Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Emma is busy fiddling with the straw of her quickly depleting gin and tonic when she thinks she hears her name being bellowed over the jangle of overly cheery Christmas music and the hum of the other partygoers. She pauses, cocking her head, listening for it again. The instance doesn’t repeat itself. Nevertheless, she pushes herself up on her tiptoes, giving her just enough height to scan the scene.

It feels like the entire village of Highbury has somehow managed to pack itself inside Randalls. And everyone seems to be having a good time too: chatting and laughing and being generally pleased to be cloistered away from the wintery weather that had swept in as soon as December had arrived. But, from Emma’s brief glance, it appears no one is looking at her, or for her, and so her search reveals no clues as to the source of the mystery voice.

If anyone was looking for her, it would be George. But he’d vanished to get them more drinks a while ago, and hadn’t yet returned. Besides, he’s too dignified to shout her name across a crowded room, god forbid. Anyway, she is still in the exact same spot he’d left her in, which Emma is beginning to regret - mostly because she’s bored. She sinks back down on her heels with a sigh, taking a long, slow sip of her drink.

Anne, now Anne Weston, to be precise, has outdone herself with the first ever, but likely to be annual, Randalls Christmas party. It is decorated like the holiday section of a department store has exploded onto every surface, with tinsel as far as the eye can see. An enormous Christmas tree dominates the corner of the room, so large that it probably has its own postcode, and with so many flashing lights that it can probably be seen from space.

And, of course, the dress code is festive jumpers. Not particularly original, but with the weather so cold, it had been a practical choice at least. With her tolerance for tat being rather low, Emma is instead wearing an understated pale blue knitted jersey with white snowflakes, which she deemed close enough to the theme. Besides, it had satisfied her father as she kissed him goodbye that evening, as he considered it sufficiently warm to protect her from drafts. That was all the approval Emma had needed.

All of sudden, the disembodied voice booms her name again. It’s closer and louder, and so this time Emma is able to deduce that it’s too deep to be Harriet - and besides, she’s across the room, chatting up Rob Martin from Abbey Mill. They are both holding a glass of exceptionally potent punch and Rob is wearing a jumper that says 'Fleece Navidad' on the front with an image of a sheep. Privately, Emma has to admit, it’s quite cute. He looks quite thrilled with Harriet’s conversation, which Emma feels relieved about. After the Elton fiasco, she thought Rob might have moved on, but from the look on his face, it’s clear he’s as into Harriet as ever. This time, Emma is determined to keep her nose out of it.

She finishes the rest of her drink with a rather uncouth slurp, leaving only the rapidly melting ice cubes at the bottom of her glass. Where is George with their replacements? It feels like he’s been gone forever, and Emma can’t see his blonde mop of hair in the crowd anywhere. He’s probably fallen into a conversation with someone about tractors or soil or something equally dull and is too polite to extract himself. The thought makes her feel a little resentful.

“Emma Woodhouse!”

She jumps at the volume of the cry, now right beside her left ear. Emma spins on her heel to find herself face to face with the bellowing voice. It now has a name: Frank Churchill.

“Oh my god! You scared the life out of me!” she cries, immediately whacking him on the arm with precious little force.

Ignoring her limp abuse, Frank merely laughs as he scoops her into a one-armed hug. It’s friendly and familiar and much like every other time he's shown up in Emma’s life out of the blue, without so much as a word of warning. Anne hadn’t even been sure he’d come tonight, but it appears Frank has deigned to make an effort for his new stepmother, which in Emma’s opinion, is probably long overdue. She doesn’t say any of this of course, just smiles as he releases her. To be fair, she is pleased to see him.

Frank offers his typical disarming grin, the one which implies butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. If she’s honest, Emma doesn’t particularly trust him as far as she could throw him, but she’s willing to admit he’s always excellent company at a party - especially one where all her other friends seemed to have abandoned her. In the circumstances, she’s not in the position to be picky.

“When did you get here?” she asks, when it appears Frank is just going to stare at her expectantly, as if he anticipates Emma will throw him some sort of parade, just for showing up.

“Oh, just now,” he says, with a nonchalant shrug. His jumper reads ‘I’m Sexy and I Snow It’ with an enormous picture of a snowman across the front. It couldn’t be more Frank if it tried. “Why? Have you missed me?” He gives her a simpering smile, mostly in jest.

She barely smothers a roll of her eyes. “Awfully,” Emma replies, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Frank looks elegantly amused. “I thought so,” he drawls, before glancing down at the empty glass in Emma’s hand, now just a shallow puddle of sad ice water. “Wait, don’t you have a proper drink?” Frank enacts a mock gasp, hand flying to his chest in faux horror. “Don’t tell me you’re… sober?”

Emma shakes her head good naturedly. “No, no, nothing that extreme. George went off to get us some more drinks about fifteen minutes ago, and I haven’t seen him since.” She manages a shrug, as if it doesn’t bother her, but her eyes immediately scan the room once more for her best friend. Still no sign of him. A surge of annoyance tugs in her chest.

Frank tuts in obvious disapproval. “Never send a boy to do a man’s job, I say,” he crows, even though the adage isn’t even slightly true in this case. George is the older of the two, and in Emma’s view, five times the man Frank is, even if he does drive her up the wall most days.

But Frank gives her no time to come to George’s defence. “Emma,” he continues, all seriousness, a deep furrow across his brow, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I think we’ll have to assume he’s missing in action. He’s probably been cornered by Hetty.” A wicked spark appears in Frank’s eyes. “You know she likes to lurk around the kitchen drinks station, sucking the unsuspecting into her conversational traps, never to be seen or heard from again.”

On the surface, Emma allows herself to laugh, because Hetty is famous for her ability to talk. But, really, Frank doesn’t quite need to be so mean about it, even if it is just a joke. Everyone knows that Hetty’s harmless really. If George were here, he’d stand up for her, Emma realises. He’s just that sort of person: inherently honest and keenly fair, almost to a fault. She can just imagine George pointing out that Hetty is kind and generous, and never has a bad word to say about anyone or anything.

And he would be perfectly right. Like usual.

But Emma hasn’t the heart to play-act as George right now. It’s a party after all, and she’s sure Frank hasn’t sought her out just to be lectured. Nevertheless, a sliver of guilt, likely George-shaped, lingers at her decision. Emma determinedly pushes it back down.

Instead, she waves her empty glass at her companion. “What’s your solution then?”

Frank casts her a thoughtful look, before a quirk of an eyebrow gives way. “There’s a stash upstairs. I know where it is. Want to come with?” There’s a sense of playfulness in his request, and Emma can’t really resist it. Besides, her other option is to stay here and await a contrite George, which - while satisfying - sounds quite tedious.

“Sure,” she agrees, just as someone turns up the music another notch. The jingling of sleigh bells echoing under the melody is starting to get on Emma’s nerves. Idly, she wonders if her father is okay, tucked up at home, refusing to leave the house even for Anne Weston’s Christmas party. Perhaps she should give him a call, just to check on him?

But before she can consider it further, Emma’s empty glass is plucked out of her hand. Frank grins as he places it on the nearest flat surface, before sliding his large hand around hers. A second later, he’s tugging towards the stairs.

—

George hates parties. Well no, that’s not true. He hates parties where things are too loud and there are too many people clambering to talk over each other. Tonight, he especially hates the ridiculous Christmas jumper that Emma had bought him, knowing that he would have accidentally, but maybe slightly on purpose, forgotten to buy one of his own. She’d practically cackled as she’d thrown it at him across the Hartfield kitchen counter, a gleam so wicked in her eyes that George instantly knew he was going to regret it.

“No need for you to rely on the mistletoe tonight, George,” Emma had said, pressing a rather soft kiss to his surprised cheek, before swanning out of the room on some unknown mission. George had simply remained planted to the spot, awkward and confused, until he’d looked down at the item in his hands and realised exactly what she’d meant.

