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Chapter Text

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Chapter Text

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Chapter Text

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Later that evening, UNIT HQ had eased into the steady rhythm of the late-night quiet.

From the glass walls of the command centre, golden light spilled into the corridor like honey, casting soft reflections on the polished floor. Inside, voices drifted gently, low, familiar, and content. The war room had relaxed its shoulders for the night.

Ruby had kicked off her boots and curled sideways in one of the armchairs, one leg slung over the arm, her hair a half-mess, her phone held inches from her face. She was grinning like she’d found the holy grail of memes—and she had: the video of Christofer’s serenade, which she was now watching for what had to be the hundredth time. Occasionally, she’d mutter the lyrics under her breath and giggle into the collar of her jumper.

Mel had dragged two chairs together and was now lying lengthwise across them, dramatically reenacting the exact moment Kate had laughed—arms raised, voice lilting. “And then she smiled and I knew, right then, that the fog machine was fate.”

Shirley sat in her wheelchair by the corner coffee station, her posture regal as ever. She sipped slowly from a plain ceramic mug, watching the unfolding chaos with the calm, measured detachment of a scientific advisor reviewing experimental data—analytical, patient, and quietly appraising every move.

Even the Doctor had gone full sprawl, flopped backwards on the longest sofa like a retired stage actor. His jacket had fallen half off one shoulder, and one leg draped over the armrest. A half-empty cup of something fizzy balanced on his chest, and he was humming along to the soft jazz someone had queued up on the room’s overhead speakers.

Laughter echoed through the room, mingling with the lingering scent of reheated chips. The air carried a gentle hum of comfort—friends, found family, the soft exhale that follows a hard-won calm. And just beyond that warm, golden glow, in a nearby briefing room lit only by a single low desk lamp, stood Christofer and Kate.

They’d quietly slipped away, no words needed. Not out of secrecy, but by instinct—drawn together by an unspoken pull toward a calm refuge. A place where the world’s demands for orders and protocols simply faded away.

Kate rested lightly against the table’s edge, arms loosely crossed. Warm light traced her silhouette, highlighting her cheekbone, collarbone, and the gentle sweep of her hair. From beyond the slightly ajar door, the soft murmur of voices drifted in, creating a subtle, living backdrop.

Christofer stood a few feet away, wearing a short-sleeved undershirt. The tension that usually clung to his shoulders had softened into something relaxed and open.

He spoke first, his voice quiet. “Still humiliated?”

Kate’s lips curved, just slightly. “Mildly.”

“You didn’t throw anything. I take that as a win.”

She pushed off the table with the kind of motion that didn’t look like much but changed the air between them.

“You’ve never done that before,” she said, stepping toward him.

“What Sing?”

“Yes, in public.”

He nodded gently. “Never had a reason. Not until tonight.” 

Kate tilted her head, eyes flickering across his face. The lamplight caught the planes of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, the slight creases at the corners of his eyes. In this light, he didn’t look like a Colonel. He looked like Christofer. Just him.

Her fingers lifted—slow, certain—and found the space at his collar. The pads of her fingers brushed skin just beneath his shirt.

“I’ve been called many things,” she murmured. “But ‘more than a number’ is new.”

“You are more than a number,” he said. No hesitation. “To me.”

She didn’t answer aloud. She didn’t need to. Instead, she stepped closer until their foreheads touched.

The breath between them mingled—warmth, wine, a hint of pear from her perfume. He could feel her breath on his cheek, soft and steady. Out in the command room, Ruby’s laugh peeled through the air like a skipped record.

“She’s looping it again,” Christofer murmured.

Kate closed her eyes. “Of course she is.”

“She might broadcast it in the breakroom.”

“I’ll transfer her to Antarctica.”

His laugh was low, a quiet rumble that resonated against her skin.

Silence stretched again, weightless. Anchored only by his hands at her waist, and hers resting lightly against his chest.

He could feel the press of her palm over his heart.

“I meant all of it,” he said softly.

“I know.”

Outside, Mel’s voice rose in full-blown dramatic pitch: “I swear, it was the twirl that got her. The TWIRL! I felt it in my bones!”

