Work Text:
I
“So what can you tell me about the gambling hell Mister Reed has recently opened? Needless to say, I’m not talking about his famous one, the one everybody knows about. I’m only interested in his newest one, the one that’s only open to a special kind of patrons...” Eliza’s voice trailed off.
William skimmed another page, before he flipped the file shut and threw it back onto the pile on his desk, which had already grown dangerously unstable. He knew he had come across the name “Julia Talbot” before, he could swear it had been in a completely different context from the one it had now come up in, and if she stopped distracting him for a minute, he might be able to find it. “The one over in Lower Holloway?” he murmured absently, grabbing another file. “What about it?”
“The very same.”
He stopped dead in his tracks, before he reached for his tumbler and drowned the remaining finger.
Again. It had happened yet again.
Since he knew her too well, he didn’t even need to look up to witness how triumph sparkled in her eyes, there and gone in an instant to be replaced by a rueful smile.
Or at least what she considered one looked like.
It wasn’t solely the ostensibly innocent tone of her voice which gave her away, there was more (there always was with her). For one, the fact that she had actually knocked before entering. Secondly that, upon having marched into his office, she had claimed to have something potentially useful for him, something she’d be willing to patiently hold onto until he had finished his current task.
Well, that should really have put him on alert.
William let out an exasperated sigh. “You know, you could at least pretend to be sorry, Eliza.”
She raised her chin. “And why would I do that?”
He got up, walked over to the cabinet and picked up another armful of papers.
“Because I am a very busy man and now I’ll have to accompany you to a very dangerous place, to make sure nothing happens to you.” Half, he expected her to contradict, but when she did nothe added: “It’s my duty to look after you, when no-one else will.”
Diverting the conversation seemed in order, mainly for two reasons: Firstly, this was supposed to point out his own valor and secondly, because William very much did not care to be reminded of the fact that there was at least one other person likely to do the same. He cleared his throat. “And, like always, I’m the one who risks getting thrashed in the process of it. Or ending up seriously hurt. Or--”
Now Eliza finally interrupted him. “But you won’t.”
Not if he could help it, but that was not the bloody point, was it?
He looked down. It was impossible not to notice how close she was.
“Maybe I will be this time.”
For a long moment, she held his gaze.
Yet again, he found himself waiting.
(Tell me, he silently urged. Tell me, just this once. Tell me you don’t want me to get hurt, tell me how much you care, tell me that I matter.)
And then she looked away, thus ending the moment without telling him anything.
(Why was this so hard?)
“Well, in that case I’d better make sure to bring my own pistol,” Carefully avoiding his eye she spoke with false nonchalance, “To keep us both safe.”
Sometimes, her words had the exact same effect as being doused with a bucket of water.
A downpour he should by now have learned to expect, but somehow never did, with water, which was both ice cold and dirty.
After all, this was not just one piece of impudence, this was a whole, bloody catalogue.
“Eliza, do I really need to remind you...” He was on the verge of releasing a stern, well rehearsed tirade on all the absurdities she had managed to cram into such a short statement, but he stopped, because clearly, she didn’t even have the decency to listen. Instead, she had started rummaging through her bag.
“Which reminds me...” She pulled a slightly rumpled piece of paper out, which she briefly smoothed over before handing it to him. It was a newspaper article, one about a Julia Talbot.
Eliza gave that disarming smile of hers, the one he had learned to dread. “There. I told you I would be worth waiting for, didn’t I?”
II
He used to ask himself why he could never resist puffing himself up whenever Eliza was around, why he was always trying to make himself appear more than he actually was: braver, more intellectual, more gentlemanly, more interesting.
William did not ask that anymore.
III
It had been one hell of a day.
Ironically, it had started quite promisingly, with William solving the murder of a young woman and making the arrest.
But from that short, glorious moment onward, everything had been going downhill fast. Something about the culprit’s confession had seemed off from the start. The man was happy enough to talk about the progression of events and everything he had told them about those matched the evidence. Hell, he had even led detectives to the murder weapon, as if he was determined to make things as easy as possible for them.
But as soon as the interrogation had touched upon his motives, he had become a lot less talkative. Either that, or he had been flat out lying.
Almost as if there was no motive.
