Chapter Text
December 31, 2004
“Darling, the window is drafty again,” Camilla calls over her shoulder, vaguely aware of his movements over in the corner furthest away from the fireplace. Her eyes sweep over the room, mentally noting the small patch of wax that has dripped onto the hardwood floor from the candle perched next to the bottle of wine they’re saving for midnight. “Will you close it tighter?”
Charles puts his book down on the end table and looks toward her, seeing her curled up in a chair pulled as near to the fire as possible, wrapped in a thick woolen blanket, her nose already buried back between the pages. She’s layered herself in jumpers and at least two pairs of socks. He, on the other hand, has rolled his sleeves to his elbows and considers offloading the jumper all together as he walks toward the offending window. All day he’s been in an endless war with his nerves. This, in turn, has made him feel even warmer than usual, a soft rosy tint rouging his cheeks. She looks up when he passes in front of her, then looks him up and down as he pushes his body weight on the window a few times, grunting with dissatisfaction when it bounces back up slightly instead of staying down. She smiles as she watches him, but her smile turns to a playful shriek as he suddenly thrusts the window up. A blast of cold air rushes in and he pauses a bit longer than necessary before slamming the pane closed with the force of his entire body. He looks back at her and laughs as he finds the lock latch and jams it shut. “Sorry, Darling, it was really the only way.”
“It’s so cold now I may freeze to death,” she announces dramatically, pulling at the blanket.
“Is that so?”
“Mmhmm,” she answers back, fixing her mouth into a little pout as she watches him step over to her, balancing himself on the arm of her chair.
Looking at her like this reminds him of an old Polaroid he’s kept for ages. Yet she hasn’t changed at all since he took it decades ago - decades ago almost to the day. It was after a New Years Eve party. The quality isn’t great but he can faintly make out the glitter on the floor and, in the background, some other girls with their shoes off carrying them out toward the lobby. She’s in the centre of the frame, hair slightly tousled, bending to one side, fixing her own heel, looking up at him with the same little pout of feigned indignation. In the past, he always liked to hold on to the memories, to bring them back when he needed them. Now, though, they don’t hurt; not when they can both hold on to the memories and hold on to each other.
“Would I be charged with your murder if you froze to your chair here in Scotland” he asks finally, aware he’d been lost in his thoughts, afraid she’d noticed.
“The press would likely blame your family for my demise. Perhaps not blame, that’s not quite the correct word. They’d likely praise their work, real or imagined. That problem sorted. I can picture the headlines now. Mirror would lead with ‘Her Body Found As Stiff And Cold As His Mother’s Disapproval.’”
“Stop, Darling. I don’t want to joke about it anymore,” his voice is soft. He’s always been more sensitive than her.
“Ok,” she replies just as softly, matching his tone and pulling him down to her. There isn’t room for them both to sit side by side, so she gets up a little and, once he’s settled down fully in the chair, sits in the tiny crook left over. She loops her legs over his, their bodies aligning perfectly, each filling out the empty spaces of the other. “Darling, are you ok?” She looked up at him, squinting into his eyes. She can tell when he’s not, and when he’s not telling her the truth.
“What are you reading?” He asks instead of answering, although he already knows. He just likes hearing her voice and wants to change the topic.
She doesn’t push it. Instead, she decides to go where he wants to take them.
“ Falling . I already read it when it was new. Do you remember?” She doesn’t pause long enough for him to answer. “It was a few years ago now. This one was based loosely on her life.”
“You read too many books for me to keep track. Now I assume if it’s been published within the past year you’ve read it,” he teases, squeezing her side with the hand he has wrapped around her.
“ITV finished filming, they’re making it a film for the next year.” She leans her head on his shoulder and pulls her blanket around her tighter before continuing. “It’s the one about the gardener who falls in love with the writer. Then he makes her fall in love with him. In the end it comes out he’s a trickster but at that point it’s too late and they’re too dependent on each other.”
“How does he make her fall in love?”
“He does her gardening at her country home.”
“That so?”
“Then he writes her letters.”
“Does he? Clever idea, that.”
“Then he does all the things she doesn’t want to do.”
“And this makes him a trickster?”
“Yes.”
“Darling, this all sounds familiar.”
“He has nefarious reasons behind his deeds.”
“Nefarious letter writing?”
“Don’t forget the gardening. That’s quite sexy you know. When a very fit man gets sweaty and dirty,” she looks up at him innocently, making him smile and shake his head. “You do all that without nefarious reasons, I’m sure.”
He tilts his head down to kiss her forehead before adding, “I’m glad you don’t consider my affections nefarious.”
“Desirous and nefarious are different things, my darling. Besides, she doesn’t know he’s a trickster until her friends tell her.” She pauses for her own effect before continuing. “My friends gave up trying to convince me to back out of this long ago,” she finishes, deadpanned in her delivery, tightening her grip and holding on to him a bit tighter. “Look, darling,” she lifts her hand to point at the fireplace before placing it back around him, “the smoke is giving off a lavender haze.”