Work Text:
By established habit Adam Dalgliesh woke, unaided, at six o’clock. The December sun had not yet risen and an acrid scent lingered in the bedroom air; beeswax with a hint of pine. A cluster of candles stood on the chest of drawers where Emma had lit them the evening before, their red and green pattern complementing the holly she’d hung in the entryway. No mistletoe, but they hadn’t needed it last night. While a cold north wind swept the city, they had found warmth in each other.
“Stay,” she’d whispered, in the quiet that followed.“If you can?”
He’d made the calculations: how long it would take, if he left at dawn, to return to his flat before work. Or, if he left at midnight, how heavy his heart would be in leaving her. Until now they’d always let each other return home of an evening, perhaps in deference to their independence, but this unspoken agreement became harder to keep as the months went by.
And so he’d stayed.
His watch and wallet lay on the bedside table; clothes, belt and shoes in a neat pile beside the bed—everything placed to hand should the Met need him urgently. He reached for them now, slipping carefully from under the covers, leaving Emma’s sleeping form curved towards the indentation of his body. By the time he washed and dressed she’d stirred, accepting his apologetic farewell with bleary eyes. He let himself out, taking a satsuma from the bowl in the hall.
Conscious of his evening wear and face that had yet to see a razor, he avoided the elevator and instead made his escape down the stairs. Doing so felt very much like he was back at university, where early mornings saw students returning furtively to their rooms after another transitory affair. He had a sudden image of Emma doing the same on the handful of times she’d left his flat late at night to return to her own bed—as though they could only love in passing. The thought chilled him, like a wintry draft down the back of his neck. She deserved better.
The following week, it was Christmas. On the 24th, Emma’s friend Audrey and her husband invited them to their local pub for a festive quiz night. The company was friendly and unpretentious, rousing memories from childhood of helping his mother in the church hall, crowded with food, people and laughter. They lost on the final question (how many gifts are in The Twelve Days of Christmas) but all was forgotten as they stepped outside and into the first snowfall of the season. Tiny, glimmering specs of white were floating down from the sky. Tentative, intermittent, yet enough to coax the more inebriated around them to break out into off-key carols.
By the time he and Emma returned to Bloomsbury, it was snowing in earnest. Soft, wandering flakes swirled in the wake of their steps, landing weightless on their shoulders or gliding effortlessly up towards the street lights. He felt just as free, lifted by the day’s cheer and her arm looped through his. Light—if not for the small, solid weight tucked in his breast pocket.
It prodded his chest gently as they went up the front steps then jostled together in the entryway, removing scarves and boots, shaking melting snow from their hair. He was slower to remove his coat, his hand disappearing in its folds, then slipping into his trouser pocket.
“Tea?” Emma said over her shoulder.
He barely heard the question, preoccupied by the weight in his palm and words carefully rehearsed.
She turned at his pause. “Something stronger?”
“Just tea,” he replied, smiling faintly. “And those almond biscuits.”
From the kitchen, he carried the tray into the sitting room which she had transformed for the season. The Hockney above the mantle was dwarfed by a garland of fir, eucalyptus, and bay tied with velvet ribbon, its branches punctuated with illustrated cards from friends and relatives. A modest evergreen stood in the corner, glass baubles winking in the lamplight.
While she lit the tree, he poured for them, adding the preferred amounts of milk and sugar, then joined her on the sofa where she sat with feet tucked under, watching as he took a reassuring sip.
“Something’s on your mind.”
He started, wondering what had given him away; he’d kept his hands steady, his tone light. Somehow she had made a study of him and, like most things she put her mind to, succeeded. He took a breath. Then drew a small envelope from his pocket.
“I wanted to give you this.”
Her brows rose. “Adam, we said no gifts.”
“It’s not—” He shook his head, correcting himself. “It’s not that kind of gift.” There was no ribbon, no decoration, not even her name on the envelope. That would have been presumptuous.
She opened it with care, her smile tentative, questioning, as the contents dropped into her palm with the softest metallic click. A gold key. It caught the light as she turned it over, sparkling in its newness. He’d had it cut especially for tonight; he’d never had reason for a spare.
“It’s for when you come by,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t feel right—having you let yourself out like a visitor. I’d … like it if you stayed. A night here and there. If you want to.”
“I do,” she said at once. “Of course I do.” Her fingers closed gently around the key and she looked at him now, eyes wondrously alight with happiness. “Last week was wonderful, but it felt …”
“Short-lived,” he murmured.
She laughed softly. “Quite.”
Her head dipped to admire the bright piece in her hand once more and a comfortable silence settled between them.
“This can be your place too,” she said, lifting her gaze to his. "For as long as you’d like to stay. Tonight … if you’ve nowhere else to be.”
He thought of Christmases past, and chosen solitude—no longer the solace it had been.
“I’ve nowhere else I’d rather be,” he said, and they let the evening settle around that truth.
The flat took on a secluded air as the light faded from the day, the brass lamps casting pools of gold on the walls, the tree in its full glory by the window. The tiny glass bulbs multiplied like constellations on the dark pane. For their tea, they switched on the carols from King’s College, and in the evening, she pulled out A Child’s Christmas in Wales and he read it aloud, her hair a bright aureola in his lap.
When it was time to retire for the night, he sat on the edge of the bed, removing his shoes and loosening his tie. A cardboard box sat near the closet with clothes folded inside, their hangers bunched together along a clear space of wall. For charity, he assumed. But when he stepped into the bathroom, here too was an empty space on the shelf, her necessities gathered to one side, a second toothbrush in the holder.
“You’ve … made room for me,” he said softly when he joined her in bed.
She smiled, drawing the covers over them both. “I thought it was time.” Her fingers traced the curve of his jaw before she gently pressed her lips to his. “Happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas.”
Her eyes closed slowly as he held her in his arms. It was past midnight, but for a few moments more he resisted the pull of sleep, hearing only his breath as it released into the dark. As though something long held had finally eased open.