December 9th
Gift: As Cold As Death - or part thereof.
Rating: T because Antares is a potty-mouthed Welshman.
Author: penniless1
Notes: A hint of the continuation of my aiw_big_bang fic, Alive Without Breath.
As Alice stepped out of Heathrow airport, she was far from amused. She gave a hard glare to the white, fluffy ‘stuff‘ floating down on her with chill impunity, her growl ghosting out of her mouth in a long, thin fog that swiftly turned to ice.
“It. Is. Too bloody cold!”
“Quite, mae laddie,” Antares grumbled as he wafted into existence next to her, glad to be away from Lydia and her tendency to curse his mangling of Speech; she’d probably have had a fit at the way he’d just slaughtered “My lady.” A snap of his fingers brought Alice a much-needed cup of hot tea in a well-sealed paper cup. The young woman took it greedily, letting her face bask in the steam as she pierced the top.
Alice mentally stopped apologizing to Lyds and Bee for dragging them and the ‘young’ poltergeist to New York first to see the ‘real’ world as she eyed him over the rim. The cadaverous ghost still looked...well, dead...but his fashion sense was stunning enough to make a difference. His (lifted) Marc Jacobs trench coat layered over his (stolen) self-altered, Brook Bros. burgundy suit and (heisted) Gucci leather ankle boots (with the red and green lines, no less!) graced his sharp, lean lines; the red mop of hair under the trademark hat had been conjured into a messy ponytail that barely freed his currently heterochromatic eyes.
If only Betelgeuse’s other influences on the Scot - Welsh-sounding - specter were so benign. Those thefts really needed to be toned down. And the strip clubs. And the drinking. Not to mention what they’d done to the entire security line at the airport...
Well, may not that one so much - she doubted that TSA would be giving her or Lydia anything resembling an ‘enhanced pat-down’ anytime ever again.
”If they do, they‘ll have to deal with our dead pimps,” Alice thought drolly to herself as she eyed the Hatter again. It took a supreme amount of willpower to avoid chortling Earl Grey through her nostrils.
“Wha’ tha’ bluhdy Hell is this shurkm?” Antares grumbled as he flicked the snow off of his shoulders. Alice swallowed harshly around a gulp of tea as Jay-Z’s voice started up in the back of her mind.
“It’s snow, Ant. Haven’t you ever seen snow?”
Antares glowered - ghoulishly no less! - at his mistress, then back up at the grey-laden skies spitting ice flakes down on them. He had to resist the urge to shake his claymore (sheathed in his first-ever Christmas gift and strapped carefully onto his back) threatening at the very cloud that had attempted to freeze him into a ghost-icle while he rode on the plane’s wing and watch Alice’s very sweetly sleeping form.
“Remaends mae ‘f ash floatin’ down on Sadness ‘n’ Rage,” he grunted out at last. “‘F battlefields ‘n’ burnt out clans."
He managed not to look at the blonde at his side as she surreptitiously bumped shoulders against him. He remembered the last time he’d told a muchly reluctant Alice about his clan’s demise - this sort of comfort was better than a sad, puzzled look from the rim of his Hat.
“It doesn‘t usually snow like this,” Alice murmured apologetically after a long pause. The steam of her tea wafted between them, warming her cheek as she studiously avoided Antares’ now blue-grey eye. She scuffed her snow boots and kicked her carry-on bag until both sides of his face agreed on what they wanted to show. She was eternally grateful that Sadness had been the one next to her. She wasn‘t quite ready to deal with Rage.
“We’ve a different sort of battlefield ahead of us,” Alice finally mused out loud as she drained the dregs of her tea. Carefully turning her back, she allowed the poltergeist a bit of time to wipe his face with his burnt sienna-colored silk handkerchief. After pulling her carry-on bag onto her shoulder and zipping up her winter jacket, she stuck her tea-toasted hands in her pockets and nudge the phantasm.
“C’mon, then - let’s go meet my sister.”
“Hurrah ‘n’ all tha’ - damn this bluhdy shurkm!” The Phantom Hatter roared as he slipped on his first patch of ice.
