Archive of Our Own ^beta

See, in theory, Christen understands the mechanics of ice and gravity and shoes not actually intended for winter weather. In application, things are a little less certain. Because the day before was unseasonably warm so not much snow stuck to the paved areas overnight. Because up until a block ago the buildings were older and shorter and the sidewalks clear. Because she’s forgotten the almost extreme temperature difference between sun and shade in mid-winter.

Christen isn’t thinking about any of that. She doesn’t consider any of the weather conditions that lead to the snowmelt off a sunny rooftop dribbling through a leaky gutter only to puddle and freeze on the shaded sidewalk below. All she knows is that she’s flat on her back in the middle of the pavement.

“Are you okay?”

Tobin’s panicked yet amused voice is accompanied by a gloved hand floating into her vision.

As much as Christen wants to hide under a rock for the foreseeable future, it‘s not really an option so she accepts the hand and allows herself to be hauled into a sitting position. 

“This isn’t funny,” she mutters, already knowing the bad joke that’s coming.

“Chris, I was just joking about you falling for me.”

“Shut it,” the grumble is mostly for show, “or I’m never coming with you to visit your family again.”

“You’re the one who wanted to experience New York City at Christmastime,” Tobin reminds her, crouching down with her elbows resting on her knees as she studies Christen carefully. “Really, are you okay? You wiped out hard.”

“The only thing that’s hurt is my dignity,” Christen reassures her although she can maybe feel a bruise forming on her butt. There’s no way she’s saying that to Tobin though. She’ll just have to suffer through.

Tobin takes hold of her forearm and drags her reluctant self back to her feet. “Up you get. And let’s cross the street, yeah?” she nods over to the sunny side where the sidewalk is looking as dry as the desert they left behind in LA.

Once she’s steady, Tobin fusses over her a little bit, pulling off a glove to check the back of her head under her beanie and straightening out her coat. The extra attention brings a flush to Christen’s face, but she blames the cold and adrenaline and embarrassment instead. Nothing to do with the way Tobin’s fingers gently card through her curls to search for a nonexistent bump or how she lightly settles her hands on Christen’s hips before declaring her uninjured.

They walk a few more blocks in comfortable silence, occasionally broken by Tobin’s low whistling. Then she finds herself being jerked sideways, elbow caught in a firm grip as Tobin pulls her through a door faster than Christen can read the signage on it. She’s not in the dark for long, though. The scent of pure chocolate immediately fills her nose, and she releases a quiet moan that has Tobin whipping her head back around to stare.

“Sorry,” Christen apologizes quietly, “but doesn’t that smell so good?”

Tobin agrees with a hum then practically races the few steps up to the counter when someone emerges from the back. Christen’s busy eyeing the selection in the glass cases when she hears Tobin saying, “Make that two, please.”

“Hey, wait, I want to pick,” she complains lightly, sidling up next to her and slipping a hand through the crook of her elbow.

With an easy smile, Tobin shrugs. “Get whatever else you want, Chris, but you have to try this.” Tobin doesn’t explain what “this” is, and the guy who took her order is in the back again, but she redirects their attention to the truffles, providing commentary that amounts to, “That one’s good. So’s that one. That one, too.”

A few minutes later, Tobin exchanges payment for two paper cups, and Christen, all thoughts of truffles forgotten, can just guess the contents.

“Hot chocolate?” 

The smile stretches across her face. Tobin always knows just how to make her feel better. She expects Tobin to return her smile just as wide, as she usually does, but this smile is smaller, quieter and more content somehow.

“Hazelnut hot chocolate,” Tobin corrects with a very intent stare, “It’s so thick, it’s like drinking Nutella. Try it.”

Christen does. The rich flavor bursts on her tongue, and the sound she makes is a cross of delight and pleasure that turns the tips of her ears red with how obscene it was. Tobin’s eyes widen and darken, but then she’s hiding her reaction behind her own cup and looking out the window, and Christen’s wishing she died of mortification back in the middle of that sidewalk.

“Let’s go!”

Tobin’s gloved hand fits neatly into hers, and then she’s being pulled back out into the cold.

