable pride shining through. Richard feels the corners of his own mouth lift in reciprocation. He’d like to linger some more, but the muffled sounds of Ms. Baxter coaxing Thomas to stay awake prod him to keep moving.

He finds the towels easily. On his way back through the kitchen he stumbles upon an unexpected sight: The door of the fridge is littered with children’s drawings. White paper, rectangular or cut into shapes, painted on with colorful pencils and markers and crayons, each marked with autographs from the little artists. The entire fridge is engulfed by them, magnets holding up multiple sheets each, and they flutter when he carefully makes his way past.

When he returns to the bedroom, Ms. Baxter has succeeded in keeping Thomas conscious and has helped him remove his shoes, jacket and tie, now working on the waistcoat. Richard joins them quietly, and together they dress him down to his undershirt and boxers – and the glove on his left hand. She doesn’t dare remove that in Richard’s presence, or not without Thomas’ consent. Richard silently wonders if it is a matter of not yet or never.

Ms. Baxter dips a towel in the warm, slightly soapy water and starts running it across Thomas’ skin. Richard helps, sitting next to the fire fairy to support his body and guide the heavy limbs to ease her work. Without as many layers of clothing between them as before, Richard notices that he is pleasantly warm to the touch.

“Does Mr. Barrow have children?” He asks into the quiet. Ms. Baxter is so surprised she almost drops the wet cloth, fumbling before turning towards him with widened eyes. “What?”

“Sorry, I just- when I was in the kitchen just now, I saw the fridge.”

“Oh, right.” She resumes in her work, wiping days-old sweat away from Thomas’ brow. He seems to be falling asleep under her gentle ministrations and propped up by Richard. “It looks like it, doesn’t it?” She smiles. “But no, he doesn’t. Those drawings are all gifts from the children of our colleagues. Little Johnny, Caroline, Sybbie of course, and George.” She says the last name with more weight, and softer, as if the boy is even more special than the others.

“George?” He prompts and she rolls Thomas’ head around so she can get to the other side of his face. It makes him lean heavier into Richard, and he tightens his grip to not let him slip.

“George.” She nods. “Mary Talbot’s son, she’s the chair of the school board. She and Thomas were in the same year, incidentally, when they studied here at Alfea. But Thomas is far closer to her son. He’s known all of the children since birth.” Something like pride swings in her voice. Richard soaks up every detail she gives him. “He’s marvelous with them.” Her gaze flits towards him, and her smile turns slightly impish. “You’ll see it soon enough yourself, if you stay around.”

He doesn’t know why, really, the implication is so subtle, yet he turns beet red. He clears his throat, eyes wandering through the room. They are silent for a moment.

When she is almost done, Ms. Baxter speaks up again. “I have yet to apologize to you, Mr. Ellis.”

He frowns. “I can’t imagine whatever for.”

She scrunches up her face, suddenly uncomfortable. It is now her turn to look away from him, eyes trained intently at Thomas as she swipes over his hand, cleaning away dried blood and grime. “That’s part of it, I’m afraid. You see, when we didn’t know each other all that well yet, and I heard that you planned to go out with him, I…I took a look at your intentions. And did so concealed, so you wouldn’t notice.”

Richard has no idea what she is talking about. It must show because she elaborates: “I’m a mind fairy. I entered your mind, without permission, to make sure your intentions towards Thomas were good. And I want to apologize for doing so.”

“…You were in my mind?”

“Yes.”

Dumbly, the first thing that comes to Richard’s mind is: “How does that work, like reading a book?”

It throws her off. “Oh- uhm, no. No, more like…like swimming through emotions. Does that make sense?”

Richard shrugs, careful not to jostle Thomas. “I wouldn’t know.”

She frowns at his flippancy. “Aren’t you bothered by it? I swear, I don’t make a habit of these kinds of…explorations. And I don’t take them lightly.”

“I thought as much.” He says, keeping his voice light. But when her frown stays in place he straightens somewhat, adopting a more serious tone. “I peg you as a very self-conscious person, Ms. Baxter, who knows the extend of her powers and the responsibilities that come with them.” She nods. “See? And as you said, you had good reason to do as you did.” Now it is his time to frown, lips still uplifted. “But maybe not another time. I do like to keep my thoughts private. Ask me first, should you feel the need to do it again, alright?”

“Of course.”

Chapter Text

Of all the things to wake up to after the first night of restful sleep in your own four walls, Tom Branson’s early sunshine smile is not what Thomas expected. He blinks, thinks for a moment it must be a dream, but no – he’s right there, leaning against his dresser with crossed arms and clad in training gear, eyes set on Thomas.

Self-consciously, Thomas wipes at his mouth before he pulls himself up into a sitting position against the headboard. His arms twinge painfully at the movement, and a slow itch spreads beneath his bandages.

“You make a habit of watching your superiors sleep?” He grumbles.

Branson huffs a laugh. “I missed you too, you know.”

“How long ‘ve you been standing there for?”

Instead of answering, Branson uncrosses his arms and comes over to stand next to him. Thomas has to look up now, which doesn’t help with brightening his mood. The other nods at his nightstand. “Doc wanted me to bring you this, and make sure you drink it.”

“…What is it?”

Branson shrugs. “Beats me. But you gotta drink it all.” He adds as Thomas tentatively sips at the dark green liquid. It tastes familiar and sends a distant memory ringing – they had used some of what’s in there in the trenches too. But before his mind can conjure up any more details he downs the whole thing and shoves it back into Branson’s hands. “Here, now leave me be.” A decade ago, Branson would have taken it personally. Now though, he fumbles with the glass for a second, then sits down on the edge of Thomas’ bed.

“I was worried, you know. They didn’t tell us shit, about anything.” Branson’s eyes look at him in earnest, voice honest. Thomas doesn’t feel up to squishing that down. He’s quiet before replying in a low voice: “What was it like? The attempt?”

“They didn’t tell you?”

“They didn’t tell me shit either.” He repeats the other’s words. It gets him a smile, but it vanishes quickly.

“I wasn’t there, when it happened – got a daughter to take care of, haven’t I? But Mrs. Hughes was there, and she said it was terrible. Very hot, and very terrible-” He tries to imitate Mrs. Hughes’ accent but twists her gentle brogue into something grotesque. Thomas grimaces. “-and the guards had their work cut out for them, pretty much. Oh- and Daisy told me that Monsieur Courbet almost fainted when all the food came back down untouched. Mrs. Patmore had a field day, apparently.”

“Maybe she was behind all this, then. Wouldn’t put it past her.” Branson snorts at his words. They’re quiet for a moment, then Thomas takes a breath and asks, voice serious: “Did they question you?”

The Irishman quirks a brow. “No. Not really – I am a specialist, after all.”

Thomas barely hesitates before replying: “That’s not all you are, though.”

Branson’s gaze finds his. Thomas can see his hackles rising, and he is careful to return his gaze evenly. Eventually the specialist answers with a tense voice: “Sybbie had some friends over. I was there the entire time. And I haven’t spoken to Kieran in almost a decade now. The last thing I’ve heard was him getting a divorce from a wife I’ve never even met.”

Thomas nods. “Just making sure. They take their suspicions rather seriously over there.” As if on cue, the itch beneath the bandages he had felt ever since waking grows into an uncomfortable burn. He winces, pressing his hands to where it hurts most, but the pressure does little to ease his pain.

“What is it?” Branson asks, worry replacing irritation.

“Nothing.” Suddenly self-conscious, Thomas makes sure his pajama’s sleeves cover his arms all the way up to the wrists.

“Doesn’t look like nothing-”

“Don’t bother.” Thomas cuts him off, voice sharp. As he sees Branson’s face, put off, he tries to gentle his tone: “It’s nothing really. And shouldn’t you be out on a training mat? Demonstrating the most efficient way to cartwheel or summat?”

Branson scoffs, but the deep line between his brows vanishes. “Sod off.” He shakes his head as he stands to leave. At the door, he turns around one last time. “I’m glad you’re back, Thomas. Really.”

Thomas is unsure how to react to his honesty, so he settles on familiarity. “It’s Mr. Barrow.”

“Of course.” Branson closes the door with a soft click behind him and Thomas settles back into the cushions.

The next time Thomas wakes, he is alone. He enjoys the quiet for a while before heaving himself up – this time, with barely more than a twinge of his protesting arms. He finds two notes on his nightstand. He must have overlooked them before. One is from Phyllis, short and sweet, and the other from Richard, a bit longer and, most importantly, with a phone number at the end. It tells Thomas to call him when he wakes up. As soon as he reads it Thomas’ heartrate picks up.

But first – shower. He desperately needs one, and a shave too, so he heaves himself out of bed and into the bathroom before doing anything else.

Thomas leaves the shower only when the air is foggy and his skin red, hair washed thrice and face shaved clean. He shuffles out in his fluffy robe, dead set on returning to his bed. Standing for about thirty minutes has done him in already. But a shadow in his periphery makes him stop halfway down the hall. He turns to see a figure leaning against the back of his sofa, arms crossed, watching him.

“Who the fu-”

“Lawton. I don’t think we’ve been introduced yet.” She pushes off the sofa, approaching him with quick steps and an outstretched hand. He shakes it, eyes widened. “What-”

“So they haven’t told you yet?” He continues to stare, tired mind scrambling to keep up, so she elaborates: “I’m your detail. Looks like you’re a possible target, now that you’re not the perp – congrats.” He blinks. The officer sighs. “Ellis was meant to tell you.”

