Archive of Our Own ^beta

The wall cracks down the middle, thin lines splintering out from the centre, and a curtain of gravel cascades to the stone floor. A head peeks through the hole that has formed, dark curls barely contained in a hasty bun, and Cliff is gone .

There are others in the group that greet them through that wall; faces weary, and clothes streaked with dust. But Cliff remembers none but Marie-Claire. Her drill thunks onto the ground with a great clang, and Cliff is known for scolding members of his team when they treat their tools irresponsibly, but it doesn't even cross his mind to wince at the harsh noise.

Instead, he's laser-focused on the woman stepping over the threshold into his half of the tunnel. She wipes the chalk from her hands onto her jumpsuit, leaving a trail of patchy white behind on the dark material, and then holds out a hand.

Cliff takes it carefully. Breathlessly.

"Marie-Claire." She says, tongue rolling smoothly over the R's, "French Geologist."

"Cliff," he returns, hoping against all odds that he doesn't look as starstruck as he feels, "English Geologist."

She laughs then. Something that reminds him of gravel crunching underfoot, and the melodic dings of metallic equipment against rock. Rough and soft and oh so beautiful.

"Cliff." She repeats, and even his own name, something that should be as familiar to his ears as breathing is to his lungs, sounds wonderful and new coming from her mouth. "Cliff the Geologist."

Marie-Claire shakes his hand firmly, chalk erupting in a small cloud around the enclosed seal of their palms. Her eyes are bright and her grin is toothy. Cliff takes in a small, measured breath, just to check that he still remembers how.

"I think we will be great friends, Cliff."

And, hell, Cliff is hardly going to disagree, is he?

He introduces Marie-Claire to the members of his team, and she delights in returning the favour- calling back through the gap in excited French for her group to come and join them. Cliff tries to keep their names straight in his head, but he's far too distracted by the enthusiastic gleam in Marie-Claire's eyes, and the dust caught in her hair.

She ushers one man forward ( Pierre, Cliff recalls): sentences a rushed explosion of English and French, as she raves about his assistance during the dig on their side of the tunnel. Cliff nods politely and Pierre returns it rigidly, smile tight and awkward; Marie-Claire swings her arm around his shoulder, calls him " Mon bras droit," and then Pierre's eyes soften, and his posture right along with them.

(Cliff notices this but doesn't think about it again until several years have passed.)

It takes a bit of time to get into the swing of proper communication; Cliff only remembers some basic French phrases from his O-Levels, and Marie-Claire isn't completely fluent in English, but they make do.

Their two groups work together to widen the hole, until the join between the English and French sides of the tunnel is entirely seamless. When the last of the rubble is cleared and they can finally step back and admire their work, a loud cheer goes up. Marie-Claire leads the chanting with some frenzied fist pumps and loud stomping that echoes around the cavernous space they've built together. And Cliff isn't far behind with a proud grin of his own.

Marie-Claire moves towards him, weaving between a sea of jovial bodies, and reappears with only a few centimetres of space between them. She reaches out and rests a hand on his shoulder, a fierce determination in her eyes that matches the deliberate nature of her actions.

"When we get out of here, we are going for a drink."

Cliff splutters and twists his fingers into the fabric of his jeans because it's rare that he catches anyone's attention, let alone someone as forward as Marie-Claire.

"Why me?" He manages, voice strained and fingers white.

"Your name is Cliff," she says simply, as if it should be obvious, "I'll have you."

And Cliff is more than willing to let her.

–●–

They get married in England and have their honeymoon in France. It makes sense, after all; the Eurotunnel is newly opened, and quite frankly the idea of going to France via plane or boat is unthinkable. Cliff and Marie-Claire built that tunnel with their own two hands (as well as a dozen others) so it's only right that they experience it in its full glory firsthand.

"We should do this again sometime," Marie-Claire says, when they're about halfway through the journey, and probably whizzing over the same ground they'd met on just a few years prior, "with the others, I mean."

Cliff looks up from his notepad, having been sketching out a few of the more notable geodes he'd discovered recently. He tucks his pencil behind his ear, "The others?"

"Our teams. It would be nice, no? A little group reunion? Pierre would love it I think."

Cliff hums noncommittally. Most of his team moved onto other projects further afield after finishing the tunnel- out of the country entirely, in some cases- so the likelihood of pulling off a reunion was slim. And Marie-Claire's team wasn't much different.

"Do you hear much from him?"

"Who? Pierre?" Marie-Claire shakes her head, expression a little sad and troubled, "Not for a while. I think maybe he was angry I wouldn't stay in France."

Cliff snorts, "I think he just doesn't like me."

Marie-Claire swats his shoulder playfully, laughter crinkling the corners of her eyes.

"He only met you a couple times. Surely you did not offend him so quickly?"

"I'm a man of many talents."

She laughs properly this time, and even now, years later, the sound still causes Cliff's heart to stutter in his chest. Maybe she'll always have that effect on him. Until the day they die. "Well," she says, "I suppose this tunnel does look quite good."

–●–

Bradley Chip is born happy and healthy. Well, Cliff thinks privately, happy might be ambitious given the amount of crying he's doing, but sure.

Cliff was the one to suggest the name Bradley- after his dad. Marie-Claire had been suspiciously agreeable, only requesting that she could pick the middle name. Obviously Cliff knows why now; she was trying to undermine him from the very beginning.

"What?" Marie-Claire says playfully, when he finally has eyes on the birth certificate, "I think it's cute. You guys are matching."

Cliff gives her his best deadpan stare, "You've named our son after a mining technique."

She tuts at him, attention drawn away from their petty feud by the bundle of blankets and tiny baby limbs wrapped in her arms. Bradley Chip makes some indecipherable cooing noise, and Marie-Claire taps him oh so gently on the nose. Cliff pretends like he isn't dangerously close to bursting into tears because his family is so precious.

"Don't be so dramatic," she admonishes, "it's a fine name. Nobody would even think about the geology connection."

She passes Bradley Chip across and Cliff cradles him automatically, then rearranges the blankets so that they're tucked a little bit tighter. Just to be sure.

"Besides," Marie-Claire continues, dark circles deep under her eyes but her expression still alight with mischief, "it's not as if it's his first name, is it?"

Which is why Cliff now finds himself rocking a crying baby 'Chip' back and forth and wondering which of his life choices had led to this moment. Marrying Marie-Claire was probably the big one; if he had any sense he'd be working on blueprints for a time machine so that he could go back and warn his past self. What a shame that he's still completely and unbelievably head-over-heels for the woman.

"Come on, Bradley," He soothes, following the groove he's worn into the carpet with all his pacing, "it can't be that bad, can it?"

The crying increases in volume almost immediately.

"Alright- Alright, shhh, maybe it can be. It's been a while since I had to grow new teeth, you see? Don't remember how it felt."

The sobbing gets louder still, and Cliff's headache worsens right along with it.

"Fine, okay, Chip then. Should've known you'd side with your mother on your own name."