Kate let out a breath that could almost have been a sigh if it didn’t turn into a faint laugh against his shoulder. He leaned in, brushing his lips against her temple—gentle, affectionate.

“We kissed in front of the Doctor and three subordinates,” she murmured.

“We did.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, something teasing in her eyes now. “If you propose at Christmas…”

He tilted his head, brow brushing hers. “Yes?”

“…don’t do it in front of Mel.”

“She’ll cry either way.”

Kate huffed a laugh and leaned forward again, resting her head gently against his shoulder. His arms circled her automatically—no hesitation, just home.

The voices in the command room ebbed and flowed—Ruby reciting Donna’s latest voice message, Mel arguing over bet logistics, the Doctor rambling about how next time he wanted lasers. Shirley’s laughter cut through it all like silk, dry and elegant.

But none of it reached them fully.

Here, in the hush of lamplight and lingering stillness, Kate and Christofer stood in a space shaped by calm, beyond ranks, beyond responsibility, beyond the heavy expectations they bore for everyone but themselves.

“Stay,” she whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

Their fingers found each other once more, steady, interwoven, still carrying the warmth of everything that had led to this moment as UNIT’s command centre glowed softly behind them. And for a little while longer, the world held its breath and stayed still.

Chapter Text

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Four Months Later 

The world outside UNIT HQ had gone soft with snow.

It wasn’t heavy—just a dusting, the kind that whispered across windowsills and clung to car roofs like icing sugar. The air shimmered faintly, city lights blurring gold and blue beneath drifting flurries. From the upper floors of the complex, London looked like a snow globe turned upside down, the night hush settled thick and sweet as midnight pressed in.

Inside, the lights had dimmed to their overnight levels. Hallways had grown still. Even the echo of footsteps seemed reluctant to disturb the hush. All across the building, rooms once buzzing with life and analysis now held only traces of warmth—half-empty coffee cups, faint glows from computer monitors in sleep mode, the scent of cinnamon tea still hanging in the kitchen air.

Most of the team had already gone home.

Mel had left like a festive storm, wrapped in an avalanche of scarves, bearing suspiciously large packages and kissing everyone on the cheek like the end of the world was near. Shirley had slipped out with quiet grace and a thermos of tea under her arm, offering a dry “Merry Christmas” over her shoulder. Ruby had bolted toward the exit like a comet in boots, shouting something down the hall about trifle, tinsel, and “don’t you dare kiss under any mistletoe without filming it!”

Even the Doctor had vanished—last seen muttering something about a sulking star in Alpha Piscis Austrini and the need to “have a firm but empathetic word.”

And yet, Kate stayed.

It had been four months since karaoke night. Four months since the Doctor’s not-so-subtle team morale stunt in that noisy pub with the sticky tables and god-awful lighting. Four months since Christofer had stepped up to the microphone without a hint of hesitation, calm, certain, like he’d been waiting for that moment all along. Four months of glances that held more than they said, of conversations that stretched just a little too long. Of jokes with edges and silences that spoke like full confessions.

She hadn’t meant to stay this late. She’d told herself she’d leave by nine. Just tidy a few things, log the last notes from the pre-holiday clearance meeting, maybe check the radar one last time. But hours slipped by unnoticed, and now her office light still glowed warm behind its frosted glass, casting quiet amber onto the corridor walls as the clock edged past midnight.

It was Christmas Day.

She stood by the wide window of her office now, arms folded loosely across her chest, the city stretched out below her like a blinking map of memory and miles. Her breath fogged the window in soft, slow clouds. The room around her was still—the kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but full. Her coat lay draped over the back of her chair, long forgotten. A cup of tea sat cooling on the edge of her desk, untouched since before the snow had started.

Outside, flurries curled past the glass like drifting lace.

Behind her, the door creaked open.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t tense.

“I thought you left,” she said softly.

Christofer’s voice came a beat later, warm and low. “I was waiting for everyone else to go.”

She turned toward him slowly, arching one eyebrow with faint suspicion. “Hiding something, Commander?”

