It's a bit early, but this Christmas fic has a fair few chapters, so I've started posting it now. This originally started as a deleted scene of At the End of the Day (yes, another one, I'm sorry, but think of it as a sort of Christmas special of it. That fic and many aspects of it sort of exploded out of my head all at once and I started several related things at once.) which was eventually replaced by chapter 6 of that fic, and some of it has survived into this one and been reworked so it fits with the rest of the story a bit more.

This fic will feature the POVs of three different characters, which will start overlapping as the story goes on. Quite a lot of reflection to begin with, and a bit less plot, but I hope it'll suffice.

I shall be updating this every few days or so, so keep an eye out for updates. I shall also be alternating POV every chapter.

And, I promise, though there may be similarities in this prologue, it will NOT be a rehash of ATEOTD- Joey's plotline will eventually tie in with the others' ones.


December, 1996

Joey

The card is only small, a simplistic, cartoonish snowman on the front smiling up from a pale blue background, a generic season's greeting scrawled across the front in swirly, sparkly font. For a moment or two Joey just stares at it, at once amused and appalled by the tackiness of it, and then, with a determined sigh and gritted teeth, he flips it open and presses his gold pen to the blank inside cover.

What do you write to someone you don't know anymore? What do you write to someone you love so dearly, and yet haven't seen in four years? A simple holiday message seems a bit unfeeling. A heartfelt declaration of his every emotion seems a bit too desperate, a bit too soppy, a bit too clingy.

He twiddles the pen around between his fingers before pressing down on the top. The nib pops out, but, contrary to his expectations, There'll Always Be an England fails to play. Joey frowns and unscrews the end of the pen, holding it up to the lamp as he squints down the tube to inspect its insides.

Ah, just as he thought- Martina has removed the music box again. He wishes she'd stop doing that. He's only just bought this one- hasn't even had it a week and she's already mutilated it. He'll have to find a new hiding place for his singing writing implements. Joey shakes his head, tosses the pen aside in favour of one of Martina's ordinary biros and stares once more at the blank card.

He clicks the pen lid against his teeth, closes and reopens the card, angles it so it's perfectly in line with the edge of the desk and sighs again. No good putting this off forever. The longer he waits, the more addled his brain is going to be- it's already three in the morning, and without sleep he'll be less and less likely to think up an appropriate sentiment as the hours wear on. He's just going to have to wing it, and live with whatever he ends up writing.

Merry Christmas, son, he begins, pleased with his progress thus far. Nothing you can say about that, is there? Hope you have a …he hesitates, fantastic day and…he hesitates again, a very happy New Year. There. Sounds ordinary enough, without being too detached. It's not the best thing he's ever written, but it gets the job done. Joey moves to close the card, but then his hand moves all by itself, picks up the biro again and adds a postscript.

Thinking of you always.

-Joey

He holds it up to examine it in the dim lamplight, smiles at his handiwork and brushes away a tear that's set up camp on his cheek. Joey presses his index finger against the snowman's nose, imagining for a minute that by doing so he can connect with the card's recipient. He tries to envision their reaction, tries to decide whether they'll smile upon opening it or be disappointed by the simplicity of what he's written, whether they'll think he didn't make enough of an effort. He tries not to entertain the very possible possibility that this card won't even reach its intended reader at all, might be lost somewhere in a solicitor's filing cabinet, might be thrown out by a spiteful hand. He tries not to feel his heart breaking all over again as these ideas prance through his head.

No use getting all wistful, now, is there? Joey is determined to be optimistic about this. He's doing the only thing he can, and that's got to count for something. Putting the card down for a moment, Joey pulls three twenty-pound notes from his wallet, slips them inside and carefully slides it into its envelope.

'What are you doin' up?'

Martina's voice startles him, and Joey hastily pushes the card under a book as he turns. She's standing in the study doorway, leaning against the frame, one hand on her hip and the other resting on her stomach.