It's almost offensive how quickly Chip's cries subside when he hears, what is in his mind, the right name. Cliff wonders, not for the first time, whether he should consider divorce just for the principle of the thing. It's not like Marie-Claire will know what he's thinking- not with her being away at some geology conference.

They decided early on that Cliff would take up the mantle of Stay-At-Home-Dad, whilst Marie-Claire continued in her career. He hadn't banked on her being back at work quite so soon, but it's hardly a surprise; she loves the rocks almost as much as she loves her family, and the conference is an important one.

Cliff doesn't miss the work as much as he thought he would. It's a little strange sometimes, hearing about the research and projects Marie-Claire is involved in without being involved in them himself, but they'll get into the swing of things soon enough. Cliff doesn't really have the brain space to miss geology right now, anyway, given how much brain capacity Chip takes up.

Especially now that the teething's started.

Chip grizzles quietly in Cliff's arms, sucking moodily on the teething ring Cliff scooped up on his last lap around the coffee table. It's at least doing the job of keeping him quiet, even if getting him down for a nap is a pipe dream.

"Alright Chip, how about this? Did I ever tell you the story of how your Mama and I met? It's a good one, I promise."

–●–

The GP's office is the same blinding white as the rest of the hospital, including the fixed smile pasted across the face of the receptionist that greeted Cliff earlier. It was all teeth, with creases at the corners of her mouth that suggested friendliness and amusement. But her eyes were as glazed as the frosted glass windows overlooking the miserable concrete car park.

The office walls are a patchwork of eye-popping cartoons that proudly proclaim the benefits of washing your hands, and flashy posters with a how-to guide on dialling 999. The abrasive colours and over-enthusiastic smiley faces only serve to put Cliff more on edge.

Chip, of course, is oblivious to all of this and is instead stacking colourful wooden blocks on top of each other, and squealing excitedly when they topple over. Cliff wishes he could be even a fraction as carefree as his son, but unfortunately not.

The door clicks and the GP walks in, a sheet of paper held loosely in her hand.

"Sorry about that- my printer's been throwing a wobble recently. Had to borrow my colleague's."

Cliff tries for a smile. It falls flat.

"Right then, Chip, what's going on with you?! I hear you gave your dad a bit of a scare today."

Chip looks up from his blocks and glances uncertainly at Cliff, "Maybe."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

Chip fiddles with the block, half an eye still on Cliff. Half an eye on the shaky tower. He mumbles something inaudible, the words muffled by the cuff of his jumper sleeve as he jams it into his mouth.

"I understand if it's difficult to explain," the doctor continues, smile still wedged firmly in place, "Maybe instead you could tell me what it felt like? Did you feel a bit strange?"

Chip nods shyly.

"That must have been very scary for you. Did it hurt?"

Chip shakes his head; places another block on his tower, "...felt weird."

"But not painful?"

He shakes his head again.

"Good- that's wonderful Chip. You're doing a really great job explaining this to me."

Cliff feels a little patronised on Chip's behalf, but his son doesn't appear put off. If anything, he stacks his block tower with renewed enthusiasm. At least the incident doesn't seem to have frightened him too badly. Maybe Cliff's the one overreacting, and everything is totally fine.

"Did you know that when you had that funny feeling, you started speaking French, Chip?"

"Like Mama!"

The doctor smiles- beams even, "Yes that's right! Just like your mummy. Has that happened to you before, or was that a brand new thing?"

"Brand new."

She scribbles something across her printout and Cliff tries to get a look at it, but her handwriting may as well be hieroglyphs with how legible it is. He settles back in his chair, the cold metal legs biting through the thin material of his jeans. It's been a long day, and the sun's barely crept past noon. He'd been giving Chip his lunch when the episode happened, and he's since abandoned any notions of a relaxing afternoon he may have had. It'd taken a lot of effort to dissuade Marie-Claire from rushing down and meeting them at the clinic, but he'd managed it. Just about.

"What did it feel like when you were speaking French just like your mummy? Did it feel normal or did it feel like you weren't in charge of what was happening?"

Chip ponders this, and Cliff finds himself interested in what the answer will be. From his perspective, one moment he was giving Chip a plate of bangers and mash, and the next he was holding his son in a panic as he spasmed in his arms. Then Chip had looked up, noticed the plate and pointed at it with a cheery cry of "Saucisses!" And had continued to babble in French for five minutes, before succumbing to another fit and reverting back to English. Cliff doesn't think he's ever been more scared in his life. Not during any of his geological digs- and he'd had some close calls in his time.

"Normal." Chip decides, and topples the tower once again.

The doctor scribbles some more notes. Cliff just feels adrift from it all.

Marie-Claire gets home an hour earlier than usual. Cliff had called her after the appointment, but he isn't surprised when she comes barrelling in through the door. She pauses briefly to kiss his cheek and squeeze his hand, but she vanishes through the living room door in a matter of seconds. A moment later, Chip squeals excitedly and an excited repetition of " Mama, Mama, Mama!" starts up.

Cliff smiles despite himself. His family is here and they're safe. The doctor didn't seem too concerned by Chip's fit, and he hasn't had another yet.

They're fine. Things will be fine.

–●–

The front door slams against the wall loudly, and Cliff looks up from his cleaning with an exasperated sigh.

"Chip! Don't make me tell you again! Come in calmly or don't come in at all!"

"Sorry, Dad!" Chip yells from...somewhere.

Cliff runs his rag down the sleek body of his drill- the diamond tip positively sparkling under the overhead lights. It's been ages since he last used it, years in fact: probably sometime before Chip was born. But that's never stopped him from keeping up maintenance on all his tools. There's something soothing about the routine; and when Chip was much younger he used to sit next to Cliff at the table, entranced by the shiny metal. Marie-Claire would join them after work too, her own tools clanging onto the worktop accompanied by a shower of gravel dust. She'd set up her own little cleaning station (a lot less organised than Cliff's but equally effective), and they'd spend a relaxed evening together- minimal talking save for Chip's babbling, and gentle strokes of cloth on the machine.

Simpler times. Cliff eyes the stairs, and can imagine the closed door to his and Marie-Claire's bedroom. Happier times too, maybe.

Chip appears a minute later, a whirlwind of limbs and he struggles with pulling his school jumper off over his head. Cliff grabs him by the sleeve and pulls him towards the table, wrestling with the fabric for a moment until Chip's head pops free. His hair is mussed so Cliff does the only acceptable thing, and ruffles it even further.

"Mmf, Dad! Geroff!"

Chip wiggles away, cheeks red and eyes shiny. He's clutching something in one hand, his fist tight around the object. Cliff picks up his rag again and raises an eyebrow at him.

"What've you got there?"

"A secret."

"For me?"

Chip shakes his head, "For mum."

"Can I see? Or should I wait until you show her?"

There's a pause as Chip hesitates, and Cliff focuses on his cleaning. He doesn't want Chip to feel pressured into showing him. Not if he doesn't want to.

"No, it's okay," Chip decides, grabbing at Cliff's hand and hovering his closed fist over Cliff's palm, "you can look."

