Title: Snow In Summer
Author: Claire
Rating: PG-13
Series: Yes. Still untitled (and likely to stay so) however. 3 of 4
Key Words: Healing. Romance. Surprise.
Archive: Yes
Feedback: Would be nice.
Disclaimers: So not mine. Merely borrowed from DWTV & Brian Clemens because I obviously have more time on my hands than is really healthy… and they obviously don’t care where they are.
Warnings: Mush overload. Seriously. It's a coffee and cake fic (hot cross bun given the timing?) if ever there was one. If I had delusions of publishing this I'd be sending it to the likes of Harlequin or Mills & Boon. It is the most... nauseatingly... romantic fic I have ever written. No.
Before you ask, I don't plan to make a habit of it. <g>
Narrated by Chris.
Self beta’d. <pause> But I suspect that will be glaringly obvious.
= = = = = = = = =
Snow In Summer
by Claire
= = = = = = = = =
I suppose, if I really care to think about it -- which I was kinda hoping not to -- having a day like today was inevitable. They used to plague me, along, no doubt, with ninety-nine percent of the population, before, so why not now? Basically, it was bound to happen.
I was merely kidding myself in respect to ignoring its unscheduled, yet at the same time very much on the books, arrival. While I didn't know what exact form it was going to take, I still knew that it had to be coming. Not that I was becoming complacent or anything like that. It's all still too much of a day-to-day thing for me to take it for granted. Small achievements, like looking someone in the eye or holding a conversation with someone I don't know, for example, are still enough to thrill me and make me think that things are continuing to improve.
And they are.
Improving, I mean.
My weight is still less than it was but the instructor has finally approved me for active duty and, be they simple surveillance cases or not, I'm delighted to be back on the job. I never thought sitting in a car sweltering in the heat and keeping track of possible drug runners would be such a thrill. But it is. I feel as though I'm doing something worthwhile again and that I can be trusted with shouldering responsibility; that I have a mind of my own and am capable of using it.
It helps that Sam is always by my side. It helps a lot. Since that night of heartfelt confessions and desperate apologies, we've reverted to how we were before and are more or less inseparable. While we don't speak of what happened (thanks but no thanks, it's in my head and that's bad enough without voicing it), I know that Sam's there for me and his constant presence in my life grounds me. Even if I wanted to fly off on a tangent and becoming a screaming mess that was afraid of his own shadow I know I can't because I don't want to let Sam down. He gives his time to me freely and -- I'm still having difficulty believing this -- steadfastly refuses
Malone's offers of temporary partners and assignments, preferring to wait for me to get it fully together again.
So, while he could be off gallivanting around the world, he stays in London, sitting beside me in the boiling Mondeo and keeping me company. I can't help but think, and I don't like to admit this much for fear of sounding weak, that I'd be lost without him. The only thing that stops me believing completely in this, wholly and solely, is the fact that, due to our hideous misunderstanding, I managed to make it so far without him. That has to account for something, doesn't it?
Closeted by my misguided hatred of him, I still managed to survive and claw myself back on track. Although I thought I was wretched I continued to crawl forward and tried to put the past behind me. And, without wanting to sound too big headed or anything, I think I did a reasonable job.
Or at least I started the process before, with great relief and pleasure, handing over some of the responsibility to Sam. While I have no doubt, being determined and wanting to return to being the person I used to be, that I would have eventually made it on my own, I have to say that Sam's made it easier.
Our friendship's stronger than it ever was. Even while he was convalescing in front of a computer in the office and I was dragging my butt around and around the track, we still spent our evenings together. Take-away at my place, home cooking at Sam's, tea at the pub. Comfortable hours that flew by and I always found myself saddened when the time came to say goodbye and for us to go our separate ways.
My mood always lightens upon seeing Sam. Even if every bone in my body is complaining about the physical training I'd been putting it through, and an unknown man had leered at me in the gym change room as I manage to change by displaying as little flesh as possible, I just have to see Sam, waiting for me by the car or sitting at his desk, his head buried in the paper, to feel
immediately better.
He's just as pleased to see me too. Well, that is, I think he is. No. I'm positive he is. I'm not positive of much in this day and age, but I am positive Sam is happy to have me near him. He always smiles brightly and his face lights up when I materialise at his side and begin to complain
about my day.
Be it a simplistic way of putting it or not, we appear to need each other and that's, I think, all there is to it. Our closeness doesn't come from guilt. We don't feel as though we owe the other. If I thought for a moment that that was the case I'd pull back and retreat into the arms of misery. I don't need my friends to stick to me out of guilt anymore than I want them to pity me. As much as I'd love to, we can't undo the past and can only move forward. Sam knows this as clearly as I do and we take it as it comes.
I'm scarred, both physically and mentally, but I won't give up. In one way, shape or form, I've got too much to live for, too much to achieve. I'll never be exactly the person I was, I know that, but I'll get close. It's already in reach. I'm alive and I'm in fairly good condition, I'm back at
work and only a week or so off being fully active, I've got friends who seem genuinely pleased that I'm back in their lives, and I've got my partner.
My partner who, back in history -- it sometimes feels a lifetime ago -- I was busily plotting to seduce. Partners - friends - lovers. It seemed pre-destined. And not just as a one night stand either, it was going to be more than that. Lingering, desirous looks, hands straying innocently on to bare skin or companionable pats on the back that went on too long. It was almost as though we couldn't escape the slow building desire we felt for each other. There were times that I wanted Sam so much that I literally ached with need.
