#unknowing how how true that statement was since he was unwilling to even look away for a moment to notice his changed suit

[shower-phantom-ideas]

Iqgehdgwieyrbeuv

YES YOU GET ME SO MUCH!!! I love this and you did such a good job with the sky and that moon im just iwbwgwvwisvfusvwifbdg dying

Super amazing bravo!!!! Im making this my phone wallpaper asap (sorry juliet)

Based off this post by @shower-phantom-ideas (sorry, I couldn't reblog directly with the video)

Even in the midst of a ghost attack, Danny still has time to admire the stars.

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3.

Chapter 37: Martin Prime

It was weird hearing his fiancé arguing with someone who sounded like him but wasn’t, Martin mused idly. Like listening to a tape he didn’t remember recording.

It was also weird, and would probably always be weird, that he could tell the difference between Jon’s voice and Past Jon’s voice, at least when he was paying attention and not overly upset. Theoretically they were the same person. Practically, they were very different, just because of what they��d both been through. Jon’s voice had just the faintest rasp to it, the lightest bit of scarring on his vocal chords from both Daisy’s knife and Jane Prentiss’ worms, and Past Jon’s voice was a tad softer, less hardened by time and circumstance. The distinction in their voices was subtle, but it was enough.

“You knew about the bullet. You should have said something to her,” Jon said, for what was at least the fifteenth time in the last week. Martin could imagine him waving his arms as he did so. “If she gets shot because she didn’t know to avoid it—”

“It wasn’t like I had an opportunity in the conversation,” Past Martin protested. “I did tell her to be careful.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jon demanded.

From the stress on you, Martin guessed he’d turned the argument on someone else, and it was Past Jon who answered. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, don’t worry, you’ll come back alive but with a ghost’s bullet in your leg that’s going to make you irrationally angry’? I did the best I could. We were recording.”

“I’ve told you before, the recorders aren’t the Eye—”

“Uh, I need to take this back to the library before it closes for the weekend,” Tim said, but it didn’t seem to make an impression on the argument that Sasha was now chiming in to.

“He’s right, you should have told her. Should have warned her against joining the Institute, too.”

“I can do that when she gets back,” Past Martin pointed out.

“I told Basira what was going on,” Sasha said.

“But not in relation to herself,” Past Jon said. Martin could imagine that being accompanied by an accusing jab of the finger,  but he wasn’t going to make assumptions. “Besides, that’s different. Basira is the type to weigh all evidence and theories against her options when making a decision. Melanie’s more the type to give in to emotion, especially anger. It’s impossible to tell which way she’d go if you gave her that kind of information first. It’s very likely to make things worse.”

“Don’t you Know at me, Jonathan Sims.”

Tim made a noise imitative of a supermarket’s tannoy crackling to life. “Manager to Mr. Kettle, manager to Mr. Kettle, there’s a Ms. Pot for you on line two.”

“Would that be the pot calling the kettle back?” Martin asked. He was rewarded with a choked-off laugh from Tim’s direction, but he was pretty sure nobody else in the room heard either one of them. With a sigh, he heaved himself out of the armchair. “Want me to come with you to take that book back? This is going to take a while.”

“Sure. We’ll be back, guys.” Tim evidently directed this at the others, but again, no reaction from anyone. He sighed. “Here, give me your arm. Bringing your cane?”

“Better not, just in case we run into someone. Get me to the stairs and I should be okay.”

The sound of the argument faded into the background as they made it to the steps; Martin let go of Tim’s arm and gripped the railing instead. By leaning forward, he could anticipate when they hit a landing. “Thanks. What’s the book on, by the way?”

“Oh, it’s one of the circus books. I—I know I’m obsessing a little about it. I know the circus itself isn’t the important bit, but…I don’t know. Forewarned is forearmed, I guess.” Tim was silent for a moment. “Unless it is something about circuses that are important.”

“No, not really. Just…an excuse, I guess.” Martin tried to put into words what even Jon had never asked his opinion on; there hadn’t been much of a chance before the Unknowing, and after it there hadn’t been much of a point. “I’ve noticed that’s one of the places the Stranger is drawn to, is the entertainment industry. Not just the circus, but the theater. I-I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not the only one drawn to it. You know as well as I do the damn things overlap, like the bleed on the edge of colors.”

“Mm…hang on, I have a question, but we’re hitting the main floor. I’m gonna throw my arm around your shoulders like I’m telling you a bad joke, okay?”

“Thanks. And thanks for the warning.” Martin braced himself against the railing.

