One, two, three, soft footsteps on the wooden floor, which creaks slightly. Her nightdress touches around her ankles as she stands in the doorway, cocking her head at him. She lifts a hand to cover a yawn and crosses her arms over her chest.

Alexander sits at the desk, fully dressed, scribbling on a sheet of parchment among many other loose sheets. A single candle burns on the desk, turning the blackness gray around him.

He keeps writing, although he knows she's there and hears her yawn. She scrunches her face when she yawns; he knows that cute expression. He'd gotten up nearly an hour ago, gently rolling until his feet hit the floor, trying not to wake her.

"Alexander, come back to sleep..." Her voice is thick with tiredness, and he smiles momentarily at his parchment before remembering. Remembering why he's up so early this morning. The smile dies.

"I have an early meeting out of town." Nonchalant, simple. Nothing worrisome. Will she see through it?

She walks across the room, gently lifting one of the yellow curtains and peering out. He'd picked those curtains - she loved light yellow.

"It's still dark outside..." She lets the curtain fall, and it swishes back and forth as she crosses her arms again and looks down.

"I know," he finally glances up at her, and his face is creased with apology. He looks at her for a moment - her braid coming out slightly, little strands of hair framing her face, her sweet, round face, and her warm brown eyes, dim with sleep, reflecting the dancing candle. Watching him.

Why is he leaving her again? What's so important that he doesn't come back to sleep, as she asks?

He sets down his quill and turns in his chair, opening his arms to her even as he says, "I just need to write something down."

She steps into them, and he pulls her onto his lap. Her nightdress is thin, she wears no corset. She is soft as she curls against him, putting her head on his shoulder, her nose just barely touching his neck. She breathes deeply, evenly. Breathing him in. Relaxed. Alexander feels the tension flow out of his shoulders, and wants to stop writing just so he can close his eyes, put both arms around her, and feel her there. His love. His Eliza.

He resists the urge and keeps only one hand around her as he picks his quill up again, scratching away. In case things go wrong, this... this was a safeguard, the smallest semblance of one. If this was to be the last time he filled a page with ink - it needed to be for her. He deliberately doesn't think about where it is he is going, instead listening to Eliza's soft breathing. Unconsciously, he matches the rhythm of his own breaths to hers.

Hearing the quill, she murmured into his collarbone. "Why do you write like you're running out of time?"

"Shhh." He wants to soothe away those worries, the ones growing in her - or were they growing in him? He turns so his face is against hers, as much as it can be, while she is resting on his shoulder. His jaw, prickly with stubble, meets her cheekbone. He reaches up to smooth some of the loose hair from around her face.

Wait, where was he in this sentence again? He'd just written the same phrase twice -

But she takes another deep breath, and he can tell, somehow, that she's closed her eyes again. He scratches out the miswritten phrase and finishes the sentence properly. Finishes the paragraph.

She shifts slightly on his lap, but doesn't open her eyes. He writes slowly, trying to forget.

One paragraph. Two. The blackness is starting to lighten around the curtains - it's not quite the fuzzy light gray that comes just before dawn, but it is close. He swallows. He has to leave, soon. The pistol is downstairs, on the table by the door. His quill, for a moment, goes silent on the page.

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Eliza opens her eyes and lifts her head, sighing. His shoulder seems empty without her in it - was the crevice between his neck and shoulder designed just for her to lay her head in?

But he can't ponder more on the matter, not now, not when dawn is so soon. Not when the time to leave is so close, when the pistol is only just downstairs.

He drops his quill and wraps both arms around her, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. She has one arm around his side, the other coming under his arm to curl her fingers in his hair.

After a moment - such a small amount of time, never nearly enough! - she brings her arms down, and he lets go, letting his hands rest on her hips. He searches her face, every little detail of it -

She puts her hands to his face, rubbing her thumbs back and forth over the stubble growing there. Her fingers are cool against the growing heat inside of him, the heat of contest.

She purses her lips slightly, and Alexander knows what it means. If he was so grateful to have her here, and he wanted to stay - why was he leaving?

"Come back to bed, that would be enough."

She loves him. She'd always loved him, and he'd always known it - even when he knew she should hate him, when she should've written him out of every space in her heart - she hadn't. It feels so good to have her back now, after so many years. So many years, he hadn't been able to hold her like this. He couldn't let himself, and she wouldn't let him, not after - what had happened. But all those awful, cold memories seemed faint and blurry against the memories of the last few years of being together again. He can hardly remember the office - now he sleeps with her, in their room. Every night. She wants him to come back to bed. He wants to come back to bed. How could he leave?

Avoiding that penetrating gaze that could see right through him, that might be able to make him stay when he really must go, he puts his forehead to hers, closing his eyes. "I'll be back before you know I'm gone." He would. He'd come home and meet her before waking any of the children. If she was still sleepy, they'd go back to bed. If not, they could go into the garden, out for a walk.

Of course, there was the slight chance that... but no. He'd already seen in his mind's eye how this meeting would go, already planned out his every move. He would come back. Maybe Eliza would never have to know what the meeting was, and it would be over. The rivalry would be over, and it'd just be the two of them again. Alexander and Eliza.

She tilts her head, voice growing a little higher in pitch, a little more like a violin string, tightened too much. Listen to me, she begs with that voice. "Come back to sleep," is all she says.

At the beginning, the few times she asked for anything, it was with joyful confidence. She knew he loved her. After that, though... she got more used to being told no. During the lonely years, her questions had rung dead from her mouth, knowing she would inevitably be denied. These last years, these good years - he'd tried to make sure she never felt that way. So now, her voice held the old fear of being denied - with the hope of being told yes. With the hope that she would be enough. What would he say?

He breathes slowly, feeling his stomach grow heavy. He can't open his eyes, can't look at her. He has to go, or this rivalry - political and personal - might never end. "This meeting's at dawn."

She grows still, saying nothing. He almost winces from the physical pain of it.

She sighs, and lets go of him, getting off his lap. He opens his eyes, watching her rub her arms. She walks to the door, and Alexander turns in his seat to watch her.

"Well," she says, her voice simple, gaze towards the doorframe. "I'm going back to sleep."

 No, no. Alexander stands and strides across the room, following her as she walks to the doorway of their bedroom. No. He won't leave, not when she feels like this, not when she feels denied.

"Hey."

She turns, looking at him, eyebrows raised, hazel brown eyes questioning. She is so beautiful, so beautiful! His face splits into a grin, looking at her, knowing that he'll be able to make her smile just as brilliantly as soon as he gets home. Soon, it will be over, completely over. When he gets back, he'll take her out, and they'll go dancing. They'll go walking and talking and dancing, painting and writing. They'll bring the children to the park. Soon, it will be over, and he will make it up to her.

He smiles, and the corners of her mouth start to raise, simply because she sees him smiling. Is there anyone else so good hearted? So beautiful? Who knows him so well?

He loves her. He'd always loved her.

He puts a hand to the back of her neck. She lifts her face up, he brings his down, and he kisses her. Hard, for the promise he was keeping. Soft, for how she made him feel. Long, for how he would be hers forever.

Finally, she pulls away, a faint smile tracing her mouth. She nods toward the windows in the study - it is almost dawn. But she is smiling now.

He can't help but smile back, seeing that most pure happiness on her face. He bends down, ever so slightly, to whisper the truth against her lips, "Best of wives, and best of women."

Eliza smiles against his mouth. He knows what it means. 

She turns back to their bedroom, and he turns towards the stairs, still smiling. Soon, it will be over, and he will be home.