Work Text:
One of the first times Angelina thinks of hatred, it's when she's forced by her father to board a ship and leave America to live with him; she'd always been a tough-minded, stubborn girl, and it was something her father despised.
The trip was only a week, but Angelina thought of that hatred once more. She was forced on a ship, better than the rest of the societies she had come across just so she would arrive to Great Britain when her father wanted.
When the ship docked, its' horn blowing large and loud behind her as she walked down the boardwalk, eyes already watching her every move, she wished not for the first time that she was back in America with her mother.
She was taller than most women, stronger than them too as she carried her own luggage with a huff and a hand shoo-ing away the busy-bodies constantly stopping her path just to ask if she needed help; women were meant to be small, quiet, weak and hidden behind every person that could stand in front of them; not her though.
"Miss Roland?"
There was little sympathy at the sneer she sent to the young boy. She knew it wasn't his fault, but hearing the family name bestowed on her by her father always rubbed her the wrong way.
"Yes."
"The Lord had a car sent-"
"Car? I thought this country did not own the usage of cars."
He looked a little unsure, a little taken aback at the roughness coating her voice.
"Y-yes, Miss. The Lord had it specifically shipped here, Miss."
Angelina tuts at the implication.
Her father was a man of money. He always had been since she'd known him, and he always would be. The showcasing of wealth he waved had never impressed her; it just made her hatred flare in another way.
With no knowledge of where she was, Angelina could only nod at the young boy and gesture with her hand.
"Well, lead the way then. God forbid I leave my father waiting."
"Yes, Miss. Right this way, Miss."
###
Pulling up to a large house, Angelina showed no expression.
No interest.
No anger.
Nothing.
She simply stepped down to the pavement, body twisting to grab her luggage before the young boy - Jimmy, he said his name was - could get it for her. It had been hard to get his name, a fear trained within him when in the vicinity of someone with a higher status that left him looking ashen and pale; the poor boy looked physically ill the moment the question left her mouth.
"I apologise, Jimmy. I do not own any currency that would give you use in this country yet. You have been very helpful and I wish I could offer more."
"Please, I do not need any apologies, Miss Roland. The Lord paid me my fee and more to personally escort you to your premises."
"Well, I applaud and appreciate your efforts. I thank you as well for following through and getting me to this house safe and sound. I am not usually one to admit to help, so we shall keep this a secret, yes?"
There was a starting twinkle in Jimmy's eyes that pulled a smirk to Angelina's face before the young boy nodded. She stayed to wave him goodbye as the car sat idle on the street, his small frame disappearing into the foot traffic of London; she turned with her head held high as she walked up the steps and knocked on the front door.
Enough time passed for Angelina to wonder if she'd actually been tricked by young Jimmy when the door clicked with the locking mechanism, a creak to its hinges as it slowly opened to reveal an old woman, legs straight and back hunched.
"Good Afternoon, Miss. May I help you?"
"Good afternoon, ma'am. I believe this is my new residence? I am Angelina Roland."
There was the slightest increase in her hunched form, her back straightening as she pulled the door open wider and waved a hand.
"Please, please. Come in, Miss Roland. I shall fetch a boy to take your luggage for you."
Angelina faces the door as the old woman locks it, her luggage resting by her feet as she fishes through her handbag for her cigarettes and matches.
"No need, Miss?"
"Mrs Daltrey."
"Mrs Daltrey. There is no need for anyone, I am perfectly capable of carrying my own belongings- I have made it this far, do you not agree?"
"A young woman such as yourself should not be carrying her own luggage."
Angelina smiles at Mrs Daltrey as she places a cigarette in her mouth, a match being flicked to flame ready for her to light the cigarette and take a drag.
"I suppose a young woman should not smoke either?"
Mrs Daltrey looks her up and down, a small nod towards her as her lip curls ever so slightly.
"The garden is a lovely place for tea and a smoke."
"Please," Angelina sucks in another breath, "lead the way." She blows the smoke out as she follows Mrs Daltrey.
They make easy conversation the moment Angelina pulls a chair out and invites Mrs Daltrey to sit with her.
"John! Yer back!"
"Aye, ah'm back Da."
His cheeks hurt, eyes squinting from the smile held on his face as his father pulls him in for a tight hug. He could feel the older man patting his back before pulling away to shout through the house.
John's attacked by a myriad of hugs, kisses, and shouts of joy when his mother, his older brother, older sister, younger sister and younger brother pile into the side-hug his father still had him wrapped up in.
The table that night was full of laughter. Everyone in his family celebrating his return as they asked question after question of his education and the travels to get him there and back to Fife.
"It was definitely hard, but it's what I studied for."
"Well, the first McAllister te go te school will forever go down in history! Aye, show us yer diploma again, son."
With a put-upon sigh, John pulls his diploma and spreads it on the table for all his family to see, their 'oooh's' and 'aaah's' filling him with giddy pride once again; within himself, he hoped that one day he could see the same treatment with his younger siblings.
"Oh John. I couldnae be more proud of ye. You've started a new line for this family."
"Ach. It's nothing, ma."
"OI. It's nae nothin'. You've proven we can be more than just bakers, Johnny. Dinnae put yerself down fer our sake. Be proud of this! Christ an' all his disciples know ah'm gonna be shoutin' this from the ovens, loud enough for the customers te hear in the front."
John ducks his head, a bashfullness to his cheeks that made them heat up red as he takes back the diploma and bids his family goodnight; they crowd him once more, arms and legs tangled in one joint embrace.
As he slips into his bed, he closes his eyes and sleeps soundly to a dream of green grass, light rain, and a picnic.
###
"I am in need of a boy. Young and educated if possible."
"Ah'm sorry. No-one here has been te school."
###
"I am in need of a boy. Young and educated if possible. Orders from the Earl I work for."
"Apologies, sir. We dinnae have no children of our own."
###
"I am in need of a boy. Young and educated if possible. The Earl I work for needs one for service."
"I dinnae have no sons, only daughters. I would try the McAllisters if yer lookin' fer a boy with education."
"Where may I find them?"
"Aye, just down the lane there. First house on the left. Smell of bread. Cannae miss it."
###
John is the first to the door when a knock rings through the front. His hands and shirt were covered in flour dust when he comes face to face with a man dressed like some of the fathers he had seen accompanying some of his fellow classmates.
"Good mornin', sir. Ah'm sorry, the bakery is nae open yet."
"That is quite alright, I am in no need for bread."
"What can I help ye with then, sir?"
"This is the McAllister residence, yes?"
"Aye, it is."
"I have been informed that there is a boy. Young. Educated. I was sent here by the Earl I work for to find one and bring him back."
"Aye, sir. That would be me, sir. What does yer Earl need someone like that for?"
"He is looking for a manservant. The last few have been… less than adequate and he hopes an educated young man would be better. It is a job for life, pays well."
John goes to open his mouth when he feels a hand land on his shoulder, head turning to look back and up as he sees his father, a neutral expression on his face but a fire in his eyes.
"Can I help ye, sir?"
"Are you the father of this young man?"
"Aye."
"My Earl has a job opening for a manservant. I got lead here under the guise that this household holds a young man with an education. It would be a job that takes him away from home, but it pays handsomely."
"Yer Earl needs an educated young man. Are there none in England? Listen, ye cannae just come here an-"
"I'll do it."
"Son."
John turns around, faces his father and nods.
"Yer the one always tellin' me that ah'm destined fer things greater than the bakery. I know it might not be the thing you and ma want fer me, or what I might want fer myself- but I can send ye the money, keep you and ma safe and alive. I might not be the oldest, but ah'm old enough te be pulling my weight fer the family," he turns back around to face the messenger, "when would I need te leave?"
"It would be prefferable to leave tonight, but I can at least grant you one last day. I will meet you at the inn come dawn tomorrow."
"Aye, okay… will I ever see them again?"
The messenger says nothing.
###
As he boarded the steam train the next morning, a bag of clothes in one hand and memories of home in the other, he followed the messenger until he was sat, body moving in time with the chugging of the train.
"What is your name, boy?"
He looks down at a small doll peeking through the top of his bag, the burlap head with button eyes reminding him of his youngest sister; he felt a tug in his heart when he remembered the tears she shared alongside the rest of his family.
"Jacob… Jacob McAllister, sir."
