Archive of Our Own

Baxter's practice was going very well, and his studies into deadly toxins and conditions were improving all the time, particularly with the added freedom London brought him. But he would not risk Pendleton catching anything, and so while he put up with the subpar conditions of his home for his dissections and related studies, he focused on other pursuits, other hypotheses and experiments, when he was sharing Pendleton's workspace.

Besides, if Pendleton didn't know about what he was doing, he couldn't get into trouble with the law over any of it, if the worst happened.

There was no harm, however, in him studying the blood taken from perfectly willing patients for examination, and thus Baxter was hard at work in the space that Pendleton had so generously offered to him, with the sounds of Pendleton's own work providing an almost meditative background noise. Parchment being unrolled, pencil scratching on paper, the clacking and clinking of Pendleton hard at work on assembly...

"Baxter?"

It took a moment for the familiar voice to filter through the calming hum. Baxter didn't look up from his own experiments, giving an answering hum at first, and then, "Yes?"

"Well, I..." Pendleton began, and stopped. Started again. "I was thinking..." Another pause. "I wanted to..."

He trailed off a third time. A little too long passed, and Baxter realized he hadn't continued and didn't seem about to, and while he didn't look over he finally split his attention more fully, frowning briefly down at his work. "Yes?" he prompted again, a little impatience bleeding through that time.

"Do you have any plans for Christmas?" Pendleton asked in a rush, so immediately after Baxter spoke that it almost seemed like the question had been waiting to flood out the moment he was given a second go-ahead.

That had a simple enough answer. "No."

"Oh! Well, then. Would you... like to spend Christmas Eve with me? You could come for dinner."

The offer was somehow unexpected enough that it broke through Baxter's concentration entirely. He looked over at his friend and current lab partner, brows knitted.

"I haven't celebrated Christmas in a decade," he said.

Pendleton blinked at him, apparently not expecting that answer. "Do you not enjoy it?"

"I suppose I never minded it." In the middle of his work, Baxter kept wanting to look back to what he'd been doing, thrown off by this little interruption. But he supposed if it was Pendleton, it was fine. "But no one celebrates in Scotland, and really, I don't believe in Christ or God in any case." He didn't mind telling Pendleton that, and actually laughed a little. "Any appeal it may have held when I was a child is long dead."

Pendleton looked for a moment like he wanted to say something, then gave a single nod instead, turning his back to Baxter to look over his blueprints. "Of course," he said. "You wouldn't be interested, then."

Baxter waited a moment. The conversation felt strangely unfinished, but when Pendleton didn't speak again, instead grabbing a torch and replacing his glasses with his goggles, it was obviously over, and Baxter turned back to his own experiment. There was something faintly troubled in his chest, but he shook it off, refocusing.

An odd conversation, to be sure, but conversations with Pendleton often veered off on odd tangents, and he didn't really mind that.

He didn't think anything more of it the rest of the evening, making notes on his examinations, the blood taken from half a dozen of his patients -- at least some of them very different from one another, he hypothesized, in ways he didn't understand yet. Sometimes a transfusion would help, and sometimes it wouldn't, even seemed to make the patient worse, hastening their death. Eventually it grew late enough that he bid Pendleton a good evening (more like a good night, frankly), Pendleton returning the words distractedly.

He didn't think anything of it as he bought a hasty supper on the walk back home, or as he fell asleep, quickly given how long he'd been on his feet and how deeply he'd been immersed in his research. Sleep, however, seemed to give his brain the rest it needed, a break in which to refresh itself, and he woke up the next morning groggy and disoriented and with two thoughts on the heels of one another:

What day is it?

And:

What in God's name was that conversation?

Which was strange, because it hadn't been that unusual, surely? Pendleton had asked him about Christmas, during the season, and he had answered, and then the subject had been dropped. Except...

Except that Pendleton had not just asked him about Christmas.

He got out of bed, dressed, checked his calendar. Thursday, 24 December.

It wasn't important, not when he planned to work through it, but he couldn't for the life of him understand why that conversation was bothering him so much. Was it really just that it had felt like it had ended with Pendleton still wanting to say something? And why was Baxter so certain of that, anyway?

He tried to run back through it all in his head.

Pendleton's hesitance, the way he had started, stopped, started again, his invitation rushed. He'd been smiling when Baxter had turned to look at him, but his eyebrows had been drawn together slightly, making him look troubled.

Baxter had explained his lack of interest in Christmas, and... had Pendleton's smile changed? Was he misremembering now, or had he not noticed at the time his friend's smile becoming uncertain around the edges, the way it did when there was some negative emotion in there tainting it, some embarrassment or shame or sadness.