It feels like half the party has made a joke about his “Kiss Me, It’s Christmas” jumper by now, which was no doubt part of Emma’s plan. Cole had laughed at it for a solid five minutes, before simply offering a “Emma’s choice, yes?” and had laughed again at George’s forlorn nod. At this point, George is rather tempted to spill something on it just so he can have an excuse to take it off.

But never mind that now, because he’s probably incurred enough of Emma’s wrath by being gone so long. He hadn’t meant to be waylaid by Will Larkins while refilling their drinks in the kitchen, except the thing with Will is that once he starts talking, it’s rather hard to get him to stop. And it wasn’t as if George hadn’t seen him this morning in the farm office, when they’d gone over the yields on the new paddock. But Will was already several beers deep, and in the festive spirit, and that made him even more chatty than usual.

As George tries to re-negotiate his way through half of Highbury without spilling their drinks, he can already imagine the annoyed pout Emma will give him. By now she probably thinks he’s abandoned her or something, even though that’s something he’d never do. Mentally preparing his apology, George takes a haphazard sip of his drink, wincing as the cold liquid hits his teeth. Finally, once he’s managed to stagger his way across the room, he finds Emma isn’t where he had left her.

He supposes that’s only fair.

Slowly, George inspects the general vicinity for her distinctive waterfall of blonde hair. There had been something rather bewitching about the way that it had cascaded down her back tonight, shining under the Christmas lights. He’d thought about telling her how nice it looked, but ultimately decided against it. Something about the idea had made George feel strangely self-conscious, as if he was overstepping some invisible boundary.

The heat of the room has made his mouth go unfathomably dry, and so George takes another long sip of his gin and tonic. Where is she?

But ah, no, there she is, weaving across the room like she’s floating on air - except, wait, she’s not alone. Emma is chatting animatedly to Frank Churchill as she walks and… that’s fine, George supposes.

Except for the fact that Frank is… well, a bit of a dick. In his opinion.

A familiar distaste curls in his mouth. There’s just something about Frank that gets under George’s skin, and it’s a fact that he’s almost learned to live with over the years. No one else seems to feel the same as he does, and so George has simply become used to holding his tongue on the subject. On the rare occasion he’s attempted to make his feelings known to Emma, she’d brushed him off as being oversensitive, and on that basis, George had decided never to bring it up again.

Interestingly though, George had seen Frank not ten minutes ago whispering rather intimately into Jane Fairfax’s ear as they’d both stood in the kitchen doorway. She’d gone a furiously bright shade of red and scurried off, and Frank had looked very pleased with himself indeed. George had thought the whole interaction was quite weird, actually.

What George doesn’t expect, as he watches Emma and Frank emerge from the middle of the crowd, is for Emma’s hand to be clasped quite firmly in Frank’s own. The intimacy is glaring, like a neon sign flashing in the depths of a dark night.

Something red hot flushes inside of him, but George can’t pinpoint its source exactly - he only knows he doesn’t like what he sees.

But Emma’s her own person - of course she is, George knows that. She can do exactly what she pleases, and so often does, but…

…Frank Churchill, though? Really?

George bites his tongue, the sharpness grounding him a little. He watches as Emma laughs at something Frank says, and although he can’t hear her, George knows that laugh like he knows his own face. He knows that Frank Churchill is not the sort of guy to deserve it. As far as George is concerned, Frank somehow makes Emma into the worst version of herself, the version that George knows she isn’t really, deep down.

Someone knocks into his elbow, jostling one of the drinks, and murmurs a hasty apology. But George is too distracted to even take notice of who it is. He’s busy watching Frank and Emma as they slink up the stairs as if they were two teenagers at a high school party, rather than two adults at a, rather overpopulated, Christmas gathering.

A deep bitterness swoops over him. George doesn’t have a good feeling about this at all.

—

“Are you sure it’s there?”

Emma isn’t sure why she’s whispering. There is no one else up here and no one else likely to even know they are up here.

Frank’s head pops up from behind his father’s desk. “He always keeps something in here - ah!” He lifts a bottle of brandy above his head, waving it in celebration, before clambering to his feet. He looks very pleased with himself. “I’m sure if Anne knew it was here, she’d probably get rid of it.”

The casual causticness of Frank's comment irks her, and Emma finds herself shaking her head with surprising ferociousness. “Anne’s not like that,” she answers forcefully, determined to defend her former nanny, but not wanting to go so far as to be deemed a killjoy. Quickly, she changes the subject. “I don’t suppose your dad has any glasses in there too?”

Frank bows down to resume his search. “Hmm,” he says, and after a moment places a rather nice crystal glass on the top of the desk with a satisfying thud. “Just the one, it seems. But I’ll let you have it, and I’ll drink out of the bottle.”

Emma twists her mouth into a gracious smile, watching as Frank pours a generous measure into the glass. The deep amber liquid looks rich and strong, stronger than she’s used to probably. “How very noble,” she teases, determined to lighten the grim mood that seems to have settled over her all of a sudden.

A droll grin appears on Frank’s face. “I’ve been called a lot of things, Emma Woodhouse, but noble has never been one of them.” And because he’s Frank, he wiggles a solitary eyebrow at her for good measure.

“Ha,” she replies, not entirely sure whether Frank is flirting with her, or just being his usual impassive self. But instead of overthinking it, Emma just seizes the proffered drink out of his hand. The heft of the glass feels solid in her palm. “Now that I definitely believe.”

—

They’ve been gone for twenty minutes, not that George is keeping track of time, or anything like that. He only suspects it has been about twenty minutes because it feels like Hetty Bates has thanked him at least twenty times for the apples he’d had sent over to her earlier that week, and George feels an average of at least one ‘thank you’ per minute is a reasonable estimate when it comes to Hetty.

George knows he’s being rude, probably. He’s only half listening to her, at best. But he can’t help it; his eyes and mind are practically glued to the stairs, watching and waiting for the moment that brings two pairs of feet as they work their way back down. God, at this rate, he’d settle for the sight of just Emma’s shoes. Either way, his hopes are in vain. No one reappears.

But it could all be perfectly innocent, of course. It’s not against the rules to go upstairs at a party, per say. Especially not when Frank is related to the hosts. But George is struggling to find a good reason why he and Emma would need to, apart from, well… that doesn’t bear thinking about.

Hetty chirps something about Anne and Weston’s wedding and thankfully George has enough presence of mind to chime in with well-timed “yes, it was rather lovely, wasn’t it?”. His generic enthusiasm appears to be sufficient to keep Hetty occupied for some time while he contemplates what to do.

Should he… go up there? No, no, of course he can’t do that. That would be weird. He has to remind himself that it’s Emma. She’s… sensible. Mostly. Sometimes. But whatever the case, she can take care of herself. Not that she’d need to. Because George shouldn’t assume the worst, should he?

And yet, the intertwined hands: he can’t seem to shake that image from his mind, because… well, holding hands usually means something, doesn't it? Or at least, in George’s head it does - although perhaps he’s not a good example. He can’t remember that last time he held someone’s hand, which is a depressing thought all on its own. Perhaps Emma is right that he’s been single for too long.

As Hetty babbles, George’s mind expands on the original idea, much to his chagrin. Emma can’t like Frank, can she? Because while she might be George’s best friend, and the person he knows most in the world, when it comes to Emma being in love, he can’t say that he’s able to decipher her in the slightest.

That said, she has seemed…different lately. Because George is the type of person who notices things, especially about Emma, even if he doesn't mean to. Of late, she’s seemed more scatter-brained, more prone to jumping when he appears in a room, like he’d caught her in some kind of guilty act. She’s even changed her usual type of lip gloss to something that makes her lips look wet all the time, and sometimes the effect makes George stare too much.

