A/N: I had way too much fun with this chapter. I started it on a whim, filed it under brainstorming, expecting to insert it somewhere later in the story, but then I just kept writing and - well, the whole thing is basically a series of snippets, so I allowed myself to skip forward a bit without a ton of exposition. I'm not mad about it.

He was waiting for her as she entered her mistress's room. Grinning. "Lizzie."

Elizabeth froze for just a moment before she quickly stepped in and closed the door behind her, frowning. She tried to keep her voice even, if edged with wariness, a plethora of thoughts suddenly buzzing in her head. "...Mr. Frye." Why was he here? How did he know her name? What was he- oh god- Her heart leapt to her throat with a rush of anxiety, eyes widening before she glared. "You could've been caught," she hissed, stepping forward, glancing around the room as if she might spot something amiss. "I could've been anyone!"

How dare he laugh like that. "No you couldn't have."

Nothing out of place, save for the open window - no drawers disturbed or trunks left open. It didn't mean he hadn't stolen something. Maybe something small? She took another step toward him, scanning his person quickly, checking for suspicious glints of jewelry or trinkets spilling from his pockets - damn it, why did that stupid top hat suit him so well? "Yes I could," she insisted, crossly. Christ, why was she worried for him - her job was on the line, too, if things went missing, and that meant the roof over her head and the food in her belly.

His step forward was quick and quieter than she would've expected from a man of his build. The fingers - skin and the leather edges of his glove - brushing her chin made her jump then freeze as he lifted her face, watching her with amusement. "No." His voice was a low murmur and he was far closer than he should be, his eyes too intensely interested. "You really couldn't."

She'd stopped breathing. As soon as she realised that fact she blinked, swallowing hard, and jerked her face from his hold, eyes shooting to the floor. She felt the too-warm flush on her cheeks soothed by that cooling sense of blankness that came with what he'd called her disappearing act. It was a relief to be nothing for a moment. To take a breath without his eyes on her. It let her snap back to her senses.

"Lizzie," he whined, dropping his hand and rolling his head back in exasperation, making no attempt to stay quiet. "You're making my head hurt, love, please come-"

"If you would keep your voice down, Mr. Frye." Her voice was a tense whisper, watching him warily, too distracted to keep her meek facade. Half of her was hyper aware of the last place she'd seen Mrs Hanover the housekeeper (speaking with the cook, discussing their cold storage; three floors below), and half was coming up blank trying to theorise on why the thief was here.

His head was still tipped back, but she saw the smile twist his lips as he lazily rolled it forward again, fixing her with a look that was too sharp for her taste. There was a fire in it, but not the sort she may have expected based on his earlier closeness. No, this was a violent chaos, burning to be free. "Make me."

Elizabeth's brow furrowed in confusion. There was a beat of silence.

"How?" She made no attempt to hide the utter bafflement in her voice.

The man smirked. Like she should know what that meant?

"You are a prizefighting champion, sir," she reminded him, shortly. Wasn't this obvious? "I am a maid. I cannot make you do anything, merely ask." She shook her head, unsure what exactly he expected of her. "And that is what I am doing."

Eyes narrowed in playful suspicion as he took a swaggering step toward her, and she almost immediately took a step back. "A maid." It wasn't a question, but the phrase was still steeped in scepticism.

What on earth was he getting at? "...Yes?" Another step forward, another step back. Her skin had broken out in gooseflesh: something was not right. Why was he coming at her like this?

"Your cover is good, I'll give you that."

"Cover?" The question was a perplexed murmur, and he promptly ignored it.

"Who do you really work for, sweetheart?" He spoke smoothly, continuing to move forward, something in his tone coaxing her for an answer she wasn't sure how to give.

Elizabeth's face flushed, anger battling with caution, all shaded with an echoing frustration at how senseless his words were. And calling her sweetheart like that- "You are too informal, Mr. Frye!" she snapped, struggling to keep her voice low as she demanded, "And I would have you speak plainly, if you will."

