Have the next chapter. This one was . . . intriguing . . . to write. It's the first one that I didn't have some kind of - of backstory, or T&D-provided background to draw from, so . . . well. I'm holding my breath over here. As always, huge thanks to my amazing beta lawand_disorder, who is a lifesaver. But I also want to say 'thank you' to my readers; this wouldn't be nearly as much fun without you and you are so deeply appreciated.
And now, on with the show!
November 21, 2013, post Children in Need special, Chris' London flat
The window was fogged up.
The window was fogged up.
So were his glasses. He was breathing a lot harder than he should be. And he'd broken into a sweat.
Well, he refused to be blamed for that. He suspected th—suspected, hell. He knew perfectly well that he was supposed to be shocked and stunned and possibly appalled at what he'd just heard. Of course, that wasn't taking into account the fact that he had working eyes and ears and a brain. And, you know, he knew them both.
But he'd also had an up-close and personal view of the pair for the last eight years in a way that was simultaneously more intimate and yet further removed than the way he'd known them before they'd retired, meaning he'd observed a lot more but hadn't been privy to the small details . . . and 2012 had been an interesting year indeed. Also, like most of the people who knew their names, he'd always wondered in the back of his mind if they'd ever actually succumbed, their firm denial of that very thing be damned.
Although . . . given how brutally honest Chris had been so far, he was fairly sure he knew. But that was just it — he was only fairly sure, and that put him in a serious conundrum: to ask or not to ask? Plausible deniability or answers?
Oh, who was he kidding? There was no way in hell he could — or would — stop now.
When Chris gave him a sideways look from hooded eyes, Robin knew with absolute certainty that this train was about to go completely off the rails . . . though in which direction, he couldn't even begin to guess. There were only two ways things could have gone, but knowing the pair's luck — and given where Chris had stopped talking — at least one spouse had spectacular timing (good or bad depended on who one asked and oh, there was his missing dark sense of humor). But as enlightening as this was, the primary rule of this little . . . talk . . . had been to let Chris go at his own speed. And yes, it was working quite well so far, but after that small revelation, Robin wasn't all that surprised to find that his patience had abruptly evaporated.
Without so much as a hint of a second thought, he looked one of his best friends in the eye and said, "Talk. Or I'll tell Jayne about the little pre-show ritual you have gone to some truly great lengths to keep hidden from her."
The color drained from the other man's face so quickly, Robin was half-afraid he was going to pass out, but he recovered with remarkable aplomb. The ferocious glare he pinned on Robin would have induced guilt at any other time, but not now. Not after stopping where — and the way — he had. It did make him look away, though, as those last few sentences slid through his mind again.
The flipping window had fogged over.
Bloody drama queen.
And then he looked up and met a gaze that was so full of utter, soul-crushing misery that Robin felt his own heart break.
Oh, Chris.
It was a solid three minutes before he recovered enough to risk lancing this poisoned, infected wound.
"Who was it?" he asked, his voice so gentle that tissue paper wouldn't have crinkled. "Both of them?"
A bitter scoff was his response as Chris turned back to the window. He was shaking and Robin swallowed again, finally beginning to understand just how much the pair had suffered. There was no amusement left, and no frustration. There was only sorrow, borne of an understanding that no one could ever have guessed, and the slowly dawning realization that this . . . this . . . confession . . . was leading to a truth thirty years in the making.
"That stupid woman. How the hell she got lost on a street with four houses I will never understand," the other man spit out, his fingers white on the windowsill. "But it stopped us, so I really should have sent her a fruit basket."
Despite his best efforts, Robin was unable to prevent his own bitter scoff at the knowledge he'd guessed correctly. But then, that was their entire life, wasn't it? Having to live on just a taste of what could have — should have — been, but never more than that one tiny bite. Not nearly enough to satisfy, but more than enough to drive anyone to the edge of sanity. Separated by honor and fear and love . . . but completely unable to live apart.
Well, no, that wasn't quite true. They'd survived eight years of being apart, of separation . . . though 'survive' was the operative word. In no way could what they'd endured truly be called 'living', though he suspected both of them would disagree. And it made no difference now. But this knowledge explained something he'd wondered about for two decades.
"So that's why you never skated together after?" was his hushed observation, and he bit his lip when Chris nodded, his gaze dull, almost blank.
"Yeah," he whispered back. "We didn't dare risk it. It . . . that day . . . oh, that day. We didn't talk about . . . we've never mentioned it. And that day, we — she — we didn't touch each other again until Jill and I were about to board our flight. It — we — I — it was wrong on every level, that . . . that restraint . . . but it was the only way we could . . ."
He trailed off, anguish now blazing in his eyes, and Robin swallowed hard.
Suddenly, he didn't want to know, couldn't bear to hear the rest. But he couldn't stop now. He'd been stupid enough, arrogant enough, to think he could understand it, and was only now realizing that no, he couldn't. Jack Nicholson had been right: he couldn't handle the truth.
But he had no choice. He'd started them down this path and yes, Chris had followed, but all the bridges they'd crossed had been burned and there was no going back.
Why, why, did he have to understand now? Because they'd gotten to the truly thorny part of things: he knew that Chris had begun to wonder in that first year or so just how orchestrated the events leading to them deciding to retire had been, and he'd bet good money that Jayne had as well. Robin wasn't the only person who'd questioned the timing of Jill's pregnancy, and those who'd known about it at the time had always been confused at Chris' absence from Jayne's side when she'd lost the baby.
Robin wasn't a conspiracy nut by any stretch of the imagination, but that . . . it was impossible not to suspect. Even people who didn't give a tinker's damn about Chris and Jayne getting together had wondered.
