Ye Olde Author's Note: I honestly have no idea where this one came from, but it was very insistent. And demanding. And a little difficult to work with at times. But it is finally finished, and so I bring it to you. Massive thanks to mscangel2 for her confidence and encouragement, and all the chocolate in the world for providing me with a detailed timeline of C&J's life. She was a lifesaver - and, more importantly, a plot-saver. And equally huge thanks to my long-suffering beta reader lawand_disorder, who did her usual stellar job and kept me honest and more-or-less in a straight line.
So: I present to you The Artistry of Falling in Love. I hope you enjoy it and please let me know what you think; I love hearing from you guys!
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: This is an RPF, which makes obvious references to real people, events, and situations. However, all references are made in a fictional context, are not intended to be libelous or defamatory, and any interpretation of real events is entirely imagined.
The Artistry of Falling in Love
If one were to ask Christopher Dean when he fell in love with Jayne Torvill — and if one were to get a truthful answer — that answer would have been January, 1983, when Jayne was so badly injured while they were preparing for Barnum.
This would have shocked not just the one asking, but probably the entire world, because 1) Chris was actually admitting he was in love with Jayne, 2) he was acknowledging that yes, it did go that far back, and 3) Barnum? Really?!
Fortunately, the one who stood the best chance of getting the truth possessed a well of patience that was second in their world of ice skating only to that of Jayne Torvill.
Because when Robin Cousins finally put the 5,217,891 piece jigsaw puzzle together thirty years after he got the first piece — after the infamous-for-so-many-reasons Piers Morgan interview (and after finally succumbing to his own insurmountable curiosity) — and garnered the nerve to ask that very question, this was the answer he got.
Needless to say, he didn't know what to do with it, because he remembered those three heady years where Torvill and Dean kept turning the world of ice dancing upside down, backwards, off its axis . . . whatever cliché one wanted to use. Suffice to say, Barnum was hardly what one could call 'romantic'. Nor did it possess anything that might remotely lead to romance.
So hearing that shocked him a whole hell of a lot.
Being Robin Cousins, his version of 'shocked' was contained in the polite inquiry of, "I'm sorry, say again?"
Being Christopher Dean, his answer was a shrug paired with a shy grin.
"No, seriously," Robin said after several minutes of silence followed that small bombshell. "Say again?"
And Chris, after a long moment of silent study to judge his friend's sincerity, bit his lip, gave it still more thought (because thirty years wasn't quiiiite enough time, you see), and then nodded. Finally, FINALLY, after three decades, he decided it was time.
And thus, people were finally able to see, to understand, how the artistry of Torvill and Dean was also the artistry of falling in love.
Let the truth be told.
January, 1983, Oberstdorf, Germany
Should anyone be asked to describe Christopher Dean in three words, 'intense' and 'demanding' would spring instantly to mind. The third descriptor was, by and large, 'perfectionist'. And all of these were absolutely correct, but for a very select circle of people, any of those three could be (and was) easily replaced with 'highly-strung'.
Such was the case today.
Due to what Chris kept quietly bitching under his breath as the stubborn determination of the ISU to hobble them, he and Jayne were being forced to change one of their well-established moves for Barnum and Chris was Not Happy about it. At all.
In contrast, Jayne was her usual calm, unflappable self, and bore his temper and frustration with the ease of years of practice (and while she agreed completely with him, she never actually said so; when he was in this mood, he did not want to be commiserated with and she refused to encourage his sulking).
Still, despite his annoyance, Chris also loved the challenge of coming up with something new, something better — and in a shockingly short amount of time at that. He was utterly in his element, and Jayne was right there with him. Their professional integrity had been challenged and that was something they took very, very personally.
And if they were both looking forward to seeing the judges' jaws drop in disbelief at the replacement move they'd finally created, well . . . hell, yes, they were.
So when The Fall happened, the shockwaves were considerably more far-reaching than anyone could have expected and the ripple effect would last for years.
When Jayne hit the ice in spite of Chris' desperate attempt to catch her, or at least prevent serious injury, even though he was flat on his stomach after his own fall, his heart stopped in sheer terror at what he'd done. It was his job to keep her safe and he'd failed — and when she didn't immediately attempt to get up, or even reassure him of her health, his panic spiked so hard that his vision actually went dark for a few seconds. Her moan of pain did not help matters and as he scrambled to his knees, almost hyperventilating as he ran tender, worried hands over her body, trying to figure out where she was hurt and how badly, he dimly realized that he was shaking.
