A/N: HAPPY ANDITH FEST 2018! Rejoice! Not only is our OTP still going strong, I am here to report that there is creativity after heartache! It has been a struggle to write over the past several months, my apologies to you lovelies. Without becoming too maudlin, let me just say I've been experiencing an ongoing and major upheaval in my life, the kind that makes writing romance in particular quite difficult. I'm not certain when the second part of this fic will be posted, but I couldn't bear not to contribute for Andith Fest. Because I am stronger than despair and mightier than grief and Andith needs me!

I want to thank you, as always, for your readership and support. You're absolute darlings who make this ship great, and I couldn't do it without you!


**TW: Suggestions of gun violence.**


D – Dirty Laundry

Music & Lyrics by: Charles Aznavour, Shana Halligan, Michael Railton, and Kiran Shahani

As recorded by: Bitter:Sweet

PART I

I've got a bad girl and that's all right with me.

Her dirty laundry is nothing that I can't keep clean.

And when she needs an alibi, she can use me-

All night…

Crash!

Anthony's eyebrows knit together behind his reading glasses. He released a regretful sigh, his shoulders drooping in a harassed manner as he lowered his book, tossing it aside as he swung out of bed, donning a robe and slippers. He grumbled internally as he descended the too-steep staircase in his book-shop-cum-apartment. The air seemed five degrees colder as he reached the small but neat kitchen at the bottom, and he frowned at the back door. It was April, but the evenings were still chilly. And damp, he grumped a little more. He unfastened the latch and lock and leaned his head out to examine the narrow alley behind his shop. There was his bin, on its side, spilling rubbish in a soggy, and faintly smelly, heap. He wrinkled his nose as the stink of spoiling milk and wilted lettuce reached his nostrils. Bloody raccoons he thought, as he stooped to pick up a gaping egg carton. But before he'd clasped it, another noise made him freeze.

A dull clonk sounded from behind him…from the front room of the bookshop...inside the flat.

He fell a thrill of warning chase along his spine and arrest his breathing, as if someone had drawn the laces on his lungs suddenly tight. He exhaled in a low puff, steeling himself as he turned stealthily back into the kitchen, shunching his door closed as quietly as possible. He stalked the short distance across the room until linoleum floor met industrial carpet, until apartment gave way to bookshop, light from the kitchen sketching dim outlines of bookshelves before him. He paused, straining his eyes in the dark, willing his ears to hear beyond his own shallow breaths, willing his senses to flush out the source of the noise. His mind raced as his body stood still. It was a mouse or something, a rat—maybe the raccoon had somehow gotten into the shop…

From the street, the rumble of a car engine split the silence and made him jump almost out of his skin. Past the displays in the shop's front windows he could see the flicker of police lights. Car doors slammed. Male voices spoke authoritatively to one another, then disappeared… The shop fell silent and dark once more. He exhaled a breath, and then-

Out of the corner of his eye; a blur in the darkness.

"Excuse me," he called, trying to imbue his tones with as much authority as he could muster.

The darkness moved again. Outside an officer called to his fellow. And then, there was a figure before him, looming out of the shadows to his left. A lean, feminine frame, clad in black combat clothing; complete with concealing cap, and black leather gloves clasped around a pistol that was precisely trained somewhere along his abdomen.

The laces across his chest jerked even tighter as his muscles locked in terror.

"Please, I—" he choked.

Her eyes met his, and for what seemed an eternity they just stared at one another. Her dark eyes were wary and intelligent, and he felt the assessment in her gaze, as if she were trying to read his very soul. At last, she exhaled a long, slow breath. She lowered the weapon until it was trained at his brown slippers. He relaxed only marginally. He was pretty sure she could easily shoot his toes off.

"Do y—" the woman started, but the sound of the door closing a few flats down made her flinch. "Show me to your bedroom," she snapped.

"Sure, yes," he managed. "I'll—you don't have to wave that gun at me…I'll be happy to…"

He gestured towards the kitchen.

