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“Hathaway.” James glances up from the letter of complaint he’s been composing. DI Mitchell, of course. The man was never going to take what James said lying down.
He summons his best bland expression. “Sir.”
“Don’t you bloody dare try any of your cheek with me.” Mitchell’s not shouting, but that would only bring unwanted attention, of course. He’s keeping his voice down, but the tone’s harsh all the same, with the clear attempt to intimidate. “Lewis might let you get away with insubordination, but I’m not Lewis and I insist on proper respect from juniors.”
And he genuinely wasn’t trying to be sarky. What’s the point? There’s a far better method of handling the incident. “Yes, sir.”
Mitchell comes closer, until he’s looming over James. “I will not put up with your interference in my management of a crime scene. You were not only completely out of order, you also undermined my authority. And that’s before I take into account how you spoke to me.” Mitchell leans down, resting his palms on James’s desk, and he’s so close now James is being hit by his spittle. “I’ll have you back patrolling the streets in uniform, Hathaway, and that’s a promise.”
He can’t do that. Innocent wouldn’t – Lewis wouldn’t stand for it, would he? All the same, James can feel his heart pounding, and the throbbing in his leg is getting worse.
Lewis wouldn’t. Would he? Not that he’s around to do anything. Lewis is in Manchester until after New Year, spending Christmas with his daughter and her partner. He left yesterday evening after work, having taken ten days off – unheard–of for his workaholic boss, but Lewis has been looking weary lately, and of course the anniversary of his wife’s death was less than a week ago.
If Mitchell follows through on his threat, James could phone Lewis, but he won’t. He can’t disturb the man while he’s having a much–needed break with his family. He’s got his own complaint against Mitchell. Innocent would take that into account, wouldn’t she?
“And if you’re misguided enough to think Lewis would lift a finger to stop it, think again. You’re already on very thin ice after lying to him on that Phoenix case.” Mitchell’s face distorts into ugly fury. “You’re damn lucky he didn’t have you demoted and transferred after that. I would have.”
How the hell does Mitchell know about that? Lewis wouldn’t have told anyone. There’s absolutely no doubt in James’s mind about that. His boss is genuine and trustworthy to his bones. As far as James knew, Lewis hadn’t even told Innocent that James had lied. He’d come up with some plausible explanation about why James had been a target, without giving away the entire shameful truth. And – or so James had believed – Lewis had forgiven him.
But has he really? Maybe that distance James has noticed over the last couple of weeks wasn’t only because of the approaching anniversary. Maybe Lewis hasn’t been able to forgive and forget. Maybe James has bollocksed things up completely and lost Lewis’s trust entirely. And if he has, he only has himself to blame.
So be it. James can defend himself to Innocent, and he won’t involve Lewis.
He meets Mitchell’s angry glare with as calm a demeanour as he can summon. “Make your complaint, sir. I’ll be prepared to defend myself.”
Impossibly, Mitchell’s expression grows even more livid. “You arrogant fucking tosser–!”
“I’ll thank you not to speak to my sergeant like that.”
Lewis! What’s he doing here? “Sir!”
Mitchell’s head whips around. “Lewis! Thought you were away.”
Lewis advances into the office. “Yeah. I’m not. So, what are you doing here and why are you having a go at my sergeant?”
Mitchell faces Lewis, drawing himself up to his full five feet eight. “Lewis, I regret to have to tell you that I’m about to make a complaint of gross insubordination against Hathaway.”
Lewis’s eyes widen fractionally. “What’s he done?” There’s an inaudible now at the end of the question, at least in James’s head. And Lewis’s resigned, weary tone doesn’t bode well at all.
“Questioned my authority and compromised several arrests due to his arrogant belief that he knows best.”
That’s a gross distortion of what happened, so much so that it’s close to being a lie. “Sir–”
“Sergeant.” The meaning behind Lewis’s tone of voice is unmistakeable. James snaps his mouth shut. Lewis focuses his gaze on Mitchell. “Explain.”
The story emerges, but from Mitchell’s perspective. His team had had a tip–off about a ‘warehouse’ for stolen goods out near Blackbird Leys, and because they needed extra manpower James had been drafted in. He was one of the officers who’d been directed to guard the rear entrance of the abandoned shop, while Mitchell’s team were going in through the boarded–up front door.
