Chapter Text
I
“So you are not going to see reason, William.”
Eliza suspends her relentless pacing long enough to declare this verdict, shaking her head in disbelief while she does. What she presents is not a real finding, it’s a full-fledged accusation and, of course, his refusal does not come as a surprise at all. Not in the light of the fact that they have wasted the better part of the last hour on this fruitless debate.
But on the off-chance that he still hasn’t gotten the gist of it, clarifying her position once more seems to be in order.
The object of her accusation does not respond, nor does he meet her eyes. Instead, William takes to rummaging through the papers on his desk. Which is, rather obviously, an extremely subtle way of telling her that he is a busy man and that it’s time for her to leave this very busy man alone, so that he can do whatever very busy men do, when—
Eliza makes a conscious effort not to stomp her foot, even though she feels very much like doing so. The urge is there, but so is the fact that William is already looking for an excuse to not treat her or her warning seriously and she is not going to provide him with ammunition by appearing overly emotional.
Instead, she settles for a small, mirthless laugh, before musing out loud to her rapt but sadly completely imaginary audience: “Inspector Wellington won’t listen to a word I say. Why am I not surprised?”
Finally, William does meet her eyes—and he even goes as far as dignifying her latest outburst with an answer.
(So awfully generous of him, is it not?)
“Eliza, I always listen, even when I should not. I just cannot do what you asked me to.”
His voice sounds perfectly calm, but Eliza can see that he is tired, weary. The deep bags under his eyes, the way he holds himself, and his rumpled suit tell her as much, and the sight is almost enough to soften her resolve.
Almost, but not quite.
For there is only one way to finish her previous abstract and that has to be: This is what very busy men do, when someone’s out there trying to kill them.
Eliza starts skimming over the events that have led her to this belief, in the hopes of finding something, anything, that will change his mind. And, without even realizing it, she starts pacing again.
For her, everything started with her latest case. Eliza is to find a young woman who has run away from home. It has not taken her long to find out that the well-bred Miss Hadley has got in with bad company, namely with a young man, Martin Fields, who associates with a gang called Sheppards Men. Said gang has been plaguing the city for a while now. Armed Burglaries seem to be their speciality, and the wealthiest citizens are their preferred targets. They are known for being swift, brutal and efficient; stolen goods have not yet reappeared.
A few days ago she turned to William for information (or as he would probably insist on calling it: help) but he has proven absolutely uncooperative, flatly ordering her to go home, drop the case and stay away.
Of course, she has done no such thing.
At first, being on her own posed no problem.
Three things have prompted Eliza to finally swallow her pride, come here and try to convince William to work together. First, there’s the pesky fact that from a certain point onward, she’s encountered nothing but silence and varying degrees of hostility, meaning she has very little of substance to show for her work. Second, there’s the fortunate fact that the police has apparently spent those last few days cracking down on the Sheppards Men, searching known locations and arresting people left and right, meaning they could well have stumbled over the missing lovers by chance. Third, the fact that Moses visited her, on his own accord, urging her to give said gang a wide berth, warning her how most unfortunate accidents tend to happen to those who dare to cross them.
Meanwhile, a gang member pretending to be willing to come clean, to give up his leader’s identity, has contacted William to arrange a secret meeting on so-called neutral turf.
Well, Eliza is certain that the man is merely pretending. William fancies that the fruit of his labours has finally ripened, that a promotion is in reach and that London will become a safer place in the wake of it. Eliza is certain that nothing but an attempt to take his life will wait for him at the meeting point.
To put it diplomatically: They did not have the greatest starting position to begin with and things have only gone downhill from there, hence the wasted hour.
Even the fact that Eliza does know of the proposed meeting in the first place is not due to some unanimity between them, for she has had to find it out herself. That has only been possible because upon her arrival, William had been so immersed in making out the handwriting on the grubby paper that she had managed to creep up on him and sneak a peek.
“Let’s just assume that what that Moses of yours said is true—” William does not even give her the chance to interrupt him, instead he corrects himself, sounding rather battle-weary: “And I will admit, it’s likely that the man knows what he’s talking about, which makes you, in fact, right, and this” —He lightly pats the note, which is still sticking out the jacket pocket where he has secured it from her grasp— “is a trap, it still doesn’t change the fact that I have to go.”
He rubs the pin of his nose, apparently talking more to himself than to her now: “Because I just need to...”