And he wouldn't be interested, then... Defeated tones, like when one of Pendleton's inventions broke down one too many times, refused to work right--

Oh, damn it, that had been an invitation. Of course he'd known that it was an invitation, but it had evidently been one that had meant something to Pendleton, not simply an idle thought. Obviously the man enjoyed Christmas, and Baxter was fairly certain he had no family in the area, and had gotten the distinct impression that Pendleton might not have any friends other than him...

No wonder he'd been quiet the rest of the evening -- well, they had both been working, but -- that idiot!

Baxter didn't want to admit that he was feeling a bit like an idiot himself just then. He sighed, pushing up his glasses to scrub his hands over his face, then shook his head, hard, as if trying to shake the feeling and the unhelpful thoughts away before adjusting the frames back into place.

"This is stupid," he muttered, and grabbed his coat.

It was as bitterly cold that morning as it had been the night before, the sun's rays doing little to ease the chill. The wind threatened to cut through Baxter's layers, and he burrowed into his coat as best he could, drawing up its collar and ducking his mouth and nose down into it, trying to ignore the way his glasses fogged. Truly, winter in London was nothing like winter in Gijón, but he tried to think back anyway.

He didn't much like reminiscing about his childhood. It hadn't been all bad, no, but the happier memories came with others that soured them, and since he had left it all behind it was better to look to the future instead of being caught up in the past. But he thought, then, about the more enjoyable elements of Christmastime, deciding it came down to three things: family and certain presents and good food.

He couldn't provide family, but company would have to be good enough; he could scratch that off his mental list. Pendleton might have already gotten food, but it was certainly not unheard of to buy Christmas dinner the day of and, of course, now he wouldn't be expecting company. No need to be wasteful by buying too much unnecessarily, and he didn't have a fortune to spend in any case; Baxter decided to buy a few treats, and maybe pick up a fish before actually stopping by, just in case.

He bought a bag of chestnuts from a street vendor, feeling ridiculous as he turned right back around and hurried home to start soaking them. They wouldn't have been soaking quite long enough by the time he left, but he could work with that; there were ways. Nowhere in London sold anything like a roscón de reyes, he'd noticed that last year even though he hadn't been searching, so as he belatedly began to heat up his range for breakfast he ran through possibilities in his head and made mental notes.

"Chestnuts -- done -- Christmas pudding, no, he might have that, some cookies will do, and fish, just in case... probably cod..." he muttered to himself. As he finished up with the range, waiting for it to heat up, he rose and pulled out one of his notebooks, finding a blank page and scribbling it down. An unusual list amongst his research notes, but for once he wasn't thinking about research. "I can bring some tea... and a gift." Some simple, practical gift that would be a clear gesture that he valued the invitation, if not the holiday.

That he cared about his friend.

Very little of it proved difficult to find, when he ventured back out into the afternoon. It may have been slightly less freezing than the morning, but even after all this time Baxter felt no more suited to cold weather, and picked up what he could as hurriedly as possible, wanting to spend no more time outside than was absolutely necessary. No particular gift jumped out at him, nothing he could imagine Pendleton really needing that he didn't already have, though he did stop near a flower seller, lingering there for no clear reason he could ascertain.

The roses did look nice, though Baxter knew better. Pluck the old, bruised, and dead petals and leave only the bright ones and anyone could claim a flower at the end of its life was fresh and new. Still, his gaze must have been fixed in thought on the blooms for at least a few moments, because the seller noticed him and called out directly, and Baxter tried not to flinch.

"No, thank you," he said shortly, turning away and hunching his shoulders. He hurried down the street, but slowed again as he neared a bookseller, a title catching his eye.

The Vanished Diamond
Jules Verne

Ha! Perfect. Baxter had seen several of Verne's books in Pendleton's collection, enough to be certain he liked these sorts of stories and enjoyed owning them in this form. This one seemed new, he hadn't seen or heard of it before and could be almost certain Pendleton didn't already have it; he easily paid the six shillings asked for and an extra tuppence for them to wrap it in old newspaper and twine.

It was with triumph that he returned to his flat, even if it still felt somewhat ridiculous to be running back and forth on these errands. Usually he would just do everything at once, but he wanted to buy the fish last, on his way over, so that it would still be hot. That meant coming back here and draining the chestnuts, at least temporarily, adding that bundle to his careful stack of Christmas supplies.

He'd just figure out how to knock.

It ended up being with his boot.

"I'm closed," Pendleton's voice, sounding somewhat cross, floated muffled through the door.

