Chapter Text
It's not until the clock on the mantelpiece chimes eleven that you realise your ten minute respite had turned into forty-five.
At ten fifteen, finally left alone on the balcony, your feet had moved of their own volition. At first your footsteps were muffled by the plush carpet of the landing, then echoed across the hard marble floor of your foyer, as your heart thundered in your chest. It wasn't until the sound of crickets ringing in your ears and the welcome August breeze cooled your skin that you realised you were already on the patio, ready to finally confess you feelings.
Which is how you came to be here, hiding. Tucked away in the comfortable darkness of your study, constructing your plan of attack, you wonder: how does one solve a problem like Maria?
You know you love her. God knows you tried not to, but, then again, how could you not?
It's just, ever since her return three nights ago, you've been wondering two things: What made your little Fräulein flee in the middle of the night, with no more than a short three sentence letter as a goodbye? Why did she come back?
She didn't have to come back. It had been made clear to you that your phone call to the Abbey had been unwelcome. Your letters to her had gone unanswered.
You desperately hope that she came back for you.
You know it's wrong.
Practically engaged to Elsa, you'd worked so hard to keep your attraction for your Fraulein hidden. Still, you'd revelled in the way her cheeks flushed as you teased her mercilessly just to see her reaction, revelled in the smiles that dare you to object to her various adventures and grass stained knees with your children. You'd revelled in all those adoring looks part and parcel of all those love songs sung.
You'd be lying if you said that she wasn't a factor in almost every decision that you'd made. Lying if you said that you hadn't missed her during those short, overnight trips taken to Vienna to secure your eventual safe passage out of Austria.
You still don't know what made her leave.
Beads of condensation roll lethargically down the glass, wetting your fingertips. You sigh, down your drink, and straighten your tie. There's no answers to be found in darkened studies.
"Hello." She jumps, surprised by your presence. "I thought I just might find you here."
"Was there something you wanted?" she stutters.
"No, no, no. Sit down, please. Please." you implore.
"Uh, may l?" you ask, not waiting for her response. You clap of your hands and take a seat, admiring the way the moonlight bounces off the long grass. It's here, you think, if anywhere, that one could find clarity. With a nervous smile in her direction, you attempt just that.
"You know," you say with a nervous laugh, rubbing you left ear, "I was thinking and I was wondering two things. Why did you run away to the abbey? And what was it that made you come back?"
"Well..." head bowed, she chooses her words carefully. "I had an obligation to fulfil and I- I came back to fulfil it."
You hum, dissatisfied. For a woman who takes pleasure in holding you to account, you sense this conversation may have all the ease of getting blood from a stone.
"Is that all?" you prod.
"And I missed the children."
"Yes." You smile softly to yourself. You never doubted that for a second. Her love for your children radiates from her being. The seed from which the flower of your affection grew, its roots subsequently spreading and twisting until inseparable from your very core.
"Only the children?" Your fingers drum a soothing rhythm against the palm of your opposite hand as you try to steady yourself. You've spent almost every waking moment wondering whether or not she missed you half as much as you missed her. You need her to have missed you.
"No!" she replies honestly. "Yes!" she lies.
Her head snaps to look at you, her expression that of a frightened animal, her tone defensive as she splutters, "Isn't it right that I missed them?"
Her defensive denial is no use. Your heart thuds wildly in your chest, you can barely believe her admission. She missed you too.
"Oh, yes. Yes, of course!" you reassure her with a laugh. "I was only hoping that perhaps you... perhaps you might..." your tie feels too tight, the words jumbling and solidifying in your throat, choking you. You don't know what's wrong with you. You know she missed you. She told you she missed you. You just... want to hear her say it.
"Yes?" She inches closer to you, wide eyes boring into your soul. She can't honestly not know what you're trying to ask.
"Well... nothing was the same when you were away," you confess with a dismissive wave of your hand, fidgeting like child, "and it'll be all wrong again after you leave, and I just thought perhaps you might..." Stay forever. Marry you. Be the mother that your children so desperately want. "Change your mind?"
Recoiling, she stands. Turning her back to you, she moves a safe distance away, hoping you miss the way her eyes glisten with unshed tears of disappointment. The sight tugs at your heart and frustration builds inside of you. You can't believe that she doesn't understand what you're asking her. You're trying your hardest to tell her you're in love with her.
"Well, I'm sure the Baroness will be able to make things fine for you." Her voice trembles, the hurt seeping through.
"Maria," you call after her, revelling in feeling of her name on your lips. Only once before have you allowed yourself the privilege of using her name. Maria. It sounds like a term of endearment.
"There isn't going to be any Baroness," you tell her firmly.
"There isn't?"
Exasperated, you follow her. "No."
"I don't understand." Apparently not.