One look at his friend's cold eyes and flat expression had him swallowing again, but it also told him not to try being gentle with his next question. Chris was so brittle now that he simply couldn't handle 'gentle'. He'd shatter like glass and there would be no way to gather all the shards.
But Robin was one of those rare people who could manage to be both blunt and circumspect; it was the reason Karen despised Jason when he was acting as a judge, but rarely blinked twice at Robin's own comments, even when they lined up with Jason's.
"What happened, Chris?" he asked softly, somehow managing to hold that tormented gaze. "What kept you from Jayne when she—"
Torment flared into rage.
Time stopped.
In what he was vaguely alarmed to realize was hysteria, Robin suddenly wondered if he was about to see the first confirmed case of spontaneous human combustion, because Christopher Dean wasn't merely furious. Oh, no. This was an old, deep rage, a wound that would scab over sometimes but never really heal, constantly throbbing and tender to the touch. And that pain and that rage were burning through him so fiercely that sparks were actually blazing from his eyes and Robin's hair was standing on end.
"Some backstory, to start," Chris said so calmly, Robin almost wet himself. The room was suddenly heavy with . . . oh. Danger had risen again, overriding the rest, and Robin swallowed. This was going to be bad.
And he didn't have a single drop of alcohol to cushion the blow. Or a bullet-proof vest. Was it too late to become a hermit and move to a cave in the desert?
Oblivious to his sudden unease, the story poured out of Chris like Vesuvius must have exploded: astoundingly heavy, unbelievably intense, and absolutely, utterly inescapable.
"I think it's safe to say the entire world knows that Jill got pregnant on purpose in '98," he . . . well, declared, and Robin swallowed again.
Oh, yes. This was going to be so very, very bad.
Against his will, he nodded but didn't even try to speak. After all . . . what could he possibly say?
"Yeah," Chris answered his nod, finally succumbing to the frenetic energy so visibly racing through his blood and starting to pace in a pattern that was unnervingly familiar, though the knowledge remained irritatingly out of reach.
When he finally recognized it, Robin honestly couldn't decide if he wanted to break down in hysterical laughter or bolt from the room and find that cave.
Chris was walking out the male half of Fields of Gold with frightening accuracy and it was terrifying.
"So, Jill wanted me to leave Jayne and retire to be her husband full-time. She'd waited four years, after all," he told Robin without looking at him . . . which was just as well, because the longer he moved, the more Robin could see Jayne in those tight, precise movements. It should have looked awkward and clumsy, seeing an ice skating routine being walked, without the accompanying hand and arm movements, and with only one half of the pair. But this was Christopher Dean. And when it came to skating and Jayne Torvill, he couldn't be anything but graceful and elegant and so beautiful to watch, it almost hurt.
All Robin could muster in response to both the words and the movement was a soft 'hmm', which, thankfully, was enough.
"When we — after Lillehammer, she honestly thought we'd give up then. We'd tried to reach the pinnacle again and failed, so that was it." This was said quietly, contemplatively, and Robin swallowed hard. He badly wanted to tell Chris to stop, it was okay, he didn't have to do this.
But he couldn't, because they both knew that Chris did have to do this.
And by all rights, Jayne should be here, holding his hand.
Only she wasn't, and that might be the most heartbreaking thing of all.
With a deep, albeit cautious breath, Robin firmly pushed down his urge to flee and relaxed into the chair as much as he could, keeping his eyes steady on Chris as his friend reached the end of the routine and started over. All he could do now was provide silent support and a non-judgmental ear.
"Jill never did understand Jayne and I; she honestly thought it was just about winning," he said, sounding almost exasperated now, and that juxtaposition to the rage still so clearly simmering just beneath the surface once again threatened Robin's equilibrium. He simply could not understand how Chris was still sane.
"She couldn't understand that Lillehammer was about the imagination for us, the inventiveness. I don't think she ever realized that we didn't really care about winning; not by then, anyway," Chris continued. "And I got that, at least at first. After all, every professional athlete is in it to win, right?"
As this was clearly rhetorical, Robin didn't bother to reply, and Chris didn't wait for one.
"And up to '84, we were definitely in that category. I mean, yes, we pushed boundaries and tried new things, but we wanted to win while doing it, so that was obviously our priority. But after Sarajevo, we . . . we could finally indulge in the artistry of it. Don't get me wrong," he added hastily, as though Robin had spoken. "We wanted to win in '94. We did. And when we competed professionally, we did it to win. But that was secondary for us; it's why we went six years between competitions but toured like it was going out of style. We — once we turned pro, we could do everything we'd ever imagined and we did. We couldn't stop. So we wanted to win Lillehammer with another Bolero. Everyone thinks that Jayne humors me when I'm in 'creative mode'," he said scornfully and Robin had to push back a nod of agreement. This wasn't a conversation and Chris didn't need any distractions. "But she loves it as much as I do. I see it in my head, imagine it, but she's the one who brings it to life."
The perfect partnership, he didn't say, and Robin couldn't fight down this shiver.
"But Jill . . . like most pros, she enjoys skating, gets a thrill from competing, but when she couldn't do it anymore, it was fine. It took a bit for her to adapt, sure, but not long, because it's not in her blood. When Jayne and I stopped . . ."
He trailed off and Robin swallowed.
"It nearly killed us both," Chris whispered, closing his eyes against the memory and resuming the retracing of his routine. "But Jill couldn't understand and when she saw . . . I got — once we — I suffered from pretty bad depression for several months," he finally managed to say, eyes glazed as he moved mindlessly through the dance that had declared his feelings more clearly than even Bolero. "And she resented that, because if we were just friends, why was it hitting me so hard?"
This was spit out with more than a little anger and Robin swallowed again.
Yeah.
This was going to be so very bad.
"She was a singles' skater, so she couldn't — wouldn't — couldn't — understand and I . . . I mean, how do you explain Jayne and I?" he asked plaintively, for the first time looking at Robin as though he might actually have an answer.
Would to God he did . . . and truthfully, other than Katya Gordeeva, who had gotten to live the life Chris so badly wanted, tragically cut short though it was, he didn't think there was another living soul on earth who might really understand that all-encompassing bond, much less explain it.
Then again, Chris didn't seem to want a response. This would have been more reassuring had he not abruptly decided to start the routine over with a violent about-face. His fists were clenched and his eyes looked bronze, they were so dark with emotion — not one of which was good.
"I just never expected her to be so jealous that she'd . . . but it gave me Jack, and that's all that matters," he said hoarsely, tears brimming, and Robin swallowed again. He wasn't hearing anything he didn't already know or suspect, which should have made things easier, but seeing the raw emotions that were still torturing Chris after more than a decade . . .
No. No, 'easier' wasn't going to be part of this.
"So when I heard that Jayne was pregnant, I was thrilled, because I understood and I wanted that joy for her," he explained, his eyes darkening again. "I never even thought 'what if'; she was happy and that's all I've ever wanted for her."
Sincerity was radiating from him and Robin nodded, unsurprised at this. Say what you would about Christopher Dean, but his devotion to Jayne Torvill and her happiness could not ever be doubted — which led back to the perplexing question of why he'd not been there to support her when she'd lost the baby.
What on God's green earth could possibly have kept him away?
Or . . . who?
"When she . . . when I found out . . ." Chris murmured, his words slurring a little and making Robin look sharply at him. His senses were starting to tingle, and his more-than-vague suspicions ballooned. Something had clearly gone down during that hellish time and just as clearly, things were rotten in the state of Denmark.
Lord, he hated it when Shakespeare had an adequate quote for something.
In point of fact, he hated Shakespeare.
Egads, he wished his twisted sense of humor would learn to pick better times to show up.
"The — the thing is," came the soft continuance, each word sounding like it was being torn from him, "that everything with Jayne . . . I didn't hear from her directly until almost two weeks later. All the contact was done through Phil. And Jill."
Whoa.
Despite his dark musings, Robin had not been expecting them to be so brutally confirmed and the knowledge actually made him lean back in his chair. Solid suspicion was now a half-step away from ugly fact and it was taking most of his control to keep from succumbing to his own horror. Things had just gotten very real and in a way even he could never had predicted.
"It took months for me to catch on, though; God, how much more naïve could I have been?" Chris asked, again rhetorically, bitter sarcasm doing nothing to hide his pain. "Jill never said anything to me, and when I finally heard from Jayne, she — I — I just — it was unreal," he said slowly, haltingly, eyes glazing over again with memory. "We stayed on the phone for hours and didn't say more than ten words, but it—"
He stopped abruptly, but Robin had no trouble finishing the thought.
It was the only comfort she could accept.
Chris continued after a minute, his voice rough and raw now, and Robin's throat ached with empathy. "I needed to go to her," he said quietly, eyes bronze again with remembered grief and rage, "and Jill seemed to be supportive of that, but somehow, things kept coming up that kept me home. And I was so . . . well, I was so out of it and worried for Jayne that I couldn't make any plans and left everything to Jill. But — yeah. And I chafed against it, God knows it killed me to be away from Jayne, but it never occurred to me to question it. Her."
Ooh.
His voice was flat now, and completely devoid of emotion.
But his eyes . . .
Robin had never before been chilled from nothing but a look, but he went cold to his marrow as that frigid gaze slanted over him.
"It wasn't until about four months before the Queen's Jubilee in Notts that I realized, apropos of nothing, that Jill hadn't been remotely surprised when I told her about the miscarriage."
There wasn't so much as an ounce of inflection in his voice . . . and Robin nearly suffocated from sudden, soul-crushing fear, but he didn't dare take a breath. Not for the fate of the world would he risk stopping Chris now.
"But I can see why Phil would have been more comfortable sharing with Jill instead of me," Chris told his hands, sounding almost conversational, and Robin drew in a short, sharp breath through his nose. Every single instinct he possessed had just leapt to its feet and was shrieking 'danger!' at the top of its lungs. "The problem was that Jill didn't tell me."
Robin's blood actually froze.
Never in his life had he wanted to be wrong more than he did right now.
"So when I finally put everything together: Phil's lack of contact, Jill's silence . . . Jayne not — not — Jill keeping me home . . . well, suffice to say, I didn't take it well. Did you know that screaming fights echo really well at the base of the Rockies?"
Again, this was said so conversationally that Robin actually felt sick.
And very, very afraid.
Because he'd finally come to realize that yes, Chris had stayed sane once he and Jayne had officially dissolved their partnership. Barely, to be honest, but sane.
But with these revelations and the purging of so much old poison, Robin found himself genuinely terrified at the thought that this might be the final push that sent Chris toppling over the edge. And that was something he shouldn't have been worried about, because Chris had Jayne back. They were skating together again and choreographing again and spending at least six days a week with each other.
But only for half the year.
And only as friends and partners.
Because despite the longing for more that was so powerful, you could actually see it swirling in sparks of gold and purple between and around the couple when they were together longer than thirty seconds, neither of them had any intention of finally ending their torment. Jayne wouldn't do that to Phil, any more than Chris had to Jill. Or would do to Karen.
Karen.
Now, that was a situation Robin simply could not puzzle out. They had gotten together so fast that thinking about it made his head spin and he still, two years later, couldn't see the attraction for Chris. Not long-term, at least. But that was a question and a story for later and like hell he was interrupting this train of thought.