He stood in the doorway, still in uniform, but pared down. The formal layers were gone, his jacket and outer kit left behind in the locker room. He wore only a fitted black undershirt, sleeves short, his posture easy and unguarded. His hair was slightly mussed, as if his hand had found it more than once on the way there.

In one hand, he held a small box, wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with a loop of dark twine. No ribbons. No tag.  Just clean corners and a quiet purpose.

Kate’s eyes narrowed, her voice dry. “Bit small for the paperwork I refused to sign last week—”

“It’s not.”

He stepped into the room, into the soft glow cast by the desk lamp, and something in the air shifted—subtle, quiet, as if the space itself released a held breath.

He held the box out with one hand.

“I wanted to give you something,” he said.

“You already did,” Kate replied, the edge of a smile teasing her mouth. “You sang in public four months ago and let Mel emotionally blackmail you for a fortnight.”

“That wasn’t the gift.” He nodded to the box. “This is.”

She stared at it for a moment. Then slowly, delicately, she took it from him, her fingers brushing his, the brief contact sending a flicker of heat through her chest.

The twine slipped free with barely any resistance, loosening under her fingers like it had been waiting. She peeled back the brown paper slowly, the soft rustle filling the quiet room—a sound delicate and familiar, like rain pattering against canvas in the middle of nowhere.

Inside the wrapping sat a compass.

Not new. Not polished. It was brass, aged with time, the surface worn smooth in places from years of being held. The edges were scuffed, nicked gently by history. It had weight, not just in its metal but in the kind of story it carried. The kind of item you might find tucked away in an old drawer that smelled faintly of cedar and salt, once belonging to a grandfather who'd crossed oceans, or nestled in the breast pocket of a soldier who no longer needed it for navigation, only for remembrance. A quiet relic. A personal truth disguised as an instrument.

Beneath the lamplight, the needle caught the glow and shimmered faintly. It quivered with delicate, restless energy—unsettled, but never truly still. There was a quiet life to it, something old and enduring, like it was waiting to be asked where to go next.

Kate’s brow furrowed just a touch as her fingers skimmed the cool metal casing.

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly.

“It was my father’s,” Christofer said, his voice quiet, unguarded. There was no performance in it—just truth, offered plainly. “He always claimed the needle never really pointed north. Said it had a habit of finding what mattered most.”

Kate looked up, her eyes searching his.

A pause stretched between them—gentle, weighted, full of everything unspoken.

“And does it?” she asked, her voice low.

Christofer gave the faintest nod. “I think so.” He hesitated, then added, more certain this time, “I tested it. It always turns toward you.”

Kate blinked once, the motion slow.

Her breath caught—small, sharp, and utterly silent.

He stepped closer now, and this time his hand slid briefly into his trouser pocket. From it, he drew a smaller box—velvet, deep forest green.

Kate’s eyes caught the glint of gold even before he opened it.

Inside, nestled against dark satin, was a delicate gold necklace—a fine chain holding a small compass-shaped pendant. The face of it was glass, encasing a tiny floating needle, and within the dial, instead of traditional directions, were four small engraved letters:

N. K. S. C.

The inside shimmered with tiny diamonds, subtle and beautiful, catching the lamplight like snow caught on frost.

Kate stared, not moving.

Christofer’s voice was low and quiet, intimate now. “I know you wouldn’t wear a ring. Not the kind you can’t take off. Not while you’re still out there every day, leading from the front.”

Her eyes flicked up to his.

He smiled gently. “But this… this you can wear when you choose. Not as a label. Not as ownership. Just a reminder.”

He took the necklace from the box, held it delicately in both hands, letting the chain slide smoothly through his fingers.

“What do the letters stand for?” she asked softly.

He stepped behind her, hovering just close enough, his breath soft against her ear as he fastened the clasp carefully behind her neck.

“N for North,” he murmured, “because that’s how this started. K for Kate. S for Sanctuary.” His fingers brushed the nape of her neck. “Because that’s what you’ve become to me. And C…”

She turned to face him again, the necklace now resting against her collarbone, the compass glinting just above her heart.

“C is obvious,” she said.

He nodded. “C is for me. Christofer. Your constant.”

Her throat tightened.

