Archive of Our Own

"Wait," said Nicholas, too loudly, his voice ringing in his own ears. "Back up a moment. You just said you've never been to—really?" Under any other circumstances, he wouldn't have been surprised, but after three lagers and one cider, he bloody well had the right.

"Nope," Danny said cheerfully. "Although Mum and Dad went there once for the weekend. I think there was some play on. Panto, I reckon."

"Once," echoed Nicholas, dazedly. "For the weekend."

"Yeah," Danny sighed. "I mean, technically, I guess I was there. Mum was up the duff."

"I'm not sure that counts," Nicholas said, frowning at Danny's face, which was still far too cheerful in light of the unthinkable circumstance to which he'd admitted. "You can't experience London in the womb."

"Bet I could hear the traffic," Danny said, swigging more beer. "They say you can hear shit. In the womb, I mean. Probably heard the panto, too."

Which would explain a few things, Nicholas thought. He still couldn't wrap his mind around the full implications of this tragedy.

He'd have to do something about it.

"Hey, what d'you look so sad for?" Danny asked, leaning over till his head rested on Nicholas's shoulder. "I thought maybe we'd cured you."

Nicholas blinked, having briefly fallen under the spell of those liquid brown eyes. "Of?"

"London," said Danny, snuggling up closer. "Good riddance, eh?"

"But you've never been there," Nicholas said. "How do you get through life in this country without having been to London?"

"Same way you get through it not having been to Hull. C'mon. Bed. I'm knackered."

Nicholas shook his head, flabbergasted. "How can you sleep, for that matter?"

Danny frowned at him. "Just how drunk are you?"

"Sufficiently," Nicholas said, removing the beer bottle from Danny's hand. "As are you, or you'd never have told me that. Weren't we going to bed?"

"Yes?" said Danny, hopefully.

There, with the eyes again. It was unfair. Nicholas wanted to kiss him. He was having a hard time remembering what the last time had been like, but he was sure there had been a last time. Like the going-to-bed thing. There had been that, too. Recently. He wanted—

Bless Danny, but he was already there, so Nicholas kissed him right back.

He'd do something about London in the morning.

"I was thinking," said Danny, while Nicholas poached eggs and made toast, "that we ought to do something special, what with the holidays coming."

Nicholas nodded, trying to ignore the way his head pounded when he did.

"We never really went anywhere for Christmas," Danny said. "Too many relatives 'round here."

"We could go somewhere," said Nicholas, slowly. The previous night's conversation was coming back to him. "If you wanted."

"They say Barcelona's lovely this time of year. Fewer tourists than usual."

Nicholas fished the eggs out of the pot and plopped them unceremoniously on a plate.

"I was thinking more along the lines of somewhere closer to home. It'd be less of a hassle."

"What," Danny said, grinning. "Like Buford Abbey? They do have that nice hotel with a pool."

"No, um," Nicholas said, carefully extracting the toast with a fork, which one was not supposed to do under any circumstances except when suffering from an acute hangover. "I was thinking more like...London." There. He'd said it. Time to make a hasty retreat and find the jam.

"London?" Danny asked, mystified. "What's London got to do with Christmas?"

Nicholas turned from the refrigerator, feeling mildly hurt.

"I rather like London at Christmas. And so did your parents, from the sound of it?"

"Oh, huh," Danny said. "Guess it must've been Christmas, what with the panto."

"Precisely," Nicholas said, finally locating the damson preserves. "We could go see one, if you like."

"Nah. Can't stand it. But I do fancy shopping. I bet you can get loads of PS2 games down there that none of the shops in Buford Abbey have got!"

"I'll start looking for hotels," said Nicholas, and served them breakfast.

So it was true, then, what you'd actually do for somebody who, as it turned out, you loved more than life itself.

In Nicholas's experience, it wasn't so much that the best-laid plans inevitably got wrecked by ironic twists of fate. It was more that they got warped beyond all belief by the most hellish, unexpected machinations known to man—which didn't always involve being knifed or shot at, but.