Rating: T because Antares is a potty-mouthed Welshman.
Author: penniless1
Notes: A hint of the continuation of my aiw_big_bang fic, Alive Without Breath.
As Alice stepped out of Heathrow airport, she was far from amused. She gave a hard glare to the white, fluffy ‘stuff‘ floating down on her with chill impunity, her growl ghosting out of her mouth in a long, thin fog that swiftly turned to ice.
“It. Is. Too bloody cold!”
“Quite, mae laddie,” Antares grumbled as he wafted into existence next to her, glad to be away from Lydia and her tendency to curse his mangling of Speech; she’d probably have had a fit at the way he’d just slaughtered “My lady.” A snap of his fingers brought Alice a much-needed cup of hot tea in a well-sealed paper cup. The young woman took it greedily, letting her face bask in the steam as she pierced the top.
Alice mentally stopped apologizing to Lyds and Bee for dragging them and the ‘young’ poltergeist to New York first to see the ‘real’ world as she eyed him over the rim. The cadaverous ghost still looked...well, dead...but his fashion sense was stunning enough to make a difference. His (lifted) Marc Jacobs trench coat layered over his (stolen) self-altered, Brook Bros. burgundy suit and (heisted) Gucci leather ankle boots (with the red and green lines, no less!) graced his sharp, lean lines; the red mop of hair under the trademark hat had been conjured into a messy ponytail that barely freed his currently heterochromatic eyes.
If only Betelgeuse’s other influences on the Scot - Welsh-sounding - specter were so benign. Those thefts really needed to be toned down. And the strip clubs. And the drinking. Not to mention what they’d done to the entire security line at the airport...
Well, may not that one so much - she doubted that TSA would be giving her or Lydia anything resembling an ‘enhanced pat-down’ anytime ever again.
”If they do, they‘ll have to deal with our dead pimps,” Alice thought drolly to herself as she eyed the Hatter again. It took a supreme amount of willpower to avoid chortling Earl Grey through her nostrils.
“Wha’ tha’ bluhdy Hell is this shurkm?” Antares grumbled as he flicked the snow off of his shoulders. Alice swallowed harshly around a gulp of tea as Jay-Z’s voice started up in the back of her mind.
“It’s snow, Ant. Haven’t you ever seen snow?”
Antares glowered - ghoulishly no less! - at his mistress, then back up at the grey-laden skies spitting ice flakes down on them. He had to resist the urge to shake his claymore (sheathed in his first-ever Christmas gift and strapped carefully onto his back) threatening at the very cloud that had attempted to freeze him into a ghost-icle while he rode on the plane’s wing and watch Alice’s very sweetly sleeping form.
“Remaends mae ‘f ash floatin’ down on Sadness ‘n’ Rage,” he grunted out at last. “‘F battlefields ‘n’ burnt out clans."
He managed not to look at the blonde at his side as she surreptitiously bumped shoulders against him. He remembered the last time he’d told a muchly reluctant Alice about his clan’s demise - this sort of comfort was better than a sad, puzzled look from the rim of his Hat.
“It doesn‘t usually snow like this,” Alice murmured apologetically after a long pause. The steam of her tea wafted between them, warming her cheek as she studiously avoided Antares’ now blue-grey eye. She scuffed her snow boots and kicked her carry-on bag until both sides of his face agreed on what they wanted to show. She was eternally grateful that Sadness had been the one next to her. She wasn‘t quite ready to deal with Rage.
“We’ve a different sort of battlefield ahead of us,” Alice finally mused out loud as she drained the dregs of her tea. Carefully turning her back, she allowed the poltergeist a bit of time to wipe his face with his burnt sienna-colored silk handkerchief. After pulling her carry-on bag onto her shoulder and zipping up her winter jacket, she stuck her tea-toasted hands in her pockets and nudge the phantasm.
“C’mon, then - let’s go meet my sister.”
“Hurrah ‘n’ all tha’ - damn this bluhdy shurkm!” The Phantom Hatter roared as he slipped on his first patch of ice.