So I’m making up for the abundance of suck-tastic folk in the world by posting some fic. At least, I hope it’s adding something nice to the world. Really, I just need to do something for someone today that doesn’t feel like I’m ramming my head into a brick wall and trying to be nice to people who really haven’t earned it. So, for my awesome fandom that’s so much better than these clowns at work – have some angry Miranda. Also the reunion you’ve been waiting for.

Chapter One  Chapter Two

To the Upper Air: Chapter Three: Thirteen O’Clock

She woke to the feeling of clean, white sheets and the warmth of another person in the bed with her.

At first, she lay still. The last thing she recalled was pain – a burst of it, white hot and blinding. She had been hit in the head, but by what? Whom? She did not recall, but the sensation had been singular, unforgettable. Now, though –

It was strange, she thought – the way that one person’s habits could become so familiar. Their tread. The way they laughed – coughed, the familiar off-key tune of their whistling. Their breathing.

Thomas shifted, and Miranda felt her heart skip a beat, her breath suddenly coming short. She did not open her eyes – she did not need to, not to recognize him. She had dreamt of this so often in Nassau – waking up to find Thomas returned to her by some magic, his familiar presence in her bed, his feet –

His freezing feet that she had never, ever dreamt about before. She flinched away from the sensation, and heard her husband snicker, the the sound taking her breath away once more.

“There’s no use in pretending to be asleep,” he said, voice laced with amusement. “Or are you determined to punish me with silence for my poor cold toes?”

“I could never bear to punish you,” she croaked, feeling a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Her mind had devised a new way to torture her now – by recreating the exact feeling of Thomas’ presence, the weight of him and the stroke of his skin against hers. Was there no end to the capacity of her memories to bring her pain?

“Miranda?” Thomas’ voice sounded worried, and oh, that was the final straw. She could not bear to make him anxious, not even in a dream. She took a deep breath. It was time to end this. She opened her eyes –

And then shut them again tightly.

“Miranda,” Thomas’ voice said again. “Are you quite alright?”

She cracked her eyes open a fraction and found Thomas’ concerned face looking back at her. He was sitting up in the bed, his blue eyes crinkling at the edges as he scrutinized her face. He reached out a hand to her face, and she gasped, her eyes opening wider as he moved his thumb up and down against her cheek and smiled.

“Good morning,” he said, and Miranda sat up sharply, dislodging Thomas’ hand. This – this was not her bed in Nassau. She could feel panic flutter in her stomach, and she looked around, her eyes darting first to the fireplace and then to the other furnishings in the room, before coming back to light on –

“Thomas?” she whispered.

“Well I should hope so,” Thomas responded. “Unless you’ve taken a lover besides James that you’ve not told me about!” His tone was teasing, but his blue eyes told a different story, concern at her disorientation mingling with confusion, and in any other circumstance, she would have done her level best to wipe that look off of his face – to do whatever was necessary to ease his mind, but at the moment, all she could do was stare, dumbstruck. She blinked, and then again, as if by doing so she would somehow wake from the dream she was quite obviously trapped in, but Thomas remained in front of her, and the room did not change around them. This – whatever it was, lucid dream, hallucination, vision – held her fast, and she felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise up within her, threatening to escape her lips. She was in London, in the house that she still thought of as her home in so many ways, and Thomas was lying there next to her, and suddenly she did not care whether she dreamt or hallucinated or was simply lost in her own memories, finally gone completely mad. She was there, and Thomas was there, and if she was to be able to dictate her own actions in this particular dream, then she was not going to waste a moment. With that thought, she flung herself forward, clasping her arms around her husband, her hands digging into his bare back, face buried in his shoulder, and she squeezed tightly, ignoring the small sound of surprise that escaped him. His skin was warm against hers, and for just one glorious moment, she allowed herself to believe that he was there – truly there beside her, not a phantom. She could feel him tense – felt the concern and confusion that radiated off of him, and she ignored it, embracing him tighter, unwilling to let go ever again.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “So sorry, Thomas. I failed – failed you -”

Thomas reared back, a frown gracing his features.

