Victor waits for her in her office, standing by the window with his hands behind his back, and fingers of his right hand clasped around his left wrist while he watches the sunset over the Thames from this view in the Diogenes Club. The door opens and he feels the velvet box knock against his thigh when he turns slightly. She doesn’t look surprised other than the slightly cynical raise of her eyebrow, but he doubts much surprises her at all.
“Mr. Trevor,” she states by way of greeting, shutting the door behind her. She hasn’t called security, which he can only take as a good sign. He tips his head and smiles a little, and it stretches his cheeks oddly- he hasn’t smiled much lately. What has he to smile at? Reports of corruption and backstabbing? The lies of his father and Hudson?
“Evening, Ms. Jones. I need a favor. I know I should have seen Mycroft primarily, but it’s something I can only ask of you, I’m afraid.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the box, pops open the clasp, and smiles again at her, though now it’s wry and sheepish.
“Will you marry me, Ms. Jones?”
He snaps the box shut with a gentle press of his long fingertips and steps away from the window, towards her. “There’s an investor’s dinner this meeting. It’s not just my company’s investors, and I…for reasons I cannot easily explain, am unable to go as myself, so I..”
“-already taken care of,” she cuts him off. The clip of her heels is authoritative across the tiles as she brushes past him and motions with a curl of her manicured finger for him to follow to her desk, where she pulls up a sheet of paper and slides it across the cherry oak, fingers splayed across.
“Seven years happily married, no interest in children, a temporary home in Greece, Guam, and most primarily, Glasgow.”
Victor stares at it and then raises his eyes slowly to her. He doesn’t bother asking how she knew- he knows she won’t answer. He just curls his lip and laughs, surprising himself at the sound when he ducks his head slightly. “If I may say so, you are decidedly brilliant.”
She hides a smile with an artful brush of her finger across her bottom lip. “Save it for the honeymoon, Mr. Trevor.”
He doesn’t mean to show up as he does, unannounced and drenched through with rain, sick under his skin. But he does, on her doorstep, staring up at her little flat that he never would have expected for her but now thought was perfect. Just as he turns his back a hand, delicate, rests on his shoulder. He hadn’t even heard the door open.
Victor glances back at her, lips parted in some way of explanation, before he gives up. She probably sees that his suit jacket is missing, his tie is askew, and she probably can even see through his shirt sleeves to the too-recent needle scar on his inner forearm, all the way through his ribcage to his newspaper-word-cut-out-lies.
“Anthea,” he says lamely. “I thought I’d…say hello.”
Anthea’s dark hair falls forward as she chuckles despite herself, before she steps aside and motions. He doesn’t ask how she knows. He never will. There’s no point to it.
He steps in.