I Hate to Turn Up out of the Blue Uninvited [For Mac]

[ofscots]

Discovering the truth of her parentage was nothing. She'd never aspired to be anything great, didn't want the position of ambassadress that was on the short list of suggestions in that file they'd kept on her life. Henry questioning his goodness was worse. Franco breaking it off because he wasn't sure if he truly cared for her or if it was just

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[endsjustified]

He'd read the emails, at first. But after his mother's funeral, it had simply gotten to be too hard to bear. Moira wasn't really family, not by blood--although Lord knew he tried not to think about blood relations overly hard since they'd found out about their DNA.

Now and then he thinks about her. About all of them, really, but mostly about Moira. They couldn't have been entirely arrangement, entirely some sort of genetic predisposition. Couldn't have been. Right? Even if they'd fallen into each other by push rather than fate in Dalkeith, that depth of love had been real, hadn't it?

He'd been pondering it, actually, when his aide told him there was a young lady he really quite needed to see. The fact that it's her arrests him completely before he even moves on to processing the fact that he clearly should have kept up with her emails.

"...\get inside./"

Let him lock the door behind her and think for a moment.

[ofscots]

As she's ushered in, she can't help but think to herself that he's doing it; pushing his way forward into what appeared to still be his dream even after their world had been turned upside down. She can't help the pride that swells up in the empty chamber where her heart used to be.

He looks tired. But then, she supposes she must, as well, after everything that's happened. For a moment she can only look at him as she rests her hand on her abdomen. The baby's fussing. It must have been the travel.

"\...I'm sorry, I know you said.../" But she can't rehash that particular hurt without blurting out the one that has so recently consumed her life. "\It's just--/"

She needs to sit down. Practically collapses into the nearest chair as her breath begins to hitch with sobs again.

"\...Franco's dead./"

[endsjustified]

It's hard to look at her. Painful. So, for the most part, he doesn't. Slides back to his desk to pull closed the files and statistics he'd been looking over, neatens his pens and folders so that he has something to focus on while words won't come. While her words, even more painful than her face, start up.

Except then she's staggering slightly, and by genetic compulsion or old instinct or genuine love, he's back at her side, catching hold of her arm and helping her down into the chair, kneeling quietly beside her without a thought for his expensive suit, fingers staying tight even as she's safely seated to drop the second half of the bombshell.

It takes a few more stunned seconds to find the words in any language.

"\And... so you're home./"

[ofscots]

Her fingers grip tight against his, and she nods, trying to steady out her breathing so she's able to respond. It takes a few moments and rubbing her hand against her stomach, reminding herself of the reason why she can't just let the emptiness take her, before she can.

"\There's-- there's nowhere else./"

No one else to go to.