Author's Note: I don't own anything connected to Little Men or Louisa May Alcott or the company that put this show on the air; I'm just borrowing Nick a little while 'cause he's so damned pretty.
A/N 2: I am still upset with Pax for canceling this show and keeping Doc on for seasons innumerable. Just had to share.
Spoilers: The whole darn series.
She would still call to him at night: wheedling, cajoling and begging for him to return to her. And, in dreams, he would turn his feet to go before he remembered that it was 50 miles from Concord to the shore and he had responsibilities here now.
So, he would turn his face to the wall and ignore the voice, but she wouldn't give up and she would show him the moonlight path and the blues and grays and greens and he would give in and go running, faster than trains, to burst onto the shore. He would stand, not even out of breath, and gaze out over her and listen to her singing as she spread beneath the indigo sky and white starlight and he would want to go anywhere but here. Here, the world was narrow; there, it was boundless and he wanted that freedom more than almost anything else.
So he would go – speeding across the sea – cutting through the air without need of wood or canvas (but missing them even so) to come to rest in Morocco or China or Malta. Anywhere else. And he would play there until, by and by and always, he would take to the sea air again to finally light upon a beach of starlight-reflecting white sand and he would lay cradled there in the warmth, watching the stars and listening to her sing to him and he would know that he was free.
But, always and without fail, the sun would come to his starlit beach and, with it, Jo. And she would stand over him with her glowing eyes and her warm smile and her soft hair and she would put her hand out to him and say, "Nick, its time to come home." And he would, without fail, place his hand in hers and let her pull him to his feet and her voice would drown out the moan of loss from the sea. And they would go home. After all, wanting something more than almost anything else is so much less than wanting someone more than everything else.