Then...
Then my sexuality was ripped violently and tortuously from me, leaving me with nothing but ghostly memories. Shadowy, misshapen memories that tease and taunt.
Sometimes, albeit somewhat infrequently, I remember sex, not only as pure and loving, but also as fun and spontaneous. I can remember feeling connected with the person and loving their touch on my skin. I remember laughing and kissing and wanting the moment to last forever.
Predominantly however these memories strike me as being nothing but myths.
Sex can't be any of those things. Not now. Pain replaces pleasure (not that the body can differentiate) and shame replaces desire. Once upon a time, if my memory serves me correctly, I used to take particular delight in simply being touched... but now the concept revolts me. The thought of someone touching me makes my skin crawl. It's all I can do to allow the -- female -- doctor to examine me.
This, perhaps more than anything, makes me feel like some sort of freak.
Especially in relation to how I feel about Sam.
I know the joke's on me, but I still want him. I don't even know in what exact context. All I know is that I want him. Although I'm not even sure if I'll ever be able to, I want to be his lover. While I've never caught him checking out possible conquests, if I ever do, I'll feel as though my
heart is being ripped, still pumping, out of my body. I know I will.
It's selfish of me, and it's wrong, but I can't help it.
I loved him before and I still love him now.
I just can't demonstrate it.
The fact that it's summer, and London is awash with smiling, glowing, barely clad bodies and billboards selling soft drinks with images of scantily clad images of perfection, isn't helping. Everywhere I turn, I see sex. Sex sells and, let's face it, it makes the world go round (or at the very least, in the majority of cases, populates it). It can't be ignored. Sex sells everything from cars to washing detergent, it's an inescapable fact of life. And if I see it, Sam surely sees it.
If it taunts me with whispers and rumours of my former life, I don't know what it screams to Sam.
'Here! Oi, you! Over here! Take a long look at this gorgeous specimen and then, just for the sheer hell of it, why don't you compare him to the sexless scarecrow shadowing you. Hmmm? Go on! You know you want to! Hey! You're male, you *have* to want to!'
Or something like that anyway.
Not that the subject is ever raised. Uh-uh. Sex is taboo when I'm in earshot. I can silence a rowdy conversation between agents by simply walking around the corner.
"Did you hear the one about the homosexual and... oh, shit... there's Keel... la, la, la... I'll tell you later."
There's no help for it, I'm a freak.
Sam never comments or gives the impression that his pining for his apparent (I could be wrong... for all I really know he could leave me every night and pick up trade... but, I dunno, I just doubt it for some reason...) lack of a sex life. He just continues to smile at me and offer me all the companionship and trust I could ever need. He's oblivious to my inner turmoil and I'm more than content to leave it at that.
I mean, what with my aversion to being touched, I can hardly seduce him. Nor can I drop my bombshell and blithely expect him to wait for me. As with everything, all I can do is wait and see what happens.
Anyway, coupled with my confusion in respect to my love for Sam and my fear that I'll never be able to offer him anything, today was just one of those head-fuck days. Not that anything major happened. No flat tyre made me late for work, I didn't cut myself shaving, no-one groped me in the newsagents, I didn't spill coffee all over Malone's report and I didn't have the misfortune of encountering any inbred members of the Met.
I did, however, encounter Kent.
It was the last thing I expected and it hit me with all the force of a sledgehammer. No one had seen fit to casually mention to me that, three months after Sam had captured him, he was being dragged back in for further questioning. He was double-cuffed, and being led by two somewhat large agents, but it didn't matter. We still saw each other and I still froze.
Thank God Sam, at least then, was by my side.
"Dearest boy! What a pleasure to see you again. Although, would you believe, I almost didn't recognise you with your clothes on."
Coming under the barrel of a gun wouldn't have shocked me more. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me. I couldn't even look at him. It wasn't that I slipped immediately back into slave mode, I didn't, it was more that I simply couldn't deal with him.
Sam could though.
Storming directly up to him, he grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed his knee into his crotch with such force that I swear the two agents alongside him felt his pain. Sam didn't say a word. He didn't even sneer at Kent and, after stepping around his now crumpled form, simply continued walking along the corridor. My feet somehow found the strength to follow him and,
forcing my head up high, I walked away from the man I once called 'sir' and didn't look back.
It shook me though. I can't deny it. He can't hurt me anymore (well, only in my memories and I think I've got a good hold on them) but I have to admit
that I more or less choose to believe that he simply doesn't exist. I can't even remember why we were after him in the first place (drugs? arms trading? extortion? I honestly have no idea) and I've been fully removed from the case. Justice, for what he did to me, is not something I wish to seek. We've got him for whatever we want him for and that's good enough for me. Sam's assured me that we have enough dirt on Kent to send him away for the rest of his miserable life and what I suffered at his hands would be lucky to add another month onto his sentence.
If others were involved, if we had proof of other victims, then I'd do it. But, for me alone, no. I don't see the point. Having to go through it all in court would kill me and, seeing as all I want to do is put it behind me, I'm just letting it slide. There'd be no catharsis, I know that. Not even his death, and, as much as I hate him, I have no inclination to kill him myself (again, there's no point in retribution, I'm bigger than that), would provide that.
