Tom Waits Wouldn't Mind

by Michelle

Note: Set within the novel "Troubled Blood".

"It's hard to pretend you love someone when you don't,

but it's even harder to pretend you don't love someone when you really do."

- Heidi Hastings

______________________________________

Unbelievable... What a bastard!

Robin was disgusted, outraged, no… furious after what had just occurred on Denmark Street. She disliked Morris from the moment he entered their agency, and after the Christmas incident, she thought the now ex-subcontractor would do anything to behave appropriately towards her. Wrong again. Saul Morris was not one of the uppish men who would take no for an answer.

“Are you all right?” she heard Strike’s worried voice and felt his eyes burning on her face without looking at him.
”I guess so,” Robin replied, sounding more like an automaton than a woman who had just almost killed someone close to a harasser.

“Wuz aboot time, but I must say, ye got some balls, Ellacott,” Sam Barclay stated with respect but amusement as well, looking at the detective.
”Thanks,” Robin said quietly and realised that she started shaking, and her breath was getting more shallow.
Oh, no, not another panic attack...

Before she had time to break down, Strike gently but firmly put his arm around her shoulders and lead her to their office.
”Could you bring her a cup of tea before you leave, please? Thank you,”  he asked Barclay for a favour as they passed him.
”Ye got it, boss,” the Scotsman replied and immediately turned to the sink, putting the kettle on.

When Strike brought the still-shaking Robin to their shared office, he sat her straight to her chair, then pulled his chair close, opposite hers, sitting down. With one hand on her shoulder and the other covering her own trembling hands, he focused on her panicky face. The numbing effect of half of the Whiskey bottle he emptied with Robin not even an hour ago was gone, and his senses were fully compliant again. The rage at Morris was twisting his insides, but he was keeping it locked for the sake of the woman breaking down in front of him.

“Robin,” he said gently, but she didn’t react because her breathing was now more elaborate, giving her a hard time. “Robin, look at me!” he demanded with a slightly raised voice, though not intending to scare her.
His partner snapped from her shock for a second, and her frightened eyes looked at him. They reminded him of a deer startled by a headlight in a benighted forest.

“Deep breaths,” Strike said firmly. “In and out, in… and out…1…2…3…”
The calm focus radiating from his eyes and voice worked like a charm on her. She mimicked his breathing, inhaling and exhaling as deeply as she could until her lungs adjusted to a normal rhythm again.  Her hands finally remained still, covered safely by his large, warm hand.

“Better?” Strike asked, his eyes suddenly allowing her to see a flash of the worry he was hiding until then.
“Yeah,” Robin whispered, nodding. “Thanks…”

Whether it was his smile, the warmth in his eyes or the aftermath of the shock, her face suddenly scrunched, she bowed her head and started crying. All the stress of the past couple of years was working its way out. The timing and place may not have been the ones she would have wished for, but she couldn’t stop it. Once it was unleashed, it was like a giant boulder rolling down a steep hill.

Strike’s smile faded as he leaned forward and offered her the safe shelter of his embrace.
“It’s all right,” he whispered into her hair, squeezing his eyes shut as her quiet but desperate sobs echoed in the darkened stillness of their office. Knowing she was in danger agonised him, but seeing her in pain, physical or emotional, was even worse – it was excruciating.  
“It’s all right,” he repeated and felt her arms tightening around his waist as far as she could reach in their sitting position.

Robin’s defences totally failed at that moment, and her vulnerability, so well kept in check in front of others, was laid out on a silver platter to Strike. Her hands clutched his jacket, his physical nearness bringing her solace she had been missing (and craving) for a long time, without truly admitting it to herself. Their almost intimate talk earlier that evening opened a door that neither of them had the strength to shut again. And yet…

Ashamed of falling apart in front of her partner and best friend (the thought of the expression made her tingle all over), Robin slowly pulled back from him and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her blouse. Her eyes were pinned to Strike’s shirt; the comforting feeling of a few moments ago was replaced by mild embarrassment.

”I’m sorry,” she whispered, still unable to look into his eyes. “I didn’t want to…”
”I’m glad you did,” Strike replied quietly, making her finally look up and meet his eyes. “I’m not happy about the panic attack and about what triggered it, but I’m still glad about you letting go. You needed a release after all that has been going on lately,” he explained, his hands holding hers now.

Robin took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “I haven’t had a panic attack for almost a year, ever since…”

Ever since I left Matthew and you became my sole safe place, the only safe place I’ve had since I left my childhood home...

Her voice died, though, adding to the gradually growing list of unspoken things between them. Her eyes were admiring the hem of Strike’s shirt collar this time.

“I know. I’ve noticed that despite the thing with Matthew and work overload, you’ve been much more… yourself this year,” he replied, a smile returning to his worried face.
His words made her smile again, and she dared to look at him again. An irresistible feeling of wanting to tell him right there why she had been herself again threatened to overwhelm her, but like so many times before, she resisted.

“I am,” she said quietly, her eyes reflecting the honest truth in those two words, confirmed by a beaming smile. Even the pain caused by her facial injuries couldn’t stop her.