He drops the object into Cliff's hand. It's weighted but not too heavy, the surface an interesting mix of rough and smooth textures. Chip moves his hand away, and Cliff is able to get a proper look at the object.

It's a stone, no bigger than a satsuma. It's orange like one too, a soft amber threaded with yellow and brown. The colour reflects across Cliff's skin, and he tilts it gently to watch it gleam under the kitchen lights. He smiles, as soft as the orange glow that dances over his palm, and hands the stone back.

"It's beautiful, Chip. I'm sure she'll love it."

Chip grins sheepishly, ears and cheeks tinged red. He fiddles with the stone, turning it round and round in his hands.

"Do you think it'll make her feel a bit better? Would she come down for tea, do you think?"

Cliff tries for a smile.

"It might just do the trick!" He stretches his arms up above his head and winces as a jarring crack runs through his neck and shoulders, "Tell you what, why don't you go show Mum what you've got for her, whilst I clear some of this away and get some tea on, eh? Sound good?"

"Sausages?" Chip pleads, pulling at pouty face he could only have learned from his mother. Cliff ruffles at his hair again.

"Sure thing. Now scram."

Cliff listens to the sound of quick footsteps up the stairs, the creak of floorboards along the landing, and then the hesitant knock on the bedroom door. The snick of slightly warped wood brushing over carpet as the door opens. Then it closes.

He gathers his tools and deposits them in the duffle bag by his feet. The movement jostles a flyer that he hadn't realised was on the table- he must've put his equipment down on top of it, as it's now slightly smudged with polish. The contents of the flyer are easy enough to discern though. It's the reason Marie-Claire hides up in her room most days. It's the reason Chip feels like he has to walk on eggshells around his own mum. It probably also has something to do with why Chip's seizures have been getting stronger.

'GET BREXIT DONE' the flyer proclaims, words red and harsh against the blue header. Cliff crumples the pamphlet and tosses it in the bin. His eyes creep towards the stairs. He strains them, as if he could somehow x-ray straight through the ceiling and then through that closed bedroom door.

He puts his tool bag away. Turns the oven on.

Things are fine.

–●–

"What was the point?" Marie-Claire asks, and Cliff feels his heart sink. He knows this question. She's asked it almost every week since the referendum started. He still doesn't know what the right answer is.

"We worked hard. And now, it turns out it was for nothing."

Her words aren't bitter or angry. They used to be, but now her tone is void of any emotion. Flat. Empty. Cliff rolls over in bed and reaches a hand out.

But Marie-Claire shuffles away. The warmth goes with her.

"We dug that tunnel to unite England and France, and for what? For them to be divided once again?" She huffs a humourless laugh, "That was our greatest achievement? Pointless."

"Pointless? No, I wouldn't say that," he presses a hand to her back, trying to bridge the distance between them. A distance so wide there may as well be a chasm running down the length of the bed, splitting it neatly in two. "I met you, didn't I? And then we had Chip. That doesn't seem pointless to me."

Marie-Claire doesn't reply. The chasm widens further. So does the one in Cliff's heart.

She jumps only a few weeks later. And Cliff feels as though the chasm is swallowing him whole.

-●-

The funeral is a sombre affair, filled with faces Cliff doesn't particularly recognise. Many of them are Marie-Claire's colleagues from over the years, and though Cliff is on friendly terms with a few of them, he'd never spent much time around them. There's a couple of people from the Eurotunnel dig too- mostly Cliff's old team- that show up and offer stitled condolences.

Cliff drifts through the proceedings.

It all feels like one big, terrible dream. Her ashes sit in an urn, tucked away in her old office. Cliff doesn't have the energy to go and scatter them anywhere. Maybe if he waits long enough he'll crumble to dust too, and then they can sweep him into the same urn as her, and set them free together.

Marie-Claire's death gets a bit of publicity via the radio and newspapers. She was a fairly prolific geologist after all, even before she moved to England, and her passing was clearly news worthy enough to warrant a 'tragic death' mini headline in the paper. One article describes her as "a bright spark, now extinguished" and Cliff wants to set the paper and maybe himself on fire. How's that for extinguished?

Chip is subdued most days, which isn't surprising. Cliff starts calling him Bradley, something he hasn't done in years, because the nickname...

There is too much that reminds Cliff of Marie-Claire, and their son is number one on the list. So Cliff calls him Bradley. It's fine. If Bradley minds, he doesn't say anything.

The orange stone Bradley found sits on Cliff's bedside table, a thin film of dust coating the surface. Part of Cliff wants to chuck the stone in Marie-Claire's urn- just so he never has to see the damn thing again. Never has to see what it represents. The ways in which he failed his family. The other part of him wants to sit in bed cradling that same stone and never leave.

Instead, he gives it back to Bradley. Out of sight; out of mind.

The months pass slowly, and Cliff feels as though he's moving through treacle. Every day since Marie-Claire's death is an effort, every step he tries to take goes nowhere, and he's so fucking tired .

Suddenly it's Father's Day and the pair of them are sitting at the kitchen table; Bradley hesitantly holding out a cardboard stegosaurus.

Cliff is reminded of that orange stone. What it represented.

" Do you think it'll make her feel a bit better?" Bradley had said

Cliff stares down at the dinosaur, edges rough and the texture bumpy. He can almost hear the meaning behind the gift- the message Bradley is desperate to get across:

Will this make you feel better? Will it work this time? It has to. I can't lose another parent. Don't let me lose another one. Please please, please.

Cliff holds the stegosaurus carefully between his hands. Just like the day he'd held the stone. Just like the day he'd held Bradley-no, Chip, when he was born. Just like the day he'd held his drill as the tunnel wall came crumbling down, and Marie-Claire's head peeked through.

Maybe it was time to go back to the tunnel. One last hurrah, for Marie-Claire's sake. And then they could move forward. Move on.

"Aye," he says, voice soft and eyes shiny with unshed tears, "aye, that'd be nice."

-●-

The wall cracks down the middle, thin lines splintering out from the centre, and a curtain of gravel cascades to the stone floor.

Cliff glances to his left in time to see Pierre wiping powdered debris off the barrel of his drill, fingers dirty and hair streaked with chalk dust. The granite that he'd placed only a few hours ago was now a pile of rubble at their feet. England and France, connected once again. If only Marie-Claire could see them.

Pierre looks up, meets his eyes, and Cliff tries a small smile. It isn't returned, but he can see the tips of Pierre's ears tinged red under the dim light of their head torches. That feels like success in and of itself.

Their drills come to a stand still, and half a second later Chip's tiny one stops buzzing too, a small cloud of dust erupting in its wake.

"Good work team," Cliff says proudly, and pats Chip on the head, "Now, who's hungry?"

They head to a cafe when they finally emerge from the tunnel, the sun high in the sky above them. Chip wants a pain au chocolat, which is ironic considering they aren't in France. Cliff orders a black coffee because he isn't allowed to inject caffeine straight into his veins to wake up, and this is the next best thing.

Pierre shifts uncomfortably in his plastic chair.