And I do hate him. I hate him for what he turned me into but, most of all, I hate him for taking three months out of my life. Being turned into a mindless sex slave was awful (he says mildly) but after the first few times it was more repetitive than anything else. After succumbing once it didn't matter if it never happened again or if it happened fifty more times. The damage was already done. Once your dignity is taken from you, and you can't see that mythical light at the end of the tunnel, you pretty much give up. Not that I really had any choice. The drugs put paid to any chance I had of finding the strength to fight. Now, in oh-so-ironic hindsight, I'm thankful for the ever-present drugs. I was so far out of it that I had no idea what I was doing -- other than being submissive and willing -- and had no concept of time or who I really was at all. It could have gone on forever. I could have been Kent's pet forever and, not knowing any different, I wouldn't have cared.
It's a terrifying thought.
~*~
I'm proud to report though that I got through the rest of the day without breaking down or trying to disappear into Sam's shadow. After asking me whether I was okay, he accepted my mumbled, "Fine,' got me a coffee and we continued about our business. Our chatter might have been even more inane than usual but that was about it. We talked and joked and I -- we --
ignored what had happened.
Then, looking sheepish, Sam admitted, completely out of the blue, that he had plans for the evening and that we couldn't have tea together. Not having much choice, and not wanting to allow my true disappointment to shine through, I merely nodded and skulked off home. Whatever his plans are, I'm trying not to think about them. If I do I'll only depress myself more.
If... If he has a date then... then I'm happy for him. If he simply lied to me because he's had enough of me... then... then...
No. I'm not going to fall prey to these doubts because I don't want to get any closer to tears than I already feel. I'm alone, miserable, and, without Sam, don't know what to do with my time. Arriving home, I caught sight of a funeral happening right out the front of my windows and that just seemed to sum my day up. The mourners, and there were a lot of them, all looked distraught and their black clothes and anguished faces, against the backdrop of a beautiful summer day devastated me.
Their pain, surely more real and tangible than mine, added to my depression and I retreated to the shower in order to escape it. I stayed under the water for so long that, when I finally returned to the living room, the mourners had gone and the cemetery was again empty. Irrationally placated by this, I now sit, unopened can of beer next to me, on the sofa and try to
keep my mind deliberately blank.
It doesn't work very well.
Where's Sam? Why doesn't he want to be with me tonight? Did seeing Kent remind him of what happened and disgust him? Please God don't let it be that. I want Sam. I want him to love me and I want him to be the one who can reintroduce me to pleasure of sex. That is, if he'd have me... Why am I so wretched? Snap out of it. Get up, go for a walk, read a book, do
*something*.
So much for being able to keep my mind blank.
The sound of the doorbell suddenly ringing silences my increasingly incoherent thoughts and, rising to answer it, I'm pleased, if not pathetically delighted, by the distraction. Hell, even if it's a bible basher wanting to sell me on the many unknown facets of the bible, I may very well invite them in for a chat and let them rave on to me just because it would be something to do. Sad as it is, *anything* to save myself from my own company at the moment would be welcome.
I'm pondering the depths I've crawled to -- actually almost *wanting* to discuss religion? -- when the doorbell chimes again. "Okay, okay, I'm coming already," I mutter under my breath as I quicken my step and bound down the stairs. To my distinct bemusement I'm still obviously not fast enough for my visitor and the doorbell pierces the quiet of the air yet again before I reach the door and peer through the peephole.
My visitor, appearing to have the same idea as me, is also peering through the peephole and for a second all I can see is darkness. Coming to the conclusion that this is all a bit too surreal for a door knocking Mormon, I wonder for the first time who it may be. Not exactly getting a lot of
guests coming to my door, the only one I can think of -- dare hope it to be -- is...
Light replaces the darkness in the peephole and, as the owner of the eye stands up and backs away from the door, I think I see a flash of green.
... Sam!
Grinning, I straighten up and am about to wrench the door open when all my earlier doubts come flying back to roost and I suddenly begin to worry that he may be here to have a 'heart to heart' talk to me about how things are going. My grin slipping, I brace myself for yet more disappointment and open the door cautiously.
Sam, as usual, smiles at me happily. "I was beginning to think you weren't in," he states lightly, already turning around and making to walk back to his car. "Come on," he adds over his shoulder, effectively leaving me to stand flat footed in the doorway and feeling as though I've just encountered the white rabbit on his way to a very important meeting.
"Huh?" I grunt, not budging from my position and causing Sam to turn back around to face me. "What are you talking about? You said we weren't going to see each other this evening because you had plans," I continue hesitantly.
"I did and I do, have plans I mean," Sam replies, walking back towards the door. "They just include you now."
"They do?" I murmur, blinking in pleased surprise.
"They do," he declares, nodding to reiterate his point. "Now, get your keys and come on. We've got to get going."
"Hold your horses!" I exclaim, refusing to be hastened by Sam's apparent agitation to get on the move. "First tell me where we're going."
"Nope. It's a secret," Sam smiles, digging the keys out of his pocket and waving them in air.
It's a *secret*. Okay. Some of Sam's enthusiasm begins to creep over me, quickly making friends with my curiosity gene, and I find myself grinning. "Tell me!" I demand, "You know I hate secrets."
Sam smirks, and I know I've fallen into his trap before he even opens his mouth. "And the sooner you come with me, the sooner you know," he replies triumphantly.
Bingo. Got me. Accepting that I have no hope whatsoever of getting our destination out of him, I'm about to grab my keys when I happen to glance down and take note of what I'm wearing. Not so fond of black as I used to be, I simply pulled on the first clothes I came to after my shower and... and it looks like it.
