DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

A/N: Yeah, okay, I apologise for the title - dreadful pun. :)

Dedication: Happy Crimbo/Festive Season to all, but especially
to the entire OHT who are just such great friends to have.

Christmas Eve

by Joodiff

"Oh, God…" Spencer says, his voice heavily laced with disgust, and for a long moment I just look at him in alcohol-induced confusion. It's late, we're all more than a few sheets to the wind, and it takes me a second or two to realise that he's nodding for me to follow his gaze. So I do, and I immediately realise exactly what's causing both his pained expression and the disgruntled tone of his voice. In the vicinity of the water-cooler, and only just in the general ambit of the slightly limp sprig of mistletoe that some anonymous joker has suspended from the ceiling using industrial grade black tape, there's a more-than-strictly-necessary amount of snogging going on. Actually, from what I can see, it actually appears that it's some kind of minor snog-a-thon going on. Which would be okay, but the tragic fact is that they seem to be so damned good at it that it's compulsively fascinating to watch. This is not amateur snogging of the "we're a bit pissed at the office party and we've always kinda fancied each other" variety. This is full-on professional snogging of the incredibly self-satisfied "we're actually experts at this so piss off and leave us alone" variety.

"Do they have to?" Spencer complains. "I mean, do they really have to…?"

I have to assume it's a rhetorical question. At least, I hope it is, because I'm not quite sure what sort of answer I'm supposed to give otherwise. It's Christmas Eve, for God's sake; we've all had rather more to drink than perhaps we should have done, and even if they've never been quite so blatant about it before, Peter 'n' Grace is absolutely the worst-kept secret in the Unit. Anyway, to be perfectly frank, unless the snog-a-thon becomes a full-blown shag-a-thon right in front of us, my instinct is just to shrug and hope that neither of them actually collapses from hypoxia. Though from the look of things they've got the whole breathing-while-snogging issue perfectly under control. At least, there doesn't seem to be any desperate struggling for air going on. Or any desperate struggling of any kind, in fact.

"Maybe we should time them?" Kat suggests, appearing suddenly at Spencer's shoulder with yet another newly-opened bottle of wine.

"Mm. I do think they might be going for some kind of world record," I say, purely to see Spence wince. Which, obligingly, he does. A lot.

They're still going for it. Big time. It worries me that I'm starting to find the spectacle faintly erotic in a disturbing sort of way. Boyd's perched on the edge of a table, long legs casually stretched out, and Grace is standing between his thighs. Which is almost certainly a lot more seemly in public than the other way round. Actually, thinking about it, either combination is fairly inappropriate for an office party, but that doesn't seem to be worrying them, because, yeah, they're still firmly lip-locked with the same degree of unrestrained enthusiasm.

"Bucket of cold water?" Kat suggests.

Spencer snorts. "Feel free to try it. Don't give much for your chances of survival, though."

All those annoying Christmas songs that start harassing you in shops from mid-October are playing on a loop in the background, and the three of us – the Three Wise Monkeys who diplomatically hear, see and say nothing – try our best to ignore what's going on while having the inevitable who's going where to see whom for Christmas conversation. Everyone else, namely those who actually have a life beyond the gloomy CCU bunker, has long-ago departed. It's just us now. And the old couple snogging each other's faces off in the corner. I see Kat glance over my shoulder and I have to ask, "Still going?"

She pulls a face. "Still going. Though they did come up for air briefly a couple of minutes ago."

Maybe they're just trying to prove a point to those of us who don't remember ever being paid in pounds, shillings and pence. Who knows?

Spencer's trying to tell us some allegedly hilarious story from his time on the beat, but like the rest of us he's had a few too many and he keeps mucking up the punchline. In all honesty, it's even funnier when Spence gets drunk than it is when Boyd gets drunk, because where Spence gets bristly, feisty and loquacious our normally irascible leader simply turns into a large, clumsy but very placid sort of creature who'll do just about anything Grace tells him. Extremely entertaining in its own way, but not quite as amusing as watching a gently swaying Spencer trying to be forceful, witty and dignified all at the same time. Kat's laughing a lot, even though his timing's badly out and he keeps having to start again, and as I pour myself yet another drink I find myself wondering if she doesn't have some plans of her own for that sorry-looking sprig of mistletoe.

I'm forced to look back towards the water-cooler at that point, of course. And there's good and bad news. The good news is they seem to have temporarily paused in the gratuitous exchange of body fluids, but the bad news is they only appear to have paused in favour of some frankly nauseating neck-nuzzling and murmuring. At least, I think that's what's going on. When they do that foreheads-together-and-gaze-into-each-other's-eyes thing I really think I might have to start lecturing them on what definitely constitutes highly inappropriate behaviour in front of colleagues. Chances are at their age they can't actually see each other at that close a distance, so why they're bothering is a mystery to me. The only conclusion I can draw is that they're both so wasted they either don't notice the person in front of them is just a fuzzy blur, or they simply don't care.