For a reason he wasn't too sure about - even as it settled in his gut - he kept his true name a secret.
"Daughter!"
Angelina looks at herself in the mirror. Her hair was tied up, a couple strands too short to be brought back hanging over her frowning face.
"Daughter, I have a new suitor for you!"
She sighs, sits up straighter and with a nod to her reflection, moves to walk out of her room and down to the foyer.
There's the sound of chatter, echoes of her father's voice accompanied by another as she trails a hand over the railing of the spiral staircase; she meets Mrs Daltrey's eyes with a frown as the older woman balances a tray of tea.
"DAU-Ah! Angelina, my daughter. Meet Alex Francis Colbolt. He is here to court you, you have a meeting set-up at the conservatory for tea," Mr Roland walks closer to her just as she reaches the bottom of the stairs, voice quietening as he leans in slightly, "do not mess this up. I know his father very well and it will not look good on my image."
Holding her back straight and her head high gives Angelina the slightest of advantages, her height a mix of her father and mother that had her towering over him by a couple feet and she relishes in the way he has to look up at her; she tilts her lips up ever so slightly as she inclines her head in a small nod of acknowledgement.
"Yes, father."
###
"I told you- I told you! All you needed to do was accept his offer, and yet you insist on this constant defilment. You have been here almost half a year- half a year where I ask so little of you, and yet you continue to embarass me and my name- for the love of God, you embarass yourself with these ill-thought decisions of-of- of getting a job, of turning away perfectly picked suitors, of leaning yourself over the edge to becoming a seamstress. Why can you not see how important it is for you to be wed, Angelina? Do you not understand how this makes me look? An Earl with a daughter so stubborn and unwilling to do her duties could get me kicked out of the damn gentry!"
It was something she had heard so many times before, that it simply washed over her now as the smoke from her cigarette waved with the light wind.
Jeffrey Roland paced and fretted in front of her, his eyebrows drawn in anger; he turned to point at her, feet stopping in place and face red.
"When will you learn? When will you finally understand your place in this world? I have tried many times with you Angelina, and I am not sure I have much patience left for your child-like foolishness. You will marry the next man I provide for you whether you like it or not."
The moment Lord Roland disappears through the door, footsteps thumping harshly through the hallway with a door slamming in the distance, Angelina looks to the woman stood beside her.
"Mrs Daltrey?"
"Yes, dear."
"I believe I would like a glass of brandy with dinner tonight."
There had been enough of these moments for Mrs Daltrey to understand, for her to nod with a wry smile as she made her way slowly into the house and towards the alcohol cupboard; brandy was Angelinas' drink of choice when she knows she has won.
It had been just over half a year since John left his home to become a manservant and he missed his family terribly.
The letters he kept in his bedside table helped curb the homseickness, but nothing would ever cure the hole he felt in his heart as he went through day after day of training.
He felt a little like a shell of himself as he stood, quiet and waiting whilst Lord Button and Lord Roland - his employers closest friend - chatted amongst themselves; something about curiosity and seasons and pheasants.
"If you'd like, sir, I could go out into the bushes an' see if there are any hidin'."
"See," Lord Button says as he turns to Lord Roland, "this is what we did not have as children. We did not have menservants like- like- like Jacob here to go out, and flush out the pheasants for us. I mean look at him, remarkable, eh?"
"Thank you, sir."
"Who's a good boy?"
"I am." he replied, a mental grimace forming in his head.
"Who's a good boy?"
"Me."
"Good."
"Good."
"You have to encourage the working class."
Lord Roland nods and looks at John over his friends' shoulder.
"Yes, you go then. Let us see if you can find us anything. We will just- maybe just have a few bitter shandies for us three here," he turns back to Lord Thomas, "What do you think?"
"You've got a few shandies?"
"Yes! I have got some shandies right over here."
"Very well, sir. Off I go."
With that, John steels himself to strut further into the field, the sound of a conversation flowing further away as he felt himself made a fool, shouting loud to the wind with only its' whistle a response until he traipses back to where he could see the two Lords sat.
Their guns were resting against their chairs, glasses of deep amber liquid sloshing and bubbling in their hands as they leant close to each other, voices quiet and eyes pointed; he stands with his hands clasped politely in front of him as he waits for a moment he could be allowed to speak.
"Any luck with the Pheasants there, Jacob?"
"Ah'm sorry, sir. I couldnae find any pheasants."
"That is quite alright- Jacob, Jacob, come and sit on my knee."
He steeled his face at the request, but moved to fulfil it anyway, the voice of his tutor shouting in his mind about always following what was asked of him.
"As you wish, sir."
John lowered himself robotically, using every muscle he cpukd think of to not sit fully as his body tingled in discomfort.
"Jacob, what was your degree in university again, in Oxford? What did you study?"
"Biochemistry."
Neither man saw the way Lord Rolands' eyes lit up with opportunity, nor did they see the way a plan formed in his head as John was offered the chance for a trip to London, a way to mould him even further away from who he really was - they wanted to turn him into an Englishman who was part of the landed gentry; all he could do - all he was allowed to do - was to say 'yes, Sir'.
So, John got rid of the kilt and donned a pair of trousers, the garment held so highly and honourably in Scotland now lay at the bottom of his luggage; hidden like a physical metaphor of himself.
Angelina sat on the balcony of her bedroom, a cigarette lit between her fingers and the morning paper open as she scanned through the latest news. She turns a page and takes another drag when she spots her section. Physical. Printed. Real.
It may only be obituaries for the moment, but it was more freedom than any other woman living around her could say they had, and she smiled at the proof that she had a job - something that wasn't unheard of, but it was still beside the norm.
She had been lucky, though, when she strutted into the office of one Arthur B.D and demanded a job less politely than a woman should ever sound, but she got it instantaneously as the older gentleman slid her a slip of paper outlining the process, eyes kind and smile mischevious; a presence beside her pulled her focus away from the obituary of one 'David Lumly Robson Jerome Kemery'.
"What is it, Mrs Daltrey?"
The older woman mumbles something Angelina couldn't quite understand.
"That is a very good point."
She makes a noise of what Angelina thinks is confirmation as she takes another drag and blows it out.
"But London makes martyrs of us all."
"Yes, London makes martyrs of us all, it does."
A silver tray lands shakily on the table in front of her, the weight of it smushing down the newspaper as it rustled in the breeze.
"Here is your milk, tea, and sugar right here."
"Oh," Angelina looks at the frail woman with a kind smile, "thank you, Mrs Daltrey."
"You're welcome dear, you are welcome."
"Are you sure you would not like to sit down?"
"Ehh, no, my legs do not bend like they used to dear. I am quite alright."
It was a religious and traditional question at this point. Angelina always felt bad for Mrs Daltrey and the work she put herself through considering her age, and Mrs Daltrey always refused with an annoyingly reasonable excuse.
"Would you like some jam?"
Angelina sighed lightly, a polite and soft smile being sent the older womans' way.
"Yeah, sure. That would be fantastic, thank you."
"You should not smoke, you know."
"Oh, I know. It is one of my vices," she lamented as she shook her head slightly, "Oh, Mrs Daltrey, ever since I came to this gloomy little country, you have to make the most of your vices… you have to enjoy life whilst you are still living."
Mrs Daltrey spread some jam over her toast and patted her shoulder gently when she was done.
"I know, dear. I know. I just wished you did not use such an awful habit. Lord knows I am technically dead from my own youthful habits."
"Come on, Mrs Daltrey. You have got many years left in you."
"Oh, I hope not."
Something sunk within Angelina as she turned away from her breakfast to face the older woman better.
"But- you are my only friend in the world, Mrs Daltrey. I-if I did not have you, I would have nobody. You have been like a sister to me."
Mrs Daltrey shuffles closer, eyes kind as she lays a gentle and warm hand on Angelina's shoulder.
"You need to go out and make some connections with people your own age."
"Mrs Daltrey, no. I do not- I do not need anybody else. I have got everything I need," she waves a hand across the expanse of her balcony, "I have got my morning papers, I have got my job, I have you."
Just as the older woman goes to speak, the both of them hear a voice; instantly, Angelina's day is ruined.
"Daughter! May I enter the premises?"
Angelina takes a long, slow drag until she can feel her ribs hit her corset before slumping as best she can into her chair and letting all the smoke out.
