I think it's dangerous for us to be alone

It was her second Saturday back home and the house was almost eerily quiet. Gabby had taken the kids to the zoo, and Jack had stayed behind to get the house back in some sort of relative order. Though she had not made a full return to work, and she had help from the moody, older werewolf, but the house still seemed to be in ruins. Gabby was paying her back for all of his help by making her life harder in smaller ways, like gluing macaroni over every square inch of furniture with Sunny and magically fixing blanket forts to every corner of every room.

She had woken up early to take care of the greenhouse. She ate breakfast with the kids until Gabby arrived to take them out, and then she started with the tasks she knew she could handle. The dishes, the floors, scraping off the painted macaroni noodles, tearing down the blankets, doing the laundry. All the stuff she couldn’t do during the week because between going on random missions, going to work, and trying to enjoy the time with the family she had left, there was no time to keep any sort of order.

And there was the fact that she was drinking again. It meant less motivation to clean. Among other things.

She hadn’t touched anything yet this morning. She knew there was a chance she would fold around lunch. Have a little Jack in her drink to go with her sandwich, maybe some Firewhiskey to help ease the boredom of organizing. Stop in time that no one would tell once they all came back home. Have a night cap. Repeat tomorrow. It didn’t feel like a problem like it once had. She would never get as bad as she did that Christmas at Eis. And besides. Her occurrence of nightmares always seemed to be reduced when she had a steady intake of her favorite spirits. Hardly a problem, in her opinion.

The downstairs wasn’t done, exactly. A box here and there waiting to be reorganized, waiting to find a new permanent home. But she remembered a book she had meant to bring to the downstairs library, and she went in search of it upstairs.

She stared at her room, a room made smaller by the expanded bed, made larger because she had felt so scared to sleep so closely to Max at first. It had not changed much when he moved in, her influence being much too strong to be easily overshadowed. But little things, like little organizational bins for shoes and for wallets, things she would have never thought to include. The bookshelf had more books on plants and muggles than she had remembered, books she would have to send to him eventually. And there was a small filing cabinet, and a small dresser, and a little armchair-

It all had to go. It had to go, right now. She had put off rearranging the rooms for far too long. Charlie’s room, Max’s old room, would become Goose’s. Sunny would keep her room. The little closet Charlie had slept in before the whole law ordeal would return to a closet, rather than Goose’s makeshift room. She would move her office out of the greenhouse and back into the little room attached to her room, relieve it of its storage duties. The greenhouse office would become a small room for Viv, seeing as she seemed keen on taking the job of nanny. And Max’s old furniture would go in the little guest bedroom downstairs.

And all of the reminders of Max would be a little more tucked away.

Jack knew she had magic. Jack knew she could do this all so quickly. But so much had been taken from her, so much strength replaced by uncertainty and neediness. It had been so easy to lose everything, once again, without much to make up for it. So she would make the reconstruction hard, as a reminder to not be so foolish again.

She began by pushing the armchair into the hallway, before moving the filing cabinet and the dresser. She dragged Goose’s dresser from his small little room into Charlie’s old room, dragged the sheets off her bed and replaced them with Goose’s…

She worked like someone who had done nothing but work. She worked without pause, her mind choosing the next task before the current one was done. It was almost as if she had a grudge to settle, and it wasn’t until she rearranged the house the way she wanted it that the problem would be settled. She pushed the sleeves of her long sleeve black v-neck blouse up to her elbows to work harder.

The world was just this. The world was just her attempt to rebuild. There was nothing else. There was-

A knock at the door.

The werewolf at the garden gate. He felt like a terrible nursery rhyme. He knew the moral of the story already. The equilibrium had long since been restored. Everyone knew it was a mistake to let a werewolf in. You only got hurt if you did. Or abandoned. At least the latter, if not always the former. It didn’t have to be physical hurt, after all said and done. They didn’t have to destroy everything with mere touch alone. They were multi-talented in that regard.

His straining blue eyes reached their sight down towards the scuffed and dirty sneakers that he wore as he kicked absently at the wood, almost reassured by the press and groan of the wood. It was natural. A reminder why he had done so well in his brief sojourn as a carpenter. He missed it, he realised with a strange pang deep in his chest. But then, the cynic in him questioned whether he missed the wood or whether he missed the woman this wood represented.

He knew it was the latter. As he lived and breathed, it was the latter. With every inhale and exhale he felt the scratchiness of hurt. He didn’t believe in the melodrama … not originally, anyway. It was the bed he had made. He knew that he should have laid in it, wedded to the fact that he deserved it. And yet, here he stood. Again. Looking to her when it felt as though everything else had fallen apart. He didn’t know what he’d tell Ollie.

