Author's Note: Coming out of my fanfiction retirement because William and Eliza really be living in my head rent-free. I already read every single fic about these two I could find on the Internet, and it wasn't enough to satiate me, so here I am! My novel is giving me the side-eye wondering why I'm neglecting it during my free time to write about characters that don't belong to me, but my William-Eliza shipping heart can't be helped. Sorry, novel. I just have a lot of ~feelings~
I didn't rewatch the series before writing this, and I am very much out of practice, so I apologize for any possible errors.
Here is a list of things she hates William Wellington for.
One: because he and her father have locked her out of the room while they discuss business, and it is utterly unfair. She knows she is a girl, but she is just as intelligent as William or her father, and equally as capable. The look in his eyes as he shut the door in her face with only a shrug of apology is still burned in the depths of her mind.
Two: because when she asked him to talk to her father for her, he had laughed in her face and told her that her father was right, that this is the way the world is and she best learn to live with disappointment. She had been so angry she stormed off in a fit of childish melodrama, which only made him laugh harder. (And yes, maybe she was being overdramatic, but it is the principle of the thing. He is supposed to be on her side.)
Three: because when she saw him at the park with his arm around Maria McNally, the gorgeous redhead from down the street, though she called his name and waved, he turned his head and pretended not to see her. He said sorry later, but it still hurt her feelings.
And four: because now he has gone and stolen her first kiss from her without her consent. And while she was crying too. If he had to kiss her, he could have at least had the decency to do it when she wasn't a red-faced, weeping mess.
If William's motivations really were to distract her from her dead dog, then he was successful because she is too angry with him to be sad, her body aflame from the burning of her hatred.
(It is hatred, she tells herself, certainly not the other thing.)
He has ruined everything because they are supposed to be friends, and how is she supposed to look him in the eye now, after what he has done? She feels a blush threaten to overcome her face at the thought of it: the unexpected softness of his lips, those few seconds she had stared at him in shock before closing her eyes and leaning in, how her fingers curled against his neck, the comfortable weight of his hand on the small of her back, and how perfectly it fit there…
(She hates him for doing that to her, turning her into a blushing girl.)
But then he had pulled away with a look in his eyes like regret, and before she knew it her open palm was connecting with his cheek, and she was screaming at him as he stormed out of the drawing room in a huff.
He's ruined it. He's ruined everything.
"What are you thinking about so deeply, Lizzie?" Ivy asks her, placing down the tea tray, and she jumps in her seat. She hadn't even heard her come in. Ivy gives her a look of confusion.
It is only then that Eliza realizes she has spent the past thirty minutes staring out the front window, looking for him.
"Nothing."
Ivy's eyebrow goes up. "You aren't waiting for Mr. Wellington, are you?"
"No." She lies poorly, the word slipping out of her mouth too quickly, and with a false degree of over-vehemence.
(Ivy doesn't know that he kissed her, does she? That would be humiliating.)
Her housekeeper stares at her for a moment, then shakes her head and walks off. Eliza resumes her post.
She is only waiting for him so she can finish her speech of righteous anger at having been kissed against her will. Surely he will not be able to deny his error in the face of her well-thought-out list of reasons why she is right and he is wrong. Yes, she tells herself, that is why is she is so anxious for him to return. It's not like she actually wants to see him or anything.
(And it's not like when she sees a man cross the street whom she mistakenly believes is him for a moment, her stomach does a little flip. No, that didn't happen.)
He never shows.
She waits by the window every afternoon for the next three days, never leaving her vigil and barely touching her tea, in hopes that he will call on her to apologize for what an idiot he's been and ask to be friends again. When Ivy looks at her with pity, she shakes her head and says she doesn't care what he does. Ivy pretends to believe her.
He has gone and kissed her, and now he won't be her friend anymore either.
She hates him for that most of all.
He does not come back to the house until three weeks later, and it's not even to see her.
She stumbles into the house after school, the hem of her dress soaked in snow, her cheeks red from cold and laughter as she removes her wet boots in the foyer. "Papa? Ivy?" she yells, pulling her gloves off one finger at a time. "Are you here? Oh, I had the best day! In school today – oh you will not believe it when I tell you – " She rounds the corner, expecting to find her father or her beloved housekeeper, but instead he is there, and all her mirth dries up.
She mumbles his name, and he says hers, his expression unreadable. They stare at each other for what feels like a long time but is actually only a matter of seconds, and she goes pale, her throat feeling tight.
"What are you doing here – " she starts to say at the same time he says, "I had a meeting with Henry – "
Their eyes meet, and they both fall silent again.
He is the first to break contact. "Well, I must go. Excuse me." And he brushes past her just like that, not even stopping to put on his coat, grabbing it off the hook and continuing to walk as he slides in one arm, then the other. This it then? He won't even talk to her?
