Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did,” George’s gruff voice replies, half muffled behind the newspaper he’s reading. Of everyone Emma knows, George and her father are the only two people who still prefer to catch up on current events via analogue methods. His arms are spread wide, holding up the broadsheet, and one ankle is propped up on the opposite knee. The pose makes him look like he’s a hundred years old.

Her lengthy silence to his smart ass response must alert George that something’s wrong, because after a moment he peers curiously over the top of the page. He’s no doubt reading the agricultural headlines, and god, if he wasn’t her best friend, she might think he was the most boring person on earth.

“Emma?” he prompts gently, his demeanour suddenly softening at her uncharacteristic reticence. She doesn’t like the way his gaze has narrowed. Emma can feel her body language being analysed, even from across the room.

She squares her shoulders, breakfast sitting uneaten on the counter in front of her. Her phone, face up, next to her bowl of berries and yoghurt, stays resolutely silent with no attempts to distract her. Her lock screen is a picture of her and Harriet at the village festival, spring flowers woven in their hair.

George is still staring at her, blue eyes sharpening with every passing second. Outside a bird lets out a squall and something about the sound forces Emma to put her thoughts into words.

“So,” she says, her voice firmer than the strange quiver in her chest, “you probably heard that Elton is getting married?”

The newspaper that George had been holding aloft now lands on his lap, the crisp sound of the pages piercing through the quiet of the room. The sun is streaming in through the window next to him, and now that Emma can see his face properly, she notices that the light is hitting George’s hair in such a way that it looks like he has a halo. The effect almost makes him look attractive, if Emma were inclined to think of him that way. Which she’s not.

He leans forward in his chair and the moment is quickly broken. Even from here, Emma can see his expression is dark. There is no love lost between George Knightley and Philip Elton.

“I’d heard,” he answers tightly. Emma senses the wariness in his tone. “I just wasn’t sure if you had. Are you... okay?”

His awareness of the news explains why he’d shown up at Hartfield first thing that morning, wordlessly shoving Emma’s favourite takeaway coffee into her hand (an iced caramel latte, even in the winter). He’d then spent the next half an hour peering at her cautiously as if waiting for her to burst.

He wasn’t wrong to be concerned, of course. George is very rarely wrong in general, much to Emma’s deep annoyance. Because yes, she did want to talk to him this morning, although probably not quite for any of the reasons he’s expecting.

She blinks once, then twice, trying to figure out the best way to respond. In the end Emma opts for her version of the truth.

“Oh - well, yes. I’m okay,” she says, offering a light hearted smile to reassure him.

George doesn’t seem particularly persuaded. “You sure?”

It’s easy for Emma to hear the determined care in his tone. George may exude a calm indifference about most things in life, including the fact that he finds her company even slightly tolerable, but Emma knows that when it comes down to it, their friendship is bigger than the games they play on the surface. While he might be her worst critic (and her, his), that doesn’t mean that George absolutely won’t go down swinging for her when necessary. She’d like to think she’d do the same if the situations were ever reversed - except, to her despair, George seems to live a life devoid of fun or drama, despite Emma’s best attempts to introduce them.

She taps at the screen on her phone for somewhere to look that isn’t at him. “It’s just that… he’s invited me to the engagement party.”

George lets out something akin to a bark, and Emma glances up in time to spot the tell-tale twitch in his jaw. He’s mad. “He has?”

“Of course he has,” she fires back, because she has some pride. After all, she’s Emma Woodhouse, the social hub of young Highbury. Elton would be an idiot to exclude her, and George should know that. “And let’s not pretend he didn’t invite you too.”

George shifts uncomfortably at her words, leaning further back into the chair that is somehow his, even though he doesn’t live here and never has. His golden shock of hair makes it look like he’s just rolled out of bed, even though, knowing him, George has definitely been up for hours before he’d shown up on her father’s doorstep. Emma senses his unease before he glances up to meet her gaze again.

“Well, yes,” he answers, having the good grace to sound a little guilty. “But I wasn’t going to go. You know, not after everything.”

Honestly, what an idiot, Emma thinks, barely managing to not roll her eyes at him. She’s not sure she quite succeeds. It’s amusing to her that George seems to live life governed by some sort of chivalric moral code. It means he forgets sometimes that they’re living in the twenty-first century, and not the middle ages.

Either way, she can’t resist an attempt to get under his skin. ”Well, it was you who introduced me to him,” she points out, widening her eyes, and letting her voice shake just a fraction.

George immediately throws the newspaper down on the dining table, narrowly missing his own takeaway cup (black coffee, no sugar, because he’s got no imagination at all). “And god knows, Emma, I’ve apologised for that enough,” he says with haughty indignance. “Besides,” he grumbles, a hand now waving abstract shapes in the air at her, “I didn’t suggest you go off and date him!”

It’s a familiar refrain, one they’ve gone through a dozen or more times in the past six months since she’d broken up with Elton. Emma’s pretty sure both she and George could both chart the course of this argument in their sleep. Maybe a small part of them even enjoys it.

Anyway, if she’s honest, she’d been upset about Elton for... all of about three hours. After all, he’d been an experiment at best: an attempt at a romantic relationship so that Emma didn’t have to be the only person she knew who had never dated anyone. There had come a point where living in a world where even George, Highbury’s resident bachelor, had dated more people than her had become just too humiliating for words.

Whatever her reasons, it had been a grave mistake. Elton had been a grave mistake. And in the aftermath, Emma’s embarrassment had been acute.

Ever since, all her and Elton’s social encounters had been filled with his passive aggressive comments, arrogant mocking, and constant digs at how she was single and alone. And so if anything, Elton represents Emma’s hurt pride at having chosen so poorly more than anything else.

“And also,” George continues, half to himself at this point, “I did warn you that Elton wasn’t right for you.”

The reminder still has the immediate reaction of making Emma’s blood boil. “Oh, so it’s my fault for not heeding your warning then?” she throws out, words sharp like arrows shooting across the room at her best friend. Emma’s pretty sure she’s said this exact thing to George at least twice before. Her breakfast on the countertop has been forgotten.

“Not this again,” he huffs, even though it’s in good humour and a clear attempt at de-escalating the situation. For effect, George’s eyes rise skyward, as if praying to the heavens to get him out of this conversation. The motion reveals the long slope of his neck, and the dip of his throat just above the collar of his jumper, before he turns back to stare at her, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Emma’s mouth feels a little dry, quite suddenly, for no apparent reason. But it’s distracting enough that it means she doesn’t have a smart retort lined up and ready to go. “You started it,” she mutters after a long moment, irritated that she can’t come up with anything better.

George, to his credit, doesn’t respond to her comment. Nevertheless he sighs to show that he’s still heard her, before nestling himself deeper into the seat of his chair. Emma is pretty sure it’s half moulded to his body at this point, after years and years of conversations just like this. She sits in it sometimes when George isn’t around, viewing it as a chance to observe the room through his eyes, to see what he sees. But something about it feels wrong - like she’s somehow encroaching on his space, even in her own home.

“Well, it’s fine,” George continues, taking her silence as a sign that he should fill the gap. “We can both not go together then. I assume that’s what you want me to agree to? Solidarity and all that?”

This is precisely the opposite of what Emma wants.

“Oh, but we have to go!” she cries out, the clatter of her spoon hitting the side of her breakfast bowl in time with her plea, like a call to arms. “If Elton thinks I’m not going to show my face at his engagement party, he’s totally wrong.”

George tuts. Loudly. Any empathy that she had provoked in him seems to have quickly dissipated with his attempts to keep up with her mood. “So, you do want to go?” A puzzled expression forms on his face. “Why? To prove a point? … Wait, of course you do.”

“Well, what else can I do? Hide away and have to explain to the entire village why I’m not going? Make it seem like I’m still hung up on Elton? I’d rather die.”

Emma sees one corner of George’s mouth twitch upwards, a useless attempt at hiding his amusement at her dramatics.

“You could just say you are away visiting Isabella in London?” he suggests, fingernails now tapping a thoughtful rhythm out on the surface of the dining table.

Trust George to come up with something so unimaginative. “Then I’d actually have to go to London and stay with Isabella,” she points out, her face making her thoughts on that idea all too clear. Emma loves her sister, but she doesn’t love her dingy studio flat, or having to sleep on a fold out couch in the same room as her and John.

“Fair,” George concedes, with the knowledge of someone who has experienced the same horrors.

“Besides,” Emma says, “it’s too late now. It’ll look like I’m running away on purpose.”

“Alright. So you’ll... go then?”

“Exactly,” she agrees, pleased he’s catching on. “But I’ll need a date.”

There’s a heavy pause before George stifles a cough, seemingly choking on nothing but air. “A… date?” he croaks out eventually, his eyes wide enough to give him a bug-eyed look. If Emma wasn’t on a mission, she’d take the time to point out how stupid it makes him look.

“Yes,” she answers firmly, with a nod of her head. “Because I’m definitely not showing up to Elton’s engagement party without a date.”

George’s large eyes give way to a deep frown. “So this is just run-of-the-mill pettiness then?”

Emma scowls, wishing that sometimes George would be just a little less… blunt. “It’s not pettiness. Anyway, he’s the petty one. Do you know what he said to me when we broke up? He said that no one would ever love me because I was frigid and heartless. He said I’d die alone!”

George tilts his head at her with practiced sympathy. This isn’t the first time he’s heard this. He churns out his usual calm response. “Emma, you know he only said that to upset you.” But today George doesn’t stop here. “Anyway, haven’t you sworn off relationships?” He glances back down at the newspaper with practised nonchalance. “What was it that you said to me last week? That they’re too distracting, too… constricting?” George’s voice has taken on a strange timbre, almost like each word is getting temporarily stuck in his throat. He clearly knows he’s on thin ice.

“Whose side are you on?” she snaps, wishing that he didn’t have to choose this precise moment to throw her exact words back at her. Why does he always do that? Emma changes tactics. “Anyway, that’s not the point. Here’s a question for you: did your invite have a plus one?”

He glances back up at her, a frown half hidden by his hair. Her tangent has caught him off guard. “I’m sorry... what?”

Emma presses on, forcefully. “A plus one? Did you get a plus one?”

George turns his face to stare out the window, understanding noticeably dawning on him. Emma already knows he’s probably weighing up the risk of lying to her. She also knows he won’t.

He turns back, the morning sun now finally high enough in the sky to turn his skin to gold too. “Yes,” he answers with unblinking frankness. “Did you?” He already knows the answer.

“No!” she shouts, palm slapping down on the counter, causing her bowl to jump in response. “Because Elton can’t help but stick the knife in, to find a way to take a swipe at me. Just because his ego can’t handle the fact that I dumped him and the whole village knows about it.”

Emma thinks for half a moment that George might tell her that she’s reading too much into things, but on this occasion he doesn’t even refute it. Taking heart, she continues. “So, he’s just assumed I won’t bring anyone. He hasn’t even given me the option! He just expects me to come along and watch him show off his new fiancée and imply that I’m nothing because I don’t have anyone. And yes, I understand how I’m not being a good feminist right now, George, but I don’t care. I want to shove my date in his face!”

George snorts. “Really? Even at his own engagement party, you can’t just let him have this one?”

Emma narrows her eyes, tone cooling. “Are you defending him?”

An appalled look crosses George’s face. “God, no!” Emma feels a burst of relief. “He’s obviously the worst. He says cruel things to people to make himself feel big when he doesn’t get his way. He’s a puffed up, arrogant egotist, trying to climb his way up the social ladder using any pretty girl he can find - no offence.”

“None taken,” she replies quickly, idly pondering whether George’s use of the word pretty is his own opinion or merely a turn of phrase. A small part of her hopes it is the former, just because whenever George does compliment her, it’s begrudgingly, and they never acknowledge it ever again.

“So... you need a date then?” George’s vowels stretch out at the same time as his legs do, the heel of one boot coming to land hard on the tiled floor, the other crossing over at his ankle. The action gives him a casual, relaxed air. Today it feels a little performative.

Emma nods firmly, making her resolve clear. “Yes. Firstly, so I can get the satisfaction of telling him I’m bringing someone. And secondly, so I can show up with someone super hot, and infinitely better than he will ever be!”

George clears his throat, his head lolling to one side as if trying to figure her out. “So you need me to do what exactly?… Give your crazy plan my blessing? Pair you off with one of my friends from the rugby club?”

“I do have someone specific in mind.” Emma calmly rests her chin in the palm of one hand, elbow hard against the countertop. Once again, George is looking at her in a way that she wishes he wouldn’t. There’s something about the way he evaluates her, even after all these years of friendship, that makes her stomach zigzag - like he can somehow sense that she’s about to do something he won’t approve of.

(If Emma ever made a list of things that she’s done that George didn’t approve of, it would be a very very long list.)

“Is it Will?” George asks, a hand coming up to massage his forehead, like an exasperated old man. They’re not that much different in age, but honestly, it’s mannerisms like that which make Emma wonder if George is just prematurely old by nature. “Because I know you thought he was… cute, or whatever, that one time we all went out,” George’s face twists up into a grimace, clearly wishing he didn’t have to quote her directly, “...but he has a girlfriend now.”

Oh god, she thinks. Is he really being this obtuse? It would be endearing if it wasn’t so excruciating. Emma decides it’s best to just bite the bullet. “No, I wasn’t thinking of Will. I was actually thinking more of someone like… you?”

A pin could have dropped, and to Emma it would have sounded as loud as a jet plane flying overhead. The ever encroaching sunlight illuminates the dust particles dancing just above George’s head, and so Emma decides to stare at those instead of subjecting herself to the bewildered expression she knows will be plastered all over his face.

“Me?” The upswing on his question makes George’s voice almost come out at a squeak.

Emma waves a dismissive hand at him, determined to not make this a big deal, even though her eyes continue to focus somewhere over his head. “Yes. You and me, going together.” She’s proud of how calm she sounds, rather than how she actually feels - a bit exposed, somewhat vulnerable, slightly untethered.

George shifts in his seat, twisting one hip even deeper into the back of the chair. His boots grind harder into the floor. Emma only looks at him when he finally speaks: “Oh, so like… we show up together as friends? I mean... yeah? We can do that. I mean, w-we’re both going anyway, so… showing up together? That’s fine. I mean… I wasn’t going to bring a date anyway so that’s totally... totally good with me.”

Emma gets a sense that George is being deliberately thick. Not only does his response feel off, but it’s also just completely out of line with his usual self-assured nature. On a normal day, Emma wouldn’t hesitate to mock him for everything he’s just said - from the odd stammering, to the fact that of course George wouldn’t have a plus one, because George barely dates anyone for longer than a month or two, when he does bother. She caught him swiping through Tinder once and didn’t let him hear the end of it for an entire fortnight.

But given what she’s about to ask, Emma figures now really isn’t the time to tease him.

“George,” she says evenly, and for some reason, his name feels weird rolling off her tongue, “I didn’t mean just showing up together, as friends. I mean, I want you to be my date… like, we’re dating?”

It takes a lot to shock George Knightley, Emma knows. Mostly because he’s annoyingly observant and seems to have some sort of in-built sixth sense about most things. Emma has lost count of the number of times that she’s tried to one up him with some excellent gossip, only for him to tell her that he already knew.

But this time, Emma thinks she might just have finally stunned him into silence.

“Wait,” he says after ten long seconds of furrowed eyebrows, rapid blinking and what Emma can only guess is his brain short circuiting. Even from this distance, she can see the heave of his chest, like he’s struggling to catch his breath. One by one his feet tuck back underneath him as he straightens up in his chair. “You want to... date me?”

Wait, what? she thinks, now thrown herself. And then the reason for his bizarre reaction clicks into place. Oh, he’s got it totally wrong.

“Oh shit! No, no, no!” Emma flails her hands at him, a signal of objection. “Sorry, that’s not what I meant, George. I mean, god, can you imagine?” She lets out a laugh that is so over the top that she immediately feels bad. The expression on George’s face remains bewildered. “I mean… no, what I’m asking is… can we pretend that we’re dating? You now, put on a bit of a show? You can be my admiring boyfriend and I’ll be your doting girlfriend… but you know, not for real, real.”

Now that she’s said it out loud, Emma realises how insane it sounds.

Totally mute, George stares at her, apparently stupefied. The silence grows larger and larger, the air strained, and Emma hopes like hell that they’ll be able to laugh about this later.

“Oh,” George finally breathes, with a little too much relief for Emma not to be just a bit offended. Is the idea of dating her so terrible? She chooses to file that away to analyse later. The room is then cut with the sound of George’s sharp laugh. He rubs a hand over his eyes before looking back at her with incredulity. “You seriously want me to be your... pretend boyfriend?”

“Exactly!” she smiles benevolently, like he’s a dog that has finally learned a new trick. “As I said, I need someone hot and superior to show off.” She coats the praise with demure sweetness, even though she knows he’ll see through it immediately.

George’s eyebrows quirk upwards, a spark of amusement not far behind. “Emma, don’t try and flatter me into agreeing to your ridiculous scheme.”

“It’s not ridiculous!”

George braces his hands on the table and pushes himself to his feet, drawing himself up to his full height. In a few long strides he’s across the room, stopping at the other side of the breakfast counter. It’s the nearest he’s come to her all morning. Up close she can see the tiny pulls in his cable knit jumper, and the rich blue of his eyes.

He sighs wearily before collapsing onto the bar stool opposite her. “So... what you’re saying is, you want me to take you to Elton’s engagement party - and have us parade around like we’re a couple, so that the entire village can see us? All so you can… what? Prove something to Elton?” George shakes his head minutely. “That’s totally mad. Why on earth would I agree to any of that?” As he leans forward, Emma can smell his familiar cologne, mingled with the scent of freshly cut grass. She’s surprised at herself for noticing.

“Because I’m your best friend?” she simpers, knowing full well that George doesn’t get swayed by adulations, from her or anyone else. He’s too practical, too staid, for that.

“Best friends come pick you up from the pub when you’re too drunk to get home. They don’t pretend to be your boyfriend to get back at someone,” he replies pointedly, with the tone of voice that he always adopts when he thinks he’s right. A part of Emma wants to argue that nowadays she mostly calls a taxi if she needs to get home - because George has never quite let her live down the time that she fell drunkenly out of his parked Land Rover and straight into a ditch. She’d completely ruined her favourite pair of jeans.

“Your definition of best friends is incredibly narrow, George,” she answers dryly instead.

He stares her down, and Emma finds herself wishing that she was wearing a nicer pair of pyjamas, instead of a ratty university t-shirt that she’d stolen from him and that he’d seen far too many times to count.

“If I had to guess,” George says plainly, sounding more like an exasperated parent than her best friend, “I suspect you haven’t thought this through at all, have you? What would your father say? The entire town?”

Trust him to be so practical.

“Oh, it will be fine.” Emma waves a dismissive hand at him. “My father will never know. And half the town already thinks we’re dating. The other half won’t care.” She’s not really sure how much of that is true, but right now, she’s pretty sure it doesn’t matter.

He inhales sharply, shoulders tensing. “Half the town thinks we’re dating?”

“Focus, George.”

“But-”

“Look, that’s not the point here, okay? I just… I really need you for this, George. And I know you don’t understand why - I’m not sure I completely do myself - but I just know that Elton… he would believe it was real if it was you, with me. Because you’re… a good person. You don’t go around pretending to be someone’s boyfriend. You’d actually just be their boyfriend. You’re… you. He would take you seriously.”

A hint of a smile is back at the corner of George’s mouth. “I’m sorry, but did Emma Woodhouse just admit that I’m a good person?”

“Oh my god, don’t make me ever have to admit that to you again,” she cringes, because somehow that’s much easier than being truly sincere. That would require her to admit to George’s face that he’s the best man she knows.

(After her father, naturally).

Before he has time to respond, Emma makes a grab for George’s hands and grasps them tightly between her own. He initially starts a little at her touch, because really, this isn’t something they do. They aren’t the sort of friends that hold each other’s hands, or get in each other’s space, on a regular basis. They aren’t naturally tactile in that way. Sure, they’ll hug sometimes, even lean into each other on occasion, usually after a few drinks or a late night on the couch watching movies. But rarely do they sway too deep into sentimentality.

When they do touch with purpose and intention, it’s usually always important.

Right now, Emma’s caress seems to have forced George back into a dazed silence. He stares down at their entwined hands in deep thought. Emma takes the opportunity to give his fingers a gentle squeeze. His skin looks impossibly tanned next to her paleness, the consistent hue creeping up his forearms to where the sleeves of his jumper have been pushed haphazardly up to the elbows.

“George,” she says calmly after a moment. Emma tries to pitch her tone to the place in his brain that she knows is so attracted to reason and rationality. “I know this whole thing sounds insane. Even I can admit that. But I just… I can’t show up there alone. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right - that maybe I’m just destined to be unloved and-”

“-you’re not unloved, Emma-” George interjects, his grip tightening fiercely on hers. It would be a sweet moment if she wasn’t so focused on what she needs to say.

Instead she smiles wanly back at him, brushing aside what he clearly means as a kindness, “-and it would just be so much easier to do this with someone like you, or well, not even someone like you, but with you specifically, George. Because you’re my best friend, and things won’t get messy between us. It will be easy to pretend with you. Do you know what I mean?”

She can’t read the expression on George’s face. It’s not really one she’s seen before in all the years of knowing him.

“Kind of?” he says eventually, although he’s still clearly a little perplexed. There’s apprehension in his body language and in the way he presses his usually full lips together in a tight line.

She has a sudden brainwave, and seizes on it before she has a chance to dwell on its morality. “I mean, look, I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to, George. I know I’m asking a lot. If you won’t do it, I guess... I could always ask Frank?”

George’s grip on her fingers turn even more vice-like in an instant. “Frank Churchill?” he scoffs, contempt dripping from every syllable. If Emma thought that George didn’t like Elton, it’s nothing compared to how little he cares for Frank Churchill. Personally, she’s never quite understood why. Frank is boisterous and fun, and while maybe he can be a little bit much sometimes, he’s always a great laugh. Maybe someone as chronically dull as George just can’t see the appeal.

“Yes, I mean, I’m sure he’d be up for it. You know he’s always up for one of my schemes.”

Emma watches George’s jaw tighten, back teeth clenching together. She can practically see the wheels turning in his brain, the arguments for and against agreeing to help her being weighed and measured in turn.

Finally he sighs, a loud whoosh of breath so forceful that Emma catches the strange mix of black coffee and his spearmint toothpaste. “Don’t ask Frank,” George says with the voice of a cornered man who knows he’s been outmanoeuvred. He stares down at their joined hands once more, before pulling his own away and clasping them together on the countertop. Emma’s heartbeat feels like it’s on pause until he finishes his sentence. “I’ll do it.” George sounds so grave and so serious that anyone would think she’s asked him to help hide a dead body, rather than just attend an engagement party with her.

“You will?” Emma beams, turning that full Woodhouse smile on him in a way that she doesn’t often bother to do. George had become immune to it years ago. But, the truth is she’s grateful... ecstatic even, at the idea of having him help her do this. The whole thing already feels so much more manageable than it had when she had stared down at the opened invitation with an all consuming dread.

“Yes, I will,” he echoes. But before she can genuinely thank him, he’s already scolding her. “But you know I don’t like Frank, Emma. You didn’t need to manipulate me like that.”

A tiny sliver of guilt rears up inside her. And while she could own it, could apologise, it’s too hard to curb her natural reaction to push back. So instead Emma smiles sweetly, batting her eyelashes for maximum effect. “If you didn’t hate Frank, maybe you wouldn’t have been so easily manipulated.”

George shoots her a glare, but there’s no real malice behind it. “Do you want me to change my mind?”

Emma knows he won’t. A Knightley promise is iron cast. Once made it won’t be broken. She’s always appreciated that about him.

“One thing, Emma,” he says, suddenly a little skittish. “Do… do you promise this won’t make things weird? You know, between us?”

Emma finds a frown of her own. She’s surprised that he even has to ask. “No, of course not. It’s us.”

George looks somewhat appeased. “Alright then,” he answers, with a sense of gravity. Emma gets a glimpse at how seriously he clearly plans to take this. A surge of love, usually pressed down under her cool façade, overcomes her. Before she can stop herself, Emma grabs for his hands again, on instinct this time, rather than by artifice. This time George lets her take them without reaction, a casual willingness that shows maybe they’ll be good at this deception after all.

“Thank you, George,” she murmurs, genuinely. Emma knows that she’s not well versed at expressing these sorts of things to him, and so it feels important that he knows she really does mean it. “Seriously. I’m... really grateful that you’ve finally agreed to participate in one of my mad schemes.”

He sends a wry half smile her way. “No problem,” he says slowly, maybe even a touch archly. “I mean, how hard can it be to pretend to be in love with you?”

Emma laughs, enjoying his joke. “Exactly.”

Chapter Text

“So what did Elton say when you told him?” George asks a few days later as Emma slides into the chair opposite him. Fords is unusually busy for a weekday mid-morning, and so Emma and George have had to resort to the cafe’s outdoor seating. The weather is a little cool for it still, but there really isn’t anywhere else to go in Highbury for coffee that is remotely as good.

Emma slides the plated croissant she got for him across the table, and George gives her a pleased smile.

“At first he texted back saying, oh that’s fine, bring a plus one. And then two minutes later, he sent me another text being like… who are you going to be bringing anyway? Like, hmm, really subtle, Elton. And so I just… didn’t reply.”

“Wait, you did this all by text?”

“Of course,” Emma replies, taking a sip of her iced coffee, while simultaneously rolling her eyes at him. “No one uses their phone for calling anyone anymore, George. Only you.”

He’s about to protest but clearly realises it would be pointless. Instead he breaks his croissant in half with gusto, pastry flakes flying across the table. Emma watches him with fascination.

George, more preoccupied with his food, doesn’t seem to notice her stare. “Wait, so why did you even need to tell him you’re bringing a plus one?” He glances up at Emma again, eyebrows knit in confusion. “He invited me anyway. It’s not like you’re bringing an additional random person.”

She groans with exasperation. “Oh my god. Stop being so logical! The point was to tell him I was going to be bringing someone. The who doesn’t really matter.”

“Wow, thanks,” he replies drolly, an elbow landing hard on the table. “That makes me feel really special.” Emma sends him a dirty look, making it clear she doesn’t appreciate his wisecrack. George returns with a sarcastic smile before continuing. “So, you just didn’t respond to his text then?”

She shrugs airily. “No, why would I?”

“You don’t think that’s a touch passive aggressive, even for you?” George takes a large bite of croissant, raising his eyebrows.

Emma narrows her eyes. “What do you mean, even for you?”

George wisely ignores her challenge by quickly swallowing and resuming their previous subject. “So Elton now knows you are bringing someone, but he doesn’t know who? Are you telling me that you’re embarrassed of your fake boyfriend already?” He scrunches his nose up at her, and Emma doesn’t have the heart to tell him he’s got pastry crumbs on his bottom lip.

“No. I’m just… making him think on it.”

A beat. “To what end?” It’s such a typical George question.

“I don’t know,” Emma answers impatiently, already tiring of his interrogation. “And anyway, I didn’t bring you here to talk about Elton.”

“How sad,” George responds mockingly, with a glint in his eye. “So, why exactly are you plying me with free food? Not that I’m not grateful, naturally.”

“Well, I... I thought we needed to set out some ground rules. For this… arrangement.”

He scoffs, dislodging the stray crumbs from his face. “Oh, okay, this should be good. What are they? No, let me guess. In the movies, number one is always ‘don’t fall in love with you’, right?” George lets out a breathy laugh, as if almost to himself.

Emma pokes out her tongue. “Haha.”

“Or is it, you shouldn’t fall in love with me?” George adds after a moment of consideration, gesturing between them with a piece of pastry still in one hand. Emma squirms in her seat, definitely not because the idea of falling in love with George makes her feel distinctly strange, but more because she really shouldn’t be losing control of this conversation so quickly.

She gives him a pointed look, trying to put across that she’s trying to be serious for once. “No. I just feel like we should discuss what’s expected, and what the… parameters are.”

George’s eyebrows dart upwards, disappearing underneath the hair that’s constantly threatening to fall into his eyes no matter how many times he brushes it back. “Careful, Emma,” he grins, popping the last piece of croissant in his mouth. He must have eaten the entire thing in less than a minute flat. She should have bought him two; that might have helped keep his mouth shut for longer. “You’re beginning to sound like me.”

“Shoot me now,” is her quick retort, but said with a begrudging smile. “Anyway, it’s important. You’re the one who said you didn’t want things to get weird. It’s crucial that we both know what is expected.”

“So when you say what is expected, you’re actually referring to what is expected of me… the fake boyfriend in this scenario?”

“Technically,” she points out, “I’m also your fake girlfriend, you know.”

“Indeed,” George nods before leaning back in his seat to level his stare directly at her. “Although I’d like to argue that you’re the fake girlfriend I never asked for, or needed.” There’s something odd in the way he says girlfriend, as if the word itself has left a strange aftertaste in his mouth.

“Yes, yes, you’re doing me a favour,” Emma says, waving a hand at him, eager to move on. “You don’t have to keep reminding me. Smugness doesn’t suit you.” Except, maybe it does, just a little, she thinks, as she notes his languid posture, the confident set of his shoulders.

“Fine,” he accepts graciously, and somehow normal George falls back into place just as quickly. “What are your terms, Miss Woodhouse?”

His humorous attempt at formality causes something to bubble up in her chest. Emma pushes it back down. “I thought you’d never ask, Mr Knightley,” she replies smoothly, with a little incline of her head.

---

“Did you really have to put all of that down in your notes app?” George asks, now nursing a second cup of black coffee. Emma’s sure he'd only ordered it so he could get a brief reprieve from her. “Are you planning to draw up a contract for us to sign or something?” He looks across at her wryly, clearly warming to his topic. “Or do you have so many fake boyfriends dotted all around the county that you struggle to keep us all straight in your mind?”

“If I did,” Emma retorts, “you’d certainly be the most memorable, if only for how annoying you are.”

George, as always, is unperturbed by her attempt at wit. “Now now, dearest,” he smirks, sarcasm heavy once more, “is that anyway to talk to your beloved?” Something about this entire situation seems to have put him in a playful mood, and Emma, for the life of her, can’t figure out why. If anything, she thought George would be the one making all the rules and trying to plan ahead, instead of her.

“I’m dating you, stupid. I didn’t have a personality transplant to go along with it.”

“More’s the pity,” he replies, eyes dancing at her over the rim of his coffee cup.

Emma sighs at him before turning her attention back to her phone. “So,” she says, scrolling through her notes one last time, “I think we’re both on the same page with our story. We’ve been dating for a month or so, but keeping it quiet until now. We haven’t told my father yet.” Emma glances up at George to make sure she has his attention, and is surprised at the intense level of concentration in his stare. She quickly looks back down, momentarily lost as to where she left off. “We… ah, we arrive together, and leave together. And you must dance with me for at least four songs, two of which have to be slow dances.”

She’d negotiated him up from no dancing at all, and so Emma was feeling quite smug about that one. George grimaces in response.

“Fine, I agree.”

“I’m not finished!”

George looks like he’s about to say something, but snaps his mouth shut at the last second.

“By all accounts,” Emma continues, “we act in every way like a dating couple would. That means holding hands, lots of casual touching and sitting close together, plenty of adorable staring into each other’s eyes, and all that stuff.”

George looks immediately wary. “And that’s it?”

“What do you mean, that’s it?” By Emma’s reckoning, he’s given more than she’d expected him to. If anything, George had seemed almost… pliable to her suggestions, rather than her having to fight him tooth and nail for any ground. It had taken the fun out of it, somewhat.

“I mean, I’m not expected to resort to more… obvious public displays of affection, am I?” A flush has crept up his neck, and George has suddenly become very interested in his hands, clasped together in his lap.

It takes Emma a moment to figure out what he’s trying to say.

“Oh my god, George! Are you asking if you have to kiss me?” Emma lets out a wild laugh that’s louder than she intended. A few heads turn in their general direction at the abrupt sound.

He looks distinctly uncomfortable in a way that means the answer could only be yes. Emma guesses this is why he was more than willing to agree to all her other demands so readily - if only to avoid this one.

“Calm down, Romeo. I promise I’m not going to make you kiss me. I wouldn’t dare force my grotesque self on you.” Emma says it as a joke, but a small part of her ego can’t help but wonder why George finds the idea of kissing her to be so mortifying.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” he replies, the flush on his neck now blooming into a deep shade of red on his cheeks. It’s not often Emma gets to see George discomforted, and it’s rather eye-opening. “It’s just… surely it would just be a bit… strange, right? Us doing that?”

Emma gives herself a moment to try and conjure up the idea of kissing George. But it’s hard to let her imagination really explore it when he’s perched opposite, staring at her in that particular way he has. It makes her feel self-conscious.

The truth is that they’ve known each other for so long. And so most of the time, it’s just easier for her to pretend that George is the most irritating person alive. Although Emma is big enough to admit that, when she was younger, there were probably times, fuelled by too many vodka tonics, that led to her notice how kind his smile is, and that, as George helped propel her home with a warming arm around her shoulder, it was nice to be cared for by him.

But that’s not the same as kissing him. Emma feels the heat rising in her own cheeks now, if only for how awkward the idea makes her feel. Either way, she’s glad for the cool breeze that has accompanied them sitting outdoors.

“Yeah,” she answers eventually. “You’re right. It would probably be weird.”

George looks satisfied with her agreement. “Good. So that’s my one demand then.”

It’s a reasonable request, and one Emma doesn’t foresee being a problem. “Fine. So, everything else is okay, but we don’t go there?”

George pauses a fraction too long before responding, and while it may not have been noticeable to anyone else, Emma sees it. He probably regrets agreeing to help her, she thinks, as her teeth gnaw anxiously on her bottom lip. The tacky feeling of her lip gloss slides against her tongue.

Finally, he nods firmly. “Agreed.”

“Okay.” Emma breathes out, wishing she felt as relieved as she believes she should feel. Something uneasy is eating at her, but she can’t pinpoint what it is.

“Although, what about Harriet?”

George’s question slices through her preoccupation. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Harriet,” he repeats, decidedly. “Are you going to tell her what’s going on?”

It’s a question that Emma has also asked herself over the past few days, with wildly varying answers each time.

“No, I don’t think so,” she confesses with genuine guilt snapping behind it. Emma feels bad about the decision but for now, she thinks it’s for the best. “You know what she’s like with keeping secrets. And she and Rob have been away these past few weeks. I haven’t had a chance to really talk to her properly. So I think she’ll understand that’s why I haven’t told her about… us. I can tell her the truth afterwards.”

“If you’re sure?” George’s response is uncharacteristically restrained. Emma had expected more of a lecture from him about the benefits of rigorous honesty in a friendship.

“You won’t tell Rob, will you?”

An amused grin breaks onto his face. “Rob and I don’t talk as often as you think we do, Emma. The last text I had from him was a photo of a roast dinner, so we’re not exactly opening our hearts on a daily basis.”

She smiles at that. “Okay then. Is there anything else we needed to cover?”

George mulls over her question for a second. “What time do I need to pick you up?”

“Huh?”

“For the party?”

“Oh. About eight, I guess?”

“And… do I need to know what colour your dress is or something? So we can… match?”

“Oh my god, George. We’re not going to prom,” she replies with scornful humour. For someone only a few years older than her, he’s so old fashioned sometimes, and not even in an ironic way.

(Besides, Emma already knows he’ll wear his favourite navy suit - the one she helped him pick out two years ago - and if she just happens to have a new dress that will go perfectly with that, then that’s just a total coincidence on her part.)

“Okay, sorry for trying to be thoughtful,” he grumbles lightly. “I’ll see you at eight on Saturday then?” George rises from the table, tilting his coffee cup up to his lips to drain the dregs before leaving it empty on the table between them. He adjusts the collar of his coat, a great big heavy thing that Emma has grown accustomed to seeing every time the seasons turn cooler.

It feels weirdly formal, when he says it like that. Like… it’s an actual date, rather than just an arrangement between friends that may be just a little more complicated than normal. The peculiar flutter of something resurfaces in Emma’s chest once more, a half skipped heartbeat, perhaps. She’s clearly had too much coffee for one morning.

She turns her face up towards his. “See you then,” she echoes, not meaning it to sound as apprehensive as it does. To compensate, she overcorrects: “Don’t forget my corsage, homecoming king.”

He snorts, and rather than finding it ridiculous, for once Emma finds it a little charming. “Very funny,” George replies as he shoves his hands deep into his coat pockets. Before she can say another word, he’s gone.

---

“Take a coat, my dear,” her father pipes up from his place next to the fire. He looks over at her with a concerned smile. “It’s cold outside.”

Her father always thinks it’s cold outside. Besides, a coat will ruin Emma’s outfit. “George is picking me up,” she says, fussing with her hair in the nearest mirror. “I’ll be fine.”

Her father looks reassured, but barely. “How is George? I haven’t seen him recently.”

Emma doesn’t have the heart to point out that George had had dinner with them only three nights ago. Her father’s definition of recently is very subjective. “He’s fine, papa,” Emma answers automatically instead. Because George is always fine. He’s consistent and steady and dependable, and… five minutes late, actually. Extremely unlike him.

“He works too hard,” her father frets. It’s a familiar refrain. “And Donwell Abbey must be very cold at night. He should take the time to come and sit by our fire more often. Evenings like this are terrible for catching colds.”

The inky sky is crystal clear, and the air is fresh. Emma can even see the stars through the window. But she knows there’s no use in pointing out to her father that the party will be indoors. Or that the Abbey no doubt has plenty of fireplaces of its own. “I’ll tell him, papa,” she replies indulgently. The fire crackles once more and her father, satisfied, returns to his book.

Where is George? Emma wonders, as she checks the clock over the mantel yet again. Is it possible he’s changed his mind? No, of course not. George would never cancel at the last minute.

It’s just that... she’d texted him that morning to say that she was looking forward to seeing him tonight, and received no response. Maybe he’s sick? Or dead?

But just then she hears the familiar sound of a vehicle on the driveway, wheels grinding over the loose gravel. Emma lets out a breath that she didn’t know she was holding.

“That’s George now,” she says, rushing over to her father and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Don’t be too late, my dear,” he pleads. “Sleep is important for good health.”

“I promise, papa.” She reassures him by pressing a gentle hand to his shoulder. He’ll be fast asleep regardless of what time she gets home, but she likes to placate him anyway.

Emma hears the slam of a car door, followed by the crunch of George’s shoes on the gravel outside. Emma hovers near the front door, waiting for George to let himself in. But there’s a long silence, almost too long, and then finally, a soft knock.

The sound surprises her. George never knocks. He always just lets himself in, his presence at Hartfield so customary that both she and her father never question coming home to find him sitting in their kitchen, helping himself to whatever is in the fridge.

She flings the door open wide, and finds George hovering on the edge of the porch, eyes cast outward and into the shadows. Emma doesn't even bother with a proper greeting. “Why did you knock?”

George jumps a little at the sound of her voice, turning his head quickly to face her. Emma allows herself the chance to take him in. He looks… handsome, she thinks, dressed in his suit (navy, just as she predicted). The cut of the jacket does him favours that his usual shapeless jumpers never do: his shoulders are wider than Emma had realised, and the shape of his torso looks lean but firm in the half light.

George’s eyes widen at the sight of her. “Emma!” he says, somewhat startled - which is stupid, she thinks, given she was obviously going to be the one answering the door to him. “You look…” he trails off, lips parted, eyes puzzled, as if he doesn’t quite know how to finish the sentence.

Emma doesn’t bother waiting, and instead moves into an elaborate twirl, a wordless request to be admired. Her cocktail dress is classy but still sexy: a very specific balance that she felt complimented the situation perfectly.

“Thank you,” she says eventually as she finishes her spin, and tires of waiting for George to find sufficient, or indeed, any praise. All in all, he looks a little dumbfounded, and Emma figures that’s flattering enough. It’s not often that George is rendered mute. “We even match,” she adds after a moment, her fingers flicking upwards to his shoulder, as if to brush away some imaginary lint.

George glances down at himself, as if he’s somehow forgotten what he was wearing. “Indeed,” he replies, the word coming out a little clipped. “Should I come in and say hello to your father before we go?” He approaches the threshold and peers around her and into the house.

“No, we’re already late.” Her hand moves swiftly to grip his upper arm, using it to propel him backwards. If George and her father start talking, they might never get to the party at all.

“Sorry,” he mutters, having the grace to look a little contrite. “I was busy.” He doesn’t elaborate. Instead he just lets her manhandle him back out onto the porch.

“It’s fine,” Emma answers brusquely, pulling the front door closed behind them. There are moths circling the porch light. His Land Rover is parked a short distance away.

“Won’t you need a coat?” George asks, as she slides her hand into the crook of his elbow. He peers down at her, eyes tracing her almost bare shoulders, her naked arms. Emma notes that his gaze respectfully never dips any lower. Typical George. “It’s cold tonight.”

“I’ll be fine.” Her heels wobble a little as they make their way across the gravel. “I want my arrival to have impact,” she grins, trying to lighten the mood a little. She can tell that George is tense. His spine is rigid, his jaw clenched, and that’s definitely not what they need right now.

“You sure?” he asks once more, leading her to the passenger side and opening the door for her. Emma smiles at the small gesture. “Fair warning, I’m not going to lend you my jacket if you get cold later.”

George always says this, and yet he always does.

Nevertheless, Emma nods seriously in return, as if she’s taking him at his word. “I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Honestly, George looks about as relaxed as if she’d told him they were about to go swimming with some sharks. This won’t do at all. She needs this to go well.

Emma’s about to hop into the passenger seat, but instead turns back to him quickly. “I like your suit,” she says simply, thinking that just maybe some gentle reassurance might help ease George’s nerves. At her compliment, George looks quietly bashful, and it’s rather sweet. He’s become suddenly interested in his own shoes. Emma notices he’s even polished them.

“Thanks,” he answers simply after a prolonged second. A slow smile loosens the harsh lines of his face a little and he looks a bit more like himself. A curl of hair has fallen across his forehead, despite his clear attempts to tame it. It’s tidier than usual, although not by much. Emma resists the fleeting urge to brush it out of his eyes, and then wonders where that compulsion had come from. Her fingers twitch in response. “You helped me choose it, remember?”

She lets out a small laugh. “Of course I remember.” It’s the only time in their long history that George has ever asked Emma for fashion advice - something she had been trying to inflict on him for years. Besides, watching him try on gorgeous suit after gorgeous suit had hardly been a chore. “That’s why I like it so much,” she points out archly.

Her playful arrogance does the trick. George releases a low chuckle. “I should’ve guessed.”

“True,” she grins, cocking her chin up a little. She feels a warm glow in her chest for the man who knows her so well. “I am very certain about the things I like.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Then you should consider yourself lucky that I like you,” she teases, grabbing his hand, ostensibly to get his help into the Land Rover’s passenger seat. But even though her tone is light and carefree, there’s intentional weight behind her words. By the way George’s hand squeezes hers in return, Emma knows he’s understood her.

They hover there, on the verge of the moment. He’s her best friend and yet the way he’s staring at her causes something to ignite inside of Emma: a spark, a warming ember; she’s not really sure.

George’s smile curls shyly at the corner of his mouth. “And I’m grateful every day,” he replies with a careful mix of sarcasm and blinding sincerity. The smooth melody of his words sinks deep into Emma’s bones. A swell of affection overtakes her.

But then he clears his throat and the moment is over. Because they aren’t the sort of best friends who fawn and make speeches. This is as close as they get.

Chapter Text

“Are you ready?” George asks, as they both peer out through the dirty windscreen of the Land Rover. Emma thought he might have at least washed it for the occasion. They’ve been sitting in the parked car for the last few minutes, neither of them quite able to make the first move to get out.

“I guess so, boyfriend,” she says eventually, trying to take some of the awkwardness out of the situation. George shoots her a sardonic look before he turns to climb out of the car with practised ease. By the time Emma has removed her seatbelt, and opened the passenger side door, George is next to her, offering his hand once more.

“Why are you never like this usually?” Emma can’t help but ask, nodding at his outstretched palm. She tries to ignore the rough texture of his skin against hers as he helps her down.

“Because usually you’re wearing trainers and jeans and perfectly capable of doing it yourself,” George points out, his eyes sweeping over her rather fitted dress and ridiculously high shoes. “Although to be fair, that’s never stopped you falling out of the Rover before, remember? I had great fun trying to pick the gravel out of your palms while you were still drunk.”

“That was one time,” she hisses in his ear, as he leans closer to shut the door behind her head. “Let it go.”

“Oh, but why would I do that?” George replies, and Emma can feel the warmth of his breath hit the crook of her neck and it sends a shiver down her spine. She really should have worn a coat.

Emma gives him one final glare, before pacing off without him towards the entrance. The party is being held in the function room at the Crown Inn, because really, Highbury doesn’t have that many other options, and Emma supposes it’s the most respectable of the lot.

She’s halfway up the stairs when she hears George, still lagging behind her, whisper her name. Emma turns to see him arriving on the step below.

His stare seems to be more intense than ever now that he’s gazing up at her, the height difference putting him at a disadvantage. “Emma,” he says, expression serious, “are you definitely, completely, one hundred percent sure about this?”

She sighs. “Yes, George,” she replies with as much patience as she can muster. It’s far too late now to be having second thoughts anyway. And besides, at this point, she’s eager to get inside because she’s cold but would rather die than admit it. “I’m definitely sure about this. Are you?”

He fixes her with a pensive look, as if undertaking a deep analysis of her question. After a moment, George nods firmly and Emma releases the breath she didn’t know she was holding. “If it’s definitely what you want, Emma, then I’m sure too.”

“Alright then,” she agrees, trying to not let her nerves get the better of her. “Let’s go in then.”

“Wait!” George cries out, and that’s when Emma feels his hand slide properly into hers this time. It’s nothing like the purely functional gestures that came earlier, where he’d helped her in and out of the car. This time she can feel the full expanse of his palm pressing against hers, and Emma prays that he can’t feel how clammy her hand is. Even though it’s nothing, the most mundane of things George could possibly do in his act as her pretend boyfriend, Emma finds it bizarrely intimate, as if she’s somehow bare before him. She can’t think of a thing to say.

Neither can George, it seems, because although it seems like he might, his lips parted and ready, he’s silent too. After a long moment he takes a step upwards so that they are side by side. They walk in sync up to the entrance.

Emma’s heart feels a little unsteady as they get closer and closer. She’s been so focused on how victorious it will feel to see the expression on Elton’s face, that she hasn’t really focused on what it might feel like between her and George. Because if she’s honest, it’s... weird, but not even a bad weird. It’s not even uncomfortable, really. It just feels new, but at the same time, a familiar sort of newness, like an extension of something she already feels she understands.

She was right. George is the perfect person to help her with this.

The ambience of the room hits her first, with its hundreds of little fairy lights twinkling from rafters and down the panelled walls. It’s a little twee for her tastes, but it creates a mystical atmosphere nevertheless. The party is already in full swing by the looks of it, and Emma’s eyes instinctively scan the throng for people she knows. She presses herself tightly against George’s side, the fabric of his suit smooth against her bare arm. Gently, he pulls them into the crowd.

It doesn’t take long for her to spot Elton, holding court in the centre of the room. There’s a slight brunette glued to his arm, looking a touch bored: clearly the mysterious fiancée. Emma can feel the second Elton’s eyes land on her, and her footsteps hesitate.

“You good?” she hears George murmur under his breath, barely a whisper. He’s already tracked her eyeline to its source.

Emma squares her shoulders, and turns to shoot George a beaming smile, just like a doting girlfriend would. “Yes,” she answers back resolutely. “Now let’s go say hello to the happy couple.”

George stifles a laugh. Her hand remains firmly in his as they both head deeper into the party.

Emma knows that Elton is watching her approach, but stubbornly keeps her face turned towards George, using her act to let her eyes trace the slope of nose, the line of his jaw. She could draw his profile in her sleep. Her heart almost feels like it’s going to pound out of her chest by the time she and George join Elton’s circle.

“Elton,” George says with more friendliness than Emma thought him capable of, given the situation. With his free hand, he offers a handshake, which Elton takes. Somehow it feels more like a stand off than a greeting. “Congratulations, of course. What an exciting occasion.”

He’s still gripping her hand, and Emma’s knuckles are now pressed into the side of George’s thigh. Emma clings to the sensation like a lifeline. She wants to say something but her mind has gone temporarily blank.

“And you must be Augusta,” George is saying, turning to the woman next to Elton who is looking at George with decided interest. Emma feels immediately possessive. “It’s wonderful to finally put a face to the name.” Emma would scoff with laughter at how charming George is being if she thought she could get away with it.

“This is my friend George,” Elton says after a moment, although in Emma’s mind the word friend would be stretching it. Emma waits for Elton to introduce her too but he doesn’t. At the slight she feels George’s thumb trace over her own, like a reassurance. “He’s the owner of Donwell Abbey.”

“Oh!” the woman - Augusta - cries out. “Of course. George Knightley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Emma tries not to feel repulsed at the way this woman’s eyes rake up and down George’s person, and the way she says his name with unbridled awe. “I am so obsessed with old houses, you know, and so when Elton told me that there was a privately owned abbey in Highbury still, well, I just knew I had to learn everything about it, including all about its owner.” Augusta stares at George through lowered eyelashes. “Tell me, do you live there all alone?”

The Abbey has always been a sore spot for George, even though Emma knows that he would never let his feelings about it show. Ever since his parents died, and John had left for London with Isabella, George has been rattling around that great big house all on his own. And while George - as boring as he is - isn’t opposed to a certain level of solitude, Emma imagines that it must be rather lonely sometimes. She also knows it wasn’t quite the life he had envisioned for himself, before tragedy had intervened.

George has the good grace to react benevolently to Augusta’s intrusive question. “Yes, for now.” Emma sees a sudden twitch of a smile beginning near his mouth, and wonders what he’s up to. She couldn’t have anticipated his answer. “Although maybe not for much longer.” He turns to look at Emma, an expression of great tenderness all over his face, acting every inch the man in love. It’s such a spectacular performance that Emma can’t help but burst into an open smile. She should never have underestimated him.

George holds her gaze for a moment too long, but only she can see the amusement dancing behind his eyes. When he breaks away, Emma can’t help but catch the confused look on Elton’s face as he glances between them, finally registering their entwined hands. His expression darkens.

“Forgive me,” George continues, his focus returning to Augusta. “How rude of me not to introduce you. This is Emma Woodhouse.” His gallant manners would normally have been more than enough for Emma, but the additional jab at Elton’s lack of them only increases her satisfaction tenfold. And just when she thought she couldn’t feel any more proud of him, George delivers the coup d'état. “My girlfriend.”

If Emma could’ve taken a photo of Elton’s face at that moment, she would have treasured it forever. But as it was, the image of his utter astonishment sears itself into her memory regardless. Emma also knows that she’ll never be able to repay George for this, but she makes an instant resolution to be nicer to him in future.

But for now, she smiles sweetly, benignly. “Lovely to meet you,” she says, lying through her teeth.

The reception she gets is frosty. “And you,” Augusta replies, a newly arrived tightness around her mouth. Either Emma’s reputation as Elton’s ex has preceded her, or her current (albeit fake) status as George Knightley’s girlfriend has ruffled some feathers. But she feels so triumphant at George’s performance that she hardly cares.

There’s a beat in the conversation that lasts a bit too long. Elton’s face is still contorted with shock and his voice strains as he fills the silence. “Well, it’s wonderful to see you both,” he says, making it sound anything but wonderful. “Help yourself to some champagne. We need to go and greet the other guests.”

“Of course,” George says with a gracious incline of his head, voice filled with understanding. They watch as the engaged couple glide away, and before she can stop herself, Emma launches herself into George’s arms with a quiet squeal.

