MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE! what better gift could I give you all than a long-overdue chapter? I hope you are all having a magical day, despite the less-than-magical worldwide circumstances! I hope this update can make it a little better. Thank you to everyone who has been leaving reviews, you make my day! Any feedback would be the bets Christmas gift I could ask for from anyone who would like to take the time to! Thank you!
He had woken up at some time in the early morning to Lizzie whimpering, a frown cut across her still-sleeping features. Steve found that softly stroking her inner-arm gently with his fingers was enough to calm the woman in his arms, rather than waking her and risking her missing out on much-needed rest.
At some point in the night while asleep, the pair had readjusted so that Lizzie is now rested with her head on his chest, his arm around her shoulders and hers strewn over his stomach, legs still entwined but tighter. Steve had little heart to move her, rather enjoying the contact before she eventually awoke.
Looking down at the woman pressed into his side, he notes the way Lizzie's auburn hair is strewn across his pillow, Steve having had the pleasure of tucking a few loose strands that fell on her cheek behind her ear.
She looks so peaceful, so at ease.
It is hard, looking at her now, to believe she has gone through what she has over the last month. Steve only hopes he can help her eventually recover to this state of tranquillity when she is awake, too. It will take time. But he will be there. As long as she needs him.
Grief was a precarious thing. Lizzie had little time to bounce back after the trauma of everything with Cottan, and was doing well alongside Steve, both helping the other to heal. Then Hurrell came along and… did what he did. It still boils his blood to think of it.
He will have to face him today. Control himself. Restrain himself. He wants the man to pay. But, somehow, his desire for Lizzie to recover is stronger. She is his priority.
Steve looks back down to the woman laying on his chest, his nerves softening instantly.
They tense again as his phone begins to ring on the nightstand beside him.
His head snaps over to it as Lizzie startles, sitting up straight in the bed, a hand clutching at the front of his shirt. Her eyes are wide and alarmed, until he reaches for the phone and she realises there is no danger. Steve's heart shatters, wondering how long this will last for her. He also misses the contact immediately, unsure if Lizzie had even noticed their arrangement before sitting up. She releases her grip on his shirt, something Steve attempts to feign not noticing to save her from embarrassment, and shuffles herself so her back is pressed against the headboard. Steve does the same, looking at the phone. Steve almost curses, remembering what he had forgotten to do last night, so wrapped up in helping Lizzie.
"It's Hastings," he informs her, looking over at Lizzie who sits with her legs crossed beside him, showing her the phone, "Want to talk to him?"
She shakes her head, wringing her hands together in her lap, before whispering, "Not yet."
Lizzie watches as he clears his throat and holds the phone to his ear.
"Morning, sir," he says down the phone, pausing occasionally to allow the older man to speak, "Yeah, yes, she is with me… She's fine, yeah… She's just in the shower now, sir."
Steve's eyes flick to Lizzie, her thanking him with her eyes at the excuse, not yet ready to face anyone other than the man sat beside her now.
"Thank you, sir. I'll tell her," Steve responds again, "We'll be there soon."
Liz waits tensely for him to put the phone back on the side table, and turn back to her.
"He said he wants to see you, I said I would take you to his," Steve informs, softly, "Also said he has sorted Hurrell's custody, so I am not needed at work today."
She feels her heart warm at that, hoping that means he will not have to leave her.
Steve is relieved too - that he no longer has the opportunity to lose his job for beating a man under their arrest to a bloody pulp.
"He tried calling you a few times," he explains, trying to remember where he placed her own phone. It hadn't exactly been his priority to fix the mobile last night, not when Lizzie herself had been so broken, "He's worried."