It was a fairly awkward ascent, both of them trying to climb the narrow staircase while she kept him—or at least something in the vicinity of his ankles, covered with her pistol. As they reached the landing which opened into his bedroom, voices carried up from the stoop next door. Her brown eyes widened, and she hastily knelt and deposited the gun under the foot of the bed.

As Anthony watched, she began to strip off her clothes—black gloves, jacket, shirt, boots, and tight-fitting combat trousers. Her black cap came off to reveal a tumble of red-blonde curls, which, upon conjuring a hair tie seemingly from thin air, she deftly bundled into a high loose knot. Now clad only in comparatively simple underclothes-that were not black, he noted-she strode swiftly to his dresser, ransacking the drawers until she found what he recognized as an old Heidelberg-U t-shirt. This she tugged over her head.

"Socks?" she shot over her shoulder as she pulled open another drawer.

"In the bottom right," he answered perfunctorily. He felt stunned. What on earth was going on in his quiet little flat?

Her frantic fingers snatched up a pair of wooly socks and shoved her feet into them, only just managing to maintain her balance. Then she lunged back towards the bed, shoving her pile of black garments and her bag deep beneath the mattress, before—

Dear God, not only was she half dressed in his clothes—she was lying in his bed, her slender fingers clutching the edge of the coverlet with whitened knuckles.

He stood, awestruck, the situation so preposterous that he couldn't marshal words. What on earth did one say in these circumstances? This was beyond anything Emily Post ever conceived.

Thudding knocks came from below, and she flinched, her eyes flicking to his. Deep brown eyes, terrified, pleading, and only half-hopeful. That hint of despair, the surety that he wouldn't help her…

He turned away, clomping down the narrow stairs for the second time that night, crossing through the kitchen to open the back door…

"Anthony Strallan?" a police sergeant consulted his notepad.

"Yes?"

"Excuse me sir, we are sorry to disturb you but we are in the process of an investigation. We're searching for a female, dressed in full black, armed with at least one pistol. An eyewitness said he saw her disappear into one of these houses. I'm afraid we'll have to search the premises."

"Oh, er, yes, of course," Anthony mumbled, stepping aside to let four officers file into his modest kitchen as his heart bashed against his ribcage.

The Sergeant addressed him again. "Would you show me upstairs?"

"Uh, yes," Anthony replied, still feeling slightly dazed.

He half expected to find an empty room. But there she was, stretched languidly on the bed, long bare legs crossed at the ankles, reading his National Geographic History magazine with seeming calm.

She looked up when he entered, her face breaking into a tender smile. "What is it darling?" she cooed, affecting alarm when she spied the sergeant. "What are the police doing here? Are we in danger?"

The officer was eyeing her critically.

"Would you mind introducing me to your friend?"

"Oh, of course," Anthony's gaze met hers again, and he could see the panic behind her nonchalant façade. Suddenly the haze lifted, his pulse drumming out perfect clarity. And without thought or hesitation he opened his mouth and he lied.

"This is my fiancée." He stated, calmly.

The officer's slitted eyes narrowed impossibly further. His gaze traveled from one to the other, clearly considering whether a young vibrant woman would really be involved with a tired old shoe like him.

His hard eyes returned to Anthony's face. "And her name is?"

A fleeting panic raced through Anthony's mind, but he forced himself to remain calm and casual.

"Diana. Armstrong." He let his lips spread into a proud half-smile, gazing over at her fondly. "Soon to be Mrs. Diana Strallan."

She smiled back with playful affection. "Oh love, you know I plan to hyphenate. So it'll be Diana Armstrong-Strallan."

He tutted affectionately and went to sit on the bed, taking her outstretched hand. Her fingers were slender but not dainty, soft but not delicate, and he was reminded how deftly they handled a gun. But as he curled them in his own, pressing their palms together, a swift jolt of euphoria hit him square in the chest, and his heart skipped a beat. It suddenly seemed unreasonably intimate, her fingertips grazing the back of his hand, her knuckles bending to his own… He couldn't help wondering what it would feel like to fold her in his arms as easily as into his palm. As soon as the thought appeared, a small, persistent craving whispered at the back of his mind. He realized that the sensation he was feeling was trust…he was sharing a tiny moment of trust with her, and a part of him—the part that was becoming louder and more insistent by the moment—wanted more of that trust. Much more. He didn't know anything about her, but in this sudden moment of connection, he wanted to know her. In every sense of the word.