"Mrs Daltrey, would you mind?"
"Yes."
"Oh, it's so kind of you."
"I've got some urgent news!"
All Angelina can do is blow a rasberry as Mrs Daltrey pats her shoulder once more and slowly make her way to the front door; she lights another cigarette before her first is even in the ash tray.
She shuffles to sit up on her chair, the feeling of her corset digging into her ribs as she takes the final drag of her first cigarette, placing the second one in-between her lips as she snuffed out the first. The quiet sizzle of the cigarette didn't stop the sounds of commotion from beyond her bedroom door, her curiosity over taking her enough to turn towards the door with a raised eyebrow of confusion and concern.
"Father, my English father… is my American mother here as well?" she mutters to herself, fingers picking off a bit of loose material from her skirt.
When the sounds quiet down, she turns back to face the city she had come to tolerate - not love, but tolerate - as she added her own version of smoking chimney's that dwindled the further it got up towards the sky when the sound of a door slamming open jolts her heart out of her skin.
"Aha! Now we're here."
"Father, it is you."
The sarcasm wasn't lost in her voice, eyes rolling before turning around to face her dad and she had to hold in her laughter at the red-faced look Lord Roland held, his chest heaving up and down as he tried to compose himself with a hand not so subtely resting against Angelina's doorframe.
There's the faint sound of someone shouting in fear, warning someone else about her house - that they should 'leave this place' and she smiles slightly, taking another drag and blowing the smoke out at her father's concerned gaze.
"Oh. That is just Gibson playing a jape."
Lord Roland breathes in deep and finally relinquishes the balancing hold he had on the doorframe, feet taking a step inside her bedroom.
"As you know. You have come of age," Angelina groans slightly at the speech she had heard many-a-time, "And the time has come for you to find a suitable suitor."
His gaze is harsh, but Angelina matches it without trepidation.
"I have found this suitor."
"Fathe-"
"He is tall, strong, handsome, and I think he would be a perfect union into this family," footsteps echo behind Lord Roland, the sound of them getting louder just as the sight of a hand on the bannister piqued the smallest of her interest, "here he is."
John pants harshly but makes sure to hold himself straight, repeating what he had been taught like a mantra in his mind just as Lord Roland steps aside to reveal one of the most gorgeous and simultaneously angry looking women he had ever laid eyes upon.
She was sat on a balcony, one leg crossed over the other with a lit cigarette dangling from her hand. Her brown hair was pulled up into a bun, a few strands falling out to frame her frowning face, and he felt like her eyes were piercing into his soul; the chocolate brown irises held a lot of intelligence, he could tell.
"Is he behind the short, weak, and mildly repulsive man?" she sneered, an accent different to the ones he had heard across England and Scotland only intriguing him more.
"Son! She is testing you. Fire back, quickly now," the older man leans closer, "I believe it may be the only way to win her over."
'Fire back'? As in, send an insult her way? John wanted to do nothing more than worship and grovel at her feet; but alas, he must follow his orders.
"I am sorry, I was cruel before. But I cannot abide this kind of behaviour from my father."
John had to hold back a noise of surprise at the revelation he was brought into. Father? Lord Roland was the father of this beautiful woman? The Scotsman got mentally lost for a moment in how a man like Lord Roland could produce such a captivating woman.
"What do you think?"
His mind comes back into itself, an anxiousness that he was being addressed and hadn't answered quick enough rising within him.
"Look at him."
Look at him, she did. Those eyes full of scrutiny, face neutral with an air of slight disgust all focused on him, and John would have been a happy man to die under the gaze.
"I have got nothing against him," she takes a drag of her cigarette as their eyes lock, "Apart from that he is here in your company."
"Stand."
"Excuse me?"
"Stand."
"Fine!"
Lord Rolands daughter rises from her chair and just keeps going. Her stature taller than the older man himself and John felt like he could pray to her like a goddess.
"I will stand, but not because you told me to. But, because I do not want to be near you, Father."
A cup of tea materialises in front of him, as does the housekeeper Mrs Daltrey and he takes it with a small smile an appreciative nod and a quiet 'thank you'; his eyes catch the clouded sky as Roland's daughter moves away from her Father and his mind conjures up a way to 'fire back'.
"Mrs Daltrey?"
"Yeah?"
"Please, show them to the exit."
"But I just made the tea… it took me ages."
"Mrs Daltrey, I am sorry. I am sorry- I do not mean to be cruel to you."
It was the softest he had seen the young woman be ever since he laid his eyes on her just mere minutes ago, and he willed himself to say as such.
"How is the weather up there?"
There's the sound of a 'slap' within him as he mentally faceplants into his hands, tea still held in his real hands and face neutral.
"You see that? You see that sharp wit? He came back with it like that." Lord Roland snaps his finger as his daughter stares, one hand on her waist and the other bringing the cigarette up to her lips once again; he felt mesemerised- oh how John looked at those rosy lips.
"Oh no. I am tall, svelte, and handsome. How terrible for me. How can I live with myself?"
There was a familiar feeling in his chest, one that he often felt with his siblings to be better, to one-up them, to win.
"My wit is almost as sharp as that big schnoz on your face."
Lord Roland claps a hand on his shoulder - almost in shock - as Mrs Daltrey laughs slightly.
"Now you go, now you go dear."
All four of them waited with baited breath as Lord Rolands' daughter looked at John with what he could only call a mix of frustration, challenge and curiosity.
"I am done with this conversation… Mrs Daltrey may have let you in, but I do not want to see my father- I have forsook the family name."
The young woman looked almost as surprised as Lord Roland sounded with her admission, but she held strong, firm, and didn't let her guard down even as the man stalked towards her.
"What do you mean?"
"I have forsaken, forsoothed, and forsook it- I have given up the family name."
"No, you have not! I told you, enough of this! This talk that you have done and giving up the family name- you will be one with us. You will be part of this gentry, and Jacob will be your husband. Do you understand me?"
"I do not want any part of this!"
John shared a look with Mrs Daltrey, both their eyebrows raised as the two family members argued in front of them. The old housekeeper shrugged, patted his arm lightly, and stepped forward.
"Listen! Now, you just told me that I am the only person you have got in this world."
The young woman softened again, her eyes almost doe like as she gazed upon the older woman.
"Yes, Mrs Daltrey."
"What you have here-"
As much as he wanted to, John didn't get to here the rest as Lord Roland pulled him a little further aside, just far away enough for the sound of Lord Rolands voice to overtake the sound of his daughter's.
"I apologise for my daughter, she is one brought up from the Americas. I would never have allowed this to be if she grew up here in London. Now, I have organised a spot for tea in the local conservatory tomorrow, and I-"
"Lord Roland, may I suggest something different?"
"Different? Please, go on."
"I shall have her partake in a picnic. You, yourself have told me that every date you have set-up has been within the conservatory. It may be unconventional for your usual plans, but what about a change of scenery? That may very well be the decider on whether she is to marry me- as you propsed yourself."
Lord Roland says nothing, just stares behind John for a moment.
"This is your way, son, to join the elite. The gentry. You understand?"
"I understand."
"Good," he nods, "I will leave you to it."
The moment her father and the suitor left her room, Angelina fell into the chair on her balcony with a huff and a groan, head falling into her hand, fingers rubbing her temple as she feels a headache begin to form.
"Mrs Daltrey, how quick do you think these cigarettes could kill me before tomorrow?"
Mrs Daltrey tuts behind her as she pours a new cup of tea using the remaining drink left in the pot from what she made for their guests.
"You must stop this stubborness, Miss Angelina. I told you once, I shall tell you again. Either you have a funny story you can bring to Arthur for the paper, or you have a date that leads to the love of your life."
"But you must know what my father is doing. He is simply thrusting these boys in my face, just for the sake of his image and his gentry. He does not care whether I love or not, he just wants to save face."
"That may be true."
"Thank you."
"For the other boys. I believe this one may be different though."
Angelina levels Mrs Daltrey with with a stare, eyebrows raised and eyes asking what she could mean as she takes another drag yet again.
"Listen, in all my years of suitors when I was your age, and with the boys your father has forced upon you, this one is different. If it is because he is the only one who has ever thanked me in some way, then that is how I know. But you must trust me and these old bones when I ask you- give him a chance, dear. Not all men are who they appear to be."
