George Crabtree has lived his whole life around boats.
Growing up in Newfoundland, it was inevitable that any given conversation would turn to discussion about boats and the weather. Now that he's spent all of his adult life in Toronto, part of him yearned for that again: dissections of the wind and precipitation along with the latest gossip of the most notorious travellers.
The trip back from his honeymoon, however, is devoid of all that.
Liverpool is the bustling city that St. John's never was. Walking through it, struggling to keep their luggage from bursting with the endless knicknacks they've picked up during their honeymoon, reminds him more of walking in Toronto than it does his childhood by the sea.
He hasn't missed policing as much as he thought he would. George has to admit the business with the King more or less wet his whistle. Effie, however, has almost seemed to pick up a taste for investigations and interrogations. George supposes it must be part of what makes her a good lawyer.
Sometimes he thinks about what could be if his life hadn't unfolded this way. If he had the possibility to make detective like every other constable on the force. Maybe work in a different Station House, have his own constables to boss around. But then he wouldn't have Effie, or Higgins, or Murdoch or Brackenreid. He wouldn't have time to write.
Time to write is maybe what he's missed the most.
Effie convinced him to splurge on second class, between what they've saved up for their honeymoon and her lawyer's salary (mainly her lawyer's salary). It affords them a little help with their luggage, and their room is spacious enough that the six day journey will be more than tolerable. There's even a desk that's already become the resting place for an ungodly amount of books and papers.
Now that they're in motion, George lingers by the doorway to their room. "I'm going to take a walk around the ship."
"Alright," Effie gives him an easy smile. "See you at dinner."
George walks off with his pencil and notebook. Years of walking the beat has made him used to being in motion. More than anything, he simply enjoys it. Walking around, taking in details and talking to people is generally what he's good at; maybe it's also part of what makes him a good writer. There's plenty of interesting people willing to have a conversation with him in the hallways. George explains the details of their honeymoon dozens of times. He leaves out the business with the King, but there's a small pride in the fact of having solved a case with his wife that he hasn't quite let go of. There's still a bit of time before dinner, so he starts thinking about where to sit down and write. George isn't a fan of the class-separated lounges, but he does appreciate that the decks are mainly left unrestricted.
"What are you working on?" Effie leans over before George can close his notebook. She raises an eyebrow. "Really, George?"
"What?" He huffs. "I know he said we couldn't tell anyone, but that doesn't mean I can't write a story about it.."
"Her Majesty's Secret Service?"
"Well, the king has five sons and one daughter." George rubs his neck. "And I figured…"
Effie frowns. "If you make it a queen, it's impossible?"
"Not impossible, just less connected to now." He opens his notebook again. "Just think about it Effie, another queen—a Victoria, Anne or maybe Elizabeth, like the great queen of old. And what does she need when there's a security threat to the Commonwealth? Her Majesty's Secret Service."
Effie reads over his shoulder. "And Will Stock, so it seems."
"A strong name, don't you think?"
"I think it needs some work."
"Well, fine." George leans back in the deck chair. "What do you think is a strong name?"
"Hm, what about James?"
George scrunches his nose. "Too common, don't you think? I don't think that many books with the title 'James Stock' would sell."
"No," hums Effie. "He needs a better last name for that."
"Stock is a perfectly good last name."
"Yes dear, good. Not great."
"Fine, what do you think about…" George pauses. "Harris?"
Effie stands up and extends a hand. "Stock was better. Dinner?"
George takes it. "Dinner."
"So," Effie leans into him as they walk, "tell me about a Will Stock adventure."
George is all too happy to oblige, diving into the plot he's come up with during their trip with all the necessary accompanying hand gestures. "So then the car goes straight off the cliff and turns into an airplane!"
Effie chuckles. "The worst part is, I'm finding this strangely believable."
George puts the end of his pencil against his mouth. "You know, most of these are based on my investigations with Detective Murdoch."
"Are all the gadgets his too?"
"No, some of them were inspired by an inventor, Mr. James Pendrick." Effie raises an eyebrow at him. "What?"
"Oh nothing," she says, with a smug smile that tells George that she's about to reveal exactly what that nothing is. "Just another point for James."
"I'll let you know George is a very kingly name."
"James is a king's name too. It's not about being kingly, dear; it's about selling books." Effie puts her hand on top of George's.
George frowns. "Well if his name is so contentious, maybe it shouldn't be on the title." He takes his hand out from under Effie's. "What about 'From Liverpool, With Love'?"
Effie leans in for a quick kiss. "I think that sounds much better."
They don't get too many shocked stares—it's a boat, after all. As they sit down to eat, all George can think about is how happy he is. He never will make detective, but he's got a beautiful wife, amazing friends and dozens of bestselling books to write; as well as the last week of his honeymoon to enjoy before he has to go back to work in Toronto. It's no St. John's, London, Paris or even Liverpool. But it is home, and George wouldn't change it for the world.