“How did you get in here?”

“Got a key.” She holds it up as evidence and cuts Thomas off as soon as he opens his mouth. “Your Mr. Carson gave it to me. Now, why don’t you go slip into something a little less…revealing, and check your phone? There must be a voicemail or something explaining everything.”

For lack of an alternative, at least one that’d be sensible, he complies and, unnerved, retreats to his bedroom. Luckily, she doesn’t follow. Picking out a suit and shirt at random he dresses as quickly as he can – his arms twinge, protesting the movements, but he tries to ignore it for now. There’s a constant, uncomfortable burn emanating from under the bandages he had kept clean while showering, and he makes a mental note to check in with Clarkson as soon as whatever this is is taken care of. When he is dressed, he picks up his phone, turning it on for the first time since, well- since everything. As soon as the screen lights up he sees that Lawton had been right – there are three missed calls from Richard, and multiple texts he had send when he hadn’t been able to reach him. Apparently, the man had underestimated Thomas’ stamina when it came to sleeping. Thomas is in no mood to go through it all, so he simply dials Richard’s number and calls him. The specialist answers almost immediately.

“Thomas? Are you alright?” He sounds concerned. It warms something inside Thomas no amount of showering could have done. As he lowers himself down on the edge of his bed he states rather bluntly: “There’s an Officer Lawton in my living room.”

“Oh, right. Let me explain…”

Richard tells him, in thankfully short sentences as he seems to notice that Thomas’ brain isn’t quite up to snuff at the moment, what Lawton had already implied: Instead of the main suspect, Thomas has now been declared a probable victim. Considering the evidence – the traces of carefully tailored fire magic, the obvious usage of knowledge of the school grounds and, of course, the eyewitness who had, as they now believe, seen a projection of him courtesy of a light fairy – it seems suddenly very likely that he had gotten framed. A headmaster for a scapegoat, Thomas thinks. Kind of original.

The question is, of course: Was he chosen on purpose or did they pick him at random? If Thomas was chosen for a reason, then there’s clearly someone out there to get him. It could even be that Thomas had been the sole target of the crime – a plan to feign an assassination attempt, make him the main suspect and bring him ultimately behind bars. To get rid of him once and for all.
Thomas would have liked to be able to say he didn’t know who could have done such a thing, who’d have it out for him, but he would be lying – there are more people out there who hate him than people who like him, he knows that with certainty. They are people who’d want to get retribution, a payback for what he, in his years upon years of cruelty, had said or done to them or their loved ones. And he can’t blame them.

Richard doesn’t seem to believe him when he says as much, and it serves as a blunt reminder for how little they know each other, even though they have been through so much already. It’s only been days, not even a week, since they met for the first time. In some moments, it feels like a lifetime.

All in all, these new developments demand a change in procedure. And that’s why Lawton is with him. She’ll function as Thomas’ bodyguard for the upcoming days, maybe weeks, depending on how long they’ll need to close the case. Richard explains that Lawton has been chosen for her discretion and efficiency, emphasizing how well she is suited for the job. It almost seems as if he is justifying her presence, trying to make the choice in personnel seem plausible and sensible. Thomas knows they are both thinking of the alternative, of him having been assigned Richard as bodyguard, but neither of them says it out loud. It doesn’t do to dwell on what-ifs.

When they have ended their talk, before joining Lawton in the living room again, Thomas continues to simply sit on his bed, staring ahead into nothingness. He is so tired, so so tired already. The day ahead feels like a mountain, high and steep and more insurmountable by the minute. He sighs, rubs his aching forearms and heaves himself up.

Once in the living room, his eyes immediately fall on his newly gained bodyguard. She has made herself at home on the sofa, and Thomas doesn’t like the natural way in which she is lounging on the cushions.

“Sorted?” She asks with a lifted brow.

He nods. Then frowns. “So you’ll just…follow me. Everywhere?”

She leans back, lips lifting slightly. “Never had a detail before, Lieutenant Colonel?”

So she’s done her homework. That’s something, he guesses.

After hanging up, Richard sinks back in his chair. He sighs and, just for a moment, allows himself to rest his eyes. The office is sparsely occupied today, the lion’s share of their forces still being, of course, at Alfea. It means there are no witnesses to his indiscipline. He knows he should return to his work, double up in his efforts to fight his way back into Wilson’s and Webb’s good graces, but that doesn’t feel very desirable anymore. Something inside him hesitates whenever he thinks about his superiors, the system he is working for, ever since he had released Thomas from their holdings. He still sees the cuffs whenever he closes his eyes, and how Thomas’ arms had looked beneath his touch. It makes him sick to the stomach, pictures of dried blood and abrasions contrasting with the sheer relief engulfing the fairy as soon as the metal left his skin. And when he had called upon his fire – the man Richard had met during interrogations had been a mere shell, a numbed down husk, and he had realized that in this very moment. They had taken away an integral part of him, just like that. It doesn’t sit right with Richard, not at all.

Upon his return General Webb had, without preamble, removed Richard from his division. The moment Wilson had looked the other way, she had put him on desk duty. She hadn’t tried to hide her displeasure with him and his involvement in the case and had assigned him little more than grunt work: Checking the list of guests and attendees of the dinner, comparing schedules of the staff and guards and looking for any irregularities. It involves a lot of calling, trying to get the person he needs on the speaker and apologizing for interrupting – and frustratingly little results. He knows it’s a punishment, and he knows that she knows that – they all know. But he doesn’t complain, not yet at least. The work is far below his station, but it beats getting fired. He thinks at least, so for now, he works.

Lawton follows Thomas everywhere- well, except to the loo, but that’s as much privacy as he gets. Anywhere he goes she is one step behind, standing to attention or watching the surroundings. She’s quiet, as her job demands, and her face is permanently set in an unreadable mask. He doesn’t like that, feels like she’s hiding more than she should, but knows it’s nothing more than paranoia. He’d always been too distrusting.

Upon leaving his suite for the first time since returning from prison, Thomas is greeted by disorder. Upturned schedules, inefficient task management and students missing lessons because they hadn’t known they were happening in the first place. He knows Carson had at least tried to keep the ship afloat, but it doesn’t seem like he’d had much success with it. The Royal staff scurries back and forth, darting between rooms they have apparently made into theirs and the staff’s quarters, as the guards have doubled in numbers, standing in front of each window and entrance, rotating like clockwork and very unforthcoming when approached. (Thomas has tried.) They are here only for one reason, and one reason alone, and they know it: To protect the Queen. She is currently locked up in the east wing, the most secure location on school grounds. She hides behind walls of guards and magically enforced shields, and has not been seen even once ever since the attempt on her life. Anyone who so much as dares to look too closely gets questioned and, inevitably, ordered to turn away. Even guards and police staff aren’t allowed in without good reason. It’s their very own Fort Knox, it is.

Of course, this is the number one topic of the rumor mill of the school – Thomas has heard seven versions of the same story before he’s even made it to the headmaster’s office. He believes there isn’t much of a business as usual to return to when an assassination attempt on the Queen happened inside your own four walls, so he tries to be a bit more lenient.

The most profound testament as to how things have derailed is Spratt’s reaction upon seeing him: The secretary flops back in his chair, looks towards the heavens and lets out a big sigh. “I didn’t think I’d ever say it, but thank god you’re back, Mr. Barrow.” Thomas’ eyes almost fall out of their sockets. In disbelief, he turns to Lawton – but of course, her face is settled in indifference, not giving any sort of reaction away. Spratt nods to the door behind his desk. “The lion’s in his cave.”

“The lion?” Thomas repeats.

“You weren’t there.” Spratt intones, returning to his own flavor of mystery. Thomas shakes his head, going to the door to the headmaster’s office. Lawton follows, only a step behind.

“Who is it now?” Carson barks upon his knocking, sounding rather flustered. Thomas lifts a brow, exchanging a last glance with Spratt, then enters the office.

“It’s me, Mr. Carson. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

The elder looks up from a pile of papers spread over the desk. His eyes widen slightly upon seeing him, and he stands immediately, rounding the table. “Mr. Barrow- I didn’t expect you for at least another day.”

Thomas frowns. He swears he can hear a note of disapproval already. He replies, hackles rising: “Yet here I am.”

“Yes.” Carson nods, then gazes at the person standing diagonally behind Thomas. “Ms. Lawton.” He greets her and, oh boy. The first time she shows any more emotion than a brick wall since they left Thomas’ suite and it’s a sickly-sweet smile that doesn’t reach her hard eyes. “It’s Officer Lawton. Mr. Carson.”

Carson blunders, mumbling yes of course rather absentmindedly, making Lawton bristle, and then lets them stew in silence. His gaze drifts over Thomas’ body and he fights the instinct to cover up the now slightly ill-fitting parts of his suit. He knows the waistcoat hangs a bit too limply and that his belt is on its tightest notch and that the bandages on his arms are just too long to hide entirely beneath his cuffs, but he doesn’t need anyone commenting on it, thank you very much. Carson’s voice and gaze have softened when his gaze comes back up, and Thomas has to stop himself from snapping at the old man. “Are you fit for duty again, Mr. Barrow?”