Tim’s arm came down heavily over Martin’s shoulders, and he turned his face towards him, hoping anyone passing them would assume he was engrossed in Tim’s extremely skewed sense of humor. True to his word, Tim picked up in the middle of a joke as they left the stairwell. “…the Brother Superior stands up as usual and sings, ‘Good morning, broooo-theeers.’ And all the brothers sing back, ‘Good moooor-niiiiiiing,’ except for the one little brother who’s rebelling. He sings out—”

“’Night, Martin,” a sweet, young-sounding voice called.

“Night,” Martin called back. It sounded like Manal, but he didn’t want to risk saying the wrong name and drawing attention to himself.

“Oh, hey, are you heading upstairs?” The voice got closer, and Martin and Tim drew to a halt. “This came in the mail drop for Mr. Bouchard. I meant to bring it up right away, but we got slammed with students and I forgot. Must be the first paper of the term coming up due. Can you give it to Rosie, please?”

“Sure, no problem.” Martin reached out uncertainly and—fortunately—touched a cardboard packet; he was able to grab it before it became obvious that was luck. He hoped. “Have a good night, Manal.”

“You too.”

Tim got them started walking again, continuing as he did, “Anyway, so the brother who’s rebelling sings, ‘Good eeeeeeve-niiiiiiing.’ A hush falls over the whole refectory. Brother Superior stands up, looks around the room, looks each brother in the eye, and then sings, ‘Someone chanted eveniiiiiiing…’”

Martin let out a long, protracted groan. “God, Tim, how long have you been sitting on that one?”

“Years,” Tim admitted sheepishly. “You’ve got to have the right audience for it, you know? Someone who both appreciate puns and knows enough about music to catch the reference.”

“If I could see you, I would hit you.”

“Must be my lucky day. Mind the steps.”

Martin switched the cardboard packet to his other hand in favor of the railing, and was surprised when someone tugged it away from his fingers. “Hey—”

“Sorry, should’ve warned you I was doing that,” Tim said. “I just figured it’d probably be better if I hand it off to Rosie, since…” He trailed off.

Since Martin couldn’t see her, wouldn’t know where to find her, and the last time he’d been in her office it had been…somewhat different. He tried to push the image of the top of the Panopticon out of his mind. “Yeah, probably for the best. If she’s still there.”

“She will be. Always one of the last ones out the door. Not sure how much of it is Elias keeping her to the last minute and how much of it is she doesn’t want to miss anything.” Tim paused. “Speaking of being unbearably nosy, wonder what Elias is getting from one of the Lukases that can’t be delivered in person?”

“They don’t like doing anything in person if they can help it, Tim. It’s kind of their whole…deal.” That close to Elias’ office, it didn’t feel safe to mention the Lonely out loud, or any of the fears, really. “I very much doubt we’ll find out, though.”

The railing didn’t level out—it just stopped, something Martin discovered when he almost pitched forward from abruptly not having something to lean on. He caught himself against the wall with a rather loud slap and thanked his lucky stars he’d always had a (mostly undeserved, to be honest) reputation as a klutz. Assuming anyone was still around, they’d probably just think oh, Martin tripped over his own two feet again, insofar as they thought about it at all. Rosie was probably watching, though.

That was confirmed—more or less—when Tim said in a bright, jovial voice, “Rosie! Good to see you. Can you give this to Elias? Manal asked us to bring it up.”

“Of course.” Rosie’s voice sounded just like Martin remembered it, and he curled one hand into a fist to stave off the memory of her staring up at them, face perfectly blank except for her eyes, somewhere between dazed and terrified, as she blandly asked if they had an appointment…

Not for the first time, Martin wished there had been any other way of protecting him from the Eye than by destroying his vision. Setting aside the usual, mundane difficulties that came with total blindness—difficulties any person faced with complete loss of sight would have to deal with—there was the simple fact that the last thing Martin had seen, live and in person, had been a post-apocalyptic hellscape. The last time he had seen the Institute, it had been a tower of black glass and twisted steel looming up into the stratosphere; the last time he had seen London, it had been swarming with very interested cameras and monitors and paintings of eyes; the last time he had seen the sky, it had seen him back. He could remember the way things had been before, but those last impressions were awfully powerful, and it hurt.

“Was there anything else, Tim?” Rosie asked. Martin frowned slightly. Under her voice was something eager, something…hungry. She wanted something, and he wondered what it was. He remembered Jon’s unwilling statement, where he’d talked about her constant desire for secrets—she could probably give Sasha a run for her money in terms of snooping, and no wonder Gertrude had always talked to her as if she was in the know. Was that all it was? Was she prying for secrets? Or—Martin bit his lip—was it possible she’d been taken over by the Not-Them, that she was drawn to Tim because of his Stranger mark? She sounded like he remembered, but if she were replaced in this past, would it replace his memories of the future, too?

