This didn't happen - but this song and the current state of affairs made me crazy enough to imagine it, and then Harry and Jo kept talking in my head. So, here we are!

She's scared. Fucking terrified, mostly because she has zero idea, not a single one about what is going to happen tomorrow, let alone what happens next, next week, next month, if there will be a next year.

Jo wants Harry.

Jo wants Harry in a way she has worked really hard not to. She has given him his life, the possibility of a future.

And now, in this moment when everyone's future is completely uncertain and maybe not going to resemble the world of yesterday, may not happen at all, she just, it doesn't fucking matter. The fact she can't give him a baby, that their ages made all the things she wanted for him possibly impossible, and all the family drama and tension is totally irrelevant. Feels totally unimportant. It doesn't fucking matter. She could get the virus on a market run and she could be sick for a few weeks, or she could stop breathing. She has no way of knowing which it will be, or how long life will be interrupted. She feels helpless, hopeless, future less.

It's probably not that dramatic. By next year, everyone may remember this like a nightmare. But right now, this moment, with cases climbing and death tolls ringing and a government completely fucking it all up, that seems far away and maybe not true.

Jo wants Harry.

If the world is ending, he's all she wants.

Maybe not all she wants, but the list is short. What she would do if this was it. She imagines the last night time especially. The things she'd do. Call her son in Greece, see him happy, scared but happy with Sean, and tuck her ever growing sassy pants daughter into bed, and come downstairs to tea Harry has made her.

His tea was always better, than all the tea she's made on her own. "Made with love's why." He'd smile and wink and dimple and melt her. In the fantasy, he's folding laundry or finishing dishes too. Because, God she misses the partnership she glimpsed too, and she's too tired to do it all alone most days. Though it's easier now that Zoe's school aged.

He'd help her, though, always did, while feeding, watering, fucking, and holding her through all the angst she is feeling. Through the sky falling.

She nearly calls him. But Jo has no idea, not an inkling of where he is in the world. She doubts he's still in Montreal. That was a year ago. It was meant to be a 6 month intensive program. There were others she submitted him for that she knows he was good enough to get into no matter when he rang them interested.

If he is abroad, that terrifies her, too. God, what if he's abroad, and can't get home? Or is sick, fuck, sick alone? Though he is in a low risk group she says out loud and wraps an arm around herself, squeezes her shoulder to distract from the contraction of her heart.

London, he might be in London. She knows he should move there, be part of the art scene. Jo is just not sure if that's where he is in his journey yet. She's not sure why she thinks she knows anything about where he is, or might go, or how he will chart the course to the future she forced on him, gifted him.

They talked about it, or course. They talked about everything. Except when they just understood.

London. If he's in London, it's cruel, because he won't be moving: lockdown orders have just gone out. He'd be so close but so far. Expats are flying in, going home and quarantining. This option had been offered to Ethan. But it didn't make sense for him and Sean, they were safe, and in the home they'd made. If Harry's abroad, unless he's shacked up, ouch, he'd come home to Anne. But, if Harry's in London, he's stuck away from his family. Unless he's settled and happy there instead. Anne might be ok with that state of affairs.

Jo's not.

She doesn't believe that, it's not been that long, since them, not really. She wants him to be happy, with somebody else, but not so soon. She's not over it remotely well enough to contemplate another body in her space, mind, or person. May never be able to fathom somebody not Harry.

She imagines Anne is out of her head worried.

Anne, she could just call Anne. It will be weird, but if it's just to check on Harry, she can do it. Only slightly, ridiculously awkward. But Anne knew, the devastation for both of them. She won't be wholly surprised. It's just a phone call to check on him, Harry never need know. Anne will not tell, Jo's sure. His mother wants them apart, forever.

Jo's heart squeezes again.

As a mother, she understands. As the unsuitable love of someone's life, well, she can't.

But, none of that matters. Because it feels like the world is ending. Jo just needs to know he's alright. First and foremost, that he is ok.  And then she needs to know something for herself. Her selfish self. That he'd come over if he could, to hold her and be with her the way they both wanted but couldn't have. Because none of the consequences matter, not right now.

