Authors Note: The inspiration for the story comes in part from a poem, Valentine by Carol Ann Duffy. The title comes from a line in the poem.
This is a late birthday present for Sally Jetson; a true friend who isn't afraid to be honest when she has to be.
The story is part written. I had planned to write it all before posting but I need a distraction from work and this is it! I apologise in advance if updates are occasionally a little slow.
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing and I'm only borrowing the characters from the show.
Rating: T (I think!).
Summary: Is the past ever truly dead and buried?
Prologue
He'd struggled with what to do for the best.
So far he'd managed to avoid being in any sort of 'relationship' that required him to send some overly sentimental card, or lay out a weeks wages on a bunch of fading red roses, just to comply with a date of commercially manufactured significance.
But this year things weren't as clear cut.
It might not have moved past the drinks after work and chats-at-each-others-desks-when-the-squad-room-was-clear stage, but it was moving; towards what he didn't know yet, but it meant a decision had to be made.
Did he send her a jokey card, one that hinted at 'I'm thinking about you', but that made it clear that he wasn't sure what this 'thing' between them was yet? Or did he ignore the day and hope she did too? He knew he wasn't ready to mark the day with anything more; knew that he wasn't ready to say this 'thing' was something 'serious'.
He wasn't ready for 'serious'.
Then he'd worried about what to do if she didn't ignore the day. What if she sent him something that said 'I really like you and I hope you feel the same'? He did like her, was even starting to think that maybe, just maybe, this 'thing' could become something more. But that was the problem. That word, 'maybe'.
He'd put himself down to work a double shift in the hopes that even if they were rostered on at the same time there would be enough going on that prevented them spending much, if any, time alone. He also made a mental note to avoid the squad room at all costs. But when he'd checked the roster he'd realised that he hadn't had to go to such lengths: 'Det J Angell' wasn't rostered on that day at all.
In saner moments he wondered if he was being unfair to her; acknowledged that maybe he was allowing his ghosts to create shadows where no shadows existed. But those moments were few and far between for him at this time of year and so he did what he always did; took as many double shifts as he could and worked until he nearly dropped from exhaustion in the vain hope that this year would be easier; that this year he'd get through these few weeks, and this day above all, without being plagued by the dreams that had him reliving it all again.
The day itself had so far passed without anything of note happening; no card, no email, not even a text message, and he allowed himself to breath more easily, reprieved for another year as, he assumed, she had decided to ignore the day as well.
And he was getting to be an expert in closing his eyes and not seeing the red roses and satin hearts that seemed to be everywhere. After all, this would the sixth year that he would try, and fail, to fool himself that it was just another day.