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She was with the daguerreotypist for an age, but she’s returned to Nash & Sons with something extremely valuable. Patrick watches as Eliza shoves her hands into her coat with barely concealed glee as she turns out her pockets.
Out comes a house key, a pocket knife, a half empty vial of snake venom, a meager amount of laudanum, five shillings, and, ah, finally the photograph. The contents leave Patrick with an indecipherable look. Is it the poisons? Surely, it’s the poisons, and Eliza is thoroughly amused. She really had meant to empty her pockets before leaving home, but the growing look of curiosity on Patrick's face has made her forgetfulness all the more worth it.
“I’ve not used any of them today,” she says brightly, using two hands to uncurl Patrick's fingers from the laudanum. She’s only got one other bottle.
“And yesterday?”
“I don’t like to self-incriminate,” she says. “Now, look at this.” She presses close and shows him a photograph.
He looks down at her as she explains, proud of the spoils she’s charmed into her possession, and desperately considers squashing the part of him that’s overly affected by her. There would be nothing of him left.
______
“How long since you married?”
“It seems,” Eliza starts, slipping her left hand into Patrick’s waistcoat. Her mother’s ring catches on his watchchain, “Just three hours.”
“She’s being funny.” It’s not so polite to snatch things from ladies but he does it anyway. “We like to joke that we still feel… newly married.” Patrick smiles.
In the evening, they discover just how complex a sham marriage can be as it still implies a oneness they've neither possessed nor aspired to. If you’re a good enough liar (and they both are) a proprietor will hand over a room key to you and your beloved.
There’s quite a bit of implication. That Patrick should not roll his eyes at a lady, his partner, has been hinted at. But since no one has told him so, it must not be very true. He does this three more times before the night is over.
Patrick finds it grating. Eliza finds it’s quite like working a case. Pushing her way through the narrow bedroom, past Patrick and into the wash room is sharp elbows and sharp apologies. They’ve bumped shoulders a handful of times already, just as many times as they’ve bumped heads before deciding to put them together.
When Patrick takes the floor, he can feel Eliza’s irritated sigh leave her and settle into the ground beneath him.
“Eliza,” he mumbles, prone on the ground, his eyes closed and head tipped towards the ceiling. “I’ve slept in more unseemly places.”
“You don’t have to do that now,” she offers quietly.
He cracks an eye open and finds her looking back at him curiously.
“Am I really so unpleasant to share space with?” She mutters this, only half-joking.
“Eliza Scarlet,” he huffs. Patrick does his best to keep his face entirely plain. “Are you propositioning me?”
As Patrick chuckles and sinks back into the ground, a pillow strikes the floor next to his head.
"Thank you, Eliza."
But she doesn’t argue, instead mentioning that he hasn’t answered her question, and adding, rather cautiously, that she’s left space in the bed if he should feel so inclined.
With that, she bids a quick goodnight. The candle is blown out before he has the chance to look at her again.
______
Three girls have died. The mother of one of them has left Eliza with a bruise for promising to bring her daughter home.
In the low light of his back office, Patrick sets her on the edge of his desk and tends to her cheek with a handkerchief soaked in whiskey. She drips exhaustion and shame into his floorboards. This might be the first time he’s ever seen her in a way like this.
Hand on her chin, he tilts her face towards him.
“Let me know when it hurts.”
Eliza almost lies to him, almost says that she doesn’t need his help. That she hasn’t been swallowing back eyewitness descriptions to keep herself up at night, awake and dreamless. But he’s studying her with a look he uses conservatively, so as not to be patronizing. So warm she could curl up under his gaze and let herself rest without dreaming. The lie slinks away from the edge of her mouth.
“It already does.”
He sets down the handkerchief and regards her, wordlessly. Her eyes glisten in the firelight.
Against his better judgment, Patrick reaches for her. Against hers, Eliza accepts him willingly. Patrick envelops her shaking hands in her lap without looking away. What is etiquette to the weary?
“I think I’ve troubled enough people for today.”
“You aren’t trouble,” he tells her quietly. “Now, let me clean you up.”