He will not likely be able to get to her, so it's just the comfort of their love, or his huge heart all for her, still.

She's dialing Anne before she can stop herself. The land line, the one Anne gave her when she'd come to ream her, and had offered loving kindness instead.

"Hullo?" Her heart stops, stutters, blooms.

She hangs up.

Holy fuck, he is here. He is home in their little village. Good, good for Anne. "Oh my god!" She yells to the air, because now the proposition is real. The possible fulfillment and rejection, real. Would he come over, now the world's ending, stay the night? The rest of the horrible uncertain trials they are facing be damned, can go to hell, if he would come hold her tight. Her breathing is rapid and she's concentrating on slowing it down. God, what if he wouldn't come over. Had wised up, decided they weren't what she knew them to be.

What if he would come over?

Neither matter, in any case, she's hung up. It's ok, he doesn't need to know it was her.

The phone in her hand buzzes. Anne S. reads the call log. Does she answer?

How can she not? Her whole body feels better, knowing his is close. She sends it out to him, it overrides her nerves about everything, including answering. Even his presence, that she received via strong voice through the receiver, not weakened by sickness, worry, or sorrow, bolstered her. She feels better all ready. She might be able to have more though, than his calm. Jo might be able to have him, a real moment with him. Maybe lots of them, a day that feels like moments because of the way time suspends when they commune.

She catches the call just before it gets shunted to voicemail.

"Hello?" She says, her voice is thin, the only force in it, hope.

"Jo?" He gasps and her tears leak down their cheeks.

His voice. Her name on his lips.

"Hi!" She tries to steady her voice. It doesn't work and his breath tells her she's unsettled him.

"Is everything ok? Zoe ok? Why're you calling my mum?" He inhales loudly. "Sorry, that's rude. I just, god, wasn't expecting your call. Not that it's not lovely to hear your voice, baby."

They both suck in a breath at that. "I was..." How does she say this? "I was worried?"

"About my mum?" He asks, his voice lined with hope as well.

"Well, yes." She says, hopes he hears what she is not saying the way he always did.

He laughs suddenly with something like joy in his voice. "It's alright, I've already asked about you. So no need to be embarrassed." He swallows. "Ever."

"Yeah?" She asks.

"Yeah, you're a brave little thing, calling my mum to check on me." He teases.

"Um, she told me to call if I needed help, she was kind to me." Jo glances down. Shit, it's so late.

It was almost bed time, and their custody agreement didn't end, even in a pandemic. She needs to make sure Zoe hears her voice say she loves her. For the same reason she had called Anne. "I know where you get it from. She has every reason to dislike me—"

"She doesn't dislike you, nobody could dislike you, Jo."

"Oh, well, I think that's an opinion. You're biased." She stops herself.

"Because I love you?" He asks but keeps talking so she can't answer. "It's true though, you're impossible to dislike." He whispers. "Impossible not to love."

"Har- Harry." She looks at the ceiling and hears him groan. "I actually have to go, I didn't plan this at all." She sighs.

"Well, I assume you have nowhere to be?" God, he sounds light as a feather, she could fly.

"Yes and no. It's time for my goodnight call to Zoe. She's with Colin."

"She'll come home though, some point, right?" He asks, urgent. "I hate to think of you alone at a time like this? Where's..." He gulps. "Where's Ethan?" He sounds like he's swallowing glass.

"Greece, stayed there, he and Sean are safe, still able to work, so they stayed."

"Oh Jo!" He sighs. "Baby, are you all alone?"

"No, no, I'm not." Not really, just physically right now.

"Who're you with?" His voice is dark for a moment, thick like his voice box is coated in mud.

"With?" Oh! He thinks a man is with her. He's swallowing his reaction. "No one at the moment, I just, Zoe comes home Monday. But we were talking about initiating the summer schedule sooner." She slows down. That won't make sense to him, he's not privy to the details of her life anymore. Doesn't need to be. "But anyway. She's there and I like to call, have my voice be one of the last things she hears at the end of the day."

