(Musical Accompaniment: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j4y-RzVGrHg )

On the evening of April 12th...


The sun was slowly threatening to become a distant memory in it's descent towards the horizon, washing the sky with splashes of amber and red in prelude to the coming night. A chill lingered in the air, winter's persistance maintaining the smallest of vengful grips despite the coming of spring.

Sergei's truck trundled down the alley at little more than an idle before stopping before the entrance to The Eye, it's door half open when Steve gave one last look over the shoulder at the driver. "I could've called," he conceded with a nod and a tired, wan smile. The fatigue was more mental and emotional than physical, but the machinist wouldn't admit to even the smallest hint of weakness. "But whatever response I get, I wanna be able to look upon her when I get it; look her in the eye. Maybe see more relief than anger, or even a smile. Dunno, man. So long as she's there, it might not matter what the reaction is."

Farewells were said before the truck was finishing it's trek down the alley and turning out of it for that final exodus, with the turn of a key and a shove of the shoulder beginning the long walk up the stairs to the placing he'd spent two long days longing for. The heavy canvas duffle was dropped outside the door to the studio, making for a loud and muffled thump before he continued on. The freed up hand immediately went to his left side, gingerly prodding at the cut from Siba's saber that Sergei had sealed with the medical marvel that was surgical glue, all while half-lidded blue eyes stared ahead expectantly to the door that lay at the apex of the stairs. His mouth compressed into a thin, pensive line as he wondered what he'd find there; what sort of welcome would warm or cool the homefront's interior.

She'll understand, he told himself. With her job and her love for this place, she'll get it. Probably won't like it, but she'll get it. God, please just let me see her smile. Let he know she missed me... He continued to seek optimism when the door was opened and he stepped inside.

The moments dragged along slowly as he lingered in the doorway, the pan of his gaze drinking every familiar detail that made up their home and the memories that he'd come to associate with them.

The coat rack... I have this beautiful hand-carved teak rack for the hanging of coats, he heard Fionna's voice in his head, her tone filled with equal parts amusement and annoyance. Yet you still insist on draping your jackets over the couch or the chairs... or just leave it on the floor. Have some class, my dear Stefan...

The couch, old and but still inviting with plush cushions offering creature comfort. Perfect for lazing about on a quiet evening or supporting the tight press of nearly entwined bodies. Do you like? she asked him, encased provocatively in that patriotically colored ensemble, from corset and lace panties to the garters that clung to long legs. How many times had those cushions sagged beneath her neglegible weight atop his? I know you love these colors... The image changed to something less exotic and more aesthetically sedate, with the sofa crammed full of bodies, snuggled together in the saccarine sweet picture of all The Eye's occupants appearing as hibernating mammals in the dark, faces illuminated by the ambient light of the vid screen as the movie played...

The chair, hand carved and beautiful, a beauty that was diminished beneath that of it's occupant: A woman with her long, dark hair unbound and left to fall free in a cascade down her slim back; a red nighty obscured only by the large cello she played and the peacefully sweet distraction of music before all was abandoned in favor of a soft kiss and more. Happy Birthday, Stefan...

The kitchen, where Mariyah spent countless hours keeping them both from having to fend for themselves when the pressures of work and the dramatic stresses of Rhy'din made the thought of trying to cook (neither was very good at it) daunting. But the rare occassion yielded an interesting culinary moment, and... there were Sundays. Pancake Sundays, where Fionna and the children were squeezed in around the table with the addition of Rekah, Jasper, the twins, and sometimes Jesse or Sergei, the din of their animated conversation a comforting lull while Steve attacked the griddle and pans to feed the army.

To feed the family. His family.

"This is why," he murmured to himself in soft, renewed wonder. "This."

She'd been told this morning that the attempt would be made this afternoon, so she'd asked Nissa to take Raza for the night. Lirssa would stay with a friend. Fio went home at noon because she couldn't stand pacing at the office a moment longer. Instead, she had them route the comm feed through to her phone and she hung on the edge of that ratty old couch that he loved, listening to it all.

But the comm feed had died. They couldn't patch it again: the vagaries of West End had worked against her technology, once again. Since then, she'd been pacing and fussing about, trying to keep busy, trying to stay positive.

When he came in, she was in the back, scrubbing the sinks in their bathroom. It took her a moment to realize she wasn't alone in the flat.

