Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“What you gonna do? Tattletale to her parents about how much of a bitch she is?” Uma practically challenges him late one night (or was it early morning?) as Harry and the rest of their friends sit in various states of drunkenness around his shitty New York apartment after a night out at one of their favorite local bars. Of course they’d ended up at his place to continue drinking more afterwards. It was the only logical continuation of the evening/morning. It was just common sense, after all.

At some point, they’d started bitching and moaning about people they knew as they got deeper and deeper into the few bottles of liquor Harry keeps on standby for such occasions of late night/early morning drinking.

For Uma, his best friend, this of course meant Mal. They had known the purple haired girl since elementary school. She was a pain to them all, but it was more personal for their teal haired self-imposed leader.

“She’s such a backstabbing, lying bitch!” Uma would often say with a huff, before reclining back on the couch and draining the last of Harry’s good vodka.

This evening, the topic of bitching is what to do about said ‘lying bitch’, thus, the idea of getting the purple haired young woman’s parents involved.

“Her parents?!” Jonas, Uma’s cousin and Harry’s coworker at the club they all work at, laughs.

“I’d pay to see that!” Bonnie, another of their friends and coworkers, chimes in.

It’s around this point in the conversation that Harry has, what some might call, a ‘light bulb’ moment.

“Research! I nee’ research,” he suddenly says, and then he’s off stumbling over to his bed where he often keeps his laptop when he’s not actively sleeping on it.

Harry rubs at his eyes as he waits for his piece-of-shit technology to boot up, keeping a mantra of tell her parents, tell her parents echoing through his head that makes him giggle.

The brightness of the laptop display is blinding to his senses, and he’s quick to turn the light of the screen to as low as it will go, fitting nicely with the dim lighting of his open-concept apartment with its only three lamps on, making everything a nice, soft, warm orange. His friends hardly notice his departure from the floor of his living room as they all continue on laughing and conversing in the ways that only drunk friends do. It’s pleasant background noise for Harry to tune out as he goes about googling the shit out of Mal’s parental units.

What he finds is rather sobering.

Newspaper articles about her mother almost dying at the hands of her estranged husband. The woman in question is pictured as elegant, with high cheekbones, a sharp smile, and cold eyes. It reminds Harry of a snake.

The ex-husband, on the other hand, is a handsome grecian man, with a chiseled jawline, bright blue eyes, and a glorious mane of slicked back black hair. Even in an orange jumpsuit, the brunet could confidently say that this man was hot. A DILF if he’d ever seen one.

Apparently, he is a successful one, too. A bestselling horror author, though Harry has never much given any of the man’s works a thought when he’d seen them in bookstore windows or advertised online.

Hades Polychronios. Hmmm, Harry thinks, mulling over the name. He’s fairly certain Mal never used his last name, she used her mothers’, Faery - Mal Faery.

There’s probably a story there, but Harry is too drunk to care to think about what it could possibly be.

The man doesn’t look like an almost killer to Harry, though. If the news headline had been reversed, from Famous Author Found Guilty of the Attempted Murder of Famous Lawyer Ex-Wife, to Famous Lawyer Found Guilty of the Attempted Murder of Famous Author Ex-Husband, he’d have much less trouble believing it.

But maybe he’s thinking with his dick again. Uma said he sometimes did that.

Or was that just all men?

Either way, Mal’s tragic backstory didn’t really excuse her for being a bitch.

A bit more sleuthing via the internet, and Harry finds the mother’s phone number.

Checking the time of his digital alarm clock while he dials, Harry sees the ungodly hour of 5 a.m.

Looking into the living room as the tired voice of Maleficent’s secretary reaches him, he notices his friends are all passed out from various states of inhibition on the sofa and the floor.

Harry feeds the other person on the phone some bullshit excuse about being rich and needing counsel about a rather important and private matter all the while privately thinking, When does this sorry sod even sleep? Who’s even properly awake at this hour on purpose?

The secretary buys the excuse and patches him through to Maleficent, and, with that, it’s showtime.

“Hello?” The word is sharp enough to cut. Harry didn’t even know you could do that. It makes his palms clammy and his heart race.

This lady scares him.

“Your daughter’s a bitch,” he spits out, because - why not? It’s not like this woman could reach through the phone and kill him on a whim, right?

Right?

All he gets is mocking laughter in response. It gives him chills and it sobers him further, but not enough for him to give up on this ridiculous drunken idea.

He quickly hangs up and moves on to contacting daddy dearest - the woman’s laughter quickly forgotten.

By the time he’s able to talk to the man of the hour, it has been several hours, and Harry is unsure how he’s even managed to be coherent enough to convince Hades lawyer, a different lawyer than the man’s ex-wife, to put him on the man’s call sheet because, apparently, you can’t just call up an inmate.

Harry thinks he’s made up some excuse of being a friend of Mal’s, but also a journalist, because that’s believable, yeah? And something about a deadline, so please get Hades to call him back at his soonest possible convenience - ya know, before Harry becomes dead to the world for the next twelve to fourteen hours and then has his common sense kick back on.

He gets a call back rather soon after getting off the phone with the lawyer and filling out some random forms that the man sent over via email. At least, Harry thinks he filled out a form or two. Or maybe he just signed away all his assets?

Did he just get scammed?

Wait, no- I called him, right? Or did he-? Harry rubs at his eyes again as he waits for the line to connect after accepting the call from the prison -did you know you have to pay to receive calls from inmates? Why was he even doing this?

Maybe I should just go to bed…

“Hello?” comes a tired voice from the other end of the receiver.

Can a voice sound handsome? Is that a thing? he wonders as he licks his lips nervously.

Still, Harry has a mission. So he says the only reasonable thing:

“Your daughter’s a bitch.”

There’s a long pause before-

Laughter, but this one more joyous and filled with actual humor that makes Harry flush at being the source of it.

Odd that these responses were so similar but sounded and affected Harry so differently.

The brunet hangs up.

——

Harry’s apartment is still a mess from when his friends were all over, but they’d long since left while he’d been dead to the world, though Uma, helpfully, slapped a sticky note onto the back of his head that said:

We left. Thx 4 having us. Gil will come by b4 work tomorrow 2 drop off some food. Ur welcome.

So, currently, Harry is hoping tea with a drop of alcohol will help his growling stomach while he waits for his promised food to magically arrive before three o’clock. He also has some slightly stale bread somewhere, he thinks.

It’s as he’s rummaging around through his small kitchen as he waits for the water to boil that his phone goes off.

He manages to hit his head on the counter as he grabs his phone out of his pocket and answers it without looking at the caller ID. Ha manages to stand up with the phone held to his ear in one hand and a small bit of stale bread wrapped in plastic in the other.

His ears are burning and his heart is racing in time with the dull throbbing of the top of his head as he stupidly accepts the call from one Hades Polychronios.

“Hello?” This time the word from the inmate is a lot more friendly, maybe even bemused, if Harry is being generous.

“Hi,” Harry draws out, trying to not sound as awkward as he feels, and wincing when he realizes it’s rather hopeless. “I may have been a bit drunk when I made tha’ call te you.”

“Oh?” comes the other man’s amused reply, the smarmy bastard. Harry can practically hear him smirking.

“You sure you're not still drunk, Mr. Jones?”

“It’s jus’ Harry,” the younger man corrects as the kettle starts to go off, “an’ no, I’m just a bit hungover.” He drops the bread on the counter and takes the water off the stove to pour into his awaiting mug.

“Mmm,” he hums. “So is this supposed to be a sort of apology? Most drunken callers don’t spend money to talk to someone incarcerated.”

Harry tries very valiantly not to pull out all his hair as he tries to laugh it off. His eyes feel wet. Fuck, this is embarrassin’! Why do I feel the need ta explain things? I sure as hell didn’t bother doing so fer his ex-wife!

“Wha’ can I say? It’s me speciality.” Along with fucking things up in the first place. Because- fuck!

The older man huffs a laugh at this. “You're real funny, you know that?”

Harry can feel his cheeks flushing, and he tries to will it away as he focuses on his tea and sets about toasting his stale bread. Maybe that would make the food more appetizing to his now rolling stomach?

“Depends. What’s yer standard fer entertainment?” he finds himself replying before he can think better of it.

Another quick amused huff. “Right now? A boring cellmate, some idiots down the hall, and a shitty romance novel, which is all the prison library currently has.”

That does sound rather boring.

“No horror for you?” Harry asks without thinking. The man had been a prolific and world renowned horror writer, hadn’t he?

“No, not much of a fan, believe it or not.”

“Fan of romance?”

“I find it amusing.”

“Hmm.” Harry had never much gotten into reading beyond the classics he had to for school.

“How bout you?”

“Me?” Hades is asking about him? Why would he want to know about him?

“Um,” Harry stammers. “I don’t much read,” he admits.

“I’ve never tried reading much romance or horror,” he continues, sipping carefully as his hot beverage. “I suppose… growin’ up I read a lot of pirate adventure books.”

“Oh yeah?” Hades encourages.

Harry tries to will himself not to blush. He is not affected by this man’s interest in him. Not at all. He is not.

Still, the younger man finds himself smiling. “Yeah. Used ta pretend ta be pirates with me sisters when we were younger. Those stories were good fer tha’.”

“And your sisters,” Hades asks, “are you still close?”

Harry blows out a breath, letting it lift some stray strands from his forehead briefly.

Were they still close?

“Mmm, I suppose,” Harry finally settles on. “Harriet’s in the Navy and me little sis, CJ, be a bit of a world traveler with her girlfriend. Last we spoke, she was flyin’ ta somewhere in the Middle East for who knows what.”

“That sounds nice,” his tone is wistful.

Harry already thinks he knows some of the answer to this one, but fair turn about and all that. Hopefully it doesn’t drive the man off.

“I take it yer own siblings aren’t as in touch?”

This time, when the man chuckles, it’s rather dark.

“You could say that.”

“They don’t visit you?” Harry prompts.

“No one except my literary agent or lawyer visits me. Or a wannabe journalist.”

“Oh,” Harry says. Because, what else is there to say, really?

“When you first asked to be on my call list, I thought you might be the latter.”

Harry as a journalist? Now it’s his turn to laugh.

“Mm, bet I disproved tha’ real quick, didn’t I?”

When Hades responds, it’s with a grin back in his voice. “You sure did.”

And then their time is up.

Chapter Text

Harry decides to do something he’s never done for anyone outside his immediate family.

Write a letter.

Now. He does know how to write one. He does.

They made everyone learn how to write one in school.

He’d addressed it to his dad and sent it to him, and it’d never gotten a response.

Harry never tried to contact the man again.

A man who also, coincidentally, happened to be sitting in some dusty prison cell himself, and here Harry is going to send his second letter to someone else’s estranged, imprisoned father.

What is wrong with him?

If he’d asked Uma, she’d surely tell him “A lot,” but in that somewhat nice way where she meant they’d work through things together as best friends did.

He did not ask Uma, though. He does not want to see what her help would entail. How stupid he’d be told he is being. How she might even try to stop him.

He is contacting her ex-best friend’s father via mail after having two conversations with the man the over phone, if you could even generously call them that.

