Work Text:
Art done by the amazing oldowlshollow
You’re standing at the door to the shed. Hair pinned up, shawl wrapped loosely around your shoulders, a warm cup of tea cradled in your hands against the cool autumn breeze.
Elliott hasn’t noticed yet, happily preoccupied with the soothing draw of the printing press; how it holds his concentration, his movements syncing to the easy rhythm of the machine.
A smile lights up your face as you think back to when this fully realized dream was just the hint of a whisper. A fragile hope.
He’s peaceful now, content, grounded; casually stacking a fresh pile of cardstock in front of him as he waits for the rollers to spread ink evenly along the surface of the plate.
The colour this time is a vibrant indigo, dispersing in rhythmic, soothing waves, as metal clacks softly against metal. The creak of his footfalls on the plank floor below, blend in, his body rocking gently in place.
Elliott has his timing down to an art. Nimble fingers sweep up the paper, and with a practiced, fluid motion, slide it into the machine. He’s humming as he moves along, ensuring everything is lined up before he pulls the lever, transferring ink from printing plate to paper.
The press has been a dream years in the making. After Elliott had published his third novel to great success, he was just about done with traditional publishers and their creative control. Was itching to move forward in a new direction, but didn’t yet know how.
Turns out, it was you who accidentally put the idea in his head.
It had been late autumn: most of the harvest was collected, the world finally starting to slow down. You and Elliott had been out with the girls, wandering through the Cindersap forest on a mini adventure, perfectly designed for a family of four.
Foraging alone for oyster mushrooms had been the intended purpose, but when the girls wanted to tag along, you grabbed your husband and decided to make a nature walk of it.
Elonie, your oldest of seven, was all business; ensuring Elliott tucked only the best pieces of parchment and rainbow crayons into his satchel with the scrutiny of a head chef overseeing her kitchen.
All the while she spoke in the same no-nonsense tone that she inherited from you. He watched, amused as Elonie rattled off an itemized list of textures she wanted to capture and the best route to maximize everyone’s time.
Elora at four, was your little dreamer; another Elliott through and through. Her emotions always so front and center, as she’d screeched in delight, hurrying to find a matching pair of tiny boots for the forest. She couldn’t have cared less about the activity, just that she got to spend the day with her family.
It was one of those magical autumn days that you and Elliott would talk about for years to come. How crisp the weather had felt, how well your daughters got along, how connected and completely in the moment everyone had been. A perfect snapshot in time, preserving all the best pieces of your little family.
And Elliott at the heart of it, spinning fairytales for his girls about dragon-riding princesses and their wood nymph friends. Every once in a while, he would glance up at you, lock eyes and give you that shy, disbelieving smile you’d come to love so much. The one that said “I can’t believe this is actually my life.”
Elonie carried a bouquet of fiery autumn leaves in one hand, and a particularly gnarled stick in the other that she had deemed “magic.” Little Elora trailed behind, clutching an acorn to her chest. She had started out strong, but was losing steam fast, her little legs working double time just to keep up with her sister.
When Elliott noticed, he had stopped his storytelling and crouched down with a warm smile. You could both tell by the way her little thumb had started migrating up to her mouth, that she was just about done.
“Would my little poet care for a ride atop her fair steed?” He asked, tossing his mane of hair over his shoulder, mimicking a horse rising up on its haunches, complete with a soft whinny and a snort.
Elonie had been too busy tugging you along to notice as you stifled a giggle, watching your youngest daughter’s face light up before he scooped her into his arms.
“There now,” he cooed. “Best seat in the house for my little autumn fairy,” he murmured, brushing away the unruly curls from his daughter’s face before pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “Onward, with our adventure.”
Elliott carried her one-handed, resting against his hip as she clutched on to his sweater and snuggled herself into his chest.
Elonie seemed to have an abundance of energy, pulling you along from surface to surface. Her intrepid nature had helped locate more mushrooms than anticipated, but in the moment, you were just trying to keep up.
“Starting to feel like a printing press over here, my heart,” you had laughed as Elonie pointed to yet another surface she wanted you to capture, causing Elliott to momentarily stop in his tracks.
