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vatrixsta · 5 years

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How Long Will I Love You (1/2)

PRESTO! @the-corsair-and-her-quill IT IS I, YOUR SECRET SANTA! It was so, so fun stalking getting to know you over the last few weeks! Because you do not love Christmas in a traditional, cheesy way, I have written you an angsty CS AU Emma who is having trouble with her husband. Yes, it’s very cheery :D Hopefully I’ve read the room right when it comes to your tastes and preferences and I REALLY REALLY hope you enjoy it!!

I’ve tried to leave the first part in an okay place, but I’m hoping to finish it off for you by the weekend at the latest. Yes, it’s the gift that unfortunately keeps on giving!

Man, I really thought I could write this little angst bomb as a one shot, but I very much underestimated my own desire to torture poor Emma. This will be up on AO3 after I’ve... slept. MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!

How Long Will I Love you (1/2)

xxx

Emma Swan-Jones was absolutely positive of one thing: her husband was hiding something.

Killian was not the secretive type. He’d worn his heart on his sleeve as long as she’d known him, something that had caused them both a great deal of frustration early on in their courtship. Emma had been jaded single mother just trying to keep her and Henry’s head above water and Killian… well, he’d just been so steadfast, so sure right from the start that it had freaked her out a little. The fact that he was Henry’s favorite author? That had definitely made his job of winning her heart a hell of a lot harder.

So yes, she’d been the one pulling away, doubting, constantly testing him for the first few months of their relationship, something she felt bad about later but honestly couldn’t imagine any other way. Her walls had been sky high after, you know, her whole fucking life, being abandoned, foster care, all the people who made it clear they never wanted her and no one ever really would - then fucking Neal and prison and Henry was the only good thing she got out of all that - no way would she get a charming British rogue who spent his free time writing children’s stories about a skewed take on Peter Pan. No, that was not for her, no matter how much he tried to convince her that she and Henry were all he wanted.

Except… he had. They built a life together. They got married. They moved around for a long time, three nomads looking for a place to plant roots as Emma’s work took her wherever the leads did and Henry was all too happy to continue home study and Killian could write from anywhere. He let her read his first drafts and she let him read over her shoulder when she was researching her skips. He was constantly challenging her and annoying her and being the best stepdad to Henry and just… he wasn’t perfect, but he also kind of was? She could barely remember what life was like before their twosome became three; didn’t really want to remember. It felt like they’d always been together, the three of them, with Killian in charge of steering the ship, emotionally speaking.

Maybe that was the real problem. Emma had gotten used Killian always being the grown up in the relationship and now that he was taking up the part of the sullen, moody teenager who lied to her face when she asked him what was wrong, she didn’t know how to deal with it.

Hadn’t he read the contract between them? She was the moody teenager in the relationship, at least for a few more years, before Henry turned into an actual moody teenager.

This had to stop. She was going to stop it. Be the bigger person. Not fall back on decades of rejection and shitty emotional behavior and lose the nerve to force him to talk to her.

….

So yeah, she totally lost the nerve. Killian was sitting in the office, broodily staring at a blank computer screen and she tried to use the perfect opening.

“Hey. Are the pages not cooperating?”

It was smooth. She actually thought about it before she said it, not at all typical Emma behavior. She’d asked him about his writing before, when it seemed like he was in a bit of a funk and he’d always use the opportunity to escape for awhile, maybe take Henry to a movie or, if they were near water, to look at the boats by the harbor. Sometimes he’d compliment her - all, your boy’s a marvel, Swan, nothing like a trip to the pier with the little spitfire to knock a spot of writer’s block into the dust. Over time, it became our boy and her heart clenched with how easily the word rolled off his tongue and hers.

So his response today was somewhat underwhelming.

“What?” he asked, distracted, moody, dare she say - a bit twitchy.

Emma’s eyes narrowed. Every hackle she has was rising. But this was her husband. She trusted him. She loved him, completely. So he was having an off week. She’d had her share of them and he bore them with grace. She was not going to interrogate him like a suspect.

“Let’s go out to dinner,” she said, trying to be positive. Henry was at a sleepover and maybe he was feeling like she was - a little out of sorts without their favorite playmate. She would ignore the fact that this behavior had been going on for weeks, pretty much, she realized, since they’d settled down in Boston. “Somewhere nice, with tablecloths where you can get handsy while we overpay for whatever’s labeled market price.”

Seafood and groping - two of her husband’s favorite treats. But when his eyes flickered, it wasn’t with the normal interest and good humor she expected. If she had to name the emotion that flashed behind those blue, blue eyes of his, a split second before his whole face shuttered to a neutral expression, she’d call it guilt. Maybe even a pinch of despair.

