(no subject)
...merry christmas ♥...
Candy Canes
Chitose
for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn
When Chitose smiles, his face lights up like the sun. And he's almost always smiling - at least around Annabelle, who's discovered that small things can make her friend very happy. Like candy canes, for instance, even though there's no sugar here. They still taste like candy canes, and that's what matters.
"The thing is," she says, picking another red-striped cane, "they don't normally grow on trees. I mean, we hang them on trees, but that's not the same thing." Chitose is grinning at her, a candy cane dangling out of his mouth, his fluffy hair sticking out all askew from under his Santa hat. "Don't look at me like that, Chitose, I know they don't just grow. They're wrapped in cellophane."
"Ah~ But these ones do, Annabelle." Which is really hard to argue with, because she's seen them grow from little buds to full-on candy canes with her own eyes, and even though Annabelle knows for sure that's completely impossible...well, it's just happened. She sighs, and strips the wrapping from one, sucking on the exposed end. Chitose is watching her, laughter in his eyes.
"What?"
"Nothing~" And then, after a pause, "maybe you should do that where Simone can see you."
"What?" Annabelle asks again, realizes, blushes furiously, and only recovers her composure when Chitose has stopped giggling some time later. "Nah," she says, "you need to eat one of these in front of Koganei."
Chitose almost inhales his candy cane, and laughs, and takes off his Santa hat to put it on her head. "Maybe we should give them both candy canes," he suggests. Annabelle grins.
"C'mon, then. We're gonna need to pick some more."
Snow
Claire
all is calm, all is bright
Winter and night are the worst times for Ivy - the cold seeps into her bones, freezing her, reminding her why most of her babies choose this time of year to tuck themselves away deep into the earth or slow their heartbeats, the flow of their sap, and pull their energy back into their warm trunk. She would, too, if she could. The greenhouse isn't heated enough to withstand winter's rage. Through the very top of the peaked roof, where snow hasn't yet piled up, she can see the stars. It's so quiet that she can even hear the faint squeak as the greenhouse door opens, far away.
"Ivy?"
Claire's voice is hesitant, as if she's not sure what she'll find. For a moment Ivy considers hiding; she doesn't really want Claire to see her like this, so vulnerable and helpless. She'll hurt you, she'll kill you, the little voice inside whispers, tinged with fear and poison. Ivy fights it down. Claire won't hurt her. She hesitates, then walks out of the greenery, manages a smile, and feels a soft glow inside at the sight of Claire's immediate smile in response.
"Claire," she says, then, "hey."
"Hey."
Claire's bundled up, snug and warm in puffy vest and beanie and long woolen top, and her cheeks and nose are red. She's the perfect Christmas angel, with that blonde hair and those blue eyes and all-American goodness, and when she smiles it seems as though the world lights up around Ivy. The supervillain looks away, and can't stop herself shivering at the sight of the snow falling past her glass walls.
The frozen ground crunches beneath Claire's feet as she steps closer, and Ivy looks up to see worry in her hero's eyes. Claire's hand, bare and warm, brushes against her arm, hesitates, and then the girl's fingers slide up to her shoulder and Ivy finds herself pulled close, into a gentle hug. Everywhere their skin touches burns like fire, like a blazing star. Ivy gasps, wraps her arms around Claire, burying her face against the girl's shoulder, and feels herself begin to melt inside.
Trim the Tree
Daisuke
each year you bring to me delight
"Ivy-san."
"No." Ivy holds the secateurs out of reach, ably assisted by the vines drawing her up to the ceiling. Daisuke, stuck under an unyielding branch, sighs at her.
"Ivy," he says patiently, and wisely omits the '-san', "it doesn't fit."
"It's a tree. They're not supposed to fit."
Foliage pokes out of the windows and doors, pins Daisuke down near the floor. Ivy strokes a branch, cooing, and rolls comfortably into the tree's embrace. Pine needles knit together to form a secure cradle for her, tucked snugly against the tree's trunk. "Besides," she tells it, or possibly the man trapped underneath her, "what a good little baby it was to work so hard to come in here just for us. Who's a good sapling? You are! Mommy won't let that nasty man cut any of your branches off."
"Ah..." Daisuke tries, "but Ivy, it's in my cabin."
"You wanted a Christmas tree." The tone of her voice implies that he should be grateful she's deigned to do anything at all to provide him with a tree, but there's a note of laughter, carefully hidden behind that arrogance. The tree's roots are feeling around, sliding themselves into cracks between the planks of the cabin's floor, slithering out to prop the door open. His bed's somewhere beneath a carpet of pine needles - his makeup case would be, too, if he hadn't thrown himself protectively over it. Clock Up's useless to him, trapped beneath the branches and unable to reach his belt as he is, but she's not going to hurt him.
At least, he doesn't think she is.
"And would you like an itty-bitty star on your crown?" Ivy coos to the tree. "Or a little zombie head? We'll get Gon to decorate you and make you all pretty." She pauses; without looking, he can almost see the smirk on her face. "Oh, I know. We'll decorate you with mistletoe."
Herald Angels
Dancy
the angels keep their watch of wondering love
Dancy seems more distracted, this time of year. Liir hovers rather than trying to talk to her, tucking himself into his cloak to keep the snow out of his hair and eyelashes. It slides down his back, too, if he's not careful, and makes him jump and yell, and if he jumps and yells then he'll distract Dancy from...whatever she's doing. Not that he's sure what she's doing, or why, or even if she is doing anything. But she always looks at the same place, and from the way she moves and the expressions on her face Liir thinks he can almost see something there, in the space between light and shadows. He doesn't dare bring it up, though. He's bad enough when it comes to dealing with girls, without adding anything about liking to watch her. He doesn't think she'll understand if he tells her he just admires her strength, her graceful movements, the way she brushes silky white hair away from her face.
It takes a lot of courage to take her a Lurlinemas gift - or Christmas, what they call it here - and Elphie isn't any help, although, he thinks, she did try a little. And he did try to wrap it, and tie a bow on it, and although it doesn't look at all like the computer says Christmas gifts are supposed to look he hopes she might recognize it anyway. She looks startled when he marches up to her, present thrust out of front in him in a kind of entreaty not to scowl and glare and send him away. She doesn't take it, either, just stands and watches him until he gives up and lets his hand drop to his side again and tries, very uncertainly, words instead.
"Hello," he says, hesitates, screws up his strength again. "I brought you something, Dancy." And then, because you're supposed to, "merry Christmas?"
Dancy stares at him a little longer, but this time when he holds it out she reaches a hand out to accept it. Liir blushes madly, ducks his head and tries to hide in the hood of his cloak so she won't see. She does, of course, and smiles. Liir manages a tiny smile back, and worries that perhaps he's gone so red he's actually glowing.
