The smell of burned fruit is the first indication he has that something is amiss.
The second is the sight of his wife (five months and counting, thank you very much) sitting at their kitchen table, her chin smeared with what looks like cinnamon and flour, scowling at the screen of her laptop and unhappily snacking on a packet of dried mixed fruit. It's Sunday morning, and he's been gone for less than an hour, and he's quite sure that the kitchen (and his wife) hadn't been in this state when he'd left to go for his run.
"I hate to ask the bleeding obvious, love, but everything alright?" Emma transfers her scowl from the laptop to him, and he almost takes a step backwards.
"Whoever wrote this fruitcake recipe should be hunted down," she mutters, her gaze dropping back to the screen. "It makes less sense than that ridiculous affidavit you got me to proof read for you yesterday."
Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling (the affidavit in question had indeed been nonsensical, but his clients wouldn't need him if they were capable of behaving like grown adults and solving their own problems) he tosses his house keys onto the small bowl on the sideboard. "At the risk of sounding like a complete dolt, may I ask why you're making fruitcake at nine o'clock on a Sunday morning?"
She looks at him as though he imagines she looks at her opposing counsel during trial. "It's Christmas in less than a month."
"Ah." He strolls across the kitchen to stand behind her on pleasantly aching legs, absentmindedly curling his fingers through her haphazard ponytail as he scans the list of ingredients and instructions on the screen. Nothing jumps out at him as being unusually bizarre, but then he's hardly an expert when it comes to baking. Neither, of course, is Emma, which leads him to his next question. "That still doesn't solve the mystery of why you're making a fruitcake, Swan." Leaning down, he presses a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the scent of shampoo and skin still warm from their bed. "Considering the fact that neither of us actually eat fruitcake."
"Maybe not, but I wanted to do something festive." She closes her laptop with a humph, leaving floury fingerprints on the silver casing. "It's our first Christmas." He feels his eyebrows rise at that, but before he can say anything, she waves a sticky fingered hand at him. "Okay, I know we were together last Christmas, but I'd just moved here and everything was all over the place and we were both too busy at work to care."
He grins, remembering last year. They hadn't bothered with a proper tree, just a few Christmas wreaths around the place, and he'd been so delighted with the fact that she was in his bed every morning instead of thousands of miles away that he'd barely noticed the lack of festive cheer.
This Christmas is no different. They're both working long hours, and although he hasn't mentioned it to her (he may be in love, but he's no fool), he's noticed the dark smudges beneath her eyes. The last thing she needs is to add the bloody pointless stress of baking to her life. Pressing another kiss to the top of her head, he makes his way towards the espresso machine. "I've just staggered through a five mile loop, darling. Do you think you could get to the point before I expire where I stand?"
"Well, we're married now and I just feel like we should, you know, do these things." She breaks off, looking flustered and irritated and so incredibly beautiful that his heart feels like it's flexing in his chest. His hand pauses on its way to grab a clean coffee mug, and he turns on his heel and retraces his steps to her side.
"Swan." She looks up at him, her sea-green eyes brimming with a blend of emotions he recognises only too well, determination and frustration and the fear of being found wanting. It's been a while since he's seen her like this (her last major fraud case comes to mind) and every time he swears he'll make sure it's the last time. "Christmas might be fast approaching, but that doesn't mean we're obligated to suddenly start baking up a storm."
"I know." She looks down at the table top, her index finger making patterns in the spilled flour, then sighs heavily. "Here's the thing. I don't have any Christmas traditions." Lifting her head, her eyes find his, and in their depths he sees the old wounds, some of which he suspects will never be truly healed. "I was never in one place long enough to learn any, and after I got out of the system, I just never bothered."
"Oh, Emma." Just when he thinks she can't break his heart with the strength of his love for her, he learns otherwise. "I'm sorry, love, I hadn't realised-"
She waves her hand, as if wanting to brush her words away. "I don't want to make this all about me, because it's not, but this is our second Christmas together." Her lovely mouth is still turned down at the corners. "Doesn't it bother you that we don't have any Christmas traditions yet?"
"Actually, no." He indulges himself in a long, lingering glance, sweeping over her from her black socks dotted with anchors (his) to her tumble of bedhead disguised as a ponytail, taking in the intriguing swell of her braless breasts beneath her thin pyjama top along the way. "Mind you, I can think of one tradition I very much enjoy."
She leans back on her chair, her arms folded across the aforementioned braless breasts, his spirits lightening when he sees the darkness has faded from her eyes. "And what's that?"
"You." One hand splayed flat on the kitchen table, he bends his head, relieved when she lifts her face to his, her mouth meeting his in a soft, dried fruit-laced kiss that quickly catches fire, becoming deep and hungry in the space of a shared inhaled breath. Her hands come up to grip his damp sweatshirt, her knee bumping against his as she shifts in the wooden chair, and he vaguely ponders the logistics of sweeping the kitchen table clear and having her right there, amidst the spilled flour and bowls of burned rum-laced fruit.
Only the thought of the inevitable clean-up has him restraining the impulse, although it's a close thing when she slips her hand into the loose waistband of his running pants, finding him already hard and eager for her touch. "Bugger me," he mutters succinctly, biting gently at her bottom lip before he lifts his head. "You'll have me on my knees in two seconds flat, love."
