Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Millie wonders if her whole life is watching other people leave.

(There was a time, she supposes, when she was the one doing the leaving, but that memory feels faint and distant, grainy film of a story in which she no longer recognizes herself.)

As she stands with Jean, seeing Lucy get her beau, Elishka get her freedom, she can’t help but feel a twinge of sorrow, despite the ostensibly happy ending. To outwit the criminals, serve justice, and still go home alone feels unspeakably cruel on the universe’s part.

(She’s sure Susan would have an opinion as to the role of her own decisions in determining her fate, but Susan isn’t here right now, a fact of which Millie is painfully aware.)

“Jean? How would you like to get well and truly pissed?”

Millie is fully prepared to undertake an extensive persuasive argument, but Jean’s reply is surprisingly non-combative.

“It isn’t like I’ve anywhere else to be, is it?”

_

Upon racking her brain, Millie realizes that her usual haunts would probably make Jean more miserable than she already is, and well, it would be downright presumptuous to suggest they go to a more… feminine establishment. They aren’t the type of friends to say things aloud.

Thankfully, Jean, per usual, takes charge.

“I’ve still got plenty of gin left- if you’re truly intent on drinking yourself silly you might as well not empty your pocketbook.”

It’s peculiar how familiar Jean’s austere flat now feels, how the slight must of old books and antique furniture feels comforting, instead of judgmental.

Perhaps it’s a reflection of the rooms’ occupant.

Jean’s always been fond of all “her girls,” as she calls them, but Millie knows she’s more than a little disappointed in her, in the mess she’s made of her post-war life. But tonight, in the dim lamplight, Jean’s gaze is gentle.

“To justice.”

“Cheers.”

Millie has half a mind to down the stuff until the room spins, but Jean’s presence has always exerted a moderating effect, so she resigns to ladylike sips, acclimating to the acridity of the liqueur.  

“What do you suppose you’ll do now?”

Millie shrugs, lolling her tongue about her tingling mouth.

“God willing, Scotland Yard will put in a good word on my security clearance, seeing as it shouldn’t have gone in the first place, and we did just bust an international crime syndicate.”

“But you’ll stay in London, you expect?”

“I’m a bit too old for my vagabond ways, don’t you think?”

The silence between them is companionable, the decade since the war leveling out the imbalances of rank and age. There’s solace in musing silently alongside someone who would understand your thoughts if you ever dared speak them aloud.

“Did you ever think your life would turn out like this?”

Jean sighs, leaning back in her armchair, savouring the last of her glass.

“If you keep philosophizing I might have to cut you off.”

“No,” Millie waves a manicured hand, “ I mean, during the war, did you think you’d end up a librarian?”

Jean snorts.

“I knew it couldn’t last. I saw what happened after the Great War. Besides, by the time the treaty was signed I was already an old spinster. A library seemed as fitting a place as any.”

“I quite like old spinsters,” Millie reassures her. “I think I’m becoming one myself.”

“No,” Jean exhales, “You quite like young housewives.”

“She wasn’t married when I met her,” Millie frowns.

They’ve never spoken of it, but of course Jean knows. Millie couldn’t hide her love for Susan if she tried, especially not from someone who knew what such a love looks like.

In the months since Susan left, Millie’s managed to drag her head far enough out of her own arse to notice more about the other people around her.

The extra protectiveness Jean displays when it comes to Lucy.

The way Lucy refused to leave Jean’s side when she was in hospital, no matter how tired she was, how long it had been since she had eaten.

“Pots, kettles, glass houses, stones, et cetera.”  

“I don’t have the slightest idea what you could mean, my dear.”

Millie chuckles bitterly.

“I can’t believe I was ever so fucking naive as to think she could love me back. That we could be happy.”

Jean sits up straighter now, suddenly sober.

“Just because she didn’t choose you doesn’t mean she didn’t love you. Doesn’t still, in her way.”

“You say that like it’s meant to make me feel better, and yet…”

Millie distracts herself from the threat of tears by lighting a cigarette, propriety be damned.

“I had someone, you know, after the war.”

Millie raises a brow, intrigued by Jean openly offering a portion of her story to someone else.

(Hell, she might learn to cry on cue if this is the result.)

“I met her here. ‘Fiona the Florist.’ Impetuous thing.”

Jean smiles to herself, looking suddenly years younger at the memory.

“She used to ask me for book recommendations, and then press flowers into the pages when she returned them. It started with daisies, chrysanthemums.... Until one day, I found a violet.”

She trails off for a moment, clearly reliving a memory she doesn’t often allow herself the privilege of relishing, before clearing her throat and finishing her account.

“We were as happy as anyone could be, under the circumstances. Sneaking around like bloody teenagers. Until one day, she was just… gone. I found out what happened from the newspaper. ‘Local Florist, mowed down by intoxicated driver.’ No one had notified me- why would they?”

“Oh, Jean, I’m so very sorry.”

“It is what it is. I’ve made my peace.”

“She was lucky to have you.”

“Please- I’ve always been a dowdy old nag and you know it. But I am grateful to have loved and been loved for who and what I am.”

Millie pours the last of the remaining gin.

“To tragic queers.”

Chapter Text

It becomes a sort of habit, evenings at Jean’s. The second time is happenstance- or at least close enough Millie can pretend it’s not entirely planned. She’s in search of an old text she read in school, and Jean’s library is as good a place to start as any. True to form, Millie’s running a bit late, and Jean is just closing up when she scrambles in.

“Tell me you haven’t got another criminal conspiracy for us to solve. I don’t know that I can take many more bullets.”

“I hate to disappoint, darling, but all I’m searching for at the moment is a copy of the Aeneid. Someone’s convinced that I’m qualified to teach Latin.”

“I don’t dispute that you have a knowledge of the language…”

Millie rolls her eyes.

“But you question my professionalism?”

“No, dear, I just don’t take you for a great devotee of epic poetry.”

“Devotion doesn’t pay the bills, Jean. So, have you got the book, or not?”

Jean huffs and shuffles off to the stacks, finding the requested tome quickly, despite her complaints.

“I shouldn’t even be lending this to you, given we’ve already closed for the evening, but since I know how to hunt you down in the event it goes missing, I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

Millie squeezes her hands in gratitude.

“You might as well come up and have a cup of tea, while you’re here.”

Jean sounds as put-upon as ever, but Millie smiles inwardly at the subtle show of favour.

They keep the conversation (relatively) light this go round, chatting about the weather and politics and trading tidbits of gossip from their days.

“One would think that at some point, school boys would grow sick of looking for naughty words in the dictionary. But I’ve been here ten years now and it’s at least three a week snickering in the reference aisle.”

“Oh god. I never factored in having to deal with adolescent males when I accepted this job. I can outmaneuver the old lechers, but the young ones are so persistent. ”

“Would you like to borrow some of my dowdy old things? We could make an old spinster of you yet.”

“Why Jean, are you saying you want to get me in your skirt?”

“Alright, that’s enough of you,” Jean waves her off, but there’s a smile in her eyes and a chuckle in her voice.

“You should drop by next week, though, if the lads don’t scare you off to parts unknown.”

_

They settle on Fridays, eventually. Millie’s working normal hours again, and well, it’s not exactly like they’ve got standing weekend plans anyways. Lord knows Millie’s shrunk away from nightlife after her black market escapades.

(Susan would scold her for being so flippant, but then again, Susan wasn’t there when she was kidnapped and very near assaulted. Millie had sent a letter with the important points, namely, that everyone was safe and sound, and Lucy was really making a go of it at Scotland Yard. And she had only cried a little when Susan had written back “I’m so glad you’re all all right.”)

For about a month, it’s just tea and sympathy, with the odd war story thrown in for nostalgia’s sake. But tonight, Millie is exhausted, and when she gets exhausted she gets even a bit more reckless than usual, and she can’t stop herself from interrupting Jean’s story about something or another involving bed inspections.

“Jean?”

“Hmmm?”

“Have you ever wondered what you and I would be like, together?”

She says it so casually that it takes Jean an extra beat to catch her meaning. Then, the response is instantaneous.

“I should think we would bite one another’s heads off. You can’t dance with two leads, dear.”

Millie shrugs, crossing her legs at the ankle.

“I don’t know, I like to think I’m rather versatile.”

(She bats her eyelashes for effect.)

Jean purses her lips, eyes twinkling with something awfully close to mischief.

“I have wondered, from time to time, what it might be like to render you speechless.”

Millie’s nostrils flare, but she maintains eye contact, daring Jean to look away.

“And you have a plan to stop me in my tracks?”

Jean removes her spectacles and rolls up her sleeves, but doesn’t move from her chair.

(She has magnificent forearms, Millie thinks. And then she thinks that she really must be hard up if the sight of a woman’s wrist bone has her all hot and bothered. But Jean’s voice is quick to bring her back to the present moment.)

“I think,” Jean licks her lips, “that despite your boldness, you enjoy giving up control every now and then. Is that right, Millie?”

Millie digs her fingernails into the cracked leather of her armrest, bright red against burgundy.

“Yes.”

(Her voice sounds high and thin and not quite her own. But it could just be muffled by the blood rushing in her ears.)

“Perhaps you’d like me to bend you over my desk then. Or maybe you’d want to straddle my lap and ride my fingers.”

(Jean purrs her R’ s, and Millie squeezes her thighs together.)

“I think it’s a bit disingenuous to act as if I would be the only one deriving pleasure from such an arrangement, Jean. I’m an awfully good fuck.”

(Her voice only cracks a bit this time, and Jean laughs at her renewed confidence.)

“I would imagine so.”

(Jean’s emphasis implies a past-tense verb may have been more appropriate. Millie clenches her fists so hard she leaves marks on her own skin.)

“Do you generally delight in torturing people, or am I a lucky exception?”

Every word drips with frustration.

“Please. I’m not a sadist, Millie.”

She scoots her chair forward, until their knees are just brushing.