He lets out a low grunt at the force of her body, like she’s winded him. Emma’s arms wrap instinctively around his neck, chin pressing tight against the flat of his shoulder. The warm scent of his skin has mingled with his cologne and it seems odd to her that he smells exactly like he normally does, when everything else about this night already feels so abnormal. In response, George’s arms slide loosely around her waist, his touch far more tentative. Nevertheless Emma can feel the chuckle that bubbles up in his chest.

“Oh my god!” she hisses as she pulls back, bracing her hands on his shoulders. “George, that was perfect. Did you see the look on their faces?”

He smiles back modestly. “It was…” he trails off, searching for the right word.

“Hilarious?” she supplies. “Deeply satisfying? Acutely sadistic?”

He looks bashful. “Oh, c’mon.”

“Also, I thought she definitely wanted to drag you into a dark corner there, for a minute.”

George turns bright red instantaneously. “Emma! Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh George,” she mimics, raising her voice half an octave higher, “what a big house you must have.”

He lets out an undignified snort at her impression, and suddenly he’s George, her best friend again, rather than George Knightley, the bachelor who can charm the neighbourhood, and all the women in it, if he wanted to. Emma definitely prefers the former.

“Please,” he scolds her after his grin subsides. His hands now feel more solid against her waist, the warmth of his palms permeating through the fabric of her dress. “She’s definitely not my type.”

The question of who exactly is his type seems to float its way into Emma’s mind, but George speaks again before Emma can let itself explore it.

“Anyway,” he points out, glancing around, “we still have the rest of the night to get through. Unless you want to leave now while we’re ahead?” Judging by the hopeful look on his face, George may even genuinely want her to say yes. Emma knows he’d probably prefer to be on the sofa at Hartfield, a movie playing in the background while they fight over whose turn it is to refill the popcorn bowl.

“No way.” Emma wiggles her way out of his grasp, and leads them off in the direction of the bar. “You know you owe me at least four dances.”

She can hear George’s sigh of resignation behind her.

---

They’re waiting at the bar when Emma feels a pair of slight arms slide cheerfully around her waist. She turns, letting out a shriek of pleasure at the sight of Harriet. Emma has missed her friend. Harriet and Rob have been out of town and only just returned this morning.

“Hey!” Emma squeezes Harriet tightly in her embrace. Rob stands behind her, and gives Emma a wave and nod, before stepping over to help George at the bar. The men grin broadly at each other, large palms slapping at shoulders.

“I missed you!” Harriet replies, now free of Emma’s hug. They settle for grasping hands. “I feel like it’s been forever since I’ve seen you.”

“Three whole weeks,” Emma pouts. “How was your trip?”

“Wonderful,” Harriet coos, a less than subtle glance over at Rob indicating that all is still well in paradise. Emma is pleased for her. “Have I missed anything exciting since we last spoke?”

Emma hesitates. Despite previously telling herself that she wouldn’t, Emma seriously considers just confessing her and George’s plan to Harriet right off the bat. Maybe she’d been too harsh in thinking that Harriet couldn’t keep a secret. Besides, it doesn’t feel right to not tell her, especially seeing as she’ll likely notice something going on at some point tonight.

But before she can make the decision, George and Rob join them with drinks and Emma gratefully takes the flute of champagne from George’s outstretched hand. As she does so, his fingertips brush against hers, the barest of touches, and yet Emma feels something akin to an electric current burrowing under her skin at the contact. Her fingers flinch in response. Glancing up at him, she expects George to react in some way too, because surely he must have felt it? But as her eyes skim his face, it doesn’t appear that he’s noticed anything at all.

Strange.

The four of them spend some time happily chatting. And while she’s thrilled to see her friends, and is interested in what they have to say, Emma struggles to keep her mind on the flow of conversation. Her thoughts feel all over the place, and as a result, her concentration suffers. Thankfully, George carries her: his good nature is innately programmed to ask the right amount of questions about Rob and Harriet’s trip, and respond with the perfect amount of interest and enthusiasm. All Emma has to do is make sure she nods and smiles at the appropriate intervals.

That’s probably why she doesn’t notice at first. Or maybe it’s because George’s movements are so subtle, but all of a sudden, it strikes her that George’s arm has, somewhere along the line, curled itself around her waist, and his hand has come to rest gently on her hip bone. She’s now enfolded into the warm length of his side, and it feels surprisingly… normal.

At the realisation, Emma dares to shoot him a glance. After all, they don’t need to pretend in front of Rob and Harriet, and so she’s a little confused. George must feel her questioning gaze because almost instantly he turns his face towards her, and it takes mere seconds for him to read her expression, and dawn with silent understanding.

Naturally, George can’t verbalise his answer. So instead his eyes flick over to a space to their right, and as Emma rotates herself subtly to look, she sees Elton. He’s not staring at them - or at least he isn’t at the moment - but she knows what George is trying to say. He’s keeping up their earlier performance.

Slightly worried at how their conduct might look, Emma peers back at Harriet, who is still busy explaining how Rob had taught her to change a car tyre. Thankfully, her friend seems more focused on smiling serenely at her boyfriend to notice anything too amiss. Rob stares back at her, suitably proud, a lovestruck grin upon his face.

For now they seem to have evaded notice. Nevertheless, Emma suspects that Harriet’s going to pick up on George’s proximity to her any minute now - it’s only a matter of time. At that point, Emma will either have to sweep her away and extract a promise from her to keep the secret, or… she’ll have to lie. Emma’s not particularly keen on either option, but figures she’ll just wait until the moment arises and deal with it then.

In the meanwhile, Emma can’t help but lean further into George’s body and let the conversation wash over her.

It’s only because he’s warm and she feels a chill. No other reason.

---

Fifteen minutes later they are all nestled in one of the booths that run down one wall of the function room. Emma and George are on one side and Harriet and Rob on the other.

And neither of them have mentioned anything at all about her and George’s increasingly familiar behaviour.

At first Emma wonders whether Harriet is just being polite, waiting until she can get Emma alone and give her the third degree. But no, Emma has a pretty good insight into her friend after all this time - she’d know if Harriet had realised something. She isn’t exactly the most difficult person to read. But up until now, darling, oblivious Harriet hasn’t noticed anything strange in how Emma and George are acting.

Even Rob, usually the more perceptive of the two, doesn’t seem to have picked up on anything either.

Emma can maybe understand how they didn’t notice anything at the bar. After all, it was crowded, and it wasn’t that crazy that George and her might stand close, how he might even put an arm around her. Casually. As friends.

But now, in the booth, Emma’s not sure how they could miss the clear escalation.

George, to his credit, is committed to his role. And Emma realises he’s right to be. It seems that every time she takes a look around the room, Elton is staring at them at least half of the time, as if making some kind of scientific study of them both.

Right now, she and George are thigh to thigh - even though there is more than enough room for them in the booth to spread out and not touch. Even Harriet and Rob aren’t seated as close as they are, Emma notices, as George shuffles in his seat once more and Emma is reminded yet again of the heated expanse of his body.

To top it off, George has his arm slung around her shoulder like an old fashioned suitor might, his hand resting gingerly on the bare skin of her shoulder. Every so often he adjusts position, and the tickle of his fingers causes goosebumps to form on her upper arms. Emma knows her reaction is only because she’s not used to being the object of this kind of attention. It’s taking her body a little time to get used to it.

And so, to keep things equal, if it’s easier for Emma to rest a hand on George’s knee rather than on her own lap, well… that’s just completely reasonable, isn’t it?

And yet, nothing. No response from Harriet or Rob, leaving Emma totally puzzled. Are her friends just particularly unobservant tonight? Is the lighting too dim? Perhaps they are just too polite to say anything? Or maybe they just don’t find her and George’s behaviour that strange? No, surely it can’t be that.

Either way, for now it solves Emma’s problem for her. If they don’t notice anything, she doesn’t have to explain it away. Perhaps she can get away with not telling Harriet anything at all until this whole ordeal is over. After all, it would be fun to describe to Harriet the look on Elton’s face when George had called her his girlfriend. She knows her friend would appreciate her retelling of it properly.

But for now, Emma decides not to worry, and instead settles back further into the bend of George’s arm. She catches his eyes lingering on her as she does, the briefest of looks that she doesn’t have time to decipher.

This is all going perfectly.

Chapter Text

Emma returns from the ladies to spy George standing awkwardly on his own at the edge of the dancefloor. She watches with interest as he swipes another glass of champagne off a passing tray. It’s his fourth, not that she’s keeping count specifically - but it does seem out of character for him. George is usually a pint of beer kind of guy, and in recent years has been more the type to nurse his drink slowly while everyone around him gets increasingly messy.

Emma sidles up next to him. “Another one?” she chirps, not in a judgemental way, but definitely curiously.

He looks a little affronted anyway. “They’re small. And I’m just… enjoying the party, that’s all.”

Emma arches an eyebrow. “So by ‘enjoying the party’, do you mean standing around talking to Rob for the last half an hour about organic farming, or do you mean something else?”

George doesn’t even try to deny it. “Organic farming is actually very interesting, Emma, if you ever bothered to liste-”

She puts a palm up to his face, so close that it almost touches the tip of his nose. “Nope,” she interjects. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever, if I have my way. Besides, you owe me a dance.”

“You’ve been dancing with Harriet this whole time. Rob and I are quite content being surplus to requirements,” George replies tightly, clearly sensing what demand is coming. He takes a lengthy sip of his champagne.

Emma doesn’t have the heart to tell him that when she and Harriet had been coming back from the bathroom, they’d run into Rob, who had been promptly hijacked by Harriet. She has no doubt that her friends are currently making out in a shadowy corner somewhere, unlikely to surface again for a good while.

Rather than explain all of that, Emma pouts at him, exaggerated and silly. Half a second later, she plucks the champagne flute out of George’s hands, and necks the rest of his drink, leaving only a smudge of her lipstick behind on the rim. The sensation goes immediately to her head. It’s definitely not Emma’s first drink either.

“The time for standing on the sideline is over, George,” she says resolutely, placing the empty glass on a table behind him. “Now, it’s time to dance!” Without further ado, Emma grabs his hand and pulls him after her, right into the middle of the crowded dance floor.

The song is a faster paced one, and so Emma lets herself concentrate on the beat of the music. She knows she's a good dancer. She always has been, and so when she moves, it’s with ease and without self consciousness. By contrast, George hovers in front of her, watching warily, shuffling his feet from side to side.

“Pathetic!” she shouts at him above the music, swaying her hips, doing a twirl.

“Hey!” he shouts back, clearly hearing enough to grasp that she’s insulting him.

If George was a bad dancer, Emma could almost live with it. But she knows he’s not. If anything, he’s surprisingly good when he’s forced to try. She’s been out with him enough times to have seen it first hand, on those increasingly rare occasions when he can be persuaded to let loose. That’s why Emma knows he’s better than the awkward performance he’s putting on right now.

That said, even four drinks in, George still seems remarkably sober. It’s almost as if the alcohol has had no effect on him whatsoever. Previous experience tells Emma that the drunker he is, the bolder he becomes. She contemplates how long it would take her to dash to the bar and back.

But just then the music changes, turning into something mellow and slow. A handful of people move past them to leave the floor. The look of relief on George’s face is palpable, until Emma reaches decisively for his hands and places them firmly on her hips. He immediately looks startled again.

Emma wastes no time in pulling herself in closer, using her new proximity to hiss at him under her breath. “God, George. Can you at least try to look like you’re not petrified of touching me?” He’s gone from charm itself to awkward teenager within the space of an hour, and Emma’s not quite sure she’s ready to try and decompress all of George Knightley’s contradictions in one evening.

But clearly her prompt is enough. “Sorry,” he mutters, stepping in even nearer, so that the tips of their shoes are basically touching. She feels the large palm of his hand glide to the dip in her lower back, fingers spread wide. “Is that better?”

She hums in the affirmative, already busy casting a look around the room. Emma is gratified when she sees Elton watching them, even though he’s clearly pretending not to be.

Emma tilts her chin back to look up at George. He looks a little dishevelled around the edges and is busy not meeting her eyes. To prod a reaction, Emma presses their torsos together slightly more, her arms further encircling his neck, fingertips resting gently at the nape. Emma notes the flutter of George’s eyelashes as their bodies connect with the motion of the dance.

“When was the last time you slow danced with a girl?” She asks this out of the blue in the hope of distracting him from the situation at hand. George is acting like they’ve never danced this closely before. And sure, the last time was a long while ago now: her eighteenth birthday party, but it had certainly been memorable enough. They’d spent the entire time chaotically trying to perfect the Hollywood dip until George had very nearly dropped her, and they’d both collapsed onto the floor in hysterics, much to the concern of Mr Woodhouse.

This was definitely different to that.

George’s throat bobs up and down as he thinks. “I don’t know,” he answers finally, seemingly having forgotten the memory of her birthday entirely, which Emma finds annoying. Unless he’s been off slow dancing with other women since, and just politely doesn’t want to say. Emma can’t imagine that to be true. “How am I doing?”

“The dancing is... okay,” she says truthfully, because, well, George can spot her in a lie most of the time and she knows there’s no point in trying to save his feelings. Nevertheless he huffs in offence, and then, as if to try and redeem himself, George spins them with a piece of fancy footwork, and Emma can see Elton still watching them from across the room. Something in his expression looks suspicious.

“Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming?”

Emma pokes her tongue out at him. “But,” she continues, “you’re holding me like you’re terrified of me.”

“To be fair,” George smirks, and she feels the press of his palm more firmly against her back this time, “I’m not not terrified of you, Emma.” The way his voice curls around her name feels strange suddenly, like she’s hearing it out of his mouth for the first time.

Emma collects her thoughts, as hard to grasp as they are through the champagne bubbles in her mind. “Okay so…” she says after a moment, trying to get her words straight, “right now you’re treating me like a man who’s my friend, who... knows me, maybe even one who is pretend-in-love-with-me.” Her voice catches for a second.

George doesn’t react at all. Instead he just turns them again, swinging Elton yet again back into her eye line. Even from here, he looks smug, and Emma can hardly bear it.

“Okay?” she hears George say, drawing her attention back to where it should be. He’s staring intently down at her, looking confused. “And that’s bad? I thought that was the point?”

“It is,” she concedes. “But... what I need is for you to treat me like a man who… wants me.”

George’s eyebrows disappear under the hair that’s fallen once more fallen over his forehead. “Wants you?”

This time Emma doesn’t stop herself from reaching up and pushing the tendrils back off his face. After all, that’s a totally natural thing for a girlfriend to do, isn’t it? George reacts, but barely, almost as if he’s becoming more seasoned to her impromptu touches. “Yeah, you know… like, fancies me. Wants to bang me, can’t wait to get me alone, that kind of thing.”

A tut of annoyance escapes him. “I know what it means, Emma! It’s just that… I thought it went hand and hand with all the other stuff.” It’s a sentiment that is so typically George that Emma should have seen it coming. George is a romantic, deep down. Always has been. He’s the one who always wells up when they watch The Notebook, after all, even though he pretends he doesn’t.

“Well, that’s very sweet, George. It really is. But right now, I need it to look like we’re super horny for each other, alright? Elton is looking right. at. us.”

George’s lips press themselves together into a tight line, his silent indignation obvious. His chest is heaving with the effort of not saying everything he’s clearly thinking. Any second now, Emma expects him to tell her to forget it.

So she’s surprised when one of his hands starts tracing a thrilling path up her back, the slow exerted weight of his palm pressing her upper body totally against his. At some point the back of her dress gives way to bare skin and Emma feels her heart thud in response to the way George’s fingers graze up the column of her exposed spine, dipping underneath the curtain of her hair. The song changes to another ballad, but it barely registers as George lowers his mouth next to Emma’s ear, so alarmingly close that she thinks she can feel the ghost of his lips against the shell of it.

“Like this?” His warm breath sends an electrical pulse through her veins and Emma tries not to squirm in his arms. Is she so touch starved these days that even George can elicit this sort of response in her?

With her body tight against the length of his own, all Emma can manage is a quiet murmur of confirmation. She knows George hears it, because she feels his smile against her skin, rather than sees it. She can hardly believe that George has agreed to this, although she’s wildly grateful - along with the maelstrom of other feelings that he seems to be awakening.

It sounds stupid when Emma thinks about it, but most of the time she forgets that George could be seen in some way other than how she sees him. After all, he’s handsome, eligible, kind, and loyal to a fault. Logically, she knows all of this. But to her, he’s always just been George: her annoying best friend and probably still her favourite person in the world. Seeing him in a different light is just something she’s still trying to adjust to - even if it’s just for this evening, and just for this purpose.

But for now, Emma sets that aside. After all, she needs to play her part too. So in return, she lets her fingernails scrape against the nape of his neck, threading into the dark blonde curls there that are always just a little untidy, no matter what he does. George’s inhale is all the clue she needs as to her effect.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he grumbles in her ear, low like a growl. The tip of his nose now presses against the curve of her cheek. There’s enough humour in his tone for Emma to know he’s not really mad, more that he’s just trying to mask the awkwardness he clearly feels.

She lets out a burst of laughter, a touch exaggerated, because out of the corner of her eye she’s aware they still have an audience in Elton. She makes sure to let the curve of her smile linger on her mouth. “And just to be contrary, because you know I enjoy disagreeing with you, you are literally the best friend ever for doing this.”

George smiles, albeit a little tightly, but seemingly willing for once to take the compliment. He draws back a bit, only to end up pressing his forehead to hers. His eyes have turned a grey blue in the hazy light of the function room. In her peripheral vision, Emma can now see Harriet, just off the dancefloor, staring open mouthed at them both, and mentally prepares herself for that conversation later. But for now, Emma has a job to do.

“Now put your hand on my ass,” she prompts, her mouth dancing dangerously close to his.

George jerks back, and pins her with a stern look. “I’m not going to do that, Emma.”

“Oh, c’mon! I’m giving you permission. Listen to my enthusiastic consent, George!” She wiggles her hips a little, but his hand steadfastly refuses to budge any lower.

George’s eyes narrow, but Emma senses some surprise underneath his glare. “Emma,” he warns, voice deep, “I’d like it noted, for the record, that I’m not the sort of guy who gropes a woman on a dancefloor, in front of basically everyone they know.”

“How about in front of a room full of strangers?” she teases, tilting her head back and gazing up at him through her lashes. “Would you do it then?”

A punctuated laugh escapes him. “No, probably not even then,” he answers, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards despite themselves.

Emma gives him a disparaging look, because of course George Knightley would be disgustingly respectful like that. She really should have known better than to ask.

“Excuse me?” An unwelcome third voice interjects, causing George to stop swaying them, and jarring Emma out of her preoccupation. She turns her head, and it’s the one person she didn’t expect to see.

Elton.

“May I cut in?” he asks smoothly, although Emma can hear the pompous undertones and it makes her skin crawl. What did she ever see in him?

George is watching her with interest, waiting for her to give him a sign as to what she wants him to do. Emma definitely doesn’t want to dance with Elton. But at the same time, she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of saying no either, just in case he takes it as a sign that he still has a hold on her in some way. There’s no way she can win.

“Sure,” she agrees after an elongated moment, and it’s almost infuriating how quickly George disengages from her, and retreats off the dancefloor. She watches his exit with envy.

Elton takes her in his arms with the confidence of a man who has far too much of it. It’s odd that he’s asking her to dance at his own engagement party, but she guesses that he must feel boldly untouchable given the circumstances. After all, hasn’t he, by society’s standards, won?

It’s lucky she doesn’t believe in any of that crap. But Emma Woodhouse also doesn’t like to lose, even in a game she doesn’t really want to play.

“So,” he says, after a long tense moment where she sways stiffly in his arms. It feels a million miles away from how easy things felt between her and George just moments earlier. With Elton, she’s struggling to school her body language into something that gives off total nonchalance. It’s trickier than she thought. “You and Knightley, huh?”

Emma hates the way that Elton calls him Knightley; like they’re buddies, or on the sort of terms that would indicate some sort of friendly bond. She’s not sure how George puts up with it.

She just smiles politely. “Yes,” she replies, lowering her eyes as if sweetly bashful about her newfound love - when really she’s only trying to avoid Elton’s brazen stare. “It was a bit of a surprise for us both. But a good one, obviously.” Emma tries to inject her tone with as much warmth as she can muster, but she’s finding it a challenge given how much discomfort is pulsing through her. Her nerves feel paper thin. Another glass of champagne would really take the edge off right now.

Elton nods thoughtfully nevertheless and a small part of her feels vindicated - after all, her plan has worked. She’s gotten under Elton’s skin, and made her point. She’s not frigid or unlovable. She’s got a man like George willing to adore her, even if no one else knows it isn’t real.

“How long have you been seeing each other?” Elton asks, his thumb grazing against her palm in a way that he probably thinks is charming. Emma tries to keep the grimace from her face. Perhaps Elton imagines he still might have an effect on her heart. How sorely mistaken he is.

Emma wishes they didn’t have to make idle conversation, but seeing as George has fulfilled his side of the bargain with aplomb, she feels she has to sell hers equally well. “Oh. Well, almost a month, I guess. We’ve been keeping it quiet. It’s new, and of course, we have my father to think about. We wanted to be really sure it was… real.” The final word feels thick on her tongue, like it’s mocking her.

“A whole month?” His question throws her. Even as he asks it, Elton manoeuvres them around the dancefloor with a little more gusto than is necessary. Emma wills the song to be over, but is dismayed to realise that the first chorus has only just started.

“Yes,” she says, trying to keep the frown from her voice. “I guess this would be classed as our first public appearance together… as a couple.”

Elton’s stare is back, his dark eyes hooded as they take her in. How had she never noticed how pinched and cruel his features were before? “How convenient,” he replies calmly, and Emma’s not sure whether she detects a hint of derision in his tone, or whether her dislike for this man is just making her imagine it. “Dating friends can be… tricky.”

Ah. It’s obvious now that he’s alluding to their shared past, but Emma feels it’s best to hold her tongue. Her eyes seek out George over Elton’s shoulder, scanning the crowd haphazardly, but he seems to have completely vanished from view. She wonders if Harriet has intercepted him for questioning.

After a moment, she hears Elton scoff; it’s a harsh, bitter sound, and she turns her gaze back to him in surprise.

His mouth has twisted into something grim and ugly. “Cut the crap, Emma. You and I both know that you and George are faking it.” There’s an undertone of triumphant pleasure to Elton’s words. He’s clearly delighted in having found her out.

But how? Panic seizes at her. How could he know? Elton’s never been known for being particularly deep or insightful - and after their performance earlier, Emma’s not sure what she and George could have done to be more convincing.

He glares at her domineeringly, as if daring her to contradict him. With spite in her heart, Emma doubles down. “I’m sorry, what?”

Elton laughs, a callous and belittling sound. “We all know that George would do anything for you. But making him pretend to be in love with you is a sad new low, even for you.”

Emma’s mouth gapes open and shut, like a fish struggling for air. There are a million protests racing through her mind, scattering her thoughts in all directions. She tries valiantly to decide her next move. She refuses to be caught out by Elton. This is not how this was supposed to go.

“You know what?” Emma snaps. “You’re pathetic. What you’re saying is just ridiculous. You just can’t bear to see me happy with George.” She lets out a disparaging sound, on a roll now. “And for the record, yes, it’s new. We’re still finding our way, but… we’re together, Elton. Like properly together.” As she says it, Emma realises how it comes across, how full of innuendo she’s made it sound.

Elton’s eyes widen, and it’s clear he’s heard it too. For half a second it appears she might have convinced him.

She’s wrong.

“Do you know what, Emma? You’re the pathetic one. You can protest all you want, but I can see through you.” Elton says it with such boastful confidence that a feeling of utter distaste prickles up underneath her skin. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that you’ve talked George into this. Because you can’t help but control everyone around you, and George, as usual, has no spine of his own to say no to you.”

Emma can take a lot of things, but she won’t tolerate criticism of George coming from anyone but herself.

“Oh Elton,” she sighs, her tone turning into one of wicked mocking. “Your jealousy is showing. Are you so mad that I’ve moved on from you? We broke up months ago. Besides, aren’t you the one getting married? It didn’t take you long to bounce back now, did it?”

Elton pointedly ignores her jabs. “If I believed that any part of your little show was real, maybe I would be happy for you. But tell me, Emma, if it is real, are you just going to string him along like you did me? Make him wait and wait and wait, like you did me, and then just drop him when he gets too close?”

Emma’s so shocked that all she can do is just laugh out loud. His interpretation of the facts is moronic at best. Is this really what all of this is all about? Elton’s fragile male ego?

“So all of these wild accusations are just because you’re still mad that I wouldn’t have sex with you?”

Elton’s face turns into an inhuman mask, taunting and snide. “You’re just one of those girls who enjoys the game, Emma.” His grip against her hand has tightened, and her fingers ache with the brutish pressure. “You never have any intention of going through with anything. It’s so obvious that you haven’t sex with George. And given you’re both pretending you’re together, you definitely never will. It’s sad that even as your friend he’s still like a dog on your leash, so blindly loyal to the wonderful Miss Woodhouse.”

Hateful, hateful man! Every word he utters slices at her, at George, and is rapidly eating away at Emma’s remaining self-control. Elton’s arrogant jeer is evidence enough that he knows he’s hit the intended target. Emma has so many reasons why she should just walk away, preferably with a direct stiletto kick to his shin. But, as ever, she wants the last word, and she doesn’t want to give up until she gets it.

Out of the corner of her eye, she finally spots George, and it gives her body some sense of relief to see him there. He’s alone, leaning back against the bar, watching them both. She can’t read the expression on his face, but if Emma had to guess, she’d say he looks concerned. Automatically she schools her face, not wanting to alarm him. The last thing she needs is George getting dragged into this argument. She can take care of herself.

Through gritted teeth, she glares back at Elton, each word dragged out of her throat with barely concealed rage. “George and I are none of your business, you disgu-”

“-so that’s a no on the sex, then?” Elton cocks his head and smirks at her. It’s sickening. “Just like to tease all the boys, don’t you? And then run away because you’re too scared to do anything about it. I know you’d never let anyone actually touch you, Emma. No doubt it’s a stretch just to let George Knightley play pretend with you.”

“Fuck you, Elton.” She’s not sure she’s ever loathed someone so much in her entire life.

“Well,” his reply slick, “I did ask you to. And we all know how that turned out, don’t we?”

Emma can’t take it anymore. Her resolve to fight until the bitter end is shattered. She either walks away now, or Elton is going to get punched square in the jaw. And as much as Emma likes to imagine how satisfying that would be, she’s pretty sure assaulting a man at his own engagement party wouldn’t keep her in the good graces of the assembled village, even if he does deserve it.

Eagerly, Emma disentangles her way out of Elton’s sticky embrace. The relief of having his hands off of her is palpable, even if it does make her feel like a failure for having to retreat. It takes all her effort to weave around the other people on the dancefloor, adrenaline surging through her. Her shoulder harshly connects with someone’s bulk as she tries to get away. Emma manages to mutter a hasty apology, her eyes not taking in anything until she finds the edge of the dancefloor.

When she next glances up, George is pacing towards her, cutting his way through the crowd.

“Shit, are you okay?” he asks as he reaches her. He’s flustered, eyes scanning her face. “I didn’t want to leave you with him. I know you can take care of yourself and all that, but-”

“I’m okay,” she interrupts, eager to placate him, but George is too busy rambling to hear her.

“-honestly, it must have been awful. Emma, what was he even saying to you? It looked like you wanted to murder him. Do I need to take him outside and… fight him or something? I’ve never really done that before, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything-”

Emma feels George’s hands grappling at her elbows, and just for a moment she lets his worried monologue wash over her. She’s hardly sure how to feel about the last few minutes. Yes, she’s deeply offended at everything Elton has just said to her, both on her own behalf and also on George’s. Her ego has definitely been re-wounded at how poor her judgement had been for not seeing Elton for what he was right from the start. She’s also furious that, despite her best attempts, he appears to have seen through her and George’s (pretty convincing, in her opinion) act.

She quickly glances over her shoulder, and sees Elton back at Augusta’s side. He’s whispering something in her ear, dripping poison, no doubt, and his fiancée is laughing heartily at it. The pair of them cackle together like hyenas, their eyes trained over in her and George’s direction.

They are laughing at her.

Emma Woodhouse can accept a lot of things in life. But she hates being made to feel small. Especially by those as small as Elton himself.

George’s one-sided conversation is somehow still rumbling on, and Emma doesn’t need to tune back into the specifics sentiments to get the gist of his oppressive concern. Anyway, none of that matters. There’s only one solution that she can see in front of her right now.

And so Emma turns back to George, to his sweetly fretful face, and prays that he’ll forgive her for this later. As her hands rise up and grip his upper arms, suit fabric bunching under her fists, George’s words pause.

Before she can talk herself out of it, Emma presses herself up on her tiptoes, and kisses him.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t occur to her until after her lips have already found his that George could flinch or pull away, and everything would be ruined. After all, that would make sense. What she’s doing is definitely against the rules they’d agreed for this evening, and the promise she’d made to him.

Emma registers George’s initial shock at her actions as it hits him in real time. Because instead of doing anything at all, he just freezes, like every muscle in his body has been suddenly encased in ice. In response, Emma presses her lips even more firmly to his, as if trying to silently communicate with him; willing him to catch on to her purpose.

Because surely it’s obvious why she’s doing this, right? Her actions come too hard on the heels of her dance with Elton for this new development to be unrelated. And George isn’t an idiot. Emma knows that once his confusion wears off, he’s more than capable of putting two and two together and making the requisite four. Without Elton’s vicious taunts, this would never be happening otherwise. Because they’re best friends. And best friends don’t kiss. They have… boundaries.

So yes, Emma is confident that George will understand.

Eventually.

Any second now.

Because Emma needs him to do something, and soon. Because while it’s obvious to her that George’s brain is still trying to catch up, his stunned befuddlement is hardly helping to prove to Elton that they are a real couple. Right now, George is too fixed, too reticent, to be selling this. Emma can feel vindication slipping through her fingers.

But then, all of a sudden, Emma feels the change in him, the instant he starts to react to the pressure of her mouth, rather than just absorb it. George is finally with her! A surge of triumph follows, and Emma would kiss him for his dedication to the cause if she wasn’t already doing it.

Oh, she thinks, after a few long seconds. Now that her initial panic is over, she has the chance to really grasp what she’s done. She’s really kissing George Knightley. Or rather, he’s kissing her too, and it’s really not what she expected.

It’s not that Emma thought he would be a bad kisser. It’s just that she’s never really really thought about how George would kiss at all. Sure, fine, maybe once or twice it has crossed her mind, in an abstract sort of way - like when they’d agreed to the rules of this arrangement in the first place. But apart from that, it’s otherwise been a foreign concept, much like what a person imagines a country to be when they know very little about it and have never been there. It’s all generalisations without the particulars. To Emma, kissing George has never been something she’s needed to think about, because it was one thing that she assumed would never happen.

And now, all of a sudden, Emma knows the answer to what it’s like to kiss George Knightley.

He is an excellent kisser.

George’s mouth is perfectly soft, lips warm against her own. He’s tentative at first, still clearly testing the waters of what exactly she’s asking of him. But with every hint of reciprocation that she provides, the more he seems to relax into the task. There’s a symmetry to the way their mouths push and retreat from one another. It’s much the same as to how they argue, Emma notices, as George momentarily traps her lower lip between the both of his. The sensation causes some kind of tremor to ripple through her whole body. The way they kiss is playful somehow, with the upper hand always changing. First him, and then her, and then back again.

It feels totally instinctive for her hands to smooth up the slope of his shoulders, finally coming up to graze the long cut of his jaw. Emma feels the faintest scratch of his barely there stubble under her fingertips. George provides an appreciative little hum from the back of his throat that’s hard for Emma to brush aside.

While her plan is to prove something to Elton, it’s becoming a little hard for Emma to ignore the fact that they’re in full view of everyone else at the party too. She wonders if she should feel a bit more embarrassed at their display, but champagne and victory and George’s mouth make those doubts fade quickly away into the hazy recesses of her mind. On top of that, George’s hands are now sliding up the backs of her arms, tracing the sweep of her shoulder blades, and then there is one in particular that cups her cheek, and oh, actually, this is wonderful, Emma thinks.

Before she can really notice what she’s doing, she’s parting her lips, opening her mouth, and it feels the most natural thing in the world when he copies her, tongue now tracing against her own in a motion that causes her stomach to flip, her heart to race.

Elton is fading into the back of her mind, her purpose somehow seeming dim and far away. All Emma can really think about is how George’s nose fits alongside her own, and the way she has to arch her back to reach his lips. He clings tightly to her, bundling her close into his body like he’s trying to gather her up.

Emma melts into him, like an utter cliché. Every time she tries to draw herself back to her senses, to keep a grip on the reality of the situation, George’s mouth does something so distracting, that she’s soon lost in it all over again. Just a little more, a little more, she tells herself repeatedly, because she’s only human. It’s been a long time since she’s been kissed properly. And if she’s honest, Emma’s not sure she’s ever been kissed quite like this before. Never with such care and such total and complete attention. Every single one of George’s senses feel attuned to her somehow, like he somehow knows what she wants before Emma herself knows she wants it.

God, who knew he could kiss like this?

She sighs against his mouth, quite without meaning to. Her hand slides to his chest, pressing the buttons of his shirt tightly under her palm. George’s heart is beating so fast, but probably no more quickly than her own, which feels like it is about to take flight. It’s a weird situation. That’s to be expected.

What’s not to be expected is the way Emma rolls her hips against him, a completely instinctive movement that her body seems to have carried out without her knowledge or permission. George’s breath stutters in response. She’s getting swept up in the moment, even though they’ve probably more than made their point. They should stop. They should stop.

But she doesn’t want to. Not yet, not yet.

But then just like that, George pulls back, his grip loosening from around her. Emma feels unsteady despite the fact that she’s still clinging to him. Her head tips back and all she can see is George’s wide eyes staring at her, puzzled and pupils blown. He looks a bit like he’s been hit over the head and is trying to orientate himself again.

“Emma,” he whispers urgently, the syllables sounding hoarse around her name. There’s a frown on his face that wasn’t there a second ago. He seems to have come back to his senses quickly enough. “Are you drunk?”

She opens her mouth to respond, but is hardly sure of what to say.

Either way, he doesn’t wait for her answer. “Outside. Now.” George’s tone is strained but firm and broaches no argument. He makes a grab for her hand and leads her swiftly towards the fire exit.

Emma can’t help but note Elton’s expression as they leave. He looks taken aback, and at that, Emma knows her point has been made.

There are a few people milling around outside, small clusters chatting in their coats and sharing cigarettes, blowing smoke out into the night. George doesn’t even glance back at her as he guides them to a quiet corner, where no one can really see them or overhear anything. There are fairy lights strung up out here too, Emma notices, shining peacefully in the darkness like glow-worms.

As he turns to face her, George is still holding her hand tightly in his. It’s strange how it almost feels second nature to her now, like there was never not a time that she didn’t hold George’s hand and have it feel completely normal.

He’s standing very close to her, closer than he usually would if they were alone. But Emma supposes that given George has just had his tongue in her mouth, a breach of their usual boundaries hardly seems that much of a big deal. Under the twinkle of the lights, Emma can see the heated confusion in his eyes properly now.

Emma’s sure that he’s waiting for her to say something. And yet the muddled expression on his face leaves her so utterly lost as to where to start. So instead she just stares back, waiting for her heart to settle back into its normal rhythm and for everything to fall into place. Every nerve ending in her body feels like it has been set on fire.

The silence is long and loaded. And even though George’s body is already so close, Emma can’t help but move slightly nearer to him with each passing second. It’s only because she’s cold, she tells herself, and the warmth of him has a pull, like some sort of irresistible gravitational field.

It would be easy to kiss him again, Emma thinks idly, as her eyes trace the full shape of his parted lips. After all, it had been so nice - well, more than nice, actually.

But no! What is she thinking? Emma immediately pushes the notion out of her brain. It’s a totally crazy thought - and no doubt just a residual urge that hasn’t quite worked its way out of her overstimulated system. And yet, as George continues to stare at her in his unfathomable way, Emma wonders if he’s pondering the same. It would really be just so easy to lean up and…

“Thank you,” she bursts, just at the point where she thinks the tension between them might give her a heart attack. “For doing that.”

The spell is broken. George jerks backwards, as if startled by her voice. He’s gawking at her. His lips still look red and wet and totally kissed and it’s hard for Emma to totally pull her eyes away from them. “Thank you?”

Emma can’t tell whether his clipped question is because he’s insulted at her thanks, or for some other, yet unknown, reason. But all she can do is try and explain herself as best she can.

“I know I caught you by surprise,” she says sincerely, and is pleased to see a slight softening in his expression. “I didn’t mean to do that. But I just… I needed…” she searches for some more dignified words but finds she just needs to spit it out, “Elton was being such a pig, George!”

The frown that has settled on George’s brow immediately deepens into further consternation. His face is grave. “Elton?” He drops her hand as if it has scalded him.

Emma realises she never actually explained what had happened on the dancefloor, but she’s more than happy to unburden herself now. “He knew, somehow. That we were faking it. And then he said some horrible things, and I- I just couldn’t stand it! I wanted to show him once and for all that this was real, and I couldn’t think of another way!”

Her outburst causes a myriad of emotions to cross George’s face, each too fleeting for Emma to be able to register the details of each one. “Wait, so that-” he stops, before running a frustrated hand down his face. Emma watches him gulp for oxygen before he tries again. “So you… you did that?!”

Oh, he’s unhappy, Emma realises, maybe a little too late. A defence is quick on her tongue. “Yes! I thought it would be the one thing that would be irrefutable. And it was, George. You should have seen his face as we left. He believes us now. It totally paid off!”

George looks a far cry from persuaded. “So all of... that... was because of Elton? Again?”

When he says it like that, Emma begins to feel very small. “Well, yes,” she replies, trying to sound firm and resolute even with the growing sense of unease that’s now starting to soak her former triumph. Although… surely George had been aware of her purpose? After all, why would he have kissed her back otherwise? “I thought you knew that?”

George freezes for the smallest moment, before exhaling loudly. The rough sound echoes into the empty night air around them. Emma feels the solid form of his body withdraw even further from her, the distance immediately cold and isolating. She stares enviously at his jacket.

“Emma, I thought- well, I thought…” George’s jaw suddenly sets itself at a grim angle, as if he’s at a loss for words.

Suddenly, Emma’s not sure of anything anymore. A deep discomfort settles over her. “You did know that’s why I did it, right?”

A swell of agony surges behind George’s eyes, like storm clouds forming on the horizon. He’s clearly bothered that his usually lauded powers of perception are being called into question. Emma knows he can be quite proud when he wants to be.

“Of course I knew that,” he replies sharply and a little too forcefully. It’s not at all like George to be snappish with her, and so Emma’s slightly thrown by the edge to his tone. She tries bravely to catch his eye, but George’s gaze seems determinedly fixed at a space beyond her left shoulder. There’s now something quite churlish in the downturn of his mouth, like he’s eaten something sour and the bitterness under his tongue has no place to go.

Emma finds she doesn’t know what to say. It’s now increasingly apparent that she and George are not on the same page about this at all.

Before she can figure out her next move, George speaks again. “But you didn’t exactly leave me much choice, Emma.” His stare has returned, and Emma almost wishes it hadn’t. It’s fiery and pointed and it’s making her stomach feel quite strange. “And I thought that-” George rakes a hand through his hair, leaving it half standing on end, “-that you and I agreed not to do that!”

“To what? Kiss?”

The word feels taboo, and George’s reaction to it is visceral. “Yes!” he hisses, casting a look from side to side in case anyone has heard her. She’s not sure why it matters. The entire village just witnessed their performance. That ship has long sailed.

The recollection is enough to make her face prickle with heat, but thankfully Emma still has enough of her wits about her to formulate a rebuttal. “I know, but I just… I thought you’d understand, given... the situation.” It’s not her best, but from her point of view, it’s justification enough.

George’s hands wring together anxiously in front of him, one of his familiar habits. He seems to be becoming less and less calm by the second. “I… I asked one thing of you, Emma. I agreed to everything else you wanted, because… well, of course I would, because I’m an idiot!” The last word comes out between gritted teeth, an act of violent self reproach. “But you couldn’t even keep the one promise you made!”

When he says it like that, Emma can see how George would be a bit upset. She knows that their friendship can be unbalanced sometimes. It’s always her storming ahead with some grand idea, and him watching on, predicting all the ways in which it will go wrong.

And more importantly, Emma realises, George has never been caught in the crossfire of her plans until now. He’s usually the biased observer, rolling his eyes and sighing loudly to demonstrate his disapproval. There’s a position of safety in not playing the game, and he’s always been on the sidelines until tonight. Emma supposes she should extend some sympathy to him on that basis at least.

“George,” she says softly, a little pleadingly. Her hand reaches out to find his wrist but in the end her outstretched fingers grasp at nothing but air. She’d misjudged the distance between them, the half light making it difficult to see that he’d drawn further away from her than she’d expected. Emma doesn’t want to assume that it was intentional on his part, but the sinking feeling in her chest tells her otherwise. The hand falls heavily to her side, like a dead weight. “I’m sorry. But I swear it’s not a big deal-”

“-for you, maybe-”

“-for either of us!”

He rounds on her, accusation ready. “Are you still in love with him?”

“With who?!”

“Elton, of course!” Irritation rattles through each syllable. “Are you trying to make him jealous?”

“No!” she shouts back, appalled that he would even have to ask her that.

This deflates him a little, but not by much. “Then why all this fuss over what he thinks? To a point I understand, Emma, I really do. He’s treated you horribly. But this?” George looks crestfallen, defeated. “This was too much. I should... I should never have gone along with it.”

Emma’s not quite sure if she means the kiss, or the pretence in general. Either way, it doesn’t prevent the trill of her laugh as she tries to lighten the mood. “George, you’re being dramati-”

But he doesn’t even let her finish. His agitation has roared back to life. “Emma, you can’t just... trample over people and the promises you’ve made so you can manipulate every single situation to make it suit you!” The accusation is rough and urgent, but it’s clear that George is trying desperately not to raise his voice at her.

Regardless, Emma can’t help but resort to waspish defensiveness. It’s her default setting for whenever George feels like he’s earned the right to berate her. “You’re blowing this way out of proportion!”

“Am I?”

“Yes! I accept, things got a tiny bit out of hand. So I’m sorry that I sprung that on you. But no one got hurt here. Not you, not me, not Elton. Everything is totally fine, and everything is totally normal!” Her balled up fists tell a different story.

“Totally normal?” Disbelief laces George’s reply. “Just because you’ve decided you want it to be normal, that doesn’t make it true.”

It’s Emma’s turn to be annoyed now. “Excuse me?”

“It’s not up to you to decide how I feel about things, Emma. I know you’re getting used to getting your own way, but that’s one thing you can’t decide for me.” These sentiments tumble out of him until they seem to hit a brick wall. George’s throat bobs up and down with unease. Emma recognises the turmoil in his expression; she’s seen it before. It’s the look he gets when necessity is forcing him to speak his mind, rather than because he really wants to. It’s clear it’s that compulsion which is driving him now.

George takes a deep, resolute breath. “Because honestly, how I feel is… well, I don’t like being someone you... use when it suits you. I know I agreed to this, to some extent. But there was a clear line here. And you crossed it. And you… you need to see, Emma, that your actions have... repercussions.”

It’s clear George is deriving no joy from upbraiding her. In fact, he looks miserable for it. But honestly, his reaction seems so out of proportion to Emma’s supposed crime, and it’s beginning to frustrate her. “It was just one kiss, George! It’s not a big deal. It didn’t mean anything.”

No sooner are the words out her mouth than Emma regrets them. Not because she’s wrong, of course. She stands by her statement. But it feels harsh to dismiss the experience so bluntly and brazenly, like it had been nothing more than some gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

Because, after all, the kiss had been enjoyable (more than enjoyable even, her traitorous brain points out). But Emma’s completely aware you can appreciate something and yet know it will go no further. The kiss had been a... means to an end - a toe-curling, heart racing one, certainly. But nothing more.

George huffs, and Emma hates the sound of it. His tone turns curt. “Maybe to you, it didn’t. Because it never even occurs to you to look beyond your own feelings on any given subject!” At that, it seems, George realises that perhaps he’s gone too far, said too much. His mouth snaps shut on itself, and there’s a glimmer of what Emma can only assume is regret forming behind his eyes.

Her frown deepens in response. George’s high-and-mighty comments jab at her, but even so, his reply has turned Emma’s attention to the question he’s left unanswered. Why is George reacting like this in the first place? Is it really just because she broke her promise? Or is there more to it? After all, he didn’t have to go along with her in the moment. He could have pulled back from the kiss straight away - even though, for her own selfish sake, Emma’s glad he didn’t.

It’s just so… so… typical of him! A wave of indignation undulates through her. Yes, it’s a completely George thing to do; to put Emma’s needs first, despite his own - now abundantly clear - objections. And then he somehow has the nerve to retrospectively penalise her for something he’d had a hand in allowing to happen! He is honestly the most impossible person she’s ever met.

She’s paying it for now, of course, with George’s sullen expression and general lecturing from his moral high ground. But as she contemplates his silent stare, one other potential reason for his reaction suddenly crosses Emma’s mind.

George must think this will jeopardise their friendship; that their... silly, wonderful kiss will now linger awkwardly between them and that things won’t be the same as they’ve always been. Emma’s been so preoccupied that she’d never really thought too deeply about why he’d insisted that they didn’t cross that line. But on reflection, it makes perfect sense.

Ever since his parents died, George has come to fear change - not that he’d ever admit to it - to her, or to anyone else. And while he’s always preferred things to be settled and clear, even when they were children, Emma’s come to notice that he’s become even more wary of anything that could encroach upon the ordered life that he’s arranged for himself. Emma, as a result, was long ago packaged away in a neat little box labelled “best friend” - and honestly, that’s always been fine with her. She accepts that herself - and by extension, her father - represent fixed points in George’s life that he’s happy to orbit around; constant and true and never changing.

And so of course he would react badly to something, even something as small as a kiss, that could cause any potential upheaval between them. George - steady and reliable George - not only likes the status quo, but he needs it.

God, it’s so obvious now that she’s slotted the scattered pieces together.

Solving the mystery renews her resolve. Emma takes a breath. “George.” It comes out kinder this time, and Emma takes the chance to reach out for him once more. This time she manages to curl her fingers around the curve of his wrist. George’s skin is warm to the touch. “We’re best friends. We can share a kiss and acknowledge that it was a crazy one time thing that - rightly or wrongly - served a purpose in the moment. God, we both know it’s never going to happen again! But I can absolutely promise that it’s not going to change anything between us.”

Emma doesn’t delve any deeper than that. It doesn’t feel like the time or place to pick apart why George’s life has ended up so entwined with her own, or why he’s so terrified of anything that might upend the tidy parameters of their friendship. George has had enough loss in his life, and it hardly seems appropriate to undermine his experiences by pointing out how wrong he is to worry about losing her over a spontaneous kiss.

A great kiss, she reflects once more. But one with no repeat performances.

Her earnestness seems to have struck some sort of chord with George at least. Emma sees the slump hit the breadth of his shoulders, as if the fight has drained out of him.

When George finally speaks, he sounds calmer - almost eerily so. “Emma, I... I appreciate what you’re saying. I really do. But I think… I think I just need to be... mad at you for a little while longer, okay?”

She blinks, unsure if she’s heard him right. That’s... not what she expected, especially after such an insightful speech on her part. Usually when she and George fight, they are quick to anger and quick to forgive. His annoyance never tends to linger for long. This is a massive deviation.

“But-”

“Emma,” he entreats, and the sad desperation in George’s voice quietens her protest, “just because we’re… best friends, that doesn’t mean that I can’t be upset at you for what you did tonight. You broke a promise.”

She hates it when he’s right. “I know.”

“And maybe if you had explained and just asked me first… well, maybe this could have gone differently.”

“George-”

“I’m… going to go home, okay? I’m just… I’m not in the mood to stay.”

Emma frowns. “You can’t drive, you’re drunk,” she points out. Because although George seems sober enough now, not enough time has passed him to be under the limit. Besides, the last thing she wants is him behind the wheel of his Land Rover right now.

He peers at her, clearly a bit insulted that she thinks he’d ever be so irresponsible. “I’ll walk,” he replies bluntly in a tone that warns Emma not to argue. She doesn’t. George will walk miles and miles when the mood strikes him, and he knows the country lanes like the back of his hand, even in the pitch dark. “Can Harriet drive you home?”

Emma doesn’t want him to go, but it’s clear that she’s got no bargaining power left to ask him to stay. She nods mutely instead.

“Okay,” he says with a terse nod, before leaning down to press a brief and hesitant kiss to her temple. It’s wildly chaste, given where they were about quarter of an hour ago, but Emma accepts it as a starting point on the road to George’s forgiveness. This will all have blown over tomorrow, she thinks. He just needs to sleep on it.

“Goodnight,” she murmurs as George pulls away. He doesn’t reply, just gives her a tight smile, and disappears back inside.

Chapter Text

The car ride home is mostly quiet, accentuated by the steady hum of the tyres against the road, and punctured only by Rob’s light snores emanating from the backseat. Emma stares out the passenger side window of Harriet’s hatchback. There’s nothing to look at - it’s well after midnight - but to keep herself occupied, she tries to spot the shapes of some of the cottages that they pass. Mostly all she manages to make out is the murky outline of the hedgerows that run alongside them.

After George had unceremoniously left, Emma had stood outside for a long while, immune to the cold night air. Her mind had been busy churning over the evening’s events, over George’s words, and had found no solutions other than her initial one: to let him have his time to dwell in his irritation with her. She doesn’t like it, but from past experience, he’ll come around. He always does.

Harriet hasn’t said a word yet even though Emma can tell she’s absolutely dying to. The silence is getting more and more oppressive.

“So,” Harriet says, stretching the vowel out for as long as possible before continuing, “what’s going on with you and George then?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” Emma sighs, playing with the hem of her dress just to give her hands something to do. Harriet has the heating in the car up way too high, and it’s making Emma’s eyelids feel heavy.

Harriet nods diplomatically, and falls silent. It doesn’t last for long.

“I saw you kiss him.” She spits it out like she knows she’s tempting Emma’s displeasure for mentioning it. But Emma has no energy left in her to feel annoyed. After all, if the situations were reversed, she’d be doing the same thing - and probably far more forcefully.

“Yeah,” Emma answers eventually. She checks her phone, previously face down in her lap, to see if George has texted her, but the screen shows no new notifications. She scowls. “That’s a... thing that happened.” That’s one way of putting it.

Rob lets out a sudden snort from the backseat, and mumbles in his drunken sleep. Harriet’s eyes flick up to the rear view mirror, smiling affectionately to herself. Emma tries to ignore the pang of jealousy that rises up in her. She’s happy for her friend, but every so often, her and Rob’s sweet dedication to each other can feel a little grating.

“And then he left,” Harriet adds cautiously, a statement rather than a question.

“Yup,” Emma replies, popping the sound of the ‘p’ and resting her temple against the cold passenger side glass. The road is too bumpy for it to be comfortable, and so instead she sinks her head back further into the headrest. “He just upped and left.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

Emma knows she’s not exactly being an easy person to deal with right now - what with her almost monosyllabic answers, and the fact that she’s not being particularly open with her friend.

In belated recompense, she turns to face Harriet, and gives her a forced smile. “Not at the moment, if that’s okay. Although I appreciate you asking. I’m sure you have a lot of questions. It’s just… it’s complicated,” Emma winces at the use of the word, but for once it’s apt. “Right now... I’m tired, and just want to get some sleep, I think.”

“Of course,” Harriet answers kindly, because she is the sweetest creature that Emma has probably ever known. Ever since they met, she’s accepted Emma’s flawed friendship wholeheartedly, and definitely at times when Emma hasn’t deserved it. This might be one of those times. “I’m here whenever you are ready.” Her concern sends a pang straight to Emma’s heart.