Strike squeezed her hands, still safely held by his. “Good,” was all he managed to say without betraying too much of his own feelings.  His face turned serious again when once more, his eyes examined the state of Robin’s face.

He rarely lost his temper, but he hated himself for putting her in the crossfire that day. Yes, Carl Oakden pushed all his wrong buttons and deserved to get punched but not with Robin by his side. In her loyalty to her partner, she tried to stop him from doing more harm to himself than to the narcissistic identity fraud, and she paid for her loyalty - her face involuntarily met Strike’s hard elbow.

Robin saw the guilt and pain in his eyes as they bore into hers again.
”For God’s sake, stop it Strike,” she exhaled, making him frown. “Stop apologising; it really is okay. I’m fine.”  
The painkillers started wearing off at that point, and every facial muscle ached her, but she managed to conjure a small smile, attempting to make him let go of the self-torment.  

A quiet tap on the door frame made them turn their heads.
”Sorry, never mind me, just bringin’ the tea,” Barclay remarked, walked into the office and put two steaming mugs on the double desk.
”Thanks, Sam,” Strike acknowledged him while Robin expressed her gratitude with a little nod.
”See ye,” the Scotsman said before he glided out from the office, his amused grin revealing his certainty that he’d interrupted something “interesting”.

The detectives chuckled in their shared fondness for their sub-contractor.
”Well, I should probably get going…” Robin said, but there was neither conviction nor will in her voice to do so.

“You stay put,” her partner countered immediately. “I’m not letting you travel after dark in such a state. You’ll be better off here,” he said, allowing no compromises.

Robin thought of the leather sofa, taking a significant chunk of space in the front room.
”I guess I could crash on the office sofa for one night,” she said.
”I  take the sofa; you take my bed.”

The shock in her eyes, caused by that statement, must have been visible even in the semi-darkness of the office because Strike chuckled.
”I might even consider letting you sleep in my Tom Waits T-shirt,” he remarked with a playful smile.

Is this just trying to make my best friend laugh after a hard day, or am I really flirting with Robin? Get a grip, you moron...

He should have known better, though, for his partner played along, suddenly intrigued by the prospect of sharing Strike’s personal space.

”As long as none of your girlfriends had slept in it,” she remarked, raising her eyebrows.
“No worries, you’ll be the first one.”

The words were out before he could consider their possible ambiguity. After a few seconds of deafening silence between them, Strike regained his vocal abilities.

“The first person, I mean…,” he added and blinked nervously, suddenly not knowing where to look.

His obvious embarrassment made Robin smile. Not for the first time, she found herself loving his reaction. The most famous private investigator in London, so confident at his work, suddenly turned into an uncertain schoolboy over something so trivial as an innocent, friendly remark.

“Hopefully, Tom won’t mind a new girl,” she said with a grin, though wincing right after, finally acknowledging a grin was too much for her bruised face at that moment.

This is why I feel what I feel for you, Strike thought as he relaxed again and chuckled. Regardless of how awkward things may have been between them at times, Robin always managed to bring them back into their comfort zone. No remorse, no taking things out of proportion, always seeing them for what they were and not dwelling on what they could be.

Some people would call you ‘a rock’. I would call you ‘my anchor’, ‘my home’...

“You drink your tea; I’ll prepare the bed. Be right back,” he said then and got up, releasing her hands.
As he made his way out of the office to go upstairs, Robin’s eyes followed him all the way while a cautious smile settled on her face again.

She remained alone, and the room suddenly seemed empty, as if something vitally important had left it. Despite his rather lonesome lifestyle - interrupted mainly by irregular dinners with his friends Nick and Ilsa or hanging out mostly by himself in pubs - Cormoran had always been larger than life in her eyes, in the best possible way.

It wasn’t just his stature and presence that always filled whichever space he occupied; it was the way he treated people who he thought worthy of his time or care (or both), going out of his way to make sure they got the treatment they deserved.  He was meticulous with every client grateful for his help, appreciative of the people who worked for and with him, and relentless in being there for people he cared for when they needed him.

A thought occurred to her, that her own life wasn’t that much different from her partner’s anymore. All the years she was with Matthew, the friends they had, were his friends. Every social event they went to was related to something Matthew wanted, and for his sake (and lack of self-confidence) Robin tagged along, pretending to enjoy it all.

Now that she was single again, most of her social life had shrunk to evenings with her laptop and her housemate’s dog at her feet, irregular coffees with Ilsa and occasional takeaways with Strike at work, usually discussing their cases.

Would she call her life lonesome? Definitely not when she spent time at work or wherever her best friend was.
We are truly some pair of... whatever we are...

“All set,” Strike called when his head peeked through the open office door.

Robin stood up, finished the last few sips of her tea and put down the mug, then walked out of their shared space to follow him - wordlessly, only with a small smile, though. Her mind suddenly brought her back to their conversation a few hours ago and the thought of a bed only a few feet away from them.  
Maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all...

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, evoking an unspecified concern, it disappeared again when they climbed up the stairs to the attic flat, and Robin glanced at the bed behind the door.  

The fresh, dark-brown duvet and pillow covers were neatly smoothed. The usual messy duvet was given an almost hotel-like treatment. An equally neatly folded Tom Waits T-shirt and a clean pair of pyjama bottoms on the duvet amused her.
”I guess Tom didn’t mind indeed,” she said, grinning, eliciting a smile from her partner.