Sleigh Ride
Elphaba (Elphie)
but if you'll really hold me tight, all the way home I'll be warm
To be perfectly honest, Glinda has no idea at all where they're going, or - at this point - why, or even how the sleigh got there, but none of these things are really important at all. Because the thing is that Elphie's finally calmed down enough to settle back into her seat - which Glinda's been doing all along, having decided rather early that jumping only means she'll most likely fall into the snow and perhaps break a few bones but on the whole it seems unlikely that she'll die, and so that could be rather unpleasant, and the sleigh isn't precisely unpleasant. Odd, certainly, but not in a bad way. Besides, it's not quite big enough for both of them, and being the smaller, it means she's tucked against Elphaba's side, and the green girl's arm has come to rest around her shoulders, and that's most certainly not unpleasant at all.
"You really needn't worry, Elphie," she ventures.
"I'm not worrying."
"Yes you are," Glinda insists. "You're ever so tense."
There's silence, which means she's right, although she could hardly be wrong because Elphie is tense and it's terribly hard not to tell that when you're quite this close. Glinda sighs. Drastic times, she supposes, call for drastic measures.
"Elphaba."
When the green girl glances down, Glinda's ready for her, and presents her own face tilted upwards. And yes, for a moment it means Elphie's even more tense, but with some persuasion she settles down enough to let Glinda rest her head against Elphie's bony shoulder, and holds the blonde girl a little bit closer, and watches the stars go past overhead.
Gift from a King
Elphaba (Fae)
frankincense to offer have I
When he leans down to press a kiss against the crown of her head, Elphaba doesn't jump or slap at him, like she did those long months ago when she was new and he still wasn't quite sure what to do with this girl who was his Fae and wasn't, all at once. Now she makes a funny little sound, half irritation and half pleased surprise, and Fiyero grins and kisses her hair again, sliding his arms around her waist.
"Fiyero," she says, and the hint of irritation in her voice makes him smile. Elphie's never happier, he's sure, than when she's got something to scold him about. She snaps the book she was reading shut and lets it drop to the floor, but not before he sees the cover - Animal Farm, it reads, and even the capitalization is right. "I do believe you try to find me at the most inopportune moments."
"It's a gift," the prince answers mildly, and pulls out the chair next to her, catching her reluctant smile. "And I've one for you, too."
"Fiyero."
"It's Lurlinemas."
She wants to argue about it, he can see, but she takes the little box he offers anyway, and is that the hint of a blush? Fiyero leans over to kiss her cheek, surprised when she turns her head towards him and reaches out to tangle her fingers in his hair, holding him where he is so she can kiss him.
Past, Present, Future
Elphaba (the Witch)
what child is this?
"Tell me," Elphie says idly, "about Kiamo Ko."
She's never asked, before, about his home - if he has a home - or about his childhood - if he had one to speak of. Her fingers comb idly through her son's hair, teasing out tangles, straying to trace the curves of his ears and jaw. Drowsy and half-enchanted by the unfamiliar closeness, Liir takes a while to gather his thoughts together enough to answer, curling himself up a little tighter to be closer to her. He's grateful that she's allowing this affection, even encouraging him to keep his head resting in her lap. He never wants this moment to end, not while he's safe and warm and Elphie's being gentle and comforting.
"Tell me about you," he dares to bargain. Elphie's fingers still, and he's sure she holds her breath for a moment. Then she lets it out in a sigh, and he's sure the lilt in her voice is amusement.
"Me?"
"And Fiyero," Liir adds, pleased she's not angry.
"Insatiable curiosity," Elphie murmurs, "you must get that from me."
"I can tell you about him too. What Sarima told me, and Irji and Manek and Nor."
She thinks about it for much longer than he'd like, but at least she's gone back to stroking his hair gently, finding the outlines of his cheeks and neck. "I'd like to hear about him," she decides, eventually. "Your father."
"My father," Liir agrees. Elphie's cool fingers rest on his shoulder. Drowsing, he's sure he hears her speak again.
"There's still so much I don't yet know."
Silent Night
Harley
let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me
Harley has an inexhaustible supply of Christmas carols. And if they were proper carols, all solemn and serious and above all things quiet - all right, maybe she's thinking of hymns, and not carols - Ivy wouldn't mind. It's just that after the tenth repetition of Jingle Bells, in Harley's high-pitched squeaks, Ivy really wants to kill her. But Harley's shimmying around the cabin dressed in a silky red dress that's far too short and clings, and between that and the Santa hat bobbing to the same rhythm as her pigtails, Ivy's having a lot of trouble concentrating. The carols, she decides, are messing with her head.
"Reeeeeeed~"
In the absence of a Christmas tree, Harley's drawn a plum pudding on the wall, and is now hammering a zombie angel on top of it. A lot of persuasion was necessary to convince her that not only did the pudding not need to be actually set on fire, Ivy would really prefer it if there wasn't even a picture of a fire. And in fact singing Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire could probably be avoided, too. Why is this holiday all about cutting down trees and burning things? Sure, Easter's about rabbits, and Valentine's Day involves the murder of a lot of flowers, but Christmas? Millions of trees murdered every year!
"Red, Red, I found the best song ever!" Harley's bouncing up and down with excitement. Ivy blinks at her, and tries not to focus on the neckline of Harley's dress. "You've gotta hear it."
"Please, Harl, no more so - "
It's too late; Harley's already pressed play, and the infuriating beat of the Macarena is pounding through the cabin. Ivy claps her hands over her ears, but it's too late; the song has combined with Jingle Bells to create Christmas music from hell.
"Harley!" Not that Harl's listening, or possibly she can't even hear her over the booming beat. Ivy grabs the speakers and throws them - hard - against the sketched plum pudding on her wall. There's a sudden, blissful quiet. Harley's staring at her, mouth open and eyes wide. Ivy holds her hands out, palms up. "Harley. This Christmas we are having a silent night."
Sugarplums
Ico
above thy deep and dreamless sleep
"Shhhh. Imoen! Shhhhhh, he'll hear you."
The boy turns restlessly in his bed, and both women freeze in the doorway.
"It's a really stupid idea to have Preenella leave presents at the foot of their beds, anyway." The second voice is a little higher, and far more amused. "'Specially if you're wearing those dresses. You'll trip over Yorda's toys."
"I shall not. And besides, it's traditional." The floorboards creak, and then there's a clatter and a muffled yelp as something wooden goes skidding across the floor into a cupboard. Someone giggles.
"Told you."
"I didn't trip on it, Imoen, I just - what was that, anyway? Didn't we have a discussion about picking up one's toys when one's finished playing with them? I'm sure we did."
"Can't discuss that kinda thing on Lurlinemas."
Someone sighs. A second set of footsteps, much nimbler than the first, somehow manage to avoid any more loud creakings, and then petticoats rustle as someone brushes against them.