There's two men near the drinks counter having a quiet argument. Cliff can't hear much of it, but he assumes they must be exes given the tense exchange and passive aggressive commentary on Darjeeling. He takes another gulp of his coffee. None of his business.

"So," he asks brightly, "what are your plans? Back to France? You still doing geology work? I've not done it full time for years- not since I had this one!" He ruffles Chip's hair, who bats him away.

Pierre shrugs and looks down at his food. Cliff had ordered him a sausage roll (because he appreciates irony) and Pierre picks at it with an air of distrust.

"I have no plans."

Chip looks up at that, his pastry forgotten in favour of peering speculatively at Pierre, and shooting Cliff furtive looks. Clearly, the coffee hasn't kicked in for Cliff yet because he has no idea what Chip is trying to communicate.

"What if you stayed with us?" Chip says.

There's a commotion behind them, and when Cliff turns around he catches a glimpse of the two men from before now heavily making out against the counter. And for some reason their shirts are unbuttoned. Huh. Alright then.

"Sorry, Chip," Cliff says, somewhat distractedly, "what were you saying?"

Chip eyes the men at the counter, and then glances between Cliff and Pierre. Sometimes Cliff wonders if he accidentally dropped Chip as a baby and forgot about it, because it's the only thing that would explain his weird behaviour.

"Nothing really. I just thought it might be nice to spread Mum's ashes soon. Maybe Pierre could come too?"

Pierre looks slightly uncomfortable, as though he might start to protest, but Cliff's already considering the possibility. It's a nice thought; the idea of finding a nice spot to finally lay Marie-Claire to rest. And whilst he would be perfectly okay with it just being him and Chip, there's something comforting about the thought of doing it with someone else who understands. Someone who loved Marie-Claire just as much as he did, even if she never knew it.

But mostly Cliff doesn't want to only have Chip to lean on for support. It's not his son's job to look after him. It won't be Pierre's either, but maybe they can look out for each other. Just a little bit.

"That's a great idea, Chip. Let's do it."

-●-

It takes a couple of weeks to sort out the logistics of their plan. Cliff had gone back to part-time working a year or so before Marie-Claire's death (not as a Geologist this time, but running educational workshops at the local museum), and then gone on bereavement leave following it. It's only recently that he's finally got back into the swing of working and supporting Chip, so his schedule is a little all over the place, but he makes it work.

In the meantime, Pierre takes over the spare bedroom. He insists that he would be perfectly fine with booking a hotel for the week, or even going back to France and returning closer to the time. But Cliff won't hear of it. They have a chance here to patch up their somewhat rocky relationship, even though most of the tension is on Pierre's side, and he doesn't want to waste it.

Having Pierre around is good for all of them. It takes a couple of days to find a routine, but once they do everything seems to click into place.

Chip is endlessly fascinated in the stories Pierre has from overseas, and Cliff finds himself distracted from what he's doing on more than one occasion- too caught up in Pierre's tales to concentrate. There's a mix of stories, either about recent research sites, or stuff from years ago when Pierre was working with Marie-Claire. He has a lot of stories about her, and both Cliff and Chip eat up every single one. There are even a few Cliff's never heard before.

"She got stuck?!"

Pierre shrugs, a smile playing at the corner of his lips, "According to her she was just," he holds up his hands to finger quote, "admiring the fossil pattern as closely as possible," he snorts, a rare occurrence coming from Pierre, and drops his hands, "but she needed three people to help her stop, uh 'admiring fossils' and it took them ten minutes to pull her out."

Cliff laughs, a conjured image of the scene going round and round in his brain. He can imagine it as clearly as if he was there; Marie-Claire wedged between two rock walls, a sheepish look on her face, and Pierre with crossed arms judging from the sidelines. He only wishes he could have seen it himself.

Chip makes good use of having Pierre around too, immediately enlisting his help for French homework, but also to fulfil Marie-Claire's last wishes and educate him on his French heritage. More often than not, Cliff arrives home to find the pair of them pouring over worksheets or Marie-Claire's old school books.

The two weeks pass in a flash, and soon the little trio finds themselves settling into Cliff's car, Marie-Claire's urn secured carefully under several layers of protective padding. Mr Robinson sees them off with a wave, signature chair clasped under one arm, and Cliff pulls out of the driveway.

It'd taken some debate, and a lot of crying all around, but they'd eventually decided to go back to the place Marie-Claire died. None of them were keen on returning to the Eurotunnel just yet (plus it was a miracle Pierre hadn't been detained after his stunt), but the idea of reclaiming the cliffs with slightly happier connotations just felt right.

Cliff had enjoyed going there with his family before, and he'd like to be able to go again; even if the family looked a bit different this time around. Pierre was quiet during the discussion- a little unusual for him, now that he'd been staying with them for the last couple of weeks, but Cliff wasn't worried. Marie-Claire had been the same way, after all. Loud in her anger. Quiet in her sadness.

The car rolls to a stop in the small parking bay. It's more of a dirt patch off to the side of a slightly wider dirt road, but Cliff's familiar with this area so he parks with ease. Chip hops out, urn cradled in one hand, orange stone in the other. Cliff takes a deep breath, holds it, then exhales slowly and looks to Pierre. He's already looking back.

"Right. Ready?"

Pierre shakes his head.

"Nope, me neither. So let's go."

It's a nice day outside, and a strong breeze ruffles their hair as they join Chip. They stand as a trio on the grass, none of them taking that first step towards the sheer drop. Chip audibly gulps and clutches the objects in his hands a little tighter. Cliff feels frozen in place. He'd been here with Chip only a few weeks ago, when they'd decided to go to the Eurotunnel. But now, with Marie-Claire's urn clasped in Chip's hands, the moment feels weightier. More final.

Like actually saying goodbye.

A palm presses down on his shoulder, warm and grounding.

"We go together," Pierre says, words laced with determination, "as a group."

So they do.

They take careful steps towards the edge, stopping before they get too close to danger, and sit on the grass. The English Channel stretches out before them, water blue and sparkling under the midday sun. Seagulls screech from down on the narrow outcrop of rocks that border the cliff’s base; they scurry in search of fish and dropped food, their bodies tiny white specks against the mass of grey.

"Alright, Chip. Ready?"

Chip nods and brings the urn forwards. It's a simple narrow cylindrical shape, and dark grey in colour. But the sides are patterned with small flowers that wrap around the base and snake up towards the lid. Cliff takes it from him, fingers trembling as he makes contact with the smooth surface. Then Pierre's hand touches his shoulder again, and it's a little easier to take the lid off.

The wind picks up and jostles at the ashes, as though Marie-Claire is impatient to escape the confines of her container; eager to get out and join the sea and sky.

"Okay, love," Cliff chuckles wetly, eyes growing damp with tears, "give me a second."

He shuffles a little closer, Pierre's hand keeping him anchored to the family behind him, and holds the urn out carefully. It takes a moment, and a little bit of coaxing on Cliff's behalf, but then the wind catches. And Marie-Claire floats free.