When she threw herself on the mercy of Tobin’s whims for this daytrip, Christen wasn’t sure what to expect. But that’s nothing new. Their friendship has had this kind of give-and-take since its inception with Tobin following Christen’s itineraries as often as Christen surrenders to Tobin’s spontaneity. The latter has taken them on some memorable adventures, including Christen’s closest brushes with law enforcement, but always inadvertently.

This time, though, Tobin seems to have a plan of attack, directing them with purpose even as she pretends to wander aimlessly.

Christen can tell because each time she strays off course, ready to embrace her unstructured Tobin-days, Tobin’s nudging her back on some invisible track. She tries to window shop, and Tobin herds her along. She contemplates a fika at a cozy coffee shop and is reminded they just finished their hot chocolates. She wants to take a meandering path through Central Park, but “aren’t you getting cold, Chris? We should find somewhere to sit for awhile.”

If she were a less benevolent person, Christen would try to drag it out and watch Tobin squirm, coming up with excuses to keep her moving to destination(s) unknown. It’s too cute, the way she dances around and tries to keep up that nonchalant attitude while fretting on a poorly concealed level. Pretty quickly, though, Christen relents and allows Tobin to navigate, no lollygagging or detours to be had.

Their destination is a restaurant, high-ceilinged, light-filled, and almost overgrown with plants in a way that’s completely incongruous with New York City in winter. She immediately loves it despite, or maybe because of, the hipster clichés. But it’s buzzing with activity, even for mid-morning on a weekday, and she worries about getting a table until Tobin gives her name for a reservation. Tobin turns a triumphant grin on her, and Christen tries not to be taken aback by the thoughtfulness.

“What’s the occasion?” she asks in a low murmur once they’re seated and given menus and waters and coffees and finally left alone for a few minutes.

Tobin doesn’t lift her eyes from her menu when she responds, “Just happy you’re here.”

Brunch is everything Christen wants from a trendy, overpriced restaurant, just like her beloved favorites back in LA, the ones Tobin pretends to hate. They’ve just settled the bill when that excited light returns to Tobin’s eyes and the frenetic energy to her bouncing legs. Before the suggestion can leave her mouth, Christen’s out of her seat and pulling Tobin out the door with her.

“What do you want to do now?” Tobin asks as they’re strolling down a thankfully cleared sidewalk.

Christen can tell it’s a token offer. Tobin didn’t pause outside the restaurant but knew exactly which direction to take. “Whatever you want to do,” she hums magnanimously, “It’s a Tobin-day.”

Tobin’s smile breaks wide open at the phrase, but Christen can only take glimpses at her joy because there are people to avoid on the sidewalk.

“Then Tobin—”

“Please do not refer to yourself in the third person all day again.”

“Tobin,” she stresses with a teasing grin, “would like to go ice skating.”

Christen chokes back a laugh and a groan. “I’m sorry. Was my falling on my ass once today not enough entertainment for you?”

“Nope. You wanted the NYC Christmas experience. You’re getting it.”

They reach Rockefeller Center after only a few blocks. Christen realizes Tobin not only planned their day but also took into account geography. It’s a little mind-boggling.

As is the short-ish line for tickets and rentals, but it’s early afternoon, and Christen thinks maybe it’s busier in the evening. 

In any case, it means she has plenty of room to flail all over the rink while Tobin splits her time between helping her and smothering her laughter. Any talent she had as a kid on roller blades is long gone, and whatever basic instincts were supposed to transfer over to ice skating just plain don’t. She’s more than relieved to collapse onto a bench at the end of the allotted time slot.

“You didn’t fall,” Tobin murmurs happily as they tug their laces loose.

Christen just sends her a look of disbelief. That was more a feat of sheer stubbornness than any increased comfort on the ice. Clutching the rink wall (and more than occasionally Tobin) and being awkwardly hunched over to avoid a fall, are not her idea of an accomplishment.

“I’m sorry,” Tobin turns to her with a pout of remorse after they are shoed in their own shoes and return the skates, “It’s kind of a must-do for the season, and I really did think you would get used to it.”

With a soft sigh, Christen wraps her hands around Tobin’s arm, not in a death grip this time, and leans into her. “No, I know. It was a good idea. Thank you for bringing me. Just not my sport, I guess.”

“You know what is though?” Tobin disengages to give her a bright, hopeful smile. “Want to go shopping?”