Then she noticed a small votive candle lit on the shelf on the wall next to the bed. She recognised a subtle scent of cinnamon in the air. Robin turned to Strike and raised her eyebrows, suppressing a grin.

“Oh, a client gave me a whole pack once as a bonus to the pay,” he explained hastily, his eyes nervously wandering between the candle and his friend. “Her husband nicked them at a Yankee Candle store. It turned out he had a perverse addiction to the smell of scented candles, imagining his wife in all sorts of interesting positions while sniffing at them.”
”Charming!” Robin remarked, raising her eyebrow.

Seeing Robin’s amused expression, Strike sighed and shook his head.
”Christ… It’s really not what it may look like…” Although I wouldn’t mind if it was… Shit, I’m so digging a hole for myself here... 
“I just thought… it might help you to settle after the panic attack,” Strike breathed and dared to look at her again.

The smile he got in return was all he needed - and all he didn’t need, because it was even harder for him to resist the urge to do something irrational.
”I’m not sure it was the wisest idea, considering the wooden part of the wall,” Robin said, “but… it’s very thoughtful of you,” she finished with a genuine smile. “Thank you. I like it…”

If Strike wasn’t already well over 6 feet tall, he would have grown even more at that moment, as pride would have it. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling, though.
A simple nod of his head had to suffice as a reply, for he suddenly found himself tongue-tied. The inevitable awkwardness of the situation hit them both like a truck, though surprisingly, neither of them felt scared.

“Well, I’d better leave you to rest,” Strike said eventually, visibly reluctant to leave her, maintaining deep eye contact with Robin, for she seemed as much reluctant to part with him as he did. At last, the detective turned back to the door, stepping out as her voice stopped him.

”Cormoran…”

He turned around, his heart thumping wild all at once.
”Thank you,” Robin said quietly after swallowing hard. In her eyes, he saw the whole meaning behind those two words.
”Anytime,” he replied with a smile, and his eyes twinkled in the golden glow of the lamp. Then he left her alone for real and closed the door behind him.

Robin stared at the door for a few moments more, and her smiling face turned slowly into one of regret. Yet another missed opportunity between them…

She sighed, but then glanced back at the candle on the wall, and a renewed smile brightened her eyes. Maybe the little yet so meaningful acts of kindness she was given tonight from the person closest to her heart were enough.

For now…

＊＊＊

When Strike entered his office again and sat down on his chair, his dark blue eyes wandered into the distance behind the window. The darkness veiling the street was pierced by the unintrusive light of the street lamps. A deep sigh tore from his throat as he leaned his head against the chair. His eyes fell on his mug of tea on the desk. It was untouched, standing comfortably in the company of Robin’s empty mug, not touching it, though.

Is this what we are like? Being so close to each other and yet, still keeping distance between us, however small it may be?

The honesty of his character made him admit that it was mainly he who was keeping the distance intact. Strike was a good people reader; he could feel there was something more coming across from his partner than pure friendly affection and a colleague’s respect. And he knew that his own feelings toward Robin by far exceeded the realm of friendship as well. And yet, they were at a standstill, with no way back but no thinkable way forward at the same time. Why was he doing it to them both?

“Fuck,” Strike swore and sighed again, covering his face with his hand for a moment. Then he stood up, wanting to wash the mugs. He needed some mundane activity to distract his troubled mind.

Grabbing both mugs, he dragged himself across the office to the kitchen sink. Inadvertently frowning, he tipped his cold tea, flushing it down with all the remorse he felt over the dramatic day. When his hand reached for Robin’s mug, it stopped mid-air. Strike’s creased forehead smoothed as his eyes softened.

His hand slowly enveloped the mug, his fingers gently testing its smooth porcelain surface. Only then he realised that it was still surprisingly warm as if the warmth of the tea which filled it mingled with the warmth of the female hand that held it before.

The detective swallowed hard and decisively turned the water tap on, dipping the mug under the clear, running stream. His stubborn resolution to keep the relationship with his partner on a strictly friendly, albeit warm basis had returned. It was uncomplicated, safe and reassuring. It would have to suffice.

For now…

When Strike woke up after 9 am the next morning, he found a note next to his mobile phone. The writing was unmistakable and the words made him smile.

Thank you.

Robin x

________________________________________

                                    Lies And Truths

by Michelle

Note: Something that might have happened throughout the plot of the novel "Troubled Blood" 

if Cormoran left for St Mawes a little later than right after New Year's Day.

"... the words I can't say are the holes I punch in the walls of my psyche..."
- John Geddes: A Familiar Rain

________________________________________

Strike was just lighting his first cigarette of the morning. After his recent illness, his lungs were still protesting at any sign of the detective slipping back into his habit of chain smoking, but at least he was allowed a few in a day. Nevertheless, he coughed after the first pull.

“All right, all right!” he cried, unnerved after his coughing fit. “I get it!”
“Talking to ourselves, are we?” Robin’s head popped in when she opened the door to their shared office.