The wind carries her away from the cliff, pushing her out towards the water. She floats gracefully, some of her descending towards the water immediately, whilst the rest is carried further into the sky. Towards the horizon. Free from stress and worry. Grey dust cocooned between shades of blue above and below.

Cliff turns back to the others and gestures Chip forward with a tear-stained smile.

"Do you want to throw the stone in now?" He asks, as Chip shuffles up next to him. Pierre places a hand on Chip's shoulder too, keeping them both steady.

Chip holds the orange stone gently in his palm and looks out over the blue expanse below them. Some remnants of Marie-Claire are still drifting through the air, and the sun turns the water a blinding white where it bounces off. Chip reaches his hand out, stretches it over the cliff edge, poised and ready to toss the stone.

Then he freezes.

Cliff waits. Patient. Calm. Pierre's hands on their shoulders. The breeze in their hair. Marie-Claire drifting further and further away.

Chip's hand shakes. He grips the stone tighter. Then he shakes his head.

"I can't do it." He turns teary eyes to Cliff, and Cliff's heart shatters. "I don't want to let it go yet. I thought I did, but I don't."

Cliff scoops Chip towards him (which is getting harder and harder to do now that his son is growing up) and manoeuvres them away from the edge. Back towards Pierre. Back to safety.

"It's okay," he reassures, rubbing soothing circles along Chip's back, "you don't have to. It's alright if you want to keep it."

Chip sobs harder and buries his face in Cliff's shirt. "W-what if she wants it back? It was hers!"

"Your mum would not be angry with you for keeping it. She just wants you to be happy." He tilts Chip's head back and dabs the tears away from his eyes, "That's all any of us want for you."

Chip glances between Cliff and Pierre, searching for reassurance. For confirmation that it's okay. Pierre nods and ruffles Chip's hair.

"Keep the stone, mon chou, you need it more than her."

Waves crash far below them, the water lapping over rocks and splashing up the face of the cliff. Seagulls call to each other from the sea and the sky, specks of white among the blue. The stone in Chip's hand glints a burning amber under the sun's rays.

And Cliff feels at peace for the first time in months.

-●-

Pierre stays.

There isn't really a discussion. It just happens. Perhaps by accident, but Cliff knows full well he should be asking what Pierre's plans are, he just isn't. The man can't stay with them forever. He has a life back in France: work, friends, responsibilities. And besides, he'll have to decide something soon because he doesn't have the correct paperwork to be staying in England for too long. Cliff knows all of this. Pierre probably does too.

But neither of them say anything.

Instead, Cliff comes home after work every day to the sight of Chip and Pierre pressed close together at the kitchen table, heads bent over a book or worksheet. He wakes up in the mornings and pours out two cups of coffee, rather than just one, and hands the mug to Pierre the second he steps blearily into the kitchen. There are now often three plates stacked by the sink due to regular use, and a scattering of euros across the coffee table in the living room because Pierre stashes too much in his pockets.

There are hoodies Cliff's never seen before draped over furniture, some of which he wears when his own have gone missing. The leaky tap in the bathroom finally gets fixed one day whilst Cliff is dropping Chip at a friend's house for a sleepover. He arrives back to find the tap as good as new, and Pierre downstairs putting a spanner back in Cliff's toolkit.

These moments feel like... something .

It feels like something has started. Something with the potential to become very big and very scary. But Cliff can't quite get a grasp of what exactly it is.

So he wakes up in the mornings. Puts the kettle on. Stares thoughtfully into space whilst the kettle boils, his eyes drifting across the kitchen table. There's two identical coffee rings staining the wood...

That probably means something. Right?

The kettle boils. He pours out the coffee just as Pierre stumbles down, hair mussed and face soft. He hands the mug across, their fingers bumping together in a sleepy tangle. Warmth from the cup. Warmth from each other's skin.

This means something.

They sip their drinks quietly, feet jumbled together beneath the table because neither of them have the energy to sort out personal space. Sun filters in through the windows, the early morning beams slanting over countertops and wooden floorboards. An alarm rings in Chip's bedroom, the sound slightly muffled, and Pierre pulls himself to his feet.

Cliff watches as he moves lazily around the kitchen. Pierre takes a bowl from the cupboard and sets it down on the counter, then rummages around for the correct cereal box. He pours it in (some French brand Cliff's not heard of) and splashes some milk on top.

"Chip!" Pierre calls out, snagging a spoon from the drawer and dropping it in the cereal. " P'tit déj!"

"Coming!"

A moment later, Chip materialises. His school uniform is mostly on, though his tie is undone, his socks are two different colours, and his school jumper is slung over one shoulder. Pierre tuts at his appearance and gestures him over impatiently with one hand, placing the cereal bowl on the table with the other.

" Honestly! What is this? On n'est pas dans une église!" He tugs on the tie around Chip's neck and wraps the wider end around the thinner one, then tucks it through the loop. Chip rubs his arm sheepishly.

"Whoops- thanks Pierre!"

Pierre raises an eyebrow.

"Merci, I mean!"

"Bien . Now eat your breakfast." He ruffles Chip's hair, who ducks expertly, having spent years evading Cliff's own hair ruffling, "Then change tes chaussettes. You are looking like a pig sty."

Cliff grins into his coffee cup, masking his amusement when Pierre flashes him a look. He coughs.

"Alright, I'd better be off." He pats down his trousers, searching for the car keys. Pierre whistles for his attention, and when he looks up, it's just in time to see Pierre spinning them around his finger before he tosses them across, winking as he does.

That feels like it means something too.

"Have a good day at school, Chip." Cliff presses a kiss to his son's head and sneaks a piece of cereal from the bowl whilst he's distracted.

But then there's this moment as he heads to the door. Where he feels like he's forgotten something.

Cliff turns back, half expecting to see Pierre already holding out the things he's left behind. Maybe his phone or wallet. But instead he's greeted by the sight of the two of them eating breakfast. Chip scoffing down the cereal whilst simultaneously talking a mile a minute about some random topic. And Pierre sitting there sipping at his coffee. That shouldn't catch him off guard, because he knew that's what they were doing.

But it does .

Because he's done this before. He's been part of this scene before. The domesticity of it is second nature, even if it's been unfamiliar to him ever since Marie-Claire died. And he realises what it feels like he's forgotten.

He'd wanted to kiss Pierre.

That's how his mornings used to go. Mornings like these; Chip a whirlwind in half his uniform, coffee rings staining the table, bowls of cereal scraped clean and left by the sink, sunbeams across kitchen tiles. And...

And the warmth of legs tangled together under the table. Eyes half closed. Voices soft in the early morning quiet. Gentle kisses by the kettle, at the table, and then by the door when one of them leaves for work. That's how Cliff remembers his mornings.

He wants those mornings back. So desperately he half thinks he might collapse in the doorway.

And he wants them with Marie-Claire, of course he does. He'd give anything to see her again. But also...

Cliff wants them with Pierre too.

He leaves for work. And the door swings shut behind him.

