Chapter 18 Christmas
EIGHTEEN
CHRISTMAS
ART
Pale winter light crept through the skylight, turning frost patterns into silver lace against glass.
Christmas morning. First conscious thought, followed immediately by the second: Tom was in my bed.
Actually in my bed. Warm and solid and real, one arm thrown across my waist, face pressed into my shoulder, breathing deep and even in sleep. Real. This was real. Last night had happened, and the evidence was currently using me as a pillow and radiating heat like a furnace.
My brain, unhelpful as always, immediately spiraled into panic.
What had we done? What did this mean? Was this just Christmas Eve madness, two lonely men seeking comfort in the dark? Would he wake up and regret everything, realize he'd made a catastrophic mistake with someone odd and difficult and fundamentally wrong?
My hands found the edge of the blanket, fingers working the fabric in rapid repetition.
Stim. Ground. Breathe. Except breathing was difficult when Tom's weight across my chest was both anchor and cage, when the scent of him was everywhere, when evidence of last night was written on my skin in marks I could feel but not see.
Stop thinking. Just stop.
But my brain never stopped. That was the problem. That was always the problem. Couldn't just exist in a moment without analyzing it to death, without finding every possible way it could go wrong, without cataloguing the dangers.
And this was so dangerous.
If anyone found out. If Finch suspected. If someone had seen us leaving together, or noticed Tom never returned to his billet, or put together the pieces that we'd both been missing from breakfast yesterday and now were here, together, obviously having—
Tom stirred. Made a sleepy sound and tightened his arm around my waist, pulling me closer without waking. Unconscious gesture. Instinctive. Like even in sleep he wanted me near.
My throat tightened. When had anyone ever wanted me near? When had I been the person someone reached for instead of the person everyone gave space?
Don't cry. Do not cry. That's ridiculous.
Cried anyway. Quiet tears tracking down my temples into my hair, which was probably a mess, which I probably looked terrible, which Tom would see when he woke up and realize what a mistake this was.
“Art?”
His voice, rough with sleep, uncertain. One eye opened, blue-grey and focusing slowly. “You alright?”
“Fine. Yes. Fine.” My voice came out strangled. Not fine at all.
He propped himself up on one elbow, concern replacing sleepiness. “You're crying.”
“I'm not.”
“You are. I can see tears.” His free hand came up, thumb brushing under my eye. “What's wrong? Did I. Did we. Do you regret—”
“No!” Too loud. Too vehement. “No. I don't regret. I just. I don't know what this means. What we are now. If you're going to wake up properly and realize this was a mistake and I'm just. I'm spiraling. Ignore me. I'm being ridiculous.”
“Hey.” Soft now. He shifted until he was fully looking at me, face serious. “Look at me. Really look.”
I forced myself to meet his eyes, despite how vulnerable it felt, despite the urge to look away.
“We're still here,” he said quietly. “That's something.
We're both alive, both together, both choosing this even knowing how dangerous it is.” His thumb traced my cheekbone.
“And I don't regret a single second of last night.
Not one. Even if this is all we get. Even if it's impossible.
I wanted you then and I want you now and that hasn't changed just because the sun came up.”
“But what if—”
“No what ifs. Not this morning.” He leaned down, kissed my forehead gently. “This morning we get to just be. Two men who spent Christmas Eve together. Two men who are going to get up, get dressed, and pretend to be normal while secretly knowing we're anything but.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled. “That's a terrible plan.”
“You got a better one?”
“Not remotely.”
“Then we'll make do.” He started to pull away, and my hand shot out, grabbing his wrist.
“Wait. Just. One more minute. Please.”
His expression softened impossibly further. “Yeah. Alright. One more minute.”
He settled back down, and I tucked myself against his side, memorizing the feel of him. The way his chest rose and fell. The steady beat of his heart under my palm. The particular combination of warmth and solidity and safety that I'd never associated with another human being before.
One more minute turned into five, then ten, neither of us willing to break the spell. But eventually, inevitably, the real world intruded in the form of church bells ringing across the grounds.
Christmas morning service. Which we'd both be expected to attend, or at least show faces at breakfast.
“We should move,” Tom said, not moving.
“Yes. Absolutely. Any moment now.”
“Art.”
“Mm?”
“You snore.”
I pulled back to stare at him. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do. Gentle snoring. Like a kitten with a head cold.”
“That's. That's the most insulting thing anyone's ever said to me.”