And, according to Mitchell, James had first questioned his leadership by demanding to know why he hadn’t been issued with protective gear, and then claiming that safety considerations had been inadequately dealt with, when of course Mitchell had taken everything into account and made appropriate judgements. Hathaway challenging his authority was bad enough, but he’d done it in front of junior officers. There was no way Mitchell was going to stand for that.
“And then he let most of the suspects get away,” Mitchell finishes, tone scathing. “Tripped like a probationer on his first day.”
Tripped, my arse. But James stays silent, hands clenched tightly with the mental effort of preventing himself from objecting to Mitchell’s bullshit. He can’t see Lewis’s face, as Mitchell’s in the way, and the thought that Lewis might actually believe this is making acid rise in his throat.
“You’ve reported this to Innocent?” Lewis speaks at last, his matter–of–fact tone giving nothing away.
“Not yet, but I will be.”
Lewis steps around Mitchell, heading for his own desk. “Best get on with it, then.” His tone is so casual he’s almost flippant, and James can’t read him at all. Does Lewis genuinely not care what happens?
But Mitchell reacts as if he’s been insulted. “Should have known you wouldn’t take it seriously, Lewis. You’ve always been too soft on that waste of space.” He shakes his head, lips twisted, and stalks from the office, slamming the door behind him.
James turns around slowly to face his boss. “Sir.” He’s trying hard not to chew his fingernail.
“Right.” Lewis drops into his chair and pushes his monitor aside so he’s got a clear view of James. “Now tell me what really happened.”
What really happened. Not your version of events. And it’s obvious from Lewis’s expression that he’s not impressed with what he’s heard so far. Breath silently whooshes out of James as he takes in the fact that Lewis did not immediately believe the worst of him. Even better, he’s taking for granted that Mitchell’s version isn’t accurate.
James takes a deep breath. “I discovered, en route to the scene, that Mitchell was stationing just two of us at the rear entrance: besides me, a probationer, PC Lane, who’d only been on the job two weeks.” Lewis’s eyes widen. “No personal protective clothing or equipment was provided, despite the fact that we had reason to believe that the suspects were capable of violence.”
“What, not even a stab vest?” It’s oddly reassuring that Lewis is clearly outraged, even though James had been certain that he would be.
“Only PC Lane’s truncheon.”
“Fat lot of good that’d be against – how many?”
“We were told there could be as many as four or five suspects. In the end, there were four. Anyway,” James continues, “While we were still in the van, en route, I said I strongly believed that we should have protective equipment and that two of us at the back entrance was not enough. Mitchell... took exception to my tone, apparently.”
Lewis raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t happen to get all cleverclogs with him, did you, by any chance?”
James feels himself flush. “I... may have been a bit less than deferential.”
A smile twitches at Lewis’s lips. “So, no different from normal, then. Can’t help yourself sometimes, can you? Doesn’t matter, though,” he adds, a forceful note creeping into his voice. “You had every right to raise your concerns – an’ as far as I’m concerned, everything you said was right. So–” He leans back in his chair, but James isn’t fooled that Lewis’s demeanour is casual in the least. “What happened?”
“Pretty much what you’d expect.” James curls his lip. “The suspects came out the back and rushed Lane and me. She got knocked over – she’s fine, I made sure she was checked at the scene, but she could have been seriously injured. And, because the two of us were an entirely inadequate defence, all but one of the suspects got away.”
“One didn’t?” The question’s apparently casual, but James knows Lewis well.
He shrugs. “I tripped him up and was able to cuff him. The others were gone before the rest of Mitchell’s team got out the back door.”
“Right.” Lewis is tapping a pen on his desk. “One more thing, before I see Innocent.” He looks straight across, meeting Hathaway’s gaze with a sober, reassuring expression. “Just so you know, Hathaway, I don’t know how Mitchell knows anything about the Phoenix case. It didn’t come from me. And, so we’re clear, that’s water under the bridge. Has been since the fire.”
“I...” James’s throat is dry. “I knew you hadn’t said anything. Wouldn’t have.” He shrugs in an attempt to appear untroubled. “Other people must have known.”
“Yeah.” Lewis gets to his feet. “There’s more gossip flies around this place than on Facebook.” James blinks. Is Lewis actually on Facebook? Surely not.
And then it dawns on him where Lewis is going. “You don’t need to see Innocent, sir. I’m making a complaint–”
Lewis pauses by his desk. “Make your complaint. You should. I’m making one as well. I won’t stand for anyone bein’ reckless about officers’ safety, or bullying my bagman.”
