Chapter Text
Chapter One
The sound of a door slamming penetrates the edges of Bernie’s sleepy, alcohol fogged consciousness. She buries her head further into the pillow; the bed is warm and cosy, but softer than she remembers. She can hear the tread of feet on the stairs; the call of a voice.
Bernie lives alone. In a flat.
Registering, dimly, that there is something odd about the situation, Bernie rolls over, only to collide with a warm body. A warm, unclothed body. She opens her eyes. As she does so, she hears the door open.
“Mum, I can't believe you're still—”
The voice stops, mid-sentence. Bernie turns towards the door, to see the speaker staring back at her.
“Fucking hell.” The young woman in the door way turns and vanishes from the room as quickly as she’d entered it.
“Ellie—”
The commotion has clearly roused Bernie’s companion, who leaps from the bed. Bernie has just enough time to register that the unknown woman has one of the most spectacular figures she's ever seen, before said figure is wrapped in a silk dressing gown and the woman hurries downstairs.
It is at this point Bernie realises three things. She has no idea where she is. It's Christmas Day. And she’s completely naked.
Downstairs, a door slams.
***
Thirteen hours earlier…
Bernie hugs her coat around herself a little tighter as she stands on the doorstep of the large detached house, from which the unmistakable sounds of a raucous party are emanating. It's cold. Cold enough for snow, according to the weather forecasters, who are getting progressively more excited at the prospect of a white Christmas. Certainly too cold to be standing in a doorstep for any length of time. Bernie rings the doorbell again. She isn't entirely sure why she's here, except that she had suddenly felt the need to escape her flat.
The door opens. “Bernie, this is a surprise. I rather thought you weren't going to come.”
“Well I wasn't going to, but—”
Her host stands aside and ushers Bernie into the hallway, relieving her of her coat and scarf.
“You look nice.”
Bernie glances down at her outfit, a soft dark green jumper paired with her customary skinny jeans and a black jacket. Party wear doesn't feature prominently in her wardrobe, but the colour of the jumper seemed like an appropriate nod to the festive season at least.
“Thanks. So do you.” She glances at her host's outfit, which is cut low enough to give prominent display to her ample cleavage.
“Eyes up, soldier,” Sian says with an amused grin. “I don't play for your team.”
“They're rather hard to ignore,” Bernie retorts. “Where exactly am I supposed to look?”
“That's the idea,” Sian replies with a wicked smile. “Now, let’s get you a drink and then there's one or two people I'd like you to meet.”
Sian steers Bernie towards a table laden with glasses and swipes two flutes of champagne, handing one of them to Bernie, before leading her towards a knot of people in a corner.
Half an hour after her arrival, Bernie is wondering how to extricate herself. Sian, whose invitation Bernie rather suspects had been motivated by a desire to match make, had introduced her to a petite red head named Rachel. There isn't anything wrong with Rachel as such. She's a few years younger than Bernie; a junior partner at Sian’s firm. But Bernie can't imagine what possessed Sian to set her up with someone who cheerfully proclaims her rejection of conventional medicine and urges Bernie, in an earnest tone, to abandon surgery in favour of homeopathic practice.
Unfortunately, Rachel doesn't appear to share Bernie’s misgivings about their compatibility, because she seems hell bent on edging Bernie towards the mistletoe.
“Bernie! There you are, darling; I've been looking for you for everywhere.”
A woman in a plum coloured dress, who Bernie swears she's never seen before in her life, swoops down on her, passing her another glass of champagne. She kisses Bernie briefly on the lips and then leans in to give her a hug, whispering in Bernie’s ear as she does so. “Play along.”
Baffled but more than a little relieved at the sudden appearance of this knight in shining armour, Bernie acquiesces as the other woman slips her hand into Bernie’s and addresses Rachel. “Do you mind if I steal her away? I haven't seen her all day and I’ve missed her horribly.”
The stranger bestows a charming smile upon Rachel and then tugs at Bernie’s hand. Bernie allows herself to be led through the crowd and into the kitchen to where two large squashy sofas overlook the garden; one of them piled high with coats.