"Eliza?" she can hear her father yell. "Is that you?" For a moment, she considers calling back to him, but then she watches William wrench open the door and step out into the wintry evening. With a shake of her head, she turns around and shoves her feet back into her boots, not even bothering to retrieve her gloves before she follows him out into the snow.
She screams his name from the doorstep, but he keeps walking, and she throws her hands up in frustration before starting off down the sidewalk after him. "William!" When he does not respond, she bends down and gathers some snow into her hand, packing it into a tight ball and then lobbing it at him with all the strength she can muster.
She hits him square in the back, and he turns around slowly, shooting her a look of annoyance. "You know Eliza, it is not ladylike to throw snowballs at people."
She can barely contain her pleased smirk as she approaches him. She kicks a fallen icicle and it skids across the sidewalk. "Well, I won't tell if you won't." He doesn't acknowledge her words in any way or even crack a smile, and she frowns. "Why haven't you come to see me?"
He lets out a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh. "Because three weeks ago you slapped me and said you never wanted to speak to me again. Now, excuse me."
He is trying to walk away from her, but she has never taken no for an answer before, and she won't start now. She hitches up her skirt so she can run after him. "I was angry then, but I am not angry now. Hey!"
He stops abruptly and turns around to look at her, abrupt enough that she nearly collides into his chest. "You were angry?" he repeats, raising his voice, and she nods, dumbstruck. "How do you think I felt? I was trying to comfort you, and you lashed out at me. I was trying to be a good friend to you."
Okay. Maybe she is still angry. "Ah, because that is what good friends do? Kiss each other?"
"You know what I meant."
But he has gotten her started on a tirade now, and once she has gotten started, she will not stop. "You say you are trying to be my friend, but you have done a lousy job of it. First, you kiss me without my permission – "
"Jesus, enough about the – "
" – and then you ignore me for three weeks, only to turn up at the house to speak to my father instead of me, and not only do you treat me as if I am a stranger, but you do not even apologize?"
"What do I have to apologize for?"
"You…" – she fumbles for the right word – "attacked my lips!" He bursts out laughing, which only makes her scowl. She is trying to have a serious conversation. Just this once, can't he treat her as an equal instead of a child? "Will you quit laughing at me?"
"I will," he promises, "when you stop being so amusing."
Her lower lip juts in a pout. Ivy would surely scold her if she could see her because she always says it is unattractive for a young lady to pout like a toddler, but she does not care. She doesn't want William to think she is attractive anyway. Maybe if she pouts he will finally get any stupid, romantic notions out of his head regarding her. "I am not trying to be amusing," she replies with a tone of disgust. "You stole my first kiss, William. What gave you the right? Did it ever occur to you that maybe I did not want to kiss you?"
"Well," he deadpans, not looking at her, "you would be the first."
Anger overwhelming her, she grabs his arm in an attempt to turn him around to face her. "You are such a – " She does not look where she is stepping, and there is a patch of slick, dark ice under her boot, and she lets out a little cry of surprise as her legs give out from under her, until suddenly he is reaching for her, holding her aloft.
"It's all right, it's all right, I've got you." She looks up, her face dangerously close to his, and for a second she forgets everything except his arm around her back, his hand in that same sweet spot it found itself three weeks before when they were kissing in her drawing room. After the initial moment of shock, they both startle and move backward, she careful this time with where she steps, looking at her shoes so she does not have to meet his eyes. "I am sorry," he says in a voice that is serious and formal, "if I have offended you, Miss Scarlet." The way he calls her 'Miss Scarlet' is cold enough to make her heartsore. "I promise, I will never overstep again."
(He holds his gloved hand behind his back, and she does not see how he flexes the fingers he just touched her with.)
Her tears of hurt feel frozen in her eyes, and she gives a stiff nod. "I am glad we understand each other." He bows his head towards her, lips forming a line, before turning to walk down the street, and this time she does not follow.
She stares at his retreating back, but he doesn't turn around, not once.
Here are the new additions to her list of things she hates William Wellington for:
Five: because he always wants to start an argument with her, no matter what they are talking about, and yes he is the one who starts it, not her. She is always perfectly reasonable.
Six: because he locked her in a holding cell, and more than once too.
And seven: because she can't stop thinking about that night in her kitchen, damn him, and how he stood so close to her, looking all smug. Who does he think he is? Just remembering it makes her feel uneasy…and the things he said…
Well, if there is one thing she can agree with him on, it's that she is glad she is not his wife. She would hate being married to him. They would make each other miserable.
(Despite all that, it's nice to have him back in her life. She doesn't tell him that, though. It will just go to his head.)
She thought she knew panic before, but it does not compare to the feeling of her frantic heart beating as she rushes from her home in the dark of night, with a confused Rupert and angry Fraulein in her wake. He can't be dead, She thinks, tears pooling in the corner of her eyes. Surely she would feel it if he was. If he were dead, surely the ground would shift, and the earth cease to move, because how could her world go on if he was gone?
