London, England
Winter, 1915
"Happy Christmas, Emma."
Walsh stands against the bright light of the pub as it streams out from behind the small glass window on the door. Most of his face lies in shadow except for where the light from a nearby street lamp hits it, accentuating the hollows of his cheeks, the sharpness of his cheekbones. Caught off guard by his presence, by the almost smug smile that curls his lips as he watches her collect herself, Emma's voice is a mumble as she summons a response.
"And you, Lieutenant."
A rush of warmth blows over them as the front door to the pub opens and closes, a flash of music and conversation slipping through. Her eyes follow the light even as she takes a deep breath, pulling herself away from her still tumbling thoughts to bring herself back, tearing her eyes away to look at Walsh once more.
"What brings you here tonight?"
She repeats herself from earlier, her voice stronger now as she watches him. His own eyes falling quickly to the door of the bar and back again.
"Well, I saw you with Captain Jones," he says, his lips curling into distaste as he speaks his name, "and you looked-"
A pause as he tries to find the word.
"-distressed. I had to come to your rescue now didn't I?"
The smile returns, his teeth glinting in the glow of the street lamp, his face in shadow against the light of the pub behind him.
"I don't need-"
"It's surprising they let men like that into the navy, let alone allow them to walk the streets. I mean, he all but murdered that poor woman. Leave alone the adultery. Such a sad-"
He must see the surprise on Emma's face, the curl of his smile growing wider still as he takes a step closer.
"Surely he's told you Emma. You seem to be on such good terms."
Emma bristles at his words, her momentary surprise abandoned in favour of anger. But again, he doesn't let her speak, taking another step closer as he continues, his smile dropping even as his voice drips of insincerity.
"The Admiral's wife and the art tutor? Surely you must have heard the whispers? It was quite the scandal."
And suddenly Emma feels as though she has been shaken awake, torn away from a dream. The light from the pub looking dimmer now, Walsh's face coming into clearer focus, memories coming back to her in a rush.
Of course, she'd heard.
It had been such a scandal that even her mother, who tends to distance herself from gossip, had commented upon the affair. The Admiral's wife cheating on her husband with her painting tutor, him only finding out about the affair on her deathbed when she had died in her illicit lover's arms.
She remembers her father's voice asking if it had been anyone they knew.
"Not well. I've only ever heard of the Admiral through mutual friends but it's a terrible thing isn't it? To lose your wife like that, and just after finding out that she'd been unfaithful."
She remembers one of the girls who volunteered at her mother's orphanage whispering about how the tutor-
"Something, something Jones. I forget his name but, he's gone and joined the navy can you believe? Good way to run away from it all I suppose."
It had died down eventually, forgotten in favour of the next scandal. But Emma still remembers her distaste at all the talk that had gone on around her about the tragedy of this family. She tries to tie together the image of the man in the stories with the man who had just taken her in his arms and led her around the dance floor, who had told her so many truths and never a lie, who had made her laugh, made her hope on dark nights and darker mornings.
They do not fit, incongruous with one another and she-
"Emma? Are you alright?"
Walsh is still looking at her, his smile creeping back onto his face again, victory in his eyes as he realises that he's got her.
"I don't put much stock in gossip, Lieutenant."
A deep breath as she looks behind her, glancing down the road before continuing.
"I will take your leave now. It's quite late and I have to get home."
"Of course."
She is glad he does not push further but his smile does not fade even as she wishes him goodnight and walks away, her mind churning anew.
She feels like she is floating on the way to the station, her mind running over and over again through the words that Walsh had said, through the stories she had heard about Captain Jones, through the man she knew him to be.
Or the man she thought she knew him to be.
The wind is colder, the stars somehow dimmer now. They seem swallowed by the fog that lies over the city and she turns her eyes away from the sky to look straight ahead instead, pulling her coat tighter around herself.
In the midst of all the thoughts that run rampant in her mind, one is louder than the rest. A piercing scream of a thought that only gets louder as she walks.
She had let Henry speak to him. Henry, who she has always protected from anything and everything that could touch him, that could hurt him. Henry, who is her entire world and more. Henry, who had asked this morning if Captain Jones was doing well before going to school.
(Before going to school and actually staying there for once.)
She had let him get too close.
She knows that all of the gossip is certainly not true and she knows that there is probably more to the story, perhaps even in a way that it may vindicate him.
She knows that her judgement of this man cannot be this wrong.
She knows.
But, he is to go to war, perhaps never to return.
And she cannot take the chance that she might be wrong about him.
The winds floats through her hair, biting at her ears, her cheeks as she ducks into the warmth of the train station, doing what she has always been good at.
Walking away.
"Emma?"
Branches shake softly in the breeze, unaffected by the biting chill that has taken over their home. A thin layer of snow coats everything, making wet crunches under her feet as she follows her father into his garden. Her hands are tucked into her coat sleeves, searching for warmth despite the thick gloves she wears, despite the hat pulled low over her head.
It was a rare day that she didn't have to go to the hospital and her father had insisted that she spend some time with him. She was happy to agree, smiling now as he bends to inspect a lone blooming rose in the quiet, barren bushes that line the edge of the garden. He settles onto his knees, his hands pale as they cradle the petals, brushing snow off them.
Her father has always been someone who nurtures, grows, builds. He'd told her one evening as they'd sat by the fire, trying to learn each other's' stories from before they'd found one another, that he used to be a builder before he'd stumbled upon his accidental fortune.
Building houses for a living had been his trade and when he found that he could not do that anymore with the estate to run, he had instead turned to the garden. Growing and building there instead.
The war had no place for a man with a soul like his, when all it wanted to do was destroy.
Though the cold is a harsh reminder of the real world, nipping at her skin, she soon finds herself lost somewhere in the deep red of the flower as her father works. Her eyes are unfocused as her mind yet wanders, going back again to Christmas eve and the last time she'd seen Captain Jones.
It's been three days since that night when she had stubbornly pushed all thoughts of sparkling blue eyes and warm smiles to the furthest corners of mind, locking them away for Henry's sake.
(Perhaps for her own heart's sake as well. Her heart that had begun to soften for him.)
But despite her best efforts, he comes back to her in the oddest of moments, lurking in the back of her mind, waiting to make himself known.
And suddenly, she finds herself entertaining the thought of how he would love this scene. If he'd want to sketch the curves of the flower's petals, colour in the rich red sprinkled with white. If he'd look at her and-
"Emma, are you alright?"
"I- I'm alright. Sorry, dad."
He tilts his head to the side, searching her eyes for the truth but she smiles at him. Almost completely genuine. Her heart warming at how his fingers brush softly against the petals of the rose, his hand no doubt freezing but unwilling to touch the bloom with anything but the softest of hands.
He seems to be satisfied by her non-answer, ready to leave it alone for now as his own smile returns, his eyes going back to the flower.
"It's surprising, the things that grow in the winter. The hardiest plants are often the most beautiful don't you think?"
He looks back at Emma as he finishes speaking, eyes pointed as his eyebrows rise.
And she can't help but chuckle, rolling her eyes as she meets his sparkling ones.
"Yes, dad."
He lets go of the flower and stands.
"Are you sure you're ok?"
"I'm fine, mom."
The words leave her lips without thinking, an instinct at this point. Six days now since she had seen Captain Jones. Six days since he had told her that he was to leave inside of a week. Six days since her mind had only grown more and more preoccupied as she got closer to the day that he would be gone.