His hands settled gently at her waist, anchoring the moment with quiet certainty. “I could’ve waited for some grand display, a perfect backdrop. But that’s not what matters. Not to me. Just this. Just you.”

He met her eyes, steady, unflinching.

“I want to build a life with you, Kate. If you’re willing.”

Kate was very still.

The pendant warmed quickly against her skin, as if it belonged there.

“I’ve been proposed to before,” she said quietly. “By diplomats. Strategists. Officers.”

Christofer said nothing. He simply waited.

She looked down at the compass—at the needle still trembling slightly, suspended in glass, always seeking.

“This is the first time,” she said softly, “it’s felt like peace.”

And then she stepped in, closing the space between them with quiet certainty. Her hands rose to his face, steady and deliberate, fingertips warm against his skin. She kissed him—no hesitation, no buildup—just a press of truth and feeling, all warmth and honesty and the kind of reverence that didn’t need explaining between them. When she finally pulled back, her lips barely brushed his, but her eyes didn’t move—they stayed locked on his, unwavering.

Her voice came low, calm. “Are you going to ask me the question, or just stand there looking like you already know the answer?”

Christofer’s smile deepened, slow and full of quiet affection—the kind of look only she ever got from him. He didn’t drop to one knee, didn’t fumble for fanfare or theatrics. Instead, he kept his hands at her waist, steady and sure, and spoke like he was telling her something sacred.

“I want a life with you, Kate,” he said, voice soft but unwavering. “Not just the parts between missions. All of it. The long nights, the early mornings, the silence over coffee, the storms, the calm. I want to stand beside you through every chaos and every quiet. If you’ll have me. No rules. No roles. Just us,” he said softly. “Will you marry me?”

For a moment, the world held its breath, no footsteps in the corridor, no sound from the snow-blanketed city outside. Only the quiet thrum of her heart, overwhelmed and steady, and the man before her, not offering promises or guarantees, but something far more rare:

The freedom to choose him.

Kate held his gaze, her eyes bright with certainty. Then, with a gentle, confident nod, she whispered—steadfast and clear—

"Yes."

He exhaled, forehead gently resting against hers.

The silence wrapped around them like a held breath—still, sacred, unbroken—until a voice broke through with dry timing and damp eyes.

“That,” Ruby declared from the doorway, “was the least dramatic proposal I’ve ever seen.” She stood there with a bag of slightly squashed mince pies, blinking more than necessary for someone who claimed romance never got to her.

Kate sighed, not releasing Christofer’s hand. “How long were you standing there?” she asked.

Ruby dabbed at one eye with the corner of her sleeve. “Long enough to bet against Mel,” she sniffled. “I owe her twenty. Worth every penny.” She paused, looking at them both, then gave a tiny, sincere nod, like she was tucking the moment away somewhere private. “I’m gonna go before I start bawling and ruin my mascara. Again.”

She turned and padded off down the hallway, her boots quiet against the polished floor, the bag of pies swinging gently from one hand.

Christofer’s fingers slid naturally through Kate’s, and she laced hers tighter in return.

Together, they turned to the window, watching as snow drifted softly past the glass, dusting the glowing city below. The pendant at Kate’s neck caught the soft glow from the window, its glass face gleaming gently as the needle within hovered, steady and sure. It didn’t waver, didn’t drift—just held its quiet direction with the certainty of something that had always known where to go.

Still pointing to him. Still pointing home.

Chapter Text

***

The flat was still when Kate stirred awake.

There were no sounds of traffic outside. No mission alerts were buzzing her phone. No reports demanding signatures, no distant hum of energy fields on high alert. Just the soft rustle of sheets and the faint, golden glow of morning light seeping in through half-closed blinds, drawing angled lines across the ceiling and the folds of the duvet.

The radiator hummed softly in the corner, spreading slow, steady warmth through the floorboards. The air was thick with winter’s hush—traces of cold still clinging faintly to the windows, mingled with the quiet green of pine from the small tree glowing gently in the corner. Beneath it all lingered something more personal: him. Clean soap, warm skin, and the faint, metallic hint of uniform fabric discarded in a heap the night before, somewhere between breath and stillness. She didn’t open her eyes. Not yet. She simply let herself feel.