She has already lost her entire family. He cannot die, because if he dies, then she will be truly, utterly, impossibly alone. Yes, if that bastard tries to die on her, she will march to the pearly gates herself and drag him back to earth kicking and screaming if she has to, because he can't go. She forbids it.
He can't leave her too.
She doesn't have much of a plan. There is no time to waste, and her heart feels like it might leap into her throat as she bursts into the room. There is Frank, with the gun, his whole body seeming to tremble, his finger itching to pull the trigger, and then her eyes meet William's, and she can see the confusion register in his gaze. He doesn't know what she is doing here, and even though there's a chance they might both get shot right now, she feels a wave of irrational relief.
He is alive.
For now, at least.
Luckily Moses arrives just in time, God bless him, and when the gun slides across the floor, out of reach, her lungs finally constrict with a breath. "What are you two doing here?" he asks her. "You could've been killed." There is no 'thank you for saving my life, Eliza'. Yes, he is definitely all right. If he ever actually thanked her for anything, she would inspect him for head trauma.
She doesn't answer his question, only surging forward. She places both her hands on her chest and shoves him with all her might, which is still only strong enough to push him back a few inches. "I could have been killed? What about you?" He is always lecturing her about her safety, and yet he is the one who is constantly staring down the barrel of a gun. He's almost died more times than she has. If anyone should be lecturing anyone, she should get to lecture him.
"Oh, will you quit your quarreling," Moses snaps, interrupting them as he searches Frank's body, knocked unconscious by the force of his punch, for any other potentially loaded weapons, "and actually help me?"
She lowers her voice to barely more than a whisper. "What, exactly, was your plan to get out of this had I not come along?" They glance at each other, and though he doesn't admit any error, he doesn't argue with her either. She does not tell him that those moments she thought he might be dead were the scariest of her life so far. She does not tell him that when she tried to imagine a life without him, it was so black and bleak and empty, and not a life she wanted to live. Instead, she just says: "You, William Wellington, are under no circumstances allowed to die without my permission." He opens his mouth to retort but then, without thinking, she hugs him, and after a moment, he hugs her back.
He is alive.
He is not lost to her.
She closes her eyes and thanks God for that.
The jail stinks of piss. She tries to ignore it, but it's undeniable, acrid. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of grey scurrying across the floor, but she crosses her ankles and pretends not to see it.
She drums her fingernails against the top of the hard, metal table in impatience as she waits for him to appear. Finally, he arrives, and she holds her breath. He has a little smirk on his face as he sits down across from her, hands bound, face looking sallow and murine. "You reek," she says.
Frank chuckles. "No 'hello,' then, Miss Scarlet?" She holds her head high, staring him down, and he grins at her, showing his teeth. "You wanted to see me? Couldn't stay away, could you? If it's a kiss you want, I can tell the guard here to turn around."
She adjusts her position in her chair, her body turned half-away, her shoulders back and carriage erect. "It is answers I desire. You are to be hanged tomorrow, might as well tell the truth."
"You can ask, Miss Scarlet. I may choose not to answer."
She takes a deep breath, maintaining her carefully constructed composure. "How could you stand to be around me," she says, "pretending to help William and me, when you killed my father?"
"Ah," he says, "William." He repeats it in a poor imitation of her cadence, the sick smile never leaving his face. She wishes she could slap him, but that's what he would want. He's goading her, and she will not let him win.
"Answer my question."
He shrugs. "I could stand to be around you because I did not regret it. I did what I had to do for self-preservation. It wasn't personal."
His voice is so cold, matter-of-fact. "And your conscience did not torment you?"
"Ha! Bold of you to assume I have a conscience." He raises his hand as much as he can with the shackles, and the chains jingle against each other, like a haunting melody. "Your father stuck his nose where it did not belong. I took no joy in killing him, but I lost no sleep over it either. It was a necessary measure. Stirling though!" He chuckles. "I took some joy in that. I hated that prick. The world should thank me for what I did to him. God, he was an ass. Did you and your dear William shed any tears over him? Yeah, didn't think so."
She stares at him for several seconds, nostrils flaring. She had never paid Frank much thought in the time she'd known him. She did not know such coldness could linger beneath the jovial, bumbling façade. "He is not my dear William."
"Ah, that is how you answer me?" He leers over the table towards her, and she flinches without meaning to. The prison guard barks for Frank to keep away and he sits back in his chair, looking pleased. "You have questions, Miss Scarlet, I have a few of my own. Are you screwing him?"
She does not dignify the question with a response.