“Miranda – what on Earth are you talking about?”

She shook her head. She could not speak – could not articulate her betrayal, even now.

“I failed you,” she repeated. “Thomas – I -”

He shook his head.

“Miranda,” he repeated, and took her by the shoulders. “Darling – it’s alright. Whatever you think you’ve done -”

He did not know, she realized, looking at his blue eyes. There was concern there – concern, and love, and confusion, and why would her mind have conjured up Thomas if it was not also going to allow her the simple comfort of closure, whether it came through forgiveness or the recrimination she so deserved for her actions?

“I – I left you,” she confessed in a hoarse voice. “I should have stayed. I shouldn’t have listened – shouldn’t have convinced James.” She pulled away, tears still wetting her cheeks, and Thomas looked at her with no more comprehension than he had a moment before.

“I’m right here,” he said, a half-smile forming on his lips. “My love, I don’t know what you dreamt, but I promise you – I’m right here.” He kissed the top of her head, and she felt a shudder travel down her spine. This was wrong. This was all so terribly wrong. Thomas was long dead – buried or burned, depending on whether the Earl had seen fit to give his son a decent burial or allowed him to be handled as yet another suicide from Bedlam. He should not be here, holding her, smiling as if she had never abandoned him to that fate – as if nothing had changed. He should, at the very least, know why she was apologizing, and furthermore, why did he seem to believe that she had dreamt the entire decade of misery she had experienced? The sense of wrongness grew, and she closed her eyes, trying to retain some clawing hold on sanity. What was happening to her?

The knock that sounded on the door was almost a relief. Thomas released her, sitting up straighter.

“Yes?” he called.

“My lord – your messenger has returned.”

He frowned.

“Is there another part to that statement?”

“My lord – it seems that Lieutenant McGraw is not well. The messenger seems a bit… ruffled, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

“Ruffled?”

“He – ah – he claims the Lieutenant has gone mad, sir.”

Thomas sighed, and turned to Miranda, his eyes still worried.

“Darling – it sounds as though my attention is needed elsewhere. I don’t wish to leave you, but -”

“James needs you,” she finished, the familiar refrain tripping over her lips. “Go to him. I’ll – I’ll see you when you return.” Something in her twisted at the words. She wanted to hold fast to Thomas – never to let him out of her sight ever again, to rail and scream and refuse to let him go, to tell him that James was a grown adult and a stubborn, foolish one at that, but she could not find it in her even now to do so. James needed Thomas. It was a fact of life, and one that had never been quite so obvious as it was to her now in the wake of her conversation with James prior to dinner. She could not bear to keep them from each other, not even in dreams.

“You’re certain?” Thomas asked, his hands not yet removed from her shoulders, and she nodded. He stood, and she took the time to drink in the sight of him. He had always had a pleasantly firm rear end, she recalled, and no one had ever accused Thomas Hamilton of having anything but the finest of musculature, particularly in regards to his back. She watched him dress in silence, enjoying the view, and saw him toss an anxious look over his shoulder.

“I’ll be back as soon as possible,” he promised. “I’m sorry to leave like this. I can’t imagine what’s gotten into James – he’s normally quite steady.” The worry in his voice brought a smile to her lips, slight, but there nonetheless. Her men had always been so very protective of one another. Really, it should not have come as any surprise that James fell apart when he failed in what he saw as his duty to safeguard Thomas. Idly, she wondered what might have happened had Thomas been put in James position and shelved it after only a moment. It did not bear contemplation. Her husband turned back toward her and wrapped one hand around the back of her neck, leaning down to kiss her, and she reveled in the sensation – in the warmth of his hand, in the taste and smell of him, and when he pulled away she could almost have sobbed at the loss.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, and she watched him go. He would not be back soon. He never was, and she always woke to find herself alone once again but oh – these moments when she found him in dreams were worth the heartbreak. She rolled over in the bed. If she closed her eyes, perhaps she could waken once again in a happier dream.

She woke in the same room.

