And gie's a hand o' thine;
He hated New Year's Eve, he really did.
He sat on the sofa in his sitting room, watching some bloke with an overly whitened, overly bright smile ramble on and on about something. He'd turned the sound off after Emily had kissed him goodbye and headed out the door with Liam.
He always had hated it, because it was one of those holidays that really shouldn't be that significant at all, yet the masses insisted on making it out to be some sort of big deal, some sort of fresh start in which they could lie to themselves and pretend that suddenly, there was this clean slate, suddenly all the things you'd done to fuck up your life in the past year were just magically gone, and you could change everything you hated about yourself, by resolving to do so. He snorted at the thought, refilling his empty glass while the people in Times Square pressed against each other, dancing and jumping and probably ninety percent of them drunk off their arses while they did so.
He may have hated resolutions more than anything else. Most people would tell you that they hate resolutions because if you want to make a change with your life, you can just do it. No special date needed, really. Which, true – absolutely true, but it wasn't why he hated them.
He hated them because they were lies. Propaganda, self-fed and indulged in by masses on one evening a year. Promises never kept, delusions people hid behind. Next year I'll lose weight. Next year I'll drink less. Next year I'll save money. Next year I'll be a better man. Next year I'll be braver. Next year I'll be more honest. Next year I'll – next year, next year, next year. Procrastinators must love the hell out of resolutions. Oh I'll do that. Next year. And so purposely vague. If one happened to wake up with a massive hangover of January 1st, and really felt like having a kip, or a smoke, or some non-dietary bacon, well they only promised to give those things up next year. Nobody said when. He drained his glass again, and the soft clink of the bottle against the glass just before the liquid sloshed into the waiting space was comforting noise in his too-silent house.
He'd gone in to 2010 with such high hopes. He had and he'd been foolish to indulge them, he knew. He knew that, now, at the end of the year. He'd come into this year having narrowly escaped death in a sandy hell-hole all because the government had deemed it necessary. He took a drink, the scotch burning on its way down as he swallowed. If he closed his eyes he could still hear the gunfire, rapid – so rapid, faster than the beating of his heart even, and that had been pumping wildly, racing for its life inside of him.
He'd done a lot of thinking on the flight back stateside. After all, eighteen hours on a military plane kind of leads to that. Deep thoughts. And the thought that plagued him throughout the entire ride had been this: if he'd died out there, in that desert – if one bullet had just strayed two inches left or right and he'd been shot, what would he have died regretting? Because no matter what anyone said – people always died with regrets. Bucket lists, or living life to the fullest – all of that was well and good, but it didn't matter what you'd done with or in your life, everybody dies with regrets. Because there will always be that one thing, so precious, so sacred, so secret that you clutch it in your heart – muscles and blood wrap and flow around it, and no one can ever see it, not even you sometimes. You would never write it on a list, or even say it out loud. It was up for discussion only within yourself.
What would he have regretted?
Bye, darling.
And there it was. He'd told Emily he loved her, hugged her – of course he'd avoided telling her where he was going, but had he died, she'd have been okay. Upset, obviously, but she'd know that he loved her and that she was the most important part of his life. She'd have had her mum, and her friends, and Gill. She'd have been okay.
But Gill-
He took another drink and blinked away the memory, loathing this whole damn night that made you feel the need to evaluate your year. Looking back was pointless, nothing would change.
But he'd realized that he'd denied Gill that very same comfort he'd so readily provided Emily with before he left. Knowing that he'd be in a dangerous situation. He'd told Em just how much she meant to him, but not Gill. So what would she have if he'd died? A broken heart that was already cracked and aching in the first place.
Which yeah, maybe had been a bit presumptuous of him to think, but it didn't make it any less true.
So last year, as 2009 had waned and 2010 had been born amongst ridiculous arguments over what to call the bloody year of all things, he'd broken his no resolutions tradition and promised himself that he would tell her. Next year, he would be completely honest with Gill for the first time in their friendship.
Next year.
