December 29th, 1892 — Cape Town, South Africa
J. Alfred Darrow

Portkey travel remained one of Jo's least favorite methods. For while she enjoyed the ease of suddenly being in another location, the illness it caused made her queasy for days afterwards. In fact, the queasiness was her foremost reason for preferring sailing. However, the position of procuring rare and antique texts for Zach's shop required a faster turn around than sailing permitted. Besides, Jo couldn't exactly spend months away from Ilona anyway.

This trip was meant to last three days, with tomorrow being her last morning in this foreign land. It would have been too, had the seller not decided the agreed upon price too low for such a valuable tome. Jo had haggled and argued for what seemed like an eternity before they walked away for the evening. Tomorrow would be the final opportunity, or else she would be returning home a failure for the first time since starting this venture.

Jo walked down towards the docks before choosing a pub for dinner. Cape Town remained entirely unfamiliar to her, its quirks too elaborate for discovery within hours. Perhaps if she had another day to explore she would have ventured further into the city, but, for perhaps one of the first times, she felt a hint of trepidation heading further inside its depths. This was her first visit to an entirely new city following Ilona's birth. There was no telling how difficult it would be to obtain a second portkey should she get lost and miss tomorrow morning's trip home.

Jo navigated the crowded pub with ease, a smile already overcoming the stressed expression from her long day. A beer would help the persistent nausea, she hoped. If not, at least there were bushes alongside the pub. "Sorry, is this one taken?" Jo asked the man who's back was to her as she reached one of the few remaining barstools available.

---

The winter hadn't been difficult, but it had been long, and in any long stretch away from home there were difficult days. He missed Zelda. He didn't say so in his letters home. He told himself it was because it was needless to say; that she already knew. Really it was because he was afraid that when she replied she would say then come home. She hadn't asked him to stay behind this year to help her take care of the baby, but she also hadn't told him she was going to quit the Ministry until it had already happened. Alfred didn't think she was keeping anything from him, but it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that she didn't know what she needed or wanted right now, until all of the sudden she did. And he did not want Zelda to tell him to come home. Part of him was already home. The Voyager; the dark waves; the wind filling the sails. He loved Zelda and their child, but he did not want to be told to come home. He wasn't ready to be home again.

The dichotomy wasn't new, but it was more acute this year. Maybe because of the baby, but maybe because Zelda hadn't yet seemed herself when he'd left, so things back in England felt unfinished. Some days it bothered him more than others; sometimes he hardly felt it at all. When it was particularly sore, drifting back to the edge of his thoughts like so much troublesome driftwood on a high tide, he had no one to talk to about it. Pablo would listen, but he didn't have a wife or a family, so he didn't really understand. Jo, Alfred had thought, might have understood. They didn't talk any more, and he had no idea how she felt about her child or even where the baby had come from, at the end of the day, but if anyone might have understood the pull to go when there was so much to stay for, it might have been her. So she'd been on his mind more this winter than she had been for a long time, and then in their last port call he'd had too much to drink and done something stupid. How stupid was something he was trying not to spend too much time thinking about — he didn't remember exactly what he'd said in the letter he'd apparently sent her, but anything at all was mortifying enough. It almost made him miss the days when the worst trouble an over-indulging sailor might find themselves in was to wake up dangling upside-down from the mast.

His birthday might have been over a week ago, but Alfred was going through dinner as though he still had a hangover, nursing a single pint of weak beer long enough that it had grown lukewarm. The woman's voice surprised him and his first thought was that she was probably a prostitute. English itself wasn't rare in Capetown, but her lack of accent was; the local dialects had a different cadence that typically carried over to any language spoken. The exceptions would have been travelers, which typically didn't mean women dining alone in pubs, or prostitutes who had worked hard on an accent that would make their customers feel comfortable.

"Not interested in —" he started as he turned, and then recognized her. He stopped mid-sentence and his mouth fell open, and it took nearly two full seconds before he'd recovered himself enough to close it again. "Fuck me," he muttered, tone not exasperated but rather astonished.

---

She recognized his voice before he even turned to face her; her body already flinching from the tension that was sure to follow. The letter last week was a surprise, one she hadn't responded to well considering her rather vulnerable reply. At first, Jo thought her letter had gotten lost in the wind, but his brisk and unfriendly answer a few days later had squashed any such hopes. He may have admitted to missing her, might have even thought to include her in his life story, but it wasn't enough to bridge the distance between them. Nothing would ever be enough.

"I'm sorry." Jo replied quickly, already scanning the room for somewhere else to sit. "I had no idea you were here, or in Cape Town for that matter-" it made sense that he was here, though, he said he was going underway soon a few months ago. "-I'll find somewhere else. Sorry again for bothering you."