"Just wondering is all."
Her mother walks up behind her, nursing a glass of wine as she looks upon the rest of the party from beside Emma. People mill around in beautiful clothes, drinking, eating, hoping that this will be their last Christmas spent away from their sons, their daughters, their husbands and wives. The last Christmas spent under the dark cloud of war.
She looks back at her mother with a small smile, taking a small sip of her own wine before saying again.
"I'm alright, I promise. Just a little out of sorts. We had a convoy come in yesterday."
Her eyes squeeze shut as she remembers. Though she was no longer a stranger to the screams and the blood, last night had been different. So close to Christmas and thoughts of him following her to her work, her hands had paused, bandage in hand, frozen when she had heard one of the doctors shouting behind her-
"Jones, stay with me! Come on!"
Her blood had run cold, a shout of her name by her ear pulling her out of her daze, making her hands move once more as she had continued wrapping up the leg of the boy who lay in front of her.
"Oh, Emma-"
Her mother's voice is soft, her fingers wrapping in a caress around her wrist as she squeezes it before coming to stand in front of her.
"Here's hoping the new year brings an end to all this."
"I'll drink to that."
Their glasses clink and Emma lets out a small wish into the universe, allowing herself to think of him, hoping that he will come back home safe.
"Happy New Year, Emma."
"And you, Elsa."
Emma stands by the reception at the hospital, picking up her duty list for the day, her head bowed over the clipboard as Elsa enters, pulling off her gloves and hat and walking closer. It is the first time that she is seeing her good friend in the new year and yet the smile on her face is more forced than anything. A flash of teeth and barely softened eyes before she turns back to the list in her hands, detailing the rooms and patients she would have to look over during her shift today.
"Emma, are you alright?"
She jerks up, furrowing her brow even as a rush of irritation surges through her.
"Why does everyone keep asking me that? I'm fine!"
"Alright, alright."
Elsa's hands go up in a placating gesture before she drops her shoulders in defeat.
"I just- your mother was worried. She said that you get lost a lot these days."
"I'm fine."
Her voice is sharp, her tone curt, signalling the end of the conversation and though she knows she is being unfair to Elsa-most of her anger truly directed at herself- she does not think she has the energy or the courage to explain why she finds herself lost in thought so often these days.
"I'm sure you are. Just a little pricklier than usual, I suppose."
Elsa grins, her hand brushing across Emma's shoulders as she walks away, the warmth of the gesture softening the pointedness of her words and though she has said them a thousand times before-always in jest or to tease her- today they sting.
It has been a little over a week now since she had left him at the pub without a word. She wonders now what he'd thought of her. Dancing with him, smiling with him, allowing him to make her laugh, allowing him to hold her and then walking away without so much as a Merry Christmas.
She shrugs it off, her shoulders shaking as she turns, physically trying to walk away from her thoughts but they are persistent bastards, following her about her day as she makes her rounds about the wards.
The soldiers are quieter than usual, the celebrations of Christmas and the New Year giving way to more of the same. Though the year had changed, the war had not. Skirmishes continued along the various fronts and the men were expected to defend them. No matter that most of them were too tired to do anything but sleep, no matter that though their bodies had healed, their minds and hearts were yet broken.
No matter that they were hurting inside.
As long as they could hold a gun and shoot it, back they went.
"I swear, Miss Swan. I'm not healed yet, the arm still hurts like a-"
"I'm sorry, Tom. I have to. I hope you understand."
A young thing of 18, Tom had been treated for a bullet to his arm and though they'd first thought that he might lose it, the doctors had managed to save it. Now mostly whole and ready once more to fight, he hangs his head as she stands. She makes a mark on her clipboard to have the doctor clear Tom for discharge even as her heart aches to do it.
"Thank you though, Miss Swan. For taking care of me."
His voice is a quiet thing, a mumble as he looks back up at her again.
"I hope you know, I'm not a coward or anything. I just-miss home and-my mam and-"
His voice cracks as he speaks and she has to swallow the lump in her throat, blink away the shine in her eyes as she goes back to him, taking his hand in hers.
"Good luck and stay safe out there, okay?"
He only nods in response.
Her heart rests heavy in her chest as she continues her rounds. Watching man after man after man, lying in rows upon the beds that line the hospital walls, their stories paused or stopped completely as they give their lives to this battle.
She is walking slowly past the exam room when her thoughts drift again, drift inevitably to the man with the paint stained fingers.
Though she knows that he has been in the war before and survived, all she can think of are those fingers forever stained in colour, that smile that revealed his dimples every time he saw her, those eyes that looked far too young when he did.
And again, as she has been doing far too often lately, she sends a little wish out into the world, hoping that he is alright.
"Hey, Emma?"
"Yes?"
She sits at the dining table, tea cup in hand as she watches Henry get ready for school. His back is turned as he packs, trying to stuff a notebook that is definitely one notebook too many for the small bag, pushing down on it as he speaks to her.
"Has Captain Jones gone back to fight?"
His name takes her by surprise, her tea sloshing in her cup as she lowers it mid sip.
"What?"
"Captain Jones. You said before that he was going to go back to fight, or to the front or something. Is he gone already?"
She puts her tea cup on the table and begins to stand, the chair making a scratchy sound against the wood of the floor as she pushes it back. Sunlight streams in through the open window in their dining room, reflecting a ring of light off of Henry's bent head and her voice teeters dangerously on the edge of calm as she responds.
"Why do you ask?"
Henry turns around then, rolling his eyes at her in a way that is so very familiar, her heart clenching even as a smile blossoms on her face. He bends again to tie the laces on his shoes, his hair flopping onto his forehead as he does.
(Her son he was, hers.)
"Just wondering if he was alright."
"I'm sure he is."
Henry frowns at her tone, his eyes glancing at her for a moment before looking back down to his shoes.
"You haven't spoken to him? I thought you were friends?"
He was definitely her son, catching her in a lie she hadn't even fully articulated for herself. Her smile fades a little but doesn't disappear even as she finds herself deflecting, her heart yelling at her in triumph.
This is why we don't let people get close. This is why. They leave and then Henry asks if they're alright.
"We are, I just- haven't had the time."
It is not the best of lies but he is quickly running late for school and perhaps it will do.
"Ok, but he's leaving isn't he? So shouldn't we-"
She stops him in the middle of his sentence, her hands clapping together to punctuate her sentence as she picks up his bag and begins to shuffle him out the door.
"Alright, you're getting late. Off to school with you!"
He drags his feet, his hand reaching back for his bag as he turns around to look at her.
"Okay, okay, I'm going!"
A pause as his hand reaches to take his bag from her, his eyes meeting hers almost directly. God, but he's gotten so tall.
"Mom, are you sure you're alright?"
And so grown up. Her hand finds his cheek, her fingers lightly brushing against the bare beginnings of scruff on his face.
"I'm alright. Promise."
Her voice is steady, her smile real and in that moment she believes it.
"Okay, I'll see you later. Love you!"
He presses a soft kiss to her cheek and just like that, he's gone.
"Love you too."
It is easier to staunch the memory of him as time goes on. The disquiet that lives in her heart dims as a week passes, then two, then three. The world goes on and so does she.
But, the war goes on too.