Baxter raised his own voice to be better heard. "I know. It's Baxter."

A pause. Then he heard the click of the lock, and Pendleton pulled the door open hurriedly. He blinked down at Baxter and the various parcels in his arms, eyes wide and surprised.

"I-- I wasn't expecting you today! Come in."

"I changed my mind," Baxter said, taking the invitation as Pendleton stepped out of his way, relaxing as the door closed against the cold behind him. Ugh, Pendleton's house was warmer than his own, somewhat terrible flat, and certainly a pleasant change from outdoors.

"You brought food?" The fish was, very obviously, a parcel of fish. Baxter shifted his grip on everything, and Pendleton stepped forward, carefully taking some of the packages to go set down on the kitchen table.

Baxter followed him. "I didn't know what you might have prepared. I wasn't going to expect you to have a meal for two ready when I'd declined your invitation. I need a bowl to keep soaking these chestnuts in."

Pendleton, unwrapping the cod and the cookies, was starting to smile, expression brightening. He usually looked quite tired, really, but when something -- usually one of his own inventions, but sometimes Baxter's work -- made him particularly happy, his eyes lit up.

"Oh, I love black currant tea!"

"Yes, I know."

Baxter found himself smiling as well. Then, as he noticed Pendleton reaching for the packaged book, he snatched it away.

"Ah-ah-ah. I believe presents are traditionally exchanged later in the evening?"

"You brought a present for me?" Pendleton's smile softened as he turned it on Baxter, and for some reason Baxter felt an uncomfortable prickle at the back of his neck.

"Yes. It's Christmas," he justified, and felt ridiculous for it. The logic was obvious, he shouldn't have to explain it!

He must have looked disgruntled, because Pendleton laughed, raising his hands soothingly. "I know, yes! I'm sorry. I'm just... glad, that you came after all."

Baxter's face felt warm, and he shifted on his feet, eyes darting away to look at anything but Pendleton's face. "You should have told me that it was important to you."

He looked back over, and Pendleton's embarrassment was much more blatant now; his shoulders hunched slightly, face reddening a little, not meeting Baxter's eyes. "I didn't want you to feel obligated..."

"I wouldn't have," Baxter assured. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Pendleton's expression shifted, and for a moment Baxter thought he was going to start crying, and something close to panic bloomed in his chest. Fortunately it passed quickly for both of them, Pendleton's smile brightening again and that uncomfortable feeling in Baxter loosening and dissolving.

"We are," Pendleton said, sounding almost wondering, and then cleared his throat, reaching up to adjust his glasses. "Right, something for the chestnuts! I did pick up a few things myself; we should have enough for a very nice Christmas meal between us..."

What he had was a small goose, some potatoes and vegetables, and bread, and that combined with the fish and the small treats that Baxter had brought was very nice, all told. Though for all that Pendleton had seemed to be a fan of Christmas, there wasn't much of the holiday about their meal or their conversation. He seemed to prefer having Baxter's company to doing anything particularly festive, though he did smile and glance towards the window when he heard carolers outside.

"Are you going to open the door for them?" Baxter asked, more curious than anything, and Pendleton shook his head.

"No, I just like listening to them from in here."

Baxter grinned. "I believe traditionally you're supposed to give them food and drink. You aren't keeping your part of the bargain."

Pendleton returned his grin, if anything more mischievously, a sudden delighted display that Baxter rarely saw from him. "Well, I don't have any figgy pudding or cider, so they'd be disappointed anyway, traditionally speaking."

"Fair."

After dinner, Baxter decided to help the chestnuts along, boiling more water and carefully putting them in there instead of more tea. That sped up the process significantly, and after wrapping them in a cloth and letting them sit for a few minutes, chatting idly, they peeled open easily.

"I haven't roasted chestnuts in ages," Pendleton admitted.

"Neither have I, but I remember. It's simple enough."

"You had similar Christmas traditions back in Spain, then?"

Baxter considered that. "Some very similar," he said. "Some different. The food was a bit different, but this was nice." Another smile tugged at his mouth as he watched Pendleton carefully stirring the chestnuts around in the skillet. "Next year I'll make garlic soup. I think you might like it."

"Next year?" Pendleton looked over at him, looking faintly surprised. Not faintly enough that it didn't prompt a curl of uncertainty through Baxter.

Was this... not likely to be repeated, next year? He didn't like the feeling he got, thinking about that. Likely because he didn't understand why it wouldn't be, but damn it, was this how Pendleton had felt when he'd declined his invitation yesterday?