"Plain-?" Seeming to tire of bickering, he sighed and pulled back, rolling his eyes. "Fine." There was a quiet click-shing as he presented her a forearm, a thin blade sliding from the gauntlet he wore: "Let's have at it, then."

The words had hardly left his lips before he swung, a heavy fist going straight for her head.

She was no fighter.

Elizabeth barely managed to stumble back, falling to the floor with wide eyes, swallowing her shocked cry. Cringing away, hands lifted defensively, she couldn't even calm herself enough for her usual tricks, eyes scrunched up and turned to the floor as she braced for a blow, grimacing.

No blow came.

Her heart was racing like a frightened rabbit, a fluttering pitter-patter shallow in her chest, legs tangled before her, a mess of fabric and trembling limbs. Breathe. She was shaking. Christ, she couldn't stop shaking. Get a hold of yourself, woman. Her jaw ached, fused shut by a stubborn refusal to shout, her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. It felt like forever, but must've only been a few seconds before she could focus enough to slip on an attempt at her defensive modesty.

The choked noise from his throat - too loud in the suddenly silent room - broke her concentration almost immediately, eyes snapping to him, as tense as she'd ever been in her life.

He at least had the decency to look almost as shocked as her. The combat stance was gone, though the blade still protruded from the device on his arm.

She watched the pink rising under his skin.

"Ah." He cleared his throat hard, shifting nervously on his feet. "Well." The shock was briefly replaced by dumbfounded confusion, cocking his head at her, lips parting as though he might ask a question before his mouth snapped shut again. "...Right." He blinked several times, looking away, adjusting back to a more casual position, blade sliding away once more, brow furrowed as he seemed to reconcile this new information.

Elizabeth simply watched, dumbfounded.

He lifted a finger, as though to make an interjection to a conversation that was most definitely not happening. "So-" Down it went again, as he contemplated his words. Finally, he looked at her again. "So you're not a member of the Order?" He sounded practically hopeful, as though she might correct him.

She wasn't sure when her hands had lowered, but now she just stared at the man before her, stunned. "...Order?" she asked weakly.

He fidgeted, ears going red even as he kept his mostly confident posture. "And not part of the Brotherhood?" There was that same hope again. It was like he expected her to have some kind of sudden realisation.

What on earth… Elizabeth wracked her brain for his meaning. "Is that… a union thing?"

He let out a weak huff of amusement, but she couldn't bring herself to join - far too aware of a hidden blade that could spring out at half a second's notice. As he noticed her silence, he also fell quiet. Gradually his face grew more serious, regret clear in the firm line of his lips. He took a few steps toward her and Elizabeth winced as he lowered a hand. Hazel eyes skirted away from hers - good, he should be ashamed - as he lowered himself to one knee. The hand he offered was unarmed.

"Miss Boone, I believe I owe you an apology."

The air hung heavy in the silence as she stared at him in disbelief, her head spinning. Finally, she came at least somewhat to her senses. Her gaping mouth snapped shut and she slapped his offered hand away, suddenly feeling a fury. A fury that threatened her better sense to not push the buttons of a man with a hidden blade. "You're damn right you do!" She hated how shrill her voice was as she struggled to her feet without his help, tinny with a hysteria that, while understandable, was still humiliating. "You could've killed me!"

His lips twisted as his eyes darted away again, his tone not nearly as apologetic as he'd claimed. "To be fair, I expected you to fight back."

"With what?!"

He'd darted his eyes back to her, scanning over her figure like he was trying to find an answer himself, lips parted as though he might make some undoubtedly foolish attempt to argue his case, but then they both heard it.

"Miss Boone? Is that you? Are you alright, dear?"

Her heart was once more painfully lodged in her throat, a series of options flicking through her head, calculating just how likely Mrs. Hanover was to seek her out regardless of her answer. She could call out, assure the woman of her well-being, but undoubtedly the housekeeper would still come find her. And would that be so bad? Perhaps that was the best way to ensure Mr. Frye's departure. After all, it seemed (at least at this point) that he was reluctant to harm her. And if he wanted to mince words with the housekeeper, he was welcome to it as long as she was in the clear. Would she be in the clear? Did she even have the time to think on it?