But even so, Frank Churchill? George feels his jaw clench, and so he rubs absentmindedly at his eyebrow with the back of his hand. Frank is all flirtation and smirking eyes, but maybe that’s what some girls want, George supposes, although he’s not really one to know, let only poorly generalise. Bachelorhood seems to have soaked into his bones to such an alarming degree that it feels too hard and too full of effort to shake it off.

Maybe Emma simply wants flirtation and smirking eyes, at the end of the day? Certainly, the evidence seems to suggest that Emma isn’t immune to Frank’s rigorously deployed charms. George has seen the way she giggles at Frank’s jokes, head tilting back and eyelashes fluttering.

She doesn’t behave like that with George, ever. But they are best friends, so George accepts its probably an unfair comparison. They are more prone to bickering than anything else, even if sometimes Emma does hold George’s gaze for far too long and it makes his heart feel like it is beating in his throat.

But that’s not the same. Obviously.

The niggling feeling in George’s ribcage won’t go away, like there is some sort of creature in there, picking at his organs, making him feel unsettled and uneasy. Emma might act boldly, but her heart is still forming itself, and George can’t bear the idea of it being potentially scarred and damaged by Frank Churchill’s carelessness.

So maybe George should go up there? Or shouldn’t he? His mind is at war with itself. It would only be to make sure everything is okay, obviously. That… that’s still kind of strange behaviour though, he acknowledges. God, but what if they are-?

Intrusive images flood George’s brain and he winces harshly, before realising that the contortions of his face are externally visible to anyone who happens to look. He schools his features back into order, but luckily, Hetty has been too busy reading his jumper to have noticed.

“George!” she trills at him, with that abundantly good nature that she’s known best for. “What a very fun jumper!”

Guiltily, George prays she won’t ask him to follow up on its declaration. He’s in no form to kiss anyone, let alone Hetty. He silently curses Emma once more for selecting it, knowing how utterly awkward it would make him feel.

“T-thank you,” he manages to stumble, eager to cut off her next thoughts before they form and eject themselves from her mouth. “Emma got it for me - as a joke, obviously. Actually… I need to go and find her,” George adds, trying to look at least a bit regretful that he must take his leave. “I have to talk to her about something.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” Hetty nods, still beaming at him in apple-shaped gratitude. Her own jumper has a rather jolly looking reindeer peering out at him, and its battery operated red nose blinks on and off in a rhythm that reminds George of a particularly diligent smoke detector. “I won’t keep you from finding your lovely lady.”

George knows Hetty doesn’t mean it like it sounds. Emma definitely isn’t his lady, of course. Everyone in Highbury knows that. Besides, Emma isn’t a piece of property to be owned or possessed by anyone, which is exactly what she would say if she were here to speak for herself.

But of course she’s upstairs with Frank, doing god knows what, and that festering dread in George’s stomach clearly isn’t going to go away until he checks on her.

Here goes nothing, he thinks, finishing both his drink and then Emma’s. He waits for his mind to agree that this is a good idea.

—

George hears Emma’s golden laughter as soon as he reaches the upstairs landing, and something about how carefree it sounds makes George’s fists clench at his sides. He hates himself a little for doing this, for checking on her, but at the same time, he can’t force himself to turn back around either. One foot obediently follows the other, and it doesn’t take much to deduce that the laughter is coming from Weston’s office.

A second later, Frank’s deep laughter merges with Emma’s, a perfect symphony that feels like it has been designed to mock. George feels like he deserves the mockery really; he’s practically stalking his best friend with no good reason whatsoever. He’s almost at the office threshold now, and the door is - thankfully - wide open. Light spills out onto the otherwise dark landing.

Well, at least they aren’t in one of the bedrooms, George muses, before realising that he sounds like a prudish idiot, because things can still happen in rooms that aren’t bedrooms. The images swim up again, and he resolutely pushes them away, gritting his teeth so hard that they actively hurt.

George should go back downstairs. That’s what a sane and trusting person would do. A person who isn’t obsessed with the idea that their best friend is hooking up with some shady guy that definitely doesn’t, in a million years, deserve her.

But it is her life, and her choice, at the end of the day. Even if George doesn’t like it. Even if George feels like his blood is boiling hot under his skin with the need to protect her. And besides, Emma would definitely strangle him if she knew George was following her around a party, attempting to safeguard her like some sort of chivalric knight. She’s taunted him about this tendency before, telling George that just because he has the surname, it doesn’t mean he has to live up to it, like some form of nominative determinism.

No, he should definitely go back downstairs and pretend this never happened.

But as George tries to turn back, his feet can’t quite execute the nimble pivot that’s needed. Instead, somehow, he trips over a curled up edge of rug, and slams his hip straight into a rather heavy sideboard. The picture frames that litter the top come clattering down, shattering his attempt at a quiet and dignified retreat. George mutters a rather inelegant curse under his breath, hipbone throbbing in sympathy. He really shouldn’t have finished Emma’s gin and tonic in addition to his own. The alcohol has made his feet heavy in a way that he’s not accustomed to.

“Hello?” Emma’s voice echoes out, and god, now he can’t flee, he can’t do anything, because there’s no time. There is the sound of footsteps and then her sweetly puzzled face appears in the office doorway. Frank materialises behind her shoulder a second later, standing a fraction too close.

Even as he registers this, her, George is trying to right himself, trying to right the disarrayed picture frames of which there seem to be hundreds. But his hands are too clumsy and too stupid and somehow he manages to knock down more than he puts back up. In the end, he just abandons them to their haphazard fate.

“Hi,” he finally manages, straightening rather sheepishly. He wishes the ground would swallow him up.

A curious frown forms on Emma’s brow as she peers into the shadows of the landing. “George? Is that you?” The disbelief is clear in her tone.

There’s no point denying it. “Hi,” George says again, like the fool he is. He’s pretty sure Frank stifles a laugh and honestly, that’s the last bloody thing he needs.

A flood of light suddenly envelops him. Frank has hit the hallway light and now George’s embarrassment is right there for everyone to see. His cheeks feel red hot with shame.

A loaded silence sits heavily over them.

“Nice jumper, Knightley,” Frank finally says with such a smug look that George, ever the pacifist, seriously considers how easy it might be to just punch him and be done with it. He could probably never show his face in Highbury again if he maimed the golden boy of the village, but it might possibly be worth it.

George simply grunts in reply.

“Wh-what are you doing up here?” Emma asks, hand pressed against the doorframe as she stares at him in bewilderment. To evade her accusing eyes, George focuses on the ring that she always wears, the plain one around her middle finger. She’s worn it as long as he can remember. It was her mother’s.

“I… uh,” he finds himself saying, trying to control his hands, which seem determined to flail about without his say so, “I… got you a drink, but then couldn’t find you… someone said you might be up here?”

That last part was a lie, a total lie, but one that he knows can’t be disproven.

“Oh,” Emma replies, in an odd, short timbre. George can’t read it. “We… well, you didn’t come back and so Frank and I, we-”

The quiet ‘ding’ of Frank’s phone interrupts Emma’s explanation, which might be just as well, George thinks, before he has to hear more about her and Frank than any sane man should have to bear. Emma falls silent as Frank digs around in his pocket, her head twisting in his direction. That fact that she’s stopped talking in order to cede the silence to him annoys George more than it should.

“My father is looking for me,” Frank explains, waving the luminous screen at them both, as if to prove he’s not lying just so he can make a hasty escape from this weirdly tense situation. “Better pop back down. Emma, can you maybe replace the…?” He nods conspiratorially behind him, towards the interior of the office.

George presses down all his violent urges, not willing right now to decipher why he’s filled with such deep annoyance. Instead, he turns his attention to Emma: appraising his best friend, looking for clues as to her welfare. But Emma looks as put together as she had when George had picked her up earlier that evening. Her hair is still about her like a glossy halo, her lipstick still immaculate, and there are no items of clothing removed or in disarray. Not that it is any of George’s business, of course. He’s just… noticing.

