Have the next chapter, fresh back from my fantastic beta reader, lawand_disorder. Enjoy and let me know what you think!

November 21, 2013, post Children in Need special, Chris' London flat

Robin blinked.

When that failed to elicit a response, he blinked again.

Chris still didn't oblige his silent request for clarification, so he mentally sighed and marshaled his patience, giving his friend a long, even look. Barnum being the catalyst suddenly made a great deal of sense, but Robin knew perfectly well that he wasn't getting the whole story.

And Chris clearly wanted to be prodded. Lovely.

At least he'd had the foresight to clear his schedule for the day.

Now, what to ask first . . .

Well, of course.

"So, you realized you were in love with Jayne and . . ." he began pointedly, hoping that this would be sufficient provocation. There was a very fine line between 'assisting' and 'forcing', and this conversation could not be forced.

But if that bastard 'thought' about answering one more time . . .

"Mm," Chris agreed with a nod, taking a sip of water and leaning back in his chair. "And it was a lot more surprising than it should have been, really. But we'd already agreed to keep things platonic, at least until the end of the '84 season, so — well, you know how intense and insane training is for that, even in the lead-up years."

Robin did indeed know this, so he only nodded and grabbed a biscuit, taking off half in one bite and promptly grimacing at the taste of coconut. Chris snorted in amusement when he coughed and forced himself to swallow it before chugging half a bottle of water and tossing the rest of the nasty sweet into the trash can over by the wall, making his shot with surprising skill, given he was a figure skater, not a basketball player.

"Nice," Chris complimented him, and Robin grinned. It was a little-known ability of his and one he enjoyed showing off periodically. But now wasn't the time for that.

"So, insane schedule, and of course, the two of you were dead-set on turning ice dancing upside down and inside out," he said in an effort to bring things back on track, bracing his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his clasped hands. "I can see why you didn't do anything about it at the time. But why . . ."

He trailed off here, unable to think of a delicate way to finish that thought, and accepted Chris' knowing, amused look with good grace, because he had it coming.

An old adage he'd heard a dozen times in his childhood suddenly came back to haunt him: 'never ask a question you don't know the answer to. And if you don't know the answer, make damn sure you want it first.'.

Which was excellent advice, though Robin would readily admit that in this case, it was less 'want to know' than it was 'need to know' the answer, though the end result would be the same. Still, even he could never have predicted this, and Chris was only just getting started.

"Well, other than, you know, our agreement to 'nothing but skating', I — well, to be honest, I actually forgot fo—well, not 'forgot', but it was really a minor thing at the time and it just got . . . buried . . . under everything else," the man himself said candidly, and Robin had to hold back his own snort. Only for Christopher Dean would that statement be considered 'understandable'.

Either oblivious to or just ignoring this, Chris continued. "Jayne was so badly hurt, but we kept trying anyway, until we had to admit that we weren't going to make it and had to withdraw from the Europeans. So there was all that to deal with, and of course, at the time, if one of us got hurt or sick for longer than an hour, we always got mad with each other. So me realizing that I was in love with Jayne happened at the worst possible moment and . . . well, it — I — it never stood a chance. Not then. I had that thought once, and then Jayne threw up on me and we ended up calling an ambulance and I just . . . all I could think about was whether she'd be okay and if we'd still be able to train the next day. Those were literally the only thoughts in my head."

Only the knowledge of how badly Chris would take it kept Robin from shaking his head in despair. He knew, as did the majority of their fans, that Chris had been Jayne's personal — and sole — body servant, butler, and nurse while she healed, but he'd somehow managed not to notice how he felt about her? After realizing that he was in love with her?

Honestly. Hearing tripe like that made him wonder how in the hell those two idiots had become the greatest ice dancing pair the world would ever see. Yeah, he was just hearing Chris' side of it, but he also knew Jayne, and there was no way on God's green earth she didn't know how Chris felt about her. It was even odds if she felt the same (though his bet was on 'of course she did'), but Robin knew perfectly well that Jayne knew about Chris' feelings. And Chris knew that Jayne knew. But thirty years later, here they all were, watching the most convoluted love story in the history of romance play out in slow-motion and trying to decide if they needed more popcorn or wanted to risk alcohol poisoning as the fools danced around their feelings and each other in a routine so intricate, it put the entirely of their amateur career to shame.

Idiots!