"Thank you, darling. ...you did take the daggers out, didn't you?"
"'Course I did."
"Then I'm not going to cut my hand open on them?"
"'Course not, they're in sheaths."
There's a short silence.
"Imoen."
"He had a sword before."
"We're in Oz now! He doesn't need a sword! Or daggers! He needs - he needs jack-in-the-boxes and, and skipping ropes and darling little shoes with bows on the top!"
Another silence before someone starts giggling.
"Did you really get him shoes with bows on the top?"
"He'll look positively adorable." The voice is sulky. More giggles from her partner in crime, quickly muffled by a "shhhhh!"
"Betcha he'll like mine better."
"I," and just from the triumphant tone of voice, the image of someone holding up a finger to make their ultimate point is quite clear, "have bought him sugarplums."
"Those're disgusting."
"They are not."
"Miss Glinda?"
Both women freeze again, perfectly still. Then one seems to vanish into thin air. The other one makes an irritated hissing noise, and flaps at the air where her partner used to be before calming herself down and turning to the child.
"Yes, darling. It's just me. I thought I...heard Preenella on the balcony."
"Really? Is she really coming? Is she really here?"
"Shhh, Ico, my sweet." The woman comes over to the boy's bed, and the bedframe creaks as she sits on the mattress. "She'll only come in if you're asleep. So you must go back to sleep now, and when you wake up, it'll be ever so exciting."
"Okay." The boy yawns, and settles back down. The woman leans over, and brushes his hair away from his forehead before kissing his head.
"Merry Lurlinemas, Ico," she whispers, and waits for his breathing to slow again into drowsy slumber.
Tinsel
Imoen
o'er the world a star is sweetly gleaming
There's a long line of tinsel trailing from the mess hall through the snow, glittering in the moon's soft glow. It leads - as Glinda entirely expected it would - towards their cabin, and, she is reasonably sure, a certain tiny pseudodragon. Imoen stumbles and catches herself, grabbing Glinda's hand and leaning against the young witch for a little longer than she needs to, taking the opportunity to wrap her arm around Glinda's waist and snuggle in against her as the blonde girl rests her own arm across Imoen's shoulders. The stars sparkle above them, the night frozen and perfect and just cold enough that they have the perfect excuse to stay wrapped around each other until the sun comes out. But that won't be until tomorrow, and tonight there's warm blankets in their cabin, a bed just big enough for two - and, with any luck, a little dragon who's so exhausted after a long day of chasing shiny objects around camp that he won't find the energy to try to climb between them.
Glinda's the one to open the door, Imoen having buried her face against her fiancee's neck in order to stifle giggles, and they both wince when it creaks loudly. But there's no small mobile disaster zone flying out to greet them, nothing bounding around their legs and trying to climb bare skin to reach Imoen's shoulder - just tiny snores, barely louder than a mouse's squeak. Glinda bites her lip to keep from laughing, and presses Imoen's head harder against her neck when the thief lets out an undignified snort. "Darling," she murmurs, hardly daring to breathe it, "we really mustn't wake him."
Gargamel's asleep curled up in a mound of tinsel, his round tummy rising and falling with every little snore, a strand tucked into his mouth lest someone try to steal his new treasure in the night. It's wrapped around his paws, piled under his wings - held down, even in his sleep, to keep the tinsel nearby and safe. Imoen peeks, convulses in giggles, and clings to her witch, nearly sobbing with restrained laughter. They are, Glinda decides, the most adorable things she has ever known.
Stockings
Leto
glory streams from heaven afar
"What are these?"
Leto knows everything, Liir thinks - he's the smartest, the cleverest, the bravest, he can do anything and beat anyone (if he wants to, anyway) and make anyone obey him just by asking them nicely. Except maybe Elphaba, who's a force of nature. But anyone else. And Elphie doesn't know about Christmas - he's not sure she's very good with Lurlinemas, either - but Leto will. Leto will know everything about it.
The problem is the stories are confusing and jumbled, and Liir's not certain whether he's just stupid (which is quite possible) or whether they don't really make sense. And Leto, being Leto, doesn't necessarily explain everything clearly; he gives hints, and draws parallels, but that's not the same as explaining it. Liir hasn't mentioned that, because if he does, Leto will give him that look, and that smile, and then all the words will vanish and he'll be left gaping like a goldfish again. For some reason Leto always seems to have that effect on him.
"They are stockings," Leto says, and his voice is warm and entrancing. It's too late; Liir catches himself staring, tries to pretend he isn't.
"I know that," he flusters, trying to recover, "but why?"
"For Santa Claus to put presents in."
"Oh."
Leto smiles at him, and Liir blushes beet red under the force of the other boy's gaze. This is like it would feel to be swallowed up in the sun, he thinks, to be surrounded by glory and light.
Snowman
Luffy
I am a poor boy too
"Snowmen!"
Luffy says it in exactly the same way as he's said "candy!" and "Sunny!" in the past, so Liir knows that whatever it is, it's something that any reasonable person would not only know, but be hugely in love with. He sighs. Luffy's already scrambling towards a pile of snow, practically diving into it in his haste and excitement. Liir follows, at a safe distance, tucking himself deeper into his cloak, and watches as the older boy starts flailing around, somehow managing to start mounding the snow into balls bigger than himself. His arms stretch out, every finger elongating to get more and more snow, make the pile rounder and rounder. It's slowly taking shape - well, a shape.
"Luffy," Liir hesitates, watching in some confusion as the other boy grabs glowing rocks and shoves them into rough positions for the creature's eyes and mouth. "Luffy, what do you do with it?"
Luffy pauses for a second, stretching himself out to look closely at Liir. It always looks awfully strange when he does that; Liir ducks his head and tries not to stare.
"You just make them!" How he's so enthusiastic about a weird, bobbly humanoid shape Liir doesn't know, but Luffy's reaching for a stick and pushing it in where the creature's nose would be, if a man made of snow had a very long, very thin nose. "It's fun!"
"Glinda says you need things if you want to have fun." And he'd thought she was right, up until now, because he'd never really had fun and he'd definitely never had things, so it seemed to make sense, but Luffy doesn't have anything either - or at least right now he doesn't have anything except snow and sticks and rocks - and Luffy's having fun. You can tell by the way his smile lights up his whole face.
"She's wrong," Luffy says decisively, and Liir is won over in a moment. "C'mon, Liir. He needs a scarf!"
"Elphie has one," Liir volunteers, and has to run to catch up with Luffy as he races off to retrieve it.
