A/N: So this WAS actually my very first second-person fic (still getting used to writing in that style), but had to edit for FFnet's weirdo policies. Also my first AC fic. If you follow me on AO3 you've already seen it (but saw it as a reader-insert, as it was originally written, and probably didn't know this char actually does have a name and backstory), but if not, here you go!
She understood the appeal, of course. This day and age? With gangs constantly battling for territory, fights breaking out all over the city, and a frankly alarming amount of dead bodies being stumbled over in the streets? It was no wonder Elizabeth had been advised by more than one friend to find some strapping young lad to protect her. She wasn't particularly fond of the implication that she couldn't protect herself, but then again, her usual tactic was to run and/or hide and pray to god that no one found her interesting enough to target.
In the interest of self preservation, her wardrobe had been nearly halved, stowing away anything in gang colours with the hope that one day she could wear them again (there was that lovely muted green dress that she'd saved up for and now this new gang had come along and spoiled the colour). (And it wasn't like her wardrobe had been all that large to begin with.)
Still, every time a friend pointed out the breadth of a man's chest, or a particularly impressive bruise, with the reasoning that such things meant he could take care of himself - and, by extension, any young lady he was escorting - she could only think of back-alley muggings and taproom brawls and, really, would anyone want to be with a man getting himself into those situations to begin with? If he started a drunken fight because some fellow at a pub looked at him the wrong way, who was to say he wouldn't do the same to his lady? While Elizabeth hadn't known many who'd been put in that uncomfortable situation, she had known some, and the thought of being stuck in such an arrangement was chilling.
Then again, she'd have be lying if she'd claimed to have never once admired the strong corded musculature of the boys unloading freight by the docks, or other such industrious types. Truth be told, she was a bit jealous of Emma and her betrothed - a man who could most fittingly be described as a gentle giant. While perfectly harmless (his bulk being mainly attributed to a family farm in his youth and then years of manual labour once moved to the city), he struck an imposing enough figure that she'd begun to think Emma simple when she was puzzled by Elizabeth's complaints over how uneasy the territory wars made her feel. But, of course, arm in arm with William Emma could walk down the street and Blighters and Rooks alike avoided unnecessary confrontation. Elizabeth was not so lucky. So her strategy held: keep your head down, don't get involved; anonymity was the safest course of action.
Of course, that didn't make her meek. A calculated defence was still calculated, after all, and the front was shrugged easily on and off as she went about her life. A friend would receive a teasing jab in the ribs or a bawdy comment, her laugh perhaps a bit too loud, yet seeing the telltale red or green colours her eyes went to the ground, shoulders tense and both face and posture bland as all hell. And if that front was occasionally difficult to hold? - whether from fear or simply annoyance - well, she did her best. Considering the worst she'd gotten had been a bit of jeering from a group of drunken Blighters and a few finger-shaped bruises on a forearm, she felt confident in her strategy.
The worst part of it all, in her opinion (and perhaps it was a selfish view of things), was that she'd thought things would've changed when she'd moved up in the world. But timing as it was, even as she'd snagged herself better employment, a better living situation, a way out of the grittier parts of London, the Clinkers had become the Rooks and the gang wars began again. And now something was strolling through London, leaving death in its wake.
Earlier in the day her lip had curled in distaste, stomach rolling at the sight of a red-clad corpse splayed on the sidewalk. A touch of guilt had coloured Elizabeth's conscience as the cynical thought that - well, at least it was mostly Blighters being found dead in the streets - flitted through her mind. (After all, the blood was far less jarring when it melded with the gang's colours. Bloodied Rooks somehow always looked worse for wear.) A soft sigh had bypassed closed lips as she let her eyes glaze over, legs following the now-familiar path back to her employers' residence as she pointedly avoided thinking about any and all gangs. It wasn't like there was much she could do about it, after all, so she might as well accept it and carry on. At least the City of London was far better than Southwark. It was even a pleasant enough experience, the occasional errand on these rare sunny days.
Apart from, you know, the corpses.
So she'd returned to the household.
She'd snagged a choice job, thanks to an awful lot of hard work, careful loitering, and months of impeccable attention to detail. Serving as a parlour-maid for the middle class, as it turned out, was ideal for Elizabeth. Or perhaps it was simply her employer, or at least his wife, who seemed particularly fond of her. Fond enough to give Elizabeth a position at least, in the small cadre of household servants, despite lacking much in the way of qualifications. And far too patient with her, truth be told. Regardless, she had a position now, never lacking a roof over her head or food on her table, and even got Sundays off. She felt astonishingly lucky. She would never want to compromise such a perfect situation.