He is so fucked up, it isn’t even funny.

Is this a daddy issue thing?

Probably.

Still, he finds himself sitting down on the couch and hunching over to try and pen something out on his makeshift coffee table that is really just some old trunk of his fathers’ from long ago.

Dear Hades,

Did that sound too formal?

Dear Hades,

Is that too abrupt?

Possibly, but what greetings does the other man want?

What does he expect?

In all honesty, the man probably doesn’t expect anything.

As far as he knows, their time conversing is over.

They were a mistake.

Harry called him drunkenly and then they spoke again when the brunet was going through a fit of self-loathing and remorse.

And now he is impulsively writing and sending him a letter.

Stupid.

Dear Hades,

It’s me, the guy who called you while drunk.

I’m writing to- well,

Why is he writing Hades? Really?

well, I don’t really know why I’m writing you.

I’ve never much been one for writing like I’ve never been much for reading.

I haven’t even read any of your books, if that weren’t obvious.

Though, I did watch the adaptation of the one book of yours featuring a graveyard and a portal to the underworld, whatever that one was called.

Underworld, was it?

Anyway, I guess I’m writing because I can. Is that a good excuse?

You seemed lonely.

Maybe he shouldn’t have written that. This all seems maybe a bit too much like journaling.

It's too late now. Ink is ink and white out does not exist within the confines of his shabby apartment.

I mean, you seem like you could use a friend, maybe?

God, that sounded lame.

He sounded lame.

How do people do this?

What I’m trying to say,

What is he trying to say?

is that I’m here if you want to talk. Write? Whatever this qualifies as.

That seems like as good a reason as any other.

Now what?

Harry sits back on the couch contemplatively.

Where to take the conversation from here? he wonders as he worries his lower lip between two fingers.

Maybe they should continue their phone conversation?

They talked about how he was drunk, but he’s not drunk now. Maybe he should state that?

I’m not drunk, just to clarify. Or hungover.

There, that done, they next talked about family. But that seemed like a touchy subject.

Best let that be then, he decides.

That just left them with books and journalists.

Seeing as Harry knew very little about journalists, except that they must be nosy and annoying, going off of Hades own opinion of them, that really just left books.

But, as Harry had said, he doesn’t really read.

He gets up to wander over to his small bookshelf he keeps over by his bed.

Squatting down to look at their spines, he sees that there’s only a few books on it - Peter and Wendy by J. M. Barrie, Paradise Lost by John Milton, and a complete bound collection of Shakespeare’s works that Uma got him forever ago when they were still in high school and Harry still thought being an actor was a viable career path.

He is such a drama nerd, isn’t he?

Maybe he should write about that?

Straightening up, he walks back the short distance to the couch.

We were talking about books last time we spoke, right?

Again, I’m not much for reading, but I actually read the assigned readings given to me during school. At least, the more interesting ones, I think. We were once assigned part of a book, Paradise Lost, you may have heard of it.

Hopefully his sarcasm comes through.

I actually read all of it. It just- it was beautifully written, and it made me think more than most of the other books they had us read. Milton questioned authority and what people deemed good or evil, I liked that.

Around then, I also got really into Shakespeare.

I don’t know why they always seem to insist on us reading Romeo and Juliet as an introduction to his work when there are such better, more interesting plays.

Personally, my favorite is The Tempest.

That’s probably not much of a surprise considering my love for boats and the sea. It just seems like the most natural extension of those pirate stories I grew up with, like the infamous Peter Pan.

Are you into music any?

The band October Project wrote songs based off of Paradise Lost and The Tempest- “Adam and Eve” and “Ariel” respectively.

They’re sort of a slower band, if that makes sense. They are meditative, and sometimes I need that.

They help me slow down and breathe.

Is that too personal?

Harry shrugs and keeps writing.

Sometimes I fall asleep to them.

It’s nice.

Do you have any bands like that?

That’s probably enough for a first letter, right? Not too invasive, not too deep. Conversational.

No pressure to respond right away.

The ‘or at all’ goes without saying.

Hope your reading of your library’s latest shitty

Oops! Cross that out. He’d almost forgotten that he technically isn’t allowed to swear in these.

shitty bad romance novel went well.

Harry “Hook” Jones

There, it's done.

Harry quickly folds the paper by thirds and shoves it into its designated envelope before he can overthink things.

It’s in the mailbox by the end of the day.

—————

To Harry’s surprise, he receives a response by the end of the week.

And, if anybody asks, he did not check his mailbox everyday, sometimes multiple times a day, till it arrived.

Not at all.

He checked the mail the normal amount. Stop looking at him like that, Uma! He’s totally fine.

His convincing out of the way, when he arrives back at his apartment building after work, his heart does not jump, nor does he bound up the steps to his apartment only to throw open the door and pitch his coat and keys to the side so he can tear into the letter that’s addressed to one Harry “Hook” Jones from a Hades Polychronios.

Sober Hook, it starts.

It’s a surprise that you deigned to write your drunken phone call partner.

Do you do this often?

Harry swallows. Is that a dig, a tease, or a flirtation?

He is probably just reading into things, isn’t he?

Regardless of the answer, which I’m pretty sure is ‘no’ based on your letter, I am honored you’d care to write.

You’re right, I am lonely. I’ll admit that much. You caught me.

Sue me.

Prison is boring and the majority of the people in here are depressed, psychos, or too afraid to make waves, let alone hold any semblance of a halfway entertaining conversation.

In other words, I’m starved for attention, you guessed correctly.

So, Paradise Lost and The Tempest, huh? You like poetry.

Underneath that drunken exterior must reside a soul of an artist.

Harry’s not sure if he should be embarrassed by that or offended. Either way, he finds his face heating up all the same.

I’m sure it’s not much of a surprise that I’ve read both Paradise Lost, as well as most of Shakespeare’s writings.

Paradise Lost is a personal favorite of mine, believe it or not. I may or may not identify with Milton’s characterization of Lucifer as a tragic hero.

And, I agree, his writing is truly breathtaking,

As for Shakespeare, I’ve always found Romeo and Juliet by him as trite and more than a little over done. Not to mention, there isn’t enough blood in it for me.

Something like Hamlet or Macbeth are more my speed. The themes of revenge and madness- it’s so well done.

And, yes, though I said I wasn’t the biggest fan of horror, as I find most of the other writers in my field to mostly be writing glorified b-rated horror schlock, the horror and tragedy within Hamlet and Macbeth meet the perfect balance between compelling and terrifying in their own way.

Ever seen the Patrick Stewart led film adaptation of Macbeth? It’s truly fantastic. I can’t recommend it enough. I think that one might be my favorite.

As for The Tempest, that doesn’t surprise me that that one would end up being your favorite of his, from what I know of it. I will admit, that is one of the few of Shakespeare’s I have not read. Perhaps I will visit it upon my next walk down to the library.

Harry finds himself growing warm again at this.

Now, you asked me about music.

For the record, I do enjoy it.

I’m mainly a jazz and rock kind of guy. A band like October Project isn’t really my scene, but it doesn’t sound bad if you’re able to find some sort of peace while listening to them. That’s something special.

You know, that’s something I actually miss.

Music, that is.

We don’t get a lot of it here. Maybe we can listen to some during our free time during our limited time on the computer or watching TV. Maybe they’ll play Christmas music or something from a general radio station during one of our scheduled activities, but not much freedom of choice here.

I think I miss my vinyl record collection the most. I have a whole wall of my basement just dedicated to the greats of the likes of Miles Davis, Ella Fitzgerald, Led Zeppelin and AC/DC. I listened to them all the time. I had a smaller collection back at my apartment - but I had to sell that place to help cover the costs of things with the trial and the divorce.

Some of that was by choice rather than necessity.

No use for an expensive city apartment when you already have a big family home in the upper part of the state that you don't have to pay a mortgage on.

I can’t tell if that last bit was me being sad or just me bragging. I suppose I’ll let you decide on that if I haven’t already driven you away with my talk of my record collection.

I’m told I’m very old for having one, even though I’m also told vinyl is having a comeback amongst the younger generations in the same breath.

Funny how the world works on trends.

Are you bored of this old man yet? You sounded younger than me by at least a decade over the phone and through your letter. (And also Scottish through that charming accent of yours.)

I suppose I’ll know if I receive a response.

Sincerely,

This Old Man

Harry’s quick to go grab a pen and another blank sheet of paper to do just that.

He hastily writes:

Dear Old Man,

No, I do not do this often. Consider yourself special. I don’t just write anyone, sober or otherwise.

Also, was your offer to sue you serious? Because, to be honest, I could really use the money, and you, with your fancy family house with no mortgage and your royalties from all your big name books and film deals, sound like the perfect amount of dollar signs to me.

God, Harry hopes the man likes cheeky.

He keeps writing.

In regards to our book discussion, I suppose I never really thought about what some of my favorite obsessions had in common with each other, being more lyrically written.

Harry pointedly does not address the artistic soul comment.

And, no, it totally does not make him still blush just thinking about it for whatever reason. Shut up the Uma in his head that keeps saying otherwise.

As for Paradise Lost, I’m glad to read that you have good taste. I only drunk call those with it. No one else. I have standards after all.

That isn’t really true. Harry has called Maleficent and several of his exes before while drunk, but the other man doesn’t need to know that. Harry’s being coy. He’s-

Harry pauses in his mad scribblings.

He’s flirting with a man of about forty years old, and he is the father to Mal, the bitch Uma and Harry were drunkenly mad at and that had started this whole thing.

What is he doing?

————-

The next week, for the weekly movie night with Uma, Gil, and the rest of their friends, Harry finds himself renting Macbeth (2010) from the local library for his pick that week.

“This is what you want to watch for movie night?” Uma asks, holding up the play adaptation, knowing full well that he normally goes in for adventure comedies.

“Yes.”

She gives him a long look before saying, “Okay,” and letting the matter rest.

By the end of the movie, Harry feels a little bit closer to the man who recommended it, and his fingers itch to write his thoughts down in another letter.

And if Harry also uses the time in between letters to dive into the more retro music tastes of Miles Davis and Led Zeppelin, no one needs to know.

———-

... I watched that version of Macbeth you recommended, the one with Patrick Stewart.

The Weird Sisters were terrifying in the beginning, and the setting of this version of the play around a more modern 1960s battleground was similarly chilling for the imagery and tone it brought. The lady that played Macbeth’s wife was utterly fantastic in that monologue, too, Harry gushes.

I also listened to Miles Davis and Led Zeppelin. They weren’t my usual bands, that’s for sure, but I do enjoy a bit of rock. Jazz is a harder sell, but I don’t mind it. I can sort of let it be nice background music while I go about doing chores around the house. It’s not bad. Though, I imagine my saying they were anything but fantastic will garner a certain amount of judgment from the resident grumpy old man.

Tell me I’m wrong.

And, for the record, I think your casual flaunting of generational wealth is rather obviously a form of bragging. So, I will be taking you to court, as you said I could. You’ll be hearing from my lawyers (which I definitely don’t have due to a clear class difference between us) within the next few days.