Okay, no, that wasn't completely fair. Robin was a singles' skater, so losing a professional partner wasn't something he'd had to worry about, but he had seen more than one skater and coach or trainer hook up, implode, and be unable to keep working together after, so, yes, he would wholeheartedly agree with the wisdom of keeping everything platonic until it was both safe and practical to do otherwise.

But forgetting that you're in love with someone?!

Yes, and he had a bridge in Brooklyn and a giant Ferris Wheel in London to sell and all that jazz.

Still, despite his general aggravation with their foolishness, Robin wasn't so arrogant — or so foolish himself — to say so, or let it show on his face. If he did, Chris would clam up like a . . . like a . . . like something that clammed up, and he'd never find out what the man actually wanted to tell him.

So once again, Robin marshaled his patience and looked his friend straight in the eye.

"All right," he said evenly, taking a slow drink of water and feeling more than a little mean amusement when Chris flushed and glanced away for a few seconds. But then he turned back and their eyes met again, Robin's eyebrows arching in a silent, but very clear, challenge.

And Chris, being the competitor that he was, accepted it without so much as a quibble.

"Right," he said just as evenly, his spine straightening until he was sitting ramrod straight, eyes never leaving Robin's. "I know that everyone thinks Jayne and I hooked up that night in Sarajevo, after we won gold, but we didn't. Hell, even if there hadn't been a party waiting for us, complete with royal visitors, we were both so exhausted we couldn't see straight."

Yeah. Robin remembered that, too, and nodded. Looking back, it was amazing they'd actually stayed awake and coherent as long as they had. And there was no chance to rest, not with Worlds just a few weeks away. He remembered collapsing in an insensible heap himself, after both the Olympics and Worlds, and he couldn't have told you his own name in between the two. He'd once gotten ready to go out for dinner and put his skates on — and hadn't noticed until he was in the elevator. So, yes, he understood this quite well.

"No," Chris continued, bringing his attention back to the present. "We didn't have the chance to even breathe until we got to Barbados."

He paused, eyes going unfocused as memories swirled through them, and Robin held himself very, very still. He couldn't have said why, but he knew this was going to be earth-shatteringly important.

"Barbados," his friend said again, quietly this time, and thoughtfully. "It changed everything."

Robin couldn't stop his sharp breath at that and Chris glanced up, his features haunted by the recollection.

"Barbados changed everything," he repeated yet again, slowly, lacing his fingers and moving his gaze to them for a long, tense moment. Robin didn't even breathe as he watched and waited.

"Only, it didn't change anything."

March, 1984, Barbados

As he and Jayne closed the door to her hut behind them, their eyes met and they both burst out laughing. As irritating as it was, being stalked by a man who clearly had never played Hide-and-Seek as a kid, they had come to see the amusing side of it as well — especially since the two of them had gotten very good at spotting and evading him.

Hence, his increasingly amusing efforts at stealth by trying to cram his rather rotund bulk behind bushes that wouldn't hide a telephone pole, let alone a man who could provide backup for a sumo wrestler.

As their laughter deepened to something that more closely resembled hysteria, Chris retained just enough coherent thought to realize the rubber band had snapped: after three — well, actually, four — years of constant, deepening pressure, both from themselves as well as an ever-increasing percentage of the outside world, not to mention the expectations that came with it, again both internal and external, the sudden lack of it was . . . jarring.

Unreal, actually, and neither he nor Jayne had really trusted it until . . . um, now, apparently, if their manic laughter was any indication.

Well, at least they'd finally hit that point; now they could actually start to relax and enjoy themselves.

And then, right in the middle of an uncontrollable, hysterical spate of giggles, Jayne stretched up on her toes and kissed him.

The world stopped.

But when she didn't pull away and cry "Gotcha!" — when she didn't pull away at all — the realization he'd had more than a year ago slammed into his mind like a wrecking ball, shattering the barriers he'd built for both of their protection, and he came to life, returning her kiss with an eagerness that made her moan against his mouth and press herself even more closely to him, her fingers tangling in his hair as their tongues played with a passion that was as new as it was familiar.

Jayne started tugging at his shirt, trying to push it up so she could get her hands beneath it, and that was so unexpected, it jarred him from his dazed state. Slowly, reluctantly, he lifted his head, ending the kiss and taking a single step back, catching her hands and squeezing them gently as he met her confused eyes.

"Chris?" she whispered with lips swollen from his kiss, and he had to look away, swallowing hard while he fought down a surge of . . . something. Possessiveness, smugness, lust — any of them, all of them, it didn't matter. He just knew he couldn't look at Jayne, disheveled from his mouth and hands, and keep any kind of control.