"Oh, come on! I will be dead tomorrow. You can be honest with me. Who will I tell?" He grins wickedly, and she knows that this is all one final game. His way of trying to have the upper hand, one last time. She won't fall for it. She is smarter than he thinks she is. "The way he keeps you around…Duke's always had a weak spot, regarding you. It's more than just friendly. You must be giving him something more, you know what I mean? A little…womanly favor. Why else would he drag you along in the case?" He tilts his head to the side. "You don't think he actually respects you, do you?"
"He does." The words come out more defensive-sounding than she intended.
"Oh, you poor, naïve girl. Do you love him? Do you wrap your pretty little mouth around – " She closes her eyes, willing herself not to hear his crude words, and he cuts himself off. "Do you actually think he loves you?"
She looks at him, and anyone who says only fire can burn has clearly never seen that cold glare in her eyes. "You wouldn't know love if it bit you in the face."
He shakes his head. "No, you're probably right. I don't know if I've ever truly loved anyone. Besides myself. And money. I thought I loved my wife, once upon a time, but God, what a bitch she turned out to be. I really tried for her, and she dropped me the first second she could. Oh well." His brow raises quizzically. "You think you're better than me, Miss Scarlet, but let me ask you one more question. What would it take to break you? You think you are not capable of it, of murder, but we all are. I saw you, with that gun trembling in your hand, that day at the prison. You see, I think you would kill for him. I think you would set this whole world on fire if he asked you to. But when will you realize that playing by his rules will never get you anywhere? This world doesn't tell you who you are, Miss Scarlet. They don't tell you what is right and what is wrong. You tell them."
She does not believe him for a second. Nothing he says can make her doubt William. It's impossible. "William is a good man," she says, her tone even and cool, "unlike you."
"That's where you're wrong," Frank says. "There is no such thing as a good man. Everyone has a breaking point, Miss Scarlet, even you. Don't you ever think about it: how unfair this world is, how poorly everyone treats you? Don't you ever want to scream? To make them suffer as you've suffered? If you were smart, you'd stop trying to earn his approval, the world's approval, and see that you will get farther on your own. Fear is a better tool than love if you want to make them take you seriously. Trust me, I tried both. So you see, Miss Scarlet, there is no such thing as goodness. Only those who go after what they want, and those too weak to change the game."
She stands up abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping against the floor, and she looks to the guard. "I am quite finished." She has heard more than enough. The guard starts towards the prisoner and she turns on her heel, marching towards the door without another word or another look.
"Tell your lover boy I said hello!" Frank yells after her, but she does not turn around, does not give any indication that she even heard him.
As soon as she steps out of the jail and into the London night, she gasps desperately for the fresh, cold air, allowing it to fill her burning lungs. She has always been good under pressure, but for that one painful conversation, it took everything in her power to keep herself from unraveling.
He is waiting for her, by the carriage, hands shoved in his pockets, and she collects herself before she walks over to him, greeting him with a weak attempt at a smile. "How did it go?" he asks.
She knows she is not ready to tell him about what happened in there. Maybe she never will be. She can still hear the taunting words echo in her mind. Do you actually think he loves you? "As well as can be expected." He nods, not speaking, and she swallows nervously. "You did not want to go inside? He was your friend once."
He sighs and it is so cold she can see his breath trail upwards into the sky like steam. "Was being the keyword. As far as I'm concerned, any camaraderie we might have had went out the door when he held me at gunpoint."
"I know, but I thought maybe it would help. Give you closure."
"I'll have closure when he's hanged." He does not say it coldly. Just flat, broken. "It will finally be justice." She nods, but she does not know if she can call it 'justice.'
If there was true justice in the world, her father would still be alive.
A single tear drops from the corner of her left eye, and it does not go unnoticed by him. He murmurs her name with an unusual degree of gentleness, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Whatever he said to you, pay him no mind. It is all right now."
She laughs in hopes of breaking the tension, but it sounds weak and strained, and she wipes her eye with the back of her hand. "I am sorry, you probably think I am a mess."
"Not at all." He hesitates. "You know I think the world of you, Eliza."
She looks up at him, her breath caught in her throat, his face close enough to touch. Her mind flickers to the time ten years ago when she was crying and he had closed that last bit of distance to press his mouth to hers. How simple her problems had been then in comparison. Their eyes meet, and then he abruptly steps back, the hands on her shoulders dropping weakly to his sides.
He clears his throat. "I never thanked you."
She does not know what she expected him to say, but that surprises her. "William Wellington, thanking me? Are we sure Frank did not hit you in the head?"
"I am being serious. You've saved my life a couple of times now. So...thank you. Just don't let it inflate your ego too much."
"That is ironic, you talking about my ego." Her cheeks are pink, and she silently tells herself it is only from the cold. "Well, you have come to my rescue once or twice yourself. If you save my life one more time, I think we will be even."
For the first time in days, he laughs, and she is proud of herself, for getting that response. "You will not forget about me, once your name is in all the papers and everyone is rushing to Miss Scarlet's detective agency?"