I sincerely hope a point's going to come when they draw a line for themselves, otherwise Kat's suggestion of throwing a bucket of cold water over them might just become necessary. There's no doubt about it – there's no-one remotely sober left in our incongruously be-tinselled squad room, and I definitely count myself in that assessment. Hey, it's Christmas, and we're entitled to a couple of hours when protocol and propriety can just bloody well go to hell. It's not as if any of us have had the greatest of years, is it? Boyd and Grace maybe least of all. They've both been through a lot, and I suppose that's why what's happening over there is happening in plain sight of all of us. That, and the copious amount of booze they've put away between them.

I'm pretty certain the simple fact is that they've given up caring who knows what's going on between them. Chances are that after the last few months when Boyd's uncharacteristic absences from his desk have repeatedly coincided exactly with Grace's hospital appointments the whole… affair… is going to come back to officially bite them at some point, so what the hell's the point of maintaining a pretence that absolutely no-one believes anymore? Though, thank God, at least they started the evening with a veneer of professionalism still in place. I suppose the three of us should feel flattered that they've apparently decided to abandon the whole painful charade completely now it's just the Inner Circle left to finish consuming the cheap booze and the even cheaper snacks.

I'm beginning to dare to hope that the floorshow's finally over and normal service is about to be resumed, but no, apparently not because whatever it is Boyd has just said seems to have encouraged Grace to start running her fingers through his hair. It's not exactly clear which of them is more inebriated, to be honest. It's going to be a great Christmas morning in whichever of their two houses they're intending to spend it, that's all I can say. I don't want to imagine just how bad-tempered Boyd-with-hangover can be, and knowing Grace as well as I do, I bet she's not all sweetness and light on the morning-after-the-night-before, either, bless her. Yeah, I predict some truly awesome fireworks over the turkey and sprouts in the peripatetic Boyd-Foley household tomorrow.

I help myself to Spencer's chair – not quite as padded and executive as Boyd's, but a good step up from what the rest of us usually end up uncomfortably perched on – and refill my glass again. Kat seems to have temporarily vanished, and without his young, doe-eyed playmate, Spence looks just a little bit lost. He glances towards Boyd and Grace, grimaces and looks away again quickly. I smirk at him and he shakes his head. Sounding gruff, he says, "Think they can really make a go of it?"

I understand his concern. Despite his half-hearted bid for freedom earlier in the year he's tenaciously loyal to Boyd, the surrogate older-brother-stroke-father-figure, and he worships Grace. If things go wrong, he simply won't know which side to champion. I make an effort to give him a thoughtful, wise sort of look. Not easy when your face is starting to feel a bit numb from an excessive intake of alcohol. I give up on the attempt at looking all-knowing and just say, "Yeah."

Spence gives me a look. He might be a tiny bit more sober than I thought. "Very profound, Eve. Thanks."

I shrug. "Look at them, Spence. Just look at them."

He feigns a shudder. "I'd really rather not, if it's all the same to you."

I sort of understand. It's a bit like catching your parents doing what you always resolutely tell yourself they've definitely only done the absolute bare minimum of times required to produce you and any siblings you may have. And that they've only done it then in a strictly clinical, business-like sort of way. Unless my eyes are deceiving me, though, the good Doctor is currently making a determined effort to chew off one of our gruff Superintendent's ears, and I know that Spence really won't want to witness that. I'm actually incredibly grateful that the way Grace is standing precludes any accidental insight into the physiological effect the highly suggestive assault is having on her prey. Running the risk of accidentally noticing that one's late-middle-aged boss has a hard-on is the sort of potentially nightmare-inducing trauma I really don't want to think about, drunk or not.

"They're good for each other," I tell Spence, probably surprising myself as much as him. It's not the most obvious conclusion in the world unless you know them and know them well, but it's the only one that makes any kind of sense to me. There's an instinctive, complementary sort of alchemy between them that seems to have always been there, a sense that they both understand the other's strengths and weaknesses perfectly. Heaven knows why, given that they're so different in just about every way possible, but they just seem to fit together. Not even someone as cynical as Spencer can deny that. Whether he's as aware of the sparking sexual chemistry between them, I don't know, and I don't want to know.