“I’m sorry, Swan,” he said, definitely looking sorry, but not in a way she liked, “I should really keep plugging away at this.” He gestured at the keyboard with his prosthetic hand, the right scratching at the back of his neck like he had a rash.

“Yeah. Me too. I’ll make us some pasta then,” she mumbled, tucking down how much his rejection and the fact that he was lying to her hurt.

She fled to the kitchen and threw together a simple dinner neither of them really touched. He escaped back to his office as soon as he could and she went to bed early, wondering what the hell was going on with the man she married.

~~~

Henry returned from his sleepover late the next day and since it was Sunday, he reminded Killian they were supposed to check out the docks, an activity they hadn’t had time for since they moved to town. Boston was both big and small and getting to specific parts of the city sometimes took a huge chunk of time unless you were on foot. That was why they’d splurged on an apartment that was pricey but perfect and if you squinted, just within their budget - Killian had a great nest egg from the book sales and would receive an advance as soon as he’d finished the first three chapters of his next book. Emma had been saving from the moment she graduated from waiting tables to bail bonds and their combined good financial habits had secured them three bedrooms, a top floor and a glorious view of the water.

“It’ll be perfect, Swan,” Killian had said while they were still living from rental to rental. “Our first little hideaway by the sea until you retire and we can live somewhere much quieter, with fewer bail jumpers needing your always pertinent attention.”

That was back when he was still sweet talking her like usual. God, she hoped his outing with Henry would help him settle. He was always calmer by the water and the view aside, she knew he wasn’t satisfied until he’d gotten a good lungful of salt air.

She bided her time while they were out by doing laundry. Every time she passed the office - they shared it, but since his work dictated a quiet space a lot more than hers did, it was mostly Killian’s domain - she had to fight off the knee jerk urge she had to go snooping on his computer for answers. The doubt that was beginning to live in her breastbone was making it hard to remember how much she trusted Killian, like she’d never trusted anyone in her life.

The urge to snoop was definitely going to get the better of her if she stayed in the apartment, so Emma quickly bundled up and grabbed her wallet and keys. They were out of eggs and a few other essentials. Besides, it was six weeks ‘til Christmas and with all the moving drama she hadn’t bought anything for Henry or Killian. She could at least do some in person recon before she came home and ordered them stuff online.

She was putting away groceries when the apartment door banged shut.

“Hey Kid,” she greeted Henry, noticing the lack of anyone else behind him. “Where’s Killian?”

“He said he had an errand,” Henry huffed into the kitchen and noted Killian’s behavior with his usual tact and charm. “What crawled up his butt?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “We were having a good time, we got ice cream and he was telling me about ships and Liam and it reminded me about my ancestry project for school. I asked him about his parents and he reminded me - as if I didn’t know - that he isn’t my biological father. We kind of… had a fight. He was trying to talk to me about him.”

Emma paused with the Eggos halfway to the freezer. Him. That was how Henry had referred to Neal since he was old enough to understand their history. Emma had no idea why Killian was suddenly bringing the subject up - as far as she knew, his feelings about Neal mirrored her own: if she ever ran into him in a dark alley, she’d at least bloody her knuckles on some part of his face.

“Maybe Killian was just trying to make sure you didn’t want to talk about him,” Emma offered. “I haven’t exactly done the best job of keeping you a neutral third party where he’s concerned. It would be… normal… if you were curious about your dad.” The words were like ash on her tongue, but she forced them out, mentally awarding herself ten points for Gryffindor.

Henry made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “After what he did to you? I don’t care about him. He’s not my dad. Killian’s…” He looked down and Emma was horrified to see tears in his eyes. “I thought Killian… I guess I was wrong.”

“Hey.” Emma put her hand on Henry’s chin and pulled his head up to meet her eyes. “Killian would take a bullet for you, kid. Whatever is going on with him - it is not about you and it is not about how much he loves you. Got it?”

“Got it,” Henry mumbled, eyes still downcast. “Can I play Xbox until dinner?”

Sighing, Emma forced her stiff little boy into an embrace and kissed his forehead soundly. “Yeah. Play something nice and violent.”

He nodded against her side then trudged into his room. Emma pursed her lips.

Fuck it. She was snooping on his computer. Henry was upset by whatever the hell was wrong with him and she was done being the mature adult. Ten points from Gryffindor - maybe she’d always belonged in Slytherin after all.

xxx