“Sorry to be so officious, but you rather looked as though she was about to have you ritually sacrificed. I thought you might need rescuing,” the stranger says affably, taking a seat on the empty sofa.
“I did, thank you.” Bernie takes a grateful sip of her champagne and sinks onto the sofa beside her. “How did you know my name? We haven't met before, have we?” As she says this, she takes the opportunity to look at her saviour properly for the first time. When she does so, she has to restrain herself from gasping because the other woman is gorgeous. About Bernie’s own age, she would guess; she has dark hair shot through with silver, huge brown eyes and the most beautiful smile Bernie has ever seen. Her dress is cut low enough to give more than a hint of décolletage, clinging to her ample curves. She is, in short, stunning.
“Serena Campbell,” the other woman says, holding out her hand, and Bernie takes it, realising with a blush of embarrassment that she has been staring. “We haven’t met, no, but Sian’s told me about you.”
Bernie gives her a look of alarm. “I hesitate to ask…”
“Oh, don’t worry. She thought we might know each other, given that we’re in the same profession: I'm a vascular specialist at Holby City.” Serena takes a sip of her champagne. “Actually, when she told me you were a client, I was surprised we hadn't met before. I’m familiar with your work: I hadn't realised you were local.”
Bernie shrugs. “I'm not, not really. At least, I wasn't, until recently. I was rarely here.”
Serena kicks off her heels and draws her feet up under her, fixing Bernie with warm brown eyes. “What changed?”
“I was injured, badly. My ex begged me not to go back, so I didn't, but then…” Bernie shrugs.
“Well, it's always good to meet a fellow member of the embittered ex-wives club.” Serena says the words casually, but there’s enough edge to her tone to indicate an unhappy story.
“Is everyone here a client?” Bernie asks.
Serena chuckles. “I'm not. Well I suppose I am, because she did handle my divorce, but it was fifteen years ago and we were friends before that. We went to university together, actually.”
Bernie raises an eyebrow. “That must have been an experience.”
“Ah, the stories I could tell,” Serena drawls. “But you'll have to get a couple more of these down me first.” She waves the champagne flute for emphasis. “Do you fancy another?”
She walks over to the gleaming row of built-in cupboards, opening one at what looks like random to Bernie. But Serena clearly knows her target, because behind the door is a fridge, from which Serena produces another bottle. “Last one,” she announces, as she collapses next to Bernie on the sofa, peeling off the foil and then twisting the bottle until the cork makes a satisfying ‘pop’.
“So, what did she do that was so terrible?” Serena asks as she pours champagne into Bernie’s empty glass.
“I'm sorry?”
“The woman I rescued you from. What did she do?”
“She spent ten minutes telling me I ought to practice homeopathy instead of ‘barbaric surgical techniques’,” Bernie explains, taking a large gulp of champagne. “I was tempted to ask her what exactly she thought homeopathy was going to do when some poor sod’s had half his leg blown off.”
Serena guffaws with laughter. “Oh goodness. Sian does like to match make, especially for her clients. She’s usually brilliant at it too, but something seems to have gone awry this evening. I dread to think who she's picked out for me – I haven't met him yet.”
Serena grins at her companionably and Bernie feels warmth settle in the pit of her stomach. She can't help smiling back, until the realisation hits her.
He. He. Sian is setting Serena up with a man. Well, of course she is. Serena is straight. Of course she’s straight. Bernie never had reason to think otherwise. But she can feel a knot of disappointment replacing that warm glow of hope.
“Bernie, are you ok?”
“What, oh, yes, I'm fine.” She rearranges her expression into one of polite interest. “So, what are your plans for tomorrow?”
“I was supposed to have a houseful, but at the moment it's looking like it'll just be me and Elinor – my daughter.”
“What happened?”
“Jason – he’s my nephew, he lives with me. He won a trip to Norway to see the Northern Lights. Typically, of course, I couldn't get leave, it being the season of alcohol-induced mishap and illness, so he's taken his friend Alan. They were supposed to be back tonight but they're snowed in at Bergen airport and unlikely to return until Boxing Day.” Serena sounds torn between amusement and exasperation at this turn of events. “Then I was supposed to host my ward manager and his four children, along with my registrar. Except they've realised they're head over heels in love so they're having a cosy Christmas just them and the kids rather than joining me. I'm very happy for them but I really wish they'd declared their feelings for one another before I ordered the turkey.” Serena flashes a rueful grin.