While Sam's still looking pristine perfect in the suit he wore to work today, I'm apparently attempting to recreate my youth and am wearing once olive cargo pants, the left knee of which is nothing but a dim recollection, and a... vibrant... purple short sleeved shirt which, not content with merely blinding passers by, has red and orange Chinese style dragons printed all over it. What was going through my mind when I bought it (and I assume it had to me that had a momentary lapse in sanity and decided that my life simply wasn't complete without such a *wonderful* shirt in it) is anyone's guess.
And the less said about the battered looking Converse trainers (red suede for fucks sake! Temporary colour blindness anyone?) on my feet the better. I'm not vain, and spend a fair bit of time steadfastly ignoring my reflection but while wearing this *ensemble* around the house is one thing, wearing it out in public is another thing entirely.
Sighing, a) at my outfit and b) because I don't want to give Sam the impression that I'm being eaten up with curiosity, I shrug and pretend to wearily indicate my acceptance. "Seeing as you won't tell me where I'm going, can you at least tell me whether I have to change or will my Krusty outfit be okay?" I query, forcefully quashing mental images of being refused admittance to a top class restaurant because I happen to look like I've lost my surfboard.
"Crusty?" Sam looks confused. "I don't think you look like a crusty," he murmurs slowly, completely missing my point of pop culture reference.
"Krusty the Clown, you non-television watching idiot!" I snicker, posing and trying to draw his attention to my multi-coloured clothes.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sam mutters, looking at his watch and again making 'tsk, tsk' hurrying noises. "Your outfit is fine for where we're going and you can rest assured that I have no intention of parading you in public," he adds reassuringly.
Content with this explanation, of sorts, I nod and wander over towards the stairs in order to get my keys. I've barely reached the bottom step when I hear Sam commenting airily, "Besides, I think you look kinda cute."
It's almost enough to make me come to a grinding halt. Kinda cute. I haven't been called that since I was in grade school and actually doubted I'd ever be called it again. To hear it from Sam, even if it is only in relation to my atrocious clothes, is, well, kinda neat. For whatever
reason, it makes me feel clean, young, innocent and pure again. While I know it couldn't be further from the truth, a spring enters my steps and I take the stairs two at a time in order to rush back to Sam.
Keys obtained, I fly out the front door, lock it and, still feeling inanely happy, bound over to Sam's car. He's waiting for me, the engine already running, and we're on the road even before I've done my seatbelt up.
"In a bit of a rush are we?" I mutter, settling myself and watching suburbia whiz past my eyes.
"Mmm... It'll make sense, I hope, shortly," Sam murmurs dismissively, driving past our usual turn off that takes us both to the city and to Sam's place.
"You're not going to tell me, are you?" I query, anticipation building in me and making me fidget in my seat.
"No. I want it to be a surprise," Sam replies softly, his expression suddenly doubtful.
Wanting to know -- desperately! -- but not wanting to push Sam on in it case he's unlucky enough to catch some of my doubt germs (who are probably bored with me and in search for a new host), I fall silent. Soon the car is speeding smoothly through a leafy suburb that I've never been in before and, not being able to help myself, I have to start questioning him again.
"Aw, come on Sam! Can you at least tell me where we're going?"
"No. You'll know soon enough."
"Then what are we doing here? It's not a party, is it? You said I didn't have to be seen looking like this in front of the public at large," I ramble cheerfully, running both questions and comments together.
"I suddenly remembered that I have to water my cousin's plants and need to stop by her place on the way," Sam replies, again affecting a dismissive tone of voice.
"What cousin? Why haven't I heard about a cousin before? This is beginning to strike me as out there."
"My cousin and her husband are holidaying in Japan and I promised to water her plants, that's all. Trust me, there's no big conspiracy here Chris. We just have to stop by her place and do a spot of watering. I'm just sorry that I forgot all about it until now."
Although I'm oddly suspicious of his response, it sounds just a tad practiced to me, I let it go and seize on the fact that Sam appears to have relatives who live in London. "So, this cousin, will she have photos of the pair of you as children?" I query slyly.
"Er... She might," Sam mutters, sounding as though I've finally managed to fire a question at him that he wasn't prepared for.
Satisfied by this, I merely smile sweetly and go back to waiting. I have absolutely no idea what Sam is up to, but I'm already delighted and my earlier attack of the miseries almost seems as though it never happened. Sam, it has to be said, appears to be twitching with what I can only
imagine, although God alone knows why, to be nerves and this merely adds to my curiosity. What on earth could he be nervous about? Surely if he was going to share a few cold hard facts with me about my continued presence in his life he wouldn't have gone to so much trouble to make everything so secretive. I think I know Sam well enough to know that if he simply wanted to set me straight he would have done it by now and we wouldn't be pulling into the driveway...
... of one of the most beautiful private residences I've seen in London. The elaborate wrought iron gates slide silently open, operated by a remote that I hadn't seen on the dashboard and, as we drive towards the front door, I'm surrounded by lush greenery that would be at home in the Botanic Gardens. Flowers, the vibrancy of which would give my shirt a run for its money, bloom everywhere and, not content with merely having a fountain there's also a gazebo rising majestically out of the scenery. The house itself, two storeys of understated elegance, manages to appear both imposing and inviting simultaneously. It's the kind of house that wouldn't appear
out of place in a BBC costume drama.
~*~
"Wow," I whisper appreciatively, craning my neck and trying to look out of every window at once. "It's beautiful."