"Hi, Mum," Nicholas said, surreptitiously closing his office door. "You do know I'm on duty?"

"Of course I do," she said. "I'm surprised you've left your mobile on."

"Well," Nicholas said, shaking his head at Danny, who'd caught his eye through the glass partition.

It's nothing, he mouthed, which of course meant that Danny rose from his desk and walked up to the window with interest.

"You never know when an emergency might come up and somebody will dial your personal number instead."

"It's not as if you've given it to the whole town," said his mother. "Is it?"

"Let's not get into that," Nicholas said, grimacing.

Cartwright and Wainwright had come up on either side of Danny and were making faces at him through the glass.

"Imagine that. You're human after all."

"My humanity is not the issue," Nicholas said. "Why are you calling me while I'm on duty?"

"I thought I'd say hello," his mother said. "We haven't talked since your friend got out of hospital."

"I suppose not," Nicholas said, squeezing his eyes shut. Cartwright and Wainwright had decided that taping up rude messages would be a more effective mode of annoyance, and they had been right. Danny had joined in and taped up a cartoon involving anthropomorphic Cornettos.

"And Christmas is coming up. What do you want this year?"

"The same thing I want every year," Nicholas said. "For you to save your money and do something worthwhile with it, like take Aunt Isobel on that Mediterranean cruise you two have been discussing ever since I was about fourteen."

"She's afraid of boats, dear," his mother sighed. "Nicholas, honestly. What do you want?"

Some peace and quiet, he thought, turning his back on YOU GREAT SLACKING ARSE and MASSIVE WANKER.

Danny tapped on the glass in protest.

"A card would do," Nicholas said. "Really, Mum. Don't trouble yourself."

"As for what I want, a visit from you would do."

Nicholas opened his mouth, then shut it again. "When?"

"Come for Christmas," she said. "Isobel will be terrorizing your cousin and her husband, so I had best steer clear. They've got a baby on the way."

"No," Nicholas said, the far-off vision of showing Danny around his old haunts growing ever more distant. "I hadn't heard. As for Christmas—"

Another tap on the glass, this time impatient. Nicholas turned around.

Again with the eyes. At least the Andys had lost interest.

"You...?" his mother prompted. "Hello?"

"Have plans," said Nicholas, weakly. "With Danny."

"Bring him along. I haven't met any of your new friends yet. It's a downright shame."

"We were planning on spending the hols in London, actually," Nicholas admitted. "He's never been."

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line. "Really?"

"Yes, really," said Nicholas, hastily. "So, obviously, I've got to take him and show him around."

"You'll never get accommodation at this late stage," his mother cautioned. "Everything will be booked up."

"I'm sure I'll be able to find something," said Nicholas, confidently, gesturing for Danny to pull down the pieces of paper and get back to work.

Danny's puppy-dog eyes just got wider.

"Stay here," she said. "With me. Reading's not so far out. You could take the train in."

Nicholas bit his tongue. "Listen, I really don't—"

"Bring Danny. Show him London. For crying out loud, I don't care what you do on New Year's, but spend Christmas with your mother!"

"All right," Nicholas said. Danny stood there smiling innocently, the offending papers gone.

"There's a good boy," his mother said. "Bring me a nice bottle of port while you're at it. And maybe some new gardening shears."

Nicholas had hoped he wouldn't have to look at another pair for a very, very long while.

Danny tended to bring up events from earlier in the day at the most awkward of times.

"So who was that on the phone, then?" he asked, tonguing Nicholas's navel. His fingertips were busy at the backs of Nicholas's thighs.

Nicholas tried to remember what a phone was. "You mean—er—earlier?"

Danny rolled his eyes and lowered his head again, this time kissing Nicholas's hipbone. "No, last night while you were out buying milk for tea! Yes, earlier. With the signs taped to your window and the like. I thought the Cornettos turned out pretty well myself."

"Yes," agreed Nicholas, hazily, as Danny's palm skimmed the underside of his cock.

"Good. Now, who was it?" Danny gave him a gentle, teasing squeeze.