The heat of his body, steady beside her. The familiar weight of his thigh pressed gently to hers beneath the covers, their legs long since tangled. The curve of her cheek rested just above his heart, where his breathing rose and fell in rhythm, slow and even. Her body, even in sleep, had known exactly where to go.

His arm lay comfortably across her waist, its weight steady and warm—a quiet kind of protection that didn’t need to announce itself. One of his fingers moved in slow, absent patterns along her spine, looping gentle, half-formed shapes as if, even in sleep, he was memorising the curve of her—reassuring himself she was still there.

The necklace still rested cool and light against her collarbone.

Without thinking, her hand drifted up to find it, fingers closing around the pendant in a gesture that had already become instinct. The tiny compass shifted beneath her touch, its delicate chain catching the soft morning light. Though her eyes remained shut, the meaning of the etched letters behind the glass came clearly to her mind—a quiet promise held close.

N. for North. K. for Kate. S. for Sanctuary. C. for Christofer.

Home.

She finally opened her eyes.

The room was quiet, pale with dawn. The golden wash of early sun painted the walls, caught gently along the edges of the linen sheets. The Christmas tree in the corner twinkled with soft battery lights, throwing faint little stars against the far wall. A half-unwrapped gift bag peeked from beneath it—Ruby’s, no doubt, containing something ridiculous and glittery and probably entirely inappropriate.

And beside her, Christofer slept—bare-chested, one hand still resting at the small of her back, his breathing even.

She studied his face—the faint crease between his brows even in rest, the strong line of his jaw, the gentle softness he wore in sleep, free from command or protocol. Just him. No rank, no armour, no battles reflected in his gaze.

Her fingers traced a slow path along his collarbone, then drifted upward to the edge of his jaw.

His eyes opened slowly. He blinked, took in her face, and smiled softly. “Merry Christmas,” he murmured.

Kate returned his smile, warm and loving. “Merry Christmas?”

She shifted just enough to press a kiss to his collarbone, then his neck. Slow. Unhurried. Like a conversation they’d been having in silence all night.

His hand tightened at her waist, drawing her in closer, and she let herself melt into him. No words now. Just the press of lips to skin, the slow mapping of each other beneath linen and light.

Her hands spread gently over his chest, sensing the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath her palm—steady, warm and alive.

“I’m still wearing it,” she whispered against his skin.

“I know.”

He reached up, traced the chain along her collarbone, fingers brushing the compass pendant where it rested just above her heart.

“It suits you,” he said, voice low.

She looked down at him, at the way he was watching her—still half-drowsy, half-awake, but entirely present.

“I’ve never felt like this,” she admitted.

He didn’t ask what this was. He didn’t need to.

He leaned in without hesitation, kissing her tenderly and deeply, without urgency or rush—just lips meeting softly, breath mingling with breath. A kiss meant to linger.

They remained like that for a long, quiet moment.

Slowly, light filled the room. Shadows stretched and shifted along the walls as the sun climbed higher. The radiator ticked softly again, breaking the silence.

At some point, she slid on one of his t-shirts from the night before—navy blue, just slightly too big in the shoulders—and padded barefoot into the kitchen to make tea. She moved with ease, muscle memory now, knowing where everything was without needing to look.

He followed a moment later, silent, warm, wrapping his arms around her from behind as the kettle began to steam. He rested his chin on her shoulder, breath soft against her neck, as if he’d always belonged there.

They didn’t speak much.

They didn’t need to.

Turning in his arms, she leaned into his chest, the compass resting gently between them. She felt the soft rise and fall of his breath against her cheek—no declarations, no grand gestures—just the quiet, steady certainty of two people who had chosen each other long before the necklace, long before that night.

Wrapped in the calm of the morning, bathed in light, warmth, and him, Kate closed her eyes and smiled.

She was exactly where she belonged.

***

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, casting the London sky in deep indigo and copper. The final glow of twilight had surrendered to night, and the clouds had parted just enough to reveal the pinprick shimmer of stars, blurred slightly by the soft, steady drift of snow. It still clung to the windowsills outside Kate’s flat, unmelted and undisturbed, blanketing the world in hush and glow. Streetlights flickered through the curtain slats, painting soft golden lines across the living room floor like bars of light on a stage, delicate and serene.