Lizzie nods, unsure how else to respond to that. The older man had no reason to be. She is safe, thanks to Steve. But she is admittedly worried for herself, unsure what it will take to recover from all the trauma of the last few weeks. Lindsay's death, Steve going to prison, Dot's deceit and eventual death in attempt to save her, now this - her head is splitting just trying to even comprehend it all. But it is easier not to think about it with Steve there, taking her hand as he is now and giving it a squeeze to reassure her everything will be alright. And she believes they will. They have been working through trauma well together so far. And by the way she kept clinging to him last night and the way he had assured her of his determination to keep her safe, it is not unlikely they could again. As long as they have each other.
She sends Steve's hand a squeeze back before he lets go, mumbling something about breakfast and a shower. Lizzie has to stop herself from pouting as he rises from the bed, pulling the duvet back and expelling the warmth with it.
"I'll have a quick shower now, then you can jump in while I make us some food," he suggests, turning to her before leaving the room, grabbing some clothes along the way, "How about I give those fluffy eggs another go. Sound good?"
Lizzie goes to smile, only to find her lips are still as chapped and sore as before. She tries to speak, only to find her throat just as hoarse and torn. So she nods, hoping he can see the eagerness in her eye.
He nods, sending a small smile of understanding at her lack of response but taking the permission to leave her for a moment as a good sign, before walking away to the other room.
The woman sighs, leaning back in the bed and pulling the duvet up to cover herself once more. The bed is warm, heat radiating from the now-vacant space beside her. She turns on her side, staring at the pillow-space where Steve's head had been placed the night before, recalling how they had looked at and held each other before she drifted into sleep. Surely there is no better example of what Steve Arnott had come to be for her than that.
After everything that had happened, all the nightmares and all the agony, he could calm her with a touch. Lizzie could sleep soundly, little thought of the ordeal that has transpired that would usually keep her up all night, afraid to close her eyes in apprehension of what could come next. She had not thought sleep would be likely after the attack, having not slept for more than a few hours when she could since Dot's death. The scene replaying over and over, as it was and as it could have been of she just did something different - it has been tormenting.
It was preposterous to her. That someone could have that kind of an affect - the one Steve has on her. That she could care for someone that much. That someone could care for her that much.
It almost scares her. That she could come to rely so desperately on someone else to keep her sane. Safe.
She sighs, struggling to fight the urge to overthink it. She presses her face further into the pillow, pleasantly surprised to smell the linger of Steve's scent.
It makes her think of the way his hair was stood on end on one side when they woke, messy from being pushed against the pillow. And the slight squint of his eyes, taking their time to adjust to the light of the lamp after hours of darkness. It's endearing and, well, strangely intimate to see him like that. It's a strange thing to be thinking of after everything. But it is a relief.
It is not the cruel, hurtful touch of Glenn Hurrell she recalls that morning after the attack, but the soft, compassionate touch of Steve Arnott.
His legs wrapped around hers as they lay together, his arms around her shoulders as they stood in her flat, his hands as they washed her hair, his fingers as they caressed her injured cheek - his lips on her forehead.
Her heart jumps at the memory. The ghost of the feeling making her shudder...
"Lizzie!" she hears Steve call from the other room, breaking her from her reverie, "Shower's free!"
Steve has let her borrow a hoodie of his, as well as the same pair of joggers from last night as they drive to Hastings' house. Lizzie has visited the home more times than she can count, yet has never felt so nervous as they pull up outside.
It is Ted's pity she fears most. It hurt enough last time.
Steve notices her apprehension as they sit in the car, him waiting for her to be ready and make the first move to go. She stares out the window up at the house, face blank. It is that same vacancy he saw on her expression last night. The one that scares him. Her fingers are the only sign of feeling, picking at each other furiously.
He reaches out, placing his hand over them. They cease immediately, her shoulders sagging and head turning towards him.
"Ready?"
Lizzie nods, taking a slight breath before exiting the car alongside Steve and walking up the short path to the front door. She winces as Steve knocks on it. He shoots her a brief, concerned glance as they wait for Ted to answer. She ignores it.