"It's why I agreed to do that gala, actually," his friend continued, pulling Robin's attention sharply back to him. "I was desperate to see Jayne, which is why I had to think about it first; it's not the best idea to put an open bottle of scotch at an AA meeting with no adult supervision," he said more than a little sardonically, something that Robin understood, to his horror. Chris hadn't trusted himself to be alone with Jayne, which was so inherently wrong that it made him shudder just at the thought, as pain for their anguish swelled again.
"And I was so furious with Jill that I needed to be on another continent until I calmed down. It was a very dangerous line to walk. But in the end, I couldn't stay away. Not for anything on this earth."
The switch in tone between rage and conversational was really, really beginning to frighten Robin and make him reconsider his assumption that Chris was . . . no, he knew his friend was sane. Was he emotionally stable? Yeah, no. Not even a little bit. But the danger was Robin's knowledge that no one but Jayne had the ability to keep him on an even keel. Not now. Not as far gone as he was. And without his partner to keep him grounded . . .
But he couldn't say that, or even subtly allude to it. All Robin could do was calm the tension as best he could, and try to redirect the blast if he failed.
"So the first time Jayne and I got to be together since . . . since it . . . well. I couldn't forget what I'd learned and I was terrified to find out what she knew. It should have been one of the best days of our lives," he whispered hoarsely, eyes dark and wet with anguish. "And instead, it was turned to ashes. Between prepping for that damned gala and I — and — I just couldn't figure out how to say what I . . . I — and of course, we didn't have the time to really get into any kind of serious conversation. We didn't get a single day together before he showed up."
The contempt and anger were so virulent, Robin shivered again. There weren't any guesses as to who 'he' was.
"And on it went, for the next three years," Chris said bitterly, his eyes frigid again. "Jayne . . . a few times, she'd say something that made me wonder, but it was never anything solid, she just — and I couldn't — so it wasn't until DOI started getting nominated for awards and she and I were getting invitations for everything under the sun that I really started to put the pieces together."
Wait. Had Robin missed part of this conversation?
One glance up had him mentally cursing. He was actually going to have to ask that, because Chris was giving him an expectant look that quite clearly stated he wanted a response this time.
Oh, wonderful. Well, let's hope this didn't bite him in the ass.
"Put what together?" he said as casually as he could, mildly surprised when his voice came out steady.
"That he only comes to things when he gets a direct, can't-refuse invitation . . . or when he knows that Jayne and I will be alone and his presence won't be questioned," was the scornful answer — and one that startled Robin a hell of a lot more than it should have. But he needed only to think back to the Piers Morgan interview to accept the observation; given how intimate it had gotten, he'd wondered at the time why Phil hadn't been there, not even as a backstage interview like he and so many others had been, though his curiosity had been both fleeting and shallow. But now . . .
"But we couldn't . . . we didn't talk about it, any of it, and it kept festering inside me, wondering just how . . . how deliberate things had been. I mean, Jayne and I never tried to skate together from the day we retired until the first rehearsal for DOI because we didn't — we didn't trust ourselves with that kind of temptation. You'd think separation would have cooled the flames, right?" he asked, once again rhetorically, and Robin's throat ached from the force of this brutally hard swallow. "But she and I never do anything the normal way. So the longer we were apart, the more we needed to be together. We never did get used to it, not really. Those trips where it was just the two of us . . . God, Robin," Chris rasped, eyes falling closed against the intensity of his memories, and he stayed quiet for several minutes, clearly reliving something profound, and Robin found himself mesmerized as he watched those memories and emotions play out on his friend's expressive face.
"There have never been two more miserable people having more fun than us," Chris finally said, so sadly matter-of-fact that it hurt. Again. "We couldn't forget, couldn't risk . . . well. But we needed to be together so badly. And it was just as dangerous, just as intoxicating, as we knew it would be. So we tried, that first time, to call it off, to walk away, but . . . we just . . . neither of us had the strength to do it ourselves. I could no more have left her than . . . than . . . than I could do any other impossible thing," he said quietly, despair choking his voice. "Neither could she. But we also couldn't just be us, because 'being us' . . . yeah. And we couldn't tell them how miserable we were since the whole reason we got talked into taking those trips was because we were so obviously unhappy that even they couldn't ignore it anymore."
Robin went completely still.
"Or justify letting it continue."
Oh, no. No, no, no, no. no.
No.
They wouldn't have. They hadn't. No one could be that cruel, that heartless, that . . . oh, God. They — oh, God.
It had been a test.
A test . . . and a punishment.
"Yeah," Chris said in reply to Robin's appalled expression, his eyes full of the same anger Robin felt. How could Jill and Phil have done that to them?
"And it took until we'd worked out the agreement to do Oz before we finally let ourselves see it. Jill had a flipping conniption when I called to tell her, and Phil did everything to block the contract but physically bar the door to the office — and Jayne told me later that there was 'a shocking amount of yelling'. Their reactions were so powerful, so negative, that even we were surprised."
Silence.
"And for whatever reason, that jolted us awake and we finally said 'fuck it', made the executive decision to disappear for a day, and let ourselves just be together. It could have '84 again, after the Olympics, when we were the only two people in the world."
Robin blinked rapidly to clear his vision, vaguely aware that he'd held his breath so long that he'd gone lightheaded. And yet, he wasn't remotely surprised. Not anymore.
But he wasn't expecting the rage that swelled up in his throat, hot and thick, on behalf of two people who'd done nothing but love each other, and honored that love with a nobility that was rarely seen anymore — even though doing so had nearly destroyed them both.
That rage was swiftly eclipsed by wary caution when Chris spun to face him, his expression open and relaxed for the first time since Robin had asked his truly-innocent question almost two hours ago.
"And we talked, Robin. We finally told each other everything."
