Chapter Text
“Would you look at that?” Emma said dreamily, resting her chin on the palm of her hand. At five o’clock in the afternoon, Hartfield Café was mostly empty, save for the happy couple sat in the corner by the large window, intimately leaning towards each other over two cups of coffee. “Don’t they just look perfect together?”
The ‘they’ in question were Emma’s friend Taylor and her new girlfriend Wes, another friend. ‘They’ had been Emma’s newest matchmaking project, which had gone swimmingly - a few strategic texts, a couple of phone calls, a blind date... and here they were, engrossed in one another, only a month after meeting each other.
Emma felt a presence behind her, complete with the very familiar scent of George, before being joined by the tall man who leant over the counter next to her.
“Do they know that it’s closing time soon?”
“Oh, leave them be.” Emma tipped her head to the side slightly and smiled at her friends. “We can clear up around them.” She turned around and clasped her hands together excitedly. “Don’t you think I’ve done well?”
George stood up straight, wiping the front of his apron absentmindedly. “Done well at what?” He deadpanned.
“Don’t be thick, George.” Emma rolled her eyes, something she found herself doing more and more when she spent time with George. Which, unfortunately, was a lot. “Matchmaking! I’m the reason they got together, and look how happy they are. You have to admit, I have a talent.”
“A talent for what, meddling in other people’s affairs?” George quipped dryly. He turned around to start wiping down the surface of the cake counter, ignoring Emma’s affronted look.
“It’s not meddling! That’s horrible. It’s just...” She searched for the right word. “Helping. I just like seeing my friends happy.”
“Would you say I’m your friend?”
Emma frowned. “I guess. If I had to.”
“And do you want to make me happy?”
“Um...”
“Hypothetically.”
“Sure.”
“And do you know what would make me happy?”
“What?”
“If you stopped meddling with other people’s business and helped me clean up the café.”
Emma was about to reply something cutting, but George managed to escape by making his way towards a cluster of tables that some customers had pushed together during the busy day. Instead, she grumbled to herself and picked up where he had left off on the cake counter.
George Knightley had become almost a permanent, and mostly unwelcome, fixture in Emma Woodhouse’s life over the last eleven years. When Emma was nine years old, still at that time with a healthy father and a living mother, her sister Isabella had brought her boyfriend round for tea. Isabella, at sixteen, seemed impossibly glamorous to Emma, and was very proud of the fact that she had a boyfriend who was a whole year older than her! Emma didn’t remember much of the few dinners where John Knightley sat self-consciously at their table, no doubt answering prying questions from both Mr. and Mrs. Woodhouse, sweating nervously all the while. What Emma did remember, however, was the summer barbecue at the Knightley’s house. It had been the first introduction of the two families - whilst Emma’s parents had exchanged happy greetings with the Knightley’s, Emma (who had been shy enough to hide slightly behind her mother), remembered locking eyes with a tall boy with blonde hair, who looked a few years older than herself. This was George Knightley, John’s younger brother.
The George that Emma knew today, at the age of twenty-four, was a far cry from the pubescent boy she had first met all those years ago. She had to admit, he had grown up into rather an Adonis.
But, by God, was he the bane of her life.
“Just go home if you’re going to grumble at me so much,” Emma called across the café to her reluctant companion. “Oh, and when I say home, I mean your house and not mine.”
She heard him tut from behind a newly stacked pile of chairs. “You’re acting like I spend every waking minute at your house.”
“You do!”
“I do not! Why would I prolong our contact more than necessary when I know it irritates you so much?”
“Because you live to irritate me?”
“Believe it or not, Emma,” and suddenly George was behind her. Emma turned around and looked up at him defiantly. He was smirking, a rare expression for George. “The world doesn’t completely revolve around you.”
“And why shouldn’t it?”
“Because not everybody wants to devote their time to a spoilt little rich girl who-“
“Who what? Finish that sentence.”
“I’m not having this argument with you right now.”