"My cousin's an accountant and her husband's a merchant banker, they can afford to keep it looking this beautiful," Sam replies, parking the car and turning off the ignition.
"You've never mentioned her, your cousin I mean, before," I comment, slowly undoing my seatbelt and clambering out of the car.
"We move in different circles," Sam shrugs, walking towards the door. "Plus she's older than me. Don't get me wrong, we get on fine, we just don't see much of each other, that's all."
"Mmm..." Following Sam, I realise that I'm suddenly more impatient to see the inside of this hidden mansion in the suburbs than I am to get to the bottom of my surprise and hop from foot to foot as he unlocks the door and quickly deactivates the security system. Needless to say the hall we walk into is as impressive as both the gardens and the facade of the house. I look around in wonderment. 'House and Garden' perfect in colours of cream and gold, the only fault I can find in what I've so far seen is the temperature of the place. It's, not wanting to put too fine a point on it or anything, freezing. While I accept it's summer and, for England, the evening is quite balmy, the house is either seriously haunted or the air conditioning is on way too high.
Goose bumps cover my exposed flesh and, shivering, I note that I can smell the telltale scent of a roast cooking. This, in turn, makes me lean further towards the ghost theory and wonder idly if Sam can smell it to.
"It's freezing in here," I mutter, inching closer to the still open door and allowing the warm air to defrost me slightly.
"Air conditioning," Sam replies, swiftly shutting the door and walking away from me. "Come on," he adds, pausing by a closed door and waiting for me to join him. Shivering again, and kind of hoping that there aren't plants in every room, or we'll be here all night, I wander towards Sam and am a little surprised when he steps back and indicates that I should open the door. Looking at him, I find his eyes glowing with ill-disguised excitement and, suddenly nervous, hesitate.
"Go on," Sam urges softly, biting down on his bottom lip and echoing my earlier trick of hopping nervously from foot to foot.
Nodding -- let's get whatever this is over with -- I grab the door handle and boldly throw the door open.
Oh.
"Merry Christmas Chris," Sam whispers in my ear as I attempt to take it all in.
Oh my God.
The external beauty of the house suddenly pales into insignificance compared to what's before me. My mouth gapes open and I can't even blink. I'm so shocked that I literally feel as though I can't so much as move a muscle. The immaculate, fairy-tale beauty of the room blows me away. Not even a window dresser for Harrods' could have done better.
Tears, raised by emotion that is almost crushing in its intensity, spring into my eyes as I stare into the room that is the embodiment of every Christmas dream I may ever have had. The room, that appears, albeit deeply disguised, to be a somewhat formal lounge/dining room is positively alive
with Christmas cheer. A huge tree, fake, but so expensive looking that it puts the real thing to shame, dominates the centre of the room and it's resplendent in a glittery colour scheme of red and gold. There's even presents nestled at its base. Although it's still light outside because of daylight saving, all the curtains are drawn and the room is lit in warm artificial glow. The dining table, which is Blackwood, is so polished that I can see the reflection of the crystal chandelier that is suspended above it on its surface. Complete with crackers, it's set for two.
What's more, and this is what finally convinces me to move, there's a wood fire, in direct contradiction to the season and the air conditioning, roaring in the slate fireplace and I find that I just have to gravitate towards it. I still can't speak though. While I've managed to get my mouth
to move up and down the only thing I'd be capable of holding a conversation with would be a goldfish... and even they'd find me repetitive.
Oh my God.
Blinking back tears, I finally turn to face Sam but continue to simply gape. Even if I could find my voice I doubt words would ever be able to adequately describe how I'm feeling. Comparisons fly into my mind -- a woman finding an engagement ring in her champagne, a father seeing his newborn for the first time, meeting a brother that you haven't seen for thirty years (and who you thought was dead) at the airport and recognising him immediately -- but I still can't say for certain whether they really do how I'm feeling justice. Perhaps it's overreacting, but I'm honestly overwhelmed.
And, if I'm overwhelmed, then Sam's mortified. He stares at me, as I do my stunned mullet routine, with all the colour draining from his face and begins to look flustered. "Shit Chris," he exclaims, sounding agitated and quickly walking over to me and grabbing my arm. "I'm sorry. I wanted this to be a surprise, a *pleasant* one, I didn't want you to react like this. Forgive me, it was a stupid idea. Not having ever done anything like this before I now know to never do it again," Sam continues hurriedly, tugging on my arm. "I'll just put the fire out and turn the oven off and we'll go."
Oh fuck. He's translated my silence as grief... Digging my heels into the thick plush pile carpet and standing my ground, I shake my head. "No. I don't want to go," I reply, barely whispering, "I... I love it. It's so beautiful. The Christmas I never had..."
Giving up on trying to pull me towards the door, Sam lets go of my arm and turns around to face me. "You're not just saying that are you?" he murmurs hopefully.
"No," I smile, gesturing around me, "It's wonderful, I've never seen anything like it and I'm sorry if my reaction worried you, I was just overwhelmed, that's all."
"It's nothing," Sam mutters, blushing and staring past me. "I found your Christmas present the other day when I was cleaning out a cupboard and... and, God alone knows why, the idea for this popped into my head," he explains, sounding uncertain and far removed from the Sam, confident and self-assured, that I'm used to. "I didn't even stop to think that it was out of character for me, I just started to plan. My cousin going away presented the ideal location and, although it wasn't necessarily going to be tonight -- I was beginning to fall prey to doubts and wondering whether it was such a good idea after all -- running into that bastard today just finalised it for me and I hastened up proceedings..." Trailing off, Sam looks into my eyes and blinks slowly. "You're right, it's the Christmas you never had..."