“Feel free to touch yourself, dear.”

Millie doesn’t let herself just be watched. Sure, she dresses in a way that attracts attention, but in the bedroom, she’s a woman of action. Not a goddamn zoo exhibit.

But behind Jean’s calm facade is as much sheer want as Millie feels in her bones. And, truth be told, she hasn’t felt like this in years. (In the most particular sense, she may not have felt like this ever.) MIllie slips a hand into the waistband of her trousers, closing her eyes and sighing in momentary relief.

Jean continues her narration, dark eyes burning into Millie’s skin.

“Sometimes you were so insolent, Millie, that I thought you were seeking out some sort of punishment. That you wanted me to reprimand you.”

MIllie shudders at the thought of Matron McBrien enacting ‘punishment.’

(At the time, she was really only trying to get Susan’s attention, but the fantasy is more than sufficient at the moment.)  

She lets out a strangled moan against her will.

“I’ll take that as a yes. And if I know anything about how impatient you are, I’d say you’re more than ready to come.”

(It’s the most rhetorical of observations.)

“Don’t let me stop you, dear. I want to see you. Undone. For me.”

And in spite of (or maybe, perversely, because of) her reluctance to follow the instructions of others, Millie feels herself crashing, muffles her gasps as much as possible (although she really is a performer above all else, and being quiet is never fun, regardless of context).

If Millie felt embarrassed in the midst of the act, she’s shaken it by now, and looks the epitome of composed as she locks eyes with Jean and sucks her own fingers clean.

“Good girl.”

“I can be, when I want.”

Jean sits in quiet thought for a moment, before returning her chair to its previous position and standing.

“Come by next week if you wish to continue… this. If you don’t, come back in a fortnight and I won’t take the least offence.”

Millie cracks her knuckles and stretches, yawning, before joining Jean in the doorway.

“Oh, Jean, you know I’m curious to a dangerous degree. I have so many unanswered questions right now.”

“Next Friday, then.”

Millie kisses her on the cheek, careful not to leave a lipstick print.

“I’ll write out my queries.”

“You really are insufferable sometimes.”

“If I weren’t, would we be here right now?”

Chapter Text

Millie almost bows out of going back to Jean’s. She has this nagging feeling that once they cross the line of touch there’s no going back. Certainly, Millie’s had no-strings-attached relationships before, but she and Jean have been to hell and back. One can’t exactly “Wham, Bam, Thank you, ma’am” out of their shared history. But Millie never backs away from a challenge, and damn if Jean McBrien isn’t the epitome of a challenge.

Jean doesn’t tie her stomach in knots the way Susan does, yet the thought of her (of them , together) makes her skin heated, her pulse rapid. Her world has been grey and drab these past months, and Jean is flaming red possibility. As Millie paints her face and sets her hair, she remembers the first time she wore lipstick, the thrill of crushing decorum and propriety under her heel.

(If she and her mother still spoke, Millie imagines she would have thoughts about her current situation, just as she did all those years ago.)

_

The wind is cold and biting against Millie’s bare legs, August doing its best impression of October. She walks quickly, partly from excitement, partly in an effort to generate warmth.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Jean muses as she opens the heavy door.

Millie hates how utterly serene she looks, like she was just preparing to crack open some old Sherlock Holmes and relax for the evening, and if the opportunity to have one off should arise, well, all the better then, hmmmm?

“Isn’t coming the point, darling?”

(Defiance has always been Millie’s cover-up for nerves. But Jean would know that.)

“Oh, Millie, there’s so much more to a journey than the destination.”

A slow smile spreads over Jean’s face as she weighs the opportunities before her.

Millie perches on the edge of the settee, arms and legs crossed.

“Can we at least acknowledge that this is patently absurd?”

“I would remind you that it was your idea.”

“Naturally. I just, well, gosh, I have no intention of wooing you Jean, nor you I. And given our luck, even if this ends in disaster and we never speak again, our paths are liable to cross sooner rather than later.”

“But you’re still here,” Jean interrupts, “which leads me to believe you find the risk worthwhile.”

“It’s bound to be an awfully cold winter,” Millie shrugs, “and you know my furnace is shit.”

Jean laughs, rich and honeyed, and Millie flushes with conviction in her decisions.

“I don’t think that’s all, though… is it?”

Jean encroaches upon her space with the interrogation, tracing a finger over the exposed skin of Millie’s knee.

(Millie swears her swallow is audible from the street.)

“You’re a very handsome woman, Jean. I’m sure you know that.”

“I think I’m a fairly acquired taste, dear, but thank you.”

The hand creeps higher, slowly, and Millie intimates that Jean won’t continue without further verbal encouragement.

“I find your… assertiveness quite attractive.”

Jean’s fingertips brush against the apex of Millie’s thigh, where it meets the hip, before migrating towards the midline.

“And you were so excited to see me that you just forgot to put on knickers, hmmmmm?”

(Though Jean’s voice sounds stern, there’s an unmistakable layer of desire beneath the admonition.)

“Well, god, Jean, just because I’m playing submissive for you doesn’t mean I’m going to be proper .”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Jean husks, feeling just how very wet Millie is.

(What’s the point of wearing knickers if they’ll only be ruined, after all?)

They don’t kiss on the lips- such a gesture would be too intimate, too kind, but Jean marks Millie’s skin with bites and sucks and a million small points of pain, so that every nerve is abuzz with stimulation.

Once she detaches from the bizarre reality of being fucked from behind by Jean McBrien, of all people, the experience quickly turns ecstatic. And Jean is an exceptionally game partner, now that all their cards are on the table.

Millie finishes quickly and strongly, shuddering around Jean’s fingers and propping herself up on her forearms, spent.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Jean is fine, dear.”

“I would wipe that smirk off your face if I had the slightest bit of energy at the moment.”

Jean leaves her to recover for a moment, washing her hands in the kitchen and putting on a kettle.

“Won’t you let me reciprocate, love? It’s the very least I can do.”

Jean shakes her head, eyes twinkling.

“I’m more than satisfied with this arrangement.”

Millie accepts the tea, appreciative of the caffeine’s help in recovering her senses.

(Frankly, she’s not sure she’s ever come this hard. Jean McBrien is a bloody force of nature.)

“Well that was heaps better than book club.”

“Indeed.”

Jean’s grin is almost girlish- she looks younger than Millie’s ever seen her.

“See you next week?”

“I’ll be waiting with knobs on.”

When she leaves, it’s colder and darker, but Millie could swear she hardly touched the ground all the way home.

Chapter Text

“I have a theory,” Millie muses, waltzing into Jean’s sitting room, “that you have the most magnificent breasts.”

“Should have never given you a key to this place. Asking for trouble.”

“I’m right though, aren’t I?”

(Millie’s grin is wicked, and Jean’s face isn’t nearly as stern as she’d like it to be.)

There’s something very companionable about the way she needles her, even though they both know full and well how these things end.

(Milie can theorize all she wants, but the data are still under the Official Secrets Act.)

“Look, Millie,” Jean’s face softens, as if to lessen the impact of her words, “With this foreign service position- it’s more prudent if we stop… seeing each other.”

Millie nods.

“Wouldn’t want to be used as blackmail, would I?”

“Thank you for understanding.”

They play gin that night, reverting back to old chums as if nothing else had ever happened between them.

Truth be told, Millie’s much more brokenhearted that Jean’s turned down her offer to find Claire’s murderer than she is to end their affair, as it were.

_

“I think we need something stronger.”

Millie’s gutted for Jean, honestly, but she can’t say that she’s not abuzz with excitement at the prospect of solving another murder. Her fling with Jean has been the only thing that’s made her feel remotely alive for the past two years, and that, lovely as it is, is hardly a life’s purpose.

Getting the old ciphers out, comparing notes, making plans- if it weren’t for the fact that innocent women were being murdered she just might feel giddy.

When the whisky makes their limbs heavy and their minds slow, Jean carefully puts the papers back where they were, tidies the newspaper clippings and prepares them for their journey across the atlantic.  Millie grabs her hand with her own, pausing the fastidiousness.

“I’m sorry, Jean. About the home office. They’re bloody fools not to take you.”

Jean meets her gaze, the slightest bit of disappointment pricking at the corner of her eyes.

“It would seem I’m more needed elsewhere, aren’t I?”

The twitch of an attempted smile falters, and Millie, buzzed enough to ignore her reservations, wraps her arms around Jean.

She leans into her shoulder, allowing herself to be comforted, if only for a moment. Millie forgets, with all her presence and authority, that Jean is so much smaller than her, her own chin easily resting upon her head. She idly wonders who would be the big spoon, if they ever managed to share a bed.

Her musings are shaken by Jean’s withdrawal, dabbing at her cheeks with a handkerchief and straightening her shoulders for battle with the war once more.

This is the Jean Millie knows (loves? wants, certainly).

“Are you sure there’s not anything else I can do help you?”

Jean raises a brow. Purses her lips. Leans back against her good leg.

“I’m assuming you have a very clear idea in your mind of what that might be.”

“I’m open to suggestions. I’ve been told I’m easily swayed.”

Jean sits in her favorite chair, leans back, closing her eyes.

“I think,” she inhales deeply,  “given that this may be the last true privacy we have for quite some time, that I would like to see you. All of you.”

A thrill rushes through Millie’s body. Jean may disapprove of her attention-seeking ways during the day, but now, her eyes burn a hole through her frock. She reaches behind to unzip the back, letting it fall to the floor.

“I’m choosing to ignore your mess.”

“Mmmhhmmmm.” Millie lets loose the clasp of her brassiere, leaving a trail of clothing behind her as she saunters towards Jean.

If the darkening of Jean’s eyes is any indication, Millie is an effective distraction.

She places her knees on either side of Jean’s, bare skin against wool. Millie lets her hand trace the apple of Jean’s cheek, her strong jaw. Millie leans forward, until their noses are touching, until she can feel Jean’s heart beating against her own.

Damn the rules.

