Work Text:
Snow blankets the streets outside St Bart’s. Snowflakes sparkle golden in the lamplight. His hands curve around the prickly, stiff leaves in his pocket.
She appears, small and cautious. He steps out of the shadows when he sees her.
“Greg,” says Molly, eyes wide. “I – ah – sorry?”
“You left quickly.” The sharp leaves prick his fingers.
“Yes, well.” Molly fidgets. “I suppose…not going to Dorset after all?”
“Nah.” He studies her. “Probably better. To know the truth. Isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” says Molly, and then shakes her head. “No. Not with everyone looking, judging… they must think I’m a fool.”
“If anyone’s the fool,” says Greg, “it’s me.”
“Loving your wife isn’t foolish.”
“Loving someone who doesn’t love me back, you mean?”
“I’d know,” says Molly wryly, with a bit of a laughing sob.
Greg closes his hand around the object in his pocket. “I think I’m going to do something colossally foolish.”
“Oh?”
Greg pulls the mistletoe from his pocket and lays it flat on his palm, showing her. “What do you think? Fools together?”
Molly’s eyes dart from the mistletoe to Greg’s face, and back again. “Oh.”
Greg kisses her. Her lips are hot and soft, and she leans into him, warm and small and safe. Smiles form on their lips, and the mistletoe drops, forgotten, to the ground below.