the 39 fics

He knew she didn’t notice it, but seeing the detail came naturally to him (he was a trained reader of situations and people, after all). The photos were incriminating to say the least: the slight tilt of the woman’s head, the angle of the man’s foot—small hints of something bigger that he wasn’t sure he needed to tell her quite yet. Ian Kabra was no fool. He was skilled in composure, talented in diffusing a social bomb with a single sentence and a curve of his R’s. The shock of the details in the photo had hit him hard, absolutely, but he wouldn’t show it (maybe in the minute aspects of his body language—his white knuckles around the Polaroid, the twitch in his left eyelid, a furtive pallor tinting his ears).

His partner in the assignment, however, would react in a much different manner—one he wasn’t sure needed to be introduced in a room with a family member who already wanted to assassinate her.

Amy Cahill was no weak-kneed damsel, for sure, but she was fragile when it came to her parents. Finding out that her father had been an agent for the same organization that employed Ian’s mother to kill for knowledge had taken a toll on her a few years back. It was a massive relief when she found out her father only went through initiation and didn’t become a member (or, so they’d been told).

If Ian was honest with himself, he’d say Arthur Trent simply made the classic mistake of falling for his target’s charming ineptitude—a feat that Ian himself had been victim of—and left his life of crime to someone more suited. He regretted never asking the man about it when they met covertly during the Vesper debacle. An event that he had kept a secret for years, before breaking and telling Amy on a particularly morose Christmas the previous year. She, in turn, had never, to his knowledge, told anyone else—not even her brother. She was angry at first (he remembered ducking a half-hearted fist) but was emotionally emaciated by the whole story once he was able to get the accusations to stop.

Evidence that her mother (her role model, her hero, the legendary Hope Cahill) had been romantically or, at least—Ian shuddered to even think the word—sexually entangled with his father, Vikram Kabra, would rattle Amy too much to even correctly use a doorknob.

Yes, Ian would wait it out while the two of them carried out the mission. There was always the chance he was wrong. No need to be hasty, of course.

(Though, Ian was rarely wrong).

 Amy watched as Ian shoved papers into his pocket. He’d been acting suspicious the entire ride from the airport into the desert. There wasn’t much to stare at, just piles of sand, but he spent most of the ride with his face permanently glued to the glass. He was hiding something, but she decided not to press him. He would tell her if she needed to know, he always did—even though it sometimes took a few years.

Last Christmas, while she sat on the kitchen floor surrounded by broken glass and bits of turkey that saladin was already chewing on, he’d approached her to talk about her father. She thought it strange at first—Arthur was dead and she’d just ruined Christmas dinner—but as Ian continued to talk everything suddenly clicked. All of the cryptic text messages she’d seen on his phone before he’d yanked it away, the untagged presents under the Christmas tree, the way Ian would stiffen whenever Dan mentioned Arthur in any context. It was clear Ian thought the information would cheer her up, but all she could think about was how long he’d kept the secret from her. She had yelled at him, still sitting in the rest of the turkey dressing (she might’ve even thrown some at him, she couldn’t remember), and he’d waited patiently until she calmed down.

Despite his tendency to be impatient about receiving information and getting things done (and ordering food from take-out places), Ian always seemed to be more patient with Amy. She didn’t know whether it was a conscious effort or just the way he softened around her in general. She watched as he managed to tear his gaze away from the bleak desert outside the car to the vibrating cell phone on the seat beside him. He barely read the message before turning it off completely and putting it in his jacket pocket.

Ian never ignored messages. Something was definitely up.

She was just as he’d left her last—wrinkles forming around her lips from lack of a proper skin care regimen, uncombed dark hair in lakes upon her shoulders. Her eyes, the only thing different this time, looked as if someone had shined them with a silk handkerchief. His mother knew he was up to something, her gaze held a gleam for only Amy, and he had a sudden urge to make sure her handcuffs were securely fastened.

To her credit, Amy seemed to ignore this (or perhaps she hadn’t noted the curious animosity pouring from Isabel’s eyes) and took a seat across from her old enemy. Ian sat as well, his eyes flashing from his mother to Amy, ready to intervene if the incarcerated began to get...impolite. Even in an awful jumpsuit Isabel managed to drip with a regalty that Ian and his sister, Natalie, had always sought to emulate, but had failed time again. Isabel was the queen, at least she believed so, and it would stay true as long as she believed it. She commanded the grey room like a CEO of a fortune five hundred company—it was difficult not to fall under her spell.