Jean tastes like whisky, and spearmint, and too many cups of tea and not enough sleep. There’s a moment of tenderness, of surrender, before her hands grip more firmly against Millie’s hips and her mouth moves to map each piece of revealed skin.

Maybe she’s punishing Millie for her transgression, with the intensity of her touch; maybe she’s merely throwing all of her energy into the moment, this one outcome she can control.

She teases Millie, working her up until she’s gasping and begging and aching all over. Jean has more privacy than most flats in London, and better sound proofing too, but Millie knows she’s going to be awfully loud, so she kisses Jean again as she comes, moaning into her mouth and collapsing against her.

“Bloody hell.”

Jean’s eyes sparkle as she tucks an errant strand of hair back behind Millie’s ear.

“Thank you, dear.”

“I think I ought to be the one offering thanks, but sure, you’re welcome,” Millie exhales.

Jean winces, the pain in her leg clearly exacerbated by the woman on top of her.

“Shit- I’m sorry- let me-” Millie manages to extricate herself in what is surely the least attractive fashion possible, but Jean is too relieved to laugh at her.

Millie lights a cigarette, allowing herself to stretch out on the settee.

“You look like a painting of the seven deadly sins.”

“I’m going to choose to interpret that as you telling me I’m a work of art, darling.”

“You’re certainly one-of-a-kind, I’ll give you that.”

The silence is comfortable, relaxed (although really, Millie is dying to know how on earth Jean manages to get her off every single time without emitting the slightest bit of sexual frustration herself. )

“You should stay. We can get your things tomorrow, and leave Monday morning. I cleared my schedule this afternoon. ‘Death in the family. Entirely necessary to travel overseas for the funeral.’”

“I didn’t think you had a guest room.”

Jean huffs, shifting her balance to stand.

“I don’t think it will kill us to share a bed, dear. Are you afraid I’ll think you’re a lesbian?”

(Sometimes, Millie forgets that Jean is, perhaps, the funniest person alive.)

_

Jean snores. Softly, peacefully, but snores nonetheless.

Millie didn’t notice in London (orgasms have a way of knocking a gal out), but on the steamer, she spends most of her nights staring at the ceiling of their small cabin, listening to the faint whistle of Jean’s inhale and exhale.

Perhaps it’s the restless anticipation of the next shore, or the faintest bit of seasickness, or the inexorable ache of sharing close quarters with a woman who has always had far more self-control than she.

Millie refreshes her memory on ciphers, goes over the newspaper articles until they’re burned into her retinas. Touches herself when she’s too worked up and she thinks Jean’s gone enough not to notice.

It occurs to her, one morning as she’s spotting Jean from behind on the steep stairs, half enamored of her backside and half incredibly focused on the task at hand, that she doesn’t miss Susan Gray in the slightest.

_

Millie isn’t sure whether she likes San Francisco because it’s San Francisco or because it isn’t London. She’s elated, regardless, to ride the trolley with Jean, feel the sun through the chilly waves of fog off the bay.

The house is… underwhelming, but it’s theirs at least. (She manages not to laugh outright when the landlady warns “NO GENTLEMEN VISITORS.”)

It’s different, working with just Jean. They’ve learned to read each other more now, how to play off of one another. Millie reckons it’s the sleuthing equivalent of the jazz combo they’re watching, a secret language that changes every time it’s spoken.

For the most part, they’ve transitioned to platonic roommates without a hiccup, but there are moments when Millie is suddenly so very fond of Jean she feels as if her heart might burst out of its chest.

Jean’s wry smile as she spits the musician’s quip back at him, for one.

When she brushes off her sacrifice with an excuse not to dance, Millie wants to grab her by the shoulders and say “dance with me. There is no one else on this bloody planet I want to be near to except you, you ornery, obstinate, brilliant old thing.”

But, they’ve a job to do. Addled declarations of adoration can wait.

Chapter Text

Patterns being what they are, and life being what it is, Millie isn’t surprised when Iris brings in a fourth woman to their team. If Hailey is the American analogue to Lucy in age, she’s the complete opposite in every aspect (Millie cringes a bit at the thought that her younger self might have shared more of that eager tactlessness than she’d care to admit).

She’s a wealth of knowledge though, having lived more in her quarter century than most women do in their entire life. Millie remembers what it was like to be untethered, the world full of adventure and possibility. She wonders if Hailey was running from the same things that she was. Who might have broken her heart.

(She suspects that Hailey would be entirely forthcoming if she asks. It doesn’t seem to occur to the girl to be ashamed.)

Jean’s slower to warm up to Hailey, although she grins when complimented on her “moxie.”

Millie can’t deny that their chemistry as a group is good- although for sheer brilliance one would be hard pressed to find any match for Susan. But she and Jean are old hands at solving crimes by now, and most of detective work is dogged routine. Jean seems to be coming around a bit on the city itself, although she insists that american breakfasts are a farce.

Millie is loath to admit just how much she likes playing house, starting each day with tea together, chatting in the evenings until they’re both too tired to stay awake any longer. She knows that once they return to London, things will revert to what they were. Awful tutoring gigs, a lonely flat, too many reminders of the things that she can’t have. Only difference is, Millie never expected Jean herself to be one of those things.

She thinks, maybe, she won’t need that return ticket.

_

Jean doesn’t blame Iris for abandoning them. In all of their exploits, even with Alice’s stint on death row, a murderer has never threatened their entire community the way that the Holy Palms Killer has hers. She’s seen enough of the news reports to know that even without a serial killer on the loose, her son is hardly guaranteed to return home on the nights he protests.

Millie calling her persuasive is in itself a feat of inveiglement, but where Hailey is concerned, she recognizes her point. Millie may be glamourous and elegant, but Jean could tell from the moment she bounced through the door that Hailey’s much more impressed by no-nonsense capability.

She tries to make small talk on their drive around the city, chasing down leads.

“So. You and Millie- you two go together, right? I mean it’s pretty obvious you’re queer, and well, she looks at you like that...”

Jean fixes her with a glare. Foolish thing.

“Millie and I are old friends who have been through many an ordeal together. You’re awfully presumptive.”

Hailey shrugs, unfazed by Jean’s scorn.  

“Why do you think I came here? There’s a reason all the outcasts from the midwest flock to the coasts.”

“Well, dear, I can tell you don’t care much of the impression you give, but I find I’m more inclined to err on the side of discretion, myself. Chalk it up to age or cultural differences across the pond.”

“That’s the thing about San Francisco though, Jean. It was made for the abandonment of discretion. Maybe you’ll catch the spirit of the city while you’re here, eh?”

(Her wink looks more like a facial spasm, but the point is taken.)

_

A few hours later, and Jean’s only appraisals of  Hailey are of gratitude. Rough around the edges comes in handy in a back alley brawl.

Once they’ve finished for the evening, organized their plan for the next day, Millie looks at her, really looks at her, and demands to survey her injuries.

(Jean never thought that dark brown eyes could be so piercing, and yet…)

“Are you all right? Truly. ”

Jean nods, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“Could have been much worse. More shaken than anything. Certainly preferable to taking a bullet.”

Millie steps closer, unbuttoning the top button of Jean’s blouse.

“I want to see with my own eyes.”

She hesitates, seeking permission, and Jean relents, giving her the smallest tilt of her chin in acquiescence.

Millie’s touch is feather-light, her gaze focused and clinical, but when she sees the faint red imprint of hands on Jean’s throat and shoulder, she gasps shakily.

“Oh, darling.”

Her voice caresses the marks, and her lips soon follow, leaving a brighter rouge atop the bruised skin.

Jean clears her throat, the intimacy too much to bear on top of an already arduous day. Millie startles like a frightened deer, immediately backing up, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry, Jean, I just, if anything ever happened to you because of me dragging us here I don’t know that I could live with myself.”

Jean steadies a hand on Millie’s waist, bringing her back to the present reality.

“I’m fine , Millie. I hope you know I’m a lot tougher than some hapless vagrant. Although I think I owe Hailey drinks for the rest of her life.”

Millie grins.

“She’d like that, wouldn’t she?”

“You’re incorrigible. The lot of you.”

Millie laughs.

“She swaggered in here like your knight in shining armor.”

“Yes, well, she’s under the impression that you and I are betrothed, so it’s possible her perceptions aren’t always accurate.”

(It’s Millie’s turn to roll her eyes.)

“Well, old ball and chain, how about I draw you a hot bath and you can relax a bit?”

_

As exceptionally grateful as she is that they weren’t too late, seeing how very close Iris had been to being a murder victim brings back Millie’s memories of the smell of gunpowder, the uncontrollable shaking in her hands.

Jean is gentle with her, guiding her back to the car, sitting with her quietly, putting aside whatever scars she bears herself.

Later, when Millie thinks back on the quiet heartbreak of Jean’s “ I’m there,” she won’t be surprised, ( so many patterns ) but in the moment, it sends her reeling.

Instead of doing the bold thing, asking Jean to stay here with her ( with her), Millie watches her walk away, cane abandoned.

_

Millie hasn’t had this much to drink in ages. That’s the upside of the states- the war was an economic boon here, whatever rationing that occurred during the war ended right after V-J day.

She can’t help but laugh at Jean and Hailey’s insistence on hard liquor- an odd couple in bravado if ever there was one.

(And god help her, she can’t help but swoon when Jean says, “then we’re in the right place, dearie . Make no mistake.” What is it about that woman eviscerating men that’s so very satisfying?)

It’s a lovely evening, in every sense. They trade war stories, and jokes, and with each pint, Millie finds her eyes more and more drawn to Jean, to the wry smile on her face, the twinkle in her eyes, her strong jaw and full lips. She hardly notices Iris and Hailey’s knowing glances at each other.

Iris has maintained enough composure to act as designated driver, and she drops her and Jean home with an admonition to drink lots of water and take an aspirin. Jean leans on Millie as they climb the stairs, but Millie suspects that may be more due to sentimentality and weariness than inebriation.