All of the machinist's senses were sharp; pushing the upward limits of what a human could perceive but without the preternatural levels to match his uncanny strength, athelticism, and constitution. To him, it was an empty house and a cause for worry, because night's like these boasted precious few social events for the whole tribe to commit to.

Lirssa should have been playing with Raza on the floor, with Fionna herself not far beyond them. He should have been there too, lounging on the couch and pestering any one of them with some sort of affectionate tease. It was a discouraging revelation for a few brief moments, slumping his shoulders before he started down the hall.

He hadn't bathed in over two days, other than the steady cleaning that had been done around the area of his wound, and was feeling a keen need to cleanse himself of that time away.

Which is how, when she stepped from the bedroom into the hallway, dressed in jeans and a button up shirt with the sleeves rolled above her elbows, she first saw him returned, standing by the door at the other end of the hall.

She froze in place for a moment to soak it in.

And then she ran to fling herself into his arms, sending up streamers of silent praise and thanks.

Steve was...

It was often like him to slouch, wrapping himself in the guise of casual indifference that belied a more normal aggressively inspiring bearing. Because when the machinist stood up straight, with those broad shoulders squared, it was hard to ignore the commanding presence he could exude. But there, at the end of the hall, he fell somewhere in between: He was a soldier (not The Soldier) come home, erect enough in his posture to be somewhat proud and wary of what he'd find after the time gone, but relaxed enough to show the undeniable comfort he felt in this place.

The comfort settling his gaze on her brought.

With all of the stress and the ghosts (real and metaphorical) and negativity threatening the ever-blooming life being built between/around them, he'd expected something more subtle. Perhaps a forced smile that showed a little relief between her Governor-like need to show that she was indeed a strong woman or a lecture to give him a well-deserved browbeating for posterity's sake, before melting against him to remind him how much he had been missed. That was Fionna. Subtle. Nuanced. She didn't force things, more often than not. It was one of the many things he loved about her.

But the eye contact and, more specifically, what followed...

It wasn't expected or prepared for.

He was dimly aware of the sharp pain in his side upon impact, but it was the least important thing in his world at the moment. Steve's knees buckled beneath the intensity of the assault and the emotions that forced themselves past the wall he'd emprisoned them behind. Nothing physical came out, though. Neither words nor any more than the sound of a sharp exhale when she struck him. No pain and no tears. But it came as a surprise when he found himself backed hard against the couch and leaning against it, before sinking to his kneed there on the floor and maintaining an iron-like hold on her.

And still, as moments ticked by, words failed him.

She clung to him tightly, sinking with him when he dropped to the floor. Her arms hung looped around his shoulders, and when he settled, she sat straddling his waist. Her eyes were pressed into the crook of his neck. She didn't weep, but she was shaking, really trembling.

When he finally spoke, it was calm and gentle reassurance.

"It's okay," he murmured quietly against her ear. "Everything's okay. Not even that banged up too much, babe." It was a small petname he so rarely used, because he'd always thought the woman worth something so much more classy that he couldn't really pin a better one on her. "Would be stupid to tell you to never worry, but here I am. Home."

The fingers of a weathered hand rose to comb through her hair, tucking a few errant strands behind the rounded edge of her ear before a kiss touched down just beneath the lobe. "I'm home."

"You're hurt? Where are you hurt?" her fingers traced over his shoulders along his chest. She looked him over, eyes traveling swiftly and scatteredly over his face and torso, down his arms. The French in her tongue was thick tonight, a sure sign of her worry.

"We lost the feed and they couldn't pick it up again, then the transmission here from the command center broke up. Just before Sergei's team dropped in."

"Just a cut on my side," he answered honestly, but still tried to mitigate her worry without lying. "I've had a lot worse and we sealed it up with surgical glue. Can almost promise you it won't be anything but a scar and a memory by Monday." Even still, he winced lightly when she touched the spot along his left side, just below the ribcage. "The pirate captain was so trigger happy, I didn't expect him to draw steel on me."

He listened to the explanation she gave, silently acknowledging that it was likely the reason for her increased worry, before finaly shaking his head and drawing her chest to his. Those fingers still lingered near her ear, the tips drawing around the shell before tracing a light path down over her cheek.