A Midnight Clear
Pell
let loving hearts enthrone him
Pell's staring into the fire when Fiyero finds him, hunkered up on a nearby log with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Pine trees catch the snow, keep it from falling on his head. Here and there, elsewhere in the forest, there's the occasional thump as another tree gives up its load of frozen white to join the drifts building on the ground. The prince doesn't say anything, just settles down next to Pell and pulls the Wraeththu close. It takes a long moment before Pell sighs and relaxes against him, head nestling against Fiyero's shoulder, his body light and fragile as a bird's. It's always odd to hold him this close and feel how small Pell really is, smaller and lighter than even the three-years-younger Liir.
"I know," he says quietly, in answer to nothing at all, and that makes Pell sigh again. He can feel the boy's eyelashes against his skin as Pell closes his eyes, burrowing into the warmth of Fiyero's chest like a child would their father. "And I know it's not the same," Fiyero adds, "but I do love you, Pell."
"I know." It's muffled, but the tension is easing out of Pell's body.
"So does Liir." Although it may not be love so much as pure adoration and devotion; he's seen the way his son looks at Pell. And perhaps it's genetic, because if Elphie hadn't come back, he might have been the one following Pell around like a lost puppy.
"I know." It's almost a laugh against his chest.
"He was going to give you a present," Fiyero tells him softly, "but he talked himself out of everything he thought of." Pell's shoulders are shaking gently. He's pretty sure the Wraeththu's not crying. "Except for the perfume. I talked him out of that."
"Oh, Liir," Pell whispers.
"Be careful with my son." Fiyero presses a kiss against the top of Pell's head, and smiles. "He seems to have decided you're his king."
Mistletoe
Rayne
and stay by my side until morning is nigh
Rayne doesn't jump any more when Ivy settles herself on the dhampir's bed. She opens her eyes and smiles lazily, showing off sharp fangs, and Ivy smirks back, reaching out to touch the tip of one with her finger.
"Good evening, sleepyhead," she purrs, stretching out more comfortably so her body fits against Rayne's. "I was starting to think you'd never wake up. The moon's up and everything. You're meant to be awake more in winter, you know, Rayne. Dark for longer and all of that. Besides, if I'm going to sleep all day for you, you should wake up early for me. It's only fair."
Rayne yawns, and stretches, her back arching and hands clenching into fists. Ivy props herself up on one elbow to watch, tuts, and smooths the dhampir's hair back away from her face. "And," she adds, "I've decided you're all mine tonight."
For that, she gets a raised eyebrow, and a slight smirk. Rayne reaches up to tug on a strand of Ivy's hair, lets her fingers slide along the smooth line of the supervillain's neck. "Oh yeah?" she says, and it's a challenge. "Something up?"
"Well," Ivy drawls, relaxing into the dhampir's arms, "you might have noticed it's almost Christmas, and there's kind of a lot of mistletoe around. Why waste it?"
"It doesn't do anything to you." Rayne's smirking at her, green eyes sparkling in the moonlight from the window. "And if you're here, it's not gonna do anything to me, either."
Ivy pretends to think about that, chewing her lip, and watches the other woman's eyes narrow and darken at the sight. "That's true," she concedes, "but that doesn't mean I can't pretend it does."
And she points up, and Rayne laughs huskily at the mistletoe suspended from her ceiling, and draws Ivy down for a kiss that's full of hunger.
Miracle
Simone
the hopes and fears of all the years
"Did you have to stay at school over Christmas?" Annabelle asks idly. She brushes a stray curl of blonde hair back away from Simone's face, tries not to smile when her teacher immediately starts fiddling with the gold cross she always wears. She'll never tell Simone, but the habit is utterly endearing.
"Sometimes," Simone says, and glances at Annabelle with a rueful expression. "And I never got any good presents when I did, either."
"I'll bet you got rosaries."
"One rosary. Several Bibles."
Annabelle giggles, and Simone looks away, but not before her student's seen the suppressed laughter on her face.
"I'm sure you got better presents," Simone says, the note in her voice almost teasing. Annabelle shrugs.
"A pony, one year."
"Annabelle."
"What? I did. Mom wanted to make me happy. I grew out of the horse stage a few months later, though..."
"Oh, Annabelle." She sounds amused and fond. Annabelle grins at her.
"Aren't you going to ask me what I want for Christmas this year?"
Simone sighs, and surrenders to the inevitable.
"All right. What do you want for Christmas this year, Annabelle?"
"This," Annabelle says, lets her hand slide to the back of Simone's neck, and leans in just slow enough to let her teacher turn away if she really wants to. But Simone's eyes are closed, and her lips part as Annabelle opens her mouth to the kiss. She makes a soft little sound, and shifts in her seat, and reaches out to pull Annabelle closer, almost onto her lap - not that Annabelle's fighting it, not that she's anything but willing; it's been so long that she's wanted this. Simone's hands are on her hips, her own arms wrapped around Simone's shoulders, trying to put into this closeness everything she's wanted to say and been refused the chance to.
When they break apart, Annabelle instinctively glances around for mistletoe. There's none anywhere to be seen.
Christmas Lights
Warren
our finest gifts we bring
"But I don't know what to get her," Warren argues. A strand of Christmas lights falls down and tangles itself around his shoulders. He growls, and Annabelle could almost swear she can see smoke wafting off the top of his head. Halfway up a ladder on the other side of the room, though, there's not that much she can do.
"Look, I don't know what to get eith - Warren, not near electricity - "
The pyrokinetic manages to yank the lights off his body just before they fizzle and melt from the heat he's generating. Annabelle sighs. Warren mutters something under his breath and flicks them into the pile - and who would have thought they'd have a pile - of ruined strings of lights before climbing down his ladder and grabbing another string.
"Well, what does she like?" Annabelle asks, a little muffled because she's trying to hook the lights over the top of a picture frame that is stubbornly refusing to tilt down enough for her to reach. "Mechanics and stuff, right? So couldn't you get, I don't know, some kind of model kit from the store? It'll probably even get here in time for Christmas."
There's a long silence while Warren thinks about that. Annabelle glances over her shoulder, wobbles, swears under her breath, and finds her friend's come to help steady her. "It's not really..." Warren fumbles for words, then offers, "romantic?"
"Yeah, you're right, but I don't really know what else. Jewelry? Does she like that kind of thing? C'mon, Warren, you're her boyfriend, you're meant to know these things."
"And you're meant to know what Simone likes," Warren shoots back, "and I don't see you having any brilliant ideas about that."
"She's really hard!" Annabelle complains. "It's not like I can get jewelry, 'cause she only wears her cross, or books, 'cause she's read every one I suggest, and you try getting a camera here in one piece."
"Well someone must've. Right after Naked Day there's all sorts of - what? What are you looking at me like that for?"
"Naked Day? Are you serious?"
"Are you joking, Annabelle? It's camp." Warren brightens suddenly. "I know what you should get her."
"Oh yeah?"
"Pictures of you na - I'm kidding! I'm kidding!" His outstretched hands don't quite fend off Annabelle and her vengeful pillow, but she's giggling even more than he is, so the blows miss more than they connect.