“Jean,” Millie stops her once they’re inside, the door locked, their coats hung.

“Yes, dear”

(Jean’s preoccupied with finding her spectacles- the answer sounds more as a statement than question.)

“If you really are going back to London, well, what do you say we have it off again, for old times’ sake?”

(She is absolutely paying full attention now.)

Jean’s sigh of exasperation could destroy a weaker woman.

“Would you like an itemized list of reasons why not?”

(She doesn’t wait for a response.)

“First and foremost, I don’t think you’re in any state to make such decisions. And I damn well want you to be able to remember every single detail. Second, I’m not particularly keen on you at the moment, truth be told. And thirdly, I’m not going anywhere just yet.”

Jean turns on her heel and goes to her room, leaving Millie alone and bewildered, wondering whether her heart or her ego is bruised worse.

Chapter Text

When Millie and Edward were young, they would spend every summer together in the country. There were several children, but playing pretend was always the two of them, traveling the world in their imagination, falling in love with handsome strangers and beautiful princesses. Sometimes she would be a devilish rogue, Edward a damsel in distress. After all, it was just the two of them, and gender roles were more of a suggestion than a mandate at that age, anyhow.

Millie ditched her full name, but Edward was always Edward, full stop. Not Ed, never Eddie, god forbid. She noticed as they got older, he stayed inside most of the summer, shrunk at the way his father shouted at him, left home at the first opportunity.

Which is all to say, Millie perhaps has more of an inkling about why Edward is suddenly so cold to her than he may realize.

(It’s funny how, even as children, we know who is like us, even if we don’t have the language to put a name to what “like us” is. )

Jean is protective and standoffish and it makes Millie’s stomach do all kinds of flips and spins.

(Although, if a man were acting that way she’d probably be offended- Millie damn well doesn’t need looking after. But well, it’s nicer to have Jean McBrian on your team than playing against you.)

So, she’s got to find a new place. Millie’s certainly faced harder challenges before. Jean is nonchalant this time when she suggests moving back to London with her ( with her? ), but her mind is made up. Sure, their routine is unorthodox at the moment, but she can find a job here, certainly (Americans always think Brits are smarter than them anyhow, on account of the accent). The only thing missing would be, well, Jean.

(Millie tries not to dwell too long on that thought. She’ll avoid that pain with heaps of bourbon when the time comes.)

Jean’s eyes sparkle when Edward takes his leave, after they burn a hole through him.

“You know, It’s a pity, that I never knew your first name. All this time, I could have had you bent over my knee, calling you ‘ Camilla.’”

Jean leans in for that last bit, lips tracing the edge of Millie’s ear, before she grabs the last of the dishes and finishes the washing.

“You still could, if you really wanted,” Millie calls to a frustratingly empty room.

_

Hayley is incorrigible. If Jean thought Millie was a mess, well, at least she had potential. And there’s a good deal more fun in straightening her out than in dealing with Hayley’s abysmal attempts at flirting.

There’s something oddly charming about her lack of decorum- Jean finds herself growing fond of this tactless girl. She finds herself growing fonder of many things about this city, but she’ll be damned if Millie knows as much.

Because the thing is- she could stay here. But she can’t stay with Millie like this, like friends who are both looking for new opportunities in every aspect of their lives. It would be easier to leave Millie behind and return to a life she knows very well (albeit to the point of boredom) than to stay here, start entirely over, and watch her fall in love with someone else.

Hayley needles her like they’re old chums, like she can get away with shameless (terrible) flirting because they’re already family.

Sat around the table, the four of them drinking whisky, it certainly feels like they are.

_

Millie has always been a “doer.” It’s one of the things that made her such a great help in the war (one doesn’t have time to ponder the consequences of each and every decision when lives are at stake), and, perhaps the one thing that’s ruined her god-given relationships. (“A lady simply doesn’t do such things, Camilla,” her mother’s constant refrain.)

Which is to say, she doesn’t hesitate to participate in suburban espionage. It’s not quite as exciting as being say, a spy behind enemy lines, but the skill set’s much the same.

Maybe that’s why she’s so hung up on the idea of Jean leaving. They’re both better than the lives they’re currently living, and what with the Foreign Office rejecting Jean, it’s not like she owes her majesty any allegiance.

Personally, Millie thinks their differences are an asset, not a hindrance, but for all the languages she knows, she can’t seem to find the words to say “You’ve always brought out the best in me and I think that maybe I’ve always loved you a little bit but I very much love you now, you wonderfully boring old thing.”

So she opts for teasing Jean about her driving, getting a cheap thrill from the momentary lapse in Jean’s unflappable confidence.

_

Jean takes a particular joy in eviscerating small men. That moment where they leer, all puffed up and threatening, and all it takes is the tiniest push to send them toppling backwards.

It’s either a shame or a blessing that Hayley’s with them on the drive back to the city- Jean feels the electricity emanating off of Millie, the effortless chemistry they had while questioning J. adamantly refusing to dissipate. It’s a good thing Millie’s wearing sunglasses given how dilated her pupils currently are.

Hayley yammers on and on about how easy it was to get intel from the staff, at how good she is at this (“I mean really, if I ever get sick of working on cars, I could be a Private Eye!”) and Millie just nods inattentively while scrutinizing Jean.

(For her part, Jean keeps her shoulders back, eyes on the road, redirects the conversation to the case whenever possible.)

Hayley can’t stay with them forever, though (although Jean thinks the kid might like that- she probably daydreams about forming some sort of queer commune, fighting crime and taking down the bad guys).

Jean’s sat on the loveseat, reading the paper, when Millie insinuates herself next to her.

“How’s your leg?”

Jean looks above the rim of her spectacles, immediately suspicious.

“Not any worse than usual- I think the sea air’s worked wonders on the pain, truth be told.”

Nevertheless, Millie moves to lift the hem of her skirt, inspect the scar tissue.

“May I?”

“Suit yourself.”

(Jean’s learned that arguing with Millie on small things rarely results in a satisfactory ending for anyone. Better to acquiesce and get it over with.)

She gently rolls down Jean’s stocking, cool hands immediately providing relief to the tense muscle and aching joints.

Jean wasn’t lying- the discomfort isn’t anything out of the ordinary, but Millie’s touch makes her realize that maybe, she carries more pain than she needs to. An involuntary sigh escapes her lips.

“Told you I was good with my hands.”

“Shameless.”

“Life’s too short to be ashamed, Jean. I’ve got better ways to spend my time.”

Millie quiets after that, truly focusing on the task at hand, the knots underneath her fingers.

She leans forward, as if possessed, and presses a gentle kiss to the scar, and Jean’s shaken from her lapse into reverie.

“Millie.”

Millie looks up at her, eyes wide and vulnerable, as if caught mid-prayer.

She runs her thumb lightly against the inside of Jean’s thigh, drops to her knees on the floor.

“I just want you to feel better, darling.”

(For the record, Jean thinks smoking is a filthy habit, a danger to one’s health, and entirely unattractive. But the rasp in Millie’s voice makes her glad she’s already sitting down.)

She keeps her space, eyes questioning, and Jean thinks, if you’re leaving soon, if this apartment is gone, if you never see her again, you’ll have wished you’d had this.  She nods, opening her legs ever so slightly, letting Millie in.

Millie continues to lavish attention on her thigh, leaving faint lipstick prints on Jean’s skin. (It’s pale, above the knee- Jean doesn’t think the sun has hit her legs in at least 40 years.) Her hands work the fabric of Jean’s skirt up, around her hips, as her other hand caresses the hip bones underneath.

Jean shivers, her breath becoming increasingly ragged.

It’s not often she lets others touch her- she supposes a psychoanalyst might hypothesize that she has issues being perceived as weak, accepting help from others (although ‘help’ may not be the most accurate term for Millie’s actions at the moment). But Millie knows just how strong Jean is- perhaps she’s got a bit of a soft place to land, tonight.

When Millie reaches the apex of her thighs, she pauses before venturing further, hooking her thumbs in the waistband of Jean’s knickers as she waits for permission.

“Alright?”

“Go on.”

Millie is as daring and headstrong in this effort as any other, quickly moving from tentative open-mouth kisses to broad strokes of her tongue, moving her hands beneath Jean’s legs to grip her from behind. Jean surrenders to the moment, moving against Millie’s eager mouth, feeling the vibrations from her little happy moans and sighs. When Millie pulls back, replacing her mouth with her fingers, the sight of herself glistening on Millie’s painted lips is enough to send Jean over the edge.

Millie grins as she straightens Jean’s skirt, wiping her chin with the back of her hand.

“No need to look so smug, dearie.”

“Not smug. Pleased. Very pleased.”

“Like the cat that caught the canary, I reckon.”

A knock on the door disrupts them, and Millie is quick to run to the washroom to erase all evidence of her previous activities.

Edward’s had a change of heart it seems- the flat is hers (theirs) for as long as she wants.

They’ve yet to see justice carried out in Charlotte’s case- Jean might as well stick around a bit longer.

Chapter Text

In the weeks before Jean’s older brother left for the Western Front, they quarrelled incessantly. She realizes now that it was her coping mechanism, pushing him away before he could leave, convincing herself she didn’t love him nearly so much as she did, that it wouldn’t be so terribly difficult to say goodbye.

(It was. And more difficult still to welcome him home in a coffin. Jean regrets nearly every day that she wasn’t kinder to Robert while she had the chance to be.)

In so many ways, Jean is no longer the impetuous child she once was, but as soon as she offers Millie as collateral, she realizes history may be repeating itself.

It’s just, well, if she’s going to be heading home, wouldn’t it be a good turn to nudge Millie towards something resembling happiness? Or, if nothing else, towards cracking the case. (Maybe it would be easier to see Millie settled down and married like so many of the other women she’s known and loved. That’s a familiar loss.)

As it stands, they’ve more adventuring to do before misguided set-ups and last-minute packing.