February, 2006, Embassy Suites, Room #804, London, UK
As the hotel room door closed behind him with a soft snick, Christopher Dean met Jayne Torvill's eyes . . . and wanted to cry.
Or scream.
Or destroy the entire fucking hotel with his bare hands.
Because, see, in all the movies and books and operas and poems and ballets and everything else made of romance, this was It. This was The Moment. The villain had been vanquished, the dastardly plot uncovered, and the hero and heroine had successfully managed to rescue each other in whatever combination your fantasy chose.
And now . . . now it was just them.
They were together and alone and that overwhelming pull to just throw themselves into each other's arms and finally complete their union and become one, the way it should have been from the first, was threatening to drown them both. Chris wasn't sure what Jayne saw in his face, but it made her look down with a swallow and inch back. His body followed suit, so well-conditioned to mirror hers that he didn't even have the chance to think about it before it happened, his step forward the exact length of hers back.
Always in perfect sync.
Then she looked up and met his gaze with the intensity that was only for him, licking her top lip in that completely unconscious but so sensuous way of hers that always drove him just a little crazy.
And he finally snapped.
He cleared the five steps separating them before he drew his next breath and she was in his arms, her mouth hot and pliant and eager against his. He poured his entire being into his kiss, sharing his love and loss and fears and joy and anguish and relief. It was so deep and encompassing that he went weak at the knees as he emptied his raging emotions into the only vessel that could ever hold them even as he drank hers in return. And as she always did, Jayne provided the support he needed until he could think again. Breathe again.
Live again.
After eight years of suffering, he could finally breathe. He could feel and taste and touch and live—
—and love.
Jayne's soft murmur into his mouth tipped him dangerously close to the edge. The heat of her tongue branded him and the touch of her lips marked his soul as hers and it was good, it was right . . . until the sudden wave of knowledge that they couldn't do this rushed up, knocking him back to the present so hard and brutally that it hurt, and he pulled away with a choked gasp of despair and rage.
It wasn't fair!
Because all Christopher Dean wanted in that moment was to open his arms and enfold her within them, pulling her closer and closer until their bodies merged, became one, and she came to rest inside him. Safe. Secure. Living forever in his heart, where she had already dwelt for years.
But he couldn't. She couldn't.
They couldn't.
When he finally stopped shaking and had gotten both his lust and his despair under control, it was like waking from a dream. He was standing at the window, oblivious to the spectacular view, and Jayne was behind him, her arms wrapped tightly around his chest and her head resting between his shoulder blades. Her breathing was in perfect sync with his and he couldn't help the soft smile that curved his lips as his hands rose to cover hers, their fingers tangling automatically. They stood there in a surprisingly serene silence for another few minutes, simply enjoying just being together, before Jayne sighed quietly and slowly, reluctantly, drew back. Biting back his instinctive protest, Chris turned to follow her, eyebrows arching as he saw the rueful look on her face.
"Well, at least we know we haven't lost our chemistry," she told him.
It took a full minute for that to sink in, and Chris couldn't help it. He burst out laughing at this utterly incongruous observation, and he positively reveled at the sound of Jayne's giggles; he loved to hear her laugh more than almost anything on earth and being the reason for it was always the highlight of his day.
It tapered off quickly, though to his surprise, the tension didn't return. Instead, Jayne slowly drew away and crossed to the sofa. Heaving a sigh, she kicked off her shoes and tugged off the sweatshirt she'd stolen from him just before their last tour, leaving her in jeans and a t-shirt, settled herself easily against the left arm, and stretched out a leg before fixing him with an expectant look. He chuffed out a laugh and obeyed, toeing off his own trainers and taking his place at her side. They sat in an easy silence for a few minutes before she fished a cushion out from behind her and put it on her lap, plumping it quickly before tugging on his shoulder. Once again, he obeyed and let himself fall into the familiar comfort of her arms, nestling his head into the pillow and curving one arm around her waist while her fingers gently stroked and played with his hair.
"Okay, partner," she finally said quietly, caressing the nape of his neck and making him shiver. "Tell me. Why is Jill so upset? I mean, this can't have come as a complete surprise."
Given Phil's reaction, her observation had him mentally raising his eyebrows, but he made no comment. It wasn't time for that.
Yet.
But the truth was, DOI had come as a surprise — to everyone. Even the producers had been caught off-guard. In a good way, mind, but no one had expected the overwhelming response to the show.
Okay, Chris, stop playing the ingénue. He and Jayne knew perfectly well that the vast majority of viewers were for them. Torvill and Dean. Expected it? Well, no. But it had only taken three episodes to realize what was happening, and one after that for the pair to fall back into those familiar patterns. This was the life they knew and loved and missed with every fiber of their beings.
However, he knew that Phil had never really grasped people's fascination (or obsession, honesty compelled him to admit) with them. And in a way, that was understandable; after all, Phil wasn't a sports person. He'd only gotten involved in ice dancing because if he hadn't, he would never see his wife; this knowledge was borne out by the fact that after Torvill and Dean had retired, Phil hadn't had anything to do with ice skating or producing tours. If Jayne wasn't involved, he didn't care. But despite his ever-deepening involvement in their world, he had never truly understood.
And he hadn't wanted to. He was perfectly happy with Jayne being a housewife — and he was certainly thrilled that she stopped skating. After all, that was what he'd expected to happen when they got married and being forced to realize that his expectations weren't remotely close to reality had been a very unpleasant surprise. More than a few times, Chris had bitterly wondered how Jayne didn't see it, only to sag in defeat and concede that she didn't want to and she wasn't going to. So it made a depressing amount of sense that Phil was both unable and unwilling to comprehend the truth behind the success of DOI.