James’s eyes widen. Out of sheer habit – his boss is standing, so he shouldn’t be sitting – he gets to his feet. And instantly groans as burning pain shoots up his left leg.
“What the–?” Lewis is instantly steadying him, pushing him back into his chair, and shoving up James’s trouser–leg to inspect the damage. The white bandage James had wrapped around the wound himself – now stained crimson with blood.
“Explain.” Lewis’s voice is taut with suppressed rage.
James sighs. “One of the suspects had a knife. Well, more than one might have. The one I tried to stop stabbed me. He got away, but I managed to stop his accomplice.”
Lewis is shaking his head. “This wasn’t put on by a medic.” He points to the bandage. “Did you even have a tetanus jab?”
“I’m already current. Didn’t need to sit for hours in A&E.” James tries to roll down his trouser–leg. “I’m fine.”
“Bollocks.” Lewis stands and marches out of the room. In under a minute, he’s back, one of the DCs in tow. Kendall, who’s almost as tall as James and considerably brawnier. “Right. Hathaway, Kendall’s taking you over to the JR. I’m off to see Innocent. I’ll deal with you later.”
Three hours later, James is finally allowed to leave the cubicle he’s been in for the last ninety minutes. He’s collected a pain–killing injection, five stitches and a brand–new bandage on his thigh, as well as an NHS cane which he’s been strongly advised to use for the next few days. Oh, and no driving, and no alcohol either until the course of painkillers he’s been prescribed is finished. And, to cap it all, no work until at least Boxing Day, the doctor insisted.
He was fortunate, he’s been told. The knife only penetrated an inch or so into his leg, and didn’t hit an artery or any tendons. Still bloody hurts.
He’s scrolling through his phone as he limps into the waiting area, looking for a taxi number, when a familiar voice assaults him. “Oi!”
Lewis. Here? Yet he is, getting to his feet and coming over to James. He stares at his boss. “You’re supposed to be in Manchester.” Lewis just raises both eyebrows, the gesture itself sufficient comment on James’s idiocy. “Sorry. Painkillers.”
“The good sort, eh?” Lewis grins, clearly finding this highly amusing. “Come on. Car’s outside.”
He follows Lewis out, walking awkwardly with the cane; his head’s spinning with the conviction that none of this makes sense. “Why are you here, sir?”
Lewis holds the door open for him. “Wounded in the line of duty, weren’t you? Had to make sure you’re taken care of and got home safely. Unless you’d’ve preferred a uniform car?”
James shudders. Far too much fuss for his liking. It occurs to him, as he follows Lewis to where his Vectra’s parked, that somehow Lewis being here doesn’t feel like fuss.
Lewis sees him safely stowed in the car and starts the engine. “Didn’t go to Manchester.”
“Well, yes, I have accumulated sufficient detective skills over the years to deduce that, sir.”
Lewis isn’t looking at him. “It’s the time of year. Can’t face bein’ sociable.”
It’s not that James has no experience of bereavement; after all, it’s only a few years since his mother died, not too far distant from Lewis’s wife’s death. What he hasn’t is experience of the kind of bereavement that leaves one paralysed, unable to function for a time, and then unable to understand how the world can continue as if nothing has changed. That’s how it is for Lewis, and has been as long as James has known him.
“I’m sure your daughter understands.” It’s the closest he can come to expressing sympathy. He has no right to, and Lewis wouldn’t appreciate it anyway.
The shoulder closest to James lifts and falls. “Not sure she does, but she said it doesn’t matter. I’ll go up for a weekend around the start of the year.” James nods. “Saw Innocent.” The change of subject is abrupt, but not surprising. Lewis hates dwelling, and hates others seeing him do it even more. “Mitchell had already bent her ear, but she wasn’t happy with him by the time I’d finished. She wants your written complaint on her desk as soon as you’re cleared to be back at work, an’ she’s planning to speak to Lane as well.”
James releases a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “So I won’t face a disciplinary hearing?”
A faint smile alters Lewis’s face from grumpy to amused. “Told her if Mitchell insisted on it I’d round up every member of today’s task force to get enough evidence to have him up on charges. Reckless endangerment of fellow officers, to start with.”
So much for Mitchell claiming that Lewis wouldn’t defend him. Both James and Mitchell should have known better. “What do you think will happen?”