_

If you asked her why she stepped in front of the gun yet again, Jean would offer several ready arguments.

1. As a former superior officer, defending her girls and standing up for them is now second nature.
2. Truth be told, she’s by far the oldest of the bunch, and it’s only right that she should be the first in the line of fire.
3. She’s a lot more likely to be able to successfully convince someone not to murder them than Hailey would be.

The one she wouldn’t readily offer would be: 4) She’s taken a bullet for Camilla Harcourt before and she’d do it a million times over without a moment’s hesitation.

But Millie stands by her side, takes her arm as they walk back to the car, looks the other way when she shrugs out of her grasp and straightens her shoulders, iron lady once more.

It’s a kindness, really, when Millie says she’ll keep her dinner plans.

_

Millie should have been clearer on a few things.

Just because she, on occasion, fucks men, does not mean she has any desire to date them.

On the rare chance a man is attractive, it’s even less likely that he’s interesting, and this one is neither.

Detective Bryce (sorry, Bill )  is smug, arrogant, and completely clueless as to his own investigation. Millie tolerates him for the sake of the case, but if Jean thought she was setting up some love connection, she’s sorely mistaken.

(And honestly, Millie’s offended. There’s no way in hell she was bad enough to warrant this. It’s a far cry from sending flowers the morning after, that’s for sure.)

God bless Iris for providing a lifeline from smug entitlement, and frankly, mediocre dancing. There’s a lot of things Bill said she won’t heed, but she damn well won’t stay out of this case if he won’t solve it.

_

Hailey is artless and clumsy and eager to please. At another time, Jean might be put off by how clearly hard the girl is trying, but tonight, the she finds her gestures indelibly kind. The cioppino is delicious, better still with the satisfaction of having foraged for their own supper. It feels good to exercise control over their circumstances after having such a close encounter with mortality.

“I think you pretend you’re boring. You’re a dark horse, Jean McBrian.”

“Just because I’m not as… demonstrative as you are doesn’t mean I’m dull, dearie. But you’re right, I like my routine. Or, I find comfort in it, at least.”

“Screw comfort. Women don’t become great by staying comfortable.”

“I’ll remind you that I’ve done many great things. But women don’t much become anything after the age of fifty.”

Hailey looks at her like she could transform into a million magnificent beings, though, like her skin is made of diamonds and her eyes contain the secrets of the universe.

Jean remembers what that’s like, that awe of seeing a future in someone else. Without kids or a husband, or makeup or housewifery. It’s not love, it’s only borderline lust- it’s pure, unadulterated admiration. For the night, she accepts it, letting herself feel like a bit of a heroine for once.

Apparently, Hailey meant that bit about comfort in the most literal sense. Jean’s eyes trace over her body despite herself (she’s old, not dead, thank you ), before she realizes that she’s meant to join her.

No one has seen Jean without her kit in a decade- she may not be chaste, but she is modest- but saying no at this point would be a lousy end to her time here, wouldn’t it? She folds her things and places them out of harm’s way. Hailey, for her part, swims deeper, granting her a bit of privacy.

“Hell’s bells! If I die from hypothermia I will haunt you.”

Hailey smirks.

“I’d find a way to keep you warm.”

Jean stops her shivering, looking her square in the eye.

“Why are you so intent on impressing me?”

Hailey shrugs, losing a bit of her nerve.

“I just think you deserve to be recognized for how remarkable you are. I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

“You’re very sweet.”

(She’s bright red, despite the chill of the water.)

“And I’m immensely flattered and grateful for all you’ve done for me tonight.”

“It’s literally the least I could do.”

Jean casts her eyes to the now-dark sky, leaning back and letting herself float.

“You’ll make someone incredibly happy someday.”

Hailey just nods, joining her in buoyant repose, laughing as the waves rock them back and forth.

Jean hasn’t felt so light in years.

_

Millie’s not the jealous type- people are autonomous, and being possessive of a sentient being is frankly silly. But she feels a fire light inside her when Jean walks in with Hailey, hair uncharacteristically mussed. She’s wondered many a time what it would be like to tangle her fingers in that hair, to tug it loose from its tight chignon and let it fall around Jean’s shoulders.

It would be surprising, to say the least, if Hailey had lived out Millie’s fantasies, but Jean is perfectly capable of making her own decisions (and making them on behalf of Millie, apparently).

When Iris and Hailey leave, Jean is distant. Not melancholy, but contemplative.

“Are you going to tell me what on earth happened to get you in such a state?”

Millie aims for breathy nonchalance, but in execution, she more closely approximates wild-eyed desperation.

“Oh, I think I’m old enough to be entitled to some secrets.” Jean purses her lips and waggles her brows, and retires to change and rest for the evening.

Millie wants to walk into her room, to join her in bed, to hold her close and whisper declarations of love into her ear after she’s fallen asleep.

But Jean’s made her thoughts on the matter plenty clear. Millie may not respect authority or decorum, but she would never violate another woman’s boundaries.

_

If convincing a man not to murder you is one skill-set, talking a woman off of a cliff is another entirely. Jean’s forgotten how real her own experiences with the precipice were, how often she rolled out the welcome mat for death in those years after the war, when the world scorned her and shunned her to the shadows. But as she speaks to Lydia, she feels the truth of her words in her very bones. The girls may never know what exactly transpired here, and that doesn’t matter. The machinations behind hope aren’t nearly as important as hope itself.

In her shelving duties, Jean had come across a book of poetry- Carl Sandburg, Chicago Poems. She wasn’t often one to dally on the clock, but for whatever reason she had felt compelled to leaf through the pages. One line has stayed with her, in the back of her mind, ever since.   “Let joy kill you! Keep away from the little deaths.”

The journey back to London would be its own small funeral procession. As soon as she’s home, Jean makes a phone call.

_

Millie’s heart could burst right out of her chest when she sees Jean unpacking her trunk. It leadens a bit when she thinks about Jean and Hailey (envy, you vicious thing), but Jean squeezes her arm, reminds her that where there is time, there is hope, and where there is hope there is possibility.

“Shall we celebrate?”

“Oh, dear, I don’t think I can manage going out tonight. It’s been a hard few days.”

Millie turns on the radio, pours them each a glass of bourbon.

“I’ll bring the club to you. Care to dance?”

Maybe it’s because Jean feels guilty for forcing her on that awful man, maybe it’s because she’s decided to seize every opportunity, maybe it’s because (Millie selfishly thinks) she just wants an excuse to hold Millie close, but Jean accepts her offer, leading her through “No, Not Much” and “On the Street Where You Live” before calling it quits after “Love Is a Many Splendored Thing.”

“I think if we celebrate any more I won’t be able to walk in the morning.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that, eh?”

Jean rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling tonight, more than she has since she arrived, Millie thinks.

“If you’ll allow me a moment of sentimentality, Camilla ,” (and oh, doesn’t hearing her christened name in that brogue go straight to her knickers), “I’m exceptionally glad we’re both here to celebrate. Let’s make a point to spend less time on the wrong end of guns.”

“I’ll do what I can. But I do still owe you one.”

“Why don’t you repay your debt by drawing me a hot bath and putting on the kettle, then we can call it even.”

Millie can think of a few other offers she could make, but tonight isn’t the time for bartering. Tea it is.

Chapter Text

Jean is rarely thrilled to see a man on her doorstep, much less a beaten and bloodied one. It figures that just as things start to feel settled here, something wicked this way comes. Millie’s cousin seemed clean-cut enough; although he was clearly skittish about something , it seemed more to be fear of his family’s judgment than any true danger.

( There is no true safety in a world that criminalizes your existence , she reminds herself.)

She doesn’t want to think about Millie’s ability to identify heroin. Iris is right- the stuff is a scourge, more misery than glamour despite all of Wilde’s waxing poetic about opium dens.

San Francisco has its share of Dorian Grays, that’s for certain.

_

As grateful as Jean is for Millie’s warding off of Detective Bryce, she’s not at all pleased that they’ve made plans for another date.

“How is it that you answer this man’s plea not to involve the police by spending every free moment with that detective.”

“He’s a good man, Jean.”

For all that they’ve talked about society’s unmentionables- official secrets and lesbian desire chief among them, she and Millie have never had a frank discussion about class. For all of her years spent slumming it with London’s working class, Camilla Harcourt is still very much the posh girl who came from old money.

“You’re under the mistaken impression that the police exist to protect you, because they exist to protect property, and you and your family have always had it.”

“I’m hardly wealthy these days, Jean.”

Jean sighs, frustrated and cross with herself for creating this monster in the first place.

“Your father was an aristocrat. Mine was a dockworker. My father and uncles went on strike while yours did everything they could to keep wages low and hours long. I’m not saying you’re guilty of their sins, but you probably have a kinder view of authority than I do, given who has historically had more power.”

Millie lights a cigarette, finding her words.

“Well, gosh, Jean, you could have told me earlier you were a socialist.”

“I was waiting for the right moment. I don’t know that my family would ever forgive me if they knew I’d lain with the progeny of a Tory MP.”

Millie huffs.

“You’re conveniently ignoring that you were the one that pushed me to go out with Bill in the first place. You practically offered up my hand in marriage.”

“Well, lord knows you’re more likely to finagle information out of the likes of him than I am.”

Millie crosses her arms, determination written all over her face.

“That’s not all, and you know it.”

Jean turns away, too cowed to look Millie in the eye.

“I’ve found it’s not so hard to accept that some women choose marriage and children- things I could never provide.”

“In what universe am I a devoted wife and mother? Have you e ver known me to be remotely nurturing?”

Jean turns, drawn back in by the siren song of Millie’s indignation. Her pugnaciousness is simultaneously her most attractive feature and her greatest liability- but Millie is nothing if not a brilliant danger to everyone around her.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you taking up with a woman after I left. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Millie’s voice is hoarse now, as rough as burlap scratching across her ears.

“But it was Hailey that convinced you to stay.”

