The Holly and the Ivy

Locke tried to smile. His lips upturned but his eyes did not light up, not like they usually did. "Night, Graham." 
Once more, Graham hesitated but then said, "Night." He vanished into the bedroom. 
Time passed. Locke came back to reality when the clock chimed eleven. Sighing, he rose, picked up his coat. Maybe a walk outside would do him good. Maybe it would tire him out enough so he could sleep next to Graham without wanting him. Maybe . . . He took one look at the barren landscape, covered with white, unfamiliar, and a little intimidating, and decided against walking. He simply stood by the door, gazing blindly at the panorama. His thoughts were a jumble of needs and wants and honest admittance that nothing would ever come of them except heartache. The gray covering of depression surrounded him again. The cold began to seep in. Inhaling/exhaling slowly, raggedly, Locke turned to go in. He slipped on a patch of ice and fell, hitting his left temple on a jagged piece of the cottage's stone wall. He cursed. His fingers encountered wetness. Cursing again, he reentered the building. 

Graham was there, drawing on his own coat. "I was just coming after you. Do you know how long been out there? What the hell have you done to your head?!" Graham hurried forward, throwing his coat aside as he did so. 

"It's just a little cut." Yet, he flinched when the other man touched it gingerly with his fingertip. 
"A little cut my arse. You're bleeding all over Smythe's floor. He won't like that, now will he? Come on, let me take care of it." His gaze lingered on the wound for a moment. You should have a plaster." He turned toward the kitchen area. 

"I'm all right. It's just a little cut." He felt the blood trickling down the side of his face and knew it was deeper than he had thought. (Why am I being so rebellious?) The truth came instantly. (I don't think I can bear having his hand on me.) But why now? Graham had stopped his breeding before from gun shots, from knife wounds. Why now? And the truth came immediately on that as well. (It's my face. He'll be watching my face. Can I hide what his touch does to me? God help me.) 
Without saying another word, Graham gathered a bowl of water, a clean cloth. "Sit," he finally ordered when he had the things back in the living section. "I said, sit." His tone left no arguments. 
"I'm not exactly helpless, Graham," Locke said stiffly, yet he sat. 
"Don't be so prickly. There's no harm in me doing this, is there?" 
(If you don't count your touch driving me over the edge? No . . . But I can't tell you that, can I?) Locke only shrugged. 
"If you were any more thankful, I'd blush from embarrassment." Graham's tone was dry, a little sardonic. He bathed the wound with gentle, knowledgeable fingers. "How did you break your cheekbone?" 
"I was a copper then. A thief took my stick and used it on me while his partners held me." He kept his tone calm, uncaring. It had been over five years ago. That was more than enough time to get over. Concentrate on something else . . . something. . . Graham's fingers touching, loving. . . NO!!! Not that. Never that . . . It had been a mistake, their coming. It was dangerous, foolish thing to have done. 

"Did I hurt you?" 
"No." (My bones feel like jelly. Don't stop touching me. Don't stop . . . Stop! Please stop. I like it too much . . . too much.) Graham touched Locke's right cheek bone, a sympathetic, understanding type of skimming and Locke shifted his body away from his partner. The very last thing he wanted from his partner was pity. Their eyes met and became imprisoned. 
"Ray . . ." Graham's hand went up to caress the dark curls. His tone held a lover's touch. Locke froze in shock, a feeling that swiftly moved to uncertainty and indecision. Graham bent down, pressed his lips softly against the other's trembling ones. "Ray . . ." Graham's voice was soft against the cold cheek. Locke moaned and turned his face, melding his lips against the other man's in fervor, and starvation. Lips parted and tongues explored the wonderful moist darkness that awaited them. Graham tugged Locke upward, clasped him in hard, demanding arms. Locke's legs grew weaker. He could feel his heart beating fiercely . . . he could feel Graham's as well, they were that close. Graham's lips were without mercy as they laid fire to every inch of Locke's body. His fingers were like steel demanding, extracting everything Locke had to offer and more. He was needing yet gentle, harsh yet completely controlled. 

The tall slim man grew lost in what he was feeling, what Graham's nearness, his tumultuous love making brought him to, what his own desire was doing to him. He couldn't remember going to the bedroom. He couldn't recall stripping off his clothes. He only knew he was lying on the bed and Graham's mouth encompassed his fullness. Locke whimpered in pleasure, in need.. 

His mind continually said, (This can't be happening . . . This isn't Graham. Graham wouldn't be doing this . . .) But Graham was, and Graham brought the other man to full completion, and then it was Locke's turn to do Graham. Within moments, he had the other agent crying out, thrusting upward, coming in cataclysmic tremors that threw him into unconsciousness. Locke was soon sinking down into the bed with the other man. He pulled the covers up and over them, drifted off into a deep sleep. The next morning, lips woke him, lips that tasted and teased, and hands that searched the nude body. Within seconds, Locke was over his shock and responding, and they, made, love again. 