"I could have escaped when the transport went down." It was a quiet admission, bourne of the recent need to be much more straight forward with her in light of previous occurances."But when I saw the survivin' Watch officers pouring out of the hatch and the rough treatment they got when surrounded... I've been left behind to die too many times to wanna let anything happen to them. Or the civilians. Hell, we shouldn't have gone in the way we did anyway, with the Watch's intel being so damned wrong as it was. But everyone's safe now. The officers are in the infirmary, the civilians are bein' treated and then shuttled back to their villages, and the pirates who weren't killed or escaped are gonna be hauled before a magistrate here in the city. I took their captain alive."

He tried to dismiss those details shortly there-after, instead seeking to concentrate on her face and the proximity of her warm body. He didn't smell very pleasant of course: The gunmetal and oiled leather scent, one she'd been so familiar with previously, was mixed with sweat and grime and the other scents of two days spent running amuck in a virtual dungeon.

"But here I am." It was another reassurance, simple words plied instead of the vastly more meaningful ones he was holding back.

"I wanted to go in there and kill them all, when he told me." The confession was made without shame or remorse. "It was very hard to sit and do nothing. You have no idea."

"Welcome to my life, every day you come home without a smile." It wasn't hard to figure out what he meant. The last handful of months had been particularly stressful for her, with all that had been transpiring (stupid and horrific) in the realm. "But I'm here, Fi..."

It might have become and annoying mantra, until he added:

"You wanna know why?"

"No. I just want to hold you for a while." She cut off the explanations and the speeches and the romantic words. All she wanted to do was hold him and feel the thudding of his heart under her hands, against her chest. She buried her face against his neck, and didn't say anything else for almost a minute.

"You smell," she broke the silence.

He couldn't resist the laugh for her response and almost, almost regretted in when the shake of his body produced a fresh, sharp ache in his side. Steve had hoped the wince was lost in the sound of his laughter. But in the end she got what she wanted, his arms drawing her in tighter and a handful of kisses finding warm flesh in gentle affection.

"Sorry," he said finally, with a chagrined smile. "I didn't wanna do this over the phone and was in such a hurry to get home that I didn't take any time to get myself cleaned up at Sergei's. I just needed to be here soon as I could."

She shook her head, trying to urge him to stop... just stop... apologizing. "I would have to poke you in the ribs if you'd stopped to shower before coming home." Her hair, unlike the image he had of her in his homecoming memories, was wound into one long braid down her back, and wagged side to side with the shakes.

"And knowing you," he teased. "It would be on the injured side, just to spite me."

He let another long silence develope and hang between them, as few words were needed for them to just soak up the comfort of the moment. The machinist adored the woman for her strength, that demure mettle that was so uncharacteristic of other women in Rhy'din and just added to her allure and made her a rare treasure. But a man was a man and sometimes, just sometimes, it was nice to get to enjoy some of the other reminders of her womanhood. Who didn't want his lady to be a little territorial? Or, in this case, to throw herself at him in unexpected relief?

"I mean, Hell... why would I shower and get all cleaned up over there when I have such a beautiful, seductive, and tender woman here at home to dote on me, hm?" His smile curved a little deeper, affecting that faux surliness she'd been so often plied with in the early stages of their romance.

"That's a given," she agreed about the side of choice. "I'm surprised you even felt the need to say it aloud."

She plucked at the shirt he was wearing, parting the fabric from the sweat-glazed and dried surface of his skin. The medical adhesive wasn't helping matters on his injured flank. "You do need a shower though."

"What? And miss a chance to hear myself speak?" The juvenile act of sticking his tongue out at her was given the teasing addition of a suggestive flick of his tongue that briefly passed over the pulse of her throat. For all the lack of sleep and sustenance of the last few days, he'd found a renewed vigor in her presence. In her arms. "A shower. A bath. Doesn't matter. You lead, Your Miss Ladyship, and I'll follow. If anything, so I can see the sway of those hips when you walk."

She rocked back on his thighs to get her feet under her and slid her hands down his arms until she found his and could lace fingers. Then she stood, leaning back to counterbalance and give him some help up.

"Come on. Let's get cleaned up. You'll feel better."

His hands gave her a squeeze, subtle reassurance as opposed to the verbal that she might balk at, before he rose up with a quiet grunt. A show was made of roving eyes traveling the length of her body, but it was too clear that his interest lay in her dark eyes, reaffirmed by his smile when their gazes met.