Inside, the air was warm with radiator heat and the soft hum of quiet domesticity. A cluster of small candles flickered on the windowsill and coffee table, their flames steady in the still air, casting gold and amber shadows across the walls. The scent of pine from the tree mixed gently with cinnamon and dried orange, with just the faintest trace of mulled wine that had once simmered on the hob and lingered like a ghost of laughter in the corners.

The Christmas tree stood in the corner—slightly lopsided, dressed in twinkling lights and half-mismatched baubles, several of which bore glitter or googly eyes courtesy of Ruby’s “DIY holiday intervention.” It made Kate smile every time she looked at it.

A half-empty wine bottle sat on the coffee table beside two mismatched mugs of tea, long since gone cool. One bore stars and moons, the other had a faded UNIT insignia and a hairline crack near the handle.

Kate sat curled in the corner of the sofa, barefoot, legs tucked beneath her, wrapped in a soft navy jumper and flannel pyjama bottoms that had once belonged to Christofer and now lived permanently on her side of the dresser. The gold compass necklace still hung at her throat, glinting faintly whenever she shifted. She reached up to touch it more than she realised—thumb brushing the face of the pendant, rolling it between her fingers like a habit carved into instinct. A touchstone. A reminder. A promise.

Across from her, Christofer stood at the window for a moment, watching the snow. Then he turned back toward her and moved to tidy the mugs, setting them aside with quiet care. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, forearms bare and strong in the candlelight, and his hair still carried the clean, wet shine of a recent shower. It lay flat now, darker at the roots, the edges drying in the warm air of the flat. No armour. No boots. Just soft cotton and quiet presence.

He looked completely at ease in his own space—and yet somehow still extraordinary. Like a rare gift summoned rather than simply there. A side of him she sometimes caught herself staring at, unable to quite believe he was real.

Kate’s eyes dropped to the small, wrapped box on the cushion beside her.

She hadn’t given it to him yet.

She had intended to give it to him all day. That morning, she’d placed it beside the kettle as a reminder. But then came breakfast, a lazy nap, and an unexpected rewatch of The Snowman—during which he valiantly, if unconvincingly, tried not to shed a tear.

Still, she hesitated.

Because the necklace he’d given her was so thoughtful. So unmistakably her. So perfectly crafted to reflect who she was and how she loved. Her own gift—though careful and personal—suddenly felt smaller. Less inspired. Less… meaningful.

He turned toward her then, drying his hands on a tea towel. The soft candlelight caught his features in amber and shadow. His eyes drifted toward the tree with that quiet contentment she’d started associating solely with him—a peace that had taken years to wear into his bones.

“You’re unusually quiet,” he remarked.

She swallowed softly. “Just thinking.”

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his gaze. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

He crossed to her and sat on the edge of the sofa beside her folded knees, his presence a kind of anchor. Warm, grounding. She looked at him, then at the flickering light, then back again—and picked up the box.

The gift was wrapped in matte silver paper, its edges crisp and clean, without a ribbon—simple and deliberate.

She handed it to him without ceremony, her thumb brushing the edge. “I, uh… meant to give you this earlier. I just—”

He looked at her gently. “Just?”

She exhaled, voice lower now. “I was worried you’d think it was… nothing. After the necklace.”

His expression softened immediately, like someone watching a flame flicker just slightly too low.

“Kate.”

She forced a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. “You set a high bar.”

He didn’t answer immediately. He just took the box, fingers warm as they brushed hers. And then he undid the paper slowly, carefully—not tearing it, not rushing—as though he understood the moment mattered more than the object inside.

When he opened the lid, his brow furrowed slightly, then softened completely.

Inside lay a leather-bound notebook, its cover worn and dark, the kind of thing meant to be carried in a pocket and touched often. It was handmade, slightly imperfect in the way beautiful things often are—stitched with real thread, the spine just a little uneven. Pressed into the front cover in faint, old-gold foil were the words:

'For where words go when there’s no battlefield.'