“Thank you, Harriet,” she says gratefully. Her mind is still too adrift at the moment to really make sense of very much, let alone to try and break down to Harriet all the intricacies of the evening and all the plans that led up to its disastrous end. Right now, all Emma wants is a decent sleep and the cold light of day to make everything less terrible.

She wonders whether George’s hike through the fields on his way back to the Abbey will have settled his ire. It’s always been his way of working through things, as long as Emma’s known him. A lengthy wander in the hills always seems to be a balm to him. She hopes this time will be no different, even though there’s a nagging feeling inside of her that won’t go away, a cruel taunt that maybe she’s wrong.

Sleep, she thinks resolutely, as Hartfield finally comes into view. Her father has left the porch light on for her. The rest of the house is dark. Everything will seem better after some sleep.

---

Emma wakes later than usual. The absence of sun through her bedroom window has caused her to drift in and out of sleep for half the morning. Her head is thankfully clear, no remnants of a champagne hangover lingering. But that only means that when her recollections of the night do emerge, they strike her hard and fast and with alarming clarity.

At first it’s only the good: the firm span of George’s hands across her skin, the confident stroke of his tongue, the warm press of his chest aligned with hers. Emma’s mouth feels almost bruised with the memory of how he’d kissed her, and for a moment her fingers graze against her bottom lip, as if to test the lingering ache.

And then, just as suddenly, the bad swims to the surface, making Emma’s stomach writhe with immediate shame. She recalls the precise way George had looked at her as they stood outside the party: the visceral hurt and anger and disappointment that had been stamped onto every familiar feature. Emma lets out a cry of frustration, her limbs curling into her body as if to make herself so small that the feelings can’t possibly find her. It doesn’t work.

She supposes she should feel guilty about finding the kiss somewhat... enjoyable, given the subsequent problems it has caused, and George’s clear feelings on the matter. But Emma knows she’s capable of accepting viewpoints that may not, at first, seem reconcilable. So, yes - she’s willing to acknowledge that kissing George had felt good - well, more than good, to be fair.

But she’s also… fine? yes, fine… with the idea of it never happening again. Because, at the end of the day, there’s no reason for it to happen again, even if Emma wanted it to. Which she doesn’t.

With what she feels is a maturity beyond her years, Emma knows that what she’s feeling is a human reaction to a human act of intimacy. And god knows, she’s been short on that recently. Up until last night, Elton had still been the last man to have kissed her, and that was eons ago. It’s no wonder her body had undergone a minor meltdown the next time a man had touched her, even if that man did happen to be George Knightley.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. Once George forgives her, things will go back to normal, and eventually this whole thing will feel like a strange dream, or like it happened to someone else. Emma determines to set the whole thing aside.

A glance at her phone tells her it’s almost lunchtime. It’s also absent of any messages from George. And so Emma gets up, and tries not to dwell on his deafening silence. She makes a late breakfast and tries not to think about it as she nibbles at her piece of toast. She checks on her father, ensconced in his study. He frets about how much she’s overslept by, worried perhaps that she was coming down with something. She reassures him that she’s fine with one eye on her phone the entire time.

Soon after two o’clock, she gives in to the urge to text George.

Are we friends again yet? she types, hoping that her casual nonchalance will be received in the humorous spirit in which she intends it. She then spends fifteen minutes watching for the ellipsis of his reply, of which there is none.

Maybe he’s busy, she tells herself, even though Emma knows that George’s usual Sunday afternoon plans involve him tucked up next to a fireplace - either at the Abbey, or at Hartfield - with a book or newspaper.

She contemplates walking over to Donwell, but eventually thinks better of it. To distract herself, Emma walks to the village instead. It’s still overcast but it’s now dry enough, and the quietness of the green rolling hills around her is more soothing than rattling around Hartfield.

As she walks past the Crown Inn, Emma notices George’s Land Rover in the car park where he’d left it last night. He’d been true to his word about walking home. But the fact that it’s still there makes Emma feel uneasy. After all, she’s received no reply to her text as yet, and while George stubbornly ignoring her is - in Emma’s mind - completely intolerable, it certainly isn’t anywhere near as bad as the idea of George injured in a ditch somewhere, frozen half to death.

Unsure of her next move, Emma inches over the Land Rover, in case it might give her a clue as to its owner’s location. Tentatively she peers through the passenger side window, the glass dappled in raindrops from earlier in the day. There’s nothing amiss. To be truthful, she’s not even sure what she’s looking for.

Considering her limited options, Emma eventually pulls her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans, ready to call him, when she hears footsteps behind her. Spinning, she comes face to face with George.

“Oh!” she exclaims, her heart giving a little jolt at the sight of him, a hand fluttering to her chest. “You gave me a fright.”

Emma expects him to nod or smile, but instead George just stands there, staring at her. He has the nervous stance of a man who would rather be anywhere than where he’s found himself. He’s back in his usual attire: jeans and boots and a jumper that’s seen better days. It’s stretched out around the neck, and the cuffs of the sleeves are snagged from where he’s caught them on things. The dark blue of the wool compliments the colour of George’s eyes. Emma had given it to him several birthdays ago.

There’s a long drawn out moment before George clears his throat to speak. “Emma,” he says stiffly, voice hoarse. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was hungover except for the fact that he’d been almost sober when he’d left the party last night. When he doesn’t say anything further, Emma feels compelled to talk for them both.

“I… I was just surprised to see the Land Rover still here,” she supplies, gesturing blindly to the vehicle that she’s standing next to, and almost slamming her hand into the wing mirror by accident. Even though George has been on her mind since she woke up, Emma’s not really sure what to say to him. But she supposes that explaining her presence here seems like a logical place to start.

“I’ve had a busy morning,” George answers, a strange undercurrent to his words that Emma can’t quite figure out. “I haven’t had a chance to pick it up until now.”

It's odd for him to be busy on a Sunday, but Emma doesn't feel like she's in the position to question it. “Ah,” she simply responds instead after he doesn’t elaborate any further like he normally would. Most of the time Emma tunes George out when it comes to the minutiae of estate management, but right now she’d give anything to hear him say more than a few stilted syllables. “Anything exciting?” she prompts.

A twitch of his eyebrows gives him away. He’s surprised she’s asking. “The apple trees down by the Martin farm need pruning,” George offers in a low tone. “And William Larkins is in a panic about his soil.” The tiniest hint of amusement appears in his voice, but just as quickly George seems to catch himself, and his lips resolve themselves back into a firm line.

“Ah,” Emma says again. She might have been born and raised in the country, but she and George are on totally different planets when it comes to the practicalities of all it entails. “Sounds... fun?”

She waits for him to acknowledge her obvious lie, but Emma barely gets a reaction. Sure, he’s physically standing in front of her, the same as always, but George’s mind is clearly a million miles away from their conversation. There are dark circles under his eyes and a pale drawn look on his face. There's a graze of stubble along his jawline. He looks like he hasn’t slept much.

Emma bites her lip. “How are you, anyway?” It’s a question she usually reserves for general acquaintances, rather than the best friend that she speaks to most days. Everything about their interaction already feels totally wrong.

George meets her eyes warily, a flicker of something lingering behind his expression. “Fine,” he says in a short sharp reply, before realising how harsh it sounds and wincing. “I’m fine, Emma,” he amends slightly more gracefully. “You?” George’s forced politeness is like a knife to the chest. Emma can hardly believe he’s the same person that kissed her last night, with such animation and… skill. Right now it feels like she’s trapped in a heady mixture of pleasure to see him, and mortification at how awkward it is. Right now, he might as well be a stranger.

“Fine too,” she answers, even though it hardly grazes the surface of what she’s actually feeling. It’s becoming abundantly clear to Emma that George is still in his mood with her and any hope she’d had of him sleeping off his grievances and forgiving her immediately was stupidly optimistic. And as much as she really just wants to shake him and force him to talk to her, from experience Emma knows that cornering George before he’s ready is only likely to backfire.

“Good.” His automatic reaction is a result of well taught manners rather than anything else. Emma wishes she could just fast-forward to a time where he’d laugh and smile at her openly again, instead of all this nasty unease that sits between them. Patience has never been her strong suit.

The next words slip off Emma’s tongue and slide towards him before her better judgment can claw them back. “You didn’t respond to my text? Earlier?” she asks, somehow miraculously managing to keep it from sounding like an accusation.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead Emma watches as George fishes around in the front pocket of his jeans, only to eventually pull out the keys to the Land Rover. He twists them between his hands like a talisman instead of looking at her.

“Sorry about that.” George’s reply comes with his eyes downcast and lashes low on his cheeks. His cheekbones glint in what little sunlight there is trying to sneak through the clouds, and Emma feels her stomach lurch at how withdrawn he's being.

A further explanation doesn’t come. “I.. I have to go,” he says instead, and it’s only then that he dares to look up and directly at her once more. Emma doesn’t like what she sees. The expression on George’s face is strained, like he’s been stretched out too thin and is on the verge of ripping at the seams. Emma, on a rational level, knows he is upset with her. And even justifiably so. But it’s quite another to be confronted with this look of his.

It’s too much. She can’t help herself. “George-” she starts to say, but the flare of consternation that crosses his face is enough for Emma’s mouth to immediately slam shut.

His shaky exhale shatters the stillness around them, and George takes a half step closer. “Emma, I have to go,” he repeats once more, and while there’s still politeness in his tone, there’s also a firm edge to it that Emma suspects won’t last long if she pushes him any further.

In actuality, Emma wants to be furious with him, if she’s completely honest with herself. Why does George get to be the one who calls all the shots here, instead of just talking to her? He seems determined to wallow in his anger, and make her miserable in the meanwhile. But then she’s reminded of how completely she’d disregarded his feelings to further her own ends, and Emma’s indignation subsides just as quickly.

“Okay,” she nods, because what else can she say? She can hardly force him to remain against his will.

A weight hovers in the air between them, and George seems on the verge of something. An apology? A gesture of forgiveness? Emma holds her breath, ripe with apprehension. A sudden urge to want to reach out and touch him overcomes her, but she determinedly pushes it back down.

“Bye Emma,” is all he says, the sentiment coming out hushed and solemn. Disappointment floods through her.

George gives her a final cursory nod as he circles around the other side of the Land Rover and gets in. Before Emma can call out her goodbye, he’s reversing out of the car park and heading off down the main road out of the village. The now empty parking space next to her, and fresh tyre imprints in the mud, are the only evidence of the last few minutes at all.

The whole exchange has left her feeling… unsettled. And while Emma accepts the role she’s played in all of this, there’s a part of her that would just prefer George to berate and lecture her like he normally would. It would certainly help him get this... sulk off his chest. Emma hardly thinks that getting space from her is going to unburden George in the way that he thinks it will.

Besides, she thinks, as she turns back onto the footpath towards the centre of town, George might want distance from Emma, but he also religiously comes to dinner at Hartfield on both Wednesday and Sunday nights. It’s a long standing arrangement he’d made with her father, and is only ever not complied with when George is away from the village on business, which is thankfully very rarely.

Therefore, while this afternoon’s encounter was more precarious than Emma would have liked, she only has to wait a few more hours before she can once more attempt a conversation with him across the dining room table. With her father’s presence, things are sure to remain mostly civil. In Emma’s view, reconciliation would surely not be too far behind.

Eager to distract herself, Emma calls in at Fords and buys herself a coffee. But even while staring at her phone, waiting for her drink order, she can sense the eyes of the other café goers on her. Highbury is a small village, and it’s now clear that word has gotten around about her and George’s… interlude at the party last night.

No one is brave enough to say anything to her, which is a small mercy. Emma’s not even sure how to discuss the whole thing with Harriet yet, who is obviously at the top of any list. As a reminder, she pings her friend a quick text: thanks for the ride home last night. sorry for being weird. I’ll catch up with you soon to tell you everything x

Harriet’s response is swift and understanding. At least Emma knows Harriet isn’t mad at her.

It’s late afternoon by the time she gets home. Emma spends the entire walk back to Hartfield formulating a plan for how to deal with George at dinner that evening. It’s not that he’s a situation to be managed, per say, because Emma knows better than to think that the very independent George Knightley could ever be managed by anyone. But she’s determined not to waste her opportunity with him as a captive audience. Emma swears that by the night’s end, she and George will have made some major steps forward.

Upon her return, she checks in with her father, who appears to have spent the intervening hours sorting through his books.

“George asked if I had any Thomas Hardy novels,” her father says, quite without prompting, staring at a copy of The Mayor of Casterbridge with great scrutiny.

“George has been here?” Emma asks, almost tripping over her tongue to get the question out. She wonders whether that was before or after their awkward encounter in the village.

“Oh, no - he asked me for the books the other week. I just hadn’t gotten around to sorting through them yet,” Mr Woodhouse replies, seemingly oblivious to Emma’s eager interest at George’s movements for the day. He runs his hand tenderly down the leather bound spine. Her father’s library is one of his pride and joys, and while a generous man, he only shares his books with a select few - George being one of them.

“Thomas Hardy, huh?” she says, walking over to the desk and looking over some of the titles that her father has laid out. She’s never read any of them. She’s never been much of a novel reader generally - and she’d never thought George was much of one either. Most of the time when she sees him reading, it’s some deathly boring non-fiction, or some insanely large historical biography. A novel almost seems… whimsically out of character for him.

“Wonderful writer,” her father booms, delighted that she’s showing an interest, even if it’s a superficial one. “Lots of vivid rural scenes, you know.”

“Mmm,” Emma agrees, even though she doesn’t know at all. But a rural novel does seem more George’s speed, if he insists on reading novels in the first place. Surely it wouldn’t kill him just to pick up a copy of The Da Vinci Code, like everyone else on the planet?

(Although, to be fair, Emma hadn’t got through that one either. She ended up watching the movie instead. George had mocked her about that failure for several days. And then he’d watched the sequel with her.)

“I suppose he’ll be able to pick them up when he gets here for dinner,” she comments absentmindedly. She can already smell the roast that her father had set to cooking earlier. Sunday is one of the few nights that Emma’s father ever attempts anything in the kitchen. She wonders if she has enough time for a hot bath and to wash her hair before George arrives.

“Oh,” her father says, a little dazed, “George phoned earlier and sent his apologies. He can’t make it tonight.”

Emma’s head whips around. “He can’t? But... George always comes to dinner on a Sunday!”

Emma feels immediately irate. He certainly hadn’t said anything to her in the car park about any change to their usual plans. She can’t help but wonder whether his decision came before or after their floundering run-in this afternoon. Usually if George can’t make it to dinner, he just sends Emma a text. Except he seems to be incapable of even that right now.

Her father gives her a mournful look, thankfully unperturbed by the scale of Emma’s response to the news. “I know,” he replies sadly. “He said something urgent had come up on the estate. I told him he works too hard - you know how he likes to take good care of all his tenants. But his call did remind me to sort out these books for him.”

Emma’s heart softens at her father’s kind-hearted thoughts and his willingness to take George’s excuse at absolute face value. But she doesn’t think she can be so forgiving.

Because truly, Emma can’t deny that she’s... hurt. Yes, hurt, she thinks, after a moment of consideration. George hadn’t even tried to tell her himself - only her father! Had things really been that terrible in the village today? Or had he already cancelled with her father at that point and wasn’t sure how to tell her to her face? Either way, it’s obvious that his actions were designed so he could continue to avoid her. How dare he!

Emma needs to sulk, and she can’t do that here. “I’m… going upstairs to have a bath,” she tells her father, suddenly desperate to get out of the room and to a place where she can quietly reflect.

Her father nods, already busy deciding which of his three editions of Far from the Madding Crowd he wants to loan to George. “Dinner will be in an hour,” he calls out after her as she leaves. The warning is redundant: they always eat at the same time every night.

Emma drags herself upstairs, tread heavy, trying to figure out her next course of action. Who knew one kiss could cause everything to go so wrong?

Chapter Text

Dinner that night is a subdued affair. And it’s not that Emma doesn’t enjoy her father’s company - because of course she does - but she’s also very used to George’s presence for their Sunday evening meal. He always brings a good humoured air to the proceedings, and indulges her father almost as much as Emma does. His absence feels like a stain on everything. She glowers at the chair where he’d normally sit, imagining how he’d likely glare back, and the effort of being mad at an invisible version of him almost makes her feel slightly better.

Her father asks her endless questions about the party, and Emma answers them all politely, but without extraneous detail. Maybe it’s a blessing that George didn’t come, she thinks, as her father asks how the engaged couple had looked, and whether she and George had had a lovely evening. She’s not sure she could have looked him in the eye after all.

Emma petulantly puts herself to bed earlier than usual, but instead of trying to sleep she spends the time scrolling aimlessly through her phone. Isabella had sent her a lengthy email two days ago that Emma still hasn’t read. Harriet has sent her a cat meme, her love language of choice. George remains steadily mute, and it seems clear now that when he’d said he needed to be mad at her the previous night, he had truly meant it in a way that he’d never meant it before.

Despite knowing that it’s likely to be a fool’s errand, Emma spends the next half hour drafting and redrafting a further message to him. The desperation of her double text doesn’t escape her. In fact, it feels even more pathetic given the events of the day and George’s stubborn determination to put her in her place. But at the same time, Emma Woodhouse has never encountered a problem she couldn't fix using sheer willpower. It feels against her nature to accept things as unchangeable and immutable.

Emma’s finger hovers over the send button for far too long before eventually stabbing at it. The text pops off into the ether, and then, with a scowl, she throws her phone down the end of her bed as if it’s the culprit for her misery.

We missed you at dinner tonight, her text had simply said. It was an olive branch of sorts. Emma had never laboured so long and so hard over six words before. There’s a deep ache in the void of her chest that just won’t abate, no matter how many meditative breathing cycles she tries before she loses count and ends up just staring at the ceiling.

Emma persuades herself that he’ll likely ignore her again, just so she doesn’t dare get her hopes up. Ignoring her really isn’t George’s usual style when it comes to their arguments. Perhaps deep down, her dogged persistence is a way to try and bait him into a fight. At least in that, Emma knows she can hold her own. But right now, she’s at a decided disadvantage because George has effectively rendered her mute - a smart tactic on his part, given he's more than aware of what she's capable of when she has room to flex her powers of persuasion.

Just as she’s drifting off into a troubled sleep, Emma feels the brief vibration of a text somewhere near the vicinity of her toes. Within seconds she’s bolt upright, her hands patting down the pile of blankets to try and find her phone in the darkness.

As her hand seizes it, Emma resigns herself to the fact that it’s probably just Harriet again, or maybe just another late night email from her sister, asking why she hasn’t replied. But as she brings the screen to eye level, the garish light half blinding her, there’s George’s name, that oh so familiar sequence of letters. She feels a rush of relief before the panic sets in. Her heart rate increases as she opens the message.

I missed you both at dinner tonight too, it reads. George has graced her with two additional words, which somehow feels like the bare minimum on his part. Emma tries to read between the lines but there isn’t much else to be taken from it. There’s still no apology, no explanation. She wants it to feel like a step towards reconciliation, but she’s not sure even she can stretch it that far. George’s text doesn’t even single her out, separate from her father.

Before she can over analyse it, Emma taps out a quick reply. Can we talk soon?

To her relief, this time the ellipsis appears almost immediately, George’s reply taking an extraordinarily long time in contrast to the length of his message.

Sorry, not yet, is all it says, and Emma feels her heart sink, hard like a rock. God, she hates this! She’s so unused to being on the outside of anything, but it’s especially galling when George is the one placing her there. What's he trying to prove anyway? She has the idea to dial his number right now, and demand answers. But knowing him as she does, Emma's pretty sure that won’t result in anything good.

It’s just… she misses him. It’s been barely twenty-four hours since their disagreement, and Emma feels like she has lost one of her limbs. It’s especially insulting given he’s only a few miles away at Donwell, and if she really wanted to, she could storm over there right now, no matter how late it is. It gives her satisfaction to imagine how ruffled he’d look to find her on his doorstep, raging like a harridan.

It won’t do her any good, she knows. She’d only be doing it to make herself feel better, and for once, she’s aware that she needs to respect George’s wishes and not be selfish. Emma’s done enough overstepping lately. Adding even more infringements is hardly going to win him over.

She doesn’t reply to his text, even though she wants to. There’s no point. Instead Emma lies back down and curls up on one side. She imagines George there next to her, staring across the pillow at her with his bright appraising eyes, hair messy. They’ve fallen asleep together before: sharing a bed at random house parties when neither of them were sober enough to get home, or on nights where they watch films until the small hours, and Emma wakes up just as the credits are rolling to see George’s eyes closed in the shadows of the room.

Those memories feel far away right now, jaded by his stoic refusal to promptly forgive her, and her own realisation that, this time, she can’t force this to a swift conclusion.

Acknowledging it doesn’t make it any less frustrating though.

---

Two days later, she’s about ready to climb the walls, and so Emma has formulated a plan.

“I’m going to walk over and see George,” she tells her father, who is wandering around the garden, bundled up in a great big coat that hangs off his frame. “I thought I’d drop off those books you set aside for him.”

Her father agrees readily, directing her to a stack of four beautifully bound hardbacks that are sitting to one side on his desk. Emma glances at them all one by one, as if by knowing them she’ll somehow know George’s mindset. They tell her nothing and so instead she throws them into a tote bag, slides on a pair of sunglasses, and heads out on her errand.

The day is warm, and the smell of spring in the air leaves her feeling hopeful. The swallows swoop from tree to tree as she walks by, enjoying their playful game. She’s already planning to tell George that she’s there at the behest of her father - something she knows he won’t begrudge, even though there’s a fair-to-high chance he might see through the excuse instantly. Emma is willing to take that chance.

Emma hasn’t been to the Abbey in a while, if she’s honest. George is always at Hartfield, and his presence there has become so routine that it tends to be the natural location for their plans. Emma’s also always known, to some extent, that George feels uncomfortable and faintly ridiculous owning such a grand old house. It’s hardly a place for cosy nights in and lounging about in sweatpants. Every time she goes there, she feels underdressed.

That said, Emma always wonders why George has never taken advantage of such a property, like so many in his position would have. Others would have been hosting shooting parties, or country gatherings with free flowing alcohol, but not George. It’s not as if he doesn’t have friends to invite - he has plenty between his time at university and playing rugby, and being born and raised in a village where everyone knows him and he knows everyone. In comparison, Frank Churchill barely draws breath without crowing about the estate he’ll inherit one day. Every time Emma sees him he ends up raving endlessly about all the wonderful advantages of Enscombe and the fun he’ll have once it’s all his.

Instead, the Abbey is like a shrine, frozen in a time gone by. Ever since George lost his parents, most of the rooms had been shut up and the innumerable objects inside covered in dust sheets. It's an imposing house, with its high ceilings and enormous artworks peering down. Emma always feels like they are watching her every move, and as a child the thought used to terrify the life out of her. And even though George has basically lived at Donwell his whole life, Emma always struggles to see much of him within its walls. She also senses that’s exactly why he spends so much time out of doors or languishing at her father’s dining table.

The austere building rises up on the horizon and Emma tries to keep her mind steady. She’s become a little heated on the walk, with the sun high in the sky and no shade to be found. She huffs a little at the exertion of the slow climb up the hill, and looks forward to being within the coolness of the vast Abbey.

As she makes her way up to the entrance, Emma looks for George in the surrounding area. If he’s anywhere outside, she doesn’t want to miss him. To better her chances, Emma cuts her way through the strawberry patches around the side of the house.

In the distance, she sees a figure bustling out of, what would historically have been, the servant’s door. Her heart leaps, only then to sink.

“Mrs Hodges!” she calls out, recognising the familiar homely shape of George’s housekeeper. The woman stops in her tracks and smiles.

“Hello there!” she cries back, quite jolly. “How are you, Emma? We haven’t seen you around here for a while.”

Emma’s relieved that at least one occupant of the Abbey is pleased to see her, and hopes that her luck will hold. She advances until she reaches Mrs Hodges, enjoying the shade of the side of the house, glad for the cool air on her heated cheeks.

“I’m well,” Emma says politely as she comes to a stop. She’s always liked the older woman, and respects her dedication to George, in her motherly but no-nonsense sort of way. And while Emma knows that George is grateful for Mrs Hodges, he’s always been self-conscious about the fact that he has to employ a housekeeper. But for a place as large as the Abbey, even as mostly shut up as it is, it was simply a necessity. George loves to grumble that the whole concept makes him sound like some sort of landed gentry until one day Emma had to bluntly point out that that’s exactly what he was. At the time, George had looked appalled. “I’m actually here to drop off some books for George from my father. Where is he?”

Mrs Hodges pauses, and Emma senses a shift in her. Her worry increases, and she wonders whether word has even reached the secluded walls of Donwell about what exactly had happened between her and George at the engagement party the other night.

“He’s not here, my love,” Mrs Hodges replies, granting her a look of compassion. It’s an expression that tells Emma far more than her words ever could. If the housekeeper knows they’ve had a fight, it’s obvious that George has been in a mood about it ever since.

“He’s not?” Emma’s hopes depress a little, realising her plan may have been for nothing. “Where is he? Will he be back soon?”

Mrs Hodges gives her a kindly look, and it reminds Emma once more of Harriet who she still hasn’t spoken to yet about this whole situation. Guilt bubbles up. “Why don’t you come inside for some tea?”

Emma trails inside after the housekeeper, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair so she can see more clearly. The bag of books is now weighing heavily on her right shoulder. She’s grateful when they reach the kitchen and she’s able to set them down.

Mrs Hodges busies herself fixing the cups, pulling out a mug that has been Emma’s favourite ever since she was a small girl. It has pink and grey elephants circling it. Glancing around, Emma can see there are traces of George’s presence everywhere. A dirty pair of boots by the door, a stack of newspapers which have clearly been read based on their haphazard folds, an old rain jacket thrown hastily over the back of a chair.

“So, I guess George is in the village then?” Emma prompts, eager to figure out how long she’ll likely have to wait until his return. She sits down at the large oak table in the centre of the room, long and wide enough to fit an entire army around it. It’s the same one that they used to eat lunch at when they were younger and George’s parents were still alive. “Or is he out surveying the land, or whatever it is that farming types do?”

Mrs Hodges slides over Emma’s cup, and deposits the sugar jar in front of her, clearly remembering how Emma likes her tea: sweet with milk. “He’s gone to London, I’m afraid,” she says reluctantly, sympathy evident in her tone. It’s clear enough now that she understands why Emma is really here on George’s doorstep.

“London?!” Surely that can’t be right.

“Left this morning,” Mrs Hodges says, fussing around the room rather than sitting down.

Emma’s confused. “But why?” George hates London - almost as much as she does. It’s too crowded, too dirty, and the air feels like a black haze grasping at the back of the throat. She and George are both too much country people at heart to bear it for long. “Did he have business there?” Emma can’t imagine what. Over the years, George has made it a point to relocate to local suppliers specifically so he could avoid having to go into the city where possible.

Mrs Hodges looks at her solemnly, as if to acknowledge how inadequate she knows her answer will be. “He didn’t say, my love. Just packed a bag and took off in the Land Rover.”

“A bag?” That sounded more ominous than simply a day trip. “How long is he going to be gone?”

“He said he wasn’t sure. You know what he’s like sometimes. He said maybe a fortnight, maybe longer.”

Emma feels sick. “Two weeks?!” she cries weakly, hardly sure whether to believe it or not. She knows he’s annoyed at her, but this behaviour seems unnecessarily cruel, even for him. Except, she admits, staring miserably down at the milky tea in front of her, George is never cruel. Even in the heat of an argument, he’s only ever honest and clear.

This is bad. This is very very... bad.

Emma feels hot tears creep up behind her eyelids, little prickles threatening to spill down onto her flushed cheeks. He hadn’t even bothered to tell her. How is she supposed to tolerate his absence, in these circumstances, for two weeks? Or maybe even longer?

Mrs Hodges, pausing by Emma, places a gentle palm over her hand and presses it graciously. “I’m sorry, Emma. I don’t know what to tell you. He didn’t seem like himself, if I’m rightly honest.”

The older woman moves on, picking up the stack of newspapers and making a show of tidying them when she probably doesn’t need to. It’s clear she doesn’t quite know what to say to explain George’s behaviour either.

“Well,” Emma says slowly after a long moment, making sure there is no tremor in her voice to give her away, “I’m sorry I missed him.” She forces herself to keep it together, her pride not letting her indulge in the idea of falling to pieces within the walls of George’s own home. “Now, don’t let me keep you, Mrs Hodges. I’ll just finish my tea, and if you don’t mind, I’ll pop these books in the library for when George gets back? I know my father was eager that he should get them.”

Mrs Hodges nods at her solemnly, but by her expression, it’s clear she knows how poorly her news has landed. “Of course, my dear. You know the way. It was lovely to see you.”

“And you,” Emma echoes, forcing a smile. It drops the instant Mrs Hodges disappears out of sight.

Her tears slip out now, no longer needing to be held back by any sense of dignity. They trail down her cheeks, embarrassingly fast, and Emma presses the heels of her hands to her eyes in order to stem the flow. She doesn’t know why she’s so upset, and yet, she knows exactly why. How could George just up and leave with things as they are between them? Without even telling her or saying goodbye? It’s so out of character that Emma feels there must be something she’s missing.

A pitiful choking sob tumbles out of her, and at that moment, all she really wants is for George to reassure her that everything will be alright. He’s the person she turns to for unfiltered advice and guidance, the tiny little angel on her shoulder, except now he’s the one she needs guidance about, and it all feels so heart-stoppingly wrong. How could she have messed things up this badly?

Emma takes a deep breath and attempts to pull herself together. Just then she hears the buzz of her phone, tucked away in her tote bag with the books, the vibration loud against the flat of the wooden table top.

Pulling it out, she has to double check the notification to make sure she’s not imagining things. It’s a text from George.

Just wanted to let you know I’ve gone to London, it says without any preamble. It’s short and factual, practically clinical. A robot could have written it.

So I’ve just discovered, she quickly replies back. Emma has so many questions, but isn’t sure which one to start with. Instead she just adds: I’m sitting in your kitchen right now.

His response is instantaneous, as if he’d been waiting for her message. You are?

I was dropping off some books for you from my father, she types back, gratified that at least it’s the truth. She expects George to question it, knowing her as he does, knowing that such an errand could only have come with a hidden motive on her part. Instead his reply ignores it completely.

I’m staying with John and Isabella. Not sure when I’ll be back.

Emma churns through all the questions in her mind, the small and large, and wonders which one should take precedent. But it’s clear that the only one that really matters is why, and that’s the one she’s not sure she can bear the answer to. It feels too big to pick apart by text. Besides, Emma’s not even sure he’d answer it, or whether it would cross the boundary George has temporarily drawn around himself, the line in the sand that he’s not willing to let her cross right now.

She stares at his words until they turn blurry. Because even without the bravery to ask what she wants to ask, Emma still has no shortage of things on her mind. There are a thousand things she wants to say to him, if only she could find the courage:

Please forgive me - I’m sorry I put you on the spot like that - I hate that we’re fighting - You’re my best friend and I need you - Hartfield isn’t the same without you - I know I overstepped and put you in an awkward position - I wish you would talk to me properly - I hate that you’re so far away - I’m a terrible person and I’ll say that every day to your face if you need me to.

But mostly it’s just:

I miss you, I miss you, I miss you. Please come back.

But she doesn’t say any of that. How can she? Instead, she types out one word.

Okay.

And then Emma turns her phone off, trying not to feel like her chest has had a hole punched through it.

Chapter Text

Harriet swings open her front door, her happy expression falling into concern as soon as she takes one look at Emma’s face.

“I’ll get you a drink,” she says quickly, as Emma drags herself across the threshold, and kicks off her shoes. Harriet’s flat is the very epitome of cosy, like a soft furnishings department has exploded over every available surface.

Emma makes a beeline for the overstuffed couch, curling up in her preferred corner and hugging the nearest cushion to her chest. “Thanks. A large gin and tonic please.” She doesn’t even need to look at her friend to sense eyebrows being raised in her direction.

“Are you sure?” But even then Emma hears the clinking of glasses behind her, the scrape of a bottle being pulled down from a shelf. “You sounded pretty upset on the phone.”

“Hence the gin and tonic,” she replies, trying to keep the tone light, even though her mood feels dark.

Harriet totters over a minute later, two drinks in hand. Emma accepts hers gratefully, wasting no time in taking a large gulp. Carefully Harriet eases herself down at the opposite end of the couch, facing Emma, their feet almost touching in the middle, toe to toe.

“So, what’s going on?” Harriet asks tentatively, grabbing a blanket and draping it over both of their legs. Her gentle concern feels almost smothering, like Emma doesn’t really deserve it. No, actually, she definitely doesn’t deserve it.

It takes Emma a good half an hour to explain the entire situation to Harriet, whose face becomes more and more bewildered the further through the story she gets. And now that she’s started, Emma can’t seem to stop the words flowing out of her. It’s like she’s purging every emotion that has crossed her mind over the past week, and she can hardly bear to leave a stone unturned.

“Wow,” Harriet breathes out eventually, having briefly returned to the adjoining kitchen to make them both a second drink. She brings both the gin and the tonic water back with her this time, placing them side by side on the coffee table. Emma’s not really sure if the alcohol is helping, but given how awful she feels, she supposes it can’t make things any worse.

“Yeah,” Emma nods, realising how mad it all sounds now that she’s laid it out like this. No wonder George wants to avoid her. She wants to avoid her too.

“And so you don’t know when he’ll be back?” Harriet questions, a small frown resting daintily between her brows.

“I have no idea.”

“Do you... want me to get Rob to ask him? He might be able to get in touch, do some subtle digging?”

It’s sweet of Harriet to offer, and Emma truly considers it for a moment. “No,” she sighs eventually. “George would know it was coming from me somehow.”

Harriet bobs her head briefly in understanding. Emma wishes her propensity for meddling didn’t precede her. “Probably. Could you not go to London to see him?”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Emma admits, although she’d be lying if she said the thought hadn’t crossed her mind more than once. There’s a browser on her phone open on train fares to London to prove it. “Besides, I can’t really leave my father. I think... I just have to wait until George is back. Hope that he won’t hate me forever.”

Harriet leans forward, her hand finding Emma’s own and giving it a squeeze. “You know George isn’t going to hate you forever, Em.” Harriet’s the only one who ever shortens her name, and the familiar sound of it is more comforting than she cares to admit. “Like he said to you, he just needs to be mad for a bit and then things will be back to normal. You’ll see. He always forgives you. Maybe he’s just been planning to go to London for a while?”

Harriet is either being naive or just trying to soften the blow. Either way, it’s not going to work on Emma.

“But he hates London! And he especially hates John and Isabella’s flat. Last time he told them he was sure he saw a rat, and they didn’t even bat an eyelid.”

Harriet’s mouth forms itself into a disgusted grimace, but she’s not distracted from her pep talk for long. “Yes, but you know George. He’ll hole himself up in a museum somewhere, or go out with some old uni friends. But he’ll soon get sick of it. If anything, London’s going to make him want to come back sooner.”

Emma concedes that Harriet makes a fair point. George may feel ill at ease inside the walls of the Abbey, but London is hardly more likely to soothe him. Besides, he doesn’t tend to stray far from Highbury for long these days, if he can help it. It’s one of the odd contractions about him: to be drawn to the village and yet so conflicted about the central role he, and the Abbey, play in it.

Maybe Emma’s fretting over nothing. Maybe he’ll be back in a few days, filled to the brim with reasons why he still detests the city.

“I hope you’re right,” Emma sighs once more. “It’s just… this fight seems worse than normal. Even though I’m sure I’ve done far stupider things without him ever getting this mad.”

“Oh, you definitely have,” Harriet acknowledges with the smallest of grins.

Emma accepts her good natured admonishment with a resigned nod. “Yeah yeah, I know. But this time I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much. It’s hardly the first fight George and I have ever had. Don’t you remember last Christmas when we literally bickered through the entirety of our Christmas Eve dinner, and by the end of it, my father threatened to throw us both out into the snow? And you know how much my father is terrified of snow!”

“It’s the cause of all sorts of illnesses,” Harriet recites with a cautious smile, having been on the receiving end of Mr Woodhouse’s speech on more than one occasion.

“Exactly. But I just… I feel like something is really wrong this time, and I just… can’t put my finger on what it is exactly. And I feel like I should know. Because it’s George. I know everything about him! He’s my oldest friend. He’s everything.”

Something in Harriet’s demeanor changes at Emma’s words. Carefully, as if she’s moving through water, Harriet places her glass on the coffee table and sits up straighter.

Emma feels unnerved enough to say something. “What? You’re being weird all of a sudden.”

Harriet lets out a quiet exhale and levels Emma with an uncharacteristically forthright stare. “Now, don’t be mad at me for asking, but I… I think I kind of have to? Do you think…” Harriet’s voice becomes hesitant, as if the words are being pulled out of her by force, “that maybe… just maybe… you love George?”

Emma frowns, puzzled. “Well, of course I love George! I thought that was obvious?”

“No… sorry, I meant, I mean… maybe not just that you love him, as a friend. But… more that you’re… in love with him?” Harriet’s voice is a mere squeak by the end.

The suggestion hits Emma like a ton of bricks. In love with George?

“Impossible!” Emma immediately scoffs, on auto-pilot. The idea is frankly ridiculous, even if her heart rate does suddenly feel ten times faster than it did just seconds ago. Something is forming in the pit of her stomach, spreading upwards through her ribcage, and blooming deep in her chest. “I’m… not…“ she shakes her head forcefully, “I’m not in love with George!”

For once Harriet doesn’t fill the silence. She just sits there watchfully, biting her lip.

“I’m… not!” Emma protests once more, because what else can she do? It’s plainly absurd. And yet her whole body suddenly feels like it’s burning white hot, from the tips of her ears, right down to toes.

She throws off the blanket covering her legs and leaps to her feet. She needs to move, she needs to pace. Her limbs feel electric, like she could run for miles without even breaking a sweat. What on earth is going on?

Harriet looks distressed at her distress. “Em, I-”

“I… I’m definitely not! I’m definitely not in love with George, Harriet! Of course, I-I... love him, obviously. But I’m not... in love with him! I… can’t be. It’s totally impossible. We’re friends. We’ve always been friends.”

Harriet’s sorrowful voice is almost a whisper as she watches Emma pace up and down in front of her, wringing her hands together. “I know you have.”

Emma feels the notion taking hold, sinking and curling around her bones, like tree roots grasping at every part of her. Now that the suggestion is out there, it can’t be tidied away and ignored.

“I... can’t be in love with him, Harriet.” The sliver of desperation in Emma’s voice is now unmistakable, even to herself. The truth is snapping hard at her heels, and she’s not sure she can outrun it.

Harriet’s reply is calm and steady despite the storm that Emma is whirling around her. “Why not?”

“Because… because…” Emma frantically scrambles for an answer, but all the arguments sound treasonous to her ears. “I- I... just can’t be, that’s all! George and I are friends. And that’s just how it is, how it’s always been.” Her stubborn defiance rings pathetically hollow.

Harriet gives her a look of great sympathy. “And does that mean that things can never change?”

The question hits Emma square in the gut, and it feels like the wind has been knocked out of her. Her mind is seized with turmoil. Because all of Emma’s previously fixed perceptions of what she and George are to each other seem to be crumbling to dust, and forming into something new at her feet.

The truth follows quickly afterwards.

Things can change. Things have changed.

But no, surely not. She… she can’t have fallen in love with him?

And yet, as soon as Emma tries to deny it, her body revolts. This deepest, darkest of secrets - not even known to herself until this moment - now refuses to be repressed. The facts won’t be denied.

Emma Woodhouse is in love with George Knightley.

Or perhaps the real question should be how could Emma not be in love with George? He’s her constant, in all things. Willing to challenge her, and battle with her, even at the expense of his own peace and quiet. George never stops wanting what is best for her, and never stops believing that she can get it or be it, even when Emma doesn’t believe it herself.

Loyal, thoughtful, darling George. Her best friend and the person whose companionship she always craves. The first person she wants to tell all her secrets to, even the ones he won’t approve of... or well, especially those ones actually, if only so Emma can have every scrap of his attention focused solely on her, and only her.

Emma’s heart swells when she thinks about the way he smiles at her sometimes, or the way he screws up his face when he’s trying not to laugh. There are a million little things that she knows and loves about George, and while the word friendship has always been big enough to encompass them, Emma now recognises the presence of stronger, more powerful, more buried feelings rising swiftly to the surface. They bubble under her skin, gasping for the freedom of the open air.

But can she do it? Can she willingly submit herself to the blind terror of being in love? Because while it is easy, too easy, to love George, being in love with him requires a type of faith that Emma has never placed in anything before.

How can she trust in something that she can’t control?

And yet, the question answers itself. It’s already too late. Emma’s wayward heart has decided for her, and denying it now would be pointless. The only part that is really up to her is whether or not she wants to accept that her happiness, now and maybe forever, is intrinsically linked to that of George Knightley’s.

And she knows the answer to that too.

But…how could this have happened? How could she have let this happen?

“Oh shit,” she cries, throwing herself back on Harriet’s couch and covering her face in her hands. Emma releases an outraged moan into her outspread palms. The scope of the situation is slowly dawning on her, and the lack of power she has over it is the most upsetting part of all. “Harriet, this can’t be happening.” The words come out muffled between her fingers, lost and small.

A second later Harriet’s arms slide around her, knees pressing into her thighs, chin resting atop Emma’s head. Her friend doesn’t say anything and Emma’s appreciative of that at least. Instead she tries to focus on collecting herself, her thoughts, the massive shift in her entire world view.

Tentatively, she, once more, tests out the premise.

She's... in love with George. As soon as the thought comes, his frowning, exasperated face swims into view, attractive even when he’s mad at her. Emma pictures the way he leans against the kitchen counter sometimes, sleeves rolled up and arms crossed in front of him, staring at her with barely veiled frustration. She thinks of how it would feel to just sink into him, touch him, kiss him. Her stomach instantly swoops with a strange sort of ecstasy.

Yes.

She’s… god, she’s... definitely in love with George, isn’t she?

And it’s somehow simultaneously the most amazing and the most terrible of things. Because it’s George: wonderful, kind, and conveniently handsome, George! But at the same time it’s also George: uptight, boring, and intensely reproving, George. Emma knows it should be difficult to reconcile these things, and yet, somehow, it isn’t. She appreciates him for all his remarkable qualities as well as all of his flaws. In fact, she wouldn’t change a thing about him, apart from making him not angry at her anymore.

God, she’s... actually in love with him.

The thought sends a staggering pulse of awe through every part of her. She’s in love. Emma Woodhouse is in love, and she can hardly believe it.

But still, this was not supposed to happen.

And maybe, if it was anything, or anyone, else, Emma could force this news aside with an obstinacy without equal. But this realisation is so large that Emma can barely hold the feelings inside her body, let alone contemplate the idea of shoving them down and down and down and never thinking of them ever again.

She’s in love with George Knightley. Her heart has been split open, and found to be crammed full with every aspect of him. It might have been that way for years and she’s never known about it until now.

Her mind is racing and so Emma tries to breathe quietly for a few minutes, mimicking the calmer rhythm of Harriet’s own hushed exhalations. Her friend sighs soothing nonsense in her ear, the low babble like white noise against Emma’s raging heartbeat.

Eventually Harriet speaks. “Are you okay?”

Emma’s own desires have been a complete mystery to her until this very moment, and apparently she’s in love with her best friend.

“Of course I’m not okay! I’m bloody in love with George, aren’t I?”

---

Being in love is intolerable. Especially when the object of one’s love has absolutely no idea.

Emma can’t understand why others crave love, why they’d overthrow heaven and earth to find it. She’s only hours into her epiphany and she’s completely and utterly tortured. She feels like her mind will never know a moment of peace ever again. Thoughts of George consume her.

She wakes up on Harriet’s sofa to a deep pulsing throb across her forehead, the remnants of too many gin and tonics and too little sleep. Her face is mashed into a too soft pillow. A direct ray of sunlight had somehow found its way through the smallest gap in Harriet’s living room curtains and straight into Emma’s bleary aching eyes.

Harriet’s asleep in her own bed still and Emma can hear her soft peaceful snores echoing through the small flat. She sits herself up, bones heavy and the knots in her muscles tight and tense. Emma can’t tell whether it is from the structural integrity of the sofa, or more because last night she’d found relaxing into sleep near impossible. Instinctively she checks her phone but finds the battery is dead - she hadn’t even thought about charging it. She hopes that George hasn’t texted.

Even the merest whisper of his name across her thoughts sends Emma into yet another spiral. No, no, not yet, she pleads with herself. Give me just one minute of calm at least.

After leaving Harriet a hastily scribbled note on the kitchen counter, Emma lets herself out the front door, closing it behind her with the barest of sounds. Sure, she doesn’t want to wake her friend, but a bigger part of her doesn’t want to have to see the look in Harriet’s eyes: the concerned sympathy, the worry.

Harriet had tried to be helpful last night, but really, she has no real idea of what Emma is going through. Sure, she and Rob had had some hiccups along the way to their own happiness (no thanks to Emma herself, she concedes with some shame), but it hardly compares to Emma’s realisation that she’s fallen in love with her best and oldest friend. The best friend who was, at this very moment, so upset at the thought of her ruining their friendship that he had likely fled to another city in order to drive home his disappointment in her. How on earth is she now supposed to tell George that she’s in love with him?

It’s still too early for many people to be about, and so Emma appreciates the ethereal stillness of the village as she makes her way through the empty streets. As she walks, she contemplates the alternative option.

Not telling George.

Emma wonders whether it would even be possible, now that the truth has hit her with the force of a runaway train. Because while the idea of telling him is absolutely terrifying, the idea of bottling this feeling up and trying to smother it until it goes away seems even more futile.

But that’s it, isn’t it? It’s not going to go away. Because although Emma is new to being in love, she also knows that what she’s feeling isn't a fleeting wisp of a thing, a temporary spasm of madness, to soon be forgotten. George is hardly going to become less important to her, and less wonderful in general. No, this state is permanent and unchangeable; scored on her soul, if she wants to be dramatic about it.

Besides, what if she says nothing and George finds a nice girl who likes farming and decides to marry her? The vision of this potential future almost takes Emma’s breath away.

But god, how can she tell him? She tries to imagine the words she’d use, the way he would look at her, the inevitable aftermath. He would be shocked, she knows, because she’s shocked at herself for somehow being completely unaware of this until now.

How long has this been building without her knowledge? Emma can hardly even begin to guess. When had George gone from simply her best friend to that and far more besides? She’d like to think, if only for her own sanity, that it has been a recent development. But really, she finds it impossible to say. While she might mock and tease him constantly, Emma knows deep in her heart that she’s always held him up far above all others in her life, and has done so for as long as she can remember. When had things tipped over from platonic love to… romantic? When she had kissed him? Or had her decision to do that been the result of something that she’d been wanting for a much longer time?

Emma huffs in frustration as she takes the lanes across the hills towards Hartfield. There is dew on the grass and it makes the tips of her shoes wet. She hates not understanding every facet of her own mind, especially given that she’s usually so sure of it. She also especially hates not knowing George’s mind. And right now, it feels particularly foreign to her.

Emma hardly dares to dream that he’ll return her feelings. Because while she knows George loves her, she thinks she’d know if he was in love with her. Emma may be inexperienced when it comes to men, but she isn’t blind. George doesn’t behave like a man haunted by a secret passion for her. He’s still her best friend after all, and Emma knows him better than anyone else. There’s no way she couldn’t see it if that were the case.

No, he definitely doesn’t feel that way about her.

That said, her brain pipes up, determined to taunt her, there was the matter of how he had kissed her back at the party. Quite without prompting, her lips part, tingling at the recollection. The memory of his mouth is so vivid that Emma finds she can’t even keep one foot moving in front of the other. She stops in her tracks, breath hitching in her throat.

Emma knows George had kissed her back at the party because she needed him to - to save face in front of Elton. He’d even said as much. But surely he couldn’t have kissed her like that if he felt nothing at all for her?

Then again, George is still a human being. One who has urges and needs as many human beings do - as Emma herself does. He’s surely not immune to the loneliness that life at the Abbey brings. The dating pool in Highbury is hardly a deep well of options even for someone as great as George. And so a kiss is still a kiss, no matter who it’s from, when experiencing a drought. None of these thoughts make her feel any better.

Emma forces herself to resume her journey home, her thoughts continuing to churn. Maybe... George doesn't love her now, but perhaps he could love her with time? After all, at the very least, Emma knows that he must find her somewhat attractive in order to kiss her like he did. Plus, she’s obviously never conducted their friendship with any sort of romantic agenda. Maybe when he comes back, she can earn his forgiveness, and work towards getting George to see her in a different, more... passionate, light?

Emma feels sad at the thought. Now that she’s discovered her own feelings, she hardly wishes to plot her way into getting what she wants. In any other case, with any other man, she wouldn’t have thought twice about it. After all, even in her limited experience, sometimes men need a little gentle encouragement. But this is George, and the idea of having to play any sort of game with him feels sordid and wrong.

She’s glad when Hartfield finally comes into view, her body and mind tired from their dual exertions. The real truth is that Emma can do nothing until George returns - whenever that might be. And at that point, they have to rebuild their friendship before anything else can happen. Emma can hardly dare hope for anything more than that right now.

Still, maybe she can be guided by him, and by his behaviour to her. Perhaps in time she can hope that George might see her as more than his best friend, with a little effort on her part. She knows that he fears change, but there is no reason their friendship can’t be a foundation for something even more wonderful.

But it’s not a hand that can be forced, she accepts, as much as Emma is an impatient creature by nature. At the end of the day, she can’t lose him again. And so if she has to stay quiet to keep him in her life, then that’s what she’ll do. His happiness is utmost.

As Emma lets herself in through the front door, she revels in how mature and rational her decision is. Being in love has already wrought some changes to her, she marvels, as she grabs an apple from the nearby fruit bowl and sets about dissecting it with a knife.

Yes, Emma can be both rational and in love, she thinks. She can be selfless and dignified if she puts her mind to it. There’s no need for this situation to send ripples of upheaval through her life. She can be the very picture of calm.

God, she wishes George would hurry up and come back.

Chapter Text

Her exquisite calmness lasts for two whole days, which, by Emma’s standards, is a personal best.

For two full days she’s been full of grace and tranquillity. George has been at the forefront of her mind throughout, of course, because she’s not superhuman. But Emma hasn’t let this remarkable development change her. She’s still an independent woman, after all - in love or not.

But then, the phone call. Her careful serenity shattered.

Isabella had called early one evening, ostensibly to talk to their father although Emma is the one who picks up the phone. Her sister is on the bus, heading home from work, and so Emma is distracted by the background noise of traffic and the hiss of the automatic doors every time they open and close. She can practically smell the air pollution down the phone line.

It’s not that Emma doesn’t like speaking to her sister. It’s more that they usually just text or email and so the discussion is stilted at first. As Isabella explains the nuances of her latest work drama, Emma wanders dreamily around the garden, examining her father’s newly budding roses, only half-listening. Every so often she makes a sound of acknowledgment or exclamation - enough to satisfy Isabella of Emma’s attention.

Eventually, with the general headline news out of the way, it becomes impossible for Emma not to ask after George. After all, she reasons, it would be more bizarre if she didn’t mention him.

“So,” Emma says eventually, during a natural lull in the conversation, “how’s George doing? Enjoying his visit?” Saying his name feels daring, and a hot press of excitement floods through her.

There’s no pause in Isabella’s response - if anything she is as open and guileless as ever. It would appear George hasn’t divulged the reason for his stay, unless Isabella has suddenly acquired the skill of artful lying. “Oh, he’s George, you know. It’s clear he hates London, and yet he seems determined for some reason to stay - like he’s trying to torture himself or something.”

“Oh?” Emma prompts. It’s almost satisfying to hear that George is miserable too. It serves him right for inflicting the same on her.

