By the time the promotion - by the time everything - was no longer on the horizon, but instead looming large, bathing her in its inescapable shadow, Theo actually felt better than she had when it was way off in the distance. Admittedly, it would be a lie if she pretended to be excited or raring to go, just…resolved. Accepting. Perhaps not ready, she didn't know if she'd ever be ready, but…prepared. And, most importantly, no longer utterly paralyzed by dread and fear.

Her father rarely spoke of his time in warzones. He wouldn't be permitted to share the specifics with her anyway, but nor did he ever show any desire to open up about the more general aspects. Whether that was out of a desire to keep it from weighing on her mind, or a true distaste for discussing it in general, she didn't know. The one thing he had shared, however, was on this very topic. The fear. The anticipation was always worse. The night before a mission. The build-up to the action. Once you're in it, you don't think, you just act. You keep your head clear, or you end up dead, and your body knows it. You become calm. You act.

It was something she'd experienced before in some way or another. When she'd been backpacking, the thought of encountering any sort of venomous beastie had terrified her, but when she'd awoken in the middle of the night to find one crawling across her leg in the dark of her campsite, she'd remained utterly still and serene until it had moved on, only really thinking to panic once the danger had passed. The choice had been being calm, or being poisoned. Not much of a choice at all. Of course, she'd never know if it was really applicable in this particular case until the action truly began. But so far it was ringing true. If she panicked now, she wouldn't be able to prepare. So she didn't panic, and she did prepare. It felt almost comically simple, after all of the fear in the run-up. She could only pray that it would stay that way.

The rule was not exceptionless, after all. There would always be people who panicked, and who made a shitty situation ten times worse through sheer force of hysteria alone. People who, in her father's words, had no place being where they were. Theodora added to her prayers that she dearly hoped that she wouldn't prove one of those people. But she hadn't lost her nerve when she was adrift at sea, so hopefully that was a good sign.

And then…then there was the one aspect that was guaranteed to complicate things, should she allow it to happen. Whatever this thing was developing between herself and James. It was nothing concrete, and it never would be, but it was still there. A spark, a pull, some unseen magnetic attraction that had her threatening to blush like a goddamn teenager every time their eyes met for too long. But she was not a teenager. She was a grown woman - one who knew full well that sparks did not always lead to bonfires, and that attraction did not obligatorily lead to anything more. Especially not in cases when it could not. Not when James had enough in his future to contend with, not when his sights were set on Elizabeth, and not when she planned to be an entire world away come this time next year.

Still, logic was often little match for temptation, and it was something she knew would have to be strictly minded, especially in her weaker moments, but she could do that. It didn't have to mean anything. And it wouldn't. Not if she had a say.

And maybe that very issue was why James was behaving strangely. Perhaps he felt it too, but wasn't aware of her resolve for it to go nowhere. There was something he wanted to tell her, of that much Theo was certain, but it seemed that whenever he nearly did, he would lose his nerve at the last moment and change the topic. It was given away time and time again whenever they had a quiet moment alone - usually over meals, or if they shared a drink before bed. Their conversation would come to a natural end, but when she looked at him before she was about to fill the silence, he would already be looking at her. His mouth would open to speak, then he would falter, then it would close again and he would say nothing. Sometimes this happened a few times before he eventually sighed and either did not speak at all, or did but about something mundane - like the weather.

Of course, Theo had her suspicions. The day of his promotion would also be the day that he proposed to Elizabeth. Was it her advice he sought on the matter? Christ, she hoped not. It felt cruel. Back home, had a friend been keen on the idea of asking out somebody who she knew did not return their feelings, she'd have died before encouraging it. Doing so would be cruel - sociopathic, even. But here her hands were tied. However, she still refused to lie outright, and hoped that whatever she was forced to say on the matter would not be technically incorrect. Not 'of course she'll say yes', but 'it would be a fine match'. Not 'I know of no other who holds her affection', but 'I don't know her feelings on the matter'. That sort of thing.

It still felt cruel, though. Like she was watching him reach for the kettle with no intention of warning him that it was hot. In truth, she dreaded his bringing it up. Every time he opened his mouth to do so, her whole body tensed up until he sighed and abandoned whatever topic of conversation he had in mind before he'd even dredged it up. Each and every time was a lucky escape, in her book. There were many lucky escapes over the next couple of weeks.