As for my age, yes, I suppose I am rather young compared to you. I am twenty-six, and my father hailed from Scotland, hence the lovely accent you so seemingly admired.

If you’d like to hear it again, consider writing back in the affirmative.

Sincerely,
Your Scottish Gentleman

Chapter Text

To say that the affirmative came would be an understatement.

The next letter from Hades starts off with:

Dear Scottish Gentleman,

Color me intrigued and feeling special indeed.

Yes, feel free to sue me anytime. In fact, I look forward to it with all my enormous piles of unearned money.

The correspondence then quickly went on from there to not only tell Harry his thoughts on The Tempest - accompanied by the cheesy line: You’re quite the tempest yourself - to then more movie and music recommendations. The older man asked if he had leave to call Harry again for another chat over the phone, with the quick remark: You’re right. I’d love to hear that accent of yours again.

Followed by:
Long awaiting,

Your Hopeful Tempter

Harry reread the thing several times trying not to blush too horribly from the warmth suffusing and embarrassing him.

He is fucked.

——————

“Hey, Sugarcube,” Hades greets Harry one received letter later.

Harry’s quick inhaling of his spit does little to make his Scottish accent sound smooth by any stretch of the imagination as he tries not to cough too loudly into the receiver.

“He-ey yerself.”

“You okay?” the other man asks, sounding somewhat bemused, the bastard, as Harry hastily downs a glass of water.

“You feck,” he spits out.

“Aww, don’t be like that.”

“Ye did tha’ on purpose.”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t like.” Harry can practically see the fucking grin on the posh arsholes face.

“I’ll hang up,” Harry threatens.

“Alright, alright. No need to get your panties in a twist. No more surprise nicknames. Though that does take the fun out of things.”

“And here I thought the mere act of havin’ a phone call wit’ me would be enough.”

“Aw, Baby, it is,” he soothes in a more seductive timber, and Harry chooses to let it pass even as he feels himself heating up and rather in need of a seat, which he quickly finds via one of the three chairs around his small dining room table in the corner of his living room.

“Ye wanted ta talk?”

“Yeah, if that’s alright?”

“I wouldn’t have answered if it wasn’t.”

“Mmm, I suppose not, after all the effort it took for you to get on my call list.”

Harry’s face heats up for an entirely different reason now.

“I thought we were past bringin’ tha’ up.”

“I think we both know it’s going to be a running joke from here on out.”

“Like the fact tha’ yer a foggy old man?”

“Hey! Watch it! This foggy old man has feelings too, ya know! He might be sensitive about his age.”

“Oh he might, might he?”

“Yeah, so why don’t you schedule a time to come see him before he dies to make up for it?”

This earns a sharp inhale from Harry, even though he logically knew it was coming.

This was a big step, wasn’t it? Going to see this man, whom he’d never formally met, whom he’d been knowingly flirting with, in person.

He’d have to borrow his mate Jonas’ car and drive up to see Hades on one of his off days from work.

He’d have to look up rules for how to act and what he’d be allowed to wear and take with him into the prison.

He’d have to prepare.

Harry is rather shit at preparing much of anything.

“Sure,” Harry manages to get out after a moment of trepidation.

He is also a glutton for punishment.

——————

Two weeks later, Harry manages to have all the proper paperwork filled out and sent in and obtain permission for a visit on one of the few days he has off during the week. He also coordinates the use of Jonas’ car with the excuse of out of town ‘errands’.

Only Uma looks at him a little weird when he delivers that line. She’s been starting to give him that look more and more, ever since the change in his usual movie choices and listening habits.

She’d likely confront him soon.

He’d worry about that later.

Once arriving at the prison there’s a whole procedure for getting in, which Harry had hoped to shorten by wearing a simple black tee and tight jeans with little room for anything more than his keys and wallet. His clothes had to go through the metal detector all the same, but he was still patted down for weapons and potential contraband.

Maybe it was the eyeliner?

Either way, he’s finally escorted to the meeting room where several of the other inmates were already seated at tables talking to their own guests and given the instructions to not unnecessarily touch the inmates.

Harry sits at his instructed table, waiting for his prisoner to arrive.

He wonders if the one hour for their visit has already started.

A few minutes later, a guard opens the door to the prisoner side of the facility, allowing for another guard to enter, escorting one tall, Greek god of a man dressed in a rather ugly, bright orange jumpsuit.

Harry feels his mouth run dry.

Gone was the black from Hades’ hair from his last photograph released to the media when he was thirty-two and being held up in trial, now a shiny silver. His face, Harry notices as he draws closer, has notable additions of well worn crows feet around his eyes, but the man wears it all well, like the actor John Stamos.

“Remember the rules,” the rather unremarkable looking guard directs towards Hades as he sits him down across from his visitor.

The silver fox of a man before Harry just gives the guard a rather unimpressed look.

“Your hour starts now,” the guard states, walking to stand at one of the outer walls nearest them.

Only once the guard seems situated an appropriate distance away does Hades finally gift Harry with a smile.

“You came,” he says, and it’s different for Harry to see that face and hear that voice in person.

The brunet tries for unaffected, even though it feels like his heart is hammering right out of his chest.

“Of course I came. I said I would, didn’t I?”

That only manages to make Hades’ smile grow wider.

“Of course,” he says, “of course.”

They lapse into silence after that, both of them studying the other.

Harry’s not quite sure what to do with himself being subject to such intense scrutiny.

He feels like a live wire under the other’s gaze.

Finally, Hades breaks the silence.

“You know, I restrained myself from looking you up online.”

“Did you?” Harry honestly hadn’t considered the fact that the other man wouldn’t. Hades has known his full legal name for over a month or so now. He had to in order to put Harry on his call list.

“Yeah,” Hades continues, “I wanted to keep as much of the mystery alive.”

Mystery? Harry wants to laugh.

As if Harry was some great puzzle to solve.

“Why?” Harry asks, rather baffled.

The way Hades looks at him then, like something precious, with such earnestness and sincerity Harry isn’t prepared for, has Harry’s breath catching.

“I wanted to discover you more naturally,” Hades says, his hand slowly inching towards Harry’s where it rests on the table top.

“You look even more stunning than I’d ever imagined,” he continues, finally completing their hand to hand contact.

If Harry thought he was electrified before, it had nothing on the charges running through him now.

“You’re not disappointed?” Harry asks rather breathlessly. Later, he’d chastise himself for being so easily wooed, but, at the moment, he’s far too gone to contemplate how this all looks.

“Darling,” the silver fox before him all but purrs, leaning closer, “who on heaven and earth could be?”

Their security guard shifts, clearing their throat rather pointedly. Just like that, the spell is broken, with Hades pulling back after a short squeeze to Harry’s hand that promises more.

Harry blinks and pulls his own hand back off the table.

After a long moment, both of them seemingly recovering from the abrupt end to their intimacy, Harry asks the burning question he’d been wondering since the pet names started, “Does this mean we’re properly dating now?”

Hades studies him for another long moment.

“Depends,” he finally says, “are you okay with your partner being behind bars for at least another year before he’s up for parole?”

They hadn’t ever broached the topic of why he was behind bars in the first place, never mind broaching how long it would take for him to get out.

Having spoken to Hades' ex wife and met his daughter, Harry felt he knew exactly what Hades meant by that - that circumstances had been twisted. As for the length of time Harry’s new beau would be kept behind bars, he hasn’t really considered the reality of it.

Their letters and random, but fairly consistent, phone calls had just sort of become Harry’s new norm over these last few weeks.

Sure, he wishes for more face to face interaction, but he’s sort of just considered it a foregone conclusion that this thing wouldn’t last or that actual long bouts of time in person would likely be more a pipe dream than anything else.

“It’s working so far,” is all Harry can find in himself to say with a small smile.

Hades gives him another searching look.

Harry tries to look as open and honest as he feels because he thinks he owes Hades that much.

It must do the trick, because Hades' more guarded look turns into something more fragile, like hope, as he returns Harry’s small smile with one of his own.

“Then we can try this.”

Harry nods, before biting his bottom lip, wondering where to take the conversation from here.

“Are ye writin’ anythin?” he decides to ask.

Hades eyebrows go up, meaning Harry’s succeeded in surprising him.

“A little bit,” he settles into answering the younger man. “You asking to read it now that you’ve gained boyfriend status?” He smirks.

Harry shrugs, easing into the way of their usual teasing banter.

“You know me, not much fer horror.”

“And if I said I was writing romance?”

“I’d ask ya if it’s any good.”

That earns Harry a laugh, and Harry feels content with that.

The rest of their visit goes by far too fast.

At one point, Hades points out one of the other inmates seated at one of the far tables. A skinny, black man seated across from an old, short, weathered looking woman and two younger girls who could only be the man’s daughters.

“That’s Facilier. He’s one of the only decent people here.”

“Oh,” Harry says, “so that means you must be friends.”

Hades scowls at being called out.

“I don’t do friends.”

“Does tha’ mean ya won’t do me?”

Hades licks his lips, eyes going a bit hooded as they flick down to the brunet’s mouth. “That’s different, and you know it.”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to be amused with a cheeky grin. “Hmm, jus’ checkin.”

“Tempest,” Hades states, to which Harry just laughs.

When their hour concludes not long after that, it ends with their very first kiss.

They both stand up and they’re allowed something quick. A handshake, a hug, or-

A kiss.

Harry finds himself angling his face up to meet Hades as he steps closer.

He lets the older man cradle his face between both of his hands and carefully, gently, bring their lips together.

It settles some of that electricity that has existed between them up till now into something inviting and warm, unfurling the knots that have anxiously been waiting in the pit of Harry’s stomach.

The brunet sighs into it, letting it deepen just a little as his hands come up to grip at the front of the older man’s prison uniform, trying to pull him closer.

Then the guard is there, telling them, “That’s enough,” and ushering Hades away from the younger man, prompting Harry to let go.

“I’ll call you,” Hades promises, grinning like a loon as he’s walked toward the door.

Harry will just have to hold him to that.

Chapter Text

… I’m a sucker for sea food -fish, muscles, lobster, even shrimp (but don’t tell Uma about that last one - you can blame your daughter for that. [But that’s a conversation for another day.]).

What's your favorite food? It’s only fair you tell me yours since I’ve told you mine.

I bet it's something posh like a sirloin steak and caviar.

Sincerely,
Your Tempest - Harry finishes writing before folding and stuffing his letter into its designated envelope.

He’s noticed that his letters have continued to grow in length over the weeks he’s continued to exchange written correspondence and periodic phone calls with Hades.

It was comforting to see the trend reflected in his partner’s own responses, too. It validates that Harry isn’t the only one committed to continuing this relationship they seemed to have started.

Lately, Harry’s also been contemplating sending along a care package to Hades, but it’s hard to think what the man might want.

Pencils and pads of paper are out. It’s clear that if Hades is still writing while inside his cell, he must be getting those materials from his literary sources.

Lately, Harry has taken up crocheting while they talk on the phone for their ten to thirty minutes they’re allowed, for which he’s noticed a certain amount of money suspiciously equal to the amount it costs for their phone calls and the amount of gas it takes to get to and from the prison facility, for their now weekly in person visits, being deposited in his bank account every other week from a certain mysterious bank account.