He put the cigarette down on the ashtray and opened the window.
“Yeah, my screwed-up body has been telling me I’m getting older with every passing day,” he answered dryly.
“And wiser?” his partner inquired without a hint of emotion.
Strike looked at her and sighed. “That is the part of the process that has managed to escape me still, I’m afraid.”

She walked into the office, stopping at her chair but not sitting down. The aftermath of her holiday misery was still hovering about her.
“Happy new year,” she said, flashing a hint of a forced smile.
“And to you,” Strike replied, an unpleasant feeling of guilt stinging him with all its might. His thank-you text on New Year’s Day after he had finally opened her Christmas gift was missing the usual wish for the upcoming new year.

They were silent for an awkward moment, passing fleeting looks at each other and whatever object they could lay their eyes on in front of them. Robin was still standing, painfully making him aware of her emotional distance. Their parting before she left for her Christmas break was more than disappointing. She was gripping the top of her chair, looking more for mental support than anything else.

Strike finally broke the silence. “So… how was your Christmas?”
The moment he said the words he would have loved to bury himself in the ground. Knowing Robin, the first holidays as a soon-to-be-divorced woman in a town where everybody lives of everybody’s failure must have been anything but cheerful.

His partner took only a moment to reply with a strained voice and a forced smile.
“Great… Yours?” She couldn’t think of anything more ingenious.
The reply came with an equally short pause, a strained voice and a too-eager nod of his dark-haired head.
“Yeah, great... “ Shit, the pretence is worse than the truth, the detective thought as his last word faded in the tense atmosphere between them.

Robin stared at him for a moment, nodding and taking in his thick, slightly messy hair, the tired, pale complexion that hadn’t changed much since she saw him last, and the creased light grey shirt he was wearing. He definitely didn’t look like someone who had just returned from a blissful family reunion, although considering his aunt’s state of health, there was no wonder. A sudden wave of compassion washed over the detective.

Strike was equally observing her with his dark eagle eyes. Despite the obvious lack of enthusiasm, she was still as beautiful as the day he saw her for the first time as she opened his agency door. Her long red hair, falling to her shoulders, framed the face that was the only welcome face to him whatever mood he was in. Her eyes looked sad, though, and he couldn’t help but think he was part of the reason for that. The draught carried an unknown, subtle, mildly sweet waft of a light floral scent in his direction. Someone was more successful than himself in choosing their Christmas present for Robin. But they hit the bullseye, he thought, it was perfect; it was Robin.

Suddenly Robin was fed up with pretending and she chuckled.
“Actually, it was a total shit,” she admitted and hid her face in her hands for a brief moment, suddenly amused by the fact. Her mildly embarrassed gesture brought a warm smile to his face.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Imagine a baby yelling practically 24/7 for four days, a mother prying on your current – non-existing – love life, and Matthew bringing Sarah to visit his parents, making the whole town tiptoe around me, waiting for me to explode or something. To top it all up, throw in Morris, bombarding me with texts throughout Christmas Eve while being intoxicated.” She went quiet, realising it would have been better to have kept the last information to herself.

“Did he harass you?” Strike’s protective side immediately showed as he tensed.
Robin noticed his unease and berated herself again for the slip of her tongue. “Nothing I couldn’t handle, don’t worry,” she reassured him, smiling to make him relax.

“I’m sorry you had to go through all that,” he said with genuine care. “Actually, mine was total bollocks, too,” he grinned then, leaning against the windowsill and shaking his head.

Robin couldn’t help but smile. Never mind how rotten she had felt because of Strike ignoring her, his smiling face always lifted her spirits.
“What happened? Your nephews broke the headphones I gave you as well?” she teased, raising her eyebrows.

Strike chuckled again. “No. I didn’t go to St Mawes. I was drowning in coughing fits, tons of snots, fever, vomiting and malnutrition – the latter caused by my own effing pride.”

Robin winced with guilt. He was spending the holidays alone, trapped between his sweat-soaked bed and the toilet, with minimal proper food intake,  just as she knew he would be. And there she was, thinking he was being an ass, ignoring the basic social courtesy of pretending to be human and appreciating her care, at least on the occasion of Christmas. No wonder his mind was somewhere else than on some insignificant texts.

“Cormoran… Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, her face full of compassion.
“And ruin your perfectly shitty family Christmas?” he replied with a teasing smile.
They both laughed.
“I can assure you it would have been impossible to ruin it even more,” Robin remarked dryly, shaking her head.

He chuckled, and his look fell on the leaflet from the nearby pizzeria that served as his lifesaver during the final stage of his flu and food poisoning battle.
“Pat got me chicken soup on Christmas Eve, though. I couldn’t taste a bugger of it, but it did cheer me up for a minute,” he grinned. Robin had the I-told-you-so look in her eyes. “I found out after I politely told her to sod off,” he added cheekily.

“Strike!” she reprimanded him as usual as of late. His annoyance at their immaculately organised secretary was no news in the office.
He threw up his hands in defence. “I did send her a nice text later to say thank you. “ He shrugged, and a playful smile appeared on his face. “A very nice text.”