All Emma got out of snooping through Killian’s laptop was a recipe for buttered rum and a knot of guilt in her stomach. His browser history was weeks old, like he hadn’t searched for anything; she even tried all the tricks she knew to find hidden tracks on a laptop - he’d really done nothing on it since before they’d moved to Boston and that included working on the new book.

Maybe his odd behavior really was as simple as an intense case of writer’s block. Maybe he was afraid to tell her, because they’d gotten this fancy apartment and with the bail bonds trade usually drying up a bit after the holidays, they’d be counting on his advance once he delivered his publisher the detailed synopsis.

Abandoning her shitty, mistrustful wife plan, Emma headed back to the kitchen (it was possible she’d left the ice cream out to melt) but stopped when she heard not the sounds of violent bloody gore, but quiet voices coming from Henry’s bedroom.

“It’s fine,” Henry was saying in a tone that clearly indicated it was anything but.

“It’s really not,” Killian said and Emma leaned against the wall that kept her out of their line of sight but made eavesdropping on Henry’s room much easier. Hey, the view wasn’t the only reason she’d been eager for this apartment.

“I just… I guess I thought… we were a family,” Henry said, sounding so vulnerable Emma wanted to hug him and hurt Killian a little for making him sound that way.

“Henry… lad.” Then Killian sounded just as lost, just as broken, and Emma just wanted to wrap her arms around them both. “The love I have for you and your mother outweighs all the grains of sand in this or any other realm. Never doubt that.”

“Then why did you bring him up?” Henry asked. “I don’t want to do my ancestry project about him. I can’t ask Mom, because she doesn’t know who her parents are. I know yours are gone, but you knew them at least. I still want to do my project about my family.”

Killian took a deep breath. She knew well the sound of air filling his lungs from a thousand nights falling asleep with her ear pressed to his chest, a thousand moments sat across from him as he prepared himself to say something sappy or meaningful or cheeky.

“My father’s name was Brennan and my mother’s name was Alice. They married young -- too young, it turns out. He was a bastard and she would have adored spoiling you, her first grandchild, young master Henry.”

Emma bit her lip hard to keep the tears in her eyes from falling. Her boys kept speaking to one another, Henry asking questions, then telling Killian to wait, he had to write this down, and Killian detailing as much of his history as he could - the small English village he was born into, the Jones line before him (he’d never known his grandparents and unfortunately couldn’t be of much help further back, but he did delight Henry by informing him they were rumored to be descended from the Davey Jones) and any other detail that came to mind. Emma was pretty sure he was making at least some of it up, but it was a fifth grade ancestry project and she’d punch any teacher who gave Henry less than an A for the yarn he was about to spin.

Deciding she’d had enough of this emotional roller coaster, Emma spent some time researching a skip - he was slippery and she might have to go out of town for a few days to nab him. With Killian and Henry on an even keel, she felt a lot better about the prospect.

A solid hour of research confirmed her suspicion - Travis the douchebag had fled to Rhode Island and was stupid enough to still be using his own credit cards. He had also already set up a new Tinder profile. Emma would drive the Bug to the most recent hit she had on his card and let the tight red dress on her Tinder profile do the rest of the location job for her.

She’d leave in the morning. She wanted to spend the night with her boys first.

They were still in Henry’s room, though ancestry talk had morphed into the video game Killian hated playing the least, something with knights and quests. They were spread out on Henry’s small full bed and Emma took a flying leap between them, forcing them to either dive out of the way and lose a life or accept her full weight.

Naturally they both took the hit, their characters living to fight another day.

“Oi! Swan,” Killian complained.

“Jesus, Mom,” Henry added, sounding much more parental than she ever did.

“Third controller,” she demanded.

Henry hooked the wire with his foot and launched it at her. She caught it easily and entered the game when it let her. Every time she did something Killian or Henry couldn’t, she elbowed them until Killian finally called for a mutiny. He and Henry ganged up on her, assaulting her with tickling fingers and raspberries, the game abandoned and Emma feeling lighter than she had in weeks.

xxx

“I have to go to Rhode Island tomorrow,” Emma said later that night after they’d settled into bed. Killian seemed to be keeping a little more distance between them than was customary and he was also wearing his prosthetic to bed, which he never did.

“Hmm?” Killian responded, irking her because apparently he wasn’t even listening to her.

“I’m going away tomorrow,” she repeated, turning on her side to face him. He was staring at the ceiling, the black t-shirt he wore getting in the way of her favorite pillow, his chest hair. Come to think of it, he’d been withholding her favorite pillow for awhile now. She’d been so exhausted by the move that she’d basically fallen asleep as soon as her head hit an actual pillow.