At the moment, Harry’s taken to attempting to make a blanket, awash of blue yarn, to perhaps send to the older man as the winter approaches them. It could be a nice gift, yeah? Something handmade?

Gil thought it was a “swell” idea, though he didn’t know who the blanket was for, and even helped him find the yarn one of the days they went out with a few of the dancers from the club for an afternoon get together. The girls thought it was a lovely idea too.

Meanwhile, Uma has been eyeing the ever growing ocean of blue fabric with suspicion.

“Since when do you like blue?”

Since Hades told him that was his favorite color and Harry found the exact shade of Hades’ blue eyes in the color of this yarn he and Gilly found.

But Harry can’t tell her that, so he settles for:

“I’m allowed to like colors other than red.”

She just gives him a long disbelieving look at that, but ultimately drops it.

Besides his latest suspicious crafting project, he’s also decided that maybe pairing it with some light reading might be the key to a successful care package.

With that in mind, he finds himself looking up the approved vendors for books the prison would allow, along with their censorship guidelines.

Harry’s not sure he’s ever done more research for things in his life since he drunkenly decided to get on his now prison boyfriend’s phone call list.

If that isn’t love, Harry doesn’t know what is.

Wait-

Harry quickly rushes to distract himself from that passing admission by running to the nearest prison approved vendor to find one obnoxiously Christian romance book and the latest addition of Peter Pan and Wendy. He then spends the rest of his time before work finishing up the last of Hades’ blanket, blasting AC/DC all the while, and then boxing the three items up together to send off on his way to work.

————-

Hades' response to Harry’s gifts comes in a box with two carved wooden figures in the form of a crocodile and an intricately carved pirate ship, alongside a wondrous leather bracelet and a simple note that reads:

Thank you.

It has Harry stupidly smiling as he slips the bracelet on and then proceeds to place his latest treasures around his apartment to further admire.

The brunet finds himself clapping and rather manically giggling, beside himself as he looks at the pair of figures he’s made room for on one of his few shelves by the couch in the main part of his open layout apartment.

“What’s all this?” comes Uma’s voice from behind him. Harry spins on his heel to face her.

She must have used the key he’d given him to enter his apartment while he’d been busy being rather-

Well-

What had he been?

Love sick, whispers some traitorous part of his mind.

His best friend is bending down now to examine the box his gifts came from that he’s left over by the door.

“-prison,” she’s reading aloud, “Hades Polychronios?”

“I can explain,” Harry says, grabbing up the box and holding it protectively to his chest, like it contains the entirety of his and Hades' relationship within its four cardboard walls.

“Oh yeah?” she says, crossing her arms. “Then explain.”

Harry stares at her for a moment, uncomprehendingly, before jolting into action. He quickly sets down the box by the couch and hastily moves to sit down.

“Okay,” he says, as Uma comes to join him. “Um… where should I start?”

“How about how you even came to know Hades Polychronios?”

“Ye mean you don’t remember?”

“What are you-,” she begins.

“Remember,” he says, “we were drunk and bitchin’ about Mal an’ you said-”

“You dumbass! When I suggested someone tell Mal’s parents what a bitch she was being, I didn’t mean it literally!”

“I know, I know!” Harry hides his face in his hands. “But I was drunk, and it seemed like a good idea.”

She snorts. “Everything when you're drunk seems like a good idea.”

“Exactly!” he says, finally turning more to face her. “So ye can’t really blame me fer this!”

“Oh, I think I can blame you plenty.”

Harry deflates.

“Tell me, Hook,” she says, leaning forward, “did you actually call both Hades and Maleficent that night?”

“Tha’ night, tha’ mornin’,” Harry hedges. “Who really can tell?”

Uma laughs. “Oh, Harry, what are we going to do with you?”

“Love me till the end of time?” Harry offers.

She shakes his head at him, but she’s still smiling.

“Who did you call first? And what did you say to them?” she asks.

“Maleficent, who is even more of a bitch than Bertha,” Harry says.

“Oh?”

“And I simply told her the truth,” he continues.

“And what was that?”

“That her daughter’s a bitch.”

Uma positively cackles at that.

“Wait,” she says, trying to catch her breath, “you mean to tell me that you called her up early in the morning-”

Harry shrugs. “Around 5 o’clock, I think.”

“-and you just said, with no ‘hi’ or anything else, ‘Your daughter is a bitch’?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Uma laughs some more, letting herself fall into the couch cushions.

“And what was her response?” his best mate finally gasps out.

“She laughed.”

“Ha!” she says. “Of course she did.”

“You don’t seem surprised,” Harry states.

“If you’d ever met the woman face to face, you’d see why Mal turned out the way she did.”

“Tha’ bad?”

“You have no idea.”

“She seemed quite evil on the phone,” Harry admits. “Her laugh was downright sinister.” Just thinking about it gave him the chills.

Harry shivers.

“Yeah, I bet,” Uma says, studying him.

“What did you say to Hades?”

“Ya know, that one took a lotta time ta actually set up.”

Uma just shoots him an unimpressed look.

“What? I had to contact his lawyer and pretend ta be some sort of journalist ta get put on the man’s call list, then I had ta wait till at least 7:30 in the morning when they’d start allowing calls in. I had ta be really compelling while drunk,” he continued to argue. “If anything, ye should be praisin’ me for me superb actin’. I-”

“Harry,” Uma cuts him off. “What did you say?”

Harry tries not to wince too much as he says, “Yer daughter’s a bitch.”

“Oh my god, Harry!” she cackles.

“It’s not that funny,” he tries to reason, feeling his face turn what’s probably a lovely scarlet.

“It’s hilarious,” she says, catching her breath.

Harry chooses to remain silent.

“Hey, come on,” Uma says, nudging his thigh with her foot, “tell me what his response was.”

“Yer goin’ ta laugh,” he whines.

She rolls her eyes.

“I will not.”

“Well he did.”

Their eyes meet, and there is a tense moment of silence between them.

Then they’re both devolving into helpless chuckles and giggles, falling into each other.

“He was so much nicer about it though,” Harry admits sometime later as they lay there, curled comfortably against one another.

“Yeah?”

“Mm,” he says. “He even called me back the next day ta talk about it.”

“About Mal being a bitch?”

“Abou’ why I went through all the trouble ta want him to call me at all.”

Uma snorts. “Don’t tell me his call list isn’t a mile long.”

“Apparently no one wants him ta call except his lawyers, literary agent, and journalists.”

She props herself up on an elbow to look down at him at that.

“Not even Mal?”

“She’s the one tha’ helped his ex-wife send him ta prison.”

“Shit,” Uma hisses. “That’s so messed up.”

“Right?”

“And here I thought he must have been just as crazy as Maleficent to marry her.”

“Ye never met him when you an’ Mal were growin’ up?

Uma lies back down next to him. “Not really,” she admits.

“He kept odd hours and would go on book tours and stuff a lot. Besides,” she continues, “we didn’t tend to go near her apartment much when both of her parents were home. I think they tended to argue a lot, from what I gathered from Mal.”

“Mmm,” Harry hums. “Tha’ makes sense, I guess.”

“Yeah…”

They lapse into silence after that for a bit, just digesting each others’ information.

“So,” Uma starts, “then what happened?”

Harry lets out a long breath before admitting, “I wrote him a letter.”

“A letter?”

“Mm.”

“And he responded?”

“Mm.”

“Hold up,” she says, sitting fully up, prompting Harry to have to do the same, his comfortable position officially lost.

“Is this why you suddenly wanted to watch different movies like Macbeth?”

“He recommended it.”

“And the jazz?”

Harry may or may not be blushing at that one, because it truly is out of place.

“He likes Duke Ellington and Billie Holiday. He says he has a whole collection on vinyl,” the brunet defends.

“And the reason you suddenly disappear for hours on end on your days off after asking to borrow Jonas’ car for ‘errands’?”

“We started doin’ weekly visits.”

“Harry.” The way that she says his name tells him she’s read him and his and Hades’ relationship like an open book.

Her hand finds the leather of his new bracelet, putting the rest together.

“How long has this been going on?” she asks.

Harry swallows.

“We started flirtin’ not long after tha’ first phone call,” he says, carefully studying a point on the bare floor, “an’ we started datin’ officially on the day of me first visit ta him jus’ over a month or so after our first phone call.”

“So around two and a half, three months, give or take,” Uma surmises.

He shrugs, still not meeting her eye.

She sighs, and Harry feels like he’s going to cry, because he knows she doesn’t approve, won’t approve, can’t approve. They had some fun rehashing how it all happened, but now, with the dust settled, she’s going to tell him how unhealthy this all was, how unsustainable, how they should break up - and it hurts.

“Harry,” she says, and her hand grabs his, his right hand that’s come up to unconsciously rub at his sternum.

“I’m not mad at you,” she says.

“But yer disappointed.” He chances a look at her, ready to see the pity and judgment in her eyes.

Instead, he’s met with understanding and sadness as she reaches up to wipe away a tear he didn’t even know he’d let fall.

“I’m not disappointed, Harry, I’m just sad that you thought you couldn’t tell me about this.”

“But, ye hate Mal, and he’s her-”

“-her dad, yeah, I get it,” she says with a sigh. “Maybe I should just learn to get over it and grow up.”

For a moment, Harry’s struck speechless.

“Uma-”

“We’re grown ass adults, Harry,” she continues, “we can stand to let grudges go. And, besides, Hades is not Mal, and she is not her father. The only thing I’m worried about now is you getting hurt.”

Now Harry’s eyes definitely are watering.

“Uma,” he whines, letting his forehead fall to her shoulder to cover up his weakness.

Her hands immediately come up to cradle him there, one hand stroking his back and the other combing comfortingly through his hair.

“I’m not gonna tell you who you can or cannot date,” she continues to reassure him. “Just tell me he treats you right.”

“He does,” Harry croaks.

“Then that’s all I need,” she tells him. “Well, that and you to let me talk to him at some point so I can properly lay down the law and tell him not even prison can stop me from killing him if he breaks your heart.”

Harry chuckles wetly as he pulls back so he can properly face his best friend.

“I don’t think death threats are allowed over the phone or by mail.”

“Guess you’ll just have to let me come with you as a visitor one of these days, huh?”

Harry smiles.

“I guess so.”

It’s at that moment Harry’s phone decides to ring from its place on his makeshift coffee table of a trunk.

It’s the caller ID of the prison.

His breath catches in his throat as he turns back to Uma, fearful that she’s suddenly changed her mind about supporting all this.

She just raises an eyebrow at him.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asks. “Answer it.”

Harry gleefully does so.

“Hello?”

“Dollface,” comes Hades warm baritone through the receiver.

“I got yer presents.”

“Oh yeah?” comes Hades' pleased response. “How’d you like them?”

Harry then proceeds to jump up from the couch to draw closer to his newest, and only, prized art pieces to gush about them and his favorite new leather accessory, all under the watchful eye of his best friend still lounging on the couch, smiling indulgently at him.

It makes Harry’s heart feel giddy and full.

