Fic: postcards
Title: postcards
Fandom: Dresden Files
Spoilers: For Blood Rites.
Rating: PG
Summary: Maggie writes him postcards, every night. AU, Maggie/Malcolm.


Maggie writes him postcards, every night, after Thomas has fallen asleep.

She never sends them, of course. That would be stupid, and risky, and stupidly risky, and she's had enough of being impetuous for an entire lifetime, especially when it means risking someone else's life. It's a danger just keeping them, honestly, because if the Raiths ever find the growing pile at the bottom of her travel bag, they'll wonder who this "Malcolm" is. But she can't let go of them; doesn't want to, if she's honest about it, which she almost never is, anymore. Except with him.

She isn't sure why she writes him postcards at all. It's not as if he'll ever read them, so there must be something in it for her. It's comforting, in an odd way, just to write his name, just to remind herself that he's still alive out there somewhere. And they could serve as an informal record of where they've been and who they were, she and Thomas and the baby, a sort of patchwork diary.

He doesn't know about the baby, of course. But she's written him everything; all about her developing pregnancy, about Thomas's fascination with the second heartbeat inside her and the way her stomach curves a little more every day. She's written him her thoughts and hopes and fears, stroking her belly as she does. Soon she'll write him about giving birth, and how much she wished he was there with her. She knows she will wish for him, because she wishes for him all the time.

She couldn't stay. She didn't dare. The Raiths are coming for their lost son and their runaway doe, and to drag an innocent man into that... especially, if she's honest, an innocent man she loved. Loves. More than anything.

Maggie takes a deep breath, rubs her hand across her belly as the baby stirs, pulls out the postcard she bought today. It features a picture of the Copenhagen skyline, and a cheery description on the back.

Someday, maybe, when it's safe, when she's outrun everyone, she'll send all the postcards, all at once, just drop them in a mailbox and let them go. Or maybe she can bring them to him, and watch his face as he reads.

Someday.

She picks up her pen, and starts to write.