Work Text:
Tuesday
Petruchio fingered the keys of his mobile. Kate had given him her number that afternoon in case he needed to reach her before she picked him up on Saturday to visit Hazlington. He should really leave her alone until then, lest she change her mind about the trip...but no one had ever accused him of having good sense.
He dialed the number.
"Kate!" he cried as soon as he heard the phone pick up.
"What do you want?" she snarled. Without giving him a chance to answer, she steamrolled on. "It's after bloody midnight."
And yet she'd answered on the first ring, which meant she wasn't asleep yet. Probably sitting in bed surrounded by file folders, plotting how best to take over the country, or at least her party.
He ignored her fuming. "I wanted to see if you were free for lunch tomorrow. Dinner. The rest of your life."
You'd think the phone had a video feature, he could see the scowl on her face in his mind's eye so clearly. "Sorry," she said, sounding the exact opposite, "There's a defense bill coming up. I'll be in conference all day, and probably most of the night."
He waited.
Finally, she sighed. "I have fifteen minutes at 10:30."
"Excellent!" he said, before she could caveat. "I'll bring you a coffee." He'd noticed a machine tucked away in the corner of her outer office when he'd stopped by yesterday.
"Black, one sugar. None of that fancy flavored crap."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"Are you done?" she asked when he said nothing else. "Some of us have work to do in the morning."
"All right. Goodnight, Kate."
"Goodnight," she said, and he thought he heard just the slightest hint of softening in it before she rang off.
He laid back on Harry's couch, feeling pleased with his success. Even though they'd spent nearly an hour and a half in the freezing cold park today, he simply couldn't have gone one minute more without hearing her voice. She was eighteen espressos and a half pound of dynamite in a six-ounce bottle, and he'd never wanted anything more in his life.
Now he just had to figure out how to see her on Thursday and Friday, to get him through to the weekend. Perhaps it was time he took an interest in the legislative process.
*
Saturday
In the tiny town Hazlington sat outside of, their choices for a takeaway were fish and chips ("terrible," Petruchio proclaimed) and Chinese ("new since I was here last"), so as the sun started to dip they brought back boxes of prawn toast and chicken satay. Petruchio built a small fire in the cleanest-looking of the many fireplaces of the manor. Katherine considered objecting on safety grounds, but hell, it was his house, and he'd probably make out better with the insurance payment than anything else he could do with it. Assuming he had insurance.
Petruchio. What sort of name was that, anyway? No wonder he'd been bullied in school. She asked him.
"My father was a Shakespeare fan," he said, looking slightly pained. "You'd think he could've chosen one of the more normal names, Henry or something, but then again, his name was Merlin, so I suppose it was inevitable. I tried going by Pete when I was twelve, but it never stuck."
She'd popped the last half of her prawn toast into her mouth as he was speaking, so she only nodded. Once she swallowed, she asked, "How old is the house?"
Falling down as it was, she liked the house. As a child, she'd loved the manors and stately homes of classic literature, Green Knowe and Misselthwaite and Kirrin Cottage, houses that could hold secret passages and doorways to Narnia. She herself had grown up in a large but devastatingly modern house just outside London. Get a few builders in to make it livable, and during recesses she could see herself—
"The oldest parts are from the Tudor era," Petruchio said. "The inner part of the east wing. Rest of the house is a hodgepodge. When my family took over in the Restoration, they added the west wing, and a new kitchen a few decades later. There're some Victorian additions here and there." He smiled. "Not a one of them managed to line up the floors with the earlier parts, so you have to watch your step at the thresholds."
He rambled on about the oddities of the house, his hands building pictures in the air as he described memories and history. Katherine watched more than listened, admiring the tapering length of his fingers, the patterns of shadow the fire threw over his face.
A shiver ran through her body, not from the cold air at her back. She was really considering it, marriage, to him. Was his lunacy catching?
On the other hand, she was trying to run a leadership campaign, and one of the necessary ingredients, at least according to John Naps, had fallen into her lap. She'd be foolish to ignore it. She wanted the leadership, and if the pack of tossers who made up the party membership wouldn't accept her without a husband in tow, then she could work that system.
Besides, he was...interesting. One might, were they not named Katherine Minola, even say fun. And a tiny, ugly part of her might just be flattered that for once someone had chosen her over her sister.
Petruchio seemed to finally run out of stories, and he put a foot on the stone surround of the fireplace, leaning back on two legs of his chair. He watched her with a hint of a smile.
"All right, I'll do it," Katherine said.
His brow furrowed. "Do what?"
"Marry you."
With a thump, his chair landed back on all four legs. "Kate!" he shouted in delight, his voice echoing through the cavernous rooms. It hurt her ears. She enjoyed it.
He leapt from the chair and grabbed her hands, pulling her upright as well. She thought he might embrace or, or even kiss her, but he just stood there, holding her hands in his ridiculously large ones, smiling gently. His eyes were keen even in the low light from the fire, and he traced her face with his gaze. "You've made me very happy," he said softly.
She just about believed him.
The moment lingered, until she started to wonder if he planned to stand like this all evening. Finally he spoke again. "Might I kiss my intended?"
She shrugged, her heart racing. He leaned down—and down—and softly pressed his lips to hers.
It wasn't anything spectacular. They didn't even stop holding hands to embrace, or touch each other elsewise at all. Still, when they parted, Katherine released a shuddering breath she hoped he wouldn't notice.
"Oh, Kate," he whispered. "We must be married with all possible haste."
"The sooner the better," she agreed, a breathiness she didn't recognize in the words. "Party membership votes in less than three months."
"Ah," he said, sounding...disappointed? "Well, I suppose you have your reasons as much as I do."
"Pleasing a bunch of hidebound wankers by doing something that has absolutely no bearing on my ability to lead? Yes."
"Hmm. You know, maybe the other side would be friendlier to women who tell people they're wrong with volume and vivid imagery."
She narrowed her eyes. "First, I resent you for even implying I might switch parties." His lips quirked up for just a second, causing her to glare even harder, before he schooled his face back into seriousness. She sighed. "Besides, it doesn't matter. It's the same in all of them. If you're pleasant, you're too weak to lead. If you...assert yourself, you're a bitch, you scare people. I'd prefer to be feared. At least then people get out of your way."
He stared at her for a long moment, thoughts she couldn't read passing over his face. "Is that why you told the secretary for defense you were going to feed him his own entrails garnished with HP sauce?" She reared back, and he raised his eyebrow at her. "I watched the sitting yesterday."
Had he really? She pondered that while her mouth answered. "No. I've just never liked idiots. I got expelled from reception because I didn't like how one of the boys kept hoarding the blocks. I broke his arm."
"Sounds reasonable to me."
"The headmaster didn't see it that way."
"Pity."
She bit her lip and took her hands from his to glance at her watch. "It's late."
Petruchio doused the fire with sand from what looked like an old ARP bucket from the war. Katherine wandered back to the dining room, the one his father had filled with pigs, to watch the stars come out through the holes in the roof.
The full moon provided just enough light to see him when he entered the room. "You should fix that soon," she said, angling her chin toward the roof.
"Whatever you wish, Kate. You're mistress of this place now."
"Am I?"
"Mistress of my house...and of my heart."
The tiniest of squeaks escaped her, and she saw him smirk. "We should be getting back before it gets any damned colder than it already is," he said, making a sweeping turn and bowing to indicate she should precede him through the door.
As she walked through, she felt the brush of his hand against his back, ushering her out of the house. He kept it there as they walked to the car, his footsteps echoing just behind hers.
She could get used to that.