Hi! I'm Jess. I'm not new to fanfic (although I haven't posted for a few years) and I'm not new to Holby, but I am new to Holby fanfic. I hope you enjoy. I own absolutely nothing.

Dinner Without Hope

"Dinner?"

She hardly heard Elliot speak, but speak he did, and she tore her eyes away from Michael, pleased to see that her words and her ambiguous tone had had the desired effect. He was frowning at her, the vodka in his hand momentarily forgotten. She grinned to herself, and managed to mask her expression into her reply as she turned to face Elliot.

"Yes. I tried to convince her that it was a very bad idea, but my mother said she would never speak to me again if I did not invite the two of you back for a traditional Ukrainian Christmas dinner."

Michael sighed, and she could hear the relief he evidently felt. Good. She'd confused him. On her right, Elliot was smiling. "Ah, that sounds like a wonderful idea. I think it would be most ungracious of us to decline, wouldn't it, Michael?"

Now they were both looking at him.

"Yes. Yes, it would." He glanced quickly at her but she wasn't giving anything away. Already Elliot had them on their feet so he grabbed the bottle of vodka from the floor and stood up. As they started walking, he narrowed his eyes and peered at the bottle. Surely he hadn't had that much. He glanced up as he became aware of an attractive blonde walking past. She was looking at him and so as they passed he turned and looked at her. It was a reflex he'd perfected over the years; sometimes he didn't even know he was doing it. One person who did know, however, was Frieda; walking between himself and Elliot, she reached up and placed her hand on his face, gently yet firmly turning his head back around.

He looked at her.

But she was talking to Elliot. "So, Mr Hope, when is your flight home?"

It was as though it hadn't happened. Maybe it hadn't. He threw his half-empty cup of vodka into the nearest bin, just to be on the safe side.

"Tuesday," Elliot replied. Of the three of them, he was the best dressed for the cold. Michael thought of the t shirts and swimming trunks in his own suitcase, abandoned under the bed he'd shared with Elliot. He shook his head and laughed to himself. The whole situation was surreal. Perhaps the cold had gone to his head.

"Mr Spence, are you okay?"

Again, they were both looking at him.

"Uh, yeah, Dr Petrenko, I'm fine. Everything's fine." Why did he sound like he was rambling? "Just thinking about how…different… this Christmas has been. Did I tell you I was supposed to be in Florida? And instead I wind up here, freezing cold, sharing a… holiday… with Elliot." He hoped he'd covered the slip without her noticing. Elliot just rolled his eyes and continued on, occasionally stamping his feet against the cold. Michael's eyes went to Frieda. "I just didn't think I'd be spending Christmas in your hometown, that's all."

She shrugged. "You should always expect the unexpected. Isn't that what you English say?"

"I'm not English." He wondered why he should react to this. Maybe it was to stop himself reacting to the other half of her sentence. What, exactly, should he be expecting?

"No. You're The American." She threw him an enigmatic look. He really was starting to feel decidedly odd. "Yes. I am."

She laughed. "Poor American." And she turned away from him and engaged Elliot once more in conversation.

…

Frieda's mother was in love with Elliot. That much had been plain to see as soon as they'd walked through the door of Frieda's tiny yet cosy home and had their coats wrested from their backs. Michael had politely refused, given that his coat was pretty much all he had on. Mrs Petrenko had then turned her attentions to Elliot, and after hanging up his coat had taken him by the arm and almost frog marched him down into the tiny kitchen. Left behind, Frieda and Michael had shared an awkward stare, before Frieda cleared her throat and declared that she was going to take him on a grand tour of the house. He had no choice but to follow.

"And this," she said, as they reached the final room on the upstairs landing, "is my room. But you can't go in there," she added. She smirked at him. This was too easy.

"I don't want to go in there. I hate to think what's behind that door."

"Well, there's a shrine to you, of course, which I would hate for you to see because I think that would just be awkward."

Michael was speechless. He stared at her, at a loss as she burst out laughing.

"Your face!" She started once more for the stairs. "Do you really think I would have a Michael Spence shrine in my bedroom? The bedroom in my mother's house?" She shook her head, still laughing. "You're too much."

"Damn it, Petrenko." But he was laughing, albeit uneasily.

No mention of the supposed shrine was spoken at the dinner table. Seated opposite Elliot, Michael thanked God that at least he didn't have to look at Frieda during dinner, and this would maybe give him some time to figure out what the hell was going on.

At least, that had been the plan.

"So, Mr Michael, what is it you do? Frieda tell me so much about you, but she never say what you do."

Michael looked up from his food and glanced sharply at Frieda, who had apparently not heard the suggestion in her mother's tone. Across the table, Elliot too was engrossed in his meal, his life story already having been forced out of him by Frieda's mother.

He cleared his throat. "I'm a doctor. A surgeon, like Elliot." He hoped that hearing his name would cause Elliot to look up, offer some back up. But Elliot kept his head down.

"Yes, but what sort?"

Now, this was a question he could answer, one that didn't require any second-guessing. He straightened up in his chair. "Well, mostly I'm a general surgeon, but I am also trained in plastic surgery, which is why I came here."

"Ah."

One small word, yet loaded with meaning. He smiled encouragingly, hoping she would elaborate.

"Ah. Of course." She picked up her fork. "You The American."