He finally turned to face her. “Where are you going?”

“Rhode Island,” she repeated. “I’ve got a hit on a skip. It’ll be a nice payday for the holidays.”

“That’s good,” he said, nodding a bit, mostly to himself, it seemed.

“I’ll be gone a few days, most likely,” she added, frowning when he just nodded again. “I’ll miss you, too,” she said sarcastically, before turning her back on him, half curling into a ball of confused anger and sadness.

“Swan,” he muttered.

“Save it,” she said. “If you’re not going to tell me the truth, I don’t want to hear it.”

Several moments passed, so many that she really thought he was going to remain silent. Then, so quietly she might have missed it if she hadn’t been listening so carefully, he spoke.

“Have you ever woken up one morning and felt like an utter fraud?” he asked.

Her frown deepened. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she asked. “Is this about the book?”

“I wish it were about the bloody book, Swan,” he muttered, his his breath close enough that she could feel it puffing against the bare skin of her shoulder. “Just go to sleep.”

“Killian--”

“You’re leaving in the morning, in that deathtrap of yours - I’d like you to be rested before you get on the road. It’s an icy drive this time of year.” He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her back against him and she rested her head against his other arm. He was still keeping her at a distance, but she could feel his concern, his affection, even through such a strange distance. Her mind replayed his declaration to Henry, the passion and conviction in his voice as he’d vowed his love for them both. He hadn’t been lying.

Why the hell would her husband think he was a fraud?

xxx

Emma debated bailing on the trip, but forcing Killian to talk when he clearly wasn’t ready to had never lead anywhere good. So she kissed him and Henry both on the forehead, made them promise to text her updates while she was gone and headed out. Killian had gotten up earlier than she had to make sure the snow chains were on the Bug’s tires and he’d filled the tank up with gas, something she routinely forgot to do until she was already on the road.

Her first night in Rhode Island, Emma logged onto her fake Tinder profile, the one that let her breasts and a tight red dress do all the advertising necessary to pick up any creep in a fifty mile radius. It only took about a hundred left swipes for her mark to pop up and she reluctantly swiped right.

Henry’s text (a picture of the breakfast Killian made him and a row of sad face emojis) interrupted her briefly; she replied that egg whites and salmon were good for a growing boy. Killian’s text (a simple “The boy’s been fed well and sent off to school; come home safe, Swan”) intensified that ache in her chest and she fired off a quick heart emoji in reply. If she started actually texting words, she was afraid word vomit would soon follow and she needed to concentrate on nabbing this dirtbag.

Her skip was laughingly easy to lure but not so seamless to capture. They scuffled outside the restaurant, Emma tackling and handcuffing the guy after a graceless fall sent them both to the icy ground. It was only after she’d handed him off to local law enforcement that she noticed how badly she scraped up her wrist. She rinsed it off in the motel bathroom, but immediately changed into traveling clothes. It was late, but there wouldn’t be traffic at this hour and she’d be home, in bed with her husband, in less than ninety minutes.

Unfortunately, being alone with her thoughts on a long drive and no case to think about meant Emma had little to do but consider Killian’s odd behavior.

When she added it all up - attempting to remind Henry they weren’t actually father and son, the guilt in his eyes, the disinterest in sex, feeling like a fraud - her stomach clenched at the most obvious conclusion: Killian was cheating on her.

Maybe it wasn’t physical. Maybe it was only one time and he didn’t know how to confess. Maybe he had fallen in love with someone else and felt guilty about wanting to leave them. Leave her. Maybe he was only staying for Henry. Maybe he just didn’t know how to tell her he’d made a mistake by marrying her, the same mistake her first foster family had made by wanting to adopt her, only to send her back when she was three.

Emma’s wrist was starting to ache as much as it stung and she worried it might be sprained on top of the scraping. Her vision was also getting blurry, which meant she was probably crying and that always pissed her off, so she used her injured hand to angrily wipe her eyes clear.

If Killian had decided she wasn’t enough, that he wanted something else - that was fine. It would hurt Henry, but they could survive. They were just fine when it was the two of them and they could be a family of two again.

Something hollow started forming in her chest at the thought of no more Killian - no more sullen hours trying to get the words right only to emerge victorious and tumble her into bed to celebrate, no more healthy breakfasts to send them off for the day with ‘vim and vigor,’ no more grown up in the house, no more feeling safe with someone, no more forgetting what it felt like to be a lonely, unwanted little ugly duckling again.