-●-

The mood around the house shifts a little, and it's definitely Cliff's fault.

The problem is that he's not entirely sure how to act now. Not now that there's this big feeling in his chest he's aware of; a feeling he's not had to contend with since his and Marie-Claire's relationship.

And that's the other problem, isn't it? Marie-Claire. Because their life together was cut short by tragedy, rather than a mutual loss of connection. Cliff still loves Marie-Claire as fiercely as the day he met her.

But now...

Now the direction of his love has been split neatly in two; affection and feelings for Pierre bubbling up out of nowhere, and threatening to replace his memories of Marie-Claire with new ones. He doesn't want to forget how being in love with Marie-Claire felt, but that's bound to happen the more time that passes. The last thing he wants is to speed the process along with the introduction of these feelings for Pierre.

So, the mood around the house shifts and it's definitely Cliff's fault.

Guilt eats at him most days, and it usually strikes at the worst times. All it seems to take is a smile from Pierre, a pat on the shoulder, a cup of coffee handed over before Cliff even realises he wants one, and he damn near melts into the floor. But then the feeling is immediately followed a sharp sting of betrayal, like Marie-Claire could walk into the room at anytime and catch Cliff's heart as it leaps from his chest.

If she could see him now, she'd probably grind it under her foot.

Days pass and Cliff spirals.

Having Chip around had been a struggle the first few weeks after Marie-Claire's death, because everything he did seemed to be a spitting image of her. And it wasn't fair of him, but Cliff can admit that part of him tried pushing Chip away; to avoid facing the tattered pieces of their lives, and to pretend he wasn't sinking deeper and deeper into his own grief to avoid Chip's.

But now. Now.

Now it's much worse. Because now he has Chip and Pierre. Where Chip reminds him of the wife he lost, Pierre reminds him of the relationship he lost.

Cliff sips at his cup of coffee, eyes glazed. The liquid is stone cold. He's probably been standing here for a while then.

His thoughts drift to Pierre's smile, the way the corners tick upwards subtly, eyes shining, and the crinkles that form at the edges of them. His heart lurches. Soars. Swoops and hollers and damn near flies. Then Marie-Claire swims before his eyes, her bright laughter, the gap tooth grin, tears gathering in her eyes after a joke they shouldn't find funny but do.

Cliff's heart plummets. As though the weight of his reality has it dropping like a stone.

The front door opens, and Pierre walks in. Cliff remembers, rather abruptly, that he's stood in the kitchen, still in pyjamas, and Pierre's back from dropping Chip at school. It's Cliff's day off and Pierre had taken Chip off his tired hands with barely a second thought. And now the man is stood hesitantly in the doorway, spare keys jangling as he spins them nervously around his finger.

Cliff clears his throat. And Pierre steps in properly, closing the door behind him.

"Alright?" Cliff asks, voice gravelly from a rough night's sleep, "Chip get in okay?"

Pierre nods, "He's fine. His sleepover friend came and said hello." He picks up the kettle and gives it a shake, listening for the slosh of water. He places it back on its base and flips the switch, "But if I am honest, it is not Chip I am worried for."

The kitchen feels too small for some reason; the countertop digs into Cliff's spine, and the ceiling looms ominously above the pair of them. The kettle's whine is high-pitched and makes Cliff's ears ring uncomfortably.

"I'm fine. It's just difficult sometimes. You know that."

"Do not do that." Pierre's tone is harsh, and scrapes like metal on granite. It's the first time he's raised his voice since the incident in the Eurotunnel, and Cliff winces at the thought. "Do not lie to me. You say you are fine, and you tell me everything is normal but I am not an imbécile!"

The kettle clicks off and Pierre grabs at the handle angrily.

"You are changed. I see it, and Chip sees it too."

Cliff scrubs a hand over his face and lets his palm rest over his eyes. It blocks the harshness of the day- the harshness of Pierre too- and gives him a moment to think.

"I'm sorry, alright? I know it's not fair on the both of you- I just didn't realise the stages of grief would take so long to get through." He laughs humourlessly, words hollow and lifeless, "I think I got stuck on Depression."

Pierre's face softens, and Cliff's heart follows suit. It always does.

"I do not blame you for your sadness- I will never be angry at you for grieving." He pours hot water into his mug, and the smell of rich coffee fills the air. "The stages of grief, they are...I have found they are like a circle. Nothing is straightforward in life. So why should death be any different?"

Cliff smiles, a little sad, a little happy. "You're pretty wise, you know?"

Pierre flicks him on the shoulder and scoops his mug up from the counter, " Oui. Maybe you should try it sometime." He gestures Cliff towards the table, and Cliff goes because listening to Pierre is always a better idea than listening to himself.

"So, we have established that you are not fine. Is there anything specific you want to say?"

Steam curls from Pierre's mug; a twisting plume of white that spirals above the rim and then dissipates into nothing. Something in the movement reminds Cliff of that day they spread Marie-Claire's ashes. For once, the thought doesn't make him instantly miserable. The mug itself is one of hers too: faded cow-print with a slightly chipped handle from where she'd dropped it within a week of owning it. Cliff had offered to buy her a new one but she wouldn't hear of it:

"It has character now, Cliff. It tells a story."

"You dropped it on the floor, my love, that's hardly a story for the history books."

"And I will drop you on the floor too if you get rid of it."

So the mug had stayed and it had been the one Marie-Claire used most frequently. Even in the weeks before her death, it was up in their bedroom, either cradled between her cold hands or perched haphazardly on the bedside table. And now Pierre sips from it as he stares inquisitively at Cliff, one eyebrow raised.

"Things are different now," Cliff says, quite without thinking.

Pierre places the mug on the table, fingers avoiding the cracked area of the handle. "They are, oui." He eyes Cliff carefully, expression inscrutable, "Are they all bad different?"

Cliff isn't entirely sure how to answer. Because no, despite his wife being dead, and his son having to mature way too quickly for his age thanks to Cliff's grief spiral, things aren't bad different. Not all the time, anyway. And not with Pierre here.

"That was Marie-Claire's mug," he says instead, because it's all he can think about, "nobody but her has ever used it before. That kind of different. It's strange..." he trails off.

It's strange how well you fit in, he wants to say. It's strange how much I want you to stay here with me and Chip forever. It's strange that having you here has helped us so much, even if I'm bad at showing you that.

He doesn't really know how to say any of that though. So he doesn't.

Something changes in Pierre's expression. It's as if shutters come down over his eyes, concealing his thoughts in one swift movement. He nods decisively.

"I understand."

He pushes the cow-print mug away even though he hasn't finished his coffee.

Cliff can't help but feel he's missed a crucial part of the conversation.

And the next day Pierre buys a ticket for the Eurotunnel. One way.

-●-

When Cliff gets home from work a couple of days later, there's a suitcase and rucksack tucked by the front door, and Chip is sat on the stairs. He's looking down at the bags with a gloomy expression, chin cupped in his hand.

He glances up at the sight of Cliff and somehow manages to look gloomier.

"Pierre in?" Cliff asks, trying for cheery and missing the mark entirely.

