Stockings
...
Wednesday 19th December
It's very late and once again it is just the two of them left down in the bunker, burning the midnight oil. This time it is his office they are holed up in, sitting side by side at the table as they pore over the notes together. There's no wine, and no coffee either. Only lemon and ginger tea which he flat out refused and she made just to annoy him.
"Where did you disappear to at lunch time? I thought we were supposed to be going out?" she asks as they rearrange the series of photographs on the surface in front of them, hoping to find some inspiration.
He gets to his feet, disappearing behind his desk and extracting something from one of the draws before returning. "I had an errand to run," he admits, and hands her a dark, unmarked plastic bag. "And I might, perhaps, have forgotten I said I'd take you out."
She looks from the bag in her hands, to his sheepish, guilty expression and shakes her head in amusement.
"Are you going to have a look?" he asks impatiently, and his eyes are twinkling with mischief as he perches on the edge of the table. She eyes him with a touch of apprehension for a moment, before gingerly opening the top of the bag and peering inside. It's gloomy in the office though, and she can't tell what she's looking at.
"It won't bite," grins Boyd and Grace glances at him again, raising an eyebrow and not at all sure she should trust him quite as much as she does. Evidently, he's clearly following her line of thought though, because he simply grabs the bottom of the bag, upends it and dumps the contents onto the table between them.
It appears to be a pile of fabric. That's her first impression, anyway. Until he reaches out and separates the pile into two distinct shapes.
Stockings. Handmade, intricate and beautifully detailed. One for her, and one for him.
"You can't have a fireplace without stockings, Grace," he tells her with a shrug. "And since we decided…" He trails off and she just knows he's thinking of the same thing she is, probably in just as much startlingly vivid detail too. Because of the magic of the open fire, they last night unanimously decided that Christmas would be spent at his house. Together. In the living room. With the fire going.
She touches the nearest stocking, finds smooth, soft material, the tiny irregularities of individual stitches and the different textures of a patchwork of varying fabrics that together create a winter scene of snow-capped mountains and flying reindeer. It's a work of art.
Looking up, she stares at him, overwhelmingly touched by his thoughtfulness.
"Am I forgiven for forgetting lunch?" he asks, his gaze settling on hers. He reaches for her, runs the tips of his fingers through her hair, his thumb lingering on her temple. She sighs at the sensation and smiles softly at him. Getting to her feet, she moves to stand in front of him, slides her arms around his neck.
"Am I allowed to get a little sentimental?" she asks, and he shakes his head slowly, arms coming to rest around her waist, hugging her against his body.
"Absolutely not," he warns and she just keeps smiling, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips.