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galbalmuhet · 9 days ago

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The Coldest Heart

Summary: In the depths of a snowy winter, Richard Turpin’s young wife brings him a Christmas gift that stirs old wounds and unexpected warmth, forcing him to confront emotions he thought buried.

Pairing: Judge Turpin × Fem! Reader

Warnings: None

Also read on Ao3

You hesitated at the doorway, watching your lord husband reclined on the bed, the faint light from the snowy night casting a cold glow over his stern features. Richard Turpin, draped in his nightclothes, looked anything but welcoming as he stared out the window at the falling snow. He hadn’t noticed your arrival at first, lost in whatever thoughts crossed his mind during these dark winter nights. But when he finally saw you standing there, unmoving, his brows drew together in irritation.

“What are you still doing there?” he demanded, his baritone voice cold and sharp as steel. “Come here at once.”

You took a tentative step forward, hesitating as you clutched the small box behind your back. His scowl deepened as he sat up, clearly displeased with your reluctance.

“What are you hiding?” he asked, his voice edged with impatience. Turpin was a man who valued obedience, and he loathed surprises, especially ones that disrupted his carefully ordered world. “Show me what you’re concealing.”

You took a deep breath, slowly approaching him as he watched you, his hazel eyes narrowing with suspicion. When you finally stood close enough, you revealed the box, holding it out to him with both hands. He looked from your face to the gift, his expression darkening.

“I thought… I thought you might like a present,” you murmured, your voice soft and uncertain, feeling your cheeks flush under his intense gaze. “A Christmas gift. I know you don’t… celebrate the holiday,” you added quickly, “but… well, I love Christmas, and I thought perhaps…”

His face remained unreadable, and he made no move to take the box. You felt a flicker of doubt, wondering if perhaps you’d made a mistake, if this would only serve to anger him further. But after a moment’s pause, he reached out, his large hand dwarfing the small box as he lifted it from your grasp. His gaze shifted from you to the box, his brow furrowing in something that might have been curiosity—or perhaps irritation.

He opened the lid, revealing a pocket watch nestled inside. The delicate craftsmanship seemed almost fragile in his broad hand, the polished silver catching the dim light of the room. For a long moment, he said nothing, his face an impassive mask.

“I saved for it,” you offered hesitantly, breaking the silence. “From the allowance you give me each month. It’s money for dresses and… whatever else I may want, but I thought… I thought you deserved something as well.”

He turned the watch over, his thumb tracing the back, where a small inscription was engraved: To my lord husband, Richard. Time may pass, but my love for you is timeless.

When he still said nothing, you felt a pang of nervousness and continued, your voice trembling slightly. “I know you do not… hold this holiday dear,” you ventured, “but I hoped you might consider celebrating it this once, with me. Christmas has always been…” you trailed off as his gaze snapped back to yours, his expression unreadable.

“Christmas,” he repeated with a sneer, his voice a cold whisper. “Do you know what it was for me? A season of indulgence for others, a show of frivolous gifts and empty smiles.” He leaned closer, his fingers still gripping the watch tightly. “While I was locked away, the rest of the world was laughing, celebrating,” he scoffed, “as if there was any joy worth celebrating at all.”

You felt your heart sink, but you held his gaze, undeterred. “Perhaps,” you whispered, “you could create new memories. With me.”

For a brief moment, he seemed almost touched, but his expression hardened quickly. He tossed the watch onto the bed and leaned forward, grasping your chin firmly, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You waste your energy on foolish things,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “Gifts, celebrations… those are trifles, meant to distract the weak.”

His fingers tightened around your chin, and you felt his breath, hot against your skin, sending a thrill of nervousness and excitement through you. “You think you can sway me with presents? You believe a trinket will endear you to me?” He leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear as he continued, his voice barely more than a whisper. “My dear wife… if you want my attention, you must do better than this.”

You shivered under his touch, feeling a strange mixture of fear and anticipation as his fingers slid down to your neck, pressing just firmly enough to remind you of his power over you. “You’re such a naive little thing,” he murmured, his voice filled with a dark amusement. “Do you think a bit of holiday cheer will make a man like me soften?”

You swallowed, your voice barely a whisper. “I thought… I thought perhaps you might want to… try.”

He laughed, a low, mocking sound that sent a chill down your spine. “Try?” he repeated, his hand moving to the back of your neck, his grip firm. “I don’t indulge in childish dreams, my dear. But if you’re so eager to please…” He paused, his gaze raking over you, a slow, dark smile spreading across his face. “Perhaps I should make use of that eager mouth of yours tonight.”

Your cheeks flushed as his words sank in, but before you could react, he pulled you down onto your knees, his hand gripping your hair as he looked down at you, his hazel eyes gleaming with a wicked hunger. “Show me your gratitude,” he commanded, his voice a rough whisper. “Show me how much you want my approval, my dear little wife.”