Joey drags out the chirpiest tone of voice he can manage. 'I should be askin' you that, shouldn't I, sweetheart? You need your rest.'

'So do you, at this time o' night.'

Martina glides into the room, a spectre in a white dressing gown, resting her arm on the back of his chair. 'What are you doin' so secretly in 'ere?'

'Oh, nothing,' Joey's laugh is laced with guilt, 'it's…er… a surprise.'

He can't see her roll her eyes when she's standing behind him, but he knows she's doing it.

'Mister Boswell.' Her hand comes to rest on his shoulder, fingernails clenching around it in warning before releasing him. 'You can't pull the wool over me eyes that easily. You can't pass off everythin' devious you get up to as bein' somethin' to do with my Christmas present.'

Rats. That had been such a good excuse. He's carried out four tax dodges under her nose in the past three weeks, managing to get away without having her snoop by pretending he was going out to buy/bringing in/wrapping/hiding his gift for her- and thus far, it's worked. Of course, it was always a matter of time before she cottoned on, realised that he was using that as a cover under which to bring every other secretive thing he wanted to get done, but Joey's slightly disappointed she's stopped falling for it so soon. He was planning to set up another fake bank account for himself on Thursday. Ah well.

'And how do you know,' he says, rising and wrapping his arms loosely around her waist, 'which times were me being devious and which ones were actually to do with your present? You shall never be able to tell.'

He gives her a kiss, to which she responds with a tut.

'And if you can't tell, you won't be able to tell whether this time was actually to do with your present either! So if you snoop now, you might ruin the surprise, mightn't you?' He nods, proud of himself for being able to foil her, to play his way out of a corner.

'All right, all right,' Martina says, shaking her head, 'don't try all that cunning negotiation rubbish at this hour. I'll believe yer this time.' She moves back a little to hold him at arms' length, and he can just make out her raised eyebrow. 'But this is the last time I'll let you off the 'ook. The next time you shut yourself away in 'ere, I'm comin' in to find out what you're up to, Christmas 'surprises' or no Christmas 'surprises.''

'What a suspicious lady you are,' Joey says, pulling her close again and moving his hand down to run over her stomach. He can feel Belle writhing through Martina's camisole, and he leaves his hand there for a while, letting the movements of his unborn daughter calm him and bring a natural smile to his face. There are only about two months to go before she comes out of there, before Joey can hold her and whisper promises and words of love into her tiny ear, before he can properly cradle his child in his arms, and Joey can't wait. He's already bursting at the seams with love for her, and he's lived in a state of anticipation for longer than he can bear- he just wants her to be born now, for their life as a little group of three to properly begin. And just thinking of that future- that future with Belle in it- can instantly brighten his mood.

'D'you ever wonder what she's thinkin'?' Joey says, absently drawing a love heart on Martina's stomach with his finger, then pressing his hand flat against it. He feels Martina's laugh vibrate into his palm, followed by a kick as the baby squirms again.

'She's thinkin' that it's late, and you should come to bed, that's what she's thinkin'.' Martina takes hold of his wrist, handcuffing him with her index finger and thumb. 'And so am I.'

Joey lets her pull him a few steps towards the door and then pauses.

'Thing is, sweetheart,' he says, freeing his wrist from her grip, 'you know that possibly devious, possibly surprisin' thing I was workin' on just now? Well, I wasn't quite finished, and considerin' the fact that I only have tonight to make the most of you turnin' a blind eye…'

Martina gives him a long, steady look, and he senses she's already predicted the second half of this sentence.

'And if you could perhaps allow me, oh, say, five more minutes to get it all done and dusted…'

Martina's lips purse into a thin line, stay that way for a few seconds and then soften again.

'Oh, go on, then. Five minutes, mind. Any longer than that and I'll come back and drag you out of 'ere.'

'Would it be wise to exert yourself in your condition, sweetheart?'