“There’s nothing to me and Hailey, Millie, beyond perhaps a little hero worship.”

“The point is, Jean, that I wasn’t enough on my own. It doesn’t matter what Hailey is or isn’t to you- I wasn’t it either.”

Millie turns on her heel, off to meet Bill, before Jean can beg her to be all of the reasons to stay, for good.

It’s for the best, she reminds herself- they’re under attack.

_

At the risk of being homophobic, Millie finds Edward's theatrics around his “big secret” exhausting. But even her humanity outweighs her impatience- it’s awful seeing him like this, bruised and beaten and utterly terrified. Of course, she’s the slightest bit offended when it’s plain that he’s not paid near as much attention to the hints she left behind as she did his- if anyone could have seen the plain devotion to Susan Gray in the lines of her letters home, he could have.

Still, Jean’s the only person remotely close to her that she’s said as much to- despite the horrible circumstances, it’s comforting to know that she and Edward could maybe be as close as they were as children, trapped in safe worlds of make-believe.

Surely the police aren’t so daft as to ignore a potential murderer in favor of chasing victimless crimes?

_

Millie’s never been able to hold her tongue- not when there’s right and there’s wrong and wrong is wreaking havoc on all else. Jean knows when to pick her battles, but Millie’s never faced true consequences for mouthing off (just like she’s never faced consequences for her various and sundry affairs- other than gossip from the rest of the debutante set), so here they are, sat in the back of a patrol car.

It might be romantic, if they were twenty years younger and hadn’t just been sold out by a crooked cop.

Jean just hopes Millie can keep herself from bringing charges on herself- they’re of no use to  Edward behind bars as well.

“Mrs. McBrian-”

“-It’s Ms.”

“ Miss Mcbrian, are you a communist?”

“I’m a Presybterian.”

“Have you had any affiliation or contact with communist party members.”

“I’ve only been here a few months, officer. I could scarcely manage to vote in elections at home- I’ve no interest in political organizing.”

“Just in sticking your nose in police business?”

“I would think you’d be happier about the fact that a serial killer is off the streets, sir. Feel free to take all the glory you’d like, I’ve no use for accolades.”

It’s clear that the interrogation is more an intimidation tactic than anything that would ever hold up in court- Jean’s quickly released, and after another half hour of waiting, Millie is, too. Edward, however, is out of luck- he can’t be bailed until the morning, and even then, the charges are liable to stick.

_

Millie could kill Bill. If it wouldn’t undoubtedly complicate their already unbearably complicated circumstances, she very well might. As is, she needs an outlet for her anger.

Jean’s extra careful to lock and deadbolt the door behind them, keeping an eye out for any potential surveillance.

“We can take shifts tonight, four hours apiece, to keep watch. I’ll get Edward a barrister in the morning, and you can work with Iris and Hailey to follow the corruption in the police department.”

“Why are you helping Edward instead of me?”

“I don’t want you anywhere near that precinct. As much as I admire your… passion… it’s not likely to help anyone. Use that anger to get revenge on that bastard outside of the legal system. On that, you have my blessing.”

“I’m not stupid, Jean. Or naive. I was just… so bloody angry at you, that I dumped it all on that horrid excuse for a man.”

Jean grimaces.

“Then I suppose we’re both to blame. I can accept that.”

“I would give literally anything to-”

Jean stops her with a finger on her lips, well aware of where Millie’s mind is headed.

“I suggest that you temper any rash words with the knowledge that our flat may very well be bugged.”

Millie makes a point to blast the wireless, before whispering in Jean’s ear.

“I want you to spank me with your cane until I forget my own name, much less how much I want to murder that dreadful man.”

Not that she hasn’t eyed it with curiosity before, wished she had been the something solid beneath Jean’s fingers. Acted in its stead when the ground was too rough and rocky for it to be any real use.

Jean shakes her head ruefully.

“It’s very nearly worth the risk, dear, but I think we should err on the side of caution when it comes to such activities. Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

Just because Millie understands doesn’t make her any less frustrated.

“Can I at least have a bath while you keep watch for cops and robbers?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“Don’t tempt me- I really might after the day I’ve had.”

Millie lets the water scald her skin, rinsing away her worn makeup and the lingering scent of the stale station.

She emerges to the smell of soup boiling on the stove, the sound of Jean leafing through the pages of the paper, humming along to the din of the radio.

Domestic bliss, huh.

Chapter Text

Somehow in all the various trouble they’ve gotten into, Millie’s never considered the possibility of deportation. She’d just sort of assumed that with her family’s connections, Edward’s sponsorship, and her and Jean’s impeccable records of service, they’d manage to figure out some sort of solution before their visas expired.

(It seems that Jean may have had a few valid points about Millie’s upbringing leaving her with blind spots, years spent waitressing or no.)

The bastards are right, no lawyer is willing to take Edward’s case. She won’t go down without a fight, but they can’t afford to ignore the worst possibilities either.

“Jean?”

“Hmmm?”

“What happens if we’re deported?”

Jean looks up from the papers she has shuffled on the table, weighing her words.

“Well, I expect we would go back to London and beg our old jobs to take us back. Failing that, we’d call upon favors and try to rebuild some semblance of a living.”

“What happens with us?”

“What would you like to happen?”

(Her voice is outwardly calm, but signs of trepidation linger. The errant flare of a nostril, quiver of a chin. A tongue that wets suddenly dry lips.)

“Well, by that point, we would have crossed an ocean and back together. For the past twenty years I’ve dreamed of having someone who would travel the world with me.”

“As I recall it, you dreamt of a very specific someone , dearie.”

“None of us are who we were during the war.”

“And if Susan showed up on your doorstep proclaiming that she’d left Timothy and wanted to be with you?”

Millie scoffs.

“Firstly, I’d suggest she get her head examined.”

She swallows the lump in her throat, feels her voice drop another octave from it’s usual tenor into solidly baritone territory.

“Then, I’d tell her that even she could see where the pattern leads. Maybe there are other universes where we all end up with each other in different permutations- different algorithms, encryptions of the same code, but in this one, every clue points to you, Jean.”

For anyone else, the metaphor is more clumsy than romantic, but Millie can see Jean connecting all the inflection points, just as she has- a fresh pair of eyes would probably think the two of them bloody idiots for taking so long.

Susan and Lucy have passed in and out of their peripheral orbit for the past fifteen years, but Millie and Jean always seem to find each other. All the sharp edges of rank and age have worn away- all they are now is two people.

Two people who happen to be both utterly in love and decidedly fucked .

_

Hailey’s never been subtle, but Jean can tell even Iris is aware of her existential identity crisis- aware enough to advise Hailey to keep it to herself.

Jean knows Iris doesn’t mean ill by it- she certainly cautioned her share of girls at Bletchley to be wise, lest they face a dishonorable discharge, but Hailey looks positively despondent, and Jean knows that broken hearts rarely crack codes. Nothing a bit of tea and sympathy can’t cure.

“Would you like to talk about it, dear?”

Hailey pouts at her, shoulders hunched and defensive- if Sarge could betray her, anyone might as well.

“The gentlemen we’re helping are very brave,” Jean murmurs, adding a few extra lumps of sugar to the cup, for good measure, “but not everyone wants to be brave. Not everyone is ready for what being brave means.”

“Says the woman with literal shrapnel in her leg.”

“I’m not talking about me, Hailey. Or you, or Millie. I’m talking about Iris. She’s still protective of you, just like I’m still protective of all my girls. But sometimes, being brave means letting someone else take the risk.”

“I don’t know how you stand it, just letting everyone assume you’re a sad, old spinster who couldn’t catch a man.”

Jean grins, mischievous.

“Never been touched, me. Too bossy, I scared all the chaps off. It’s a pity. And these dowdy clothes- I’d never attract a suitor even if I tried my hardest!”

Hailey can’t help but giggle a bit a Jean’s campy delivery.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that it seems the boys get a lot more in the way of public humiliation and violence from the police.”

Hailey nods, stricken.

“It seems that men can’t fathom how a sexual act could occur if it doesn’t involve a penis.”

Hailey splutters on her tea.

“You don’t mince words, do you.”

“Life’s short, Hailey. Speak honestly with those you can, and live your truth. Those who don’t see it don’t need to.”

“But don’t you wish we could be as annoying as all the couples in love? Dance with a sweetheart? Get set up on blind dates that happen in the light of day?”

“At my age, I’ve learned not to ask for too much, and I’ve always been a bit of a closed book. But you don’t settle for much, I know. ”

Hailey hiccups into a sob.

“It just hurts so much to keep it inside all the time. To know that until someone knows, I’m never truly safe, and even then, it could all go to shit in an instant.”

Edward’s still in a jail cell, still getting the shit kicked out of him- Jean’s only has so many words of comfort, so she pulls the younger girl in for a firm hug.

_

Millie knows Jean’s no fan of Bill’s (hell, she herself did slap him across the face in broad daylight), but she doesn’t miss for a moment that she’s the first one to provide aid when he’s shot.

(She’ll account it to practicality later- “what about an old crippled woman is an asset in a barroom brawl?”- but Millie knows that Jean will be magnanimous till her dying breath. She is, in every aspect, a fine woman.)

She feels their eyes flicker to her periodically during the standoff, like an aura of concern and protection, and even if there’s no doubt in her heart who she wants to come home to, she can let him be her hero, today.

(In the comparison of scars, Jean’s is more impressive, for the record. But she’s always been a leg girl.)

The upside is that they’re no longer in danger of being constantly harassed by the police. And Bill is perhaps more kind and accepting than the confusion of the past three days had led her to believe, so, he may take the eventual let-down better than she’d previously anticipated.

The up up upside is that Edward may finally allow himself to be truly happy.

_

Maybe it’s the punch, or the music, or the noticeable ease of tension between Hailey and Iris, but Jean feels light as a feather.

