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It was Christmas Eve, and the rules had been - if not set aside entirely - at least bent a little for the afternoon. Alex’s boss Shaw called him and Florence, the only other worker in their section, together at three pm and very solemnly poured them each a small glass of port, wished them a Merry Christmas, and told them they might leave MI14 early today to spend time with their loved ones. Florence winked at Alex, before taking a sip of the port. Alex did the same and forgot how to breathe for several seconds. He didn’t know the provenance of the port, but it had the punch of paint stripper going down his throat.
“Put hairs on your chest,” Shaw said with unexpected cheerfulness.
“Thank you,” Alex said hoarsely. It felt like someone had eviscerated Alex's vocal chords.
“Want some more?”
“No, thank you,” Alex wheezed.
Florence, who was stepping out with a Canadian pilot now and keen to make use of the early finish to spend as much time with him as possible while he was on leave, left first, but Alex wasn’t far behind. He had an errand to run, and he’d been intending to ask Shaw if he could leave early anyway: this way, he wouldn’t have to hurry.
The weather was cold, but not unpleasantly so. Bundled up in his coat, Alex made his way through the streets. There were plenty of people out and about in this, the third winter of the war, but most of them were heading home. The darkened streets, thick with the tang of coal dust and smoke, weren’t the most pleasant place to spend time. Alex would have gone straight home, but he had to make a detour first, to a small watchmaker near Regent Street. The bus was crowded, almost unpleasantly so, but Alex was in a good mood and he wasn’t going to let it bother him.
He’d found the shop a few weeks ago, almost by chance, and it seemed like fate, so Alex hadn’t hesitated to put down a first payment. It was a lot of money: Alex only got paid seven pounds a week at the War Office and, while he’d extracted a bonus of sorts from Marfont for the work he was doing for the SOE, it still wasn’t much. Fortunately, he didn’t have many expenses either. The club was doing well and Yassen’s earnings from it more than covered the rent and housekeeping of their flat. Alex had no idea what Yassen thought he was doing with his wages, but he’d find out soon enough.
Errand complete, and with his new purchase in his pocket, Alex headed home. The flat was a haven of warmth after the cold outside. Alex took off his coat and scarf and followed the smell of cooking to the kitchen, where Yassen was stirring a pot on the stove and listening to the radio. He turned when Alex entered the room, smiling.
“You are home early.”
“Well, I have to take advantage of you not being at work,” Alex countered. He moved closer, leaning in for a kiss.
“Ah, do I not give you enough attention, Alex?” Yassen breathed, pulling Alex close. After all this time, Alex still wasn’t used to how good it felt to be held by Yassen like this. He hoped he never would be, that he’d never forget how lucky he was.
“You can make it up to me over Christmas,” he teased. “What’s for dinner?”
Yassen disengaged with evident reluctance. “Beef Bourguignon.”
“Fancy.” Alex was more of an open-the-tin-heat-it-up type of cook, but he appreciated the effort Yassen put in to make their meals more nutritious.
“It will be. There is some wine, if you would like a glass.”
From the club, of course, although not something obtained from his suppliers. The club had grown more popular over the last couple of months, and Alex knew Yassen bartered with some of the wealthier patrons for the high-value tables next to the dance floor. Alex had found himself the owner of several pairs of good quality pre-war socks, a luxurious wool scarf, and even a new walking stick, thanks to Yassen’s dealings.
“It’s not port, is it?” he asked dubiously.
“Château Ausone 1926. A Bordeaux, and a very good year. It will go well with the beef.”
Alex accepted a glass and went for a wash and to change out of his work clothes. It didn’t feel like Christmas Eve. It didn’t feel like Christmas at all, just a normal Thursday evening. Really, he thought, it was his first proper Christmas in the 1940s, since last year he’d been too ill to experience any of it. They didn’t have a tree or any decorations in the flat. No one had any lights up, although there had been some carol singers on Regent Street.
By the time he was done, Yassen had dinner served up, and they ate in comfortable silence, the radio on in the background so they could listen to the news. It was only afterwards, when they had cleared away the plates, that Yassen turned off the radio.
“I know it is not yet Christmas Day,” he said. “But I thought you would like your Christmas present.”
“Only if I get to give you yours first,” Alex countered. The small package was in his pocket, its weight a constant reminder.
Yassen looked surprised, but pleased. “You do not have to buy me a present,” he said.
“Obviously.” Alex rolled his eyes at the older man. Yet he wasn’t going to make an issue of it. The wine had been very good, as Yassen had promised, and it felt like a night where they should be kind to each other. “I haven’t been able to wrap it but, here.”
Yassen took the small box from Alex’s hand, a quizzical expression on his face. Opening it, he stared for a moment before lifting out the gold pocket watch Alex had bought for him.
“It’s a Patek Phillipe. Made a couple of years ago, obviously,” Alex said. “I know pocket watches are going out of style, but I thought it’d suit you.”
The watch had cost him over a hundred pounds but, as far as Alex was concerned, it was worth every penny. He watched Yassen turn the watch over in his hands, examining it carefully.
“The future is still unwritten,” Yassen said quietly, reading the inscription on the back.
Yassen had told him that, twelve months ago.
“It’s true,” Alex said.
Yassen nodded. When he looked at Alex, it was with such intensity Alex was momentarily rendered speechless. Not anger that Alex had bought something so expensive for him, more startlement, as if Yassen didn’t know how much Alex valued him.
“Do I get a present?” Alex asked, hoping to lighten the mood.
It worked, as he’d hoped it would. Yassen set the pocket watch down on the table very carefully, and retrieved a flat, square parcel from behind the bookcase. Alex ripped off the brown paper wrapping to reveal a gramophone record: Ella Fitzgerald’s Make Love To Me.
“Thank you,” Alex said sincerely. He was, he decided, not going to ask whether Yassen had purchased it legitimately. It didn't matter.
“I thought you would like that,” Yassen said. He looked more relaxed, but he kept touching the watch with his finger.
“I do. Thank you.”
The silence between them was suddenly awkward, in a way it had not been for a long time. Alex pushed himself out of his chair to kiss Yassen again, a kiss that wasn’t driven by desperation or mindless need but rather the desire to be close, to reassure both of them that this was what mattered. He felt the tension in Yassen’s body under his lips and hands, but the kiss was restorative and, by the time they parted, the awkwardness had passed.
“It’s going to be 1942 soon,” Alex said. “I think I’m going to make a New Year’s resolution not to get mixed up in anything stupidly dangerous.”
“You will break that resolution by February,” Yassen said dryly.
Alex glared at him, but Yassen was already moving across the room to the gramophone. Alex’s anger dissipated when he realised what Yassen was doing.
They turned the lights off and danced together in their flat the way they never could in public, swaying in each other’s arms in front of the gas fire, losing themselves in the music and in the moment. Eighteen months ago, Alex would never have imagined himself like this, living this life he had found for himself, but it felt good and it felt right for the place they were in. The two of them had been cast adrift in time, separated from all they had been before, yet tonight was a reminder that they had a shared future stretching before them to be written anew. A future where their pasts didn’t matter at all.
It was, Alex thought as he drifted in Yassen’s arms, letting Ella Fitzgerald’s voice wash over him, the best Christmas he could remember for a long time.
Before the mood that I'm in changes
Make love to me
Make love to me, my darling
I'm so in love with you