"I felt better when I saw you. Everything else? Well, that's just a bonus."

"Come on," she mumbled to him again, lacing her fingers tighter through his and ducking her head in the direction of their bedroom. "A shower and some clean clothes. Maybe a bite to eat." Tugging, coaxing, encouraging him down the hall. "Or we could just go to bed afterwards."

"I'm waiting on you!" Which wasn't necessarily true with her doing all the tugging and coaxing, but the small measure of obstinance he put into their trek down the hall just served to add a little levity to the moment. "Let's just see to the shower first and then we'll worry about what comes next. One thing at a time.

"Will the adhesive come off in the water?" She wanted to see this 'cut'. Hints of his blood lingered on his skin and in his clothes. Her nose twitched with it.

"It shouldn't. It's meant to be waterproof." In his own odd way of reassuring her that everything was alright, the machinist made a show of watching the subtle sway of her hips as they went, only ceasing when he was caught and could offer a sly grin. A mechanism to promote normalcy. "And Sergei said something about it being engineered to dissolve as the wound heals."

He reached over her as their arrived at the bathroom, ignoring the fresh stab of pain as he pushed the door all the way open to allow for their unhindered entrance. "It'll hold up better than a bandage too, with everything I've gotta get done before and during Saturday."

Because, apparently, Steve wasn't going to let the last two days deter him from the commitment to Children's Day.

No, but she might, if he wasn't up for it.

"Let just start with that shower."

Fionna's fingers moved gingerly and with purpose, her time taken as she stripped the machinist out of his clothes and then allowed him to do likewise as the water for the shower was heating. Words became unnecessary for some time after, as sweat and dirt and the lingering badness of the previous two days were scrubbed away between long periods of them both trying (and mostly succeeding) in recreating that previous embrace. Every now and then their eyes met, with his reward being the full and unfettered bloom of her smile. In return, she was gifted the soft, reassuring touch of callused fingertips along her jaw that said I'm here and... a decided lack of his bad humor.

When it was over, Steve begged off the idea of supper and the possessive curl of an arm that had been maintained around him post-bathing said that she didn't mind. He still seemed hale, if not tired, and she'd see that he ate tomorrow. Instead the pair found themselves curled up in their bed, with entwined limbs and bodies perfectly fitted together; a decided lack of talk over the events of the last two days. Instead of words there was music, an eclectic mash-up of the symphonic sounds she so loved, sprinkled in with tracks from the more folksy-bluesy guitar stuff he preferred when not blasting loud rock music while working.

He didn't want to fall asleep and lose out on these moments. He'd even swear up and down, a futile gesture, that she'd been the one to fade away first. But in the end, and in truth, he was lost to a deep slumber long before Fionna and with no dreams or nightmares to interrupt the rest. She lost him to the mumbled promise of taking her to breakfast and then to driving to work, followed at some point randomly to the words:

This... This is why...

The promise went unfulfilled, however, when Fionna chose a morning without governing, rising in the morning only long enough to shut off both of their alarm clocks before either could potentially roust him. He awoke sometime late in the morning and with the threat of noon looming, to an expectant stare, a brush of long hair over a slim shoulder, an I'm going to get what I want smile that he'd see more than once in the last year.

In the end it equated to another shower (where they'd both forgotten briefly that he'd been injured), lunch at Morgan's Lunchbox (the location of their first 'date'), and a phone call to inform Aja that he hadn't been kidnapped by goblins and the promise that all the remaining preparations for Children's Day would be finished by sunrise Saturday. Even as he and the Lady Bird talked, the governor herself helped phone in some of said preparations to Jack and Whorl at AMT, guaranteeing the bossman's day or rest.

He had, of course, tried to argue. But when she wanted something...

It left Steve grumbling and grousing, until she had phoned in her own excuses to the office for a day of 'working from home' and the pair ended up entwined on the couch for an afternoon of reading together, watching the most ridiculous things of the vid (Someone had imported some show called Duck Dynasty that Fio had somehow become fascinated with), and a little adolescent necking that was eventually broken up by Nissa's arrival with Raza.

This.

Homecoming.

You survive for this.

(Adapted from play with FioHelston, who never does less than bring the awesome!)