Which was why she hesitated when entering her lady's chambers only to be greeted by a broad back knelt before the locked trunk at the foot of her lady's bed. Her first thought - laden with curses - was quickly dismissed. A quick flick of eyes over the figure revealed no colours or insignia for the gangs, which might be considered a small relief apart from the minor detail that this was still, ostensibly, a thief. In the rooms she was supposed to be in charge of, at least part of the time. And as lovely as her mistress was, she didn't wish to put her in such a position that might call her trust in Elizabeth into question. So it may be best to simply cry out for help, perhaps another servant could at least bear witness to clear her name if need be. But also: thief. Criminal. Potentially the sort to carry a weapon. If she did cry out, who's to say her neck wouldn't be on the line? Perhaps the best course of action would be to turn right back around and go report the theft to the housekeeper, she'd know what to do.
Right. So… careful extraction then.
She managed a single quiet step backwards before the floorboards beneath her creaked far louder than such sturdy things should. Elizabeth froze, breath caught in her throat, an instantaneous debate - if she should run (loud, but quick) or try to continue slowly inching away - pinged back and forth in her head. Before she'd decided which to follow, the thief was standing, turning to face her.
For all his face was mostly shadowed by the heavy hood he wore, Elizabeth's eyes immediately swept the rest of his figure, seeking gang colours again, if only out of instinct. Red? Red on his waistband, at least. And a red-
"Are you wearing a cravat?" The words slipped from her lips without thinking, utterly bewildered. If it was, it couldn't have been tied correctly.
...Shit.
Shit!
Her mouth snapped shut in the same instant as she realised she'd been gaping at him in incredulous confusion, and she quickly turned her eyes to the ground, slipping on the bland, meek little shell that was her shield, drawing into herself and somehow shrinking her very presence. But not before she noticed the amused twitch of his lips.
Dear god, what had she been thinking? (Of course, that was obvious: an awful lot of nothing useful.) But really; one did not expect a thief in a brocade waistcoat and silken cravat (or was it a necktie?). It had blindsided her, truly. Even now she wasn't quite sure how she should be reacting, though she was quite aware that this certainly wasn't it.
There was a moment of pause, her eyes fixed on the ground, too tense to blink, her flight instincts gradually overpowering her freeze instincts. When he moved to step toward her she bolted, running for the stairs.
When she returned a few minutes later, housekeeper in tow, the room was empty, the trunk still locked, and the window conspicuously open.
It got more absurd. Two days later, having been given the night off, Elizabeth was on her way to a pub on the north end of Southwark to meet Emma and her fiance. Crossing the Thames would've been a bit easier and a bit faster if she'd gone for the omnibus, but penny pinching had become a habit and it wasn't too far a walk. She certainly began to regret it when she heard sheer pandemonium at her back. Gun shots, carriage slamming against carriage, and the sound of terrified horses and cursing immediately made her push even closer to the edge of the bridge, only to watch them come barrelling down the thoroughfare.
Even in the dimming light she recognised his clothes. It was a distinctive look; the quilted leather collar on the duster, the fine waistcoat, the is-it-a-failed-cravat-or-a-rakishly-casual-necktie. He came and passed in moments, but she'd been struck by the absolutely puzzling addition of a top hat. Even more puzzling was the animosity of the two separate vehicles of Blighters on his tail, guns at the ready even as the thief swerved recklessly between carriages. Given the red band under his belt and the red ringing his hat she'd have assumed him to be on their side - or perhaps tangentially so, given the minimal flagging of colours. But she could only assume, what with the Blighters' fury and the thief's bark of laughter, that they were not, in fact, allies of any sort.
She was thoroughly rattled for a moment, heart pounding loud in her throat as she thanked God for not being trampled. But what else was there to do, really, besides continue? It gave her something to share with her friends, at least: I was almost killed by a madman being chased by armed thugs. What a tale.
Somehow, by the time she'd reached the Duke of York and had been greeted by warm smiles and a fresh pint, the story had gone from bizarre to entertainingly absurd.
Elizabeth let out a not-so-ladylike snort at Emma's flippant suggestion that the only solution here was to become a vigilante and track down the newly dubbed 'gentleman thief' herself. "If this is your attempt at matchmaking, I cannot fathom what you must think of my prospects," Elizabeth teased, grinning.