"And you need to see her face before you sleep. " It's not a question.

"Yeah, um, but I called you, your mum, without checking the time and her stories are probably over." She explains.

"Ok, that's, thats ok, thanks for calling, Jo." His heart is in his voice. That outsized prize in his chest. She wishes with her whole heart she could keep his.

"Yeah, bye, um bye, Harry." She swallows. Her own emotions coating her throat. "Take care, please." Can he hear the plea in her voice?

"You too." He says in a way she feels. Like all his unspoken hopes for her are in the two words. That she not just to survive the virus, but to be well, and happy, just not with anyone else. Jo's projecting. Those are her unspoken prayers for him. She pulls the phone away and the call ends on his end just before she touches the red button.

She never got to ask him, if he'd come over.

That's all well and good though, because it's real now. He could come over. He could not come over, too. Jo sits for a moment, the oxygen sucked out of the room. That would be worse, definitely devastating. It's good she didn't get to ask. She shakes her head, glances at the time on her phone. She needs to call Zoe.

Her daughter's bright face is a brilliant distraction. Though the pull of the call, Harry's call, the things he said, how he said them, and all the things they didn't say is stronger. Jo gets her motherly reassurance, and smiles for her baby, but her mind is elsewhere.

"Night bug! Can't wait to see you Monday!" Jo's heart squeezes and she signs off the zoom. The leave button feels so final. She keeps herself together when Zoe can see her, no matter what. She hates this, the entire custody thing, that it was necessary, and some days she hates that the entire thing happened. But she can't regret Zoe, or the divorce or everything after. She also can't regret that Colin decided somewhere along the way he wanted to be more involved, needed to be. Though some days, especially these weird isolation days, she hates that she can't just hunker down with her baby and be wrapped up in baking or tik tok dances or crafts, puzzles, whatever Zoe was into. Instead, she has to be separated from her bud.

She sighs and pulls her old bones off the ottoman; she's tired. The nightly routine done by rote while she yawns, flicks lights and clicks locks.

Her heart stops and then defribullates when she gets to the back door.

Through the triple diamond shaped glass is his unmistakable shape.

Harry.

Because if the world is ending he'd come over, right?

"Harry?" The question is only in her voice, not in her heart. Course he'd come.

"Miss Jo." She must make a face, because he steps forward and takes her hand. "Jo, I..." He looks for words to say, "I thought we could paint," he tries to smile for her. "or something?" God, he looks like every dream she's had of him, mostly. He's different, it's been a year. He's shorn his locks, his hair is almost high and tight. His lovely hair gone, she mourns it, the silk of it through her fingers, like water rippling on her skin.

The cut looks good on him, of course it does, everything does. His jaw is exposed, his cheekbones amplified, and the green of his eyes is so golden, she's rich. "Can I come in?"

"Yes." She blurts out, because of course the answer is always yes. Yes Harry, have me, my life, my always. But not at the cost of yours. Have my right now.

What is anyone's always right now?

Which is why they are here.

So, now he is in her kitchen and they stare at each other. There was a time, she recalls, when he would have her on the table, or at least a stool by now. But, it's been a while and a lot of time and broken heartbeats have passed.

"Tea?" She offers for something to do; she sets about making his brew when he nods. Her hands and feet carry her around her kitchen without much thought while she concentrates on what happens next. He's come over, right. Now what? She's waiting for the whistle, when he steps close behind her. His heat warms her for a bit. She forgets she's out of her depth, least his body is familiar, but, "you smell different." She can't stop herself saying.

"I had to change it." He smells her hair. "The other reminded me of you. All the times you mentioned it." He swallows. "You smell the same."

I couldn't change it, it reminds me of you. "Yeah," is all she says. When his arms come around her waist and his chin hooks over her shoulder, Jo feels lighter than she has in, well it's been more than a year.