“You started it.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Did-“
“Um,” a timid voice sounded out from behind the counter. Slightly startled, Emma looked around to see Taylor and Wes stood watching the pair. Emma hadn’t realised how close she and George had been standing; they both stepped apart simultaneously.
“Sorry,” Emma chuckles, refusing to look at George. “Are you two done here?”
“Yes, thanks.” Wes smiled and went to look in her purse. “Hang on, I’ll just find my card...”
“No, honestly, let me!” Taylor tried to stop her girlfriend from paying - there was a short and adorable scuffle, until Emma spoke over both of them.
“Look, it’s on the house. We’re all friends.” She grinned. “Tay, text me and we’ll sort something out soon, it’s been ages since we’ve all gone out!”
Taylor beamed and tilted her head. “Em, you’re an angel. And yes, definitely, let’s do something soon.”
The two women left, arms around each other. Once again, Emma leaned over the counter and watched them go. There was a silence.
“What is it, George?”
“What?” He feigned shock. “I said nothing.”
“Exactly. Spit it out.”
“All I can say is that Bates won’t be happy you didn’t charge them for those coffees.”
Emma made a dismissive noise and carried on picking up mugs. “Oh, please. I practically run this shop, she won’t care. Plus Tay’s an old friend from college. Bates will too busy getting ready for the oh-so-wonderful Jane Fairfax to make a visit.”
Even Emma could hear the bitterness in her own voice when talking about her mental manager’s dearly beloved niece; Emma honestly didn’t see what all the fuss was about Jane Fairfax. George pounced on it immediately.
“Why do you hate Jane so much? You barely know her.”
“George, this town is so tiny that you’re forced to know everyone. I may have only met her a couple of times, but I certainly feel as if I’ve known her my whole life. She’s a royal pain in the arse and a stuck up madam.”
George raised his eyebrows. “Takes one to know one.”
Scandalised, Emma whipped around, but before she could make an indignant reply, the door to the kitchen was swinging shut, and George was nowhere to be seen.
“Wanker.”
*
Irritatingly, George had left after doing most of the afternoon clear up.
As if Emma couldn’t handle it herself.
The air was heavy and warm as she made the shirt walk through the village back home in the late afternoon. It was the very end of summer, but the air was cloudy, threatening a storm that would hopefully clear away some of the oppressive heat.
Emma always passed George’s little block of flats on her way home. An eyesore in the quaint little town of Highbury, it had taken years for the block to finally be approved by the town council. Emma remembered her mother - she must have been young if her mother was still a part of the memory - bickering lightheartedly with her husband, insisting that a block of flats was the right step towards modernising what was practically a model village. Mr. Woodhouse had grumbled to himself, much as Emma found herself doing after an argument with George.
His flat was right at the top of the stone monstrosity, which was only a three minute journey from Emma’s own cottage. Her father’s cottage, she should say. On this particularly day, she passed the block and gave it a menacing glare, before realising that George would not be able to see her. She suddenly felt foolish, and hurried on home.
“Dad?” The door banged shut behind her. “I’m home!”
There wasn’t a sound for a moment - until a slightly stooped figure jumped from one of the bottom stairs onto the floor with a crash. Anyone else would have jumped out of their skin at such a spectacle, but Emma, after twenty years living with him, was used to her father’s quirks.
“What was that bang?” Mr. Woodhouse straightened up and looked around suspiciously.
“The door, Dad.” Emma leaned forward and kissed her father on his grizzled cheek. “Sorry, I shut it too hard. How was your day?”
“Terrible. Absolutely terrible.” Mr. Woodhouse grouched quietly as he went into the cluttered living room, throwing himself down on the overstuffed armchair. Emma smiled and sat down on the sofa, dumping her bag at her feet.
“And why is that?”
“I was looking at the weather forecast over the next few months.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Snow is predicted.”
Emma blinked. “It’s the end of August.”
“Yes, but! Snow in...” he counted silently. “Three months. It cannot be borne. It will not do!”
“Oh, Dad.” Emma laughed quietly and rubbed her eyes. It really had been a long day. “Let’s try not to worry about it just yet.”