Eliza never finds out what William thinks he needs, because he seems to realize who is listening to him—not a fellow policemen or an otherwise equal partner, just her. So instead of telling her why he is willing to walk into a trap he has just been warned about multiple times, he clears his throat and opts for the condescending type of sympathy:
“Don’t be angry, Eliza.” His voice is softer now, unduly soft and she even imagines something tender glinting in his eyes.
As if he means to tell her: ‘Look, I’m patient enough to not fault you for neither being able to understand this extremely complex situation nor the fact that I am a man who has to go into battle’.
For the briefest moment she wonders if he’s just treating her like this to rile her up or if he actually hopes that she’ll swallow the bitter bill, be a good girl and return home to take care of her scrapbook now. Eliza does not even know which would actually be worse. Fortunately, she doesn’t have to decide between the two offences for the bottom line is still the same: she would really like to give him a clip ‘round the ear.
As it turns out, William is not even done yet. He keeps going, making it even worse by resting his hands on the table and putting on an indulgent smile: “And I promise that I’ll be careful.”
A small, vexed sound escapes her. Talk about adding insult to injury.
Unwittingly, she clenches her fist.
“Well, nobody asked you to promise anything, William”, Eliza snaps, and she can’t miss the tiniest crack in her voice, the one that betrays this sentiment and the dismissive attitude she is trying so hard to muster. The crack is there because she has just told a lie and he has said the truth: she did ask him to promise her something, albeit not in so many words and she is so, so angry.
Angry because he is not listening, angry because he is talking to her like this without meaning it, angry because of the sheer wrongness of the whole situation and angry because the irony of it all is not completely lost on her.
Angry because she has to be angry.
William’s face tells her that he has noticed that treacherous crack, too. He maintains his posture, watching her closely, maybe waiting for something.
She knows awfully well that if their roles were reversed, (which they admittedly have been, frequently); if he came to warn her of a danger and she’d prove unwilling to listen (which, admittedly may have happened) they’d not be having this discussion. William would simply take the steps he had deemed necessary and she’d have to deal with them. Because he is a man in a so-called responsible position and she is just a woman, meaning there are no steps she can take. All she has are words and part of her anger stems from this root.
But angry is not all she is.
Those other feelings, the ones hiding behind the anger are harder to tell apart and she doesn’t even want to try, but she also feels confused and hurt and betrayed and scared. Desperate.
Most of all she feels helpless.
Eliza takes a deep breath, unclenches her fist and makes her final attempt to convince him otherwise for the third time.
“William, you know you don’t have to go, not like this. You could try to set up your own meeting, at a safe place, on your terms. They’ve probably told you to come alone, but at least take backup with you, make sure —”
While she talks, she gestures aimlessly and hates the sound of her own voice. What she’s doing here sounds awfully like pleading and it’s a waste of breath, for they are long past the point where she can fool herself into believing that he’ll yield if she can only suggest the right path.
William sighs, Eliza lets her voice die away.
(If he has been waiting for something, then it has certainly been something different.)
Sometimes he does that, makes it sound like he’s the one having to endure one imposition afteranother. Sometimes he acts like she is being irrational and he is generous to a fault for putting up with her womanly antics all the time.
Sometimes, she does not like him very much.
Eliza reaches for her bag and makes her way over to the door. Apparently, she’s not going to win this one, but that doesn’t mean that she is giving up. Not when she knows that she is right.
And yet, for the briefest moment Eliza lingers, her hand still on the door handle and she wonders: what would happen if instead of saying those things he considers to be irrational, she did something truly fitting the description? If she made one last-last attempt at changing his mind, rushing up and clinging to him, repeating everything she has just been explaining, declaring and alleging it albeit in much, much simpler terms.
(Simple, unmistakable terms like: Don’t go, don’t go, I’m scared for you. I don’t want to lose you, I may need you.)
Would that be enough to stop him?
The answer has to be no.
Eliza tells herself that the look on William’s face would almost be worth it, though.
Again: Almost, but not quite.
“Do you uh, want me to send someone to escort you home?”, William asks, somewhat cautious. Maybe it’s a peace offering, maybe he feels generous because he thinks she has given up or maybe he just wants to make sure that she’ll really be out of the way.
“That won’t be necessary,” she tells the door, before turning to face him, letting her optimism get the better of her, once again: “But you know what you could do for me, don’t you?”