'I'm pregnant, Joey, not dyin'. And it'd be no exertion to forcibly remove you from this room in order ter stop you gettin' up to yer schemes- I think you underestimate me strength, Mister Boswell.'

Joey chuckles at the retort. 'Stop me from carryin' out schemes? Now that I'd like to see.'

Martina tuts again. 'Five minutes.'

She disappears through the doorway, and Joey waits until her footsteps pad away down the passage before pulling out the envelope with the card in it again.

This shouldn't be a secret, really. Martina understands how he feels about all this, always has, but the more he thinks about it, the more inclined he is not to let her know about it. She knows how much he's looking forward to Belle being born, knows he loves their child with every inch of himself, even now when she's still thrashing around in the womb, knows she has nothing to worry about. But he can't help thinking she would worry if she knew about this. She didn't even want to have a child in the first place because of her untrusting nature, because of her suspicions that Belle was going to be a replacement for something he'd lost, and though she seems to have gotten over that, he doesn't dare do anything in front of her that might reopen that particular wound.

In Joey's mind, though, he has two children. Two. One with Roxy, one with Martina. Blood doesn't matter; he doesn't care if the first one wasn't related biologically, or even legally, he was- is- Joey's child, and just because he loves Annabelle doesn't mean he'll ever stop loving that other child. And why should he? Other people are perfectly capable of being parent to more than one child, aren't they? Doesn't mean they love any of their offspring any more or less than the others, does it? There's no reason why he shouldn't lay claim to a son and a daughter, and love them both equally and openly.

But knowing Martina, knowing her insecurities, if he said this to her, she'd probably have a fit. For all she likes to be understanding when he tells her of his problems and how much he misses his son, she's a jealous, possessive woman. When Roxy came down to see him last year (her motives for doing so he's still not entirely sure of), Martina sent her off with a very stern reminder that Joey belonged to her now, and not to bother him again. When Joey first started to discuss having children, she couldn't dislodge the idea that he was thinking of Roxy and her child, just wanted substitutes. And after all the times she's been let down over the years, he can't say he blames her for being this way. Joey is the first partner she's had, as far as he knows, who has actually been good to her, has actually tried to work at their relationship and give her what she needs, rather than just taking and then clearing off when he's drained her of all he could get. He's the first one she's really, truly loved without reserve, and though she's stopped being quite so hasty to jump down his throat and assume he's going to hurt her, the thought of losing him, or of feeling he doesn't really want her around, frightens her to pieces.

And Joey doesn't want her to feel that way. Joey wants her to be secure in him, to feel she can attach herself to him without fear of rejection, to feel she can have children without fearing that he'll put them in second place to Roxy's child. He loves her. He wants to give her everything. He wants her to be happy.

But that doesn't mean he can just switch off his love for his son. Even after four years without so much as a word, Joey's affections for the kid are as strong as ever, the pangs he feels when he sees photos of the two of them or when something he sees reminds him of the lad are still as sharp. And he's never going to stop thinking about him, trying to contact him, trying to send him tokens to remind him that, though he might be in Liverpool and the boy somewhere in London, they're still father and son, and that will never change.

Joey takes up his pen again, presses it to the envelope and writes out the name in a slow, caring cursive.

Oscar Hartwell.

Then he puts the envelope in his inside coat pocket, where Martina is less likely to snoop, turns off the lamp and goes to bed before Martina can make good on her promise to drag him there.

He can't sleep, though.


Yes, I know it seems to be the same problem, but this will not be the mainstay of Joey's plotline, and we will be approaching it and his relationship with Martina from a different angle. They may get on each other's nerves a tiny bit more this time round.

Also, I promise this will not turn into a Christmas cliché, with Martina suddenly going into labour on Christmas. I assure you, that will not be happening. Sorry to disappoint.

And the musical pens will make a reappearance. That I promise you.

Up next...well, it's probably not much of a surprise if you look at the cover, but I'll leave you to guess who's coming next all the same.