Even with the constant need to defile her father, to ignore his pleas and protests and to live her life how she wants, Angelina feels she could never deny Mrs Daltrey; the two had become close very quick during the short time Angelina had been in England.
She rubbed her fingers against her temple as her head pulsed below the skin, but she nodded all the same. Her eyes closed as she sucked in a deep breath and they opened again when she let it out.
"Okay… just for you, Mrs Daltrey. But you shall owe me a full day of company, no housekeeping duties if I am correct in my assumptions."
###
The sky above her the next day looked as grey as she felt.
Angelina was walking slowly towards the local park where she had been asked to meet Jacob. Her face held a small frown as she held her umbrella in hand and a cigarette in the other like a constant accessory as she looked out for the shorter, blonde-haired man.
The moment they spotted each other, Angelina felt her steps falter ever so slightly at the already clear difference between Jacob and previous suitors like Alex Francis Colbolt; he waved, waited, and walked alongside her instead of in front.
He led them towards a blanket, adorned with a wicker basket, plates of cream puffs, fresh fruit, baked tarts, and some finger sandwiches suspiciously filled with her favourite fillings; Jacob led her right to the edge where he then swiped his hand over the arrangement of food and china crockery.
"I've prepared a picnic."
Something was different, but she couldn't pinpoint it.
"Well then, I suppose I should partake."
They looked sternly at each other as Jacob walked to one side of the blanket and Angelina to the other, the blonde-man dropping himself into a lounging position and watching her as Angelina slowly lowered herself down to sit, the skirt of her dress flowing enough to cover her legs fully as she tucked them comfortably under her.
"Do ye like fresh strawberries?"
The pinpoint lit up in her mind like a lightbulb as her eyes narrowed.
"Your voice has changed."
Jacob looks at her, a brief shot of fear in his eyes before he clears his throat and glances at the strawberries, as if they may save him from the interrogation Angelina oh-so desperately wanted to start.
"Uh-What?"
"I said, your voice has changed, and then you changed it again."
Angelina hears Jacob clear his throat again, his fingertips rubbing themselves together as he avoids her analysing gaze.
"I do not know what you are talking about," he faces her again, eyes challenging, "I have always sounded like this."
She scoffs, only refraining from pushing him further under the curiosity of just how far he would go.
"Sounded like a cad. Just another one of daddy's little boys."
His eyes light up, hand moving to point at nothing behind him.
"Like the one I saw locked up back in the room, yes."
"No. No, no, no-"
"You mean the dinosaur weilding guns?"
Angelina hated how much that comment made her smile.
"I know nothing about that. Do you see the dinosaur weilding guns right now? Mrs Daltrey sometimes imagines theatre scenes- I appear to be the only one with a grip on reality!"
The two of them shared a smile together, Angelinas' chest stuttering in held back laughter just before she felt the urge pop like a bubble as she straightened her face.
"I am saying he-he takes these boys, who were going to be their own people and he moulds them in his image and it is a terrible image."
"Well he is not moulding me… I am, who I am."
"What is that? An idiot and a fool with the-the- the beautiful hair of Leonardo DiComprio?"
Angelina has to look away from Jacob, eyes trained on the trees surrounding the park as she wonders to herself why the hell she just said that; she glances at the sky briefly at the feeling of raindrops pattering softly on her hair.
"I am sorry, it would appear that a compliment slipped into what I was saying there- I will not let that happen again," the rain falls a little heavier and she pops open her umbrella, "Oh, it is raining."
It comes fast and it comes hard, only a split-second for the change of light spitting to harsh pouring rain that ran rivulets down the edges of her umbrella. She didn't particularly care for getting a little bit wet, but even she was surprised by how nonchalant and uncaring Jacob was at the weather.
He held the same lounging pose, eyes watching her open her umbrella before looking out at the park, his hands simply pushing his already drenched hair out of his face before returning to the same position, eyes back on her.
"Why do you close yourself off to love?"
The way he looked, drenched and uncaring made something spark within her; she didn't want to admit it, but Mrs Daltrey was right.
Every man she had been set up with through her father would rather have been caught dead than drenched through to the skin in the rain, yet here Jacob sat, looking almost at home in the rain and uncomfortable in the dressed up clothes he was wearing- almost like he wasn't used to wearing those types of clothes at all.
"It is not love, it is rain."
"Nature's love." he shrugged.
Angelina only gasped at the audacity, not used to one of the many suitors letting her say more than 3 words, let alone being so easily crude, and the comparisons between Jacob and every other man only grew further apart.
"I stand by that comment."
She felt another spark within her, one that wanted to challenge, to spill free of the politeness she had always had to uphold.
"Well, because I do not want to get wet… and you are not going to make me wet."
Jacob scrambles over the blanket and ruined sandwhiches to crouch beside her, still under the rain, still un-bothered, still different.
"Are you quite sure you are not wet enough already?"
"You are quite wet enough for the two of us."
She tilts her umbrella to splash him with more water and he simply leans away to swipe the hair out his face again, crouched legs edging him lower until he was sat, his own legs just a breath away from hers; his face had turned serious and Angelina would take the enjoyment she had felt between the teasing to her grave.
"You want to get back at your father."
"Get back at my father? I want nothing to do with him, okay? He has ruined Essex, he has ruined Scotland," Jacob shifts at the mention, eyes looking ever so sad and Angelina files that away, "and he wants to ruin me too and I will not have it- I will live my own life, as a journalist."
Jacob looks down for a moment, lips pulled into a tight line and eyebrows drawn together slightly as he shifts to sit closer to Angelina, hands grasping themselves as he weaves his fingers in and out of each other.
"Or, you could marry me."
"Marry you. Why would I marry you?"
"Well… I do not like your father either."
"You do not?"
Jacob shakes his head, eyes honest as he looks into hers.
"Then why are you palling around with him?"
"A man has to work."
Angelina raises her eyebrow.
"Is that- is that enough of an explanation?"
She narrows her eyes as he looks away.
"Probably not."
They were drenched, soaked, would probably be disgusting, but Angelina had never once refused a cream puff, leaving Jacob to sit and stew in his own answer as she snatches one and places it in her mouth; it was squishy, stodgy, but the taste made up for the torment.
"Listen," she stands quickly, "I do not want another posh, British boy in my life."
It's the first time Angelina has seen Jacob look surprised as she closes her umbrella, the downpour still harsh as it begins to soak into her clothing.
"I do not need this, I do not need you, I am returning to my residence- this date is over, okay?"
"I am not a posh, British boy-"
"I see nothing-"
"Ah'm not a posh, British boy!"
There it was, the lightbulb that had switched on earlier as Angelinas' hand pointed at Jacob, the accent sinking in allowing the revelations to start running into her one by one.
"There it is, there is your real voice," she begins to circle around him like a vulture, "who are you really?"
His body was still sat, but it was hunched. As if being found out was a crime and he was simply awaiting punishment.
"Ah'm just a baker's son, from Fife. Yer father's tryna make me somethin' ah'm not."
"I knew it. I knew it! We- you cannot let him, you have to be your own boy."
Jacob looks up at this, the slightest shine of annoyance in his eyes as he meets her gaze once again.
"I said I was a baker's son, ah'm not a wee lad. Ah'm a grown man! 25."
"You are grown?"
Jacob shoots up to his feet and Angelina feels the urge to step forward until the two of them are almost chest to chest, his face looking up as hers looks down and she wills her sudden fast-beating heart to calm down.
"Aye."
"Yes, apologies. I have my heels on, I forgot," she starts to walk away, but feels that joking spark return, "and my other heels… my third set of heels as well."
"When I first saw you-"
Too soon. It was too much, too quick, too soon. She wanted to hear what he was going to say, but her stubborness refused it as she swiftly interrupted him.
"Listen I- I feel like you have just been caught up within my father's web. I hold nothing against you, but I think it is probably for the best that we cut this date he-"
Angelina flinches back, hand moving up to wipe at her face, eyes widening in shock as it comes away in warm blood, her eyes darting around to spot Jacob looking at her, skin pale; he shifts his head down and the both of them watch as his abdomen grows with a dark crimson that stains his clothes.