Ian narrowly avoid physically shaking himself free of the hold she, unfortunately, still held, and proposed the question he and his companion had come to ask.

“Where is my father?”

Isabel smiled, a deceptively sweet turn of the lips—a smile Ian and Amy both knew very well. It usually came accompanied with a bargain (well, what are you going to do for me?), and most likely one that would not come easily.

“So, this is all business,” She sighed, a good imitation of a disappointed mother, “I did wonder why you’d brought a date to your visitation.”

Five years ago, Amy might have blushed at this comment—instead it was Ian’s cheeks that held a scarlet glow. Isabel’s casual remark had been for him, her charming son with a weakness in the form of genuine human fondness. It was something Isabel would never have for herself and she never missed an opportunity to exploit it in her children. He hoped she would leave Natalie at peace during this visit. He certainly wasn’t in the mood to hear about “what a waste of talent” her death had been, as if the only thing that mattered about Natalie was how skilled she was with a gun.

Amy crossed her legs, left over right (“always towards the most interesting person in the room,”), and he noted her foot barely two inches from his trouser leg. She had taken to other hints of their closeness recently, especially around third parties. He had wondered if she did it without knowledge—brushing of the hand, straightening of a lapel, dusting of a coat—perhaps these were simply things she felt an inclination to do. She was an older sister, the head of a family, and usually one of few females who frequented headquarters. She was used to comforting wayward Cahills and playing the maternal figure, though he knew she still felt like a child in the eyes of their family. If she needed it—god forbid, Isabel became nasty—he would reach for hand in a heartbeat, and he knew she would do the same for him if he needed it. The two of them had gained a tight bond through the years as they each took their places as heads of their respective branches of the family. They had watched loved ones die, stolen and lied for the sake of the Cahill name, and, occasionally, for the sake of their own lives, only to fall back on each other.

Amy did not need a friendly gesture to continue their mission, however, as she leaned forward to regard Isabel with a ferocity in her green eyes that Ian hadn’t seen since, well, Amy’s last encounter with his mother.

“What do you want, Isabel?” Amy steeled herself, a slight correction in her posture that Ian was sure Isabel had taken note of (she always had to have the upper hand, his mother—even if she didn’t actually have anything at all), “we’re prepared to negotiate.”

Ian watched as his mother’s eyes filled with a fire that he knew couldn’t be extinguished, only spread, and he was filled with the dread of what she’d say next.

Isabel smiled at Amy and the two women locked eyes across the metal table, the older woman’s pleasantry evaporating as she weighed her options. Her next words were directed at Ian, but her eyes never left Amy’s.

“I’d like to speak to the lovely Miss Cahill alone, please.”

He’s been dreading this day for exactly thirty days, ten hours, and something minutes since the bloody human resources department decided it would be a fantastically festive idea to hold a Secret Santa for the company. Hear, hear for team building and positive morale and all that jazz. One would think as the CEO and chairman of said company, he would have the option to exclude himself. Unfortunately, as the saying goes, don’t hire family. Especially if said family member works in HR and doesn’t take no for an answer.

Ian Kabra resists the urge to run his fingers through his hair for the tenth time tonight, but his sister has already swatted his hand away once, snapping that his hair is going to fall out and that “for god’s sake, it’s already artfully messy. You’re going to give a heart attack to that poor girl from IT.” 

The ballroom is beautiful, of course. His sister was practically born and bred with an acquired taste for the finest things in life. Pair that (expensive) aesthetic with Amy Cahill’s vision and the result is an actual winter wonderland in The Roof ballroom of the St. Regis. He can’t imagine the accounting department being too pleased at the bill his sister has surely wracked up to host their annual holiday party in such an extravagant setting, but well, she is her mother’s daughter.

Nursing his glass of scotch, he leans against a pristine white column and glances outside to the New York skyline and sighs, watching the twinkling snow drift down as once in a while, a harsh wind sends the white bits into a chaotic flurry. For all the ostentatious holiday society parties he’s had to attend this season, every single one had been more ridiculous, more gilded, and more glittery than the previous. He thinks all his irritation and sarcastic comments finally got to his sister because their party actually resembles a pretty winter scene like back home in England.