"Well, if he's so good as a thief he'd at least provide for you," Emma grinned right back. "And think of it this way: with Blighters on his tail, you'd make out like a bandit as his new widow. Could buy yourself your own hovel and everything."
At that Elizabeth had to laugh.
"Nah, she's too good for that now," William's tone was warm, merely teasing. "Can barely make it to Southwark for a pint without swooning over the dangerous streets."
"Oh? Are you slumming it with us tonight, then?"
Elizabeth rolled her eyes in response. "If I were, I'd be doing a poor job of it. This place is practically clean for Christ's sake. And none of that enticing rank of stale sweat and piss in the air. Where are the drunken brawls and the gang toughs? I simply am not scandalised nearly enough."
Emma shoved her hard enough to threaten her beer to spill, and Elizabeth widened her eyes at Emma accusingly, quickly wiping away the droplet that had come perilously close to soiling her skirt, and glaring at the girl even as she tried not to laugh.
It was a few pints later that the subject was broached again.
"If you really want to be scandalised…"
And that was how Elizabeth ended up, about 75% willing and 80% tipsy, giggling arm in arm with Emma as the three of them made their way to the foundry. She held Emma's arm a bit too tight, eyes a bit too wide, skin jittering as alcohol twisted her fear to adrenaline. William knew a fellow, supposedly, who fought regularly in the ring at this particular fight club, and he promised it was a sight to behold. He'd laughed as Elizabeth's eyes had gone the size of saucers upon hearing of the primary draw of such events: last man standing.
It was grotesque in a sort of fascinating way, where she didn't want to watch and yet couldn't look away. It was disgusting, and so often brutish, but god there was something exhilarating about it.
She wasn't sure how long she'd been there before she'd sobered up just enough to remember her curfew. Just as she asked William for the time, the bookie with the ridiculous hat (and jacket, and trousers) announced a new challenger.
William shook his head, brushing off Elizabeth's request. "Give it a minute. I saw this one at a club down Lambeth way, he's brilliant."
Pursing her lips in annoyance, she tried again. "That's lovely and all, but this fight could take ages and I need the work."
Will didn't even look at her, eyes focused on the challenger, letting out a slight snort of laughter. "Nah, this'll be quick," he assured. And with a pat to her back he quickly extricated himself and headed for the bookie, quick to place bets before the fight began.
"Rude." Elizabeth observed to Emma, who gave her a quick squeeze around the shoulders.
"Have some faith, I'm sure you'll be back in no time. I'll pay the fare if you really need it."
She hadn't realised just how correct she'd be.
At first glance, the challenger seemed a decent prospect, but nothing special. Average height - perhaps shorter than most of his opponents - broad-chested and stocky, though it was quickly apparent that that 'stock' consisted primarily of highly responsive musculature. The first round and he'd taken down his three opponents in mere moments.
"...Oh." There wasn't much else for Elizabeth to say about that. Damn.
A few minutes between rounds, and she spent the time studying him. He looked familiar, though her experience with shirtless men was few and far between, and - god - well, he had tattoos, and those were distracting as well. Had she met anyone when living in Southwark that had matched his description? It took a moment to drag her eyes from his bare chest and back to his face, which she examined carefully.
If Elizabeth were the sort to find dangerous men attractive - and she wasn't, of course not, because danger was danger, whatever it might be dressed as - she might consider the scar cutting through his brow to be… well, dashing didn't seem quite right. In combination with the similar scar on his (surprisingly well-groomed) jaw, she settled on the descriptor of roguish. She couldn't quite place the colour of his eyes from where she stood amongst the crowd, but that wolfish grin was eerily familiar as well. Gaze flicking down once more she considered the tattoos again. A sort of stylised cross, not a symbol she recognised, and a swooping bird. Beside the bird hung what from here looked like a coin on a thin cord of leather, like a necklace. That too prickled at her memory, like she should recognise it. It was almost irritating.
He glanced down at his hands, flexing them casually, mouth a cocky smirk as his next set of opponents assembled, ready to jump into the ring. He didn't even turn as the first approached him from behind, not at first, but when he did it was a flash, ducking under the man's swinging arm and slamming a fist straight up into his jaw. Elizabeth could only stare in amazement, along with the rest of the crowd, as the first opponent dropped like a sack of potatoes. Brutal.
She watched the muscles of his back tense and flex as he examined his wrapped palms once more, and could only imagine the look on his face as he spoke, voice a fine-edged casual drawl: "Come now lads, don't be skittish."