The relative lull of the past few months- where all they had seen were skirmishes and minor pushes on the front- builds back into the full frenzy of the war. The hospital is inundated with casualties, convoys coming in each day with a fresh group of men, their injuries getting progressively worse. The battered bodies give them a picture of the war as clear as any in the papers, events of the front evident in the way the men were hurt.
"Shellfire last week," says the leg of a man that has been blown away. "Sniper fire this time," say the bullets trapped in the shoulder of another.
Each time that the hospital receives another casualty convoy, Emma finds herself increasingly afraid that he might be in one of them. Her heart on edge as she waits and waits, not knowing why she cares for him so, not knowing why it hurts when she considers the possibility that he might not return.
She stands outside the door to the Warren House today, her hand reaching for the knob but not touching it yet as she contemplates going inside. It had been a long day, a steady stream of injured soldiers had come through their doors starting midnight last night, her shift going well over 20 hours with a few hours of fitful sleep stolen away in the break room.
All she wants is a moment to breathe, to be alone in a crowd, to be somewhere she isn't expected to be anyone, to save anyone.
Somewhere she can hide.
She reaches just a little further, glad that the street behind her is empty and nobody is here to watch her indecision.
It has been a month or more since she has come to this door. Choosing instead to take a different way to the station on her way home, not coming in to have a chat with Leroy, declining Anna and Elsa's invitations to get a drink after work. She'd like to believe that all her excuses of how tired she was were true, that all it was was coincidence but her heart is no fool and knows otherwise.
She tries to convince herself that the memories of that night and how she'd left him would not come back to her, that it had been long enough to blur them in her mind. But already her belly churns and she's just about to give up and walk away when the bell tinkles, the door beginning to push outwards as someone leaves. She takes a hasty step back, her hand dropping quickly to her side as she steps out of the way of the man leaving.
A rush of familiar warmth and light streams out of the pub and instantly, her heart is calmer, her breath softer.
He is probably long gone, stationed somewhere in good old France, she thinks.
And she could really use a drink.
The sound of the little bell as she walks inside feels like a balm to her battered soul.
She steps in, hoping that she can convince Leroy to let her stay a little late tonight, hide in her usual spot until she has put herself back together enough to go home again. But before she can get to the bar, her hat in her hand, her other one trying to pull off her gloves, she hears it.
"Come on mate, don't leave a man hanging! I'm going off to fight for King and bloody country tomorrow!"
His voice is audible over the hum of conversation in the pub, over the shouted cheers and clinking glasses, over the soft beginnings of a new song on the piano. A thump as he slams his glass against the countertop. Leroy's voice is stern as he responds, his words too low for her to make out from her spot by the door where she yet stands, frozen in place.
But despite the noise, she can make out one word.
Killian.
She swears that her heart stops beating for a moment, her eyes searching for his form along the bar, looking for the flop of black hair bent over a glass. But the pub is crowded tonight and the bar is hidden from her by a steady stream of people moving about the room, the blues and blacks and greys of their coats making it difficult for her to find him.
He's still here.
Her mind is slowly catching up to what she's seeing. He's still here. He's not gone to the front yet even as she's been hoping each day that he'd be alright. And though she knows that it was probably just another delay, somehow it feels personal.
She begins to make her way to the bar, pushing through the crowd, her hat crushed in one hand and only one glove off. She finds him as soon as the bar comes into view, his hair trimmed short and his face clean shaven. He looks younger but somehow much older all at once. His eyes are glazed over, his hand yet raised towards Leroy as though hoping that the man would pour him another, his lips curved into a smirk.
The bags under his eyes are dark, his fist clenching as he drops his hand, coming down on the table once more, his cocky smile dropping into a frown as soon as Leroy is out of sight, his eyes fixed on his empty glass instead. He picks it up and tilts his head back, trying perhaps to catch the last few drops of drink left.
A heaviness settles in her chest as she gets closer, her eyes caught on his fingers. Clutched around the empty glass still, she notices that he isn't wearing his rings anymore. The little circles of silver that she'd seen, that she'd felt against her skin are gone. More signs of him lost to the uniform he would put on tomorrow. But more than that, what hits her hardest, what makes her want to reach out and grab those fingers and ask him to stay-
There is no paint on them. No green on his wrist, no yellow on the pad of his thumb. No trace left of the smiling man who painted her a starling to give her hope, no trace of the man who had held her hand and laughed as they'd danced in this very room.
It isn't until she is standing right next to him that her heart pulls back. Her shock had turned into concern too soon, her fingers itching to hold his once more, her heart drawn to his somehow. Her concern falls quickly into anger, her cheeks burning red as though someone had caught her out, seen her thoughts written on her face.
"Leroy, mate, help a man out!"
His voice is lower now, defeat colouring his words as though he was just going through the motions.
(And despite all her attempts to the contrary, her heart twinges once more.)
Leroy does not return and she is close enough to smell the rum that wafts off him, as though he'd fallen into a vat of it. But now that she is here, she doesn't know what to say. Her mouth opens and closes as she wavers between listening to the walls that rattle around her heart, that scream for her to turn around and walk away or taking him by the hand and asking him if he was alright.
The universe makes the decision for her.
He sighs deeply as Leroy continues ignoring him, his head lowered. But when he rises again, he must spot her for he turns and meets her eyes. His own get comically wide for a moment, a smile beginning to blossom on his face before falling away, replaces quickly by a scowl.
"Miss Swan. Would you like me to go away as well?"
He punctuates her name with pauses, his lips no longer curving around the words with the softness she is used to but gritted out from between his teeth, as though he had bitten into something bitter.
He doesn't wait for her answer, turning away immediately and continuing to speak, hand upon his glass once more.
"You know what? Perhaps it should be you who should leave. It is you who does not desire my presence and I'll be gone tomorrow anyway. Out of everyone's hair. Good riddance to me."
She almost takes a step back, the force, the bitter sadness that laces his words all but hitting her physically. His emotions somehow clouding her own tumult of feelings even more.
"Captain Jones, I-"
But where she seems to have lost all her words, he cannot help but speak.
"I assume that someone's told you about Milah. Is that it? Because I've been thinking-"
The name is strange to her ears but his voice softens when he speaks it, curling carefully around the word and she instantly knows who he speaks of. He pauses a moment, turning to look at her, his eyes searching hers, his gaze softening the longer he looks, his voice lowering as he continues.
"-turning it over in my mind again and again, wondering why you'd leave that night. I thought to look for you, went back to our park but you weren't there."
Her heart twinges when he says our- in fear or in affection, she does not know. His voice is but a mumble by the time he finishes, his lips curving downwards as he watches her, as though hoping the answer to his question lies in her eyes. She feels her cheeks warm once more, remembering all the times she had turned away from the park, taken the long way to work instead, irritated that he had caught her out so easily.
He smiles then, a hollow thing that reminds her again of his bare fingers.
"I'm quite perceptive you see, so I knew you were avoiding me. And I know that we are but acquaintances at best or perhaps even less-"
He's begun to ramble, his sentences running on even as they get more disjointed as he continues. His eyes fall away from hers, looking at the ground instead.
"-and that I have no right to expect anything of you, especially given that you are now aware of my history and-"
"Captain, listen I-"
Her whisper seems to snap him out of it, his eyes focussing on hers once more. He shakes his head before he straightens in his seat. The first few bars of a new song at the piano filling the silence between them.