Until, that was, he did finally speak what was on his mind…and it was far worse than she ever could have anticipated.

From the first, it should have been obvious that he was determined not to be swayed this time. He entered the house after work one balmy evening with a purpose, apparently having set his ironclad will to the task at hand, pouring them each a drink and sitting down on the sofa opposite her like his life depended on it. It was only when he finally met her gaze that Theo really began to worry. There was no excitement there, no glee, nor even any anticipation. Just…dread. Regret, even, despite the fact that he hadn't yet actually said anything. Like he'd resolved to give her some terrible news. It gave her cause to still entirely, her fingertips tracing the lip of the glass as she held it in her lap, untouched. What was this?

"I…" he trailed off, shook his head, then cleared his throat before straightening and beginning again, his voice stronger and sterner this time "I have been considering proposing a match between yourself and Lieutenant Groves."

Theo stared at him.

"What?"

He opened his mouth as though in surprise at her outrage, before faltering and then responding firmly.

"It can't come as such a surprise."

But while his words were spoken in admonishment, his tone held no bite. In fact, he sounded…anxious, which was only emphasised by his sudden inability to look her in the eye. Oh, his eyes remained on her face, never once shifting as he inspected her reaction, but never meeting her gaze.

"It bloody well does," she countered "Are you…are you joking?"

"I'm quite serious, Theodora. I wished to hear your thoughts on the matter."

"I…I don't even know what to say. No. Of course not. Groves and I are friends."

"Which is precisely why I thought the match a good idea," he frowned as though it were obvious, the frown appearing genuine this time "You already get along well enough, there have been fine matches based on far less than a stalwart friendship. Indeed, I can think of no finer foundation."

"Love, perhaps?"

"Love…would follow."

If he kept saying these - these ludicrous things to her as if they were obvious, she was going to scream. Shit, she might just end up screaming anyway. And if she didn't scream, she would definitely vomit.

"Is that the only impediment that you can think of?"

"It's a pretty bloody big impediment, James," she snapped.

Knocking back the contents of the glass in one go, she all but slammed it down onto the coffee table and rose, gripping her skirts as though they were anchoring her to whatever shred of calm she had left.

"I mean, do I even get a say in this or am I to be dragged down the aisle kicking and screaming?"

"Of course not, Theodora, don't be absurd."

"I wouldn't be the first woman - nor the last," she pointed out sharply.

"You shan't be the next," he said firmly, rising as he said it and staring her in the eye as though to convey the sincerity behind his words "Not so long as I have a say in it."

Theodora hovered where she stood, staring at him in disbelief. Not because of what he'd just said, but because she got the very strong sense that he wasn't finished. To his credit - or maybe not to his credit, really - he did not falter under her fury this time.

"At least let us discuss this further."

"Discuss what? I've said I'm not doing it. What else is there to talk about?"

"About why."

"I've told you why."

In her anger, her accent was coming out in full force - barely even sounding like she was speaking English at some points. Thankfully, it didn't seem like he had any trouble understanding her. No, his trouble seemed to lie entirely in accepting what she was saying rather than comprehending it in the barest sense of the word.

"Well I'm not certain that you're giving me your every reason."

It was an accusation, but not one that was said in an accusatory manner. Instead, he spoke gently, as though coaxing a child to admit that they broke a vase and not their imaginary friend. Finally, she forced herself to sit - although the action felt wrong, not providing sufficient chance to fidget and let out her aggravation.

"What reason is it that you want to hear from me, James? What reason would suffice, in your mind? Since my lack of desire is clearly not enough."

Pursing his lips, he sighed and then leaned back, shaking his head. But when he looked at her again, she knew there was something there. He was hesitating. It was the same damned thing she'd been seeing all week.

"Say. It."

It was part dare, part demand. And apparently, it was what he needed for he leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he clasped his hands together, all business.

"That you are already married."