Bernie gives her a sympathetic smile. “Well my children are spending Christmas together, without me.”
“With their father?”
“No,” says Bernie, trying very hard to keep the bitterness from her voice. “He's going skiing with his new girlfriend. No, they'd rather have Christmas just the two of them apparently. Don't want me around.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
“So this is where you're hiding!” So engrossed had they been in their conversation that neither had noticed their host entering. “And drinking the decent champagne, I see.”
“If you didn't want it to be drunk, Sian, you shouldn't have left it for me to find.” Serena is unrepentant.
“I didn't expect my guests to be going through my fridge.” Sian perches on the arm of the sofa next to Serena and takes her glass, draining the remainder of the champagne. “Why are you hiding out here, anyway?”
“I was having a nice drink and a pleasant conversation with the country’s leading frontline surgeon.”
“Well, I have someone for you to meet. You don't mind, do you, Bernie?”
“Of course not.” Yes, Yes I bloody mind.
Sian sweeps Serena from the room. Bernie sits for several minutes nursing the dregs of her champagne. She contemplates leaving the party altogether, but finds she isn't quite ready. Besides, it would seem rude to go before saying goodbye to Serena at least.
And so she makes her way back to Sian’s living room, intent on finding another drink. She halts in the doorway. In her absence, someone, presumably Sian, has turned up the volume on the stereo and half the room has been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, around which half a dozen couples are now shuffling to progressively terrible Christmas music.
As she edges past the dancers, she's hailed by Justin, Sian’s PA. They spend several minutes exchanging pleasantries about health, career and Christmas plans, but only half Bernie’s attention is on their conversation; the other half is scouring the room for a glance of Serena.
Eventually she spots her quarry dancing with a tall, greying man. Bernie watches as the man inches closer to Serena, Serena slowly edging backwards. Serena’s expression is impassive, but then she catches sight of Bernie. “Help!” She mouths over the man’s shoulder.
Bernie raises an eyebrow at her, not sure she's understood correctly.
“Save me.”
Well, it's a bit tricky to misinterpret that.
Bernie crosses the room just as the music slows. She taps Serena’s dancing partner on the shoulder. “Do you mind if I cut in?” The grey haired man looks affronted, but steps aside.
“Thank you,” Serena murmurs as they sway to the music.
“My pleasure.” Bernie is suddenly hyper-aware of Serena’s proximity; of the scent of her perfume; of the softness of her waist beneath Bernie’s fingers.
Suddenly, Serena stops dancing, tilting her head back to look above their heads. Bernie follows her gaze. Mistletoe. Arms still around Bernie’s neck, Serena pulls them a little bit closer together.
Bernie is expecting a brief touch; a quick peck on the lips in deference to the white berries hanging above them. But Serena is kissing her: properly kissing her. Softly at first, but then firmer and more insistent; her tongue probing at Bernie’s lips and then, when they open, dancing against Bernie's tongue.
“Shall we get some air?” Serena murmurs when they part.
Bernie nods, not quite trusting herself to speak. She follows Serena back through the kitchen, extracts her coat from the pile on the sofa, and turns the key to unlock the French windows into the dark garden.
Outside, Bernie reaches into her coat pocket for her cigarettes, fumbling with the lighter as she touches it to the tip, and inhales slowly.
“So, what was wrong with him, then? He looked alright to me.”
“Oh, he’s nice enough, I suppose. Fairly good looking. But he has a fatal flaw,” Serena says gravely.
“Which is?”
“He's teetotal.”
Bernie lets out a honk of laughter.
“See, even you can see that's ridiculous and you've only known me a couple of hours. I don't know what Sian was thinking.” Serena plucks the cigarette from Bernie’s fingers, draws deeply and returns it. Bernie takes a final drag, then drops the butt to the floor, crushing it underneath the toe of her boot.
