Henriad (History Plays, Book 5)

10: away upon your wing'd thoughts

Kate

Harry is at my doorstep as required, exactly at two, dropped off by a taxi. Two was a good idea in my head when I thought of it, but in practice I still wanted to be asleep and then hated how much time I thought I should spend getting ready. In the end I'm in leggings and an Olympics t-shirt, my hair in a scrunchie, looking practiced-casual as I can because I am just around the house.
My date arrives looking like a fugitive in a romantic black and white movie. His dark curls are slicked back from his sharp face, the usual pair of dark glasses balanced on his strong nose, wearing a turtle neck, sports coat, and clearly tailored designer jeans, along with black leather boots that look Italian. A silver Citizen watch is on one wrist, and he wears a silver crosslet on a slim chain around his neck. The scars on his face are deep and craggy in the shadows of the porch. He cracks a small smile at the sight of me, but nothing more, hands tucked into his pockets in an attempt to be casual despite doing a great impression of a villain in a Bond film. I say villain, because in movies heroes don't have disfiguring scars. We associate that with villainy. It's fine he is in fact a criminal. I am content to love a criminal so be it. He looks and talks like this what am I to do except fall hopelessly in love?
"My parents are in their offices, doing calls and the like, I told them I'd be around today but they don't need to know you're here," I say, nodding for him to come in. He does, ducking a bit out of habit even though the doorway is tall enough for him.
"Very good, why am I here?" He asks.
"Did you not want to see me?"
"Yes, but that is constant."
"You're going to lose tomorrow aren't you?" I ask, advancing on him.
"If you brought me here to interrogate me using your feminine wiles I must inform you I shall enjoy every minute of it and possibly develop a new personality."
"You're so fucking dramatic."
"Nobody has ever called me dramatic before," examining his I'm sure custom watch as he sits delicately on the back of an arm chair at edge of the first sitting room.
"Yes or no? We both know you have this all planned out," I say, frowning, "I don't like liars."
"I'm not lying. I merely had a previous obligation prior to our meeting, that must be fulfilled. After the games are over, no more secrets between us, I promise that," he says.
"Why are you doing this? We both know—it's obvious this is all your scheme. So why?"
"A flush of reasons, but most importantly because I can, that's usually my reasoning I find," he says, "You're nearly out of questions before I do go."
"Why would you go?"
"You don't like liars, Kate, I'll be inclined to lie if we keep this up. I'm dreadfully fond of it and I can't risk what I've already set in motion," he says.
"To do with the playoffs?" I ask.
He nods.
"But you won't lie about other things?" I ask.
"I mean—I wouldn't strictly know would I? You haven't started asking me the things nor has the mood struck me," innocently shrugging, "I wouldn't lie about you, Kate. Is that enough?"
"If I can't believe anything, no," I say, folding my arms.
"You can believe in Harry and Kate. That's all I have. I'd prefer if nothing else were real, if I'm being perfectly honest. Believe in Harry, today, and forget about wars and schemes and madness, because sometimes the world is too complicated, and we're better off to be just two people in it," he says.
"But after the games, then you'll tell me?" I ask.
"Oh, you will be lucky to get me to stop talking about it," he says, smiling now.
"Okay, come on then, let's go upstairs," I say, walking towards the stairs.
"What's upstairs?"
"Not my parents," that makes me feel better; he is a dumb guy. I go and get his hand because he wasn't moving.
"Is this your bedroom—?" That is  when the soul of a scandalized Victorian orphan girl avoiding the advances of her mysterious twice her age benefactor overtakes this tall pleasant criminal mastermind I'm in the process of falling in love with. "I can't go in your bedroom—that would be indecent —what sort of—,"
"You'll come in here," I tug him in and close the door, "And I'm politely requesting you kiss me, like we're star-crossed lovers destined to die at dusk. Because falling in love with you is much less confusing when you're holding me. And if we don't have anything else, I'd like to hold onto this."
"We can have forever, but I freely confess I'm not totally sure how long forever lasts for men like me," he says, taking off his glasses and looking at me with those precious soft amber eyes.
"I'm willing to wait it out," I say, and then I kiss his scarred cheek.