Candy Canes
Chitose
for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn
When Chitose smiles, his face lights up like the sun. And he's almost always smiling - at least around Annabelle, who's discovered that small things can make her friend very happy. Like candy canes, for instance, even though there's no sugar here. They still taste like candy canes, and that's what matters.
"The thing is," she says, picking another red-striped cane, "they don't normally grow on trees. I mean, we hang them on trees, but that's not the same thing." Chitose is grinning at her, a candy cane dangling out of his mouth, his fluffy hair sticking out all askew from under his Santa hat. "Don't look at me like that, Chitose, I know they don't just grow. They're wrapped in cellophane."
"Ah~ But these ones do, Annabelle." Which is really hard to argue with, because she's seen them grow from little buds to full-on candy canes with her own eyes, and even though Annabelle knows for sure that's completely impossible...well, it's just happened. She sighs, and strips the wrapping from one, sucking on the exposed end. Chitose is watching her, laughter in his eyes.
"What?"
"Nothing~" And then, after a pause, "maybe you should do that where Simone can see you."
"What?" Annabelle asks again, realizes, blushes furiously, and only recovers her composure when Chitose has stopped giggling some time later. "Nah," she says, "you need to eat one of these in front of Koganei."
Chitose almost inhales his candy cane, and laughs, and takes off his Santa hat to put it on her head. "Maybe we should give them both candy canes," he suggests. Annabelle grins.
"C'mon, then. We're gonna need to pick some more."
Snow
Claire
all is calm, all is bright
Winter and night are the worst times for Ivy - the cold seeps into her bones, freezing her, reminding her why most of her babies choose this time of year to tuck themselves away deep into the earth or slow their heartbeats, the flow of their sap, and pull their energy back into their warm trunk. She would, too, if she could. The greenhouse isn't heated enough to withstand winter's rage. Through the very top of the peaked roof, where snow hasn't yet piled up, she can see the stars. It's so quiet that she can even hear the faint squeak as the greenhouse door opens, far away.
"Ivy?"
Claire's voice is hesitant, as if she's not sure what she'll find. For a moment Ivy considers hiding; she doesn't really want Claire to see her like this, so vulnerable and helpless. She'll hurt you, she'll kill you, the little voice inside whispers, tinged with fear and poison. Ivy fights it down. Claire won't hurt her. She hesitates, then walks out of the greenery, manages a smile, and feels a soft glow inside at the sight of Claire's immediate smile in response.
"Claire," she says, then, "hey."
"Hey."
Claire's bundled up, snug and warm in puffy vest and beanie and long woolen top, and her cheeks and nose are red. She's the perfect Christmas angel, with that blonde hair and those blue eyes and all-American goodness, and when she smiles it seems as though the world lights up around Ivy. The supervillain looks away, and can't stop herself shivering at the sight of the snow falling past her glass walls.
The frozen ground crunches beneath Claire's feet as she steps closer, and Ivy looks up to see worry in her hero's eyes. Claire's hand, bare and warm, brushes against her arm, hesitates, and then the girl's fingers slide up to her shoulder and Ivy finds herself pulled close, into a gentle hug. Everywhere their skin touches burns like fire, like a blazing star. Ivy gasps, wraps her arms around Claire, burying her face against the girl's shoulder, and feels herself begin to melt inside.
Trim the Tree
Daisuke
each year you bring to me delight
"Ivy-san."
"No." Ivy holds the secateurs out of reach, ably assisted by the vines drawing her up to the ceiling. Daisuke, stuck under an unyielding branch, sighs at her.
"Ivy," he says patiently, and wisely omits the '-san', "it doesn't fit."
"It's a tree. They're not supposed to fit."
Foliage pokes out of the windows and doors, pins Daisuke down near the floor. Ivy strokes a branch, cooing, and rolls comfortably into the tree's embrace. Pine needles knit together to form a secure cradle for her, tucked snugly against the tree's trunk. "Besides," she tells it, or possibly the man trapped underneath her, "what a good little baby it was to work so hard to come in here just for us. Who's a good sapling? You are! Mommy won't let that nasty man cut any of your branches off."
"Ah..." Daisuke tries, "but Ivy, it's in my cabin."
"You wanted a Christmas tree." The tone of her voice implies that he should be grateful she's deigned to do anything at all to provide him with a tree, but there's a note of laughter, carefully hidden behind that arrogance. The tree's roots are feeling around, sliding themselves into cracks between the planks of the cabin's floor, slithering out to prop the door open. His bed's somewhere beneath a carpet of pine needles - his makeup case would be, too, if he hadn't thrown himself protectively over it. Clock Up's useless to him, trapped beneath the branches and unable to reach his belt as he is, but she's not going to hurt him.
At least, he doesn't think she is.
"And would you like an itty-bitty star on your crown?" Ivy coos to the tree. "Or a little zombie head? We'll get Gon to decorate you and make you all pretty." She pauses; without looking, he can almost see the smirk on her face. "Oh, I know. We'll decorate you with mistletoe."
Herald Angels
Dancy
the angels keep their watch of wondering love
Dancy seems more distracted, this time of year. Liir hovers rather than trying to talk to her, tucking himself into his cloak to keep the snow out of his hair and eyelashes. It slides down his back, too, if he's not careful, and makes him jump and yell, and if he jumps and yells then he'll distract Dancy from...whatever she's doing. Not that he's sure what she's doing, or why, or even if she is doing anything. But she always looks at the same place, and from the way she moves and the expressions on her face Liir thinks he can almost see something there, in the space between light and shadows. He doesn't dare bring it up, though. He's bad enough when it comes to dealing with girls, without adding anything about liking to watch her. He doesn't think she'll understand if he tells her he just admires her strength, her graceful movements, the way she brushes silky white hair away from her face.
It takes a lot of courage to take her a Lurlinemas gift - or Christmas, what they call it here - and Elphie isn't any help, although, he thinks, she did try a little. And he did try to wrap it, and tie a bow on it, and although it doesn't look at all like the computer says Christmas gifts are supposed to look he hopes she might recognize it anyway. She looks startled when he marches up to her, present thrust out of front in him in a kind of entreaty not to scowl and glare and send him away. She doesn't take it, either, just stands and watches him until he gives up and lets his hand drop to his side again and tries, very uncertainly, words instead.
"Hello," he says, hesitates, screws up his strength again. "I brought you something, Dancy." And then, because you're supposed to, "merry Christmas?"
Dancy stares at him a little longer, but this time when he holds it out she reaches a hand out to accept it. Liir blushes madly, ducks his head and tries to hide in the hood of his cloak so she won't see. She does, of course, and smiles. Liir manages a tiny smile back, and worries that perhaps he's gone so red he's actually glowing.