And true to all of his complaints about resolutions, he'd put it off. First there had been Vegas – his frightened response to the mere thought of the magnitude of the commitment he'd been about to make. Because with Gill – it wasn't a small step, it wasn't a next level or a progression of their friendship. It was like standing at the base of Mount Everest and thinking 'yeah, I could climb that'. Because with Gillian, it was colossal. It wasn't just a date, or a kiss, or a shag – it was a lifetime. And he knew that – he knew that once he said it, once she said it back (another presumption but again, not any less true) once he and she became they – that was it. For the rest of his natural life, he knew he'd never love another woman the way he did her.
It was a sobering thought, so he swallowed one more drink, and watched the clock tick down the hour remaining between this shitty year and the next.
And the list of excuses just went on and on, really. She'd pulled away after the whole Helen thing – after Martin had taken him and killed him a few times. And then she'd confessed to her seven year lie about Doyle. And after that, well, there'd been Burns.
He'd been jealous. So jealous he could taste it at the back of his throat every time he saw her with him, or thinking of him or smiling or glowing like she did. It tasted acrid and bitter, vile and foul, and he'd hated it. And yes, it was unfair of him because it wasn't like he hadn't had his flings – his Poppy's and Clara's but he didn't keep them around, and he never loved them instead of her.
She had.
She had – she'd loved Burns, and he'd had to watch her do it. He'd been powerless to stop it, and he'd tried so terribly hard. Searched his past, looked for something – anything that he could find that he could show Gillian, prove to her what a mistake she was making.
And look at how that had turned out.
He finished the glass but didn't refill it, slouching back into his seat instead, staring at the telly without seeing it as his mind wandered, determined to continue its depressing mental recap of the year. Their money issues, and Ben. Ben. Wallowski.
He was fully aware of his own actions in the latter half of the year. He'd been fully aware at the time – but she had been quietly mourning Burns, wearing fewer skirts and more jeans. Less pink and more navy and she never seemed to smile anymore and it was like – even with the man gone, he still won. He still got her. And it had hurt – like a clenched fist in his chest, gripping his heart so painfully that that secret he held, that regret in the shape of love cut into the muscle around it and he had just –
He'd just wanted her to know. To realize how sharp it felt and how much he bled. And at first it had felt good, it did, because misery really does love company, after all. But then somewhere along the way it lost its point, and became pain just for pain's sake. And he was putting a little more distance between them every time, and she still wasn't smiling as much and he was lost because – was it because of Burns? Or because of him?
He stood, the question burning into his alcohol fogged mind as he pulled on his coat and pulled out his phone, knowing that this was possibly the best worst idea he'd ever had in his entire life. "Hello, yes I need a cab."
He checked his watch obsessively on the ride over to her place. It was normally a ten minute drive, and it took nearly thirty minutes, so it was just about twenty to midnight when he shoved some cash at the cab driver and ran through her parking lot, up the stairs and halted at her door, out of breath and wondering for the first time – what if she wasn't home? It was new year's after all, and some people actually enjoyed that sort of thing.
He decided that the best way to find out would be to knock, so he did.
The minute and a half between his last rap and her opening the door felt like the longest in his life. She started to smile when she saw him, but at the last minute it faltered, before slipping off her face quietly. "Cal, this is a surprise."
But she didn't sound surprised, she sounded flat and he felt his heart tighten that much more around the words that were slowly sawing their way out of his chest. He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous as he shifted left to right to left in front of her like a child caught doing something naughty. "Um, I uh-"
"What are you doing here? I mean – tonight. Shouldn't you be out..." she waved a hand expressively and he shook his head in response to her gesture, his tongue still stuck to the roof of his mouth and his heart pounding, severing with each beat and he was fairly sure it would break in two at any given moment.
"No, I uh – I was at home. Just... watching the telly and thinking and I thought – I thought – can I come in?" He was stepping up into her door even as he asked and she had to step back quickly, to make room. And just that small step nearly broke him, because there was a time when she wouldn't have. A time when she would have just shared her space. He followed her into the hall, until she could close the door behind him, cutting off the frigid air and he sighed in relief as he felt the warmth of her house wrap around him. It smelled like her in here – like ginger and spices and vanilla and her.