Jacob shifts to press his hand against the blood, brain seemingly slow to catch-up right as Angelina rushes behind to catch his falling, stumbling frame and only then does Jacob realise what had happened with a small whimper through gritted teeth and clenching hands that shook around Angelina's arms.
"Oh my God! You have been shot- quickly! Quickly, we have to get under cover somewhere. I can patch you up."
"You can patch me up- you what… what?"
It was getting harder to not start moving straight away, the two of them trying to find some semblence of balance as Jacob attempts to find his footing with Angelina being the only reason he was still standing.
"Stay with me, stay with me! What is your name?"
It was a simple question, one that every person should know about themselves even as the shorter man in her arms takes longer than he should have to answer.
"John McAllister."
Well, she thought it was a simple question, but now Angelina had questions of her own that she knew would have to wait.
"And what is my name?"
She feels a wet, blood and rain soaked hand caress her cheek, the touch so soft and caring as Ja- John looks up at her as if she hung the stars in the sky.
"Heavenly Angel."
"Oh, for fuck's sake."
If he wasn't bleeding out from being shot, Angelina is sure she would have dropped him there and then.
John wasn't sure he had ever felt pain like it.
Sure, he had been beaten by bullies for most of his educational life, and yes, there were plenty of instances when helping in the bakery that had left small scars littered across his body from burns due to being careless near the oven, to slices from a knife that slipped in his grasp.
But nothing compared to this.
At first, it felt just like another well-aimed punch to his back. Harsher than some he had experienced in the past, but still similar all the same. Maybe that's why it took so long for him to realise what it actually was as his eyes gazed upon the face of Miss Roland and for a moment, he was worried that she had been hurt as he noticed the splattered blood on her face; the moment he looked down at where her eyes were looking though, was the moment the numbness dissipated and the pain kicked in.
It wasn't a sting like the slices he had endeared from kitchen knives, but more like the burns he suffered from the flames that reached out to lick his hand from their confinement in the oven.
His back was burning hot, as if a cherry-red cowpoke, a swarm of 100 wasps, and a box of lit matches were combined into one and pressed into his skin. The sensation carried through his body, like he could feel the path the bullet took from the entrance in his back to the split open skin on his abdomen and it made him wonder if this is how he would die.
Being laid down in an anti-sun booth by a beautiful, beautiful, heaven-sent Angel; not a bad way to go, he thinks.
There's noises of commotion from outside. People screaming in fear, voices shouting and a couple of loud 'booms' just as Angelina finishes tying parts of her ripped off A-line skirt around a part of her ripped gigot sleeve that she had balled up and pressed harshly against the wound on his back, another on his front through the now rain-soaked, and blood-stained shirt.
He feels a groan travel up his throat, gritting it out through his teeth when she tugs hard and rushed against the knots she had made, one of her hands cradling the back of his head with a gentlesness he didn't think she could exhibit with anyone else except Mrs Daltrey.
"You are going to be okay, okay? Just- just keep breathing, I have to deal with this, okay?"
"Okay."
John wasn't exactly sure what 'this' was, but he wasn't exactly in any shape to move, let alone defend or fight or even protect this heaven-sent Angel; she gingerly leaves the sun-booth, and that's when John finally realised he actually had no idea what her name was.
He watched the door vehemently, a hand still pressed to his abdomen as he shifted and shuffled to sit himself up against one of the walls, just waiting for the young woman to return.
There was shouting again, voices familiar, and then his Angel was bursting into the room with a stranger, the two of them helping him up as she wrapped an arm around his waist - a murmured sorry being sent his way when she bashes against his wounds - and pulled one of his own to hook around the back of her neck.
Things felt like a blur after that.
John felt occupied by the burning, by the ruffling of being moved and man-handled around and around and he had no idea what was happening, only catching glimpses of the world literally passing him by.
He thinks he responded to someone, he thinks he heard the word 'fiancé' somewhere within the haze, but all he wanted to do was fall asleep because by God was he exhausted, but Angel refused to let him. She didn't speak much, just reassurances every so often that were usually accompanied by the feeling of being shook and his eyes peeling open to different scenery.
The next time he feels himself being pulled up to his feet, his eyes are greeted to a place he just knows he hasn't been before, that he had only read books on; the Eiffel Tower stood tall within Paris and he could only look at his Angel.
"Look, the Eiffel Tower. Is it not beautiful?"
There's a shake against his shoulders, as if she was scared he was going to finally kick the bucket and drop dead there and then if he didn't respond fast enough.
"Wow, it's so tall… it reminds me of someone."
All sense of inhibition had been lost from the moment John felt the blood rush further out of his body, but that didn't stop the smirk from forming on his face at the two-in-one blush and look away the American woman did, her arm still around him as she continued to lead them through Paris - they were bloodied, one stumbling, one dirty and tattered, both un-caring to the eyes of the public as Angelina lead the two of them somewhere.
He feels the two of them turn a corner, Angel muttering something about 'all clear' and 'no time' and he wants to ask what she's on about when he blinks again, feeling as if he's had another loss of time as they walk into a foyer, a receptionists desk getting closer.
"Welcome to the Hôtel de Paris."
"Hello, we- we need two rooms. Do you have two rooms available?"
"We only have the one room available with a double bed… it's comfy- has red lighting."
"Fine, fine! One room and we'll put some cushions down the middle-"
"We have no cushions-"
"I will sleep on the floor then."
John wants to interrupt, wants to say he will sleep on the floor, wants to tell Angel that she is unworthy of being forced to help a lowly baker's son to the point of sharing a room together, but he's interrupted by Angel tugging him along somewhere else; stairs.
Angelina hears a groan from the man beside her, his head dropping and the hand that had been glued to his abdomen braced his head.
"A bheil thu ri magadh? Staidhre? Tha seo gòrach."
She wishes she could say she sympathised, but that would have been if she understood any of what just came out of Jaco-John- whoever's mouth.
They make their beginning up a spiral staircase, the hunched form of one of the housekeeper Marie Antoinette reminding Angelina so much of Mrs Daltrey, that she wondered how she was fairing back in London. She felt the weight of the shorter man against her as they spun around and around and she needed to know.
"Now look, one more time for certainty, what was your name? You have given so many."
"Marie Antionette."
"Not you!"
It was exasperated, paired with a deep huff as she started to feel the weight of the entire day finally start to catch-up. Her legs were aching, her corset was digging frustratingly into her bones, and she still had blood on her face.
"John Jacob McAllister."
"Okay John, you are going to be fine. We will hide out in this room for a week or so, and then you will have healed up."
"Al-alright, Angel."
"That is not my name."
"What is it then?"
John levelled her with a curious smile, and she felt her lips curling to match it as her name was ready to slip out, its syllables on the tip of ther tongue.
"An-"
"Halfway there!"
"Okay."
They take another few steps up.
"If I do die, though-"
"Yeah?"
"I want ye te know that-
"Yeah?"
"In another life-"
"Ye- oh."
The housekeeper had stopped in front of them and Angelina had managed to stop just in time before bumping into her back, potentially throwing both her and John backwards, towards the bottom of the staircase as Marie slowly turned to face them, a look of fear and apprehension as she pointed up, then down.
"I forgot the key."
Angelina felt the way her jaw dropped open. Here she was, holding a man bleeding from a gunshot wound on the staircase of a French hotel, because they had run away from her overbearing, rich, English father; and now Marie had forgotten the key.
"Well, we will stay here. I guess you can go and get it."
"Fair enough, excuse me."
"In another life?"
"We'll keep goin' up."
'No', Angelina wanted to say. She wanted to know what the Scotsman meant without intteruption, but she knew she'd be delaying the inevitable climb up if she made him speak there and then, so she nudged him forwards and took another step; silence crowded them except for their panting breaths, the clicking of their shoes and Angelina needed to know.
"In another life?" she prompted again.
"I think, you an' I… we could've been great together."
She wishes so hard that she didn't understand why that made her heart sink. Why she felt an anxiety squeeze her insides and push her to move them faster up the stairs.
"Maybe in another life… hey-"
"I wish I could take ye back to Fife, and leave London, and Suffolk, and Essex behind."
John was talking like he wasn't going to make it and Angelina refused.
"Which Fife?" she teased, hoping her worry wasn't obvious enough to make him gain an ego.
"Fife in France."