Still, the less that's said the better. "Well, we've called off our engagement, you see, and-"
"Oh, I'm sorry," she chimes automatically.
"Yes," you nod. "You are?" you gasp, unable to hide you disbelief. She said it so sincerely, so dutifully. Perhaps she didn't come back for you at all. Perhaps she's trying to let you down easily.
"You did?" she exclaims simultaneously, the hopeful surprise plastered across her face egging you on. It seems she was all wrapped up in her own thoughts too.
You take a deep breath, swallowing the lump of apprehension forming in your throat. It seems you have her full attention now. "Yes."
Another deep breath, you follow her further into the gazebo. You look out across the moonlight grass and steel yourself. "Well, you can't marry someone when you're in love with someone else... can you?" you ask softly.
She shakes her head in agreement, but you're not sure she fully understands what you mean. She's looking at you in that way again, the one that makes your throat constrict and your head spin. A look that, in itself, is reward enough for your burst of courage. Big blue eyes shining bright in the dim light; intense earnestness, sincere and open, filled to the brim with adoration. She's looking at you with what can only be described as a look of hopeful disbelief.
You need her to know this is real. You need to know that she's real. That neither one of you is going to wake up drenched in sweat from the humid night air, chest tight from dreams filled with unfulfilled longing and unrequited affections.
So you take that jaw, the one so often jutted in defiance at you, and slowly bring her face closer to yours, still ready to give her an out. You've spent God knows how long waiting for this moment, wanting to kiss her so badly. She moves so readily under your fingertips, so eagerly, that you don't think you can wait a second longer. Gently, you bring your mouth to hers.
You've spent hours every day for the last eight weeks thinking of ways to kiss her for the first time.
'Maria,' you'd call after her, as her hand reaches for the door knob of your study, ready to leave one of your evening meetings. She'd turn to face you, surprised to find you barely a pace behind her. You'd press her against the door, cupping her jaw with one hand, the other at her waist; brush your lips across hers with the faintest of kisses. 'Sleep well,' you'd whisper in her ear, as fantasy Maria would melt in your arms.
'All better,' she'd laugh as she'd press a kiss to the bandage covering Gretl's war wound from her battle with the blackberry bush. She'd stand, turning to face you with a smile that makes the light of the sun pale in comparison. 'Yes,' you'd murmur, wiping your thumb over a faint stain of blackberry juice marring her tanned cheek and the corner of that big bottom lip. A war wound of her own. You'd kiss the stain, revelling as you hear her breath catch in her throat.'All better.'
Her eyes would be bright from the passion of whatever point she'd try to make you understand, her brow furrowed and her lips pursed in discontent. You love to wind her up like this, get her caught in some meaningless little disagreement so you can watch her in her element. She cares so much about everything and everyone around her. You'd put a hand behind her neck and kiss the argument from her lips, revelling in her sighs as she run her fingers through your hair.
You've spent hours every day for the last eight weeks thinking of ways to kiss her for the first time. No fantasy compares to the feeling of her lips finally on yours.
Her lips are even softer than the skin of her jaw, not that you believed that was possible. You can't believe how right this feels. How the warmth of her lips against yours makes your heart swell and your shoulders sag as if a heavy weight has been lifted.
You pull back, hand still cupping her jaw, stopping only to kiss the tip of her nose softly. Her eyes are still shut, her lips still parted, her breath shallow. You wonder if she's thought about this too, wonder if she's worried that if she opens her eyes you'll be gone.
Your left hand leaves her jaw, fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of her neck. She lets out a dreamy sigh as you pepper kisses across her cheeks, across her forehead. You can't believe you're finally allowed to touch her like this, so intimately, so carefully.
Slowly, her eyes drift open, pupils blown and eyes dark with want. You can't help but feel a surge of pride that one gentle kiss could affect her in such a way. Her tongue darts out, teasing you, wetting that lower lip that you've spent hours obsessing over.
"The Reverend Mother always says: When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window."
You can't help but grin. Of all the people to send Maria running into your arms you never guessed it would be the Reverend Mother. Do nuns accept flowers? Probably not. Still, you make a mental note to take a trip into town tomorrow to thank the Nun and to inform her of your wish to marry your Maria.
"What else does the Reverend Mother say?" you ask between kisses peppered along that defiant jaw and down that long neck.
"That you have to look for your life." she sighs in reply.
"Is that why you came back?"
Your fräulein nods her response.
"And have you found it, Maria?
"I think I have. I know I have." And there it is again, that look, intense earnestness, sincere and open, filled to the brim with adoration.
Your right hand falls to her waist, pulling her body against yours. You're not gentle this time, your tongue follows the same path as hers, seeking permission. She sighs into your mouth, and you can smell the sweet scent on cinnamon and apple from dessert. You think you'll never get tired of that sound.
"I love you," you whisper against her mouth, feel her smile against yours.