Graham cuddled him afterwards. "Happy Christmas, Sunshine." 
"I don't understand." 
"Today's December 25th, you forgetful old man." Graham kissed the mussed curls. 
"That's not what I meant." He could hear the disquiet, the uneasiness in his voice. He looked up, met gentle, understanding, loving, blue eyes. 
"Don't be scared, Ray." 
"I'm not." 
"Aren't you?" 
Locke forced himself to be honest. "Yes, a little." 
"So I was I, at first. He kissed Locke soundly, moved his hands up and down the slim body. Locke shivered. "I got tired of waiting for you to make the first move. I'd keep looking up at you and seeing that cow's look in your eyes every time you thought you could watch me unnoticed. 

"I never did!" 
"The bloody hell you didn't. I saw the wanting in you. I saw the love you felt for me. I waited . . . and waited, and then one day I decided I wasn't going to wait any longer. So here we are." 
"Here we are," Locke murmured. (And now what? Is this a fling on your part? An act of pity for the wretched man?) He didn't think he could take that. A few days and they would go back to the way it was? No, he didn't think he could take that at all. Better arrest the thief now before he robbed again. Hurting, he tried to leave the bed, but Graham held him down. "Let go, Graham." 
The blue eyed agent grinned wickedly. "Make me . . ." 
"Graham. . . " His eyes were green ice, glacial, threatening. His voice . . . 
Graham let go. "What is it, Sunshine?" Blue eyes held worry, distress. 

"We've had our night of fun. We can go back to London now." He rose stiffly, felt bruising on his body, saw them as well when he looked at his flesh. 
"I didn't mean to be so rough. I wanted you for so long. . ." How apologetic he sounded, how sincere. "I won't be so unpolished next time, Locke, I promise." Green eyes searched his face. "Please?" His hand went up, tugged at a messy curl. "We haven't looked into our stockings yet. What about opening our gifts? We can't go back before that, can we?" An emotion close to pain flickered across the handsome face. "Ray, please." 
Graham begging? Graham asked, Graham commanded, Graham very often demanded, but he never begged. There was a time to turn away and a time to move forward. Maybe he was making a mistake. Maybe, in a week or two, Graham would move on to someone else, like he always did. There had been no mention of love, but Graham wouldn't, not at first, even if he did feel that. Graham didn't show his emotions so easily. Making this first step must have been hard for him. Locke went back into Graham's arms, held him tightly. "Ray . . " Locke heard the triumph, the incredible joy in his partners voice. 
Emotion ran deep within him as well..... too deep and too strong. He hardened his heart against it. It was too soon. Maybe, in a month or two, if they were still together, if . . Pain tried to overwhelm him, the greyness of depression tried to surround him. He struggled to hold them back. 
"We didn't fill our stockings last night," Graham murmured softly. "Poor Father Christmas." 

Locke looked up. "Why?" 
"He had to do all the work himself." Graham giggled suddenly when Locke tickled him. 
"I'll make breakfast." Locke moved away, began to dress. 
"You're very beautiful," Graham said softly. Locke looked at him and smiled. "Like sunshine," he murmured in awe. "Every time you smile, your face lights up like sunshine." He watched a slight flush tint the other man's face. "And now you're all sunburned." He smiled hugely, a bit impishly. 
"You . . ." Locke flung Graham's sock at him. Smiling, he left the bedroom. Graham was half dressed when Locke's shocked, "Graham!" called him from the room. "Look!" Locke pointed at the two stockings hanging on the mantle. "Did you do that?" 
Graham's mouth hung open. They were full of candy and nuts, and there was a bright red apple perched on the top of each. "Not me, Locke. When did I have time?" 
They looked at each other. "No way, Graham. He's not real." 

"What did you write in your letter to him?" 
"He's not real." 
"I asked him for you." 
Locke's mouth worked silently for a moment. "He's not real," he said at last. 
"What did you ask for?" Graham insisted. "Locke? What did you ask for?" He repeated when there had been too much silence. 
"You," Locke said at last. "He's not real! He's someone our parents used to make us behave at Christmas! 
Graham shrugged. "Doesn't matter, does it? We both got what we want, didn't we?" 
"Yeah." Awkwardly, they moved into each other's arms, kissed tentatively. 

"Is your hair always so messy in the morning?" Graham teased, trying to run his fingers through it and encountering tangles. 
"You'll just have to find out, won't you?" Locke asked in a hushed tone. 
"Yeah," Graham agreed delight. "Yeah . . ." 

Epilogue... 

Smythe had only to take one look at Graham and Locke to notice the changes in them both. Pleased, a trifle smug, he sat back in his chair and tried hard not to grin at them. His plan had worked. Get them together, away from everyone else, and. . . He had been concerned at first when he had noticed the holiday depression in Locke's eyes, but things had fallen into place. Trust that Graham to overcome Locke's usual stubbornness. Smug wasn't quite the word for what Smythe was feeling right then. Conceited, arrogant, totally pleased were closer to the truth. But of course, he couldn't let them know that. "I hope you left my cottage clean and presentable, he remarked in gruff tones. "The way you found it?" Their quick words of reassurance did bring a smile. It was faint but noticeable, for about three seconds. And then Smythe became Smythe again and he picked up the paperwork on his desk. "There's a rumor that Philip Sythemore has become involved in . . . The holidays were officially at an end.