Ted's face brightens then falls within a matter of seconds as the door swings open and he sees the pair, eyes flitting from Steve to Lizzie anxiously. He takes a step backward, allowing them to pass before closing the door, the other two hovering in the hallway as they wait for him.
"Beth," the older man exhales as he turns to her, enveloping the young woman in an embrace, one she softens into despite the bitingly pitiful tone of his voice she had feared.
Her arms come to wrap around his waist, squeezing feebly as the man shakes his head against hers, "Oh, Beth. You're alright, darlin'. You're alright."
Steve only watches as the Superintendent pulls back, holding his goddaughter by the shoulders as he looks her over. He almost wants to step in when he sees Lizzie cower under his concernedly scrutinising gaze, yet knows that is a ridiculous thought.
Lizzie fiddles with the hems of Steve's hoodie around her wrists as she waits for the older man to say something, anything. Her cheeks heat as he continues to inspect her injuries.
"We are going to make sure that bastard," Ted spits, "never sees the light of day for what he's done."
The older man looks over his shoulder to Steve, a fury creasing his brow. Steve nods in determined agreement.
Hastings turns back to the young woman in front of him, immediately softening at the sight of her timidness, his anger only making her tense more.
"Let's get you some hot chocolate, eh?" Hastings offers, grinning in an attempt to lighten the mood.
He deflates as the girl continues to stare at her feet, face blank.
Ted turns back to look at Steve, who turns his mouth upwards in sympathy before following his lead into the living room, making sure to avoid the abundance of cardboard boxes piled there, stacked with various items.
Lizzie sits down immediately, clearly comfortably familiar with the place, pushing herself into a far corner of the expansive sofa. Steve wavers, unsure if he is invited to, instead moving to stand beside where she sits.
"Sit down, lad, go on," his boss prompts, Steve nodding in thanks before taking the seat beside Lizzie, "I'll be back in a minute."
The pair watch as he disappears into the kitchen, hearing the kettle switch on.
Steve turns to her immediately, taking in a breath before reaching into his pocket, "I should give this back to you."
She looks to his now outstretched hand, her cracked phone inside it.
"It was in the side-compartment of my car. Must have put it there last night and forgot," he explains, the object still held out in the space between them, "Only a few missed calls, from Hastings and Kate, and some email from Ingrid Lovelace or someone?"
Lizzie's eyes snap to him then, wide, "Ingrid Lovell?"
"Uh, yeah, that could be it," he shrugs, surprised by her sudden interest and seeming panic.
She snatches the phone, checking the screen quickly...
(1) New email from: IngridLovell67
… before stuffing it hastily into the pocket of the hoodie.
"Did you read it?" she almost glares at him, warily.
Steve frowns, confused by her questioning accusation, "No, of course not."
Lizzie only stares at him for a second before nodding, retreating back into the corner of the sofa. He goes to ask her what is wrong, who Ingrid Lovell is, what the email contains - but the tears springing in her eyes as she desperately tries to look anywhere but his direction stops him.
No secrets, they had said.
"Want a coffee or tea, Steve?" Hastings' voice asks from the kitchen, breaking that bitter line of thought.
"Coffee, please," Steve replies, glancing quickly at Lizzie before standing, "I'll give you a hand."
As he leaves the room, he peeks back at Lizzie, seeing her reluctantly pulling her phone out of her pocket and reading something on the screen. He wants to keep watching, gouge her reaction to whatever she had not wanted him to see yet. But Hastings making a sharp hissing noise captures his attention.
Moving further into the kitchen, he sees the older man wiping up a slight spillage of hot water from the counter-top. It is rather amusing, Steve thinks, seeing his boss in such an informal, personal setting. The few meals and drinks they had shared was not quite the same as being in his own home for tea.
"Need any help, sir?"
Ted turns to the man, shaking his head, "Don't worry, son, I have it handled. Might need some help carrying them out in a moment though."