Lewis turns into James’s street. “Blatant disregard of official procedures, especially those concerning officer safety, and two officers hurt, one requiring hospital treatment? I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. She’ll give him a bollocking, definitely, and I’m guessing a letter in his file. No chance of him making DCI in the near future. Shame, that.” Lewis grins wickedly. “Always been an ambitious bloke, Mitchell.”
James will take all of that – and the knowledge that Mitchell will be on Lewis’s shit–list for a long time to come.
“Sure you’re all right?” Lewis asks ten minutes later, having seen James into his flat and made him a cuppa and a sandwich.
“Absolutely, sir. It’s really not as bad as it looks, and it’s not as if I have stairs to climb here.”
Lewis nods. “All right, then. But if I hear you’ve shown your face in the nick tomorrow...” James gives him his best wouldn’t dream of it expression. “Happy Christmas, man.”
James returns the sentiment, and then Lewis is gone. And, even though James’s leg is still throbbing despite the painkillers, and the fact that he now has nothing to do tomorrow, he’s feeling happier than he has in weeks.
In the morning, James’s thigh is on fire with pain – worse than when he overdid it with rowing and inflamed the iliotibial band in his knee. A couple of painkillers, together with coffee and a cigarette, help a bit, and he’s just debating getting a taxi to go to Mass when his phone rings.
Lewis’s name shows on the screen. “Sir! Is there a callout?”
“Don’t be daft. I’m on holiday an’ you’re off sick. No, I was thinking. I’m on me own here, an’ you thought you were working so you didn’t have a chance to make other arrangements, and you can’t drive anyway. It’s not very Christmassy, but I’ve got a couple of steaks and some baking potatoes and a six–pack – want to come over to mine?”
It’s enough of a shock that he finds himself speaking before he’s fully engaged his brain. “I’m not supposed to have alcohol with the painkillers.”
Lewis snorts. “There’s probably some orange juice. Yes or no?”
“Yes,” he says immediately. “Thank you, sir.” As an afterthought, he adds with exaggerated cheek, “Shall I bring vegetables?”
“You’ll have frozen peas an’ like it. I’ll be over to pick you up in an hour.”
James grins as he puts the phone down. The invitation’s completely unexpected, and entirely welcome. A day spent with his boss, in theory, shouldn’t be his ideal way to spend Christmas Day, yet he can’t think of anything he’d like better. Even if Lewis has just issued the invitation out of pity for his injured sergeant – though James thinks that’s unlikely. Even though Lewis couldn’t face the idea of celebrating Christmas with his daughter and her partner, he probably doesn’t much like the idea of being alone for the day, either.
It’s been almost two years since he acted somewhat on impulse – informed, true, but impulse none the less – and asked Innocent to give DI Lewis first refusal. Despite a few rocky moments here and there, he’s never once regretted it, and can’t imagine having the kind of working relationship he has with Lewis if he’d been assigned to any other senior officer. It’s not just the fact that they get on well and seem to enjoy each other’s company over the odd off–duty pint, or even that he’s getting the kind of training from Lewis he’s certain he wouldn’t have had otherwise. James is well aware that he’s an oddity in the police force. He’s clever – too clever for his own good, he’s been told many times. He’s different; he often appears remote from other people, because he doesn’t share their interests, doesn’t speak their language, doesn’t share their sense of humour. He’s seen as a know–it–all and a show–off, and he knows some officers, junior and senior, believe he thinks he’s better than them.
And it’s true that there are times when he simply can’t help himself. But Lewis gets him. He rarely, if ever, minds when James contradicts him or shows off his knowledge, and more often these days Lewis is amused by it. It could be that Lewis’s experience of Morse has inured him to intellectual snobs – or that Lewis himself is more tolerant than most of his peers.
Whatever the reason that Lewis puts up with him, James will continue to be bloody grateful for it.
He runs a hand over his chin and heads off to shave, and by the time Lewis arrives he’s dressed rather more appropriately than the old jeans and sweatshirt he had been wearing, and he’s got a bottle of wine ready to take – although he’d presented Lewis with a decent bottle of Scotch a couple of days ago, he won’t go to the man’s home empty–handed.
It’s not the first time he’s been to Lewis’s flat, of course, though the first time there hasn’t been a work–related reason to bring him there, even if Lewis had invited him to stay and be sociable. Lewis himself is casually dressed. It’s rare that James has seen him out of a suit or at least a shirt; today, he’s in well–worn navy corduroys and a blue and red jumper that looks relatively new. Can’t have been a present from Lyn, since Lewis was supposed to be spending Christmas with her. Perhaps from his son?