Fucking tears. She was going to get into an accident if she didn’t get a grip on her emotions, but it was impossible when it felt like her whole world was caving in on itself. Killian didn’t lie to her. If he was lying now, it meant… it had to mean something bad, given how long it had gone on, given all the other signs. She wouldn’t be able to make it another night wondering about this. As soon as she got home, she was ripping off the Band-Aid - even if it took several layers of skin with it.

She made a lot of noise coming in the front door, kicking her boots off and leaving them in a messy, wet heap just inside, the way Killian hated. She draped her coat over a chair and caught a look at herself in the mirror by the door - her makeup had run due to all the crying (waterproof my ass) and her hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail, which just made her face look even more gaunt.

“You’re home early.” Killian’s soft voice drifted from the living room and her shoulders hunched in on themselves at the sound of it. The sound of his feet encased in those warm, fuzzy socks Henry loved brought him closer. “Did you get your man?”

Emma turned to look at him and wanted to cry even harder. He was wearing a soft black sweater, one of the many new items they’d purchased for the frigid Boston weather. The dark color made his eyes look even bluer, or maybe that was all the lights she’d just noticed he and Henry must have hung up while she was gone, their whole apartment transformed into a cozy winter wonderland. Like a real family lived here. Like he was planning to stick around until Christmas.

She felt fucking crazy.

“You're hurt,” he said, eyes obviously ticking over her to figure out what was causing her mental breakdown. He moved quickly, his right hand pushing a piece of hair that had escaped her punishing ponytail back behind her ear, thumb skimming over her cheek to trace the black tear track that made it all the more obvious she’d been crying. His eyes were still moving over her face furiously and when he realized she hadn’t been punched or visibly concussed (wouldn’t be the first time) he started scanning the rest of her.

His ex-naval captain’s eagle eye narrowed in on her wrist in a snap and her hand was soon cradled between his right and his prosthetic. He made a tsking sound (chastising her for using water as a disinfectant again) and leaned forward to kiss her forehead, the way he always did when she was hurting. The tears came again but she didn’t try to fight them. He made soft shushing sounds and cradled her hand against his chest protectively, letting her cry it out for a few minutes before gently ushering her into the bathroom.

Emma sat on the sink so he wouldn’t have to crouch and Killian pulled the Neosporin out of the medicine cabinet. He used his teeth to open the bottle then curled her hand over his prosthetic to hold her still. Carefully, he applied the disinfectant, knowing how prone she was to kicking when something stung her. Once he’d gotten a good, thick layer applied, he reached for the gauze.

“Do you think it’s sprained as well?” he asked.

She nodded, unable to make her vocal cords worked and he fetched an ace bandage from the emergency room drawer as well.

“You should get an X-Ray,” he said.

“Maybe,” she agreed, her voice sounding like she’d been crying over a half broken heart for the last hour.

They both knew she wasn’t going to get an X-Ray, but she really, really loved him for worrying about her.

“This is how we met,” she said quietly as he leaned forward, using his teeth to hold one end of the gauze so his right hand could smooth it down.

His gaze snapped up to hers, a wary look in them, and her eyebrows scrunched together. “Remember? My timeless grace?”

If he didn’t even remember how they met, he wouldn’t have to leave her - she was going to kill him.

Killian blinked and nodded slowly, as if the memory was replaying in his mind. He cleared his throat before speaking. “You were carrying drinks for you and Henry. Slipped on a patch of ice. Tore your palm up.”

“You bandaged it with your scarf and tied one end with your mouth. Very ballsy for a total stranger,” she added with an affectionate nudge to his hip with her knee.

“I’m nothing if not bold,” he agreed.

“I never even saw you coming,” she confided. “All those walls and that cynicism and keeping everyone out and I never even saw you coming. I wanted to run so far and so fast from you and I still wanted to jump your bones.”

He scoffed. “You thought I was annoying. And possibly a stalker.”

“I still wanted to jump your bones,” she said. They shared a laugh, but she sobered fast. “I know I did run away after that. I know I… didn’t make it easy.”

Was that it? Was she still more difficult than she thought? Emma thought she’d gotten better at letting him in, that she’d let him all the way in, but maybe… maybe he just got tired of it. Of her. Everyone did eventually, everyone but Henry.

“Emma… I don’t like easy,” he said with that grave tone he sometimes got when he wanted to make sure she understood him. “A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets. You have always been worth the fight of my life, darling. Always.”