At this, even Elliot looked between the two women, apparently sensing that some sort of unspoken, pre-rehearsed ritual was being carried out. Michael looked at him, raised his eyebrows in a silent shrug. Elliot gave the merest shake of his head. Frieda remained silent, although she was too late to look away when Michael glanced at her, and he saw a hint of something on her face- the suggestion perhaps that her mother might have said too much.

After dessert, Frieda got quickly to her feet and busied herself with clearing the table. Alone with Elliot, Michael sighed heavily. "Well, that was weird," he said, keeping his voice down.

"You're telling me. The woman makes Frieda look like a teddy bear."

"Ha. Yeah." Michael laughed. "No, what I mean was, the way she called me 'The American.'" He glanced in the general direction of the kitchen. "Petrenko said the same thing earlier. And she used to call me that when I first started working on the ward. She hasn't said it for a while now, though."

Elliot frowned. He was folding his napkin in half and taking his glasses off to clean them. "I thought it was a little strange, to refer to you in such a way," he added, apparently satisfied that the glasses were clean. He replaced them on his face.

"That's just it; I don't know." He stopped short of telling Elliot the joke about the shrine in Frieda's bedroom.

"Maybe our Frieda has fallen for the Spence charm," Elliot offered, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Oh, come on. Not likely." But it had crossed his mind, and it unnerved him. Nor did it make any sense.

"Well, I must confess, I did think it a bit odd when Frieda mentioned dinner earlier on." Elliot glanced round surreptitiously. "I thought she was inviting you on a date."

Michael struggled to form a coherent reply. Noise sounded from the hall, and moments later Frieda and her mother reappeared at the table. The men fell silent. Mrs Petrenko surveyed her guests, a small smile on her face, while Frieda feigned nonchalance. Michael could only guess at the conversation that had no doubt taken place in the kitchen. He hid a smirk, half an idea already forming in his head.

…

As Frieda's mother opened the front door and led them out into the cold night, Michael hung back. "Petrenko," he whispered. She turned. Elliot was already half outside and had no chance of escaping Mrs Petrenko. Michael grabbed Frieda's arm and pulled her back into the hall. "What?" she muttered, rubbing her arm as he let her go.

He grinned.

"You thought I wouldn't figure it out, didn't you."

She blinked. "Figure what out?"

"'The American'. Dinner." Michael folded his arms. "The shrine." He lowered his voice. "I know what's going on, Frieda."

"You do?" He thought she sounded panicked. "Come on, Mr Spence, you know I was joking about the shrine. You can't honestly think I would have a shrine to you. Really. You shouldn't flatter yourself."

"I'm not. Seems you're doing it all for me."

She shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable under his stare. "Get to the point."

Michael smirked. "I was hoping you'd say that." He paused, awaiting her reaction. "I was thinking, maybe when we get back, we could go for dinner some time?"

"Dinner?" Her voice came out as a squeak.

"Yeah, you know, that thing where you go out to a restaurant and eat stuff." This was too easy.

"Like a date?"

"Yeah, like a date."

He thought she paled slightly at this comment, if that were even possible.

"Just us?"

He took a breath. "Well, I thought we'd skip on inviting Elliot, and do you really want to put your mother on a flight over…?"

She was just blinking at him. He'd confused her. Good.

"Ha ha." She was struggling for an answer. He kept looking at her, a barely disguised smirk on his face. "So, what's it to be, Dr Petrenko?"

"Dinner."

"Yes. Dinner."

"Without Mr Hope?"

"Without Elliot."

"Just us."

"Just us."

Frieda frowned. "No, I don't think so."

That was unexpected. But he'd expected that. "Oh?"

"No. You're not really my type."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Relieved, obviously, but also sorry." He was still looking at her, watching for any change in her expression that might reveal what was actually going on behind that pale, wide-eyed stare. But there was nothing.

"Frieda!" Her mother's voice sounded from the front door. Michael shoved his hands in his pockets. "I guess we should go and rescue Elliot."

"I'm staying here tonight, remember." But she followed him back out into the hall.

"Yeah, I remember. We'll see you Tuesday, for the flight home?" He sounded hopeful, and she hid a small smile.

"I might be flying a bit later; I need to speak to my mother."

"Sure."

A gust of icy air met them as they approached the front door. Elliot was waiting, almost jumping up and down to keep warm. Michael hugged Frieda's mother. "It was lovely to meet you," he said.

"You too, American." She kissed him on the cheek.

Michael and Elliot started walking down the steps. "You sure you remember the way back to the hotel?" Michael muttered, already shivering.

"Yes, yes, we'll be fine, just a short walk."

"Better be."

"Mr Spence!"

They both turned. Already halfway down the road, they saw Frieda hurrying after them, her long coat flapping in the wind. "Mr Spence, wait."

"The Spence charm, remember," Elliot said quietly, grinning. Michael hit him.

Frieda caught them up. She saw Elliot step away from them. "I'm sorry," she said. "But you forgot something…" She motioned for him to step closer. He frowned. "All I had was my cell phone-"

"Dinner, you say?"

Michael abruptly fell silent.

"Just us? No Mr Hope."

He found himself nodding.

"I'll think about it," she said finally.

"You'll think…?" But she was already moving away.

"Everything alright?" Elliot asked. Michael just nodded, mouth open, completely speechless.

She felt his eyes on her as she hurried back up the road and into the house. She knew he was confused.

Good.

Because so was she.