She chuckled ever so softly, her feet stopping so she could catch her breath and when she looked over at John, he was looking up at her, face so close, but pale and sweating and he had been shot for Christ's sake.
"A life in Fife, in France?"
"A Fifin' life it would be."
"A life in Fife without strife?"
John laughed, coughed, winced as he held his abdomen and gestured up with a nod of his head.
"Okay, that's enough now."
After a small heartbeat skipping instance where Angelina's foot slipped on the step, their fate of falling back and down only saved by John grabbing both the banister and Angelina, they made it to the room where Angelina wasted no time in balancing John against the wall and pulling a couple of hairpins out her hair, the long brown, waving lockes spilling over her shoulders, down to her navel and she had to flip it out of her face enough times she considered cutting it all off.
When her hair was finally out of her eyes, she bent down with the two hairpins in hand, her eyes trained, ears listening and fingers working to hear for the tell-tale 'click' of the lock. She pulled the handle down and pushed the door open just as footsteps began to get closer from behind them.
"Oh, yer a lock-pick?"
Angelina stood straight, blowing a strand of hair out of her vision, hands briefly on her hips as she smirked at him.
"I had to learn to do a lot, without my father."
"Here is the key- oh, for God's sake!"
Angelina swiped the key from the maid and John looked amazed as she pulled his arm around her neck once again, leading the two of them into room.
She deposited John onto the bed, and just the momentary thought of the Scotsman lying there in a different sense made her cheeks heat up as she turned around to lock the door.
Finally.
They were safe.
"As comfy as this bed is, I'd rather nae bleed on it."
Well, almost safe.
Angelina takes a steadying breath as she sits on the other side of the bed where John had propped himself up against the headboard, hand still resting on his abdomen and her makeshift bandages.
"Does it hurt?"
"Aye."
"Can I help?"
She felt nervous. Like she would do wrong just by being there, but even as she moved to remove the bandage and apologise for hurting him further, Angelina felt she never wanted to leave that room.
"Hey, maybe ye could reach deep inside with those massive fingers… an' pluck the bullet."
The teasing tone was there in his voice, and Angelina wanted to join in, but instead she decided to make him worry.
"I would, but I cannot get close enough because of my massive nose."
If the blonde-haired man could look any paler, Angelina thinks he would be ashen with worry and the feeling that he had messed up, so she smiled sweetly and undid the bandages to give her access to lift his shirt up ever so slightly.
"But I will give it a go!"
With that, Angelina finally looks at the wound for the first time.
It's gnarly, the skin split wide open with no symmertrical shape and for a fearful moment, she thinks she might throw up, but she reaches her hand towards the wound anyway, the sight of Johns' chest rising and staying risen as he sucks in a breath in anticipation; she looks at him only one more time with a nod, and buries her hand into the wound.
She hates it, but not as much as she's sure John does. His breath consistently hitches, groans and whimpers of pain escaping his lips and striking at her soul through her ears.
"Stay calm, okay?"
Her fingers move around the hot gushes of blood she could feel escaping his body as she searches for the bullet. She's not quite sure how it could still be in him when it looked as if it had gone through him, but her mental questions cease the moment she feels something hard.
"Here we go."
Angelina yanks the foreign object out in one go just as John sobs a little, his hand immediately pushing hers away to hold over his wound and she's completely mesmerised, eyes stuck looking at the metal ball that she doesn't notice John take his shirt off.
"This will be one heck of an article for the newspaper, as long as my father does not- does not catch up to us, he looked… real… mad."
He wasn't fully listening, his mind and body overcome by pain, pain, pain that the only coherent thought he could form was to wrap the wound up as best he can with the little amount of supplies they had in the room with them.
His entire abdomen was stinging, throbbing, burning as blood drooped out in thick globs. He wastes a pillow case and plenty of water just to clear it all up before he hastily makes his way back to the same draw, it's full of pillow cases and sheets to tear through and use so that he could pack the two wounds and wrap them up tight.
"Wow, in the light… you are more toned than I realised."
Years of working in the bakery, of picking multiple bags of flour up and down, of servicing the ovens left John with what he thought was an average amount of strength for a man both his age and height; but the way his Angel said it made his cheeks burn, his heart flutter, and he turned away to not show her as much.
Even if they weren't ready to sleep, or ready to find a way for both of them to be comfortable - her a lady who deserved the only bed and him, an injured man who would be forbidden from the floor - he still had no other clothes except the ones ripped and splattered in blood. As much as he felt embarrassed at having his whole torso exposed, he turned to face his Angel anyway; he caught her quick glimpse before her head turned away and towards the balcony windows.
John smiled lightly to himself. Here they were, two people from different societies pushed together because of one person, with neither man nor woman knowing what to do with the feelings John was sure she felt just as mush as he did.
"Ah'm pretty tired."
"Yeah."
She looks over again briefly before standing to move to the balcony.
"D'you want a nightcap before bed?"
"Go on then."
Her hair flittered ever so slightly with the small breeze the open window now blew through the room, and John could hear rustling behind him as he looked over the alcohol in the room; he had learnt to mix a drink or two at university, and his skills would not go to waste.
"How about a smoke?"
"Sure."
John turned to look at Angel, her cheeks still red but hand steady as she held out an already lit cigarette in offer; John took it with his own shaking hands and put it to his lips.
His hands worked together, shaking and spinning and throwing cups and bottles and there was a brief instance where he almost missed the catch after his abdomen tugged when he reached up for the bottle, but the drinks were made; he sits down after handing her a glass, a sigh escaping his lips as he finally feels himself rest.
The silence somehow didn't feel awkward, but he still wanted to fill it with something - anything. Why she moved here, what she was doing as a journalist, what her damn name was.
"You know what they call it when an American and a Scot… make love?"
He turns to face her, arm lifting up to rest his arm behind her, his hand on her shoulder as she, too, faces him; he inclines his head, as if to say to her "go on".
"The McDonald Happy Meal."
John had no idea about what to say. Was he supposed to know what a 'McDonald Happy Meal' was? Was he suppposed to come up with a quip? Did he tell her he had no idea what she was on about, or did he take what was being offered, and not look a gift horse in the mouth?
With the way she was glancing at him, a fire in her eyes and her gaze dipping between his lips and his chest, John did the only thing he could process to do, and he stubbed the cigarette out. He put his drink on the bedside table. He pushed himself up, placed a hand gently on her face to tilt it towards his, and he kissed her.
It wasn't a short kiss, but it wasn't one that could be considered deep either. Her lips were soft and he wanted to stay kissing them forever, but he pulled away and simply watched. Scared she didn't mean what he thought, afraid he had burned a bridge he didn't know she might want to cross.
Angelina breathed in, nodded, looked at something in front of her.
"Yeah, okay."
Her drink was downed in an instant, the glass deposited somewhere, and then John had those soft lips on his again and he revelled in the confirmation that she - his heavenly Angel - wanted him too.
John felt the way his hands gravitated to hold her waist as she swung a leg over, no hesitation in her movements to sit herself on his lap and trail her hands across his shoulders, down his chest, her fingers sifting through the light spattering of hair around his pecks.
She pulled away for a moment to breathe, only to dive back in, her lips once again on his and John felt a need when he felt his tongue tangle with hers. He needed to have her, he wanted to need her, he felt there were too many clothes and he started to unlace the back of her shirtwaist so he could slip it off; goosebumps arose on her skin when his fingers trailed down her arms and that was one piece of clothing gone.
John pulled away ever so slightly, his lips connecting to her neck as he went about trying to work the corset, his hands fumbling when he sucks at a part behind her ear that has Angel breathing hard into his ear wiyh a little whimper, her hands slipping into his hair and tugging at a couple strands until John found her lips back on his with a fervent desire.
When the corset finally comes loose, the material slipping off her shoulders, John feels the woman above him pull away.
His breathing was harsh. Harsher than nights like this had, had him before when he'd been dragged to clubs full of women and money when at Oxford. John knew it was from the dizziness he still felt from the bullet wound, but he'd had enough experience to know when a woman was hesitant.
"Are ye alright, Angel?"
She smiles slightly from above him, cheeks blushing red and lips swollen.
"That is not my name."
The Scotsman opens his mouth to say something, but his voice gets stuck in his throat as he watches the corset slip off to reveal porcelain white skin. Her dark brown, wavy hair covers most, but not all of her chest, and John finds it more endearing to see how her breasts are partially hidden, like a treasure behind a map, and John trails his hands gently across her abdomen, the skin soft under his touch.