“One second,” Isabella says and so Emma waits impatiently, listening to her sister clamber off the bus, the sound of London growing even louder in the background. “Okay, I’m back. Actually, you’ll never believe who George said he was having drinks with tonight!”

Emma can’t even fathom a guess. “Who?”

“Jane Fairfax!”

A sour taste instantly forms in Emma’s mouth, her tongue turning thick and heavy. “Jane Fairfax?”

“Yes, isn’t that funny? I didn’t know they were close.”

“Neither did I,” Emma replies, even though the second she says it, small memories start to bubble to the surface. The times George has told her off for being so dismissive of Jane whenever she was in Highbury. The occasion he complimented her musical ability, noting that she was “really talented”. The fact that she knows he follows Jane on Instagram (only because Emma herself does too, and she sees his ‘likes’ sometimes).

“Well, I suppose George is allowed to have more friends than just you.” Emma can hear Isabella’s teasing down the phone. It’s meant completely without malice, except to Emma it feels like a particularly pointed barb.

“Did you want to speak to papa?” she asks instead, her palms sweaty and suddenly desperate to get away from this conversation.

With Isabella’s agreement, Emma locates her father next to the fire, even though the weather is hardly cold enough to warrant it being lit. He takes the phone and Emma dashes from the room before his rapturous greetings to his oldest daughter can begin.

Emma bounds up the stairs at pace, eager to locate a private corner of the house to be alone with her thoughts.

George is hanging out with Jane Fairfax?

She finds herself in the upstairs hallway, her feet carrying her there without thought. Her favourite window seat is bathed in the last sunlight of the day and so Emma curls herself into position like a cat. She pauses to look out over the courtyard below, and then outward to the tree lined hills beyond. She imagines the figure of George striding towards the house as he so often does, dressed in practical boots and overcoat that would flare out behind him as he walked. He’d be a small dot on the horizon, slowly getting bigger and bigger until he’d be at the front of the house, and letting himself in downstairs. Today the view gives Emma no such satisfaction.

With a sigh, she takes her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. In mere seconds she’s pulled up George’s Instagram account. He barely uses it to post anything - the fact that he has an account at all is only because Emma set it up for him (“How am I supposed to tag you in my photos if you’re not on Instagram, George?”). Most of his grid posts are scenic in nature: views from the upper windows of the Abbey, or snapshots looking out over the rolling farmland that he, with the help of his tenants, oversees. The only other pictures are the ones that Emma has made them take together, usually awkwardly angled selfies because his arms are longer than hers. She always steals his phone and posts them and George always protests, peering over her shoulder, criticising her captioning skills the entire time.

The last of these was uploaded several months ago, and as her eyes catch on the image, Emma can’t help but note how happy and at ease they both look. It almost seems like a personal affront considering how different things feel right now. But all in all, George hasn’t updated it with anything.

Not that Emma’s spying on him, of course. She’s merely… interested.

Curiosity one part sated, Emma’s next visit is to Jane’s account. The most recent grid picture is of Jane sitting at a piano, deep in concentration, no doubt playing something as accomplished as it is impressive. Jane had always put Emma’s passable musical skills to shame, and the reminder grates at her a little. But Emma supposes it’s a nice picture, for what it is. She’s big enough to admit that Jane is pretty, in a sort of unexplainable way.

There are also some recently added Instagram stories too, and so Emma clicks onto them before she can think twice about it. At first, it’s nothing too out of the ordinary. A picture of a stretch of parkland. Innocent enough. This is followed by a shot of two full pint glasses next to each other on a ring-marked table, with a location tag: The White Hart. Emma recognises the brand of beer as George’s preferred. Her fingers twitch. Posted an hour ago.

Two glasses mean they are out alone, rather than with a group of people and Emma tries her hardest not to feel too uneasy about that. It’s only Jane Fairfax, and while George has always been kind about her, it hardly means there’s a reason for Emma to be paranoid.

However, the next story catches Emma completely off guard, her heart lurching in sharp surprise. It’s a photo of George, filtered in black and white. It’s clearly been taken without his knowledge, because there is something unstudied and unselfconscious about it. It’s shot in profile, with George leaning against a bar, seemingly in the process of ordering some drinks. He’s wearing a perfectly cut pea coat, and Emma’s positive she’s never seen it before. It suits him, even though it makes him look like a city version of himself, rather than the George she’s used to. And although the details of the picture aren’t that defined, George’s expression is pensive, handsomely so. Emma can tell by the tilt of his mouth that he’s frowning in deep thought. The whole image feels startlingly intimate, like she’s looking in on a private moment that she ought not to be seeing.

Nevertheless, Emma’s eyes linger as she holds the image on screen with her thumb, suddenly wishing she hadn't sunk to this level of stalking. The photo is also making her acutely aware of just how much she misses George’s physical presence; the very way he takes up space in a room.

But...had he always had those lips? Those cheekbones? Of course he had, her mind scoffs. Emma knows his face better than anyone's. She’s familiar with every curve and angle of it: from the lines around his mouth when he smiles, to the faint scar on his cheek, the matching one on his forehead. But this information somehow sits differently than it had even several days ago.

Because the thing is, not only is she in love with him, but Emma now also knows exactly how George Knightley kisses, and as a result, it’s pretty much all she’s been able to think about. She feels like a complete fool for not appreciating what had happened at the party properly at the time, but she’d been too distracted: by her task, by Elton, and by the novelty of being kissed at all, to really unpack why that new familiarity with George had made her feel like the blood in her veins was running red hot.

So now, all Emma can think about is getting to kiss him again. She wants to thread her hands into his hair and have his body parallel to her own, and be fully and finally absorbed with kissing the man she loves, knowing that there are no ulterior motives or distractions to hold her back.

A deep urgency blooms inside of her, and a shuddering sigh finds its way out into the quiet hallway. Emma’s thoughts are tumbling so fast that she can barely catch them: imagining the weight of his body, its warmth, its firmness, and how George’s bare skin would feel pressed against hers. She doesn’t need a mirror to know that her cheeks are flushed crimson.

Emma accepts that, despite her age, she’s, what would be considered, naïve in that particular area. And she’s grown to be fine with that... mostly. It’s not a crime to have high standards, is it? To want it to be… with the right person in the right moment?

Besides, it all feels rather serendipitous now that she’s realised that, for her, it has probably been George all along - even when she was blind to it. It’s no wonder that no other man has ever felt… right.

Maybe it should feel strange to suddenly think of George in this way, after all this time. And perhaps it is, just a little. Objectifying him is, well... it’s definitely new, although as Emma is finding, it’s certainly not an unwelcome pastime.

Plus the truth is that George has always been good-looking, even though, historically, Emma would never have admitted it to his face. Hell, she’d barely been able to admit it to herself until this had all reached its, probably inevitable, boiling point. Nevertheless, it’s quite a shift to go from begrudging acceptance of George’s general attractiveness, to suddenly spending half her time fantasising about what it would feel like to peel the shirt from his body.

Now, staring at the picture of George, Emma’s body has become a calamitous riot of feelings that she’s never quite experienced before. They scare and thrill her at the same time. There’s a new fluttering in her belly, excited and anxious. The sensation blends into the unsatisfied ache that’s come to sit even lower still, amassing a tension that is coiling, coiling, coiling until she feels she might implode. Emma’s mind is filled with flashes of things that she craves to know. She imagines the way George would sigh against her skin, mouth slack and eyes screwed closed, as her hands trace paths to the unfamiliar. She visualises the imprint of his fingertips against her thighs, and how these small depressions would be left on her skin even after he’s gone.

Emma’s toes curl inside her shoes, her mouth suddenly dry. It’s clear that not only does she love George, but… she also really wants him too. The idea of having sex with him… it leaves her feeling nervous and giddy.

A small giggle flies out of her mouth at her own brutal honesty, the sound echoing like an exclamation point down the empty hallway. The dual feelings of both deep love and carnal lust are such a potent combination that Emma’s body feels sticky with it, skin prickling and fit to burst.

Emma allows herself a long moment to study the black and white picture one more time, an attempt to catch her breath, her face still blazing with heat. She’s extremely glad she’s alone right now. It’s then that she notices there’s still one frame left, and the instant it appears on her phone screen, Emma wishes she hadn’t seen it.

Perhaps to anyone else, it would be innocuous. But to Emma, who has only recently been able to come to terms with the fact that she’s in love with her best friend, it feels like absolute cruelty.

It’s a selfie of Jane and George together. They’re sitting in a booth, battered forest green leather lining the backdrop for their bowed together heads. They’re both smiling, although Emma recognises the hint of awkwardness behind George’s eyes - he’s always hated having his photo taken. Jane’s shoulder is overlapping George’s so they can both fit in the frame, and Emma can’t help but look at all the places their bodies are pressed together.

They make an attractive couple, her traitorous brain sings at her, pointing out the obvious. If she had seen them on the street as an anonymous pair, it’s something Emma would have noted herself. Even now, she can recognise how their contrasting looks compliment each other - his lighter hair, her darker, his bright blue eyes to her stormier green ones.

She looks at the timestamp. Uploaded ten minutes ago! God, even as Emma sits there, stomach churning with lust, the chambers of her heart brimming with love, staring out towards Highbury and the small world that surrounds her, George is in another city, with another woman, as if Emma’s heart doesn’t matter. And of course, to George it probably doesn’t - at least, not in the way that Emma wants it to matter.

How is she supposed to cope with this?

Right this minute, Jane could have her hand on his thigh, could be settling her lips close to his ear. A purple rage floods Emma’s mind at the idea that someone, anyone - but especially Jane Fairfax! - could dare think of George in that way.

Rationally Emma knows she’s being ridiculous. After all, the photo proves nothing. And yet the swell of jealousy pounds through her veins all the same.

But it does make one thing clear to her now: there’s no way Emma can swallow her feelings down. She doesn’t have the luxury of time. She can’t sit around and wait for George to see her like she sees him. She can’t stand by and run the risk of someone else stealing his heart out from under her.

The ugly vision of Jane and George together, getting more and more drunk as the night goes on, makes tears stir behind Emma's eyes. She knows how these things go. A few more drinks, the pub lighting dimming as the evening draws in, the dark walk to Jane’s house, a shy invitation upstairs. George is a gentleman, that much is for sure, but he’s also single and free to do what he wants and so would he take Jane up on an offer like that, should she make it? There is no fathomable reason why he wouldn’t. Emma imagines a tentative kiss in a doorway, leading into a back pressed against a wall, a jacket being shrugged from broad shoulders.

The hypotheticals make her feel sick. She can’t let this happen. But what can Emma do from Highbury?

A few swipes and she’s pulled up her and George’s text chain. It’s been ongoing for years, if she were to scroll back that far, because Emma never deletes anything. Hundreds upon thousands of texts, if they were to ever be counted. Right now, their previous exchanges stare blankly back at her. Should she call him? And say what? George, I’m in love with you, so please stop touching Jane Fairfax? Clearly out of the question. And besides, there’s no guarantee he’ll pick up her call anyway.

No, it will have to be a text, because at least he’ll read that - even though that’s hardly the right medium for everything Emma wants and needs to say. But she has to start somewhere, with something.

George, she types, her fingers flying over the letters so fast that auto correct has to do most of the work, I have something I really need to talk to you about. Face to face, if possible, when you get back from London - whenever that might be. I know you’re still mad, and you’re right to be. But this is important. I really need you.

She stares at the composition for a long time, evaluating each sentiment with the seriousness of a judge. In the end she deletes the final four words, because when he does come back, Emma doesn’t want it to be because she emotionally blackmailed him into it. For this they need to be on equal footing.

She can’t quite bring herself to press send, her hesitant heart battering against her chest, knowing that this message takes her down a path she can’t turn back from. Is she ready for that?

But then an image of Jane and George kissing once more crawls its way out of her imagination, and even though it’s not real (god, she hopes), it’s the impetus she needs. A quick tap and the message flies towards its destination and Emma can’t bear to watch what happens next. Quickly, for the second time in recent days, she switches her phone off, feeling a sense of relief as the screen turns black.

She has a little time to formulate her plan. No, not a plan, she thinks, because in this she doesn’t want there to be schemes and tricks. George deserves honesty and clarity and no more games. But Emma wants to be ready for when he eventually comes back: days or god forbid, weeks from now. She needs to find a way to put her thoughts and feelings into words, and prepare herself for the unknown reaction they will elicit.

The sun finally dips below the hillside, and the hallway slides into a gloomy half light. Emma rests her head against the panelling behind her and takes a deep breath. Her world feels suddenly upside down, but at the same time she can hardly recognise the life she’d been drifting through before now. Or perhaps it’s only now that things are actually the right way up, and she’s seeing clearly for the first time in her life?

Whatever it is, George is the point at which it all pivots, whether he knows it or not.

Chapter Text

Harriet forces her way into Emma’s room the following morning without ceremony.

“Your father said you were still in bed!” she cries, bustling around the room with sprite little steps, rather like a pixie. She flings open the curtains and a burst of sunlight hits Emma’s eyes, causing her to groan and throw an arm over her face. This has to stop happening. “Are you hungover?”

Emma groans again, forcing her eyes open just enough to look at her friend. Harriet stands there in patient silence, a pretty spring dress swirling about her knees. “No. I’m just… depressed.”

“Is that why you haven’t replied to any of my texts this morning?” Harriet asks, perching herself on the edge of the bed, a concerned hand grabbing at Emma’s ankle under the covers.

Emma hasn’t switched her phone back on since sending the message to George yesterday. The idea of doing so makes her feel slightly nauseated. “Turned it off,” she mumbles, pressing her face further into her pillow. She’s rewarded with a mouthful of her own hair.

Emma can feel the shift in Harriet’s demeanour, even though she can no longer see her. “Oh. Is this about... “ she trails off, but Emma knows exactly what she’s reluctant to say. Harriet religiously checks her social media first thing every morning, without fail.

“About George and Jane?” Emma spits out, rolling onto her back and staring up at her lightshade. “Might be.”

Harriet gazes at her sympathetically. “I’m sure it was just two friends catching up,” she says with a hopeful innocence that Emma so desperately wants to believe. But sadly, Harriet’s attempt at reassurance barely grazes the sides of Emma’s pit of despair. But she’s here and she’s trying and god knows, Emma needs a friend right now.

“Oh Harriet,” she sighs, finally finding the energy to push herself up in bed. She must look like a total mess. The buttons on her pyjamas have been done up askew, and her hair is nothing short of a bird’s nest. “I might have texted George last night,” she confesses after a moment, pressing her face into her hands in embarrassment. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

The mattress dips with Harriet’s body weight, and there is some shuffling around until they are both leaning back into Emma’s excessive amount of pillows. Emma feels Harriet’s arm loop around her shoulder, and at that she lets her hands drop, and leans into the comforting embrace. Harriet smells like lavender and there’s something soothing about it.

“What did you say?”

Emma tells her, word for word, the content of her message. It’s seared into her memory.

“Well, that’s fine,” Harriet says, rubbing a comforting hand up and down Emma’s upper arm, causing a static effect with the material of her pyjama shirt. “It’s a good step, Em. An important one. What was his answer?”

Emma squirms, biting out a nervous sigh. “I don’t know. I just turned off my phone as soon as I sent it. I couldn’t bear the idea of staring at it for the rest of the night, waiting for him to reply.” Even as she says it, Emma’s own actions frustrate her. Every ounce of faith in her judgment seems to have taken a vacation ever since George had left town.

“Well,” her friend says, “do you want to check now? I can be your moral support?”

Emma is torn. Part of her desperately wants to see if George has answered her - and if so, what he’s said. But on the other hand, the idea that he’s ignored her again, or denied her, might prove too much to accept with dignity - and she’s not sure she wants to have Harriet be a witness to that.

“I… maybe... not right now?” she answers eventually. “Can we walk into the village and get coffee, and I can work my way up to it?”

“Alright,” Harriet nods, obviously pleased that Emma has some kind of plan that involves leaving her bed for the day. “Do you want to shower and get dressed and meet me downstairs?”

Emma agrees, and watches Harriet leave, listening to her steady footfalls on the landing and then the rhythmic sound of them heading back downstairs. She then forces herself up, giving her phone a wide berth. She could check now, but she feels the need to live in limbo a little while longer - as crazy as that sounds. This whole situation has made Emma feel like she’s not living in her own body: like everything she’d normally do no longer applies. Is this also what love is? she wonders. No longer understanding anything about yourself anymore? That doesn’t sound right either. Emma’s sure this is the first time she’s seen things this clearly in years.

She showers and dresses quickly, knowing that if she leaves Harriet alone for too long, her father will have commandeered her as an audience for some lecture or another. Fortunately this morning, he seems to be in the greenhouse, and so it’s easy enough for Emma and Harriet to say goodbye to him and make a quick exit.

They’re at the top of town, heading down the hill into the middle of the village, when Emma hears the obnoxious roar of an engine behind them, followed by the enthusiastic blaring of a car horn.

A scowl is already hard on Emma’s face as she turns to give the culprit a disapproving glare, but to her surprise, pulling up to the curb, is none other than Frank Churchill in an aggressively fancy top-down BMW. Amusing herself, Emma checks it for a personalised number plate, which would be very Frank, but is disappointed to find only a regular one.

“Emma! Harriet!” he cries, as he leaps out the driver’s door and bounds over to them. Without hesitation he gathers them both up, one in each arm, and envelops them in a group hug. His pure delight at seeing them is rather infectious, and so by the time he finally releases them, both Harriet and Emma are grinning.

“I’d say fancy seeing you here, but you do both live here,” he guffaws good-naturedly. He’s wearing a pair of designer sunglasses that hide his eyes, but Emma knows there will be humour dancing in them anyway.

“Original, Frank,” she says with an eye roll, refusing to satisfy him by being impressed, either by his car or his attempt at charm. “I bet you are stunning women everywhere with your witty repartee.”

He takes her teasing and bows his head graciously. “Good to see nothing has changed with you, Woodhouse,” he says archly back. “Or actually… aren’t congratulations in order?”

“Congratulations?”

Frank shoots her an expectant look, followed by a sidelong glance over at Harriet as if to check he’s not got the wrong end of the stick. “For snaring the bachelor of Highbury society finally. It’s about time.”

Emma must look blank. Because after a moment, Harriet has to gently prompt her with a wide eyed look. “You know, you and George?” she squeaks, looking shifty. She’s never been any good at lying.

Emma’s heart sinks. “Oh, of course,” she says, trying to recover her composure. She’d forgotten how quickly village gossip can travel, even to people like Frank who usually live in another county entirely. “Thank you.”

“Ahh, has the dashing Knightley quite flown from your mind now that I’m standing in front of you?” he laughs, giving her an open armed gesture, palms spread upwards, asking to be admired.

The best Emma can do is shoot him an approximation of a sassy look. “Hilarious, Frank. What are you doing here anyway?” She grasps at the change of subject eagerly, knowing that Frank will never shy away from talking about himself.

“Thought I’d come and visit the old man for a bit,” he says, resting a hand on Harriet’s shoulder, an overly familiar gesture that only Frank could get away with and have it mean nothing at all. “What with Elton’s wedding soon, I figured I’d make a decent jaunt of it.”

Oh god, with everything that’s been going on, Emma had completely forgotten that Elton’s wedding was rapidly approaching. The invitations had come hard on the heels of one another, and Emma hadn’t even bothered to open the expensive looking envelope to read it. Besides, basically everyone in the village was invited, with the time and date known to all. It was hardly a state secret.

Emma idly wonders if George will be back by then, especially considering the reception was going to be held at the Abbey. It was the venue of choice for local wedding receptions - Elton’s being no exception to the rule. It was also a handy side hustle for George, offering out the space to townies who thought a country estate wedding would be just the ticket, while also allowing George to make the most of a building that he barely used.

“How nice,” Harriet jumps in, filling the silence. “It’ll be great to have you around for a while. Want to walk with us into the village? We’re just heading to Fords.”

Frank smiles kindly at Harriet. He’s always nicer to her than to Emma - mostly because Harriet doesn’t thrive on the hard edged banter in the same way that he and Emma do. “Would love to, Harry, but I told Dad I’d be there before lunch and I’m already late. How about we all catch up for a drink this evening? About eight?” He doesn’t bother to say where - the Crown Inn, adjoining the function rooms, is the only establishment in town.

“Great,” Emma agrees, because why not? Frank, for all his bluster and bravado, is fun to be around, and she can’t deny herself the distraction of his presence. It could hardly have come at a better time. “We’ll see you then.”

Frank shoots them both a fetching smile before jogging back around to the driver’s door. “Oh, and bring Rob!” he calls back to Harriet, “And your new beau too,” he grins, directing his parting words at Emma. Before she can protest, he’s already inside the car, engine revving, and pulling away from the curb with a squeal of tyres. They both stare after him.

“Is he even more obnoxious than last time he visited?” Emma asks in a considered tone, once the shock of Frank’s presence has started to fade.

Harriet lets out a dainty little snort. “I’m not sure that’s even possible.”

They grin at each other, and for the first time in a while, Emma doesn’t feel like there’s a weight in the pit of her stomach.

---

It’s half past eight before Emma and Harriet reach the Crown that evening. Her father had waylaid them by insisting that they have a full meal before they ventured out. It had been easier not to argue.

They needn’t have worried about being late though. Frank is busy holding court, with half the patrons of the bar his willing, or unwilling, subjects. Rob shoots them both a grateful look as they arrive.

“Hey,” he murmurs, kissing Emma on the cheek in greeting before grabbing Harriet’s hand and tugging her close. “I’m not sure our presence is required here, but I’m sure he’ll notice you soon. Want a drink?”

Emma nods in the affirmative as she shrugs off her jacket, and Rob draws Harriet over to the bar with him. Frank is perched on a stool facing a small audience, telling a story that Emma’s pretty sure she’s heard before. Nevertheless, by the way that they all crack up at his punchline, it’s clear Frank is a favourite son of the village, and it’s also clear that he knows it.

But honestly, Emma’s just grateful to be out for a change. The alternative is sitting at home with her father, thinking about George for every second of the very long evening. As it is, she’s finding it next to impossible to set him from her mind. A reply had come through from him during the time her phone was off. About an hour after she’d sent her text, actually. Emma had made a specific note of the timestamp.

Yes, of course we can talk when I get back. I have something I need to speak to you about too.

It was economical, as far as responses go. And there was something elusive about George’s choice of words, almost like whatever it was that he wanted to tell her, he knew she wouldn’t like. Emma had spent the rest of the afternoon contemplating what it was and none of her guesses had made her feel good. Even Harriet’s optimism couldn’t draw Emma out of her thick dread.

The only upside was that there hadn’t been any other posts on Jane’s Instagram that had featured George. Emma tried to think of that as an upside, at least. Maybe the night had ended early. Or maybe... they had been having too much fun to think about sharing the great time they were having?

A thought strikes her as she stands there alone in the bar. What if George wants to talk to her about Jane Fairfax?

Her stomach rolls. Oh god.

Emma tries to control her breathing but instead the anxious wave seems to have now risen up and into her throat. What if George wants to tell her that he... likes Jane? Or worse, that he and Jane are dating? It would certainly explain the formality in his reply and maybe even have contributed to why he’d chosen to go to London, of all places. George knows Emma doesn’t care for Jane. It wouldn’t be something he’d be eager to tell her.

But no, surely none of that can be true, could it? She’s jumping to conclusions again, indulging in petty jealousy. Emma feels faintly ridiculous at her ability to imagine the worst from something probably quite innocent, and yet the uneasy gnawing sensation doesn’t go away.

“Emma!” Frank’s cry cuts through her thoughts, jolting her from her inner turmoil. She tries to pull herself back into the present moment, straightening her shoulders, and turning on a bright smile.

“Hi Frank,” she answers, hoping that the sliver of worry in her voice isn’t noticeable to anyone but her.

He’s pulling her in for another hug before she can think too hard about it. “You look nice,” he says, in the perfunctory way that Emma knows he says to every woman he encounters. “Where’s Georgie?”

Emma cringes, both for herself, and for the nickname that she knows George hates. In one way, it’s lucky that he’s not here, otherwise Emma would have to hear him moaning about it under his breath for the rest of the evening. God, she’d give anything to listen to George gripe about Frank Churchill right now. Things really are getting desperate.

As it is, Emma manages a tight lipped smile. “He’s actually in London right now,” she says, hoping that will be enough to end this particular avenue of conversation. Clearly Frank doesn’t follow Jane on Instagram, or he would already have known that George wasn’t in Highbury.

It seems to do the trick. “Ahh, never mind,” Frank says, not sounding like he minds all that much. “Poor man no doubt needs a break from you,” he jeers, and Emma lets the joke wash over her as best she can, even if it hits a little too close to home for her liking.

“Here you are,” Rob says, pressing a vodka tonic into her hand, giving her a look that somehow seems to suggest that he knows he has perfect timing. Emma hasn’t asked Harriet outright if she’s told Rob everything that’s been going on - but knowing them, and Harriet’s inability to keep a secret for long, it seems likely that he’s been made aware of the particulars by now. “How’s your dad getting on, Emma?”

The change of topic is hardly subtle, but Emma seizes upon it - eager to steer the subject away from George. The four of them find a free table at the back of the pub, and settle in for the evening. Frank sits slightly too close to her as he always does, seeming to have no understanding of personal space. Emma can already imagine George glowering at him from across the table had he been here, a moody furrow deep between his eyes.

George.

She wishes she could put him out of her mind, even just for a few short hours. But even his absence haunts her. Emma wants to know what he’s doing, what he’s thinking, and the thoughts crowd her mind to the extent that she finds it hard to focus on anything the others are saying.

Emma hates how this lack of control makes her feel. She bets George isn’t sitting in London wondering the same about her. He certainly hadn’t been last night, curled up in a booth with Jane Fairfax.

“I need another drink,” she announces, half way through Frank regaling them about some hedge fund or other that he’s decided to invest in. “Anyone else want something?”

She makes a mental note of everyone’s drinks orders and heads up to the bar, thankful for a moment of respite. This evening was supposed to be about her having a good time, and not focusing on George. And yet his finely formed shadow looms over everything anyway. It’s unacceptable.

On a whim, Emma also asks the bartender for a bottle of tequila and four shot glasses. If she’s going to try and let go, she’s going to do it properly.

---

The evening gets predictably messy after that. There is a spontaneous game of charades where she and Frank are teamed against Rob and Harriet. The penalty for losing is more drinks, but they all take the shots anyway, reacting loudly at the harsh aftertaste of the alcohol. The other patrons at the bar watch on in amusement as Emma attempts to act out Titanic, by spreading her arms out wide and swaying side to side. Frank films her on his phone, cackling with glee the entire time, refusing to shout out the answer even though he clearly knows it.

If anything, Emma is actually just amazed that for the first time in what feels like ages, she manages a solid half an hour without thinking about George. She wouldn’t call it a welcome relief exactly, but the reprieve, aided by the steadily increasing volume of alcohol coursing through her body, makes her feel less tightly wound.

Until Frank decides to start being nosy again. “So, you and George?” he murmurs to her at one point, while Harriet and Rob are busy bickering about which Leonardo di Caprio film is the best. Frank sits languidly in his seat, the very picture of someone at their most relaxed. His foot is propped up against the leg of Emma’s chair.

“Yes, me and George,” she answers uncomfortably, taking the opportunity to gather up the empty shot glasses on the table and slowly start filling them up again in the hope that it will eventually distract him.

“Tell me everything,” Frank grins in a conspiratorial tone, cocking an eyebrow wickedly at her.

Emma really doesn’t want to get into this with him. She’s here to have fun, rather than lie through her teeth about a relationship that doesn’t actually exist between her and the man she actually loves. “Not much to tell,” she replies with a shrug, sliding a shot across the table at him. A trail of spilt liquid follows in its wake, marring the table top. “Are you dating anyone?”

Frank turns coy. “Might be. But don’t change the subject, dear Emma. I just have to know all the details of how you and George finally got your collective acts together.”

“Excuse me?” She doesn’t quite grasp his meaning.

Frank bulldozes past her question. “You know, I’ve never seen George as the big grand love confession type. Did he have to tell you in Morse Code? Or maybe in a telegram?”

“I don’t-”

“Time for the next round!” Rob interjects loudly, and once more Emma’s not certain whether he’s saving her or whether he had Harriet have finally exhausted their argument about The Revenant versus Romeo and Juliet. Either way, she’ll seize it. Emma has no desire to be given the third degree by Frank as to her and George’s origin story. The idea of having to come up with one makes her even more depressed.

“Yes, next round!” she cries, throwing back the shot of tequila that she’s just poured, wincing as the sharpness engulfs her taste buds and burns a path down her throat.

“We need to play before you drink!” Harriet giggles, her infectious laughter causing a giddiness to bubble up in Emma’s own chest.

“Doesn’t matter!” she replies, finding that she likes the feeling of weightlessness that follows the bitterness of the tequila. Drinking like this is an imitation of being carefree, she knows, but right now it’s the best that she’s got. Maybe alcohol is the only answer to her troubles for now. “Whose turn is it?”

Chapter Text

Alcohol is not the answer, Emma thinks the next morning, when her head feels twenty times larger than its actual size, and her mouth feels drier than the Sahara desert.

She’s in her own bed, alone. Not that she’d expected anything else, but it’s also not unheard of for her to wake up after a night out to find Harriet curled in next to her - or, on slightly rarer occasions, even a fully dressed George.

No, this morning she is alone, and she takes a minute to trace her memories backwards. At the end of the evening Harriet and Rob went back to her place in the village, while she and Frank had drunkenly walked the bridle paths home - Hartfield being on the way to Randalls, Frank’s father’s house.

It had been friendly, and nothing untoward had happened. Not that Emma ever would have expected anything else. In their bored teenage years, she and Frank had shared exactly one half-hearted snog at a house party, before quickly realising that they didn’t feel that way about each other in the slightest. With hindsight, Emma was certain it'd only happened because, even at eighteen, Frank had always been a notorious flirt, and at the same age, Emma had always had a curious mind. The experience had been anything but serious. And if anything, Frank’s eventual and inevitable departure back to Yorkshire had made it even easier to dismiss their minor dalliance as a bizarre blip on an otherwise steady friendship.

And so of course last night Frank had been a gentleman. Besides, no doubt he also considers her totally off limits now and Emma supposes that’s the one hidden advantage of pretending to date George Knightley. Besides, Frank had also hinted that he might be seeing someone, and Emma suspected that it was more serious than he’d let on. She hadn’t bothered to press him on it. Knowing Frank, she would never have gotten a straight answer anyway. She's willing to bide her time on that one.

For the second morning in a row, Emma groans and pulls herself into a sitting position, nestling into the mountain of pillows on her bed. Her head swims a little, taking a moment to find equilibrium. Her phone is on the dresser next to her. She picks it up and scrolls through her notifications.

Did you get home okay? from Harriet about an hour ago. Emma replies with a quick affirmative.

Was the tequila your decision, Woodhouse? from Frank, fifteen minutes ago. Even if it wasn’t, I’m blaming you.

She grins to herself, pleased that she’s not alone in her suffering. On a whim, Emma checks to make sure that she hadn’t texted George in her drunken state. Thankfully, there’s no evidence of it which provides her some sense of relief. Next she scrolls through her camera roll, smiling at the various photos and videos that she’d taken. Had she posted any of these?

Emma flicks her way to her own Instagram account. It appears she’d stayed away from social media last night too: a minor miracle. But she can see that Harriet has uploaded some stories, and so she quickly clicks through them.

It’s a collection of videos showing some boisterous rounds of charades: Harriet trying and failing to articulate The Godfather, followed by Rob doing a spot on impression of The Sound of Music, complete with twirling upon an imaginary mountaintop. The background sound is the whole bar wolf whistling at him. The next one is of Emma herself shouting random answers at Frank as he desperately tries to communicate The Silence of the Lambs. It ends with them jumping up and down in unison, hands clasped together, as she finally guesses correctly.

Emma sighs, feeling a rush of generosity. The night may still be a little hazy, but it’s left her with a general feeling of goodwill. Even if everything else in her life is an absolute mess, Emma knows she’s lucky in her choice of friends.

---

The next few days are quiet. There’s nothing much for Emma to do right now apart from take care of her father, which she does with her usual diligence. Harriet comes around one morning and they bake cookies, or at least, Harriet bakes and Emma oversees. They eat them laying out atop a picnic blanket on the Hartfield lawn, lazing in the burgeoning sunshine. Emma keeps waiting for George to stride up over the horizon, backlit like an angel, but of course she has no such good fortune.

A few days later, Emma ends up taking a solitary walk around the Donwell Abbey grounds. It hadn’t been her intended destination, but the long days at home with only her father and her own contemplations had driven her from the house. Quite without prompting, her feet had led her to Donwell, as if her near constant thoughts of George had somehow spirited her there.

As she crosses the sprawling lawn, Emma’s taken aback to see a large marquee in the process of being erected to one side of the house. What looks to be a wedding planner is shouting orders to a handful of bustling staff.

The sight prompts Emma to turn on her heel and return home. If anything, she’s been trying not to think about Elton’s forthcoming wedding. Mostly because all she can think about is whether George will come back from London for it. Emma can’t imagine that he’ll slight it - it would be odd for him to not show up given the reception will be at the Abbey. That said, he hasn’t said a word to her about it. Not that they’re exactly saying a lot to each other right now. No texts had been exchanged since their tacit agreement to talk upon George’s return. After all, what else was there to say in the interim?

Frank takes her out for dinner the next evening. He’s in somewhat of a sombre mood that Emma can’t quite seem to draw him out of. It’s not that he’s ill-tempered exactly, but he seems unfocused, a tad morose, which is unusual.

As a result, it’s rather early when he drops her back off home. The sun is still low in the sky - the spring evenings are almost summer ones, and getting longer - and a hazy almost dusk seems to have settled over Hartfield as Frank’s car pulls away with barely an excessive rev of the engine for once.

Emma lets herself in quietly, conscious that her father may have dozed off in front of the fire, as is often his habit after dinner. But instead of the customary silence that usually falls over the house in the evenings, she hears her father talking.

“- quite horrible, you know,” he’s saying, and it’s at that point, Emma realises that he must have a visitor. It’s not unusual for guests to call around to see him, although Emma hadn’t been aware of any planned for tonight. “I’m not sure how you could put up with it for so long.”

A muffled reply comes, and Emma’s heart stops at the sound. She’d recognise the cadence of George’s voice anywhere - its smoothly sedate timbre permeating through her bones. She has no idea what he’s even said, but it hardly matters.

He’s here. He’s back! The relief hits her first, followed swiftly by panic.

Oh god, he’s back.

She hadn’t seen the Land Rover in the driveway as she’d come in, so Emma concludes that he must have walked over from the Abbey. How long has he been back in Highbury then? Even though she’s been waiting impatiently for George’s return for so long, Emma suddenly feels unprepared to see him. How is she supposed to act? Every fibre of her being wants to immediately throw herself into his arms and never let go. But given how they had parted, and every tense word since, she’s not really sure whether that’s something George would want.

And that’s not even considering their mutual promise to talk. What had seemed so distantly abstract when she’d sent her original message, now seems heart-stoppingly and terrifyingly imminent.

Emma finds herself hesitating by the doorway to the living room, unable to take that final step. Instead she takes a moment to observe her reflection in a nearby mirror. She looks more or less like herself, except for the fact that her cheeks have blossomed a rosy pink, an unfamiliar shade for her usually pale skin. Emma presses her cool palms to them, feeling the furious heat underneath.

“Emma, is that you?” her father calls out just then, quite ruining her plan to take a minute to gather herself.

Her heart stops for a second and then she clears her throat. “Yes, papa,” she answers breezily, eager to sound collected and calm. But Emma knows she can no longer delay the inevitable. With that, she pushes against the ajar door, and steps into the room.

“Look who’s back!” her father crows proudly, as if he had summoned George back from London personally. Emma can barely bring herself to look over at the other armchair - George’s armchair - but it’s hard not to when George has suddenly sprung to his feet like an old fashioned country squire. He’s usually never so formal.

As she raises her eyes, she finds that George is already looking at her with an expression that Emma finds totally unreadable. Is he happy to see her? Or still determined to keep her at arm’s length? She can’t really tell, and that in itself is disconcerting. It leaves her no guide to follow. There's a reserve to his look, like a curtain has been drawn across his face. If Emma had to guess, she’d say George seems almost wary at the sight of her - as if he doesn’t quite know how to behave either.

Nevertheless, the relief of his presence back at Hartfield immediately hits her. It feels right that he’s here, next to her father’s fire, in his favoured chair, and no longer miles away in London. The truth of it is that Hartfield is where George would always be, if Emma had her way.

Despite this unsteady start, Emma allows herself the moment to take him in. The results please her. He’s still George of course, in all the ways that are completely familiar to her. There is nothing new or strange about his person, no new items of clothing or change in hair style. No, he’s completely the same as when he left her.

And yet he’s entirely different somehow too, although Emma acknowledges that this is more a result of her own change, rather than anything else. Of course, his sandy hair is still a touch too long, and his eyes still that same shocking shade of blue. But now he’s no longer just George, her best friend - he’s George, the man she’s in love with, and the thought draws the oxygen from her lungs with a force that she can hardly bear.

“George,” she says eventually, his name feeling foreign in her mouth. Emma is pleased at how calm she sounds. She awards him a subdued smile, wanting to both make it clear that she’s pleased to see him while also acknowledging that things between them are still not mended.

“Emma,” he replies, equally passively, voice low and rich. Has he always said her name like that? Or is it just one of the many things she’s never really noticed before? Either way, Emma can tell nothing from it, but there’s a spark in his eyes that reassures her somewhat. She wants to interpret it as him being pleased to see her too.

Emma forces one foot in front of the other to draw herself closer to the fire. She can’t decide whether she should greet George with a hug as she normally might after he’s been away. Right now, the idea of touching him feels too luxurious; like it’s something she has yet to earn.

So instead of coming to sit on the sofa - the path to which would cause her to have to walk by George - she circles behind it, trailing her hands along its upholstered back. It’s a temporary barrier at best, one that she’ll have to give up as soon as she decides to sit down and be civil. But for now, she wields the separation it affords like an armoured shield.

Emma can sense George’s eyes tracking her movements, and when it appears she doesn’t intend to move any closer, he sits back down, arranging himself in his usual pose.

Emma searches for a neutral topic, trying not to focus on the length of George’s legs as he crosses them at the ankle, the heels of his boots resting on the worn rug under his feet. “When did you get back?”

“Around lunch time,” George replies, tone direct, but somehow still sounding like the question amuses him. “And then I had a few things to catch up on before I walked over for dinner.”

“You were here for dinner?” Emma questions instantly.

“It is Wednesday,” he fires back, just as quickly. It’s true that George is usually always at Hartfield for dinner not just on Sundays but Wednesdays too.

Emma feels saddened that she’d been out with Frank when she could’ve been here with George and her father instead. Although, given how awkward she feels right now, maybe it was for the best. Nevertheless her frustration and disappointment make her snappish.

“Oh, is it?” she says, a little haughtily. “I’d quite lost track seeing as you’ve been gone for so long.”

George’s eyes narrow at her tone, her sudden shift in manner hard to miss. There’s a squareness coiling in his shoulders that wasn’t there before.

Emma bites her lip, already furiously realising that this was not the right thing to say. She’s on the cusp of a contrite apology, but is silenced by the sudden tilt of George’s head, a motion so familiar to her. His eyes pierce into hers, a steady unhesitating gaze that makes her want to hide. She senses him to be on the verge of a sharp comment, but after a lengthy second, he gives her the most imperceptible of nods instead. Although there’s no exchange of words, George appears to have concluded that her reaction is only coming from a place of hurt and that he’s accepted the part he played in that.

His voice is clear when he speaks again, although a little arch. “Yes. I was away longer than I’d intended. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know when I was coming back. And that we weren’t able to have dinner together.” His graciousness is exactly why Emma knows George will always be a far better person than she will ever be.

His short speech feels like an attempt to broker peace, almost - although Emma’s hesitant to read too much into it for fear of getting things wrong. But it’s enough for her to slowly manoeuvre her way out from behind the sofa. Cautiously she strolls around to the front, eventually folding herself into a corner, legs tucked up under herself.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here too,” she answers generously, in the hope that he’ll understand her words as only one part of the bigger apology that she still owes him.

Her father pipes up suddenly, oblivious to the silent conversation that had been taking place in between the words. “Emma’s been out with… was it Harriet, my dear?”

Emma wants to groan out loud, but manages to contain it. If anything is likely to put George in a difficult mood, it’s always going to be the mention of Frank Churchill. His ongoing disapproval at her tolerance of Frank has always been a thorn in the side of their friendship. Emma considers lying, but finds she can’t. “No, papa. I was out with Frank.”

“Ah yes,” Mr Woodhouse says, slapping his knee. “Such a friendly boy.” His commentary is highly unwelcome, and much to Emma’s dismay. “He’s back in town,” Mr Woodhouse continues, addressing this information now to George specifically. “Staying with his father at Randalls.”

The shift in George is invisible to her father, but not to Emma. “So I’ve heard,” he answers tightly, his lips pressing together to form a thin line. She doesn’t have to look too hard to see the barely repressed gloom that crosses his face. George’s eyes evade hers.

“Yes,” she answers, searching for something neutral to say. “He got here last week.”

Emma wonders how George knows that Frank is back in the village - but of course, there are probably dozens of ways the news could have reached him, even while in London. Her father could have told Isabella who had told George. Or perhaps Rob had mentioned it to him? And then she remembers - Harriet had posted all about their evening out with Frank at the Crown, and it’s quite possible George had found out that way. He pretends he’s so above social media, but Emma knows he’s just as likely to scroll through Instagram as anyone else.

“And how is Frank?” George’s question is perfunctory at best. Emma knows immediately from his bland tone he doesn’t care about the answer and is only being polite in front of her father. George’s fingers pick at a loose thread on the arm of his chair, eyes still focused downward.

“Good,” Emma replies, without any further details. She squeezes the throw pillow that she’s gathered in her arms and holds it closer to her chest. The fire crackles loudly, emphasising the dead air.

George seems determined not to ask any follow up questions, and so Emma is forced to open her mouth once more. “He’s here for the wedding,” she adds, before taking the opportunity to seize on a new topic. “I see the marquee for the reception is already up at Donwell?”

George raises his head at this, casting a curious look in her direction. Emma realises she’s basically just confessed to hanging around the Abbey in his absence.

“Yes,” George answers simply, clearly deciding not to query it further, or at least, not in the presence of her father. But he doesn’t appear to be keen on this new subject either, his reply coming out rather gruffly. “Although Mrs Hodges handles all of that.”

Emma casts about for something else to say.

“And how are John and Isabella?” she asks, hoping for this to be the subject that will ease them back onto safer ground. The strange tension that seems to be sitting between them keeps shifting from one emotion to another. Emma is completely at sea.

A small indulgent smile appears on George’s mouth at the names of their respective siblings, and Emma’s pleased to see that any sharp edges in his mood aren’t completely fixed in place. “They’re fine,” he answers, launching into an update about John’s upcoming promotion and Isabella’s determination to move to a better borough.

It becomes clear after a few moments that George has already relayed a version of this information to her father over dinner, and that he’s now only repeating it for Emma’s benefit. But despite his best efforts, she finds herself hardly listening. Instead her focus lingers on the weight of George’s voice, rather than his words. The way he looks in the firelight is distracting: the perfect slant of his nose, the soft curve of his earlobe. Emma’s eyes track the little details of George, from how his hair curls at the back of his shirt collar, to the way he presses the pad of his thumb into each of his fingers in turn as he speaks. Emma knows she’s staring, but she can’t help herself. It still feels like a dream that he’s actually here again.

Either way, Emma’s thankful for the dimming light, if only to hide the flush that she knows has risen even higher on her cheeks. At least she has the heat of the fire to blame it on.

Of all the competing thoughts and feelings that seem to be swarming her mind, one supersedes all others: Emma is desperate to speak to George alone. But even imagining that happening makes her feel like she’s teetering on a knife edge.

She can’t tell yet whether George wishes for the same thing that she does: although Emma does feel the sweep of his eyes on her every few moments, and notes the tension that his body seems to be holding. He’s not relaxed, no matter how well he play-acts it for her father’s benefit. They both know that Mr Woodhouse will head up to bed soon. His habits are well established and hardly ever vary. They just need to hold out that long.

That’s why it surprises her when George suddenly stands up. “It’s getting late,” he says, looking over at the clock above the fireplace. “I should go.”

A wave of disappointment ripples through her. It’s barely nine o’clock, Emma thinks, and although she understands he has the walk back to Donwell ahead of him, it’s hardly a great distance at the punishing pace George sets.

“Already?!” The question is out of her mouth before she can stop it. Emma is satisfied when she sees him hesitate. George is clearly unsure of what to do in the face of her exclamation.

“Emma, you forget that George has to walk back to the Abbey,” Mr Woodhouse scolds, and oh, as much as she loves her father, his lack of awareness is both a blessing and a curse sometimes.

“It’s not that late,” she protests, knowing now that she’s giving herself and her wishes away with every syllable. George can hardly be in any doubt that she wants him to stay. Emma would feel embarrassed if she wasn’t so eager. George hovers awkwardly in front of his chair, obviously torn.

“But it’s already so cold out!” her father protests, even though with the heat of the fire, Emma has no idea how he can tell. “And you didn’t even bring a coat with you!” He says this last part to George, who manages to make himself look regretful at his omission.

“Quite right,” he answers stiffly, casting a look down at what has now been deemed as a wholly inadequate shirt and jumper combination.

Emma becomes increasingly desperate. “I could drive you back!”

Both George and her father throw her a surprised look. They both know how much she hates to drive - especially down the small country lanes, and especially in the dark. Besides, the benefit of living in Highbury is that everything is within walking distance. She really only learned how to drive in case of emergencies.

A cautious smile twitches at George’s lips. “I rather value my life, thanks very much.” Emma never thought she’d be so pleased to hear him tease her again.

“Hey!”

“Do I need to remind you about the time-”

She doesn’t even need to hear how that sentence was going to end. “Please stop!” she cries, holding a palm up to signify for George to go no further. Emma doesn’t even want to know which embarrassing driving story he was going to choose. There are probably too many to count, given he’d had a front row seat to almost all of them as the person who had been roped in to teaching her.

George suppresses a laugh, and for the first time that evening, things feel almost normal between them.

Except for the fact that she’s secretly in love with him. But one thing at a time, Emma thinks.

“Fine. I won’t say a word,” he smiles, staring down at her with a look that is almost tender, although it’s hard to tell for sure in the lengthening shadows. “But I’m honestly okay to walk. See me out?”

Emma’s surprised at his suggestion, but she nods, leaping to her feet. George says goodnight to her father, and then he’s half a step behind her as she leaves the room.

She hardly knows what to say now that they are alone. Emma is all too conscious that they won’t have much time to talk before her father will amble through the hall on his way to bed. Why could George just not have waited until her father had gone upstairs? Unless George doesn’t want to talk to her? And yet, he’d asked her to walk him out - something he never does, given that he tends to come and go as he pleases. His behaviour is altogether too confusing.

Neither of them speak and so by the time they reach the front door, Emma is beginning to lose hope. She wonders if he will linger in the hall, and yet, George is the one who reaches for the door handle, opening it.

“Emma,” he says, pausing on the threshold, silhouetted by the porch light. “I’m sorry I can’t stay.”

She wants to ask why he won’t, but somehow those specific words get stuck under her tongue. “It’s fine,” she replies instead, even though it’s really not fine. He’s only just come back and yet it feels like he’s leaving her all over again.

If it’s any consolation, George looks about as miserable as she feels, although the source of his misery is far less clear. She can see his throat bobbing, the tell-tale flutter of his eyelashes, and then he speaks. “Do you want to come around tomorrow, and we can… talk?” He asks it so tentatively, as if he thinks she might say no.

Emma feels a rush of relief that he hasn’t forgotten what they’d agreed, although, of course he hasn’t. He’s George. He has the memory of an elephant. She nods. “Yes, I’d like that.”

His face sets itself in a determined expression. “Okay, good,” he nods seriously, and the importance at which he treats her acceptance feels weighted beyond words. “Just text me when you’re on your way?”

“Sure,” she replies, feeling like the moments between their exchanges are slowly eating her alive. Although she would much prefer to get this apology - and whatever else - off her chest now, Emma knows she can wait a little longer. After all, what is a few more hours in the grand scheme of things?

But the pit of dread that seems to have taken up residence in Emma’s belly can’t be ignored. Because there’s also the fact that George has said he has something to talk to her about too - and god, what if it’s about him and Jane Fairfax? The abrupt reminder drives a sharp pang into her heart.

George is still standing in the doorway, the cooler air rushing in and sending goosebumps crawling up Emma’s bare forearms. “Okay, good,” he says once again, frown deepening. He seems torn as to whether to stay or go until finally, with a roll of his shoulders, he takes a step further into the darkness. “Night then, Emma.”

He must have said that casual goodbye to her thousands of times over the years, and yet, it seems to be the one that finally wrecks her. Before she knows what she’s doing, Emma finds herself grabbing for his arm. George has half turned away, but stops instantly at her touch. He turns his head to look back at her, his eyes wide and questioning.

Half a second later, Emma is looping her arms around his neck, pressing up on her tiptoes to reach properly. She hears George’s inhale sharp as she rests her chin upon the plateau of his shoulder, and just… hugs him.

Emma can tell he’s surprised, because it takes him a moment to react. But then George’s arms are twisting around her back, folding her into him, and everything about it feels as it should do, like it’s where they were supposed to be if she hadn’t messed everything up.

Emma basks in the press of his body against her own. A sense of great relief sinks over her at first, only to be followed swiftly by a cacophony of feelings that undulate in her belly as a result of having him suddenly so close. He seems the same, he is the same, and yet Emma is not.

To keep her mind from running wild, she focuses on the steady rise and fall of George’s chest, now aligned hard against hers. Her own breathing falls into a mimic of his. Slowly, secretly, Emma turns her head inwards slightly, the tickle of George’s hair reaching the tip of her nose.

She breathes him in. Once, twice, three times.

She’s really missed him.

“I missed you,” she hears him sigh, like an echo of her own thoughts. The sound of George’s voice comes from a place over her shoulder, and Emma’s heart, already compromised, feels like it could shatter into tiny pieces with all the feelings it’s being forced to contain.

“I missed you too,” she replies, not feeling embarrassed like she normally would when admitting to any sort of vulnerability in front of him. Emma finds she likes the honesty of this moment, and idly wonders if now is her opportunity. Should she just spit out everything that she’s holding in, timing be damned?

Except that it’s too late. George is pulling back, embrace loosening until he is gently cupping her upper arms. The pads of his fingertips graze gently against her skin, announcing their presence. The last time they were this close, they’d been kissing, and the memory seems to want to invade all of Emma’s senses at once. His lips are close and directly in her eye line. She bites her bottom lip.

George looks utterly lost, and although Emma can see he’s trying to hide whatever is going on underneath the surface, he’s doing a terrible job. Emma’s worry increases once more at the mysterious discussion that he needs to have with her. Can’t he just tell her now and put her out of her misery?

She’s about to demand it, and yet before she can, George’s hands fall away and he’s retreating out of her space like a man unmoored.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks once again, as if seeking her reassurance, and all Emma can do is nod mutely. In a blink, George is walking away, his resolute tread on the gravel driveway getting quieter and quieter until she can’t hear it anymore, and his figure disappears into the shadows.

Chapter Text

Tomorrow can hardly come soon enough.

Emma wakes up absurdly early, with surplus energy to burn. Before her father has even risen, she’s out of bed, having made and then picked at her breakfast before ultimately pacing around the garden, trying to find a way to quell her anxiety.