"I shouldn't have said all that. I apologise, but please if you or I-"
He gestures at the door, his hand falling back almost immediately to his side and god help her, she just wants to take it.
The music picks up behind them, the song moving into the chorus as the men start to sing louder.
Oh, we don't want to lose you but we think you ought to go.
For your King and your country both need you so.
More and more join in as they continue, the song filling the corners of the pub. She is distracted for a moment as she turns to look at the men by the piano. Young things, as they usually are, singing about the lovely war. She doesn't know if they are truly excited or perhaps merely comforting themselves with the words they sing.
We shall want you and miss you but with all our might and main
We shall cheer you, thank you, kiss you, when you come back again.
She doesn't see it happen but suddenly his voice is at her ear, loud and steady as it rings above the singing.
"Half of you lot won't even make it back, lads. No one to thank you or kiss you when your leg's been blown off, eh?"
It takes a moment but the singing begins to dim, starting from where they stand and slowly filtering outwards as people begin to realise what has just been said. A few muttered curses filter through to her ears, the men at the piano looking up, their eyes scanning for the voice, their glasses placed on the table closest to them.
She can see the crowd begin to speak in low tones, moving away from the bar, from Captain Jones who is now all but grinning in the direction of the piano.
It is when one of the singers starts stalking towards them, a scowl twisting his lips that she moves. Her body acting without thinking as she grabs his hand, her other going for his coat as she pulls them towards the exit, mumbling apologies and excuses to anyone she crosses on their way out.
"Emma, wait!"
She turns around just as the little bell rings, the door half open.
"Here, it's freezing out there."
Leroy's hands come up to place her hat on her head, a little crookedly as he tries to manouver it in place. She smiles at the frown on his face before turning back to the man whose hand she holds, his eyes a little wide as he loosely grips her hand back.
"Thank you, Leroy."
"Of course. Now go. I'll not have a fight in here."
His voice drops as he continues, "Try and take care of him if you can."
She can only nod in response.
The door closes behind them and the cold rushes at him with all the force of a hammer to the face. Wind suddenly bites at his cheeks, his ears, blowing clean through his clothes as he realises that his coat is still in her hands.
That his hand is still in hers.
It is as though her fingers closed around his are his only source of warmth, her body beside his calling for him to lean closer, to fall into the light of her. They start walking along the street that leads them out of the tiny one where the Warren House is, him following her lead, stumbling once or twice as they go.
Another gust of wind flies through his hair, ruffling it and stealing his breath for a moment. She must notice the shiver in his shoulders, the way his hand squeezes hers for she drops his fingers as though burnt, her hand reaching up to fix her hat even as she hands him his coat with the other.
And he cannot help the small curve of his lips as he sees the flush in her cheeks when she does.
The rum burns through his veins yet, his movements stiff as he tries to control them, as he tries to walk in a straight line, as he tries to stay upright. But the cold is doing a fine job of clearing the haze in his head, his own cheeks flushing now as he realises the depth of what he'd done back in the pub.
"Captain Jones, where do you live?"
Her voice surprises him, his shoulders jumping as he turns to look at her.
"What?"
His voice is a croak, rough suddenly, his words stuck in his throat. She looks straight ahead as she walks, rubbing her hands together as he struggles into his coat trying to follow her.
"Where do you live? I will not have you be run over or passed out in a ditch somewhere."
"Miss Swan, I apologise for my behaviour but I assure you, it's not necessary-"
"Where do you live, Captain?"
"Not too far from here. But please, let me escort you home first-"
"I live three hours from here, Captain. I am worried you won't be able to handle it."
Her voice is curt, a glare directed in his direction as she blows on her hands before roughly sticking them in her pockets. His eyebrow rises as he smiles once more, a flash and it is gone as he watches her glance back at the Warren House and then stare sullenly at the ground.
So caught up is he in her that he all but trips on an uneven bit of pavement, her hands suddenly on his elbow keeping him from falling face first.
He chuckles then, the buzz of alcohol still muddling his thoughts, and he finds himself grateful that she has allowed him to be next to her. Even if she doesn't particularly want to talk to him right now.
He has the good form to look away as soon as she frowns at him, rubbing her hands together and blowing on them again.
"Your gloves-"
His smile falls away instantly, another rush of cold grounding him, bringing him back to the here and now.
"Yeah, I think I left them back at the pub."
She kicks a stone, her head still turned forward as she avoids looking at him and his heart aches in guilt, in shame. He shouldn't have-
"I do apologise Miss Swan, I did not mean to-"
"Yeah, I know. Let's just go."
He falls into silence, his brow furrowed into a frown as he finally gets his coat on, his hand sinking into deep pockets and finding the crushed bit of wool hidden in the depths of them. Still quiet, he offers them to her, his hand extended towards her until it is in her field of vision.
She stops walking a moment, surprised, but his heart skips when she allows herself a tiny curving up of her lips, her hand reaching out to take the gloves from him.
"Thank you."
"Of course, Miss Swan."
He smiles softly at her in return before turning away, his eyes on the road now too as he begins to turn them toward the river, his hand and wrist pushed into his pockets. He can hear the slight scratchy sound as she pulls on his gloves, loud despite the noise in the streets.
And he cannot help but look back at her, his heart drawn to her, helpless once more . He smiles softly when he sees her, her hands far to small for his gloves, lost in the fabric as she shakes her head and puts her hands back in her pockets, her eyes straight ahead again.
They walk in silence for some time, their breaths beginning to puff out in little clouds of steam as they do, the night rapidly approaching, the cold closing in.
But the longer he spends in the cold, the more his head clears and the easier it becomes for the world to come crashing down around him, as he realises all the things he had forgotten in his haze of rum and Emma Swan.
He is to go tomorrow.
Finally, it was happening.
He has been prepared to go for months now but each time that he steels himself, each time that he packs his bag, he gets a letter. Each one shorter and more vague than the last but each saying the same thing. That his deputation had been postponed to a future date, that he was to standby for further instructions.
He would then get a new date, only for it to get pushed forward once more.
But this time had been different. Three weeks ago, when he was to leave for the front, Robin had written to him, telling him about the problems the programme was facing getting started. That the government didn't deem it essential to send an artist to the front and so, were taking every opportunity to derail it.
But now, since Kennington's exhibition of his painting inspired by his turn in the war had gained so much attention, they had changed their tune. It was confirmed now, that he was to go.
This was it.
It would not change.
I wish you luck, my friend. Stay safe and may God be with you.
He is to go tomorrow.
But he decides that he will worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes. For now, Emma Swan walks by his side and he wonders what fortune has allowed this to happen for him. He clears his throat, pulling his coat even closer as a rush of wind blows past them.
"Miss Swan?"
"Hmm?"
"Are you certain you wouldn't like for me to escort you home?"
She stops walking, her hands still inside her pockets as she turns to look at him, her brow knit into a frown as she speaks.
"Captain Jones, I am quite capable of taking myself home. It is not quite that late yet."
"Of course. I am sure that you are Miss Swan. I meant no offense. Just trying to be a gentleman."
He smiles then, tilting his head to the side as he waits for her reaction. She tries and fails to stifle her own smile, her frown now softer even as she yet tries to appear stern.
"I am no lady, Captain."
She raises her eyebrow, her eyes still shuttered as they have been all night but just as she finishes speaking, he swears that he sees a little sparkle of mischief in them.
"Just who are you?"