“Of course I am.” The other opens his mouth to undoubtedly argue with him, so Thomas barrels on. “I gather things have been slightly more demanding than usual?” Mr. Carson’s soft look vanishes, thank god, and it’s back to business.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say demanding – challenging, to a degree, as is to be expected with Her Majesty still under our roof and all the allowances we must make accordingly, of course. Should I fill you in?” He asks amiable enough, so Thomas decides not to be difficult about Carson having returned to the chair behind the desk and waving for him to take place in one of the visitor’s chairs. It’s only temporary, he reminds himself.

“If you’d be so kind.” He agrees, lowering himself down as Lawton takes her place close to the wall, unobtrusive and out of the way.

Carson makes heavy weather of departing. He remembers this and that, loiters about and even calls in Spratt to make sure everyone knows what they are supposed to do once he is gone. Thomas almost feels sorry for him, the old man who is so obviously reluctant to leave the only thing that seems to have given him true purpose – but Carson is so condescending about it all, so typically down-the-nose and belittling, that the sentiment would be wasted.

When Thomas has finally managed to get him out of the door, parking him in the outer office and therefore making him Spratt’s problem, he sinks into the headmaster’s chair with a deep sigh and closed eyes. Lawton lurks close by, and when he chances a glance at her he sees her lips quirk up in a little, bemused smile. It’s probably only a trick of the light, he thinks, and turns to the work that is finally his again.

Richard has made his way through the guest list by noon, and starts sifting through the roster of guards, comparing each guard’s and officer’s schedule with testimonies from witnesses they had taken that evening. It’s a lot, their own protocols being far more comprehensible than those from the police, each wildly differentiating in their layout. By the time he has reached the battalion shifts at the northern border of the school grounds he has practically memorized each witness statement and the words on his screen begin to swim in front of his eyes.

0500 to 0630
Troop 0720 under Commanding Officer Napier: …

It goes on, listing every name assigned to the troop next to the times each member clocked in – as expected of Napier’s troops, everyone was right on time. Before looking into the testimonies for the millionth time that day, he pushes away from his desk and stands with creaky knees. If he’s the only one toiling away in his small cubicle today, he might as well get a use out of the queue-less coffee machine.

While Richard waits for his cup to be filled, he plays with the thought of calling Thomas. But he can’t think of an excuse to call him under the guise of and is too tired to dare and be frank. I wanted to hear your voice. I wanted to know you’re doing okay, I wanted to take a teeny tiny part of your day and make it mine too. Maybe those words will be easier to say once he has caffein in his veins and a cleared-up mind.

Armed with his cup of pitch-black bitterness, Richard returns to his desk, diving back into the roster.

…0630 to 0700
Troop 0820 under Commanding Officer Akhtar: …

…0700 to 0830
Troop 0742 under Commanding Officer M’Baku: …
[added manpower through Police Officers Waterston, Kimberley, Lawton, Walker, Thompson, Sheldaw]

Wait-

Richard clicks to open the file – and gets promptly blocked by the police’s database login page. He hisses out a breath and punches his details in with more force than necessary, keyboard clacking loudly in the quiet office. This is the millionth time he’d had to do this – and it had gotten old real quick. Once this was all over he was going to have to have a strong word with the police’s IT department.

The digital file is a mess when he finally gets to open it, and it takes Richard almost half an hour to decipher its contents. Once he has, an uneasy feeling settles in his guts: The schedules confirm that Lawton had been assigned to M’Baku’s troop, who had been stationed at the northern border at the time of the attempt. Problem is: Daisy’s testimony contains a lengthy description of how she had almost run into a guard lingering just outside the Great Hall, almost spilling two trays of appetizers. And this guard had been Officer Lawton.

With a pounding heart, Richard makes to call the chief of the police department to request access to her file.

Thomas and Lawton are left alone for the better part of three hours, in which Thomas slowly but surely gains an approximate outline of, well- all the ways Carson has mucked up. To be fair, it seems to be as much his fault as the Royal staff’s, which have demanded things that were clearly above any rationality or power. He shifts through the new and entirely disproportionate kitchen bills when the door opens and the unmistakable clacking of high-quality heels echoes towards them.

“Barrow. I hope this isn’t a bad time.” Mary Talbot announces, making a bee line through the office and towards him. Thomas stands up and gestures to the visitor’s chairs.

“Spratt wasn’t there so I let myself in.” She explains, tone borderline accusing, and sits down before he has the chance to answer. He mirrors her, folding his hands on top of the papers he had been going through. The move hurts more than anticipated, his skin pulling irritatingly underneath the bandages, and he can’t stop a wince scrunching up his face for the better part of a second.

“…Are you alright?” She asks, thrown off whatever path she had been on when she had entered. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was concerned. For whatever reason, he decides to trickle in a bit more truth than usual into his response: “Fine. Let’s just say prison didn’t quite suit me.”

She looks at him, gaze almost disconcerted, and he immediately regrets having said anything. Then she clears her throat, straightens up and her eyes become sharp. “Which brings us to the subject of my visit.” On hearing her speak business, his own back straightens on instinct. “You see, I’m in a bit of a conundrum, Mr. Barrow-” She leans down to retrieve her phone from her purse, scrolling through it quickly. “The investigating officers have brought something to my attention, and I’m afraid I can’t ignore it- this.” Having found what she was looking for, she places her phone with an accentuating clack on the tabletop, facing towards Thomas. He leans forward, scanning the display, and it doesn’t take him long to recognize what he sees: It’s the blog post. Five Most Fabulous Gay Bars in Yorkshire and Why You Must Visit Them.

Shit.

Thomas tries to keep his cool, looking up at her. He knew this would come, he just hadn’t thought it’d be so soon. “And?”

Her eyes widen imperceptibly. “I’m confident you’re aware of the problem.”

“No. Do enlighten me.”

“The pictures, Barrow.” She snaps. “You know what’s in there, don’t think I don’t.” She gestures towards her phone, still lying between them. Thomas fights down the embarrassment that inevitably comes with realizing your superior has seen a photo of you grinding against a stranger’s crotch and returns her gaze evenly. “Since I wasn’t on duty during the time these were taken, I don’t see how they’d concern you. Or any of the school board.”

“Only because you’re off the clock doesn’t mean that you don’t have a standard to uphold- Thomas, I don’t have to tell you this. You know how it works.”

The slip up she does in addressing him only adds to the anger boiling up inside his chest. He has done far more for this school than anyone on the board, has risked his own reputation and neck again and again, has believed in the students when she had given up – and she wants to tell him how it all works? “I do, so I’m starting to wonder what this is really about.”

She scoffs. “Don’t deflect-”

“-Mary. We both know you’re standing on thin ice.” It’s the only thing he’s got, and he’s making sure to make it as great of an offense as he can. If you only got one hill, you can’t be choosy about which one to die on. “I was, like I said, off duty – by your own hand, might I remind you – and therefore was not beholden to keeping up the image of the school. You know that, I know that, it stands in the bloody order. So, I’m asking you: What. Is. This. Really. About?”

“It’s about responsibility, Barrow.” She leans back, crossing her arms. “I can’t have a headmaster seen raving in a gay bar one night, and then getting arrested for attempted murder the very next day.”

“And how is that my fault?” He asks, opening his palms to gesture but thinks better of it when even the slight motion causes his wounds to twinge. He suddenly realizes he forgot to check in with Dr. Clarkson. “How were I supposed to know they’d try to kill the bloody Queen-”

“It’s ‘Her Majesty’.” A flat voice cuts him off. Mary flinches, and Thomas isn’t far behind – he’s forgotten all about Lawton. (That’d be a first.) The officer inclines her head as they both turn towards her.

Mary looks about, eyes still widened by shock. “And how long have you been standing there?”

“I’m Mr. Barrow’s personal guard, Miss. I’m always with him.” The words almost send a shiver down Thomas’ spine – in her detached tone it sounds more foreboding than reassuring.

Mary frowns. “Why?”

“There’s been a change of interest.” Lawton answers curtly. Thomas begrudgingly admits that she’s rather good at keeping information confidential. Mary decidedly turns away from the officer, brows lifted, and opens her lips-

BAM!

A shockwave, followed by intense heat, rushes through the room. Thomas slams against his desk with the force of it, arms, chest and face hitting the wood unstopped and sending him into a haze of pain. Something heavy settles on top of him, pressing him down harder. The pressure suffocates any air inside his lungs, making him choke on the sudden acid smell filling his nostrils. Then the weight lifts, his surroundings get brighter and a tight grip on his arm heaves him upright. He blinks, the sight of his office in front of him swirling and twirling as he tastes blood-

“Barrow? You hear me?” The voice is muffled and distorted, as if he’s underwater. He’s still busy blinking against the tilting world and a high-pitched sound overlaps the words, pushing them away and turning them into static noise. His vision clears up bit by bit, and he realizes it’s not his eyes that have taken a turn for the worse, but there’s real smoke inside making everything hazy and the air thick. He takes a breath, the ringing intensifying, his chest aching-

He gets heaved up, pulled along and he stumbles when the office tilts the wrong way.