Steve nods, shoving his hands in his pockets as he waits for the man to finish stirring the hot drinks. He glances around the kitchen. Just as in the hallway, there are cardboard boxes littered about the place, full of utensils and ornaments and other items. Much of the surfaces are bare, the boxes likely containing most of what belongs there.
Moving his gaze to the bookshelf beside him, and the few objects that remained placed on it, something catches his eye.
A photograph.
He moves a few steps closer, not wanting to intrude but unable to let his curiosity slide. That has always been a fault of his.
In the silver frame is an image of a young girl in a dress, hoisted upon an older man's knee. The man is clearly Hastings, though much younger with a mop of dark hair and youthful build. The child is no younger than six, no older than eight. A wide, gap-toothed smile with a familiar rosiness to her cheeks and unmistakable bright, auburn hair, tied up with a green ribbon.
Steve feels himself smiling as he looks at it.
He hears a chuckle over his shoulder, turning to see Hastings also now looking at the photograph, "Hasn't changed much, has she?"
Steve looks back to the photo too. His smile falters as he thinks of her now. Sat in the other room, broken and beaten. Not quite the grinning, carefree young girl in the picture. The comment bites at him.
His heart sinks before rising again at the older man's next few comments, "She has always been like that. So bright. Inquisitive and kind. Reminds me of her father in that sense. But also has that stubbornness. Always right in the end, though. Just like her mother."
Steve listens eagerly, greedy for any other information he wants to share. He wants to know everything he can, everything about her.
"They were good people," Hastings claims, a reminiscent smile ghosting his lips, "The best."
Steve nods, assured they likely were just that. They had to be to have a daughter like theirs. So fundamentally good.
"Was terrified when she was put into my care," Hastings admits, "Worried I would corrupt her in some way. Fail her. I hope that hasn't come true, and remains just the anxieties of a scared, childless, old man."
Steve shakes his head, reassuringly leading Ted to nod, thankfully.
"I'm afraid I have not been to her what I should have," Hastings laments, folding his arms across his chest, "If I had, maybe these terrible, terrible things would not have happened."
Steve frowns, "I don't think that is true at all, sir."
After all the things that man has done for him, all the times he has supported and encouraged him - he knows that cannot be the case for Lizzie. The man loves that girl. Steve can see it, recognise it familiarly.
"Yeah, well," Hastings shakes his head, dismissing the praise much like Lizzie would. Perhaps that's where she gets it from, Steve thinks, as the Superintendent continues, "I know she is all grown now. But she's always going to be that little girl to me."
The men turn back to the photograph for a moment, and to the smiling young girl beaming up at them.
Hastings looks to the younger man approvingly, placing a hand on the younger man's shoulder, "You're a good man, Steve. I'm glad she has you."
I am glad I have her, Steve thinks aside from the surprise at the man's compliment, though decides against voicing it to her godfather (and his boss). The older man is known for his quick and often brash assumptions. That last thing Lizzie needs is worrying about him planting any of those ideas into Hastings' head. That Steve 'has' her, that they are anything more than colleagues and friends, or, hell, even that they were together...
How would Hastings react? If it were somehow true, of course...
Steve fights down a blush as he considers it, realising this is not quite the first time the - unlikely, unbelievable - scenario had floated into his mind, disappearing as soon as it came.
But he finds himself pondering it this time, as the other man drops his hand from his shoulder and returns to the tea. Steve looks back to the photograph, a small, easy smile once again stretching onto his face as he once again observes the smiling young girl.
If he and Lizzie were ever to… pursue anything - not that there is anything to pursue - what would Hastings say? What would he do?
It is hard to tell. The man often flits from one end of the spectrum to the other, without warning.
Would he be angry? Berate him and shout, like he has before. Steve shudders at the memory, and the thought of it happening again - not that it ever will! At least, not for that reason. No.
Would he point a threatening finger, raise a menacing brow and warn him about hurting her? His little Lizzie. Beth. Not that Steve ever would consider hurting her. Never again. He has sworn to never let anything come between them and ruin their relationsh- friendship! - ever again.