"Forget about you?" she scoffs. "Impossible."
"Well, I'm sure I will have to pay that debt sooner or later, knowing you. My money's on sooner." He smiles, almost imperceptibly, and she smiles too. "Come, the carriage will take you home."
"You are not coming?" She is surprised by the disappointment that bubbles inside her.
"I think I ought to walk, to clear my head." It is many blocks to his house, but she does not challenge him for once in her life. She climbs into the carriage and he pauses, his hand on the door. "Take care of yourself, Eliza."
"You too, William." He begins to close the door, and she yearns for something to say, something to make him stay a moment longer. "William?" He looks up, waiting for her to speak, and she gulps. "I am glad Frank did not kill you." She winces. It feels entirely inadequate.
He just nods, almost smiling, but not quite. "I am glad he did not kill you either," he says, before shutting the carriage door.
She does not usually go to his house. Usually, he comes to her. Today though, she stands outside his front door, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet as she raises her hand to grasp the knocker and make her presence known. She can hear the sounds of shuffling, but when a few moments pass and she has not been permitted entrance, she knocks again once, twice, three times, each time with more force. "William! It's me, let me in."
The door opens so quickly that she almost trips, her hand still raised, and she looks up to meet his unamused gaze. "What are you doing here?" He looks tired, his shirt wrinkled with the top two buttons undone, showing a tantalizing strip of chest, and she wonders if he spent the night out drinking and whoring.
(Not that she cares. Of course.)
She glances behind him. "You do not have a lady friend over, do you?"
"No. Eliza – "
She brushes past him into the house and she can hear him sigh audibly, but the door shuts, and he fights her no further. He must really be tired, then. Usually, he would never forsake an opportunity to yell at her. The place is a mess and she drags her finger along the wall, collecting dust. She wrinkles her nose and wipes her finger off on the skirt of her dress. "Well," she says dryly, "you keep the place tidy."
"God's sake Eliza, are you my mother or my wife?" He rubs his temples and breathes out through his nose. "I have not had time to organize. I have not even slept in my own bed these last three nights."
She frowns instinctively. "Ah, yes, in some other lady's bed, I take it."
"More like for five minutes at my desk. You know Eliza, I am not as much of a scoundrel as you seem to think I am."
She thinks of Maria McNally, even though her mind has probably not lingered on Maria McNally in half-a-dozen years since the McNallys packed up and moved back to Belfast. She'd always been a pretty girl. He's probably been with a lot of pretty girls. "It is not only I who think it. The rumors of your conquests are of great renown."
"I may have been with more people than you have, but that does not make me a whoremonger."
Her response comes out of her mouth before she can help it: "Well, being with more people than me is not saying much, as I have only kissed you." Immediately when she says it, she feels her face grow hot, and she looks up at him, embarrassed.
He stares at her and for a moment she thinks he is going to say something foolish and sentimental, but then he grins. "Have I ruined all other men for you? My apologies."
She blushes and lets out an awkward laugh. "Ruin being the keyword. Men, in my opinion, are too much effort." She glances around the room, anxious to change the subject. "Just look at this place. Any woman who marries you will have her work cut out for her: picking up after you, cleaning this house, and making you respectable. I almost pity the poor future Mrs. Wellington, whomever she may be."
"Well, I certainly could not marry you then, because I do not think you have ever cleaned a house or cared about being respectable." He is smirking at her in his usual, infuriating way. She wants to slap it off his face.
(Or she could silence him with another, more satisfying method…)
She clears her throat. "I am here to tell you that I am on my way to investigate an abandoned factory that may be the location for a counterfeiting ring."
His eyebrow raises with confusion. "And why are you telling me this?"
"Because you told me the next time I was going to a potentially dangerous locale, you wanted me to tell you so you could come along."
"And you must go to this potentially dangerous locale on my day off? Can't it wait until tomorrow?" He stares at her for a moment and she stares back, earnest and unflinching. He is the one to break first, turning his head and cursing under his breath, and a grin spreads across her face as he concedes. "I'll go change."
Here it is: the honest-to-God truth, that she denied to everyone, even herself, for over ten years.
She has been in love with him since she was sixteen years old, and when he kissed her, she had not been thinking about impropriety or inopportune timing. She had only been thinking about how good it felt to be kissed by him, and how she could die right there in his arms.
It was only when he pulled away and looked at her like he could not believe what he had just done that her joy turned to pain. So she had slapped him, and yelled, and made up a story about how upset she was that he stole her first kiss, because she was hurt and afraid. Hurt by the look in his eyes, and afraid that he would never love her the way she loved him: desperately, irrevocably, against all reason. The way she loves him still.