“For god’s sake-” A second grip around his other arm steadies the ground beneath his feet, he blinks against tears and the fog grows heavy, he coughs, shooting pain through his sternum-

They move. He gets dragged across the office, through thick grey fog and suddenly the high-pitched whining in his ears is joined by gut churning, bone rattling, loud explosions. They are far away, but he knows what this is, knows these sounds as if they were the ones that had sung him to sleep when he had been a child – bombs. He coughs and they stumble down a staircase- the explosions come closer, circling them, and he can feel the mud on his face again, the cold air of the Somme in his lungs and the screams of his soldiers as they die one after the other. Something jostles him and his head pounds- the Major yells at him to get his act together- his lips feel wet and coppery and the pressure inside his ears expands to reach around his skull. They round a corner, moving away from wherever it is they had come from, and yet the smell continues to burn its way into his lungs, just like it had in Eraklyon- Captain Crawley sprawls in front of him, unmoving- the ringing in his ears climbs, sending white hot sparks into his vision- it serves to highlight Lang’s trembling hands against the backdrop of their foxhole, shows how the mind fairy fails to maintain their cover, nearly killing them all in his panic- Thomas’ heart beats violently against his ribs, his skin is cold with sweat and his breaths come in shallow gasps-

Septimus Spratt stands in front of him and drops his salad. Croutons and little cubes of ham roll over green lettuce and across the red carpet, followed by a wooden fork and a white yoghurt dressing spilling everywhere. The sight is so unexpected that it catapults Thomas back to reality. He blinks, swallows, and the sounds recede, the pictures fade into the backdrop of his mind. Slowly he can feel the even, stony floor under his feet again.

“What in god’s name-?” Spratt’s eyes look like marbles, all round and glassy. They’ve never seen war.

“Don’t enter the headmaster’s office anytime soon.” Lawton interrupts curtly, already moving again. Thomas has no choice but to follow because, apparently, it’s her hand clamped tight around his bicep holding him up. On his other side, Mary is doing the same. “Not if you value your life.” That’s quite ominous, Thomas thinks as Spratt splutters: “What- where-?”

“There’s been a second attempt.” Thomas grinds out over his still ringing ears. “Inform Mrs. Hughes. Get the students- We’re-” He falters, looking questioningly at Lawton. The move makes his vision spin again. “Where are we going-?” He asks, squinting against the tilting floor and the sound of faraway screams, echoing through his mind.

“The old gatehouse. Lower levels.” Lawton bites out, then adds in a warning tone: “Don’t tell anyone else.”

Spratt blinks, but before another word can be uttered Lawton pulls them around the next corner, leaving the secretary behind. Thomas tries to get his feet under himself, easing his weight off the women as his senses return, bit by bit, to the present. Mary loosens her grip, eventually letting go of him, and Thomas is silently glad about it – it made him uncomfortable, to say the least, not only being so close to her but relying on Mary Talbot to keep him upright. He has a feeling the sentiment is reciprocated. Lawton, on the other hand, continues to guide him, hand clasped around his arm, steps quick. When Thomas finds his balance again and wants to ease off her grip, it only tightens. He tries to loosen it discretely, but no success – for a policeman, the woman is surprisingly dense when it comes to subtle clues.

The further they go, the quieter it gets. They are the only ones in these parts of the school, hallways eerily empty and unused, almost deserted. Even the ever-present guards thin out as they climb down one staircase after the other. When they’ve reached the basement, carpets making place for cold stones beneath their feet, and Thomas still hasn’t been able to pry his arm loose from his bodyguard’s grip, his patience reaches an end. He snaps: “Oh for god’s sake, would you let go of me already? I can walk on my own-”

BAM!

Another explosion rattles the steep and narrow staircase they are on, and Thomas sees mud. A strong hand catches him and manhandles him upright and when he looks up he sees Lieutenant Courtenay’s empty eyes. Grey fog fills the air once more and Lawton’s voice gets drowned by the whistling of a thousand falling bombs. A burning smell crawls into his nose and fills his mouth with ash- Eraklyon attacks, ripping through their shields and bodies as if they were nothing- Thomas’ skin feels hot, everything is hot- fire, everywhere- he stops Lang, but it’s too late- Captain Crawley is there, he’s breathing- the only body he’s able to pull out- silent eyes look up at him, unmoving and accusing- William, Lang, Edward-

“Barrow!” Mary’s voice cuts through their corpses, beady eyes and thick blood following him as he tries to see past the war’s horrors, into the present.

“This way-” He gets roughly yanked around, the steps underneath his feet tilt away and suddenly it’s dark- they can barely see in the moonlight, but no one dares to open their magic for fear of drawing the enemy’s fire- they are all dead- Thomas blinks, squeezes his eyes shut- the silence gives way for the noise of the battle- opens his eyes again, on the edge of vertigo-

“He needs a break-” There’s Mary again-

“There’s no time-”

BAM!

This time, the noise is closer, louder and stronger than before, and it’s too much. With a rapid heartbeat, sweat on his skin and burning fire in his veins, Thomas loses himself.

Chapter Text

It takes Richard close to an hour to get access to Lawton’s file via the secretary of the chief of the police – he’s the slowest bloke Richard has ever had the misfortune of meeting. And that means something, considering his brother once lost a race to a slug.

As soon as he gets it he opens the documents on his screen, eyes scanning quickly over the records. Reviews and references are attached, cross referencing each other and the customary profile, but the very last section includes a sealed and signed analysis of Lawton’s character, done by an independent Psychoanalyst multiple years ago.

Richard’s stomach tightens as he reads it.

Minutes later he rushes out of the room, files stacked in his arms, and bursts into the Head of Command’s office without a knock.

Mary has returned to her position at Barrow’s side. Her shoulder cramps under his weight as he sways, and for a moment his head rolls to the side and she can feel his breath on her cheek. It’s hot, quick and as uncoordinated as his steps, and it wouldn’t surprise her very much if his whole body would follow suit and grow overly warm. She guesses she should think herself lucky to be of the same element, making the thought of the person closest to her spontaneously erupting into flames nothing more than a minor concern. She doesn’t know about the guard on his other side though – maybe she’d get burned to a crisp should Barrow lose control. The thought doesn’t worry Mary quite as much as it probably should.

Lawton yanks them down the next hallway and through a set of old wooden doors. They creak in the hinges and Barrow starts to shiver. In the faint traces of light streaming in from narrow windows close to the ceiling she can see sweat glistening on his forehead. The officer leads the way, seldomly looking behind herself and so she doesn’t notice Barrow’s paling complexion or how he switches between squeezing his eyes shut and blinking them open again. Mary tries to bring her to slow down, but she gets cut off rather rudely. Lawton guides them further and further away from where they had come. The noise of the explosions recedes, keeping the count at three, and with the guards stationed primarily in the school above ground they are alone down here.

In the quiet Mary starts to pay more attention to their surroundings. She wouldn’t be able to trace their steps back, having been occupied with not dying and all that, but now that they are out of imminent danger she starts to look around. As pretty much everywhere in Alfea, they are surrounded by stone, dark and cold – but this one’s older than the materials above. They are hewn roughly, made to last centuries. They form arches and vaults over their heads, and when they round a corner and the capstone over the entrance is formed into a laughing grimace, horns sprouting out of its forehead and the remnants of what may have been a beard hanging from the bottom, Mary suddenly knows where they are. She remembers the different capstones from her school years, when she had used the hidden passageways in the walls and the basement of Alfea as shortcuts, to lose undesired admirers or to get some peace and quiet whenever Edith had been especially frustrating. More than once she had met Barrow here, lurking in the shadows and away from the crowds. He had smoked, filled the narrow tunnels with that dastardly smell, and they had barely spoken a word to the other. They each went about their own business, but a certain camaraderie had built up over the years nonetheless. None of them had ever brought anyone else into these parts, not even their closest companions, and Mary doubts there were any other students who knew of these secret passages. She had liked it that way. And now, rushing through the ancient halls with her memories returning, she recognizes more and more of these little but remarkable details in their surroundings – and grows surer with each step that they aren’t headed towards the old gatehouse.

“-no one tell me she had a record?”

Wilson looks at him from behind his desk. “Who? Lawton? I don’t see how that is any of your concern, Mr. Ellis.”

“Have you read her file? All of it?” He shoves the papers he had so hastily printed out in his boss’ direction, leaning over the desk. “Not only does she have a record- go to the last page-” When Wilson makes no effort to look through the papers Richard takes them off him with an impatient noise and shuffles through them until the one in question lies on top. “Here- they did a character test before letting her back in-”

“As is usual-”

“She’s a known antimonarchist!”

Wilson sighs, growing exasperated. “A republican doesn’t make a felon, Mr. Ellis.”

“But a middle-aged, military trained fire fairy with a penchant for hating anything monarchist does-” Wilson looks close to kicking him out of his office, but Richard raises his voice and talks right over him. “Mr. Wilson – she was seen in the great hall minutes before the attempt. She deserted her post!” It has the intended effect – Wilson snaps his mouth shut and narrows his eyes. Richard uses his silence to procure the according papers from the stack between them, making it topple over in his haste. “Here- the assistant cook of the school recognized her clearly when she went to deliver the appetizers- she bumped into her, in the Great Hall. Lawton was assigned to the northern borders of the woods, but she wasn’t there.”

“Why did no one report this? Whose troop was it?”

“Commanding Officer M’Baku’s – but, you see, they didn’t notice she was gone. She was registered, her attendance is filed-”

“Then how come-”

“A projection.”

