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Against the icy dark blue of a late December evening, punctuated only by the green glare of the ghost light on the corner, 35 Portland Row glowed like a beacon of warmth. A chain of colourful fairy lights adorned the door, a set of candle-shaped lights stood on the windowsill, and the fireplace filled the front room with a soft golden tinge. Inside was as cosy as it looked, both physically and sensationally: foil streamers draped across the ceilings, tinsel was wrapped around the bannisters and over picture frames, cinnamon scented candles burned on the mantelpiece, and the scent of that night’s rich stew still wafted from the kitchen. Lockwood & Co now all inhabited the front room, basking in the atmosphere. Lockwood had dragged through the little TV and a handful of old festive VHS tapes, and he and George had rearranged the sofas to allow everyone to comfortably see the screen. Tonight’s fare was Miracle on 34th Street, a perfect contribution to your final few days before Christmas.
“This is such a cute film,” Lucy declared. She was splayed across one of the sofas, her head in Lockwood’s lap as he played with her hair.
“It’s not bad,” George conceded with a shrug. “It’s basically a festive legal drama, which I don’t mind.” The two of you were sharing the smaller sofa, you tucked into one corner and George with his feet propped on the coffee table.
You leaned forward to grab your cup of tea, playfully nudging George’s foot as you did so. “You’re such a cynic.”
“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Lockwood chipped in. “Do you reckon you’d have still believed in ghosts without the Problem, George, or is it just Santa you take issue with?”
“I’m just saying, there’s no evidence that-”
He was cut off by the three of you bursting into laughter, all trying to quickly shush each other so you could still hear the film. You returned your tea to the table, untouched, lest you laugh again mid-sip, and flopped back with your head on the back of the sofa. Oh, that was comfy. Much better than propping your elbow on the side to lean on your hand. Bit by bit, you felt yourself drift slower and slower into relaxation. Maybe it was the gentle nostalgia of the old film. Maybe it was the feeling of a full belly and a warm fire after weeks of hard work. Maybe it was the knowledge that for the next few days, none of you were going out on cases, and you had the people you cared about the most home safe for a while. Slowly, your eyes drifted closed and your head began to droop onto the soft surface next to you.
George stilled.
There you were, breathing slowly and evenly as you rested your head on his shoulder. He knew he should wake you - you loved this film, and he didn’t want you to get a crick in your neck - but at the same time he couldn’t bring himself to do it. You looked so peaceful. In the back of his mind, he also told himself you’d never have done this if you’d been more aware of your actions. The two of you just weren’t intimate like that. Being careful not to jostle you, he turned and pulled a panicked face at Lockwood and Lucy, who were already watching attentively from the other sofa.
“This is even cuter than the film,” Lucy grinned.
“Shut up,” George hissed under his breath, feeling his cheeks grow warm.
“They must be exhausted,” Lockwood sighed, a hint of worry furrowing his brow. You had been overdoing it a bit recently, if he was being honest. The final few cases before the holidays, plus you’d been the pioneer of the efforts to decorate the house and provide a ton of festive baking.
“What do I do?”
“Wake them?”
“Jesus, Lockwood, I’m not a monster. You just said they’re exhausted!”
“Then… leave them?”
Oh. That was an option.
With perhaps only half an hour left of the film, George tapped his head lightly against yours in an effort to rouse you. You didn’t open your eyes, didn’t even flinch, just let out a soft little noise of contentment which was only loud enough for him to hear. The sound wormed its way straight into his chest, curling up within him like a sleepy cat. Instead of lifting his own head back up or trying another way to wake you, he left it leaning against yours, feeling your steady breaths through his cheek. He was almost on the verge of drifting off himself when the film drew to a close and Lockwood peeled himself out from beneath Lucy, who pulled a face in silent protest, to turn off the TV. George raised his head long enough to wave for her attention and gesture frantically at you, still sound asleep. Nodding, Lucy rolled off the sofa and came to prop you up while George slid onto the floor.
“When are you going to tell them you like them?” she asked quietly as the two of them manoeuvred you to lie down.
“Wha-” George snapped his gaze to her. She stared back calmly. There was no trickery to her question; she wasn't trying to make him slip up and admit his feelings, she seemed to already know that much. “Is it too late to write to Santa and ask him to make you less observant?”
“You haven't answered my question.”
“Then never,” he whispered as he fetched a blanket from the back of the armchair he usually sat on. The moment it was draped over you, you snuggled into the fabric with another contented sigh. “I don't know if they reciprocate, and even if they did I don't know if I can risk messing up our friendship like that.”
Lucy smiled knowingly. “Leave it with me.”
She motioned to Lockwood and the two of them crept from the room, but George lingered in the doorway, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips, before he clicked off the fairy lights and pulled the door closed behind him.