"Oh, for God's sa—aaah. It was Mu—um. My mother."

Danny blinked, as if it hadn't occurred to him that somebody had brought Nicholas into the world.

"Oh," he said cheerfully, settling down beside Nicholas while his hand settled into the firm, even strokes that would pretty much guarantee complete loss of capacity for thought, much less for verbal communication. "What did she want?"

With considerable effort, Nicholas leaned up and kissed him, hard, at which point Danny got the message and kissed him back until wanking Nicholas got to be too much of a chore and what they both really wanted anyway involved Nicholas wrapping himself around Danny and hanging on for dear life. And more kissing, of course. Under no circumstances must the kissing stop.

They lay in silence for a while, Danny happily mopping at them with the loo roll they kept on the bedside table, and Nicholas too boneless to move.

"Well?" he asked, tossing the whole lot at the bin, missing by a mile.

Nicholas tugged him back down against the pillow. The kissing had stopped. Not good.

"She wants us to spend Christmas with her in Reading," he admitted, terrified.

Danny shrugged and kissed him on the chin. "That's close to London, innit?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"We could stay with her and take the train in. It'd be loads cheaper."

"Yes," agreed Nicholas, weakly. Had they plotted this behind his back?

Danny's expression changed, the light slowly dawning.

"She doesn't know, does she?"

"No," Nicholas said with a grimace. "Not that she'd care, and not that I'd care even if she did, but it'll be..." He pressed his lips to Danny's shoulder.

"Awkward," Danny said. "Yeah, I get it. Dad about broke the Plexiglas thing when I told him."

It was Nicholas's turn to pause. "You told him? When?"

"Last time I went without you. When'd you think?"

"Please forgive me," Nicholas said. "I don't deserve to be here right now."

"Oh, switch off," Danny said, nuzzling Nicholas's hair as he yawned. "We'll go to Reading."

"And London," said Nicholas, determined, but Danny was already asleep.

"You're going to meet his mum?" said Doris, loudly enough for the whole pub to hear. "Danny, that's ace. Next round's on me!"

"Sunbleevable," Walker said under his breath, and then grinned at Nicholas. "Sweetough."

"Certainly is," said Mrs. Fisher. "Now, you've got to get her something nice. Livin' just outside of London, Mrs. Angel will be one fashionable lady."

Nicholas took a sullen sip of his cranberry juice. "She likes tartan. And gardening shears."

"Like mother, like son," Wainwright said, elbowing Nicholas. "Mistress Fairy, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?"

"Her name's Jocelyn," Nicholas said, ignoring the wise-crack. "And it grows very well, thank you."

"Better'n Dad's raspberries?" asked Cartwright, surreptitiously. Wainwright snickered.

"Kindly shut the fuck up," Danny told him. "Nicholas says she wants a new pair of gardening shears and some nice port, so—"

"S'nogoodgettinose'ere," chimed in Walker. "Allgonewi'thshop."

Saxon barked knowingly.

"Hmmm, excellent point," said Danny, turning to Nicholas with a concerned look.

Tony Fisher gave them a sage nod. "You'd best look out of town. Bad memories and all that."

"Buford Abbey," Nicholas muttered into his glass. He'd need a top-up before the night was out.

"I do love a nice shopping trip," said Doris, waving to the bartender. "Another round over 'ere!"

"Who drinks port, anyway?" Danny asked, peering up at the top shelf with puzzlement. "There's so many different kinds. Any particular year?"

"The older, the better," Nicholas said.

"How old we talking?" Danny reached for the Quinta do Noval '97. "A decade? More?"

"That would do it," Nicholas said, somewhat relieved at Danny's choice. "Another decade back and we'd be tripling the price."

"Yeah, I'll say," Danny said. "This shit's thirty quid! For that much, they'd better put on a big floofy red bow. With one of them little dangly cards."

Nicholas grinned at him. "This is Oddbins, not Harrod's. We'll have to get the bow ourselves."

"Right, then," said Danny, heading for the till. "Next stop, card shop."