He bit back a groan. Douglas Adams was wrong about the biggest problem to time-travel being grammatical tenses; clearly, the biggest problem was making sense out of the recursive nature of body-stealing, memory-altering creatures.

“Nope, that ought to do it. Gotta get to the library before they lock it up for the night. Have a good weekend, Rosie.” Tim knocked twice on something wooden, probably her desk, then came over and touched Martin’s arm. “Let’s go, Freckles.”

“Night, Rosie,” Martin called, because he would have before and Past Martin would too and there was no sense in making Rosie—or Elias, if he was still there—suspicious. He could imagine the false, charming smile she flashed in his direction, but there was no audible response and he didn’t expect one. Instead, he simply linked arms with Tim, let him lead him down the corridor, and prayed nobody had left a door open for him to run into.

The sensation of stepping into the library was instantly a familiar one to Martin—the feeling of stepping into a soaring, open space, but an oddly safe one—odd because of the sheer number of truly dangerous and terrifying works contained there. Any book with Jurgen Leitner’s bookplate on it was destroyed long before it got this far, of course, but even before he’d gone to the Archives, Martin had wondered if someone would be able to tell one of Leitner’s books if the bookplate was papered over or removed. Once he’d learned the truth, that Leitner had been a collector rather than the author or even the commissioner, he’d wondered how many books of power were actually in the Institute’s library. On the one hand, it didn’t seem likely that Jonah Magnus would allow any genuinely powerful books to get this far; on the other hand, it would certainly explain the library’s asinine and borderline ludicrous lending procedures.

Martin hung back by the door, sliding his hands into his pockets and hoping he was sufficiently out of the way of everyone bustling to get their assigned tasks completed so they could be out the door on time. Idly, he wondered who was on the desk. He’d usually ended up working it on Friday afternoons; everybody else hated it because, as Rebecca had once complained, there was always one person who came back with an enormous stack to return with ten minutes to go before they were supposed to clock out. Every book had to be checked against three different lists, certain inspections had to be made, and the identity of the person returning the book had to be checked twice. And it all had to be done by hand; every attempt to automate and bring in a computer had been met with catastrophic failure. Martin had actually kind of enjoyed it, especially since it usually meant he was left alone at the end of the week and could take his time, lingering over shelves and experimenting with the acoustics. If he thought he could get away with it, he might creep up here some evening after the Institute was closed and throw a few more songs into the darkness. It was different in the Archives.

“Well, hello there, Martin!”

Martin almost leapt out of his skin and whirled around, his heart pounding. “Jesus!”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” The voice was coming from roughly Martin’s height, but that was about all he could tell, that and that it was female. It had no distinctive characteristics, nothing to trigger a name in his mind. And yet, whoever owned it knew his name, which meant it was someone he should know. He’d have to bluff. “Haven’t seen you up here in a while.”

“Yeah, just—been busy,” Martin said lamely. He waved in the direction of the desk. “Kind of figured you’d be glad to see the back of me, to be honest.”

“Oh, now, why would you think that?” The woman, or at least Martin presumed it was the woman, patted him on the cheek with a soft, fleshy hand; he tried not to flinch at the unexpected touch, or the unpleasantly dry feel of her palm. “You’re such a hard worker, and always so cheerful. You’ve been missed, but I’m sure Jon appreciates having you in the Archives.”

If this was a joke, Martin didn’t think it was very funny, but he managed a smile anyway. “Well, we all had a settling-in period, but that’s in the past now. I do miss it up here sometimes, but I like being down there, too.”

“And we’re very glad to have him,” Tim said, suddenly right next to Martin. “C’mon, buddy, we’ve got a weekend to catch before it slips away…have a good one.”

“You, too, Tim. And you, Martin. Don’t be such a stranger—come back and visit us more often. We’d love to see you again.”

“Sure,” Martin said softly. “’Night.”

Tim didn’t say anything the rest of the way back down to the Archives, which Martin appreciated. Going down stairs was a hell of a lot more complicated than going up; he couldn’t lean as safely, and the kick-and-drag method was a bit less effective. It took concentration to keep from pitching forward and tumbling down the entire flight, and if he tried to spare any braincells for conversation, Martin was pretty sure he’d end up missing his footing. Tim’s hand at his elbow helped, especially since the main floor was crowded with people leaving for the day. A few called greetings to Tim, but they all ignored Martin, which was fine by him.

There was a sense, when they re-entered the Archives, of an argument put on hold, something that was confirmed when the first thing Martin heard anyone say was Jon’s voice. “What do you think, Martin?”