Which had been tolerable if he was dealing with some kind of madman, but William’s gut told him that there was a different explanation. It had not taken him long to realize that their guy was taking the fall for somebody else, somebody who had either paid him to do it or who held a different kind of leverage. Somebody rich and powerful, somebody with connections reaching all the way to Whitehall. William had even managed to find out who it was, but for all the aforementioned reasons, he would not be able to arrest the man, ever.
Such days were to be expected; after all, he wasn’t wet behind his ears anymore, but it was still daunting.
William felt worn out, disillusioned, and, on top of that, perished, for he had been here for far too long now, staring into nothingness. The rational part of him knew that he had to brace up and go home, because standing under Scotland Yard’s rooftop wouldn’t change a thing, but thus far he had found himself unable to move.
A soft touch on his arm pulled him out of his gloomy thoughts. He did not finch, almost as if he had known who it was in advance.
Eliza.
(Funny how everything seemed a little brighter now, even on this day.)
“Fancy meeting you here,” she said, scrutinizing him. A question was lying in ambush. Clearly, she had classified his behavior as peculiar, which meant any second an interrogation was about to begin. Exactly what he could not have. All William wanted was to avoid thinking and talking about the bloody case anymore.
And a drink, maybe one that was slightly larger than usual, in addition to that.
He rubbed his forehead. “Eliza, I am not in the mood to argue.”
His own voice sounded tired to his own ears, which meant that she had heard it, too.
Eliza merely shrugged. “Then let’s not.”
Just like that.
“That would be a first for us.” He said it with a wry smile, not being entirely truthful just for the sake of it.
A few moments elapsed in silence.
“But,” Eliza said, “maybe you could see me home. I mean,” she added, only slightly belated “only if it’s not too much trouble. Seeing as you are already on your way home and all.”
William inclined his head in acknowledgment and, without further ado, hailed a cab for them.
Sometimes (even though he would never tell her as much) he appreciated her way of pushing him around, especially when it was done like this. After all he was fully aware that they had been seeing the exact same thing, his attempts at stalling.
Sometimes, she could be like that.
_
-
William’s unshakable resolve to neither talk nor think about the case lasted almost half the ride.
Without being able to recall how it had come to this later, he found himself outlining the situation for her, putting special emphasis on the fact that there was nothing that could be done about it.
For a long moment, Eliza stayed silent.
“Tell me everything, every detail. Leave nothing out. Two heads are usually better than one.”
Eliza leaned over, her eyes glinting with resolution.
Obviously, she had managed to ignore everything he had just explained to her about having to accept the way of the world, whether one liked it or not.
“We can make this right.” Impulsively, she put her hand on his knee.
He looked down at her hand. It was a strange feeling, almost like something had just cracked inside of him, something cold and hard, something that felt suspiciously like despair. To cover the feeling, he resorted to shaking his head in mock disbelief.
“Eliza, you are unbelievable.” William’s voice sounded hoarse, so he quickly added: “What did I do to deserve you?”
She tilted her head and smiled impishly. “I have no idea. But be glad you do, for I don’t know what you would do without me.”
Sometimes, neither did he, but as this wasn’t the time nor the place to tell her as much,he settled for doing as he had been told and expanding on the damned case.
IV
His own (more or less vigorously stated) protests on the matter swept aside, William was rather content being a man of habits.
The importance of routines was not to be underestimated. With the world being, at times, ugly or awfully tricky to navigate, one had to make it easy on oneself whenever and wherever possible.
Which was what he did. William welcomed it when things were simple; he liked it when matters took their proper course and people behaved the way they were supposed to.
Recently, he had noticed that a relatively new habit had crept in, one that did not fit that pattern: whenever he had had a bad day, or something stirred him up, or when he felt he was out of options, he wanted to see Eliza. Sometimes, he was fortunate and she came to see him of her own accord, sometimes he went himself.
Even though she rarely had the right response, and they almost certainly came to verbal blows, it always seemed to help him clear his head afterwards.
William never asked himself why that was.
V
An orchestra played appropriately festive music. The light emitted from cut-glass chandeliers and candlesticks was most certainly the result of a small, pitiful army of household staff having bustled about for a few hours, and it bathed the scene in a warm light.