Chapter Text

… The other night at work, some idiot got handsy with one of the dancers. Me, Gil, and Gonzo had to escort him and his friends out.

I know I told you I’m not usually acting as the bouncer, but sometimes I fill in.

I swear, I almost had to lay one of them out, they wouldn’t stop, and Gil actually did.

Everyone’s alright, but it was quite an eventful night.

Sort of wish Gil had broken the one guys’ nose, but that’s alright. Probably for the best that he didn’t.

Have you ever gotten into a bar fight? It’s quite exhilarating!

Sincerely,

Your Tempest

The letter Harry receives in response to this one marks their almost six month anniversary since their first actual conversation.

By now, both Hades and Uma have met.

Harry had been quite nervous to initiate a meeting between two of his most important people in the world face to face.

He’d already told both Hades and Uma how amazing the other was, even giving Hades a brief overview of the shit that went down between Mal and Uma in their childhood, just in case it came up.

He wanted to head off any possible animosity before it’d even get started.

When the visit finally came to pass, it did so without much of a hitch, Hades and Uma exchanging a brief handshake at the start of their meeting.

“So, you’re my boy’s hidden beau?”

“Uma,” Harry had hissed, fighting down a furious blush.

Hades had just snorted, releasing her hand to take a seat, Uma and Harry following suit.

“You could say that.”

“Oh, I will,” Uma said with a practiced smile, before lowering her voice.

“Just like I’ll say that if you dare break Harry’s heart or make him cry, you’ll need a lot more than just these four walls to keep me from coming after you.”

Harry held his breath during the silence that ensued, eyes flicking between his partner and his best mate, both staring the other down.

In the end, Hades broke first with a huff of a laugh.

To Harry, he said, “I like her.”

The brunet breathed a sigh of relief.

Everything since then has been going great.

Harry no longer feels the need to hide his relationship from the rest of his friends, and he is doing his best - exchanging more letters, packages, and phone calls with his still imprisoned boyfriend.

Opening his latest letter from Hades, Harry tries not to grin too widely as he lays back on the couch to do his first read through. (No way would he ever admit to sappily rereading the letters over and over, like ten times, before ultimately saving them in a shoebox he keeps hidden under his bed.)

By the end of it, Harry now knows several more random facts about jazz musicians long dead and how Hades had a dog growing up named Cyburus (which just sounds adorable- Harry absolutely will be asking the older man where he might find a copy of a young Hades cuddling a molossian hound). The brunet also knows Hades’ thoughts on his latest sexless romance book (courtesy of his truly), that his favorite food is actually seared scallops with pomegranate and meyer lemon (and his favorite dessert being a heavy, dark chocolate moose with freeze dried raspberry dust [the posh get]), and a rather ominous last few lines that read:

Next time you come to visit, it will be our six month anniversary. We should make it special.

I think I should ask you a very important question.

So try not to be late, huh?

Sincerely and forever yours,
Macbeth

———————-

“-a very important question!” Harry all but yells into the receiver. “What does that even mean?!”

“Harry,” Uma says. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing! What makes you think I’m not breathing?”

“I want to hear you breathe,” she says. “Come on. In one, out on the other.” She begins to adjust her own breathing accordingly.

Harry anxiously follows suit, not realizing until they’ve gotten five reps in that he may have been freaking out a little.

“Better?” Uma asks after some indeterminate amount of time.

He sighs, collapsing onto the couch to lay out on his back, giving up his frantic pacing.

“I suppose.”

“Good, now listen up,” she orders. “You are going to that visit tomorrow.”

“But-”

“And you are going to dress nice in your red, long sleeve button down-”

“Wait, why would I-?”

“And then you are going to immediately call me- wait, scratch that, I’ll drive you to the prison myself.”

“Uma, yer scarin’ me.”

“Harry,” she sighs, in the way that she does when she thinks he’s being dense.

“Wha’? Am I missin’ somethin’?” he asks, sitting up. “Because he might jus’ be askin’ me if I’m prepared ta leave an’ never come back. ‘It’s been a great six months, but I think we’re done here.’”

“Harry.”

“What?!”

“He’s not going to ask that.”

“Then wha’?! Wha’ else could he possibly want ta ask me?!”

———————-

“Will you marry me?”

Harry's brain screeches to a halt as he tries to process.

Hades takes his silence for indecision from his seat across the table from him.

“You said you always wanted to pursue acting, and now you can.” Hades continues on, but Harry’s still stuck on the question he’d been asked. “You can move into my family house in upstate New York and not have to worry about rent or you can stay in your apartment and never have to worry about rent. Either way, you won’t have to worry about working at some dangerous club where there’s bar fights. I don’t want you to-”

“You want to marry me,” Harry says in disbelief. Of all the questions the older man could ask, he did not anticipate this one.

“That’s what I said.”

“You want ta marry me?”

“Now it’s a question.”

“Oh god, ye wan’ ta marry me.”

“Okay, now you sound terrified, and this was not supposed to be an intentionally scary occasion.”

“I can’t believe ye want ta marry me.”

“Hey, hey,” Hades says, reaching across the table's great divide.

“Of course I want to marry you, you're amazing, Dollface.”

“Yer jus’ sayin that because I’m the only one who’s come ta see you.”

Hades frowns.

“Harry-”

“I can’t be what you want. I-”

“Baby, come on. Why are you trying to push me away?”

“Because ya don’t really want me. Ye can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not- I just- ye jus’ can’t!”

“Why can’t you accept the fact that I love you?”

That has Harry stopping. “You love me?”

“Of course I do, Dollface, Sugarcube, Light of My World-”

Harry scowls, fighting a terrible blush. “Stop it.”

But the bastard keeps going. “-Baby Cakes, Hot Stuff, Pumpkin, Apple of My Eye- ”

“Why are you like this?”

“-Sugarplum, Sweet Peach, Lemon-”

“An’ why are these gettin’ more an’ more food related?”

“-Square, Sugar Cookie, Puddin’ Fa-”

“Will ye stop if I agree ta marry you?”

There’s a pause as Hades seems to consider this.

“Will you accept that you deserve all the best that I can provide you with?”

“You posh get.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes either.”

“What can I do to make you want to marry me, my beloved Tempest?” he earnestly asks. “Am I not good enough for you? Because I understand-”

“No, you're lovely when yer not being a total wanker.”

Hades grins. “Guess that puts me out because I’m always a total, and I quote, ‘wanker.’”

“Yer an arsehole is wha’ you are.”

“God, I love that accent, even when it’s insulting me. Maybe especially when it’s insulting me.”

“Great. Then I hope this gives ya the biggest feckin’ case of blue balls of yer entire life, ye idiotic, pompous bastard.”

“Perfect, but I’m still not hearing an out right yes or no.”

Harry heaves a sigh, leaning back a bit to cross his arms and his legs just for good measure.

They share a tense moment as they both just stare at each other before the brunet finally relents.

“Fine, I’ll marry you,” Harry bites out, “but only because I love you too, and if I don’t marry you, obviously there will be no one to spoil you with disappointingly sexless, Christian romance books.”

Hades, to his credit, doesn’t allow them to dwell too long on the fact that Harry just admitted he loved him back, though his smile is quite a bit sweeter as he responds, “Hey, I like those.”

“And we’ve established this is why you don’t write romance books.”

“Mmm, there’s plenty of other reasons I don’t write romance.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, it’s called that my smoking hot boyfriend takes forever agreeing to marry me properly so I can’t write our happily ever after.”

That draws Harry up short, and he finds himself becoming uncrossed as he leans forward.

“Yer writin’ our story?”

“Did I say that out loud?” Hades tries to backtrack, his neck starting to turn red and climbing higher. It was rare Harry could make the older man flush.

“Because I meant-”

Harry interrupts him by hauling the man over the table by the front of his jumper to try and snog the shit out of him.

The guards have to pull them apart, to the sound of wolf whistles and claps from the other inmates and their guests, and Harry can’t exactly come to visit Hades in the following weeks, his fiancées visiting hours having been restricted due to Harry’s antics, but it’s soooo worth it.

Chapter Text

“And just where do you think you're going?”

Shit.

Hades turns to face his wife of sixteen years. She’s his soon to be ex-wife when the divorce papers reach her, which, seeing as how she’s holding them aloft in one hand, must have been received.

Mal is silent from where she stands, hidden behind him in the kitchen where her mother has caught them in the act of leaving, duffle bags in hand. His daughter is the only person he finds makes him feel not so alone in their big New York penthouse.

Hades throws on his most charming smile he can muster. If they can just make it past where Maleficent stands blocking the door…

“Babes-”

“Oh, don’t try that shit with me,” she spits at him.

Okay, so talking isn’t going to work.

“We’re leaving,” he says. “There, you happy that I’ve come out and said it now?”

“No,” she says rather calmly. “I don’t remember giving you leave to do so.”

Hades snorts. “Newsflash Babe, I don’t need your permission.”

He tries to leave things at that. He tries to move past her towards the door, just push through her hostility, but then Maleficent does something unexpected.

The pain as his temple hits the edge of the upper cabinet is disorienting.

“Dad!” Mal cries.

He sees red, literally, as he looks down at the counter and sees a growing puddle of blood, and now he can’t see out of one eye. The cut must be someone just above it, making opening and closing it difficult.

He can hear a shuffling behind him, and his daughter cries out again, this time in pain, and Hades doesn’t think, he just acts.

He grabs a knife from the nearby cutting block, and turns around only to be met with the cocking of a gun and Maleficent’s cruel smirk as she holds their daughter in a vice-like grip and levels a gun at him, the one that she keeps in her purse.

There are sirens he can hear now, far too close to have only just been called by a concerned neighbor the moment their altercation began.

It just began a few seconds ago, didn’t it?

Hades’ thinks he might be slightly concussed.

“Hmm…” Maleficent ponders. “Use of deadly force in self defense is so hard to prove and so needlessly complicated. Plus, who wants to be labeled as a murderer? So let’s get our story straight.”

“What?” he finds himself dumbly asking, still uselessly holding the knife.

“You tried to kill me,” she says with a smile. “And I managed to fight you off and find my gun.”

There are loud footsteps thundering up the stairwell now.

How many police officers did she call in advance?

How far did she plan ahead?

Maleficent begins to scream, “Stop! Stop! Don’t move!”

The police are coming down the hallway now.

“Help! Somebody help!” she shouts.

“Police!” someone else yells as several men and women burst through the door.

Hades' eyes meet his daughter’s, and she looks like her whole world is ending.

——-----

Hades is alone.

He’s alone even when his lawyer calls, early in the morning, first thing at 7am, to inform him that some former classmate of his daughter’s, who was now a journalist, wants to be added to the author’s call sheet. Even his lawyer is on the fence about adding this person to Hades’ call list, but the writer doubts one call will do much harm

While he’s waiting for the call to connect, still unbearably along, his leg bouncing as he leans against the wall, fingers tapping at any and all metal around him, he contemplates if he’s going to verbally rip apart this reporter for trying to get more information out of him, or grill them for information about his daughter.

By the time the person on the other end finishes accepting the collect call, he still hasn’t decided.

“Hello?” he asks. Depending on how they respond, it will decide how he proceeds.

