Laurie flinched—not, he hoped, visibly.  And never will, please God.  It went unspoken; but it lay between them.  One thing to share digs after the war, when housing was tight.  Another thing entirely today.  As Laurie knew all too well:  the collegiality of an office job brought invitations to dinner parties and the duty of reciprocity.  It was not at all surprising that Ralph, who could cope with polite society when he had to but hated the subterfuge to which it condemned Laurie, instead preserved links with friends like Alec and Theo.  Roving the world relieved him of the responsibility of colleagues and neighbours, home and routine.  He presented merely as a visiting friend.

Laurie picked up the evening paper; Ralph returned to his letter.  Presently, it drew from him unexpected snorts and chuckles.

Laurie looked up.  “That can’t possibly be from your agent!”

“Oh, forwarded from the publisher.  Another letter from a ‘fan’.  You’d think I was a Hollywood film star or some such.”

“Does she want your autograph, then?” asked Laurie, amused.

“Mercifully, no—though I suppose, if I write back, he’ll get it at the foot of the letter.  No, it’s the usual questions, which any of them could answer for themselves if they’d only read the interview I gave The Times Lit. Sup.  How I choose where to go, who pays for the trip, that sort of thing.”  Ralph put the letter down.  “What’s the time?  Do you want to go out, or shall we eat in?”

“I was thinking you might make us one of your omelettes,” Laurie suggested hopefully.  “There’s some cheese left, too.”  Only a year before, this would have been an unimaginable luxury.

Ralph went through and, shortly, Laurie could hear the faint sound of eggs cracking into a bowl.  He followed, to find Ralph in a butcher’s apron, beating briskly with a fork.  It was a tiny kitchen; and Laurie had to reach round him to open the drawer and take out the Mouli grater.  The end of the Cheddar, a little hard, was wrapped in a piece of parchment paper; and Laurie grabbed a second bowl and started grinding away.

Ralph took the frying pan from the rack above the stove and lit the gas.  Then he looked around, with a wicked glint in his eye.  “In butter.”

Amused, Laurie said, “It’s been off the ration a couple of months.”  He put the grater down on the bowl to give Ralph a sudden hug, but felt him stiffen under his arms.  With a pang, he relaxed his grip.  They were quite private in their flat; Laurie’d never behave so in public (nor even if they were close to the window).  But Ralph was an undemonstrative man—at least during the day.

In sudden rebellion, Laurie let his arms slide loosely down to Ralph’s waist and slipped his thumbs inside the apron.  Ralph did not respond, but turned back to the pan.  Gently, Laurie rubbed the pad of each thumb along the ribs, back and forth, and back again.  Ralph said nothing, but gently pulled free to fetch the butter.

“Have you finished with the cheese?”

Laurie sighed.  “Almost.”

Ralph tipped the egg in the pan.  As it began to gel, Laurie passed over the bowl. “I’ll heat the plates,” he said, ran them under the tap, and used the tea towel.

With a practiced twist of the fish slice, Ralph flipped the omelette at just the right moment for perfection, sliced it deftly in two, and slid half on each plate.  Their first bites were taken in reverential silence.  The omelette was firm on the outside, delicate jelly within, melted cheese at the heart.

It was not until Laurie took his last bite that he said, “I’ll need to book my ticket tomorrow.  I just know I’m going to get another letter from my mother asking the time of my train.”  Wryly, he said, “And I haven’t even written to say I’ll go yet.”  He shook his head.  “Of course I’m going.  You’re right.  I have to.  I always do.  It would be nice, though,” he added wistfully, “to have a little Christmas of our own sometime, just the two of us.”

The morning post brought another letter from the vicarage; but this did not come in dainty blue, nor had it a deckle edge.  It was addressed to Ralph, who opened it automatically, and read halfway down the page before stopping in bafflement.  Laurie, pausing by his elbow as he put on his coat, caught sight of the envelope with its familiar address.

“Is that mine or yours?”

Ralph turned.  “Oh, mine, definitely.”  He passed it back over his shoulder to a puzzled Laurie.  “Dear Mr Lanyon,” it began.

I read in the paper that you had returned to England; and I take the opportunity to write you privately at my son-in-law’s address, since I understand you usually stay with him during the brief periods that you are back in this country.

Let me extend to you my most humble invitation to join us for Christmas.

Laurie looked up in astonishment.

“Would you like me to accept?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Did you read it all?”

Dumbly, Laurie shook his head; then he returned to the letter.

While I assure you I have no wish to presume on your friendship with my wife’s son, I would consider it an honour if you would accept.  I have read all your books with the fascination of a man whose only travel outside the country was during the Great War (though that I should call more ‘travail’ than ‘travel’), but always had great admiration for those intrepid explorers who mapped the globe.”

Laurie looked up again.

“He’s a fan,” said Ralph.  “God help us, he’s a fan.”  He managed, somehow, to keep his face straight.

“But do you want to come?” asked Laurie.  “I don’t want you to put up with my family for my sake!  I adore my mother; but I have no illusions that this is going to be easy.  And you’ll have to deal with Straike—”

“I’ve met fans before.”

“And the children.  Popping in suddenly in their nightgowns to see their ‘Unca Lorry’.  We’ll have separate rooms, you know; and we won’t even be able to visit each other.”

“I’ve no objection to children,” said Ralph.  “Not that I know any, particularly; but I was one myself once.”  He looked at Laurie quizzically.  “Are you trying to put me off?  Would you rather I not come?”

“No! God, no.”  Laurie was stricken.  “No, of course, I want you to come … if you want to.”

Ralph said, “We’ll need to take presents.  The children will certainly be expecting largesse.”

“Jigsaws and books.  We can drop into Foyle’s, and maybe Hamley’s as well.  And a bottle of whisky:  that’s safe enough.  I may not appreciate Straike as much as he thinks I should, but he’s straightforward enough to buy for.  As for my mother,” Laurie sighed, “lace-edged hankies again?  I’m sorry, but my imagination fails me when it comes to buying for women.  Jewellery is beyond my budget—and more his purview, anyway.”

“Then I think this Saturday it’s going to be Portobello Road Market for both of us,” said Ralph.  “And then up north.  You were saying you’d like us to have Christmas together.  Not quite the little dinner you envisaged but family nonetheless.  Garlands and fir trees; chestnuts, stuffing, and goose.”

“As long as no one suspects the truth,” said Laurie, “or it will be our goose.”

NOTES This story was written for sunsetmog in the Yuletide 2018 gift exchange, and posted to AO3 on 18 December 2018.