Millie’s arms are bare, and her hair is a bit wild and her laugh is raucous as she mimics Jean’s brogue, and suddenly, Jean understand entirely Hailey’s desire to take all the liberties in public (or semi-private) a man would, to wrap an arm around her and hold her close and kiss her breathless, just because she’s here and beautiful and charming and ridiculous, and she loves her.

She loves her, and she’s so grateful to be alive, in love, with her, that Bill Bryce will just have to convalesce by himself for a few days longer. Jean is sick and tired of waiting.

They have some trees to see.

Chapter Text

“You should be able to find a hotel room in Orick no problem- it’s the off-season so Prairie Creek shouldn’t be too busy.”

Millie nods as Hailey hands her a map. And blankets. And a picnic basket. And a couple canteens.

(She’s done this before, it would appear.)

“It’s a full day’s drive up that way- about two hundred fifty miles, but if you leave soon you’ll get there before nightfall. You need anything fixed up around your place while you’re gone?”

“Well, the shower nozzle is a bit erratic-”

“We’re fine, Hailey, thanks for all your help,” Jean interrupts, prideful as ever.

Hailey blushes.

“Aw, it’s nothing. I wish I could come with you, but, there’s no way I can get that many days off of work.”

(Millie, for one, thinks the loss of Hailey’s expertise is more than worth some extra privacy.)

“Yes, well, we’ll be joining the working ranks just as soon as we get back. Solidarity!”

Hailey waves like her arm is about to fall off as Jean cautiously wheels them onto the street and out of the city. Highway 101 is a straight shot north, and as they journey inland from the bay the fog lifts and the temperatures warm. The landscape is different here than at home, as the city gives way to wide open farmland and reddish dust that trails behind the car. Millie’s never fully understood the American fascination with the automobile, but in this moment, she feels the allure of posibility that four wheels and a tank of petrol can offer.

There’s only so far that one can drive on the homeland before reaching the sea- here, they could go anywhere. Could be anyone, as far as the strangers at diners and hotels would know. Millie has traveled more extravagantly before, but this is quietly romantic in its own way.

They travel in companionable silence, checking the map and the odometer to gauge their progress, remarking on the sights around them. Millie insists on stopping at a diner for coffee and pie, when Jean’s stiffness is visibly apparent.

“I insist on giving you a full on massage when we stop for the night.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“I think I’ve proven myself more than capable enough with my hands, Jean.”

The coffee is weak, but hot, burning pleasantly as it travels down her throat.

“The phrase ‘As American as Apple Pie,’ I believe refers to overly sweet and fatty mediocrity,” Jean grumbles, abandoning her slice after a few bites.

“Is it wrong that I adore you best when you’re at your most curmudgeonly?”

(Millie thinks Jean’s disdain might be more for show, anyhow. She still hasn’t fully embraced the ex-pat identity.)

“It’s only going to get worse from here on out, dearie. Best for us both if you find it tolerable.”

Millie shakes her head, blushing. It still seems not quite possible that her life could have become what it is at this moment. Millie’s never been the settling kind (maybe she never will be- that much remains to be seen), but the thought of growing old with Jean, well, it makes the whole idea a lot more palatable than it’s ever been before.

“Any women who can make me seem soft by comparison will always have my undying respect.”

“I’ve never heard you complain about my roughness before, Camilla .”

“Point taken.”

_

Jean pulls the car into the lot of a traveler’s lodge at the outskirts of Orick. Various and sundry “Redwood Forest” signs adorn the premises, clearly catering to the primary tourist industry. Millie insists on covering their room, since Jean refused to let her share driving responsibilities. Jean, however, is quick to look as put upon as possible when the clerk informs her that they’re all out of doubles, but a king room on the opposite side of the building is still available.

“I suppose we can manage to share…”

“Would you like for me to arrange for a cot?”

“That won’t be necessary. If I wanted to hurt my back I’d just sleep on the floor.”

Millie bites back laughter as they carry their luggage to the room.

“That poor girl! I think she almost threw a family out of their digs just to get you off of her case!”

“Well, Millie, we can’t exactly have people thinking we’re desperate to share a bed, can we?”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

She turns the key in the lock, flipping the light switch.

“The honeymoon suite, eh?”

It’s a step up from their flat when they first arrived, at least. Clean and tidy, if a bit spartan. Jean heads for the bath while Millie tidies their things.

She’s not often rendered speechless, but the sight of Jean, hair down, wrapped only in a towel, well, it does things to a woman.

“You mentioned something about a massage?”

Millie tries to be diligent in her task, truly, but the pleased little sighs Jean emits as she works the knots in her shoulders, they’re practically antagonistic.

Her fingernails rake lightly across the exposed skin of Jean’s back, encouraging her to turn over.

“I think that will suffice for now- what do you think?”

Jean turns just enough that she can look at her with narrowed eyes, catching Millie in the act of staring at newly exposed skin.

“I think it’s entirely unfair that you’ve still got your kit on.”

“You know I hate injustice,” Millie concurs, quickly shrugging out of her trousers and blouse.

Jean’s stretched languidly out on the sheets, the lovechild of a renaissance painting and a pin-up.

Millie’s simultaneously disappointed that she goes to such great lengths to hide her curves, and elated that she is the only person privy to this glorious secret.

“You know, my theory was correct,” she whispers into Jean’s ear, planting a kiss beneath her jaw, “Your breasts are truly, truly, magnificent.”

(Actions speak louder than words, and Millie follows her compliment with the requisite attention deserving of such a wondrous bosom.)

Whether it’s the relaxation from the massage, or the result of finally acknowledging just how important they are to one another, Jean allows herself to surrender to the moment, to let her nerves process every single sensation without fear or judgment.

Millie is mapping her body with her mouth, her eventual destination obvious, but Jean tugs her back up so that she’s astride Jean, her bony hips digging into Jean’s softer curves.

“I want to feel your weight against me.”

Millie lets her hand take the place of her mouth, teasing Jean, feeling her hips jerk beneath her, seeking more contact. She can’t keep up the charade for long though- she’s just as hungry as Jean is to feel her touch.

At first, Millie is confused when Jean grabs her by the wrist- judging by Jean’s quiet moans and the overwhelming wetness coating her fingers, she’s been doing an absolutely fine job, thank you, but the penny drops when Jean guides her hand towards her entrance.

She hadn’t been expecting that.

(Maybe she’s projecting gender roles onto their relationship, but until this point, Jean’s always decidedly been the one doing the fucking. It had never occurred to Millie that she would have any interest in receiving.)

“Are you sure?”

Jean nods.

“I want you as close to me as possible.”

Millie obliges, and it doesn’t take much after that- Jean bites into Millie’s shoulder to stifle her moans (their room is isolated, but not that isolated, and besides one can never be too careful), and slumps back, spent, hair strewn across the pillow, lips pink and full.

“Bloody hell, I need a cigarette after that.”

“God, if I had more energy I’d read you the riot act about how much I loathe those things.”

“But the point is, darling, you don’t.”

Jean’s too tired to protest- by the time Millie’s returned to bed, robes laid out by the bedside in case of fire or other inconvenient intrusion, she’s fast asleep.

Millie slides into the sheets, draping her body against Jean’s side, letting the heat from her body warm her as the cool night settles in. Her sleep is deep and peaceful.

_

Jean’s body is stiff in places it hasn’t been in years . Not that she’s usually entirely free of discomfort first thing in the morning- age and gravity are kind to few. It takes a bit of finagling to free herself from Millie’s grasp- the girl ( nay, woman ) is still clinging to her like a life raft. It’s not an inaccurate metaphor, come to think of it. She and Millie always seem to keep one another afloat.

Jean fiddles with the kettle (coffee, not tea), and dresses, sorting out the packing for the day’s journey. When Millie still doesn’t stir, she opens the curtains, letting sunlight spill into the darkened room.

“Good morning to you, too,” Millie grumbles.

“I thought it might be best if we make it to the forest before nightfall. Wouldn’t want our adventure to turn into something out of Brothers Grimm.”

Millie isn’t nearly so amused by her humour, but she does manage to extricate herself from the sheets.

Jean’s managed without her cane for a while now (something about the maritime climate makes for easier going than London), but today necessitates a sturdy walking stick. Millie offers her arm, nonetheless, and matches her slower pace.

The Redwoods are even more magnificent than she could have imagined- even Millie, so rarely impressed by anything (much less the natural world), is awed.

“ I think that I shall never see/ A poem lovely as a tree. ”

“I thought poetry was my forte, dear.”

“You’d be surprised what sorts of things I’ve picked up, loitering about in your study.”

They swap verses as they walk, Dickinson for Hughes; Burns for Byron- Jean means to apply for the open position at the bookstore down the street, so she can excuse this blatant romanticism as preparation.

Millie delights in theatrics, acting like her audience of one is the world’s largest and hardest to please. (That last part, may, historically, have been true.) They stop for a picnic lunch, and Jean remarks that, lovely as this all is, she really can’t ramble like she once did.

Millie drops to her knees (to massage Jean’s aching leg, natch,) and abandons her bombast for utmost sincerity.

“ You are beautiful and faded,

Like an old opera tune

Played upon a harpsichord;

Or like the sun-flooded silks

Of an eighteenth-century boudoir.

In your eyes

Smoulder the fallen roses of outlived minutes,

And the perfume of your soul

Is vague and suffusing,

With the pungence of sealed spice jars.

Your half-tones delight me,

And I grow mad with gazing

At your blent colours.

My vigor is a new-minted penny,

Which I cast at your feet.

Gather it up from the dust,

That its sparkle may amuse you.”

Well. She’s found the way to Jean’s heart, hasn’t she?

“You know, Millie, reciting Amy Lowell is tantamount to a lesbian proposal.”

Millie arches a brow in challenge.

“And?”

“Just wanted to make sure you were aware of the effect of your words.”

“They’re not mine, Jean, they’re Amy Lowell’s.”

Jean stares into the fog surrounding them.