He lifted it, thumbing through the blank, cream-colored pages inside. A single ribbon marked the first one. On it, in Kate’s handwriting—precise, firm, but slightly softer than usual—was this:

'Write whatever you want. No reports. No orders. Just… you.
Because I’ve seen how much you carry in silence, and I know there are things too sacred for voice. Let this be the place they land.
And in case you ever doubt it again—
You’ve never been just a number in a file or a face in a room.
Not to me.
You were already written in my red book long before you sang it out loud.' – K.

Christofer remained silent at first, his thumb lingering on the inscription. Though his expression stayed composed, something subtle passed through his shoulders.

Kate watched his face carefully. Her voice dropped even softer. “I thought… sometimes you carry things and don’t say them. Even with me. I didn’t want to push, I just—if it helps to write them, or keep them somewhere—this can be that place.”

His jaw moved silently, as if restraining more than just words. His eyes dropped to the notebook once more before returning to her. Then, without fanfare or apology, he leaned in and kissed her—not rushed, nor fiery in the usual sense of passion, but slow, sincere, and heavy with meaning, a kiss full of quiet understanding.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, breath warm between them.

“You don’t know how much I needed that,” he said softly.

Her hands, still clutching the box lid, relaxed into her lap. “You mean that?”

“I always do.” His voice faltered briefly. “You notice the things I leave unspoken.”

Kate blinked, feeling a stirring deep within her—a quiet, undeniable shift.

He took the notebook, holding it between them. “I’ll fill every page. And when I do,” he offered a soft smile, “you’ll get to read it.”

She tilted her head slightly, smirking. “That’s dangerously sentimental for you.”

“I know.” He cupped her face in one hand, his thumb brushing across her cheek like he was memorising the shape of her. “You make me braver.”

A slow, open smile escaped her—a smile reserved for no one else.

He rose and grabbed the thick wool blanket resting on the armrest, pulling it over them both as he settled back beside her. His arm came around her shoulders, and she leaned in without thought, resting her head against his chest, attuned to the steady beat of his heart beneath fabric and skin.

They sat like that for a long time.

The candles flickered across the walls. The radiator let out the occasional soft click as it worked to keep the room warm. Outside, the snow began to fall again—gentle, rhythmic, endless.

In the quiet that followed, Kate’s fingers gently curled around the compass resting against her collarbone— a quiet reminder that the gift she gave him didn’t need to be grand.

It only had to be true.

Chapter Text

***

The sky over London remained a heavy iron-grey the morning after Christmas, hanging low over the rooftops as if uncertain whether to fall into more snow or settle into a hushed stillness. The air carried the muted quiet that follows a long, peaceful night, when the city hadn’t quite stirred and perhaps wasn’t eager to.

Snow clung stubbornly to rooftops and window ledges in soft, faded heaps, edges dulled but still pure and untouched. Ice glazed the gutters, while frost bloomed delicately on windowpanes where warmth hadn’t fully reached inside.

The streets moved slower than usual, quieter—fewer honks, fewer hurried footsteps. Only the distant toll of bells and the occasional clatter of a bus idling too long in the chill broke the silence. Breath hung visible in the crisp air, and each footfall echoed a little more sharply than normal.

At UNIT HQ, the holiday season was officially—and technically—“over.”

The command room lights glowed low and functional—white and clinical, but still dimmer than they would be in full operational mode. Coffee machines hissed at regular intervals, like steam valves on an old ship. Boots echoed faintly across the metal flooring, familiar rhythms beginning again.

The Christmas wreath still hung lopsided on the door to the armoury, half-forgotten, a little wilted. Someone had reprogrammed the door chime to jingle once before reverting to its usual buzz. No one had changed it back.

Kate entered without fanfare.

Her coat was slung over one arm. The crisp click of her boots echoed against the polished floor, unhurried and purposeful. She wore a sharp navy trouser suit, clean lines framing her with quiet authority. The tailored blazer sat open, revealing a soft, cornflower-blue blouse beneath—subtle, but striking in the cold light. The boots were polished, ankle-cut, with just enough heel to command presence without asking for it.

She didn’t need it. She was the presence.