The problem is that he doesn't know why Pierre is leaving now. It feels far too soon (despite it having been almost two months), and Pierre still has another month before he absolutely has to either be back in France, or get his documents sorted for staying longer in England. And maybe, just maybe , Cliff had been sort of hoping for the latter.

"Upstairs. He had a couple more things to pack." Chip says, voice monotone as he picks at a thread on his jeans. "He said the taxi will probably be here before I'm awake so I'll have to say goodbye to him today."

Cliff's throat feels tight for some reason, and his eyes are scratchy.

"Oh- I didn’t realise he bought such an early ticket."

Chip shrugs and scuffs his foot along the carpet in a way that Pierre would usually scold him for, "Wants to get back quickly, I guess."

And Cliff can't help but think Chip is accusing him of something.

Dinner is a subdued affair. Cliff and Pierre avoid talking to each other aside from basic pleasantries, pinning their focus instead on Chip's day at school. Chip's answers to their questions aren't particularly in depth though, so eventually conversation dies out and the only noise is their cutlery scraping on ceramic, and the tick of the clock that inches closer to Pierre's inevitable departure.

Cliff clears the table when they finish, and hesitantly joins Chip and Pierre on the sofa afterwards to watch some telly. But even that feels marred by the passage of time, until eventually, Chip has to go to bed.

He hugs Pierre for a long time. And Pierre hugs him back just as fiercely. As if they don't expect to see each other ever again. And Cliff feels guilty for a reason he can't quite put his finger on, even though Pierre is the one who's chosen to leave.

Chip heads to bed, teary eyed though he tries to hide it, and then it's just the two of them. The space between them on the sofa feels impossibly wide now that Chip's gone, and Cliff wants to close that gap more than anything. Every atom screams at him to move closer to Pierre; they gather at his fingertips and beg him to reach out.

But Cliff's always been a bit of a coward when it comes to love. That's why Marie-Claire was so special. She chose him when no one ever had before.

People like him don't get second chances at that kind of love.

The gap widens. Pierre goes upstairs to bed. And Cliff follows behind a few minutes later.

Always a gap.

Always a moment too late.

-●-

It's early morning when Cliff wakes up. Probably more night than morning, but he's awake now and there's no chance of him falling asleep. Not when he knows what's due to happen in a couple of hours.

There's a creak outside his door, and then footsteps on the stairs. Heavy footsteps. Not Chip then. There's a brief moment of silence as Pierre must pad silently across the kitchen floor, and then it's broken by the sound of the kettle clicking on.

Cliff stays in bed for another thirty seconds. Then gets up and heads out into the hallway.

Pierre might be fine with them parting on rocky terms, but Cliff sure as hell isn't. Coward when it comes to love sure, but he's not a coward when it comes to friendship.

The lights in the kitchen are off when Cliff arrives downstairs, but he barely notices. Pierre is silhouetted by the window- milky light filtering in around him as day slowly begins to break. The clock on the wall tells him it's around four-thirty. Too early. Too quiet. Too still.

He leans on the table behind Pierre, slumping his weight onto the surface. Pierre half turns to look over his shoulder but doesn't seem too surprised to see him. Resigned maybe. It's cutting, but Cliff pretends it doesn't bother him. He just wants to know what happened . Why everything changed so suddenly?

Then it dawns on him.

Oh God. Pierre must have worked out Cliff's feelings for him.

Cliff had tried his best to keep them hidden but he's clearly failed. And now Pierre must feel as though he has no choice but to leave. He'd rather make his escape now than deal with Cliff wearing his heart on his sleeve.

And Cliff doesn't blame him.

"You can visit, you know?" He says, voice raspy as it splinters the careful silence between them, "Chip would like to see again."

Pierre regards him warily, then turns and pours himself a cup of coffee. The mug is some plain white thing Cliff wasn't even aware they had. Most of the mugs they have were bought by Marie-Claire, and she loved the silly novelty ones. The cowprint mug, he notes, is back in the cupboard. A place it hasn't been for a long long time.

It's only when he's finished pouring his coffee that Pierre replies.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea." His words are guarded, and he avoids looking at Cliff directly, focusing instead on his coffee. Cliff's heart aches.

"I know things between us are...strained," and it's all my fault, he doesn't say, "but Chip has loved having you here, and-" his voice catches. He pauses and takes a breath, "And I have too. But we could set something up if you don't want- if you would prefer to stay in France."

Pierre's expression cracks, and suddenly there's all this pain seeping out of him. Cliff wants to rush to him, gather him in his arms if it means it'll keep Pierre in one piece. Instead, he's glued to the floor, aching to touch and fix and heal, and having no means to do so.

"I am not Chip's parent," Pierre says, voice wet and eyes red. "I love him like my own, but he is not. And I can't-" he chokes on his words, and pins his eyes back on his coffee, "I can't be in his life like that. Not if I can't...not with you."

"Please," Cliff says, and he's pretty sure he's crying too, "ignore what I said before, okay? It doesn't matter. My feelings aren't important. But Chip needs you. And so do I."

"I can't stay here!" Not when I know now how my being here is affecting you- that's... that's cruel."

Cliff recoils. He feels as though he's been slapped. Actually, being slapped would've hurt less.

"My feelings are for me to deal with. Not you."

Pierre throws his hands up, exasperated, eyes shiny and face red.

"Why can you not understand that I am doing this for you?!"

"How? How is this for me?" Cliff hisses back, "How does you leaving us help at all?"

"There will be no more complications! We can move on! You do not need me here forever- I came for Marie-Claire and now I will leave for her too!"

"She's dead, Pierre! There's nothing else you can do for her!"

"I can stop her family from falling apart! I can do that much."

"Do you seriously think my feelings will stop if you're gone?"

That hurt look flashes across Pierre's face again but he steels himself despite it, "Well I can try!"

Cliff laughs. It's mocking and loud and in the quiet of the morning. Maybe he should be worried about waking Chip up, but there's fire in veins now.

"I love Marie-Claire across the veil itself! I can certainly manage to love you across the English Channel!"

They pause, chests heaving, somehow only centimetres between them. When had Cliff moved? When had Pierre? He hadn't noticed. Pierre seems surprised.

"...love?"

Cliff shuffles his feet, agitation eating at his heels, "Well I...yes I suppose so. Maybe."

Pierre takes a step back, pressing himself against the counter, looking dazed. Cliff has no idea why because this shouldn't exactly be news to him.

"Love." He mutters to himself, voice breathy. His eyes flick up to meet Cliff's, "That day in the kitchen. You were talking about things being strange. What did you mean?"

Cliff feels the tips of his ears go red, which is stupid because the cat's out of the bag now. He clears his throat, "It's strange how well you fit with us. You're not a replacement for Marie-Claire, more like...like an extension of her. Like she still lives when we're all together, even if it's just in the memories we make."

"I thought..." Pierre seems breathless but he's smiling and his eyes are shining , "I thought you were angry with me for taking her place. That day, you said...there was the cow mug. Marie-Claire's mug."