And now, even though she has accepted the fact that she is in love with him, she still doesn't know what to do. They are in a good place, and she doesn't want to ruin anything, not when she just got him back. Maybe he will not love her and things will change, or he will love her and things will still change. He's a traditional man, she knows this. He wouldn't want a lover or a wife with a job, who will gallivant around London solving crimes and chasing criminals. It is so stupid, that she fears she may have to choose between being in love or being her own person. Men never have to make that decision. They fall in love and get married and have children all the time, and they gain everything without having to give anything up. It's utterly unfair.
But perhaps the greatest of all her fears is that he still won't return her feelings, that he has never loved her. She does not know if she could stand it, to bare her soul to him and have her love not be reciprocated. She would smile and laugh it off and say that she doesn't care, but she would care. Very much.
So, there it is. She is in love with him. She always has been.
Fuck.
"Can I give you something?"
He looks up at her from across the table, suspicion plaguing his gaze. "The only thing you ever give me is a headache."
"Ha, ha, clever." She pushes out her chair, barely able to contain her smile as she leaves him alone in the dining room to retrieve her offering. She had considered wrapping it, but she has never been very artistic, and he probably would have teased her for making such an effort. He eyes her apprehensively as she stands before him, and she shoves her hand out, holding his gift. "Here."
He takes it from her, turning it over in his hands. "You got me a watch?" The pocket watch is polished brass, with a plain face and two slim hands, and though it is not fancy, with only a bit of gold for ornamentation, it works as well as it ever did.
"I did not get it, necessarily." She bites her lip, suddenly feeling nervous, and shifts her weight from one foot to the other, hands behind her back. "It was my father's. My mother gave it to him as a gift – when he was promoted at the Yard once, I think. He had it for a long time. I know it does not replace the sentimental value of the one you had, but…"
He stares at her for what feels like a long time, and she wonders if he does not like it. "Eliza." He glances from her face to the gift and then back again, and he opens his mouth, then closes it. She can't remember the last time she saw him at a loss for words. "I could not possibly – "
She doesn't let him finish. "Yes, you could. I think he would take comfort in the knowledge that you had something that was so precious to him. He loved you very much, and he was immensely proud of you." She pauses. "As I am." He has worked hard to get where he is. She does not tell him often how impressed she is with how far he's come in the ten plus years they have known each other, from a boy on the street picking pockets to a respected inspector of Scotland Yard, but it is the truth. "I respect you," she says, smiling, "annoying as you might be."
She swears there is a glimmer of emotion in his eye, and he nods, overwhelmed. "Thank you," he says to her, and she does not know if two words have ever meant so much.
"Really, I am fine," she tells the man who is examining her swollen eye, even though it hurts like Hell.
The doctor doesn't seem to believe her. "Hold still, miss."
It's kind of a funny story, how she ended up in this situation. You'll laugh. It was a totally unforeseen sequence of events that was most definitely not her fault. She'd been waiting patiently for William to make his belated appearance for their meeting when she caught a glimpse of the very man that they have been trying to locate for the past two weeks, the prime suspect in an attempted shooting. She only had a few seconds to make her decision, and what was she supposed to do? She had to follow him. Otherwise, he might get away again.
Of course, things were dubious there, for a minute, but she recovered. Though she maintained a respectable distance, the suspect figured out she was following him after a few blocks. He landed a few good hits before she managed to jab her hairpin in the back of his shoulder, effectively destabilizing him as he howled in immense pain, just in time for a pair of constables to come to her aid. So, now a potentially dangerous suspect is in custody for assault, with attempted murder charges likely soon to follow, and she's sitting here on the sidewalk, being treated for her black eye while the police block off the street.
See? Funny story. She'd laugh if it weren't so painful for her sore face.
She winces as the doctor pokes and prods the skin, dark purple with a bruise, and she knows she will look even worse tomorrow. It's a small price to pay in exchange for getting an attempted murderer off the streets, but it would be a lie to say it does not hurt. The eye will probably swell shut. Ivy is going to kill her.
"Eliza!" a familiar, irate voice yells at her.
That is, if he does not kill her first.
He bypasses the police barriers and appears before her, hands on his hips, and she glances up, suddenly bashful. "Hello, William," she says, trying to smile, but even the smallest upturn of her lips makes her black eye throb. "How are you?"
He does not bother to return her pleasantries as he waves the doctor off, and she can practically feel the anger radiating from him as he gives her the once-over. She shifts in her seat, crossing her ankles, and her eye is not the only thing that hurts. "What happened," he says, "to 'I promise William, I will not run into danger without your permission'? Is your memory that poor?"
She knows he is upset, and that she did not consult him as she swore she would, but she does not appreciate being spoken to like she is a child. She is a detective, just as he is, not a little girl. "There was no time! I would have fetched you – but then the suspect would have gotten away and – "
"I don't care," he cuts her off firmly. "You were not thinking! How could you be so reckless with your life?"
She rises to her feet, indignant, her hands curled into fists. "Will you stop yelling at me? I am perfectly fine!"
"Eliza, he hit you!"
