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.”