---

He didn't believe her. Not that he thought she had any reason to lie to him, but it was just too implausible for him to seriously believe that she was here by accident. Halfway across the world, on the one night that he was in port, in the same pub at the same time — and so soon after that stupid letter. This was the very next time when she possibly could have run into him, and the whole thing seemed too — convenient wasn't the word, but whatever the opposite of convenient was. This was the sort of thing that could only reasonably be explained by a curse, but he hadn't gone messing with any unfamiliar magical items lately. So he couldn't help but think that she wasn't being entirely honest, and that she'd wanted to run into him here, to talk.

On second thought that was no less improbable, though. What would she have had to do to make that happen? It wasn't as though he'd furnished her with an itinerary of his journey before he left; he didn't think he'd even mentioned which direction they were sailing. So she would have had to get the information from someone, and there was a very limited pool of people who would have known his travel arrangements with any degree of detail and who would know who Jo was. It was probably just Zelda, as a matter of fact, and it wasn't as though she would have approached Zelda. What would she have said? I want to ambush your husband abroad so we can discuss a letter he sent me while he was drunk would not have been a very convincing argument. Even if she had somehow figured out where he would be and when, she would have had to arrange a portkey to get her here, which probably wasn't feasible on such short notice. He'd only sent the damn letter a little over a week ago. It took longer than that to requisition a portkey, unless she was going to get one off the black market, but that was absurd. So maybe she was here by chance, but... fuck, what a ill turn of fate this was. Some Eastern religions believed that all actions, good or bad, had consequences sooner or later; this was almost enough to make him think they were on to something. It felt like a punishment for his behavior the last time they'd been in port.

He started to let her leave. She'd already apologized and said goodbye and then apologized again, already turned away, before he decided he couldn't let her just walk off. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, rubbing one hand heavily against his forehead as though steeling himself before he continued. "Jo, wait." He waited for her to turn back towards him, then gestured to the empty stool with a sigh. "It's not like we're allergic to each other."

---

The single other remaining open stool was abruptly occupied only seconds after Jo began heading towards it. There had to be other pubs nearby, or perhaps her hotel might have been able to provide her with some sort of minimalistic meal. She didn't need much, hell a few crackers would do if need be. It wasn't as though she had days before she returned home, Jo could be hungry for twelve hours or so.

She made it a few feet from him when she heard Alfred instruct her to come back. The stubborn, petulant and (quite frankly hurt) part of her initially refused. If he continued to harbor the resentment brewed during the blizzard then what was the use of trying? Why should she bother pretending to be civil throughout a difficult small talk filled conversation? Alfred didn't want her friendship anymore (which upset her greatly but Jo understood his reasoning) so why did he insist on dragging it out? Why not allow her to walk away?

(The letter last week betrayed how heavily he supposedly missed her. Its raw vulnerability had nearly caused her to confess her thoughts regarding how their relationship might have progressed without Zelda or Zach's influence. This wasn't to say she had hoped they might move in that direction, for she genuinely didn't find him to be attractive anymore, but the potential had existed once. The spark created by those first shared drinks could have led to more if circumstances were different. Only, the circumstances weren't different. And, more importantly, Jo didn't want them to be.)

"No, you just resent the very air I breathe now." Jo muttered, heading back towards him despite her reluctance. "I'll go as soon as I've eaten. You don't have to talk to me."

---

Her general attitude as she returned didn't surprise him, but her words did. His eyebrows raised and he bit his lower lip. He didn't know what to say to that. She hadn't put it out there like a question, but rather as a statement. She was entirely sure that he resented her. He didn't know what he'd done to give her that impression. The few conversations they'd had since her return to England had been cool and stiff, yes, but it wasn't as though he was simmering with anger or hate when he interacted with her. Maybe she was thinking all the way back to the blizzard; that was fair enough, if so. He'd said things that were out of character for him when she'd insisted on leaving. Freeze, then, if that's what you want — but surely she had known even in the heat of the moment that he hadn't really meant it?

The other option, of course, was that he'd said something in the letter that had gotten her thinking he resented her. He didn't remember what he'd written, not specifically, so he wasn't sure. Alfred knew what sorts of things the letter had probably contained, because he knew what had been on his mind earlier in the night when he hadn't yet had so much to drink, but he didn't remember sending it (or getting back to the ship), so he couldn't be entirely sure of what it said. Only that it had said far too much.

Alfred looked down at his own plate (half-consumed but no longer particularly appetizing) and wondered what, if anything, he ought to say. She'd given him permission to say nothing at all. That was probably what he should do. There was probably no good outcome here, so no point in wasting his breath trying to explain anything. But he didn't think he was capable of just leaving it there, with Jo thinking that he hated her.