Sleigh Ride
Elphaba (Elphie)
but if you'll really hold me tight, all the way home I'll be warm
To be perfectly honest, Glinda has no idea at all where they're going, or - at this point - why, or even how the sleigh got there, but none of these things are really important at all. Because the thing is that Elphie's finally calmed down enough to settle back into her seat - which Glinda's been doing all along, having decided rather early that jumping only means she'll most likely fall into the snow and perhaps break a few bones but on the whole it seems unlikely that she'll die, and so that could be rather unpleasant, and the sleigh isn't precisely unpleasant. Odd, certainly, but not in a bad way. Besides, it's not quite big enough for both of them, and being the smaller, it means she's tucked against Elphaba's side, and the green girl's arm has come to rest around her shoulders, and that's most certainly not unpleasant at all.
"You really needn't worry, Elphie," she ventures.
"I'm not worrying."
"Yes you are," Glinda insists. "You're ever so tense."
There's silence, which means she's right, although she could hardly be wrong because Elphie is tense and it's terribly hard not to tell that when you're quite this close. Glinda sighs. Drastic times, she supposes, call for drastic measures.
"Elphaba."
When the green girl glances down, Glinda's ready for her, and presents her own face tilted upwards. And yes, for a moment it means Elphie's even more tense, but with some persuasion she settles down enough to let Glinda rest her head against Elphie's bony shoulder, and holds the blonde girl a little bit closer, and watches the stars go past overhead.
Gift from a King
Elphaba (Fae)
frankincense to offer have I
When he leans down to press a kiss against the crown of her head, Elphaba doesn't jump or slap at him, like she did those long months ago when she was new and he still wasn't quite sure what to do with this girl who was his Fae and wasn't, all at once. Now she makes a funny little sound, half irritation and half pleased surprise, and Fiyero grins and kisses her hair again, sliding his arms around her waist.
"Fiyero," she says, and the hint of irritation in her voice makes him smile. Elphie's never happier, he's sure, than when she's got something to scold him about. She snaps the book she was reading shut and lets it drop to the floor, but not before he sees the cover - Animal Farm, it reads, and even the capitalization is right. "I do believe you try to find me at the most inopportune moments."
"It's a gift," the prince answers mildly, and pulls out the chair next to her, catching her reluctant smile. "And I've one for you, too."
"Fiyero."
"It's Lurlinemas."
She wants to argue about it, he can see, but she takes the little box he offers anyway, and is that the hint of a blush? Fiyero leans over to kiss her cheek, surprised when she turns her head towards him and reaches out to tangle her fingers in his hair, holding him where he is so she can kiss him.
Past, Present, Future
Elphaba (the Witch)
what child is this?
"Tell me," Elphie says idly, "about Kiamo Ko."
She's never asked, before, about his home - if he has a home - or about his childhood - if he had one to speak of. Her fingers comb idly through her son's hair, teasing out tangles, straying to trace the curves of his ears and jaw. Drowsy and half-enchanted by the unfamiliar closeness, Liir takes a while to gather his thoughts together enough to answer, curling himself up a little tighter to be closer to her. He's grateful that she's allowing this affection, even encouraging him to keep his head resting in her lap. He never wants this moment to end, not while he's safe and warm and Elphie's being gentle and comforting.
"Tell me about you," he dares to bargain. Elphie's fingers still, and he's sure she holds her breath for a moment. Then she lets it out in a sigh, and he's sure the lilt in her voice is amusement.
"Me?"
"And Fiyero," Liir adds, pleased she's not angry.
"Insatiable curiosity," Elphie murmurs, "you must get that from me."
"I can tell you about him too. What Sarima told me, and Irji and Manek and Nor."
She thinks about it for much longer than he'd like, but at least she's gone back to stroking his hair gently, finding the outlines of his cheeks and neck. "I'd like to hear about him," she decides, eventually. "Your father."
"My father," Liir agrees. Elphie's cool fingers rest on his shoulder. Drowsing, he's sure he hears her speak again.
"There's still so much I don't yet know."
Silent Night
Harley
let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me
Harley has an inexhaustible supply of Christmas carols. And if they were proper carols, all solemn and serious and above all things quiet - all right, maybe she's thinking of hymns, and not carols - Ivy wouldn't mind. It's just that after the tenth repetition of Jingle Bells, in Harley's high-pitched squeaks, Ivy really wants to kill her. But Harley's shimmying around the cabin dressed in a silky red dress that's far too short and clings, and between that and the Santa hat bobbing to the same rhythm as her pigtails, Ivy's having a lot of trouble concentrating. The carols, she decides, are messing with her head.
"Reeeeeeed~"
In the absence of a Christmas tree, Harley's drawn a plum pudding on the wall, and is now hammering a zombie angel on top of it. A lot of persuasion was necessary to convince her that not only did the pudding not need to be actually set on fire, Ivy would really prefer it if there wasn't even a picture of a fire. And in fact singing Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire could probably be avoided, too. Why is this holiday all about cutting down trees and burning things? Sure, Easter's about rabbits, and Valentine's Day involves the murder of a lot of flowers, but Christmas? Millions of trees murdered every year!
"Red, Red, I found the best song ever!" Harley's bouncing up and down with excitement. Ivy blinks at her, and tries not to focus on the neckline of Harley's dress. "You've gotta hear it."
"Please, Harl, no more so - "
It's too late; Harley's already pressed play, and the infuriating beat of the Macarena is pounding through the cabin. Ivy claps her hands over her ears, but it's too late; the song has combined with Jingle Bells to create Christmas music from hell.
"Harley!" Not that Harl's listening, or possibly she can't even hear her over the booming beat. Ivy grabs the speakers and throws them - hard - against the sketched plum pudding on her wall. There's a sudden, blissful quiet. Harley's staring at her, mouth open and eyes wide. Ivy holds her hands out, palms up. "Harley. This Christmas we are having a silent night."
Sugarplums
Ico
above thy deep and dreamless sleep
"Shhhh. Imoen! Shhhhhh, he'll hear you."
The boy turns restlessly in his bed, and both women freeze in the doorway.
"It's a really stupid idea to have Preenella leave presents at the foot of their beds, anyway." The second voice is a little higher, and far more amused. "'Specially if you're wearing those dresses. You'll trip over Yorda's toys."
"I shall not. And besides, it's traditional." The floorboards creak, and then there's a clatter and a muffled yelp as something wooden goes skidding across the floor into a cupboard. Someone giggles.
"Told you."
"I didn't trip on it, Imoen, I just - what was that, anyway? Didn't we have a discussion about picking up one's toys when one's finished playing with them? I'm sure we did."
"Can't discuss that kinda thing on Lurlinemas."
Someone sighs. A second set of footsteps, much nimbler than the first, somehow manage to avoid any more loud creakings, and then petticoats rustle as someone brushes against them.