Swallowing his pride and all sense of self-preservation, Ariel opened the gate.

He picked his way hesitantly down the path, taking each step deliberately just in case he decided to turn and run. He was tempted. With every footfall, the desire grew stronger. As much as he yearned to see her, he had no idea what on earth he was supposed to do once he clapped eyes on her. Kiss her? No, too rom-com. That had never been them? Apologise profusely for having the nerve to stand on her doorstep? Ding, ding, ding.

He knocked before he could decide against it. Three hesitant raps on the door.

Was this how his life was going to re-start again?

Three hesitant raps on the door.

Boom-boom.

Boom-boom.

Boom- …

Errr—boom.

Jack didn’t know who it was, but Layabout Lane had once been a heavily trafficked home. Gabby and Kip had become fixtures on late nights when they needed a drink somewhere that felt like home. The steady stream of unemployed werewolves had not lessened just because there were young’uns under their roof. Even Claire and Fred had popped by on occasion, separately of course, usually relaying important Ministry news before heading off. Sunny’s friend Charlize and the girl’s older brother Tomas were also unofficial tenants, and Jack could almost always count on some salesman Max had given their address too, feeling it to be too unkind to turn them away without hope.

It was just a little unfortunate that she had a visitor in the midst of her manic cleansing of the home – especially because she did not look visitor-ready. The v-neck clung to her toned abs but led down to old plaid pajamas that were still soft because Max had insisted on using generous amounts of fabric softener. And of course, no Jack outfit would ever be rounded out without the mud-stained sneakers that had been apart of her ensemble for as long as she had been dressing herself. Still, any frequenter of the house would not expect anything less.

She looked around the crowded hallway, now full of Max’s furniture, Goose’s, and Charlie’s, all mixed up and uncertain as to their next fate. She had so much to do, and she certainly couldn’t just leave this all to itself. It had to be all done before the kids and Gabby got back, or they would worry. Part of her suspected Gabby would be taking them to Kip’s, as Kip has been bothering her to let him help out for some time now. But still, she didn’t want to live in transition.

Not anymore.

She wiped her hands together and stepped down the stairs, red hair bouncy, frizzy and untamed as always. She padded through the living room and then through the kitchen, skin prickling as she passed by the liquor cabinet, as if walking by an old acquaintance and trying not to make eye contact. She was glad to not have taken to its comfort so early, as she was certain she would not have had the will to make the changes she was making now.

She reached the door and wiped her hands once more, reaching out for the door as she swiped the back of her hand against her brow, wiping the traces of her labor away as the door opened and her eyes fell upon…

Her hand froze on its way across her brow, before limply falling to her side. Her breath caught in her throat and she had to consciously will herself to release it. She blinked, as though expecting the apparition to disappear once her eyes opened.

It didn’t.

He didn’t.

Man, maybe she should have had that drink.

“Hi…”

Hi. Hello. Hi there.

There were a million different ways to say it. As soon as the door opened and her greeting sputtered into the air, he forgot every one. Dashed was his smooth, rehearsed speech that he had considered as he had made his way over to her home. He opened his mouth, let his jaw hang wide for a few moments, and then hastily snapped it shut again with a click of his teeth and a faint pop of his lips smacking back together.

“Jack.”

His hand fell down into the pocket of the trackie bottoms he was wearing and he pawed his fingers absently against the soft inner material of the pocket. There was no solace in the action. It only made him wonder whether her skin was equally as warming in that regard. He decided that her skin was probably equal parts rough and smooth, like they both were. Although, mind you, they would probably both agree they were more of the former.

He needed something to do in that moment. Desperately, he wanted to come off as cool and collected. He knew he was floundering in a pool too deep, though. It probably showed, too.

“I … wanted to see you.”

That much was probably evident based on the fact that he was stood on her doorstep.

“And I wanted to check if … well, if you were okay, I suppose.”

And I also wanted to see if I was okay. If I could deal with being so close to you. I can’t, by the way, love.

Ariel raised a faint shadow of a smile. He got rid of it, though, almost immediately after it surfaced.

“I just … I also … wanted to …” Ariel exhaled and averted his eyes, unsure about how he was supposed to go on. He took in another breath. “I … wanted to talk to someone who I think … understands me a bit better than, maybe … I do.”

Why was he here? Back when she had waited day after day or him to just show up on her doorstep and apologize, or demand she pour him a drink, or just tell her they were going on an adventure… back then, he hadn’t been there. Back when she almost needed him to show up on her doorstep, he had kept his distance. He had barely looked at her at work. And then he had just disappeared. So her doorstep stopped being a place of hope, started being a place she had to cross to get to rest. Nothing more, nothing less.