Thankfully, there were also some discreetly placed gas lights, butthey were mostly dealing with candles.
Below them, the dance floor was packed with couples.
So many people present meant spotting the leader of the thief pack would come down to sheer luck, which made the risk of failure high.This was especially true since Eliza was the only one who had actually seen the man, once, and while he had been bolting, at that. All William, Fitzroy, and the other officers positioned near exits and windows, trying not to stand out, had was a sketch drawn based on her description.
Well, and he had Eliza herself, who was watching from the gallery alongside him.
Yet again, William adjusted the lapels of his dress-coat, before crossing his arms behind his back. In an attempt to blend in as much as possible, everyone taking part in the operation was wearing evening attire.
Bloody uncomfortable one on his part.
Eliza, on the other hand, in her elegant blue dress, looked like she belonged here.
It was the second time he saw her wearing this dress and since he had said nothing the first time around, he felt that he could hardly rectify that omission now.
The sight still made it hard to stay focused.
“Could we ever be like them?” Eliza suddenly asked. There was a strange note in her voice, one he couldn’t quite place and which made him uneasy; thoughtful, maybe even wistful.
She had bent backwards a little. The candlelight reflected in her eyes and he tried to follow her gaze. Maybe she was watching a particular couple in the crowd, one that seemed completely wrapped up in each other, maybe he was imagining things.
William cleared his throat and opted to take the easy way out by approaching the unknown with plain, simple reason.
“I am fairly certain that none of us will ever be able to afford this way of life, Eliza.”
She took a deep breath and crossed her arms over her chest. This time, her voice sounded perfectly neutral. “No, no of course not, William.”
A deep breath, as if she had just choked down a very different, sharp response.
Suddenly, and yet again belatedly, he realized what she had really been talking about. Obviously, some toffs were the last thing onher mind.
He puzzled his head over a way to mend matters and break the uncomfortable silence.
“Well, who would I be?” he asked.
She paused, before she looked at him. Slowly, a smile spread over her face, one that made him feel better, confident. And since he very much wanted to keep her smiling, he developed the thought a little further.
“If I am right to assume that this is supposed to be the kind of thought experiment where you are not a private investigator and I am not a policeman, I can hardly answer such a question without knowing where I would have ended up.”
While her hand was busy twisting her mother’s ill-fitting wedding band, she let her eyes wander through the room, pretending to mull his question over. It was all an act, since he knew her well enough to build on the fact that she had come up with a myriad of options long before asking anything for the first time.
(And even though he would probably never tell her as much, that was one of the things he probably liked best about her.)
So he waited.
“Of course, we would still be old friends,” she finally said.
“Of course we would.,” William echoed. This time, he was the one keeping his voice carefully neutral.
He managed to do that while trying to decide if a faint blush had appeared on her face for real or if he was indulging in wishful thinking when answering in the affirmative.
And while pondering if now was the right time to finally compliment her on her dress.
“I think you would make a great schoolmaster. Or even a headmaster.”
Yet again a cold downpour crashed down, courtesy of Eliza Scarlet.
William felt his temper rising. Unsurprisingly, she had picked the most boring, regimented professions she could think of, meaning she had yet again been deliberately wrong about him. As if there was anything about him, anything at all, that would qualify him for such a profession. This realisation quickly led to another one, namely how this whole thought experiment had been a bloody stupid idea and he could not for the life of him remember what had prompted him to engage with it in the first place.
He opened his mouth to tell her as much, but she got there first.
(Which, as he had ever so often told her, was a very annoying habit to have.)
Eliza gave a very unladylike snort. “Really, there’s no need to make that face, William.” For some reason, she seemed irritated with him, almost as if he was the one ruining this moment. “You can deny it all you want, but I am pretty sure I know only half the things you’ve been teaching young Fitzroy, how you’ve been looking out for him—and those are still plenty.”
“So there’s something beyond your knowledge? That’s reassuring to know.” He tugged at his collar. Still wounded and in a bid to give back as he had been given, he brusquely added, “But just so you know, in a world where I’d be a bloody schoolmaster, you’d certainly be something like a cook. Or a seamstress.”
For a moment, her face grew darker, before it went completely blank and William understood what he had done.