“Gender is a social construct, Shakespeare is overrated, and paisley is horrendously tacky no matter what color it is,” Martin replied promptly. Someone hastily turned a snigger into a cough.

“I mean, about whether or not you would have told Melanie more about what to expect in India.”

Martin felt around until he located a chair. “I think my opinion doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” Past Jon protested.

“Not in this.” Martin met Jon’s hand coming towards him and squeezed it gently. “What I would have done doesn’t have a lot of relevance here. It’s not our story anymore.”

“What?” Past Martin sounded genuinely confused. “Of course it’s—”

“I mean,” Martin said quickly, “that you’re not us and we’re not you. What I was like at this point in things isn’t anywhere near where you are, and vice versa. Same with Jon and your Jon. To be honest, I don’t even know if I would have made the effort to be friends. But at this point, things are different enough that telling you how we would do it isn’t very…efficient, I guess? It’s your story, your lives. You’re the ones shaping it. Trying to do things the way we wish we’d done it…well, if the circumstances aren’t the same, it won’t have the same outcome necessarily. You’ve got to do what you think is best.”

“That’s…a good point, actually,” Jon admitted. He sighed. “I apologize for lecturing.”

“’S all right,” Past Martin said. “Gave me a chance to stand my ground and all.”

“Which you need to do more often,” Tim said cheerfully. “Anything to boost your self-esteem.”

“Ouch, Tim, really?” The effectiveness of Sasha’s reproof was lessened by the obvious smirk in her voice.

“Yeah, okay, I probably shouldn’t have said it like that, but it’s true. I’m not completely oblivious, you know. I can put the pieces together, and from the little you’ve said about working in the library, I got the impression you thought they hated you up there. Especially Diana.”

“They did,” Past Martin protested. “The only one who ever even spoke to me directly was Diana, and even that was just to give me orders. It’s hard not to know someone hates you when their method of asking you for help is to wait until you’re in earshot and then tell someone else to ‘just leave that for Martin, he’ll fumble his way through it eventually’.”

“Did they really do that?” Jon asked quietly.

“Constantly,” Martin affirmed. “Speaking of, Tim, who the hell was that who was talking to me while you were checking that book back in? I didn’t recognize the voice.”

“Wait, seriously?” Tim said with an audible frown.

Martin sighed. “Look. Down here it’s pretty easy to tell who’s talking. You’ve all got pretty distinct voices from one another. It’s hard to tell my Jon and your Jon apart if I’m not concentrating, but there’s enough of a difference and I know you well enough to be able to figure it out, usually. But out there? If it’s not someone with a distinctive pitch or accent or speech pattern or whatever, it’s hard to tell. And something like ninety percent of the people who work here speak with the exact same voice. About all I could tell was that I was talking to a woman.”

“I guess that makes sense. Just figured you’d recognize Diana’s voice when you heard it.”

“Pretty sure I would. So who was that?”

There was a half-second’s pause before Tim said, “Diana.”

“Diana?” Martin repeated incredulously.

“You’re sure you didn’t recognize her?”

“No, and it’s not just the accent. I didn’t think the ladders got that close to where I was standing.” Martin rubbed his forehead. “God, my mental map of the library is all off now.”

Jon wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. Tim sounded bewildered. “What do ladders have to do with anything?”

“It sounded like whoever was talking to me was around my height. I mean, that could’ve been the way sound bounces in the library, but—”

“No, that’s—she is around your height. She always intimidated the hell out of me.”

Martin sighed. “Okay, I think we’re talking about two different Dianas here. Which Diana was this I was talking to?”

“Diana—what the hell is her last name? The head librarian?”

“Caxton,” Past Jon supplied.

Something cold trickled down Martin’s spine. “Describe her.”

“Uh—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair that she usually wears piled up on top of her head, looks like a Quentin Blake illustration come to life—?”

“That’s who the artist is! I can never remember his name,” Sasha said, punctuating the remark by—from the sound of it—slamming her open hand against the desk.

“That’s not Diana Caxton,” Past Martin said decidedly. “I don’t know who you’re talking about, or why she would have told you she was, but—”

“It’s the Diana Caxton I know,” Past Jon said. “And you should, too. She was there when I took Melanie up the first time, said they missed seeing your smiling face up there.”

“Look, that’s not Diana,” Past Martin insisted. “I should know. I worked there for ten years, Jon. She’s shorter than five feet tall, her hair’s been completely silver for a while now, and she has a Korean accent. I don’t know who this woman is you’re describing, but it’s not Diana Caxton.”

