She's changed since the last time he saw her a century and a handful of decades ago. Her jawline is softer, the bone likely chiseled artfully to appear less severe; there are curves where there were none before, altering her posture just as well as those arching heels. The lace dress is deceptively modest, covering skin from neck to wrist to ankle yet revealing skin beneath; the gown clung to her new curves and confidence like a second skin.
She's changed since the last time he saw her and yet she hasn't. Her brows still crease despite her painted smile and she fiddles and fidgets, unable to stay still for too long. She still finds these formal gatherings stifling when she wasn't the center of attention.
"Grell Sutcliff." He addresses her and she's startled by the name. It's been a long time, he thinks, since she's probably answered to that. A century and a handful of decades ago, when they parted violently in a mess of words, emotions and blood. When he'd yelled things he'd regretted since they left his mouth, when she'd marched to the Board and demanded a transfer to the most dangerous sector of the London Bureau.
"Why, if it isn't Director Spears looking as dashing as ever." She smiles in greeting but there's a tiredness to her eyes that hadn't existed when they'd parted. Fatigue from keeping vigil over the Bureau's borders where those eyes would have witnessed many a colleague perish in skirmishes and wars.
"How are you?" He asks and she's close, close enough for him to catch the scent of perfume on her pulse-point and see the faint scars on her décolletage peeking from beneath the lace. A soldier's scars.
There's a pause, a lengthy one, and she calculates her answer in the reflection of her champagne.
"Alive." The answer she gives twists something in his heart he'd long thought had frozen over. "And you, Director?"
"Well enough." He nods, pausing to sip his champagne. "You look-" beautiful, utterly so and I have missed you every moment since you left for the borders, "-the strongest and most confident I have ever seen." She laughs and the sound warms his chest.
"Confidence has more power than most realize." Her eyes lose their weariness for a moment, sparking with life. "It's what happens when you finally feel like yourself." A comfortable silence settles between them and they both relax their guard a modicum. Defences had been patched and rebuilt in her absence, yet having her so close and conversing with her seemed to undo all of that.
"You still have this silly thing?" Her fingers brush the indigo silk grosgrain tie he's wearing.
"I do believe I owe you a dance as payment for it."
"It was a gift, William."
"No, you initially demanded a dance as payment for it and later on declared it a gift." He explained, falling back on his logical processes. "However I do believe the original conditions are valid and I am not a man prone to falling into debt."
"William." She's trying to scold him but the corners of her lips were twitching in a barely contained smile. "That was in 1902."
"I am sorry I have not paid for your skilled labour in a timely manner. May I do so now?" He's slipping an arm around her waist and taking her hand in his. She hesitates before resting a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm afraid it's gathered interest, Will." There it is: his shortened name and the fondness in her tone. "It's now worth at least three dances and perhaps-"
And he kisses her, his body remembering her heat and her scent and her softness and strength even if his mind had found it too painful to bear in her absence and locked it away. He kisses her and she melts against him and he won't ever let anything take her from him again.
When they pull away he rests his cheek atop her perfumed tresses, savouring how right she felt in his arms. He can feel her shaking with silent giggles and after a moment she speaks.
"I was going to say 'and perhaps dinner' but I'm quite happy with this outcome."