She’s on her way to the Abbey by ten o’clock. Even though she knows George likely will have been up for hours already, she hadn’t wanted to show up on his doorstep at the crack of dawn, and come across as too eager. She’s determined to retain some pride.

The sight of Donwell sends Emma’s already fitful heart into overdrive, the staccato beat turning from merely fast to almost erratic. She takes a shaky breath as she crosses the lawn and approaches the front of the house this time. George had responded to her text telling her to come find him in the library. He uses it as his office, given that it is the most practical of all the main rooms, although that being said, Emma still thinks it impossibly grand.

Her footfalls echo against the high ceilings as she makes her way through the surprisingly bright interior. The Abbey is such a strange place, she thinks. It’s a thought that strikes Emma every time she visits. It’s clearly a beautiful house, well kept and decorated in the style of its day. It’s all vivid colours and spectacularly detailed, with every corner of its vast floorspace designed with the utmost care by previous, and numerous, Knightleys over the centuries. But even so, nowadays many of the rooms are purposeless: populated only by dust sheets and a sparse scattering of furnishings. Even the rows of statues along the corridors are shrouded; protected from harm, but also from admiration. George lives in a museum, really; occupying only a handful of rooms and nothing more.

The heavy library door is ajar as she approaches, feeling ripe with apprehension. With an unsteady inhale, she knocks gently, although Emma knows George has probably heard her footsteps already. The house is deathly quiet, rather like an elaborately gilded tomb. It would be impossible for her approach to have gone unnoticed.

With a confidence she doesn’t feel, Emma doesn’t wait for him to call out. Instead, she pokes her head gingerly around the door and searches for George in the vast cavern of the room. He’s at his desk, laptop open in front of him, a cup of coffee off to one side. He looks small sitting behind the mammoth bureau, the dark wood lacquered to the point of gleaming. The grandeur of the room hits Emma square in the face as she adjusts to its ridiculous size. Sometimes she forgets that George lives like this, and then can only marvel that he manages to stay completely grounded and hasn’t become an entitled, arrogant jerk.

“Hi,” he says, jumping up and out of his chair at the sight of her. Emma feels ashamed at the way she drinks him in, eyes brazenly sweeping his figure. She makes careful note of her observations, filing them away in the newly created part of her brain that catalogues all things George: from the way his jumper has bunched itself up at one of his hips, to the moist sheen of his parted lips, full and just begging for her to kiss them. There’s a sense of compressed energy about him this morning, and Emma recognises it as something akin to her own.

She manages to echo the greeting, before busying herself with shrugging off her denim jacket and throwing it over the back of the nearest chair. If Emma can’t feel calm, she can sure as hell act it. George silently watches her, not moving from his spot.

Emma spies her father’s books set to one side of the desk, sitting on top of an intimidatingly large pile of paperwork. “Haven’t started them yet?” she asks, grasping for something to say that isn’t George, I’m completely and totally in love with you. Her heart feels like it has migrated out of her chest and is now swimming throughout her entire body; the thrumming rhythm pulsing in her throat, her wrists, her belly.

George looks confused for a moment until he follows her gaze. “I’ve been back for one day, Emma,” he replies drolly, finally circling out from behind the desk and easing his way towards her. His usual happy manner seems so buried under a coat of unease that Emma wonders if she’ll ever be able to draw him out from beneath it.

“Why Thomas Hardy anyway?” she asks. Emma needs a minute to settle her anxiety and inane conversation seems as good as anything else she has up her sleeve.

George shrugs, used to her conversational tangents by now. “He was recommended to me.”

“Oh. I just never thought of you as much of a novel reader, that’s all.” Her words sound carefree but her skin feels electric. Emma takes a moment to fiddle with one of her rings, twisting it around her middle finger in an endless loop. The sensation gives her something else to focus on.

He frowns a little at that, eyebrows knitting together in perfect unison. Emma longs to graze a finger over the left one, imagining how the tension in the muscle would release under her touch. “I read novels.”

“No, you don’t,” she scorns. At this point, Emma’s not even sure why she’s contradicting him. It seems her nervousness is getting the best of her. Or otherwise old habits die harder than she thought.

George’s expression remains in a steady frown, a look that is as familiar to Emma as her own face. “Yes I do,” he persists, studying her with curious eyes. It’s obvious he’s intrigued as to why she’s already trying to argue with him and over something so unimportant too. “I’m not with you every minute of every day, you know.” There’s tentative humour in his tone despite everything; a residual habit, no doubt.

“I’m quite aware,” Emma says sourly, before she can hold back the caustic remark. It’s a clear allusion to his recent disappearing act, and by the disapproving scowl that instantly springs onto his face, George has easily caught it. Emma immediately feels bad. The purpose of her visit is hardly to make things between them worse, and yet here she is, already putting her foot in her mouth with remarkable skill and in record time. Emma sends George a contrite grimace, an apology in all but words and desperately tries to move on.

“So who recommended Hardy to you?” she questions, her mind unable to cast around for anything better to say. Emma opts to look anywhere but at him. Her focus is immediately drawn upwards to the enormously high bookshelves that cover a large portion of the wall space. Volume upon volume of old books stare back at her.

“What?” George seems thrown by the conversational yo-yo-ing.

“Who recommended Thomas Hardy to you?” Emma repeats, now trailing a hand across the top of a wingback chair that sits off to one side of the room, quite solitary. Judging by the faded colours and worn fabric, it’s clear George favours it. She imagines him sitting here in the evenings, book in hand, the lamplight casting shadows across the plains of his face, furrowed in deep concentration. Her pulse spasms at the image.

Finding she’s run out of space to walk, Emma turns herself back to face him and is met with George’s quizzical expression. He has one particular curl of hair that seems determined to rebel from the rest, and Emma finds its boyish obstinacy rather endearing. Her thoughts turn more dangerous as George wets his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue before responding. Emma barely captures the strangled moan threatening to escape from her in time.

“Jane actually mentioned him to me a while ago,” George answers. “Said I might enjoy his writing.” There’s a startling frankness to George’s answer. The casual way he says Jane is without any preamble or self-consciousness, and to Emma, it seems to denote a dreadful familiarity between the two that appears jarring and new.

It feels like a bomb has gone off in the centre of Emma’s chest. The power of Jane Fairfax’s invisible presence has instantly sucked away any of the confidence that she’s been trying to grapple together since she arrived. Just as quickly, a swell of resentment and jealousy replaces it and starts festering.

Emma’s mind starts whirling at incredible speed. How could Jane Fairfax know what George, Emma’s George, likes? She’d left the village years ago, even though, admittedly, she regularly comes back to visit her aunt and grandmother with the diligence of an actual saint. How long have she and George been on these sorts of terms? How often do they talk? Clearly it’s enough for Jane to give George book recommendations and presume to know his taste in literature. It now seems obvious to Emma that their evening together in London was not the only time they’ve been in touch recently.

Emma feels suddenly like such a fool, racked with hurt at George’s unwitting deception. “Ah,” she says after a moment, tone clipped. “Okay then.” It’s blatantly dismissive, impossible to miss.

She waits for George to call her out on it. After all, how many times has he lectured her about not being nicer to Jane? Too many times to count, over the years. God, has she been totally blind? Has George been hinting to her all along that he’s interested in Jane? Before now, Emma’s theories had seemed more fuelled by an abstract jealousy than anything else. Now they appear to be taking on a maliciously realistic form.

But for once, George doesn’t do the expected and rise to Jane Fairfax’s defence. If anything, he seems entirely distracted. While Emma has been brooding to herself, George has remained hovering a short distance away. He’s close enough so that Emma can see the dark liquid pupils of his eyes, but far enough away that there’s no risk of them touching - intentionally or otherwise.

After a moment, he shakes his head briefly and then speaks. “So... we should talk then?”

At his suggestion, Emma’s heart gives out an almighty thud in her chest, loud enough that she’s almost sure, for a second, that George could have heard it. Her body feels brittle, like any instant it might crack and fall apart due to the stress she’s putting it under. Has Emma inadvertently led them to a perfect segue for George to talk about him and Jane? Her mind rebels against the idea.

But then why does it feel like she and George have reverted back to square one? The progress they’d made last night in the doorway of Hartfield seems all but forgotten. All that remains is the heady remembrance of George’s arms around her, warm and solid and definitely not about to break her heart.

“Yes,” Emma nods, taking a deep calming breath and telling herself that she’s being ridiculous. “We should talk.” Her palms feel immediately sweaty and so she presses them together in front of her and fumbles for her starting point. George watches her expectantly, face giving nothing away.

Her loss for words must be painfully obvious, because eventually George takes pity on her.

“Look,” he begins, taking an incremental step closer, boots scuffing against the edge of the rug, “I’m sorry I took off like that. From the party, and then going off to London without telling you first. I know it wasn’t the most mature thing to do. It’s just… things that night got... out of hand, and I needed some time to clear my head.”

There’s something so startlingly direct about his manner that Emma is momentarily thrown. It’s also somehow so typical of George to take her chance at an apology and beat her to it. Emma would be annoyed about this subtle one-upmanship if she thought he was doing it on purpose. She knows he’s not. Besides, at this point, she’s just relieved that he’s opening up to her again, and that Jane Fairfax doesn’t seem to be looming on the conversational horizon.

“I understand,” Emma replies, finding that now he’s started, it’s easier for her to find her own voice. “And I’m sorry too. So sorry, George.” A tremble threatens to intercept her speech, and Emma swallows it down determinedly. “I ended up trampling all over you in order to get what I wanted, and I... I really regret that.” The lump that had taken up residence in her throat since him leaving her at the party seems to shrink just a bit at her confession.

George’s eyes, as deep as the ocean, trace her face. It’s as if he’s measuring her sincerity and it seems to take him an awfully long time. Emma feels like she’s frozen in place under his study.

“Hmm,” he says eventually.

Emma stares back. “Hmm? That’s all you have to say?” It’s too late to hide her indignance.

A twitch of amusement appears at the corner of George’s mouth, before it disappears again just as quickly. "Emma,” he says, serious once more. A jagged sigh tumbles out of him and George sounds more resigned than she expected. “Please understand that it doesn't give me any pleasure to ask this. You must know it doesn't.” George tucks his chin in towards his chest for a moment before tilting his face back up at her with resolution. “But I...I need to know whether your apology is because you truly mean it... or whether it’s just because you don't like it when I'm mad at you."

His manner is so blunt that Emma struggles to hold back a wince. Nevertheless, a little simmer of outrage accompanies her reaction. Why does George seem determined to drag this out, or perhaps even withhold his forgiveness from her for as long as possible? To teach her a lesson?

That said, she’s not sure she can really blame him. He’s either been witness to, or been on the receiving end of, so many of Emma’s less-than-subtle manipulations over the years. He has an in-depth and first hand knowledge of all her tricks.

As a result, Emma finds she can’t lie. "Can't both be true?" she questions primly. Emma knows that George is more likely to appreciate her candid honesty over anything calculatingly insincere.

George’s little huff of laughter is enough to show her that she’d assumed correctly. “You’re never one to take the easy way out, are you?” There’s something alive in his eyes, a spark of something that she’s so desperately missed these past few weeks.

Emma takes half a step in his direction, daringly. “Meaning?” She wants him to elaborate.

“I mean, you could have just lied. Just said you meant your apology, truly and sincerely from the bottom of your heart.” He’s mocking her, just a little, but she’s too busy appreciating the way it’s drawing out that crooked smile of his to do anything about it.

Another half step, and Emma could almost reach out and touch him. “I do mean my apology, George. I am sorry.” She is sincere in that, at least. “But it would be stupid of me to pretend that you being mad at me isn’t a factor here. We can’t all be as noble as you.” Emma means it as a tease but it comes out rather like a compliment, and Emma almost wants to think she sees a slight flush rising on George’s cheeks.

George shakes his head. “I’m not noble, Emma.” The way his voice rolls through her name, low and deep, is heaven, although there’s a regretfulness to his tone that threatens to undercut the wave of yearning that washes over her.

“Well,” she retorts, feeling suddenly brave, “that’s for me to decide. Anyway, do you accept my answer, as inconveniently honest as it is?”

Emma’s direct interrogation clearly throws George off his stride. As a result, he turns his face away, falling into a deep well of contemplation. He seems to be struggling to settle his gaze anywhere. It flits to the floor, the distant wall, the view out the window, and then finally back to her again.

"Yes, I accept your answer,” he replies firmly. Emma’s heart swells only to sink just as quickly at George’s next words. “But I… I need you to understand why you can't act the way you did, Emma.”

She frowns. “I do understand,” she answers, words thick with insistence. Emma wants to grant George a chance to say his piece - she at least owes him that. But honestly, she isn’t a child who needs her mistakes drummed into her.

A touch of skepticism flits across George’s handsome face. “Look, it’s just that...I know you're used to doing what you want, when you want-"

"-that hardly seems fair," Emma interjects, a snap of irritation rearing inside of her. It’s not even that she thinks George is wrong, which is the stupidest part. But after all these years, she’s hard-wired to defend herself, and she’s especially been innately programmed to push back against him when he starts pontificating.

George awards her with a pointed stare in reply. "It isn’t?” An eyebrow cocks sharply upwards, and despite how this conversation seems to be on a sudden downward spiral, Emma aches to glide her hands along either side of his jaw and just kiss the sternness from his face.

Emma angrily bats the urge aside. “No, it isn’t!”

The blue of George’s eyes has turned a stormy grey, flashing with something that Emma can’t get a handle on. “Really?” he presses. “Because sometimes it feels like you’d run... wild if it wasn’t for me!”

Emma’s desire to kiss him is replaced by the urge to punch him. Well... mostly. In fact, the more George looks annoyed at her, the more heated her blood becomes. It’s something Emma realises she’ll need to take the time to explore with herself later. “Excuse me?” Her hands plant themselves on her hips in challenge. “Wild? I’m not some sort of deranged menace to society!”

George huffs, frustrated, and her stomach swoops. “Fine, fine, poor choice of words.” There’s enough repentance in his expression for Emma to mostly forgive him. “But you and I both know that I'm the only one who ever calls you out on anything." His measured tone somehow keeps his message from sounding too searing, but there’s an underlying heat to it nonetheless.

Once again, he’s irritatingly right. George really is the only person in her life that bothers to challenge her about anything. Her father, bless him, had ceded control over Emma long ago, and now seems more worried about her health than her moral growth. It’s George, and only George who has never been afraid to point out when she’s gone astray. Which is, she acknowledges, more often than she’d like to admit.

Because she can’t deny the truth in his statement, Emma does the next best thing: she upends the conversation to suit her better. She might be in love with George, but Emma also refuses to be a pushover because of it.

"Please,” she derides smoothly, keeping her tone as even as she can. “You can hardly stand there and tell me that you don't enjoy bringing me down a peg or two.” George’s lips part as if to protest, but Emma doesn’t give him the chance at a single syllable. ”I'm honestly not sure what you'd do with your time if you didn't spend all of it criticising me!" There’s enough lightness in her voice to keep most of the sarcasm at bay. Emma has no desire to hurt his feelings, but if they’re going to clear the air, they might as well do it properly.

George blinks at her. “Is that really what you think I do?” He looks rather wounded at her attack, as tame as she’d attempted to make it.

Emma could backtrack to save herself. But what would be the point? She loves him enough to be honest with him. Besides, would they really be them if they managed to curb their argumentative tendencies for longer than five minutes?

“You know you do,” Emma replies sedately.

George sighs heartily, registering an expression that makes it look like he wants the ground to swallow him up. "Do you really think I like having to always be that person, Emma?” He’s staring at her with genuine upset. “I hate having to do it! It makes me unbearable to you, I know it does!”

The vehemence of his outburst is surprising. It’s clear George truly believes this about himself, about her. But Emma doesn’t have time to correct him; to tell him that there’s nothing he could say to her that would ever make him unbearable to her. On the contrary, his willingness to court her displeasure actually makes her respect him more.

But he’s not finished. “You think I want to be the sensible one who has to stop you lurching from disaster to disaster? Don't you remember who had to help you tidy up the mess you made between Harriet and Rob when she first arrived in Highbury?”

A fierce bloom of heat rises on Emma’s cheeks at the reminder of her ill-advised meddling. She thought she’d known Harriet’s heart better than she did, and was determined to see through her plan for her friend. George had been adamantly opposed, to the point where he’d sat through an entire dinner at Hartfield talking only to her father and not glancing at her even once. Fortunately it had turned out fine in the end, but even Emma can admit that it had been only because of the graciousness of Harriet’s kind nature, and George’s gentle encouragement of Rob, that had saved things from utter disaster.

George continues, sounding pained. He looks tired, and Emma wonders if he’s been sleeping, or whether it’s just this quickly derailing conversation that is simply wearing him down. “Emma, I’m not saying any of these things to you to make you unhappy. It's just that I know you are kinder and better than some of your actions, and... that's why, I just need you to understand, really understand, this time, that you can't just breeze through life disregarding everyone else’s feelings."

At the core of his words, there is a truth. George has always had an uncanny way of ferreting it out amongst the shades of grey that tend to make up modern life. And this is no different. Emma knows that when she seized him on the edge of the dancefloor all those weeks ago and kissed him as if her life depended on it, she hadn’t truly contemplated George’s feelings on the matter. She’d just assumed he’d be fine - or at the very worst, figured he’d forgive her quickly and she’d receive only minor complaints as her punishment.

And in her heart of hearts, Emma truly does see how that was unfair to him. Plus, she’s had time to reflect on why those actions had cut him deeper than any of her previous missteps.

"I do understand it, George. I honestly do." She lays the words out passionately, earnestly, at his feet. "But the question is, do you believe me when I say that?"

George looks at her head on, his stare seeming to encompass worlds that she can’t begin to understand. Emma watches the steady rise and fall of his chest as she awaits his conclusion. She hears him swallow in the quiet of the room.

"I want to,” he says finally, the words tight like he’s aching too. George’s underlying kindness softens his eyes, and she prays for it to spread to the rest of his face. “Emma, you're my favourite person in the entire world. You know that, right?” There’s a plea to his statement that makes it sound like George isn’t sure she’d believe him. He sucks in a breath, jaw set. “But what you did was so calculated and casual and... it really threw me."

Emma can tell it pains him to say it. It pains her enough to hear it. “I know,” she concedes quietly. George would never be so frank with her if his feelings on this point didn’t run deep. Because even though he’s usually quite free with his opinions, he’s normally far more reserved about his own innermost emotions. “And while I can apologise for it, I can’t make you accept it. Even though obviously I want you to.” Emma tries to dig up a little bravery and presses forward. “But actually... I also think you have to accept that... your reaction to me kissing you was never really just about me breaking a promise, was it?”

A heavy silence falls over the room, and sits there, hovering over them. George’s eyebrows have skirted upwards, a perfect image of shock. “Wasn’t it?” His features have become uncomfortably sharp and distinct worry has formed creases that score his forehead. Perhaps he already senses where Emma is going with this and would rather avoid the subject altogether.

Resolved to continue, Emma gestures around the grand, but austere, room. “George, you live here all alone. And I know I’ve heard you say a million times that you don’t mind it. I’m sure that maybe you don’t, in your own way. But you and I both know there are reasons why you spend so much of your time at Hartfield.”

George’s face flashes with panic, and he blinks at her slowly, methodically. He looks rather like an animal that’s been cornered. His lips, parting a little, release a low exhale and the sound stretches out towards the walls of the empty room.

“Look, Emma, we don’t have to talk about this now,” is all he manages to say, somewhat strangled. “We’ve gone off track.”

“But it’s important-”

“This isn’t how I wanted to discuss this-” he protests, desperation unfurling with every syllable. He looks uncomfortable, as if she’s emotionally dissecting him piece by piece.

“But I think it needs saying,” Emma insists, even though she hates the way George has suddenly turned his face away from her as if he can barely stand to look at her. “I know how important my father and I are to you,” Emma soldiers on, even though there’s a part of her that feels guilty for having to spell it out in this way and expose them both to this baring of souls. “And I know we don’t ever talk about why that is.”

George jerks back to look at her, the previous deep worry sliding through an expression of short lived confusion, and then swiftly onwards to a look of pained melancholy. Emma has no chance of figuring out the source of each distinct emotion before it has changed to something else.

He clears throat, the sound dry. “To you and your father?” George croaks, as if his voice is spread too thin over his vocal cords.

“Yes,” she says gently, patiently, wondering how he could ever doubt it. Emma knows that the sudden and tragic loss of his parents on the cusp of his own adulthood had turned George’s entire world upside down. And as a result, Emma and her father and Hartfield had become George’s lifeline. They were, in all but name, his family. And over the years, he’d become as woven into the fabric of Hartfield as much as any Woodhouse.

And although she’s the one bringing this up, Emma wishes she could express herself on this topic in a way that didn’t cause George pain, even indirectly. Because right now it feels like she’s slowly ripping open a wound inside of him that they’ve both always largely ignored - even if it has always been at his own dogged insistence.

However, right now, it feels important, for once, to speak the truth out loud. It’s clear from his earlier rebukes that George needs to hear that she’s recognised the impact of her mistakes if they are to ever move past them.

It’s this knowledge which forces Emma onwards. “What I’m trying to say is, I... understand why my actions upset you so much. Not just the broken promise, and the being-selfish part. I didn’t recognise that you want things between us to remain exactly as they’ve always been. Because you can’t risk… losing us too.”

The lump in Emma’s throat grows steadily over the course of her short speech. Not only for the losses that George has experienced, but for the potential of her own future with him too. Of course, it feels wrong to think of herself at this moment, even if Emma is determined to not lose hope on that front just yet. But she can’t deny it creates a problem. After all, if George wants things to always remain the same, will he ever be able to see her as more? Or is she now forever cast in the role of his best friend, immutable and never changing? The thought wrenches at her.

George’s response, when it comes, is eerily calm, as if he’s somehow removed himself from his body and is floating somewhere in the air above them. Nevertheless Emma can hear the weight of sadness behind it. It’s the tone he always has when his parents come up in conversation: a cool detached form of grief. It’s an emotion that George refuses to feel too much of, in case it overwhelms him.

A sharp inhale, before each word draws out of him slowly, like ice melting in the sun. “You’re right that you and your father are important to me, Emma. And Hartfield is… well, sometimes it feels more like my home than Donwell does.” George casts a critical eye around the room, and for all its glory, Emma agrees that she would never think to call the Abbey homely. It feels like ghosts rattle within the walls here, and no doubt George feels the oppressiveness of that particularly acutely.

“And I’m glad of that,” she answers, wishing desperately that she could just take his hand in hers. They’re now standing close enough to make it possible, but Emma isn’t entirely sure he’d let her, or that she’d be able to focus if she did. “And I know my father would be too. And so that’s why I feel so bad for not seeing any of this sooner. Because the truth is I don’t want you to ever feel like you could lose any of that. Especially not as a result of any of my stupid schemes and my... thoughtlessness.”

“You’re not thoughtless, Emma,” George offers kindly, the tiniest hint of relaxation beginning to appear on his features. His generosity is exceptional as always. At the skeptical look that must register on her face, he amends his statement slightly. “Well, not totally,” he adds with the smallest of lopsided smiles.

“Anyway,” she continues, allowing his dig to slide just this once, “what I’m trying to say is… these past few weeks have been awful. I’ve hated not being able to talk to you. And I’ve hated how empty Hartfield has felt without you.” It’s not entirely what she wants to say, but it is, at the very least, a start.

George’s expression softens further, even though his fingers seem to want to tangle themselves together into increasingly complicated patterns in front of him. “I’ve hated it too, Emma. So much.” His earnest tone warms every part of her, her heart glowing somewhere outside of her body. Finally, finally she feels that they are working their way back to each other again.

“And so…” Emma continues, taking a deep breath, “I need you to really hear me when I say that I promise, really promise, that I won’t do anything ever again that will get in the way of our friendship.” Emma says this with a force that surprises even her. It’s not even strictly true, given that she’s in love with him and that might very well complicate things if she can ever find the courage to tell him. But, she decides, that’s a problem for future Emma to deal with. Besides, in her mind, being mutually in love would very much enhance their friendship, rather than get in the way of it.

George’s reply borders on an odd mix of amused but grave. “Emma, haven’t you learnt anything? You really shouldn’t make promises that you can’t keep.” He attempts a wry smile even though it falls a little flat.

“Oh George,” she sighs overdramatically, searching for any brevity she can find to stop the melancholy that seems to be clouding the room, “you know I never learn anything until you tell me I absolutely have to.” Emma pauses, waiting for at least a characteristic roll of his eyes, but George barely reacts. Instead it appears he’s become rather lost in his own thoughts.

Something feels amiss. Emma can feel it in her bones.

From her vantage point, Emma watches as George works his jaw before glancing up once more to examine her carefully. And despite how well she knows him, Emma can’t seem to pinpoint his mood at all. One of his hands reaches out to grip onto the back of the rather ancient looking Chesterfield. His knuckles look white.

“I appreciate everything you’ve said, Emma,” George answers slowly and seriously, as if she hadn’t been teasing him only seconds ago. He sounds strangely nervous and on edge and it immediately puts Emma on high alert. “I really do. But I still-… what happened between us was-”

“A mistake. I know!” she interrupts, grasping the ominous mood created by his words, and feeling instantly terrified at the idea of letting him finish. Emma’s both frustrated and miserable at the idea that George might not be able to let her error go. She knows him well enough to sense that he’s on the verge of saying something she won’t like. There’s something in his demeanour that bodes ill, and Emma can just feel it, like a sense of doom has somehow been transcribed onto her own flesh. Her instinctive reaction is to do all she can to avoid it, even though she knows it’s unfair to deny him a chance to speak.

“Emma-” he starts once more, but she’s already too worked up to attempt to act rationally.

“I know all of that,” she cuts in again, even more forcefully. “But, George, even if you can’t forgive me this minute, I need you to forgive me eventually!” There’s something shrilly desperate exploding from her, and it would be embarrassing if Emma could manage to think straight. In truth, the idea of his future forgiveness is nowhere near what Emma wants either, but if it’s her only option, she’ll take it greedily and with both hands.

“Emma!” George chides, an undercurrent of impatience finally pulling through. He looks flustered at her reaction and yet strangely determined, and it’s clear he intends to finish his thought, despite her attempts to waylay him. Shooting him a sullen look, Emma forces herself to hold her tongue as a deepening uneasy gulf opens within her chest.

George hesitates a moment before continuing, his lovely face stricken and unusually pale. There’s a quiver to his voice that’s newer still. “What I was going to say was… I appreciate all of that. But I’m just... I’m not sure that our friendship can be the same anymore. That… that kiss, it… it did change things, Emma.”

Chapter Text

Emma feels instantly cold, mind racing. George may as well have cut her heart out with surgical precision.

He surely can’t mean it?

And yet the way he’s looking at her tells a different story. Those ice blue eyes, usually so comforting to her, are strained with intense worry. It’s like George knows he’s quietly killing her and yet feels compelled to do it anyway. How can he be so cruel?

“George!” she explodes frantically, taking an instinctive step towards him, all the while searching for any clue that maybe she’s overreacting. But no, George seems completely serious. If anything, he looks like he’s about to be physically sick, if she’s honest. Emma’s never seen him look so grey, so absolutely wrecked. She feels her own hands shaking, the tremors rattling every nerve ending in her body. She can’t bear the thought that, despite all her best words and promises, George can’t see a way through this mess to forgiving her. “Please don’t say that. Please don’t let my stupid mistake ruin things!”

She’s begging, she thinks. Emma Woodhouse is begging, and on any other day, in any other situation, she would be appalled at herself. But this is different, this is George, and if she thought pitching herself to her knees in front of him would help, then there’s a strong possibility she would just do it and not even care.

George opens his mouth, perhaps surprised at the strength of her outburst, but no words come out. God, she needs him to speak or Emma might just die right here on the spot.

“I know I messed up, George. I really know that. But I’ve changed, you have no idea how much I’ve changed-”

“Emma,” he pleads, finally finding his voice, and he can’t even look at her when he says it. His eyes are cast upwards to the ceiling as if the very sight of her is unbearable. “You don’t understand. It’s just… it’s just…”

He can’t even find the momentum to continue, to finish off the process of disassembling their friendship in front of her very eyes. The fact that he can’t articulate it gives Emma some hope that maybe she has a chance to salvage this.

The sentiments sit heavy in her throat, and come out strangled amongst Emma’s fight not to break down. “Please don’t say we can’t be friends, George. I can’t bear it, I can’t lose you, I just…” Her limbs ache, her chest hurts; Emma can’t gather the strength to say any more. Hot waves of anxiety pound through her, screaming through her ears, down her neck, seeping into her bones.

“God!” George sighs roughly, voice breaking on the very word and looking utterly miserable. His eyes return to her face. “If you’d... just let me think for a minute, Emma!” His hands slice at the air around him, and although the depth of his frustration takes her aback, there’s something almost encouraging about the way that George no longer seems totally immobilised. “That’s not what I’m tryi- oh... no, oh no... your nose, your… nose. Emma, you’re bleeding!”

Even as George says it, Emma registers the sensation that’s lingering at her nostril; familiar since childhood when every so often this would happen out of the blue, although it hasn’t happened to her in many years. Her hand flies up to her face, grazing tentatively against the spot, and when she pulls her fingers away, she sees the tell-tale red smear.

“Oh,” is all she manages to say numbly, more than a little shocked. The trickle inches further down her upper lip, and Emma instinctively tips her head back.

The sight of her blood seems to have thrown George into an even more panicked flurry than before. “Please, I didn’t mean-...” George’s hand reaches out, as if to try and help her, stem the flow perhaps, but then he flinches, realising how useless, how intimate that would be. His hand falls back against his side, fingers curling inwards.

God, why isn’t he doing something instead of just standing there? Because all Emma can think is that she doesn’t have anything with her - not her bag, or even a rogue tissue in her pocket. She’s still busy trying to figure out what she should do when George seems to finally come to his senses. Digging around in the front pockets of his jeans, he produces what is obviously - based on the tidy folds and ironed press of the square - a clean handkerchief.

Because of course George is the sort of person to carry around a god damn handkerchief, like some sort of medieval knight, Emma thinks. If she had the heart to tease him about it right now, she would, but mainly she’s still a bit too shell-shocked from both her spontaneous bleeding and their conversation to muster up the spirit. Then there’s the added pressure of not getting blood all over the Donwell library rug. Mrs Hodges would not be impressed.

Emma snatches the handkerchief from George’s proffered hand, although still carefully enough to make sure that their fingertips don’t accidentally touch. That’s the absolute last thing Emma needs right now, not right when her world, and her body, have simultaneously decided to fall apart around her. Quickly, she presses the fabric to her nose, feeling some sliver of relief until the point when she realises that it smells exactly like George’s laundry detergent, comfortable and familiar and so very him. A swell of tears threatens to overpower her. Emma determinedly blinks them back.

God, could this day get any worse?

George finally speaks, eyeing her warily. “Are you… okay?” He sounds tentative, concerned, as if he thinks he might have caused her body to rebel in the first place. And honestly, Emma can’t completely rule it out.

She takes a few deep breaths, trying to find some semblance of calm in the maelstrom that seems to have surrounded them both. Cautiously she pulls the handkerchief away, relieved to find the perfect square not too badly ruined, that the flow has already seemed to have dwindled to nothing much. There’s a metallic taste on her upper lip, sharp and coppery, and Emma does her best to rectify herself without the aid of a mirror.

“I’m fine,” Emma answers eventually, a little archly. Her insides are still coiled tightly, having forgotten none of the apprehension that had infested them before they were interrupted.

George’s fists are balled at his sides. He peers at her. “Are you… quite sure?” He’s usually so good in a crisis and while Emma can see some of that usual authority beneath his tone, she can tell he’s still conscious of where their conversation had left off.

“Well,” she manages, giving her nose one final swipe with the handkerchief before crushing it within her palm, “apparently you don’t want to be my friend anymore, so maybe we should get back to that?” Her question is wickedly cold, laced with unabashed hurt.

George looks immediately guilt-ridden, a fist rising to press against his forehead and then falling away before he speaks. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that I don’t want to be your friend, Emma. It’s... it’s just it’s more complicated than that. It’s more that… that…I...”

He seems incapable of expressing himself because, once again, the words disappear in George’s throat, unable to be found, but Emma still has plenty to spare. The worst part is that she wants to be mad at him, wants to shout and scream and get her way, but the truth is that this isn’t the moment for dramatics or tantrums. And so instead Emma does what she so rarely feels able to do - she speaks from the heart.

“George, I know I messed everything up. I know that. But... I need you.” So much, so much, she thinks as the rawness of her confession slices through the air. In an attempt to keep herself together, Emma fixes her gaze on the silent bobbing of George’s throat as the motions ripple under the skin. His breaths seem far too shallow to sustain him, although Emma’s not unfamiliar with the feeling herself right now.

“You need me?” George finally manages to utter, hushed and low, the edges of his voice scratching ruthlessly together. The way he looks at her fractures something inside of her. How could he ever doubt that Emma needs him? She not only needs him, but wants him and desires him and adores him, along with any other form of possession of him that she could possibly hope to ever acquire.

“Of course,” she murmurs, trying to not let her shaky voice betray her wishful thoughts. But despite her best attempts, Emma feels a stray tear slip out from beneath her lashes, splash down her cheek. George’s eyes instantly widen, round and hopelessly forlorn, but he doesn’t otherwise move. “And I know I’ve not been a good friend. Just please don’t say we can’t get back to how things were. That’s all I want. If it will help, why don’t you just... yell at me?”

The anxiety plastered all over George’s face quickly turns to indignation at her strange suggestion. “I’m not going to yell at you, for goodness sake,” he retorts with more spirit than he’s shown for some time.

Emma shoots him an exasperated look, knowing her messy tears are undermining the sharpness in her expression. “Why not? We both know I deserve it! If it means you’ll forgive me, and things can go back to normal, I’ll listen to a thousand of your stupid lectures! I’ll even give you a head start.”

George’s brow furrows, followed by a tilt of his head. “What are you even-”

Spine straightening, Emma hastily wipes at her face and glares at George with resolve. Waving a hand in front of him, she ticks off her points on her fingers, one by one. “That kissing you like that was selfish! And... I was thoughtless to break my promise to you. And that I was an idiot for letting Elton get to me like that.”

George draws out an exasperated breath now. “Emma. Stop. That wasn’t what I-”

“And you’d be right to say all of those things!” she barrels on, cutting him off with her newfound momentum. “It was stupid and idiotic and I was selfish! But I was also just so mad at Elton, and I don’t know… I thought it would help? And yes, I didn’t think that you’d feel differently about it than I would. Even though maybe I should have known because we never agree on anything.”

That draws out a scoffing sound from George. “That’s not true-”

“If I said the sky was blue, you know you’d say it was green.”

He squints at her, a fraction irritated. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Emma ignores him. “But here’s the thing, George. As your friend, it’s my duty to tell you that you’re stuck with me.”

His eyebrows draw upwards, and a slight look of amusement appears on his face. “Is that so?”

Emma nods firmly, determined. “We’re going to be friends until we die. And there’s nothing in this world that is going to change that. So you might as well give up being so… so... stubborn! And… well, just forgive me now - and be done with it!”

Emma finishes with a rambling flourish, the tail end of her speech whipping out after her. It’s hardly one of her more eloquent apologies - in fact, she’s self aware enough to accept that it would probably be classed as pretty terrible. After all, she’s done the one thing George had rightly accused her of doing - trying to bend her will onto other people, with no consideration for their feelings. Nevertheless, Emma feels like an arrow must, having finally been released from the bow. All that tension, and then a sudden burst of release.

“Friends until we die, huh?” George’s gruff voice cuts through the heady silence. She can’t get much of a read on him, because his eyes are trained downwards, staring at his own hands, one gripping the knuckles of the other in steely contemplation.

Emma lets herself release a quiet exhale, wanting to shake this formidable tension from her body. It doesn’t really work. “Unfortunately,” she replies with a small attempt at humour, hoping her boldness will be enough to return his attention to her instead of the floor.

Emma waits for it; imagines the moment where George will look up and merely raise a sardonic eyebrow at her. But right now, instead of doing the expected, he simply appears overloaded with everything she’s laid out before him. It’s clear from his continuing silence that he’s turning something over in his mind. Emma feels she can almost see it, the relentless churning, to the extent that the longer he’s silent, the more worried she becomes.

Does George honestly not want to be her friend? Not want to forgive her? Or is something else going on? God, what if... what if he’s trying to figure out how to tell her about Jane this whole time? Surely not, Emma scorns. And yet it would certainly fit his cryptic attempts to tell her something. Maybe he wanted to explain how that might actually change things between them? Her mouth goes dry, and Emma can barely keep her thoughts from running totally wild.

Suddenly he speaks, and the unexpectedness of the sound jars her out of her maudlin thoughts. A flash of blue eyes find her, and Emma finds their intensity so overwhelming that she has to break the gaze lest she throw herself into his arms.

“Have you definitely finished pleading your case, Emma?” George’s question balances delicately on the edge of both humour and causticness, which she supposes is fair enough given her complete and utter bulldozing of the entire morning. She has enough presence of mind to simply nod her head, before finally resolving herself to try and meet George’s scrutinising eyes once more. But she doesn’t find what she expects: a reproach, or stern look. Not even a frown.

Instead, George’s expression is one of total resignation, like some sort of internal fire has been put out. His face isn’t cold - it could never be, in her mind. But there’s almost a helpless lack of something instead. Emma can’t pinpoint what it is that seems to have vanished. Her inability to do so bothers her.

She tries to dig deeper, but can draw no obvious conclusions. George’s eyes, still fixed on her, appear tumultuous and yet somehow - a contradiction, itself - also passive, like a violent storm swirling above a calm ocean. There’s an undercurrent of energy in them still, but it’s fading fast with every passing second, leaving only a dull uniformity on the surface. Holding her breath, Emma watches a blank resolve take hold of the rest of George’s face, almost as if a mask were being placed over it. A roll of worry unfurls inside of her.

That’s why it’s so surprising when George steps forward and fully into her space. There’s a measure of decisiveness in the way he reaches out for her free hand, the one not encumbered by his handkerchief, smudged with her blood. By now Emma’s sense of self control is so tenuous that as their skin slides together, she has to try and hold back an audible shudder of relief at the gentle pressure. George’s touch feels indulgent somehow, too rich and too kind to be deserved. His gesture almost makes up for the strange expression that still hasn’t quite left his face, the way his shoulders slope downwards.

Their fingers tangle together, wordlessly. The way George’s thumb strokes across the centre of her outspread palm is almost like an apology in itself. It feels important, somehow, even though Emma can only speak for herself and the firestorm of sensations that the tiny gesture seems to have awakened in her. There’s nothing Emma wants more than to just close the last of the gap between their bodies and lean into the solid bulk of him. She aches to feel George’s warmth everywhere, the strength of his arms curling around her, his breath pressing into her hair. She imagines tilting her head back, lips grazing up against the underside of his jaw to kiss him, repercussions be damned.

Except that’s exactly what got her into trouble last time.

George’s soft sigh interrupts Emma’s reverie. His head hangs low, his focus steady on their now fully joined hands. Once more Emma wants to tenderly sweep his hair off his forehead, but doesn’t dare attempt it. The fan of his eyelashes are long against his cheeks and Emma wonders what it would be like to slope a fingertip down each one. The heaviness in his hangdog expression seems to have taken over George’s whole body, like it’s weighing him down.

“Emma,” he says eventually, and her heart skips another beat at the care with which he says her name in his low baritone. It’s only then that he glances up at her. “All I was trying to say, before you started yelling at me,” a little spark fires up behind his eyes, before dying quickly out again, “is that you don’t need to ask for my forgiveness. If my... friendship is what you truly want, then... you have it.”

He’s so beautifully sincere in his speech that Emma feels like she might start crying again.

“Really?”

“Yes,” George replies, with such earnestness that it’s as if he’s surprised she needs to check. “I will always, no matter what, be your friend.” His voice catches on the final word.

“My best friend?” she corrects, knowing she’s taking a risk.

Her cheekiness is rewarded with a slight upturn of his lips. “Yes, Emma. Your best friend. If that’s... what you want.”

“Of course that’s what I want!” she yelps, wondering why George would even need to ask such a thing. Obviously she wants far more than that, but it feels too greedy right now to even think about, given how difficult it was to even get to this moment. To drive home her agreement, Emma gives his hand a forceful squeeze and George instinctively reciprocates. “Do you think I would go to all this trouble for anyone? Besides, who else would put up with me apart from you?”

“Very true,” he answers, voice soft. There’s a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, but Emma can’t tell whether he’s forcing it or trying to smother it.

There’s something still lurking at the back of her mind. “So, what you said before… about maybe our friendship not being the same? What did you…?” Emma’s question tails off, not really sure how to phrase the next part or whether she’s opening a can of worms by asking.

George flinches, like he’s been burned. “I…” he fumbles, before his chin juts upwards with resolution, “I was upset, Emma. I think I just... got in my head about it. But you were right. I was just scared… of things being different... of things changing.”

Everything about George seems sincere, and yet Emma still feels uneasy. Something seems... off with him, but she can’t put her finger on what. If she weren’t so selfish, maybe Emma would feel confident enough to press George on his obvious reticence. But she doesn’t have the strength in her right now to feel anything other than grateful to have her friend back.

She sets it aside for now. “So, are we… okay then?”

George smiles at her in that way that he has, indulgent and yet slightly exasperated. “Yes, Emma. We’re okay. We’re... good. Are… you okay?” He gestures to her tear stained face, her bloody nose, and looks a little wilted.

She brushes a hand up absently to wipe away the last dampness from her lashes. Emma hates crying in front of him, even though George has never been anything but kind about it when she does.

“Definitely,” Emma beams, unable to say much else. She has George back, her George. Or at least, as much as she can hope for him to be, for now. Despite Emma’s niggling doubts, it’s easier to let a blaze of happiness take over.

In return, George’s anaemic smile grows ever so slightly. It still feels like he’s too contained, too controlled, to be totally fine, but there’s not much more she can do but take his words at face value for now. And although Emma’s relieved beyond measure that she and George have found a somewhat fragile peace, she knows that that is only half the battle. There’s so much more that she needs to tell him, needs to share with him, but it’s clear neither of them are ready for that right now. This is as much of a victory as she could hope for in one day.

Emma resolves herself. Her declaration can wait - must wait. The notion leaves her feeling conflicted. Even though the delay gives her no joy at all, Emma feels a sense of relief to have some more time up her sleeve. She knows she needs to let things between her and George settle back into their normal rhythm first. The past few weeks have taught her that while their friendship is strong, it isn’t beyond splintering, and nor is it indestructible. Throwing yet more surprises at George hardly seems fair when their feet have barely re-established their place on solid ground.

She’ll tell him... after the wedding. Yes, yes, that works.

Besides, it’s only a week away now, and Emma knows she ought to be able to cope until then. After all, she’s survived this long in the dark about her feelings for George. She can squash them down for a little longer. In the meanwhile, it’ll just mean she’ll have to avoid any compromising situations where her feelings might become... too much. No movie nights huddled together in the dark, she thinks. Even the vague idea of it sends her senses into overdrive.

George’s voice interrupts her musings. “Emma, there’s... something else I wanted to talk to you about, actually.” He appears somewhat calmer than before, even though his grip on her hand remains strangely firm. There’s still an edge to his accent that suggests agitation, under the surface.

A ripple of nervousness curdles through her stomach. “Oh. You did?” Emma’s not sure why she says it, given she’s thought of little else apart from his mysterious news ever since his text arrived. But it’s been a strange morning, she justifies. She’s allowed to be a little scattered.

George, rightfully, gives her a confused frown. “You know I did.” At that, he releases her fingers from his, and Emma tries not to read too much into it.

A part of her wonders whether this is something to do with Jane Fairfax after all, as much as the thought makes her insides seize up. Perhaps their kiss at Elton’s engagement party had made George realise how lonely he is, and how maybe his previous admiration of Jane had evolved into something more, especially taking into account their date in London. Emma’s heart wants to violently reject the idea, even though it does make a certain amount of sense.

After all, George and Jane being together would change things, wouldn’t it? It would definitely impact his and Emma’s relationship in more ways that he could possibly even know right now. Is this what he’s wanted to tell her? Could this be what he’s been edging towards this entire morning? George is skirting something, Emma knows, even if he’s not saying it.

If there is something going on between him and Jane, Emma knows she doesn’t want to hear it. It would shred her heart to pieces, tiny fragments of pieces even, never to recover. After all, George is the first man she’s ever been in love with, even if he doesn’t know it. The idea of watching him disappear off into the sunset with another woman makes Emma feel like getting into bed and never leaving it again.

And yet, there’s no way to stop him telling her, is there?

No, no! This ridiculous speculation has to stop! She’s just imagining things that aren’t there, isn’t she? Emma knows she can get in her head, that she isn’t always rational. As Harriet has told her a million times already, they’re probably just friends.

Right?

“Emma?” George breaks her out of her trance, an expectant look plastered across his features. She’s been silent too long.

“Yes, yes, of course,” she answers hastily, even though her heart feels like it is in her mouth and she’s wondering whether she’s just sealing her fate. “Go ahead.” He’s thrown her off kilter, and Emma finds herself unable to re-establish any sort of balance. God, is he about to destroy her?

George casts her a perplexed look for a moment before speaking. “So... given everything that’s happened between...us,” he seems to hesitate on the last word, and Emma hears him swallow thickly, “I just wanted to know where we stood in terms of the wedding.”

“The wedding?” Her face mirrors his, confused. Although she hadn’t been entirely sure what to expect in terms of George’s news, Emma had not been anticipating… well, this. Is he serious? And yet a glance at his face tells her that he is. But, she supposes, at least the name Jane Fairfax hasn’t passed his lips so far and that’s enough to rejoice at.

George looks at her searchingly, as if examining her for a brain tumour. “You know, Elton’s wedding?”

Now she’s totally lost. “What about it?”

“Well, we never really discussed it. Us going together? Continuing the… pretence?” He says the last word like he’s mocking it a little, as if it’s somehow beneath them both.

And no, they hadn’t discussed it, he’s right. After everything that had gone so horribly wrong at the engagement party, Emma hadn’t really even dared to think about where that had left their arrangement. Continuing to be a fake couple hardly seemed important when she’s been coming to terms with the idea of having them be something real instead.

“Oh.” She feels a sudden urge to create some distance between them, and so Emma spins on her heel and paces away towards the large windows that overlook the front of the estate. She needs a moment to collect herself and filter through the spiralling thoughts that are clambering within her head. Her hand still burns where George had touched it.

“Oh?” he repeats questioningly, beyond her vision.

Emma fixes her gaze out at the view. The day has turned out bright. There are some sparrows hopping across the lawn and she watches them bob up and down in a merry dance. “No, I guess we didn’t really talk about it,” she answers lightly, as if she doesn’t care when in fact she very, very much does.

“So what do you want to do?” George’s voice is distant behind her. He’s still rooted to the spot where she left him.

“What do you mean, what do I want to do? I just… I assumed after everything I did last time, you’d never agree to escort me anywhere ever again.” Emma keeps her tone casual, hoping that it will do enough to conceal the anxiety that is swiftly creeping up her throat. Her eyes remain trained on the sparrows, flitting at each other.

She hears George’s little choke of laughter and is surprised to hear him sound so mirthful all of a sudden. “That would probably be the sensible solution. But…?”

“Wait? But?” Emma’s about to turn to face him, but then there’s a padding sound of footsteps, and she realises he’s approaching. A second later, George appears at her shoulder. Like her, he stares out the window and across the vista. Emma presses on, keeping her gaze forward to match. “Are you saying you’re willing to be my date again?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Emma sees George’s hands clasp together in front of him. “I’m just saying,” he rumbles, and god she wishes she could press her hand to his chest to feel the vibrations within, “that we’ve gone to all this trouble. As far as Elton knows, we're still together. It would be a shame not to… finish the job? And anyway... we’re both going. It's just one more night of pretending, after all.”

Emma tries not to wince at the combination of words, one more night and pretending. Instead she sneaks a coy look over at him and is rewarded with the smooth angles of his profile. “George, are you... serious? I mean, not to be funny, but have you recently developed amnesia, perchance?”

There’s a slight movement in his jaw. Emma can see George is trying his best not to look at her out of his peripheral vision. “I’ve realised that if my best friend needs me, I should help her. And I think we’ve learnt our lesson from last time. Or more specifically... I think you’ve learnt your lesson from last time?”

“Ouch,” she replies, but it’s with a grin. Gratified, Emma twists to face him full on. Up close and in the bright sunlight that’s streaming in through the window, Emma can see the purple shadows blooming under his eyes. London hasn’t been kind to him.

“Look,” George says, and all of a sudden, he’s facing her too, and oh, he’s so close that Emma can feel the hairs start to rise on the back of her neck, “what I’m saying is that I’m willing to see this through to the bitter end, if you want me to.”

Emma narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Is this some kind of... trick? Am I supposed to say no to you and pass some sort of friendship test or something?” But even as she says it, her whole brain is screaming with how much she immediately wants to say yes to George’s generous offer before he changes his mind.

A flicker of a smile appears, followed by a scrunch of George’s nose. “Very funny. But no, I’m serious. You know I hate unfinished business. And you’re not the only one who wants to make Elton suffer. Unless... were you planning to upgrade me? Is there someone else that you were going to go with instead?” George looks at her cautiously, like he half expects her to say there is.

“No,” Emma answers quickly, tripping over herself to get the answer out. After all, who else would she go with? She’d rather go by herself than show up as the third wheel to Harriet and Rob. “No one else.”

The tension in George’s shoulders falls away. “Alright. So do you want to be my date then?” There’s a nervy impatience to his question.

Emma risks a derisive laugh. “George Knightley, you do know how to make a girl swoon,” she teases, a hand reaching out and shoving him gently in the shoulder, lingering for a fraction of a second longer than it probably should.

George doesn’t appear to notice, rocking back on his heels with ease, a wry look dawning across his face. “I’m going to withdraw my offer if you’re going to be like that.” Although, even as he says it, George looks distinctly pleased, as if relieved to find the playful equilibrium of their relationship slowly being restored piece by piece.

Emma awards him with a smile, hoping he can’t read just how ecstatically thrilled she is beneath the surface. “Of course I want you to take me, George. I’m just surprised you’d be okay with it, that’s all.”

“Well, you know,” he shrugs nonchalantly before tugging at the cuff of his jumper, “I’m still capable of surprising you sometimes. Plus, isn’t that what... best friends do?” His stare feels inscrutable.

“Yes,” Emma nods, even as something slowly starts to sink inside of her. Has she no chance of ever being anything more with him? “That is what best friends do.”

George bobs his head in turn, a mimic of her. “Good. Now, everything’s settled then, isn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

It is, and yet it very, very much isn’t, she thinks. At least not on her side. Not even close.

He squints at her, and Emma’s reminded of the younger George: at twelve, at fifteen, at eighteen, at twenty three; although always slightly older and always slightly more mature than her. But even after all the years of knowing him, there’s still something fundamentally stable about him; a dependable force that Emma’s always been able to predict.

Until now.

“I’d invite you to stay for lunch,” he says after a second, pulling Emma’s thoughts back into the present, “but I promised Rob that I’d pop down to the farm and check out his propagations.”

Emma’s eyes smirk. “Sounds thrilling,” she says, heavy with sarcasm. “You boys really do know how to have fun.”

George clasps his hands behind his back, causing his neck to straighten and chest to broaden. Emma tries not to notice, even as her breath catches in her throat. “You’re welcome to join us?”

The truth is that Emma wants to follow him everywhere, never let him out of her sight again. But that would be far too suspicious, far too out of character for her. And so her decline is swift. “I’m good, thanks.”

George returns a smug smile, as if he hadn’t expected any different. “Okay, well, I’ve got to run. Let yourself out whenever,” he says, heading towards his desk. Emma watches as he drains the remainder of what must be cold coffee by now and grabs his car keys.