For several moments, she was disoriented again, looking about the room wildly, but this time there was no Thomas, nor was there anything wildly out of place as there should have been if this had been one of the many dreams she had had where she wandered the house in search of him, never quite managing to find her way to the stairs. She found her way there now, shift brushing against her ankles as she descended the stairs, her fingers barely touching the smooth wooden banister. This should not be happening. She had woken from dreaming – woken from the pleasant fiction of Thomas’ presence, and yet she had not, for this house was undeniably the house she and Thomas had inhabited, right down to the last details. She knew the scent of the air, the feeling of the floors under her bare feet –

The ticking of the clock in the front hall.  The noise caught her attention, and her breath caught in her chest. The wretched clock, returned to its place, exactly where she and Thomas had left it. She felt anger well up within her, and she choked on it. The clock had returned and she –

What was she doing here? Had she been transported here somehow, brought back to London without waking for the entire six week trip? Or was her mind still playing tricks on her, still taunting her with the shadows of the life that had been so violently ripped away from her for good by the sight of that very clock? The thought only increased her rage, and she moved the rest of the way down the stairs almost without conscious volition. If she could not escape this waking dream, then she would not share it with that clock – with the reminder of all of her failures. She laid hands on the wretched thing, pulling with all her might.

“My lady? Lady Hamilton!” The servants’ voices barely registered in the back of her mind as she watched the clock begin to tip, and she stepped back, allowing it to fall forward even as the servants gasped and attempted to dart forward to save it. It was no use – they were all too far away, and the timepiece fell forward with an almighty crash, the bells within sounding a confused, deafening clangor as they hit the front of the clock. Glass smashed, flying up, and Miranda raised a hand, shielding her face from the shards. It was illogical – she never bled in dreams, and so it was doubly startling when she felt one of the shards hit her palm, slicing it open. She lowered her hand, letting out a gasp at the pain, and stared, shocked, at the red of her own blood beginning to well out of the wound.  She did not bleed in dreams – she knew, because she had dreamt of such injuries before. Never had one of them hurt, and the obvious conclusion that followed caused her heart to flutter in her chest, a strange lump rising in her throat. If she was not dreaming –

The servants were still staring in shocked silence at Miranda and the shattered clock.

“My lady,” one of them whispered, and she came back to herself with a jolt. “You’re bleeding,” the girl pointed out, and Miranda nodded. The pain and the blood confirmed what Thomas’ presence never could have, and she felt suddenly ill. She was not dreaming – not imagining any of this. The hall clock still lay, a ruined mess at her feet, and she –

She was standing in her own front hall, looking the part of the mad witch that James’ crew had accused her of being.

“I – I don’t know what came over me,” she murmured. “I -” She choked back a hysterical laugh. If she was truly here – truly returned to Albemarle Street – she looked down to the clock at her feet, feeling the bitter irony of it all hit her once again. Her actions would be taken as madness – it would be all too easy, and they would be right back to the same horrifying situation they had been in before, only this time she would be the one locked away in Bedlam, and while she perhaps deserved it for her crimes, her men did not. Thomas should never be forced to take on her role, and she would not, could not, force James to go through another such ordeal. No. There had to be a way to mitigate this – to make this –

She was being led upstairs, she realized. In her dazed state, she had not even felt the maid wrap her hand in a handkerchief.

“My lady -” the girl started, and Miranda turned to her, seeing her properly for the first time. It was not her faithful Mathilde, but Mary, one of the younger maids in the household. She was looking at Miranda now with undisguised concern, her hand holding Miranda’s up such that the blood from her injury did not touch her linen shift, keeping pressure on the wound. The bleeding had mostly ceased by this time, continuing only sluggishly, and Miranda spared a moment for the realization that the hand she had injured had none of the calluses she had developed in Nassau that would have better protected her from such an eventuality. She marvelled for a second at her own skin – the softness of it, as if she had never done a day’s work in her life, which indeed, if what she suspected were true, she had not.

“My lady,” Mary urged. “My lady – please. The doctor is on his way.”

“The doctor?” Miranda asked sharply, a spike of panic shooting through her.

“For your hand, my lady,” the girl answered, and Miranda shook her head.