"Yes," he said cautiously, and then more firmly, "The invitation might be too early, but I hope that means you'll accept it faster than I did."

Pendleton looked completely taken aback then, for just a moment, before he laughed, and the uncertainty dissipated again. "Of course! Next year, then."

Baxter's face actually hurt a little from smiling, and he looked away from Pendleton's face, past him into the pan. "--Pen, you're going to burn the--"

"Oh, shit!"

The chestnuts didn't end up burnt, fortunately, though neither of them had much room, even not having had the cookies yet. The experience, Baxter opined, was more enjoyable than the results in any case, even if they were nice. And they would keep.

By that point it was well and truly dark; Pendleton hadn't lit any of his lamps, the only light in the house flickering away in the fireplace. Baxter was actually faintly disappointed when he did light one, standing up, and he made a querying noise.

"I have something for you," Pendleton said, and paused a moment, almost as if he wanted to speak again -- then smiled a little and turned, hurrying to go and find... whatever it was he had, leaving Baxter alone by the fire.

This... had been nice. It still was nice, since the evening wasn't over yet, obviously. But up until roasting the chestnuts and now preparing to exchange presents, it hadn't felt at all like the celebrations of his childhood. It was more quiet and comfortable than that, and Baxter appreciated the difference. Pendleton's somewhat awkward, often quiet, sometimes excitable and impish and opinionated company was... well, he was happy with it, or he wouldn't share a lab space with him at all, much less so often.

He was still musing, pleasantly warm by the fire, when Pendleton returned, carrying a box and sitting back down near Baxter on the floor. A chair would probably be more comfortable, especially with the way he had to fold his long legs, but something about this felt more correct.

"You're my guest," Pendleton insisted as Baxter reached for the package he'd brought, firmly pushing the box towards him. "You first."

Baxter sighed and took the box instead. "All right, I won't argue."

Inside was a scarf. It was nice, patterned subtly with dark blue and black, and Baxter trailed a hand along it, pleased with the texture. Soft cotton, not itchy wool.

"I made it," Pendleton said softly, and Baxter looked up at him, hand stilling. "I remembered you said you had to throw your old one away, and it's so cold this winter..."

"I'm going to wear it constantly," Baxter assured him. He really would, too. This would help a lot. "You knit?"

"Oh yes! Often, actually." Pendleton beamed at him, then seemed to reconsider his words, correcting, "Well, when I'm not busy making other, more technological things. But yes, I like working with my hands, it relaxes me."

Baxter looked to his hands. Yes, Pendleton was always working on something, or sketching something out, making notes...

He resisted the sudden urge to clear his throat, shifting to grab the book in its package from where he'd set it earlier. "Here."

Pendleton tore the paper carefully from the book, and Baxter watched his face as he did, so he saw the way his eyes lit up again. The man actually gasped. "Ohh, this is his newest, isn't it! I was considering purchasing this! I can't wait to read it, Baxter, thank you."

"And thank you," Baxter returned, relaxing a little. "I knew you'd like it, and I couldn't recall seeing it on your shelves yet."

"No, it's new to me," Pendleton assured him, clutching the book to his chest. "It's perfect."

"As is that scarf. I really needed to get around to replacing my old one. And it already feels very comfortable." Saying that, Baxter couldn't resist touching it one more time before carefully replacing the lid on the box for now. He'd put it on before he went back out.

And speaking of that... it was getting late. Baxter was in no hurry to move, but he did know that before too much longer it would be very impolite to keep imposing. At the moment, however, Pendleton wasn't making any noises towards turning in for the night or wanting some time alone or anything else that would prompt him to leave.

In fact, when Pendleton, turning to look into the fire, quietly said, "Thank you again, for coming," it didn't sound like the dismissal that was practically inherent in those words at all.

"Why are you thanking me? I enjoyed the evening as much as you did."

Pendleton's shoulders hunched a little again, that tell of embarrassment, but he glanced over at Baxter. "...I know you don't celebrate, but Merry Christmas, Baxter."

Baxter raised his eyebrows at him. "I just did," he pointed out. "Merry Christmas, Pendleton."

Pendleton actually rolled his eyes at him. "I mean usually," he said, then hesitated. After a moment he scooted around to face Baxter again, looking down at his own hands on the floor. "There is one more thing..."

Baxter's brow creased. "What?"

"I have one more gift for you," Pendleton clarified, though it didn't feel like he was clarifying anything at all. Was he nervous? Why did he seem nervous? He needed to stop that because it was making Baxter feel nervous!