Elora, who had almost started dozing while nestled securely at his side, looked up quizzically.
“All done?” she questioned, reaching up to press a little hand to his cheek. Her touch snapping him out of his daydream, but not before you recognized that look in his eyes.
You didn’t say anything about it at the time, only made a mental note to gently coax it out of him later.
Once the children were down for the night, the two of you had retreated to the porch swing for some star gazing. His arm hung lazily around your shoulders, your face nuzzled into the warmth of his neck.
Elliott’s long legs rocked the swing back and forth in slow, unhurried motions, while you had yours curled up on the bench under a worn flannel blanket.
You breathed him in, nose nudging softly along his jawline, while you pressed gentle kisses along the side of his neck.
“Saw you pondering on the walk today,” you whispered, snuggling closer. “Care to share?”
His arm had hugged you tighter, even as his gaze remained firmly locked on the sky. Elliott was quiet for so long, you weren’t sure he was going to answer.
Until finally, the hint of a spark.
“Simply dreaming of how nice it would be to skip the drudgery of the publishing world and have creative control over my works,” he hummed wistfully, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head in return. “Lofty of me, I know. Don’t worry, beloved. It’s just a flight of fancy, nothing worth pursuing.”
You hadn’t particularly liked the tone of his voice; the way he so quickly dismissed the vision, like he wasn’t worth having it.
So, you had gently pushed back. “I think it’s a lovely dream, my bard. We could make room in the shed…” you’d said, trailing off, lips smiling against his skin as the rhythm of his rocking momentarily faltered.
“It is a lovely thought, isn’t it, my heart?”
Elliott didn’t say anything more about it that night, but you knew he had absorbed your response, had given him the space to ponder… to hope… to allow himself to want something just for himself.
Talks turned into dreams turned into reality, as the two of you worked through the logistics of what it would take to actually own one. Longtime friends got involved, Elliott pulling them in by the sheer joy of being able to dream freely, describing his vision every chance he could get.
When a suitable press had finally been located and procured, it was Maru who helped him disassemble everything, strip the rust and years of neglect from its surfaces until it looked brand new. She had eagerly brought over the materials, sat with him for days as they worked each piece through an electrolysis bath, the metal shedding its coat of rust one piece at a time as if by magic, reassembling and oiling every joint until it ran at peak efficiency.
It was Shane who redesigned the shed with the two of you, standing on a ladder, helping string bushels of drying lavender along the walls instead of on racks that had previously taken up half the space. He grumbled in that affectionate way of his as he moved wine casks and barrels into a new configuration with the same care he’d use setting up a new chicken coop.
The end result freed up over half the shed for Elliott’s press. On Shane’s way out that night, he clapped his friend on the back with a gruff, “There. Finally looks organized in here,” before nodding to you and taking his leave.
You both knew it was the Shane equivalent of “I’m so happy you’re thriving and I love you both.”
It had left Elliott misty-eyed the same way it always did when he realized he had family and friends and roots. People that loved him. That he was allowed this happiness, that he deserved it.
It was Robyn who built additional storage and shelving for all of his supplies. Drawing sketch after sketch as Elliott walked her through his vision. Shelving for his papers, a long slab table with marble on top to mix the ink, slotted cubbies to hold all of the plates and lettering he would eventually obtain for the machine, and a separate bin for cleaning and maintenance supplies.
It was Leah who sat at the kitchen table with him for hours, coming up with designs for his next book cover before carving his vision onto wooden printing plates for the machine.
You adored those afternoons where you could hear them from the next room as you played with the children. They would bicker good-naturedly about the order the plates needed to be printed in to achieve the desired outcome, yielding the best results.
It warmed your heart every time you heard his voice raised in genuine laughter, clear delight ringing like a bell through the farmhouse.
And it was you: encouraging him every step of the way. Pushing him past the “It’s just a foolish dream,” stage, until the “what if’s” slowly became “and when’s.” Showing him how easily it could all be achieved if he truly wanted it.