“No,” she said. “It’s scarcely more than a scratch. Nothing to be worried about, certainly.” She looked back at the broken glass that littered the hall floor. “You may tell Lord Hamilton when he returns that if he wants to tell the time, then he will have to go out and buy a new clock. Some time away from the house will be good for his health.” She turned and stalked back up the stairs, leaving the servants to stare. She controlled the shaking of her hands until she reached her bedroom, the very picture of an angry noblewoman until the moment the door closed and the latch clicked. She sank down onto the chair in front of her vanity table, closing her eyes tightly.

She had to hope it would be enough. There were only two possible interpretations for her actions, and if she wished to avoid anyone coming to the conclusion that she had taken leave of her senses, she had to be seen to be blindingly angry. No one would question a noblewoman destroying property on a whim – no one, that was, except her husband, who would presumably be both hurt and confused when he returned to the house. It could not be helped, though, and she allowed herself a tiny, nearly inaudible sob at the thought. She was back. She was here, against all laws of time and physics, possibly against the natural order laid down by God, truly here, and why, oh why had she not realized it sooner, before her foolishness led to this? She would have to ignore him for days – refuse to see him, and it would be torture, because he was here, alive, and she wanted nothing more than to embrace him and never, ever let go again. Anger welled up in her again, and she allowed it to wash over her in full force, bringing tears to her eyes with the force of it. She was back in London – now, after she had finally realized the full scope of the betrayal that had been perpetrated against them. Now, after she had finally thrown aside civilization and everything that went with it, now that she had given up on the dream of taking up the life that had been stolen from her alongside James.

James. He would be here too, but not her James. Not the man that she had known for better than ten years, who had suffered the same privations, the same indignities. Not the man she had grieved alongside and loved despite his flaws, who had loved her when he had given up on all else. The thought was a fresh stab to the chest. There had been much about James Flint she had hated – his stubborn insistence on clinging to his rage, his intractability, his conviction that the world was out to destroy him, and just as she began to understand it – understand him – more fully than she ever had before, just as they had finally started to tear down the walls between them and truly work in tandem – he was gone.

“Miranda?”

Or perhaps not, at least not in the most literal sense. She turned, startled, at the sound of the voice at her door, at once familiar and welcome and heart-rending.  

“Go away!” The words were out of her mouth before she could recall them, childish and petty but utterly heartfelt. The irony of the situation was not lost on her even as she spoke the words, her voice only just barely held steady. She had spent ten years longing for a glimpse of Lieutenant McGraw within the hard shell of Flint, and now that he stood just a few feet away, she could not face him. She could not stand to see James’ face and find no sympathy, no empathy or understanding of her feelings right now – she simply could not. Scarce hours before she had had her world ripped away from her, and the shock –

“Miranda – I -” James started again, and Miranda felt a wave of anger wash over her. The shock was rapidly being replaced by burning, blinding hatred. She felt it travel through her, hot and terrifying in its strength, and she clenched her injured hand, feeling the burn of the cut on it, welcoming the sensation. She had felt anger before – had felt hatred, before, too, but this was different – wilder, somehow, less controlled or calculated than anything she had ever felt before. This – dear God, was this what James had felt when he had killed Alfred? When he had gotten into fight after needless fight? Was this what he had been carrying all this time?

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I am not in any mood for company” she started. She needed a moment to get this under control – to find a way to breathe through it, to put it away where it could not spill out and hurt someone. She needed to –

“Miranda – it’s me. Open the door.”

She froze. She could not have said what it was about James’ voice that had changed, but something in it had. It lacked something – something she could not quite put a finger on. The sharp edge of impatience or the teasing tone that might have colored his voice in the too-brief days they had spent in this house as young lovers was missing, somehow, replaced by –

She inhaled sharply, the anger that had flooded her veins only a moment before ebbing, still there but overtaken by sharp-edged longing.

“James?” she allowed the name to fall from her lips, a barely audible whisper.

“I owe you an apology, if you’ll hear it,” he said, and she felt her heart skip a beat.  She rose from the vanity, and opened the door to find him standing outside.

