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We've no confirmation either way.

[ so it boils down, perhaps, to the degree of trust one is willing to extend to the universe, the anomaly, to chance. occam's razor, perhaps; the simplest explanation is that the anomaly takes them from their home and returns them there. ]

[It's true, of course. It's as true of losing Bucky here as it was of not being able to account for those back home--or of being a world away from someone else in the middle of a war.

William's breath comes carefully, fingers shifting to catch delicate hold of the closest bit of jacket or slacks. The point of connection is small, delicate, but it helps immensely with continuing to feel centered in the moment.]

Admittedly. [And the universe does look cold and unforgiving, twirling past the window--but it feels warm and solid and safe just here, with these light little connections to the person standing next to him.] I've a good feeling, all the same.

[ i've a good feeling, william says, fingers catching on the sleeve of nightingale's suitjacket, and there's nothing to be done but shift just so until it's their fingers tangled together, skin and skin instead of cloth. ]

I may-

[ it's not what he's been taught at all, not how he's lived his life, but no man is an island and he does not want to return to the days when he'd sat in the folly alone and empty, when he'd had none but molly to keep him company for years on end and sought out nothing else.

he loves molly dearly, of course, but her company is the quiet kind. ]

-need to borrow some of that, if I may.

[Holding hands is better. Slotting fingers between fingers, heartbeats against heartbeats, has long been one of the most reassuring things--here and back home.

It's easier to feel confident in his own optimism with joined hands. And it's easier with joined hands to let a little more of himself slide into the empathy bond between them, muted but present, passing through grief but undeniably full of hope.]

What's mine is yours, Thomas.

[ holding hands is the kind of comfort that he needs right now, the reminder that for all that he has lost another soldier (for that is what bucky was, even if they never fought together, even if they were many other things to each other), he isn't alone. the empathy bond helps, that gentle flow of optimism and hope cutting through the grief.

he doesn't want the same heavy fog he'd felt after the war to descend on him again. this helps counter the heaviness of the loss, makes it manageable. still felt, but not all-encompassing. (it's about bucky, but it's also about the many people he's lost before, names painstakingly carved into a wooden staircase because someone ought to remember, there ought to have been some memorial.)

and then william speaks and the words jolt nightingale out of his heavier considerations. ]

That- sounds serious. [ he says after a moment, considering. ]

[The words had come very naturally. It takes Lawford a heartbeat or two of his own to gently parse the quiet of his own mind for exactly how much he'd meant the weight behind the words.

In the end, it's another very natural answer.] I expect it is.

[Some pieces of their life here were simply beyond reality. That didn't mean there was no truth to the sensation of Thomas's fingers curled with his own, or the faint pleased skip of his heart now and then, or the ease with which his mind was prepared to agree that it had, in fact, meant to let this particular weight settle between them now.]

[ thomas considers it for a moment, turning those words and the sense of certainty from william through the empathy bond over in his mind. (in his heart, too.)

on the tailend of feeling lonely, missing bucky, he finds himself at a crossroad —he could let the loss be a prompt to avoid further pain, to withdraw, or he could grasp for what is offered, what he still has.

he's lived a life in the shadows before, barely living, little more than a ghost in his own life. he knows better now and the words as much as his own growing certainty in response send joy through him, piercing. ]

Yes, [ he responds after a moment, lips quirking up a little finally. ] quite right.

[The hurt is still there. Loss is still sitting against the heart. But the quiet seep of certainty, passing back and forth between them, warm and solid and real, serves to gently undercut the unpleasant sensation that this ache will necessarily last exactly like this forever.

For a heartbeat, William turns toward the other man. It's a brief, glancing thing, pressing his forehead against Thomas's shoulder, but it intensifies the connection of the empathy bond another hair before he turns back to studying the view before them.

(There are other words, perhaps, for another time. This, here and now, is enough.)]

[ the hurt is still there, but this is a balm thomas could not have envisaged, had not expected—one that soothes all the more for being unexpected, in truth.

he doesn't know how long they end up standing next to one another, shoulders brushing and fingers intertwined, looking out at the stars. he doesn't know, but it is a long time before a thought hits, before he finds himself clearing his throat. ]

I think I ought to tell you, [ if he weren't so reserved, his tone might almost be sheepish. ] That is, well.

[ out with it, man. ]

I'm rather older than I look.