Theo stared. Then, she laughed. Christ. Just when she thought a matter was dead and buried, he'd gone digging just to find a roundabout way to call her a liar once again. Just as she'd thought they'd come so far, too. Tears filled her eyes - tears of anger, and of frustration, too. Frustration over what her life had become, over the twenty steps back they'd just take after the fifteen forward, over the fact that she was an angry crier, and over how ridiculous she felt for having felt contented not an hour ago.

Had all of this been a test? Some prolonged form of interrogation under the guise of friendship? She hoped not, but she didn't know what to think. Of course, that didn't stop her from coming up with theories. Maybe he didn't think her a liar. Maybe his warped eighteenth century logic truly did lead him to the idea that the only woman not in want of a husband would be one who was already married. Several comments he'd made to her in the past certainly suggested as such, always serving as stark reminders of what a product of his time he was.

But James did not have a duplicitous bone in his oh-so-noble body. If this was some sort of undercover mission, she'd have sussed it. She knew she would have. Jesus, she hoped she would have. But she was sure she would. Even if she hadn't had an idea of his character before even meeting him, she had an impeccable nose for bullshit. So there had to be another answer. A simpler answer, in all likelihood. But what? What could possess him to pawn her off on Groves?

James rounded the table as she pondered that question, producing an impeccably pressed handkerchief, offering it to her.

"You can tell me. You must tell me," he urged.

It hit her then. Ah. Of course.

"You should have told me."

Blinking away her tears, as well as her embarrassment, she collected herself in the span of a few deep breaths.

"…Told you?" He echoed.

The handkerchief still hung uselessly between his fingers.

"That I have overstayed my welcome," she forced a smile "It's quite understandable, don't worry."

He was thinking of the future. Of marrying Elizabeth and filling the house with little mini-Englishmen and women. While he had no way of knowing that such a life wouldn't come to pass, he also had no way of knowing that Theo didn't intend to be there much longer. An Irish foundling didn't fit into that mental picture that he would've been so dearly clinging to. There was only one way to move on in this world for a woman - only one respectable way. Marriage. It allowed him to wash his hands of her, while also doing the honourable thing.

And she couldn't even be upset about it. Not reasonably. What was the alternative, as far as he was concerned? Her presence looming over the honeymoon period he anticipated with his new wife? Cheeks blazing in realisation, she resisted the urge to hang her head. She'd made a burden of herself.

"What? No, that's not-"

"James, it's fine. I- I won't marry Groves, but I'll make other arrangements. Find somewhere else to go."

Her mind was already abuzz with calculations. Anything to get her over the embarrassment at having all but screamed at him for trying to put an end-date on his responsibility for her. If she sold one of her dresses she would surely get enough money to find lodgings that would hopefully last her until Jack arrived. Hell, she could sell two and hopefully repay him at least a fraction of her costs. And if worst came to worst? She could go back into the jungle again. She hoped not. Not only out of weakness, but because she'd been relying on her looks to at least get the attention of Captain Jack - to get her foot in the door so he might listen to her. That effect would be dampened somewhat if she was trailing in leaves, mud, and sand.

But she would do what she had to. If she'd survived out there in the state she'd been in last time, she could do so now. The burns had long faded into a healthy glowing tan, with no traces of any salt sores or dehydration remaining. Plus, now she had her fishhook, tucked away safely in her wallet. It would be fine. It wouldn't be comfortable, but what did that matter? She'd been lucky to get the respite she'd had from discomfort, she wasn't going to begrudge it now that it was gone.

"Of course you won't, don't be absurd."

"I'll shoulder the blame so it doesn't reflect on you, it's okay - really. Tell them whatever you like. That I was too feral to live indoors. Most of them won't struggle to believe that. I can pack tonight, and I can be gone come morning. It's no bother. Truly."

Before she could even take more than two steps away, however, when James hand was clasped around her wrist - firmly, but not painfully, until she regarded it with surprise and it loosened still, so that she could easily free herself with one firm pull. She did not, though, finally falling silent to frown at him in surprise.

"I am not asking you to leave, Theodora," he said every word firmly, emphasising each and every syllable in a way that might've been condescending if not for the sincerity shining in his eyes.