Christen can’t hold her laugh. Tobin might be better about it now compared to a few years ago, but it’s still less than her favorite activity. If she didn’t already know how hard Tobin was trying to give her a perfect day, Christen sure does now. 

“I don’t know. Is that what you have next on your itinerary?”

She means to tease her as much as to give her an out. Just because Christen didn’t exactly enjoy their last activity doesn’t mean Tobin should have to suffer through the next one. But the escape hatch goes ignored.

Flushing a little, Tobin ducks her head and says, “Noticed that, huh? Yeah, but just for a little while,” before leading her to Fifth Avenue.

Christen’s not actually in the mood to shop, and doesn’t have the luggage space for it, so they wander in and out of stores, quietly laughing at the more absurd and expensive things they find on offer. For the first time all day, she checks her phone to make sure they detour to Nike, just so Tobin can mutter about their lacking selection. When the sun is starting to set—too early as is always the case in winter—Tobin stops her suddenly, yanks her out of the swarming foot traffic, and tells her to look up.

So she does and finds the Empire State Building.

Which she’s somehow missed approaching because she was too preoccupied talking and laughing with Tobin and casually bumping against each other on the crowded sidewalk.

“Can we go up?” Christen asks excitedly, and Tobin rolls her eyes before pulling express tickets out from her wallet.

“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” she finally voices her realization as they’re riding the packed elevator to the observation deck.

Tobin flushes although it’s barely visible under her perpetual tan and in the low light. But Christen, with her cheek nearly against Tobin’s to keep their conversation private, can practically feel the rush of warmth, when Tobin quietly admits, “Tried to.”

With a smile, Christen brushes a light kiss right against Tobin’s cheekbone, and then the doors are sliding open. After some yawning to pop their eardrums, they separate naturally. Christen goes straight to the windows while Tobin loiters by the exhibits.

It’s only been ten minutes since they were on the sidewalk outside, but the sun is setting in earnest so Christen ventures outside to stake out a spot. She ends up on the edge of the crowd, watching with rapt eyes as the painted sky puts on a show. An old Disney song runs through her mind, unbidden, and she laughs to herself.

“Hey.”

She hears it just before arms wrap low around her waist and Tobin’s hugging her from behind.

“There you are. Sick view, right?”

Christen just nods in agreement, knows Tobin can feel it since her face is nearly buried against Christen’s shoulder. It’s not the adjective she would have used, but she’s too focused on the feel of Tobin wrapped around her. Just for warmth, she reminds herself, and to keep the growing crowd at bay. They’ve cuddled for warmth before since Christen’s always cold and Tobin is something like a human heater. And better Tobin plastered against her back than some stranger. That’s all.

When the colors have faded, replaced by the glow of city lights, Tobin lifts her head to pop her own kiss on Christen’s cheek. “Beautiful,” she declares, and Christen’s read too many romance novels because she wonders if Tobin’s talking about the sunset view or herself. Obviously, the sunset, even ignoring how Tobin could hardly see her face from behind her.

“Is there anything else you want to see up here?”

She raises a curious eyebrow because that’s one pricey sunset if they’re up here for less than an hour. “Do we have somewhere else to be?”

Shrugging, Tobin jams her hands in her pockets. She’s trying to look nonchalant again, yet Christen can see her fidgeting. Tobin, who’s never been the greatest about punctuality but who has somehow timed everything perfectly today. Christen doesn’t have the heart to mess it up now.

“You lead,” she says, like she’s ever been able to resist, before insisting, “It’s a Tobin-day after all.”

They’re facing each other this time so Christen gets the full force of Tobin’s pleased grin. “I like Tobin-days,” is the smug declaration.

Christen rolls her eyes but agrees, “Me too. Even if this feels more like a Christen-day.”

Tobin doesn’t deny it. Instead, she hums, “Chris-days are pretty special, too. Maybe we should call it a Tobin-and-Chris-day.”

“Why does your name go first?” Christen grumbles before they pile into the descending elevator.