“Serena—”
Then Serena’s arms twine around her neck again and she kisses Bernie once more, except there is no mistletoe this time, no unsuitable man or woman to hoodwink, just Bernie and Serena and the cold dark of the garden.
Bernie’s not sure how long they stand there, pressed together in the dim light escaping from the house. She is conscious only of the feeling of Serena in her arms and the taste of the cigarette on her tongue. When was the last time she kissed like this? Freely, and with abandon; rather than the furtive encounters she had shared with Alex, or her stilted embraces with Marcus? Serena’s hands creep under Bernie’s jumper, and she shivers at the first brush of cold fingers against her warm skin; but her own hands roam under Serena's coat, cup the curve of her arse through the fabric of her dress. She pulls their bodies together, and Serena lets out a moan that leaves Bernie throbbing with desire.
The shrill bleeping of a mobile pulls them apart. Serena extracts the phone from her bag, and glances at it.
“That's my taxi.” She pauses and, for the first time, Bernie detects a hint of uncertainty. “Would you like to come with me?”
Bernie stares at her. “You mean, go home with you.”
“Yes.” Serena fixes her with a gaze of such intensity that any thoughts Bernie might have had of chivalry evaporate.
Serena takes her hand once more and leads Bernie around the side of the house, through the gate, to where the taxi is waiting for them.
***
They stumble out of the taxi and up to the front door; Serena fumbling with the key in the lock. Quietly they shed coats and shoes; Serena uttering a sigh of relief as she slips off her heels. She leads Bernie towards the living room, forgoing the overhead light, and instead lights the lamps that stand at either end of the room, casting everything in a soft yellow glow.
“Drink?”
Bernie nods.
“Take a seat.” Serena vanishes and returns a minute later, bearing bottle, corkscrew, and glasses. She sets the glasses on the coffee table, sits down on the other end of the sofa and sets about extracting the cork. “I hope you don't object to Shiraz. I would so hate to have to abandon such a promising friendship.”
The look Serena gives Bernie as she says this can only be described as predatory. Bernie wonders if it's possible to feel weak at the knees while sitting down.
But then Serena’s bravado seems to desert her. Bernie sees the bottle wobble as Serena pours the wine; doesn't miss the shake of her hand as Serena passes Bernie her glass. Serena takes a sip of her own drink, looks at Bernie over the rim, and Bernie can see the nervousness in her eyes.
“Serena—” Bernie sets down her glass. “You're obviously not very comfortable with this. I think I should leave.”
“No!” Serena looks startled by the vehemence of her own response. “Sorry. I just— This isn’t something I make a habit of.” She takes another gulp of wine. “Bringing someone home, that is. I feel a bit out of my depth. But I definitely don't want you to go.” Her eyes meet Bernie’s and the uncertainty has lessened, replaced by determination, and desire.
“It's not something I do very often either,” Bernie confides. “But I would very much like to stay.”
She shuffles closer to Serena until their knees are touching. Serena's eyes are wide as Bernie plucks the glass from her hand and sets it aside. She lets one hand fall to Serena's knee; watches as her eyes widen further. Bernie raises her other hand to cup Serena’s cheek, and kisses her.
And then Serena is kissing Bernie back. It’s messy, and eager; noses bumping and teeth clashing. Serena’s fingers tangle themselves in her hair as Bernie kisses her way down the other woman’s neck to her shoulder. She reaches up to rest her palm on Serena’s left breast, caressing her through the soft fabric. There is a sharp intake of breath.
Bernie lifts her head from Serena’s clavicle. “Ok?”
Serena nods, and her own hands slide down Bernie’s torso and under her jumper. Her fingertips dance lightly over the planes of Bernie’s back, along her spine, to trace the curve of her waist. A gasp of pleasure escapes Bernie and it is Serena's turn to pause; to look at Bernie, to smirk at the response she is eliciting.
Serena tugs at the hem of the dark green jumper and pulls it upwards over Bernie's head. Her eyes rove over Bernie’s exposed upper body, falling to the scar on her chest, and Bernie sees the question form.