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead, a soft, reverent thing that made her cry again. He brought her bandaged hand to his mouth, kissed the back of it, her palm, her wrist, the patch of skin on her forearm left bare from his first aid work.

“Do… do I need to fight for you?” she asked, the quiet, scared question nothing like the rage she’d planned to unleash on him during her drive. Funny how Killian being Killian could disarm her in the blink of an eye.

“Oh, luv,” Killian muttered, pressing his forehead to hers. “I have been yours from the moment we met. It just took me a little while to realize it. You’ve done nothing wrong, Emma. I’m sorry. I know I’ve been… I’ll be better.”

“I don’t need you to be better. I need you to be you. I need you to want to be here.”

“I do,” he vowed and that was exactly what it was: a vow. “There is nowhere else for me but by your side, Swan.”

“You’re confusing me,” she whispered, like it was a secret.

“I’m confusing me,” he assured her. “Please just… give me a little time? To figure a few things out?”

Emma sighed. It wasn’t the resolution she wanted, but she felt oddly lighter. They hadn’t talked about anything specific, but already her earlier fears felt ridiculous. Most of them, anyway. At least he wasn’t pretending things were fine - he’d given her months of space to realize she was in love with him in the beginning. She could give him a few weeks now, to figure out whatever was going on in that ridiculously attractive head of his.

“You’ve got four weeks ‘til Christmas,” she grumbled. “I want my husband front and center by then, got it, buddy?”

So she wasn’t nearly as patient or understanding as he was. He knew what he was getting into.

His grin at her words indicated that he did and that he still found her rather charming.

She could live with that. For now.

#csss #cssecretsanta2k18 #@cssecretsanta2k18 #captain swan #my fic stuff #cs fic #how long will i love you #MERRY CHRISTMAS

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askalfendilayton · 6 years

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LBMR Secret Santa - ‘Tis the (First) Season

Merry Christmas, @multi-the-world-wanderer! You asked for Alfendi and Lucifendi, and I’ve been very inspired by my first British Christmas this year. You English people really know how to get festive!

I’ve also explored the idea of Alfendi’s personalities being more separated than I usually write them. In this fic, they do not share many memories, and are incapable of viewing everything the other does while in control.

Summary: As it turns out, Placid Prof has never had a real Christmas, and Lucy Baker insists on breaking that tradition. Rating: K Warnings: Very minor references to alcohol. Katrielle Layton does appear, but there are no spoilers for LMJ. Ship: Pre-relationship Lucifendi

Lucy Baker went hard at everything she did, and that included Christmas.

Growing up in Yorkshire meant being surrounded by the festive season from the second Halloween ended. Attending the local Christmas markets was customary, and she adored witnessing the decorations brighten the streets as the day drew nearer. It was second nature for her to sing the carols as they came onto the radio whilst wearing an ugly sweater: the perks of working from an office.

When she placed a cup of hot chocolate in front of Alfendi instead of his usual tea, she received a raised eyebrow in response.

“’Tis the season, Prof.”

Placid hummed, taking one sip, then another as he studied a case file. “Not bad,” he commented.

She could feel how big her smile was. “I knew you had it in you to be festive! I migh’ decorate the office, while I have you in such a good mood.”

Muttering something in return, he gave her a non-committed shrug which she took as acceptance. As she tidied her desk she began to imagine it, considering which of her ornaments would suit the Mystery Room best.

“I could even bring in some egg nog,” she added after listing off the possibilities. “My Ma has a great recipe for it that I’m going to try for myself.”

“Egg nog?” His tone was critical.

“I’ll do my best to make it right, no need t’fret. And I won’t add any alcohol, since we’d be at work.”

As she strode across the room to put a file away, she caught sight of his face, and realised that it was not disapproval he’d expressed, but confusion.

Lucy opened her mouth, ready to poke fun at the infamous, educated Alfendi Layton for not knowing what egg nog was, but just managed to stop herself in time. Sliding the file into its allocated drawer, a thought nagged at her.

“Or,” she began, “we could have mulled wine, if you want a real drink. Outside work, o’ course.” His silence further confirmed her suspicions, but she gave him a final test. “The ice cubes might make it a bit cold for this weather, though.”

“Oh, yes, I agree, far too cold,” he replied. “I’ve never liked the drink anyway.”

Got you, Prof.

Mulled wine was served hot: nobody would ever consider putting icecubes in it. Peeking over at him from the filing cabinet, he was focused on his work, but she could see the faint blush in his cheeks.

She watched him a moment longer before returning to her own task, her mind whirring.

“Has your brother ever celebrated Christmas?”