Emma Woodhouse was not ashamed to admit that her best friend was her father. Mr. Woodhouse was not a geriatric, nowhere near that yet. He was eccentric, which put off a few people. However, Highbury was such a tightly knit community that, as Emma so often reminded George, everyone knew everyone. Mr. Woodhouse was known around the village as the eccentric old man who lived with his daughter in the cottage on the corner, who hated the cold and loved to birdwatch. He was well-loved by most, and Emma would not have had it any other way.
“Have you any plans tonight, dear?” Me. Woodhouse enquired vaguely, rubbing at a small stain on his waistcoat. Although he was a retired librarian and spent most of his time at home, Mr. Woodhouse refused to purchase any ‘casual wear’, and always insisted on wearing the smartest outfits.
“No, just thought we could stay in and watch some television. I’ll cook something nice if you want?”
“Sounds perfect.”
All was quiet for a moment. Emma got out her phone and started to check Twitter, before the silence was interrupted.
“George is coming round.”
“What?”
This was typical of George. Emma felt like she saw him more at her house than his own flat - which was, in fairness, quite grotty.
“Why is he coming round?” Emma fought to keep the whining tone out of her voice, but could hear it creeping in. “He’s always round here, anyone would think he’s homeless.”
“Emma, he’s part of the family!”
“No he’s not, he-“
“Well, I see him as a member of our family. I like the boy very much. And anyway, he’s interested in my bird-watching.”
He actually was as well. The creep.
“Plus,” Mr. Woodhouse smiled placidly. “He’s only just got back from travelling, wouldn’t you like to see him?”
“I saw him today, Dad. He was helping in the café.”
“Oh, well, there you go. Isn’t he a nice young man.”
“I’m not cooking for him. He always picks faults in my cooking.”
“Well, my dear. You have many talents, but I don’t think you inherited your mother’s skills in the kitchen.”
The sound of the front door opening carried through into the living room.
“Hello? It’s me!”
Emma rolled her eyes and got up, moving into the hallway. George Knightley was stood by the now closed front door, two carrier bags in his hands.
“What’s in those?” Emma pointed at the bags.
“Cooking supplies.” George said shortly. “Come on. You can come and help me make dinner.”
He moved past Emma. She raised her eyebrows and followed him, affronted.
“You hate my cooking.”
“I’ll lead, you follow.”
*
The dinner surprisingly ended up being very pleasant. George knew his way around the kitchen as if he lived there, and, once Emma had got over her pride at being told what to do, was able to direct his companion into making a very acceptable bolognese sauce. Mr. Woodhouse was slightly suspicious of this culinary triumph, but just as Emma was about to come clean, George insisted that she had made it herself with very little help from him. He dropped her a wink when Mr. Woodhouse was engrossed in a new forkful of spaghetti.
It was times like this, when the lights were soft and the wine was flowing and everyone was happy, that Emma looked at George and admitted to herself that she really didn’t mind having him around so much. Although not a brotherly figure, he was a nice replacement for Isabella, who had moved out with John when they got married - far too young, Mr. Woodhouse would always add when the subject arose. Although Isabella and John only lived just outside of Highbury, their five young children - yes, five! - kept them away from the village almost constantly. George and Mr. Woodhouse had always got along famously; when George had left for university six years previously, Emma remembered how downtrodden her father had been. So, she was secretly happy that he spent so much time in their little cottage.
When he wasn’t lecturing her, that was.
Mr. Woodhouse retired to his room not long after dinner, leaving Emma and George sat at the table with the dirty dishes and a second bottle of wine.
“I shouldn’t drink any more of this,” Emma hiccuped. “I’m on the morning shift with Harriet.”
“Ah,” George smiled and leaned back in his chair, the soft light of the moon illuminating his blond hair. “How is Miss Smith getting along?”
“Oh, just fine. I’ll show her how to use the tills tomorrow, she’s pretty much set on the menu layout.”