“But who would purchase my passion projects, beloved?” He’d ask, in bed at night when it was just the two of you, hair fanned out across the pillow as he stared up at the ceiling. It was always easier for him to confess his worries in the dark as you snuggled closer.
“Hadn’t you mentioned the bookstore in Zuzu? The one from your original signing tour that wanted to work with you again?” You probed softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek before nuzzling into the crook of his neck.
Elliott sighed happily in surrender, holding on to you a little tighter than before. All the argument drained out of him.
He’d tried again a week later.
“You know, my muse, it would be a frivolous endeavour. Pure vanity, really, to spend that much money on me,” he’d lamented, eyes peeking at you from over the reading glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose. He’d looked almost guilty for not being able to shake this dream, for still wanting something so grand.
“Elliott,” you’d said, kind sternness laced through every word as you crawled across the couch, sliding the book from his hands. He let you take it easily, arms still held up, hovering around nothing before lowering them to his lap.
He took a deep breath as your fingers traced along the edge of his jaw. “Look at me, love.”
Elliott did, sheepishly; half expecting you to finally talk him out of his “silly little fantasy” as he had so often put it.
“Would it make you happy, my bard?”
Silence.
A beat.
“I uhm… well, yes.”
“Then it would be worth every penny.”
You’d watched as his eyes fluttered closed, as he leaned his head forward until foreheads met, only a shared breath between you.
“I don’t deserve you, beloved.” A whisper, barely audible, but you’d heard.
“Yes, you do. You deserve every kindness this world has to give.” Leaving no room for further argument, you’d closed the distance, pressing a kiss to his lips. Feeling the rise and fall of his hands beneath you as he warred with himself. Torn between wanting to continue to tell you what a horrible idea it was to make such a fuss over him, and wanting to believe he was worth it. Your love won out in the end – it always did – as he broke, arms coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you into his lap, finally hearing what you’d been saying all along.
“Ok, then. I shall continue the hunt with your full support behind me, beloved.”
And so, it continued. Every smile, every reassuring yes, every culmination of I believe in you, had turned him into the version of the man you see before you today.
Into Elliott: happily working on his fourth novel in the background, while he spins out small chapbooks of poetry. “We must print extra copies for the library, beloved!”
Into Elliott: toying with the notion of hosting a week-long writer’s retreat in the empty guest cabins on your property. “Perhaps in the autumn, when the orchard is in its final bloom of the season?”
Into Elliott: hosting Mrs. Penny and her students on farm field trips, showing the children how the printing press works, sending each of them home with freshly inked posters. All the while Elonie and Elora proudly bragging about how amazing their daddy is to anyone who will listen. “Truly, I am no one special. I simply love seeing their faces light up.”
Into Elliott: confident, settled, and loved so well he no longer second guesses himself. Always trusts you’ll be right there to hold him if he falters, as he has done countless times for you through your marriage.
The autumn sun chooses that precise moment to show its face, peeking out from behind cloud cover, catching at the silver running through the hair at his temples. Elliott has the mostly ginger locks pulled up into a messy bun, tendrils hanging down in his face as it catches in the breeze. He looks up, finally noticing you at the door and smiles, the beginnings of crow’s feet crinkling the corners of his eyes.
Evidence of a life filled with enough smiles to leave an impression. Exactly what this gentle soul deserves.
You don’t say anything, just set your mug down on top of a keg and wander up to him slowly. He turns to fully face you, enveloping you in the warmth of his arms.
“Hello my bard,” you murmur against his chest, the glint of the blue mermaid’s pendant catching the sun briefly before he leans in to press a kiss to your temple.
He’s always carried the scent of ink and parchment with him, but now it seems knit into his bones. You breathe him in deep, holding in the way his scent always reminds you of safety, of home.
“You know, my heart” he murmurs into your hair. “There are days where I still cannot believe this is my life.”
You meet his gaze, closing the distance between your lips as he hums happily into the kiss. “Believe it, Ell. I’m so proud of all you’ve accomplished.”
He smiles, shaking his head. “It’s not the printing press, or the accolades. It’s you and the girls. Always. You’re the dream come true, my muse, the happily ever after. Everything else is merely the reflection of that love.”