Baxter's silence must have felt expectant, or impatient -- and he couldn't honestly say he was neither -- because after another moment Pendleton reached into his pocket and pulled out a key, holding it out for Baxter to take. Which he did, mostly automatically, taking it in confusion that alchemized into increasing amazement.

"Since you're here so often -- using my workspace -- and I certainly don't mind that, or that you've been coming by more often lately, I don't really see a need for you to wait outside every time when I'm just going to let you in anyway. It just seems more practical for you to have a key. That way if I don't hear you at first, or I'm actually out, you can simply come inside instead of standing on my doorstep..."

Thank you was the obvious response here. It was a completely reasonable gift, and Pendleton's explanation made sense; it was rational and logical.

Baxter wasn't sure what he was feeling, but it wasn't logical.

Pendleton didn't look like he was, either. He kept meeting Baxter's eyes, then glancing away, down, then back to him again. He hadn't just stopped and stared at Baxter in a while, but this reminded Baxter of that a little, when he'd first started working in here and Pendleton wasn't used to, in his words, watching a person who was actually there, and not outside his window. Every time Baxter caught him doing it he fidgeted and couldn't quite look at him after.

"And," Pendleton said, and Baxter blinked, refocusing if only due to surprise that he was speaking again, "I know it isn't as easy for you to work from your flat, with the draft."

All at once Baxter relaxed. The key had felt like too much, for a few moments, possibly because Pendleton had been practically radiating worry and the hope that Baxter wouldn't find the gift too much. That rambling explanation!

But it was practical. And it was thoughtful. It wasn't a very big change from what was already normal for them, really. It only made sense -- and it only made sense because Pendleton listened, paid attention, remembered. He recalled Baxter's rare complaints about the chill in his flat, how it made it harder for him to keep things at the temperatures he needed them; the one time he had mentioned having to throw away his scarf because of chemicals spilling on it; the offhand mention that he hated the texture of wool, that it made him itch. He remembered these things, and acted on them, thoughtfully.

Pendleton was his best friend.

(Pendleton was also his only friend, but that was far less important.)

"I appreciate that," he said finally, and he watched as Pendleton's shoulders relaxed, too. "And it will be nice to not have to stand out in the cold. Or the rain," he added. He placed the key into his pocket, finally, and gave Pendleton a nod, smiling faintly. "Thank you."

A returning smile spread across Pendleton's face. "Any time," he said, then paused. "Obviously. You have a key now."

That caught Baxter by surprise, and he snickered. "You're going to struggle to outdo yourself next year."

"I'm not even going to try," Pendleton admitted. "You'll just have to make do with socks, I'm afraid."

"If you're already planning ahead you can think of something better than that!"

Pendleton actually stuck his tongue out at him, and Baxter almost laughed again. "And if I don't want to?" he asked, affecting haughtiness.

Baxter dug his teeth into his lower lip in an effort to school his expression, turning his head as if slighted. "I can always rescind my invitation."

Pendleton's yelp almost broke through his composure. "Never mind, never mind! I'll start thinking immediately!"

"You had better!" An unfamiliar warmth infused Baxter's voice; he couldn't help it at all, and it sounded strange even to him. "You ridiculous inventor."

Pendleton made an almost strangled sound, then laughed.

He didn't ask Baxter to go. Neither did Baxter stand and take his leave, though he could have. Their discussion turned again away from such joking, and away from the very personal, speaking of both their work and their plans for the coming year. Baxter wasn't looking forward to the cold walk back to his own flat, especially as he started to feel more weary, even though it meant he really should get around to it.

He didn't need to worry about that, as it happened. He didn't remember falling asleep, there on the floor in the midst of more and more idle conversation, but he woke up in front of the embers of the fire, a slight chill against his face but with a blanket draped over most of him.

He groaned, closing his eyes again, face scrunching up. It was early, he could tell that from the very weak light coming in through the window, and the floor wasn't exactly comfortable; he felt stiff and his arm hadn't made for a very good pillow. And he didn't know where his glasses were.

Obviously Pendleton had covered him up, though. He sat up reluctantly, looking around; Pendleton was nowhere to be seen, though a squinted investigation revealed what were probably his glasses on the table by the sitting chair. He got up, grumbling, wrapping the blanket more tightly around his shoulders.

There was a note underneath them, in familiar script.

Come for New Years?

He smiled a little.

When he stepped out, in his coat and new scarf, locking the door behind himself, he had left the note on the kitchen table, the corner tucked underneath the package of cookies they had never touched; he took two and in return, left behind, scribbled underneath Pendleton's invitation:

Why not?