The question was addressed to an irate Potty Prof, who had just nailed the coffin shut for a suspect. Rather than revelling in the excitement of it all, he was still hung up on a few colourful insults he’d received. Having worked with Alfendi for close to six months, Lucy knew that there was no chance Placid would overhear the conversation, given Potty’s current emotional state.

“What nonsense are you spouting? Brother?”

“You know who I mean.”

“We’re not brothers.”

“Oh, shush an’ answer the question.”

Pacing the room in an effort to calm himself down, Potty scoffed and finally looked up at her. “I assume he’s celebrated it, but I don’t remember the past four years well enough to tell you for certain. I wasn’t exactly active.”

“No memories stand out? Ice skating, shopping, roast dinners, presen-”

“None of that drivel.”

Huffing, she crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re a right Grinch, you know.”

Finally, he smiled, or smirked at least. “Thank you very much.”

Mulling over his answer, she gathered the paperwork to finalise the arrest. A minute later, his pacing stopped.

“Perhaps I do remember something.”

“Hm?”

Thoughtful, he placed a hand on his chin. “It’s faint, but… yes, the dates would match up. When he awoke after our coma four years ago, and I was fighting to regain some control, the hospital room had tinsel in it.”

It was as if she’d been submerged in icy water. “Placid Prof spent his first Christmas in hospital?”

“He wasn’t discharged until mid-January, so yes, he must have.”

“That’s… Lord, that’s awful. Maybe you don’t like Christmas much, but he might’ve never had the chance to.”

Potty considered her words, face unreadable, before his pacing resumed.

“He hasn’t come to Christmas dinner in the past few years,” Katrielle said, her voice slightly grainy over the phone. “He always says he has to work, but I heard from Inspector Hastings that he volunteers to do it. I wasn’t too surprised; he’s never been fond of big, mushy family gatherings. Dad and I have missed him, though.”

It was exactly what Lucy had expected. “But this started after he were shot, didn’t it?”

“Yes, it did.” Katrielle paused a second. “And Dad and I do think that the incident has something to do with it. But we don’t want to push him into coming, especially since we’ve all grown closer after we helped him through his recovery. If he doesn’t want to attend one family gathering, we won’t hold it against him.”

Lucy understood, but it was sad to hear all the same. “Thank you, Katrielle.”

The two exchanged brief pleasantries before the call ended. Lucy placed the phone down, thinking hard.

He wasn’t extraverted, far from it, but Placid Prof was good natured enough. If he was given a real chance to enjoy Christmas traditions, without connecting it to his time in hospital, she believed with all her soul that he’d enjoy himself.

Convincing him to try was whole different matter altogether. Getting him to leave the comfort of his office to brave the busy shops and crowded Christmas markets would do him no good, of that she was certain. He’d have to have the type of Christmas which would suit him.

Luckily, he had an expert at his disposal.

As soon as one o’clock came the next day, Lucy tossed a scarf to a surprised Alfendi. “Come on, Prof, time to go.”

“Huh?”

It was impossible to contain her smile. “Our shift’s over.”

Glancing at the clock, his expression grew more confused. “Lucy, are you feeling alright? We have four hours left.”

“Not today we don’t. Chop chop, Prof, we’re on a tight schedule!”

She’d cleared it with the Commissioner to go early. She had the holiday leave to spare, and Lord knows that Alfendi did too, with his workaholic tendencies. In the meantime, Florence had agreed to take on any cases that might come their way (“Pick me up a warm beanie from the – ACHOO! – market, and I’d be happy to help.”).

Wary, but by this stage knowing better than to argue with her, he wound the scarf around his neck. “Just what have you got planned?”

“Ehee, but that would ruin it. Come on now, I promise you’ll enjoy yourself.”

It was rarely a white Christmas in London, but a little snow from the night had settled on the ground. She was prepared for the cold weather, layered up with a thick coat, beanie and gloves, but her companion was less so. They’d been outside for two minutes before she noticed him shivering, and she was grateful that she’d remembered to bring him the scarf at least.

“Sorry Prof. I promise you’ll warm up soon.”

Muttering something, he pulled his coat closer around him, trudging along.

As expected, it took thirty minutes to arrive to their destination. Perfect, she thought. That gives us about two hours.

The moment the lights came into view, Alfendi stopped. “Lucy, what is…?”

“The Christmas Market by the Thames,” she replied. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

After a second, he took a couple steps forward. “It’s so… bright.”

It was an apt description: lights of all sorts were a necessity for any market worth its salt. “That’s just the outside. Wait ‘til you actually walk through.”

It was as though a child had taken over his body a moment, stars settling in his eyes. In an instant, they disappeared. “Ah… I imagine it’ll be crowded.”

