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Osgood had been watching Kate all morning.
Not in a creepy way, well, hopefully not. Just... observation. Scientific observation. That was her job, after all. Noticing patterns, anomalies, deviations from baseline behaviour. And Kate's baseline was usually unflappable. She'd been running a live diagnostic on Kate Stewart since approximately 07:58 on Christmas Eve. She refused to call it fussing. Fussing was for civilians. This was behavioural baseline comparison. Very different. Very professional.
Kate had arrived in full greatcoat, buttoned to the throat like she expected an invasion at any second. She'd declined the security desk's proffered mince pie with a crisp "Later, thank you" that didn't invite follow up questions. Then she'd disappeared into her office without shedding even one layer. Red flag number one, Osgood catalogued from her desk. Kate sheds outerwear faster than a Zygon sheds skin. Hypothesis: a) she's genuinely cold because fever incoming, b) emotional temperature drop due to the date, c) both, because multitasking is her love language.
Osgood chose option one and brewed Earl Grey. Precise 3 minutes 17 seconds steep, milk in the 1:4 ratio Kate would deny noticing. She carried it in during the Geneva call, set it beside the cold coffee, and tried not to hover. Failed.
Kate glanced up mid sentence about containment thresholds.
"Thank you, Osgood".
"You're welcome". She adjusted her glasses. Twice. "You sound a bit hoarse. Atmospheric particulates have been elevated this week".
Kate didn't miss a beat. "Geneva's translator was having a bad morning. I'm fine".
"Right. Yes. Of course”. She said 'I'm fine' with the exact intonation she uses when briefing the Prime Minister about budget overruns. "Still. Fluids. Important. When the barometric pressure's... doing its sulky thing Ma'am".
Kate's single raised eyebrow said I see you, Petronella without a single word. "Noted".
Osgood retreated at sub light speed, heart doing an embarrassing little staccato. She noticed the hovering. She always notices. Why do I still hover? Because if I don't hover she might actually collapse in heroic silence and then where would the planet be? Exactly. Hovering is a public service.
Though, not before noting that Kate's hand lingered near the mug for three seconds before lifting it. Small victory. Hydration achieved. For now.
At 11:42 the tea was gone, which should have been reassuring, except the blonde had bypassed the canteen like it was radioactive. Alarm bells rang. Osgood intercepted in the corridor, manila folder clutched like a shield.
"Updated Arcturian flux summary". She said, too brightly. "Nothing that can't wait, obviously, but I thought...well...you might like to glance before the holiday lockdown. Not that I'm suggesting you work through Christmas. Which you are. Obviously. Because you're... you".
Kate accepted it. "You're working Christmas Eve".
"As are you".
"I'm contractually obligated to pretend the universe doesn't observe public holidays". Kate flipped the folder open. The chocolate coin and post-it were impossible to ignore.
She read silently.
Emergency sugar payload. For when reality gets stroppy. —Os x
Kate's mouth curved, barely. "Stroppy reality. Is that in the OED yet?".
"It's forthcoming". Osgood said. "Peer-reviewed by me. In my head. You've not eaten anything that isn't liquid since roughly 07:45, have you?".
"Coffee counts".
"Coffee is a vector, not a meal".
"It's close enough in a national emergency". Kate unwrapped the coin, slipped it between her lips, then added with a sigh. "I'm not coming down with anything, Petronella".
Osgood's pulse tripped over itself at the full name. She only uses Petronella when she's trying to reassure me. Or when she's about to order me to stop hovering. Please be the first one. "I didn't say you were".
"Your eyebrows are conducting a full enquiry".
“They have strong opinions". Gosh. "Independent contractors, really". Stop. Talking. Now. You are rambling. Abort. Abort.
Kate huffed. A short, bright puff of amusement that should have ended there, clean and light like all her other half laughs. It didn't. The huff caught, quickly rolling into a dry, chesty cough that sounded like paper tearing in her chest. She clamped her fist to her mouth fast, tried to swallow the rest back down, but the damage was done.
Osgood pounced before she could stop herself. "That was a cough".
Kate lowered her hand and tapped the folder once, as though the sound could erase the previous 1.4 seconds. "Exhale". She said calmly. "With character".
Osgood opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "That was... character with a side of bronchospasm".
"You're pathologising my breathing now".
"Only when it deviates from published norms by more than 12%". Osgood's voice was quieter than she intended. "You're allowed to not be fine, you know. Just once. Statistically speaking".
Kate studied her. Long enough that Osgood began mentally drafting her resignation letter and cataloguing escape routes. Finally Kate exhaled—carefully this time, no audible friction. "I'm not ill". She said, softer. "Just... tired. And the date does what it does. But—". She gestured loosely at the note, the foil wrapper, the folder. "—this helps. More than you know".
Osgood swallowed. Hard. The corridor suddenly felt too narrow, the fairy lights too bright, like they were spotlighting every single one of her nervous tics. She said it helps. She actually said it. Out loud. To me. That's not deflection. That's... admission? Or is it just Christmas Eve making her softer around the edges? Don't overanalyse. Don't ramble. Say something normal. Normal. What is normal?
"I—um—good". She managed. "That's... good. Statistically significant improvement in comfort metrics, I mean".