—
You awoke, bleary-eyed, to the soft blue light of morning peeking through a gap in the curtains. That was odd. You were so sure you’d only nodded off for a couple of minutes during the film, yet your circumstances suggested otherwise. It was day, your friends were gone, you were laid on the sofa with a blanket, and your cup of tea was stone cold on the table. Huh. You threw off the blanket and padded into the kitchen to put the kettle on and get what you supposed was breakfast. The house was silent, the only sound the gentle rumble of the boiler taking the edge off the frosty morning. It was soon joined by the low shuddering of the kettle and running water as you dumped out the contents of your cup and rinsed it out.
“Morning,” a voice sounded behind you.
You jumped, almost dropping your teacup. “Oh my- George! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“Sorry,” he grimaced as he fetched a cup for himself from the cupboard. You took it from him, fingers grazing across his, and began preparing his tea alongside your own. “How did you sleep?”
You let out a breathy laugh. “On the sofa, apparently.”
“You don’t remember?”
“What, that I fell asleep in the middle of the film? No, I remember leaning back and that’s about it.”
“Oh,” George said dully, his face falling slightly.
Your eyes widened. “Oh no, did I do something embarrassing? I didn’t snore, did I?”
He suddenly seemed very interested in the cup of tea you handed him. “No, no, nothing like that. Nothing happened.”
“Oh, okay.” You were still a little suspicious of the way he’d reacted, but since your own memories were lacking you had no choice but to take his word for it.
You were relaxing in the study with a good book when Lucy sidled in and took up the seat beside you, holding out a plate of the cookies you'd made yesterday.
“Hey, Luce,” you greeted over the top of your pages as you leant across to take a cookie. She smiled, feigning an interest in the collection on the shelves around you, as though she were looking for her own reading material. The two of you lapsed into a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the soft rustle as you worked through your book and the crunch as Lucy worked her way through your baking.
“So,” she began after a while, “you and George were pretty cosy last night.”
You balked. “Sorry, what?”
She smirked at your outrage. “You fell asleep on his shoulder.”
If she had said any more, you wouldn't have heard it over the hammering in your chest and the subsequent rushing of blood in your ears. Your mortification froze you in your seat, all except your eyes which blinked in shock. “Oh my god,” you heard yourself mutter.
“Oh, don't worry, it wasn’t an issue. George didn't seem to mind, at all.”
You faltered, the overwhelming sound suddenly fading to an unnerving quiet. “He didn't? But he-”
“Doesn't do touchy-feely, I know,” she sighed. “Must be something particular about you, if you catch my drift.”
“Lucy…”
“Y/n,” she stopped you with a raised hand. Her tone was firm but caring, and by the way she was looking at you it was clear she meant what she was about to say. “If I'm wrong about all this, just tell me and I'll drop it immediately, but if I've picked up on the way you've been acting right, then I think you might have a crush on George and I'm trying to tell you that I think he likes you back.”
You floundered for the words to express everything that was running through your head. Of course you had a crush on George, that was a no-brainer - he was smart, witty, quietly caring, a great cook and a talented agent, not to mention very cute. No, the baffling part of this was that Lucy had noticed your failed attempts to hide your feelings, and apparently also noticed similar signs from George. George, who rolled his eyes every time Lucy and Lockwood did anything more affectionate than holding hands. George, who nitpicked the details of every rom-com you'd ever watched. George, who… had let you sleep on his shoulder and, now you considered it further, had probably been the one to put you to bed on the sofa rather than wake you. Oh.
Evening drew in once again, bringing with it a bitter chill. You'd been the first one into the living room after dinner, lighting the fire and draping the blanket over your lap as you laid lengthways on the sofa. After a while, Lockwood marched in and held up another video tape. It was another classic, this time It’s a Wonderful Life.
“Fancy another film, y/n?”
You beamed. “Oh, I love that one!”
“Great!” he grinned back as he set up the TV. Lucy followed him in and settled on the other sofa. “Try not to fall asleep during this one, yeah?”
“Shut up,” you muttered.
The opening credits were just starting to roll across the screen when George shuffled in. You began to lift your feet down to make space.
“It's okay,” he said quietly. When you tilted your head, puzzled, he moved a little closer and nodded for you to restore your position. Cheeks burning, and acutely aware of Lucy's eyes on you, you swung your legs back up. The two of you slotted together like it was the most natural thing in the world; George had positioned himself just right to fall within the arch of your knees, and your heels brushed his thigh. With a sidelong glance at you, he adjusted the blanket until it neatly covered both your laps. You gave him a shy smile, which he returned with one of his own. On the other sofa, Lucy elbowed Lockwood to pick his jaw up off the floor.