Jon tensed, his arm tightening around Martin’s shoulders. Softly, he said, “I think it is now.”

There was a moment of horrible silence as that sank in. Martin had to admit that the idea of the Not-Them taking over Diana hadn’t even occurred to him. He’d just…assumed that if it was anyone, either it would be someone in Artifact Storage foolish enough to disregard the warnings or it would be Rosie. And, okay, maybe there’d been a foolish little part of him that had hoped it wouldn’t take over anyone. But somehow, the idea of it being Diana Caxton just felt wrong. It was true that she hadn’t liked him all that much when he’d worked for her, but then, he’d been unqualified and incompetent, bluffing his way along, and she’d likely had to pick up a lot of his messes. And he knew for a fact that the twice-widowed bookworm had a flock of grandchildren who adored her—he still remembered the day her youngest had come to visit, just before he’d been transferred to the Archives, and attached herself to Martin with a thousand innocent questions and bragging stories about “my Nana��. It wasn’t fair for anyone to be taken by that thing, but especially not someone like Diana.

There was a banging noise, like the Archives doors had just blown open, and Martin jumped, clutching at Jon’s arm. His first thought was that it was the Not-Diana, having realized they knew, coming to take them out. His second was that it was Elias, the jig would be up, and they would have to try and implement their plan now, and what if Jon wasn’t strong enough to do what had to be done and—

“Basira?” Sasha said, sounding somewhere between shocked and relieved. “What are you doing here?”

Oh. Martin relaxed, but not much. There was absolutely no hiding his or Jon’s presence. Past Jon sounded nervous as he said, “I can explain about—”

“Save it. I don’t care.” There was a thump and a rattle as Basira—her voice was unmistakable, too—dropped something on the desk in front of them. “Here.”

“Are those the tapes?” Past Jon asked.

“As many of them as I could get,” Basira replied.

“What happened, Basira?” Sasha’s voice was gentle, but—surprisingly—there was no static in it, even though Martin could almost feel it building in the room. It hit him, suddenly, that Sasha’s ability from the Eye didn’t enable her to ask for secrets. Only to take them. He decided to keep that particular unpleasant realization to himself for the moment. “I thought you said you were done with the Institute.”

Basira let out one of those frustrated noises Martin, unfortunately, knew all too well. “They’re covering it up. Altman’s death. Saying he was dirty. That he got stabbed in a drug deal gone wrong.”

“Wait, so the operation you went on—” Past Jon began.

“Doesn’t exist. I mean, I didn’t know Leo well, but…it’s not right. And they seemed happy enough to get me out the door.”

Someone poked at the box, if the rattle was any indication; Martin guessed it was Sasha, since she spoke again. “So why bring us the tapes?”

“Well, they’re sure as hell not going to solve Gertrude’s murder,” Basira said. “And from what you said the last time I was here, they’re probably of more use to you anyway, even if her death’s not in here. Before, I guess I had enough police in me not to steal evidence, but…”

“They’ve rather lost your loyalty,” Jon supplied softly. Martin slipped his arm around his waist and pulled him close.

“You won’t get in trouble for this, will you?” Tim asked, actually sounding concerned.

“Don’t think so. Daisy knows I’m bringing them to you. They won’t know they’re missing until they do inventory, and then only if they check the sectioned stuff.”

“Thanks, Basira,” Sasha said. “I owe you a drink or two. Just say the word.”

“Long as you promise not to talk shop,” Basira replied. “If I never hear another thing about this place…that’ll be enough for me.”

Martin heard footsteps starting to retreat across the Archives floor. Impulsively, he called out, “Basira.”

The footsteps stopped. “What?”

Martin looked in what he hoped was the right direction to look her in the eyes. “Keep her close. You’re her tether, and excuses only carry you so far.”

It was the same thing he’d said to her, once upon a time and simultaneously in a nonexistent future, loitering in the hallway of an abattoir outside an instrument room. She hadn’t wanted to listen then, and if he was honest, he hadn’t really taken his own advice all that well. He could only pray she would listen now, and that she would understand what he was talking about—and what he wasn’t saying. Don’t let your partner turn into a monster because it’s easier than saying stop.

After a moment, Basira said, her voice so soft it almost wasn’t audible, “Right.” With that, evidently, she left the Archives.

Jon pulled Martin around and wrapped him in a tight hug; Martin could feel his face pressing into his shoulder as he hugged him back. He, at least, had understood. They held each other for a moment, both hoping—despite what she’d done to them months ago—that Daisy could still be saved.

There was another rattle as someone poked at the tapes. “Where do we start?” Sasha asked.