“Really? That's the worst? Not all the times people called you odd or difficult or too much?”
“Those were accurate. This is slander.” I poked his chest. “Also, you talk in your sleep.”
“I do not.”
“You do. Kept muttering about coordinates and firing solutions. Very romantic.”
“Liar.”
“I never lie. I'm terrible at it. You know this.”
He caught my hand, threaded his fingers through mine. “Your elbows are bony. They're like weapons. I've been stabbed repeatedly.”
“Your feet are freezing. Like blocks of ice. I thought I was sharing a bed with a corpse.”
“You hog blankets.”
“You radiate heat like a furnace. I was overheating.”
We were both grinning now, stupid and bright, and the panic from earlier had eased into something manageable. This. This I could do. Banter and touch and the growing certainty that he wasn't going to run.
That maybe we really were allowed to have this.
A sharp knock on my door made us both freeze.
“Art!” Noor's voice, muffled but distinct. “You alive in there? It's Christmas breakfast and Finch is making speeches about seasonal goodwill. You're missing a historic moment of him pretending to be human.”
Tom and I stared at each other, both suddenly very aware of how this looked. Him in my bed. Me obviously disheveled. Both of us barely dressed.
“One moment!” I called back, voice strangled.
“You sound weird. You alright?”
“Fine! Just. Give me five minutes!”
Her footsteps retreated, and we both exhaled.
“That was close,” Tom muttered.
“Too close.” I was already scrambling out of bed, grabbing clothes at random. “We need to. You need to leave. Separately. Different times. Can't be seen together.”
“Art. Breathe.” He stood, started pulling on his own clothes with frustrating calm. “We'll handle it. You go first, I'll wait ten minutes and use the back stairs. No one will know.”
“Everyone will know. They'll take one look at my face and know exactly what happened.”
“Then don't look guilty. Just look tired. It's Christmas morning. Everyone's tired.”
“I'm terrible at lying.”
“You're also terrible at hiding emotions, so try to think about something boring. Wehrmacht logistics. Laundry. Anything but last night.”
Too late. Already thinking about last night. About his hands and his mouth and the sounds he'd made and—
“Art. Focus.”
Right. Focus. Christmas breakfast. Act normal. Pretend nothing had changed even though everything had changed.
I finished dressing in a chaotic rush, barely managing to button my shirt properly. My hair was a disaster. My tie refused to cooperate. My hands were shaking too badly to manage the knot.
Tom stepped in, gently pushed my hands away, and tied it himself. “There. Presentable.”
“Thank you.”
“Hey.” He caught my chin, made me look at him. “We're going to be fine. Just breathe. Be your usual brilliant, odd self. And maybe try not to stare at me across the room like I hung the moon.”
“I'll try. No promises.”
He kissed me then, quick and soft, and I melted into it despite the danger, despite everything. When he pulled back, he was smiling.
“Merry Christmas, Art.”
“Merry Christmas.”
Canteen was already packed when I slipped in, trying to look casual and probably failing spectacularly.
Someone had made an effort at decorating.
More paper chains, a sad attempt at a Christmas tree made from wire and decorated with folded paper ornaments, and actual food that didn't look like punishment.
Scrambled eggs. Sausages. Fresh bread. Luxuries that suggested someone had called in favors or raided special stores.
Everyone was there, packed around tables, voices layered in forced festive cheer.
Peter was already three drinks into whatever he'd spiked his breakfast with, telling increasingly elaborate stories to anyone who'd listen.
Ruth sat with other cryptanalysts, looking tired but content.
Noor waved at me from across the room, grinning knowingly.
And there, leaning against the wall in his usual spot, was Tom.
Our eyes met. Held.
Something hot and bright flared in my chest. He was here. Real. Not a dream or hallucination or Christmas miracle I'd imagined. Actually here, actually mine, actually looking at me with soft eyes that said he remembered last night and didn't regret it.
I had to look away before I did something stupid like cross the room and kiss him in front of everyone.
Found an empty seat near Ruth instead, slid in, tried to look normal.
“You look different,” Ruth observed immediately.
My heart stopped. “What?”
“I don't know. Less haunted than usual. Did you actually sleep last night?”
“Some. Yes. Slept.” True, technically. Eventually. After.
“Good. You needed it.” She turned back to her breakfast, apparently satisfied.
Across the room, Finch stood and cleared his throat. Conversations died reluctantly.