You felt yourself succumbing to the pull of sleep this time. It washed over you in calming waves, weighing down your limbs and dragging your eyelids slowly closed. This time, however, you dreamt. In your mind, Clarence the angel had emerged from the TV to appear in your front room and carry you tenderly up to your room. His features were blurry, not looking quite like the character you'd just been watching, but with how gentle he was you had no doubts he was an angel. He tucked you in, smoothed your hair and placed a feather-light kiss on your forehead. Then he left, leaving your thoughts to drift further. They floated back down the stairs, to where you and George had sat together, both so comfortable sharing each other's space. You'd never imagined it would happen, and yet you had the memory of your friends’ reactions burned into your memory to prove it. Maybe there was something to what Lucy had said after all. Maybe George…
George.
You shot up in bed. All your senses flooded back to you, along with a vague memory clearing in the early light of morning. It hadn't been Clarence who carried you to bed. Your eyes had fluttered open halfway through and seen a halo of light, but it hadn't been angelic in nature, not exactly anyway. It had been the hall light silhouetted against a mass of dark curls. It had been George. The thought tightened your chest like a hug. It had been George.
The boy in question was in the kitchen making cinnamon rolls for breakfast. If you didn't already have a crush on him, then seeing him bustling about in his apple print apron, a soft glow on his cheeks from the heat of the oven and the golden morning sun, would have definitely changed that. As it was, the sight gave you butterflies.
“Sleep well?” he asked by way of a greeting as he fetched a plate from the cupboard.
You fought the urge to bury your face in your hands. “I'm so sorry.”
“What for?”
“Well… for falling asleep on you again.” You thought it was abundantly obvious why you were embarrassed, but George was just looking at you, a little bemused, while he dished up.
“It’s fine, don't worry about it.”
“You're not making fun of me?”
He huffed a little, frown offset by the cheeky twinkle in his eyes. “Excuse me for enquiring after your welfare. No, I'm not making fun of you, I just wanted to be sure you're okay.”
“Oh. Thanks. And thanks for, um, putting me to bed.”
Now it was George who looked embarrassed. His eyes were downcast and his fingers fidgeted with the edge of the pan as he served up the rest of the cinnamon rolls ready for Lockwood and Lucy joining you. “Right. Yeah. You're we- I mean, sorry, I- You don't mind?”
“No,” you smiled softly, “it was sweet of you to do that.”
You sat down at the table, tucking into your breakfast. The taste of cinnamon sugar was sweet on your tongue. It tasted like warmth and Christmas and… Well, it was just George all over. You glanced around. It was still just the two of you. “Hey, George?” you said hesitantly.
“Uh-huh?” he replied over his shoulder, up to his elbows in the sink as he washed the dishes.
“I just…” Your nerve was rapidly failing, but you'd never forgive yourself if you didn't say something. You weren't sure you could survive one more day holding your feelings in around him, not if there was a chance he might feel the same. “Okay, I'm just going to say it.”
“Say what?” He looked confused, and… hopeful?
“Lucy told me about me falling asleep on you the other night, sorry again, and she also said she thinks you like me, so I-”
“Hang on,” he said sharply, splashing water across the floor with the speed he turned to face you. “She said what?”
If only the floor would swallow you up. Bringing this up was a mistake. Allowing Lucy to convince you that you had a chance was a mistake. “Never mind,” you mumbled.
“No, no,” he emphasised, “she said she thinks I like you? And she said this yesterday, after I outright told her that I do like you?”
You weren't sure whether to laugh or cry, whether to launch yourself at George or launch yourself up the stairs to throttle Lucy for holding out on you. Instead all you could do was let out a small gasp.
George dried his hands off and took a step closer, leaning on the edge of the table beside you. “I really hope you were about to tell me you like me too, or this is going to be awkward.”
All of a sudden you felt like you could breathe again, and you collapsed in a fit of giggles against the table. George’s hand settled on your back, rubbing across your shoulder blades. You melted into his touch.
“Is that a yes?” he crouched down, murmuring into your ear.
“Mhm,” you nodded, too overwhelmed to form actual words, as you leant over and rested your head against his chest. From that position, you could feel more than hear the quiet laugh as it rumbled up from deep within him.
“Thank god for that.”
You looked up, aware of how close your faces were, and his gaze drifted to your lips. You almost closed the gap when the creak of the stairs had you both jumping apart, just in time for your friends to be lured in by the scent of cinnamon.
—
Later that morning, there was a knock at your door.
“One sec!” you called, hurriedly stuffing the book you were wrapping under your bed. “Okay, come in.”
The door swung open a small way, and George’s bespectacled face appeared in the gap. “Only me.”
You smiled and patted the mattress for him to join you. He settled close, closer than he ever would have done before, and placed an arm around your waist. For a while, you just sat together, breathing each other in. He still smelled slightly of cinnamon, laid over the usual scent of tea and old books which often surrounded him. It felt like home. “So, where do we go from here?” you asked eventually.
The fingers on your waist drummed a rhythmic pattern, slow and encouraging. “I don't know. I guess just see how we go? Obviously I want to make a go of it, but I mean, do we tell the others? How do we do this?”