It’s an enjoyable day, even if there are a few awkward moments along the way – when James puts his foot in it conversationally, or when Lewis goes quiet and withdrawn, with that angry–griefstricken expression that needs no explanation. But he pulls himself out of those spells quickly enough, and in the same way James’s embarrassed apologies for his faux pas are waved away.
By evening, they’re slumped side by side on Lewis’s couch, sharing a plate of sandwiches and a large bowl of Walkers cheese and onion, and watching the Doctor Who Christmas Special (Just don’t imagine I’m watchin’ the Downton bloody Abbey Special an’ all), Lewis had growled.
“That Morrissey bloke’s not bad,” Lewis comments at the end. “Wouldn’t mind if he really was the next Doctor.”
James shifts, finding a more comfortable position for his leg. It’s time for more painkillers, he realises, and reaches for his container. “I read online that his performance was influenced by some earlier Doctors: Troughton, Hartnell, Tom Baker. I’d be all right with him as long as he doesn’t channel Baker too obviously.” He pulls a face.
Lewis turns slowly to look at James, a look of absolute horror and indignation on his face. “Wash your mouth out with soap! Tom Baker was a genius as the Doctor!”
James shudders exaggeratedly. “Inspector Lewis, there are times when I really do worry about your judgement.”
Lewis swipes at his arm. “Just for that, you can make the coffee. An’ no excuses about bein’ an invalid. You were doing all right earlier when we got dinner ready.”
With a grin, James gets up and goes to put the kettle on. Lewis joins him and produces a box of mince pies and a tin of Ambrosia custard, which he claims he “just happened” to have in the cupboard. James doesn’t challenge him, but he’s got no doubt that Lewis isn’t telling him the truth. His boss was supposed to have been away for Christmas. He obviously went to the supermarket yesterday evening, and just as obviously had the intention then of inviting James over – why else buy two steaks?
He doesn’t say anything. One of the many things he’s learned about Lewis over the two years he’s worked for the man is that, while his boss is a very kind man, he really hates anyone making a fuss over something thoughtful he’s done. James still remembers the very first time he saw both of those traits: Lewis’s No skin off my nose after he’d taken the blame for the very expensive ballistics report sitting uncollected because James had got caught up in work and forgotten about it.
Instead, he’s facetious, putting his nose in the air. “I’ll make do with the custard, but everyone knows mince pies should be consumed with brandy butter.”
Lewis rolls his eyes. “Nob. You’ll have custard or nothing.” But James observes the twitch at the corner of his boss’s mouth and just grins.
It’s almost eleven by the time Lewis phones a cab for James; Lewis has had a couple of beers and can’t drive, and they’ve both agreed that sleeping on the couch isn’t the best option given James’s thigh injury.
“Thanks for coming over,” Lewis says as James is pulling his coat on. “Was nice to have company.”
“Thank you for inviting me.” He’s all formal, until a thought strikes him, and he can’t resist the impulse, facetious though it is (yet again). “We should do this every year neither of us has other commitments. A fallback date – you know, a bit like those friends in films who say they’ll marry each other if they’re both still single by a certain age.”
Lewis actually blushes. It only lasts less than a second, but James doesn’t miss it. Then the blush changes to a glare. “One of these days, Hathaway...”
A horn beeps outside; the taxi’s here. “Got to go. Goodnight, sir.” He escapes the flat before Lewis can decide to finish his threat.
The lead–up to Christmas the following year is painful for Lewis. It’s not just the usual anniversary on the 19th, but Simon Monkford’s sentencing takes place two days beforehand. He requests, and is granted, the full week from Christmas to New Year, and disappears up to Manchester for the whole time. James is working – voluntarily; he sees no point in taking time off when he has nothing in particular to do with that time. Mass is easy to fit in around his duty and even on–call hours, and it means some other officer gets to spend time with her or his family.
Lewis walks into their shared office on the second of January with just a nod and a “Morning” to James, as if he hasn’t been away at all. He doesn’t ask about James’s Christmas, and doesn’t venture any information about his own. James doesn’t ask either.
The following year, James assumes Lewis will be taking at least a couple of days and going to Manchester. He’s not, though James only finds out on the 23rd when the roster for the week is issued. He and Lewis are on duty together on the morning of Christmas Day, and then both off until the 27th.
Lewis pauses by James’s desk and gestures towards the roster. “Fancy steaks and baked spuds at mine after we’re off?”