Choked with emotion, *again*, I can only nod and hesitantly place my hand on Sam's arm. I want to thank him, for thinking of me like this and, against the odds, making me feel special, but no words are forthcoming. It may be the middle of July, but already this *Christmas* is going to go down in history as my favourite.
"You're looking stunned again," he teases gently, placing his hand lightly over mine and squeezing it. "Come on, no Christmas is complete without too much food and I'd better go check on my chicken before the roast becomes charcoal and dinner consists of vegetables and Christmas pudding," Sam continues, effectively steering things back to a more user-friendly, less
emotional, plane. Releasing my hand, he starts to walk slowly out of the room and reluctantly, because I almost don't want to leave it for fear of it all being nothing but a dream, I follow him.
"Food and all?" I query, forcing myself to concentrate on acting normal.
"Mmm... Roast chicken," Sam replies, leading me down the hall and into a state of the art chrome kitchen. "While I know turkey is far more traditional I didn't have the time to cook it and decided on chicken. Get this, seeing as my plans were sped up, I even contemplated giving up on cooking all together and inquiring whether I could get a turkey and cranberry pizza made..." Pausing, he smirks at me before continuing. "But then I couldn't ignore that the mere thought of it made my stomach churn and I realised that, not even for you could I put myself through it."
Not even for you...
I'd say I definitely have to be dreaming, as Sam's words cause me to glow with inner happiness, but my dreams are never this pleasant. My subconscious, while warped, would never go to this much trouble to play head-fuck with me.
"Aw," I mock pout, quickly reminding myself that I'm supposed to be concentrating here, "I like the pizza idea myself. It sounds delectable."
Sam snorts in amused disgust. "I'm glad *you* think so and only hope you can force yourself to eat what you're going to get instead," he mutters, checking the oven temperature and making sure that everything is to his satisfaction.
"It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make," I reply blithely before inhaling deeply and adding, "Smells good anyway."
"It'll be ready in ten or so minutes," Sam responds. "Oh, and in case you were wondering why I was in such a hurry to get you here, it was because I really didn't want to have to explain to my cousin that I'd burnt her house down by leaving both an open fire and the oven on unattended."
"Fair enough, makes sense," I comment, already having forgotten that I was rushed and again seizing on the fact that Sam has a cousin. "So, this mysterious cousin of yours, what's her name and where are the family photo albums?" I ask in a hopefully light manner. Sam's never been exactly forthcoming about his family and now that I've got a chance to possibly see some pictures of him as a child I don't plan to miss it.
Sam raises an eyebrow at me. "You've got a one track mind," he murmurs, "Remember, curiosity killed the cat."
"But satisfaction brought it back," I quickly reply, confident that Sam's going to fold. If he wasn't going to, he would have ignored the question. Simple.
"Okay! Enough already, you win," Sam mutters, rolling his eyes and wandering towards the door. "Her name's Chloe, she's twelve years older than me, we never saw that much of each other as children, maybe Christmas or Easter, that was about it, and, seeing as you're not about to give up, I'll have a *quick* look for a photo album. I tell you now though, if I can't find it easily then I'm sorry but your imagination will just have to suffice." With that he disappears out of the door, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
Content in my victory, I make no move to follow him and, again feeling the cold of the air conditioning, move over towards the oven in order to warm myself. I wasn't lying when I said the food smelt good and am suddenly reminded that the last thing I ate was half a sandwich at lunch. Encountering Kent had made me lose my usual appetite and, up until now, I hadn't even been planning on having anything to eat tonight. Now, however, I'm starving.
As I wait for Sam to return I look idly around the kitchen but don't really take a lot of notice of it. The house is beautiful, but Sam's gesture is exquisite. Everything's so perfect that, reality aside, I almost feel as though it is actually Christmas. I can hardly believe that he's gone to so much effort for me. Sam's usual idea of a surprise is writing, after telling me he's not going to and that I have to do it, our assignment reports and dropping them onto my desk, perfectly presented in a folder and everything, while I'm still struggling with the opening paragraph. And,
hey, that's not a criticism as being relieved of that particular task is always enough to thrill me.
While part of me wants to) I know I could confuse the hell out of myself, even going so far as to depress myself if I really put my mind to it, I refuse -- for now at least -- to dissect Sam's motives for doing this. Whether I'm worthy of it, whether he's trying to say what I desperately hope he's saying, whether it's simply something nice to do, none of it matters. For whatever reason, he's done it for me and I only hope that I'm able to pay him back in kind one day.
The timer on the oven rings just as, thankfully, Sam returns. I'm so pleased to see him -- me and ovens don't get on (while I've pretty much got a hang of freezer-to-oven, I still can't deal with fresh-to-oven and things can burn simply by having me near them) -- that I don't even see the photo album in his hands until he places it on the bench and bustles over to the oven. He looks at me suspiciously and grabs the nearby oven gloves.
"I didn't touch it," I mutter, protesting my innocence and backing quickly away.
"Mmm... It's just I can have nightmares about you and ovens," Sam smirks, opening the oven door and deftly pulling out the chicken. "I think it has something to do with that time your presence seemed to make that casserole spontaneously combust and nearly burn down my kitchen."
"Cooking's overrated anyway," I grumble cheerfully, sidling over to the bench and grabbing the photo album. It's an old fashioned one, in excellent condition, with heavy black card pages and tissue paper inbetween them. "Can I?" I ask.