“I was injured in Afghanistan; – an explosion; it's why I left the army.”
Serena nods, and there is a long pause. Then she takes a deep breath and stands; turning around so her back is to Bernie.
“Can you unzip me?”
Bernie slides the zipper down slowly, kissing her way down Serena’s spine as she does so. The zip catches at the waist where the seams join, and Bernie has to tug firmly before it opens fully, the dress falling away. Serena turns and Bernie stares, drinking her in; absorbing the fullness of the breasts encased in silk and lace, almost exactly the same shade as the dress Bernie has just removed.
“You are so beautiful.”
“Shame about the tights,” Serena quips, with a gesture towards her legs. “They rather spoil the picture. Not very alluring I’m afraid.”
“Nonsense.” Bernie slides her thumbs under the waistband, rolling them down past silk knickers which match the bra. As she does so, her hands stroke the soft flesh of Serena’s thighs, and Serena shudders under her touch. Bernie slides her hand down the back of one calf first, and then the other, as she pulls the tights away and discards them. She presses a kiss just above Serena’s knee, and then another to her navel, and then, to the valley between her breasts.
Serena’s breathing is ragged; her chest flushed; her pupils dilated. Bernie feels a rush of arousal at the effect she has had upon the other woman.
“Jeans.” Serena’s voice is hoarse. She reaches forward to unbutton Bernie’s fly and tugs unsuccessfully on the denim. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She flops down onto the sofa. “Did someone sew you into these?”
Bernie laughs and shakes her head. “Sorry. Poor choice of clothing.”
“Not at all. They look amazing on you. I think you’ll have to remove them yourself though.”
Bernie shimmies off the jeans and then finds herself standing before Serena in her underwear. She’s conscious of the plainness of the functional black cotton, but Serena seems neither to notice nor care; tugging Bernie down to straddle her on the sofa, before kissing her again. Serena leans back as they kiss; pulling Bernie down to lie, half beside her, and half atop her on the sofa.
Pressed against Serena, Bernie loses all sense of time. Serena’s mouth is against her lips, her cheek, her neck. Her fingers play down Bernie’s back, nails scraping lightly against her spine, and Bernie arches with pleasure. Serena’s body is soft beneath her own hands; the heat of her skin next to Bernie’s glorious; the taste of it sweet on her tongue. For long minutes, they kiss and touch, until Bernie shifts her weight slightly in the too narrow space. There is a spasm of pain, and an involuntary gasp escapes her. “Ow.”
Serena stills. “What's the matter?”
“It's nothing. Back injury. I don't think it's appreciating your sofa.”
Serena looks at her in silent contemplation, then pushes herself upwards and off the sofa to stand up. She turns to Bernie. There's still a hint of uncertainty in her eyes, but when she speaks, her voice is steady. “I think we'd both be much more comfortable in my bed.”
Bernie feels heat rise to her face and curses the IED and its resulting injuries; rails at the embarrassment of being unable to participate in something as mundane as snogging on the sofa. But the hesitancy in Serena's eyes is gone, replaced by desire; and any lingering self-consciousness vanishes. With another twinge of pain, she heaves herself up off the sofa. It feels absurd, the pair of them standing in the middle of Serena’s living room in their underwear. Serena though, appears unperturbed by their near nudity; simply taking Bernie by the hand and leading her upstairs.
It's late now. Serena’s bedroom is dark and cool, and Bernie shivers in the chill of the air. Serena runs a hand along her arm, feeling the goosebumps. A second shiver has nothing to do with the cold.
“You're freezing; hop into bed.”
Bernie slides beneath the sheets as Serena closes the curtains and switches on the bedside lamp, before settling herself next to Bernie in the bed. She rolls onto her side so that they're facing one another.
“Better than the sofa?”
In answer, Bernie pulls Serena towards her and presses their lips together once more. It is still a revelation to be able to do this – to take pleasure in touching a woman – and she delights in the freedom to explore Serena’s body. It is so very different from her own. Different too from Alex, whose body had been lean and athletic; Serena is all curves and softness. Bernie’s fingers trace the outline of her breasts, her stomach, the line of her hip.