She reached for the doorknob, prepared to warn of the intruder, to bring the attention she so often avoided, but apparently Mr. Frye had made his decision just a bit quicker. A hand clamped down over her mouth, reining her whole body back to collide with his, at the same moment that an arm wrapped around her torso, pinning her arms to her side even as she tried to reach up to pry his fingers away from her lips.

So she couldn't reach the hand over her mouth, fine. Elizabeth hesitated, too aware that she could still reach his other arm, could still try to wrestle herself free. But she wasn't a fighter, she knew she wasn't a fighter, and he was- god, he was; she could feel it even clearer than she'd seen with her own eyes, could feel the sheer power of his body at her back. Every inch of her was on high alert, even as she tried to think rationally, to set aside that first chaotic instinct of fear. Hadn't he just been apologising? Shouldn't that mean she wasn't in danger? But then why-

"I don't want to hurt you, I just want to talk." His voice was a low murmur and-

-and his breath was hot against her ear, each syllable vibrating on her skin.

...It was… peculiar.

She did not appreciate the sudden drip of uncertainty gradually flooding her body.

There were footsteps from beyond the closed door, someone already halfway up the stairs; she'd memorised that creaky step within her first week of service.

"Key?"

What? An expression of confusion furrowed her brow, trying to interpret his- oh. There was one to these rooms, yes, but Elizabeth didn't know where her mistress kept it. They weren't kept locked. She shook her head. The movement brushed her cheek against his nose, his lips making the briefest contact with her jaw. Christ, she hadn't been this close to a man in… well, since Papa died. And that had been a very different type of embrace from… whatever this was. When had her mouth gone so dry? Damn it, focus.

The brief moment of hesitation in his movements made her wary, but then he seemed to have made a decision.

It happened in a flash. Her squeak of indignant alarm and pain was stifled by his hand as he yanked an arm behind her (not as hard as he'd manhandled his competitors in the ring, but still, it wasn't exactly pleasant) and the next thing she knew she was in her mistress's closet, thoroughly disoriented.

Not even the dressing room? Or the bathroom? You had to pick this?

Of all the doors, he'd chosen the one leading to the smallest space. And of course he'd joined her. Of course. Sod the concept of propriety or scandal, why not cram oneself into extremely close quarters with a woman he'd barely met. "If you'd asked-" Fingers pressed against her lips, silencing her far more politely than the first time. He'd let go of her arm as well. I could've told you which room had an exit, you dolt. But she didn't protest.

There was the sound of a door opening, but not the one she'd expected. So the housekeeper was checking the linen closet first - fair, Elizabeth often changed sheets as part of her duties. But that just meant a longer wait. Here. With him.

Finally taking a moment to breathe, she was suddenly incredibly aware of their position.

It was too dark to see him at first, thank god, but she could imagine well enough, could feel the wood of the closet door against her back and the tension in his wrist where it nestled into the skirts against her hip, hand tight on the handle to keep the door closed. He was close. Very close. Knowing the size of this closet she suspected he may actually be putting himself in some amount of pain to keep from being even closer. A soft grunt of discomfort seemed to confirm her theory, as did his slight shift forward. That would be the hooks at the back, undoubtedly digging into him. Despite her wish to, she didn't voice the mandatory objections, mindful of the calloused fingertips on her lips. At this point she'd be in just as much trouble as him if they were caught. More, even.

Elizabeth's eyes were just adjusting to the thin stream of light peeking under the crack in the door (hardly much to see by, but she was getting vague outlines) when she heard a soft clacking. She strained, as if opening her eyes even wider in the dark would somehow allow her to see what-

She caught the tiny light reflected on the metal of the offending hanger in the practically empty closet, half-hidden by what she could reasonably assume was his shoulder, watching it nervously as it swung. He'd hit it, then. She couldn't exactly blame him, given the small space and his own rather bulky form. She wanted to, though. Especially as he shifted and the clack came again.