His departure feels abrupt, unfinished. Maybe that’s just because Emma still has secrets to impart, even though she knows she has to wait. Maybe it’s just because Emma would rather spend the morning shut up with him in the library, bickering about nothing at all. But then a question strikes her just as he’s halfway to the library door. She calls out after him.

George spins on the spot, and looks at her curiously. “What?” There’s a lilt of something in his voice, but it’s soft and hidden from view.

Emma hesitates a moment before finding her tongue. “So, in your text, when you said you wanted to talk,” she says, feeling awkward in bringing it up so directly but knows it will eat away at her if she doesn’t, “you just meant about the wedding, right? There wasn’t anything else you wanted to tell me?”

George looks briefly stricken, his hand flutters to his brow before falling back heavily at his side. His car keys, dangling from his fingers, rattle at the movement. “No, Emma,” he answers resolutely, a touch sharp. “There was nothing else.”

She waits to feel a rush of relief, but it doesn’t come. For some reason, Emma gets the feeling that George is hiding something from her, even though she has no proof to accuse him with. But she knows him. That’s enough. The idea that he’s holding something back scrapes at Emma’s already bruised heart. But at the same time, she doesn’t feel ready to push him either. Besides, she knows all too well that anything George doesn’t want to tell her usually means she won’t like it when he eventually does.

Jane Fairfax’s face conjures itself up in front of her, and Emma mentally bats it away.

“Alright then,” she nods, giving her voice an unconcerned air. “I’ll see you later?”

George fires a quick grin at her, and there’s a little edge to it. It seems he’s impatient to get going. He probably has a lot to catch up on given his absence. “Yes, of course.”

Thank god, she thinks as she watches him leave, the familiar slope of his walk reaching the door in a handful of easy strides. Just as quickly, following a creak of hinges, George is gone.

She breathes a sigh out loud in the hollow room. But Emma hardly knows whether to feel happy or sad. Because of course she’s pleased that she and George have made up and are friends again. All being equal, that would normally have been enough for her to be at ease.

But given it feels like he’s taken her heart with him as he left, Emma remains dissatisfied. A part of her wants to run after him and confess everything, and let the chips fall where they may. But no, the timing isn’t right. She needs to wait, let the dust settle, and make sure everything truly is okay.

Emma turns back to stare out the window, her vision interrupted by the arrival of a florist van. It trundles off towards the marquee around the far side of the house and out of Emma’s view.

The wedding, she thinks. If Emma can get through that, she can get through anything. The idea of turning up at the church, at the reception, with George at her side, fills her with a level of nervous excitement that Emma hasn’t felt in a long time. She’ll be able to freely hold his hand, and touch him, and for the first time, truly enjoy it. It won’t be real of course, but in Emma’s situation, she can’t afford to be picky.

Plus, she thinks, the wedding will be the perfect chance to determine how George really feels about Jane Fairfax. Because of course, Jane will be there: perfect, wonderful Jane. Sure, Emma will be the one on his arm, but no doubt if George is really as close to Jane as all that, he would be considerate enough to warn her of their arrangement, if only to avoid Jane’s feelings being hurt.

Emma knows that, at the end of the day, if he is in love with Jane, George surely won’t be able to hide it. Emma knows him: he’s not one for subterfuge, as valiantly as he does occasionally try. No, Elton’s wedding will be the one chance for her to watch George and Jane together in the flesh and observe things for herself. That way, Emma can draw her own conclusions, unjaded by raging jealousy and an overactive imagination.

It’s not a perfect solution, she thinks, as she twists George’s handkerchief between her hands. But she has to start somewhere.

Chapter Text

“One caramel iced latte for you.”

The drink lands with aplomb on the table in front of her and Emma grasps at it gratefully. She watches as Frank collapses into the seat opposite her, chair dragging noisily against the floor. Frank never seems to be capable of doing anything in life subtly. His personality is always set to be just a fraction too loud.

“Thanks,” Emma says, her hands curling around her cup and enjoying its coolness. “What did you get?”

“Double shot soy cappuccino, extra hot.”

Emma rolls her eyes.

“Hey, hey,” Frank laughs, “I can’t help that I’ve got fancy city tastes.”

“You live in Yorkshire,” she points out. “That’s hardly the big city.”

“There are cities in Yorkshire,” he retorts, and Emma supposes that is true - she’s never actually been, or bothered to check. She does know that Frank doesn’t live in one though, although it seems petty to point that out. By his own admission, Enscombe is a country estate if there ever was one. “And I spend a lot of time in London,” he tags on, chest puffing out with pride.

“Oooh,” Emma coos, ducking her head in a mock bow. “And yet here you are in little old Highbury, gracing us with your noble presence. How fortunate we peasants are.”

Frank lets out a good natured chuckle. “Does George still manage to tell you how annoying you are, or is he too in love to bother these days?”

At George’s name, Emma feels a prickle in her chest. Her true feelings towards her best friend are still like a precious secret that she wants to hide away from the world at large, and so being forced to lie about their relationship to Frank hits a little too close to the bone.

“Oh, he still manages frequently enough,” she responds dryly, before her face turns coy. “But then he pays the price.” Emma’s not sure why she even says it, or why she’s allowing herself to conjure up these imaginary scenarios where she and George are disgustingly in love and disgustingly content, but the words just fall out of her so naturally that it’s almost easier just to let the pretence take hold.

“Lucky man,” Frank says with what begins as a wolfish grin. “I suppose you’re both appallingly happy even when you’re fighting.” His voice has taken on an almost wistful tone.

“Something like that,” she replies, suddenly suspicious. Emma knows Frank well enough to realise when he’s behaving strangely. She wonders if this is anything to do with his odd behaviour at dinner the other night. Emma raises silent eyebrows at him across the table. “Are you not happy, Frank?”

His grin falls away when he sees the look on her face. “Fine,” he grumbles, face twisting into a grimace . “You caught me. I... have actually been wanting to talk to you about something.”

Ah, there it is, she thinks. In fact, Frank sounds… almost serious, which isn’t really a state that’s usual for him, or at least, not in Emma’s experience. He’s never really been one to go for the sharing of deep secrets and sentimental heart-to-hearts. Usually it’s more drinking games, whispered gossip and mad adventures rather than anything else.

Emma sets her latte back down to signify he has her full attention. The ice cubes clatter against the sides of the plastic cup. “Oh really?” she questions, pressing both of her palms flat against the table. The whir of the Fords coffee machine provides an interesting ambient soundtrack.

Frank has the good grace to look a little sheepish, before staring down at his lap pensively for a moment. “Yeah. I’ve been trying to figure it out on my own and honestly, I’m at a loss. And I thought, of all my friends, Emma Woodhouse seems to be the one who mostly has her life together,” he shoots her an amused smile. “She would be the best person to get advice from.”

Normally Emma would be thrilled at the compliment, even if she suspects that most of it is just flattery. But oh, if only Frank knew the truth, she thinks, before schooling her face into one of mature concern. “Well, I’ll certainly try,” she answers truthfully after a moment. Her curiosity is too great to not let him speak.

Frank lets out a pleased exhale. “Thank you,” he says, his hand reaching out and gripping one of her own atop the table. It’s so bizarrely earnest that Emma can’t help but be even more intrigued. Seeing Frank with anything less than one hundred percent self-confidence is strange and new. It’s like he’s been stripped away of all his armoured bravado. “So it’s a bit of a long story. But the truth is... that I’ve been - oh... hey, isn’t that George?”

The swift change of topic is jarring. It takes Emma a second to realise that Frank has turned his face towards the window and is staring out and onto the high street.

He’s right. There’s George, standing next to the parked up Land Rover. Emma hasn’t seen him since their conversation at the Abbey two days ago, although they’ve exchanged a few safely generic texts. A smile forms quite instinctively at the sight of him as Emma drinks in the frame of his coat and the battered boots on his feet. George has clearly come from some farm or another judging by the mud caked on the soles, and the way his hair has been swept in all directions by the hillside winds.

It seems like George has seen them too, although Emma figures it would be hard not to, given their spot right in Fords’ front window. She and Frank are almost like museum pieces on display, separated from the village only by a thin pane of glass.

Emma wonders idly what George is doing in town, given that he’s clearly been out visiting tenants. It seems like a slightly odd detour for him to make. Not that it really matters. What actually matters is the tense expression that’s now come to rest on his face.

Wondering if maybe he hasn’t seen them after all and is just lost in his thoughts, Emma raises her free hand and gives George a little wave of acknowledgement, followed by a broad smile. She notes Frank doing the same out of the corner of her eye.

As if on auto pilot, George returns a far more contained version of the gesture: a brief nod and a small wave. So he has definitely seen them then. But before Emma can gesture for him to come in and join them, George turns on his heel and clambers into the Land Rover.

“Is he not going to come in and say hello to his girlfriend?” Frank asks with a measure of confusion. He releases her hand to take a sip of his drink.

Emma watches as the vehicle pulls away from the curb and heads off down the road. She knows that, even with his stoic distaste for Frank Churchill, George normally would have come inside - even if it could only be briefly. She’s not sure why he didn’t this time.

“He did say he had a busy day ahead,” Emma lies, her gaze still watching the Land Rover get smaller and smaller until it reaches the crest of the hill and then disappears down the other side and out of view. “Being in London set him back,” she adds, pleased that her improvised excuse at least sounds plausible. For all she knows, it could be completely true.

“Fair enough,” Frank says with a shrug, happy enough to accept her words at face value.

The whole interaction has made her feel uneasy though, and so, in order to avoid the feeling, Emma quickly turns back to the subject at hand. “So, what was it that you were about to say?”

But as she finishes her question, Emma realises she’s lost Frank’s attention once more. Her companion is busy fishing his vibrating phone out of his pocket. “It’s my Dad,” he says quickly, staring at the message on the screen. “I forgot I’m supposed to help him with something at home.”

“Oh. Do you need to go straight away?” Emma secretly wonders if this interruption is coincidental or calculated on Frank’s part. Perhaps he’s had second thoughts about unburdening himself?

“Yeah, I’ve got to run. You cool? Or do you want me to drop you off at home on the way?” He’d picked her up from Hartfield this morning.

Emma shakes her head. “No, I’ll walk back,” she replies, squinting out the window. “It looks nice enough.” It had rained earlier but the weather has since settled into a patchy blue sky. If she takes the lanes, it shouldn’t be too muddy.

“Alright,” Frank nods, already out of his chair, and giving her a look of genuine contrition. “Sorry about this. Talk to you later?”

“Sure,” she answers, but it’s said to Frank’s back. He’s already two steps towards the door, the remainder of his coffee discarded on the table in front of her.

--

“Why were you being so weird today?”

Emma doesn’t even greet George properly as she strolls in through Hartfield’s front door a few hours later, fresh from browsing in a few shop windows and then walking back from the village. His Land Rover had been parked outside as she’d made her way up the driveway. His dirty boots are now in a discarded heap by the front door, laces haphazardly splayed open.

George is sitting at the kitchen counter, staring at his phone. There’s a bowl with the remnants of some milky cereal next to his elbow, and the smell of peppermint herbal tea is in the air, exuding from the mug in George’s other hand. Clearly he’d run into her father upon his arrival, as Emma knows George would never drink the stuff otherwise. The things he does to placate her dad almost rivals Emma’s own sacrifices.

“What are you talking about?” he asks in a flat tone, not even bothering looking up from whatever has his attention on the screen. Emma circles behind him and from over his shoulder sees it’s an article entitled Tracking nitrate in farm fields. Good god.

“Earlier, in town. You didn’t come in to say hello.” She’s close enough to register that George, as usual, smells like the outdoors. Grass and fresh air and… at the moment, peppermint.

He finally glances up at that, twisting at the waist to look at her, taking in the slight pout on her lips. “Was I supposed to?”

“Well, it would have been nice.”

“Didn’t want to interrupt,” he answers in a manner that suggests her line of questioning is going nowhere. George turns his attention back to the screen, thumb scrolling further down the page, a frown of deep concentration settling back between his eyebrows.

Emma sighs, now recognising the source of George’s sourness. She moves around him to open the refrigerator door and peer inside. Her walk back has made her hungry, but there isn’t anything on the shelves that appeals. She slams it shut again.

“You need to get over this Frank Churchill thing,” she says, leaning back against the fridge door and staring at the back of George’s head. She tries not to think about the corded muscles of his neck, or the way it would feel to smooth his hair gently behind his ears.

“No, I don’t,” George replies peevishly and Emma doesn’t even need to see his face to know that he’s scowling. She winces at the clank of his cup hitting the countertop, followed by the scrape of the kitchen stool as he gets to his feet. He’s only got socks on and as a result, he looks rather comical. “Anyway, I’ve got to run.” He shoves his phone into the back pocket of his jeans.

She stalks her way around the counter, landing opposite him. “But I only just got here!”

George gives her an amused look, a grin sneaking forth. “I just dropped in to say hello to your dad and to grab a bite to eat before I headed out again. I don’t come here just to visit you, you know.” He’s clearly attempting to tease her to make up for his earlier sullenness. They both know she’s the main reason he’s always here. Emma watches as George carries his dishes over to the sink and rinses them before sliding the items carefully into the half full dishwasher. The perfect house guest, as always.

She releases a huff, trying not to sound put out but failing miserably. “I guess,” she sulks, shooting him a baleful look.

He throws a sly smile in her direction, the gesture warming his features. “Talk to you later, Emma.”

It’s the second time she’s heard that today, and it’s the second time Emma’s had no real response to it. The slam of the front door indicates that George is already gone before she can even manage to articulate a goodbye.

---

George texts her a few hours later to suggest a movie night. It’s clearly his attempt to make up for blowing her off earlier.

Emma stares at the invitation for a while, contemplating her response. Usually, she’d have no qualms about agreeing - would already have decided the film and started digging around in the kitchen for snacks.

But then Emma imagines how it would go. How they would sit alone in the dim light of the living room, her father upstairs in bed or busy in his study. George’s thigh would probably be pressed along the length of her own as they’d huddle together. Some nights, when Emma is feeling particularly cheeky she pops her feet into George’s lap without a second thought, and it has always meant nothing at all when his hand would come to rest on the curve of her ankle.

Emma’s not sure she can bear the anxiety of it right now. Her thoughts about George are already veering into indecency every time he’s close, and so inflicting that specific sort of torture on herself feels a step more than she can handle.

Sorry. Already promised I’d have a girl’s night with Harriet, she replies after fifteen long minutes of deliberation. It’s a lie, but one she quickly makes true after texting Harriet and asking if she’s free. Five minutes later, Harriet is invited to Hartfield and Emma tries not to feel guilty about deliberately avoiding being alone with George.

It’s only until after the wedding, she tells herself once more. After that, she’ll know the truth about him and Jane. And then armed with that information, Emma can figure out what to do next. Besides, the wedding is this Saturday, less than a week away now, much to both her dread and relief. The whole town seems to be in the festive spirit and if Emma sees Augusta floating around the village with her posse of bridesmaids one more time, she thinks she might scream.

Her phone vibrates with George’s reply. No worries, it says with his usual easy acceptance. Another time then.

Okay, she texts back, sounds good! Emma regrets the forced cheeriness of the exclamation mark as soon as she sends it. With a groan, she throws her phone down into the sofa cushions, and lets her body weight fall sideways until she’s lying horizontal. It doesn’t escape her notice that her head is in the very place where George would have been sitting if she had been less of a coward.

She’s still in the same position when Harriet arrives half an hour later, and it takes only minutes before Harriet pries the latest developments out of her. It’s a sweet relief to get these racing thoughts off her chest as Harriet strokes her hair and goes to make them both a cup of tea.

Eventually, they put on a movie, and curl up under a blanket together. It’s lovely, and while she’s deeply grateful for Harriet’s calming presence, Emma can’t help but guiltily wish it was George next to her instead.

Valiantly, Emma tries not to think about him the entire time. It’s hard given that his empty armchair hovers in the corner of her eye line. Every time she hears her father bustling about in his study, she thinks it might be George dropping in to say hello. It never is.

As Emma lies in bed that night, her mind goes to the places that she’s only skirted the borders of until now. In the darkness, it’s easier not to feel self-conscious about what she wants. And so if she imagines the way George’s hands might skim the swell of her waist, or the curve of her breasts, then it’s no one’s business but her own.

It feels like the most natural thing in the world to alleviate the pressure that’s slowly been building up inside of her. Until recently, her brain has always given her faceless, nameless men, to fulfil her fantasies. But now it’s George she sees, cradling her in his arms, skin sticky with sweat and desire. It’s embarrassing how easily Emma comes undone at her own touch, the impression of his name echoing through her mind as her heart rate builds and builds to its pinnacle.

Afterwards Emma tortures herself by wondering if this is all she’ll ever get to sustain her - fevered daydreams in the quiet hours between wakefulness and sleep, envisioning the way he’d breathe out how much he wants her against the hollow of her throat.

Not much longer, she tells herself, as her pulse tries to even out, body more alert than ever. She just has to hold on.

Chapter Text

It’s the Thursday before the wedding. And Emma really doesn’t want to call him, but she doesn’t have any other choice.

The phone only rings twice before George’s voice echoes down the line. “I didn’t think that Emma Woodhouse ever deigned to call people,” he says immediately, not even bothering to say hello.

“Haha,” she replies flatly, not particularly in the mood for his playfulness. Putting herself in a situation where she and George are inevitably going to have to be alone together, even for a short while, is going to be challenging enough. She doesn’t have the energy to banter with him too. Staring at him across the table last night over their regular Wednesday night dinner had been an extraordinary test of Emma’s willpower as it was. Thank goodness her father had been there or Emma really couldn’t have been sure how the evening might have ended. “Can you come and pick me up please? I need to go to the supermarket pharmacy for papa. He forgot to tell me, again, that he needs a refill on his prescription and now he’s in a panic about it.”

“You know,” George says, and she can hear the slam of a door in the background, “this is exactly the reason why you learnt to drive, remember? For emergencies?” He’s only saying it to wind her up, and by his tone, he knows it will work.

“George,” she whines, and his low laugh hits her ear before Emma even finishes drawing out the final vowel. She finds it much easier to return to their usual combative dynamic given she’s still a bit unsure of how to behave around him. There’s something safe in its familiar rhythms, almost like a well choreographed dance that they both know the steps to. “You know I’m terrified of driving in the rain. Do you want me to end up dead in a ditch somewhere?”

At this, he doesn’t argue. “Fine,” George tuts, sounding exasperated even though it’s mostly for show. He never refuses to help her father, or her really, if it’s within his power. “I’ll be around soon.”

George is true to his word. The Land Rover pulls up the Hartfield driveway twenty minutes later. Emma doesn’t even wait for him to switch off the engine, and instead hurries her way out the front door. Her raincoat is buttoned up to the neck, the hood flipped up, to protect her from the torrential downpour.

“Thanks for this,” she says as she slams the passenger door and busies herself with buckling her seatbelt.

“No problem.” The Land Rover is already flying off down the drive before Emma even has a chance to pull down the hood of her coat and glance over at him.

As she does, she wishes she hadn’t. Because every time Emma persuades herself, in those moments without him, that she can’t possibly fancy George Knightley as much she thinks she does, she’s quickly proven wrong. His beloved features, as second nature as they’ve always been, now have a new and uncanny ability to make Emma’s heart dance and palms sweat in a way they never have before.

Luckily George is too focused on the road to notice any shortness of breath on her part. The windscreen wipers beat a hollow rhythm against the glass, attempting to flick away the rain, but to little effect. The squall outside makes them feel encapsulated on all sides, shielded from the world. This immense aloneness is exactly what Emma has been trying to avoid.

Satisfied that George is distracted, she allows herself a quick study of him. His hair, ruffled at the best of times, is now darkened and damp with rain. As a result, the ends have started to curl even more than usual now that they’re being subjected to the warmth of the Rover’s heater. The shoulders of his raincoat are dappled with remnants of the weather, and for some reason there’s a smudge of blue pen ink on the back of his left hand.

The way that Emma’s body instantly reacts to these most innocuous of facts is beginning to become a problem. What had started as occasional solitary attempts to dull the sharp edges of her urges, have since escalated into nightly explorations of her own body, brought on by all the ways Emma imagines George could possibly touch her.

And while that might be fine in the privacy of her own mind and her own bedroom, it’s quite another when those thoughts start creeping in when George is sitting just inches away. Emma idly wonders what he’d say if he could see inside her head right now. He’d probably be mortified.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything”, Emma comments eventually, trying to bring herself back into the present moment, and away from the path her brain is trying to lead her down. The last thing she needs right now is to fixate on the length of his fingers wrapped around the gear stick and all that they could be capable of doing.

“Nothing important,” George replies, risking a fleeting look over at her before returning his attention to the deluge in front of them. He adds nothing further as the Land Rover bounces down the lane and towards town. In all honesty, Emma’s almost grateful for the silence.

The rain hasn’t let up by the time they reach the village. Neither of them have an umbrella and so they’re forced to make a mad dash for the supermarket entrance in order to avoid getting totally drenched. Puddles splash up under Emma’s rain boots, and George almost collides with her as she skids to a slippery stop just inside the door. The sudden contact of his arm against hers, as innocent as it is, is enough to send Emma’s already heightened senses into hyperdrive. George, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice her preoccupation and instead just offers a gruff apology before taking a large conscious step out of her personal space.

The pharmacy is in the far corner of the supermarket, which, by intentional design no doubt, forces them to have to skirt through a number of aisles for lack of a more direct route.

“Do you mind if I pick up a few things while I’m here?” Emma says, grabbing a plastic shopping basket before George even has a chance to offer a reply. He shoots her a droll look, obviously questioning why she’s even bothered to ask, but as a concession he takes the basket from her and carries it himself. Even this small, most basic of gestures, is enough to make Emma ache.

As she browses the shelves, George patiently lingers a short distance away. Every so often Emma notices that he pulls out his phone and taps at it before sliding it back into his coat pocket, only to repeat the gesture a minute later.

There’s any number of people he could be texting, Emma knows. His brother John, for one. Any of his tenants. Maybe Rob. And yet her cruel brain is determined to taunt her, throwing up the name Jane Fairfax with something almost akin to glee. After all, George is hardly the most prolific when it comes to texting. But the frequency of these messages seems to denote an easy familiarity between him and the recipient. To be sure, Emma doesn’t want to be right with this - and yet once the idea of Jane has arrived in her mind, she finds it difficult to dislodge.

She could just ask him, but she doesn’t dare. Emma doesn’t want any answer that she’s not ready to hear. And so every time another text comes through, Emma watches him read it, and carefully studies his face for clues. Is he happy? Sad? Something else?

But to her chagrin, George’s face remains resolutely neutral throughout. Sulking, Emma returns her attention to the produce section, staring down piles of cabbages as if they might hold the secrets of the universe.

That’s why, when an arm slides around her shoulders, firm and strong, Emma practically jumps out of her skin.

Immediately her head whips around, only to get a face full of the collar of George’s raincoat, awkwardly protruding outwards. She bats it away to find him staring down at her, an odd mixture of amusement and apprehension on his face.

“Oh my god,” Emma puffs, pulse racing as she meets his eyes. God, they’re so blue, she curses, wondering if this would be easier on her if they were a less striking colour, “what on earth are you doing?”

Her immediate reaction is to want to wriggle free from George’s embrace, not because she doesn’t like it there, but more because it feels too much for her to cope with right now. Her brain sends a flashing reminder of her bedroom activities and her quiet sighs into the darkness, and she can only hope her thoughts aren’t written all over her rapidly flushing face.

Somehow, instead of being offended at her outburst, George leans in even closer. He smells sweet somehow, like he’s been drenched in the scent of honeysuckle and yet Emma knows that can’t really be possible. “Elton and Augusta just walked in,” he murmurs softly, voice hushed. His breath tickles her cheek and Emma tries not to audibly sigh at the sensation.

“They have?” Her voice comes out reedy and weak. Emma’s first instinct is to look around but something about George’s stare pins her in place.

“Mmm,” he hums quietly, lips parting, before giving the slightest of nods. “They’re just coming up behind us.”

“Oh,” Emma manages, her mind distracted with the way the low rumble of his voice echoes through her own body, as if she’s absorbing it.

George’s head dips lower, lips aligning next to her ear. As a result the sharp line of his jaw draws level with her mouth and it takes everything in Emma’s power not to surge forward and press the tip of her nose into the crook of his neck.

“I know we didn’t discuss it exactly,” he says softly, the rounding of his syllables somehow perfect when Emma feels like she can hardly string a sentence together, “but given the aim of your… plan, I figured my role as your fake boyfriend must extend to situations like this?”

As he speaks, George’s arm has looped itself around her shoulder even more possessively, nestling her tighter into the side of his body. Emma wonders if he even realises he’s doing it. Either way, it’s not helping the temptation to place a kiss at the corner of his mouth and damn the consequences.

God, how is she ever going to tell George how she feels if she basically falls apart every time he touches her? And how is he so calm? Well, Emma concedes with no small amount of bitterness, it’s undoubtedly because this is just an act for him. He’s helping her out - as a friend. George has no idea that every tiny movement he’s making is sending shockwaves through her body, rendering her next to helpless.

And Emma Woodhouse hates being helpless. With deep breath, she resolves to pull herself together. She refuses to be this girl.

George is still looking at her expectantly, doubt now creeping onto his features the longer her silence continues. The fabrics of their raincoats scratch together to make a discordant sound.

“Oh, yes!” Emma performs a series of small nods, eager to show her agreement. At that George leans back a bit, satisfied. “That would be... thank you. You don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind,” George replies instantly and with determination. It’s more than Emma could’ve hoped for, given the disaster that occurred last time they played this game. The fact that he’s so willing to jump back into the situation head first goes to show what a good friend he is.

“Great,” Emma smiles, hoping that she appears calm and poised and nothing like the wreck she feels inside. “Shall we keep shopping then?”

George rewards her with a crooked but closed-lip smile and lets her take the lead.

And sure enough, as they turn, George’s arm still clasped around her, there are Elton and Augusta. They’re at the other end of the rather short aisle, approaching from the direction that Emma and George have just come. Elton’s holding a carton of almond milk in one hand. It’s clear from their expressions that she and George have been spotted.

A simmering anger resurfaces at the sight of her ex. The recollection of their dance, of everything he’d said, swiftly follows. Emma’s clenching her teeth so hard that her jaw hurts.

“Please tell me we’re not going to go over and speak to them though, right?” George mutters under his breath, and Emma lets out an undignified snort at how unhappy he sounds at the prospect.

“God no,” she whispers back. But for the sake of appearing polite - because they all have to live in this town and sometimes it is easier to just grin and bear it - Emma offers the couple a civil wave of acknowledgement, a curt smile. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees George nod his own silent greeting.

And while all her previous worries about Elton seem utterly small in comparison to her current George predicament, it’s still utterly satisfying to know that this spontaneous encounter has clearly resulted in a further jab to Elton’s ego. As he clocks the way Emma and George are pressed together, Elton’s returned smile is more of a grimace than anything. Augusta looks torn between fluttering her eyelashes at George while also scowling at Emma. It’s quite a sight. But thankfully they don’t make any attempt to engage them in conversation either and both Emma and George let out a sigh of relief as they escape out of sight.

Now that the immediate danger has passed, neither of them seem to have anything to say. The only sounds are the distant hum of the supermarket freezers, a tinny top 40 hit playing over the outdated speaker system and the squeak of their wet shoes against the linoleum floor as they walk.

Emma waits for George to unwind his arm from around her now that they’re alone in the canned goods aisle. But for some reason he doesn’t. Rather, he seems perfectly content to let his longer gait fall into step alongside her shorter one and keep her tucked in beside him.

It’s... nice. Like they are a regular couple, doing regular things.

And so, while she can, Emma lets herself have a moment to enjoy it. Yes, it’s a pretence, a mere daydream - but it’s one that goes down more easily than it should. It’s better than the reminder that this is all just an elaborate sham of her own making.

They finally reach the pharmacy and at that point, George releases her. “Just going to grab a couple of things,” he says, and before Emma can protest that surely Mrs Hodges does all his shopping for him, he’s disappeared round a corner.

He reappears a few minutes later, just as her father’s prescription is ready and Emma is shoving it into the pocket of her rain jacket. The supermarket basket, still dangling from George’s hand, seems to have acquired some new additions since he’s been gone. Emma looks down at it questioningly.

George jabs a finger at one of the boxes on the top. “This is the tea your dad likes, right?”

“Yes, why?”

“Yesterday I noticed he was almost out,” he says, and his thoughtfulness makes Emma’s chest swell. She knows her father can be a handful, but George always makes dealing with his peculiarities seem so easy. “Unless you’ve got some spare that I couldn’t see?” To be fair, George probably knows what is in Hartfield’s pantry better than Emma herself does.

“No, I don’t think so,” she replies, as they set off on a slow walk through the remainder of the aisles. She has half an urge to tuck her arm into the crook of his elbow, and then thinks better of it. While she could defend her action as anticipating a further run in with Elton, Emma still feels a little gun shy at pushing things with George. It’s easier if she just lets him initiate whatever he thinks their charade requires. “And the cereal?”

“Oh, that’s because I ate the last of your box the other day.” He shrugs sheepishly.

Emma wags a finger at him. “You do realise you’re a grown man who should probably know better than to eat cereal in the middle of the afternoon?” It feels good to tease him again, even if the lopsided smile George gives her in return seems set out to ruin her.

“You’re lecturing me about unsuitable snacks?” he spars, eyebrows disappearing under his dishevelled hair. She’d put several packets of jelly babies in the basket earlier and amazingly, George hadn’t said a word about it at the time. “I’m not sure your taste buds have evolved since you were twelve years old.”

Emma attempts to send a sharp elbow in the direction of George’s ribs, except at the last second he sidesteps to evade her, before almost stumbling straight into a display shelf.

“Nice one,” she mocks, as George shoots her a scowl with no real venom behind it. It’s a relief to find a sense of ease between them again. And while none of those erratic heart-stopping emotions have gone anywhere, Emma grasps at the older, more measured feelings of friendship and love that bubble up underneath to accompany them.

It may have taken Emma a long time to get to this point, but there’s one thing that is now crystal clear to her. George Knightley is her beginning and end, and her very favourite, if very exasperating, middle. He’s the only person in the world that Emma could ever imagine being truly content with.

With this thought glowing inside her, they continue their cheerful amble towards the check out, George’s longer strides once more falling into pace with hers. But the sight that greets them as they get to the front of the store causes Emma to hesitate.

“Oh god,” she groans, trying to keep her voice low. “It’s Hetty Bates.”

George glances over to where Emma’s looking. “So? She does work here.”

“I know, but…”

“But what?”

“She’s… she’s just… a lot.” That’s putting it mildly, Emma thinks.

George tilts his head at her. “She’s nice!”

Emma sighs. “I know she’s nice. She’s just… so aggressively nice.” Not to mention the fact that she’s Jane Fairfax’s aunt, although Emma doesn’t dare say that part out loud.

George lets out an amused huff. “Well, whatever the case, she’s also our only path to freedom unless we’re planning to live here forever, or shoplift this stuff.” He waves the shopping basket in Emma’s face before striding off to Hetty’s checkout before she can protest any further.

“George!” Hetty’s trill carries across the supermarket until Emma is sure every other customer must have heard it. Emma sighs and makes her approach.

“Hi Hetty,” George is saying, unloading the basket and smiling attentively, the very picture of good manners. “It’s great to see you.”

“Oh, and you too, of course! And oh, here’s Emma too! Hello Emma!” Hetty’s beaming face turns towards her, and the full force of her personality envelops Emma like a bear hug.

“Hello Hetty,” Emma says, trying to find a tone of voice that’s friendly enough, but that also doesn’t encourage a lengthy chat. Although knowing Hetty, it won’t make the slightest bit of difference either way. “I hope you’re well?”

“Oh!” cries Hetty, as if the very question catches her by surprise. “Aren’t you so kind to ask, my dear! I’m very well, very well. I have to say, I’m so excited for the wedding this weekend. So excited! Aren’t you both so excited?”

“Terribly,” George replies with a wry edge that Emma catches but Hetty doesn’t. She shoots him a look of reproval.

Hetty misses their silent exchange entirely. “Jane’s looking forward to it too, you know. I was just speaking to her yesterday about it. Even though she’s arriving tomorrow on the train, she still phoned on her regular day. She phones every week, of course. Always on a Wednesday because that’s the evening she’s always able to be home. She never misses a week, you know. Not even when she is ill! I say to her that she needn’t put herself to such trouble if she is feeling unwell, but she does insist. Did you know Jane was coming all the way from London?”

The inevitable mention of Jane has turned Emma’s veins cold once more. Why is it that she can never seem to escape the spectre of Jane Fairfax, no matter how hard she tries? It takes all of Emma’s effort to school her face into a neutral expression. George, on the other hand, is a perfect gentleman.

“Yes, I’d heard she was coming,” he says kindly, without further elaboration as to how he knows. No doubt he and Jane have been texting about it, Emma thinks bitterly as she fiddles with the sleeve on her jacket to keep her hands occupied. George and Jane’s newfound closeness is a black cloud on Emma’s horizon. “You must be looking forward to seeing her?”

“Yes, yes, it’s been an age since she was in Highbury. We’ve missed her so much! London keeps her so busy, naturally. But she couldn’t resist the temptation of a wedding. Who can?! There’s nothing so wonderful as a wedding, that’s what I always say,” Hetty babbles, scanning and packing the groceries at a pace that makes Emma wonder if they’ll ever get home in time for dinner. She glances outside and is at least pleased to see that the rain has let up. “It seems that love is just in the air in Highbury, wouldn’t you say, Emma?”

“I’m sorry?” Emma replies, shaking off her distraction at the sound of her own name.

“Love!” Hetty cries with an almost girlish giggle before lowering her tone conspiratorially. “You two would certainly know all about that now, wouldn’t you?”

Luckily neither Emma or George have a chance to form a reply before she continues. “Don’t think I haven’t heard about you two lovebirds, you know. The whole village is talking! That was such a surprise! You set quite a cat amongst the pigeons! Too surprising, indeed! But then again, you two have always been so close. Perhaps it really shouldn’t have been a surprise at all!”

“Umm,” George fumbles awkwardly, clearly a little lost for words, but feeling like he needs to contribute something. “Perhaps not?” His eyes shift over to Emma, a clear plea for her to help him.

“Well, either way, I think it’s wonderful. Just wonderful. And about time! I always said to my mother that you two would make such a lovely pair. In fact, I just said it to her a few months ago, when I saw you both out the Fords window one day, walking somewhere, and I said to myself - oh, wouldn’t they make a lovely couple - and then I went home and told my mother. And now look! Here you are!”

“Yes!” Emma cries, trying to come to George’s rescue, but actually more focused on trying to contain the furious blush that’s rising on her cheeks. Although under the horrible fluorescent lights, it would be hard for anyone not to see how embarrassed she is. Even George, always much more tolerant of Hetty’s chatter than Emma ever could be, looks overwhelmed. “Here we are! Now Hetty, George and I really must-”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, my loves. I’ve put you on the spot, haven’t I? Of course I have. Silly me. When you’re my age, it’s just so wonderful to see young people in love, you know. It’s just so exciting! Oh Emma, look how pink your face is. I’ve embarrassed you, my dear. But don’t you look so lovely with your cheeks all flushed like that! So pretty! Doesn’t she look pretty, George?”

Emma wants to crawl into a hole and die.

“Ah-h,” George stutters, caught off guard. He turns to look at Emma, and she’s quite sure her cheeks must be fire engine red by now. “Well, yes,” he says with a touch of awkwardness before something in his demeanour changes. There’s a sudden firmness of manner, as if he’s found some internal resolve. “She does look pretty, doesn’t she?” Emma expects to hear a hint of amusement coating George’s words, but there’s none. In fact, his tone is more tender than anything else. Emma melts on the spot.

George is disturbingly good at this charade, Emma thinks, as she self-consciously brushes a piece of hair behind her ear where it has fallen loose from her ponytail. She’s never found herself lacking in self-confidence in her entire life, and yet after one feigned compliment from George Knightley, she’s desperate for more.

And just when Emma thought he was finished, George surprises her one last time. “But she always looks pretty, don’t you think?” His question is directed at Hetty, but there’s a gravity to the way he’s staring at Emma that makes something churn inside of her.

Hetty titters with laughter, clearly overpowered with the joy of love and apparently, George’s enamoured-ness. “Quite right, quite right,” she clucks, finally ringing up the total for their purchases much to Emma’s immense relief.

Emma remains dumbstruck while George pulls out his wallet and pays. All Emma can manage is a quiet stammer of a goodbye, before trailing out of the shop after George who seems to be taking two steps to her one. He’s already halfway across the car park by the time Emma emerges into the open air. She hardly knows what to think after that entire encounter, feeling something like a ragdoll that’s been tossed around in a tumble dryer, thrown this way and then that. The whole thing had been surreal. First Elton and Augusta, and then Hetty? All with George handling it like it was nothing, while Emma had barely held it together? She’s mortified at her lack of composure.

“Well, that was…” she manages to exhale as she catches up with George, who is busy placing the bag of groceries into the backseat of the Land Rover. Any further description fails her.

“Yeah,” he agrees without further comment, before circling swiftly around to the driver’s door. They both climb into the front and sit there for a long moment, staring straight ahead. Now that they’re alone, the full force of the last half hour seems to hit them both. Emma feels exhausted, and George simply remains resolutely mute.

The drive back to Hartfield is so quiet that, at some point, George turns on the radio. Emma doesn’t even have the energy to complain about his choice of station. Instead she looks out the window, watching a hint of sun try to emerge between a break in the voluminous grey clouds. The world outside looks soggy but freshly green.

The way George had complimented her in front of Hetty keeps playing over and over in Emma’s mind on an endless loop, the words burning into the place in her chest where Emma holds all of her most precious things. The sincere look that had been in his eyes and the gentle expression that had lingered around his mouth are at the forefront of her thoughts. She’s never seen George look at her like that, not in all the years she’s known him.

It’s because he was pretending, her mind tells her, and Emma hates the truth in it. She’s never seen him look at her like that because it wasn’t real. The real George, the one who isn’t her fake boyfriend, would never behave that way, and so it can only have been a lie. Emma, as much as she wants to read more into it, knows she’d be a fool if she did. It’s one thing to pine after him, but it’s another thing entirely to trick herself into believing there’s more on his side than there really is. Him loving her as a friend is not the same as being in love with her, and Emma needs to remember that if she’s going to keep her sanity at all.

The sound of gravel under the tyres jolts her from her daydream. They’re already back at Hartfield.

“Do you want to come in?” she says, as he pulls up alongside the house. It’s a reflex, something she always asks even though George would never wait for her invitation anyway. Half of her wants him to go, just so that she has a chance to come down from the stress of his presence. The other half hates the idea of him leaving.

“No, I better get going,” George says, tapping out an irregular beat on the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “I said I’d swing by the Ottway farm before dinner.”

“Oh, so I did interrupt you?”

“No, no,” he reassures her, eyes firm, “you definitely didn’t.” With that, he leans into the backseat, one long arm grabbing the bag of groceries and hauling them to the front before handing them to her.

“Thanks,” she manages, taking it as a sign to go. Quickly Emma scrambles from the Land Rover, and is on the verge of closing the passenger door behind her until she realises she’s forgotten the most important thing. “Oh, and thank you. For the ride. And for… all of that,” she waves a vague hand in the air for lack of a better way to explain herself.

A slight grin appears at George’s mouth, followed by an endearing little shrug of his shoulders. “No problem, Emma.” Any hint of the George that had called her pretty seems to be long gone.

“I...” she starts, realising too late that she might regret it, “I never knew you were such a good liar, George Knightley.” Emma manages to say it with enough of a lilt in her voice, giving the statement lightness and just the right amount of joking buoyancy.

He cocks his head, casualness in the gesture. “Nothing I said was untrue,” George chides in that way that he has. He seems determined to undermine any seriousness in his words by his slightly teasing tone. His gaze lingers on Emma for a half second too long before he glances away with a tight smile. Is he… embarrassed?

And wait… did George just actually acknowledge that he thought she was pretty?

“Anyway, better go. I’ll see you on Saturday,” he adds hastily, shutting down any chance of Emma probing him further. He nods pointedly at the still ajar car door, a silent request for her to close it so he can go.

Emma obeys on autopilot, too bewildered at his reply to do anything else. Her feet feel rooted to the spot as she watches the Rover’s tail lights retreat down the driveway. The car is half way down the road before Emma finds the presence of mind to make her way inside, slightly dazed.

She’s got to get it together, Emma tells herself, as she lets herself in and allows her body to slump against the hard surface of the closed front door. Her legs feel like jelly. This whole situation is turning her thoughts nonsensical, and she resents it utterly.

But the resentment doesn’t last long at all. A rolling wave of desperation and desire builds low in Emma’s belly, along with the powerful realisation that she immediately needs to be alone.

Damn you, George, she curses as she quickly kicks off her rain boots, and deposits the groceries on the kitchen counter, before taking the stairs up to her room two at a time. The slam of her bedroom door is resolute.

Chapter Text

It’s finally Saturday.

“Emma!”

She hears George bellow her name down the hallway outside her bedroom, the echo curling around her open doorway. She registers the tap, tap, tap of his dress shoes close behind.

“I’m coming!” she yells back, leaning a fraction closer to her mirror to put the finishing touches on her lipstick. There is a fleck of mascara just under her eyebrow and she quickly wipes it away.

“We’ll be late,” George is saying as he appears at her door, a figure in a dark grey suit out of the corner of her vision. Emma allows herself a moment longer to pretend she’s engrossed in the stained colour of her lips, pressing her mouth together in a pretty pout. Her reflection stares back at her, cheeks already flushed in anticipation.

On any other day, George would usually just waltz into her room, and perch himself impatiently on the edge of her bed to watch Emma apply her makeup. But today, for some reason, he remains hovering at the threshold, seemingly unwilling to encroach any further. To be fair, they are cutting it fine, and she knows George has been downstairs chatting with her father for at least the last ten minutes. If he sits down and gets comfortable, they'll definitely be late.

Emma, steeling herself, finally turns to look at him, straightening as she does. George has got one shoulder leaning hard against the door jam, already ruining the line of his tailored jacket. It’s not a suit that she’s seen before and Emma wonders if it’s new. Either way, it looks good. He looks good. Of course he does. Emma can even tell that he’s once more attempted to tame his hair, except somewhere between George leaving the Abbey and arriving at her door, the wind - or his hands - have caught it and the endearing curls have snuck back in. If she's honest, she prefers it that way, even if the golden strands are just begging for her fingers to sink into them.

“Hi,” she says, once she manages to find the tongue in her head. “Sorry, I’m ready now.”

George nods, almost imperceptibly. “You look nice,” he offers, with a strange mix of sincerity and blandness. It’s not quite pretty, a word that has been rattling around in Emma’s brain the past few days, but she’ll take it.

“You too,” she answers kindly, because it’s true. It’s not often she sees George dressed up, and so the novelty when he does never quite wears off. Admittedly, it does feel a little odd to see him out of his usual array of cable knit jumpers and scuffed up jeans. Even so, if she thought she could get away with it, Emma would tug him into the room by his sharp lapels and lock the door for the rest of the afternoon. The looming presence of her large bed is already providing an undertone to her thoughts that she’s finding hard to ignore.

George’s spine straightens as she crosses the room to grab her purse from her dresser. Emma feels the floating movement of her dress around her bare legs as she walks, and she knows without even looking that George’s eyes are following her across the room. It feels like a small victory, even if it is one that means precisely nothing at all.

“Your father sent me up,” he says, as Emma takes a second to tuck her lipstick and phone into her clutch. It’s an odd thing for him to say, given his presence in her space has never really been worthy of comment before. There’s no need for him to justify it now. Emma wonders if she’s not the only one who feels a little awkward. “Are you sure he won’t come with us?”

Emma sighs. “He was quite insistent,” she answers as she meets George by the door and they start to make their way side by side down the hallway. The width of the corridor means that every so often her shoulder brushes against his and Emma feels tense with holding herself upright. Her throat tightens with this new proximity. “But he’s arranged to have some old friends over for dinner, so at least I know he’ll be okay.”

George bobs his head in acknowledgement, but otherwise stays silent. As they reach the top of the stairs, he offers his arm to her quite unselfconsciously. It hovers there between them, and while she knows George is just being polite, or at the very least, practical, Emma still hesitates a moment before she tucks her hand into the bend of his elbow. Despite the fabric between them, Emma can still feel the subtle warmth of his body heat, and it does nothing to settle her nerves. Her entire being seems on the verge of screaming. How is she supposed to get through the rest of this very long day if she’s already struggling?

“Although he might have the right idea, you know. Staying at home?” George says idly as they make their way down the staircase. Emma makes the conscious decision to stare at her feet, rather than look at him, under the guise that she needs to focus on not stumbling in her heels. “This morning I’m pretty sure I saw an ice sculpture being wheeled in.”

She can’t help herself. Her head snaps back up to look at him. “No! You’re joking?”

George shoots her an attempt at a withering look, although he can’t manage to hide his amusement for long. “Would I have the imagination to conjure up an ice sculpture?” His mock indignation is verging on silly. He’s clearly trying to make her laugh.

Emma bites her lip in an attempt to deny him the smile he’s so clearly seeking, but immediately fails, and George looks gratified with his success. “Fair point,” she concedes as they reach the bottom of the stairs. George disengages himself from her, and Emma tries not to feel totally bereft at the action. After all, it doesn’t mean anything. None of this means anything. The weight in the pit of her stomach returns with a vengeance.

They say a quick goodbye to her father, who is nestled up in the library pouring over some old village archives. He instructs them not to eat any of the cake (“far too rich, you know”), and they both readily agree, catching each other’s eye as they lie through their teeth.

They keep up a steady but neutral conversation on the drive to the church. Every so often George changes gear and his hand very nearly grazes the outside of Emma’s knee. He doesn’t seem to notice the ever increasing rigidity in her body, and so by the time the church comes into view, Emma is all too eager to escape the claustrophobic confines of the Rover.

A small crowd bustles around outside, everyone dressed in their village best as they chat amongst themselves. Emma feels pairs of hungry eyes turn on her and George as they approach. They’re clearly being appraised, especially since they’ve hardly been seen in public together since their very obvious display at the engagement party all those weeks ago. Emma tries to meet the stares with haughty indifference but, for once, her usual confidence seems to fail her.

George, in the meanwhile, doesn’t appear to notice the curious looks they’re getting at all. Instead, his attention seems to be somewhere else entirely, although Emma couldn’t even begin to hazard a guess as to where. But she recognises that familiar glaze that’s overtaken his features. George’s mind is preoccupied with something, and Emma tries not to feel uneasy or hurt by his distraction. The only consolation is the way George’s hand rests openly on the small of her back, and, for a moment, Emma isn’t sure whether to read that as part of the pretence or not.

No, of course it is, she tells herself, as George guides her up the church path. She’s just so in her head about everything that she’s getting herself in a muddle.

When they get inside, they spot Harriet and Rob, already seated. The pews are already half full, the parish church probably far too small for the large affair that Elton and his fiancée seem determined to have.

“Hey,” Harriet murmurs as Emma slides into the pew next to her. Rob and George nod at each other, too far away to be able to easily exchange handshakes. “Everything okay?”

Emma nods curtly, not really wanting to say too much given George has taken his seat next to her at the end of the aisle. He seems determinedly fixated on the stained glass window that rests behind the nave. Emma’s pretty sure this is the first time she’s seen him in a church since his parents passed away, and she wonders if being here is bringing back those memories. The clench of his jaw seems to indicate so.

Harriet leans closer. She’s wearing a sweet yellow dress that makes her look as bright as a sunflower. “Jane Fairfax is here,” she whispers through barely open lips. And although Emma expected as much - had planned for as much - the knowledge still sends a lightning bolt of anxiety down her spine.

“Where?”

Harriet gestures with her head to the opposite side of the aisle, a few rows ahead. Emma doesn’t have to look very hard to spot her. Jane’s hair is in a complicated but elegant knot at the nape of her neck, and even in part profile, Emma can see that she’s even prettier than her photos give her credit for. There’s a steely resolve to her posture, a levelness about her shoulders that belies the slight creature she is. It’s not impossible at all to see how George could be attracted to a girl like Jane, Emma thinks, hating herself for even letting the thought cross her mind.

Jane is sitting next to her aunt, and even from here Emma can hear Hetty’s one sided conversation echoing off the walls of the church - something about country weddings, and how nice it is to see everyone dressed up. Jane smiles delicately, her head tilting as she listens to her aunt with great intent. This saintly display is yet another reminder as to why Jane Fairfax is an infinitely better and more tolerant person than Emma Woodhouse will ever be. Emma has never felt more aware of her own flaws than in this moment.

There’s a slight bustle of activity a few rows behind them, and when Emma turns to look, she spots Frank coming up the central aisle. He’s dressed fashionably in a light coloured suit, unique amongst the other men in the crowd who are more plainly dressed in darker colours. Typical Frank, always having to stand out. Even so, he looks slightly frazzled, as if he’s not entirely sure where to put himself.

He shoots Emma a quick grin when he sees her, sending a mock salute in her direction with the tips of his fingers. But before she even has a chance to smile back, Frank veers off to the other side of the church, hesitating for a moment before sliding into the row just behind Jane’s, pulling out his phone as he does. He’s furiously typing within seconds, head bowed.

Very strange, Emma notes.

A creak of organ music draws her attention back to the front of the church, the sound of warming up easing itself through the murmurings of the crowd. Emma spots Elton at the front for the first time since she arrived. He must have just come in through the side door. His suit is nice, she admits, but he looks rather like a peacock - puffed up and far too proud of himself. Emma allows herself a small roll of her eyes.

“Almost enough to make you want to get married, huh?” A low voice says in her ear, causing her to jump a little at the sudden intrusion.

Emma’s head spins to look at George, questions already forming on her tongue, but she’s startled into silence at how close he is, face only inches away from her own. An inhale catches in her throat.

George seems shocked at their sudden nearness too, even though Emma can hardly be sure why. They are pressed so tightly together in the pew that the entire left side of her body is aligned completely against the right side of his. George lets out a small puff of air and it tickles her neck. There’s a beat before his body leans back, clearly eager to restore the balance.

But it’s too late. Emma has already taken in the cool scent of his cologne, and the way his lips have parted, full and surprised. A prickly sweat breaks out on the back of her neck.

“What?” she demands in obvious confusion, feeling a frown settling deep across her forehead.

George looks immediately uncomfortable. “Well, you know,” he fumbles, attempting to be light-hearted, “everyone gathered to wish you well, looking their best. A great big party afterwards. Almost enough to make someone want to get married,” he repeats again awkwardly, even though he’s now looking rather like he wishes he’d never spoken at all.

Emma can’t quite find the word to describe the feeling that has settled over her. But it’s not a good one.

“Married?!” Her question comes out little more than a squeak and she takes a deep breath to regulate herself. “Since when did you ever want to get married?”

The idea of George getting married is immediately outrageous to her. Even beyond the obvious reason of being totally and utterly in love with him, Emma has never considered George as a person particularly interested in the concept of marriage. After all, he’s never even had a girlfriend for longer than a few months, and the ones he has had never seem to occupy his thoughts and actions in any sort of serious way. They tended to quietly appear on the periphery of his life for a while until they’d equally silently disappear not long after. Emma has always thought that George was quite content with his life the way it is - with his tenants, and his land, and her friendship. Why would he want to get married and ruin things?

This can’t be about Jane Fairfax, surely? Even that seems too far-fetched for Emma’s mind to accept.

He’s frowning back at her, perplexed at the depth of her reaction. “I never said I didn’t want to get married, Emma. It could happen one day.”

“But you never said you did,” she fires back, trying not to let her alarm overcome her in a way that might lay her true feelings completely bare to him.