He raised his eyes from their joined hands to her face, lit with such radiant adoration that his heart stuttered once more, temporarily forgetting that this was all an act, that he'd only laid eyes on this truly astounding woman not a half hour ago…

"Hmmm. And she has been here with you all evening?"

Anthony nodded. "We had a quiet dinner and—"

Edith spoke then, releasing his hold and letting her fingers dance along his nape in a subtly erotic gesture. "Then we came to bed…"she finished.

Anthony felt the caress in delightful currents of heat which went skittering through him, stoking and stirring his desire for her. Certainly he was not immune to the more sensual messages her touch implied, the swift charge of "beautiful woman; attracted to you; act now!" But more than that, with each passing moment the whispers of wanting became more of a shout. This intimacy was so tempting…he longed for it to become more than just fabrication.

He forcibly reminded himself it was just that, a fabrication, that he did not know a thing about this woman, that what he was feeling was all part of the illusion.

The sergeant's sharp gaze traveled over her bare legs, and the underwear peeking out from beneath the hem of his t-shirt. Once again the officer seemed to be considering the veracity of her claim that she might be sexually attracted to a man so many years her senior. As if to counter his unspoken doubts, she scooted closer and nestled her head into the crook of Anthony's neck. He forced his gasp into a slow inhale, which filled his nostrils with the clean brisk scent of lavender raised on the heat of her skin, which suited her far better than any soft floral perfume. She was not voluptuous, her curves were more elongated and subtle, but beneath the cotton of his t-shirt he could feel their warmth against his chest, the dip of her waist, the round of her thigh, the swell of her bosom… It was perfectly instinctive to curl his arm around her waist, to pull her to him and snuggle his chin over her soft hair…

"Did y—" the policeman began. But he was cut short by a voice from below.

"Sergeant, we are clear down here. One of the bins is knocked over. The suspect may have climbed onto the roof."

The sergeant gave a grunt, taking a step towards the head of the stairs. He turned back over his shoulder, once again fixing Edith with an appraising glare.

"It appears we may have disturbed your evening unnecessarily," he muttered, and then he turned and disappeared down the stairs.

Neither of them moved, or even breathed until they heard four pairs of boots thump across the threshold and the door bang shut.

Then, the woman let out a long, slow, tremulous exhale. She leaned out his embrace, and his body whined at the loss of her. Her hand disappeared from his neck, and her fists tugged at the hem of the too-short tee, trying to elongate it through sheer will.

"Thank you," she said, in a flat tone.

"Uh, you're welcome," he said lamely.

An awkward silence stretched between them.

"I can hardly believe you covered for me," she said, her voice still carefully controlled.

He huffed a small laugh. "I can hardly believe it myself. I don't know what came over me."

"Well, I'm truly grateful. Really."

She fell silent again. Several moments passed and then A small smile cracked through her stolid demeanor.

"Diana?" she queried.

He smiled back. "Seemed appropriate. Goddess of the hunt."

The mirth shrank from her face, and her eyes lowered. Silence again.

When she spoke again, her voice was thick. "My name is Edith," she offered.

He nodded. "And you already know my name," he wanted to make her smile again, anything to banish that stiff, hollow look from her face. "Not only that, but my shirt size and what kind of socks I like to wear."

The smile peeped out again, this time sheepish. "I'm sorry. I don't usually do things like that. I promise. It was very good of you…"

"Don't worry yourself, it's no trouble. Though as you've found what I'm sure is my only pair of socks without a hole in them, I'm afraid I'll have to insist on them back," he joked.

A true, appreciative grin flashed out this time, and he felt the triumph bloom in his chest.

She looked up at him then, her eyes searching his face for several long moments.