"And the gardening center," Nicholas reminded him, snatching a bottle of 2002 Mosel riesling as an afterthought.

He didn't care much for port, but he had the feeling he'd want to get trashed.

After they'd made their connecting train in Chester—just barely—Danny slept almost the whole way to King's Cross. They'd have to catch another train at Paddington in order to get to Reading. If Nicholas's calculations were correct, they'd make it by late evening.

"Your mum's picking us up at the station?" Danny asked, dashing to catch up with Nicholas at the turnstiles that would usher him into his first trip on the tube. "Also, how the fuck does this thing work? It won't take my ticket!" Nicholas reached across the barrier and turned it around for him.

The machine sucked it through and let Danny pass. He turned around and glared at it suspiciously as the mechanical gate closed.

"I bet they didn't have those when Mum and Dad were here," he said.

"No," Nicholas said, urging him along so that the sea of frustrated travelers wouldn't trample him. "They were different when I was a kid. Less...complicated than they are now."

"That," Danny said, "is a weird thought."

"What is?" Nicholas asked, yanking Danny down a step on the escalator.

The woman behind him had made at least a few annoyed faces, and Nicholas wanted to punch her.

"You," Danny said, shrugging. "A kid. When I was here last, I mean. In the womb."

"Would you please not remind me what a cradle-robber I am? Thank you."

Danny chortled. "Nicholas Angel, Corruptor of Innocents!"

Needless to say, the transfer to Paddington Station had never taken so long. They just barely managed to dash onto the train that Nicholas had staked out the night before via the National Rail timetables. They collapsed into their seats, breathless and laughing.

For Danny, trains seemed to mean sleep, which Nicholas didn't mind—especially since it meant that Danny's head was perpetually on his shoulder. Even on the first night it had ever happened, what with the rude awakening to a call regarding Sandford's worst house fire in fifty years, it had given Nicholas the uncanny sense that all was right with the world. And nothing had ever been right with the world, as far as he'd been concerned.

His world-view, he realized, had been altered considerably—and for the better.

When the train pulled into Reading Station at 9:32 PM, Jocelyn Angel was waiting.

"Nicholas, you look a right mess," she said, opening her arms to her son. The hug was awkward, what with all the bags slung over Nicholas's shoulders. "Let me see you. Skinny!" she said disapprovingly. "Danny, wouldn't you say he's lost weight?"

"Um?" Danny responded, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. "He looks...fine?"

"Well, you may be right," she said, reaching for Danny next. "Hello, Sergeant Butterman. I've heard so much about you." She folded him in her arms and kissed his cheek. "Now, you can call me Jo. Do you mind if I call you Danny?"

"No," said Danny, flashing her a tired grin. "Seeing as you already have."

"You must be exhausted," Jo said, ushering them to the curb. "Into the car with you. How long have you been traveling? Since early morning?"

"Yes," said Nicholas, flatly, dumping their luggage in the boot. "Since at least six."

"Well, your old room's all made up," said his mother, divesting Danny of his shoulder bag (which wasn't too heavy, at Nicholas's insistence). "I'm awfully sorry, but one of you has got the air mattress on the floor. I've only got the one spare room, you see."

Nicholas and Danny exchanged looks as they settled into the back seat, but said nothing.

The house was just as Nicholas had left it: terraced and subtly crumbling, with his father's last paint-job still clinging in curls and splinters to the front door. It was cozy inside, and in remarkably good repair. His mother had recently had the wallpaper redone, and the light fixtures were not the ones that Nicholas remembered from his last visit nearly two years ago.

She'd clearly been to B&Q and had Mr. Tuttle from next door help her with the installation. While Nicholas dealt with hanging their coats on the pegs in the hall, Jo was busy explaining their entire family history to Danny—Nicholas's deadbeat uncle included.

"Yeah, I knew about that," Danny said, fingering the frame of the photograph. "It's one of the first stories Nicholas ever told me, actually."

Jo turned to Nicholas, alarmed. "Just what kind of first impression did you make?"