He feels the way she watches him as he watches his hand. It was like a waypoint to the places he wanted to touch the most and he was mesmerised when he reached up, past her breasts to where her hair spilled over her shoulders until he could push the lockes out the way.
"Beautiful… absolutely heavenly, Ang-"
"Angelina."
John looks up, his eyes locking with hers and he smiles, body sitting up until their chests were pressed together and he could tuck a strand behind her ear, her face so close he could feel her breath puff over his face.
"I wasnae far off then… Angelina."
Fingers grasp his face as Angelina clashes their lips together once again and she leans her body further on his until he was sat against the headboard again and could hold her waist in his hands, his own fingers hooking under her skirt to caress the skin under it, and John was filled up with that need again.
In a fit of strength that pulled at his bandages, John flipped the two of them so that Angelina was under him, her hair spreading under her like a damn Halo and John wasted no time in kissing her into the pillow, his lips starting a trail that left Angelina moaning breathlessly as he bit, and sucked, and made his way down to the edge of her skirt; he'd spent a moment kissing around and between her breasts, a hand gently caressing them as he felt nails leave red marks upon his shoulder blades.
He was entranced at the way he felt her breath stutter under his lips, his head being pulled up until he could clash their lips together again, hands deftly unbuttoning the hem of the skirt so he could crawl down the bed and pull it off when Angelina lifts her waist up, and John takes even less time to remove her undergarments and then he was stood at the end of the bed, his Angel looking at him with nothing short of burning, hellish, desire.
"Ye really are an Angel. A beautiful, heaven-sent, stubborn Angel."
"Well, this Angel will not be heaven-sent if you do not hurry up and join her in the same state of undress."
All he could do is chuckle, a wince accompanying the sound as he lets Angelina openly watch him unbutton his trousers, material falling away easily, and he catches the moment Angelina ducks her eyes down to where his underwear was tenting; he smirks when he sees her swallow and sit up to scoot until she was sat at the edge.
"Can… can I?"
Her hands were hovering by the edge of his underwear and without a word he takes her hands, places them on the edge of the material, and pushes the last buffer down with her. His cock springs free from its' confinement and it twitches when he thinks about how pretty she looks, staring up at him instead of down.
"Lie back. Let me take care of ye." he purred, hands lightly pushing her shoulders until she scooted back and lied down, eyes never leaving him for a moment, and John wonders how easily someone can fall in love.
John wonders how easy it is to love Angelina as much as he does in this moment, as much as he did when he first saw her sat on that balcony- cigarette in hand and anger on her face.
The bed creaked ever so slightly as he crawled above her, a hand leaving goosebumps in his wake as he trails a feather-light touch over her thigh. His hand rests against her hip bone, the skin under his palm hot to the touch.
"Relax, Angel." he breathed.
"Hard to relax," Johns' fingers slip down between her legs, "when you look like you want to devour me."
Her breath hitches when he presses his fingers against her entrance, not going in, but moving up a little to rub slightly over her clit before going back to rest against her hip as he lowers his head to where his fingers just were; he presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh and smiles wolfishly.
"Maybe I do."
Angelina can do nothing but gasp in surprise when she feels Johns' tongue lick a stripe over her clit, the feeling of the muscle trailing down until it's not just on her, but in her and all she can do is wrap her fingers in his hair as she feels her abdomen warm from the inside.
"J-John."
She feels the hum at the same time as she hears it and it makes her gasp out a squeak. Her hips try to lift off the bed, but Johns' calloused hands keep them down and Angelina doesn't know where she thinks her body wants to go.
Towards his tongue?
Away from it?
Some answer in the middle she isn't privy to?
Whatever it was, she just wanted more, and John seemed happy to give it to her as he thrust his tongue in and out. Angelina feels like a rope being pulled tight, her body writhing under his touch, breaths heavy and when a finger joins in to rub at her clit, Angelina feels the rope snap as the warmth in her abdomen blooms and her thighs close on John's head.
The Scotsman rubs her thighs, head coming back up from between her when she lets them fall open once more, and she could see how his pupils had taken over the hazel of his irises.
"How do ye feel?"
Angelina feels breathless, like she had never felt like that before, like she wanted to feel that way again. She needed to feel like that with John.
"Like… like I need you."
"I thought ye dinnae need anybody."
"John Jacob McAllister, if you do not ravage me in the way we both clearly desire, I shall shoot you again myself."
"Aye, ma'am."
Then his lips are on hers again and Angelina feels like she never wants to leave this hotel.
Then his hands are roaming around her body, around her waist, around her breasts and in her hair and Angelina feels like she could live in this moment forever.
Then John holds her shaking hand in his as he kisses away her whimpers and lays claim to her neck, his cock pushing in through the muscle and it hurts, but then it pulses that pleasure she had felt warming her abdomen through her veins when their hips touch, and Angelina feels like she loves him; Angelina loves him.
She feels him pull back, just an inch or so before slowly pressing back in, and it aches, but it's a good ache, and she feels her hand clamber to push his back down until they're chest to chest, until she can feel every minute shift of his body, can feel his hearbeat against her own naked chest, can feel him shaking as he pulls back and thrusts forward again, and again, and again.
Her breathing is harsh, small moans leaving her lips at some of the harder thrusts, but she can hear the whimpers and groans John tries to muffle into her neck as he shifts to leverage himself better, to thrust into her harder and Angelina needs to see his face, needs to look him in the eyes so she can see how much she loves him.
John had felt this before, but never in this way. Never in the way he was right in that moment as he felt the glide of his cock within Angelina, her hand in his and nails tracking up his shoulder where she pulls his head up until he could see her eyes, see her pleasure-filled face look up at him.
"You… you are crying, my love."
Crying? Of course he was. His wounds were positively burning below the makeshift bandages as he continues to move his hips, to chase the ecstasy he could feel within himself and see in the eyes of his Angel. It was bleeding the lines between pain and pleasure and John was happy to let it, as long as he could always have her.
"It's- ye dinnae need te worry about me, my Aingeal."
"But, your wounds-"
John kisses her again, his hips connecting with hers as a tear drips onto her cheek, and he would take this pain forever if he could hold Angel the way he was, if he could feel her hand in his, her lips on his.
It doesn't take much longer for John to feel himself reaching the precipice, for him to feel Angelina's legs tighten around his hips as her back arches up, their chests pressed so close together he wondered for a moment if they would fuse together and become one.
His thrusts get erratic, her nails drag red marks into his shoulder blade, he bites at the skin between her neck and shoulder as he thrusts one last time with a groan, spilling into her with the music of her moans in his ear.
John feels breathless, the pain in his abdomen harder to ignore as he kisses Angelina's forehead, her cheeks, her lips once more.
He lets her fuss over the wounds, lets her travel her hands over his chest as they lay in bed, bodies covered by the bedding and they fall asleep together, her head resting against his shoulder as he holds her close.
###
Waking to the sun the next day sees John in bed alone, a hand stretched out to an empty side of the bed he had shared with Angelina and he feels his heart drop.
Of course she wouldn't stay. He let himself get his hopes up and now he had to deal with the fall, alone in a hotel in France.
"You are finally awake."
Flipping his head to the other side, John feels the giddy smile on his face as he's greeted to the sight of Angelina walking into the room, multiple bags in her grasp and her hair flowing freely.
"Bit of early shopping?"
"Just a little. We needed clothes and you were still asleep. It is lucky the reception had clothes for me to wear that were not ripped or bloodied- I have proper bandages for your wounds as well."
"And how," he begins to sit up, a wince on his face at the tug on his abdomen, "did ye afford this?"
"Une dame ne révèle pas ses secrets."
John stares at her as she walks closer to sit beside him, hands unravelling the sheet and pillow cases he had used before.
"Ye speak French?"
"Oui. Je l'ai appris quand j'étais plus jeune."
He hisses through his teeth when she pulls the new bandages tight.
"Ah'm learning so much about ye, my Aingeal."
"What does that mean?" she enquires, her hand now stroking his shoulder lightly.
"It's Scottish- well, Gaelic for 'Angel'."