“We go home,” Tim said firmly. “It’s Friday, and it’s past quitting time. Let’s just—let’s just go home, take the weekend to regroup, and we can come back and look through these on Monday. Maybe, um, maybe you two can go through and pick a few you think we ought to listen to.”

“Or,” Jon suggested, “we can sort them out. Gertrude labeled some but not others. If I set the blank ones aside, that might be good practice for you to sort out the color muddle. If that’s all right.”

“Either way, Tim’s right,” Past Jon said softly. “It’s late and we’re all tired. Especially…now. Let’s just go home. We’ll see you on Monday.”

Everyone wished one another goodnight, and the team departed, leaving Jon and Martin alone in the Archives. Martin waited a moment, then asked, “Do you want to start looking through them now?”

To Martin’s surprise, Jon hesitated for a minute, then said, “No. I think I want to put these in the Archivist’s office, and then I want to take a walk with my fiancé and maybe go out to dinner. What do you think of that?”

Martin smiled. He could feel himself blushing a little, but he didn’t care. “I think that sounds like an excellent idea.”

[anachilles]

Beautiful stranger, here you are.

"Emma’s eyes fluttered open, her heart thumping in the most telling manner. She groaned quietly and threw herself forward into her hands, heaving the heavy sigh of someone completely resigned to the inconvenient nature of their own emotions."

An introspective look into Emma's innermost thoughts and feelings throughout Mr Knightley and Jane Fairfax's duet at the Coles' party, and what may have been brought to light in the wake of it.

(( link to read on AO3: [x] ))

{a/n: thank-you so much to @bismuth-209 for being such an amazing beta ♥ i really appreciate your help!}

It was clear to see that Frank Churchill in some way unsettled Mr Knightley.

In a similar way that it was annoyingly evident to him that Emma herself was ill at ease around Jane Fairfax, Emma knew this to be true. Mr Knightley was for all intents and purposes a very amiable man, and even of the people he didn’t warm to (overwhelmingly those possessing questionable natures or outright unsavoury characters), he always treated them with the utmost polite civility and kindness. To the extent that it was quite taxing to deduce based on body language or public conduct alone when he genuinely didn’t like someone. If he did express his distaste, it was always in private conversation (oft with her), and communicated in the most diplomatic manner.

But for some reason there just seemed to be some aspect of Frank Churchill’s character which irked him greatly enough to abandon these tendencies. And to be truthful, Emma found it highly amusing to watch Mr Knightley get so worked up. Before Mr Churchill actually arrived in Highbury she had found Mr Knightley’s judgements irritating. It was like he had been casting judgement on her for merely showing interest in him, which in turn in some way made her feel small. Like a child being scolded for their choice of playmate. Admittedly, hidden away and repressed by her stubbornness was a flicker of doubt in Mr Churchill and his flightiness, only fueled by Mr Knightley’s judgements. But since he’s arrived in the flesh and seemed to be living up to every estimation set for him by the people of the village (particularly the women, it must be said), the criticisms of his character put forward by Mr Knightley just seemed… petty.

In all the preparation for the Coles’ gathering, Emma had been pondering what exactly Mr Knightley holds against Mr Churchill, and why his comments strike her this way. The only reasonable explanation she can conjure is envy. But envious of what exactly? They were both men of fortune and favourable circumstances, both physically handsome, highly eligible bachelors, and both witty and charming in conversation. Perhaps Mr Knightley had gotten too comfortable being the big fish in their small, insular pond.

It was then that Emma realised for as much as she’d always looked upon Mr Knightley as being in a complete league apart from other men, with his kind, highly obliging and agreeable nature, at the end of the day he was still a man with a masculine ego to manage.

And it just so happened that the management of said ego in relation to Mr Churchill had become highly amusing to watch in action. Rarely was anyone or anything able to fluster Mr Knightley or cause disruption to his gentle manner - so to see it happen was a treat in itself.

“And yet he spent a whole day going to London just to get his hair cut. Sixteen miles, twice over. He’s a trifling, silly fop”.

The scoff of amusement escaped her before she had any chance at all of stifling it.

--------------------------------

“Ladies and Gentlemen;- a duet!”

Mr Cole’s announcement cut Emma’s conversation with Mr Churchill short, though she was not adverse to the interruption. She’d gotten what she’d sought from the exchange, her mind having been put at ease once more regarding the nature of his acquaintance with Jane Fairfax. The whole matter of the pianoforte had made her natural suspicions arise once again from the moment she’d been privy to gossip, immediately suspecting Mr Churchill himself to be the anonymous sender. The both of them had been far too coy about their existing acquaintance with each other and far too unwilling to divulge anything at all about it for it not to be suspicious.