Enormous gothic chandeliers hang from the ceiling, each loaded with lit candles and draped with pure white feathers to resemble snow. The room is nearly dark, except for the bright blue lights that cast an almost eery glow from the stage and at every giant window in the room. Bunches of glowing stars shine overhead on the high ceiling, making the atmosphere feel as if they’re actually enjoying a night under the stars without the twenty degree weather that is currently New York City. He especially admires the winter-bare trees lined up across the ballroom with their thin branches wrapped in winking fairy lights.

Ian also specifically appreciates that he’s not going to be sent home with another stupid poinsettia centerpiece because no one in this city apparently can decorate for the holidays with any other flower. Thank God.

For all that’s said and done, his sister slash creative director and his literal right hand woman have done a wonderfully impressive job and he’s aware that he’s just grumpy because of the nerves.

Anxiety is not something he’s accustomed to, but god, is it terrible and terrifying. Of course, the recipient to his Secret Santa would receive the one name in his entire company of a fair few hundred that he dreaded most.

Amy Cahill isn’t a simple woman. He’s never been a poet, but he could wax flowery words for her. She’s talented, kind, and so clever beyond words. She’s brilliant in all the ways that matter and without even being aware of it, she’s magically turned him into a lovesick puppy with a mere roll of her lovely eyes.

And because he’s an idiot, he of course turns into an absolute tool in her presence. He flirts, he banters, and everything short of a harassment suit, such as staring at her (longingly) with hearts in his eyes far too much. He’s pathetic, really. (Natalie just adores reminding him that he’s a grown ass man with a schoolboy crush.)

But she is everything and he can’t afford to lose her - business wise and personal sanity wise. He knows she thinks he doesn’t know how much she does for him, but of course he does. He may be an idiot when it comes to her, but business savvy is what he was inherently blessed with and he’s not blind. She’s literally his right hand woman and god knows where he would be without her practicality and ingenuity.

He jams one hand into his pocket and throws back the rest of his drink. He had obsessed on what to get for her for weeks, quizzing her best friend and bugging her brother and was about to have the IT girl (who he was fully aware had a crush on him) hack her email if he had to, but lines. Lines were important.

A gift card was stupid. A ring was too much (maybe someday?). A book was too not enough for a woman like Amy. A vacation was impersonal (besides she was already notoriously difficult to pry from her office every day, let alone for a week). What could he possibly get for a woman who could have everything, but wanted nothing? A woman he appreciates for everything that she is and does (which is a lot considering his Type A tendencies, control freak habit and other such arrogant qualities, e.g. general pain in the ass-ness).

He knew she barely wore jewelry except for the small jade pendant her beloved grandmother had passed onto her. She didn’t like going out too much. She wasn’t into material things. She wasn’t always up-to-date on the latest technology. It had taken him ages to persuade her to finally get a new Macbook (IT had legitimately sent him a strongly worded suggestion that his COO should probably not be working on important things on a decade-old laptop that was breaking every other odd day.)

Ian knows the one thing she loves most is reading. Her books are her life and if she would accept it, he would’ve bought a damn library for her a la Beauty and the Beast. Except that might be a little overkill and she might run away at this over-the-top display slash declaration of his affections.

And then, one day, he had an idea.

It gives him hope that maybe, just maybe. It was the season for miracles, after all. After a history of shitty holiday memories, it would be kind of nice to have a good one - if only to see the look on her face when she opened his gift.

Which he’s now regretting because it hadn’t been cheap and if he knows Amy, he knows she might, might (read: definitely will) run away.

Oh well. He’s had to live with it since he purchased said gift and it’s too late to turn back now.

“You ready?” His sister finds him about two hours into the party and for the first time that he can remember, she gives him an encouraging pat on the arm and pushes him to the stage.

Clearing his throat, Ian flashes smile #5 - the crowd pleaser and gentle taps his champagne flute with a fork. Then he blabbers some rehearsed speech that Amy wrote for him about the holidays and his appreciation of his employees and their dedication to the company and yadda, yadda. Honestly, he memorized the thing a week ago when it was landed on his desk and good thing because he sincerely doesn’t know what he’s actually saying because his mouth has completely disconnected from his brain and is running on actual muscle memory.