They debate the merits of alphabetization all the way to the next stop. Tobin’s tired of pretty much always coming last when it’s based off first names, but Christen points out that she’s at an advantage when it comes to last names, which it usually does. They compromise. If it’s supposed to be a Christen-day, then it’ll be a Christen-and-Tobin-day, and if it’s supposed to be a Tobin-day, then it’ll be a Tobin-and-Christen-day.

Christen’s so pleased with the resolution to this inane little debate that she doesn’t really notice what restaurant Tobin leads them into. Tobin’s talking to the hostess when she recognizes the interior, but only from pictures. It’s been on her bucket list forever, but she’s never on this side of the country, and they require reservations months in advance if you don’t want to eat at really strange times. Someone appears to check their coats, and she’s suddenly glad for the cold weather keeping them and just about everyone else in bulky sweaters so it’s hard to run afoul of the dress code. Practically in a trance, Christen follows Tobin and the hostess into the dining room.

“Tobin,” she hisses after they’re seated at a cozy but not too intimate table.

“What?” Tobin blinks like this is a perfectly normal occurrence, like there’s nothing remarkable about their surroundings. Then she smiles, dropping the act entirely. “Are you surprised? I do listen to you, you know?”

“I know you listen,” Christen insists, but Tobin rolls her eyes. They both know she’s done more than enough to earn her reputation of being distracted and forgetful. “But don’t you think this is a little over the top?”

Stubbornly, Tobin shakes her head and sets her attention on the menu. “No. I don’t think anything’s over the top as long as you’re having a good time.”

“Tobin.” This time, Christen says her name softly, almost reverently, and the change in tone causes her best friend to glance up cautiously. “I’m with you. I’m having the best time.”

That breaks the tension. Tobin smiles and declares she’s starved and ordering half the menu, and Christen puts her own aside. She knows Tobin well enough to know that it’s more truth than exaggeration.

“It’s her birthday,” is the first thing out of Tobin’s mouth when the waiter appears.

Shaking her head, Christen immediately denies it. “It’s not. Please don’t sing.”

The waiter sends her a reassuring smile as Tobin explains, “Technically, it’s in, like, a week, but we won’t be together so we’re celebrating early.”

“That’s sweet,” the waiter starts. He opens his mouth to say more, eyes their hands, which Christen just realizes are joined across the table, and seems to reconsider when she carefully yet casually disengages their interlocked fingers. Without making an assumption either way, he says, “The chef is always happy to prepare a little something special.”

Before she can turn him down, Tobin replies with a quick, “Awesome. Appreciate that.” Then she’s relaying her order, which, true to her word, seems to be half the menu. Tobin’s faking outrage but doesn’t actually complain after Christen hands over her menu with a simple, “We’re sharing.”

He leaves them with a nod and a puzzled look over his shoulder before seemingly shaking himself back into professionalism. Christen does her best to pretend not to see it. She doesn’t need to spend any more time imagining what they (almost) look like.

Christen’s still savoring her birthday dessert, a deconstructed something that’s as delicious as it is unexplainable, when Tobin asks, “Did it work?”

Her eyebrows are raised as she looks up to see Tobin taking a deep breath. She’s about to ask the obvious follow-up but she’s beaten to it.

“Did today make you fall for me?”

Christen’s breath catches. It’s such a simple question, a plain, bare phrasing of what’s been happening to her for years. She is falling—has already fallen—for her best friend with no way out in sight, and her only coping mechanism has been to steadfastly ignore everything. She can’t believe this is how it’s going to come to light, with Tobin just bluntly putting it out there.

The world tilts, the lights shine too bright, the other diners talk too loud. Nothing is right anymore as Christen tries to form a response that doesn’t implode their friendship. It’s an impossible task, and she’s going to wreck everything.

Then she sees it.

Tobin’s goofy little grin.

The one that says she’s pleased with herself because she pulled off such a good “Gotcha!”

Tobin’s just joking about— 

Christen wracks her brain and comes up with the lame pick up line from early in the morning—feels like a lifetime ago now—after her fall. It’s just a callback reference. There’s no need for her to spill her guts and then to apologize for spilling her guts and ruining their friendship.

“Ha,” Christen finally replies, voice shaky, “You’re such a comedienne. We’re lucky I didn’t bust my head open on the sidewalk.”

Tobin’s grin falters, just a little, before she sighs, “Cheney did tell me to send you back in one piece.”