Before Nicholas could shush him, Danny said cheerfully, "We thought he was kind of an arse."

"Oh," she said with a bright smile, looking much relieved. "So does everybody."

"I'll put the kettle on," said Nicholas, his cheeks burning, and made straight for the kitchen.

Danny wasn't far behind him, though, and even managed to catch hold of his hand.

"Look, I'm sorry," he said in a low voice. "It's just that, you know, I like her. Your mum, I mean."

"That's the problem," Nicholas said, flipping the light switch. "I rather thought you would."

They spent the next hour and a half quietly sipping Irish Breakfast around the small kitchen table, listening to Jo's plans for the back garden as soon as spring set in. She offered Danny another biscuit, at which point it became clear that Danny could scarcely keep his eyes open.

"You poor dear," she said. "Why don't you head on up to bed? It's been ages since I had a chat with my boy, besides. I won't keep him long."

"'Kay," said Danny, rising with a yawn. He clapped Nicholas on the shoulder as he went out.

Once Danny had gone, the silence between Nicholas and his mother was deafening.

"He's a very nice young man," Jo finally said, helping herself to a bit of shortbread. "How on earth did you manage not to scare him off?"

"Actually, I tried to," Nicholas said, unable to stifle the laugh that bubbled up unexpectedly in his throat. "He wouldn't leave me alone. And then Inspector Butterman made him my partner, and I thought I was done for. Er. That is, the former Inspector Butterman. He's locked up now."

"I saw it all on the telly," Jo muttered darkly. "I could hardly get you on the phone. You were always in hospital, checking up on Danny. I'd begun to wonder if you were hurt worse than you'd let on. But then I realized it was a lot simpler than that. Still, I worry when you're in love."

Nicholas tilted his head, frowning at her. "Mum, why?"

"Jeanine knows as well as I do," said Jo, and left it at that. Her kiss on Nicholas's forehead was warm and dry, but in that instant he was a child again, and, like with Danny's head on his shoulder, all was well. Mostly. He wanted to tell his mother that it was different this time.

"Good night, Mum," he said instead, and sat at the table until her footsteps faded into nothingness.

Fitting two people into Nicholas's old bed was something of a chore, but Danny claimed that the air mattress leaked under his weight alone, much less under both of them. And so, Nicholas spent the night on his side, cramped up close to the wall, with Danny wrapped snugly around him.

It made a chore of getting up to go to the loo at three in the morning. Danny slept through it.

Eight o'clock found Nicholas half awake and desperately hard, because Danny's hand had drifted teasingly close to his groin at some point in the early hours. Danny, although far groggier than Nicholas, caught on to this fact pretty quickly and, without asking Nicholas's thoughts on the matter, slipped his hand inside Nicholas's pyjama bottoms and had him coming in minutes. Nicholas retaliated with a scrupulously tidy blow-job, which got him a weak swat up the side of the head. Danny told him between kisses that he was being paranoid, and was asleep within seconds.

Nicholas balled up his pyjama bottoms and put on the only spare pair he'd thought to bring. With any luck, he'd be able to spirit the damp pair down to the kitchen and toss it into the washing machine without his mother noticing. No such luck. She was already awake, frying bacon.

"I hope Danny likes a nice, traditional breakfast," she said, ignoring the pyjama bottoms in Nicholas's hand. "Washing powder's under the sink."

"Thanks," Nicholas mumbled. Humiliation, he supposed, was inevitable.

Danny spent breakfast chattering about life in Sandford, all too happy to answer Jo's copious questions. Nicholas spent most of the time with his mouth full, nodding or shaking his head whenever Danny deferred to him—which was altogether too often.

"Where are your manners?" Jo finally asked him, her tone scathing.

Nicholas swallowed. "I'm hungry, Mum," he snapped.

"S'all right," Danny said in that small, worried voice that Nicholas dreaded. "Since he needs feeding up and all, I'm more'n glad to do the talking."