She stands in a crowd of people and of course, like a siren, he’s instantly drawn to her, looking literally and figuratively stunning. Long auburn curls swept over one shoulder, silver stars pinning back the other side. In a shimmering vision of midnight blue, her smile is as bright as the star and crystal constellations that drape her slender form. 

It’s a good thing his mouth can operate without his brain because he’s sure Natalie would’ve helpfully jabbed him in the side awhile ago for ogling an employee. Thankfully and finally, Ian completes his last duty and his sister takes over after the round of applause and announces that they can start the gift giving exchange.

The urge to hide is strong. Butterflies are overwhelming his head and his heart and more importantly, his stomach and he genuinely thinks he’s going to be sick. Which would be terrible because this is a bespoke three-piece Armani suit and it would be a damned shame because he’s such a bloody coward that he’s going to ruin it because he can’t gather up the courage to just tell her that he loves--

“Hey.” 

Stars swarm his vision and Ian swallows hard, steeling his damn nerves and mentally telling them to shut the hell up as he turns around (no, he was not hiding in a dark, dark corner on the side where he thought no one could see him). “Hello, love.”

“Are you having another one of your mental conversations?” Amy looks amused, her arms crossing as she tilts her head to observe him. Internally, he counts the fact that she didn’t roll her eyes at his nickname as a small victory.

He shakes his head so fast, he almost gives himself whiplash. “No, just a bit overwhelmed after that speech is all. You know, holidays, expectations, and all that pressure.”

Her green eyes soften at that and she reaches for his arm, giving him a gentle squeeze. “You were great.” Then she laughs a little, a corner of her lips quirked up. “Don’t let it go to your big head, but it was good.”

“You should know, they were your inspiring words.” Her countenance is adorably shy as her eyes dart away, but he can see the delightful pink on her cheeks and it makes him brave and hopeful.

“Did you already find the recipient to your Secret Santa?”

Amy shrugs, but not before her eyes sweep over her shoulder at the excited rumblings of their coworkers’ conversations and the sounds of wrapping paper being torn. “Yeah, but I thought I would congratulate you on another banner year first.”

Like ripping a bandage off, he mentally chants over and over. “You, Amy Cahill, aren’t the least bit curious to find out who your Santa is?”

“I’m sure whatever he or she got me was nice, but I’m just ready to go home already.” She tugs at her gown. “You know parties aren’t really my thing.”

Ian really can’t imagine why considering she dazzles at every fancy occasion. “And which classic will you be curled up with tonight?”

Amy laughs at that, her head ducking with a sheepish grin playing on her lips at her own predictability. “Pride and Prejudice, of course.”

“1995, 2005, 2015 or the original?”

“Whichever is the closest to my bed,” she snorts. “I’m too tired to move for the next week after planning this thing. I need a vacation from your sister.”

He chuckles and raises a toast to her. “At least she’s not related to you.”

She rolls her eyes and playfully swats at him. “By marriage still counts. I swear Natalie is like a bloodhound. She can smell fear and she will hunt you down until you surrender. Thank God she can finally stop harassing me with texts every day, all day.”

A bark of laughter escapes him and he senses a few curious eyes looking in their direction, but he ignores them, his attention caught on the way her dimples crease her cheeks when her smile widens. “What about your Secret Santa? Don’t you know wanna know?”

Ian rolls his shoulders, then takes a sip of his drink. His blood is strumming with a lethal combination of nervousness and anticipation now. Thank God for alcohol and the way their conversation is distracting him. “I didn’t even want to participate.”

She arches a brow at that. “So you don’t care?”

“More like my minimum hope is that it’s not the girl from IT.” That results in a full-bodied laugh from her, curls thrown back and all as she shakes her head at him, eyes glowing with amusement. He notices how he doesn’t even need to specify who because, of course, she knows. She always does.

“Don’t tease. She’s been in love with you for awhile now.” Amy juts her chin pointedly at the person in question who’s standing across the ballroom. “She’s cute. Would it be so bad?”

He shrugs again. “She’s fine. I just don’t want to.” And from his peripheral, she’s watching at him with curiosity. Whilst in the papers, he’s an arrogant playboy with a penchant for pretty girls and wild night adventures, he hasn’t been like that in a long time since Oxford. A night stand here and there are his discretion, but his rule has always been not in the workplace, not in his family’s empire.

(Until he met her anyways.)