He was baiting them - though for god's sake why he was inviting four men to attack him all at once she couldn't reason. Whatever his intention was, it seemed to work. Soon he was surrounded, an elastic weaving of bodies and fists, dodging and striking and- Elizabeth winced at the audible crack as one of the men's arms folded in a manner it really shouldn't. Still, the tattooed challenger moved with a savage sort of grace, like some kind of devastating dance, taking down one opponent after another, moving far faster than she would have presumed possible.
Elizabeth had never found violence particularly attractive. But she had to admit… it looked good on him.
It wasn't until the third round that a single punch connected with him. A fraction of an instant after taking a blow to the shoulder he had already ducked back to circle around the fellow who'd thrown the punch, hooting his approval. "Well done, sir! First touch of the night - you should be proud!"
With a growl the fellow charged again, but he was met with a dodge, a strike, and one arm was pivoted at such an angle as to send the man barrelling toward the edge of the ring. Elizabeth took a reactionary step back as he slammed into the boards, brows lifted in astonishment, briefly wondering if the fencing would hold.
Emma gripped Elizabeth's sleeve, squealing in that way young women do when faced with sensationalism. Elizabeth couldn't look away, watching as the now-defending challenger stepped to his groaning opponent. His lips twitched into that small smirk, somewhere between amusement and satisfaction, that she now recognised. That smirk, that coin - hell, how hadn't she recognised the waistband before now?
When he spoke it was too playful to be deemed sneering, though the casual murmur still would never qualify as sincere. He gripped the man's shirt with both hands, watching his fingers in the fabric rather than addressing the man himself, amused as he shook his head. "...So proud." He punctuated the statement by pulling the dazed man to him, butting him in the head before drawing him back and raising his knee, using a hand on the back of the man's head to slam him face-first into it. Even if the opponent hadn't passed out he certainly didn't plan to keep fighting, body tumbling to the ground as the tattooed challenger rolled his shoulders back.
Elizabeth finally got a look at his eyes. Brown, or maybe hazel, clouded by a haze of adrenaline but glinting hungrily nonetheless. He wasn't looking at her, merely half-focused beyond the edge of the ring where she happened to be standing. It made the hair at the back of her neck stand on end. Her own eyes widened, spotting the two men who had edged their way closer, looking livid despite - or maybe because of - the injuries they'd already received. Her mouth opened, reflexively prepared to call out a warning (useless as it was), and she saw the second his eyes snapped to her face, determined the cause of her expression, and that wolfish spark came back to his grin as he turned and- 1, 2- hook- jab- pivot and strike and both men were down for the count.
"You promised a challenge, Topping!" He jeered, hands outstretched and gesturing to six fallen opponents.
The bets, apparently were gradually tilting toward his favour, though the next round of opponents looked particularly intimidating. From what Elizabeth could gather, the rounds had some unspoken system based on previous performance of some sort, some way of keeping the best fighters fresh for the last bouts, and the hulking men that now grunted and spat looked unambiguously imposing in comparison to the smaller but more nimble survivor of the first few rounds.
This time, he wasn't quite so lucky. The first few swings were dodged easily, countered, with a propensity for head-butting (hard-headed, of course he is), but then a solid punch to the cheek snapped his head to the side. Elizabeth had to admit, while she'd felt a bit bad for the opponents in the first round or two, she found herself rooting for the challenger this round, perhaps only in the face of such massive opponents. She hissed in sympathy along with several other spectators.
He wasn't even fazed. It was almost off-putting, the cocky grin tinged with blood. His voice had dropped from a loud boasting jeer to something quieter, more menacing, on the malicious side of playful. "Now that's more like it."
If she'd thought he'd been brutal before, she must have been mistaken. He'd been toying with them before, that was clear to see now, treating the fight like a game. But a switch had just been flipped. Elizabeth felt the colour draining from her face with each subsequent thud and crack and snap, watching blood trickle from wounds she hadn't thought possible from bare hands. A few more hits connected with him as well, though they were glancing, redirected before they could do any severe damage. There was no way this man was an amateur. Surely he was trained. He had to be, to be that… efficient.
Elizabeth found herself almost as irritated as she was impressed. These men had jobs, had work they needed to do, maybe even families to support, and he very well could be crippling them for life. It wasn't competition, it was condemnation. Hiding her disapproval behind guarded eyes, Elizabeth patted Emma's shoulder, murmuring in her ear. "That's him."
"Who?" Emma's eyes were wide, a flush brought to her cheeks at the exhilaration of the fight.