When she finally stilled, and did not offer any argument, he let go and sighed. Sitting down and sliding the wig from his head all at once, he looked up at her expectantly and she followed suit, perching on the every edge of the seat.

"This…isn't how I imagined this conversation going," he gave an exasperated sigh.

"You thought I'd want to marry Groves?" She frowned.

"No. Well, I hoped not. Not that - I don't mean," he faltered "Of course, had you wanted to then I…Lord, this was a terrible plan. I have no intention of proposing a match between the two of you. I never did."

"You keep saying all of these things as if they make everything make sense," she replied drily "So what? Was this you trying your hand at a practical joke?"

"Nothing of the sort," he said, grimacing as though he found the accusation incredibly offensive "I…I was hoping to persuade you, gently, to share certain facts of your own volition."

If that had been his idea of gentle persuasion, she'd hate to see the rough kind. Or, hey, maybe not. Depending. She kept that particular joke to herself, though.

"What certain facts?" She asked.

Because he couldn't be talking about what it sounded like he was. There was no chance, she knew that. James might've just been the most prim and proper man to walk the planet, but even he wouldn't be able to respond with such calm orderliness upon finding out that his lodger was actually a time-traveller from an alternate universe.

"I know, Theodora."

"Know what, James?" She countered.

"Hattie saw the bruises - on your first night here, when you were cleaning up."

"And you and Hattie discuss my baths a lot, do you?"

Her attempt at the lighthearted joke hit wrong, and instead he really did look offended at the insinuation this time, his brow knitting together and something awfully akin to hurt shone there. A mental note would have to be made on that score - no joking that James Norrington was secretly a pervert.

"I'm teasing," she cut in quickly "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…anyway. What bruises?"

Inclining his head in what - thank god - seemed to be acceptance of her apology for her inability to not make the worst joke at any given point, he gave a long suffering sigh, his face becoming no less serious.

"The ones on your back. According to Hattie, they were…severe. To an extent that suggested focused, intentional cruelty."

Once upon a time she might've found it funny how he looked so concerned, so damned overwrought, while she had less than no idea what he was going on about. But she couldn't see the funny side, not only because the panic from how this conversation had started hadn't completely worn off, her heart still drumming out a jig in her chest, but because of the depth of the worry on his face.

"I honestly have no idea what you're talking abou-" the word died before she could finish it, realisation striking.

Oh. Oh no. The bruises that were most definitively not bruises. The most-definitively-not-bruises that couldn't be explained as anything but bruises. Not here. Not now. It had been an unbelievably strong stroke of luck that Hattie had written them off as such in the first place. She must've caught but the barest of glimpses, from just the right angle. Fuck.

Theo was shaken, ice freezing over her insides, the perilous nature of her situation entirely reinforced. Had Hattie seen just a little bit more, they'd be having a very different conversation. Or none at all, perhaps. Before she even had any ability to hide her distress from her face, James seized upon it.

"Those bruises," he confirmed, mistaking the cause for her sudden pallor "You must know, I do not begrudge seeing that you have the help that you need here, but as the one who is responsible for you…"

He paused, and then continued with some hesitancy "…and as your friend, I must know the extent of the help you need."

The words were sweet. Painfully sweet, especially coming from one who was clearly uncomfortable with such discussions. Unfortunately, Theo only half heard them. Her brain finally had enough of the puzzle pieces to fit them all together, and the picture they formed was…troubling. To say the absolute least. So this was why she'd been enduring constant disbelief at her lack of a husband. And he thought, what, that he'd suggest a match between herself and Groves, and that she'd have no choice but to throw her hands up and proclaim "I'm afraid somebody already beat him to it, Jim"?

She couldn't begrudge him his theories. It was only natural that they'd form considering she was around him so much, but had told him so little. He'd worked with what he had, and came to what was probably a natural conclusion given this…this world. It just threw a lot of things into perspective. His kindness, for one. Not that she thought him naturally unkind, or that the kindness was false, but there was just something to it. Something she'd never quite been able to put her finger on. It wasn't a motive, not quite, that sounded too sinister - too opportunistic, but a sort of pointedness. Seeming to appear all of a sudden, with an intent behind it. And now she understood. He'd heard of the bruises, and set out to prove to her that there was some kindness to be found here. Or at least that she could trust him.