James almost asks if that means he’s Lewis’s fallback this year, but just stops himself. “I’d be honoured, sir.”
“Don’t be daft.” Lewis taps his knuckles on James’s desk and leaves the office.
The following year, Lyn’s about a month before her due date and Lewis decides he doesn’t want to add to her stress–levels. Besides, as he tells James, he’ll be going up anyway once the baby’s born. “Steaks and spuds at mine?”
James frowns. “I’m working, sir.”
“No, you’re not.” Lewis’s tone is casual, but James knows there’s more to it than that. Somehow, Lewis has managed to ensure that James isn’t.
He brings two bottles of Lewis’s favourite wine and a boxed set of Jon Pertwee’s run as the Doctor, rush–ordered from Amazon – he’ll consider Tom Baker next year, assuming Lewis invites him again. Lewis is quietly delighted with the DVDs, and they watch all four episodes of Spearhead from Space between dinner and the Doctor Who Christmas special. Lewis isn’t all that impressed by Matt Smith’s second Christmas outing, and wants to start watching Pertwee’s second serial straight after. James ends up sleeping on the couch and, although he assumes he’ll leave after breakfast in the morning, Lewis persuades him to stay. “Not the same watching Doctor Who on my own.”
By late evening, they’ve made it through Invasion, which James agrees is one of Pertwee’s best. Back to work the next day, but Lewis insists that they’ll watch the rest of the DVDs together whenever they’re off and not doing anything else. When Lewis isn’t either visiting his daughter and grandson or spending time with Dr Hobson, James amends silently.
It’s been another unexpected but lovely Christmas, and when James finally leaves he’s certain that Lewis has enjoyed his company, too. Not as much as James has enjoyed Lewis’s, and he knows Lewis doesn’t remotely share the momentary temptation James has to lean in and kiss his boss, but that’s fine. It’s not as if he ever imagined Lewis would think of him in that light anyway.
But his boss does seem to think of him as a friend, and that’s more than James had hoped, years ago, he’d have with Lewis.
The following year, James isn’t feeling in much of a celebratory mood. Their last big investigation has still left him feeling unsettled and – as he’d put it to Lewis a few months earlier – suffering from existential flu. He knows why; had things gone differently at a certain point in his life, Silas Whittaker could have been him. He’d been lucky: scholarships that came along when he needed them, and a couple of people – priests – who’d appointed themselves mentors at crucial stages and steered him in the right direction.
He still thinks he should have been able to save Silas. Should have known the boy was in danger and either stayed with him that night or made sure that he was somewhere safe.
It’s the afternoon of Christmas Eve and Lewis has been out of the office most of the day. He strolls in an hour or so before knocking–off time, bearing two cardboard cups from Costa Coffee. Setting one on James’s desk, he perches on the edge. “Just talked to Innocent about all the extra time we’ve both put in lately. So we’ve got tomorrow off. Not Boxing Day, so we’ll have to take it easy on the booze. What d’you think?”
It’s a moment before James realises it’s another casual invitation for Christmas Day. He hadn’t been expecting it, since they were supposed to be working; he’d just intended to invite Lewis for a drink after work this evening and give him his present – the Tom Baker boxed set he’d decided on last year.
Despite Lewis’s reaction to his teasing four years earlier, it is becoming something of a tradition. But this year James isn’t certain he wants to accept. “I wouldn’t be very good company, sir.”
“Don’t be daft.” Lewis’s hand presses on his shoulder. “Won’t have you brooding on your own. If you’re gonna be miserable, you can do it at mine. You’ve put up with me doin’ the same often enough, haven’t you?”
That drags a reluctant smile from James. “All right, if you insist. But send me home if I’m too much of a wet blanket.”
Lewis stands, shaking his head. “Daft sod. Right, I’ll expect you after you’ve been to Mass, all right?” And with that, he leaves again.
It’s close to noon the following day when James presents himself on Lewis’s doorstep, a Victoria Wine bag and the wrapped DVD set in hand. Immediately Lewis opens the door, something feels different about the flat. It’s not just the Christmas music that’s playing softly, or the Christmas tree and decorations festooning Lewis’s living room. It’s the aromas emanating from the kitchen, James realises. That – and Lewis himself seems different, somehow. He can’t put his finger on how, but Lewis is.
They’re not having steaks and baked potatoes this year, apparently. It seems as if Lewis is cooking a traditional Christmas dinner. That’s definitely meat of some kind roasting in the oven, and the peelings by the sink suggest there are potatoes in there too.
