Author's note: all usual disclaimers apply. Hope everyone is well, and coping with all that 2020 has thrown our way. Have a wonderful festive season, even if you need to invent new traditions. And in my tradition, here is some Christmas fluff for you...

Late November

"You look distracted," Detective Inspector Tommy Lynley said to his sergeant as they drove along the M1. "It was an excellent result. Appleby will spend years in prison. Your testimony was brilliant, by the way. You didn't let that barrister goad you."

"Mmm. I guess." Barbara Havers looked out of the passenger window and sighed.

"I'm not playing twenty questions to find out what's wrong."

"Mmm?"

"Barbara."

She turned and frowned at him. "Sorry, what?"

"A problem shared is a problem halved. I might be able to help."

"Do you have a stockpot?"

"A what?"

"A big pot."

"I don't know. Why?"

"I had one, but Mum left it on the stove one year and it boiled dry. It was aluminium, so it kinda... melted."

"Melted? Aluminium melts at over 600 degrees celsius" Tommy shook his head.

Barbra snorted. "Pedant. What temperature does aluminium warp at?"

"I have no idea."

"Then it warped. Anyway, it's irrelevant if you don't have one."

"I said I didn't know. We can go via my place and you can rummage through my pot cupboard if you like."

"Are you sure? You might need it."

"I doubt that as I am not even sure that I have one. Are you making soup?"

"Nah, Christmas."

He looked at her and grinned. "You boil up Christmas in a pot?"

"Not Christmas; a Christmas pudding."

"Oh. That makes more sense."

"Mum keeps telling people at the home that she wants one of her mother's puddings. I don't know how many Christmases she has left, so I thought..." She sighed. "But I don't have a pot."

"Then if I don't have one, we'll buy one. There's an excellent cooking supply shop in Borough."

Barbara swivelled in her seat and looked at him. He focussed on the road. It was unnerving being under her direct scrutiny. "If I could afford a pot, I would have bought it. I can't justify it for one pudding."

"Then I will buy it, and you can borrow mine. I might want to make a pudding one day."

Barbara shook her head, but surprisingly, did not argue with him. "When do you leave for Howenstowe?"

"I haven't decided if I'll go yet. You?"

She laughed. "Well, I won't be going to Howenstowe without you, that's for sure."

"Smartypants. What are your plans?"

"I will probably see Mum, then heat a frozen Christmas dinner. Waitrose does a nice one, I believe, so I might go upmarket and buy one of theirs."

He looked over and smiled. "Or, you can have Christmas with me. Nothing frozen."

"You?"

"Why not? It gives me the perfect excuse not to go to Cornwall."

"What? Oh no, you don't. You're not using me to get out of seeing your family. And I am not a charity case needing your company."

Tommy rolled his eyes. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Do I? How? And what man prefers to spend Christmas with his workmates rather than his family?"

"You are family."

"Don't." He felt Barbara's eyes boring into him, then she looked away. Her reflection in the window revealed a tear running down her cheek.

"One day you will believe me."

The next morning, Barbara opened her front door and shook her head. "You didn't?"

Tommy held up a shiny stockpot with a tag hanging from the handle. "Clearly, I did. Do you forgive me?"

"For what?"

"Whatever made you insist on bringing you straight home yesterday. For whatever I said that made you cry. For..."

"You didn't make me cry."

"I meant what I said."

She held up her hand. "No, don't, Sir. But thank you."

He nodded. "Is it big enough?"

"Let's see. You may as well come in. I'm almost ready for work, but you can save me the hassle of the Tube."

They walked through to her kitchen. It was a dismal, purely utilitarian affair with no space and no joy. She put it on her two-burned stove, then groaned. "No, it hits the cupboard, no matter what side I put it on. I hadn't even thought of that." She turned and handed him the pot. "Can you get a refund?"

"No need. Cook your pudding in my kitchen. My stove is..." He looked at hers and held back giving his true opinion. "Bigger."

Her face lit up then fell. "Nah, it makes 9 hours just to boil it. And about an hour to make before that, and you have to clean and soak the fruit the night before. It's not practical."

"Your problem-solving skills have deteriorated badly, Havers. On Friday night, we shall go shopping for the ingredients, and do the preparation. Then on Saturday, we can cook it."

"But..."

"You will have to stay the night, of course. Right. That's settled. Now grab your coat."

"But..."

"Grab your coat, Havers. There are criminals to catch."

Friday night

"Does that say 2 teaspoons or 2 tablespoons?"

Tommy squinted at the tattered page that was yellow from age and covered in inconvenient stains from the splotches of batter. "I have no idea. Your grandmother's handwriting looks like the scratchings of a demented chicken. On LSD."

"Teaspoons then."

"On what basis?"

"If you hadn't added being on LSD, I'd have gone with tablespoons."

"I prefer a more scientific approach. I doubt anyone uses 2 tablespoons of spice in a pudding."

She shrugged. "I believe you."

Tommy smoothed out the page, then took a picture with his phone.

"What are you doing?" Barbara asked.

"Playing with the contrast to see if it's easier to read. There. See. Teaspoons."

"Good, now weigh out one and a half pounds of flour. Then make me some breadcrumbs."