But by all accounts now, he seemed (at least to Emma’s eye and ear) rather dismissive of Jane altogether in a way that she assumed one could never be regarding someone they held affection for. From how he’d cast her aside in Ford’s before, bringing up her unfortunate situation, to implying insult to her appearance tonight. So Emma chose to lather herself in the reassurance, relaxing and laughing with him as they gossiped further about who then could have so generously sent the instrument.

She crossed the room to take her place for the performance, a hint of a smile and renewed sense of poise about her, but was quickly intercepted before she could properly place herself.

“What do you say to this, Emma? I have made a match between Mr Knightley and Jane Fairfax” said Mrs Weston, looking very pleased with herself.

The statement caught Emma off-guard and gave her momentary pause, leaving her briefly unable to process it. As if on auto-pilot however, she quickly managed to correct herself. “Mr Knightley and Jane Fairfax?” she choked out in reply, briefly forcing a curious smile as if to offset the unease in her response.

“This pianoforte has been sent to her by somebody, and she’s always been a favourite with him…”

Just as Emma’s eyes rose to focus on Jane, she turned her own to Mr Knightley at her side. Emma’s gaze is just quick enough to catch her flashing him a smile which, in Emma’s opinion, looked… adoring? It couldn’t possibly be; perhaps Mrs Weston’s comments made her read into the look what wasn’t there. In any case, whatever manner it was intended in, it heightened her unease.

“...tonight, he sent his carriage for her as a courtesy, and walked himself. Was that not gallant?”

Of course, it was gallant. Mr Knightley was a very gallant man. He would have done the same for any one of their friends, would he not? Emma continued to reason with herself as Mrs Weston took her leave to find her husband, wholly unknowing of the upended state she’d left her former charge in.

Emma’s back held rigid, the cogs now turning in her mind at a frantic pace. The convivial cacophony of the room dulled around her as she rushed to re-piece together her worldview in a way that would validate (or invalidate) Mrs Weston’s assertions. She suddenly found herself second-guessing every interaction she had witnessed between the two of them; every look, every comment he’d made at Emma’s expense about Jane’s talents and accomplishments (which Emma herself had always taken as being more primarily a criticism of herself rather than an admiration of Jane)— but had that been self-centred of her to assume? Had she again been mistaken all this time? And if so, how could she have been so blind to this relationship between them?

Also, why did it bother her so?

She’d been so wrapped up in her considerations she hadn’t even noticed the music start; light, skillful piano keys accompanied by the chords of a violin. Emma implored her gaze upward and towards the front where Jane and Mr Knightley stood.

Suddenly, conjured from God knows where, Emma feels something akin to panic flood her veins. Her heart leaps into a hammering beat inside her chest and a flush of warmth rushes to her cheeks, the panic churning in her stomach like sour milk and making her feel sick. In that moment she’s overcome with the very childish notion that she was losing a long-standing and much beloved companion in Mr Knightley; or that he was in some way being taken away from her, and that of course Jane Fairfax was the reason for it. Though Emma had never once thought of Mr Knightley for herself, never in any other way than as her closest friend and confidant, somehow, the thought of someone else actually taking him as their husband was something she hadn’t seriously considered. Of course at some points in time she’d had abstract notions of him one day probably taking a wife, but with how little he spoke of the prospect or anything in that realm of thought she had been allowed to stay willfully ignorant.

The lyrics of the duet as Jane started it were heartfelt and painfully romantic, and both her skill on the piano and singing abilities were reliably sublime. Watching her perform with him, and how enraptured their audience appeared to be, Emma swallowed back this fact like a dose of bitter medicine alongside the reminder it dredged up of her own sense of lacking. Insecurity wasn’t something she felt overly often, or the feeling of inferiority which accompanied it, but when she did it was almost always in comparing herself to Jane. These feelings sat heavy in her chest, but it was a familiar discomfort, often characterised by ornate drawing rooms and the whispers of gossiping society ladies, an ache that burned for a while but was quickly soothed by the flattery of either her father, Harriet, Miss Bates, Mrs Weston, or someone else of the like. Somehow though, only tonight, there was a lingering sting of… something edging the sensation.

Jane Fairfax really was very talented and very accomplished, that Mr Knightley hadn’t been wrong about. Begrudgingly, Emma could admit that with her gentle, accommodating manner these qualities made clear that she would make a very good wife. And Mr Knightley deserved the very best of wives, more so than any man she’d ever known. So should she not then approve of such a match between the two of them? Perhaps she ought. But whether it be down to her own ill-feelings towards Jane or her selfish attachment to Mr Knightley, or maybe a combination of the two, she resoundly did not.

Her gaze must have wandered away, for the masculine lilt of Mr Knightley’s own singing voice drew her eyes instantly back to awareness of where she stood. But only to look upon him . She watched; silently implored for him to look back at her, feeling as if she’d been cast adrift and that his mere notice would buoy her and serve to reassure.

But he did not.

Vexed, though employing every effort not to appear so, Emma switched gears and desperately fixed her gaze upon Frank Churchill across the room. Though she consistently expressed aversion to the idea of marriage, claiming she had all she needed as mistress of Hartfield and wanted for nothing that matrimony could bring, she was of course every now and again tempted into imagining the different versions of what her future could look like. In terms of who she could potentially share it with, Frank Churchill was the physical manifestation of all that she expected to desire if she were to desire any man. He was handsome, witty in conversation, charming, already closely affiliated with whom she considered her family, and with a respectable social standing of his own. She’d let herself be intrigued by the mystery written into his every letter shared with her by Mr Weston, and carried away with flights of fancy. For all intents and purposes, she should fall head over heels for him. They made an unavoidable amount of sense.

But when she looks to Mr Churchill and he returns her gaze, she feels… precious little. Apart from confusion as to why she feels nothing, the thought of Frank in that moment inspired no great depth of emotion or sense of yearning, and immediately exposed to herself just how lacking in substance their connection was. What she felt for him in that moment was but a mere drop in the ocean compared to… to what she possibly felt...

Realisation curled its way into the pit of her stomach like a beautiful but exotic and possibly dangerous bloom, and all but consumed her as the performance drew to a close. She did not meet Mr Knightley’s eye for the remainder of the function, unsure of herself around him for possibly the first time ever. Maybe she could eventually reason herself out of such affections (perhaps she would even have to), but in this moment, on that evening, the ground she tread on was far too uneven and her emotions far too raw to even try.

Such ruminations plagued her for the remainder of her time spent at the function. It wasn’t long before she politely but swiftly took her leave not long after dinner was eaten, as soon as she deemed it socially acceptable to be excused. With Emma’s mind clearly elsewhere she was uncharacteristically quiet throughout the meal, and her appetite flimsy as she picked nimbly at her food and prodded it around her plate. As distracted as she was she did not catch Mr Knightley watching her covertly across the table, having noticed her peculiar mood. He approached her as she readied herself to leave, enquiring with worried glance and cautious tone.

“You do not seem yourself, Emma, are you unwell?”

She painted herself an agreeable expression for him, however much the burden of one-sided realisation weighed heavy on her consciousness.

“A mild headache, quickly onset. No need to concern yourself, rest assured. Though I thank you for it.”

He even saw her to her carriage, gentlemanly as he was despite how they’d bickered earlier. This was not unlike the usual dynamics of their friendship, quick to quarrel but also to resolution, but she couldn’t help but feel entirely different about the gesture now suspecting what she does about her feelings for him.

Later on as she prepared for bed, finally free from the invasive eyes of society and tucked up in the comforting dimness of her bedroom Emma ruminated further. It was all she’d done since she’d left the Coles’, and at this rate, she feared it was all she would continue to do at this rate. With her thoughts too occupied to attempt sleep she changed course and sat herself down at the table.

Was it really possible that she could want Mr Knightley for herself? The memory of just how wickedly the jealousy burned within her earlier made the possibility unavoidable. Emma closed her eyes and, as if dipping a toe in the water to test the temperature, she let her mind conjure images of Mr Knightley and herself stood toe to toe. They often ended up in such a position when caught in the midst of one of their famous quarrels, but in this instance all was calm. His eyes, bluer than the summer sky she longed for in the depths of the colder months, looked upon her with such a tenderness even the thought of it made her heart flutter. He was so close she could practically feel the heat from his body, saw his chest move with every inhale and exhale. With a smile threatening the edge of his lips he brought a hand up to cup her cheek. The thought of it was most entirely welcome, so much so the intensity shocked her back into reality.

Emma’s eyes fluttered open, her heart thumping in the most telling manner. She groaned quietly and threw herself forward into her hands, heaving the heavy sigh of someone completely resigned to the inconvenient nature of their own emotions.

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a/n:  Thank-you so much for reading! This was my first attempt at any kind of fanfic for an Austen source text, so I'm a little/a lot paranoid about striking the right tone and getting it right, but I really hope you enjoyed it! Any comments/constructive criticism is entirely welcome. Tbh, I just had a lot of feelings watching this scene play out and all of Anya's little choices in her facial expression/mannerisms throughout really indicated a more inner story dying to be told. I was so inspired I just had to write it, lol.