“Of course,” Emma agrees, and with one final sly grin at her, Frank is gone, the thud of his shoes rhythmic on the stairs until he is out of earshot.

Now that they’re alone, neither of them say anything. The party continues on below, rich with low murmurs and punctuated by Slade’s Merry Christmas Everybody, George’s least favourite Christmas song.

But the awkward silence between them doesn’t last long before Emma levels George with a glare. He’d sensed it coming.

“Explain yourself, George,” she says fiercely, like a flaxen warrior queen. George feels in awe of her, for a reason he can't even attempt to explain. “The truth this time.”

Chapter Text

Emma waits, attempting her most fierce glare. The faint echo of brandy swims through her senses a little. Not enough to make her tipsy, but just enough to register the way George’s eyes seem to blaze across her skin. He wets his lips, full and pink, and something inside her twitches.

But then annoyingly, and yet also somehow completely typical of him, George ignores her demand.

“What are you doing up here?” he pushes back, spine straightening as he says it, eyes fixed on hers. Emma’s not sure why George thinks it’s reasonable for him to turn the question back on her, given that she’s the one who asked first. As he waits for her to answer, George’s face compresses into his characteristically judgmental frown.

Emma squirms inwardly under his permeating gaze, the way George’s manner immediately puts her on the defensive. She can actively feel the waves of disapproval wafting off of him, fueled no doubt by the fact she’d disappeared in the middle of a party when she should have been downstairs, being polite, being festive, socialising.

And she thinks he might be a little right. Just a little. But George doesn’t need to know that.

“I asked you first,” Emma replies childishly, maybe even a touch belligerently. George’s face tightens at that, almost a wince, but she ignores it. He needs to know that she has no intention of yielding to him, just because he’s older than her, just because he’s considered the sensible one. “Or have you conveniently forgotten?”

George pretends, she assumes, not to hear her. Instead somehow, despite the narrowness of the doorway, he manoeuvres past her without touching her at all, and strides into the depths of the office. Once he reaches the middle of the room, he surveys his surroundings like some sort of amateur detective scouting for clues. Emma watches as his gaze falls on the brandy bottle, the glass with her lipgloss staining the rim. Her stomach tightens with what she assumes is guilt.

“You’ve… uh- you’ve been drinking up here?” George says after a long, loaded moment. His tone is cautious, almost too light, as if he’s attempting not to care, or attempting to lull her into a false sense of security perhaps. And yet, when his focus turns back to her, his face is full of things Emma can’t read. Perhaps it’s concern, or suspicion, or annoyance. For some reason, she’s struggling to pin him down. Whatever it is, it’s making her feel judged, and she doesn’t have time for it.

She levels him a robust stare. “Yes.” Emma can hear the challenge in her voice, the defiance that dares George to pursue this line of questioning at his own risk. She’s used it a hundred times before with him, almost always when they are on the precipice of an argument.

George ignores the warning, exactly like he usually does. “With Frank?” There’s something strangled in the way he says it, like his voice is fighting against a rising tide.

“Obviously,” she retorts, bold sarcasm underpinning it. “Why? Is that not allowed?” It comes out too mean, but at the same time, Emma can’t make herself regret it. After all, she’s an adult. She’s allowed to do as she pleases. She doesn’t need to justify herself to him.

And yet, deep down, Emma hates the idea of George being displeased with her. It’s so counterintuitive, she knows, to think his opinion holds so much weight against her own decision-making skills. But, somehow, because he’s the best person she knows, Emma can’t help but want him to think well of her. She craves that stupid lopsided smile of his; has come to adore the way it hitches up at the most perfect angle when he’s proud of her.

At the thought, her insides fizz rather strangely, the sensation akin to what she imagines champagne bubbles bursting under her skin might feel like. But before Emma has a chance to analyse it, her sharp response lands on him. And instead of the annoyance Emma expected to see, George looks taken aback. The previous hard lines of his face sink into a sudden slackness, a bruised softness. It’s like she’s wounded him.

The fizzing sensation quickly dissipates. Emma feels a bit sick.

Because it’s really… odd that he’s not fighting back. In fact, he’s not doing anything apart from standing there, staring at her mutely. A glossy pink shade has rushed to George’s cheeks, to the tips of his ears. The sudden bloom of colour makes him look rather boyish, despite the fact that he is, very definitely, a fully grown man.

It’s on the tip of Emma’s tongue to apologise, but she bites it back. She can’t. She won’t.

It’s at the point where the silence feels almost too oppressive that George finally emits an exasperated sigh. His injured expression doesn’t abate however, staring out at her from underneath his slightly too-long hair. Emma can tell by the stubborn jut of George’s jaw that he doesn’t feel he’s done anything wrong.

Then again, she didn’t need to snap his head off, did she?

The room feels oppressively hot for no good reason at all.

George’s timid voice finally splits the quiet. “Were you not enjoying the party?” he questions slowly, each word as tentative as the last. His gaze has shifted down to the rug under his feet, his eyes obscured by the downward slope of his lashes.

Emma appreciates his attempt to sidestep and so allows herself to move a tiny bit closer, as if it might help bridge the gap that seems to have chasmed open between them. George doesn’t look up at all.

“The party was fine,” she replies, because George would know she’s lying if she said it was great or amazing. Somehow, honesty feels safer. “But you… you just didn’t come back. And I didn’t really have anyone to talk to - and then Frank came over, that’s all. He said we should come upstairs to get a drink rather than run into Hetty in the kitchen, god forbid.” Emma trills out a rather forced laugh in the hope that it may tempt George to crack a smile.

But instead, he makes a low hmph-ing sound in his throat that Emma knows all too well. Almost instantly, the waves of disapproval are back. “That’s not very nice,” George says, finally glancing back up at her rather sternly.

Well, Emma thinks, at least he’s looking at her again, although she’s not entirely sure it’s better.

“What? About Hetty?” she asks, even though she knows perfectly well what George is getting at. “You know what I mean,” Emma waves her hand dismissively in his direction, as if to brush off his look of censure. “She’s just… you know, a lot.”

“I accept that,” George agrees, which is more than Emma thought he would. “But you shouldn’t be so mean about her nevertheless,” he adds pointedly.

“I’m only telling you what Frank said,” Emma grumbles, as if that might somehow make it better. She knows it won’t make a difference to George. “Don’t take it out on me.”

George scowls at that, a hand raking up and into his hair - one of his classic signs of frustration. It leaves his hair cast in all directions, and Emma is surprised to feel an impetuous urge to smooth the tendrils back into place, even as her hands remain tense by her sides. “I’m not taking it out on you. I’m just saying she’s a nice person.”

“I know that,” Emma asserts, her temper rising a fraction, her feet taking a few more steps towards him. “What’s up with you, anyway? You’re being especially cranky tonight.”

“Nothing’s up with me,” George replies immediately, without missing a single beat. He looks defensive, but doesn’t baulk under her accusation.

Emma cocks her head, examines him more closely. She knows everything about George’s face, and yet somehow, tonight, her study of him feels more intimate than ever before. “So tell me then, why were you really skulking around out in the hall?”

George narrows his eyes, and Emma notes they are a particularly shocking shade of blue this evening. Something darts through them, a hesitation perhaps. “I already told you,” he replies, with a slight forcefulness. “I was looking for you.”

It feels true, Emma thinks. But there is a sense of dissonance between his words and the expression on his face. It’s true, and yet it isn’t the whole truth, although Emma can’t say for sure what the whole might be. She’s torn about whether to push further, even though she’s not totally sure what that would accomplish. After all, things already feel unnecessarily tense.

Emma opts for defusal instead. “Well, you found me,” she says with a wry grin, opening her upturned palms as if to say ‘ta-da’ like some sort of magician’s assistant. She even pops her hip a little, to really embrace the part. It all plays very false, and George doesn’t seem particularly amused by her performance. “Besides,” she adds, without much thought, “I was in perfectly capable hands.”