Her second pained moan when he accidentally pressed down on her shoulder just made it worse and he yanked his hands away from her like he'd been burned, even as she nuzzled her face into his thigh. It was a tiny show of trust, but in the wake of his guilt, it actually made his heart break.
"Jayne?" he whispered, bending down to see her face, though he wasn't sure if he wanted her eyes to be open or closed. Open would surely reveal her anger and disappointment with him, but closed would mean she was hurt worse than he thought.
Being Jayne, she solved his dilemma by blinking as he found her gaze. Her normally bright, vivacious blue eyes were clouded with pain and confusion, though the latter cleared somewhat when she saw him and her lips curved in a tiny smile that made him feel a thousand times worse.
He'd dropped her and she was smiling at him!
"Hey," she whispered, wincing when she reflexively moved her shoulder and spurring him to put a hand on her hip, keeping her from moving again. "You okay?"
The bitter taste of failure and guilt filled his mouth at her gentle question and he looked away, blinking back tears that he didn't know were there and failing miserably because Jayne chose that moment to rub his thigh comfortingly.
She was comforting him, after he'd dropped her and hurt her.
The only thing that kept him from being sick was the knowledge that she needed him to step up and take care of her now.
The girl who'd been watching them, a friend of Jayne's, had vanished — presumably to get help — but his protective instincts were in full overload mode and like hell he was going to let anyone else touch her. So he dropped his head and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead before softly saying, "Yeah, I'm good. Will you be okay if I lift you up?"
She gave this a moment's thought before nodding, lower lip caught in her teeth, and he sighed quietly in response, one full of mingled relief and worry. He knew it would hurt when he moved her, but he couldn't leave her crumpled on the ice. So he took a deep breath and shoved his feelings into a box, steeled himself against what he knew was about to happen, and eased his arms around her. Never in the history of lifting had anyone been picked up as carefully and securely as Jayne was as that moment, and he wouldn't have lost his footing even if a bomb had gone off beneath his feet.
Incongruously, despite her obvious pain, her decision to get up allowed him to maintain the delusion that it wasn't that bad a fall, all things told, and everything would be better once he got her on her feet and the adrenaline had a chance to fade.
He could occasionally be very stupid.
The first step she tried to take would have had her face-planting on the ice, but his body was so well-conditioned to protect hers that without thought, he flung himself in front of her to break her fall. And while she stayed upright, albeit leaning heavily against him, her gasp of pain made his fear and guilt spike yet again, and her face went a worrying greenish color as she swayed in place.
"Okay?" he rasped, cursing himself for being a moron even as he asked that moronic question and swallowing down bile as he watched her try desperately to ignore the pain. Like him, she much preferred to work on the assumption that it wasn't as bad as it looked and/or felt; this was a trait he deeply appreciated, but seeing it now made him love her and hate himself in near-equal measure, and for the same reason. She gave him a hesitant nod in response, but on her second step, her leg buckled and she whimpered, her fingers tightening on his arm so hard her nails broke the skin. He gladly welcomed the pain; if he could, he would take every single bit of her agony into himself and the only thing that kept him from simply gathering her into a carry and skating to the barrier was the knowledge that her shoulder was hurt and there was no way to lift or hold her without putting pressure on that area.
Five endless, excruciatingly painful minutes later, accompanied by the hoarse declaration that her leg was going numb, Chris finally got Jayne off the ice and settled her so carefully in a chair, she didn't actually notice she was sitting down at first, which should have made him smile. But she hurt too badly to tease him and he watched in guilt-soaked awe as she simply let herself rest against his solid frame, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't let her fall.
Again.
Another wave of shame and remorse rose at the reminder but he shoved it away for the moment and gently began stroking her hair, saying nothing as she fought down an obvious moan of pain.
Then she looked up at him, those brilliant blue eyes gone grey with agony, and whispered, "I feel sick, Chris."
His heart stopped, because that phrase was not in Jayne's vocabulary, and it was several seconds before he could find his voice.
"Do you need a bin?" he whispered in reply, bending as close as he could so she didn't have to exert any effort to see him.
There was a worryingly long pause while she considered this, and she did not move her head as she told him 'no', which actually concerned him even more. But since there wasn't a single damn thing he could do, he simply sat there, holding her as carefully as he could, and waited until her face had returned to its normal color before asking if she thought she'd be able to keep practicing.
