Chapter 156| Hers, Considerably

Life in Hegeville, in the weeks following the safehouse discovery, gradually settled back into something resembling its earlier, hopeful rhythm, the schoolhouse’s construction nearing completion, the vocational center’s foundation freshly poured, and Allen found himself, on a quiet, unremarkable afternoon, simply enjoying the rare, uncomplicated pleasure of walking through the town’s central square without some considerable crisis demanding his immediate attention.

Irene walked close beside him, her hand laced through his with the particular, deliberate firmness that had defined her physical affection since the very earliest days of their marriage, and Allen felt her attention sharpen, subtly but unmistakably, the moment a young woman from the vocational center’s new administrative staff approached with genuine, professional warmth.

"Hunter Veton," the woman said, extending a hand. "I just wanted to thank you personally. The center’s given me my first real opportunity in years."

"That’s genuinely wonderful to hear," Allen said, shaking her hand with easy, sincere warmth.

Irene’s grip on his other hand tightened, just slightly, and Allen caught the faint, considerable flare of flame-scent that always accompanied her more possessive moods, subtle enough that the departing woman never noticed, though Allen, after five years of marriage, recognized it immediately.

"You alright?" he asked once they’d continued on, amused affection coloring the question.

"Fine," Irene said, though her tone carried the particular, clipped edge that meant anything but.

"Irene."

She huffed, some of her earlier composure slipping. "I know it’s ridiculous," she admitted. "She wasn’t doing anything wrong. Just being polite. I just—" She stopped, visibly working through the impulse rather than simply indulging it, a habit Myria had spent years patiently helping her cultivate. "I don’t like watching other people get to have moments with you. Even small, meaningless ones. I know that’s considerable, and probably unfair, but I’ve never quite managed to fully talk myself out of it."

"I’m not asking you to talk yourself out of it," Allen said gently, drawing her closer. "I like that you feel that fiercely about this. About us. I just want you to know you never have anything to actually worry about."

"I know that," Irene said, some of her earlier tension easing at the reassurance, though her grip on his hand remained deliberately, possessively firm. "Doesn’t mean the feeling goes away just because the logic’s sound."

They continued their walk in comfortable, easy silence for a while, and Allen found himself, watching Irene’s gaze track every passing interaction with the same careful, watchful attention, feeling nothing but warm, genuine affection for exactly how fiercely she loved him, however considerable that fierceness occasionally proved.

"Can I ask you something?" Irene said eventually, breaking the silence.

"Anything."

"If I asked you to never let anyone else stand this close to you," she said, only half teasing, "would you think I was being ridiculous?"

Allen considered the question with the same genuine care he brought to every one of her occasionally intense requests. "I’d think you were being you," he said. "And I wouldn’t mind it, honestly. I’ve never wanted anyone standing this close to me except the four of you."

Irene’s answering smile carried fierce, unguarded warmth, and she pressed closer against his side, satisfaction settling visibly into place. "Good answer," she said.

"I have four years of practice," Allen said, grinning.

"Five," Irene corrected immediately, sharp and possessive even in correction. "Don’t shortchange us."

"Five," Allen agreed, laughing, and let her pull him toward the square’s small, newly planted garden, Everlyn’s careful handiwork already blooming steadily beneath considerable, patient attention.

They found Everlyn there, kneeling among her flowers, and Irene released Allen’s hand only long enough to embrace her sister-wife with the same fierce, considerable warmth, before immediately reclaiming her hold on Allen’s arm the moment the greeting concluded.

"She does that with all of us," Everlyn mouthed silently, catching Allen’s amused expression, her notepad forgotten in her lap for once, expression carrying gentle, knowing affection rather than any genuine complaint.

"I heard that," Irene said, without any actual hearing involved, simply recognizing the familiar shape of the joke from long experience. "And yes, I do. Sue me for wanting everyone to know exactly who he belongs to."

"Who we all belong to," Everlyn corrected gently, though her own smile carried the same fierce, quiet warmth.

"Considerably true," Irene agreed, and settled more comfortably against Allen’s side, watching Everlyn’s garden sway gently in the afternoon breeze, content, for once, in the rare, uncomplicated peace of an afternoon that asked nothing more of any of them than simply, genuinely being together.

Vivian found them there some time later, having finished her own considerable rounds of the medical facility’s continued expansion, and settled onto the garden’s low stone border with quiet, easy familiarity, watching Irene’s proprietary hold on Allen’s arm with dry, knowing amusement.

"Still at it, I see," Vivian observed.

"Always," Irene said, entirely unrepentant.

"For what it’s worth," Vivian said, "I don’t think any of us are much better. I simply express it differently."

"You express it through knowing exactly where I am at all times," Allen said, grinning.

"Precisely," Vivian confirmed, without a trace of embarrassment. "Some of us prefer subtlety. Others prefer volume." She glanced pointedly at Irene, who stuck her tongue out in response with all the maturity of someone considerably younger than her actual age.

Everlyn, watching the exchange with quiet delight, reached for her notepad, pen moving in familiar, practiced strokes. ’And I prefer to simply grow something beautiful wherever he happens to stand, so the ground itself remembers him fondly.’

"That’s considerably more poetic than either of ours," Vivian admitted.

"She’s always been the romantic," Irene said, softening. "I’m just the possessive one."

"You’re both," Allen said, drawing them all a little closer. "All four of you are both, honestly, just in your own particular ways. I wouldn’t have it any different."

The garden settled into comfortable, easy quiet after that, four very different expressions of the same fierce, unshakeable devotion gathered loosely around him, and Allen let himself, for a little while longer, simply enjoy being exactly that thoroughly, considerably loved.

Myria found them there eventually, drawn by the garden’s own quiet warmth, and settled into the small space Irene made for her without needing to ask. "What did I miss?" she asked, studying the group’s contented expressions.

"Just some considerable comparing of notes," Vivian said dryly, "on exactly how possessively each of us loves him."

"Ah," Myria said, something knowing and amused in her tone. "I could contribute considerably to that particular conversation, if you’d like."

"We know," the other three said, nearly in unison, and the garden filled with genuine, delighted laughter, five people settled comfortably together in the fading afternoon light, each one loved fiercely, thoroughly, and in exactly their own particular way.