“Well if Cheney told you...” Christen manages a fond smile for their favorite—and only—mom friend of the group. 

Her smile fading entirely, Tobin nods and goes back to picking at her own dessert. Christen does, too, with a sigh of relief. That whole exchange was far too close for comfort.

Finally, stuffed and a little wine-drunk and more than ready for sleep, they order a car back to the hotel. Tobin’s mom downsized after all the kids left the nest, and neither of them wanted to bother her about putting them up, especially with so many other family members slated to visit. Tobin falls asleep on top of the covers and passes out so hard, Christen spends five minutes trying to wake her to no avail. Giving up, she gets herself ready for bed and sets multiple alarms, conscientious of their early plans with Tobin’s family.

Thankfully, nothing else really happens. A couple days later, Christen flies back to LA alone, while Tobin finishes out the week in New Jersey, to celebrate Christmas with their respective families. The separation is good, she tells herself, for distance and perspective and coming to grips with reality.

She cannot possibly be in love with her best friend. Her best friend is not in love with her. They’re just platonic life partners.

(One of those feels more like a lie than the others.)

They don’t see each other again until the day after Christen’s birthday. She spent the day with her family and a few close friends and a hole in her heart she’s refusing to acknowledge. Still, her world seems to reorient—tilt back onto its axis and spin just the right way again—the moment she spies Tobin sitting outside their favorite coffee shop.

“Chris!” Tobin leaps up and grabs her in the tightest hug ever, “Merry Christmas! Happy birthday!”

Christen laughs, bouncing slightly in Tobin’s arms. “Those already happened. And you said that already.”

“Wasn’t in person, doesn’t count,” Tobin retorts. 

It’s their usual exchange since they never get to spend those two occasions together. One day, Tobin’s sworn, but Christen doubts that. She knows how important Christmas with her family is to Tobin, and the nightmare of holiday travel after never works in their favor.

“So what do you want to do for our Chris-and-Tobin-day?”

The question forces Christen back to the present and the time they do have to spend together.

“Coffee,” she ticks off a finger as Tobin hums a knowing, “Of course.”

Her forehead scrunches while she tries to remember what she sort of but not really planned for the day. Maybe it was too much embracing her inner chill, and she should have written it down. “Beach, obviously, maybe tacos for lunch, some football, a bookstore or something?”

“Wow,” Tobin grins, “No time restrictions? You sound like me.”

Rolling her eyes, Christen retorts, “I thought that was the point. You pulled off a pretty good impersonation of me last week.”

Unexpectedly, Tobin blushes and stares down at the ground. “That was a good day, huh?”

“A perfect day,” Christen corrects, reaching for Tobin’s hand for a quick squeeze, “Don’t know how I’ll make it up to you but might as well start with coffee.”

Tobin’s smile is suddenly a little stiff, but Christen chalks it up to the early hour on a weekend and the cross-country traveling she’s been doing. Without really thinking, she brushes a light kiss against Tobin’s temple for comfort before heading inside to place their usual orders. Her blush doesn’t develop until she’s in line, but then she’s scolding herself to be normal because they’re going to be together all day, doing not much of anything but enjoying each other’s company.

It’s about the millionth time they’ve done this. She can’t be weird about it now. Not when they’ve always been excellent at tuning out everything but the other, and today should be no different.

They linger over their coffees. And they linger on the beach, occasionally darting in and out of the cold surf. And they linger by Tobin’s favorite taco truck. And they linger at the pitch after retrieving a ball from her trunk. And they linger in a small bookstore until the clerk nearly turns the lights off on them.

The day’s just what Christen needs to recalibrate and settle back into their normal dynamic. Tobin’s her best friend, and she definitely loves her but she can’t possibly be in love with her. So says her new favorite mantra.

When they go to part ways, she wraps her arms tightly around Tobin’s shoulders, breathing easy for what seems like the first time since that dinner. She’s got her face buried against Tobin’s soft hair and Tobin’s arms wound around her waist, clinging just as tightly, and this might be one of her favorite places in the world.

“Thanks for spending the day with me,” she murmurs, barely loud enough to be heard over the evening traffic. 

“Nowhere I’d rather be,” Tobin responds, soft and genuine, her own voice slightly jumbled from where her lips are pressed against Christen’s head.