You looked up at him, your heart racing as you took him in, the commanding presence, the intensity in his eyes. As you reached out, hands trembling slightly, he smirked, watching with a dark satisfaction as you followed his orders, surrendering yourself to his touch, hoping that somehow, in pleasing him, you might reach the heart he kept so tightly guarded.

Later that night, while you slept soundly beside him, Richard Turpin stood by the frosted window, his silhouette illuminated by the single, flickering candle on the table behind him. He held the pocket watch in his hand, its polished silver glinting faintly in the dim light, and stared out into the quiet night. Snow blanketed the city, softening the edges of London’s harsh streets, and faint lights glowed warmly from distant homes. For as long as he could remember, he had spent Christmas nights like this—alone, at a window, watching from afar as others celebrated with warmth and laughter, the kind of softness he’d never known.

In the faint reflection on the glass, he saw his own eyes, dark and narrowed. The memory of his mother came to him unbidden, her gentle touch, the way she had once held him close when he was very young. But she had died, and when she did, all that was kind or gentle in his world died with her. His father was a cold man, and the house became colder after she was gone. No gifts, no affection—just isolation and expectation. He could still recall the way his father sneered at the neighbors who celebrated Christmas, calling them fools for indulging in such sentiment.

Turpin’s thumb ran slowly over the inscription on the back of the watch, tracing each carefully engraved letter: To my lord husband, Richard. Time may pass, but my love for you is timeless. Foolish woman. He scoffed, feeling the faintest flicker of bitterness rise in his chest. You were such a fool��a pretty little thing, but a fool all the same, buying into this ridiculous sentiment. Did you truly believe a trinket could make a man like him feel? He clenched his jaw, but his thumb continued to stroke the watch in his hand, the cold metal warming under his touch.

Yet, try as he might to dismiss it, something about the gift lingered in his mind. He looked back at you, lying in the bed he rarely shared, your expression peaceful in sleep, untroubled. You’d saved for this, you’d said. Gone without luxuries and indulgences he provided to put this in his hand. The thought struck him unexpectedly. She saved to give me something, without expectation of return. An odd feeling twisted in his chest, and he didn’t care for it.

Turpin’s jaw tightened, and he turned back to the window, his gaze hardening. You were young, naïve—he had married you for heirs, nothing more. Yet, foolish as you were, you had wormed your way into the cracks he’d sworn long ago to seal shut. His fingers tightened around the watch, and he could almost hear your voice again, soft and full of hope as you’d asked him to celebrate Christmas with you.

Christmas. A holiday for the weak, for those who clung to such childish dreams. He told himself he despised it because it was useless, a frivolity meant to distract those too weak to see the world for what it was. But deep down, he knew the truth was more bitter. He despised Christmas because it reminded him of what he had never had, what he never would have. No warmth, no love—only the cold echo of loneliness, year after year, as he watched others enjoy what he’d been denied.

Yet now, here you were, this young wife of his, thinking you could change that. How foolish. And yet… how persistent. He glanced back at you, unwilling to acknowledge the faint sense of warmth that settled over him as he did so. You lay there, still and serene, blissfully unaware of the darkness that clouded his mind, the bitterness that twisted within him. He watched the steady rise and fall of your chest, the delicate curve of your face softened by sleep.

A whisper of doubt crept into his mind, something unfamiliar, something he didn’t care to examine too closely. You had brought something into his life he hadn’t anticipated—a quiet presence, a persistent kindness he found both maddening and oddly… reassuring. It made him restless, agitated. He despised weakness, but as he watched you there, he wondered, in spite of himself, if he was the true fool for clinging so tightly to his solitude.

He looked down at the watch in his hand again, feeling its weight, and a strange sense of gratitude stirred within him. He pushed it down, refusing to let it take root. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t the kind of man who needed anyone, let alone a woman. Yet, holding that watch, knowing the effort you had put into it, he felt… seen. A strange warmth spread through his chest, a feeling he quickly dismissed.

“Foolish woman,” he muttered under his breath, almost as if trying to convince himself, his voice a harsh whisper in the quiet of the room. But his grip on the watch softened, his thumb tracing the inscription once more, lingering on your name. He knew he couldn’t—wouldn’t—give you what you wanted. He would not celebrate Christmas. Yet, as he returned to bed, lying beside you in the dark, the faint warmth of your gesture stayed with him, as unwelcome as it was… and he wondered, for the briefest of moments, what it might be like to let his guard down.

And as he closed his eyes, still clutching the pocket watch in his hand, he couldn’t deny that, perhaps, for the first time, he might just like the idea of someone caring enough to try.

