A BIG THANK YOU TO EVERYONE

for your birthday good wishes, your comments, your reblogs, and your likes yesterday!  I have to say it – I love my fandom! You’re all so incredibly nice. I also got a ton of writing done yesterday as a result, so I think you guys/gals/friends/Romans/countrymen have earned this:

To the Upper Air: Chapter Two (or, the other half of Chapter One):

The world ground to a halt.

“I -” he started, and then stopped, his lungs abruptly and recalcitrantly refusing to function.

Thomas stood, one arm holding him up against the doorframe, and he straightened as James opened the door, flashing him a grin.

“There you are!” he said. “I was beginning to worry you’d gone back to bed!”

James stood still, his hand still on the door latch, attempting to get his breath back. He’d forgotten the exact shade of Thomas’ eyes, he realized – blue-grey in this light, the mirth in them tinged with worry. His blond hair, too, James had painted in his mind as subtly different in shade, and James found himself staring at it, attempting to memorize the color anew, along with the shape of Thomas’ face and the length of his fingers and a hundred other seemingly inconsequential details that made up the man that James had spent the past eleven years grieving. He was here. He was really, truly alive, and James was speechless at the sight of him.

“James?” Thomas asked again, his brow creased by a frown. “What’s the matter? You look a little – well, you look bloody awful, actually.”

James closed his mouth, suddenly aware that he was staring.

“Thomas,” he croaked, and Thomas sighed.

“That’s exactly what Miranda said,” he answered. “I’d barely finished asking her why she was looking at me like I was a ghost when my messenger returned and told me you’d gone mad and accosted him. And now you’re looking at me the same way! What on Earth is the matter?”

James shook his head.

“Nothing,” he answered, almost choking on the word. Nothing was wrong – nothing could possibly be wrong when Thomas was here and alive and Miranda was waiting for them and James himself was here, returned somehow to this time to live his life over again, free to be the person he thought he had buried the day Miranda died.

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“Truly?” he asked. “Nothing that’s turned you as white as a sheet and caused Miranda to all but faint at the sight of me? James -” He reached forward, his hand coming up to wrap around the back of James’ neck, and James could not quite stop himself from inhaling sharply at the contact – the feeling of Thomas touching him for the first time in over a decade.

“That is not nothing,” Thomas said decisively. “James, for God’s sake – you can tell me, whatever it is, you know that.”

James stared helplessly. He had opened the door intending to tell Thomas everything – to explain and beg his forgiveness on bended knee, but at this exact moment, he could not go another second without touching Thomas – could not pretend for one more moment that it had not been a decade and longer since he had last laid eyes on Thomas’ face, that he was not absolutely, desperately glad to see him, or that he did not have the urgent desire to kiss him senseless.

“Thomas -” he started, and then took a deep breath and, without further ado, he reached out and drew Thomas into the room behind him, his hands reaching for his lover almost of their own volition, his lips crashing into Thomas’ lips even as the door closed behind them, kissing him as if he might just possibly disappear if James let go. Thomas let out a noise – surprise, James realized, his hands clutching at James’ shoulders, and he returned the kiss, shock changing to desire. He moved one hand upward to touch James’ jaw, and James let out a muffled gasp at the sensation, unused to the feeling of anything touching the sensitive skin there after so long. He ran his fingers through Thomas’ hair in response, fingers carding through the soft yellow locks, knocking both wig and hat to the ground, and he smiled, unable to hold in his joy at being able to touch and smell and taste Thomas again. When he pulled back finally, they were both panting. Thomas’ lips curved upward in a smile, and he gave a small huff of laughter.

“James – God’s bones, I know it’s been a week, but -” he started, and James shook his head.

“It’s been a lot longer than that,” he answered, voice still ragged with emotion.

Thomas grinned wider.

“I know,” he said. “It felt as if -”

James shook his head again.

“No,” he said roughly. “I mean – for me, it’s been -”

Thomas frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I – ” James started, and then stopped. He was going to sound utterly insane. There was simply no way of explaining this – not without sounding as if he had been knocked on the head rather too hard, and he found himself suddenly wishing for Miranda. She would know what to say – how to explain what was happening, or at least how to calm him such that he could think his own way through it. Speaking of whom –

His hands tightened on Thomas’ shoulders, and he took a deep breath.

“You said Miranda was acting oddly this morning,” he said. Was it possible -?

“Yes,” Thomas said. “You both are.”

“How odd?” he asked, and Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“Very,” he emphasized. “I don’t think I’ve been so enthusiastically hugged in my entire life. She seemed to think she had failed me somehow, although I’ve no idea how she possibly could have. And -” He hesitated. “She seemed -”

“As if she didn’t know where she was – when she was?” James finished, and Thomas nodded.