His words are spoken on a sigh, his breath puffing out in front of him as he does. She only offers him a small smile and turns around and as it often happens when he is around her, he is taken by surprise by the urge he has to paint her.
"Wouldn't you like to know."
She has taken a dozen steps before he catches up to her and she never does hear his whispered answer.
"Perhaps I would."
Port of Boston, USA
Spring, 1903
She feels out of practice. Hands stuffed into her pockets, bouncing on her heels, her heart beats faster more in fear than in anticipation, more in apprehension than thrill. Her coat sweeps the ground as she ducks back into the shadows, trying to melt into the darkness as she watches for a target.
In the dark she could almost pass for a man, her frame hidden under baggy clothes. A large brown coat that sweeps the ground and a scarf tucked around her neck hide her curves from view, a cap with her hair pinned to the inside keeps her golden waves hidden. It is an appropriate disguise for a woman who made her living making wealthy pockets lighter.
But here, at the gate of the Lenox, amidst the beautiful people that move in and out- their clothes glittering, their smiles blinding, music and laughter and light filling streets for flashing moments whenever the doors opened- she stands out more than ever and she finds herself wondering how she had managed this before.
Did her palms not get sweaty? Did her heart not beat wildly? Did her belly not churn so?
Perhaps it did.
But perhaps before, she had found it exciting. Before she had opened her heart and allowed it to be shattered, before she had said goodbye to the baby who could have been hers.
Before.
He'd met her on the streets, the boy who had promised her forever. Clothes as tattered as hers, heart as lost, he'd caught her in the middle of a lift, distracting the woman whose purse she'd been trying to steal just as she was about to be caught. She'd thanked him then but he'd only asked for one thing in return, that she work with him.
And somehow over just a month, he had opened every door in her lonely heart, leaving a mark on every wall and corner. He'd whispered promises of home, safety, family between kisses stolen in dirty alleyways under starry skies dimmed by smoke. He'd gotten her to try riskier heists, gotten her blood to sing as they ran away from the gates of a glitzy hotel, their pockets thick with cash, her hands jingling with stolen jewellery. He'd loved her and gotten her to love him in return.
She'd felt safe for the first time in as long as she could remember but it had all come crashing down.
On a moonless night in the spring, they had been walking along an empty road by the docks, stopping to press heated kisses against the lamp posts that lined the streets when suddenly there he was. Silver in his hair and a frown upon his brow, his lips curled into a scowl as he called for him.
Neal! What are you doing? Where have you been?
She'd stopped, her heart racing as the man had gotten closer, his outline getting clearer on the foggy night as he passed under the street lights. And as he came to a stop beside them, pulling Neal's arm away from hers, she had finally seen it.
They had the same eyes.
He'd gone that night. Walked away with his father, spilling apologies on the ground as he went, telling her he had just wanted to be away from his family, that his father hated him, that all he'd wanted was to be with her.
The grey stones on the street had grown blurry as her tears had fallen, her eyes never meeting his as he finally disappeared. Leaving her with a broken heart that she knew not how to bandage and when she found out a month later, a child she knew not how to raise.
"Come on my good man, you can take me can't you? It's not that late after all-"
"Sir, the horses are tired, I cannot-"
The voices pull her out of her thoughts, getting louder as they speak. She turns and sees a man in a grey suit, a thick black coat thrown over his shoulders standing by a hansom cab, his chin raised as he argues with the driver. The driver looks upon the man in exasperation, trying to calm his impatient horse, his hand pulling back on the reins softly as the horse scuffs its feet against the ground, neighing in displeasure.
"Don't you want to make some extra fare? I am willing to throw in a little extra something-"
The man leans in, his feet stumbling upon the cobblestones as he tries to remain steady, hand reaching up to the driver's shoulder. The driver takes a small step back even as the man gets closer, his mouth right by the driver's ear as he tries to whisper, failing miserably as Emma hears every word he says.
"I won big time tonight at the secret-," he stops to put a finger upon his lips, "Shhh, don't tell anyone. But I won big, big time at the card game tonight and I am happy to share my good fortune."
She'd found her mark. Hotels like the Lenox were always a ripe hunting ground; men walking home, smug, happy, and unsteady on their feet, their winnings tucked into pockets that bulged tellingly were easy targets for her charming smile and nimble fingers. Emma begins to creep closer, her steps light even as her heart pounds a breathless rhythm against her ribs.
"Sir, like I said, I cannot strain the horse anymore. I apologise but-"
The man interrupts the driver again but Emma no longer hears him, only watches the man's body as he leans back, his chin rising in anger, his hands rising as he gesticulates, her pounding heart drowning out all his words.
She used to be better at this. Probably her best right after she had realised that she was carrying Neal's child, anger and desperation fuelling her desire to make as much money as she could while she was able.
She had done it until she couldn't.
Her heart that had been beating steady with the fire of betrayal burning bright within her had finally gotten tired, the flame going out with a hiss one night as she had lain alone in a strange bed, a cracked window letting in a sharp, cold breeze, her hand on her belly as her baby kicked.
He had left her, but she wasn't alone.
And as the tears had finally fallen down her cheeks, she had vowed that she would do her best by this child she was to bring into the world.
In those early months, when her slowly swelling belly could be hidden behind baggy clothes and ill fitting coats, she had stolen enough to feed herself and find a discreet place to sleep for the night. Until the day she had lied her way into a hospital to give birth.
"I don't know why you lot still have horses! The new electric cabs in New York are simply splendid! They would take me-"
She tunes him out once more, her head lowered as she steps out of the shadows, trying to look for all the world like a preoccupied worker making his way home. Her hand clenches and unclenches at her side as she gets closer to the two men, her eyes following the man's hand patting at the obvious bulge in his coat pocket as he continues trying to convince the driver to take him where he wanted to go.
Their voices get louder as she steps closer still, one hand reaching up to pull her hat lower and the other hanging by her side.
"Sir, I just cannot-"
She is close enough now to see the driver clenching his jaw, his knuckles almost white as he grips the horse's reins.
"This is preposterous!"
Close enough now that she can smell the alcohol that floats about the man like a haze.
"I can't believe that you would refuse a customer!"
Close enough now that she can reach out to his coat and just-
"Hey! Watch where you're going!"
Her shoulder crashes into his, her hand reaching into his coat pocket even as he turns around to look at her, his voice slurred and angry at her ear.
But a mumbled apology and a quick tip of her hat have him pacified, his attention going once more to the cab driver. She stuffs her hand quickly back into her own pocket, her heart yet pounding fiercely as she walks away, her fingers wrapped tightly around the leather wallet. Her footsteps are deliberate and slow even as she waits, her body coiled tight and ready to run, waiting, waiting for the man to notice his missing money.
She turns into one alleyway, then two, then three before she finally starts to run.
She runs until she reaches the docks, falling against a wall before finally pulling out the wallet and counting her money and realising all at once, that it was just enough to bring her to England.
Just enough to bring her home.
London, England
Winter, 1916
The rest of the walk is quiet, the sun dimming more and more as they get closer to his home, the air getting chillier as they get closer to the river. The streets are less crowded than usual, she thinks, the sound of their shoes crunching on the sidewalk almost deafening in the silence.
Her eyes are trained straight ahead, occasionally slipping to the right to catch a glimpse of him. He is walking straighter now, the rum clearly wearing off, his eyes looking straight ahead too, his hand and his arm tucked into his pockets, his shoulders risen as though trying to protect his ears from the cold.