The iron clench of George’s jaw is unmistakable. “Oh, I’m sure you were,” he answers grimly, voice dripping with unveiled sarcasm. It’s so utterly, utterly patronising, and it makes Emma feel about two inches tall. Red hot fury rushes through her veins.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demands, the words fiery and raw. But even despite that, something strange starts formulating in the depths of Emma’s frazzled brain, something very strange indeed. And although it’s tenuous still, these links that she’s making, the pieces are creating a very, very specific picture of what might really be going on here.

The snap of her syllables seem to catch George off guard. Emma’s sure that must be the only reason why he says the most stupid thing he’s ever said to her in his entire life:

“You were more than happy to be in Frank Churchill’s capable hands, I’m sure,” he scoffs bitterly, and George’s eyes, when Emma really looks at them, are a firestorm of ire.

There’s no mistaking it. Not anymore.

George is… jealous.

—

Oh, oh no, oh no, oh no.

George knows instantly that he shouldn’t have said that. But hurt, and then fully fledged outrage, had overtaken him, causing the spiteful words to slip out between his bared teeth. And now Emma’s looking at him as if she doesn’t recognise him at all, and he definitely, definitely deserves it. George notes the heavy rise and fall of her chest, the flush of shock that’s dappling her neck, rising upwards to the apples of her cheeks.

This is very bad.

“Excuse me?” Emma squeaks, hands flying to her hips. Despite the high pitched sound she’s just made, George senses the imminent and very real danger to his life.

He immediately backtracks, because well… he’s not an idiot, despite all mounting evidence to the contrary. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-” he starts before having to swallow down the lump that has taken up residence at the top of his throat, heavy and growing. He begins again. “Forget I said that, I was… it was a dumb thing to say.”

But of course, George has, maybe, temporarily forgotten that he’s dealing with Emma Woodhouse here, and she can sniff out his weakness from a mile off. And he’s getting a dawning sense of exactly, precisely, what his exact weakness might be. And that she might know it too.

“Yeah,” Emma agrees without fanfare, although there is something kinder in her monotone reply than George anticipated. “It was a dumb thing to say.” With every word she closes in on him, like a magnificent lioness hunting her prey and George feels pinned to the floor, like his feet are in quicksand. He can’t help but watch her, admire her, even as he feels this might be the beginning of the end. “But I want to know exactly what you meant by it.”

But there lies the problem, George thinks uncomfortably, sweat prickling at the back of his neck. Because there’s nothing he can say that does him any credit at all. And although his scorn of Frank Churchill is hardly news to Emma, he knows it doesn’t justify his strange behaviour.

Besides, how can he explain to her something he can hardly explain to himself? George is rattled, more so than he’d care to admit. It’s like there’s a cavern in his chest; a great gaping black hole and inside it is stuffed every resentful thought he’s ever had about Frank Churchill. And although George prides himself on trying to get along with everyone, he just can’t seem to shake the idea that Frank’s presence in his life, and in Emma’s life, is somehow a threat.

What exactly had he meant? Emma’s question echoes in his mind, like a ripple in a pool of water. He wishes he could evade it entirely, but knows that would be pointless. Emma won’t let him, not when she knows she’s got the upper hand.

The bass of the Christmas music pounds on beneath their feet, as if to remind George that, somehow, life still goes on. He scrambles desperately for an answer.

“I just… I don’t like Frank, that’s all,” he says finally, knowing it’s wan and pathetic as soon as he confesses it.

For a reason George can’t fathom, Emma’s burgeoning smirk grows a little wider. He watches as she inches closer still, placing herself within touching distance. He can now smell the heady scent of her favoured perfume and see each individually mascaraed lash fanning out from around her large eyes.

“No kidding,” Emma finally replies, with a click of her tongue. It’s like she’s amused by him, which is really not helping George’s confidence at all. His muscles are unbearably taut, in a way that he’s not felt in the longest time. “You’ve been weird about him for years.”

“No, I haven‘t,” George counters on auto-pilot, even though they both know it’s a total lie. He doesn’t even know why he’s said it. Everything about him is splintering into tiny fragments and for some crazy reason, George can’t seem to stop it from happening.

Emma’s response is eerily calm, a mere arch of one elegant eyebrow. George feels his stomach churn and then drop.

“No, I haven’t,” he protests again, utterly uselessly.

He’s rewarded with a roll of her eyes this time, no attempt at taking him at face value. “Sure,” Emma says after a moment, the curve of the smirk still lingering. She’s wearing that lip gloss again, and George can’t tear his eyes away from it. “You and I both know you’ve been on edge about Frank Churchill since forever. Determined to dislike him. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought you were secretly in love with him.”

“Ha!” he replies, in ripe indignation.

A pretty frown paints itself across Emma’s brow. “What?” she teases, pout forming. “I promise I wouldn’t judge if you were.”

George attempts to find his feet in this quickly derailing conversation. “You’re not as funny as you think you are, you know,” he retorts, attempting a tired shake of his head.

“Oh! So you are in love with him?” Mirth dances in Emma’s eyes, and George wonders how this has spiralled out of control so badly.

“Emma, stop,” he sighs, because it feels like he is in pain now. “You’re being ridiculous. I’m not in love with Frank, as you bloody well know.” I’m, I’m…

The dawning thought disconnects when Emma sends him a wickedly bemused look. “Fine, okay - it isn’t secretly repressed love then. So what is it? What’s your problem with Frank, really?”

The way she says the last word feels loaded beyond belief. All sense of teasing is gone, and what’s left is only imploring.

George bites the inside of his bottom lip; the accompanying stab of pain a sad attempt at clarity. He’s been on the cusp of some kind of revelation for so long now. Not just this evening, but longer than that perhaps. Every time Frank Churchill sets foot in Highbury, George feels like he wants to set the world on fire, and there’s a reason for that, isn’t there? It’s more than plain dislike and an inherent need to protect his best friend.

His brain dissects what he knows.

Is it because George thinks Frank lacks thoughtfulness? To people like Anne, who only wants to know her stepson better, or to people like Hetty who would never wish ill on anyone?

Yes, in part. But that’s not really it.

Perhaps it’s the way Frank swans into Highbury, taking over every topic of conversation for weeks on end and sucking the air out of every room he’s in?

Undoubtedly that’s annoying, but George is able to understand it, to some extent. But again, he knows that isn’t it.

Maybe it’s the way Emma seems to get swept up in Frank’s bubble of charm and arrogance and somehow even delights in it? The way he seems to jeopardise her time and attention and it makes George feel boring and invisible?

God, maybe it’s just the fact that Emma likes Frank at all, if he’s honest - the way that she might want to date him - and hold his hand - and kiss him. And how, despite her and George’s long-standing closeness, their deep affection for one another, and the way that George feels when Emma walks into a room, she will never ever want those same things with…

… him.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

George now knows exactly why he loathes Frank Churchill.

He’s jealous. Wildly, incandescently jealous.

Jealous over the idea that Emma could prefer Frank, could like Frank, could want Frank.

George feels sick to his stomach. Because, that’s the truth of it, isn’t it? George wants Emma to like him, to want him. Just like he already likes her, already wants her.

George’s bursting heart, laden and heavy and full with all of these things, feels like a ticking time bomb in his chest. Because he can’t possibly say any of that, can he?

No.

Of course not.

Well, this is fucking terrible.

Chapter Text

“Well?” Emma prompts impatiently, because just when she thought she understood what was going on, just when she thought she had figured George out, he seems to have mentally imploded. Or forgotten she was in the room. Or both.