She meets the ghost of a smile: “You keep this up and people will suspect that you worry about me, Eliza.”
For a moment, the truth hammers through her head, ready to jump off her tongue and land in front of his feet.
(Don’t go, don’t go, I can’t lose you, I really, really need you.)
But she can’t, so she settles for what she can do.
“Fine,” Eliza snaps, straightening her back before storming off: “Go out there and get yourself killed, let people find out if I care.”
The last thing she hears is the sound of papers and glass being brushed off the desk.
She does not resist the urge to slam the door shut on her way out.
II
London has not become a safer place tonight and neither has William Wellington finally made a career for himself.
Instead he almost died.
It’s of cold comfort to know that his gut instinct had been right all along, meaning the meeting had not been a trap. Martin Fields, the young man waiting for him, really had wanted to come clean—and if he survives, the lad might as well still try. Sadly, his fellows got wind of the matter and, since it turned out that they were not too keen on the idea, they tried the old two birds, one stone trick.
Or specifically in this case: Two men, one burning building.
The only reason why William did not meet his death tonight is that apparently someone using his name sent a note to Scotland Yard, calling colleagues to his location, claiming to have found the Sheppards Men’s secret hideout.
Which is why he is now in the hospital—battered and bruised, but still alive.
‘Bedrest’, the quack doctor had told him before disappearing, ‘Strict bedrest and no sudden movements’. Words he would certainly consider to be sound advice if he were an old lady on her deathbed, but since he is very much not, he had better get back to work.
William forces his protesting body into an upright posture. Breathing proves a little tricky and the room sways as he takes his first step. Grudgingly, he concedes that maybe, maybe he does not need to return to work tonight. Home should be enough. After the day he has had, a man should at least be allowed to have a drink and sleep in his own four walls.
Another wobbly step and, muttering a curse, he drops back onto the bed, which reacts with a reproachful creak. He will still make it home, he tells himself while coughing, just not now. This is but a brief respite.
Besides, it’s not like he could actually sleep. Whenever he closes his eyes, memories of fire, heat and desperation come back to haunt him, making his legs restless and irritating his throat.
Somewhere nearby, a door opens. Footsteps approach, forceful, nimble ones, steps he’ll be able to match to the right person, always and everywhere.
Eliza.
It’s nothing but reflex that drives William to try and make himself at least appear presentable, by raking his fingers through his hair and smoothing down his suit, which, of course, has no effect whatsoever. He stinks of smoke, there is soot everywhere and his suit ripped a few times, the fabric capitulating to all the strain it has been under. All in all: he probably looks like someone who has been run over by a carriage multiple times in a row.
It doesn’t help that he feels like it, too. That and something else, something he cannot quite place but which definitely has him wary of the imminent talk.
Bloody stupid of him to feel that way, because at the end of the day, he is a policeman, who got injured while on duty.
The door to the room gets flung open and then Eliza has come to stand in front of him.
Her face is pale and her eyes seem huge and she should not even be here and he is so grateful that she is.
Eliza takes a moment to catch her breath, looking him over and observing his sorry state while she does.
Guilty, William realizes, that’s what he feels.
For one thing, he should just have told her the truth upfront.
For another thing, he should never have teased her about being worried about him. He had known immediately that it had been a bloody pathetic thing to try.
(Maybe he had just wanted to hear it from her.)
“William,” she starts, and her voice is raw with emotion.
Words bubble up inside him. Urgent, essential truths, truths that want to be exposed to the light, as dim as said light might be. He wants to tell her ‘I’m sorry, I should never have worried you like this’ or ‘I thought of you, there, Eliza. Only of you’ or something along those lines.
But William cannot bring himself to say any of it out loud. He can give all the reasons and then some for staying silent, though: Earlier in the day, they had parted on bad terms, his last attempt at this kind of assurance had not gone over so well and for now he is just a weak patient who has been prescribed strict bedrest.
Or how about this: He almost died once today, he does not need to add risking his neck metaphorically on top of it. After all, the wrong words at the wrong time can change things beyond repair. Words can be dangerous like that.
So the talking is left to Eliza. She swallows hard and takes a deep breath before making another, more orderly attempt at asking after him. He knows that she will do that in advance, because she throws herself in pose before speaking again: crossing her arms, lifting her chin and standing tall.
(He could have lost everything and this, he thinks.)