"Thank you, darling. ...you did take the daggers out, didn't you?"
"'Course I did."
"Then I'm not going to cut my hand open on them?"
"'Course not, they're in sheaths."
There's a short silence.
"Imoen."
"He had a sword before."
"We're in Oz now! He doesn't need a sword! Or daggers! He needs - he needs jack-in-the-boxes and, and skipping ropes and darling little shoes with bows on the top!"
Another silence before someone starts giggling.
"Did you really get him shoes with bows on the top?"
"He'll look positively adorable." The voice is sulky. More giggles from her partner in crime, quickly muffled by a "shhhhh!"
"Betcha he'll like mine better."
"I," and just from the triumphant tone of voice, the image of someone holding up a finger to make their ultimate point is quite clear, "have bought him sugarplums."
"Those're disgusting."
"They are not."
"Miss Glinda?"
Both women freeze again, perfectly still. Then one seems to vanish into thin air. The other one makes an irritated hissing noise, and flaps at the air where her partner used to be before calming herself down and turning to the child.
"Yes, darling. It's just me. I thought I...heard Preenella on the balcony."
"Really? Is she really coming? Is she really here?"
"Shhh, Ico, my sweet." The woman comes over to the boy's bed, and the bedframe creaks as she sits on the mattress. "She'll only come in if you're asleep. So you must go back to sleep now, and when you wake up, it'll be ever so exciting."
"Okay." The boy yawns, and settles back down. The woman leans over, and brushes his hair away from his forehead before kissing his head.
"Merry Lurlinemas, Ico," she whispers, and waits for his breathing to slow again into drowsy slumber.
Tinsel
Imoen
o'er the world a star is sweetly gleaming
There's a long line of tinsel trailing from the mess hall through the snow, glittering in the moon's soft glow. It leads - as Glinda entirely expected it would - towards their cabin, and, she is reasonably sure, a certain tiny pseudodragon. Imoen stumbles and catches herself, grabbing Glinda's hand and leaning against the young witch for a little longer than she needs to, taking the opportunity to wrap her arm around Glinda's waist and snuggle in against her as the blonde girl rests her own arm across Imoen's shoulders. The stars sparkle above them, the night frozen and perfect and just cold enough that they have the perfect excuse to stay wrapped around each other until the sun comes out. But that won't be until tomorrow, and tonight there's warm blankets in their cabin, a bed just big enough for two - and, with any luck, a little dragon who's so exhausted after a long day of chasing shiny objects around camp that he won't find the energy to try to climb between them.
Glinda's the one to open the door, Imoen having buried her face against her fiancee's neck in order to stifle giggles, and they both wince when it creaks loudly. But there's no small mobile disaster zone flying out to greet them, nothing bounding around their legs and trying to climb bare skin to reach Imoen's shoulder - just tiny snores, barely louder than a mouse's squeak. Glinda bites her lip to keep from laughing, and presses Imoen's head harder against her neck when the thief lets out an undignified snort. "Darling," she murmurs, hardly daring to breathe it, "we really mustn't wake him."
Gargamel's asleep curled up in a mound of tinsel, his round tummy rising and falling with every little snore, a strand tucked into his mouth lest someone try to steal his new treasure in the night. It's wrapped around his paws, piled under his wings - held down, even in his sleep, to keep the tinsel nearby and safe. Imoen peeks, convulses in giggles, and clings to her witch, nearly sobbing with restrained laughter. They are, Glinda decides, the most adorable things she has ever known.
Stockings
Leto
glory streams from heaven afar
"What are these?"
Leto knows everything, Liir thinks - he's the smartest, the cleverest, the bravest, he can do anything and beat anyone (if he wants to, anyway) and make anyone obey him just by asking them nicely. Except maybe Elphaba, who's a force of nature. But anyone else. And Elphie doesn't know about Christmas - he's not sure she's very good with Lurlinemas, either - but Leto will. Leto will know everything about it.
The problem is the stories are confusing and jumbled, and Liir's not certain whether he's just stupid (which is quite possible) or whether they don't really make sense. And Leto, being Leto, doesn't necessarily explain everything clearly; he gives hints, and draws parallels, but that's not the same as explaining it. Liir hasn't mentioned that, because if he does, Leto will give him that look, and that smile, and then all the words will vanish and he'll be left gaping like a goldfish again. For some reason Leto always seems to have that effect on him.
"They are stockings," Leto says, and his voice is warm and entrancing. It's too late; Liir catches himself staring, tries to pretend he isn't.
"I know that," he flusters, trying to recover, "but why?"
"For Santa Claus to put presents in."
"Oh."
Leto smiles at him, and Liir blushes beet red under the force of the other boy's gaze. This is like it would feel to be swallowed up in the sun, he thinks, to be surrounded by glory and light.
Snowman
Luffy
I am a poor boy too
"Snowmen!"
Luffy says it in exactly the same way as he's said "candy!" and "Sunny!" in the past, so Liir knows that whatever it is, it's something that any reasonable person would not only know, but be hugely in love with. He sighs. Luffy's already scrambling towards a pile of snow, practically diving into it in his haste and excitement. Liir follows, at a safe distance, tucking himself deeper into his cloak, and watches as the older boy starts flailing around, somehow managing to start mounding the snow into balls bigger than himself. His arms stretch out, every finger elongating to get more and more snow, make the pile rounder and rounder. It's slowly taking shape - well, a shape.
"Luffy," Liir hesitates, watching in some confusion as the other boy grabs glowing rocks and shoves them into rough positions for the creature's eyes and mouth. "Luffy, what do you do with it?"
Luffy pauses for a second, stretching himself out to look closely at Liir. It always looks awfully strange when he does that; Liir ducks his head and tries not to stare.
"You just make them!" How he's so enthusiastic about a weird, bobbly humanoid shape Liir doesn't know, but Luffy's reaching for a stick and pushing it in where the creature's nose would be, if a man made of snow had a very long, very thin nose. "It's fun!"
"Glinda says you need things if you want to have fun." And he'd thought she was right, up until now, because he'd never really had fun and he'd definitely never had things, so it seemed to make sense, but Luffy doesn't have anything either - or at least right now he doesn't have anything except snow and sticks and rocks - and Luffy's having fun. You can tell by the way his smile lights up his whole face.
"She's wrong," Luffy says decisively, and Liir is won over in a moment. "C'mon, Liir. He needs a scarf!"
"Elphie has one," Liir volunteers, and has to run to catch up with Luffy as he races off to retrieve it.
A Midnight Clear
Pell
let loving hearts enthrone him
Pell's staring into the fire when Fiyero finds him, hunkered up on a nearby log with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Pine trees catch the snow, keep it from falling on his head. Here and there, elsewhere in the forest, there's the occasional thump as another tree gives up its load of frozen white to join the drifts building on the ground. The prince doesn't say anything, just settles down next to Pell and pulls the Wraeththu close. It takes a long moment before Pell sighs and relaxes against him, head nestling against Fiyero's shoulder, his body light and fragile as a bird's. It's always odd to hold him this close and feel how small Pell really is, smaller and lighter than even the three-years-younger Liir.