Jill, on the other hand, had anticipated, at best, a lukewarm reception. It had been nearly a decade since he and Jayne had skated together, after all, and the public's attention span and memory were notoriously fickle, so she had, not unreasonably, expected it to be a 'one and done', as it were, and based her expectations around that. She could deal with him being gone for six months as a one-off. The exact opposite happening was not in her plans for their future.
And to be honest, the enthusiastic response and adulation had caught him and Jayne by surprise, pleasant though it was. And working together again, skating together, had been such a rush that when Australia asked them to bring the show over, neither of them needed a lot of time or discussion to agree. They'd been thrilled, and humbled, and so proud of their legacy, that people remembered them after all this time and were so patently eager to see more of them, that it never occurred to either of them that their spouses would feel differently.
Yes, Jill had been remote this year, but that was only to be expected; he was on another continent and despite his suggestion that they move the family over with him while he was here — England did have perfectly good schools — he saw (and agreed with) the reasons why she didn't want to. But her furious rage at not just his news of going to Australia but also that of a second series, had shocked the hell out of him and forced him to start thinking . . . and he didn't care for the conclusions he'd come to. Because in hindsight, it seemed clear that Jill had been expecting DOI to fail, and he'd come home with his tail between his legs, convinced that his time in the limelight was over, and utterly disillusioned with Torvill and Dean.
Instead, it had been a smash hit. Not only had a second UK series been commissioned, but another country wanted them.
And Jill was not happy about that. Not even a little bit. And her renewed jealousy of Jayne, of their partnership, coming on the heels of her realization that he knew what she and Phil had done . . .
His voice was soft as he walked Jayne through this, though he took a tiny break before delving into the dangerously heavy stuff and nuzzled her bellybutton after pausing to let her think things over, smiling into the cushion when she giggled in response, her fingers curving around the nape of his neck.
God, he'd missed this. Jayne was the only person he could just . . . be with. They didn't have to talk or fidget or do anything but sit in total silence if they didn't want to. And they would never judge each other, no matter what they'd done.
Or why.
So he knew he was safe in telling her about Jill's role in that entire fucked up situation with her miscarriage and the misery that had followed. Bringing up Phil's involvement, however, was going to be tricky. She wasn't going to want to hear it, much less believe it, and he couldn't really blame her. Well, actually, he could. Not much, mind, because she'd been just as naïve and inexperienced as him. Regardless of that, though, her own fears and her refusal to face them had played no small role in the situation they all found themselves in now, and he was finding that he had the urge to strangle his partner while simultaneously wanting to hug her and tell her everything would be okay. The fact that he didn't know things would be fine just rubbed salt on the raw edges and he cursed all of them for letting things come to this. Still, the truth couldn't be avoided or glossed over, and that was the problem. He was about to force Jayne to acknowledge something she didn't want to see and that never went well for him at the time.
Only, it had to be done.
And if he secretly harbored a fantasy about what might happen after, well . . . it was a secret. And a fantasy. No one would ever know.
"Wow," his partner said quietly, sounding very shocked, and he blinked. Twisting his head, he looked up and met her eyes, wondering what had sparked that.
"I had no idea Jill was still that jealous," she said in response to his silent question, and he sighed heavily. Neither had he — and yes, he knew perfectly well just how naïve that had been. But a man could always hope, couldn't he?
"Join the club," he said sardonically, shifting a little until he was resting on his back, his head in her lap, so he had an unobstructed view of her face. "And she has no real right to feel that way."
This earned him a pointed eyebrow and a silent reminder of what had happened a mere twenty minutes prior, but he shook his head. "No," he insisted. "We've never done anything and we never will." A tiny piece of his heart splintered as he said it out loud, but he ignored it because he had no choice. It gave his anger more impetus, though, which fed his next words. "And if she truly loved me, if she really trusted me, she'd know that. I'm not saying she has to like it, but this little tantrum is not . . . I'm not remotely okay with it, especially since I wouldn't still be with her if I didn't love her and want to be with her," he said irritably. Somehow, he managed to keep from snapping and was relieved beyond words when she nodded in agreement, fluffing the hair at the nape of his neck before smoothing it back down.
"Okay, fair enough," she conceded, giving him a gentle smile. "So . . . what are you going to do?"
That was the $64,000 question, wasn't it? He didn't have a clue.
"I don't know," he replied, giving her a pitiful look. "I don't — I think the only thing that will make her happy is if I completely sever all contact with you and since that's not going to happen . . ."
They both shuddered at that and she bent down to brush a tender kiss across his chin. Their very first day of rehearsal for just them, they had sworn that the world would end before their partnership did. Never again would they put themselves through that hell. Everyone else was just going to have to learn to live with it.
Speaking of . . .
"What about Phil?" he asked as gently as he could — which wasn't very. He'd done a decent job over the years of pretending, but his friendship with the man had cooled off quickly after the wedding, and over the years, as he saw how bad Phil's influence on Jayne was, faded friendship had transformed into near-outright loathing, especially since he couldn't say anything to her. There wasn't anything to say, was the problem; he just didn't like how her husband treated her, and he despised how she'd changed in response. Yeah, he had the right to his opinion, but that was it. And Jayne was hardly a shrinking violet. Stubborn as a herd of mules, certainly, but not one to do something she didn't want to do. Or so he'd always thought. It would be another five years before she finally told him the truth behind the changes he'd seen.
She gave him a matching sigh before meeting his eyes, hers full of frustrated resentment. "The same," she said tightly, her eyes narrowing. "He can't understand why I want to go back to doing something that's so much time and effort and hard work instead of 'enjoying being a lady of leisure'."
Sarcasm was dripping off her voice and Chris winced, reaching up to caress her cheek in commiseration — and because he wanted to touch her. She leaned into his hand with a soft smile, nuzzling his palm like a kitten, and a matching smile curved his lips. God, he loved her.