Christ, she could have cried at the sweetness behind it had it not posed such a problem. What should she do? Her first instinct was to deny it, but every time she opened her mouth to do so, something stopped her. It felt wrong not to. To receive sympathy and comfort over some trauma that she had not actually been through - like the sick bastards who lied about losing family in natural disasters or terrorist attacks. However…she wasn't the one who had come up with the story. She hadn't sat here and spun him some false tale of woe, and nor did she have any intention of dining out on the story for whatever sympathetic perks it might bring.

There would always come a time when a cover story was needed. She'd often wondered how she'd gotten so lucky as to not be pressed for one before now, her assurances of water-borne amnesia would only last so long. Now she knew why she'd coasted this far - because he thought he already knew, and his assumptions led him to conclusions that he didn't want to press. But could she really allow him to go on believing it? It was an unwelcome conclusion that she came to when she realised, with no shortage of heaviness, that she might very well have to. It answered all of his questions, did it not? And he already believed it. The work had basically been done for her while she'd been busy swimming and fantasising about how lovely his eyes were.

Christ, she felt nauseous. It felt wrong. It all felt so seedy and wrong. But if she was going to survive here, lying was something she needed to grow used to. Sighing heavily, she tried to lean forward to bury her face in her hands, but her clothing wouldn't allow it - not properly, the corset digging into her hips and prohibiting it. So instead she lifted just the left hand, shielding her face somewhat from his view.

"I will not press you to discuss it if you would rather not, but I would listen if needed," he said it oh-so-gently, and it only made her feel worse.

Behind her hand, she kept her gaze fixed on the coffee table before her, like it might save her from this situation.

"…I must know, though. Will he come looking for you?"

The lying was difficult to live with, but having James ready himself for a battle - legal or physical - with some fictional bastard of a husband would be impossibly heavy on her conscience. And so she spoke, before she could really think of it.

"No," she said quietly, her voice impossibly small.

And so it was done. The lie told - or at least agreed with. There was no going back now, she would have to remember everything she said on this topic - to the letter, so that she wouldn't contradict it. But it was difficult, with the guilt gnawing away at her chest. It felt like a betrayal. Like a con.

"How can you be sure?"

He offered the handkerchief again, and she accepted it this time just to give herself something to do with her hands, twisting it this way and that as she refused to look at him. She needed something untraceable. Unprovable.

"He…" it struck her "He followed me into the water. I survived, he did not."

Better a widow than a woman tethered to some non-existent lout permanently on the horizon.

"Oh."

Did he believe her? She didn't want to look at his face to find out. Everything felt wrong. Her dress too constricting, the room too small, the heat impossibly stifling. There were times before this, here and there, where she felt like she was still herself in some capacity. The eighteenth century version of herself. As honest as she could be, without being burned for a witch. Now? Now she felt like she'd just sealed a mask onto her face, and one that she had no right to wear. Who lied about something like this?

Maybe it was just the contrast - how care-free she'd felt just hours before, in comparison to suddenly being reminded of how very valid her worries were. And it was childish, she knew it was. Childish and idealistic, that she thought she might get by without having to compromise like this, in some way or another. To tell a lie that she found distasteful. But now that it had happened, it ate at her. The fact that James, the one who had unequivocally shown her the most kindness here, had been the recipient just made it all the worse. With Jack, the prospect, vague as it was, didn't bother her. Lying to a fellow liar just felt like speaking his language. With Elizabeth? Admittedly, she didn't like that idea, either, but she hadn't told her any terrible whoppers. With James? It felt like an utter betrayal, made only worse by the fact that she knew he would regard it as one, should he ever find out.

"I'm going to take a walk, excuse me," she said quickly, standing up and leaving before he could argue - but he did not.

"Of course," he called after her as she opened the front door.

If he said anything else, she didn't hear it. At least once she was outside, she might think without feeling his gaze burning into her. She was halfway down the hill when she realised that she still clutched his handkerchief in her fist - and that small gesture, however ridiculous, was what finally gave her cause to use it.

A/N: Confused little dorks, the both of them.