Tommy put his hands on his hips. "How exactly do I make breadcrumbs?"

"Rub the bread through a colander."

"Through my calendar?"

"No, a colander. The big strainer thingee."

He looked at the two loaves of bread and the colander. "No. There has to be an easier way."

"That's how Granma did it."

"Well, this big bad wolf has other ideas." He started typing on his phone. "See. Place bread in a food processor or blender and whiz for 30 to 45 seconds until it is crumbed. That, I can do."

Twenty minutes later, they had all the pudding ingredients assembled. The breadcrumbs, spices and flour had been combined, Barbara had cleaned the fruit with flour, and she had placed the butter in the larder to soften overnight. "Sugar," she said, "have we got sugar?"

Tommy pointed to a bowl covered with a plate. "All done."

"Right, so the fruit gets mixed together, and then we have to soak it."

"In what?"

"Rum."

Tommy raised his eyebrows "My rum?"

"Nah, I bought some. I figured yours is probably several hundred pounds a bottle or something."

He watched as she poured half the bottle over the fruit. "Shouldn't that be measured?"

She shook her head. "Don't think so. It just says rum to cover fruit."

Tommy laughed. "I don't think it means immerse it, more like coat it."

"Yeah? Never mind, it's done now. Put a plate over it, then pour me a real drink."

"Maybe you'd like to shower first. You have flour and..." He ran his finger through her hair. "Currants."

Barbara froze. His unexpected touch had raised goosebumps on her neck. 'I... umm. You have breadcrumbs in your eyelashes."

He laughed. "Do I, then perhaps I should shower too?"

"Okay." Tommy gave her an odd sideways glance. Barbara felt her face colouring. "I mean, then we are both clean and ready..." Oh, that sounded worse.

Now her boss's face was colouring, starting with his ears. "Ready for what, Barbara?" His voice was husky.

"A drink. Maybe watch something on TV to put us in the mood." Oh, holy hell. "For Christmas. Put us in the mood for Christmas."

He stepped closer. "It's still three weeks until Christmas, but I would like to give you your present now."

Barbara felt her knees sag. "No, too early." She ducked under his arm, then ran upstairs and locked herself in the spare bathroom.

Tommy slipped the box back into his pocket. He had bought it on a whim and now felt a little foolish. He had leant forward to wrestle it from his hip pocket, but Barbara had clearly thought he had intended to kiss her. "Damned fool," he muttered to himself as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

When she came down, Tommy was dressed in jeans and a jumper and was sitting on the sofa in his family room flicking through the channels on the tv. "Hiya," he said, handing her a glass. "A double."

"Ta. What are we watching?"

"Anything you like." He passed her the remote, then sipped his whisky. She seemed normal, even down to being in track pants and an oversized tee-shirt. He relaxed, glad that they had avoided any awkwardness. She could not have thought his suggestion that he also took a shower had been an attempt to seduce her. What confused him most was that once he realised the possible double meaning, he had wanted that. It made no sense, but at that moment, he had wanted her more than he had ever wanted any women. He had to be more careful or risk losing everything.

Barbara sat at the other end on the sofa, leaving a seat between them. She began flicking through the channels. "It's mostly Christmas fluff. Cartoons. Oh, and Christmas rom coms."

"They have Christmas ones?" Tommy asked. "Well, that would make sense, I guess. Everyone feels sentimental as Christmas approaches."

"Even grumpy DIs?"

"I'm not grumpy," he said.

A cushion flew at her, and she ducked. "Really? I suppose you think I'm the grumpy one?"

"No comment." The cushion flew back across the couch and hit his hand then ricocheted across the room. "Hey, careful. Don't waste my whiskey. This is aged Irish... ow... another cushion? Really?"

They both laughed and balancing their drinking in one hand, squabbled over the second cushion which had landed on the seat between them. Barbara won and tucked it behind her back. "Just for that, I should make you sit through Love Actually again."

"Again? I can proudly boast that I have never seen it."

Barbara looked at I'm as if he had turned into a penguin. She leant forward towards him. "Seriously? But it's a classic."

"Funny, because it wasn't on the syllabus at Oxford."

"Do you want me to whip you with the cushion again?"

He grinned at her. "if you can beat me, we will watch it."

Barbara wondered if it was her street cunning that had given her victory, or whether her boss had let her win. Either way, she happily selected the movie and hit 'Stream'.

"Is it really corny?" Tommy had a sulky face and a shining voice reminiscent of a 7-year-old.

"It's everything Christmas is - crazy, funny, loving, and filled with memories, but it's also sad."

"You find Christmas sad?"

She nodded. "Mmm. Thinking about people we don't have in our lives now... I wonder what Terry would have been like now. I'd probably be a crazy aunt knitting socks."

"You knit?"

"No, but that's not the point."

Tommy patted the sofa beside him. "I think of my father, and Helen... and about... I imagine what present I would have bought my son each year. He'd have been about ready for a bike I think."

Barbara hit pause and shuffled over towards him. "I'm sorry. We can watch something else."

Tommy shook his head as he put his arm around her shoulders. "That won't change any of it, will it? Come on, let's watch this classic."