But it seemed heavier with him on it. It seemed to sag under the weight of whatever reason he had for being there. The part of her that had grown (even more) cynical with age and life wanted to assume that he needed a favor. That was the reason most people ended up in front of her – rescue missions, spare wolfsbane, a place for the night, a drink, whatever it might be. Honestly, any of those situations could easily bring Ariel Greyback to her doorstep.

But… could it? They had just run into each other and that had been… horrifying. Embarrassing. Felt all wrong. And he looked at her like she was something painful, like staring into the sun. Certainly he wouldn’t willingly subject himself to something like that unless it was very important.

Her name. She felt like she hadn’t heard it in awhile. She knew that wasn’t true. But in a house full of kids and animals, identity was a slippery thing.

He wanted to see her.

That didn’t feel urgent. Or important.

He wanted to see if she was okay.

Yeah, definitely not a time-pressing matter. Also, no one ever checked on her. She was Jack. She powered through. He knew that. So why was he checking?

And… ah.

Yes, there was that identity thing. That tricky thing. After being constantly pounded into a pulp by life, one tried looking into the mirror and could only see the cuts and bruises, the misshapen bits. It took a friend who had seen the face before the beating to point out the features beneath the injuries. She could understand that.

The request meant… meant he believed she knew him well enough to help. And somehow that was a really nice sentiment. Something she couldn’t identify but made her feel sad and warm all at the same time.

She took in a breath, because she had to do something, she supposed. Say something. Respond in… some way.

She straightened her arm, opening the door to its full extent, before stepping aside. She couldn’t quite look at him because she was thinking, and she didn’t want to give a window into how slow-going her thoughts were. She closed the door behind him and sort of just… stayed where she was.

Then she realized that was weird.

She looked up at him, lightly bouncing her arm against her side. “Um, want something to drink? We have tea, coffee, water, soda, beer, yada yada…”

Home.

It was a strange concept.

He wanted to know how four walls and a roof could fulfil such a premise when, really, four walls and a roof was all it was. For some, home was a person. He knew that, for his best friend, home was the blonde woman who was sunshine, rainbows and smiles. She was pure light, made up entirely of light magic. She assuaged his every wound just by being who she was. And she loved him, just as he loved her, with this unconditional madness that Ariel could only aspire to. To each other, they were home. But what was that home?

He was stood inside one, his toes wriggling in his shoes, desperately wishing they could escape so that he could observe some sense of propriety. Was this home? For Jack, was this home? He wondered.

He didn’t have one himself, he didn’t think. Not now.

He had a room. At Ollie’s. A space that he had decorated with little pieces of himself, a place that was entirely his own. It was his space. Not his home. Then the house he had grown up in … he had a room there, decorated with parts of a life he couldn’t recognise anymore. It all felt like a distant half-dream, or as though he was pressing his face against cool glass that he couldn’t quite see through. That, he didn’t think, had ever been home. Even as a child.

So where was home?

What was home?

It was a place you always came back to, wasn’t it? There was an inevitability, a regularity, about it. There was familiarity. There was warmth. There was comfort.

He looked to Jack and swallowed.

“Tea would be great,” he offered a smile as he set his bag down on the floor.

He allowed his feet the pleasure of slipping out of the shoes. The socks were clean, at least.

“I can help,” he added, shrugging out of the hoodie to leave himself just in the plain white t-shirt that he had pinched from a shop in London a few days before. He had ripped the tags off that morning, determined to look half-presentable for her.

There was no breeze inside.

It was an inane thought but one that wasn’t wrong.

He had gotten used to the draught of the countryside.

Sleeping out of doors had its charms but a bed… Merlin, a bed. He closed his eyes briefly at the thought of the one waiting for him. A familiar place, at least.

“Tea, I find, is nice to take Wolfsbane with,” he commented, as though it was something usual of him to do.

She knew he didn’t typically make effort with the potions. They didn’t do anything. They never had done. Never would. The wolf was the light. He was the darkness. She’d seen it first hand.

She probably also knew that one of the conditions of his release from Azkaban was that he had to take it. He supposed either it filtered down through the pipeline or someone from the Ministry, who knew the case, had been brash and told her. Whatever it was, he figured she probably knew. But perhaps she’d surprise him.

He’d never get over the taste of the stuff, at least. So tea would do.

“How’ve you been?” He asked softly, hoping that maybe, if he was going to unload all of his intended spiel on her, she would confide in him, too.