And that was alarming on a whole other level, because he'd spent the last fourteen years of his life developing the iron discipline necessary to do what they'd done — and what they'd done was become the best ice dancers the world had ever seen, astonishing as they both found the reality of this to be. So having that control so easily fractured by his partner and best friend of nine years was — unnerving. Frightening. Exciting.

Terrifying.

Yes, she was also the woman he was in love with, but that was a relatively new thing and shouldn't, on its own, be enough to decimate the discipline that had been forged on ice, honed by fire, and sharpened on the blades of the skates that were their life, as they worked and planned and gave everything they were to their passion, knowing what they could do, could become, could be.

Chris had long ago realized that he and Jayne would become the best pair of ice dancers in the present world, on top of being the best the world had seen until now; they couldn't do otherwise, either of them, and though outside impressions did have something to do with it, their own personal drive ensured it would happen. Perfection was just who and what they were.

But.

Sometime in the last year, he'd begun to believe that he and Jayne had the potential to be not just the best the world 'had' ever seen.

They could become the best the world would ever see.

But only if they were of one mind . . . and while he could hardly claim experience in the arts of sex or romance, something about her kiss had been — off. He hadn't felt any tenderness, or softness. He'd sensed nothing of the love he held for her. Well, no, that wasn't right. He knew that Jayne loved him as deeply as he did her. What he didn't know was if she'd fallen in love with him.

Though, given her actions just now, he was fairly sure the answer was 'no'.

And he didn't have the slightest clue how to ask. Not this. Not only did neither of them have any kind of romantic experience, other than that one kiss several years ago, but they weren't wordsmiths. Not even with each other, and they had virtually no secrets. In fact, as far as Chris knew, the only thing Jayne didn't know about him now was the small fact that he was in love with her.

And if she didn't feel the same, or at least the beginnings of it, then how was he supposed to tell her?

"Chris?"

Her puzzled question shattered his reverie and he turned his attention back to her, drawing again on his willpower to ignore her kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks.

"What's wrong?" she asked, gently tugging against his grip, silently asking him to release her. With a soft sigh, he did, and she instantly curved her hands over his shoulders — not to kiss him again, but simply to seek reassurance for herself. He wasn't acting like she expected and it had thrown her off-balance.

"Nothing," he replied quietly, holding her eyes as long as he could before the lie hidden in his answer made him look away. "I just — I — what's brought this on, Jayne?" he finally managed after nearly a minute of slightly-awkward silence. When his question was followed by still more awkward silence, he risked a glance at his partner and found her staring at the floor, biting her lower lip in that way that drove him crazy.

"I don't know," she finally whispered, her eyes flicking to his. Due entirely to the unusual tenseness they both felt, their gazes locked but their ability to communicate wordlessly had vanished.

Which meant they actually had to talk to each other.

Out loud.

Well, wasn't that just lovely?

Still . . . she didn't know why she'd kissed him? Jayne Torvill?

"You don't know," he repeated, unable to hold back his surprise. Jayne was a lot of things, most of which he adored. Impulsive? Not so much.

She shook her head in answer, still looking puzzled. Oddly, that helped him regain some equilibrium and he decided to just yank off the plaster. One of the best things about their relationship — both personal and professional — was that she was fully aware and accepting of his tendency toward bluntness, which meant they rarely argued with any real anger, at least not at each other, and they were truly skilled at leaving any disagreements on the ice.

Or in the bamboo hut, as it were.

So if Jayne didn't tell him what he was hoping to hear, it wouldn't destroy them, or even make things uncomfortable, because he wasn't going to tell her his secret yet. As little as he knew about romance, he could still see how badly that would go, if only because it would put his partner in a very awkward position. And if she wasn't in love with him, well . . . so be it. As long as she didn't know how he felt, they'd be fine. They really would. He'd successfully managed to ignore — well, no, not ignore. He'd been able to submerge his romantic feelings for more than a year now, and with some of the (admittedly tentative) plans they were making, it couldn't be that hard to do it again.

On the other hand, he could well be putting the cart before the horse.

Hence, ripping off the plaster.

"Well, let's find out," he told her, smiling when she gave him the same look of fond exasperation (exasperated fondness?) that she always did when he opened a training session with, "I have an idea.". But she didn't actually say anything, instead simply nodding and gesturing for him to continue.

Her trust made a lump rise in his throat and he had to swallow hard against another surge of his feelings.

This might be harder than he thought, but there was nothing for it now.