"How you doing, baby?" He asks against her cheek. And he is not asking about right in this moment, it's everything, how's her art, and her kids, and their relationships, and her job, and most of all her missing him?

The smile takes her face. "I'm alright actually. Really." She summons her courage, says. "I miss you, all the time." She turns and wraps her arms around his neck, her face laying against her bicep, so she can gift herself a view of his face anytime, when she is ready.

Harry kisses her temple. "Me too." And they stay like that, resting in the embrace like it's a balm on a healing wound, for long deep breaths of each other.

When the kettle blows, she pulls her face back and offers him a peck. He smiles before softly bussing her lips and loosening his arms to let her turn around. He eventually has to let his arms drop as she busies herself making the tea - the leaves, and the dunk - serious business. He follows her to the fridge when she gets out the milk. "Same?" She looks at him, he's been looking at her since he arrived, he's always looking at her, in his mind's eye, or on canvas.

"I forgot how beautiful you are." Her gaze drops and she's so glad she got the gall to call his mother. Knows when they have to part again it will be worth it, to have had him in this moment of uncertainty. He is her constant.

She was never more certain than of her feelings for him, his for her.

"Not to steal your words, but me too." The moment's not awkward, just leaden, she rolls her eyes and smiles at him, "now then, same tea?" They do tension like she can't believe, every moment pregnant with possibility.

"'Course, it's not been that long. Only my geography has changed." That makes her almost spill the milk, he means geography like a map. Jo she never thinks of his geography as where he lives, she thinks of the body she mapped under his clothes. Her territory.

"Has it?" She asks and places the milk down, slips her hands under his t shirt to check.

It's bold. She's only ever been so fearless, selfish, with him.

He catches on quickly and the smug smile creases his cheeks in the way that always got her wet. Still. "Would you like to check?"

He doesn't actually give her a chance to answer, his hand is in her hair and he's taken her mouth. She knocks over the milk, the lid isn't tight and drops leak out.

It's both uncharted and the only home she's known. He kisses the same, but tastes just a bit different, like he has a new diet with new habits. Things she might not know, but she does know that when he nips the middle of her lip, it mean he wants her to open her mouth. Jo pulls back to look up at him instead. The thumb on her jaw drops to her neck and the possession makes her weak.

"Lover?" It's a question. His eyes close and he puts his forehead to hers and kisses the tip of her nose. "Har-Harry?" That ones a provocation.

It works. He hoists her up onto the sink sill and jostles the tea cups. Milky tea on the homely countertops.

"We're making a mess!" Harry whispers, breath over her lips.

"Didn't we always?" The color of his eyes is devastating.

"Let's go make a different mess, baby." She nods and he lifts her back up his hips and takes the familiar journey to her bedroom. He walks the counted steps from memory, consumed in the kiss, when his knees don't meet the mattress, his eyes pop open. "Where's the bed?"

Jo points.

Harry stops and looks around. "It's different."

"Yeah." She sighs. She supposes she is negating this change a bit. But this feels like a reprieve and she hopes it's a balm instead of a burn to her missing him muscles. "I miss you. All the time—"
She starts to explain.

"Yeah, me too." He interrupts.

"I missed you so much at first I had to, to.."

"I know, baby." He kisses right over her heart. Pulls her arms free and her top over her head. Repeats the kiss. "Of course, I know."

That's the bitch of it all, he does know. He knows everything, all about her, every inch of the body he uncovers. He mapped the curve of her waist, knows that the underside of her breasts makes her writhe when he runs his chin over it, arch when he licks it, and tremble when he sucks. The replay is the same on her nipples, only forceful. It makes her react like a taut bow, she may buck him away. He keeps her still through it, to endure the activation of his prior knowledge . The nips and swirls and eye contact while he favors her breasts, all the things he remembers how to do to her.

Her hips are pistoling. She knows what she needs, has needed for too long to remember how this feels. Too recent, resplendent, to ever forget.

But Jo also knows Harry, and he's in a patient mood. Or worshipful, she supposes. His favorite ritual he is about to perform on her body.