"He's a brat," he said with complete seriousness, his smile widening when she gave him an amused snort in response. "But he always has been. No, I think they got used to having our undivided attention and don't want that to change."
"Mmm."
He couldn't tell from her tone whether she agreed or not, but chose to continue anyway. Sooner or later, it had to be said, so he might as well get it done.
"Yeah. Well, frankly, that's too bad for them. I love DOI, but like hell I'm giving you up again, so they're just gonna have to grin and bear it."
"Well said," was her light reply, and he nudged his nose into her belly button in silent acknowledgement of her gentle, albeit understanding, sarcasm. She knew exactly what he meant and didn't disagree with him; she just wasn't as bitter as he was.
He wasn't sure if he envied that or not, sometimes.
"So what's really bothering you?"
Even for Jayne, this came out of the blue. Chris jolted in response, unable to censor his feelings, and his partner gave him a look of mingled satisfaction and regret. But she didn't apologize.
As ever, he gave in.
Reluctantly, he sat up and stretched, then moved to the other side of the sofa and tugged her into his arms, putting her back to his chest and wrapping himself around her, tucking his face into her neck and just breathing quietly for a minute.
"I finally figured out everything that happened when you . . . when you lost . . ." he began gently, tightening his hold when she tensed at his words. She made no effort to pull away, though, and he closed his eyes for a few seconds in gratitude that she was staying with him.
"What do you mean?" she asked. A miniscule tremor in her voice was the only indication of her nerves, and Chris was the only one who would have noticed it. Like the best friend he was, he made note of it but otherwise ignored it, and continued.
But it pissed him off, because their spouses' behavior had hurt Jayne a lot and he refused to allow that to continue. Not now that he finally knew the whole truth. Unfortunately, his resolve and his thwarted protectiveness overrode his compassion.
"I mean that little collusion Phil and Jill had to keep me away from you," he said bluntly, unable to stop himself, and cringing as the words left his mouth with the fear that she was about to bolt from his arms in response. After bitch-slapping him.
To his eternal relief (and a touch of surprise), she did neither.
This did not mean she took it well.
"What?!" was her shocked gasp, and he took a deep breath, tightening his embrace for an instant before easing off and then thinking hard for several seconds so as to determine the best way to continue.
"I — well, you were in hospital for a while," he began again, gently this time, and she nodded, her hands squeezing his at the memory. He hugged her reassuringly in response and kissed her hair before going on. "But that whole time, Phil never contacted me. He would only talk to Jill."
A sharp, indrawn breath was her response this time and her hands tightened again, this time painfully, her nails digging into his skin.
But she didn't say a word.
"Yeah," was all he said in answer, resting his chin on the top of her head for a quiet moment before continuing. "I knew that you weren't feeling well because you told me a couple of days earlier, and that was the last I heard for . . . until you got out of hospital, actually. Jill told me once that you were fine, and I didn't think anything about it until you called me. I know how you are when you get ill like that and I know how much you hate it when I 'hover', even over the phone, so I let it be until you were ready to reach out. That's why I knew that you hadn't told Jill, and when you were able to talk to me, you — it — I . . . well, you know," he finished in a near-whisper, shaken anew by the memory of her voice, trembling and thin as she told him what had happened, and why.
She pulled out of his arms and twisted, giving him a stunned look, underpinned with hurt, which faded to bitter resignation when she saw the truth in his eyes. Tears welled up in hers and she sniffled, crawling into his lap and burying her face in his shoulder.
"I thought I dreamed that," she whispered, shockingly loud against the choked silence of the room. "I was still so . . . so lost, trying to process everything, and you — I — but then Phil said . . ."
When she trailed off, he swallowed and looked down — and saw the cold light of understanding flare in her eyes.
"Phil said you couldn't come because of Jack," she said slowly, clearly, and he nodded, closing his eyes against the pain in hers, because he couldn't make it go away or even soothe it and he couldn't bear to see it.
"Yeah. That was Jill's excuse, too, though she was a lot more subtle about it," he said instead, unwilling to try pulling back his contempt. "The thing was, by then, Jack was doing 100% better. I mean, I couldn't stay with you for two or three months, of course, but it would have been fine for a few weeks."
They both fell silent for a while as Jayne processed this and Chris let her, once more recalling those terrifying days when he'd learned just how serious it was, how close he'd come to losing her.
"So how did you . . . discover . . . this?" she finally asked, her voice as smooth as glass. And as cold.
Chris shivered and gave a second's thought to feeling sorry for Phil. But just a second. And it did not go in the other man's favor.
"Well, I didn't realize until just before the Notts Gala. I just . . . I was thinking about it one day and suddenly realized that when I told Jill about . . . about the baby, after we talked, that she wasn't surprised. Not even a little bit," he said carefully, still upset with himself at taking so long to get a clue. But then, Jill was his wife. He'd trusted her.
Out of all of it, that might be what hurt the most.
He'd trusted her and she'd abused it and him just so she could stake her claim and prove that he was hers, not Jayne's. And in doing so, she'd stolen something that wasn't hers to take. Had his and Jayne's relationship not been so strong, she might well have damaged it irreparably.
In his darker moments, it occurred to him that this had been the goal.
This was a thought he didn't dwell on, because he simply couldn't bear to acknowledge it. But he knew that couldn't and wouldn't last, and that one day, he would have to face it and deal with it.
Just . . . not today.
Today was for him and Jayne, time for them to finally reconnect on that soul-deep level that they'd been missing for so long.