Or, as Steve's beating heart would hope, would he be warm, welcoming and encouraging? Tell them he knew all along, and was rooting for them, even. Then congratulate them both and offer his blessing. Hastings had just willingly, with a smile, admitted he was glad she had him, didn't he?
Steve shakes the thought out of his head, not wanting to read into that further. The now-dizzying pounding of his heart scaring him. The sight of the photograph blurs as his vision clouds, losing himself in something he tries desperately to resist.
The thought is there now. He has considered it. Given realistic fantasy to it. Listened to it. Released it.
Him and Lizzie. Together. As more than what they are.
He berates himself immediately, refusing to follow that thought any further. It has been a stressful few weeks, his mind constantly overrunning with this and that. Confusing him with insecurities and irrationalities. This is just another of those cruel tricks he is playing on himself. A punishment for letting all this happen. He only has himself to blame.
Denton. The framing. The arrest. That cell. Sam. Cottan. Hurrell. Lizzie.
He is spiralling again. Head spinning.
His hand comes to rest on the counter-top beside him, almost his entire weight relying on it.
Steve is relieved when Hastings calls his name, immediately silencing those familiar thoughts. He snaps his head over to the older man, vision clearing and head sobering.
Hastings smiles, balancing three hot mugs in his hands, "You wouldn't be a good lad and bring out the biscuits, would ya?"
Following Hastings into his living room, Hobnobs in hand, Steve hears Lizzie speaking quietly to someone. Moving further into the space, he sees her still tucked timidly into the corner of the sofa, her phone pressed weakly against her ear. Her eyes are closed and fingers press between her brows, as if trying to relieve some tension there.
"- really, I am fine. Just a little shaken- yes, I know," she says, tiredly, to whoever is on the other end of the call.
Hastings quietly places the mugs onto the coffee table, Steve following his lead and placing the biscuit packet down too. The older man places Lizzie's tea in front of where she sits, then holds Steve's midair, looking at him in question of where he will sit. Steve moves quietly over to the spot beside Lizzie, sending a grateful smile to Hastings as the mug is then placed in front of him.
"- I know, I will. Yes, I'm sure-"
Steve watches awkwardly as Hastings takes his seat opposite the pair of them, testingly taking a sip of his tea before deciding it is too hot to drink yet and putting it down in front of him. Steve cannot help but wonder who she is talking to, as they wait for her conversation to finish.
Perhaps, it is that Ingrid Lovell woman Lizzie seemed so hesitant to tell him about? Who is she?
"-it's just a few bruises-"
Steve almost scoffs at the understatement, his eyes quickly flitting involuntarily at the raw marks that remained violently imprinted around her neck. He recalls the other marks, too. Her arm, her leg - and those not visible. How scared she was…looking up at him so helpless…
He forces himself to look away and grab a biscuit (seeing Hastings had already done so) to distract himself. To give his jaw something to do other than tighten in fury, and his fists clench.
"-it's alright, Steve took me back to his. Sorted me out-"
He halts chewing on the biscuit, his head turning slightly to her again at the mention of his name. Liz drops her hand from her face and opens her eyes, meeting his immediately.
"-Yeah, Kate, I know-"
She says, as if answering his unspoken question of who she is talking to. Steve relaxes, though does not drop her gaze.
"-Yeah, I have a lot to thank him for-"
Steve almost chokes on the biscuit, forcing himself to swallow it. Lizzie sends him a small, yet sad, smile, one he tries to return despite the swelling of his heart and scorching of his cheeks.
Lizzie drops her eyes, continuing to speak to Kate. Steve turns to look at Hastings who is watching the pair of them with a fond smile. It grows into something more profound, more thankful when he sees the younger man looking at him. Portraying to him that he feels the same.
His gratitude. Steve sinks under the weight of it.