Robin lost again; she couldn’t be cross with him when he was like this. “I keep telling you she’s good,” she stated victoriously.
“Not as good as you,” he countered with a twinkle in his eyes.
Her eyes found his again, and she smiled. “I guess we could have had a much better Christmas spending it together.”

Strike didn’t know what to say. Not that he didn’t think the same, in fact, he knew she was right, but admitting it would have meant crossing the boundary he was so painstakingly trying to keep – the boundary of admiration and deep affection, safely wrapped in the form of friendship and partnership. Cross it, and everything gets complicated, he thought regrettably.

Robin misinterpreted his silence as embarrassment and immediately regretted her words. She took a deep breath and casually reached for his mug on the desk in front of him.
“Right, I’ll make tea, and then we can go back to business,” she said listlessly while moving, avoiding his eyes.

She put her hand on the door handle when Strike’s voice stopped her.
“I’m sorry about the chocolates…”

Keeping her hand on the handle, Robin’s heartbeat suddenly quickened, her eyes pinned to the glass door in front of her.
“I was trying to get you a perfume, but then I suddenly…” Strike paused and sighed in defeat. “I guess I got… afraid that it might be too… personal…”

When no reply came his way, his hand went through his hair for a moment, frustration kicking in. He knew he was making an ass of himself, but he also knew that he needed to make this better with Robin, not only for their partnership’s sake. Suddenly he felt extremely vulnerable, more than when he was exposed to landmines and sharpshooters in Afghanistan.

“Shit, Robin…,” he exhaled, exasperated, shaking his head, hating himself more than ever before. “I know I’m a prick. I can remember the exact description of what some shitface at a rotten bar looked like twenty years ago, but I can’t remember my best friend’s birthday.”

Robin closed her eyes at his confession. Of course, he forgot, and yet, best friend… It was typical Strike, driving her to insanity and making her miserable at times, but the truth was, she wouldn’t want him any other way. Being Strike was why she liked him in the first place.

“ I wish I was better at this,” Strike continued more calmly now, still talking to her back. “I… You…”
We, he immediately thought, subconsciously seeing them as an inseparable entity, at work, in life, everywhere, in their own comfortable way. His voice sounded depressed.
“I wish I could give you more… You deserve more, so much more than this…”

Heavy silence befell the office. Strike felt mentally drained. In a minute, he opened up to his work partner more than he was able to in all the years they’d known each other. And all out of pure desperation – he was desperate not to lose the fragile connection between them, not as detectives but as human beings.

Robin swallowed hard, closed her eyes and smiled widely, feeling a tear running down her cheek. Her hand released the handle, and she put the mug on the cupboard shelf next to the door. Wordlessly, she turned around, and looking him in the eyes all the way, her arms went around his neck when she approached him. Holding tight, probably more than she would have liked, she let a few more tears run down her face, especially when she felt his arms tighten around her as well.

Strike closed his eyes and inhaled her new scent. Involuntarily he shivered. Try as he might, the effect she had on him was getting stronger the longer they knew each other. Charlotte was someone he loved a long time ago, someone he was attracted to physically and for some time to her mind as well. Their relationship was wild, complicated, dramatic and draining. Even so, the detective thought he would spend his life with her – until he realised that being possessed by someone isn’t the same as being loved, and he had to break free. She left a deep scar in his heart, making him rougher, edgier and more isolated (by choice) than the war.
Being with Robin, though, even if it was “only” as friends, was as different as it could have been – genuine, full of mutual respect, heart-warming, reassuring and… it felt good, it felt damn good.

“I hate salted caramel,” Robin whispered with a chuckle, still holding tight to him.
“Shit…” Strike muttered into her hair. “I knew I should have gone with the perfume.”
A muffled laugh resounded in his ear before Robin slowly pulled back to look at him, framing his face gently with her hands, caught in the moment.

“Thank you,” she whispered with a genuine, grateful smile, her eyes glistening. His eyes and a warm smile spoke for him; this meant everything to him. If he was honest with himself, she meant everything to him.

Robin pressed a soft peck on his cheek, her hands slid down to his chest, and slowly disengaging herself from his arms, she headed back to the door.

Suddenly she stopped and walked back to her part of the desk, where the expensive box of chocolates that Strike gave her for Christmas lay left untouched. Pat put it there for her after Robin had left it in the front room, disappointed by her seemingly disinterested partner. She opened the box, took a piece of chocolate and popped it into her mouth, smiling.

“I thought you hated salted caramel,” Strike remarked, amused.
Robin observed him for a moment, chewing slowly, for the first time ever enjoying the taste.
“Oh, you know,” she started with a mysterious smile. “Sometimes the things we hate are the things we love the most in the end.”

Her smile widened, mirroring his own, and after grabbing another piece of chocolate, she turned on her heel, took the mug by the door and walked out of the office.

Strike remained rooted to his spot for a long while, unable and unwilling to move. Only when the agency front door opened and he heard Pat rushing in and chatting to Robin, he sat down at his desk and opened his laptop.

He was still smiling. 

____________________________

In All Shapes And Sizes

by Michelle

※※※※※

It had been almost a week since she´d seen him last. The emergency repair works in the lower chambers needed his full, undistracted presence on site. Of course, his wife of eight years understood it perfectly, and went on with her days as usual, doing her work Below and Above and looking after their sons. However, as the days went on, despite feeling his presence constantly in her heart, the longing was starting to take its toll.