He growls, "If he hurts her…"

Ah, ha. Over-protective would-be son of Grace the Matriarch. Some kind of Oedipus thing, maybe. Not something I'm keen to dwell on. But I don't envy him the task of taking on our very own King Laius. The grizzled old lion is a long, long way from toothless, and the fact that he's more-or-less learned to keep his claws sheathed until they're required doesn't mean he doesn't keep them razor sharp. And at that convoluted thought, I'm pretty sure I've definitely, definitively had too much to drink.

"He won't," I say. Honesty makes me add a minor codicil. "At least, not intentionally."

Spencer makes a sound which translates to grumpy scepticism. Changing the subject, he asks, "Where's Kat got to…?"

He wanders off to find her and I decide he really needs to get laid at some point over the Christmas break. That's my considered opinion. Actually, Spence isn't the only one. It doesn't seem exactly fair that our senior colleagues – and I'm not just talking senior in rank and status – appear to be far more likely to be enthusiastically rocking Santa's sleigh into the early hours of the morning than the rest of us. There's obviously something to be said for growing old disgracefully. I look over at them again – yeah, a touch wistfully, I admit – and for God's sake, they're at it again.

I've had enough. Plus, I've also had far too much cheap wine. In their general direction, I say loudly and reproachfully, "Oi. You two. Get a bloody room."

That's the trouble with attempting to use contemporary slang if you're definitely stuck permanently in the category of 'geeky scientist'. It always sounds far better in your head than it does out loud. Doubly so if you're over thirty. It has the desired effect, though, because they grudgingly suspend the frantic mouth-to-mouth. Grace looks round at me, and Boyd regards me balefully over her shoulder. Okay, so maybe it's not my place to challenge their boundaries. I shake my head at them, trying for a jokey sort of note in my voice as I say by way of explanation, "You're frightening the horses."

Thank the Lord, Grace just laughs softly. Which will hopefully prevent Boyd from ripping my head off my shoulders in a fit of pique. She turns in his arms and leans back against him, shoulders against his chest, and her gaze is utterly serene as she studies me. She may not be entirely sober, but no-one would dare suggest her judgement was in any way impaired. She says, "Why on earth are you still here, Eve?"

It's a damned good question, to be fair. I look at the way Boyd's arms are so comfortably around her waist and I feel a definite pang of something. Not as intense as jealousy, maybe, but heading in that general direction. They may have moments when they fight like cat and dog – and believe me, they do – but it's more than blindingly obvious to me that they absolutely adore each other. I suppose that's what we all want really, someone who will love us faithfully and unconditionally through both good and bad times. I plaster a bright smile on my face and say, "No idea. Just too drunk to call a cab, I guess."

Judging from the slight smile she gives me, she understands. Where's the fun in going back to an empty flat on Christmas Eve? God, this crazy job we do has a lot to answer for. If you ask me, Grace has got the right idea – shack up with someone from work. At least you've got half a chance of seeing each other occasionally. Spence may have his doubts, but I think they'll make it work despite the odds stacked against them. They're just as stubborn as each other in their own way, and I can't see either of them giving up at the first hurdle. Besides, it's embarrassingly clear that they're quite capable of having a lot of fun together. Lucky buggers.

Boyd looks at his watch in a very ostentatious way. Yeah, it's high time the old folk were thinking about being demurely tucked up in bed with their cocoa and their reading glasses, eh, big man? I have a suspicion Grace may be getting her Christmas present a little early this year. Kudos to him if he actually ties a bloody great festive bow round it. I've definitely had too much wine. Actually, there isn't enough wine on the face of the planet to ease the passage of that alarming vision. Right on cue, he says smoothly, "It's time we made a move, Grace."

She glances round at him, and even at a distance I can read the look in her eyes. Oh, for God's sake… they're just as bad as each other. Really. I'm not prepared to think about what Boyd's getting for Christmas. I just don't think you can buy it in any respectable high street shop, that's all. Fair play to her, her reply is wonderfully casual. "I suppose so."

Yeah, right. Like you're not going to go straight home and shag each other stupid. It's just not fair. When I'm Grace's age, I want to be in possession of a good-looking younger man with all his own teeth and hair, too. Or any man, in fact. One day I swear I'm going to ask her what her secret is. 'Cos there's no doubt at all that our infamously difficult DSI is completely besotted. Which is as hilarious as it is sweet. Revolting word.

"I'll go and call a cab," Boyd says, finally disentangling himself. Note to – drunken – self: do not look anywhere below the Great Leader's belt. "Eve, you want me to…?"

I wave him off. "Nah, it's fine. I'm supposed to be sharing with Kat."

"Where is Kat?" Grace asks as Boyd disappears unsteadily into his office.

I shrug. "Dunno, but wherever she is, Spence is with her."

"Ah," Grace says. "Traditional office Christmas party behaviour, eh?"