Her lips pursed, but she held back the admonishment, instead reaching past him, stilling the movement with a firm hand. She'd had to lean forward to do it, and now thought she might be regretting that choice, as the movement had slipped his fingers down her lips, pressed herself a bit closer to him, draping her arm against his chest, and she realised too late that letting go now would just send it clattering once more.

He shifted again, and she could sense him looking down at her even if she couldn't see his eyes. There was a creak as the door to her lady's bedroom opened, and Elizabeth tried not to breathe. Fingers slipped until they cupped her chin, his thumb brushing over her lips like a warning she didn't need. She had no intention of speaking, of being caught. In fact, it would probably be better if she just…

It was hard to do in such a position, but if she set her mind to it… Gradually she felt herself settle into the proper demeanor - awkward with her hand propped over his shoulder, but achievable - and slipped into that practiced modesty that—

His hand tightened on her chin, face ducking beside hers as a soft, barely breathed, "Ss," slipped through gritted teeth.

Was he shushing her? But she hadn't made any noise. It was a silent trick, just a… Ah. Right. He'd said it before. He said it made his head hurt, but she didn't understand how that could be true. But here he was, suddenly far tenser than he'd been a moment ago, crowding into her space with an air of frustrated confusion. Stop. He'd wanted to say stop, that must've been it. A plea.

She dropped her attempt immediately, half fascinated and half guilty. She'd never seen someone react to her… whatever it was… like that before. As soon as she stopped he let out a short breath, his grip loosening, the tensed muscles of his arms relaxing. "Thhh." Again, barely breathed, a silent sound of mostly air that tickled her ear. Thank you. Well, at least he was appreciative.

It was her turn to tense - her free hand lifting and nervously bumping into the fabric of Mr. Frye's coat (and to his credit, he held quite still) - as the door barely two feet from their hiding place creaked open. The bathroom. So Mrs. Hanover was checking the full rooms. Elizabeth grudgingly admitted perhaps the closet had been the best choice after all.

It felt like ages, though she knew it was barely a couple minutes, waiting for the housekeeper to make her search. As she heard the woman entering the dressing room, Elizabeth had the sudden realisation that he hadn't moved away. He'd relaxed, yes, but his face was still close beside hers, his breath still-

-still licking down her neck. A quick stream of curses slipped through her mind as she stiffened to keep from shivering. There was the smallest huff of air - of laughter - and she quickly released the hold she'd reflexively taken on his waistcoat. When had her hand slipped past his jacket? Oh god. And of course now he could probably feel the heat from her face even if he couldn't see her glowing red. She could hear the pounding of blood in her ears she was blushing so hard. She felt the itch in her throat, that nervous need to cough, to shed the tension, to do something, but she had to stay silent. Instead she swallowed hard and pursed her lips, nibbling at one for a moment.

That had been a mistake. That hadn't helped at all - on the contrary, her lips were suddenly more sensitive to his touch. Bad idea. And of course his thumb still brushed her mouth, of course it did, and she swore he was grinning, she swore it. But she need only endure this closeness just a moment more. One more moment.

This was ridiculous. She should be outraged at the impertinence. Maybe she would've been, if she truly was who she pretended to be. If she hadn't grown up seeing lads like him. Worse than him, really - less polite, less respectful. Compared to what she'd witnessed in the east end, from flirtations to harassments, Mr. Frye was a catch. Even if he was a thief. At least he was a good one.

But damn it, she was better than that now. She was moving up in the world, had been ever since they'd left Whitechapel. Respectable. And respectable young women didn't cosy up with thieves in dark closets.

And how could she have forgotten how he had very near killed her just minutes ago?!

Perhaps she couldn't let go of the hanger just yet, but she withdrew her other hand from his chest, balling it into a fist at her side as she reminded herself of her righteous indignation.