“Mum, do you think Dad will make it in time for Christmas?” The nine-year-old Jacob’s soft voice reached her ears.

The beloved sound changed Catherine’s absent-minded look into a focused one again. The same question had been occupying her mind for days now.
”I’m sure he will do his best to make it,” she stated, reassuring herself as well, and fondly stroked his blond head.
The boy nodded, although not entirely convinced.
“Have you finished the gift you’ve been making for him?” his mother inquired with a smile.
“I’m almost done. Cullen is helping me finish it tomorrow, just in time.”
The pride on the child’s face warmed Catherine’s heart, mirroring her own maternal pride.
“I’m sure he will love it,” she remarked, knowing for certain that Vincent would cherish any gift given out of love, no matter how small or simple.

Suddenly, Jacob changed the topic, his eyes coming alight. “Can I show Grandpa the book uncle Peter brought me?
”Of course, you can, darling,” his mother replied, amused. “Take Charlie with you; it’s dinner time soon. I’ll catch up with you as soon as I put away the washed clothes.”
“Come on, Charlie; I’ll race you,” Jacob turned to his younger brother, whose nose was stuck in his own book. The boy immediately put aside his well-loved copy of Winnie the Pooh and jumped up, beaming.
”I’ll beat you this time,” the youngster challenged his sibling.

Before Catherine managed to warn them to be careful, the boys ran out of the chamber. She shook her head and chuckled. Suddenly, she couldn’t help but imagine Devin and Vincent many years ago as children. Her husband told her many stories about those times, making her laugh at most of them. No matter how earnest, composed, and dignified Vincent was as an adult, he had a great, albeit subtle, sense of humour, and at times, Catherine could even spot a hint of mischief, especially when playing with their sons. The leonine man’s charm wasn’t only in his wisdom, deep intelligence, great empathy and strong charisma but also in his rare, nevertheless present, playful ways - to his wife’s great delight.

She closed her eyes and sighed before trying to focus on her task again.
I’ll never make it to dinner while daydreaming, Catherine berated herself and picked up the wicker basket full of clean clothes.

The hours spent in her private legal practice Above earlier that day were a welcome distraction, but now that her brain wasn’t occupied with family law, her focus was constantly shifting to thoughts about the man deep below their chamber, working tirelessly for their community.

Her hands mechanically opened and closed drawers on a low, pine chest of drawers, putting away the clean garments of her children. Then she moved to the heavy vintage wardrobe, formerly belonging solely to Vincent but now shared with his wife. Catherine’s eyes browsed through pieces of his clothing, each reminding her of the man who had become an inseparable part of herself more than eleven years ago. Suddenly, her look stopped almost at the bottom of the top drawer, spotting the two familiar light-grey, quilted vests. A flood of memories washed over Catherine all at once as her fingers gently tested the soft surface of the fabric of one of them.

The very first time she saw Vincent’s face… How could she ever forget that day? The initial shock, but an almost immediate sense of wonder not long after and that peculiar yet elating feeling of the start of something beautiful… She could still remember Vincent’s shaky breath when her hand touched his chest, covered by the vest, for the first time, back then at the threshold. The physical contact sent shivers down his spine, but her own heart was stimulated in an unexpected way, causing a body reaction like she’d never known before. He was still a stranger to her, yet he was already so much more…

A blissful smile appeared on her face when another memory crossed her mind - returning to the Home Tunnels from the ‘bowels of the Earth’ after Paracelsus kidnapped her. The journey back took them more than two days, and Catherine spent two peaceful nights in Vincent’s arms. Nothing more and nothing less, just a peaceful sleep, and yet it was the first time she had the man she loved for herself for more than just a few precious moments.

Thinking about it now, Catherine was astonished that Vincent even allowed them (or mostly himself) such close physical contact at that stage of their relationship. However, the events preceding those two nights were too intense to deny them this simple but such meaningful pleasure. His vest was present as well, adding to Catherine’s feeling of safety and warmth as she lay in Vincent’s arms.

A sudden thought crossed her mind; she wondered if her husband was warm deep down in the lower chambers. Christmas was around the corner, and winter in New York was especially cold that year; its icy breath hit the tunnels with full force. Then again, wasn’t it warmer the lower underground you descended? And she hadn’t felt any unusual discomfort coming from Vincent in the days he had been away.

Catherine sighed and tried to focus on finishing her task of putting away the remaining garments into the drawer. However, her eyes kept glancing at the vests, returning her to more memories where they played a prominent role. How strange for a simple object to hold so much significance in one’s life…

The air was a bit chilly on that early morning of her return from Westport, when she had been unable and unwilling to stay away from Vincent any longer. The short separation, that almost broke them both, ended with Catherine’s rapturous run through the park, landing in the arms of the man that set her free but would have waited for her until the end of time.