And kicked her in the stomach. But if he doesn't know that already, she is certainly not going to inform him. "I am fine! It is nothing that will not heal."
"It could have been worse. You could have been killed!"
"I think that is unlikely – "
"What if he had his gun?"
"He didn't, though! And really, do you think he would have shot me in broad daylight, with people passing by and no means of a clean escape?"
Still, he will not give up. "I could have protected you – "
"It is not your responsibility to protect me!" She yells with such a volume that it surprises even herself, and he steps backward, his lips pressed together. She sighs, crossing her arms, and even though she is upset she feels bad for raising her voice at him. It was petulant, and if she wants to be treated like an adult, she must act like one. "All I want," she says, in a more appropriate tone, "is you to treat me as you would any other colleague. I can take care of myself, William. Do you really think me so incapable?"
He does not answer her at first, just staring, and his angry expression lessens into one of concern. "You are not just any other colleague to me." His voice is impossibly soft. "And I do not think you incapable. Far from it."
She does not know what to say to that, and the silence is a heavy curtain between them until he finally speaks again.
"Will you let me look at your eye, at least, please?" She cannot find her voice and so she nods, sinking back down to sit on the curb as she submits to his command. His fingers lightly touch her face, and she winces in pain. "Did I hurt you?" he asks, concerned, and she shakes her head.
"It is all right, just a bit tender. It is not your fault."
He examines her for a few moments in silence, his touch nimble and assured, and he is close enough that she can feel the familiar pulses of his breath on her skin. "It is not too awful," he finally pronounces, "but your eye is going to be black and blue for quite a while. You will be a sorry sight."
"Well, everyone already thinks I am strange," she says dryly. "I can only imagine Mrs. Parker's face when she comes to collect the rent tomorrow."
He almost laughs, but not quite. "You should ice this," he says, before reluctantly removing the hand that is pressed warmly against the side of her head, "when you get home."
"I will."
There is an awkward pause, and she is not sure if he is going to say something else. "You know," he starts, "I…I am not trying to control you, or upset you. It is only…I would never forgive myself. If something happened to you. Something I could have prevented."
She squirms, wringing her hands over her lap, and when she looks down her head brushes against his. "Because of your love for my father?"
He hesitates, and she meets his poignant gaze. "…Something like that."
She wets her lips, embarrassed. "I am sorry I didn't wait for you. Really, I am. I know I broke my promise, but I only wish to have your respect." She swallows. Does he know, how much he means to her? How much his friendship has always meant? "All I have ever wanted was to be your equal."
Maybe that's her way of saying 'I love you.'
He gives her a look that is impossible to comprehend. Finally, he turns away, staring at the ground, and clears his throat. "You know that I care about you, Eliza. All I have ever wanted was for you to be safe. And happy, above all."
Maybe that's his way of saying 'I love you, too.'
Their second kiss is on another cold winter afternoon more than a decade after the first.
It doesn't happen like you'd think.
She tugs nervously at the collar of her dress, faking a smile. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Mr. Blake." The elderly man nods and tells her it was no trouble as he looks at her from across his desk, but he does not call her by her real name, because today she is not here as Miss Eliza Scarlet, private investigator, and William is not here as Inspector William Wellington of Scotland Yard.
They are here as Mr. and Mrs. John and Mary Mackenzie, and they are supposed to be husband and wife.
She glances at him in the chair beside her out of the corner of her eye and adjusts her hold on his arm, pulling him closer to her. He places his hand on top of hers, the picture of matrimonial affection, but it is all an act, of course.
(It has to be. It's not like he actually loves her.)
He has enlisted her to play the part of spouse to investigate the decrepit orphanage run by old, kindly Mr. Blake. Except, Mr. Blake may not be as kind as he appears. The thing is, Mr. Blake and his co-conspirators have gotten greedy. The home is not as lucrative as it once was, and the children and babies keep coming, one after another, orphaned or abandoned. So, Mr. Blake and the others have, supposedly, been selling off the children to wealthy, infertile couples desperate for a baby, or even to other, wealthy households who want a malleable child they can mold into the perfect servant. The Yard is investigating, though they are not sure how far up the ladder the corruption goes. In order to acquire proof of the director's nefarious scheme, he had needed a fake wife, and she was the natural choice.
(Because of their professional relationship, of course. Not because of anything else.)
"So, Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie," the older man begins, folding his hands, "how may I be of service?"
"Well," he says, "my wife and I – " He glances at her, and she smiles, placing her hand on his chest, over the heart. Her mother's ring has moved from the right hand to the left, placed on the appropriate finger in full view of Mr. Blake's probing eyes. " – have known each other all our lives. How long has it been now, my love?"