She turns away quickly, afraid to get caught and it hits her, the reality of what she had agreed to do, what she had insisted she would do. She is walking at night through lonely streets by the river with a man she barely knows, a man she had been avoiding for over a month, a man her heart was still unsure about.
And yet, she is not afraid with him.
Her heart beats steadily, her hands warm in his gloves, her steps matching up with his as he leads her to where he lives.
"Miss Swan?"
His voice comes out a little rough, his hands burrowing deeper into his pockets as he turns to look at her.
"I live just around the corner from here. I was just thinking that if you would want to leave or-"
He leaves his sentence hanging, his shoulders rising and falling as he looks back down the street from the way they had come. The station was not ten minutes from here and was this not what she had promised? To see him home safely?
She was just doing a man a good turn.
He turns back around to face her, his eyebrows raised in question as he shuffles from one foot to another, waiting for her to answer.
But before she can decide, before she can speak words she does not know, she is drowned out by a loud bell.
It rings in stops and starts, nothing musical about its clanging as it stutters along, getting louder and louder. Soon, it is joined by a deep voice, too far away to make out the words but close enough that she can detect the tinge of alarm in it as it shouts out of time with the bell. She looks towards the sound, frowning as she strains to make out the words that the man speaks but she is stopped halfway by a hand on her elbow.
"We need to get inside now. It's a raid."
His voice is quiet, his hand sliding away, his brow furrowed as he listens to what she now realises is the policeman with the bell who is cycling down their street. A cold chill goes through her as she starts to hear a low murmur of conversation, quick slams of doors closing, windows being pulled shut.
And then the lights begin to go out.
"Miss Swan, let's go. Now."
There is no trace of the rum left about him as they run, footsteps thumping down a dark street as they join the rest of the city in trying to hide.
He finally stops at a door. Green and small, they wait before it as he fumbles with his keys for a moment. Her heart pounds anew as she keeps looking up at the sky, expecting a zeppelin to show at any moment, for a long, dark shadow in the sky to drop fire and thunder upon the ground. Her hands are freezing, her thoughts running wild as she wonders where Henry is, cursing that she had not gone straight home, hoping and hoping and hoping that her family is okay, trying to tell herself that they were too far away to be affected by this.
Captain Jones mutters a curse beside her before finally, there is a click of a lock and he is ushering her inside. She takes one step in and stops, suddenly blinded, darkness consuming her vision. He has the curtains drawn, the inside of the house somehow darker than the night outside and she takes a moment to adjust until eventually soft silhouettes of his furniture become visible in the light that sneaks in through the cracks in the curtains.
"Apologies, Miss Swan."
His voice is tight, low. He holds himself tall, his body stiff as he walks past her, dropping his coat on what she assumes is a chair on her left, a small puff of air brushing against her side as it lands on the wood. She continues to stand still, watching him effortlessly cross the room and slowly pull one curtain open, allowing a thin ribbon of moonlight to stream into the room.
He stands against it, his profile outlined by the light, making his edges glow as he looks up for a moment before allowing the curtains to fall shut, hearing a soft ruffling noise as they do. The policeman is still shouting his warnings for the raid, his bell getting louder as he gets closer to Captain Jones' door.
And she hopes again, her hand clenched at her side, her belly churning in panic, that Henry was home, that her father had gotten them all inside, that perhaps the raid would not even touch them.
"We should get downstairs."
He stands across a table, or at least she thinks that he does, the closed curtains impairing her vision once more. But nevertheless, she begins to walk slowly-one careful step then another, her arms outstretched- towards him.
But she only takes four steps before there is a low thump and then a shooting pain up her leg.
"Ow!"
Her exclamation is loud in the quiet room, the policeman's bell now fading away as he goes to warn others. As are Captain Jones' footsteps as he bounds towards her.
"Miss Swan, are you alright?"
She gasps, bending over to grasp at her knee, the pain slowly fading to a dull pulsing where she had knocked into the edge of his table.
"I'm-ok. Just a little bruised."
"Apologies, I should have-"
"That's alright, Captain."
She straightens and reaches her arms out once more, trying to get her bearings but this time, her hands land against soft fabric.
"Let me help. I know this house like the back of my, well, you know."
Her lips curl into a smile despite herself and even though she can't see him, she knows the wry curve of his mouth, the sparkle in his eyes.
Her hands had landed at his forearms, just brushing against the fabric of his shirt. She feels his fingers against her elbow, slowly dragging along the back of her arm until he reaches her hand to grasp it.
Leaving a sparkling trail of heat whenever he'd touched.
His fingers are looped lightly around hers, their contact gloves to skin and somehow, it feels less.
"Shall we?"
She forgets for a moment that he cannot see her and only nods in response.
There is an eerie silence about them as they walk down the stairs to the basement. The policeman's bell has now faded away completely. The world seemingly caught in a strange moment of strangled calm as they all wait for the explosions to begin, as they hope that the flames that are to rain upon them somehow miss them, as they hold one another close, praying to see another sunrise.
She still holds his hand as he walks a few steps ahead of her, careful in leading her down. He waits at the foot of the stairs as she takes her last shaky steps to the basement floor.
"You're alright?"
His voice is a whisper now, as though trying to not to disrupt the quiet. She only hums in response, the darkness suddenly too much, closing in on her, her breath coming in deep exhales as she waits for her vision to adjust once more.
There is a pull on her hand as he begins walking, his arm reaching out to find the wall, she thinks. There are no windows to let in a crack of light but the door upstairs remains open and as her eyes finally get used to it, it is just enough that she can make out the blurred outlines of him as he walks in front of her.
She follows him easily, her fingers only gripping tighter when he slides down the wall to sit on the floor.
They sit with their backs to the wall, legs outstretched in front of them, their joined hands resting half on her leg and half on his, a silent agreement to not let go.
But the silence does not last.
The explosions begin softly, like the opening notes of a bloody symphony, only to pick up speed, getting louder until she is jumping at every new one. Her fingers tighten around his as they wait together in the darkness, as she desperately pushes away thoughts of broken bodies and anguished shouts.
It is quiet again for a long moment and she thinks that maybe, maybe it is over.
But the respite is broken by a new set of explosions, her eyes squeezing shut as though trying to make them stop by pretending they weren't there. She shuffles closer to him, chasing his heat even as she tries to chase away the phantom screams that plague her mind, memories from nights spent at the front in the aftermath of this.
Her breath is caught in her throat, her body coiled tight but then, his hand squeezes hers.
And he begins to speak.
"Her name was Milah."
His voice is a rough attempt at best, echoing softly in the room but it fills the silences between the loud roars outside and almost covers them up. He does not look at her, the profile of his face a hazy line as he looks straight ahead.
"I was in love with her. I was in love with everything- young and free and more than a little bit reckless."
He chuckles softly, his shoulders brushing against hers as he does. She feels like she should pull her hand away, her heart far too close to his as he chooses to open it to her.
"I was her tutor. She'd put an ad in the paper and I'd responded. When I first met her, she told me that she had always wanted to run away. But since she couldn't, she wanted to at least learn how to escape with a brush."
But the screams in her mind begin to fade, replaced instead by the deep timbre of his voice and it is a relief she is willing to embrace, her back sinking deeper against the wall as she listens.