"I wouldn't have shot you," she murmured at last. "Even if you hadn't helped me. I'm not—"

"I know," he said quietly. And improbably, he meant it. He hadn't been sure what she was going to say, but somehow, he understood. He knew that he was in no danger with her.

She nodded. Her stiff expression shifted slightly. Her face still hid much, but her features had grown softer, contemplative. Her gaze traveled over him again, appraising, and perhaps…admiring?

"I don't know why you decided to cover for me tonight." She repeated, her voice low and thick with something that might have been anguish; or fear, or gratitude? She swallowed. "The—"

A car ignition chugged to life in the street below. Her eyes widened, and she edged towards the window to peek through the blinds, keeping her silhouette cloaked by the curtains on one side. Anthony watched her, noting her agility and stealth, reminding himself that this warrior-spy was the same woman who had seemed so tender and trusting mere minutes ago. Headlights flared and disappeared. When she turned back to face him, the tension and gravity had returned to her expression.

"Lord knows what you must think of me," she began. "I've broken into your house, threatened you with a gun, stolen your clothes, even affected your reputation—you could be married or engaged or—"

"I'm not married," he assured her. Though why he'd felt the need to volunteer that information…

"Well, anyway. I know I've taken a lot…and I shouldn't ask for…" she looked away, her eyes tracing the crossed lines of his plaid bedspread. "The police will probably comb this area for a few hours. That sergeant—I'll bet anything that he's watching the house right now…"

Anthony watched her face, which had drained of color over the course of that last sentence.

She was afraid.

"You want to stay." Anthony concluded for her. "Overnight."

"I know it's a lot to ask-completely mad I know," her words tumbled out. "I'll sleep on the floor even, just…"

"You don't have to sleep on the floor," he said, a smile in his voice. "As long as you promise not to shoot me in my sleep."

She raised her eyes to his then. "The truth is, you have no way of knowing if I will or won't. There's no reason you should trust me."

She was right. He knew absolutely nothing about her. And if the police were looking for her that was probably a good sign she shouldn't be trusted. But it appeared that any sense he had was useless right now, vanquished by a simple hand clasp.

He shrugged. "If you were going to shoot me, surely you'd have done so already. And as you say, there's a police patrol just down the block."

"That gun only has rubber bullets," she confessed, suddenly, and her eyes willed him to understand. He gave the slightest of nods.

"Anyway, I won't shoot you," her gaze deepened as the moments stretched, "Anthony."

He gave a small smile.

"You shouldn't make a promise like that before you discover whether or not I snore. Now, do you like your pillow fluffy or hard?"

Her smile was grateful, if a little tremulous. "You're a good man, Anthony Strallan. I'm lucky it was your house I decided to try."

XXX

Anthony awoke, staring into darkness as he registered a sensation of movement. The mattress trembled beneath him, and labored breaths puffed from across the bed. Another moment and his groggy brain realized that the shaking was coming from her, the mysterious house-breaker he was letting share his bed. One more blink and he understood—she was crying. Weeping so hard that the whole bed shuddered.

"Edith?" he breathed, using her name for the first time.

"Edith," he repeated again when there was no response. Suddenly he understood the antiquated tradition of sticking to last names until one was more intimately acquainted. It felt odd to be trying to comfort someone personally when all he knew was the name, not the person at all. He reached out a hand, hoping he was placing it on her shoulder and not somewhere inappropriate. "Edith," he tried again for lack of anything better to say, "Can I, ah…?"

But he wasn't sure what he could do. She was a stranger, and he couldn't begin to fathom what it was that had her so upset. So he merely compressed his fingers gently over her shoulder blade, and listened to her weeping. He felt the anguish invade his own chest, her piteous sobs finding that tiny thread of longing and tugging at it. No, he thought. No. She shouldn't be so unhappy. It was simply wrong.

"Oh my dear," he exclaimed. "Would you…care for a shoulder to cry on?"

She shifted, and before he knew it she was buried in his broad chest, trembling and whimpering with utter wretchedness. He slowly and carefully closed his arms around her thin frame, rubbing soothing circles into her back.

At some point, she stopped crying.

At some point, he fell asleep.

In the morning she was gone.

XXX