[The long quiet helps. It allows the warmth of their bodies close beside one another to seep in deeper, curling against the cold that can take hold in the bones.

Thomas's voice is a gentle tug back into the moment rather than the sensation. William's thumb shifts thoughtlessly but firmly, smoothing at knuckles that he's begun to know nearly as well as the back of his own hand.]

Rather lucky.

[Most men in their position, after all, looked decades older than their years on Earth.]

[ thomas hums, hand tightening briefly around william's fingers before he forces himself to relax, or at least something akin to it, again. (the proximity, the gentle sweep of that thumb over his knuckles, the way william holds on, those things help.) ]

I did age normally until I was almost 70.

[...well. That's different, isn't it. Not something worth startling away about or anything that dramatic, but certainly worthy of a contemplative examination of the man standing next to him.]

And how long ago was that, if that isn't awfully rude to ask?

[Difficult to imagine, really; William already feels ancient from the comparatively paltry decades he's survived.]

Not quite 50 years ago.

[ different is one word for it, yes. ] I aged backwards for a while, but it seems to have settled now.

[There should be lots of questions, surely, but all that bubbles up to William's lips is:] Oh, mo chridhe, I... cannot imagine.

[The losses of a single lifetime could already be too much to bear. The losses of several lifetimes? Of the constant press of war, of want, of even the gentle peace some found in old age?

The rush of overwhelmed concern has to come first.]

[ the rush of concern steals thomas's breath away, breaking open some of the festering aches growing in his chest.

it is all that he can do to stay still, not to bury his face against william's neck. then he considers that william would let him and does it after all, slowly, deliberately. ]

[Of course Thomas is allowed; welcomed, even, into the space at the crook of William's neck. His chin nudges instinctively into place, close and protective, as his arm shifts at the same slow pace to curl properly around the older man.

It isn't enough, but it's what there is to offer against this particular chill of the heart.]

[ william curls his arm around thomas, chin nudging into place and it's —it's not at all the sort of thing that thomas is inclined to in public, generally, and exactly the kind of thing his heart needs right now.

(he tries not to think about all those he has lost, about going on when damn near his entire generation of wizards lost their lives or otherwise gave up after operation spatchcock. he tries, and then he worries that if he forgets, who will remember them? so he does think about them after all, so he's carved their names into the wall of their own school.

there's no one left but him to see them there. well, peter now. it's something. it's the future.)

he sighs a little, letting himself lean into william's steadiness, the concern and comfort and warmth there.

eventually: ]

Thank you.

[His head shakes very slightly, careful not to dislodge the moment they've settled into. There's nothing to thank him for. There's almost a need to thank the man curling against him--for the honesty, for the intimacy, for the strange sensation of being slightly more whole when finding there are other strong shoulders carrying a familiar crushing weight.

Another slight turn lets him press his nose into place against Thomas's temple with the softest bit of a sigh.]

[ william shakes his head, barely but undeniably, the message clear through gesture and empathy bond both, and thomas hums in acknowledgment and lets himself sink into william's warmth, just lets himself be held. ]

There we are, darling.

[Even this much unwinding into someone else takes effort. Even this little sliver of help has to be counted as properly important.

They'll linger here until it feels properly real under the other man's skin, hopefully; something to return to in the moments of unsteadiness.]

[ there we are. thomas hums in return, takes that darling and the warmth of william's body, the arm around him and the beat of william's heart and uses it to shore himself up, to ease the aches of more than one lifetime, of loss and war.

william, he's come to understand, is a marvel. this only confirms his opinion on the matter.

he pulls back eventually, not to go anywhere, just enough that he can take in william for a moment before brushing his lips against william's, another thank you, but non-verbal, just as much as a just-because kiss. ]

I'm glad to have met you here.

[It feels a little more settled when Thomas leans back now. It feels a little more like they're taking steps down the path leading toward breathing with a sense of calm again. It feels a bit like the kiss is just a kiss, just natural and easy and for no reason at all.

Williams' fingers shift slightly, letting his thumb find the back of the other man's neck to smooth at absently.]

And I you. And for... every second of knowing you.

[ thomas leans into the touch. he isn't smiling, but there is warmth in his gaze now that wasn't there before, replacing the grief and sorrow, the shadows, or at least pushing them back. ]

Quite.

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itt: old men declaring their infatuation for each other, do you wanna leave it here?

bless this softness ty