"Her husband was never around. A navy man-much older than her. He had a son from a previous marriage already who was in university. There was something about her-"
He pauses a moment, the line of this throat just visible as he swallows before speaking again.
"The first time she managed to paint a tree that actually looked like a tree-" He laughs then, his shoulders rising as he shrugs. "She laughed and- she was just so beautiful."
His voice only gets softer as he continues, as he tells her how she had fallen ill, as he tells her how he had never really known what it was that had made her so weak. How she'd sent all the servants away one day because she'd wanted to spend some time with him.
How he had been the only person in the house when she'd collapsed.
"I took her to the hospital and he found me there. We had never- we never had the time to truly be together, Miss Swan-"
She startles when he speaks her name, his eyes trying to meet hers across the darkness as he continues.
"But when she died that day, I felt as though someone had ripped my heart from my chest."
He is silent a moment, still looking at her as he waits but she knows not how to answer him. Her heart lies heavy in her chest, feeling a far away sadness for the woman he had loved, for the man who sits beside her now.
She is glad for the darkness for it gives her courage even as it hides her away as she shuffles a little closer and squeezes his fingers.
She thinks he may have smiled before he looks away once more.
"I loved her. Perhaps when I shouldn't have. But I did, and I never got to say goodbye-"
The words roll off his tongue so easily.
I loved her.
He speaks it as though it is one of the only truths he knows and her breath hitches in her throat.
Another explosion rings outside, pulling her attention away, her breath releasing in a whoosh. But it is further away now, no longer loud enough to startle them, his voice enveloping the sounds easily.
"And that was it. The rumours spread and they thought that I had hurt her somehow-"
His voice cracks as he speaks and her fingers only grip his tighter, trying desperately to show him that she understands, her chest aching for him.
"And I couldn't bear to hear them. So I-"
He pauses a moment, his hand untangling from hers as he pulls away, his injured arm pushing back his sleeve to reveal the full length of the tattoo she had only glimpsed that first time she had met him.
A heart with a dagger through it, her name carved on the blade.
Milah.
"It was defiance, I suppose? But, I tried to forget and lose myself in drink, in gambling. I am not proud of the man I had become but Liam eventually found me and convinced me to leave-"
His sleeve drops back into place, covering the tattoo once more even as his hand rests on his outstretched leg now, only inches from hers.
"I just thought that you might want to know."
She realises then that the explosions had stopped. Her comfort is small for her belly still twists with thoughts of Henry and her parents, but his voice had filled the spaces in her mind where the screams lived for a time and she couldn't help but be grateful to him for that.
When she turns to look at him, she finds him facing her, a wry smile on his face, his hand clenching on his lap as he waits once more. For her to pass judgement perhaps, for her to tell him that he had broken a family, that she could not trust him but the words never come. Her heart only aching to take his hand once more.
And for once she listens to it, her fingers swimming in his too large gloves reaching out to wrap around his.
"Do you have candles down here?"
This time when he smiles, she is sure that he does, the whites of his teeth just visible, his whole body sagging in relief.
"Aye."
He asks her to stay by the wall as he shuffles about the room, an occasional thump or crash punctuating his movements as he tries to find the candles. She'd lost sight of him after he'd taken a few steps out of the narrow cone of dim light coming from the upstairs door.
"Found them!"
His voice seems far away, echoing off the walls as the silence after the raid continues on outside.
There is a small click of a match, a hiss of a flame and suddenly she can see again.
The room is much larger than she had expected, her eyes following the multiple boxes that litter the floor near where he stands, the almost clumsily large wooden table that lies between them, a few chairs that were clearly part of the same set scattered about the room. One is stacked upside down upon another, one resting quietly in the corner as though waiting for someone to sit on it and a last one a few steps in front of her, abandoned in the centre of the room.
When she finally looks back at him, he is looking away, his eyes following where her gaze had been as he looks around.
"I- after Liam- I put some things away."
He stands with the matchbook in his hand, the candle in a candlestick on the table, his face lit by the soft light of it, flickering softly as he breathes.
He meets her eyes once more and shrugs as though in apology, putting the matchbook down and picking up the candle, his face more visible to her now as she begins to make her way towards him, taking care to avoid the chair and walking around the table, her fingers floating above its dusty surface.
"I understand, Captain."
Her voice is low as she comes to stand in front of him, close enough to touch as she remembers her own box of things from before hidden away in her attic.
The candle lies between them, its flame fluttering in time with their breathing and just like that the ease they had shared in the darkness coils tighter and tighter until she finds that she cannot meet his eyes anymore. Her gaze wanders to somewhere behind his shoulder where the light of the flame begins to blend back into darkness and then, she sees them.
"Are you alright Miss Swan?"
"Are those yours?"
She gestures with her eyebrows, her head tilting in the direction she had been looking. He turns around quickly, the flame of the candle swaying dangerously as it makes visible the small group of paintings clustered in the corner, leaning against the wall.
"Aye. I thought I would put them away since I am to go tomorrow."
She feels a pang in her chest, her hand extended towards the candlestick.
"Would you mind if I-"
"No, of course not. Mind you, they're not very good."
She can see his eyebrow rising in the candlelight, half a smile on his face as he hands the candlestick to her. She cannot help but smile back, her heart so much easier about him than it had been in the last month.
And though the thought still causes an uneasy twinge in her heart that makes her want to run, it is too small today in the face of his shy smile.
Her fingers brush his briefly as she takes the candlestick from him, the cold of the metal burning through the heat of his gloves.
She begins to walk closer, her footsteps echoing now. His own quieter ones following her.
Inhaling sharply as soon as the candle brings them into view, she sees that almost all the paintings are of the water. There are ships and wrecks and terrible battles. All painted in rich deep hues, the movement of the ocean almost tangible as she leans closer, bending slightly at the waist, careful to keep the candle away from the canvas, her hand coming out to touch.
She shoots a questioning glance at Captain Jones, asking for permission and though his face is dimmer now outside the candles' circle of light, she can see him nod his assent. She takes a moment to pull off his gloves, using her fingers to pull off one glove and then another, trading the candlestick between her hands.
The painting she stands in front of now, is of a wreck, the ship falling half into the ocean as fire licks at its edges, blood pooling and staining the water even as the moon shines brightly above, stars twinkling softly in the sky. The paint is raised where the waves are, little flecks of white on their crests, her fingers going up and down the peaks and valleys of the surface of the painting.
As she continues down the line, she realises that the ship is the same one. The wreck the same. Again and again from different angles.
Her chest aches softly as she realises what it was that he had been trying to capture, the ache only worsening as she gets to the very corner of the room.
It is a man facing straight ahead, a portrait up to his shoulders. Soft brown curls swept away from his forehead, kind eyes and a smile on his face that reveals the crinkles by his eyes, shadows of Captain Jones' face upon his.
Liam.
She whispers the name, strange in her mouth and again the unease in her chest builds. She is too close, too close. But it is quickly pushed down by the sound of his voice.
"Aye."
She straightens, avoiding his eyes even as she has to fight her instinct to try and soothe the pain in his voice. She begins to round the corner instead, but before she can take a step, she feels his hand on her shoulder, stopping her.
She turns back to look at him over her shoulder, her eyebrows raised, her gaze questioning. He is silent though and only searches her eyes as though considering something before sighing and letting go, lowering his arm. Her brow is furrowed as she turns back around, taking one step, then another as she comes around the corner, the light of the candle now shining on a large painting against the wall.
