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Chapter Text

      A crow cawed loudly outside Edward’s office, shattering the silence of the cold Samhain night in Dublin. Startling at the sudden disruption, he glanced at the grandfather clock across the room. 1:27 it read. “Damn it,” Edward cursed, cleaning up the paperwork littering his massive desk. He’d meant to leave the office three hours ago at Arthur’s suggestion (and rather convincing dark-eyed pout). The long nights at the brewery were wearing on him, his eyes beginning to appear bruised and sallow. Arthur, for all his arrogant, hedonistic tendencies, still cared deeply for his family, especially his hardworking baby brother. Massaging the stiffness out of the aching muscles of his palm, he noted how raw the tips of his fingers felt from gripping the pen for so long.

      Trudging toward the door, the shiny metallic box of cigars he’d ordered earlier gleamed in the pale moonlight. A gift for Arthur’s birthday, which he supposed was actually today given the late hour. Smiling softly to himself, he tucked the small box and birthday letter into the breast pocket of his jacket and began his walk home. The pleasant scent of wood fire drifted through the air, making Edward wish he were already tucked into a plush chair by the fire, a glass of whiskey in hand. He walked briskly, the frigid November breeze biting at his exposed nose and ears. His evening walk, however, was abruptly cut short as he rounded the corner of a deserted street. A weight was thrown against him, pressing him sharply against the uneven stones of a dockyard rowhome. Raising his arms against the small, blond man, he recognized too late that the Fenian he suspected was part of Cochrane’s crew was holding a pistol. Fear shot up Edward’s spine, his dark eyes widening and nausea tearing his stomach to scraps.

      “Ireland will be free,” the young man proclaimed with a seriousness and stability in his tone Edward could’ve never mustered even in his most critical business meetings. Throat dry, he drew breath, ready to protest his own assassination when the Fenian raised the pistol so the barrel was nearly touching Edward’s chest. The pop from the gun was shockingly loud, and a small murder of crows took flight, soaring over the houses and into the night. Just as quickly as the ominous birds, the armed man dashed around the corner Edward had just come from, clearly not wanting to stick around in case the Dublin Garda were out this late. Shocked, Edward whined in pain, slumping to the ground and clutching his chest. The scent of burned fabric and tobacco stung his nose, and he grimaced in disgust and agony. He’d never felt so much pain in his life, not even the time he burned his hand on the furnace or fell off his horse as a child. He reached under his coat, gloved fingers coming away sticky with blood. Breathing through clenched teeth, Edward coughed, testing his lungs. He couldn’t taste blood, so at least the bullet hadn’t reached too deeply. 

      What do I do?

      The youngest Guinness sibling clutched the railing of a nearby staircase, clawing his way to a standing position. Feeling faint, he quickly glanced around to see if anybody nearby could help, but alas, Dublin was silent as the grave. Edward tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear, hanging his head, still gripping the rail of the stairs like a lifeline. He was a solid fifteen minute walk from home and was unlikely to make it before succumbing to the pain radiating from the bullet hole in his chest.

      I can’t bleed out here, Arthur wouldn’t know what to do without me. He needs me. But what if…

      The thought was sudden and absurd, as they frequently were when it came to her. Without hesitation, he began to shuffle down the block, pausing frequently to cling to the icy lamp posts. Squeezing tears from his eyes, Edward allowed himself a few pitiful sobs. Finally, after quite the battle of will between his mind and body, he had reached his destination. Her window was lit despite the hour.

      Thank the Almighty. 

      “Ellen,” he called as loudly as he dared, or rather could, with such a fierce and consistent throbbing of electricity shooting from the wound, “Ellen!” He saw a flash of movement from inside, waiting patiently as she lifted the window open.

      “Edward, go back home. It is far too late, and you’re absurd if you think I’ll let you in at this hour,” she called softly down to him.

      “Ellen, please,” his voice shook as he begged, stepping forward into the lamplight and pulling his coat to the side, revealing a growing crimson stain on his white shirt and mossy green waistcoat. He could feel his tear-dampened eyelashes freezing, and he knew she could see the way his hair clung to his forehead with sweat. Gasping, Ellen rushed from the window. Seconds later, she flung open the door to the building, rushing into the street toward him. He reached for her, stumbling forward. She caught him, holding him tightly before ushering him inside. Quietly shutting the door, she pressed him to the wall. Ellen bent, unlacing his shoes and helping him step out of them. 