His eyes drop to the table, unsure what else to do other than take another biscuit. Hopefully it can overpower the bitter taste of embarrassment in his mouth.
"-we are just at Ted's now," Lizzie continues down the phone, occasionally pausing to let Kate speak, "Yeah, I'll let him know… OK, thank you for calling… Hope to see you soon too. Send Josh and Mark my love… Alright. Bye."
Lizzie ends the call, letting the phone drop to her lap with a quiet sigh.
"Everything alright?" Steve finds himself asking, leaning forward slightly to try and catch her expression.
All he can see is exhaustion as she turns to him again.
"Yeah, she's fine," Liz answers, Steve trying his best to ignore her characteristic deflection, "Thank you for texting her."
"Of course," Steve shrugs, "She would want to know."
Lizzie lets herself smile slightly at that, endeared by her friends' concern. She then turns to her godfather, thanking him for the tea which she reaches for and wraps her hands around to endeavour in the warmth of it.
"Is Roisin home soon?" Lizzie asks, curiously hopeful, taking a sip of the hot drink.
Steve watches as Hastings darkens almost instantly, shifting in his seat and tearing his crestfallen gaze away from them to the floor. His hand comes to his other, fingers playing distractedly with the wedding band around one of them.
"Uh, not until late," Ted clears his throat, attempting to offer the young woman, what Steve can only describe as, a deceitful smile. It doesn't reach his eyes.
He is unsure what the man is trying to hide, knowing only there had been a few troubles concerning his marriage from what Lizzie had rarely divulged. Seems she has been as in the dark about it as most of them, not that it was any of their business. But there is more to it. That reaction said it all.
Whether Lizzie has noticed or not is unclear, and Steve does not wish to pry or bring attention to it, making either of his company uncomfortable. But, watching her from the corner of his eye, as he seems to always do lately, the way Lizzie's eyes begin to prick with more tears as she slowly lowers the mug of tea suggests to him she can see through it too.
Hastings inhales sharply, breaking the uncomfortable silence with conversation. Perhaps, an attempt to distract them from his poor-attempt at hiding - whatever it is he is concealing. Steve is unsure what, exactly, the man is even talking about. More concerned by how Lizzie has retreated further into her seat and seems to be staring into the space in a daze. Everything else is trivial and insignificant.
Slowly, and keeping his eyes on the older man as he speaks, to not draw attention to his movement, Steve reaches his hand along the sofa. It is bold of him, he knows, to attempt to make such an affectionate contact with her in front of her godfather. But he needs her to know he is there. That he cares.
So, in a bold move, he continues to reach out, surprised and relieved to eventually make contact. Steve tries not to react as their hands touch, hers seeming to have reached out too, meeting his half-way .Both drawn by the need to touch one another, to ground with or be grounded by it.
He shuffles slightly closer, playing it off as a reach for his coffee mug that comes to rest on his lap. Their fingers finally entwine, the closer proximity now enabling them to clasp around the other's hand. They both take sips of their drinks, appearing as casual as they can despite the electricity passing between them. The relief and comfort surging through their bodies at such a simple contact.
Where Steve has moved himself, their hands are now concealed to the other man, who continues to talk animatedly about some sort of gossip he heard in the office yesterday. Steve takes this opportunity to give her hand an encouraging squeeze, one she returns immediately, with as much enthusiasm. He resist turning to look at her, but allows himself to smile slightly into his mug as he raises it for another sip.
Despite everything; what has happened, how they are, what might happen - they have each-other. And that's enough for him.
That thought - that fleeting, ridiculous thought from earlier flits behind his eyes.
Is it enough?
He knew entertaining that thought would come back to taunt him.
Him and Lizzie. Together. As more than what they are.
Though unsure why, it terrifies him.
But with another squeeze of his hand, Lizzie brings him back to the moment.
He takes another sip of his coffee, the smile widening now. Content.
He considers it again: that despite everything, they have each-other.
And for now, that is more than enough.