She brushes her nose against his, her hand still tormenting him. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
He kisses her again, a brief, bruising kiss that leaves them both breathless, then he takes her hands in his and hauls her up out of the chair. Her breasts are soft and full against his chest as she winds her arms around his neck, wrinkling her nose at him as her hands thread through his damp hair. "You're all sweaty."
He licks his lips, tasting the sweetness of dried fruit and Emma, quite the heady combination so early in the morning. "Did you miss the part where I mentioned the five mile run?" He gives her what he hopes is his most pathetic look. "You have no idea how hard it was to leave you sleeping in our bed and head out in the dark and dreary morning cold."
"Oh, I don't know." She presses her hips into his, the soft warmth of her finding the aching thrust of his erection. "Still seems pretty hard to me."
Laughter ripples through him, as light and weightless as the flour currently dusting what looks like every flat surface in their kitchen. "Just how much of that boozy fruit did you sample before you declared your efforts a disaster, Swan?"
"Not a drop." She does her best to look offended, but he sees the corners of her mouth twitching. "I don't do rum in the mornings."
"At least not before a shower and coffee," he agrees, tugging her gently in the direction of their bathroom. "Come talk to me while I shower, love, and we'll have a very serious conversation about Christmas traditions." He strips off his sweatshirt as he precedes her down the hallway, his voice muffled. "Perhaps first we should decide how much money to squander on a ridiculously oversized tree."
"Maybe later." She gently pushes him into the shower stall, then starts to unbutton her pyjama top. "You said something about being on your knees?"
His blood rushes south even as he reaches for the hot water, fumbling for the faucet as Emma sheds the matching pyjama bottoms, leaving her gloriously bare-arsed and him with a raging erection that would have put his sixteen year-old self to shame. "I believe I did."
She tastes of musk and heat and raw desire, her palms sliding over his wet shoulders as he buries his face between her legs, hot water streaming over them as the steam rises in more ways than one. The tile edges are sharp beneath his knees, but he couldn't give a damn, not when Emma is keening and writhing above him, his name echoing softly as she comes hard, her sex pulsing hot and slick against his tongue.
A moment later, she kisses him with a tenderness that belies the fierceness of his first thrust inside her, one long leg wrapped around his hips, her hands gripping his arse as she pulls him closer and deeper. It seems different somehow, her body tighter and hotter, the feel of her full breasts rubbing against his chest unbearably erotic. With an embarrassing swiftness, he's mouthing obscenities against her wet shoulder, shuddering against her as he spills himself inside her, heat leaping from her body to his.
Whispering a throaty joke about workplace, health and safety versus slippery surfaces, she kisses his forehead, then gently disentangles herself, shutting off the water with a practiced flick of her hand. "I like your favourite tradition," she adds almost shyly, and he wraps his arm around her, pulling her back to him.
"That's the wonderful thing about traditions, love." She smells of gingerbread scented body wash (the office secret Santa always yields interesting results), but he knows if he kissed her now, she'd still taste of fruit and cinnamon. "We get to make them up as we go along." Her eyes start to glow with a quiet, secretive joy that has him smiling from ear to ear. "What?"
Her whole body relaxes against his, as if she's just come to some decision. "About that whole starting new traditions thing-" Reaching for his hand, she holds it flat against her belly, her fingers threading through his. "Don't freak out, but I'm pretty sure we've already started something new."
His head still fuzzy from their slippery encounter under the shower, he stares at her uncomprehendingly for a few seconds, then he literally feels his jaw drop as all her talk of wanting family traditions suddenly makes a whole new kind of sense.
Bloody hell.
Feeling winded in the best possible way, he looks at the still-flat stomach beneath his hand, then at Emma, who is watching him with a fragile trepidation that has him gathering her into his arms, his mouth finding hers for a fierce kiss that warms him down to his bones.
After what feels like an eternity, she pulls her mouth away from his, her words coming out in a rush, tiny puffs of joy against his lips. "I mean, I've made an appointment for tomorrow morning but I'm pretty sure-"
He kisses her again, his hands cradling her face, and she's crying and smiling, and he has the feeling he's not far behind. "Best new tradition ever, Swan," he tells her, and her smile is the stuff of his dreams.
Hooking her arms around his neck, she leans back in his embrace, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Still want to talk about that oversized tree?"
He grins, barely noticing the water dripping in his eyes, let alone the fact that they're still standing in their shower stall. "Perhaps after I've examined every inch of you, love," he murmurs, sliding one hand down her back to cup one damp arse cheek, the other palming one soft breast. "Just to monitor any changes, you understand."
"Really?" He sees her intent in her eyes long before she makes her move, and not even having a bath towel thrown in his face is enough to dampen his spirits or deter him from carrying her bridal style to their bedroom.
Afterwards, while Emma is dozing (her sated expression as he kisses her temple brings a unashamedly smug smile to his face. He's only human, after all) it takes him over an hour to scrub the sticky, scorched saucepan clean and wipe the flour from every nook and cranny of their kitchen. He doesn't give a toss, because he's going to be a father and as new traditions go, that's a million times better than the best sodding fruit cake in the world.