      With an apologetic look on her face, she whispered, “I’m still not allowed to bring men inside, no matter how badly they need it.” He breathed harshly through his nose, allowing the corner of his mouth to rise into a smirk before wincing as she dragged his hand toward the railing of the staircase. It took some minutes for Ellen to help Edward lug himself up to her room, both of their hearts pounding with worry that the landlady would catch them.

      Once up the stairs, Ellen stripped him of his coat, throwing it onto a chair cluttered with papers, some of them fluttering to the grimy wooden floor. Edward sighed, pulling off his gloves and shuffling to warm himself in front of the fire in the furnace. Ellen had other plans, however. She stood behind him, hands clutching under his arms, pulling him backward to sit on the bed. He fell heavily, the bed creaking beneath his weight, a sound not unfamiliar to him. She knelt in front of him, unbuttoning the bloody waistcoat and shirt and gasped at the oozing wound on the right side of his chest. His skin was damp with sweat, and he shivered roughly as the cool air of the room caused the hair of his arms to rise. 

      “Who did this to you?” Ellen whispered, breathless. Edward looked up from the clotting wound to her face, the concern and anger barely contained behind her pale blue eyes. 

      “Fenian. One of your brother’s men I think. Seemed quite angry that I hadn’t spoken for Irish independence,” he muttered, hissing sharply as she pushed him back to lie on the mound of pillows she’d placed behind him. 

      “Fucking idiot!” she exclaimed in response, continuing to swear under her breath as she paced toward the cabinet by the window.

      He closed his eyes, exhaustion finally able to cloud his mind, sharpened only by the tender skin, burning as sweat ran toward the wound. The reprieve didn’t last long, however, as Ellen returned to the bedside with a pungent smelling rag. She daubed it over the small hole, sending a raging sting of pain throughout his body. He gripped the mattress, head thrown back, and tried his best to stay quiet (though not very successfully). As she rinsed the wound out with the alcohol and rag, she brushed the sweaty hair away from his eyes, kissing his temples. “I know Eddy, I know, I’m sorry,” she cooed, heart breaking more with each of his restrained cries. Tears once again streamed down his temples, dripping onto the pillow. Ellen was no physician, but she also wasn’t a stranger to grievous injury. As she cleaned the wound, she could see the metallic shine of the bullet, despite the seemingly unending flow of blood. 

      “Edward, dear, I’m going to take the bullet out. Can you bear it?” she gripped his arm, and he grabbed her in return, nodding and gulping. 

      Exhaling gently, she began to delicately extract the crumpled coin-sized metal circle. Edward sobbed, entire body tense, and bit into his wrist, desperately trying to stay quiet lest the landlady remove him in this vulnerable state. After what seemed like hours to Edward, Ellen had successfully extricated the bullet. He fell limp, nausea threatening his already damaged throat from the excruciating bawling. Edward felt gentle, cool hands place thick cloths over the wound and coax him to a sitting position. He rested his head against her shoulder, breathing raggedly as she wrapped an old pair of tights across his chest, binding the scraps in place. Allowing him to lie back down, she stroked the back of her wrist against his forehead, trying not to dirty him with his own blood. He heard the gentle splashing of water as she rinsed her hands in the basin by the door. He felt frayed, burned out. The pain was still there, just more of a dull throb than an electric shock. He felt sleep tugging him into oblivion, when suddenly, Ellen gasped, giggling softly to herself. Eyes opening blearily, he found her standing by his ruined coat, clutching a small metal box.

      “I thought you didn’t smoke these, Edward,” she chuckled, waving the tin in front of her face. He swallowed thickly, smirking. 

      “I don’t. That was a birthday gift for my brother,” he glanced toward the lightening sky, “which I suppose I’ll end up missing. I hope he won’t mind.” She crossed the floor, placing a quilt she had gathered from the floor across his bare chest. 

      Sitting with her back to the wall, she led him to rest his head on her thighs and began gently scratching his scalp, whispering, “Don’t you worry about what Arthur thinks at this moment. I’m sure he’ll understand that his tin saving your life was the best birthday gift he could’ve asked for.” Edward hummed softly, mumbling something about “that blasted cigar addiction” before his breaths, though still shallow, fell into a steady rhythm. Ellen continued her attention to his golden-brown hair, now messy and completely unlike his usual perfect styling. She would worry about the bloody sheets and her reckless brother’s men tomorrow. For now, she would be content to sit with the heir to the Guinness name drooling a bit onto her skirts.