The next afternoon, you sat quietly in the drawing room, the soft clack of knitting needles filling the silence as you worked on a scarf. The warmth of the fire crackled nearby, warding off the chill that permeated the grand but frigid house. You focused on each careful stitch, lost in thought, barely noticing the soft footfalls approaching until a servant cleared her throat gently beside you.

“Madam,” she murmured, bowing slightly as she held out a small, polished wooden box. “This was sent to you, from your husband.”

You blinked in surprise, setting aside your knitting. “From… my husband?” You took the box carefully, a flicker of curiosity mingling with confusion. This wasn’t like Turpin. You couldn’t recall him ever sending gifts, let alone entrusting one to the servants to deliver. It seemed unlike him to bother with such things.

“Thank you,” you managed, dismissing the servant with a nod, though your fingers trembled slightly as you held the box. The polished wood was cool and smooth under your touch, and you couldn’t quite shake the strange feeling that lingered. Carefully, you lifted the lid, your breath catching as you beheld what lay inside.

Nestled in the velvet lining was a necklace—a delicate piece, unlike anything you’d ever seen before, its silver chain shimmering faintly even in the dim light of the room. A small, intricate pendant hung from it, a design that seemed almost out of place with the severity you’d come to associate with your husband’s taste. The metalwork was graceful, elegant, a thing of beauty you couldn’t quite reconcile with the cold, harsh man you’d married.

Your fingers brushed over the pendant, marveling at its unexpected softness, its delicacy. Turpin, your stern, unyielding husband, had chosen this. But why?

As you sat there, studying the necklace, you were unaware of the figure lurking just beyond the threshold of the doorway, hidden in the shadows. Turpin leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you as he watched, unnoticed. He hadn’t planned to spy—no, he had merely lingered by the doorway, almost against his will, as if compelled by some quiet, unfamiliar need to witness your reaction. He had sent the servant to deliver the gift rather than face you himself, uncertain of the reason he’d even bought it that morning, yet now he found himself ensnared in the anticipation of your response.

You held the necklace to your chest, a soft, unguarded smile breaking across your face, and the sight struck him with unexpected force. He could see the warmth in your expression, the gentle light in your eyes as you turned the necklace over in your hands, your fingers tracing its shape as though it were the most precious thing in the world.

For a long moment, he watched, feeling a strange mixture of satisfaction and something else—something deeper, a sensation that twisted uncomfortably in his chest. Perhaps he had bought it out of a sense of duty, a repayment for the gift you’d given him the night before. And yet, as he watched you smile softly to yourself, the thought rang hollow. This wasn’t just repayment. The realization left him restless, troubled.

Your fingers brushed over the necklace, tracing its delicate chain with a gentle touch. “Thank you,” you murmured quietly, almost to yourself, though you knew he couldn’t hear. Still, the words felt meaningful, as if acknowledging his presence somehow softened the silence that always stretched between you. In that moment, you found yourself hoping that this gesture—small though it was—might be a sign of something more.

Turpin’s gaze darkened, a faint crease appearing between his brows as he clenched his jaw, feeling the unfamiliar weight of something he refused to name. Sentimentality was a weakness he despised. He didn’t want to care about the joy you felt or the quiet hope reflected in your eyes. And yet, as he watched you in silence, he couldn’t shake the small flicker of warmth that had taken root in his chest.

Unbidden, memories surfaced—memories of cold winters, of empty halls filled only with silence, of Christmases that had brought neither warmth nor comfort, only the reminder of what he lacked. He could still remember the sting of his father’s cold, dismissive words, the endless solitude of holidays spent alone. And now, here you were, offering something he had never truly known—a kindness, a warmth he wasn’t certain he deserved.

In that quiet moment, he felt something crack within him, a hint of vulnerability that left him feeling unsteady. He turned abruptly, retreating from the doorway, unwilling to let himself linger any longer, unwilling to face whatever emotions were stirring within him.

Meanwhile, you sat alone, gently clasping the necklace around your neck, a soft smile gracing your lips as the cool metal settled against your skin. A warmth spread through you, a small but cherished moment that gave you hope—hope that perhaps, behind his guarded exterior, there was more to your husband than he dared show. You knew better than to expect too much from him, but as you touched the pendant, you allowed yourself to believe, just for a moment, that this simple gift might be a step toward something more.

And perhaps, in the quiet solitude of his study, Richard Turpin allowed himself to believe it too, his hand lingering over the pocket watch he’d tucked into his coat. For the first time in years, he felt a quiet sense of warmth—however unwelcome—settle over him. And though he would never admit it, he found himself hoping, if only for a moment, that maybe, just maybe, he could allow himself a taste of what he’d denied for so long.

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