Closing her eyes, she remembered the soft feel of his vest as she eagerly buried her face in it, standing at the drainage tunnel for a long time with him until the birds in the trees commenced their early morning songs. How comforting was the warmth, the seemingly inexplicable sensation of shimmering and floating each time she rubbed her face in the quilted fabric! The love pulsing so strongly in her veins left an invisible trace on it every time she let out a breath or a sigh or gently kissed the place where his heart was. That morning, she knew for certain that what they shared reached far beyond anything she had ever imagined when thinking about love.

Catherine suddenly laughed. It’s hopeless; I’ll never make it to dinner!
How was it possible to feel like this still after so many years? Maybe her father could have answered this question for her, had he still been alive. Maybe love wasn’t just a feeling; maybe it was an expression of a need, as strong and empowering as it was unquenchable. A need that could sometimes be overpowering…

Catherine’s resistance finally failed. Her hands carefully reached for Vincent’s favourite garment, taking it out of the drawer. She rubbed her cheek in its softness, breathing in the beloved scent still lingering in it, as well as the fresh scent of the lavender washing soap she had used on it recently. Her longing betrayed her once again.

A memory of a different kind resurfaced in her mind’s eye - a memory of a frightening, cold and almost fatal night when she just managed to cheat death, almost drowning in the lake. That night was one of the most terrifying experiences Catherine had ever had, and yet, it ended in a way that let her senses reel every time she remembered it…

How often had she returned to that moment until she finally joined her life with Vincent’s? The heat of the moment, the rush of emotions, and long-restrained desire almost carried them over the edge that night on the balcony. With Catherine rescued and alive, and no more danger lurking around every corner, they both let go of their self-control for once. Vincent surrendered for the very first time - the kiss that followed their reunion was initiated by him…

Nothing more happened that night, and yet, it was an enormous leap in their relationship. The wall of restrictions and life-long conviction, raised by Vincent (and supported for years by his adoptive father), fell apart like a house of cards, never to be built again. Every breath, every touch they shared since then was much more personal, much deeper, much more… sensual…

Catherine remembered that night as if it was yesterday. The distinctive manly fragrance of the man she loved beguiled her senses, and she was barely able to contain her excitement. Clutching the vest desperately, she suddenly found it restraining and wished she could get it off Vincent, get everything off him…

She was so engrossed in the moment and her own emotions that she was startled when two strong arms suddenly embraced her from behind. Dropping the vest and turning around as fast as she could, there was no way of remaining calm for her.

“Vincent!” Catherine exclaimed, overjoyed, pulling him as close to her as she could.
Indeed, the leonine man himself was holding her as if they hadn’t seen each other for years.
"The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again, (1)" he whispered hoarsely into her hair and closed his eyes, smiling blissfully.

It took only a few seconds until the mutual longing resulted in a long and deep kiss. Only then were they able to relax and finally look at each other.
”I was beginning to worry if you’d make it for Christmas,” Catherine spoke first, still in his arms. Her fingers ran gently through his golden hair that bore traces of dust and sweat. The emergency repair in the lower chambers obviously required hard labour.

”It looked doubtful at one point,” Vincent replied, who could not get enough of the sight of her glowing face, “but Mouse was relentless. He said there was no way he was to miss William’s Christmas cake.” His soft laugh was music to Catherine’s ears as she shared his amusement.
”I wonder what motivated him more - his sweet tooth or the thought of Jamie and their baby girl,” she remarked, smiling.
Vincent tilted his head. “I think it might have been both.”

They laughed, and Catherine buried her face in his chest again, not minding the sweat and dirt he hadn’t had time to get rid of yet. She liked his ‘working-man’ scent.
"The boys will be over the moon to see you,” she stated, “and Father… and everyone,” she laughed.
”We are all grateful that we could have returned in time to spend Christmas with those we love,”
Vincent replied and pulled her even closer, kissing her temple. “But I think I should have a little… clean-up before I meet other fellow human beings.” He chuckled, and Catherine pulled back to look into his eyes again.

“Can I be of any assistance?” she inquired with a cheeky smile, raising her eyebrows.
His smile widened, and a mischievous sparkle brightened his deep-set eyes.
“Always,” he replied and waited until Catherine’s lips almost met his again. “You could bring me some dinner…”

※※※※※
 

Another Christmas Day came Above, just as in the tunnels Below. People in both worlds shared a table with their loved ones or offered company to those who had none, expressing their gratitude for the blessings they received in the year just passed.

William’s culinary mastery was praised once more; the faces of children were alight again with excitement and joy, while the adults smiled, revelling in their glee and appreciating the company of their near and dear. The lost ones were remembered with fondness and love; the newborn ones were gratefully welcomed once more. The world seemed at peace - at least for a few days.

“Is anything wrong, Jake?” Catherine asked her older son, observing the earnest expression on his face. The boy’s sudden change of mood didn’t go unnoticed by his father either.
“What’s troubling you, son?” Vincent inquired as well while putting away the volume of The Nutcracker he was reading to the boys just a moment ago. 
Jacob knitted his brows, absently pulling the thick quilted blanket up almost to his face.
”Is everyone happy at Christmas?” he asked the question that had bothered him for a while.