"Go for it," Sam replies. "In fact, take it into back into the dining room and look at it there. I'll dish up and then join you in a minute or two."
Nodding my acceptance, I hug the album to my chest and walk towards the door.
"Oh, and Chris," Sam lightly calls out after me, "I hope you find it worth it because I think I'm going to be scarred for life by some of the other photos I found while searching for it."
"I don't think I want to know," I snicker over my shoulder.
"Trust me, you don't. *I* didn't."
~*~
Still snickering to myself, I wander back into the Christmas fantasy room and take a seat at the dining table. Although the dim lighting isn't exactly the best for viewing photos by, and Sam was right in there not being many group family shots, I have no difficulty in picking my partner out
amongst all the unknown faces. Even as a small boy, his face dirty and his smile cheeky, his eyes shine through and make him instantly recognisable. What I have more difficulty with is ascertaining family resemblance but then, near the end of the album, I find an austere, formally posed portrait of who I can only assume to be a great grandmother. On her unsmiling countenance, I see the same exquisite eyes and I find myself wondering about Sam's family history. My own being something that was pushed down my throat from an early age, I can't help but be idly curious. Not that I have any intention of prying. There'll be enough time for that later and, besides, I've probably pushed Sam's buttons enough with my request for the photo album.
Closing the album, and after having come to the conclusion that the matriarchal Curtis would not have been a woman I would have liked to have come on the wrong side of, I start from the front again and flip through at a slower pace. Looking at photos, particularly old ones, of people you don't know isn't usually a fascinating experience -- being somewhat on par with people telling you, unsolicited, their dreams -- but I enjoy myself hunting out shots of Sam. One picture in particular grabs my attention and, oddly entranced by it, for a second or two I even contemplate stealing it. Hazarding a guess, I'd say Sam was about five or six in the photo and, sitting on the grass surrounded by beat up looking Matchbox cars, he's smiling shyly at the camera. Blissfully unaware of what he'd grow up to do and see, the little boy is a picture of innocence.
I'm still hesitating over purloining it when Sam materialises in the doorway and solves my temporary dilemma. He's carrying two plates and, after I quickly close the album and place it on the chair next to me, he places one it front of me. "Voila," he declares, "Christmas dinner, hopefully better late than never."
"Definitely," I agree adamantly, "It looks delicious."
"Better than turkey pizza?" Sam queries facetiously, putting his own plate down and taking a seat opposite me. Seated, he reaches for a bottle of red wine, that I hadn't even noticed, and pours both of us a glass. While as a rule I'd rather drink cough medicine than wine, I can see by the label that it's one Sam's tested on me before and, to my surprise, I didn't actually mind it. I wouldn't give up beer for it, but it doesn't taste as much like paint stripper as most wines, in my opinion, do.
"I concede your point," I grin, "This looks far better than turkey pizza and I can't wait to start." To reiterate my point, I make to grab my knife and fork but Sam stops me by telling me not to be so fast and waving a cracker at me. Smiling at how he's really thought of everything, I grab my end of the cracker and pull. It rips in half with a satisfying *crack* and we repeat the action with the other cracker before turning our attention to their contents. The jokes, as per glorious usual, are lame and we find ourselves laughing more at how utterly unfunny they are as opposed to the jokes themselves. The trinkets, a tiny pink plastic elephant and something that may or may not be a black plastic cat, are hardly worth more than a cursory glance and, in keeping with Christmas tradition, we both refuse point blank to wear the paper hats.
Crackers dispensed with, a moment of solemnity descends and, whispering, we wish each other a merry Christmas. Everything that needs to be said is then conveyed in a silent, lingering gaze and good humour effortlessly returns. The wine, after the obligatory clinking of glasses, is as acceptable (which, coming from me, is high praise indeed) as I remember and by the end of my
second glass I'm actually enjoying it. We talk, between mouthfuls of food that tastes as good as it looks, about anything and everything and the time flies. I can't recall when I last felt this happy.
After dessert, Christmas pudding and custard, I find that I can't stand it any longer and *have* to ask. "Seeing as it's the height of summer, where on *earth* did you find all this Christmas stuff?" I query, putting my spoon down and leaning back in my chair. I'm so full that I feel as though I'm almost in need of a nap to recover.
Sam sniffs mock haughtily and peers at me over the top of his wine glass. "As a highly trained CI5 agent I can find *anything*," he states blithely before laughing. "That said, hunting down a Christmas tree at this time of year is not something I ever wish to do again as having spotty sales
assistants looking at me as though they're questioning my sanity is *not* a fun way to spend my time."
I laugh, immediately picturing the exchange in my head. "Are you going to need to go into therapy over it?" I murmur cheekily.
"I'll survive," Sam replies, getting up and moving away from the table. "I thought about simply draping a bit of tinsel over a house plant but then decided that I wouldn't be able to get the presents under it so, that said, come on. You can finally have the present that not only started this but that you should have had long ago."
Presents and all. Not one stone left unturned. Slowly getting up from the table, I suddenly feel quite bad about all the effort Sam's gone to and how I have nothing to give him in return. "But," I mumble hesitantly, "I've got nothing to give you..."
Stopping immediately in his tracks, Sam spins around and faces me, his eyes flashing. "It's not about quid pro quo Chris," he firmly responds. "I don't want anything from you and did this simply because I hoped to make you happy. This may sound stupid, but, if you're enjoying yourself, if it was a nice surprise, then that's all that matters."