It is larger than anything else she has seen in this room, standing about as high as her waist as it rests on the ground. Painted in rich greens and vibrant golds, it is brighter than any of his other work.
But what makes her heart thump wildly, has her breath caught in her throat is that it is a painting-
-of her.
The woman in the picture is looking up, her eyes following some far away sight outside the painting, her smile wide, her eyes sparkling with joy and Emma sucks in another breath, her eyes lost in the colours of it. The green of the her eyes looking as though they were gemstones, her dress a delicate white lace, but it is the gold that has her trapped. The soft waves of her hair look as though they could lift off the canvas, little flecks of brightness showing her where the sunlight reflected off it.
And painted in a soft golden blonde. The same shade of yellow she had seen stained on his fingers all this time.
Close enough to the painting to touch, her hands tremble as her fingers trace the edges of the smile of the woman in the painting, of herself in the painting.
"What- Captain-?"
His voice is close behind her, unsure as he starts and stops, trying to answer her.
"I apologise, Miss, but I- it was just a-"
She straightens, dragging her eyes away from the painting to look at him, her mind in a tumult even as she fights back the lump in her throat. He steps closer, the candle flame dancing as he sighs, taking a deep breath before he continues.
"Painting your smile- it made the rest of it a little more bearable is all."
She is silent for a moment, her cheeks burning, her eyes blinking back the tears that have not yet fallen as she tries to find her voice to respond. But he waits patiently, his eyes steady on hers as he does. His calm is betrayed by the slight clench of his jaw, the way he fidgets with his fingers, rubbing them against one another as though looking for something to hold on to.
She begins to respond.
"I-"
She tries again-
"It's alright-"
-but doesn't get very far. Her words are caught in her throat as she tries desperately to find them, only to lose them again as they drown in the tears that wait behind her eyes.
So she stops trying.
Choosing instead to lean in close, her lips pressing softly against his jaw, a breath away from his own lips. His skin is softer than she had imagined, freshly shaved for the front, his breath soft against her shoulder as he sighs, leaning into her, his head bowing. Her forehead rests against his cheek as she pulls away, as she mumbles into the space between them.
"You've made it bearable for me too."
They linger a moment, breathing steadily, standing completely still as though afraid to shatter the silence. The candle continues to flicker softly in her hand even as her other hangs by her side.
But the silence is broken by a sharp thumping sound as someone runs on the street above them, their footsteps loud and insistent. He stiffens at the noise, his arm coming up for a moment to brush against her side before falling away.
Emma takes a deep breath, taking in the scent of him. Something rich and earthy, a hazy layer of the rum he had imbibed layered on top. She presses the tiniest bit closer before pulling away entirely.
"I should go."
He looks as though in a daze, taking a moment to register what she had said, shaking his head slightly before answering.
"Aye, of course, Miss Swan."
But neither of them move, his eyes caught in hers as he continues speaking, the candle their only witness.
"But it is late and after the raid-I have a-"
He takes a breath, taking one step closer to her.
"Liam's room is empty and if you would like, I could-"
And perhaps it is unwise and perhaps her heart is unready but he is to go tomorrow and it only made sense-
She looks back to glance at the painting, the woman in the painting's reverently constructed smile, her laughing eyes seem to convince her.
She says yes.
She wakes the next morning with sunlight streaming through the thin curtains in Liam's room, his alarm clock ringing frantically at her side. She slams her palm over the top of it to silence it even as she tries to rub the sleep out of her bleary eyes with the other. The room is almost empty but still bears signs of its previous owner. Pictures on the shelves, a painting of a sunset that had Captain Jones' signature on it hanging above the bed, books piled upon the nightstand. All left untouched.
Until now.
When she had first stepped in here last night, it had felt like an intrusion. She had instinctively pulled away, taking a few steps backwards only to bump into Captain Jones behind her, his arms filled with sheets and a blanket.
But he had insisted, his hand light on her lower back as he had taken her into the room. They had been quiet as they'd put the sheets on the bed, her eyes avoiding his as they had worked. Her heart aching as she realised how close they were getting to him leaving, her mind clouded even more, standing here in the room of a man who had lost himself to the war already.
And when he had finally wished her goodnight, she had almost asked him to stay.
Sleep hadn't come easy, her mind drifting rapidly between hoping her family was safe and images of Captain Jones injured, bleeding on a battlefield somewhere. But eventually, the exhaustion of the day had caught up to her and she'd fallen into a troubled sleep.
The house is quiet, she thinks as she closes Liam's door behind her, pulling her coat back on as she looks for signs of Captain Jones, but to no avail. The upstairs parlour is as bare as the rest of the house, only the essentials packed into corners, large swathes of floor left untouched.
Or perhaps cleared away.
She walks downstairs to the living room, the kitchen. No sign of him but when she finally wanders into the dining area, she finds a tray on the table. Eggs and bread, a cup of tea on the side rest there, waiting for her. Her stomach rumbles as she walks closer, a frown knitting her brow in confusion.
She is reaching for the tea when she spots it. The note tucked under the cup, the base of it leaving a stained ring upon his swooping letters, written and rewritten, sentences struck out as he had tried to find the words.
Miss Swan,
I apologise for leaving like this but I did not want to wake you. (struck out)
I hope you will forgive me but, I just did not know how to say goodbye. (struck out, his sharp lines on top making it difficult for her to make out the words)
I hope to see you again someday.
Yours,
Captain Jones
PS: The key is in the dish by the door. Please leave it under the mat when you go.
PPS: I hope the tea isn't cold.
And as she stands in his empty house, his note wrinkling in her grip, she wonders if it was not for the best that he had gone like this.
For she does not know how to say goodbye either.
End of Act 1
A/N: And we're at the end of Act 1! Halfway through this story now and I just wanna say thank you to all the lovely people who have left comments. I promise you I have most of them memorised :D Thank you for hanging around and reading and I hope you're liking it! Please do let me know what you're thinking :D
Also FFnet doesn't let me use strikethroughs so I had to get a lil creative lol. But Killian is agonising over his words and sort of striking them out as he goes.
And now,
Notes, historical or otherwise:
In this chapter,
The song that the men in the pub sing is a real song and you can listen to it on you tube if you look up "We Don't Want To Lose You (But We Think You Ought To Go)".
Through the early years of the war, the British Government truly didn't support a War Artist Scheme. The Eric Kennington was the artist whose painting, The Kensingtons at Laventie had gathered public acclaim in April 1916 (Though it was painted in 1915) which got the first official War Artist (Muirhead Bone) to be sent to the front. As I've said earlier, Killian isn't really that famous of an artist so they're sort of testing him out here and I've skewed the timeline a bit to suit the needs of the story.
New York was hip with the electric cars through the 1900s.
Zeppelin was the common term used to describe the two kinds of airships that Germany deployed against Britain; Zeppelin Airships and the Schütte-Lanz. Zeppelins and the Schütte-Lanz only differed in that the former had a framework of metal and the latter, one of wood.
Zeppelin raids weren't always very successful or very accurate because weather patterns and night time flying made it difficult to navigate. Once, a zeppelin attack meant for London landed in Hull instead.
During the timeline of this story, multiple Zeppelin raids were carried out across England, quite a few of them resulting in injuries and death on both sides as either the bombs hit their mark or the Zeppelins crashed into the sea.