They’re quiet and cuddled for a moment longer then, to her disappointment, Tobin pulls back first, kissing her cheek carefully. 

“Happy birthday again. Thank Stacy and BD for me.” Her confusion must be obvious because Tobin laughs, “I mean, you’re, like, my favorite person ever, and if weren’t for them—”

“Oh, ew! Tobin!” Christen scrunches her nose and whacks at her arm, “Gross! No one wants to think about that.”

“What?” Tobin’s still laughing, “I’m just saying they did a good job raising you.”

“You’re the worst. I’m leaving,” she mumbles, flinging a careless wave over her shoulder. Tobin’s laughter and a shouted, “See you tomorrow!” follows her down the sidewalk.

Tradition demands it.

Over the years, their New Year’s Eve celebrations evolved from dive bars with fake IDs to clubs with bottle service to living rooms with Dick Clark. The attendees varied through life’s ebbs and flows—Christen herself missed a few years while over in Sweden—but generally absences were the exception and not the rule. If someone was remotely in the area, anything less than a three-hour drive counted, then they were expected to show.

Between her family obligations and heavy traffic, Christen almost doesn’t make it. 

Ten minutes to midnight and with a bottle of champagne in each hand, she doles out a round of hugs to everyone already gathered in Ali and Ashlyn’s living room. She heads for the kitchen to quickly set down her not-quite belated contributions and damn near walks in on Tobin and Allie having a heated conversation. The polite thing would be to leave, but something in the universe urges her to stay so Christen plasters herself against the wall next to the entryway, barely daring to turn her head enough to see them.

“What do you mean nothing?” Allie asks, all frantically gesticulating arms.

Tobin is much less animated, nearly curled in on herself, when she mumbles, “I don’t know. It’s like she doesn’t get it.”

“How?” Allie stresses in an almost wail, “You planned, like, her perfect day. And then she planned your perfect day. If Bati put that much effort into how we spend our time together—”

With a frustrated groan, Tobin swipes a hand down her face. “Can we just not— Practically everyone’s here. Can you not make a scene about this right now? We should get back out there anyway.”

Allie ignores her, gestures with her beer bottle to emphasize her point. “Fuck, Harry. Drag her under some mistletoe. Ali’s got to have some still around, right? Kiss her at midnight, or whenever she gets here. Just fuck it. Lay it all out. You’ve got nothing to lose at this point.”

Tobin’s glare is more defeated than aggravated. “Nothing but my best friend. Yeah, I’m in love with her but I’m not going to mess that up. It’ll snow in LA before that happens.”

“What the hell are you doing, Christen? It’s almost midnight!”

She jumps and jerks her head around to find Pinoe staring at her in confusion. A few feet away, Tobin and Allie have gone suspiciously silent, except for a quiet, “Oh, shit,” that Christen is pretty sure belongs to Allie.

“Uh. Nothing. I mean, I know. Just— Here,” she mumbles in quick succession before shoving the champagne bottles at Pinoe. There’s no time to panic or think things through. Christen darts into the kitchen, ignores Allie’s look of shock, and grabs Tobin by the hand to pull her into the backyard.

The second they’re around the corner from the sliding glass doors, Tobin starts feebly, “Christen, I can explain. I think.”

Their friends start the countdown inside, the shouting filtering into the night through a nearby open window. A neighbor’s turned on the snow machine on their roof, and white flakes float on the breeze to dust over them. The setting’s almost too perfect, too cliché, but she shouldn’t have expected anything less from this week.

“Don’t bother,” Christen cuts her off, shaking her head. 

She backs Tobin against the wall, stares her down for just a second so there’s no mistaking her intentions, murmurs, “Kind of in love with you, too,” for absolute clarity, and kisses her to a chorus of, “One!”

Tobin breaks away too soon, panting more from surprise than a lack of oxygen. Then she looks up at the falling (fake) snow and laughs, startled and joyful. She reels Christen back in, taking care to brush some flakes out of her curls. “Love you so much. I’m in love with you,” is Tobin’s quiet, confident declaration before they’re kissing again.

It happens just like in a movie, one of those made-for-TV, Hallmark Channel ones, but better somehow.