"So you just thought you'd pop by on new year's eve at nearly midnight, Cal?"She moved around her sofa and sat down, picking up her television remote and he finally noticed she had something paused on the screen. He shrugged out of his coat and toed off his shoes before following her.
"You're not watching that Dick Seacrest Rocking Merry Eve or whatever it is?" She laughed at his question and shook her head.
"I'm watching a movie. It's one I watch every new year's if I can." Her amusement was fleeting and he sat next to her, entirely too close as he peered at her and asked.
"What's it about, then?"
"Two people... who meet and hate each other and meet and don't hate each other and meet and become friends and then they fall in love." There's a certain look on her face as she speaks, and he inches closer to her, like she is some skittish mare and he's the bloody horse whisperer, and yes he read the book, it was Emily's and it was laying about, okay?
"Sounds familiar." His response is low, and his heart has just stopped beating all together, he was sure. It is just clenching, tighter and tighter and any second now, it will be rendered.
She looks over at him and opens her mouth, but no sound comes out for a moment and he can see her weighing her options behind her eyes. "You hated me when we met?" She is opting for light-hearted, joking and he meets her gaze evenly, knowing he is about to either fuck everything beyond all belief, or do something that should have been done long ago – three hundred and fifty-six days ago. Eight thousand five hundred and fifty three hours and fifteen minutes ago. Before the Poppy's and the Clara's and the Burns' and the Wallowski's. Something he should have done as soon as he thought it. As soon as he promised himself; next year. It should have been 12:01. Next year should have been started as soon as possible. But he was a moron.
And there it was – his heart in two pieces as the words crawled up his sternum and into his throat, clawing and fighting all the way. "No, darling, I knew I loved you as soon as I met you."
Her face went blank, and she looked at him with shock for a full second before she looked at him again, only deeper this time. Searching his face in all the ways he had taught her, in all the ways she had always insisted they never look. She was breaking her own rule, and the corner of his mouth twitched in a split-second smile. "Cal... don't be silly. We were married. I was married. You were married."
"Your hair was pulled back, and you were in a black skirt and a god awful tailored blouse, because you had to appear professional and sedate. But you wore pearls, and you didn't shy away when I looked through your things, and you didn't back down when I challenged you and you didn't lie when I caught you. And I knew Gill. I knew you were married- you had your wedding photo on the shelf behind your desk, and I knew I was married and I didn't care. But I wasn't a cheater, and neither were you, love, so I made you my best friend instead. Because it was all that was within my reach then, and that was alright." She stared at him, her mouth open as her gaze flitted across his face. She took a breath but he held up a hand, because he was on a roll now and only had minutes to spare.
"And then Zoe left me. Because I was never there, and because I always read her, and because maybe she knew that deep down, buried somewhere in my heart I always resented her for not being you. Because of a million reasons, and I felt liberated for a full thirty minutes before I remembered that she may be gone, but you were still married and somehow that fact hurt me more than it did one day before. And I hated myself, because you were happy and I should want that for you. And I hated myself because my marriage fell apart and I was happy about it for a half hour, and what the hell kind of person was I? And then when Alec – when he was off doing what he was, I could see it, Gill. All over his face every god damned time I saw him and I wanted to break that rule, smash it to smithereens but all those pieces would hurt you, so I didn't."
"But- But my divorce, after my divorce-" she protested weakly and he moved even closer, gripping her shoulders in his hands.
"I'd been keeping my secret for a long time at that point. I could sit here and lie and tell you that maybe it was too soon for you – but it wasn't that at all, it was me. I wasn't ready to let go of it, and I was selfish – no surprises there, right love? It scared the living shit out of me, so I just... didn't think about it. I took what I needed from you and I just didn't think about it. But last year – Afghanistan-"
Her hands came up reflexively, between them and he was bracing himself for her to push him away but she simply laid them on his chest, her fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt as she held her breath and waited. "I was – I don't know what was different about that time over all the other times, I don't know, Gill. But something was different, and I promised myself right about this time last year that I would tell you this year."