"The thief. The madman in the carriage."
Her eyebrows shot up, blinking in surprise before glancing back to the man in the ring, his opponents now all down for the count, his knuckles and face both bloodied for his effort along with a bleeding scratch across his chest, lifting a fist to strike at the air and enjoying the cheers of the crowd perhaps a bit too much. "The gentleman thief?" She sounded incredulous.
Elizabeth's tone was wry as she took him in again, focusing on those familiar features. "Yes, well… I may have been mistaken about that," she observed drily. He was no gentleman. That was becoming plain to see.
Emma snorted. "Apparently." She'd turned to look as well, and Elizabeth could swear she spotted the moment a horrible idea came into Emma's mind, the way Emma's eyes flashed in the fiery glow of the foundry.
Why was she smiling? "He's mad." Elizabeth wasn't sure why, but she felt the need to clarify that point to her friend. "Stark raving. As in 'Will saw him in Lambeth 'cos he'd escaped the asylum' mad."
"Hm." There was no positive outcome from a thoughtful response like that. Elizabeth could sense the gears turning in Emma's meddling head as she murmured, distantly, "Maybe." Christ, that smile meant nothing good.
Elizabeth thought to warn Emma off whatever she was planning, or perhaps poke about with questions until she might determine what exactly it was, but it seemed that the fights were over for the night, the night's star challenger having been deemed the new champion, and Elizabeth's plans were interrupted as other spectators filed past. William had gone to the bookie seemingly ages ago and hadn't yet returned. She thought she spotted his head in the crowd of people seeking their payouts. ...This would take a while. Elizabeth sighed, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back against the edge of the ring so she could face Emma.
"What's the look for?" Elizabeth's eyes had narrowed, tone suspicious as she focused her undivided attention on her friend who now shifted foot to foot, avoiding Elizabeth's gaze remarkably casually.
"What look?" Her tone belonged in a charming Sunday stroll in the park, not on the grimy floor of a foundry-turned-fight-club.
Elizabeth raised an incredulous eyebrow. "That look. With the eyes and the lips and the 'who, me?'" she mocked.
Emma gestured to herself with wide eyes, pouting, and Elizabeth could hear her who, me? ringing clearly in her head.
Elizabeth scoffed a laugh. "Right. Of course. Play innocent, then. I'll find out soon enough, I'm sure."
Emma batted her eyelashes, and Elizabeth saw her gaze flick sideways for a moment before she glanced more pointedly toward the crowd around this so-called Topping's distinctive hat. Garish man. "Wait here a moment, will you? I'll check on William."
Elizabeth frowned. Emma was at it again, with this naive idea that her fiance just radiated some kind of protective aura. But Emma had gone before Elizabeth had the chance to lecture her on the importance of not leaving a lady alone, particularly in a place like this. She scowled at Emma's back.
The sound of wood scraping against stone caught her attention, and Elizabeth turned back to the ring only to find the night's champion propping a stool beside the fence not six paces away. She shifted, uneasily, and finally settled on drawing back from the boards, angling herself to keep both the fighter and the crowd around the bookie in her line of sight. She'd rather not have her back to someone like him.
Unfortunately, her movement away only seemed to catch his attention. She was surprised when instead of making a comment he merely caught her eye, nodded respectfully, and returned to his own activities. Which, apparently, was gulping down a full bottle of what she hoped was water, because if it was gin he must have a stomach of steel.
His hair was wet with sweat - along with the rest of him, though she tried not to notice - and skin reddened in patches where Elizabeth suspected there would be bruises in the next few hours. He hadn't come out entirely unscathed. Liquid spilled from over-eager lips, and she blamed that last pint for the way her eyes followed it's path down his neck until it mixed with the blood from the scratch on his chest. She watched the pull and strain of muscles under skin as he set aside the bottle, unwrapping first one hand and then the other, revealing skinned knuckles and calloused palms. Reaching out of sight, she heard the quiet hollow pop of a stopper being released, and when his hands came back into view he was pouring an amber liquid over one of them. He'd just switched hands, as if to repeat the motion, when he paused.
Curious as to what could have made him stop, Elizabeth tried to keep her glance around the area subtle, but couldn't find anything particularly of note. Finally looking back to the man, she realised with a start that he was staring at her. Smiling. Rather cheekily, if she judged it correctly.
"I'm flattered, madam, truly."
Yes, cheeky seemed the right word for it.