I nearly implode with the effort of not laughing hysterically at her wry tone. Has she forgotten that she's been virtually super-glued to Boyd for the last God alone knows how long? I try – I really do – to keep a straight face as I say, "Best opportunity of the year to snog your colleagues, apparently."

Even though the drink's been flowing freely for hours, and even though I'd like to think we're pretty good friends, I have a cold shiver down the spine moment where I think I've categorically overstepped the mark. But Grace – God bless her – just gives me the kind of knowing look that suggests there's a lot of things she could say in response, but that most of them would get her in serious amounts of trouble with He Who Erroneously Thinks He Should Be Obeyed. Deadpan, she says, "So I've heard."

I adore her. We all do. She's like your mother with balls and a killer sense of humour. Unless you're Boyd of course, in which case you adore her for the balls and the sense of humour and the cleavage. Amongst other things. Probably. It's only because I'm gently intoxicated that I can baldly ask, "So this is official now, is it?"

"Oh, Doctor Lockhart," she says, and although the waggled finger is only implied, I can see it quite clearly. "I'm surprised at you. What happens at the Christmas party…"

She's a canny old bird, our Grace. I grin at her. "Whatever you say."

She winks at me, and it occurs to me I really don't need to ask her what the secret is. I can see exactly what Boyd sees in her. What she sees in him is more open for debate. Or perhaps not. Shouty as he is, he has a certain way about him, our fearless leader. A touch of swagger, a hint of that old-fashioned, easy charm. And balls of his own, of course. In every sense of the word, presumably.

Grace settles herself against the table next to me. "Spence is worried, isn't he?"

I'm a bit too drunk for reading between the lines, but I hazard a guess at what I think the right answer is. "Spence just doesn't want you to get hurt."

She shakes her head, "He won't hurt me."

"That's what I said," I tell her, then realise that perhaps I shouldn't have tacitly admitted that it's been a topic of conversation. Drunken lips are loose lips.

Grace appears to ponder for a moment. She eventually says, "Spencer needs to trust my judgement."

I gather I'm supposed to impart that pearl of wisdom somehow. Presumably without attribution. I think I'm far too drunk for this conversation, to be honest. I say, "Happy Christmas, Grace."

She looks amused. "Thank you. I'm sure it will be."

So am I. Lucky cow. Oh, and here he comes. Tall and broad and just a little bit uncoordinated from the drink. His attention is all on Grace and he doesn't spare me even the briefest glance. Terrific. Thanks, Boyd. I know my place. But I'm happy for her. For them both, actually.

"Ten minutes," he says.

I'm sure there's a coded message in that laconic statement. Something along the lines of "half an hour and it's just you and me, babe". Or a more Boydian version of the same. Bloody hell, I don't think I've ever seen such a perfect illustration of the old phrase 'come to bed eyes' before now. His and hers. For God's sake…

Spencer and Kat finally come reeling back into the squad room together, and while he's looking faintly smug, she's looking like the Kat that got the cream. No prizes will be awarded for guessing what they've been up to. It's just me, then, who's not going to get lucky tonight, is it? Feeling a little glazed, dazed and put out, I decide abruptly that what I really need is some water to help dilute the alcohol, so I get up from Spence's chair and weave my way unsteadily towards the water-cooler. And the mistletoe, of course. Ho bloody ho.

I might be more inebriated than I realise, though, because I don't seem to have the coordination necessary to get the damned machine to give me the water I want. How hard can it be? I have a suspicion everyone's laughing gently at me. Eve the Brilliant Scientist can't even manage to get herself some water. Someone – Grace, I think – has suddenly got a firm hold of my elbow, and someone else – Boyd? – is sorting out the water conundrum for me. Sometimes I remember why I put up with the stress and the long hours. They are good people, my colleagues. All of them. We are a bunch of square pegs that no-one could quite hammer into round holes. I like that.

Grace kisses my cheek – not quite the mistletoe encounter I imagined – and tells me to have a great Christmas, and then she gives Boyd a not-very-subtle-at-all nudge and after a confused glance at her he obligingly kisses my other cheek. Much more whiskery and a bit more traumatic, but quite… nice… all the same.

We leave the bunker together, the five of us, all in various stages of intoxication. It's just past midnight, I realise. It's Christmas. Spence puts his arm round me in a brotherly sort of way, and I grin inanely at him. Kat's got her phone clamped to her ear as she tries to find a cab company prepared to send someone out to rescue us, and Grace and Boyd… Well, it seems that they're doing what it seems they do best. No, not quarrelling, but snogging. Again.

The night air's crisp and cold, but thank God it's not snowing. That would just be a little bit too trite.

- the end -

Happy Christmas 2011!