Work Text:
Clive sat on the bench, Torgal napping next to his feet. Clive nervously scratched at his stubble, tapping his feet. Palms sweating. God he hated when he did that. He breathed deeply - then paused, breathed on the back of his hand and sniffed it. It smelled... OK. He was glad it didn't stink of the grilled mushrooms he had that morning.
What would he say to her when she arrived? They hadn't seen each other since they were kids. She was sent down from Scotland when she was very young - she was 3 and Clive is three years her senior - because her mother died and her father was taken ill. With no other family to look after her, it was agreed that her father’s business partner would foster her. Clive never quite knew why. His father, Elwin, and her father, Silvermane, seemed to be at each other’s throats before then. Maybe it was Elwin trying to make peace with his partner. Clive never asked. He wishes he did now.
They used to do nearly everything together, but one moment he remembered was when they went to pick Snow Daisies. She was sad that day, but he didn’t know why at the time, so to cheer her up he took her to a flower field he knew she’d love.
It was there she gave him a little peck on the cheek.
That chaste kiss has burned into his flesh, his mind, his soul ever since.
She was 12 and he was 15. The next day she was gone. Moved back up to Scotland. His mother had had enough and convinced Silvermane to take his daughter back. Jill had overheard Annabella and Elwin arguing about it.
Clive was heartbroken. His little brother, Joshua, did his best to comfort him. That boy was so wise, beyond his years. But he could only do so much - Clive coped by protecting Joshua as best as he could. To distract from his loss.
For 13 years Clive tried to move past it, but it never worked. Nothing ever happened. The wound in his heart would not heal. Clive was working in his Mother’s warehouse, ticking boxes and sending goods around. And he received a letter. The postman specifically said it was for him, in a thick Yorkshire accent at that. Perplexed, Clive opened the letter.
It was from the Warwick estate.
Dear Clive,
I’m coming down in a week’s time. I hope you’ll let me stay with you.
I miss you.
Jill
Clive could barely believe what he was reading. And was perplexed. After all this time. Jill?
Jill?
And the letter was so short. Why? How was he supposed to take this. And she knew where he lived?
And yet
Dear Jill,
You are very welcome to stay with me.
Yours sincerely,
Clive
Clive agonised over this one sentence for hours. He almost forgot to include his address. He felt like a 19th Century author, akin to Lord Byron - not to be confused with his jolly Uncle Byron - sending a message to someone without Discord or Twitter or the like.
After sending it he felt like a right prick - “Yours sincerely”??? What were you thinking Clive!?
He was anxiously stroking Torgal when the very big puppy rushed off to the door - the post arrived. Torgal barked but his tail was wagging happily - the big dope just wanted to play with the post-person, defying stereotypes.
Clive took little notice of his fur son, however - there, lying in the pile of letters, was Jill’s handwriting. He had obsessed over her letter for days. How she wrote. The slant of her “I’s” and the way she slashed through her “T’s”. The little lick flourishes on her “L’s”. He was so obsessed with her handwriting he recognised it instantly.
With shaking hands he opened the envelope and read the contents:
Dear Clive,
Thank you very much. I will see you soon!
I like you.
Jill
Clive read and re-read those letters, those words, those scant sentences over and over. Absentmindedly did Torgal doze on his lap.
And then Clive rushed off. His place was a mess! He needed to clean up - put away his old wooden sword, hanging up his coat, polishing his shield ornament his dad bought him (a joke about how he was always looking after his little brother when he was poorly), turning away every single photo of his mother - Jill didn’t need to see her and Clive would do better without the reminder of Annabella for a few days - and calling Gav to tell him he can’t go drinking for a little while because he had company. Gav promised not to drop in uninvited. Clive wasn’t too sure he believed him.
And so Clive sat. On that bench. Waiting.
What if Jill didn’t feel for him like he did for her?
What if she changes how she feels when she sees him?
What if Clive’s feelings changed?
They hadn’t seen each other in so long. What is it going to be like?
…
He should have made a sign. A sign like they do in cheesy films at the airport. Would Jill even recognise him?
A train was pulling in.
Clive stared at the ground. Mind a storm.
The doors slid open.
Torgal sat up, excited. “What is it boy?” Clive scrinkled Torgal a little.
“Clive?”
A soft, sweet yet very strong voice called out to Clive. He froze. Broken from his reverie. Only a few things could chill him. One was his boss, Barnabas, staring him down with that cold smirk, clearly devising some challenge for Clive. Another was staring at his phone and seeing Annabella was calling.
This was different.
It was more terrifying than anything he ever experienced.
His heart beat faster even as it became as ice.
He slowly lifted his gaze
And then stood. It was as though he was floating; effortlessly did he rise.
Before him stood Jill. Long silver hair. Grey, gently cold eyes. She was smiling.
“Hi.” She said.
“Hi.” Said Clive.
And they stared at each other, smiling for a long time.
Torgal kept wagging his tail.
She kissed Clive’s cheek. It was chaste. It burned just as much as it did 13 years ago.