Elizabeth felt her own cheeks heating, and realised what she must've looked like, watching this bare-chested man so openly. Quickly her eyes were on the ground again, a bit irritated to be stuck doing her little display of meekness, in all honesty; even she had thought going out with William would have made the tactic unnecessary, but alas. Shoulders rolled forward, head down, hands slipped from their confrontational stance to clasp mildly before her. She trained her face blank and vacant, shifting to turn even further from the man, though keeping him enough in her periphery to be aware of any trouble from his direction.
She saw forearms draping over the boards as the man turned to face her fully, leaning forward onto his elbows. She didn't want to look high enough to see his face. Avoid eye contact, avoid trouble.
He let out a low whistle. "Impressive." The word was said so casually it was hard to interpret his intention. And Elizabeth didn't intend to seek it out. Hands tapped absently against the boards, drumming out an inconsistent pattern as he waited for some kind of response. Then they paused once more. "Have we met?"
She couldn't help it - she glanced over, slightly irritated at his persistence, just to read his expression before her eyes flicked back to the floor. He was watching her, eyes glinting in a manner far sharper than the genial quirk of his lips. Hesitating for only a moment, Elizabeth shook her head. The silent, bland girl, eyes on the floor. Maybe he'd get bored and leave her alone.
"You're sure?"
There was something in the question - amusement, though Elizabeth wasn't sure if he was making any attempt to hide that.
After another pause, she nodded.
"Really?" She saw him shift in the corner of her eye, straightening, though he still rested his arms against the side of the ring. His tone was almost theatrically casual. "Because I could've sworn you insulted my impeccable fashion sense."
She felt the pink rushing up her neck as she flicked her eyes to him again, unable to stop her lips from their slight purse of irritation before her eyes were on the ground again, blanking out her expression once more. "I think you may have mistaken me for someone else, sir." Her words were mumbled but inside she was cursing. The smugness practically rolled off of him in waves. He had her pegged.
"You are very good at that," he observed again, conversationally. "Tell me: do all the boys get this treatment, or am I special?"
Elizabeth tried to swallow her incredulous snort, and it came out as a soft cough. She almost wanted to tell him the truth, just to knock him down a notch. Cautiously, she looked up only to find a delighted grin on his face. He so obviously wished her to say yes.
"Please tell me I'm special."
Elizabeth's lips did twitch at that, turning ever so slightly toward him, a bit smug at her own spot-on reading of the man. But damn it if his eagerness wasn't a bit endearing. He was a charmer, wasn't he?
He'd returned to cleaning his wounds once she'd finally given him the attention he so obviously craved. Still, even as he swabbed the broken skin of his hands and the cut on his chest (and that balm was assuredly medicated and not the sort of thing any old street thug would keep on their person - who was this man?), he kept glancing back to Elizabeth, apparently awaiting an answer. Despite her better judgment, she had to pinch her lips between teeth to keep from smirking right back.
She wondered just how much of her behaviour she might blame on the alcohol as she realised she'd taken a few small steps in his direction. "You…" Elizabeth glanced away, sure her bemusement must show on her face but not sure how exactly to respond to the question.
"Jacob." He held out a hand, still shiny with whatever greasy ointment he'd been using to dress his wounds. "Frye."
Turning her eyes back to him, Elizabeth made no attempt made to hide her scepticism, an eyebrow raised incredulously at the offered hand.
At first surprised, after glancing at his own hand he seemed to concede that it wasn't exactly the most appealing thing to touch at the moment. He nodded, an air of 'can't blame a lad for trying' in his small smile.
Please tell me I'm special.
"You're… something, Mister Frye," she finally capitulated.
Admittedly, he still managed to be quite handsome despite the marks of his fight as he grinned at her. "I'm taking that as a compliment."
Elizabeth huffed a small laugh, glancing back to the diminishing crowd by the exit. Emma was watching, looking far too self-satisfied. Eyes narrowing at her bright smile, Elizabeth's words came out wry, though lacking any malice. "It wasn't meant as one."
Hearing a click of his tongue she looked back again only to find a mockery of hurt on his features, though not coming even close to those laughing eyes. "You wound me, madam."
"Miss," Elizabeth corrected him automatically, the word a half-considered murmur. Upon realisation of the implication, she cleared her throat, immediately turning back to the foundry's entrance as his brows lifted and lips curved into a smirk, ignoring - or trying to ignore - the heat on her skin.
"Miss…?"
But Elizabeth was already walking toward the two she'd come with, feeling a small hint of pointed satisfaction as she called over her shoulder; "Congratulations on your win, Mister Frye."