“Just because you don’t believe in marriage, Emma, that doesn’t mean that the rest of us are totally against it,” he hisses back to her through clenched teeth.

Damn it. It was just like George to throw her own words back at her. Emma wishes she could contradict him, but he’s right - she has said that, and so she can hardly deny it now. How could she have forgotten the number of times she’s preached to him that marriage is outdated and unnecessary in this day and age - and why would she ever do anything that would potentially unsettle her father, who relies and dotes on her? He still hasn’t completely gotten over Isabella moving to London, even though it had happened years ago.

“I… I…” Emma stumbles, looking for a way to extract herself from the hole she’s in, “I believe in marriage!” she finishes lamely. It’s a weak response, but it’s the best she can do given that it has now, just now, become totally apparent that there is exactly one exception to her anti-marriage stance: and it’s… well, George. Of course.

Fuck.

Naturally unaware of her revelation, George merely awards her with a skeptical look. Even amidst her turmoil, Emma can tell that he’s silently debating whether to challenge her further. In the end he clearly decides it isn’t worth it. “Forget I said anything,” George replies eventually, with a brief, confused, shake of his head.

All around them people are taking their seats and Emma knows that the ceremony must be about to begin any moment now. But Emma finds she can’t let it go.

“Are you saying you’re planning on getting married soon?” she asks, her voice taking a sharper edge than she means it to. Emma knows it is a ridiculous question even as she’s asking it, but the whole topic has put her in a tailspin.

“What? No!” George sighs, pressing his fingers to his forehead in exasperation before letting them fall away. “What gave you that idea?”

Emma opens her mouth to respond - to say what, she doesn’t even know. Now is hardly the moment to ask him about Jane, after all. But she’s saved by a deafening series of chords blasting out from the organ, the sound bouncing off the inner walls of the church. The congregation falls silent.

George and Emma fall silent too.

---

Their odd exchange inside the church seems to have been forgotten, at least by George, by the time the ceremony ends and they make their way back outside into the glaring sunshine. George’s arm sweeps around Emma’s back as they walk out together, looking the very picture of a young couple in love. Emma tries to let herself enjoy it, but the satisfaction she thought it would provide feels hollow. She wants it to be real, and the fact that it isn’t is heart-breaking.

As they stand out in the warm afternoon air, a part of Emma wishes that it could’ve, at least, rained on Elton’s wedding day. Emma knows that rain is supposed to be lucky: a symbol of a long lasting and happy marriage. But as far as she’s concerned, that’s just something people say to those whose days are ruined by bad weather in order to make them feel better. No, she doesn’t believe in that sort of nonsense.

Regardless, it doesn’t even matter, because the day shows no sign of clouds. Even the earlier breeze seems to have disappeared.

“Wasn’t that just lovely?” Hetty’s voice carries out across the churchyard, reaching every corner and every person in it. “Didn’t you think so, Jane?”

Emma feels George’s attention being torn away. “Oh,” he says, dipping his head a little lower so that it’s level with Emma’s for a moment. “There’s Jane. Be back in a minute.”

Before she can even think of an excuse to make him stay, he’s gone. Emma watches in horror as George greets Jane with a generous hug, his smile wide and kind. It’s odd to watch him be so openly tactile with another woman. It only strikes her then as to how self-contained George usually is - barely anyone seems to get past his barriers. To watch Jane be one of them is enough to send Emma into despair.

It’s made even worse by the way Jane shines back at him, her face tilting up to George’s as if he’s a beacon of light. Although to be fair, with the way the sun hits the dark gold of his hair, Emma thinks he just might be. Within seconds he and Jane are deep in conversation, filled with serious nods and thoughtful looks. There seems to be an excessive amount of eye contact that Emma is having a hard time writing off as innocent.

Harriet sidles up to her. “You okay?” she asks, staring over at the couple. Her hand comes to rest on Emma’s wrist. Rob appears on Emma’s other side.

“I’m sure they’re just friends,” he says, with nothing that sounds like the reassurance that Emma’s so desperately looking for. It also answers the question as to whether Harriet has let Rob in on the situation.

“How do you know that? Has he told you that?” Emma fires back, leaping on Rob’s banal sentiment with an aggression that surprises even her. His face twists into a regretful grimace, and he looks over at Harriet with a hint of panic in his eye.

“Emma,” her friend soothes, deftly turning them so that they are no longer watching the exchange. Instead they’re now watching Elton and Augusta get their photos taken, and Emma’s almost not sure which sight is worse. “You just need to focus on getting through tonight. Jane will go back to London soon, and you can tell George everything.”

“But what if he’s already in love with her, Harriet?” The infinite chasm of jealousy that has been festering in her stomach grows ever deeper.

A new voice chimes in. “Who’s in love with who now?” It’s Frank, come to join them. He’s smiling in ready amusement - no doubt thrilled at the idea of having appeared at the exact moment that clearly promises gossip.

Emma tries to ignore the sound behind her of what she knows to be George’s laugh. She’d recognise it anywhere, low and genuine and fast becoming her favourite sound in the world when it’s exclusively meant for her. “No one you’d know,” she replies to Frank primly. “How did you find the wedding?”

Frank wrinkles his nose, and returns an unimpressed look. “Typically grim. You know I’m only here for the party,” he confesses with his customary blunt drawl.

“Surprise, surprise,” Emma replies sarcastically.

“Ahh, Georgie!” Frank exclaims suddenly, now looking over Emma’s shoulder. George appears at her side a half second later, and Emma is surprised to feel his hand slip inside hers. His skin is warm and the tangibility of his grip makes her feel warm all over too. He’s certainly good at keeping up the charade. Just in front of them, the bride and groom gather more of the bridal party under a tumble of wisteria in full bloom for further photos.

Emma feels George physically bristle at the nickname. “Hi Frank,” he says with an alarming amount of civility. She’s impressed at his restraint. “Long time no see.”

“Indeed,” Frank replies boldly, his shoulders a lot squarer and firmer than they were a moment ago. “Apart from the other day at Fords. You should’ve come in to say hello.” His words are jovial enough, but Emma can sense the little dig underneath and it’s obvious that George has heard it too.

“Apologies. I was in a rush that day,” he answers smoothly, even as his grasp on her hand tightens further. Then, to Emma’s shock, George presses a brief kiss to her temple, the warm indentation of his lips lingering against her hairline before he pulls swiftly away. It happens so fast that Emma almost thinks she might have imagined it. And then it clicks: George is keeping up the pretence for Frank too. Emma supposes that makes sense, given the circumstances. But the sheer intimacy of the gesture, and the total ease in which George had executed it, leaves Emma with more feelings that she knows how to process.

“It happens,” Frank says with a shrug, before his eyes are drawn away to something behind them. “Ah, Jane Fairfax is here. I suppose I better say hello.”

He bounds away as quickly as he’d arrived and Emma is left perplexed. Why are all the men in Highbury so obsessed with Jane all of a sudden?

A muted frown has appeared on George’s face at Frank’s words, his eyes following the other man’s path with studious intensity. Is he... jealous? Emma hardly dares to look too closely at his expression in case she sees something she doesn’t want to. She waits for George to release her hand, but he doesn’t.

“It was a nice service,” she offers up limply to the remaining three, desperately searching for something to say to reignite the lost momentum of their conversation. Emma can feel George’s eyes turn sharply back towards her; knows he will be confused at her apparent magnanimity towards the newly anointed couple.

“Yes,” Harriet agrees in her good natured way, eager to help Emma fill the strange lull that’s fallen over the group. “Very nice.” It’s a bland addition, but at least she’s trying.

Rob is typically honest. “When can we get out of here? I need a drink.”

Chapter Text

The transformation at Donwell, even in just the week or so since Emma has been there, is significant.

The entire ground floor of the house has been opened up for the guests to wander around at their leisure (“at the request of the bride,” George admits begrudgingly, shooting Emma an exasperated look). The dust sheets have gone, and the picture galleries are even more overwhelming than Emma remembers. Everything seems to be glistening, the gilt of the décor rich and decadent and so very decidedly not George.

The ballroom is set for the wedding breakfast, circular tables dotted around at regular intervals, and overflowing with so many flowers that Emma almost feels a bout of hay fever coming on. The aforementioned ice sculpture looks as tacky as expected, although she’d enjoyed the raise of George’s eyebrows at her in a manner which very much communicated a mirthful I told you so.

Due to the good weather, the full length double doors at one end have been flung open to lead out onto the sprawling lawn and the large open-sided marquee. The canopy seems to have doubled in size since Emma had last seen it, providing ample space for drinking and dancing. With the sun lowering in the sky, casting a pink hue over everything, it’s stunningly picturesque.

George attempts to look modest, but mostly just appears uncomfortable with the praise that the other guests bestow upon the property, and, by default, on him. More than once Emma notices the maudlin look in his eyes even if no one else can see it. Nevertheless, he accepts any kind words with a dignified nod of his head. He’s too gracious to behave any other way.

“Hey,” she says, appearing at his side with two flutes of champagne and pressing one into his hand. George takes it gratefully.

“Hey,” he echoes in return, voice softer than Emma has heard it in a long time. His eyes catch on hers, and they are unfathomably deep, almost liquid even. Emma feels her heart compress.

“It must be difficult,” she voices eventually, when his gaze becomes oppressive, bordering on unbearable. Her lungs seem empty of air, and it’s making her dizzy.

Just as Emma anticipated, George knows what she means, even without context. “It’s like being given credit for something that you’ve had nothing to do with,” he admits with a rather forlorn smile. She could argue with him by pointing out that his efforts have kept Donwell from falling into financial and literal disrepair, but instead Emma just allows herself to lean into his side as a gesture of silent comfort. The small huff that he releases is enough for her to know that George appreciates it.

The meal is uneventful, and the speeches even more so. But then there is a bizarre moment, half way through dessert when Emma looks up from her fruit sorbet to find Elton staring at her from the top table, a strange expression in his eyes. They are hooded and dark, and immediately she feels uncomfortable.

Perhaps it is the sudden stiffening of her frame, but it doesn’t take long for George, sitting next to her, to notice that something has Emma rattled. A quick glance around the room leads him quickly to the source. There’s a tightening in his jaw for a moment before he reacts, his body leaning in towards hers so that their heads are bowed together, as if they’re sharing a secret.

“Emma,” George murmurs in a tone so low that no one else at the table could possibly hear it, “look at me.” It’s a clear instruction and yet it sounds like a plea more than anything. Emma has historically always hated being told what to do - especially by George - but in this she knows his suggestion is the right one. Obeying, she turns her head away from the spiteful look of the groom, back towards her best friend, the man she loves.

He rewards her with a kind but knowing smile, the most substantial that she’s seen from him all day, and it pains Emma just a little to think that it’s likely to be at least a little bit for show. George’s gaze darts quickly away and then back to her just as fast. “You seem to be extremely fascinating to the groom?” he says, intentionally light. He’s trying to settle her, she knows, like one would a skittish horse. Emma used to find George’s calm attempts to placate her rather patronising, but at the moment, all she wants to do is keep her eyes fixed on the intricate details of his eyelashes.

“We seem to be,” Emma corrects, because she doubts she would be getting this sort of attention from Elton if it weren’t for the fact that she’s remained glued to George’s side since they arrived. Without thinking, her hand finds itself sweeping against his shoulder, as if brushing away an invisible piece of lint. Emma can’t even believe she’s doing it, can’t even fathom how she found the courage to let her hand finish the motion, letting it trail down his upper arm before returning her hand to her lap, as if nothing had happened at all.

George’s eyes widen momentarily, perhaps at her reply, perhaps at her gesture - she can’t entirely be sure, but, just as quickly, they return to their usual size. The corners of his absurdly tempting mouth are still upturned as he looks at her head on, and god if Emma didn’t know any better, it almost seems like he’s daring her to kiss him, which would obviously be totally ridiculous. To keep herself in check, Emma balls her hands into fists atop her knees and takes a slow, steadying breath.

George’s voice cuts through her wayward thoughts. “Indeed,” he says, sounding contemplative. But his stillness doesn’t last, his eyes casting away once more, before fixing on her again. “He’s still staring at us, by the way.” It’s funny to hear how tickled George sounds with his discovery. It’s so boyish that Emma can’t help but allow her lips to curve into a mirror of his own.

“You think he’d be a bit preoccupied on his wedding day?” she comments dryly, an arch of an eyebrow as accompaniment.

“We’re apparently very interesting,” George responds, and there’s that familiar spark dancing in his expression that Emma feels has been absent for far longer than she’d have liked recently. “Very.” The word hits low in his register, that deep rumble of sound immediately firing and flaring through every part of her.

Emma searches for a response, but before she can manage to find one, George’s hand has found its way out of his lap and has risen towards her face. Her stomach twists and skips and Emma thinks for a second that George is going to graze the pad of his thumb against her cheekbone. But the motion is subtler, gentler still: he instead tucks a stray tendril of Emma’s hair behind her ear, letting his fingertips trail downwards, downwards, downwards on the long strand until he finds the end and finally, eventually, releases it.

Emma’s quite sure she’s stopped breathing, her pulse threading erratically through her veins. George is close enough that if she tipped her head back and moved forward the barest amount of space, she’s sure their lips would touch. How can he not recognise the effect he’s having? Does he think she’s acting too?

But the moment can’t sustain itself, is over as abruptly as it had begun. With a sigh of satisfaction, George sinks back in his chair, his knee still tucked into the side of her thigh. His hand falls away from where it had been floating between their bodies and comes to rest on the edge of the table. Without even turning to check, Emma knows George’s tender performance has forced Elton to look away.

It actually physically pains her when Emma finally registers the proud look that George has plastered all over his face, his crystalline eyes somehow even brighter than ever. “So... “ he asks, cocking his head at her, “as your pretend boyfriend, how am I doing?” He’s obviously teasing her, expecting her to be in on the game, and this sharp comedown kills any tension that Emma had felt between them a moment ago.

It seems almost cruel that this pretence is so easy for him when it’s pure torture for her. George has no idea what he’s doing, the effect that he’s having, and Emma can’t even blame him for something he hasn’t got a clue about. She knows he’d never behave this way if he had even the slightest idea of what he was putting her through. But of course he doesn’t know. He can’t know. And besides, Emma agreed to this, and if this is maybe the closest she will ever get to being with George, it seems ungrateful not to appreciate it. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt though.

But in the end, for now, she has to hide it, and that’s where it becomes easy to fall back into old habits. “You’ll do,” she replies with a roll of her eyes, unwilling to outwardly give him even an inch of credit.

But George is used to it. He smirks at her anyway.

---

The crowds have dispersed from dinner, and the music from the marquee echoes out across the rolling hills. It can probably be heard all the way from the village, Emma thinks, if there was anyone left there to hear it.

The lights from inside the Abbey illuminate the wide sweeping stairs out of the ballroom, casting the austere stonework in an even more romantic glow. The lack of clouds means the stars are becoming visible as the evening darkens, and their knowing little faces seem to spark mischievously at her.

Maybe the free flowing champagne has gone to Emma’s head a little. Not enough to make her drunk exactly, but just enough so that she feels on the right side of tipsy. It even makes her tolerate a prolonged conversation with Hetty about how wonderful everything looked, and how Donwell was just a dream. Emma spends the entire discussion thinking about its owner, who she has somehow managed to lose track of in the swarm.

By the time she manages to extract herself from Hetty’s overbearing but kind-hearted commentary, the other guests have deposited themselves everywhere - in the ballroom still, on the lawn, and both inside and spilling outside of the marquee. George could be absolutely anywhere - including somewhere else inside the building entirely. Emma wouldn’t put it past him to have sloped off the library, and resorted to examining his accounts by the light of his laptop, if only to get five minutes' peace.

Just as Emma is contemplating whether to go and look for George further inside the Abbey, she sees Harriet by the bar, easy to spot in her resplendent yellow. She’s struggling to gather up three glasses of champagne at the same time in her small hands, and so Emma decides to swoop in and help.

“Thanks!” her friend says, rather giddily and it’s clear that Emma isn’t the only one who has been partaking in the free alcohol. “I thought I could manage, but, oh oops...”

Emma grabs a precariously juggled glass from Harriet before it ends up under their feet. And on second thought, she quickly swipes another off the bar for herself, and follows her friend around the outskirts of the makeshift dancefloor, nestled beneath the large marquee. Her hopes sink when she sees the drinks are for Rob and Frank, and that George isn’t with them. Honestly, where can he have gone? His sustained absence is making Emma uneasy.

They arrive in the middle of an incredibly tedious conversation about vintage cars, and so Emma and Harriet choose to stand to one side and watch the spectacle.

Emma’s just about to point out a very eye-catching emerald green sheath dress, when she spots George across the room. And no, not just across the room, but on the dancefloor.

With Jane Fairfax.

The smile that had been summoned onto Emma’s face at the sight of him falls away just as quickly.

“Harriet,” she manages to choke out, the sound strangled by how tight her chest feels, “he’s dancing with her.”

The quiet “oh” that Harriet emits as she locates them through the crowd is enough of a clue as to how serious this is.

Emma watches as George and Jane sway gently to the music. They aren’t moving with great animation - it doesn’t really appear that they are even that interested in dancing. The way George holds Jane, with such practised ease, exudes a casual familiarity between them. Even at this distance, it looks like they’re locked in a deep discussion that seems to have them quite engrossed. Both of their faces are earnest and serious.

Actually, no. It’s more than that, Emma thinks, as she stares at the couple from the edge of the dancefloor with such blistering intensity that she’s surprised they can’t feel it burning through them. Jane actually looks… upset? Her striking features are petrified in sadness, eyes wide and glassy, and she’s staring up at George as if he is a pillar of comfort. And if anything, the crisp emotion on her face somehow makes her look even prettier than she usually does.

Emma doesn’t even need to get closer to notice the deep furrow of concern that’s settled on George’s forehead. He’s staring at Jane with such gravity, such utter intent.

God, how could she have been so oblivious? It’s so… so... obvious that George feels something for Jane! The absolute brutality of the realisation blindsides her, and yet Emma can’t stop staring at the image in front of her, even as it slices away all her hopes, leaving them unravelling like ribbons at her feet.

She’s losing him. She’s losing George. Or worse, she’s already lost him.

Her face feels scorching hot, even as a cold sweat breaks out across her forehead. Emma thinks she might be sick.

After all, why would George love Emma, who spends her time arguing with him and generally making his life more difficult? Not when there is Jane Fairfax, who is beautiful and intelligent and talented and generally well thought of by everyone who has ever met her. How could Emma even think to compete with a woman who outshines her in every way? Emma isn’t so without self-esteem to think that she doesn’t have her own merits. But she can also see on paper why George would be so drawn to someone like Jane, instead of someone like her.

Emma so desperately wants to be a bigger person about this. In an ideal world she would put George’s happiness above her own and keep her mouth shut. That’s what a good friend would do.

And yet the violent screech of jealousy is so powerful that Emma can barely stand it. Another wave of nausea curdles in her stomach, scratching at her insides. How could she have lost him like this, just as she’s realised how much George means to her? It’s a joke that seems far too cruel.

The overwhelming hurt and pain is so large that Emma can’t begin to figure out where to put it. Her fingernails bite against her own skin, but the sensation hardly registers. She doesn’t want to feel this… this… loss, this total lack of control. And so instead of letting it settle into her bones, Emma opts to scream past sadness and head straight to red hot anger.

Because…well, wasn’t he supposed to be here with her? Or at least, according to everyone else, George was her boyfriend, and yet here he was, looking very... cosy with another woman - in front of everyone they know! At the very least, he’s ruining the arrangement they’d agreed on and Emma at least surely has a right to feel mad about that?

“Em, are… are you okay?” she hears Harriet ask, her meek voice sounding distant even though her friend is standing right next to her. The blood is pounding through Emma’s ears, as loud as an ocean’s roar.

“Not really,” she manages to grind out between her teeth. In contrast to her face, Emma’s hands feel like ice, and so she drains her champagne and shoves the glass towards Harriet. “Excuse me for a minute.”

“Emma, don’t-” Harriet cries out, clearly thinking the worst, but Emma doesn’t head towards the dancefloor. Instead she takes a few steps over towards Rob and Frank, stopping in front of them.

“Frank,” she says with icy determination, “do you want to dance?”

His eyebrow quirks slightly, before he styles it into a roguish grin and quickly puts his drink down on the table behind him. “And here I was thinking that you’d never ask, dear Emma.”

Emma wants to feel triumphant as she takes Frank’s hand in her own, towing him behind her onto the middle of the dancefloor. Instead she just feels bereft and hurt and bitterly angry. Those feelings are enough to keep her from examining why this is a terrible idea.

Thankfully Frank is the perfect partner. He doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss in her mood at all. Instead he wastes no time in showing off, taking her in his arms and spinning and dipping her so ostentatiously that Emma realises they’ve gathered no small amount of attention. She knows they make an attractive pair - it’s exactly why everyone has always assumed that there was something more between them. And so Emma is sure to laugh loudly as Frank twirls her, rebounding back into his arms with a delighted squeal. He grins wickedly at her, face close, and although Emma knows Frank doesn’t think of her like that, he certainly creates the impression that he does to everyone watching.

Let them all talk, she thinks, as the motion of the dance makes the observing crowd turn into a faceless blur. Emma just lets herself laugh louder, smile brighter, lets the champagne do its work.

She doesn’t want to analyse why she’s doing this. Because Emma knows what she’d discover if she did. No, she’s simply dancing with Frank because it’s fun. After all, if George can spend his evening in the arms of the demure Jane Fairfax, then it’s hardly his business as to how the outrageous Emma Woodhouse spends her time, is it?

Except then as Frank spins her once more, she catches sight of George’s face across the dancefloor. Her heart seizes up. He’s looking right at them both and he’s… well, Emma’s not sure. If she had to guess she’d say he’s cross. But there’s something else in the undertone of his expression and the shape of his mouth, that tells another story.

Emma just doesn’t know what that story is.

Either way, she’s determined not to care. She can’t care anymore. If George is going to be with Jane, then maybe it’s best that she finds a way to stop caring about what George is thinking all the time.

As the final chords of the song end, Emma is almost relieved. She still feels sick, however knows it isn’t from the enthusiasm of Frank’s dance moves, or from the alcohol. But it isn’t until she feels the sting of hot tears threatening behind her eyes that she realises that she needs to be far away from here.

But before she even has a chance to make any polite excuses to Frank, she feels a firm hand on her elbow.

It’s George. She doesn’t even need to look to know it, and yet she still does, jaw set defiantly. He’s staring down at her, and somehow he seems ten times taller than he usually does.

“I need to talk to you.” His tone is thick; gruff with what Emma can now definitely tell is anger. Although what does he have a right to be angry about, she thinks indignantly. She’s the one who’s entitled to be angry! He’s meant to be here with her, as her date! Her boyfriend!

For half a second, Emma considers refusing him. There’s a wildness in her bones that is just so done with everything: done with pretending and hiding and being at the mercy of her feelings for George all the goddamn time. Except, deep down she knows she can’t, and won’t, refuse him. For better or worse, Emma’s heart is tied to George’s like it’s on a piece of string. If he wants her to go with him, she will, even if she knows she won’t like what happens next.

“Fine,” she answers in a clipped tone. Nevertheless, to show she’s doing it under her own free will, Emma shakes her elbow free of his touch, and George stares at her with barely repressed frustration. With that she turns and flies towards the exit, moving as fast as she can in her heels. Guests greet her as she walks past, and it takes everything in her power to return their cheerful smiles, even though she doesn’t break her stride. Emma can sense George behind her, his longer legs eating up her head start. Emma hardly thinks about where her feet are taking her, only knows that it needs to be somewhere out of the way of prying eyes and ears. If she has to hear George tell her that he’s in love with Jane, Emma hardly wants the world to watch her try and keep it together.

“Emma, stop!” She hears him pant from behind her, once she’s marched all the way around the side of the house, and is a few feet inside the Donwell lime walk. It’s almost completely dark there amongst the uniform rows of trees, the air much cooler. There’s no moon this evening, but there’s a dim light filtering through the branches coming from one of the distant upstairs windows of the Abbey. The music from the marquee and muffled conversations echo quietly in the distance. Everything else is still.

At George’s behest, Emma draws to a halt, her back still to him. She can hear his breathing from a few paces away, the crunch of gravel under the soles of his shoes.

“Emma,” he says again, more emphatically, and there’s a plea in it that she can’t ignore. George sounds upset in a way that he hadn’t until now. It’s enough to make her finally turn around.

He’s part in shadow, merely a dark outline of a figure until he takes a step towards her and the light from the upstairs window throws relief on him. George’s palm is pressed against his chest, as if he’s trying to contain something. As Emma’s eyes slide up to his face, she notes his expression. He looks completely bewildered.

“What?” she demands, and it comes out as a snappish bark. She hates herself for it. “You’re the one who wanted to talk.”

He looks wounded for a moment, before his face tightens. “Well, yes,” George says briskly, clearly thrown by how sharp she’s being. “But I get the feeling that you’re not going to be particularly receptive to what I have to tell you.” The razor edge of his sarcasm isn’t lost on her. He sounds on the verge of one of his infamous lectures, and Emma’s really not in the mood.

“I’m surprised you’d notice how I’m feeling at all,” she fires back snarkily, unable to help herself. “Don’t you want to get back to Jane? You both seemed very cosy just now!”

Emma, once more, feels the jagged pressure of her fingernails curling into the palms of her hands. She imagines the little bruised crescents that will be left behind in the flesh after tonight. It’s a momentary distraction.

“Emma,” George sighs, with probably more tolerance than she deserves, “you’re being petty.” Even in a moment like this, George will never shy away from being anything less than unflinchingly honest with her. It especially hurts this time because, annoyingly, he’s right. She is being petty. But her jealousy is running so thick and fast that Emma can’t shake herself free from it.

“I’m not being petty,” she retorts instead, knowing that even saying it is making her so. She rolls her shoulders back and stares at him head on. The hem of her skirt flutters around her knees as a soft breeze takes hold. To his credit, George doesn’t even baulk at her stubborn gaze.

“Yes, you are,” he replies firmly, like he’s scolding a small child. “Because god forbid you aren’t the centre of attention for five whole minutes.”

“Well, Jane certainly has all of your attention!”

George frowns, eyes narrowing. The champagne and her rage are making Emma less able to read him as well as she normally can. “Why does that-? Emma, I do need to talk to you about Jane.”

Oh, she thinks. Oh god. Emma’s heart pounds like a hollow drum in her chest. She had been right this entire time.

George. And Jane.

There has always been a small part of Emma that had assumed she was wrong, that she was just overreacting, imagining things. But his words seem to confirm her worst fears, and the apprehensive look on George’s face only seems to reinforce it.

And now that the dreaded moment is here, Emma can’t bear to hear the fateful confession come out of his mouth. How is she supposed to just stand there and pretend to be happy for him? Emma isn’t sure she has the strength to hide her true feelings in the face of such news.

“Please, don’t!” she pleads weakly, a cloying feeling in her throat.

George’s face immediately twists in anguish.

Emma desperately wishes she could look anywhere but at him. But she finds she can’t shy away from the image of distress that’s now plastered itself all over his darling face. Her denial is giving him pain - she knows it and feels selfish for it.

George’s hands, weighted by his sides, are in constant motion, fingers extending and then balling into fists in no particular rhythm. His hesitation tells Emma that George is even considering her request, and it makes her guilt even more stark.

“Emma,” he says finally, after a long silent moment, “I know you don’t want to hear this. Perhaps you even know what I’m about to tell you. But you must hear it.”

Chapter Text

It appears George won’t allow her to hide from this. He’s determined, she sees, to break his news to her. Emma’s bottom lip aches from where her teeth have clasped onto it, a thin metallic taste appearing on her tongue. She’s desperate not to let him see her cry for the second time in just over a week.

He waits, poised. She doesn’t say a word.

“Emma,” George tries again, a little more forcefully this time. Within two short strides he's right in front of her, his hands fumbling in the half light to find her own and grasping at them. His earnest touch feels so achingly tragic, given what Emma knows will come next. Despite everything, George is trying to comfort her and if Emma’s heart wasn’t already broken, it definitely is now. “As your friend,” George says pleadingly, his eyes imploring her with barely veiled desperation, “let me be the one to tell you.”

The word friend slams into her heart. George doesn’t use it as a weapon - in fact, it’s clear enough that he means it in the purest sense. He trusts her, as a friend, wants to confide his news in her, as a friend. And yet Emma is selfishly making it about herself, robbing him of joy and happiness.

She’s not being a good friend at all.

The acknowledgement cuts at her hard and fast and with alarming accuracy. She needs to do better, because George deserves better. No, not even better, the best. And Emma’s dashed hopes, as brutal as they are, don’t give her the right to intentionally cause him pain. If she has to hear this awful, dreadful news from him, it’s only fair that she gives him the opening.

“So,” she says, hardly believing the words about to come out of her mouth, but knowing that they must, “you’re... with Jane, then?”

George’s frown, already deeply scored across his brow, compresses further and for a few seconds it looks like he has lost the ability to comprehend her at all. But then, lightning quick, he steps back, dropping Emma’s hands as if they were white hot. “With Jane? What are you-?” His question cuts off mid-sentence, leaving him blinking at her mutely. The distance that has opened up between them feels cavernous.

Emma stares back at him, loathe to repeat herself but having no choice given the confused expression that is staring back at her. “You and Jane are... together?”

George’s head cocks to one side, like he’s sure he must have misheard her. It seems to take him a long moment to compute what she’s implying. Emma sees the moment it dawns on him, a subtle working of his jaw.

“Me and Jane?” George half chokes, finishing the sentiment with a shake of his head. “No?” Something bubbles up under his words, a laughing confusion perhaps. His fingers drag through his hair, leaving the strands in hopeless disarray.

Emma’s mouth has gone dry, tongue as heavy as lead. “No?” she repeats tentatively, almost afraid to check again in case the rug is pulled out from under her once more. “Are… are you… sure?”

George actually snorts a little, an amused grin unable to be smothered any longer. “Yeah Emma, I’m pretty sure.” His eyebrows have gone from confused to wry, and it’s clear from the indignation in his voice that he’s telling the absolute truth.

Emma’s heart, flushed and rapid, soars out of her body. “Oh,” is the only word she can manage to say, released in a hushed whisper, barely loud enough to hear over the rustling of the trees.

George hums, mostly to himself, before his gaze narrows on her. “Emma, let me get this straight. You… you thought I was going to tell you that I was dating Jane?”

Despite the disbelieving manner in which he says it, Emma still finds it hard to match George’s blunt denial with everything she thought she knew. Just a short time ago, she’d been so sure, so certain of it. And now it appears she’s been completely mistaken. If that’s the case, what else has she been wrong about?

“Yes! Because of London!” she cries, her brain grappling for all the reasons at her disposal as to how she’d gotten to where she had. “And Thomas Hardy - and… and you hugged her - and danced with her! And the picture on Instagram - you always admire her so much - saying that she’s talented - and she’s obviously pretty and smart and probably your type - and-”

Her thoughts fall ungracefully out of her in no particular order, and Emma’s efforts not to cry in front of him have been completely undone. She’s not sure if it’s just the overwhelming sense of relief that's prompted them, or whether the weight of everything she’s been carrying has finally gotten the better of her. Heavy tears cling to her eyelashes, trembling and damp, no doubt ruining her mascara, but Emma finds she can’t even care. She swipes them away with hasty fingers, trying to collect herself.

George’s attention snaps onto the gesture, taking in the upset plains of Emma’s face. His expression instantly crumples. Emma scarcely feels she deserves the kind and gentle concern that's settling across his features.

“Emma,” he says calmly, voice smooth like rich velvet. In one swift movement he’s in front of her again, and her hands are tucked firmly inside his once more, “I promise I’m not dating Jane Fairfax. I like her, certainly. Anyone must know that. But only as a friend, nothing more. Besides, well… she’s… well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

He trails off, and Emma, intensely overloaded and somehow also magnificently relieved at the same time, is lost again. “Tell me?” she echoes helplessly, finding it hard to focus given how close George is, how he’s staring at her, eyes crinkled with apprehension.

George visibly swallows. “She’s... in love with Frank Churchill. Well, they’re in love, I think I should say.” He pauses, letting the words hover a bit, settle, before looking at Emma expectantly, worry taut in every muscle of his body.

If she could have had a million guesses at what George had been about to say, that wouldn’t have been the content of any of them. “Frank? And Jane?” Emma finds herself exclaiming, a surprised gasp ripping from her. “Frank is with Jane Fairfax? But… no… surely that can’t be right?” She shakes her head, the news too bizarre to make any sense at all.

George’s handsome face is a picture of troubled anxiety. His thumbs stroke identical paths across the backs of Emma’s hands, an attempt to soothe her perhaps. “I’m sorry, Emma. But I promise you, it’s true.” He casts his gaze down for a moment, his focus appearing to be their entwined fingers before he glances back up again. Emma has never seen George look at her this way, with such empathy and scrutiny, as if he’s worried she’s about to fall to pieces at any moment.

But why does he…? Before she can finish the thought, George presses on: “I admit,” he rumbles, voice low, “I was shocked too. But they’ve been dating secretly for over a year now.”

Emma inhales sharply in surprise. “A year?”

George manages a curt nod. “His aunt - you know, the one who bankrolls him, well... apparently she wouldn’t approve. Jane isn’t rich enough, or from a significant family, or something. Which is completely ridiculous, obviously.” He shakes his head with sharp disapproval, a hint of reproach appearing in his set of his mouth. “But because of that, they’ve had to keep it quiet.”

Emma’s head aches with the effort of trying to digest this new information. She knew Frank’s aunt was somewhat of a tyrant, but she’d never imagined this. “How… how do you know all of this?”

George studies her carefully before responding, the slow flutter of his eyelashes catching the shadows. “Jane told me. While we were dancing just now, actually. I think they’re fighting, and the secret just got too much for her in the end and she had to tell someone.”

Oh, Emma thinks, her mind flicking back. That explains the serious expressions, the fraught looks between Jane and George. She was confiding in him, and George was trying to comfort her.

Of course he was.

Her stomach swoops. Emma feels like such a fool, not only for not seeing it, but for how she’s jumped to conclusions, how she’d behaved when dancing with Frank. Oh, what must Jane think of her? That poor girl! And what about Frank’s behaviour? Emma has no idea where to even start with that.

George’s warm grip on her hands tightens further, his blue eyes steady. Their intensity has become more and more oppressive, like he’s waiting for the tiniest clue as to what Emma needs him to do. The silence draws out between them, a large gaping chasm. Emma’s thoughts are racing, racing, racing, and she barely has time to process one before another takes its place.

Finally, George speaks. There’s an urgency to his tone that makes it clear he’s trying to distract her.

“I… I wasn’t sure if I should tell you,” he confesses, and he’s leaning so close, speaking so softly, that Emma has to lean forward too in order to hear him more clearly. “Because admittedly, it’s not my secret to tell.” George looks regretful that he’s already had to betray Jane’s confidence, but Emma’s too focused on the heat of his breath grazing against her cheek to contemplate the morality of his choice. His voice becomes suddenly more forceful, more animated. “But you deserve to know, Emma. Because I... I just couldn’t stand by and watch Frank flirt with you and mislead you, and make you think that he lov- cared for you, and not say anything!”

“I’m sorry - what?”

“He’s a pathetic excuse of a man,” George spits out, a scowl forming around his mouth. It seems this situation has hardly helped endear Frank Churchill to him. “Dating Jane this whole time, hiding her away like some shameful secret, and all the while… his behaviour to you, Emma… making you think that-”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Emma manages to reply, shaking her head, and pulling her hands from George’s grip. She can’t think properly when he’s touching her and she needs a minute to get what he’s saying straight in her mind. Pressing a cool palm to her forehead, Emma takes a deep breath. “You thought that I liked Frank…?”

George looks immediately uncomfortable, but his stubborn eyes don’t leave hers. “Well, yes. You two have always been… well….” he trails off, unsure of a fitting descriptor. “And when I saw you the other day at Fords - he was holding your hand, and… just now, when you danced... I thought perhaps you… liked him?”

“Fords? Oh,” Emma now recalls that Frank had held her hand but only… “Oh, that wasn’t… that wasn’t what it looked like,” she scrambles, eager to make sure George isn’t under a false impression for a second longer than he needed to be.

“It wasn’t?” George sounds torn between hopeful and skeptical.

“No, he… said he wanted to tell me something. Maybe about Jane, I don’t know. It doesn’t even matter now.”

“No?” His question sounds small, cautious.

But Emma is resolute. “No, because it was definitely nothing. And the dancing too. That was…” She trails off, unable, no, unwilling to confess what had prompted that. One thing at a time. “That was nothing too,” she finishes lamely.

George lets out a little puff of air. “I see,” he answers firmly, the line of his jaw tightening. He bows his head for a moment, fiddles with one of the cuffs of his shirt. The breeze shifts around them.

To release the tension, Emma chokes out a laugh, an attempt at levity. “Frank and Jane… I still can’t believe it.”

George glances back up, attempting a smile, but it falls rather flat. “Neither could I.”

“But,” Emma squares her shoulders, feels her hair slide against her back, “while, it is definitely unexpected, I’m actually… happy for them.”

George doesn't even bother masking his surprise at her statement. “Really?”

“Of course!” she returns, forcing a grin that Emma doesn’t quite feel but knows will do enough of the hard work to get her point across. “They seem an odd pairing, but… sometimes opposites do attract?”

“Indeed,” George replies gruffly, before tilting his head to appraise her. “So... I take it from your reaction that there is - there was - nothing going on with you and Frank then?” George has the manner of someone who rather hates that he’s having to ask the question but is rather eager to know the answer.

“No!” Emma cries out, pressing as much reassurance as she can into the single word. “We’re friends, nothing more.”

“Oh… okay.” George nods, although Emma knows him well enough to realise that his mind is still busy slotting all the pieces of the puzzle into place. His sweet worry about her feelings, about protecting her from having her heart broken, is so typically him that Emma would be proud to call him her friend if she wasn’t desperately craving more.

And he and Jane? It’s the best news of all - he’s not in love with Jane! He’s not in love with anyone as far as she knows. She’s not going to lose him and Emma’s never felt relief quite so acute in her entire life. Her body feels one hundred times lighter, like it might float off into the night sky and settle amongst the stars.

But although it’s satisfying to know that George is safe from grasping hands, and isn’t on the verge of vanishing into the arms of Jane Fairfax any time soon, Emma knows it still isn’t enough. She wants him, needs him, to be hers.

They both stand in silence for a long moment, distracted by their own thoughts.

“Wait,” George says after a moment, glancing sharply back up at her with a look of confusion, “Emma, why were you… why were you so upset at the idea of me being with Jane?”

Emma’s breath catches in her throat. Perhaps she’d sensed the question coming, because of course George could never be satisfied until he’s figured out the answer to everything.

“Uh,” she murmurs, knowing that this is her chance to tell the truth and yet now that the moment is here… Emma instinctively finds herself lying. “I just…” she fumbles, cursing herself all the while, “I just didn’t want to… lose you. No doubt if you were with Jane, you’d be off in London all the time, and I’d… miss you.” There’s an element of truth to it at least and Emma silently congratulates herself for her swift thinking.

But George doesn’t look persuaded, his lips pressing together in obvious discontent. “You can just be honest, Emma. I know you don’t like Jane. It’s hardly a big secret.” He peers down at her from his slight height advantage, trying to catch her evasive gaze. “You’ve made it quite obvious over the years. But… I thought that, if it were true, as my friend, you’d have been… I don’t know, happy for me? Or something?”

Emma can now see the two available paths unfurling in front of her. The first is to agree with him, and let George believe that her upset about Jane is merely because of her own selfishness and dislike. He’d accept it, Emma knows, given her years of petty bitterness about Jane which is now making her feel very small and immature. Lying isn’t the answer George deserves, but he would take her at her word.

The second option is to tell George the truth: the terrifying but unfiltered truth about how she feels. It’s something Emma had promised herself she would do when the time was right. And after all, now that she knows he isn’t in love with Jane, there is nothing to technically stop her.

Apart from the stifling awareness that George values their friendship above everything, and that Emma’s confession runs the real risk of potentially losing him forever. But she’s come to realise that living a life that requires her to hide her feelings from George is not really a life at all either. Not when there is the tiniest chance that they could be more.

And so she takes a shaky breath, the sound echoing loudly in the air around them. George is still looking at her expectantly, all handsome angles, and god, she’s so in love with him that she can barely stand it.

“Because…” Emma says, drawing herself to her full height, determined to hide nothing from him anymore, “because I was jealous.”

George’s face remains a picture of control, but Emma can see how his spine has straightened, how his hands flex by his sides. “Jealous?” he repeats cautiously, as if he’s not entirely sure he understands her. “Jealous because... as my best friend you insist on being first in my life at every waking moment?” Although he’s attempting light-heartedness, there’s a sliver of expectation in his tone, like he’s testing the waters of her statement to see how deep they are.

Emma’s hands are trembling, but her voice miraculously remains steady. “No, not quite,” she admits, her pulse running frantic. A hot flush rises onto her cheeks, her skin stinging against the cool air. It’s the most vulnerable Emma thinks she’s ever been in her entire life, so much so that it seems like her throbbing heart is about to fly right out of her chest. “I was jealous because... I want to be first in your life for reasons that have nothing to do with being only your best friend.”

The weight of her words sink into the silence around them, settling like dust at their feet. Emma feels her throat constrict, her muscles clench in anticipation. Does he understand her? Has she made a terrible mistake? Perhaps she’s just ruined everything between them forever? A sweeping panic starts to rise in her belly.

Emma watches uneasily as George tries to interpret her words. She can tell by the look on his face that he’s turning them over and over in his mind and he can’t quite believe the solution that he’s found. Even then, it seems he still can’t bring himself to believe her. “I…” he stumbles, breath short, “Emma, I don’t underst-”

She can’t hold it in any more. “I’m in love with you, George!” she cries, half yelling, half trembling as the words shatter the air. Emma feels removed from herself, like she’s watching her body from a distance. But no, it’s happened. The words have come out of her mouth, and George - oh god, George - has heard them, and it’s too late to take it back now. As overwhelmed and terrified as she is, Emma can’t tear her eyes away from him.

Even through the patchy shadows, George’s eyes visibly widen in shock, his mouth falling open in a stricken expression to match. He says nothing, absolutely nothing. In fact, he scarcely moves for the longest moment, and Emma feels like she’s actually about to die of mortification. What has she done?

Then suddenly George’s fingers press to his forehead, and Emma can see the shake of his hand as he does so. Emma can barely breathe for watching his movements. To remain calm, she focuses on the rapid blink of his lashes, the way his eyes have turned wet and glassy and if Emma didn’t know any better, she thinks she might have just broken him.

But then, quite out of the blue, George starts to laugh. It’s quiet at first, a little huff, followed by another and then another, and before Emma can make sense of what’s happening, George is actually properly... laughing.

He pivots on the spot, shoes crunching against the gravel as he moves. George isn’t even looking at her anymore, his eyes screwed closed as he massages his brow, now with the breadth of his palm. His other hand has formed a claw against his ribcage, scrunching up the fabric of his suit. It’s almost like he’s trying to stop his body collapsing in on itself, and Emma’s mind, already absolutely paralysed, finds itself unable to keep up with what any of this means. George’s rumbling laugh, low and deep and emanating from the centre of his chest, echoes down the Donwell lime walk, its reverberations like multiplying mockery.

Is he laughing at her? No, there’s nothing cruel in the sound. If anything George sounds bewildered, bordering on hysterical, like he’s so surprised at her confession that no other reaction will do.

Emma feels wildly indignant - both at herself and now also at him. How could she have been so stupid to think that George, steady and predictable George, would want to hear this from her? He, who has been so determined to retain their friendship above all else? What did Emma expect would happen? That he’d smile and kiss her and everything would be so neatly resolved, tied up in a perfect little parcel as if Emma had packaged it herself? No, no, of course not. Life isn’t that tidy or easy, especially when she knows she’s essentially slammed a wrecking ball sidelong into George’s ordered life.

But even so, how could he laugh at her at her most exposed?

Her wounded ego takes charge of her mouth, as Emma waves a dismissive hand at him. “I… I can’t believe you!”

George’s head whips around at the hiss in her voice, face instantly straightening into contrition. But Emma can see the amusement still lurking behind his eyes, dancing in merriment and it makes her even more furious.

“I know it’s insane,” she continues, trying for the life of her not to sound like her heart has in any way been ripped to shreds by the past ten minutes. Half of Emma already wants to save George the awkwardness of having to outright reject her, and his parting words being seared into her memory forever. The other half, the most vulnerable half, is watching as her dreams unravel in front of her eyes.

But she can’t be that pathetic. She refuses to be. So instead Emma exhales loudly, pointedly, her hands coming to land on her hips in a stance that is bolder than how she feels inside. Her bones are quaking despite her anger.

Her frustration is obvious. “I know this is totally out of the blue, and I’m sure you have all sorts of questions. But… for god’s sake George, you don’t need to laugh at me!” Her voice cracks a little and Emma hates herself for it. “If it’s really that ridiculous to you then… we can just... forget I ever said anything! I can get over it, I promise. I can live with just being your friend.” Even though as soon as it escapes her lips, Emma knows that it’s the biggest lie of all.

Her ferocity jolts a frozen George into action. In a mad scramble, he’s reaching for her again, hands clasping at her elbows, her bare forearms, anywhere that he can reach. His touch feels like imploding stars under her skin.

“No, no, no, Emma,” he protests, all traces of mirth vanished and gone. George looks pained, regretful, absolutely panicked that she won’t forgive him for his behaviour. “I’m… oh god, Emma, I’m not laughing at you, I promise. You mistake me, you…” George’s fingertips have settled on her waist, and Emma can feel the flood of heat through the material of her dress. There’s something so casually intimate about the way his hands graze downwards towards her hips, and Emma is getting more and more confused by the second.

When he doesn’t continue his thought, Emma gets impatient. “Then, why the hell were you laughing at me!?”

It’s not often Emma sees George Knightley cower before her, but this is one occasion where he very much does. “Because I’m an idiot,” he admits with such brazen honesty that Emma’s not sure where to go next with that. “And actually, well… we’re both idiots, truth be told. Sorry, I didn’t mean - well,” he chokes back another laugh before realising that it's probably the worst thing he could do right now, “it’s just that-”

Emma slams her open palm into the solid bulk of his shoulder, irate now. George barely even winces, just accepts the blow. “You know, if this is how you behave when a girl tells you they are in love with you, then it’s no wonder you're perpetually single!”

What she should do is walk away from him, storm off into the night, or head back to the party and ignore him for the rest of the evening… the rest of her life, maybe. But deep down, or well, not even that deep down, Emma knows she is going to do exactly none of that.

George’s eyes flare at her insult, a squirm of amusement appearing behind them yet again. Emma still thinks he’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen, despite his messy hair and the fact that he can’t seem to keep a straight face about this situation, which makes loving him all the more infuriating.

George waits a moment, cautiously watchful until he’s quite sure she’s finished berating him. His nose scrunches up for a second, before he speaks.

“Now that you’re done telling me off - rightfully-” he adds with an arched eyebrow, before Emma can interject “-I have a question.”

She shoots him a sardonic glare, even if her body utterly betrays her by swaying closer to him, creeping towards his firm, upright body. “By all means,” Emma replies, tone sharp and petulant and without any of her usual grace.

By some miracle, rather than his usual style of reprimand, George’s features appear to have formed into a look of such sweet affection that Emma almost gets lost in the idea of him returning her feelings. But no, he’s made it clear that he finds the idea bewildering and utterly ridiculous. He’s clearly placating her.

George forms his query carefully, with slow deliberation. “The other day... in the library,” he starts, before breaking off for a moment, a puzzled furrow coming to rest between his brows, “did you not make it perfectly clear that we were friends?”

There’s a weighted stress to the word, and somehow it feels more loaded than it ever has before. But now, at least, Emma understands why George is so confused, so thrown off course by her proclamation. Barely a week ago, they were declaring their undying friendship, and yet now, here she is, confessing her deepest feelings for him completely out of nowhere. It’s enough to give anyone emotional whiplash.

“Well, we are!” she pushes back firmly, finding a strength within herself to curl her fingers around his covered forearms. The suit jacket is finely textured and the material feels intricate under her touch. She notes how George’s gaze follows her movement, but he doesn’t comment on it.

It emboldens her to continue: “We are friends, George! We always will be, despite anything else. I meant what I said then. I know that you don’t like change, that you value what we have. So I know me telling you this is probably an incredibly... stupid thing to do. But I just couldn’t… not say it any more. I… I don’t expect you to... return my feelings.” A vicious ache forms inside of her as she says it, but Emma knows it’s too late now to turn back the clock. “So... if you need us to stay just as we are - just friends - then I promise nothing has to change.”

Emma’s world, as she knows it, hovers on the brink. Until it plummets into the abyss.

One second he’s there. The next George is backing away from her, face incredulous. Emma feels her life falling apart as his presence leaves hers, his grasp departing her hips. A fierce gust of wind whips her hair out behind her, before it settles once more against her shoulders as if nothing had happened, as if everything hadn’t just changed in an instant.

How could she think that this wouldn’t break them? How stupid. How naïve. It’s changing them already.

“Friends!” George laments, rounding on her finally, before throwing his hands up in the air. There’s something so spirited about him in this moment that, if it were any other occasion, Emma would only admire it. Even now, George seems cast wide open in front of her, like all his very vulnerable and very human moving parts are on display. “Friends,” he scoffs once more, shaking his head, suddenly calmer. “You have no idea how sick I am of hearing you say that word, Emma.”

A wild howl rises up inside her. Because he’s right. A friend wouldn’t corner him like this. A friend wouldn’t have treated him the way she has this past month. A friend wouldn’t tear down the very foundation of their relationship because she can’t accept what they have and respect his feelings about it.

“I’m s-s-sorry,” Emma manages to stammer, before pressing the heels of her hands hard against her watering eyes. The darkness it supplies is blissful instead of having to take in the wretched look on George’s face. “I know I’ve ruined everything, I’ve-”

“Stop, stop, Emma. Stop!” George’s touch is back, fingers curling around her wrists this time, gently prying her hands down and away from her face. His thumbs rest in the hollows of her pulse points, and Emma is sure he must be able to feel how erratic her heartbeat is. “Emma, stop,” he sighs again, far softer, tenderer now. His stormy gaze fixes on her, pinning her completely still, like a butterfly in a museum display case. “I... I don’t want to be your friend, Emma.”

The words wrench from him and hit the air with the impact of a lightning strike. But there’s something that feels different this time; perhaps it is the frantic desperation, the hopeful plea that laces through the way George lays this information at Emma’s feet.

“I don’t understand,” Emma whispers back, although potentially she does, but she’s too scared to believe it. Because although the way George is staring at her is telling her something new, something exciting, she barely dares to hope that she could be on the verge of getting what she wants. After all, she’s been so wrong, so desperately wrong, so many times before now.

If this is real, Emma needs to hear him say it.

So when a crooked smile appears tentatively at George’s mouth, faint at first, before blooming into something bolder, Emma’s heart almost stops. The familiar lines of his face are now a revelation, complimented perfectly by his full bottom lip, the angle of his jaw, the pink heat that is blossoming on his cheeks.

“George?” she prompts, voice sounding small to her own ears. Emma is wishful, hopeful, and yet desperate for him to say something. George’s blue-grey eyes are dancing and sparking and playing on her impatience in a way that she is coming to realise is utterly intentional.

Finally, just when she’s almost at the end of her tether and he must know it, George reaches up to rest the palm of his hand against the curve of her cheek. “Emma,” he says, the deep timbre rattling through her like a small earthquake, “I don’t want to be just your friend anymore. Because… well, for the longest time, I’ve wanted so much more than that, and god, I’ve hardly known how to tell you.”