Once Danny had gone off to shower, Nicholas and his mother spent breakfast clean-up arguing over what sights they should see first. "You must take him to the V&A," Jo said, dumping the dregs of the teapot into her compost bin. "He'll have missed exposure to the most vital aspects of our culture, growing up out there. Is it true Sandford hasn't even got a cinema?"

"Danny hasn't missed anything," Nicholas said, "except for the pleasure of it. He's not stupid, Mum. He went to school university just like I did."

"I'm not saying he's ignorant," Jo replied. "I'm just saying these are things one needs to see."

"He'll see them, but maybe not this trip." Nicholas set a plate on the rack. "He's keen on the Eye. And feeding the ducks in St. James's Park."

"You'd best warn him about the pelicans," Jo cautioned. "Vicious buggers."

Nicholas stared at her, mostly because he'd never heard her use that word. "Yes, I'm aware of that."

Jo gave him a sly, pleased grin. "Isobel said I ought to let that one slip around you. Just to see."

Nicholas rolled his eyes and got back to the dishes. He'd break a teacup while he was at it.

"Your mum said what?" Danny asked.

He tossed what was left of the baguette into the water, applauding gleefully as two black swans got into a tussle over it.

"Buggers," Nicholas said, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. "I'm scarred for life."

"I don't know," said Danny. "I'm holding out on her walkin' in on us or summat."

Nicholas gaped at him. "I'd never forgive her. Or you."

"Heehee!" Danny grinned, watching some mallards join in. "Thought you were going to kill me this morning. Once I'd finished you, of course."

Nicholas squeezed his eyes shut. "Danny, I really cannot stress this enough—"

"No, but you can stress it too much," Danny said, poking his index finger repeatedly into Nicholas's temple. "Christ, Nicholas. She knows we're fucking. What're you afraid of? That she'll think it's more than that? Because it is, you know, and I bet that scares you shitless."

With that, he walked away, intent upon crossing the bridge.

"Danny, wait," Nicholas called, jogging to keep up with him, but a gaggle of camera-wielding Japanese tourists had already got in the way.

This wasn't what he'd had in mind, somehow, standing in the frozen, pale golden sunlight of early afternoon that only this city could deliver. The cruel beauty of it took away his breath: Danny striding with feigned carefree resolve up the path on the opposite bank, in search of another kiosk from which to procure more bread. Inexplicably, it made him miss the duck pond in Sandford.

Nicholas spent an hour sitting on one of the many wooden benches that St. James's had to offer, at which point he felt cold and miserable and just wanted something to warm his hands. Danny was already seated inside the cafe, talking to a middle-aged gentleman with wire-rimmed glasses and silver streaks just beginning to show in the dark gold of his hair. He looked like some kind of professor, or maybe someone who worked for the British Library—and also as gay as anything. Shoving down a pang of jealousy, Nicholas marched over and set his tray down next to Danny's.

The gentleman looked up.

"Your friend has been telling me that this is his first time in London," he said kindly, indicating that Nicholas should sit. "He said he's really quite enjoying it so far. Tell me, have you taken him to the V&A? Or to the National Portrait Gallery? They're not to be missed."

"I wanna go, Nicholas," Danny said, tugging Nicholas's sleeve, giving him puppy-dog eyes as if the exchange on the bridge had never happened. "He says they've got paintings of Henry VIII and good ol' Queen Bess. I bet my mum would have loved those. D'you reckon Dad took her?"

"I don't doubt he did," said the gentleman, smiling benignly. "Can I get you another lager?"

"No, no," Danny said, taking Nicholas's wrist possessively in hand. "But thanks for the first one. I appreciate the advice." He shook Nicholas's hand demonstratively. "This one, he lived here for so long that I doubt he'd have given me a fresh perspective, you know? Probably takes it all for granted. It's just, I can tell you really love it here and you know what's what and worth doing."

The gentleman chuckled. "I've lived here for far longer than I'd care to admit."

Nicholas twisted his hand until it was palm-to-palm with Danny's. He laced their fingers.

"Really?" Danny asked. "For how long? Um, if you don't mind my asking."