“I always thought I’d retire in the countryside, close enough to Edinburgh to see my family, far enough away that I wouldn’t be bothered. I manage very well alone.”

“And I’ve gone and ruined all your plans, haven’t I?”

“You’ve changed them.”

Millie takes her hand, threading their fingers. She’s such a little thing- Jean forgets sometimes, with her gravitas , but she’s more fragile than her personality would suggest.

“I know I’m not really the homesteading type, darling, but I wouldn’t mind hiding away from the world with you, every now and then.”

Millie helps her back to a standing position, and they resume their trek back to the car.

“I am happy, Millie. Very, very happy. Even if I do all the housework.”

“I contribute!”

“Let’s just say it’s a damn good thing you’re as lovely as you are.”

Millie waggles her brows.

“You think I’m lovely? Why Jean, I’m beginning to think you’re sweet on me!”

“Give her an inch, she’ll take a mile.”

_

They’re too exhausted to do anything other than sleep that evening, and Jean insists on making an early start back home.

“I’m not sure it counts as a holiday if you’re only gone for 36 hours.”

“Well considering neither one of us have worked a job in three months I’d say we’ve had plenty of time off.”

“I loathe your practicality sometimes.”

“Not all of us can be ladies who lunch, Millie. Labour isn’t just a political affiliation.”

Millie silences her with a kiss before Jean can go full-on Marxist (one would think she’d be more wary of communist theory after Edward’s arrest, and yet…).

Halfway through the drive, Jean finally relents and lets Millie behind the wheel. It’s not five minutes in the passenger seat before she’s out like a light, breathing deeply and leaning her head on Millie’s shoulder. In the golden light of early evening, she looks young and innocent, without a care in the world.

Jean’s lived through two wars and more murder investigations than most detectives- peace is no longer in her vocabulary. The closest they have now is solace- but that’s enough.

Chapter Text

It has been suggested to Millie, throughout the course of her life, that things might go better for her if she would bite her tongue. She’s always been confident that her skills as a linguist more than compensate for her occasional tactlessness, but given Jean’s sudden cold shoulder, the point may have a bit of merit.

Nigel Bloody Beamish, though. Honestly!

There are many types of men that Millie disdains- meatheads who play grab ass while she’s waiting tables, know-it-alls who see fit to explain a woman’s area of expertise to her- but she utterly reviles incompetent men who gain their station through women’s unlauded brilliance.

And that he has the audacity to pine after her Jean? She could kill that man with her words alone.

Iris apparently thinks it’s sweet, or at least useful, that Jean is reconnecting with an old flame from the war, but Nigel Beamish is about as useful as a thimble in a flood. Maybe Millie shouldn’t be throwing stones, but at least Bryce gave her access to a corpse. With Beamish involved, they’re the ones more likely to end up in the morgue.

She hasn’t been this cross at Jean since, well, ever. It’s usually the reverse, for good reason. She’s so vexed that she doesn’t say goodbye when Jean leaves for work in the morning.

Guilt eats at her all day- she thinks about dropping by the bookshop, bringing Jean her tea (she forgets to eat, when she’s talking too much about poetry. Sentimental old thing.), but then she’d just roll her eyes at all the women who now frequent the shop just to hear Jean’s mellifluous accent. Apparently the purchase of a book is a small price to pay for the dazzling experience of having Jean McBrian select one for you.

Millie is settled on making things right when she gets home, though, she knows that the apple pie is the only thing Jean will eat from work, and if she can’t cook her an apology meal, at least she can make a paltry peace offering.

But then Bill mistakes awkward silence for romantic tension, and by the looks of it, Jean’s returned to her own room for the night, and it seems a lot easier to wait until daylight to explain the fact that despite all her badgering about Nigel, she’s the one who kissed her unwelcome male suitor.

Except that in daylight, Jean is gone, and if Millie hadn’t been such a bloody idiot twelve hours earlier they could have found her by now.

_

When (if ) Jean gets away from her captors, she may have to concede that Millie was right about Nigel Beamish.

She’s gotten rusty in her old age- accounting for one’s own mistakes doesn’t protect you from the stupidity of others.

Maybe if she’d been twenty years younger, she would have been quick enough to make it out of the window. God, her body hurts. And now, her head, too. Chivalry is dead, at least among the KGB.

Jean thinks about death often enough- between the murders they’ve solved, the casualties of the war, and the little reminders of those gone on before, she’s no stranger to pondering her own end. She’d hoped for a little less excitement, perhaps the company of a few loved ones, but beggars can’t be choosers, can they?

If she can slow these brutes down enough that Iris and Hailey and Millie are safe, well, that will just have to be enough.

In the minutes where they leave her to wait, she drafts a goodbye note- the chance of scrawling one out is thin, but perhaps they’ll have enough humanity to let her write a goodbye.

Iris,

It’s been an honor to know you, at last. Thank you for your service.

Hailey,

You will do great things. I believe in you.

Millie,

You made an old girl very happy.

Would it have made a difference, if she had actually known anything useful? She suspects these two find killing their victims more of a benefit to their work than a cumbrance.

Saint Andrew delighted in crucifixion before his martyrdom. Jean cannot muster the same enthusiasm, no matter how Scottish she may be.

But Jean will be no martyr today. Maybe it’s because she’s weak from her ordeal, but Millie and Hailey look just like angels, come to carry her home. She couldn’t map the journey from the room to the car, but the feeling of Millie’s arms around her, her hot tears falling into her hair, well, that memory is a glimpse into Lucy’s brain, so indelibly is it etched into her own.

Jean feels robotic and cold as she strips for the bath. Her clothes go straight in the bin- never mind that they were her finest. Even if they weren’t soiled beyond any launderer’s best hope, the sight of them makes her skin crawl. Millie fetches her new things, finishes washing her body when her hands freeze and she can’t stop shaking.

She’s kind, but not overly so; gentle but not timid. Millie never tries to insist that things are alright, that she’s safe now, never makes it about her own fears of losing her, her own regret over the last time they spoke. She dries her with the fluffiest, warmest towel they own, and leaves her to dress in peace while she puts on the kettle and pours the whisky.

With a bit of privacy, Jean lifts her chin, and straightens her shoulders, and commits to stopping these bastards.

_

If it had come to it, Millie would have killed those men without a second thought. If Hailey hadn’t beaten her to it. She’s grateful she didn’t have to- she’s a lost cause, but at least Hailey can hold on to a bit of innocence, even if Ilya played her like the world’s cheapest cello.

Maybe it’s the bit of Jean that still looks out for “her girls” that counsels her by the bar. Lord knows Hailey’s not the first to moon over Jean, to interpret her unfailing kindness as hope for something else. She doesn’t hear the words, but the glimpses of their faces are enough.

So sue her if she scoots closer to Jean once she returns to the table, holds her close and accepts all manner of good natured insults- she’ll be a vagabond forever if it means Jean will keep following her around the world.

She thinks Bill finally gets the hint when he moves to take his leave, but Hailey insists he stay. Subtle, that one.

The stories and drinks continue to flow freely, but Jean’s weight against Millie’s side gets heavier and heavier, the enormity of the past two days finally taking its toll.

“Jean, if you won’t bow out due to fatigue, I’ll admit that I’m far too old for this rambling, gambling lifestyle. Shall we get home?”

The words give Jean permission to let down a bit of her facade.

“It has been a long day, even if I can still drink you all under the table. I think you’re right, dear.”

They walk slowly, carefully, which gives Bill and Hailey plenty of time to hedge their bets and race out to stop them and offer to walk the two of them home separately.

Jean looks at her like “Shall I be polite about this, or are you going to Millie it up?”

“The only person walking Jean home tonight is me. The only person walking me home tonight, or any night thereafter, is Jean. Seeing as I’m the only one here who has been kidnapped before, I think I’m best suited to look after her, not that she needs looking after, but if she did, trust that I would be the one doing the looking after. I love you both very much, but I am exhausted, and I just don’t have time to worry about your feelings right now. Maybe some other time. Goodnight.”

Jean waves behind them as Millie marches onward.

“I think you stunned them, dear.”

“Good. Gives us time to gain a lead before they try to stop us again.”

“You’re mad.”

“I love you too, darling.”

_

“I know that you probably won’t sleep much, or deeply, but I think your body will feel better if you at least lie down for a few hours.”

Millie fluffs the pillows and brings in the heavy blanket from the other room, fetching a compress for Jean’s forehead and more balm for her wrists.

Jean lies on her back, staring at the ceiling.

“Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave

Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;

Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

I know.  But I do not approve.  And I am not resigned.”

Millie halts her busywork, her eyes dark and watery.

“There have been times I’ve been more than ready to die, Millie. But today- I’m not ready to leave you.”

Millie drops her things on the floor, draping her body over Jean’s (gingerly, to avoid the tender bits).

“You have plans for me, hmmmm?”

“If I leave this earth without having taught you to cook, I’ll have failed.”

The laughter quickly dissolves into sobs, as Millie reckons with her other shortcomings.

“I’m so sorry, Jean, I was so awful to you about Beamish. It’s not your fault he’s a twat.”

“I appreciate your anger on my behalf. I only ever helped him for the greater good, surely you know that.”

“Bill kissed me. The night you were kidnapped.”

“Well, that explains that mess back there.”

“What mess? I handled that with grace and aplomb.”

“Hailey looked like a kicked puppy. I tried to let her down gently, poor thing, but you’re just too jealous for your own good.”

“I thought she’d said something to you.”

“I think she’s just so terrified of living her truth that she’s imprinted on the nearest lesbian, like a puppy without its mother.”

“Gosh, Jean, if you’d have known how many of the girls mooned over you at Bletchley, well, I hardly think you’d have ended up with the likes of me.”

“False modesty isn’t a good look on you, Millie.”

“Everything’s a good look on me.”

“There’s my girl.”

Millie smiles against her chest, before exhaustion claims her.

Jean counts her breaths, in and out, a prayer of thanksgiving.