The compass necklace still hung around her neck, visible. Not deliberately displayed, not hidden—just there, effortlessly part of her now. The small gold pendant glinted as she passed beneath the strip lights, the delicate chain resting just below the line of her collarbone. The diamonds in its face caught the cold morning light like a heartbeat.

Christofer stepped in behind her, neither too close nor too distant. He moved with his characteristic measured pace, clad in his pristine UNIT uniform, the sharp black and grey lines of authority fitting him perfectly. No loosened collars or rolled sleeves; every detail was precise. A fresh report folder was tucked under one arm. His expression remained composed and inscrutable, save for a faint, subtle smile—a quiet, knowing calm that might go unnoticed unless you’d spent months learning how to read him.

Mel was the first to spot them. She looked up from her monitor, eyes flicking from Kate to Christofer and then, almost imperceptibly, to the necklace. Her mouth curved into a small, knowing grin. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She just raised one eyebrow—sharp and approving—and turned back to her screen like nothing had happened.

Shirley, further down the row, glanced over the rim of her tea mug. She gave a single, approving nod. Not surprised. Not smug. Just… right. As though this moment had already passed through her internal timeline and aligned itself. She resumed scanning through data streams like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then, Ruby appeared, bursting out of the side hallway and stopping abruptly when she saw them. Her mouth formed a wide, silent “Awwwww,” and her eyes sparkled mischievously.

Kate didn’t react outwardly, but as she passed Ruby’s workstation, her fingers brushed lightly over the chain at her collarbone, and her lips lifted in the faintest smile.

Just as Ruby opened her mouth to deliver a witty remark, the alarm sounded, a low, pulsing tone, urgent and unmistakable. 

Everyone reacted at once, instinct kicking in like muscle memory. Mel shot to her feet, posture snapping from relaxed to ready. Shirley swivelled her monitor toward the room, already scanning lines of data, her fingers steady as ever. Ruby spun in her chair, hands flying across her keyboard before she was even fully turned. Christofer was already moving, boots striking the floor in a clean, deliberate rhythm as he crossed to the main console.

“Energy signature anomaly,” Shirley reported, her voice level. “Far side of the Thames. Triangulating now.”

“Ripple in sonar waveforms,” Mel added quickly, eyes narrowing at her display. “Same signature we picked up in Oslo last month—possible gateway event.”

Ruby glanced over her shoulder, her grin fading into focused readiness. “Looks like Christmas is over, then.”

Kate moved to the centre of the command room as if she had never been away. The atmosphere shifted with her presence—quiet but unmistakable—as if the entire room realigned around her.

"Coordinate with the field teams. Initiate a full lockdown on civilian access. Christofer, notify the Doctor.”

He was already responding, activating the comm with a sharp, controlled voice that carried authority.

The necklace caught the light as she moved, its fine chain glinting where it rested just above the neckline of her top. It shifted slightly with her steps, brushing against the fabric, not swinging or wavering, just there. Steady. Constant. Like the presence that had given it to her.

No one mentioned it. They didn’t have to. The room around her hummed with motion, but no one questioned her place at its centre. She was still the one they looked to when things broke loose—still the voice in the storm. But now, there was something unmistakably different in the air. A quiet truth worn openly around her neck.

She wasn’t alone.

Christofer stood just behind her, not close enough to draw attention, but close enough to be felt. His voice on the comm was clipped and efficient, his posture locked in full command mode. But there was something in the line of his shoulders, in the way his gaze flicked toward her between tasks—something grounded. Watchful. Certain.

And she felt it.

Felt him at her back, not in the way of protection—she didn’t need that—but as certainty. As alignment. As someone who would walk into the unknown beside her, not behind.

As the command room surged to life—screens flashing, boots moving, voices layering over one another in controlled urgency—Kate stood steady in its centre. Calm. Unshaken. Her fingers brushed the pendant once, briefly, before falling back to her side.

The world was shifting again. Another ripple. Another threat.

But the needle never moved.

It pointed, as it always had, to the one who had stood with her through every storm—not behind her, not ahead, but always by her side. To Christofer: steady and unwavering. Her anchor amid the turmoil, her guiding light in the darkness. But above all, her home in every sense that truly mattered.