Kate's mouth twitched again, the tiniest almost smile. "You're incorrigible".
"I prefer dedicated". And hopelessly devoted. But we don't say that out loud. Osgood rocked once on her heels, then stopped when she realised it looked like she was about to bolt. "I could... there's chamomile in the break room. Proper chamomile. Not the lawn-clippings variety. Well. Mostly not. I could bring some. If you wanted. No pressure. Just... hydration. With a side of mild sedation. Medically speaking".
Kate looked at her for a long beat. The single raised brow was back, but softer this time, like it had taken its armour off. "You're going to keep deploying comfort ordnance until I either drink it or send you home, aren't you?".
"Probability approaches 98%". Osgood admitted. "The other 2% is accounted for by spontaneous alien invasion. Which would be inconvenient. But distracting".
Kate exhaled, no cough this time, and leaned one shoulder against the corridor wall. "Five minutes". She said. "Bring the grassy revenge. I'll drink it so you stop looking like a startled owlet".
Osgood’s heart did an embarrassing triple flip. Owlet. She called me an owlet. That's—cute? Is that cute? Don't blush. Do not blush. You are a professional. Act like one. "Chamomile. On it. Two minutes. Less. I'm very fast when motivated".
She practically teleported to the break room and back.
When she returned Kate had relocated to the low armchair by the window instead of the desk chair—actual progress, she's sitting like a human instead of a battle commander—and the navy throw was already draped over the armrest like it had been waiting for its cue. Osgood set the steaming mug down with only minor hand tremor.
Kate took it, sniffed, winced like she'd been personally insulted. "This smells like a herbal court martial".
"It's restorative". Osgood said quickly. "Apigenin has documented anxiolytic properties. I read three meta-analyses last month. Well. Skimmed. Thoroughly".
"Of course you did". Kate took a cautious sip. Grimaced harder. Took another anyway. "You're hovering again".
"I'm... providing moral support. At a regulation 1.2 metres. Standard observer distance".
Kate's laugh was small and hoarse at the edges, but genuine. That laugh. That tiny, cracked laugh. I would commit minor felonies to hear it again. "Sit down before you give yourself a stress induced arrhythmia".
Osgood sat, perched on the absolute edge of the opposite chair like she might need to sprint for medical supplies at any second. "Better?".
"Marginally". Kate cradled the mug between both hands. "Thank you, Petronella. For... noticing".
Osgood's throat closed so fast she nearly choked on air. Full name. Twice. In under ten minutes. I am going to spontaneously combust. Or cry. Or combust while crying. Do not cry. That would be catastrophic. "Always". She whispered. Then, louder and more panicked, "I mean... scientifically speaking. Observation is my core competency. Literally. It's in my job description. Paragraph three".
Kate's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Go home before the snow gets worse. That's an order".
"Only if you promise to finish that. And maybe keep the throw on. It scores 9.4 on the comfort index. Blind-tested. Against wool and fleece controls".
"Deal". Kate lifted the mug in the smallest, tired salute. "Merry Christmas, Osgood".
"Merry Christmas, Kate".
Osgood fled before she could say anything else that would require her to change her identity and relocate to another galaxy. She meant to go home. She had every intention of going home. But at 17:22 the ops floor was a ghost town, the snow outside had thickened to proper flurries, and Kate's office light was still burning like a defiant beacon.
Osgood told herself this was just one final sensor sweep.
She told herself the corridor was literally on her exit path.
She told herself a great many comforting lies, none of them especially convincing.
The door was ajar. Lights from the corridor spilled soft gold across the carpet. Kate was slumped forward over her desk, head pillowed on folded arms, the navy throw had slipped to the floor like it had tried to escape. Her breathing was slow, deep, the kind of slow that only happened when exhaustion finally won the war.
Osgood froze in the doorway, breath catching. She's asleep. Actually asleep. At her desk. On Christmas Eve. With no aide, no second-in-command, no one to make her stop being indomitable for five minutes. Oh god. She looks so... small. Like the entire weight of the planet finally pressed too hard and she just...folded.
Her chest did that stupid, squeezing thing again, tighter this time.
Very quietly, moving like she was defusing a bomb, Osgood stepped inside. She picked up the throw from the floor, shook it out with the softest possible rustle, and draped it over Kate's shoulders. Tucked it carefully around her back and adjusted the collar so it wouldn't slip. Smoothed one rogue corner. Then stood back and stared like an absolute idiot.
She's going to wake up and court-martial me for unauthorised comfort deployment. Or thank me. Or both. Probably both. In rapid succession. But she's warm now. And she smells of chamomile and shortbread and that ridiculously expensive coat wax she pretends is just 'practical maintenance'. And her breathing is even. Steady. Safe. I should leave. Right now. Before she wakes up and finds me looming like some lovesick—
Kate shifted, murmured something too soft to catch… possibly a name, possibly just a sigh…and settled again with a tiny, content sigh.
She's safe. For now. That's enough. That's more than enough. That's everything.
She backed out slowly, eased the door almost closed and slipped down the corridor into the snow.
Tomorrow she'd check her phone.
A lot.
Purely for operational readiness.
Obviously.