The gentleman got a far-off look in his eyes. "It feels like forever. At least I haven't been alone."

The three of them chatted for a while longer, mostly restrained niceties, until a harried-looking young man with dark hair, expensive sunglasses, and a twitchy demeanor showed up and told the gentleman that they were going to lose their lunch reservation if they didn't leave now.

"It's been lovely talking to you, but I must be going," said the gentleman. He buttoned his coat and donned his scarf slowly—for purposes of irritating his friend, Nicholas supposed, or partner, or whatever they were to each other. The young man didn't look very happy.

"You look familiar. Why do you look so familiar?" he asked with a slight, hissing lisp.

Nicholas shrugged. "I have no idea. I've got one of those faces?"

"Wait," said the young man, wagging one gloved finger. "You were all over the news last year! That impressive shoot-out in Whatsisbucket. Gloucestershire? Something. Anyway, I was impressed," he continued, thin lips twisting. "Your car windows got the real thing. I had bloody decals."

"Excuse me, but what the fuck?" Danny asked. "I've lost the plot."

"It was a James Bond film promotion," said Nicholas. "Er, in the seventies. You kind of had to have been there. Actually, you were probably just too young to be preoccupied with driving. Seriously, though, who wants fake bullet holes in their car windows?"

"I did," said the young man, mournfully. "But I've learned my lesson. Angel, get a move on!"

Nicholas jumped, but it was clear that the young man didn't mean him.

"Coming," said the gentleman, rising from the table smoothly. "There now. All ready. Adieu!"

And, with that, they were gone.

"That," Danny said, "was strange. But kind of cool, actually. I don't feel so weird now."

"Um," Nicholas said, running his fingers through his hair. "So, Portrait Gallery?"

"Yeah, motherfucker!" Danny said, grinning from ear to ear.

"Why don't people paint like this anymore?" Danny murmured, flabbergasted. "You can see individual eyebrows on this one. Actual eyebrows."

Nicholas nodded. "Very fine brushes. It's probably not PC to use animal hair anymore."

"She does kind of look like her dad, don't she?" Danny was grinning stupidly up at Elizabeth. "Except she's way hotter, of course. In a scary, I-will-fuck-your-shit-up-if-you-cross-me kind of way."

"You never told me you had a thing for gingers," Nicholas said. Or the likes of Jeanine, he thought, but kept that bit to himself. Danny had never seen her face, and probably never would. The likeness was sort of uncanny.

Danny shrugged, giving Nicholas a sly sidelong glance.

"You're almost one," he said. "Maybe if your hair was slightly more orangey. Does that count?"

Nicholas took hold of Danny's hand and squeezed.

"We did this day backwards," Danny said, eagerly leaning forward as they rounded the top. "This thing's close to the park. Could've done it earlier."

"Not really," Nicholas said, leaning back. He'd seen the view a dozen times. "Fate had other plans."

Danny gave him a you're-pulling-my-leg sort of look. "You don't believe in fate."

Nicholas shrugged. "It sent me to Sandford, didn't it?"

"No, your especially thick former superior officers did. Their loss is my gain."

It wasn't that the kiss took Nicholas by surprise. No, far from it: being kissed by one's partner whilst riding on the London Eye was fairly standard.

What took his breath away was the fact that Danny owned this, owned him, just as fully here as he did at home in Sandford.

Home. The word caught in his chest, an unfamiliar twinge.

"Goin' all mushy on me?" Danny asked, patting Nicholas's cheek. "You look...um. Teary."

Nicholas burst out laughing and let the rogue tears fall before hastily wiping them away.

"I miss Sandford," he said.

"Good thing you brought me on this trip, hey?" Danny asked. "To remind you."

In silence, they watched the palace lights glitter off the river far below.

"You're back late," said Jo. "Christmas Eve, I'll bet the tube was mobbed. Dinner's almost ready."

Danny breathed in deeply, stumbling out of his shoes. "Mmm, yeah. Goose."