She props herself up on one arm, reaching around with the other hand to unfasten Serena’s bra and tossing it to the ground. Then she lowers her head to take one erect nipple in her mouth and gently sucks. Serena mewls. Delighted, she repeats the action. Serena’s fingers tangle in her hair, pressing Bernie’s lips against her breast. She strokes the curve of Serena’s waist; feels her squirm of pleasure.
“Take your bra off.”
Bernie looks up to meet Serena’s eyes. All trace of hesitancy is gone now.
She sits up, reaching behind herself to unclasp the bra; conscious of Serena’s gaze never leaving her body, of her eyes widening in desire. She settles herself back against Serena, breasts pressed together, and kisses her once more. Serena’s hands rove over Bernie’s body, exploring. She shudders as Serena’s fingertips graze the underside of her breast; as Serena’s thumb tweaks the nipple. Her own hands slide along Serena’s back, to her waist, down her legs. She teases the delicate skin of Serena’s inner thigh, until her fingers reach the hem of the other woman’s knickers and eases them over her hips to remove them.
Bernie raises a fingertip to stroke Serena’s clit; gliding over its slick wetness. Serena whimpers.
She stills her hand. “Ok?”
Serena nods. “Don't stop.”
Bernie keeps the movements small, slow and tantalising; Serena whimpering again with each tease of her finger. Bernie fixes her eyes on the other woman’s face, watching every twitch of her lips, every flutter of her eyelids, as Serena’s arousal builds; until her hips begin to roll against the bed. Bernie slides her finger down from Serena’s clit to hover just at her entrance. There is the tiniest nod of agreement, and she slips a finger inside.
Serena is impossibly, gloriously wet. Bernie slides in, and out again; Serena's hips bucking in tandem with the rhythm of her fingers; the whimpers turning to groans. Bernie feels the wetness between her own legs growing, aroused by Serena’s responsiveness. She adds a second finger and Serena’s eyes close, lost in pleasure. She can feel Serena’s muscles tighten around her fingers as desire builds and Serena’s approval grows progressively more vocal. Bernie adds a light sweep across Serena’s clit, then crooks her fingers just a fraction, and Serena comes with a cry; her head thrown back in sheer ecstasy; her face and chest flushed with arousal. Bernie feels Serena contract around her, spasming over and over again as she draws out Serena’s orgasm; continuing to stroke until the last flutters have died away.
“Ok?” she asks, when at last Serena opens her eyes.
Serena nods; cups Bernie’s neck and pulls her into a bruising kiss. “Very much so. Thank you.” She raises a hand, twisting a strand of Bernie’s hair around her fingers. “I’m sorry. I became rather selfish.”
Bernie chuckles. “Trust me, there is absolutely nothing to apologise for. I enjoyed myself very much.”
Serena laughs; the sound rich and throaty. “Still, I’d like to return the favour.”
For the briefest of moments, Bernie thinks she sees another flicker of trepidation, but it’s gone before she’s sure it was ever there, replaced by a wicked smile.
“Well, it would seem churlish to refuse in the circumstances.”
“Quite so.” Serena’s voice is husky now; the humour replaced by desire as her fingers beat a rapid path down Bernie’s torso. She traces over Bernie’s breasts and stomach, before coming to rest on her pubic bone, as she lightly brushes just above her clit.
Serena’s touch is exquisite. Dexterous surgeon’s fingers circling feather-light, never quite touching where Bernie wants her. It’s aching; maddening. Boundless pleasure just beyond Bernie’s reach.
“Please. Don’t tease,” she gasps, when she can abide no more.
“Sorry.” Serena doesn’t look sorry at all, but her strokes become firmer, her fingers more determined.
Bernie teeters on the brink of orgasm; senses that the merest of touches inside will send her spiralling. “Please, Serena.”
Serena obliges, slipping the tip of one finger into Bernie. An explosion of pleasure washes over her, wave after wave, until the tide ebbs away.
“Ok?” The hesitancy is back, though why Bernie cannot fathom. She reaches for Serena, wrapping an arm around her and holding her close, before they both fall into a deep sleep.