“Why do you think I got us out of work early?” she replied, unable to help the smugness in her voice. “It’s just after the lunch rush, and it won’t get busy again until kids are finished with school for the day and the adults are done with work. We’ve got time to enjoy it while it’s quiet.”

He stared at her, softness falling onto his face. “Lucy… you organised this for me?”

“I needed to make sure you enjoyed your first real Christmas, Prof. That wouldn’t happen if you were in a crowd.” Checking her watch, she took his sleeve and tugged him towards the stalls. “But we can’t waste any time! There’s so much for you to see!”

While he didn’t seem opposed to the idea, she expected that she’d have to nudge him forward most of the time. However, it didn’t take long for him to get into the swing of things. In a matter of minutes, he’d stopped at a stall which sold little trinkets, quickly purchasing one as a gift for Katrielle. Not long after, they came across a stall which solved logic games, the perfect gift for his father.

An hour in, she spotted what she’d been looking for. “Come on, Prof. It’s time for you to try some mulled wine.”

He shook his head. “It’s far too cold for that, Lucy.”

Giggling, she pointed to a passer-by who was holding a mug, steam rising from the rim. “Now if you’d actually had mulled wine before, you’d know that it’s served hot.” Spotting him beginning to blush, to save him from the embarrassment she quickly paid for two drinks, handing him the mug. “Cheers.”

“Ch-Cheers,” he echoed, clinking his mug with hers before sipping it, a little hesitant. She watched as he considered the taste, trying it again. “That is… something.”

“It takes some getting used to, I s’pose.”

“No, I like it. Who would have ever thought to heat up wine?”

The time flew by faster than she thought possible, and unsurprisingly for the English winter, the sky darkened early. As the market grew busier, she and Alfendi bought dinner from a food truck and retreated to a quieter part of the Thames with no stalls.

Sitting by the river, a comfortable silence fell upon them as they ate, but once she’d finished she realised that Alfendi was staring at her, thoughtful.

“What?”

“I’m grateful that you did this for me, Lucy. I suppose it was obvious that I haven’t celebrated Christmas in the past.”

She waited, inviting him to continue.

“The memories from when I – or he – was younger are faint, and I feel disconnected from them. The first real Christmas I remember was when I woke up from my coma, eleven days before it. Katrielle and Dad tried to make the day special for me, but it was a painful one. My body started to reject some of my medications, so I couldn’t eat anything, let alone have a Christmas feast. Not to mention that it was just so cold, and I was even skinnier than I am now.” Pausing, a small sigh passed through his lips. “Unfortunately, this time of year carries bad memories with it, so I’ve never felt festive.”

“I’m really sorry, Prof. I can’t imagine not celebrating Christmas, it were always something I loved when I were younger. And now, o’ course.”

Silent, he stared out at the river. “Perhaps… perhaps I will celebrate it this year, though,” he murmured.

Her heart leapt. “Huh?”

“A lot has happened in the past few months. Uncovering the truth from four years ago has made me feel stronger, and ready to move on from it. Now that I’ve actually seen what Christmas is like, I think I’d like to partake.” He paused. “It’s really like this every year?”

She grinned again. “Every year! This isn’t the only market in London, either, there are so many others we could go to. If you liked, o’ course.”

A few jumbled words left his mouth, until they eventually formed a coherent sentence. “I would like. Very much.”

“How about this weekend? If we get there early, we’ll avoid the rush.”

“Y-Yes, that sounds wise.”

He stopped speaking again, though it looked like he had a lot more to say, his mouth opening and closing.

Waiting, she eventually had to break the silence, which had grown stifling. “Are you alr-”

“What are you doing on Christmas day?” he blurted out.

Blinking, she examined his flustered face. “Ma and Pa are overseas this year, so nawt.” The reminder put a dampener on her mood; it was the first Christmas she’d spend without her family, given she was an only child. “I guess that’s why I’m so eager to do everything else I can ‘round London.”

“Would you like to come to the Layton family dinner?”

She was the one who was surprised now. “Eh?”

“I-I mean, I should go, after avoiding it so long. I’ve bought them presents and everything. You’d be w-welcome, of course, Katrielle would be thrilled. My father would like to meet you, too.”

Was it just her, or was he rambling?

Heart fluttering a little – now that was something new – she stared back at him, before realising she hadn’t answered. “I’d love to! I weren’t looking forward t’spending the day alone.”

“Then you won’t, Lucy Baker.”

The pair smiled at one another – she beaming, he a little sheepish – before they looked up to find the gentlest of snowflakes falling from the sky. Watching as he reached out to touch one, Lucy again saw the stars in his eyes.

Happy first Christmas, Placid Prof.

#Layton Brothers #Mystery Room #Alfendi Layton #Lucy Baker #Lucifendi #LBMRSecretSanta17

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