It was irritatingly hard to hold on to.

He was too easy to make exceptions for, and she had to stop doing so.

The sound of his throat clearing, subtle as it was, was too loud so close to her ear. Blinking her thoughts back to the present, Elizabeth realised with a start that the housekeeper had moved on. His thumb had dropped from her lips, though his fingers still brushed her chin.

"I think we're in the clear." Still, his voice was a barely-breathed whisper.

"Right." No, not right, think before you speak. Realising her mistake she hurriedly - awkwardly - crossed her arm between them to stop his hand on the door handle as he shifted to open it. "Wait! Did she leave the door to the bedroom open?" If she did, they'd still need to tiptoe about until she was back down a floor, until they could close it again.

There was a pause, but when he whispered again it sounded at least partially amused. "How would I know?"

She tried to ignore the way his hand brushed her cheek, tracing her jaw too delicately for such calloused digits, like his fingers couldn't keep still. Too familiar, he was far too familiar. "Well did you hear it?"

Again, a pause. His voice and his wandering fingers, lighting against her cheekbone. She thought he might be censoring himself, but she wasn't sure. Perhaps he was just trying to remember. "...Yes." This time it was louder than a whisper, more confident, though still low, and - Christ, she hadn't realised she'd be able to feel the timbre of his voice, that was… that was different.

Surely there was something she should say in response. Some kind of confirmation. Damn it all, he was distracting. As his touch left her face she thought she'd seen the last of it, but he'd only drawn away to reach back, taking a firm hold of her wrist, reminding her to let go of the silly hanger. And- Eyes narrowed in suspicion, even in the dark. He was doing that on purpose, wasn't he? Guiding her hand down his chest like that. Her fingers tensed, but he made no move further down his torso. Good. She didn't know what to expect from the cheeky bastard.

They were still too close. She should say something. Scold him. She should really pull her hand away.

She should.

...So why wasn't she?

Her mind went blank for a moment as he leaned closer, practically pressing her against the door, both arms now trapped in the rapidly diminishing space between their bodies. At least his lips weren't quite so close to her ear this time, his smirk audible and the words a half-singsong warning spoken above her head: "Careful, now."

Careful-?

The door opened suddenly and she stumbled back, still flustered, barely able to steady herself before she might fall. She bit her tongue to keep the curse from her lips, glaring at the man who now strolled leisurely from their hiding spot. He was giving her a look - amused, but still with that touch of disbelief he'd had before. "Huh. You really aren't trained, are you?"

"Trained." The word was flat as she struggled to push away those niggling thoughts of too close in favour of the righteous indignation she really should be focused on.

Mr. Frye glanced away, shrugging and flapping his hand noncommittally. "You know."

Alright. Enough was enough. Elizabeth closed her eyes, hands clasping before her as she tried to collect herself, to set aside the mortification of their close-quarters hideaway and instead hold this man accountable. She let out a soft sigh, trying to be patient, staring at his feet. "No, Mr. Frye, I do not know. That is precisely the issue. But if it has anything to do with your unexpected assault earlier, I believe I am owed an explanation." She gave a short nod, satisfied that she'd regained her composure.

He'd turned away a bit, patting at his coat, and when Elizabeth glanced up again— It was so hard to not immediately try to hide, seeing the massive curved knife he'd drawn. Too hard. Instinct kicked in, and she-

"Lizzie, stop." It was only slightly more request than command, but there was enough softness in it - and he hadn't raised the blade. So she relented, raising her chin again.

"I would rather you not call me that, sir." Her jaw was tight, unappreciative of his informality.

"Why not?" How could he sound surprised at that? She'd met him, what, three times? Four? She barely knew his name. And yet he seemed so innocently taken aback that she didn't want him to speak so casually with her? "It's what your friend called you." The blade hung limp in his grip, forgotten for the time being.

Her friend… "Who exactly…" She already had her suspicions before he answered.

"The blonde you were at the match with. Fulton, Fuller, something like that."