It is not hard to force a blush to her cheeks at his use of 'my love.' "Five years of marriage," she says, staring into his eyes, "though it feels like only yesterday." In a calculated move, she allows her smile to falter, just so, and she sniffles like she is trying to keep the tears at bay. "Our only source of unhappiness is that we have been unable to have a family. Both Mr. Mackenzie and I had lonely childhoods, and we wanted to give a child the life we did not have. We tried, but…" A single tear, perfect as a pearl, slips from her eye and he squeezes her arm, mumbling sweet words to her. "I feel as if I am a failure, Mr. Blake. I cannot give my husband the most important thing a wife is supposed to give…"
"Now, my love, you know you could never fail me."
She places a hand over her heart and ducks her head to wipe her eyes, while he rubs her arm in what is meant to be a comforting way. When she dares to steal a glance at Mr. Blake, his eyes are dry, his face stone-cold. She is shocked: he looks completely unmoved. Perhaps the single tear was pushing her luck?
So, she does the first thing that she can think of.
She turns back towards him. "Oh my darling, you are right. I have been so hysterical lately. I can only imagine how trying it has been for you. Forgive me?" She sees a flash of confusion in his eyes because this is a divergence from the plan they had forged, but then, without warning, she grabs his face to press his lips to hers.
At first, his body is tense against hers, rigid with shock. It is almost the perfect revenge, that this time she is the one to catch him off guard. After only a few moments, she feels him begin to kiss her in return, and that same hand falls to touch her back in the same spot it did over ten years ago, the other curling around the back of her head, his fingers in her hair. She kisses him long and hard, like she needs him as desperately as lungs need air, and when they finally detach she is almost breathless. For a moment, they just sit there, eyes meeting, and she forgets about everything else in the world until Blake clears his throat.
"Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie…I believe there is something I could do to help you."
Half an hour later, they walk out of the orphanage, and she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "That went well." They have the information they came here to find, and their deception served its purpose.
(Because that's all it was, pretend. He only kissed her back because they were undercover. Obviously.)
She glances at him, and she sees he is not paying her any attention, watching as a trio of dirty-faced, scrawny children scurry across the fenced-in yard, chasing a ball. It is such a normal childhood activity, but these children are all knobby knees and flailing limbs, their clothes in tatters, their stomachs almost sinking in from their emptiness. She can see his eyes are clouded with remembrance, his mind transported someplace else.
She reaches to touch his arm gently and he turns back towards her, back to the present moment. "Is it hard," she asks quietly, "being in a place like this?" She has rarely asked him about the orphanage he was sent to after his mother died. She knows it is a sensitive subject. He never likes to speak of that dark time in his life, before she knew him. He likes to appear strong around her, like he is not afraid of anything, but she knows that is one thing that still haunts him, and maybe always will.
He shakes his head. "I am all right," he says, and she nods, pretending to believe him. She knows him too well, can read every flicker of emotion on his face. If he ever wants to talk about it, she will be here, ready to listen. A slight smile comes to his lips. "What about you? Was it too upsetting, having to kiss me again?"
She laughs awkwardly, her face growing hot. "I had to improvise."
"And that was your first idea?" His eyes probe her face with a detective's precision. "To kiss me? It almost seems like you were waiting for an opportunity."
"You are so full of yourself," she says, and she tugs on her ear. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, in the indirect way one might cautiously glance at the bright sun. "I had to make him believe we were in love, and desperate for a baby. It worked, didn't it?"
"It did." He pauses, looking at her with a smirk as he steps in front of her body, blocking her path. She can feel something in her stomach, fluttering. "You will not slap me, then?"
"Not this time."
His eyebrow ticks up. "That implies there will be a next time."
"You almost sound hopeful." She smiles, just barely. "I don't know," she says, meeting his intense gaze, "we will have to wait and see."
She brushes his arm as she circumvents him and after a moment's hesitation he follows, speeding up to match her confident stride. "You know, Eliza," he says cheekily, "that I always wait in suspense to see what you will do next."
"Good, then my master plan is working." She offers him her arm, her joviality transforming into sincerity. "You'll always be along for the ride, won't you?"
He smiles back at her as he consents, his arm weaving together with hers. "Always," he promises.
She smiles wider.
Here is a list of things she loves William Wellington for.
One: because there is no else in all of London that she would rather run around with investigating a double murder or an arson fire or an undercover baby-selling ring or whatever outrageous scenario life throws at them.
Two: because even though he likes to lecture her about her safety or a woman's place, when one of the other men from the Yard makes a snide comment about her coming along to a crime scene, he gives the man a censuring glare that shuts him up immediately.
Three: because of the way his hand rests on the small of her back when he is kissing her, and it just feels so right, like it belongs there.
Four: because ever since she gave him that old pocket watch of her father's, he's carried it every day.
And five: because even though he annoys her, and challenges her, and will never admit when he is wrong, he is her best friend in the world, and the place where she most feels like she belongs is by his side.
If that is not love, she doesn't know what is.