Harriet Smith was the newest employee at Hartfield Café. A pretty, if not slightly mousey, young girl, Harriet was due to start as a student at the local university after the summer, a tiny, campus based place just a bus journey outside of the village. She had self-consciously entered the café just three weeks previously, CV and cover letter in hand, and had timidly asked for a job interview. Emma was more than happy to oblige - she was only after part-time hours, because of college, and had seemed nice enough. Harriet had started that same week, and her training period was going swimmingly. She was also absolutely devoted to Emma.
Emma said as much to George, who laughed slightly mockingly. “Of course she is. And that’s perfect for you, is it not?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, now you can have your own one-woman fan club.” He shook his head, smiling, before sipping his wine and speaking again. “You’d better not turn her into one of your projects, Em, I swear to God.”
Well, now that he mentioned it... Harriet was pretty, of course, but she could definitely do with a little help here and there. Some lessons in confidence, perhaps, a new hairstyle?
“Emma.” George’s voice had a hint of warning. “I know that look. Don’t you dare try to set her up with anyone. The poor girl isn’t your toy.”
“But she told me she’s never had a proper boyfriend! She could meet someone really nice. How about Elton, he comes in a lot.”
“Firstly, you’ve never had a proper boyfriend either. And secondly, Elton? Really?” George snorted derisively. “He’s so self obsessed he probably wouldn’t even notice Harriet if she was stood under his nose, stark naked and painted purple. Leave her be, I’m sure she’ll find someone nice at university.” He raised his eyebrow slyly. “It’s the best place for it.”
Emma narrowed her eyes at his insinuation. “Oh yeah? Who did you meet at university then?”
“A few people. It was a really fun few years, Em. You know, you still have time to go. You’re only twenty, that’s hardly anything.”
The familiar sense of mild panic rose in Emma’s throat; she tamped it down with a sip of wine. “Um, maybe. Maybe next year.” She was so not in the mood for a lecture from George Knightley about getting out of the village for once. “I’d like some elaboration though, please. Who were your most memorable university conquests?”
In the dim light, Emma saw his teeth glint as he smiled slightly awkwardly. He looked down, then back up, then to the side. It wasn’t very often that George was unable to form a coherent sentence straight away. “You’re going to hate me.”
Oh God. Oh, don’t let it be-
“Jane Fairfax.”
Fuck.
Emma gripped the stem of her wine glass so hard she thought it might break. Carefully, she put it down on the table, George’s lingering gaze on her hand telling her that he had noticed the vice-like hold.
“You and...” Her voice was suddenly quieter. “Jane Fairfax? Were together?”
“Well,” George suddenly looked fairly uncomfortable, which gave Emma a sick thrill of satisfaction. “Not together. It wasn’t a relationship. We kind of ended up moving in the same circles and just... hooked up sometimes.”
“How often is ‘sometimes?’”
“Quite a lot. A lot.”
“When?”
“My second and third year. So it would have been her first and second.”
Emma had known that George and Jane had both gone to the same university, she wasn’t that out of the loop. But it was a very, very nasty shock to find out that they had been sleeping together for almost two years.
And yet she couldn’t put a finger on why she was so perturbed by this information.
Trying to appear light and easy, Emma smiles cheekily. “And how was it?”
“How was... what?” George’s brow furrowed and Emma blushed. She must sound so weird. No going back now.
“The sex. How was it?”
“Um...” George trailed off. He definitely felt uncomfortable. “Em, we don’t have to talk about this. I know you don’t like her, and I know you wouldn’t want to talk about... ahem, about that anyway.”
Emma’s heart flipped suddenly. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well, uh, well because, you’re... Um.” George looked positively wretched.
“Because I’m a virgin?”
“Well, yes, I suppose.”
Emma huffed out a mirthless laugh. “Just because I haven’t had sex, Knightley, doesn’t mean I’m a complete prude. Yes, twenty is quite old to still be a virgin. So what? At least I’m not going around shagging Jane bloody Fairfax in everyone’s face!” She suddenly felt close to tears, and cursed herself for reacting so terribly. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
George bit his full lip. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
Emma stood up. “Well, I’m not. I’m not interested.” She drained the rest of her glass. “You can let yourself out. I’m going to bed.”