Amy hums, but doesn’t comment, knowing well enough to leave the matter alone. He imagines that she’ll still try to set him up with happiness at some later date in time because pot meet kettle, she thinks he needs love to complete his life. 

(He just needs her, really.)

“Amy!” Dan all but shouts across the room, waving madly at her.

She rolls her eyes and blows a loud sigh because they both know, trouble definitely complements her brother. “I’ll see you later?” She looks a little shy, a little hopeful and a little of something else in her eyes he wonders about.

And Ian lets her go because he’s not only the biggest idiot, but also definitely the biggest coward too.

He ducked out of the holiday party not but half an hour after the speeches and exchange, citing a headache slash broken heart or really, unrequited love. He’s just tired of being scared to tell her, but mostly it’s the fear of rejection that haunts like the blasted plague.

Loosening his tie, he tosses his suit jacket over one shoulder as he waits outside in the snow (because he’s a miserable git and he might as well as get snowed on as punishment) for the town car. As he wallows in self-induced loathing, the hotel doors behind him suddenly burst open and Amy stumbles out, eyes wild and glassy until they land on him.

“Amy?” He whips around at her surprising appearance, his eyes widen once he takes in her heavily breathing form and throws his jacket over her. “Where’s your coat?”

Trembling fingers hold up a small wooden antique box as her other hand tightly clutches the shiny emerald wrapping paper he had carefully chosen because he’s such a sap. “Ian, what is this?” Her words are careful and slow as if her mind is struggling to come up with what to say, which never, ever happens.

Knowing the jig is up, he exhales deeply, his fingers combing through his hair. “I’ll admit, love. I was hoping to be halfway home before you figured it out.”

“Ian.” Amy takes a step closer to him, her eyes seem impossibly greener than usual as snowflakes catch onto her dress and she doesn’t even care or notice that it’s freezing as determination hardens her delicate features. “Don’t play games. What is this?”

Before he can respond, Amy plows on, opening the box gently as if she’s doing so for the very first time again and shows it to him. “Because it looks like the $200,000 ring that went on auction at Sotheby’s in London last month.” She shakes her head wildly, her gaze searching intently, snapping back and forth between him and the box. “The one of only three pieces of jewelry that Jane Austen ever owned.”

He feels the strong urge to toe the ground like a little boy or hide behind his mother, which both would be mildly embarrassing to say the least. “It might be,” he quietly concedes, shoving his hands into his pockets because he doesn’t know what to do stop his own twitching.

“I just, how?” Her voice is shaking, brow pinched with confusion. “Why would you spend that much money on--”

On me? Ian hears the end of that question without her saying it and he hates it. He hates that her self-confidence has always been a point of worry and contention because he knows how extraordinary she is. How hard she works. How talented she is. How amazing she is at everything she touches. “You’re worth it.” His response is immediate as he tries to make her understand. “All of it and much more.”

“You have bewitched me, body and soul.” Amy quotes the tiny message he’d left on her gift (in his fancy calligraphy that she always teases him about) and he knows from her voice that she’s holding back tears and the way her cheeks are flushed from the cold or him, he doesn’t know, and her lower lip is visibly trembling despite the way she’s gnawing on it as she looks at him.

“And I love, I love,” he swallows around the swell of feeling in his heart, tentatively stepping closer to her and tucking a loose strand behind her ear as gold meets green, “I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”

“Your hands are cold,” Is all he hears before she tips her head back, presses on her toes, and throws her arms around him as her lips brush once, then twice against his before he crushes them together and he can taste her tears, her happiness, and most importantly, her. Her hands sift through his hair as he wraps his hands around her waist, tilting her head back as he kisses her harder. Her tongue finds his, all hot and wet and he groans a muffled sound when she nips at his bottom lip, inhaling his breathy sighs with another kiss and another and another as he chases her lips for more.

When air becomes a reluctant need, he lets her sink back to earth, his hands still tightly gripping her waist as his forehead rests against hers, their smiles so ridiculously goofy and probably just a touch of dopey, but neither of them lets go (nor does he ever plan to do so). 

Amy traces his smile with her thumb, that familiar, open look of affection that seems so much more obvious now that he can see, sees it (and her and them in his future) and his favorite dimples flash in her grin as she presses another kiss. “Merry Christmas, Ian.”

“Happy Christmas, love.”

In the end, she makes him donate the ring to the Jane Austen museum and allows him to make her a replica instead.