After a moment, George’s eyelashes flutter helplessly, as if finally registering that Emma has spoken. “I…” he starts, rather feebly, before his mouth pulls itself into a thin, repressed line. There’s something in his features that makes it seem like George has just unravelled the most complex of riddles, and the answer he’s found does not please him.

Emma continues to stare, even though the silence is twisting her insides into irrational shapes. Is that what this nonsense is really all about? George being jealous of her friendship with Frank?

It can’t be. It seems too moronic for words. George Knightley, usually so self-assured about his place in the world, insecure about their friendship? Thinking that Frank Churchill, of all people, could be a match for him? George, for all his flaws, is the best friend Emma has ever had and will ever have. How can he not know that already?

Something isn’t adding up.

“I…” George starts again, with slightly more resolve this time, “I just don’t particularly trust him, okay? I can’t- I can’t explain it. I just… don’t.”

It’s so vague and so nothing that Emma can’t stand it anymore, this circling of the topic without them ever actually getting anywhere. “Look George,” she sighs, thick with strained forbearance, “just tell me - are you jealous of Frank?”

There. She’s said it. It’s out in the open now. It means that Emma can finally talk George down off this ridiculous ledge that he’s persuaded himself on to.

George’s lips part in surprise at her bluntness, and he looks almost struck for a moment before smothering an obvious wince. “What? No!”

“No?” Her question dances delicately in the air, so light that it might blow away on the faintest breeze.

“No, I’m… I’m not jealous!” George repeats a little louder now, before something akin to guilt bears up on his features. It’s telling, that expression, Emma thinks, because George doesn’t do guilt - usually because he’s always so brutally honest.

Usually.

Which means he’s not being honest now.

Oh, Emma thinks, with a little jolt. I’m actually right, aren't I? She hadn’t thought George capable of such macho nonsense, but she supposes there must be a first time for everything. Who would have thought - George Knightley, worried about losing his place as Emma’s best friend?

But even still, the revelation doesn’t come with the usual sense of triumph that Emma feels when she catches George out. This time, she thinks she feels... disappointed about being right. Like her heart had wanted it to be something more than this - even though that couldn’t possibly make sense.

Could it?

“George,” she says, as calmly as possible, even as Emma wonders if she’s failed their friendship, failed him somehow, even when she knows she definitely hasn’t, “you don’t need to be jealous of Frank. He’s… fun to hang around with sometimes, good for a laugh, but you’re my best friend.”

George’s face freezes for an achingly long second. And then, instead of relaxing, it imperceptibly tightens, like a mask being pulled taut. The reaction confuses her.

But, she notes, he’s stopped protesting.

“I mean,” Emma continues, trying to be more emphatic still in response to such blankness, “don’t get me wrong, I’m allowed other friends. Even male friends.” She shoots him a pointed look, and registers George’s brief nod in return, the slight tilt of his eyebrows. “But putting all that aside for now, I’m not sure how you could ever doubt that you’re- you’re my best friend, my… favourite person. Frank’s… well, Frank. He’s not you.”

Emma suddenly feels like she’s said too much, and yet at the same time, not even nearly enough. Her words barely even begin to scratch the surface of what George means to her. A deep yearning swims into her heart, and the organ seems like it wants to pulse secret things, things that she’s never dared to let loose.

She resolutely swallows them down. “And… look,” Emma continues, as if her body doesn’t feel like it is about to take flight, “I know that we fight and bicker and tease each other all the time, but…” she trails off, because the next sentiments feel too big, too scary to articulate. And she expects George knows what she means, even if she can’t voice it.

They understand each other. Don’t they?

George stares at her impassively before taking a deep breath. “It’s not-” he starts, before cringing, his mouth clamping shut quite violently, only to open again a second later. “That’s not it. I mean, thank you. You’re my best friend too, obviously. But… it’s just…” Emma hears him audibly swallow, observes as he presses his fingers to his brow bone for a moment before letting them fall away.

“Just what?”

His eyes, searching and slightly panicked, meet her own. “I just…” George pushes out a difficult sigh, as if resolving himself, “I came up here because I wanted to make sure that he hadn't… he didn’t…”

Ah, she thinks, her mind filling in the blanks at the speed of light. “Seduce me?” Emma suggests in a tone of rather flummoxed amazement. The way George had fumbled awkwardly over his words hadn’t left many other viable guesses at her disposal.

His face turns bright red, his gaze shifting to his shoes. It’s all the answer Emma needs.

A laugh of disbelief spills out of her, punctuated and sharp. George's head snaps back upwards almost instantly at the sound.

“And what if he had?” Emma questions, because the fact that that scenario had even crossed George’s mind was bewildering enough, let alone that he thought he needed to act upon it. She knows he can be protective sometimes, even overly so on occasions, but it’s quite another thing to hear him admit it.

And actually, Emma wonders, what would George have done if he had stumbled across something like that? What would she have wanted George to do? Her mind is racing, but her heart is also clambering to know the answer. There’s a twist of something like longing or hope blooming underneath her skin at the thought of George caring so much. But it’s also blended with that old familiar tug of annoyance, the one that Emma always gets when she thinks George still sees her as a child.

“Emma,” he half groans, pressing the whole balled up fist to his forehead this time, as if this entire conversation is giving him a tension headache. George is all angles: shoulders, arms, nose, jaw.

She waits for him to say more, but George’s mouth remains steadfastly shut.

“What if he had tried?” Emma pushes again, because now - for some reason she can’t articulate - it feels like there is something riding on his answer. Emma’s scared of it, but deep down she wants to hear it all the same. “It’s a fair question, George. Because I’m an adult woman, capable of looking after myself. Of knowing my own mind and my own…desires.”

He flares in consternation, agonised. “I know that!”

“And if I decided I wanted to be seduced by Frank, then that would be my choice!” Emma continues, on a roll now. Never mind the fact that she has zero interest in that happening whatsoever, but it’s the bloody principle of the thing, isn’t it?

George looks like she’s kicked him, and yet his retort is no less animated. “I know that too!”

“Do you, George?” Emma’s tone is plainly accusatory, far too much so, but it’s too late now for it to be undone.

She hears George’s sharp inhale nevertheless, and the sound wounds her. “Are you-” he begins roughly, his voice losing momentum and stumbling into hoarseness, before beginning again, “-are you saying you want to be with Frank then?” There’s a muscle in his jaw practically twitching, and although it’s not a condemnation, it is awfully close.

God, of course she doesn’t want to be with Frank! How could he even-?

But she doesn’t say that. Instead, Emma huffs in righteous indignation. “That’s- that’s not the point!”

In comparison to her own rising temper, George’s eerie calmness feels offensive, his stare inscrutable. He seems to have turned to a pillar of ice. “Isn’t it?”

This whole situation should be totally absurd, Emma thinks. Because somehow they’re having this argument about a completely hypothetical situation while George’s stupid jumper is shouting Kiss Me, It’s Christmas at her - and at some point the music downstairs had switched to a festive version of the Macarena and Emma can hear the thump of feet as people dance along.

Yes, it’s absurd. But it also feels earth-shatteringly terrifying, somehow - like the ground is splintering beneath her feet, and everything that was buried is now rising to the surface.

“No!” Emma tries once more. “The point is that whether you like him or not, what I decide to do - or not do - with Frank, or anyone else, is my decision. My choice.”

She sees the moment George deflates, the way his shoulders sag, the way his body seems to hunch into itself. He meets her eyes, glances away, before resolving himself and finding her gaze again. His pupils are focused, serious. “I accept that, Emma, I really do. And I want you to be happy. But I just need to…” he trails off, his thumb kneading at the knuckle of his opposite hand. “I just feel-” George breaks off, forlorn, voice gone.

Her heart aches to see him like this, even though she doesn’t really quite understand what it is about this whole Frank situation that’s got George all at sea. So instinctively Emma reaches out, as if touch could be a conduit to understanding - like George is lost in a forest and only she can help him find the path out.