Emma Fuller. Soon to be Shearer. That… She sighed, resignedly. That made sense, then. Emma was the only one who called her that anymore - the only one she let call her that — the only one she didn't actively avoid, anyway. She pursed her lips, glaring out the corner of her eye as she remembered the sneering way the nickname had slipped from grimy children's lips. She'd put a stop to it when she could. Elizabeth. Much more refined. Still, Emma was notoriously bad at listening to her.

"So it's true, then?" He shook his head, his words a murmur of incredulous amusement. "Whitechapel born and bred."

She tucked nervous fingers into her pockets, worrying the loose threads hidden within, but kept her voice steady, meeting his curious gaze head-on. "Mr. Frye, my history is mine alone and none of your business."

He shrugged, nodding his assent, glancing away. "Fair enough."

She actually felt relieved for a moment. Before he spoke again.

"I just… I dunno. From there to here…" His head was lowered, eyes fixing on hers from beneath the brim of his hat, with a tone that covered mild suspicion with a mask of casual curiosity. "Seemed like a cover. ...Or a job." How did he manage to sound so genial with that hard edge underneath it all?

"It is a job," she insisted, scowling, arms quickly crossing over her chest defensively. "It's good work and I was lucky to get it." Years working in the shops, months of carefully chosen words and actions, curating her impression for the wealthier ladies of the city; it was a bit insulting to call it luck, actually.

"No it—" He shook his head, shedding that air of intimidation easily. "With your, erm," his smirk at the ground was wry as he searched for the word. "...Talents. It just seemed…" He trailed off, but this time his bemusement seemed genuine. "...How do you do it, anyway?"

Elizabeth didn't need to ask what he meant. "I…" She hesitated. "I don't know." Shrugging halfheartedly, she let herself watch him with sharp eyes as long as he wasn't looking at her. Her voice was softer than she wanted, too much of her own uncertainty - her own puzzlement at how honest she was being - sneaking through. "I just do." She hadn't even considered it something unusual until somewhat recently. "...I've never had someone notice before," she admitted quietly.

There was a pause, a small contemplative frown twisting his lips. He watched his fingers playing along the intricate engraving on the knife, but it looked more like fidgeting than a threat. When he spoke it was a distracted murmur, and she had to wonder what was on his mind. "Evie does something like it."

Evie? Was that a friend of his? Oh god- was that his wife? If so, should she be relieved? Elizabeth blanched, head buzzing, confused not just by his words but by the bitter taste they brought to her mouth. Stop it. Get a hold of yourself. Change the subject. The words tumbling from her lips weren't exactly a subtle change of tack. "What's the knife for?"

"Hm?" He glanced up, then back, as though suddenly realising what his attentions to the blade might look like. "Not for you, love, god no," he assured her easily, tossing the blade casually into the air, as if to prove its harmlessness. She jumped, a quick shock lighting through her, barely having time to jar her before he'd caught the handle again, giving it an impressive-looking twirl. There was a flash of that cheeky grin again. "Nah, this lady's for Blighters, mostly. And Templars." Another flamboyant twist and flick, light dancing along the metal with the fluid movements as he took a couple steps toward her, voice lowering in a teasing murmur. "And rogues and thieves…"

He'd practically set her up. A single brow had lifted incredulously, mouth already opening, about to point out that he himself seemed to be the latter, when his earlier words were fully processed. "...Blighters?"

A smirk curled his lip as he gave a half-nod.

Her face had gone blank. "So…" He didn't wear their colours, but… "You work for the Rooks, then?"

His eyebrows shot up and she watched a look of pure delight dawn on his face. His lips were tight and she knew he was trying not to grin. Trying and failing miserably. "Work-" There was a small huff of laughter as he dropped his gaze to the floor, teeth flashing as he shook his head. "I don't work for the Rooks, love."

Oh thank go-

"I am the Rooks."

A/N: There's more to this conversation, no worries, but I just couldn't pass up a chance to end with that. Thoughts?