Wilson shoots him a look and leans back in his chair. His hard-earned attention seeps away in seconds. “The one in the hall could have been one just as well – another ruse to lure us away from the real-”

“No, it can’t have. Daisy- Ms. Mason, the assistant cook – she states, quite clearly, that she almost ruined two trays of appetizers, because she ran into the guard and lost balance. You can’t collide with a light projection, Mr. Wilson.” The head of command is quiet. Richard leans forward, leaning on the tabletop. “We put the culprit right back where she wanted to be – and, on top of it-” Richard tries so hard to keep his emotions in check, yet a slight tremble steals itself into his words when he finishes. “We’ve delivered her her scapegoat on a silver platter.”

It takes a moment, but then it clicks and Wilson’s eyes widen with the realization. “The headmaster.”

Mary frowns. She has kept to herself for the last meters, but when Lawton decidedly takes a turn leading even further away from where she had said they are heading, she can’t hold it in anymore. “Officer Lawton, are you sure this is the right direction?”

She doesn’t break her stride. “I know where I’m going, Mrs. Talbot, don’t worry.”

Mary arches a brow, irritation bubbling up inside her. “It doesn’t seem like it – you do know the old gatehouse is at the west end of the grounds-”

The officer rounds on her. “Yes, I know-” She cuts herself off, taking a breath before continuing in a quieter if not calmer tone. “Just follow me. We’re almost there.” She starts walking again.

The sudden motions of her stopping and starting again have done nothing for Barrow’s state of mind. He reels to the side and crashes into Mary. As she rightens him she notices his skin is dry and hot to the touch- he blinks, hard, and his irises fill up with a warm orange glow as he wheezes: “Captain Crawley, this isn’t-” She almost drops him.

Mary’s own heartbeat picks up pace. She swallows down whatever it is that’s trying to make its way up her throat and tightens her grip around Barrow. Then, she gets her feet back under herself and picks up her pace to come side by side with the bodyguard again.

“This is the wrong direction, Officer.” She states firmly.

“I know where we are.” The other insists, walking a bit faster.

“No, you don’t-” Mary argues before her gaze catches on something overhead. Another capstone, this one with a knight’s helmet and the sunken eyes of a skull looking down on them. It’s surrounded by stylized waves. Realization sinks into her stomach, hot and heavy, and her eyes widen as she whispers: “This is the east wing.”

When Richard gets to the school, decked out in fire-proof gear and with a total of twelve guards as back up – all their own, no additional manpower from the police – he is stopped by Napier at the entrance. Without a word he holds out his hand. Richard knows what the gesture means, has seen the mind fairy’s abilities before and up close, but had them never used on himself. He barely hesitates before taking his colleague’s hand.

As soon as their skin touches, a jolt drives through Richard’s mind and Evelyn’s eyes turn lilac. “We’re here on Wilson’s orders.” Richard announces. He can feel the magic trailing along his words, seeping into them to see the truth. Like tendrils it worms its way through his mind, dissecting his memories and intentions, and it takes all his willpower to stay where he is and let it happen. After what feels like an eternity but can’t have been more than a few seconds, Navier releases his hand, satisfied. “You have come just at the right time, Ellis. There’s been a series of detonations in and around the headmaster’s office-” Richard’s heart misses a beat. “No one’s been harmed, though. Yet.” Napier’s tone is as much reassurance as it is a warning, and without further ado Richard pushes past him and into the school.

When they pass the Great Hall, they are greeted by a wall of noise – students alongside staff and teachers mingle about, all assembled in one place, overseen by a stern Mrs. Hughes. The fairy doesn’t seem to notice them, attention trained on her charges, and Richard doesn’t do anything to change that.

On the stairs to the second floor, Richard and his troop get stopped by a round man with even rounder eyes, looking harried and disconcerted. “Are you here for back up, then?” He calls when they’re still several feet away.

Richard jogs up to him, ignoring his question. “Are you a member of staff?”

“Spratt. Secretary to the headmaster’s office-”

“Do you know where the headmaster is?” He interrupts. There’s no time for pleasantries. But instead of answering, the secretary narrows his eyes and takes his time looking them up and down. “And who are you, to demand such knowledge?”

Richard whips out his badge. “We’re with her Majesty. Where’s Mr. Barrow, Mr. Spratt?” His eyes widen when they fall on Richard’s ID and he sputters his answer: “To- to the old gatehouse. But I’m not supposed to tell anyone-”

Richard has a hunch as to who must have given him that order. “Of course.” He bites out, then turns to his guards, orders ready.

Lawton pulls them into the basement of the east wing, underneath old grimaces carved in stone and through a labyrinth of corridors. Mary desperately tries to think, to come up with a plan or to at least understand the plan they are made to be a part of, if they want it or not. Lawton’s pace has quickened, her strides long and fast as they rush through the dark. She has let go of any pretense, keeping silent ever since Mary has realized where they are headed. The officer is determined, focused, and her grip on Barrow must be bruising.

When they round the next corner, she is too fast – Barrow stumbles, ripping out of Mary’s hand and crashing into the officer. She loses her balance and they go down, landing in a heap on the floor. For a second, no one says or does anything. Then, Mary seizes her chance – she leans down to heave the headmaster up just as he comes to life again and starts to scramble off Lawton. Together, they get him somewhat upright and standing and, without further ado, turn to where they had come from- a wall of flames erupts in front of them, hot and deep red and surprise is the only thing making Mary falter in her steps. But it’s only fire, and she’s walked through it more times than she can count, so there’s nothing to it- just as she steps forward, Barrow gets yanked back. He yelps, stumbles and is shoved against the wall, away from Mary into the arms of Officer Lawton. She can hear the sickening crunch of his head meeting the stone even over the roaring of the officer’s flames, and watches as he slowly glides down to the ground, dazed and leaving a trail of red on the grey wall. It matches the blood still glistening in trails from his nose over his lips and chin and down along his neck, looking angry and almost black in the fiery light.

“Don’t get in my way now, you spalpeen!”

Mary doesn’t know why, but her brain latches onto that last part. “You’re irish?”

Officer Lawton turns with a grin – it’s small, self-assured as she bows. “Cara Branson-Lawton, at your service.” Her accent is suddenly thick, rolling and swallowing the letters. It reminds her of-

“Branson?”

“I believe we’re related, Mary. What is it called, when I’m your brother-in-law’s brother’s ex-wife?”

Mary stares. A movement in the corner of her eyes catches her attention – Barrow tries to get his arms under himself, clumsy and sluggish in an attempt to stand up. Before he can get very far Officer Lawton- Branson-Lawton snaps: “Down, Soldier!” He stops immediately, ceasing any movement and pressing himself instead as close to the wall as possible. Mary catches a glimpse of his eyes – beneath the usual pale grey, an orange glimmer starts to build up once more.

“What are you doing?” She asks, gaze still on the headmaster. His chest heaves with each breath, eyes unseeingly staring ahead, wide in his panic. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s calling upon his magic, trapped in a war long since over.

“What does it look like?” Smile still in place, Lawton’s gaze wanders towards the ceiling. For a second, she simply looks upwards. Then, the officer shrugs, eyes trailing down to Barrow. Her body follows her gaze, slowly crouching down in front of his huddled form. “A loony’s gotta be good for something, right?” She whispers and reaches out to take his hand. He flinches at the contact, tries to shuffle away but only manages to scrabble against the wall. His hand quivers in Lawton’s grip, and Mary belatedly realizes it’s the left one. She steps forward just as Lawton closes her hands over his. Then her eyes burn. She sends a pulse of white-hot fire through Barrow’s hand.

Mary can feel the heat of it from where she stands several feet away as the headmaster cries out, bright orange filling up his irises. In the blink of an eye they are engulfed by his flames, roaring to life, shooting out of him with violent force. They fill the hallway in seconds, pull at Mary’s hair and clothes, touch her skin hotly and burn bright in her eyes. She blinks, her subconsciousness already guiding the flames away from her body.

“What are you doing?” She repeats over the roaring, yelling to be heard. Lawton, kneeling in front of Thomas right in the center of the fire, still watches him, an unsettling smile grazing her lips. “What does it look like, Mary dear?” Her gaze wanders up again, to the ceiling above them. She seems vacant, as if staring right through the stones up into the rooms of the east wing. Her face twists into something ugly. “It’s nothing she didn’t have coming.”

“Mr. Ellis!” The call stops them on the last step to the basement. Richard turns and sees a familiar figure rushing towards him.

“Ms. Baxter?”

“Mr. Ellis- don’t- this is the wrong way!” She comes to a halt in front of him, out of breath. Her eyes are wide in her panic, and her voice is far louder than usual, echoing through the stairwell. “It’s Tomas- oh, please tell me you’ve come-”

“We’re here for him, yes.”

Suddenly her eyes shimmer lilac and she grows even more frantic. “Oh, they are even farther away now than I thought-”

“To the gatehouse, I-”

“No!” The word bursts out of her small frame. He hadn’t thought her capable of so much volume. “No, that’s it-” Before ending the sentence, she starts to hurry back up the staircase, making her way past the entire squad. “-they aren’t going to the gatehouse. They are in the east wing!”

Richard turns on his heel and rushes to follow her.

The heat is unbearable. Even a fire fairy has their limits, and Mary is starting to reach hers. How Lawton can stand it, she has no idea. The fire fairy still sits right next to Barrow on the ground, holding his hand in a death grip. Through the flames, warbling and twisting her vision, Mary can see him jerking in her hands. But she doesn’t let up – fingers clamped around his wrist like a vice, she shoots more and more white-hot flames through his scars. The glove he usually wears is reduced to burning rags, dancing darkly in the flames that engulf them all. They are high, filling the hallway and angrily licking at the ceiling. The stones are blackened, should be hot to the touch. Mary fears what will happen once they start to glow and melt.