You bit your lip. “Let's not tell them straight away. Not that I'm scared to tell them or anything, I just… don't want to give Lucy the satisfaction of being right straight away.”
“God, you're evil,” he laughed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. This one you were fully aware of. Every nerve ending was alight from the moment his lips touched your skin until their devastating departure. “So you're saying if we find a particularly amusing opportunity…”
You broke into a grin as you finally, finally, closed the gap between you, feeling him smile against your lips.
That evening, the four of you settled round the table for a Christmas Eve feast. Lucy had enlisted your help in making a steak pie, mostly as an excuse to ask for updates on your status with George since last night, but you gently brushed her questions aside.
“This is delicious, Luce,” Lockwood enthused around a mouthful of pie. The two of them were sitting so close together their elbows kept knocking.
Lucy smiled across at you. “It was a team effort. What do you think of it, George?” The look she gave him was pointed, probing.
Beside you, at a much less intimate distance than the other two, he shrugged non-committally and scooped up a helping of mashed potatoes. “Yeah, it's great. Thanks, you two.”
Lockwood glanced between the three of you, and you suspected he was either pretending to be unaware of the tension for your sake or was genuinely oblivious. “Anyone fancy another film after dinner?”
“Sure,” you agreed. “Which one did you have in mind?”
“Christmas Carol?” He looked at you sheepishly. “The Muppet one?”
You broke into a wide smile. “Absolutely.”
You and George settled at different ends of the sofa. Lucy looked like she was taking your distance as a personal insult, which almost made the two of you burst out laughing when you made eye contact, but you held it together. And this time, you made it through the whole film without dozing off (though not without shedding a few tears at the Tiny Tim scene, which made George’s hand twitch as he held himself back from reaching out to comfort you). In fact, Lucy seemed to crash more than you. She was back in Lockwood’s lap with dropping eyelids, and the moment the final credits began to roll the boy gently led her up to his room.
“Come on,” George held out a hand, his voice low in the quiet of the room as he clicked the TV off. “Let's go.”
You took his hand and followed him up the stairs. Once you reached the landing, he stopped outside his room, grip tethering you to him when you tried to carry on.
You glanced down at where the two of you met. His grasp was tight around you, like he wasn't prepared to let you go. “You can come with me, you know,” you whispered, nodding towards the stairs up to your room.
“I was going to say the same thing,” he smirked.
You tugged him closer, resting a hand on his chest. “And risk them hearing anything?”
He rolled his eyes, but followed you upstairs without protest.
—
You hadn't slept so peacefully in a long time. It was well into the morning when you finally stirred, held in blissful drowsiness by the warm arm draped across your midriff. Your fingers linked into the hand on your stomach, and you were rewarded by a gentle squeeze.
“Merry Christmas, George,” you murmured over your shoulder.
He snuggled in closer, a sleepy moan tickling the back of your neck as he kissed up from your shoulder to behind your ear. “Merry Christmas, y/n.” The sound of his voice, deep and husky and oh so close, made you shiver against him and elicited a low laugh. You rolled over to kiss him properly. It was only the smell of burning wafting up from the kitchen that forced you apart.
The four of you convened in the front room, where Lockwood was laying out a tray of tea and lightly singed toast. Beside it was a bottle of champagne and four glasses. George had clearly snuck back to his room to change into a fresh jumper, and he smiled slyly at you when he walked in. Over breakfast, you all exchanged gifts. Lockwood earned himself a kiss with the new jacket he'd bought Lucy, you were delighted with the CD and band posters she gave you, and everyone had a good laugh over the outrageously patterned socks George presented to Lockwood. Finally, you slid a little closer on the sofa and held out your gift to George. It was the book you'd been wrapping, one he'd been looking for for months and which you'd stumbled across in a charity shop in Fitzrovia.
“Oh my god!” his mouth fell open when he peeled back the paper. “How did you- Where the hell did you get this?” You couldn't hold back the proud grin that split across your face, so big it almost hurt, when he thumbed through the opening pages. “Holy shit, it's a first edition.”
Your grin dropped into a gasp of elated surprise when he leant over, hand resting on your thigh, and tangled his other hand in your hair to pull you close and kiss you fervently. Behind you, Lucy let out a squeak and Lockwood almost fell off his chair.
“So much for an amusing opportunity,” you sighed against his lips.
“Couldn't help it,” he replied as he pulled back, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and settling against you with a smile.
Lucy was practically vibrating with delight. “It's a Christmas miracle!” she declared, bounding over to smother you both in a hug.
Lockwood glanced between you, his surprise giving way to understanding and contentment. “And so, as Tiny Tim observed,” he began to quote from the previous night's film, reaching over to uncork the champagne.
“‘God bless us, everyone!’” you all chorused.