It had meant to be a dig at her less keen talents, a reminder of the best, worst meal he had ever been served or those embroidered handkerchiefs she had, by her own admission, made such a mess of that Ivy had finished them for her, but it had ended up hurting her.
Because they both knew that, had she not managed to carve out her own space, these professions would be among her very limited options.
He reached for her arm, but pulled back and shoved his hands into his pockets. He would not risk finding out whether she would have tolerated his touch.
Instead, William extended a carefully chosen olive branch. “Of course, that would be a deplorable waste of your skills.”
For the tiniest moment, Eliza hesitated, before she relented; “Of course it would.”
Because the master thief took his time showing up, they found themselves having time to pass, which they managed carefully. It was like they had silently agreed not to talk about themselves anymore, only about others.
Others they had nothing in common with. Nothing at all.
The time to mention her dress had definitely come and gone, William realized.
Naturally, it was Eliza who provided most of the conversation, by either observing real peculiarities on the dance floor or by making up stories about the people populating it.
But all good things had to come to an end. Finally, she spotted their target. William gave his men the sign they had agreed upon and the plan was set in motion.
As he was about to leave, she called him back.
“William, you still haven’t answered my question.” She tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear, “Could we ever dance like them?”
“No.” He took a small bow. “We would show them how it’s done.”
Her laugh rang in his ears for the rest of the night.
VI
“William, what are we doing here?”
Muffled dance music could be heard on the street and in the courtyard. Now and again, hansoms arrived. People entered the hotel, alone or in pairs.
People dressed in evening attire, just like Eliza and William were.
He did not answer her question, instead he waited for her to solve this little mystery on her own. He even knew how she would approach it:
First, she would have a quick flip through all her current cases, then through the ones he was dealing with—the ones she wasn’t supposed to know about, but somehow did. Next, she would look at rumors and newspaper articles. In a split second, she would come to the conclusion that none of those required evening attire, which his written invitation had explicitly stated was something she would need.
Which left her with...
Her eyes widened. “Is this about our conversation from the other day?”
He tried to read her voice, tried to find something reassuring, something confidence-inspiring.
William found nothing. Maybe she had sounded slightly breathless, maybe not. Maybe she was irritated with him, or surprised, or not surprised at all.
Maybe this had been an idiotic idea. Maybe there was still an out, a way back to his usual Thursday evening, the one he spent alone at his fireplace with a drink, pretending to read a bloody book, because he was trying to be that guy.
Eliza still looked at him, questioning.
It was too late. If he left now, he would definitely look like a fool, so he had no choice but to keep going.
“That could be the case.” He cleared his throat and hastened through his prepared speech, making a mess out of things. “Although when I told you we’d show the others how it’s done, I may have slightly exaggerated.” He grimaced. “I have never been much of a dancer.”
She took a deep breath.
“William, I just wanted to make sure.” Eliza rolled her eyes. “You don’t think I only started putting it together now, do you?”
She folded her arms. “Of course, I had my suspicions.” And then she smiled. It was a small smile, a tentative one, but it still felt like a huge admission.
(Perhaps it meant: I knew what this was about and I still choose to be here, with you.)
Fondly, he admitted: “So there really is no surprising you.”
William extended his hand.
Eliza hesitated. This time, he was fairly confident about his guess, even if only because he had agonised over the same fundamental pillars before sending the invitation.
They were just old friends, old friends who solved cases together and who did not dine out anymore, because they were rational people.
Old friends did not spend their Thursdays evening dancing. It was anything but rational.
William wanted to say: “Then let’s not be so bloody rational,” but he did not. Instead, he opted for the next best thing:
“Although if you tell anyone, I will deny having ever been here.”
Now he could only hope she would be willing to come to the same conclusion he had, so he waited.
Just as he was beginning to feel stupid, she placed her hand into his.
Eliza smiled. This time, it was a real smile, bright and wonderful.
“I wont tell if you don’t,” she promised.
For a moment, they just stood there, before she once more told him what to do.
“I think this is the moment where you offer to escort me inside.”
Which was what he did, without further ado.
“As you wish.”
And, because the third time really was the charm, William even managed to rectify an old mistake during this unrivaled Thursday evening by finally complimenting Eliza on her dress.