Emma, for one of the few times in her life, finds herself quite without the ability to speak. This whole thing has to be a dream, because only in her wildest imagination could she ever find herself hearing the very thing that she’s so desperately been wanting. She loves George, and he loves her too? Has loved her for quite some time? Emma now understands why he’d seen the humour in her declaration. She feels like she could burst open with joy and tears and laughter at their mutual stupidity.

But although she wants to do all those things: laugh, cry, scream in wonder, Emma is mostly just dumbstruck, her mind totally and utterly flooded with so many emotions that she doesn’t know which one to reach for first. It’s all she can do to keep breathing.

George is staring at her, his happiness all too quickly falling away the longer she’s silent, now apparently throwing himself headlong into crippling self-doubt at Emma’s prolonged lack of response. His thumb twitches near her chin, before he bows closer, waiting until he can’t any longer.

“You understand what I’m saying, don’t you Emma?” he asks, the sentiment tumbling out in a rush of desperately concerned syllables. “You understand my feelings?”

His feelings! Her mind spirals outwards in ever larger concentric circles until they are too wide for Emma to control anymore. George’s feelings are for her and her alone. Hers to keep precious and safe and protected forever.

It takes every ounce of Emma’s self-possession to move her head, manage a small nod of acknowledgment. She’s so terrified to break the spell, in case one wrong step on her part could have this all fall down around her.

“Please say something,” George pleads finally, clearly unable to bear her silence for one second longer. His other hand releases her remaining wrist and joins the other to cup the other side of her face, a thumb swiping kindly at a teardrop that’s clinging to the swell of her cheek. George’s eyes trace every inch of her, anxiously trying to interpret her thoughts.

So instead of trying to find the perfect words to describe how she’s feeling, how happy she is, Emma does the next best thing.

Once again, she kisses him.

Chapter Text

This time, at least, George is prepared.

As her lips meet his, Emma feels the shudder that rattles through him, like something has finally unspooled inside George that no longer has to be contained by secrets and the strict parameters of friendship. The vibration swims through her chest, resonant and strong, until eventually Emma’s rather unsure whether it’s her body or his that is generating the motion anymore.

Her heart is pounding violently as George’s mouth cautiously reacts to hers. His timidity is rather surprising, especially given the fervent way one of his arms has looped around her back in order to tuck her against his body. It’s only then that Emma realises that she’s practically trembling in his embrace, and considers how that might read to the perpetually respectful George. It's only because Emma's mind is overloaded and overwhelmed, but somehow, he seems to know. Because George knows her. The thought instantly makes Emma feel slightly calmer.

The cold tip of George’s nose slides against hers, the coolness initially jarring compared to the warmth of his skin, the hot press of his mouth. The way he kisses her back is so sweetly ardent, so full of everything that they’ve never been able to say to each other before. Emma sighs against him, feeling bolder, and the quiver of George’s hand on her jaw tells her that she’s not the only one who is struggling to keep it together.

It feels like a revelation to be able to do this; to kiss him, to place her hand against his neck and absorb the heat of him under her palms, the way his muscles move under his skin. There were times when Emma thought this would never happen, that the only chance she'd ever get to experience George like this would be in her fevered imagination. But now she has the freedom to curl herself into him, and the joy of it all makes a giggle rise into her chest.

George, of course, can’t help but notice, attuned to her as he is. He leans back a fraction. “Are you laughing at me now? Is that your revenge?” he questions lightly, even though his lips are never far from hers, the words rather drawn out in between the intermittent pressures. Emma can feel the shape of his mouth twist up in a quiet smile, even if she can’t see it.

“Oh, shut up,” she barely manages to reply, forming the syllables against his bottom lip. It’s becoming increasingly hard to think now that he’s everywhere, in every one of her senses. George is somehow, unfathomably hers, and a flushed heat pulses through Emma at the idea of possessing him as her own. She tries and fails to stifle a sigh at the thought; her brain is too immersed in the champagne taste of him, the way he smirks against her mouth at the sounds she makes in the back of her throat, to exert any control. Emma’s foggy mind is drowning in the familiar and yet unfamiliar softness of his mouth and the tongue that is now decisively seeking her own. There’s something reverent about the way George’s hand remains hovering against her cheek still, tilting her head just so, the pads of his fingertips grazing against the column of her neck. It’s like Emma is something precious, something to be cradled and kept safe. A thrumming sense of euphoria beats through her as he kisses her slowly, languidly, taking his time and torturing her in the process.

She wants more and at the thought her hands claw for purchase on the lapels of his suit. George senses the shift.

“Emma,” she hears him breathe against her, and there’s something desperate and needy about the way he says her name like that. She just knows that George is still holding back. Perhaps he thinks he’s protecting Emma from how much he wants her, but the idea that George, usually so steady and in command of himself, is pushing at his boundaries of restraint causes a surge of anticipatory heat to flood Emma’s belly.

And how ridiculous, her hazy mind manages to think. She doesn’t just want the gentle and inherently tender parts of him, even though they too make her head swim and blood run red hot. Emma wants the rough edges of George too, the parts of himself that he doesn’t let anyone but her see. Because although there’s extraordinary tenderness to the weight of his lips, and the way they trace worshipfully against her own, there’s also something more insistent bubbling up in him too, slowly turning the gentle into the electric. And so Emma rocks her hips against his in silent encouragement, making her wishes as clear as she possibly can.

George pauses for a second, before something snaps.

When his tongue finally licks in hot desperation against her own, Emma lets out a surprised moan and she feels George’s muscles tense at the sound. Not to be outdone, she releases his jacket from her clenched fists, a hand rising to scrape the curves of her nails behind his ear, upwards into his hair. She lightly pulls, just a bit, and Emma feels him sway against her, a fragile sigh staggering out of him, captured between their joined lips. It’s a sound that Emma knows she’s going to remember forever.

Her other hand settles against the swell of his upper arm, an attempt to keep herself steady. Her legs already feel weak, heavy, like it’s an effort to even keep herself upright. George seems to know this, seems to sense how he’s knocked her off balance, and so tugs her closer still, chests fully pressed together so that his breaths become hers and they echo out into the night air in clumsy unison. God help her, Emma can’t stop the whimper that follows, and she can tell the sound gives George immense satisfaction, if the eager response of his mouth is anything to go by as it chases against hers.

“Emma,” he growls and it’s so low this time that it’s almost a hoarse whisper. Emma will never get used to hearing her name said in that way, with such blistering need. George sounds rather like he’s at the end of his sanity, as if his remaining slivers of self-control are barely holding on. He arches into her, a hand falling from her face to take up residence lower. His wide palm presses against the span of her waist, the pad of his thumb sliding hastily across the slope of one of her ribs. His touch feels raw, like he’s touching her bare skin rather than being hindered by the fabric of her dress.

She lets out a little choke of surprise, and any attempt at dignity on her part flies clean out the window. Emma replies by grazing her teeth against his lower lip, and George roars even more to life, his next kiss as bruising as those she’s been wanting in those dark nights alone in her room. It’s all hard edges, no softness at all. It’s like he’s a different person, she thinks, as she continues to thread her fingers roughly through the tendrils of his hair, tugging harder than she means to. But she can’t help herself, not when every time she does, a punctuated gasp rips from him - and yet it's not a protest, but rather a cloying plea for more. George’s reaction seems to want to rattle every bone in Emma’s body to its absolute breaking point, and then rebuild her anew.

His tongue flicks at her own, chasing and wild, and his absolute urgency for her makes Emma feel drunk on his adoration. They are so close that she can already feel how much he wants her, and instead of that realisation being strange to her - he’s been her best friend for so long after all - the power it affords makes her feel both invincible and yet somehow also unworthy. She doesn’t deserve this man, even though she knows George wouldn’t agree.

God, she loves him, so very desperately. All Emma wants to do is coil around him, into him, allow herself to sink into the fine lines of his body, feel his weight against her. It’s not possible given that they’re standing in the middle of the lime walk, but it doesn’t stop her mind from wishing that they’d somehow managed to reach this epiphany somewhere indoors - somewhere with walls, maybe even a bed. After all, they’re in full view of anyone who should venture around this side of the house, and although it’s dark, it’s not dark enough to escape notice. Emma half contemplates whether to shove George against the nearest tree, just to see what happens. Based on the smooth slant of his mouth, the solid grasp of his hand that’s somehow gravitated to her hipbone now, Emma rather doubts he’d protest too much.

“George?” she breathes, and Emma can see his closed lids flicker back to half awareness as he pulls back just a fraction.

They share a shallow breath. Emma’s in love with the dumbstruck look on his face. George’s pupils have become intensely dark, full blown and unfocused. His lips are red and wet from hers, and Emma enjoys the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he tries to catch his breath.

George’s thumb grazes roughly across the corner of her mouth, somehow both tender and desperate at the same time. Emma’s heart clambers at the sensation.

“Mmm?” he answers, clearly unable to formulate much in the way of a reply right this minute.

“For the future reference,” she manages to breathe out, her brain still fixated on the way George is looking at her, as if she’d hung the moon, “maybe next time just lead with the ‘I love you too’ part. Rather than laughing at me and telling me you don’t want to be my friend.” She nips at his lower lip in a teasing apology, before soothing the site with her tongue.

His eyes get darker still, but George is able to release an amused grunt nevertheless. “Next time?” he murmurs back, tracing the words against her lips, before curving his neck to kiss her more thoroughly. He’s clearly uninterested in having this conversation right now.

But Emma can’t quite help herself, despite her desire to have George never stop kissing her ever again. “You know what I mean,” she retorts, even as her hand slides under his jacket, nails scraping against his shirt, aiming for his ribcage.

He lets out a low hiss, squirming a little, the hand on her hip tightening just that bit more. He seems to return to himself a bit. “To be fair,” George replies, fully fledged merriment dancing between the kisses and the elongated vowels of each word, “I never - actually said - ‘I love you too.’”

Emma knows he’s joking, can hear it in the lilt of his voice, but she pushes back from him anyway, if only so they can play this out in the animated manner that is only too familiar to them both. It only strikes her now that their years of lively teasing have probably been masking something far more obvious. “Seriously?!”

He grins at her now, smug for a moment, before his expression settles into his usual shape: the kind and compassionate George that she knows. It seems like a minor miracle that Emma no longer feels the temptation to send herself off into a tailspin of doubt at his goading. She knows how George feels about her. She only needs to look at the awed expression that is etched onto every corner of his lovely face to see it.

George clears his throat. “I’m...” his lips twitch, “well, in case it wasn’t stupidly obvious by now, I’m in love with you too.” He offers Emma a bashful smile, one filled with both adoration and unbridled amazement that he gets to tell her this without breaking his life apart in the process. She doesn’t think she’ll ever get sick of seeing her toughest critic look at her like that.

Emma attempts to keep a straight face, but knows immediately she does a poor job of it. “Oh,” she responds proudly, as if she was listening to him read out a shopping list or puzzling over what to have for dinner. “Was that what all that was?” She waves her wrist into the air dismissively, bites her bottom lip.

George shoots her a wry look, but it’s mostly offset by the way he keeps staring at her mouth. “Did I not make myself clear before?”

Emma arches an eyebrow, and the hand she has placed on his side manoeuvres its way to the flat plain of his stomach, just above his belt buckle. She feels the muscles there contract against her touch, and tries not to smirk. “I think I’m getting the idea,” she murmurs, enjoying the way George’s eyes have clouded over a little. She leans forward, her mouth aligning with his ear. “Although I’m open to more evidence.”

“I see,” he says with mock seriousness, an attempt at a frown barely having enough time to settle before he’s reaching for her again. This renewed kiss is unhurried, slow, and utterly agonising with how earnest it is. But then the velvet press of his tongue urges her to open her mouth to him once more, and yet again the dangerous edge of Emma’s desire is reciprocating in kind.

George’s hand smooths its way up her back, catching on the fabric of her dress, before finally coming to rest behind her neck. Goosebumps rise on her bare arms, and Emma can feel his fingertips threading through her hair, looping the length of it around and around with delightful resistance.

Suddenly he pulls back, leaving her off kilter as he stares at her, gaze heavy. George’s voice is deep and full when he finally speaks. “I… I love you, Emma,” he says, in that matter of fact way he has, like he hasn’t just upended her entire world and changed it forever. “I am very, very much in love with you.”

All Emma’s playful bravado falls away, and only aching sincerity is left. “Really?” Her question is barely more than a soft hush, lacking the composure than she’d like. She wants to hear George say it again. She’s not sure she can hear those words too many times.

But George, always a step ahead, just sighs, even though he’s smiling from ear to ear. He might be in love with her, but he’s still George after all, and won’t indulge her cravings for flattery, even in moments such as this. “Yes, really. And apparently… although please correct me if I misheard you, my dear Emma, you’re in love with me too?” There's something deliciously boyish in his face as he says it. And although George has always been light hearted, friendly, and not particularly prone to sullenness, Emma’s not sure she’s ever seen him quite this effervescent before.

Emma stifles a laugh, finding it impossible now to contain her happiness in the face of his. “Yes,” she grins, animated and ready. The admission comes easily, now that she’s free to express it and knows it will be returned. “Although I did consider getting myself checked for a head injury at first. But after a while, I found I’d quite warmed to the idea.”

George angles his head at her, pretending to be stern, but failing. “Is that right? And how long have you been suffering, so very bravely, under this clearly awful delusion?”

Emma considers batting his question back with a joke, but given the circumstances, she feels he deserves her honesty on this point.

“I’m not totally sure,” she admits, with a slight wince. “I think maybe it’s been building up for so long that I couldn’t see it until it was right under my nose.” George doesn’t seem perturbed by her answer, merely looks at her with curiosity. “But at the party, when I kissed you - and you kissed me back, might I point out - it felt... different than I thought it would. I liked it. I more than liked it. But I excused it, and then you left, and then Harriet said something, and I thought you couldn’t possibly feel the same-”

At that he bursts out. “-Ha!”

Emma pouts. “Well, you didn’t exactly make it obvious, did you?” It’s not quite an accusation, but there’s a certain barb unpinning her assertion.

Instead of protesting, George simply presses his forehead to hers before sinking into her with an opened mouth kiss. It’s immediately passionate; hot and fiery and laced with such yearning that Emma wants to return it tenfold and that still would never be enough to get her feelings across. Her nerves feel raw, as if with one rasp of his skin to hers, she feels exposed to her most basest desires. Emma wonders yet again just how quickly they can find an empty room in the Abbey and lock the door and not emerge until the morning. Just as she’s contemplating the practicalities of it, George pulls back.

“Obvious enough now?” he asks breathlessly, tucking a strand of Emma’s hair behind her ear in such an innocent way that Emma thinks she must have just imagined the firm way his palm had urged their hips together. This new side of George is something Emma never quite anticipated. It seems as though the assurance of her love has rendered him confident and bold and although George has never been the opposite of either of those things, it’s quite another thing to see him as open as this.

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Emma replies haughtily, wishing her own voice didn’t sound quite so affected. “Not sure why you couldn’t have just done that as soon as I told you how I felt.”

George smiles with his whole face, wrinkles his nose. Emma wants to draw her finger down the perfect slope of it, but resists. “And miss out on torturing you as exquisitely as you’ve tortured me these past few months? Perhaps I felt you needed a moment to be in love with some doubt of it being returned. How could I resist?”

Emma wants to be annoyed, should be annoyed, but somehow she can’t resist the crookedness of George’s smile, and so places a light kiss right at its corner in a quiet reply.

“And,” he says eventually, after a moment’s thought, as his hooded eyes watch her, “I don’t know about you… but sometimes I’ve found being trapped in a suspended state of unrequited love quite… invigorating?”

It’s not what Emma expected him to say. “Invigorating!?” She could say something outrageous here, something to try and shock him, but she’s too curious about where this is going.

His eyes dance at her nevertheless, clearly already understanding where Emma’s mind has gone. “Yes, invigorating.” George smiles wolfishly at her, and the expression reminds her of Frank, although she knows George would never appreciate the comparison. “It certainly… sharpens the senses. I’ve been quite the master at torturing myself for quite some time now when it comes to you.”

Emma can’t hold her next question back. “How long have you...?” She doesn’t quite have the right words to fully articulate the rest of it, but judging by the thoughtful expression that appears on George’s face, he knows what she’s asking.

“It’s only when you started dating Elton that… I truly realised what I was feeling was… more.” The forlorn ache in his voice hits Emma deep in her core. The confession certainly explains why George had been against her relationship with Elton from the first. Emma thinks back on all the months that George had said nothing at all, had continued to be her friend without a hint of how he’d felt. How had he not driven himself mad?

Her mind is still whirling when George peers down at her. “Also, Emma, why did you think I disliked Frank so much?”

Oh. Oh, of course. It’s so obvious now that he says it, as obvious as the nose on her face. All those years of George avoiding Frank like the plague, grumbling every time he showed up in Highbury. She’s been blind.

“I thought you just found him irritating!” she cries and George rewards her with an disbelieving stare. “Honestly! You’ve really hated him all this time because you were jealous?”

George bristles at the word, but otherwise doesn’t protest. It’s clear Emma has guessed correctly. “To be fair, it didn’t dawn on me for a long time why I couldn’t warm to him.“ George leans forward just enough for his lips to trace the words against the curve of her cheek. His warm breath sends something equivalent to an electric current down Emma’s spine. “The realisation that what I was feeling was jealousy didn’t really click until Elton happened. All these years I just thought… well,” he shrugs, “that he wasn’t good enough for you. That no one was good enough for you. Honestly, I’m surprised that you think I’m good enough for you.”

He means it as a self-deprecating joke, but Emma can hear the sliver of doubt that festers underneath.

“George,” she murmurs intently, and Emma can see just by the way she says his name that a light of reassurance has ignited in his eyes. He understands her, and so instead she attempts to alleviate the mood. “You make me sound like such a snob.”

He chuckles at that, drawing back so he can stare at her head on. “You’re not a snob,” he answers, and just as Emma is about to stutter in surprise at the compliment, he adds “you’re just… spoiled.”

Emma rolls her eyes at him, hardly in the position to refute something about herself that is absolutely true.

George seems eager to resume their previous topic. “It annoyed me,” he continues, “the idea that you could like someone so… Frank.” George shakes his head at his pathetic attempt at explanation. “But... I couldn’t figure out why.” George cuts off with a choked laugh. “And then you started dating Elton and… well, the truth became all too abruptly clear.” He grimaces at that, and although Emma has only understood her heart for a fraction of the amount of time that George has understood his own, the sheer pain that he’s been labouring under cuts deep at her.

“After Elton and I broke up... why didn’t you say anything then?” Emma senses she already knows the answer, but she can’t help but ask the question anyway. One of George’s fingers has come to trace the shell of her ear and it’s utterly distracting.

Sure enough, she gets a sardonic look in reply. “I didn’t want to risk our friendship. You never gave the slightest indication that you felt anything like that for me. In fact, I seem to remember you going out of your way to tell me how irritating I was, and how much you wished I would keep my opinions to myself.”

“Are you quite sure you love me? It’s not too late to change your mind,” Emma attempts lightly, wishing with all her heart that she could rewind time and see her behaviour for what it really was, see the truth buried within herself.

George seems unruffled, merely shrugs. “I was irritating,” he accepts with a blithe grace. “Because that would make you argue with me, and god help me, I liked that more than I should've.”

Emma is intrigued at the pink flush that has appeared on George's cheeks, but is also slightly put out. “Oh, so that’s why you were always picking fights with me?”

George raises his eyebrows at her, and Emma realises that she’s rather proven his point. He looks satisfied, smug, and it suits him far too well. “You’re very cute when you’re mad. And as I said, I was very deep into torturing myself.”

She can’t help but be amused by him, even though Emma knows that George's blasé responses are probably sparing her from the reality: that it was more difficult for him than he probably wants to admit right now. All she can do is provide further reassurance.

“Well, we both know that Elton was just a huge mistake. And I promise there was never anything between Frank and I. Although I can guess how it might have looked sometimes.” Emma reaches up to graze a sympathetic knuckle against his jaw. George’s lashes flutter in reply, perfect half moons against his skin.

For a moment Emma almost forgets what they are even talking about until he speaks again. “Even if there had been, Emma, I still acted like a moronic idiot about him.” George looks meek and rather contrite.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

George smiles at that, twists his head a little to place a kiss in the centre of her palm, another on her wrist. “You’re too generous. I haven’t behaved well.” He must track the confused look on her face, and cringes at having to articulate further. “I shouldn’t have reacted like I did. Running off to London like an absolute coward!”

Emma can see the regret that’s nestled behind his eyes, and wants desperately to soothe it. “You were right to be mad at me,” she agrees, although there’s a niggle that Emma can’t help but voice. “Although, I admit, I was surprised as to how mad you were about it. I thought I’d made you so angry that you’d never forgive me.”

George shakes his head fiercely, his gaze fixing sharply on her. “I admit, I was annoyed at you, I won’t lie about that. But my anger was really at myself, and I completely, foolishly, misdirected it at you.”

“Oh?”

George’s guilt is plain across his features. Emma finds she wants to smooth the emotion away with her fingertips. “I... I just didn’t know how to be around you after what happened at the party. I’m not proud of the way I… ignored you and hid from you.” George lets out a sudden chuckle, and Emma can only interpret it as him acknowledging his own folly. “I’d gone into that evening feeling safe from you, for lack of a better word.”

Emma gives him a puzzled look. The pieces are slowly falling into place, but she still doesn’t quite grasp his full meaning.

George looks pained once more, but nevertheless doesn’t shy away from meeting Emma’s stare. “We agreed there wouldn’t be any… kissing.” Even now, he wrestles with the word and it’s so ridiculously endearing given the situation, given the way she can still taste him on her lips.

Emma tries to temper her amused smile. “But if you liked me, why did you suggest that we shouldn’t kiss?”

George’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, and Emma wants to capture it between her teeth. “Because I knew that if I had to kiss you, even as part of some sort of agreed performance, I’d… I don’t know... never be able to get over it? Knowing you didn’t feel the same?” He half shrugs, awkward, sheepish.

“And yet you still agreed to come with me? To the party?”

George’s reply is gentle, sincere. “Yes.”

“Knowing you had to pretend?”

His voice softens further. “Yes.”

“But why?” Emma’s incredulous as to how he could put himself in that position. Sure, George Knightley is selfless, but he’s not a complete sadist.

He shrugs once more. “Because you asked me to. And after my initial shock, I realised… I wanted to. I just… needed to do it with boundaries.”

“And that’s why no kissing?”

“Exactly.” George releases a little stutter of a laugh. ”It would’ve been just one step too far if you’d asked me to do that. I’d like to think I can put up with most things,” he gives her a sly grin, “but I’m pretty sure if I had to kiss you knowing it was all fake, well…”

His unfinished sentence lingers between them, and now Emma can finally see what her impulsive actions had caused. She’d tortured a perfectly good man, and for what? To get back at someone who wasn’t worth her time and energy?

There aren’t enough apologies in the world. “George, I’m… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“No! Emma, no.” He starts to shake his head emphatically, but his movements still as her hand slides into his own. George immediately clasps on, like it’s an anchoring point, and Emma feels eased by his response. “You don’t need to apologise for something you didn’t know.”

“But I want to.”

While his body language has become quieter, calmer, George is still resolute. “Certainly, you shouldn’t have broken your promise. But my reaction was on me, and that’s where I should apologise. Because… because you kissed me and I thought… finally.” His gaze flutters to her lips, and Emma’s heart pauses in her chest. He seems to struggle to pull his eyes away, but manages eventually. “I’d wanted it for so long, and I thought that you were doing it because you finally wanted what I wanted. Ridiculous, I know,” he huffs, “I should have realised immediately, but… forgive me, I was a bit too blindsided to see straight.”

He gives her a modest smile, and Emma wants to tell him he’s being too hard on himself. But before she can, George is leaning in to kiss her again, like he almost wants the reassurance that he can, that he’s free to love her as he’s been hoping to do this entire time.

Eventually he pulls back, and it seems now that he’s started, George can’t seem to hold anything back anymore. And it’s understandable, given all that he’s been bottling up, and Emma is only too eager to hear it.

“I was so… overwhelmed, Emma. And the way you kissed me… I-I thought it was real. I truly did. And when it turned out that it was all for Elton, I…” George trails off, clearly still embarrassed at his mistake. “My assumptions were my own fault, but the disappointment, I assure you, was… brutal. Your exact words, I recall, were: It’s not a big deal. It didn’t mean anything.” George peers at her, looking guilty for even having to repeat them.

Emma feels a hot wave of shame rinse through her. How blind she’d been. How cruel.

“And I just,” George squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, swallowing thickly, “… it made me realise that even my tiniest hope was all for nothing, and that I needed to stop pining for you-”

“Pining!?”

“Yes, god, Emma, please don’t make me repeat it,” he begs, only half joking. George seems as eager to return them to even ground as she is. “And so I naively thought if I took some time, got some space away from you that the feelings would... go away?”

Emma raises a cautiously amused eyebrow. “And how did that work out for you?”

He tuts. Emma might be his weak spot, but George is still his own person, still capable of courting her displeasure if he thinks it is warranted.

“Obviously it worked out horribly,” he grumbles. “Thank you very much for asking.”

“Poor George,” she simpers, jutting out her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout.

He narrows his eyes, but his usual humour is in them still. “Oh, and so my absence didn’t bother you at all then?”

It’s Emma’s turn to glare at him now. “Just get on with your story, will you.”

George grins. “Well, let me soothe your ego, Emma, by reassuring you that I was acutely miserable. To the extent that John has now banned me from staying with them for an entire year.”

“That’s no great hardship,” Emma points out, thinking about John and Isabella’s tiny flat with no great fondness. “Besides, I absolutely refuse to let you swan off to London again without me and their fold out couch would never fit the both of us anyway. Or give us any privacy.” Her implication makes George blush furiously and seems to have momentarily made him forget how to speak.

Emma rather likes seeing him so discomforted and files this information away for future use. “Please continue,” she prompts regally, squeezing his hand.

A slight tic in his jaw is the only thing that gives George away. “Well, suffice to say I drove John and Isabella mad because I couldn’t stop thinking about you, even though I couldn’t tell them that’s what I was thinking about. And so I resolved myself that when I got back I would just... tell you.”

Emma can already feel where this is going.

“And then in the library last week,” George continues, mirth curling around the words, “you bled all over me, and told me again and again how important our friendship was, how I couldn't possibly want to risk changing it.” He looks at her expectantly, forcing Emma to remember the whole ordeal in more vivid detail than she’d like. She’d been so obsessed with fixing their friendship that she’d basically derailed her own happiness without knowing. “Emma, this isn’t a… I don’t want you to think I’m saying any of this to make you feel bad.”

Emma knows he’s not, but she feels bad anyway. But still, she needs to hear it and George deserves the chance to say it. She lets out a shaky breath, feeling like an blind fool. “So, you wanted to tell me that day in the library?”

George seems surprised that she’s urging him on, but it’s clear he needs to get this off his chest. “Yes. That’s why I sent that text, saying I had something I needed to tell you too. Jane… well, in the end I confessed everything to Jane. She was too perceptive, seemed to be able to account for my misery just as soon as she looked at me. And so she persuaded me that I just needed to be honest.”

Emma’s not sure she’s heard correctly. “Jane?!”

His blue eyes are glinting as he desperately tries to smother his smile. “Yes, Jane. Shocked?”

She is, but even now Emma struggles with the idea of giving Jane Fairfax any credit for her happiness. She’ll have to work on that.

George knows better than to expect an answer. “Anyway, I was surprised you couldn’t see straight through me that day. I thought you almost had, for a moment.”

Emma frowns, remembering how she’d sensed something off about him that morning, like he’d been withholding some truth from her. Stupidly, she’d thought it had been about Jane, when all along it had been about herself.

“Oh,” is all she manages to utter, her brain having to re-evaluate all her memories of that day with this new information in mind. “But then you-”

“-I asked about us going to the wedding together instead, yes.”

“That’s why you asked me?”

George looks appalled at himself. “I panicked! Plus,” he bows his head a little in mortification, “I thought, what if this is my last chance to… even, well, pretend to be with you? God, that sounds pathetic.”

Emma’s lips curve up in a smile. How ridiculous they’ve both been.

“I wanted to tell you that day too,” she admits, as George’s forehead comes to rest against hers again. It feels so natural, so perfect, to be close to him like this. “But I was so desperate to get your friendship back first. And I thought that’s what you wanted… all you wanted… to be friends and for nothing to change! And then I was so worried about you having feelings for Jane…”

George snorts abruptly. “Ahh, yes. My secret love for Jane. How could I forget?”

“Don’t even tease me about that!” she scolds, jerking her head back slightly. “It’s been awful! First thinking that you hated me and then convincing myself that you wanted to tell me you were in love with her!”

“Good to see you didn’t blow anything out of proportion then,” George answers dryly, before flinching at the hand that reaches out to playfully slap him on the arm. In retaliation he pulls Emma back into his body, trapping her against him with exquisite precision. His lips connect with the spot just behind her jaw and Emma finds she doesn’t mind in the slightest.

Nevertheless, she’s still herself. “You’re the worst,” she grumbles, trying to smother the sigh that is fighting its way out between her lips, rather undercutting her point.

George stops, draws back so he can peer down at her. Emma wonders if she’s gone too far, even though she’s said far meaner things to him over the years. Instead, the softness in his eyes gives him away.

“And yet,” he murmurs, cadence smooth, sedate, “you love me.”

Emma can’t help collapse into a smile. “And yet I love you,” she echoes peacefully, a hand rising to push his hair back off his brow. Her heart sings at the way his eyes follow her movements, like she’s something mesmerising, worthy of note.

She leans up to kiss him searchingly, and it’s heaven the way that George melts into her, like he can’t help but not. They are silent for a good, long while.

Chapter Text

“I hate to say this,” George says eventually, hot breath tingling against her skin as he places a line of kisses along Emma’s neck, “but we should really get back.” Even as he says it, he does absolutely nothing to follow through with his suggestion.

Emma sighs as the graze of his teeth reach her earlobe. Her exhale is more than a little suggestive and she’d feel embarrassed if it didn’t epitomise exactly how unhinged she was feeling. “No one will miss us.”

George’s mouth finally comes to rest against her temple, placing a soft kiss to her hairline, an echo of the one he gave her outside the church earlier in the day, back when they were both blind and trapped and suffering. Slowly, he unwinds his arms from her, and even that makes him already too far away for Emma’s liking.

“Not true,” he says, looking rather unhappy about the development. “I promised Hetty and Jane I’d give them a tour of the galleries. And,” he adds, with a wry look, “I should probably make sure no one is throwing up in the duck pond.”

Emma grimaces. “It’s probably already too late for that.”

“You’re probably right.” George wrinkles up his nose in acknowledgement, before offering his hand to her, palm upturned. It strikes Emma that they had left the party at total odds with each other, but would be returning in a very, very different state. “Shall we then?”

But speaking of states. “One second,” she says, before reaching out with her thumb to find the slope of his mouth. She drags the pad across his lipstick stained lips, making a valiant attempt to restore George to a state that doesn’t make him look completely and totally kissed. It’s impossible for Emma not to notice the way George’s eyes cloud over, the way a deep sigh releases from his chest.

“That’s better,” she says out loud, although accepting that while his face looks somewhat restored, George’s hair, as ever, will remain a lost cause. And if he’s so dishevelled, Emma realises that there’s no way she isn’t similarly afflicted. Her own hair has had George’s hands tangled in it, and no doubt her tears will have definitely made her face blotchy and mascara stained.

“I think I’ll need to meet you out there,” she says, avoiding the temptation of taking his hand. Emma knows that if she touches him again, they’ll never leave the lime walk, and although that doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, it probably isn’t sustainable in the long term.

George shoots her a questioning look, hand dropping to his side.

“I need to fix this.” Emma gestures to her face. She’ll go in by the kitchen where no one but the catering staff will see her.

Any other man might attempt to reassure her that she doesn't need to do a thing at all. But George has never pulled any punches with her and is clearly not about to start now. “Hmm, yes,” he answers instead, scanning her face impartially. But he leans in to give her another lingering kiss anyway, and so Emma’s ego remains unbruised for the most part. The delightful swoop of his tongue sends a shudder through her veins.

George instantly pulls back. “Are you cold?”

Emma doesn’t quite yet have the courage to tell him that he is the cause of her reaction, rather than the chill in the night air. She’s not sure she could bear the smug look on his face. But either way, George is shrugging off his jacket before Emma even has a chance to contemplate her response any further. She silently watches as George drapes the garment across her shoulders. It dwarves her, and smells so much like him that Emma instinctively pulls it closer to her body and breathes in.

“Better?”

“Much,” she replies, nodding gratefully. George looks rather undone now that he’s just in his shirt, and it’s hardly helping to keep Emma’s imagination in check. She’s so used to seeing him in layer upon layer that anything less than that feels slightly scandalous. “Although I’m sure you’ve told me, more than once, that you wouldn’t lend me your jacket if I got cold.”

George gives her that crooked smile, the one that hitches up in the corner of his lips and sets Emma’s heart racing. “And yet, I always seem to, if you recall.”

“I think I might be your weak spot, George.”

He laughs, nods. “I think, on this occasion, you might be right. But I think I might be yours too.”

Emma beams at him, knowing that she doesn’t need to use words in order for him to know how much she agrees.

They hover together for a long while, both clearly struggling with taking the final step out of the little bubble they’ve created. After all, they can’t get this moment back. It’s already gone.

When George finally summons the ability to walk away, Emma, for the first time in a long time, enjoys watching him go. Not just for the way he glances back at her over his shoulder, or for the very handsome view, although that’s definitely part of it. This time she doesn’t have to wonder whether he’ll come back to her. Now, Emma knows he will.

---

By the time Emma makes her way back towards the party, makeup restored and no hint of debauchery about her person, the festivities are in full swing. Her eyes track the crowds as she passes, seeing but not really wanting to be seen. Her mind is still consumed by George, by everything that has just happened, that she’s not sure she’d be able to hold a sensible conversation if she tried. For once in her life, Emma is content to remain on the sidelines.

She makes a slow lap, nodding politely at people but not stopping to talk. Harriet and Rob are dancing; they’re both terrible at it - no rhythm at all, but they are laughing and happy and don’t appear to have eyes for anything but each other. There is no sign of Frank anywhere, although given Emma wouldn’t really know what to say to him right now, that’s probably for the best. Elton and his new bride are parading regally around the reception, like they are monarchs bestowing favour and so Emma makes a mad dash back into the house in order to avoid them.

It’s at the doorway to the gallery that she sees George, doing exactly what he said he would be doing. He’s with Jane and Hetty and although he’s the one who is meant to be giving the tour, it seems like Hetty is doing most of the talking. Emma watches as George simply nods along patiently, his head dipped low in order to give Hetty his full attention. Jane lingers a short distance away, staring up at a great portrait that entirely dominates one side of the room.

Emma’s heart, already filled to the brim, threatens once more to run over at the sight of George. Is seeing him always going to raise this reaction in her? One that makes it feel like she can’t quite get enough air in her lungs?

His back is to her, his white shirt braced across his shoulders as he leans down to listen to Hetty’s appreciative babble. The slope of his back is only to be admired, and Emma imagines how her palm would run across it, down it, tracing the curve of his spine. It’s a novelty to examine him like this, without his awareness. Emma has no desire to intrude.

But it seems she is not as aware as she thought, because all of a sudden the trio turn back towards the doorway and Emma is spotted. The smile that lights up George’s face is spectacular, before he manages to temper it into something more subdued. Emma is sure that she’s bright red for being caught staring but nothing can be done about it now.

She also doesn’t miss the way that Jane Fairfax glances between them, her intelligent eyes immediately comprehending the change in them both.

In a few quick strides, George is in front of her, and now that they’re in proper lighting, Emma is able to see that his lips do still bear the evidence of her own, although perhaps it is only that she knows to look rather than it being obvious to anyone else. At some point he’s also uncuffed his shirt sleeves and rolled them up, and the sight of his bare forearms makes Emma’s mouth go dry.

“There you are,” George says, as if he hadn’t seen her fifteen minutes ago, hadn’t had his mouth on hers twenty minutes ago. “All okay?”

Emma nods mutely, and for once Hetty trails past them both without a singular word, her arm interlinked with Jane’s. Perhaps she senses the change in the air, the undoubtedly intense exchange that is happening in the doorway.

Jane meets Emma’s eyes as they pass, and there is a gentle knowing in them. Emma hasn’t forgotten what George had said about Jane’s perceptiveness, nor her gracious encouragement of him. Emma feels a pang of remorse for all the unkind things that she’s thought about Jane recently, whilst in the pits of despair. It’s enough to make her give Jane a nod of acknowledgement, a silent thank you, and just hope that she understands.

Once they’re gone, she turns her attention back to George, who had watched the interaction with silent interest. Emma is sure he wants to comment on it, but seems to be restraining himself. “I’m fine,” she answers to his earlier inquiry, hoping to keep him from saying his piece about her and Jane. For now, at least. “Are you all done with your tours now?”

His eyes crinkle. “Yes. I’ve asked Mrs Hodges to take over if there are any more requests.”

“Well, the master of the house does deserve to enjoy the party too,” Emma says, her hand coming to rest on the doorframe.

George bites out a groan. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

Emma arches a perfect eyebrow at him. “Oh, why not?”

“You know why.” It’s almost like they’ve had this exact same conversation before.

Emma gives him a saucy look, and his eyes darken. “Oh. Well, I had been hoping to request a private tour? Of the library, perhaps? I would like to examine it more closely. I’m extremely fond of reading, you know.” Emma’s hand reaches up to straighten George’s already perfectly straight collar, and she notes the subtle working of his jaw. “I had thought that would be a duty only the master of the house could fulfil, but perhaps I should go and look for Mrs Hodges. Is she likely to be in the dining room, perh-”

It’s the grasp of George’s hand around hers that cuts Emma off. Before she can finish her sentence, she finds herself led away, through one of the many drawing rooms, down a rather wide hallway, back to the part of the Abbey that she knows much better, the part that George actually uses. Her heels clack against the flooring, the sound echoing loudly. A flurry of excitement butterflies in her stomach.

Emma supposes she shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the library door locks with a rather large key, although feels unobservant for never noticing before. The decisive click it makes as George turns it causes something inside her to snap. Within seconds she has him pressed up against a bookshelf, and to Emma’s surprise, George doesn’t complain even once about how uncomfortable it is on his back. His suit jacket, which had been still draped over Emma’s shoulders, falls to the floor with a dull thump, and neither of them do a thing about it.

---

“Please tell me that not everyone in these paintings are your ancestors,” Emma asks idly some time later, as she’s perched on the edge of his desk, George standing between her knees. At some point, between achingly reverent kisses, George has managed to switch on a solitary lamp, and now its steady glow is the only thing preventing the room from being in complete darkness. It’s almost like the lime walk again, Emma thinks, but far more comfortable and warm.

At her question, George’s head bobs up, now distracted from the intricate patterns that he had been drawing on her neck with his tongue. Disbelief jangles out of him. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” He sounds a little put out.

Emma levels him with a glare, squeezing her thighs against the outer of his, effectively trapping him - not that George minds, based on the look on his face. She leans back a little, hand catching on some paperwork or other, and so she brushes it briskly away. Reality is not welcome here. George’s eyes twitch, and Emma realises she’s probably ruining his perfectly organised filing system and waits for him to comment.

He doesn’t.

“It’s just that,” she continues anyway, bored of waiting, “if I’m going to consider undressing you tonight, I don’t really want to do it in a room where you are related to all the people on the walls watching. It would be... weird.” Emma fiddles with one of the buttons on his shirt front suggestively. Perhaps there is a world where Emma and George ease into their newfound familiarity with each other, slowly acclimatising to being far more than friends. But it definitely isn’t this one.

George’s lips part but no words come out. Eventually, he just shakes his head. “I can’t believe you’re still weirded out by that. Shouldn’t you have grown out of it by now?” Trust him to focus on that part, Emma thinks, trying not to scowl. But then she observes the way his breath seems to have shortened, and it’s clear he isn’t as unaffected as he makes out.

Emma huffs at him anyway. “It’s the eyes!”

“It’s so dark in here, I’m not sure how you can even see them.” George sounds bemused and Emma is more than aware that he’s indulging her ridiculousness.

“I don’t need to see them, to know,” she protests, gliding her hands up his naked forearms and enjoying the subtle ridges of muscle under the skin, the fine downy hair against her palms. “So, are you related to any of them?”

George glances around the room with a performative sigh of exasperation. The expanse of one of his hands plants itself firmly on her thigh and Emma squirms a little at the placement of his thumb, even with the layer of fabric in between. He can only have done that intentionally. “Probably? I’m not exactly sure. But probably yes.”

“Here’s no good then. Although, I think there are a lot of portraits in this house. We might have to avoid a lot of rooms. Does your bedroom have old portraits everywhere?” In all the years they’ve known each other, Emma has never once seen George’s room at the Abbey, even though she’s often wondered what it is like.

George squints at her. “Emma, a-are you... actually plotting places for us to have sex in the middle of a wedding reception?”

“Yes. Because it’s a wedding reception, George! It’s practically expected.” Honestly, he can be so dense sometimes. “Why? Aren’t you thinking about it?”

His hand on her thigh flexes involuntarily. “No,” George fires back, a little too quickly. “Maybe,” he amends a full second later, head bowing in rather endearing mortification.

Emma beams in triumph, and arches up to kiss him again. But the moment is broken by the rattling of the door handle, and voices outside. They pull back from each other and freeze in place, grateful for the foresight of turning the lock.

“It seems the house tours have resumed again,” George murmurs, low under his breath. They wait, barely moving, until the cluster of footsteps behind the door trail away. “Mrs Hodges is very efficient,” George adds with a grin.

Emma groans, falling forward so that her forehead comes to rest against his sternum. “You should never have agreed to open the rest of the house up to please Augusta Elton. You’re too nice!” Emma sits back again and gazes up at him, marvelling at the softness in George’s expression, even when she knows she is being bratty. “Anyway, there must be a million rooms in this house. Surely one of them is suitable for us to have sex in. And by suitable I mean, no creepy portraits, and not on the tour route.”

Emma accepts she’s hardly being particularly subtle about what she wants, although why should she be? They love each other. They are in love. And god help her, if George doesn’t undress her before the sun comes up, she might actually implode.

George looks torn between lust and sensibleness, a combination that leaves him looking rather attractively perplexed. “Emma, I truly mean this in the most flattering way… but there is really no rush for us to do… that.” George can’t realise that he’s not helping his case, given the beautiful depth of his voice, the way it curls through Emma’s insides.

And although he doesn’t spell it out, because he’s George and he knows Emma is probably a little sensitive about it, it wouldn’t just be their first time together. It would be her first time too.

“I know,” Emma replies, feeling a savage flush rise on her cheeks anyway. It’s not that she’s embarrassed or ashamed about her lack of experience. It’s more just that the idea of having sex with George sends such a thrill down her spine that it’s hard to stop herself from leaning back to lie prone on the desk behind her and dragging George down onto the hard surface with her. “But I want to. I really want to,” she says emphatically. If she told him just how much, Emma’s not sure she would ever live it down.

George swallows thickly. “Okay,” he nods nervously, the very picture of a man trying to remain respectful but who is also imagining the whole scenario in his head with very pleasing results. “But I’m not sure I want our first time to be with a house full of guests, in the middle of someone else’s wedding reception.”

He has a fair point. Besides, Emma’s not sure losing her virginity on George’s office desk, where generations of other Knightley’s have probably sat, is the most appropriate location for this once in a lifetime event.

“Fine,” she concedes begrudgingly. “But I am sleeping over tonight.”

A slow smile of happiness blooms richly across George’s face. “I’m very pleased to hear that. And for the record,” he adds, pressing a rather chaste kiss to her cheek before levelling his gaze to hers, “no - my room doesn’t have any portraits.”

---

Emma wakes up the next morning in George’s bed.

The upside is that she’s definitely not alone.

The downside is that she’s still fully dressed.

Emma attempts to shake off her grogginess, her still dazed eyes clearing and giving her the chance to now take a proper look around George’s bedroom. It had been so late last night, and she’d been so tired, that she hadn’t really been able to take it all in.

It’s large, spacious, likely to be the master suite of the entire house, if Emma had to guess. It’s decorated in a more subdued style to that of downstairs; darker panelling, simple wallpaper, heavy brocade curtains that were doing an admirable job of blocking out the sun.

Either way, it’s tidy. Not that Emma expected any different, because George is orderly by nature, and not prone to excess. But she gets a sense that the room’s lack of fuss is not by active choice, but more because George uses it for simply crawling into bed at night, and precious little else. The only thing that indicates his presence at all is a stack of books on the bedside table, the top one of which, Emma notices, is her father’s copy of Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd. There’s a bookmark a third of the way through. He does read novels after all.

So yes, somehow George’s room is both nothing like Emma expected and exactly what she expected at the same time. Kind of like George himself, really.

From her side of the bed, Emma registers her discarded high heels on the floor, and her purse and phone next to her on the side table. Stretching out, she picks up her phone and sees a message that’s just a series of kissy face emojis from Harriet, which Emma has no need to analyse. She puts it back down again without replying, a small smile creeping onto her face nevertheless. She’s not quite ready for the real world to encroach just yet.

Instead she rolls over to her side, her legs getting slightly tangled in the fabric of her dress and the blankets that she’d crawled under at some point last night. It really hadn’t been her intention to sleep in her clothes - but it’s clear that she’d fallen asleep as she’d been waiting for George last night and had not stirred at all until now.

George is lying next to her, sprawled out on top of the covers for some strange reason, still wearing his suit. He’s on his back, hands peacefully splayed across his torso. He breathes so quietly that Emma might have thought he was dead if not for the steady rise and fall of his chest.

It still seems a miracle to her that this could be real. Sure, she’s woken up next to George before, but never with the awareness that she’s in love with him, and safe in the knowledge that he feels the same. The change in their circumstances has heightened every single one of her senses; everything feels fresh and new and full of promise.

In this moment, Emma allows herself the freedom to stare at George, appreciating him, admiring him. Her eyes trace over the relaxed curve of his jaw, the sweep of his eyelashes against his cheeks. His hair is, as always, cast in all directions, spread out like a golden halo against the pillow under his head.

Emma is torn between pressing her body into his or letting him continue to sleep undisturbed. When George had shown her up to his room in the early hours, he’d promised to be back as soon as he could. She knew he felt obliged to see off the last of the guests, which had clearly taken longer than anticipated. Of course, he’d been too kind to wake her when he’d returned.

It hadn’t exactly been how she had wanted to end the evening. She’s also pretty sure that George hadn’t envisaged returning to his room to find Emma conked out on his bed, dead to the world. All through the reception, Emma had made it abundantly clear that she’d had plans of a much more intimate nature, and yet exhaustion and ultimately sleep had thwarted her. She feels like she’s been hovering on the borderline of arousal and sexual frustration for far longer than she’d like. Even now, the sensation pools in her, warm and fuzzy and anticipatory.

“Stop staring at me,” George murmurs suddenly, his groggy voice startling Emma from her rather unseemly thoughts. He pries open one eye to stare over at her. “And don’t deny it.”

Emma clamps her mouth shut, and huffs.

George lets out a low laugh at her reaction nevertheless, both eyes easing open now, head turning in her direction. “You sleep okay?” The question sounds so domestic, like they’ve been doing this for years. Emma can also tell he’s teasing her just a bit.

“Fine. Why didn’t you wake me?” She wants to reach out and touch him, but feels suddenly shy about making the first move for some reason.

His mouth twists into a gentle smile, adjusting his head on the pillow. “You looked so peaceful. And you once told me never to interrupt your beauty sleep unless I wanted to be - and I quote - ‘murdered in the most imaginative way possible’.”

Emma gives him a pointed stare. “Well there are obviously exceptions to that,” she stresses a little archly.

His eyes are dancing. “You said there were no exceptions, ever.”

She exhales fiercely. “We can revisit that.”

George casts her a knowing grin. “Besides, it was really late. Or actually, early is probably more accurate. What time is it now?”

“Around nine.”

He hums quietly to himself. “I’ve not slept until nine for years,” he says, before finally rolling over on his side to face her. The collar of his shirt gapes open at the neck, and Emma can see that the hem has become untucked from his trousers at some point in the night. His belt is gone, and his feet are devoid of his shoes.

“That’s because you’re a freak,” Emma replies, shuffling slightly closer to him even as she insults him. He watches her movements, but doesn’t comment. “Beds are underrated.”

George’s eyes spark in amusement. They’re clear and blue, even when they’re still hooded with sleep. “Are they just?”

“Oh yes,” Emma replies, tucking her hands close to her face, and within easy reach of his own, tempting him to take them. “Sometimes, after a long eventful night, there’s nothing better than lying in bed and wasting away the entire day.”

George looks at her lazily, but Emma already knows that he’s been on the same page since the moment she first spoke. “Well,” he answers eventually, “I can’t say that’s something I’ve ever tried before. Never quite had the right inducement, I suppose.”

A smile is already lighting up her face as Emma props herself up on her elbow, allowing her body to balance slightly over him, hovering just within his personal space. George gazes up at her with reverence, and Emma’s pretty sure she’ll never tire of having him look at her like that.

“And the right inducement would be?” she asks innocently, eyes widening as if she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing.

George closes his eyes momentarily in thought before opening them again to fix her with a fiendish look. “Probably a beautiful woman. I’m only human, after all.”

She pretends to sulk, but Emma feels too giddy really to put any real effort behind it. George has never been one to bestow compliments on her with any ease, always chiding that she’s big-headed enough without him puffing her up. Although now, with all the information she has at hand, there’s probably been a reason for his reticence, actually. Either way, the fact that he’s breaking his own rules is a novel new development.

“Any beautiful woman?” Emma prompts, inching her body just a fraction closer to his own so that their noses are almost touching.

George treats her to the most blindingly soft smile, before he presses his lips to hers, just once. “One specific beautiful woman,” he amends, before he kisses her again, more thoroughly this time, his arm finally drawing around her to tug her close. Emma enjoys the warmth of his skin, the long plain of his body, and allows him to kiss her slowly and gently for long moments until they both run out of breath.

“Smooth,” she laughs as she pulls back, spreading her palm against his chest and feeling the thumping pace of his heart. “You know, maybe if you’d talked to me like that years ago, instead of telling me off all the time, we could have avoided all this drama.”

Emma watches his brain mull this over. The reality is that their history is more complicated than that, and she fully expects George to give her nothing more than a sardonic response before pointing out all the reasons she’s wrong. Instead he just stares up at her with aching sincerity.

“Maybe,” he says simply, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in a gesture that Emma now knows is self-consciousness. “Maybe if I loved you less than I do, I might have found it easier to talk about.”

It’s a beautiful sentiment, one that Emma knows will bury itself into her heart to be carried with her always. But she can see by the sweet flush on George’s cheeks that he’s a little embarrassed at how saccharine it sounds. In the heated rush of emotions last night, the words had come more easily. Now, in the cold light of day, these new feelings will take some time to adjust to and express. After all, they have years of bad habits to unlearn.

Or maybe not. After all, Emma would rather fight with George than do anything else with anyone else. She realises what a uniquely privileged position that puts her in. And so, as she leans down under the guise of giving him another quick peck on the lips, a taunting smile gets there first.

“Is that the best you can do?” she teases, knowing that George will take her jest in the humour she intends it.

A sly grin appears on his lips, an eyebrow appraising her. “Oh, I can do better,” he assures her, propping himself up on one elbow to slowly roll her onto her back. Emma reclines eagerly, hands reaching for the collar of his shirt and tugging him along with her. She feels George’s knee make its way between her own, a hand casting aside the blankets and skirting up her thigh. Emma’s body arches into his, her breath stuttering before his mouth steals the sound.

They stay in bed all day.

---