“Yes. I scarcely wanted to leave her, but then the messenger returned and I came as quickly as I could since you’re alone and Miranda has the servants to look after her. James, what on Earth is going on?”

That settled it, and he felt relief wash over him. He was not alone. Whatever miracle had occurred to land him here, in his younger body, it had evidently happened to Miranda as well, which meant –

“I need to speak with her,” James said. “I need to – “ He sat down and dragged a hand over his face. “I need to go and apologize.”

“Apologize for what?”

James shook his head.

“All of it. What I did. What I didn’t do.”

Miranda was back. She was back in time the same as he was, and if he knew her, she would already be working to avoid the catastrophe that was rapidly barrelling their way as soon as she regained her balance after such a rude awakening. She was also alone in the house in Albemarle Street. The thought was – well, it did not bear thinking about. She should not be alone – not now, not ever again if he could help it. Dear God – if she was half as startled and frightened as he had been -!

“James -” Thomas had grabbed hold of his shoulders, and was now looking into his face with the utmost concern. He shook him gently. “James, what are you talking about?”

“I need to speak to Miranda. Now,” he answered, standing again, and Thomas shook his head.

“No. You’re not going anywhere until you explain what you meant by – James!”

The shout followed him as he hurried away and out the door, and Thomas followed behind him, cursing softly.

“You can’t go out in the street like this. You’re not even wearing a hat. James!”

“I’ll explain everything on the way,” James shouted back over his shoulder, heading for the street. He took the stairs of the lodging house at an alarming pace, garnering a disapproving look from Mrs. Pritchard on his way out the door, and he stopped cold at the sight of the street in front of him. It had not truly hit him before now that he was truly back in London, but the sight of bustling hackney carriages and people bundled up to their ears reminded him, as did the buildings, taller than most in Nassau. There was no denying it – this was England, and James stood, looking up and down the street, a wave of nostalgia washing over him mingled with equal parts sadness and anger at the sight. He had sworn never to set foot here again, and yet here he was, standing on a London street, wearing Navy whites for all the world as if he still belonged here, and some (treacherous, utterly foolish) part of him could not help but feel that he still did.

“Thank goodness.”

Thomas had caught up to him, breathing hard as he tried to catch his breath, and James turned to face him, shelving his contemplation of his place in this new (old) world for later. His lover had, it seemed, stopped to pick up a few items on his way out of James’ quarters, including James’ uniform coat and hat, which he thrust toward his lover.

“For heaven’s sake, finish getting dressed first!” Thomas panted, and James rolled his eyes. He took the items, shrugging the coat on haphazardly and reluctantly putting the hat on his head. It felt odd, like so much else about this day, and he quietly resolved to find a way to lose the silly thing before the day was out. Now he knew what Thomas had meant about the wig.

“Honestly – I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Thomas said. “What ever happened to ‘Thomas for the love of God put some clothes on’ when I dared to go out without a neckcloth?” he asked, clearly perplexed. “Speaking of which – you realize you’re not wearing one? I mean – look at you! Your hair’s a mess, you’re just barely in your shirtsleeves – are you even wearing your boots on the right feet?”

James looked down, vaguely surprised that somewhere in his rush to get dressed he had in fact thought to pull his boots on. They pinched, he realized, and for a moment he had to consider Thomas’ question seriously.

“Probably,” he answered. The pair looked new – new enough to still be uncomfortable, at any rate. Thomas rolled his eyes heavenward as if to ask for help from the Almighty.

“You’re going to freeze to death if you go on like this!” he scolded.

“Hardly,” James answered with a snort. “It’s – “

He looked around. What month was it, anyway?

“June,” he guessed finally, and Thomas’ frown deepened. Fuck. Not June, then.

“James -” he started, and James could not help but laugh at the confused, concerned look on his face. He had forgotten that look – the one that Thomas wore but rarely, when one or the other of his lovers had done something alarming – usually Miranda, but James had earned it once or twice. Or hadn’t. Perhaps this was the first time? The thought was an odd one and he suddenly realized that they could have a great many firsts in front of them still – a very large number of them, if he just played his cards right.

“James -” Thomas said slowly, “this is May. Surely you recall that much?”

“I’m fine,” he reassured, and it was Thomas’ turn to give him a deeply skeptical expression.

“No, you are not,” he said. “James – please. At least let me do something with your hair?”

By this time, Thomas’ carriage had pulled up, and James climbed inside, shortly followed by Thomas, who promptly plucked the hat off of his head.

“I thought you wanted me to wear more clothing,” James teased, and Thomas huffed.