By now she has realized what Lawton intends to do – why she had brought them here, in this exact hallway, and why it had to have been them – or rather, Thomas – under these exact circumstances.

Barrow’s health had been made an open secret once the newspapers had gotten a sniff of the reasons behind his discharge from the army. One of Alfea’s most powerful fairies ruined by the horrors of war. The headlines had been far less polite.
It had taken years, terrible long years during which no one had noticed how truly ill he had been, and a very close call, for him to finally get better. None of the staff at Alfea had forgotten about it, nor anyone on the board, but Mary had thought the public would be oblivious to the long-term effects. Apparently, she had been wrong.

And a reportedly unstable, ungracefully discharged fire fairy with a personal grudge against the government makes a wonderful cover up when you wanted to kill the queen. It’s quite self-explanatory, he’s the obvious choice. Yet the investigating personnel seems to have overlooked this somehow – incompetent fools, the lot of them.

Mary feels her own fire snapping up inside her, indignation at Lawton’s gall, her sheer audacity to come into this school and think she could just do whatever she wanted- But before she can add her own brand of flames to the mix, the sound of footsteps echoing through the basement’s hallways reaches her ears.
She hesitates the very same moment Barrow stops in his movements and grows still. Eerily so. Lawton notices too, and she yanks at his hand pressed between hers.

“Oi!” She hisses. Her eyes widen and she watches alongside Mary as Barrow’s flames start to lower. Their erratic movements cease, turning into mellow, almost calm lights as they shrink down, away from the ceiling. When they’re barely above Mary’s head, Lawton snaps into action. “Soldier!” She snaps, sending another white-hot pulse through Barrow’s skin. He flinches, a full-body shudder running through him with force, and his flames spike up again. Once more, they grow to lick on the ceiling, hot and persistent, but it doesn’t last long. After a second or two they start to lower again, quieting down, becoming docile.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you-” Lawton bites out as the fire thins out, allowing Mary a clearer view of the two figures ahead of her. Lawton has risen up onto her knees, looming over Barrow, their joined hands hovering between them. Mary can see her angry, orange eyes stabbing into Barrow’s- violet ones?

“Thomas!” The footsteps have circled around them, coming from the opposite direction of the hallway now. It only takes another second, then Mary is able to make out multiple figures through the flames. They seem to be in uniform, dark fabric and straight backs revealing them to be guards. A slight, uniform-less figure at the front gasps, and the lilac in Barrow’s eyes flickers.

“Step away from him, Miss Lawton, hands where we can see.” Mary feels like she has heard the tenor before, but she can’t place it.

Slowly, Lawton gets to her feet and turns her head away from Barrow, towards the new arrivals. She doesn’t let go of Barrow. “Now, why would I do that?” She asks, tone suddenly sickly sweet. “I’ve got all I need right here, with me.” Mary can all but hear the smirk on her lips. Without warning, Lawton presses down on Barrow’s hand again, calls upon her flames to flare right through him. It has the desired effect, making him jerk and yelp, fire roaring upwards once more. His eyes squeeze shut this time, face pulled into a grimace and his right hand shoots out, uncoordinated, to paw and push at the officer. His attempts are feeble, impaired by his injuries, and Lawton seems nothing more than a tad annoyed by his struggle. She swats him away and uses her knee to push him harder into the wall at his back. At the sudden pressure his breaths turn into staccato, right hand pushing at her leg. None of it is enough to tear Lawton’s attention away from the soldiers on the other side. She is entirely focused on them, her back turned to the rest of the hallway – where May still stands.

With a pounding heart, she dares to take a step in Lawton’s direction.

“Let go of him, or we’ll shoot.”

Lawton huffs out a laugh. “There’s yet a bullet to be made that can stand the heat of a fairy’s magic, Mr. Ellis. You can trust me on this one.” She tightens her fingers around Barrow’s wrist. The slight change in her grip causes the remnants of his glove to come loose and flutter silently to the ground between them. Barrow’s eyes are still squeezed shut, chest heaving against the knee at his sternum.

Mary takes another step.

“You can’t fight fire with your little weapons – no sword can slice through flames, no kick lands, nothing. It’s magic, no part of your little materialistic world. You specialists never really learned that, did you?” Thomas whimpers and slowly, the flames start lowering again. Mary is close enough now to see through the orange glow and she recognizes Ms. Baxter on the other side, standing next to a tall, blonde guard. Behind them more uniforms are lined up. Baxter’s shiny eyes are wide, glowing violet beneath frowning brows. Their gazes meet as Lawton talks. Mary cocks her head to the side, letting her eyes slither to the officer and Barrow. She lets some of her magic push up and out, making her own eyes begin to glow.

Baxter frowns harder, eyes flitting to Barrow. Mary lets her gaze linger intently on Lawton’s back. Ms. Baxter hesitates as the guard next to her speaks up again. He earns himself another one of Lawton’s smug smiles and another flame shooting into Barrow’s hand. He chokes on a gasp. Baxter’s features set, sharpening. She looks at Mary and nods.

And Mary lets her fire loose. She revels in the roaring of her own flames, the sheer power surging through and out of her, her fire dancing along her skin, happy to be moving. It grows in seconds, making its way around the already existing flames, widening around and hugging them, drawing nearer and nearer. Lawton was right – a weapon is useless in the face of flames. The best way to fight fire is with fire.

Phyllis notices the exact moment Thomas’ fire snuffs out. She’s inside his mind when it happens, and it feels awfully close to him having exhausted himself, him giving up. She doesn’t linger on the thought and makes to rush to his side. But before she can take more than a single step, a hot wall of fire rolls towards them. Strong hands clasp her arms and a heavy weight throws her to the ground, shielding her from the flames. She can feel the fire rushing over her, far too close for comfort. The air fills with the ugly smell of singed hair and melted plastic, and it feels like eternity, wrapped in mere seconds, until the heat retreats.

The air is filled with smoke and darkened, feeling thin when she takes a breath. Much more of this, and the flames will have taken every ounce of oxygen out of the hallway.

She can feel the weight rolling off her, and as she pushes herself up onto her knees and hands, she takes a look at who had probably saved her from burning to a crisp: It’s Richard Ellis. The guard lies coughing and gasping next to her on the ground, winded from the close call, eyes tightly shut. His face is sooty, tips of his hair blackened, and his breaths rattle as they travel through his throat.

Unceremoniously, Phyllis calls upon her magic and lets it travel over his body – aside from slight burns, he’s unharmed. His armor has caught the most of it, Kevlar plates melting together, but not down upon his skin. It’s a wonder, really, that there isn’t more damage.

With a cough of her own, Phyllis shuffles up, keeping Ellis down with a hand to his chest as he tries to follow. He complies, still busy catching his breath and stilling his reeling mind.

Phyllis squints through the thick smoke. She can hear the rest of the guards behind her, shuffling to their feet and breathing heavily. She can barely see, only the glow of flames serving as light, and they are fickle, moving around, ever changing in intensity. And it almost looks like they are moving away, the light growing weaker as the smoke clogs thick and dark around them.

With a hand on the wall as guidance, Phyllis carefully steps around Ellis and in the direction of the flames. It takes a second, but once more she lets her magic wander out, twist into the dark, searching as she, step by step, makes her way further into the smoke. It filters out almost every ray of light, and with her vision failing she concentrates on her other senses to guide her through. She’s walked only a meter or two when her magic curls around a familiar mind. It’s silent, just as dark as their surroundings.

With her heart beating uncontrolledly up into her throat, she steps across the hallway, lets go of the wall and grasps Thomas’ unmoving mind with her powers. He’s never this quiet, thoughts and emotions always racing, overlapping each other. Only once has she witnessed him this still…

Her foot pushes against something soft yet heavy. As she lowers herself down, her hand accidentally finds the bandages around one of his arms. They are brittle beneath her touch, almost crumbling away in their burnt state. She lets her fingers wander carefully along, down, until she finds skin. It’s uneven, knotted and twisted, so she knows it’s his left hand. As she carefully lowers her fingers, her touch becoming firmer, she feels the heat radiating off him – his hand feels like it should be glimmering, pulsating with heat like embers in a hearth. It seems to have stored the heat of Lawton’s flames, radiating calor with an intensity that seems unhealthy even for his standards.

It doesn’t burn her, just so, and she clasps her fingers around his, careful to differ her grip from the way she had seen Lawton clutching at him earlier.

“Thommy?” She whispers, the old childhood nickname slipping out unbidden. She can feel his mind stir, a small glint of something flickering up. “Thommy?” She repeats, this time intentionally, and lets her mind simultaneously prod at his. Another flicker, a bit brighter this time. “It’s me, Phyllis. You’re alright, it’s alright now. I’m here.” As she talks, tone low and gentle, his mind begins to move, sluggish and slow, yet by the end of her sentence his eye lids flutter open. She can barely see through the dark, yet her gaze finds his. She smiles, relief pouring out of her. “Hello, Thommy.”

He blinks at her for a moment. Then his lips move, voice barely more than a croak: “Stop- stop calling me…that.”