"Ah," his partner said, her voice full of understanding now, unaware of his dark tangent. "That's why you were so twitchy. And why you wouldn't talk to me. We didn't have time for . . . this . . ." she said to herself, absently gesturing at the room. "And then Phil came down and — oh."
A grim smile touched his lips, but only for a moment. It wasn't Jayne's fault and he refused to take it out on her.
"Yeah, 'oh'," he replied. "Once I realized that she already knew, it didn't take Einstein to figure out the rest. I knew you hadn't told her, so that left Phil. The problem — and yes, I was furious with him for keeping it from me, but I did understand why — is that she kept it from me, too. And then she kept me from you when you needed me and I needed to be with you."
He paused here and took a deep breath, exhorting himself to stay calm. She would understand his anger and his frustration, but he wasn't going to unload on her. The time for that had long since come and gone, and even if it hadn't, he wouldn't do that to Jayne. Not again.
"Chris . . ." she said slowly, taking his hand and twining their fingers.
"And I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive her for that."
They didn't speak for a long time after that, instead simply taking quiet solace in each other's embrace. Jayne didn't try to tell him that he needed to forgive her, because she knew how personally her partner took betrayal; she also knew that he and Jill hadn't really talked about this yet, because Chris had needed to speak with her first. And, quite frankly, he had a right to his anger.
For his part, Chris deliberately let his thoughts and observations about Phil and his role in things fade away; he'd given Jayne more than enough to think about and he knew from long experience that pushing it would be a monumental mistake. She might take forever, but she would draw her own conclusions and once she was ready, she'd reach out to him. He simply had to be patient.
Since this particular trait was not one of his strongest points, Chris knew he was in for an aggravating wait.
But for Jayne, he would.
Because as furious as he was with both of their spouses and as deeply as he loved and wanted Jayne, he didn't want her marriage to end on his account. And he didn't want to leave Jill. He still loved her, and their family meant the world to him. But the cracks in their relationship were deep and now that he'd finally talked some of it out, those revelations had forced him to see that those fissures might not be repairable. And he didn't know quite how he felt about that . . . though in a tiny corner of his mind, he had to wonder if he'd stay with Jill should Jayne leave her husband. Especially if she tried to force him to choose between her and Jayne.
Again.
Blinking furiously, he viciously shoved that question into a black hole and forced himself to forget he'd ever had that thought — even though he knew what his choice would be.
Instead, he let himself bask in the simple, undiluted joy of holding her, feeling their heartbeats find the same rhythm and their breathing fall into sync as well.
This. This was all he wanted. Just the chance to be with her.
When she broke the gentle silence, it was with a question about possibly arranging some new routines for the Australian show. Having already considered this — and having the knowledge of a second UK series, with all its potential — he shook his head and off they went, debating how to improve the skates they'd done so far and which group numbers might work for the Oz team. And when their words finally tapered off and the conversation came to its natural end, Chris swallowed a sigh and looked down, meeting her eyes and seeing the same regret and reluctance to leave that he felt. But she couldn't stay; they were due at the studio in the morning and couldn't risk being seen.
But that same dark desire he couldn't suppress whispered, Why not? No one knows we're here, or whose room this is. What harm would it do?
He viciously shoved this thought down as well, along with his regret, and gently eased his partner off his lap before standing himself. They both indulged in a long stretch, laughing at the loud string of crack-snap-pop that resulted, and Chris paused, once more drinking in Jayne's face. They were growing old, but even now, he wouldn't change it for the world. They were together again, skating and working and teaching, and they'd already agreed that no matter what, they would never again leave each other. They would hold each other's hands until the end of time and damn anyone who thought otherwise.
But she couldn't stay with him now, and with a deep sigh of regret, he walked her to the door, returning her fierce hug and leaning into the tender kiss she pressed to his cheek before stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind her.
He'd forgotten to take into account Jayne's feelings for him, and it never occurred to him that she was just as reluctant to leave. He was wallowing in mostly-unjustified pity when the knock came and his eyebrows rose as he padded to the door, fully expecting to see a small, lost child blinking up at him.
So it caught him by complete surprise when he saw Jayne blinking up at him instead, coat over her arm and suitcase in the other hand.
She gave his stunned face a saucy grin and put her hand on his chest, gently pushing him back so she could step into the room. Once there, she took a second look at his gobsmacked expression and broke down into a spate of giggles, dropping coat and suitcase so she could burrow herself into his arms again. That jarred him awake and he hugged her back, murmuring her name into her hair as he rejoiced in the knowledge that she was here, with him, because she wanted to be.
Again, no words were spoken as Jayne broke away and dug around in her suitcase until she found her nightwear and toiletries and headed off to get ready for bed. Ridiculously happy, Chris stared after her, still not quite able to believe that he was going to get to hold her tonight. They'd never done this before, not even that last night in Vancouver, despite badly wanting to, and it had nothing (well, alright, mostly nothing) to do with sex. Chris just wanted to have her in his arms, soothing him to sleep with the physical, tangible knowledge that she was with him, and she wanted the comfort and security of his arms.
And that was exactly what they were going to get.
Giddy from the prospect, he broke a record in getting ready for bed and climbed in next to her with only a little trepidation, settling on his back with a soft sigh. There wasn't any hesitation at all about the way she immediately cuddled up to him, stretching out on her side so she could rest her head in the hollow of his shoulder and tangle their fingers over his heart. They still didn't speak, because nothing needed to be said.
They simply . . . were.
And between one breath and the next, their hearts beating in perfect tandem, Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean found the peace and solace they'd been seeking all their lives.
Together.
Only . . . not completely.
Because Chris could not forget, even as she rested against his heart with complete trust in his honor, that Jayne was not truly his.
But she was here with him now, and he let himself enjoy the sweet part of this bittersweet gift.
The bitter would come soon enough.