Angelina simply looks at him, her eyes so soft, smile one that he had never seen before, and he leans into the touch of her hand against his cheek, eyes closed and heart full.
"Yes."
He opens his eyes, a questioning smile on his face as he looks at her.
"Yes? What are ye on about?"
"The picnic. You suggested I marry you… so, yes."
"But- but I dinnae have nae ring for ye!"
"We can get matching ones then. With a priest and vows, a ceremony just for us… and I shall take your last name, Angelina McAllister has a good ring to it, does it not?"
John feels his eyes water, his breath catching in his throat and he presses a kiss to Angelina's lips that he immediately deepens until they fall asleep, under the covers and wrapped up together once again.
"I cannae believe we're doing it… we're really getting married."
"I mean it seems crazy, but the whole thing is crazy."
Angelina squeezes Johns' hands, her head tilting in a way that John understood. A way for them to both acknowledge the events that lead them to where they were now.
"Why not?"
The Scotsman chuckles, the smile that once annoyed her now endearing.
"Ye only get one life, and I wanna spend it with you."
They had found a church room within the hotel, one that officiated marriages and the priest they sought out was more than willing to wed the two of them. It had been a little awkward when Angelina mentioned no friends or family would be present, but she was pleasently surprised to see some of the hotel-goers the two of them had become acquanited with sat in the pews in their Sunday best.
"Hello. Welcome today, the meeting of two hearts in one. We have the groom, full name?"
"John Jacob McAllister."
"We have the bride, full name?"
"Angelina Roland."
"Now, in front of all these witnesses, and God themselves. If anyone has any reason as to why these two should not wed, speak now or forever hold your peace."
It's silent and Angelina takes the moment to look at John in the suit they had bought the day before. It was a little loose, but he was still handsome nonetheless; she blushed at the reminder of how he looked at her when she stepped up to the alter mere moments ago.
"WOO!"
"I think that is just support."
" Just suppport, oui. Do you promise to hold one another, care for one another, and be the one to hold their hand when the days are hard?"
"I do."
"I do."
"With the power of the church and the blessing from God, you may now kiss the bride."
Angelina can't say she had ever been dipped in a kiss before, but John certainly made it feel easy as he supported her weight and kissed her like she was the only breath he needed to take.
"Are we now, married?"
The priests nods, but before either Angelina or John could say anything else, a Deacon comes up behind the priest and takes off a hooded cloak to reveal a covered face.
"There is something you should know."
"Marie Antionette from the French hotel?"
"Hang on." She sighs and she removes the face covering to reveal a mesh cover, her face no longer hidden, but still hard for Angelina to distinguish.
"Some… lady I have not seen before?"
The mesh covering is removed and Angelina sucks in a breath of delight at the recognition.
"Scarlett Johansson."
Looking around to the entrance of the church led her vision straight to the one person she had never wanted to see again; her father.
"No, that is Mrs Daltrey."
"That is right, just Mrs Daltrey. Listen, my dear. He set you up," she accuses, pointing at Lord Roland, "he forced you together. You hate his manipulation- he has been doing it all along!"
"Oh, I know!"
Angelina catches Johns' eyes, her husband sending a small nod her way and she smiles at him.
"Oh. Daddy, daddy, daddy… and this bitch."
"No, you know me, my dear. I am just Old Mrs Deirdre-"
"Mrs Daltrey! Know your own name at least."
The woman she had learnt to let in, to love as much as she did her own mother, stood up straighter. Her hand came up to wipe at her face, an abundance of make-up coming off of it to reveal a much younger woman- she looked her mother's age and that only tugged at Angelina's heart more.
"I am sorry I tricked you… I needed the money."
"The thing is- the thing is, being a journalist means sometimes you have to write obituaries. And as far as the great and good of the English nation are concerned," she faced her father, "you died along with your oldest childhood friend, and that means that everything passed to me," she gazes at John, no amount of hatred stopping the love on her face, "and to my new husband."
"No, no that is- that is not- that cannot possibly be right!"
Angelina slowly struts towards John, where he had stepped away from the confrontation, her eyes once again looking to her father with hatred.
"I guess he did make good after all. The two of us are going to look after- well, just everything. Just perfectly fine, without you. Father."
"You-"
"It looks like you have got nothing."
"YOU-"
"I guess it is time to go back to Yorkshire- which we are in charge of, I believe."
Jeffrey looked at her, looked at John, his face getting more and more red as anger took over.
"This- listen- Scarlett Johansson do something! Quick."
Something happens with the woman. Her body seemed like it was being pushed and pulled by something otherworldly until she moved to stand almost protectively in front of Angelina and John; it shouldn't have been possible, but a shotgun is pulled from within her clothes.
"Au revoir."
A gunshot rings out within the church.
John flinches in her grasp as she gasps.
Jeffrey Roland falls to his knees as blood spreads across his chest.
"WHOA. What are you doing?? Oh, father."
Angelina rushes over to the man who she had never held in regard, to the man she had grown up to hate, to the man who - despite everything - was still her father, and held him as he bled out in the church on her wedding day.
She doesn't shed a tear for him, but still she mourns with John by her side, holding her hand just as he promised he would in the vows they bound each other too the moment the rings slid on their fingers and they sealed the deal with a kiss.
1 WEEK LATER
Knocking on the door, John feels a sense of nervousness.
The last time he saw his family, he was hugging them as if he would never see them again. A family reunion ruined less than 24 hours later by a family goodbye. But he was back.
Back in Fife, ready to leave places like Suffolk and Essex as a distant memory.
John knocks again and smiles at the sound of his older brother swearing, the Gaelic words drifting through the hallways, through the wooden door and making him feel more at home than he ever could have with a life in London.
"Cò an diabhal a tha a’ cnagadh cho tràth seo? Is e Didòmhnaich latha Dhè, chan eil am bèicearachd a’ dol a-"
The door swings open and all words stop.
"Halò a bhràthair mhòr."
He's almost swept off his feet at the force of the hug Angus wraps him in, and he catches the laugh Angelina hides behind her hand as she ducks back out of view.
"What're ye doin' here? I thou- we thought we'd never see ye again! Wait. MA. DA. LUCY. JASPER. CINDY. THIGIBH AN SEO."
Multiple footsteps clamber together, the sound of voices getting closer as Angus wraps an arm around Johns' shoulders and pulls him into a side hug.
"Angus, what the hell are ye- JOHN."
"John? JOHN. Oh my wee lad, yer back!"
It's so reminiscent of the day he came back from Oxford all those months ago that he felt himself sink into the feeling for a moment, letting the multiple hands pat and hug as his ma kissed all over his face.
"I thought we'd never see ye again! What happened?"
"A lot happened, but ah'm back fer good- we're back fer good."
"We?"
John grins, all teeth and gums as he steps back slightly to look over at Angelina, holding his hand out for her to take the moment she arrives beside him and in front of his whole family.
"Ma, da, teaghlach. This is my Eilidh, my Aingeal… my wife, Angelina McAllister."
"Good morning. It is lovely to meet you."
They stand and stare, shock written over all of their faces until Cindy breaks it with a bounce into the air.
"ANOTHER SISTER."
Cindy barrells into Angelina and that's when the rest of the McAllister family join in and John laughs as he watches his wife get bombarded with affection.
"Aye, McAllister ye said? So ye took the family name?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ach, there's nae need for the sir. Call me 'Arthur'. We're family now, aye?"
"A-aye?"
"There ye go! Now yer gettin' it."
Everyone piles inside the house and the McAllister residence is full of laughter and cheer as John recounts the story of how they met, of how much Angelina had hated him at first, and he got interrupted plenty of times as Angelina inspired the story with her own version and John swears he couldn't fall more in love; but by God did he.
John feels a pair of eyes on him as he spends the day helping his family in the bakery, the muscle memory of working the ovens and carrying flour bags not lost within him from the 8 months spent in London - everytime he looked over, he could see Angelina watching him without filter and he didn't care when he got shouted at whenever he rushed to plant a kiss on her lips.
When the doors to the bakery closed and the sun began to set, John was pulled into the kitchen to help his ma cook as Angelina sat with his family, her laughter like a melody to his ears that he never wanted to forget.
"She's beautiful, John. I couldnae think of anyone better for ye."
"Aye," he looks and catches Angelina's eyes as she smiles, "she's my Angel."