Catherine exchanged looks with Vincent before looking back at her offspring.
”I wish I could answer you with a yes, but that is unfortunately not always the case, darling,” she replied truthfully. “There are many people for whom this time is sad because they would love to share it with someone else, but they can’t.”
”Why?” Jacob asked.
“Because they either lost all their loved ones by some sad occasion, or they lost their way in life and ended up alone. Some lost their work and home, some lost everything, not always by their own fault, and it’s hard for them to find the right path again.”

The boy’s sapphire-blue eyes reflected deep thought.
”Like some people who came down here,” he remarked.
“Yes,” Catherine agreed with a sad smile and looked at Vincent again.
“That’s why Mary and Olivia make new quilts, and William cooks extra meals to give to the people who need it Above each Christmas,” the boy stated.
”And Daddy, Mouse and Cullen help to carry it all up top,” Charlie added eagerly.
“Yes,” Vincent replied softly. “We receive so much from good people Above throughout the year that it’s only right to give something back to those in need even more than we are.” He glanced at the colourful quilt his sons snuggled in.

”This blanket was made by people who care for you deeply, including your mother.” He glanced at Catherine, meeting her loving smile. “It makes you feel warm, safe and loved. It will always remind you that there is someone thinking of you and wanting you to be well. Those people Above feel the same way when they receive our gifts, at least for a little while. What we share with them is like a warm blanket that covers them and says that we think of them, and that they are not alone. No one is ever alone as long as at least one person thinks about them,” he concluded with a serene smile.

“Dad?”
“Yes, Jacob?”
”When you help carry the things Above next year, can I go with you and help too?”
Vincent’s eyes brightened with pride and affection. “I would love nothing more,” he answered with a heartfelt smile.
“Me too?” Charlie didn’t want to be left behind.
“You too,” his father agreed and playfully ruffled his younger son’s nest of hair. “But now it’s time to rest. It has been an eventful day for all of us.” 

Both parents got up, tucking in their treasures and kissing them good night. Then they walked out of the bed chamber of their children, neighbouring their main private quarters, where Vincent had spent most of his life. The man of the chamber was about to get changed for the night when he noticed the expression on Catherine’s face - she seemed miles away.

“Are you all right, Catherine?” he asked, touching her arm gently.
”Yes…,” she answered with a smile, returning to the present. “I was just thinking… about what you said about the blanket.”
She turned to face him, and her eyes briefly examined the familiar quilted garment he was wearing.

“It reminds me of this vest,” she said with a shy smile, and her fingers tenderly ran along the fabric covering his broad chest. “I was thinking about how many moments of comfort, warmth and… love… are connected with it in my memory…” She chuckled, shaking her head. “When you returned the other day and, well… caught me---”
“In the act with it?” Vincent asked, smiling.
“Yes.” She laughed, but then the look in her emerald eyes softened. “I was remembering all those moments. Every moment when I knew that you were thinking of me, looking after me, loving me… unconditionally…”
His hand reached for her cheek. “With or without it, always,” he said reassuringly, the blue in his eyes melting her like butter. His words earned him a tender kiss.

Then Vincent’s eyes wandered to the table by his side and the object proudly displayed on it.
”Beautiful, isn’t it?” Catherine asked, with an incredulous smile, admiring the new addition to her husband’s most cherished possessions. “I had no idea Jake had an interest in this craft. He’s still so young…”
”He’s got the patience, perseverance and that special touch in his hands needed for it. And most of all, he has a strong will - once he sets his mind onto something, he follows it through until the end, no matter what.” He turned to Catherine, tilting his head with an amused smile. “That reminds me of someone.”

Catherine laughed and leaned her head against his chest, observing Jacob’s Christmas gift to his father. Her eyes suddenly glistened.
”It’s like going full circle,” she said quietly. “Do you remember how he never wanted to leave that rocking horse you made him for his first birthday?”
”How could I ever forget? I gave it to him the day I heard him say it for the first time…”

Vincent felt a burning sensation in his eyes when he remembered the day he heard his firstborn speak for the first time.
”Daddy!”
Such a simple word, and yet, it was the most beautiful word Vincent could have ever imagined at that moment. It meant hope, a new purpose in his life, reaching something he never even dreamed of could be his; it meant everything…

“Cullen might not get rid of Jake for some time.” Catherine chuckled. “He was so excited talking about how they worked on it. I think he found his new hobby.”
Vincent smiled and leaned his head against her crown. “And I think Cullen might have one more pupil on his hands soon.”

Indeed, little Charles would follow his older brother everywhere, sharing their boyish adventures, joys and upsets, learning along as they went through life side by side, to their parents’ delight.

As the clock on the mantlepiece struck ten, and the shadows on the walls cast by the candles danced in the tender breeze once more, Vincent’s hand touched the smoothed surface of the wooden keepsake box, sitting on the table. His fingers glided along the edges until they reached the small figure of a horse, attached to the centre of the lid. It was carved and hand-painted a bit roughly and unevenly, but that didn’t matter to him at all.

All Vincent could see was the love that created this special Christmas gift, and he cherished it more than all the treasures in the world.
Who being loved is poor? (2)

When he thought of the two children sleeping contentedly in the other chamber and then looked into the shining eyes of the woman by his side, he knew the answer once again. 

___________________________________________________________________________________

(1) Charles Dickens: Nicholas Nickleby
(2) Oscar Wilde