"I'm enjoying myself, it's the best surprise I've ever had and I can hardly believe that you went to so much trouble for me," I murmur softly, wandering slowly over to Sam. "Everything's so perfect that it almost makes me dare hope..." Suddenly realising I've said too much, I trail off and blush.
"Dare hope *what*?" Sam queries, seizing on my faux pas and looking at me closely.
"Never mind," I mutter, wishing I hadn't opened my mouth. "Just forget I said anything."
"No." Sam shakes his head. "I want to know. If you honestly want to give me something back then you'll tell me what you mean."
God he's smooth. Although I want to, I can't deflect that one and feel like congratulating him on reeling me in so easily. It's a true artform and one that I'm envious of. Blinking, and looking at my feet, I sigh heavily and capitulate. "You've been so nice to me that I'm foolish enough to delude myself that you might care about me," I whisper, refusing to meet Sam's gaze.
"I care about you," Sam replies, sounding puzzled. "I care about you a lot."
"Mmm... But you could never, well, not now anyway, care about me in the way I care about you," I murmur dejectedly. "Once upon a time I used to believe that we felt something for each other, and were slowly heading towards resolving it, but it's in the past..."
"Why is it in the past?" Sam queries softly, taking a tentative step towards me and touching me lightly on the shoulder.
"Because you couldn't want me now," I reply, lifting my gaze, but looking at Sam's hand on my shoulder and not at his face. "And even if you did," pausing, I snort dismissively before continuing, "it wouldn't be fair of me to expect you to wait while I got over a pathological loathing of sex." Confession over with, I back away from Sam and turn my back to him. I feel
like crying but I'm suddenly so numb that I can't raise the energy required for the tears. Everything was going so well too! And then I had to go and open my fucking mouth and ruin it.
"How long have we been partners Chris?" Sam asks clearly, respecting my need for space and not moving towards me.
Thrown by his peculiar question, it takes me a few seconds to concentrate and come up with the answer. "Three years in September."
"Mmm... So, if I wanted you from the day we met, which, hey, I may as well admit to, I've managed to make it through almost three years without having you," Sam responds, pausing in order for my mind to catch up with what he appears to be saying before continuing. "Two years and ten months to be exact. That's how long I've lived with my desire for you... Now, if you care to look at it this way, I survived during that time on wishful thinking alone. So, basically, I suspect I could easily double that duration if I at least knew my feelings were returned."
Slowly turning around, I find myself repeating my goldfish impression from earlier in the evening and blink at Sam helplessly. Somehow he manages to translate my stunned silence as I can hardly believe what I've just heard and, taking pity on me, he repeats his declaration in a 'confessions of love for idiots' manner. "Chris, you're the only person that matters to me and I want to be the person that matters most to you. This doesn't mean that I have to jump you. I can wait. I don't care how long it takes you to feel ready. Just knowing that you feel the same way about me would be enough..."
"I..." Words again escaping me, I can only blink and nod. Sam, always the one to take charge, closes the distance separating us and places both of his hands on my shoulders. His touch, once familiar but now promising so much more, causes my remaining defences to crumble and I slump against him with a small moan. "I... I want *so* much," I murmur into his shirt as, instinctively, his hands move off my shoulders and his arms encircle my waist.
"You *have*," Sam replies softly. "I'm here for you and I will *always* be here for you. Little else has to matter."
Believing him comes easily. Somehow everything has slotted effortlessly into place this evening. Everything felt, but unsaid, is now out in the open and accepted as glorious fact. Relaxing into Sam's embrace, I slowly wrap my arms around his back and cling to him contentedly. Minutes pass and we don't move or speak. There's no need to.
Perhaps admitting our feelings for each other was honestly inevitable. If it hadn't been tonight then it would have been in the future. It's what I've wanted for so long, it's what we were slowly heading towards last year, and now I know for certain that my feelings were never unrequited. I don't profess to being a full on believer in fate or destiny. For all I know every single turn in my life could have been heading towards this moment. Sam's gesture could have been pre-destined or, conversely, have nothing to do with it all. It's not something worth dwelling on. Living in the past, or living in denial or under of a cloud of the 'what ifs' is not living at all.
If I hadn't joined CI5 I wouldn't have met Sam. If I hadn't been partnered with Sam I might not have been so busy watching his back and subsequently one of Kent's men wouldn't have been able to sneak up on me. If Sam hadn't been so determined to find me I could still be with Kent. If I'd been out walking this evening then Sam might have decided that his idea was a stupid one and not gone through with it...
If, if, if... It's just plain silly thinking in respect to the 'could haves' and the 'might haves' and the 'maybes'. There's enough uncertainty in this world without mentally arguing with the inescapable.
Everything will always align in due course. Of this I'm certain. It won't (as opposed to 'mightn't') be easy, but it will (again, as opposed to 'might') be worth it.
The presents under the tree forgotten, I hug Sam to me and luxuriate in the re-discovered pleasure that having a warm body pressed against mine invites in me. He hugs me back and we both sigh with blissful contentment. Nothing much else is going to happen tonight, my fantasies always having stopped pretty much at knowing that Sam wanted me and never venturing any further, but it doesn't matter.
In time, it will. On the same day I saw the bastard who took, no *borrowed*, my sexuality from me, I get it returned. Damaged, but not destroyed.
And, in time I'll have the strength to unwrap the best present of all.
The living, breathing, and incredibly precious present in my arms.
~end~