“You just feel what? Oh - for god’s sake George, just… spit it out!” Emma’s desperate plea spills out just as her fingers land on the smooth exposed skin on the inside of George’s wrist.

He flinches.

Emma can’t believe it. George actually flinches at her touch. And then, and perhaps even worse, is that he realises he’s done it, and realises that Emma has seen it, has noticed it too. George looks momentarily stricken with anxiety, eyes wide and fathoms deep, like the darkest parts of the ocean.

But then, with a swift resolve and a hand tilting her face towards his, George steps into her body and is kissing her.

—

He’s… perhaps lost his mind. Yes, that’s definitely it. When he gets home, he’s going to look up the nearest psychiatric ward, because George has definitely just exploded his entire life by kissing Emma Woodhouse, his best friend, and ruined everything between them. Forever.

How quickly could he sell Donwell, does he think? It won’t be easy. It’s a large estate with a lot of upkeep, but maybe it can be broken up into smaller farms, and the large house donated to the National Trust? John can probably help with that; all the legal stuff like title deeds, and boundaries, and gifting and whatever else it entails. His brother will think he’s crazy, but it’ll be easier than remaining in Highbury and having to see Emma all the time.

God, what has he done?

All of this is screaming through George’s mind at a speed unknown to man before now, and really, what he should be focusing on is that Emma’s lips are softer than he ever imagined, and whether it might be strange if he buried his hands in her wondrous hair, because he definitely does want to do that, quite a lot. And was that him sighing or her, or is he hearing things now, in this total state of insanity that he’s found himself in?

George doesn’t know anything anymore. But no, he’s definitely kissing her, that much is true. His palm is cupping her jaw, and George is definitely kissing Emma, and the curious thing is that she doesn’t seem to be stopping him. In fact, he thinks he feels the gentle return pressure of her own curious mouth, the wet hot peek of tongue, scented with brandy that faintly traces against his own…

But… no, that doesn’t mean anything at all. She’s probably in shock, because he’s in shock, to be honest. George’s head is swimming and panicking, but somehow also euphoric, despite the fact that he’s actively destroying his own happiness with each passing second.

George feels the creep of her hand against his shoulder, waits for the moment when Emma pushes him away. But it doesn’t come. It doesn’t come and yet even so, none of this should be happening. This isn’t how he wanted this to happen.

Because that’s the deep down truth. He wanted this to happen. George didn’t consciously know it, of course, not until tonight, but it’s clear now it’s been a long time coming. But Emma deserves better than this fumbling, messy accosting. She probably thinks he’s drunk, or deranged, and George can’t even blame her.

There’s time to salvage this, he hopes. He prays.

George removes his hand from its home on Emma’s cheek and reluctantly pulls back - because if he doesn’t now, he might never do it, and it’s for the best, it honestly is. George can go to his grave knowing that he kissed Emma Woodhouse, although he’s probably going to think of it every minute along the way until he dies anyway. Probably young. Of heartbreak, or something.

Fuck.

She’s gasping at him, chest heaving, probably furious. In one stupid moment, George has ripped apart their platonic bond with his bare hands, stripped away everything that Emma had just told him she valued. Because despite this present turn of events, George does understand that he’s never been an object of desire for Emma, he’s quite sure of that. In her eyes, he’s a human shape, albeit one he knows that Emma feels affection for, rather than a living breathing man. Or maybe he’s actually more like a dog? Loyal and… well, not exactly obedient, but blindly dedicated, perhaps.

He’s being unfair to Emma, he knows. But George accepts that he’s not thinking straight right now. This whole thing has only bubbled over because of the smirking Frank Churchill; his mere existence creating such an immeasurable jealousy that it had finally tipped George right over the edge. He’s never felt so untethered in his whole life.

Emma, beautiful Emma, just stares at him, wide eyes and perfect bow lips. Her lip gloss is smudged, and George can still feel its tacky texture against his own mouth, like a souvenir of his idiocy.

“Jealous,” George breathes out, like the complete fool that he is. It’s the answer to her much earlier question, the one he couldn’t answer before. But he can answer it now.

Her wide eyes quickly become smaller, narrower. “What?” It’s so quiet that it’s almost a whisper, as if his kiss has stolen her voice, or some other fairytale-like, anti-feminst nonsense.

He should quit while he’s ahead, but George, for all his flaws, has never been a quitter. Besides, he can hardly make things worse.

“You were right,” he exhales in a breathless rush, the truth overcoming him like a tidal wave. “Or mostly, at least. I - I was jealous. Absolutely and totally jealous. But not of you being friends with Frank. More the… seducing part.” He winces at the overblown turn of phrase.

Emma just stands there, like a statue formed in marble. One of her hands is miraculously around his wrist still, like an anchor, weighing George down to this extremely surreal reality.

“Oh,” she murmurs, after a long tense moment. Her hair streams over her shoulders, the tendrils swirling against the snowflake pattern of her jumper. George wonders if it’s snowing outside yet. It had been threatening it earlier, and Will Larkins had been so sure of it this afternoon. He’s usually pretty spot on with predicting the weather, George thinks.

“I-” he chokes eventually, knowing he can’t stand here forever in a stupor, his mind attempting tangents about Will Larkins’ weather forecasting skills, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Emma licks her lips, and the corner of one side tilts up a fraction. “Which part?”

He blinks at her, waiting for the trap that he feels must be coming. “The kissing you part,” George manages to say after a strained second, wishing very much that Emma would let go of his wrist so he can think straight. “I’m sorry.”

“Ah,” she replies, and she’s so incredibly sedate that perhaps this is all just a gin-riddled dream and George is actually at home in his bed. He wonders if that would be preferable. “I see.”

Does she? Does she see? But also, why is Emma not mad? He expected her to be mad.

And then, because he can’t help himself: “Why aren’t you mad?”

Emma smiles that smile at him, the one that she always bestows when she thinks she knows something he doesn’t. She’s usually always wrong about that, except for right now, it seems. George wonders if she has some knowledge that he doesn’t. The graceful curve of Emma’s mouth as it glides upwards makes George weak at the knees, an accompanying flutter rising in his stomach. And so, it’s a soft revelation when it comes; a gentle unfurling inside of him, like a slow-blooming flower.

George is jealous, not only because likes Emma, and wants her, but because... he loves her. He's in love with her. Very, very much. Because… well, of course he is. He probably always has been. It’s less of a surprise than it should be.

Emma’s voice invades his burgeoning thoughts. “Why would I be mad?” she asks, blinking at him curiously through her lashes, gaze heavy and direct.

George knows he’s frowning, can feel the strain of it between his eyes. Is Emma messing with him? He wouldn’t put it past her. She likes to tease him, to catch him out, but no, she wouldn’t about something like this, he’s quite sure. George isn’t sure of much right now, but he is sure of that.

“I…” he starts, before deciding that old-fashioned brutal honesty is probably best, “because I kissed you, without asking. And that’s probably… definitely not what best friends should do.”

A hum emits from the hollow of her throat, low and thoughtful. It makes George want to kiss her again, so very badly.

This is a disaster.

“No, probably not,” Emma agrees, before finally, finally releasing his wrist. It is far less satisfying than George had imagined it. He immediately wants her touch back, just in case it was the last time he was ever going to feel it. “But we aren’t the usual type of best friends, I think.”

He can’t quite follow what she means by that. Perhaps she’s saying, we’re the type of best friends who can move past this and never mention it again. After all, their friendship is rich and worth saving and George is sure he could force himself repress his feelings, if he had to, if that’s what Emma really wanted. It seems the most probable outcome. It’s also like a kick to the gut.

George swallows thickly, the knot in his chest hard and rigid and taking up more and more space with every second. “True,” he concedes, knowing he should feel grateful for her grace, but not being able to feel very much at all, actually.