There’s a lengthy pause to the point that he’s almost sure there’s no one on the other end of the phone. He opens his mouth to tell the person off for wasting his time, his one call he gets per day, when a male, accented voice blurts out:

“Your daughter’s a bitch!”

Then there’s silence.

Hades finds his brain not quite processing what just happened.

But then it clicks.

And he laughs- genuinely laughs.

He doesn’t think he’s done that since he’s landed here in this shithole.

The line quickly goes dead in his hands, which shuts him up as he stares at the receiver for a moment.

Then he laughs again.

Fuck! He’d have to call that son of bitch back, wouldn’t he?

And, suddenly, he doesn’t feel quite so alone.

——-----

So Hades calls the person back, and it’s just as enjoyable of a conversation with, as he now bothers to address Mr. Jones as, Harry.

The young man is open and honest with him as they talk of his siblings and of pirate stories, and he’s respectful of Hades' boundaries without him having to say as much.

And, most importantly, he’s got a sense of humor. And not just any sense of humor, but witty and bantery humor which Hades craves more than words can describe.

His somewhat enjoyable conversations with Facilier don't even compare - or, rather, can’t be compared. They are so different.

And then their call ends.

And Hades thinks, Well, that’s that.

——-----

When the first letter comes, Hades thinks it’s a mistake.

His emotions are a turbulent whirl of hope and want and crushing despair that his return letter won’t be responded to.

But then the written correspondence keeps coming, each letter more honest and open than the last, with deeper and deeper discussions of literature, movies, music, favorite memories, and even their favorite foods at one point.

They grow alongside their phone conversations and, later, in their in person visits.

And the man he gets to know is beautiful, inside and out.

Hades finds himself starting to write again, after years of hiatus, since he got wrongfully thrown into this joint.

It’s more mushy, it’s gooey shit - it’s everything his other works are not.

It’s romance, and Hades realizes he never really knew what that was with his ex-wife. He’s read about it, felt disjointed about it. Never could he relate to it. And now he can.

Hades had always known of his bisexuality, but never felt connected to the romance of it all.

Well… maybe a little at the beginning with Maleficent.

But that quickly soured not long after she got pregnant. Still, Hades convinced himself they could get that feeling back, and when that failed to happen over five to ten plus years - resignation set in that this was what all marriages were really like.

His parents weren’t exactly the best example after all, with a rather homicidal father and a rather controlling mother.

Some would say Hades’ wasn’t much better. After all, look where he ended up?

But that isn’t entirely fair, is it?

Much like Lucifer in Paradise Lost, Hades is a tragic hero, cast out for just trying to do what he thought was right. He wanted to save his daughter. He wanted to get her out of that house.

Really, he was probably more closely aligned with the character of Macbeth. He was too blinded by his own ambitions to realize the downfall he’d have by trying to have it all. A great career, a loving wife, a happy daughter. In the end, he only managed the first and lost the rest in his pursuit of it, if he ever had them to begin with. He definitely lost his daughter in foolishness that he thought he could get him and her both away from his wife unscathed. And he lost his freedom and his good name as a result.

Hades is spoiled by the gift of this kind young man’s very presence that stirs so many emotions and passions in him he’d thought long since dead and buried by the witch that was his ex.

Even though the brunet gives him actual physical gifts of his own - a copy of Peter and Wendy, which Hades will probably take to his grave, a lovely crocheted blanket, and those silly romance books Harry loves to tease him about - they do nothing to compare to the young man himself, who doesn’t know better - that he should stay away from Hades.

Hades always drives people away. Be it because he becomes too invested in his writing, too loud in his humor, too quiet in the dead of night, too much of an asshole all the time - it’s always something. Even his own daughter would rather side with his psycho ex-wife.

But Harry, light of his life, the lighthouse on the shore, his tempest, doesn’t seem to know any better- even reassures Hades that they can make their romantic entanglement work.

Hades was always a greedy, selfish bastard. To hell with letting the lamb that’s mistakenly stumbled into the lion's den go.

“Will you marry me?” he asks six months into their sexless affair, and he’ll badger and look as pathetic as possible if he has to in order to get his tempest to say yes, because he’d be damned if he couldn’t at least offer some form of protection to his young would-be lover that only money can help buy. I mean, bar fights? Really?

He’s not surprised his partner might occasionally enjoy such brawls, but after seeing the nastiness that fights could turn into in the yard and in the different cell blocks, Hades has frankly lost his tolerance for such violence.

Thankfully, Harry says yes. He doesn’t even have to badger the young man all that much, but rather reassure the young man that he’s worthy of love and all the money and gifts Hades can throw at him.

Gods, I love this stupidly humble man. How can he not know he’s worthy of love?

And then the man says he loves Hades for the first time, says it casually like it’s no big deal, and then says something else about the writer’s taste in reading. It’s so obvious his new fiancée is trying to play it cool.

It’s adorable.

But Hades has held out this long, no point in scaring the other person away by calling them on their clear shyness when it comes to such emotions.

Then the table turns when Hades lets slip his latest writing project.

The restricted visiting hours over the next weeks are totally worth it, though.

——-----

“So, yer boy said yes, eh?” Facilier says from the next cell over. They’ll often sit back to back like this with their cell wall between them as the inmates all start to settle into their nightly routines after dinner.

Hades can’t help grinning to himself. “Yup.”

“You gonna have a proper ceremony once you’re out of prison?”

The silver haired man shrugs. He hadn’t really thought about it, but he can’t really see himself saying no to his partner if asked.

“Maybe.”

Facilier snorts. “Well, you and I’ll both be out of here on parole around the same time, if all goes well. Mayhaps I’ll meet this young fella you’ve decided ta settle down with.”

“You want to stay in touch?” Hades hadn’t honestly thought about that either. Life outside of prison seemed so far away.

“Maybe,” the other man says. “Who else would be your best man?”

Hades snickers and finds he doesn’t have much of a response to that.

Chapter Text

In the end, their wedding is a quiet, small affair, with lots of paperwork (which Uma, thankfully, helps Harry with) and no honeymoon.

Well- no honeymoon for another three months, which is when they have their first conjugal visit scheduled.

The ceremony itself takes less than a half hour, and is just so that Harry and Hades can say their vows and share a quick kiss, their marriage license already filled out and official before it even begins.

It’s not very sexy or romantic, but, then, that wasn’t really the priority for the prison.

Of course, Uma helps Harry dress up as much as possible by prison standards, opting for a well fitted, if plain (by Harry’s standards) black suit.

His best mate herself dresses in a simple teal dress, getting leave to attend and officiate the wedding proper, because she’s the absolute best.

Hades, unfortunately, had to stay in his ghastly prison uniform, which he somehow still looks unfairly beautiful in. He knows it too, with the way he always smugly smiles at Harry whenever he manages to make his younger partner flush with just a look.

Fuckin' bastard.

But at least Harry could feel vindicated by the open expression of want Hades gave him when the brunet walked into the room in his chosen wedding outfit.

A whistle sounds, pulling Harry from his thoughts, and the brunet opens his eyes behind his sunglasses to look over at his best mates from where he sits lounging by the pool.

Uma walks over to him from where she exited the house, a small mansion, to enter the poolside outdoor patio, followed closely by Gil.

“Only you could get yourself a sugar daddy through a drunken phone call.”

Harry grins getting up, pushing up his glasses into his hair. “Uma! Gil!” He’s taken to lounging out in the sun every chance he gets, and it’s been doing wonders for his mood, and his complexion (he doesn’t think he’s ever had a vacation before where he could even remotely dream of getting this tan… He’s also just never had a proper vacation…). Today, he’s in nothing but a red speedo, though he does throw on a red, silken robe to be a bit more courteous to his fully clothed guests

The young woman whistles again, observing her best friend more closely. “Being married to a former bestselling author with old family money clearly has its perks,” she says, before pulling him in for a hug.

“Ye could say that,” Harry chuckles, releasing her and moving over to the blond.

“Gilly!” He pats his mate on the back as the more muscular man all but crushes the brunet to his chest.

“We miss you!” Gil cries into his shoulder.

“Aye, I miss ya too.”

Once the blond has let go of Harry, Uma adds, “We came to see how you were settling into the high life.”

“When are you coming back to the club?” the blond asks.

Uma sighs.

Harry's smile takes on a sad tinge. “I told ya, I would be takin’ some time off ta try me hand at theater.”

Gil looks crestfallen at this, getting a little teary eyed.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Gilly,” the brunet says, placing a comforting hand on his friend’s arm. “Yer still one of me best mates.”

The other man sniffs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “An’ I’ll still come around ta annoy ya an’ Uma an’ the crew when I’m in the city before an’ after auditions.”

“You will?”

“Course I will, Gilly.”

Uma leans into the space in between them to interject, “Harry told you all this last week when we came by to help him pack up his place for the movers.”

“Yeah,” the blond says, blushing as he looks down at his feet, “but it’s nice to hear again.”

“Gilly,” Harry says, only a little teary eyed as he laughs and pulls the other man into another hug. “Ye don’t have ta be worryin’ abou’ losin’ me.”

“Promise?” the muscular blond hugs him tightly back,

“Course. An’ we’ll have a ton of pool parties and late night sleepovers.”

“Really?” Gil asks excitedly as he pulls back.

“I don’t see why not.” Harry grins.

The other man bites his lip. “But… you’re married.”

“An’?” The brunet raises an eyebrow at this. “This place is huge!” He gestures to the expanse of the estate around them. “An’ daddy’s in the slammer still-”

Uma groans. “I was kidding about the ‘daddy’ comment.”

“-an’ I’m all alone here wit’ two idiotic butlers ta order around!” Harry lets himself fall into the blond’s arms, putting the back of his hand to his forehead to complete the look of his pretend faint. “I need help, Gilly!”

By the end of the brunet’s little show, the other man is happy and smiling.

And that’s all that matters.

——————

Harry doesn’t know how to stand.

Should he lean against the car?

Should he cross his arms?

Should he keep them in his back pockets?

How eager should he look?

What would Hades be expecting?

Would he be mad that Harry brought the red convertible and not one of the other cars?

At this point, the brunet’s given up on trying to look unaffected as he waits for his husband to walk out of the prison gates on parole. His nails are quick to meet their fate in his mouth. They’re going to look a right mess by the time Hades steps foot outside of the metal fencing.

Damnit! Harry shouldn’t have gotten there early. It just makes him think back to how nervous he was for his and Hades’ conjugal visit three months ago.

Twenty-four hours alone with the silver fox of a man he’d been unable to touch for more than a few moments at a time.

Twenty-four hours alone with his husband of three months, partner for nine.

Twenty-four hours alone with a man who entered their secluded room to fix his younger, to-be lover with a gaze that promised very little actual sleep during their time together.

Harry swallows reflexively, shaking his head and licking his lips. Now they’d have all the time in the world, no guards yelling, “Times up!” and herding them away from each other.

The movement of the electronic gates startles Harry out of his thoughts, prompting him to drop his hand from his face and stop his pacing he’d unconsciously taken up.

Coming down the drive, smiling ear to ear, dressed in all black, Hades strides with a small bag of his meager belongings right towards the brunet.