His rite takes him over her belly. Earlier, the lack of curls on his head had only given her a momentary ache, until they didn't make tendrils of fire over her abdomen, slither through the crease of her thigh when he made his way down to start on his knees, at her feet. Her supplicant. The caress to her instep is the beginning of his atonement. The attention to the bends of her knees and then the back of her thighs is a confession. 

He adores her ass, and her back. She's onto her knees and pushing back into his body when he gets to her upper shoulders. The supplication is too much to bear and she needs more, every inch of him to merge with her, divine their purpose.

"Har-Harry! Please?" She can feel all of his length in the crack of her ass and it's not where she wants him, but he can do anything he wants with her. It is all a prayer, their worship, even his denial of her pleas. Her glides along him draw a grunt though, gnaws at his patience. She's proud but disconcerted. He's not talking? He always made a joyful noise when he loved her before. "Lover, you ok?"

"I'm," he catches her chin and turns her face into him. "I'm awestruck, Jo."

Their lips mingle just after the breath of his speech ends. She feels him shift behind her, line himself up, anoint his dick with her dew. "Baby?" He asks. She kisses him in an ecstatic state, nods like a sinner taking the wafer , even before he presses the tip in. When he does, she shivers in delight as they commune.

"Oh, lover!" She sings a hymn to their homecoming. Her melody and verse are sighs and moans. He harmonizes with her. Comes to a near crescendo, leads her to a refrain, slower, changes the song. She's on her back now, wide open and ready to receive his message. Instead, he rhapsodizes down her front body again, the chorus quicker. Her cunt is the receiver of his word, and his tongue does something magical while he leads her to the pre chorus. "Oh Harry. Your mouth!" She babbling and praying he doesn't stop, does stop, don't stop, please stop, until she cries an hallelujah.

Thank God she called.

She baptizes him when he takes her through the shakes back to heaven.

Her trance like state is barely broken when he comes to join her, join them. "Jo, you're glorious. I love you!" He swears his oath when he brings them back together. All of him within all of her, and creation too. She grips his face while he rocks into her, needing to see the riches of his eyes. The gold is electric there and she knows he will always come for her, her gold standard. That though he thought their preciousness gone, it was just underneath the weight of the world on top of them.

Now with him on top of her, they've found a new deposit. A shorter vein of richer gold.

They have to relish it, this gift, heaven on earth before it's over.

He does that thing, takes them to that plane, where time doesn't matter, the pandemic makes time sort of irrelevant anyway. What are mere hours between pilgrims?

They go through transfigurations, she's the altar, then the priest. Then him. In all sorts of shapes, their te deum unfolds, refolds, comes undone.

Jo is undone beneath him, unmade, and exhumed as his.

"You're so golden, Jo." He whispers into her ear when his joy and his energy run out.

He falls asleep on top of her, a fugue in the continuing rhapsody this interlude gifted them.

She cries a little, tears of joy. She doesn't want him to go yet. Not until Zoe comes home. That's when their clock runs out, their world ends. It's not fair to put her through it. Zoe missed him so much when he left. Asked about him ceaselessly, them regularly, still rarely.

Jo tells him so. "I'd like you to stay, through Sunday."

He holds her close and nods to nonexistent music in answer. The whole weekend is a symphony to what was, could be.

Some of their overtures are meals cooked for each other, cuddles on the couch, cusses in her bedchamber, a long afternoon with clothes on their backs and paintbrushes in their hands until they found a favored canvas in each other's skin.

He filled in the half heart he found on her with his tears, then with his kisses.

"Let's make a bigger one?" He suggested, and they used her camera, painted their paired halves whole on each other and photographed it. There are a few without looking their faces she will print out and frame, or put into one of the art books she is selling. She loves them so much, that they were complete for a while, she has to have proof.

They call each other by name, a lot. The names vary with the theme, the moment.

But, above all, Jo realizes he is the one she'd call, if she had only moments left. She'd spend them with him.

Their coda is her call and his response.

He'd come over, right.