A quizzical expression appears on Emma’s face. “I have to ask,” she says, sounding very much like she doesn’t want to ask at all, “are you… a bit drunk, maybe?” At that, Emma tilts her head first one way, and then the other, as if examining him for signs of inebriation. George feels every part of his body go on high alert as her gaze drags over him. Between her eyebrows sit indications of concern, like she’s worried about him, or maybe just worried about what he might say or do next.

Is this an escape route that Emma is offering? Does she actually think he’s thrown himself at her because that’s what drunk men do to Emma Woodhouse - even stupidly jealous ones who have known her for her entire life? Perhaps George is just one of many, the latest in a long line of drunken idiots who have been propelled by too much alcohol to do and say things they shouldn’t where Emma Woodhouse is concerned.

Therefore, inherently, George understands he could save himself right now with one easy lie. Yes, he’s drunk, he could say. Yes, that’s his excuse for behaving like an absolutely deranged person. He was reckless, and not thinking straight. They would laugh about it later; reminisce about it on the day that she gets married to someone else, perhaps. The thought makes him want to vomit.

And so even as the temptation to lie dangles itself in front of him, George knows he can’t - and won’t - deny what’s happened here, any more than he can deny what has prompted it.

“No,” he confesses solemnly, soberly. While the three small gin and tonics have eased his bones, the decision he made was his own - as impetuous as it was. “I’m not drunk.”

He expects Emma to look disappointed. But she doesn’t.

Then it strikes him. “Why?” he asks quickly. “Are you?” Emma seems fine, although even now, George remembers her brandy-rich tongue at the entrance to his mouth.

She scowls a little, and George’s traitorous heart swells with love. “No,” she answers primly, eyes laced with challenge.

“Okay,” he answers helplessly, unsure of what else to say, unsure of what exactly that means now. A very large part of George wants to say: I think you kissed me back. But he’s terrified. Terrified that he’s misread shock for reciprocation, tolerance for returned affection.

“Okay,” she echoes back at him, chin jutting upwards in typical Emma-like defiance. It brings her mouth that slight bit closer again and if George’s gaze flickers to her lips, then he can hardly be blamed for that. He’s not superhuman.

Emma continues: “So, I have a solution, I think.”

A solution. It sounds so staid, so formal, like they are just going to shake hands, pronounce everything fine, move on and never talk about this ever again. George doesn’t want that. He wants the exact opposite of that. Either way, that’s out of his control, he thinks. George gets the impression he’s going to have to get very good at pretending he feels nothing at all - and quickly.

He presses his lips together, dissatisfied but resolved to do what is needed. “Fine. What’s your solution then?”

Emma’s expression softens some more. There’s tenderness there. George has always known Emma to have a kind heart, even if she forgets it herself sometimes. She’s being kind to him now by allowing them to move past this instead of letting it ruin them. In time, George will be grateful for it. Probably. Maybe. Just not today.

“I’d like you to apologise to me again.”

George is sure he’s misheard her. “Apologise? Again?” He sounds like a parrot with a very limited vocabulary.

Emma smiles at him, most sweetly. George wants to bury himself in the column of her neck. “Yes, please,” she replies, a picture of demureness.

He doesn’t understand, can’t figure out the purpose of her request. But if this is what it takes, he’ll do it. After all, he’s the one who messed up here. He’s the one who has to fix it by the terms she sets. George swallows thickly, pressing his dreams and wishes back down underneath his feet, where he prays they will stay for the rest of time. He doesn’t fancy his chances particularly.

“I’m sorry,” he offers finally, and so contritely that he’s almost impressed with himself. “For kissing you. It won’t happen again.” If the last part sounds churlish, George hopes it’s only in his own head.

A breathy laugh escapes her, the twitching of a smile unsuccessfully smothered. Emma looks at him, really looks at him. Her eyes are warm like honey, sticky and sweet.

“Apology not accepted,” she murmurs, a gentle hand reaching for his and slowly, oh so slowly, gathering it within her own. George stops breathing at the motion. “Because,” Emma continues, eyes glowing in happiness, “I very much want you to do it again. Please.”

George blinks at her in surprise.

“Again?” He must be missing something. Does she want him to apologise again?

His hesitation causes Emma to shoot him a quiet look of impatience. And before George can really digest anything more, she moves their entwined hands to the swell of her waist. This time, by some miracle, George doesn’t flinch. This time, his hand sinks against her body in something close to an act of reverence.

His voice shakes. “You want me to… kiss you again?” He can't help but feel the need to check, just in case he's misreading all the signs.

Emma doesn’t reply. Instead her other hand is too busy fisting itself into the neckline of his awful jumper, and tugging him towards her with no elegance whatsoever. The motion causes George to lose his balance, practically collapse into her, before somehow managing to stop himself at the last possible second. It leaves his chest pressed against hers, and at that, Emma smiles slyly up at him as if this was her plan all along.

“Yes, George,” she whispers calmly, pressing up on her toes so that she can nudge the tip of his nose with her own. Her warm breath tickles his lips, and George’s spine feels like it has been electrified. “Because I think I’m in love with you. If that’s okay?”

He nods dumbly, pulse roaring beneath his skin, joy bubbling in his chest. “It’s… more than okay, Emma. It’s-”

His sentence goes unfinished. Her lips swallow the sound.

—

“I guess I was right when I said you wouldn’t need mistletoe tonight,” Emma murmurs to George much later, a fingertip tracing over each of the letters on his jumper in turn. She enjoys the texture of the knit under her finger, the warmth of his skin beneath that.

It takes George a moment to catch her meaning, but when he does, he smiles at her; a slow dazed smile, one that tells her that he still can’t believe this is happening, even now. His arms tighten around her frame, pulling Emma closer into his body. He releases a quiet but satisfied hum, but doesn’t say anything.

Emma persists. “It seems I picked the perfect jumper for you after all.”

George huffs bemusedly at that. The exhale of his breath connects at the spot right where her neck meets her jaw, and it makes Emma arch against him, even though they are upright. Something catches in George’s throat at the movement, and it makes her feel very smug indeed.

“What?” she presses, looking up at him through her lashes. The door of Weston’s office is now resolutely closed, mostly because George’s back is pressed up against it, and she is pressed up against him in the most satisfying manner. “Am I wrong?”

George scrunches his nose up at her, a obvious sign that he’s trying not to bend to her whim. Emma really doesn't know why he feels the need to be so difficult, but she also knows it's just one of the many things she adores about him. “I’ll admit,” he says begrudgingly, voice a low rumble, “the jumper has provided… unexpected results. Perhaps I’ll never take it off again if this is what I can expect.”

He finishes the statement off with an earnest kiss, slow and ardent at first, until Emma threads a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck and revels in the way George melts into her touch. It should feel strange, this sudden sea change between them, from friends to far more in a matter of minutes. But it doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. Because Emma’s heart has always been full of George really, even when she couldn’t see it.

“Well, that would be very disappointing,” Emma says eventually, once she’s been rendered completely breathless and has had to remove herself from George’s mouth for her own sanity. They’ll have to go back downstairs soon enough, and it’s already going to be hard enough without looking completely dishevelled to boot.

“Oh?” George questions absently, and it appears he’s already forgotten what they were even talking about. He’s staring at her with such unbridled amazement that Emma’s sure she doesn’t deserve it, deserve him. It feels rather dangerous to have a man like George quite under her power.

To calm her racing heart, Emma offers up a sly smile. Her mouth is far closer to his than it reasonably needs to be, and so perhaps George isn’t the only one who has been desperately unravelled by this almighty shift between them. “I promise,” she says, slowly, slowly, slowly, her lips grazing against his own as she forms the words, “that you will need to take it off. And very soon.”

And so later, as the first of the snowfall is settling on the ground, she tugs him through the door of Hartfield and up the stairs to her bedroom. Once there, Emma is proven correct once more.

It's clear that George doesn’t mind at all.