“Aren’t ye lookin’ good?!” Harry shouts to his husband as he draws nearer, nerves forgotten.

“Feelin’ good, Baby!” the older man laughs.

Hades quickly shortens the distance between them. His bag hits the ground and suddenly Harry is being lifted and twirled around in the air as the other man chuckles.

“Put me down, ye daft, silly man,” the brunet demands, but it’s ruined by his smile and his obvious attempts to stave off his own manic giggling.

Harry’s feet barely touch the ground before his lover is pulling him into a long, hard kiss, only breaking so he can stupidly dip his younger partner low, like some suave, dashing hero in one of the writer’s sexless romance books, and kiss the young man again.

Eventually, Hades rights them and they break apart, panting, staring into each other's faces, eyes roaming.

Hades brings a hand up to the brunet’s face to hold him there. His thumb traces the arc of Harry’s cheekbone to more thoroughly touch what the silver fox’s eyes are seeing.

“I love you,” Hades says as he brings their foreheads together.

Harry’s breath catches in his throat, choking him up with emotion, his eyes growing wet.

“I love you, too,” he manages to croak out. Harry lets his hands come up to cradle Hades’ face.

“I-” The brunet swallows hard, knowing he’s about to lose the battle with holding back tears. “I luv you. Please,” he all but begs, feeling suddenly and inexplicably desperate not to lose what his husband being out of prison meant, “don’t make me be wit’out ye anymore.” Let me stay, and don’t leave. Don’t let this be a dream.

“Shhh,” Hades soothes, pulling Harry to his chest. “I won’t, Baby.” He brings a hand to the back of his lover’s head and holds the younger man in his warm, protective embrace.

They stay like that for a while. Hades swaying them back and forth slightly as Harry clings to his front like a child, soaking in each other's presence, the ability to touch, the unspoken promise that they’ll never leave each other, that their vows behind bars actually mean something in the outside world.

When they get in the car to drive home, back to Hades’ inherited family estate, it’s with an air of relief and hope for a future.

And, if, somewhere on the way home, they have to stop on a rather abandoned side road to relieve some of the sexual pressure that has been pent up between them before getting back to the house, that’s no one’s business but their own.

———————

“So good to have you back, master,” Pain, the short and stout manservant, greets Hades at the door.

“Yeah,” Panic, the stick-like butler standing next to Pain, adds. “We missed you.”

Both men stare at the silver fox with watery smiles on their faces as they take his bag and lead him inside, telling him how they’d upkept the place in his absence and made sure his new husband was settling in well, just as he’d ordered.

Hades smiles bemusedly as they make their way through the foyer and into the dining room. But then the two servants' rambling continues.

And continues.

And then the bickering starts between them on who’s been the best servant of the two while he was away.

“No fair! You said we weren’t counting that!” Panic cries, shoving at the stouter man who’s begun pulling at his spiky hair.

“I never said-!” Pain starts.

“Guys, guys,” Hades interrupts. The two men freeze. “I’m not going anywhere, alright?”

Both manservants deflate, slowly letting go of each other.

Their master rubs at his forehead, looking like he has a migraine coming on. Harry lets one of his hands come up to grip his husband’s shoulder and rub soothing circles into the area via his thumb.

“How abou’ you two go on ahead and take up his stuff ta our bedroom, yeah?” Harry suggests. “I need ta show him what I’ve done ta the livin’ room.”

The two servants look downcasted, but obediently respond with, “Yes, Master Harry,” before taking up the discarded items they’d dropped to the floor in their fighting and making their way to the grand staircase.

Hades blows out a frustrated breath as soon as they’re out of earshot.

“Have they been like this the whole time I’ve been gone?” he asks, turning to his partner. “I forgot what they were like.”

“Mm,” Harry hums, letting his hand drop from his lover’s shoulder to grab up his hand. “Let’s go ta the livin’ room, shall we?” He doesn’t wait for the older man to respond before he begins to drag him towards said room.

“That wasn’t an answer,” Hades points out, a smile coming back to his face.

“An’ you haven’t met some of me best mates,” the brunet responds.

His husband chuckles, but it's quickly replaced by surprised silence as they enter the living room.

There, on the mantle, against the graystone work of the fireplace, are all the various wood carvings Hades has made for Harry. Most prominently, the pirate ship the older man had carved for his then boyfriend sits in the middle - an obvious place of honor, and a statement piece if there ever was one.

“You kept them all,” Hades states, seemingly in awe as he moves across the old carpeting, and it breaks the younger man’s heart a little at how much his partner obviously thought he wouldn’t.

“Of course,” the brunet says, coming up behind his lover to wrap his arms around his waist and prop his head up on the other man’s shoulder, which -yes- does require a bit of tippy toes on Harry’s part. “I told ya I luved them, an’ I meant it.”

The silver haired man turns around, letting his partner settle back onto the balls of his feet as he looks down at him. “Have I ever told you I love you?”

“Ye may hav’ mentioned it a time or two,” Harry says, smiling coyly as their faces draw closer to one another, the gap between them slowly disappearing.

Hades smirk seems to hold them in place from going any further. “Let’s go see the bedroom then, shall we?” And now it’s the older man’s turn to lead his lover off to another part of the house. Harry can’t help snickering in nervous anticipation, feeling giddy.

The door to the master suite is open when they come to it, and Hades is quick to pull them through the doorway before stopping abruptly.

“Hm? Wha’s wrong?” the younger man asks, still holding on to that giddy feeling from just moments ago.

Hades lets go of the brunet’s hand to venture further into the center of their bedroom, slowly taking it all in before turning to stare at Harry.

Harry feels his skin prick up, unable to determine what his lover’s gaze is trying to communicate. He lets his own eyes wander frantically around the bedroom, trying to imagine seeing it for the first time in over eight years - all the changes he’s made that might seem sudden.

“I didn’t know wha’ ye’d want me ta keep or ta add,” the young man is quick to explain. His side of the bedroom is full of various knickknacks he’d gathered from his outings with friends, snow globes and key chains sent along by his younger sister representing her travels, and, of course, lots of teals, sea greens, and red. Lots of red. He moved Hades’ rock collection that was on some of the shelves on his side of the room to fill in the gaps of the rock collection on the other side of the room on their respective shelves.

Overall, both sides of the room now must look more cluttered than they had before the last time Hades had seen them.

Harry realizes he’s continued on babbling.

“-kept the dark blues and blacks on yer side an’ maybe didn’t need ta split everything right down the middle in terms of the colors. Maybe could hav’ been more of a natural integration - that’s the word ta use, right?” He swallows cutting himself off, noticing that Hades is still staring.

“Wha’?”

The taller man doesn’t answer, just closes the distance between them to pull Harry into a kiss. The silver fox then starts moving them slowly backward toward the bed. The brunet feels his knees hit the mattress, and he goes down, pulling his newly freed partner with him.

Chapter Text

They are lounging on the foot of their bed, Evie flipping through a magazine, Mal drawing on her tablet, when the blue haired woman suddenly says, “Hey, isn’t your dad out of prison now?”

“Oh…,” Mal says, brow furrowing at the question, “Yeah.” She hadn’t seen or spoken to her father since the trial when she was in high school, back when she was still under her mother’s thumb. Back when she still thought her mothers twisted love was all she was worth, all she should strive for. Back before she came out to her mom about figuring out her sexuality and wanting to date Evie.

“Yeah, I guess he would be,” she finally settles on.

“You guess?” her girlfriend asks. “You mean you haven’t spoken to him since…” she trails off.

Mal sighs, turning off her tablet and throwing it onto the pillows by the bed’s headboard. “Yeah. I get it. I’m a bad daughter.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you were thinking it!” She stands up. “You and everyone else who’s ever met my mother!”

“Mal,” Evie says, standing up to gently grasp both of her girlfriend’s hands in hers. “Everyone knows it’s not your fault. You were just a kid.”

“But I knew enough to condemn my own father to prison, Evie!”

“Is that why you haven’t reached out to him? Because of guilt?”

Mal tears herself away from her to face plant into their comforter. “He doesn’t want to see me, E.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she says, and Mal turns her head to see a postcard in her dad’s handwriting.

The purple haired woman snatches it from her lover’s grasp. “Where did you get this?”

“It came for you today,” she says, taking a seat next to Mal on the bed. “What’s it say?”

Mal takes a moment to let her eyes roam over the neatly written scrawl.

“He wants to meet”

“That’s great, Mal,” Evie smiles, but her girlfriend’s eyes are tearing up.

“And he says he doesn’t blame me for what happened.”

“Oh, baby,” she says, holding out her arms to Mal and letting the other woman fall into them.

——-——-

“Are you ready?” Evie asks as they step up to the door of Mal’s father’s estate.

Mal takes a deep breath in and out before shooting her partner a watery smile. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“I’m not the one about to have a tearful reunion.”

“No, just the one about to meet my dad for the first time.”

“I’m sure he’s lovely.”

Mal snorts. “Let’s just get this over with.”

She knocks on the door.

There seems to be a scuffle on the other side of the door, a hushed debate, before the wood opens to reveal the figures of her dad’s manservants, Pain and Panic.

They both gape at her.

“Mistress!” Panic all but shouts.

“You’re here!” Pain says.

“Hi, Pain, Panic,” Mal says with a nod.

“We haven’t seen you in ages, Mistress!” Pain says, wringing his hands.

“Yeah…” Evie gives her hand a comforting squeeze, which helps her to straighten her back and ask, “Is my dad around?”

“The masters are out by the pool,” Pain says, stepping back with Panic to allow both women through.

“Great, thanks,” she says, tugging Evie through the doorway.

“Did he say masters?” her girlfriend leans in to whisper.

“He must have misspoke,” Mal says through a straining smile, “they’re not the brightest of butlers.”

The two men lead them through the foyer and into the living room, which leads out onto the patio.

“Is your dad into pirates?” Evie asks, eying the wooden carvings displayed proudly on the mantle.

“What? No,” Mal says, following her girlfriend’s gaze and spotting the wooden pirate ship.

The other woman shrugs. “Some dads are into knights or cowboys, others are into war paraphernalia.”

“My dad is not into pirates!”

“Okay, okay,” Evie says, letting the matter drop, but clearly not convinced.

Mal tries to shake it off, but she has an eerie feeling that the wood carvings mean something significant about her estranged father - she just doesn’t know what.

As they enter onto the patio, they’re just in time to witness her father diving into the water from the far end of the pool via a tall diving board to the sounds of someone cheering.

Evie spots him first.

“Is that-?"

“Mal, E! What are you two doing here?” a soaking wet Harry Hook bounds over to them carrying a colorful pink margarita, sunglasses stop his head. He’s got a silk, red swim robe on, and clinging black swim shorts. He takes a big swig from his glass as they continue to stare at him in shock.

“Uh,” Mal asks, “shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

He just smiles. “I live here.”

She scoffs. “Since when?!”

“Hey Mal!” her dad says, pulling himself out of the pool, interrupting them.

Evie eyes the man appreciatively. Mal nudges her, though it doesn’t stop the purple haired woman from noticing how Harry takes her father in with half lidded eyes and a sip of his drink.