And suddenly Cliff understands what has happened. And he laughs. He can't help it.

"We're a couple of imbeciles, aren't we?"

Pierre's expression is soft and his voice is softer when he says, "Your pronunciation is terrible."

He reaches a hand out, beckoning Cliff closer. Cliff goes. He'll go anywhere Pierre tells him to.

Their hands join, a tangle of fingers as they clasp their palms together. Pierre runs his thumb along Cliff's wrist and Cliff thinks he could melt. Their knees knock together, bodies trembling at the proximity. Pierre's other hand reaches back and cups Cliff's neck, whilst Cliff's own hand grips at Pierre's waist.

They stare at each other, breaths mingling and pulses rapid under warm skin. Cliff doesn't know if Pierre is stopping him from sinking beneath the kitchen tiles, or from floating up through the ceiling, but either way he feels tethered to Pierre. Grounded and cared for.

Pierre leans into him, lips brushing his. Soft. Purposeful. Loving. And Cliff is gone.

They kiss in the kitchen, the beginnings of the day leaking in through the curtains, and the tiles cold under their bare feet. There's a cup of coffee cooling on the counter, the mug a plain white. It's not a mug that's been used before, and it's not one that will be used again.

They kiss in the kitchen, and the whole world clicks into place around them.

-●-

Pierre stays.

There isn't really a discussion. It just happens.

He unpacks his bags in Cliff's bedroom, now theirs. Chip, of course, is ecstatic when he hears that Pierre is staying. The pair of them hedge around the topic of them dating, both unsure as to how Chip will take it. The deadpan stare he levels them with when they finally spit it out, is matched only by his tone when he says, "Oh thank God, finally."

Cliff wants to ground him just on principle but Pierre finds it hilarious so Cliff's resolve crumbles very quickly. He just has to hope that Pierre never discovers he has this power, else Cliff is screwed.

Documents get sorted, and Pierre has to go back to France a few times to get the more complicated aspects figured out. But Cliff doesn't mind letting him go for that stuff. He knows he's coming back, after all.

They work it out as they go. Together.

And that's not to say Pierre never drives him mad. He has bad opinions about sport, he enjoys olives which neither Cliff or Chip can stand, and he hums catchy French pop songs that get stuck in Cliff's head. But he also makes a delicious stir fry, starts work teaching a Geology course at the local university, and is always ready with a hug when Cliff or Chip need it.

None of them move on from Marie-Claire exactly, her memory still takes up plenty of space in the home. But there's enough room for all of them, including her, and they navigate it quite comfortably.

Which is why, after a couple of years have gone by, one day in the kitchen (because of course it is), Cliff decides he's going to marry Pierre. But in order to do that, he needs to enlist Chip's help.

Pierre can probably tell that they're up to something. There's a few occasions when he arrives back unexpectedly, and Chip almost throws himself across the table in order to cover up what they're planning. But he leaves them to it and they scheme away.

The tricky part is the waiting. The organisation itself is easy, but waiting for the anniversary of them spreading Marie-Claire's ashes is torturous. Chip is equally impatient, practically bouncing on his heels the closer they get to the day. Eventually, though, they're packing up the car for their annual trip to the cliffs, and Mr Robinson is seeing them off with a smile and wave.

Chip seems to calm down considerably once they actually get to the cliffs, which is great for him but he's not the one who has to propose, so Cliff is still nervous as ever. They gather a little distance from the edge and go through their usual routine first of greeting Marie-Claire and telling her about their lives. Pierre talks about his work at the university in some detail, and has them all bent double laughing at some of the anecdotes he's been saving. Chip talks about school and the exams he's got coming up, his expression wrinkling in annoyance at all the revision he has to do.

And then it's Cliff's turn.

He talks about his work to start with, and then funny little stories about Chip that Chip's too embarrassed to tell himself. And then a couple embarrassing stories about Pierre too just because it makes his ears go red. Then he feels for the box in his pocket. Swallows quietly. Chip gives him a subtle thumbs up.

"I was also hoping that you could do a favour for me, love." He says, addressing the sea and the sky; the cliffs and the wind. "I've got a great man here. One of the best. And, for whatever reason, he's joined our crazy little family quite willingly."

He pulls the box from his pocket and turns to face Pierre properly. Slowly drops to one knee. Pierre's eyes widen and he glances rapidly between Chip, Cliff, and the sea. As if Marie-Claire is standing there watching the three of them. Maybe she is. She's probably smiling. She always was a sucker for romance.

"So I'm hoping that he'll want to make that a bit more permanent," Cliff continues, then he flips the box open.

Pierre inhales sharply.

Inside, nestled on a black velvet cushion, sits a ring. But not just any ring. The stone is orange- soft amber threaded with yellow and brown. Pierre looks to Chip, eyes watery and hands trembling.

"Your stone? You are sure?"

Chip shrugs, as though it isn't a big deal, even though Cliff knows how much he worried that Marie-Claire would've found it upsetting.

"It reminds me of Mum so I don't want to get rid of it. But I also didn't want it to sit on my shelf gathering dust forever. So, this seemed like the best option. For all of us."

Pierre drags Chip into a hug, which has him squawking for release, and Cliff laughs.

"Darling, I've not finished proposing, come back here."

"Désolé, désolé!"

Pierre gives Chip one last squeeze and then lets him go, sidestepping back over to Cliff. They're all beaming.

"We've been through a lot these past few years, although most of it occurred before we were even together," Cliff sniffs. He's crying, Pierre's crying, and Chip is pretending he's not. Cliff soldiers on, "and I know I'm not the easiest person to care for. I spiral sometimes, and I worry a lot about whether I'm being selfish."

Pierre reaches out and takes one of his hands, keeping him steady whilst he balances on one knee and holds up the ring box.

"We went through something terrible a few years ago. The worst thing either of us could've imagined." Chip nods quietly, eyes drifting out to sea, "But you have been the best thing that's happened to us. And you have given me more than I thought was possible. More than I thought I deserved."

Wind rustles through the grass and their hair. It feels like a blessing.

"So," Cliff says, "will you do me the honour of becoming my husband?"

Pierre's knees hit the grass, and his hands grasp at Cliff's waist.

"Of course, you silly, silly man." He smiles wetly, eyes crinkling, "I would love nothing more."

Cliff removes the ring from the box and takes Pierre's hand gently. Reverently. He slides the ring onto his finger and it fits perfectly. Just as he'd designed it to.

The colour reflects across Pierre's skin, and he tilts his fingers gently to watch it gleam under the afternoon sun. He smiles, as soft as the orange glow that dances over his hand, and he is beautiful.

Waves crash far below them, the water lapping over rocks and splashing up the face of the cliff. Seagulls call to each other from the sea and the sky, specks of white among the blue. The ring on Pierre's finger glints a burning amber under the sun's rays. Cliff smiles.

"Thank you, love." He says to the sea and the sky; to the cliffs and the wind.

And he thinks that maybe, just maybe , Marie-Claire says thank you, too.

~fin~