Sometimes, he could be incredibly stupid several times in a row.
He'd have felt worse about asking if she hadn't actually given it some thought before very carefully shaking her head. Then guilt and frustration came to her face and he wanted to punch himself in the throat.
"No," she almost whispered. "I'm sorry, Chris, but I can't carry on. I can't feel my leg a—"
"No, of course not," he interrupted, squeezing the hand he still held and giving her a soft smile, one that held despite his trembling lips. She returned it and they just sat there for a while, him with a patience that would have astounded everyone who knew him as he waited until she felt like moving and losing the battle to keep his guilt from eating him from the inside out.
"I'm — I'd like to go to my room," she suddenly said, startling him out of his increasingly maudlin thoughts, and he swallowed, looking down at her.
"All right. Do you . . . can you walk or shall I carry you?" he asked quietly, brushing tender fingers down her cheek, and she bit her upper lip, her forehead wrinkling adorably in consideration.
"Let me walk," she decided. He bit down his instinctive protest and got up; he was just about to give her a hand up when he saw their skates and had to physically stop himself from slapping his own forehead. Without a word, he dropped to his knees and worked her boots off, then his own, and absently slung them over his shoulder as he stood back up. Jayne gave him a look he couldn't decipher, but before he could ask, she smiled so fondly that his heart swelled with affection and held out her hand. He caught it like he always did, as easily and naturally as breathing, and gently helped her to her feet.
She gave a brave attempt, his Jayne, but five steps in, she crumpled into him, unable to stifle an agonized moan, and he cursed viciously under his breath as he eased them both to the wall and let her rest against it for a minute while he figured out the best way to both pick her up and carry her. No matter what either of them did, it was going to hurt her, so he finally decided that a bridal carry was the best choice: it would give her the most stability, him the most freedom of movement, and was also the fastest option for getting her to her room.
He gave her another minute of slow, deep breathing before skimming his fingers across her right wrist to get her attention and feeling a rush of affection when she instantly looked up, her eyes that mix of curious and expectant that he always saw when they started training.
"Ready?" he asked quietly, amusement fading when her face clouded with pain as she shifted her shoulder. Guilt rose again, but it was swamped with another wave of adoration when she rested her forehead against the side of his neck, her hot breath making him shiver for some reason.
"Yeah," she finally murmured without moving her head . . . but she cautiously twisted her hips to make sure he could get his hands where they needed to be. They both bit their lips until they bled as he lifted her, but not once did she let out any sound of pain, and behind his near-obsessive determination not to hurt her more than could be avoided, he knew she was holding back for his sake. In that moment, he loved her so much, it ached.
Once she was situated, with her left shoulder braced snugly against his chest and her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder, he headed for her room as quickly as he could without jostling her. And through it all, she never made a single noise of pain or complaint, and she never shifted, trying to find a better — or at least more comfortable — position.
Until out of nowhere, about halfway there, she started to cry on the end of a deep breath.
He almost stopped out of sheer shock, but the need to get her someplace he could properly look after her kept him going and if he sped up a bit, well, yes. He wasn't quite running, but he'd never jogged so smoothly in his life.
His partner was in so much pain — because of him — that she was actually crying in his arms and h—
Wait.
She was crying.
Jayne Torvill was crying.
In front of him.
The woman who came to training with the flu once because she didn't want him to know she was sick. The woman who worked an 8-hour day, met him on the rink at stupid o'clock at night to practice for three or four hours, and went right back to another 8-hour day, so exhausted she couldn't see straight but never uttering a word of censure or complaint. The woman who refused to even consider another partner while they suffered through the insanity that was his time at the police academy. The woman who would have been back on the ice two days after getting tendonitis, only she was smarter than he was and let her body heal completely before putting it through the wringer again, in spite of his less-than-stellar attitude about the delay.
That woman was crying in his arms without fear or embarrassment . . . because she knew she was safe with him.
Despite his best effort, his stride hitched as he looked down, eyes wide with shock as they met hers . . . which were full of pain and fear and gratitude and something else, something he couldn't identify.
And trust. Dear Lord, the overwhelming belief and confidence in her eyes almost knocked him over.
Because when he saw, really saw, for the first time, just how much and how deeply she trusted him, Christopher Dean had only one thought.
I'm in love with this woman.