"Listen," he began, with considerable difficulty. He rubbed his thumb along the side of his pint glass and kept his eyes on his plate. "I don't — actually — exactly — remember — all of what I wrote in that letter. If it gave the impression I resented you then — I'm sorry," he managed. "I, ah — I don't. I'm actually — I'm sorry about the letter no matter what impression it gave. I don't know what I was thin— well, I wasn't thinking, really, that's the whole point, isn't it? Ah — but I'm sorry, really."

---

There were a long list of topics Jo longed to discuss with Alfred. Heavy and emotional ones, joyous ones about their children, traveling, the list was endless. None of those topics contained the letters recently sent. None of them dared to touch on the response that left her crying into the wee hours of the morning.

She inhaled sharply and refused to look at him. "There was nothing worth remembering. I'm sorry for even answering it." Jo bit back. What a mistake that had been. An absolutely ridiculous mistake. Thank Merlin she hadn't touched on his mention of love. How mortifying would that have been?

"You don't have to do this. I understand the boundary - we're not friends. What I think doesn't have to matter here." She pushed on a bit more hesitantly.

---

As much as he regretted sending the letter in the first place, he wasn't sorry for her response. Without it, he wouldn't have even been aware of the damage he had potentially caused. Granted, their relationship was already in shambles, so maybe the additional damage wasn't much of an impact to notice, but still; he was glad she'd taken the time to write back. If what he'd sent her had included him rambling about tattoos, he was sure drafting her response hadn't been easy. His tattoos weren't just images to him; they were important, meaningful. Even if he was incoherently drunk he was sure that would have come across as he was talking about them, which would have put her in a difficult position. Not to mention for what it's worth I miss you too.

"You said you weren't worth remembering, either," he pointed out, looking sideways at her. "So I'm going to have to say you're full of shit." Maybe she was right about the boundaries right now — they weren't friends, not anymore — but neither of them could deny what they'd had in the past. Not without lying through their teeth, anyway.

---

Mercifully, the bartender chose that moment to interrupt them and allow Jo to place her order. They spoke quickly with her seizing the opportunity to mask her expression better, she even managed a hint of a smile before he walked away. Jo couldn't get into this with Alfred of all people in South Africa of all places. Hell, she hadn't even truly discussed it with Zach.

"Why does it matter to you?" Jo asked instead, turning to face him for the first time since sitting down. If they weren't friends, if he didn't care enough to respond to anything in her letter, then why force the issue now? Why did he insist on pretending? "What you said, what I said. Why does it matter?"

---

Alfred didn't know how to answer. Part of him wanted to strip away the pretense, dispense with all the artificial space they'd put between themselves and say straight out that he missed her and he wanted to see her again, the same way they had before. He didn't know what Zelda would have thought of that, though; the last time they'd really talked about Jo in any depth had been the day of the blizzard, when she'd said I need it to be done. A lot had changed since the blizzard, but he didn't know if Zelda's feelings on the matter had or not. He'd meant to talk to her about Jo this year; he'd wanted to ask why Zelda hadn't mentioned Jo's daughter, when he'd immediately come clean about having ran into her again. But he hadn't ever asked Zelda about it. He'd quibbled with himself about the timing: not while she was pregnant and they were supposed to just be happy; not right after the baby was born; not right after she'd quit; not right before he left. The end result was that they'd never talked about Jo, not really, since she'd been back in the country, and he didn't know what Zelda would think of him sitting beside her at a bar now.

Zelda trusted him, he thought. She trusted him because he was trustworthy; even if he did have an honest conversation with Jo, it wasn't as though anything was going to happen. And, also — Zelda wasn't ever going to know what happened in a pub in Cape Town, anyway.

"Do you think things happen for a reason?" he asked, ignoring her questions.

---

Yes, of course, was her immediate reaction. Everything was meaningless if there was no reasoning behind it. Jo wouldn't have been able to follow through on having Ilona were it not for her love for Zach. Everything happening for a reason was as simple as basic cause and effect.

Except, that wasn't exactly true. Ilona's existence was pure happenstance. An unlucky roll of the dice that eventually led to an intense downward spiral. No amount of emotion, passion, or empathy could have spared Jo from it. The spiral then led to the failed adoption and now everything was so intensely complicated that she often laid awake trying to think her way through it. What could be the reasoning for the complications? Not a single soul benefited from the spiral. In fact, Jo had left a trail of wounded people in her wake.

Her drink arrived and Jo took the opportunity to focus on something other than him. She studied the bubbles in the glass, the condensation already forming on the sides. If everything happened for a reason, what was the purpose of their continued run ins? Was he finally to give her the answer to what happened on that fateful Thursday? Were they meant to be friends again? Given how cold and distant he was being towards her, Jo knew the answer to be that there was no purpose.

Life was cruel and random at best.

"No. That's just a lie people tell themselves to justify tragedies and things they can't be bothered to understand." Jo eventually replied, sounding more tired than before.