Sudden tears shoot in her eyes, her next breath wobbly, and she tightens her grip on him just so. “Only when you stop getting yourself in trouble.” She whispers, leaning closer. She can make out his features, shadowed but there in front of her. His brows furrow in a frown, visibly costing him effort.

“I didn’t…what happened?” He asks in a whisper. “I feel…I’m not sure- doesn’t seem right.”

“Oh, it’s alright-” A sudden wave of heat rolls over them, air hot and unbreathable, and it steals the words from her mouth. As expected, Thomas isn’t very affected by it, blinking through the warmth, but Phyllis can feel every inch of her body itch, her skin overheating as the combined flames of Mary Talbot and Officer Lawton rush towards them. They’re far too fast for her to be able to get out of the way, so she simply ducks her head, squeezes her eyes shut and hopes for the best. But the flames never come – they rush around, the force of it pulling at her hair and clothes, but never touch her, not once. She knows the reason for it before even opening her eyes to two glimmering orange irises in front of her. Thomas’ eyes are half lidded, solely trained on Phyllis as he redirects the flames away from them.

“Thank you.” She whispers through the roaring, smiling as her thumb starts gently moving over the back of his hand, back and forth, back and forth. She can hear yelling over the noise, footsteps rushing past them, followed by fire. She doesn’t tear her eyes away from Thomas’, their gazes interlocked. Even while using his powers, eyes glimmering and alive, he looks tired – hair lose, eyes fighting to stay open, slumped against the wall. The blood on his face stands out grotesquely in the flickering lights, dark against the white of his skin. The fire doesn’t seem to be stopping any time soon. The flames are fast and strong around them, illuminating their little space in red and orange hues. Phyllis turns a bit, slides her legs from underneath herself and leans next to him against the wall, never breaking eye contact. He clings to it, fixating on her and her alone. With most, a stare like that would have left her deeply uncomfortable, skin crawling as it would feel like the other was trying to dissect her like an insect under Dr. Clarkson’s microscope. But it’s not just someone, it’s Thomas – her Thommy. And it’s as simple as that. She cards the fingers of her free hand through his hair and as always, he leans into the touch. And then, they wait.

The fight takes far longer than Mary had anticipated. Lawton is tenacious, tough like old veal, and her fire far more slippery than expected. But in the end, she has the officer surrounded in her flames, encapsulated in a tight ball of Mary’s own flames. She presses down, pushes them closer and closer together, and burns any oxygen before it can reach Lawton and her magic. She persists, resists, but when your flames don’t get any air, when you aren’t getting any air – defeat comes sooner or later.

The guards stand ready, surrounding Lawton on all sides, weapons drawn. Mary lingers a bit longer than necessary, presses down once more when she sees the officer’s figure falling to her knees, gasping. It is very, very satisfying.

Then, she eases off. As soon as her flames part, retreating towards her, the blond guard steps forward – he isn’t so blond anymore, Mary notices with a distant hint of guilt, hair singed and black with soot – and brandishes a pair of simple metal cuffs.

“Miss Lawton, you are hereby arrested for the attempted murder of Her Majesty Queen Luna II of Solaria on two separate occasions, misleading the authorities and willful harming of a civilian. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. You have the right for an attorney…” As he continues to recite the lines he steps forward, pulling the fire fairy’s arms unceremoniously behind her back and cuffing her. His movements are stilted and rough, as if he’d like to use more force but is holding himself back. When he starts moving, the guards immediately transition into new positions around their captive, weapons still lingering on her, ready for transportation. The blond stands in the middle, holding her arm. Before they leave, he looks over his shoulder, gaze landing on two figures further down the hall – Barrow and Baxter. They are huddled together, barely moving, and Mary’s stomach drops. Baxter’s head lifts and turns towards them. Her face is covered in soot too, arms circled around Barrow.

“Mr. Ellis?” She asks, and that’s all it takes for the blond guard to abandon his post. With a glance he sends his colleagues out the hallway and probably – hopefully – up the stairs into a secured van and then far, far away from Alfea.

Mary watches as he makes his way through the darkened hallway, filled with lingering smoke, and kneels down next to Barrow. They talk in soft hues she can’t make out, for quite some time. She debates if she should just go up herself, but she can’t quite bring herself to do that just yet. Something about the scorch marks around her feet keep her rooted to the ground and her breaths coming a bit too quickly, she suddenly notices.

Baxter’s and Ellis’ faces turn towards her, watching her for a silent minute. Their twin gazes are almost unsettling enough to unglue her feet.

“Mrs. Talbot – right?” The guard speaks up. Mary nods, and he stands to approach her. “Are you injured?” She shakes her head. “Good.” He holds out his hand, coming to a stop at a respectable distance. “Richard Ellis, Second Vice-Superintendent of Her Majesty’s Royal Guard. I don’t think I can thank you enough for what you did today.” She takes his hand and frowns.

“Second Vice? How does that work?”

Inexplicably, the tense lines in Ellis’ face melt into a laugh, deep and right from the belly. The sound fills the hallway where just moments ago flames and pain had thrived, and suddenly the scorch marks around her feet don’t seem so imposing anymore. She steps away and over the dark streaks to join the others.

“Is Barrow fit to walk?” She asks.

Ellis at her side sobers up immediately. “Hardly. Ms. Baxter has sent for Dr. Clarkson and his nurses, they’ll be here any minute. How about you?”

“I’m walking, aren’t I?” She arches a brow. But her snide tone doesn’t deter him – maybe he has seen how badly her hands are shaking.

“I know, I can see. I was asking how you were holding up.” She doesn’t answer, presses her lips together. A wave of coldness suddenly creeps up on her, cooling what moments before had been burning hot. “Why don’t you take a seat? Thom- Mr. Barrow could use the body heat, and I’m sure Ms. Baxter will be glad to share the space.”

He doesn’t wait for answers, and Mary is embarrassed by how easily she follows the gentle push against her shoulder, lowering her down next to the other two. She can feel Barrow trembling next to her and scoots a bit closer.

“I’ll be back in a moment.” Ellis says, still in that gentle tone. He starts to make his way through the hallway, stopping here and there and squinting again and again at the ceiling. He’s probably cataloguing evidence, or something.

Mary leans her weight against the warm wall behind her and shares an awkward smile with Ms. Baxter over Barrow’s bowed head. Then, she realizes something.

“He wanted to say Thomas-” Her head snaps around to Baxter. “Are they-?”

The mind fairy’s smile becomes less awkward, politeness making place for something playful. Her gaze turns knowing.

Mary’s eyes widen. “No- A guard?” She scoffs. “He could do so much better.”

“But he doesn’t think so, Mrs. Talbot.” Baxter sounds very confident, as if stating a fact.

Mary is quiet for a second, then she sighs. “I can’t very well fire him now, can I?”

Baxter frowns. “Because he might have a lover?”

“He’ll never come back – they’d elope, I bet, and we’d never see hide nor hair of him.”

“…I was under the impression this was the desired outcome, when you fire somebody.”

Mary sighs again, head tipping against the wall. Her shoulder brushes Barrow’s. “That never really worked with Barrow, though. Always came back, if we wanted to or not. Like weed, that man.”

“I wonder how things would have turned out, had he decided not to return one time.”

Mary contemplates the thought in the ensuing quiet. She’s not sure, can barely grasp the image of a Barrow-less Alfea. Things could have turned out so much better – smoother, kinder, quieter. Or much worse – she doesn’t want to imagine what would have happened if they had let that awful teacher Mrs. West stay any longer, or if he hadn’t saved Edith from the fire she had set so thoughtlessly in their student years.
In the end, her mind is too tired to think too much on it, and she settles on the one thing she is certain of: “George would have packed his bags and followed him, without a glance back.”

Ms. Baxter breaks out into a wide smile, a delighted laugh slipping past her lips. “You’re right. None of the children would have forgiven us.”

“None of the students either, I dare say. We would have had an empty school.” Mary drawls.

“I’m so glad he came back again, this time.” Baxter murmurs, serious again. Her voice is laden with so much honesty and feeling, so openly showing the deep affection she holds for the man between them, that a small lump forms in Mary’s throat. She has to clear it before she can answer.

“We all are, Ms. Baxter.” She tries to match the other’s honesty, but feels she missed it by leagues. The approaching figure of Ellis in his molten uniform serves as a welcome distraction. “But this time around, Barrow didn’t return empty-handed.”

Ms. Baxter giggles.

Chapter Text

“Do I look alright?” Thomas tugs at his cuffs, trying to get them to cover the tender red scars littering the skin of his forearms up to his wrists. The left is alright, he thinks, with the new glove hiding anything damning, but the other just doesn’t want to sit right – there’s always one or another red mark or fading bruise peeking out, quite visible against his pale skin. He frowns as the fabric slides once more out of his stiff fingers.

A soft touch stops him from trying again. “Wonderful, as always.”

Thomas scoffs – he knows a lie when he hears one. With the dark bags beneath his eyes, the ugly yellow bruise across the bridge of his nose and hair that’s more salt and pepper than black these days, he’s far from looking his best. He shifts the permanently bend fingers of his left hand just so that the edge of the sleeve runs between his knuckles, then presses down and pulls. The muscles protest, twinging, but he ignores it. It’s always hurting, no matter what.

Again, Richard’s gentle fingers stop him. “Let me.” He says in a low voice and eases Thomas’ fingers away. Carefully, he plugs the cuff down, turning it just so, and makes sure the cufflink sits centered.