And he was in her house. The door locking them together in their kitchen. Her very real, tangible kitchen, complete with unnatural light and evidence of children. It didn’t seem right for the two of them to be there. She already was the weird exception to the warm home, the blot of fire dancing from room to room, never settling, never getting comfortable. And now him, the column of smoke that maybe wasn’t actually there, that could potentially drift into nothingness if she moved too close.

She didn’t know that she would have that problem. Getting close sounded terrifying.

He took her offer of tea and she nodded, turning around and going to fill up the kettle. She looked through the tea tin, trying to find that lemony stuff she liked.  Everyone else in the house liked the fragrant, sweet teas. She liked the plain black with that twist of lemon. Something a little bitter, something a little strong. It had always been her favorite flavor profile she supposed.

She could hear him slipping off his shoes, setting down his bag. He offered to help, but she already had the kettle on, the cups pulled out. “It’s okay, I got it. Sit.” Because Jack Dyllan had never needed help. Not even with the tea.

She turned and leaned against the counter, glancing down at her attire. She opened her mouth to apologize, but she was really too afraid of him saying she looked just fine, or just like he remembered, or just… any comment really. Besides, how could she apologize for how she looked? It wasn’t like she had expected him, it wasn’t like this was the norm on her chore days. So she cleared her throat, and gripped the edge of the counter.

She smirked a bit. “A friend found peppermint goes a long way without changing any of the properties of the potion. Only if you don’t mind feeling Christmassy once a month.”

He asked how she was and she almost smiled, but she couldn’t because… well, the answer wasn’t funny. Somehow, the question was. Because he probably knew. And he could at least surmise that she wasn’t great. And if he was at all plugged in to what was happening, if he heard the ghost of a rumor…

It was funny he bothered asking.

She wet her lips, trying to figure out the best approach. “Unfortunately, I could probably leave it same as usual,” was how she began. She took a breath. She didn’t want to say the words and, if he did know, she wouldn’t take kindly to him making her. “I’ve been rearranging today. Found myself with some space. Been trying to…” She shook her head, not sure what to say, that wasn’t so revealing. “I’ve just been rearranging today.”

“I’m not a particularly Christmassy person, Jaquellene.”

The quip almost took him by surprise. He found a smile tugging at his face regardless. The name didn’t feel so odd on his tongue, after all. It had been his favoured name for her. When he had been younger, hell-bent on presenting to the world a person who had their life together, even if he was falling apart on the inside. Now he couldn’t even shave on a good day. Although a good day was becoming rarer and rarer. The wolf really was happier than the human. It was a release when the full moon finally came.

“But I’ll bear that in mind,” he added soothingly, not wanting her to think that he didn’t appreciate the advice. He took it to heart, knowing that Alice kept plenty weird and whacky teas to suit any mood in the cupboard above the kettle. He’d find plenty there. For his trouble, too, he’d probably get a cuddle from the endlessly caring witch for going in search of solace there rather than the off-licence in the village.

He raised an eyebrow at the redhead as she fashioned her reply. Heavily, Ariel took a seat. He exhaled, feel his hip twinge with muted pain. He needed to go home, get a hot shower and grab the nearest copy of the Prophet and start looking for jobs. Winter had been harsh. Dancing through Britain and Germany’s woods with his father was hardly his idea of a good time but once again … once again … he’d done it.

“Want to rearrange my life?” He asked wryly. “It could do with a feminine touch of sanity, I think.”

She felt het smirk transform into a scowl as he drawled out her full name, her eyes flashing, the expression feeling... right. She couldn't remember the last time she had enjoyed scowling. Much of her time with Ari in school had been smirks quickly morphing into scowls as he teased and poked and prodded. She had always managed to do the same right back at him, quip for quip, but he had always been a lot cooler at keeping a steady expression. Though she used to be especially talented at tempting an eye roll out of him.

"You don't want to start that, Ariel," she warned, though there was something in her voice that expressed amusement.

The kettle whistled and she turned around, taking it off the heat and pouring the hot water over the tea bags in her misshapen mugs - Goose had gone through an antique store phase in which he bought the ugliest object in each store, to save it from a life without ownership. They were drowning in ugly mugs.

She flicked her wand and tea things, sugar and spoons and the like, appeared on the table as she crossed and set the mug down before Ari. Part of her wanted to take her place at the table, be on an equal plane. But that was a little... She thought maybe... Oh look, she left the stove on.

She walked back to the counter and clicked the stove off, putting the kettle away, storing away the tea bags. He spoke and she chuckled, turning around to lean against the counter. "I don't know how well I can help with feminine and sanity, but I'm in the rearranging mode. I can try."