---

So which is this, Alfred thought to himself; a tragedy or something we can't be bothered to understand? Because it was a hell of a coincidence, them ending up side by side at a pub after he'd sent her a letter like that. It might not have been fate or karma or anything like that, but it was something. A chance, maybe — a chance they were unlikely to have twice.

If Jo was even interested in talking to him, of course. She'd written that she missed him, but she hadn't seemed particularly willing to open up so far. He didn't blame her, but it also made him hesitant about the idea of continuing. With one letter he didn't quite remember between them, he was already at a slight disadvantage. Taking a leap of faith on those terms was a big ask, but... he wanted to try and talk to her. He didn't know what he wanted from her, but he'd decided to talk to her the moment he'd called her back to the bar stool.

"We used to agree on this sort of stuff," he said, lifting his glass. "Did you get more cynical, or did I get more optimistic?"

---

Jo shrugged, entirely unsure of the answer. While she was positive that she had lost some (if not all) of her sunny disposition following the events of Egypt, it was impossible for her to discern who Alfred was now. They hadn't had a genuine conversation in nearly two years, and the last thing he'd ever told her following said conversation was to leave. Had he transformed into a brighter person? Had he changed as much as she?

"I don't know, Alfred." She took a sip of her drink before turning to face him once more. A hundred questions, demands and statements ran through her head as she struggled to keep her rising frustration at bay. Alfred thought her cynical without knowing any of the circumstances. He had talked to her about taking a trip and then all at once he was moving and getting married. If she was cynical, it was due partly to him as well. Not entirely, perhaps not even significantly enough to matter, but enough that Jo was able to recognize the loss.

"Wouldn't you turn cynical after an intensely dark period in your life? Or did you return from South America entirely as you were?"

---

He was taking a drink when she responded, which gave him a second before he had to react. This turn of the conversation surprised him, for two reasons. The first was that she already knew the answer. They'd talked extensively about his time in South America, and she knew he'd emerged an entirely different person. The Alfred who'd returned to England after being shipwrecked bore so little resemblance to the one who'd departed that sometimes he felt his life had only actually begun in the American wilderness. The second reason her question surprised him was that he didn't immediately see the relevance. What intensely dark period of her life? He didn't know what she'd been up to in the nearly a year between their parting at the blizzard and seeing each other again in London, but from his perspective she seemed to be doing fine now. She had a daughter, there was a we of some variety which was discussing where to settle. He knew she'd been frantic in the days leading up to the blizzard; that was what had caused the whole problem between them in the first place. But she seemed to have it all figured out now, didn't she?

"I was entirely different. But not entirely cynical," he contended — though this may have been in part rose-tinted glasses with the benefit of hindsight. He certainly felt better about his return to England now than he had while living it. He turned his pint glass in a quarter-circle thoughtfully and then raised it to drink again. "What happened after you left?"

---

"No, it started before I left, with Egypt." Jo corrected. The explosion had caused her more than just chronic physical pain - it had effectively robbed her of her magic too. Losing that had diminished all of her confidence almost as quickly as one blew out the candle. Then, once she added in everything that happened with Alfred and Zach, the genuine loneliness crept in.

She sipped on her beer as she considered just how much to share with him. Previously, Jo would have unwound like a spool of thread, relaying line after line of the experience in Georgia. However, that was before the boundaries were put in place. Was he asking out of morbid curiosity? Did he truly wish to know? More importantly though, did she even wish to unload on him as she once might have? Despite her wish for the answer to be otherwise, Jo immediately knew that she did.

"I lost myself." She eventually landed upon. Too many critical events happened within too short of a time frame and Jo simply wasn't able to process any of it. Not her hand or magic, not her mother dying, not what a long term commitment would look like, not her adventure in motherhood, none of it. "I was drowning in quicksand and no one was capable of pulling me out."

Perhaps if the different important people were aware of one another and elected to work together they would have then been strong enough. "And I wasn't able to lift myself out either."

---

Alfred frowned at her response, but it was not ultimately surprising, at least at the level of detail she'd provided. There were almost certainly things he didn't know, but from what he had been aware of it had been clear that she was in a certain state of mind near the end of their relationship. She'd been like a boat adrift in a storm, all erratic movements and directionless, frantic energy and the feeling that any creak in the boards might suddenly become the rapid taking on of water. That was what had sparked the awful moment where he'd nearly slipped in the first place: the conviction that she was about to be lost, perhaps generally but at least to him specifically, if he didn't do something.

"But you're out of it now," he said. He didn't let it come out as a question, though it was; he wanted reassurances that she was doing better, that her child and her us and everything had made her happy, because if this was the last word she had to say on the subject — if he'd been right about that feeling that she was about to be lost, back then, and then he'd chosen not to intervene and everything had crumbled, then... that was going to be a lot to wrestle with.

---