“You were a valet once in a past life, I bet.” Thomas mutters as he watches his precise movements.

Richard huffs a laugh, takes a last look, then straightens with a smile. “To your Lord, I take it?” He takes Thomas’ hands in his, one in each, and slowly walks backwards, guiding him towards the door leading out of the headmaster’s suite.

“Hm…I wouldn’t mind being a toff. And having you undress me every night.” Thomas ponders the thought over the quickening pace of his heartbeat.

“My, aren’t you lucky, then? Fifty percent of that statement are already true.” He comes to a stop, back to the suite’s door. Thomas only manages a weak smile in return, making Richard squeeze his hands. “Hey.” He says, joking tone dropping, and searches for Thomas’ eyes. “You’ll be great. Don’t worry.”

Thomas can feel his own gaze starting to get lost as his doubts and fears grow louder, and pulls a grimace to stop it from happening. “I have a standard to uphold.”

“And you’ve exceeded it by far.” Thomas frowns now too, opening his mouth to argue. “I mean it – not many would have returned after what happened. You’re far more loyal to this school than it deserves, and if anyone in the audience is going to have a problem with that, they’ll have to take it up with me.”

Thomas’ next breath is a bit shaky, but then a teasing smile starts to curl his lips. “Not a good look for our newest faculty, Mr. Ellis, getting into fights.”

“Why? A demonstration of my skillset as a specialist trainer, isn’t that part of the hiring process?”

“If I remember correctly, you’re already hired.”

“Right – I had a talk with the very charming headmaster just yesterday, he was lovely. How could I forget?”

Thomas shakes his head at his silliness, but it’s done its job – his frown has been replaced by a smile.

Richard smiles too, a bit smug around the edges, and turns so that he can open the door. “After you then, Mr. Headmaster.”

Richard had let go of him with a last squeeze and reassuring smile when their ways had parted in the great hall – him into the audience, Thomas to the shadowed sidelines at the front. Phyllis joins him shortly after, looking out at the crowd of parents, teachers, staff and students – the last looking rather bored, the first unreadable. Thomas’ heart beats up into his throat.

“Will you ever stop worrying quite so much?” Phyllis asks with that gently amused smile of hers, making Thomas shoot her a pointed look.

“What was that saying, about people in glasshouses?”

“Duly noted.”

With a nod, she signals him to go up. As soon as he steps out of the shadows, his features smooth over into a mask of neutrality and professionalism. He makes his way to the center of the platform, looking out at the audience. They grow silent, watching him at the front. The shimmering light of Anna’s projection highlighting him is borderline too bright.

Thomas’ eyes meet Richard’s, and his lover smiles.

He comes to a stop in front of the audience, he lifts his lips imperceptibly – and then, he starts:

“Good afternoon-” Albert sits in the second row, so Thomas can quite clearly see him rolling his eyes. He feels his lips lift a bit more, on their own accord. “I’ll make it short, don’t worry. This is hardly the main part of the day, is it? Another year gone by – another class ready to graduate. It does my heart in, truly, it does.” The parents seem bewildered by his sarcasm, but the students brighten up and snicker, so it’s a win. “But there’s something I need to get off my chest first: I understand there has been…some unrest, these past weeks, concerning what happened when Her Majesty Queen Luna II. stayed with us in September. I want to address these concerns…”

“Do you still practice your speeches in front of a mirror, like you used to?” Mary Talbot announces herself with a smirk and a glass of champagne in her hand.

Thomas nods his thanks to one of the kitchen staff making their way through the crowd that’s now spilling out in the courtyard, handing him his own flute. “Not a topic I’m keen on repeating, Mrs. Talbot.”

Her smirk drops. “You’re right. Let’s hope this has been the last of it.” She lifts her glass in a discreet toast and Thomas mimics her.

He takes a sip and looks around. The students – well, not students anymore, as of today – they have their certificates now, excitedly holding them up for their families to see, proudly posing for cameras and comparing their results with loud voices. Parents smile, younger siblings watch with big eyes and his staff mingles. He sees Branson sprinting after Sybbie who makes a beeline for the rickety old Violet Crawley leaning on her son’s elbow. He notices Andy by Daisy’s side and how their hands are interlocked, even when Daisy creates a wonderful little flower crown for Johnny Bates cooing from his father’s arms. Anna and Molesley greet parents and grandparents, indulging their grown-up students for one last time. Anna blinks a few times too many when Madge hugs her tightly – it hadn’t been a secret that Anna had had a special place in her heart for the young fairy.

“Have you come on your own?” Thomas asks Mary who has shifted to his side, eyes roaming over the sights before them, too. She huffs a breath.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Henry is home for once, so he must accompany us everywhere, if he wants to or not.”

Thomas hums. “That’s what you call love then, yes?” He’s saved from her indignation by a small figure barreling towards them and right into Thomas. Thin arms snake around his waist and a face presses so violently through his clothes and into his skin that Thomas wouldn’t be surprised if he’d find bruises in the shape of it later. While he tries to keep his champagne from spilling, a loud voice exclaims into his suit: “Mr. Barrow!”

“Hello, Master George.” The boy giggles at the nickname.

“Now, George, be careful with Mr. Barrow. He’s not a toy.” Mary berates. It’s the first time she’s said something along the lines, and Thomas is quite sure it’s because of his still lingering injuries. He slips his clawed left hand subtly into his pants’ pocket and sets the flute aside to pry George away from his legs and take his hand instead.

“What have you been up to? Where’s your sister?”

The boy scrunches up his face in a way only children are capable of – it speaks of leaps and bounds of disgruntlement. “Caroline’s with Henry, and she’s doing nothing. She’s so boring, Mr. Barrow!”

“George.” Mary huffs out exasperatedly, but he barely reacts.

“I’ve never been boring in my life!” He boasts up at Thomas with so much conviction that it makes the elder chuckle. “Are you sure about that?” He nods his head seriously. “Because I remember when you were just born-”

“It doesn’t count if I don’t remember it!”

“Oh, is that so?” Thomas replies. He secretly wonders how the last weeks would have played out, if that rule was universal. It would have made his life a hell of a lot easier.

The boy nods, then lifts his arms without letting go of Thomas’ hand, scrunching it at the wrist. His scars pull painfully, the sleeve threatening to slide down. “Can I have a piggyback ride? It will prove it.”

Thomas hides his wince as he tries to lower George’s arms again. There’s no way he’d be able to lift the boy, not with his arms and hand the way they are now. “Prove what?” He distracts George, taking out his left hand to help with what threatens to become a wrestling match.

“That I’m not boring, duh!” He rolls his eyes.

“George.” Mary warns sharply and Thomas uses the moment to get the boy’s arms on a more manageable level, bending at the elbows. George’s hands latch onto his, almost subconsciously it feels like, and Thomas starts to swing their hands between them. George’s fingers dug painfully into the glove, thoughtlessly, but Thomas endures it. The rocking motions of their arms is oddly comforting.

“I won’t insult you by asking if you could manage him for a moment or two, Barrow. I’ll be back in a second.” Mary announces and leaves with a nod and a pat to George’s blond locks. The boy doesn’t even seem to notice. He is busy climbing onto Thomas’ feet, his little sneakers leaving dusty footprints all over the dark leather. Thomas lifts his hands to help him, but as the boy tightens his grip a sudden stab of pain shoots from the center of his left hand up to his elbow and he jerks. George tumbles from his feet, only staying upright thanks to their intertwined hands.

Before either one can react, a familiar tenor sounds from the side. “There you are, Thomas.” Richard slides up to them, hand immediately finding the small of Thomas’ back. Without meaning to, Thomas smiles, tension slipping from his shoulders. “Have you been looking for me?”

“For a very long time.” Richard murmurs, giving him a peck on the cheek.

Thomas ducks his head and rolls his eyes. “Sop.” Then he turns back to the boy still clinging to his hands, opening his mouth to make introductions, but stops short when he sees the expression on George’s face. His eyes are wide, staring up at him, and his lips are parted in a small o.

“Your name is Thomas?” He whispers.

And Thomas can’t help but bark out a laugh. He’s never considered that George wouldn’t know, but how would he? There’s no way Mary would have told him, and how else should he have come across the fact?

“Yes, my name is Thomas. Thomas Barrow, at your service.” He does a little fake bow and the child looks on in awe as Thomas turns to the man beside him. “And this is Mr. Ellis.”

“Is your name also Thomas?”

“No, I’m Richard. Or Dick, if you like.”

“I don’t like Dick.”

“Then it’s Richard.”

George nods solemnly. Then he turns back to Thomas, leans in with big eyes and whispers loudly: “I like Thomas better.”

Later, when it’s dark outside and only one of the small lamps on their bedside tables keeps the shadows at bay with its warm glow, Thomas lays in bed, Richard’s arms a reassuring heaviness across his back. They are quiet, listening to the rain falling outside, enjoying each other’s company.

“You, know I have to agree with George on one thing.” Richard mumbles, jaw moving against Thomas’ forehead.

He shifts a bit to look up at him. “And what would that be?”

“I like Thomas better, too.”

Thomas’ tired mind needs a minute to wrap around the sentence. When it clicks and warmth spills in his stomach and up his chest and into each limp, he settles his head back onto Richard’s chest. “Then we’re even. I like Richard better.”

Richard squeezes him in reply, and lying like this, in dim light with the sound of rain and the flutter of two heart, they drift off to sleep.