Poor Evelyn. Poor steady, solid, ever-constant Evelyn. Ship where you like, but I am a sucker for the underdog. And after S4E7, as I tumbled in my head how he could be made to have a chance, what there needed to be lurking there to make him the dark horse in all this, Mary began to wonder the same things with me. And though this might, um, seem familiar in some ways, it was her idea (she clearly had a source for inspiration) to try and figure that out for herself. And the two of them together ripped out my soul in little tiny pieces and stomped on it, dammit.
Nevertheless, I figured before next Sunday and S4E8 where Evelyn's stage direction is likely to be [EXUNT STAGE LEFT, CHASED BY GILLINGHAM], he had to have his moment to let you know what Mary might have found hiding. MizRose's head-canon, fixing characters to her liking since 19xx….
(For extra feels, please see this video for what became this stories soundtrack and revel in Ev's pain.)
He had always been honest with her. Too honest. Never able to hold anything back. Letting her know exactly how he felt, what he wanted. Yet all of it so gently, so quietly. Matter of fact, as if stating it was a gorgeous day — "I want to marry a woman who can love me." — no deception, no game, no forceful declarations demanding immediate response. Just him, emotions and heart bare before her, presented with that self-deprecating quirk and nervous twist of his fingers. Willing to leave himself there, naked, for her contemplation.
Where she used silence to hide herself, to tuck away emotion that would only complicate things, he used silence to declare his heart. His courage.
Couer — the heart; agit — to act.
She hung in the tension of his silence, hearing all of proclaimed, all that he conveyed without saying a word.
The raw honesty of it frightened her.
She wanted to answer back, to say something, but she was terrified of breaking the power of his pronouncements, shattering them to pieces with once false move, once careless utterance. She liked that he was always there, a quiet, steady constant. Even if…. He would still love her, still be there, if she wanted.
If she wanted.
Her heart ached at the very thought, and she didn't know if it was for him or for herself.
What she wanted.
She didn't even know. There were moments when she thought she did, but they were fleeting, wishes on falling stars that didn't last a heartbeat. Only one desire remained unchanged, but reversing death was not an option.
I'm not ready. Am I?
Part of her wanted to be ready. To take hold, to know where to step next. Oh, but even if she was ready, would she know what path to take? She would freeze again, trying to see further down each, regretting every possible mistake, faulting herself before she had made a single move.
This man, the one with the eyes so full of trust, of love, of sadness. He was the steadiest there, a foundation. Giving her strength to beleive that she could move on. The quiet, soft romantic one who had always believed in love even in an aristocratic marriage. A unicorn if ever there was one.
Yet she had known passion, tasted it on her tongue every day upon waking, had lived in a body consumed by the fire by it. The safe comfort of quiet romance was nice, but just that. Nice.
She had known more. So much more.
If she was to live, if she was to move on, wouldn't she need that excitement, that fire again?
Move on.
Why had he never moved on? She shivered. The one question he gave no answer to in all his honesty. Not the real answer, not the truth of him, the truth of what he saw in her. Oh, he knew her truths and secrets plenty — more a long time prior than others had — but what he made of them, what was it that kept him there, orbiting her, obeying her law of gravity. There was a mystery there, something hidden in him so open.
And maybe she didn't want to know.
A resigned smile, a turn away, her hand reaching out to stop him. For what, she didn't know. She wouldn't break all he laid before her by voicing mere words. It all might shatter, but words were too cruel, and not what either of them needed.
Hand on his chest, the other sliding to wrap around his neck, she tilted her face upward to give the most honest response she could, the only language she had never been able to tell a lie with. She didn't even know what it was she wanted to say to him. Her lips brushed his softly, gently, an apology, a wish, just something.
Something.
Something caught and roared up in her, in him, blazing between them. Startled by what had been so well-hidden, she reeled as his arms came to catch her even closer to him, his hand cradling her head, bending her to a deeper angle of their mouths, to his kiss hot and wet, searing her, tasting her, cherishing every inch of her with his mouth and tongue. He breathed truth into her, but wrote yet more mysteries across her that sparked and flamed and left her shaking.
She was turned about, every thought, every thing she thought she knew crumbling and topsy-turvy in this storm of hidden intensity and a need greater than she had ever known possible. They had never danced this dance, and yet he led her too expertly, wielding a sensual power over her that had her hoping this music of their touch would never end. An awakening, a stirring of something she had tried to freeze away, never to be felt again. She grappled with her emotions even as she clung to him, that foundation, that constant. Stronger than she had ever suspected, the truth of it hidden under the surface, she knew she was only tasting the barest hint of him with her tongue.
Yet he pulled away, his hands coming up to cradle her face, to hold her there, distance her. She could feel him trembling as he gently, almost chastely, brushed his lips over hers, catching her upper lip for one last, soft caress. Thumbs brushed at the dampness on her cheeks, breath fanning them, and she struggled to swallow her sob of frustration. Frustration for wanting. Frustration for not being able to step beyond where she was still frozen. Frustration that all the pain could be brought to the surface again so easily, even as he was trying to comfort her, to heal her.
His lips pressed to her forehead, lingering for a breath, two. She felt the goodbye in those heartbeats and pulled harder at the fabric of his jacket clutched in her hands, not wanting to acknowledge what he was screaming at her, not willing to accept goodbye when she was still trying to find a way to say hello.