"I'll humor you on the bacon. That doesn't count as meat when I'm home," Nicholas said, hanging their coats, "but I hope you don't expect—"

"There's bacon minced up in the stuffing," Jo said, already peering into the oven. "You'll eat it."

Nicholas sighed heavily, and Danny giggled. He set their shopping bags on the table.

"What's all that?" Jo asked. "A bit late to be buying Christmas cards, don't you think?"

"It's postcards," Danny said. "Loads of 'em. From the Portrait Gallery."

Jo gave Nicholas a pleased, surprised look. "What did you think?" she asked Danny.

"Loved it," he said. "Mum went there years ago. I wanted to see what she saw."

"Any favorite paintings?"

"Just about anything of Elizabeth," Nicholas cut in, before Danny could start gushing. "Can I help with the vegetables?"

"Sprouts there, red cabbage there," said his mother, handing him a wooden spoon. "There's bacon in those, too."

Danny looked about as impressed as when he'd first heard Nicholas had shot someone.

"Your mum?" he said much, much later when they were too stuffed to move. "Totally mad. And kind of evil."

Nicholas shrugged, flipping the channel. "At least I come by it honestly."

"Come by which?" Danny asked, poking him in the side.

Just then, Jo rattled in with the tea tray, which was loaded with half-glasses of port and bowls of Christmas pudding.

"The wits," she said, setting the lot down. "The being an arse, well. We never did figure that out. His dad was the sweetest man alive."

"That don't account for the sheer evil," Danny whispered facetiously. "Or the madness."

Nicholas dug into the Christmas pudding, which he didn't even particularly like.

"Can I just say that this is surreal?" Danny asked, propping his chin on Nicholas's chest. "Because it totally is."

Nicholas shut his eyes tighter. The bottle of wine he'd drunk was still having it out with the three glasses of port his mother had shoved down him.

"By which I mean, being naked with you. Here. In this bed. It creaks."

"Don't remind me," Nicholas muttered, forcing Danny to lie back down.

"By the power of Grayskull," Danny murmured. "You've got a hangover."

"Shut. It."

Danny kissed Nicholas's collarbone. "Make you some tea?" he offered.

Nicholas pulled the covers up over their heads. "No!"

"Actually," said Danny, softly, "I think you got the arse thing off your mum, and she just won't admit to it. It's more fun watchin' you in a tiff with her than in a great bloody row with Dad. If there were weapons involved, I don't know who I'd put money on."

"This doesn't make for the best of pillow talk."

"Thought I'd give it a try. It's either you or wanking to those postcards."

Nicholas hit him. Danny, ever sensible, responded with a toe-curling kiss.

"Joking," he whispered. "Besides, I gave 'em to your mum."

"Mental image not needed," Nicholas croaked. "What's wrong with you?"

Danny shrugged. "It's Christmas, and I've got the only thing in the world I could possibly want. Wouldn't you be giddy?"

"If I didn't have a hangover, maybe," Nicholas admitted, opening both eyes. "Danny?"

"Hm?" The eyes were never more appropriate.

"Of course it's more than that. I never thought it was less."

Danny kissed him again. "Didn't think so, but. You do have a way of messing things up."

"Thanks," Nicholas muttered. "Nice to know the two of you think so. No—better make that three."

"She's your mum," Danny said, wriggling till he'd draped himself over Nicholas. "Worrying's her job. Hey, has she said I'm cute or anything?"

"She says you're a very nice young man," Nicholas told him. "That means you're not psychotic."

"Jeanine was psychotic?" asked Danny, hopefully. "Proper mental?

"Actually, er, that's debatable, although Mum just thought she had poor self-esteem."

"I'm not going anywhere, you know," said Danny, drumming his fingers along Nicholas's side.

Nicholas grinned. "Like it here?"

"Yeah," Danny replied, grinning right back. "Mad tossers whose mums live in London suit me just fine."

"Reading," Nicholas reminded him.

"It's almost London," Danny said. "Hey! Now I can say I've been here outside the womb."

Nicholas drifted happily for a while, and then said, "Where to next?"

"Home," Danny said, his voice low and sleepy. "For now."