"I know," he says quietly, in answer to nothing at all, and that makes Pell sigh again. He can feel the boy's eyelashes against his skin as Pell closes his eyes, burrowing into the warmth of Fiyero's chest like a child would their father. "And I know it's not the same," Fiyero adds, "but I do love you, Pell."
"I know." It's muffled, but the tension is easing out of Pell's body.
"So does Liir." Although it may not be love so much as pure adoration and devotion; he's seen the way his son looks at Pell. And perhaps it's genetic, because if Elphie hadn't come back, he might have been the one following Pell around like a lost puppy.
"I know." It's almost a laugh against his chest.
"He was going to give you a present," Fiyero tells him softly, "but he talked himself out of everything he thought of." Pell's shoulders are shaking gently. He's pretty sure the Wraeththu's not crying. "Except for the perfume. I talked him out of that."
"Oh, Liir," Pell whispers.
"Be careful with my son." Fiyero presses a kiss against the top of Pell's head, and smiles. "He seems to have decided you're his king."
Mistletoe
Rayne
and stay by my side until morning is nigh
Rayne doesn't jump any more when Ivy settles herself on the dhampir's bed. She opens her eyes and smiles lazily, showing off sharp fangs, and Ivy smirks back, reaching out to touch the tip of one with her finger.
"Good evening, sleepyhead," she purrs, stretching out more comfortably so her body fits against Rayne's. "I was starting to think you'd never wake up. The moon's up and everything. You're meant to be awake more in winter, you know, Rayne. Dark for longer and all of that. Besides, if I'm going to sleep all day for you, you should wake up early for me. It's only fair."
Rayne yawns, and stretches, her back arching and hands clenching into fists. Ivy props herself up on one elbow to watch, tuts, and smooths the dhampir's hair back away from her face. "And," she adds, "I've decided you're all mine tonight."
For that, she gets a raised eyebrow, and a slight smirk. Rayne reaches up to tug on a strand of Ivy's hair, lets her fingers slide along the smooth line of the supervillain's neck. "Oh yeah?" she says, and it's a challenge. "Something up?"
"Well," Ivy drawls, relaxing into the dhampir's arms, "you might have noticed it's almost Christmas, and there's kind of a lot of mistletoe around. Why waste it?"
"It doesn't do anything to you." Rayne's smirking at her, green eyes sparkling in the moonlight from the window. "And if you're here, it's not gonna do anything to me, either."
Ivy pretends to think about that, chewing her lip, and watches the other woman's eyes narrow and darken at the sight. "That's true," she concedes, "but that doesn't mean I can't pretend it does."
And she points up, and Rayne laughs huskily at the mistletoe suspended from her ceiling, and draws Ivy down for a kiss that's full of hunger.
Miracle
Simone
the hopes and fears of all the years
"Did you have to stay at school over Christmas?" Annabelle asks idly. She brushes a stray curl of blonde hair back away from Simone's face, tries not to smile when her teacher immediately starts fiddling with the gold cross she always wears. She'll never tell Simone, but the habit is utterly endearing.
"Sometimes," Simone says, and glances at Annabelle with a rueful expression. "And I never got any good presents when I did, either."
"I'll bet you got rosaries."
"One rosary. Several Bibles."
Annabelle giggles, and Simone looks away, but not before her student's seen the suppressed laughter on her face.
"I'm sure you got better presents," Simone says, the note in her voice almost teasing. Annabelle shrugs.
"A pony, one year."
"Annabelle."
"What? I did. Mom wanted to make me happy. I grew out of the horse stage a few months later, though..."
"Oh, Annabelle." She sounds amused and fond. Annabelle grins at her.
"Aren't you going to ask me what I want for Christmas this year?"
Simone sighs, and surrenders to the inevitable.
"All right. What do you want for Christmas this year, Annabelle?"
"This," Annabelle says, lets her hand slide to the back of Simone's neck, and leans in just slow enough to let her teacher turn away if she really wants to. But Simone's eyes are closed, and her lips part as Annabelle opens her mouth to the kiss. She makes a soft little sound, and shifts in her seat, and reaches out to pull Annabelle closer, almost onto her lap - not that Annabelle's fighting it, not that she's anything but willing; it's been so long that she's wanted this. Simone's hands are on her hips, her own arms wrapped around Simone's shoulders, trying to put into this closeness everything she's wanted to say and been refused the chance to.
When they break apart, Annabelle instinctively glances around for mistletoe. There's none anywhere to be seen.
Christmas Lights
Warren
our finest gifts we bring
"But I don't know what to get her," Warren argues. A strand of Christmas lights falls down and tangles itself around his shoulders. He growls, and Annabelle could almost swear she can see smoke wafting off the top of his head. Halfway up a ladder on the other side of the room, though, there's not that much she can do.
"Look, I don't know what to get eith - Warren, not near electricity - "
The pyrokinetic manages to yank the lights off his body just before they fizzle and melt from the heat he's generating. Annabelle sighs. Warren mutters something under his breath and flicks them into the pile - and who would have thought they'd have a pile - of ruined strings of lights before climbing down his ladder and grabbing another string.
"Well, what does she like?" Annabelle asks, a little muffled because she's trying to hook the lights over the top of a picture frame that is stubbornly refusing to tilt down enough for her to reach. "Mechanics and stuff, right? So couldn't you get, I don't know, some kind of model kit from the store? It'll probably even get here in time for Christmas."
There's a long silence while Warren thinks about that. Annabelle glances over her shoulder, wobbles, swears under her breath, and finds her friend's come to help steady her. "It's not really..." Warren fumbles for words, then offers, "romantic?"
"Yeah, you're right, but I don't really know what else. Jewelry? Does she like that kind of thing? C'mon, Warren, you're her boyfriend, you're meant to know these things."
"And you're meant to know what Simone likes," Warren shoots back, "and I don't see you having any brilliant ideas about that."
"She's really hard!" Annabelle complains. "It's not like I can get jewelry, 'cause she only wears her cross, or books, 'cause she's read every one I suggest, and you try getting a camera here in one piece."
"Well someone must've. Right after Naked Day there's all sorts of - what? What are you looking at me like that for?"
"Naked Day? Are you serious?"
"Are you joking, Annabelle? It's camp." Warren brightens suddenly. "I know what you should get her."
"Oh yeah?"
"Pictures of you na - I'm kidding! I'm kidding!" His outstretched hands don't quite fend off Annabelle and her vengeful pillow, but she's giggling even more than he is, so the blows miss more than they connect.