Ew.

“Hug for your soaking wet old man?” her dad offers with a smirk and open arms.

“Um…”

The smirk turns into a more genuine smile. “You got my message,” he states as Panic brings him over a blue robe to shrug on.

“Yeah,” Mal says as they start to walk to the pool’s lounge bar setup. “Surprised you didn’t write me more.” Her and her father sit at the bartop while Evie and Harry take to lounging on the outdoor furniture a bit further down from them. It’s close enough to hear parts of their conversation, but not close enough to feel eavesdropped on. Mal pays just enough attention to hear Harry engage Evie in talking about nails as he fawns over her acrylics.

“Would you have read them if I did?”

“No,” she reluctantly admits.

Pain serves them up each a strawberry margarita.

“I thought you hated margaritas,” she says, eying the drink skeptically.

“People can change, Mal.”

She snorts. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” she asks, gesturing over to Harry.

“Your old man just got out of prison and that’s your most pressing question?”

“Well, it’s certainly the most obvious.”

He snorts his own laugh, tilting his head concedingly. “I’ll take that.”

“So..?”

Hades sighs. “We’re married.”

“What?!” she practically shrieks. Evie and Harry pause to look at her. Harry having the audacity to grin, the little shit bag. He knows exactly what she’s reacting to.

“You’re married?!” she asks, “to him?!”

Her father just stays determinedly sitting, facing the bar, draining his drink.

“Well, you seem to be taking this well,” comes his sarcastic response.

“What?! You got out of prison and the first thing you do is marry Harry hook?!” she accuses.

Harry chooses this moment to swagger over, because of course he does. “Don’t be silly, Mal, we got married while he was still in the slammer.”

And somehow that feels ten times worse.

“Oh my god,” Evie says, quickly standing up to come to her partner’s side.

“Just breath,” she tells Mal, guiding her over to sit down at one of the more comfortable outdoor couches as she tries not to hyperventilate.

“This is not real, I must be dreaming. Tell me I’m dreaming, E.”

Evie looks helplessly around them.

Hades finally stands up and moves to sit across from them at an opposing lounge seat.

“How?” comes Mal’s broken question.

Hades sighs. “He was one of the only people who reached out to me besides investigative reporters, my lawyer, and my publisher.”

“And in my defense,” Harry adds, “the first time we talked, I was quite drunk.”

Her father smiles. “And I’m still not sure how you manage to put in the collect call.”

“Me either,” Harry says. He’s now reclining atop of the back of her father’s chair, like an overly large cat.

“So it was just because he was there?” Mal asks. “Would I be looking at a prison guard right now if they were just a little bit more friendly towards you?”

Hades frowns and starts, “Mal-”

Harry’s face seems to shutter at her words, before he plasters on a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I think I need another drink,” he says, cutting his partner off, before getting up to wander back inside the house, noticeably in the opposite direction of the bar.

“Harry,” her father says, trying to call him back, but the younger man walks on undeterred.

Hades turns back to face her looking the maddest she’s ever seen him. Not even the look he gave her after he was sentenced to prison by her mother was like that. It was sad and disappointed, but understanding. No- this look was only ever reserved for her mom, directed at her mom.

Now it was directed at her.

“Dad-” she tries to backtrack.

“Do not,” he cuts her off, “say that shit about him.”

She switches tactics. “But you have to admit,” she tries for a lighter tone, “it looks like-”

“It looks like the only person who bothered to come and see me for me, not for something I could do for them, just got told he’s replaceable - that he doesn’t matter, when it couldn’t be further from the truth.” He lets that hang in the air for a moment before continuing, saying, “That man is the kindest man I’ve ever met.”

“He called you while drunk!”

“And he was sober when we talked again and explained things, and then when he wrote me a year's worth of letters, and when he visited me in person.” His blue gaze pins her in place. “He stayed, Mal.”

Unlike you, goes unspoken.

“I thought you said you didn’t blame and weren’t mad at me anymore for-”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t still be upset, Mal,” he states. “How long has it been since you left that house?” Her mother’s house.

“I-I don’t know,” she lies, “Maybe seven years.”

“And in all that time you didn’t once write me a letter, answer my phone calls, schedule a zoom or an in person meeting,” he accuses. “I got nothing!”

“Well, I got nothing too! Ever think of that?!”

“I tried, Mal! What more do you want from me?! The whole reason I went to prison was because I tried.”

“So it’s my fault after all?” she cries, feeling hot, sticky tears running down her face.

Hades deflates. “It’s no one’s fault but your mother’s.” His fists clench in his lap. “But you can see my frustration at the fact that you’ve been out from under her influence for over five years and you still couldn’t separate yourself from her enough to come see me.”

“I’m sorry,” Mal chokes out in little more than a whisper, holding herself, as she stares at the floor.

She hears her father sigh and then his feet enter her field of vision, and then the rest of him as he takes her into his arms for the first hug they’ve shared in over a decade.

Mal sobs.

“I-I was just so scared that you- you wouldn't-”

“What? Love you,” he says, pulling back from her to wipe away some of her falling tears.

“It would take a lot more than that to take that away.”

“It wasn’t just that,” she says with a sniff. “I just felt so guilty. I couldn’t- I just couldn’t.” She makes sure to meet his eye when she says, “I’m sorry,”

“And I forgive you,” he says after a moment, “but that doesn’t mean the emotions, those feelings of being abandoned and feeling sad and angry about it are going to just go away overnight. Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting, okay?”

She nods, sitting back against the cushions. She supposes she deserves that.

“Harry?” she asks.

His expression tightens again, closing off. “He’s my husband, Mal, and I’m not throwing him away just because you two don’t get along.”

She nods, biting her lip. “Guess I should go apologize then, huh?” She gives a shy, shaky smile.

“Guess you should.” And his expression has a little bit more warmth in it again.

“And, in the meantime,” Evie says from the other side of the couch, “I’ll get to know my future father-in-law. Hi.” She extends a hand to Hades’ crouched form in front of Mal, startling the both of them who had forgotten that she was still there. “I’m Evie.”

Her father looks her over. “A girlfriend,” he says, taking her hand. “Bet your mother didn’t like that.” He looks at Mal.

Mal’s smile tightens. “No, she did not.”

——-——-

When Mal decided to go apologize to Harry, she didn’t think it’d be that hard to just find the man.

She looks everywhere for the brunet.

In the dining room, in the living room, in the multiple entertainment rooms, in the basement, in the sauna, in the sunroom, in her father’s bedroom (it’s odd seeing it with so much red in it and full of, dare she say, life).

Mal looks everywhere for Harry…

She rolls her eyes when she realizes the one place she’s avoided.

Her room is exactly as she left it, various shades of purple with copious amounts of frills and lace, minus the one depressed Harry Hook in her window seat - the perfect picture of dejected, sitting there with his legs up and his head in his arms as they rest on this knees. The man in question stares determinedly out the window at the setting sun.

“Hey,” she says, slowly approaching him.

He doesn’t bother to look at her.

She eases down onto the cushion by his feet.

His response is to sit up and lean back against the window behind him.

“Bertha.”

His eyes are red, and it’s clearly not from the chlorine of the pool.

“Listen,” she says, “I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye-”

Harry snorts.

Mal tries to muscle through it with a gritted smile. “-buuuuuttttt,” she draws out, “my dad really seems to,” she pauses to try and find the right word, because she’d be damned if she labeled this all as actual love. She hasn’t been around them long enough to determine if that was even a possibility.

“-value you,” she decides to say.

“Are ye sure?” Harry snorts. “I’m not jus’ some replaceable bitch?”

Mal winces.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

Harry just raises an eyebrow at her.

“Okay, so maybe I did,” she admits. “But I was wrong.”

Harry gives her a long searching look.

“Were you?”

Somehow, Mal thinks he’s not really asking her.

And isn’t that sad? Seeing this boy, this now man, that she grew up with, that she fought with, so defeated by a few cruel words from her over his relationship with her father, of all people.

It didn’t use to be like that.

He didn’t use to be soft or- Oh god, he hadn’t even insulted her when she walked in, had he?

He’d been nothing but polite - polite by Harry standards - distracting Evie with talk of fashion while they gave her and her father some relative privacy to reconnect. He hadn’t even insulted her once or even tried to defend himself when she’d been nothing but mean and accusatory-

“I’ve been a total selfish bitch,” she realizes. And not just that day, she’d been selfish for a lot longer than that, even after she wasn’t committed to doing things her mother’s way.

Evie might disagree, but she hadn’t even been there for her father any of the years he’d been in prison, nevermind the initial trial. She had truly been terrible.

And, yes, she had felt guilty and was unlearning a lot of unhealthy things, but that didn’t excuse how she’d abandoned her father or how she’d treated people like Harry and his friends in the aftermath of getting out from underneath her mother’s thumb.

Had any of them gone out of their way to be mean to her since the trial? Had they ever started any of the fights they’d had?

Mal tried to quickly think back, but she can’t for the life of her find an answer that isn’t - no.

She’s brought out of her spiraling realization abruptly at the sound of Harry’s sudden laughter.

He lets his legs fall to the floor so he can rock forward and then to the sides as he continues in his mirth, clapping his hands. At one point, he points at her as if he’s about to say something, but then just dissolves into more laughter, falling back to the pillowy cushions behind him to roll messily on the slim settee.

Mal really wishes she could muster up her usual irritation. But the aftermath of her emotional discussion with her father and now the full discovery that- yeah, maybe she really has been that awful- has left her sort of just there, and, maybe, finally seeing Harry as he truly is.

Human - with laughter that’s contagious and a smile that’s rather infectious.

She finds herself smiling and huffing away her own humor despite herself.

Like, maybe they’ll never be best friends. Maybe she’ll always find it a bit weird that he and her dad are somehow married, but at the end of the day- Harry’s here, he’s been here for her dad when she wasn’t. Maybe it wasn't totally intentional, but he’s here.

He’s here.

“Knock knock,” comes her father’s voice from the doorway.

He’s since changed into a smart, royal blue button down and slacks - still seemingly casual despite the expensive form of dress. It was always something Mal wondered at - the way he could make any outfit effortlessly his, like an extension of himself.

Her mother could do that too, so maybe it was part of what drew them to each other.

Actually, she thinks to herself as Harry finally seems to pull himself together and stand up to meet her father halfway in the middle of her room, red robe still open and like a majestic cape fluttering after him, Harry’s sort of always had that ability, too.

Mal watches as her father takes the younger man’s face in his hands and wipes away the latest trails of tears with a grin that lights up his whole face. He finishes it with a kiss to Harry’s forehead she can only describe as soft, and Mal knows her mother would never have allowed such weakness to be displayed under her own roof.

Her father turns to her, an arm casually thrown over the brunet’s shoulders.

“I assume this means you apologized?”

Before Mal can respond, her dad’s new husband answers for her.

“She did better than that,” he says, with a mischievous grin.

“Oh?” Her father looks between them.

Harry’s grin only grows wider.

“She agreed wit’ me initial assessment of herself.”

Her father laughs, and- okay- now she’s pissed.