Work Text:
Oxford, December 2005
It’s Christmas Eve and James Hathaway finds himself at loose ends. Detective Inspector Knox had made sure they weren’t on the rota this holiday. James would have preferred to work. To keep busy and be of service. But he doesn’t make the rules. He just has to live by them.
He goes to the early service more out of habit and obligation than because it gives him comfort. There is comfort in the ritual, but he’s still unsure what he believes, and this season that celebrates rebirth hits a little too close to home. But he goes and joins in the singing, but doesn’t go forward for communion. In fact he slips out the back during the final hymn.
He fulfills his obligatory visit to his governor’s house for bland hors d’oeurvres and insipid cocktails, and escapes as soon as possible from the enforced cheeriness.
It’s a cold damp night but he avoids the bus stop and starts walking. Eventually, he ducks into a little Thai place with strings of brightly colored lights looped everywhere. The wildly blinking stars and gold tinsel are holiday overload, but the food is spicy, and the music in the background is decidedly not Christmas carols, and he has his first thankful moment of the day.
He takes the long way home, content to wander along the river bank, nodding here and there to a random jogger or a couple out walking their dog. But mostly he’s lost in his own head trying to make sense of a life so markedly different than the one he expected to have had.
Christmas Eve will find me…
Parham Town, BVI, December 2005
He’s laid off the hard stuff lately, but this night he finds himself ordering scotch after scotch. It tastes like home and he needs that. It takes the taste of wrong out of his mouth. He knows he is not cut out for tropical Christmases. It all grates on him. The weather is wrong, and the colors are wrong, and the music is wrong, and his being alone is wrong.
There’s a nurse he knows sitting at the other end of the bar. He buys her a white wine, and they chat for a while. He’s just drunk enough to think about asking her back to his place. He’s pretty sure she’d say yes. But that feels wrong too. When she makes her excuses and goes off to join a group of friends he feels almost glad. Then he orders another scotch and wonders about the time difference and whether he can call Lyn anytime soon.
Where the love light gleams…
It’s no surprise to Lewis that death does not stop to mark the birth of the baby Jesus. So when he gets the call he sighs and calls out for Hathaway who’s off fighting with the copier. It’s Christmas Eve and he hopes the lad didn’t have plans. He intends to ask, but then there’s another phone call, and they’re dashing to their car, Hathaway on the phone with SOCO all the while. Until the scene is processed, and the poor dead History tutor is being transported to the morgue, there’s hardly a moment to spare.
They stop at a nearby Costa for a coffee on the way to interview the History tutor’s boyfriend. Its a madhouse inside, so when they step back out into the crisp evening air, they stop for a moment in the lee of a building. They sip their coffees and Hathaway, after a glance for permission, lights up a cigarette.
“Not much of a Christmas Eve feast, eh James?” Lewis asks, sipping his coffee.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Hathaway says, exhaling a cloud of smoke and swirling the coffee in his cup. “Last Christmas Eve I was treated to lukewarm egg nog in Inspector Knox’s front parlor. I find I prefer the company this year.”
Hathaway ducks his head and takes another long drag on his cigarette.
“Remind me to add ‘discerning’ and ‘right-thinking’ to your next evaluation lad. After we talk to the boyfriend we’ll pop into a likely looking pub and you can be in charge of the drinks. Maybe we’ll even splash out on some chips,” Lewis replies with a smile and a squeeze of James’s shoulder.
“I live to serve, Sir,” James says with an answering smile as he stubs out his cigarette and tosses their coffee cups into a nearby bin. In the distance church bells begin to chime.
I’ll be home for Christmas…
From “Lewis cell” 24 Dec 2008, 13:09 -- Have arrived Manchester safely. Stop mother henning me. I’ve been driving since you were only a twinkle in your mam’s eye.
From “Hathaway” 24 Dec 2008, 13:11 -- Just so you know, am now picturing you as fluffy yellow chick. Say hello to Lyn et al. for me.
From “Lewis cell” 24 Dec 2008, 14:31 -- Remember I have the power to bury you in paperwork. And speaking of -- get off home. But before you go, there’s a bit of Christmas cheer with your name on it in my bottom desk drawer. Also Lyn has discovered knitting. Wants to know if you want a hat or a scarf.
From “Hathaway” 24 Dec 2008, 15:05 -- A hat? I suppose. Thank her. Really. Band playing tonight at St. Germain.
From “Lewis cell” 24 Dec 2008, 20:28 -- Happy Xmas lad. Hope performance went well. Back soon and the chips are on me.
From “Hathaway” 25 Dec 2008, 00:06 -- Happy Christmas Sir.
If only in my dreams…
It’s been a busy Christmas Eve for them. James had been at church helping out with serving a hot meal for those in need of one. Robbie had been drafted to play Santa at the station charity event that provided toys and games for kids in hospital. But they are home now, just ahead of a rare Christmas snow storm that was blanketing Oxford in white. A small tree twinkles in the corner. Monty is curled up under the branches, batting occasionally at low hanging ornaments. Robbie and James sip coffee with a generous splash of whisky in it while they listen to the late news.
James finishes his coffee, and stretches, setting the cup on the side table. Then he snuggles into Robbie’s side, feet curled up beside him.
Robbie ruffles his hair and asks, “Presents now, or in the morning?”
James’ reply is lost in a sudden yawn. He snuggles in closer to Robbie.
“Presents later. Just this now. Not moving.”
“All right soft lad. I like it fine here too.”
As they sit curled up against each other in the corner of the sofa, the news reader drones on softly in the background and outside the snow falls.