“William—are you alright?”
This time her voice is mostly light and only a little strained. Obviously, she has set her mind on acting like it’s a perfectly normal question under perfectly normal circumstances, as if they had just met casually in broad daylight. It’s their best option, he has to agree. They are going to pretend that she has not run here to check on him, like this is not a hospital ward and it’s not somewhere around midnight.
Like he did not almost die.
“You know I am tough”, William says, playing along as well as he can, offering a crooked smile. It’s not really an answer, but they’ll have to make do with it.
Silence.
“Go on then, say it,” William finally rasps, waving feebly with his hand. His throat is tight from a weird mixture of unsaid words, hot smoke, relief and remorse and since she is due both her little I-told-you-so speech and her I-saved-you speech, they might as well get it over with now.
The tiniest shake of her head: “Not tonight.”
It’s a promise. On another day, they can and will fight about it all, the circumstances, reasons and the amazing coincidences that have led them here, but not tonight. Tonight, they’ll call a truce, tonight they’ll be like this.
Which is a good thing, because he is definitely lacking the energy to be anything else.
Funny how clear-sighted William feels tonight, because he can see that Eliza does not know what to do next. There is something she wants to say, but she does not know how. She has her own truths and unlike him, she has not decided on staying silent.
William can almost watch her make up her mind and under different circumstances, he’d really enjoy seeing her so undecided for once. She opens her mouth to speak, then changes her mind and stays silent, shifting from one foot to the other while she does. She brushes a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, licks her lips.
He blames his increasing heartbeat on his currently poor health.
Eliza takes a deep breath. Instead of saying something, she shoves her hands into the pockets of her skirts, takes a step forward and then she moves slowly.
He stares at her wondering if she’s going to kiss him.
And then she completely surprises him by leaning her forehead against his.
Just like that.
It’s a soft touch.
It’s not a hug. It’s more, less, better or just as good. Not what he hoped for and still no disappointment at the same time.
He doesn’t know and frankly does not care. What William does know, though, is that whatever this is, it feels nice and relaxing. It soothes the pesky need to cough and if it’s up to him, they can stay like this for a while.
It should probably feel strange but it does not.
The loose strand of her hair tickles him. He identifies a familiar scent, one that is neither smoke nor disinfectant; clean and spicy and somewhat flowery. Eliza-ry, William thinks (the fact that he does not even need to be drunk to come up with something like this is further proof that it truly is a strange moment).
They stay like this for a while. At one point, he finds that he does not need to keep his eyes open any longer, so he lets them fall shut. No flames return, it’s just them, breathing synchronously.
They are not very good at this whole pretending-it’s-a-normal-day-business, he realizes.
(Maybe they do not need to.)
And then somewhere, a door creaks, breaking the spell.
“Well, another suit ruined,” William finally makes himself say, maybe a little unwillingly, because it seems like one of them needs to end the silence and remind them of reality, or else his tired body might take to putting wayward ideas into action.
Making an effort, William even raises his arms in mock despair.
Those wayward ideas have started to form for a while; wayward ideas like taking her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss on it, telling her how much this means or brushing back that loose strand of hair behind her ear, stroking her cheek in the process, cupping her face in his hands and finally testing his luck—
“Don’t you dare try to blame this one on me, too,“ Eliza mutters, before taking a step back. He does not miss having her so close already and they both know that her voice only sounds so thin because of her unusual posture, the time and the acoustics in those old buildings.
Almost apologetic, she proclaims: “Well, I should get going now.”
Of course.
“Right, so should I,” William makes another attempt to get up from the bed, “l’ll see you to--”
Eliza rolls her eyes at him, not unkind and somewhat forgiving, like she has been expecting something like that from him.
“I’m afraid you’d be of very little use out there,” she tells him, her voice ripe with a playfulness that sounds just a little put on. In her normal voice she adds: “So don‘t be an idiot, William. Just stay here and rest up.”
And then she stretches out her hand toward his chest, giving him a light tap, one that’s enough to push him back onto the bed. She nods solemnly, like a point has been proven and strikes off.
(And maybe, just maybe, he spends the time until he falls asleep thinking wayward thoughts, imagining how that particular moment could have played out if they were different.)
In the doorway, she stops, turning to face him:
“We will get them,” she says and “Now sleep.” There’s a glint in her eyes, maybe it’s a martial one and then she’s gone.