“I want you to explain what the blazes is going on while I attempt to make it look less as if an errant bird has attempted to make its nest atop your head,” he answered. “You look like a haystack – an unshaven one, at that!” He pulled a comb from an inside pocket of his jacket and began attempting to fix James’ still bed-rumpled hair, leaning forward at an awkward angle to reach James’ head, which he bowed obediently to allow Thomas better access.

“Now,” Thomas said, “perhaps you’d like to explain why you saw fit to run into the street half-dressed?”

“You’re lucky I got that far,” James answered, and Thomas stopped grooming him for a moment, fixing him with an exasperated expression.

“Unless you’re going to explain -” he started, and James sighed.

“Very well,” he answered. He blew out a sigh and then raked a hand over his hair, mussing it again. Thomas made a sound that might have been aggravation or simple resignation but said nothing, waiting for James to speak. He cast about for where to start, and once again came up with a blank. How was he meant to start this discussion?

“I -” he started, and then shook his head. “Miranda should explain it.” Miranda would be much better at this, he thought. She would know where to start, at least, whereas James hardly knew how to begin to make himself sound less insane.

“James, if you don’t tell me what is going on this instant, I’ll -” Thomas started, and then deflated. “Well, I’ll still love you very much although I’ll be extremely cross,” he finished, and James could not help the laugh that made its way out of him. He had forgotten, too, what Thomas’ perplexed expression looked like – how very silly it was, and he grinned.

“God I love you.” The words were out of his mouth almost before he knew it, escaping his lips, and he firmly squashed the part of himself that wanted to apologize or try to cover them with more words. He had held back the last time – too afraid of being overheard, afraid of giving too much away – afraid of so many things. In the wake of Thomas’ death, he had wondered if he had been somehow to blame – if perhaps Thomas had not understood how much James loved him, had not understood that James would have come for him, given enough time. He did not intend to make the same mistakes this time – not with Thomas or Miranda.

“James -” Thomas was staring at him, a stunned expression on his face, and James grinned at him, unrepentant.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Thomas answered, and this time it was his turn to grin, wide and brilliant. He leaned forward, and James felt his stomach do a flip as Thomas kissed him, long and slow and unhurried, his tongue doing things that James had missed so very badly, and he only barely squashed the moan that tried to make its way out of him. He moved forward, attempting to bring his hands up to Thomas’ back, attempted to return the kiss – and Thomas pulled back, smiling in a satisfied manner.

“I love you as well,” he answered. “And I shall do that again when you have told me what you meant when you said you needed to apologize to Miranda.”

His lover had never been cruel, James recalled, but he had always known how to get what he wanted.

“There’s no chance of convincing you to drop this, I suppose?” he asked, and Thomas shook his head.

“No,” he answered, and James sighed.

“It’s -”

The carriage jolted, the horses coming to a halt with a clatter of hooves, and he realized that they had arrived at the Hamiltons’ mansion.

“Milord!” The cry came from a servant who had been posted at the gate. “Milord – thank God you’ve returned.”

Thomas rose and exited the carriage hurriedly, a worried expression on his face, with James not far behind him. One of the porters – the Cornish one, if James recalled correctly – retrieved James’ hat and handed it to him, and he spared a moment to curse the failure of his first attempt at losing the damned thing.

“Davies – what’s the problem?” he demanded, ignoring Thomas’ confused expression at being skipped in the chain of command.

“Lieutenant – welcome back, sir. I hope -” The head butler began, and James frowned.

“Davies!” he reminded sharply, and the butler flushed.

“Yes, sir,” he answered. “Milord – it’s Lady Hamilton. She’s – she’s not well, sir.”

“Where is she?” James asked, and the man gave him a look that was halfway between disapproval and surprise.

“Forgive me, Lieutenant, but -”

“It’s alright,” Thomas interrupted. “You’ll have to forgive the Lieutenant. He’s feeling a bit forceful today. Tell us what’s happened.”

“It’s Lady Hamilton. She’s behaving- oddly, milord. It started shortly after you left.”

They had entered the house by this time. James stood in the foyer, looking with new eyes on the home he had not seen in over a decade. It was quiet, he realized- almost too quiet, and with a start he realized the reason.

“Davies,” he asked, interrupting the butler’s conversation with Thomas, “where is the clock that normally sits in this room?”

Davies winced.

“”Lady Hamilton smashed it, sir,” he reported. “She came down the stairs and – forgive me my lord, it happened so quickly-”

James felt something twist inside him at the words. There was no mystery, then, as to how much of their other lives Miranda remembered.

“Take me to her,” he ordered, his voice gone rough with emotion. “Now.”