Why, though? Lewis seemed perfectly happy with minimal fuss before. He’d had no interest in the trappings of Christmas – perfectly understandable in the circumstances, given the day’s closeness to the anniversary of his wife’s death. Why such a marked change this year?
“Since when can you actually cook?” he demands, eyes wide as he stares at his boss.
“Oi! I can cook. Just don’t often see the point,” Lewis protests. At James’s continued sceptical look, Lewis sighs. “Lyn sent me step–by–step instructions. I’ve just got to the gravy part–” He pulls a face. “That’s where it looks complicated.”
James sets his packages on the counter and rolls up his sleeves. “Allow me.”
Lewis grins. “With pleasure.”
Together, they work to prepare the finishing touches and get the meal on the table – which is also appropriately decorated, with a centrepiece and holly–print serviettes. “This is a bit different,” James finally points out, as Lewis still hasn’t ventured any explanation.
Lewis shrugs. “Was getting bored with steaks.”
The meal’s delicious, though James would have enjoyed it even had it tasted of sawdust. Something’s definitely different this year. It feels as if he’s not just Lewis’s fallback Christmas Day partner. He can’t help feeling that he’s actually Lewis’s preferred choice.
Which would of course be lovely on its own, but with the addition of all the effort Lewis has gone to, it’s bewilderingly thoughtful.
After dinner, they slump on the couch again, Lewis’s shoulder against his, and watch Tom Baker’s first outing as the Doctor, Lewis grumbling any time James comments – not in the least bit sarcastically – about shaky sets or Baker’s over–toothy grin. “You’re not invited to watch any more of these,” Lewis says afterwards, pulling a face.
“You wouldn’t want to watch them without me,” James counters with a confident grin.
Lewis lets out a lugubrious sigh, but doesn’t answer. After a moment, he gets up and takes their glasses to the kitchen. Frowning, James follows him. “Sir? Did I offend you?”
Pausing in the act of rinsing the glasses, Lewis looks around at James, and the intensity of his focus takes James’s breath away, though he has no idea why. “No, I wouldn’t,” Lewis says slowly, and doesn’t look away from James.
“I’m... glad.” What’s happening here? He’s staring back at Lewis, unable to look away, and James’s legs are suddenly unsteady. There’s a fluttering deep in his abdomen, and all he can think is that he’s got this all wrong. Of course he has.
But he has to ask, to insist on an answer this time. “Why all this, sir? The decorations, the music...?” Because his gut’s telling him that’s significant, even if it has nothing to do with why Lewis is looking at him like this. Though he thinks it probably has.
Lewis shakes his head. “Daft sod. Both of us, in case you decide to be insulted.” He puts the glasses down and leans against the counter. “Remember what you said the first time we spent Christmas Day together?”
“Um...” Now even language has deserted him. “What in particular?” he manages.
“When you were leaving. About bein’ me fallback date.”
He can feel the blush climbing up his neck, his face. “Yeah.”
“Well, you have been, haven’t you? Or, at least, it’s how I’ve behaved. Asked you over when I’ve had no other options. This year...” Lewis pauses, as if he’s also searching for words. “Realised yesterday I wanted to spend Christmas with you again, but I wanted to do it properly. That’s where I was most of the day – getting all this stuff.” He gestures around the kitchen and living room. “And seeing Innocent to get us the day off.”
James is immobile, unable to move, focused only on Lewis’s words and that look on his face, the intensity in his eyes. It still can’t possibly mean what instinct is telling him it does, but...
“You’re not me fallback date. You’re the only person I want to be with.”
James’s heart leaps.
Lewis extends his hand, and suddenly James can move. Swallowing, he takes the few steps that bring him next to Lewis. “I’m glad.” The words come at last. “You’re the only one I’d want to be with today, too.”
Lewis’s head tilts to one side, enquiring. “Not only today, I hope?”
James smiles faintly. “No.”
“Good.” Lewis’s hand folds around his, and a warm smile lights up his face. “All right if I do this?” His other hand comes up to frame the side of James’s face, and his intention’s more than clear.
All James’s breath whooshes out of him, and he can only nod as Lewis leans up and in to kiss him.
A long time later, Lewis pulls back. “Happy Christmas, bonny lad.”
James can’t stop smiling; thinks he’ll very probably never stop smiling ever again. “Happy Christmas, Robbie.”