So with a deep breath, one so harsh it scraped against his throat, Christopher Dean asked the question that every reporter on four continents had been desperate to get an answer to for nearly five years.

"Are you in love with me, Jayne?"

It was surprisingly quiet, this blunt inquiry, and it came out so levelly that it surprised even him. But if he was surprised, Jayne was shocked into actual silence.

"I — what?" she finally replied, still sounding stunned, and he closed his eyes for a few seconds. She'd just answered him, though she didn't know it yet, and that answer was 'no'.

So be it. That was fine, and he'd already more than half-suspected it anyway. He wouldn't lie to himself and say he was happy about it, but nothing would change for them. He'd need a bit of time to reinforce the box holding his emotions, but it wouldn't be that hard to do. Not after the practice he'd already had.

But because of that, he couldn't give her what he guessed she wanted: sex without love.

Or rather, sex without a committed, romantic relationship. She loved him, he knew that without a doubt, but she hadn't fallen in love with him yet, and until (unless) she did, he wasn't prepared to risk everything they'd worked for — never mind how much they still had to do — just for an orgasm.

In spite of his best efforts, a blush heated his cheeks at the thought and he cleared his throat before meeting Jayne's eyes again.

"Am I — where did that come from, Chris?" she asked, looking and sounding genuinely confused, and he licked his lips.

"Well . . . you just kissed me out of nowhere and it wasn't a 'yay, we won!' kiss — the tongues gave that away," he teased gently, pathetically relieved that he was able to do so. "And since you aren't the type to just throw yourself at a man, it seemed like a logical question."

She laughed out loud at that, her eyes sparkling with humor and that same deep fondness he always saw, and he mentally nodded. Yes; platonic it was, at least for now. And really, it wasn't like they'd have time for romance anyway. Now that they didn't have to worry about the ISU and their restrictive, frequently ridiculous rules, they could finally let their imaginations have free rein. Even now, in the back of his mind, ideas were bubbling and frothing, teasing him with the possibilities. Oh, the things they could try . . .

"I suppose you're right," she replied, once more breaking his reverie. It took a second for that to register and he gave her a genuine smile.

"Aren't I always?" he asked impudently, his smile widening when she rolled her eyes before lightly thumping his chest.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that," was her prim response, and he smirked. It was always fun to win an argument with her. Rare, to be sure, but fun. "And you're right. I don't — I'm not — we — I—" she tried to continue, stuttering in a way that was completely uncharacteristic of her, and he could only blink at her in surprise. Jayne was hardly shy around him, and he hadn't heard her stammer like that since maybe three months after they'd first been partnered.

Well. If he'd wanted proof that she really hadn't thought this through, here it was.

He honestly couldn't say if that made him feel better or worse.

Although . . . did it make any difference? She wasn't in love with him and he wasn't going to tell her he was in love with her, so all that mattered now was letting her know, as gently as possible, that he wasn't going to be her bedmate without also being her husband.

And then they could get on with enjoying their vacation and planning the next steps of their life.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," he said candidly, holding her gaze and making damn sure she saw only his sincerity and his love. Just . . . not the part of him that wanted to pin her to the mattress and make her feel so good she couldn't even scream her pleasure. But that was only a small bit of how much and how deeply he felt for her. And since she didn't have a clue about the depth of his feelings, she saw exactly what she always saw: the same soul-deep adoration for her that she felt for him.

His words made her blush, but it faded quickly and she nodded, taking his hands again.

"Right twice in a row," she teased, squeezing his fingers so he'd know she meant nothing by it, that she wasn't saying it to hurt him. And of course he knew that, so he kissed her forehead and pulled her to his chest.

"Then I think it's better that we don't go there," he whispered in her hair, unable to prevent the small spike of pain at his words. Just because he didn't want it badly enough to risk everything else didn't mean the intensity had faded; only time would do that. Time and necessity, and who knew what would happen in a few years? He wouldn't get his hopes up, but neither would he turn into a lovesick fool. Not at all. No, he — they — would simply continue as they were: best friends, partners, platonic soul mates. Time would take care of the rest.

"I think you're right," she replied, tilting her head back so she could see him and giving him a tiny smile as their eyes met. She didn't apologize for kissing him, not that he would have let her, and neither of them said anything else about it. They simply took comfort and peace in each other's presence and began making plans: for the day, for the rest of their vacation, and for their future.

It would take years for Chris to fully appreciate the irony of that day, because that half hour changed everything.

But when it was all said and done, it didn't change a thing.