He looked like James McGraw or rather, he looked like a version of James McGraw that had been subjected to Thomas’ wandering hands on the way here and had not bothered to tidy himself after. His hair was slightly rumpled and only tied back hastily with a black ribbon. He was not wearing a neckcloth, and his uniform coat looked as if it had been thrown on at the last minute, hanging oddly where the lines had not been adjusted properly. His stubble-covered jaw completed the unkempt look, but his eyes were the true clue. He looked at her as if he had not seen her in an age, and she could not stop herself from inhaling sharply, her hand reaching out of its own volition to touch his face.

“James?” she questioned again, and the corner of his mouth turned upward.

“Hello,” he answered, and she stood, looking at him with something akin to wonder.

“Hello,” she repeated, and then, without ceremony, she flung herself forward, catching him between her outstretched arms and wrapping him in a fierce hug. She felt his arms wrap around her in return, and the force of his embrace nearly knocked the wind out of her even as she heard him give a huff of breath at the strength of hers.

“Miranda,” he breathed. “Thank God. I – ” He stopped. “I’ve missed you,” he said roughly and she tightened her grip on his back.

“I’m sorry, James,” she choked. She could feel tears running down her cheeks, and was almost surprised to find that the same was true of him. “So sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he answered. “If I’d listened earlier -”

“I had no right to ask,” she choked. “No right. I should have realized -”

“You had every right,” he interrupted. “Christ, Miranda, I -” He raked a hand through his hair, and then over his face, grimacing when he remembered that he no longer had a beard to stroke. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, and she nodded, understanding. He had apologized once before, in the front pages of a book that she had never gotten to read, but it was good to hear it from him out loud.

“It’s behind us,” she answered, feeling it settle in for the first time, and she looked around her at the house – at the room she stood in, and finally, at James himself.

“If you need a moment -” James started to offer, and she shook her head.

“No,” she answered, and could not quite help the small grin that started at the corners of her mouth. “No,” she repeated, and then snorted. “My God, James,” she murmured, “what wild creature savaged you on your way here?” He snorted.

“Thomas said the same,” he answered, and Miranda started. Of course. Thomas had gone to see to James, which meant he could not help but be close behind, and she was meant to be furious at him.

“Thomas,” she breathed. “I had forgotten! James – he can’t -”

“Tell me,” said the voice of the man in question. “Is there a reason that I’m climbing onto my own balcony, or have you both decided to play an elaborate joke?”

Miranda turned, and found Thomas standing not far away. The look on his face was distinctly disgruntled, and there was a streak of what appeared to be white paint on the corner of his waistcoat. He had shucked off his coat, presumably leaving it in whichever room he had come from, and his blond hair was wind-tousled, giving further evidence that he had come from outside the room, having climbed out a window and made his way along the ledge to reach Miranda’s balcony.

“Thomas. You said you would wait,” James said reprovingly, and Thomas made a face.

“No – I said that I would give you time to talk to Miranda and be along shortly. It was more of a challenge than I expected,” he said ruefully, holding up paint-smudged, somewhat scraped hands. “I thought that as you seemed determined to put the servants off by acting as if we were arguing it might be best to play along until – why are you both looking at me like that?”

“I’d forgotten how clever you were,” James said wryly, and Miranda could not help but agree. Thomas frowned, visibly affronted.

“I’ve hardly uttered the wisdom of Solomon,” he protested. “And I’ll thank you to stop speaking of me in the past tense. What on Earth is going on?”  

Miranda turned back to James, who had the good grace to look slightly ashamed of himself.

“You haven’t told him, then,” she said, and James winced.

“I didn’t know where to start,” he confessed, and she sighed. Without another word, she walked over to Thomas.

“Thomas,” she said, and stopped, eyes scanning her husband’s face, mouth suddenly gone dry. She shook her head and, reaching up, gently placed both hands on Thomas’ chest. She pressed her lips together, firmly forbidding them from engaging in other activities no matter how badly she wanted to kiss her husband and never, ever cease doing so ever again. “We have a great deal to explain and I think you had best be sitting down when you hear it.”

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.”