"This year is almost over." She stated obviously. "So- so – so what the hell, Cal? You wait until now? After all the crap you pulled this year-"
"I know!" He shouted and his grip tightened until she stopped to listen. He loosened his hold immediately, aghast at himself and he dropped his hands into his lap before he continued. "I know I fucked everything up, and I don't really have a valid excuse. I've got stupid ones, loads of those – but... I was scared. And then I was hurt."
"Hurt?" She frowned in confusion, her hands dropping to cover his as she waited for him to look up. When he did he knew every bit of the pain he'd felt was written all over his face and she gasped, her hand tightening over his. He turned his own hands, until they were palm to palm and he could feel her heartbeat flutter against his thumb.
"Burns." It was a whisper and she looked at him seriously, no small amount of anger burning in the back of her eyes.
"You don't get to – you do not get to- Cal! Clara and Poppy and Zoe and-"
"None of them meant a damned thing, Gill. None of them. I never kept any of them around, and yes it was stupid and thoughtless of me to hurt you like that but I never loved them. And you did." She was crying now and he felt like a complete ass, but she needed to hear it – all of it.
"And I did?" She pulled her hands back, wiping her tears away, her quick movements practically hissing with anger. "You bastard."
He swallowed but he met her gaze, and let her burn through him. "Maybe. Maybe I am a right bastard, but you loved him and it hurt. And that hurt – it twisted something inside of me Gill, and I didn't like it – not a bit. Well, that's a lie, I think I did like it actually at first – but all my heart could do was watch you love him, and mourn his loss and it all just hurt because it should have been me. And I know that was my own stupid fault, but it doesn't change it any, does it? The truth's the truth. And I wanted- I wanted to hurt you back."
"So – the whole- and Wallowski?" Her whisper was laced with anger but he nodded anyway and she sat beside him, staring ahead blankly for a moment. "Do you feel better now, Cal? Knowing that you succeeded?"
"Not even a bit, love. I feel worse actually. Miserable. Like a sodding bastard, really."
"Why did you do this now?"
"Because I should have done it straight away then. Think of all the misery I could have saved us if I had. If I hadn't been a scared little wanker, I was thinking about it tonight. And I wanted to keep my promise. To tell you, everything, this year. This year, and not the next." He stared ahead as well, his hands clasped tightly as he sat up straight, uncharacteristically still as he watched the clock on her wall, ticking the seconds down until the new year. He was bleeding out, he was fairly certain – his heart rendered into two uneven halves of an uneven whole.
"You make it so hard to hate you, Cal. I tried – god, I tried, I want you to know that. I almost left. Almost packed my bags and left, almost cut my losses. I tried, Cal, so hard, you have no idea. I almost hated you – but I could never quite get there, because I loved you too damn much." He felt his heart twitch at her words, jerk so that the pieces moved closer together, but he didn't dare hope, or move, or even breathe.
She put a hand over his again, and he turned his head to see her sitting there, gazing at him steadily, with a brilliant smile across her face. It was like sunlight on snow – so dazzling that it hurt his eyes, and he couldn't seem to adjust, but he didn't want to anyway. "I won't ever do this again," he promised, and she shook her head in response. "I promise, Gill. I swear I'll never hurt you again on purpose, and I'll do whatever you want – whatever you decide is fine wit-"
She cut him off, leaning forward and pressing her lips to his softly. His hands came up to slide along jaw until his fingers brushed her hair, and he wrapped the strands around his finger tips like they were a lifeline, holding him to her. He kissed her gently, gingerly, hesitantly. One, two, three, four – he lost count of how many times his lips brushed against hers and her against his. He couldn't hear anything except for her breathing, air against his skin and the rustle of her hair against his hands.
She pulled back, smiling again but softer, more content this time. "Happy New Year, Cal."
"Happy New Year, Gill."